Time Travel Omnibus, page 1016
“Good afternoon, miss. I’ve brought your clothing for tomorrow. The gray gown is for your morning excursion. The black gown is for the evening dinner. Your dinner will be brought in tonight. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“No, thank you,” Jess answered. “I’m going to relax and turn in early I think.”
“Very well. I will be here at seven to help you dress. Have a good evening then.”
The next morning, Jess giggled as she slipped on the vintage undergarments she found in the drawer. They felt strange, but she was willing to play along. Her assistant arrived promptly at seven. She coiffed Jess’s shoulder-length hair in tiny curls and pinned it up with glittery hairpins, helped her into the gray Titanic-era gown, and fastened the row of hooks in the back. Jess stared at herself in awe. The present faded as she slipped her feet into beaded vintage shoes that felt like they were custom made.
The driver dropped her at the exhibit entrance where she received a program from two young ladies wearing simpler Victorian gowns. It felt odd being ushered into the softly lit exhibit rooms alone and told to take her time. She could get used to such privilege, she thought.
Inside, time stood still. She passed glass cases containing gold buttons, broken pieces of comb, fancy mirrors, and other personal effects. A white shirt once worn by a ship steward hammered home the reality of what had happened and brought a tear to her eye. Had the man met her great-aunt? Had he wondered at the fate of those below deck or tried to help them?
She strolled from room to room in silence, her emotions in turmoil. The quiet unnerved her. She almost wished there were others around to lessen the impact. Gleaming silverware and a polished china cup and saucer with the Titanic’s signature cobalt-and-gold pattern sat in one case. A child’s doll, one arm and leg gone, its dress in rags, was perched next to a logbook. She bit back a sob as she saw the entry with a child’s name and age.
Two hours later, she looked up in surprise to see one of the costumed attendants. “Miss? Your driver is here. Your tour continues after dinner tonight.”
Disappointed, but intrigued, Jess returned to her suite and changed to go shopping. She relaxed a couple hours before her assistant arrived to fix her hair and help her dress, this time in the stunning black gown. The dress rustled as she turned to admire her silhouette. Some light makeup, a beautiful cameo brooch, and a small beaded reticule completed her look. Eat your heart out, Matt.
She entered the museum dining area, the room aglow with gleaming cobalt-and-gold Titanic china, and shimmering crystal. Other diners dressed in their absolute best nodded in greeting as she strolled to her table. She smiled as the handsome man to her right introduced himself as Mr. Bernard Brady and pulled out her chair.
“Good evening, Miss Adams. They told me to expect you for dinner, but they didn’t say how lovely my table mate would be.”
She smiled, greeting him and her other dining companions. They did think of everything, she thought. The conversation flowed as Jess picked up her menu headed with the name of the ship. It read:
April 14, Titanic
First Course Hors D’Oeuvres; Oysters
Second Course Consommé Olga, Cream of Barley
Third Course Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce, Cucumbers
The list went on, a full ten courses, ending with eclairs, Waldorf pudding, and French ice cream. It was decadent. She sighed and wondered how much she’d be able to eat in this tight-fitting dress, but couldn’t resist the crisp cucumber scent of her fish when it arrived. It melted in her mouth.
Music and dancing followed dinner. Jess couldn’t remember when she’d so enjoyed herself. Her companion, a witty man in his forties, exuded an old-world charm she found refreshing. She looked forward to tomorrow’s dinner.
Not ready to end the evening, Jess was thrilled when Bernard asked if she’d like to take a stroll with him later, “along the deck,” as he called it. She smiled in agreement and went to do her own exploring.
As she turned a corner, her eyes widened at sight of the full-scale replica of the Titanic’s grand staircase. She stared, almost afraid to touch anything for fear it would fall down. It had to be a front, she figured, like those fake buildings the movies used that looked real, but had nothing except wood supports behind them.
