CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
The six men rode through the steep, rock flanked defile almost painfully slowly, which was better than Jack could have hoped for. What was not good was that the big man rode alongside young Alan, and because of the snail’space gait at which the horses moved, all of the riders were clustered together.
Jack knew which man would be Ellen’s target: the one at the far rear. Yet he was only about a half-dozen yards behind Alan. Recoil from the Marlin’s .45-70 chambering would have been punishing to Ellen, Ellen never more than a casual rifle shooter when she fired a rifle at all. Ellen had the Winchester in .45 Colt, by comparison very mild against the shoulder.
Jack waited, watched, hunched in a deep crouch, more or less hidden, but little protected by sun-wasted scrub brush.
Ellen fired. The dun-colored horse under the man at the rear of the group bucked. The rider tumbled from the saddle, and the animal took off as if fired out of a cannon. The other horses shied as it sped past. Jack rose to his feet. There was no clear shot at the big man, not with Alan and the little buckskin sandwiched between the muzzle of Jack’s rifle and the preferred target.
Jack swung the rifle leftward and downward, relying on the .45-70’s penetration and power as he pulled the trigger, firing through the hapless little buckskin’s neck. The animal tumbled against the big man’s black-maned old chestnut mare.
The chestnut stumbled, then dropped like Newton’s apple.
Jack levered the spent case out, chambered a fresh round.
Alan was on the ground, his dying horse almost certainly pinning his right leg under it. The chestnut, already dead, struck by the same bullet that had penetrated the buckskin’s neck, lay in a heap, legs buckled beneath it.
Jack couldn’t find the big guy. Hoping the man was, like Alan, pinned under his horse, he swung the .45-70’s muzzle right and shot one of the three remaining men out of the saddle of a good-sized pinto.
But the first man, the one whom Ellen had initially fired upon, who had lost his mount in the next instant, grabbed for the just-riderless pinto. He used only his left arm to reach for the horse, but wore his gun for right-handed crossdraw, which meant Ellen’s bullet had probably struck him.
Jack worked the lever of his rifle.
In obvious desperation, the apparently wounded man threw his body weight against the riderless pinto’s forelegs. The horse fell as the man clambered into the empty saddle. The horse started to its feet.
Jack’s eyes scanned the moonlit defile for the big man. The two henchmen so far unscathed, bouncing in their saddles as if they were trying to sustain spinal damage, were riding back toward the time transfer base, all caution concerning the steep, uneven surface of the defile abandoned. There was a shot from the higher rocks, Ellen giving them a send-off.
“Where are you, fucker?!” Jack said under his breath, still looking for the big guy. As his eyes followed his rifle muzzle, swinging back toward the wounded man and the still rising horse, Jack spotted his quarry. The big man was stabbing the muzzle of a large revolver—maybe an N-Frame Smith & Wesson, but by moonlight at the distance, it was only a guess—into the face of the wounded man clinging to the pinto’s saddle. There was a single shot. The wounded man fell away as the big man grasped for the saddle and clung to it as the pinto shook its mane and snorted.
Jack fired, and the big man’s body rocked with what could have been a hit or might only have been the horse shuddering under him. The pinto had its head and galloped after the two already escaping riders.
Jack levered the Marlin and fired, but the big man was so terrible a rider and the horse moving so rapidly that his shot was an obvious miss from the moment he squeezed the trigger.
Another shot from the rocks, Ellen firing, but the range was already too great for the Winchester’s .45 Colt-revolver round. There were two rounds left in the Marlin, two rounds Jack would not waste on a fast-moving target he had no hope of hitting.
Instead, he drew his revolver as he walked toward the buckskin. The little horse was still breathing. Alan, under it, moaned, but that was reassuring, affirming that Jack’s great-great grandson was still alive.
Jack, feeling genuine sorrow for shooting the innocent horses and wishing that he could experience sorrow— genuine or otherwise—for the vile men he had killed, put a bullet into the little buckskin’s brain, then started trying to pry, push and shove the dead animal off Alan.
Almost before it seemed possible, Ellen had joined him in the effort, and worked beside him as always.
