Time Snatchers

by Richard Ungar

  “Hey, you never told me about how your meeting with Uncle went,” she says.

  I shift to face her. “Okay, I guess. He showed me his new aquarium and talked about withering souls. Then he mentioned some great new vision he’s got, treated me to a jelly bean and I left. Oh, yeah, and he wants me to be more like Frank.”

  “Wait, back up … what great new vision?” asks Abbie, switching to mindpatch, which is probably a good idea, since it’s a safe bet Uncle has listening devices in here.

  “Well, he didn’t get into details,” I answer over her mindpatch. “Just some talk about expanding Timeless Treasures, that he can’t do it all himself and that he needs generals.”

  “Okay. So what’d you say?” she asks.

  “About what?”

  Abbie rolls her eyes and says, “About what? About what we’re talking about, Mr. Space Zombie. Didn’t you tell Uncle that you thought it was a great idea?”

  “Well, no,” I answer. “I mean he didn’t exactly ask me for my opinion. Just told me what was coming.”

  “I can’t believe you!” Abbie says. “Don’t you see? He wasn’t telling you all that just to make pleasant conversation. He wanted to know what you think. And you know what else? If you’d shown the least bit of interest, I’m pretty sure he would have offered you a new job—a promotion—helping him with the expansion.”

  “How do you know for sure?” I say.

  Abbie stands up from the couch and glares down at me. “I don’t!” she says, this time out loud. “Nothing is for sure! You know what your problem is? You think way too much. If you want something in life, you’ve got to go for it!”

  Like you going for Frank, I want to say. But I bite the words back just in time.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say instead. Truth is, I don’t know what I want. But there’s one thing I’m sure I don’t want, and that’s moving up the corporate ladder and becoming Uncle’s second-in-command.

  “Good night, Cale. I’m going to bed,” she says. “I suggest you do the same. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Okay, I will. Good night.” I watch her leave the lounge. I’m tired, but there’s no way I’m going to bed yet. Something’s bothering me about our conversation. Abbie got really angry when I said I didn’t go gaga over Uncle’s expansion plans, like I didn’t get what he was talking about. Oh, I got it, all right. Got it and want nothing to do with it. But she thinks I was just being thick. Maybe she’s worried that she can’t count on me anymore, that if I can’t even follow a simple conversation with Uncle, then for sure my brain won’t be able to function properly when we’re out on missions. If that’s what she really thinks, then she and Frank deserve each other.

  But no. I refuse to believe that. Maybe she truly thinks that I want to be number one with Uncle and now I messed it up. Which means she really doesn’t know me at all. So why should that surprise me? I hardly know myself these days.

  I’ve got to stop all these negative thoughts about Abbie. But my brain isn’t listening. The nasty thoughts keep bubbling to the surface.

  Another reason I’m in no rush to go to bed is that as soon as I enter the dorm, Frank will no doubt grill me about my big meeting with Uncle. And Raoul will want to get his two cents in by way of snores, throat clearings and other assorted noises.

  No, it’ll be much better to wait until later. With any luck, they’ll both be asleep, and I can just sneak in.

  I stretch out on the couch and, after a few moments, close my eyes. And fall fast asleep.

  June 24, 2061, 7:08 A.M.

  Timeless Treasures Headquarters

  Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

  Rise and shine, Cale,” Abbie chirps.

  “Already up,” I mutter, which is partly true, because I’m half slouching on the couch.

  “Hey, did you sleep here?” she asks.

  I grunt in the affirmative. It’s still too early in the morning to put together complete sentences.

  Abbie’s already dressed for the mission. She’s wearing oval, pink-tinted sunglasses, floppy hat, tie-dyed T-shirt and faded blue jeans. She looks pretty, in a 1960s hippie sort of way.

  She hands me a blue denim knapsack with a large white peace symbol painted on. I don’t have to ask her what’s in it because I already know: an exact replica of the Xuande vase that we’ll leave at the snatch zone when we steal the real one.

