Time Travel Omnibus, page 477
Her dress was of black velvet slashed with cloth of silver, the square low-cut bodice divulging satin breasts, round, small and erect. The skirt was looped back and held with jewelled brooches in order to display a rich underskirt.
The vision was of medium height and rather plump, but oh, the radiant and enchanting freshness of her, the flesh pulsing with blood and fife, a Giorgione theme carried out by Ruters.
It was her first faltering step backwards, the glaze of terror in those dark expressive eyes, that triggered off the man in me. I leapt off the platform in a blaze of righteous fury en route for the connecting door. Swanson grabbed at my arm.
“What’s biting you, Jim? Are you crazy?”
I wrenched myself free, spluttering with rage.
“It’s—it’s downright indecent—you and your filthy box of tricks. It’s like watching a rabbit in a gin trap.”
“But you can’t go in there, man, tampering with the unknown. I forbid it, forbid it absolutely. Do you hear me, Jim?”
“Try stopping me,” I snarled, and I was up the steps and through the door, Swanson howling like an off-key banshee after me.
God knows what effect I had on the girl, dressed as I was in my outlandish clothes, but at least the shape was familiar. I advanced slowly towards her, coaxingly, tenderly, words of comfort soft on my lips.
Swanson was up at the peephole now, his voice a high falsetto, spitting down a frenzy of threats and entreaties.
“Jim . . . I warn you, Jim . . . Be sensible, and come on up out of there before you ruin everything.”
The girl stood her ground, rigid, tense as a sleep-walker, her eyes white-rimmed with fear, that lovely mouth moaning softly.
“Get back, you fool. Get back, I say . . . I’ll give you one more chance, Jim . . . So help me, I’ll press the return button . . . I mean it, Jim—for God’s sake, Jim.”
A small, dimpled hand fluttered up to her throat, she swayed, her eyes closed—but I was there to catch her as she fell. Simultaneously, a blood-red rose exploded deafeningly in my head and I floated a million miles up, watching the petals sinking, sinking . . .
And that is why I am sitting here in a great draughty anteroom, the Salon de l’Oelil de boeuf, at the Chateau de Versailles, my legs tucked under a small table and a quill pen in my hand, writing down this story. An Englishman of the Atomic Age at the Court of Louis XIV, the fabulous Sun King—lionised and feted, and the confidant of that old gossip, Louis de Rouvray, Ducde Saint-Simon. Oh yes, and the husband-to-be of my charming, fellow space-time traveller, the Comtesse d’Ayen.
SERVICE CALL
Philip K. Dick
IT WOULD BE WISE to explain what Courtland was doing just before the doorbell rang.
In his swank apartment on Leavenworth Street where Russian Hill drops to the flat expanse of North Beach and finally to the San Francisco Bay itself, David Courtland sat hunched over a series of routine reports, a week’s file of technical data dealing with the results of the Mount Diablo tests. As research director for Pesco Paints, Courtland was concerning himself with the comparative durability of various surfaces manufactured by his company. Treated shingles had baked and sweated in the California heat for five hundred and sixty-four days. It was now time to see which pore-filler withstood oxidation, and to adjust production schedules accordingly.
Involved with his intricate analytical data, Courtland at first failed to hear the bell. In the corner of the living room his high-fidelity Bogen amplifier, turntable, and speaker were playing a Schumann symphony. His wife, Fay, was doing the dinner dishes in the kitchen. The two children, Bobby and Ralf, were already in their bunk beds, asleep. Reaching for his pipe, Courtland leaned back from the desk a moment, ran a heavy hand through his thinning gray hair . . . and heard the bell.
“Damn,” he said. Vaguely, he wondered how many times the demure chimes had sounded; he had a dim subliminal memory of repeated attempts to attract his attention. Before his tired eyes the mass of report sheets wavered and receded. Who the hell was it? His watch read only nine-thirty; he couldn’t really complain, yet.
“Want me to get it?” Fay called brightly from the kitchen.
