He went up to the podium while pulling a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. The page was folded in half on the long side. He unfolded it and stared down at the blank sheet.
My dad’s life was a blank, he thought as his panic rose. I’m standing up here in front of these people, and I’m going to tell them my father had no redeeming qualities, nothing to remember him by. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping everyone would think he was nervous. Just before he opened his eyes again, the day at the ballpark flashed across his vision. Dad was smiling; the happiness shone in his eyes as well as on his face. There was pride in that smile for his famous and successful son.
Michael opened his eyes and looked down at the blank sheet of paper. Words seemed to flood into his mind and appeared on the page.
“My father was quiet. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. Everything could be seen in his expression. The last day we spent together, he had the biggest smile and the most pride in his eyes I’d ever seen. He could be warm, cold, funny, and sad without saying anything, but when he did speak, his words came from the heart and were to the point. Dad wasn’t famous outside of our house. He wasn’t rich, he couldn’t sing, and wasn’t mechanically inclined. To me and those of us who knew him best, he was a good man. He could whistle like a bird or fix a broken heart with a few simple words. Dad never had much money, but to Mom and me, he was the whole world. We both lost a part of our lives when she died, but his piece was bigger. All that remains is the memory of him on that last day to use like a blanket to keep me warm and safe. I’m going to miss him every day for the rest of my life.” A tear ran down his cheek, landing on the paper. Michael folded and returned it to his jacket while stepping down from the stage.
Nobody else wanted to speak. Many in attendance were dabbing their eyes, so the minister said a few more words and suggested anyone wishing to attend the graveside should follow the hearse. There were only two cars in the procession out to the cemetery. Seven people: Michael, Billy, Sam, Heather, Christen, the minister, and his uncle from Pittsburgh stood next to the gaping hole in the ground while the officiate mumbled some words of prayer. As soon as the service ended, Michael asked everyone back to the funeral home for refreshments.
“Uncle Bernie,” Michael suddenly remembered his name. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Dad would be happy to see you again after all these years. I’m sorry we had to meet like this, but...” They shook hands, smiling.
“I spoke to your dad on a regular basis after Irene…your mom died. He went on about you all the time, said you were the best thing he ever did. You’re a hell of a success, Michael. He was very proud of you.” There was sincere emotion in the older man’s voice.
Silence prevailed while Michael tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Thanks, Uncle Bernie, I didn’t know. He was a very introspective man.”
“Yeah, I could never understand why my sister married him, but they always seemed happy together. They’re probably together again.” He glanced at the ceiling to finish the thought.
“I hope so…have something to eat. How long are you here? I’d like to hear about my parents some more.”
“My plane leaves at five this afternoon. I’m sorry. But if you get to Pittsburgh look me up. I’ve got some excellent Scotch in my cupboard. We can get quietly drunk and reminisce about old times.” He seemed sad as he turned away. Michael sensed that if he didn’t get in touch with the old man soon, he’d miss the chance to find out what his parents were really like.
Chapter 12
The black limo was idling ten steps from his front door Tuesday morning as Michael left the house. Chrome reflected the light over the door; otherwise, the car was invisible. The color blended thoroughly into the surrounding blackness of the early morning.
He had a small suitcase in one hand, and his briefcase in the other. The driver accepted both before Michael sat in the backseat and closed the door. A forty-minute ride along deserted streets brought him to the stairs leading to the corporate jet. Sam waited beside them.
“All ready?” his rumbling voice was clear above the sounds of the airport.
“I have four days to rest and relax, and then I’m required to be back here for the launch of the Mars probe. You better be sure this is a comfortable place, Sam,” Michael shouted and ascended the stairs. Both men sat in the cockpit as the jet climbed into the air fifteen minutes later.
The sun peeked over the horizon as the plane banked, flying into the eastern sky. Michael listened to the communication between Sam and the control tower, but nothing made any sense. Curiosity finally forced Michael to find out their destination.
“Want to tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope, you said to surprise you so that’s what I’m doing.” The big man turned his head and smiled.
“Okay, but if there isn’t a hotel, you’re fired,” Michael grinned back.
“What ya been up to the last few days?” Sam changed the subject.
“I completed the communicator, and this trip is part of the test. Since there was no way to know where I would be, the computer has to find the signal. If that works, there shouldn’t be a problem finding me in the past.”
Sam’s head snapped around, and he gave Michael a worried stare. “All the computer needs to do is scan the whole world back through time until it comes across the signal. What could go wrong with that?” his tone sarcastic, Michael picked it up.
“That’s the simple process, but obviously, there’s more to the theory than that, Sam.” He focused out through the windshield at the brightening dawn. “Time is relative to where you are in that moment.” He struggled to keep the explanation as simple as possible. “The light from the Sun takes eight minutes to cover the ninety-three million miles it takes to reach us, but we think light travels in an instant. Finding and moving to that moment in time thirty years ago is really the same thing. All I’m doing is stepping from this point of time to that one, not the whole of time in between.” He glanced at Sam, but he could see the pilot was not getting a clear picture. “Look at the process as a short-cut between two points. Open a door and step into whatever time and place you want to be. I can’t explain the idea any simpler than that because I just can’t. Einstein thought time worked that way, and I proved that he was right.”
