Quantum Touch (Book 2): Sand Storm

by Michael R. Stern

  “Fair enough, Mr. R,” Eric said. “Can everyone meet for a few minutes after school today?” A few responded with a little grumbling about time. “Only for five minutes. To see what you want to do. Mr. R, could we come here?”

  “Sure. Come back after eighth period. I'll be here for a few minutes. Now back to the books.” For the remainder of class, they discussed the economics of the early twentieth century, focusing on Theodore Roosevelt and the oil and steel monopolies. When they were done, Fritz sat down. In less than six months, his mindset had changed. He wanted to be a better teacher, not give it up. The portal made teaching fun again. Even better, the kids were responding. Maybe having fun rubs off. He watched the sky and hoped for more bad weather. I need to take these kids somewhere.

  Before the next bell rang, Ashley stopped in.

  “Did you call him?”

  “No. I don't have a reason to call him.”

  “Make one up.”

  “Why do I want to talk to him?”

  “We want to find out what's going on,” Ashley said.

  “Ashley, I love you like a brother. Well, sort of. But you are mucho crazy. After school, I'll find out from TV and a late edition of the newspaper, which I will drive somewhere to get.”

  “I'll go with you. Then you can call him.”

  “No, then I'm going home.”

  Ashley continued badgering. “I'll come with you. Then you can call him.”

  “Get outta here.”

  For the next two periods, Fritz discussed the American colonies and how their economies developed independent of the British government. He talked about regional agriculture and the factors that led to the French and Indian War.

  At lunch, Ashley asked again.

  “You are such a nag. No, I didn't call him. And I'm not going to. He's been handed a mess in the Middle East, I don't know what's happening, and you can bet his butt's not getting flabby waiting for the Second Coming. Stop asking.”

  Ashley patted him on the shoulder. “You are so easy to irritate, and I'm so good at it.”

  Fritz asked, “Did you speak to Jane?”

  “Sometimes you are so myopic. Even worse, myopic with blinders. You could pull a carriage through Central Park. Wait here. I'll get your feedbag.” He came back with two sandwiches, two cookies, and two bottles of juice.

  “So what did she say?” Fritz asked.

  “She said, 'What are you doing tonight?' I told her I wasn't doing anything. So she said I should come over, and I did.”

  “What? Wait. When?”

  “Last night. They're at the airport.”

  “What does any of this have to do with calling the president?”

  “Nothing. But call him anyway.”

  “You're a pain. Let's go. I'm not calling until I find out if the world's blown up.” Thunder rumbled overhead. Before Ashley walked the rest of the way to his classroom, Fritz asked if he had found pictures. Ashley had printed pictures of the Beatles' first U.S. concert, Secretariat winning the Kentucky Derby, and the original poem by Francis Scott Key of the Star Spangled Banner, titled “The Defence of Fort McHenry.”

  “Are they here?” Ashley had them, but he didn't want to keep using the portal. He said he'd done enough portalling for one week. “But I would like to go back to Paris. Maybe during the twenties.” There was a bookstore, he said, called “Shakespeare and Company,” where the young writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce might be found. “I'd love to meet them.”

  “So, one more time this week? What do you say? Do you have a picture?”

  “Yup.” His excitement said that's where they should go.

  “Later.”

  WITH ASHLEY'S tease about calling the president scratching and kicking to get out from the back of his mind, Fritz managed to complete his classes. After school, Ashley returned with a printed picture in his hand. Right behind, Fritz's second period seniors piled in and went to the back.

  Looking at the students, Ashley asked, “What's this all about?”

  “These are the kids who want to replicate the time-travel simulations.”

  “So what are they doing?”

  “Discussing what they have planned to find out if they really want to do it.”

  “Are you helping?”

  “I don't know. Hey guys, do you need any help?”

  “Thanks, Mr. R,” said Eric, interrupting his explanation. “One thing seems to be a problem. We need a script for all the parts. I've never written one.”

  Fritz looked at Ashley. “You said you had a class that wanted to write a play for the whole school. You want to give them some practice?”

