Trolley to Yesterday (15 page)

The bear went over the mountain
 

The bear went over the mountain
 

To see what he could see!

 

For a second the soldiers hesitated. Then they turned and fled, shrieking in terror. The black falcon disappeared. The professor stood on the altar, looking bewildered but very pleased. Hastily he stuffed the flare pistol back into his valise, and then he bowed like an actor taking a curtain call. This time the applause and cheering were even greater than before. Amid the shouting Johnny recognized the only Greek word he knew: Nikē!, which means "Victory!"

As the joyful noise died down, the professor climbed off the altar and made his way back to the boys, who were still pounding their hands together, tears streaming down their cheeks. The crowd parted for them as they walked solemnly and slowly toward the front door of the great church. And a disturbing thought occurred to the professor.

"Do you think this really is victory?" he whispered to the boys. "What about the other Turkish soldiers who got inside the town? They won't flee just because of what happened in here, will they?"

"They most certainly will
not!"
said Brewster, cutting in rudely. "And as for the soldiers who just ran out of the church, they'll be back once they've recovered their wits. As I've said before, you have a very exaggerated idea of my powers. We have time to save ourselves, but that's about all. The city is doomed."

The professor was thunderstruck. What were they going to do? He felt sorry for the poor people in the church, but he felt sorriest for himself and the boys. Turks were pouring into the city through the land and sea gates. The slaughter and looting would begin, and there was not much that he or anyone could do about it. Their one hope was to get the Tabergan, but it was with the nasty monk, and he was God knew where—dead probably, or on a boat to a safe port. The professor felt total despair, worse then any he had felt since this adventure began. Through his incompetence he had led the boys into a trap from which there was no exit.

Fergie and Johnny stood staring at the professor in dismay. They had heard Brewster's words, and they felt sick terror in their stomachs. Nevertheless, they were willing to give it one more try.

"Come on, prof!" said Fergie, tugging gently at the old man's arm. "We might be licked, but I think we oughta go down fightin'! Which way is that gate with the lighthouse? We can try to get there. Come on!"

Fergie shook the professor's arm harder, and at last he snapped out of his trance. Glancing around wildly he saw the gaunt ruins of the Hippodrome rising in the distance. If they walked a little to the left of the Hippodrome, they would be going in the right direction.

"Okay, boys!" he said with a wild gleam in his eye. "Here goes the last of the Childermasses!" With a flourish he handed the satchel to Fergie and took the Knights of Columbus sword from Johnny. Drawing the tarnished blade the professor started running down a narrow street that he hoped would lead him to the Gate of the Lighthouse. The boys ran with him. They had not gone far when they saw the small cobblestoned square that lay before the church of the Hodegitria. There a crowd of angry men pushed and shoved. Two soldiers held a struggling man in a red cape—Mr. Townsend, of all people! The white-faced monk stood before him, waving a small object that he clutched between thumb and forefinger. It looked like a fountain pen.

"Now!" rasped the monk as he shoved his face closer to Mr. Townsend's. "Tell me what
this
is. It is not a quill pen or a stylus, but some devilish pen that I have never seen before. Why were you carrying it? What did you intend to do with it?
Answer me!"

Astounded, the boys and the professor paused at the entrance to the square. The monk and the soldiers had not noticed them yet, but they would pretty soon. After a quick glance at his two friends, the professor made up his mind. With a loud, bloodcurdling yell, he dashed forward, waving the sword high above his head.
"Princeton Tigers, go go GO!"
he screeched, and he bore down on the monk with murder in his eye.

The monk was startled at first, but he pulled himself together quickly. Snatching a short-handled spear from a soldier, he braced himself to meet the professor's attack. The Knights of Columbus sword swung down in a glittering arc, but it wasn't really meant for fighting, and the blade broke in two when it hit the stout spear handle. With a scornful sneer on his face the monk lowered his spear and moved in for the kill. Immediately the professor went into a crouch and shuffled warily forward. He had been taking a mail-order course in jujitsu, and he tried to remember some of the tricks he had learned. The monk was puzzled. He had never seen an unarmed person try to fight an armed one before. Cautiously he jabbed with the spear at the short, snarling figure dancing around him. Once, twice, three times the monk tried, but each time the professor ducked nimbly aside. At last the monk thought he had him, but just as he made his thrust, the professor ducked in under his outstretched arm, grabbed the monk, picked him up, and threw him down hard on the ground. The professor jumped on top of the monk, scrabbling frantically at the drawstring of a leather pouch that hung from the monk's belt. He grabbed the Tabergan, and with a joyful screech he leaped to his feet and began running back toward the boys, who were still cowering at the edge of the square. Suddenly he stopped. He had forgotten about Mr. Townsend!

