The Time Travel Megapack: 26 Modern and Classic Science Fiction Stories Page 31

  And those millions of gallons of beer, the hundreds of thousands of chickens, the herds of oxen. Who ponied up all the money for such expenditures? How could the average German, with his twenty-five dollars a week salary?

  In Munich there was no hotel space available. I went to the Bahnhof where they have a hotel service and applied. They put my name down, pocketed the husky bribe, showed me where I could check my bag, told me they’d do what they could, and to report back in a few hours.

  I had another suspicious twinge. If five million people attended this beer bout, how were they accommodated?

  The Theresienwiese, the fair ground, was only a few blocks away. I was stiff from the plane ride so I walked.

  * * * *

  There are seven major brewers in the Munich area, each of them represented by one of the circuslike tents that Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tent contained benches and tables for about five thousand persons and from six to ten thousands pack themselves in, competing for room. In the center is a tremendous bandstand, the musicians all lederhosen clad, the music as Bavarian as any to be found in a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds of peasant garbed fräuleins darted about the tables with quart sized earthenware mugs, platters of chicken, sausage, kraut and pretzels.

  I found a place finally at a table which had space for twenty-odd beer bibbers. Odd is right. As weird an assortment of Germans and foreign tourists as could have been dreamed up, ranging from a seventy- or eighty-year-old couple in Bavarian costume, to the bald-headed drunk across the table from me.

  A desperate waitress bearing six mugs of beer in each hand scurried past. They call them masses, by the way, not mugs. The bald-headed character and I both held up a finger and she slid two of the masses over to us and then hustled on.

  “Down the hatch,” the other said, holding up his mass in toast.

  “To the ladies,” I told him. Before sipping, I said, “You know, the tourist pamphlets say this stuff is eighteen per cent. That’s nonsense. No beer is that strong.” I took a long pull.

  He looked at me, waiting.

  I came up. “Mistaken,” I admitted.

  A mass or two apiece later he looked carefully at the name engraved on his earthenware mug. “Löwenbräu,” he said. He took a small notebook from his pocket and a pencil, noted down the word and returned the things.

  “That’s a queer looking pencil you have there,” I told him. “German?”

  “Venusian,” he said. “Oops, sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”

  I had never heard of the brand so I skipped it.

  “Next is the Hofbräu,” he said.

  “Next what?” Baldy’s conversation didn’t seem to hang together very well.

  “My pilgrimage,” he told me. “All my life I’ve been wanting to go back to an Oktoberfest and sample every one of the seven brands of the best beer the world has ever known. I’m only as far as Löwenbräu. I’m afraid I’ll never make it.”

  I finished my mass. “I’ll help you,” I told him. “Very noble endeavor. Name is Simon.”

  “Arth,” he said. “How could you help?”

  “I’m still fresh—comparatively. I’ll navigate you around. There are seven beer tents. How many have you got through, so far?”

  “Two, counting this one,” Arth said.

  I looked at him. “It’s going to be a chore,” I said. “You’ve already got a nice edge on.”

  Outside, as we made our way to the next tent, the fair looked like every big State-Fair ever seen, except it was bigger. Games, souvenir stands, sausage stands, rides, side shows, and people, people, people.

  The Hofbräu tent was as overflowing as the last but we managed to find two seats.

  The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.

  In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!

  Eins, Zwei, G’sufa!

  At the G’sufa everybody upped with the mugs and drank each other’s health.

  “This is what I call a real beer bust,” I said approvingly.

  Arth was waving to a waitress. As in the Löwenbräu tent, a full quart was the smallest amount obtainable.

  A beer later I said, “I don’t know if you’ll make it or not, Arth.”

  “Make what?”

  “All seven tents.”

  “Oh.”

  A waitress was on her way by, mugs foaming over their rims. I gestured to her for refills.

  “Where are you from, Arth?” I asked him, in the way of making conversation.

  “2183.”

  “2183 where?”

