The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Read online

  Yale racked his brains for a plan of escape. He could think of nothing. There was the revolver Fraxer had inexplicably placed on the table, but he wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance to get it before the other fired. And one shot was all Fraxer ever needed to hit his mark.

  “So it’s going to be murder in cold blood, is it?”

  “Not quite that. You’ll have three counts during which you can try to get to that gun on the table. When you reach, I fire.”

  “That’s not much more than murder!”

  “I won’t argue the point,” said Fraxer impatiently. “We’ve done enough talking.”

  Yale whitened, but kept silent. “One,” said Fraxer.

  Yale stood motionless, wanting to postpone the shooting as long as possible.

  “They’ll never believe you, Gary,” he argued. “They’ll suspect something is wrong. There’s always a chance that my body will be found with a bullet hole in it, and you couldn’t explain that to the police.”

  Fraxer’s set expression didn’t change. His gun was perfectly steady, aimed directly at Yale’s heart, and his face was pale behind the gritty film of desert sand.

  “Two,” said Fraxer hoarsely.

  “It won’t work,” said Yale, still fighting for time.

  Fraxer showed no sign of having heard.

  “Thr—” he began, and at that instant Yale made a desperate grab for the gun on the table.

  A gun roared an angry message of death as a shot, a single shot, crashed out. A dark, red fluid welled from a black hole that had suddenly appeared in Fraxer’s shirt front. He reached out in a blind effort to find something for support, failed, and then crumpled heavily to the floor.

  Yale stood there for a second, staring at his own smoking gun. A slight pressure on the trigger of the other’s revolver would have been enough to blast him down—but it had not come. By all the laws of chance it should have happened. But it hadn’t.

  There was a low moan from the fallen man, and in an instant Yale was kneeling beside him. Fraxer’s lips moved feverishly.

  “Clipping in pocket,” he managed to gasp, “explains why.”

  Blood bubbled up from between his clenched teeth, a convulsive shudder shook his body, and then he was quite still.

  Yale got the clipping from the dead man’s pocket and unfolded it carefully. It was dated May 15, 1951!

  “Fraxer to die in chair for murder of Walter Yale,” read the column headline. A description of the trial followed.

  Walter Yale saw a few lines written in a familiar scrawl at the bottom of the clipping. He read them eagerly.

  “It seems certain from this clipping that sometime in the future I shall kill Walter Yale. Yale is too fine a man to die. It is infinitely better that I be killed first to prevent this from happening. I will send the time machine where he can’t use it to undo my suicide. This seems the only way. This clipping and this confession will clear him. He shot in self-defense. He didn’t know I never intended to fire.”

  There the writing stopped. Yale bent to examine the weapon that should have been fired first. The safety-catch of Fraxer’s gun had not even been released. Fraxer really had never intended to shoot, but had deliberately let himself be killed.

  A hoarse sob tore itself from Walter Yale’s throat. He looked at the still face of his dead partner, at the lips curved slightly in what seemed almost a smile. Suddenly Yale felt very tired. And he got up slowly and walked out.

  CAVERNS OF TIME, by Carlos McCune

  Clive nosed the truck over the brow of the ridge and rapidly shifted up through the gears as it gained momentum on the down-grade. He didn’t like the ridge, it was too steep and too crooked, and worse, there were too many timid tourists hugging the inside on blind curves. In their present state the brakes on this small truck were ridiculously inadequate for the relatively heavy load of twelve hundred gallons of gasoline that filled the tank. Clive didn’t know why he took such chances when there was an even chance of “piling up,” but unconsciously the thrill of uncertainty was his only incentive for staying on this truck-driving job the four months of the year that he was not studying medicine.

  The tanker continued to pick up speed, while Clive gave it all the brake he had on his approach to curves that couldn’t be negotiated otherwise. Ten miles of this slope and he was preparing to congratulate himself upon the successful descent, as was his custom, when he saw something that instantly tensed all of the muscles in his body. He grabbed the hand-brake, at the same time slamming the foot-brake pedal to the floor-boards, finally coming to a stop.

