Time Travel Omnibus, page 409
As the meal progressed in stately informality Alison laid down a barrage of rapid-fire questions about the manners and modes of existence fifty years hence. She was, Houghton decided, more than living up to advance notices where her militant feminism was concerned, doing rather better than that as to looks and all-a-round attractiveness.
There was about heir a fearless directness of address, a clear-eyed intellectual grasp of new things and ideas, a quick sympathy where her sensibilities were touched. There was also a soft firmness of skin above bone structure sculptured for durability, a fascinating mobility of lips, a coordinated grace of gesture. Houghton had to fight against an impulse to stare at her for embarrassing lengths of time.
“Tell me,” she asked him over the torte flambeau, “has any woman in your time ever swum the English Channel?”
“Old stuff,” he assured her. He told her of Gertrude Ederle in 1926. She was stirred pleasantly and he went on to tell her of women flyers—of Ruth Nichols and Amelia Ehrhardt, of Jacqueline Cochran and the Wasps of World War Two.
“How I’d love to be one of them!” Alison exclaimed fervently. She sighed, then tossed her napkin on the tablecloth and said, “How would you like to go for a drive, Dwight? We have a brand-new Peerless in the carriage house.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” said Houghton, rising with her. He waited in the huge hall while she donned the motorist’s uniform of leather-duster, wide-brimmed hat held on with a shawl, and goggles. And so intrigued was he already by his cousin-once-removed that he actually found her charming even in these.
They went driving together in a swaying ramshackle sputtering conveyance that boasted a rear door and a steering tiller. They traveled over dusty unpaved roads, as remarkable for their multiplicity of trolley tracks and railroad crossings as they were for their lack of highway billboards, hamburger and barbecue stands and filling stations.
Although they frightened one passing carriage horse almost to the point of becoming a runaway, for the most part Houghton found himself enjoying the lack of tempo, the peace and serenity around them. However, he could not escape a certain sense of relief when the Peerless put-putted back into the estate driveway without accident to tires, driving chain or motor.
THAT night at dinner in the large dining room, there were a number of important-looking guests and well-upholstered womenfolk. Houghton found himself being introduced casually as a visiting cousin and did his best to fit into the role.
There was considerable talk around and across the table about President McKinley’s sudden reversal on the tariff, about the new Paris styles, about the aggressiveness of young Vice President Roosevelt. In the latter instance there seemed to be unanimity in feeling that it was a good thing for the country the ex-Rough Rider—and New York City Police Commissioner had been sidetracked into the Vice-Presidential chair.
“Mark my words,” intoned a Senator Something, who tucked his napkin under his chin and dextrously employed a golden toothpick after each of the nine courses. “Mark my words, this young Roosevelt may be a scion of the Patroons but he’s a born-and-bred troublemaker. If it weren’t for the fact that this is generally known and appreciated in Washington I would hate to answer for the President’s safety since he turned against the tariff. The bulk of our industrial leaders are dead set against his new policy—and they are not men to trifle with.”
“McKinley will knuckle under,” I said another huge man with a voice like a sea lion. “It’s the President’s job to serve the people—especially the better element—rather than to lower their standard of living. Why, it’s almost as if Bryan had . . .”
And so it went. There was talk of the death of Queen Victoria and the forthcoming ascension to the throne of the hitherto playboy, Prince of Wales as Edward VII. Apparently it was felt that his mastery of games of chance ought to make him a good ruler.
Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany was brought into the conversation as an example of a man who knew how to run a great nation efficiently—although some of his socialistic ideas were decried. There was talk of Russia and its Czar Nicholas, of the hideous recent debacle of the Princeton football team under a professor-coach by the name of Woodrow Wilson.
“It just goes to show you what happens when a theoretical expert tries to meddle in practical affairs,” said someone.
“Those that can, do—those that can’t, teach,” intoned the Senator piously. “It’s a good thing he only got hold of a football team. Think what such a man would do if he got hold of a country.”
