Lightning

They used all of the books that Thelma had bought. These were not merely science and mathematics texts, but histories of the Second World War, in which they could pinpoint the whereabouts of certain major figures on certain dates.

In addition to performing complex calculations for the jaunts, they had to allow time for Stefan to heal. When he returned to 1944, he would be reentering the wolf’s lair, and even equipped with nerve gas and a first-rate firearm, he would have to be quick and agile to avoid being killed. “Two weeks,” he said. “I think I’ll have enough flexibility in the shoulder and arm to go back in two more weeks.”

It did not matter if he took two weeks or ten, for when he used Kokoschka’s homing belt, he would return to the institute only eleven minutes after Kokoschka had left it. His date of departure from current time would not affect his date of return in 1944.

The only worry was that the Gestapo would find them first and send a hit squad to 1989 to eliminate them before Stefan could return to his era to implement his plan. Though it was their only worry—it was worry enough.

With considerable caution, more than half expecting a sudden flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, they took a break and went grocery shopping Sunday afternoon. Laura, still the object of media attention, remained in the car while Chris and Stefan went into the market. No lightning struck, and they returned to the house with a trunkful of groceries.

Unpacking the market bags in the kitchen, Laura discovered that a third of the sacks contained nothing but snack food: three different kinds of ice-cream bars, plus one quart each of chocolate, rocky road, butter almond, and almond fudge; family-size bags of M&Ms, Kit Kats, Reese’s Cups, and Almond Joys; potato chips, pretzels, tortilla chips, cheese popcorn, peanuts; four kinds of cookies; one chocolate cake, one cherry pie, one box of doughnuts, four packages of Ding Dongs.

Stefan was helping her put things away, and she said, “You must have the world’s biggest sweet tooth.”

“See, this is another thing I find so amazing and wonderful about this future of yours,” he said. “Just imagine—there’s no longer any nutritional difference between a chocolate cake and a steak. Just as many vitamins and minerals in these potato chips as in a green salad. You can eat nothing but desserts and remain as healthy as a man who eats balanced meals. Incredible! How was this advance achieved?”

Laura turned in time to see Chris slinking out of the kitchen. “Whoa, you little con artist.”

Looking sheepish, he said, “Doesn’t Mr. Krieger get some funny ideas about our culture?’ ‘

“I know where he got this one,” she said. “What a sneaky thing to have done.”

Chris sighed and tried to sound mournful. “Yeah. But I figure … if we’re being hunted down by Gestapo agents, we ought to be able to eat as many Ding Dongs as we want, at least. ’cause every meal could be our last.” He looked at her sideways to see if she was buying his condemned-man routine.

In fact what the boy said contained enough truth to make his trickery understandable if not excusable, and she could not find the will to punish him.

That night after dinner, Laura changed the dressing on Stefan’s wound. The impact of the slug had left an enormous bruise on his chest with the bullet hole at its approximate center, a smaller bruise around the exit point. The suture threads and the inside of the old bandage were crusted with fluid that had seeped from him and dried. After she carefully bathed the wounds, cleaning that material away as much as possible without disturbing the scab, she gently palpated the flesh, producing a trace of clear seepage, but there was no sign of pus formation that would indicate a serious infection. Of course, he might have an abscess within the wound, draining internally, but that was not likely because he had no fever.

“Keep taking the penicillin,” she said, “and I think you’ll be fine. Doc Brenkshaw did a good job.”

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