The banister felt solid. A tingle shot up her arms, but she ignored it. She bent down to touch the step, the coolness of the marble giving her goosebumps. Heart pounding, she went up one step, then another. At the top, she shivered as the air turned cold.
She held back the panic and pushed through the icy curtain, surprised to see how the room shimmered around her. Her grip on the banister tightening, she struggled to keep the vertigo at bay as she watched the room grow brighter.
Finally, the strange feelings passed. Muffled sounds reached her ears. She recognized the strains of violins . . . soft laughter . . . voices. She searched in vain for the hidden stereo speakers, amazed at the care someone put into making everything seem so real.
Someone called her name. She looked to the right, surprised to see her handsome dinner companion coming down the uppermost staircase.
“Miss Adams, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr. Brady, it’s good to see you, too.” She smiled, feeling the warmth of the blush in her cheeks.
“Please, call me Bernard. We do not need to be so formal, do we?” He took her hand and kissed it. The light brush of his mustache sent a chill up her spine. “How about we take that stroll, shall we?”
She nodded and gasped aloud as the air glimmered with wisps of gray smoke that slowly coalesced into solid form. Her mind tried to make sense of what was happening as the staircase filled with other couples who nodded and smiled as they passed.
Funny how her companion’s body appeared to have a slight translucence to it. Yet as he leaned over to kiss her cheek and take her hand, his touch felt as warm and real as hers. Her skin tingled as he pressed his palm intimately against her lower back. There was nothing imaginary about him, or about the feelings he stirred.
He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Please, tell me if I am being too forward.”
His breath tickled her neck. She loved that he was playing this Victorian manners thing to the hilt. It was incredibly sexy and more provocative than anything she’d ever experienced.
They turned down a richly decorated hall. For a fleeting moment, Jess wondered at the expense the agency had put into personalizing her trip. She smiled at the passing couples, noting how the walls sometimes seemed visible right through their clothing. The light must be playing tricks, she guessed.
Her escort stopped in front of cabin A-21 and pulled a key from his pocket. “I need to get something. You may wait here if you feel it is inappropriate to come inside.”
She watched him turn the key, shocked to hear the lock click. As the door swung open, she noticed the familiar painting of the Titanic hanging above the fireplace mantle. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed him in. It wasn’t a surprise when Bernard closed the door and took her in his arms. That they shared the rest of the evening together didn’t surprise her, either.
Hours later, Jess sprang from bed at the sound of thumps and yells outside. She looked at her still-sleeping companion in confusion. Then it hit her. The date . . . today was the fourteenth of April, 1912.
“Bernard!” She shook him awake. “Hurry, we have to get dressed. What time is it?”
He gazed at her and smiled before reaching for the gold pocket watch on the nightstand. “Time?” He yawned. “It is only twenty three minutes past ten. There is plenty of time yet.” He patted the bedcover.
Her panic growing, she slipped on her gown, urging him to fasten the back buttons. She tried not to sound rude as he began to kiss her back.
“Bernard, please, we have to hurry.”
He responded by trying to slip the gown off her shoulders. She stepped away from him. “No, you don’t understand. We have to go. Now! The ship is sinking!”
“Sinking?” He laughed. “Surely you jest and have a horrid sense of humor. The Titanic is unsinkable.”
The noises in the corridor outside grew louder. A minute later, someone pounded on the door. “Mr. Brady, sir? This is the steward. Hurry, sir, to the deck and please get into your lifejacket. We need to get everyone up on the deck, quickly. Leave all your belongings, please, and come to the deck immediately.”
Jess saw his face pale as he answered. “Yes, I will be there in a moment.”
He looked at her. “Then it is true?”
She nodded.
He grabbed her shoulders. “How did you know that? Tell me. Are you a witch, some sort of soothsayer?”
She’d had enough. It was time to return to reality. “Bernard, I think this has gone on too long already. Please, tell whoever’s in charge that I won’t be angry. Let’s end this. I got more than my money’s worth.”