Cleavon Little, like a black Randolph Scott, rode up out of the horizon, resplendently dressed and armed, astride a magnificent golden palomino, replete with gleaming, silver-mounted saddle. Count Basie’s orchestra, for some reason esconced in the middle of a southwestern desert, was belting out its legendary riff at the conclusion of “April In Paris.” Alan opened his eyes. The face looking down benignly upon him was definitely not the brilliant Mel Brooks, but a woman instead. An angel’s face? Was he dead and in Heaven? The last thing he remembered was a very loud gunshot and the horse that had been under him collapsing against another horse. After that blackness had engulfed him in a roaring wave of pain.
The pain was still there, and that couldn’t be right, because in Heaven, as he had learned as a boy, all earthly pain would be washed away.
An angel, however. As his vision cleared, he recognized the face, yet was more amazed than if the countenance— smiling now, with a touch of worry in the gray-green eyes—had been ethereal in the literal sense. The face was that of Ellen Naile, born in 1948—or, to be born. Objectively, he knew that since the year from which he’d been kidnapped was 1996, she was forty-eight. Except for that hint of worry in her eyes, dissipating as he forced a smile to his lips, it would have been hard to imagine this auburn-haired, delicately featured woman with almost porcelein skin to have even been thirty.
“You.” He realized that his voice was a dry, croaking thing.
“Don’t try to talk, Alan.” Her voice was a soft alto, musical to hear.
Alan shook his head: a mistake, as tremors of pain washed through him. A glass came to his lips, cool water into his mouth. He swallowed, the first sip with difficulty, the second sip more easily. The glass was taken away, and he tried again, this time successfully, more or less, to speak, the voice still not quite fully his own. “You are my great-great-grandmother.”
“Yes.”
“You are more beautiful than your pictures, more so than I had remembered you. I grew a beard and brought my oldest son to one of your book signings.”
She didn’t smile any more broadly with her face, only in her wonderful eyes, as she responded, “And you have your great-grandfather’s and great-great-grandfather’s ability with bullshit.”
“How did—?”
“You get here? You got here by dint of perseverance, Alan. That buckskin pony that fell on you may have been little, but no fully grown horse is exactly light. Before you ask, Clarence’s wife, Peggy—you remember her, that she’s an M.D.?—thinks that the worst you have is a little concussion, some really nasty bruises—hence, some swelling—to your right knee and a groin muscle you may have pulled. Bet you’ll know about that for sure when you try walking in a few days.” Ellen grinned.
“Should I call you Great-Great-Grandmother?”
“Only if you don’t value your life. Ellen will do just fine, Alan. Now, get some rest, and a little later we can get some solid food into you and talk some more. I wouldn’t toss and turn a lot. Verifying the pulled groin muscle could be a real eye-opener.”
Then, she leaned over, his beautiful great-great grandmother, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
Snippets of conversation as he slept—he’d been given painkillers, he realized—drifted to him like scents on a soft breeze. David and Clarence were back—from where? He had some sips of broth. Diamonds converted to cash successfully. Jack, his great-great-grandfather, was gone for a few days—to where? More broth, a salty tasting cracker. Titus Blake, whoever he had been, was dead. It didn’t sound like anyone would be missing this Blake guy very much. Broth with soft vegetables. Diamonds and cash, again. The general merchandise store had great sales figures, up fourteen percent over the last quarter. Exciting new merchandise spotted in San Franciso. A few bites of a sandwich. House in town nearly completed.
Standing up, and the knee hurt badly; walking to the surprisingly modern bathroom affirmed the groin muscle was definitely pulled. Elizabeth, arm in a sling, pretty like her mother, only different. Peggy insisted he use a bedpan.
Theodore Roosevelt? A man’s voice had spoken the name several times in low tones to Alan’s great-greatgrandmother. But this was 1900, wasn’t it? Was it still? Had to be. Teddy Roosevelt was yet to be elected to the vice-presidency under William McKinley.
Two-way traffic in time? Variations of phrasing notwithstanding, that topic came up a lot, rising as the headaches seemed to dissipate.
Sometime later—he realized it was probably several days—Alan opened his eyes and saw a man’s face looking down on him. The man’s eyes were dark brown, with a hint of amusement in them. He had a wide mouth under a graying mustache that extended only to the edges of his upper lip. His hair was a dark reddish-brown, thick looking but not overly so, well salted with gray throughout, but especially on the sides. He wore a coal-black shirt, some type of pullover, but not in the modern sense, his sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, the dorsal sides of his forearms covered in a light coating of hair, also dark red-brown.
Two realizations struck Alan simultaneously. This was his great-great grandfather, Jack Naile, and Jack was the black-clad man who had shot the horse out from under him—how many days ago?
