I asked him how I had ended up here in the future. I was in the past a minute ago. He said that’s what happens when you exceed the speed of light. The years flow faster on your planet of origin than they do for you in your ship. Read Einstein, Mr. Rosenbloom said. You read it, I said. I didn’t want to read anything. I wasn’t in the mood.
I asked the brains what they did for fun around here. They said “squat and think”. That didn’t sound like so much fun to me. They said that’s because I hadn’t tried it. They had me there. I hadn’t tried it.
One of the smaller brains—one that had lipstick on it—volunteered to help me have a good time, if that’s what I was looking for. She was apparently a hooker of some sort, because she kept calling me either “sailor” or “handsome” and kept offering to give me a good time in exchange for four hundred quatloos. But, try as I might, I just couldn’t get what she was offering to do for me.
“Look,” I said, fingering the quatloos, “if you want the quatloos, you’re going to have to better explain what it is you’re offering me.”
“A good time!” she said, almost shouting. She was starting to get as frustrated as I was.
We never did get it sorted out, and the money ended up staying in my pocket.
It didn’t take very long for me to realize that this future Earth was no place for a guy like me. There was nothing going on here at all. I was bored stiff already, and it wasn’t even 2:30 yet. And if I thought I was over-matched in the brain department in space, it was nothing compared to here. These guys were all brain. I couldn’t understand half of the things they were saying. I kept telling them to use smaller words, but they said there weren’t any smaller words.
I decided to head back up into space—take my chances there. I didn’t know what was out there at this late date in history, but whatever it was, it would have to be better than this.
I said goodbye to the brains, told them that I would write often, and made my way back to my space ship. But when I got there I found that the engine wouldn’t turn over. Driving it nonstop in overdrive for so long, and pressing the “Burn Out Motor” button so many times, had burned out the motor. It was a good thing I had gotten to Earth when I did. I must have had only a few seconds left before the whole ship blew apart. I confirmed this when I manually overrode all the safety systems, kick-started the engine, and blew the ship apart, with some pieces of it landing up to half a mile away, and other pieces only traveling a few feet before they lodged in my head.
I went back and asked the brains if any of them knew how to repair an R-43 with a Crimebuster engine. I needed it by Thursday. They said they knew all, of course, especially how to fix an R-43, but the ship could not be repaired. It was in too many different places now. They said it looked to them like I was stuck here. I said it looked like that to me too.
After conferring among themselves, the brains invited me to stay with them forever. They said I could never really be one of them—never be their intellectual equal—but they had always wanted a dog. I could be that. They would call me “Scruffy”, if that was okay with me. I said it sounded all right. They told me to pick out a jar, get in, screw the top tightly closed (remembering the air holes), and start living it up—like them.
“Okay”, I said, doubtfully. I climbed into the nearest empty jar. “Now what?”
“Think.”
I sat there and thought. I must have thought for over an hour. But it wasn’t very entertaining. All I could think of was that I was in a jar.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I tried to make the best of my life in a jar, of course. You know me. Mr. Positive. I tried to concentrate on what was good about being in a jar, like the tremendous 360 degree view, and the free pickle smell. And I spent a lot of time fixing up my jar so it looked real nice. I put a label on it so people would know I was inside. I put a porch on it. And I strung up some Christmas lights on the lid. But once I’d gotten all that done I started to get bored again.
There was just nothing to do. No movies, no prize fights. I tried to get a couple of the larger brains to fight, then sell me tickets to this fight, but they weren’t interested. I couldn’t get them to put on a Broadway show for me either. There was just no entertainment around here at all. All of the entertainment here in the future took place in people’s minds. Other people’s minds, though, not mine. Once, when the brains seemed to be having a particularly good time, I asked if I could get into their minds somehow and see what was going on in there that was so hilarious, but they said no, stay back.
“Well, at least tell me what you’re doing in there,” I said. “You’re driving me crazy out here.”
“We are thinking of how much we know,” said one, “and how thoroughly we know it.”
“We know all,” agreed another brain.
I couldn’t let that one pass. “Who was the 17th vice president of the United States?” I asked.
“Schuyler Colfax.”
“Shit, that’s right.”
“We are always right.”
“I guess so.”
“Ask another one. A harder one this time.”
“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck…”
“Fourteen.”
“Shit.” These guys knew everything. “Well, that’s right,” I admitted, “but I’m going to have to take off some points for attitude.”
“We understand. We understand all.”
Boy, talk about big heads!
I kept trying to get them involved in some kind of outdoor activity, so we could have some real fun. But they didn’t want to play.
“C’mon, catch the ball,” I said.
“Ow! You hit me in the brain!”
“Well catch it, stupid.”
Every time I tried to get a game going they just screwed their lids on tighter and pretended they weren’t home. I could see them in there though. They weren’t fooling anybody.
I got pretty tired of just sitting around thinking my same three thoughts over and over. There had to be something else to do.
