The Whenabouts of Burr (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

The P.E.F.S.
Titanic
pulled up to one of the great mooring posts at its home base at Lakehurst, New Jersey,

Prime. Colonel Burr took Ves and the countess through customs and into the trolley to New York. “You'll need a place to stay,” he said. “I recommend the
Great Auk and Gremlin
as a modest hostelry of moderate price, where the management still observes something of the old school of service.”

“Modest price,” Ves said. “What do we use for money?”

“Whatever you have,” Burr told him. “As a matter of fact you can probably establish a line of credit with them. They can call up to verify your references.”

“Call up?” Ves said, only mildly surprised.

“Certainly. There is an interchange Translator between Prime and most of the advanced sectors. It works as a vibrating column of air between two diaphragms. Sounds very hollow and distant, but it works fine.”

“Very hollow, eh?” Ves said. “I suspect I've spoken to Prime myself on occasion. Shows you, one shouldn't blame the telephone company for everything.”

“I, myself, can stay but overnight,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “I must be getting back to Imperial Russia and my own time. I have obligations.”

“Really, Countess?” Burr asked. “What a pity that you must leave. You will, of course, do me the honor of dining with me tonight. And you also, Mr. Romero.”

“Delighted,” the countess said, extending her hand, which Colonel Burr promptly kissed.

“I'd like to thank you for your help, Countess,” Ves said, “I'd still be in prison but for your aid.”

“I could not do less,” the countess said. “In recognition of the historic friendship between our two countries. Mother Russia never forgets.”

“Of course,” Ves said. “But nevertheless, I feel I must thank you. I hope we may meet again.”

“Undoubtedly,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “The travelers between the times are a brave and hearty band. Once you are a member, it is hard to resist the lure of the It. We will meet again, at some unknown shore in some ancient time…”

“You'll meet again for dinner tonight,” Burr said. “Save the romantic farewell until you need it.”

The trolley entered a tube-like tunnel, then the wheel-clack sound stopped and the trolley began swaying and bouncing. When it emerged from the tunnel a few seconds later it was about twenty feet above the ground, swaying gently, and the track had disappeared.

“What happened?” Ves asked, sticking his head out the window and trying to find what was holding them up.

“The trolley has switched from tracks to cables,” Burr told him. “We cross over the Hudson on a pair of overhead cables. Saves the problem of having to build a bridge.”

“Aha!” Ves said nervously, “very clever. Thick cables?”

“Haven't lost a trolley in months,” Burr reassured him. He laughed at Ves's expression. “Welcome to New York, Prime,” he said.

“New York Prime,” Ves repeated. “Sounds like a cut of beef.”

The trolley service terminated in a large trolley barn on the Manhattan side of the river. A variety of vehicles awaited them at the taxi exit to the bam: checker cabs, yellow cabs, hansom cabs, cabriolets, barouches, chariots, hackneys, victorias, a charabanc, a jinrikisha, and a dogcart. “Pick a conveyance,” Burr said. “I will drop you at your hotel and continue on. Dinner in about four hours; that should give you enough time to relax and um—oh, you haven't any luggage, have you. Perhaps a bit of shopping.”

“An impressive variety,” Tatiana Petrovna said, “but I see no droshki.”

“A serious oversight,” Burr said. “I shall inform the town council.”

They settled on one of the victorias, where they could sit comfortably facing each other. “Cultural shock,” Ves said. “I feel a slight case of confusion at this mix of cultures. I mean, look at this block we're passing: a small Roman temple, a pair of brownstones, a Victorian manor house, and a glass-faced office building. And they all look new.”

“Not new,” Burr said, “just well cared for. The Primes take great stock in appearances. It doesn't matter
what
you look like, understand, but you'd best do it well. Let me tell you the trouble with this invention, the It. It's the last thing the Primes ever discovered. Now they import everything. They have no science of their own; they have no art of their own; they have no culture of their own; they import their laws with their food, their attitudes with their clothing. It's a completely amorphous society. It has no form of its own, it merely assumes disguises.”

“What are
you
doing here, Colonel Burr?” Ves asked.

