My Troubles With Time (9 page)

When I entered the department office, Joy had her back to the door. She was wearing an extremely tight dress, one so form-fitting that it outlined every contour of her magnificent body. On anyone else, it would have been grotesque; on her it was sheer ecstasy to behold.

She was on the phone. “Dr. Bolton has two tickets to tonight’s basketball game,” she said. He can’t use them. He wondered if you would like them.”

I walked to past her desk and turned to face her. She looked up to see who it was. She saw me, but gave no sign of greeting or recognition.

“I’ll be sure to tell Dr. Bolton that,” she said sweetly on the phone and dialed another number. She repeated her query about the basketball tickets. Once again, the caller apparently declined them. She hung upon, absent-mindedly pointed to the couch, and entered the Department Chairman’s office, shutting the door behind her.

There was nothing else to do. I sat down on the couch and waited impatiently. Every minute or two I looked at my watch. The time was ever getting closer to 11 a.m.

About 10:30, the door to Dr. Bolton’s office opened and Joy reappeared. “He will see you now,” she said.

The Department Chairman looked up as I entered. He was seated at his desk. I carefully studied his face for some sign that he was about to congratulate me on my receiving tenure. There was none.

“Here is the paper, Dr. Bolton,” I said as brightly as I could.

He grunted and took the paper. He carefully examined it, then proceeded to ask me explain some of the finer points. After a second explanation, he grasped the meaning of the formulas I had so painstakingly calculated to support the text.

“This is rather good,” he said to me smiling. It was the first time he had ever actually praised my work. I was overjoyed. My doubts about receiving tenure evaporated.

I waited for him to say more. There was a moment of awkward silence. “Thank you, Maynard,” he said. “If you will excuse me, I have to go over my notes before our meeting.”

Reluctantly, I stood. “I’ll see you at the meeting, sir,” I said lamely, leaving his office.

I was so nervous that for once Joy did not stir my thoughts as I passed her. My throat felt dry. I walked downstairs to the basement and had a cup of tasteless coffee from the vending machine.

A few minutes before 11 a.m. I went back upstairs and entered the department conference room, which doubled as the department library. I took my customary seat at the oblong table between Kim Han Chu and Dr. Harris. Kim smiled at me. He frequently smiled, often at inappropriate times. This time, I prayed silently, let it be because he knows I will soon be awarded tenure.

We all rose as Dr. Bolton entered the room and took his chair at the head of the table. He waited for us to sit, then summarized recent developments affecting the university based upon what the dean had told a recent meeting of the department chairmen. Nothing the department chairman discussed involved the department directly and there was silence when Dr. Bolton asked if we had any questions.

The second item on Dr. Bolton’s agenda was the department budget. He took great pleasure in announcing that the dean had approved the department’s request for increased revenues. Dr. Harris, who had a CPA degree and who took pride in minutely examining financial data, noted that while most budget items had been increased for the forthcoming year, that for computer software had declined.

Smiling, Dr. Bolton answered that the department had the capability of installing the software itself and did not need to pay the university computer department to do the work. He made no mention of me, but I understood this to mean that I would be expected to do the job. Still, this was a small price to pay for receiving tenure.

My nervousness increased as I waited for the last item on the agenda, the award of tenure. At long last, Dr. Bolton reached it.

“One of my most pleasant duties as chairman,” he began, “Is to announce the granting of tenure to members of the department. Some of us receive it relatively soon. Others, such as myself, most work a long time before we gain the status.”

How nice, of Dr. Bolton, I thought to associate my long wait for tenure with his. I looked at him appreciatively.

“This year, the Chairman continued, I am most pleased to announce the award of tenure to a valued member of this department. He has been with us a relatively short time, but his contributions to the department make his receipt of tenure appropriate.”

I wondered if I had really heard Dr. Bolton correctly. My stay at Standish could hardly be called short. My eight years was longer than anyone else in the department had had to wait for tenure.

“It is with real pleasure,” Dr. Bolton went on, “To announce that Alan has been awarded tenure.”

Fielding! I could not believe my ears. He was only in his fifth year at the university. There were a few gasps of surprise and then the rest of the people seated at the table applauded politely and congratulated Fielding.

I applauded. too, but did not trust myself to speak. Endicott, who was seated across from me, stared at me with a sad look on his face and then averted his eyes. This could not be happening! Surely, I thought, Dr. Bolton would now say that I had received tenure. There was no reason that tenure could not be awarded to two members of a department at the same time.

The department chairman turned to me. “Oh, Maynard,” he said. “I am taking Alan with me to Philadelphia to introduce him around. Check with him about taking his classes tomorrow.”

He arose from the table. Several members of the department came over to shake Fielding’s hand. I walked out of the room, unable to look at anyone or say anything.

As I walked by the door of the Physics Department office, I heard someone yell “Snodgrass.” It was Joy. “Here,” she said, waving something in my face. “Nobody wants these. You might as well take them.”

She thrust something into my hand and walked back into the office. I looked at what she had given me. It was the two tickets to the basketball game that she had been trying to give away. I put them in my pocket and walked downstairs.

I was standing on the steps of Guggenheim Hall when I heard someone approach me and turned around. It was Dr. Peabody.

“There’s always next year,” she said to me.

It was not much consolation, but it was the only sympathy I had received. I remembered the basketball tickets.

“Gertrude,” I said tentatively, “Would you like to go to the basketball game with me tonight?”

She stared at me. “With you?” The incongruity in her voice was so thick you could cut it with a knife. “I have to do something important. I have to wash my hair.”

Dr. Peabody stalked off. What was I thinking of, I wondered, to ask her for a date. One more rejection chalked up. I walked down the quadrangle and out on to the street.

A pitiful squeak interrupted my thoughts. I looked down. A tiny orange kitten was by my feet. It was so young it could barely walk.

