No Other Story (14 page)

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched, don't you agree?”

“Not to me,” said Big, uncharacteristically inserting
herself into the conversation. “When a spirit speaks to you, it would be foolish not to listen.”

“I think so too,” said Catherine. “And, after all, we've got nothing to lose, right?”

As ridiculous as the idea may have seemed to Ethan's orderly, scientific brain, he had to admit that, yes, they had nothing to lose, and so he agreed to give it a shot. “I'll scan it into the computer's database and have it convert the notes to numbers,” he said. “Then we'll see what happens.”

And that's just what Ethan did. And while he performed the task, the others waited, silently and nervously. Simon began biting the fingernails of his right hand. When Catherine gave his hand a slap and told him to stop, Gravy-Face Roy started biting Simon's fingernails.

Following the longest fifteen minutes ever, Ethan finally said, “Okay, the information is loaded and ready to go. Keep your fingers crossed, everybody.”

“I thought you didn't believe in superstition,” said Professor Boxley with a wink.

“I believe in anything that might help get us out of here,” said Ethan. Then he hit the switch and … nothing. The LVR did not move so much as a tiny inch or a split second. Even Ethan, who had been so doubtful of the plan, could not hide his disappointment. “Sorry, Catherine.”

“No,” said Catherine. “It's me who should be sorry, for getting everyone's hopes up with such a stupid idea.”

“Pardon me,” said Big. “The words that your mother spoke to you. Could you repeat them please?”

“Why?” asked Catherine. “What's the point?”

“Please,” said Big.

Catherine relented and again recited the cryptic poem. “Face the music, face the facts, back to front and hurry back.”

Big thought for a moment, then said, “Back to front. Perhaps she meant that the music should be entered backward, in reverse order.”

Catherine remained despondent, though Big's interpretation of the poem seemed to pique Ethan's interest. “It's possible,” he said with a light bob of his head.

“Wouldn't hurt to give it a try, anyway,” agreed Professor Boxley.

With a few clicks on the computer keyboard, Ethan reversed the order of the numbers he had entered moments earlier. He took a deep breath, then hit the switch. In a flash, heads snapped back and eyes widened as the LVR lurched forward, careening wildly along the Time Arc. Jason and the other passengers gripped their armrests tightly as the time machine picked up speed.

“We did it!” shouted Ethan. “We're on our way!”

And so they were, with only one question remaining. Would the battery hold out until they got to where they needed to go?

The LVR rattled and bumped over the Great Sync, moving from the beginning of time to the end of time, then continuing backward toward that point somewhere in between, when Olivia was poisoned by those dastardly Plexiwave henchmen.

“Are we there yet?” whined Simon after saying nothing for nearly thirty minutes, a personal record for him.

“Don't worry,” said Ethan. “I'll let you know.”

Jason looked above, checking on the viability of those all-important welds made to the ceiling panel. For now, Mr. Lumley's repair work seemed to be holding just fine. The issue of battery power, however, was another matter altogether. When another thirty minutes had passed, the lights in the cabin dimmed, and Professor Boxley checked the readout on the instrument panel.

“Now operating on reserve power,” he said.

Ethan noted the date on the chronometer. “We've still got a ways to go. Let's hope we make it.”

“We've got to make it,” said Catherine. “Come on!”

“Getting close now,” said Ethan after several minutes of silence.

The lights in the cabin dimmed further, then blinked twice, then went out altogether. With a slow groan, the LVR ground to a halt, leaving its passengers to sit in the dark and wonder.

“Well, Dad? Did we make it?” asked Jason.

Ethan's heavy sigh told them everything they needed to know. “We came up short, I'm afraid.”

“How short?” asked Catherine, though it really didn't matter. Either way, they had arrived sometime after Olivia had been poisoned, and anytime after that was too late.

“According to the last reading I got from the chronometer, almost two years,” said Ethan.

“Two years?” said Jason. He felt like kicking or punching
something. He also felt like crying, but he wasn't about to do that in front of Big. “So then, we're right back where we started?”

“It looks that way,” said Ethan.

“So she's still dead,” said Simon.

“Yes,” said Ethan in a hoarse whisper. “She's … still dead.” He buried his face in his arms, which rested on the control panel.

“So what do we do now?” asked Simon. The question was met only with silence. Big took Simon's hand and gave it a squeeze, and he leaned his troubled head against her shoulder. For some time, they all sat in silence, giving no thought to what they should do next because nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Finally, Ethan stood up as straight as the weight he carried would allow him. “According to the chronometer it's January 13th,” he said. “Assuming we're still in the Northern Hemisphere, with no battery power we could freeze to death if we stay here. We have to find someplace warm for the night. In the morning, we'll figure out what to do about the battery.”

They each grabbed one of the animal skins that Sullivan had given them, then Ethan opened the pod door and stepped out into the dark, cold winter air, with the others right behind him. Not only did they come up short by a couple of years, it seemed that they were also off on their location. The surrounding land was rocky, dry, and cracked, and looked nothing like the Cheesemans' old neighborhood,
which was dotted with oak and elm trees, the tidy little houses surrounded by lush, green lawns.

“Where are we?” asked Jason.

“I'm not sure,” said Ethan. “Somewhere in the southwestern United States would be my guess.”

“Why is the southwest so cold?” said Simon, wrapping the animal skin around his shoulders.

“Because it's the desert,” said Catherine. “The air is thinner and loses heat more rapidly.”

“I suppose we should try to make a fire,” said Ethan.

“Or,” said Jason, “we could check out that light over there.” Sure enough, far off in the distance in the direction Jason was pointing was a white light.

