by William Tenn
Zing! He jumped backward as if I'd gone to work on his neck with a can opener. And blush! Reminded me of a bride who'd led a full life and was doing her rosy best to convince the groom's mother at the altar that she hadn't.
"Don't do that," he said, shaking himself all over.
Better change the subject. "Nice outfit, you've got there. Where did you get it?" Subtle, you know. Catch him off guard.
He looked down complacently. "It was my costume in the school play. Of course, it was a little off-period, but I thought—"
His voice trailed away awkwardly like he'd just realized he was breaking a lodge secret. This thing had angles, all right.
"Where do you live?" I shot at him fast.
"Brooks," he came right back.
I thought that over. No, it couldn't be. "Brooks?"
"Yes, you know—Brooks. Or maybe it's Bronklyn?"
I stroked my chin, trying to work it out. He was shuddering again.
"Please," he said in that high voice. "Please. Do you have to skinge?"
"Do I have to what?"
"Skinge. Touch your body with your hands. In a public place, too. Spitting and belching are bad enough—though most of your people avoid it. But everyone—everyone is always skingeing!"
I took a deep breath and promised him I wouldn't skinge. But if I wanted to see his hole card, I'd have to flip mine over first. "Look, Ernest, what I wanted to say... well, I'm Malcolm Blyn. I—"
His eyes widened. "The robber baron of the warehouse!"
"The what?"
"You own Blyn's Paints. I saw your name on the door." He nodded to himself. "I've read all the adventure stories. Dumas... no, Dumas isn't right... Alger, Sinclair, Capon. Capon's The Sixteen Salesmen, there's one fully conscious book! I read it five times. But you wouldn't know Capon, would you? He wasn't published until—"
"Until when?"
"Until... until... oh, I can tell you. You're one of the ruling powers: you own a warehouse. I don't come from here."
"No? Where do you come from?" I had my own ideas on that. Some overeducated rich kid—a refugee, maybe, to account for his accent and slenderness.
"From the future. I shouldn't have done it; it may mean my being set back a whole responsibility group, but I just had to see the robber barons with my own eyes. Wolf bait! I wanted to see them forming pools, freezing out competitors, getting a corner on—
"Hold the economics, Jackson! From the future, did you say?" This kid was getting too big for his corduroy britches. Corduroy britches?
"Yes. According to the calendar of this time... let me see, and this part of the world, it would be... oh, the year 6130. No, that's still another calendar. According to your calendar I came from 2369 AD. Or is it 2370? 2369, I think."
I was glad he'd settled the point to his satisfaction. I told him so, and he thanked me. And all the time, I was thinking: if this kid's crazy, or if he's lying, how come paint that brushes out green with red polka dots? And how come his clothes? They hadn't been made in any factories I'd ever heard of. Check.
"This paint... that come from the future... from your time?"
"Well, the shops were all out of it, and I wanted to prove myself to Hennessey... he's a real swashbuckler, isn't he? I went home and probed the spirillix, and finally I found—"
"Spirillix? What spirillix?"
"The spirillix—the rounded usicon, you know. Your American scientist Wenceslaus invented it just about this time. I think it was just about this time—I remember reading of the trouble he had getting it financed. Or was it this time? Yes, I think—"
He was starting another of those debates with himself. I stalled him off. "OK. What's the difference, a hundred years more or less. This paint: do you know how it's made, what's in it?"
"How it's made." He swung a high-booted foot around in a little circle and studied it. "Well, it's hydrofluoric acid, of course. Triple-blasted. Although the container didn't mention the number of times it had been blasted. I assume it was triple-blasted, though—"
"Sure, sure. What do you mean—blasted, triple-blasted?"
A mouthful of perfect white teeth flashed out as he laughed right up and down the scale. "I wouldn't know that! It's all part of the Schmootz Dejector Process—my conditioning is two whole responsibility groups behind the Schmootz Process. I may never even reach it if I do well enough in self-expression. And I like self-expression better than conditioning; I only have two hours now, but—"
He raved on and on about how he was persuading some committee or other to give him more self-expression; I concentrated on worrying. This wasn't so good. I couldn't expect to import much more of the paint from this kid's hunting ground; my only hope was analysis of the sample he'd given me. And with this hydrofluoric acid and triple-blasting deal that didn't look so good.
