The Fourth Time Travel MEGAPACK®

by Fritz Leiber

  “Give me a chance to explain something. Downstairs. So he won’t hear,” Bob ended in a whisper, nodding toward the doctor.

  * * * *

  Ann looked doubtfully at Les, then followed Bob down the stairs. The doorbell was monotonously saying in a monotone: “Don’t answer me, don’t answer me, don’t go to the door.”

  “Why did you do it?” Ann asked Bob, her anger suddenly slumping into weary sadness. “People will suspect you of being a sex maniac for the rest of your life. You can’t possibly explain—”

  “Don’t bother about the girls’ clothing,” Bob said, “because it was only an accident. The really important thing is something else I did before I left the house.”

  Les, cursing softly, hurried past them on the way to answer the knocking. He ignored the doorbell’s pleas.

  “I forgot about it,” Bob continued, “when that ray gun accidentally went off. Then when they put me in the principal’s office, I had time to think, and I remembered. I put some white stuff from the detective kit into that sugar we lent Mrs. Burnett last night. I just wanted to see what would happen. I don’t know exactly what effect—”

  “He put stuff in the sugar?” A deep, booming voice came from the front of the house. Mother and son looked through the hall. A policeman stood on the threshold of the front door. “I heard that! The woman next door claims that her husband is poisoned. Young man, I’m going to put you under arrest.”

  The policeman stepped over the threshold. A blue flash darted from the doorbell box, striking him squarely on the chest. The policeman staggered back, sitting down abruptly on the porch. A scent of ozone drifted through the house.

  “Close the door, close the door,” the doorbell was chanting urgently.

  “Where’s that ambulance?” Dr. Schwartz yelled from the top of the steps. “The child’s getting worse.”

  Something splintered in the hall closet door. The manky zoomed through the hole it had broken and began ricocheting wildly through the house like a crazed living creature, smashing ornaments, cracking the plaster.

  Les rushed through the front door to try to pick up the policeman. The officer drew his gun. An unearthly scream of “Help!” shrieked out of the doorbell.

  Ann put her hands over her eyes, as if that would make the unbelievable scene vanish.

  * * * *

  Three days after the Christmas party, in the middle of inventory, when her headache had completely vanished, Milly began to worry.

  She talked the situation over for one whole afternoon with her best friend at Hartshorne-Logan, a girl in the complaint department. That same evening, after work, Milly went to the public library for the first time in her life. She borrowed a thick tome on the theory of time travel. But only three sentences in the first ten pages were comprehensible to her. She turned to her manky for comfort before going to bed.

  The next morning, she braved the protective screen of secretaries, receptionists and sub-officials who ordinarily protected Mr. Hawkins from minor annoyances, and penetrated to his office.

  Mr. Hawkins didn’t recognize her when she walked in. His attitude became much more formal when she reminded him of their actions on Christmas Eve.

  “So you see, Mr. Hawkins,” Milly concluded earnestly, “I’m worried. We had so much fun at that party that we didn’t think about what we might do to those folks in the past.”

  “You should understand,” Mr. Hawkins firmly replied, “that I was not enjoying myself at the party. Definitely not. I must engage in the painful duty of assuming a pose of gaiety on special occasions, such as the annual office party.”

  Milly shot him a withering look, but didn’t argue that particular point. She continued: “So I’ve been thinking. We might have done a terrible thing. Sending that dress to a kid without the right underclothing could be real dangerous. Maybe even fatal.”

  “We cannot harm people in the long ago, any more than the past could conceivably harm us.”

  “But don’t you see?” Milly fought to restrain tears of fright and frustration. “I’m not sure! And it’s the most important thing in the world to me. That little girl who got the dress is my grandmother. If she died while she was a little girl, there wouldn’t be any me. I can’t be born, if my grandmother died before she was three years old.”

  “The paradoxes of time travel have been greatly exaggerated,” Mr. Hawkins said. “Perhaps a genealogist would be able to clear up the question.”

  Milly rose to her full five-foot height, suddenly furious. “You don’t care if I just vanish all of a sudden! All that you care about is keeping yourself out of a lot of bother!” She turned, walked to the door, and added: “After I’ve helped to fill forty orders every working day for the past three years!”

  Milly stalked out and slammed the door behind her. Then she stopped, just outside the door, waiting for a chain reaction to occur. It did, about five seconds later.

  Mr. Hawkins popped through the door with a shout: “Where’s that girl?” He was through the reception room and halfway down the hall when Milly called him back.

  “Here I am,” she said sweetly.

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her into his office.

  “You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about those poor, unfortunate people in the past, too. Now that you mention it, I believe we should do something for them.” He wiped his forehead.

  “You’ve been thinking about a poor, unfortunate manager right here in the present,” Milly retorted, sure of her position now. “All of a sudden, you’ve figured out what it will mean if I vanish because my grandmother never had any children. You realize that if I’ve never existed, all of a sudden Hartshorne-Logan will have thousands of complaint letters, lawsuits about orders over the past three years. You’re thinking about what’s going to happen to your position, if you’re to blame for all those customers not getting their merchandise.”

