Because of the publicity, the tourist trade doubled within the next few months and practically every tourist wanted the whole works. In time, this became the city’s principal source of income, and taxes were lowered point three zero one per cent, which effectively quieted the conservative element.
Later on, another gimmick was thought of. For an additional fifty cents, the tourist could bring his little hunk of fluoryl plastic into the Mayor’s office; he would autograph it for the tourist personally, with the tourist’s own name on it and a little greeting from the Mayor. This went over so big that within three years the city built, debt free, a mammoth football stadium, just for the fun of having a mammoth football stadium. And every Saturday during football season the local high school played somebody called the Visitors in the mammoth football stadium that held five times as many people as there were in the whole town of Lewiston; everyone sat in the abominably hard fluoryl plastic stands and got a tremendous kick out of it. Oh, yes, the mammoth football stadium, was made of fluoryl plastic. It was indestructible, too.
1959
And Then He Went Away
There was one trouble with artist Emory Ward’s depiction of futuristic machines and gimmicks…
Emory Ward sat hunched over his drawing board, manipulating compass and ruler and pencil. If he could get the illo roughed out by lunchtime, he could begin working with color in the afternoon. He sat hunched, weighed down by a deadline, and bit his lower lip as he drew.
The doorbell rang.
“Damn,” said Ward. He reached for the gum eraser, corrected, drew another line. The doorbell rang.
“Fry in hell.” Ward shifted on the chair, irritable, annoyed at the outside sound. He drew lines, measured angles.
The doorbell rang.
“Disconnect it,” muttered Ward. As he drew, he grumbled about the sound and its maker. Salesman, paper boy, somebody meaningless and unimportant, a cipher, non-entity, nobody, mass man…
The doorbell rang.
“Nobody home, nobody home,” Ward whispered desperately. “Go away.” He’d have to put down his tools, straighten, stand, walk to the door, open it, walk down the hall, down the stairs, across the front hall, open the door, listen to words, say, “No, thank you,” close the door, climb the stairs, walk down the hall, open the door, come into the room, close the door, cross to the drawing board, sit down, pick up his pencil and protractor and compass, put them down, light a cigaret, be angry, go back to work — total loss, ten minutes.
The doorbell rang.
“No,” grated Ward. “I will not.” He shut his ears, turned off all the circuits of his mind except those connected with his work, drew lines, measured, drew.
Someone knocked on the door.
Emory Ward stiffened. He stared at the wall. He thought indignantly, someone is outside the door. The upstairs door, this door, in my house, knocking on the door while I am trying to meet a deadline.
The door opened.
Ward’s back was to the door. He turned slowly, ready to tongue-lash an insurance salesman, browbeat a paper boy, utterly demolish a collector from the United Fund.
The visitor was tall and slender, with white hair, impeccably dressed in gray flannel surmounted by a thin face with thin smiling lips, and he said, “Mister Emory Ward?”
“Listen,” said Ward.
“I am Gamble Two,” said the visitor. “I am from, the twenty fifth century.”
Ward got to his feet. “I am going to kick you downstairs.”
“I will erect a force field around myself,” the visitor told him. “Then I will put you in a temporary state of paralysis. Very flamboyant. I would rather we sat and chatted like gentlemen.”
Ward advanced.
“I will kill you.”
The visitor smiled and disappeared. A voice said, “Please be sensible, Emory Ward.”
Ward stared at the doorway. “Listen,” he said. “Listen, cut it out. I got a deadline.”
The visitor reappeared. “Five minutes. Five minutes. No more, I promise.”
Emory Ward took a deep breath. “You are not from the future.”
“Of course I am,” said Gamble Two. “Tell me, do I speak without an accent?”
“You are a wise guy,” Ward told him. “You are a practical joker.”
Gamble Two looked faintly pained. “May we sit and chat? I would like to explain.”
Ward looked with regret at his drawing board. “I got a deadline.”
“I promise not to take long.” Gamble Two gestured at the two chairs over by the writing desk. “May we sit?”
“You from some fan club?” demanded Ward.
“May we sit?”
Ward shrugged. “Have I got a choice?” Disgruntled, he sat.
“Fine,” said Gamble Two, beaming. He also sat; he even leaned back and made himself comfortable. “‘First, as to myself. I am Gamble Two. I am an android. I am from the twenty fifth century. I am a policeman, until recently assigned to customs duty. I have just been promoted, and my job assignment changed to the Time Police. You are, frankly, my first important case.”
Ward looked sour. “I am?”
“Yes.” Gamble Two nodded. “You are Emory Ward. You are a commercial artist. An illustrator. You work primarily for science fiction magazines and paperback book companies.”
“So what?”
Gamble Two waved a hand at the illustrations covering the walls. “This,” he said, “is what you are best known for. Machines. Machines of the future. Space ships, cybernetics machines, robots, weapons, all the manufactured and constructed paraphernalia of future civilizations.”
Ward repeated, “So what?”
“Some illustrators, work mainly with the depiction of strange and fantastic life forms, creatures from other planets. Some work mainly with the human form, usually the female human form. Some are best known for their illustrations of uniforms. The Space Corps, the Intergalactic Patrol, strange uniforms with strange insignia. Some have made their names drawing other worlds, strange, seething jungles, rocky landscapes, tundras. But you draw machines.”
Emory Ward said, “I’d like to be drawing a machine right now. I got a deadline.”
Gamble Two raised a restraining hand. “Please. I hastened to the point. All of these illustrators, teeming and pouring through the newsstands, spreading their imaginations across the covers and interiors of magazines, all are wild and far-fetched and illusory. All except you.”
“Me?”
“You.” Gamble Two stood and viewed at close hand some of the illustrations on the wall. He tapped one. “Here,” he said. “This instrument panel. The J-27 model intra-system four-seater. I have operated the J-27. This instrument panel is correct. To the smallest detail, correct. Even to the alphabet used, the words on the various dials and levers. All correct.” He proceeded to another illustration. “Here,” he said. “This robot. I own one exactly like this. He is my janitor. Everything is perfectly in order. It is almost a photograph.” He proceeded around the room, tapping various illustrations, nodding and saying, “Yes,” and, “Here,” and, “Exactly.”
Ward snorted. “Ridiculous.”
Gamble Two returned to his seat. “You say ridiculous. Next, you will say coincidence. I deny both.” He mused, as Emory Ward squirmed. “Time travel,” said Gamble Two, still musing. “So fascinating, yet so impractical. So unproductive. Man is born, grows to maturity, lives and dies. All within one environment. It is as necessary to him as atmosphere. We know this. A man from the Greece of Pericles, how long could he last in this century? He would not speak the language; he would be terrified by the machines. He could not last.”