Bolton’s voice was getting bored; he fell into the singsong of the professional lecturer.
So that,” he continued, “if we had rocket ships that could traverse interplanetary space, and we could build up a speed of, let us say, 180,000 miles per second, our intrepid travelers could take off today, cross the uncharted regions of space to Andromeda, half a million light years away, swing back at the same tremendous velocity, and come back to our earth as it will be one million years from now, yet themselves aged only a few terrestrial years.”
Kels was listening half attentively. His faculties were fixed more on the smuggling problem in hand. His eyes roved over the motley assortment of tourists, probing, speculating. Which of these was the resourceful, unscrupulous smuggler; where had he hidden the contraband plans? All this while, he knew, his men were going over the Express with a fine tooth comb. But he had a feeling that they would not find anything. The smuggler was playing for big stakes. He stared again at the faces, some rapt on the lecturer, other blank, some drowsy or frankly asleep, others pretending interest. The two giggly girls were casting inviting glances at the earnest young Student, nudging each other and going off into muted peals of laughter.
CHAPTER II
Into the Future
Bolton droned on. “Now of course it is impossible for us to achieve that tremendous journey in space, but Levallier evolved a brilliant idea. Why not localize the journey? We have available in our own bodies, in every bit of matter about us, speeds approaching the required velocities. I refer to the atoms in our composition. They vibrate very rapidly. Find some way of increasing their vibrations to nearly the limiting velocity of light and the problem has been solved. We need not travel out into interstellar space. Mere direction of speed does not effect the slowing up of the time process. Accordingly if our atoms be made to vibrate more rapidly within the present range, we remain as a corporate entity stationary in space, yet we have slowed up in time while the time of the outside world flows past us.
"With that concept in mind, Levallier set to work. He experimented until he found a new metal alloy which he called vibratium. Its atoms are peculiarly susceptible to activation. The Time Express is made of that alloy; the liquid you were required to drink contained it in colloidal suspension. You will have noticed what seemed to be flood lights surrounding the Express. Actually they are emitters of powerful electrical impulses. These impulses, striking the atoms of the Express, cause them to vibrate with a speed of the order of light waves. We slow up in time, the world proceeds at its normal rate, and in what seems to us three hours, we have arrived at our first stop; the year 2850.”
“Why that particular age?” some one inquired.
“Because it is especially interesting,” Bolton explained. “The Messner atomic motor had been invented some ten years before, in 2840, superseding all other forms of power. You will have a chance to study a civilization in which practically all manual labor has been abolished; where the people can lead easy, effortless lives without the daily grind of making a living.” He sighed and continued. “Our second stop will be in the year 3975, just after the World Council of that era destroyed the Messner atomic motor as well as every other form of power machinery in the world. The Council claimed that the peoples of the earth had deteriorated physically and mentally as a result of idleness and luxury; that only in hard manual labor, in constant striving with a difficult environment was their salvation.”
His voice held scorn. “Our third and last stop will be in the year 4800. Civilization has reached heights again, but without the aid of power machinery. Mankind works hard, and claims it enjoys its labor. But the World Council of that era takes no chances; it knows there is an undercurrent of discontent. Every reference to machinery in their records and books has been deleted, the museums are denuded of all models, for fear that malcontents may be able to evolve new machines. Possession of anything relating to a machine is punishable by death.”
An old lady with soulful eyes and hectic artificial red on her withered cheeks spoke up: “Why doesn’t your tour extend beyond that period? It would be thrilling to see our wonderful earth millions of years ahead; when man will have divested himself of all gross impurities and approached the godlike, without distinction between male and female.”
Kels wondered what a searching psychoanalysis of her unconscious would disclose.
“That is because the Council of 4800 refuses to permit any time traveling past their own era. They fear that the future beyond may have refashioned power machinery, and they are unwilling to risk the contamination of such ideas upon their people. As a matter of fact, it was only after a long struggle that they even permitted us to bring tours into their era. We suffer under innumerable restrictions. We may visit certain specified points of interest under heavy guard; we may not converse with any citizen of 4800 except the guards and trusted officials. But you will find all that in the explanatory booklet the Company issued with your ticket.”
He glanced at the time dial on his wrist. “Our time is up. We are ready to start.” He reached back to press a button.
An operative stepped softly into the room, caught Kels’ eye, raised his left eyebrow. It meant the search had been fruitless. Kels was not disappointed. He nodded slightly. The operative moved forward to Bolton, laid a restraining arm on the tour leader.
Bolton turned angrily, saw something in the other’s cupped hand—the emblem of the Council—and subsided. The operative whispered long and earnestly.
The tourists buzzed, even the sleepers were awake now and wide-eyed. Something unusual was about to take place. Kels searched faces around him carefully for evidences of guilt, but there was only interest, or vague uneasiness.
Bolton was seen to nod reluctantly. He turned to the tourists, his ordinary high color a deeper pink.
“Just a moment, ladies and gentlemen. I am going to ask you to be very patient and forbearing under what is to occur. And please remember that the Company is in no wise to blame for the insult about to be put upon you. We must bow to the superior authority of the World Council, represented here by this gentleman from the Secret Service Division. And they in turn are not at fault. The World Council of 4800, the terminus of our tour, is responsible.”