  “Fourth period.” Ashley stared at the ceiling above the kids' heads, a look that said he was thinking how to make it happen. “Let me ask them.”

  Fritz said, “Hey guys, Mr. Gilbert has a creative writing class that wants to write a play for the whole school. Do you want to consider a joint effort?”

  The seniors looked at each other. Some shrugged, some nodded. After a short discussion, Elaine asked, “How do we get together with them, Mr. Gilbert?”

  “Elaine, I'll talk with them tomorrow. They're tenth graders. Any problem with that?”

  Eric said, “We were tenth graders. Working with seniors would be good for them.”

  Dan said, “Yeah, and we can boss them around.”

  “Okay, here's what we'll do,” said Fritz. “Mr. Gilbert will ask his class. Tomorrow afternoon, Eric, you come and see me, and I'll tell you if they want to do it. You'll need to put your scenes together quickly, so we can give them an idea of what to write. Then Mr. Gilbert and I will help you put it together. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great. We've agreed on who's doing what, so we'll do more tomorrow. Mr. Gilbert, thanks, and if one person wants to take the lead, they can work with me.”

  “Then we'll talk tomorrow, Eric,” said Fritz. “Don't forget your homework, guys.”

  With the room empty again, Ashley handed Fritz a piece of paper. “Wanna go?”

  “Sure, but just for a few minutes. I want to pick up a paper and see what's going on.” Fritz looked at the colorful picture of a shop on Paris's Left Bank, with books filling the large window. He placed the paperclip on the street address at the bottom. “Ash, I've never been to Paris. So I'm counting on you to direct me.” Short of breath, his arms tingling, Fritz shared Ashley's anticipation.

  “Let's go meet those guys. I wonder if I'll recognize any of them,” said Ashley.

  “You know, the Nazis shut the place down in 1941. I was reading about it last night.”

  “I know. A guy named George Whitman reopened in a different location and that's still in operation. Maybe we can go there sometime, too.” Ashley tapped his hands on his legs. “Let's see if the portal's open.”

  Fritz tapped the doorknob. No buzz. He shook his head and watched the upturned lines on Ashley's face move south. As if some magical force understood, a rumble overhead preceded a blaze of light in the hall and a sharp crack that rattled the windows. Fritz tapped again and pulled the door open. One quick step and they stood with the shop's door just to their right, the fluorescent brownish-gray rectangle of the portal behind them, partially disguised under an awning next door.

  When they entered, a round faced young woman with sharp dark eyes stood up behind a table being used as a desk. “Bonjour. Bienvenue, messieurs. Y at-il quelque chose que je peux vous aider?”

  Ashley asked, “Are you Sylvia Beach?”

  “I am. Have we met?”

  “Not until now.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Are you busy? Do you have a moment to talk? My name is Ashley Gilbert, and my friend is Fritz Russell.” Ashley extended his hand, which she took, her eyes not wavering from his face. Then she shook Fritz's hand.

  “There is something about you two, I'm not sure. Are your clothes a new fashion we haven't seen yet?”

  Fritz said, “Ms. Beach, is there a
place we could speak? Confidentially?”

  “We've just met and you want to get me alone.” Her tone was light, teasing. “You are Americans for sure.” She turned and called across the room, “Hemingway, some Americans just walked in.”

  They watched as a dark-haired, muscular young man with a pronounced widow's peak and mustache strolled up and asked what service he could provide. His penetrating dark eyes expressed a playful curiosity. “These gentlemen want to speak to me.” She leaned toward Hemingway, and said in a conspiratorial, deep voice, “Confidentially. Would you be so kind as to be my protector?”

  He snorted. “You need my protection, from any man, like I need a dress.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Hemingway.”

  “Ashley Gilbert. Nice to meet you.” Fritz watched the interplay, Hemingway cocking his head to look up as he offered his hand. “This is Fritz Russell.” Fritz examined the strong face, jutting jaw, and the joined eyebrows that complemented the late afternoon shadow on his otherwise clean-shaven cheeks. The full beard had not yet become part of his persona.

