Time Travel Omnibus, page 497
“Did anything delay you that night,” I said softly, “just long enough to keep you from getting killed?” I was actually holding my breath, waiting for his answer.
But he only shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said without interest. “I can’t remember.” And his wife said, “I don’t even remember where we’d been.”
I don’t believe—I really don’t—that my Jordan Playboy is anything more than metal, glass, rubber and paint formed into a machine. It isn’t alive; it can’t think or feel; it’s only a car. But I think it’s an especial tragedy when a young couple’s lives are cut off for no other reason than the sheer exuberance nature put into them. And I can’t stop myself from feeling, true or not true, that when that old Jordan was restored—returned to precisely the way it had been just before young Vince McCauley and his girl had raced a train in it back in 1923—when it had been given a second chance; it went back to the time and place, back to the same evening in 1923, that would give them a second chance, too. And so again, there on that warm July evening, actually there in the year 1923, they got into that Jordan, standing just where they’d parked it, to drive on and race that train. But trivial events can affect important ones following them—how often we’ve all said: If only this or that had happened, everything would have turned out so differently. And this time it did, for now something was changed. This time on that 1923 July evening, someone dashed in front of their car, delaying them only two or three seconds. But Vince McCauley, then, driving on to race along beside those tracks, changed his mind about trying to cross them; and lived to marry the girl beside him. And to have a daughter.
I haven’t asked Helen to marry me, but she knows I will; after I’ve graduated, and got a job, I expect. And she knows that I know she’ll say yes. We’ll be married, and have children, and I’m sure we’ll be driving a modern hard-top car like everyone else, with safety catches on the doors so the kids won’t fall out. But one thing for sure—just as her folks did thirty-two years before—we’ll leave on our honeymoon in the Jordan Playboy.
MACHINA EX MACHINA
Willard Marsh
LOCKING THE FINAL RATCHET INTO place, Dr. Veblen sighed in satisfaction. The Time Traveler was completed.
It was housed in a cubicle bearing an eerie resemblance to a telephone booth. Coincidentally enough, shortly after finishing his internship Dr. Veblen had stolen a telephone booth for this precise purpose. Not only did it have the required shape, but there were a number of salvageable items—magnets and things from the receiver, wire and whatnot—whose individual costs were trifling, but added up to a significant saving. Later of course, when he came into his inheritance, Dr. Veblen had sent the telephone company a check to reimburse them.
His legacy had come as a complete surprise. He had always known his grandmother to be a thrifty woman, subsisting on peanut butter sandwiches and weaving her own clothing, but he’d had no idea she would be worth close to three hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars (after the inheritance tax). However, the windfall had enabled Dr. Veblen to give up his practice and work full time on the Traveler.
Even so, it had been a rugged go. The time and the expenses had been enormous. He had been a young man of thirty then. Now he was almost fifty, and the twenty years of labor and research had consumed his entire inheritance. But it was worth it. There in the center of the basement, as proof of his winning through, stood the Time Traveler ready for its trial run.
Dr. Veblen glanced down at the skilled surgeon’s hands that had made a boy’s dream of adventure come true. He had no M.D. to place behind his name. He wasn’t even a doctor by the harsh definition that the state insisted on. But tree surgeons are people too, he thought in quiet pride, and we too can reach for the stars.
Upstairs, he could hear Isolde banging around as she packed her bags for the weekend. She’d been a trifle edgy for the last fifteen years or so, and this visit to her mother might be just the thing to bring the roses back into those good gray cheeks. Dr. Veblen thought of telling her the exciting news, then remembered that her enthusiasm for time travel was somewhat limited these days.
Presently he heard Isolde cross to the basement stairs.
“The cab is here,” she called down sullenly.
“Bon voyage, angelloaf!”
“There’s some cold giblets in the bread box, and your other shirt is on the line.”
“Roger, snookiebird!”
He heard her sniff suspiciously. “I’ll be back Tuesday, so keep your mittens clean.”
