Veil of Time: A Paranormal-ESP Thriller (The Wizards Series Book 4) Read online

  “That’s okay, some like their burgers plain anyway. But the women bake bread already so it’ll be easy to make buns. They’re just flat pieces of bread, sliced into two parts. Sesame seeds would be nice, but we don’t have those either. No tomatoes or lettuce, but you use green leaves in your dishes and you also have onions, don’t you?”

  “We sometimes pick the wild onions, yes. We also pick the leaves of the small plant you call dandelion, but we usually eat those as soon as we pick them. But what of this ground beef? Do you drop the meat on the ground? Why would you do that?”

  “No, no, you don’t put it on the ground. Instead, you chop it very fine.”

  “Why did you not say so? We have knives, we can chop the meat. But if you put it in the stew, it will add flavor but it will also fall apart. We enjoy finding pieces of meat in the stew, even if they are sometimes tough.”

  “That’s one of the good things about a hamburger, chopping up even the tough meat means it’s easy to chew.”

  “I must think on this. Our older women have much trouble trying to chew the meat; they have no teeth remaining, and most do not last long after their teeth go away. They become thin and are unable to work. When we must move on, they may choose to stay and wait for the afterlife in a place they like.”

  “Sure, they should be able to eat a hamburger! What do you say, can we try it?”

  “We have elk, so I will ask one of the women for her help. Perhaps we can show the Mexicans how food should be cooked!”

  “Do they have tortillas, your Mexican friends? Maybe if the hamburger idea doesn’t work we could try making a taco? Maybe even a burrito?”

  “Lib-ie-ya, I think your people have strange ideas about food.”

  #

  Nikola Tesla took a deep breath. His hand reached for the ganged circuit breaker, three heavy-duty switches attached to a large handle, then stopped. Steam hissed, the large turbine screamed in the power room. For the moment it was working as envisioned, the output from the dynamo showing on the three meters just above the circuit breaker. Power there was, not quite enough, but this was likely to be the only chance he’d have; if this failed, creditors would demand he hand over Wardenclyffe to satisfy at least a part of his debts.

  Blind! Couldn’t they see? A network of such towers, even larger than the scaled-down version that was all he’d had the money to build here at Wardenclyffe, would connect the entire world! A businessman in New York could call his counterpart in London, just as Morgan had wanted, but he could just as easily telephone someone in Australia, in Peking! Nowhere in the entire world would be beyond the reach of the broadcast power system and the communications network that went with it! With universal communications and power, humanity would no longer be prey to wars, to poverty, to hunger. But the blind fools refused to consider the advantages, concentrating instead on how they could profit from his device!

  And meantime, he was forced to live on credit. It was insupportable.

  The meters wavered slightly, forcing the decision. Tesla threw the switch.

  The ground rumbled slightly, gripped by oscillations in the radiating elements far underground. At the top of the tower, the first small lightning bolt flashed out, followed by a second, larger one. The bluish haze built around the upper element as the huge Tesla Coil ramped up to full charge.

  The effect spread, unseen, far to the east. Somewhere off the coast of Alaska, a small change took place. A minor bubble in a weather system gained an electrical charge that hadn’t been there before. The low-pressure system remained much as it had been before, even as the charged caused a subtle realignment between units in the system. Such things happen often, small increases in pressure or temperature eventually causing larger disruption to happen within the system.

  Such small differences can have far-reaching effects.

  #

  Ray collected his pay from the liveryman and turned south toward New Town. The livery job, never more than part-time, was ended. One of the liveryman’s cousins needed a job, and that was that.

  There were others walking or riding on the trail today, so levitating was out. It was just as well, the livery job had been easy and the only exercise he’d gotten came when feed was delivered from one of the farms. The feed had to be stacked in the barn’s haymow, above the stalls. Moving a few tons of hay, using a pitchfork and hoist, was enough exercise for anyone!

  Whistling, Ray walked on, drawing a curious stare from a rider.