His voice rose angrily. “They fear that someone from our time is attempting to smuggle plans of machinery into their era. According to their laws such smuggling is punishable by death.” He waxed sarcastic. “Such are the blessings of their machineless civilization; such the universal content of their people.”
The operative whispered something. It subdued Bolton’s rising choler.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It is therefore necessary that each and every one of you be searched now, before the commencement of the tour. There are female operatives for the ladies. Please submit with all good grace.”
A clamor of voices arose, like the buzzing of angry bees. The tourists were irritated, indignant. Only the two giggly girls took it with peals of merriment. The earnest young student to their right blushed and tried not to look at them. The tall lantern-jawed man rose from his chair and said loudly:
“This is an outrage! It is an intolerable invasion of my rights as a free born citizen of the World Republic of the year 2124. Who are these upstarts of 4800, people who haven’t even been born yet, that I should submit to the indignity of a search of my person? I won’t stand for it.”
“Your indignation is well grounded,” Bolton soothed, “yet we must submit, if we wish to go on with the tour.”
“Then I shall not,” the tall man retorted vehemently. “Rather than submit to such intolerable tyranny, I shall withdraw from the cruise. T’hell with the future! the good old present is good enough for me.”
Slightly mixed, Kels reflected, but praiseworthy in sentiment. Yet the man protested too much. Could he be the smuggler, seeking a way out?
Bolton looked inquiringly at the operative.
The Secret Service man; his official designation was No. 12, and
he was a good man; spoke for the first time.
“The gentleman is at liberty to withdraw. We shall only search those who will continue on the trip. If there are any others who feel as strongly about this unfortunate situation, they may retire from the Express now.”
He looked inquiringly around, but no one else stirred. The mutterings subsided; there were even those, among the younger element, who began to look upon the whole affair as quite a bit of a lark. The lantern-jawed man stalked angrily out of the salon. He paused at the door to fling back: “I’m not through. I’ll sue the Company for this.” Then he was gone.
The room swarmed with operatives, male and female. The search commenced; no one was exempt, not even Kels. It was conducted courteously yet thoroughly. Every bit of clothing was gone over, felt, for sewed-in documents. Every suspicious thickness was examined. But nothing was found. And Kels, standing back after his own examination, had not expected otherwise. Unless the smuggler was the lantern-jawed man who had withdrawn, he would be much more resourceful than to be caught redhanded with documents on his person or in his luggage.
Kels felt it would be a battle of wits, and he was ready. The life histories of every one on the present tour had been checked by the Secret Service Division; especially of those who had been on former tours. They would most logically be possible smugglers, as having already established contacts with the elements of discontent in the year 4800.
But there were only a few; notably the science professor on his sabbatical, and strangely enough, the industrious young student who was taking such copious notes. They would bear watching.
At length No. 12 called a halt. He bowed to the tourists, apologized for the trouble they had been compelled to undergo, and withdrew with his operatives.
Only Kels remained, a mild-looking retired butter and egg man taking the Grand Tour.
Bolton looked relieved. “Because of this unfortunate occurrence, we are some twenty minutes late. But we start at once. I shall turn on the translucence so that you may watch what happens.”
He pressed a button, and everyone gasped. The metallic walls became clear as crystal, they seemed to be suspended without footing in mid air in the great timedrome.
“We are off on our journey through time,” Bolton said resonantly, and pressed another button. The great reflectors surrounding them on all sides pulsed into beating purposeful life. Long blue streams of energy crashed across the void, bathed each startled tourist in an unearthly blue glare. Even Kels felt a trifle uncomfortable.
Yet nothing seemed to happen. Someone uttered a disappointed little cry. Then the great reflectors, the timedrome itself, hazed into rapid, dancing vibrations. The vibrations picked up speed until all that could be seen was a continuous bluish-gray blur.
The tourists watched in dazed wonderment. Minutes passed, then the scene gradually cleared. The blurred haze deepened until it was a continuous black. There was nothing more to be seen. The tourists found themselves staring into the absolute absence of light, of form. It was sheer void.
Bolton switched off the translucence. The Express formed about them with its solid comforting walls. The people breathed sighs of relief; it was unbearably horrifying to probe that pitchy void.
“We are vibrating now, at our maximum of 183,500 miles per second. At that velocity we are invisible to the world of 2124 or any other time until we slacken our tremendous pace.”
“How shall we stop, then?” a timid lady inquired.
“Simple enough. The timedromes of the future possess batteries emitting electrical impulses similar to ours, only much more highly evolved and more powerful. They are set in reverse, to slow down the speed of vibration in our atoms to normal. The first Express of Levallier simply went on and on under its initial impulse until the braking forces of gravitation and interplay of atomic forces brought him to a halt. Fortunately he stopped in a time when the Time Express was highly developed, and they were able to send him back.”
But Kels was not listening to these arid discussions.
