Dog listened skeptically, but in silence.
“The first of these occurrences was the application of atomic power—more properly, raw nuclear fission of low order—for war use. The magazines had long since employed such power in their pages and one renowned writer had foretold atomic bombs. The one important event however was a story which closely described a bomb-detonating mechanism, a story published at the very moment the government was developing that mechanism in secret. It was so real that government security agents were alarmed, and naturally, after the close of the war, this news leaked out and widespread publicity followed. Vast sections of the reading public turned to science fiction, seeking other things their government may have hidden from them.
“Sometime following that, several of the magazines boldly attempted to explain a series of celestial objects termed flying saucers, or discs. While the military authorities declaimed and vainly suggested mass hallucinations, the magazines scoffed at their declaimers and set about proving otherwise, by photographs, eyewitness accounts and so forth. Again the result was widespread publicity and again large masses of the lay public swung toward the magazines. Their power was becoming strongly entrenched.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “That was how Miss Mahaffey made her fortune and retired to this shop. Her magazine was one of the leaders in the flying saucer mystery.”
“And the third event?” Dog asked stolidly.
“The crowning achievement,” Horace told her. “It was so new and revolutionary that it raised a storm in both lay and scientific circles. Science fiction magazines, early in their lives, introduced the idea of an orbital satellite, mainly as a sort of stepping-off place for interplanetary flights but also incidentally usable for observation and military control of the planet itself. These fictional space platforms were seized upon by one government and intensive research was begun to build and launch such an object. Before they could do so, however, they were conquered by a second government, which promptly took over the plans and started work on a platform of their own. Of course, the magazines were quick to point out that they had originated the concept many decades before—that the governments were merely copying their ideas again. The public applauded.”
“I’m beginning to see your point. But go on.”
“The result of all this—after many years—is a state of undeclared war between the magazines and the governments. In some few countries the publications are forbidden altogether. In others, severe restrictions are imposed upon them. Right here, in Chicago, no magazine is permitted to reveal that the critical mass of U-235 is just 22.7 pounds; yet that figure is common knowledge over much of the world. The magazines realize they have the upper hand because their editors and authors are years ahead of the politicians; whereas the politicians and bureaucrats do their best to hamper and restrict the magazines—rather naively believing they still have secrets the public at large is unfit to know. Unwilling to admit that thinking men the world over know their secrets, they regard the science fiction magazines as arch-enemies for revealing them, hinting at them, employing them in fiction. Caught squarely in the middle of course is the lay public—and this very situation is the weapon to solve our case.
“The public, now realizing they are in the middle, are swinging in ever-increasing numbers toward the magazines because these publications have been so right in the past, with the politicians so wrong or untruthful. Their distrust of the politician dates back for thousands of years. In short then, sir, if we suddenly introduce the startling concept of a time machine, the local government will immediately deny it. And the public, noting that denial, will believe the magazines.”
The beautiful Dog replaced the magazines she had been holding. “Is there an alternative to the time machine?” she asked doubtfully. Suddenly she pointed to a book on a nearby shelf. “What about that man. Fort? Your predecessor used him to advantage.”
“Oh, no, sir. Fort is a different sort of proposition altogether. The man is considered by most to be a crank or a crackpot and very few place any faith in him. My predecessor did use him well, but in a reverse manner. For instance, upon two or three occasions some of the natives have discovered what they term magnetic motors: the children’s toys, really—I don’t know if our truants left them behind on purpose or by accident. In the previous century, public curiosity wasn’t what it is today, and the first two toys didn’t present so much of a problem. But on the third occasion, my predecessor arranged to have the motor exposed and its finder labeled a jokester. He also saw to it that Fort seized upon it, as well as the two earlier examples. The misdirection worked very well there. But we can’t use Fort, sir, his reputation being the opposite of what we wish to accomplish here.”
Dog stalked along the aisle examining the books and periodicals, her eyes resting momentarily on the titles. The Conquest of Space, The City in the Sea, The Haploids ... “You believe then that the time machine explanation is best?”
“Yes, sir, I do! Knowing these people and their vivid imaginations, it seems to be the only sure solution.”
“How quickly could you induce an editor to dispatch an investigator to the graves?”
“In an hour or less. We can place a man on the site this afternoon; and sir, we had best arrange to have the man release a part of his findings to tomorrow’s newspapers. That will lay the groundwork and serve to establish the theory early, for the magazine itself will not be able to publish his findings for another month or two.”
“Possibly you are right. I admit I can see no other solution. But wait—you said there were two parts. And what are you going to do about introducing the concept? I understand your solution as far as it goes, but—”
Zebra-Horace quickly caught her arm and guided her out of the book shop. The sun was still bright in their eyes. He led the way back to his apartment, talking rapidly.