Dr. Veblen waited till the front door slammed behind her. Then he did a little goatish caper in the dusk. The moment had arrived. Now for the first time he wondered where, in the infinity that awaited his choosing, it might be best to visit.
The past had no particular value. It was already accomplished and gathering dust in the historian’s archives. The future, on the other hand, was unpredictable and full of hazards. Still, it might be nice to take a stroll beyond the present, just to see what it was like. Today was Friday, and he’d have to return before Isolde did.
With his imagination aflame, Dr. Veblen dropped the metal contact in the slot, waited till he heard the dial tone, then spun the selector for next Tuesday.
The booth clouded over—then disappeared. Dr. Veblen looked around, wondering where the Time Traveler had gone. Then he realized that it now existed in the past. It couldn’t be here in the future with him unless he’d built a separate machine to project it. Mulling over this interesting complication, he surveyed the basement. There was no particular change, except that it was morning now. Humming cheerfully, he took the stairs at a trot, strolled through the empty house and stepped outside.
On the porch, Dr. Veblen savored the air of what, till a few moments ago in subjective time, would have still been next Tuesday. Then he stooped for the morning paper and ran his eyes complacently over the dateline. Tuesday, February 14. Valentine’s Day, wasn’t it? And what better way could he commemorate it than by letting Isolde know, when she got in, the magnitude of what he had accomplished with grandmother’s inheritance.
Glancing through the paper over his breakfast (the giblets were a little gamy—but good). Dr. Veblen became aware of a persistent nagging doubt. Just because the Time Traveler hadn’t accompanied him into the future still didn’t quite explain the reason for its total disappearance. He began making rapid calculations on a napkin. He’d just completed them when Isolde let herself inside and dumped her bags in the hall.
She came into the kitchen, kissed him and poured a cup of coffee.
“Have a nice weekend, dear?” she asked.
Before he could reply the phone rang. Isolde went to answer it.
Now Dr. Veblen knew the reason why the Time Traveler had vanished. It was a little staggering in its implications, but the figures were irrefutable. Newton’s laws applied to time as well as space. For every action there was an opposite and equal reaction. Consequently last Friday, when he had shot himself four days ahead to Tuesday—the Traveler had recoiled and shot himself four days back to the preceding Monday. Therefore it wasn’t there on Friday in the first place. And therefore the experiment had never happened.
“Emergency,” Isolde called. “Party down the street has a eucalyptus that’s a hit-and-run victim. Can you come at once?”
It was good to be back in harness again.
THE MAN WHO CAME EARLY
Poul Anderson
YES, WHEN A MAN GROWS OLD HE has heard so much that is strange there’s little more can surprise him. They say the king in Miklagard has a beast of gold before his high seat which stands up and roars. I have it from Eilif Eiriksson, who served in the guard down there, and he is a steady fellow when not drunk. He has also seen the Greek fire used, it burns on water.
So, priest, I am not unwilling to believe what you say about the White Christ. I have been in England and France myself, and seen how the folk prosper. He must be a very powerful god, to ward so many realms . . . and did you say that everyone who is baptized will be given a white robe? I would like to have one. They mildew, of course, in this cursed wet Iceland weather, but a small sacrifice to the house-elves should—No sacrifices? Come now! I’ll give up horseflesh if I must, my teeth not being what they were, but every sensible man knows how much trouble the elves make if they’re not fed.
. . . Well, let’s have another cup and talk about it. How do you like the beer? It’s my own brew, you know. The cups I got in England, many years back. I was a young man then . . . time goes, time goes. Afterward I came back and inherited this my father’s steading, and have not left it since. Well enough to go in viking as a youth, but grown older you see where the real wealth lies: here, in the land and the cattle.
Stoke up the fires, Hjalti. It’s growing cold. Sometimes I think the winters are colder than when I was a boy. Thor brand of the Salmondale says so, but he believes the gods are angry because so many are turning from them. You’ll have trouble winning Thor brand over, priest. A stubborn man. Myself I am open-minded, and willing to listen at least.
