Time Travel Omnibus, page 465
“Did you,” he asked me, “always wait at your Doctor’s house till your—er—Brown-eyes returned?”
“Good Heavens, no,” I told him. “She never got back till after eleven—and I had to be at work at seven next day.”
“So your Doctor could say that you left as usual, and he would not be expected to know your future movements. People do disappear from your world, don’t they?”
“But what about my effect on the future?”
He smiled, rather sadly. “You, like a million more of your age, will have no effect at all on the future in a general sense. Remember, the Final War has yet to come, and your Future Probability line, like so many others, ends right there.”
“Oh!”
“Events,” he went on, “like to follow systematically when they can, but often there is a slip. Sufficient slips and the whole programme has to be overhauled—usually by a war, which irons out the inconsequences. Since the time-travel era, we’ve been able to remove that cause for war, I’m thankful to say.”
Well, I suppose I should have been overjoyed at the thought of getting “outside” again, but . . .
I’ve got a smashing job with bags of travel—into the past only; there is no future in this game. I’ve a nice little pre-fab where I—ahem, we—live. And the food—it’s out of this world. Literally. Have you ever tasted Martian Pear? Or had Ki-Ki fruit from Venus as afters?
Then there’s this war. No, I’m much better off in here, and as far as I could see the only way to stay was to do a spot of sequence altering of my own.
This was in November, and I didn’t—or won’t—meet Browneyes until the staff dance in early January. Stop that, and I don’t meet the Doc. If I don’t meet the Doc I don’t do a time-trip, so I—the real I, me—can stay here for good.
If “I” am not working at P.P. in January, then “I” don’t go to the staff dance, but how . . .?
I got the answer the very next day. June and I often amused ourselves by yelling in people’s ears, and watched the look on their faces as they turned to see where the—to them—faint whisper came from. And that gave me an idea.
The next Wednesday evening I went over to the digs at Shepherds Bush and, as I thought, there was “I”, doing what I used to do on a Wednesday—filling in his Pool coupon.
I waited while he did the preliminary form finding, then as he picked up his pen to enter the results on his coupon, I took a deep breath and stepped forward.
Football’s my hobby, and I can tell you, off-hand, most of the present season’s results, to date, so . . .
His pen hovered over the Treble Chance section. No. 1, Aston Villa. But they won at home that week. He, naturally not knowing this, was all set to put a big fat O by the side of them when I took over. “No!” I yelled. “Number 4 . . . 4 . . . 4.”
A strange look came into his eyes, and he hesitated.
“Four . . . 4 . . . 4 . . . you clot,” I yelled, and had the satisfaction of seeing him put Charlton down for a draw.
I went all through the list with him and when I left, with a lovely sore throat, he was £75,000 better off, though he didn’t know it yet. There were only eight draws that week, and he had ’em all.
He’s got a nice little self-contained flat now. Regents Park way, and he doesn’t work at P.P. any more. He’s been in the papers, too, as The Man who did it twice. Yep, two weeks running I gave him an all-correct, and was going to give him another, but the damn’ fool went and joined an Amateur Dramatic Society. The one that Browneyes goes to.
Tonight is Thursday, February 25th, 1954. The Night. June and I are in the Doc’s house, along with the two “observers.” I was laughing to myself coming across for, while he is Browneyes’ “regular,” Thursday being Dramatics night, neither of them should be in.
Mug, however, has a cold or something, and has decided to stay home with the Doc, while Browneyes goes acting alone. So there we are. There’s nothing I can do now except keep my fingers crossed and hope for the best.
If he doesn’t take the rubber mat with him, I’ve got a chance, but if he does. . .
The Doc has just pointed to Jimmy-boy, the cat.
Here it comes.
“Come and see it,” says the Doc.
They leave the room . . .
LETTERS FROM LAURA
Mildred Clingerman
Despite all the technical wonders promised for his future, the essential cantankerous ness of man (and woman) will never change. So, when time travel is established as a very ordinary mode of vacation journeying, you may be sure that any disappointed traveler will blame all discomforts and frustrations, not on himself, but on his travel agent!