“Introducing the concept is the second part of my plan, sir. I’ve done a bit of research at the library and have found the proper time and location to implant the concept. Several years ago, a writer did a series of articles for a paper called Science Schools Journal. These articles—he entitled them The Chronic Argonauts—contain a germ of an idea that we can put to our own use. I propose to visit that writer, to place him in economic jeopardy. The Chronic Argonauts—and our science fiction correspondent will serve us very well.” They climbed the stairway.
“I don’t know,” the lovely Dog replied, frowning. She waited while the man unlocked the apartment door and stood aside to let her enter. “That sounds frightfully vague....”
Zebra-Horace closed the door behind him, trying to hide his anxiety. She surely wouldn’t dismiss his plan of action now! He ran over to the wardrobe and brought out some costumes he had rented, crossed the room again to fling open the door to an unused room.
“Please, sir ... trust me? I want so much to prove my mettle to you and Able!” The gleaming metal framework of his time machine rested in the darkness of the inner room. Boldly, Horace vaulted into the saddle and held out his two arms to her.
After a moment’s hesitation, Dog allowed herself to be lifted up into his lap. Horace threw a small lever.
It was early morning, the sun not yet over the rim of buildings across the street. A cold, swirling fog hung in the air, chilling them.
“We could have been better prepared,” Dog said shortly. “Is this the right place?”
“Yes, sir. This is known as Mornington Road. The man we seek lives in that rooming house across the way, with a lovely young woman who is not his wife. Their present circumstances aren’t particularly pleasant. Both the writer and his lady friend are consumptive, his markets are falling off, no one seems very interested in his scientific articles, and his absent wife has presented him with a troublesome bill of divorcement. As a result, he is in a somewhat dejected mood and is considering moving to a house in the country.” Horace made sure the shrubbery concealed his machine, and stepped out to explore the street. “Now. Presently he will come out in his night
clothes to see what may be in the mailbox. At that moment I will approach him, and pass myself off as a visiting writer from the continent. I will instill in him the idea of rewriting The Chronic Argonauts as a scientific romance. And at this point I need your help, sir.”
“My help? How?” She peered across the street at the house, annoyed with the damp fog.
Horace slipped a bit of paper into her hand. “This is the address of an editor named Henley, a good friend of our writer. Henley recently lost his magazine and is searching for financial backing to launch another. If you please, sir, I want you to journey about one week into the future and offer the financial aid the editor needs. With a new magazine in his hands, Henley is sure to request our writer for material. And in the meanwhile, I will have convinced the man to take a vacation in the country, and rewrite the articles.”
“Zebra,” she replied sharply, “I have heard of some fantastic schemes to explain or hide anachronisms during my career, but this one is the—” She broke off cautiously as a door opened across the street.
''Please!'' Zebra-Horace implored. “Please sir ... help me on this. This is my first big job! Go see that man Henley, and meet me back here in a few hours.” He turned away from her and stepped into the street, calling across to the man in the doorway. “George! Hallo, there, George ... is that you?”
The Chicago sun had grown quite warm and the streets were reflecting up the heat, making the city uncomfortable. Children skated more slowly if at all, preferring to lounge in the shade or spend their time in inviting doorways.
A confident Horace led the beautiful girl along the street, crossing an intersection to turn in another direction. Eagerly, he pointed to a small sign hanging motionless in the heat of day.
“Look, sir! Mahaffey’s Time Capsule! Our friend’s Chronic Argonauts has accomplished everything!” They paused a moment outside the store and inspected the 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.
“The titles would certainly seem to indicate you are right,” she conceded. “Just look at them: Slave Goddess of the Time-Worm, Ravished in Time's Abyss, The Rape of the Time Maidens." She shook her blonde head in wonderment. “All the writers seem to have caught the idea, Heinlein, Bradbury, Marlowe, Mudgett, Shaver, Byrdbatthe....”
Zebra held the shop door open for her, followed her into the cool interior. He nodded to the young woman and a couple of boys near the back of the store.
“My plan of action must be a success, sir, and our special correspondent will visit the grave site this afternoon.” He pointed happily to a shelf of books. “See— The Omnibus of Time, Adventures in Time and Space ... we have planted well!” Zebra was searching the shelves carefully, eagerly, searching for a particular title. Suddenly he reached down to snatch a slim, blue volume from its resting place. “Here it is!”
Dog turned the book around to read the legend on the spine. “The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells. We did this?”
“Yes, sir, this started it all. That man in the rooming house—”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Dog kissed him full on the lips. The shop mistress and the two fans turned to watch, startled.
“Zebra,” the blonde said excitedly, “You are wonderful! I shall report this to Able with my highest recommendations. And do you know what we are going to do now?”
“Uh ... no sir,” he stammered, taken aback.
“Don’t sir me,” she reproved him. “The name is Dog. And until I am recalled to duty, the name is Mrs. Horace Reid.”
