Lester rapped the brass knocker a
second time on the six-panel front door of the modest two-story home in White Plains , NY
“Professor Pendleton?” Lester
ventured.
“Yes. You would be Lester Moran?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come in, young man.”
The Professor swung the door open
and stepped aside. He closed the door behind Lester.
“This way.”
Lester followed Pendleton into the
living room. He glanced around the room. The walls were somewhere between pink
and tan. Lester guessed they once had been one or the other but had faded in an
odd manner. The Persian rug under his feet was frayed and stained. The wall
hangings looked as though they hadn’t been changed or moved for half a century;
he was tempted to peek beneath one to find the original wall color. The air
smelled slightly of mothballs and sauerkraut.
“Have you lived here a long time?”
Lester asked.
“Yes,” Pendleton said. “Have a seat.”
Lester settled lightly into an old wing
chair. The legs of the chair creaked alarmingly as they took his weight. The
professor sat cattycorner from him on a fabric couch with an ugly blue floral
pattern. The couch looked comfortable.
“So, Mr. Moran, what is so
all-fired important that you need to bother me at home? I told you on the phone
I wouldn’t tolerate any kind of a sales pitch.”
“I’m not selling anything, sir, and
I didn’t plan to bother you at home. I don’t know where you were a professor –
the Wikipedia entry on you isn’t very informative. I first tried looking you up
at the American Museum of Natural History.
An article in the museum’s online magazine said you worked there.”
“It said no such thing. I don’t work
at the museum. The museum does provide funds for my digs sometimes, which is
what you misinterpreted. I no longer teach at a college either. ‘Professor’ is
a title that sticks with you even after you leave the position, like ‘Colonel’
or ‘Governor.’”
“I see. Well, the article was a few
years old. It was about pre-Columbian sites you uncovered in Maryland
and New Jersey
“I know what it was about.”
“I live pretty close to the dig you
did in Jersey . You said in the article that
the site was contaminated: something about ‘modern refuse.’”
“Yes. It’s not unusual for anachronistic
pieces to infiltrate archeological sites. Frost, water, burrowing animals, and,
more often, recent human activity can move things around. Contamination makes
my job harder, of course, and raises difficulties in dating sites and artifacts.
Do you commonly read back-issues of the magazine?”
“No,” Lester said. "I remembered
hearing about your dig years ago when it was going on – or maybe I read about
it in the local paper. Anyway, I ran a Google search yesterday to find out more
about it. The old article about it and about you popped up. You said the site
was 13,000 years old.”
“More or less. I estimated it was just
prior to the Younger Dryas, but there were anomalies which indicated
disturbance of the ground, thereby making a proper excavation impossible.”
Two stoneware mugs clunked on the
coffee table between Lester and the professor. They had been placed there by a gray-tressed
woman about the same age as the professor, but considerably less weathered.
“I didn’t ask for tea,” said the
professor.
“I know you didn’t, John,” she
said.
“Mr. Moran,” he sighed, “this is my
wife, who is also Dr. Pendleton.”
“Are you an archeologist, too,
Doctor?” Lester asked.
“No, an astronomer, and you can call
me Chloe. You can call the grump over there John.”
“She does work at the museum,” he grumbled.
“Or would you prefer something
stronger, Mr. Moran?” Chloe asked.
“Uh no, tea will be fine. And I
guess you should call me Lester.”
“Well, Lester, I’m sure you won’t
mind if I have something.”
Without waiting for an answer, Chloe
walked over to a serving tray by the wall and poured herself a glass of neat
bourbon. She returned and sat next to John on the couch. Lester sipped his tea.
“What is it you do, Lester?” Chloe
asked.
“I’m a backhoe operator. I have a
liberal arts degree but…”
“But you couldn’t find a job reciting
Shakespeare?”
“Something like that, yes. Lately I
haven’t been working the hoe much either. The recession. Just the occasional
septic repair and the like keep me afloat. Barely.”
“Well, well. So, to what do we owe
this visit?” she asked. “Did you dig up something with your backhoe that you
thought might interest John?”