  I push myself up to a sitting position and take stock of my various body parts. My neck is sore, and my left arm is tingling. I dreamt that Shu Fang leapt out of the tank, crept down the hall and bit me while I was sleeping, infecting me with slow-acting venom that started in my arm and was making its way to my heart. Right before I was about to die, I gave all my worldly possessions, consisting of my knife and my carving, to Nassim, who placed them inside a manila envelope neatly labeled “The Last Earthly Possessions of Caleb the Time Snatcher.”

  “C’mon,” says Abbie. “Time to get going, sleepyhead. We’ve got Operation Blue Bird!”

  “Operation what?”

  “Blue Bird. Don’t you remember that beautiful phoenix on the Xuande vase? It was painted in cobalt blue. Hence, Operation Blue Bird!”

  “Hence?”

  “Are you making fun of the way I speak?” she says.

  I shake my head because it takes less effort than talking.

  “Get up. We’re going to Montreal,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “You know very well we’re going to Montreal, Mr. Stalling for Time. But I bet you didn’t know that it’s my favorite city in the world.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because it’s beautiful, and it’s the city of romance!” She winks at me, and for the hundredth time, I wonder what she’s really thinking when she says stuff like that. Better not to analyze.

  I’m standing now, which I consider quite an accomplishment. I definitely deserve a reward. How about another hour of sleep?

  “Let’s go, Cale. I’ll be waiting for you at the fire escape.”

  “All right,” I say, still groggy.

  “À bientôt!” she says.

  “A … what?” I ask.

  “That’s French for ‘see you soon,’” says Abbie.

  I try to dredge up something clever to say, but before I can, Abbie’s already on her way out of the lounge.

  I trudge to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. There are circles under my eyes, and I’ve got a serious case of sofa hair. I step out of my clothes and clap on the shower. Water shoots from the jets, already preadjusted to my personal preferences for temperature and pressure.

  I hold my bandaged wrist out of the way so that it stays dry. The shower feels good. For a blissful moment, I close my eyes and let the water wash away the stress of my meeting with Uncle, my run-ins with Frank and my less than smooth conversations with Abbie. Lately I’ve been feeling like my life is spinning out of control. And the most frustrating thing is that I don’t really know why it’s happening or what I can do to stop it.

  I make the water as hot as I can take and stand under it for another minute before finally clapping it off. With the towel draped around my waist, I jog back to the lounge. There’s a Rolling Stones T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of Adidas sneakers laid out for me. Perfect for a trip to the 1960s.

  On my way to the fire escape, I chug the last bit of orange juice straight from the container.

  If I stopped to think about things, I’d probably be nervous about this mission. After all, it’s not every day that we get a personal briefing from Uncle about a snatch. And even more rare is having Uncle as the customer. Not to mention his little warning to me about not screwing up.

  Well, then, it’s a good thing that I’m not thinking about any of those things.

  “All set,” I say as I step outside.

  “Groovy, man,” says Abbie, flashing me a peace sign.

  Still smiling, she taps her wrist and disappears. Just before I do the same I see a bird, a spar
row I think, soaring high above me, heading west. Following it with my eyes, a feeling of exhilaration passes through me. I tap my wrist and am still thinking of the bird when I leave 2061.

  July 8, 1967, 6:55 P.M.

  Expo 67, Montreal, Canada

  Operation Blue Bird

  I land in a narrow lane bounded by a building on one side and a row of tall shrubs on the other. There’s a nice fragrance in the air—jasmine, I think. As soon as the time freeze passes I walk around to the front of the building. It’s much more impressive from the front: big and white, with huge, rounded red doors and a green tiled roof. From my briefing data, I know it’s the Republic of China Pavilion. Either it’s a very popular pavilion or they’re serving free food inside, because the line to get in looks impossibly long.

  Just then I feel a prickling sensation on the back of my neck—as if someone’s watching me. I do a slow turn, pretending to take in the sights but really trying to spot my silent watcher.

  Nothing. Just the usual crowd of camera-toting tourists.

