The Technicolor Time Machine Read online

  “Pan right around in a circle, 360 degrees, so we can Study it later. Zoom in for a close-up on that island.”

  “What about going inland a bit, take a look at the land there?” Gino asked, squinting through the viewfinder.

  “Later, if there’s time. But this is going to be a sea picture and with all this free ocean I want to use it.”

  “Along the shore then, we should see what’s behind the point there.”

  “That’s all right—but don’t go alone. Take Tex or Dallas with you so you stay out of trouble. Don’t get more than a fifteen-minute walk away, so we can find you when we have to leave.” Barney glanced along the shore and noticed the rowboat; he took Gino’s arm and pointed. “There’s an idea. Get Lyn to translate and have a couple of the locals row you offshore a bit. Give me some shots of the way this place looks coming in from the sea…”

  “Hey,” Tex said, pulling himself over the brow of the hill, “they want you down at the shack, Barney. Pow-wow of some kind.”

  “Just in time, Tex. Stay with Gino here and keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll stick to him like glue. ‘Va buona, eh cumpa’?”

  Gino shot him a dark, suspicious look. “Vui sareste italiano?”

  Tex laughed. “Me? No, I’m Americano, but I got ginzo relatives all around the Bay of Naples.”

  “Di Napoli! so’ napoletano pur’io!” Gino shouted happily.

  Barney left them enthusiastically pumping hands and discovering mutual relations, and went down to the house. Dallas was sitting on the tailgate of the truck smoking a cigarette held in his cupped hand. “The rest of them are inside,” he said, “and I’m keeping an eye on the shop to make sure we got transportation home. Lyn said to send you in when you come.”

  Barney looked at the low door of the house with complete lack of enthusiasm. It stood partly open and more smoke appeared to be coming from it than was coming out of the chimney. “See that you do watch it,” he said. “I can think of a lot more attractive spots to be shipwrecked.”

  “The same idea had occurred to me,” Dallas said quietly and lifted his other hand to show the automatic pistol he was holding. “Ten shots. I never miss.”

  Pushing the door wide, Barney stooped and entered the house. The smoke from the smouldering fire was thick around his head, and he was almost grateful, since it served to mask some of the other odors that hung richly in the air. He recognized old fish, tar, locker-room lilac, plus others that he did not want to recognize. For the moment he was almost blind, coming in out of the sun, since the only light here came through the door and some openings that had apparently been kicked in the wall.

  “Jæja, kunningi! Þu skalt drekka med mér!”[7]

  Ottar’s hoarse voice shivered the air, and, as his eyes adjusted a bit, Barney could make out the men seated around a thick plank table, with Ottar at one end hammering on the boards with his fist.

  “He wants you to join him in a drink,” Lyn said. “This is a very important step, hospitality, bread and salt, that sort of thing.”

  “Öl!” [8] Ottar bellowed, picking a small barrel up from the stamped earth floor.

  “Drink what?” Barney asked, frowning into the darkness.

  “Ale. They make it from barley, their staple crop. It is an invention of these north Germanic tribes, the ancestor you might say of our modem beer. Even the word has come down to us, though slightly changed in pronunciation of course—”

  “Drekk!” [9] Ottar ordered as he slopped full a horn and handed it to Barney. It really was a cow’s horn, Barney saw, curved and cracked and none too clean. Jens Lyn, the professor and Amory Blestead were also clutching horns. He raised it to his lips and took a sip. It was flat, sour, watery and tasted terrible.

  “Good,” he said, hoping his expression could not be seen in the darkness.

  “Já, gott ok vel,” [10] Ottar agreed and poured more of the loathsome beverage into Barney’s cup so that it slopped over and ran stickily down his arm inside his sleeve.

  “If you think that’s bad,” Amory said hollowly, “wait until you taste the food.”

  “And here it comes now.”

  The professor pointed to the end of the room where one of the servants was rooting about in a large wooden chest against the wall. As he straightened up, the man kicked one of the rounded dark mounds that littered the floor there and a pained lowing trembled the air.

  “The livestock… ?” Barney could not finish.

  “Kept in the house, that’s right,” Amory said. “That’s What adds a certain, subtle fragrance to the air in here.”

  The servant, who looked not unlike an uncurried sheepdog, with his long blond hair that fell down and concealed his eyes, trudged over with a lumpish object clutched in each grimy paw and dropped them onto the table before Barney. They cracked against the wood like falling rocks.

