by Rod Drake
It was raining like it was the end of the world, and ironically, it probably was. I finally had the AntiLife Equation, a prize sought by thousands for nearly 3000 years that held... well, let’s be honest, the key to the Universe’s Light Switch, to coin a phrase. Inside my second-floor apartment, I stood dripping wet, while my robot cat, Schrodinger, sat calmly in the bay window, watching the downpour, then turned to me, its mechanical eyes red with alarm, and said “They have found you – they are outside now – you must escape.” God knows what they would do with the Equation, or me for that matter, so I grabbed Schrodinger and opened the closet door where I kept my black hole (for emergencies just such as this) which hovered there, pulsating, unbelievably dark and deep. Clutching cat and Equation, I stepped into the black hole as my apartment door was knocked down and neutron ray guns blasted the closet door, but just a tad too late. And now I’m in Key West, 1936, drinking with Hemingway at Sloppy Joe’s bar, enjoying the sun and surf, taking the time to plan how to remake the universe to my vision while Schrodinger eats a stainless steel sardine at my feet.
Rod Drake thought he had everything figured out, but he was wrong.