Time Travel Omnibus, page 658
And green and orange and more-than-purple dazzled the sides of his vision. A twist of his insides, a shudder of his mind, and he was back, snatched from death by the inexorable mathematics of the timelid. He felt his whole, unmarred body rushing back, felt every particle, yes, as clearly as when it had been hit by the truck, but now with pleasure—pleasure so complete that he didn’t even notice the mere orgasm his body added to the general symphony of joy.
The timelid lifted. The box was slid back. And Gemini lay gasping, sweating, yet laughing and crying and longing to sing.
What was it like? The others asked eagerly, crowding around. What is it like, what is it, is it like—
“It’s like nothing. It’s.” Gemini had no words. “It’s like everything God promised the righteous and Satan promised the sinners rolled into one.” He tried to explain about the delicious agony, the joy passing all joys, the—
“Is it better than fairy dust?” asked one man, young and shy, and Gemini realized that the reason he was so retiring was that he was undoubtedly dusting tonight.
“After this,” Gemini said, “dusting is no better than going to the bathroom.”
Everyone laughed, chattered, volunteered to be next (“Orion knows how to throw a party”), as Gemini left the chair and the timelid and found Orion a few meters away at the controls.
“Did you like the ride?” Orion asked, smiling gently at his friend.
Gemini shook his head. “Never again,” he said.
Orion looked disturbed for a moment, worried. “That bad for you?”
“Not bad. Strong. I’ll never forget it, I’ve never felt so—alive, Orion. Who would have thought it. Death being so—”
“Bright,” Orion said, supplying the word. His hair hung loosely and clean over his forehead—he shook it out of his eyes. “The second time is better. You have more time to appreciate the dying.”
Gemini shook his head. “Once is enough for me. Life will never be bland again.” He laughed. “Well, time for somebody else, yes?”
Harmony had already lain down on the chair. She had removed her clothing, much to the titillation of the other party-goers, saying, “I want nothing between me and the cold metal.” Orion made her wait, though, while he corrected the setting. While he worked, Gemini thought of a question. “How many times have you done this, Orion?”
“Often enough,” the man answered, studying the holographic model of the timeclip. And Gemini wondered then if death could not, perhaps, be as addictive as fairy dust, or cresting, or pitching in.
Rod Bingley finally brought the truck to a halt, gasping back the shock and horror. The eyes were still resting there in the gore on the windshield. Only they seemed real. The rest was road-splashing, mud flipped by the weather and the tires.
Rod flung open the door and ran around the front of the truck, hoping to do—what? There was no hope that the man was alive. But perhaps some identification. A nuthouse freak, turned loose in weird white clothes to wander the mountain roads? But there was no hospital near here.
And there was no body on the front of his truck.
He ran his hand across the shiny metal, the clean windshield. A few bugs on the grill.
Had this dent in the metal been there before? Rod couldn’t remember. He looked all around the truck. Not a sign of anything. Had he imagined it?
He must have. But it seemed so real. And he hadn’t drunk anything, hadn’t taken any uppers—no trucker in his right mind ever took stay-awakes. He shook his head. He felt creepy. Watched. He glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing but the trees bending slightly in the wind. Not even an animal. Some moths already gathering in the headlights. That’s all.
Ashamed of himself for being afraid at nothing, he nevertheless jumped into the cab quickly and slammed the door shut behind him and locked it. The key turned in the starter. And he had to force himself to look up through that windshield. He half-expected to see those eyes again.
The windshield was clear. And because he had a deadline to meet, he pressed on. The road curved away infinitely before him.
He drove more quickly, determined to get back to civilization before he had another hallucination.
And as he rounded a curve, his lights sweeping the trees on the far side of the road, he thought he glimpsed a flash of white to the right, in the middle of the road.
The lights caught her just before the truck did, a beautiful girl, naked and voluptuous and eager. Madly eager, standing there, legs broadly apart, arms wide. She dipped, then jumped up as the truck caught her, even as Rod smashed his foot into the brake, swerved the truck to the side. Because he swerved she ended up, not centered, but caught on the left side, directly in front of Rod, one of her arms flapping crazily around the edge of the cab, the hand rapping on the glass of the side window. She, too, splashed.
Rod whimpered as the truck again came to a halt. The hand had dropped loosely down to the woman’s side, so it no longer blocked the door. Rod got out quickly, swung himself around the open door, and touched her.
Body warm. Hand real. He touched the buttock nearest him. It gave softly, sweetly, but under it Rod could feel that the pelvis was shattered. And then the body slopped free of the front of the truck, slid to the oil-and-gravel surface of the road and disappeared.
Rod took it calmly for a moment. She fell from the front of the truck, and then there was nothing there. Except a faint (and new, definitely new!) crack in the windshield, there was no sign of her.
Rodney screamed.
The sound echoed from the cliff on the other side of the chasm. The trees seemed to swell the sound, making it louder among the trunks. An owl hooted back.
And finally, Rod got back into the truck and drove again, slowly, but erratically, wondering what, please God tell me what the hell’s the matter with my mind.
