TIME PAYMENT
By SYLVIA JACOBS
The whereabouts of a
hideaway can be found—but
what about the whenabouts?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Slick Tennant had a hunch. The sixth sense that had made him kingof the local rackets, that had warned him in time when three of hismen fell to the machine guns of a rival gang, now told him that theFeds were after him, that they had evidence to send him up for a longstretch. But he was going where even the Feds couldn't extradite him.
Slick Tennant was going to hide in the future.
They didn't call him Slick for nothing. For months, a private dick inhis pay had shadowed Dr. Richard Porter, inventor of a device called byreporters a time-travel machine, by comedians a crystal ball, and byDr. Porter's fellow-psychiatrists a Metachronoscope. Slick knew thedoctor was a widower, knew where he lived, knew pressure could be putupon him through Dickie Porter, aged seven. In Slick's pocket was ahouse-key Dr. Porter thought he had lost two weeks ago.
But Slick hadn't disclosed his intentions to anyone. The chauffeurof his bullet-proof car let him out several miles from the Porterresidence. Strolling along the street, Slick might have been anycitizen on his way home. A hat shadowed his features as he passed underthe street lights, and he carried a briefcase. He hailed a cruising caband proceeded to a spot two blocks from the Porter home, being carefulnot to tip too much or too little to attract the driver's attention.
Dr. Porter propped an elbow on his pillow, trying to orient himself inthe fuzziness that follows a midnight awakening. He stifled a gasp, andsat up suddenly, as he saw that the man silhouetted against the livingroom lamp had pajama-clad Dickie by the arm. The child was rubbing hiseyes, but there wasn't a whimper out of him.
"I got a gun on the kid," the man said. "I like kids and I won't hurthim if you do what I say."
The doctor struggled to keep his voice soothing and professional."Of course you wouldn't," he said. "You don't want to go back to thehospital."
The man laughed. "I ain't one of your nuts, Doc. And I don't want yourmoney. I got plenty. All I want from you is a little trip in your timemachine."
"Metachronoscope," corrected the doctor. "It's very misleading to callit a time-travel machine."
Letting go of the boy, Slick dealt Dr. Porter a vicious slap. "That'lllearn you not to pull none of your high-brow stuff. Is it my fault Ihad to quit school to keep the family from starvin' when my old man gotsent up? If Slick Tennant says it's a time-travel machine, that's whatyou call it, see?"
"Yes, I see," Dr. Porter said faintly. The mention of gangland's mostdreaded name had more effect on him than the blow.
"Now let's get something else straight. Once, on TV, they said a coupleof guys came back. Another time, the news program said they couldn'tcome back and give tips on the ponies. Which is right? Can you bring meback any time you want to?"
"Absolutely not. The decision is irrevocable. The public's impressionthat the future can be altered or predicted is incorrect."
"Fine. I don't want to come back. And I don't need to change thefuture, neither. Things may be different, but a smart cookie can alwaysget along. Now, according to the news, you only sent these guys ahead ayear. That ain't enou