mind.
"Edmund Fisher, a representative from West Coast Paper, visited the Post this afternoon to peddle newsprint. When I told him that my father and uncle had once passed through Truckee, he waxed poetic about his hometown and the Sierra Nevada. Mother, of course, has long had a fascination with Truckee. She insists to this day that Father and Uncle Percival discovered a time-travel formula in a cave ten miles south of that town. I did not tell her about my encounter with Mr. Fisher. I did not want to encourage her."
Cameron added the diary page to a stack of papers on the seat to his right and then pulled out a small atlas of California he had purchased in Los Angeles. He opened the thin paperback book to page 24, slid his finger across a topographical map of Placer County, and let it settle on a spot his contemporaries knew as Squaw Valley, site of the 1960 Winter Olympics.
Cameron knew that somewhere in that land of tall trees, blue lakes, and challenging ski slopes lay a cave that time had forgotten – or at least cartographers had never found. Though it was not named or marked or even acknowledged in official sources, it existed. It existed just as surely as the magic tunnel below the Painted Lady and the once dead world that was now alive.
The time traveler gazed again out his window, as fields and farmhouses passed in a blur, and pondered his many obligations to Professor Geoffrey Bell. He definitely owed him the cave and the crystals and would do his best to deliver them. Whether he owed him anything else was the subject of a debate that raged in his mind.
For four days, Cameron tried to answer a question that seemed tied to his dilemma. Was time a single stream? Or was it many streams that flowed simultaneously and sometimes converged?
The question was not moot. If time was the former, then Cameron had a moral obligation to leave well enough alone. He had no choice but to pick Candice Bell's brain, let her die, and fulfill his business obligation to her distant relative. If time was the latter, however, he had options. He had the freedom to act independently and write a new script. One could not mess up history, after all, if that version of history had never played out.
Cameron gathered his maps, papers, and photos and returned all but one to the satchel that had been his constant companion since Los Angeles. He placed the satchel on the floor of the passenger coach, between his legs, and put a lone photograph in his lap. He never tired of studying its particulars. He knew every pleasant detail and uncommon imperfection.
Cameron started to look at the photo when he heard a giggle. He looked at the seats across the aisle and saw three college-age women return his gaze. One smiled and waved. Another smiled and giggled. The third just smiled.
All three women had boarded the train in Cedar Rapids. Attired in sequined dresses, pearls, and cloche hats, they looked like country girls headed to a flapper convention.
"Hi," Wavy said.
"Hello," Cameron replied.
"Hi," Giggles and Smiley said in rapid succession.
Cameron chuckled.
"Hi."
"Are you going to Chicago or passing through?" Wavy asked.
"I'm passing through. I'm headed to Evansville, Indiana."
"Oh. That's too bad. We're headed to Chicago."
"Who are 'we'?"
"I'm sorry. I'm Alice," Wavy said. "My friends are Flo and Winnie."
"Hi, Alice, Flo, and Winnie. I'm Cameron. What do you plan to do in Chicago?"
Alice grinned.
"We plan to do the things we can't do in Cedar Rapids."
Flo and Winnie giggled.
"How old are you ladies?" Cameron asked.
"Twenty-one," Alice said. "Is that too young?"
Cameron smiled.
"Oh, no. It's perfect."
The cats purred.
Cameron took a moment to assess his fan club. Alice, the prettiest, had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples that could distract a trucker at a hundred yards. Flo, the giggly redhead, was the best dressed. Winnie, the shy brunette, had a smile that belonged in an art gallery.
"Do your parents know
"Edmund Fisher, a representative from West Coast Paper, visited the Post this afternoon to peddle newsprint. When I told him that my father and uncle had once passed through Truckee, he waxed poetic about his hometown and the Sierra Nevada. Mother, of course, has long had a fascination with Truckee. She insists to this day that Father and Uncle Percival discovered a time-travel formula in a cave ten miles south of that town. I did not tell her about my encounter with Mr. Fisher. I did not want to encourage her."
Cameron added the diary page to a stack of papers on the seat to his right and then pulled out a small atlas of California he had purchased in Los Angeles. He opened the thin paperback book to page 24, slid his finger across a topographical map of Placer County, and let it settle on a spot his contemporaries knew as Squaw Valley, site of the 1960 Winter Olympics.
Cameron knew that somewhere in that land of tall trees, blue lakes, and challenging ski slopes lay a cave that time had forgotten – or at least cartographers had never found. Though it was not named or marked or even acknowledged in official sources, it existed. It existed just as surely as the magic tunnel below the Painted Lady and the once dead world that was now alive.
The time traveler gazed again out his window, as fields and farmhouses passed in a blur, and pondered his many obligations to Professor Geoffrey Bell. He definitely owed him the cave and the crystals and would do his best to deliver them. Whether he owed him anything else was the subject of a debate that raged in his mind.
For four days, Cameron tried to answer a question that seemed tied to his dilemma. Was time a single stream? Or was it many streams that flowed simultaneously and sometimes converged?
The question was not moot. If time was the former, then Cameron had a moral obligation to leave well enough alone. He had no choice but to pick Candice Bell's brain, let her die, and fulfill his business obligation to her distant relative. If time was the latter, however, he had options. He had the freedom to act independently and write a new script. One could not mess up history, after all, if that version of history had never played out.
Cameron gathered his maps, papers, and photos and returned all but one to the satchel that had been his constant companion since Los Angeles. He placed the satchel on the floor of the passenger coach, between his legs, and put a lone photograph in his lap. He never tired of studying its particulars. He knew every pleasant detail and uncommon imperfection.
Cameron started to look at the photo when he heard a giggle. He looked at the seats across the aisle and saw three college-age women return his gaze. One smiled and waved. Another smiled and giggled. The third just smiled.
All three women had boarded the train in Cedar Rapids. Attired in sequined dresses, pearls, and cloche hats, they looked like country girls headed to a flapper convention.
"Hi," Wavy said.
"Hello," Cameron replied.
"Hi," Giggles and Smiley said in rapid succession.
Cameron chuckled.
"Hi."
"Are you going to Chicago or passing through?" Wavy asked.
"I'm passing through. I'm headed to Evansville, Indiana."
"Oh. That's too bad. We're headed to Chicago."
"Who are 'we'?"
"I'm sorry. I'm Alice," Wavy said. "My friends are Flo and Winnie."
"Hi, Alice, Flo, and Winnie. I'm Cameron. What do you plan to do in Chicago?"
Alice grinned.
"We plan to do the things we can't do in Cedar Rapids."
Flo and Winnie giggled.
"How old are you ladies?" Cameron asked.
"Twenty-one," Alice said. "Is that too young?"
Cameron smiled.
"Oh, no. It's perfect."
The cats purred.
Cameron took a moment to assess his fan club. Alice, the prettiest, had wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and dimples that could distract a trucker at a hundred yards. Flo, the giggly redhead, was the best dressed. Winnie, the shy brunette, had a smile that belonged in an art gallery.
"Do your parents know
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