Time Travel Omnibus, page 1161
I receded into a corner, and tried to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. I stole a look at my watch. Just seconds to go now. I closed my eyes and—
That feeling never got old. I was smiling. The smell of beer—I didn’t drink the stuff anymore—was insistent, all around me, and told me before I opened my eyes a split second later that I was back in the past. Yeah, they liked their beer back here, and it had a more pungent smell than where and when I’d just been. The shirts and jeans and wide ties and moustaches and beads confirmed that I was in 1970 or some time pretty close to it. It was also sweltering in this car—beer, sweat, and an overlay of primitive air conditioning. I felt as if I was inside a big malfunctioning refrigerator with its doors flung open.
“George?” A redhead approached, and ushered me to the door. “The passenger cars are a little cooler,” she said.
“You work for Ian?” I asked, but I knew she did.
“Yes, I’m liana.” She held the door open for me. We walked to the next car, which was definitely less oppressive. She leaned against a seat. “No point in sitting, you’ll be getting off in Wilmington in just a few minutes.”
I nodded, and noticed her tight blue bell-bottom jeans. Perfect attire for near the end of the psychedelic era.
She gave me a small stuffed envelope. “You’ve got a round-trip ticket, Wilmington to New York today, New York to Wilmington tomorrow, and another ticket from Wilmington back to New York. Plus five hundred dollars in time-current cash.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She regarded me. “You don’t mind traveling down here to Wilmington just to go back to New York?”
“Small inconvenience for a miracle,” I said.
“I like your attitude,” she said and patted my arm. A toucher—I liked that in a woman. “Be safe,” she continued. “You chose the non-accompany option up to New York. I’ll see you on the way back.”
That was my cue to head for the doors.
“Wilmington. Wilmington, Delaware,” the conductor announced on a too-loud speaker that hurt my ears.
I walked out of the train on to the Wilmington platform and looked for the stairs. I’m a big man, not as young as I used to be. I didn’t mind the long walk down but didn’t relish the prospect of the long walk back up to catch the northbound Metroliner to New York. I wasn’t thrilled about the rickety elevator, either, but it was preferable to the stairs.
First I had to change into more 1970s appropriate clothes. Given the anything-goes attitudes of this era, my garb hadn’t attracted any undue attention on the Metroliner south of Philadelphia to here. But I didn’t want to push my luck for the longer stay in New York, and I certainly didn’t want to be wearing this vest on that northbound train, which could yank me right out of 1970 and back to the time I had just left. All of this in addition to my other reason for needing these new clothes.
I located the locker, exhaled with relief when the combination worked—I’m always anxious about combination locks, too—and retrieved the little satchel. Off to the men’s room. I was too focused on changing clothes to hold my nose at the ambiance. But I glanced at the cut of my jib in the corroded mirror and was satisfied.
Back to the locker, deposit my just-removed future clothes, and up to the northbound train. It was right on time, nineteen minutes later.
I often wondered if there were others like me, people who had spent so much time in two times that they felt they belonged to both. Ian’s files were impregnable, distributed in incomprehensible pieces in so many systems around the world that only one person could put them together—Ian, who carried the script for how to do that in his head. My visual surveillance of Ian’s premises had given me plenty of images of Ian’s customers. None jumped out at me as denizens of two times, and I certainly couldn’t question them without risking Ian’s anger and likely refusal to do any further business with me.
I took a long, slow breath as the Metroliner made its way beneath the Hudson on the last link in its journey to New York City. I couldn’t help feeling pretty good to be back here. Maybe it was these 1970 duds I had on, but my skin felt as if it belonged in this time and place. I realized that I was shaking my head and frowning. Whom was I kidding? There was a for deeper reason that made me feel I belonged here—I had been born in the twentieth century, for chrissakes, had lived here most of my life.
“New York City, Pennsylvania Station,” the conductor announced. “Last stop.”
