“Seen anyone suspicious?”
“No. What time is it?”
“Three o’clock. The car should be almost ready.”
The test film was finished at three forty-five. They all walked down to the hotel, talking. William paused at the garage. “The car’ll be ready at six,” he said, coming out.
“But no later than that?”
“It’ll be ready, don’t worry.”
In the hotel lobby they looked around for other men traveling alone, men who resembled Mr. Simms, men with new haircuts and too much cigarette smoke and cologne smell about them, but the lobby was empty.
Going up the stairs, Mr. Melton said, “Well, it’s been a long, hard day. Who’d like to put a header on it. Martini? Beer?”
“Maybe one.”
The whole crowd pushed into Mr. Melton’s room and the drinking began.
“Watch the time,” said William.
Time, thought Susan, if only they had time. All she wanted was to sit in the plaza all alone, bright day in spring, with not a worry or a thought, with the sun on her face and arms, her eyes closed, smiling at the warmth—and never move, but just sleep in the Mexican sun…
Mr. Melton opened the champagne.
“To a very beautiful lady, lovely enough for films,” he said, toasting Susan. “I might even give you a test.”
She laughed.
“I mean it,” said Melton. “You’re very nice. I could make you a movie star.”
“And take me to Hollywood?”
“Get the hell out of Mexico, sure!”
Susan glanced at William, and he lifted an eyebrow and nodded. It would be a change of scene, clothing, locale, name perhaps, and they would be traveling with eight other people, a good shield against any interference from the future.
“It sounds wonderful,” said Susan.
She was feeling the champagne now, the afternoon was slipping by, the party was whirling about her, she felt safe and good and alive and truly happy for the first time in many years.
“What kind of film would my wife be good for?” asked William, refilling his glass.
Melton appraised Susan. The party stopped laughing and listened.
“Well, I’d like to do a story of suspense,” said Melton. “A story of a man and wife, like yourselves.”
“Go on.”
“Sort of a war story, maybe,” said the director, examining the color of his drink against the sunlight.
Susan and William waited.
“A story about a man and wife who live in a little house on a little street in the year 2155, maybe,” said Melton. “This is ad lib, understand. But this man and wife are faced with a terrible war. Super-Plus Hydrogen bombs, censorship, death, in that year and—here’s the gimmick—they escape into the past, followed by a man who they think is evil, but who is only trying to show them what their Duty is.”
William dropped his glass to the floor.
Mr. Melton continued. “And this couple take refuge with a group of film people whom they learn to trust. Safety in numbers, they say to themselves.”
Susan felt herself slip down into a chair. Everyone was watching the director. He took a little sip of wine. “Ah, that’s a fine wine. Well, this man and woman, it seems, don’t realize how important they are to the future. The man, especially, is the keystone to a new bomb metal.
So the Searchers, let’s call them, spare no trouble or expense to find, capture and take home the man and wife, once they get them totally alone, in a hotel room, where no one can see. Strategy. The Searchers work alone, or in groups of eight. One trick or another will do it. Don’t you think it would make a wonderful film, Susan? Don’t you, Bill?” He finished his drink.
Susan sat with her eyes straight ahead.
“Have a drink?” said Mr. Melton.
William’s gun was out and fired, three times, and one of the men fell, and the others ran forward. Susan screamed. A hand was clamped to her mouth. Now the gun was on the floor and William was struggling with the men holding him.
Mr. Melton said, “Please,” standing there where he had stood, blood showing on his fingers. “Let’s not make matters worse.”
Someone pounded on the hall door.
“Let me in!”
“The manager,” said Mr. Melton, dryly. He jerked his head. “Everyone, let’s move!”
“Let me in. I’ll call the police!”
Susan and William looked at each other quickly, and then at the door.
“The manager wishes to come in,” said Mr. Melton. “Quick!”
A camera was carried forward. From it shot a blue light which encompassed the room instantly. It widened out and the people of the party vanished, one by one.
“Quickly!”
Outside the window in the instant before she vanished, Susan saw the green land and the purple and yellow and blue and crimson walls and the cobbles flowing like a river, a man upon a burro riding into the warm hills, a boy drinking orange pop. She could feel the sweet liquid in her throat; she could see a man standing under a cool plaza tree with a guitar, could feel her hand upon the strings. And, far away, she could see the sea, the blue and tender sea; she could feel it roll her over and take her in.
And then she was gone. Her husband was gone.
The door burst wide. The manager and his staff rushed in.
The room was empty.
“But they were just here! I saw them come in, and now— gone!” cried the manager. “The windows are covered with iron grating; they couldn’t get out that way!”
In the late afternoon, the priest was summoned and they opened the room again and aired it out, and had him sprinkle holy water through each corner and give it his cleansing.
“What shall we do with these?” asked the charwoman.
She pointed to the closet, where there were sixty-seven bottles of chartreuse, cognac, crème de cacao, absinthe, vermouth, tequila, 106 cartons of Turkish cigarettes, and 198 yellow boxes of fifty-cent pure Havana-filler cigars …
The End
