Текст книги "Hollow World"

Автор книги: Michael J. Sullivan

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Ellis found the spoon and offered it and the can to Pax, who sniffed the contents.

“And you eat this?”

“It’s not considered a delicacy—and it’s supposed to be heated.”

Pax took a taste and made a face but nodded anyway. “It’s not revolting—I guess.”

“That’s only because you’re hungry. Just about anything tastes better when you’re outdoors and starved.”

They shared the can and spoon, passing them back and forth as they reclined on the hill and watched the sunrise bathing the hillside in warmth. Birds sang. Cicadas droned. A light breeze swayed the trees and blew the white of dandelions away.

When the stew was gone, Ellis tore open the M&M’S. “Here,” he said, “give me your hand.” He poured half the bag.

Pax looked at the little round balls with curiosity. “Very…colorful.”

Ellis chuckled. “You eat them.” He popped a red candy in his mouth.

Pax looked skeptical for a moment, then mimicked him. A moment later a big smile appeared. “These are wonderful. What do you call them?”

“Candy—M&M’S.” He thought to add that they were invented by Forrest Mars after he saw soldiers eating chocolate in the summer sun during the Spanish Civil War, but figured that wasn’t such a good idea. “Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.”

Pax picked up and studied the little yellow bag, turning it over and back. “I’ll have to see if Alva can find a pattern for this. If not, we should save some and find a designer to create one. The world should not be denied.”

Ellis laughed. “Well, at least the twenty-first century has one point in its favor.”

He felt good, which was amazing considering that the night before he had suffered his worst coughing fit ever. It was just after they had arrived back in what had been Michigan and Ellis felt like he was going to hack up half a lung. His chest still felt raw, but aside from that, everything else was hitting that perfect balance of being just right. The wind ruffled his hair, drawing Pax’s attention and creating a smile. He was neither too cold nor too hot. His lungs weren’t burning. He wasn’t tired or hungry. If he thought about it—if he looked back or forward—he would describe that moment as the tranquil eye of a hurricane. Panic or depression should have been appropriate. Instead, he was smiling, eating M&M’S, and even the can of two-thousand-year-old stew was enjoyable. As unlikely as he could imagine, it was a perfect moment.

“I wish it would rain,” Pax said. “They can’t even make that happen in an ARC.”

“What’s that?”

“Alternate Reality Chamber. Artists program illusions in a fixed space that simulate reality—sort of like what you see with falselight, only in an ARC they control everything—except the user, of course—and as such they can really suspend your sense of reality.” Pax ate another candy. “We’ve had problems with ARCs, though. People get addicted to them. Years ago, a lot of people died. They entered and never came out. Died of dehydration and malnutrition. You see, they only thoughtthey were eating and drinking. The Council required safety time-out features after over thirty people were found dead.”

Pax settled close to him again, leaning on his shoulder and looking out at the view. “But they can’t simulate rain.”

“I’d think that would be pretty easy,” Ellis said. “Just put sprinklers on the ceiling. You know—spray water.”

Pax smiled. “But that’s not rain. That’s just water falling.”

“Isn’t that what rain is?”

“No. Rain is a gift—it’s life, salvation, ecstasy—it’s the whole world, every plant, insect, and animal rejoicing together as one. There’s just something that makes you feel so alive in a rainstorm, especially if there’s lightning and thunder. Then it’s as if the whole universe is joining in.”

Ellis remembered watching thunderstorms from his front porch with his dad. Those times had been nice—one of the few memories he had of just sitting quietly with his father. Thinking back, it was similar to watching a fireworks display on the Fourth of July, but nothing like what Pax described.

“What’s it like to have a family?”

Ellis was surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I imagine it was wonderful, like teams in sports, everyone working together, loving each other without reservation.”

Ellis laughed. “In theory. In reality—not so much.”