  New Town had a reputation for being ‘wide awake’. Unlike Old Town’s businesses, the gambling halls and saloons in New Town never closed. Ray walked into the first one, imaginatively named the Crystal Palace. There was no crystal to be seen, and it was certainly no palace. He spotted the owner behind the bar, and a piano player banged on a keyboard that appeared to be missing something. A closer look revealed that it was the piano player was missing the index finger on his right hand.

  Some of the Civil War veterans he’d seen were missing arms or legs. The pianist was one of the lucky ones.

  “I’m looking for work. You hiring, mister?”

  “No, but the Bucket of Blood usually is. Muckers don’t last long there, so they’re usually lookin’ for someone.”

  “You don’t say! Well, maybe I’ll last longer than the others. Do they just get tired of working there and quit?”

  “Some do.”

  “Interesting. What about the others?”

  “I reckon you’ll find out if you take the job. Ain’t you the stable-hand? Reckon I’ve seen you there when you harnessed the buggy.”

  “That was me, but the job played out.”

  “I’ll keep you in mind if I need help. Word of advice, keep your eyes open and your trap shut if you try the Bucket. Them that don’t don’t last long.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Ray walked on down the street and entered the Bucket of Blood. The inside was darker than the Crystal Palace and smelled worse. Two lamps hung above the bar and others were scattered here and there so that gamblers could see the cards and dice. The glass chimneys on the lamps hadn’t been cleaned in some time, which explained at least some of the dimness.

  “Heard you’re looking for help.”

  “I might be. Just get into town?”

  “I’ve been here a while. I was working at the livery, but that’s over and done with.”

  “I’ve got a couple of places I could use a man, depending. What can you do?”

  “You name it, I’ll give it a whirl. I figured you’d need someone to sweep the floors, things like that.”

  “I’ve got a Chinaman doing that and he does a good job. Leastways, he does unless somebody tries to cut off his queue.”

  “They do that, try to cut his hair I mean?”

  “About once a week. So far, he’s still got his hair. The ones that try to cut it don’t try again after the first time. I keep waitin’ for him to kill someone, but so far all he’s done is bust some bones. Some of ‘em were talking about hangin’ him, but I put a stop to that. He’s a damned good worker.”

  “So if he’s your cleanup man, what do you need me for?”

  “You ever been a bouncer, friend? I need a man to keep the peace in here. I don’t mind a little honest fun, but too much bloodshed is bad for business. I’ll provide meals and a room upstairs. The pay is fifty dollars a month, but you’re responsible for any arrangement you make with Gertie. She ain’t part of the deal, so if you take a fancy to one of her girls, you work it out with her.”

  “I’ll take it. When do I start?”

  “I’ll show you your room. Be back here at sundown, ready to work. No guns. You use one of those, you’re fired, and you’ll be lucky if the customers don’t hang you. Besides, I don’t want gunplay in here.”

  “I’m okay with that. Let’s see the room, I’ll be here at sundown.”

  “I hope you can do the job. You’re not big enough to scare ‘em off, so plan on fightin’, at least ‘til they know whether you�
�ll stand up like a man.”

  “I’ve fought before. I don’t look for it, but I’ll handle it if it comes to that.”

  “You got any better clothes than what you’re wearing?”

  “Nope. This is it. That stable job didn’t pay much, mostly just enough to buy something to eat.”

  “If you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll stake you to pants and a shirt. Your boots will do. One thing, whatever you see in here, keep your mouth shut. It ain’t none of your business.”

  “I understand. About that room?”

  “This way.” The man walked toward the stairs that led to the second floor.

  Ray followed, deep in thought. He might well have lucked into just what he needed, a chance to circulate and listen not only to what customers were saying but also what they were thinking.

  #

  T breakfasted at a small cafe, taking his time over the coffee. He had a second cup while studying his notes.

