Dave Pollock immediately called for a jumper. She stepped back as the great cylinder materialized in the room.
“Do I
have
to?” she asked. “Those awful things, they’re so
upsetting
.”
H e took her arm and began working her under the jumper with a series of gentle, urging tugs. “You can’t walk; we don’t have the time any more. Take my word, Mary Ann, this is D-day and H-hour. So be a good girl and get under there and—Hey, listen. A smart angle with the temporal supervisor might be about how his people will be stuck in our period if Winthrop goes on being stubborn. If anyone around here is responsible for them, he is. So as soon as you get there—”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to handle the temporal supervisor, Dave Pollock!” she said haughtily, flouncing under the jumper. “After all, he happens to be a friend of mine, not yours—a very
good
friend of mine!”
“Sure,” Pollock groaned, “but you still have to convince the man. And all I’m suggesting—” He broke off as the cylinder slid the final distance down to the floor and disappeared with the girl inside.
He turned back to the others who had been watching anxiously. “Well, that’s it,” he announced, flapping his arms with a broad, hopeless gesture. “That’s our very last hope. Her!”
Mary Ann Carthington felt exactly like a Last Hope as she materialized in the Temporal Embassy.
She fought down the swimming nausea which always seemed to accompany jumper transportation and, shaking her head quickly, managed to draw a deep breath.
As a means of getting places, the jumper certainly beat Edgar Rapp’s old Buick—if only it didn’t make you feel like a chocolate malted. That was the trouble with this era: every halfway nice thing in it had such unpleasant after-effects!
The ceiling undulated over her head in the great rotunda where she was now standing and bulged a huge purplish lump down at her. It still looked, she decided nervously, like a movie house chandelier about to fall.
“Yes?” inquired the purplish lump politely “Whom did you wish to see?”
She moistened her lipstick, then squared her shoulders. You had to carry these things off with a certain amount of poise; it just did not do to show nervousness before a ceiling.
“I came to see Gygyo—I mean is Mr. Gygyo Rablin in?”
“Mr. Rablin is not at size at the moment. He will return in fifteen minutes. Would you like to wait in his office? He has another visitor there.”
M ary Ann Carthington thought swiftly. She didn’t entirely like the idea of another visitor, but maybe it would be for the best The presence of a third party would be a restraining influence for both of them and would take a little of the inevitable edge off her coming back to Gygyo as a suppliant after what had happened between them.
But what was this about his not being “at size”? These twenty-fifth-century people did so many positively weird things with themselves!
“Yes, I’ll wait in his office,” she told the ceiling. “Oh, you needn’t bother,” she said to the floor as it began to ripple under her feet. “I know the way.”
“No bother at all, miss,” the floor replied cheerfully, and continued to carry her across the rotunda to Rablin’s private office. “It’s a pleasure.”
Mary Ann sighed and shook her head. Some of these fixtures were so
opinionated!
She relaxed and let herself be carried along, taking out her compact on the way for a last quick check of her hair and face.
But the glance at herself in the mirror evoked the memory again. She flushed and almost called for a jumper to take her back to Mrs. Brucks’ room. No, she couldn’t—this was their last chance to get out of this world and back to their own. But
damn
Gygyo Rablin, anyway!
A yellow square in the wall having dilated sufficiently, the floor carried her into Rablin’s private office and lay flat again. She looked around at the familiar surroundings.
There was Gygyo’s desk,
“Do I
have
to?” she asked. “Those awful things, they’re so
upsetting
.”
H e took her arm and began working her under the jumper with a series of gentle, urging tugs. “You can’t walk; we don’t have the time any more. Take my word, Mary Ann, this is D-day and H-hour. So be a good girl and get under there and—Hey, listen. A smart angle with the temporal supervisor might be about how his people will be stuck in our period if Winthrop goes on being stubborn. If anyone around here is responsible for them, he is. So as soon as you get there—”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to handle the temporal supervisor, Dave Pollock!” she said haughtily, flouncing under the jumper. “After all, he happens to be a friend of mine, not yours—a very
good
friend of mine!”
“Sure,” Pollock groaned, “but you still have to convince the man. And all I’m suggesting—” He broke off as the cylinder slid the final distance down to the floor and disappeared with the girl inside.
He turned back to the others who had been watching anxiously. “Well, that’s it,” he announced, flapping his arms with a broad, hopeless gesture. “That’s our very last hope. Her!”
Mary Ann Carthington felt exactly like a Last Hope as she materialized in the Temporal Embassy.
She fought down the swimming nausea which always seemed to accompany jumper transportation and, shaking her head quickly, managed to draw a deep breath.
As a means of getting places, the jumper certainly beat Edgar Rapp’s old Buick—if only it didn’t make you feel like a chocolate malted. That was the trouble with this era: every halfway nice thing in it had such unpleasant after-effects!
The ceiling undulated over her head in the great rotunda where she was now standing and bulged a huge purplish lump down at her. It still looked, she decided nervously, like a movie house chandelier about to fall.
“Yes?” inquired the purplish lump politely “Whom did you wish to see?”
She moistened her lipstick, then squared her shoulders. You had to carry these things off with a certain amount of poise; it just did not do to show nervousness before a ceiling.
“I came to see Gygyo—I mean is Mr. Gygyo Rablin in?”
“Mr. Rablin is not at size at the moment. He will return in fifteen minutes. Would you like to wait in his office? He has another visitor there.”
M ary Ann Carthington thought swiftly. She didn’t entirely like the idea of another visitor, but maybe it would be for the best The presence of a third party would be a restraining influence for both of them and would take a little of the inevitable edge off her coming back to Gygyo as a suppliant after what had happened between them.
But what was this about his not being “at size”? These twenty-fifth-century people did so many positively weird things with themselves!
“Yes, I’ll wait in his office,” she told the ceiling. “Oh, you needn’t bother,” she said to the floor as it began to ripple under her feet. “I know the way.”
“No bother at all, miss,” the floor replied cheerfully, and continued to carry her across the rotunda to Rablin’s private office. “It’s a pleasure.”
Mary Ann sighed and shook her head. Some of these fixtures were so
opinionated!
She relaxed and let herself be carried along, taking out her compact on the way for a last quick check of her hair and face.
But the glance at herself in the mirror evoked the memory again. She flushed and almost called for a jumper to take her back to Mrs. Brucks’ room. No, she couldn’t—this was their last chance to get out of this world and back to their own. But
damn
Gygyo Rablin, anyway!
A yellow square in the wall having dilated sufficiently, the floor carried her into Rablin’s private office and lay flat again. She looked around at the familiar surroundings.
There was Gygyo’s desk,
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