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Authors: Karl Alexander

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BOOK: Time After Time
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An ambulance shrieked home to the emergency ward, but H.G. did not lift his head. He—like the children—was learning; he could sleep anywhere.
 
 
Amy Robbins stood under the shower and let the hot spray relax her, pleased that her life was her own.
She had been free for a year now, in San Francisco—the city of lights, restaurants and individuals—free to make her own way without compromise, free to say no, free to say yes, beholden to no one except herself. And she loved it. Against all odds, she had her own place, she was paying her bills and she didn't have to share a bathroom or a shower with anyone.
She lifted her chin and allowed the water to fall upon her delicate face. She closed her eyes and smiled, then slowly raised her arms and leaned back so that the spray massaged her breasts and flat stomach. The routine irritants of the job were forgotten; the tensions of the day melted. Life was good. Finally.
Refreshed, she turned off the water, stepped out and dried herself then turned and reached for her robe on the door. Before she put it on, she looked into the fogged mirror and saw her own nude image softened and muted by the steam. She envisioned that she had just stepped out of an Impressionist painting. She was all pastels, and there were no shadows.
She went down the creaky hallway into the living room of her one-bedroom, second-story apartment on Russian Hill. She crossed to her only expensive indulgence, the quadraphonic sound system, and put on a Viennese anthology of Mozart. Then she went into the kitchen, filled a crystal pitcher (a relic from her first marriage) and watered the potted plants in the apartment.
She returned to the kitchen, put away the leftover tuna salad, rinsed and stacked her dinner dishes. Chores finished, she poured herself a glass of chilled Chablis, padded back into the living room and curled up on the great, old sofa with that morning's Chronicle.
The music swelled lightly and made her think of the one thing she truly coveted: a stone fireplace and the smell of burning oak. That would come. All in good time, and on her own terms. Right now she was enjoying the most precious gift of all—sweet solitude.
The phone rang.
It was Harry, the junior executive with the leasing corporation. He wanted her to come down to this incredible Basque restaurant for drinks and frivolity.
“No, Harry, all I want to do is stay home.”
He thought she was sick, offered his condolences and hung up.
She laughed, stretched. None of them really understood. It was as if empty rooms, assaulted their manhood. They couldn't stand for a woman to go about unescorted or to be alone.
She went to her dining-room window and stared out at the trees, dimly lit from the street. She loved those trees; they were thin and delicate; they changed very slowly.
She returned to the couch for the last half of Mozart. Suddenly, her thoughts turned to that strange, naïve, almost helpless man, Mr. Wells from London. What was it about him? One moment he had seemed to be the archaic (yet debonair) lover, the next, he came across as an orphaned doll that needed dry cleaning.
She wondered if he would call her as he had said, or if she would ever see him again. She shrugged, then burst out laughing, for she just remembered that poor Mr. Wells had left all of his traveler's checks at the bank.
Of course he would call again, and if she was still this curious she just might ask him what he was doing for lunch.
She drained her glass, then got up and headed for bed. She stretched all the way down the hall, feeling drained and damned good. Ms. Amy Robbins was proud to be herself.
 
 
H.G. abruptly awoke to the smell and taste of stale newsprint. He lifted his head and saw that he had been sleeping with his face buried in the pile of newspapers. He slowly stood. The lounge was empty, and bright sunlight shone in through the windows. He turned. The hospital seemed quiet and subdued. There were no crushes of people, no concerned doctors, frantic nurses or busy employees; not even the usual rush of sirens and ambulances. It was as if death and injury had to rest, too, and were waiting until the afternoon and evening (human frailty being more vulnerable then) to resume their normal pace.
He left the lounge and went to the men's room. He washed his face and discovered that his two-day beard growth was somewhat noticeable. Who would have thought to pack a razor on a trip through time? Then he sniffed himself.
“Whew.”
Carrying a bottle of cologne along for the journey would not have been a bad idea, either. He took off his jacket, shirt and tie, wet paper towels in the sink and proceeded to bathe himself. Then he redressed and smiled. A clean body made him feel civilized again.
