“Solar wind, a stream of ionized hydrogen and helium radiating outward from the sun, carrying away 1 million tons of gas per sec. Near the earth the solar wind normally has a velocity of 700 km/sec.”
D’accord Ford squeezed the knuckle of his left thumb closing the encyclopedia program in his Lydian brain chip.
The other two members of the space shuttle, Europa’s three-man crew looked at each other.
“That what it say, huh, Dak?” Plato Morales asked as he watched a long-dead Iridium satellite wobble past to starboard.
D’accord looked at Plato the young crewman had asked him what solar wind meant. “That’s it in a nutshell, Plato.”
“In a what?” Plato looked confused on a level with the last question he’d asked. Plato had just read a chapter from the first draft of Dak’s novel entitled Incident on Dorian-Two. Plato, though having a precarious grasp on language, was an avid reader. Dak was pleasantly surprised when he’d made astute observations concerning details in previous chapters. He wasn’t surprised, however that he wasn’t sure of the speed of solar wind, but was pleased that he asked.
“I think the story’s coming together good, Dak,” Plato said. “When you described Earth, I felt like I was there even though I’ve never seen the place. My whole family lived on earth, on some island called Cubic but, it was a long time before I was born.”
“That was likely Cuba, Plato.”
“Yeah, that was it. Bet it was like paradise.”
Dak’s Lydian chip queued the details of life on the island for the Cuban people. He viewed them, and chose not to comment.
“One thing though, Dak. If solar wind is so fast, why do this tub be so damn slow?”
The ship’s flight attendant, White-five looked up from Europa’s service deck monitor. The android’s dented head squeaked on its gimbals. “Forget it Plate-man, the answer has too many big words.”
“Forget you, Whitey. I don’t take crap off no scrap pile.” Plato leaned back in his chair and rubbed the two-day growth on his head.
White-five glowered, slipped a comic book disk into his ear drive.
“Delta IP. ain’t gonna trust an ex-con like you to drive anything fast, fool. The likes of you might steal it.” White-five thought what he said was most amusing. He slapped his leg, but the act was over done and left a dent his sheet metal.
Plato held up his hand with his middle finger extended in an ancient gesture. “Might steal your mama too, wrench dick, if your old clunky ass had one.”
White-five missed the insult. The android’s circuits were preoccupied with the comics.
“Hook-up to landing beam in fifteen seconds, Dak,” Plato said.
“Roger that.” D’accord locked on to the beam and punched-up the landing sequence for the crew’s first stop of the day.
The Marlin TM-19, Europa, was the oldest shuttle in Delta Interplanetary’s Fleet. It was one of the first transports licensed for commercial use after the development of Solar Sailing, which was on the drawing board as early as the 1990’s became a standard practice late in the twenty third century. Much time and technology had past and now, Europa, with its top cruising-speed at less then 600 kilometers per second, was only fit for use as a shuttle.
The aging ship served a seamy sector of Alpha-two galaxy. Most of the passengers who traveled aboard Europa, were Vulgurians and nearly all of them salesmen eager to fill the void of cheap manufactured goods in the emerging sectors of Alpha two.
Crew for the craft was difficult to find because of its slug-like speed and sketchy reliability. Most all crewmembers past and present had tales of being stranded somewhere horrible while engineers searched for parts. In addition, the presence of pirates in the sector it served made the faint of heart squeamish. However, there was a demand for transportation in the sector therefore, Delta IP continually scraped the bottom of the beaker for personnel.
Their selections including parolees, such as Plato Morales and White Five, a fire sale android.
D’accord was different. He was an intelligent, slightly altered but fully functional human life form with a rather comprehensive research chip in his brain. D’accord, or Dak as he was known to his crew was a product of a French mother and an English father when there was still an Earth and moreover when the doomed planet had countries that could be told apart.
D’accord was the only word in French Dak’s father, Garland understood when he met young Chantel Travernier, on a river barge during a tour of the Rhone Valley.
The word meant, fine or okay in English. Its utterance one evening under the stars led to the birth of Garland Ford’s only son.
