“All right!” he shouted. “Let’s do it!”
Picking up the beat again, he led the group in a snappy windup to “Earth Angel.” The crowd applauded.
“Say, you’re good, man,” Marvin Berry said. “Do another one.”
Marty looked at his watch. Through the far doorway at the end of the gymnasium, he could see a flash of lightning. “No, I’ve gotta go,” he said.
But Bob Jordan had grabbed him gently but firmly by the arm. “Come on, let’s do something that cooks,” he smiled.
Marty decided there was time.
“Well, all right,” he said. “You guys will just have to follow me on this one…” Stepping to the microphone, he said: “We’re gonna do one more. Where I come from, they call this rock ‘n’ roll!”
He hit a guitar riff, took a beat and then looked at Jordan. “Gimme a blues beat, like this,” he said, picking out the rhythm. Jordan, smiling, grabbed it immediately and sent the pulse moving.
“Good!” Marty said. Turning to the bass player, he hummed a two-bar line. “Do this and then pick it up when I change,” he said.
The bass player nodded, getting it.
“Piano, take the bass line and play it up three octaves,” Marty continued. “And sax—improvise on the three chord progression.”
It was ragged at first, but a moment later, the team started functioning—and the music sounded like vintage rock ‘n’ roll. On the dance floor, heads turned and the kids started dancing faster. A few minutes later, pandemonium started to spread—they had never heard music like this before. Getting caught up himself, Marty whipped off his sport jacket and threw it into the crowd. His movements became more and more like that of Mick Jagger…then Michael Jackson…then he drifted into pure Heavy Metal, putting his guitar next to the amp so as to generate feedback. Laughing and shouting encouragement, the band members improvised wildly, following every progression Marty made with amazement and then professional dexterity. Within the walls of the gymnasium, only one face remained cold and unaffected by the new sound—that of Gerald Strickland.
“Just when you think they can’t get any worse,” he muttered to himself, “they turn around and find a way to get worse.”
George, dancing breathlessly with Lorraine, felt a new spirit moving through him. He’d finally done something right and the evening seemed magical! Lorraine, the music, the congratulations of those around him, everything meshed into a pattern that said
Happily ever after.
He wanted the night to continue forever.
That, of course, was impossible. All too soon, Marty wrapped up the song with a final riff and stepped back, smiling, to acknowledge the thunderous applause.
Everyone started to talk at once—about the music and George McFly’s exploits. As he and Lorraine walked toward the bandstand, George felt a dozen hands reach out to touch him.
“Hey, George!” one voice said. “I hear you laid out Biff! Nice going!”
“George, did you ever think about running for class president?” an attractive girl asked.
“We sure could use you on the team, George,” another boy said.
Not knowing what team he represented, George could only hedge pleasantly. “Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he smiled.
Lorraine, basking in his notoriety and newfound respect, grasped his arm tightly and smiled up at him.
A smiling, perspiring Marty came up to them, stuck out his hand for George to shake.
“Congratulations,” he said. “And just in case you’re worried about it, Biff was dead serious.”
“Good,” George said. The one tiny fear in his paranoia that somehow Biff Tannen had faked being knocked out was now laid to rest and George was completely happy. “Congratulations yourself,” he said. “You’re terrific.”
“Thanks.”
They stood smiling and chatting about small things until Lorraine finally put her hand on Marty’s arm.
“Marty,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but George asked if he could take me home.”
“That’s fine, Lorraine,” Marty nodded. “In fact, that’s great. I’d like nothing better. You know, I had a feeling about you two.”
“I know,” she said. “I sort of have a feeling, too. I think George could really make me happy.”
“Yeah. Listen, I’ve gotta be leaving town.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. When? At the end of the semester?”
“No. Tonight. And I just wanted to say that it’s been…educational.”
“Will we ever see you again?” Lorraine asked.
“Oh, yeah. I guarantee it.”
George stepped forward to shake his hand again.
“Good night and good-bye then,” he said. “Thanks for your help…and all your good advice. I hope I can do the same for you someday.”
Marty laughed. “You’ll probably give me more advice than I can possibly handle.”
He turned to go, then paused. “Uh, listen,” he said, “if you guys ever have kids, and one of them when he’s eight years old accidentally sets fire to the living room rug…please go easy on him.”
