April 2019, Issue No. 7 TIME TRAVEL NEXUS PRESENTS . . .
The Time Professor
by Ray Cummings
transcribed from Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 8, 1921
—Today’s story by Ray Cummings begins with our hero, Tubby Maguire, engaged in a heated after-dinner discussion, which is quickly followed by a fantastic adventure and a definite dose of time travel. Sound familiar? It should if you read the H. G. Wells story “The Man Who Could Work Miracles” (right here, last month!). Apparently, this Cummings story wasn’t his first to take a cue from from Wells, nor was it his first Tubby story or the first to include his aphorism that “time is what keeps everything from happening at once.”* Still, I know you’ll enjoy the story, and as a challenge, see if you can spot the exact moment when the backward time travel occurs.
See you after the story!
* which most likely first appeared in Cummings’s novella, “The Girl in the Golden Atom” (All-Story Weekly, March 15, 1919), although I haven’t yet been able to verify the line directly from the original 1919 source.
UBBY PUSHED HIS COFFEE-CUP AWAY from him ‘and stared at his questioner aggressively.
“’Tain’t so,” he declared.
“I ain’t saying it is. I’m telling you what the book said. ‘Time has no beginning and no ending.’ That’s what it said. ‘No beginning and ending.’” He rolled out the phrase pleasantly.
“Tain’t so,” Tubby repeated. “Anyway, it’s all a fool argument.”
“He’s right on that, Jake,” the second man put in. “It ain’t got much sense, none of it.”
They were sitting over their dinner at a little table on a gingerbread terrace of stucco. A string of colored electric-light bulbs stretched above them. Behind was the restaurant. Over the ornate parapet beside them Coney Island lay spread out, gaudy and alluring. The lights of a huge Ferris wheel loomed up into the sky; the splash of the “shoot-the-shoots” mingled with the music of a “merry-go round” near at hand. A gentle breeze off the ocean fanned their flushed faces; it was a hot summer night, and they had eaten over-heavily.
The first man returned to the attack.
“Who said it had sense? I didn’t. I said I read it in print. ‘Time has no beginning and no ending.’ That’s all I said.”
“You’re right, Jake. That’s all you said,” agreed the second man.
“And furthermore, and in the next place,” the first man went on complacently, “you ain’t got no knowledge to say it ain’t so. You don’t even know what time is. Do you, now?”
“Huh?” said Tubby.
“I said you don’t even know what time is. Do you? Say, what’s the matter with you? Are you deaf?”
Tubby blinked up his heavy eyelids with an effort. “No, I ain’t deef. I heard you.”
“He says he heard you, Jake,” said the second man.
“I do know what time is,” Tubby declared. He paused. “Time,” he added slowly— “time is what keeps everything from happening at once. I know that—I seen it in print, too.”
The first man stared in awe.
“Ain’t I right?” added Tubby. He saw his advantage and pushed it. “I ast you. Ain’t I right, or am I? That’s all.”
“He’s right, Jake,” said the second man.
Tubby sat up with dignity, enjoying his victory. “And furthermore,” he continued impressively, “Time has got beginning and ending, and I can prove it.”
“He says he can prove it, Jake,” the second man elucidated.
“Ain’t every minute got sixty seconds?” Tubby demanded.
“Yes,” the first man admitted reluctantly.
“And ain’t every hour got sixty minutes?”
“Course it has,” said the first man. “Go on.”
“Then when you come to the first minute you begin the hour, and when you use up the last minute you come to the end of the hour. Don’t you?”
“You do, Jake,” said the second man. “Well, then,” said Tubby triumphantly, “an hour is time, ain’t it? And if it has a beginning and a ending, then time has too. Hasn’t it? That’s logic. Ain’t I right?”
“He’s right, Jake,” said the second man. The first man passed his hand over his eyes wearily. “I ain’t saying what I think,” he began.
“And furthermore, and notwithstanding,” Tubby went on. “And besides that and in the next place—”
The first man threw down his napkin and rose to his feet. “I’m going,” he declared. “We’re all through here.”
They left the restaurant and mingled with the joyous crowd in the street below. “What’ll we do?” asked the first man. He looked at his watch. “It’s twenty to nine. We ain’t got much time.”
