Time Travel Omnibus, page 942
The view through the rain-streaked window revealed a wet, gray street where feeble gas lamps struggled against the failing afternoon light and the enveloping rain. A stream of sodden pedestrians strode past, bent against the damp wind. Kevin could see dozens of dripping umbrellas bobbing along, looking like the surface of a restless ocean. Occasionally, a slick, fluted umbrella top caught and reflected a faint ray from a gas lamp and gleamed like a breaker on a moonlit shore.
The whole scene reminded Kevin of the Impressionist paintings that had pulled him here, and he felt the urge to draw. He absently withdrew a pad and pencil from his jeans pocket and began to sketch the rainy street scene while his mind wandered back to the events leading up to his presence here.
It had been a night like any other. After a day of classes at the Art Institute of Chicago, he had headed for the University of Chicago’s physics department, where he earned part of his tuition money by cleaning offices and laboratories. This evening, the door to Room 532b was open. They must want it cleaned, he thought. There’s probably six months’ worth of old pop cans and candy wrappers in the wastebasket, ’cause that door’s never open. Inside, he caught a glimpse of a man dressed in gray overalls fussing with a satchel on a table. It was the machine beyond him that truly caught Kevin’s eye, however.
It looked like one of those NMR units they had in the chemistry department, except that this one had some sort of viewfinder mounted near the controls. And prominently displayed on that screen was the corner of a building with a poster on it—a poster by his favorite artist.
“Oh, cool! Toulouse-Lautrec!” Kevin cried, rushing toward the machine. But the image was too small for him to make out any detail. “Where’s the zoom button? Oh there it is!” He quickly jabbed a button with an infinity symbol on it, just as the man at the table turned around in alarm.
“Here now, young ma—,” the gray-clad fellow said, as a flash of brilliant light grabbed Kevin.
The next thing he knew, Kevin was standing on the street corner he had seen in the viewfinder, in the rain, staring at a worn-looking Toulouse-Lautrec poster that had started to fray around the edges. People bustled past him on all sides, umbrellas shielding their faces. Realizing that he had no protection from the elements, he made his way to a cozy-looking café across the street and took a seat.
Kevin was aware only of the scene outside the window and his pencil scratching on paper. He watched the scurrying pedestrians, as well as freight wagons, taxies, and buses, all drawn by horses.
He was out of Chicago all right. It seemed he was also clear out of the twenty-first century! He knew he should be concerned over what had happened. But excitement overrode that. Cool!
The area looked like pictures he had seen of Paris around the end of the nineteenth century. Toulouse-Lautrec had been in his prime around then, hadn’t he? Kevin hadn’t really paid much attention in his art history classes, but he thought he remembered that all his greatest paintings had been done around that time.
He thought back to the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition that the Art Institute had done in conjunction with the National Gallery of Art the previous summer. Kevin had won the local curator’s goodwill with his natural charm and gotten permission to help set up and care for the display. Now that was a work-study program! Not like being a janitor in the physics building, which was all that had been available after the exhibition had moved on. What a grand time he had had helping to set up that display! He had been careful not to damage either the museum’s precious Toulouse-Lautrec holdings or the paintings borrowed from other museums. In the process of arranging them and seeing to their daily upkeep, he had minutely examined each piece and developed an enduring passion for the artist’s work. The man had been a genius! His use of color and his unique style had made him justly famous both in his own time and in posterity.
Kevin considered the possibilities of his current situation. If he really was in late-nineteenth-century Paris, then he should be able to find Toulouse-Lautrec and talk to him—maybe get some tips on his technique—before whatever source had zapped him here zapped him back home. And if he managed to catch the artist at the beginning of his career, maybe he could buy a painting or two really cheap and take them back to his own time, when they would be fabulously valuable undiscovered pieces. Very cool!
Kevin was so excited by the possibilities of the situation that he had no time to wonder exactly how he had managed to leave his native time and place, or even to worry about how he would get back.
