Individually, Ethan and Olivia were two of the most brilliant people I had ever met. Together they would certainly create a force to be reckoned with. But time travel? Was it really possible? I had no way of knowing for sure. But what I do know is that when I told Ethan what year it was, he practically exploded with enthusiasm, taking a triumphant punch at the air.
The others in my sitting room reacted in similar fashion, celebrating the news as if they’d just won the lottery or the Iron Snail competition.
“She’s still alive,” said Catherine. “She doesn’t drink the coffee until tomorrow morning.”
The children leaped to their feet and hugged one another. “Yes!” said Simon as he engaged in a double high five with Professor Boxley, forgetting that his left hand was currently occupied by a sock puppet.
“Ouch!” said Gravy-Face Roy.
“Your phone,” said Ethan. “I need to borrow your phone.”
I hurried off to retrieve the cordless phone, which always seemed to be somewhere one wouldn’t expect. Once, I found it in the freezer, next to a half-empty carton of butterbrickle ice cream. This time I located it in the laundry hamper. I returned to the sitting room, where I was mobbed like a rock star.
“I want to talk to her too,” said Simon.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get a chance,” said Ethan. “You’ll all get a chance.” I handed my friend the phone. He stared at the keypad and did nothing else. “Does anyone remember our phone number?”
“I do,” said Catherine, who had more room in her oversized brain for such things.
Ethan quickly dialed the number. So shaky were his hands that he had to hang up and start over twice before getting the number right. “It’s ringing,” he whispered finally.
“Hello?” came the sleepy voice on the other end.
“Olivia,” Ethan practically shouted. He covered the phone and whispered to his children, as if what he was about to say next was a closely guarded secret to which Olivia herself was not privy. “She’s alive.”
“Hello? Who is this?” asked Olivia.
“It’s me, Ethan.”
“What?” said Olivia. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but if you call here again I’m going to the police.” The line went dead, and Ethan stared at the phone before quickly hitting redial, but the call went right to voice mail.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” asked Simon. “What happened?”
“I think she unplugged the phone. Darn it. I should have known she wouldn’t believe me. After all, why should she? I think the only way to convince her is to do so in person. Bertie, what time is it?”
I looked across the room and consulted the grandfather clock, which had been a gift from my grandmother on my father’s side. “Well,” I began, “according to my grandmother’s grandfather clock, it’s nearly eleven thirty, though it does tend to run a bit slow. Just like my grandmother.”
My little joke, which I thought quite the zinger, was unceremoniously ignored by all. Instead, a sense of panic seemed to rip through the room.
“Olivia gets up at five every morning,” said Ethan. “The first thing she does is drink her coffee. That’s how they poisoned her. By putting it in her coffee. That gives us just five and a half hours to get there.”
This was indeed a problem, because there, as it turns out, was quite far away from here, and it was about to get a lot farther when Catherine said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t there a two-hour time difference?”
“That’s right,” said Ethan. “That gives us just three and a half hours.”
“We could wait until tomorrow,” Professor Boxley suggested. “That would give us time to fix the battery on the LVR, and we could go back a few days into the past, which would give us plenty of time to get there.”
“And let her drink poison again?” said Ethan. “Not a chance. Besides, if we wait, something could go wrong. It’s too risky. This might be our only opportunity, and we’ve got to take it.”
“I agree,” said Jason. “But how do we get there? We’d need a rocket ship to make it in time.”
And then, something occurred to me. “Yes, a rocket ship,” I said. “Or a corporate jet.”
“Corporate jet?” said Ethan, his eyes suddenly filled with hope. “What corporate jet?”
“The NCUA corporate jet,” I announced. “I can get you there in about three hours if all goes well.”
Of course, this did not include travel time to and from each airport, but it was the best I could do, and I strongly advised the Cheesemans that my plan was our absolute best hope for success. “Quick, to the limo,” I said, feeling ever so slightly like Batman. Then suddenly it occurred to me to do a head count. The NCUA corporate jet is a bit on the smaller side and seats only a half dozen, including the pilot and copilot. I explained that one of them would have to stay behind, and it was pretty much between the two non-Cheesemans, Professor Boxley and Big.
“I’ll stay,” Professor Boxley bravely volunteered.
“Thanks,” said Big, though, by the way she looked at Jason, I would bet there’s no way she would have let him board that plane without her.
With precious minutes ticking away, I quickly explained to the professor where he could find the guest room and advised him that should he encounter my elderly parents the following morning, he should simply pretend to be me. “Odds are, they won’t know the difference,” I said. “If that doesn’t work, tell them you’re there to fix the phonograph.”
“Good luck, Ethan,” the professor said, offering Ethan a regular, non-secret handshake. “And don’t worry. I know you’ll make it.”
“Thanks, Professor,” said Ethan. “Thanks for everything.”
Outside, we raced to the limo. Big, who apparently came from modest means and had never before seen a limo up close, said, “What is this thing?”
“It’s a car,” said Jason. “Remember? I told you about them. It’s okay, get in.” Big, the other humans, and the animals all piled into the limo. Everyone, that is, but young Simon, who stood outside the car while the others beckoned him inward.
