RS01. The Reluctant Sorcerer (3 page)

“The past me must be getting very impatient with the present me, or from the past me’s viewpoint, the future me, to figure it all out and fix it. And all this time, it was so obvious. When I get back there, I’ll have to give myself a good talking to.” The thing to do, he decided, was duplicate the original settings exactly, without attempting to compensate for the time lag from the date of the original experiment. Just repeat everything exactly the same way and travel back into the past ten minutes earlier from the present. That way, the first time machine would undoubtedly still be there, and he would be too, since he’d arrived at the lab considerably more than ten minutes ago.

He frowned and scratched his head. He hadn’t seen himself when he came in, so clearly, that seemed to support his new theory that time ran in a sort of linear fashion, rather like the current of a river. He tried to visualize it.

If he were sitting on a riverbank and he marked a certain place on that bank with a stone, then took a flower petal, for instance, and dropped it in the river some distance upstream of the stone, then he could watch the flower petal as it drifted downstream, past the stone- That was the normal flow of time. A few seconds in the past, the flower petal had been upstream of the stone, now it was downstream of it. If he now fished that flower petal out of the water, carried it back to the spot where he’d originally dropped it in, and went back a moment or so in the past and dropped it in again, there would now be two flower petals floating downstream, side by side, toward the stone. However, since there had to be a space of time in which there had only been one flower petal floating down the river, that space of time was now represented by the volume of water from which he had fished out the flower petal before taking it back upstream and traveling back into the past with it.

Consequently, the two flower petals now floating downstream side by side would be aware of each other (assuming awareness on the part of flower petals), but the flower petal in the original, unaltered space of time represented by the volume of water between the place where he had originally tossed it in the river and the place where he had fished it out would have no awareness of a second flower petal, because in that particular time frame, its past had not been changed. The past had been changed behind it.

Brewster figured this was why he was unaware of having seen himself when he walked into the laboratory a short while ago. Because he was still existing in that space of time where the past had not yet been changed. The moment he went back, he’d see himself entering the lab, but he couldn’t remember that now because it hadn’t happened yet. It had happened-or would happen-about ten minutes earlier.

He looked at the rabbit. “I sure wish you could talk, Bugs,” he said. “It would help clear up a lot of things.” He entered the settings into the console on the panel, programming his trip, and wondered what it would feel like to meet himself. About ten minutes ago, he’d find out.

He took a deep breath, wondering why he didn’t feel a sense of incredible elation. He was, after all, about to become the first man in history to travel back through time. Even if it was only ten minutes. The elation, he supposed, would probably come later, when he published his discovery and EnGulfCo got behind him with its massive public relations machine.

There would be lectures at universities, interviews in magazines and newspapers, appearances on talk shows, perhaps even a film about his life, all culminating, certainly, in the awarding of the Nobel Prize. Doubtless, that would bring it all home to him and he would feel elated then. Right now, all he felt was a slight tension, an anxiety mat always came just before an important project was successfully completed.

He thought of Pamela. She would be so proud of him. This would make up for his having missed all those wedding dates. After this, they could finally get married and then he could take her oh a wonderful honeymoon. Perhaps to Victorian London, he thought, or to Paris during the reign of the Sun King.

“Well, Bugs, here goes,” he said, and flipped the switch.

Michael Timothy O’Fallon was, on the whole, having a very pleasant afternoon. The sun was bright, the sky was clear, his pipe was full, and he had absolutely nothing to do. He had filled all his orders, and for once, there were no annoying customers to deal with. He often wished there was some way he could conduct his business without having to deal with the public, but unfortunately, he had not yet found a way around this necessary evil. In order to sell the fruits of his labors, he required customers to buy them and Mick O’Fallon regarded customers as an irritating inconvenience. They were always pestering him, always haggling, always impatient, and always trying to look over his shoulder as he worked-which was not very difficult to do, as Mick was only three feet tall.