  He looked at me, closing one eye to focus better. “Oh,” he said. “Well, 2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.”

  “New Albuquerque? Where’s that?”

  Arth thought about it. Took another long pull at the beer. “Right across the way from old Albuquerque,” he said finally. “Maybe we ought to be getting on to the Pschorrbräu tent.”

  “Maybe we ought to eat something first,” I said. “I’m beginning to feel this. We could get some of that barbecued ox.”

  Arth closed his eyes in pain. “Vegetarian,” he said. “Couldn’t possibly eat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.”

  “Well, we need some nourishment,” I said.

  “There’s supposed to be considerable nourishment in beer.”

  That made sense. I yelled, “Fräulein! Zwei neu bier!”

  Somewhere along in here the fog rolled in. When it rolled out again, I found myself closing one eye the better to read the lettering on my earthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu. Somehow we’d evidently navigated from one tent to another.

  Arth was saying, “Where’s your hotel?”

  That seemed like a good question. I thought about it for a while. Finally I said, “Haven’t got one. Town’s jam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof. I don’t think we’ll ever make it, Arth. How many we got to go?”

  “Lost track,” Arth said. “You can come home with me.”

  We drank to that and the fog rolled in again.

  When the fog rolled out, it was daylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight. I was sprawled, complete with clothes, on one of twin beds. On the other bed, also completely clothed, was Arth.

  That sun was too much. I stumbled up from the bed, staggered to the window and fumbled around for a blind or curtain. There was none.

  Behind me a voice said in horror, “Who … how … oh, Wodo, where’d you come from?”

  I got a quick impression, looking out the window, that the Germans were certainly the most modern, futuristic people in the world. But I couldn’t stand the light. “Where’s the shade,” I moaned.

  Arth did something and the window went opaque.

  “That’s quite a gadget,” I groaned. “If I didn’t feel so lousy, I’d appreciate it.”

  Arth was sitting on the edge of the bed holding his bald head in his hands. “I remember now,” he sorrowed. “You didn’t have a hotel. What a stupidity. I’ll be phased. Phased all the way down.”

  “You haven’t got a handful of aspirin, have you?” I asked him.

  “Just a minute,” Arth said, staggering erect and heading for what undoubtedly was a bathroom. “Stay where you are. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything.”

  “All right,” I told him plaintively. “I’m clean. I won’t mess up the place. All I’ve got is a hangover, not lice.”

  Arth was gone. He came back in two or three minutes, box of pills in hand. “Here, take one of these.”

  I took the pill, followed it with a glass of water.

  And went out like a light.

  * * * *

  Arth was shaking my arm. “Want another mass?”

  The band was blaring, and five thousand half-swacked voices were roaring accompaniment.

  In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!

  Eins, Zwei, G’sufa!

  At the G’sufa everybody upped with their king-size mugs and drank each other’s health.

  My head was killing me. “This is where I came in,
or something,” I groaned.

  Arth said, “That was last night.” He looked at me over the rim of his beer mug.

  Something, somewhere, was wrong. But I didn’t care. I finished my mass and then remembered. “I’ve got to get my bag. Oh, my head. Where did we spend last night?”

  Arth said, and his voice sounded cautious, “At my hotel, don’t you remember?”

  “Not very well,” I admitted. “I feel lousy. I must have dimmed out. I’ve got to go to the Bahnhof and get my luggage.”

  Arth didn’t put up an argument on that. We said good-by and I could feel him watching after me as I pushed through the tables on the way out.

  At the Bahnhof they could do me no good. There were no hotel rooms available in Munich. The head was getting worse by the minute. The fact that they’d somehow managed to lose my bag didn’t help. I worked on that project for at least a couple of hours. Not only wasn’t the bag at the luggage checking station, but the attendant there evidently couldn’t make heads nor tails of the check receipt. He didn’t speak English and my high school German was inadequate, especially accompanied by a blockbusting hangover.

  I didn’t get anywhere tearing my hair and complaining from one end of the Bahnhof to the other. I drew a blank on the bag.

