by Jack Finney
Well, I worked around with them the rest of the morning, helping them unpack things, and we got the place into pretty good order. While we were working, Ted told me they'd been living in South America — he didn't say where or why — and that they'd sold everything they had down there, except the clothes they traveled in and a few personal belongings, rather than pay shipping expenses. That sounded perfectly reasonable and sensible, except that a few days later Ann told Nell their house in South America had burned down and they'd lost everything.
Maybe half an hour after I arrived, some bedding was delivered — blankets, pillows, linen, stuff like that. Ann picked up the two pillows, put cases on them, and turned toward the bedroom. Now, it was broad daylight, the bedroom door was closed, and it was made of solid wood. But Ann walked straight into that door and fell. I couldn't figure out how she came to do it; it was as though she expected the door to open by itself or something. That's what Ted said, too, going over to help her up. Be careful, honey, he said, and laughed a little, making a joke of it. You'll have to learn, you know, that doors won't open themselves.
Around eleven thirty or so, some books arrived, quite a slew of them, and all new. We were squatting on the floor, unpacking them, and Ted picked up a book, showed me the title, and said, Have you read this?
It was The Far Reaches, by a Walter Braden. No, I said. I read the reviews a week or so ago, and they weren't so hot.
I know, Ted said, and he had a funny smile on his face. And yet it's a great book. Just think, he went on, and shook his head a little, you can buy this now, a new copy, first edition, for three dollars. Yet in — oh, a hundred and forty years, say, a copy like this might be worth five to eight thousand dollars.
Could be, I said, and shrugged; but what kind of a remark is that? Sure, any book you want to name might be valuable someday, but why that book? And why a hundred and forty years? And why five to eight thousand dollars, particularly? Well, that's the kind of thing I mean about the Hellenbeks. It wasn't that anything big or dramatic or really out of the way happened that first day. It was just that every once in a while one or the other would do or say something that wasn't quite right.
Most of the time, though, things were perfectly ordinary and normal. We talked and laughed and kidded around a lot, and I knew I was going to like the Hellenbeks and that Nelly would, too.
In the afternoon we got pretty hot and thirsty, so I went home and brought back some beer. This time Nelly came with me, met the new people, and invited them over for supper. Nelly complimented Ann on the nice things she had, and Ann thanked her and apologized, the way a woman will, because things were kind of dusty. Then she went out to the kitchen, came back with a dustcloth, and started dusting around. It was a white cloth with a small green pattern, and it got pretty dirty, and when she wiped off the window sills it was really streaked.
Then Ann leaned out the front window, shook the cloth once, and — it was clean again. I mean completely clean; the dirt, every trace of it, shook right out. She did that several times, dusting around the room and then shaking the cloth out, and it shook out white every time.
Well, Nelly sat there with her mouth hanging open, and finally she said, Where in the world did you get that dustcloth?
Ann glanced down at the cloth in her hand, then looked up at Nelly again and said, Why, it's just an old rag, from one of Ted's old suits. Then suddenly she blushed.
I'd have blushed too; did you ever see a man's suit, white with a little green pattern?
Nell said, Well, I never saw a dustcloth before that would shake out perfectly clean. Mine certainly don't.
Ann turned even redder, looking absolutely confused, and — I'd say scared. She mumbled something about cloth in South America, glanced at Ted, and then put the back of her wrist up against her forehead, and for an instant I'd have sworn she was going to cry.
But Ted got up fast, put his arm around Ann's waist and turned her a little so her back was toward us, and said something about how she'd been working too hard and was tired. His eyes, though, as he stood looking at us over Ann's shoulder, were hard and defiant. For a moment you almost got the feeling that it was the two of them against the world, that Ted was protecting Ann against us.
Then Nelly ran a hand admiringly over the top of the end table beside her and said how much she liked it, and Ann turned and smiled and thanked her. Nelly got up and led Ann off to the bedroom, telling her not to try to do too much all in one day, and when they came out a little later everything was all right.