I reached down and petted the kitten. It began to purr. I picked it up and held it next to my face. It purred even louder.

My heart went out to the kitten.

“Little friend,” I said to it. “How would you like to come home with me?”

I continued holding the kitten in my hand, petting it as I walked. Suddenly, I stopped, thinking of what Princess would do to the kitten. I could not face burying the little animal after Princess had disposed of it. Sadly, I put it down.

“Little friend,” I said, “You’re better off if I leave you here.”

The kitten squeaked pitifully. I started walking. The kitten tried to follow me, then fell down. I resumed walking, forcing myself not to look back.

As I reached my door, I saw that the mail had been delivered. My heart raced when I removed the letters from the mailbox and realized that one was from the National Physics Society. It was a thick envelope. It’s obviously not a rejection, I thought. It has to be the proofs of my article. They are printing it their review.

Entering the house, I tore open the envelope. The first thing that caught my eye was a file of many printed pages stapled together. My elation evaporated as I saw it was not the proofs of my article, but rather the bylaws of the National Physics Society.

Are they mad, I thought to myself. Why send me the bylaws? Feverishly I searched for the accompanying letter until I found it.

“Dear Dr. Snodgrass,” it began. “In accordance with Article IV of the bylaws of the National Physics Society, a copy of which is enclosed, the Council of the society has voted to formally reprimand you for conduct unacceptable for a member of the society. The council members find your claim to have invented an operable time machine, which you used to travel to 1870 Paris, to be either a misguided attempt to perpetrate a scientific hoax or a deliberate effort to deceive and defraud the scientific community for personal gain. You are placed on notice that any similar action on your part will result in immediate expulsion from the society.”

My heart raced and my head pounded. The remainder of the letter continued in the same vein. A motion expelling me from the society had narrowly failed to obtain the necessary two-thirds majority.

As I read on I learned that I had been saved from expulsion only by the absence of the alleged photograph depicting me with General Trochu in l870 Paris listed in my letter as an enclosure. This was regarded by my few defenders as evidence that I was attempting a foolish hoax and had no criminal intent.

The clerical staff of the society had wasted a significant amount of time, the letter informed me, searching in vain for the alleged photograph. As a result, no paper from me would be considered for publication by the society for at least the next three years. The draft article I had submitted had, of course, been destroyed.

I searched my brain for an answer as to what had happened. I had carefully inserted the photograph in the envelope. To protect against its being damaged or lost, I had carefully placed it in its own wrapper, along with markings indicating its extreme value.

In my frenzied mental state, weird fancies came to mind. Possibly the society had carefully destroyed the photograph to obliterate the proof I had traveled through time. But why? I could think of no rational explanation.

I stumbled into the living room. Princess was standing by the sofa, a pile of yellow stuffing from it at her feet. She was busily pulling more stuffing from a large hole she had made in the sofa’s upholstery. She stopped for a moment and stared defiantly at me, then resumed her activity.

I walked toward her, planning to strangle her with my bare hands. She certainly deserved it. Then I stopped. Why bother? It would not give me the relief I required. I had no past, no present, no future.

The facts were irrefutable. I was a thirty-three year old untenured assistant professor of physics, without family or friends. I had just been formally reprimanded by the professional society whose favorable regard was essential to my career.

Leaving the living room, I strode to the back door and walked through the back yard to the garage. Inside it, I looked carefully at my time machine, sitting on its trolley. The metal spotlights I had recently attached on either side of the front bumper to facilitate landings at night gleamed in sunlight shining through the door.

The bumper and spotlights on the front of the time machine made it resemble a face. As I stared at it, the face seemed to mock me. I decided to do away with myself. Oblivion was preferable to my pained, pointless existence.

High on one wall, some previous tenant had imbedded a large metal hook. I tested it. It obviously could handle a very heavy weight. From a length of heavy rope, I cut off a piece of the necessary length, securely tying one end to the hook. I made a noose at the other end.

The garage had no chair and I did not feel like going back to the house to obtain one. Instead, I pulled a crate of about the same height as a chair to the wall. Climbing on to the crate, I put the noose around my neck and tightened it. Then, I stepped off the crate. I gasped for air and the rope seared my neck. Darkness engulfed me and I knew no more.

W
hen I regained consciousness, I was lying in a heap on the garage floor. My head ached and I had a bad rope burn on my throat. There was blood in my mouth, caused by my biting my lip when I fell.

I looked up and saw that I had somehow managed to pull the hook from the wall. I was so inept I was even unable to commit suicide. I began to cry uncontrollably.

Gradually my sobbing stopped and my head cleared. I realized that I was extremely fortunate that my suicide attempt had been unsuccessful. In fact, any rational person would envy me.

As the owner of the only time machine in the world, I could possess power and fame nobody else could even dream of. My technical education would enable me to go back in time and invent the electric light bulb ahead of Edison. If I chose, I could become the inventor of television or the computer.

Alternatively, my knowledge of what had happened would enable me to become fabulously wealthy by buying and selling stocks. I could organize the Standard Oil Trust before Rockefeller or replace Great Britain as the purchaser of the Suez Canal.

With wealth and fame would come power. I could purchase elections and public office, buy and sell nations. I could even make myself president of the United States if I wished to do so. Beautiful women would throw themselves at me. All the sex, love or romance I desired would be mine.

Indeed, the National Physics Society had done me a huge favor by dismissing my claim to have invented a time machine and destroying my article describing it. It was far better for me that I kept the knowledge of the machine to myself. I certainly did not want to deal with alterations in history caused by other time travelers.

I stood, wondering which of the many desirable options open to me I should select. Naturally, my actions would drastically change the course of history, but what matter to me. It made no difference if I remained in the time stream I had modified by my actions rather than return to the present.