“Don’t you at least have any books here?” I asked. I’ve never been much of a reader, but I knew a guy, who knew a guy, who said that he had found something interesting in a book once. I was bored enough by this point that I was willing to try anything. “This is supposed to be an advanced civilization,” I said, poking Mr. Rosenbloom’s jar with an accusing finger. “Where are all your books?”
“We did have books,” he replied stiffly, “but you have been wiping your nose and butt with them ever since you arrived here. That’s the last one we had you’re blowing your nose on now.”
So there went my book reading idea. I asked if they had any phonograph records. Same answer.
I put up with the endless boredom for as long as I could, because I’m such a good sport, but finally I decided I’d had it with the future. There had to be some way to get out of here. No, don’t try to stop me, I’m leaving.
I made my way back to my ship and looked it over. Maybe I could figure out a way to fix it. Maybe hanging around with all those giant brains had made me smarter. I certainly felt smarter. I confidently started screwing the nose cone onto one of the fins. Once I got it on, it didn’t look exactly right so I pried it off and nailed it to a piece of the tail I had found in the river. That’s better. Almost there. Only nine million pieces to go.
But then I noticed the gaping hole in the fuel tank. I stuck my head in through the hole and lit a match. That’s when I got the bad news. My ship was out of astronium, a fuel made from the fossilized remains of astronauts, which is a dwindling natural resource in the universe, and is difficult to come by in the best of times. I doubted if there was any of it around here. And I’d just blown up the last of what was in the tank with my match. I reluctantly concluded that even if I managed to get the ship put back together, it wasn’t going anywhere. And that meant neither was I.
I went back and spent the rest of the day moping around tossing a ball up against my neighbor’s jar, and reflect
ing on what a bad break I had gotten and how unfair it all was, and that there should be a law.
Like most people, when something bad happens, my first reaction is to pass a law so it didn’t happen. But passing laws like that never works, even though people keep trying it. It’s the flow of time that makes these laws toothless. If the laws had been passed earlier they would have worked fine. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the law itself. So, like everybody else who makes these kinds of laws, what I really had was a time problem.
Then I remembered that, hey, I was in the future here. They’ve got to have time machines. Right? Couldn’t call themselves the future if they didn’t have time machines. I could get out of here in a second with one of those babies.
I excitedly asked the brains where the nearest time machine was. I didn’t need anything flashy. Just as long as it worked, and had bucket seats, and was sort of flashy. They said they didn’t have time machines here in the future. Didn’t need them. They could travel through time in their minds, which, they pointed out, saved money for tickets and lodging. Money they end up losing in telephone real estate scams, pointed out one of them sourly, but he was told to quit harping on that.
I’d like to say that I deliberately started annoying the brains because I didn’t believe their story that there weren’t any time machines around here. And that I was trying to make myself as unpleasant as possible so they would break down and tell me where the nearest one was. I’d like to say I had a reason for the things I did. But I didn’t. I was just bored. And, say what you like about being a big jerk, at least it isn’t boring.
I spent the next few weeks doing everything I could think of to make the brains’ lives hell for them. I threw rocks at their jars, tossed firecrackers into them, rolled their jars down the hill to make the brains inside dizzy, mooned the occupants of the jars individually and in groups, used lighted matches to give each of them a “hotbrain”, and so on. I was the Juvenile Delinquent Of The Future. A 3 Millionth Century Dennis The Menace. I never had so much fun in my life.
The brains kept telling me to quit it, that they weren’t kidding this time, and not to make them come out there, but I didn’t stop. I was having too much fun.
Finally—a little to my dismay—the brains relented. I was having a pretty good time in the future now. I didn’t really want to leave anymore. If the rest of my life was going to be like this, count me in. But they had had enough. They told me that there was, in fact, a time machine less than a mile away, in a cave. A 19th century novelist had left it there. They didn’t know if it still worked, but if it did, they would be obliged if I would get in it and piss off into any time period in Earth’s history except this one.
They said the reason they hadn’t told me about this before wasn’t because they were worried about me tampering with time or anything. They just didn’t like helping people. But my boorish behavior had forced their hand.
I thanked them for the information, tossed a goodbye firecracker into each of their jars, then headed for the cave.
When I got there I found that the cave opening was covered with fallen rocks and debris. About a million years worth. I hefted one of the rocks. It was heavy, just as I suspected. I tried another one. It was almost as heavy. At that point, I had half a mind to forget the whole thing and go back and throw stuff at the jars some more. Maybe run a hose into the jars and fill them up with water. See if brains can swim. But the thought of the long walk back, and then having to listen to a bunch of criticism from my brainiac neighbors, spurred me into starting to dig.
When I finally got enough rocks out of the way to squeeze into the cave, I wished I had remembered to bring a lantern. It was dark in there. Damned dark. Just my luck I got one of those dark caves. The brains had told me that this was part of an ancient coal mine, so I whipped out my lighter and set fire to the walls.
Now I had plenty of light. More than I wanted, actually. And lots of nice heat too. I went a little farther into the cave and found a cave painting on the wall that would be confusing to anthropologists if they ever happened to see it. It showed some brains killing an antelope. A little farther on, I found what I was looking for.