  “Clive, you’re wacky,” he muttered; “you’re asleep and you don’t know it.”

  From past experience he knew there was only one treatment for sleepiness. He leaned over the steering-wheel and closed his eyes. He was just dozing off when he was startled nearly through the windshield by a terrific din. Quickly composing himself he scrambled out of the cab, making his way toward the rear of the truck—sure that he would find another car smashed into the rear of the tanker. He had barely taken two steps, however, when the sound of voices caused him to stop dead in his tracks. The voices were speaking in a foreign tongue—French. Clive immediately recognized it for he had studied this language for three years in his undergraduate days.

  “Well Messieurs, what do you make of it?” One voice was saying.

  “Strike it again, d’Artagnan, perhaps we can rouse some creature from within.” This speaker’s voice was boisterously loud.

  “I am afraid, Messieurs, that after the mad dash we have just witnessed we will find no living creature in this strange vehicle. It is a miracle that it stopped before dashing itself to pieces against the rocks you see ahead.” This voice had an air of quiet dignity that immediately commanded Clive’s respect.

  “Then it wasn’t a dream,” Clive murmured: “Or it was and I am still dreaming.” His eyes wandered to the deep, transparent blue of the sky, and to the eagle that was scarcely violating its solitude, floating about on motionless wings. The sun beat down mercilessly, but paradoxically a cool breeze was blowing down through the canyon to the right, as it always did about this time of day. Clive inhaled deeply this refreshing draught. “I can’t possibly be asleep,” he thought; “everything is too real.” He again turned his attention to the voices on the other side of the truck.

  “Athos is right, but perhaps the coachman was spared by the same providence that saved the coach,” said a fourth voice.

  “Mordieu!” The second voice was even more boisterous than before: “What kind of providence would spare a coachman that would lose his horses on such a grade?”

  Clive could contain himself no longer, dream or no dream, he was going to enjoy the situation to the fullest. He walked boldly around the truck, and addressed the strange company:

  “I have the horses safely under lock and key, friends, all 85 of them, and so if you will climb back on your respective mounts, and ride back to the booby hatch, or the circus, or wherever you belong I’ll skin this wagon on into town.”

  The four men he addressed were indeed a strange sight—small wonder that Clive suspected himself of dreaming. They wore long cloaks—much too warm for this near-desert climate—and large felt hats with flowing plumes. They wore high leather boots reaching above their knees, and each carried a long straight sword at his side. The mounts were as remarkable as the riders. In this country of cow-boys and horses Clive had never seen horse furnishings such as these noble animals carried—a combination of leather, steel, silver, and velvet—very impractical, but having a very business-like appearance.

  Though they rode almost identical mounts, and dressed similarly, the four men certainly were not drawn together by any personal similarity. One was rather short and stocky, having prominent cheek-bones, and a swarthy complexion. “D’Artagnan,” was the thought that flash
ed through Clive’s mind, for he was the exact picture of the hero of Clive’s life-long favorite novel. A second was, in contrast, a veritable giant. A shock of light hair hung to his shoulders, framing a flushed face which bore a rather blank expression. “Porthos,” this one registered. A third gave the impression of effeminate elegance, an impression that was belied by the cold glitter in his eye. “Aramis,” thought Clive. Fourth was the most commanding figure of the group. Tall and handsome, this man embodied all the qualities commonly ascribed to aristocracy. This could only be Athos.

  Clive felt embarrassed the moment he had made this rude speech. “After all,” he thought, “they are probably members of one of the motion picture companies that film many of their scenes in this country.” This embarrassment lasted only a moment, however, quickly changing to a feeling of concern, for as soon as the strangers had recovered from the first surprise their swords flashed menacingly in their hands, and “d’Artagnan” cried:

  “It’s an English dog, let me have the pleasure, Messieurs, of spitting him on my sword.”

