Time Travel Omnibus, page 203
“Here!” Carran unlocked a heavy iron door. “Your quarters! I’ve had them ready for some time, though I didn’t anticipate our young friend here. With you three secure, the secret of Timeite is safe. Make yourselves comfortable.” Grinning, he shut the door.
Pete Howell glanced about. Their prison was more of a suite. Two rooms and a bath, furnished with steel furniture and a supply of books, a deck of cards, a checker board. The windows were barred, the walls and floor cement, and no electrical outlets. Outside, Pete could hear the ceaseless drone from the factory. Machines, he thought, turning out time!
CHAPTER III
How Long Is Five Minutes?
“RED queen on the black king,” said Pete, kibitzing automatically.
Kit Stone swept the cards into a heap.
“I’m sick of it!” she exclaimed. “Sick of the whole thing! Solitaire, books, sitting around here day after day while Carran goes on making Timeite, preparing to make himself a financial giant! And the worst of it is, he’s probably crazy enough to put it over! If only we could get out of here . . .”
“How?” Dr. Stone said wearily. “We’ve been over that a hundred times. No tools, no electricity, no weapons. Cement walls, ceiling and floor. And the rooms examined every day to make sure we’re not up to anything.”
Kit picked up a heavy metal water carafe.
“This’d make a good club,” she said. “Maybe when they bring us our supper . . .”
“You’ve been reading too many novels,” her father said dryly. “Their guns would cut us down before we’d made a move. There’s nothing we can do! Nothing! While Carran . . . If I’d only realized what he was up to! Timeite reducing working hours to apparently a fraction, making pleasure last five or ten times as long! How can the world help but take to it? And then, when he threatens to cease supplying it, they’ll grant him anything! Slaves! Slaves of time! And us, helpless . . .”
“Helpless?” Pete, who had been automatically riffling the cards, ran a hand over his stubby jaw. “Mr. Stone, suppose we could break down this door? What then?”
“There’s a phone in the office,” the older man replied. “We’d make a dash for it, call Fayetteville, the police there, tell them how to reach this place. But it’s out of the question! No way to escape . . .” Pete Howell threw the cards onto the desk.
“Ever hear of William Kogut?” he demanded. “Kogut?” Kit repeated. “Somehow the name. . .”
“His case is famous,” Pete explained. “He was in the death house at San Quentin prison, cheated the gallows by blowing himself to bits. And do you know what with? An ordinary deck of cards!”
“Cards?” Mr. Stone muttered. “They’re cellulose, of course. But you need nitrogen for trinitro-cellulose. And even if we obtained it . . .”
“He only used the red portions of the cards,” Pete said. “Some dyes, like Para red, have considerable nitrogen in their make-up. And we might be able to blow down the door . . .”
“It’s a chance!” Kit exclaimed. “Let’s try it.” Very carefully they tore the red pips from the cards, placed them in the metal carafe, and with the addition of water, pounded the mixture into a pulp. The container, its cap screwed tightly on, was then hung from the lock of the door, and the remains of the cards, along with pages torn from the books, placed on the cement floor under it. By the time all arrangements were complete, the factory was shrouded in night.
“All set!” Pete stooped, lit the paper beneath the carafe. “We’d better duck into the next room!”
In the adjoining room they huddled against the wall, waiting, Kit pale, tense, Mr. Stone’s hollow eyes aglow with hope. There was no sound except the drone of machinery outside, the crackle of the burning paper. Pete froze, waiting. Already the paper must be about burnt up. Unless something happened in the next few moments . . .
And then a giant hand shook the room. The explosion in that small place was deafening. Pete ran into the next room, gave a cry of triumph. The massive iron door had been torn from its hinges!
“Quick!” Pete sprang through the opening. “If we can reach that phone before they realize what’s up . . .”
THEY clambered over the blasted door, raced along a corridor. From the factory, the recreation hall, came furious shouts of alarm. Suddenly the corridor ended. They found themselves in a big storeroom, heaped with small red and green boxes labelled “Timeite.” Ready for an unsuspecting world, Pete reflected. He dashed through the storeroom, called to Kit, who was lagging behind.