The End
**************************************
Home Is Where the Wreck Is,
by Wilson Tucker
Universe May 1954
Short Story - 5721 words
Whenever a problem came up, Captain Arthur Alger
consulted the ship’s manual. Unfortunately, it had no
helpful hints on repairing a damaged spaceship without
tools, on dealing with the planet’s only inhabitant, or
on understanding his fellow-castaway, the Lady
Cynthia. Arthur was now on his own.
THE little ship rocketed along silently, violently, out of control and hopelessly lost. Its meager bulk was but a mote against the cold stars and it contained only two humans, both badly frightened despite their individual efforts to conceal it.
The ugly and unseen plunging rock, half the size of the ship itself, had sheared away most of the main drive tube and left the mixing and firing chambers a shambles. The deflection vanes had gone with the tube of course and now the ship was little more than a plummeting derelict, pushed relentlessly on by the last application of power, pushed crazily into some new direction by the impact of the rock.
And the pilot-captain, stout lad, was being pushed to desperation by his one wailing passenger.
“But don’t just stand there!” the Lady Cynthia Psmith complained. “Why don’t you do something?”
“Would you suggest I get out and push, My Lady?” Captain Arthur Alger held his knotted fists behind him, the better to conceal his irritation with the woman. This was his first ship, his first command, and the prospect of it also being his last was disconcerting. He added, “Or should I put my head out the rear port and blow?”
“Really!” she replied coldly, “I thought the space service produced men.”
Stung, Captain Alger drew himself up and almost reached the height of six-feet, which included the officer’s cap he wore at a jaunty angle. “My Lady, I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances. I’ve already consulted the ship’s manual.”
“And what does the ship’s manual advise?”
Humbly, the Captain quoted, “Land on the nearest planet.”
The disabled little ship careened along with no planet in sight—eye or radar sight. Previously it had been moving calmly enough from point A to point B, for no other reason than to please the whim and transport the daughter of some desk-ridden naval official. The young lady had vacated point A (her home world) and was journeying to point B (her father’s base planet) because Papa had a birthday coming up and she thought it would be nice to drop in on Papa and give him a kiss as a birthday gift. Accordingly, orders were put through and Captain Alger and his first command were placed at her disposal. The ship and its two passengers left point A on schedule and and on pre-arranged line of flight, only to meet in mid-space an unsentimental chunk of rock which cared nothing for Papa’s birthday.
“Well,” the Lady Cynthia repeated herself, “I think you might do something. We just can’t go on like this. What will people say?”
“And what would my Lady suggest?” Alger asked. He studied her, mentally frowning. Who would have dreamed that such a beautiful young thing could be so nasty? She had seemed such a lovely person when she boarded the ship—complimenting him, bestowing praises on the vessel’s appointments. A very lovely young person. He had estimated her age at seventeen, eighteen perhaps, and had graciously accepted her praise. But in the last few minutes—! “You have a plan, perhaps?”
Lady Cynthia pointed a rigid, commanding finger toward the rear of the ship and a small door set into the wall. “I happen to know that is a tool locker. I would suggest you open it and obtain the proper tools.”
Alger’s eyebrows shot up. “What for?”
“To fix the trouble, of course!”
Saying nothing more, he obediently marched across the room and opened the locker. After some puzzled moments of staring into the locker’s interior, he turned again and marched back across the room to retrieve the ship’s manual from its resting place on the control board. While the girl impatiently watched him, Alger ran his eye down the alphabetical index to Tools, ascertained the proper page, and turned to it. He studied the list of tools and their accompanying illustrations which identified each one
. And then he made a final trip across the room to stand before the locker.
“Well?” she asked.
“Two of these objects are screwdrivers,” Alger said. “No mistaking that. But this other object—” He placed a finger on the page and peered into the locker.
“What is it?” the Lady Cynthia demanded.
“It seems to be a pair of pliers.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing else. That’s all.”
“Nonsense! Every ship has a full complement of proper tools in its locker.”
“This ship,” Alger contradicted her with a small measure of satisfaction, “has a complement of two screwdrivers and a pair of pliers.” He slammed shut the manual with finality. “I don’t think I’ll fix anything.”
The desk-ridden official’s daughter glared at him, her until-recently lovely face flaming with indignation. Mentally, Alger bade good-bye to his Captain’s rating; at least he could say he had his stripes and his ship a few days. If they ever returned safely to a naval base the best he could expect would be some menial job on a freighter.
“I’m afraid our position is hopeless,” he admitted.
“But I don’t want to die!” his passenger wailed. “I am too young to die.”
“I’m a man of twenty-two myself,” the Captain said, “and I can’t say as I do either.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“Little or nothing, my Lady. Our driving power is gone, the ship is running away in whatever direction.” And then he thought to add, “There is a steering tube, forward.”
“Well, fire it!” she demanded hopefully. “Why are you just standing there?”
Captain Alger cocked an eye at her. “A steering tube, my Lady, is for steering. It turns the ship thus and so, on a minute scale. I don’t fancy living in a pinwheel.'”
Time Exposures Page 10