  Bridgeport was about 1700 miles from Cheyenne, following a course of 79 degrees. A slight error could put him more than a hundred miles away from his destination. The small compass wasn’t capable of greater accuracy, so his course would be 78 degrees; the offset would put him over land to the north of Bridgeport.

  Assuming his numbers were right, that would put him in the vicinity of Bridgeport about 1897 or so. But there was still a problem with that; if he overshot by as little as ten percent, he’d find himself floating somewhere over the north Atlantic.

  No, Shezzie’d had the right idea; he couldn’t help anyone if he tried to do too much and killed himself in the process. What cities lay east of Cheyenne but not too far off his preferred course? Looking at his strip map, he found Omaha, and east of Omaha lay Chicago. From there it might be feasible to try the remaining jump directly to Bridgeport.

  The strip maps he’d constructed had become increasingly unreliable as he traveled east. T walked to a service station and picked up several free maps, provided by oil companies as advertising. The scale wasn’t great, but at least he could work out better distances and directions between cities. He spared a thought for his computer and Google Earth, but unfortunately neither was available yet. He would have to plot his course as best he could by old-fashioned methods. T grinned; they’d called that system TLAR, short for ‘that looks about right’, when more precise measurements were not possible.

  Jotting down notes, T estimated the distance to Omaha, all the way across Nebraska. The distance was just less than 450 miles, say 420 or so, course 86 degrees. Find out the date as soon as possible, then jump directly to Chicago, another 430 miles at 82 degrees. Depending on how long it took to find a newspaper, he could overnight in Chicago or try a final jump to Bridgeport. That would be the longest attempt he’d made, about 750 miles, but it might be doable. There were no high mountains between Chicago and Bridgeport and depending on how far back in time he found himself, few airplanes that might interrupt a teleport.

  Still, it depended on what he found after the next teleport. If everything went well, he would make further attempts. But if there were glitches, such as being too far north or south of his planned course, he’d add another puddle-jump and maybe teleport to Cleveland. If the offsets in direction made that appear unsafe, there was always Pittsburgh. Either would cut the distance of the final teleport in half.

  #

  “Well. I suppose it’s not ruined. But your people eat this, Lib-ie-ya?”

  “I don’t know what went wrong! The chopped meat fell apart, the bun is tough and chewy, I just don’t understand it. It looks a little like a hamburger, one with no filling except the meat, but it doesn’t taste like it. The burrito is good, though.”

  “Yes. Putting the things from the stew in a tortilla tastes good. It is very easy to eat and even the grandmothers like it.”

  “It doesn’t taste the same, but yes, it is very good. Maybe if we added other vegetables to the stew it would taste better!”

  “The women do not want to bake the ‘buns’ any more, Lib-ie-ya. They say it is too much work for such a small piece of bread.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but it was a failure anyway. I think I should have listened to my mother when she tried to teach me to cook.”

  #

  T no longer wondered if teleporting would work, but the sense of wonder was still there whenever he materialized. The strangeness that came from realizing he was in a different place in an earlier time caused him to feel as if he’d fallen into a movie set. At any moment the costumes and cars might be replaced by marines and tanks or Roman soldiers driving chariots!

  He left Cheyenne, oriented himself, and teleported to Omaha. As usual, he was off by several miles, but getting his bearings after he materialized and finding his intended destination had become routine. Eventually he found a newspaper; the date was July 16th, 1960, and the city had not yet become the population center it would be in 2015. The Omaha Dodgers looked to be on the way to a very good season, according to the sportswriter, in sharp contrast to the last-in-the-league 1961 team. T recorded the information; the time displacement was greater than he’d anticipated. Maybe it was because he estimated the direct-line distance between the cities.

  From Omaha he teleported to Chicago, a distance of 430 miles. The true course should have been 81.5 degrees, but he’d settled for just slightly less than 82 degrees, the best he could do with the small compass.

  The date was August 18th, 1940. This was also not the date he’d predicted.

