With a Hey Ho, the Wind and the Rain
Part Three
Act 4. Scene 2: If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction
It was dark that early in the morning; dark and cold. Sam huddled a little closer into Miss Allister’s coat as he made his way across the street and turned the corner. The hot fresh rolls he’d picked up in the bakery were a warmth against his chest, tucked into the folds of the heavy wool, while the snow specked air cut sharp bites into his cheeks.
Perhaps we should have been doing A Winter’s Tale, he grinned to himself. Away down the street a milk van was doing its rounds and a paperboy cycled past, sliding to a halt beside the next row of mailboxes in order to make his delivery.
Small town, USA ...
Sam felt completely at home. He could recall days like this, days when he’d had to struggle out of bed on cold winter mornings to bring in the milk cows, days when he’d run all the way to school in crisp stark air, the snow snatching at his feet. Days too, huddled in front of the kitchen stove while his mother made vast steaming mugs of chocolate and handed them round with ceremony.
Warm buttered rolls, fresh doughnuts and hot chocolate. A perfect breakfast on a snow touched day.
Heaven.
Made even better if there was someone with which to share it ...
He crossed the next road, picking up his pace a little; the house that was his goal lay less than a block ahead.
"Good morning, Miss Allister!" The call turned his head; Jo-jo Bailey had emerged from the back of the milk van and was walking towards him, the weight of a delivery carrier dangling from one hand.
"Hallo, Jo-jo. I didn’t know you helped with the delivery round."
The young man grinned sheepishly, his cheeks a rosy glow from the impact of the weather. "I gotta pay for the car somehow." He shuffled his feet in the snow, obviously wondering how to make small talk with his teacher without sounding too inane. "Ah - you’re up early today?"
"Well - uh - " Sam fought down a surge of embaressment. Suddenly his implusive idea - to share the feast of hot rolls and sweet doughnuts with Jim Kinnison’s quiet laugh - took on new significance. Were unattached young ladies in the habit of sharing a working breakfast back in ‘59? He had the distinct, and sinking, feeling that perhaps they weren’t ...
"My grandfather’s going to come to the show on Saturday," Jo-jo announced with sudden brightness, fixing on a safe subject to discuss. "All the way from Greendale. Mom says he don’t believe anyone could get a Bailey to act and he just has to see the two of us make dang fools of ourselves" The attempt at mimicry was obviously meant to imitate the older man, but it was done with a great deal of affection. Sam smiled.
"You won’t," he said with assurance. The young man laughed.
"Well, I guess Mindy won’t. I’m afraid I’m a better quarterback than I am a Duke."
"You’re a very good Duke," Sam noted warmly. "So you must be a pretty hot quarterback, right?"
"Right." Jo-jo looked vaguely embaressed. "Don’t tell anyone but - I’m sorta hoping for a scholarship."
And that’s just what you’re going to get.
Providing Sam could prevent whatever tragedy still loomed in the near future of course ...
They were standing close to the end of the block, barely fifty yards from the building that had been Sam’s goal. The house on the corner was dark, its front porch in shadows and only its picket fence picked out by the flicker of a street light. Sam wondered if maybe he should just walk straight past. Something told him it might not be a good thing for a student to see Miss Allister calling on Kinnison first thing in the morning.
Better than seeing her sneaking out I guess ...
And at that exact moment a slim figure hurried down the steps of the porch, pulling its coat close against the impact of the wind. She glanced around as she reached the wooden gate, then up, at the darkened face of the house. The arc of light cast by the street lamp was a small one, and she clearly did not see the two figures who stood further down the sidewalk. She closed the gate quietly behind her and hurried across the road to where a pink and white convertible was parked. She cast another quick glance around, and then hurriedly slid into the driver’s seat.
"Sarah?" Jo-jo questioned in quiet disbelief. Sam just stared.
And then put two and two together with lightning astonishment, mortification slamming into his stomach with a hard hand.
Oh jeesus. The rumours were right ...
Jim - how could you?
The realisation was followed by a flare of fierce anger.
You bastard. Ruin your own life if you must, but not her’s ...
"Sarah?" Jo-jo questioned again, taking a half step in her direction. Sam reached out and caught his arm.