He had retired to his room, and sat in his curved metallic chair, smoking a cigarette. He pondered his problem. He frankly acknowledged to himself that its solution would not be easy; the fact that no sign or trace of the concealed plans could be found, nor any inkling as to the smuggler himself, showed him that. The crucial time of course would be when the Express reached the year 4800. The Council of that era would make its own search of the tourists and establish an extraordinarily rigid guard over their wanderings, but somehow, Kels did not place any faith in the efficacy of its efforts. It depended entirely on himself whether or not the future of 4800 and later would become a sealed book forever. He sighed, crushed the stub of his cigarette, lit another, and settled himself comfortably with his thoughts.
He was startled by the sudden striking of a gong. Outside his locked door he could hear confused noises. He glanced at his time dial and swore softly.
Three hours of Express Time had passed without his being aware of it; and 626 years of outside world time. They had reached the first stop, the year 2850.
He went swiftly out into the corridor, pushed his way through the milling throng of tourists into the salon. Bolton was vainly trying to herd them into some semblance of order.
“We have reached the year 2850,” he shouted to make himself heard. “Before proceeding with our regular sightseeing tour, we shall have luncheon. The Company gives you an option; you may remain on board and eat from our justly famous menu, prepared in accordance with the best standards of our own time, or you may be served a luncheon of the future in the dining hall of the timedrome. I can assure you that you will find it a novelty.”
The two jeune filles set up squeals of delight. “Goody, goody; we vote for the future.” They seized the painfully embarrassed student by either arm and gazed languishingly into his reddened face. “You will escort us, Mr. Pennyfeather, won’t you?”
“I—I’ve eaten meals in 2850 before,” he stammered.
“Splendid! Then you’ll be able to pick out the best dishes for us.” And without giving him a chance to object they whirled him gaily down the moving ramp that had been set against the Time Express.
Professor Melius snorted. “The last time I traveled there was no option. I eat on board.” He went rapidly toward the dining hall. The remainder divided into rather equal parties, one contingent electing to remain and the other to venture daringly into novel gustatorial realms. It was noticeable that the seasoned travelers, with the exception of poor Pennyfeather, unanimously preferred their accustomed food.
Kels hesitated, then went down the ramp. The timedrome was an enormous crystal; the area around the Time Express still shimmered blue from the retarding beams. But there were no overhead reflectors. The energy came direct through the ether from central power stations.
Some hundred yards away from them rested a great crystal sphere in midair. No magnets were visible. It was of tremendous dimensions; at least five hundred feet in diameter. A Time Express of the future about to take off for still remoter eras. Tourists, dressed in shimmering, close-fitting metallic garments were embarking. They came flying through the air with effortless ease, and disappeared into the hollow of the sphere. A tiny box-like protuberance between their shoulder blades, powered from the great central atomic motors, provided the lift necessary for aerial locomotion.
Kels hastened into a fantastic dining room. There were no tables, no sign of food; only luxurious lounging chairs with wide arms in which there were inset tiny buttons. Kels sank into one of them, wondering. The room was half filled with tourists of the various ages between 2124 and 2850. They examined each other with sidelong curious glances and gaped around the room for signs of food. Pennyfeather was trying to explain something to his girl companions.
A melodious voice filled the great room, coming from no visible source.
“Men and women from earlier times. You are welcome to our age, the finest flowering of all civilization. We toil not, neither do we work. A
ll physical motion has been abolished as far as possible. We devote ourselves to the cultivation of our senses, of our faculties of appreciation and enjoyment. The Messner atomic motor has made all this possible. Survey our era; you are unrestricted in your ramblings. See in all its glory the greatest civilization since time began. Then travel on and observe how barbarians of the future destroyed it all, left no trace of our existence. We stand preeminent, supreme. Even in the inhalation of food, we exercise a minimum of effort. Relax into your seats, and press the button at the base of the arm. That modicum of effort is necessary, but our scientists are at work on the problem. We understand that within twenty years the entire process will become automatic upon the mere thought of food.”
The voice ceased. Kels looked downward, pressed the tiny inset metal disk. At once invisible essences, odors, perfumes, surrounded him, passed into the cells of his skin, into his mouth and nostrils. Gradually his mouth glands watered agreeably, his stomachic lining ceased its peristaltic craving for food, and the sensation of having achieved a many course banquet stole over him in drowsy lethargy. He had eaten. Rather novel, he thought, but hardly a diet he would care to subject himself to forever. No wonder the race deteriorated!
Bolton came in later with the other contingent, positively exuding porterhouse steaks and huckleberry pie.
“Those who wish may join in the tour of the city of Great New York under my leadership. Those who prefer making their own Itinerary may do so. There are no restrictions placed on us by the very courteous Council. Remember however, that the Time Express leaves sharply at midnight.”
He consulted his time dial. “It is now 1 p.m., our time. Govern yourselves accordingly.”
Professor Melius and Pennyfeather glanced at each other significantly and, as if moved by a common impulse, walked rapidly out of the timedrome. The others clambered on board a motorless aerial bus powered by the universal beams. Kels made a move as if to follow Melius and Pennyfeather. He hesitated, frowned thoughtfully and returned to the Time Express. He was here on business, not for mere sightseeing. The Time Express was the focal point of the smuggling venture; he must not allow himself to forget that for an instant.
When The Future Dies Page 5
