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Fiction Short Story

by John M. Floyd

A Place in History

"Dr. Benedict?" Lou Rosewood stepped into the laboratory, closed the door behind him, and locked it. "May I have a moment?"

The woman in the white lab coat looked up from her worktable. She seemed to know what was coming. Rosewood was dressed in a baggy gray business suit, a ridiculously wide necktie, and a snap-brim fedora. In one hand was a brown valise with straps and buckles. He looked as if he should be trying to talk Ingrid Bergman into boarding an aircraft in the fog.

"That matter we discussed earlier." he said. "It's time to proceed."

"Mr. Rosewood, I..."

"It's time, Patricia. Have you prepared the machine?"

Benedict sighed. "The machine is ready," she said.

Lou Rosewood stood there a moment in his 1930's suit, studying his lead scientist. In his opinion, Dr. Patricia Benedict was the most brilliant physicist in the free world. She was also a tireless and loyal employee of Rosewood Technologies -- and the only one Lou Rosewood had trusted with knowledge of his secret plan.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this," Benedict said. Her concern was written in every line of her face.

This time it was Rosewood who sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, Patricia. This is just something I have to do."

"But, why? You're already a multimillionaire..."

"It's not the money. It's the recognition I want."

"You already have that."

Rosewood shook his head. "You're wrong. A CEO, successful or not, is seldom remembered by the public. It's the celebrities: Tom Hanks, Stephen King, Tiger Woods. They're the ones who'll live forever."

"Immortality," she said. "You think these novels will give you that?"

"They're not just any novels. I'm talking about three of the most popular literary works in the history of the world." Rosewood could actually feel goosebumps on his arms at the very thought. "I've studied them, Patricia, I've read them a hundred times each. I can recreate them, all three of them, almost word-for-word."

"You can steal them, you mean."

"Not if they haven't been written yet."

Benedict's face darkened. "That's the part that bothers me."

"I know." Rosewood stepped closer, laid a hand on her shoulder. "But I have to silence them, you know that. There's no other way."

Benedict swallowed and nodded. They'd been through all this before. The time machine was indeed ready; Benedict herself had taken four test trips, with no apparent ill effects. If Rosewood could go back to a point in time before the great works he had chosen were published, eliminate the three authors, and then write their books under his own name ...

"Do you have everything you need?" she asked. She looked too tired to argue further.

"Right here." Rosewood patted the heavy valise. "Four cases of gold coins."

"And the location?"

"A city park half a mile from downtown Atlanta. The date and time..." he took a slip of paper from his pocket, "will be a weekday during banking hours. Within an hour of landing there, I'll have converted most of the gold to cash. All I'll need then are a pen and paper and a place to write. I already know what publishers they used."

"What year did you decide on?"

He frowned. "That was difficult. Edgar Rollins's book came out in 1937, Michael Zellweiger's in '39, Margaret Mitchell's in '36. At first '35 sounded like a logical choice, but I got to thinking: what if they kept journals, notebooks and versions of early manuscripts? Mitchell, for example, worked on her novel for ten years."

"So you're going earlier?"

"1932," Rosewood said, stepping back to model his outfit. "It's not far enough back to be foolproof, but it should do. They were all first novels, so I doubt the writers told a lot of people about what they were writing. And all three lived in Atlanta. I should be able to eliminate them right away, and then get to work. Even knowing the stories beforehand, I'll need time to get the books written, typed, submitted, and so forth. No computers or word processors back then, you know."

Dr. Benedict seemed to ponder that. "Edgar Rollins would barely be twenty-five years old then," she said sadly. "Mitchell would be what, thirty-two? And Zellweiger..."

"Twenty-seven."

She nodded. "The prime of their lives."

"Don't dwell on that, Patricia. We're talking about the past, remember? They're already dead. And don't give me that argument about the children and grandchildren they are yet to have. The world will do just fine without three fiction writers and their descendants."

"It's still murder, Mr. Rosewood."

"For God's sake, Patricia, I won't be doing it myself. These things can be arranged."

Before Benedict could reply, Rosewood marched over to the machine. "I've left a note in my office," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "As far as anyone knows, I have embarked on a test that somehow went awry. You'll not be blamed––I've taken care of that in my note. I'm leaving you and my wife very well off, by the way." He glanced around. "What do I do? Just get in?"

Benedict pointed. "Get in, stand there, and don't touch the sides of the compartment. And I'll need to dial in your place, date, and time."

Rosewood handed her the slip of paper. While he gingerly stepped inside, she walked across the room to the console and programmed in the information. Minutes later she appeared again, licking the flap of a business envelope.

"Take this," she said. She sealed the envelope and handed it to him. "Put it someplace where you can't lose it."

"What is it?" He tucked it into an inside pocket of his suit coat.

"A remote keypad, and instructions on how to beam yourself back here if you need to."

"I won't need to."

"Keep it anyway," she said. "Just in case."

The two said their goodbyes. Rosewood stood motionless in the glass-enclosed machine as Benedict went back to the computer to press the necessary buttons. A moment later, with a brilliant, sizzling flash of light, Lou Rosewood disappeared. The machine sat humming and empty in the middle of the laboratory. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.

"Bon voyage," Dr. Benedict said, her face solemn.

* * *

Lou Rosewood was mildly surprised when he arrived not in a grassy park but on some kind of metal platform high in the air. Far below him was a large ship, surrounded by a blue-green inlet dotted with similar vessels.

"Well, damn," he said. They had had a few screw-ups like this during the early tests; Benedict had come back once with snapshots of a tropical rainforest instead of the Old West.

Grumbling, Rosewood set his valise down on the metal catwalk and took the envelope from his coat pocket. Inside it he found, sure enough, a credit-card-sized keypad and display, along with a handwritten message.

The note said:

DEAR MR. ROSEWOOD,

I REGRET THIS, BUT I HAD NO CHOICE. DON'T BOTHER TRYING THE KEYPAD—IT DOESN'T WORK. THE DISPLAY, HOWEVER, DOES.

With trembling fingers Rosewood took out the card, looked at the display. It said, in tiny green letters:

LOCATION: SPOTTING TOWER, U.S.S. ARIZONA LAT. 21-21 N, LONG. 157-58 W, OAHU, HAWAII TIME/DATE: 07:53 AM, 12/07/41

While he watched, the time changed to 07:54.

Rosewood stared at it in disbelief, and then understood.

The note was signed, PATRICIA ZELLWEIGER BENEDICT.

As he numbly read the signature a second time, he heard sounds overhead. Distant at first, then growing louder.

Buzzing sounds...

© Copyright 2003 John M. Floyd

About the Author:

Mississippi writer John Floyd is the author of more than 400 short stories and fillers in publications such as: Strand Magazine, Grit, Woman's World, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. His stories have been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and the Derringer Award. John is a former Air Force captain, and recently retired from the IBM Corporation.