Time Travel Omnibus, page 245
Split looked me up and down. “When’d your rich uncle die?”
“None of that. I’ve just made the discovery of the year—a man with uncanny talents—hell, he’s colossal! I’m giving him six months on vaudeville—I’ve got an in, you know—then Hollywood.”
Split lit a cigarette.
“What’s his name?”
“J.D. Dest—” I considered. This man from the future needed a name that would look well in the headlines. Ah—“John Doe Destiny.”
I sat down at Velma Mack’s desk to write her a note. A cigar was burning in her ash tray and the aroma caught me.
“Beau Tassel’s been here.”
Split nodded.
“His Detroit fights were called off.”
“I don’t like the way he comes borrowing money from Velma.”
“He didn’t. Just came to say he’d take her on her Atlantic City vacation—”
“He’d take her!” I bounced up from the chair. “Hell, that won’t do. Anyway he can’t swing it—”
“He was dressed up like a million.” I writhed. If Beau was sporting a new outfit, he’d dipped into our prize money again—that three hundred dollar radio contest award that had brought him and Velma and me together in an off-the-record corporation.
“Beau claimed he’d sighted a bonanza.” Split opened the noon edition to a picture of the derailed street-car. It showed the dozen men heaving and the center one was John Doe Destiny. The staff artist had drawn a question mark on Destiny’s back. The story started off.
Who is he?
Who is the mysterious Hercules that swung the street-car back on its tracks and disappeared in the crowd before the reporters could . . .
The thing caught me in the ribs.
“Is that all Beau Tassel had to go on?”
“He said he’d round up this he-man and make a heavyweight champ out of him. If you ask me, Velma went along to throw a monkey-wrench.”
“Went where? They’ll never find him. I’m the only one who knows—”
“Don’t kid yourself. One reporter over at the police station called in twenty minutes ago to say the guy they’d dumped in cell seventeen was—” I leaped from the desk and caught up my hat on the run. Outside the door I hailed a taxi and was off.
THE cop dozing in the tilted chair inside the rear door of the station opened one eye at me. I flashed my card at him and he let the eye fall closed. I strode back to seventeen. John Doe Destiny was there. And no one else, thank goodness. I assumed that Velma and Beau hadn’t come yet. I extended my friendliest hand through the bars.
“Ah my friend—”
The man from the future ignored the hand. He blew his nose into his silk handerchief, rolled his watery eyes like a prize bull at a livestock show suffering with nostalgia. I threw in a load of good cheer.
“I’ll have you out right away, old man. I’ve got big plans for you—no, don’t thank me now. Wait till we’ve cleaned up—”
“I’m sick!” John Doe Destiny moaned. “I’ve been back in this bygone age only twenty-four hours and I’ve already contracted one of your deadly diseases.”
I gulped.
“What the hell?
“I’ve got a cold.”
“In twenty-four hours? Must have had it coming on when you left home.”
“We don’t have colds back home,” he blubbered. “I think I’ll go back.”
“Oh, no. You couldn’t. You just got here. I’ve got to make Atlantic—er—you’ve got a career to think of, my boy. Come, brace up!”
“I’ll probably die. I’ve no resistance.” He took time out for sniffles. He really had ’em.
“Take it easy. Anybody in the pink like you—” I paused and turned the subject. “What kind of athlete were you back home? How’d you come to be so strong?”
“I’m just average,” he said; but after I prodded him a little he opened up on his past, nine thousand years in the future. Everybody was in fine health there, he said. You had to be, or pay a fine for your negligence. He believed that scientific diet and exercise must have improved the race considerably, judging from what he had seen of us poor denizens of 1950.
While he talked I jotted a contract on an envelope. I’d get an exclusive on this mint.
“You haven’t told anyone about yourself but me, have you?” I asked.
“At first I tried to tell everyone,” he said, “but nobody understood. I never knew I was talking too fast till you told me.”[*]
“I’m your doctor, J.D. Put your trust in me. Your whirlwind talk and street-car lifting and ability to hear six conversations will make you a top-notch attraction. Six months of footlights, then klieg. Sign here, Desty, and we’ll transpose it onto sheepskin later.”