At times, during the long meal, Houghton had the sensation of sitting through a rather dull period movie. He had to keep reminding himself of the desperate seriousness of his mission to prevent semi-somnolent drifting. Later, when he turned in, he had the odd feeling that none of it had happened. For here he was, in his own bed, in his own room. It might have been a dream.
THE sight, first of Jermyn’s ever-sad face at his bedside the next morning, then of Alison’s far more rewarding fresh countenance across the breakfast table, was sufficient to jolt Dwight Houghton back to awareness of reality.
After a crocquet game which developed into another interrogation by his cousin-once-removed, Houghton was summoned again to the Presence. Enoch Dwight regarded him with such open disbelief that for a moment he felt panic stir his diaphragm. Perhaps, he thought, the believers in parallel time-tracks were right. Perhaps in returning to the past, he had returned to a different past, make different by his journeying back into it. Worse, perhaps Amalgamated Wheat had not risen four points as predicted.
But his greatuncle quickly eased his mounting fears. He said, “Young man, I don’t pretend to understand how you did it—but you were right about that little flyer in wheat you suggested yesterday. Mind you, I’m far from convinced that you are who or what you claim. You could have had previous prowledge—pardon the Spoonerism. At any rate you’ll have to provide further proof.”
“At several hundred thousand dollars worth of profit a lick?” Houghton countered. The older man permitted himself a faint shrug and an enigmatic half-smile and Houghton wondered where he had ever got the idea Enoch Dwight was softer than his future reputation.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “Today is Saturday. Copper Plate Rails are going to take a seven-point dive over the weekend. You should know what to do about that, sir. And—oh, yes—Commando will run away with the Belmont Stakes this afternoon. That should be enough for this weekend.”
“It will do nicely, my boy, very nicely indeed,” Enoch Dwight said, indulging in an invisible dry wash. “That is, of course if they work out. By the way, I took a look at this odd-looking egg you seem to have deposited in my grove—before you were awake this morning. You say it brought you here?”
“Right, sir,” said Houghton, again realizing the formidable nature of his adversary. “If you’d care to take a little jaunt into the future with me you might find it—instructive.”
“Not yet, young man, not yet,” said the millionaire. “I hardly think I know you well enough for that—as yet.”
“As you wish,” said Houghton drily. “Don’t forget—Copper Plate Rails to drop, Commando to win the Belmont.”
“I never,” said the older man, “forget anything.”
“No,” Houghton told him as he rose to leave the room, “I don’t believe you do, sir.” He closed the big door softly behind him, found Alison batting crocquet balls on the lawn, walked with her to the time vessel. There he let her get an outline of the future from some of the histories on the shelves in the lounge.
“Oh!” she exclaimed somewhat more than an hour later. “How I’d. love to visit the future—your future. I’d give anything to see the advances women will have made, perhaps—perhaps, even to be a part of their advance.”
“Isn’t it a little early in the game for you to start wanting to make advances—not that I object,” said Houghton. She turned furnace red again and he added, smiling. “In a world of man-woman equality, Alison, you can’t expect to be kept on a pedestal.”
“But I don’t—not really,” she protested. “I—I guess it’s just that I’m not used to it. But I didn’t say I don’t like it.” And, her baldness increasing, “May I have a cigarette?”
“My, aren’t we devils!” said Houghton, mocking her. But he desisted at once lest he hurt her. She sat on the foam cushion of one of the wall-settees, her eyes thoughtful and far away.
“Dwight,” she said finally, “do you suppose that some day I could take a trip to your time? That I could step into your world and find myself able to do something there? I can’t begin to tell you how dull it is—how wasteful—to spend my best years sitting around waiting for some suitable male to offer to marry me.”
“How about me,” Houghton asked her, much to his own surprise. “As far as I know our marriage is perfectly possible—and I ought to be eminently suitable.”
