Horace thanked him and hung up. Carefully removing all traces of amusement from his voice and thoughts, he placed the palm of his hand close to his partly opened mouth and blew a hot breath on it, activating the metal plate beneath the skin. Presently there was a queer ringing in his ears.
“Zebra,” he said to the palm. “Location: Love.”
“Able here,” the voice of a tired old man said in his ear. “Yes?”
Horace stifled an inner thrill. He had never spoken to Able before, had never made contact with anyone that highly placed in official circles. After all, Zebra was on the lowest rung of the seniority list and he seldom had the opportunity to know the really top persons and places. Able himself!
“I have to report an anachronism, sir.”
“Oh my stars!” the old man said. “Another one? Your location is Love, did you say?”
“Yes, sir. I'm on change of duty, sir. I understand someone else is filling my former position on—”
“I know, I know all that!” Able interrupted testily. “I sent the substitute to Zebra myself. Very well, what is this one? And don’t tell me its another magnetic motor!”
Horace took a deep breath. “No, sir. There haven’t been any more of those since Hendershot in 1928. This is quite different. A university class opened a mass grave of native aborigines last evening, sir. They found in the grave a glass jar containing coins minted some 400 years later. The coins bore the images of those same aborigines, by peculiar coincidence, and were minted by the present-day government as a sort of token to them.”
“Oh my, oh my, oh my,” Abie’s tired voice ejaculated. “This is worse than I thought, this is much worse than the motors. Oh, this is dreadful!” He paused for a long moment and Horace could almost picture the old man ponderously shaking his head. “Tch, tch, tch. What is your exact location and date?”
“Chicago, Illinois,” Horace told him, and added the street address. He shot a quick glance at the morning paper. “Wednesday, July 9, 1952.”
“Oh my stars,” Able repeated. “I’ll have to send you assistance at once.”
“Will that be necessary sir?” Horace broke in boldly. “I realize that I’m new here, but I’d like the chance to prove my—”
“No, no, positively no,” the old one cut him off. “Out of the question young man—no reflection on your able judgment intended. This is far more serious than you may realize, far more serious indeed. That present government of yours ... tch, tch. Who can I send you?”
Horace waited, not daring to suggest. Vaguely in his ear he heard the ancient one running down the list of his operatives’ code names. “Able, Baker, Charlie, Dog, Easy, Fox ...” The cosmic leader paused briefly over Fox, considering that worthy for a moment before continuing his low rumble. Suddenly he raised his voice with decision. “I’ll send you either Charlie or Dog ... must look to see who is free right now. Make no move until arrival.”
“Yes sir,” Horace said with concealed disappointment.
“Out,” Able said wearily. “Oh, my....”
Horace dropped his hand to his lap, vaguely annoyed with the old one. He couldn’t disobey his superior, but this was such a perfect opportunity to display his talents. Really the first opportunity he’d had, for his own little world was a dull place—nothing ever happened there. Perhaps if he—
Horace seized the phone book, searching for the addresses of the nearest library and a costumer’s shop. He could at least lay the groundwork for a scheme shaping up in his mind, could at least hope to interest Charlie or Dog in the scheme. For a long moment he contemplated the newspapers on the floor and then he giggled once more. “I think it rather funny,” he said to his apartment walls. “Just imagine. Indian-head pennies ...”
Bottom-rung agent Zebra, alias Horace Reid in Chicago, lazily pushed himself up on the oversized bed and stretched. Another day, another stack of the native newspapers to go through, another struggle with the cryptic headlines, and another three or four meals of the delicious Love variety. The newspapers might not always make sense but the planet Love provided him with the most tempting, satisfying food he had ever known. His own little world of Zebra, a primitive and volcanic mudball, had nothing to compare with the edibles of Love.
