Roy Hutchins - The Nostalgia Gene

Folks who knew Edgar Evans said he was a strange young man. Certainly hewas the darling of the old ladies and the despair of the young. Thesternest fathers positively beamed when Edgar called for theirdaughters, but fellows his own age declared in the authoritative tonesof youth that Edgar was a square.

Handsome enough he was. The real reason for all the fuss was Edgarsmanners. The trouble was that he had them.

For Edgar had been orphaned at four by an Oklahoma tornado and raised byhis Hoosier grandmother, a dear old lady whose hand had once been kissedby a passing Barrymore. The result was Edgars manners. He realized, ofcourse, that one didnt kiss a ladys hand these days, but such wasEdgars gracious way that women always got the impression he was aboutto.

One parent, in something of a trance after encountering Edgar, summed upthe reaction.

"That kid," he told his wife dazedly, "akshully called me sir. Themother punks come aroun' afta Milly, they call me Mac. Too bad thatthere Edgar was born fifty years too late."

Before very long, Edgar came to the same conclusion.

He knew a good many young men, but none he could call friend. The boptalk which fascinated them seemed to him a repulsive travesty uponEnglish, just as their favorite music sounded like the braying of assesin agony.

Many girls were willing enough when Edgar asked for a first date, but anamazing number of them developed ill health when he suggested a secondevening of classical records or good conversation.

The girls themselves could not be blamed if they mistook his courtlyapproach for a new dreamy line. Alas, the very hearts which fluttered athis old-world chivalry grew icy when no pass was made. A girl wants toknow her charms are appreciated.

So Edgar sank more deeply into himself. He recalled his grandmothersstories about life and living back near the end of the century, whenfolks knew how to be pleasant and kind.

Even at his jobhe was a technician in an electronic labEdgar couldntstop longing for that era when existence had been more gentle, simpleand leisurely. His social life virtually ceased.

"Man, you aint livin'," said one of the technicians he worked with."Were gonna buzz a few dives tonight. Why not drag it along with us?"

Edgar blanched. "Thank you just the same, but II have some work to do."

After a while, naturally, they stopped asking.

He continued to dream hopelessly, miserably, but one day he was yankedout of it byof all peoplea military man. The brass were on inspectiontour and the labs Chief Engineer was apologizing for a faulty run ofsynchros which had occurred some time ago, when the Brigadier snorted.

"Whats past is finished. Im interested in five years from now!"

Edgar found himself staring fixedly at a top secret gadget still in thebreadboard stage.

"Great heaven!" he thought. "I have a fixation. This isnt doing me anygood."

But what would? Suppose, instead of dreaming, he spent time actuallyworking toward what he wanted most?

Here in the lab, he helped to build amazing machines, things which dailydid the impossible. He no longer marveled at what could be done withelectronics and, more important, he knew the methods and the details.

That was when Edgar decided to build a time machine.

It was two months before he touched a transformer or a capacitor andduring that period he did nothing but try to answer the question, Whatis time? How could he overcome it or change its flow or whatever had tobe done?

He read everything he could find on the subject from Dr. Cagliostro toDr. Einstein without gaining much insight. Many a midnight, when hisneck muscles ached from trying to hold up his throbbing head, he caughthimself dreaming of grandmothers wonderful stories. And every time heforced himself furiously back to the books, but he couldnt stop thenostalgia entirely. It was in him.

Eventually, Edgar came to think of time as an infinite series throughwhich the Universe was constantly expanding. Something like a set ofstop-motion photos taken microseconds apart, each complete, the changesbecoming apparent only when they are viewed in sequence. He was wrong,of course, but that was unimportant.

Time must therefore be a function of human motion and consciousness,Edgar reasoned, and that was important.

"Thats it!" he exclaimed, and then apologized gracefully to the elderlygentleman glaring across the library table.

Now that he knew what his time machine must do, he could begin building,adapting circuits, experimenting. Obviously, consciousness could moveforward through the series only; hence, consciousness must be completelysuspended, as in death, to move back in time.

It required some heartbreaking months for Edgar to learn that brainwaves couldnt be stopped, but that the simple trick of introducingrandom electrical noise suspended all the brain functions.

"Fudge!" cursed Edgar, thinking of the wasted time.

Only a man filled with the longing which obsessed Edgar could have foundthe aching perseverance and brain-wrenching ingenuity the job needed.Only a man driven by a terrible master that rode in his glands.

But four months later, he stood with his hand on a switch, sweating withnervous excitement as he eyed the spot from which a live rabbit had justdisappeared. The rabbit was on the table, but he was there an hour agoand Edgar was here now, so the table appeared empty.

He pressed another switch and there was the bunny, wriggling its softnose in perplexity, but perfectly healthy. Edgars own trip, of course,would be strictly one way since the machine stayed in the present. Hecould be brought back only if he stepped into its field on a date forwhich the machine was set and he had absolutely no intention ofventuring near this vicinity again, once his aim was accomplished.

He thought about arranging a small explosive charge to blow theequipment to what he thought of as The Hot Place. It seemed to him,however, that there was some kind of law against that sort of thing.Besides, even if the machine should come to the attention of theauthorities, who would know what it was? He could devise a mechanicalscrambler to change all the control settings once he was gone, and itwas unlikely that anyone could operate it again.

Most likely the landlady would simply sell it for junk, especially if heleft owing her a weeks rent. The idea hurt his conscience.

"I know!" he exclaimed to himself. "Ill buy a bank check and arrange tohave the bank mail it to her a month after Ive left!"

He felt much better about that.

Three weeks later, Edgar Evans was the newest boarder at Mrs.Petersons, on Elm Avenue in Greencastle, Indiana. He had arrived onApril 3, 1893, the day after Easter, and already he was being referredto as "that nice young man staying at Emmas."

Edgar snuggled into the life of the '90s like a showgirl into mink. Hewent to work as a clerk in Clouds Emporium and was soon regarded aslogical choice for the next manager. Anxious mamas filled his eveningswith dinner invitations and "at homes" and he had a dazzling choice ofpartners for the numerous socials.

Edgar waltzed his partners with zest and propriety, contributed adetermined tenor at parlor sings, and sampled dozens of cakes and piesbaked by maidens bent on winning his heart via the traditional route.And always he had a gracious compliment, an appropriate phrase for everysituation.

Within a month, the entire feminine population of Greencastle was hisfor the asking, though hed never have recognized nor admitted the fact.The men sought his company, too, and even asked his advice on how to wintheir girls back from him. Edgar, almost sick with happiness, told them,of course.

On the eleventh of November, he was sick with something else. He went tobed with a fever right after getting home from the Emporium, Mrs.Peterson hovering helplessly with offers of hot broth or tea. But Edgarfelt hot and dry and his side hurt when he breathed.