Time Travel Omnibus Volume 1

by Anthology

  “You see Aaron Burr plainly enough, though. I mean he isn’t nobody or everybody.”

  “All right, all right,” said Andrews. “You have me there. But I don’t know who the woman is, and I don’t care. Maybe it’s Madame Jumel or Mittens Willett or a girl I knew in high school. That’s not important.”

  “Who is Mittens Willett?” asked Mrs. Andrews.

  “She was a famous New York actress in her day, fifty years ago or so. She’s buried in an old cemetery on Second Avenue.”

  “That’s very sad,” said Mrs. Andrews.

  “Why is it?” demanded Andrews, who was now pacing up and down the deep-red carpet.

  “I mean she probably died young,” said Mrs. Andrews. “Almost all women did in those days.”

  Andrews ignored her and walked over to a window and looked out at a neat, bleak street in the Fifties. “He’s a vile, cynical cad,” said Andrews, suddenly turning away from the window. “I was standing talking to Alexander Hamilton when Burr stepped up and slapped him in the face. When I looked at Hamilton, who do you suppose he was?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Andrews. “Who was he?”

  “He was my brother, the one I’ve told you about, the one who was killed by that drunkard in the cemetery.”

  Mrs. Andrews had never got that story straight and she didn’t want to go into it again now; the facts in the tragic case and her way of getting them mixed up always drove Andrews into a white-faced fury. “I don’t think we ought to dwell on your nightmare,” said Mrs. Andrews. “I think we ought to get out more. We could go to the country for weekends.”

  Andrews wasn’t listening; he was back at the window, staring out into the street again.

  “I wish he’d go back to France and stay there,” Andrews snapped out suddenly the next morning at breakfast.

  “Who, dear?” said his wife. “Oh, you mean Aaron Burr. Did you dream about him again? I don’t see why you dream about him all the time. Don’t you think you ought to take some Luminal?”

  “No,” said Andrews. “I don’t know. Last night he kept shoving Alexander around.”

  “Alexander?”

  “Hamilton. God knows I’m familiar enough with him to call him by his first name. He hides behind my coattails every night, or tries to.”

  “I was thinking we might go to the Old Drovers’ Inn this weekend,” said Mrs. Andrews. “You like it there.”

  “Hamilton has become not only my brother Walter but practically every other guy I have ever liked,” said Andrews. “That’s natural.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. They got up from the table. “I do wish you’d go to Dr. Fox.”

  “I’m going to the Zoo,” he said, “and feed popcorn to the rhinoceros. That makes things seem right, for a little while anyway.”

  It was two nights later at five o’clock in the morning that Andrews bumbled into his wife’s bedroom in pajamas and bare feet, his hair in his eyes, his eyes wild. “He got him!” he croaked. “He got him! The bastard got him. Alexander fired into the air, he fired in the air and smiled at him, just like Walter, and that fiend from hell took deliberate aim—I saw him—I saw him take deliberate aim—he killed him in cold blood, the foul scum!”

  Mrs. Andrews, not quite awake, was fumbling in the box containing the Nembutal while her husband ranted on. She made him take two of the little capsules, between his sobs.

  Andrews didn’t want to go to see Dr. Fox but he went to humor his wife. Dr. Fox leaned back in his swivel chair behind his desk and looked at Andrews. “Now, just what seems to be the trouble?” he asked.

  “Nothing seems to be the trouble,” said Andrews.

  The doctor looked at Mrs. Andrews.”He has nightmares,” she said.

  “You look a little underweight, perhaps,” said the doctor. “Are you eating well, getting enough exercise?”

  “I’m not underweight,” said Andrews. “I eat the way I always have and get the same exercise.”

  At this, Mrs. Andrews sat straighter in her chair and began to talk, while her husband lighted a cigarette. “You see, I think he’s worried about something,” she said, “because he always has this same dream. It’s about his brother Walter, who was killed in a cemetery by a drunken man, only it isn’t really about him.”

  The doctor did the best he could with this information. He cleared his throat, tapped on the glass top of his desk with the fingers of his right hand, and said, “Very few people are actually killed in cemeteries.” Andrews stared at the doctor coldly and said nothing. “I wonder if you would mind stepping into the next room,” the doctor said to him.

