The Bellbottom Incident

by Neve Maslakovic

  I could almost see Dr. Little’s ears perk up, though he seemed more interested in the scientific ramifications of what had happened than he was in my continued safety. “Ah. The opposite of a ghost zone, if you will. History protected you. If you had been splattered all over the pavement, it would have affected the driver’s day, that of the ambulance personnel, and so on.”

  “Yes, and mine, too.”

  “Well, I’m glad the car didn’t mow you down,” Abigail said, a concerned look on her face.

  “For a second there I thought I’d hit the wall because History was sending me back…you know, because of the matter you’re studying, Dr. Little.”

  Dr. Little shook his head. “If History wanted to send you back, Julia, it wouldn’t strand you by a stop sign. It would channel you in the direction of STEWie’s basket by the Open Book, which is where we’re heading anyway.”

  “I’m older than you by what, a month or so?” I asked as we resumed walking.

  “Twenty-eight days.”

  “So I will be the first one to go, if these things happen in order.”

  “They may not. As you have just seen, History can be unpredictable. Let’s pick up the pace—Mooney said to meet him at five thirty. It’s past that now.”

  There was, however, no one waiting by the Open Book to meet us.

  9

  “He’ll come,” Abigail said after we’d waited by the sculpture for a good half an hour, during which time the sun had sunk under the horizon and the campus street lamps had started to flicker on. Students were gathering for some kind of rally in the plaza, but there was no sign of our graduate student. “He said he would, and Dr. Mooney always keeps his word, right?”

  He usually did, this was true. “I imagine he’ll show up if for no other reason than that he must be so curious about what we could tell him—this must be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. Speaking of which…Dr. Little, has Dr. Mooney ever said anything to you about having met us in the past?”

  “No.”

  “And you, Abigail?”

  Abigail shook her head. She was seated with her back against the sculpture with her knees drawn up. For some reason my mind interpreted the image in the fading light as if she were a Lilliputian leaning against a normal-sized book rather than a normal-sized person leaning against a large book.

  “Well, he never said anything about it to me either,” I said. “So what do we make of that?”

  Abigail stuck up her chin. “He must have had a good reason.”

  “Humph,” was all Dr. Little said.

  I was with him on that one. I didn’t like being kept in the dark.

  Dr. Little was also on the ground, cross-legged on the grass. He had stepped into STEWie’s basket already dog-tired from the triple pressure of being a new parent, teaching, and conducting research. The catnap in the physics courtyard had helped temporarily, but he was back to looking beat. I fought back a yawn myself and the impulse to lie down on the grass for just a brief moment. By now it was past midnight in our internal clocks. And here? I checked my watch. It was 6:15. Dusk came early in the fall.

  “Why is no one doing what they’re supposed to be doing?” Dr. Little complained after we had waited a while longer in silence. “Sabina is wandering around instead of waiting where she could easily be rescued. Mooney isn’t here even though he said he would be. This is why I don’t research people.”

  He meant historical figures, which is what almost every other professor and graduate student in the TTE department studied, in addition to doing their more technical work. I understood why he felt that way, even if he had phrased it strangely. He wanted his heroes to remain heroes. The more information the STEWie program gathered on a historical figure, the more human—and therefore imperfect—an image emerged. For example, a research team had recently happened to confirm that Beethoven was quite fond of cheap wine…If you want your heroes to remain heroes, you best not look too closely. It was the unwritten rule of time travel. Probably life itself, really.

  “I don’t know why Xavier Mooney didn’t come, but for all we know Sabina could simply be time-stuck somewhere on campus,” I said. The blanket, water bottle, and first aid kit had remained undisturbed, so we were fairly certain she hadn’t come back to the Open Book and left again. “Once it gets completely dark, maybe she’ll be able to emerge from her hiding spot, wherever that is, and make her way back here.”

