The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories (54 page)

An hour later, in his cramped office at Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade realized in a flashing single instant who and what he wanted to inspire. At once he put on his coat, excused himself to sympathetic Mr. Hnatt, and hurried down the street to Muse Enterprises.

“Well, Mr. Slade,” Manville said, seeing him enter. “Back so soon. Come into the office.” He strode ahead, leading the way. “All right, let’s have it.” He shut the door after the two of them.

Jesse Slade licked his dry lips and then, coughing, said, “Mr. Manville, I want to go back and inspire—well, let me explain. You know the great science fiction of the golden age, between 1930 and 1970?”

“Yes, yes,” Manville said impatiently, scowling as he listened.

“When I was in college,” Slade said, “getting my M.A. in English lit, I had to read a good deal of twentieth century science fiction, of course. Of the greats there were three writers who stood out. The first was Robert Heinlein with his future history. The second, Isaac Asimov with his Foundation epic series. And—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The man I did my paper on. Jack Dowland. Of the three of them, Dowland was considered the greatest. His future history of the world began to appear in 1957, in both magazine form—as short stories—and in book form, as complete novels. By 1963, Dowland was regarded as—”

Mr. Manville said, “Hmmm.” Getting out the black binder, he began to thumb through it. “Twentieth century science fiction… a rather specialized interest—fortunately for you. Let’s see.”

“I hope,” Slade said quietly, “it hasn’t been taken.”

“Here is one client,” Mr. Manville said. “Leo Parks of Vacaville, California. He went back and inspired A. E. van Vogt to avoid love stories and westerns and try science fiction.” Turning more pages, Mr. Manville said, “And last year a client of Muse Enterprises, Miss Julie Oxenblut of Kansas City, Kansas asked to be permitted to inspire Robert Heinlein in his future history… was it Heinlein you said, Mr. Slade?”

“No,” Slade said, “it was Jack Dowland, the greatest of the three. Heinlein was great, but I did much research on this, Mr. Manville, and Dowland was greater.”

“No, it hasn’t been done,” Manville decided, closing up the black binder. From his desk drawer he brought out a form. “You fill this out, Mr. Slade,” he said, “and then we’ll begin to roll on this matter. Do you know the year and the place at which Jack Dowland began work on his future history of the world?”

“I do,” Slade said. “He was living in a little town on the then Route 40 in Nevada, a town called Purpleblossom, consisted of three gas stations, a cafe, a bar, and a general store. Dowland had moved there to get atmosphere; he wanted to write stories of the Old West in the form of TV scripts. He hoped to make a good deal of money.”

“I see you know your subject,” Manville said, impressed.

Slade continued, “While living in Purpleblossom he did write a number of TV western scripts but somehow he found them unsatisfactory. In any case, he remained there, trying other fields such as children’s books and articles on teen-age pre-marital sex for the slick magazines of the times… and then, all at once, in the year 1956, he suddenly turned to science fiction and immediately produced the greatest novelette seen to date in that field. That was the consensus gentium of the time, Mr. Manville, and I have read the story and I agree. It was called THE FATHER ON THE WALL and it still appears in anthologies now and then; it’s the kind of story that will never die. And the magazine in which it appeared,
Fantasy & Science Fiction,
will always be remembered for having published Dowland’s first epic in its August 1957 issue.”

Nodding, Mr. Manville said, “And this is the magnus opus which you wish to inspire. This, and all that followed.”

“You have it right, sir,” Mr. Slade said.

“Fill out your form,” Manville said, “and we’ll do the rest.” He smiled at Slade and Slade, confident, smiled back.

The operator of the time-ship, a short, heavy-set, crew-cut young man with strong features, said briskly to Slade, “Okay, bud; you ready or not? Make up your mind.”

Slade, for one last time, inspected his twentieth century suit which Muse Enterprises had provided him—one of the services for the rather high fee which he had found himself paying. Narrow necktie, cuffless trousers, and Ivy League striped shirt… yes, Slade decided, from what he knew of the period it was authentic, right down to the sharp-pointed Italian shoes and the colorful stretch socks. He would pass without any difficulty as a citizen of the U.S. of 1956, even in Purpleblossom, Nevada.

“Now listen,” the operator said, as he fastened the safety belt around Slade’s middle, “you got to remember a couple of things. First of all, the only way you can get back to 2040 is with me; you can’t
walk
back. And second, you got to be careful not to change the past—I mean, stick to your one simple task of inspiring this individual, this Jack Dowland,
and let it go at that.”

“Of course,” Slade said, puzzled at the admonition.

“Too many clients,” the operator said, “you’d be surprised how many, go wild when they get back into the past; they get delusions of power and want to make all sorts of changes—eliminate wars, hunger and poverty—you know. Change history.”

“I won’t do that,” Slade said. “I have no interest in abstract cosmic ventures on that order.” To him, inspiring Jack Dowland was cosmic enough. And yet he could empathize enough to understand the temptation. In his own work he had seen all kinds of people.

The operator slammed shut the hatch of the time-ship, made certain that Slade was strapped in properly, and then took his own seat at the controls. He snapped a switch and a moment later Slade was on his way to his vacation from monotonous office work—back to 1956 and the nearest he would come to a creative act in his life.

The hot midday Nevada sun beat down, blinding him; Slade squinted, peered about nervously for the town of Purpleblossom. All he saw was dull rock and sand, the open desert with a single narrow road passing among the Joshua plants.

“To the right,” the operator of the time-ship said, pointing. “You can walk there in ten minutes. You understand your contract, I hope. Better get it out and read it.”

