“Well,” The Professor chuckled, “you’re waiting for me, Samantha. I tried my hardest to insert you an hour before I was at that newsstand, but I could have been as much as three days off.”
“Three Days!!?” she exclaimed. “I’m supposed to sit on these steps for three days!?”
“You do have plenty of sandwiches,” the now giggling Professor reminded her. Samantha got the feeling he was enjoying this.
“It’s cold out here, Professor! You’re crazy if you think I can stay here, awake, for three days! What about Polly?” Polly stuck her head out of Samantha’s bag upon hearing her name.
“All right! All right! Relax, Samantha. In all probability, it won’t be nearly that long. Just sit tight, and if you see me coming, by all means watch everything I do and stay out of sight.”
“Right,” she sighed, signing off. Evidently, being a secret agent time-traveler had its boring moments as well as its romantic, action-packed ones. She patted Polly on the head and pulled out a tuna fish sandwich. Luckily, they were sealed tightly in zip-lock baggies and had therefore evaded the probing nose of her little Boston terrier. She unwrapped one, broke off a piece for Polly and then started munching on the rest, keeping a watchful eye on the newsstand from her mostly-concealed perch.
*
Several hours had passed, and it was now mid-afternoon. Samantha had watched several people buy newspapers and coffee, and was beginning to wonder if she was even staking out the right newsstand. The Professor had assured her that this was the right place, though he had conceded that his memory told him it had been about three o’clock in the afternoon when he had stopped there. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself up more as that hour was probably approaching, though it was cold and she felt sleepy. Polly had had to pee at the bottom of the stairs, and the resulting smell had been less than pleasant for the last hour or so. Just as she was about to doze off, her eye caught a glimpse of something odd.
Samantha shook her head and stared at the newsstand. There was a man standing next to it now, a young man, and quite handsome at that. She squinted at him as he stood there, just sort of hanging around as if he, too, were waiting for something to happen. As she studied him further he began to seem eerily familiar, the way he stood, the way he moved his body–Samantha almost yelled when it dawned on her. She was looking at Jordan Anderson.
She was sure of it now. Though he had a more conservative haircut and was dressed in clothing that fit the time period, it was clearly him. Samantha’s mind raced. What in the world was Jordan Anderson doing here, or rather, now? It seemed that The Professor had been absolutely right about him–there was definitely something suspicious going on.
Snapping out of her momentary daze, she inched back down the stairs and tapped the talk button on her communicator.
“Professor,” she whispered loudly.
“Yes, Samantha?”
“Remember that boy I introduced you to in the park?”
“Yes... the–the roguish fellow, ah–Julian. Er–Justin... ”
“Jordan,” she corrected him. “Jordan Anderson. From Heatwavvve, the boy band.”
“Right, right, Jordan. Why do you ask?”
“He’s standing right by the newsstand.”
“That’s impossible!” the wrist communicator crackled.
“I swear it’s him. He’s dressed all like–like someone from this time, his haircut’s all funny but–I know it’s him, Professor. What is he doing here!?”
The communicator was silent for a moment.
“I don’t know, Samantha. At this point, you’ve seen this chap in every timeline you’ve been in. I knew there was something fishy about him. Is he still there?”
Samantha peeked her head up above sidewalk level and then quickly popped back down.
“Yeah, he’s still there. It’s like he’s... waiting for something, or someone... ”
“Oh, dear,” The Professor replied. “We can only conclude from this that we are not the only people capable of time travel. I fear, Samantha, that your man Jordan is there waiting for me, just as you are, and that in the grand scheme of things, there are forces working against us. Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”
Samantha poked her head up again and stared intently at the loitering man. She tried to visualize every Heatwavvve poster in her now distant bedroom, remembering every line of the face she had been crushed-out on for years. There was no mistaking it. Somehow, this cute pop singer boy was far more than met the eye.
“I’m positive, Professor,” she said as she slid back down the stairs. “What do I do?”
