The Technicolor Time Machine Harry Harrison "HERE COMES A SHIP!" The dragon's head rose and fell as the long-ship's oa. The Accidental Time Machine Joe HaldemanTable of Contents Title Page Copyright Page Dedication Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Cha DOWNLOAD PDF. NOW IN PAPERBACK-FROM THE AUTHOR OF MARSBOUND Grad- school dropout Matt Fuller is toiling as a lowly research assistant at MIT when he.
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Ebook The Accidental Time Machine By Joe Haldeman currently available at jibticutepo.gq for review only, if you need. Haldeman file PDF only if you are registered here, Download Free Book The Accidental Time Machine By Joe Haldeman file. PDF at Best Book Library This. the accidental time machine [pdf, epub ebook] - the accidental time machine pdf file uploaded by mickey spillane pdf guide id fa5 new book finder
However, he takes care not to change history - for example, he does not anticipate Einstein in "discovering" Relativity Theory , as he could have easily done; rather, he takes care to appear a talented but not outstanding professor. Matt and Martha have several children, and the end of the book reveals that Professor Marsh Matt's MIT professor in the midst century is actually Matt's descendant.
It travels roughly in exponents of It is not capable of being duplicated, and appears to be unique. Timeline and list of societies[ edit ] Boston, Massachusetts. Matt discovers the time machine. February 2, Matt's first time jump - 39 days.
Appears in the middle of the street, still in Boston. He is then arrested for murder and grand theft auto.
He is bailed out of jail by a mysterious figure. May 15, days later. Appears in the middle of a highway, quickly time travels again to avoid being crushed by a truck. Matt appears in the middle of a stadium called the "Matthew Fuller Sports Centre". The society is fairly futuristic with trends like facial scarring , but they do not fully understand the time machine.
However, scientific theories are being rewritten because of Matt's time machine. Matt finds himself by the New Hampshire border in a theocratic society. There had been an event billed as the Second Coming of Jesus, followed by a nuclear civil war between those who believed its veracity and those who doubted it, and with the former group taking power in the eastern part of the US. History has essentially been erased and restarted. The locals refer to the year as Matt and Martha arrive in what appears to be a Utopia.
The society is based on bartering , is focused on material wealth and there is no poverty or illness. Martha, La, and Matt land in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Indonesia, and eventually encounter bioengineered dinosaurs.
They continue south to Australia where they are greeted by a hologram, which does not allow them to enter the society because they are afraid of disease transmitted by travelers from the past. They travel to America and meet strange bear-like people. Travel to the moon because there is no life left on Earth. There is only a strange mechanical creature there when they arrive. The couple meet up with six time travelers who send Martha and Matt back to , and La continues forward.
Martha and Matt are back in Boston, from which point they would live out the rest of their lives with no further time traveling. The Accidental Time Machine is first and foremost a terrific sf adventure story. Everything else is just icing on an already delicious cake.
Fantasy and Science Fiction. Dec , Vol. We're never in any one of these funhouse futures for long enough to get a real handle on things, to understand why and how the world developed this way. I would have been most intrigued to glean a better understanding of events that led directly from Matt's past to the formation of the 23rd century theocracy.
I also think the novel could have been much stronger had Haldeman chosen to leave [Matt] there to make his way as best he could, spreading the forbidden heresy of quantum physics or something. The power went out right after I got up. Snow ten feet deep? He peered through the blinds. There was snow, all right, but only a couple of feet. The wind was fierce, though, rattling the windowpanes. That was it. The bathroom window looked out over a temporarily vacant lot.
Wind blowing from the north had an unobstructed path more than a hundred yards long. So the snow had packed up against the north wall, including the bathroom window. He picked up the phone. Anything I can do? You need something? Without the electric? If his extrapolation was right, the machine would reappear just before five. Plenty of time, even with the weather. He should eat something first. Nothing in the fridge but beer and a desiccated piece of cheddar cheese.