He was, however, almost equally as wide, with an immensely powerful upper body and short, muscular legs, which often led people to mistake him for a dwarf, something that infuriated him no end. As far as he was concerned dwarfs were obnoxious little cretins who dressed in loud and clashing colors, had little intelligence to speak of, and were only good for relatively undemanding, menial labor. The finer aspects of any sort of real craft were utterly beyond them, though they were industrious, Mick had to give them that. Give them some simple, mindless physical task to perform and they’d happily pitch in, singing and whistling while they worked. Nevertheless, being mistaken for a dwarf was rather insulting, especially if one happened to be a leprechaun.

Mick was not especially sanguine on this issue. Whenever some customer made this mistake, Mick would start to turn crimson, all his facial muscles would get tight, and using all his self-control in an effort to keep his temper, he would pointedly and firmly correct them in no uncertain terms. Then he would go out behind his shop, snarling and trembling with fury all the way, clamp his massive arms around the trunk of some tree, and, with one mighty heave, uproot it. In this way, he had systematically cleared a large section of the woods around his shop.

However, on this bright and sunny day, there were no customers around to irritate him and he had fulfilled all his commissions, so he had packed his tobacco pouch and pipe and hiked up the trail to the top of Lookout Mountain, to simply bask in the sun and smoke and laze away the day while he enjoyed the view. It wasn’t an especially tall mountain, but it was an especially nice view.

He was enjoying the peace and quiet and the solitude when the air above him suddenly became filled with static discharges and an extremely loud and high-pitched whining sound. He glanced up and saw a very strange-looking contraption suddenly appear out of nowhere in the sky about twenty feet above him, to an accompanying clap of thunder, and proceed to fall at an alarming rate directly toward the spot where he was sitting.

With a yelp, he threw himself out of the way, just in the nick of time, as the mysterious object struck the ground with a jarring crash, barely missing him, and proceeded to slide down the grassy mountain slope on what looked like sled runners, picking up speed as it went. It plowed through bushes and jounced over rocks protruding from the mountain slope, sending off sparks as it careened precariously down toward the bottom. Mick wasn’t sure, but for a moment, it seemed as if he’d heard a voice issuing from inside the peculiar-looking object, crying, “Helllllp!” “The devil!” Mick exclaimed as he dusted himself off and watched the thing go crashing down the mountainside, going faster and faster, slipping sideways and tipping from one runner to the other, miraculously without overbalancing, kept more or less right side up by some kind of large and shiny ring that encircled it diagonally.

“Faith, and I’ve never seen the like of it!” he said, watching thunderstruck as the strange object hurtled down the mountain slope until it finally came to a crashing halt against the trunk of a huge tree. The object struck the tree with a resounding impact, shooting sparks all over the place. The tree shuddered, cracked, then splintered and, with a loud and agonizingly drawn-out creaking sound, came crashing down onto the ground, narrowly missing Robie McMurphy’s prize bull, which had been grazing peacefully at the edge of the wood.

“Oh, dear,” said Mick. He picked up his pipe and hurried down the trail as quickly as his short, muscular legs could carry him.

Brewster was stunned by the impact and he blacked out for a short while, but fortunately, his seat belt and his air bag safety system had prevented any serious injury. Nevertheless, Brewster was badly shaken up. Dazed, he tried to focus his vision and figure out what had happened, but everything seemed to be shrouded in a thick, white mist. (In fact, his face was enveloped in the air bag, but he hadn’t quite figured that out yet.) His head was throbbing, he felt dizzy, and his entire body ached. With a high-pitched, whiny-squeaky sound, not unlike that of air escaping from a set of bagpipes, the air bag slowly deflated and Brewster gratefully gulped in a deep lungful of air. Then he heard a dull clunk, followed by a soft whump, as the emergency parachute was automatically deployed-a trifle late. It settled down over the cracked and shattered cockpit, obscuring everything from view.