“Er…sure,” George replied, thinking it one of the strangest requests he had ever heard.
A moment later, he was gone. George and Lorraine stood looking at each other, their hands tightly clasped.
“Marty,” she breathed. “It’s such a nice name. When I have kids, I’m going to name one of them Marty.”
“Aren’t you rushing things a little?” George laughed.
“Well, maybe a little. I was thinking I’d like to go to college next year.”
“Me, too,” George said. “In fact, I’m gonna go no matter what my father says.”
| | ● Chapter | |
| | Thirteen ● | |
| | | |
At 9:45, Doc Brown began to grow apprehensive. Five minutes later, he was definitely in a nervous state. By 9:55, he was pacing wildly back and forth.
“Damn!” he muttered. “Where is that kid?”
His trenchcoat was whipping loudly in the wind, like the spinnaker of a sailboat caught in a storm. The distant thunder now rumbled sullenly all about him, punctuated by sharp flashes of lightning illuminating the outline of his tower-to-lamp-post cable network. Town Square was deserted except for a small pack of dogs and he was ready to go. But no Marty.
Doc reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round watch, circa 1890. It read: 9:56. The same time was also showing on watches worn on either wrist. There was no doubt in his mind that only eight minutes remained before the appearance of the lightning bolt that could send Marty back to 1985.
“Damn!” he repeated, this time in a loud and clear voice. Moving away from the curb into the center of the street, he grunted as he saw a car moving toward him with precipitous speed.
“Good,” he grunted finally, satisfied that the vehicle was his Packard. “But why drive like that, dummy? Why crack up in the wrong car?”
A moment later, Marty was available for the answer. Dressed in his 1985 clothes, he pulled Doc’s car to the curb, leaped out, took a deep breath and smiled a bit sheepishly.
“You’re late!” Doc Brown scolded. “Do you have no concept of time?”
“Sorry, Doc.”
“And why were you driving my car like a maniac?”
“It was a test. I wanted to see how fast I could go on that stretch. And I’m glad I did. There’s a rise in the road down near Cherry Street that’s almost like a speed bump. If I’d hit that at a higher speed, it could have sent me into a store window. But if I use the left side of the road it’ll be O.K.”
“Hmmph,” Doc Brown replied. “That’s all very well, but what if you’d been spotted by some cop?”
“What if I’m spotted by a cop when I’m in the time machine?” Marty countered.
“If that happens, you keep going, dummy. You’ll either end up in 1985 or in the lobby of that movie theater.”
“Yeah,” Marty gulped. “I see your point.”
Grumbling to himself, Doc Brown began to pull the tarpaulin from the DeLorean and raise the trolley hook on back to its full height.
“Rush, rush, rush,” he muttered. “You couldn’t have cut it much closer.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Marty replied, feeling guilty now because he spent so much time jamming with the Starlighters. “I had to change my clothes and getting Mom and Dad together took longer than I thought.”
Most of the anger was starting to leave Doc Brown now that he’d had the opportunity to whine and complain a little. Brightening, he said: “Well, I can understand that, knowing George McFly. So the plan worked?”
“To a T,” Marty smiled. “They’re all lovey-dovey and will stay that way to the bitter end. And here’s proof that it’s true.”
Pulling out his wallet, he showed Doc Brown the family picture with all members restored.
“Good,” Doc said.
“I think Dad may even go to college,” Marty added. “He’s got extra confidence now.”
Doc Brown frowned as he made the last of his preflight checks on the DeLorean. “Then that’s something else you’ll be able to worry about between now and the time you get back to 1985,” he said.
“What?”
“Well, if he does go to college, thanks to you, it’ll change his life.”
“For the better, I hope,” Marty countered.
“Maybe, but suppose while he’s there, he meets some coed who’s more attractive to him than your mother? That could cause you to do a quick fade out. Or suppose because of college expenses, your mom and dad decide to hold off having kids for a couple years? If that happens, you may find that you’re twelve or fourteen years old in 1985 instead of seventeen? How do you like them apples?”
Marty shook his head with awe. What his friend and mentor said definitely made sense. All he could do was hope the future existence of his parents was approximately the same as the first time around.