He popped his last can of Boston Baked Beans—made in Ohio—and nuked them while he chased down a piece of paper and a pen for a list. Candles, wine, milk, water. He called and she added bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Red currant if they had it. He poured the beans over a slice of bread that was dry but not moldy and squelched some ketchup over them. He opened another beer and watched the Weather Channel while he ate.
The snow should stop by noon. But more tomorrow. A good time to take a long weekend. He tried not to think about being bundled up with Kara while the snow drifted down.
Hot chocolate, giggles. Some giddy exploration of the outer limits of love. The beans had turned cold. He finished them and dressed in layers and went out to slay the wily groceries. The wind had gentled somewhat, and he almost enjoyed the walk. Or maybe he enjoyed not being in the apartment alone. No candles at the grocery store except little votive ones. He bought her a box of two dozen and a five-liter box of cheap California wine. Get one for himself on the way back.
Two jugs of water. Everything but the water went into his backpack. He lumbered off toward the Red Line. His mother was just two stops down, but more than a mile walk after that. By the time he got there, he was regretting the second gallon of water. Mom could brush her teeth with wine. They sat in the kitchen and had a glass of wine and some chocolate, and he said he had to get back to work, which was true, even though the work was not of an arduous nature.
The wind and snow had started up again when he got off the subway to make his way home. He was shivering by the time he got inside. A glance verified that the machine was still off to wherever it was, so he went straight into the kitchen and started water for coffee and to warm his hands.
A little more than an hour to go, as he sat down on the couch with his coffee. He picked up his notebook and clicked on the calculator, and made a short list: So he had to plan. The next time he pushed the button— if the simple linear relationship held true—the thing would be gone for over three days. Next time, over a month; then over a year. Then fifteen years, and way into the future after that.
So it was a time machine, if kind of a useless one. Or a list of who had won the World Series every year in between. But simply putting yourself in the future, well, you could do that by just standing around.
No profit in it unless you could come back. He calculated two more numbers, If you went that far up, if would be like visiting another planet.
And it might get lonely up there, with nobody but Morlocks to grunt with. If they could do that, we would have seen them around. Playing the stock market, betting on horses. Maybe they came back all the time—made a few bucks and then went back to the future. Of course you had the Ray Bradbury Effect. Even a tiny change here could profoundly affect the future. Through all this rumination, he kept staring at the spot. Four forty-eight came, and nothing happened.
He started to panic, but then it shimmered into existence, just before 4: Have to adjust the equation slightly. The two-dollar coin was where he had set it. He should have put a watch next to it. A cage with a guinea pig. And the camera. He checked the Madhya fuel cell, and it was at It might have lost that by capacitance, though; the circuit open.
See what the next data point shows. Three days and eight hours, next time. He counted on his fingers. Just after midnight Monday. He could call in sick that day. He would miss the machine, though.
Ebook The Accidental Time Machine 2008
Could he build a duplicate by Tuesday? Nothing to it, if he had all the components in front of him and a properly equipped worktable. But it would be hard to gather all that stuff over a weekend when the Institute and the city were mostly shut down. Of course if you were just borrowing things. Matt had been a student at MIT for five years, and an employee for three more. He went back to the everything drawer and pulled out a large ring with a couple of dozen keys identified with little paper labels.
One of them would open nine out of ten MIT doors, but those were mostly uninteresting classrooms and labs. The others were special offices and storerooms. Most students who had been around a long time had access to a similar collection, or at least knew someone like Matt.
MIT had a venerable tradition of harmless breaking and entering. Saturday night in a blinding snowstorm. Or janitors or security guards, neither of whom would be much of a problem. He half filled a thermos with the rest of the coffee and made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and put them in his knapsack along with the computer and key ring. He emptied out a multivitamin jar and sorted through the various pills. He broke a large Ritalin in two and swallowed one half.
The other he folded up into a scrap of paper and put in his shirt pocket. This would be an all-nighter.
What he really wanted to do was set up the machine with the camera and a watch, and send it off into the future. But not until he had a duplicate.
