by Anthology
Peter was stunned. His heart beat furiously, and he could scarcely form words with his trembling lips.
“Which ones were they?” he gasped. “Who were the men?”
The Arab shrugged his shoulders. “God, he knows,” he said. “Why didn’t you read about it in the newspapers, or hear it over the radio? I know only that my family went hungry last night.”
Digging into his pocket, Peter pulled out a ten-piaster piece and Hung it at the outstretched hand. “Here’s for your family. Now let me go.”
He ran past the row of kneeling camels and paused at the door of a taxi which was just taking in a group of travelling Britons.
“Driver!” he said. “Where’s the nearest place to buy a paper?”
The driver scratched his head. “Don’t you have a radio? Not many papers, any more. Have to go to Groppi’s or Shepheard’s, maybe.”
“We’re in a hurry, driver,” said the tourist, with a curt stare at Peter.
Turning his back, Peter ran down the steep road that curved to Mena House, dashed through the garden, disturbing a flock of hungry sparrows, and into the lobby where he was met by a brightly dressed doorman. “Where’s your phone? Quickly!” He gave the number of Carl Johansson’s house in Maadi, and waited tensely, listening to the repeated ringing. All I have to do, he thought, is just to ask Carl which ones got back safely.
Then he banged home the receiver as though it had become a hissing snake, and sweat broke out on his forehead, as the doorman watched him curiously.
I can’t do that, thought Peter. Good heavens, I can’t do that! Maybe Carl was one of those killed. And what would his wife think of me, asking an insane, heartless question like that?
Tossing a coin to the doorman, he walked slowly out into the brilliant sunshine. In front of the hotel stood several taxis, and like a man in a dream Peter opened the door of one, crawled in, and settled down on the dilapidated springs of the back seat. No, telephoning Carl’s house was too risky. The best thing to do, he decided, would be to go over to Jim Dutton’s—the Institute would surely be closed today, out of respect for the victims—and find out why the ship had returned a day early, and which two of the crew had been killed.
“Take me to Maadi.”
With a clash of gears, the old-fashioned taxi-cab, vintage 1970, zoomed down the Pyramids road, snaking in and out of the traffic, blowing its horn constantly as it dodged camels and grazed the skirts of yelling little boys. They had gone only a few blocks when Peter jerked forward and shouted at the driver.
“Stop! Stop right here!”
Brakes screeched, and the car lurched to a stop, nearly knocking over a cart loaded with sugar cane, turned around.
“What’s the matter, sir? This is not Maadi.”
“I know it, I know it,” said Peter. “Just keep quiet and let me think a minute.”
The blue-beaded bangle, a charm against the Evil Eye, vibrated against the rear-vision mirror, swinging rhythmically in the light breeze.
The regular motion half hypnotized Peter as he watched it, and tried to arrange his thoughts.
I can’t possibly go to Jim Dutton’s house, he thought. I am an utter fool. What if I was one of the men killed? And if I roll up at his front door he’ll think I’m a ghost. Or, if I wasn’t killed, I might be anywhere at this moment, maybe even sitting in his living room! It would be terrible if there were two of me seen wandering around Cairo.
Or was it possible, his dazed mind wondered, to have two of him going about at the same time? He wished now that he had not skipped that course in the philosophy of time travel, in his senior year. He wished he knew the official verdict on the paradoxes involved. It would make his mind a lot easier now—or would it? He was overwhelmed with a sudden conviction that it was impossible for any one man to be in two places at the same time. Doesn’t the fact that I am here and alive, now, he wondered, prove that I was one of those killed on the trip to the moon?
He became conscious of a headache, an intense, throbbing, persistent ache, from nape of neck to forehead, which made clear thinking impossible, and the very effort to think was torture.
“Where to, sir?” said the driver.
With a supreme effort Peter disciplined his thoughts. I’ve got to keep out of sight, he reflected. Luckily, I don’t know so very many people in Cairo, as yet, but I mustn’t let myself run into anybody who knows me.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon, now, and it was not likely that anybody would be in town at this hour, when the sun was at its hottest. The best thing to do was to buy a newspaper.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver again.
“Take me into town. Isn’t there a newsstand right across the street from Shepheard’s? Take me there. I want to buy a paper.”
“Okay,” said the driver, as he started the car rolling. “What’s the matter with your radio?”
“Haven’t got one.”
The driver made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Too bad. Papers aren’t so easy to get, these days.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s this modern world, with the U.N. settling this research thing here, and all. Nowadays everybody has a radiophone and television, and with news service automatically piped in to every house, there’s only a few, what they call conservatives, that like to read the morning paper at breakfast time. When I was a kid, I remember I used to run errands for the bawab, the doorman, at one of the big apartment houses, and I remember I used to lug in at least a dozen different newspapers every morning. You had your pick of maybe three in Arabic, one in Italian, a couple in French, and an English paper, and so on. You could buy one either morning or evening. The way things are now, people don’t need them, and there’s only two that still come out, one in Arabic and one in English.”
Peter tensed. “Morning or evening?”
“Both morning.”
Peter sighed, and relaxed. As they paused for a few minutes to let a flock of fat-tailed sheep cross the street, he had a sudden idea.
