Pauline Ashwell: Time's Revenge

“The rest of your life?” I exclaimed.

“It’s time I retired. This proves it. A blunder like that… I may have set a permanent question-mark against the reliability of thermoluminescence. It’s reasonable to make use of the facilities in this Universe and pay for them at the going rate; but one mustn’t upset people unnecessarily. No, I shall retire to the Fortunate Isles and study the ammonites in the rock pools; I can’t do any harm with that.”

I swallowed hard and tried to keep from showing my dismay. I had not realised how important the Time Traveler’s visits had become in my pleasant, prosperous, humdrum existence. I felt as though the most fascinating book in the world was being snatched away from me, half read; but it was worse than that. I knew that in time I would begin to wonder whether our meetings had ever really occurred, or whether I had allowed some middle-aged fantasy to take such possession of my mind that I ended up by believing in it; and I hated the thought of it.

The Time Traveler’s glance fell on his half-finished whisky. He took up the glass and swallowed the rest.

We sat for a minute or two in silence. I, at least, had no idea what to say. The Time Traveler pulled absently at his beard.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “it might be worth while to try one of the big American Museums. They tend to be quite sceptical about test results that they haven’t checked for themselves. And since I’ll have removed the source of the anomaly… Yes, I think it’s worth a go.” He put down the glass and rose to his feet.

“Do you mind if I go through your kitchen again? I’ll site the interface more carefully next time….”

Dumb with relief, I followed him into the kitchen. He raised his left hand and pressed the bezel of his signet ring against the door of the broom cupboard. It made no difference that I could see, but—

“See you in a couple of months,” said the Time Traveler. He merged himself with the woodwork, and disappeared.