As a final touch, he combed his hair with his fingers, then pushed and twisted his mustache into shape. He stepped back and regarded his countenance with admiration. He looked remarkably well, given the lack of an adequate personal toilet.
He left the men's room and strode down the corridor, prepared to do battle at the reception center. He paused at the food machines long enough to purchase his morning cup of tea, swigged the lukewarm liquid down, then marched to the information desk. He forcefully asked to see Dr. Rodden. Much to his surprise, the nurse on duty was cooperative, and within minutes a harried, tired-looking man pushed through the corridor's double doors and approached him. A small plate on the man's long white coat above his left breast identified him as “Dr. A. Rodden. Staff.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“My good man, I've been trying to see you for the past sixteen hours.”
“Well, don't feel like the Lone Ranger. My wife's lawyer's been waiting for two and a half years.” He emitted a dry laugh and started walking aimlessly toward the elevators like a man who never had time to catch up with himself. “Just what did you want?”
“A friend of mine is a patient of yours, and I would like to know how I can go about arranging for his release.”
“See the cashier.”
“Of course, but can you tell me if the man is in any condition to travel?”
“Sure. What's his name?”
“Leslie John Stephenson.”
Rodden began flipping through medical charts on his metal clipboard.
“Although from what your nurses have told me, Stephenson has been registered as John Doe number sixteen,” H.G. commented, expressing his distaste.
Rodden's eyes narrowed and he perused his charts more carefully. He stopped on a page, read it through, frowned and looked away. “Every so often—once a week, once a month—something unexpected happens around here for which medical science has no damned good explanation. This case was routine. We just wanted to look after him for a while.” He sighed. “I'm sorry to have to report that the man died between two and four A.M. this morning.”
“Dead?” H.G. gasped. “Dead?”
“I'm sorry.”
“Can I see the body?”
“Wait a minute,” said the doctor, suddenly suspicious. “Are you related to the deceased?”
“He doesn't have any relatives!”
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you anything in the first place.” He walked briskly away.
H.G. leaned against the wall of the corridor and used the railing (for convenience of the handicapped) to hold himself up. Stephenson dead? His life snuffed out by an alien mode of transportation? True, the chap had no doubt earned the full measure of a capital judgment, but he should not have died without first receiving a trial by jury. It was not a fitting end for an English gentleman, no matter how horrible his crimes might be.
The most ghastly thing of all about the bizarre incident was the fact that Stephenson had died beyond his own time in a strange world where no one understood or cared that in this particular case the logical order of the universe had been violated. His cries of pain, his possible last-minute expressions of remorse had not been heard in 1893 London. Outside time, they had not been heard by
anyone. The incident was more than unnatural; it was frightening. To be so alone, so totally lost in death. What a brick to toss into the cogs of the Hegelian dialectic.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, looked down and wandered along a corridor. He had been cheated. Stephenson was dead. He could not return home bearing the unholy grail. Justice would not be served. His own society would never know that their most base and vile member had finally gotten his comeuppance. God knows how long women would continue to walk the streets fearing that Jack the Ripper would materialize. H.G.'s odyssey—which a short while ago he had considered to be a trip through time for the individual rights of man—had failed.
Well, then, so be it. What was done was finished. Leslie John—wherever you are—may you rest in peace despite your awful crimes.
H.G. sighed and straightened up. He saw that he was standing near the entrance to a large cafeteria full of people. The odor of hot food wafted out the door and assaulted his senses. A placard by the door announced that the daily breakfast special included two eggs, hash browns (whatever they might be), a rasher of bacon, English muffins, fruit cocktail and coffee all for only two dollars and seventy-five cents. He checked his funds. Eighty-seven cents. He turned and walked away.
He rounded a corner, deep in thought. Logically, he should return to the Bank of England, explain that he no longer possessed his traveler's checks and attempt to get just compensation. But according to his rough calculations, eighty-seven cents would take him only about a half mile away from the bloody hospital and then what would he do? He hadn't the slightest idea. He might as well have been as far away from the Bank of England as San Francisco was from London or 1979 was from 1893.