Eventually, Kevin became aware that someone was speaking to him. Glancing up, he saw an annoyed-looking waiter in a stained white apron that suggested a busy lunch hour was just past. He understood what “Oui, monsieur?” meant, but the rest was a hopeless jumble. “Huh?” was all that Kevin could manage in response. He had studied French in high school, but, as with most of his school subjects, he had retained little of his previous knowledge.
Kevin squinted up at the frowning waiter and showed him his unfinished sketch. “Toulouse-Lautrec?” he asked hopefully. The impatient waiter pointed at a Toulouse-Lautrec poster on the wall, then spoke again in a tone that suggested he had no time to waste discussing art. “But where is he?” Kevin asked, then frowned as he realized that the waiter did not understand English.
Kevin stood, his mind desperately seeking some French phrase or term associated with Toulouse-Lautrec. “Moulin Rouge?” he blurted out. A flicker of recognition crossed the waiter’s face. Kevin thought harder, then snapped his fingers. “Montmartre? Maisons closes?” he said eagerly. The waiter’s face flushed red, then purple. He spoke a few sharp words, and a second waiter appeared at Kevin’s elbow.
“Jean, help me get this . . . this American . . . out of here before he ruins the reputation of the place,” said the first waiter to the second in rapid-fire French. “Asking for brothels in the red-light district indeed! What kind of place do they think we run here?” Jean nodded his agreement, knowing well how most Americans viewed his native city.
Two pairs of rough hands grasped Kevin’s upper arms, and he soon found himself standing outside in the rain once again. “I always knew French was a stupid language,” he said to no one in particular. “People who speak it are crazy.”
No closer to his new goal than he had been before, Kevin looked for a sign that said Moulin Rouge. But the only signs he saw were street signs that identified the corner where he stood as Pont Neuf and rue Dauphine, and signs over several shops. His shirt clung wetly to his body, and his soggy jeans hung heavily from his hips. Gathering his courage at last, he stepped in front of a pedestrian, who promptly collided with him.
“Excuse me,” Kevin said, “but I need some help.” The thin, young man peered out from beneath his umbrella and ran his gaze over Kevin’s jeans and T-shirt. Snorting once, the fellow mumbled something that sounded like an insult, then moved on. Kevin’s attempts to speak with other pedestrians yielded no better results.
“There must be someone here who’s willing to talk to a stranger,” Kevin muttered to himself, shivering a bit as he peered through the crowd. A few feet ahead, an older man stepped out of a doorway, looked about somewhat distractedly, put up his umbrella, and began to limp toward the intersection. Deciding that he could at least delay the infirm gentleman long enough to say more than two words, Kevin stepped up and grasped the old gentleman’s shoulder just as he was about to step into the street.
“Eh?” the man said, swiveling, then abruptly grabbing Kevin’s arm in an attempt to steady himself after the sudden movement. Just then, a massive freight wagon drawn by a pair of towering bay horses thundered past, charging through the exact spot where the man had been about to step and spraying both men with mud.
“Sacré bleu!” The man’s eyes widened in realization that this stranger had saved his life. He caught Kevin in a surprisingly strong hug and kissed both his cheeks, then stepped back and burst out in a stream of unintelligible French.
“Ex—excuse me, sir,” Kevin interrupted at last, glancing down at the cracked and blackened fingers still clutching his arm, “but I thought perhaps you could help me.” Wondering if the man had some terrible disease, Kevin briefly considered breaking the contact and fleeing, but just then, the fellow spoke—in English.
“Ah, you are Canadian then? One of my esteemed colleague Rutherford’s adopted countrymen, perhaps?” His lilting French accent added music to his words. “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance! Please, call me Pierre. And you are?”
“My name is Kevin, and I’m an American.”
“But of course, I should have realized!” Pierre slapped his forehead. “An American, yes indeed. Carrying on the fine tradition of . . . uh . . . oh yes, Franklin and Edison! But you have missed our luncheon meeting, my young friend.”
“No, I . . . I didn’t come for lunch,” explained Kevin, wondering if the man was ever going to let go of his arm. “I need to find Montmartre. I’m looking for Toulouse-Lautrec. Can you help me?”