I caught a cab on Eighth Avenue. “Yorkville Restaurant, East 86th Street,” I told the cabbie. “Know where that is?”
“No, you tell me when we get to 86,” the cabbie replied in some sort of thick Slavic accent. If I’d put that in a movie, I’d be laughed out of the production. Truth could be more ludicrous than fiction.
The Yorkville had one of the best cups of coffee in the city in this era. I looked forward to its fragrance and taste, but I wouldn’t have time for more than one. I hoped my meeting with the go-ahead guy went quickly.
I directed the cabbie to the Yorkville, paid and tipped him and walked into the restaurant. Its dim lighting and smoky coolness were a welcome relief from the outside. I looked around—jeez, that Ian was full of surprises. Though I realized, as I often did, that nothing should surprise me about Ian.
I walked over to the table and extended my hand. “Elmyr de Hory . . . no no, please sit, no need to stand on my behalf.”
Elmyr nodded. He looked tired, apprehensive about my speaking out his name, but appreciative that he didn’t have to stand.
“How long have you been working for Ian?” I asked and sat at his table. “A coffee please,” I said more loudly than Elmyr’s name, and gestured to the waitress.
Elmyr waved my question away. “A once-in-a-while thing. Can’t discuss,” he spoke in a thick Hungarian accent. “Let’s just say I like the money, and the protection, as you would know better than most.”
“Ah yes, the forgeries—”
Elmyr held a bony finger to his lips. “I’d like not to discuss that, either. My sole purpose now with you is to give the final green light on your project here.”
“Understood,” I said. The waitress arrived with my coffee. She looked older than my deceased grandmother. “It’s a rather self-contained mission,” I continued, “as you know.”
Elmyr nodded. “But with its own dangers, anyway.”
I lifted the coffee to my face. It smelled as good as ever. I sipped. The owner of the Yoikville likely had a relationship with some genius of a coffee supplier. I sipped some more, and looked at Elmyr. He’d been regarding me.
“You look good,” he said. “The black outfit and the trimmed beard suit you.”
I smiled. “Dressed for the part.”
“But you did put on a few pounds,” he added.
“Always a battle,” I replied.
Elmyr produced an envelope from his shabby jacket. “liana gave you the tickets and the money. This is your 1970 ID, in case you need it.” He gave me the envelope. “Your counterpart’s laid up with a sudden asthma attack, sleeping now under doctor’s orders, and the phone connection is blocked. I assured him before the medication that his appearance was cancelled. You’re all set.”
“That easy?” I asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I’m not really comfortable talking to you in these circumstances,” Elmyr said. “You know me too well.” He managed an unhappy smile. “But we’re two pros at this, you and I. No point in prolonging. You know what I’ll say. ‘Easy to slip in the asthma trigger in room service food.’ I know what you’ll say. ‘Yeah, I’m a soft touch for anything to eat.’ Any more questions?”
I shook my head no.
“Good, then, best luck.” He cleared his throat, stood up, and shook my hand. He threw down a crumpled dollar for the coffee he’d been drinking.
I looked at my watch as Elmyr left the restaurant. Still time for another coffee and maybe a quick bite, actually. “Could you fill this up?” I called out to Methuselah’s mother and held out my cup. “And a menu, too, please.”
I caught a cab to the Elysee Theater on West 58th Street. I was a little early, I knew it, but Manhattan traffic was treacherous in any age and I couldn’t risk being late. I was shown to the Green Room, offered a coffee—which I refused, so as not to disrupt my recollection of the Yorkville’s brew—and a cigar, which I accepted. I was seated by a big, woefully fat TV screen. Another show—not the Cavett—was close to concluding. It was being taped, as would be mine for broadcast later in the evening. Always struck me as strange that an interview on a television show would be taped rather than broadcast live—wasn’t the big deal about television that it could be broadcast live, unlike a motion picture?—but that was the least in the strange that was about to happen, and I had worked so hard to set in motion.
