Time Travel Omnibus, page 212
Mayhem started slightly. He had been involved in Pete’s propositions before. He still remembered with horror the murderous proclivities of the racketeer “Mile-away” Moratti. He had come to the disheartening conclusion that Pete Manx was a trouble conductor.
“Why don’t you go away?” he asked, rather plaintively. “I’m in the middle of an important experiment.”
“Yeah?”
Impressed, Pete looked around. He saw nothing but the usual chaotic labyrinth of apparatus. A guinea-pig, in a cage, was regarding him with baleful intentness. Otherwise, all was quite the same as usual.
Mayhem beamed, however. He pointed with pride to the guinea-pig.
“I’m testing his synapses,” he explained. “And his.” He pointed to a rabbit that was calmly devouring a portion of lettuce in a corner. “I’m trying to create an electrical stop-gap to nerve-impulses that will induce temporary paralysis.”
Pete ignored him with his usual scientific detachment.
“I want to bet my roll on Pick-me-up,” the ex-barker stated. “He just won the Kentucky Derby.” He drew a newspaper from his pocket and indicated the headline. “See? A sixty-to-one shot.”
“The laws of chance,” Mayhem remarked, his eyes growing bright with interest, “are most fascinating. Especially when you consider Planck’s constant and the Heisenberg uncertainty factor.” Then he noticed the date of the paper. His eyes dulled again. “But the creature, Pick-me-up, has already won the Kentucky Derby. I can’t see how you can expect to find someone who will take your wager.”
“That’s where you come in!” Pete was beaming now. He straightened his red-and-green plaid necktie, lit a cigar, and aimed it at Mayhem. “If I’d known yesterday that Pick-me-up was the winner, I could have cleaned up. See?”
“You didn’t know, though.”
“There’s the answer,” Pete grinned, pointing at a chair that bore a discomforting resemblance to an electric seat. “Your time machine!”
MAYHEM’S lips compressed with prim annoyance.
“How often must I tell you that there’s no such thing? Time travel is impossible. My device simply liberates the ego—the consciousness—and sends it into the central time-hub, about which time itself revolves. Time is like a closed circle, a wheel. At present we’re existing at a certain point on the circumference. If we can take a short cut through the diameter of the wheel, we can enter another time sector. You should know that.”
“Yeah, Doc, I know. I oughta. I been back to Rome, Egypt, and twice to England. Robin Hood, Cheops, King Arthur, Claudius—I had my fill of that kind of stuff.”
Mayhem was scarcely listening. “What happens, of course, is that your consciousness enters another time sector. Automatically it enters the mind and body of someone who is existing at that particular moment. If you went back to the fifteenth century, you might find yourself existing as Columbus, King Ferdinand, or a savage in the Caribbean.”
“No, thanks,” Pete said. He shuddered feelingly. “Just forget about shooting me all the way back there. I want you to send me back just one day. Yesterday. So I can lay a bet on Pick-me-up and collect it when I get back to now.”
“What?” Mayhem’s jaw dropped. “Yesterday! But—but you were alive then!”
“So what?”
“It isn’t possible! It’s a paradox. There couldn’t possibly be two Pete Manxes—”
“Thanks,” said Pete, pleased by the compliment.
Mayhem went on unheedingly.
“And you can’t change a known and immutable past. You didn’t bet on Pick-me-up yesterday, and that’s that.”
Mayhem turned suddenly. A huge, pompous man had entered the lab. It was Professor Aker, Pete’s archenemy, with whom he had quarreled in a multitude of historical eras. Aker glared at Pete through his pince-nes.
“Well, what is it now?” he boomed. “What does this moron want?”
“Hey!” Pete said resentfully. “I know what that means. Don’t think I got no education at all, fat stuff.”
“Quiet,” Mayhem commanded, and turned to the professor. Quickly he explained Pete’s desires. Aker nodded thoughtfully.
“An interesting experiment. Why not try it, Mayhem? After all, what can you lose? He’s no use to anybody while he’s alive, anyhow.”
Pete swore somewhat anxiously under his breath.
“I’ll take my chances,” he grunted. “Sixty-to-one on Pick-me-up is plenty good odds. I’ll take a chance like that any day.”
