TVA BABY and Other Stories (17 page)

“December 21, bio-citizen.” The light in the InfoBot’s forehead blinked as it answered.

“I mean the year.”

“2255, bio-citizen. You can ask me anything. I am at your service.”

“So this is the Future?”

“Negative, bio-citizen. This is the present. Travel to the future is forbidden. Only travel to the past is permitted.”

Caleb pulled the watch out of his pocket. “So this is a Time Machine?”

“It is a temporary chronoslip interface device. It will take you to the past, and then return you here to the present.”

“I see.” Caleb slipped the watch back into his pocket; it was his ticket home. If he ever wanted to go! “So people can travel to the present—I mean, the past?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said the InfoBot. “ChronoTourists. But they are rather rare. The past is said to be rather unpleasant.”

“You got that right,” said Caleb. He shivered, remembering the cold. “If it’s December, and this is Chicago, how come it’s so nice and warm?”

“The atomic dome covering the Loop protects it from the weather,” said the InfoBot.

“I see,” said Caleb, though he didn’t. The dome was invisible. “And what about food? Is there a diner around?”

The InfoBot blinked, looking confused. “Only in the museum. Would you like to go? We can show menus, too, and other artifacts from the pre-techno past.”

“Never mind,” said Caleb. “I’m starving. Can I get something to eat?”

“Certainly, bio-citizen,” said the InfoBot. “Would you like me to summon a DinnerBot?”

Would he?! No sooner said than done. The DinnerBot rolled up seemingly out of nowhere, with a metallic chef’s hat on its head and a slot for a mouth. It had a little window in its chest, like the automat. Through it Caleb could see a hamburger and fries.

“Please insert coin,” the DinnerBot said.

“I only have a dime,” Caleb said. Actually he had two, side by side in his pocket. But there was no need to mention that.

He put one of his dimes into the slot and the window opened. Caleb grabbed the hamburger in one hand and the fries in the other. The DinnerBot bowed and left.

“How did it know what I wanted?” Caleb asked, his mouth full.

“Instantaneous telepathy,” said the InfoBot. “All biocitizen needs are anticipated.”

“All this for only a dime,” Caleb said, tearing into the french fries. Each one had a little seam of catsup running through it, like a vein.

“Everything costs a dime,” said the InfoBot. “It is our only currency, and everyone is entitled to all they need.”

“That’s good to know,” said Caleb as he wolfed down the hamburger. It was the first real food he’d had in days—in several centuries, now that he thought about it. And it tasted great.

But now his dime was gone. He looked the infoBot in the eye. “Brother, can you spare a dime?”

“Certainly, bio-citizen,” said the InfoBot. A dime appeared in its mouth. “To each according to his needs.”

“Hurrah for the Future,” said Caleb, snatching the dime. This one, too, had his picture on it. “Say—do you know who I am?”

“You are a bio-citizen,” said the InfoBot. “I am at your service.”

“I mean, do you know what I did? Does the name Caleb Freeman mean anything to you?”

“It’s not a proper name. It has no numerals. Would you like for me to give you a proper name?”

“No, no!” said Caleb. “I could sure use a bath, though.”

“Perhaps I could summon a SaniBot?”

No sooner said than done. The SaniBot was a woman robot, with a smiling slot for a mouth. “Please insert coin,” she said.

“No problem.” Caleb slipped his new dime into her mouth.

She opened her arms and Caleb was enveloped in a sweet smelling silvery mist, only for a second. Then it was gone, and he felt clean all over. He looked down at his ragged coat. Even it was clean.

“I love it here!” he said, as the SaniBot bowed and rolled away.

“Of course,” said the infoBot. “Now that there is no poverty or crime, Chicago is a good place for bio-citizens to live.”

“No poverty? No crime?”

“No need,” said the infoBot. “All our energy needs are taken care of by radioactive microwave grid, and all the labor is done by robots like myself. We are here to serve you.”

“No robot rebellion, huh?”

“I beg your pardon, bio-citizen?”

“Nothing,” said Caleb. “I was just thinking that the Future is everything I ever expected—everything the sci-fi writers anticipated, and even better.”

“This is the present,” corrected the infoBot. “It is anticipated that the future will be nice also.”

“I don’t doubt it,’ said Caleb. “Are you sure there’s nothing about me in your whatever-you-call-it?”

“Magnetic memory,” said the Infobot. “All human knowledge is on tape, in here.” He tapped his transparent head. Caleb could see reels turning between the glowing vacuum tubes.

“And there’s nothing about Caleb Freeman?”

“Negative.”

“Hmmm. Maybe I change my name, like a movie star.” Caleb pulled his last dime out of his pocket. “But this is me, right?”

“Certainly,” said the InfoBot. “Who else could it be?”

“Exactly,” said Caleb. He pocketed the dime and looked around at the shining towers, the moving sidewalks, the floating cars and the happy citizens gliding by.

And then he groaned aloud, realizing what he had to do.

“Damn!” he said. “Clearly I did something important, to help bring about this wonderful future. And now I can’t enjoy it!”

“I don’t understand,” said the InfoBot.

“I have to go back to my own time, so I can do whatever it is that I do in order to bring all this about. I can’t take the chance on missing out on my historic destiny.”

“Whatever you say,” said the InfoBot.

