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September 2006
The Great Time Machine
Hoax
Keith Laumer
"We'll need a mobile speaker," Chester said to the computer.
There was a faint sound behind them. Chester turned. A young girl stood
looking around as if fascinated by the Victorian decor. She caught Chester's
eye and stepped around to stand before him, a slender, modest figure
wearing a golden suntan and a scarlet hair ribbon.
Chester gulped audibly. Case dropped his cigar.
"Mr. Chester," the computer said, "the mobile speaker you requested is
ready."
Chester gulped again.
"Hi!" Case said, breaking the stunned silence.
"Hello," said the girl. Her voice was melodiously soft. She reached up to
adjust her hair ribbon, smiling at Case and Chester. "My name is Genie."

contents
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

THE GREAT TIME MACHINE HOAX
Copyright й 1963, 1964 by Keith Laumer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for the
inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.
This printing: July 1978 Printed in U.S.A.

For Janice
1
^ ╗
A LIGHT RAIN spattered against the bubble-canopy of the helicar, obscuring
the view of the terrain below. Chester W. Chester IV set the controls on
HOVER and pressed his nose against the cold plastic, peering down at the
brown tents and yellow-painted vehicles of the Intercontinental Wowser
Wonder Shows, drab against the spread of gray-green meadow. To the left,
the big top bellied wetly under a gusty wind; next to it, Chester could make
out the tiny figures of roustabouts double-pegging the long menagerie tent.
Along the deserted midway, sodden pennants dangled cheerlessly.
Chester sighed and tilted the heli in a long slant toward the open lot behind
the side-show top, settled it in beside a heavy, old-model machine featuring
paisley print curtains at the small square windows lining the clumsy
fuselage. He climbed out, squelched across wet turf, and thumped at the
door set in the side of the converted cargo heli. Somewhere, a calliope
groaned out a dismal tune.
"Hey," someone called. Chester turned. A man in wet coveralls thrust his
head from a nearby vehicle. "If you're looking for Mr. Mulvihill, he's over on

the front door."