A raucous voice reached them from over the heads of the crowd. “Come on in, gents and ladies. Step right in and see the marveleous monster—ten cents, with his head where his tail ought to be. Right from the banks of the Limpopo River—the great, gray, green, greasy Limpopo River, gents. Thirteen feet from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail, and thirteen feet back again, making a grand total of tweeenty-six feet.”
“Bunk,” said the first man. “Come on over here.”
A huge lurid red electric sign stared down at them.
“Let’s try that,” Tubby suggested.
“That might be good,” the second man agreed.
They pushed forward and bought their tickets.
A narrow stream of smooth-flowing water rippled past, carrying little blunt-nosed, flat-bottomed boats at intervals into the yawning, black throat of a tunnel. They waited, and finally clambered into an empty boat and settled themselves comfortably. Tubby sat alone on the front seat; its soft leather cushions pillowed him luxuriously. He sighed and rested his head against the back of the seat. The boat started off, sliding forward silently in the sluggish current. They turned a comer; the boat grated gently against the wooden side of
the mill-race and entered Stygian blackness.
Tubby blinked confusedly. Then he sighed again and closed his eyes. It was all very calm and peaceful. The lapping water soothed him; a cool breeze from down the tunnel fanned his moist forehead.
A finger pressed into the back of his neck.
“Don’t go to sleep,” whispered a voice behind him. “We’ll be in hell in a minute.”
“Don’t let him go to sleep, Jake,” another voice whispered anxiously.
They rounded another corner. Tubby opened his eyes. Off to the left a red glow lighted up the gray canvas rocks. They floated forward into a vast cavern, lighted by red fires that Tubby could not see. The smell of sulfur was in the air. Tubby coughed and shook himself, a little thrill of fright running down his spine. Somebody was sitting beside him. That was funny, he had thought he was alone on the seat.
He turned toward his companion. It was a man—the longest, thinnest man Tubby had ever seen. He sat hunched forward, his back bent like a question-mark. His feet were jammed against the front of the boat and his knees extended upward
almost to his chin.
Tubby felt very sorry for this fellow voyager. He looked so uncomfortable.
“You can’t see very well over them knees, can you?” he whispered solicitously.
The man turned slowly toward him. Tubby thought he had never seen so sad a face before. It was long and thin, and seamed with folds of loose skin. It needed a shave, Tubby thought; and its eyes were pale and watery looking. A thin wisp of scraggly hair was above the face; and below protruded a perfectly enormous Adam’s apple. Tubby stared at it fascinated, for it bobbed up and down as though the man were swallowing rapidly.
“I don’t want to see—particularly,” said the man softly. His voice was deep and throaty—so throaty Tubby thought he was going to cry.
“I’m not interested in seeing this—I’ve been waiting to see you.”
He was crying. In the lurid red light Tubby could see plainly two big tears that rolled down the seams of his leathery face; and the Adam’s apple bobbed even more furiously.
Tubby swallowed hard. He put out his hand and touched the man’s elbow—a round, bony knob underneath the sleeve of his black alpaca coat.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come no sooner,” he whispered back sympathetically.
The man smiled sadly. His thin blue lips parted and showed Tubby two yellow teeth placed diagonally opposite each other above and below.
“We needn’t be sorry now,” said the man. “You’re here at last, and I’m glad.” He caught one of the tears on his finger-tip and wiped it off on his sleeve.
“Yes,” said Tubby. “I’m here, Mister—Mister—”
“My name is Waning Glory,” said the man. “I’m a professor.”
“Mine is Tubby. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Waning.”
“Not Waning. Call me Glory.” Two other tears welled out from under his red eyelids.
“Mr. Glory,” Tubby hastened to correct. “Pleased to meet you.”
His, companion looked relieved. They shook hands. Tubby could feel the bony fingers crack under his grasp.
“I’m a professor,” the man repeated impressively. “A Professor of Time.”
“Of what?” asked Tubby.
“A Professor of Time. That’s why I’ve been waiting to see you.”
Tubby pondered this a moment. “Why have you been waiting to see me?”
“Because you are the only man in the world who can appreciate me.”
“I do,” said Tubby. “Why should I?”
“Because I am a Time Professor. And you and I are the only living beings who know what Time is.”