  “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” Andrews snapped at his wife as they left the doctor’s office a half-hour later. “You heard what he said. There’s nothing the matter with me at all.”

  “I’m glad your heart is so fine,” she told him. “He said it was fine, you know.”

  “Sure,” said Andrews. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” They got into a cab and drove home in silence.

  “I was just thinking,” said Mrs. Andrews, as the cab stopped in front of their apartment building, “I was just thinking that now that Alexander Hamilton is dead, you won’t see anything more of Aaron Burr.” The cab-driver, who was handing Andrews change for a dollar bill, dropped a quarter on the floor.

  Mrs. Andrews was wrong. Aaron Burr did not depart from her husband’s dreams. Andrews said nothing about it for several mornings, but she could tell. He brooded over his breakfast, did not answer any of her questions, and jumped in his chair if she dropped a knife or spoon. “Are you still dreaming about that man?” she asked him finally.

  “I wish I hadn’t told you about it,” he said. “Forget it, will you?”

  “I can’t forget it with you going on this way,” she said. “I think you ought to see a psychiatrist. What does he do now?”

  “What does who do now?” Andrews asked.

  “Aaron Burr,” she said. “I don’t see why he keeps coming into your dreams now.”

  Andrews finished his coffee and stood up. “He goes around bragging that he did it with his eyes closed,” he snarled. “He says he didn’t even look. He claims he can hit the ace of spades at thirty paces blindfolded. Furthermore, since you asked what he does, he jostles me at parties now.”

  Mrs. Andrews stood up too and put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I think you should stay out of this, Harry,” she said. “It wasn’t any business of yours, anyway, and it happened so long ago.”

  “I’m not getting into anything,” said Andrews, his voice rising to a shout. “It’s getting into me. Can’t you see that?”

  “I see that I’ve got to get you away from here,” she said. “Maybe if you slept someplace else for a few nights, you wouldn’t dream about him any more. Let’s go to the country tomorrow. Let’s go to the Lime Rock Lodge.”

  Andrews stood for a long while without answering her. “Why can’t we go and visit the Crowleys?” he said finally. “They live in the country. Bob has a pistol and we could do a little target-shooting.”

  “What do you want to shoot a pistol for?” she asked quickly. “I should think you’d want to get away from that.”

  “Yeh,” he said, “sure,” and there was a far-off look in his eyes. “Sure.”

  When they drove into the driveway of the Crowleys’ house, several miles north of New Milford, late the next afternoon, Andrews was whistling “Bye-Bye, Blackbird.” Mrs. Andrews sighed contentedly and then, as her husband stopped the car, she began looking around wildly. “My bag!” she cried. “Did I forget to bring my bag?” He laughed his old, normal laugh for the first time in many days as he found the bag and handed it to her, and then, for the first time in many days, he leaned over and kissed her.

  The Crowleys came out of the house and engulfed their guests in questions and exclamations. “How you been?” said Bob Crowley to Andrews, heartily putting an arm around his shoulder.

  “Never better,” said Andrews, “never be
tter. Boy, is it good to be here!”

  They were swept into the house to a shakerful of Bob Crowley’s icy Martinis. Mrs. Andrews stole a happy glance over the edge of her glass at her husband’s relaxed face.

  When Mrs. Andrews awoke the next morning, her husband lay rigidly on his back in the bed next to hers, staring at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” said Mrs. Andrews.

  Andrews didn’t move his head. “One Henry Andrews, an architect,” he said suddenly in a mocking tone. “One Henry Andrews, an architect.”

  “What’s the matter, Harry?” she asked. “Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “That’s what he calls me!” shouted Andrews. “ ‘One Henry Andrews, an architect,’ he keeps saying in his nasty little sneering voice. ‘One Henry Andrews, an architect.’ ”

  “Please don’t yell!” said Mrs. Andrews. “You’ll wake the whole house. It’s early. People want to sleep.”