He tried to hold on to that thought as he barged out into the blowing cold. He had to sneak into fourteen different labs and storerooms before he had all the parts in his bag.
A thin gray winter dawn was threading through the window when he gathered all the parts together at his bench. Then he took it to the chemical hood and spray painted it with two coats of glossy black enamel. It was fast-drying, supposedly, but he set a timer for a half hour and stretched out on the bench for a nap, his more or less dry boots folded for a pillow.
Waking up not too refreshed, he took the rest of the Ritalin and heated up half a ml. This last step was the most satisfying, but also one prone to spectacularly stupid error, because of familiarity and fatigue. He got a big mug of coffee and stared at the neat array as the drug came on slowly, waking him up. He assembled the calibrator mentally, writing down the steps in sequence on a yellow pad.
He studied the list for a few minutes, then rolled his sleeves up neatly and got to work. It was a mind-set he remembered from childhood, spending hours in the meticulous construction of airplane and spaceship models, excitement holding fatigue at bay.
He slid the fuel cell into place and tightened the contacts. Had to try it. He set his watch to the stopwatch function and pressed both buttons simultaneously. Nothing happened. Or, rather, the calibrator emitted one photon per chronon, as designed. Marsh could have this one. A heavy lassitude flowed into him.
He stretched out on the lab bench again. He checked his watch, but it was still set on stopwatch, earnestly adding up the seconds.
He left it that way. Three hours and seven seconds later, he unfolded, groaning, and sat up. It was after nine, good. He left the calibrator on the shelf and went out to face the Cambridge winter. It was overcast and bitter, in the teens or single digits.
No new snow, but plenty of old. He crashed through the snow, more than knee-deep, toward the Red Line. The smell of Sunday morning coffee at Starbucks lured him in. He put enough sugar and cream in the coffee to call it breakfast, and thought about the next stage of the experiment.
The machine would be away for three days and eight hours. A guinea pig. See whether something alive would be affected by the suspension of time, or whatever was going on. An actual lab animal would be pretty complicated: Something that would survive for three days without maintenance. Something he could download cheap or borrow. A turtle. They had a terrarium full of the little rascals. He toyed with the idea of breaking in, risking months in jail for a two-dollar turtle.
The security guards would take one look at him, a shaggy drug-addled young male dressed like a street person, and shoot to kill. The Starbucks had a phone book, though, a much-abused sheaf of dirty yellow paper, and he found the number and punched it up on his cell. Who else would call on a Sunday morning? I got to come in and feed and water and clean up after my babies. You run it? Who has a higher IQ than the animals. We need a small turtle for. I could get up there in less than an hour.
Then I cover up my babies and leave. And waited. The only thing to read was the sex and Personals section of the Phoenix. Well, he could always run one himself: Will supply own turtle. When it did come, of course, it was jammed full of people who would otherwise be driving or walking. A lot of church perfume, which was pleasant when he stepped into the car but overpowering thirty seconds later. The crowd was unusually tense and silent. Perhaps devout.
Perhaps wondering why a loving God would do this to them on Sunday morning. The T stop was on the wrong side of the mall, and he was five minutes late, so he ran. She was waiting in the door with her coat on. She handed him a white cardboard box with a bail, like a Chinese takeout, and a small jar of Baby Reptile Chow.
Give Herman some water and a piece of lettuce and go crash. Or Hermione. How long you been up? About lunch? Love them pancakes. He opened the box, and the turtle looked at him. Where was he supposed to get lettuce on a Sunday morning? He stripped off the wilted lettuce for Herman and squirted mustard on the rest of the sub, and ate half of it down at the subway stop. He rewrapped the other half and left it on the edge of the trash bin.
Some actual street person would find it and thank his lucky stars. Until he opened it. Ew-w, mustard. He had to be methodical. This trial would be a little over three days.
Then roughly a month, and then a year. Then fifteen years, during which time it would be nice if the whole world was waiting. And he was, incidentally, famous and tenured. After only three more demonstrations.
