As he put on his coat, Mr. Hnatt, his supervisor, entered the office and said, "Say, Slade, what's up? Why the fierce trapped look?"
"Um, I'm getting out, Mr. Hnatt," Slade told him. "Escaping. I've told fifteen thousand men how to escape military service; now it's my turn."
Mr. Hnatt clapped him on the back. "Good idea, Slade; you're overworked. Take a vacation. Take a time-travel adventure to some distant civilization – it'll do you good."
"Thanks, Mr. Hnatt," Slade said, "I'll do just that." And left his office as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the building and down the street to the glowing neon sign of Muse Enterprises.
The girl behind the counter, blonde-haired, with dark green eyes and a figure that impressed him more for its engineering aspects, its suspension so to speak, smiled at him and said, "Our Mr. Manville will see you in a moment, Mr. Slade. Please be seated. You'll find authentic nineteenth century Harper's Weeklies over on the table, there." She added, "And some twentieth century Mad Comics, those great classics of lampoonery equal to Hogarth."
Tensely, Mr. Slade seated himself and tried to read; he found an article in Harper's Weekly telling that the Panama Canal was impossible and had already been abandoned by its French designers – that held his attention for a moment (the reasoning was so logical, so convincing) but after a few moments his old ennui and restlessness, like a chronic fog, returned. Rising to his feet he once more approached the desk.
"Mr. Manville isn't here yet?" he asked hopefully.
From behind him a male voice said, "You, there at the counter."
Slade turned. And found himself facing a tall, dark-haired man with an intense expression, eyes blazing.
"You," the man said, "are in the wrong century."
Slade gulped.
Striding toward him, the dark-haired man said, "I am Manville, sir." He held out his hand and they shook. "You must go away," Manville said. "Do you understand, sir? As soon as possible."
"But I want to use your services," Slade mumbled.
Manville's eyes flashed. "I mean away into the past. What's your name?" He gestured emphatically. "Wait, it's coming to me. Jesse Slade, of Concord, up the street, there."
"Right," Slade said, impressed.
"All right, now down to business," Mr. Manville said. "Into my office." To the exceptionally-constructed girl at the counter he said, "No one is to disturb us, Miss Frib."
"Yes, Mr. Manville," Miss Frib said. "I'll see to that, don't you fear, sir."
"I know that, Miss Frib." Mr. Manville ushered Slade into a well-furnished inner office. Old maps and prints decorated the walls; the furniture – Slade gaped. Early American, with wood pegs instead of nails. New England maple and worth a fortune.
"Is it all right…" he began.
"Yes, you may actually sit on that Directorate chair," Mr. Manville told him. "But be careful; it scoots out from under you if you lean forward. We keep meaning to put rubber casters on it or some such thing." He looked irritated now, at having to discuss such trifles. "Mr. Slade," he said brusquely, "I'll speak plainly; obviously you're a man of high intellect and we can skip the customary circumlocutions."
"Yes," Slade said, "please do."
"Our time-travel arrangements are of a specific nature; hence the name 'Muse.' Do you grasp the meaning, here?"
"Urn," Slade said, at a loss but trying. "Let's see. A muse is an organism that functions to -"
"That inspires," Mr. Manville broke in impatiently. "Slade, you are – let's face it – not a creative man. That's why you feel bored and unfulfilled. Do you paint? Compose? Make welded iron sculpture out of spaceship bodies and discarded lawn chairs? You don't. You do nothing; you're utterly passive. Correct?"
Slade nodded. "You've hit it, Mr. Manville."
"I've hit nothing," Mr. Manville said irritably. "You don't follow me, Slade. Nothing will make you creative because you don't have it within you. You're too ordinary. I'm not going to get you started finger-painting or basket-weaving; I'm no Jungian analyst who believes art is the answer." Leaning back he pointed his finger at Slade. "Look, Slade. We can help you, but you must be willing to help yourself first. Since you're not creative, the best you can hope for – and we can assist you here – is to inspire others who are creative. Do you see?"
After a moment Slade said, "I see, Mr. Manville. I do."
"Right," Manville said, nodding. "Now, you can inspire a famous musician, like Mozart or Beethoven, or a scientist such as Albert Einstein, or a sculptor such as Sir Jacob Epstein – any one of a number of people, writers, musicians, poets. You could, for example, meet Sir Edward Gibbon during his travels to the Mediterranean and fall into a casual conversation with him and say something to this order… Hmmm, look at the ruins of this ancient civilization all around us. I wonder, how does a mighty empire such as Rome come to fall into decay? Fall into ruin… fall apart…"
"Good Lord," Slade said fervently, "I see, Manville; I get it. I repeat the word 'fall' over and over again to Gibbon, and due to me he gets the idea of his great history of Rome, the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And -" He felt himself tremble. "I helped."
" 'Helped'?" Manville said. "Slade, that's hardly the word. Without you there would have been no such work. You, Slade, could be Sir Edward's muse." He leaned back, got out an Upmann cigar, circa 1915, and lit up.
"I think," Slade said, "I'd like to mull this over. I want to be sure I inspire the proper person; I mean, they all deserve to be inspired, but -"
"But you want to find the person in terms of your own psychic needs," Manville agreed, puffing fragrant blue smoke. "Take our brochure." He passed a large shiny multi-color 3-D pop-up booklet to Slade. "Take this home, read it, and come back to us when you're ready."
Slade said, "God bless you, Mr. Manville."
"And calm down," Manville said. "The world isn't going to end… we know that here at Muse because we've looked." He smiled, and Slade managed to smile back.
Two days later Jesse Slade returned to Muse Enterprises. "Mr. Manville," he said, "I know whom I want to inspire." He took a deep breath. "I've thought and thought and what would mean to the most to me would be if I could go back to Vienna and inspire Ludwig van Beethoven with the idea for the Choral Symphony, you know, that theme in the fourth movement that the baritone sings that goes bum-bum de-da de-da bum-bum, daughters of Elysium; you know." He flushed. "I'm no musician, but all my life I've admired the Beethoven Ninth and especially -
"It's been done," Manville said.
"Eh?" He did not understand.
"It's been taken, Mr. Slade." Manville looked impatient as he sat at his great oak rolltop desk, circa 1910. Bringing out a thick metal-staved black binder he turned the pages. "Two years ago a Mrs. Ruby Welch of Montpelier, Idaho went back to Vienna and inspired Beethoven with the theme for the choral movement of his Ninth." Manville slammed the binder shut and regarded Slade. "Well? What's your second choice?"
Stammering, Slade said, "I'd – have to think. Give me time."
Examining his watch, Manville said shortly, "I'll give you two hours. Until three this afternoon. Good day, Slade." He rose to his feet, and Slade automatically rose, too.
An hour later, in his cramped office at Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade realized in a flashing single instant who and what he wanted to inspire. At once he put on his coat, excused himself to sympathetic Mr. Hnatt, and hurried down the street to Muse Enterprises.