“Well, not with the backhoe. But, yes,
I would like Professor…uh, John, to look at this.”
Lester reached into his pocket and
withdrew a black chert stone the size of a 50-cent piece. He held it out. John plucked
it from him and turned it in his fingers.
“A Clovis
point replica. Very nice work. You got the fluting right. How many times did
you have to practice?” Pendleton asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Come now, young man. It is plainly
new. There is no weathering at all. This was knapped no more than a week ago, I’d
say. When did you learn to do it?”
“Never. But I’m sure you’re right that
the point is new,” Lester said.
“Honesty prevails.”
“But I think it’s an authentic
relic, too.”
“I’m too old to waste time on
riddles.”
“Nonsense, John,” Chloe said.
“That’s pretty much your whole job.”
“I’ll explain, sir. I mean John.”
Lester wasn’t sure who was more
uncomfortable with the use of first names, himself or Professor Pendleton.
Chloe seemed to enjoy watching the two of them squirm over it.
Lester took a breath. “You know,
time travel stories are so much a part of our popular culture,” he said, “that
we think of them the way like we think about vampires or Bigfoot. You know: A Connecticut
“I’m familiar with the genre.”
“Right. Well, we think of them as just stories. Popular
myths. We certainly don’t take the ideas seriously.”
“Nor should we,” the professor said.
“Some people take time travel
seriously, John,” Chloe stated.
“Fools.”
“No, not really.”
“Then you think time travel – I
mean backwards time travel – might be possible, Dr. Pendleton?” Lester asked
her.
“I told you to call me Chloe. There
are special conditions where it might be unavoidable.”
John assumed a “there she goes
again” expression.
“For example,” she continued, “subatomic
particles skimming the twisted space-time at the outer event horizon of a rotating
black hole should travel back in time and radiate away before they arrive. I
know that sounds bizarre, but the math seems to work. Of course, the radiation wouldn’t
be distinguishable from particles that didn’t travel backwards, so the effect
is hard to demonstrate empirically, even if we had a nearby black hole to
study, and no macroscopic object would survive the encounter. The object
literally would be torn to atoms. So it is not a practical time machine for,
let’s say, you.”
“Are conditions conceivable that
would let large objects go backwards?” Lester pressed.
“Conceivable, but not likely. I
think you’ll have better luck finding that Bigfoot than finding a doorway to yesterday.”
“I found it all the same.”
“Did you? Are you sure you won’t
have a drink Lester?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, I’ll have another.”
“If I tell you both a story, will
you hear me out to the end, even if it sounds outlandish?”
“I wouldn’t dream of stopping you,”
she answered as she poured a shot larger than the first.
“And it already sounds outlandish,”
the professor added.
Lester began.
“As I said, I live near that dig in
NJ. I have a house right on Lake
Hopatcong
“I enjoy going out in my boat. Most
people put theirs away for the winter right after Labor Day. Not me. I don’t
mind colder weather. I’m out on the lake until it starts to freeze. Besides,
the lake traffic gets pretty dense in the summertime, but by October I have the
lake pretty much to myself, and that’s kind of nice.
“Anyway, a couple days ago, even
though we’re coming up on Halloween, I was out on the water in the late
afternoon. In order to warm up a little, I stopped for a drink at a restaurant
called The Jefferson
House, which has docks as well as a parking lot. I just had one. OK, it was
a double, but it was one glass, because I wanted to
get back before dark. The point is I was sober.
“I went back to the boat, cast off,
started up the outboard, and pulled away from the dock. There was a thick fog
on the lake, but I had a compass on the dash. I figured I’d just go real slowly
and I’d get home OK. I was wrong. It wasn’t like any other fog. It was thick
like nothing I’d ever seen before. Just a solid gray. I couldn’t see anything
beyond the boat itself. I throttled down to almost nothing just to be safe.