One thing he had to check with this trial was just how much stuff the machine would take with it. A coin was interesting, but a camera and a watch and a turtle would give actual data. He would put the turtle in a metal container and set it where the coin had been. Put something heavy in it. But maybe it was because the coin was above the machine and the base was below. So check that out by putting something nonconductive on the top.
There was a note taped to the door, and for a wild moment he could hope it was from Kara. But it was just the landlord reminding him to shovel the walk. Now that would be a reason to travel into the future. Herman had withdrawn into his shell, which was understandable.
He had probably spent all his remembered life in a pet-store window.
The Accidental Time Machine
Then he was thrown into a cardboard prison and thrust into a backpack, to endure a long subway ride and then a swaying walk while the bitter cold slipped in. The turtle equivalent of being abducted by aliens. Traveling through time would be nothing in comparison.
Matt put him in a big bowl with a jar lid of water and his wilted lettuce leaf, and set him under the desk lamp to warm. It was kind of sticky; he washed it for Herman and posterity. Someday it would be in the MIT Museum. Should he top it off with foil? That would make a Faraday cage out of it, a complete volume enclosed by conductors. Anything sitting on metal connected to the outside of the machine ought to do it.
So the loaf pan went on top of the machine, with a bigger jar lid of water and five pellets of Baby Reptile Chow. He cut the cheap cell out of its blister pack. Or voyeurism. Or to win a Nobel Prize. He turned it on and it worked.
It went next to the loaf pan. Then the watch, sideways so metal was in contact with metal. A stub of pencil for the nonconductor—no, that looked too ad hoc. In the everything drawer he found a white plastic chess piece, a pawn. Connecting the metal trash can was a slight problem. In the lab, he could just use alligator clips continuing the reptile theme , but here he had to improvise.
He used a computer power cord and lots of duct tape. The multimeter verified that they made a closed circuit. Something heavy to put in it? A gallon plastic jug; he filled it with water up to the rim. See how much evaporates. Herman was drinking, his neck craned over the jar lid. Matt let him finish, then moved him to his new abode.
H Hour. He set the cheap cell camera on LOCK and placed it so that it looked at the clock radio. Then he set his own camera up to take his picture when he pushed the button. He pushed the button at exactly noon.
The machine faded nicely. The white pawn fell with a click to bounce off the wooden base. Everything else had gone, including the heavy trash can. He went into the kitchen and opened a beer quietly, aware that posterity was listening. He could change the name to something less fantastic before anybody else read it.
The disappearing machine? Not much better. Or a dead one and blankness, whatever. It had to be some accidental feature of its construction. But he was understandably reluctant to take it apart. He could have set up this iteration better. The machine was going to reappear at 8: Or in the middle of the rotunda in Building One, high noon, with hundreds of students as witnesses. Then again, there was something to be said for keeping control over the conditions of the experiment.
They had only given him a degree and a job, both begrudgingly. When he checked on his e-mail that afternoon, he found he had one less reason to be loyal to the Center and MIT. Technically, the funding for his appointment had not been renewed.
So there would be no paycheck after January 1. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Matt picked up the phone and put it back down. Go talk to him in person. On the clattering ride down to Cambridge, he considered and rejected various strategies.
More puttering than math. He was reasonably well caught up on the literature, though most of his energy of late had gone into time-travel theory, of course. Could he use that as a trump card?
Instinct said no: Hire me back for my penny-ante job and I promise to rewrite the laws of physics. On the other hand, when he did want to publish his results, the connection with the Center and MIT would be valuable. But not essential. He could take his evidence to Harvard, for instance.
That made him smile. The rivalry between the two schools went back to the nineteenth century. Maybe Marsh would be fired for firing him. The sky was the color of aluminum. Snow piled up in waist-high drifts, but the sidewalks were clear. There was no wind as he approached the Green Building, which was so unusual it seemed ominous. Usually it whipped across the quad from the frozen Charles and chilled you to the core.