He went over to the electrified chair and sat down in it. Doctor Mayhem turned to his control board.
“This won’t take long,” he said. “Er—Professor Aker, I expected you yesterday to help me with my synapse experiments. What happened?”
Aker frowned. “I really can’t say. A touch of sun, perhaps, or something rather like amnesia. I’m probably getting absent-minded, but for the life of me I can’t remember what I did yesterday morning. It—”
“Come on,” Pete broke in impatiently. “Let ’er roll.”
MAYHEM obediently let her roll. He pushed buttons and twirled levers. Things began to revolve and spit sparks. The physicist began to look worried.
“Funny,” he murmured. “There’s something wrong. I believe I actually need more power.”
“Feed her more juice, Doc,” Manx urged, gnawing his cigar. He pushed the white rabbit away from his feet. “Scram, stupid.”
The beast hopped away, paused, and returned to sniff at Pete’s green socks. Mayhem generously applied more current. A low hum of restrained power throbbed through the room.
“This is almost the limit,” he said. “If—” He pushed a lever further over.
Crash! Lightning struck, with raving white flames. The 100m rocked and jarred under the terrific impact. For a second Mayhem and Aker were blinded. Then, as light and sound died, they saw again through blinking eyes.
“Pete!” Mayhem’s voice was frightened. He stared at the limp figure of Mr. Manx, slumped laxly in the chair.
“He’s all fight,” Aker reassured, pointing toward a dial. “Only—Jumping Jupiter, look at that! You used too much power, Mayhem!”
The physicist took one look and clapped his hand to his brow.
“Good Lord, look at the instruments! I’ve sent Pete back beyond Egypt or even Sumeria! He’s in the prehistoric past!”
“So is the rabbit,” Aker gasped. “It was touching Manx when the juice went on, and the current was transmitted to its body. The rabbit’s ego is back in prehistoric times, too!”
It was true. Both Manx and the rabbit were utterly relaxed. The casual observer would have lost his casualness and called the dead. They were not, of course, as Mayhem realized. But matters were still far from satisfactory.
The delicate transformers, over-burdened by the current, had burned out. Dr. Mayhem reeled slightly.
“It’ll take hours—maybe longer—to fix the machine. How can Pete survive in such a savage environment?”
Aker grinned nastily.
“I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. Don’t forget, he’ll be occupying the body of a savage himself.”
“That’s true,” said Mayhem. He blinked in dismay as a startling thought struck him. “And so will the rabbit!”
CHAPTER II
Manx Goes a Way Back
A TALONED, furry claw was approaching the nose of Mr. Manx. Pete stared up with bulging eyes. He tried to lift his hand to shut out the sight of the horrid thing, but it seemed impossible. Beyond the claw he could see tree-tops and a blue sky. Apparently he was lying on his back, and a disembodied talon was about to clutch him by the face. Mr. Manx found his voice.
“No!” he babbled. “Don’t! I’m too young to die! Yah!”
The claw had flattened itself over Pete’s eyes. Yelping, he lifted his left hand and pulled it away. Once more he could see, but he rather regretted it.
There were two claws now. One was clutching the other by the wrist.
“I knew it,” Pete said with conviction. “I’ve gone batty.”
He realized abruptly that he wasn’t talking English. The time machine, of course, enabled Pete to take over the memories of the body he was occupying, as far as language was concerned. In Egypt he had spoken Egyptian, Latin in Rome, and so on. But this tongue was unique. It sounded like a dog fight. Grunts, groans and cackles barked from his throat in an off-key cacophony.
Worst of all, perhaps, was Pete’s sudden discovery that the two claws were his own.
He rose weakly and looked around. He was in a leafy forest, with towering trunks overgrown with lichen. Gigantic ferns were all around him. Water poured tricklingly from something nearby.
Realizing that he was tremendously thirsty, Pete staggered toward the sound. He came out beside a little brook pool. He flung himself down and drank thirstily. Then he happened to glance at his image. He drew back slightly, paused, staring. A long, quavering moan issued from Pete’s thick, jutting lips.
“Oh-h-h-h-h!” he gurgled. “It’s that cockeyed time machine. I ain’t nuts. I’m a monkey!”