“Really? I just think living back in your time would have been wonderful. I was a member of an anachronism group. We’d get together and dress up in wigs and shirts and blue jeans—complete with real belts and wallets. Some even had replica plastic cards in them. Oh, and shoes! We wear timepieces, pretend to text each other on phones, and watch really old restored grams. I liked the ones without color the best. The ones where people wore hats all the time.”

“And vests and long coats?”

Pax smiled and nodded, tapping the bowler and making a little hollow sound. “Some of us would pretend to be male and others female, and we’d dance. I remember that once someone actually had a book—a real one. A collector had brought it. A literary classic. We had to wear special white gloves to touch it. And the book’s owner could actually read. I remember sitting and listening. It was amazing. Just incredible.”

“Do you remember the name of the book?”

“I’ll never forget it, Second Chance,by Danielle Steel. The mastery of language in your day was just so magnificent. I picture that time as so romantic and adventurous.”

Ellis bit back a slew of comments, wondering if Pax’s view of the past came from watching Fred Astaire movies. Probably wonders why I don’t begin crooning and doing a little dance step.

Pax rubbed the bandage.

“Don’t play with it,” Ellis said. “Let it heal.”

“I feel strange knowing the chip is gone. I have no way of proving who I am now.”

“They put those things in at birth?” Isbirth even the right word?

Pax nodded. “In a way, it was more me than I am.”

“I doubt that. Where did I throw your identity chip, anyway?”

“Into space, somewhere near Neptune’s moon Triton—assuming the orbit was right, and it should be—I used the coords for the planetarium there. The Port-a-Call updates those things.”

“There’s a planetarium on Triton? Wait—space? You can open portals into the vacuum of space? Why didn’t it suck us out?”

“Here, let me show you.” Pax sat up and took the portal maker out again. Dialing it, Pax created an opening before them. All Ellis could see through it was water. The entire opening was filled with a solid aquamarine color, and in that slice of water, Ellis saw fish swimming by. “That’s the ocean—right near the equator, about forty feet below sea level, and as you can see, the water doesn’t spill out, because a portal isn’t a hole in the sense we think of one.” Pax poked a finger into the cross section of ocean and drew it out dripping. “That’s how we get rid of waste, you know. Not that there’s a lot. Most can be reused in the Makers, but what can’t is ported into the core. That wouldn’t be possible if there was any bleed-through. Open a portal to the core and you’d incinerate yourself from the heat, right? We used to port trash into space, but the HEM objected.”

“HEM?”

“Hollow Earth Movement. One of the oldest organizations we have. They started everything.”

The portal must have been near a coral reef or something. Ellis watched a small school of striped angelfish flash by. The whole thing was like one giant aquarium.

“The planet was in bad shape—look who I’m telling—you know, right? But it got worse. Pollution, climate change, the storms that resulted as the natural system began to clean house. They used to say we made the earth sick, and she vomited. The surface up here was scarred, ripped up from overuse. Roads were everywhere—concrete was everywhere. That’s where the phrase to concretecomes from—it means ‘to ruin.’ The HEM was a group of people interested in restoring the surface by getting everyone to live underground. No one listened at first, but then they found major allies in the old corporations looking for subterranean farm workers.”

Self-conscious, Ellis picked up the empty can and slipped it in his pack.

“That’s what started everything. But the HEM has gotten a little nutty—or maybe they always were. Now they’re against anything aboveground being touched. Some are against people even visiting the grass. And it’s like, what’s the point? I can understand the prohibition against ruining the surface with building homes and such—I mean, why would you? If you want to be outside, you go to the surface. If you want to be inside, well, that’s Hollow World. But to go to all this trouble to restore the surface but be prevented from ever enjoying it? It’s crazy. And people love visiting the grass. Luckily they don’t make the decisions anymore.”

Pax ate another candy just as a shark passed in front of the portal opening. Finding the Port-a-Call, Pax closed the door.

“Could that have come through?” Ellis asked.

Pax nodded sheepishly.