“Coming!” she ran lightly forward. “The phone’s in Carran’s office upstairs!”
Up the steps they pounded. The shouts, the excitement, rose momentarily. A meek-faced secretary met them at the landing, gasped a weak cry for help. One blow of Pete’s fist sent him, limp, to the floor.
“Here!” Mr. Stone pointed to a ground-glass door.
Howell burst open the door, found himself in a spacious office. Kit, who followed him, snatched a phone from the desk.
“Police Headquarters at Fayetteville!” she exclaimed. “Hurry!” Swiftly she snapped out her message. She had barely finished when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Drop that phone!” said Carran harshly.
Kit whirled, found herself facing the muzzles of rifles, of Carran’s automatic. The big man’s eyes were wild.
“I knew I should have gotten rid of you three!” he growled. “Well, it’s not too late!”
“You’re wrong!” Pete grinned. “The police know we’re here, now, and are on their way! If anything happens to us, you’ll be held!”
For a long moment Carran was silent; at length he turned to the men with him.
“Tie them up. Then tell the others that we’ve got ’em, that they can go back to work. I’ll handle this situation.”
THE men bound their three prisoners, left for the factory outside. After they had gone, Carran faced Dr. Stone.
“You’ve won,” he said slowly, “but only the first round. When the police get here, you’ll tell them my plans. And if, as you say, they don’t find you here, I’ll be held. But there’s another way out for me, that I’ve planted in case of emergency. This entire factory is mined. Suppose the police arrive to find a heap of rubble with no one alive. They’d never know what we were up to, they’d find your remains in the wreckage and think I died, too. I’ve a plane, a gyro, on the roof. I can leave, now, with the formula of Timeite, set up another plant in some other country . . . the Canadian backwoods, for instance . . . and start over again. With you out of the way, Mr. Stone, I’ll be the only one who knows the formula of Timeite. And with me supposedly dead in the explosion, there’ll be no search. An unsolved mystery of a wrecked factory . . . no more!”
“Good God!” Stone quavered. “You’ll murder us . . . all those workmen, in cold blood! You’re insane!”
“Depends on the viewpoint,” he said grinning. “Anyhow, that’s the story. If I didn’t get rid of my workmen, they might talk. I’ve told too many of them what I plan to do. However, it’ll be an hour before the police arrive, and by then . . .” Carran touched a hidden spring in the panelling behind him. A dark opening was revealed, in the center of which protruded a small knob. “I’ve only to pull this knob to set the time-fuse in operation. Fifteen minutes to allow me to get my gyro in the air, and the factory will be a heap of brick-dust. And my next factory will have no phones!” He bent, examined their bonds once more, then turned toward the concealed knob.
“Wait!” Kit’s voice made him pause. “Don’t you think you’ll be lonely in the Canadian woods?”
“Eh?” Carran’s gaze swept her slim form. “Lonely?”
“Just that.” The girl smiled slowly. “I’ve no desire to be blown up. Maybe we might make a deal.”
“Kit!” Mr. Stone gasped. “Good God, child . . .!”
“So what?” she said fiercely. “I’m no story-book heroine. I want to live! To live! Carran’s bound to make himself Master of Time. He’ll be the world’s richest man! And I . . .”
“You,” Carran laughed, “will be the Mistress of Time! Why not?” He crossed the room, cut her bonds. “The gyro holds two. Try any trick stuff and . . .” he tapped the butt of his automatic.
The girl arose stiffly, rubbed her wrists to restore circulation. Mr. Stone seemed broken, old, as though he didn’t care what happened now. Pete watched Kit narrowly. Was she playing a game? Or was it only natural, the instinct of self-preservation. She seemed different, somehow, sensuous, hard, sophisticated . . .
“Those ropes hurt my wrists,” she was saying. “Got a drink around?”
“Sure.” Carran took a bottle and tumbler from his desk. “Here!”
Kit poured a drink of the liquor, swallowed it, shuddering, then, a trifle clumsily, filled the glass for Carran.
“Kit!” Mr. Stone’s voice was agonized. “You can’t . . .”
“Huh!” Carran downed the whiskey. “She’s smarter than you. If you’d chosen to play ball, you wouldn’t be here now.” Once more he turned to the knob. “All set? Might as well set this fuse going and head for the gyro!”