“Suddenly, my stomach lurched. Water
splashed and my spine jarred. I was almost thrown out of the boat as it bounced
and rocked. I banged my head on the gunwale, which dazed me, but I shook it off
pretty quickly. I wondered if I had hit another boat or a submerged log or
something. The gray looked lighter to starboard, so I turned that way. Sure
enough, it thinned out and I puttered out of the grayness into the clear. I looked
around to get my bearings. I thought I knew every inch of the shoreline of that
lake, but I had no idea where I was. What’s more, there were no lakeside houses
in sight. Remember, this is Jersey we’re
talking about. Where was I? Had I gotten so turned around that I’d gone over the
dam? I looked in back of me. The fog bank was still there, and I couldn’t see through
or around it.
“I figured it was safer to go
forward than back. Besides, I smelled a barbecue – you know that distinctive
smell. I decided to crash the party and ask where I was. I considered the
possibility that I had passed out and drifted downriver, but my watch hands and
the sun hadn’t changed position noticeably, so I couldn’t have gone far. But
the oddities kept piling up. For one thing it was cold. Really cold. Much more
than it had been when I left The
Jefferson House. The woods were wrong. I mean, there weren’t any. That
section of Jersey is full of trees wherever
there aren’t houses, but most of the shoreline was bare grass and tall brush with
only a smattering of trees. Then I saw some deer at the shore drinking from the
lake – except they weren’t deer. I’d only seen them in pictures, but I knew
what they were. They were caribou. In Jersey ?
“Right about then I saw the smoke
from the barbecue. It looked maybe a mile inland, but there was too much brush
in the way for a view of it. I beached my boat and killed the engine. I jumped
out, and pulled the bow further up on shore. I hurried on foot toward the fire
while there was still some light. I didn’t want to stumble around this place in
the dark. Where there were caribou there might be bear – or worse.
“My nose led me right to the fire. It
was a barbecue alright, but it sure wasn’t what I expected. The fire was in the
middle of a half-dozen makeshift shelters. I don’t want to give the impression
this was a village because it wasn’t. The shelters looked temporary – just tossed
together from sticks, poles and thatch. Nothing about the camp had a lived-in
look. You know: no worn paths in the grass, no laundry hanging on lines, and no
garbage. The people weren’t exactly your typical suburbanites. There were maybe
forty of them or so, a mix of all ages. As soon as they spotted me they just
stood or sat quietly as I walked toward them. All of them looked fit and trim
with dark hair. The men were beardless. There certainly were no PETA members
among them. Buckskin and furs were the dress code for men and women alike. Two
men were armed with spears and had that sentry look. They made me nervous with
their stares, but they didn’t challenge me. As I got close, I saw their spears
were tipped in stone lashed on with leather. It looked as though these people had
been waiting for somebody to show up, but not me, and they weren’t sure what to
make of the switch. In retrospect, I realize how bizarre my clothing – my whole
appearance – must have seemed to them.
“Several times I said hello and asked
where I was, but no one would answer me. The barbecue was a roasting leg of
caribou on a spit over an open fire. Next to the fire by himself sat an older
man, which in this context means perhaps in his 40s. He was eyeing me
carefully. I walked over to the fire and sat down near him. A couple of
children began to laugh at this, but they quieted when one of the
spear-wielders looked at them and tapped the heel of his weapon on the ground.
“Two women walked up to the fire.
One was about the old fellow’s age, and she wore a scowl, which she aimed at me.
The other was a very attractive young woman who was kind of dolled up, with
necklaces and bracelets what looked like an ivory hair clasp.
“I wasn’t sure who was in charge,
but the man wasn’t scowling, so I spoke to him.
“‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said. ‘Could
you please tell me where I am? Can you understand me?’
"He said a something back. I have no
clue what language it was. He realized I didn’t understand, so he waved at the
roasting leg. This provoked a sharp rebuke from the older woman, who I was
beginning to think was his wife. He looked at me and waved at the leg again.
"I thought it might be rude to
refuse, maybe even dangerous, so I reached into my pocket for my pocket knife. It
was just a little basic one with four folding blades, not an elaborate Swiss
one or anything like that. I opened the largest blade and sliced off a little
of the meat, which I have to say was pretty tasty. The old guy showed no
surprise, which at first inclined me to believe he’d seen pocket knives before.
