TIME OUT
A  Short Story

by Hal Jones

Copyritht 2006
H.V. Jones
	The professor’s ramblings about the curvature of space/time seemed incomprehensible to Winword, but that could have been the effect of the wine or of the general numbness that settled on him at faculty receptions.  A few days later, even in the gleaming clarity of the physics lab, he still wasn’t fully illuminated.
	The professor, an astrophysicist with whom he, a historian, usually discussed only sports, wanted badly to communicate the results of his latest project.  Simply put, he believed that all of history was still out in space in the form of radiations.  Recently, utilizing the massive Arecibo radio telescope and the lab’s mega-computer, he’d retrieved information he felt to be about seventy years old.  He was sure that, utilizing some new psychotropic drugs, he could feed that information into a person’s mind allowing him to experience the past.  Because this would occur mentally, history itself would not be compromised.  He was confident it would be harmless; he needed a volunteer.    Perhaps Winword could suggest a student well-versed in early twentieth century history.
	Two weeks later, Harmon Winword, himself, in an effort to counteract the engulfing apathy that had him stodgy at 45, found himself strapped to a gurney in the professor’s lab staring at a needle the scientist was filling.  They’d gone over it several times: he would be under for six hours, but using information compression formulas, it should seem about three weeks.  They could not communicate, but if the professor noticed erratic brain activity, he would bring Winword out of the anesthesia immediately.
	Jokingly, Winword wondered if he would at last meet his famous grandparents,  Vincent and Consuelo Vandengilt, who had been socially prominent in the ‘20s but had later died in a cruise liner sinking.  If he really got there, they agreed, he would test the effect of the experiment on history by placing an ad using the code name,  Troy Donahue.  Then he was out.
	He awoke in a pineapple field.  It was dawn; the east was gilding, and a sweet breeze blew off the Everglades.  As he walked toward a road he noticed some homes under construction; a sign proclaimed, “Miami Shores - America’s Mediterranean.”
	 Winword and the professor had argued about the effect of human will on history, but, as this trip was mental, he was sure his will could affect his own mind.  He’d studied and memorized the currency of the 1920s, especially the thousand-dollar bill.  Now he jammed his hand into his pocket, and, as he’d pictured, withdrew one hundred of them.
	Catching a ride on a milk wagon, he arrived downtown where his bank deposit was extremely well received without any 1990s-style drug money questions.  He then stopped at a haberdasher,  a jeweler, and a luggage shop where he outfitted himself with the finest, arriving finally by taxi at the Royal Palm Hotel.
	The date on the desk register was September 20, 1925.  As he followed the bellhop to his suite, Winword noticed heads turning.  Alone in his room, the full-length mirror showed that his other effort at creative mind-setting had paid off equally well.  He appeared to be in his late twenties - still himself but with enough subtractions and strategic additions to qualify for the movies.
	The next week was fantastic.  His knowledge of the times let him fit in immediately, and his physical and financial assets gained him entree into a glittering social season.  He swam, sailed, golfed, and danced the nights away.  The crystalline fall sunlight, the unspoiled land, and the leisurely pace of life enchanted him.
	Two failed marriages had not prepared him for the type of female company he now attracted.   In particular,  Miss Astrid Cullen, a woman of great beauty and wealth, seemed more than friendly with her glances.  Women like that might have smiled in his previous life but had always passed him by.  Astrid was different.  She seemed almost a part of him from the start.
	During a party at Villa Vizcaya , he found himself alone on an upstairs balcony.  As he took in the moonlit bay and the jasmine-scented night, Astrid appeared at his side.  Their embrace and kiss told him he had found the love of his life, a love so profound it might defy death itself.  Their passion was consummated on Mr. Deering’s plush Persian rug and in their rooms and on deserted beaches in the weeks that followed.  Time ceased to exist for them.
	As the professor injected the antidote into the intravenous tube, he marveled at the waves the encephalogram was producing.  They showed a state of ecstasy he hated to interrupt.  Still, he was afraid to leave Winword under too long. 
	Winword’s eyes flickered then opened wide in panic then he vanished.  Instead of standing by the gurney, the professor was seated at his desk, wondering who would be the first volunteer for his project. 
  	No memory of Harmon Winword remained for anyone.  The only clue that he might have existed was a yellowed article in the November 14, 1925,  Miami Daily News which stated, “Socialite, Miss Consuelo Waldorf, was found drowned on Miami Beach this morning.  Suicide is suspected.  Friends report that the Waldorf heiress, traveling incognito as Astrid Cullen, was increasingly despondent about  the disappearance last week of her friend, wealthy playboy Troy Donahue.  Miss Waldorf was engaged to marry New York industrialist Vincent Vandengilt later this fall.”