Monday
DEAR MOM:
Stop worrying. There isn’t a bit of danger. Nobody ever dies or gets hurt or anything like that while time traveling. The young man at the Agency explained it all to me in detail, but I’ve forgotten most of it. His eyebrows move in the most fascinating way. So I’m going this weekend. I’ve already bought my ticket. I haven’t the faintest idea where I’m going, but that’s part of the fun. Grab Bag Tours, they call them. It costs $60 for one day and night, and the Agency supplies you with food concentrates and water capsules—a whole bag full of stuff they send right along with you. I certainly do not want Daddy to go with me. I’ll tell him all about it when I get back, and then he can go himself, if he still wants to. The thing Daddy forgets is that all the history he reads is mostly just a pack of lies. Everybody says so nowadays, since time travel. He’d spoil everything arguing with the natives, telling them how they were supposed to act. I have to stop now, because the young man from the Agency is going to take me out to dinner and explain about insurance for the trip.
Love,
Laura
Tuesday
Dear Mom:
I can’t afford to go first class. The Grab Bag Tours are not the leavings. They’re perfectly all right. It’s just that you sorta have to rough it. They’ve been thoroughly explored. I mean somebody has been there at least once before. I never heard of a native attacking a girl traveler. Just because I won’t have a guide you start worrying about that. Believe me, some of those guides from what I hear wouldn’t be very safe, either. Delbert explained it all to me. He’s the boy from the Agency. Did you know that insurance is a very interesting subject?
Love,
Laura
Friday
Dear Mom:
Everything is set for tomorrow. I’m so excited. I spent three hours on the couch at the Agency’s office—taking the hypno-course, you know, so I’ll be able to speak the language. Later Delbert broke a rule and told me my destination, so I rushed over to the public library and read bits here and there. It’s ancient Crete! Dad will be so pleased. I’m going to visit the Minotaur in the Labyrinth. Delbert says he is really off the beaten track of the tourists. I like unspoiled things, don’t you? The Agency has a regular little room all fixed up right inside the cave, but hidden, so as not to disturb the regular business of the place. The Agency is very particular that way. Time travelers, Delbert says, have to agree to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Delbert says that will be very difficult for me to do. Don’t you think subtle compliments are the nicest? I’ve made myself a darling costume—I sat up late to finish it. I don’t know that it’s exactly right, historically, but it doesn’t really matter, since I’m not supposed to leave the cave. I have to stay close to my point of arrival, you understand. Delbert says I’m well covered now with insurance, so don’t worry. I’ll write the minute I get back
Love,
Laura
Friday
Dear Mom:
Tomorrow I take my first time travel tour. I wish you could see my costume. Very fetching! It’s cut so that my breasts are displayed in the style of ancient Crete. A friend of mine doubts the authenticity of the dress but says the charms it shows off are really authentic! Next time I see you I’ll lend you the pattern for the dress. But I honestly think, darling, you ought to get one of those Liff-Up operations first. I’ve been meaning to tell you. Of course, I don’t need it myself. I’ll tell you all about it (the trip I mean) when I get back.
