"Among others."
"Well, if you told Mr. George Washington the reasons why you liked his time, you'd probably be naming everything he hated about it."
"But that's not a fair comparison. This is the worst age in all history."
Jelling waved his hand. "That's how it looks to you. Everybody says that in every generation; but take my word for it, no matter when you five and how you live, there's always somebody else somewhere else who thinks you live in the Golden Age."
"Well I’ll be damned," Addyer said.
Jelling looked at him steadily for a long moment. "You will be," he said sorrowfully. "I've got bad news for you, Addyer. We can't let you remain. You'll talk and make trouble, and our secret's got to be kept. We'll have to send you out one-way."
"I can talk wherever I go."
"But nobody'll pay attention to you outside your own time. You won't make sense. You'll be an eccentric . . . a lunatic ... a foreigner . . . safe."
"What if I come back?"
"You won't be able to get back without a visa, and I'm not tattooing any visa on you. You won't be the first we've had to transport, if that's any consolation to you. There was a Jap, I remember—"
"Then you're going to send me somewhere in time? Permanently?"
"That's right. I'm really very sorry."
"To the future or the past?"
"You can take your choice. Think it over while you're getting undressed."
"You don't have to act so mournful," Addyer said. "It's a great adventure. A high adventure. It's something I've always dreamed."
"That's right. It's going to be wonderful."
"I could refuse," Addyer said nervously.
Jelling shook his head. "We'd only drug you and send you anyway. It might as well be your choice."
"It's a choice I'm delighted to make."
"Sure. That's the spirit, Addyer."
"Everybody says I was born a hundred years too soon."
"Everybody generally says that. . . unless they say you were born a hundred years too late."
"Some people say that too."
"Well, think it over. It's a permanent move. Which would you prefer . . . the phonetic future or the poetic past?"
Very slowly Addyer began to undress, as he undressed each night when he began the prelude to his customary fantasy. But now his dreams were faced with fulfillment and the moment of decision terrified him. He was a little blue and rather unsteady on his legs when he stepped to the copper disc in the center of the floor. In answer to Jelling's inquiry he muttered his choice. Then he turned argent in the aura of an incandescent glow and disappeared from his time forever.
Where did he go? You know. I know. Addyer knows. Addyer travelled to the land of Our pet fantasy. He escaped into the refuge that is Our refuge, to the time of Our dreams; and in practically no time at all he realized that he had in truth departed from the only time for himself.
Through the vistas of the years every age but our own seems glamorous and golden. We yearn for the yesterdays and tomorrows, never realizing that we are faced with Hobson's Choice . . . that today, bitter or sweet, anxious or calm, is the only day for us. The dream of time is the traitor, and we are all accomplices to the betrayal of ourselves.
Can you spare price of one coffee, honorable sir? No, sir, I am not panhandling organism. I am starveling Japanese transient stranded in this so-miserable year. Honorable sir! I beg in tears for holy charity. Will you donate to this destitute person one ticket to township of Lyonesse? I want to beg on knees for visa. I want to go back to year 1945 again. I want to be in Hiroshima again. I want to go home.
The Die-Hard
"In the old days," the old one said, "there was the United States and Russia and England and Russia and Spain and England and the United States. Countries. Sovereign States. Nations. Peoples of the world."
"Today there are peoples of the world, Old One."
"Who are you?" the Old One asked suddenly.
"I'm Tom."
"Tom?"
"No, Old One. Tom."
"I said Tom."
"You did not pronounce it properly, Old One. You spoke the name of another Tom."
"You are all Tom," the Old One said sullenly. "Everyone is Tom, Dick or Harry."
He sat, shaking in the sunshine, and hating the pleasant young man. They were on the broad veranda outside his hospital room. The street before them was packed with attractive men and women, all waiting expectantly. Somewhere in the white city there was a heavy cheering, a thrilling turmoil that slowly approached.
"Look at them." The Old One shook his cane at the street. "All Tom, and Dick and Harry. All Daisy, Anne and Mary."
"No, Old One," Tom smiled. "We use other names as well."
"I've had a hundred Toms sitting with me," the Old One snarled.
