Escape with the Dream Maker (6 page)

Around the track he went, fighting for every inch. He saw more cars pile up, and he swung to one side. A tiny warning went off in his head, and he felt a tremor
as Massengill passed him, raking the left side of the Ferrari.

As Massengill forged ahead, Dave shouted, “You can't beat me! I'll show you!” And he pushed the Ferrari to maximum speed until the whole world was a blur . . .

 

“Well, who won the race?”

For one moment Dave did not recognize Oliver, who sat across from him. Oliver was looking at him strangely, and he repeated the question, “Did you win the 500?”

“I . . . I don't know. You brought me back before I was ready.”

“Oh, I'm sorry about that,” Oliver said. “Maybe tomorrow you can go back again.”

Eagerly Dave said, “Couldn't we do it now, Oliver? I was just really getting into the race, you see.”

“Well, it's a little late—”

“Please, Oliver. I've got to finish that race.”

A strange smile came to Oliver's lips, and he studied Dave for a moment. “I suppose it'll be all right. Here you go, then. Drink this down.”

 

“And now we have this exclusive creation by Vidal. The model is Miss Abbey Roberts.”

As Abbey stepped out from behind the curtain, the long runway stretched out in front of her. On either side, women wearing furs and diamonds sat waiting for her to make her appearance. Swinging her hips in that exaggerated walk that high-fashion models use, she came down the runway. She heard a hum of appreciation go over the audience.

Abbey reached the end of the runway, came back, stopped from time to time for different poses, and
knew from the approval of the designer, standing at the curtain, that she was successful. Again and again she came out onto the runway, and each time was as thrilling as it had been the first time.
I could do this forever,
she thought.

 

Slowly the scene faded, and Abbey was pulled back into the present. She opened her eyes and said, “Oh, Oliver. That was so much fun! This time it was in Paris, and I was the hit of the show. They didn't even care who designed the dress. They said I was the greatest model in the world.”

“I'm sure you were. Did you enjoy it that much, Abbey?”

Abbey's eyes glowed with the memory. “It's what I've always wanted to do—be a fashion model.” She looked down at the dusty shoes she wore and said quietly, “I was wearing a fuschia dress and gold lamé shoes. I wish you could have seen me, Oliver.”

“Well, I'm glad you like the Dream Maker, Abbey. Would you like to go back?”

“Oh, yes,” Abbey breathed. “Would you mind, Oliver?”

“Not a bit. Let's put the headset on. Now, drink it down—and here we go again . . .”

 

The white-haired old man stared at Jake. His blunt face was seamed, and his voice quivered, but his eyes were keen with intelligence. “You did a fine job with this experiment, my boy. Where did you learn science like this?”

It was a proud moment for Jake, and he said, “Mr. Edison, I've always been interested in science. I'm so glad you let me come to work for you here at your laboratory.”

“Come over here, and let me show you what I'm doing. I'm trying to make a new invention.”

“What will it be, Mr. Edison?”

“Well, men have been making pictures for quite awhile, but they're
still
pictures. What I want to do,” Edison said loudly—for he was quite deaf—“is to make pictures that move.”

“Moving
pictures?” Jake said. “That would be great.”

“Yes, it would, but I can't seem to come up with exactly the right way to do it.”

Jake said quickly, “Why don't you make a series of pictures, and then show them so fast that it
seems
like they're moving.”

Edison stared at him. “Why, that's wonderful. Just the idea I needed, but you'll have to help me, Jake.”

“Of course, Mr. Edison. I'll be glad to.”

 

Jake soon found himself back in the room with Oliver, who said, “So did you help Mr. Edison invent something?”

“Sure did. Now let's go back again, and I can help Mr. Alexander Graham Bell invent the telephone.”

“Anything you say, Jake. After all, you've worked hard. You need a rest and a break.”

 

Shells were flying and bursting all around. Sarah crouched low over a soldier who was bleeding terribly from a wound in his lower arm.

“Be still,” she said. “You've been badly wounded.”

The soldier looked up at her with dazed eyes. “Is that you? Is it Miss Florence Nightingale?”

