Time Travel Omnibus, page 806
“Tired?” ventured Arnold.
Michael nodded. “Long trip,” he rasped. “Good one, though.” They hugged.
“Mmm,” said Arnold, pulling away after a second. “Michael, I would like you to meet Henry Angel, himself. Mr. Angel, this is Michael Davis, your number one fan, I am sure.”
Henry reached out a hand to shake, stared at empty air for a moment as Michael did not proffer his own. Then he dropped his arm and nodded. “Please. Call me Henry.” What the hell is going on here?
“I am delighted to meet you, Henry,” said Michael. “Your life as Captain Maxwell has been an inspiration to me and to tens of millions of other Americans.”
Henry couldn’t take it any longer. “What are you talking about? I played in that stupid show for one fucking episode! No one saw it except for some jerks at the network who decided that it would cost too much and I was too big a risk!”
Both men smiled. Arnold nodded sagely and said, “Experience is every bit as fluid as time, Henry.” This seemed to greatly amuse both of them. Arnold danced that little dance, and Michael jigged for a brief moment as well, though it seemed to tire him out quite quickly.
Episode Six: Henry’s life as it otherwise might have been
With the help of two of his few remaining good friends, Henry was taken to a doctor who saw fit to enroll him in a health spa that specialized in people with Henry’s problem. Three months of intense physical and emotional work paid off, and Henry left the spa drier than he’d ever been since coming to Hollywood.
Rumors stuck like glue, however, and Hollywood would have nothing to do with him, so he left town and moved back home, lived in the basement of his mother’s house on a farm in Sonoma County. By day he did carpentry, working for an old friend of his father’s who built houses. By night, he put together a small community theater, put on some performances that were okay, some that were pretty awful, and a few that were terrific.
In the early seventies some of his roles in some especially atrocious B-grade horror films were rediscovered, and he was invited back to Hollywood to do some work in a few small productions, even some guest spots on some series television. He wanted more, however, and couldn’t attain it.
Resentment of his situation and fear about his true self served to put him back on the downward spiral. Booze showed up again, this time accompanied by cocaine and other drugs.
Henry died of heart failure in 1976, two days after he had begun filming a guest spot in a popular detective series. Seven people attended his funeral.
■ ■ ■
Henry dried up, got some great parts, ended up copping an Oscar for a supporting role, went on to a life of acclaim as a character actor. A few months after coming out of the closet, he died at age sixty-eight, drowned in a boating accident.
Henry stayed in Sonoma County, got the house when his mother died, married his childhood sweetheart, raised a good family, then, still lost in his past and confused about who he really was, blew his brains out in 1972.
■ ■ ■
Henry stayed in Sonoma County, got the house, married his childhood sweetheart, raised a good family, then got a divorce. He died at age eighty-five, his two surviving children at his bedside. The construction company he had built with his father’s old friend was worth tens of millions.
Episode Seven: Why Part Six doesn’t really matter
The explanation is almost more than Henry can bear. He has been flung through time and greeted by people who, while undeniably human, have more than a few weird things counting as strikes against them.
And now he has heard a tale unlike anything he ever expected to hear: Now, in this future, Henry Angel is a hero. Honest to God, bigger than life. Michael and Arnold show him little snippets of television, or at least something very similar to it, shows that concentrate on him, but on a life he never led.
But how could he have led this life? Henry asks this, but the answers are not remotely satisfactory.
It is a fluid life, Arnold says, or a neurologically experiential one. It has been created, says Michael, with the aid of the Net. Michael doesn’t elaborate.
Besides, says Arnold, time is what you make of it. And we are running out of time to make, so we need you here. He pauses, grins, dances a little bit more, and then asks if Henry would like to experience the Net.
Um, delays Henry, does experiencing this net have anything to do with those things in my body and on my head?
Another dance, and then heads nod gleefully, lights and wires bobbing.
Henry turns and runs, not knowing where the hell he’s going, but knowing it has to be away from here.
Episode Eight: Henry’s visit to the big city
and a partial inventory of the things he sees
Buildings. Buildings, buildings, buildings and buildings. Some abandoned machines, look sort of like cars or something. More buildings.
Some streetlights. None of them working, though.
Pavement, cracked and weathered. Weeds growing out of the cracks. No people, no birds, no insects.
The sky, what Henry can see with all the tall buildings (did we mention all the buildings?) in the way, is grey, disturbed, distant and cold.
No sound, aside from a far-off hum, alien and probably unattainable.
Once, maybe, a person, far away down a street, half hidden in shadows. Said person doesn’t respond to shouts, and, exhausted after running and yelling the entire distance, Henry’s arrival at the approximate location reveals nothing.
Except for more buildings.
Episode Nine: The real world
Henry sat on the cold pavement, leaning against one of the grey buildings that marched down the streets like so many monoliths. Shaking from exhaustion and fear, he leaned his head back and watched the sky for a few moments, wondering at the total absence of blue sky, of clouds.
He may have fallen asleep. The new sound seemed to intrude on his dreams first, unsettled visions of dancing Christmas trees and much-needed bottles of beer. A growl superseded that, distant and dream-like at first, then persistent enough to get his attention.