“Considering that you have just saved my life, I would be most happy to assist you in any way I can, Kevin. But Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec died a few years ago. Too much of the drink, you know?” He pantomimed raising a glass to his lips. “I am so sorry. Were you a friend of his?”
“No, just a fan,” Kevin said, his dreams of gaining an undiscovered work of art fading abruptly.
“A . . . fan?” Pierre asked blankly.
“Um, an admirer. I’m an artist too.”
“Ah, of course. You artists are so eccentric,” said Pierre, glancing at Kevin’s clothing with a smile. “Well, I cannot thank you enough for saving my life. May I offer you dinner at my home as a gesture of gratitude?”
“Er, no. I mean, thank you anyway, but I’d better see if I can figure out how to get home,” said Kevin, as he finally realized the full enormity of his situation. “You see, I was working at the physics department when . . .”
“Physics?” interrupted Pierre. “So you are not just an artist! You are a true Renaissance man! Come then, my wife will be most pleased to meet you!”
“No, really,” said Kevin, extricating himself at last from the man’s grasp. “I really must be on my way. But thank you anyway. It’s been a great pleasure to meet you.”
Pierre sighed deeply. “Well, it cannot be helped, I suppose. But I am sorry you will not be able to join our colleagues at the table this evening. A fresh viewpoint always stirs the waters, you know. Here,” he said, taking a small glowing vial from his breast pocket. “I would like you to have this—a bit of my life’s work—as a gift for saving that life. Take it!”
“Wow! What a cool bottle!” Kevin took the vial almost reverently. “Thank you! How did you get it to glow like that?”
Pierre chuckled. “I never knew Americans had such a sense of humor. Well, I shall detain you no longer. Good luck in your research, young Kevin. Perhaps one day you shall join my wife and myself on the podium to accept the prize for the next great discovery.”
With that, Pierre limped away, looking both ways this time before crossing the busy street. Kevin, still entranced by the glowing bottle, stood staring at it. Just as he was about to open it to sniff the contents, someone collided with him and uttered what sounded like a stream of French invective.
Deciding that he had best find a safer place to examine his prize, Kevin started to put the bottle into his jeans pocket, but stopped abruptly when a voice at his elbow startled him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” it said, “at least not if you ever want to have children.”
“Wha—?” Kevin spun to see a short but rather nondescript man dressed in the same sort of gray overalls that the professor had been wearing back in the Physics Department. “Here, let me have that,” said the man, extending a hand protected by a huge mitt made of some shiny material.
“No!” said Kevin, closing his fist around the bottle. “Pierre gave it to me!”
“He’s given those to a lot of people,” said the gray-clad man. “And if we didn’t clean them up, half of Europe would be a radioactive wasteland by now.”
“Radioactive?” said Kevin, opening his hand to look at the bottle’s glow. “What is it?”
“Radium bromide,” said the man cheerfully. “Pierre often carried some with him. It would have killed him eventually—and now I suppose it will, since you’ve prevented his death today. Now hand it over.”
Kevin placed the bottle in the mitt and frantically wiped his hands on his jeans.
“That won’t help,” chuckled the man. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Excerpt from Preliminary Report: Incident #6712514—ATR 600120.346
The subject Kevin Bower was removed from the past and returned to his own time and place after decontamination. It should be possible to convince him over time that the incident was only a dream, or at most, a metaphysical event involving astral travel or some such nonsense.
Though he altered the past by preventing the untimely death of Pierre Curie, the incident should not change the course of history overmuch, since the man cannot survive his advanced radiation sickness much longer anyway. He is certainly in no condition to make any further scientific discoveries. Thus, there is probably no need to reset history—let Pierre enjoy his last days with his family.
This incident dramatically illustrates, however, the importance of maintaining proper security on all time travel devices. Though the fluid nature of time is a natural aspect of the universe, those who do not understand it are apt to cause significant complications. Thus, complete lockdown and concealment of all such devices is necessary when they are unattended even for a moment.