“No, I'm not Miss Nightingale, but I'm one of her nurses. Be still now.”

The soldier looked down at his mangled arm. He said, “I'm going to die, aren't I, miss?”

“No, you're not going to die. The doctors will be here soon.”

“What's your name, miss?”

“It's Sarah Collingwood.”

The soldier turned his eyes away from his bleeding arm and said, “Why did you come all the way out to the Crimea? This is a dirty, nasty business. It can't be very pleasant for a young woman.”

“I came out for the same reason as Florence Nightingale,” Sarah said quietly. “To help do what I could for those of you who are serving your country.”

The soldier gasped. “I'm glad you came, Miss Collingwood. Don't leave me.”

“No, I won't do that. Now, lie quietly until the doctor comes . . .”

 

Oliver's voice was saying, “That was quite a dream you had—going all the way to the Crimea to nurse the English soldiers.”

Sarah opened her eyes. “That war was awful. I wanted to help so much.”

“You've learned a lot about Miss Florence Nightingale. She was a wonderful woman.”

“Yes, she was. I'd like to be just like her,” Sarah said.

 

“Well, Wash,” Oliver greeted him, “I've been wondering when you'd come back.” He opened the door wide and took the boy's arm. “Come in. I've been anxious to see you again. Tell me what you've been doing.”

Wash sat down. He had forced himself to come and now wished that he hadn't. “I just hadn't much time, Oliver,” he said.

“Of course. I understand you are very busy. Tell me some more about it.”

After the conversation had gone on for some time, Oliver said, “Now that you're here, perhaps you'd like to take a break. All your friends have been using the Dream Maker pretty regularly.”

“I—I guess so, Oliver.”

“Fine. Where would you like to go?”

“I'd like to go back to New Orleans. I saw a documentary once about Louis Armstrong, how he played the horn back there in the early days.”

“Yes, I've seen that. Put this on.” Oliver adjusted the headset, then turned and added some colorless liquid to a glass of orange juice. “Drink this down.”

“What is it?” Wash said suspiciously. “I don't like medicine.”

“Oh, there's nothing to this. Just helps you relax. That way you can get into Louis's music quicker.”

Wash swallowed the liquid. It had no taste and seemed to have no effect. He was as tense and finely drawn as a wire, and when Oliver sat down opposite him, Wash's back was straight and his eyes were troubled.

“Now, don't worry about this, Wash. You don't have to go.”

“No, it's all right. Let's try it.”

 

Wash was sitting on a bandstand, a trumpet player with a group of black musicians, all dressed in early twentieth-century clothes. The place was small and crowded with people, and the soloist on his right he recognized instantly as the great Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong. Wash listened, filled with admiration for this man who had been his idol back in another time.

When the solo was over, Satchmo turned to Wash
and said, “Hey, it's your turn now. Let's hear you toot that horn.”

Wash looked over the audience and swallowed hard, but Satchmo said kindly, “Don't be afraid, now. Come on, let's hear you blow that thing.”

Wash began to play, and soon the others joined in. He could hear Satchmo sing out, “That's the way to do it! Now, that's playing!”

Wash had never felt anything like it in his life. As others joined in, the syncopation was there, the beat was there, and he found himself carried along with the ecstasy of the music . . .

 

And then suddenly he was back in Oliver's room with the Dream Maker, and Oliver was watching him. “How was it?” he said. “Did you see Satchmo?”

Wash was still carried away with the moment. He had never heard anything like it. “Yes, sir, Oliver,” he said. “I heard Satchmo, and he was something.”

“Maybe you ought to go back and listen to him some more. A musician like you can always learn from a master.”

Wash nodded slowly and said, “I guess I better do that. Yes, sir, I guess I better do it.”

P
ilot to gunner—the flak's getting pretty thick, Frank, but we've got to make it.”

His goggles fitted closely over his eyes, Josh held the Dauntless dive bomber, a torpedo plane, straight on its course. He ignored the black explosive clouds and the shell bursts that flowered around them. He felt the bullets from the guns of the enemy carrier shake the plane violently.