“What are we going to do now?” Ellis asked.

“I don’t know. I’d almost like to just stay here. Core the HEM, it might be nice to live on the grass as in days of yore. If we could get a Maker and a Dynamo to power it, the two of us could disappear into the forests and live a life of frontier people and have wild adventures.”

“Pretty sure Daniel Boone didn’t have a Maker, and you might think different when winter comes. What about Vin?”

“Vin? Vin would be relieved to be off the hook. Finally rid of me.”

Ellis found this admission a surprise, and more than a little familiar. He never expected to meet someone in the future he could relate to so readily. Certainly not someone like Pax.

“But you’re right, we can’t stay. We need to find out what’s going on, only I don’t know how. Everyone who knew anything is dead.”

“Not everyone.” Ellis thought a moment. “I have an idea.”

The atmosphere in the home was that of a face covered by a white sheet, the haunting silence of an all-too-recent ghost story. Ellis and Pax entered Geo-24’s residence exactly where they had the first time, only as expected the place was empty. A sheer curtain had been drawn, muting the morning falselight and blurring the image of the Zen garden outside. No police tape marked where the body had lain; nor were there boundaries marked off by ribbons of yellow plastic. After his conversations with Pax, Ellis was not shocked at the lack of official presence; he was, however, surprised by how clean the place was. The carpet and walls were spotless—not even a stain. Ellis wondered if an old-school forensic scientist could find evidence or if the whole room had been spaced through a portal and a new one constructed.

“Who’s there?”the vox said in the same British baritone as before.

“Abernathy, it’s us, Pax-43246018 and Ellis Rogers.”

“I’m not detecting your PICA, Pax-43246018, nor that of Ellis Rogers.”

“Ellis Rogers never had one, and I cut mine out.”

“How curious.”

“We are being hunted by the same people who murdered Geo-24, and I’m attempting to move about invisibly, so I hope you haven’t notified anyone of our arrival.”

“Whom would I notify? And may I inquire who Geo-24 is?”

Pax glanced at Ellis with a concerned look and whispered, “I think they might have cleaned up more than just the blood.”

Ellis listened to the snap and hiss of the hole back to Michigan, which Pax had left open. Ellis couldn’t help but think of it as “the getaway portal.” He had counted on the idea that voxes might be like servants back in the nineteenth century—thought of as little more than furniture and overlooked when cleaning up. So far he was disappointed.

“If you’re not Geo-24’s sexton, whose sexton are you?” Pax asked.

Neither had taken a step farther into the room. They stood right before the coffee table. Ellis noticed that even the little drop of blood that had marred the stone pyramid centerpiece was gone.

“I have no client at this time.”

“And you don’t recall who your client was previously?”

“I’m not aware that I’ve ever had a client.”

“It might still work,” Ellis told Pax, but the vox overheard.

“What might?”

Pax nodded. “We’d like you to contact another vox on our behalf, a vox that you used to be on friendly terms with.”

“I don’t recall being on friendly or unfriendly terms with anyone.”

“That’s because you’ve had your memory erased, but that doesn’t matter, because the other vox will remember you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s not important that you understand. You merely need to set up communications between myself and another vox. That shouldn’t be a problem, right? It’s not like your client has forbidden you to assist strangers?”

“As I mentioned, I don’t have a client.”

“Wonderful. Then there’s nothing prohibiting you from helping us.”

“Whom do you wish me to contact, and what do you wish me to inquire about?”

“I want you to contact Pol-789’s vox. Inform the vox that you are Abernathy and that I am Geo-24 and that I would like to speak with it.”

“I thought you said your name was Pax-43246018?”

Pax glanced at Ellis and shrugged. “I misspoke.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes—I do that. It’s a quirk I have.”

“I’m a sexton without a client, not a vox without a properly calibrated telencephalon.”

Pax frowned. “Can you determine if I am Pax-43246018 or Geo-24?”

