Time Travel Omnibus, page 425
No sooner had I understood this, than I was filled with the wrath of the Lord, and, feeling His hand upon me, spoke words of fire to the lost being before me. I observed that he quailed, although odd as it seems, some of our troop claim to have noticed a slight trace of satisfaction upon his hellish visage. Whereupon he dosed the interview with a question.
“Are you all Christians?” he demanded of me.
I answered, “Yes,” and, rubbing his hands together with an expression of glee he hurried off.
I related all this to my comrades and the Sergeant. The Sergeant then advised us that we contirlue as we had before, saying that no doubt we were not alone at the mercy of the Devil, but that were being somewhat tested by the Lord, and as long as our faith in Him remained steadfast, no harm could surely come from this.
So hath the day past, very decently in praying and godly conversation. From scraps of conversation I have overheard from neighboring cells it becometh apparent that tomorrow we are to be thrown into the ‘Arena,’ which I take to be a devilish word for the pit. So be it. We abide the issue, all of us, with firm faith and quiet hearts. Amen.
March 2, 2631: Dear Diary: What a vexatious group! What on earth shall I do? These Romans seem to be pining away and losing interest in my tests, taking them lackadaisically, if at all. I’m sure I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve given them the most attractive apparatus I can find, different colored little balls and pegs and objects, and brightly-lit shadow cards to study. I’ve piped all sorts of cheerful music into the basement and given them authentic Roman diets of the period and all they wanted to eat. They just don’t seem to have any interest. I can’t imagine what’s wrong.
(From the notebook of Croton Myers) March 2, 2631:
11:02 P.M.:—Dial settings A-26.24, B-5.1, C-2.73779 Calibration check, Vernier check. (Run 73) Found it. Year 65, our calendar, Feb. 22, 10:15 P.M. (approx). Sixteen individuals. Time scar to present date and year. Hole plugged on or about Feb. 27. Structure therefore safe middle late Roman era, disregarding minor time-thread damage which runs out anyway. However—took general check on hunch, and hunch confirmed. There’s another hole even closer to our time. I can tell by the strains on the major time-threads. No time to trace it down now. We’ve got about five hours worth of elasticity in the present time-fabric before there’ll be (a) a time collapse, or (b) an attempt by the fabric to rearrange itself to relieve the strain. Even the rearrangement could do for us. This second hole’s too close to our own period.
I’m no Sherlock, but to me it adds up to only one answer—Bugsomer. I’m going over and see if I can force the information out of him.
The damn fool!
* * *
March 3, 65: TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA: Order your gladiators to stretch out this battle with the Christians. I don’t want a sheep-slaughter. I want some sport. Some running around and excitement. See to it.
NERO, Imp.
March 3, 65: TO THE EMPEROR: Hail Caesar! I will do whatever I can when the time comes. But you know how uncooperative these Christians are. They won’t even pick up their swords and armor. They want to be martyrs. However, I promise that the Emperor will not be disappointed.
(signed) Lictus,
CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA
* * *
Dear Diary: I have no idea what the date is, so I just won’t put any down. If the world goes topsy-turvy, it’s not my fault. I’m all in a flutter. I hardly know where to begin writing.
I guess it all began when that pigheaded Myers came breaking into my house in the middle of the night. Breaking in, literally! My front door was locked, naturally, so he just kicked in a window and walked through it. I was down in the basement with my poor Romans, who hadn’t been sleeping too well lately. I was trying to get them to take some barbiturates, but they seemed afraid to do so for some reason. They preferred to turn and toss on their cushions all night.
Well, at any rate I heard a noise. And then the next thing I heard was his bull voice calling, “Bugsy! Bugsy!” Before I could head him off he was at the top of the steps and clumping down. My poor Romans just stared at him.
“So here you are,” he said triumphantly.
“Is that odd?” I replied. “After all, it’s my house. And, while we’re on the matter, I’d like to know how you got in, and by what right—”
“Oh, shut up,” he said and pointed at my Romans. “Are these the sixteen you stole first?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered coldly. “These are some foreign students from one of my classes. We’re holding a seminar in Roman customs.”
