Мартин Гринберг: The Best Time Travel Stories of the 20th Century

Harry asked, “You mean they use the same props over again?”

“That’s right. They don’t last, though. Six, eight acts, maybe. Then they got to build new ones and weather them and knock ’em around to make ’em look as if they was used.”

There was silence for a time. Gurrah, having got his bitterness off his chest for the first. time in literally ages, was feeling pacified. Harry didn’t know how to feel. He finally broke the ice. “Hey, Gurrah—How’m I goin’ to get back into the play?”

“What’s it to me? How’d you— Oh, that’s right, you walked in from the control room, huh? That it?”

Harry nodded.

“An’ how,” growled Gurrah, “did you get inta the control room?”

“Iridel brought me.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I went to see the producer, and—”

“Th’ producer! Holy— You mean you walked right in and—” Gurrah mopped his brow. “What’d he say?”

“Why—he said he guessed it wasn’t my fault that I woke up in Wednesday. He said to tell Iridel to ship me back.”

“An’ Iridel threw you back to Monday.” And Gurrah threw back his shaggy head and roared.

“What’s funny,” asked Harry, a little peeved.

“Iridel,” said Gurrah. “Do you realize that I’ve been trying for fifty thousand acts or more to get something on that pretty ol’ heel, and he drops you right in my lap. Pal, I can’t thank you enough! He was supposed to send you back into the play, and instead o’ that you wind up in yesterday! Why, I’ll blackmail him till the end of time!” He whirled exultantly, called to a group of bedraggled little men who were staggering under a cornerstone on their way to the junkyard. “Take it easy, boys!” he called. “I got ol’ Iridel by the short hair. No more busted backs! No more snotty messages! Haw haw haw! ”

Harry, a little amazed at all this, put in a timid word, “Hey—Gurrah. What about me?”

Gurrah turned. “You? Oh. Tel-e-phone! ” At his shout two little workers, a trifle less bedraggled than the rest, trotted up. One hopped up and perched on Gurrah’s right shoulder; the other draped himself over the left, with his head forward. Gurrah grabbed the latter by the neck, brought the man’s head close and shouted into his ear. “Give me Iridel!” There was a moment’s wait, then the little man on his other shoulder spoke in Iridel’s voice, into Gurrah’s ear, “Well?”

“Hiyah, fancy pants!”

“Fancy— I beg your— Who is this?”

“It’s Gurrah, you futuristic parasite. I got a couple things to tell you.”

“Gurrah! How— dare you talk to me like that! I’ll have you—”

“You’ll have me in your job if I tell all I know. You’re a wart on the nose of progress, Iridel.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning of this is that you had instructions sent to you by the producer an’ you muffed them. Had an actor there, didn’t you? He saw the boss, didn’t he? Told you he was to be sent back, didn’t he? Sent him right over to me instead of to the play, didn’t you? You’re slippin’, Iridel. Gettin’ old. Well, get off the wire. I’m callin’ the boss, right now.”

“The boss? Oh—don’t do that, old man. Look, let’s talk this thing over. Ah—about that shipment of three-legged dogs I was wanting you to round up for me; I guess I can do without them. Any little favor I can do for you—”

“—you’ll damn well do, after this. You better, Goldilocks.” Gurrah knocked the two small heads together, breaking the connection and probably the heads, and turned grinning to Harry. “You see,” he explained, “that Iridel feller is a damn good supervisor, but he’s a stickler for detail. He sends people to Limbo for the silliest little mistakes. He never forgives anyone and he never forgets a slip. He’s the cause of half the misery back here, with his hurry-up orders. Now things are gonna be different. The boss has wanted to give Iridel a dose of his own medicine for a long time now, but Irrie never gave him a chance.”

Harry said patiently, “About me getting back now—”

“My fran’!” Gurrah bellowed. He delved into a pocket and pulled out a watch like Iridel’s. “It’s eleven forty on Tuesday,” he said. “We’ll shoot you back there now. You’ll have to dope out your own reasons for disappearing. Don’t spill too much, or a lot of people will suffer for it—you the most. Ready?”

Harry nodded; Gurrah swept out a hand and opened the curtain to nothingness. “You’ll find yourself quite a ways from where you started,” he said, “because you did a little moving around here. Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” said Harry.

Gurrah laughed. “Don’t thank me, chum. You rate all the thanks! Hey—if, after you kick off, you don’t make out so good up there, let them toss you over to me. You’ll be treated good; you’ve my word on it. Beat it; luck!”

Holding his breath, Harry Wright stepped through the doorway.

He had to walk thirty blocks to the garage, and when he got there the boss was waiting for him.

“Where you been, Wright?”

“I—lost my way.”

“Don’t get wise. What do you think this is—vacation time? Get going on the spring job. Damn it, it won’t be finished now till tomorra.”

Harry looked him straight in the eye and said, “Listen. It’ll be finished tonight. I happen to know.” And, still grinning, he went back into the garage and took out his tools.

The versatile Henry Kuttner (1914–1958) began his career writing weird fiction under the influence of H. P. Lovecraft for Weird Tales. By the late 1930s, he had branched out to write prolifically for a variety of adventure, detective, and science-fiction magazines. He married science-fiction writer C. L. Moore in 1940, and the two became leading writers for Astounding Science-Fiction during the war years. Much of the fiction that appeared under Kuttner’s name or the Lewis Padgett and Lawrence O’Donnell pseudonyms was collaborations between the two. His distinguished work from this period includes the wacky robot stories assembled as Robots Have No Tails, the “Baldy” stories of mutant supermen collected as Mutant, the reality-twisting short novels Tomorrow and Tomorrow and The Fairy Chessmen, and the classic time-travel story “Vintage Season.” He also collaborated with Moore on several pastiches of A. Merritt, including The Dark World, The Valley of the Flame, and The Time Axis . His best fiction has been collected in A Gnome There Was, Ahead of Time, Line to Tomorrow, No Boundaries, Bypass to Otherness, and Return to Otherness .

The idea of containing a time warp in an object has probably never been written about quite so cleverly as in “Time Locker.” Kuttner’s story of a dishonest attorney trying to subvert the future for his own ends could be considered almost a progenitor of the hard science-fiction story, with the tipsy scientist providing the scientific background on why the mysterious locker does what it does, and to explain why the events that happen during the story are as inevitable as the passage of time itself.

Gallegher played by ear, which would have been all right had he been a musician—but he was a scientist. A drunken and erratic one, but good. He’d wanted to be an experimental technician, and would have been excellent at it, for he had a streak of genius at times. Unfortunately, there had been no funds for such specialized education, and now Gallegher, by profession an integrator machine supervisor, maintained his laboratory purely as a hobby. It was the damnedest-looking lab in six states. Gallegher had once spent months building what he called a liquor organ, which occupied most of the space. He could recline on a comfortably padded couch and, by manipulating buttons, siphon drinks of marvelous quantity, quality, and variety down his scarified throat. Since he had made the liquor organ during a protracted period of drunkenness, he never remembered the basic principles of its construction. In a way, that was a pity.