“No.”

“Then what difference does it make?”

“Would you like me to make contact now?”

“Yes—audio only, please.”

“This is Vox Abernathy contacting you on behalf of Geo-24.”

“Oh—Abernathy! How nice.”It was the pleasant-sounding lady’s voice Ellis had heard when they had entered Pol’s office. His heart, which was already beating faster than normal, began to trot as he felt a rush of success that made him grin.

They were in.

Ellis wondered if this was how hackers back in his day felt when they had broken into government computers. “Do you wish to speak to Pol-789?”

Pax and Ellis both shook their heads.

“No, that will not be necessary. Geo-24 would like to speak directly to you. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course, of course!”

“This is Geo-24,” Pax said.

“How wonderful of you to call. Pol will be so thrilled you did. Let me—”

“No—wait! It’s not that important—actually, it is a little embarrassing. You see, Pol provided me with some information, and I have misplaced it. I was hoping you could just send it to Abernathy. Would that be possible? I’d like to take care of this without involving Pol. You understand, I hope. As a geomancer, I’d prefer not to let it get out that I made a mistake and lost something important.”

Pax stared nervously at Ellis, who crossed his fingers.

“What information?”Pol’s vox asked. No suspicion, no tone at all, which concerned Ellis. The friendliness had faded, but this was a machine, and Ellis didn’t know if that was even something to look out for.

“Everything you have on Ren.”

Ellis looked at Pax, surprised. The plan had called for investigating what Pol had originally contacted Geo-24 about. There had been no mention of a Ren.

“Ren? Is there a number designation?”

“No, I don’t think so…just Ren.”

“No, I—oh, wait—yes, here. I actually only have a port location associated with that name.”

“And where would that be?”

“North American Plate, Temperate Biome, Huronian Quadrant.”

Pax mouthed to Ellis, That’s where we just were.“Could…ah…” Pax began pulling the Port-a-Call out. “Could you provide exact coords?”

The vox responded with a series of numbers and letters that meant nothing to Ellis, but which Pax feverishly entered into the tiny device.

“Thank you. Say goodbye, Abernathy.”

“Thank you so much for your time,”Abernathy said.

The link was severed, and Pax slumped into one of the white couches, staring at the portal device. “Okay, so we have a location, and it’s right back where everything started—back at the Ford Museum.”

“I don’t understand,” Ellis said. “Who is this Ren? You mentioned the name before in Pol’s office—why?”

“I get the impression this Ren is behind everything. The fake Pol and even the fake Geo-24 take their direction from Ren—no-number Ren– Ren Zero.” Pax picked up one of the little white throw pillows from the couch and hugged it. “I’ve never met a zero or an original anything…well, except for you. And I’ve never heard of a Ren before, and this one is on the grass.”

“But how do you know about Ren?”

“Fake Pol said it.”

“No.” Ellis shook his head. “Fake Pol never mentioned Ren. You were the first one to say that name.”

“I must have heard it someplace else then.”

“Where?”

Pax sighed. “Ellis Rogers, do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you just believe me when I tell you that I have it on good authority that someone named Ren is behind the murders and not question me further on how I know?”

Ellis didn’t have to think. He trusted Pax. He trusted Pax more than he’d ever trusted anyone. Pax was the first person he’d known who—more than once—had proved themselves capable of thinking of Ellis first. His mother had always taken more than she gave, feeling that granting him life had been more than enough for her part. Peggy had given all her love to Isley, holding back nothing for him. Pax had asked for little, given much, and demonstrated a willingness to die for him—and they had just met. Still, he couldn’t help feeling hurt at the discovery of a wall between them. Pax was keeping a secret.

“I suppose,” Ellis replied. “But don’t you trust me? I sort of thought we—I mean, I thought we were becoming close, you know? After all, you let me cut you open with a deer-gutting knife.” He smiled.

