Larger Font   Reset Font Size   Smaller Font  

The Amazing Mrs. Mimms

David C. Knight



  Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe August 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  [_"Long may the good lady serve us poor folks in the dim past," writes the author, who will be remembered for his_ THE LOVE OF FRANK NINETEEN _(Dec. 1957) and who feels that much of SF "misses" because it lacks the human angle. "I believe you can have gimmicks and human interest too," he writes._]

  the amazing mrs. mimms

  _by ... David C. Knight_

  Tea had a wonderful effect on her. Sipping it slowly, she felt the strength returning to her tired system.

  * * * * *

  There was a muffled rushing noise and the faintly acrid smell of ionelectrodes as the Time Translator deposited Mrs. Mimms back into theyear 1958. Being used to such journeys, she looked calmly about withquick gray eyes, making little flicking gestures with her hands as ifbrushing the stray minutes and seconds from her plain brown coat.

  The scene of Mrs. Mimms' arrival in the past was the rear of a largesupermarket, more specifically between two packing cases which hadonce contained breakfast foods. The excursion through time hadevidently been a smooth one for the smile had not once left Mrs.Mimms' rotund countenance during the intervening centuries.

  Two heavy black suitcases appeared to be the lady's only luggageaccompanying her from the future. These she picked up with a sharpgasp and made her way to the front of the shopping center around whichslick new apartment buildings formed a horseshoe.

  Mrs. Mimms was, as usual, on another assignment for Destinyworkers,Inc.

  It was early evening at the Greenlawn Apartments, a time supposedlyof contentment, yet Mrs. Mimms was quick to sense the disturbingvibrations in the warm air. She pressed through the crowds enteringand leaving the supermarket. A faint mustache of perspiration formedon her upper lip. No one offered to help her with the bags. With aprofessional eye Mrs. Mimms noted the drawn mouths, the tenseexpressions typical of the Time Zone and shook her head. Central asusual had not been wrong; the Briefing Officer himself had cautionedher on what poor shape the Zonal area was in.

  Jostling Mrs. Mimms on all sides were mostly young men and womenaccompanied by energetic, wriggling children of varying ages. Itsaddened Mrs. Mimms to see the premature lines forming in the youthfulmothers' foreheads, and the gray settling too quickly into the men'shair. Mrs. Mimms, who considered herself not quite in the twilight ofmiddle age, was just 107 that month.

  Outbursts of juvenile and adult temper grated harshly in theDestinyworker's ears. She witnessed a resounding slap and a child'scry of pain. A young mother was shouting angrily: "Couldn't _you_ havekept an eye on her? Do I have to watch her every minute?"

  Mrs. Mimms hurried swiftly on for there was much she had to do. Thenshe stopped abruptly before a small delicatessen. She entered and gavethe clerk her order:

  "One package of Orange Pekoe Tea, if you please. Tea _leaves_, notbags."

  There were definite advantages, thought Mrs. Mimms, in being assignedto any century preceding the Twenty-Third. Due to the increasing useof synthetic products in Mrs. Mimms' home-century the tea plant, amongother vegetation, had been allowed to become extinct. Ever since Mrs.Mimms' solo assignment to Eighteenth Century England, she had grownexceedingly fond of the beverage.

  Ten minutes later Mrs. Mimms, one of Destinyworkers' best CertifiedPriority Operators, reached the Renting Office of the GreenlawnApartments. "I do hope the Superintendent is still on duty," pantedMrs. Mimms, setting her bags down very carefully. "If the ResearchDepartment is correct--and it usually is--his hours are from 9 to6:30."

  It was one minute past 6:30 when Mrs. Mimms knocked.

  "Yeah?" boomed a disgruntled voice. "Come on in. It ain't locked."

  "Good evening," said Mrs. Mimms to a young man in work clothes seatedbehind a paper-strewn desk. "I hope it's not too late for you to showme an apartment tonight. It needn't be large. Two or three rooms willdo nicely. However, I have one stipulation."

  "We aim to please at Greenlawn, Ma'am--within reason--you understand."