“I believe you, but I’m still not convinced your system is safe. The part about getting there I can almost accept, but the returning is a little more challenging. All the machinery to send you is here so how does the computer bring you back?”
“Oh that,” Michael smiled. “I worried about that in the beginning, but the other day I did a test with a coffee mug. Some part of the cup remained here and so will I. I’m not sure yet if my spirit or some other essence of me is what travels, but whatever goes will be easy to bring back.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen that Star Trek show where their transporter malfunctions sometimes. I also saw that movie last year with the guy who tried to transport himself through time and his body got mixed up with a fly. I know you’re smart, Michael, and I trust that you’ve thought of everything, but even if you missed one thing you might not come back.” They were silent for about three seconds before Sam continued. “I can’t find everything wrong with this plane when I do my pre-flight check and the mechanics that repair her can’t find everything either. Each time we take off, there’s up to a five-percent chance that something is dangerously wrong which could kill us. A one-percent failure with what you’re doing could mean you come back without a head or brain; at best, you return without a tooth. Have you considered what happens if you appear there and get run over by a bus?”
“Hmmm, I hadn’t thought of that.” His anger rose when people didn’t trust him, but this time, he let the slight pass. “I know what you’re saying, and I’m as concerned as everyone about this, but I’ll be dead trying. Even if I fail, this one passion, this need to find out what happened to my friend has fueled my desire to make computers. If
I chicken out now, I’ll be the same as my father, never taking a substantial risk and regretting my failure for the rest of my life. There’s nothing here to replace that guilt, or force me to stay, so I might as well go.” He thought about how Heather would feel if he died. “I have to go back.” His face tightened with determination.
The plane flew steadily toward the northeast, the rising sun behind them and on Michael’s left. Hours had passed before the jet banked to the southeast. Turbulence made him nervous, and each time the plane bounced, he checked to see how Sam reacted.
The big man was dozing in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Nothing to worry about unless a warning buzzer sounds. You might as well take a nap too,” he mumbled.
Michael suddenly realized why his friends were concerned about his plans. They were unsure. None of them had all the information, nor could they grasp his need to find out what happened to Joe. All they saw was the risk and the result of failure, which would mean he died. Sam wasn’t concerned about turbulence because he had enough experience to understand what was happening. No problem unless the wings fall off. Michael knew all the details and felt confident of its success. He needed to give them more information. They likely wouldn’t feel any better about losing him, but they might be a little happier if they understood the actual amount of risk.
Forty minutes later the English coast disappeared below them, and greater Europe loomed across the channel. Darkness was swiftly marching across the land beneath them as the plane turned gently to the south and he felt the power decrease in the engines. He’d flown enough times to know they were starting their descent. They would be landing in late evening by his watch.
Sam stirred in his seat, stretching and yawning. “Morning,” he said.
“Morning, the day’s almost over, now will you tell me where we’re going?”
Sam’s eyes glanced over the instruments and then out the windshield. He turned slightly in his seat to look at his boss. “I decided to give you a small vacation in the Riviera. You won’t mind relaxing by the ocean nor spending a few hours in a casino, will you.”
“I can do that at home. What makes the Riviera better?”
“You won’t get to meet any royalty at home, and the scenery here is some of the best in the world. There are two people on this flight, and I know that at least half of them are interested in visiting this country. We’ll have fun if you just let it happen.” His sly smile was infectious, and Michael finally grinned, too.
“Fine, but I’m not doing any hiking or swimming. I just want to relax. The computer is going to find me at seven o’clock California time tonight.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s...” he paused to make the calculation, but Sam beat him.
“Four in the morning tomorrow. You’ll have plenty of time for a good supper, a night’s sleep and the communicator can wake you up.” A beeping sound accompanied a flashing red light and Sam straightened himself before gently gripping the yoke.
“What is that?”
“Nothing serious,” he contacted the control tower in Paris and gave his call sign and destination. The controller acknowledged and gave Sam some numbers. Leaning forward, he changed a dial and flipped a switch.
“What was that all about?”
“Altitude and coordinates of the airport in Marseilles. We’ll be landing there in thirty minutes. Monaco doesn’t have an airport, so we’re going to drive to the hotel.” Sam adjusted the throttle and the plane slowed, dipping noticeably. He called the control tower.
Michael tuned out their banter and stared out the window. Lights dotted the ground below. A few clumps suggesting there might be a town or city around them. Large patches of darkness probably represented farmland stretching in all directions. He was amazed that people could live this close to farms. In the States, there would be a lot more separation. Small moving lights suggested there might be cars on the roads cutting through the fields.