Why, he wondered next, had Operative Love ever left Love, causing him, Zebra, to vacate Zebra and patrol Love during the man’s absence? He moved over to the edge of the bed and dangled a bare foot. Code names were all right in their place too, but it tended to be confusing when the overseer of a planet temporarily left the place. To make it all simpler, why didn’t Able patrol his Able, Baker take care of Baker, and so on down the line to Zebra on Zebra, with special trouble-shooters coming in during these emergencies? But no—that wasn’t such a happy thought either. In that event he, Zebra, wouldn’t have discovered the wonderful cookery of Love.
And returning to primitive Zebra after this tour of duty would be like returning to work after a very pleasant vacation.
Horace sighed and slipped out of bed to pad across the room in bare feet, liking the sounds his feet made on the floor. Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchenette, he stopped stock-still to stare at the blonde.
Primitive Zebra had no blondes like that, either!
She glanced up quickly from the small white stove and smiled at him, a beautiful thing to receive so early in the morning. “Good morning, Zebra. You’re a late sleeper.”
Horace brightened. “Charlie, sir?” he asked hopefully. This was wonderful, this was unexpected! To awaken and find a ravishing blonde person in one’s kitchenette was an unusual treat—even though the blonde was one’s superior officer. So she was to work with him on the case!
The girl shook her head. “Dog.”
Zebra-Horace considered that doubtfully. She was, in the current vernacular, a cute trick, a rare dish, even though she held considerable seniority over him and he must remember to be properly deferential. He said respectfully, “We’ll have to give you a new name here, sir. Chicago, 1952, might not appreciate a blonde dog.”
“Agreed.” She smiled that rare smile once more and continued the preparation of breakfast. “What name are you using here?”
“Horace Reid.”
“Then I had best be Mrs. Horace Reid.” There was a little more than just casual amusement in her voice. “I’ll be staying here, and your people will talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
She indicated the meal on the stove and then motioned to him. “This is almost ready. Why not put on some clothes?”
Horace looked down at himself and ran for the bedroom.
Dog proved herself a remarkable cook. Working through the breakfast with appreciation and relish, Horace glanced up at her as the quick thought struck him.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Briefly.” She nodded the attractive golden head across the table. “During one of the earlier wars—something about tea and taxes, I believe.” Her lovely brown eyes rested seriously on his face. “Don’t let yourself like it too well. You can’t stay.”
“I can’t help it,” Zebra confessed. “You are a wonderful cook. Sir.”
The girl abruptly switched the subject. “Tell me about your problem. Able was very upset, and very sketchy.”
He outlined it to her while they ate, explaining the ancient customs among these particular aborigines of mass burial, together with their favorite weapons, their treasures and personal charms and omens. Today, certain sciences had advanced to the point where individuals and groups were now actively seeking and opening these burial mounds for study purposes. The grave opened two days before had contained, in addition to the usual accouterments, a most perplexing anachronism, a glass jar filled with coins minted by the present government some four centuries after the burial. This particular jar was found in such a position and condition that responsible authorities at the site were forced to only one conclusion: Indian and money had been buried together. The morning news reports—he indicated the papers on t
he floor—could shed no further light on the discovery. Most scientific authorities were taking a serious and puzzled view of the situation, and some government agents were already en route from the nation’s capitol to examine the find, to study the coins for authenticity.
Dog shook her golden head. “That is bad. Quite obviously we can’t substitute counterfeit coins, for that, too, would be anachronistic. What about the students?”
“Too late,” Zebra-Horace answered. “If I could have reached one of them immediately after the opening of the grave, I could have arranged a hoax. But it is far too late now. The students are adamant—and just as puzzled.”
“No wonder the old one was so upset.” Dog drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Do you suppose we can erect an ancient tunnel beneath the site? Arrange it so that the jar of money was brought into the tunnel and placed in the grave from below, merely as a hiding place?”
“No, sir, not there. The terrain and the nearby river forbid it. And too, I suspect that the external evidence on the jar proves its equal age, else the scientists involved would have by now passed it off as hoax or accident.”