“Henry.”
He blinked his eyes open, stood up with a start. In front of him, on the street, was a vehicle of some sort.
“Henry,” came the voice again. It was Arnold, inside the vehicle.
“What?”
“Oh, thank goodness, it is you. It took me forever to find this cab, and it isn’t hooked up as well as it might have been a few decades ago. Please climb in.” A side door slid open.
“Why? Why should I go back?”
“You can’t go back, Henry. That’s the problem. We pulled you up, but it was a one way trip. You are stuck now, and you’re going to have to live with it.”
Henry shook his head. “Then why’d you bring me here? This is hell!”
Arnold chuckled, a gentle sound this time. “You were in hell before, Henry. You weren’t going to live for much longer. Please climb in and I’ll explain.”
Perhaps relieved to get away from the oppressive bulk of the buildings and from the all-encompassing greyness that surrounded him, Henry complied. He sat down, the door sliding shut behind him. But there was no one else in the vehicle.
“Where are you?” he asked as it started to move.
“Back where I’ve always been,” said Arnold. “That’s why it took so long to find you. I couldn’t track down a cab that was operable. Most of them have just been sitting and rusting for years, decades, centuries even.”
Henry nodded, not exactly sure of what Arnold was saying but not wanting any more details. “You said you’d explain.”
“I did indeed,” said Arnold, his voice coming from in front as well as to the sides. The vehicle grumbled and complained for a second, and then lurched forward. Peaceful piano music played from somewhere behind Henry’s head.
“We live in tough times, Henry. Very difficult for all of us. The world that you knew came to an end a very long time ago, and our struggles to make do have pretty much been for nothing.” The vehicle turned a corner a little too hard. “Sorry about that,” said Arnold. “These mesh controls are old and rusty, and covered with dust and dead bugs. I’m just surprised they were never cannibalized.”
“You were saying . . .” prompted Henry.
“Oh yes. Your future, my past, we fucked up. I won’t go into a litany of things that went wrong. If you want you can do your own investigating when the time comes. Let’s just say that this isn’t a very pretty world.
“People being people, they want to hide from things when they aren’t very pretty. Hiding in your time meant beer, whiskey, that sort of thing. Right?”
Henry nodded. He’d been good at hiding near the end, there. “Well, these days people have stories, events, whole lives they lead outside of reality. This thing we call the Net—and no, I have no idea why we call it that—takes people into these lives, lets them experience them just like they were real.”
Another corner. The background piano music swelled briefly, then faded back again. Arnold continued.
“Someone, many years ago, got their hands on the pilot you made, the “Space Cops” thing. Turned it into a whole event, this grand series that changed the way America and the world was.” He sighed. “A lovely story, really. There was even a fabulous version of you wandering around the Net, interacting with all sorts of people whenever they wanted, although most people were happy being the heroes themselves.
“Not all of us were caught up in the scenario, however, although I must admit even for people like me it is difficult to spend more than a few hours away from it. I myself worked with some others on a device to bring someone through time, a kind of a hobby thing based on some old math one of us found drifting in a file somewhere, which explains how you got here. Not that any of us actually expected it to work.”
“Where are the other people you worked with?” asked Henry. Arnold chuckled. “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, the chances are very good that they don’t exist, or perhaps they did, but now they don’t.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” said Arnold. “I’m just finding it harder and harder to figure out who’s who these days. Maybe because I’m thinking about it now. I don’t know.”
“Why’d you bring me here?” Henry was feeling very confused. “To put it bluntly, Henry, I’m losing Michael. He’s spending more and more time away from me, and I don’t have the energy in me to traipse all the way around a virtual solar system trying to keep up with him. I was kind of hoping your presence would be a nifty gift for him.”
“A gift? You brought me forward in time to be a present?” Henry shook his head, feeling a dull ache beginning to creep up from his shoulders to his skull. Nothing in his life had been as confusing as the way Arnold behaved and spoke.
“Well, that and something for all of our society to look to. We need inspiration, Henry, inspiration to make more of ourselves. You can be that inspiration!”
The vehicle stopped and the door slid open. They were in a large empty warehouse, parked under a feeble pool of light cast by the only two fitfully-working bulbs that were hanging from the high ceiling. Arnold walked into the light to greet Henry as he got up from his seat and stepped out.
“How can a broken-down drunk be inspiration?” asked Henry. “You can be so because we made you so!” said Arnold. “Come join us.” He almost whispered this last.
Henry shook his head. “No. I want to go home.”
Arnold grimaced. “You can’t, even if I could let you. I’m sorry that’s your answer.”
There was a distant whine near Henry’s ear, a mosquito maybe, although he’d not seen or heard any insects up until now, and then he felt a small sting in his neck. He swatted at it, but already things were going dim. As he fell forward, he managed to focus for a brief second on the gurney that rushed up to break his fall.
Episode Ten: The Henry Effect
The space car comes in for as smooth a landing as can be expected, considering the circumstances. “You’re in,” comes the distant voice of Slam Rankin, now promoted to Sector One. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
He steps out, views the unfamiliar landscape, almost alien in proportions. Buildings are too small and spaced too far apart, the riot of colors is almost too much for his unaccustomed eyes.