He reached through the bars but didn’t take the pen. He patted me on the shoulder.
“Brown, you’re a real atom-buster. Tonight when I flash back through time I’ll remember you as my best friend from these ancient days.”
I WAS touched. The fellow was both sick and homesick. The bitter truth was, he’d got his stomach full of twentieth century in twenty-four hours.
Besides his cold, he’d filled up on smoke and dust. He’d listened to more terrifying traffic noises, witnessed more near-accidents, seen more people that looked like escapees from madhouses, heard more stupid slow-motion conversation, seen more evidence of outlandish superstitions, than he had ever supposed a civilization could be guilty of possessing.
Beyond that, he’d crashed into some silly laws and got himself jailed. The humiliation of it! Before he’d had time to get his bearings.
“All because you didn’t meet the right people,” I said. “I’ll make your troubles melt like snowflakes.”
“Snowflakes!” he groaned. “It’s all a blinding blizzard. If I survive this cold there are a thousand other diseases. The sanitation’s abominable!” He paced his cell, a shaken man. “Already I’ve been hounded by a mouse in this very room. And this morning in my hotel I was awakened to find a deadly little winged beast hovering over me, the kind I’ve read about in horror stories of the past—a housefly.”
He closed his eyes at the hideous thought. I tried to comfort him but he was off on another depressing rhapsody.
“How can I endure all this money madness? It’s money, money, every time I turn around.”
I tackled him on that point. How could he expect to come back and share this century’s blessings (he raised a dubious eyebrow at my term) unless he contributed something?
That nettled him. He had come with a purpose. He hinted at some far-flung research that I wouldn’t understand.
“Perfectly clear,” I said. “Sign here and I’ll see that you earn all you need. You can even start an anti-mouse campaign—”
A voice back of me broke in.
“Don’t sign anything, Buddy. I’ve got you all fixed up.”
I turned to glare into the massaged face of Beau Tassel. He strode up in a sprucy blue suit and blue hat with a yellow feather, and tapped a new white cane against the bars.
“I’ve phoned some pals to get a fight booked. I’ll have you out of that cold and in training togs before you know it, Buddy.”
Back of Beau came the snappy heel-click of Velma Mack. Maybe it was the extra rouge on her pretty face but she looked a little mad. At Beau, I hoped.
“You can’t do it, Beau! He’s too refined. He’s a natural for culture lectures to high society. And for heaven’s sakes quit calling him Buddy . . .’Lo, Ham.” She added the greeting as if I were an inconsequential part of the scenery.
John Doe Destiny gave a nasal bark that should have settled the matter.
“I don’t wish to fight, Mr. Tassel.”
“There!” Velma gloated. “I’ll take him in hand. I’ll see that he meets the best people.”
“What goes on?” I roared. “He’s mine—my own John Doe Destiny—booked for vaudeville—then Hollywood—”
“Since when?” Beau demanded, suddenly noticing me.
“I’m his manager. I found him. I discovered he has talents—more of ’em than the law allows in a prizefighter.”
THAT blew Beau’s lid off. The three of us cut loose in a three-way verbal fight. John Doe Destiny perked up. All of us talking at top speed made him feel more at home. He didn’t miss a word. Me, all I got was that Beau and Velma had been here ahead of me and had learned he’d come back from the future and had tried to contaminate his ambitions. I shouted for my rights.
“I was first, wasn’t I, John Doe? Didn’t I show you my card?”
The hog-calling effects of our argument carried down the corridor. The cop jogged to his feet and stomped toward us. I lowered my voice.
“I agreed to be your manager—”
“But your card,” John Doe Destiny cut in with a broad smile, “was an awful fake, my dear atom-buster.”
This jolted me. I remembered having flashed the card under his eyes an instant so that he’d see nothing but a blur. The old Ham Brown technique.