  “What’s this?” Barney asked, eyeing them suspiciously out of the comer of his eye as he transferred the horn to his other hand and tried to shake the rivulet of ale out of the sleeve of his cashmere jacket.

  “The chunk on the left is cheese, a native product, and the other is knaekbrød, hard bread,” Jens Lyn said. “Or is it the other way around?”

  Barney tried a nibble of each, or rather clattered his teeth against them, in rum. “That’s great, really great.’ he said, throwing them back onto the table and looking at the glowing dial of his watch. “The light’s going and we should start back soon. I want to talk to you, Amory, outside, if you can tear yourself away from the party.”

  “My pleasure,” Amory said, shuddering as he finished most of his hom, then turned the thick dregs out onto the floor.

  The sun had dropped behind an icy band of cloud and a cold breeze was blowing in from the sea; Barney shivered and pushed his hands into his jacket pockets.

  “I need your help, Amory,” he said. “Draw up a list of everything we’re going to need to shoot this picture on location here. It doesn’t look as though we’ll be able to help ourselves locally with any commissary supplies-”

  “Second that motion!”

  “So we’ll have to bring it all with us. I want to do all the cutting here, so set up a cutting room in one of the trailers.”

  “You’re looking for trouble, Barney. It will be a devil of a job to turn out even a rough cut here. And what about dubbing? Or the musical score?”

  “We’ll do the best we can. Hire a composer and couple of musicians, maybe use a local orchestra.”

  “I can hear that already.”

  “It doesn’t matter if we have to dub most of the sound again. What does matter is bringing back the film in the can…”

  “Mr. Hendrickson,” Jens Lyn called, pushing open the door and coming toward them. He fumbled in the breast pocket of his bush jacket. “I just remembered, there was a message I was supposed to give you.”

  “What is it?” Barney asked.

  “I have no idea. I presumed it was confidential. Your secretary handed it to me just as we were leaving.”

  Barney took the crumpled envelope and tore it open. It contained a single sheet of yellow paper with a brief, typed message. It read:

  L.M. on phone says cancel operation,

  all work to cease on picture.

  No reason given.

  6

  Barney threw the magazine back onto the table, but the cover stuck to his hand and half tore off. He impatiently peeled away the paper and regretted not having taken the time to wash off the Viking beer before coming here. But canceled!

  “Miss Zucker,” he said. “L,M. wants to see me. He said so. He left a message. I’m sure that he is waiting impatiently to hear from me…”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hendrickson, but he left strictest instructions that he is in conference and cannot be disturbed.” Her fingers poised for a second over the typewriter, her gum-chewing suspended momentarily. “I will notify him that you are waiting as soon as I am able.” The typewriter thrummed again, the jaws moving in
slow rhythm with it.

  “You could at least ring through and tell him that I’m here.”

  “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.”

  Professor Hewett returned to his instruments an
d the generator howled. Charley Chang was trying to say something, but his words were cut off as the truck vanished. There was no flicker or fading, it just disappeared as instantly and as quickly as the image on a back-projection screen when the film breaks. Barney started to turn to talk to his secretary, but just as his motion began the truck appeared.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, then saw that all the suppplies were gone from the back. Clyde Rawlston was standing near the professor at the controls and Charley Chang was sitting on an empty crate clutching a thick folder of typed sheets.

  “Nothing is wrong,” the professor said. “I have just timed our return with the utmost of exact precision.”

  Charley was no longer wearing his jacket and his shirt was creased and faded, so bleached by the sun across the shoulders that all the color was gone. His hair was long and a black bristle of beard covered his cheeks.

  “How did it go?” Barney asked.

  “Not bad—considering. I’m not quite finished though, you see it’s those things in the water. Those teeth! Eyes… !”

  “How much more time do you need?”

  “Two weeks should wrap it up, with time to spare. But, Barney, the eyes…”

  “There’s nothing there big enough to hurt you, that’s what the Prof said.”

  “Maybe not big, but in the ocean, so many of them, and the teeth…”

  “See you. Take it away, Prof. Two weeks.”

  This time the truck barely flickered, and if he had blinked at the wrong moment Baney would have missed the trip altogether. Yet, Charley and Clyde were sitting together on the other side of the truck and the wad of typescript was thicker.

  “Viking Columbus,” Charley said, waving it over his head. “A wide-screen masterpiece.” He handed it down and Barney saw that there were some cards clipped to the folder. “Those are our time cards, and if you examine them you’ll see that they have been punched in every day, and Clyde and I are asking double time for Saturdays and treble for Sundays.”