For a moment all was still, save for the crackling and sparking of the ruined control panel and electrical systems, then the entire framework of the time machine rocked as something struck it a tremendous blow. Brewster was thrown sideways in his seat, but the belt restrained him as the machine shuddered under the impact. He heard a loud crack as something gave way and the entire cockpit became filled with sparks.

There was a loud, angry, bellowing sound, followed by the sound of galloping hoofbeats, and then the machine shuddered once again as Robie McMurphy’s enraged bull plowed into it, head down, with the speed of an express train. Of course, Brewster didn’t know exactly what was happening. He was still dazed and stunned, and he couldn’t see anything because of the red and white striped parachute draped over the cockpit. However, in the dim recesses of his mind, perhaps prompted by the instinct for self-preservation, a thought managed to form itself and squirm through the haze that enshrouded his consciousness.

“The LOX!” As Robie’McMurphy’s bull smashed into the time machine once again, Brewster realized that with all these sparks, if the liquid oxygen tanks ruptured, there was liable to be a very big bang, indeed. Panic and adrenaline coursed through him as he fumbled with his seat belt. The bull attacked the offending machine yet again and Brewster was almost thrown out of his seat.

“Oh, God,” he said, “the LOX! The LOX!” He shielded his eyes against a fresh burst of sparks from the arcing control panel.

“Hallo!” a strange voice called out. “I say, is someone in there?” “Get me out of here!” Brewster shouted, desperately trying to force open the damaged door of the cockpit. “The LOX! The LOX!” Mick frowned. Locks? he thought. Faith, the poor chap must be locked up in there. He couldn’t get out. He started tugging on the parachute, trying to pull it free. The contraption was sputtering and sparking and there was a strange smell in the air around it. He sidestepped quickly as the bull made another maddened charge and slammed into the peculiar looking object, sending forth a fresh shower of sparks as it bellowed with rage.

“Bugger off, you great big stupid thing, you!” Mick yelled at it. He resumed tugging at the parachute as the bull backed off for another go.

Brewster saw daylight as the chute was pulled away. He also saw flames start licking from the control panel and started kicking at the door with all his might. It wouldn’t budge.

“Hold on now, I’ll have you out in a flash!” the voice called, and then, with the sound of ripping metal and cracking plastic, the door was torn right off the cockpit hinges. Brewster made a dive for the opening.

“Quickly, quickly!” he said as he scrambled out, dragging his emergency supply kit with him. “We’ve got to get away! The LOX...” and then he saw the charging bull, bearing straight down at him. “Jesus!” He was suddenly swept off his feet and thrown over a shoulder (a very low shoulder, it seemed) and he gasped with surprise as his rescuer started running with him as if he didn’t weigh a thing. Behind them, the bull’ smashed into the time machine for the final time. It was the final time because, just as Brewster had feared, the liquid oxygen tanks ruptured and the mixture ignited. The resulting explosion hurled them both to the ground, where bits of machinery and very well-cooked beefsteak rained down on them.

Brewster covered his head and lay there on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. For what seemed like a long time, he didn’t move. And then he heard a voice say, “Great bloody leaping toadstools! What the devil was that?” It was the voice of his unknown benefactor, whom Brewster hadn’t even caught a clear glimpse of yet. He raised himself up slightly and turned his head, then his eyes grew wide at the sight of his rescuer. He did a double take.

At first glance, it looked like a small boy, albeit a rather large and powerfully built small boy, but at second glance, he realized it was a full-grown man. Well, perhaps “full grown” was not quite the proper term, but an adult, at any rate, with a bushy beard, shaggy brown hair that was beginning to turn gray, and a chest and arms like a bodybuilder- on a miniature scale.

A dwarf, he thought (and it was probably fortunate that he only thought this rather than saying it out loud), then he mentally corrected himself when he saw that the man, while very small, was nevertheless perfectly proportioned, which made him not a dwarf, but a midget. A little person, Brewster mentally corrected himself again. They don’t like to be called midgets, they like to be called little people.

