He looked at me, looked at the button, but still he didn’t do anything. I snickered and said, “A hoax, just as the boys said it was. Twitch, you’re a pompous old faker, a stuffed shirt. Colonel Thrushbotham was right.”
That did it.
CHAPTER 10
Even as he stabbed at the button I tried to shout at him not to do it. But it was too late; I was already falling. My last thought was an agonized one that I didn’t want to go through with it. I had chucked away everything and tormented almost to death a poor old man who hadn’t done me any harm-and I didn’t even know which way I was going. Worse, I didn’t know that I could get there.
Then I hit. I don’t think I fell more than four feet but I had not been ready for it. I fell like a stick, collapsed like a sack.
Then somebody was saying, “Where the devil did you come from?”
It was a man, about forty, bald-headed but well built and lean. He was standing facing me with his fists on his hipbones. He looked competent and shrewd and his face was not unpleasant save that at the moment he seemed sore at me.
I sat up and found that I was sitting on granite gravel and pine needles. There was a woman standing by the man, a pleasant pretty woman somewhat younger than he. She was looking at me wide-eyed but not speaking.
“Where am I?” I said foolishly. I could have said, “When am I?” but that would have sounded still more foolish, and besides, I didn’t think of it. One look at them and I knew when I was not-I was sure it was not 1970. Nor was I still in 2001; in 2001 they kept that sort of thing for the beaches. So I must have gone the wrong way.
Because neither one of them wore anything but smooth coats of tan. Not even Sticktite. But they seemed to find it enough. Certainly they were not embarrassed by it.
“One thing at a time,” he objected. “I asked you how you got here?” He glanced up. “Your parachute didn’t stick in the trees, did it? In any case, what are you doing here? This is posted private property; you’re trespassing. And what are you doing in that Mardi Gras getup?”
I didn’t see anything wrong with my clothes-especially in view of the way they were dressed. But I didn’t answer. Other times, other customs-I could see that I was going to have trouble.
She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t, John,” she said gently. “I think he’s hurt.”
He looked at her, glanced back sharply at me. “Are you hurt?”
I tried to stand up, managed it. “I don’t think so. A few bruises, maybe. Uh, what date is today?”
“Huh? Why, it’s the first Sunday in May. The third of May, I think. Is that right, Jenny?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Look,” I said urgently, “I got an awful knock on the head. I’m confused. What’s the date? The whole date?”
“What?”
I should have kept my mouth shut until I could pick it up off something, a calendar or a paper. But I had to know right then; I couldn’t stand to wait. “What year?”
“Brother, you did get a lump. It’s 1970.” I saw him staring at my clothes again.
My relief was almost more than I could stand. I’d made it, I’d made it! I wasn’t too late. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks an awful lot. You don’t know.” He still looked as if he wanted to call out the reserves, so I added nervously, “I’m subject to sudden attacks of amnesia. Once I lost, uh-five whole years.”
“I should think that would be upsetting,” he said slowly. “Do you feel well enough to answer my questions?”
“Don’t badger him, dear,” she said softly. “He looks like a nice person. I think he’s just made a mistake.”
“We’ll see. Well?”
“I feel all right . . . now. But I was pretty confused for a minute there.”
“Okay. How did you get here? And why are you dressed that way?”