The Technicolor Time Machine

“Yow!” Doody said, and dropped the instrument. Its brass length fell across the exposed innards of the tubes and sparks jumped as the circuits shorted. All of the lights on the controls went out.

Barney was completely sober in less than a second. He pulled the musician out of the instrument room and herded him, and all the others, to the far end of the platform.

“How is it, Professor?” he asked softly when he came back, but there was no answer. He didn’t ask again but only looked on as Hewett tore off inspection hatches and hurled the broken tubes out of the door.

He sent the musicians away after he received a grudging “yes” in answer to his question, when he asked if it would be at least a couple of hours before the vremeatron would be fixed.

By nine o’clock Sunday morning Professor Hewett admitted that the repairs would probably take most of the day, not including the time needed to find replacement tubes on a Sunday in Los Angeles. Barney, hollowly, said that, after all, they had plenty of time. After all the picture wasn’t due until the following morning.

Late Sunday night Barney fell asleep for the first time, but he woke up with a start after only a few minutes and could not get back to sleep again.

At 5 A.M. on Monday morning the professor announced that the rewiring was complete and that he was going to sleep for an hour. After that he would leave and try to obtain the missing tubes.

At 9 A.M. Barney phoned and discovered that the representatives of the bank had arrived and were waiting for him. He gurgled and hung up.

At nine-thirty the phone rang, and when he picked it up the girl on the switchboard told him that the entire studio was being turned upside down trying to locate him, and that L.M. himself had personally talked to her and asked her if she knew where Mr. Hendrickson was. Barney hung up on her too.

At ten-thirty he knew it was hopeless. Hewett had not returned, nor had he phoned. And even if he arrived at that moment it was too late. The picture could not possibly be finished in time.

It was all over. He had tried, and he had failed. Walking over to L.M.’s office was like trodding the last mile—which it really was.

He hesitated outside L.M.’s door, considered suicide as an alternative, decided he did not have the guts, then pushed the door open.

16

“Don’t go in there,” a voice said, and a hand reached past Barney and pulled his away from the door, which sighed shut automatically in his face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, anger bubbling over, spinning about to face the other man.

“Just preventing you from making a mistake, stupid,” the other said, and grinned widely as Barney stumbled backward, with his jaw dropping and his eyes opening wide.

“A very nice take,” the man said. “Maybe you should be acting in films, not directing them.”

“You’re… me…” Barney said weakly, looking at himself wearing his best pair of whipcord slacks, his horsehide Air Force pilot’s jacket and carrying a can of film under his arm.

“Very observant,” the other Barney said, smiling wickedly. “Hold this a sec.” He held out the can to Barney, then dug into his hip pocket to get out his wallet.

“What… ?” Barney said. “What… ?” looking at the label on the can, which read Viking Columbus—Reel One.

The other Barney took a folded scrap of paper out of his wallet and held it out to Barney—who noticed for the first time that his right hand was covered with a bulky, reddened bandage.

“What happened to my hand—your hand?” Barney asked, gazing in horror at the bandage while the can was snatched away from him and the piece of paper was thrust into his palm.

“Give that to the Prof,” the duplicate Barney said, “and stop horsing around and finish the picture, will you?” He held L.M.’s office door open as a page came down the hall pushing a handcart loaded with a dozen cans of film. The page glanced back and forth at the two men, shrugged, and went in. The other Barney followed him and the door swung shut.

“The hand, what happened to the hand?” Barney said weakly to the closed door. He started to push it open, then shuddered and changed his mind. The scrap of paper caught his attention and he unfolded it. It was part of a sheet of ordinary writing paper, torn along one edge and blank on one side. There was no writing on the other side either, just a sketch that had been drawn quickly with a ball-point pen.

It meant nothing to Barney. He folded it and put it away in his wallet—and with a sudden jar he remembered the cans of film.

“I’ve finished the picture!” he cried aloud. “It’s done and I’ve just delivered it on time.” Two passing secretaries turned their heads and giggled at him; he scowled back at them and walked away.

What had the other Barney said to him? Stop horsing around and finish the film. Would he finish it? It looked like he would—if there had been anything in the cans. But how could he finish it now, after the deadline, and still turn it in on time?