It was a time machine graveyard. Almost two dozen old time machines, in various stages of disrepair, were scattered around the cave. All of them were apparently built by 19th century novelists, who had then abandoned them here, I never learned why. Probably had to get back to their writing, and were in such a hurry they decided to walk. That’s the way I reasoned it out. That’s what I think probably happened.
I didn’t like the look of most of the machines. Charles Dickens’ time machine was a wreck. So was Fenimore Cooper’s. Mary Shelley’s machine seemed to have been fashioned out of cannibalized parts from other machines and then torched. Mark Twain’s time machine was so stupid I’m amazed he got it this far. Too many of the parts were obviously just there for laughs. The machine needed more plot. This is why, as a general rule, we shouldn’t let novelists design powerful machinery. It’s not their specialty. They should stick to their writing. But H.G. Wells’ time machine was the exception. It looked like it was well designed, and still seemed to be in working order. Some of the controls were out—I wouldn’t be putting the top down this trip—everything was covered with centuries of dust, and I decided not to eat the ham sandwich I found under the seat. But the engine made a nice confident humming noise, the leather seat was still comfortable, and on second thoughts, maybe I would eat that ham sandwich.
So, with nothing to lose that I could think of, I hopped in, stepped on the gas, and streaked off into time and space.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As the years flew by, and civilizations fell and then rose before my uninterested eyes, I noticed that the machine seemed to be working fine except for the year indicator, which evidently had been corroded away by the elements. So it looked like I was going to have to eyeball that part of the trip. Fortunately, in a time machine it doesn’t really matter how long a trip takes. When you finally get where you’re going, you’ll be on time.
My first idea had been to go forward into the future. I figured if I went far enough all those brains would be dead. Then I could live in my jar in peace. But I finally vetoed that idea. You never know what the future will bring, that’s what’s wrong with it. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into when you go there. We already know what’s going to happen in the past. It’s been written down for us by some guy in a library. Plus, if I went farther into the future I’d probably have to deal with people who were even smarter than the know-it-alls who had been giving me such a hard time here. I had to find a place where everybody was approximately at my mental level.
So I decided to head back into Earth’s past to live out my life there. I knew 1941 was a little too advanced for me—I’d been there before—so I decided to try 1934. That sounded like a pretty stupid year. Plus, if I started in 1934, I’d, with any luck, be dead by 2009 when the Earth got invaded and everything went to hell. If not, I could just go back and try again—maybe start in 1912 or something.
That’s the nice thing about having a time machine. You can make almost all the mistakes there are and still end up with the life you want. You keep getting more chances. For example, with a time machine you can bowl a 300 game every time. Just keep going back and trying again on each frame until you’ve got a strike. Then move on to the next frame. People will wonder why your hair turned gray during the game, but you don’t have to tell them about that. Tell them you want to talk about your 300 game, not your rapid aging.
When I figured I must be pretty close to 1934, I stopped the machine and asked a guy leaning against an oxcart what year it was. He said I was in the year 1693. I was also a witch, he informed me severely. I thanked him for the information and said he was a witch too, which startled him no end, then took off again, this time heading back towards the future as fast as I could. I’d wasted enough time. I wanted to get home.
I raced through
the Revolutionary War and the Texas War of Independence without even slowing down. I heard both Nathan Hale and Davy Crockett yelling to me for help, but all I had time to do was tell them to sit tight, I’d be there in a minute. I advised Nathan Hale to stall for time—make a speech or something. I’d be right there. And I told Davy Crockett to wait for me in the Alamo.
I streaked through New Jersey in 1872 and heard someone ask Thomas Edison: “Hey Tom, why don’t you invent that electric light you’ve been talking about?” And he said: “Why don’t you shut up?”
“Coming through!” I yelled, knocking Edison on his ear, and shoving the machine into overdrive.
In 1881 I took a shot at Garfield to get him out of my way. Just because you’ve been elected President doesn’t mean you can block the road. I don’t think I hit him though. I did hit McKinley with a bullet a few years later, but I don’t think he was seriously hurt. I heard him yell “I’m okay!” as he fell.
In the mid 1920’s I accidentally knocked over Frank Roosevelt with my time machine.
“You bastard,” he yelled. “I’ll be in a wheelchair for months!”
“Sorry,” I called, as I whizzed away through the years.
When I started hearing the word “bummer!” over and over and saw that I was knocking hippies down, I figured I’d gone too far. I slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.
I could see that I was in Washington D.C. but I wasn’t sure of the year. I figured since I was in our nation’s capitol, I’d ask the President. The President should know what year it was, if anybody did. His aides would have to keep him informed on something like that.
I was near the White House, so I got out and hid my machine behind some rose bushes. I was surprised to find a rocket ship hidden behind the same bush.
When I opened the door to the Oval Office, I got an even bigger surprise. A younger version of Buzzy was standing there, looking cool, with sunglasses, a Beatle haircut, and long sideburns, whispering into Richard Nixon’s ear and shoving Space Money into his pocket. Buzzy saw me, looked startled, said “You!” and drew his gun.
Earth vs. Everybody Page 9
