Forsyte's Retreat

He dashed the sand jar through the window, chipped off the jagged edges with his heel and climbed out. It was a twenty-foot drop to security, and he made it without hesitation. What could a man hope to do with a mess like —

Spang! His feet struck, not with a crunch on gravelled tar, but into a springy fabric that sagged under his 180 pounds, tossed him six feet in the air, caught him on the rebound and then juggled him down with diminishing bounces.

They were waiting for him, as he regained his feet on the quivering surface of a spring-loaded, canvas trampoline. The bright, mid-morning sun blinded him for an instant, but their voices assailed his ears in a mighty roar of approval as he squinted under his hand and peered around him.

"Attaboy, Sexy," a shrill female voice piped. The roof-top was jammed with a pressing throng of – nearly naked people. In the cleared semi-circle about him a cordon of male bodies-beautiful restrained the mob behind a rope from which a long streamer hung with letters reading:

"WELCOME, SEXTUS, TO 2153 A. D."

Reaching over the edge of the canvas platform with outstretched hand was a single, willowy, sun-baked oldster in a purple loin-cloth. His hair and beard were a dazzling white, and his face was wreathed in a silly smile, the kind officials always wear when presenting the keys to the city.

He shuffled his white kid sandals and spoke with an accent: "Welcome to 2153, Sextus Rollo Forsyte! California salutes you!"

Somewhere down on the street a raucous brass band broke into the Stars and Stripes Forever that quickly medlied into California, Here We Come!

Sextus shrank back against the wall and felt ancient bricks crumble into dust against his hands. The magnitude of his disaster crushed in upon shrinking soul, and as his nimble imagination grasped the stunning significance every molecule of his being vibrated with horror. He had been warned not to open a window.

"You have fulfilled the legend," the old man sang joyously. "You are a famous man." How famous, Sextus was forced to acknowledge as a television boom snaked over the heads of the crowd trailing a wisp of cable and cast its baleful, glassy eye full into his face.

"Two hundred years to the day, as my great-great-grandfather predicted. I am Clark Bradford, direct descendent of – "

Sextus stared wildly up at the open window. He bounced once experimentally. It was a fine trampoline, and he flipped a foot off the surface. Next bounce he flexed his knees a little and gained another foot. Now he doubled up purposefully.

The one-man-delegate in purple frowned. "Stop that. We are here to welcome you and start the celebration at the Hollywood Bowl and – Stop that, I say!" Now he sensed Sextus' incredible intent. "Officer, help out here, please!"

A bulgy, bronzed fellow clad mainly in an immaculately white brassard left the rope barrier and joined Bradford.

The Elder screamed, "You can't go back, Forsyte! Don't you understand? You disappeared two centuries ago when the vector field collapsed. You can't go back! You can't! This is your destiny!"

Sextus' heels soared five feet above the canvas and gained precious altitude with each spring, but it was a precarious business the higher he went. One slip and he'd glance off at a tangent and be captured by those reaching, grasping obscene hands in the crowd. The thought almost unseated his reason.

The police officer asked Bradford, "What would happen if he did go back?" Then he added, "Ain't he got a right to?"

Bradford shuffled nervously. "I don't quite know. We never considered such a – my God! Stop, man, stop. You'll change the whole course of history! Stop him!"

The barelegged minion tried, but as he climbed up on the edge of the trampoline Sextus bounced and kicked out with accuracy and determination. The policeman sprawled back clutching air, and the crowd roared.

One more bounce and a half twist, now. Sextus soared up, up, and his hands touched the sill.

With the agility of desperation he clawed up and through the paneless window.

"You don't know what you are doing," the old man screeched. "Stay here and you'll be famous. If you go back it is to oblivion. Oblivion! Very, well, go back! Go back, you – you nonentity!"

"You bet," Sextus panted to himself and tumbled onto the carpeted fourth floor hallway of the Mahoney-Plaza hotel.

Instantly, another voice, but without accent, accosted him shrilly from down the hall. "You, there. You mister manager." Sextus sighed mightily with relief. It was only Miss Genevieve Hafner holding a pimply-faced, red-haired youth by the ear.

True, Gary Gable and two hair-pulling, female starlets bore down right behind her, and rooms along both sides of the corridor were disgorging eddies of indignant displaced persons.

But these were things he understood. These were just beefs. Somewhat more involved than usual, but nothing much worse than a full-fledged convention at mid-night.

He adjusted his mashed carnation, brushed the crumbles of old brick dust from his morning coat and moved into the fray.

"Now, now, Miss Hafner! What are you up to this time?"