"Don’t," he advised softly. "Let’s not have a confrontation in the street."
"But - " the young man started to protest, then turned to him with a look of utter devastation. "Oh no ..."
It had taken him a little longer to get there. He glanced back at the car as it quickly pulled away into the darkness of the morning and let out something that might have been a sob. Then he tore himself away from Sam’s restraining hand and ran - in the opposite direction, a blind kind of running that paid no attention to where or how he went.
The time traveller was left standing on the corner, staring at the darkened windows of the house, the promise of hot rolls burning a hole above his heart ...
Act 4. Scene 3: How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward ...
The rest of the day passed in a daze; Sam took Miss Allister’s classes on automatic, and somehow managed to avoid Kinnison altogether - mostly by staying in the classrooms and not eating lunch at all. He sent an excuse to the rehearsal, claiming he had a headache and then fled back to Miss Allister’s tiny apartment above her father’s hardware store.
A small town girl with small town ambitions ...
And he had nearly ruined her life altogether by involving her with a two faced, low-down, lying snake-in-the-grass - who happened to be a poet and a hero, and a man who needed love and friendship and someone to beleive in him ...
"Why me?" Sam demanded of the unconcerned ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer but needing to ask it anyway.
Why do I get involved? Why do I always think I’m so damn right? Why can’t I just Leap in, do what I’m here for and go, without screwing things up on the way?
The ceiling sat above him and made no comment, which was probably just as well. Sam sighed softly, and rolled over on the bed.
There was a hurt sensation still sitting in his stomach, one that had haunted him all day.
I believed in you Jim. I trusted you ...
It didn’t help that he still didn’t quite believe the evidence of his own eyes. Kinnison was old enough to be Sarah’s father.
Not that that made a lot of difference to some people ...
"I guess you were right, Al," he muttered to himself. "I should have listened to you."
"Now there’s a quote for the history books," a familiar voice remarked with decided irony. Sam sat up in startlement - to find his hologram stood watching him with wry consideration. Smoke spiralled up from the inevitable cigar, matching the silver swirls that adorned the man’s shirt. A dark shirt that topped equally dark pants and was teamed with a soft grey fedora, a moiré patterned waistcoat and a silver tie. He looked like an out-take from a piece of film noir, all moody shades of grey and lurking atmosphere.
"Al!" the time traveller reacted. "Where have you been?"
"Never mind me," was the instant retort. "What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the rehearsal. "
"The dress rehearsal," Sam corrected caustically. "That’s tomorrow. I don’t need to be there tonight. All I have to do is be there to push Jo-jo out of the way at the right moment. Not that he’ll thank me," he added, half under his breath.
She broke his heart. Seventeen is no age to discover just how much the world stinks ...
Al frowned at him. "I don’t get it," he said. "What happened to the play’s the thing? Yesterday you were going to save Jo-jo, and Jim all in one breath."
"Jim Kinnison," the scientist announced tightly, "can save his own skin. Or dig his own grave. I don’t exactly care either way."
"Oh-oh," the Commodore noted, his frown getting deeper. "I don’t like the sound of this. What happened, kid? You do something you shouldn’t?"
Sam looked away, some of his sense of betrayal settling into his features.
How can I tell him? he wondered. He thinks so highly of the man ...
"I didn’t do a thing," he said. "Look, Al - I’m sorry, but - the school board are right."
"Right about what?" The question held suspicion and the scientist didn’t want to look his friend in the face.
"About Jim - about Kinnison. He’s - abusing his position, Al. Taking advantage ..." He paused, having to take a careful breath before he explained. "I saw Sarah leaving his house this morning. Round about seven. Jo-jo saw her too. It must be all over the school by now."
The weight of that moment still sat in his heart. He’d been so sure, so confident in his assessment of the man. The man who was so like the one who stood beside him now ...
And then he remembered how enthusisatically his hologram had admired the passing cheerleaders, and his heart sank a little lower still.
It was funny at the time ...
"Sam," Al enquired thoughtfully, "are you trying to tell me that you seriously think Jim Kinnison would -ah - with one of his students?"
