Time Travel Omnibus, page 366
It was a little wonderful that he could have brought two birds down with a slingshot. Wonderful, too, that there should be a cave so close to the scene of his triumph.
If he could get a fire started—he’d be dining on roasted quail!
Holden straightened his shoulders. The old visions were coming back, surging back now like a singing flame. A man who loved life as he did could never stay wretched.
True, loneliness could leave a torturing ache. But there had been joyful hermits before in the world.
A girl walking in a cornfield, with the sun in her hair. He’d stopped and kissed her, not quite meaning to . . .
Well . . . he’d have to get over that, he told himself fiercely. But now the flame was dwindling again, sweeping from him in gusts of chill mockery.
With an angry shrug he quickened his stride and entered the cave.
They stood in flickering firelight—five men and three women and a girl with wide dark eyes who didn’t seem quite a woman yet. Not quite eighteen, Holden thought. Then—startlement exploded in his brain! A dazzling burst of startlement and a high-leaping wonder that held him rooted to the earth.
Living men and women, solid as the animals he’d trapped—uncouthly clad in the skins of animals, but not uncouth in their primitive human dignity and bronze-limbed strength; standing about a rude fire like a stone-age museum group, with straggly hair on their shoulders, leaping shadows at their backs!
The new barbarians—the ones he’d scoffed at, refused to believe in. The survivors, sinking back into barbarism, living by their wits, by sheer animal cunning, as the terrible spreading dust lost its power to cripple and kill.
No, no—he was imagining this!
But if he was imagining it why were they all about him now?
Why were they exploring the strength of his arms with iron fingers and making strange signs in the air before his face, as though he’d brought something evil into the cave with him?
Suddenly Holden knew that the cave dwellers were no illusion, for their angrily muttered words made sense.
He was a stranger, an outsider. Did he come as an enemy or a friend? If he came as a friend did he come as one wishing to throw in his lot with a tribe of proved courage—a great and fearless tribe with many talents?
If so—what could he do? What was he good at? Was he a mighty hunter, a trapper of beasts? The birds he carried—how had he caught them? He carried no weapons, so perhaps he was not a hunter. Was he then a fire-maker? A healer?
Holden retreated a step before the press of gleaming bodies and the faces he had ceased to fear now, though some were still etched with a sharp hostility and others with dread. He smiled and made a deprecatory gesture.
But his voice, when it rang out in the shadows, was vibrant with pride. “I am an artist!” he said.
THE CAVE wall was high and smooth.
A flickering stone lamp stood at Holden’s feet and his palette was a crude one, fashioned of birch-bark. Crude too were the pigments which covered it—the distilled juice of berries and red and yellow ocher drawn from the earth.
But the vision in Holden’s mind was as bright as ever. He was putting all of himself into his work, bringing an imperishable dream to fulfillment again. Shadows flickered on the walls of the cave and danced on his bare, bronzed shoulders and the animal skin which hung in loose folds from his lithe torso.
Holden knew as he painted that he was creating something that would live forever in one deathless moment.
For Roger Holden was living at the top of his bent, shutting out Time as he struggled to surpass himself.
OUTSIDE OF TIME
Carroll John Daly
Many things are “outside” of human reason and understanding . . .
THEY call me simply L.D. or The Lazy Dean. I have come to accept it as a title both of esteem and affection. The boys at the university started it. The faculty took it up. They mean, a lazy body and not a lazy mind. I am not so well informed on the happenings of the day. I use my reading time for the things that others do not read.
I am much more interested in what does not appear in the newspapers than what does appear. There are many better fitted to understand and explain the everyday happenings of life. I like to live by the side of the road—but the side of a side road.
For years I have enjoyed a very unofficial position at the school. I am a good listener and a good believer. Will I believe in the impossible? I don’t have to believe in the impossible, for I have eliminated the word impossible from my own lexicon. I find things improbable but nothing more. Too many strange things happen.
It is a pleasant saying around the university when one relates anything that strains the credulity, of the academic mind: “Tell it to the Lazy Dean.”
So the boys often come to me with improbable happenings. Even the faculty, half-apologetically, with a pretense that it is all in good fun—but watching me furtively to see how I take it.
It is surprising how busy I am.
It is with a feeling of satisfaction and comfort that I sit down with my pipe and listen to one of our students confide to me things he would not even breathe to his closest friend.
So it was with that feeling that I opened the door of my rooms on the second floor of the museum building to Tommy Slater of the medical school. Tommy was a medium-sized rather slim dark young man who if he avoided surgery and didn’t specialize would, make a remarkably fine family doctor. Easygoing, pleasant of manner—mild, friendly bright blue eyes and a generous humorous mouth. He would never set the river on fire but then it was my opinion that a good doctor never would. Nature cures. A good doctor brings simply comfort and confidence to the sick.
There were lines under Tommy’s eyes and the likable little twist to the corner of his mouth was more pronounced. Tommy was the school hero though he hadn’t been near the university since it happened almost a week ago. He was New York City’s hero. Indeed a national and international hero who had swept all other news from the press and the radio and no doubt from the minds of men and women.
