As Time Goes By

by Hank Davis

  “Miss Mavis O’Hanlon? May I come in? I come on a very strange errand, and it will take time to explain. Forgive me, my name is Titus Graham, the Fourth, if it matters to you.” He ran his hands distractedly through the sheared beaver. Mavis remembered to close her mouth—gone suddenly dry—smiled, and invited him in. When he was seated he began again. “You aren’t going to believe this, but my great-grandfather—by the way, he was Titus the First. Look, I know I’m not making sense yet, but—that is, when my great-grandfather died in nineteen thirty-five, among his effects was this sealed package with a letter of instructions concerning it. The letter insisted that the package not be opened, but that in a certain year—on this very day—it should be delivered to a Miss Mavis O’Hanlon in this city. Preferably by his unmarried great-grandson, Titus Four. That’s me—oh, I told you. Yes . . . well, as a matter of fact, part of my inheritance from him was to be withheld till these conditions were fulfilled. I was pretty young when he died, but I do remember him, and I liked him very much. So, you see, aside from the rest of the inheritance, I’m pleased to do as he asked—am I going too fast for you?”

  Mavis cleared her throat and shook her head and brought out a quivery no. Titus IV was looking at her with the quality of sympathy that leads to soothings and murmurings and makes people forget they are strangers. Mavis tried to make her smile repressive but encouraging, cool but warming, hello-but-not-yet. It emerged, she was sure, as a positive leer, which she wiped off at once.

  “Well, then,” Titus was saying, “it was fairly easy to find you. Luckily, you are the only person of that name in the city. But now comes the hard part. In order to keep the contents of this package you must, before opening it, correctly identify what’s inside. Miss O’Hanlon, I know this is silly and impossible, but can you tell me what’s inside this package?”

  “I can,” Mavis said. (Stone-faced and unflinching before a firing squad, an investigating committee, a quizmaster, six detectives, and the income tax bureau . . . brave, cool, alert, snapping her fingers under Hubert’s nose . . . waving him into Limbo: Guards! Take him away . . .)

  “Miss O’Hanlon?”

  “What? Oh! The package, yes. It contains a perfectly beautiful green velvet cloak.”

  Titus stared at her with deepening interest. “Yes, but how did you know? Not that you wouldn’t look lovely in a green velvet cloak. It’s the kind of thing that would suit you very well. Oh, I don’t mean you need clothes like that, or anything—that is, with or without clothes—that’s not what I mean at all!” He grinned wickedly at her. “Put on the cloak, please? And get me out of this hole I’ve dug for myself.”

  Mavis broke the seals and opened the package. Somebody had done a miracle of packing, folding the cloak around soft old rolls of the finest lawn to keep the aging velvet from cracking. When she shook out the cloak the room was filled with the scent of roses and lavender, of far-off sunlit days in gardens she’d never know. Mavis smoothed the velvet with trembling fingers, then carefully drew the cloak over her shoulders. “It needs another dress,” she said, “and I could lift my hair, like this.”

  “Do,” Titus said. “And we could have dinner at that German place with paintings and red plush.”

  “It’s hardly faded at all,” Mavis murmured. “And I’ve got that cream-colored portrait dress I was going to be—what time is it?”

  “Oh, it’s early yet. Plenty of time. I want to hear everything. How you knew what was in the package, and how—”

  “No,” Mavis said. “Not now. There’s just time to dress and get away before—I don’t believe in Last Meetings, do you?”

  “Never,” Titus said. “First Meetings, yes. Last Meetings, outlawed. I almost forgot; there’s a message that goes with the cloak. Titus the First said to tell Mavis O’Hanlon: What’s past is prologue. Does that mean anything special to you?”

  “I fervently hope so.” Mavis grinned back at him while sprinting for her bedroom. “Ten minutes,” she called back. . . .

  Time paused, as if for a deep breath, before they were caught up in it again and whirled away, so that all the hours of their life together seemed thereafter foreshortened, nostalgic, and as perfectly beautiful as the green velvet cloak.