  And the head was getting worse by the minute. I was bleeding to death through the eyes and instead of butterflies I had bats in my stomach. Believe me, nobody should drink a gallon or more of Marzenbräu.

  I decided the hell with it. I took a cab to the airport, presented my return ticket, told them I wanted to leave on the first obtainable plane to New York. I’d spent two days at the Oktoberfest, and I’d had it.

  I got more guff there. Something was wrong with the ticket, wrong date or some such. But they fixed that up. I never was clear on what was fouled up, some clerk’s error, evidently.

  The trip back was as uninteresting as the one over. As the hangover began to wear off—a little—I was almost sorry I hadn’t been able to stay. If I’d only been able to get a room I would have stayed, I told myself.

  From Idlewild, I came directly to the office rather than going to my apartment. I figured I might as well check in with Betty.

  I opened the door and there I found Mr. Oyster sitting in the chair he had been occupying four—or was it five—days before when I’d left. I’d lost track of the time.

  I said to him, “Glad you’re here, sir. I can report. Ah, what was it you came for? Impatient to hear if I’d had any results?” My mind was spinning like a whirling dervish in a revolving door. I’d spent a wad of his money and had nothing I could think of to show for it; nothing but the last stages of a grand-daddy hangover.

  “Came for?” Mr. Oyster snorted. “I’m merely waiting for your girl to make out my receipt. I thought you had already left.”

  “You’ll miss your plane,” Betty said.

  There was suddenly a double dip of ice cream in my stomach. I walked over to my desk and looked down at the calendar.

  Mr. Oyster was saying something to the effect that if I didn’t leave today, it would have to be tomorrow, that he hadn’t ponied up that thousand dollars advance for anything less than immediate service. Stuffing his receipt in his wallet, he fussed his way out the door.

  I said to Betty hopefully, “I suppose you haven’t changed this calendar since I left.”

  Betty said, “What’s the matter with you? You look funny. How did your clothes get so mussed? You tore the top sheet off that calendar yourself, not half an hour ago, just before this marble-missing client came in.” She added, irrelevantly, “Time travelers yet.”

  I tried just once more. “Uh, when did you first see this Mr. Oyster?”

  “Never saw him before in my life,” she said. “Not until he came in this morning.”

  “This morning,” I said weakly.

  While Betty stared at me as though it was me that needed candling by a head shrinker preparatory to being sent off to a pressure cooker, I fished in my pocket for my wallet, counted the contents and winced at the pathetic remains of the thousand. I said pleadingly, “Betty, listen, how long ago did I go out that door—on the way to the airport?”

  “You’ve been acting sick all morning. You went out that door about ten minutes ago, were gone about three minutes, and then came back.”

  * * * *

  “See here,” Mr. Oyster said (interrupting Simon’s story), “did you say this was supposed to be amusing, young man? I don’t find it so. In fact, I believe I am being ridiculed.”

  Simon shrugged, put one hand to his forehead and said, “That’s only the first chapter. There are two more.”

  “I’m not interested in more,” Mr. Oyster said. “I suppose your point was to show me how ridiculous the whole idea actually is. Very well, you’ve done it. Confound it. However, I suppose your time, even when spent in this manner, has some value. Here is fifty dollars. And good day, sir!”

  He slammed the door after him as he left.

  Simon winced at the noise, took the aspirin bottle from its drawer, took two, washed them down with water from the desk carafe.

  Betty looked at him admiringly. Came to her feet, crossed over and took up the fifty dollars. “Week’s wages,” she said. “I suppose that’s one way of taking care of a crackpot. But I’m surprised you didn’t take his money and enjoy that vacation you’ve been yearning about.”

  “I did,” Simon groaned. “Three times.”

  Betty stared at him. “You mean—”

  Simon nodded, miserably.

