The Fourth Time Travel MEGAPACK®

by Fritz Leiber

  “The University of Bridgeport, I know.”

  “You do?”

  The young woman said, “I’m a student of twentieth—an admirer of your work, Mr. Sears.”

  “Really, I didn’t think that anybody… That is, I do get quite a bit of fan mail, but most people don’t seem—”

  “It is a shame isn’t it? Not to be recognized in your own time.”

  He was studying her face, her profile, as they walked along. “You’ve actually read some of my books, you aren’t kidding me?”

  “I’ve read them all,” she assured him. “Including the entire Thrillkiller series for Plaza Paperbacks.”

  “You’ve read The Bulgarian Sickle Murders and The Armenian Skewer Murders?”

  “As well as The Japanese Ceremonial Sword Murders, The Eskimo Icicle Murders, The… I’ve read all thirty of them.”

  “No, they’ve only published twenty-eight of them so far. The other two haven’t come out yet.”

  “I’ve read all that have been published. I just don’t count very well, I guess.”

  “The series’ll be ending—has ended,” he said. “I have mixed feelings about the books. Even though they were hack work, I tried to put some—”

  “You succeeded, Mr. Sears. Everything you write has a special quality,” the young woman said. “You mustn’t undervalue your talent.”

  “I hope you’ll get to read the latest book I’ve done. I just dropped the manuscript off at my agent’s this week,” he said. “New approach for me. It’s called The Selkirk Syndrome, an international suspense thing that’s set entirely in Manhattan. I’m hoping—”

  “The Selkirk Syndrome? That’s not the…”

  “Hum?”

  “I’ll have to make a note of that title. When will it appear?”

  Barney laughed, shrugged. “Who knows? My half-wit agent, J. J. Dahl, has to sell it,” he explained. “You probably don’t know that he’s Buster Menjou’s agent, too. For that simp, he’s made sixty-four million. For me, the best he’s ever done is seventeen thousand in one year. If it wasn’t for Olympia’s collages we’d be in even worse shape financially.”

  “I’m curious about Olympia. That’s Olympia Keech, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, but how do you—”

  “You live with her, is that it?”

  “We share a flat in the Village, on Emerson Street.” He frowned. “I guess you’d call her my live-in love. In school I always figured I’d end up with a beauty, but Olympia’s more on the dumpy side. Not that I’m a—”

  “You’re a very attractive man. You deserved…deserve better than Olympia Keech,” she said. “Her work is dreadful as well.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve always thought so too, but those nitwits at the Apocalypse Gallery get three hundred per collage,” he said. “Imagine making pictures out of old candy bar wrappers. It’s a unique art form, yet… Would you like a cup of cocoa?”

  “I really shouldn’t. I’m—”

  “I put on my best suit today—only suit, actually—to visit a magazine that owes me two hundred dollars for an article on sadism through the ages,” Barney told her. “When I wear my good suit, I like to go up to the Soda Shoppe in the Ritz-Gotham for a cup of cocoa. Three-fifty a cup, but I love the atmosphere. Reminds me of a soda fountain in New Haven when I was—”

  “That’d be Crouch’s Malt Shop?”

  He stopped dead on the twilight street. “How the hell did you know that?”

  “I’m doing… I’ve studied your life and work,” she said. “I think that if you enjoy an author’s work, you ought to take some interest in his life as well.”

  “I don’t give out many interviews. Once in a mystery fanzine, called Fatal Kiss or some such, I talked a little about my childhood. Don’t remember mention—”

  “That must be where I read it, yes.”

  “Now you have to come along to the Soda Shoppe. It’ll be the next best thing to going to Crouch’s, which burned down in the sixties.”

  She hesitated. Then, glancing once around, said, “I’d enjoy it, Mr. Sears.”

  “Great. By the way, what’s your name?”

  She replied, after a second, “Lizbeth Janny.”

  “Allow me to escort you one more block east to the Ritz-Gotham, Miss Janny.” He held out his arm.

  She took it, smiling.

  * * * *

  The phone in the shadowy loft rang seven times before the thickset woman grunted up from her drawing board, smoothed out her purple shift, and went waddling through the scatter of magazines, newspapers, and discarded clothes on the bare hardwood floor to the crippled little phone table.

  “Hello. Oh, crap!”

  “Olympia?”

  “Just a sec. I stepped on a Baby Ruth wrapper and it’s stuck to my foot.”

  “Candy bar wrappers usually don’t—”

  “This one I was intending for my latest collage, J. J., and it’s got library paste clobbered all over it.” Olympia Keech hopped on one fat leg, swiping at the colorful wrapper stuck to the sooty ball of her bare foot. “I hope you’re calling about a check.”

  “Not exactly. Is Barney there?”

  “Nope. He went uptown to try to badger a check out of some magazine or other. How come you, as his so-called literary agent, don’t do that sort of—”

  “I only handle books, Olympia. Of course, if Barney’d start selling to Playboy, Penthouse, Gallery and—”

  “What about the check for The Norwegian Ice Axe Murders?”

  “Any day now. When do you expect him back?”

  She shrugged both broad shoulders. “He’s been roaming a lot lately, J. J. He usually comes home by chow time.”