Dak was over three hundred earth years old but looked no more than thirty. His Lydian brain chip, named for the man who invented it, was smashing at persuading cells to regenerate. He was broad shouldered, blond and wore a neatly trimmed moustache. Though he hadn’t set foot on English soil for two centuries he spoke with a British accent, which amused Plato and annoyed White-five.
D’accord felt that his years of faithful service to Delta IP should have netted him a better post than shuttling salesman through the slums of outermost space. However, an irksome superior officer named Dick Aslin placed him in charge of Europa, as payback for an incident that Aslin felt caused him to be passed over for promotion.
Aslin once had a torrid affair with creature whose evolution was the result of a guard dog having wandered into an unlocked morph chamber. The offspring were highly protective woman-like creatures with large teeth and questionable hygiene. Dak had ventured into a supply room near his office in search of popcorn and surprised the two of them in the midst of a most unsavory act. Aslin became furious and docked Ford a week’s pay on a trumped up charge of pilfering food.
Dak, in retaliation placed a memory plant of what he’d seen into Dick Aslin’s Commanding officer’s mind just before review time.
Aslin never forgave Ford and strived to make his life as miserable as possible.
D’accord tried to plant a memory in Aslin’s mind of having forgiven him, however Mr. Aslin’s brain lacked the capacity for much beyond simple thought.
Dak submitted countless bids to take command of other ships, including Delta Interplanetary’s newest addition to it’s fleet, a Jennings TMS 11 named Gypsy. She was an impressive work of art with the capability of carrying the entire population of a small colony while cruising at a head spinning three million kilometers per second.
Dak had every right to believe he deserved the position. But the arc of vengeance is long, and Aslin’s wrath seemed relentless. Dak could only hope that the high command would view him as a viable candidate for the helm of Gypsy, and remove him from indenture.
Today’s flight was particularly loathsome to Dak. Mr. Aslin had come on board Europa as part of Dak’s upcoming performance review.
Dak knew that it was more a case of him looking for trouble. Aslin’s presence usually resulted in at least one reprimand finding its way into his personal file. Dak worried that Aslin might sabotage his chances for transfer.
Europa landed smoothly on Sagan-one. Soon after the last passenger deplaned the cockpit hatch slid-open and Mr. Aslin waddled in.
White-five sat up and removed the comic disk from his ear drive.
Aslin’s last few remaining hairs had been freshly dyed black, leaving a residual smudge of color on his coconut shaped head. His girth overworked the thin belt that marked middle ground between tremendous belly and ill-shaped buttocks. Dak imagined its buckle posed a danger of becoming a projectile.
He frowned at Plato and White-five then faced Dak, his chin nearly touching his shirt. The acetone bouquet of Aslin’s after-shave seared Ford’s nostrils. He took a step back. Aslin took two steps forward.
“I assume the passenger manifest is current, Mr. Ford.”
“Yes, Sir,” Dak answered.
“No Sir, Mister, it is not. I doubt I would find my name in it, would I, Mister Ford?”
Aslin’s breath combined the worst properties of Vulgurian cigars and something that reminded Dak of flea soap. He smiled like an alligator approaching a sleeping dog on a riverbank.
D’accord touched the computer screen next to where Aslin stood. The passenger manifest popped up. He nodded toward the display. “Actually you would sir, although you are not considered a passenger as such, you wrote me up last year for not including you, so therefore you will find your name on page one.”
Aslin frowned, which made his small eyes seem to disappear under a shrub of eyebrows.
Mr. Ford, please take a mop to flight deck C. It appears that one of our passengers has lost his rather tasty in-flight meal.”
Dak ran his hand through his hair, then dropped it to his side. “Begging your pardon, Sir but that type of duty would better fit White-five’s job description. Besides, he has no sense of smell.”
“Another charge of insubordination in your personal file and you just might have White-five’s job, Mr. Ford.”
White-five smiled, or at least did what an android could do about looking pleased.
Aslin gave the crew one last scowl then left the cockpit. Dak followed his superior to the exit hatch.
“Mr. Aslin, about my transportation home to Darwin–six for the holidays—”
“Your vacation has been postponed, Mr. Ford. Busy season. Need you on the job.”
