Time Travel Omnibus, page 1162
“Enlighten me.”
I took the pot of coffee, and poured some for myself and my counterpart. “I remember my being you. I recall this very conversation, except I was sitting in your seat, and I don’t know who the hell was sitting in mine—well, I wasn’t sure then, thought it was a dream, just as you do, now—but now I, sipping this coffee and talking to you, of course do know it was me, back then, the future version of you that I am right now.”
My counterpart shook his head slightly. “I’m thinking I may need something stronger than food and coffee. But yes, isn’t what you just said tantamount to what I was just saying about this conversation—and I assume everything after-having already happened? But—”
“I don’t really know how free will fits into this,” I responded. “You believe you have control over your actions, right?”
“As much as any man,” he chuckled and cleared his throat.
“Well, then, that’s why I’m here to convince you to do this—to travel into the future in my stead. Because, I’d rather not contemplate what would happen if you did not.”
“Try me,” he requested.
“I’d likely blink out of existence, the instant you decided not to travel to the future,” I replied, “which would confirm your sense that this is a dream. Or maybe I never would have showed up this morning—or last night, on Cavett—at all.”
He sipped his coffee, very slowly. “Given that there is a good chance that this is just a dream—and one I’m now actually becoming quite fond of—and, if not, well, it would be exciting, astonishing, to see what the future is like, I think I can say I’m game to do this.” He thrust his hand across the table, for me to shake.
I shook it. “Good, I’m relieved.”
“So, how would this work? I just step outside the door to this room and into your future?”
“Not quite so simple,” I replied.
We spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon discussing what was not quite so simple. Most of it was the plethora of detail he had to know about my future life in order to pass for me. And then there was Ian.
“He thinks it will be me returning to the future, not you,” I said.
“You told me you paid a small fortune for this trip,” my younger self replied. “Why the hell should he care?”
“Trust me, he cares,” I replied. “I paid for a trip to sit in for you on Dick Cavett—I knew he wouldn’t be likely to object to that. But that’s a far cry, a universe of difference, from you returning to the future instead of me.”
“So raise more funds and pay the man for the different mission.”
I shook my head no. “Ian is not just about money, though he likes to give the impression that it’s all he cares about. But he also has an abiding concern, an unclear but I suspect absolute list of do’s and don’ts, about what he allows his customers to do on their trips to the past.”
“Who is this guy?”
“I’ve studied him. I’ve learned a lot, but he’s still a cypher.”
My counterpart shook his head and scoffed, slightly. “We’re the same person—more alike than identical twins. Ian obviously knows you traveled to the past. He’ll assume it’s you who’s returned. If he notices any difference in our affect, in my mien versus yours, he’d attribute that to the impact of this very trip on you, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Look, I’m not trying to talk you out of this—last thing I would do—I just want you to be as aware as possible of what you’ll be up against when you give the vest back to Ian.”
We swapped wallets, clothes, and I made sure my counterpart had my ticket for the 4:25 p.m. southbound Metroliner from Penn Station. I continued to brief him, and we left in time to catch the train.
Leaving the hotel separately would have been a little less likely to attract attention, but I figured the greater risk still resided in his bolting when he left my sight, so we walked out of the hotel together. I hailed a taxi—less exposure than taking the subway, and less than walking from here to Penn Station, would which have been too tiring for us, anyway, especially in this torrid heat. We might even get an air-conditioned cab—there were some of them already in service in 1970—and if not wed roll down the windows, and cool down the good old-fashioned way.
“You know, I met H.G. once, in a radio interview in Texas in 1940,” my younger self mused, as our taxi slowly made its way with wide open windows down Seventh Avenue.
“I know, I remember,” I replied, and indeed recalled that with pleasure.
“Amazing man,” my counterpart continued. “He even plugged Citizen Kane in that interview. After he thanked me for sparking more sales of War of the Worlds
I nodded.
“Seems like a dream, another lifetime,” he continued. “Was I dreaming that, too?”
“You’re not dreaming this and you weren’t dreaming that,” I said.
“And the insane thing is, I think I almost believe you,” he said.
I squeezed his shoulder. “I’m glad. You should.”
“His name is George, too, as you know,” my counterpart mused. “Herbert George Wells. So in addition to having the same last name except one letter, we both share a same given name—George Orson Welles, Herbert George Wells—Was he somehow us, too?”
I chuckled. “Not likely,” I said. “His voice was much higher, and he had a great British accent.”
“I suppose anything is possible in a dream, though,” my counterpart said.
I realized that our cab hadn’t moved much in die past few minutes. We were on 38th Street and Seventh Avenue—just a few minutes away from Penn Station—but only, of course, if our taxi was moving. I looked at my watch.
My counterpart saw that, and did the same with his. “We have thirty-five minutes to get to the station. Shouldn’t be a problem, assuming—”
“Yeah.” I hadn’t wanted to get to the station too early—so as not to attract attention as big twins, especially not liana’s attention, if she happened to be somewhere in the waiting room. But missing the train was unacceptable—
Our cabbie honked his horn. Didn’t do any good. I stuck my head out the window, craned my neck, and saw the problem: an overheated car about half-way down the block, hood in the air, steaming like a hot dog stand. Traffic was frozen in the heat. Our cabbie honked again and turned his head around to us. “Sorry,” he said. “Bad time of day.”