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Great-Great-Grandson,” Jack declared. “I understand you brought one of our great-great-great-grandsons to a book signing.
Thank you for that. How are you doing?” The same hint of amusement that was in his eyes was present in his voice. “Peggy was a little worried with you drifting in and out of consciousness so much these last several days, lamenting the fact that she hadn’t been able to do more thorough testing for the concussion she suspected you’d sustained.” He held up the first finger of his right hand, a strong-looking hand, and directed, “Follow this with your eyes.” Then he moved the finger slowly from edge to edge of Alan’s peripheral vision.
“My head doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Good! The rest was what you needed. Your knee should be stiff. Some of our reference materials contained data pertinent to physical therapy; Peggy will work with you. You’ll have to go easy, though, because of that groin muscle. She doesn’t think it’s too bad.”
“She should try wearing it,” Alan told his great-greatgrandfather, smiling.
“That might, I’d suppose, be instructive. Who was that really big man who was taking you out to kill you?”
Alan’s eyes closed involuntarily; in the split second while they remained shut, the images of—how long had it been since he’d been abducted outside Morton Hardesty’s house?—his torment coming back to him in a wash of near nausea. “My wife and family—they could be in terrible danger.”
“You’re a good man; that was to be expected. You should never have helped Clarence and Peggy to join us here. We all love Clarence, and have come to love Peggy. But now that the time-transfer process is duplicated, nothing and no one may be safe anymore. My mother used to quote her father, that ‘the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ Consider this a possible way station, Alan. Who was that man?”
“Lester Matthews, the security guy for Bethany Kaminsky’s Lakewood Industries.”
“I’ve heard of Lakewood—almost as big as Horizon Enterprises. Are they the ones who’ve built the new time transfer base?”
“Yes. She wants—Bethany Kaminsky—to sell 1990s technology to the highest bidder in 1900, become the power behind whatever government buys in, change history so Lakewood Industries will, will—”
“Be in charge of the world. Can’t fault the woman for thinking small, can we?”
“We’ve gotta stop her.”
“Indeed. ‘I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself and falls on the other.’”
“Macbeth?”
“Uh-huh. The lady in question here, although I don’t know her, strikes me as someone who uses daggers quite skillfully, perhaps gleefully. Good character analysis?”
“Yes.”
“Rest. We’ll talk about this soon, son.”
Alan Naile saw, felt Jack Naile’s right hand as it gently patted his left cheek. There was a smile on his greatgreat-grandfather’s face, but one of love, not happiness. And, deep within Jack’s eyes there was something that was at once like determination and dread.
***
Eight days had passed since Alan’s rescue from his would-be murderers. Technically speaking, Jack was, once again, Marshal of Atlas, Nevada, but the day-today policing of the town was something in which he had no interest; he’d appointed two deputies, both of the men cool-headed and good with a gun when need be.
Helen was recovering nicely in town, along with both her father and her mother. Sympathetic neighbors tended their stock. When all were well enough to return to their homestead, the deputies were under instruction that one of them should accompany the Bledsoes and stay on-site for a few days, just in case any of the “outlaws” had escaped and might want revenge.
With David and Clarence back from a more-thansuccessful trip to San Francisco, Jack, accompanied by one or the other of them, had made several nocturnal forays to the time-transfer base. David, a fine hand with a camera and armed with his mother’s advice, had taken more photos.
An assemblage of over four dozen photographs of varying quality, but with fully discernable images, now existed, documenting the activity—growing nightly—at the time-transfer base.
The time-transfer base, perhaps as a result of the rescue of Alan Naile, was more heavily guarded than before. Tarp-covered emplacements at each corner of the fenced area were, almost certainly, hiding machine guns. The guards themselves bristled with H-K MP5 submachine guns and M-16 rifles; each was also armed with a handgun. An outer perimeter had been established to foil observation of the base as much as possible, it appeared, and to guard against the chance encounter with someone just drifting past over the mountains.
The guards at this outer perimeter had horses rather than golf carts and pickup trucks, Colt (or Italian replica) revolvers on their hips and weathered-looking cowboy hats rather than baseball caps. A few horses were corralled nearby. Curiosity was a marvelous thing, the way it could lead to terrible trouble. Jack and David and Clarence had, each of them independently, considered riding down and feigning innocence just to hear what sort of story these disguised Lakewood Industries security personnel would offer. But since there was an at-least-as-likely possibility that the guards’ only response to a question might be couched in lead, discretion prevailed.