But then I reconsidered. I know plenty of people who simply accept new
technologies they don’t understand. So, I demonstrated the knife by opening and
closing each blade. I held out the knife to him. He continued to look
unimpressed, but he took it.
“I impressed someone with it though.
The fancied-up young woman walked up behind the older guy and held out her hand.
He put the pocket knife on her palm and spoke a few words to her. She looked at
it closely. She opened, felt, and examined each blade before handing the knife
back to the fellow, who I now was sure was her dad. The young woman looked directly
at me and said something.
“The old woman exploded. ‘Rala!’
which I guess was her name. A tirade followed. Rala didn’t say a word. She just
glared back defiantly for a few moments and then stomped of to one of the
shelters. She disappeared into it.
“Right then is when the raid happened.
Five young men, who had crept up silently hidden by brush and trees during the
past few minutes, suddenly whooped loudly and ran into the camp, each from a
different direction. They looked just like the first folks but their faces were
painted up. Calling the resistance to them token would be giving it too much
credit. Something like a play fight ensued with the camp’s spearmen parrying
far from deadly blows the raiders. Only two attackers had spears. Two more
carried smaller lances and what I later realized were throwing sticks. No one
had a bow. One man was unarmed and he was painted up more than the rest.
“Rala’s father didn’t even get up
from the fire. His wife didn’t move either. I was too stunned to move. The
unarmed raider, a tall and muscular young man, dashed into the shelter where
Rala had gone and pulled her out by the arm. She looked far from happy but did
absolutely nothing to get away from him. The raiders broke off the attack and
withdrew, taking the abducted young woman with them. Her father seemed singularly
unconcerned about it, and the older woman, presumably her mother, for the first
time was all smiles.
“The woman spoke to me, and despite
her smiles, her words had a sharp tone. I got the distinct feeling I was being
dismissed. I began to grasp that this whole raid had been staged. It had been
pre-negotiated by the parents, or most likely by the mom, since she took the
most satisfaction from it. The abduction was a stylized ritual like a prom date
or something. The mom probably identified me as some alternate suitor trying to
monkey-wrench her plans for her daughter, and that’s why she was so hostile to
me.
“The thing is, she was right. Rala pretty
clearly wasn’t happy with her date or groom or whatever he was, but she seemed
to take an interest in me, maybe just because I wasn’t the other guy. Well, I
took an interest in her, too. So, I stood and mumbled something I hope sounded
like thanks to my hosts and left the camp, but, once I was out of sight, I went
after the raiding party.
“This was crazy. I admit it, and I
don’t have a good explanation for it. I didn’t have a real plan either. I
wasn’t about to tangle with those five tough-looking guys, after all. If Rala just
happened to get away from them, though, I wanted to be there to help.
“I thought I was being stealthy in
my tracking, but the raiders knew I was there. They laid a trap for me. While
they were out of sight beyond some tall brush, four of them went on ahead, and
made a lot of noise about it. I naturally thought I was hearing all six, which is exactly
what they intended. So, when I pushed through the brush I suddenly found myself
face to face with the heavily painted abductor. He stood there with his arms
folded. Rala stood several feet behind him. He obviously wasn’t afraid to face
me alone and his pals weren’t afraid to leave him. I guess I didn’t look too
formidable to them. I stood still. We were having a staring contest and he was winning
it. I was about to withdraw and head back to my boat when Rala picked up a rock
and hit the fellow over the head with it. He went down. She really didn’t care
for her mom’s pick. She ran up to me and pointed away from the scene. I agreed.
I assumed Facepaint, if he was alive, would be irked when he woke up. We didn’t
wait to find out. I pointed toward the lake and we high-tailed it toward my
boat.