“Simon, let’s go,” said Ethan. “What’s wrong?”
Simon remained silent, but Gravy-Face Roy said, “It’s just that … you see, I’m afraid of flying.”
“Your puppet is more than welcome to stay here with the professor,” I said, not realizing that young Simon was using Gravy-Face Roy to voice his own concerns about air travel.
“It’ll be okay, Simon,” said Mr. Cheeseman. “It’s no different than riding in the LVR, really.”
Simon looked uncertain, but his doubt was no match for the faith he had in his father. He climbed into the limo, buckled up, and we set out at breakneck speed for the airport.
Advice for Nervous Fliers
Ever since man first looked to the heavens, he has dreamed of soaring through the sky while nibbling on a small bag of honey-roasted peanuts.
Today, this dream is a reality thanks to the Wright brothers, who were busy perfecting the airplane while the Parker Brothers were off creating Monopoly and the Ringling Brothers committed themselves to inventing the circus.
These days we take flying for granted, though if I might be so bold, let me say that air travel is far and away the best mode of transportation. I know I’m taking a risk saying that, considering what happened to Archduke Ferdinand after making a similar statement. Still, the facts remain that flying is safer than driving, it’s faster than a speeding locomotive, and it requires a great deal less balance than riding a unicycle (in my opinion, the second-best way to travel).
Still, there are those who are reluctant to board an airplane, stating that, “If man were meant to fly, he would have been born with wings, and an overhead compartment for his carry-on bags.” These people are known as nervous fliers and are easily identified by their uncontrollable weeping whenever the plane hits a little unexpected turbulence.
Yes, it’s true that air travel can be quite bumpy in rough weather, which is why most
major airlines require that you keep your seat belt buckled at all times while seated on the airplane. However, you will notice there is no seat belt in the airplane lavatory, which is odd, considering that this is one place where you might want to be strapped into your seat during some heavy-duty turbulence.
And though sometimes unnerving, turbulence is nothing to worry about and is no different than driving your car (or unicycle) down a very bumpy road, at thirty thousand feet, with two tons of jet fuel directly beneath you. So you see, flying is the best way to get from point A to point B, and I strongly advise you to embrace it, especially if your point B is a thousand miles away and you have only three hours to get there.
Chapter 14
For the record, riding in a limousine, like flying in an airplane, is generally a very comfortable mode of transportation, unless you are speeding along gravel-covered back roads and taking shortcuts through hay fields. Then, it can be a very turbulent ride.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” shouted Catherine from the backseat, her head coming dangerously close to the ceiling with each bounce and every bump as we made our way across the muddy ground.
“Trust me, I know exactly what I’m doing,” I said.
“Look out!” said Ethan.
“Mooo,” said the cow I almost ran over but didn’t, thanks to a beautifully executed last-minute swerve.
The car jounced along, then took to the air as it left the hay field, flying up the shoulder of the main road like a ramp before landing with the horrible screech of rubber hitting pavement and the sparks of … some metal car part (I’ve never claimed to be a mechanic) hitting that same pavement.
I cranked the wheel hard to the right in an effort to get the car going in the same direction as the road, which I find is the most efficacious use of roads. The back end swung around and the spinning tires spat out gravel from the opposite shoulder. When they finally caught blacktop, the car lurched forward with a chirp and sped down the main road toward the airport.
Suddenly, Pinky began growling a very low and steady growl. “What’s the matter? Is there a problem with your dog?” I asked.
“She’s psychic,” said Jason. “She growls whenever she senses danger.”
As I saw nothing to cause alarm, I could only conclude that the silly beast considered my driving to be a danger worth growling at.
“Oh, is that all,” I said, with a sigh of relief. “For a moment I was afraid she might be on the verge of doing something unsavory in the car. I just had the interior detailed last week. Anyway, I can assure you there’s no danger to worry about. Everything is under control. However, there is one small wrinkle to consider.”
“How small?” asked Ethan.
“And how wrinkly?” asked Gravy-Face Roy.
“Quite small and just a tad on the wrinkled side,” I said as we rocketed past a sign indicating we were in an area where stick figures frequently crossed the road. “This is a rather small town, as you may have noticed, and I’m afraid the airport closes at midnight.”
“Then why are we going there if we can’t even fly out?” asked Catherine.
“Oh, I didn’t say we couldn’t fly out. I just said the airport was closed. It’ll just make flying out a bit more … challenging.”
“But isn’t that illegal?” asked Jason.
“Only if you get caught,” I hollered over my shoulder while my eyes remained focused on the dark, curvy asphalt coming toward me at a highly illegal rate of speed.
“But if you do get caught, you could lose your pilot’s license,” said Simon.
“Pilot’s license?” I scoffed.
This seemed to cause a noticeable increase in the already high level of tension in the air. “You do have a pilot’s license,” said Ethan pointedly.
“Do you need a license to ride a bicycle?” I responded. “Or a lawn mower? Why should an airplane be any different?”
“Uh, because it travels thirty thousand feet above the ground,” said Jason, apparently a bit skeptical as to my aeronautic prowess.