  T felt the urge to simply sit for a time on a park bench and watch people go by. An airliner droned overhead; unlike the others he’d seen, this one had two engines driving propellers. Could it be a DC-3? The model was legendary and a few of them were still flying, still hauling cargo, even as late as the 21st Century. Had jets even been invented yet? He watched the plane cruise slowly out of sight, heading west. Perhaps it was going to Omaha. If so, it would take a lot longer than he had taken to teleport east!

  T recorded the data in his notebook, noticing the similarities in time displacement. This was not surprising, since the distances were also similar. He’d teleported about 450 miles during the trip from Cheyenne to Omaha, but only 430 miles to reach Chicago. The annoying displacement in direction was still there, so he couldn’t be certain that the distances were accurate either. Perhaps being off a few degrees was the reason for the directional errors?

  The headlines mentioned things he’d only read of when researching history. The war in Europe was not going well. England fought on alone, and the headline trumpeted “This is not our war!” America was isolationist, generally favorable to Britain and France, but the memory of the slaughter on the Western Front was still too fresh for Americans to rush into another European cause.

  The Great Depression was not over, but it was no longer the crushing economic disaster it had been. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal had begun to take effect. Still, he’d seen a number of men hanging about the rail yards west of Chicago, probably some of the hoboes that characterized this period of American history. Many displaced men had not yet found jobs.

  Eleanor Roosevelt had visited the city recently and the Sun-Times had photos.

  T’s clothing had attracted more attention than he’d expected. It was late, but he thought it best to leave Chicago rather than look for a room.

  The next jump would be the longest, 750 miles at 88 degrees. T lifted into the sky and oriented himself; this time offsetting slightly north. Bridgeport was at the edge of the sea, but just to the north was enough land to ensure he wouldn’t wind up over the Atlantic. Trying to hold his position steady, he oriented himself facing 60 degrees, formed his bubble and teleported immediately.

  This time, unlike his previous attempts, the bubble flared brightly as soon as he materialized. It dimmed slightly, then flared even brighter. Alarmed, T tried to determine what was happening; had he materialized in the middle of an electrical storm? What would a lightning strike do to his bubble? Did he dare c
ollapse the bubble and take the chance of being struck by a lightning bolt?

  The bubble shimmered again and T stiffened as the shock from the overloaded bubble passed through his body. Consciousness fading, he felt himself falling. He felt the bubble strike something solid, then tumble as it rolled away from the object. He bounced, felt himself somersault, then scraped his face on the ground as his bubble collapsed.

  Stunned, T sank into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Libby looked up at the mountains. Clouds promised rain, but it wouldn’t fall on the flats where the Paiute women and children were camped.

  The people here had been good to her, taking in the strange white girl and caring for her as best they were able. Libby had found the experience interesting, although it had been nothing like television and the movies depicted. Dust and dirt managed to get into everything and even necessary bathroom calls were different. The diet had not agreed with her at first, but finally her stomach had settled down. At least she no longer experienced diarrhea! As for cleaning herself afterwards, she’d finally become accustomed to using leaves. Oh, for a roll of honest toilet paper, something so commonplace that people in the 21st Century never even noticed it!

  There was so much to learn! Libby had enjoyed that aspect of her stay, even as she fretted about what had happened to her grandfather. Had he recovered, or was he still hospitalized? She refused to think about the alternative.

  But what could she do? How had she come to this place and time? More importantly, was there any way she could go back home?

  She had no idea. As for attempting to reverse her course, that might make her situation worse.

  Libby decided to wait until she thought of what to do. However much time passed here in the past, it might have no bearing at all on Reno in 2015. By traveling into the past, she had left that other time.

  #

  The three men rode single-file, rifles across their saddles ready for instant use. Wary eyes scanned the nearby coverts, then the horizon. The sandy wash they followed held tracks of unshod horses. The tracks were a day old, but with the recent unrest among the Indians, that meant nothing. The Indians could be anywhere.