Free The Time Machine Did It by John Swartzwelder Page A

pencil. I did
so and turned on the machine.
    The blast shot me out of the phone
booth and halfway down the street, where I banged off a parked car.
    When I regained consciousness, I
asked the nearest gawker what year it was. He told me that it was 1941. March
14th . The same day it had been when I had left. I looked at my watch. It was
4:30 in the afternoon. That meant five hours had passed. I was pretty satisfied
with that. Five hours closer to home, I thought. It’s a start. Hot dog.
    But my excitement faded when a
street urchin who was sitting on the curb next to me blowing bubbles informed
me that I had been laying on the asphalt bleeding for five hours. So the
machine hadn’t actually propelled me forward in time, it had just knocked me out
for most of the day. A hammer could have done that. I went back to the gas
station, full of righteous indignation and buyer’s remorse.
    I slapped the “time machine” down
in front of the “mechanic” and informed him that it didn’t work. I mean, not at
all. He said he was sorry.
    “Sorry doesn’t get me back to
2003,” I said, waggling a finger at the man. “This is a lemon. I’m not paying
you for this. Do they have a Better Business Bureau in this time period?”
    He hesitated for a moment, moved
sideways to the left to block my view of something, then said no, there wasn’t
one. Lucky for him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    It was getting late
in the day, and was starting to turn cold. I realized I had a more immediate
problem than just getting home someday. I needed food and shelter, kind of
nowish. I checked in my pockets to see how much cash I had with me. No problem
there. I had $180 in bills, a pocket full of coins, and my credit cards and
checkbook. And your money goes farther in the past, I’ve been told. So I
figured I was set.
    I approached the registration desk
at the nearest five star hotel - unaccountably named the PreWar Hilton - and
explained that I wished to get a room. They asked how long I would be staying
and I said no more than 62 years, hopefully less.
    While I was signing in the clerk
was eyeing my clothes, which looked a little out of place in this era and had
been kind of blown up recently. He said he would have to ask me for an advance
deposit. This was no problem. When you have a causal attitude towards fashion,
as I do, you get used to the better class of people, like clerks, treating you
like garbage. Besides, I had nothing to worry about. I was loaded.
    I handed the clerk a hundred
dollar bill. He started to put it in the till, then looked closer at it. After
a moment, he called some other people over to look at it. I was glad everyone
in the hotel was finding out how well-heeled I was. You get better service that
way. Next the assistant manager and then the manager were called over to
examine the bill. The manager glanced at it, then studied it more closely,
hissing slightly.
    He looked at me. “Where did you
get this ‘money’?”
    “I dunno. What does it matter as
long as its money?”
    “It’s not money.”
    I scratched my head. “We’re saying
different things.”
    The manager said my bill wasn’t
redeemable in lawful money. It couldn’t be exchanged for silver or gold,
according to the words printed on the bill. It was just fiat currency. It
wasn’t good here, or anywhere.
    “Bullshit,” I said.
    The manager shook his head. “It’s
not bullshit, I assure you, sir. Far from bullshit.”
    The assistant manager chimed in:
“Mr. Jorgenson doesn’t bullshit customers unless he absolutely has to. That’s a
credo he lives by.”
    A tough looking bellhop came up,
angrily balling up his fists. “Who’s questioning Mr. Jorgenson’s integrity?” he
asked.
    The manager tried to defuse the
situation, to get us all to calm down. “That’s all right, John. I can handle
this.”
    Then they noticed the date on the
bill. It had been printed in 1994. Now they really didn’t like it. 1994 hadn’t
happened yet, they felt. I hopefully laid