"We often use the same name, Old One, but we pronounce it differently. I'm not Tom or Tom or Tom. I'm Tom. Do you hear it?"
"What's that noise?" the Old One asked.
"It's the Galactic Envoy," Tom explained again. "The Envoy from Sirius, the star in Orion. He's touring the city. This is the first time a being from other worlds has ever visited the earth. There's great excitement."
"In the old days," the Old One said, "we had real envoys. Men from Paris and Rome and Berlin and London and Paris and— They came with pomp and circumstance. They made war. They made peace. Uniforms and guns and ceremonies. Brave times! Exciting times!"
"We have brave, exciting times today, Old One."
"You do not," the Old One snarled. He thumped his cane feebly. "There is no passion, no love, no fear, no death. There is no. hot blood coursing through veins. You're all logic. AH calm thought. All Tom, Dick and Harry."
"No, Old One. We love. We have passions. We fear many things. What you miss is the evil we have destroyed in ourselves."
"You have destroyed everything! You have destroyed man!" the Old One cried. He pointed a shaking finger at Tom. "You! How much blood have you in your veins?"
"None at all, Old One. I have Tamar's Solution in my veins. Blood cannot withstand radiation and I do my research in the Fission Piles."
"No blood," the Old One cackled. "And no bones either."
"Not all have been replaced, Old One."
"And no nerve tissue, heh?"
"Not all has been replaced, Old One."
"No blood, no bones, no guts, no heart. And no private parts. What do you do with a woman? How much of you is mechanical?"
"Not more than 60 per cent, Old One," Tom laughed. "I have children."
"And the other Toms and Dicks and Harrys?"
"Anywhere from 30 to 70 per cent, Old One. They have children, too. What the men of your time did to teeth, we do with all the body. There is no harm."
"You are not men! You're machines!" the Old One cried. "Robots! Monsters! You have destroyed man."
Tom smiled. "In truth, Old One, there is so much mingling of man in machine and machine in man that the distinction is hard to make. We no longer make it. We are content to live happily and work happily. We are adjusted."
"In the old days," the Old One said, "we all had real bodies. Blood and bones and nerves and guts. Like me. We worked and sweated and loved and fought and killed and lived. You do not live . . . you adjusted supermen . . . machine-men . . . half-bred bastards of acid and sperm. Nowhere have I seen a blow struck, a kiss taken, the clash of conflict, life. How I yearn to see real life again . . . not your machine imitation."
"That's the ancient sickness, Old One," Tom said seriously. "Why don't you let us reconstruct you and heal you? If you would let us replace your ductless glands, recondition your reflexes, and—"
"No! No! No!" the Old One cried in a high passion. "I will not become another Tom." He lurched up from his chair and beat at the pleasant young man with his cane. The blow broke the skin on the young man's face and was so unexpected that he cried out in astonishment. Another pleasant young man ran out on the veranda, seized the Old One and resea
ted him in his chair. Then he turned to Tom who was dabbing at the frosty liquid that oozed from the cut in his face.
"All right, Tom?"
"No great harm done." Tom looked at the Old One with awe. "Do you know, I believe he actually wanted to hurt me."
"Of course he did. This is your first time with him, isn't it? You ought to see him curse and carry on. What an old unreconstructed rebel he is. We're rather proud of the old boy. He's unique. A museum of pathology." The second young man sat down alongside the Old One. "I'll take him for a while. You go watch for the Envoy."
The Old One was shaking and weeping. "In the old days," he quavered, "there was courage and bravery and spirit and strength and red blood and courage and bravery and—"
"Now then, now then, Old One," his new companion interrupted briskly, "we have them too. When we reconstruct a man we don't take anything away from him but the rot in his mind and body."
"Who are you?" the Old One asked.
"I'm Tom."
"Tom?"
"No. Tom. Not Tom. Tom."
"You've changed."
"I'm not the same Tom that was here before."
"You're all Toms," the Old One cried piteously. "You're all the same God-forsaken Toms."
"No, Old One. We're all different. You just can't see it."
