A Glitch in Time

by April Hill

  "Your son is absolutely correct," I piped up once again. "It is indeed painful!"

  "But, in what way is this instructive?" the Director asked, ignoring me completely. What can I say? Men appear to be men, in whatever century, and of whatever color.

  Edward thought for a moment before answering. "Well, sir, I don't wish to be rude, but if I may say so, your son has extremely poor manners."

  The Director sighed. "As do all our young, I fear."

  "Perhaps they would find it instructive in the future," Edward suggested, "were they to be soundly paddled when they misbehave."

  The Director appeared to be unhappy. "My scientists tell me that you and your machine have come from the early twentieth century. Our race, you must understand, gave up the use of violence some thousand years ago. We found it unworkable. There has been no armed conflict or personal violence since then."

  Edward nodded. "Admirable. It is comforting to think that our race is headed toward that peaceful future."

  The Director shook his head. "Your race? Oh, no! I'm afraid that your race died off well before then, having despoiled the planet and depleted its oceans and great forests some time before they annihilated one another. It was then that we arrived, colonists from our own distant, slowly dying planet. We have little need of water and such, you see, but take many of our nutrients directly from the atmosphere."

  I wrinkled my nose. "The atmosphere smells vile," I said.

  "Lingering chemical and biological pollution, upon which we have learned to thrive. Whatever else we need is supplied by our mother planet, at least until it disappears entirely." Then, he returned to the subject with which he seemed obsessed. "This technique that insures proper behavior? I would see this instructive technique of yours demonstrated, please."

  Edward appeared to blanch. I was simply hoping that any such demonstration would be conducted on the little blue brat, and not on me!

  "Sir," Edward said patiently. "Please allow me to explain. The activity you speak of is meant to punish, and my wife… my mate here, has done nothing to earn punishment. I..."

  The Director was not interested in Edward's arguments, in justice, or in the presumptive innocence of my rear end. After one last effort at dissuading the Director, the demonstration began with Edward, to his great credit, leaving me fully clothed and attempting to keep his blows light.

  The Director, however, was not fooled. "That is not what I saw you doing earlier! The woman's hindquarters were fully exposed at that time, and when you had finished, there was a bright, red color to her buttocks. Do it again, and do it as you did then!"

  Edward apologized, but did as he was ordered, and although he did it with undue vigor, from my point of view, the Director still did not appear to be mollified.

  "You have still not done it correctly," he insisted. "Earlier, you threatened your mate with a 'belt'," the Director said. My heart sank, and my rear end throbbed in sympathy. "What, precisely, is a 'belt'?" he asked.

  And so, with some reluctance, but with absolute authenticity, Edward bent me forward over the bed, pulled down my drawers and demonstrated the belt with perhaps fifteen swats on my already scorched buttocks. (And this time, I might add, he used considerably more ardor than I thought necessary.)

  The Director finally seemed pleased. "Now," he ordered. "Bring the woman here, so that I can examine the area punished."

  And so, I was examined–thoroughly examined!

  "Now," the Director beamed. "I will call my son, and you will do the same to him'

  "I can't do that, sir,' Edward protested. "The child has done nothing to offend me. Besides, if he is to be chastised, you, as his father, should be the one to administer the punishment."

  The Director thought for a moment, re-examined my glowing rear-end and nodded his head.

  "I believe you're right. I will send for the boy. But first, another demonstration, I think, and this time, I will watch even more carefully to be certain I do it correctly. Now, proceed. The belt first, I believe."

  Chapter Five

  When Edward had completed his second demonstration, I was permitted to waddle off to our cell to and lick my wounds (figuratively speaking). Physically, of course, such a thing would have been impossible and extremely rude. However, once I arrived back in our suite, a small, blue attendant appeared with cool, wet cloths to ease my considerable discomfort. When I had applied these cloths, along with the astonishingly effective emollient the little bastard had brought, I felt immediately better.

  It was some time before Edward joined me in our beautifully furnished keeping cell. I was lying facedown on our bed under nothing but a sheet. He seemed distracted and perturbed about something, which, considering who had just been spanked up one side and down the other, hardly seemed fair. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and I yelped.

  "Did the little blue crown prince finally get his comeuppance?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager. "If so, I would appreciate a glorious, blow by blow description with nothing whatever left out!"

  "Tomorrow," Edward said glumly. "It appears the Director has a surprise for us."

  "For us, or for me?" I grumbled.

  "Stop complaining," Edward growled. "I'm thinking about something."

  "You will have noticed, perhaps," I said archly, "that I am lying here on my stomach, in excruciating pain, unable to turn over, and quite possibly burning two perfectly matched holes in this sheet. You could at least speak civilly to me."

  Edward turned and looked at me, immediately apologetic. "Oh, my poor darling. I had forgotten. Please, forgive me." He reached to stroke my bottom, but I put up my hand in warning.

  "Don't," I cried. "There is not one inch of that location that will tolerate the slightest touch!"

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. What can I do for you?"

  Suddenly, I began to cry. "I want to go home, Edward," I wailed. "Now!"

  Edward looked around the room, for spies, presumably, and then leaned close to whisper in my ear. "That is what I was thinking about, darling. I have a plan."

