Harry Harrison - The Technicolor Time Machine

“I can’t work there. It’s lousy with people, parties all night.”

“That’s what you think. How would you like to work on Catalina without another soul around, the whole island to yourself? Just think of the work you could get done.”

“Barney, honestly, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

“You will, Charley. In a very few minutes you will.”

“Fifty reams of typing paper, a box of carbon paper, typing chair—one, typing table—one, typewriter…”

“This is a steam model, Barney,” Charley said. “The antique kind you push with the fingers. I can only work with an IBM electric.”

“I’m afraid the electric current isn’t so reliable on the part of the island where you’ll be. You watch how fast the fingers will get the old touch back.” Barney made a tick mark on the sheet as a big crate was pushed into the back of the truck. “One safari outfit, complete,”

“One what?”

“A do-it-yourself safari from the prop department. Tent, cots, mosquito nets, chairs, folding kitchen—and everything works. You’ll feel just like Dr. Livingstone only twice as comfortable. Fifty-gallon drum of water —three, spring-powered time clock with cards—one.”

Charley Chang watched in numb incomprehension as the varied assortments of items was loaded into the army truck. None of it made any sense, including the old geezer behind all the junk who was working away on a Frankenstein radio set. The ancient, mahogany time clock with roman numerals on its face was pushed over the tailgate, and Charley grabbed Barney’s arm and pointed to it.

“None of this do I understand; and that least of all. Why a time clock?”

“Professor Hewett will explain everything in greatest detail in a few minutes, meanwhile take it all on faith. The clock is an important part, you’ll see. Punch in every morning, don’t forget.”

“Mr. Hendrickson,” his secretary called out, “you’re very much in luck.” She came into the warehouse leading by the arm a frowning Negro who wore white work clothes and a tall chef’s hat. “You said you wanted a cook, but instantly, and I went right to our commissary and found Clyde Rawlston here. Not only can he cook, but he can take shorthand and type.”

“You’re an angel, Betty. Order another typewriter…”

“It’s on the way. Did the first-aid box come?”

“Already aboard. That’s the lot then. Clyde this is Charley, Charley, Clyde. You’ll get better acquainted later. If you will kindly board the truck now.”

“I’ll go as soon as someone explains what is going on around here,” Clyde Rawlston said with cold-eyed belligerence.

“A company emergency, Climactic needs you, and as loyal employees I know you’ll both cooperate. Professor Hewett will explain it all to you. It won’t take long. I’ll see you both right here in just ten minutes by my watch, that’s a promise. Now—if you will just climb over those crates go I can get this tailgate up.”

Chivvied on by the voice of authority, they clambered aboard and Professor Hewett leaned out over their shoulders.

“I thought the Cambrian period would be best,” he said to Barney. “You know, early Paleozoic. A nice, moderate climate, warm and comfortable, with no vertebrates around to cause trouble. Seas churning with the simple trilobite. Though it might be a little warm for continued comfort. Perhaps a little later in the Devonian. There would still be nothing big enough to harm—”

“You’re the doctor, Prof, whatever you think best. We have to work fast now, at least on this end. Take them to Catalina, drop them off, then move six weeks ahead and bring them back here. Leave the junk on the island, we may need it later. Only about fifteen minutes left.”

“Consider it done. With each trip made I feel it easier to calibrate the instruments, so that now the settings are most precise. No tune shall be wasted, no time at all.”

Professor Hewett returned to his instruments and the generator howled. Charley Chang was trying to say something, but his words were cut off as the truck vanished. There was no flicker or fading, it just disappeared as instantly and as quickly as the image on a back-projection screen when the film breaks. Barney started to turn to talk to his secretary, but just as his motion began the truck appeared.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, then saw that all the suppplies were gone from the back. Clyde Rawlston was standing near the professor at the controls and Charley Chang was sitting on an empty crate clutching a thick folder of typed sheets.

“Nothing is wrong,” the professor said. “I have just timed our return with the utmost of exact precision.”

Charley was no longer wearing his jacket and his shirt was creased and faded, so bleached by the sun across the shoulders that all the color was gone. His hair was long and a black bristle of beard covered his cheeks.

“How did it go?” Barney asked.

“Not bad—considering. I’m not quite finished though, you see it’s those things in the water. Those teeth! Eyes… !”

“How much more time do you need?”

“Two weeks should wrap it up, with time to spare. But, Barney, the eyes…”

“There’s nothing there big enough to hurt you, that’s what the Prof said.”

“Maybe not big, but in the ocean, so many of them, and the teeth…”

“See you. Take it away, Prof. Two weeks.”

This time the truck barely flickered, and if he had blinked at the wrong moment Baney would have missed the trip altogether. Yet, Charley and Clyde were sitting together on the other side of the truck and the wad of typescript was thicker.

“Viking Columbus,” Charley said, waving it over his head. “A wide-screen masterpiece.” He handed it down and Barney saw that there were some cards clipped to the folder. “Those are our time cards, and if you examine them you’ll see that they have been punched in every day, and Clyde and I are asking double time for Saturdays and treble for Sundays.”

“Who’s arguing?” Barney said, weighing the script happily. “Come on along, Charley, we’ll have the story conference right away.”

Charley sniffed the twilight air as they came out of the warehouse. “What a lot of stinks,” he said. “I never realized it before. What great air we had there on the island.” He looked down at his feet while he walked. “Feels funny to be wearing shoes again.”

“The native’s return,” Barney said. “I’ll bring the script in and you can get some clothes from wardrobe to replace your beachcomber’s rags and grab a shave. Get over to L.M.’s office as soon as you can. Is it a good script?”

“Maybe it’s too early to say—but in a way I think it’s the best thing I have ever done. Working the way I did, no outside distractions you know—if you don’t count the eyes! And Clyde was a big help, a good clean typist. He’s a poet, did you know that?”

“I thought he was a cook?”

“He’s a lousy cook, I ended up doing all the cooking. He only took the job in the commissary to pay his rent. He’s a damn good poet, and great on dialogue. He helped me a lot there. Do you think we can get him a credit on this film?”

“I don’t see why not. And don’t forget that shave.”

Barney went into L.M.’s office and dropped the script onto the desk. “Finished,” he said.

L.M. weighed it carefully in both hands, then held it at arm’s length so he could read the cover sheet.

“Viking Columbus. A good title. We’ll have to change it You delivered like you said, Barney, so maybe now you can tell me the secret of in one hour producing a script. Tell Sam, he wants to hear too.” Sam was almost invisible, immobile against the dark wallpaper, until he nodded his head.