Tubby’s chest expanded. “I know. Time is what keeps everything from happening at once.”
.
The professor’s taloned hand rested lovingly on Tubby’s fat little shoulder. “You are so very clever. It has been worth waiting for you so long. We are two sympathetic souls. We will become rich and famous together—you and I.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “How?”
“I’ll tell you. And you must listen very closely. I am a very wonderful man. I’ve made the greatest discovery since the beginning of the world.”
We’re both wonderful,” said Tubby. “What did you discover?”
The professor stood up, balancing himself gingerly in the little boat. “First we must go ashore,” he said. “I can tell you better there.”
They had reached the center of an enormous cavern. Red sulfurous fumes issued from the rocks all about. The professor gripped a rock as they passed, and stopped the boat. In a moment more they were ashore and the boat had floated on out of sight around another bend.
“This looks like hell,” said the professor. He smiled, then frowned with concern. “Excuse me. I was not swearing. I mean—”
“It is hell,” Tubby interrupted. “I paid ten cents to get here.”
They sat down on the ground with their backs against the rock. The professor folded himself up like a jack-knife with his face against his knees.
“All my life,” he began slowly. “Ever since I was a little boy, I have been studying to find out what Time really is. You and every one else on earth are its slaves. It controls you; it rules your life—and in the end it kills you. Do you follow me?”
“Yes—no,” said Tubby.
The professor went on in the same monotonous voice. “I wanted to conquer Time; but first I had to understand its elements. I have done that. I know all about it now.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “What good does it do you?”
The professor hugged his knees closer. “You are a practical man. I like practical men. But first I must make you understand the elements of Time.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “Go on.”
The professor lifted his head and fixed his pale eyes on Tubby’s face. “You must listen carefully. First I want you to conceive Time as a river flowing ceaselessly past, always at the same rate of speed. There is the river.” He pointed at the little mill-race babbling at their feet.
Tubby nodded.
“This River of Time comes from the Beginning and flows onward to Eternity. We sit on the bank and watch it pass—the passing of Time. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “Go on.”
“Now on this River of Time there are boats floating along with its current. These boats are all the same distance apart, and they never change their positions.”
“How far apart?”
The professor smiled again. “That depends. The boats mark the passage of Time. Some are for the seconds—little ones—others for the minutes, hours, days, and so on. But they are always the same distance apart. Now do you understand?”
“No—yes,” said Tubby. “Go on.”
“These boats are started on their voyage by the Creator. Each of them carry events—the things that are going to happen. These coming events float down the River of Time until they reach the place on earth where they are predestined to act. Then they leave the boat, and the events occur on earth.”
Tubby frowned “I ain’t with you now.” “
I shall be more explicit,” said the professor. “You see the boats there on the river?”
Tubby noticed now an endless procession of shadowy little shapes floating past. He nodded.
“Now let us take the event of your birth, for instance. The Creator decided, let us suppose, that you were to be born on a certain minute of the—”
“December third,” said Tubby.
“December third, of the year—”
“Eighteen eighty-five,” Tubby prompted him.
“All right,” said the professor. “Now, then, we’ll say you were to be born exactly at noon on—”
“Midnight,” Tubby corrected. “Exactly at midnight.”
The professor shifted his feet and frowned. “You’re a methodical man. I like methodical men. Let us get on.
“When the Creator decided you were to be born at midnight on December third, eighteen eighty-five at—”
“Tomsville, New Hampshire,” said Tubby.
“—He put the event of your birth in the boat that was destined to reach that place at that exact time. For countless eons that boat floated onward until at that moment of that day it reached Tomsville—and you were born.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “I was born at Tomsville.”
“Now further up the river—how far we do not know—there is another boat bearing the event of your death. When it reaches the predestined place at the predestined time, you will die. Then you will step into the boat and float on down into eternity. Do you understand?”
“Yes—no,” said Tubby.
The professor went on imperturbably. “Now between those two boats—your birth and death—is the allotted span of your life. The River of Time passes you with its events that make up your life—until your death comes along.”
Tubby shivered.
“No wonder you are afraid,” said the professor kindly. “It is a very awesome subject, because the passing of the River of Time is inexorable—when you are on the bank.”
The professor paused.
“Yes?” said Tubby at length.