Aslin scanned his badge under the card reader and the hatch opened. “One more thing, Mr. Ford. It seems that I neglected to sign your request for transfer before the closing date. Captain Larry Stevens will take command of Gypsy, beginning next week.” Aslin sneered at Dak then slithered through the hatch.
Dak couldn’t speak for a moment, and when he did all he could say was, “Bloody hell.”
Plato stood, crossed the cockpit and draped his arm across D’accord’s shoulder. He felt sorry for him, but knew better than to speak up in the presence of the vengeful Aslin.
Plato’s life had not been enviable. He grew up in the notorious housing projects on Earth’s moon. At 36 he’d already spent a third of his life in one type of institution or another. Plato learned solar sailing through an ROP program he took while in prison. His post as navigator on Europa was his first attempt at making an honest living.
Once the airlocks closed and it was obvious, Aslin had left the craft. Plato counseled the man, who he’d come to trust as a friend.
“You should kick that punk in his booty, Dak-dude. Him disrespectin’ you like that ain’t right. He screwed you out of your transfer, I’d file a grievance, man.”
Dak managed a smile. “Larry Stevens is a fine officer, Plato. I’m sure he’ll do a stellar job aboard Gypsy.”
Plato made a face like he was going to spit. “That’s real noble and shit Dak, but that should have been you. Then to turn around and cancel your vacation too, man, that’s way cold.”
Dak chuckled. “I suppose it’s not as bad as all that. It’s hot as blazes on Darwin–six, the sky never changes and the sea is brown and caustic. I wanted to do some work on my novel, but I don’t have my own chamber any longer since aunt Dottie lives in now. When I try to write, she paces the floor behind me until at last I say, “bugger-all” and join her for cribbage.
“As far as Aslin, don’t worry about the like’s of him, Plato. His type will come and go. They always get their just desserts in the end. There’ll be other opportunities, I’ll get off this barge one day.”
“When? When you be five hundred years old. You should complain to somebody, man. I’d back you up.”
D’accord thanked Plato for his support, but noted that he didn’t offer to help with the clean up. He couldn’t blame him though, as today’s in-flight meal was, stuffed Elysian cabbage. Although a favorite in Alpha two, the dish was hard enough to stomach during its preparation much less after it had putrefied in the innards of a Volgurian, then been regurgitated.
However, D’accord Ford never made it to deck C. Something in first class, under seat 1-B caught his eye. It was a small black rectangular case with a blue display screen no more than an inch square. The whole unit fit neatly into Dak’s hand.
It was a meeting maker, a type of time adjusting device. They were fairly new, but Dak had seen advertisements for them in expensive gift catalogs.
The idea was, that by using the device you could attend meetings held last month or last year for that matter. The owner of a Meeting Maker could check the success of a project by moving forward in time to study its results then back to report to stockholders before construction began.
He quickly returned to the control center, showed Plato the unit and asked him to page the passenger who had occupied seat 1-B.
When Plato saw the case, a look of fear crossed his dark features.
“Put that thing down man, and don’t fuck wit it. My brother snatched one of them out a rich dude’s pocket one time. The thing popped him silly and landed his ass six months in the future.
“When he went home, some asshole was living in his house. His landlord had evicted him for not paying no rent and thowed his clothes in the trash.”
Those were the last words D’accord heard from Plato Morales.
As often is the case, what one tries so hard not do is exactly what is done. D’accord Ford accidentally touched two buttons on the case. He felt frightfully cold for a moment and suddenly found himself lying in what he remembered from his childhood as grass. Dak’s Lydian Chip told him he was in danger, a long way from home and though it seemed impossible, on the planet Earth during the mid-twentieth century.
Some distance away a group of men and women carried signs, which read: “Ban the bomb.” Dak thought it an admirable suggestion, however, the men looking down at him at present looked cruel and dangerous. He doubted they were pacifists by nature, or thought the presence of bombs menacing.
One man delivered Dak a kick to the ribs, which took him by surprise and hurt like the dickens.
A rather snag-toothed man looked down at Dak, then turned to one of the others in his group.
“It offends me to have bums like ‘em sleep here in the park. It offend you as well, Freddy?”
“It bloody well does, Mitch.” The man gave Dak another kick. “It’s the bleedin’ fluoride they poisoned the water with. Causes the likes of him to come round public places botherin’ decent folk.”