Pax was looking at the pillow and breathing heavily. “Isn’t there any secret you’d prefer not to share with me? At least not yet?”

The image of Isley hanging from the garage rafters flashed through his mind, and he nodded. “Fair enough.”

“If it helps,” Pax said gently, “I’ve never spoken to anyone of it before. But if I were ever to tell anyone, it would be you, Ellis Rogers. I don’t think you would judge me like others might. So maybe one day you can tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”

Ellis nodded but didn’t think he could ever tell Pax about Isley. There was simply no way Pax could begin to understand. “So, are we going to find this Ren?”

“I am,” Pax said firmly, almost defiantly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s my responsibility. The point of being an arbitrator is to keep the peace. I can’t let murderers continue killing.”

“What about me?”

“You’re the one they want. It would be pretty stupid to take you with me.” Pax put down the pillow and stood up. “This is dangerous, Ellis Rogers. It’s not your place. Are you an arbitrator?”

“I’m an engineer, but let me ask you this…do you have a gun?”

“Of course not.” Pax glanced at his hip, that familiar expression of horror darting across Pax’s face.

“Do you think anyone besides me has one?”

“No.”

Ellis smiled. “Then in this society that practically makes me Superman.”

“Superman?”

“A fictitious hero with supernatural powers—pretty much invincible.”

“Pretty much?”

“Never mind. I’m too old and sick to be on the run.”

Pax’s eyes softened. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Superman, remember?” He thumped his chest.

Pax didn’t look pleased. Maybe the humor wasn’t translating.

“Let’s go together. Like it or not, we’re a team now. Good cop, bad cop.”

Pax nodded. “You’re very strange, Ellis Rogers.” Pax smiled and then added, “I like that. Let me contact Cha. Someone else ought to know about a conspiracy that’s reached into the office of the Chief Councilor just in case we disappear into the grass.”

“Are you sure you can trust Cha?”

Pax smiled. “I’m an arbitrator. Believe me…I’m a very good judge of people.”

Entering Greenfield Village for the second time in a week, Ellis possessed an entirely new outlook. What he had seen as the forgotten remnants of humanity, he now viewed as a museum within a museum. The Henry Ford Museum used to house artifacts from America’s first two hundred years, but as he and Pax walked through the quaint gravel lanes, Ellis understood that the site itself had become an artifact worth preserving. The garbage bins that dotted Main Street, complete with plastic bag liners, were no longer trash receptacles but roped-off antiques. So were the ticket booth, ATM, public phone, and restrooms with their archaic symbols for men and women. What was a preservation of the past became part of the exhibit as museums themselves became the history.

Around noon they ported to the front gate and walked the sidewalk-lined streets with drooping bluebell lamps and Civil War-era architecture. No one stopped or greeted them. No one was there at all.

“Volunteers help maintain the museum,” Pax mentioned as they walked through empty streets. “And I’ve heard a few have actually begun living here full-time, history students, professors, and such, but this place was never all that popular.”

“I imagine the murder won’t help attendance.”

“No—I doubt it would.”

Ellis thought of Hollywood backlots—it was too well kept to be a ghost town. All the lawns were trimmed, the gravel smooth. Occasionally they would pass a buggy or a buckboard parked on the side of the road. After several days in Hollow World, being in Greenfield Village brought a flood of familiarity. Ellis fit among the curbs, pavement, shutters, and fences. He understood the windows and the sewers. A plastic garbage bag fluttered in the wind where it was held in place by a large rubber band—an old friend waving. Even the way his shoes slapped the pavement spoke of home, of cars, plastic bottles, and cellphones. Ellis was time traveling again, the sensation of tripping through eras becoming disorienting. He felt as if he’d woken up in the cozy comfort of his own epoch, the sights and sounds so much easier to accept than the idea of interdimensional doors spilling into the lithosphere where disembodied voices made convenience-store-quality coffee from gravel. After only a few minutes he might have begun to question whether any of it was true if not for the person walking beside him with cocked bowler, pin-striped pants, and silver vest.

