Time Travel Omnibus, page 538
“Did you find the machine?” Bridgemaker demanded.
“I—I’m afraid we failed again, sir. But we did locate another one of its products.” The man handed Bridgemaker the package.
Bridgemaker waved his arm in an angry gesture that included the whole room, “But you’ve already brought me hundreds of its products!” he shouted. “What I want is the machine itself so I can make my own products!”
“I’m afraid, Honorable Bridgemaker, that the machine never existed. Our field men have explored the Pre-Technological Age, the First Technological Age, and the early years of our own age; but even though they witnessed some of the ancient technicians at work, they never caught a glimpse of the machine.”
“But if the ancient technicians could create something without a machine, I could too,” Bridgemaker said. “And since I can’t, the machine had to exist. Go back at once!”
“Yes, Honorable Bridgemaker,” The man bowed and withdrew.
Bridgemaker tore open the package. He glanced at the product, then set the controls on his Language Adjustor, Duplicator and Alterator machine.
While he waited, he brooded on the irony of his life. Ever since he was a small boy he had hungered hopelessly for one vocation. Now that success in a totally different vocation had made him financially independent, he had focused all his energies into the attainment of his first love. But all he’d got for his trouble was a roomful of ancient products, and even though he’d increased his financial independence by duplicating and distributing those products, the basic frustration still remained: he was a secondhand artist and he wanted desperately to be a firsthand artist.
He went over to one of the shelves that wainscoted the room and glanced at some of his vicarious creations: A Farewell to Arms, by Chamfer Bridgemaker. . . Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, by Chamfer Bridgemaker . . . The Odyssey, by Chamfer Bridgemaker . . . Ivanhoe, by Chamfer Bridgemaker—
There was a loud plop! as the first copy Tom Swift and His Electric Locomotive came out of the Language Adjustor, Duplicator and Alterator machine.
Bridgemaker sat down to read his latest masterpiece.
UNBORN TOMORROW
Mack Reynolds
Unfortunately, there was only one thing he could bring back from the wonderful future . . . and though he didn’t want to . . . nevertheless he did. . . .
BETTY looked up from her magazine. She said mildly, “You’re late.”
“Don’t yell at me, I feel awful,” Simon told her. He sat down at his desk, passed his tongue over his teeth in distaste, groaned, fumbled in a drawer for the aspirin bottle.
He looked over at Betty and said, almost as though reciting, “What I need is a vacation.”
“What,” Betty said, “are you going to use for money?”
“Providence,” Simon told her whilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle, “will provide.”
“Hm-m-m. But before providing vacations it’d be nice if Providence turned up a missing jewel deal, say. Something where you could deduce that actually the ruby ring had gone down the drain and was caught in the elbow. Something that would net about fifty dollars.”
Simon said, mournful of tone, “Fifty dollars? Why not make it five hundred?”
“I’m not selfish,” Betty said. “All I want is enough to pay me this week’s salary.”
“Money,” Simon said. “When you took this job you said it was the romance that appealed to you.”
“Hm-m-m. I didn’t know most sleuthing amounted to snooping around department stores to check on the clerks knocking down.”
Simon said, enigmatically, “Now it comes.”
There was a knock.
Betty bounced up with Olympic agility and had the door swinging wide before the knocking was quite completed.
He was old, little and had bug eyes behind pince-nez glasses. His suit was cut in the style of yesteryear but when a suit costs two or three hundred dollars you still retain caste whatever the styling.
Simon said unenthusiastically, “Good morning, Mr. Oyster.” He indicated the client’s chair. “Sit down, sir.”
The client fussed himself with Betty’s assistance into the seat, bug-eyed Simon, said finally, “You know my name, that’s pretty good. Never saw you before in my life. Stop fussing with me, young lady. Your ad in the phone book says you’ll investigate anything.”
“Anything,” Simon said. “Only one exception.”
“Excellent. Do you believe in time travel?”
Simon said nothing. Across the room, where she had resumed her seat, Betty cleared her throat. When Simon continued to say nothing she ventured, “Time travel is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why?”
Betty looked to her boss for assistance. None was forthcoming. There ought to be some very quick, positive, definite answer. She said, “Well, for one thing, paradox. Suppose you had a time machine and traveled back a hundred years or so and killed your own great-grandfather. Then how could you ever be born?”
“Confound it if I know,” the little fellow growled. “How?”
Simon said, “Let’s get to the point, what you wanted to see me about.”
“I want to hire you to hunt me up some time travelers,” the old boy said.
Betty was too far in now to maintain her proper role of silent secretary. “Time travelers,” she said, not very intelligently.
The potential client sat more erect, obviously with intent to hold the floor for a time. He removed the pince-nez glasses and pointed them at Betty. He said, “Have you read much science fiction, Miss?”
“Some,” Betty admitted.
“Then you’ll realize that there are a dozen explanations of the paradoxes of time travel. Every writer in the field worth his salt has explained them away. But to get on. It’s my contention that within a century or so man will have solved the problems of immortality and eternal youth, and it’s also my suspicion that he will eventually be able to travel in time. So convinced am I of these possibilities that I am willing to gamble a portion of my fortune to investigate the presence in our era of such time travelers.”