This was not quite accurate. Pete wasn’t as handsome as a Cro-Magnon, nor was he as brutish in appearance as a Neanderthaler. His forehead was low, and beetling brows thrust out like hairy awnings over his savage little eyes. His nose was a mere lump like a Brussel sprout, his fanged mouth made up for it in size. Pete was distressed to note that he was slobbering.
“I ain’t neat,” he groaned, gaping down at his shaggy body. His clothing consisted of the skin of some beast tied becomingly about his wide middle. It was there merely for the sake of fashion. Pete’s furry figure didn’t really need it.
A hoarse panting caught his attention. He couldn’t have missed it. Manx glanced over one furry shoulder. He was appalled to discover a tiger lurking right behind him.
It was distressingly large, and had teeth like sabers, Pete thought with unconscious accuracy. It was, in fact, a saber-tooth. Its tail was twitching significantly as it crouched lower.
“Beware, Ulg!” a voice shrilled from somewhere in the forest. “Behind you—the striped death!”
The tiger’s tail stiffened, and Pete, frozen with horror, gasped weakly. He saw the glaring amber eyes intent on him. A thread of saliva hung from the sharp-fanged mouth.
The monster coughed—and charged!
PETE was crouched on hands and knees beside the pool. He acted almost instinctively. There was no time to escape, so he simply turned a somersault and fell into the pool.
Luckily it was deep, and Pete struck out desperately under water for the other side. His skin crawled with the expectation of vicious claws. If the tiger could swim, Pete Manx was sunk in more ways than one.
He came up sputtering, risked a glance over his hairy shoulder. The big cat had paused at the pool’s edge, and was snarling. It tentatively dipped a paw into the water and then drew back. Suddenly it made up its mind. It hurled itself after Pete.
But by this time Manx had reached the other side. He scrambled forward, his eyes searching desperately for a refuge. He could see only the trees, and the great ferns.
The voice from the forest came again, shrilly.
“Climb, Ulg!” it warned. “Climb the tree!”
That sounded like good advice. Pete had never been an acrobat, but his new body was unexpectedly agile. He went up a trunk like a monkey—a simile which struck too close to home to be entirely pleasant. At a safe height he paused. Clinging to a branch, he looked down.
The saber-tooth was pacing around the bole, spitting and snarling, staring up with hunger in its baleful amber eyes. Pete relaxed. In a low, fervent voice he told the tiger what he thought of it.
Leaves rustled. A gray, shaggy figure swung down from above and clung beside Pete. A face almost identical with his own twisted into what was apparently meant to be a friendly grimace. Manx drew back involuntarily.
“That was close,” the newcomer observed. “I thought he had you. You’re not usually careless, Ulg.”
Pete thought fast. He. was, it seemed, inhabiting the body of a prehistoric man named Ulg. By this time Manx had a reasonably good idea that he had gone pretty far back in time.
Obviously something had gone wrong, as usual, with Mayhem’s time machine. The physicist would eventually repair it and rescue Pete. But in the meantime, he would have to walk warily. The first thing was to find out the whole setup—just who Ulg was.
“What now?” Pete asked cleverly.
“I came to tell you that the chief, your uncle Burl, has gone mad,” said the newcomer. “He hops and eats ferns, and squeaks at us when we approach him. You must come back to the caves and fight Grul.”
Pete strove to figure it out for himself.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “Grul wants to fight me? Why?”
“If Burl is mad, he cannot be the chief. You have always said you would be the next chief, and would kill anybody who opposed your rule. Grul says he wants to be chief, so—” The furry shoulders moved in an expressive shrug.
“Grul can be chief, if he wants,” Pete said hastily. “Politics is out of my line.”
“But Grul wants to kill you, anyway. He does not like you since you tore his left ear off three moons ago. He sent me, Shak, to find you.”
“Thanks,” Pete responded, “but I don’t think I’ll go back to the caves, Shak. I’ll just hang around here for awhile. Can you imagine a guy getting sore at me for a little thing like that?”
But he knew that was just bravado. Ulg must have been some sweet kid! How many enemies would he have in camp?