Figure it out. Man has had steel for a long time now. But take some heat-treated steel from the best factory in Gary or Pittsburgh back to the time of that chemist character Priestley. Even if he had a modern lab available and knew how to use the equipment in it he wouldn't be able to find much useful information. He'd know it was steel maybe, and he might even be able to tell how much carbon, manganese, sulphur, phosphorus and silicon it contained—in addition to iron—if someone gave him a briefing on modern elementary chemistry, that is. But how it had acquired its properties, where its elasticity and tensile strength came from—the poor guy wouldn't know from nothing. Tell him "heat-treatment," "inward combustion of the carbon," and all he'd be able to do is open and close his mouth like a fish in Fulton Market wondering what happened to all the water.
Or spun glass. They had glass way back in ancient Egypt. Shove some of that shiny fabric we have at them, though, even say it's spun glass. They'd say, "Yah, sure. Have another piece of pie."
So I had the paint. One can of it hanging from my sweaty little palm. But it looked like a one-shot proposition unless I could be foxy grandpa himself—or, considering the kid, foxy great-great-great-grandpa.
Standing in front of me was the greatest errand boy a greedy businessman ever saw. And let me tell you I'm greedy; I admit it. But only for money.
How to swing it? How to turn this kid's errands into nice, bulging mounds of green paper with lots and lots of zeros on them? I didn't want him to get suspicious or upset; I didn't want him to feel I was using him as the tool I intended using him as.
I had to be a salesman; I had to sell him a bill of goods. I had to get him running the errands right, with a maximum of profit to all concerned, especially me.
Carelessly, I started walking in the direction he'd been going. He swung along beside me. "Where's your time machine, Ernest?"
"Time machine?" His delicate face wrinkled. "I don't have any time ma—Oh! You mean the chrondromos. Time machine—what a thought! No, I sunk a small chrondromos for my own personal use. My favorite father is an assistant engineer on the main chrondromos—the one they use for field trips? I wanted to go unsupervised for this once, no carnuplicators or anything. I wanted to see the ragged but determined newsboys rising steadily to riches. I wanted to see the great, arrogant robber barons like yourself—perhaps, I thought, I might even come across a real economic royalist! And I might get involved in some great intrigue, some market manipulation where millions of small investors are closed down and lose their last shred of—what is it again?—margin?"
"Yeah, they lose all their margin. Where did you sink this—this chrondromos?"
"Not where—when. I sank it after school. I'm supposed to be having self-expression now, so it doesn't make much difference. But I hope I can get back before a Census Keeper winds a total."
"Sure you can. I wouldn't worry about it. Uh... can I use this chrondromos of yours?"
He laughed real hard at my foolishness. "How can you? You have no conditioning, not even responsibility group two. No, you wouldn't know how to begin to unstable. I'll be glad to get back. Not that I haven't enjoyed myself. Wolf bait! To think I met a robber baron! This has be
en one fully conscious experience."
I dug into my tweed jacket and lit a baronial cigarette. "Guess you wouldn't have much trouble finding a left-handed paintbrush."
"Well, it might be difficult. I've never heard of one before."
"One thing I was wondering." I flicked ashes elaborately onto the sidewalk. "Do you have anything that sees ahead in time?"
"A revolving distringulatrix, you mean? There's one at the main chrondromos. I don't know how it works; they don't allow anyone from responsibility group four near it—you have to be at least six or seven."
Nasty. It had looked good. I might be able to persuade the kid to ferry back and forth with a couple of more cans of paint—but it would never amount to much. Especially if I couldn't get an analysis that would enable me to produce the stuff with present-day methods. But if I could get a gadget from the future—something I wouldn't have to sell, something I could make a million out of just by using it myself—like a dingus for seeing into the future, predicting race results, elections, sweepstake winners...