  “And what’s your hypothesis about Mooney, then? He’s forty-five minutes late.” The young professor fought off another yawn, as if irritated with his own body’s behavior as well as that of the people around us. We were all hungry—the granola bars and water we’d shared while waiting had not gone far, and we had done a lot of walking. Dr. Little had budgeted for a short run, and in my haste to get going, I’d left my shoulder bag, which always contained an abundance of snacks, behind in the lab.

  “I guess he must have changed his mind about coming for some reason, or got held up at his desk. Either way, I don’t think there’s any point in waiting here any longer. The cafeteria is where Sabina found shelter before, so she may come back for the night.” I bent down to pick up the blanket, water, and first aid kit.

  Abigail reluctantly got to her feet and dusted off her bottom. “I guess if the professor were coming, he’d have shown up by now.”

  Dr. Little pulled himself up too, but more slowly.

  “You want me to carry the duffel bag for a bit?” I offered.

  As if I had said something to impugn his manhood, Dr. Little heaved the bag up on his shoulder. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  “I think I just saw her—well, a person in a white lab coat—going in that direction. Did you see her, Julia?”

  Dr. Little gave Abigail an unconvinced look, clearly not sharing her excitement. “Lots of white coats on campus. Could have been a researcher coming to the rally straight from a chemistry or medical lab.”

  “Sorry, Abigail,” I said, “I was looking in the other direction.” I scanned the plaza crowd where she had pointed, in the direction of St. Olaf’s Hall. Judging by the homemade cardboard signs the students were holding, it was a pro-Carter rally urging people to vote in the upcoming Tuesday election. Someone was getting ready to make a speech, but for the moment everyone was still milling around, making it impossible to determine whether Abigail really had glimpsed Sabina in Dr. Mooney’s white lab coat. Complicating matters further, many of the rally attendees and those crossing the plaza by foot or bicycle were in Halloween costumes. “Why won’t everyone stand still?” I complained. “Watch out for that bicyclist, Dr. Little!”

  Dr. Little, standing with his feet apart, didn’t bother moving. “I’m pretty sure History will not let me be hit by a cyclist, Julia. Just like it stopped you from being run over.”

  That may well have been true, but I still adopted a more careful approach, stepping aside to dodge the bicyclists weaving across the plaza around the pedestrians. I was still staring in the direction in which Abigail had thought she’d glimpsed Sabina, trying to see over people’s heads, when a bike bell chimed behind me. I turned quickly, ready to jump out of the way again.

  It was Xave, streaking across the green toward us, his head bedecked with a white wig. He came to a stop next to us and hopped off his bike, a red one that seemed to be an early version of Scarlett, his future bicycle, as though parts from it would be incorporated into its successor.

  “Where have you been?” Dr. Little demanded loudly, so as to be heard over the increasing chatter of the crowd.

  “And a howdy to you too.”

  “You’re an hour late.”

  “No, I’m not. We said half past five.”

  I double-checked my watch. It showed just about six thirty. Dr. Little checked his, which showed the same.

  Xave looked from Dr. Little to me. “Don’t you have daylight saving time in the future and all the annoying changes it entails?”

  Dr. Little’s mouth turned downward. I hea
rd him swear under his breath as we moved toward a less busy spot by the cafeteria. “Right. It’s October 31—DST ended last night. I still had my original run date in mind.”

  Xavier—the older one—had sent us forty-eight hours ahead of Dr. Little’s original coordinates. Instead of being one o’clock when we’d arrived, apparently it had only been noon.

  “I should have remembered that,” Dr. Little continued in the tone of an academic mortified to have gotten something wrong. He adjusted his watch, and I did the same with mine. “We wasted the last hour of daylight waiting for Mooney to show up.”

  We had, but it was no one’s fault. I said as much. “We rushed here to 1976 without much planning. And Steven, you haven’t been getting enough sleep since Piper was born.”

  “That’s no excuse.” I couldn’t tell if he was glaring at me because I had used his first name or what.

  Xave raised an eyebrow at us. “So this is what time travel is like, huh? Girls lost in time. People bickering over an hour here and there.”

