How ironic, I thought, if I should be shot so close to achieving success in my mission. Fortunately, the unusual efficiency which had characterized my stay in Paris came to the fore again.
“How dare you!” I roared at him in French. “I could have you shot for striking an officer! I am Colonel Snodgrass, and you are guarding my balloon.”
For a moment he was silent and I wondered if I had gone too far. I recalled that after the fall of Napoleon III the new Republican Army was not characterized by a high degree of discipline. Possibly an appeal for his aid or a bribe would have been a better tactic to try.
Fortunately, he did not call my bluff. “I am sorry, sir,” he said apologetically. “You startled me. I thought you might be a German.”
“Come here,” I ordered him. “Help me move my balloon out of the shed.”
I opened the shed door and walked past him, trying to look more confident than I felt. To my relief, he put his rifle down and followed me. It was so dark in the shed that I had to feel my way to the time machine and then order the militiaman to join me.
The time machine was difficult to move, but with considerable effort the two of us finally managed to drag it out of the shed. I dismissed him with a curt thank you, turned my back and opened the door of the time machine, mentally wishing him to leave the scene.
I sat down, closed the door and turned the motor on. Through the window, I could see the militiaman staring at me in puzzlement. I tuned the throttle to full, but the motor still idled, with no surge of powers coming from the hydrogen-titanium batteries. I feared that the time machine was damaged beyond repair, that I was permanently trapped in 1870.
Suddenly, the motor speeded up. I looked at the gauges and felt a surge of relief. Although the batteries were not supplying the engine with the power they should have, the level was sufficient to permit me to take off and hopefully reach home.
Under normal power, the time machine could travel both geographically and through time simultaneously. In order not to place undue strain on the weakened batteries, I decided I would not attempt this.
To test the batteries, I put the machine into a slow ascent, rising gradually in the dark sky until I was some thousand feet above Paris. I then turned to the time controls and began a gradual return to the present. I traveled through the 1870s. The gauges showed the batteries were incurring no strain, so I increased my speed until I reached June 1914.
Gradually, lights appeared below me as electric illumination became more prevalent in Paris. I was tempted to continue traveling on to the present, but desisted. It was prudent to conserve power usage by limiting my altitude and I did not wish to run the risk of damage to the time machine by being only 1,000 feet over Paris, even for a few seconds, during World War I or World War II.
With no little trepidation, I stopped my movement forward in time and took one more look down at Paris. It was a full moon on that particular June night and the spires of Paris were bathed in a soft light. The scene below me was so beautiful that it was hard to believe in a few short months France and most of the rest of Europe would be plunged into the horrors of the First World War.
For a moment I thought of landing and trying to prevent the war. However, a few seconds of reflection convinced me that such an effort would be incredibly stupid. I would have almost no chance of being successful. Equally important, if by some miracle I managed to succeed, the changes that would I would find in the world I would return to could be incalculable compared to the world I had left.
Bidding farewell to 1914 Paris, I began traveling across France until I reached the Atlantic. I feared crossing that vast expanse of water with the weakened batteries, but there was no alternative. I delayed as long as possible, traveling across England and then Ireland.
With a heavy heart, I saw Ireland disappear behind me and began my journey across the open waters of the Atlantic. Fortunately, the weather was perfect and the moonlight somehow lulled my fears. Once, far in the distance, I thought I saw the lights of a trans-Atlantic steamer, but I decided it would be foolish to waste power to get a closer look.
Finally, as I began to think that my instruments had led me astray, I saw the coast of Newfoundland in the distance. Cheered by the sight of land, I turned southwest, generally following the coast of Canada. When I left Canada and flew over Maine, my confidence that I might actually return home safely steadily increased.
The lights of Boston heartened me still more. I banked the time machine sharply westward and began the last leg of my journey. It was fortunate, I thought, that I was teaching at Standish rather than at some institution out west. The gauges were indicating that my power was almost exhausted.
With a start, I remembered that I was still in l914. I stopped the machine’s geographic movement and began moving through time back to the present. My progress was measured in months and years rather than in decades due to the weakness of the batteries.
As I neared the present I thanked God that they were no weaker. My movement through the last decades seemed interminably slow, but finally the gauge indicated I had reached the present. The motor gave a final surge, then, with power exhausted, the time machine descended in a series of erratic circles until I managed, with great effort and even more good fortune, to set it down gently in the back yard of my house.
I unlatched the door and clumsily disembarked, suddenly drained of all energy. I felt like getting down and kissing the earth. Instead, more practically, I turned to the work of putting the machine back into my garage.
With the aid of the wheeled platform I had used to move it from my workshop in the garage out to the back yard, I carefully returned the time machine to my garage and locked the door on the outside.
I then entered my kitchen, doffed my uniform in favor of an old bathrobe, and made myself a cup of coffee. I relaxed, sipping my coffee and thought of how miraculous it was that I had returned safely. Suddenly, I recalled the photograph of me with General Trochu, the priceless proof that I had traveled in time. I hurriedly felt inside my uniform coat pocket and relaxed as I made certain it was still there.
