The Technicolor Time Machine

“Mr. Hendrickson!” she said, her tones those a Mother Superior might use if accused of running a bawdy house.

Barney went over and took a drink of water from the cooler, then rinsed off his sticky hand. He was drying it on some typing paper when the intercom buzzed and Miss Zucker nodded to him. “You may go in now,” she said coldly.

“What do you mean, L.M.?” he asked the instant the door closed behind him. “What do you mean by sending me that message?” Sam sat propped in his chair as mobile as a log of wood and Charley Chang slumped across from him, sweating heavily and looking miserable.

“What do I mean? What could I possibly mean I mean? I mean you led me up the garden path, Barney Hendrickson, and pulled my leg. You got my agreement to go ahead on a picture when you didn’t even have a script!”

“Of course I don’t have a script, how could I when we just decided to do the picture. This is an emergency, remember?”

“How could I forget. But an emergency is one thing doing a picture without a script is another. In France maybe, they make the arty-schmarty things you couldn’t tell if they had a script or not. But in Climactic we don’t work that way.”

“It’s not good business,” Sam agreed.

Barney tried not to wring his hands. “L.M., look. Be reasonable. This is a salvage operation, have you forgotten that? There are very special circumstances involved—”

“Say bank. The word don’t hurt no more.”

“I won’t say it, because we can beat them yet. We can make this picture. So you called in my scriptwriter —”

“He got no script.”

“Of course he’s got no script. It was just yesterday when you and I finalized the idea. Now you’ve talked to him and explained your ideas—”

“He got no script.”

“Hear me out, L.M. Charley’s a good man, you picked him yourself and you briefed him yourself. If any man can deliver the goods, good old Charley can. If you had a Charley Chang script in your hand for this film you would let production go ahead, wouldn’t you?”

“He got no—”

“L.M., you’re not listening. If. That’s the big word. If I were to here and now hand you a Charley Chang script for this great motion picture titled… titled… Viking Columbus, would you okay production?”

L.M. was wearing his best poker face. He glanced over at Sam, who let his head drop the merest fraction of an inch. “Yes,” L.M. instantly said.

“We’re halfway home, L.M.,” Barney hurried on. “If I were to hand you that script just one hour from now, you would okay production. Same difference, right?”

L.M. shrugged. “All right, same difference. But what difference does it make?”

“Sit right there, L.M.,” Barney said, grabbing the startled Charley Chang by the arm and dragging him from the loom. “Talk to Sam about the budget, have a drink—and I’ll see you in exactly one hour. Viking Columbus is almost ready to roll.”

“My head shrinker keeps evening hours,” Charley said when the door closed behind him. “Let him talk to you, Barney. I have heard rash promises in this rash business many, many times, but this takes the gold plated bagel —”

“Save it, Charley. You got some work ahead of you.” Barney steered the reluctant script writer out into the corridor while he talked. “Just give me your estimate of how long it would take you to rough out a first draft of a script for this film, working hard and putting your best into it. How long?”

“It’s a big job. At least six months.”

“Right. Six weeks. Concentrated effort, a first-class job.”

“I said months. And even six weeks are more than an hour.”

“If you need six months you can have them. You have all the time you need, just take my word for it. And a nice quiet spot to work.” They were passing a photomural and Barney stopped and jabbed his thumb against it. “There. Santa Catalina Island. Plenty of sun, a refreshing dip in the briny when the thoughts grow stale.”

“I can’t work there. It’s lousy with people, parties all night.”

“That’s what you think. How would you like to work on Catalina without another soul around, the whole island to yourself? Just think of the work you could get done.”

“Barney, honestly, I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.”

“You will, Charley. In a very few minutes you will.”

“Fifty reams of typing paper, a box of carbon paper, typing chair—one, typing table—one, typewriter…”

“This is a steam model, Barney,” Charley said. “The antique kind you push with the fingers. I can only work with an IBM electric.”

“I’m afraid the electric current isn’t so reliable on the part of the island where you’ll be. You watch how fast the fingers will get the old touch back.” Barney made a tick mark on the sheet as a big crate was pushed into the back of the truck. “One safari outfit, complete,”

“One what?”

“A do-it-yourself safari from the prop department. Tent, cots, mosquito nets, chairs, folding kitchen—and everything works. You’ll feel just like Dr. Livingstone only twice as comfortable. Fifty-gallon drum of water —three, spring-powered time clock with cards—one.”

Charley Chang watched in numb incomprehension as the varied assortments of items was loaded into the army truck. None of it made any sense, including the old geezer behind all the junk who was working away on a Frankenstein radio set. The ancient, mahogany time clock with roman numerals on its face was pushed over the tailgate, and Charley grabbed Barney’s arm and pointed to it.

“None of this do I understand; and that least of all. Why a time clock?”

“Professor Hewett will explain everything in greatest detail in a few minutes, meanwhile take it all on faith. The clock is an important part, you’ll see. Punch in every morning, don’t forget.”

“Mr. Hendrickson,” his secretary called out, “you’re very much in luck.” She came into the warehouse leading by the arm a frowning Negro who wore white work clothes and a tall chef’s hat. “You said you wanted a cook, but instantly, and I went right to our commissary and found Clyde Rawlston here. Not only can he cook, but he can take shorthand and type.”

“You’re an angel, Betty. Order another typewriter…”

“It’s on the way. Did the first-aid box come?”

“Already aboard. That’s the lot then. Clyde this is Charley, Charley, Clyde. You’ll get better acquainted later. If you will kindly board the truck now.”

“I’ll go as soon as someone explains what is going on around here,” Clyde Rawlston said with cold-eyed belligerence.

“A company emergency, Climactic needs you, and as loyal employees I know you’ll both cooperate. Professor Hewett will explain it all to you. It won’t take long. I’ll see you both right here in just ten minutes by my watch, that’s a promise. Now—if you will just climb over those crates go I can get this tailgate up.”

Chivvied on by the voice of authority, they clambered aboard and Professor Hewett leaned out over their shoulders.

“I thought the Cambrian period would be best,” he said to Barney. “You know, early Paleozoic. A nice, moderate climate, warm and comfortable, with no vertebrates around to cause trouble. Seas churning with the simple trilobite. Though it might be a little warm for continued comfort. Perhaps a little later in the Devonian. There would still be nothing big enough to harm—”

“You’re the doctor, Prof, whatever you think best. We have to work fast now, at least on this end. Take them to Catalina, drop them off, then move six weeks ahead and bring them back here. Leave the junk on the island, we may need it later. Only about fifteen minutes left.”

“Consider it done. With each trip made I feel it easier to calibrate the instruments, so that now the settings are most precise. No tune shall be wasted, no time at all.”