Time After Time (8 page)

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Authors: Karl Alexander

BOOK: Time After Time
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On the seat beside him was the San Francisco Chronicle. He picked it up, jammed his mouth full of fries, then scanned a Herb Caen column which touted that the restaurants of San Francisco were superior to those of Modesto. He shook his head, dropped the paper and muttered with horror, “My God, what have they done to the English language?”
He took his Big Mac out of its box, after concluding that the styrofoam was a rubberized paper manufactured to withstand weather extremes. Perhaps modern writers used sheets of it to ensure posterity. Then he unwrapped and studied the sandwich. The aroma overwhelmed him, but this was no time to be critical. He was famished. He chomped and chewed, then raised his eyebrows.
“Umm.”
He took another bite with gusto. The Big Mac was exquisite. Perhaps the most delicious food he had ever eaten.
He devoured it and was about to go back and purchase another when he felt someone staring at him. He turned and saw a small boy trying to make sense out of his old-fashioned clothes and drooping walrus mustache.
“You in a commercial, or what?”
 
 
By the time H.G. found a respectable clothing store he was used to the traffic and surprised that he seemed to be moving about faster than the machines. Although his ears had not yet adjusted to the downtown level of decibels, he felt light-years away from his bizarre night in the park. And there was still a smattering of old buildings in the city, reminiscent of nineteenth-century London. Their gray-stone façades reassured him, whereas the reflective exteriors of the newer buildings made him apprehensive. Still, he now had 1979 food lining his stomach, and once contemporary fashion draped his form, he wouldn't have anything to worry about—except Leslie John Stephenson.
He entered the clothiers and was patient with the salesman, who couldn't get over his heavy, four-button (ripped and dirty) tweeds; high, matching vest; white shirt and yellow silk tie.
“Is this what they're wearing in London now?”
“It's been a while since I left.”
The salesman suggested high-waisted, prefaded jeans, a tailored shirt with ruffles, topped off with a snap-brim hat for starters. But once H.G. learned that some men did indeed still wear suits and ties, there was no dissuading him. He selected a ready-made light-brown two-button suit with a vest, a beige dress shirt, a maroon tie and dark-brown Oxfords. The salesman was impressed with his impeccable taste.
In the dressing room, H.G. put on the shirt and pants, felt for the buttons and was momentarily bewildered until he found the zipper that closed the fly in half a second. He raised his eyebrows, tucked in the shirt and moved about a little. Great Scott, what comfort, he thought. The trousers were not nearly as bulky as his old ones. Also, they were lined and cut to fit his shape! And the shirt—it didn't balloon out with yards of unnecessary cloth that needed blousing; it just sort of naturally draped around him as if he'd worn it for years. And the feel of the material was almost electric!
He slipped into the vest, quickly knotted the tie, threw on the coat and hurried out of the dressing room. He felt liberated—as if the clothes he had worn before had been designed for an elephant. The ones he had on now made him feel good and smart and sophisticated. He did a little twirl in front of the mirror and beamed. Then he twisted his mustache into shape, stepped back and admired himself—still a distinguished English gentleman, but more important, a late-twentieth-century human being. Who said that clothes did not make the man?
He strode to the cash register where the salesman waited, hovering over the bill.
“You look very nice, sir, very nice.”
“Thank you.”
“It comes to $476.18.”
H.G. slowly counted out the money, not yet familiar with American currency, but astute enough to realize that he was paying a damnable amount for a haberdashery. “Doesn't go very far, does it?”
“Not anymore, sir.”
“It isn't the pound, of course,” he added provincially.
“That's for sure.” The salesman laughed. “I hear they're going to devalue it again.”
“The pound?” H.G. was aghast.
“That's right. You got any left, I'd exchange them for good, old, almighty Yankee dollars.”
He hurried out of the store, not bothering to take his old clothes. The salesman had given him an idea. If Leslie John Stephenson were to survive in San Francisco, then he—just like H. G. Wells—would have to have some American money. So if he had any English pounds with him, one of his first acts in 1979 would be to exchange them. Since H.G. had nothing to lose, he figured that he might as well begin hunting at the banks.
He stopped. Not just any bank, he thought. Stephenson may be a sexually perverted killer, but he still is an Englishman. He would choose a bank that made him feel at home. In San Francisco? He smiled. If Lloyd's had offices all over the world a century ago, surely other British enterprises must have followed suit.
He got directions to the Bank of England from a policeman and was pleased to learn that it was located only a block away.
 