And there are more lights here than last time—a bad sign. Too many more joining this and the Space Cops will collapse. There is also no movement at all, and the silence is a different sort of quiet, unlike anything he has ever experienced in his life.
The walk is a short one, due to the space car being able to land in such small areas. Trees, scorched by the passing rockets, are already healing themselves, fast motion, almost liquid as they turn from shriveled and black to grey to erect and brown and green.
The entrance is open to him. After a pause to collect his thoughts, he steps across the threshold and into the room. They are there, the two of them, sitting as he expected to find them.
Henry looks up. “Arnold! So good to see you! Come in, come in.”
Michael looks up from the nonsense patterns playing on the screen, smiles when he sees Arnold. He waves the hand that is not holding the bottle of beer, grinning. “Hiya Arnold. Been watching you on TV.” With the hand holding the beer he gestures at the black and white screen.
Henry gets up and walks to another room, comes out holding a second bottle of beer, which he hands to Arnold. Arnold’s protests that he is on duty are ignored.
When they are all settled in on the couch and chairs Henry smiles and says, “Good life you brought me to, Arnold. And I sure like what you’ve done to my old show.”
Arnold is about to say something, but the nonsense on the screen fades and he is hushed. “The show’s back on,” says Michael. “Wait until the next commercial.”
Arnold shrugs his shoulders, takes a sip of the beer, and leans back to watch himself, Henry and Michael sitting in a room drinking beer and watching TV.
All up and down the street, thousands of others share in the experience. Ratings go through the roof.
Eventually, Arnold goes and grabs another beer, settles down to enjoy the show.
THE LAST TWO DAYS OF LARRY JOSEPH’S LIFE—IN THIS TIME, ANYWAY
Bill Adler, Jr.
First Day
“HEY LARRY, YOU COMING?”
“Coming? Coming where?”
Lucy put her hands on her hips. She cocked her head to the left, as if emptying an ear of water. Lucy pointed to the invitation, a rag-tag Xeroxed sheet attached to the refrigerator door with a fake sushi-styled magnet, walked over to the paper and tapped it three times with her finger. “The party, Larry. The party.” Lucy opened the fridge and scanned its contents. With equal unawareness she closed it. “What do you say? It should be fun.”
She scanned Larry’s clothes for a second and wondered who gave Larry his basic lessons in laundry. Certainly not his mother. Great pants—or at least they were—curry-colored with crisp pleats, cotton cool enough to give legs some comfort during Washington, D.C.’s summertime sauna, even finely cut. But why did Larry put them in the dryer? Jeez, everyone knows what happens when you put cotton clothing in the dryer with no intention of ironing it. Oh well, it doesn’t seem to bother Larry, so it shouldn’t bother me. Lucy smiled. “You’re coming, right?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know anybody there.”
“What are you going to do instead?”
Larry’s face retained the same expression it had held for the past few minutes. Lucy wondered if his face changed at all. Was the mold set? Would it break, crumble into dust if she tried to recast it, to change some of its essential features? There are ways to coax people to change, she admitted to herself. But the steps are difficult and dangerous, especially living in such close quarters, the three of us in this house; too risky for me and for Jim if my suggestions go awry. But what am I thinking? A person’s not clay, not paper, not computer parts (though she had more than a couple of doubts about some of the people in college who had asked her out). A person’s a person, and Larry has a debilitating shyness—a problem—and perhaps I can help him overcome it. Parties help.
“Maybe read,” Larry responded.
“No, you have to come. I don’t know anybody there, either. They’re Jim’s friends. But it doesn’t matter whether you know anybody—I’m sure we’ll meet some people.” Standard reasoning, she knew. “Besides,” Lucy said, as she let a smile leak out of the corner of her mouth, “who will I have to talk with if Jim doesn’t arrive till late?” Lucy scanned her clothes in the hallway mirror as she talked with Larry. Her eyes went from her shoes to her waist, and all the way up. She lost her concentration for a moment as Larry seemed to fade momentarily—or was it a light bulb that needed replacing?
“Well . . .” Larry’s spine arched a few more degrees forward in gravity’s favor; gravity seemed to claim responsibility for his posture.
“You’ll have a good time! You might even find a date.” But Larry, you’ve got to try, you’ve got to try, Lucy said to herself.
“All right. All right.”
“Great! We should take off in about an hour.” Lucy tapped on the crystal of Larry’s Seiko watch. She and her other housemate, Jim, had gotten it for Larry for his birthday, in the hope of coaxing Larry to learn how to be on time. “Mind if I shower first?”
“Go ahead. I don’t need to shower.”
Lucy stepped back and recalled one absolute truth: In Washington, in August, the location on earth most similar to the surface of the planet Venus, everyone needs to shower. Shower and drink diet soda. Only cab drivers and Larry went for days without showering, Lucy thought. Larry would be a whole lot better off if he showered. “Okay, I’ll try to be swift,” Lucy said. “You’ll be ready in thirty minutes, okay?” As she turned to bolt up the stairs, she caught a glimpse of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through Larry. Or so it seemed. Must be hotter than I thought, Lucy said to herself.