Peggy had reviewed the photos; Alan, still limping and slow to move, but clear headed, examined them as well.
Jack surveyed his assembled family as he asked, “So, guys? How can we stop the Kaminsky woman and Lakewood Industries from ruling the world?” Jack addressed the question to no one in particular, rather to all who were seated or standing in the central room of the house. This hidden room was the perfect setting for such a question. It was the only room in the entire house, likely the entire county, perhaps the state—other than the time-transfer base—that had electricity of even the most primitive sort. He was no authority on rural electrification in Nevada, but Edison had only perfected the light bulb in 1878, just twenty-two years in their objective past. There was a laptop computer, but the Internet did not exist and would not for all practical purposes for a century.
Jack’s eyes drifted to the security monitor—recently installed—that was jerry-rigged to one of the small video cameras Clarence and Peggy had brought with them from the 1990s. The possibility of attack originating from the time transfer base was very real. Jack asked again, addressing all but looking directly at Peggy and at Alan, “How do we stop Kaminsky and Lakewood?”
Peggy spoke, avoiding his eyes when he looked at her. “Clarence’s loving you guys is why this happened. Maybe the last time you guys went through the time loop, Clarence didn’t exist.”
Alan, his voice weak, strained, said, as if thinking aloud, “My father told me that in the last cycle, before you guys—I mean the actual two of you, Jack and Ellen, this Jack and Ellen, you guys—went into the time loop, you—the earlier you—wrote that D-Day was on June fifth, not the sixth. The horrendous rains over the English Channel screwed things up so badly that Allied casualties were vastly higher. Just two changes—and there must have been hundreds, thousands, maybe millions of other changes, all for subtle reasons we can’t foresee—but they affected millions of lives that affected millions of other lives. Maybe Clarence’s dad didn’t survive the Korean War the last time, never came home to father Clarence in 1957. Maybe, what if, who knows?”
“So, if I went back to the 1990s—”
“It wouldn’t do any good, Clarence,” Peggy interrupted, looking at her husband. “You’ve already done this, and going back to 1996 wouldn’t change any of that. It isn’t your fault, or anybody’s fault, except this Kaminsky bitch.”
“Let’s say,” Alan began, “that we tracked down Clarence’s grandfather. He was a coal miner in West Virginia, right, Clarence?”
“Yeah.” Clarence nodded, looking at Alan rather oddly, suspicion in his brown eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Let’s say we tracked down your grandfather and killed him—”
“Just one fucking minute—”
“I’m not suggesting that we do it, Clarence,” Alan insisted. “But hear me out—just hear me out, huh? It’s an example, alright?”
Clarence nodded, stood up and began to pace.
Alan went on. “So, if—catch the word ‘if’—if we murdered Grandpa Jones before he fathered Clarence’s father, then Clarence wouldn’t exist, right?”
Jack was beginning to suspect the punch line to Alan’s thesis, and didn’t like it: They were helpless.
“Okay,” Alan continued, “so we kill Grandpa Jones. Clarence never exists. If Clarence never exists, we don’t know that we have to kill Grandpa Jones, right? So we don’t kill Grandpa Jones. So Clarence exists. So we do kill Grandpa Jones; but, maybe he’s not killed or we killed him for no purpose at all. You need more math than I’ve got in my head to explain this, or even think about it properly. If we knew enough to prevent Clarence from coming into the past, and somehow were able to keep him from coming into the past, we wouldn’t be faced with the problem, therefore we wouldn’t have taken the steps to alleviate the problem, therefore the problem would still be with us. Perhaps manifested in some other way, granted, but we’d still have the same situation. We’re stuck in a conundrum from which there is no logically discernable escape.”
David addressed the man who would become his greatgrandson. “So, you’re saying we can’t do shit about this, then?”
“Well, not really. We can’t give up, but we have to think way outside the box. It’s just that there are certain things that might seem obvious to do which would have no effect whatsoever to alter the situation.”
“Helpless?” Jack suggested. “I don’t think so.” He caught Ellen’s eyes on him. She hated discussing time-travel theory, hadn’t even liked movies about time-travel. He always had. But movies didn’t help. “We know that Lakewood is going to peddle 1990s war machines to the highest 1900 bidder they can find. That’ll likely be Germany. There seems to be pretty general agreement on that. If I remember my history correctly, the United States will almost go to war with Germany over Venezuela in the next two or three years, sometime in Teddy Roosevelt’s first administration, I think.
