Samantha Smart (10 page)

“Um... Professor?” she whispered into the communicator. “You know the first stairway you go up from your office? Well, it’s a wall here.”

“Oh, dear,” the tiny speaker squeaked. “Hang on a moment, Samantha... ” She could hear the sounds of papers shuffling and things being moved around. “There,” said The Professor, “I’ve got blueprints from 1928. Hopefully they haven’t had the money to change anything since then. You are in the Great Depression, remember.”

Samantha just hoped that she was even
in
1931.

“Okay,” The Professor began, “keep going down the hallway, there should be a right turn–” she did as told, following his directions. “Follow the right turn, then take your next left. This passage should terminate at the old front stairway. It’s been bricked up for decades, here, I mean now.
Do you see it?”

“Yes,” Samantha replied, walking up the first few steps of the old stone staircase. “Should I go up this way?”

“Yes, yes.” The Professor made more paper-shuffling noises. “When you get to the top, walk quickly to the... right, along the lobby’s back wall. Then try to blend with the people coming and going through the left main lobby entrance.”

This is getting complicated,
Samantha thought, though her feet began to move and she soon arrived in the lobby, in a little space between the large staff/information desk and central back wall, where the general public was not really supposed to be. She crept as silently as she could along that wall, trying not to be spotted, and quickly slipped into a stream of people heading out of the museum.

It seemed to work. Shuffling out onto Central Park West with a throng of museum-goers, Samantha couldn’t help but gasp slightly at the vastly different view. There was Central Park and its corresponding avenue, not drowned in water and almost like she remembered it should be, though not quite. The park was much more wooded than she remembered it, and far fewer tall buildings crowded the midtown skyline to the southeast. If she had, briefly, entertained the thought that she was home again, in her proper time, the illusion was boldly shattered by the automobiles that passed by on the road in front of her. They were clearly old and large, each one a classic that would probably be worth a hundred thousand dollars or more to collectors of her time. They were also conspicuously few and far between; it seemed not nearly as many people drove cars at all in 1931.
Of course,
she thought,
there weren’t nearly as many people to drive them either.

Samantha ducked into a little cove around the north side of the museum’s steps and pressed the talk button on her communicator.

“Okay, Professor,” she said, letting out a deep breath. “It certainly looks to be about the right year. What’s our next step?”

“All right,” he replied. “I want you to walk down Seventy-seventh Street to Columbus Avenue. Take a left there and walk down three blocks. There should be a newsstand there that sells coffee. Stay out of sight as best you can and contact me again when you get there. Got it?”

“Got it,” Samantha acknowledged. She began walking, pulling her coat close around her and trying to stay close to the buildings. It was, indeed, a much colder October here, and she shivered, being unaccustomed to it. It did help to keep her fairly anonymous, though, as most people were sort of bundled up and just looking straight ahead as they walked. The Upper West Side looked mostly the same, though most of the characteristic brownstones looked practically brand new, and perhaps a few more trees were in evidence. She reached Columbus Avenue without incident and swung left, walking at a brisk pace.

Three blocks later she saw the newsstand. It was halfway between Seventy-Third and Seventy-Fourth Streets, and the pleasant smell of coffee wafted from its open front.

“I’m here, Professor,” she tried to speak inconspicuously into her wrist.

“Good, Samantha,” the thin, electronic voice replied. “Now I’m afraid there’s a bit of waiting involved. See if you can find an out-of-the-way stoop or basement stairway, one you can see the newsstand from.”

“Roger,” Samantha responded. She had already spied out a set of basement steps that perfectly fit the need, and quickly made her way over to them, hunkering down on the third step from the top and keeping an eye on the newsstand through two rungs of a little iron fence that surrounded the stairway. “Okay,” she spoke into her wrist again, “What am I waiting for?”

“Well,” The Professor chuckled, “you’re waiting for
me,
Samantha. I tried my hardest to insert you an hour before I was at that newsstand, but I could have been as much as three days off.”

“
Three Days!!?
” she exclaimed. “I’m supposed to sit on these steps for three days!?”

“You do have plenty of sandwiches,” the now giggling Professor reminded her. Samantha got the feeling he was enjoying this.

