Time Travel Omnibus, page 383
* * *
THE sheriff said, “Well, you were away when he got to your place—however he got there?”
Lou Allenby nodded. “Yes, that was ten days ago. I was in Miami taking a couple of weeks’ vacation. Sis and I each get away for a week or two every year, but we go at different times, partly because we figure it’s a good idea to get away from one another once in a while anyway.”
“Sure, good idea, boy. But your Sis, she believed this story of where he came from?”
“Yes. And, Sheriff, she had proof. I wish I’d seen it too. The field he landed in was fresh plowed. After she’d fixed his ankle she was curious enough, after what he’d told her, to follow his footsteps through the dirt hack to where they’d started. And they ended, or, rather, started, right smack in the middle of a field, with a deep mark like he’d fallen there.”
“Maybe he came from an airplane, in a parachute, boy. Did you think of that?”
“I thought of that, and so did Sis. She says that if he did he must’ve swallowed the parachute. She could follow his steps every bit of the way—it was only a few hundred yards—and there wasn’t any place he could’ve hidden or burned a parachute.”
The sheriff said, “They got married right away, you say?”
“Two days later. I had the car with me, so Sis hitched the team and drove them into town—he didn’t know how to drive horses—and they got married.”
“See the license, boy? You sure they was really—”
Lou Allenby looked at him, his lips beginning to go white, and the sheriff said hastily, “All right, boy, I didn’t mean it that way. Take it easy, boy.”
* * *
SUSAN had sent her brother a telegram telling him all about it, but he’d changed hotels and somehow the telegram hadn’t been forwarded. The first he knew of the marriage was when he drove up to the farm almost a week later.
He was surprised, naturally, but John O’Brien—Susan had altered the name somewhat—seemed likable enough. Handsome, too, if a bit strange, and he and Susan seemed head over heels in love.
Of course, he didn’t have any money, they didn’t use it in his day, he had told them, but he was a good worker, not at all soft. There was no reason to suppose that he wouldn’t make out all right.
The three of them planned, tentatively, for Susan and John to stay at the farm until John had learned the ropes somewhat. Then he expected to be able to find some manner in which to make money—he was quite optimistic about his ability in that line—and spending his time traveling, taking Susan with him. Obviously, he’d be able to learn about the present that way.
The important thing, the all-embracing thing, was to plan some message to get to Doctor Matthe and the presidor. If this type of research was to continue, all depended upon him.
He explained to Susan and Lou that it was a one-way trip. That the equipment worked only in one direction, that there was travel to the past, but not to the future. He was a voluntary exile, fated to spend the rest of his life in this era. The idea was that when he’d been in this century long enough to describe it well, he’d write up his report and put it in a box he’d have especially made to last forty centuries and bury it where it could be dug up—in a spot that had been determined in the future. He had the exact place geographically.
He was quite excited when they told him about the time capsules that had been buried elsewhere. He knew that they had never been dug up and planned to make it part of his report so the men of the future could find them.
They spent their evenings in long conversations, Jan telling of his age and what he knew of all the long centuries in between. Of the long fight upward and man’s conquests in the fields of science, medicine and in human relations. And they telling him of theirs, describing the institutions, the ways of life which he found so unique.
Lou hadn’t been particularly happy about the precipitate marriage at first, but he found himself warming to Jan. Until . . .
* * *
THE sheriff said, “And he didn’t tell you what he was till this evening?”
“That’s right.”
“Your sister heard him say it? She’ll back you up?”
“I . . . I guess she will. She’s upset now, like I said, kind of hysterical. Screams that she’s going to leave me and the farm. But she heard him say it, Sheriff. He must of had a strong hold on her, or she wouldn’t be acting the way she is.”
“Not that 1 doubt your word, boy, about a thing like that, but it’d be better if she heard it too. How’d it come up?”
“I got to asking him some questions about things in his time and after a while I asked him how they got along on race problems and he acted puzzled and then he said he remembered something about races from history he’d studied, but that there weren’t any races then.
