The Old Goat was seated behind his massive desk thumbing through a thick copy of ARISTOCRACY OF AFGHANISTAN, or BLUE-BLOODS OF THE BUSH.
He looked up as the door banged and then he coughed.
A rumbling, ominous cough. His eyes lighted with the recognition of a man renewing acquaintance with a water moccasin. He opened his mouth and four flabby chins shook angrily.
But Reggie beat him to the punch.
“Now listen to me, sir,” he said grimly. “I intend to marry your daughter and you and your entire gallery of sourpussed ancestors can be hanged.”
Colonel Vanderveer eyed him with cold dislike.
“A Vanderveer marry one of your stripe?” he snorted derisively. “You must be mad. “I’ve given you my decision and it’s final.”
With calculated deliberation Reggie drew the carefully-wrapped letter from his pocket. Without answering Colonel Vanderveer’s blast, without so much as looking at him, he proceeded to slowly unwrap the leather wrappings, until the letter, now wrinkled and yellowed with age, was in his hand.
“This,” he said, with diabolic deliberation, “might be of interest to you, Colonel Vanderveer. It is a letter to Major Vanderveer of the Union forces. It is from a fairly well known gentleman of that time. Shall I read it to you?” Colonel Vanderveer was trying unsuccessfully to restrain his curiosity.
“G—go ahead,” he said breathlessly, “Major Lucius Vanderveer is one of our proudest ancestors. A nobleman, a gentleman, a true blue-blood of the first water.”
Sandra Vanderveer was looking at Reggie in undisguised admiration.
“Where did you find it?” she asked happily. “You really are so terribly smart at times, Reggie.”
“Oh just around in—in a nook,” Reggie answered non-committally. “Now I’ll read this letter. It’s addressed to Major Lucius Vanderveer, attached to the command of General Philip Sheridan.”
“Yes, go on, boy,” urged Colonel Vanderveer from the edge of his chair.
“My dear Reginald,” Reggie began loudly and distinctly.
“Here!” Colonel Vanderveer cried testily. “You said the letter was to Lucius. What’s the blooming idea of this Reginald.”
“Will you permit me to continue?” Reggie asked with all the aloof dignity he could muster.
Colonel Vanderveer subsided scratching his head perplexedly.
“My dear Reginald,” Reggie began again. “There are not words to express this country’s fervent gratitude to you for your gallant services in her behalf.” Reggie paused, and then spoke the next sentence emphatically. “The Vliets of France should well be proud of you for your efforts in behalf of Liberty and Union.”
Reggie rushed on before Colonel Vanderveer could interrupt.
“The name of Vanderveer which you have been forced to assume because of possible international complications has been honored excessively by your courage and idealism. But it is my stern duty to ask a still greater favor of you. It is my wish that you renounce your family name of Vliet and legally adopt the name of Vanderveer to circumvent the possibility of our foes learning that you have aided us.
“You are well aware what that might mean on the troubled international front. I am sure that one who has suffered and sacrificed as you have for our cause will not hesitate to make this last and most heart-felt sacrifice of an honored and distinguished family name. Trusting that you will grant me this last favor, I salute you for the last time as Reginald Vliet, and greet you for the first time as Lucius Vanderveer.”
“Preposterous!” snorted Old Vanderveer. “Expect me to believe that our noblest forbear was a Vliet, one of your people. Rot! Absolutely tommyrot!” Reggie smiled.
“The paper and ink are genuine, the seals are authentic. It is, I am happy to say, the absolute and unimpeachable truth.”
Beads of perspiration were standing out on Colonel Vanderveer’s forehead. Reggie’s casual air of assurance was upsetting him.
“Who’s it from?” he asked uneasily. “A gentleman,” Reggie said coolly, “by the name of Abraham Lincoln.” He rocked slightly on his heels and hooked both thumbs complacently in his vest holes. “Mr. Lincoln thought a lot of we Vliets. Yes indeed! Thought a powerful lot of us.”
“Let me see it,” Colonel Vanderveer said hoarsely. “There must be—be some mistake.”