“In a minute. There’s plenty of time.” She moved toward a mirror that hung on the office wall. “I look a fright. Let me fix my hair. It won’t take a second.”
“Right.” Carran flung himself into a chair, gun an hand.
PUZZLED, Pete watched. Was she hoping to stall till the police arrived? But that was impossible. Carran would never sit there for an hour, while she killed time. . .
Slowly, deliberately, Kit was taking the pins from her hair, releasing it in a golden torrent about her shoulders. Now she was beginning to plait it again . . . but in the strangest manner Pete had ever seen. One twist of her nimble fingers, then a two-minute wait, motionless. Another twist, and another pause. Ten minutes slipped by and one of the braids was only half done. Pete shot a glance at Carran. The big man was lying back in his chair, chewing at an unlit cigar, his eyes fixed on Kit. No word of warning, no command to hurry up . . . he sat there stolidly, complacently, motionless.
Pete frowned, shot a glance at the dejected Mr. Stone. He was about to speak when he caught Kit’s gaze in the mirror, imploring, warning. So she was stalling! But why did Carran permit . . .
There was no sound except the faint drone from the factory outside. Kit moved like an automaton. A twist of her slim fingers, a two-minute pause. Pete watched her lips. She was counting slowly, between each movement. Now one of the yellow braids was complete, and she was starting on a second. Lorelei, he thought. . .
Memory of that hour remained forever stamped on Pete Howell’s mind. The pale girl, slowly plaiting her hair, the big, red-faced man lying back in his chair, one hand resting on his gun. Mr. Stone bent, staring at the floor, a second Prometheus, with the vultures of despair tearing at his heart . . . Waiting, breathless, Pete found the interval endless. And still no sound from Carran . . . Minute after minute. A half hour, three-quarters . . . Was Carran mad?
The police . . .
THE scream of a siren, the squeal of brakes outside cut through the thick silence. Kit turned from the mirror, drooped, nervously exhausted, against the wall. Carran leaped from the chair, his face twisted with rage.
“The police!” he roared. “So soon! How could they have gotten here . . .” Gripping his automatic, he ran into the corridor. Shouts, pistol shots, drifted back into the room.
“Dad! Pete!” Kit ran toward them, loosened their bonds. “You’re all right?”
“Sure.” Pete nodded. “But awfully mixed up. Why on earth did Carran sit there peacefully for a whole hour when he knew the police were on their way?”
Mr. Stone laughed.
“Didn’t you understand?” he chuckled. “I did from the start. That’s why I played the anguished father. Tell him, Kit!”
“Why . . . there was nothing to it.” The girl shrugged. “When we were running through the storeroom after we escaped, I figured we had a chance of getting back to Fayetteville in the excitement. And I knew our story of changing time would be laughed at if we didn’t have proof. So I snatched this from the shelves.” She exhibited a small cardboard box. “Timeite . . . containing both X-1 and X-2. But after Carran caught us here, told us of his plans for blowing up the plant, I thought of another use for it. In that drink I gave him was one of the green capsules, X-1. His mental perceptions were so speeded up that the hour seemed like only a minute or two. Just as that night you spent at our cottage seemed like only a half-hour. I had only to stall around, fixing my hair, for an hour . . . just a couple of minutes to Carran . . . and the police were here.”
“Trapped by time!” Pete muttered. “Talk about your irony . . .”
“It was our only chance,” she said somberly. “In Carran’s hands Timeite would have been a curse to mankind. While in Dad’s . . .” she glanced at her father standing in the corridor and explaining to a burly State Trooper, “. . . it will be the greatest blessing the world has ever had!”
Pete stared at the girl admiringly. The courage, the beauty of her! He, and everyone in the factory owed her their lives. The kind of a girl he’d always dreamed of. From the corridor he could hear Mr. Stone explaining to the Trooper how the factory had been employed for the making of time. Pete grinned, reached out to take the girl’s hand. From the way that she smiled at him he felt he, also, had made a little time.