“Maybe you can tell me what I want to know, driver. I understand the ship got back from the moon, yesterday.”
“That’s what they say.”
“And I heard two of the men were dead when the ship arrived. Is that right?”
“That’s what they say.”
“What were their names, can you tell me?”
The driver hunched his shoulders. “American names. I never can remember American names, mister, that’s why I call everybody ‘sir’ even my old customers. All those names sound alike to me.”
Peter gave up, and sat back until the taxi pulled up across the street from Shepheard’s. He paid off the driver and walked over to the news kiosk.
“Egyptian Gazette,” he said.
“Last one we got.”
Moving to one side, he hastily searched the columns of the paper. There were only four pages, and it was not until he reached the inner columns of the third page that he came on any reference to the rocket ship. There he found the small heading, YESTERDAY’S TRAGEDY.
“The sad journey of the Tycho, detailed in yesterday’s paper,” he read, “has grieved the entire community. The King and his Ministers have sent their official condolences to the American Government, and to the U.N. Hyperphysics Institute. Private memorial services for the two unfortunate victims will be held at the America Embassy this morning at eleven.”
That was all.
Why had the crew had the diabolical idea of returning a day ahead of schedule, he wondered savagely? The shift in timing had demolished all his careful preparation, and made it impossible for him to find out what he had hoped to find. Yesterday’s news was dead. The tempo of modern living had come to mean that an event that happened yesterday’ was almost as remote from public interest as an event of a hundred years ago.
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the street, then turned back to the newsstand.
“I’d like to buy a copy of yesterday’s paper.”
&nbs
p; The boy in charge looked bewildered. “Yesterday, all gone. Today, there,” and he pointed to the crumpled paper lying on the pavement.
“Yes, yes, I know, but I’m through with today, and it just happens that I want to see a copy of yesterday’s paper. Haven’t you got one, tucked under the counter there?” The boy shook his head, but a calculating look had come into his sharp black eyes.
“You want yesterday’s paper?”
“That’s right.”
“You pay?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, I go get you a copy.”
“Where can you get it?”
The boy pointed, vaguely. “Over at the office, where they publish it. Over in Kasr el Nil. Be back in five minutes.”
Peter hesitated. Should he go himself, he wondered? He glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Only two hours and a half left to him. He was tired, and hungry, and particularly he was thirsty, from wandering about under the baking noon-day sun.
Across the street the shadowed entrance to Shepheard’s interior loomed enticingly. Inside, he knew, was the cool quietness of the bar.
“All right,” he said, handing over a ten piaster coin. “Go get me a copy of yesterday’s paper, and if I’m not here when you get back, wait for me. How long did you say it would take you?”
“Maybe five minutes, mister,” said the boy, with a happy grin. Deftly he lowered the protecting metal shield over his meager supply of papers, locked it with a padlock, and ran down the street.
Progress at last! thought Peter, as he dodged across the street, his ears battered by the bedlam of the honking cars, yelling pedestrians, and vociferous camels. He climbed the few steps to the stone veranda of the hotel, and walked toward the shaded arch of the door. Then he stopped, and turned his back.
Standing in the doorway, a saddened look on his face, stood Jim Dutton, talking with a U.N official. Peter side-stepped to shelter himself behind a potted palm, and cautiously peered through the leaves. Were they going or coming? Jim had been to the memorial services at the Embassy, he supposed, and had come here for a bracer before going home. The question was, was he leaving now, or was he just on his way to the bar? Standing in the doorway there, talking, he was as effective a barrier as a whole regiment of soldiers.
As the time dragged on, Peter glanced for the hundredth time at his watch. No minutes had ever seemed so long to him. If Jim didn’t leave soon, the prospect of a drink would vanish.
Another few minutes of talk, and Jim Dutton and the U.N. official turned, and entered the hotel. They had been arriving, not leaving.
With a sigh of resignation, Peter turned and walked down the steps, and crossed to the newsstand.
No boy. The traffic clattered by. A ragged urchin tugged at his sleeve.
“Buy a chance on the sweepstakes, mister?”
“I never take chances,” Peter snapped.
An old man shuffled up, looked around furtively, and offered from the shadow of his flowing sleeve some “very special” postcards. Peter shook his head.
A dragoman in pale green silk offered to guide him to the Bazaars, and Peter turned his back. But all three remained, trying to persuade him to change his mind, until he snarled at them with a vicious “Imshi!” and they scattered.
He had waited nearly half an hour and was glaring at his watch when the dragoman sauntered by again, a smirk on his cynical face.
“Are you waiting for somebody, sir?”
“Yes. I’m waiting for the boy that runs this newsstand. I sent him to buy me a copy of yesterday’s paper.”
“You gave him money?”
“Certainly.”
The dragoman pursed his lips. “No need to wait, sir. That boy won’t come back today.” And he strolled on, twirling his bamboo cane.
He was right. The boy didn’t come back.
At a quarter past one, Peter hailed a passing taxi.
“Sharia Kasr el Nil,” he said. “Egyptian Gazette
Five minutes later he was clattering up the wooden stairs of an old building, and on the second floor he faced a door labeled Egyptian Gazette. The door was closed.