“Stay put,” The Professor responded. Samantha could tell that his famous brain was calculating every possibility in this bizarre situation. “Keep waiting for me to show up. If Jordan begins to follow me, follow us both from a safe distance–but close enough to see if anything happens. I fear we may have to keep this mission strictly one of observation, and plan another one once we know where–and when–something critical occurs.”
“Roger that,” Samantha whispered. Her mind was spinning and she no longer felt the least bit sleepy. Polly was sniffing at her feet, her canine senses acutely aware of some change in her human’s state of being; a scent of fear or excitement must have begun to seep from her glands. She patted her little dog and waited, watching Jordan pace back and forth in front of the newsstand.
She didn’t have to wait long. A minute or two later, Professor Smythe came ambling up Columbus Avenue and walked up to the newsstand. Samantha quickly stuffed Polly back into her pack and tried to keep an eye on the scene. Jordan had definitely noticed him as well, and was trying to look nonchalant, glancing at his watch, perhaps waiting for someone else or else trying to make it appear as if he were waiting for someone else. The Professor said hello to the newsstand clerk, bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee, then tipped his hat and began walking on north up Columbus Ave. Jordan began walking almost right behind him, and Samantha felt adrenalin rush through her body. It was time to move.
She sprang up and grabbed her dog-, chalk- and tuna fish sandwich-filled pack, trying to stay more towards the buildings and pulling her coat closer around her so as not to stand out. She stayed about twenty feet behind Jordan, who was only walking five or so feet behind the apparently oblivious Professor. Luckily old Smythe was setting a fairly leisurely pace, and Samantha could see him gazing around in wonder at the “historical” surroundings. They crossed Seventy-fourth Street and continued uptown, back along the route she had come hours earlier. As they strolled up the block, Samantha kept a sharp eye on everything around her, noting every person that walked by in the opposite direction or came near The Professor. They crossed Seventy-fifth Street and were halfway up the block when something caught her attention. Coming the opposite way was a man in a blueish-gray uniform, possibly Air Force but more likely a U.S. postal worker. That set off a trigger in Samantha’s memory and she tapped her talk button as discreetly as she could.
“Professor, there’s a postman coming towards... you.” It was a strange thing to say knowing that she was talking to The Professor Smythe of another time and place.
“Watch him, Samantha,” he replied in an urgent tone.
She watched. She even sped up her pace a little so she could see more closely. Then, almost instantaneously, a number of things happened.
Professor Smythe stepped to the right, presumably to get out of the path of the oncoming postal worker. At the same time, Jordan sped up, passing The Professor on his right, and threw his left arm into The Professor’s right hand, in which he was carrying his cup of coffee. As there was not, Samantha reminded herself, any such thing as plastic in 1931, the cup had no convenient lid, and the coffee flew all over the postman’s overstuffed bag, where it soaked several letters that were sticking out, unbeknownst to the postal worker, who seemed to be in a hurry anyway and continued walking at a very quick pace. The Professor made a startled sound and looked around to find out what had happened (h
e had been staring at a horse-drawn carriage across and up Columbus Avenue), but by this time Jordan was five paces away and had blended successfully into a crowd of identically-clad gentlemen who were turning up Seventy-sixth Street. The Professor eyed them as if trying to figure out who was responsible for the mishap, let out an indignant “Hmmmphh!” and continued walking slowly, sipping the drop or two of coffee that remained in his cup.
Samantha stood at the intersection, trying to decide what to do. She tapped her talk button and spoke quickly into the communicator.
“Professor, Jordan just whacked your cup of coffee all over the postman’s letter bag and disappeared into a crowd before you could notice him. He’s going... east on Seventy-sixth, the postman is going south on Columbus and you’re going north back toward the museum. What should I do!!?” Her heart was racing.
