CHAPTER NINETEEN

Prime Time was a disappointment. Nate didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. The trouble was, it was so much like everyplace else. Everyplace else. It looked like you were standing in the middle of one of the big Thirties movie lots: Modern New York in one direction, ancient Rome in another; from out of the corner of your eye you saw a bit of old Tombstone, and with a turn of your head Nieuw Amsterdam. Except that the sets had gotten thoroughly mixed up. New York and Tombstone were intermixed with Rome and Nieuw Amsterdam. It should have been exciting. What made it disappointing was that somehow it looked like a set. Nate had the feeling that if he walked around to the back of the buildings, he’d see the braces holding them up.

The It was concealed in a large boulder that stood in a clearing in the uptown forest. Benjamin Franklin drove him up there in a chaise after breakfast, shook hands with him, wished him luck, told him to come back if he needed help, jotted down a design for a new leaf spring for the carriage he had invented on the ride up, then rode off. Nate threw the switch, and found himself in the middle of Central Park.

He was in a large roped-off area surrounded by a circle of posts about ten feet apart. Each post had a light fixture on top and a sign about halfway down, with two or three letters on it. The letters were in alphabetical order on the posts, going around toward the right. Beside each post was a small desk with a stool. A man wearing a blue uniform and a visored cap was sitting at the C-D-E desk. Two ducks, male mallards, were standing solemnly between the S-T and the U-V-W posts, staring at Nate.

After what seemed a long pause one of the ducks quacked briefly at the other and the two waddled off. The man said, “Go to your proper post, please. Have you filled out your customs declaration?”

Nate looked around. Except for the man and the retreating mallards, there was no other animate life in sight. So the man must be talking to him. “No,” he said. “Which post is proper?” He thought briefly about an improper post.

“State your name, comma, family,” the man said.

Nate thought about that for a moment. “Swift,” he said finally.

“Proceed to the S-T post and fill out the form you find on the desk,” the man told him. “Someone will be along presently to help you.”

Nate proceeded and found a pad of forms on the desk.

CUSTOMS DECLARATION

Prime Time

TO BE FILLED OUT UPON ENTERING PRIME TIME. PLEASE PRINT. ALTERNATE LANGUAGE FORMS ARE AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST.

Name, Family:

Name, Given:

Name, Additional:

Address:

State:

Country:

Zone*:

Sector*:

Present Sectorality:

Sectorality of Birth:

Sex

[ ] MALE

[ ] FEMALE

[ ] OTHER (specify)_________

Purpose of visit (be brief):

Proposed length of stay:

CIRCLE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING ITEMS IN YOUR POSSESSION:

ADHESIVES

ALCOHOL

ANIMALS (living, scopic)

ANIMALS (skins, hides, bones)

ART OBJECTS

CHEESE

DRUGS/MEDICINES

ELECTRICAL BATTERIES

EXPLOSIVES

FIREARMS

FIRECRACKERS

FIREWORKS

FRUIT

JEWELRY

LIBORIAN ATTITUDES

MECHANICAL DEVICES (wrist & pocket watches excepted)

MEDICAL INSTRUMENTS

PESCULES

PLANTS (scopic)

PLAYING CARDS

PROSTHETIC DEVICES OR ARTIFICIAL PARTS

RADIOACTIVES

SEEDS

SPRAY CANS

SUGAR YEAST (packaged)

HAVE YOU ANY ITEMS FOR SALE OR BARTER?

[ ] yes

[ ] no

HAVE YOU A PRIME BONDSMAN OR ASSURER?

[ ] yes

[ ] no

HAVE YOU ANY PHYSICAL ANOMALIES?

[ ] yes

[ ] no

HAVE YOU ANY MEDICAL ANOMALIES?

[ ] yes

[ ] no

IF YES TO EITHER OF THE ABOVE, YOU MUST FILL OUT A MEDICAL CHECK CARD AND KEEP IT WITH YOU FOREVER

*if you cannot otherwise identify your zone or sector, state the exact date, Gregorian, in your sector at this moment.