We got to know the Hellenbeks pretty well. They were casual, easygoing, and always good company. In no time Nelly and Ann were doing their marketing together, dropping in on each other during the day, and trading recipes.
At night, out watering our lawns or cutting the grass or something, Ted and I would usually bat the breeze about one thing or another till it got dark. We talked politics, high prices, gardening, stuff like that. He knew plenty about politics and world events, and it was surprising the way his predictions would turn out. At first I offered to bet with him about a few things we disagreed about, but he never would and I'm glad he didn't; he was seldom wrong when it came to guessing what was going to happen.
Well, that's the way things were. We'd drop in on each other, take Sunday drives together and go on picnics, play a little bridge at night and on week ends.
Odd little things would still happen occasionally, but less and less often as time went by — and none of them were ever repeated. When Ted bought something now, he never had trouble finding the right change, and he didn't discover any more rare old new books and Ann stopped walking into doors.
They were always interesting neighbors, though. For one thing, Ted was an inventor. I don't know why that should have surprised me, but it did. There are such things as inventors; they have to live somewhere, and there's no good reason why one shouldn't move in next door to us. But Ted didn't seem like an inventor; why, the first time he cut their grass, I had to show him how to adjust the set screw that keeps the blades in alignment.
But just the same he was an inventor and a good one. One evening I was picking tomatoes in the little garden we have, and Ted wandered over, tossing something into the air and catching it again. I thought it was a paper clip at first. Ted stood watching me for a minute or so, and then he squatted down beside me and held out this thing in his hand and said, Ever see anything like this before?
I took it and looked at it; it was a piece of thin wire bent at each end to form two egg-shaped loops. Then the wire had been bent again at the middle so that the two loops slid together. I can't explain it very well, but I could make you one easy in half a minute. What is it? I said, and handed it back to him.
A little invention — the Saf-T-Clip, he said. You use it wherever you'd ordinarily use a safety pin. Here. He unbuttoned one of my shirt buttons and slid the thing onto the two layers of cloth.
Well, do you know that I couldn't unfasten my shirt where that little thing gripped it? Even when I took hold of both sides of my shirt and pulled, that little piece of twisted wire just dug in and held. Yet when Ted showed me how to undo it — you just pressed the wire at a certain place — it slid right off. It was just the kind of simple thing you wonder, Now, why didn't somebody ever think of that before?
I told Ted I thought it was a hell of a good idea. How'd you happen to think of it? I asked.
He smiled. Oh, it was surprisingly easy. That's how I'm planning to make a living, Al — inventing little things.: First thing I did, the day we arrived in San Rafael, was get a patent application sent off on this thing. Then I mailed a sample to a wire company. He grinned happily and said, I got a reply today; they'll buy it outright for fifteen hundred dollars.
You going to take it?
Sure. I don't think it's the best offer in the world and I might do better if I shopped around. But I've been a little worried, frankly, about how we were going to pay for the furniture and stuff we bought, and the house rent. He shrugged.
So I'm glad to get this money. We'll be okay, now, till I finish the next project.
What's the next one? I said. If you can tell me, that is. I set the tomatoes down and sat down on the grass.
Sure, I can tell you, he said. Picture a flashlight with a little dial set in just above the button. There's a lens, but it curves inward, and it's painted black except for a tiny round hole in the center. Press the button and a little beam of light — a special kind of light — no thicker than a pencil lead, shoots out. The beam doesn't spread, either; it stays the same thickness. You get the idea?
Yeah. What's it for?
For measuring distances. Turn it on, aim the little dot of light so it hits the end of any distance you want to measure. Then look at the dial, and you can read off the distance from the dot of light to the edge of the lens in feet and fractions of an inch, down to sixteenths. He smiled. Sound good?
Heck, yes, I said. But how will it work?
On flashlight batteries, Ted said, and stood up, as if that were an answer.