Dak took a kick to the head, which made him woozy. When he focused, he saw that one of the men held the Meeting Maker. He hoped for a moment that he would disappear and perhaps deliver the remainder of his beating to Dick Aslin.
Dak tried to stand. “Give that back, please.”
“Give us your money, then eh?”
Dak hadn’t carried any currency since its ban in 2405 and he told the men as much, without going into details about dates and such.
A group of the protesters who’d witnessed Dak’s plight, ran toward the thugs. Someone shouted, “Get the Bobbies.”
The man who had the Meeting Maker looked at the approaching crowd. He held up the black case, smirked cruelly showing his twisted teeth.
“Here you go mate,” he said, then dropped the case onto the street, giving it a vicious crunch with his boot. Dak saw the device’s Phaylex-9 lives battery pop out, roll into the gutter and down a storm drain.
Dak was losing consciousness. He picked up the damaged Meeting Maker, slipped it into his pocket, then an inky blackness rolled over him and he fell. When he opened his eyes, again a young woman with dark hair and sky blue eyes was dabbing at a cut on his head with a kerchief. He looked beyond the woman and saw two men peering down at him. The men were dressed in uniforms he knew very well, from history books he’s seen as a boy.
“Bobbies,” he said aloud. “Dear Lord, I’m in England.”
His comment brought looks of pity from the Bobbies. From there it was a smattering of half remembered events. He recalled being helped to his feet by several men and treated at a hospital, but had no recollection of how he arrived there.
What he did remember was that the woman with sky blue eyes, who had come to his aid in the park, later collected him in small two-seater automobile. She drove him through the countryside to a house by the sea. Near a town, she called Southampton.
Dak was born in Great Britain in 2173, thirty years before the earth was destroyed. He knew of South Hampton, but as a large filthy city with a population well over six million. Even in Dak’s earliest memories, open land only existed in parks and exclusive private parcels where the very wealthy spent holidays. The pastoral countryside of this South Hampton was the loveliest place he’d ever seen. Either that or he was dead or dreaming.
The woman who came to his rescue was Merriam Grant. She was thirty years old, a widow with two young boys Henry and Paul. Her husband died in an air raid in London shortly after Paul was born.
She allowed Dak to stay in a garage adjacent to the house. Her husband had used the space as a workshop. Merriam brought clean clothes out to him, in something she called a steamer trunk, though it didn’t steam at all. She regularly brought meals out to him, explaining that it wouldn’t be proper for the boys to see a strange man taking meals around the house.
Dak’s Lydian brain chip had shut its self down after the beating. He was able to piece the events together enough to surmise what must have happened to him. He still had the damaged Meeting Maker and was somewhat certain that given time he could repair the device and return to his post.
However, without the chip, his judgement returned to human levels and in a short time, he found himself growing rather fond of Merriam. The boys were courteous when they spoke to Dak, but he felt their distance. If he and Merriam had the chance to chat, one or the other of them would surely need something straight away.
Dak’s double vision righted itself after a few days and within a week, he was feeling much better. He spent his days in the workshop familiarizing himself with a variety of ancient tools that had belonged to Merriam’s late husband. One morning Dak was at the workbench, studying the circuitry inside a one-way communication devise called a radio, when he was distracted by the sound of an auto rumbling down the dirt road that led to Merriam’s house.
A few automobiles still existed on Earth when Dak was born. He’d seen one displayed in the Museum of Man when he was a schoolboy. He knew very little about the old machines, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, they suddenly fascinated him.
Despite the fact that they emitted poisonous gas from a tube protruding from their stern, they seemed popular and widely used. Each auto looked a bit different from the next. Merriam’s was yellow and monogrammed with her initials, MG, in large shinny letters. Dak thought that a nice touch.
The automobile slowly pulled around and stopped in front of the house. An older woman, who strongly resembled Merriam, stepped out to warm greetings from Henry and Paul.
Dak correctly assumed the woman was Merriam’s mother. The name on her car was Hillman, which must have been Merriam’s maiden name. Dak was proud of himself for catching on so quickly.