WHEN THIS FORM IS COMPLETE, PASS IT TO THE INSPECTOR AND ANSWER ANY QUESTIONS HE MAY HAVE. BE POLITE. BE BRIEF.

WELCOME TO PRIME

Nate filled out the form as best he could. He was surprised to discover that he had none of the listed items in his possession. The list made no sense to him, but what customs list ever makes sense to anyone? Why is it easier to import semi-automatic rifles into the United States than canaries?

The man with the visored cap eventually came over to Nate’s post and took the form. “Welcome to Prime, sir,” he said. “Have you any tobacco?”

“No,” Nate said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Pity,” the customs inspector said. “Have you ever been convicted of a major crime not involving moral turpitude?”

“Did you say not involving moral turpitude?” Nate asked.

“We don’t give a damn about your morals here,” the inspector said.

“Oh,” Nate said.

“About your convictions,” the inspector said.

“No, I have not.”

“Right,” the inspector said. “This purpose of visit: ‘To recover Constitution’. Could you expand on that a bit?”

“It was stolen,” Nate said. “I believe it is here on Prime—at Prime?—and I’m going to try to find it.”

“By what process do you intend to recover this document?” the customs official asked. “By the way, exactly which constitution is it? Whose, I mean?”

“The Constitution of the United States of America,” Nate said.

The inspector examined Nate’s form and did some computation in the margin. “I see,” he said. “The Constitution of the United States of America, Zone A-27, Sector 10.”

“Is that where I’m from?” Nate asked. “Or do I mean ‘when’?”

“I’ve made an arbitrary decision,” the customs agent said. “That’s what I’m paid for. Now: by what process do you intend to recover this document?”

Nate considered. “Sweet reason,” he said finally. “Or, if that fails, I may make a monetary offer.”

The customs officer considered that suspiciously for a long moment. “I don’t see how that would violate our laws,” he said. “You don’t intend using any violence or threats of violence? You don’t intend to attempt a theft of the document?”

“Of course not, sir,” Nate said. “What sort of man do you take me for?”

“Humph,” the customs agent said. “You may have a twenty-one day visa.” He pulled at a corner of the desk which unhinged and opened, revealing a new writing surface and a row of rubber stamps: big stamps, small stamps, complex readjustable stamps, date stamps, time stamps, status stamps, authorizing stamps, rejecting stamps, undecided stamps. Pulling a card from a stack in one of many cubbyholes, he printed some words on it with his pen and then started using the stamps with something approaching abandon. Finally he handed the card to Nate. “Keep this with you at all times. If you wish to extend your visit past the twenty-one days, apply at any post office. I should tell you that if you get into any trouble here you are subject to immediate transtemptation without formal proceedings. Travel to Prime Time is a privilege, not a right.”

“Transtemptation?”

“Work it out. You may go.”

Nate wandered out of Central Park into a Roman-Dutch-Highrise section of town, wondering what to do next. As far as he could tell there were three things he had to accomplish: one: get hold of Ves, two: get hold of the Constitution (of the United States of America, Zone A-27, Sector 10), three: get home. But first things first; he must find a restaurant. A small, unpretentious…

“Nate!”

He looked around.

“Nate, do you hear me?”

There was no one in sight…

“Nate, this is Ves. Are you there? Do you hear me?”

The transmitter! “I’m here, Ves. Ves, where are you?”

“Nate, this is Ves, do you hear me?”

Nate found the button in his lapel and squeezed. “Ves! I’m here! I’m here!”

“Nate this is…” there was a clicking sound, then a pause. Then a woman’s voice, with exceptionally fine diction, cut in. “Mr. Swift? Will you please hold the line for a second, I’ll be right with you.”

“Certainly,” Nate said. Then: “Huh?”