“My bull!” a new voice suddenly cried out. “What have you done to my prize bull?” A man was running toward them across the field, shaking his fist and, in his other hand, brandishing a very nasty looking pitchfork. He was dressed in a peculiar fashion, tight black breeches and what appeared to be a brown potato sack belted around his waist, with a hole in it for his head and arms. He was wearing high, soft leather moccasins and he had long, shoulder-length hair. For that matter, the little man who’d rescued him was dressed in a peculiar fashion too, thought Brewster. He had on some kind of belted, brown leather jerkin cut in scallops around the hem and sleeves, baggy green trousers tucked into high, laced leather boots, and a large dagger at his waist. Brewster wondered if he hadn’t somehow transported himself to some sort of hippie commune in the country. Or perhaps these were circus people. In fact, he wondered, where had he transported himself? He should have been back in the lab, but this most definitely was not his laboratory. He glanced around. It wasn’t even London. Something had very definitely gone wrong.

“Mick O’Fallon!” said the farmer as he came running up. “I should have known you’d be at the bottom of this! You and your blasted alchemical mixtures! Now look what you’ve gone and done! You’ve killed my bull!” “S’trewth, and I didn’t touch your bleedin’ bull, Robie McMurphy,” the little man said as he got up to a sitting position. “And have a care, or can you not recognize a wizard when you see one?” The farmer’s eyes grew wide as he gazed at Brewster. “A wizard!” he exclaimed.

“A master sorcerer, I should think,” said Mick, “judgin’ by the way he blasted that great, big, foolish bull of yours. You’d best show proper respect, else you’re liable to find yourself gettin’ some of the same.” “Beggin’ your pardon. Good Master,” said McMurphy, lowering his gaze and dropping to one knee. “I didn’t know!” “Dropped right out of the sky, he did,” said Mick, “in some kind of magic chariot. Faith, and didn’t I see it myself?” Brewster blinked at them with confusion. “Where am I?” he asked, looking around him. The countryside didn’t look familiar, but then again, he hadn’t spent much time outside of London. Then his gaze fell, on the blasted, smoldering wreckage of his time machine. “Oh, no! Ruined! It’s absolutely ruined!” “Your stupid, bloody bull attacked his magic chariot,” Mick said to the farmer, by way of explanation.

McMurphy looked chagrined. More than that, he suddenly looked terrified. “Forgive me. Good Master!” he pleaded. “I beg of you, don’t punish me! I shall make amends, somehow, L swear it!” Brewster wasn’t paying very close attention. Now that the fireworks were over, it was dawning on him that he must have seriously miscalculated. Somehow, he had transported himself right out of the city and, worse still, the machine had been utterly destroyed. Now he would have to find out exactly where he was and call Pamela to come and pick him up. He sighed heavily. She was bound to be very much annoyed. He’d have to ask these people if he could use a telephone.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t even thanked the little man for pulling him out of the time machine before it exploded and thereby saving his life. He turned back toward him, somewhat sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the little man, “I’m forgetting my manners. I’m very grateful for your help. The door was stuck and if you hadn’t forced it open...” He swallowed nervously as he considered his narrow escape. “Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Brcwster. Dr. Marvin Brewster. But my friends just call me Doc.” He held out his hand.

The little -man reached out and clasped him by the forearm, rather than the hand. Brewster assumed this was some sort of new counterculture handshake and he politely did the same.

“Honored to be makin’ your acquaintance, Brewster Doc,” the little man said. “As it happens, I do a bit of brewin’ on the side myself, y’know. Of course, I’m strictly a layman, a dabbler, as it were. I am a craftsman, by trade, an armorer.” “You don’t say,” said Brewster absently. “Listen, do you mind if I use your phone? I’ll make it collect, but I need to call London.” The little man frowned. “Fone?” he said quizzically. He shook his head. “Faith, and I have no such thing, I fear. And I know of no Lunden hereabouts.” Now it was Brewster’s turn to frown. “You don’t know London?” “I know of no one by that name. Good Brewster,” Mick replied.