I lit my cigar and puffed. I had memorized everything I had said the first time, like words in a play, because I simply couldn’t fathom what, if anything, might ensue in the world if I said anything significantly different this time. The interview on the screen concluded. The talent girl shortly appeared in a mini-skirt that was just perfect and escorted me to the back of the studio. She whispered that I would go on stage as soon as Mr. Cavett finished his monologue. Her lips near my ear excited me, but I had to focus on what was just ahead.
Cavett introduced me in glowing terms. He described me as “unique.” I suppressed a chortle. I heard “Citizen Kane” and “War of the Worlds.” He quoted Charlton Heston and Kenneth Tynan about me. “Will you welcome . . . Orson Welles.”
I walked out to a big round of sustained applause. I soaked it in, because I could never get enough of it. I shook Cavett’s hand and couldn’t help smiling. I bowed slightly to the audience. I didn’t get appreciated like this in the future. My own fault for disguising my real identity in that age—to just about everyone except a few close friends and Ian—and going with my first name, George.
The interview went just as I recalled, had seen, and rehearsed in the mirror at least a dozen times. I said goodbye to Cavett and left the studio. Part one of this business concluded. I was looking forward to watching this on YouTube—still what, more than a quarter century away?—and seeing if I could notice slight differences in tone and delivery between this and my original interview on the Cavett show. There would be slight differences despite my best efforts, I knew that, even though the words were the same. I was my future self, not an exact copy of who I was now, after all. But that was actually the point of this.
I took a cab to my hotel on Madison Avenue—a few blocks from where my counterpart was now sleeping it off at the Barclay Hotel—and settled in for the evening. I couldn’t resist rewarding myself with a little room service, but just of the culinary kind. It arrived quickly. I sipped and munched, and considered my next moves.
Part two of this operation was now commencing. I—or a reasonable facsimile thereof—had to be on that southbound Metroliner by tomorrow afternoon, to avoid arousing Ian’s attention. This meant I had less than twenty-four hours to convince my younger self to take that excursion.
I fell asleep sooner than expected, awoke early the next morning, and had a fine breakfast of poached eggs and fresh figs. I headed over to the Barclay. I had no trouble getting a replacement for a “lost key” to my counterpart’s room—after all, I looked just like him, give or take a few pounds. It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have to go through even this little pretense in my new adopted age—Ian’s age—since my iris would have been all that I needed to enter my counterpart’s room. He of course had the same iris. Well, I guess there were some things I could miss about that age.
As I left the elevator and approached his room, I played a minor fantasy in my head. If he had been in bed asleep with one of his/my women—there were at least four possibilities, if memory served—and I managed to remove him from the bed, take off my clothes, and snuggle right up to her, would she realize the difference when she awoke? Not likely, even if she sensed I weighed a tad more. She wouldn’t let herself entertain the cognitive dissonance, to say the least, that being in bed with some other version of him—me—would cause her.
I entered my counterpart’s room. He was in bed alone, alas, as I knew he’d be. He awoke almost immediately. “What the hell?” He looked at me, rubbed his eyes and sat up too fast in bed. He grabbed the side of his back. I could feel his pain.
“You think you’re dreaming,” I said, as soothingly as possible. “You’re not, but there’s no way I can convince you of that right now. So you can just assume you’re dreaming, let’s talk, and eventually you’ll know that you’re not dreaming.”
“You could spill cold water on my head, and if I don’t wake up—”
“Nah, you know better than that—wouldn’t prove a thing, no more than Samuel Johnson’s kicking the stone proved anything,” I said. “The water and the stone could still be part of your or God’s or who knows who else’s dream.”
He almost smiled, then recalled something unpleasant. “How’d I get here? I was—wait—the asthma attack! I was given a drug—you’re likely just a reaction to that, like Marley’s ghost was the product of Scrooge’s upset stomach—”
I laughed. “Marley’s ghost was real in A Christmas Carol, not a figment of Scrooge’s unsettled imagination.”