But just as he turned, he saw a fearful sight. A band of Turkish sailors had landed at the Gate of the Lighthouse, and they were streaming in, yelling and waving weapons. The soldiers who were guarding Mr. Townsend decided that they had seen enough. They let their captive go and ran. Breathlessly the professor dashed up to the old inventor. Did he still think he was an admiral of Venice? To the professor's great relief his friend's eyes were clear, and he gave him a warm welcoming smile.

"Not bad, old boy!" he exclaimed, grinning. "But what do we do now?"

"Gome with me," yelled the professor, who could see the sailors getting closer every second. "Come on! RUN!"

The two men dashed back to where Johnny and Fergie were waiting. Quickly the professor rattled out his directions—everybody had to lock elbows, with himself in the middle. The Turkish sailors charged, but the professor calmly took the Tabergan in his hands and cried,
"Go where I say, Tabergo, Tabergan!"
Then he twisted the magic handle. In the same loud, clear voice he told the Tabergan,
"Take us to Leander's Tower!"
He twisted it again. A rock thrown by one of the sailors hit the professor's shoulder, but a split second later the two men and the two boys were soaring up over the square, and over the city walls and the choppy waters of the Sea of Marmara. The flight was even scarier than the earlier one had been. Mercifully it ended, and with a jarring
thump!
all four were dropped onto a little spit of sand that stood outside the entrance to the tower. Anxiously the professor glanced around to see if everyone was all right. They were, and Johnny had even managed to bring the professor's valise with him. The light of late afternoon cast bloody splashes on the walls of the tower, and the travelers thought sadly of the things that were going on in the doomed city across the water. Then silently they began to climb the worn steps that led to the top floor of the tower. As they stomped along behind the two men, the boys wore anxious frowns. They remembered what Mr. Townsend had said about the unpredictable behavior of the trolley, and they wondered if it would still be there.

At the top of the stairs the professor glanced quickly to the right. Was the veil there? He'd soon find out. Quickly the professor fished his pipe tamper out of the leather bag that hung round his neck, and when he touched the wall with it, the veil parted. The four entered the trolley, which smelled like a dusty, shut-up attic.

"Ahhh!" Mr. Townsend breathed, raising his arms gratefully. "It's
so
great to be back! Now, folks, if you'll just take your seats, I'll have us back in Duston Heights in a jiffy."

The professor glowered at Mr. Townsend, but he managed to fight down his anger. "My dear sir," he said in his coldest and most formal tone, "don't you think it would be better if
I
handled the controls? I managed to make several trips in this machine without having anything bad happen, and I am confident that I can get us home safely in double-quick time."

Mr. Townsend stiffened. "Are you implying that I am not capable of controlling the machine that I
built myself?"
he asked.

Johnny and Fergie glanced nervously at each other. "Uh... folks?" Fergie put in with a weak smile. "Do you... well, d'ya think maybe you could flip a coin or do somethin' like that?"

This was the wrong thing to say. The two men gave Fergie dirty looks and went back to glaring at each other. They argued for a while, but finally the professor heaved a resigned sigh and stepped aside. For once in his life he was going to be cooperative. "Very well," he said, waving his hand toward the control panel. "Go to it, my friend!"