Well, I took the hint and didn't ask any more questions, but if he can make a thing like that — a guy who had to have help adjusting his lawn mower — then I'll eat it when he's finished. And yet, darned if I don't think, sometimes, that he might do it at that.
Oh, Hellenbek's an interesting guy, all right. Told me once that in fifty years they'd be growing full-grown trees from seeds in ten days' time. Indoors, too, and with absolutely straight grain and no knots; regular wood factories. I asked him what made him think so and he shrugged and said it was just an idea he had. He said he thought that it would be quite some time in the future, though, and I'm sure he was right about that. But you see what I mean; the Hellenbeks were interesting neighbors.
I guess the most interesting time we ever spent with them, though, was one evening on our front porch. Supper was over, and I was reading a magazine that had come in the mail that morning. Nell was on the porch swing, knitting. The magazine I was reading was all science fiction — trips to Mars in space ships, gun fights with atomic pistols, and so on. I get a kick out of that kind of stuff, though Nell thinks it's silly.
Pretty soon the Hellenbeks wandered over. Ann sat down with Nelly, and Ted leaned on the porch rail, facing my chair. What're you reading? he said, nodding at the magazine in my lap.
I handed it to him, a little embarrassed. The cover illustration showed a man from Jupiter with eyes on the ends of long tentacles. Don't know if you ever read this kind of stuff or not, I said.
Ann said to Nell, I tried that biscuit mix. It's wonderful.
Oh, did you like it? Nell was pleased, and they started talking food and cooking.
Ted began leafing through my magazine, and I lighted a cigarette and just sat there looking out at the street, feeling lazy and comfortable. It was a nice night, and still pretty light out. Ted got very quiet, slowly turning the pages, studying the illustrations, reading a paragraph or so here and there, and once he said, Well, I'll be damned, sort of half under his breath.
He must have looked through that magazine for ten minutes or more, and I could tell he was fascinated. Finally he looked up, handed the magazine back, and said, kind of surprised, That's very interesting, really very interesting.
Yeah, some of the science-fiction stuff is pretty good, I said. Collier's magazine had one not long ago, by Ray Bradbury. About a man of the future who escapes back to our times. But then the secret police of the future come for him and take him back.
Really? Ted said. I missed that.
It might still be around the house. If I find it, I'll give it to you.
I'd like to see it, he said. I had the impression that that sort of thing was brand-new to Ted, but I was wrong because then he said, Now that I know you're interested — For just a moment he hesitated; then he went on: Well, the fact is I wrote a science-fiction story myself once.
Ann glanced up quickly, the way a woman does when her husband gets off on the wrong subject. Then she turned back to Nell, smiling and nodding, but I could tell she was listening to Ted.
Yeah? I said.
I worked out this story on the world of the future that you —
Ted! said Ann.
But he just grinned at her and went on talking to me. Ann's always afraid I'll bore people with some of my ideas.
Well, this one's silly, Ann said.
Of course it is. Nell said, soothing her down. I can't understand why Al reads that sort of thing.
Well, you gals just go on with your talk, then, Ted said. You don't have to listen. Honey, he said to Ann, this is different; this is all right.
Sure, I said, it's harmless. At least we're not out drinking or hanging around the pool hall.
Well — He shifted his position and was smiling, very eager, almost excited. I could tell this was something he was itching to talk about. A friend of mine and I used to bat the breeze around about this kind of stuff, and we worked out a story. Matter of fact, we did more than that. He was an amateur printer; had his own printing press in the basement. Did beautiful work. So one time, just for a gag, we printed up an article, a magazine, the way it might look and read sometime in the future. I've still got a copy or two around somewhere. Like to see it?
Ted, Ann said pleadingly.
It's all right, honey, he said.
Well, of course I said sure, I'd like to see his article, and Ted went on over to their house and in a minute or so he came back with a long narrow strip of paper and handed it to me.