He wandered around another corner and stumbled upon a bank of pay telephones. He stared. Coins clinked and indefatigable young
men shouted into an electronic stratosphere about boys and girls, pounds and ounces, and sibling similarities.
A booth was open. He rushed into it, sat down, gazed at the telephone and for a moment wished that he could remove the plate from the front of the box and see what kind of machinery was inside. Instead, he read the instructions, deduced that he could afford to use the device, then removed the business card from his inside coat pocket. “Ms. Amy C. Robbins. Operations. The Bank of England, Ltd. 337 Sutter Street, San Francisco, California. 422-4316.” He remembered that he had asked her to have lunch with him and that she had responded by referring to a telephone number on her calling card. The number in question, then, must be the seven-digit figure printed on the lower right-hand corner.
He glanced back at the telephone. But why were there letters on the push buttons? He thought hard for a few moments before sighing with resignation. There seemed to be no logical explanation. After all, “telephone” was spelled with a “ph” as opposed to an “f.” What was the reason for that?
Suddenly, H.G. cursed his procrastination. If he had the courage to push the time machine's Accelerator Helm Lever forward why was he balking at a telephone? Was he actually afraid of technology now?
H.G. removed the receiver from its cradle, placed it to his ear (as he had seen others do) and dropped his dime into the coin slot. He pushed the buttons that corresponded to the seven digits on the card, held his breath and waited. There was series of clicks, a static hush and then a ringing noise that sounded like a muffled bird call.
H.G. giggled with excitement.
“Bank of England, may I help you?”
“Marvelous,” he inadvertently mumbled into the receiver.
“Bank of England, may I help you?” the operator repeated, slightly irritated.
H.G. opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. He had no idea what to say. He stared at the mouthpiece and was speechless.
He heard a click, and then the tone he had heard when he first picked up the receiver. Where had that woman gone?
Mortified, H.G. blushed, then muttered, “What bloody nerve!” He put the telephone back onto its cradle, dug out another dime and rehearsed several lines for his next attempt.
He pushed the second dime into the slot and dialed again.
“Bank of England, may I help you?”
He took a deep breath, then forced out the words. “Hello, Miss Robbins, how are you this fine morning? This is Mr. Wells from London, that is, if you don't recognize my voice, but I'm sure that you haven't forgotten—”
“Sir, I am not Miss Robbins. Would you like me to connect you?”
“Why … certainly. Of course.” His mind raced. The telephone system must be more complicated than he had originally thought. Lines must be multiples of hundreds and they must intersect with multiples of thousands and so on. The proliferation must be astounding. “Yes, please.”
But the operator had already placed him on hold. He sighed, leaned back against the side of the booth and listened to an electronic symphony that he did not understand. Yet, the sounds were actually quite pleasing.
Suddenly: “This is Amy Robbins.” The voice was muted, breathless, yet definitely her.
He blurted, “Hello, Miss Robbins. How nice you look this morning.”
“Hello?”
“Hello.” He grinned foolishly.
“Who is this?”
“You mean, you don't recognize me?”
“How could I recognize you?”
“We met yesterday.”
“Is this Frank?”
“No, this isn't Frank. You are speaking with Mr. Wells from London. Remember?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly. “I was hoping you'd call.”
“You were?”
“Well, not exactly. I knew you would call.”
“You did?”
“Sure. Anyone who leaves fifteen hundred dollars in traveler's checks on my desk and doesn't call to find out where they are would be pretty strange, don't you think?”
“You've got a point.” He sagged with relief. Thank God. She had his money. It wasn't lost, and he hadn't been robbed. Life would go on, and he would get home again—after a vacation in the wilderness. He smiled impishly. Everything was going to be all right.
“Mr. Wells, are you there?”
“Of course, I'm here.”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Certainly, but that wasn't why I telephoned.”
“It wasn't?”
“No, it wasn't. I was wondering if you would have lunch with me today.”
“I'd love to.” She sounded awed and quiet.