I congratulated myself and thought of how my life would change once I was acknowledged as the inventor of the time machine. I would be rich and famous. Beautiful women would throw themselves at my feet. My behavior would be characterized by the confidence and savoir-faire that I had displayed increasingly during my stay in Paris.
My daydreams of glory were interrupted by a sharp pain in my leg. I looked down. Princess had bitten me on the ankle. Some things, I realized, had not changed.
PART II
The days following my return from my trip to the past were busy ones. Despite my fatigue, I labored until 2 a.m. on the day of my return, painstakingly checking again the paper Professor Bolton had given me to look at prior to the start of the Christmas vacation.
The following day, Monday, I had no office hours and no class to teach until 1 p.m. I decided to give myself the luxury of sleeping late and did not set the alarm clock. It was with considerable irritation, therefore, that I awakened to the incessant ringing of the telephone. I looked at the clock. It was the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.
Stifling a curse, I picked up the receiver and forced myself to be polite.
“Snodgrass?”
It was the voice of Joy, the secretary of the Physics department. Her name was most apt. To see her was a joy for any male. Describing her as voluptuous would have been to do her an injustice. She was frankly the sexiest, most appealing woman I had ever seen.
In my daydreams, I would sweep her off her feet. In reality, she treated me with a thinly disguised disdain. Her deep voice, normally so sweet that it would remind you of honey, was cold and harsh on those few occasions when she would deign to speak to me.
Except for me, she habitually flirted with every man she spoke to. This even included Kim Han Chu, whose grasp of English was so limited that he would ask me later to explain to him what had transpired during their conversation.
&nb
sp; Early in my stay at Standish, I had hoped to wear down her defenses, bringing her candy on her birthday and Christmas. In vain. Her contempt for me had only become more explicit. Most recently, she has stopped referring to me as “professor” or “doctor” and now addressed me solely by my last name.
“Good morning,” I said, as pleasantly as I could.
“Dr. Bolton wants to see you in his office as quickly as possible!”
“Of course, what about?”
There was no answer. Joy had already hung up.
I quickly shaved, dressed, carefully put the article I had redone for Dr. Bolton into a large folder to protect it, and set out for the university.
The house I rented from the university was only a few minutes’ walk from the campus. Despite its convenient location, my house was the least desirable of any of those rented by the university to junior members of the faculty. In addition to its small size and the poor state of the paint job, rugs and furniture, it was in a neighborhood that had become increasingly seedy during the years I had resided there.
When the university housing office had assigned me the house upon my arrival at Standish, I had been shocked when I saw its dilapidated condition. My mild protests to the Director of Housing had been answered with the bland assertion that nothing better was then available. He assured me that I would receive priority treatment when a better house was vacated, probably no later than the start of the spring semester.
Foolishly, I accepted the assurances I was offered at face value. I patiently bided my time as the weeks and months went by. At the end of the spring semester, I confidently went to the university housing officer to learn which of the faculty houses I had been assigned for the next year. To my amazement, the director of housing explained that due to a lamentable clerical error, the house intended for me had somehow been assigned to a new instructor in the finance department.
I gullibly accepted the excuse and the apologies that accompanied them. The next year, the excuse was different but the result the same. The new director of housing explained that his predecessor had not informed him of the inadequate housing that had been assigned me and that all better houses had already allocated.
Each year I found the excuses less plausible than the last. Eventually it dawned on me that the staff of the housing office considered me as unimportant as did the rest of my colleagues and acquaintances. I stopped trying to obtain a better house, comforting myself with the fact that my house had a large garage which served as an excellent workshop for the construction of the time machine.
Passing through the gate donated by the class of 1926, I entered the campus. As I always did when I viewed the quadrangle, I was impressed by its beauty. The buildings were of Georgian architecture. Tall oak trees shaded the buildings and the walks which connected them.
It was difficult for me to walk as rapidly as I wished because of the groups of students heading for their 9 a.m. classes. Excusing myself, I finally was able to get ahead of a group of three coeds walking abreast and entered Guggenheim Hall, which housed the Physics department.
Sprinting up the stairs to the second floor office of the department, I entered. For a moment I didn’t see Joy. However, the scent of the lovely perfume she always wore indicated her presence.
“You’re late,” I heard her say coldly.
Turning, I saw her standing by the file cabinet on the same side of the wall as the door I had just entered. She looked even more voluptuous than usual. The tight dress she was wearing emphasized every delightful curve of her magnificent body. Her luxurious blond hair fell to her shoulders.
On anyone else, her hairdo would have seemed untidy. However, it made her look, as I had heard one graduate student tell another with an admiring expression on his face, as though she had just fallen out of bed.
She walked past me to her desk. It was even better to see her in motion. The fabric of her dress clung to her body, showing every beautiful curve. I wondered how she could walk so confidently in her high-heeled shoes. It seemed to defy the laws of physics.