Pax had explained that the coordinates supplied by fake-Pol’s vox indicated the Firestone Farm in the northwest portion of the village. They both had felt it best to approach cautiously, so instead of using the Port-a-Call, they walked through the tree-shaded memory of the Industrial Age. He saw Pax focus on the old buildings, then glance at him with a curious look. Ellis could hear the unasked question, How did people ever live like this?He had felt the same way when watching the History Channel when it showed the ruins of Pompeii or ancient Egypt.

They walked past the Wright Brothers’ cycle shop and Edison’s Menlo Park complex. Cutting through Liberty Craftworks, they went by the glass and pottery shops, the gristmill, and the printing office before reaching Firestone Lane. At the end of the dirt road stood a two-story red-brick building with a green-shingled roof, a welcoming porch, two chimneys, and a perfect white picket fence. It was an honest house, a solid place of early virtues and Yankee determination. The mid-nineteenth century boyhood home of tire magnate Harvey Firestone had originally been in Ohio, but Ford had it moved to his village in Dearborn. Painstakingly restored to its 1885 likeness, the Firestone estate wasn’t just a museum piece. It was a working farm and had been even when Ellis visited for his school trip well over two millennia prior. As they approached, they could see sheep, cows, and horses in the pastures that lined the road. They also saw people.

Ellis spotted five. One off to their right was tossing hay with a pitchfork into the horses’ corral. Two more shooed cows from one pen to another, calling out “Mon boss! Mon boss!” A fourth opened the door to the house, focused on them, then retreated inside. The last sat on the porch at the end of the road. Creaking the boards beneath an old-fashioned rocker, the stocky man watched their approach. He was wearing an Amish-style straw hat and button shirt left open to the waist, revealing white chest hairs against deeply tanned skin. Black trousers were held up by suspenders. His bare feet thrust out toward them as he sipped on a glass of tea.

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Rogers. Wonderful day in the neighborhood to ya, old man.”

Ellis stopped, staring in disbelief. The man’s hair was long and white, and he had a chest-length beard that made him look a bit like a cynical Santa Claus. But there was no doubt—the man kicking back on the porch was his old friend, Warren Eckard. Despite the I’ve-seen-the-face-of-God hair, and a few more wrinkles around the eyes, Warren looked great. The layer of fat that he had built up after high school was gone. The luxury package of a pregnant stomach, love handles, and pale-skinned man breasts had been replaced with the sportier look of defined muscles and a Caribbean-fisherman’s tan.

“Warren?” was all Ellis could say.

Pax halted beside Ellis, looking understandably confused.

“Didn’t expect to see me again, did ya?” He laughed with a bemused smile. “Figured I’d be dust, right along with the rest of them, right? Almost, pal, almost. You’re the surprise. I expected you years ago. You just arrived, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Warren shook his head with the same disappointment he used to exhibit when seeing a woman past her prime wearing an outfit meant for a teenager. “Don’t make no sense, does it? I’ve been here three years.”

“Who are you?” Pax asked.

“Sorry,” Ellis replied. “Pax, this is Warren Eckard, an old friend. We grew up together.”

“Met in high school. You know what that is—Pax, is it?”

“An institution of education?”

“Close—it’s a place where they kill dreams.”

“Warren, how did you get here?”

“You, buddy—you and your time-machine notes. Remember Brady’s? Ought to. It was only a few days ago for you, right? I kept your time-machine blueprints—stuffed them in the glove box of my Buick that night. When you went missing, the cops had dogs and forensic types all over your place. Peggy couldn’t figure out if you had killed yourself or just took a powder. Your disappearance was a big deal. No one figured out what happened—no one but me. I knew it the minute I poked my head in your garage and saw all those cables and that poster—the old Mercury Seven. The one you had in your bedroom when we were in high school. I figured you either made it or died in the attempt, but either way you were gone and none of them was ever going to find you.”