“To be precise, Brown,” John Doe followed through, “your card read, ‘Social Security Act, account number 323-16-4475, Hamilton J. Brown, unemployed.’ Your sleight-of-hand may do for this century, but nine thousand years of fast-moving civilization have quickened my eyesight.”
You should have heard the silence. Of all the uncanny wallops this man packed, this was the startlingest. The three of us gaped, Velma and Beau being familiar with the nature of Ham Brown card flashes.
The cop broke the silence with the noise of scratching his head in an inspired manner. He opened his billfold and gave John Doe Destiny an eye-wink’s look. Then, “What’d you see?”
John Doe raised his brows, lowered his lids, and recited:
“Driver’s License. Name of Operator, Jason McCudahey. Number 29792633. Street address.
He read back every word of it. Right out of his mind. Darned if he hadn’t photographed the thing with his eyes!
A strange light came into the cop’s face. He started off, then came back and shook a finger at Destiny.
“Stay where you are, young fellow, till I see the chief. I figure the force can use you.”
“I’m going back home,” Destiny called after him, but the cop pounded away.
Velma, Beau, and I exchanged glances and came to our senses. No more argument. High time to settle on one plan before this bird flew out of our hands. We took ourselves back into a huddle.
“Co-operation’s the word,” I said. “Which’ll it be—vaudeville star, socialite, or pugilist?”
“Grab for it,” said Velma, taking Beau’s cane and holding it up. We grabbed, hand over hand. Beau’s hand topped us.
“He’s a prizefighter,” said Beau.
WE TALKED our protégé past the judge before the police chief came around with any tempting offers, so John Doe Destiny was all ours. Our pooled cash took care of all claims. We marched down the steps, arms linked through Destiny’s, in the spirit of treasure hunters lugging a chest of uncounted gold.
We piled into the car Beau Tassel had rented, hesitated just long enough to toss the reporters a few salty statistics to make the public mouth water, and shoved off. Destiny heaved a big sigh.
“No workouts before tomorrow,” said Beau. “A fresh-air ride’s the thing for that cold.”
“Anything to keep him entertained,” Velma whispered to me.
I patted her hand. I knew her heart was set on that Atlantic City vacation. Well, we weren’t going to let this golden bird fly back home nine thousand years out of reach. Fact was, we were becoming attached to the fellow.
“You’ll like our little city,” said Beau in the charming voice he’d practiced on Velma the last few weeks. “Nice little city.”
Definitely the wrong tack. I tried to give Beau the high sign but he was too busy running stoplights. The stubborn mullethead, he drove through all the newspaper-strewn parks, skyscraper canyons, and smoky railroad yards—a chamber of horrors to John Doe Destiny. To make it worse, Beau threw in a lecture. On that corner six gangsters were shot. In this block a tenement house burned to the ground one night and legend has it that some of the sleepers never woke up.
“Beau, for heaven’s sakes, it’s getting late,” Velma would wail from the back seat.
“It’s never late when we’ve got a guest like Mr. Buddy Destiny,” Beau would retort with a big-hearted laugh.
John Doe Destiny became nauseated. Frequently we passed blocks of slums. Our protests bounced off Beau like punches off a champion. To cap the climax he wound up with a tour around the stockyards.
We put Destiny to be a shattered man.
I sat up all night to be sure he didn’t fly off to his own century—though I couldn’t have blamed him much.
BY THE end of the week John Doe Destiny was fairly well under control. A whopping fight was billed for a Friday only two weeks away. This Killer Metheny was a big name and would draw a fat gate.
And maybe you think the newspapers and radio commentators didn’t do right by our Buddy Destiny! Sports writers took this future business for an A-l publicity gag; the public took it for a hoax. But nobody cared to stick his neck out. The evidence was too solid that John Doe was straight goods.
The newspapers headlined him as Buddy Destiny, the two-fisted forebodie of the year ten-thousand, the man with the watermelon biceps, the handsomest guy that would ever leap into a ring. (He’d never been in one before!)
Dopesters gave Killer the edge because they’d seen him fight. They said experience would tell.
We were sure of Buddy on the same grounds. Nine thousand years of experience weren’t to be sneezed at.