"You would," he found himself saying, a caustic accusation that carried much of the hurt anger he was feeling inside. There was a moment’s stunned silence from beside him. Then Alonzo said, very quietly:
"Ah sheesh, kid. I thought you knew me better than that ..."
Do I, Al? Do I?
He turned, finding his companion staring out of the window, standing there with determined nonchelance while he chomped down on his cigar. He was managing to look vaguely insulted, a counterfeit that probably would have fooled almost anyone - except his best friend.
I hurt him, Sam realised with startled contrition. I lashed out, and I hurt him ...
But he was hurt, too, and the apology that should have sprung to his lips turned into defensive exposition instead. "Oh?" he found himself questioning sarcastically. "So what about they could rouse me with a cheer or two, anytime? And how about Holly? The moment you got here you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She’s sixteen, Al. Just sixteen."
Al turned away from the window slowly, meeting his friend’s eyes with a look of peircing intensity. "Okay," he admitted carefully. "I like to look. Sometimes I like to imagine. And if a cute bundle like Holly threw herself at me as if she knew what she was doing I might even be tempted. But not if she was my student, Sam. Not if I had a responsibility for her. I know better than that. And so does Jim Kinnison, so don’t try and tell me otherwise.
"Besides," he went on, in a slightly less agreived tone. "What were you doing outside his house at seven this morning? Delivering the milk?"
"Breakfast," Sam corrected, feeling a little ashamed over his reactive accusation. It wasn’t his friend who had let him down - just the man whom he’d thought so closely resembled him.
"Breakfast?" Al echoed with startled consternation. "Breakfast? Saam - "
"I know, I know," the scientist dismissed the reaction with a vague gesture of embaressment. "Don’t lecture me. It’s 1959 and a single young lady does not call on a batchelor for breakfast - not uninvited, anyway. It was just a spur of the moment thing. I wanted - " He paused, looking across at his intangible companion with a sudden and heart wrenching comprehension of just how vast the gulf between them was. "I just wanted to share - something with a friend. Hot rolls and chocolate. Mom - used to make it for us on a snowy morning." The recollection - that had been so warming earlier in the day - now pained him; it sat in his soul with a weight he could not quite comprehend.
I get lonely, Al. You know that. I’m so far from home, and I wanted - I guess I wanted a moment for me. Just one ...
He’d half turned away, and glanced back with apologetic intent. For a second - just a second - he had the distinct impression that Al was watching him with a sympathy that more than echoed his inner sense of desolation ...
"Hot rolls and chocolate, huh?" The Commodore recovered his equlibrium so smoothly Sam was never entirely sure whether he had imagined that look or not. "Sounds yummy. Doughnuts too, I bet."
"Yeah." The scientist felt himself colour with reactive self-consciousness and had to look away to cover it. "Cinnamon and sugar ones."
"Aww," Al groaned with deliberate exaggeration. "And all I had for breakfast was granola ..."
"Aall," Sam remonstrated softly, unsucessfully trying to supress a quiet smile. "This isn’t about breakfast. I saw Sarah leave the house, so - "
"So what?" the hologram interrupted, grinning around his cigar. "Kinnison wasn’t home. He couldn’t have been - ah - " His hand offered a vaguely demonstrative gesture that bought the hint of blush back to his audience’s cheeks. "Well, you can’t. Not when you’re not there, kid."
"Not home?"
"Nope. He went to the White Knight and Windmills in Marshall last night. And after he realised he’d had a little over the limit he booked himself into a motel rather than trying to drive back. At seven this morning he was still digging his car out of the snow drift he’d left it in."
He was still ...
So he couldn’t have ...
Hey! Wait a minute -
"How do you know that?" Sam enquired suspiciously. "I didn’t ask you to check. And you didn’t ask Vega, so - "
"So - " the hologram shrugged dismissively. "I - uh - I went with him."
What?
"It’s a great place, Sam." Al offered in enthusiastic defense. "The combo last night was really hot. I mean - they did things to Sweet Elaine you just wouldn’t believe. And the scat singer - " His indrawn breath illustrated the scat singer exactly, although it wasn’t a detail Sam was all that interested in. He sat and stared at his companion with an odd mixture of astonishment, amusement - and just a little jealousy.
