Mastodonia (17 page)

I found myself wild with the wish to be in Willow Bend again, where I felt I would be relatively safe from the outside world. I regarded with something close to terror the prospect of those hours of travel still ahead. Foolishly, I suppose, I found a shop in the airport where I could buy a pair of dark glasses. I felt silly wearing them, for I never had before, even in the field. But they were something to hide behind, at least symbolically, and I put them on.

At first, I was going to leave the papers I had bought, having no wish even marginally to advertise the fact I might have some interest in the story. Then thinking of the kick Rila and Ben would get out of the stories, I bundled all the papers together and carried them underneath an arm.

My seat partner, a stuffy, middle-aged American I pegged as being a banker—although perhaps he was not—had a paper stuck in his jacket pocket, but seemed to have no wish to talk with me, for which I was extremely thankful. But after the steward brought us our evening meal, he loosened up and paid me the courtesy of acknowledging my presence.

“You read this rot,” he asked, “about someone traveling in time?”

“I noticed it,” I said.

“You know, that can't be done,” he said. “I wonder how the papers fell for stuff like that. Newspapermen, you know, aren't stupid people. They should have known better.”

“Sensationalism,” I said. “They'll do anything to sell their papers.”

He didn't answer me and I thought the conversation was at an end, but a few minutes later he said, not as if he were talking to me exactly, but more as if he were addressing the world in general: “Dangerous business, you know. Messing around in time could cause a lot of trouble. It could change history, even, and we can't be doing that. Hard enough as it is without someone messing everything up.”

The rest of the way he said nothing further. He turned out to be a good seat partner.

I settled down to some steady worrying, which did me no good at all, but I couldn't help myself. I wondered if the fence was up, if the floodlights were installed and working, if we had plenty of guards to patrol the fence. Courtney McCallahan, if he, in fact, had been the one who had tipped off the reporters, would certainly have checked to see that everything was ready at Willow Bend before giving out the story.

The hours spun out and finally I fell asleep and did not wake until we were coming down at Kennedy.

I half expected, illogically, of course, that I might find newspapermen waiting for me at Kennedy, but apparently no one had any idea I'd be on the plane. I grabbed a New York
Times
as fast as I could and there were our pictures, Rila's and mine, on the front page. Both were photos that had been taken some years ago, but I suppose we could have been recognized by them.

I debated whether I should phone Rila or Ben or maybe even Courtney in Washington, then decided not to. If there were no newsmen waiting in New York, there'd probably be none at Minneapolis. Rila and Ben knew what plane I would be on and one of them would be at the airport waiting for me.

Neither one of them was. Waiting for me instead was Elrod Anderson, manager of Willow Bend's one supermarket. I would have passed right by him, for I didn't know him that well, but he grabbed me by the arm and told me who he was. Then I recognized him.

“Ben couldn't get away and neither could Rila,” he said. “There are newspapermen hip deep in Willow Bend and if either Ben or Rila had driven off, they would have followed them. Ben phoned me and asked me to pick you up. He said this way you may have a chance of sneaking in without anyone knowing who you are. I brought along some clothes you can change into and some false whiskers.”

“I don't know if I'll go for the whiskers,” I said.

“I thought maybe you wouldn't,” said Elrod, “but I brought them anyhow. They're real good. Look like the real thing. There is a big crowd gathering and more coming all the time. I don't know what they expect to see. Some of them are already disappointed because there really isn't much to see. A few of them came in campers, as if they were planning to stay for a while. Ben is renting out space for the campers on that farm he bought just east of you, and he has a big parking lot there, too, for the other cars. I don't mean Ben is doing the work himself. He is hiring people to do it. Old Limpy Jones is in charge of the parking lot and Limpy hasn't worked for almost thirty years. Best man at ducking a job I ever saw. But Limpy is working now. Likes all the excitement, he says. Probably raking something off the top of the money he takes in. But he won't get away with that. Ben will catch him, sure as shooting. Ben is about the sharpest operator I have ever seen.”

“I suppose the fence is finished,” I said.

“Yup,” said Elrod, “a couple of days ago. And the building is up, too. It has a big sign across the front that says
Ben Page, Agent for Time Associates
. What is that all about? I thought it was you that figured out how to go skating around in time. How come Ben has such a big hand in it?”

“Ben is our agent,” I said. “For the United States, maybe even North America.”

“But you are there, too. Or, at least, in a little while you will be. And this woman of yours, Rila, she is there. Why ain't you two handling it?”

“Fact is we don't live there any more,” I said.

“The hell you don't. Where do you live?”

“In Mastodonia.”

“By God,” he said, “I did hear something about that. Where at is this Mastodonia?”

“It's back in time. About one hundred fifty thousand years back in time. Mastodons live there. That's how come the name.”

“Is it a nice place?”

“It should be,” I said. “I've never seen it.”

“You're living there. How come you've never seen it?”

“Rila and Hiram set it up and moved there after I left for Europe.”

“What has Hiram got to do with all this?” Elrod asked. “He's a trifling sort of fellow and never seemed too bright.”

“He has an awful lot to do with it,” I said.

The morning sun was shining brightly out in the parking lot. It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in sight.

Elrod settled behind the wheel and backed out of his space.

“Ben told me to drop you off at the parking lot at home,” he said. “Said for you to get into the crowd of tourists and wander up to the gate. The sheriff has some deputies guarding it and sort of keeping order. Tell them who you are. They'll be expecting you and will let you in. I have an old pair of work pants and a denim jacket and an old felt hat. You can put them on before you get there. If you don't waste any time, no one will recognize you. They'll think you're just another country boy come to see what is going on. I think you should wear them whiskers, too.”

Five miles or so out of town, we pulled into a township road and parked while I got into the clothes. But I didn't put on the whiskers. I couldn't bring myself to do so.