“You do not follow me, I see. I implied that in order to stop the passing of time you must float with it down the river.”
“Oh,” said Tubby.
“You see, if you are in one of those boats ”—the professor indicated one of the shadowy shapes drifting by—“you will float along and always stay ahead of your death—just as far ahead as you were at the instant you got in.”
“Right,” said Tubby. “How do you get in?”
The professor sat up very straight. “Your mind works very direct,” he said approvingly. I like that. You have reached the point exactly. How do you get on the River of Time without being unborn or having died? That is my great discovery.”
“Tell me?” urged Tubby.
The professor’s pale eyes burned; he held himself tense to keep from trembling with emotion. “Many learned men have known how to go forward in time—that takes you into the future.”
“I know,” Tubby interrupted. “I seen books on that.”
“And other great men have told how to go backward in time—that takes you into the past.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. They went forward and backward in time. Which way do you go?”
The professor drew a long breath.. “I—I go sidewise,” he said slowly.
Tubby stared.
“You see what a wonderful man I am. I follow nobody. I am original. I go sidewise in time. Nobody ever did that before.”
“No,” said Tubby. “How do you do it?”
“I will show you. That’s better than telling. Do you want to go sidewise in time with me—now?”
Tubby hesitated. “Does it hurt?”
The professor laughed—a rumbling laugh that seemed to come from the very depths of his insides. “No, of course it doesn’t hurt.” He pulled a little glass vial from his pocket.
“These little pellets,” he said, “contain a chemical I have compounded. They act upon the human body in such a way that it is freed from the shackles of time.” He drew out his watch. “It is now one minute of nine. At nine o’clock we will take this powder. As long as its effect lasts the time will remain exactly nine o’clock for us—it cannot get even one second later.”
“Right,” said Tubby. “Let’s do it.”
Tubby held the watch, and as its second hand came round to the top he hastily swallowed the little pellet. The professor did likewise.
The pellet tasted sweet—a pleasant taste. Tubby felt his head reel, and he clutched at the professor to steady himself. After a moment he looked at the watch.
“It’s stopped,” he said.
It was still exactly nine o’clock. He held the watch to his ear; there was no sound of its ticking.
The professor was sitting close beside him in a shadowy, vague-looking boat. Tubby looked down at his own legs. They were shadowy, too. He held out his hand; its outlines were blurred, and he seemed to be able to see through it.
He grinned. “That’s funny. I’m a ghost. You’re a ghost too—we’re, both ghosts.”
“We are in a state of suspended animation,” explained the professor gravely.
“I can move,” said Tubby. He wiggled his nebulous fingers to prove it.
“You think you can move. But it is only your intelligence that is alive. Your body is dead—temporarily. You have left it far behind you.”
Tubby noticed now a great wind that was whistling and roaring past his ears. He felt no sense of movement—the boat seemed quite still; but he knew he was rushing onward at tremendous speed. Around him all was blackness; only the phosphorescent blurs of the boat, the body of the professor, and his own body, were visible”
“Where we going?” he asked after a moment.
“We are following nine o’clock,” said the professor. “It travels very fast, but we are staying with it.”
Tubby pondered this.
“You do not understand longitude and its relation to time, I see,” the professor went on gently. “We were in Coney Island when nine o’clock reached there, weren’t we?”
Tubby nodded.
“Well, what time was it then in—say Chicago?”
“I don’t know,” said Tubby. “What time was it?”
“It was only eight o’clock,” the professor explained patiently. “An hour afterward it will be nine o’clock in Chicago. The nine o’clock boat gets there just as the ten o’clock boat is reaching New York. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “We’re in the nine o’clock boat. Ain’t I right?”
“Exactly. And we are moving westward at the rate of about a thousand miles an hour. When we have been here an hour we’ll reach Chicago. But it will still be only nine o’clock. That’s longitude and time. That’s because the earth rotates on its axis at that speed. We are not moving, really. The earth is simply rotating under us. We are detached.”
“Oh,” said Tubby. He looked at the blackness around. “Won’t we see anything?”
“Yes,” answered the professor. “When the first effect of the pellet wears off we will see a little. You must be patient.”
Tubby sat quiet, listening to the roar of the wind. It seemed ages before the professor spoke again.