“Could be a house,” said Professor Boxley.

“Or a doughnut shop,” said Simon.

“That's absurd,” said Catherine. “Who in their right mind would put a doughnut shop way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Someone who likes to eat leftover doughnuts,” said Gravy-Face Roy.

The cold and weary travelers trudged across the dry, frozen ground toward the single white light. As they got closer, it soon became apparent that Professor Boxley was right, and Simon was disappointed. It was a house. In fact, you could say it was a mansion. The beautifully manicured grounds featured several fountains and a sculpture of two figures standing nearly eight feet tall. In the dark, they resembled some kind of hideous space creatures.

“What are those things?” Simon trembled.

“I think they're snails,” said Catherine.

“I don't like this doughnut shop,” said Gravy-Face Roy.

Ethan stopped in front of a steet sign. “Bumbleberry Lane,” he muttered. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“Because you love bumbleberry pie?” Jason suggested.

“Yes, that's probably it,” said Ethan as he continued on, giving the sign one last quizzical look. But as they neared the mansion he stopped again, this time next to a mailbox at the end of the very long driveway. He realized then that it was not his love of bumbleberry pie that had made the street sign sound so familiar. It was something far more important and much more incredible.

“I don't believe it,” said Ethan when he saw the name on the mailbox. “It can't be.”

As the highly successful founder, president, and vice president of the National Center for Unsolicited Advice, I would like to take a few moments to tell you how I went from living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment to living in a huge, 8,000 square-foot mansion. How did I do it? I moved back in with my parents.

It was while living there—and being advised on a daily basis that I needed to get off the couch and find a job—that I first developed the concept of unsolicited advice as a moneymaking venture.

And now, for a limited time only, I would like to share with you the keys to success in this exciting and rewarding field. Why pursue a career in unsolicited advice, you ask? (Even if you didn't ask, here's your answer.)

For one thing, there are no start-up fees, no products to buy, and there is no special training required. I assure you the same cannot be said of unsolicited dentistry, unsolicited dog grooming, or unsolicited wart removal (now illegal in all fifty states). When it comes to proffering words of wisdom to the unsuspecting, all you need to start you on your way to mega-riches is a willingness to be annoying.

Start small, with friends and family, advising them on what clothes to wear, how they should style their hair, and with whom they should associate. Before you know it, people will be paying you large sums of money just to butt out and mind your own business.

For more on this exciting and rewarding career, write to the NCUA for your deluxe information packet, which is absolutely free, plus $9.99 shipping and handling. If you prefer that your packet be shipped without being handled, please specify.

In the meantime, be advised that with this amazing opportunity comes great responsibility, because, though giving just the right advice can be quite beneficial to the recipient, giving the wrong advice can prove absolutely disastrous.

It had been a particularly long week of doling out unsolicited advice to people the world over. It all started with a trip to Tangiers, where I advised the locals on some handy alternative uses for that cylindrical hat known as the fez. They make nice planters, for instance.

From there I was off to Tibet to meet with the Dalai Lama and advise him that he might do well to change his name to Dolly Llama and become a female country and western singer.

Next came a stopover in Washington DC, where I sat down with the president of the United States and offered suggestions on how to pay off the national debt, which, at that time, had just surpassed fourteen trillion dollars. To give you an idea of how much money that is, if you were to take fourteen trillion one-dollar bills and lay them end to end, you would be beaten and robbed in about six minutes.

Regardless, I advised the president that the debt could be reduced by selling advertising space on those very
dollars. Seriously, who even knows what
Annuit Oceptis
means? Why not replace it—along with that goofy-looking one-eyed pyramid—with the words
I can't believe it's not butter,
or
I wish I were an Oscar Mayer weiner
, along with a coupon for thirty cents off on your next purchase?

I offered this advice free of charge, from one president to another, and I believe it was well received. After being escorted out by White House security, I hopped a cab to the airport and flew the NCUA corporate jet back to headquarters.

Now, of course, the NCUA does employ a full-time pilot, the highly capable decorated war hero Captain Chuck “Cupcake” Baker, but I always prefer to be at the controls myself whenever possible. Flying, I find, can be quite relaxing after a long day of telling other people what to do.

On these occasions, Captain Cupcake is likely to accuse me of being a control freak, pointing out my choice of careers as further evidence of this assertion. When he does make such comments, I am inclined to heartily disagree, then make him sit in back, where he cannot be heard.

Upon my return to the NCUA headquarters, I strode into my palatial office (I so enjoy a good stride) to find my longtime personal assistant, Flolene, who greeted me with a warm smile and a hot cup of tea.

“Welcome back, Dr. Soup,” she said in that slow, sleepy Southern drawl. “I trust your trip went well.”

“Quite,” I said, taking a sip of the tea, brewed to perfection as can only be done by a true Southerner. “A rousing
success, though I must say the mosquitoes in Morocco are the size of Canadian geese.” The mere mention of this reminded me of an especially nasty bite on my right elbow, and I had to grit my teeth to fight off the urge to scratch it. “Any mail of interest?”

Flolene knew better than to try to determine whether the mail would be of interest to me or not, and simply handed me the stack that had accumulated during my week abroad. Nothing terribly exciting. Plenty of bills, a few checks, a smattering of Christmas cards, and a coupon for one dollar off on a pizza that had cheese inserted into the crust, which was also made entirely of cheese. And, as always, there was no shortage of letters asking for advice on a large range of topics. Of course, when one actually
asks
for advice, that puts it firmly in the realm of the solicited variety, and so I promptly instructed Flolene to have those letters forwarded on to the NCSA, located somewhere in Iowa, I believe.