Written in Time (28 page)

“Now,” Jane Rogers had gone on, “for some reason, we can’t climb the precipice, cannot actually repeat the original event. But we can go up above the pool in a hot-air balloon or a helicopter or whatnot, and even though we can’t get as high as the precipice, we can increase the launch speed of the rock in such a manner that, as it accelerates, it will have precisely matched the speed it had when it struck the pool naturally. If we do all of that just right, and just the right portion of the rock makes the initial strike into the pool at just the right angle, we’ll get that same marvelous ripple effect as before. We still can’t climb the precipice and throw down bigger rocks or smaller rocks or strike other parts of the pool. We can’t travel through time willy-nilly, only simulate the effect, and do a trick without understanding why it works. Do you see, Clarence?”
 

Clarence had always disliked driving the Suburban because it was so large, and with the trailer attached to it, the vehicle seemed more the “fucking bus” than it had to him when he’d dubbed it so after Jack and Ellen had first driven it home on New Year’s Eve, the last day of 1988.
 

The crate—or “capsule”—was merely to protect them and what they brought with them through time from whatever forces might be exerted against them. And, like the solitarycapsule in which Jane Rogers had travelled, it served the function of an observatory from within which the occupants could witness what transpired around the capsule as the time-travel process occurred.
 

Clarence doubted that they would see anything strange or even interesting unfold. He sincerely believed that in one instant they would be in the autumn of 1994 and in the next in the last month or so of 1898. If he blinked, he’d miss it.
 

Cole walked into the crate-shaped capsule, two other technicians with him. Alan had accompanied them.
 

To reduce the size of the capsule, once the Suburban and its trailer were inside, there was very little room on either side. The driver and passenger doors could be opened, but it was a squeeze to get out. Because of that, the video monitoring array was set on an armature which could be raised and lowered by means of something similar in appearance to a VCR remote control. The technicians, squeezed on either side of the Suburban’s hood, were guiding the arm downward to rest just forward of the windshield wipers. Marc Cole—his long blond hair in a single braid—was working the remote. Alan stood next to the driver’s side window. “Remember to leave word for us in the capsule, Clarence, like Jane Rogers did. That’ll help. But it’s really important for you guys to use the camera afterward. And then seal the film just like we worked it out. There’s a good chance that the film will survive a hundred years, and we’ll have an indisputable record of what’s about to transpire.”
 

“But it’ll go no farther than you and your people,” Clarence insisted.
 

“He’s right, Alan,” Peggy Greer cut in. “If this process got into the wrong hands—”
 

“Hey, guys, I know,” Alan agreed. “I mean, this isn’t some 1950s sci-fi movie, right? This is 1994, almost 1995. We have state-of-the-art security. Nobody’s getting this technology. What I intend to do is have my top people perfect the means by which this process can be used both ways, like a doorway. That way, if Jane or you guys should wish to come back, you can. You leave a note, as agreed, and it’ll appear inside the capsule immediately after you leave. And we’ll be able to come and get you. I’m sure that we can work out how it’ll be possible. I mean, I know it’s not as simple as reversing the process literally, but it should be close to that.
 

“Anyway,” Alan went on, as he seemed to do so remarkably well without even pausing for breath, “that is the only reason for perfecting the return system. Maybe a hundred years from now, there’ll be a practical and safe use for time-travel technology, and this experiment we’ve begun will lead us to that technology’s full fruition. Right now, it’d be too damned dangerous.”
 

“What we’re doing right now could have already had repercussions,” Alan concluded.
 

Marc announced, “We’re ready, people!”
 

Clarence felt Peggy squeeze his hand . . .
 

The device Clarence held in his left hand and aimed out the Suburban’s window was an ordinary, if expensive, garage door opener, whereas the device that Peggy held in her lap was considerably more sophisticated. “Hit it, Peggy!” There was a sound like a small explosion from in front of them. The seal on the forward hatch was blown. Clarence pushed the button on his remote, and the front door of the crate-shaped capsule started to fold open and downward, forming a gently sloping ramp across which they would drive.
 