He returned to his task of disassembling the old radio. Dak had an idea that he might be able replace some of the Meeting maker’s damaged circuitry with scavenged parts. He stopped again to peer out the window when he heard Henry and Paul shouting good-bye to their mom. The boys each carried a small bag. They climbed into their grandmother’s car and the three of them drove away, the boys waving wildly through the rear porthole.
Scarcely ten minutes passed when Dak heard Merriam’s car drive off. She returned several hours later and scurried into the house laden with sacks and packages.
Without the aid of his Lydian chip, Dak tired easily. He changed into a fresh shirt, cleaned up his work area and walked outside into a sunset more stunning than he’d ever dreamed existed. The colors swirled and gathered on the horizon making shapes that reminded Dak of animals that he’d seen in the countryside near by and on old library disks, back on Darwin-six.
He sat on the low stone wall that ran along the side of the garage, mesmerized by the fire in the sky. He’d seen quasars outside of Alpha II and lovely red dwarfs near Kualapuu, but he only gleaned information from the sight, noting the phenomena’s possible effects on safe navigation.
Tonight he felt completely different. Though there were many new feelings the colors in the sky evoked within him, he merely enjoyed them without analysis. Actually, with his Lydian chip on the fritz, Dak figured he’d do well to analyze hot tea in a cup.
Dak heard Merriam’s front door open. He watched her walk across the yard. She wore a lovely teal dress he’d never seen before. Her hair, brushed to perfection, shimmered in the evening colors.
Merriam stopped outside the garage where Dak had been moments before.
“I’m over here. That is if you’re looking for me,” he said wishing he’d left off the last sentence. Dak noticed that whenever Merriam was around, his words stumbled out of his mouth with all the candor and conviction of a kazoo.
“There you are, Mr. Ford. It’s a lovely sunset isn’t it?”
Dak couldn’t speak. Merriam now stood less than a meter away looking radiant in the last colors of evening. She smelled delicious and Dak’s heart sped up considerably when she took a seat on the wall next to him.
“I thought I’d see if the garden needed weeding,” Merriam said.
Dak had done some hothouse gardening on Darwin-six and it didn’t take a Lydian chip to see that Merriam was neither dressed for gardening, nor did she have any daylight to work by. He tried to think of something clever to say.
“Yes, I see,” he said then cursed himself for sounding dull.
Merriam turned to face him. “When I was growing up I used to spend spring evenings watching the sun setting over the sea, dreaming of things I would do when I was grown.”
Dak smiled, imagined her as a young girl. “Your name was Merriam Hillman in those days,” Dak said feeling as though he’d said something clever.
“Who?”
Wasn’t Hillman your maiden name?”
“No. It was Baker. What made you think of Hillman?”
Dak was sure his face glowed in the dark. “But, your mother’s automobile, it said Hillman, Naturally I assumed that was your maiden name as well.”
“Why would you think such a silly thing.”
“But your auto has your initials, and I—Well—.”
Dak watched Merriam’s face soften. She laughed, put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
“Your sense of humor catches me off guard at times. You know Mr. Ford—.”
“Call me Dak, please.”
“Yes, of course. Dak, I don’t believe you’ve ever said where you are from.”
Dak was an honest man and he intended to tell the truth. “I’m from a place called, Darwin-si—”
“Australia,” Merriam said. “I hear it’s lovely. However, I’ve never been. Do you miss it?”
“Less all the time it seems.”
“Suppose you’ve got a wife and all?”
“No, the type of work I do doesn’t allow much time for a wife.”
Merriam smiled. “And what might that be?”
“Sola—Sailing …ah Sailing, yes that’s what.”
Something changed in Merriam’s expression when he said the word sailing. He wondered if he had made another blunder. But the look on her face was still soft and pleasant.
“Would you care to join me for supper tonight? The boys are off for the weekend, and cooking for one is frightful waste.”
Dak nearly choked himself by sucking in air to say yes too quickly.
Merriam fixed a meal of bangers and mash while Dak stood in the doorway, admiring her as she moved gracefully around her spotless kitchen. The smell of food cooking made Dak feel very comfortable.
The two pints of warm ale they had while listening to BBC on the radio loosened Dak’s tongue and soon he was going on about his writing forgetting entirely that his novel was set four hundred earth-years in the future.