  Maybe I just imagined the whole thing. That wouldn’t surprise me, given how jumpy I’ve been lately.

  I walk briskly along the line, on the lookout for Abbie. There must be three hundred people here. Standard operating procedure says that we should mindlink each other if we don’t establish visual contact within thirty seconds of landing, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, I continue along, keeping my eyes peeled for Abbie’s big floppy hat.

  “You’re getting warmer, Daddio,” she hippiespeaks over my mindpatch.

  I glance up and spot her about ten feet away, close to the front of the line. I have no idea how she managed to land that far up the line without anyone noticing, but Abbie is an expert at melding into crowds.

  “Hey man,” she drawls as I walk up. “Ready to rock out?”

  “Uhh … yeah. I can … dig it,” I say.

  Abbie laughs and says, “Groovy. You’re one hip cat!”

  “Thank you,” I say. I don’t know if they actually said thank you in the 1960s, but my well of sixties slang has suddenly run dry.

  “What’s that odor?” I ask, sniffing. There’s a strong scent of mango in the air.

  “Ain’t it the most?” she says. “All the mademoiselles are wearing it.”

  It seems kind of silly to me to walk around smelling like a piece of fruit, but I don’t say anything.

  Three men wearing red suspenders, shorts and green kneesocks walk by. One of them is whistling a tune I don’t recognize. The breeze carries the sounds of children laughing, snatches of a dozen different conversations and the rumble of the minirail overhead.

  “Let’s get on with things,” says Abbie. “We’ve only got twenty-seven minutes, and I want to fit in some time for souvenir shopping.”

  But I hardly hear her. The feeling of being watched is back. Stronger than ever. I bend down, pretending to tie my shoelaces and then spin around quickly. There! Right next to the Information kiosk. I only see him for a split second before he ducks behind a group of tourists. It wasn’t much more than a glimpse, but it was long enough for me to see that he was tall and had dark hair. I try to tell myself not to jump to conclusions about the identity of my stalker. After all, there must be hundreds of tall people with dark hair walking around Expo today.

  Maybe, but there’s only one person I can think of who would choose watching me over enjoying Expo.

  Frank.

  “Abbie, do you get the feeling someone’s watching us?”

  “Yeah. I noticed it right after you arrived,” she says without turning her head. “Every time I try to ID him, he slips back into the crowd.”

  I nod. “He’s fast. What do you think we should do?”

  She turns and looks at me. As in stares at me. Then she says, “I think you should keep your hair long, Cale. You look good that way. And whatever you do, don’t ever cut this cute little thing here.”

  She reaches out and tugs on a curl I never paid much attention to. As she does, her finger lightly touches my forehead and a warm shiver goes through me.

  “Seriously, Abbie. What do you think we should do?”

  “Seriously? I say ignore him. Whoever he is, it’s better if he doesn’t know we’re onto him.”

  I feel a headache coming on. I don’t trust Frank. If it really is him, the fact that he’s here right when I’m about to perform what is quite possibly the most important snatch of my career has got to mean trouble.

  We inch past a Chinese garden with sculpted bushes and low tables where women in bright red silk robes are serving food. The sign on the wrought iron gate says JADE CAFé.

  There’s another surge forward, and along with a hundred others, we spill through massive red doors into the Republic of China Pavilion. For a moment, I’m dizzy. The hall is enormous. Twelve columns of red marble reach up to the high, ornamental ceiling. Floating near the ceiling are a dozen multicolored kites, including a dazzling one that looks like two birds joined together. A large mural depicts a six-masted sailing ship tossing in a green sea, the waves made even more turbulent by the presence of a huge blue sea serpent. On the far wall is a floor-to-ceiling smiling portrait of the president of the Chinese republic, Chiang Kai-shek. Display cases house objects from ancient China, including a golden Buddha, musical instruments that I don’t recognize and beautiful jade carvings of an ox and a tiger. Soothing music fills the hall. Pretty, silky-haired Chinese women wearing red dresses with green sashes are performing a dance on an elevated stage at the center of the hall.

