Back to the Future (22 page)

“There,” he said, looking down at Marty, who was waiting at the bottom of the ladder: “We’re all set up and ready to go. But it doesn’t look much like a thunderstorm’s brewing and the weather forecast I just heard said cold and clear. You sure about this storm?”

Marty nodded. “Doc,” he said. “Since when can a weather man predict the weather—let alone the future?”

“You’re right,” Brown smiled. Testing the cables once again to make sure the connection was tight, he grunted with satisfaction and came down the ladder.

“You know, Marty,” he said when he had descended. “I…well…I’m gonna be sad to see you go. You’ve really made a difference in my life. You’ve given me something to shoot for. Just knowing that I’m going to live to see 1985…that I’ll succeed in this…that I’ll get a chance to travel through time…well, it’s gonna be hard for me to wait thirty years before we can talk about everything that’s happened in the past few days. I’m gonna really miss you…”

“I’ll miss you, too, Doc,” Marty replied. “But it could be you won’t see me, you know. If something goes wrong with this…” He indicated the cable connection. “…I might not be around in 1985, or any year for that matter.”

Brown nodded grimly. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know,” he said. “Why not just stay here? We can work on projects together—”

“No, thanks, Doc,” Marty said. “If I don’t get all this straightened out with Mom and Dad and get back to 1985, it’ll mess up too many lives. I’ve gotta take the chance that your experiment will work.” He smiled. “After all, everything else you’ve done has turned out all right. Except the brain-wave analyzer.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Once again Marty’s mind projected the image of Doc Brown being killed by terrorist bullets, and once again he yearned to warn him. Could it really hurt that much? After all, by the time the terrorists arrived on the scene, Doc Brown’s time machine was already a success. Thus history would not be affected if he escaped their vengeance; he would merely be given a few years of extra time to enjoy the fruits of his labor, perhaps travel back and forth in time a bit. Was that so bad?

He concluded that it was not. “Doc,” he said. “About the future and you…”

Again the upraised hand.

“No, Marty, my boy. Say no more. We’ve already agreed that having knowledge of the future can be extremely dangerous. Even if your intentions are good, it could backfire drastically. Whatever it is you want to tell me, I’ll find out through the natural course of time.”

Marty could see that there was no use arguing with him. Nevertheless, the desire was still in him to convey the warning.

“Yeah, Doc…I see,” he nodded. “Listen, I’m gonna get a candy bar. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

Marty turned and went into the cafe nearby. He purchased an Almond Joy bar from the perennially scowling counterman and also bummed a piece of paper and envelope. Then he sat at a booth and composed a brief note to Doc. It read:

Doc Brown—On October 26, 1985, at about 1:30 a.m., you will be shot by terrorists at the Twin Pines shopping mall parking lot. Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster.

Your friend, Marty. November 12, 1955

He read it over a couple times, folded the paper and put it in the envelope, which he sealed. On the outside he wrote: “Do Not Open Until October 1, 1985.”

Meanwhile, Doc Brown was in the process of stringing one final strand of cable between the two lamp posts. As he went merrily about his work on municipal property, a cop meandered over from the Bank of America to watch.

“Oh-oh,” Marty whispered as he came out of the cafe. “That’s all we need now, is some meddling flatfoot.”

He started toward the two men, then thought better of it. Doc Brown would be able to handle it better alone. And Marty would also have time to finish his errand of mercy.

He walked over to the tarped DeLorean and picked up Doc Brown’s trenchcoat, which was lying atop the hood. An inside pocket will be best, he thought, one that he might not stick his hand in for a day or two. Placing the envelope in the left side, he tossed the coat back on the car. Even as he did so, however, another thought entered his mind. Suppose he never uses that pocket and never finds it? Wouldn’t it be better to put the note in the glove compartment of his Packard? He took a step back toward the Delorean.

“No,” he said. “Stop trying to outthink fate. If he gets it, he gets it. If he’s not meant to, he won’t find it no matter what you do.”

That matter resolved, he moved closer to the two men so that he could at least hear the conversation.

The cop spent a great deal of time just looking. Then, finally, he spoke. “Evening, Dr. Brown,” he said. “What’s with the wire?”

