The Nick Of Time Part 4

"No," admitted Mihalik.

"But you've seen it before? Pictures of it, I mean? In books and movies?"

"I guess so."

"We're in London, Frank," said Cheryl gloomily. The time displacement was ugly and terrifying, but at least it was a part of their original situation: they had gone back in time, and something strange had happened; now they had gone forward in time, and something strange was happening. But the spatial aspect was more difficult to fathom. It was hard to see how they could have been transported neatly from one continent to another.

"I think I can explain that," said Smith. "Look, imagine that while you're in the process of moving through time, the Earth itself is also continuing to move. Rotate, revolve, you know. So between that instant that you left the past and the instant you appeared here, the Earth turned a bit. You started in New York City and landed, luckily enough, in London. You could have plopped down in some more unhealthy place."

"It didn't happen going the other way," objected Mihalik. "I left New York in 1996, and when I got to 1939 I was still in New York. The same was true for Cheryl."

"Aw, h.e.l.l," said Smith, "what do you want from me? I don't have all the answers."

They were pa.s.sing the Ministry of Eternity; an immense portrait of the Man from Mars decorated one face of the stark building, and below it were the three slogans: LESS IS MORE.

MARS IS EARTH.

TOMORROW IS YESTERDAY.

Cheryl leaned closer to Mihalik's ear. "Look at that man's face, Frank," she whispered. "Doesn't he remind you of someone?"

Mihalik studied the billboard-sized poster as they drove by. "Uh huh," he said. "That guy who played the leader of the Danish Remnant in that holofilm we went to with Ray. The guy who tried to tunnel under the Copenhagen Wall."

"No, no! Look at him! Doesn't he look like your chief? There's a real resemblance there, Frank."

"Dr. Waters is a h.e.l.l of a lot younger than that guy," said Mihalik.

"Then he looks like he could be Dr. Waters's big brother."

"Nah," said Mihalik.

The Golden Country They drove for a long while, and Mihalik thought that if this was indeed London, then it was a strange and decimated version of the city that existed in the true world. Every section of the city, everyneighborhood, was as spa.r.s.ely built-up as it was near the Agency headquarters. The Londoners themselves must have been in hiding, because all the way from Hyde Park to Smith's residence in Stepney they saw no more than a dozen people about. "They're all at work," said Smith with a shrug.

"You saw all the cars in the parking garage. I'd guess that a quarter of London's people are employed in the Agency Plaza. The rest work for the various ministries."

"What about the shopkeepers and merchants?" asked Cheryl. "What about the customers in those shops? We should have seen them."

"Oh," said Smith, growing tired of explaining things, "there isn't a great deal of shopkeeping these days. The Agency provides everything we need, and in abundance. It's considered almost unpatriotic to go into a shop and actually buy something."

"So what's the actual population of London, then?" asked Mihalik.

Smith thought for a moment. "Forty or fifty thousand, I'd say. But that's including all the suburbs and the outlying villages."

Mihalik shook his head. "Another thing, Smith--"

"Just a second, please. Let me just get this car up to the curb. I've never been very good at parallel parking. Well, this is my place. There are six apartments in the building. I'm on the first floor."

"That's something else I wanted to ask you about," Mihalik continued, as they got out of the car and back into the swirling blizzard. They moved as quickly as they could toward the shelter of the building's foyer. "Why don't you sound like an English guy? I mean, sometimes your accent's all right, but then you use words like 'apartment' instead of 'flat.' That kind of thing. I've been noticing it all afternoon."

"I honestly don't know what you mean," said Smith. "I speak the way I speak, the way everyone speaks. If you're suggesting the English we use here in London has become more like that in New York, blame modern communications. Having direct holovision broadcasts from around the world come right into your home has made everyone sound more or less alike. Didn't that happen in your world?" He glanced quickly into his mailbox, but there was nothing there. Mihalik looked at the card taped above the doorbell: W. Smith. Rm. 101.

"No," said Cheryl, "we don't have holovision in our homes. We're lucky if they print a newspaper twice a week."

"Sounds dreary," said Smith. "Come along, my place is just down here. It's not fancy, but it's home."

He unlocked the door and gestured for them to enter.

It was a s.p.a.cious, magnificent, apartment. There was a large living room furnished with good taste and an eye for elegance. There was a lot of old dark paneling, polished to a rich glow; rare Oriental rugs lay upon a beautiful parquet floor; the furniture was likewise old and lovely and in excellent condition. A fire was already blazing in the hearth. Mihalik went over to it and warmed himself. "Nice place," he said.

"Thank you," said Smith, "I find it comfortable. Let me see what the cook's done up. You're welcome to share my little supper."