  Andrews lowered his voice a little. “I’m beneath him,” he snarled. “I’m just anybody. I’m a man in a gray suit. ‘Be on your good behavior, my good man,’ he says to me, ‘or I shall have one of my lackeys give you a taste of the riding crop.’ ”

  Mrs. Andrews sat up in bed. “Why should he say that to you?” she asked. “He wasn’t such a great man, was he? I mean, didn’t he try to sell Louisiana to the French, or something, behind Washington’s back?”

  “He was a scoundrel,” said Andrews, “but a very brilliant mind.”

  Mrs. Andrews lay down again. “I was in hopes you weren’t going to dream about him any more,” she said. “I thought if I brought you up here—”

  “It’s him or me,” said Andrews grimly. “I can’t stand this forever.”

  “Neither can I,” Mrs. Andrews said, and there was a hint of tears in her voice.

  Andrews and his host spent most of the afternoon, as Mrs. Andrews had expected, shooting at targets on the edge of the wood behind the Crowley studio. After the first few rounds, Andrews surprised Crowley by standing with his back to the huge hulk of dead tree trunk on which the targets were nailed, walking thirty paces ahead in a stiff-legged, stem-faced manner, with his revolver held at arm’s length above his head, then turning suddenly and firing.

  Crowley dropped to the ground, uninjured but scared. “What the hell’s the big idea, Harry?” he yelled.

  Andrews didn’t say anything, but started to walk back to the tree again. Once more he stood with his back to the target and began stepping off the thirty paces.

  “I think they kept their arm hanging straight down,” Bob called to him. “I don’t think they stuck it up in the air.”

  Andrews, still counting to himself, lowered his arm, and this time, as he turned at the thirtieth step, he whirled and fired from his hip, three times in rapid succession.

  “Hey!” said Crowley.

  Two of the shots missed the tree but the last one hit it, about two feet under the target. Crowley looked at his house guest oddly as Andrews began to walk back to the tree again, without a word, his lips tight, his eyes bright, his breath coming fast.

  “What the hell?” Crowley said to himself. “Look, it’s my turn,” he called, but Andrews turned, then stalked ahead, unheeding. This time when he wheeled and fired, his eyes were closed.

  “Good God Almighty, man!” said Crowley from the grass, where he lay flat on his stomach. “Hey, give me that gun, will you?” he demanded, getting to his feet.

  Andrews let him take it. “I need a lot more practice, I guess,” he said.

  “Not with me standing around,” said Crowley. “Come on, let’s go back to the house and shake up a drink. I’ve got the jumps.”

  “I need a lot more practice,” said Andrews again.

  He got his practice next morning just as the sun came up and the light was hard and the air was cold. He had crawled softly out of bed, dressed silently, and crept out of the room. He knew where Crowley kept the target pistol and the cartridges. There would be a target on the tree trunk, just as high as a man’s heart. Mrs. Andrews heard the shots first and sat sharply upright in bed, crying “Harry!” almost before she was awake. Then she heard more shots. She got up, put on a dressing gown, and went to the Crowleys’ door. She heard them moving about in their room. Alice opened the door and stepped out into the hall when Mrs. Andrews knocked. “Is Harry all right?” asked Mrs. Andrews. “Where is he? What is he doing?”

  “He’s out shooting behind the studio, Bob says,” Alice told her. “Bob’ll go out and get him. Maybe he had a nightmare, or walked in his sleep.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Andrews, “he never walks in his sleep. He’s awake.”

  “Let’s go down and put on some coffee,” said Alice. “He’ll need some.”

  Crowley came out of the bedroom and joined the women in the hallway. “I’ll need some too,” he said. “Good morning, Bess. I’ll bring him back. What the hell’s the matter with him, anyway?” He was down the stairs and gone before she could answer. She was glad of that.

  “Come on,” said Alice, taking her arm. They went down to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Crowley found the butler in the kitchen, just standing there. “It’s all right, Madison,” she said. “You go back to bed. Tell Clotheta it’s all right. Mr. Andrews is just shooting a little. He couldn’t sleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” mumbled Madison, and went back to tell his wife that they said it was all right.

  “It can’t be right,” said Clotheta, “shootin’ pistols at this time of night.”

  “Hush up,” Madison told her. He was shivering as he climbed back into bed.