“Oh, I’m just doing a little weather experiment. Something that’ll benefit the city a lot if it works.”

“Is that so?”

“Yessir. That’s so.”

“And what’s under here?” the cop asked, pointing to the DeLorean.

Doc Brown never flinched, the consummate verbal escape artist. “Some new specialized weather-sensing equipment,” he replied.

“Looks like a car,” the cop said.

“Well, it has wheels,” Doc answered. It has to have wheels so I can move it. Anyway, officer, why do you ask? Does it make a difference if it’s a car or a portable laboratory?”

“If it’s a car, it’s parked illegally,” the cop pointed out. “There’s a red line.”

“Yessir. I won’t do that again, even though it’s not really a car. But if you don’t mind, I need to leave it there temporarily.”

He came down from the ladder, his work completed, and smiled genially at the officer.

“You got a permit for this?” the cop asked, not returning the smile.

“Of course I do,” Doc Brown replied. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his wallet and withdrew a fifty-dollar bill. “A permit straight from Washington,” he added.

“You’re not gonna set anything on fire this time, are you, Dr. Brown?” the cop asked, looking around nervously as he allowed the bill to slide from Brown’s palm to his.

“No, sir,” Doc Brown replied. “This experiment is child’s play.”

“In that case,” the cop said, “good luck.”

“Thank you, officer.”

The cop nodded, crossed back over the street and continued testing the doors of the shops along 2nd Street. “Well done,” Marty said. “I thought for a minute there one of your many variables was gonna screw us up.”

“I had a twinge myself,” Doc Brown said. He looked at his watch. “Say, kid, you’d better pick up your mom and get going.”

“Yeah, I guess I’d better,” Marty mumbled.

“You look a little pale. Are you O.K.?”

In fact, Marty didn’t feel so good. There was so much to do! And nothing could go wrong. First he had to get his mom and dad together, then time his run just right, attain the fastest speed anybody had ever done on Main Street, and hope that Doc’s calculations were correct. For the first time, he felt that he was truly balancing a tightrope between three separate worlds—1985, 1955 and…death. If the lightning bolt did not function in exactly the same manner as plutonium, Marty would end up buried in the back wall of the Bank of America. Or perhaps he and the DeLorean would be hurled in some sort of imperfect time-space orbit that would deposit them in Kansas, Afghanistan, or Irkutsk. Strangely, however, he knew that he could face those tests. What bothered him more than anything was having to deal with his parents, particularly Mom.

“What is it?” Doc Brown asked, sensing his mental turmoil.

“I don’t know, Doc,” he replied. “I guess it’s this whole thing with my mother. I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

“Why not? What’s the problem?”

“Hitting on her is the problem.”

“Hitting on her?” Brown repeated, frowning. “You didn’t mention beating her up. I thought George was supposed to beat you up.”

“It’s an expression,” Marty explained. “Hitting on a girl means trying to me her, you know…”

“Yes. Take liberties. What’s so terrible about that?”

“She’s my mother!”

“Not yet, she isn’t.”

“That doesn’t make a difference.”

“All right. I see your point. But if you consider it from a strictly practical standpoint, you’ll be a lot closer to her than whatever you do tonight.”

“Yeah, but as a baby. Don’t you see, Doc? This is the kinda thing that could permanently screw me up!”

“How?” Doc Brown asked. “Pardon my denseness.”

“What if I get back to the future and end up being gay? It sounds like a little thing, but copping a feel from your mother could change a guy’s whole life.”

“I see,” Doc nodded. “But there’s a difference. Copping a feel for pleasure is one thing. Copping a feel to accomplish a serious and moral purpose is another. Therefore, I don’t think you have to worry about a damaged psyche. Especially if you put the feel in the same category as setting her leg after an accident…”

Marty brightened a bit. “Or performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” he added.

“Sure,” Doc replied. “Whatever that is. Now you better get going.”

Marty nodded, took a step and then paused. Once again, with morbid fascination, he took out his wallet and looked at the family snapshot.

Every bit of his sister Linda was gone except her feet.