He showed his card to the scanner at the entrance to the Green Building, and it let him in. So he still existed, at least until the end of the month. He got off the elevator on the sixth floor to a pleasant shock: Kara, standing in the foyer. Were you looking for me? He was younger and better-looking. Lose your job and your girl to the same punk kid.
He had a journal and a book open in front of him, making notes in a paper notebook. Matt knocked on the open door. Marsh put a finger down to mark his place in the journal.
What can I do for you? For your own good. Then I could give you a good recommendation anywhere. Might as well go on home and work on your dissertation.
Matt went back into the lab, suddenly a stranger there. Except a pair of earrings. Kara had taken them off when they went skating on Boston Common a couple of weeks ago. Might as well take them. Send her a note. He went over to the campus pub, the Muddy Charles, and had a beer, and then another. That fortified him enough to walk the cold mile to the nearest liquor store. He got a bottle of cheap bourbon and a bottle of red vermouth.
The road to Hell would be paved with Manhattans. When he got home, he was slightly intimidated by the silent witness to history in the living room. He took both into the bathroom and slid into a tub of hot water. He grimly read on, though, rather than get out of the tub and try to find another book. You can make a template out of the edge of the page, holding it in such a way that it reveals only the first letter of each line of the page underneath.
In this way you can search for hidden messages from God. On the third try he found the word "sQwat. It was his mother. I should take a bath in the living room? So I went down to talk to my boss. What did you do? Like I have too much education for the job. I should finish my dissertation and move up in the world. Can you loan me about twenty grand for rent and groceries while I sit around and think? There was a long pause and a sniff.
For a job. At three in the afternoon? It seemed like the right occasion. By noon, he was sufficiently recovered to dress up and go out for a decent lunch, two hamburgers and fries. He looked through the MIT freebie newspaper, the Tech, for job openings, and found two possibilities, one in Cambridge and the other at the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva.
He was carrying his notebook, so he went on down to the MIT main library, plugged in, and started rereading the notes for his dissertation on patterns of local asymmetries in gravity wave induction associated with two recent supernovae.
His data stank. The inductions were so weak they were almost lost in the background noise. Saying they actually existed was as much an act of faith as one of observation. It felt like the cable on his personal elevator had snapped. The set of mathematical models that could contain his wobbly data was so large as to make any one solution actually indefensible.
He closed the notebook with a whispered expletive that made one person look up and two others lean forward to concentrate on their screens. There was no way to refine the data or hope for technological advances that would reduce the blobbiness of it. The gravity wave that a supernova produced passed through the solar system once and was gone. It was not too bright to bet your career on a set of evanescent and unrepeatable data. He could still do something with it, if only an analysis of why this approach was wrong.
He could visualize trying to defend something that feeble in front of a thesis committee. The death of a thousand cutting remarks. Not as long as the machine and Herman came back tonight. He saved a subway token and walked through the stinging wind to Central Square, where thirty dollars got him a dish of nuts and a nonalcoholic beer at a place where pretty naked women danced almost close enough to touch, Middle Eastern music whining and twanging.
Another one describing oscillating conic sections as she swung around a pole. He stayed only a half hour. On his way to the T he optimistically bought a half bottle of decent champagne. For celebration or consolation. When he got home, he put it in the fridge and opened a can of minestrone for dinner. While it heated, he went to check the e-mail. There was a note from Kara, with only a question mark in the subject line. He opened it eagerly: I described that photon project to Strom, and he went to talk to Prof.
Marsh about it, and I guess he offered Strom your job. He likes Marsh and always got As from him. He allowed himself a wicked moment of imagining how Marsh would feel when he published his time-machine results. It was Matt himself who had graded the papers! The minestrone started boiling. He took it off the stove and, after it had cooled, ate it straight out of the pot, staying out of range of the camera and posterity.
At seven, he sat down at the couch with a book, a biography of Isaac Newton. He was about a minute early. It had moved. The chassis of the machine stood on the woodscrews that had secured it to the board, like four little metal feet. They were a couple of millimeters from the drill holes. He looked into the pan and Herman looked back, apparently unaffected by his sudden fame. Or did it just move so little that the screws nudged their way back into the holes?