Ignoring my admiring stare, Joy buzzed Dr. Bolton on the intercom.
“You can go in now,” she said, as coldly as before.
Dismissing me, she walked back to the file cabinet. I entered Dr. Bolton’s office. He was seated at his desk. The Department Chairman ignored me for a few moments before looking up from the paper he had been reading.
“Do you have my paper?” he said.
His tone was impersonal, as though he had been speaking to a robot.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said apologetically, handing him the paper.
He said nothing, but began carefully reading the paper. As he did so, I found myself wondering about his unusual appearance. Invariably, he wore a dark business suit, white shirt and conservative tie. Astonishingly, these had given way to a loud open-necked plaid sports shirt.
When he finished his perusal of the paper, he began questioning me in detail about the formulas. It was not easy, but eventually he grasped them. He carefully put the paper in his desk drawer and stood.
“I must be going,” he said. “I am meeting the Dean, Dr. Harris, and Fielding at the club. We tee off at 10.”
I could appreciate Dr. Bolton’s interest in playing golf with the Dean. The Physics department was asking for additional funds in the forthcoming year. Support from the Dean was essential if we were to be successful. Dr. Harris had prepared the proposed department budget. Alan Fielding, however, was a brash young man who was only in his fifth year with the department. Aside from his beautiful wife, who had been almost cordial to me at faculty receptions, I could think of no redeeming features Fielding possessed.
I envied Fielding’s inclusion in the golf foursome. If I could find some way of playing golf with Dr. Bolton, I thought, I might impress him that I was a valuable member of the department.
“I enjoy a good game of golf,” I said hopefully.
Dr. Bolton ignored my remark.
“What’s your handicap?” I tried again.
He stopped and turned around. At a minimum, I expected an answer to my question. With luck, he would at least indicate awareness of my interest in the game and possibly invite me to play with him at a later date.
“Oh, Maynard,” he began, as I waited expectantly for his reply. “One thing more. The new software we ordered for the department computers has arrived. I’d like you to install it before the end of the week.”
Before I could think of an adequate answer, he was gone. Slowly, I left the office and walked home. I was utterly dejected. Dr. Bolton’s failure to thank me for providing him with the scholarly article he needed was not totally unexpected. But asking me to install the new computer software was something new. Probably next he would ask me to sweep the corridors in Peabody Hall.
To make matters worse, I was not sure of my ability to install the software. I would have to ask at the university computer department to learn the proper procedure. The foolishness of the exercise disgusted me. The computer department was responsible for installing software and provided the service routinely when requested.
By the time I reached home, my morale had improved. I would work nights if necessary to meet Dr. Bolton’s schedule for installing the software.
The software proved to be more difficult than I had expected. However, by working all Friday night, I was able to complete the project early on Saturday morning.
My eyes bleary from lack of sleep, I was just starting my final test of the system about 10 a.m. when Dr. Bolton entered. He saw me and a look of irritation crossed his face. Aren’t you through yet?” he asked peevishly.
Just finished, sir,” I answered, trying not to let the resentment show in my voice. The test of the software was completed satisfactorily, I stood up and looked at Dr. Bolton expectantly. Surely, he would not fail to thank me for my devotion to the department.
“You can go now,” he said, dismissing me. ”The Dean will be here in a few minutes and I want
to show him that the software has been installed.”
I tried again. “Would you like me to stay and answer and questions he might have?”
“No!”
Dejectedly, I turned and started to leave the office.
“Oh, Maynard…”
I turned new hope in my heart. At last the thanks would be coming.
“I’d like you to come over to my house on Tuesday evening, after dinner. I bought some new tax software for my computer and I want you to install it for me.”
I waited for him to say something more. Instead, he turned his back to me, picked up from his desk the explanatory material that had accompanied the software and proceeded to read it. More depressed than usual, I walked home.
After several days of mopping around my house, I pulled myself together. Recalling the photograph I had obtained in Paris showing me with General Trochu was the catalyst. It would be foolish; I decided not to claim the fame that was rightly mine from inventing a time machine.
I immersed myself in drafting an article for the National Physics Society quarterly, describing my invention of the time machine and the trip I had made back to 1870 France. In case the reviewer failed to understand my mathematical formulas proving the feasibility of time travel, I would include the photograph showing me with General Trochu as proof. Trochu’s handwritten, signed note describing my visit would be added confirmation.
It was with great pride and expectation that I completed my article and inserted a copy of it and the all-important photograph into a large Manila envelope. The National Physics Society would certainly have to award me its annual prize for the greatest contribution to physics for my work, I reasoned. Even the Nobel Prize in Physics was not out of the question.
As I headed to the post office to mail the envelope, I clutched it tightly, fearing I might lose it. The clerk at the post office smiled condescendingly when I pressed her for assurances that the envelope not be lost in the mail. Her arguments did not fully convince me, but even in my emotional state I realized it would be silly to hire a special messenger.
My Troubles With Time Page 6