“Sorry.” Shumway blushed. “I wrote that last night. Well. Those are the questions.”
“You shall have your answers.” The old man shook his elbow gently. “All in good—time.”
“You must excuse my excitement,” said Shumway. “After all, you are a mystery. You were famous, world-acclaimed. You went, saw the future, came back, told us, then went into seclusion. Oh, sure; for a few weeks, you traveled the world in ticker-tape parades, showed yourself on TV, wrote one book, gifted us with one magnificent two-hour television film, then shut yourself away here. Yes, the time machine is on exhibit below, and crowds are allowed in each day at noon to see and touch. But you yourself have refused fame—”
“Not so.” The old man led him along the roof. Below in the gardens, others helicopters were arriving now, bringing TV equipment from around the world to photograph the miracle in the sky, that moment when the time machine from the past would appear; shimmer, then wander off to visit other cities before it vanished into the past. “I have been busy, as an architect, helping build that very future I saw when, as a young man, I arrived in our golden tomorrow!”
They stood for a moment watching the preparations below. Vast tables were being set up for food and drink.
Dignitaries would be arriving soon from every country of the world to thank—for a final time, perhaps—this fabled, this almost mythic traveler of the years.
“Come along,” said the old man. “Would you like to come sit in the time machine? No one else ever has, you know. Would you like to be the first?”
No answer was necessary. The old man could see that the young man’s eyes were bright and wet. “There, there,” said the old man. “Oh, dear me; there, there.”
A glass elevator sank and took them below and let them out in a pure white basement at the center of which stood—
The incredible device.
“There.” Stiles touched a button and the plastic shell that had for one hundred years encased the time machine slid aside. The old man nodded. “Go. Sit.”
Shumway moved slowly toward the machine.
Stiles touched another button and the machine lit up like a cavern of spider webs. It breathed in years and whispered forth remembrance. Ghosts were in its crystal veins. A great god spider had woven its tapestries in a single night. It was haunted and it was alive. Unseen tides came and went in its machinery. Suns burned and moons hid their seasons in it. Here, an autumn blew away i
n tatters; there, winters arrived in snows that drifted in spring blossoms to fall on summer fields.
The young man sat in the center of it all, unable to speak, gripping the armrests of the padded chair. “Don’t be afraid,” said the old man gently. “I won’t send you on a journey.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Shumway.
The old man studied his face. “No, I can see you wouldn’t. You look like me one hundred years ago this day. Damn if you aren’t my honorary son.”
The young man shut his eyes at this, and the lids glistened as the ghosts in the machine sighed all about him and promised him tomorrows.
“Well, what do you think of my Toynbee Converter?” said the old man briskly, to break the spell.
He cut the power. The young man opened his eyes.
“The Toynbee Converter? What—”
“More mysteries, eh? The great Toynbee, that fine historian who said any group, any face, any world that did not run to seize the future and shape it was doomed to dust away in the grave, in the past.”
“Did he say that?”
“Or some such. He did. So, what better name for my machine, eh? Toynbee, wherever you are, here’s your future-seizing device!”
He grabbed the young man’s elbow and steered him out of the machine.
“Enough of that. It’s late. Almost time for the great arrival, eh? And the earth-shaking final announcement of that old time traveler Stiles! Jump!”
Back on the roof, they looked down on the gardens, which were now swarming with the famous and the near famous from across the world. The nearby roads were jammed; the skies were full of helicopters and hovering biplanes. The hang gliders had long since given up and now stood along the cliff rim like a mob of bright pterodactyls, wings folded, heads up, staring at the clouds, waiting.
“All this,” the old man murmured, “my God, for me.”
The young man checked his watch.
“Ten minutes to four and counting. Almost time for the great arrival. Sorry; that’s what I called it when I wrote you up a week ago for the News. That moment of arrival and departure, in the blink of an eye, when, by stepping across time, you changed the whole future of the world from night to day, dark to light. I’ve often wondered—”