Simon seemed incapable of carrying the ball this morning, so Betty said, “But . . . Mr. Oyster, if the future has developed time travel why don’t we ever meet such travelers?”
Simon put in a word. “The usual explanation, Betty, is that they can’t afford to allow the space-time continuum track to be altered. If, say, a time traveler returned to a period of twenty-five years ago and shot Hitler, then all subsequent history would be changed. In that case, the time traveler himself might never be born. They have to tread mighty carefully.”
Mr. Oyster was pleased. “I didn’t expect you to be so well informed on the subject, young man.”
Simon shrugged and fumbled again with the aspirin bottle.
Mr. Oyster went on. “I’ve been considering the matter for some time and—”
Simon held up a hand. “There’s no use prolonging this. As I understand it, you’re an elderly gentleman with a considerable fortune and you realize that thus far nobody has succeeded in taking it with him.”
Mr. Oyster returned his glasses to their perch, bug-eyed Simon, but then nodded.
Simon said, “You want to hire me to find a time traveler and in some manner or other—any manner will do—exhort from him the secret of eternal life and youth, which you figure the future will have discovered. You’re willing to pony up a part of this fortune of yours, if I can deliver a bona fide time traveler.”
“Right!”
Betty had been looking from one to the other. Now she said, plaintively, “But where are you going to find one of these characters—especially if they’re interested in keeping hid?”
The old boy was the center again. “I told you I’d been considering it for some time. The Oktoberfest, that’s where they’d be!” He seemed elated.
Betty and Simon waited.
“The Oktoberfest,” he repeated. “The greatest festival the world has ever seen, the carnival, feria, fiesta to beat them all. Every year it’s held in Munich. Makes the New Orleans Mardi gras look like a quilting party.” He began to swing into the spirit of his description. “It originally started in celebration of the wedding of some local prince a century and a half ago and the Bavarians had such a bang-up time they’ve been holding it every year since. The Munich breweries do up a special beer, Marzenbräu they call it, and each brewery opens a tremendous tent on the fair grounds which will hold five thousand customers apiece. Millions of liters of beer are put away, hundreds of thousands of barbecued chickens, a small herd of oxen are roasted whole over spits, millions of pair of weisswurst, a very special sausage, millions upon millions of pretzels—”
“All right,” Simon said. “We’ll accept it. The Oktoberfest is one whale of a wingding.”
“Well,” the old boy pursued, into his subject now, “that’s where they’d be, places like the Oktoberfest. For one thing, a time traveler wouldn’t be conspicuous. At a festival like this somebody with a strange accent, or who didn’t know exactly how to wear his clothes correctly, or was off the ordinary in any of a dozen other ways, wouldn’t be noticed. You could be a four-armed space traveler from Mars, and you still wouldn’t be conspicuous at the Oktoberfest. People would figure they had D.T.’s.”
“But why would a time traveler want to go to a—” Betty began.
“Why not! What better opportunity to study a people than when they are in their cups? If you could go back a few thousand years, the things you would wish to see would be a Roman Triumph, perhaps the Rites of Dionysus, or one of Alexander’s orgies. You wouldn’t want to wander up and down the streets of, say, Athens while nothing was going on, particularly when you might be revealed as a suspicious character not being able to speak the language, not knowing how to wear the clothes and not familiar with the city’s layout.” He took a deep breath. “No ma’am, you’d have to stick to some great event, both for the sake of actual interest and for protection against being unmasked.”
The old boy wound it up. “Well, that’s the story. What are your rates? The Oktoberfest starts on Friday and continues for sixteen days. You can take the plane to Munich, spend a week there and—”
Simon was shaking his head. “Not interested.”
As soon as Betty had got her jaw back into place, she glared unbelievingly at him.
Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself. “See here, young man, I realize this isn’t an ordinary assignment, however, as I said, I am willing to risk a considerable portion of my fortune—”
“Sorry,” Simon said. “Can’t be done.”
“A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,” Mr. Oyster said quietly. “I like the fact that you already seem to have some interest and knowledge of the matter. I liked the way you knew my name when I walked in the door; my picture doesn’t appear often in the papers.”
“No go,” Simon said, a sad quality in his voice.
“A fifty thousand dollar bonus if you bring me a time traveler.”
“Out of the question,” Simon said.
“But why?” Betty wailed.
“Just for laughs,” Simon told the two of them sourly, “suppose I tell you a funny story. It goes like this:”
——
I got a thousand dollars from Mr. Oyster (Simon began) in the way of an advance, and leaving him with Betty who was making out a receipt, I hustled back to the apartment and packed a bag. Hell, I’d wanted a vacation anyway, this was a natural. On the way to Idlewild I stopped off at the Germany Information Offices for some tourist literature.
It takes roughly three and a half hours to get to Gander from Idlewild. I spent the time planning the fun I was going to have.
