The Nostalgia Gene — Reading Companion

That was when Edgar decided to build a time machine.

It was two months before he touched a transformer or a capacitor and during that period he did nothing but try to answer the question, _What is time?_ How could he overcome it or change its flow or whatever had to be done?

He read everything he could find on the subject from Dr. Cagliostro to Dr. Einstein without gaining much insight. Many a midnight, when his neck muscles ached from trying to hold up his throbbing head, he caught himself dreaming of grandmother's wonderful stories. And every time he forced himself furiously back to the books, but he couldn't stop the nostalgia entirely. It was in him.

Eventually, Edgar came to think of time as an infinite series through which the Universe was constantly expanding. Something like a set of stop-motion photos taken microseconds apart, each complete, the changes becoming apparent only when they are viewed in sequence. He was wrong, of course, but that was unimportant.

Time must therefore be a function of human motion and consciousness, Edgar reasoned, and that _was_ important.

"That's it!" he exclaimed, and then apologized gracefully to the elderly gentleman glaring across the library table.

Now that he knew what his time machine must do, he could begin building, adapting circuits, experimenting. Obviously, consciousness could move forward through the series only; hence, consciousness must be completely suspended, as in death, to move back in time.

It required some heartbreaking months for Edgar to learn that brain waves couldn't be stopped, but that the simple trick of introducing random electrical noise suspended all the brain functions.

"Fudge!" cursed Edgar, thinking of the wasted time.

Only a man filled with the longing which obsessed Edgar could have found the aching perseverance and brain-wrenching ingenuity the job needed. Only a man driven by a terrible master that rode in his glands.

But four months later, he stood with his hand on a switch, sweating with nervous excitement as he eyed the spot from which a live rabbit had just disappeared. The rabbit was on the table, but he was there an hour ago and Edgar was here now, so the table appeared empty.

He pressed another switch and there was the bunny, wriggling its soft nose in perplexity, but perfectly healthy. Edgar's own trip, of course, would be strictly one way since the machine stayed in the present. He could be brought back only if he stepped into its field on a date for which the machine was set and he had absolutely no intention of venturing near this vicinity again, once his aim was accomplished.

He thought about arranging a small explosive charge to blow the equipment to what he thought of as The Hot Place. It seemed to him, however, that there was some kind of law against that sort of thing. Besides, even if the machine should come to the attention of the authorities, who would know what it was? He could devise a mechanical scrambler to change all the control settings once he was gone, and it was unlikely that anyone could operate it again.

Most likely the landlady would simply sell it for junk, especially if he left owing her a week's rent. The idea hurt his conscience.

"I know!" he exclaimed to himself. "I'll buy a bank check and arrange to have the bank mail it to her a month after I've left!"

He felt much better about that.

Three weeks later, Edgar Evans was the newest boarder at Mrs. Peterson's, on Elm Avenue in Greencastle, Indiana. He had arrived on April 3, 1893, the day after Easter, and already he was being referred to as "that nice young man staying at Emma's."

Edgar snuggled into the life of the '90s like a showgirl into mink. He went to work as a clerk in Cloud's Emporium and was soon regarded as logical choice for the next manager. Anxious mamas filled his evenings with dinner invitations and "at homes" and he had a dazzling choice of partners for the numerous socials.

Edgar waltzed his partners with zest and propriety, contributed a determined tenor at parlor sings, and sampled dozens of cakes and pies baked by maidens bent on winning his heart via the traditional route. And always he had a gracious compliment, an appropriate phrase for every situation.

Within a month, the entire feminine population of Greencastle was his for the asking, though he'd never have recognized nor admitted the fact. The men sought his company, too, and even asked his advice on how to win their girls back from him. Edgar, almost sick with happiness, told them, of course.