His face reddened as he buttoned his shirt and slipped on his shoes. “Madam, whatever you are insinuating, I never received any kind of money. I am deeply sorry if you feel I compromised you in any way.”
Ignoring him, she ran to the door and yanked it open. A gasp escaped at the sounds of yelling in the distance and the look of fear on the passing passengers’ faces. He joined her at the door.
“Now do you believe me?” she asked. “Hurry. We have to go.”
On deck, the first-class male passengers were stoic, bravely leading women to the lifeboats, almost pushing them in when they balked. She watched, dazed, not believing what she was seeing. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
The crowds surged forward, propelling Jess along. She tried to hold onto Bernard, but felt his hand slip from hers. She kept moving, her heart aching, but she dared not look back. She didn’t want to see him standing there, trying to be brave in the face of what lay ahead.
A crew member rushed by, yelling as lifeboats were released half full. The ship creaked and moaned. Stunned passengers staggered around, ignoring others near them. Jess gazed at them, her panic rising. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do.
Her heart raced as she struggled to keep her balance against the growing tilt of the ship. She rushed to the lower level deck, studying the face of each passenger until she saw a girl huddled in a corner, her floral babushka awry. Jess held her breath as the girl turned her way revealing the same heart-shaped face as the one in the photo back home.
Jess pointed to the upper level and held out her hand. Tears spilled from the girl’s eyes as Jess raced to the upper deck, pulling her along. She arrived in time to find the crew struggling to release the last lifeboat and fight off those who threatened to topple it. Jess kissed the girl’s cheek and pushed her into the arms of one of the female passengers as the boat was lowered to the water.
Her face wet with tears, her teeth chattering, Jess sloshed through the rising water to Brady’s cabin. She found it open, everything inside scattered and thrown about. She stared at the painting bobbing in the rising water. The image of the ship also dipped beneath the painted sea, the stern pointed at an odd angle.
Pulling the original ticket from her pocket, Jess hurried down the hall, her dress becoming wetter and heavier by the minute.
Her eyes straight ahead, she tried not to look into the faces of the other frightened passengers ambling around as she retraced her way to the grand staircase. She moved toward the exit, praying, hoping, that she could still turn in her ticket for a refund.
A PASSION FOR TIME TRAVEL
Donald J. Bingle
Timeshares.
Evan Pogue rolled his eyes glumly as he headed for the company’s reception area. He’d been informed that the prospective clients were clearing security in the main lobby of the building and would soon reach the fifty-sixth floor by express elevator.
He couldn’t imagine why a timeshare huckster would need the services of Williams, Reavis & Buddenbrook, the agency Ad Age had named Chicago’s premier advertising establishment for the discriminating and daring marketer. Didn’t these vacation condo flimflam men usually just make do with a tacky bamboo stand on the street corner near middle class hotels in popular tropical tourist destinations? High pressure direct sales were their stale bread and rancid butter.
Still, as the chime announced the arrival of the elevator, Evan plastered on a smile and moved toward the opening doors, his arm outstretched to greet the next contributor to the agency’s bottom line. Meeting a prospective client cold was always stressful, but advertising is a high-stress field. He could handle it, no matter what Buck Buddenbrook had intimated during Evan’s last performance review, after Evan had been removed at the client’s request from the Pee-Pee-Peekaboo-Baby doll account.
“Welcome to Williams, Reavis & Buddenbrook,” Evan oozed with all the faux sincerity he could muster, and for an ad man, that’s quite a bit. “I’ve been looking forward all morning to hearing about your company and what we here at WR&B can do to help you lure the weary traveler to the vacation location of a lifetime.” Evan knew, of course, that it was more like trapping the unsuspecting traveler in the high interest monthly assessment of a lifetime, but principles were the first thing left on the cutting room floor when most commercials were made.
The taller of the two men strode forward and met Evan’s hand with his own. “Warner Eckerton, vice president of marketing.” The man nodded toward his companion. “This is Flynn Colby, our director of customer satisfaction.”