The dingus was there all right. This revolving distringulatrix. But the kid couldn't lay his hands on it. Nasty, I tell you.
"What about books? Got any books lying around the house: chemistry books, physics texts, pamphlets on industrial methods?"
"I don't live in a house. And I don't study from books. Not chemistry or physics anyway. That's all handled by conditioning. I had six hours of conditioning last night—examinations are coming, you know."
My tongue knotted with the frustration of it. Millions of bucks walking next to me and I didn't know how to turn it into cash. Ernest had evidently seen all he wanted to see of the present, at least temporarily—hadn't he met a real, live, robber baron?—and he was heading home to mama and self-expression.
There must be an angle, somewhere!
"Where'd you plant your chrondromos? I mean, where's its other end come out?"
He waved ahead. "Behind a big rock in Center Park."
"Central Park, you mean. Mind if I tag along, watch you leave?"
He didn't. We padded across Central Park West and turned up a little unpaved path. I pulled a dry bough off a tree and switched it across my ankles; I just had to think of something before he took off. I began to hate the can of paint; it was light enough, but it looked like such a puny item to get out of the whole deal. Especially if it couldn't be analyzed.
Keep the kid talking. Something would turn up.
"What kind of government do you have? Democracy, monarchy—"
There he went laughing at me again! It was all I could do not to smash him across the face with the switch. Here I was losing fortunes right and left, and he thought I was making like a comic!
"Democracy! But you would think in political terms, wouldn't you? You have to consider your sick individuals, your pressure groups, your—No, we passed that stage long before I was born. Let me see, the last president they manufactured was a reversibilist. So I imagine you could say we are living in a reversibilism. An unfulfilled one, though."
That helped a lot. Solved everything. I sort of dropped down into a moony yearning for an idea, any kind of an idea. Ernest skipped along chattering about things with unpronounceable names that did unbelievable deeds. I thought unprintable words.
"—I get in responsibility group five. Then there are the examinations, not at all easy this time. Even the trendicle may not help."
I cocked an ear at him. "What's with this trendicle? What does it give out?"
"It analyzes trends. Trends and developing situations. It's really a statistical analyzer, portable and a little primitive. I use it to determine the questions I'll be asked in the examinations. Oh, I forgot—you probably have the scholarship superstitions of your period. You don't believe that the young should anticipate questions based on the latest rearrangements in the world, on the individual curiosities of their instructors. There it is!"
High up on a little wooded hill was a gray and careless rock formation. And, even at that distance, I could see a transparent, shimmering blue haze behind the largest rock.
Ernest beat it off the road and scurried up the hill. I choked after him. There wasn't much time; I had to think it out fast—this trendicle looked like the goods.
I caught up to him just as he reached the large rock. "Ernest," I wheezed, "how does your trendicle go?"
"Oh, it's simple. You punch all available facts into it—regular keyboard, you know—it analyzes them and states the only possible result or shows the trend the facts indicate. Built-in Skeebee power system. Well, goodbye, Mr. Blyn."
He started for the blue haze where it was thickest on the ground. I wrapped my paw around his chest and pulled him back.
"There you go again. Skingeing!" he wailed.
"Sorry, kid. The last time. How would you like to be in on a really big deal? Before you go back, you might like to see me get control of an international trust. I've been planning it for some time—one of the biggest bull markets. Wall Street has never seen my secret gilt-edged because I have a broker planted in Chicago futures. I'll hurry it along and do it today, just so you can see how we robber barons operate. The only thing is, this trendicle deal will make it sure-fire and I'll be able to do the whole thing much faster. What a spectacle! Hundreds of banks failing, I get a corner on synthetic rubber, the gold standard crashes, small investors frozen and down to their bottom margin! You'll see it all. And if you get the trendicle for me, why I'd let you handle the capitalization."