“I’ll get it.” Wearily, Courtland got to his feet, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and plodded across the room, past the couch, floor lamp, magazine rack, the phonograph, the bookcase, to the door. He was a heavy-set middle-aged technologist, and he didn’t like people interrupting his work.
In the halls stood an unfamiliar visitor. “Good evening, sir,” the visitor said, intently examining a clipboard; “I’m sorry to bother you.”
Courtland glared sourly at the young man. A salesman, probably. Thin, blond-haired, in a white shirt, bow tie, single-breasted blue suit, the young man stood gripping his clipboard in one hand and a bulging black suitcase with the other. His bony features were set in an expression of serious concentration. There was an air of studious confusion about him; brow wrinkled, lips tight together, the muscles of his cheeks began to twitch into overt worry. Glancing up he asked, “Is this 1846 Leavenworth? Apartment 3A?”
“That’s right,” Courtland said, with the infinite patience due a dumb animal.
The taut frown on the young man’s face relaxed a trifle. “Yes, sir,” he said, in his urgent tenor. Peering past Courtland into the apartment, he said, “I’m sorry to bother you in the evening when you’re working, but as you probably know we’ve been pretty full up the last couple of days. That’s why we couldn’t answer your call sooner.”
“My call?” Courtland echoed. Under his unbuttoned collar, he was beginning to glow a dull red. Undoubtedly something Fay had got him mixed up in; something she thought he should look into, something vital to gracious living. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “Come to the point.”
The young man flushed, swallowed noisily, tried to grin, and then hurried on huskily, “Sir, I’m the repairman you asked for; I’m here to fix your swibble.”
The facetious retort that came to Courtland’s mind was one that later on he wished he had used. “Maybe,” he wished he had said, “I don’t want my swibble fixed. Maybe I like my swibble the way it is.” But he didn’t say that. Instead, he blinked, pulled the door in slightly, and said, “My what!”
“Yes, sir,” the young man persisted. “The record of your swibble installation came to us as a matter of course. Usually we make an automatic adjustment inquiry, but your call preceded that—so I’m here with complete service equipment. Now, as to the nature of your particular complaint . . .” Furiously, the young man pawed through the sheaf of papers on his clipboard. “Well, there’s no point in looking for that; you can tell me orally. As you probably know, sir, we’re not officially a part of the vending corporation . . . we have what is called an insurance-type coverage that comes into existence automatically, when your purchase is made. Of course, you can cancel the arrangement with us.” Feebly, he tried a joke. “I have heard there’re a couple of competitors in the service business.”
Stern morality replaced humor. Pulling his lank body upright, he finished, “But let me say that we’ve been in the swibble repair business ever since old R.J. Wright introduced the first A-driven experimental model.”
For a time, Courtland said nothing. Phantasmagoria swirled through his mind: random quasi-technological thoughts, reflex evaluations and notations of no importance. So swibbles broke right down, did they? Big-time business operations . . . send out a repairman as soon as the deal is closed. Monopoly tactics . . . squeeze out the competition before they have a chance. Kickback to the parent company, probably. Interwoven books.
But none of his thoughts got down to the basic issue. With a violent effort he forced his attention back onto the earnest young man who waited nervously in the hall with his black service kit and clipboard. “No,” Courtland said emphatically, “no, you’ve got the wrong address.”
“Yes, sir?” the young man quavered politely, a wave of stricken dismay crossing his features. “The wrong address? Good Lord, has dispatch got another route fouled up with that new-fangled—”
“Better look at your paper again,” Courtland said, grimly pulling the door toward him. “Whatever the hell a swibble is, I haven’t got one; and I didn’t call you.”
As he shut the door, he perceived the final horror on the young man’s face, his stupefied paralysis. Then the brightly painted wood surface cut off the sight, and Courtland turned wearily back to his desk.
A swibble. What the hell was a swibble? Seating himself moodily, he tried to take up where he had left off . . . but the direction of his thoughts had been totally shattered.
There was no such thing as a swibble. And he was on the in, industrially speaking. He read U.S. News, the Wall Street Journal. If there was a swibble he would have heard about it—unless a swibble was some pip-squeak gadget for the home. Maybe that was it.