  “So what are you vagabonds up to?” asked Hemingway.

  “We're just visiting. In fact, we hoped we would meet you both. Ms. Beach, we're teachers from New Jersey. In our time, the year is 2015.” Ashley's pronouncement surprised Fritz, while the others shared glances.

  Beach's mouth opened slightly, she crooked her head, and she then looked up at Hemingway. He roared. The laugh lines plowed into his cheeks and forehead, lines Ashley and Fritz knew would last through his life. “My friends, you have already been to the café I see, sampling some of its fine vintages.”

  Ashley, not about to be put off, said, “If you'll both join us for another, we'll explain. I'm not fantasizing. Or lying.” The conviction of his last comment gained their attention. “Will you join us?”

  She looked at Hemingway and shrugged. He shrugged back and nodded toward the door. Before they left, she called out. “I'll be gone for a few minutes. Mr. Joyce, cover for me. Or I'll burn your book.”

  Ashley's mouth headed north again. “James Joyce!”

  “You seem to be a member of the literati, Mr. Gilbert. How do you know about Mr. Joyce?”

  “I know you published Ulysses.”

  “What's today's date?” Fritz asked, breaking the spell that had taken hold of them.

  Heads swiveled. “April 17, 1924,” said Hemingway. “And what day is it in your galaxy?”

  The tune of April in Paris scampered through his head. “Mr. Hemingway, today is September 16, 2015. I know that you don't believe me, but we can prove it. We know about you, about this store, and Miss Beach, we know you lived in Bridgeton, New Jersey as a child.”

  “We also know that you will receive a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize,” said Ashley, staring at Hemingway. Then his eyes grew wide and he bit his lip. “But about that drink. We would buy, but I don't think our money will work.” Ashley reached into his pocket and pulled out blank pieces of paper. He looked at Fritz.

  “That happened to me when we went to see Lee the first time. The past doesn't like to be tinkered with, I'm afraid. But if you'll just step outside, we can show you that we're for real.”

  “Wait,” said Ashley. He walked across the room and held out his hand. “Mr. Joyce, my name is Ashley Gilbert, and it's an honor to meet you.” The stunned young man looked at Hemingway, who lifted his arms as if to say, “I have no idea.”

  “Lee, which Lee?” asked Beach while Ashley was shaking hands.

  “Robert E. Lee.”

  “Mr. Russell, my stories are dull in comparison,” Hemingway said.

  The two expatriates followed Fritz to the sidewalk. Ashley strolled out, his lips upturned. Fritz pointed to the rectangle that would take him and Ashley home. “I found a way to time travel last spring, but we haven't used it a lot. Ashley wanted to come here and meet you both. He's an English teacher. I teach history. Miss Beach, we live in Riverboro.”

  “I know where that is. I went there once for the Children's Parade on the Fourth of July.”

  “We still have it. Ashley is the regular reader of the Declaration of Independence in the park. I wish we could stay longer, but we need to go. Would it be all right if we came back some time?”

  “Paris is a wonderful city, and we seem to attract all kinds of Americans,” said Beach. “I'm sure if you come again, you'll be welcome.”

  “Can you show us how your, whatever that is, operates,” Hemingway asked.

  “I can't, but the rectangle will disappear when we leave.” He tugged on Ashley's sleeve. They shook hands, and Ashley kissed Sylvia Beach's hand. Just before stepping through, they watched a young couple walk across the street.

  “F. Scott Fitzgerald,” said Ashley, lowering his voice. “And Zelda. Fritz, we have to come back here.” They waved to their new acquaintances, and Fritz stepped through. Beach's hand covered her open mouth and she pulled Hemingway's arm. He turned to her, his eyes wide, his head shaking. Ashley appreciated their startled looks, held his hand up in farewell, and followed Fritz.

  “That was incredible. Thanks Fritz. Hemingway, he looked so young.”

  “He was, Ash. Younger than us. And a word to the wise, well, the semi-smart. You can't tell people about their futures, or we're messing with how things turn out.”

  “Sorry. It jumped out before I could stop it.”

