The Technicolor Time Machine

The high sound-stage doors were rolled back, and when the time platform appeared all the men winced at the sudden onslaught of subtropical light. The northern Newfoundland sky was always a pale blue and the sun never burned down like this. Barney moved the men out of the way while the big diesel truck rumbled to life, then clanked down from the time platform. There was a holiday air about the occasion as they climbed into the truck and rolled through the empty studio streets.

At the commissary warehouse the holiday ended.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the studio guard said, spinning his club on its thong. “But I’ve never seen you before, and even if I had I couldn’t let you into this warehouse, no sir.”

“This paper…”

“I’ve seen the paper, but I have my orders.”

“Give me a war ax,” one of the grips shouted. “I’ll get that door open!”

“Kill! Kill!” another called out. They had been too long in the eleventh century and had picked up some of the Vikings’ simple solutions to most problems.

“Don’t come any closer!” the guard ordered, stepping away and dropping his hand toward his gun.

“All right you jokers, enough of that,” Barney ordered. “Just sit quiet while I straighten this out. Where’s your phone?” he asked the guard.

Barney took a chance that someone might be there and called the administration building first. He hit pay dirt. Sam, L.M.’s personal accountant, was there, undoubtedly cooking the books in private.

“Sam,” he said, “it’s good to talk to you again, how’ve you been… What?… Sorry, I forgot. It’s just been a couple of hours for you, natch, but it’s been months for me… No, of course I haven’t been drinking, I’ve been shooting the film… That’s right, it’s almost complete… Sam, no… don’t get excited… This is no more a one-day picture than the script was a one-hour script. We’ve been working hard. Look, I’ll explain it all later, but right now I want you to help me. I want you to talk to one of the studio guards, a real thick-headed job, must be a new man. Tell him to unlock the commissary warehouse so we can clean out all the dry cereals and canned stuff… No, we are not getting very hungry already, this is trade goods for the natives. Pay for the extras… Sam, what do you mean you have to think about it… if we can pay them off in Quaker Oats instead of greenbacks what possible difference can it make?”

It wasn’t easy, it never was with Sam, but he was finally convinced. Sam—who hated to spend money even if it was only Quaker Oats—took his temper out on the guard, who emerged from the phone booth red-faced and angry.

By five-thirty the truck was loaded, and by a quarter to six it was back aboard the time platform. Barney checked to make sure that everyone was aboard, then poked his head into Hewett’s control cubby.

“Take it away. Prof, but let me get clear first.”

“Am I to understand that you are not returning with us?”

“Correct. I have a bit of business here. You can unload these people and the supplies, then come back to pick me up in a couple of hours, say about ten o’clock. If I’m not here I’ll ring you on the warehouse phone over there and let you know what’s happening.”

Hewett was feeling waspish. “I seem to be running a specie of temporal taxi, and I am not quite certain that I enjoy it. My understanding was that we would go to the eleventh century to make your film, then return. Instead I seem to be operating a constant shuttle service…”

“Relax, Prof, we’re coming down the home stretch. Do you think I would lose a couple of hours like this if I wasn’t sure of the production? We do one more time jump, finish the picture up and that is that. All over but the shouting.”

Barney stood by the door and watched the platform vanish into the past. Back to the wilds of primitive Canada, chapped lips and cold rain. Let them. He was going to take a couple of hours off, get some business done at the same time, of course, but that wasn’t going to stop him from enjoying himself as well. He couldn’t really relax yet, not until the film was in the can, but the end was in sight and he had been driving himself for months. The first order of business was going to be a first-class, deluxe dinner at Chasen’s, that much at least he owed himself. There was no point in getting to the Fungus Grotto before nine o’clock at the very earliest.

There was an unreality about being back in California, and in the twentieth century. Things seemed to move too fast, there were too many garish colors and the stink of exhaust fumes made his head ache. Rube! Dinner—with drinks before, brandy after and champagne in the middle—helped, and he was feeling no pain when the cab dropped him in front of the club at a little after nine. He even managed not to be offended by the bilious green doorway with the red skulls and crossbones on it.