In Loving Memory of Robert A. George and Donald R. George

screen, swirling numbers continued to appear and disappear. It was like
someone trying to animate Albert Einstein’s acid trip. “Where’s the
windshield?” Sherman looked around. “Hell, where’s the steering wheel?”
The whirring noise increased, and whatever they sat in suddenly jerked
and then rattled like a jeep over rough terrain, an unnerving clanking
adding itself to the strange hum. Only the seatbelt kept Sherman from
bouncing out of his chair. He clenched his teeth to stop them from
clacking. Man, Sherman thought, that was painful.
“S-sorry,” the woman yelled over the cacophony. “I g-got to w-work
on those minor g-glitches. Hope you d-don’t lose your fries.”
For what seemed forever, but probably only amounted to several
minutes, the terrifying machine threatened to rip itself apart and them with
it. Finally the shaking and noise wound down and stopped. Silence, at
last—except for Sherman’s heart beating in his ears.
“You okay, kid?” The woman unfastened her seatbelt.
“Sure?” Sherman answered, unsure.
The woman stood up and stepped over to the wall in front of them. She
began punching the icons poking out of the screen. “Don’t get up. Got to
take you back, right now! Don’t know what your being here will do. I’m
all new to this; don’t want to mess up anythingor everything.”
“Mess up what?” Sherman felt too numb to move.
“Time.”
“Time?”
“Hell’s doorbells, said too much. Forget I said that.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Zilch. Bupkis. Nic.” She poked more images on the screen
and studied the numbers that kept popping up, all the while humming
some senseless tune.
Sherman knew he did not want to go for another ride in this cement
mixer. “Maybe I should go.” He unfastened his seatbelt and stood up. “I
need to get home. Got to feed the cat. Yeah, the cat.” Sherman didn’t have
a cat, but it sounded like a good excuse. He turned, unlatched the door,
pushed and stepped out.
“No! Wait!” The woman yelled behind him.
Sherman almost missed the step down. He stumbled, regained his
footing, and gaped as he found himself, not in a muddy patch of Shasta
daisies, but in a huge windowless room. It was brightly lit with light
emanating from a glowing white ceiling, stretching high overhead. Strange
equipment, Sherman couldn’t even begin to identify, sat on the smooth
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