You went with him?
You used the Imaging Chamber just to visit a jazz club?
Oh Al ...
He didn’t know if he should be reproachful, sympathetic, amused or annoyed; he could guess some of the reasons why his friend might succumb to the temptation, but it seemed a flagrant misuse of the technology involved.
Even if it did prove a man innocent of the crime Sam had been accusing him of ...
"I haven’t spent a night like that in - years," Al concluded with relish. "And you were right, you know?"
"Right?" Sam frowned at what seemed to be a total non sequiter. "Right about what?"
The Commodore hestitated, suddenly reluctant to meet his friend’s eyes. "About - you know. Twixt fields of dreaming and the startled sky ... That stuff."
Ohhh. Sam mouthed the reaction, following it with an amused smile. There was something - sweet - about a man who was prepared to boldly announce his regard for Shakespeare and yet still be so hesitant in admitting he’d actually enjoyed a poetry reading.
I guess it doesn’t go with the hard bitten image ...
Except that Kinnision’s poetry pulled no punches, and had undoubtably said a lot to the ex-pilot whose life had held so many similar experiences.
Twixt feilds of dreaming and the startled sky,
I dance among the fire, lost in the moment, unaware of time -
Focused on the twist and turn of wings that carry friend and foe;
Offering death.
Accepting it ...
"Well," the scientist said after a moment, "I guess I owe Jim an apology."
"Damn right you do." The Commodore’s agreement held a quiet edge, and Sam dipped his head a little lower.
You too, Al ...
He couldn’t quite formulate the words with which to express that thought; he glanced up anyway, finding himself being watched with haunted consideration. Then Al grinned, and jammed the cigar back between his lips, and above it his eyes adopted that warm and familiar twinkle that said hey kid, I know you’re doing your best here ...
Which let Sam know that he’d been forgiven far better than any words might have done.
Act 5. Scene 1: O time, thou must untangle this, not I ...
"Miss Allister?" Mr Parkinson’s voice was an unexpected interjection into Sam’s distracted thoughts. He looked round from the blackboard, and found the principal leaning through the half open door to the school room. "May I have a word with you, please?"
"Of course." Sam put down the chalk and swept the studious assembly in front of him with stern attention. "Just work to the end of the page please. And quietly - or I shall give you all a spot spelling test."
The groan that followed that suggestion was heartfelt, and its originators all bent back to their books with hasty diligence. Sam smiled to himself and moved to join the school principal in the coridoor.
"How can I help you, Mr Parkinson?" he enquired. The Principal sighed.
"I don’t know that you can," he said. "But - you’ve been spending a lot of time with Mr Kinnison just recently, haven’t you? With the rehearsal and all that?"
"I suppose I have," Sam answered guardedly. He’d not been able to judge Parkinson’s attitude towards the situation; on the surface the man appeared to be a principal of the old school, hot on discipline and insistent on the rules being important.
"Has he ever - uh - made - um - improper overtures towards you?"
Improper ...? Sam fought down a sudden desire to laugh. After all, it had been him who initiated that kiss ...
"Of course not," he answered instead, putting what he hoped was the right amount of indignation into the words. Parkinson looked releived.
"Thank you," he breathed, relaxing sufficiently to rest his weight against the nearest wall. "That’s what I hoped you’d say. We have a problem, Lizzie May, and I don’t know how to deal with it."
"A problem?" Sam’s question held a note of surprise. Not concerning the matter at hand, but at Parkinson’s casual use of a far less formal mode of address.
Lizzie May? Is that what her friend’s call her? And how long has Parkinson numbered among them?
The Principal glanced up and down the empty corridoor before answering; the look confirmed the impression that he would not be overheard. "I don’t want to lose Jim Kinnsion," he announced. "He’s the best English teacher this school has. No offence intended, of course."
The smile was automatic. "None taken. I happen to agree with you. But why - ?"
"There’s another rumour going round." Parkinson’s sigh was heartfelt. "I thought we’d cleared all that up, after that business with Cindy Kelly. The girl was a tramp, and ambitious with it. It’s just that - dirt sticks. You understand."