He just snorted, and, ignoring me entirely, turned to the nearest Roman and started jabbering at him in barbarous high-school Latin. I even had trouble following him, but my Roman didn’t. His face lit up and before I could say a word he was telling Myers all about what had happened to them, and the tests I’d been giving them. And right then and there, I learned something about Roman ingratitude. Can you believe it? Those sixteen young fellows weren’t the least bit thankful for being saved from death in the Arena. All that concerned them was the fact that they were homesick. Homesick! For lions and gladiators!
I interrupted and asked my Roman whether he hadn’t been well treated. And he turned on me and said—almost in those very words—that he had—he’d been too well treated. He’d been a hardworking artisan and Christian all his life and it didn’t come natural to him to loll around on cushions and play with children’s toys. He ended up by saying that if I gave him another test he’d ram it down my throat.
Well, after something like that, I was only too glad to get rid of them. I told Myers so and we started up the stairs. Just at that moment there was the most curious shiver—decidedly unpleasant—and we all suddenly found ourselves back at the foot of the stairs again. Myers turned white as a sheet.
He gasped. “Good God, I didn’t think it would start this quickly!”—And I don’t mind telling you, dear Diary, that for a second even I felt a touch of fear.
We hurried, all eighteen of us, across the darkened campus and up to his laboratory. Twice more those curious shivers threw us back a step or two in time, and we had to do things over.
“It’s cracking faster,” said Myers, and herded my Romans into an area marked off by chalk lines on the floor. Myers took me by the arm.
“Listen,” he said, “and listen good, because I don’t have time to say it twice. I’ve got the sixteen Romans waiting in a trigger area. There’s a trip mechanism that will throw them back to their own time the minute there’s an opening for them to fit into. I’m going to stay here and operate the machine. I want you to ride the time-grapple back to the Arena and see that the others—you said they were Roundheads?—and nobody but they get into the time-grapple for transference back to their own time.”
“Me?” I said. “Into the time-grapple. I certainly will not—” Before I could finish he seized me by the shoulders and pushed me into the time-grapple area.
The moment I stumbled across the line the laboratory faded around me. I felt a moment of nausea, and then I was swinging, unsupported and apparently invisible above the royal box in the arena. When I leaned down I was right on a level with Nero himself. I took one horrified look at him, gasped, and turned away.
I looked down in the arena, and saw immediately why Myers had sent me back. The time-grapple would, of course, have to get the Roundheads all on one grab and it would be impossible until they were all close together. I knew that, back in the laboratory, Myers could see me apparently standing on the floor in front of him and his devilish machine. He could also, of course, see Nero and part of the Royal box. I would have to direct him to the Roundheads when the time came.
I looked out in the arena, and groaned. The door to the cells was just opening and the Roundheads were filing out onto the field. The gladiators were already out; the Roundheads were too far dispersed for the time-grapple to grab them.
“Get together, get together!” I cried—but of course they couldn’t hear me as long as I was in the time-grapple field.
Just then Nero spoke up next to my ear, and I could hear him, because of the auditory equipment built into the field.
“My dear,” he was saying petulantly to a thickly powdered, fat-faced woman beside him. “Look at those Christians! And Lictus promised me that I shouldn’t be disappointed. Look how sober and dull they are. They usually come on with their faces lit up, almost exalted.”
“Perhaps,” said the woman, “this group doesn’t feel so much like being martyred. Maybe they’ll run around a bit more.”
I could stand no more of this, and signaled Myers to move the field down toward the Roundheads. The idiots were still too far apart to be picked up and were talking together in that odd, seventeenth century English.
“What think you, Sergeant,” said one fresh-faced youngster, “are we to be put to trial by those armored demons, yonder?”
“It may be, John,” replied the individual addressed as Sergeant.