Reggie handed him the letter, and put his arm about Sandra’s waist. She leaned against him, murmured.
“My but you’re wonderful, Reggie.” Reggie nodded.
He was thinking of the old goat’s face when he exploded the next bombshell in front of him. When he told him of the treachery and perfidy of the French Vanderveer who sold out to Wellington. That ought to be worth watching. The old goat would probably blow his top off proper then. Reggie smiled gloatingly, a delightful anticipation mounting in his veins. With both of the long-renowned Vanderveers consigned to ignominious oblivion, old Colonel Vanderveer would be a sadder but wiser human being.
Colonel Vanderveer stood up then, pale and shaken.
“It appears to be genuine,” he said weakly. “It would seem that the man we have venerated these long years as Major Vanderveer is actually a relative of yours, a Vliet.”
Reggie nodded complacently. When he had received the communication from the dispatch rider back in the Civil war, he’d realized that it wouldn’t do to make a chump out of his own relative. That was why it had been necessary to race after Sheridan and undo the damage he had done.
“Positively staggering,” old Vanderveer said heavily.
“And that isn’t all,” Reggie said, with poisonous calm. “I have more information for you, Colonel Vanderveer. It seems—”
Colonel Vanderveer waved a hand. “It must wait,” he said, with some of his old fire. “I have something to say to you. Something that you, ahem, might consider in the way of restitution for the use of your name all these years.
“I receive a pension fund in the amount of five thousand pounds each year from the English government. It is given to me from the estate of Colonel Horatio Vanderveer, one of the outstanding English heroes, as you probably know.”
Reggie smiled gloatingly. His time had just about arrived. Let the old bore ramble on and then he’d spring the fact that Colonel Horatio Vanderveer was actually a French traitor and deserter.
“This money,” Colonel Vanderveer said pontifically, “I will bequeath to you and Sandra as a wedding present along with my blessings and best wishes for your happiness.”
“Oh Daddy!” Sandra cried, hugging him.
Reggie felt as if he would collapse. The old man’s capitulation was one amazing thing, but secondly there was the realization that the treachery of Colonel Horatio Vanderveer must continue to remain a dark secret. For Reggie knew that if the old man suspected his great-grandfather’s treachery, he would never accept the lush pension from the English government. If he refused it, as he undoubtedly would, where would one Reginald Vliet get off? Probably out in the cold as far as a substantial lump of the stuff was concerned.
Reggie fought a brief battle with his conscience and his conscience lost by a wide margin. Reggie squared his shoulders, and decided to forget forever certain circumstances concerning Colonel Horatio Vanderveer.
“This is wonderful of you, Colo—I mean, Dad,” he cried enthusiastically. He took Sandra by the arm. “Come darling,” he said masterfully, “I have things to speak to you about. Important things.”
They left the room, arm in arm, and Colonel Vanderveer winced as he heard Reggie’s clear young tenor voice floating back, singing:
“Oh we cut down the fam-lee treeeee
“And we hauled it away to the mill.”
TIME ON YOUR HANDS, by John York Cabot
The package had been sent to Reggie Vliet at his club. It had, upon being opened by th
at amiable young playboy, presented quite an emotional jolt. Shock and nostalgia had been the prime essentials of his emotions. Shock at the realization that old Lowndes was dead; nostalgia at the recollection of what the small object had once meant to him.
The small object was a watch. Lowndes’ watch. An extraordinary timepiece which gave the wearer the astounding ability to flip back, very much in the flesh, into any page of any historical era he might wish to visit.
The watch, in fact, was used to that advantage by Reggie himself several years previously. Used, thanks to the kindliness of the strange butler, Lowndes, to enable the young man to have a go at changing history.
Reggie hadn’t changed history on that occasion. But he had succeeded, through his prowlings through the pages of Time, in bringing back from history enough evidence to force the coldblooded old colonel, now his father-in-law, to permit him to marry the girl of Reggie’s dreams.