“We’re about fifteen minutes to touch down. There’s a car meeting us after customs that’ll take us to the hotel. Quick shower and change before supper and then we can have a drink and relax,” Sam said without turning away from the instruments in front of him.
“Sounds good to me.” Michael tried to seem calm, but he could feel his stomach clenching with fear. The ground was coming up to meet them fast, or the light was playing tricks on his eyes. They could be diving straight into the ground for all he knew. The plane seemed to be flying level compared to the horizon, but he felt as if he was leaning forward. Thumping beneath them brought out a cold sweat until he realized the landing gear was being lowered. Moments later, the wheels touched the brightly lit runway, and they slowed before pulling to a stop next to the terminal.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the passenger cabin to retrieve his suitcases. Forty minutes later, their limo stopped in front of a six-story Greek style hotel. The door attendant, dressed in Moroccan attire, including a fez, opened the door to the lobby.
Everything seemed to be happening in a rush as they were greeted at the desk and then whisked up to their suite on the fifth floor. Sam gave the bellman a tip for carrying the bags and shut the door. Michael looked out the windows, taking a deep breath to relax. A cluster of brightly colored houses among multi-storied buildings stretched to the horizon on either side, lit by hundreds of street lamps, but straight ahead was the black body of the Mediterranean.
The massive lights of the harbor gleamed off boats of every size and description bobbing gently on the waves. Michael imagined them sailing one of those vessels. How wonderful would that be? A fair breeze, no storms in sight, he almost wished he owned one.
“When is this thing supposed to happen?” Sam asked standing behind him.
“What?” Michael hadn’t heard clearly.
“When is the computer supposed to contact you?”
Michael looked at his watch. “You figured the call would be at four in the morning, which means if everything works we’ll be hearing from the computer in about eight hours.”
“No, what time are you supposed to get the call?”
“Seven tonight,” Michael responded growing more confused.
“That’s California time. On the plane, I was thinking as if we were at home. I hadn’t added the nine hours of flying time. It’s currently one-thirty in the morning here, so we have about an hour to eat and possibly take a short walk before you need to be back here. I’m taking a shower now.” There were two bedrooms and Sam pulled his suitcase into the one on the left of the entrance door. Michael felt lost and dazed as he turned back to look out the window.
They’d flown all day while the world spun in the opposite direction. He didn’t feel tired, but he was hungry. Room service had better be open still, he groaned.
Michael searched the night for anything that could be a radio tower and found none. Sam made an excellent choice with this place. There weren’t any cell towers here, probably wouldn’t be any for another ten years at least. He decided to make sure the phone was charged and ready.
Carrying the two cases into the bedroom, he set them on the bed. The room was large—a king-sized bed in the middle of one wall, a window looking out on the water, and another to the right of the bed overlooking what Michael assumed was a bazaar. People would be milling about striped awnings, smoke from open cooking fires drifting skyward if this had been daytime.
Opening the smaller of the two cases, he found the phone, the power cable, and an adapter for the wall socket. He plugged everything together and turned on the phone. A frown pulled at his mouth.
Everything was ready, nothing else could be done until the appointed time, and then success or failure depended on the computer. For this to work, the computer had to find the signal and make contact. There weren’t any communication towers in 1957, so this couldn’t fail.
“What are you waiting for?” Sam’s voice made Michael jump. “Sorry, Boss. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The pilot was standing in the doorway, dressed in a
fresh pair of casual pants and a polo shirt. He was blushing at having startled Michael.
“No problem, Sam. I was just thinking about later. You did well picking this particular city. If the computer can find me here, there won’t be a problem finding me in the past, either.” He smiled and then opened the large suitcase.
“I’ll have a drink while you shower and change. There’s a restaurant just down the street so we don’t need to wander far to get something to eat.”
“At this time of night? Are you sure they’ll be open?”
“I called down to the desk to find out if there was a restaurant open, and they assured me this place definitely stayed open all night. We can call down for room service, but you know that’s going to take at least an hour.”
“Screw that, Sam, I’m starving already. I’ll be five minutes, and then we can go.”
He took ten, but eventually, Michael emerged from the bedroom in a pair of pants and pullover shirt. Sam gulped the last of his drink, and they went out to find the elevator.
The Morracan-style restaurant was brightly lit, warm, with smoke hanging thick in the air, making Michael cough. Rough planks for walls, ceilings either too dirty or too high to see, and three blade propeller fans lifeless in the dense white clouds above the tables. Light bulbs dangled in a bunch from the center of each fan. Locals hunched or lounged at tables and chairs, filling the space completely, leaving little room for the waiters to travel. Their eyes turned to stare at the men entering the restaurant. A tall, thin man in a black suit and white shirt met them at the door. Michael thought for a second that Vincent Price had found a new career.
“Welcome, gentlemen, may I have your name for the reservation?” His English was decent, but there was a thick Arabic accent.
Sam gave them the name Eldridge, and the maître d’ ran his index finger down the list of names on a sheet of paper. His head snapped up, and a very bright, wide smile covered his face.
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