Free My Troubles With Time by Benson Grayson

down and kissing the earth. Instead, more practically, I turned to the work of putting the machine back into my garage.
    With the aid of the wheeled platform I had used to move it from my workshop in the garage out to the back yard, I carefully returned the time machine to my garage and locked the door on the outside.
    I then entered my kitchen, doffed my uniform in favor of an old bathrobe, and made myself a cup of coffee. I relaxed, sipping my coffee and thought of how miraculous it was that I had returned safely. Suddenly, I recalled the photograph of me with General Trochu, the priceless proof that I had traveled in time. I hurriedly felt inside my uniform coat pocket and relaxed as I made certain it was still there.
    I congratulated myself and thought of how my life would change once I was acknowledged as the inventor of the time machine. I would be rich and famous. Beautiful women would throw themselves at my feet. My behavior would be characterized by the confidence and savoir-faire that I had displayed increasingly during my stay in Paris.
    My daydreams of glory were interrupted by a sharp pain in my leg. I looked down. Princess had bitten me on the ankle. Some things, I realized, had not changed.

PART II
    T he days following my return from my trip to the past were busy ones. Despite my fatigue, I labored until 2 a.m. on the day of my return, painstakingly checking again the paper Professor Bolton had given me to look at prior to the start of the Christmas vacation.
    The following day, Monday, I had no office hours and no class to teach until 1 p.m. I decided to give myself the luxury of sleeping late and did not set the alarm clock. It was with considerable irritation, therefore, that I awakened to the incessant ringing of the telephone. I looked at the clock. It was the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.
    Stifling a curse, I picked up the receiver and forced myself to be polite.
    “Snodgrass?”
    It was the voice of Joy, the secretary of the Physics department. Her name was most apt. To see her was a joy for any male. Describing her as voluptuous would have been to do her an injustice. She was frankly the sexiest, most appealing woman I had ever seen.
    In my daydreams, I would sweep her off her feet. In reality, she treated me with a thinly disguised disdain. Her deep voice, normally so sweet that it would remind you of honey, was cold and harsh on those few occasions when she would deign to speak to me.
    Except for me, she habitually flirted with every man she spoke to. This even included Kim Han Chu, whose grasp of English was so limited that he would ask me later to explain to him what had transpired during their conversation.
    Early in my stay at Standish, I had hoped to wear down her defenses, bringing her candy on her birthday and Christmas. In vain. Her contempt for me had only become more explicit. Most recently, she has stopped referring to me as “professor” or “doctor” and now addressed me solely by my last name.
    “Good morning,” I said, as pleasantly as I could.
    “Dr. Bolton wants to see you in his office as quickly as possible!”
    “Of course, what about?”
    There was no answer. Joy had already hung up.
    I quickly shaved, dressed, carefully put the article I had redone for Dr. Bolton into a large folder to protect it, and set out for the university.
    The house I rented from the university was only a few minutes’ walk from the campus. Despite its convenient location, my house was the least desirable of any of those rented by the university to junior members of the faculty. In addition to its small size and the poor state of the paint job, rugs and furniture, it was in a neighborhood that had become increasingly seedy during the years I had resided there.
    When the university housing office had assigned me the house upon my arrival at Standish, I had been shocked when I saw its dilapidated condition. My mild protests to the Director of Housing had been answered with the bland assertion that nothing