TWENTY

Rila and Ben were waiting for me, with Herb Livingston hovering in the background. In the front room of the new office building, which smelled of fresh sawdust, half a dozen people sat at desks, not doing much of anything.

Rila rushed forward and I caught her in my arms and held her tight. I'd never been so glad to see anyone. What I had seen outside had been frightening—parked cars lining the road, others ranked in Ben's parking lot, hot dog, hamburger and souvenir stands, men selling balloons. And people everywhere, mostly standing in groups and gawking, but with a strange sense of excitement. The whole thing was a cross between a county fair and a carnival.

“I worried about you,” said Rila. “And look at the get-up you have on. Where are your other clothes?”

“In Elrod's car,” I said. “He supplied these.”

Ben shook hands gravely. “There've been changes since you left,” he said.

Herb came up to shake hands. “How's the PR business?” I asked. “I read about you in the London papers.”

“Well, hell,” said Ben, “we needed someone real fast to handle those news jockeys out there when they came swarming in and Herb seemed to be the man. He's getting along all right.”

“They're yelling for a press conference,” said Herb, “but I haven't had the guts to go out and face them. We didn't want to do anything until you got back. I been handing out little press releases. Not really telling them anything, but giving them some small things for new stories. What shall I tell them about you being back?”

“Tell them,” said Ben, “that he returned and immediately left for Mastodonia. That's something we should always emphasize. He and Rila aren't here; they live in Mastodonia.”

“Just wait until you see Mastodonia,” said Rila. “It's beautiful. So wild and beautiful. We drove in a mobile home the day before yesterday and are all settled in there. We have a couple of four-wheel drives, as well.”

“Hiram?” I asked.

“Hiram and Bowser are there.”

“And Catface?”

“Catface moved along with them. There's a cluster of wild crab-apple trees just down the ridge and he's taken up residence in them. Hiram says he likes the place. Says he wonders why he stuck around here so long and never went time-traveling on his own.”

“Let's get back into my office,” said Ben. “I got some comfortable chairs there and a bottle to break open. We ought to have a drink on this.”

We settled down in the chairs, which were comfortable, and Ben poured the drinks.

“You have a good trip?” Herb asked me.

“I guess it was,” I said. “My French turned out to be a little rusty, but I managed. I had no trouble in Zurich. I'm not used to such things, but everything went all right.”

“Those Swiss,” said Ben, “will always take your money.”

“What I've been wanting to ask,” I said, “is who tipped off the press. The news break came a whole lot sooner than I had thought it would.”

“Courtney did,” said Rila. “Really not Courtney himself, but someone he knows who is an expert at leaking news. Really, it was Safari. They put pressure on Courtney. They are anxious to find what the prospects are in the dinosaur-hunting business. They want to know before they talk with us. It makes sense that sportsmen would jump at a chance to bag a dinosaur, but Safari wants to be dead certain sure. They want to get some prospective clients lined up before they start negotiating for our license.”

“It's too early yet to know, I suppose.”

“We haven't heard from Courtney in a day or two. They'll be in touch with him.”

“There has been a feeler or two here already,” said Ben. “A man was in this morning to see if we could put him into Inca territory before the conquistadors arrived. He wanted to study the ancient Incan culture, he said, but it quickly became apparent that what he was interested in was Incan treasure. I told him to get lost. A mining engineer came in with the idea that maybe we'd be willing to send him back to the Black Hills of South Dakota prior to the gold strike there. He was quite above board about his intentions. He wanted to skim the cream of the gold locations. Said he had no money, but he'd go shares with us. I liked the man and put him on hold. Said all I could do was pass on the word to you. Then there was a committee from some church organization. They wanted to talk about going back to the days of Jesus. I couldn't make out what they really wanted. They were inclined to be a bit close-mouthed. Maybe later on, you should talk with them.”

I shook my head. “I don't know about that. That is the kind of sticky business I had hoped we could avoid. When anyone travels into any sort of historical situation, a lot of care must be taken or you'll wind up with a mess on your hands.”

“But you must have known,” said Herb, “that the problem would come up. Everyone, if they could afford it, would want to go back to see the Crucifixion.”

“But that's the point,” said Rila. “Almost no one could afford to at the rates we'll ask. Tourism should be discouraged even if people are willing to pay. Tourists would be trouble.”

“I think,” said Ben, “we should take business as it comes. Weed out the phonies, like our Inca character, but take a hard look at all legitimate proposals.”

We talked then, idly, easily about other matters, paying attention to our drinks. Ben's motel was up and a few of the units were ready for occupancy. The building was larger than he originally had intended and he was considering constructing a second one. The parking lot was making money. A lot of people in the village were offering rooms for rent. We were having trouble getting enough guards to patrol the fence and guard the gate; for the moment, the sheriff had assigned deputies to the gate until we could find men to replace them. Herb had turned the operation of his paper over to his former assistant and was planning to print daily free advertising sheets of four to six pages, to start with, to be handed out to the flood of visitors who were anticipated, the first surge of them already in evidence. Some village people were upset by the public influx, which they thought would change the easy life the town had known before, but various church organizations, particularly the women's groups, were planning chicken suppers, strawberry ice cream festivals and other fund-raising schemes.

We finished the drinks and Rila said to me, “And, now, Mastodonia. I'm dying to show it to you.”

TWENTY-ONE

It was spring in Mastodonia and everything was beautiful. The mobile home stood on top of a little ridge no more than a half-mile or so from where the time road brought us through. Just down the slope from the home, a grove of wild crab-apple trees was ablaze with pink blossoms, and the long valley that lay below the ridge was dotted with clumps and groves of crab apples and other flowering trees. The open places were a sea of spring flowers, and the entire area was swarming with songbirds.