The young man sighed. “I feel the hand of the Lord strong upon me,” he said. “None the less, had I but my claymore—”
“Fie, John Stowe,” reproved the Sergeant. “Let not your mind dwell upon earthly matters. Look rather upon yon armed demons, with a mind to marking their true natures. See yon demon with the chased shield, which is surely Pride. And the other beside him, whom, by his lean and envious face I clearly read as Covetousness.”
And the Sergeant went on giving names to the various gladiators, so that the other Roundheads became interested and drifted over. I was beginning to have hopes of snatching them up immediately when the Sergeant wound up his little discussion.
“And besides, John Stowe,” he said. “If the Lord wisheth us to have weapons, He surely will provide them.”
AT this moment, an attendant of the Arena leaned over the stone parapet that encircled the field and dropped a bundle of swords and armor.
“What did I tell you?” said the Sergeant.
So they dispersed in the process of putting on the armor, and the chance was lost.
“What’s holding things up?” boomed the voice of Myers in my ear.
“The battle,” I snapped. “They’re supposed to fight those gladiators.”
“What!” yelled Myers. “Stop them. Don’t let them do it. They’ve all got to get back alive.”
“What can I do?” I asked bitterly. “It’s up to the Roundheads.”
And, indeed it was. There is no way of knowing how many lives were depending upon those Round-heads at that moment.
At any rate, there was a toot on a horn, or some kind of signal like that, and off they went.
“Do you take Pride, Stowe,” said the Sergeant. “And so each of the rest of you pick out a cardinal sin. I, myself will take Covetousness.” He lifted his Roman short sword ever his head and shouted like a wild man.
“Now, LET GOD ARISE!” he shouted, and the Roundheads charged toward the enemy.
“I’m moving you back to Nero,” said Myers’ voice in my ear. “Maybe we can put pressure on him somehow.”
I was swooped back to the royal box. But by the time I got there the situation was such that neither of us could think of anything to do. Nero was bouncing around like a fat toad, squeaking at the top of his lungs.
“Why—what—what—” he was squealing. “What are they doing? You Christians, stop it! Stop chasing my gladiators, do you hear me? Stop it! Stop it!”
Somebody blew that silly horn again, and the gladiators stopped, but the Roundheads went right on.
“Guard, thyself, Pride!” the stentorian voice of John Stowe floated up to us in the Royal box. Beside Stowe there was a clang and a thud as the Sergeant decapitated Covetousness.
Gladiators were getting cut to pieces right and left. But not for long. Nero was ordering his own guard out of the stands, down into the Arena.
“I’ve got an idea,” I called to Myers. “Drop me on the field.”
“It better be good,” he grunted. “Or you’ll go the same way they’re going!”
He dropped me. I came into sight of those Romans suddenly, and the shock of my appearance temporarily halted the Praetorian Guard. They looked from me to Nero and back again.
“To me!” I yelled, running over the field, waving my arms. “To me, Roundheads!”
Well, they looked up at the sound of my English voice and, to make a long story short, gathered around in short enough space for Myers to pick them up. The field faded around us . . .
March 3, 65: TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA: I thought I ordered you to produce Christians for slaughter! What devilish magic have you loosed upon Rome under the guise of Christians? I order you to capture those sixteen hell-spawned devils who murdered our gladiators. At once!
NERO, Imp.
March 3, 65: TO THE EMPEROR: My Caesar! I know not how the sixteen Christians escaped from the arena—replacing themselves with sixteen others. I have contacted Papirius, Captain of Police, and he informs me it must be a plot on the part of the Christians for an uprising throughout the City. I believe the missing sixteen are in hiding. My Guard will be ordered out at once to apprehend them.
(signed) Lictus,
CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA
March 3, 65: TO CAPTAIN OF TOLICE: I have at hand information from Lictus, Captain of the Arena, concerning the plot of the Christians to overthrow Roman rule with today’s events in the Arena as a signal for insurrection. Drastic action must be taken. Burn out every festhole in Rome where the Christians are massed. At once!