Love,
Laura
Monday
Dear Prue:
I had the stingiest time! I’ll never know why I let that character at the travel agency talk me into it. The accommodations were lousy. If you want to know what I think, it’s all a gyp. These Grab Bag Tours, third-class, are just the leavings, that they can’t sell any other way. I hate salesmen. Whoever heard of ancient Crete anyway? And the Minotaur. You would certainly expect him to be a red-blooded he-man, wouldn’t you? He looked like one. Not cute, you know, but built like a bull, practically. Prue, you just can’t tell anymore. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
You’ve heard about that funny dizziness you feel for the first few minutes on arrival? That part is true. Everything is supposed to look black at first, but things kept on looking black even after the dizziness wore off. Then I remembered it was a cave I was in, but I did expect it to be lighted. I was lying on one of those beastly little cots that wiggle every time your heart beats, and mine was beating plenty fast. Then I remembered the bag the Agency packs for you, and I sat up and felt around till I found it. I got out a perma-light and attached it to the solid rock wall and looked around. The floor was just plain old dirty dirt. That Agency had me stuck off in a little alcove, furnished with that sagging cot and a few coat hangers. The air in the place was rather stale. Let’s be honest—it smelled. To console myself I expanded my wrist mirror and put on some more makeup. I was wearing my costume, but I had forgotten to bring a coat. I was freezing. I draped the blanket from the cot around me and went exploring. What a place! One huge room just outside my cubbyhole and corridors taking off in all directions, winding away into the dark. I had a perma-light with me, and naturally I couldn’t get lost with my earrings tuned to point of arrival, but it was weird wandering around all by myself. I discovered that the corridor I was in curved downward. Later I found there were dozens of levels in the Labyrinth. Very confusing.
I was just turning to go back when something reached out and grabbed for me, from one of those alcoves. I was thrilled. I flicked off the light, dropped my blanket, and ran.
From behind I heard a man’s voice. “All right, sis, we’ll play games.”
Well, Prue, I hadn’t played hide-and-seek in years, (except once or twice at office parties) but I was still pretty good at it. That part was fun. After a time my eyes adjusted to the dark so that I could see well enough to keep from banging into the walls. Sometimes I’d deliberately make a lot of noise to keep things interesting. But do you know what? That character would blunder right by me, and way down at the end of the corridor he’d make noises like “Oho” or “Aha.” Frankly, I got discouraged. Finally I heard him grumbling his way back in my direction. I knew the dope would never catch me, so I just stepped out in front of him and said “Wellll?” You know, in that drawly, sarcastic way I have.
He reached out and grabbed me, and then he staggered back—like you’ve seen actors do in those old, old movies. He kept pounding his forehead with his fist, and then he yelled, “Cheated! Cheated again!” I almost slapped him. Instead I snapped on my perma-light and let him look me over good.
“Well, Buster,” I said very coldly, “what do you mean, cheated?”
He grinned at me and shaded his eyes from the light. “Darling,” he said, “you look luscious, indeed, but what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m sight-seeing,” I said. “Are you one of the sights?”
“Listen, baby, I am the sight. Meet the Minotaur.” He stuck out this huge paw, and I shook it.
“Who did you think I was?” I asked him.
“Not who, but what,” he said. “Baby, you ain’t no virgin.”
Well, Prue, really. How can you argue a thing like that? He was completely wrongs of course, but I simply refused to discuss it.
“I only gobble virgins,” he said.
Then he led me down into his rooms, which were really quite comfortable.
I couldn’t forgive the Agency for that cot, so when I spied his lovely, soft couch draped in pale blue satin, I said, “I’ll borrow that if you don’t mind.”
“It’s all yours, kid,” the Minotaur said. He meant it, too. You remember, how pale blue is one of my best colors? There I was lolling on the couch, looking like the Queen of the Nile, flapping my eyelashes, and what does this churl want to do?
“I’m simply starved for talk,” he says. And about what? Prue, when a working girl spends her hard-earned savings on time travel, she has a right to expect something besides politics. I’ve heard there are men, a few shy ones, who will talk very fast to you about science and all that highbrow stuff, hoping maybe you won’t notice some of the things they’re doing in the meantime. But not the Minotaur. Who cares about the government a room’s length apart? Lying there, twiddling my fingers and yawning, I tried to remember if Daddy had ever mentioned anything about the Minotaur’s being so persnickety. That’s the trouble with books. They leave out all the important details.
For instance, did you know that at midnight every night the Minotaur makes a grand tour of the Labyrinth? He wouldn’t let me go along. That’s another thing. He just says “no” and grins and means it. Now isn’t that a typical male trait? I thought so, and when he locked me in his rooms the evening looked like turning into fun. I waited for him to come back with bated breath. But you can’t bate your breath forever, and he was gone hours. When he did come back I’d fallen asleep and he woke me up belching.