  A Wow Finish

  INTRODUCTION

  If time travel is possible, time tourists and archaeologists might be walking among us right now. They might be watching historical events, though some historical events, such as visiting Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, might be hazardous. Or they might take in a classic movie, such as one which happens to be a very appropriate choice in view of the title of this book . . .

  # # #

  James Van Pelt’s stories have appeared in such publications as Analog, Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Realms of Fantasy, Amazing Stories, and Weird Tales, and his non-fiction work has appeared in Tangent magazine. He was a finalist for the 1999 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. His much-praised short story, “The Last of the O-Forms” was a Nebula Award finalist, and many of his stories have appeared in various year’s best SF anthologies. In western Colorado, he teaches English at both Fruita Monument High School and Mesa State College. Most importantly to him, his wife Tammy and their three children, Dylan, Samuel, and Joshua, think he tells a pretty good bedtime story.

  A Wow Finish

  by James Van Pelt

  Earle woke up last, on the floor under a sheet. Durance stood at the window, watching the rain, while Hoffman, achingly beautiful, sat on the end of the bed, elbow on knee, chin in hand. They were already dressed.

  Of all the field trips to all the times in all the world, she had to choose mine, Earle thought, conscious that he was naked beneath the thin covering. He wondered which of them had put the sheet over him.

  “It’s a pity we always arrive in a storm,” said Durance. He tugged at his dark tie. “And the outfits are uncomfortable.” He wore a beige double-breasted suit with matching pants creased so sharply Earle thought he could cut paper with them.

  “Allergens,” said Hoffman without moving. “The air’s cleaner on a rainy day. God knows what you’d react to here. Street dust. Pollutants. Pigeons. It’s safer on wet days. Cowardly, perhaps, but safer.” She smiled at Earle. “You going to lay there all evening?”

  Earle rolled to his side. His clothes were neatly piled beside him. He pulled them under the sheet and dressed there, aware that Hoffman only had to shift her gaze a foot to be looking right at him. It was a struggle to get into the shoes. The stiff leather bit into his ankles, but they had a nice shine to them, and putting them on made him feel more there. More real. Somewhere distant a bell rang. He realized he’d been hearing it for a while. Beyond that a steady rumble quivered just on the edge of his perceptions.

  “Look at this phone,” said Durance, picking it up. At first Earle thought that it was tied to the table. Durance said, “Wires and a dial. How do you work it?”

  Hoffman stood from the bed, smoothing the front of her skirt with the edge of her hands. She’d cut her hair short for the trip and given it a curl. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never been in the field before.”

  “Nothing before 2020. My master’s was on post-rock pop. I got interested in the roots of neuro big band, though. Earle has been in the Twentieth Century, though. I sampled that thing you did on the Hindenberg. Nice work.”

  Earle struggled with the shirt’s buttons. “Beginner’s luck. I was a last minute replacement.”

  Durance shrugged, then put the phone back on the table. “Hard to believe the trouble I’m going through to put in an extra footnote. Tiny Hill and his orchestra are in the Green Room here in the Edison. Harry James is uptown at the Astor, and Benny Goodman opens there tomorrow. Cab Calloway plays the Park Central.”

  “Pretty good lineup,” said Earle.

  “I tried talking Hoffman into going with me. A live band has to be better than a dusty old movie. So why go?” Durance laughed and put his hand on Hoffman’s shoulder. She leaned into him. Earl
e turned away, concentrated on tying his shoe.

  “Ask Earle. It’s Casablanca,” she said. “Opening week. I don’t get it either. The Hindenberg, now that was important, but a film? Well, for a me a theater’s as good a place as any.”

  Durance sniffed. “I read up on the movie. Who can watch this stuff? Ancient black and white that you can’t edit while you watch, and bad piano bar music on top of that. Dooley Wilson didn’t even play the piano. He was a drummer. Then there’s a bunch of Germans singing an off-tune version of “Die Wacht Am Rhein” instead of “Deutschland Uber Alles,” which would have made more sense. I wouldn’t get anything useful. Hard to believe people would get worked up over it. Twentieth Century sentimentalism.”