It takes roughly seven and a half hours from Gander to Shannon and I spent that time dreaming up material I could put into my reports to Mr. Oyster. I was going to have to give him some kind of report for his money. Time travel yet! What a laugh!
Between Shannon and Munich a faint suspicion began to simmer in my mind. These statistics I read on the Oktoberfest in the Munich tourist pamphlets. Five million people attended annually.
Where did five million people come from to attend an overgrown festival in comparatively remote Southern Germany? The tourist season is over before September 21st, first day of the gigantic beer bust. Nor could the Germans account for any such number. Munich itself has a population of less than a million, counting children.
And those millions of gallons of beer, the hundreds of thousands of chickens, the herds of oxen. Who ponied up all the money for such expenditures? How could the average German, with his twenty-five dollars a week salary?
In Munich there was no hotel space available. I went to the Bahnhof where they have a hotel service and applied. They put my name down, pocketed the husky bribe, showed me where I could check my bag, told me they’d do what they could, and to report back in a few hours.
I had another suspicious twinge. If five million people attended this beer bout, how were they accommodated?
The Theresienwiese, the fair ground, was only a few blocks away. I was stiff from the plane ride so I walked.
There are seven major brewers in the Munich area, each of them represented by one of the circuslike tents that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent contained benches and tables for about five thousand persons and from six to ten thousands pack themselves in, competing for room. In the center is a tremendous bandstand, the musicians all lederhosen clad, the music as Bavarian as any to be found in a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds of peasant garbed fräuleins darted about the tables with quart sized earthenware mugs, platters of chicken, sausage, kraut and pretzels.
I found a place finally at a table which had space for twenty-odd beer bibbers. Odd is right. As weird an assortment of Germans and foreign tourists as could have been dreamed up, ranging from a seventy- or eighty-year-old couple in Bavarian costume, to the bald-headed drunk across the table from me.
A desperate waitress bearing six mugs of beer in each hand scurried past. They call them masses, by the way, not mugs. The bald-headed character and I both held up a finger and she slid two of the masses over to us and then hustled on.
“Down the hatch,” the other said, holding up his mass in toast.
“To the ladies,” I told him. Before sipping, I said, “You know, the tourist pamphlets say this stuff is eighteen per cent. That’s nonsense. No beer is that strong.” I took a long pull.
He looked at me, waiting.
I came up. “Mistaken,” I admitted.
A mass or two apiece later he looked carefully at the name engraved on his earthenware mug. “Löwenbräu,” he said. He took a small notebook from his pocket and a pencil, noted down the word and returned the things.
“That’s a queer looking pencil you have there,” I told him. “German?”
“Venusian,” he said. “Oops, sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”
I had never heard of the brand so I skipped it.
“Next is the Hofbräu,” he said.
“Next what?” Baldy’s conversation didn’t seem to hang together very well.
“My pilgrimage,” he told me. “All my life I’ve been wanting to go back to an Oktoberfest and sample every one of the seven brands of the best beer the world has ever known. I’m only as far as Löwenbräu. I’m afraid I’ll never make it.”
I finished my mass. “I’ll help you,” I told him. “Very noble endeavor. Name is Simon.”
“Arth,” he said. “How could you help?”
“I’m still fresh—comparatively. I’ll navigate you around. There are seven beer tents. How many have you got through, so far?”
“Two, counting this one,” Arth said.
I looked at him. “It’s going to be a chore,” I said. “You’ve already got a nice edge on.”
Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like every big State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands, sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people.
The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to find two seats.
The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.
In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!
Eins, Zwei, G’sufa!
At the G’sufa everybody upped with their king-size mugs and drank each other’s health.
“This is what I call a real beer bust,” I said approvingly.
Arth was waving to a waitress. As in the Löwenbräu tent, a full quart was the smallest amount obtainable.
A beer later I said, “I don’t know if you’ll make it or not, Arth.”
“Make what?”
“All seven tents.”
“Oh.”
A waitress was on her way by, mugs foaming over their rims. I gestured to her for refills.
“Where are you from, Arth?” I asked him, in the way of making conversation.
“2183.”
“2183 where?”
He looked at me, closing one eye to focus better. “Oh,” he said. “Well, 2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.”
“New Albuquerque? Where’s that?”
Arth thought about it. Took another long pull at the beer. “Right across the way from old Albuquerque,” he said finally. “Maybe we ought to be getting on to the Pschorrbräu tent.”
“Maybe we ought to eat something first,” I said. “I’m beginning to feel this. We could get some of that barbecued ox.”
Arth closed his eyes in pain. “Vegetarian,” he said. “Couldn’t possibly eat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.”
“Well, we need some nourishment,” I said.
“There’s supposed to be considerable nourishment in beer.”
That made sense. I yelled, “Fräulein! Zwei neu bier!”
Somewhere along in here the fog rolled in. When it rolled out again, I found myself closing one eye the better to read the lettering on my earthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu. Somehow we’d evidently navigated from one tent to another.