The turmoil and the cheering came closer. Out in the street before the hospital, the crowd began shouting in excited anticipation. A lane cleared. Far down the street there was a glitter of brass and the first pulse of the approaching music. Tom took the Old One under the arm and raised him from his chair.
"Come to the railing, Old One," he said excitedly. "Come and watch the Envoy. This is a great day for Mother Earth. We've made contact with the stars at last. It's a new era beginning."
"It's too late," the Old One muttered. "Too late."
"What do you mean, Old One?"
"We should have found them, not them us. We should have been first. In the old days we would have been first. In the old days there was courage and daring. We fought and endured. ..."
"There he is," Tom shouted, pointing down the street. "He's stopped at the Institute .... Now he's coming out. . . . He's coming closer. . . . No. Wait! He's stopped again. ... At the Center. What a magnificent gesture. This isn't just a token tour. He's inspecting everything."
"In the old days," the Old One mumbled, "we would have come with fire and storm. We would have marched down strange streets with weapons on our hips and defiance in our eyes. Or if they came first we would have met them with strength and defiance. But not you . . . machine half-breeds . . . laboratory supermen . . . adjusted . . . reconstructed . . . worthless. . . "
"He's come out of the Center," Tom exclaimed. "He's coming closer. Look well, Old One. Never forget this moment. He—" Tom stopped and took a shuddering breath. "Old One," he said. "He's going to stop at the hospital!"
The gleaming car stopped before the hospital. The band marked time, still playing lustily, joyfully. The crowd roared. In the car the officials were smiling, pointing, explaining. The Galactic Envoy arose to his full, fantastic height, stepped out of the car and strode toward the steps leading up to the veranda. His escort followed.
"Here he comes!" Tom yelled, and began a confused roaring of his own.
Suddenly the Old One broke away from the railing. He shoved past Tom and all the other Tom, and Dick and Harrys and Daisy, Anne and Marys crowding the veranda. He beat Ins way through them with has feeble, wicked cane and came face to face with the Galactic Envoy at the head of the steps. He stared at the Praying Mantis face with horror and revulsion for one instant, then he cried: "I greet you. I alone can greet you."
He raised his cane and smote the face with all his strength.
"I'm the last man on earth," he cried.
Of Time and Third Avenue
What Macy hated about the man was the fact that he squeaked. Macy didn't know if it was the shoes, but he suspected the clothes. In the back room of his tavern, under the poster that asked: WHO FEARS MENTION THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE? Macy inspected the stranger. He was tall, slender, and very dainty. Although he was young, he was almost bald. There was fuzz on top of his head and over his eyebrows. Then he reached into his jacket for a wallet, and Macy made up his mind. It was the clothes that squeaked.
"MQ, Mr. Macy," the stranger said in a staccato voice. "Very good. For rental of this backroom including exclusive utility for one chronos—"
"One whatos?" Macy asked nervously.
"Chronos. The incorrect word? Oh yes. Excuse me. One hour."
"You're a foreigner," Macy said. "What's your name? I bet it's Russian."
"No. Not foreign," the stranger answered. His frightening eyes whipped around the back room. "Identify me as Boyne."
"Boyne!" Macy echoed incredulously.
"MQ. Boyne." Mr. Boyne opened a wallet shaped like an accordion, ran his fingers through various colored papers and coins, then withdrew a hundred-dollar bill. He jabbed it at Macy and said: "Rental fee for one hour. As agreed. One hundred dollars. Take it and go."
Impelled by the thrust of Boyne's eyes, Macy took the bill and staggered out to the bar. Over his shoulder he quavered: "What'll you drink?"
"Drink? Alcohol? Pfui!" Boyne answered.
He turned and darted to the telephone booth, reached under the pay phone and located the lead-in wire. From a side pocket he withdrew a small glittering box and clipped it to the wire. He tucked it out of sight, then lifted the receiver.
"Coordinates West 73-58-15," he said rapidly, "North 40-45-20. Disband sigma. You're ghosting . . ." After a pause he continued: "Stet. Stet! Transmission clear. I want a fix on Knight. Oliver Wilson Knight. Probability to four significant figures. You have the coordinates. . . . 99.9807? MQ. Stand by. . . ."
