The Technicolor Time Machine

“Far heill,[23] Barney. You make another movie and pay with Jack Daniels.”

“I may do just that.”

It was the last trip and everyone else was gone and the time platform sat in the middle of an acre of flattened grass and muddy wheel tracks. The cans of film were in the pickup, the only vehicle on the platform, and Dallas was at the wheel with a red-eyed and sodden Slithey sitting beside him.

“Take it away,” Barney shouted to Professor Hewett, and he took one last lungful of fresh air.

Professor Hewett dropped the truck and the others off on Friday, and only Barney and the cans of film rode the loop in time back to the Monday morning of the same week.

“Leave me plenty of time, Prof,” he said. “I have to get to L.M.’s office by ten-thirty.”

When he arrived he phoned, then had to wait at the sound stage until the page arrived with the handcart. They loaded the film on and it was already twenty past ten.

“Bring this to L.M.’s office,” Barney said. “I’ll go on ahead with reel one.”

Barney walked fast, and as he turned the last comer he saw a familiar, hang-dog figure plodding up the steps. He smiled wickedly and followed himself down the hall right up to L.M.’s door, and the figure m front never looked back. Barney waited until he had actually pushed the door open before reaching over his shoulder and pulling his hand away.

“Don’t go in there,” he said.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the earlier Barney shouted, then took one look at him and collapsed like a second-rate actor in a ninth-rate horror film, all shaking limbs and popping eyes.

“A very nice take,” Barney said. “Maybe you should be acting in films, not directing them.”

“You’re… me…” The idiot figure burbled.

“Very observant,” Barney said, then remembered the diagram. He would be glad to get rid of that. “Hold this a sec,” he said, and shoved the can of film into the other’s arms. He couldn’t reach into his pocket with his gorily bandaged hand so he had to grope around with his left hand and dig his wallet out. The other Barney just held the can and mumbled to himself until Barney pulled it back and pushed the diagram into his hand.

“What happened to my hand—your hand?” the horrified other Barney asked.

I should tell you Barney thought to himself, then saw that the page was coming with the handcart and he opened the door for him.

“Give that to the Prof,” Barney said as the page went past, then couldn’t resist one last dig. “And stop horsing around and finish the picture, will you?”

He followed the page in and let the door swing behind him without a backward glance. He knew, without the slightest trace of doubt, that it would not open, and enjoyed the sensation of being positively certain of something for the first time in his life. This sureness carried him past Miss Zucker, who was standing and trying to tell him something about men from the bank; he brushed her aside and opened the inner door for the page. A very pale L.M. looked up at him and six gray-haired, frozen-faced men turned to see what the interruption was about.

“I’m very sorry to be late, gentlemen,” Barney said with calm assurance. “But I’m sure that Mr. Greenspan has explained everything. We were out of the country and I have just arrived with the print of the film he has been telling you about. A multimillion dollar asset, gentlemen, that will usher in a new era of cinematic art and profit for this studio.”

The cans of film rattled together as the page straightened up the handcart, and Sam, from the darkest comer of the room, uttered a small and almost inaudible sigh.

19

“You will excuse me if I don’t rise,” Jens Lyn said. “The doctor is very strict about rest in the afternoon.”

“Sure,” Barney said. “Forget it. Does it still give you trouble?”

Jens was lying on a lounge chair in the garden of his home, and looked a good deal thinner and paler than Barney remembered.

“Not really,” Jens said. “It’s just a matter of healing. I can get around fine, in fact I was at the opening last night. I am forced to admit that, in most ways, I rather enjoyed the film.”

“You should be writing for the papers. One of the critics accused us of making a poor attempt at realism in the torn-shirt-and-dirt Russian style and failing miserably. He claims that the crowds are obviously good American extras and he even recognized the piece of the California coast where the scenes were shot.”

“I can understand his feelings. Even though I was there when the filming was done I experienced very little sense of reality while watching it. I suppose that we are so used to the marvels of the film and the strange places that it all looks the same to us. But, this negative attitude of the critics, does that mean the film will not be a success?”