NERO, Imp.
March 3, 65: TO THE EMPEROR: Hail, Caesar! Your command has been obeyed. Even now the Christians burn in their catacombs!
(signed) Papirius,
CAPTAIN OF POLICE
March 3, 65: TO THE CAPTAIN OF POLICE: Are you mad, you fool? By whose authority have you put the torch to Rome? The flames are spreading throughout the city—underground—and already are at the arena dungeons! Send help to quench the fires!
Lictus,
CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA
March 3, 65: TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE ARENA: Don’t call me a fool, you idiot! How was I to know the fire would spread through the catacombs! I can’t send you any men. I’m appealing to the Emperor for help myself. The fires are getting beyond control!
Papirius,
CAPTAIN OF POLICE
March 3, 65: TO THE EMPEROR: Mighty Caesar! The Christians have turned the fires against us and our city is in danger of being consumed. What shall we do?
(signed) Papirius,
CAPTAIN OF POLICE
March 3, 65: TO THE CAPTAIN OF POLICE: You imbecile! I order you to burn out the Christians and you set fire to the entire city! Already my palace is on fire! Consider yourself under arrest! Report to me after you have the flames under control. Or perhaps you’d prefer throwing yourself into the closest inferno and cheat me of the pleasure of roasting you alive later!
NERO, Imp.
March 3, 65: TO THE EMPEROR: The city is engulfed, my Caesar! I shall die fighting the flames. But what of you, my Emperor? I shall pray to the Gods that you be spared my fate.
(signed) Papirius,
CAPTAIN OF POLICE
March 3, 65: TO THE EX-CAPTAIN OF POLICE: The Gods be damned—I’m getting the hell out of Rome!
NERO, Imp.
* * *
April 1, 2631: Dear Diary: Myers has seen to it for my transfer. Oh, he’s clever and all that to keep the fact hidden that I used the time-grapple. But I can’t see what all the fuss is about. We corrected the time stress before anything critical could happen. The way he carries on you’d think we did something (I, that is) that would go down in history. A ridiculous thought, but then Myers is a physicist and you know what suspicious natures they have . . . I often wonder though how the games did turn out that afternoon . . .
THE END
BUTTON, BUTTON
Isaac Asimov
Even the Old Professor Could Not Foresee the Past!
IT WAS the tuxedo that fooled me and for two seconds I didn’t recognize him. To me, he was just a possible client, the first that had whiffed my way in a week—and he looked beautiful.
Even wearing a tuxedo at 9:45 A.M. he looked beautiful. Six inches of bony wrist and ten inches of knobbly hand continued on where his sleeve left off; the top of his socks and the bottom of his trousers did not quite join forces; still he looked beautiful.
Then I looked at his face and it wasn’t a client at all. It was my uncle Otto.
Beauty ended. As usual, my uncle Otto’s face looked like a bloodhound that had just been kicked in the rump by his best friend.
I wasn’t very original in my reaction.
I said, “Uncle Otto!”
You’d know him too, if you saw that face. When he was featured on the cover of Time about five years ago (it was either ’57 or ’58), 204 readers by count wrote in to say that they would never forget that face. Most added comments concerning nightmares. If you want my uncle Otto’s full name, it’s Otto Schlemmelmayer. But don’t jump to conclusions. He’s my mother’s brother. My own name is Smith.
He said, “Harry, my boy,” and groaned.
Interesting, but not enlightening. I said, “Why the tuxedo?”
He said, “It’s rented.”
“All right. But why do you wear it in the morning.”
“Is it morning already?” He stared vaguely about him, then went to the window and looked out.
That’s my uncle Otto Schlemmelmayer.
I assured him it was morning and with an effort he deduced that he must have been walking the city streets all night.
He took a handful of fingers away from his forehead to say, “But I was so upset, Harry. At the banquet—”
The fingers waved about for a minute and then folded into a quart of fist that came down and pounded holes in my desk top. “But it’s the end. From now on I do things my own way.”