He saw me look at the clock for although I kept late hours it was then five minutes before twelve.
“Come, come, L.D.” His laugh was a forced one. “You never turn down your fellow man day or night. I know it is late and I expect it will be much later still before you get rid of me. I’ve come to smoke a pipe with you.”
TOMMY assisted me in pushing the other easy chair close to the fire. Despite my gesture he waited until I was seated. Then he sat down opposite me—stretched his feet out toward the fire—placed a cigarette between his lips and lighted it. Though he always talked of smoking a pipe with me I had never seen him smoke one. I filled my pipe slowly, and lighted it, smiled over at him and waited.
“I hope,” he said suddenly, “That you have read a paper lately—or if you haven’t someone told you what was in it.”
“Yes,” I told him. “I have read all the papers; seen all the pictures—even went to the news-reel theatre twice. Surely you received my note of congratulation.”
“If I did I never read it.” He inhaled deeply. “I have had—literally thousands and thousands of letters. Hundreds of women want to marry me. Hundreds of people want to shower me with money—as many more want to deprive me of that money before I even receive it. I’ve been offered fabulous amounts from the movies—and one night club offered me ten thousand dollars for a single appearance.” He sat up a little straighter and leaned forward into the light. “Look at me,” he said. “And don’t say I’ve worn myself out—run myself down mentally and physically by overwork here at the school.”
“No—Tommy,” I told him. “I would never say that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” He permitted himself a weak grin. “Do you know I’ve been to see Dean Stone—that august head of this whole institution. I saw him once before from a distance. I didn’t think he would breathe the same air with me, and do you know he tripped all over the foot-high softness in his rug trying to shake hands with me.”
“He should.” I nodded. “No matter how lightly you take it. It was a very courageous act—a very noble one—the school is proud of you.”
“Baloney.” The blue eyes sparkled into life. “I did nothing but reach up and lift the girl out of the air.”
“Yes—you told that to the reporters. It has been discussed here at the university. There is general agreement that you put it very modestly, Tommy—and they have been proud of the way you have conducted yourself. Modesty—”
“Was not my strong point,” he cut in. “I’m ashamed not to be modest. I feel like a crook and a cheat. That is exactly what I did do. Simply reach up and lift her out of the air.
“But the girl fell from the penthouse terrace—and you caught her in your arms and held her. The papers may play it up a bit for they say there was not so much as a scratch on her.”
“There wasn’t,” Tommy said. “Not so much as a pin prick.” And very seriously, “Did you read the number of floors she fell?”
“Yes—fourteen. I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of, Tommy. It was a remarkable piece of daring and courage.”
“Fourteen stories,” he said again. “I spread my legs apart—braced myself—my knees gave slightly and I stayed erect and held her so. I’m quoting that from the newspaper accounts. Now—did you ever think what became of the force of gravity? Do you—do you think that possible?”
“Possible—well I would have thought it highly improbable—but it did happen. You did catch her. You didn’t fall down. Countless people saw you. A news-reel camera—” He was looking intently at me.
“What is it, Tommy?” I asked.
“Go over it for me please,” he said. “Tell me what you read and what you saw in the news-reel. Tell it to me as you might to a stranger who hadn’t heard the full account.”
“Do you think there is such a stranger? All right, Tommy, if you want it that way. Wanda Lou Sherman, age eighteen, only daughter of Johnson H. Sherman, multimillionaire, steel magnate, was playing table tennis on the terrace of their penthouse apartment in the upper fifties on Park Avenue. It used to be ping-pong when I played it. In her enthusiasm for the game—or was it one of the few remaining English balls that made her dash to the little wall. But she did dash—jumped upon it—grabbed at the ball and for some unaccountable reason—and such reasons, Tommy, are always unaccountable—the heavy sturdy steel fencing bent over and she pitched out toward the street—fourteen floors below. So far we are correct?”
“Quite correct.” Tommy was very serious. “Go on.”
“Very well. It was before the dinner hour—rather five o’clock. The street was crowded, for there was a wedding across the way. The girl screamed as she fell. People looked up. The camera man turned and so got the picture. Then, Tommy, you dashed out. Caught the falling body—staggered—nearly fell. But held steady and saved the girl’s life. Am I to go on about the part you are going to marry her and learn the steel business and—”
“No. We can skip that. How many people do you suppose saw me dash out and catch the girl?”
“Everyone who was there I suppose. Even those who didn’t see you. That is human nature, Tommy. They said you just dashed across the street—I don’t think any of them were questioned as to the direction you came from.”
“Do you remember the old lady in the shawl—in the news-reel? What she said?” And when I seemed puzzled. “She said I just appeared as if from nowhere and had her in my arms.”
“Is that important?”
“So important,” said Tommy, “That it is the only true statement made. Besides mine that I simply reached up and lifted her out of the air.”
TOMMY got up then and paced the room.
“Listen, L.D.” He talked as he walked. “I am serious about gravity and the speed of the falling body. Common sense would tell anyone that a giant of a man, let alone a shrimp like me, could not have caught a girl—even though she was only five-feet-two and weighed little more than a hundred pounds—after she had fallen fourteen stories. We’d both have been dashed to the street, dozens of bones broken. Can you believe that?”