When she didn’t answer, he continued.
“It’s a peculiar type of humor involved, sir. These aborigines are called Indians by the present populace, and the coins are known as Indian-head pennies because they bear the image of an Indian. Do you appreciate that?”
“I appreciate it,” she told him dryly. “But wait until you advance—you’ll find some you won’t think so humorous.”
Zebra felt as though he had been set back in his place, forcibly reminded of his lower seniority and lack of cosmic experience. He said quietly, “Yes, sir.
“Don’t sir me. The name is Dog.” She smiled to take away the sting. “There aren’t so many of the anachronisms left anymore—we’ve done a fair job of weeding them out. But still, now and then one turns up such as this and we have a job on our hands. Some of them are humorous, some are cruel, some subtle. Frankly, the latter aren’t so difficult to dispose of; often they are so subtle as to defeat their own purpose and we are able to remove them before the truth is realized. The cruel and the humorous give us more trouble.”
Horace nodded sympathetically. “Children are like that—sometimes cruel, sometimes subtle, sometimes deadly in an innocent way.”
“They are,” she agreed. “And if we had recognized that fact earlier and watched them more closely, superintended their every idle hour as well as their training periods, all this wouldn’t be necessary. That particular group of errant boys wouldn’t have caused this mischief, wouldn’t have made it necessary to set up a constant watch of the 26 worlds to undo their misdeeds.” Dog waved a slim hand toward the morning sunlight spilling in the window. “You will notice they seemed to concentrate on this neighborhood.”
“I haven’t found anything on Zebra,” Zebra told her. “Not in all the years I’ve been there.”
“They probably never strayed that far—the teachers missed them early and did a quick job of rounding them up. Most of the troubles have appeared here, and in three or four other worlds. King had a bad time a few years ago.”
“King?” Horace-Zebra questioned. “Oh yes—he’s on the one with a dark star. King.”
“The boys introduced sun dials on King. Poor King had an awful time rounding them up and explaining them away. Well—” she shrugged and made as if to push back from the table. “It can’t happen again, and when we have finally erased the last anachronism, found and eliminated the last hybrid, the last childish joke, our job is over. So let us concentrate on the immediate problem. The hoax and tunnel angles are eliminated—have you thought of any other possible solutions?”
“Yes, sir,” he told her eagerly. “I tried to interest Able, but he ... Well sir, I favor a time machine explanation.”
“No. Absolutely not!” Dog stood up too quickly and her chair toppled backward. “This planet does not have and will never have time machines, thank Mechob for small favors! Time machines are foreign to this world, unheard of—the people haven’t so much as dreamed of them. You shall not introduce them as the solution!”
“Oh, no,” Horace protested quickly. He left the table and hurried around to her. “I wasn’t thinking of their introduction, sir, only the suggestion of same. A mere suspicion that they might exist. You see, sir, a peculiar situation exists here, one very ripe for exploitation. I feel sure we can use it to our advantage and sow suspicion. There is a phenomenon on this planet known as science fiction magazines. The natives are positively crazy about them. They publish incredible fantasy and science romances, wild adventure yarns of the prehistoric past, even wilder tales of the probable future. They print—” he broke off in frustrated eagerness.
“Please, sir ... come with me. These science fiction things defy description. You have to see them to believe them.” He was gently tugging on her arm.
“Well ...” Dog hesitated, searching his face. “You really think we can use them? Where is this—”
“Just down the block, sir. A book and magazine store.” Zebra hesitated with a sudden bashfulness. “And, sir, I think perhaps you had best slip something over your shoulders.” He carefully avoided a direct stare at her bare poitrine. “I may have something in the wardrobe ... Chicago, 1952, er ... uh....”
Zebra led her gaily down the stairs of the apartment building and out onto the street, both of them blinking against the bright summer sun. Together they walked to the corner, skillfully avoiding caroming children on roller skates, to cross the intersection and continue down another street. Eagerly, Zebra pointed to a small sign swaying in the gentle breeze.