“You’re joking,” she said. “And I’m quite serious.”
“So am I,” he told her and, looking at her, Houghton understood with a sudden surge of emotion that he meant it.
She blushed again—more than he had yet seen her. “I mean—I’m serious about going into the future, Dwight. After all—
“—after all, we hardly know each other,” he finished for her. He frowned, added, “Perhaps we could rig it, Alison. It might be risky but I don’t really see why not if you actually want to.”
“Want to!” she breathed with lips parted. “Dwight, I’d do literally anything to see life fifty years from now—while I am still young.”
“Famous last words,” he told her drily, getting to his feet. “Well, we’ll see what we can do. I’ve got to stick around until I get the whip hand of that unreconstructed father of yours.”
“What’s ‘unreconstructed’, Dwight?” she asked him.
* * *
COMMANDO came in as prophesied to win the Belmont that afternoon and, once the news was learned at the Dwight mansion over the telephone, there was a mild sensation. Alison, who had taken a small flyer herself through the offices of the housekeeper, who knew a man who knew a bookmaker, actually kissed Houghton quickly on the cheek in starry-eyed gratitude when they stood alone in the great hall before dinner.
“You don’t get away with that,” he whispered and pulled her close against him and did a more thorough job.
She pulled gently away after a quick stirring moment of response and said softly, “You meant that, Dwight—didn’t you?”
“So much so,” he told her firmly, “that I’m going to take you into my own era, where we can do it without having all this junk between us.” He brushed disgustedly at the stiff bosom of his borrowed evening shirt, gave a meaningful glance at Alison’s satin clad rigidly-corseted figure.
“Dwight!” she whispered, pleasantly shocked. A soft low murmur of laughter accompanied the exclamation. Houghton made a move to repeat the embrace but they heard her father approaching through the library and drew apart barely in time. The financier regarded them shrewdly but withheld any pointed remarks in favor of routine banalities.
Later that evening Houghton talked at length to his greatuncle—a talk that was continued through the Sunday that followed. From the time vessel he brought books and documents to prove his statements. Bit by bit, deal by deal, he showed Enoch Dwight how the increase of his wealth implied an increase of power—ultimately an increase of behind-the-scenes control in a swiftly-changing and uncertain world.
“You can see what Carnegie and the Guggenheims and the Rockefellers have done with their money,” Houghton told him. He went on to explain the theory of the responsibility of great wealth, to reveal how these great fortunes were used to implement human progress and culture.
Finally he said, “And you can see how the ruling trust you will set up to manage and increase your estate absolutely precludes its power and wealth being employed for any purpose but to gather more power and wealth for itself.”
“Hmmmm,” mused Enoch Dwight with the faint trace of a smile behind his mustaches, “I’m going to take it mough for them, eh, young man? Excuse the Spoonerism, if you will.”
“Certainly,” said Houghton, suppressing a sigh. “You made it extremely tough for them in my world at any rate. Now, if you’ll study these charts I’ve had prepared, you’ll see clearly how application of the power of the estate against the rising international cartels of the nineteen-twenties could be a major factor in preventing the rise of dictatorships following the financial crash of nineteen twenty-nine.”
“You wouldn’t teach an old-timer like me how to suck eggs?” Enoch Dwight inquired with a chuckle. “I understand you well enough, young man—providing that Congress is ever damfool enough to pass the taxes and legal restrictions you say it will.”
“Never fear,—sir—they—will,” Houghton told him bluntly. “And if you want to take a chance on another little bet, lay any odds you can get that the President will be killed by an assassin in Buffalo before the year is out.”
“That sounds reasonable enough,” said Enoch Dwight disinterestedly. Then, “And you say this young Ford and the Wright brothers are persons worth watching? That’s odd—I’ve been thinking that these horseless carriages were just a passing fad.”
