The Nick Of Time Part 18

"Good old Dr. Waters," said the Historian. "He taught me everything I know."

Mihalik was startled. "You've met Dr. Waters?" he asked.

"Sure," said the Historian. "After he perfected time travel."

"So he will perfect time travel."

"I just told you so."

"When?"

"After you get back home."

"Then we will get back home?"

"I just told you so."

"Let's go, Frank," said Cheryl nervously. She could imagine Mihalik antagonizing the Historian into turning them into something even worse than lizards. Sticks, maybe. Dead sticks.

"Well," said Mihalik, "it's been nice schmoozing with you. Call us whenever you need more information."

"I will," said the Historian. "Night or day."

"I can't wait," said Mihalik. They beat it the h.e.l.l out of there and back down the elevator to their own suites.

"Wow," said Cheryl tiredly as they sat in Mihalik's parlor and looked out over the flowers."

"The guy's crazy as a loon," said Mihalik.

"Crazy as a powerful loon. Everybody's crazy here. Everybody's crazy everywhere. Except us, of course." Mihalik gave her a narrow, appraising glance. She knew just what he was thinking.

Give Me Liberty, or Give Me Something Almost as Good Mihalik hung up the telephone. "G.o.d knows how many millions of years we are in the future," he said, "and all the operators still sound the same."

"Be grateful," said Cheryl. "The Historian could make them sound like Daffy Duck if he wanted to." He shrugged. "If what Bwana said is true, then it doesn't make any difference what we do from now on."

"What are you talking about, Frank? Hey, are you trying to think again?"

"Just a little; sometimes I just can't help it. I mean, if every past, every possible past, leads to this single eventual future, then it doesn't make any difference at all if you're a good person or a bad person; if you give money to the Reformation Regiment at Christmas or ma.s.sacre innocent puppies and kittens; if the good guys or the bad guys win this war or that war; if the wagon train makes it through to California.

Nothing means anything! Whether the dinosaurs disappeared or not, whether mankind learned to speak and read and build cities, whether we drove back the Martians into their sc.u.mmy little holes -- none of it means a d.a.m.n thing. Whatever might have happened in the past would lead inexorably to today. To us here in this room, waiting for the Historian to figure out what he's going to try next."

"Frank," said Cheryl thoughtfully, "that can't be entirely true. What if human beings never developed from apelike ancestors? How could the Historian himself be here to do what he does?"

Mihalik shrugged. "If intelligent earthworms ruled the world, then the Historian would be an intelligent earthworm who changed reality into one with intelligent humans."

"What if life never evolved on earth at all?"

"Then it came from someplace else, and the Historian would--"

Cheryl was too impatient to wait for him to follow her reasoning. "What if life never developed at all, anywhere, not on any single planet in the whole, entire universe?"

Mihalik didn't like that idea a bit. "Nowhere? A completely dead universe?"

"Yes. Then where would the Historian have come from?"

"Another universe, one where there were two of them." It was the likely answer, and both Mihalik and Cheryl knew it immediately. There was an answer for everything -- and the Historian had it. What it added up to was the bleakest, most inhuman, most demeaning explanation of the purpose of life anyone had ever considered: life, pain, joy, struggle -- all were less than nothing, less than futile. The G.o.dd.a.m.n universe couldn't care less what you or your species did; it was hurrying on to its absurd, flower-strewn Wizard of Oz/1939 New York World's Fair future with or without you. You could choose to come along, or you could slash your wrists in despair. Neither decision -- or any other, at any other moment -- would alter the outcome.

"Boy, is that depressing," said Cheryl.

"I don't even want to think about it," said Mihalik. "I'd go to bed and never get up again if it would mean anything. It wouldn't mean anything, though, so what's the point?"