“Right on target. Go in and get that tin can!”

Josh held to the controls tightly. The cumbersome aircraft was only thirty feet above the water, which crawled beneath him in green waves. He had taken off from the U.S. aircraft carrier
Hornet
two hours ago, and, one by one, the members of his flight made a torpedo run at the huge Japanese ship.

“Got to get it. We just got one chance.” Josh gritted his teeth and poised his thumb over the release switch for the torpedo. Every gun on the carrier, it seemed, was aimed directly at him. Even as he watched, a piece of lead tore through the plastic windshield so that it spider-webbed. “Can't see where we're going, Frank,” he yelled, “but I'm going to ram this tin fish right down where she lives.”

The world exploded with noise, and Josh felt a bullet rake the top of his right shoulder, numbing his hand. Then he saw the target looming ahead. Desperately he pushed the control that released the torpedo.
Instantly the bomber, freed from its heavy weight, roared toward the carrier.

We're going to hit it!
Josh thought wildly. He could barely see out the shattered canopy. As the bulk of the warship flashed by, he saw streaks of gunfire and could make out small figures running around the flight deck. Then, as he cleared the ship, he heard a tremendous explosion. Looking back, he saw a huge plume of smoke rise into the air, accompanied by fragments of steel.

“We got it, Frank! We got it!” he yelled. “She's gonna go down!”

He pulled the battered aircraft up as quickly as possible. The guns below still hammered, and he felt the plane vibrate as it tried to rise. But then he saw the carrier begin to list to one side. A swell of satisfaction came over him, and he whispered, “We got it. We got a whole aircraft carrier.”

Then the vessel below started to fade from view. The sea turned from brilliant emerald green to a formless gray shape . . .

 

Josh resisted the impulse to awaken, for he longed to stay and finish his dream. But he felt the cockpit of the torpedo bomber melt away and the hard wooden chair take shape under him. He felt the headset of the Dream Maker's controls on his temples, but he remained sitting with his eyes closed.

“Come out of it, Josh.”

Oliver's voice was soft but insistent. Still, Josh remained in a state of semiconsciousness. It was like those dreams that occur just before you awake, he thought. If they are pleasant dreams, you want to stay there and not come into the reality of morning.

But Oliver's hand was on his shoulder, and then Josh felt the headset being removed. Reluctantly he
opened his eyes and swept the room with a glance. “Hard to come back,” he muttered. “Just hit an enemy aircraft carrier with a torpedo.”

“Quite a thrill, I guess, Josh.” Oliver went to the window and looked out. It was early afternoon, and the late sun came through the glass, illuminating half of his face. He was carefully and neatly groomed, as always, and seemed to be lost in thought.

Curious, Josh pulled his mind back from the excitement of flying a dive bomber during World War Two. He went over to stand beside Oliver. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Quickly the older man turned, and there was a strange smile on his face. “No, quite the contrary, Josh,” he said, and the excitement in his voice caught Josh's attention.

“What is it?” Josh asked. “Have you found one of our missing people? Some kind of a clue maybe?”

“Well, I'm getting closer to that, but that's not why I'm excited.”

Josh had never learned to read Oliver's moods. He was an outgoing, cheerful man, with a fund of entertaining and humorous stories. Still, at times he fell silent, and his eyes were hooded, concealing something that Josh could never fathom. Now he examined the inventor's face and saw that his cheeks were tense from some sort of strain.

“Is it trouble?” Josh asked quietly. “I'm sort of used to that. We haven't had anything but trouble since we got to this time and this place.”

Sympathetically, Oliver nodded. He patted Josh on the shoulder. “I know it's been hard on all of you. It's hard on everybody on this planet. This war going on between the Dark Lord and Goél—I think everybody's had about all they can take.”

He did not like to see Oliver discouraged, for he had found in their friendship a release from the strain that had been tearing him down. “Can you tell me about it?” he asked.

Oliver seemed to be weighing something in his mind. His eyes narrowed slightly as he scrutinized Josh. “I'm not sure whether I ought to tell you or not.”