“Suppose you were destined to die at ten o’clock to-night? That boat is an hour behind us—it can never reach us now, so long as we sit here. And you will be immortal. You see how wonderful my discovery is?”
“I don’t want to be immortal,” said Tubby, “if nothing ever happens to me and I can’t never see nothing.”
The professor smiled gently and took the watch from Tubby’s hand.
“You will see many things. Be patient. Now I’ll show you something else.”
He held the watch up in front of Tubby’s face and then let go of it. The watch hung there, motionless in mid air.
“Why don’t it fall?” asked Tubby.
“It is falling,” the professor answered. “At one second past nine o’clock it will strike the ground. But it’s still only nine o’clock exactly, you know.” Reaching for the watch he replaced it in his pocket.
There was another long silence which seemed interminable to Tubby. He sat staring straight before him, trying to pierce the darkness into which he was rushing headlong. A little gray seemed opening up ahead; Tubby held his breath. The gray spread until it mottled the black—making huge, misshapen shadows in the distance. He turned to the professor, whose glowing, luminous body wavered beside him.
“I see something,” he whispered. But the professor only smiled and motioned him to look ahead again.
The shadows began to take form, until at last Tubby could make out the indistinct, gray outlines of a landscape—a countryside with trees and rivers, farmhouses here and there, and occasionally a town. He was looking down as though from a great height. There did not seem to be movement to the scene, yet it changed continually like dissolving pictures in a magic lantern.
“Where are we?” Tubby asked finally.
“We are approaching Chicago,” said the professor. “See the lake there?”
Tubby saw the placid silver waters of Lake Michigan as though the moonlight were on it; and then the gray of a great city beneath him.
“This beats a airplane,” he murmured ecstatically. “Can’t we go down?”
The professor nodded. “It takes great will-power,” he said. “But I think I can hold us here in Chicago a moment.” He pressed his finger-tips against his forehead. Tubby could see he was thinking hard.
“Why, they’re just like wax figures in the Eden Musee,” said Tubby, surprised. “I seen them there when I was a kid.”
He and the professor were walking down a crowded city street. Tubby stared in amazement. The people were there—trolley-cars, taxicabs and everything—and all frozen into immobility. “Like a movie when it stops” Tubby thought.
A man and a girl were standing on the corner. The man’s mouth was open in the middle of a word and the girl’s face was fixed in a set smile. Tubby did not see them at first, and inadvertently walked directly through them. He turned apologetically, but they did not move a muscle.
“They didn’t see me,” he said to the professor. “I guess I’m a ghost all right.”
“You’re a detached intelligence,” said the professor. “They might see a ghost, but they can’t see us, of course. We’re not going to be here even a millionth of a second—not any time at all, in fact.”
“That ain’t very long,” said Tubby.
A huge jeweler’s clock stood before him; its hands pointed to nine o’clock.
“See that?” said the professor. “It’s only eight o’clock now in Denver—it’ll be none o’clock when we get there.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “We’re speedy. It don’t take us no time at all to get places.”
The professor again put his fingers to his forehead. “My head hurts,” he said querulously. Tubby thought he was going to cry again. “I can’t hold us here I—”
“Them’s mountains. What mountains?” Tubby asked, looking down over the side of the boat.
“The Rocky Mountains,” answered the professor. “It’s nine o’clock down there in Denver. We’ll be out to the Coast soon.”
The vague blur of the mountains swept beneath them. The Pacific Ocean came into view. It seemed to Tubby hardly a moment before they were over it. He turned to the professor. He felt very light and queer somehow, as though he didn’t weigh anything. He wondered how he kept from blowing away in this violent wind.
“Where we going?” he asked.
“We’re following nine o’clock,” said the professor abstractedly.
Tubby frowned. “I know that. But where’s nine o’clock going? That’s what I want to know Ain’t that a fair question, or is it?”
The professor brought himself back with an effort. “Of course it is,” he said kindly. “I see you do not understand. I shall explain further.”
“The circumference of the earth is divided by geographers into three hundred and sixty degrees. Invisible lines—just for markers, you know.”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “They’re there but you can’t see them. Ain’t I right?”
“We are only concerned with the degrees of longitude,” the professor went on. “Longitude is the distance east or west of a certain line called Greenwich—England, you know. This line runs from the North Pole to the South Pole—through England, near London.”
