In the press of the moment, when he had awakened, he had only verified that he still had it on his arm. He hadn’t looked at the display panel. Now he did. It read:
– – – –
The incognito time, the anonymity, was blinking. He pressed a button. There was no date, no year.
Whoever had landed Bud in Timeless Town had thoughtfully and deliberately pressed the reset button. All the young Californian could do was start the timer function. The display read:
H 00 M 00 S 01.8 PM
The seconds continued to count off, and Bud thought: At least time hasn’t stopped dead. Not for me , at least...
His panic had turned flat and dull. He had nothing to fight against. He wandered down Newharvest Avenue, turned a corner, and yelped in surprise.
Someone was standing on the sidewalk halfway down the block!
But his yell froze in his throat. He had never seen a cigar store Indian before. Did even small towns still have them? But there it stood, tobacco rolls clutched in hand like a bouquet. "Howya doin’, Chief?" Bud muttered in great disappointment.
And then he noticed, further down, something that brought him hope anew. A telephone booth! An honest-to-God Superman type, Mavis-put-me-through-to-Barney type telephone booth.
Of course it probably wasn’t real.
Then again, the comic books had been real. Enough.
He trotted up to it, entered, folded the door closed behind him as if it mattered, and looked up at the placard over the box and hanging receiver. He no longer boggled at the prices, in this case 5 cents. He studied the instructions. No area code, of course. He noted with relief that the booth’s own phone number did not start with "555", the famous bogus exchange dummy-number.
Fishing out a nickel, he lifted the receiver.
" Dial tone! " he cried. It was as if he had said Bullseye !
And then a human voice, a woman’s. "Operator."
"Hi operator!"
"Number, please."
"Oh, I—well, could you just—"
"Number, please."
"S-sorry, I don’t know—"
"Operator."
"Listen, I’m in a phone booth and—"
"Number, please."
Bud slammed down the receiver, violently. He had been wrong. It was once a human voice. Now it was a formerly human voice. A recording. A prop.
Still, there had been a dial tone. What if he dropped in a nickel and actually dialed a number? But it would have to be the number of something real, a Somewhere, not a Nowhere.
He looked down. The hanging phone directory had been ripped off. That was probably as realistic in 1953 as today.
Then he looked again at the placard.
POLICE DEPARTMENT GA-61734
What kind of phone number started with GA? Had phone numbers once started with letters ? Was he in Georgia, maybe?
He fed the phone, dismally keeping hope in check to forestall a crash of disappointment.
The other end was ringing.
Bud held his breath.
Rrring.
Rrring.
Rrring.
Hadn’t someone once told him that after three unanswered rings, the odds of someone picking up diminished to—
"FV Police. This is Jesperson."
Bud struggled to force his voice to work.
"Police," repeated Jesperson. "Someone there?"
"I—I—you don’t know how glad I am to reach you, Mr. Jesperson!" gasped the Shoptonian.
"Chief Jesperson. So what can I do ya for?"
Bud forced himself toward calm. "I—this is really weird. I don’t even know how to say it."
"Police business?"
"Oh man. Yeah! I guess."
"Cool off, son," said Jesperson. "What’s going on?"
"Jetz, don’t ask me ! I’m here at a phone booth on—on some street—it’s by a hardware store—"
"In town? Wooldridge Hardware and Plumbing?"
Bud looked through the wire-crisscrossed glass. "Uh-huh."
"So what’s the problem? Somebody rob the place?"
"I dunno. No. It’s just... Look, Chief, I can’t find anyone—the whole place is deserted. Not a soul. Nobody anywhere!"
"Are they open? Is the door open?"
"I don’t mean just in the hardware store."
"What do you mean? ...Okay, who is this? What’s your name?"
"Bud Barclay, sir. I’ve been here—I
– – – –
The incognito time, the anonymity, was blinking. He pressed a button. There was no date, no year.
Whoever had landed Bud in Timeless Town had thoughtfully and deliberately pressed the reset button. All the young Californian could do was start the timer function. The display read:
H 00 M 00 S 01.8 PM
The seconds continued to count off, and Bud thought: At least time hasn’t stopped dead. Not for me , at least...
His panic had turned flat and dull. He had nothing to fight against. He wandered down Newharvest Avenue, turned a corner, and yelped in surprise.
Someone was standing on the sidewalk halfway down the block!
But his yell froze in his throat. He had never seen a cigar store Indian before. Did even small towns still have them? But there it stood, tobacco rolls clutched in hand like a bouquet. "Howya doin’, Chief?" Bud muttered in great disappointment.
And then he noticed, further down, something that brought him hope anew. A telephone booth! An honest-to-God Superman type, Mavis-put-me-through-to-Barney type telephone booth.
Of course it probably wasn’t real.
Then again, the comic books had been real. Enough.
He trotted up to it, entered, folded the door closed behind him as if it mattered, and looked up at the placard over the box and hanging receiver. He no longer boggled at the prices, in this case 5 cents. He studied the instructions. No area code, of course. He noted with relief that the booth’s own phone number did not start with "555", the famous bogus exchange dummy-number.
Fishing out a nickel, he lifted the receiver.
" Dial tone! " he cried. It was as if he had said Bullseye !
And then a human voice, a woman’s. "Operator."
"Hi operator!"
"Number, please."
"Oh, I—well, could you just—"
"Number, please."
"S-sorry, I don’t know—"
"Operator."
"Listen, I’m in a phone booth and—"
"Number, please."
Bud slammed down the receiver, violently. He had been wrong. It was once a human voice. Now it was a formerly human voice. A recording. A prop.
Still, there had been a dial tone. What if he dropped in a nickel and actually dialed a number? But it would have to be the number of something real, a Somewhere, not a Nowhere.
He looked down. The hanging phone directory had been ripped off. That was probably as realistic in 1953 as today.
Then he looked again at the placard.
POLICE DEPARTMENT GA-61734
What kind of phone number started with GA? Had phone numbers once started with letters ? Was he in Georgia, maybe?
He fed the phone, dismally keeping hope in check to forestall a crash of disappointment.
The other end was ringing.
Bud held his breath.
Rrring.
Rrring.
Rrring.
Hadn’t someone once told him that after three unanswered rings, the odds of someone picking up diminished to—
"FV Police. This is Jesperson."
Bud struggled to force his voice to work.
"Police," repeated Jesperson. "Someone there?"
"I—I—you don’t know how glad I am to reach you, Mr. Jesperson!" gasped the Shoptonian.
"Chief Jesperson. So what can I do ya for?"
Bud forced himself toward calm. "I—this is really weird. I don’t even know how to say it."
"Police business?"
"Oh man. Yeah! I guess."
"Cool off, son," said Jesperson. "What’s going on?"
"Jetz, don’t ask me ! I’m here at a phone booth on—on some street—it’s by a hardware store—"
"In town? Wooldridge Hardware and Plumbing?"
Bud looked through the wire-crisscrossed glass. "Uh-huh."
"So what’s the problem? Somebody rob the place?"
"I dunno. No. It’s just... Look, Chief, I can’t find anyone—the whole place is deserted. Not a soul. Nobody anywhere!"
"Are they open? Is the door open?"
"I don’t mean just in the hardware store."
"What do you mean? ...Okay, who is this? What’s your name?"
"Bud Barclay, sir. I’ve been here—I
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