Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

other expressionlessly. Maybe the old duck was one of these foreign doctors, like.

The newcomer said, “You have undoubtedly been through a most harrowing experience. If you have any untoward symptoms, possibly I could be of assistance.”

Joe couldn’t figure out how he stood. For one thing, there should have been some kind of police guard.

The other said, “Perhaps a bit of stimulant?”

Joe said flatly, “I wanta lawyer.”

The newcomer frowned at him. “A lawyer?”

“I’m not sayin’ nothin’. Not until I get a mouthpiece.”

The newcomer started off on another tack. “My name is Lawrence Reston-Farrell. If I am not mistaken, you are Joseph Salviati-Prantera.”

Salviati happened to be Joe’s mother’s maiden name. But it was unlikely this character could have known that. Joe had been born in Naples and his mother had died in childbirth. His father hadn’t brought him to the States until the age of five and by that time he had a stepmother.

“I wanta mouthpiece,” Joe said flatly, “or let me outta here.”

Lawrence Reston-Farrell said, “You are not being constrained. There are clothes for you in the closet there.”

Joe gingerly tried swinging his feet to the floor and sitting up, while the other stood watching him, strangely. He came to his feet. With the exception of a faint nausea, which brought back memories of that extreme condition he’d suffered during⁠ ⁠… during what? He hadn’t the vaguest idea of what had happened.

He was dressed in a hospital-type nightgown. He looked down at it and snorted and made his way over to the closet. It opened on his approach, the door sliding back into the wall in much the same manner as the room’s door had opened for Reston-Farrell.

Joe Prantera scowled and said, “These ain’t my clothes.”

“No, I am afraid not.”

“You think I’d be seen dead wearing this stuff? What is this, some religious crackpot hospital?”

Reston-Farrell said, “I am afraid, Mr. Salviati-Prantera, that these are the only garments available. I suggest you look out the window there.”

Joe gave him a long, chill look and then stepped to the window. He couldn’t figure the other. Unless he was a fruitcake. Maybe he was in some kind of pressure cooker and this was one of the fruitcakes.

He looked out, however, not on the lawns and walks of a sanitarium but upon a wide boulevard of what was obviously a populous city.

And for a moment again, Joe Prantera felt the depths of nausea.

This was not his world.

He stared for a long, long moment. The cars didn’t even have wheels, he noted dully. He turned slowly and faced the older man.

Reston-Farrell said compassionately, “Try this, it’s excellent cognac.”

Joe Prantera stared at him, said finally, flatly, “What’s it all about?”

The other put down the unaccepted glass. “We were afraid first realization would be a shock to you,” he said. “My colleague is in the adjoining room. We will be glad to explain to you if you will join us there.”

“I wanta get out of here,” Joe said.

“Where would you go?”

The fear of police, of Al Rossi’s vengeance, of the measures that might be taken by Big Louis on his failure, were now far away.

Reston-Farrell had approached the door by which he had entered and it reopened for him. He went through it without looking back.

There was nothing else to do. Joe dressed, then followed him.

In the adjoining room was a circular table that would have accommodated a dozen persons. Two were seated there now, papers, books and soiled coffee cups before them. There had evidently been a long wait.

Reston-Farrell, the one Joe had already met, was tall and drawn of face and with a chainsmoker’s nervousness. The other was heavier and more at ease. They were both, Joe estimated, somewhere in their middle fifties. They both looked like docs. He wondered, all over again, if this was some kind of pressure cooker.

But that didn’t explain the view from the window.

Reston-Farrell said, “May I present my colleague, Citizen Warren Brett-James? Warren, this is our guest from⁠ ⁠… from yesteryear, Mr. Joseph Salviati-Prantera.”

Brett-James nodded to him, friendly, so far as Joe could see. He said gently, “I think it would be Mr. Joseph Prantera, wouldn’t it? The maternal linage was almost universally ignored.” His voice too gave the impression he was speaking a language not usually on his tongue.

Joe took an empty chair, hardly bothering to note its alien qualities. His body seemed to fit into the piece of furniture, as though it had been molded to his order.

Joe said, “I think maybe I’ll take that there drink, Doc.”

Reston-Farrell said, “Of course,” and then something else Joe didn’t get. Whatever the something else was, a slot opened in the middle of the table and a glass, so clear of texture as to be all but invisible, was elevated. It contained possibly three ounces of golden fluid.

Joe didn’t allow himself to think of its means of delivery. He took up the drink and bolted it. He put the glass down and said carefully, “What’s it all about, huh?”

Warren Brett-James said soothingly, “Prepare yourself for somewhat of a shock, Mr. Prantera. You are no longer in Los Angeles⁠—”

“Ya think I’m stupid? I can see that.”

“I was about to say, Los Angeles of 1960. Mr. Prantera, we welcome you to Nuevo Los Angeles.”

“Ta where?”

“To Nuevo Los Angeles and to the year⁠—” Brett-James looked at his companion. “What is the date, Old Calendar?”

“2133,” Reston-Farrell said. “2133 AD they would say.”

Joe Prantera looked from one of them to the other, scowling. “What are you guys talking about?”

Warren Brett-James said softly, “Mr. Prantera, you are no longer in the year 1960, you are now in the year 2133.”

He said, uncomprehendingly, “You mean I been, like, unconscious for⁠—” He let the sentence fall away as he realized the impossibility.

Brett-James said gently, “Hardly for one hundred and seventy years, Mr. Prantera.”

Reston-Farrell said, “I am afraid we are confusing you. Briefly, we have transported you, I suppose one might say, from your own era to ours.”

Joe Prantera had never been exposed to the concept of time travel. He had simply never associated with anyone who had ever