“Please,” I said, “Do you have to do that?”
“Sorry, kid,” he said. “It’s these gaunt old maids. Awful souring to the stomach.” It seems this windy diet was one of the things wrong with the government. He was very bitter about it all. Tender virgins, he said, had always been in short supply and now he was out of favor with the new regime. I rummaged around in my wrist bag and found an anti-acid pill. He was delighted. Can you imagine going into a transport over pills?
“Any cute males ever find their way into this place?” I asked him. I got up and walked around. You can loll on a couch just so long, you know.
“No boys!” The Minotaur jumped up and shook his fist at me. I cowered behind some hangings, but I needn’t have bothered. He didn’t even jerk me out from behind them. Instead he paced up and down and raved about the lies told on him. He swore he’d never eaten boys—hadn’t cared for them at all. That creep, Theseus, was trying to ruin him politically. “I’ve worn myself thin,” he yelled, “in all these years of service—” At that point I walked over and poked him in his big, fat stomach. Then I gathered my things together and walked out.
He puffed along behind me wanting to know what was the matter. “Gee, kid,” he kept saying, “don’t go home mad.” I didn’t say goodbye to him at all. A spider fell on him and it threw him into a hissy. The last I saw of him he was cursing the government because they hadn’t sent him an exterminator.
Well, Prue, so much for the bogey man. Time travel in the raw!
Love,
Laura
Monday
Dear Mom:
Ancient Crete was nothing but politics, not a bit exciting. You didn’t have a single cause to worry. Those people are just as particular about girls as you are.
Love,
Laura
Tuesday
Dear Delbert Barnes:
Stop calling me or I will complain to your boss. You cad. I see it all now’. You and your fine talk about how your Agency “fully protects its clients.”
That’s a very high-sounding name for it. Tell me, how many girls do you talk into going to ancient Crete? And do you provide all of them with the same kind of insurance? Mr. Barnes, I don’t want any more insurance from you. But I’m going to send you a client for that trip—the haggiest old maid I know. She has buck teeth and whiskers. Insure her.
Laura
P.S. Just in case you’re feeling smug about me, put this in your pipe and smoke it. The Minotaur knew, I can’t imagine how, but you, Mr. Barnes, are no Minotaur.
MEDDLER
Philip K. Dick
The hardest part of the "preordained” thesis to grasp is that the thesis itself is part of what must and shall be.
THEY entered the great chamber. At the far end, technicians hovered around an immense illuminated board, following a complex pattern of lights that shifted rapidly, flashing through seemingly endless combinations. At long tables machines whirred—computers, human-operated and robot. Wall-charts covered every inch of vertical space. Hasten gazed around him in amazement.
Wood laughed. “Come over here and I’ll really show you something. You recognize this, don’t you?” He pointed to a hulking machine surrounded by silent men and women in white lab robes.
“I recognize it,” Hasten said slowly. “It’s something like our own Dip, but perhaps twenty times larger. What do you haul up? And when do you haul?” He fingered the surface-plate of the Dip, then squatted down, peering into the maw. The maw was locked shut; the Dip was in operation. “You know, if we had any idea this existed, Histo-Research would have—”
“You know now.” Wood bent down beside him. “Listen. Hasten, you’re the first man from outside the Department ever to get into this room. You saw the guards. No one gets in here unauthorized; the guards have orders to kill anyone trying to enter illegally.”
“To hide this? A machine? You’d shoot to—”
They stood, Wood facing him, his jaw hard. “Your Dip digs back into antiquity. Rome. Greece. Dust and old volumes.” Wood touched the big Dip beside them. “This Dip is different. We guard it with our lives, and anyone else’s lives; do you know why?”
Hasten stared at it.
“This Dip is set, not for antiquity, but—for the future.” Wood looked directly into Hasten’s face. “Do you understand? The future.”
