By Lisa Timpf
Some people count their blessings. Ebenezer Scrooge preferred to count his money, and that’s exactly what he was doing as quitting time approached on Christmas Eve.
He’d programmed the holo-projector to display his wealth in a variety of ways—as thousand-dollar bills strewn on a king-sized bed, as bars of gold, or in today’s selected fashion, as stacks of Canadian two-dollar coins.
A cheerful “Halloo!” from the doorway interrupted Scrooge’s reverie.
He dismissed the holo-display with an abrupt swipe, revealing his nattily dressed nephew, Fred. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The Arctic underlay in Scrooge’s tone contrasted with the warmth in Fred’s. “I’ve come to invite you to Christmas dinner.”
“Humbug! You invite me every year. I decline every year. Why do you bother?”
“Because I haven’t given up on you.” Fred shook his head, grinning wryly.
“Speaking of giving up…” Scrooge gestured toward the glass wall that afforded a view of the lab. Bob Cratchit, Scrooge’s long-term tech, peered at a tablet. Along the far wall, a gleaming metal contraption, all angles and buttons and screens and blinking lights, hummed quietly. A subtle vibration—the device’s heartbeat—thrummed through the floor, discernible here in Scrooge’s office.
Fred gulped. “You’re not thinking of stopping work on the Temporal Interface Machine? But… that’s Bob’s baby!”
Scrooge shrugged. “TIM sounded good on paper, but I can’t see it producing much income.”
Fred sputtered. “How do you put a dollar value on something like TIM?”
“Exactly! If you could use it to physically jump into the past to make a certain investment, place a certain bet—now that would be of value. But TIM just lets you see the past without being able to influence it. Where’s the worth in that?”
Fred rubbed his chin. “Could universities use it for history courses?”
“Universities couldn’t afford TIM.”
“Could it help dementia patients by evoking memories?”
“Pah. Not much money there either.”
“Money! Is that all you think about?” Fred shrugged, then turned for the door. “Like I said, you’re welcome to come by tomorrow.”
“Humbug.”
After Fred left, Scrooge scowled at TIM. What would my old partner Jake Marley say about all this?
He’d call me a fool for not pulling the plug sooner.
###
As he floated through the sky in the company of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, Scrooge raised a hand to his head. This couldn’t be happening.
But it was.
It’d all started with Marley’s visit. Just thinking about seeing his old partner in ghostly form made Scrooge shudder.
Declaring a need for Scrooge to change his ways, Marley’s ghost had launched him on a series of adventures that caused him to question his own deeply held convictions about the value of money to the exclusion of all else.
Feeling his momentum slowing, Scrooge looked down. We’re landing again.
He and the ghost came to rest in a small, cluttered office. A slim man stood nearby with his hands on his hips. “That’s the scrap metal dealer,” Scrooge said.
A second man pushing a handcart loaded with jumbled metal walked into the room and said, “That’s the last of the lot.”
“Mitchell,” Scrooge whispered to the ghost. “He was the superintendent at the building that housed our office and lab space.”
The dealer peered at the cart. “Looks like high-grade stuff. It’s not stolen, is it?”
“Scrooge died without a will,” Mitchell said. “His estate’s caught up in the courts. Nobody’s paying the back rent.” He kicked at the cart. “I’m hoping whatever you give me for this junk will cover what’s owed.”
The dealer donned Kevlar gloves and examined the metal.
Scrooge drifted closer. That gauge looks familiar. And those levers—wait. It’s TIM!
Somehow, after all the tribulations he’d been through with the spirits, all the things he’d seen, all the regrets that had been fomented, this hit him the hardest. TIM had seemed so—no other word could describe it—so alive, vibrant with potential. And now to see TIM reduced to scrap…
He turned to the ghost and fell to his knees. “Please, tell me this is only the shadow of things to come. Please tell me things can change.”
###
The morning after Boxing Day, Scrooge rubbed his hands together as he paced his office.
Scrooge had enjoyed a merry enough time at Fred’s house, having accepted his nephew’s dinner invitation after all. But he had reason to hope today would be even better.
I can’t wait to see Bob’s face when he hears the plan!
Cratchit scuttled into the lab twenty minutes late, diving for his desk in a desperate rush.
Scrooge stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “We need to talk about TIM.”
He’d surprised Cratchit, who leaped out of his chair. “T-Talk?”
“Yes.” Scrooge tried for a scowl, just to keep Cratchit on his toes, and failed. He settled for a neutral expression. “I’d like you to consult with people in the medical field. See if they think there’s a way for TIM to help dementia patients.”
“Dementia patients?” Cratchit’s jaw sagged.
“For starters. We’ll talk to the universities next, about classroom applications. Perhaps TIM could even assist with legal aid cases.”
“But—you said—”
“I was wrong.” Scrooge jerked his head toward TIM. “I’ve come to realize that TIM might do good things. Important things. Useful things.”
“What about profit?” Cratchit’s expression remained wary.
“What about it?” Scrooge chuckled. “I’ve got enough money to last two lifetimes. Maybe it’s not too late to do something worthwhile with it.”
Bob sank into his chair.
“Wait—you are willing to keep working here, aren’t you?” Scrooge held his breath. Bob would be a prize for any employer. Why didn’t I realize that before?
A glassy-eyed Cratchit nodded.
He’s still trying to process everything, Scrooge thought. I shouldn’t.
But I will.
“Before we get back to work, how do you feel about a raise?”
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Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
While it would certainly be interesting to see David battle Goliath, or Elijah on Mount Carmel, or the risen Christ walk out of the tomb, I personally know my most frequent use of a TIM would be to look back 5 minutes in history to see where I lost my keys. WHERE ARE THEY??!