Sam nodded, concern settling on his features. Another rumour? Who else - apart from he and Jo-jo - had seen Sarah leave Kinnison’s house the previous morning?
"I’m sure its all perfectly innocent, but the board - they want an emergency meeting after school today. Can you manage the rehearsal by yourself? I think Pucket is out for a pound of flesh and Jim’s too good a target for him to miss. He really has to be there. "
Pucket?
"Eugene’s father? Why would he - ?"
Parkinson sighed a second time. "He’s got ambitions. Want to be mayor. And being seen as a strong moral enforcer is going to win him votes ..."
I hate small town politics, Sam considered gloomily as he returned to work. He didn’t like the way things were stacking up; the threat to Kinnison’s career, the situation between Jo-jo and Sarah - it was one horrendous mess, and if he were really there to prevent the impending accident, then there was a strong likelyhood that he was going to Leap out before he’d had a chance to fix any of it.
And how am I going to be in two places at once? I have to be at the rehearsal to save Jo-jo, but if I do that I can’t speak up for Jim before the board ...
He dismissed his current class and went through into the storage cupboard, where he started to sort through the stack of books for the texts he wanted for the next session. His hands fell on a copy of Much ado about Nothing, and he pulled it down from the shelf in order to stare at the title with wry appreciation of its appropriate irony.
Deception and misconception. Shakespeare used it all the time. He’d have loved this situation. Here am I - a man disguised as a woman - guided by an unseen spirit ...
He smiled briefly at the thought, recalling how Kinnison had referred to the young Calavicci as his ‘perfect Puck’.
... and trying to engineer a happy ending for all the various players in this comedy of errors.
Myself included ...
Sam sighed, reaching to put the book back on the shelf.
If only I could be certain this would all be set right before the final curtain falls ...
Act 5. Scene 2: For meddle you must, that’s certain ...
The rehearsal was not going well. Kinnison had arrived at the start of it, only to announce that he’d been called away; Sam had found himself with barely time to wish his fellow teacher luck before he’d vanished back into the depths of the school. Not that the scientist would have known what else to say had he had the chance - it was just that the look of weary resignation the man had carried away with him almost made Sam change his mind.
Maybe I should just cancel the rehearsal and go to the meeting. Jo-jo can’t get hurt if he’s not here ...
But the stunned expressions with which the gathered cast greeted the news of their director’s absence had reminded him that there was more at stake here than the future of one man; this play was important to all its participants. So he’d sighed softly and set the proceedings in motion, dispatching the cast to get dressed while he waited in the hall and fretted about what might be happening elsewhere.
Al had arrived shortly afterwards, delivering the gloomy news that nothing had changed as yet - the accident was still about to happen, and Kinnsion was heading for a major fall. Since Vega had not yet managed to identify the details surrounding the young man’s death, Sam had asked his Observer to go check on the meeting and keep an eye on things while he watched the rehearsal.
"But come back the minute Vega has anything," he’d requested; Al had nodded an anxious agreement and vanished like a phantom Ariel dispatched at his Prospero’s command.
Which had left Sam hovering like a disconsolate Hamlet, torn between the demands of love and the needs of duty ...
"If music be the food of love, play on." Jo-jo’s Duke was more than sufficiently melancholy in his opening scene, but his delivery was lackluster and his performance lacked conviction. This was not a man stricken by the throes of affection. This was a man who’d died of it.
I wonder if he and Sarah have even spoken to each other since yesterday? And if she knows why he’s so upset?
Sam suspected not; Sarah Dunkin watched the scene from the wings with the rest of the group, wearing the outfit she needed for her first entrance. Her face was creased in anxious puzzlement, and her hands played restlessly with the collar of her artfully stained dress. A black, late forties cocktail number, donated by a perplexed parent with the appropriate permission to add marks of misfortune. With her hair dishevelled and her feet bare, Sarah more than matched the image of the shipwrecked and abandoned young damsel in distress.
But the reasons for it had little to do with the bleak coast of a fictional Illyria ...
The Duke and his court left the stage. Viola and assorted sailors began to replace them while the stage hands manfully hauled scenery and curtains into place. Sam watched Jo-jo seek the refuge of the wings on the other side of the stage and wondered if he should go over and speak to him.