  “It does mess with your head,” Abigail conceded.

  “Far out. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Well?” I demanded. “Did you ask around the physics building and St. Olaf’s Hall?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head at us. “No luck. Sorry.”

  We digested the news silently.

  Xave regarded us for a moment, then said, “Look, it seems to me that what you need is a good meal and some rest, and then we can put our heads together and see what to do about finding Sally. Why don’t you join me for”—he raised his voice as a speaker started shouting into a microphone, eliciting an approving roar from the crowd—“DINNER?”

  Dr. Little gave him a frank look and shouted back through cupped hands. “It’s not that easy…We can’t exactly go WHEREVER WE WANT.”

  “History might STOP you, or something like that?”

  “I CAN NEITHER CONFIRM OR DENY THAT. No more questions, MOONEY.”

  “Well, what would you do in my place? I’m burning with CURIOSITY.”

  “Sure, we can join you for just dinner,” I said quickly as the speaker went temporarily quiet, getting in the words before Dr. Little had the chance to disagree. Xave had a point. We wouldn’t be doing Sabina any good if we fainted from hunger. Besides, the cafeteria was where we wanted to be anyway, the likely place Sabina would return to as night fell, wherever she was at the moment.

  Xave had locked his bicycle into an empty spot in the rack by the front doors. “Fair warning—the cafeteria food is really bogue,” he threw over his shoulder as we followed him inside.

  “Did he say bogue?” Abigail whispered to me. “What does that mean?”

  “From what I know of cafeteria food, it can’t mean anything good.”

  Long rows of green plastic tables, which had thankfully been changed out at some point before my arrival at St. Sunniva as an undergrad, formed the eating area of the cafeteria. Students sat at the mostly packed tables engaged in lively conversation over their dinner trays, except for a loner here and there reading a paperback. There was a somewhat larger number of women than men, which was not a surprise since the school had only turned coed in 1968 and I knew it had taken a good decade for the numbers to even out. No one had a laptop or a tablet or an e-reader or a smartphone, which was not a surprise of course, but I couldn’t help but notice that it made for a more social setting. The only electronic device in sight was a radio blaring in one corner. I coughed. The place reeked of cigarettes. Still, they didn’t mask the cooking scents wafting from the kitchen, and I suddenly realized how ravenous I was.

  Xave pointed the three of us to a table that had just emptied, then came back after a minute to ask, “Scarily fried chicken or dismembered sausage links?”

  At first I thought the attributes were related to the bogue quality of the food, but then I remembered it was Halloween. The staff must have chosen to get creative with their menu. “Fried chicken, I guess,” I said.

  Abigail nodded. “Same for me.”

  “Your wish is my command, ladies,” Xave said. He turned to Dr. Little, who had slid his duffel bag under the table and taken a seat across from us. Dr. Little wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t there anything…lighter? A vegetable would be good.”

  Dr. Little had grown up in California and earned his PhD at Berkeley before coming to St. Sunniva. He was not the only vegetarian in the state of Minnesota; they were just grossly outnumbered.

  “Time travelers can’t be choosers, but I’ll see what I can do. I don’t suppose you have any…funds to contribute? I’m just a poor graduate student.”

  Dr. Little dished out some cash from his travel wallet, and I said, “I’ll help you carry, Xave.” He and I got into the food line, exchanged some light chitchat about the election while waiting, and came back with fried chicken (which was a strange orange color), mashed potatoes (green), and corn on the cob (with pitchfork-shaped holders).

  Abigail hesitated before digging in. “I hope Sa— Sally comes back here. It’s getting really dark out there.”

  I was worried too—where could Sabina be?—but forced myself to eat. After all, none of us would be thinking clearly if we didn’t nourish ourselves. The food coloring made for an unappetizing appearance, but it didn’t change the taste of the chicken and mashed potatoes. Just standard cafeteria fare. Dr. Little, who had stuck with the corn and mashed potatoes, seemed to be enjoying them just fine.