His eyes shone like brand-new dimes. "That would be fully conscious! Think of my getting involved in financial battle like that! But it's so risky! If a Census Keeper winds a total and finds I've been subtracted—If my guide catches me using a chrondromos illegally—"
I'm a salesman, I told you. I know how to handle people. "Suit yourself," I said, turning away and stepping on my cigarette. "I just thought I'd offer you the chance because you're a nice kid, a bright boy; I think you'll go far. We robber barons have a lot of pride, you know. It isn't every errand boy I'd trust with anything as important as capitalization." I made as if to walk away.
"Oh, please, Mr. Blyn!" He sprinted around in front of me. "I appreciate your offer. If only it weren't so dangerous—But danger, that's the breath of life to you, isn't it? I'll do it. I'll get you the trendicle. We'll rip the market open together. Will you wait?"
"Only if you hurry," I said. "I have a lot of manipulating to do before the sun goes down. Take off." I set the can of paint on the grass and crossed my arms. I swished the dry bough back and forth like the widget kings go in for—scepters.
He nodded, turned and ran into the blue haze just behind the rock. His body sort of turned blue and hazy too as he hit it; then he was gone.
What an angle! I mean, what an angle. You get it, don't you? This trendicle—if it was anything like the kid described it—could practically be used the way I said I was going to use it, in that fast double-talk shuffle I'd handed him. Predict movements of the stock market up and down—sideways even!; anticipate business cycles and industrial trends; prophesy war, peace and new bond issues. All I'd have to do would be to sock the facts into it—all the financial news, let's say, of the daily paper—and out would come multitudes of money. Was I set!
I threw my head back and winked at a treetop.
Honestly, I felt drunk. I must have been drunk. Because I'd stopped figuring. Just shows—never stop figuring. Never!
I wandered up to the shimmering blue haze and put my hand out toward it. Just like a stone wall. The kid had been giving me the straight goods on this conditioning deal.
He was a nice kid. Ernest. Nice name.
Nice.
The haze parted and Ernest ran out. He was carrying a long, gray box with a cluster of white keys set in one end. Looked like an adding machine that had been stretched.
I plucked it away from him. "How does it work?"
He was breathing hard. "My guide... she saw me... she called me... I hope she didn't s
ee me go into the chrondromos... first time I've disobeyed her... illegal use of chrondromos—"
"Sure," I said. "Sure. Very sad. How does it work?"
"The keys. You punch the facts out on the keys. Like the ancient—like your typewriter. The resulting trend appears on the small scanner."
"Pretty small. And it'll take a terrifically long time to type out a couple of pages of financial news. Those stock listings, especially. Don't you people have anything that you just show the paper to and it burps out the result?"
Ernest looked puzzled. Then, "Oh, you mean an open trendicle. My guide has one. But it's only for adults. I won't get an open trendicle until responsibility group seven. With good leanings toward self-expression."
There he went on that self-expression gag. "Then that's what we need, Ernest. Suppose you trot back and pick up your guide's trendicle."
I've never seen so much shock on anyone's face in my life. He looked as if I'd told him to shoot the president. The one they just manufactured.
"But I told you! It isn't mine—it's my guide's!"
"You want to be in charge of capitalization, don't you? You want to see the greatest coup ever pulled in Wall Street—lambs fleeced, bears skinned, bulls broken? Go back to your guide—"
"You are discussing me?" A very sweet, very high voice.
Ernest twisted around. "Wolf bait! My guide," he fluted.
A little old lady in a nutty kind of twisted green dress was standing just outside the haze. She was smiling sadly at Ernest and shaking her head at me. I could tell the difference.
"I hope you are satisfied, Ernest, that this period of high adventure was in reality very ugly and peopled by individuals infinitely small. We've become a little impatient with the duration of your unstabling, however. It's time you returned."
"You don't mean—the Census Keepers knew all along that I was illegally using a chrondromos? They allowed me to do it?"
"Of course. You stand very high in self-expression; an exception had to be made in your case. Your involved and slightly retarded concepts of the romantic aspects of this era made it necessary to expose you to its harshness. We couldn't pass you into responsibility group five until you had readjusted. Come, now."