Boyne poked his head out of the booth and peered toward the tavern door. He waited with steely concentration until a young man and a pretty girl entered. Then he ducked back to the phone. "Probability fulfilled. Oliver Wilson Knight in contact. MQ. Luck my Para." He hung up and was sitting under the poster as the couple wandered toward the back room.
The young man was about twenty-six, of medium height and inclined to be stocky. His suit was rumpled, his seal-brown hair was rumpled, and his friendly face was crinkled by good-natured creases. The girl had black hair, soft blue eyes, and a small private smile. They walked arm in arm and liked to collide gently when they thought no one was looking. At this moment they collided with Mr. Macy.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Knight," Macy said. "You and the young lady can't sit back there this afternoon. The premises have been rented."
Their faces fell. Boyne called: "Quite all right, Mr. Macy. All correct. Happy to entertain Mr. Knight and friend as guests."
Knight and the girl turned to Boyne uncertainly. Boyne smiled and patted the chair alongside him. "Sit down," he said. "Charmed, I assure you."
The girl said: "We hate to intrude, but this is the only place in town where you can get genuine Stone ginger-beer."
"Already aware of the fact, Miss Clinton." To Macy he said: "Bring gingerbeer and go. No other guests. These are all I'm expecting."
Knight and the girl stared at Boyne in astonishment as they sat down slowly. Knight placed a wrapped parcel of books on the table. The girl took a breath and said: "You know me ... Mr. . . ?"
"Boyne. As in Boyne, Battle of. Yes, of course. You are Miss Jane Clinton. This is Mr. Oliver Wilson Knight. I rented premises particularly to meet you this afternoon."
"This supposed to be a gag?" Knight asked, a dull flush appearing on his cheeks.
"Gingerbeer," answered Boyne gallantly as Macy arrived, deposited bottles and glasses, and departed in haste.
"You couldn't know we were coming here," Jane said. "We didn't know ourselves . . . until a few minutes ago."
"Sorry to contradict, Miss Clinton," Boyne smiled. "The probability of your arrival at Longitude 73-58-15 Latitude 40-45-20 was 99.9807 per cent. No one can escape four significant
figures."
"Listen," Knight began angrily, "if this is your idea of—"
"Kindly drink gingerbeer and listen to my idea, Mr. Knight." Boyne leaned across the table with galvanic intensity. "This hour has been arranged with difficulty and much cost. To whom? No matter. You have placed us in an extremely dangerous position. I have been sent to find a solution."
"Solution for what?" Knight asked.
Jane tried to rise. "I... I think we'd b-better be go—"
Boyne waved her back, and she sat down like a child. To Knight he said: "This noon you entered premises of J. D. Craig & Co., dealer in printed books. You purchased, through transfer of money, four books. Three do not matter, but the fourth . . ."He tapped the wrapped parcel emphatically. "That is the crux of this encounter."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Knight exclaimed.
"One bound volume consisting of collected facts and statistics."
"The Almanac?"
'The Almanac."
"What about it?"
"You intended to purchase a 1950 Almanac."
"I bought the '50 Almanac."
"You did not!" Boyne blazed. "You bought the Almanac for 1990."
"What?"
"The World Almanac for 1990," Boyne said clearly, "is in this package. Do not ask how. There was a carelessness that has already been disciplined. Now the error must be adjusted. That is why I am here. It is why this meeting was arranged. You cognate?"
Knight burst into laughter and reached for the parcel. Boyne leaned across the table and grasped his wrist. "You must not open it, Mr. Knight."
"All right." Knight leaned back in his chair. He grinned at Jane and sipped gingerbeer. "What's the payoff on the gag?"
"I must have the book, Mr. Knight. I would like to walk out of this tavern with the Almanac under my arm."
"You would, eh?"
"I would."
"The 1990 Almanac?"
"Yes."
"If," said Knight, "there was such a thing as a 1990 Almanac, and if it was in that package, wild horses couldn't get it away from me."
"Why, Mr. Knight?"
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