“Listen to me, Samantha. I think we know what we need to know. You need to run back to the museum as quick as you can without causing a stir. Walk quickly past me, not up Seventy-Sixth. As soon as you get to Seventy-Seventh, run when you turn the corner. You need to get back before me, put your feet in those tracings and I’ll do the rest. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” she responded, taking a deep breath and speed-walking around the still-ambling Professor. She pulled her coat close around her as she hurried past him, praying he wouldn’t recognize her. When she reached Seventy-Seventh Street she tore off in a sprint, dodging a street sweeper, an old woman with a cane and a child playing Jacks on the sidewalk. She turned up Central Park West and “turned on the turbo” to cover the remaining distance to and up the building’s main steps. She slowed down here briefly, cutting through a medium-length line and through the main lobby, heading for the stairway she had come up earlier. People began yelling as she elbowed by them, and she noticed a security guard had eyed her and started moving quickly toward her.
“Hey you–stop!” he yelled, starting to jog after her now. She broke into a run again, bursting through the door to the stairs and down, at least one guard hot on her heels. At the bottom of the stairs she turned and made a beeline for the time machine room. By this time, Polly had become quite agitated and was poking her head out of the backpack. Samantha plunged through the familiar door and into the dark room filled with motionless mastodons and still saber-tooths. She felt her way through the forest of artificial animals, trying to get a sense of where its center was and cursing her eyes for not adjusting faster to the darkness.
“In here!” She heard the guard’s voice yell somewhere toward the doorway. She could also hear the sounds of more running footsteps coming into the room.
“Where’s he at?” asked a new voice.
“He went in here,” replied the first one.
“There ain’t no other way outta here,” a third interjected. “I’ll watch the door, you two spread out.”
Suddenly a flashlight beam cut through the dark.
“Where’s the light switch in here?” the first guard grumbled.
“It’s here,” said the voice of the second. “It’s burned out.”
“Damn! All right, fella,” said the first voice. “We know you’re down here.”
Samantha searched desperately for the chalk outlines, crawling on her hands and knees so as to avoid the beams of the flashlights and more easily navigate the herd of stationary beasts. Polly began to growl.
“Sssshhhh! Polly!” she whispered, her heart pounding like a hammer inside her chest.
“There!” the first guard’s voice shouted. “By the tiger!” His light-beam had fallen right on her. The men began shoving their way through the animals toward her and she scrambled to escape the light. Then she saw it.
Ahead of her and a little off to her left, she could see a faint blue glow on the floor. She scrambled towards it, having to use one arm now to hold her panicked terrier’s collar to keep her from jumping all the way out of the backpack. She scurried closer and the glow became stronger; it was her set of footprints, sure enough.
“Samantha?” her wrist crackled. She hit the talk button with her teeth just as she was standing up in the footprints, holding Polly firm and staring at a security guard that was no more than six feet away and closing fast.
“NOW, PROFESSOR! NOW!!!”
Mayan symbols exploded in her head once again, the world turning blue and flickering in and out. The security guard had stopped dead and was staring at her in disbelief, but he too began to flicker along with the darkness and prehistoric beasts, and images of the great stone time machine with The Professor at its controls began to replace those of the room in 1931. In a moment, it was all gone and Samantha found herself in the more familiar room, staring down at her feet on the thick slab of granite that made up the time machine’s platform. She thought she saw a light puff of smoke as she stumbled off of it, letting go of Polly and collapsing onto the floor.
*
She awoke moments later to her dog’s licking tongue and The Professor’s worried voice.
“Samantha!? Samantha, are you all right?”
“I–uuuhhh–yeah, I think so.” She sat up, looking around. “I must’ve... fainted,” she thought out loud.
“Come on now, girl, just relax. Take some deep breaths.”
Samantha did as she was told; she couldn’t, she felt, have done much else, actually. The running and the adrenalin surge had left her soaked in sweat, and she took off the heavy wool coat and shook her head. She felt very tired.