Could the house have shifted that much in three days? He belatedly looked at the clock. It said The machine had only been gone about a minute, in its own frame of reference. He checked the water in the jug. No evaporation. He took extreme close-ups from three angles, which he could later analyze for the precise distance and direction moved. Next time, it might move centimeters. Or across the room. Or into another state.
Share the Nobel Prize. Or wire the machine to a big metal box and go along with it. It showed his clock radio at We expect it to be gone for about three days and eight hours. The screen went gray for about a minute, then the clock radio reappeared, showing 8: He could time it precisely later.
He ran it back and scrutinized it with the screen brightness turned all the way up. It seemed to be a minute of uniform gray. But three days had passed, and three nights. Where had it gone? He scientifically dipped a finger into the jug. Room temperature, give or take a couple of degrees. The next time, he ought to include an environmental monitor, something that recorded temperature and pressure.
Bean probably had one. Money, though. He could probably borrow one from MIT, a midnight requisition. Bring it back in a month. Forty days, actually. How long would it seem to him, in his metal box? There was no way to interrogate Herman about the subjective length of his voyage.
Probably not. Matt had looked in the pan only a few seconds after it reappeared, and Herman seemed unruffled. Though it was hard to tell. He might be having a profound existential crisis. Matt looked into the pan again. Herman was gnawing on a pellet of Baby Reptile Chow. He went for a beer and remembered the champagne.
Opened it, poured a jelly glass full, and sat down to think. If everything was simple and linear, then the next time, the machine would move about twelve millimeters, half an inch, and the gray period would be about twelve minutes long. But it would be dangerous to assume linearity. The safest course, if he were going to put himself in that metal box, would be to take along enough food and water for forty days.
How much would that be? He typed the question into his notebook. Eight of those big five-gallon jugs. Then one thousand five hundred calories of food a day, which would be easier. A couple of boxes of energy bars. A bottle of bourbon to keep from going insane. Maybe two. And a really good book. And what about air? Presumably a small turtle could last a long time on the air inside a loaf pan.
A human could last for hours on a proportional amount. Only hours. So the water would be moot. In fact, he could do the experiment without any of that, assuming it would take only minutes.
See a Problem?
If the minutes dragged on into hours, he could always call it quits and disconnect the fuel cell. But any sufficiently old car would do. Anything made before the Fossil Fuel Users Tax would have a mostly metal shell.
Mostly might not do it, though. His Mazda, for instance, had only a spidery titanium frame sunk inside a plastic aero-form. Technically, that would be a Faraday cage. But he wanted to be wrapped in metal. Denny Peposi. He had a Ford Thunderbird in his garage. The radio only played recordings of appropriately ancient music, and there were yellowed magazines from scattered on the backseat. He drove it around the block once a week, and maybe once a year bought enough gasoline to take out a girl he wanted to impress.
Otherwise, it just sat there, a perfect Faraday cage with seats of soft Mexican leather. And all the Elvis Presley you would ever want to hear. Or was it Buddy Holly and the Beetles back then? He was sure he could talk Denny into letting him sit in it, and take a video of him. But where would it appear?
Matt looked at the machine on his way to refill his jelly glass. It had moved northeast a millimeter. If it moved northeast far enough, it would be in Boston Harbor. Or the North Atlantic. Wise to take some precautions about that possibility. Matt swam like a brick. Which is how Matt wound up, the next morning, in a bad part of Boston, going from pawn shop to pawn shop looking for a wetsuit and a snorkel. He finally found both, at a place full of shabby sports relics. They cost more than half his cash reserves, but the man agreed, with a puzzled look, that he would refund 75 percent if Matt brought them back unused before the end of January.
At a military surplus store he bought an emergency raft that inflated if you pulled a lanyard. He saved the receipt. Unless it reappeared in Boston Harbor, or off the coast of Spain. He swung open the door and gave Matt a big hug. Three hundred pounds of dope dealer, understandably stoned at nine in the evening.