“Licenses are overrated,” I opined. “My dog, Kevin, has a license, and he couldn’t fly a plane if his life depended on it. I, on the other hand, am an excellent pilot and have never been involved in a fatal crash.”
“What do you mean you’ve never been involved in a fatal crash?” asked Catherine.
I did not have time to answer the young girl’s question because, at that very moment, my rearview mirror became filled with flashing blue and red lights.
“A policeman,” I said with exasperation. “What is a policeman doing out and about at this hour?”
My passengers all turned and looked out the back window to confirm that, yes, a police cruiser was hot on our trail, its lights blazing, its siren blaring.
“You should probably pull over,” said Simon. “If you don’t, he might shoot us.”
“I don’t think he’ll shoot us,” said Jason. “But you probably should pull over anyway, Dr. Soup. Otherwise you could lose your driver’s license.”
“Driver’s license?” I scoffed as I made a hard right onto a dirt road, which I had intended to take anyway.
“Maybe if you pull over and explain the situation to him, he’ll give us a police escort,” said Catherine.
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “The local police department seemed to take offense when I recently advised them that they were in desperate need of some additional training and special dietary restrictions.”
I killed the lights and took a hairpin turn onto a smaller dirt road, then quickly turned off that road and sped across a rutabaga farm, which is even bumpier than a hay field, if you can imagine. A quick check of my mirror confirmed that I had lost my pursuer. I’m not one to say I told you so, but it seems as though the local police department might have done well to heed my advice.
On the other side of that rutabaga farm sat the airport, closed for the night and quiet as a graveyard. I stopped the limo next to a chain-link fence that ran astride the runway. Spiraling along the top of the fence was a rather nasty-looking stretch of barbed wire, mortal enemy to pants everywhere.
“Okay, let’s go,” I commanded, tiny clouds of steam escaping from my mouth and into the frigid December air with every word. I climbed out of the car and my passengers followed, a bit too tentatively for my liking. I opened the trunk of the limo and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, because you never know when you’re going to have to break into an airport.
Working quickly, I snapped enough links of the fence that it could be peeled back, allowing us to squeeze through and to avoid the barbed wire altogether.
“This way,” I said, sprinting across a patch of grass toward the NCUA corporate jet, which was known affectionately as the Concorde Grape. It had earned its nickname because of its dark purple paint job, which was a holdover from when it had served as the corporate jet for the National Eggplant Association.
“Don’t worry,” I said to an obviously nervous Simon as I unlocked the hatch and pulled it open. “Flying is the safest form of travel. Unless, of course, you do so without filing a flight plan; then it can get a bit dicey. Still, not to worry.”
“What is this thing?” asked Big, and I began to wonder just what type of sheltered existence the girl had lived up to this point.
“This is an airplane,” said Jason. “Remember, I told you about the giant birds that fly through the sky? This is one of them.”
As we boarded the plane, Jason informed me that Big was from the year 1668, and suddenly everything made perfect sense. Wait a minute, what am I saying? This made no sense at all, but there was no time to dwell upon it.
When all had buckled up for the ride ahead and the animals had climbed into awaiting laps, I pulled the hatch closed and took my seat in the cockpit, with Ethan taking the copilot’s seat. Believe me when I say there’s nothing in this world quite so satisfying as firing up a jet engine. The sheer power that one can summon with the simple press of a button is awe-inspiring, to
say the least.
“I don’t mean to insult you,” said Ethan as we began our taxi to the runway, “but my entire family is aboard this plane. Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Listen, Einstein,” I said, which was not a smart-aleck remark, but rather Ethan’s nickname in college. Einstein Cheeseman we called him, because of the fact that he rarely found time to comb his hair. “You’re more likely to be struck by lightning than to be involved in a plane crash.”
Just then, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder. “See?” I said. “Now do you trust me?”
Good old Einstein stuttered something about how that did not prove anything, but my concentration was consumed by the task of taking off on a runway with no lights.
As the Concorde Grape careened down the tarmac, another charge of lightning shivered across the sky, affording me a good view of the runway and alerting me to the fact that it was unexpectedly about to end.
“Uh-oh,” I said, which is something that should never be uttered by a pilot whose credentials and abilities are in question.
“Uh-oh?” Ethan repeated.
I pulled back on the stick, and the plane took to the stormy sky.
You have to understand how exciting this was for me. Of all the times I had flown the Concorde Grape, I had never done so with passengers in the back, and had never before had cause to use the P.A. system.
“Good evening from the cockpit, ladies and gentlemen,” I said in my deepest, most piloty voice. “This is your captain, Dr. Cuthbert Soup. I’ll be assisted today by my copilot, Ethan Cheeseman, and we’ll be cruising at an altitude of anywhere between twenty-five and thirty thousand feet, depending on where the lightning is. Barring any unexpected delays, we should be arriving at our destination in approximately two hours and fifty-five minutes, local time 4:51 a.m.”
“That’s cutting it close,” said Ethan.
“Sorry,” I replied. “If it hadn’t been for that cop I would’ve been able to stay on the main road longer. If we get a good tailwind, we can probably make up a little time.”
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