“Professor,” she said weakly, “I think I need to sleep for a little bit.”
“That’s fine, Samantha. Not a problem.” He was listening to her heartbeat with a stethoscope. “Come on over here and lay down.” He took her, standing her up slowly, over to the pile of Peruvian rugs she had come to know as her bed, and helped her lay down, stroking her forehead.
“Just for a little,” she mumbled, and then she was out.
*
When she awoke again, The Professor was sitting over her, a steaming cup of tea in his hands.
“Posthumous Postmen!” he blubbered. “Had me scared there, Agent Smart! How are you feeling?” He handed her the cup of tea.
“How long was I asleep?” she asked groggily, taking the hot beverage and sipping it.
“Hours,” The Professor replied. “But I’ve got some good news for you. After I determined you were all right, I took Polly for a walk to get some tea–I, I locked you in–I hope you don’t mind–just for about an hour. I rented us a bit of a hotel room down the road–had to pay extra for the bloody dog,” he eyed Polly disapprovingly. “We can all stay there tonight, though. It’s got proper beds and a wonderful shower in the loo. Come on, if you’re up to it we can walk there. It’s only about half-eight–er–eight-thirty to you yanks. Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” Samantha gurgled through her tea. “And I would die for a shower.”
The Professor helped her up and she put down the empty tea cup, which she had quickly drained.
“Right, then, we’ll get you fed and showered up. Then we can talk about what needs to happen next.” Samantha nodded, yawning.
They walked upstairs and out of the museum, pausing momentarily to look up at the main lobby’s barosauraus, a gigantic assembly of dinosaur bones that Samantha always seemed to take for granted, having walked by it so many times. For some reason she stared at it now; it seemed somehow more alive now that she had traveled through time.
“Professor,” she asked, “could we travel as far back as this dinosaur lived?”
“Absolutely,” he replied as they exited. “Though I’d say we’d better have a bloody good reason to. I wouldn’t imagine that it would be a terribly hospitable time to fragile little creatures like you and I.” This was indeed more food for thought, and Samantha’s tired mind daydreamed of great trees and beasts as they walked out into the warm night air of the altered timeline’s balmy October.
They walked up to Eighty-first Street and then towards Columbus. The Professor explained that the
hotel was up on Eighty-fourth, but that there was a falafel place on Eighty-second and Columbus he had found that was “absolutely delicious.” They traveled by over-pass as they walked, traversing the flooded Manhattan streets like nothing was amiss. They both had grown somewhat accustomed to the strange reality after having been stuck in it for nearly a week.
The falafel place was more of a to-go window than an actual restaurant, but Samantha happily inhaled one of their creations and smiled at the amused-looking Professor with tahini dribbling down her chin.
“If anyone asks at the hotel, you are my daughter, Samantha Smythe.”
“Samantha Smythe,” she cooed, affecting a British accent. “Yes! And I’m–I’m studying ballet with a prominent, world class instructor!”
“Yes, well, no need to play it up too much, now,” The Professor chuckled. Samantha wiped off her chin with a napkin and smiled again, and they began walking toward the hotel.
Polly was out of the backpack now, on her leash, as the two arrived at The Wildman Arms. The Professor had paid for her, after all; having found a hotel that took dogs at all was a small miracle in uptown Manhattan, but it seemed as if many of the city’s hoity-toity rules had been relaxed since the whole place had flooded. The man at the desk checked them in with an air of pure boredom about him, though oddly enough he seemed engrossed in a book called The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. Samantha exchanged a strange look with her ‘father,’ as he had obviously noticed the coincidence as well. Smythe smiled slightly and shrugged.
Their room was on the fifth floor (which was now actually more like the fourth floor, though the elevator signs had not been modified to reflect this), and Samantha ran through the door and jumped on one of the big double beds, Polly right behind her.
“A bed, Polly!” she shrieked in excitement. “We get to sleep in a bed tonight!”
Samantha Smart Page 8
