Rich copper deposits had been discovered in the Sigma-G sector of the asteroid belt.
Doppelganger activities had increased in Berlin.
A new survey was being made of octopi villages in the Mindanao Deep.
A mob in Spenser, Alabama, lynched and burned the town's two local zombies. Legal action was being taken against the mob leaders.
A leading anthropologist declared the Tuamoto Archipelago in Oceania to be the last stronghold of 20th century simplicity.
The Atlantic Fish Herders’ Association was holding its annual convention at the Waldorf.
A werewolf was unsuccessfully hunted in the Austrian Tyrol. Local villages were warned to keep a twenty-four-hour watch for the beast.
A bill was introduced into the House of Representatives to outlaw all hunts and gladiatorial events. It was defeated.
A berserker took four lives in downtown San Diego.
Helicopter fatalities reached the one million mark for the year.
Blaine put the newspaper aside, more depressed than ever. Ghosts, doppelgangers, werewolves, poltergeists… He didn't like the sound of those vague, grim, ancient words which today seemed to represent actual phenomena. He had already met a zombie. He didn't want to encounter any more of the dangerous side-effects of the hereafter.
He started walking again. He went through the theater district, past glittering marquees, posters advertising the gladiatorial events at Madison Square Garden, billboards heralding solidovision programs and sensory shows, flashing signs proclaiming overtone concerts and Venusian pantomime. Sadly Blaine remembered that he might have been part of this dazzling fairyland if only Reilly hadn't changed his mind. He might be appearing at one of those theaters now, billed as the Man from the Past…
Of course! A Man from the Past, Blaine suddenly realized, had a unique and indisputable novelty value, an inherent talent. The Rex Corporation had saved his life in 1958 solely in order to use that talent. But they had changed their minds. So what was to prevent him from using his novelty value for himself? And for that matter, what else could he do? Show business looked like the only possible business for him.
He hurried into a gigantic office building and found six theatrical agents listed on the board. He picked Barnex, Scofield & Styles, and took the elevator to their offices on the 19th floor.
He entered a luxurious waiting room panelled with gigantic solidographs of smiling actresses. At the far end of the room, a pretty receptionist raised an inquiring eyebrow at him.
Blaine went up to her desk. “I'd like to see someone about my act,” he told her.
“I'm so sorry,” she said. “We’re all filled.”
“This is a very special act.”
“I'm really terribly sorry. Perhaps next week.”
“Look,” Blaine said, “My act is really unique. You see, I'm a man from the past.”
“I don't care if you’re the ghost of Scott Memvale,” she said sweetly. “We’re filled. Try us next week.
Blaine turned to go. A short, stocky man breezed past him, nodding to the receptionist.
“Morning, Miss Thatcher.”
“Morning, Mr. Barnex.”
Barnex! One of the agents! Blaine hurried after him and grabbed his sleeve.
Mr. Barnex,“ he said, ”I have an act —“
“Everybody has an act,” Barnex said wearily.
“But this act is unique!”
“Everybody's act is unique,” Barnex said. “Let go my sleeve, friend. Try us next week.”
“I'm from the past!” Blaine cried, suddenly feeling foolish. Barnex turned and stared at him. He looked at though he might be on the verge of calling the police, or Bellevue. But Blaine plunged recklessly on.
“I really am!” he said. “I have absolute proof. The Rex Corporation snatched me out of the past. Ask them!”
“Rex?” Barnex said. “Yeah, I head something about that snatch over at Lindy's… Hmm. Come into my office, Mister —”
“Blaine, Tom Blaine.” He followed Barnex into a tiny, cluttered cubicle. “Do you think you can use me?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Barnex said, motioning Blaine to a chair. “It depends. Tell me, Mr. Blaine, what period of the past are you from?”
“In 1958. I have an intimate knowledge of the nineteen thirties, forties and fifties. By way of stage experience I did some acting in college, and a professional actress friend of mine once told me I had a natural way of —”
“1958? That's 20th Century?”
“Yes, that's right.”
The agent shook his head. “Too bad. Now if you'd been a 6th Century Swede or a 7th Century Jap, I could have found work for you. I've had no difficulty booking appearances for our 1st Century Roman or our 4th Century Saxon, and I could use a couple more like them. But it's damned hard finding anyone from those early centuries, now that time travel is illegal. And B.C. is completely out.”
“But what about the 20th Century?” Blaine asked.
“It's filled.”
“Filled?”
“Sure. Ben Therler from 1953 gets all the available stage appearances.”
“I see,” Blaine said, getting slowly to his feet. “Thanks anyhow, Mr. Barnex.”
“Not at all,” Barnex said, “Wish I could help. If you'd been from any time or place before the 11th Century, I could probably book you. But there's not much interest in recent stuff like the 19th and 20th Centuries… Say, why don't you go see Therler? It isn't likely, but maybe he can use an understudy or something.” He scrawled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Blaine. Blaine took it, thanked him again, and left. In the street he stood for a moment, cursing his luck. His one unique and indisputable talent, his novelty value, had been usurped by Ben Therler of 1953! Really, he thought, time travel should be kept more exclusive. It just wasn't fair to drop a man here and then ignore him.
He wondered what sort of man Therler was. Well, he'd find out. Even if Therler didn't need an understudy, it would be a pleasure and relief to talk to someone from home. And Therler, who had lived here longer, might have some ideas on what a 20th century man could do in 2110.
He flagged a helicab and gave him the address. In fifteen minutes he was in Therler's apartment building, pressing the doorbell.
The door was opened by a sleek, chubby, complacent-looking man wearing a dressing gown.
“You the photographer?” he asked. “You’re too early.”
Blaine shook his head. “Mr. Therler, you've never met me before. I'm from your own century. I'm from 1958.”
“Is that so?” Therler asked, with obvious suspicion.
“It's the truth,” Blaine said, “I was snatched by the Rex Corporation. You can check my story with them.”
Therler shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what is it you want?”
“I was hoping you might be able to use an understudy or something —”
“No, no, I never use an understudy,” Therler said, starting to close the door.
“I didn't think so,” Blaine said. “The real reason I came was just to talk to you. It gets pretty lonely being out of one's century. I wanted to talk to someone from my own age. I thought maybe you'd feel that way, too.”
“Me? Oh!” Therler said, smiling with sudden stage warmth. “Oh, you mean about the good old twentieth century! I'd love to talk to you about it sometime, pal. Little old New York! The Dodgers and Yankees, the hansoms in the park, the roller-skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza. I sure miss it all! Boy! But I'm afraid I'm a little busy now.”
“Certainly,” Blaine said. “Some other time.”
“Fine! I'd really love to!” Therler said, smiling even more brilliantly. “Call my secretary, will you, old man? Schedules, you know. Well have a really great old gab some one of these days. I suppose you could use a spare dollar or two —”