Edith bought the coat.
Strange, Sam thought, that nobody else noticed those coincidences. But Richard wasn’t around all the time, and Edith—well, Edith had the knack of listening to Aubrey’s prattle without hearing nine-tenths of it.
“Aubrey Geezenstack brought home her report card today, Papa. She got ninety in arithmetic and eighty in spelling and—”
* * * *
And two days later, Sam was calling up the headmaster of the school. Calling from a paystation, of course, so nobody would hear him.
“Mr. Bradley, I’d like to ask a question that I have a—uh—rather peculiar, but important, reason for asking. Would it be possible for a student at your school to know in advance exactly what grades…”
No, not possible. The teachers themselves didn’t know, until they’d figured averages, and that hadn’t been done until the morning the report cards were made out and sent home. Yes, yesterday morning, while the children had their play period.
“Sam,” Richard said, “you’re looking kind of seedy. Business worries? Look, things are going to get better from now on, and with your company, you got nothing to worry about anyway.”
“That isn’t it, Dick. It—I mean, there isn’t anything I’m worrying about. Not exactly. I mean—” And he’d had to wriggle out of the cross-examination by inventing a worry or two for Richard to talk him out of.
He thought about the Geezenstacks a lot. Too much. If only he’d been superstitious, or credulous, it might not have been so bad. But he wasn’t. That’s why each succeeding coincidence hit him a little harder than the last.
Edith and her brother noticed it, and talked about it when Sam wasn’t around.
“He has been acting queer lately, Dick. I’m—I’m really worried. He acts so— Do you think we could talk him into seeing a doctor or a—”
“A psychiatrist? Um, if we could. But I can’t see him doing it, Edith. Something’s eating him, and I’ve tried to pump him about it, but he won’t open up. Y’know—I think it’s got something to do with those damn dolls.”
“Dolls? You mean Aubrey’s dolls? The ones you gave her?”
“Yes, the Geezenstacks. He sits and stares at the doll house. I’ve heard him ask the kid questions about them, and he was serious. I think he’s got some delusion or something about them. Or centering on them.”
“But, Dick, that’s—awful.”
“Look, Edie, Aubrey isn’t as interested in them as she used to be, and— Is there anything she wants very badly?”
“Dancing lessons. But she’s already studying violin and I don’t think we can let her—”
“Do you think if you promised her dancing lessons if she gave up those dolls, she’d be willing? I think we’ve got to get them out of the apartment. And I don’t want to hurt Aubrey, so—”
“Well—but what would we tell Aubrey?”
“Tell her I know a poor family with children who haven’t any dolls at all. And—I think she’ll agree, if you make it strong enough.”
“But, Dick, what will we tell Sam? He’ll know better than that.”
“Tell Sam, when Aubrey isn’t around, that you think she’s getting too old for dolls, and that—tell him she’s taking an unhealthy interest in them, and that the doctor advises— That sort of stuff.”
Aubrey wasn’t enthusiastic. She was not as engrossed in the Geezenstacks as she’d been when they were newer, but couldn’t she have both the dolls and the dancing lessons?
“I don’t think you’d have time for both, honey. And there are those poor children who haven’t any dolls to play with, and you ought to feel sorry for them.”
And Aubrey weakened, eventually. Dancing school didn’t open for ten days, though, and she wanted to keep the dolls until she could start her lessons. There was argument, but to no avail.
“That’s all right, Edie,” Richard told her. “Ten days is better than not at all, and—well, if she doesn’t give them up voluntarily, it’ll start a rumpus and Sam’ll find out what we’re up to. You haven’t mentioned anything to him at all, have you?”
“No. But maybe it would make him feel better to know they were—”
“I wouldn’t. We don’t know just what it is about them that fascinates or repels him. Wait till it happens, and then tell him. Aubrey has already given them away. Or he might raise some objection or want to keep them. If I get them out of the place first, he can’t.”
“You’re right, Dick. And Aubrey won’t tell him, because I told her the dancing lessons are going to be a surprise for her father, and she can’t tell him what’s going to happen to the dolls without telling the other side of the deal.”
“Swell, Edith.”
It might have been better if Sam had known. Or maybe everything would have happened just the same, if he had.
Poor Sam. He had a bad moment the very next evening. One of Aubrey’s friends from school was there, and they were playing with the doll house. Sam watching them, trying to look less interested than he was. Edith was knitting and Richard, who had just come in, was reading the paper.
Only Sam was listening to the children and heard the suggestion.
“…and then let’s have a play funeral, Aubrey. Just pretend one of them is—”
Sam Walters let out a sort of strangled cry and almost fell getting across the room.