“There, see ... Mahaffey’s Rocket Shop. It is run by a young lady who formerly edited a science fiction magazine; she made a fortune and retired, to open this book store. Just wait until you see these things!”
“I wish I could share your enthusiasm,” Dog said.
“The magazines are marvelous! Quite like our nursery tales, really. They constantly employ rocket ships, great inventions, fantastic battles, horrible monsters ... anything. Nothing seems too wild for them, for their readers. And by the proper planting and use, our time machine concept could be made into an accepted thing here—fictionally, of course. We could so skillfully implant our idea that several writers would seize upon it, enlarge it, make it into a common device. We could cause the time machine to become as well-known as the rocket ship. And through these very magazines and books we could accomplish our misdirection.”
They paused before the store and inspected a tiny display window. Zebra pointed silently to a row of magazines embellished with garish covers, and just behind them a row of books. The blonde Dog stepped closer to examine the magazine covers, glancing from one to another. Finally she looked up at her waiting companion.
“You needn’t have been so concerned with my lack of clothing,” she pointed out. “These women are wearing about the same.”
Zebra-Horace fought away a slow blush. “These pictures merely illustrate the romances, sir. Quite typical of the fiction, and perhaps indoor family wear as well. But you mustn’t be seen like that on the streets.” He moved in beside her to waggle an index finger. “These are only a sampling, there are dozens more inside. The publishers have designed them to appeal to all ages and tastes—from the cradle to the grave and from the schizoid to the scholar, so to speak. Their titles are frequently indicative ... .44 Calibre Space Adventures ... Wanton Worlds (that cover is rather obvious, isn’t it?) ... Universal Science Fiction. I read that one myself; it’s quite good. Shall we go inside?”
He held the door open for her, and followed her in, nodding at a young woman and a couple of boys near the back of the shop.
“That’s Miss Mahaffey, the owner,” he whispered. “The young males are fans.”
“Are what?" Dog demanded.
“Science fiction followers—avid purchasers and readers. They read everything that is published—they and the millions like them are the ones I hope to
dupe with my scheme.”
Zebra and the girl stopped before a large rack of magazines. He reached for a couple, opened them at random and handed them to her. “As yet,” he explained, “the time machine is unknown; you’ll find no mention of such here.”
“And your scheme?” she asked.
“Has two equal parts, sir; each part dependent on the other for the success of the whole. And I firmly believe that success will easily explain away the anachronism of the Indian coins.
“My plan is first to induce one of the science fiction editors to send a special correspondent to the grave site, a man having a splendid reputation in his trade and who would make a thorough, analytical study of the anachronism to finally arrive at the only acceptable answer according to his logic: a time machine.”
“But there are no—”
“Please, sir, hear me out. Your objection is to the second part of my scheme, which will be taken care of. Now of course, the reserved scientific world will not believe our special correspondent—they’ll laugh at him. But the science fiction readers, these fans will believe him! And as time goes on and no one else is able to offer an alternative theory, the correspondent’s report will be more or less accepted. Thereafter, official government circles will either ignore the matter entirely, as is their wont, or they will engage in secret experiments looking toward the discovery and building of such a machine.” Horace smiled. “This last would prove quite harmless, of course.”
“I’m still dubious,” the girl told him, glancing from the shelves to the fans loitering in the rear. “These magazines—”
“Have just about the proper historical background to fit our special needs,” Horace broke in. “Let me brief you. The man or men who first published them were dreamers and visionaries beyond the norm; and in time so many of their dreams and prophecies came to pass that their fellow men took notice, thereby gaining for the magazines a small measure of fame. Some of the guesses and dreams proved remarkably accurate, you see. So accurate as to command attention. Of late, three other events have occurred which added greatly to the prestige of the publications, events giving them an added stature in the eyes of the public.”
Time Exposures Page 9