Yep, Buddy Destiny had an advantage that the Killer camp completely ignored: ninety centuries of upbuilding of the human race into something sturdier, quicker, more sensitive—
There was the loophole!
John Doe Destiny didn’t want to fight. He abhorred it. He’d never seen a prizefight and he hoped to keep that record clean. Where he came from people were genteel and delicate.
He took to roadwork and punching-bags like a veteran. He outclassed Beau in rope-skipping after the first hour. It was marvelous the way his habits clicked into place, once he was shown. The same as he’d learned to slow down his speech.
But could you get that guy into a ring with a sparring partner? No.
“I wouldn’t care to hit any man,” he would say. “Even if I were angry, I’d settle it some other way.”
Every night after we got the fellow to sleep, Beau and I would have coffee with Velma and try to figure the thing out.
“The winner’ll make off with seventy percent,” Beau moaned.
“If we lose, Atlantic City is off my calendar, that’s all,” said Velma resignedly, looking at us like a beautiful lady on a poster appealing for funds. “Your fair-haired boy knows how to count money. He’s made out a budget. Out of thirty percent we’ll get expenses only—if he fights.”
“But if he wins, Velma,” I said, “I’m taking you to Atlantic City.”
“I’m ahead of you, son,” said Beau suavely.
“If he wins, you’ll both take me.” Velma divided a peach marmalade smile between us. But Beau pulled the gloom cloud over us again.
“How’ll we ever get him to fight? Every time I argue the matter he threatens me. Says he’ll hop for home.”
Velma lowered her eyelids as if maybe she had a glimmer.
“If he’s never swung at a partner,” I suggested, “how do you know he packs a wallop?
“We’ll know tomorrow,” said Beau. “The Detroit A. A. is bringing over their famous striking meter. If he can hit a ten he can deliver a knockout.” Beau was being optimistic. Killer Metheny had struck a thirty-two.
THE next day the truck unloaded the meter at our back door and a circle of reporters helped roll it to the center of the gym floor. I looked around for John Doe Destiny.
He was standing by the window in trunks and gloves, a sunshiny mountain of handsome muscles, having a chat with Velma. I sauntered over.
“What do you remember most from that car ride?” Velma was asking him. A look of pain shot through his face.
“I remember everything,” he said. “But the most heartrending sight was that three story firetrap at 7892¼ Manodene Street, with fourteen ragged children playing on the walk in front of it, and six broken windows patched with newspapers and rags—”
“Would you like those children to have a better home?”
A quick light came into Destiny’s eyes.
“Do I have anything to say about that?”
“You could offer to build them a decent house if you had the money.” Beau Tassel interrupted, calling Destiny over to the striking meter. We all crowded around.
“Don’t be afraid of hitting too hard,” said Beau. “The world’s champ did forty-eight. That still leaves half the dial. Go ahead, Buddy.”
Destiny gave the thing a wallop. The dial jumped to three. The sports writters groaned and I, for one, felt an awful emptiness in the stomach.
Tassel snapped the dial down and tried to quiet the uproar among the on lookers. Their harsh talk cut John Doe to the quick. An assistant trainer’s muttered oath acted on him like a foul blow. Velma pushed into the circle and made the assistant apologize and after a few minutes we persuaded Destiny to try again.
“Hit it as hard as you can,” Velma said.
Destiny lashed out. There was an awful clang and the meter crumpled back and splashed metal parts all over the floor. Nothing was left of the dial. John Doe Destiny blushed and backed away, saying that if they didn’t mind he’d like to be excused to continue a conversation with Velma about a house.
WELL, this was the big night. We kept our dressing room door closed to the last minute. The uproar was terribly jarring to Destiny’s delicate nerves. He shuddered and paced the floor all through the preliminaries.
“They’re hitting each other,” he would chant with his eyes closed. “They’re mauling each other with their fists.” Then he would turn to Beau and me and plead, “Do I actually have to strike my opponent to win this fight?”
“Just once,” Beau would answer.