My counterpart nodded slowly and looked confused.
“It’s okay. Just keep thinking that you’re dreaming me and this conversation now, as I said. The important thing is that we talk.”
“I was supposed to be on the Cavett show last night,” my counterpart said.
I took a seat, even though none had been offered. “Actually, you were—or, in actual fact, I was.”
“So . . .” my counterpart began. “Mind you, I’m not accepting that you’re anything more than a dream, though, at this point, who knows if you’re a bad or a good one. But why—”
“I had your asthma attack induced, made sure you were drugged, and went on the Cavett show in your stead.”
Now he laughed. “You—I—have a good imagination. I’ll give you that. But why—”
I interrupted his same phrase again. I wanted to get to the point of this as soon as possible. “I wanted to establish me—my version of you, with whatever subtle differences—to the world back here as easily and quickly and graphically as possible. What better way than me instead of you appearing on Cavett?”
“And forgive me—I’d rather not keep saying ‘but why’ again—but the purpose of your wanting to establish yourself in my place back here?”
I could tell he was enjoying this, at least a little. I doubted he’d enjoy what I was about to say to him. It would turn this presumed dream into a bit of a nightmare. “You’re going to drop dead of a heart attack in fifteen years—in 1985. I won’t—I’ve already been treated for the condition and cured of it.”
Right, now he wasn’t smiling at all. “And where exactly would that be?”
“Not where, man, when. In the future, well after this century.”
He shook his head, muttered something about needing some food to clear it, and went for the room service menu.
“Could you order the same for me?” I asked, softly. “You can afford the price of two breakfasts.” I’d already eaten, but I had a much deserved reputation as a gourmand. And I didn’t feel I was mooching—I was pretty sure I’d wind up paying the bill, when I took control of his funds back here, and he did the same with some of mine in the future.
Our food arrived not long after. I opened the door, gestured to where the tray should be placed, and tipped the waiter.
“Thank you, Mr. Welles,” he said, brightly. He glanced and nodded without really looking at my counterpart, who had put on a bathrobe. The waiter left the room.
I chuckled at the way he had avoided looking directly at my counterpart. Must have been his bathrobe. Better waiters and bellhops never looked long at anyone not fully clothed. “If you think she’s naked, just look at her eyes, never a bit below, that’s how we conduct ourselves in this profession.” I had once heard a Brit dispense this advice.
My counterpart sat resignedly at the table. “He clearly saw you. I guess that’s a point in favor of you being real,” he said in that trade-marked basso-profundo voice of ours.
“True, but not conclusive,” I replied. “You still could be dreaming all of this, including the room service delivery.”
He nodded, took a piece of his egg over easy, and smacked his lips. “So you come from the future, back to Mr. Dickens and his ghosts, or my almost namesake, Wells, Herbert George,” he said.
“That’s right,” I said, and took a bit of the egg myself. Delicious. “But the actual reality of time travel is far more complex than Dickens or even H.G. imagined.”
“Of course,” my counterpart said. “Reality is always crazier than fiction.” He gestured to me. “Why don’t you sketch out your whole story, as long as you’re here in my dream or whatever. There could be a script in this, me thinks.”
“I knew you’d warm up to this,” I said.
“Here’s the nub of it: I’m a future version of you—or, you, in the future. I’ve been cured of what will cause a massive, fatal heart attack in you, as I indicated. I came back here, and am talking to you now, with the goal of getting you to return to the future in my stead, so you can receive our life-saving treatment.”
“But . . . hasn’t that already happened? I mean . . . if you are here now, and you are my future self as you claim to be, doesn’t that mean that I already went into the future, and received that treatment?”
“You’re good,” I said, and nodded in appreciation of my earlier selfs quick grasp of some of the issue. “But, as I told you, time travel in reality—at least insofar as I know it—is far more complicated than what H.G. Wells wrote about in The Time Machine.”