“I believe that nature can reach great heights at times. Let us say that nature suddenly gave you super-human strength. Or perhaps more simply that you arose to the occasion.”
“Anything,” he smiled at me now, the little wistful smile again, “Is possible. But you see there is a simpler solution to the whole thing. The truth—that I just reached up and lifted her out of the air. I saw Dean Stone. I nearly blurted it out to him. I wanted to see how the truth would strike a cold-blooded, practical man. I actually threatened him with the truth. And do you know what he said? ‘The truth can never hurt anyone.’ Do you believe that?”
“Well—no, Tommy. It is simply a stock phrase of the good dean’s. He couldn’t very well advise you to lie about it.” And after a long wait. “Are you going to tell me the truth, Tommy? I don’t think it will hurt either of us.”
“No,” said Tommy. “It can’t hurt you. You’ve talked to men who have seen so much—experienced—the—well other men would call them mad. And you didn’t have them committed—or anything like that.”
“No.” I smiled. “Nothing like that.”
“But it could be all an illusion, couldn’t it?”
“If life is an illusion, yes.”
“Could that be?”
“Anything could be—but I don’t believe that probable. You see, Tommy, I hear a great many things from a great many people. Each one taken individually seems beyond belief—but when you take them altogether you have a great deal of evidence that makes you believe. We do not deny the stars because we cannot see them on a cloudy night.”
“So you have heard about everything?”
“I hope not everything, Tommy.” And I meant that. “Life would be very dull indeed if I did not expect—at least always hope—to hear something different, something new to me—new to man.”
“Well I’ve got it.” Tommy stood looking down at me. “If it weren’t for the girl, and the newspapers and newsreels, I’d question my own sanity. But odd and impossible as it sounds it is the only thing that explains the truth about Wanda Lou Sherman . . . and my lifting her out of the air. It doesn’t make a hero out of me—but it explains how I happened to take the girl in my arms—with such ease.”
“Does it, Tommy?” I waited. And then, “Are you going to tell me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. And almost at once he, sat down and told it to me. It was new to me. I think it will be to you.
“THIS is real,” he started. “No dream about it. I was never more awake in my life. And never more sober. She saw to that.”
“Who saw to it, Tommy?”
“The girl—Ruth. You know I met her in the Astor Library. Some research for Dr. Clasueman. I thought at the time I was rather clever about it—but later I knew she had arranged it. She told me that. I had hours and hours of copying to do. She did it for me—in no time. One hundred and twenty pages of typewritten material—in no time.”
“Just how long is no time, Tommy?”
“Well.” His smile was certainly wistful. “I handed her the paper—the blank paper. She took it in her left hand and handed it back to me in her right—all neatly typed. In no time.”
“That,” I said, “Was very remarkable.” But I listened more intently.
“It was that much more remarkable when you consider that she didn’t have any typewriter and they wouldn’t have allowed one there in that room of the library.”
“I suppose,” I tried to help him along, “That you might have fallen asleep;—or you didn’t look at the clock. Or that she was a very beautiful girl.”
“I did look at the clock. She asked me to. No time at all elapsed. Yes, L.D. She was a very beautiful girl. Ruth or no Ruth she’s an Arabian. The sort of Arabian the movies would conjure up from their idea of a story from the Arabian Nights.”
“I suppose there was some simple explanation.”
“Oh, yes, L.D.” He laughed nervously. “There was an explanation—simple enough at least from the girl’s point of view. That was the beginning. I saw Ruth often after that. She looked about twenty but she was—we’ll come to her age later. I don’t want to give you more than you can swallow at one time.”
“I’ve swallowed a lot in my day. I expect to swallow a lot more.”
“You will.” For a moment his smile was boyish. “I’ll feed it to you in small doses. Anyway—as it was fed to me. Twice after that the same thing happened. Her doing my work in no time. You see we were going together steadily. Dining at little out of the way restaurants—foreign ones. By the way she spoke at least a dozen languages like a native—if that surprises you.”
“It interests me. Go on.”
“Well we had finals coming up you know and there was a lot for me to do—and I was complaining about not having enough time. Ruth laughed at me about that. She said—I remember distinctly what she said and how she put it. She said, ‘You don’t need more time, Tommy. You need less time. In fact what you need is the absence of time.’ ”
“Did she explain that?”
“No—not then. Later it was explained to me. But she did the hocus-pocus of receiving the blank paper and handing it back to me with my rough notes and stuff I had to copy neatly and accurately all typed out for me. In no time, understand.”
“I understand, Tommy.”
“Do you?” The corners of his mouth twisted up again. “That is more than I did, L.D. Ruth was very wise and very clever—and we liked each other very much. I knew about myself—and peculiarly I seemed to know how she felt. She was not like her friend. Very serious of course—but lots of fun too.”
“Her friend, Tommy?”
“Her friend was older. Still not over twenty-five. Calendar, years I better put it. I felt as though I were on exhibition. This woman looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer from back through the ages. I thought of that when I first saw her. She was a very beautiful woman—but too serious—as if the burdens of the world rested on her shoulders.”