“At any event, World War One is scheduled to start fourteen years from now. Germany would snap up even Korean War-vintage fighter jets in a heartbeat. Imagine just what something as simple as a couple of hundred M-16 rifles could do in no-man’s-land in France a decade and a half from now? Change history on the cheap. But not this Kaminsky woman. She’ll get a bidding war going between the United States, England, Germany—maybe even France’ll get in on it. Germany will be the one, has to be. The United States wouldn’t buy the technology to use it for aggression, not unless Lakewood gets rid of McKinley and Roosevelt and replaces them with their own man. The same with England, I think. The French are a wild-card, but Germany would just up the ante until it got the technology. Only the United States could outbid Germany, and Lakewood Industries doesn’t just want a sale, it wants the products put to use. From what you say, Kaminsky isn’t looking to just be richer than Sam Walton and Bill Gates combined; she wants to be the power behind whatever nation rules the world.”
“And?” Ellen suggested.
“In times of trouble, who do you go to?”
“A friend?” Lizzie supplied.
“A friend, yes, because that’s someone that you can trust,” Jack agreed, smiling at his daughter. “Present company excepted, the only person I know in detail— so to speak—in this period in time is Theodore Roosevelt.”
“What?” David gasped, sounding incredulous. “You’ve never met Teddy Roosevelt, Dad!”
“I’ve read a lot about Roosevelt, son. Teddy Roosevelt was a brilliant man. A man of letters, a man of action, someone who studied every aspect of a situation before making a decision, someone with the courage and tenacity to see a situation through to the end.” Jack cleared his throat. “And he was well aware of the fact that this was a modern age, a new age. He was the first President of the United States ever to ride in a submarine, the USS Plunger.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding, Daddy!” Lizzie declared.
“That’s the name, kiddo. My point is, he was accepting of new things, things other people might have dismissed or ignored. We go to Teddy Roosevelt with incontrovertible evidence of what’s going on. The photos, everything. We don’t have enough manpower—and I’m using the word in the generic sense—to do what we have to do.”
“Which is?” Clarence asked.
Before Jack could answer, Ellen interjected, “You sound like you’re plotting a novel, Jack.”
“Not much different, kid. We know that Lakewood has a time-transfer base here in 1900 that shares the exact space as a base in 1996.”
“They may even be using the same machinery,” Peggy pointed out, “existing in the same place in two different times, just like you told me that this house still existed, but in ruins, in 1992. The Japanese did some interesting experiments in quantum mechanics. They proved in experiments with electrons that, however illogical it sounds, it is possible for one particle to be in two places at the same time. Its actual position is determined by observation, observation determining reality. Two different observers would detect the same particle in two different states. Subatomic particles can exist as either particles or as waves, but in reality as both. Jane Rogers explained it all to me. She’s the one who knew the math and the physics. So, the time-transfer equipment is in the same physical location, observed in 1900 and in 1996, because it was brought to 1900, built here. The wave pattern Jane discovered and we blindly duplicated, which precipitated the original time-transfer, somehow served as the medium. The time transfer mechanism, the whole base Lakewood Industries set up, exists in two separate epochs, observed differently, but the same thing.”
“Headache,” Ellen supplied.
Jack smiled, went on. “It would seem logical that Lakewood Industries hasn’t probably taken over the Horizon Enterprises time-transfer facility just yet, but it’s also pretty obvious that Lakewood Industries has the heavily armed manpower to take over the Horizon facility or destroy it at will. I’m proposing that we take our photographic evidence and hard evidence—”
“Like my battery-operated CD player,” Lizzie offered, her face lit with its customarily beautiful smile.
“Perfect,” Jack agreed. “Future stuff that Teddy Roosevelt will have to realize isn’t faked, is real. Some of the books we have that haven’t yet been printed, like that. Everything that’s necessary to prove to Theodore Roosevelt that this isn’t bullshit. We get him to go to President McKinley.”
“Let me guess,” Ellen smiled. “Teddy Roosevelt gets together his old Rough Riders from the charge up San Juan Hill, and we take over the Lakewood time base here in 1900, then transfer ourselves back in force to their base in 1996. There’s a big battle scene, and you and Teddy Roosevelt seize control of the base.”