A row of dun-colored tents huddled together in a dismal field somewhere in France. A persistent breeze caused the canvas to swell and billow, making the tents resemble great puffballs rising from the fields of mud and trampled grass. A few bored cows grazed along the field’s fenced edges, where some skeletal trees offered a bit of protection from the wind, despite their leafless branches. Periodically, the wind brought with it a low rumble, like that of summer thunder. The cows didn’t seem to notice.
Presently, a small car, well splattered with mud, turned off a nearby lane and bounced its way into the field. It screeched to a halt near one end of the row of tents, and a gaunt, middle-aged woman wearing a tattered alpaca coat climbed out. On one arm, she wore a white band with a red cross sewn on it. Her feet had barely touched the ground when a small crowd of men wearing shabby white coats over military uniforms appeared from the nearest tent. They walked smartly despite their haggard appearance.
“Welcome, Madame Curie,” said one of the men, executing a low and unmilitary bow. “You and your X-ray equipment are most welcome indeed. We’ll carry it from your car and set it up—under your direction, of course.”
“Yes,” said the woman rather sharply. “I am happy to provide peaceful aid to my adopted country in its war effort. I shall need only one man to show me a suitable place to set up. There’s a generator to power the equipment in the car, and I have only so much cable.” She fixed the man with a level stare. “Perhaps it would be best if I spoke to your chief surgeon before we begin.”
“As you wish, madam.”
Some time later, Marie Curie stood in a darkened tent with an eager surgeon who looked almost young enough to be her son—though not so young as the patient she had just X-rayed. Marie switched on an electric light and held up newly developed film. It clearly showed a leg bone with at least a dozen pieces of shrapnel embedded in it and in the tortured flesh around it. The bone was fractured, but perhaps an amputation could be avoided. The surgeon looked at it with admiration, then his face hardened. The picture was helpful, but where were the fragments, exactly? He tried to recall the exact position of the leg when the famed scientist had placed it in the machine.
Marie laid a reassuring hand on the doctor’s forearm. “Don’t worry. With a few simple calculations, I can give you the exact location of each fragment.” The doctor’s jaw dropped as Marie told him exactly where to probe and cut to extract each fragment.
Marie made dozens of X-rays that day, working with all the surgeons at the field hospital. Some followed her instructions closely and performed some of the most brilliant operations of their careers. Others were skeptical, and neither they nor their patients did so well.
It was well after dusk before Marie could repack her equipment and prepare to leave. She was just closing up her car when the young surgeon came hurrying toward her. “I know you must leave, but there is another matter I must discuss with you.” The surgeon hesitated a moment and cast a nervous glance at Marie’s radiation-scarred hands. He shivered briefly, then silently rebuked himself for acting like a squeamish first-year student facing his initial cadaver.
“I have read your articles on the promise and the dangers of radiation with great interest, Madam Curie. I would now like to show you several cases I have here at the hospital whose symptoms bear some resemblance to those you have described for radiation sickness. These men are in the wing reserved for gas victims, but they were not gassed. While serving together, they endured a furious barrage that included a great many of what my military colleagues call ‘air bursts.’ These shells apparently contained some kind of powered blistering agent—similar to mustard gas, perhaps, but not a gas at all. In any case, it seems to have done some internal damage as well as burned their skin, though their uniforms were not damaged at all. Will you come?”
Marie’s spine stiffened. “Of course,” she said.
The ward was long, and dim, and much too damp and cold for Marie. It also held far too many young men. Why, she thought, had mankind not yet managed to find a way to settle disputes except through violence? Marie stopped at yet another hospital cot as an orderly held up a lamp. In the light, Marie saw the unmistakable signature of radiation at work, tearing apart a living body from the inside. A few questions to the emaciated young man brought the same answers she had heard before. The enemy shells had exploded overhead, showering the trenches with a dully gleaming black ash, like soot from a dirty chimney, or coal dust. The soldiers had hastily donned their gas masks, though not before some of them had inhaled the stuff. They had braced for an assault—the enemy usually followed up a gas attack that way—but none had come. They lived in their gas masks for days, walking about in the gritty ash the whole time, and feeling progressively weaker as they watched their skin develop sores and fissures. Finally, the rain came, and the black ash disappeared into the mud. And then came the assault.