“There’s her capsule!” Peggy barely whispered. “But I don’t see—Oh, my God! You don’t suppose that our capsule appeared on top of her and we crushed her to—”
 

“Odds of that happening in anything outside of a Warner Brothers cartoon are extremely remote,” Clarence reassured her.
 

As Clarence had anticipated, the journey through time was a non-event, at least from the standpoint of anything at all remarkable to see. There was a brilliant flash of light and the video monitors went to fuzz. Yet these were state-of-the-art pieces of equipment, and, sooner than Clarence would have thought possible, picture returned to the monitors. Despite the insulation of their carefully engineered capsule, thunder boomed loudly all around them. In the instant that the monitors returned to visible picture, the cacophonous rumbling ceased as well.
 

The monitors showed the same landscape the capsule had just left, except for notable differences. The only trace of the hand of man was the smaller, one-person capsule that had transported Jane here only a few hours earlier. The terrain seemed little, if at all, different. The wooded areas along the mountain slopes seemed the same, the shape of the peaks themselves subtly altered by mounded snow.
 

There was sand, rock, some vegetation, mostly scrub brush.
 

“Let’s elevate the video array and power down,” Clarence suggested.
 

“Powering down monitors,” Peggy answered back, working the wired control panel on her lap. “Raising array.”
 

Had the remote controls for blowing the hatch and opening the forward door not functioned, the first backup system involved getting out of the Suburban and activating the controls manually. Getting out of the Suburban would have been challenging in the narrow confines of the capsule, and Clarence silently blessed technology.
 

The array was fully raised on its arm, adequately above the Suburban’s roofline, even with the added luggage rack. Clarence felt stupid ducking his head as he started the Suburban. He was relieved that the engine fired. Very slowly, Clarence started the Suburban down along the ramp which had been the capsule’s forward door.
 

The luggage rack was not the only retrofit to the Naile family’s Chevrolet Suburban. Alan Naile had volunteered to purchase a brand-new one, but Clarence had felt that, somehow, Jack and Ellen would feel heartened by seeing their own vehicle again. Bowing to Clarence’s perception of Jack and Ellen’s wishes, Alan had contacted a friend at General Motors and made arrangements for GM’s resident engineering expert on the Suburban to be flown via one of Horizon Enterprises’ corporate jets to oversee the improvements to the Naile family’s Suburban.
 

The short block was pulled, replaced along with every belt and hose, gasket and seal and fitting. The vehicle was converted to on-demand four-wheel drive. The task of a unique parts replacement conversion kit for the Suburban that would allowed it to run on grain alcohol Alan Naile assigned to a team of Horizon’s best minds, these men and women working with the engineer from GM. Fuel economy would be terrible—in the extreme—but under the circumstances wouldn’t matter. A spare-parts kit containing everything from serpentine belts to a spare gas cap to oil, gas and air filters was made up. The transmission was pulled, replaced. Under the supervision of Horizon staff, every scintilla of information about care and maintenance of the vehicle was collected, recomposed into layman’s language and a full tool kit assembled that would aid the Naile family in everything from changing a battery to recharging the air conditioning.
 

The Suburban, as Clarence Brown put it in park and shut off the engine, was newer than new, the final touch a paint job.
 

Clarence opened the driver’s side door and stepped out into the brave old world.
 

Peggy was suddenly beside him, holding his hand. “Did you ever see the old movie When Worlds Collide, when the survivors from Earth prepare to set foot on the new planet?”
 

“Jack conned me into watching it. It was one of his dad’s favorite movies. Yeah. It is kind of like that. Right down to having our own little ark.” Clarence nodded toward the Suburban.
 

“Jane!” Peggy called out.
 

“Dr. Rogers! It’s us!”
 

Peggy tugged at Clarence’s sleeve and he looked down at her. “Yeah?”
 

“Well, who else could it be but us?”
 

Clarence shrugged his shoulders. “You made your point.” He raised his voice and this time just shouted, “Dr. Rogers!”
 

“Why don’t you get a gun, Clarence?” Peggy suggested.
 