  Beyond the stage, an escalator goes to the second level. But my feet are in no hurry to go anywhere. There’s so much here to see, and I want to take it all in.

  “C’mon, Cale,” says Abbie. “We’d better get started.”

  I check my fingernail. I can’t believe it. It’s already twelve minutes past seven. Not counting overtime, there’s only eighteen minutes left to do the snatch.

  “Right,” I say. “Switching to mindpatch. First stop: the fuse box.”

  She throws her shoulders back, gives me a salute and says, “Oui, mon capitaine!”

  We make our way to the far end of the pavilion and find the fuse box just where the briefing data said it would be, on the back wall of an exhibit called “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” It is at eye level, two feet behind a life-sized replica of a Sung dynasty emperor wearing a bright yellow hanfu. I slip between the wall and the emperor. The position of the emperor is a stroke of good luck. It will partially block the view of anyone curious enough to see what I’m up to. Abbie, with her back to me now, completes my cover.

  I hold my hand out and nudge her gently. She fishes in her pocket, withdraws a thin wire and places it in my hand. “Merci,” I whisper and insert the wire in the fuse box’s keyhole. After a few jiggles, the small door opens. At a glance I can see that it’s a standard setup, or at least standard for the 1960s: a control panel with sixteen switches that regulate the heating, cooling and electricity for the building. But it’s the lights that I’m really interested in. They’re on a timer, set to go off one hour after closing time.

  I nudge Abbie again, and this time she hands me what look like two peanuts, one red and one green. But they’re not for munching. I slip the green one, a remote control, into my pocket. The red one has microcircuits that will override the timing mechanism for the pavilion’s electricity. As soon as I place its magnetized surface next to the right fuse, the lights in the pavilion will be completely under my control.

  Just then she whispers, “Trouble at six o’clock.”

  Palming the device, I close the fuse box and turn around just in time to see a pudgy man with a Rolleiflex camera hanging from a strap around his neck park himself in front of the emperor.

  “Geez, will you look at that,” he says. “I almost thought he was alive.”

  “I know,” says Abbie, breezily. “When I first saw him, I was sure he was going to sneeze all over me.”

  Smooth.

  The man laughs
and his camera bounces up and down against his jiggling belly.

  “Come on, Robert,” Abbie says to me. “Let’s go see the rest of the exhibit.”

  We smile and move on. But after a few feet, she stops to admire a fuchsia hanfu with a phoenix pattern inside a glass display case.

  “Now, that would look great on me.”

  I’m only listening with one ear. Most of my attention is directed back toward the emperor.

  The man has been joined by a tiny woman with big hair and a frown etched on her face. Judging from their matching blue and white little travel bags, I’m guessing it’s his wife.

  “Don’t stare,” Abbie mindspeaks. “You’re making it too obvious.”

  I turn my head so that now I’m only seeing them out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hon,” says the man, taking a couple of steps back, “stand next to the emperor guy. Put your arm around him or something. Pretend you’re helping him rule the world.”

  She shuffles over to stand beside the emperor. Neither of them is smiling.

  Drops of sweat dot my forehead.

  “It’s seven twenty-five,” I mindspeak. “If they don’t leave soon, we’ll have to do something.”

  “I know,” Abbie says. “Let’s give them one more minute.”

  “Move in a bit closer, Louise. Good. Now tilt your head this way … perfect. All right, say, cheeeeese … got it! Now, one more.”

  I concentrate on my breathing. Have to stay calm.

  “Sidney Halpern!” Louise roars. “I’m not going to risk missing the People’s Flying Acrobatic Troupe because of you.” She grabs his arm and leads him away from the exhibit.

  Bless you, Louise, I mouth silently, and Abbie and I move quickly toward the fuse box.

  I finish attaching the device and program the override. At my command, all of the lights in the pavilion will go off. We will then have thirty seconds to do the snatch before the backup generator kicks in. There’s no going back now.