“They say I'm searching,” Burr said.

“For what?”

“Some say I'm searching for my wife, some for my daughter, some for myself. I consider the last the most likely; but as far as I know myself, I am merely passing time and learning. I have some vague thoughts of teaching someone—I don't know who—after I've done learning. Not that one can ever be truly done learning unless one is also done with life—which I shall never willingly be. Here is your hotel.”

Ves and the countess checked in and went to their separate rooms to their separate tasks. Ves, with credit established at the hotel—they accepted any credit card from anywhen—went on a small shopping spree. A double-edge razor, blades, a comb, underwear, overwear, upperwear and lowerwear. He tried to pick a suit as close to his own time style as he could find. He ended up looking like a gangster circa 1925, broad lapels, pin stripe and all.

“Elegant!” the countess declared, when he met her in the lobby.

“You take my breath away, Countess,” Ves said, staring at her. A rose-red gown replaced the riding garb, and her chestnut hair was swept up and expertly tossed about on her head, topped with the simplest of diamond tiaras.

“You like it?” the countess asked, running her hands down the silken fabric covering the curve of her hips.

“Am I not a man, Countess?” Ves asked.

“You are very
gallant
, sir,” the countess said, pronouncing it
a la Francaise
. “You think Colonel Burr, he will like it?”

“So that's it,” Ves said. “I should have guessed. I've read about him. What does he have…? Countess, he will be enchanted, you have my word.”

And so the Colonel was, when he came for them some ten minutes later. “Enchanting, Countess,” he said, kissing her hand. “You have made good use of your time. And you, Mr. Romero, you look like a new man. An importer of Dutch chocolate I once knew, to be precise. Shall we go to dinner? I have reserved a booth for us at Delmonico's.”

Over dinner they discussed many things. Colonel Burr possessed the ability to discourse brilliantly on any subject, as he proceeded to prove. The countess looked at him with increasing admiration after each course. Finally, when their flaming dessert was blown out and served, they got down to Ves's current problems and worries.

“Your friend will show up here in Prime,” Burr said. “No need to worry about him.”

“How will I find him when he does arrive?” Ves asked. “Put an ad in the papers?”

“One possibility,” Burr said. “But why not use that transmitting device you mentioned? I assume he also carries one? You merely broadcast over it until he responds.”

“Its range is very limited,” Ves said. “A couple of blocks at most.”

“So? Contact the City Paging Service. They broadcast messages for subscribers in this area. I'm sure they can duplicate the frequency of your transmitter. A wire loop with your voice on it can be broadcast periodically. Then they listen for your friend's reply, and direct him to your hotel. Simple?”

“I'll be in touch with them in the morning,” Ves said.

“And now about this Constitution thing. These people here on Prime really have no regard for anyone else. It's amazing, their attitude. I think it must be a private collector or dealer; if it were a government, museum or other official project, I feel sure I should have heard of it. I've been carefully thinking that point over. And, I must admit, I made some inquiries this afternoon. Nothing official is happening along that line,” Burr told Ves.

“And how do I go about finding this private collector?” Ves asked.

“I like your earlier suggestion,” Burr said. “Advertise.”

“Come to think of it,” Ves said, “that's how I got here.”

“You told me you were a private inquiry agent in your own time,” Colonel Burr said. “I see no reason why whatever techniques worked successfully for you there would not be equally rewarding here.”

“But I know so little about this time,” Ves said.

“It's just like your own time,” Burr said, “And mine, the countess's, ancient Rome, and any other period you can think of. That's the glory of it.”

And so Ves went away after dinner, leaving Colonel Burr and Countess Tatiana Petrovna still at the table, staring into each other's eyes and holding hands. “No, no, that's quite all right,” he assured them, as he left. They may even have heard him.

The next morning Ves went to the offices of the City Paging Service, who were delighted to be able to help him. They made a wire loop of his voice—they used wire recorders instead of tape—and promised to broadcast it every fifteen minutes, and listen for an answer for the next ten. Then Ves settled down to work out a program for locating the Constitution.