  Mr. Hawkins turned away until he got his face under control. “We’ll talk about that later,” he said mildly at last. “Let’s agree that everyone will be happier if we straighten up matters. And don’t you think that just we two should do the straightening up ourselves? It’ll be simpler if—uh—other officials don’t hear about this.”

  * * * *

  When Ann took her hands away from her eyes the mess was still more complicated. The new factor was a short young girl who was walking up to the house. She was looking about, like a country girl suddenly whisked to Times Square.

  The policeman whirled when he heard footsteps behind him. “What do you want?”

  “I’m afraid that I’m to blame for the whole thing,” Milly told the officer. “I represent Hartshorne-Logan. We’ve just discovered that we made several mistakes when we filled an order for this family. I’ve come to pick up the wrong merchandise.”

  The doorbell made ominous clucking sounds, as Milly reached the threshold.

  She looked up at the box and told Ann: “I’m afraid that I can’t get in while that defective doorbell is working. Will you cut off the house current for a minute, while I disconnect it?”

  Les blinked at her, then began to curse, loudly and bitterly. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Les dodged the manky’s careening and headed for the fuse box.

  Milly called after him: “Maybe there are bananas in the refrigerator. Take them out right away, if there are. The manky will quiet down then.”

  Ann rushed to the kitchen, yanked out the three bananas and threw them through the open window. She heard the dull thud from the front room as the manky fell to the carpet and lay motionless.

  “I’ve pulled the switch!” Les yelled.

  The policeman warily stepped through the door, looking at Les. Dr. Schwartz intercepted the policeman.

  “Officer,” Dr. Schwartz said, “there’s a very
sick little girl upstairs. I think you’ll do your duty best by trying to hurry up an ambulance.”

  “But there’s a murder charge floating around and I practically heard a confession,” the policeman protested, slightly dazed.

  Milly had pulled down the doorbell assembly. She put it beside the manky, then scooped up the remaining sections of Bob’s detective kit and put them on the pile. She headed for the stairs, calling over her shoulder: “Don’t worry about your detective set troubles. Those things wear off in twenty-four hours.”

  * * * *

  Staggering slightly under the load of merchandise, Milly tiptoed into her grandmother’s room. When she heard Dr. Schwartz trailing her curiously, she turned to him, whispering: “I’ll watch over the little girl. You go down and explain to that policeman that there wasn’t anything harmful in the chemicals in the detective set, and there was a short circuit in the doorbell, and that the child must be allergic to the dress. It was all Hartshorne-Logan’s fault, not this family’s.”

  “But what about that thing?” Dr. Schwartz said, pointing to the manky.

  Milly tried frantically to think of a believable explanation and changed the subject: “The policeman said something about a murder confession. There was genuine truthtalk in the detective set. If someone swallowed any of it, it might be a genuine confession.”

  “My goodness!” Dr. Schwartz raced downstairs.

  Milly bent over the child who would become her grandmother. Sally lay flushed and feverish on the big bed, sunk into a deep coma. Milly bent and kissed her grandmother, then quickly deactivated the anti-grav pads in the shoulders. After that, it took only a moment to decamouflage the zippers which held the crosh force. The dress then slipped right off.

  Sally sighed the instant the dress fell free. Her skin was already returning to its normal hue by the time Milly had taken another dress from a bureau drawer. Milly slipped it onto Sally and covered her up to prevent a chill.

  Milly kissed the child again and looked at the ancestor whom she had known only as a tiny old lady. Then she gathered up her pile of merchandise, tossing on top the dress, with its shoulder pads again activated.

  The commotion downstairs was still loud, but it no longer sounded hysterical. Milly ticked off the order list on her fingers, to make sure she had collected everything. Then she opened the bedroom window. Buoyed by the anti-grav force, she floated to the ground, landing with only a slight jar.

  She darted through the back-yard, away from the house, attracting no attention. Everyone in the block had convened at the front of the house, where Mrs. Burnett was screaming out a full confession and the policeman was sweatingly scribbling it down.

  Mrs. Burnett was explaining in trying detail the exact manner in which she had poisoned her four husbands in the past seven years, to collect their insurance.

  * * * *

  When Milly returned to Hartshorne-Logan of the future, she sank wearily into a chair. She held her hand out and watched it quiver.

  “Golly, I didn’t realize how scared I was, until I got back,” she told Mr. Hawkins. “But I think I did only one thing wrong. I forgot to figure out some alibi for my great-uncle to use for his accident with the clothes penetration ray.”

  “Your ancestors will forget all about that in their excitement over the insurance company rewards,” Mr. Hawkins assured her. “I checked way back on the old records. I see that your great-grandmother paid her bill, right after the date when all this trouble came up. But she never bought another thing from Hartshorne-Logan.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing that time travel can’t cause trouble both ways,” Milly reflected. “I don’t think I’ll even go to next year’s Christmas party.”

  “No danger of time travel bothering us. Nothing could come from the past into the present that could possibly hurt us.”

  “Gee, I’m glad,” Milly said, and sneezed. It frightened her because sneezes were unknown in this world from which the cold virus had been eradicated. Then she sneezed again.