  “I’ve never seen it,” said Hoffman. “Studied the background, though. Vichy, France. The German advances. The resistance movement. Bogart. Bergman. I’m ready.”

  Earle paused in straightening his jacket. He didn’t know that she had never seen the film. There might be hope yet. He dropped the sheet on the bed as he walked to the window. Traffic flowed below, rumbling. “Broadway,” he said. “The Great White Way. 1942. Three and a half weeks until Christmas, and an entire world that hasn’t seen Casablanca.” He could feel the cars passing through his fingertips resting on the window sill. “Bogart said, ‘When it’s December 1941 in Casablanca, what time is it in New York?’”

  Durance shrugged. “That’s 47th. Broadway is around the corner. It’s just an old movie. You could have stayed home and watched it on video.”

  “And you could listen to big band recordings whenever you want. Why’d you make the trip?” said Earle.

  Durance glanced at Hoffman. He said, “Experiential research. I’m nanoed to the gills. Download the lot uptime, and I’ll have a couple years’ work worth of data in my twenty-four hours. No paper’s complete anymore without actual field hours,” but his glance said it all.

  “Me too. Serves me right for asking a direct question,” said Earle.

  Hoffman slipped her arms into a coat, then flipped the white blouse’s collars over the blue wool, as if she’s always worn the style. She pulled on a pair of white gloves. Earle could hear Bogart’s dialogue in his head: “I remember every detail. The Germans wore grey. You wore blue.”

  “We’d better get going, Earle. It’s a four-block walk, and I want good seats.”

  Durance said, “I’ve got a half hour before the band starts here. Last chance at some decent music, Hoffman.”

  She shook her head at him as she headed for the door.

  In the hallway, a sign read, WHEN IN DOUBT, PUT IT OUT.

  She ran her fingers along the sign. Earle knew she was calling for info out of habit, but they weren’t tied in here. No instant details about whatever they wanted. No augmentation at all. They had to fit in. “Cigarettes?” said Hoffman. She buttoned her coat. “I didn’t think the anti-smoking trend came along for another fifty years.” She sniffed. “It doesn’t smell like it’s working either.”

  Earle adjusted his hat, a dark snap-brim with a black silk band above the brim. “It’s a light-dimming measure. They were afraid German submarines might cruise up the Hudson River to shell the Rockefeller Center or something. They never really turned the lights out on Broadway, though.”

  Hoffman laughed, “That’s funny. For a second there I tried to edit out the smell. It’s weird to be stuck with one version of the world.”

  “Nope. Can’t change a thing. Just like the natives. No VR ghosts. No info on demand. It’s a single-track existence. Besides, you’d stick out wearing your regular headgear.”

  Earle looked down the long hall, doors opening on each side, a serving tray on the floor next to the nearest room, on the tray a partly eaten sandwich on a plate beside an empty cup. That’s exactly it, he thought, that makes this so good. One reality. Of course, even in the editable world, Hoffman had left him.

  A bell chimed, and the elevator arrived. Earle started in recognition. That was the bell he’d been hearing. The doors opened to reveal a mirrored back wall. His coat looked good next to hers. Wide lapels. Plain epaulets on the shoulders. Buckled cinch bands at the wrists. He turned his collar up.

  “You look like Bogart,” Hoffman said.

  “In a raincoat and hat, everyone looks like Bogart.” He tried not to consider her face in the mirror. “Why’d you choose this trip? There were others to this era.”

  “I wouldn’t have come if I had known that you were here. I’m still research assistant for Dr. Monroe. She’s doing that monograph on women’s social development in the mid-twentieth. This slot was open. Besides, she wanted me to see how contemporary women react to Ingrid Bergman saying”—she pulled a notecard from her pocket and read—“I don’t know what’s right any longer. You have to think for both of us.”

  “You’ll love Capitaine Renault then. His hobby is preying on pretty girls who need exit visas but don’t have any money.”

  Hoffman raised her eyebrows. “And this is the classic film you argued was ‘the cultural pivot point in American consciousness’?”

  If that bothered her, Earle thought, he couldn’t wait to see her response to Renault saying, “How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce.”