"That's just it, Frank," said Cheryl tearfully. "What's the point? Why bother going on, trying to find our homes? Why bother rebuilding our lives? Why bother trying to make the future better for ourselves and for future generations? If we succeed or we fail, it's all going to end up like this. We might as well spend the rest of our lives watching fireworks over the Lagoon of Nations and being changed into bizarre figments of the Historian's imagination. We might as well just give up."

Those were just the words Mihalik needed to hear. He was suddenly thrown into action, as if a key had been turned, as if a powerful restraint had been removed. "Give up?" he cried. "Not on your pretty little a.s.s! n.o.body pushes Frank Mihalik and his chick around like that, not even some p.i.s.sant Mastermind with omniscience, omnipotence, and powers far beyond those of mortal men."

"You make him sound like G.o.d, Frank," said Cheryl shakily.

"G.o.d, ha! We'll see what he looks like when I get through with him!" He picked up the telephone again. "I want to talk to Bwana," he told the operator. He looked at Cheryl. "Bwana's still laid up. The Historian worked him over pretty hard last night."

"Maybe we can send him a basket of fruit," said Cheryl.

"h.e.l.lo, Bwana? Frank Mihalik here. Yeah, the visitor from the past; you remember. I was wondering if I could have a little chat with you today. Oh, about overthrowing the Historian. Bwana? h.e.l.lo?"

Mihalik hung up. "He hung up," said Mihalik.

"Maybe you ought to take it a little easier, Frank," said Cheryl. "Everybody seems to be a littletouchy about the Historian. They probably didn't like being lizards just as much as we didn't."

"Take it easier! I'll go over the son of a b.i.t.c.h's head! I'll go right to the King!"

"Oh, that's terrific: the King. Santa himself."

"You wait, Cheryl," said Mihalik excitedly. "You'll see some action."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Mihalik rushed out of the room; Cheryl s.h.i.+vered.

King Proximo was as little help as Bwana had been. The old monarch sat on his throne wearing his gold crown, holding his gold scepter, his fat pink face wreathed in a broad smile. "Frank, Frank!" he cried happily. "How wonderful to see you this glorious day! Were you a lizard just a little while ago? I was a lizard. It was marvelous! That Historian! And he has such a sense of humor, too! Ha ha."

"Your Majesty," said Mihalik as he knelt at Proximo's feet, "It's about the Historian that I wanted to talk to you."

"Excellent fellow, came highly recommended, does a great job and on a limited budget, too."

"He's planning to overthrow you and Queen Hesternia. He's planning to make himself the actual dictator of time."

"Ha ha," said King Proximo. "Always something new from that joker. Dictator of time, eh? Well, we can't have that; I'll have to speak to him. Perhaps he just doesn't feel appreciated. We must do something for him, declare a holiday in his honor or put his picture on a stamp or something."

Mihalik was feeling desperate. "He doesn't give a hoot in h.e.l.l about anything like that! He wants it all !".

The King laughed. "Well, he can't have it all. I have it all."

"He'll take it away from you."

"He won't. I've been in the future, you know; and I've seen it. I rule all the way to the end. I mean, the beginning. My beginning, your end. You know what I mean. As a matter of fact, I don't think this Historian is due to last more than another one or two galactic revolutions."

"But if he can change things--"

"Hey, can he ever! Do you know what I looked like, oh, two or three thousand years ago? I looked like a Hogarth caricature of Richard III. It was either his idea of a joke or some kind of petty revenge for something, I forget. I spent decades like that; it wasn't any fun, either, let me tell you: limping around, dragging my leg, my back all hunched over, snarling at everybody, muttering to myself, drowning princes.

Finally he relented and turned me into this." Proximo leaned forward and spoke in a soft voice.

"Confidentially, this jolly old soul stuff is almost as bad. Ha ha." It was the most pitiful laughter Mihalik had ever heard.

"If he can change things -- little things, big things -- maybe he can change the future. My future, your past."