Harmony rolled off the couch, panting and shuddering violently.
“Is it better than sex?” one of the men asked her. One who had doubtless tried, but failed, to get into her bed.
“It is sex,” she answered. “But it’s better than sex with you.”
Everyone laughed. What a wonderful party. Who could top this? The would-be hosts and hostesses despaired, even as they clamored for a chance at the timelid.
But the crambox opened then, buzzing with the police override. “We’re busted!” somebody shrieked gaily, and everyone laughed and clapped.
The policeman was young, and she seemed unused to the forceshield, walking awkwardly as she stepped into the middle of the happy room.
“Orion Overweed?” she asked, looking around.
“I,” answered Orion, from where he sat at the controls, looking wary, Gemini beside him.
“Officer Mercy Manwool, Los Angeles Timesquad.”
“Oh no,” somebody muttered.
“You have no jurisdiction here,” Orion said.
“We have a reciprocal enforcement agreement with the Canadian Chronospot Corporation. And we have reason to believe you are interfering with timetracks in the eighth decade of the twentieth century.” She smiled curtly. “We have witnessed two suicides, and by making a careful check of your recent use of your private timelid, we have found several others. Apparently you have a new way to pass the time, Mr. Overweed.”
Orion shrugged. “It’s merely a passing fancy. But I am not interfering with time-tracks.”
She walked over to the controls and reached unerringly for the coldswitch. Orion immediately snagged her wrist with his hand. Gemini was surprised to see how the muscles of his forearm bulged with strength. Had he been playing some kind of sport? It would be just like Orion, of course, behaving like one of the lower orders—
“A warrant,” Orion said.
She withdrew her arm. “I have an official complaint from the Timesquad’s observation team. That is sufficient. I must interrupt your activity.”
“According to law,” Orion said, “you must show cause. Nothing we have done tonight will in any way change history.”
“That truck is not robot-driven,” she said, her voice growing strident. “There’s a man in there. You are changing his life.”
Orion only laughed. “Your observers haven’t done their homework. I have. Look.”
He turned to the control and played a speeded-up sequence, focused always on the shadow image of a truck speeding down a mountain road. The truck made turn after turn, and since the hologram was centered perpetually on the truck, it made the surrounding scenery dance past in a jerky rush, swinging left and right, up and down as the truck banked for turns or struck bumps.
And then, near the bottom of the chasm, between mountains, the truck got on a long, slow curve that led across the river on a slender bridge.
But the bridge wasn’t there.
And the truck, unable to stop, skidded and swerved off the end of the truncated road, hung in the air over the chasm, then toppled, tumbled, banging against first this side, then that side of the ravine. It wedged between two outcroppings of rock more than ten meters above the water. The cab of the truck was crushed completely.
“He dies,” Orion said. “Which means that anything we do with him before his death and after his last possible contact with another human being is legal. According to the code.”
The policeman turned red with anger.
“I saw your little games with airplanes and sinking ships. But this is cruelty, Mr. Overweed.”
“Cruelty to a dead man is, by definition, not cruelty. I don’t change history. And Mr. Rodney Bingley is dead, has been for more than four centuries. I am doing no harm to any living man. And you owe me an apology.”
Officer Mercy Manwool shook her head. “I think you’re as bad as the Romans, who threw people into circuses to be torn by lions—”
“I know about the Romans,” Orion said coldly, “and I know whom they threw. In this case, however, I am throwing my friends. And retrieving them very safely through the full retrieval and reassembly feature of the Hamburger Safety Device built inextricably into every timelid. And you owe me an apology.”
She drew herself erect. “The Los Angeles Timesquad officially apologizes for making improper allegations about the activities of Orion Overweed.”
Orion grinned. “Not exactly heartfelt, but I accept it. And while you’re here, may I offer you a drink?”
“Nonalcoholic,” she said instantly, and then looked away from him at Gemini, who was watching her with sad but intent eyes. Orion went for glasses and to try to find something nonalcoholic in the house.
“You performed superbly,” Gemini said.
“And you, Gemini,” she said softly (voicelessly), “were the first subject to travel.”
Gemini shrugged. “Nobody said anything about my not taking part.”
She turned her back on him. Orion came back with the drink. He laughed. “Coca-Cola,” he said. “I had to import it all the way from Brazil. They still drink it there, you know. Original recipe.” She took it and drank.
Orion sat back at the controls.
“Next!” he shouted, and a man and woman jumped on the couch together, laughing as the others slid the box over their heads.
Rod had lost count. At first he had tried to count the curves. Then the white lines in the road, until a new asphalt surface covered them. Then stars. But the only number that stuck in his head was nine.
9
NINE
Oh God, he prayed silently, what is happening to me, what is happening to me, change this night, let me wake up, whatever is happening to me make it stop.
A gray-haired man was standing beside the road, urinating. Rod slowed to a crawl. Slowed until he was barely moving. Crept past the man so slowly that if he had even twitched Rod could have stopped the truck. But the gray-haired man only finished, dropped his robe, and waved gaily to Rod. At that moment Rod heaved a sigh of relief and sped up.