  “Let's go,” Fritz said. “I'm going to pick up a paper and head home. We can talk about this another time. I want to read up on the lost generation. World War One had such an impact on them.”

  “Did you know Hemingway was seriously wounded by a mortar and spent eight months in a hospital?”

  “I think I remember that, but thanks for jogging my memory. Anyway, are you coming over, or do you have other plans?”

  “For the moment, I'm with you.”

  “I'll call Linda and warn her.”

  Chapter 13

  LINDA STOOD by the sink peeling potatoes while she read an article for one of her classes on the open laptop sitting on the counter. Fritz kissed her, and Ashley said hello. Fritz asked if she had heard anything new.

  “Limited news stories, spotty so far,” said Linda. “The Eledorians attacked early this morning, their time, but the Israelis chased them out. Israeli troops are headed north to the Golan Heights to protect the settlements up there. That's pretty much it, so far.”

  Ashley asked, “Any news about Naria?”

  “The New York Times Online reported that there's a communications blackout, so the only reports are from the nearby countries.” She picked up another potato. “They're guessing. And waiting for verification.”

  “Do you want some help?” Fritz asked. She stared at Ashley.

  “I'm fine for now. We're having chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. The chicken just needs to go in the oven. The potatoes are almost ready to cook. You look like the cat that ate the canary, Ash. What have you two been up to?” Ashley saw the slight head shake Fritz gave him, and Linda saw Ashley look at Fritz. She bit her lip, grabbed another potato, and squeezed as if to crush it with her bare hands.

  Avoiding an answer, Fritz said, “I'm going to watch TV for a bit. If you need help, he brought his apron.” He winked at Ashley as he left the kitchen and went to the family room, turned on the TV, and opened his laptop. Only early online reports contained information about Eledorian bomber attacks and nothing about Naria, so he searched various news websites for updates. Although the news about political reactions was sparse and nothing appeared about military action, he found a two-paragraph item about an Israeli settlement that had been captured by Eledorian ground troops. The condition of the people there was unknown.

  Fritz walked to the kitchen and said, “Look at this,” as he laid the laptop on the table. Linda and Ashley both read the report. Linda looked up as soon as she finished reading.

  “Do you think the president's going to ask you to help with another rescue?” she asked, returning to the potatoes.

  �
�I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised,” said Fritz.

  “Why don't you call him,” said Ashley.

  “Lin, our friend Lothario here has a new tale to tell. It seems he was playing doctor after our exploits last night.”

  Ashley blushed. “That's a little exaggerated. I was more like a nurse.”

  “Do tell,” said Linda. “Did you find out how she manages to work for the executive branch and be in the army?”

  “She said she grew up in Civil War country, so in her mind, and I guess in her family, military service was sort of required. She enrolled in ROTC in college and studied the Middle East in school. The army made her an analyst. But she volunteered for Ranger school. I can understand her going into the army, but that's the Army's version of Seal school. When I asked her why, she said 'Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.' That made me glad I asked.”

  “Why?” asked Fritz.

  “That's one of my favorite quotes, Fritz. T. S. Eliot. Then she said, 'You're not the only literate one around here.' She met the president shortly after his inauguration. He found a place for her in the administration, doing liaison work with the military. She said she would tell me a long, funny story, but it hurt to laugh. So I got her a pain killer and asked the medic to check the bandage. That was all. I went home around one. You know, Fritz, there are so many interesting writers we could go meet.”

  “What do you mean, 'go meet?' ” Linda asked. “I swear you two are going make me nuts. Have you been somewhere again?” Fritz couldn't meet her gaze, and Ashley just cleared his throat. “Where did you go? Fritz?”

  Ashley said. “Paris. 1920s. We met Hemingway. And I shook hands with James Joyce.”

  “Dammit.” She threw the peeler in the sink just after she pointed it at him. “You two are out of control.”

  “Sorry Lin,” said Ashley. “This one's my fault. But I was reading The Old Man and the Sea last night and started looking at stories about the lost generation in Paris in the twenties. So I printed a picture.”