The boys sat down in the back, and the professor plunked himself down on a fold-out jump seat at the front of the trolley. Mr. Townsend took his place in front of the control panel. He set dials and shoved levers. Since he was seated nearby, the professor could not resist watching, and what he saw horrified him. Mr. Townsend was a real fumblefingers, and he kept accidentally hitting knobs and levers after he had set them. Then he had to go back and reset the controls, and this put him into a foul temper, so his blunders got worse and worse. Meanwhile a loud excited hum rose from the trolley's motor, and the air began to shiver and grow warm. The professor began to wonder if he ought to say something, and he was just opening his mouth to make strangled sounds when Mr. Townsend impatiently shoved a lever forward. With a sickening lurch the trolley jumped backward, throwing the professor and the boys out of their seats. The trolley roared in reverse, bumping and hiccuping like a small plane fighting its way through air pockets until it came to a screeching halt, and the passengers were once again pitched about on the trolley's floor. Mr. Townsend was thrown from the control seat, and he landed on top of the professor. Little wisps of smoke came curling out of the trolley's control panel. A smell of burned electrical insulation filled the air. Where they were, nobody knew.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

Groaning weakly Mr. Townsend picked himself up. "Oh, dear... oh, dear ..." he moaned as he tottered down the aisle. "I can't imagine what happened. Where do you suppose we are?"

The professor glanced grimly at the windows, which were lit with a sullen red glow. "I guess we'd better find out," he said quietly. "The rest of you follow me, and be careful."

Fearfully Mr. Townsend, Johnny, and Fergie lined up behind the professor, who took the pipe tamper from its leather bag and pulled the handle that opened the folding doors. At a touch from the tamper the blue veil parted, and the four travelers stepped out of the trolley one by one. They found that they were standing on the tiny sandy island where Leander's Tower had once stood. But the tower was gone. So was the Sea of Marmara—its bed was just a deep, undulating valley full of sand and shells and the ribs of wrecked ships. Across the way, where Constantinople had once stood, rose the shattered ruins of a modern city. Twisted masses of girders stretched spindly arms into the sky. These were the skeletons of skyscrapers that had been wrecked by some hideous explosion. The city seemed to be abandoned, and the dusky red air had a sulfurous taste. In the coppery sky, ghostly and enormous, hung the moon. It loomed impossibly close to the earth, and its craters and mountain ranges could all be seen clearly.

The professor said nothing. He knew that they were looking at some scene out of the far-distant future. Twenty-fifth century, thirtieth century—who could tell? Silently they filed back into the trolley, and the door hissed shut. Without a word Mr. Townsend knelt down and opened a sliding door under one of the trolley's seats. He pulled out a tool kit and went to the front of the car, where he knelt down again and began unscrewing the metal plate that covered the control panel. Behind the plate lay a confusing mass of wires, cams, springs, winking Christmas-tree bulbs, rods, and vacuum tubes with glowing filaments. One of the tubes was dark, and Mr. Townsend jerked it from its socket. When he inserted a new one from his kit, the tube glowed, and with a relieved sigh he began screwing the plate back on. Finally he stood up and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

"I think it'll run all right now," he said as he turned to the professor, a sad, apologetic frown on his face. "The fault was mine, all mine. I should never have manhandled the controls that way. I always get upset when someone is looking over my shoulder. Perhaps you had better run this thing."

The professor patted Mr. Townsend on the arm and took his place in front of the controls. He set the PLACE dial for Duston Heights, and the DATE and TIME dials for the day their journey had begun. Then, holding his breath, the professor turned the starting lever to ON, and the trolley began to hum and tremble. After a brief hesitation it leaped forward, back into the past, back to the 1950's. The car hurtled on, rattling and swaying from side to side. Finally it screeched to a halt, and immediately the professor jumped up. He rushed to the side door, pulled the lever, and parted the veil. Then he let out a loud joyful exclamation. They were back in the dank stone tunnel where their journey had begun. With his valise in his hand the professor clumped down the iron steps to the ground. Johnny and Fergie followed quickly. Mr. Townsend glanced about in a confused way, and then he gasped in surprise.

"Good heavens!" he said. "You've unblocked the archway—the one that leads back to the basement of my house. Why ever did you do that?"

The professor looked astonished. "Why did I ..." he began in a wondering tone. "Heavens, man! How else could I have gotten to use your wretched trolley? Do you think ..." The professor's voice trailed off, because it had just occurred to him that Mr. Townsend's question meant that the tunnel had been blocked up when he had zoomed off into the past thirty years ago. Unless he had sealed it up on the day he left—which did not seem likely—how had he gotten from his house to the trolley?