"How can he change my past?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty, I don't even understand the rules here. How does he change the present? Your present, I mean. He manages that and, from my point of view, that would be more difficult than changing the future. Anybody can change the future--"

"You're wrong, there," said King Proximo. "The future always ends up to be this way. It's even more locked-in than simple predestination. There's no way around it, so you can't do anything about changing it."

"How do you know?"

Proximo's eyes opened wider. "Because the Historian told me so," he said, astonished. "Ha ha."

"See? He's setting his plan into motion. In a little while, if you exist at all, you and Hesternia will be doing guest appearances on talk shows and writing memoirs to pay your rent while Mr. Big-Shot Historian whips the whole universe around to his liking. And strictly off the record, he's not quite sane, you know."

"He's not?" The King began to look terrified at the edges of his cheerful smile.

"How could he be? He's--"

Just then, both Mihalik and King Proximo were changed into other forms. They could still think, b.u.t.they couldn't move or speak. They had become large, sentient chocolate-caramels. They heard footsteps approaching. A few moments later, the Historian's voice penetrated the chocolate. "A little taste of home, Mr. Mihalik? Mad, am I?" he said in a low, even, crazy voice. "Plotting behind my back, are you? I hope this demonstrates the foolishness of even daring to try such a thing. I'll release you sooner or later, but I'll let you suffer so you won't be tempted to get in my way again. You should see how stupid you look. I should have made you into pralines, that would have been even sillier. When you're human again, you'll find that you won't savor the tastes of food or drink ever again: a permanent reminder from me. And I can do worse. I can make s.e.x the most tedious thing in the world. I can--"

There was a loud thump, and the Historian fell to the floor, making another thump. "Frank?" called Cheryl. Mihalik couldn't answer; he was still a three-foot-square lump of chocolate-covered caramel.

Ants were beginning to cross the glossy black floor of the throne room; Mihalik could hear their tiny footfalls. "Frank?" called Cheryl again. She was close to hysteria. "You've got to be here somewhere, I heard the Historian talking to you; but all I see are these two huge blocks of candy." She broke off a little of Mihalik's chocolate; it hurt him like a knife wound. "It's lousy chocolate, Frank. We had better stuff back in 1996. Oh, merciful heavens! Is that you, Frank?"

Mihalik tried to think of a way he could communicate as an inanimate cube of candy. Nothing came to mind.

"It must be you! And this must be King Proximo! I can tell by the crown and the scepter. All right, I'll force the Historian to change you back. Thank G.o.d he didn't turn you into... into...." She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence; despite herself, she was beginning to giggle.

A few minutes later the Historian came to his senses, firmly tied and gagged, with Cheryl sitting on his chest. "Do it," she said.

"Gaa gaa gaa," said the Historian. Cheryl removed the gold-threaded cloth from his mouth. "I can't do anything like this," he said. "I have to use my equipment. I'm a technician, not a magician, you know."

Cheryl gave him a penetrating stare; she had seen Mihalik and Dr. Waters do it, but this was one of her first. "Okay," she said, "but I'll be watching every move you make."

"Won't do you any good," said the Historian. "You won't know what I'm up to. I could switch us all to a universe where you don't exist and you'd be gone. Then I'd be unguarded and at complete liberty to achieve my goals." Cheryl knew that was true; it was some quandary, all right.

It seemed like a stalemate; actually it seemed that way because Cheryl preferred a stalemate. It was really total victory for the Historian, but Cheryl wasn't ready to admit that yet.

"Of course," said the Historian airily, "there wouldn't be much pleasure without some kind of opposition."

"Aha," said Cheryl, "your typical mad-scientist weakness."

"No," said the Historian, "my gallantry. Untie me."

"Why should I?"

"Because if you don't, the ants will cart your boyfriend over there to their hole in the ground, gram by gram."

Cheryl nodded and let loose the Historian's bonds. "The King and Mihalik will be people again very shortly," he said. "Then the war can start."