“Good thinking, Doc,” he said. “But I guess it’s too late to worry about that. I’m just glad Dad finally came through. He really laid out Biff Tannen with one punch…just plain cold-cocked him…I never knew he had it in him. Hell, my old man’s never stood up to Biff in his life. And to think I actually saw it when it happened.”
“Fine,” Doc Brown nodded. “Now get in there and set your destination time. We’re rushed as hell.”
Marty leaped into the DeLorean and watched as Doc punched the keypads so that both
LAST TIME DEPARTED
and
DESTINATION TIME
read 10-26-1985, 1:31
A.M
.
“There,” he said. “If it works, it’ll be the same as if you never left.”
“Thanks, Doc…” Marty began. “I’d really like to thank you—”
Brown held up his hand. “No time,” he said. “Listen. I’ve painted a white line way down the street there. That’s where you start from. I did some calculations so that your run will be as short and efficient as possible. If you floor it from that point and never lift your foot, you’ll hit exactly eighty-eight miles an hour when you have to.”
“Great.”
“Now I’ve calculated the precise distance, taking into account the acceleration speed and wind resistance retroactive from the moment the lightning will strike…” He handed Marty a wind-up alarm clock which seemed quaintly old-fashioned compared to the digital readouts and flashing dials of the DeLorean’s dash. “When the alarm goes off, hit the gas from the white line. That’s all you have to do, except guide this baby to the right spot.”
Marty nodded.
“Well, I guess that’s everything,” Doc Brown said. “Good luck.”
Marty extended his hand. “Doc, I’d like to thank you for everything. Even if something goes wrong—”
“Don’t even think about that,” Doc interrupted. “It’ll go fine. And I’d like to thank you for everything. It’s been a pleasure.”
The two men shook hands.
“I’ll see you in about thirty years,” Doc said.
“I hope so.”
Once again Marty thought of Doc Brown’s date with the terrorists and hoped that the letter he had planted would help bring about a happier ending to his friend’s life.
“Don’t worry,” Doc Brown continued, mistaking Marty’s expression for concern about the upcoming race forward into time. “As long as you hit that wire with this hook, everything’ll be fine.”
“Right,” Marty nodded.
Making sure that everything had been taken care of, Doc Brown patted himself down, checking bits of paper and pads for something he might have forgotten. While doing so, he did the one thing Marty didn’t want him to—he discovered the unfamiliar envelope in his inside coat pocket. Withdrawing it, he looked at it curiously.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Just a note, from me to you,” Marty stammered.
“It’s about something in the future, isn’t it?” Doc Brown said.
“No. It’s just a thank-you note,” Marty lied. “It’s kind of gushy.”
Doc shook his head skeptically. “People don’t write thank-you notes to be opened thirty years later,” he said. “I warned you about fooling with the future, kid. The consequences could be dangerous. Now I know this is something about the future, and I’ve told you a million times we shouldn’t mess with that.”
“I’ve gotta take that risk, Doc,” Marty replied firmly. “Your life depends on it.”
“Well, I’m not going to accept the responsibility,” Brown muttered.
With that, he tore up the letter and tossed the pieces into the ashtray of his Packard.
Marty was furious. Why wouldn’t the guy take a warning for his own good? “All right, Doc,” he shot back. “In that case I’m just gonna have to tell you straight out—”
Before he could get the words out, a tremendous gust of wind shook the car and nearly blew Doc Brown away from his spot next to the open door. At the same time, a loud cracking sound was heard, followed by a succession of lesser crashing noises.
“Good Lord!” Doc Brown yelled.
Marty leaped from the car and both men rushed toward the lamp posts. A huge tree limb from one of the giant oaks in the square was now resting atop the cable between the clock tower and the first lamp post. A paddle plug attached to the lightning rod had come loose and the cable from the clock tower was now swinging free.
“Great Scott!” Doc Brown shouted as they ran. “Kid—find the end of that cable. I’ll throw the rope down to you!” With that, Brown grabbed a large coil of rope and dashed into the courthouse.
Marty gulped once and then set to work. In the semidarkness, it wasn’t easy to locate the end of the cable amidst the tangle of limbs and leaves, but he leaped into the pileup of debris and started searching. As he did so, he could feel the wind pick up even more. Long rolls of thunder warned him that time was running out; the storm was increasing in ferocity; only a few minutes separated them from 1985 and the blast of lightning that would carry him there.