[*] It has been proven that we have, in addition to our accepted five senses, a sixth, a time sense. Regular waves, issuing from the occipital lobe of the brain have been recorded. Charts made at N.Y.U. show a steady rhythm from the brain. These brain waves occur even when asleep, in what are called spindles, forming a sort of mental clock. Professor Edwin G. Boring of Harvard made tests of awakening persons from sleep and asking them to guess the time. Their answers were far above the factor of chance.—Author.
PAUL REVERE AND THE TIME MACHINE
A.W. Bernal
Backward into the past went the Time Swing, and when it returned it had a strange passenger—a man who had to get back to 1775 or America was doomed.
“LORD!” gulped Walter. I found myself unable to reply—I was gaping at it on the floor and making noises like water in the drain. I wasn’t scared; I wasn’t even surprised. I was simply paralyzed. After a while I glanced up at Walter’s sagging features. His eyes were big as light bulbs.
“Well,” I managed, finally, “it works.” I gestured at the floor.
“Yeah,” exhaled Walter mournfully, like the last drink in the bottle. “Yeah . . .”
I stared down at it again, at its funny three-corner hat, at the lacy ruffles around its throat, at the tight white pants with grease spots on them. It was just like a masquerade—only Walter and I both knew it wasn’t any masquerade. That was why Walter’s hair stood out from his head like wires. That was why my heart was going like a punching bag.
It, or rather, he lay motionless on the floor, in all the dirt and scrap metal, his face the color of an uncooked biscuit. But he’d groaned, and so we knew he was alive—a little, anyhow. He had a nice sort of face, leathery from outdoor exposure, and he wore a silly white wig that was slipping off the back of his head along with his triangle hat. I could just glimpse sparse chestnut-colored hair beneath. And he had a little brown wart on the left of his nose, with two long black hairs pluming from it. The nose itself was three shades redder than a firecracker, with an alcoholic lace of tiny blue veins arabesquing through it to form a dainty design. All in all, he was a work of art.
And all this while the machine ticked on behind us, like a huge clock warming up to strike the hour. Walter suddenly seemed to grow aware of the dolorous tick-tick-ticking beside him, and reached out mechanically to shut the thing off. It stopped with a wheeze as he flipped a switch, and began to settle a few inches toward the floor.
I wouldn’t have cared if it had settled right through the floor into the cellar—in fact, I more than half-expected it to. But it didn’t. It just relaxed and stood there.
The man On the floor sighed heavily. Then he wrinkled his carrot nose till the little wart would have crawled right into his eye if it had only been open. But his eye remained clamped shut.
“Well, Walter, he’s yours . . . what are you going to do with him?” I asked at length.
Somewhere in the dim, vasty labyrinth of Walter’s brain, my question set off an alarm and he began to wake—slowly, though. “Yeah,” he muttered, and the words clung to his lips like autumn leaves to an ash heap, “what are we going to do with him?”
“We?” I smiled. “You! Include me out—with bells on!”
“Hank—you can’t!” Walter was getting panicky. “You’re in this with me. You’ve got to help me now—he’s coming to!”
“I know—that’s why I’m going.” But Walter was onto my arm like a drowning man, and after one look at him, I thawed. “Okay, okay, I’ll stick . . . Why don’t we stick him up?”
“The whiskey, Hank—quick!” cried Walter.
“Who for—us?” I asked, reaching where I knew Walter kept the bottle. I nipped at it myself in transit. “This’ll pick him up,” I husked, passing it to Walter’s trembling hand. “It’ll burn out his vocal cords, but it’ll pick him up.”
“He’s had a bad shock—he needs a bracer,” Walter explained tersely, rooting the bottle in the man’s mouth. Scotch vanished in giant gurgles, then the man’s eyes flicked like little electric sparks. He looked fleetingly at Walter’s worried face, said, “More!” then wrapped his lips around the bottle-neck again.
When the quart flask had been halved, he sighed and relaxed again, flat on the floor.
“He’s all right, now,” sighed Walter, almost happily. “I think he’s just drunk.”
And that was how we brought Paul Revere into the Twentieth Century . . .
OF course, at first we didn’t know it was Paul Revere; that is, we didn’t recognize him by his looks. We hadn’t hoped for such a distinguished catch.
