The Technicolor Time Machine

“About as serious as a broken leg can be,” the nurse told him. “Mr. Hawk has suffered a compound fracture of his tibia, that is to say that his lower leg has been broken below the knee and the end of the bone has come through the skin.”

Ruf, with his eyes closed, moaned histrionically at this description.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Barney said desperately. “You can set the bone, he’ll be up and around pretty quickly…”

“Mr. Hendrickson,” the nurse said in a frigid voice, “I am not a doctor and therefore do not give medical treatments to patients. I have administered first aid, I have placed a sterile bandage over the wound to prevent contamination and have given the patient an injection to alleviate the pain. I have done my duty. I would now like to inquire when the doctor will arrive?”

“The doctor, of course, he’ll take care of this. Is my secretary here?”

“Yes, Mr. Hendrickson,” she said from the doorway.

“Betty—use the pickup outside, Tex will drive you. Find Professor Hewett and tell him to take you back to the studio on the platform, and not to waste one second on the trip, he’ll know what I mean. Find the company doctor and bring him here just as fast as you can.”

“No doctor, take me back… take me back…” Ruf said, and groaned again.

“Get going, Betty. Fast.” He turned to Ruf, smiling broadly, and patted the actor on the shoulder. “Now don’t you worry your head for an instant. No cost will be spared and all the wonders of modem medicine are going to be at your service. They do great things these days, metal pins in the bones, you know, they’ll have you walking as good as new…”

“No. I don’t want to do this picture. This finishes it, I bet it says so in my contract. I want to go home.”

“Relax, Ruf. Don’t excite yourself, rest. Stay with him, nurse, I’ll get these people out of here. Everything is going to work out fine.” But his words were as hollow as his smile, and he snarled as he cleared the wide-eyed spectators from the trailer and the doorway.

Less than five minutes passed before the pickup arrived, and the doctor, followed by an orderly with two cases of equipment, came inside.

“I want everyone but the nurse out of here,” he said.

Barney started to protest, then shrugged. There was nothing more he could do at this moment. He went out and found Professor Hewett tinkering in the guts of his vremeatron.

“Don’t disconnect it,” Barney said. “I want this time platform operational twenty-four hours a day in case we need it.”

“Just securing some of the wiring. I’m afraid a good deal of the circuitry was breadboarded, in the rush you know, and may not be too reliable over an extended period.”

“How long did this last trip take? I mean, what time of day was it back there when you left?”

Hewett glanced at the dials. “Give or take a few microseconds, it is now 1435.52 hours, on Saturday—”

“That’s after half past two in the afternoon! Where did all the time go?”

“It’s not my doing, I assure you. I waited with the platform—and had a rather unsatisfactory lunch from the vending machines—until the truck came back. I understand the doctor was not on the premises and had to be found and the necessary medical equipment obtained before they could return.”

Barney rubbed his midriff where the sensation of a cold lump the size of a cannonball was forming. “The completed film is due Monday morning and it is now Saturday afternoon and we’ve shot about three minutes of usable film and my lead is down with a broken leg. Time, we’re running out of time.” He looked strangely at the professor. “Time? Why not time? We have all of it we need, don’t we? You could find a quiet spot, the kind you brought Charley Chang to, and that would take care of Ruf the same way.”

He ran off excitedly before Hewett could answer, making his way through the company encampment and into Ruf’s trailer without bothering to knock. Ruf’s leg was now in a splint to the hip and the doctor was taking his pulse. The doctor looked sternly at Barney.

“That door was closed for a reason,” he said.

“I know, Doctor, and I’ll see that no one comes through it. That’s a fine-looking piece of work, there—would you mind my asking how long it is going to be on?”

“Just until I get him to the hospital—”

“That’s very good, very quick!”

“Where I will take the temporary splint off and put on a plaster cast, and that will be on for at least twelve weeks, absolute minimum. After that the patient will be at least one month on crutches.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound bad—in fact it sounds good, very good. I’d like you to take good care of that patient, look after him if you would, and enjoy a bit of a holiday at the same time. We’re going to find a nice quiet spot where you can both rest.”