"Oh, good," said Cheryl unhappily. Mihalik couldn't talk, of course, but he heard everything that was said in the throne room. He was even unhappier than Cheryl.

The Historian walked arrogantly away, and Cheryl sat on the steps of the throne. She watched ants climb all over her dear Frank. Then about five minutes later, without a sound or a flicker of lightning, Mihalik and King Proximo returned to their former selves. "Uck," said the King, "there are ants all over me."

"We've got to get to work," said Mihalik forcefully. "We don't have much time."

"You don't have much time," Proximo reminded him. "I'm going to let him do whatever he feels like."

Standing to one side, Cheryl murmured Yip Harburg's lyrics to "If I Only Had the Nerve." She sighed, knowing it was hopeless. "Be a lion, not a mowess," she said. "Nope, ha ha."

Mihalik stared at the happy old King. "All right," he said slowly, "I'll fight him alone if I have to."

"And I'll be with you, darling," said Cheryl. Mihalik gazed down into her l.u.s.trous eyes, and he was filled with a new and daring courage.

"And so will I," came a voice from the back of the huge hall. It was Bwana, bandaged and on crutches, but with a look of defiance on his face. Behind him were dozens of other men and women.

"You've done it, Frank," said Cheryl wonderingly. "Just like one of the Dr. Waterses said you would.

You've founded the Temporary Underground."

"Watch my dust," said Mihalik tersely. He turned on his heel and strode manfully toward his new allies.

A Moral Dilemma, or Tough Luck, Cheryl As many courageous and powerful leaders have learned to their dismay, it is unrewarding to battle an enemy who knows Everything and can even control the movements of the celestial spheres. How many people can name the guy who was trying to keep the walls together inside Jericho while Joshua was doing his bit outside? That was pretty much the position in which Mihalik found himself. The Historian wasn't G.o.d in actual fact, but the effective distinction was so small as to be, for all practical purposes, negligible. For example, the Historian couldn't create life, he couldn't make a man out of insensate clay; but he could transfer to a reality where such clay was just about to be animated spontaneously into a living man, thanks to some local quirk of natural science. It would seem to an unbiased spectator that the Historian had performed the miracle, and that was good enough.

The Temporary Underground, Mihalik's forces, numbered two hundred and nine, including himself and Cheryl. The other several thousand citizens of the city -- the 1939 New York World's Fair, or wherever and whatever it was -- preferred to huddle in their cellars and laugh the day away until the conflict was decided. The Historian had no allies: he didn't need any. He was barricaded in his suite with all his equipment and his clipboard. He was having a great time changing the universe every ten minutes or so, exercising his creativity, gleefully imagining the consternation he was causing the besieging army.

After the time he'd spent as a cube of chocolate-covered caramel, nothing disconcerted Mihalik; the other recruits in his Underground were of less cheer, however. They were scared out of their minds. First they were turned into plastic lawn flamingoes, then they were molecules of formaldehyde floating randomly in interstellar s.p.a.ce, then they were dandelion puffs captured in blocks of Lucite, then they were keys on Barry Manilow's pianos, then they were unrepentant demons imprisoned in a vast sea of ice. Mihalik was the biggest demon, his huge limbs immobile in the gelid dungeon. He had kind of dug being a drifting molecule. He'd even had a vague urge to move on toward greater things, maybe an amino acid or something; but this helplessness and his growing frustration were driving him slowly buggy.

"Okay, wise guy," shouted someone from somewhere out of sight, "what do we do now?"

"We wait for our chance," said Cheryl.

"Right," said another voice sarcastically.

The Historian appeared suddenly, making his way carefully toward Mihalik, wrapped in a great black fur coat and hat. He had fleece-lined gloves on his hands and high black leather boots on his feet. His breath left little clouds in the h.e.l.lish air. "Whoa," he said, almost slipping on the ice. "Mihalik? Want to discuss terms?"

Mihalik only clenched his teeth. "Nuts!" cried Cheryl.