From the breast pocket of his 1950-style coat, Slade brought the long yellow contract form with Muse Enterprises. “It says you’ll give me thirty-six hours. That you’ll pick me up in this spot and that it’s my responsibility to be here; if I’m not, and can’t be brought back to my own time, the company is not liable.”

“Right,” the operator said, and re-entered the time-ship. “Good luck, Mr. Slade. Or, as I should call you, Jack Dowland’s muse.” He grinned, half in derision, half in friendly sympathy, and then the hatch shut after him.

Jesse Slade was alone on the Nevada desert, a quarter mile outside the tiny town of Purpleblossom.

He began to walk, perspiring, wiping his neck with his handkerchief.

There was no problem to locating Jack Dowland’s house, since only seven houses existed in the town. Slade stepped up onto the rickety wooden porch, glancing at the yard with its trash can, clothes line, discarded plumbing fixtures… parked in the driveway he saw a dilapidated car of some archaic sort—archaic even for the year 1956.

He rang the bell, adjusted his tie nervously, and once more in his mind rehearsed what he intended to say. At this point in his life, Jack Dowland had written no science fiction; that was important to remember—it was in fact the entire point. This was the critical nexus in his life—history, this fateful ringing of his doorbell. Of course Dowland did not know that. What was he doing within the house? Writing? Reading the funnies of a Reno newspaper? Sleeping?

Footsteps. Tautly, Slade prepared himself.

The door opened. A young woman wearing light-weight cotton trousers, her hair tied back with a ribbon, surveyed him calmly. What small, pretty feet she had, Slade noticed. She wore slippers; her skin was smooth and shiny, and he found himself gazing intently, unaccustomed to seeing so much of a woman exposed. Both ankles were completely bare.

“Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been
vacuuming;
there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner… its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had
not
vanished in 1950 as was thought.

Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, “Mrs. Dowland?” The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. “I’m a fan of your husband’s monumental—” Oops, he thought, that wasn’t right. “Ahem,” he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. “Tsk-tsk,” he said. “What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat.” He smiled hopefully.

“You know Jack’s work?” She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.

“On the telly,” Slade said. “Fine scripts of his.” He nodded.

“You’re English, are you?” Mrs. Dowland said. “Well, did you want to come in?” She held the door wide. “Jack is working right now up in the attic… the children’s noise bothers him. But I know he’d like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You’re Mr.—”

“Slade,” Slade said. “Nice abode you possess, here.”

“Thank you.” She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. “JACK!” she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. “THERE’S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!”

Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person’s steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. “I’m at work,” he said curtly. “Even though I do it at home it’s a job like any other.” He gazed at Slade. “What do you want? What do you mean you’re a ‘fan’ of my work? What work? Christ, it’s been two months since I sold anything; I’m about ready to go out of my mind.”

Slade said, “Jack Dowland, that is because you have yet to find your proper genre.” He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.

“Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?” Mrs. Dowland asked.

“Thank you, miss,” Slade said. “Jack Dowland,” he said, “I am here to inspire you.”

“Where are you from?” Dowland said suspiciously. “And how come you’re wearing your tie that funny way?”

“Funny in what respect?” Slade asked, feeling nervous.

“With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam’s apple.” Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. “And why’s your head shaved? You’re too young to be bald.”

“The custom of this period,” Slade said feebly. “Demands a shaved head. At least in New York.”

“Shaved head my ass,” Dowland said. “Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?”

“I want to praise you,” Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him—he was not being treated properly and he knew it.

“Jack Dowland,” he said, stuttering a little, “I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I’m your muse.” He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.

Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.

Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, “Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren’t all muses female?”

“No,” Slade said angrily. “Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male.” He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. “Listen to me, Jack Dowland—”

“For God’s sake,” Dowland said, “either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it’s not natural the way you’re talking. Are you on tea or something?” He sniffed intently.

“Tea,” Slade echoed, not understanding. “No, just a beer, please.”

Dowland said, “Well get to the point. I’m anxious to be back at work. Even if it’s done at home it
is
work.”

It was now time for Slade to deliver his encomium. He had prepared it carefully; clearing his throat he began. “Jack, if I may call you that, I wonder why the hell you haven’t tried science fiction. I figure that—”

“I’ll tell you why,” Jack Dowland broke in. He paced back and forth, his hands in his trousers pockets. “Because there’s going to be a hydrogen war. The future’s black. Who wants to write about it? Keeerist.” He shook his head. “And anyhow who reads that stuff? Adolescents with skin trouble. Misfits. And it’s junk. Name me one good science fiction story, just one. I picked up a magazine on a bus once when I was in Utah. Trash! I wouldn’t write that trash even if it paid well, and I looked into it and it doesn’t pay well—around one half cent a word. And who can live on that?” Disgustedly, he started toward the stairs. “I’m going back to work.”

“Wait,” Slade said, feeling desperate. All was going wrong. “Hear me out, JackDowland.”

“There you go with that funny talk again,” Dowland said. But he paused, waiting. “Well?” he demanded.

Slade said, “Mr. Dowland, I am from the future.” He was not supposed to say that—Mr. Manville had warned him severely—but it seemed at the moment to be the only way out for him, the only thing that would stop Jack Dowland from walking off.

“What?” Dowland said loudly. “The
what?”

“I am a time-traveler,” Slade said feebly, and was silent.

Dowland walked back toward him.

When he arrived at the time-ship, Slade found the short-set operator seated on the ground before it, reading a newspaper. The operator glanced up, grinned and said, “Back safe and sound, Mr. Slade. Come on, let’s go.” He opened the hatch and guided Slade within.