“NO man can live in the jungle at night,” Shak said, with a shake of his head. “You know that. It’s certain death. Only in the caves are we safe. Come back and kill Grul and then we can have dinner if I can find a rat or two.”
Manx found himself disliking his bird-brained companion. Shak was entirely too naive. He scratched his flank contemplatively and found a flea. He considered it with some interest, and then ate it, after politely offering it to Pete and meeting with abrupt refusal.
The definitely ex-barker considered. After further questioning, he realized that Shak was correct. To remain in the forest after dark would certainly be fatal. The ferocious carnivores that roamed-by night couldn’t be ignored. Unless Pete returned to the caves, his doom was sealed.
“Like a blackout in Hell’s Kitchen,” he moaned. “Just the same, I’d take my chances here if only I had a typewriter.”
“Typ-rhyyder?”
“Gat. Tommy-gun. The things that bring Frank Buck back alive.”
“You,” said Shak solemnly, “are mad, like your uncle. You say strange words.”
Pete grunted. He was thinking deeply. The setup, after all, wasn’t so bad. He felt firm confidence in himself and in his ability to talk with glib effect. Grul was probably just an overgrown monkey, anyway. He could be oiled along—that is, if he really was as dumb as Shak, who was now engrossed in nibbling aimlessly on his toes.
“Come on,” Manx urged. “The tiger’s gone. Let’s pick ’em up, pal.”
This utterly confused Shak for a time, but at last he understood. Together the pair climbed down and set off through the primordial forest.
It was an eerie place. Strange noises were continually heard. The jungle abounded with life. Huge, lovely butterflies hovered over bushes that were like nothing he had ever seen. Incredibly large dragon-flies darted here and there. That was where Johnny Weissmuller would have felt quite at home, Pete decided. He was interested in the fact that there were no flowers in evidence, though he didn’t know why.
It was the Age of Mammals. The Carboniferous Era had passed into unwritten history, and the great reptiles were long since dead. As time goes, Pete had not gone very far into the past—merely to the dawn of intelligence in anthropoid mammals. But at the moment he felt billions of, light years away from Times Square and the comfortable tumult of Broadway.
The two emerged from the forest and faced a rising slope, ending at the base of a steep cliff that was pitted with black cave-mouths. A group of shaggy figures were gathered about a fire some distance away. Shak led Pete toward the flames.
“Look,” he said, pointing. “Your Uncle Burl. He is mad.”
Burl was the largest man Pete had ever seen. He was all hair, muscle, height and breadth, with a displacement like the Queen Mary. The monstrous form squatted beside a clump of ferns not far away.
Abruptly Burl looked up. He squeaked and moved with extraordinary hops around to the other side of the ferns. Pete’s jaw dropped as he remembered something.
“Oh-oh!” he whispered. “That rabbit back in the doc’s lab! I’ll bet that rabbit’s ego is in Burl’s body.”
PETE’S shrewd guess was correct.
The former chief of the tribe was now nibbling ferns and twitching his nose nervously.
“Come along,” Shak urged.
They went toward the fire. Those around the blaze looked up at the newcomers.
One man rose—a huge, barrel-chested giant, only slightly smaller than Burl, the former chief. He was entirely covered with reddish hair. One of his ears, Pete noticed, was missing.
Manx gulped and quickly pretended to be clearing his throat. He-smiled placatingly as he moved forward, Grul didn’t look any too smart. He just stood there, blinking little reddish eyes, with his mouth open. Pete waved his furry hand amiably.
“Hiya,” he said in a tight voice.
“Nrgh!” Grul responded. “I kill!”
He plunged toward Manx, who let out a shrill cry and hurriedly scrambled out of the way. There was a flat-topped boulder conveniently near. Pete sprang to its summit. There he paused, staring around nervously. Apelike faces watched him with casual interest. Grul walked forward, gritting his teeth loudly.
“Now hold on!” Pete said loudly, making a few quick passes in the air. The tribe stared. Grul hesitated and mumbled something murderous.
“I kill—”
“Just a minute!” Pete went into a barber’s spiel by force of habit. He bent, clutched at the ground, and brought up a clenched fist,-holding it high. “Ladies and missing links! I invite your attention. I have a message of vital import to man and—er—beast.”