“Some science fiction is good,” Merriam said. “But creatures from different words and robots—,”
“Androids,” Dak interjected, then regretted doing so.
“Androids,” Merriam repeated humorously. “The subject is so far-fetched. Would it ever sell?”
Dak as gracefully as possible, steered the conversation back to the radio program. It was a lovely story about a young lieutenant returning from the war after being wounded in combat and his resulting romance with the young nurse who cared for him. Merriam had picked the program. Dak wondered if perhaps she knew one of the actors.
The ale seemed to make Merriam sleepy. She sat next to Dak on the sofa, leaned her head against his shoulder and gave his arm a squeeze.
Dak’s heart pounded so loudly he was certain the sound could be heard back on Darwin-six. He imagined Henry and Paul standing over him watching their eyes filled with scorn and disapproval. He stood, fetched the empty glasses to the sink and excused himself. An act he began to regret almost immediately.
Dak wished that he could be dashing like the young lieutenant in the radio play. His mind replayed the events of the evening as he lay on his cot staring into the darkness.
As he slept, Dak’s mind was tormented by a parade of dreams, all of which featured him doing something horribly foolish. He rolled off his cot as the first lights of dawn came through the workshop’s window, fixed a pot of tea and ventured outside to savor the cool morning air. The sky shared its colors with the sea, and as Dak sipped his tea, pink clouds gave way to a cobalt sky.
Being outside on Darwin-Six, was not a pleasant experience. The sky was brown, period. Not like here where it could change drastically yet still remain beautiful. And the air certainly never smelled sweet. The smoke from Merriam’s trash burner was more palatable by comparison, and the sight of the planet’s caustic sea surely wasn’t worth review.
Dak finished his tea as the sun pulled the clouds toward the horizon. He returned to the workshop and busied himself with the scavenged radio parts trying his best not to dwell on his clumsy behavior the night before.
Dak wired the Meeting Maker’s undamaged leads, to a series of tubes from the old radio. When he connected the wires to a six-volt automobile battery, the device let out an audible beep and flashed a numeric code on its tiny display.
Normally, Dak would have begun a regiment of experiments with the device straight away. However, though its blinking lights beckoned, he stepped to the window more interested in the watching strands of white clouds drifting lazily across the sky.
Merriam was outside hanging the wash to dry. The morning breeze nudged at her hair and she was as beautiful as the morning, though not brushed and pressed to perfection, like she’d been last evening. She was barefoot, dressed in a cotton shift, with a tread-worn blue sweater.
Dak studied the muscles in her calves as she stood on tiptoes pinning clothes on the line. He assured himself that his fondness for the woman had no bearing on his reluctance to venture off in time. Naturally, it was the absence of the brain chip that held him back, for without its infinite research capabilities, Dak reasoned, he might only venture a hundred or so earth years into the future.
Living through one evacuation of Earth was surely enough. Two would be deplorable beyond description. Or, supposed without proper research into the device’s proper use, he went even further back in time. At least here, he had a workshop and rudimental electronic devices at his command.
Merriam waved to Dak and his face flushed. He realized that he’d been staring, apparently, so had Merriam. Dak stepped to the door.
“I was just wondering if you could use a hand.”
Merriam smiled, which sent a tingle down his neck.
“I’m almost finished, thanks.”
Dak stood with hands in his pockets. He realized he was staring again, or still. He excused himself, returned to the workbench and removed the one of the wires clipped to the battery. The Meeting Maker’s lights dimmed then went out. He reconnected the wire and the devise came back to life, still flashing the same numerical code.
Dak disconnected the battery again and covered the project with a small tarp. With discretion being the better part of valor, he decided that he would conduct further tests, before doing anything rash. He assured himself again that Merriam surely had no bearing on his decision. He was simply being prudent.
Later that morning, Merriam invited Dak to take a drive through the countryside. She’d packed a lunch in a wicker basket along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Dak was still feeling sheepish over his clumsiness the night before and was relieved that he wasn’t being offered a one-way trip off the property.
Merriam loaded the basket into a small compartment in the stern of the car, which she called the boot, though it looked nothing like any footwear he’d ever seen. She tied back her hair with a ribbon, started the motor then looked at Dak.