 
He crossed Union Square with a jaunty, unabashed stride. Above the traffic noise he heard a bell clanging that sounded distinctly alien to the honks and roars and digital click-clacks of 1979. He turned and beamed. A cable car loaded with tourists rolled across an intersection and started uphill. H.G. was reassured. Despite the mighty power of the electron, a nineteenth-century relic was still
functioning. He had seen schematics of the cable cars in The Times not too long ago. So, San Francisco has a sense of history and a little heart, he thought. Good for them and bully for me.
He allowed himself a nostalgic wave at the Union Jack hanging over the Bank of England and pushed through the revolving glass doors. Once inside, he imagined that the air smelled better. The atmosphere definitely seemed more stately.
Across the large room from the row of tellers were a half-dozen desks that he correctly assumed belonged to officers of the bank. He frowned. Something was missing. He briefly closed his eyes and drew a mental picture of the Lloyd's in Mornington Crescent where he usually conducted his financial transactions. Of course! Here, there was no exchange board on the wall behind the tellers to keep customers aware of the daily fluctuations in currency, especially on the European market. Perhaps there was no longer any need for an exchange board. Perhaps that information was on one of those small machines that the jeweler, Max Ince, had called a computer.
He sighed. Progress was one thing, but how the devil could the Bank of England deem itself British without the exchange board? Regardless, he was going to have to consult an officer of the bank. He went to the first desk, humming along with music that emanated from the walls. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road”?
A young woman who he guessed was twenty-two or -three sashayed out of a door and over to the desk. She was a little shorter than H.G. and had dark blond, shoulder-length hair with a few subdued curls. Her facial features were delicate, with just enough tan to make her resemble a “Gibson girl.” Her eyes were large and very brown.
H.G. gawked, but not at the eyes. She was wearing a dark-blue pants suit. True, he had seen women on the street in such interesting attire, but in the Bank of England? In pants tight enough
around the hips and thighs to suggest the actual shape of the mons veneris? His mons pubis began to twitch, and he blushed. He tried to keep his eyes above her waist, but that didn't help, either. Every time she moved, her well-shaped breasts moved, too, obviously freed from the constrictions of a corselet. He recalled the massive physical and psychological barriers presented by the Merry Widow. It had taken him four years to learn how to unhook the monstrous device without pinching his partners.
She felt his stare. “May I help you?” she asked in a low, melodious voice that made him shiver.
“I'm—I'm waiting for an officer of the bank, thank you,” he replied in reedy tones.
She smiled and gestured at a chair alongside the desk. “I'm a bank officer. Why don't you sit down?”
“But you're—”
“I know, I know. You expected someone with an English accent, not to mention the decor à la California. I apologize for the plastic palms.” She made a sweeping gesture that suggested inner poise and grace. “This your first trip to the States?”
H.G. managed a nod and sat down. He had mentally prepared himself for technological advances before he left, but a woman working for the Bank of England in a management capacity? Suffrage was one thing, but who the devil was taking care of the home? What had become of the time-honored afternoon tryst? He thought for a moment, then logically figured that if a man could slip away from the office for a few hours, a woman could too. And his hat was off to the chap lucky enough to be caught in flagrante delicto with this specimen here. “Just what did you want, sir?”
He looked away, for he had just gotten a whiff of her perfume and it had done him in. He adjusted his coat and crossed his legs, trying to hide his erection. His complexion turned crimson.
He realized that if this bank were anything like commercial
establishments in 1893 London, a person could not just walk in and ask for personal information. Such information could be expected only as a casual by-product of a normal business transaction. H.G. didn't know if the same state of affairs was generic to 1979 San Francisco, but if anything he should proceed with caution. He decided to start with the Wellsian charm. He extended his hand. “I'm Herbert George Wells.” His grin was all teeth.
“Amy Robbins.” Instead of shaking his hand, she placed a business card between his fingers.
Undaunted, H.G. slipped the card into his coat pocket. “Could you tell me a little about the services your bank offers potential customers?”
 
 
Twenty minutes later H.G. had applied for both Visa and Master Charge cards. Also, Amy had convinced him that if he were carrying a sizable amount of cash, he should purchase some traveler's checks. Soon after that he had almost finished signing approximately fifteen hundred dollars worth. By then she had warmed to him considerably, despite his frequent stares, which became more pronounced when she took phone calls.
He pushed the stack of checks to the center of the desk for her inspection, then leaned back. She buzzed through the checks, looked up and smiled.
“Okay. Now all I have to do is see some identification.”
“I'm afraid that I don't have any.”
She frowned.
“You see, this morning I lost my traveling companion at the museum. We were separated in the midst of, ah … a fire drill. He has my valise and all my papers are in it.”
“That's a problem,” she commented. “Very definitely a problem.” She looked down at her desk and thought hard. She had been with
the bank for almost two years now and was generally regarded as the most trustworthy middle-management employee. Despite her casual nature, she performed every function by the book, much to the delight of the English-born-and-bred-and-educated vice presidents. She did so because this job was her first, and she wanted to prove to everyone that she was a capable, competent human being, in spite of dropping out of college to get married and then failing in that, too.
Against all expectations, she had come to San Francisco on her own and so far had forged her own way. And she loved her freedom and independence. The basis for it all was the job; she did not want to make any mistakes. And the book said, “Always ask for identification.”
But here was a man the likes of whom she had never encountered before. Genteel. Warm. Pleasant, yet unusual. Archaic. Normally, she trusted no one, but when this man looked at her, she felt all her professional common sense go awry.
“Well, I certainly hope you find your friend.” She smiled. “It's been a pleasure serving you, Mr. Wells.” She extended her hand.
“Herbert.” He sighed with relief, then took her hand and held it for much longer than a handshake. “Perhaps you would care to show me around the city. When we both have the time, of course.”
“Sure. My number's on the card I gave you. Give me a call.”
“A call?”
She patted the arm of Ma Bell. “Telephone me.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He stood and hesitated. He had already alluded to Stephenson, and she hadn't picked up on it. He had a horrible feeling he was going to walk away empty-handed.
“Was there something else I could help you with, Herbert?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He brightened and sat down again. “I'm supposed to have dinner with my traveling companion. I think I mentioned that I was separated from him earlier?”
“Yes. He has your valise.”
“Well, I have no idea where he is, and I thought there might be a slight chance that he was in here earlier in the day to exchange some British currency.”

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