Jerry Oltion: Away in a Manger

The front window of Bob’s Budget Time Tours looked like an abandoned movie theater. Faded posters of bygone eras covered the inside of the glass, and dead flies peppered the sill below them. The only evidence of recent decoration was a bright red Christmas ornament hanging from the bottom of a hand-lettered sign taped to the glass at eye level. Ordinarily Duncan wouldn’t even have slowed down as he and his wife, Cynthia, walked past, but the sign caught his attention:

Nativity special

Round trip package, $50,000

Limited Space—reserve now!

“Limited space,” Duncan said aloud. “I should certainly think so.”

Cynthia laughed. “It’s some sort of scam. Sure, look, it doesn’t say Christ’s nativity. They’re probably selling chances for people to witness their own births.”

Duncan said, “Fifty thousand is awfully steep for that.”

“True,” Cynthia admitted. Time visits to events of only personal significance were usually pretty cheap. “Still,” she said, “it can’t be the real thing.”

That was true enough. The birth of Christ had been sold out for years. Likewise the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the sermon on the mount. After all, there had been only so many real people in attendance at those events, so there were a limited number of slots for time travelers. Rumor had it that the entire city of Jerusalem had been bought off the first year time tours became possible, and that the Pope himself had paid over twenty million to take the place of one of the Wise Men. Duncan didn’t doubt that for a minute, nor the rumor that Leona Helmsley had paid almost that much for the privilege of telling Mary and Joseph that there was no room at the inn.

“Fifty thousand, eh?” Duncan rubbed his beard the way he did when he was thinking. “That’s still not small change. I wonder whose birth they’re selling for fifty grand.”

“Come on,” Cynthia said. “We’ll be late for the concert.”

“We can pay the extra few dollars for a ten-minute loopback. Come on, I’m curious.” He pushed open the weathered wooden door and drew Cynthia along behind him into the dim interior.

An elderly man in a rumpled suit the same gray color as his hair looked up from a pile of papers on his desk. “Help you folks?” he asked.

“Your sign,” Duncan said. “Certainly not the nativity?”

“The one and only,” the man said, suddenly smiling. “And let me tell you, it’s a bargain. Probably the last vacant spots ever. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

Duncan asked, “So what are you doing selling them for fifty grand?”

The travel agent—Richard Fenwick, by the nameplate on his desk— leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Beatin’ the competition, baby. I’m the one who found the openings, but the moment word gets out they exist, one of the big agencies’ll snap ’em up like nothin’. I figure it’s use ’em or lose ’em, but my clientele ain’t exactly rollin’ in the dough, if you know what I mean, so I figure on sellin’ ’em fast and cheap, make a few bucks and give a nice couple like you the chance of a lifetime.” He waved at the two chairs on the customers’ side of his desk.

Duncan held one for Cynthia, then sat in the other. “I can’t believe there’s an open position at the nativity. Who is it, a stablehand nobody knew about before? A maid at the inn who sneaks out for a romp in the hay?”

Fenwick grinned. “Can’t tell you. All I can say is I got seven slots available, all with an excellent view of the manger. Better than some that sold for millions.”

“Wow,” Duncan whispered. “The nativity for fifty grand. Well, a hundred,” he amended quickly, smiling at Cynthia.

She didn’t smile back. “Duncan, we’d have to mortgage the house. And besides, I don’t want to take a time tour. You have to learn every move the person you replace is supposed to make, and follow the script exactly, or you create paradoxes.”

Fenwick shook his head. “No scripts, and no paradoxes.”

“How?” Cynthia gave him her cold, no-nonsense stare.

He licked his lips nervously. “All right, I’ll tell you this much: There’s no body transfer involved. Only your mind will make the trip. You’ll be an overlay in another body.” He held up his hand, forestalling her protest. “No, you won’t have trouble with multiple minds in one body; you’ll each get one all to yourself.”

“How can that be?”

Fenwick shook his head. “That stays secret until you get back. I don’t want anybody else stealin’ my hosts before I sell all seven tickets.”

Duncan reached for his wallet. “We’re in.”

“Duncan!”

“Listen, we can make it back in a week from TV appearances alone. There hasn’t been a new eyewitness report of the nativity for a decade.”

Fenwick beamed. “Now that’s what I call thinkin’ ahead. I like your style, buddy.” He slid a contract across the desk. “Sign here.”

The transfer process was simple enough. A technician attached a bulky headset to each of the travelers, plugged them into a modified time machine, set the dials, and threw the lever. The travel agency faded away, and the dark interior of a candle-lit stable grew distinct around them. Sure enough, there stood the young Mary and Joseph, smiling nervously at the throng of time travelers disguised as shepherds and wise men who knelt before the straw-filled manger.

Duncan couldn’t see the baby. He was on his hands and knees, but when he tried to sit up he staggered sideways and fell. “Damn!” he said, momentarily forgetting where he was. His body felt awkward. Had Fenwick put him into a drunk? When he looked around for a clue, he realized he was in among the sheep. Hiding? Or—he craned his neck to see his own body.

“That son of a bitch! ” he shouted.

One of the wise men leaped back, startled. “It spoke,” he whispered. “It’s a miracle!”

“Miracle, schmiracle,” one of the shepherds said. He whacked Duncan on the back with his crook. “I don’t care if you can talk,” he hissed. “Show some respect.”