“Would you care to drive?”
“Me? well I don’t—,” Dak stopped himself. How could he expect Merriam to enjoy the company of a man who had no more backbone than an Elysian fire-toad? “Yes,” he said. “I would love to take the helm.”
Merriam laughed. “You do sound like a sailor. Find us someplace beautiful for a picnic, Skipper.”
Dak felt greatly relieved to hear a jovial tone in Merriam’s voice. He briefly studied the auto’s controls, certain that it would be a simple process to command an automobile. Merriam drove without difficulty and she had hundreds of years less experience navigating vessels.
The auto seemed to respond well to the helm but Merriam had to remind Dak to move a lever between the seats first one way then the other. Finally he decided that it was important what type of sound the automobile produced, and moving the lever changed the sound. Dak was proud of himself again.
Out on the road however things changed drastically. Dak had been in command of many ships in his life, and the governing rule for all skippers is that in any shared shipping lane, each skipper must favor the starboard side. Merriam instructed Dak to drive on the left side of the road, which made no sense to him at all. He complied, but when he met a larger auto in the middle of a curve, he panicked. Dak jerked the helm, or wheel as Merriam called it, and instantly the two of them were bouncing through a field of the most beautiful flowers he’d ever seen.
Merriam screamed and covered her face. When the car came to rest she seemed quite shaken and stared at Dak for in silence.
Dak smiled. “Here’s a lovely spot for lunch.”
Fire seemed to shoot from Merriam’s eyes. Then she softened.
“I never know what to expect from you, Dak Ford. You certainly do keep things interesting.
The spot where the car came to rest was indeed beautiful, with flowers running down the slope nearly to the sea and tall trees which dappled the ground with shadows. Dak carried the basket and followed Merriam to a clearing under a tree where she spread out a blanket.
Packed inside the basket was what Merriam called a ploughman’s lunch. Fresh baked bread, cheese, and fruit so sweet that Dak wondered how he’d ever endured the papery, bitter stuff grown in hothouses on Darwin-six. Dak noticed Merriam watching him as he finished an apple. Before his brain could persuade him otherwise he kissed her and she kissed him back.
Merriam tugged one end of the ribbon that tied back her hair, it spilled over her shoulder, Dak pulled her to him, felt her warm skin next to his. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so content.
The sun pushed the shadows aside with time and the bright sun shinning in his face woke Dak, although, he hadn’t realized that he’d drifted off to sleep.
Merriam was smiling down at him, curling a lock of his hair around her finger.
“You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”
Dak touched her cheek. It was soft and reminded him of the calla lilies in her garden.
“Your novel, the one you told me about last evening, where did you get the idea for the story.”
Dak wished for his Lydian chip. “I wouldn’t want to bore you further with such nonsense.”
“Actually the more I thought of it, the more I thought it was quite good, interesting sort of, but how did you think of such intricate details about traveling in outer space.
Dak smiled. “I’ve always been interested in ships of all kinds. And a ship is a ship.
Merriam’s beamed as though she been given the keys to the kingdom. She hurried Dak to his feet, bundled up the basket and drove them to a spot on the far end of her property. There under a large tarp was a wooden sailboat.
“Clive, my husband…my late husband, was nearly finished restoring her when he was killed. She’s a Herreschoff sloop built in the thirties. She was damaged in a storm. She’s short the rigging but seaworthy with the best of them.”
Dak climbed up a ladder that leaned against the hull and stood on the boat’s deck. It was at that moment his Lydian chip re-booted. He suddenly saw marine blueprints and graphs and was instantly provided volumes of information on, Mr. Herreschoff, the boat’s designer, and all that could be known about sailing ships in Earth’s waters.
“Do you like her?” Merriam asked looking up from the ground her hand shading her eyes from the sun.”
Dak looked at the woman studied her fine cheekbones tried to find the sky-blue eyes under the shadow her hand cast across her face. “I love y—eh her.” He said feeling quite human and foolish.
Merriam laughed, but something seemed to dim in her eyes. She was quiet for the remainder of the day. Dak wasn’t sure whether his slip of the tongue was the cause. He decided not to use his chip to research her emotional state but rather to wait and see.