"Miss Allister?" The stage whisper was a hiss of apology that turned Sam’s head in startlement. Malvolio hovered at his shoulder, the dark morning suit making the young man look vaguely sinister. "Someone stole my staff of office. I think they’ve hidden it in the little girls room ..."
Oh boy ...
There is always someone that becomes the butt of the school jokes. Moe Lawson had the unfortunate honour of being elected victim at Eleanor Roosevelt High. Never anything serious of course, but just enough to make the young man’s life vaguely miserable. It wasn’t even specifically intentional; merely the result of thoughtless high spirits.
But his disconsolate expression was the last thing Sam needed right there and then.
"Stay here," he requested with a sigh. "I’ll go and look."
He dipped his head around the curtain, signalling to Mrs Wells, the music teacher, in order to let her know he had to leave the hall. She waved back distractedly, absorbed in rearranging her orchestra and Sam could only hope that she’d got the message.
"Take your places when the stage is ready, but wait for me" he requested to the group on stage, and then headed for the side door and the school washroom that the girls had staked out as dressing room and make-up area.
"It’s going beautifully!"
The exclamation was filled with breathless delight; Sam paused in the passageway, then stepped quietly forward to peer through the half open door of the washroom. Helen Camdell was there, staring into the mirrors as she added the last careful touches to her make-up.
"Did you hear his excuse for yesterday? I gotta practice ... If he wasn’t such a hunk he’d be a real jerk. And you know - I had to spend ages pursuading him he mustn’t let the rest of us down today."
She didn’t sound too put out about the fact. Postively purring Sam thought.
"Well, I still think it’s mean." The listener frowned for a moment until he recognised the voice; Greta, one of Helen Camdell’s cronies and a walk-on courtier in the play - one that should have been in the opening scene. "It’s not as if she did anything."
"Yes, she did ," Helen noted unsympathetically. "Or she wanted to ... Come on - would you go for that stupid message? I’m going to need that book I lent you - would you drop it off at my house before school? "
"Come early," Greta continued the quote with relish. "We may have time to go over some of your lines ..." She finished with a chuckle; Helen joined in, laughing at the implied naivity of their victim.
Sam - who’d been halfway into formulating what he hoped would sound like a stern admonishment - found his mouth dropping open.
They set her up.
Poor Sarah ...
Poor Jo-jo!
His startled realisation was followed by immediate indignation. This - prank - had not only been inconsiderately cruel, but had caused immeasurable harm to both its intended victims and the man who’d been used as an innocent foil for the joke.
Dirt sticks, Parkinson had said. Perhaps Sarah had responded to the implied undertones of the message, innocently assuming that there might be some vague and romantic truth behind the whispers and that the handsome Mr Kinnsion was some fairy tale prince who’d decided to sweep her off her feet.
Perhaps it was just as well he wasn’t home ...
Sam stormed past the concealment of the door, startling both girls with equal effectiveness. Greta looked anxiously guilty; Helen tried to brazen it out.
"Oh - Miss Allister. Have we started? I’m almost ready ..."
"You should have been ready ten minutes ago," Sam interrupted her coldly. "But from what I just overheard, perhaps it’s just as well you weren’t. I take it Sarah’s visit yesterday was your idea. Are either of you aware of what you’ve done?"
The girls glanced at each other; one looked vaguely sheepish. The other defiantly petulant.
"It was just a joke ..." Helen began, tailing off under the icy stare she was getting. "Really it was."
"I’m not laughing." The scientist fixed the two of them with stern consideration. "Nor is Jo-jo. And I doubt that Mr Kinnsion will be after the school board fire him."
"Fire Mr Kinnison?" Greta’s squeak was a horrified one. "But why ...?"
Sam sighed, realising that she, at least, really did have no idea of what might have resulted from the so called joke.
It’s only fifty-nine, he reminded himself wearily. Back then, the sweet sixteen’s were expected to be innocent.
Helen, by way of contrast, made the connection with sudden wide eyed alarm. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh no," she gasped. "Miss Allister, we just wanted Jo-jo to think ..."