There was a bad moment, then, but Edith and Richard managed to pass it off casually enough, outwardly. Edith discovered it was time for Aubrey’s little friend to leave, and she exchanged a significant glance with Richard and they both escorted the girl to the door.
Whispered, “Dick, did you see—”
“Something is wrong, Edie. Maybe we shouldn’t wait. After all, Aubrey has agreed to give them up, and—”
Back in the living room, Sam was still breathing a bit hard. Aubrey looked at him almost as though she was afraid of him. It was the first time she’d ever looked at him like that, and Sam felt ashamed. He said, “Honey, I’m sorry I— But listen, you’ll promise me you’ll never have a play funeral for one of your dolls? Or pretend one of them is badly sick or has an accident—or anything bad at all? Promise?”
“Sure, Papa. I’m—I’m going to put them away for tonight.” She put the lid on the doll house and went back toward the kitchen.
In the hallway, Edie said, “I’ll—I’ll get Aubrey alone and fix it with her. You talk to Sam. Tell him—look, let’s go out tonight, go somewhere and get him away from everything. See if he will.”
Sam was still staring at the doll house.
“Let’s get some excitement, Sam,” Richard said. “How’s about going out somewhere? We’ve been sticking too close to home. It’ll do us good.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Okay, Dick. If you say so. I—I could use a little fun, I guess.”
Edie came back with Aubrey, and she winked at her brother. “You men go on downstairs and get a cab from the stand around the corner. Aubrey and I’ll be down by the time you bring it.”
Behind Sam’s back, as the men were putting on their coats, Richard gave Edith an inquiring look and she nodded.
Outside, there was a heavy fog; one could see only a few yards ahead. Sam insisted that Richard wait at the door for Edith and Aubrey while he went to bring the cab. The woman and girl came down just before Sam got back.
Richard asked, “Did you—?”
“Yes, Dick. I was going to throw them away, but I gave them away instead. That way they’re gone; he might have wanted to hunt in the rubbish and find them if I’d just thrown—”
“Gave them away? To whom?”
“Funniest thing, Dick. I opened the door and there was an old woman going by in the back hall. Don’t know which of the apartments she came from, but she must be a scrubwoman or something, although she loo
ked like a witch really, but when she saw those dolls I had in my hands—”
“Here comes the cab,” Dick said. “You gave them to her?”
“Yes, it was funny. She said, ‘Mine? To Keep? Forever?’ Wasn’t that a strange way of asking it? But I laughed and said, ‘Yes, ma’am. Yours forev—’”
She broke off, for the shadowy outline of the taxi was at the curb, and Sam opened the door and called out, “Come on, folks!”
Aubrey skipped across the sidewalk into the cab, and the others followed. It started.
The fog was thicker now. They could not see out the windows at all. It was as though a gray wall pressed against the glass, as though the world outside was gone, completely and utterly. Even the windshield, from where they sat, was a gray blank.
“How can he drive so fast?” Richard asked, and there was an edge of nervousness in his voice. “By the way, where are we going, Sam?”
“By George,” Sam said, “I forgot to tell her.”
“Her?”
“Yeah. Woman driver. They’ve got them all over now. I’ll—” He leaned forward and tapped on the glass, and the woman turned.
Edith saw her face, and screamed.
HALL OF MIRRORS
For an instant you think it is temporary blindness, this sudden dark that comes in the middle of a bright afternoon.
It must be blindness, you think; could the sun that was tanning you have gone out instantaneously, leaving you in utter blackness?
Then the nerves of your body tell you that you are standing, whereas only a second ago you were sitting comfortably, almost reclining, in a canvas chair. In the patio of a friend’s house in Beverly Hills. Talking to Barbara, your fiancée. Looking at Barbara—Barbara in a swim suit—her skin golden tan in the brilliant sunshine, beautiful.
You wore swimming trunks. Now you do not feel them on you; the slight pressure of the elastic waistband is no longer there against your waist. You touch your hands to your hips. You are naked. And standing.
Whatever has happened to you is more than a change to sudden darkness or to sudden blindness.
You raise your hands gropingly before you. They touch a plain smooth surface, a wall. You spread them apart and each hand reaches a corner. You pivot slowly. A second wall, then a third, then a door. You are in a closet about four feet square.
Your hand finds the knob of the door. It turns and you push the door open.
There is light now. The door has opened to a lighted room…a room that you have never seen before.
It is not large, but it is pleasantly furnished—although the furniture is of a style that is strange to you. Modesty makes you open the door cautiously the rest of the way. But the room is empty of people.
You step into the room, turning to look behind you into the closet, which is now illuminated by light from the room. The closet is and is not a closet; it is the size and shape of one, but it contains nothing, not a single hook, no rod for hanging clothes, no shelf. It is an empty, blank-walled, four-by-four-foot space.