  You will understand why I was not overly thrilled with this news. As dearly as I love Edward, I had recently come to regard his plans as not altogether trustworthy. "What plan?" I asked simply.

  "I believe I may have worked out the problem with the Time Machine's guidance system."

  I sat up, regretted it and lay back down. "Actually, or in theory?"

  Edward looked offended. "Most things in the realm of science begin as theories, Abigail, or, more properly, as hypotheses. Each hypothesis must be tested, of course, but my calculations have..."

  "Your so-called calculations," I scoffed, "have whisked us back and forth in time like balls in a game of croquet, or a pair of shuttlecocks. All I want to know, is will your new calculations return us to London without further popping about all over time and space?"

  "I find your remarks extremely unkind," Edward said huffily. And with that, he returned to his ridiculous calculations, and I returned to my groaning.

  We spent a restless night, and early the following morning, the Director swept into our chamber without so much as a knock.

  "We have found a solution to our dilemma," he said proudly. "I will not be required to correct my son. Our scientists have devised a machine with which to accomplish the task. A device whose sole purpose is to administer this activity you call spinking."

  "Spanking," Edward corrected him. Edward is a stickler for proper terminology.

  The Director frowned. "Spenking," the Director repeated.

  "Close enough," Edward sighed. (We had found at our last stop in time that correcting a monarch can be very upsetting to them.)

  "The apparatus has been erected in the lower chamber for your inspection. Your mate, I believe, will be an adequate subject upon whom to test its efficiency."

  When I was a child, Uncle Herbert had a disagreeable habit of using me as a test subject or guinea pig for certain of his experiments. I was small, possessed of very short legs, and the
refore unable to escape him as readily as other family members or staff. Most of these experiments were relatively benign in their effects, but one of them left me half bald. It was necessary for some weeks to comb my hair in an intricate manner to cover the denuded spot and to wear a hat in public until my hair returned. On another occasion, a cream of his invention, meant to prevent sunburn in New Delhi and other such exotic locales, left my face, legs, and arms an odd shade of green for two weeks.

  After we had dressed and been provided a simple meal, of which the condemned did not eat heartily, we were led from our chamber down a wide ramp to the lower level of the building to what seemed to be a laboratory. I was surprised to find that despite the enormous differences in time and culture, much of the laboratory's scientific equipment bore a great similarity to that which Uncle Herbert employed at home. Against the far wall, we noticed our own Time Machine, sitting on a high platform, where it was being inspected by a number of what I assumed to be Drollum scientists. In the center of the enormous room, we found the apparatus of which the Director had spoken with such pleasure.

  The device was constructed of the same shiny metal used in the bars in our room, and its purpose was clear–I might even say painfully clear. The mechanism was built around a long, low, well-padded bench that was currently tilted at a deep angle. The bench was obviously capable of being repositioned, and upon closer inspection, its purpose also became embarrassingly clear. The bench was equipped with a variety of straps, metal restraints, and had the sort of stirrups at one end that one might find in a physician's examination room, if certain private parts of one's person were in need of some sort of internal scrutiny. I shuddered slightly. Attached to the end of the bench was another device, which incorporated a series of metal gears and pulleys and terminated in a giant arm-like appendage. To my dismay, the arm was equipped with a heavy, coiled spring, to which was attached a large paddle.

  The Director waved his arm with a flourish. "Our scientists have toiled for the entire night to construct this device," he said proudly. "The timing of each stroke is adjustable, as is the force. It is a spenking machine."

  Edward flushed and cleared his throat. "Sir, in our era, such… correction is generally administered, uh… without the use of elaborate machinery."

  The Director nodded. "So we have witnessed, but that is archaic. Here, we are expressly forbidden to strike another with a forceful hand. To do violence to a fellow Drollum is an inviolable law, upon which our peaceful civilization is grounded."

  "An attitude that I find extremely laudable, I'm sure," Edward said, "but doesn't that rather beg the issue. Violence by machine is no less violent."

  "Not at all," the Director smiled, as though he were speaking to a not especially bright child. "The machine has no feelings, bears the Punished no ill-will, and recognizes in the Punished no discomfort."

  "But someone must activate the device," Edward countered. "Is that person without guilt in the operation?"

  "Of course. He who activates the device has no connection to the Punished, bears the Punished no ill-will, and receives no compensation for the action."

  "Something like an electric chair," I growled.

  "And who gives the order?" Edward asked.

  "The Punished, of course, although we will, I think, refer to that creature as the Desirous."

  "The Desirous?" Edward and I echoed, in unison.

  "Desirous of punishment, of course," the Director explained. "The machine is calibrated to respond to guilt. If the victim is not guilty, his brain waves will not activate the mechanism. If he is guilty, he will be thoroughly, relentless punished. His mind will cry out for punishment, don't you see? All guilt cries out for punishment, do you not agree?"

  "No," said Edward simply, then added. "And if the subject's brain waves show him not to be guilty, he is then released?"

  "Oh no." The Director chuckled mirthlessly. "He must still be punished. He has, after all, been accused."

  "That's horrible," I shouted. "Barbaric! Unjust!"