Throughout the course of their discussions the younger man patiently explained the curve of the future to his greatuncle, revealing the seeds of growth to come that the decades ahead had already revealed to him. His greatuncle listened shrewdly, nodding now and then, asking occasional shrewd questions, committing his Spoonerisms, never taking notes.
WITH Monday came word that Copper Plate Rails had taken the seven-point drop Houghton had foretold. From then on there was no question of his being believed. The discussions continued through Tuesday and Wednesday. Houghton felt that he was making real progress on his mission.
From time to time Enoch Dwight asked him personal questions—about himself, about Houghton’s parents, about people he knew. He even revealed an increasing curiosity toward the time vessel, although he categorically refused to set foot inside it. His respect for his grandnephew seemed to grow with each passing day.
“I think he’s beginning to see the light,” Houghton told Alison in the time vessel. It was Thursday afternoon and one of their increasingly rare times alone together. “I think I’m going to put it over.”
“Dwight, dear,” the girl said thoughtfully, looking up from one of the volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica in which she had been delving, “do you really believe you can alter the future by changing the past?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t hope to,” he told her. Then, “Why, don’t you?”
“The more I learn about you and your world and what you’re trying to do, the less I think I know about anything,” she replied slowly. “Dwight, I admire you tremendously for this—you’d call it a ‘pitch’—but, honey, I’m a little bit frightened.”
“You’d be pretty subnormal if you weren’t,” Houghton told her reassuringly. “It scares me—and I’ve had fifty years of preparation for it—me and my era, that is.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she replied. “Oh, I hope so!” Then, dropping her eyes and fingering the foam-rubber cushion beneath her, “Dwight, do you think I’d—get by in your world?”
“You’d be a five-ply knockout,” he told her with enthusiasm that brought color to her face. “You’re already beginning to look more like a live girl and less like a period piece. In that dress—if you’d get your hair cut and waved and put on some lipstick—you’d have trouble not winding up on a magazine cover.”
“It’s very daring—this dress—though I don’t suppose it seems so to you,” she said with a smile. Then, “And all I have to do to put this vessel of yours into your laboratory yard is to set the date there on the dial and put the locator to base and press that switch over there?”
“That’s right, Ally,” he told her. “But don’t be getting too many ideas. I don’t want to be responsible for your disappearance. Besides, it isn’t time for you to vanish yet.”
“Why don’t you take me there—right now?” she asked him, her smoky blue eyes alight with excitement. “All you’d have to do whenever we felt like it is bring it back to the now. Then we wouldn’t seem to have been gone from here at all.”
Houghton was tempted. He was turning over the idea in his mind, was on the brink of acceptance—when a buzz from the outside of the vessel made them both jump. With a sigh Houghton went forward and opened the oval port. Jermyn, wearing a faint but distinct look of disapproval, was standing on the grass outside with word that Enoch Dwight wished to see Houghton at once in his study. With a grimace for Alison, Houghton hastened to comply.
“Come on and walk back to the house with me,” he said. But the girl smiled and shook her head and held up the book she had been reading.
“I’ve got to bone up on the styles of nineteen fifty-two,” she told him. “Just in case you give in and take me there.”
He grinned and threw her a kiss and scrambled out of the vessel to where the butler was waiting. They had just reached the gap in the high hedge when a sudden flash of blue light from the trees at their rear stopped Houghton in his tracks. He turned, his face white with tension, knowing too well what had happened. And then he began to run hack through the trees without a word. Jermyn trotted after him at a more dignified pace.
Houghton had just reached the rim of the now-empty clearing when the blue flash came again, temporarily blinding both men. The egg-shaped time vessel reappeared as suddenly as it had vanished. Houghton ran toward it and the oval port opened and Alison came tumbling out of it and into his arms.
ADRY cough from the line of the trees behind them brought them both out of their embrace. Houghton flicked a glance at Jermyn, whose disapproval had mounted to shocking proportions, then glanced at Alison—and felt his own jaw drop.