“He said that by his time—starting after the war of something-or-other, I forget its name—all the races had blended into one. That the whites and the yellows had mostly killed one another off and that Africa had dominated the world for a while, and then all the races had begun to blend into one by colonization and intermarriage and that by his time the process was complete. I just stared at him and asked him, ‘You mean you got nigger blood in you?’ and he said, just like it didn’t mean anything, ‘At least one-fourth.’ ”
“Well, boy, you did just what you had to,” the sheriff told him earnestly, “no doubt about it.”
“I just saw red. He’d married Sis; he was sleeping with her. 1 was so crazy-mad I don’t even remember getting my gun.” “Well, don’t worry about it, boy. You did right.”
“But I feel like hell about it. He didn’t know.”
“Now that’s a matter of opinion, boy. Maybe you swallowed a little too much of this hogwash. Coming from the future—huh! These niggers’ll think up the damnedest tricks to pass themselves off as white. What kind of proof for his story is that mark on the ground? Hogwash, boy, ain’t nobody coming from the future or going there neither. We can just quiet this up so it won’t never be heard of nowhere. It’ll be like it never happened.”
TIME TRACK
Sam Merwin, Jr.
Burnet’s fabulous guesses were strange, too strange—as if he could peer through the murky veil of the future!
FROM the moment she met him, “Dee” Lord sensed there was something strange about Alan Burnet. It was not his appearance—he was almost handsome in a sensitive way, he handled his long lean body with easy grace and he was as well dressed in a casual way as any man in the room.
It was an effluvium, an aura of sorts, that he carried with him. He was neither in conflict with his world nor master of it—nor was he conquered by it. He seemed, in some odd way, to accept. It was the only word Dee could think of and Dee, like many women, was very much aware of such things.
Because he was different and she sensed it, she felt the inner antennae of her being quiver in response to the challenge. And she rather resented the fact, even though it was interesting.
She was having lunch with Mike Regan, her lawyer, in the main dining room of Twenty-One on a perfectly usual Saturday when Alan Burnet appeared at their table. Mike, who had fallen in love with her, was anything but pleased by his appearance.
“This is Alan Burnet, another client of mine,” Mike told her when Alan simply could no longer be ignored. Mike, usually a cool and calm, social practitioner blurted, “Never bet with him—unless you’re in a mood for charity!”
“Oh, come now,” said the newcomer, smiling faintly as he sat down in a chair pulled up by the waiter. “I’m not infallible.”
JUST then, as if to give him the lie, a well-fed stranger with grey hair came up, pulling hundred-dollar bills from a well-stuffed wallet. He apologized to Dee and Mike for intruding and handed the money, a considerable sum, to Alan.
“I’ve been looking for you ever since the fight,” he said. “How did you know Charles was going to win by a knockout in the second round? You’re either a seer or a fixer.”
“You pays your money and you takes your choice,” said Alan, putting the bills away. He did not seem especially happy about it. He added, “Sorry, Fred, but I begged you not: to bet with me.”
“See?” said Mike Regan when the bet-payer had left. “The guy’s not human.”
“Oh, I’m human—too human, I fear,” said Alan Burnet. There were shadows back of the blue of his eyes.
“Don’t you really ever lose?” said Dee Lord, fascinated.
He shrugged. “Of course. I’m like everyone else.” She thought she detected disbelief in his statement. He went on with, “I have to pick my spots. For instance, if I bet that the next person to come upstairs would be red-headed my chances of winning would be exactly the same as anyone else’s.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Mike, looking increasingly sulky as Dee felt her attention drawn more and more to Alan.
“We’ll see,” said Dee, turning her eyes toward the stairwell. There was a long, exasperating wait before anyone came up. Then their waiter appeared and came hurrying toward them. His hair was. virtually non-existent and what there was of it was white.
“I don’t always win,” he said to Dee and there was a note almost of entreaty in his voice.
