The day was expected to be hot. As hours went by the convention members were getting fidgety. The stifling heat was making the speeches unbearable. The crowd was getting irritable, and shirts started to stick to the skin. The only happy one was the manager of General Soda.
For this year’s venue, the MTA had opted for a big top; the organizers were wondering whether it was such a good idea after all.
For his part, Cecil Bancroft was happy to see the attendance. He was a few minutes away from presenting his work to the whole world. Five years of efforts. His time-traveling machine! His voice-activated anti-matter decoder was a wonder. The machine was a plexiglas sphere. Nothing like the previous inventions, cheap sci-fi gadgets.
The host of the event, Mrs Regina P Woodhouse—the Mrs Woodhouse of the Duluth Democratic Club—had immediately been swept off her feet by the machine, and had offered Cecil the honor to make the closing presentation.
This was a breakthrough that would mark this year’s event for all the guests. And with this heat, a breakthrough was welcome.
Several MDs had stood at the lectern, and now the president stepped to the microphone and with an emphatic gesture proudly announced “Mister Ce-cil Ban-croft!” With a birdlike clapping she made way to the star of her show, the finale.
“Ladies and gentlemen, well, gentlemen, ladies, and mesdemoiselles, I’m sorry I’m not much of a speaker”, he said clearing his throat, “I have the pleasure to show you the fruit of several years of research and experiment; for the first time a machine that will enable each of us to connect with one’s roots, and without any risk explore the mysteries of the past.”
He turned a hand to the curtain behind him that was swiftly drawn open, revealing a sort of glass bubble revolving on a podium. The people in the tent immediately responded with applause and admirative whistles.
“This explorator is absolutely safe. I have tested it myself, and I can assure you there are no side-effects. And to show you all how easy and reliable it is, I’m going to perform a demonstration right before your eyes!”
He stepped inside the bubble, pressed on a few buttons and switches. Then he stepped out. A few shouts were heard in the back. Everyone saw him take off his wrist watch, and gently place it on a table nearby. He stepped into the “explorator”—as he had called it—again, and just after a few seconds the amazed spectators could but notice that the machine and it occupant had disappeared from the podium. Completely evaporated. Gone.
The reactions of the crowd, the cheers and cries did not even reach Cecil’s ears as he was already years away in the nearby village of Proctor.
It was a rainy day. Cecil hurried to the ice-cream parlour he used to patronize. He walked in. A few customers were sitting in the booths and, Johnny, the waiter, didn’t even look up from behind the counter when he ordered a strawberry milkshake.
The waiter came up with a glass foaming with pink cream, he looked at Cecil with a strange frown, and asked, “excuse me sir, you look familiar... if I may… You have relatives here?”
“Not that I know of”, replied Cecil.
“Sorry, you just look like someone. A regular customer.”
“I am sorry, I’m a stranger here.”
Cecil left his unfinished milkshake and walked out. The drizzle was tolerable as he headed on to Vinland Street. A little clapboard house, grey and anonymous. He expected the place would be different, the trees, the bushes, the scents. But no, everything was just the same. For a moment he thought of going back, all this was a bad idea. So absurd. No way Cecilia would be behind the door to welcome him with a smile. He felt his heart beat strong in his chest, as if he was going to a first date. What was he to say?
He came up to the porch, and paused thinking he would not ring the bell, or knock. This was home. The door was not locked. He leaned on the door-frame, pushing the door open. He felt a pang in his chest. Not a noise inside. He stepped in. The pang grew more intense, almost painful with a strange sensation in his groin. He could have called “anyone home?”. He didn’t. There was no-one home. The house was empty. He walked to the kitchen. Some laundry was drying over the sink. Panties and a bra. He touched the place where the pain had started in his chest; his skin seemed softer, and a weird sensation grew that something was pushing his nipples from the inside. He had no sensation left in the graft between his legs. Could it be? Cecil started to sweat, “for heavens’sake, no, it can’t be” he said.
He hurried to the bathroom where what he saw in the mirror confirmed his horrible impression. He was becoming her again. The woman he had hated so much, so wanted to erase from his life. On his arms the hairs were becoming thinner and much lighter. He felt like he was being ripped from a wall, like old tapestry.
He dared not speak for fear that…
He sat down on the side of the tub, and took his head in his hands. He was shaking. Painful throbs were agitating his whole body.
Tears were coming to his eyes. He wanted to rush outside to the machine, away from all this. Back to where he came from. The big top, success, back to his life. He couldn’t move. He could see his breasts now, a good size, no doubt the graft would soon be rejected.
No time to lose. He had to get back to the machine, and get the hell out of here. What a stupid idea! What had gone through his head? He knew the system worked, he had tested it several times. Successfully.
He knew for a fact that he was her again. He was she. Never knew which.
Something else Cecil did not know yet; the voice-activated decoder responded only to a low range of frequencies solely emitted by males …
Some time later, elsewhere, the Minnessota Transexual Association decided to cancel the membership of a man who had attempted an extroardinary experiment, leaving a mixed impression of magic and disappointment, and a wrist-watch that was kept in a box, in a drawer somewhere in a tall building.