“Plus, if I stay here I’m liable to get tangled up in some kind of Time Paradox. Which I’ve read about in—say, what happened to my magazine?’

“I can show you a magazine in the museum,” said the InfoBot. “Would you like to take a guided tour?”

“I wish I could. I love it here. But I can’t take the chance,” said Caleb. “I’ve got a full belly and a shave and a haircut. I should probably be heading back to the present. I mean, the past.”

“If you say so. Not many tourists go there anymore. It is said to be rather unpleasant.”

“You’re telling me!” said Caleb. “But I don’t want to miss out on whatever it is that makes me famous. How do you work this thing?”

He pulled the watch—the temporary chronoslip interface device—out of his pocket.

“It is apparently already set,” said the InfoBot. “All you have to do is press the little radium-powered button. Would you like me to help?”

“I can handle it. This one?” Caleb pressed it.

And the robot was gone.

The city was gone.

The Future was gone.

Brrrrr!
Caleb felt the cold wind on the back of his neck.

He was on his knees in the alley, and the man in the long black coat was standing over him.

“That thing you took,” he said. “You
must
give it back! You don’t understand how …”

“Oh, but I do,” said Caleb. He handed him the watch. “Sorry to have troubled you. You see, I …”

But the man was already disappearing, in a slow flash of light. And Caleb was alone in the alley.

There was his magazine, on the ground where the man had dropped it. Caleb picked it up and looked at the cover: a gleaming futuristic city, with silvery towers and floating cars, but not half as nice as the real thing.

The Future he had seen—if only for a moment.

Caleb suddenly felt very tired. He stuck the magazine in his shirt and headed back for the doorway, where his blanket was stashed. He rolled up in the blanket and lay down in the doorway.

He shivered. It was even colder than before.

“No matter.” Caleb pulled the dime out of his pocket and smiled. There was his face, like Caesar himself. Who knew what pleasures awaited, if he could just get through the winter.

And I know my destiny, he thought. I know I get through the winter.

Shivering, but smiling, he fell asleep, into the deepest, and final, sleep of his life.

“Up and at ‘em,” said O’Malley. He rapped on the sidewalk with his nightstick. It made an ugly sound.

“Hey, you! Let’s get moving!” said O’Shea. “Uh oh. Look here.”

The two cops bent down and pulled back the blanket. The body inside was stiff.

“Didn’t we roust this bum out before?” said O’Malley.

“Musta crawled back,” said O’Shea. “Poor guy. Last night was a killer. Literally.”

“One less bum to worry about. Better call the dead wagon.”

“At least he died smiling. I guess dreams are still free.”

“At least he found some clean clothes,” said O’Malley. “That makes it easier. Help me turn him over.”

“This one was a reader,” said O’Shea. “
Thrilling Future Tales
. I read that one myself sometimes.”

“You can keep it then. Help me pry his hand open. Wouldn’t you know it. A dime.”

“Guess it’s ours,” said O’Shea. “Poor guy’s got no one else to leave to.”

“Brother, can you spare a dime,” said O’Malley, warming the coin in his hand. He looked at it. Then stared at it. “Funny. Hey. Look at this.”

“That’s your face!” said O’Shea. “Let me see.”

He took the dime in his hand and watched as the face slowly changed. “Now it’s my face!”

O’Malley grabbed it back. “Now it’s my face again. Some kind of trick dime.”

“Futuristic, you mean. Radioactive, or something,” said O’Shea. “Bet he bought it through that magazine. There are lots of novelty ads in the back pages. Let me see it again.”

“No way, O’Shea. I’m keeping it.”

“Why? You can’t spend it.”

“I want to show the sergeant. Wait’ll he sees his ugly mug on a dime!”

Knock knock!

I never was a deep sleeper. I sat up and buttoned my shirt. Folded the blanket and dropped it behind the couch, along with the pillow. You don’t want your clients to find out that you live in your office; that suggests unprofessionalism, and unprofessionalism is the bane of the Private Eye, even (and especially) the…

Knock knock! “Supernatural Private Eye?”

I dropped the Jim Beam into the drawer and opened the door with my cell phone in hand, so it would look like I had been working. “Can I help you?”

“Jack Villon, Supernatural Private Eye?”

She was somewhere on that wide, windswept chronological plain between thirty and fifty that softens men and sharpens women, especially those with taste and class, both of which she appeared to have in abundance.

“It’s Villón, not Villon” I said. “And—”

“Whatever.” Without waiting for an invitation, she brushed past me into my office and looked around with ill-disguised disgust. “Don’t you have a necktie?”

“Of course. I don’t always wear it at eight in the morning.”

“Put it on and let’s go. It’s almost nine.”

“And you are …?”

“A paying client with no time to waste,” she said, unsnapping her patent leather purse and pulling out a pack of Camels. She lit a long one off the short one in her hand.

“Edith Prang, Director, New Orleans Museum of Art and Antiquities. I can pay you what you ask, and a little more, but we have to hurry.”

“You can’t smoke in here, Mrs. Prang.”

“It’s Ms. and there’s no time to waste,” she said, blowing smoke in my face. “The police are already there.”

“Already where?”

“Where we’re going.” She closed her purse and walked out the door without answering, but not before handing me two reasons to follow her. Each was printed with a picture of a President I had never had the good fortune to encounter before.