“Good, then. I'm absolutely delighted. May I call you Amy?”
“Yes.”
“Where shall we meet, Amy?”
“Anywhere you like.”
“Why don't we meet here?”
“What time?”
“The sooner the better. I'm famished.”
“Come to think of it, so am I. Where are you?”
“San Francisco General Hospital.”
“What? Is there something wrong?”
“There's nothing to be done,” he replied calmly. “I'll explain it all when you get here.”
“Are you sure that today's a good day for lunch?”
“My dear girl, I've never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”
“Okay. I'll see you around eleven.”
“And Amy? Would you be so kind as to bring my traveler's checks with you?”
She agreed and hung up.
He left the phone booth feeling very good about himself. He ambled along and put the sirens and the urgent broadcasts for doctors out of his head. Instead, he thought of Amy. Her brown hair, her dark eyes, her delicate mouth, her curvaceous figure. It was amazing to him how quickly he had conjured up a mental picture of her purely on the basis of her voice transmitted by the telephone.
Indeed, he left the hospital in a dream about the telephone. He had to learn more about that method of communication. It was revolutionary; it was necessary; it was worthy of man.
Very excited, he hurried up the walkway, for he had just been struck with an idea. Telephone signals, he assumed, were transmitted by magnetic, electrical fields of energy—the same kinds of fields that powered his rotations through time. Therefore, he postulated, once he had a working knowledge of the telephone, it shouldn't be too difficult to adapt the device so that one could speak both into history and into the future. Telephoning through time! Speaking with dead relatives and unborn children. Querying Queen Victoria, the Tsar of Russia or a future leader of, say, the Chinese. How about that for the greatness and immortality of the human species?
 
 
He was deep in thought picturing a telephone installed inside his time machine when he heard a horn. He turned and saw her waving at him from a sleek blue vehicle with silver letters on the rear spelling “Honda Accord.”
The interior of the machine was attractive and clean—nothing like the taxi he had ridden in the day before. He eased back in the seat.
“Oh, before I forget …” She smiled and handed him his traveler's checks.
“Thank you.” He looked around. “What a lovely motorcar. Beautiful. Simply beautiful.” He felt the dash.
“It's not exactly a Rolls-Royce,” she said.
“No, it certainly isn't,” he replied vaguely.
“Would you like to drive it?”
“I'm afraid I don't know how.” He grinned dreamily. “But someday I'd like to learn.”
“That can be arranged.” She pulled away from the curb and began driving down the street.
“‘D' stands for ‘drive' and ‘R' indicates ‘reverse'?” he asked.
She glanced at him with surprise. “Surely you've ridden in cars with automatic transmissions before.”
“Not very often.”
She laughed. “Ah, the British! So traditional.” She gestured at the floor. “Look, ma, no clutch. Just a brake.” She touched it with her foot. “And a gas pedal.” She pressed it down and accelerated up a ramp and past a road sign that read “Bayshore Freeway.”
He grinned with pleasure, thinking that linear speed definitely could become addicting.
“Herbert, what were you doing at the hospital?”
He frowned and looked away. “Oh, yes. That.” Then he briefly explained that Leslie John Stephenson had been accidentally struck and killed by an automobile.
“Oh, no!” She placed her right hand around his and held it tightly. “I'm so sorry!”
“So am I.”
“Is there anything I can do? I mean, I know he was your friend, and I know—”
“He wasn't my friend.”
“Huh?” She raised her eyebrows. “But yesterday you said—”
“He was no one's friend.”
“I don't understand.”
“I'd just rather not discuss it, if you don't mind.”
“Oh.” She took her hand away. “Okay.”
He felt small. She didn't say any more, and very quickly the silence became heavy. He grew worried and did not enjoy the scenery, his first trip on a modern highway or the contagious rhythm of high-speed driving. Certainly, the death of Stephenson meant that now he could leisurely investigate 1979. He could be thorough and scientific. And if he survived his own archaisms, he could return to his own time with the vast knowledge of modern mankind.
BOOK: Time After Time
5.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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