“You didn’t have any money down,” said Mike half-angrily.
“Because you told Miss Lord not to bet and didn’t want to put any down yourself,” said Alan.
Dee thought, “Oh, dear!” and hoped they weren’t going to act like nasty little boys. But just then the waiter bobbed up at Mike’s elbow and informed him he was wanted on the phone downstairs.
“Have a nice long talk,” Alan Burnet told him as he rose reluctantly from the table. When he had vanished the newcomer slipped promptly into Mike’s chair and began to eat his vichyssoise. Dee looked at him with half-amused astonishment.
“It’s all right,” he said casually. “Our Mike will not be back.”
“When he comes,” she said, not wishing to be stampeded by a stranger, “it should be interesting.” She met Alan Burnet’s eyes accusingly but he only grinned and told her not to worry about it.
“I’ll eat his lunch,” he said, “and pay his check. Could anything be fairer than that?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” she said. For some reason she was not surprised when a waiter appeared later and handed her a small envelope. She read, the hastily scrawled note it contained, which said that Mike had been called away by unavoidable business, was sorrier than he could say and wanted her to run up a huge check on Alan Burnett. Finished, she passed it across the tablecloth to the newcomer. He read it in silence.
“How did you know?” she asked him finally. She was not an excessively curious person but she was feminine and wanted to know.
He made a deprecatory gesture, and again she noted how gracefully masculine was his every motion.
He said, “It wasn’t exactly difficult. You see, I spotted you coming in with Mike. He handles some of my affairs and I, was able to arrange to have a mutual friend put in a summons for him.”
“And then you simply walked up here and took over,” she said, meditating. She caught the eye of the wine steward, who promptly came over, his huge chain clanking about his neck. She said, “May I see the list?” Across the table Alan Burnet winced.
She ordered a magnum of Bollinger brut and, later, some 1854 Napoleon. Then she proceeded to enjoy the meal as she had not enjoyed a meal in too long. Nor was her enjoyment lessened by the fact that she knew Alan Burnet was dynamite for her—nor by the fact that the bill for the meal and drinks was going to cost him close to a hundred dollars, Dee was no fool but she was a woman who had been hurt by a man and wanted a little of her own back.
He paid the check, looked ruefully into his wallet, then across at her with a wry grin.
“Come on, darling,” he said. “I guess we’ve got to make some money if this is your speed.”
“I have a lot of speeds,” said Dee with dignity a trifle enhanced by the Bollinger. But she knew she was going to go with him, just as she knew his “darling” had not been the usual casual term of endearment so often tossed meaninglessly across the tables about them. She was woman and so, of course, she knew.
But in the back of her well-shaped auburn head, as Alan Burnet ushered her into a ridiculously low-slung little MG roadster, one thing puzzled her. Alan had spoken of “making money” as if it were something he just went out and did. The delightful smoothness of her forehead was faintly creased as he headed the little English car out over the Triboro Bridge. Then he said something ridiculous and she forgot all about it.
It was Saturday and they were running the big race at Belmont. Alan had clubhouse entree and they sat in the big bar and sipped long and luscious mint juleps through straws. Around them and outside the huge crowd milled and roared as the races were run. But they were locked in a little world of their own.
SUDDENLY Alan Burnet looked up, saw that the stake race was coming up, excused himself and left her to place a bet. He returned a few minutes later and they resumed their sipping and dreamy wonderful foolish talk. After awhile it was time to go.
“I hope you didn’t lose too much,” said Dee Lord, feeling suddenly guilty at what she had done at lunch. She had not been able to avoid learning from chatter around her that an outrageous outsider had won the big one at close to a hundred to one.
“Lose?” he looked at her in astonishment, pulled a small handful of hundred-dollar tickets from his side pocket casually. She looked at them and gasped. They were all of them on the winner. They represented the better part of a hundred thousand dollars.