Dak returned to his workbench. With the Lydian chip functioning again, the mistakes he’d made in his earlier attempts to reenergize the Meeting Maker became obvious. He added another scrap of wire, ran it to a nail driven into the wood of the bench, and reversed the wires on the automobile battery. The device display screen came alive with blue lights and ran through a complete start up procedure.
He saw the today’s date, 9 September 1958, flash on the tiny screen, along with the date he’d found the case onboard Europa, 36, Mai, 2491. The word return appeared on the display and two buttons blinked blue lights.
Dak’s heart was beating quickly. He need only touch the two buttons and he would be standing on the bridge of Europa, with less than two seconds elapsed. His Lydian chip reminded him that it was his duty as an officer to return to his post, but his hands trembled as he reached for the device. He felt the tiny buttons under his fingers and closed his eyes.
Over the thunder of his own pounding heart Dak heard the sound of someone running up the dirt drive from Merriam’s house. It was Paul, Merriam’s youngest son. He stopped at the workshop’s open door and tapped on the frame. “May I come in, sir?”
Dak smiled, “Sure, Pauly, please do.”
“Mummy would like you to join us for tea.”
Dak saw the boy stare at the bench, his eyes popped open wide.
“What do you have there Mr. Ford?”
Over Paul’s shoulder, Dak saw Merriam step into the garden, pick a bouquet of flowers and return to the house.
Ford thought for a moment, picked up a pair of dykes and snipped the wires to the Meeting Maker; its lights flickered and died.
“Pauly, what I have here is junk-- pure and simple junk.” Dak picked up a hammer and handed it to the boy. “Care to give it a whack?”
Paul’s look was that of a lad on Christmas day “Suppose it’d be alright?”
“Give it bloody hell.”
Paul slammed the hammer down onto the device shrieking with delight as he chased the pieces across the bench whacking first one then another.
“Cor, blimey, Mr. Ford that was Jolly good.”
Dak pulled the boy under his arm and rubbed his head.
“Here, now, let’s watch that language, young man, or your mum will have a row with the both of us.”
“So you’ll come for tea? I’d like it ever-so-much if you would.”
“And stay for supper if I’m lucky.”
Dak never again thought of his home on Darwin-six or Europa. For the rest of his days sailing was limited to the wooden sloop, which he finished and christened Gypsy.
Dak’s Lydian chip told him of a man in Bristol, by the name of Fredrick Case whose late life dalliances with his housekeeper would unleash a legacy of scoundrels on the earth not the least of which being his long hated boss, Dick Aslin.
The man was in Saint Jude’s Hospital, scheduled to undergo surgery to repair a hernia. Dak planted a faux memory into the surgeon’s mind that added a request for a vasectomy.
D’accord and Merriam were wed in the spring of 1959, he adopted the boys and took a position at a public school near their home where he taught creative writing.
One of his students, a boy named Douglas, was exceedingly bright and had a passion for science fiction. His depiction of travel in outer space was surprisingly vivid and for the most part accurate.
Once during a writing assignment, the young man raised his hand and asked to be recognized. D’accord regarded the boy’s eager wave.
“Yes Douglas, please stand and state your question.”
“Mr. Ford, sir do you suppose man shall ever travel through outer space to other worlds.”
“Well Douglas, whether or not it ever happens, we can surely dream that one day it might.”
The boy beamed. “Sir?”
“Yes Douglas, something else?”
“Do you suppose once we all got to outer space we would like it. Would the people we met be nice and such?”
D’accord Ford tugged the knuckle of his left index finger and replayed the surgeon’s memory of sterilizing Fredrick Case. He pushed the skin under his left thumb twice effectively shutting off the Lydian chip in his brain for good. He smiled at the boy and gave him a wink. “Douglas, I think the chance of that is certainly very good.”
Snake Eyes and Boxcars, Part II is a collection of 14 sci-fi/paranormal stories and is author Jay Dubya's 13th story collection and is also his 33rd hardcover book.
Pieces of Eight, Part III is a collection of eight novellas to complement the eight in Pieces of Eight, Pieces of Eight, Part II and Pieces of Eight, Part IV.