“We hadn’t gone very far before I
heard the raiding party in back of us shouting. Facepaint apparently was awake
and had been rejoined by his buddies. We ran faster. By now it was dark, but
there was enough of a moon to see by. My boat came into view. The voices behind
us were louder. I helped her in the boat, which seemed to astonish her, and
pushed the bow off the shore into the lake. I splashed into the water and
jumped aboard. The electric starter failed. There wasn’t enough oomph from the
battery. I leapt to the back of the boat and pulled again and again on the
outboard’s rope. The engine started just
as Facepaint and his friends burst through some brush and rushed toward the
shore. I put got behind the wheel, engaged the prop and slammed the accelerator
lever forward. I heard feet splashing in the lake as we lurched ahead. A lance passed through the air inches from my
head and lodged its point in the wood decking just in front of the windshield.
I turned toward the fog which still hung on the lake back the way I had come.
“I looked at Rala and she smiled. She
smiled back. We entered the fog. Once again, I couldn’t see anything beyond the
gunwales. Once more, my stomach churned. Water splashed up nearly swamping the
boat, maybe because of a difference in the water level. I threw safety to the
wind and kept the accelerator forward. The boat emerged into the clear. Stars were
overhead in a moonlit sky.
“I turned to look at Rala and saw
an empty seat. The girl was gone. She had been sitting right next to me and I
was sure she hadn’t gone overboard, but she was gone. I turned back into the
fog to try to find her, but it was thinning out. Whatever door I had passed
through twice had closed. Soon there wasn’t even a wisp of mist. I circled
around for hours, but there was no sign of anyone. I realized something else
was missing: the shaft from the lance that had whizzed past my head. The point,
though, was still lodged in the wood. It’s the Clovis
point you are holding.
“Well, that’s about it. I motored
back home, and I started searching the net for someone to talk to about what
happened. I found you.”
“Are you done?” Professor Pendleton
asked.
“Yes,” Lester said.
“You are saying you went back in
time thousands of years and returned?”
“Yes.”
“You do understand how much easier
it is to believe you are lying than to believe you did any such thing.”
“Yes.”
“So, what exactly do you want, then?”
“I would like you to answer a
question about your dig, and I want to go back to find Rala.”
“Lester,” Chloe said gently, “have
you tried Match.com? There are plenty of young ladies in the world.”
“Not like that one.”
“Of that I’m sure.”
“What is the question?” John prodded.
“You didn’t say in the article what
the contamination of the dig site was.”
“No, I didn’t. I prefer not to
reveal anachronisms publicly because the world is full of pranksters. They
would salt digs with more of the same items just for fun. Look at all the
trouble the fellow who planted the Piltdown skull caused, and he never was
identified.”
“Could it have been a pocket knife?”
Lester asked. “Mine had white plastic sides.”
“No, the contamination was not a
knife or pieces of a knife. And if it had been, Mr. Backhoe Operator, that
merely would have convinced me you were the culprit who planted it.”
“I see.”
“I believe,” the professor said
“Now, now, John,” Chloe chided.
“Chloe,” Lester said almost
pleadingly, “just accept the hypothesis for a moment that I am telling the
truth. Why do you suppose the girl didn’t return with me to our time?”
“One might
speculate that only a mass equal to that which went through the first time could
come back – an energy balance. The actual matter that made the first transition
was treated preferentially on the return trip. The pocket knife wasn’t with you
so the arrowhead came back instead to make up the balance. You are lucky it was
just the stone and not, say, the young lady’s finger.”
“Chloe, why are you humoring him?”
John complained.
“Because it humors me to do so.”
“Is there any hope of getting back
there?” Lester asked.
“You said the fog stayed in one
spot relative to the surface of the lake. This suggests the temporal anomaly is
gravitationally bound; otherwise it would fly off as the earth flies through
space. If it reappears at all, my best guess is to look for it in the same
place on the lake – perhaps at the same time of day for the next few days. Or perhaps
on the same date next year if the planetary alignment has anything to do with
it. Or then again the anomaly may be gone forever.”
“Thank you.
That is helpful. And thank you both for your hospitality.”
After Lester had left, Chloe said,
“John, why didn’t you tell him the contamination was a fiberglass hood from an
outboard Evinrude?”
“You know very well why. You
realize he will quote you in some tabloid rag.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he will be spending a lot
of afternoons boating into every patch of fog he sees on that lake.”