  "I understand," replied the Destinyworker. "It is merely that theapartment should, as far as possible, be located in the central partof the building and on a middle floor--not too high or too low."

  "No problem there," said the super, consulting a board from which hunga number of keys. "Most of 'em want just the opposite--cornerapartments, views, top floor, Southern exposure. Here's one. Partlyfurnished. Young couple left for Europe. They want to sublet for therest of the lease."

  "I hope the rent is reasonable."

  It was. Mrs. Mimms received the news with apparent relief. Due to thehigh cost of Time Translation and maintenance of workers in otherZones, Destinyworkers, Inc., a non-profit organization, had to keepits overhead at a minimum.

  "This will do very nicely," Mrs. Mimms announced after inspecting theapartment. "I should like to move in at once." The superintendent thenbrought up his new tenant's suitcases, commented upon their weight,obtained Mrs. Mimms' signature on the preliminary lease and left.

  Even for younger Destinyworkers, time travel at best was an exhaustingbusiness. The bags _had_ been heavy, and Zonal Speech Compliance wasalways a strain at the outset of an assignment. Mrs. Mimms neededrefreshment. Finding a battered pot and a broken cup abandoned by theformer tenants, she heated water on the range and made herself somehot tea. Sipping it slowly Mrs. Mimms felt the strength returning toher tired system.

  Having eaten an early dinner in the future Mrs. Mimms was not hungry.The tea would be sufficient until tomorrow. She washed the cupcarefully, put away the pot and then unlocked one of her blacksuitcases. From it she extracted a small white card on which there wassome printing and a phone number at the bottom. Mrs. Mimms checked thephone number with the telephone in her new apartment; they were thesame. Research was almost _never_ wrong. Mrs. Mimms then took the carddown to the main floor and attached it to a bulletin board with fourthumbtacks. The message read:

  _Mrs. Althea Mimms_Professional Companion & Babysitter Rates Reasonable

  Back in her apartment, the time traveler opened the other suitcase. Itcontained a batch of weird-looking apparatus which faintly resembled atelevision set, although there were twice the number of dials andknobs. To the uninitiated eye the legends under them would have beenperplexing--"Month Selector," "Reverse Day Fast-Forward,""Weekometer," "Minute-Second Divider." To Mrs. Mimms however theinstrument was simply standard equipment for all assignments. Sheplaced it carefully on the desk in her living room and, one by one,drew out the five sensitive antennae from their sockets. Mrs. Mimmsdid not need to use the electrical outlet under the desk for new d-cion batteries had been installed whose combined guaranteed life wasfive years.

  It had grown somewhat late at Greenlawn--the hands of Mrs. Mimms'watch were nearing eleven--yet this did not deter her from flickingthe power on. She dialed to a position a few hours before on that sameevening and waited for the equipment to warm up. A roar of angrystatic and strident voices suddenly filled the room until Mrs. Mimmsquickly cut the volume. The outburst was definitely an indication thather work was cut out for her. Eyeing the red pilot indicator acrosswhich a ribbon of names was flashing she slowly twirled the MasterSelector. Images flickered and disappeared on the screen; thensuddenly Mrs. Mimms leaned forward anxiously. A living room much likeher own came into view and in it a man and a woman faced each othermenacingly. The pilot was flashing the name Randolph,
Apt. 14-B.

  Reducing the volume slightly, Mrs. Mimms listened:

  "You don't care, Bill Randolph. If you cared we could be out somewhereright now. My God, it's Saturday night. I'll bet the Bairds andSimmons are at a show right now. But not us. Oh, no. Honestly, I don'tthink you'd stir out of that chair if it weren't for your meals andthe office."

  "You're a great one to talk," snapped the young man. "Every time wedecide to line something up you get finicky about a sitter. How manytimes have we sat for Ruth Whatshername? And we're up at Ellen Fox's acouple of nights, too. Then our kid comes down with a cold orsomething and they're not good enough. No wonder we never get out."

  "Can I help it if Kenny takes after _your_ side of the family? You andyour