“I don’t know. To do so would take research that dovetails nicely with my own plans for trawling.
Like yourself, Dr. Tanner, I also want to go back. Unlike yourself, I have never faced a trawl. I need to know more about the process before I can face stepping into that chamber. For I will get only one chance.”
“The matter is settled, then.” Doc stood. “I will assist you in any manner I can.”
“Excellent. I make one request of you.”
“And that is?”
“Your companions. Most of them would not approve, I think, of some of my experiments. You may tell them you are assisting me, but I ask you keep the notion of your personally enduring another time trawl to yourself until we are closer to the time of the actual event.”
“Of course. There is no need to cause them worry for my well-being.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Good night,” Doc replied, and walked out of the den.
Jamaisvous remained sitting, his left index finger idly stroking the rim of his glass over and over in a circle. “The time has come,” he whispered softly. “Time enough, at last.”
THE MOON ROSE over the walls of El Morro. Far off, in the quiet distance, the unique sound of the coqui could be heard, and for each single cry the little tree frog sent out, a dozen more came singing back in reply from his brothers. For hundreds of years, the native Puerto Rican tree frog had endured, proving that perhaps, things didn’t always have to change.
A brief spot of flickering illumination flared into being, only to be extinguished and replaced by a tiny glowing dot of red. J.B. puffed on his cigar, exhaling aromatic tobacco smoke into the night air of the fortress garden.
“Good evening, John Barrymore,” a familiar resonant voice said from behind.
“Doc,” the Armorer replied in greeting. He wasn’t surprised, since he’d heard the older man’s footsteps coming up from behind and recognized the sound and pattern of Doc’s peculiar gait.
Doc stood silently for a few moments, then turned to his friend. “I wonder, might I avail you of a smoke?”
J.B. blew a plume of the pungent smoke through both nostrils. “You sure? This tobacco has a hell of a kick.”
“I am not a lad in short pants, John Barrymore, and I was smoking long before you were born,” Doc retorted. “I think I can handle a twist of tobacco.”
“Got a point,” J.B. replied, taking out the denim pouch of smokes and handing it over to the second figure.
“I’m surprised to find you out here alone at such a late hour,” Doc remarked as he rummaged through the pouch and removed one of the sticky black cig-arillos.
“Couldn’t sleep.” J.B. held out his lit cheroot, allowing Doc to use it to ignite his own chosen cigar.
“And I can’t light up in the room or Millie starts complaining about secondary smoke.”
“I see,” Doc replied after exhaling a perfect smoke ring.
“Nice trick,” J.B. said, watching the ring elongate and slowly dissipate in the night air. “I guess you have lit up a few cancer sticks in your time.”
“Cancer stick?” Doc asked with a frown. “I do not get your meaning.”
The Armorer nodded. “That’s what Millie calls them. Old predark slang. Said they were supposed to cause lung cancer.”
Doc pondered this. “I suppose she would know. Still, I confess I suspect there are many more overt dangers presenting us with cancer-causing radiation on a daily basis than these slender tubes of tobacco.”
“Damn straight.”
The conversation between the men trailed off, and the sounds of the night seemed to grow louder.
“So, what’s your excuse?” J.B. finally asked.
“For smoking?” Doc asked.
The Armorer frowned. Doc could be annoyingly obtuse when he chose. “For coming out here to the top of the fortress so late tonight.”
Doc shook his head and his flowing white hair shifted around his skinny shoulders. “My mind, good fellow. I cannot stop thinking long enough to allow Morpheus to bring down his soothing, slumbering touch.”
“About trying to go back to the 1800s, you mean.”
“I beg your pardon?” Doc said, trying to cover his surprise and doing a lousy job.