The Technicolor Time Machine

“If you need six months you can have them. You have all the time you need, just take my word for it. And a nice quiet spot to work.” They were passing a photomural and Barney stopped and jabbed his thumb against it. “There. Santa Catalina Island. Plenty of sun, a refreshing dip in the briny when the thoughts grow stale.”

“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.”