I pulled out my wallet and paid him. “Keep the change.”
My younger self and I got out of the taxi. “We’ll have to walk it,” I told him.
“Obviously,” he said and grunted and wiped his brow.
It was hotter outside than in the cab. Fortunately, we both were dressed for it. But I had to be careful not to make my counterpart walk too fast, given his health.
I continued to go over details with him. We stopped for a few beats at every comer, so he could catch his breath. I appreciated the breaks, too.
We reached the station, with sixteen minutes to spare. We were both sweating profusely. “You can wash up in the bathroom on the train,” I told my counterpart. “They’re not too bad in this era.”
“I know,” he said.
“Right.” I described liana again. “You’ll enjoy looking at her body.”
That got a smile from him.
“Make sure you see a doctor as soon as you get home—to my home,” I said. “You’ll find listings on any screen. Get that heart taken care of, first order of business. There may be other things you’ll need to do, later on—other trips through time. All in due in course. I don’t want to overload you now.”
“Considerate of you,” he half growled, laughed, coughed—and suddenly grabbed his chest and winced in pain—
God no! I started to react—
He doubled over in pain.
I put my arms around him and tried to hold him up—
He broke free, staggered—and laughed heartily. “Sorry—only joking!”
Good, he was okay. “Thanks—that almost gave me a heart attack.” I mock punched him in the arm, and kept an eye on him as he walked toward his train. I turned and went back out into the heat. A fine little piece of acting on his part. But of more interest to me now was that apparently the past could be changed, at least slightly. I was 99 percent sure I had not feigned that heart attack the first time around.
I took a taxi back to what was now my hotel room—unlike the taxi, blessedly air conditioned. I stretched out in the bed. The maid had tidied the room. I’d have to remember to give her a big tip. I wondered how long it would take before I got any indication that my younger self had made it back to the future okay. I didn’t have to wait long. The phone in the room rang.
“Mr. Welles?” the receptionist at the front desk asked me. “A man by the name of ‘Elmer’ here to see you, with a friend.”
I thought for a quick second. I supposed I could run from this now, but I was tired, and, besides, sooner or later I’d have to face it. “Thank you—please send them up.”
They knocked on my door a few minutes later.
I opened it with a smile.
There stood Elmyr de Hory and the friend—Ian.
I invited them in. Elmyr cracked a craggy grin. Ian looked just as he had every time I’d seen him—a scowl on his face. But it was little disconcerting seeing him out of his element, away from his shop.
“So you recovered all right from the asthma?” Elmyr asked, now straight-faced.
For a split second, I thought maybe Elmyr—and therefore Ian—thought I was my younger self, whom Elmyr had inflicted with asthma yesterday, and I had just brought to Penn Station less than an hour ago. No, these guys were way too smart for that—
Elmyr smiled again. “Had you going for a minute there, didn’t I? It was good seeing you at the Yorkville last night,” he said, just so I’d know for sure that he knew for sure just who I was.
“Same here.” Everyone was the comedian today. I gestured to a small table. The three of us pulled up chairs.
I looked at Ian, and recalled an old theater adage. There were some actors who found the spotlight, wherever they happened to be on stage. They stole the scene, were stars, whatever the script and the director might have intended. Ian, sitting here, had that talent.
He spoke right up. “You’re in gross violation of the itinerary,” he said to me.
“What can I do to compensate you?” I replied.
“The pertinent clause says that if you don’t return, I’m entitled to seize all of your assets.”
I considered. “Someone with my DNA, my memories, even the nasal suppositories you left in my vest pocket, did return.”
“True,” Ian said. “But not all of your memories. Not you.”
“True,” I replied. “But you’d have a hard time proving that.”
“He’s younger than you,” Ian said.
“Precise age isn’t so easy to scientifically ascertain—the world wears our bodies in different ways.”
Ian nodded his acknowledgement of the point.
“And would you really want to make a Federal—or whatever it would be—case of this?” I pressed my advantage.
“No, but given your considerable assets in my time, I would risk it,” Ian said. “I could petition to have all the legal proceedings private, sealed from the public. I have friends in good places.”
I had likely reached the limits of my advantage.
Ian saw that I realized that.
“May I ask how you found out? And when?” Ian could have realized the switch any time in the future, and, whenever that was, set his visit to today.
“He told me,” Ian answered, matter of factly.
“He? You mean . . . my younger self?”
“That’s right, and he told me right away.” Now I got that slight smile from Ian, worse than his scowl.
“Did he at least get his heart fixed?”
“Your heart’s fine, isn’t it?” Ian said. “I sent him straight to the doctor, as soon as he told me your story.”