“Listen,” he yelled at his wife as Fay appeared momentarily at the kitchen door, dishcloth and blue-willow plate in her hands. “What is this business? You know anything about swibbles?”
Fay shook her head. “It’s nothing of mine.”
“You didn’t order a chrome-and-plastic a.c.-d.c. swibble from Macy’s?”
“Certainly not.”
Maybe it was something for the kids. Maybe it was the latest grammar-school craze, the contemporary bolo or flip cards or knock-knock-who’s-there? But nine-year-old kids didn’t buy things that needed a service man carrying a massive black tool kit—not on fifty cents a week allowance.
Curiosity overcame aversion. He had to know, just for the record, what a swibble was. Springing to his feet, Courtland hurried to the hall door and yanked it open.
The hall was empty, of course. The young man had wandered off. There was a faint smell of men’s cologne and nervous perspiration, nothing more.
Nothing more, except a wadded-up fragment of paper that had come unclipped from the man’s board. Courtland bent down and retrieved it from the carpet. It was a carbon copy of a route-instruction, giving code-identification, the name of the service company, the address of the caller.
1846 Leavenworth Street S.F. v-call rec’d Ed Fuller 9:20 P.M. 5-28. Swibble 30s15H (deluxe). Suggest check lateral feedback & neural replacement bank. AAw3-6.
The numbers, the information, meant nothing to Courtland. He closed the door and slowly returned to his desk. Smoothing out the crumpled sheet of paper, he reread the dull words again, trying to squeeze some meaning from them. The printed letterhead was:
ELECTRONIC SERVICE INDUSTRIES
455 Montgomery Street, San Francisco 14. Ri8-4456n
Est. 1963
That was it. The meager printed statement: Established in 1963. Hands trembling, Courtland reached mechanically for his pipe. Certainly, it explained why he had never heard of swibbles. It explained why he didn’t own one . . . and why, no matter how many doors in the apartment building he knocked on, the young repairman wouldn’t find anybody who did.
Swibbles hadn’t been invented yet.
After an interval of hard, furious thought Courtland picked up the phone and dialed the home number of his subordinate at the Pesco labs.
“I don’t care,” he said carefully, “what you’re doing this evening. I’m going to give you a list of instructions and I want them carried out right away.”
At the other end of the line Jack Hurley could be heard pulling himself angrily together. “Tonight? Listen, Dave, the company isn’t my mother—I have some life of my own. If I’m supposed to come running down—”
“This has nothing to do with Pesco. I want a tape recorder and a movie camera with infrared lens. I want you to round up a legal stenographer. I want one of the company electricians—you pick him out, but get the best. And I want Anderson from the engineering room. If you can’t get him, get any of our designers. And I want somebody off the assembly line; get me some old mechanic who knows his stuff. Who really knows machines.”
Doubtfully, Hurley said, “Well, you’re the boss; at least, you’re boss of research. But I think this will have to be cleared with the company. Would you mind if I went over your head and got an okay from Pesbroke?”
“Go ahead.” Courtland made a quick decision. “Better yet, I’ll call him myself; he’ll probably have to know what’s going on.”
“What is going on?” Hurley demanded curiously. “I never heard you sound this way before . . . has somebody brought out a self-spraying paint?”
Courtland hung up the phone, waited out a torturous interval, and then dialed his superior, the owner of Pesco Paint.
“You have a minute?” he asked tightly, when Pesbroke’s wife had roused the white-haired old man from his after-dinner nap and got him to the phone. “I’m mixed up in something big; I want to talk to you about it.”
“Has it got to do with paint?” Pesbroke muttered, half humorously, half seriously. “If not—”
Courtland interrupted him. Speaking slowly, he gave a full account of his contact with the swibble repairman.
When Courtland had finished, his employer was silent. “Well,” Pesbroke said finally, “I guess I could go through some kind of routine. But you’ve got me interested. All right, I’ll buy it. But,” he added quietly, “if this is an elaborate time-waster, I’m going to bill you for the use of the men and equipment.”
“By time-waster, you mean if nothing profitable comes out of this?”