  Clive would not have been surprised if they had vanished in thin air, but events had taken an unsuspected turn with rather startling effects. He turned and fled toward the cab of the tanker. The motor roared obligingly at a flick of the starter button, and the truck moved out upon the highway. He stopped the truck again on the top of a small knoll about one hundred yards distant, for a glance at the rear-view mirror had assured him he was no longer in danger of being perforated by this maniac’s sword—Clive was sure now that the strangers were escaped inmates of an asylum, or almost sure —the noble bearing of “Athos” made him wonder.

  Climbing to the top of the tank in order to get a better view, Clive looked back upon a scene of confusion. The horses, evidently startled by the roar of the truck motor were streaking across a nearby ridge, while the strangers who had tried in vain to stop them were watching them disappear in apparent dismay. When finally convinced that the horses would neither stop nor return, the four again turned their attention to the tanker, and after a hasty conference started walking up the hill to where Clive was now seated cross-legged on top of the tank. Clive had by this time overcome his momentary fear, and felt only amusement as he saw his would-be persecutors approach slowly-panting and perspiring under the weight of the heavy, warm clothes they were wearing. When they arrived within hailing distance, Clive called out to them, this time in French:

  “Stay where you are, Messieurs, or leave your arms there, otherwise you shall have a twenty-mile walk to the next town.”

  The strangers held another hasty conference, and Clive saw Athos hand his sword to d’Artagnan, and approach alone.

  “Monsieur, I am afraid you have bested us on our first encounter; bested by your noise, if not by your remarkable display of courage.”

  Clive flushed crimson, but then thought of the cause of his awkward retreat.

  “It does take a brave man to draw a sword on an unarmed man, and since there are four of you I’d say your courage was almost foolhardy.”

  Now Athos flushed. Clive climbed down to the ground, and stood before this aristocratic figure. “If your friends will promise to behave themselves I’ll take you all on to St. George, where you can put up at a hotel for the night. Your horses will turn up at some ranch by morning, and we can get the sheriff to keep us posted.”

  By this time Athos had regained his composure, he said: “Accept my sincere apologies, I see that I am dealing with a gentleman, although you are clothed as a peasant. Your speech tells me that you are an Englishman, therefore a spy. We can not ride with you since you obviously have no horses for your strange carriage. Amiens is scarcely over a league from here, and since we are in a hurry we shall walk back there and buy new horses.”

  “Amiens? I have never heard of that town around here,” said Clive. “Of course I may be wrong, and you’re not kidding about wanting to buy horses; if so you’ll have a better chance of getting them in St. George than out here in the hills. Your best bet is to climb in with me and let me take you on in to town.” Clive was beginning to wonder how long these fellows were going to keep up the bluff. Amiens, anyone would know that was a French city, six thousand miles away.

  Athos considered for a moment, he gazed at the cloudless sky and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a lace handkerchief which he produced from somewhere. He gave most of his attention to the truck, however, and seemed very much perplexed with this strange vehicle.

  “It did start, and carry itself to the top of this hill,” he said, as though to himself. “We are not expected in Paris for two days, and perhaps the adventure will be worth the delay.” Turning, he signaled for the others to approach, and when they came within speaking distance he said, “Put down your arms Messieurs, we are dealing with a gentleman from whom we are about to receive a favor.”

  The three exchanged knowing glances, and sheathed their swords. Porthos dragged his hat off and mopped industriously at the copious stream of perspiration, that was welling forth from his brow, with a handkerchief that greatly resembled a lace curtain. Aramis patted lightly with a much more dainty piece of lace, while d’Artagnan walked coolly ahead, as though there were no such thing as temperature discomfort.

  “A gentleman indeed,” grumbled Porthos; “he would make a much better companion for our lackeys.”

  “Ah yes,” replied d’Artagnan; “but he has a very interesting sort of carriage, it’s noisier than the fishmonger’s market, and it will go uphill without horses.”