  “I wish dat man would go ‘way from heah,” grumbled Clotheta. “He’s got a bad look to his eyes.”

  Andrews brightened Clotheta’s life by going away late that afternoon. When he and his wife got in their car and drove off, the Crowleys slumped into chairs and looked at each other and said, “Well.” Crowley got up finally to mix a drink. “What do you think is the matter with Harry?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said his wife. “It’s what Clotheta would call the shoots, I suppose.”

  “He said a funny thing when I went out and got him this morning,” Crowley told her.

  “I could stand a funny thing,” she said.

  “I asked him what the hell he was doing there in that freezing air with only his pants and shirt and shoes on. ‘I’ll get him one of these nights,’ he said.”

  “Why don’t you sleep in my room tonight?” Mrs. Andrews asked her husband as he finished his Scotch-and-water nightcap.

  “You’d keep shaking me all night to keep me awake,” he said. “You’re afraid to let me meet him. Why do you always think everybody else is better than I am? I can outshoot him the best day he ever lived. Furthermore, I have a modem pistol. He has to use an old-fashioned single-shot muzzle-loader.” Andrews laughed nastily.

  “Is that quite fair?” his wife asked after a moment of thoughtful silence.

  He jumped up from his chair. “What do I care if it’s fair or not?” he snarled.

  She got up top. “Don’t be mad with me, Harry,” she said. There were tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he said, taking her in his arms.

  “I’m very unhappy,” she sobbed.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he said again. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine.” She was crying too wildly to say anything more.

  When she kissed him good night later on she knew it was really good-by. Women have a way of telling when you aren’t coming back.

  “Extraordinary,” said Dr. Fox the next morning, letting Andrews’ dead left hand fall back upon the bed. “His heart was as sound as a dollar when I examined him the other day. It has just stopped as if he had been shot.”

  Mrs. Andrews, through her tears, was looking at her dead husband’s right hand. The three fingers next to the index finger were closed in stiffly on the palm, as if gripping the handle of a pistol. The taut thumb was doing
its part to hold that invisible handle tightly and unwaveringly. But it was the index finger that Mrs. Andrews’ eyes stayed on longest. It was only slightly curved inward, as if it were just about to press the trigger of the pistol. “Harry never even fired a shot,” wailed Mrs. Andrews. “Aaron Burr killed him the way he killed Hamilton. Aaron Burr shot him through the heart. I knew he would. I knew he would.”

  Dr. Fox put an arm about the hysterical woman and led her from the room. “She is crazy,” he said to himself. “Stark, raving crazy.”

  A GUN FOR DINOSAUR

  L. Sprague de Camp

  No, I’m sorry, Mr. Seligman, but I can’t take you hunting Late Mesozoic dinosaur.

  Yes, I know what the advertisement says.

  Why not? How much d’you weigh? A hundred and thirty? Let’s see; that’s under ten stone, which is my lower limit.

  I could take you to other periods, you know. I’ll take you to any period in the Cenozoic. I’ll get you a shot at an entelodont or a uintathere. They’ve got fine heads.

  I’ll even stretch a point and take you to the Pleistocene, where you can try for one of the mammoths or the mastodon.

  I’ll take you back to the Triassic where you can shoot one of the smaller ancestral dinosaurs. But I will jolly well not take you to the Jurassic or Cretaceous. You’re just too small.

  What’s your size got to do with it? Look here, old boy, what did you think you were going to shoot your dinosaur with?

  Oh, you hadn’t thought, eh?

  Well, sit there a minute . . . Here you are: my own private gun for that work, a Continental .600. Does look like a shotgun, doesn’t it? But it’s rifled, as you can see by looking through the barrels. Shoots a pair of .600 Nitro Express cartridges the size of bananas; weighs fourteen and a half pounds and has a muzzle energy of over seven thousand foot-pounds. Costs fourteen hundred and fifty dollars. Lot of money for a gun, what?

  I have some spares I rent to the sahibs. Designed for knocking down elephant. Not just wounding them, knocking them base-over-apex. That’s why they don’t make guns like this in America, though I suppose they will if hunting parties keep going back in time.