The Technicolor Time Machine

“Well call them again if you expect me to live past noon.”

As Jens Lyn went out, a slight Oriental wearing pink slacks, a cerise shirt, a Harris Tweed sports jacket and a sour expression entered.

“Well, Charley Chang,” Barney boomed, sticking out his hand, “long time no see.”

“It’s been too long, Barney,” Charley said, grinning widely and shaking the outstretched hand, “Good to work with you again.”

They disliked each other intensely and as soon as their hands separated Barney lit a cigarette, and the smile vanished into the unhappy folds of Chang’s normal expression. “What’s cooking, Barney?” he asked.

“A wide-screen, three-hour, big-budget film—and you’re the only man who can write it.”

“We’re running out of books, Barney, but I’ve always thought that there was a good one in the Song of Solomon, sexy without being dirty—”

“The subject has already been chosen, a wholly new concept of the Viking discoveries of North America.”

Chang’s frown deepened. “Sounds good, Barney, but you know I’m a specialist. I don’t think this is up my alley.”

“You’re a good writer, Charley, which means everything is up your alley. Besides, ha-ha, let’s not forget your contract,” he added, slipping the dagger a few inches out of the scabbard so it could be seen.

“No, we can’t forget the contract, ha-ha,” Charley said coldly. “I’ve always been interested in doing a historical.”

“That’s great,” Barney said, pulling the budget sheet toward him again. The door opened and a messenger pushed in a trolley loaded with books. Barney pointed at them. “Here’s the scoop from the library, everything you need to know. Just take a quick flip through them and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“A minute, sure, sure,” Charlie said, looking coldly at the twenty-odd thick volumes.

“Five thousand seven hundred and seventy-three point two eight cubic meters with a loading of twelve thousand seven hundred and seventy-seven point six two kilograms at a power increase of twenty-seven point two per cent,” Professor Hewett suddenly said.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Barney snapped.

“Those are the figures you asked for, the size of load the vremeatron will be able to handle with an increased power supply.”

“Very nice. Now will you translate it into American.”

“Roughly speaking”—Hewett rolled his eyes up and mumbled quickly under his breath—“I would say that a fourteen-ton load could be temporally moved, measuring twelve feet by twelve feet by forty feet.”

“That’s more like it. That should hold anything we might possibly need.”

“Contract,” Betty said, dropping an eight-page multifolded document onto his desk.

“All right,” Barney said, slipping quickly through the crisp sheets. “Get Dallas Levy up here.”

“Miss Tove is waiting outside to see you.”

“Not now! Tell her my leprosy is acting up. And where are those bennies? I’m not going to get through this morning on coffee alone.”

“I’ve rung the dispensary three more times, there seems to be something about a staff shortage today.”

“Those unfeeling bastards. You better get down there and bring them back yourself.”

“Why Barney Hendrickson—it must have been years…”

The hoarse-voiced words hurtled across the office and left silence in their wake. Gossipmongers said that Slithey Tove had the acting ability of a marionette with loose strings, the brain of a chihuahua and the moral standards of Fanny Hill. They were right. Yet these qualities, or lack of qualities, did not explain the success of her pictures. The one quality that Slithey did have, in overabundance, was femaleness, plus the ability to communicate on what must have been a hormone level. She did not generate an aura of sex, but rather one of sexual availability. Which was true enough. This aura was strong enough to carry, scarcely diminished, through all the barriers of film, lenses and projectors to radiate, hot and steaming, from the silver screen. Her pictures made money. Most women didn’t like them. Her aura, now operating unhampered by time, space or celluloid, swept the room like a sensual sonar, clicking with passion unrestrained.

Betty sniffed loudly and swept out of the room, though she had to slow momentarily to get past the actress, who stood sideways in the doorway. It was said, truthfully, that Slithey had the largest bust in Hollywood.

“Slithey…” Barney said, and his voice cracked. Too many cigarettes, of course.

“Barney darling…” she said, as the smoothly hydraulic pistons of her rounded legs propelled her slowly across the office, “it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

With her hands on the desk top, she leaned forward and gravity tugged down at the thin fabric of her blouse and at least 98 per cent of her bosom swam into view. Barney felt he was flying upside down into a fleshy Grand Canyon.

“Slithey,” Barney said, springing suddenly to his feet: he had almost fallen into this trap before. “I want to talk to you about this picture we’re planning, but you see I’m busy just now…”