  “Okay, I’ll be here another couple hours. Tell him to phone me.”

  “Is it about his new book?”

  “Yeah, I just read the manuscript.”

  “You think it’s better than the crap he’s been doing?”

  “All Barney’s stuff is good, Olympia,” said the agent. “Tell him I called.”

  “Sure thing. Send money.” She hung up, squatted on the floor and plucked the candy wrapper free.

  * * * *

  “I really shouldn’t be telling you all this,” said Lizbeth Janny, touching at her lips with the paper napkin. “It’s just that…”

  Barney was sitting across the marble top soda shop table from her, an odd expression on his face. “Buster Menjou,” he said, snapping his fingers. “He knew I’d probably show up to see him flaunt his ego today, so he hired you to—”

  “No, really.” She reached across the table to touch his hand with her warm fingers. “We aren’t supposed to discuss this sort of thing with a…a subject. It violates all the rules.”

  He scowled at her. “What’s the name of the villain in The Portuguese Harpoon Murders?”

  “Dr. Rowland Mephisto.”

  Barney said, “Son of a gun, you have read my books. Who’s the Thrillkiller’s first and only love?”

  “Princess Irena Romanoffsky,” she answered. “Believe me, Barney, this isn’t a hoax. Ordinarily, I never talk to the people I’m researching. But since you…you looked so forlorn standing there on that cold sidewalk. Besides, since you’re…”

  “Since I’m what?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I only meant that I don’t think it makes any difference. My talking to you this way,” she said. “I simply wanted you to know you’ve no reason to be jealous of Buster Menjou. Before this century is even over, his work will be completely forgotten.”

  Barney hunched, leaned closer to the pretty, blond young woman. “You know that for a fact,” he said slowly, “because you live in the future, huh?”

  “Exactly. Although to me 2071 is
the present.”

  “I can see that. And you got here to my time by way of time travel, you said?”

  “Yes, and I’m violating the Time Travel Overseeing Committee rules by admitting this to you,” Lizbeth said, taking her hand away from his. “I let my heart outrule my head.”

  “We all do that. So you came from 2071, in a time machine, to do research on me?”

  “I’m doing a series of vizbooks on major twentieth-century authors. Naturally you—”

  “Sure, naturally.”

  She said, “It’s true, Barney. In my time you’re considered to be one of the best authors of this entire century. Your book Crusoe in New York is studied in every EdFac in the entire world. Not only in vizbook format, but in the old-fashioned printed format as well. You don’t realize how important that book you wrote is to future gener—”

  “I never wrote a book called Crusoe in New York.”

  “But you must have, because… That is, you will,” she said, a frown touching her face. “It wins the Pulitzer Prize.”

  He rocked in the wrought iron chair, laughing. “That’s a nice touch. I’m going to win a Pulitzer.”

  “The book will, yes.”

  Barney shook his head. “I don’t know exactly why Buster or whoever it was hired you to try this hogwash on me,” he said, grinning at her. “I’m not a sci-fi nut, I don’t believe in that kind of garbage. Why didn’t you just pretend to be from Time or People? That kind of practical joke might work on me. With my vanity, I might just—”

  “I’m not a hoax,” she insisted. “I’m a qualified litresearcher from the twenty-first century. I never should have broken my vows of noncontact. But, as I say, you looked so forlorn and I thought a bit of consolation before you…at this time, wouldn’t much hurt anything.”

  Barney watched her. “You’re an attractive young woman.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You seem bright,” he added. “You really don’t have to lend yourself to cheap tricks like this.”

  “Believe me, Barney, you will be remembered as one of the great writers of your century,” she said. “Crusoe in New York will be a fantastic bestseller.”

  “Or maybe just goofy,” he said. “Sure, this is Manhattan after all. Next to Los Angeles there are more loonies per square inch here than anywhere else in the world.”

  “I’m perfectly sane,” she assured him. “In my time we’ve virtually eliminated mental illness.”

  He scratched at his prominent chin. “I still don’t see why you went to the trouble of reading so many of my books just to pull…who’s that guy?” He pointed at the misted window of the Soda Shoppe.

  It was the muffled man he’d seen with the girl before.

  Lizbeth glanced over her shoulder. “He’s my…traveling companion.”

  “Oh? He’s not going to bust in and claim he’s your husband? Nope, I guess that only works in hotel rooms and not in malt shops.”

  Lizbeth said, “I have to go now.”

  “With him?”

  She lowered her voice. “He’s not… I use him to make my jaunts in time.”

  “He carries your time machine?”

  “He is my time machine,” she replied. “An android with temporal-spanning equipment built in.”

  “I want to meet him.” Barney pushed back his chair. “That’ll prove that you’ve been—”

  “No, it’s impossible. If he were to tell TTOC I’d spoken the truth to you, I’ll never be able to travel again.”

  Smiling across at her, he said, “Right, that would spoil everything.”

  She stood. “I must leave. It’s been very enjoyable talking with you.”

  “Good luck on your book. Vizbook, that is.”

  Lizbeth took two steps away from the table. “Don’t go back to…”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Nothing. It would cause a chronic malfunction… Goodbye, Barney.” She went hurrying out of the Soda Shoppe.