  The Director seemed surprised by my outburst. "Surely you don't believe that in a just society, such as ours, one could be accused without reason?"

  I was beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.

  Edward ignored the nonsensical logic of this and asked, "Who starts the machine in that case?"

  "The Accused, of course. He knows that he has been accused. His apprehension will begin the machine. Our only function then, is to stop the machine when we believe he has been sufficiently punished. Thus, any action taken by another Drollum can only be seen as merciful. No one's feelings are injured."

  "But the subject is only accused, not guilty!" I cried.

  The Director seemed puzzled by my objections. "Ah, well, one is only not guilty until he is accused, is that not true?"

  I had a headache and knew that within a few minutes, I would probably have a lot worse.

  "I will not permit my wife to be abused in this manner," Edward said bravely, without explaining in exactly what manner he would permit me to be abused. The Director seemed puzzled. "But you stated that she is often disobedient and difficult at times."

  Edward tired again. "Punishment should be… must be just that–punishment. For a specific crime."

  "But she has been accused!" The Director's voice was increasing in volume. "You accused her. Am I to believe that she has been punished for every infraction of which she has ever been accused?"

  That stumped Edward. Explaining English Common Law or American Constitutional rights and wrongs was beyond him at the moment. Edward was sputtering with rage. I, on the other hand, was being prepared for the device. Six small but astonishingly strong little blue people were busily divesting me of my drawers, as though they had been doing it for their entire misbegotten little lives. Six more of them were holding Edward's arms, dragging him behind what I assumed to be a two-way mirror and strapping him to a chair. Edward was to be a witness for the prosecution. (The defense was conspicuously absent.) The Director and his team of scientists nodded approvingly.

  When I was quite naked, I was stuffed into a tightly fitted green suit, which the Director explained was a typical penal costume. The process was quick and within seconds, I lay facedown on the long bench in my long green suit with a wide strap across my waist and my hands and feet secured. Suddenly, I heard a low-pitched hum, and a moment later, the table began to move. When the humming stopped, my head was drastically lowered, my buttocks raised and my legs had moved apart slightly. Then, the room was filled with a loud buzzing sound as the rear part of the machine moved closer, like a cannon, seeking its target range. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and awaited the first blow.

  And then, a grinding noise and a smell of burning gears filled the room, and the machine stopped.

  The Director frowned. The assorted scientists frowned, and all of the little blue assistants frowned. I was surrounded by a flurry of activity while minor adjustments were made. This time, the apparatus made a dreadful clanking noise and threw several metal pieces on the floor before it stopped. The Director threw up in hands in frustration.

  "Take them back to their chambers," he said, obviously disheartened by the failure of his wonderful device. "And correct the problem, at once!"

  When he strode from the laboratory, all of the Drollum scientists in the room hurried over to huddle over the device, clucking and making scientific noises. Meanwhile, two little blue Drollums released Edward and me, and prepared to escort us back to our cell.

  Edward embraced me with relief, and as he held me, whispered something urgently in my ear. One Drollum took Edward's hand, another took mine and we started up the ramp.

  When we were halfway up the ramp and well away from the scientists, Edward suddenly reached down, picked up his Drollum and tossed the nasty little fellow over the opposite side of the ramp, into what appeared to be an enormous waste container. With every ounce of strength I had in me, I pulled back my arm and punched my own small blue companion is
his small blue nose and watched with satisfaction as he rolled merrily down the ramp, shrieking in pain.

  Edward grabbed my hand, and together, we leaped over the rail, dropped the few feet to the laboratory floor, and dashed across the room to the Time Machine, then clambered up onto the platform. The commotion drew the attention of the scientists, who took only a moment to realize was happening, and rushed toward us, screaming.

  With no assurances at all that the machine had not been damaged by the Drollums' inept investigations, Edward and I could only pray as we threw ourselves inside. Edward took a moment to punch in the numbers he had already calculated, and then he grasped my hand, closed his eyes, and pushed the crystal lever down hard.

  One of the Drollum scientists had just touched the side of the Machine when the laboratory exploded with light, and everything went instantly dark. I had fainted.

  * * * *

  The Time Machine came down very hard in a small, deep ravine, right in the midst of a clump of dry, prickly bushes. On top of everything else, we had come to rest at a sharp angle and both runners were stuck in the hard, sandy soil and bent at an awkward angle. Getting out of the machine was difficult in the dense shrubbery, and our arms were badly scratched in the escape. Significant portions of my green garment were grievously torn, exposing several portions of me I generally try to keep more modestly covered. It occurred to me as we struggled up the crumbling banks of the ravine that although Edward was dressed in his own clothing, I was still outfitted in the tightly fitted one-piece garment provided by the Drollums just before the planned "spenking". The punishment costume was of a bright green color and extended from neck to ankle, but its snugness made quite clear that I had on absolutely nothing underneath. On my feet, I wore the odd little pointed shoes commonly worn by our last hosts, and these were also green. I had never before realized the importance of one's clothing in making a first impression.

  "You look charming, darling." Edward insisted when I remarked upon my appearance. "A bit like a well-filled out gecko, or a green chameleon."