It didn't feel like paper when I took it; it was almost like fine linen to the touch, and it didn't rattle or crackle, but it was stiff like paper. At the top of the page, there was a title, printed in red — long thin letters, but very easy to read. It said: Time on Our Hands? Underneath was a caption: Should TT be outlawed? A grave new question facing a world already stunned with fear of oxygen-reversion, population-deterrent and “crazy-molecule” weapons.
Ted said, The funny shape of the page is because that's how it comes out of the teleprint receivers in subscribers' homes.
Both the girls looked at him contemptuously, and went on with their conversation.
Pretty elaborate gag, I said.
I know. he said, and laughed. We spent a lot of time fooling around with that thing.
I turned back to the article, and a picture in the middle of the page caught my eye. It was a man's face, smiling, and it seemed to stick right out of the page. It was taken fullface, yet you could see the nose jutting out at you, and the ears and sides of the head seemed farther back in the page. It was beautifully printed and in marvelous color. You could see fine lines around the eyes, the film of moisture on the eyeballs, and every separate strand of hair. I raised the picture closer to my eyes and it went flat, two-dimensional, and I could see it was printed, all right. But when I lowered it to reading distance again, the photograph popped out in three dimensions once more, a perfect miniature human face.
The caption said: Ralph Kent, 32-yearold quantum physicist and world's first Time-Traveler. His initial words upon his reappearance in the laboratory after testing TT are now world-famous. Nobody in sixteenth-century England, he announced, seems to understand English.
Your friend does some pretty fine printing, I said to Ted.
The photograph? he said. Oh, you can get results like that if you're willing to take the time. Go ahead; read the article.
I lighted another cigarette and started to read. The article said: The first practical Time-machine reached blueprint stage in the Schenectady laboratories of the DeFarday Electric Company in November of last year, a closely guarded secret among seven top officials of the company. It is said to have been based on an extension of the basic theories of Albert Einstein, famous theoretical physicist of the last century.
A handmade pilot model of DE's astounding invention was completed on May 18th of this year at a cost, excluding four years' preliminary research expense, of approximately $190,000. But even before it was completed and successfully tested, i
t was out of date. A young Australian physicist, Finis Bride, of the University of Melbourne, had published accounts of experiments in which he had successfully substituted a cheaply maintained electric flow-field for the conventional and expensive platinum-alloy heretofore used in gravity-repulsion. The way was cleared, as DE officials were quick to realize, for inexpensive mass production of Time-machines.
It was vitally important, DE's board decided, to try to keep the young Australian's invention a secret from competitors. But almost inevitably, while DE was in the process of tooling up, the secret leaked, and soon Asco, BCA and Eastern Electric were in the race to hit the market first. Almost as quickly, British, French, Russian, Italian, and, soon after, televip manufacturers throughout the entire world were in the scramble. By June of this year TT sets were selling at the rate …
Ted's article went on like that. It was really cleverly done. There were times when you'd almost think you were reading the real McCoy. It told how Time-Travel sets hit the market with a big advertising splash early in the summer. The first day they went on sale the public was apathetic and skeptical. But the following day the press and the televip networks (whatever they were supposed to be) were filled with interviews with people who'd tried Time-Travel, and they were all absolutely bug-eyed with astonishment because the damn' machines actually worked.
You put a little gadget in your pocket called a “tampered relay.” Then you turned on your set, adjusted the dials, stepped into a little beam of invisible light, and you'd appear instantly at just about any time and place you'd set the dials for. You left the set on, or adjusted it to turn on automatically after a certain length of time, and as long as you still had your “tampered relay” all you had to do was stand in the same spot you'd first appeared in and you'd he right back home again standing in the beam of invisible light. Well, the public went nuts for it, and at the time the article was supposedly written, production was going full blast, twenty-four hours a day, and practically every last family in the country was scraping up at least the hundred and fifty dollars which the cheapest model cost.