The door to the farmhouse opened again, and Ellis saw a face shadowed by the screen peeking out.

“Hey, Yal,” Warren called over his shoulder. “Bring these nice folks some tea.” Warren drew in his feet to grant them passage. “C’mon up, have a seat out of the sun. Gets hot this time of day.”

Ellis slipped off his backpack, climbed the weathered steps, and pulled over a wicker-backed rocker, feeling as if he’d just entered into an old-school western. Bring these nice folks some tea?It was as if Warren had become Gary Cooper. Ellis didn’t think Warren had ever tasted tea. For half a century he’d been a black-coffee-and-domestic-beer man, with the occasional shot of Jack or Jim when he could afford it.

“Careful.” Warren pointed at Ellis’s chair. “That one doesn’t have a backstop on the runners. If you rock too far, you’ll go ass over shoulders—I know—I’ve done it.”

Pax moved in under the shade of the porch, but didn’t sit. Instead, Pax stood rigidly to Ellis’s right.

“Got something against sitting?” Warren asked.

“No,” Pax replied.

“Nice getup.” Warren gestured to Pax with his glass of tea. “You fit in perfect here. Well, not so much here as Main Street. That’s where the hoity-toity class of folk with your sort of finery would have strolled with walking sticks and umbrellas. Out here on the farming frontier, we just let the rain fall on us.”

Ellis expected some comment about loving the rain, but Pax remained oddly silent.

Yal stepped out, carrying two glasses of coppery tea with a pair of mint leaves in each.

“No ice,” Warren apologized. “Lack of refrigeration is the biggest disappointment, but you get used to it. I tried cutting ice off the pond with an ax and packing it, but it don’t last. Dex says we need volume. In the old days they had icehouses, big places packed in straw and sawdust. Takes a long time to melt that way.”

“I still don’t understand,” Ellis said. “What are you doing here?”

Warren sipped his tea and rocked back in a casual rhythm as if this was normal—a typical Sunday afternoon with the neighbors. He pointed to his stomach, tapping it. “I got pancreatic cancer just like my old man—runs in the family. Seven years after you left, I started feeling sick and got the bad news. I figured if I followed you into the future there might be a cure.”

Ellis failed a suppressed laugh.

“Glad the news of my impending death amuses you, old pal.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that on the day I told you about the time machine, I left out that I had idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.”

“Idio what?”

“My lungs are shot. It’s fatal and incurable except by a transplant, and I didn’t want to take a pair of lungs that some kid could put to better use. I thought your dad had a heart attack, like mine.”

Warren shook his head. “No. My dad lingered. Slow torture. He used to make train noises in the bedroom while we were having dinner. For years I thought he had gone nuts, you know? Later my mother told me he was in so much pain near the end that he needed to scream but didn’t want to scare us kids. So my old man made these choo-choosand woo-woos,like he was three and playing with a Playskool set of wooden train cars. I wasn’t going to wind up like that.”

“Treatments have come a long way since your dad died.”

“Yeah, they wanted me to do that chemo-shit. But that wasn’t for me.” He shook his head with a frown, his eyes looking down the length of Firestone Lane. “I wasn’t going out that way. I figured going forward was worth a shot. Even if it ended up frying my ass, that was better than sucking a bullet out of the barrel of my .38, which I seriously considered.

“I still had your blueprints. Kept them out of sentimentality, I guess. I couldn’t understand any of that crap, but I knew this fella—college kid, electrical engineer at Ford—who used to inspect the line. His uncle had been laid-off from NASA. I took the kid out for beers and got him laid. I became his best friend after that. He and his uncle helped. They thought I was loony, and were convinced it wouldn’t work. But as long as I paid for the gear, and the beer, they humored me. ‘You can’t create a contained gravity well using milk crates, batteries, and an iPad,’ they had said. Course, I knew better…because you’d already done it.”