  A little later, Mr. Hawkins began to sneeze.

  Three billion sniffling, coughing, nose-blowing persons throughout the world were soon proof that Mr. Hawkins had blundered again.

  EGOBOO: Or, The Time Traveler’s Travail, by Manly Banister

  A Romantic Fantasy of the Fortieth Century

  Originally published in 1950.

  FOREWORD

  EGOBOO is strictly fiction—its characters, places and incidents are fictional. It is, admittedly, satire, but satire without the sting of malice or animosity. It is a mirror like one of those you find at amusement places, laughably distorting what they reflect. And as being such a mirror, it is held up for the benefit of a certain element of Fandom; so that that element may see itself as it is seen.

  Specifically, it is desired that a particular individual will observe of himself the caricature herein, the picture being drawn from the impression made by sundry of the fellow’s writings. Such individual will have only to open his mouth in rebuttal to show that he does. It is the purpose of EGOBOO (insofar as it needs a purpose other than the hours of amusement its preparation already has provided its author and publisher) to point out to this irresponsible character the ridiculous aspect of his contention, that his opinions are of greater value than the accomplished WORKS of any other individual, fan, amateur, or professional!

  Members of the element under discussion have devoted their writings to personalizing against fellow fans whom they know only by name and to violently assailing professional authors, editors, and publishers who they know cannot answer them because of the cheapening thereby of their professional reputations.

  The publisher of EGOBOO takes no stand for any individual fan or professional author, editor, or publisher. He does take a stand for some measure of tact and urbanity in the expression of argument and opinion, and for the observance of the precepts of humanity and of American freedom of speech—the latter not to be confused with license.

  What fan journalism needs is not censorship, but a searching self-analysis and the use of discrimination in its choice and treatment of material.

  As an afterthought, there might be less of this forensic crud cluttering up the mails, if every locutor were obliged to handset his own in six-point type!

  THE PUBLISHER.

  *

  The Time Traveler stepped into his time machine and slammed the door.

  Resolute and grim of purpose, he turned the branistan on the frumistat. Instantly, the walls of his laboratory blurred, wavered, became an encroaching, opalescent mist surcharged with flickering electrical manifestations of the tortus quanta. There was no bodily sensation. He had known there would be none, though the new scene winked on almost simultaneously with vanishment of the old in startling suddenness that was rather like a physical shock.

  At first, he thought an immense forest surrounded him. He was conscious of a stalked, branchy mass on every hand, toweringly visible through the quartz vision panels of the machine. The tangle arched and interlaced overhead, became a soaring canopy that hovered with claustrophobial intimacy over the dwarfed time machine.

  Then he saw that indeed they were not trees, but skeletal masses of steel, beryllium, copper, strange and un-known alloys of multihued metals that glittered fantastically in the gloom which was scarcely alleviated by penetrating random shafts of the westering sun.

  Near and far in the jungle-like mass, flickering lights blazed, waned, and died. Screaming red, brilliant green, electric blue—everywhere the tube-lights flared in scintillant coruscations of electrically excited gases. Their varicolored glow clashed in an eye-searing jangle.

  “Goodness gravius, Flavius! This is the place,” murmured the Time Traveler and stepped out of the machine.

  The time machine vanished immediately, but the Time Traveler only smiled. It had not
gone far. By a mental beam, he had anchored it in hyperspace, so that it would always be within reach, wherever he might go in the three-dimensional continuum of this world. It needed but a thought to recall the machine at once.

  Sound assaulted his ears. All about him in the vast skeleton of the metallic structure, machines hummed and whirred, snickered, crackled, and zapped. The Time Traveler strolled casually to the side of a busy little man performing with an oil-can upon a monstrous machine that snored with a sonorous vibration.

  “I say,” he spoke politely. “When are we?”

  The little man whirled, a fierce expression curling his smooth upper lip. In this world, no man grew whiskers. The Time Traveler was to become accustomed to the sight of men with hairless, rose-petal cheeks.

  “Another Throw Up out o’ the religious Past!” he snarled, clutching the oil-can to his scraggly bosom.

  “I am from the Past,” the Traveler agreed, “but what do you mean by ‘religious’?”

  “Old style, bud!” snapped the little man. You call your period A.D. for religious reasons. Religion has been pseudoscientifically proved to be a psychopathic aberration in the pre-Fan stage of intellectual development. We are used to Throw Ups. Whenever one of you proto-fen gets deep enough into pseudoscientific principles, you fool around until you get thrown up here, where you’re old-fashioned and superfluous—this is ultimate Fandom!”

  The Time Traveler mused briefly upon fen he had known who had vanished suddenly from fandom.

  A goddess-like creature, clad in an air of pensive sweetness (and not much else), drifted by, clutching a pair of wicked-looking ray-guns to her marble bosom.

  “She’s a Heroine!” the little man observed happily.

  “I beg your pardon—what did you say?”

  “Whaja say—whaja say?” pipingly mimicked the other. Whooshe? Why, a Heroine, of course! That’s a Class, bub! And some class, too, I’d say!”