At the time of the arrival of this strange timepiece Reggie was, and had been for several years, thank you, quite happily married to that girl. Married so happily, in fact, that it seemed years since—upon returning from the historic past and winning the girl—he had given the watch back to Lowndes.
And now, as he gazed at the watch and remembered it all more forcibly than he had ever recalled it since, he realized also that the arrival of the timepiece signified that Lowndes was dead. For Lowndes had told Reggie, back then, that his present to Reggie and his bride-to-be would be a provision in his will which would pass the watch on to Reggie, should the eccentric old butler ever go the way of all flesh.
Reggie felt sad to think that Lowndes was dead. So sad, in fact, that he almost quite forgot the watch as he mechanically, idly, strapped it to his wrist and fiddled with the dial. The explosion in Reggie’s bean followed with terrifying immediacy, and for a second he thought he was losing consciousness. Then daylight returned.
Perplexed, Reggie shook his head. He noticed then, with some surprise, that his head showed no indication of exploding again. He shook it again, cautiously.
“Well, anyway,” he said aloud, “I’m not drunk.”
Then he remembered his fiddling with the watch. His heart turned a triple somersault and didn’t quite right itself. Something very funny was going on in his stomach and now his head was hurting!
He stared dazedly about a magnificent chamber. His brain was struggling to assimilate the evidence his eyes were presenting. It was monstrously unbelievable! Impossibly incredible! He shut his eyes desperately. It would all be gone when he opened his eyes. It had to be.
He opened his eyes again. A despairing moan trickled through his lips. Nothing had changed. The chamber was just as magnificent, just as real as ever.
Reggie began to tremble at the thought. The soft jelly-like surface of the wonderful bed trembled with him. He passed a hand over his suddenly damp forehead and noticed, for the first time since he had left the privacy of his club, the Time Machine strapped securely to his wrist. He peered at it closely. It was set for year minus one. Somehow it gave him a feeling of confidence.
If things got blackish he had merely to set the machine and Pip Pip! he’d be out of it. His nervousness began to fade away. His perky smile appeared again at the corners of his mouth.
He even felt a bit debonair, for he was still dressed as he had been in the library. Cutaway coat, striped trousers, boutonnière—neatly turned out.
Excitement and a delicious sense of adventure were stealing over him. He, Reggie Vliet, was again actually living in the past. He could enjoy it, relish it, admire it, and—change it. That was why he was here. To scramble the past, knock it off its customary track, blast it out of its timeworn groove.
The thought made him laugh delightedly. He thought of old Colonel Vanderveer, ancestry-ridden and heredity-conscious. Why, with an upheaval in history the old boy might turn up a beggar or a thief or a milkman or even a fifth columnist. Then let him object to the humble Randhope name. Reggie laughed louder. Why the old goat would probably be happy to have his daughter’s name linked to the Randhopes, or anybody for that matter.
“Fifth columnist,” Reggie chortled, “or maybe even a congressman.”
So engrossed was Reggie with these entrancing visions that he did not hear the soft footsteps behind him. He was cheerfully oblivious to all but his own happy contemplations. But not so oblivious that he failed to hear the smooth, liquid voice at his side say:
“Greetings, strangely attired one.”
The smile remained on Reggie’s face through force of habit, but he started suddenly and toppled off the soft edge of the bed. He struck the floor in a confused heap of arms and legs and rolled over once. Then he climbed to his feet. The smile was still stuck on his feet like a mask. He turned slowly to face a dark-haired, puzzled-looking girl, attired in a loose, flowing white garment that did little to conceal her lovely feminine contours.
The smile on Reggie’s face began to thaw. Then, when his lips were manageable again, it widened.
He smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. “I say,” he declared, “they didn’t exaggerate about you at that. You’re all they said, er—Miss Cleopatra, and then some.”
The girl’s frown deepened. “Cleopatra?” Her smooth voice was doubtful.
“Er—yes.” Reggie cleared his throat. “You are Cleopatra, aren’t you?”
The girl’s eyes lighted and then she smiled, a brilliant flashing smile that had a couple of dimples and a lot of white teeth mixed together very attractively. “Cleopatra,” she said, and gestured about the room.