There were several possible approaches. An ad in the appropriate paper might be the simplest. After all, the present possessor of the Constitution had nothing to hide here in Prime; the law was on his side. Crimes committed in other time zones were not punishable or extraditable. Interviews with dealers and collectors might be fruitful if the possessor was reluctant to come forth. After all, such desires grow upon a person gradually. The possessor's colleagues might know of his desire, even if not aware of his actual acquisition of the document. Both of these approaches could be pursued simultaneously. What Ves needed was a list of the names of collectors and dealers, and the names of whatever periodicals they mostly read. (Collectors of what? he wondered, dealers in what? Well, that would sort itself out.)

Ves went to the city directory at the front desk of his hotel to hunt up the name of an appropriate dealership in his area to which he could go and ask questions. It wasn't exactly a telephone directory, due to the peculiarities of the Primes. Some of them had phones, others teletypes, others visicables, others centcomp receptors. There seemed to be no central company to service all of these competing forms of communication. Indeed, there were at least three competing companies in Manhattan offering only telephone service: Bell Telephone Company; Lower Manhattan District Signaling Company; and Pictaphone Corporation. And their services, apparently, did not interconnect.

After some searching in the Business section of the book, Ves found the line he'd been looking for:

PIPPINN & CRIE.

Documents, Stamps, Coins,
all sectors, all times, bought & sold.

Highest Prices Guaranteed

141 Upper Wall

Upper Wall, the room clerk assured Ves, was only minutes away from the hotel on foot. So Ves footed it into the street towards PIPPINN & CRIE.

Upper Wall Street was out of Dickens by way of Disney. A narrow, twisty street of small two-story shops, with the upper floor overhung, it looked too cute, too clean, too well-drawn to be real. Ves half expected to see little instruction signs by the doors:
D-ticket needed, may be purchased at booth in Queen Victorialand.
But the signs were very pragmatic and businesslike, although excessively neat and well-lettered.

141 Upper Wall had a wrought-iron signbar with a swinging, intricately scrolled PIPPINN & CRIE. wooden signboard hanging below. Inside, the store was dark wood paneling, a few cabinets and display cases, and a host of mottoes and slogans about the walls. Across from the door a sign said,
Ask! Could it hurt?
Below that, a framed verse, decorated with painted eagles and dramatic whirls:

From there to here

From then to now

To make it clear

To show us how.

Sideways in Time

We dip our oar

Above we climb

Beyond we soar.

—Seessel

“And how may Pippinn and Crie. help thee?” a gaunt man in a bright green waistcoat and cutaway asked, emerging from behind the counter. “Excuse the poor rhyme. It's actually pronounced ‘cray', you know.”

“No, I didn't,” Ves said.

“It is,” the man assured him. “Phoenician, I believe. Before my time, of course; although I did know Pippinn. The original Pippinn, that is, not his son; whom I also know, of course. He is the owner. The son, that is. I am the manager. Phipps. At your service.”

“It's, ah, only some information I need,” Ves said.

“We do our best to oblige, whatever your need,” Phipps said. “What would you like to know?”

“I'm looking for a, ah, Constitution. You know, of the United States. Trying to locate a, ah, specific, ah, Constitution.”

“Certainly,” Phipps said. “Which one?”

“Ah, a, ah, well, mine. That is the one from my time—sector—which was stolen.”

“In what way is this Constitution different from all other constitutions?” Phipps asked patiently. “That is, how can we differentiate it?”

“Well,” said Ves, who hadn't expected such a helpful reaction, “it was signed by Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton.”

“Most of them were,” Phipps said.

“The one that was left in its place,” Ves said, “was signed by Burr. Aaron Burr. In place of Hamilton.”

“I know,” Phipps said, “Alexander Hamilton. So that's what happened to it.”

“How's that?” Ves asked.

“I'll tell you who took your constitution,” Phipps said. He reached behind him to the counter and flipped a magazine off the top, handing it to Ves. CURIOSITIES, VARIETIES, VARIANTS, it said across the top, THE INTERTEMPORAL COLLECTOR.