Jack laughed. “More or less.”
“Then what?” David inquired.
“Yeah. What he said,” Alan added.
“Kids,” Ellen remarked.
Jack thought for a minute. Ellen suggested, “Then we get Alan here to stay behind in the future. We set him up with his own friendlies, of course, making sure everything is secure. Then Alan works the time-transfer machinery for one last time, zaps us—”
“Us?”
“Guys are supposed to have all the fun? I don’t think so! Anyway, Alan works the time transfer machinery one last time, we all get back after saving the world and Alan destroys the time-transfer base so no one can come along and use it again.”
“There’s Morton Hardesty to consider,” Alan interjected. “As long as he’s alive and Bethany Kaminsky is alive to finance him, they could do it again. Hardesty and Jane Rogers were the only two who knew how to do this, and Jane is dead. With Morton alive, it’s just a hardware problem.”
“Then, God help us, we kill the Lakewood people,” Jack said.
“I never read that Teddy Roosevelt worked part time as a hit man,” Clarence volunteered.
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “We worry about that when we get there, to 1996.”
“Another problem,” Peggy offered. “What Kaminsky is doing is sheer genius, if you think about it. We’re here in her objective past. We know she’s got a time-travel gizmo that will allow her to change history, but no one in her objective present will know it. If Germany rules the world and Kaminsky’s company runs Germany, that’ll just be the way the century worked out. World War Two will have been a bloody skirmish with Japan. Soviet Communism will probably never arise because the Germans wouldn’t have any reason to help Lenin smuggle himself back into Czarist Russia, and Germany would already control Russia. She’ll be able to see just how much she’s changed history by simply going into the past where, if she’s as smart and evil as she sounds, she’ll have stored records that won’t have changed over the next hundred years because they’ll have preexisted the next hundred years.
They’ll read like fiction to her, but they’ll be the truth as it was, history before it was changed. No one in her time will notice a thing. With no World War Two, no Soviet Communism, probably no Chinese Communism, the world might be a much better place. We have to think about that.
“And, we’re assuming that Kaminsky will just be waiting around for us,” Peggy continued. “If Germany is going to be the best potential bidder for 1990s technology, and Lakewood Industries—”
“They have a facility not far from Ulm, I think,” Alan said somberly. “They could have a time-transfer base under construction somewhere in Germany right now. They could have people going out to Imperial Germany right now. This could already be so out of hand—”
“Look, son,” Jack interrupted, peering intently at his great-great-grandson. “We may already be screwed. I know that. We’re all aware of that possibility. Plans rarely go perfectly, even when you’re just writing them in a book, let alone real life. But we have to do something. Let’s say that Peggy’s idea that things might be somehow better if we let this alone has some merit. I don’t think it would be a better century. If the Germans control the world, even if there isn’t a Great Depression, Hitler might still come to power. How many so-called ‘inferior’ millions would he slaughter in the name of racial purity, if he didn’t have to worry about the rest of the world breathing down his neck and kicking his ass during a war? If he could devote full effort to it? If some things would be better and some things worse, it doesn’t mean that we have the right to alter the next century any more than Bethany Kaminsky does. We have an obligation to future history, to our own sense of right and wrong, to stop her. And preventing the Kaminsky woman from precipitating a century of what could be unimaginable destruction . . .” Jack stopped, not having any words left with which to express his feelings; he merely lowered his eyes.
Ellen spoke, and Jack raised his eyes to look at her. He’d studied the toes of his boots for an instant, but the exercise had neither enlightened nor soothed him. “Unlike a book, none of us can make the ending come out the way we want a hundred percent, because we don’t control the actions of the characters. Bethany Kaminsky might already have people pitching Germany, promising them nuclear weapons or something. Who knows? Jack’s right. Trying is all that we can do. So let’s stop talking about it and get started.”
Ellen was never idle, Jack mused. At times, when all he wanted to do was sit down and have a cigarette and Ellen started doing something or other that he should help her with, he found that trait just a little irritating. But those wonderful aspects of her character that defied description overwhelmed him. One thing that he had never done, in what had become the objective future, was to get Ellen to give a silent jukebox a slap in just the right spot, thus making the jukebox play. Secretly, he’d always believed that his wife and best buddy might well be capable of such a feat. She was so cool, after all, that it was like being married to a female version of the Fonz.