Flynn Colby had a scientific look, like he spent more time with customer surveys and spreadsheets than he did out in the real world. Both men were also surprisingly pale for executives of a vacation destination vendor. Evan would have figured that all those guys got to stay in the company’s unsold beachfront inventory on a regular basis as a perk.
Evan guided the group to a cherrywood-paneled conference room with a great view of Lake Michigan as everyone spouted the usual banalities about the view and the office and how good it was to meet each other. Evan could do a meet and greet in his sleep; it was all part of what he called the Big Schmooze.
His fetching assistant, Nancy, showed up magically with chilled glasses and sparkling bottled water. The stuff was shipped in from Tahiti, for God’s sake, and was accordingly much more expensive than domestic water, but that was the magic of advertising, wasn’t it? Evan always served it, just to send a subconscious message about the power advertising has over consumers. He opened his bottle and took a refreshing sip, giving an enthusiastic “Ahhh” as he finished and put the bottle back onto the veined granite tabletop, the label of the recycled plastic bottle facing outward toward his guests. The water importer was a client, too, after all.
Nancy exited the room after serving his guests, her hips sashaying. She shut the conference room door as she left.
Time for the pitch.
“Everyone here at WR&B is excited that you called us for a meeting today,” Evan lied. No one at the agency had ever heard of Timeshares, but he was sure their money was as green as anyone else’s. “We have a full range of services, from traditional television commercials to sport and concert events sponsorship, magazine slicks, free-standing newspaper inserts, radio spots and promos, sweepstakes, contests, Internet pop-ups, viral marketing, whisper campaigns, and, of course, direct mail.”
He smiled broadly, but neither of the men from Timeshares spoke up, so he continued on after only a beat. No reason to make the client uncomfortable in his own meeting.
“As you I’m sure know, vacation marketing generally falls into two broad categories, volume drivers and competitive comparisons.” Guys in the biz knew this kind of thing, but when neither client spoke or even nodded in understanding, Evan decided to explain.
“Volume drivers advertise the allure of the trip destination in order to increase the number of visitors to the destination. You know, pictures of palm trees, sunset beaches, laughing couples, bikini-clad models, that kind of thing. They drive more customers to the market, increasing the size of the customer pie. It helps your competitors, too, but if you operate only in limited markets, it helps drive volume to your markets rather than some other island or beach or country.” Evan didn’t want to blather on without knowing more, so he simply asked, “Do you operate only in a few locations or is your business worldwide?”
Eckerton spoke up. “We go everywhere.”
Evan was pleased but surprised. Since no one in the office had heard of these guys and a quick Internet search of their surprisingly bland name had turned up nothing but a plethora of generic timeshare comeons and some weird science fiction references on a time travel Webring, he had assumed they were small-timers, maybe new in the business. He probed further. “Tropical? Or do you include all-weather terrains? Skiing, hiking, urban landmarks, that kind of thing?”
Eckerton spoke again. “We go everywhere.”
“Excellent,” Evan responded with enthusiasm. “Well, then, since you have your fingers in all the pies, competitive comparisons are the way to go. These can go in three basic directions. Price competition—you know, the old ‘we get you there for less’ kind of thing; ease of experience—all inclusive, no hassles, package deals; and quality—high end pampering, fancy lobbies, dolphins in the pool, thread count of the sheets—all that jazz.”
Eckerton leaned forward. “I don’t think you understand what our company does, Mr. Pogue. We don’t run hotels or condos in tourist meccas, we offer time travel to historic destinations. You can go to any place and time you want.”
Evan shook his head to clear his mind. That fantastic crap on the time travel Webring was real? He’d thought that the hubbub in the press a few years back about the invention of time travel had just been PR hype for the movie ChronoScooters. “So I can go to any historical event ever and see anything that ever happened?” This was a blockbuster concept. The only problem was it would freaking sell itself. What could they possibly need him for? “So, what’s the catch?”
“Catch?” replied Eckerton, a bit of umbrage in his voice.