"Oh, no," said Cheryl, still thinking of her own 1996, where a person's supper might consist of only a rice ball or some marinated plant stems.

"I'm sure there's enough. The cook always prepares enough so that if I decide to entertain during the day, I needn't worry. I usually throw away more than I eat. As I said, the Agency provides in abundance."

Mihalik watched as Smith went out of the room; then he turned to Cheryl. "I don't know what to make of all this, honey," he said.

Her shoulders slumped. "I feel like we're getting farther and farther away from home the longer we're here."

Suddenly Mihalik knew that it was all up to him once more. He was going to have to be a hero all over again, even though he'd already done enough of that for one day. That morning, which had begun with the luring of the physicist, Marquand, to the World's Fair, seemed like a week ago. "I hope we did the right thing, coming to Smith's apartment," he said. "We still need to get some answers. We have tounderstand just what kind of world this is. Then we have to figure a way to get home."

"Maybe we should go back to 1939 again," said Cheryl. "Then we might try another method of finding our own 1996."

"Maybe," said Mihalik doubtfully.

"I think you'll enjoy this," said Smith, returning with a little card in one hand. "The cook has prepared Foie gras en croute, accompanied by a rather fine Dom Perignon 1991; Poulets a la portugaise, with a Chateau Margaux 1976; Saddle of lamb, with a Chateau Latour 1971; Mimosa salad; Crepes specialite de la maison, with a most remarkable Chateau d'Yquem of 1975; and, of course, Cafe brulot. Come into the dining room with me. I'd hate for the pate pastries to cool."

Mihalik waited for Cheryl to walk by him. "Do you know what all of that was?" he asked.

"I could understand the French words," said Cheryl, "but I find it very hard to believe that people in this world eat some of those things."

"Don't tell me about it," said Mihalik. They joined Smith in the dining room, which was just as elaborately furnished as the room they had left. There was a huge old oaken table; Smith took his seat at one end, and Mihalik and Cheryl sat to either side of him. They were served by a smiling young woman.

"Is she the cook?" asked Cheryl.

"Oh, Kalila? Yes, she is. She does quite a lot of things around here for me. She was provided by the Agency. The Agency provides--"

"Yes, so you keep saying," said Mihalik.

"I do think," said Smith, "that you can drop that tone of voice with me. Particularly here, at my table."

Mihalik once again felt like a fool. "I apologize again, Mr. Smith," he said. He looked down at the little pastry that had appeared before him. It was light and flaky and perfectly done. He wondered what he'd find inside it. Kalila smiled at him and filled his gla.s.s with champagne.

Mihalik had become familiar with champagne in 1939, and he liked it. If nothing else in the meal proved edible, he was sure that he could fill up on Dom Perignon. It would help to make this bizarre version of reality more acceptable.

He tasted the foie gras and rolled it around on his tongue, deciding if he liked it. He did, evidently, because he didn't have to force himself to take a second forkful.

"I understand, Mr. Mihalik," said Smith. "You're a rugged explorer. You have a few rough edges.

And you're a stranger to our world, our society. I suppose I'll have to be a little more tolerant, too. Are you enjoying your food?"

"Yes, indeed," said Cheryl. Kalila's dark eyes s.h.i.+ned; she seemed very pleased, smiling even more broadly. But she still hadn't uttered a word.

One after the other, the courses followed, each accompanied by its appropriate wine. It was a rare treat in Mihalik's time to dine on two separate dishes. Here, at this banquet fit for a czar or a private dermatologist, he felt ashamed. He could not help remembering the hungry people of his own world. He could not forget the indigent nightmare to which both he and Cheryl longed to return.

After more than an hour and a half, they came to the end of the feast. They sipped the spiced, brandied coffee and tried to ignore the unusual feeling of satiation. Once or twice Mihalik thought that he was going to be ill, but his iron will saved him. He knew that it would be a while, however, before he'd be able to stand up. He burped.

"In some parts of the world," said Smith, frowning a little, "that's an indication that you're satisfied and that you enjoyed the meal. Not here, however." So much for his tolerance.

Mihalik ignored the remark. "Now that you've spirited us out of the Agency's clutches and demonstrated your stunning wealth, I'm wondering what your reasons are for all of this."

Smith gestured toward the remains of the meal, which Kalila was busily clearing away. "I'm not a rich man, Mr. Mihalik, by any means. I'm a minor Agency clerk. I have no private fortune. Everyone in London lives this well."

