The Technicolor Time Machine

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.

“No secret, L.M., it’s the vremeatron. You saw it in action. Charley Chang went back in time to a nice quiet spot where he worked very hard to produce this script. He stayed as long as he needed, then we brought him back to almost the same moment when he left. Hardly any time at all elapsed here while he was away, so from your point of view it looks like it took just an hour to produce a complete script.”

“A script in an hour!” L.M. said, beaming happily. “This is going to revolutionize the business. Don’t be cheap, Barney. Give me the highest hourly rate you can imagine, then double it—twice! I don’t care about money. I want to do the right thing and see that Charley Chang gets the greatest rate per hour ever paid to man, paid for one hour of his time.”

“You missed the point, L.M. Maybe only an hour of your time went by, but Charley Chang worked more than two months on that script, Saturdays and Sundays included, and he has to get paid for that time.”

“He can’t prove it!” L.M. said, scowling fiercely.

“He can prove it. He punched a time clock every day and I have the time cards right here.”

“He can sue! One hour it took, one hour I pay for.”

“Sam,” Barney pleaded, “talk to him. Tell him you don’t get nothing for nothing in this world. Eight weeks’ pay is still beans for a great script like this.”

“I liked the one-hour script better,” Sam said.

“We all liked the one-hour script better, except there never was a one-hour script. This is just a new way of working, but we still have to pay the same amount for the work whatever happens.”

The buzz of the phone interrupted and L.M. picked it up, first listening, then answering with a monosyllabic series of grunts, finally slamming the handpiece back into the cradle.

“Ruf Hawk is on his way up,” L.M. said. “I think maybe we can use him for the lead, but also I think he is under contract to an independent for another picture. Feel him out, Barney, before his agent gets here. Now—about this one hour…”

“Later we discuss the one hour, please, L.M. It’ll work out.”