You close the door to it and stand looking around the room. It is about twelve by sixteen feet. There is one door, but it is closed. There are no windows. Five pieces of furniture. Four of them you recognize—more or less. One looks like a very functional desk. One is obviously a chair…a comfortable-looking one. There is a table, although its top is on several levels instead of only one. Another is a bed, or couch. Something shimmering is lying across it and you walk over and pick the shimmering something up and examine it. It is a garment.
You are naked, so you put it on. Slippers are part way under the bed (or couch) and you slide your feet into them. They fit, and they feel warm and comfortable as nothing you have ever worn on your feet has felt. Like lamb’s wool, but softer.
You are dressed now. You look at the door—the only door of the room except that of the closet (closet?) from which you entered it. You walk to the door and before you try the knob, you see the small typewritten sign pasted just above it that reads:
This door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand, it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read it.
It is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelope lying on it.
You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read the letter that must be in it.
Why not? Because you are frightened.
You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that you can discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting; the ceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all.
They didn’t have lighting like that, back where you came from. What did you mean by back where you came from?
You close your eyes. You tell yourself: I am Norman Hastings. I am an associate professor of mathematics at the University of Southern California. I am twenty-five years old, and this is the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four.
You open your eyes and look again.
* * * *
They didn’t use that style of furniture in Los Angeles—or anywhere else that you know of—in 1954. That thing over in the corner—you can’t even guess what it is. So might your grandfather, at your age, have looked at a television set.
You look down at yourself, at the shimmering garment that you found waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture.
It’s like nothing you’ve ever touched before.
I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four.
Suddenly you must know, and at once.
You go to the desk and pick up the envelope that lies upon it. Your name is typed on the outside: Norman Hastings.
Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them?
There are several pages, typewritten. “Dear Norman,” it starts. You turn quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned.
You turn back and start reading.
“Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear, but much to explain. Much that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much that you must accept and—obey.
“You have already guessed that you are in the future—in what, to you, seems to be the future. The clothes and the room must have told you that. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden, so you would realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read it here—and quite probably disbelieve what you read.
“The ‘closet’ from which you have just stepped is, as you have by now realized, a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of 2004. The date is April 7th, just fifty years from the time you last remember.
“You cannot return.
“I did this to you and you may hate me for it; I do not know. That is up to you to decide, but it does not matter. What does matter, and not to you alone, is another decision which you must make. I am incapable of making it.
“Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. By the time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed (for I knew you would look first for a signature), I will not need to tell you who I am. You will know.
“I am seventy-five years of age. I have, in this year 2004, been studying ‘time’ for thirty of those years. I have completed the first time machine ever built—and thus far, its construction, even the fact that it has been constructed, is my own secret.
“You have just participated in the first major experiment. It will be your responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any more experiments with it, whether it should be given to the world, or whether it should be destroyed and never used again.”
* * * *
End of the first page. You look up for a moment, hesitating to turn the next page. Already you suspect what is
coming.
You turn the page.
“I constructed the first time machine a week ago. My calculations had told me that it would work, but not how it would work. I had expected it to send an object back in time—it works backward in time only, not forward—physically unchanged and intact.
“My first experiment showed me my error. I placed a cube of metal in the machine—it was a miniature of the one you just walked out of—and set the machine to go backward ten years. I flicked the switch and opened the door, expecting to find the cube vanished. Instead I found it had crumbled to powder.
“I put in another cube and sent it two years back. The second cube came back unchanged, except that it was newer, shinier.
“That gave me the answer. I had been expecting the cubes to go back in time, and they had done so, but not in the sense I had expected them to. Those metal cubes had been fabricated about three years previously. I had sent the first one back years before it had existed in its fabricated form. Ten years ago it had been ore. The machine returned it to that state.
“Do you see how our previous theories of time travel have been wrong? We expected to be able to step into a time machine in, say, 2004, set it for fifty years back, and then step out in the year 1954…but it does not work that way. The machine does not move in time. Only whatever is within the machine is affected, and then just with relation to itself and not to the rest of the Universe.
“I confirmed this with guinea pigs by sending one six weeks old five weeks back and it came out a baby.
“I need not outline all my experiments here. You will find a record of them in the desk and you can study it later.
“Do you understand now what has happened to you, Norman?”
You begin to understand. And you begin to sweat.
The I who wrote that letter you are now reading is you, yourself at the age of seventy-five, in this year of 2004. You are that seventy-five-year-old man, with your body returned to what it had been fifty years ago, with all the memories of fifty years of living wiped out.
The Fredric Brown Megapack Page 6