. . . Now, then. There is one point on which I must correct you. The end of the world is not coming in two years. This I know.
And if you ask me how I know, that’s a very long tale, and in some ways a terrible one. Glad I am to be old, and safely in the earth before that great tomorrow comes. It will be an eldritch time before the frost giants march . . . oh, very well, before the angel blows his battle horn. One reason I hearken to your preaching is that I know the White Christ will conquer Thor. I know Iceland is going to be Christian erelong, and it seems best to range myself on the winning side.
No, I’ve had no visions. This is a happening of five years ago, which my own household and neighbors can swear to. They mostly did not believe what the stranger told; I do, more or less, if only because I don’t think a liar could wreak so much harm. I loved my daughter, priest, and after it was over I made a good marriage for her. She did not naysay it, but now she sits out on the ness-farm with her husband and never a word to me; and I hear he is ill pleased with her silence and moodiness, and spends his nights with an Irish concubine. For this I cannot blame him, but it grieves me.
Well, I’ve drunk enough to tell the whole truth now, and whether you believe it or not makes no odds to me. Here . . . you, girls! . . . fill these cups again, for I’ll have a dry throat before I finish the telling.
It begins, then, on a day in early summer, five years ago. At that time, my wife Ragnhild and I had only two unwed children still living with us: our youngest son Helgi, of seventeen winters, and our daughter Thorgunna, of eighteen. The girl, being fair, had already had suitors. But she refused them, and I am not a man who would compel his daughter. As for Helgi, he was ever a lively one, good with his hands but a breackneck youth. He is now serving in the guard of King Olaf of Norway. Besides these, of course, we had about ten housefolk—two Irish thralls, two girls to help with the women’s work, and half a dozen hired carles. This is not a small steading.
You have not seen how my land lies. About two miles to the west is the bay; the thorps at Reykjavik are about five miles south. The land rises toward the Long Jokull, so that my acres are hilly; but it’s good hay-land, and there is often driftwood on the beach. I’ve built a shed there for it, as well as a boathouse.
There had been a storm the night before, so Helgi and I were going down to look for drift. You, coming from Norway, do not know how precious wood is to us Icelanders, who have only a few scrubby trees and must bring all our timber from abroad. Back there men have often been burned in their houses by their foes, but we count that the worst of deeds, though it’s not unknown.
I was on good terms with my neighbors, so we took only hand-weapons. I my ax, Helgi a sword, and the two carles we had with us bore spears. It was a day washed clean by the night’s fury, and the sun fell bright on long wet grass. I saw my garth lying rich around its courtyard, sleek cows and sheep, smoke rising from the roofhole of the hall, and knew I’d not done so ill in my lifetime. My son Helgi’s hair fluttered in the low west wind as we left the steading behind a ridge and neared the water. Strange how well I remember all which happened that day, somehow it was a sharper day than most.
When we came down to the strand, the sea was beating heavy, white and gray out to the world’s edge. A few gulls flew screaming above us, frightened off a cod washed up onto the shore. I saw there was a litter of no few sticks, even a baulk of timber . . . from some ship carrying it that broke up during the night, I suppose. That was a useful find, though as a careful man I would later sacrifice to be sure the owner’s ghost wouldn’t plague me.
We had fallen to and were dragging the baulk toward the shed when Helgi cried out. I ran for my ax as I looked the way he pointed. We had no feuds then, but there are always outlaws.
This one seemed harmless, though. Indeed, as he stumbled nearer across the black sand I thought him quite unarmed and wondered what had happened. He was a big man and strangely clad—he wore coat and breeches and shoes like anyone else, but they were of peculiar cut and he bound his trousers with leggings rather than thongs. Nor had I ever seen a helmet like his: it was almost square, and came down to cover his neck, but it had no noseguard; it was held in place by a leather strap, and I found later that it had no cap beneath it. And this you may not believe, but it was made all in one piece, as if it had been cast, with not a single mark of the hammer!
