“Of course. Come to bed.”
They lay in the dark room.
Half an hour later their phone rang. She lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“The rabbits may hide in the forest,” said a voice, “but a fox can always find them.”
She replaced the receiver and lay back straight and cold in the bed.
Outside, in the year 1938, a man played three tunes upon a guitar, one following another.
During the night she put her hand out and almost touched the year 2155. She felt her fingers slide over cool spaces of time, as over a corrugated surface, and she heard the insistent thump of marching feet, a million bands playing a million military tunes, and she saw the fifty thousand rows of disease cultures in their aseptic glass tubes, her hand reaching out to them at her work in that huge factory in the Future; the tubes of leprosy, bubonic, typhoid, tuberculosis, and then the great explosion. She saw her hand burned to a wrinkled plum, felt it recoil from a concussion so immense that the world was lifted and let fall and all the buildings broke and people hemorrhaged and lay silent. Great volcanoes, machines, winds, avalanches slid down to silence and she awoke, sobbing, in the bed, in Mexico, many years away….
In the early morning, drugged with the single hour’s sleep they had finally been able to obtain, they awoke to the sound of loud automobiles in the street. Susan peered down from the iron balcony at a small crowd of eight people only now emerging, chattering, yelling, from trucks and cars with red lettering on them. A crowd of Mexicans had followed the trucks.
“
The boy replied.
Susan turned back to her husband. “An American motion-picture company, here on location.”
“Sounds interesting.” William was in the shower. “Let’s watch them. I don’t think we’d better leave today. We’ll try to lull Simms. Watch the films being made. They say the primitive film making was something. Get our minds off ourselves.”
Ourselves, thought Susan. For a moment, in the bright sun, she had forgotten that somewhere in the hotel, waiting, was a man smoking a thousand cigarettes, it seemed. She saw the eight loud happy Americans below and wanted to call to them: “Save me, hide me, help me! Color my hair, my eyes; clothe me in strange clothes. I need your help. I’m from the year 2155!”
But the words stayed in her throat. The functionaries of Travel in Time, Inc., were not foolish. In your brain, before you left on your trip, they placed a psychological bloc. You could tell no one your true time or birthplace, nor could you reveal any of the Future to those in the Past. The Past and the Future must be protected from each other. Only with this psychological bloc were people allowed to travel unguarded through the ages. The Future must be protected from any change brought about by her people traveling in the Past. Even if she wanted to with all her heart, she could not tell any of those happy people below in the plaza who she was, or what her predicament had become.
“What about breakfast?” said William.
Breakfast was being served in the immense dining room. Ham and eggs for everyone. The place was full of tourists. The film people entered, all eight of them—six men and two women, giggling, shoving chairs about. And Susan sat near them, feeling the warmth and protection they offered, even when Mr. Simms came down the lobby stairs, smoking his Turkish cigarette with great intensity. He nodded at them from a distance, and Susan nodded back, smiling, because he couldn’t do anything to them here, in front of eight film people and twenty other tourists.
“Those actors,” said William. “Perhaps I could hire two of them, say it was a joke, dress them in our clothes, have them drive off in our car when Simms is in such a spot where he can’t see their faces. If two people pretending to be us could lure him off for a few hours, we might make it to Mexico City. It’d take him years to find us there!”
“Hey!”
A fat man, with liquor on his breath, leaned on their table. “American tourists!” he cried. “I’m so sick of seeing Mexicans, I could kiss you!” He shook their hands. “Come on, eat with us. Misery loves company. I’m Misery, this is Miss Gloom, and Mr. and Mrs. Do-We-Hate-Mexico! We all hate it. But we’re here for some preliminary shots for a damn film. The rest of the crew arrives tomorrow. My name’s Joe Melton. I’m a director. And if this ain’t a hell of a country! Funerals in the streets, people dying. Come on, move over. Join the party; cheer us up!”
Susan and William were both laughing.
“Am I funny?” Mr. Melton asked the immediate world.
“Wonderful!” Susan moved over.
Mr. Simms was glaring across the dining room at them. She made a face at him.
Mr. Simms advanced among the tables.
“Mr. and Mrs. Travis,” he called. “I thought we were breakfasting together, alone.”
“Sorry,” said William.
“Sit down, pal,” said Mr. Melton. “Any friend of theirs is a pal of mine.”
Mr. Simms sat. The film people talked loudly, and while they talked, Mr. Simms said quietly, “I hope you slept well.”
“Did you?”
“I’m not used to spring mattresses,” replied Mr. Simms wryly. “But there are compensations. I stayed up half the night trying new cigarettes and foods. Odd, fascinating. A whole new spectrum of sensation, these ancient vices.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Susan.
“Always the play acting.” Simms laughed. “It’s no use. Nor is this stratagem of crowds. I’ll get you alone soon enough. I’m immensely patient.”
“Say,” Mr. Melton broke in, his face flushed, “is this guy giving you any trouble?”
“It’s all right.”
“Say the word and I’ll give him the bum’s rush.”
Melton turned back to yell at his associates. In the laughter, Mr. Simms went on: “Let us come to the point. It took me a month of tracing you through towns and cities to find you, and all of yesterday to be sure of you. If you come with me quietly, I might be able to get you off with no punishment, if you agree to go back to work on the hydrogen-plus bomb.”
“Science this guy talks at breakfast!” observed Mr. Melton, half listening.
Simms went on, imperturbably. “Think it over. You can’t escape. If you kill me, others will follow you.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop it!” cried Simms irritably. “Use your intelligence! You know we can’t let you get away with this escape. Other people in the year 2155 might get the same idea and do what you’ve done. We need people.”
“To fight your wars,” said William at last.
“Bill!”
“It’s all right, Susan. We’ll talk on his terms now. We can’t escape.”
“Excellent,” said Simms. “Really, you’ve both been incredibly romantic, running away from your responsibilities.”
“Running away from horror.”
“Nonsense. Only a war.”
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Mr. Melton.
Susan wanted to tell him. But you could only speak in generalities. The psychological bloc in your mind allowed that. Generalities, such as Simms and William were now discussing.
“Only
“Nevertheless,” Simms pointed out, “the inhabitants of the Future resent you two hiding on a tropical isle, as it were, while they drop off the cliff into hell. Death loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others die with them. It is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the grave. I am the guardian of their collective resentment against you two.”
“Look at the guardian of resentments!” said Mr. Melton to his companions.
“The longer you keep me waiting, the harder it will go for you. We need you on the bomb project, Mr. Travis.