“Right,” said Tubby.
“This meridian—all the north and south lines are called meridians—is the zero line—you start counting from there.”
Tubby nodded.
“Now, when you go westward it is west longitude—west from Greenwich. New York is about seventy-four degrees west longitude—less than one-quarter of the way around. Do you see?”
“Yes,” said Tubby. “Where are we now?”
“We’re nearly one hundred and eighty degrees now. That meridian runs through the Pacific Ocean. After we cross it we go into east longitude—one seventy east, one sixty east, and so on till we get back to Greenwich. Then we’ve been all the way around—three hundred and sixty degrees. Do you understand?”
“No—yes,” said Tubby. “How about nine o’clock?”
“Earth time starts at Greenwich,” said the professor. “When it was nine o’clock there it was one hour earlier fifteen degrees west—two hours earlier thirty degrees west, and so on. Every fifteen degrees makes a difference of one hour. That’s because there are twenty-four hours in a day, and fifteen times twenty-four is three hundred and sixty.”
“Correct,” said Tubby. “I knew that. How about nine o’clock?”
“We are going westward with nine o’clock,” the professor answered. “It goes right on around the world. We cross the one hundred and eighty degree meridian soon. We go back a day then.”
“Huh?” said Tubby.
“We lose a day,” the professor reiterated. “Don’t you see, when we get back to New York we will have used up twenty-four hours by the trip, but it will still be nine o’clock of the same evening we left. So of course we have to go back a day to allow for it.”
“Of course,” said Tubby. “If we didn’t it would be to-morrow. Ain’t I right?”
“You’re always right,” the professor agreed. “It’s a pleasure to explain things to you. He looked down over the side of the boat cautiously. “Further than I thought,” he said. “There’s Japan. We’ll be over North China in a moment.”
It seemed to Tubby they were no time at all crossing Asia. The professor pointed out the Black Sea to him soon after that; then Constantinople, Rome, Madrid; and then they were over the Atlantic, nearing their starting point.
The professor seemed to have fallen into his abstracted mood again. Tubby sat quiet. There wasn’t much room for them on the seat; he was glad they were wedged in so he couldn’t blow away. The wind was very strong; it made him cough. Or was it the smell of sulfur that made him cough? He did seem to smell sulfur again; it was very unpleasant.
Off to one side he became conscious of a red glow, lighting up the gray of the sky. The wind seemed to have died away to a gentle breeze. He heard the lapping of water underneath the boat. The red glow grew brighter; he saw indistinct, motionless forms near at hand.
“Why, them’s people,” he thought, a little surprised. He could see the outlines of the cavern now, with rocks all about, and lurid red sulfurous fires. And not far away he saw a group of silent figures—devils, holding a man on a pitchfork over a flaming pit.
Tubby felt a little frightened.
“Them’s only wax figures,” be muttered, to reassure himself. The professor would explain. He—Why, where was the professor?
Tubby put out his hand and felt the empty leather seat beside him. The boat bumped around a corner, out of the red glow and silence into the yellow glare of electric lights and a confused babble of voices.
Some one behind him stood up; a hand touched his shoulder.
“Some ride,” a voice said. “Come on, Tubby. It’s nine o’clock. Let’s see
something else.”
“We better hurry—it’s nine o’clock, Jake,” said the second man.
As you will have guessed, this is only one of many Tubby stories, and it’s the only one that I’ve read so far, although at least one other, “Tubby—Time Traveler,” takes Tubby through time.
As for the story at hand, when first approached the story (in one of my Grandpa Main’s old pulp magazines) with high anticipation. A story called “The Time Professor” just had to send somebody through time, didn’t it? But as the time adventure began, I wasn’t so sure: The professor described it as mere suspended animation, and even worse, the speed of their westward travel seemed to match the passage of time pretty closely. Maybe there was no time travel involved at all. But then they hit the 180° meridian:
That certainly cheered me up!
As for our May story, have you heard of the ground-breaking writer Ethel Watts Mumford? One of her 1901 stories was the first to ever tread a well-trod time travel trope, and we’ve got it for you next month (or will it be last month?). Well, whichever it is, I hope you’ll be here then to see what happened “When Time Turned”. And until then, keep on travelin’!
—Michael