He broke into a staggering run as he neared, and flapped his arms and croaked something. The tongue was none I had ever heard, and I have heard many; it was like dogs barking. I saw that he was clean-shaven and his black hair cropped short, and thought he might be French. Otherwise he was a young man, and good-looking, with blue eyes and regular features. From his skin I judged that he spent much time indoors, yet he had a fine manly build.
“Could he have been shipwrecked?” asked Helgi.
“His clothes are dry and unstained,” I said; “nor has he been wandering long, for there’s no stubble on his chin. Yet I’ve heard of no strangers guesting hereabouts.”
We lowered our weapons, and he came up to us and stood gasping. I saw that his coat and the shirt behind were fastened with brazen buttons rather than laces, and were of heavy weave. About his neck he had fastened a strip of cloth tucked into his coat. These garments were all in hues of greenish brown. His shoes were of a sort new to me, very well cobbled. Here and there on his coat were other bits of brass, and he had three broken stripes on each sleeve. On the left arm, too, was a black band with white letters, the same letters being on his helmet. Those were not runes, but Roman letters—thus: MP. He wore a broad belt, with a small club-like thing of metal in a sheath at the hip.
“I think he must be a warlock,” muttered my carle Sigurd. “Why else all those tokens?”
“They may only be ornament, or to ward against witchcraft,” I soothed him. Then, to the stranger. “I hight Ospak Ulfsson of Hillstead. What is your errand?”
He stood with his chest heaving and a wildness in his eyes. He must have run a long way. Then he moaned and sat down and covered his face.
“If he’s sick, best we get him to the house,” said Helgi. His eyes gleamed—we see so few new faces here.
“No . . . no . . .” The stranger looked up. “Let me rest a moment—”
He spoke the Norse tongue readily enough, though with a thick accent not easy to follow and with many foreign words I did not understand.
The other carle, Grim, hefted his spear. “Have vikings landed?” he asked.
“When did vikings ever come to Iceland?” I snorted. “It’s the other way around.”
The newcomer shook his head, as if it had been struck. He got shakily to his feet. “What happened?” he said. “What happened to the city?”
“What city?” I asked reasonably.
“Reykjavik!” he groaned.“Where is it?”
“Five miles south, the way you came—unless you mean the bay itself,” I said.
“No! There was only a beach, and a few wretched huts, and—”
“Best not let Hjalmar Broadnose hear you call his thorp that,” I counseled.
“But there was a city!” he cried. Wildness lay in his eyes. “I was crossing the street, it was a storm, and there was a crash and then I stood on the beach and the city was gone!”
“He’s mad,” said Sigurd, backing away. “Be careful . . . if he starts to foam at the mouth, it means he’s going berserk.”
“Who are you?” babbled the stranger. “What are you doing in those clothes? Why the spears?”
“Somehow,” said Helgi,” he does not sound crazed—only frightened and bewildered. Something evil has happened to him.”
“I’m not staying near a man under a curse!” yelped Sigurd, and started to run away.
“Come back!” I bawled. “Stand where you are or I’ll cleave your louse-bitten head!”
That stopped him, for he had no kin who would avenge him; but he would not come closer. Meanwhile the stranger had calmed down to the point where he could at least talk evenly.
“Was it the aitchbomb?” He asked. “Has the war started?”
He used that word often, aitchbomb, so I know it now, though unsure of what it means. It seems to be a kind of Greek fire. As for the war, I knew not which war he meant, and told him so.
“There was a great thunderstorm last night,” I added. “And you say you were out in one too. Perhaps Thor’s hammer knocked you from your place to here.”
“But where is here?” he replied. His voice was more dulled than otherwise, now that the first terror had lifted.
“I told you. This is Hillstead, which is on Iceland.”
“But that’s where I was!” he mumbled. “Reykjavik . . . what happened? Did the aitchbomb destroy everything while I was unconscious?”