Einstein, I presume? Barefoot in January. She moved on. She moved on, too. Want a drink? What you got? Matt hauled along the duffel bag with all his time-machine stuff in it. The kitchen was all chrome and tile and looked like no one had ever cooked a meal in it. Or is it whisky with a Heineken chaser? There was a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie on it and one crystal glass. Denny produced another glass and got two Heinekens from a huge metal refrigerator that seemed to have nothing in it but beer and wine.
He should use that for the time machine. He put the beers down and poured Matt a generous amount of whisky, and himself a little more generous one. He sat down on the delicate chair with exaggerated caution. But just to sit in it? Way back when. Well, hell, maybe it is magic. It just goes, like, somewhere sideways in space. That might communicate uncertainty. Denny took a vial out of his shirt pocket and tapped out a small pile of white powder, then produced a little cocktail straw and sniffed it up.
He shook all over, like a big dog. Want some? Cuts to the chase. The sole witness to a scientific revolution stoned on an untried drug.
Fortunately, all he had to do was push a button. Which was all Matt had to do, as well. He took another sip from each reagent. Right up your alley, man; work till dawn.
Somebody has to do it. Just start it when I tell you to, and if I disappear, leave it running till I come back. Denny looked at the back of the camera. He pushed the glass away. Change in the bathroom?
Ornately framed nude paintings. Matt unzipped the duffel and laid out his gear. Stripped and threw his clothes back into the bag. Wallet and keys and change in a plastic bag, which he would carry into the uncertain future. The wetsuit was talcumed on the inside, and slid on easily.
How would he explain it to Denny? And these were not the best of conditions. He opened the Chinese carryout box and looked at Herman, who stared back accusingly. The last time I used this machine, it moved. But less than a millimeter.
Not outer space. The probability is almost zero, but it scares me shit-less. Me, neither. No problem—unless I drowned. There it was: Be careful with it. Matt unfolded the tripod and set up the camera so it would be pointed at him in the front seat.
My boss. If he wound up in water, he wanted to be able to jump out. Just point and shoot. He was suddenly blind, immersed in opalescent gray. He heard Herman nervously scratching around in his box. It was strange, but not unexpected. He had time to wonder whether it would be a minute, ten minutes, forty days—and then all hell broke loose. Bright daylight dazzled him and a Yellow Cab crashed into his open door, tearing it off and spinning into the oncoming traffic, where it was broadsided by the slow-crawling 1 bus.
Traffic was squirreling to a halt all around him, horns blaring. With a loud bang, the yellow raft decided to inflate itself. He grabbed Herman and scrunched out of the car, pursued by a wall of yellow plastic, his wetsuit rather incongruous under the present circumstances, morning rush hour with snow all around.
A siren wailed and a large female police officer came bearing down on him with her ticket book flapping in the cold breeze. She sniffed at his breath. Put your goddamned hands in the air! Just dropped an antique car in the middle of Mass Ave during rush hour. Owner murdered. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning.
If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Never losing her point of aim, the woman reached up and took the Chinese carryout box and expertly thumbed it open with one hand. She peered inside. Then they put him in a small room and handcuffed him to a chair. The room had a big mirror or one-way window, and a tear-off calendar on the table said it was February 2, consistent with a time jump of thirty-nine days, thirteen hours.
Where did he get them, Matt wondered, and how come he could smoke on city property? The detective sat down across from Matt and crushed out his cigarette stub in the ashtray, where it continued to smolder. You bought dope from him. The day, anyhow. Drunk and stoned, but alive. Presumably by the person who stole his million-dollar car. How well did you know Mr. Met him through another student when I was an undergraduate at MIT.Or janitors or security guards, neither of whom would be much of a problem.
It was not too bright to bet your career on a set of evanescent and unrepeatable data. Oct When it stopped ringing, he called her from the bathroom. But they all required huge deformations of the universe, harnessing black holes and the like. Lots of enjoyment in this one. Just plead not guilty. Mostly might not do it, though.