The Time Traveler's Almanac

She wondered who the man was, standing on her front porch. He might be the new mechanic at her husband’s garage, judging by his orange cover-alls. Nice-looking, she thought, wishing that she didn’t look like there was a bowling ball underneath her dress.

“Excuse me,” the man said, reaching out to help her with her bags. “I’m looking for Cecily Walker.”

“My name’s Walker,” the woman told him. “But I don’t know any Cecily.”

“Cecily,” she repeated when the man had gone. What a pretty name.

*   *   *

Alan decided to work late that night. Joe left at the usual time and told him he’d see him tomorrow.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” Alan said.

He waited until Joe was gone, and then he took the printed photo of Cecily Walker out of his desk drawer and sat for a long time, staring at it. What did he know about this woman? Only that she’d written one published story, badly, and that she was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. Of course, what he was feeling was ridiculous. She’d been dead more than three hundred years.

But there were ways of getting around that.

Alan couldn’t believe what he was actually considering. It was lunacy. He’d be caught, and he’d lose his job. But then he realised that he could never have read about it if he hadn’t already done it and got away with it. He decided to have another look at the story.

It wasn’t there. Under Fiction: Paper Relics: 20th Century, sub-section Magazines, American, there was shelf after shelf full of Amazing Stories, Astounding, Analog, Weird Tales and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, but not one single copy of Woman’s Secrets.

Well, he thought, if the magazine isn’t there, I guess I never made it after all. Maybe it’s better that way. Then he thought, but if I never made it, how can I be looking for the story? I shouldn’t even know about it. And then he had another thought.

“File,” he said. “Information required: magazines on loan.”

“Display?”

“No, just tell me.”

“Woman’s Secrets, date 1973. Astounding, date…”

“Skip the rest. Who’s got Woman’s Secrets?”

“Checking. Signed out to Project Control through Joe Twofingers.”

Project Control was on to him! If he didn’t act quickly, it would be too late.

It was amazingly easy to get into the lab. He just walked in. The machines were all lined up against one wall, and there was no one around to stop him. He walked up to the nearest machine and sat down on it. The earliest model developed by Samuel Colson had looked like an English telephone box (he’d been a big Doctor Who fan), but it was hardly inconspicuous and extremely heavy, so refinements were made until the latest models were lightweight, collapsible, and made to look exactly like (and double up as) a folding bicycle. The control board was hidden from general view, inside a wicker basket.

None of the instruments were labelled. Alan tentatively pushed one button. Nothing happened. He pushed another. Still nothing.

He jumped off and looked for an instruction book. There had to be one somewhere. He was ransacking a desk when the door opened.

“I thought I’d find you here, Alan.”

“Joe! I … uh … was just…”

“I know what you’re doing, and I can’t let you go through with it. It’s against every rule of the Institute and you know it. If you interfere with the past, who knows what harm you might do?”

“But Joe, you know me. I wouldn’t do any harm. I won’t do anything to affect history, I swear it. I just want to see her, that’s all. Besides, it’s already happened, or you couldn’t have read that magazine. And that’s another thing! You’re the one who showed it to me! I never would have known about her if it hadn’t been for you. So if I’m going now, it’s down to you.”

“Alan, I’m sorry, but my job is on the line here, too, you know. So don’t give me any trouble and come along quietly.”

Joe moved towards him, holding a pair of handcuffs. Attempted theft of Institute property was a felony punishable by five years’ imprisonment without pay. Alan picked up the nearest bike and brought it down over the top of Joe’s head. The machine lay in pieces and Joe lay unconscious. Alan bent down and felt his pulse. He would be okay. “Sorry, Joe. I had to do it. File!”

“Yes.”

“Information required: instruction manual for usage of…” he checked the number on the handlebars, “Colson Model 44B Time Traveller.”

“Checking. Found. Display?”

“No. Just print. And fast.”

The printer was only on page five when Alan heard running footsteps. Five pages would have to do.