“How can I—” he began, then stopped abruptly, his lips tightening, his light blue eyes suddenly haunted. She was all at once aware of his eyelashes—a bit enviously. They were much too long and dark for a man—for any other man but Alan Burnet.
“How can you what?” she asked, only half aware of her words.
“Never mind,” he told her, his voice strained, almost harsh. “Never mind. I don’t think I want you to know.”
Dee let it go for the moment. Then, in the excitement of the evening that followed, in the long drive back to the city after stopping for dinner at a fine farmhouse restaurant halfway across Long Island, in the mere exciting closeness’ of Alan Burnet, she forgot all about it.
Not until the next day, when she visited Mike Regan in his office for a very necessary conference about her affairs, did she remember it. And it was Mike, glowering, who reminded her.
“I hope you’re not planning to see too much of Burnet,” he said in his best it’s-for-your-own-good advisory manner.
“Now, Mike, let’s not be proprietary,” she told him. “I’m a big girl now and I can pick my own wolves—it says here.”
“I take it you’ve picked Alan,” he said savagely.”
“Is that any of your concern?” she countered a bit unfairly. Then, because she was not cruel and was fond of him, “Why, Mike? Is there something I should know about him?” This because she was also feminine and neither incurious nor fond of making any move which might put such security as she had in jeopardy.
Mike poked moodily at an envelope on his blotter. “I guess not,” he admitted grudgingly. “I guess it’s more because of what I don’t know where Alan is concerned.”
“Who’s he, Mike?” she asked then. “Why haven’t I met him before? He seems to know his way around our part of the world.”
“You haven’t been around much the last few years, remember?” Mike shook his head. “Alan Burnet popped up literally out of nowhere two, three years ago. Beyond that—nothing.”
“What do you mean—nothing?” she asked; curious.
“Just that,” said Mike. “I’m not the only one who has tried to have him checked—you’ll see why in a minute. He appeared and that was that. There weren’t—and aren’t—any records. He was here, on the scene, that was all. It was a little eerie.”
“How did you happen to meet him, Mike?” she asked.
“He came in to see me, that’s all,” said Mike half-defiantly as if confessing to something wrong. “He wanted me to see to it that he didn’t stumble, into any pitfalls purchasing some stock. I took care of the deal for him—and since then I’ve handled the legal end of his affairs.”
“What was he like then?” Dee wanted to know.
“Why—about the way he is now. Sure of himself. I don’t think he had much money then. He told me the thousand he handed over was his total savings.” Mike laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “He wanted me to buy some shares in Black Silvermine. It was off the list then—worth exactly ten cents per share.”
“Mike—you didn’t let him?” she said anxiously.
“Hah!” Mike was ironic. “I tried but he was not taking no for an answer. His money, less fees and commissions, bought him upwards of nine thousand shares. One week later we got word that uranium had been discovered in the Black Silvermine. The A.E.C. bought up the stock within a month. They paid twenty-four dollars per share.”
“Good heavens!” said Dee, doing some mental arithmetic. “That means he must have made about a quarter of a million on the deal.”
“Just about,” said Mike unhappily. He hesitated, added, “I ran into a man who lived out there—he had never seen nor heard of Alan around the Black Silvermine. And not even the prospectors knew they had struck it rich until the ore was assayed—three days after Alan bought the stock.
“It doesn’t seem—well, quite reasonable,” said Dee. “He must have known something.”
“Maybe,” said Mike unhappily. “But that’s only the starter. Take the last election. He put down a wad on Truman—I don’t know how much but it was plenty—when things looked blackest for him. He hasn’t missed a pennant winner or a Derby winner since. Honestly, Dee, it simply, isn’t human.”
“He’s just lucky,” said Dee, hoping she was right.
SHE was very aware of the strangeness about Alan just then—aware and a little afraid and wholly fascinated.
“Sure—lucky!” said Mike. “But if you were ever with him when he scored one of these coups you’d wonder what he got. out of it. He always seems to want to, lose.”