I touched my chest, breathed in and out, and considered. “So take all of my damned money in the future—that’ll bankrupt him, not me.” And I had squirreled away a sizeable portion of my funds in the future, for whenever I returned. It was likely beyond Ian’s and definitely my younger selfs reach. . . . But was Ian telling me the truth about my younger self? I certainly had no recollection of having had such a conversation with Ian as my younger self. But he probably had panicked for some reason, this time around, when he finally became convinced that what was happening to him wasn’t a dream, but—
“There may be another way,” Ian said, “something you could do for me that would balance the books.”
Here it came. As I had told my younger self, Ian had goals that went beyond money.
I had breakfast in the Barclay the next morning—eggs over easy, English muffin, fresh figs, and orange juice, fresh squeezed. I had to admit—eggs didn’t taste quite as good in the future.
My waiter, Lenny, was talkative. “Saw you on Cavett the other night—you were excellent. Can I offer a little casting advice?”
“Sure.” I’d likely get it whether I agreed or not.
“You ought to cast Brando in your next movie—Brando!—he’s still the best. And Bronson as supporting actor. You see the body on that guy? I wish I could be in such good shape.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, only a little less tartly than the orange juice.
Lenny laughed. “Hey, you’re entitled. You’re the director, for godsakes. Doesn’t matter what you look like.”
“I used to act. Still do, sometimes.”
“Point taken,” Lenny said, and clapped me on the back. “But can I give you a little more advice—in your capacity as director?”
“Sure.”
“George Pal did a fine job with War of the Worlds and Time Machine—I actually liked his Destination Moon and When Worlds Collide better—but you could do a better job, really, with any H.G. Wells story.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“He sometimes stays here when he’s in from Hollywood,” Lenny said, quietly, conspiratorially. “Wouldn’t say he’s a pal of mine, but almost.” Lenny laughed at his own pun. “Don’t tell Mr. Pal I said anything about his movies. But I’m telling ya, you’re the director as far as H.G. Wells goes.”
I don’t know if anyone else has ever had this experience, but I sometimes almost think that waiters are reading my mind—and not about food—when they recognize me and give me advice.
I left a generous tip on my room tab, patted off whatever may have been left of the egg on my face—visible and otherwise, for the many failures and unfulfilled projects in my life. Well, this was one project I could not afford to leave hanging. I left the café and allowed the guy in front of the hotel to call over a cab for me. “Penn Station,” I told the cabbie. Felt like that’s all I had been saying to cabbies these days. But the déjà vu went a lot deeper than that.
The cab got to the station in plenty of time. I looked at the board and noted the track for my train—to Wilmington. But I knew I wouldn’t be seeing liana again on this train. I half-consciously touched my chest. No need for the specially woven vest, either. It wouldn’t be waiting for me in the locker in Wilmington Station. My counterpart had already taken it, yesterday. And I had no need for it. I wouldn’t be traveling through time, this time.
I boarded the train, and tried to make myself comfortable in my seat. But there would be not much comfort in this trip, not in my seat or my skin, and not much enjoyment in the clothes and colors and culture of 1970, either. That probably came from my discomfort at being a guinea pig, a pawn, of Ian’s, rather than his client. But what did it matter? It’s not as if his clients had much control over their destinies, either. And what choice did I have? Ian had a monopoly on the time travel which had become the lifeblood of my life, because I had made it that way.
I fidgeted when the train pulled into Philadelphia. This is where I had left my seat the other day on the way to the café car and its exit to the past. No need for the café car today. I was already in the past.
The train pulled out of Philadelphia and soon was in Wilmington. I left the train and caught a taxi. “Telegraph office,” I instructed, and provided the address.
* * *
“It’s an experimental process,” Ian had explained to me, back in the hotel room. “My team has been working on it for years. The possibilities are profound, as you’ll no doubt agree.”
I had never seen Ian so . . . eager . . . so much the salesman. But I agreed with his assessment. People could travel as far back as 1969 on the Tricela-Metroliner route. If this telegraph gambit worked, Ian’s clients could eventually send telegrams from a few years before 2006—when the last words-only telegram was sent out for hand delivery by Western Union—to as far back in time as 1848, when the central telegraph office started doing business in Wilmington, Delaware on Front and King Streets.
I tipped the cabbie copiously, and entered the Western Union office. There were two tellers, each with a line of customers. I got at the end of the shorter line and waited. Each of the three people in front of me sent money orders. The teller counted the bills in slow, exaggerated motions.
I finally stepped up to the teller. He had white hair and a ruddy face, and was likely in his early sixties. “I have an old-fashioned kind of telegram to send,” I said, and laughed. “Just words, no money.”
“Yes, sir.”
I gave him a sheet of paper, on which the message I wished to send was carefully, and I hope clearly, printed.
“Can I read this to you, sir?” he inquired.
“Yes, please do,” I replied.
The teller began. “Mr. Herbert George Wells, 123 Eardley Road, Sevenoaks, Kent, England,” he read aloud. “Is that right for the name and address?”
“Yes.” I could tell from his tone and demeanor—unless he was a world-class actor—that he’d never heard the name. Likely because the recipient of the telegram was better known by his first two initials, or maybe this teller was no fan of science fiction, who knew. But in any case it was a good thing, because it saved me the trouble of explaining why I was sending a telegram in 1970 to a man who had died in 1946.