"What one man considers, the world knows," Sam pointed out sternly, only too well aware that he’d been just as guilty of jumping to conclusions as everybody else seemed to have been. "You don’t play jokes with people’s lives."
"Sam!" Al’s alarmed figure popped into startling existence right in front of him. "You need to be on stage! Vega thinks Jo-jo’s about to buy the farm ..."
Everything always happens at once ...
Sam grimaced at the inevitable timing of events. "Find Moe’s staff and bring it back to him," he snapped. "I’ll speak to you both later."
He turned away before they answered, spurred by Al’s anxious gestures for speed.
"Hurry up, kid," the hologram was insisting. "You got three minutes. Maybe."
Maybe?
The scientist ran along the corridor, pushing his way through the side doors into the hall and taking the steps to the stage two at a time. The curtains were still closed and Mrs Wells gave him an astonished look as he hastily ducked behind their weight.
The sound of voices and laughter registered immediately.
"Ho, ha, huh," Rowdy was proclaiming centre stage, waving his prop sword about with relish. One of the heavy metal rapiers; it cut through the air with a decided swish. Most of the cast were grinning at his antics, with the exception of Moe, who appeared to be the focus of his bravdo.
"Please Rowdy," the young man begged anxiously. "Don’t ..."
"Have at thee," the swordsman laughed, lashing across with the weapon and making his victim leap back in alarm. Sam frowned, taking in the situation.
If he keeps that up, someone’s going to get hurt ...
"Cut it out, meathead," Jo-jo commanded with irritation just as Sam started across the stage to halt the high jinks. No-one had noticed him as yet, their eyes focused on the interplay between the young men in their midst.
"But he besirched thy lady’s honour," Rowdy declared, swinging round to wave the blade in Sarah’s direction. "Wilt thou stand for that?"
"I said, cut it out," Jo-jo growled, stepping between the swordsman and his intended target. A green and gold clad hologram popped into view behind them both, tugging the cigar from his lips to announce:
"This is it, Sam."
Everything tumbled into motion with inevitability.
Rowdy completed his flashy pirorette, and tripped over his own feet, weight and impetus carrying him forward, the sword outstretched in front of him. Somone gasped in alarm. Moe froze. Jo-jo turned, just in time to see the point of the blade heading straight for him -
- and then his teacher’s weight impacted against the falling figure, deflecting the angle of attack, and spilling the both of them to the stage. The sword missed Jo-jo by bare millimeters, whispering past his torso and tangling in the weight of his leather jacket.
From his sprawl on the stage Sam heard Al let out a slow breath above the soft squeal of his handlink. "Nice timing, kid," the Commodore observed with feeling.
Thanks. I think.
God, but that was close ...
"Are you all right, Miss Allister?"
There were hands reaching to help him up; Eugene was there, absurd in his prop moustache, and Andrew, wrapped in his uncle’s Yale blazer. He used their support to regain his feet and swept a glance across the assembled crowd. Greta and Helen had clearly followed him; they were hovering at the back of the group and trying to look inconspicuous.
Sam drew in a careful breath and looked across at Rowdy, who’d climbed to his feet with a sheepish grin.
"I’m -ah - sorry, Miss Allister," the young man hazarded, hunching down a little in the tweed jacket he’d picked to suit Sir Toby. "We were just - Moe said something about Sarah and - I thought - "
"No, you didn’t," Sam snapped with authority.
All of this has gone far enough ...
"You didn’t think. You never do. Any of you." He reached over to tug the prop from Rowdy’s hand, glaring round the cast once he’d retreived it. "This isn’t a toy. And practical jokes can go too far. I’m ashamed of you," he announced, addressing all of them. "Mr Kinnison and I have worked really hard to help you with this play. We’ve given you a chance to - to learn something, a real opportunity to show how mature and responsible you can be. And how do you repay us? With spiteful jokes and stupid stunts.
"You don’t care, do you? Don’t care about the dumb play, or your grades, or your futures. Don’t care that we care - that we want to help you make something of yourselves. Oh, no. You’ll just go on horsing around until someone gets hurt - or killed - and by then it’ll be too late to be sorry."