  “I would say it is possessed of the devil, if he is not the devil himself. What say you, Monsieur l’Abbe?” asked Porthos, turning to Aramis.

  “Perhaps,” answered Aramis. “If so, we should cultivate him, for who would be better to deal with Monsieur le Cardinal!”

  “Bravo!” cried Porthos and d’Artagnan. Athos smiled in his noble manner, while Clive although smiling was rather annoyed by their continued pretense.

  “All kidding aside, fellows, where is your location?” Clive asked this question in English. The four looked questioningly at each other, and Athos spoke with ill disguised impatience:

  “Monsieur, we do not understand the English tongue, and since you do speak our language, after a fashion, you will please do us the courtesy of addressing us in French.” This was somewhat of a set-back, but Clive was determined to get to the bottom of what he decided was a first-rate mystery, and so proceeded to humor them. He repeated his question, this time in French.

  The strangers showed immediate signs of anger, reaching for their swords again. Athos restrained them, and Porthos, whose face had become a deep crimson from the heat of the sun, fairly exploded.

  “Mordieu!” he exclaimed, “this fellow is indeed a fool to even suggest that we betray military information to an Englishman.”

  “I have no reference to the French army, I am speaking of motion pictures.” This statement fell like a blow upon the four men. They stood transfixed. The color streamed from Porthos’ face until it faded to a rosy pink color. Finally d’Artagnan spoke.

  “Monsieur, you say ‘pictures’. Are we to understand then that there are more than one?”

  “You have them, perhaps?” asked Aramis.

  “It is plain that he has them, or he would not have mentioned them,” said Athos; “it is, therefore, our duty to see that he arrives safely in Paris.”

  To say that Clive was surprised at the turn events had taken would be a gross understatement. He made a feeble attempt to correct the misunderstanding, but was rewarded only by bland smiles from the four.

  “You need not fear, Monsieur, you are among friends,” said Aramis.

  Clive tried another approach. “You said that Amiens is scarcely over a league from here, what road do you take to get there?”

  “Road indeed! The trail is scarcely more than a dry stream bed�
��that one,” Porthos said, pointing down the road to the point where the truck had first stopped. Clive could see a small gully with a fairly wide, dry stream bed, that quickly lost itself in the surrounding hills. Dry washes were very common in this country, but Clive was very much surprised when he saw this one dry for it had been the one stream that had consistently been “wet” in all his experience in this country. In fact, Clive had fished in that stream not more than two weeks before.

  “Yes it is very odd,” said d’Artagnan, “since on the other side of the cavern the trail is well marked, while on this side we appear to have been the only travelers. And now we come to this road, the like of which I have never seen in France.”

  “There is one more question I would like to ask you,” said Clive. “What was the date when you left Amiens?”

  “Why it was this morning,” d’Artagnan answered, “the sixth of July, 1628!”

  “Look!” cried Porthos. “Water!” The others followed his gaze, and saw that a stream of water was now flowing down the gully that a few minutes before had been a dry wash.

  “Messieurs,” said Clive. The others turned toward the speaker. “Prepare yourselves for a shock. Since you left Amiens ‘this morning’ you have come over five thousand miles, and covered a period of three hundred and twelve years!”

  The four strangers looked at him first in amazement, then they burst into laughter.

  “Monsieur is either mad, or is trying to be very clever,” said Athos.

  “I don’t blame you for thinking so,” said Clive; “but frankly, I had the same impression of you gentlemen until just now. I can’t explain how you did it, but I can prove to you that this is not the year 1628. If you will follow me I’ll show you that what I say is the truth.” He led them to the front of the truck and showed them the license plate. “You see, this is Utah, 1940. Utah is in the Rocky Mountains in the United States of America. Did you ever see a truck like this before? You just said you had never seen a road like this in France—it would be very impractical to drive horses over such a surface. And did you ever see such mountains as these in northern France?” The-four men were thunder-stricken. “You had better come with me now,” Clive continued. “If there is a way back we will find it in the morning.”