Reggie beamed. “We’re getting on, aren’t we?” He took her hand and seated her on the side of the bed, slumping himself next to her. “Now, Cleopatra,” he said briskly, “what’s all this I hear about you throwing yourself away on this mug, Anthony?”
The girl shook her head and glanced fearfully about the room.
“Now just relax, Cleo,” Reggie said soothingly, “maybe I was too blunt about everything. I mean, we hardly know each other.” He smiled and she smiled back at him rather uncertainly. Reggie congratulated himself modestly. A plan was buzzing around his head. If he could eliminate Cleopatra and Anthony it might have terrific repercussions down through time.
He smiled again at the girl. It’d be fun, too.
“Cleopatra…” His voice held a muted throb. His eyes closed soulfully. “How I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve lived for it, dreamed and hoped for it for centuries. To see the beauty, the glory, the incomparable loveliness that is you and you alone. To be near the immortal woman, whose life has fired the imagination.”
Reggie opened one eye cautiously to see how it was going.
He looked closer at the girl and opened the other eye. Something was wrong. She was staring over his shoulder transfixed, completely oblivious to him. The Vliet pride suffered.
“After all,” he said peevishly, “you could at least listen.”
Reggie became conscious, then, of another presence in the room. It wasn’t anything he could hear or see or smell. It was as if the very air had been charged with some electric force that beat against him in prickling waves. He turned slowly.
Standing before him was a woman.
“Cleopatra,” he breathed. He knew it instinctively. Just as a person wouldn’t need an introduction to Niagara Falls, so Reggie needed no introduction to this magnificent woman.
“I beg forgiveness, mistress,” the girl alongside Reggie said tearfully. “I found him when I came to draw your bath.”
Cleopatra made a slight gesture with her hand. Her eyes burned steadily into Reggie’s. The girl slipped away.
Reggie loosened his collar with his forefinger and stood up weakly. Very brilliant of him, he thought dazedly. Making his torrid play for Cleopatra’s maid. He noticed uneasily that Cleopatra had crossed her arms and was r
egarding him with a smoldering intensity.
“Warm, isn’t it?” He loosened his collar again and smiled enthusiastically. “For this time of the year, I mean.”
Her lips curved slightly. Reggie looked at her closely, his fascination temporarily over-riding his feeling of fearful awkwardness. She was not tall, yet she created that impression. It was something in the way she held her head. Her features were ordinary except for a curiously alive, vibrant quality about her mouth and nose. Her hair was a splendid, thrilling crown that sparkled like black diamonds as it cascaded in a tumbling stream down her back. But her eyes were a new experience to Reggie. They were green and then they were black and they danced and glittered like quicksilver. Reggie turned his eyes away and blinked. It was like looking too long at a flashing neon sign.
“It is warm,” she said unexpectedly.
Her voice was clear and yet it was the type of voice that can purr at times.
“Oh, oh yes,” Reggie nodded vigorously, “warm.”
Cleopatra moved toward him. She wore a cream-colored, mesh-like garment that buckled at her shoulders and ankles.
Reggie backed a step, bumped into the bed and sat down. Cleopatra moved languorously toward him, seated herself beside him.
“Where are you from, strange one?” she asked quietly.
Reggie was puzzled about the language. Either she was speaking English or he was speaking Egyptian. Anyway, they seemed to understand each other and he was satisfied.
Cleopatra was waiting for an answer. Reggie’s reeling senses were beginning to right themselves. “It doesn’t matter,” he said soulfully. “How I’ve waited for this moment. I’ve lived for it, dreamed and hoped for it for centuries. To see—”
“I have heard that before,” Cleopatra interrupted him coldly. “That is what you told my maid.”
“Not to mention half the senior class at Vassar,” Reggie said brightly, and then checked himself. Maybe Cleopatra lacked a sense of humor. “The words have been burned into my heart,” he murmured brokenly. He risked a quick look at her, and breathed with more assurance. He took her hand gently, holding his breath. She was looking at his wrist.
The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Page 47