“It’s cold out here, Professor! You’re crazy if you think I can stay here, awake, for three days! What about Polly?” Polly stuck her head out of Samantha’s bag upon hearing her name.

“All right! All right! Relax, Samantha. In all probability, it won’t be nearly that long. Just sit tight, and if you see me coming, by all means watch everything I do
and stay out of sight.”

“Right,” she sighed, signing off. Evidently, being a secret agent time-traveler had its boring moments as well as its romantic, action-packed ones. She patted Polly on the head and pulled out a tuna fish sandwich. Luckily, they were sealed tightly in zip-lock baggies and had therefore evaded the probing nose of her little Boston terrier. She unwrapped one, broke off a piece for Polly and then started munching on the rest, keeping a watchful eye on the newsstand from her mostly-concealed perch.

*

Several hours had passed, and it was now mid-afternoon. Samantha had watched several people buy newspapers and coffee, and was beginning to wonder if she was even staking out the right newsstand. The Professor had assured her that this was the right place, though he had conceded that his memory told him it had been about three o’clock in the afternoon when he had stopped there. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself up more as that hour was probably approaching, though it was cold and she felt sleepy. Polly had had to pee at the bottom of the stairs, and the resulting smell had been less than pleasant for the last hour or so. Just as she was about to doze off, her eye caught a glimpse of something odd.

Samantha shook her head and stared at the newsstand. There was a man standing next to it now, a young man, and quite handsome at that. She squinted at him as he stood there, just sort of hanging around as if he, too, were waiting for something to happen. As she studied him further he began to seem eerily familiar, the way he stood, the way he moved his body–Samantha almost yelled when it dawned on her. She was looking at Jordan Anderson.

She was sure of it now. Though he had a more conservative haircut and was dressed in clothing that fit the time period, it was clearly him. Samantha’s mind raced. What in the world was Jordan Anderson doing
here,
or rather,
now
? It seemed that The Professor had been absolutely right about him–there was definitely something suspicious going on.

Snapping out of her momentary daze, she inched back down the stairs and tapped the talk button on her communicator.

“Professor,” she whispered loudly.

“Yes, Samantha?”

“Remember that boy I introduced you to in the park?”

“Yes... the–the roguish fellow, ah–Julian. Er–Justin... ”

“Jordan,” she corrected him. “Jordan Anderson. From Heatwavvve,
the boy band.”

“Right, right, Jordan. Why do you ask?”

“He’s standing right by the newsstand.”

“That’s impossible!” the wrist communicator crackled.

“I swear it’s him. He’s dressed all like–like someone from this time, his haircut’s all funny but–I know it’s him, Professor. What is he doing here!?”

The communicator was silent for a moment.

“I don’t know, Samantha. At this point, you’ve seen this chap in every timeline you’ve been in. I knew there was something fishy
about him. Is he still there?”

Samantha peeked her head up above sidewalk level and then quickly popped back down.

“Yeah, he’s still there. It’s like he’s... waiting for something, or someone... ”

“Oh, dear,” The Professor replied. “We can only conclude from this that we are not the only people capable of time travel. I fear, Samantha, that your man Jordan is there waiting for
me,
just as you are, and that in the grand scheme of things, there are forces working against us. Are you absolutely sure
it’s him?”

Samantha poked her head up again and stared intently at the loitering man. She tried to visualize every Heatwavvve
poster in her now distant bedroom, remembering every line of the face she had been crushed-out on for years. There was no mistaking it. Somehow, this cute pop singer boy was far more than met the eye.

“I’m positive, Professor,” she said as she slid back down the stairs. “What do I do?”

“Stay put,” The Professor responded. Samantha could tell that his famous brain was calculating every possibility in this bizarre situation. “Keep waiting for me to show up. If Jordan begins to follow me, follow us both from a safe distance–but close enough to see if anything
happens. I fear we may have to keep this mission strictly one of observation, and plan another one once we know where–and when–something critical occurs.”

“Roger that,” Samantha whispered. Her mind was spinning and she no longer felt the least bit sleepy. Polly was sniffing at her feet, her canine senses acutely aware of some change in her human’s state of being; a scent of fear or excitement must have begun to seep from her glands. She patted her little dog and waited, watching Jordan pace back and forth in front of the newsstand.