"What about Kalila?" said Cheryl. "Oho!" Smith beamed happily. "I knew you'd ask me that. Well, when she finishes here, she goes home to a lavish suite as lovely as this one. And she has a domestic who will prepare for her something similar in grandness to what she prepared for us. And her cook has a cook. The Agency has provided for everyone."

"There's a catch in this somewhere," said Mihalik, "and we just haven't found it yet. Now all of this has been extremely pleasant; but a few hours ago you were scared out of your wits by something. Let's talk about that."

"The Second Squad," said Cheryl.

"Right," said Mihalik. "What is the Second Squad?"

"The executive branch of the Agency," said Smith. He smiled.

"You mean the police," said Cheryl.

Smith looked more uncomfortable. "Well," he said, "in a manner of speaking."

"What's the First Squad, then?" asked Mihalik.

Smith looked blankly at him. "What?"

"The First Squad."

"There is no First Squad," said Smith. He turned to Cheryl. "He's got a strong jaw, dear, but he's slow."

Cheryl smiled sweetly. "I love him just the way he is," she said.

Smith explained. "The Second Squad is the Agency's means of keeping crime under control. It's impossible to commit any sort of misdemeanor or felony anywhere in the world without the Second Squad knowing about it. They're probably even aware of this conversation we're having."

Mihalik and Cheryl glanced around the dining room, looking for peep-holes or hidden cameras.

"The word 'Second' means 'one sixtieth of a minute,' you know," said Smith. "Not 'preceding Third.' They're the guardians of time."

Mihalik was completely lost. "How do they know when a crime has been committed?" he asked.

"You mean they spy?"

"In a way, in a way." Smith seemed unwilling to say more.

"You're saying they watch everybody all the time," said Cheryl. "Like the National Enquirer in our world."

Smith's eyes got large. "Oh, no. There are no monitor screens in this apartment, no concealed microphones."

"Then how do they do it?" said Mihalik impatiently.

"They wait until after a crime is committed, and then they apprehend the culprit," said Smith. "Just the way a police force is supposed to work: democratically, with full respect for the rights of the citizen."

"Uh huh," said Mihalik. It wasn't always that way in his own 1996.

"I still don't see why you claim that it's impossible to commit a crime, then," Cheryl said. "If they wait for someone to go ahead and, say, rob somebody, it's already committed. And if they're not spying, how could they be aware of this conversation? You're contradicting yourself, Mr. Smith."

Their host began to perspire. He quite evidently didn't enjoy pursuing this further. "It's very simple,"

he said, spreading his hands helplessly. "They wait until you've gone ahead and done it; then they go back to before you did it, and arrest you." He shrugged.

Mihalik looked at Cheryl; she looked back expressionlessly. "Hey," he said, "I was the first man to go back in time. I did that 'yesterday,' according to your calendar. I found out that it doesn't work; you can't really move about in the past. You get stuck on a single day. Time travel doesn't exist."

"In your world, in your 1996," said Smith, "time travel doesn't exist. Yet. In our world it's been perfected, and the Agency controls it. The Second Squad polices it."

"All since yesterday?" asked Mihalik.

"We've had time travel for about twelve years," said Smith. "We got it from the future. They came back in time and gave it to us. Like a gift."

"So there was no Frank Mihalik in your world," said Mihalik, trying to grasp the idea. "Yes, there was," said Smith.

"Remember, Frank?" said Cheryl. "The people at the reception knew who we were. And Mr. Smith said he recognized 'me' last night, before 'I' went back to join 'you' in 1939."

"I don't get it at all," said Mihalik. "If you had time travel all perfected for the last twelve years, why did your Frank Mihalik go back to 1939 yesterday?"

"He had to," said Smith. "Otherwise the people from the future would never have developed the solution to the problem you discovered. It sounds complicated, but you -- Mihalik, our Mihalik -- had to play by the rules. And so did our Cheryl. Otherwise the whole fabric of our universe might have unraveled in some cataclysmic resolution."

"Then where are they now?" asked Cheryl. "Your Mihalik and your me, I mean?"

Smith just shrugged.

"I get it," said Mihalik suddenly. "This Second Squad of yours is like some time-traveling FBI." Smith closed his eyes and groaned a little; it had taken Mihalik at least six minutes to digest that information.

"So they don't need to spy on you. They always know who's done what. People are probably being arrested all the time in utter confusion, because they haven't yet committed the crime they're being hauled away for. How do the cops prove it, then?"

"Potemkin," said Smith. He seemed nearly exhausted.

"Who's that?" asked Mihalik.

"It was an early motion picture by the Russian director, Sergei Eisenstein," said Cheryl.

"No, I don't mean that," said Smith.

"It was about a battles.h.i.+p called the Potemkin," said Cheryl.