He knocked, but nothing happened. He rattled the door knob, but the door was firmly locked. No sound came from inside.
He shouted. “Hello! Anybody here?”
Presently a bent old man hobbled down the hall, peering at him with half blind eyes.
“Nobody home,” he said.
“But I want to get into this office, to see the editor.”
“Nobody home.”
“Where are they?”
The old man broke into a flood of Arabic which left Peter’s head swimming. He cut in to the meaningless volubility.
“Don’t you speak English?”
“La! Nobody home.”
“And I thought everybody in Cairo could speak English! Where’s the editor? Where’s the printers? Where is everybody?”
The door of the adjoining office opened and an amiable, swarthy face peered out “I’m Italian myself, old boy, but I can speak English. Editor’s gone to Alex for the week-end. The help are all at church.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you realize this is Friday, old boy? All the help are Mohammedans, and this is their holy day. Like Sunday, old boy. Come back tomorrow. Where have you been living? You ought to know you can’t do business on a Friday.” With a beaming smile, he slammed his door.
“But all I wanted,” Peter shouted desperately, “was to buy a copy of yesterday’s paper!”
The door swung open, and the affable Italian looked out. “But nobody keeps yesterday’s paper. The day is gone, isn’t it?”
“Haven’t you got a copy, lying around your office?”
“Wouldn’t have it cluttering up the place. My servant takes them out and sells them, as soon as I’ve finished.”
“But where does he sell them?”
“Not my business. Maybe to dealers in old newsprint. Maybe somewhere else. You’ve heard of the world paper shortage, old boy? Where he sells them? Never asked him.”
The door slammed shut again, and Peter slouched down the stairs.
Walking along the street, he was without ideas, without hope, almost without conscious volition. He found himself standing, finally, beside a Bar and Restaurant, and wearily he climbed the stairs to the open-air veranda, where he sank down in a spindly chair at a marble-topped table.
“Beer, sir?”
“A dark Tuborg,” he ordered. He wondered if he shouldn’t give up his project and go back to his own time. He was probably dead anyway, he thought hazily, and it was ridiculous to be wearing himself out this way, for a reason which was no longer sensible. It was a good thing he hadn’t let Ruth tie herself down to such an incompetent, muddle-headed, unlucky, accident-prone kind of a man.
He was startled back to sanity by hearing, from the table behind him, the word “moon.” He switched his chair around to look at the speaker.
At the table were a boy of about nineteen, and a girl a year or so younger, obviously American, and obviously smitten by each other. The boy was drinking beer while the girl sipped lemonade and nibbled at the salted pistachio nuts in the dish before her. They were holding hands under the table, and exchanging intimate remarks.
It’s a shame to interrupt them, thought Peter, but if I heard what I thought I heard—He coughed, and the boy looked up.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but you seem to be fellow Americans.”
“That’s right, we are,” said the boy. “We’re on a tour. We left our ship at Suez, and we’re joining her tomorrow at Alexandria. I know it’s a slow way to travel, but you do get to see things.”
“Isn’t Egypt wonderful?” said the girl.
“I’d like to ask you something.” Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Did I hear one of you mention the moon? Were you talking about that ship that got back yesterday?”
The girl lowered her eyes, and the boy turned red.
“I d
on’t think so.”
“But I distinctly heard one of you use the word ‘moon’ ”
“That was me,” said the girl, shyly, “but it didn’t have anything to do with that ship. I just told Jerry, here, that I bet he’d even be jealous of the man in the moon. But it was too bad about the men on that ship, wasn’t it?”
Peter leaned forward. “Yes, indeed. A terrible tragedy. But due to—that is, due to the pressure of events, I haven’t been able to learn quite all the details. Perhaps you can supply them. I understand that two of the crew were killed on the trip. Is that correct?”
“That’s what we heard on the radio.”
“Do you remember who they were?”
The boy frowned. “I remember one name, in a vague way, because a fellow in my class had the same name. Somebody named Danforth, I think.”
Bill Danforth! Peter sighed. Happy-go-lucky Bill, who was always willing to take his chances.
But he could not waste time now in grieving.
“And the name of the other one?”
“I can’t tell you exactly,” said the girl, with a soft giggle. “Everybody always says I have the weakest memory! But I do remember it was somebody named Peter.”
“Peter what?”
“I don’t remember. But I do remember laughing, and mentioning it to Jerry, here, because there were two men on the ship both named Peter, and their last names sounded so much alike, and it seemed so silly, and I remember asking Jerry, here, how their wives ever told them apart. Why, is it important? Does it matter?”
“No,” said Peter wearily. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, “Nothing at all.”
He could feel their eyes staring at his back as he left his beer unfinished, and walked down the stairs.
He stood at the street entrance, in despair. Three hours gone, and nothing accomplished. Could he visit a library? But the Egyptian libraries, even if they carried the English paper, would be closed today, since it was Friday. There was a library at the American Embassy, but he did not dare go there, for he might run into somebody who knew him. Wasn’t there any way in the world an intelligent man could solve such a simple problem as finding a copy of yesterday’s paper—short of waiting until yesterday arrived?