  She said, “But Simon. Fifty thousand dollars bonus. If that story was true, you should have gone back again to Munich. If there was one time traveler, there might have been—”

  “I keep telling you,” Simon said bitterly, “I went back there three times. There were hundreds of them. Probably thousands.” He took a deep breath. “Listen, we’re just going to have to forget about it. They’re not going to stand for the space-time continuum track being altered. If something comes up that looks like it might result in the track being changed, they set you right back at the beginning and let things start—for you—all over again. They just can’t allow anything to come back from the future and change the past.”

  “You mean,” Betty was suddenly furious at him, “you’ve given up! Why this is the biggest thing— Why the fifty thousand dollars is nothing. The future! Just think!”

  Simon said wearily, “There’s just one thing you can bring back with you from the future, a hangover compounded of a gallon or so of Marzenbräu. What’s more you can pile one on top of the other, and another on top of that!”

  He shuddered. “If you think I’m going to take another crack at this merry-go-round and pile a fourth hangover on the three I’m already nursing, all at once, you can think again.”

  LOST IN THE FUTURE, by John Victor Peterson

  Albrecht and I went down in a shuttleship, leaving the stellatomic orbited pole-to-pole two thousand miles above Alpha Centauri’s second planet. While we took an atmosphere-brushing approach which wouldn’t burn off the shuttle’s skin, we went as swiftly as we could.

  A week before we had completed man’s first trip through hyperspace. We were now making the first landing on an inhabited planet of another sun. All the preliminary investigations had been made via electronspectroscopes and electrontelescopes from the stellatomic.

  We knew that the atmosphere was breathable and were reasonably certain that the peoples of the world into whose atmosphere we were dropping were at peace. We went unarmed, just the two of us; it might not be wise to go in force.

  We were silent, and I know that Harry Albrecht was as perplexed as I was over the fact that our all-wave receivers failed to pick up any signs of radio communication whatever. We had assumed that we would pick up signals of some type as soon as we had passed down through the unfamiliar planet’s ionosphere.

  The scattered arrangement of the towering cities appeared to call for radio communications. The hundreds of atmosphere s
hips flashing along a system of airways between the cities seemed to indicate the existence of electronic navigational and landing aids. But perhaps the signals were all tightly beamed; we would know when we came lower.

  We dropped down into the airway levels, and still our receivers failed to pick up a signal of any sort—not even a whisper of static. And strangely, our radarscopes failed to record even a blip from their atmosphere ships!

  “I guess it’s our equipment, Harry,” I said. “It just doesn’t seem to function in this atmosphere. We’ll have to put Edwards to work on it when we go back upstairs.”

  We spotted an airport on the outskirts of a large city. The runways were laid out with the precision of Earth’s finest. I put our ship’s nose eastward on a runway and took it down fast through a lull in the atmosphere ship traffic.

  As we went down I saw tiny buildings spotted on the field which surely housed electronic equipment, but our receivers remained silent.

  I taxied the shuttle up to an unloading ramp before the airport’s terminal building and I killed the drive.

  “Harry,” I said, “if it weren’t that their ships are so outlandishly stubby and their buildings so outflung, we might well be on Earth!”

  “I agree, Captain. Strange, though, that they’re not mobbing us. They couldn’t take this delta-winged job for one of their ships!”

  It was strange.

  I looked up at the observation ramp’s occupants—people who except for their bizarre dress might well be of Earth—and saw no curiosity in the eyes that sometimes swept across our position.

  “Be that as it may, Harry, we certainly should cause a stir in these pressure suits. Let’s go!”

  We walked up to a dour-looking individual at a counter at the ramp’s end. Clearing my throat, I said rather inanely, “Hello!”—but what does one say to an extrasolarian?

  I realized then that my voice seemed thunderous, that the only other sounds came from a distance: the city’s noise, the atmosphere ships’ engines on the horizon—

  * * * *

  The Centaurian ignored us.

  I looked at the atmosphere ships in the clear blue sky, at the Centaurians on the ramp who appeared to be conversing—and there was no sound from those planes, no sound from the people!