Dropped his robe. The man was wearing a robe. Except for this gory night men did not wear robes. And at that moment he caught through his side mirror the white flash of the man throwing himself under the rear tires. Rod slammed on the brake and leaned his head against the steering wheel and wept loud, wracking sobs that shook the whole cab, that set the truck rocking slightly on its heavy-duty springs.
For in every death Rod saw the face of his wife after the traffic accident (not my fault!) that had killed her instantly and yet left Rod to walk away from the wreck without a scratch on him.
I was not supposed to live, he thought at the time, and thought now. I was not supposed to live, and now God is telling me that I am a murderer with my wheels and my motor and my steering wheel.
And he looked up from the wheel.
Orion was still laughing at Hector’s account of how he fooled the truck driver into speeding up.
“He thought I was conking into the bushes at the side of the road!” he howled again, and Orion burst into a fresh peal of laughter at his friend.
“And then a backflip into the road, under his tires! How I wish I could see it!” Orion shouted. The other guests were laughing, too. Except Gemini and Officer Man-wool.
“You can see it, of course,” Manwool said softly.
Her words penetrated through the noise, and Orion shook his head. “Only on the holo. And that’s not very good, not a good image at all.”
“It’ll do,” she said.
And Gemini, behind Orion, murmured, “Why not, Orry?”
The sound of the old term of endearment was startling to Orion, but oddly comforting. Did Gemini, then, treasure those memories as Orion did? Orion turned slowly, looked into Gemini’s sad, deep eyes. “Would you like to see it on the holo?” he asked.
Gemini only smiled. Or rather, twitched his lips into that momentary piece of a smile that Orion knew from so many years before (only forty years, but forty years was back into my childhood, when I was only thirty and Gemini was—what?—fifteen. Helot to my Spartan; Slav to my Hun) and Orion smiled back. His fingers danced over the controls.
Many of the guests gathered around, although others, bored with the coming and going in the timelid, however extravagant it might be as a party entertainment (“Enough energy to light all of Mexico for an hour,” said the one with the giddy laugh who had already promised her body to four men and a woman and was now giving it to another who would not wait), occupied themselves with something decadent and delightful and distracting in the darker corners of the room.
The holo flashed on. The truck crept slowly down the road, its holographic image flickering.
“Why does it do that?” someone asked, and Orion answered mechanically, “There aren’t as many chronons as there are photons, and they have a lot more area to cover.”
And then the image of a man flickering by the side of the road. Everyone laughed as they realized it was Hector, conking away with all his heart. Then another laugh as he dropped his robe and waved. The truck sped up, and then a backflip by the manfigure, under the wheels. The body flopped under the doubled back tires, then lay limp and shattered in the road as the truck came to a stop only a few meters ahead. A few moments later, the body disappeared.
“Brilliantly done, Hector!” Orion shouted again. “Better than you told it!” Everyone applauded in agreement, and Orion reached over to flip off the holo. But Officer Manwool stopped him.
“Don’t turn it off, Mr. Overweed,” she said. “Freeze it, and move the image.”
Orion looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and did as she said. He expanded the view, so that the truck shrank. And then he suddenly stiffened, as did the guests close enough and interested enough to notice. Not more than ten meters in front of the truck was the ravine, where the broken bridge waited.
“He can see it,” somebody gasped. And Officer Manwool slipped a lovecord around Orion’s wrist, pulled it taut, and fastened the loose end to her workbelt.
“Orion Overweed, you’re under arrest. That man can see the ravine. He will not die. He was brought to a stop in plenty of time to notice the certain death ahead of him. He will live—with a knowledge of whatever he saw tonight. And already you have altered the future, the present, and all the past from his time until the present.”
And for the first time in all his life, Orion realized that he had reason to be afraid.
“But that’s a capital offense,” he said lamely.
“I only wish it included torture,” Officer Manwool said heatedly, “the kind of torture you put that poor truck driver through!”
And then she started to pull Orion out of the room.
Rod Bingley lifted his eyes from the steering wheel and stared uncomprehendingly at the road ahead. The truck’s light illuminated the road clearly for many meters. And for five seconds or thirty minutes or some other length of time that was both brief and infinite he did not understand what it meant.
He got out of the cab and walked to the edge of the ravine, looking down. For a few minutes he felt relieved.
Then he walked back to the truck and counted the wounds in the cab. The dents on the grill and the smooth metal. Three cracks in the windshield.
He walked back to where the man had been urinating. Sure enough, though there was no urine, there was an indentation in the ground where the hot liquid had struck, speckles in the dirt where it had splashed.
And in the fresh asphalt, laid, surely, that morning (but then why no warning signs on the bridge? Perhaps the wind tonight blew them over), his tire tracks showed clearly. Except for a manwidth stretch where the left rear tires had left no print at all.
And Rodney remembered the dead, smashed faces, especially the bright and livid eyes among the blood and broken bone. They all looked like Rachel to him. Rachel who had wanted him to—to what? Couldn’t even remember the dreams anymore?