  The elevator opened onto the lobby level.

  Hoffman stepped out first. “Heavens. If you love art deco, this is the place.”

  Gold-rimmed half-dome chandeliers hung from gold chains above the gold and brown carpet. Overstuffed chairs nestled up to tiny tables where a handful of people sipped from china cups.

  A pair of sailors in dress whites walked by. “We could catch The Skin of Our Teeth if you wanted to see a show,” said one.

  “I hate Thornton Wilder,” said the other. “We’ve only got two days. I’m going to spend the time snuggling up to that hat check girl or someone just like her.”

  Hoffman took a step after them, then turned to Earle. “That’s the kind of material I need. They’re so primitive.”

  “I don’t know. You’d get the same talk in the grad dorms on a Friday night.”

  “Really?” Hoffman looked offended.

  She took a complimentary umbrella from the doorman. Earle waved off the offer. He wanted to feel the rain tapping against his hat, to get more into the moment of time that was this time. He needed to submerge in 1942, so that it would be visceral. He couldn’t just watch the video because the video wasn’t theater. Experiential research meant that there was no substitute for being there. Like Durance, his system practically leaked nanos. They recorded everything he sensed. They made a duplicate of the experience he could return to again and again for study. Better than eyewitness reporting. So, no umbrella. Connect to the moment, walking in the rain with Hoffman, like Paris, where Bogart waited in the rain for Bergman at the train station. “Where is she? Have you seen her?” Bogart asked. The storm poured down. “No, Mr. Richard,” said Sam. “I can’t find her.” Sam handed Bogart a note. It read in part, “Richard, I cannot go with you or ever see you again.” The ink ran in the rain.

  They stepped through the doors onto the sidewalk. Earle held his hand out. Droplets pelted his palm. He could imagine the note in it, the ink leaking off the page. A car passed, splashing water onto their shoes.

  Hoffman said, “I thought it would be louder. You know, all the gasoline engines.”

  Rain hissed off the street, drummed steadily against the buildings. Tires whined on the pavement. Lights glistened on the wet surfaces. Two couples, huddled under their umbrellas, hurried into the Edison’s doors. This is New York at war, thought Earle. You couldn’t tell. Despite gasoline rationing, traffic was heavy. A restaurant sign advertised a variety of steaks. Other than the sailors in the lobby, he hadn’t seen military personnel or equipment. Were there anti-aircraft guns on the roofs?

  He wanted to ask her about Durance. Hoffman hadn’t seen the film. He could say Bogart’s line without a hint of irony, “Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it Duran
ce, or were there others in between?”

  Hoffman said, “It’s breezy wearing a dress. These nylons aren’t insulating at all. What did women do when it snowed?”

  “They toughed it out, but they suffered. They took jobs in the factories and raised kids on their own, and waited for terrible telegrams to tell them their husbands weren’t coming home.” Cars eased by, dripping water from their fenders. Earle strained to see the people within. God, it’s 1942, he thought. Soldiers are dying by the thousands. Northern Africa, southern France. Drowning next to the flames of their burning freighters. Broken airplanes tumbling. Many, many more are yet to die.

  Hoffman shivered.

  They crossed 48th. Low-hanging clouds hid the buildings’ tops. The few pedestrians walked briskly under their umbrellas.

  “It’s amazing how every place in the past feels just like home,” Hoffman said. “I mean, the air smells different—all those hydrocarbons—and the architecture’s dated, but I’m the same. I could have been born here just as easily as any other time. Of course, half of my brain feels like it’s turned off, but other than that . . .” She stepped around a puddle.

  She doesn’t see it, thought Earle. There’s nothing here that’s like home. Life here was both straightforward and mysterious. Everything was what it appeared to be, but nothing provided answers. The buildings, the sidewalks, the stores, the people, unaugmented and uneditedable, but all mute, their histories hidden. All of it’s different. How could he explain that to her so that she’d know? “If you want to see sights unique to the era, we could cross over a few blocks. St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the Waldorf-Astoria are that way.” He pointed east, across Broadway.