  On the sidewalk she joined the man in the heavy overcoat.

  Barney counted to ten, slowly, then rose up. “I think I better follow Liz and her time machine,” he said to himself.

  * * * *

  “Christ, not again!” Olympia went lumbering to the phone, snatched it up. “Yeah?”

  “Hate to keep bothering you, but is he back?”

  “Just a sec, J. J.” There was a Mounds wrapper clinging to her wrist. Catching it in her teeth, Olympia yanked it off. “There. No, Barney’s still out moping around in the slush somewhere.”

  “I’ll be in my office another hour.”

  “I’ll tell him as soon as he pops in. Bye.”

  * * * *

  Barney shivered. It wasn’t the cold. It was what he was watching through the trees. He’d followed the girl and the muffled man into Central Park, unseen by them. The pair had cut across the field and into this wooded area. They were alone in a small, empty clearing, unaware that Barney was watching.

  The man had opened a thick coat and then pulled aside a blue shirt. Instead of flesh there was shiny metal showing. Metal dotted with dials and knobs.

  Lizbeth was manipulating those knobs and dials now.

  The man, or whatever he was, was making humming noises. Not a human sort of humming at all.

  Lizbeth linked her arm with his. She reached across his chest, flipped a final switch. The humming grew louder; the two of them began to shimmer.

  Barney found that his teeth were rattling. Lizbeth was fading. So was her time machine. There was a keening sound and they were gone.

  “Holy Jesus!” he exclaimed, straightening. “It’s true. It’s all true.”

  Laughing, grinning, he left the park and headed for the darkening Fifth Avenue. “I must look like your typical New York loon.”

  No matter. He was elated. All he’d always known would happen was going to happen. He’d be recognized as the excellent writer he was. There’d be celebrity, money. All the money he needed. He could write only what he wanted, no more hack stuff. He could (that was an interesting notion) dump Olympia.

  There was the D. Trumbo Bookstore. That oaf, Buster Menjou, was still in the window putting on his show. There were still a couple of dozen people watching on the slippery, slushy sidewalk.

  Barney, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, pushed up close to the large glass window. “You just wait, schmuck,” he said to Buster in his head. “I forgot to ask her where or when, but as soon as I write Crusoe in New York, I’m—” He didn’t hear the runaway taxi until it was nearly on top of him.

  The car skidded wildly on the slick street, jumped the curb, and came roaring through the crowd in front of the bookstore. It hit Barney hard, driving him right through the shattering window. He died sprawled across Buster Menjou’s desk.

  * * * *

  “I’m going to disconnect that frapping thing.” Olympia hefted herself over to the phone. “Now what?”

  “Is he back?”

  “Not yet, J. J.,” she told the agent. “Could be he’s going to have dinner out someplace.”

  “Listen, I’m going to close up shop,” said J. J. Dahl. “So why don’t you give Barney a message and he can call me first thing tomorrow.”

  “Just a see while I get a pencil.” She bent, huffing, and sniped one off the floor. She used a spare candy wrapper as a memo pad. “Go ahead, shoot.”

  “Tell him I really like his new book.”

  “Good, that’ll cheer the old sourpuss up. For a few minutes anyway.”

  “The only thing is,” continued Dahl, “I don’t like the title. So suggest to Barney that instead of calling it The Selkirk Syndrome, I want to call it Crusoe in New York. Okay?”

  “He won’t care, so long as you can sell the damn thing
,” said Olympia and hung up the phone. Picking up a bubble gum wrapper, she returned to her drawing board. “How am I supposed to get any serious work done with all these distractions?” she sighed.

  TIME TRANSFER, by Arthur Selling

  Originally published in Time Transfer and Other Stories (1956).

  “As a sleep I must think on my days.

  Of my path as untrod, Or trodden in dreams—”

  Yes, he was able to carry on the verse he had started as the switch had closed. He was still here—wherever here was—

  “—in a dreamland whose coasts are a doubt:

  Whose countries recede from my thoughts as they grope round about”

  What, he wondered, were the others thinking of at this moment? He thought to call out, to see if they answered, to see if they were still there—wherever there was.

  But none of the others had called out. Or, if they had, he wasn’t able to hear them, in which case it wasn’t much use for him to shout. Or they hadn’t, and he wasn’t going to be the first. His voice might ring despairingly, ragged with panic, in the darkness. After all, he was their leader.

  Leader! He chuckled inwardly. It was absurd, really. The whole thing was absurd—the solemn handshakes from the young man in the sober grey serge, the terse wishing of good luck as the moment of departure drew near. Departure? That was too easy a word. The right one was eviction.

  And how did it go on?

  “—And vanish and tell us not how.”

  Now that was appropriate. Strange that he should be reciting to himself a verse he had long ago forgotten. More—that he couldn’t even remember ever having learned. Yet it was fitting; a piece, he thought, with the ends of so many other poets. How more appropriately could Rilke have died than in agony from the infected scratch of a rose? Or poor, mad de Nerval than by hanging himself upside down, like the Hanged Man of the Tarot pack, in a Paris sewer?