“Doc,” Marty said slowly. “I just had another thought. Suppose I start fading out on this picture sometime before we’re finished? Do you think when the head goes in the photo my brain will cease to function?”

Doc Brown looked Marty directly in the eyes and responded without the slightest hesitation.

“Beats the hell outa me,” he said.

“Enchantment Under the Sea” was well underway. The Hill Valley High School gymnasium still looked basically like a gymnasium, but there were enough displays and artifacts to create a pleasant illusion. The lighting was blue with silver sparkles created by glass mobiles cut in the shape of fish. Against the walls were various papier-mâché attractions—a sunken ship, undersea caverns, a treasure chest, masses of seaweed, and a diver suspended by a long cable stretching to the ceiling. As an example of contemporary humor, a single school locker labeled “Davey Jones” occupied one corner of the huge room.

Onstage was the band, Marvin Berry and the Starlighters.

All five men were black, consisting of drummer, piano player, sax and bass, with Marvin himself playing guitar and singing. Now he was rendering the popular melody from the motion picture
Three Coins in the Fountain.
On the dance floor, several hundred young men and women, elegantly dressed, leaned against one another and moved in torpid-time to the music.

Watching them, wearing artificial smiles of enjoyment, were three chaperones appointed by the school—the inevitable Gerald Strickland, standing stiff as a ramrod with his eyes darting quickly back and forth; a chubby algebra-geometry teacher named Dexter Gore; and Miss Deborah Chambers from the library. Strickland’s chief occupation seemed to be looking out for trouble or hands that moved suggestively; Gore seemed most interested in glomming refreshments while no one was looking; Miss Chambers took it upon herself to get the wallflowers up and circulating.

“Walk around and at least talk, ladies,” she said at frequent intervals. “Remember, a body in motion is more exciting and enticing than a body just sitting there.”

One of the male wallflowers was George McFly, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a tight collar, white tux, and bow tie. Most of the time, George just stood and watched the other dancers, but every once in a while he bopped out of time to the music. He tried not to think too much about Lorraine, who looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. He also tried not to think too much about the scenario that was supposed to take place at nine o’clock.

“How the heck did I get involved in this?” he sighed. “I wish I was home.”

Of course, he could have left, but Marty had already seen him and winked knowingly. To have walked out after that actually required more courage than staying, so George hung around. Over and over he thought: it’ll be done with soon. Maybe it’ll work and maybe it won’t but it won’t be any more embarrassing than some of the problems you’ve had with Biff.

The selection ended and was immediately followed by a faster number. On the dance floor, Marty looked at his watch. It was 8:45, time to start the ball rolling.

“Let’s sit this one out, O.K.?” he said to Lorraine.

She nodded, a seductive smile illuminating her features. She headed for the row of chairs along the side of the floor but Marty deftly steered her toward the door.

“Outside is better,” he suggested.

“I’m with you,” she said.

Going out to the parking lot was not as easy as it sounded. Mr. Strickland kept a sharp watch for who left the dance area and how long they stayed away. He seemed to have a computer in his head which told him exactly who was missing and how long they’d been gone. As a result, Marty and Lorraine had to hang around the entrance, waiting for Strickland to look away before they were able to leave. It was ten of nine when they slipped into Doc Brown’s Packard.

“Uh, you don’t mind if we…uh…sit here a few minutes, do you?” Marty’ asked,

“Why do you think I’d mind?” Lorraine replied.

“Well, I don’t know. Some girls just…don’t like…you know…”

“Marty, I’m almost eighteen years old,” his mother said. “It’s not like I’ve never parked before.”

With that, she scooted over, very close to him, and put her hand on his leg. Marty felt his face turn crimson and very hot.

“You seem nervous, Marty,” Lorraine said. “Is anything wrong?”

“Uh, no…”

“Usually you’re so cool, like when you took care of Biff and his friends. But I hear that’s the way it is with a lot of strong, silent men. They get a little nervous with women.”

“No. It’s all right.”

“Well, just in case,” Lorraine smiled. “Why don’t you have some of this? It’ll help you relax.”

She opened her purse and took out a pint bottle of gin.