“No,” Pesbroke said. “I mean, if you know it’s a fake; if you’re consciously going along with a gag. I’ve got a migraine headache and I’m not going along with a gag. If you’re serious, if you really think this might be something, I’ll put the expenses on the company books.”
“I’m serious,” Courtland said. “You and I are both too damn old to play games.”
“Well,” Pesbroke reflected, “the older you get, the more you’re apt to go off the deep end; and this sounds pretty deep.” He could be heard making up his mind. “I’ll telephone Hurley and give him the okay. You can have whatever you want . . . I suppose you’re going to try to pin this repairman down and find out what he really is.”
“That’s what I want to do.”
“Suppose he’s on the level . . . what then?”
“Well,” Courtland said cautiously, “then I want to find out what a swibble is. As a starter. Maybe after that—”
“You think he’ll be back?”
“He might be. He won’t find the right address; I know that. Nobody in this neighborhood called for a swibble repairman.”
“What do you care what a swibble is? Why don’t you find out how he got from his period back here?”
“I think he knows what a swibble is—and I don’t think he knows how he got here. He doesn’t even know he’s here.”
Pesbroke agreed. “That’s reasonable. If I come over, will you let me in? I’d sort of enjoy watching.”
“Sure,” Courtland said, perspiring, his eye on the closed door to the hall.
“But you’ll have to watch from the other room. I don’t want anything to foul this up . . . we may never have another chance like this.”
Grumpily, the jury-rigged company team filed into the apartment and stood waiting for Courtland to instruct. Jack Hurley, in aloha sports shirt, slacks, and crepe-soled shoes, clodded resentfully over to Courtland and waved his cigar in his face. “Here we are; I don’t know what you told Pesbroke, but you certainly pulled him along.” Glancing around the apartment, he asked, “Can I assume we’re going to get the pitch now? There’s not much these people can do unless they understand what they’re after.”
In the bedroom doorway stood Courtland’s two sons, eyes half-shut with sleep. Fay nervously swept them up and herded them back into the bedroom. Around the living room the various men and women took up uncertain positions, their faces registering outrage, uneasy curiosity, and bored indifference. Anderson, the designing engineer, acted aloof and blasé. MacDowell, the stoop-shouldered, pot-bellied lathe operator, glared with proletarian resentment at the expensive furnishings of the apartment, and then sank into embarrassed apathy as he perceived his own work boots and grease-saturated pants. The recording specialist was trailing wire from his microphones to the tape recorder set up in the kitchen. A slim young woman, the legal stenographer, was trying to make herself comfortable in a chair in the corner. On the couch, Parkinson, the plant emergency electrician, was glancing idly through a copy of Fortune.
“Where’s the camera equipment?” Courtland demanded.
“Coming,” Hurley answered. “Are you trying to catch somebody trying out the old Spanish Treasure bunco?”
“I wouldn’t need an engineer and an electrician for that,” Courtland said dryly. Tensely, he paced around the living room. “Probably he won’t even show up; he’s probably back in his own time, by now, or wandering around God knows where.”
“Who?” Hurley shouted, puffing gray cigar smoke in growing agitation. “What’s going on?”
“A man knocked on my door,” Courtland told him briefly. “He talked about some machinery, equipment I never heard of. Something called a swibble.”
Around the room blank looks passed back and forth.
“Let’s guess what a swibble is,” Courtland continued grimly. “Anderson, you start. What would a swibble be?”
Anderson grinned. “A fish hook that chases down fish.”
Parkinson volunteered a guess. “An English car with only one wheel.”
Grudgingly, Hurley came next. “Something dumb. A machine for house-breaking pets.”
“A new plastic bra,” the legal stenographer suggested.
“I don’t know,” MacDowell muttered resentfully. “I never heard of anything like that.”
“All right,” Courtland agreed, again examining his watch. He was getting close to hysteria; an hour had passed and there was no sign of the repairman. “We don’t know; we can’t even guess. But someday, nine years from now, a man named Wright is going to invent a swibble, and it’s going to become big business. People are going to make them; people are going to buy them and pay for them; repairmen are going to come around and service them.”