  After a moment of quiet contemplation, Abigail dug in as well.

  “How’s the chicken tonight?”

  Gabriel. Gabe was dashing in a dark suit, with the upturned collar of the white shirt underneath tightly pinched by a tie. His hair was slicked and tied back to look short, and his mustache had been combed to a bushier version. I glanced from him to Xave and it sank in that their costumes were supposed to be of a young and an older Einstein. Gabriel was the young Einstein. Xave—dressed in a sweater, casual droopy pants, and the white wig—was the older Einstein; he had even dyed his mustache white, which I had somehow failed to notice. It wasn’t bleached but covered in some kind of a white paint. I found myself hoping it was nontoxic food coloring, as it had started to flake as he ate.

  Gabe had addressed the question to his friend and fellow grad student, all the while avoiding any eye contact with the rest of us. I studied him above my fork. This was strange. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought History was making sure he didn’t register our presence, but that made no sense. It was supposed to be the other way around. Our movements were supposed to be limited while we traveled, not those of the locals.

  Xave waved his fork at the three of us. “Gabe, meet Julia, Abigail, and Dr. Little. They’re visitors. You’re not allowed to ask them anything.”

  Gabe didn’t appear to have a problem with that request. He seemed too weighed down by what I suddenly understood was his own social anxiety to care why he wasn’t expected to talk to us.

  Xave told him, “The chicken’s not awful.”

  Focusing on a spot on the floor, Gabe replied, “I’ll be back with my tray,” and left.

  “Gabriel’s a bit shy,” Xave explained, and waved hello to a female student passing by our table. She waved back at him.

  I opened my mouth to comment that we all knew Gabriel Rojas but thought better of it. It struck me that while we’d been able to fill one of STEWie’s inventors in on the bare bones of our situation, we probably wouldn’t be able to interact much with the other, if at all. Xave was a doer, his confidence in his pet project unshakable, so our presence was only confirmation of what he already knew with certainty—his time machine idea would work. Gabe, on the other hand, was a thinker, a worrier, a tight knot of social and other doubts. He obviously didn’t like meeting new people, something he would mostly outgrow in his professorship, with his shyness morphing into excessive politeness in social situations. Learning where we were really from and that we had gotten here using a
device he would have a hand in designing—well, that would have deeply affected the mild-mannered graduate student and sent History on a different path. Which explained why we’d been stuck in the janitor closet in the graduate student office earlier.

  “Hey, before Gabe gets back, let me ask you this. The three of us—Gabe, Lewis, and I—we haven’t been able to figure out how fast time streams for travelers relative to their home-time. Does it stream in parallel? Just nod if I’m correct…Faster? Slower?”

  I saw Dr. Little bite his lip, as if to fight back the urge to show off his superior knowledge on the subject by giving a detailed answer, one involving the use of pencil and paper and lots of diagrams and equations. Gabe came back and took a seat on the side of Xave that was opposite to the three of us. The friends launched into an in-character discussion—Gabe, as the young Einstein, was arguing for the cosmological constant, whatever that was, while Xave, the older Einstein, was arguing against it. We heard the terms field equation, spacetime, and relativity bandied about with abandon.

  Dr. Little just stared across the table at the two grad students as if jealous of the success and fame that awaited Xave and Gabe, and simultaneously disdainful that they were wasting time on Halloween fun instead of applying themselves in the lab. He caught my gaze, cleared his throat, and went back to eating.

  The fried chicken and mashed potatoes were heavy and I fought off a yawn. We were all experiencing the time-travel version of jet lag, which really needed a name, I thought. Time-travel lag, perhaps. We had jumped from early evening home-time to one o’clock—no, noon—local time, which meant that it felt far later for us. I fought a follow-up yawn and transferred my attention to the students streaming into the cafeteria, keeping an eye out for Sabina.

  There was no sign of her, but then someone else came in.

  I dropped my fork into the tiny mound of green mashed potatoes left on my plate and instinctively started to rise to my feet, but History sent me right back down.