She didn’t have to wait long. A minute or two later, Professor Smythe came ambling up Columbus Avenue and walked up to the newsstand. Samantha quickly stuffed Polly back into her pack and tried to keep an eye on the scene. Jordan had definitely noticed him as well, and was trying to look nonchalant, glancing at his watch, perhaps waiting for someone else or else trying to make it appear
as if he were waiting for someone else. The Professor said hello to the newsstand clerk, bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee, then tipped his hat and began walking on north up Columbus Ave. Jordan began walking almost right behind him, and Samantha felt adrenalin rush through her body. It was time to move.

She sprang up and grabbed her dog-, chalk- and tuna fish sandwich-filled pack, trying to stay more towards the buildings and pulling her coat closer around her so as not to stand out. She stayed about twenty feet behind Jordan, who was only walking five or so feet behind the apparently oblivious Professor. Luckily old Smythe was setting a fairly leisurely pace, and Samantha could see him gazing around in wonder at the “historical” surroundings. They crossed Seventy-fourth Street and continued uptown, back along the route she had come hours earlier. As they strolled up the block, Samantha kept a sharp eye on everything around her, noting every person that walked by in the opposite direction or came near The Professor. They crossed Seventy-fifth Street and were halfway up the block when something caught her attention. Coming the opposite way was a man in a blueish-gray uniform, possibly Air Force but more likely a U.S. postal worker. That set off a trigger in Samantha’s memory and she tapped her talk button as discreetly as she could.

“Professor, there’s a postman coming towards... you.” It was a strange thing to say knowing that she was talking to The Professor Smythe of another time and place.

“Watch him, Samantha,” he replied in an urgent tone.

She watched. She even sped up her pace a little so she could see more closely. Then, almost instantaneously, a number of things happened.

Professor Smythe stepped to the right, presumably to get out of the path of the oncoming postal worker. At the same time, Jordan sped up, passing The Professor on his right, and threw his left arm into The Professor’s right hand, in which he was carrying his cup of coffee. As there was not, Samantha reminded herself, any such thing as plastic in 1931, the cup had no convenient lid, and the coffee flew all over the postman’s overstuffed bag, where it soaked several letters that were sticking out, unbeknownst to the postal worker, who seemed to be in a hurry anyway and continued walking at a very quick pace. The Professor made a startled sound and looked around to find out what had happened (he had been staring at a horse-drawn carriage across and up Columbus Avenue), but by this time Jordan was five paces away and had blended successfully into a crowd of identically-clad gentlemen who were turning up Seventy-sixth Street. The Professor eyed them as if trying to figure out who was responsible for the mishap, let out an indignant “Hmmmphh!” and continued walking slowly, sipping the drop or two of coffee that remained in his cup.

Samantha stood at the intersection, trying to decide what to do. She tapped her talk button and spoke quickly into the communicator.

“Professor, Jordan just whacked your cup of coffee all over the postman’s letter bag and disappeared into a crowd before you could notice him. He’s going... east on Seventy-sixth, the postman is going south on Columbus and you’re going north back toward the museum. What should I do!!?” Her heart was racing.

“Listen to me, Samantha. I think we know what we need to know. You need to run
back to the museum as quick as you can without causing a stir. Walk quickly past me,
not up Seventy-Sixth. As soon as you get to Seventy-Seventh, run when you turn the corner. You need to get back before me, put your feet in those tracings and I’ll do the rest. Are we clear?”

“Clear,” she responded, taking a deep breath and speed-walking around the still-ambling Professor. She pulled her coat close around her as she hurried past him, praying he wouldn’t recognize her. When she reached Seventy-Seventh Street she tore off in a sprint, dodging a street sweeper, an old woman with a cane and a child playing Jacks on the sidewalk. She turned up Central Park West and “turned on the turbo” to cover the remaining distance to and up the building’s main steps. She slowed down here briefly, cutting through a medium-length line and through the main lobby, heading for the stairway she had come up earlier. People began yelling as she elbowed by them, and she noticed a security guard had eyed her and started moving quickly toward her.