Clarence Brown had nothing against guns, was, in fact, a staunch supporter of the Second Amendment. On those rare occasions when he had fired a handgun, he had proved to be a reasonably decent shot. He’d had no problem qualifying with the M-16 for the Air Force. He didn’t own a gun, had no desire to own one and, if a weapon were called for, considered rocks and paving stones to be more than adequate. For genuinely serious matters, a softball bat was all he could see himself ever requiring. Usually, fists and feet were more than enough. “We don’t need a gun.”
 

“Get a gun, Clarence? Please?”
 

Clarence shrugged his shoulders and reached into the Suburban, opening the center console between the front seats.
 

The were six Colt Single Action Army revolvers in the Suburban, all of them custom tuned by Bob Munden, then refinished for durability by Metalife Industries, just like Jack’s pet long barreled Colt. All six had four-andthree-quarter-inch barrels and two-piece wooden grips. Two of the Colts were packed into the center console. Clarence took them out of the butterfly-style zippered pistol cases, verified that each had five rounds loaded, lowered the hammers over the sixth (empty) chamber and walked back to rejoin Peggy. “You look like the two-gun type. Here you go.” Clarence rolled both revolvers over his trigger fingers and closed his palms, the butts of the guns presented toward his fiancée.
 

“I’ve seen western movies, Clarence. You’re going to try and twirl them around and—”
 

“Jack taught me that; called the road-agent spin and no, I’m not going to do that. You want ‘em?”
 

She took both revolvers into her hands. “Jane?”
 

“Come on. She can’t have gone far.” Clarence picked up a rock about twice the size of a baseball, hefted it and closed his right fist around it.
 

Jane Rogers’ frail little body looked like that of a rag doll which someone had tossed away. As Clarence ran toward her down the long, narrow, gravelly defile, he thought that certainly the old woman must be dead. He called back to Peggy, “Be careful—there’s something weird goin’ on!”
 

Looking from side to side as he ran, almost slipping and falling more than once on the loose gravel and sand, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. But as he neared Jane Rogers, his eyes flickering to the ground, checking his footing, he spotted the clear impressions of horseshoes in the dirt. Feeling as if he should say something Jay Silverheels-esque like, “Uhh! Many horses, riders travel fast. White men. Indian ponies no wear shoes,” he thought better of it, and he was too out of breath anyway.
 

Still holding his rock, Clarence dropped to his knees beside Jane. “Dr. Rogers? Speak to me. Jane?”
 

As he started to gently raise her head, Jane Rogers opened her pretty eyes. “Is he alive?”
 

“Who?”
 

In the next instant, Peggy was kneeling beside Clarence, the pistols on the ground beside her, her hands starting to explore Jane Rogers for any sort of wound or injury. “Are you in pain, Jane? What happened?”
 

“Is he alive?”
 

This time, Peggy asked the question. “Who, Jane? Is who alive?”
 

“That handsome blond-haired cowboy who tried to save me from those hooligans who robbed me.”
 

“Robbed you?” Peggy repeated.
 

“Look,” Clarence said, gently raising Jane’s left wrist. It was heavily bruised and there was a small cut, but no wristwatch. Inspecting more closely, he realized that her wedding ring was also gone. It had been a simple gold band, worn from the years, narrowed by time to little more than a heavy thread of metal.
 

“Which way did they go?” It was such a cliché, and he realized it as he said it.
 

“They—they rode off, and he followed them into the trees and there was shooting.”
 

Clarence stood up, Peggy cradling Jane’s head in her lap. Clarence’s and Peggy’s eyes met. Her gaze flickered toward the pistols on the ground beside her. “Keep ‘em. I’ll be back.” And Clarence ran toward the treeline, scrub pines at its edge, the trees wide enough apart that a man on horseback could easily have ridden by. His eyes spotted more hoofprints. He quickened his pace.
 

The ground rose again. Clarence was familiar with its contours, the same terrain as it would be/had been almost one hundred years in the future. He passed the boulders where the light array would be/had been. Clarence climbed up along their craggy surfaces to find a vantage point from which he could survey the landscape beyond.