Feet shuffled uncomfortably on the stage, but Sam hadn’t finished with them. Not by a long shot.
"Helen, come here."
She edged forward warily, the prop staff cradled against her.
"Yes, Miss Allister?"
"I believe you owe Sarah and Jo-jo an apology. Don't you?"
She winced. "Yes, Miss Allister. Here, Miss Allister?"
"Here," Sam insisted sternly. Al was watching him with approval, although his eyes held a hint of anxiety - perhaps wondering why the traveller hadn’t Leaped out now that Jo-jo was safe. He knew. He knew that he still had things to accomplish ...
Helen swallowed. Hard. "I’m - sorry," she muttered, before it all came out in a rush. "It was just for fun, I swear - Mr Kinnison didn’t send you that message, Sarah, we did. And we timed it so that Jo-jo would see, and think ...."
Sarah’s jaw dropped; several eyes turned in her direction, Jo-jo’s among them.
"You mean - she didn’t -?" His reaction was dazed.
"Of course not," Sam interjected firmly. "She didn’t even see Mr Kinnison yesterday morning, did you, Sarah?"
"No," the girl answered, sounding somewhat bewildered. "He wasn’t home ... Jo-jo? Did you see - and - and think - How could you?"
The young man looked abashed; from somewhere behind him, Al grinned.
"Yeah," he echoed with warm irony. "How could you?"
Sam shot a brief glare of irritation in his direction before returning his attentions to the gathered cast.
"People like to gossip, Sarah. They think there’s no smoke without fire. And rumor grows into scandal almost before you know it. He jumped to the worst conclusion. Just the school board has. And that one little joke is likely to cost Mr Kinnison his job."
A mutter of alarm ran round the company at that announcement.
"Just as this one," Sam continued sternly, hefting the prop sword "nearly cost Jo-jo his life. You don’t believe me?" he added at the looks this generated. "Watch."
He flicked the sword over in his hand and stabbed downwards with it, hard. The blunt point impacted into the wooden boards and peirced deep. When he took away his hand the length of the weapon stayed upright and quivering.
"That’s why we coreograph the fight scenes," he said. "Why you have to pay attention. And why I’m cancelling the rest of this rehearsal."
"Wha - " The collective gasp was a dismayed one. It didn’t sway Sam’s decision in the slightest.
"I don’t think any of you care enough to make this work. Why should you get the chance to show off in front of the school if you’re not prepared to take any of it seriously? You can all go home and think about it. Think about how much you want this, and we can reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning."
He turned to walk away, then looked back, dropping his exit line with perfect timing.
"Maybe you aren’t prepared to make an effort for Mr Kinnsion, for me - or the school. But you could at least consider making the effort for yourselves."
Act 5. Scene 2: One sir, that for his love dares yet do more ...
"Wasn’t that a little harsh, Sam?" Al asked the question as if unsure of how it might be receieved. The scientist barely paused in his stride as he pushed his way through the obstruction of the hall doors, but he did half turn to throw an acknowledging glance in his company’s direction.
"Maybe," he agreed, heading down the corridoor towards the library. "But I had to think of something so I could get away. I saved Jo-jo - and I haven’t leaped, right? So there must be something more for me to do."
The hologram didn’t even try to match his companion’s lanky pace. Instead he tapped a series of keys on the handlink and reappeared further down the passage, waiting there with a expectant look in his eye.
"Like -ah - rescuing a downed pilot?" he suggested, as diffidently as he could manage - which wasn’t very, but still remarkably good acting, given the circumstances. Sam suppressed a quiet grin and nodded determinedly instead.
"He’s mid ocean and drifting, Al. Let’s find a way to throw him a lifeline before he drowns, okay?"
"O-kay." The note of enthusiasm came packed with relish; the man might just as well have said aye aye sir, and snapped a salute. "Go get ‘em, kid."
"You bet," Sam noted half under his breath, and reached to push open the library door.
I just wish I knew how ...
Inside the normally quiet room a heated debate was in progress. The study tables had been pushed together to form a makeshift U, with the members of the board seated around it’s outside edge. In the middle of the layout another table had been placed. James Kinnison sat at one end of it, Mr Parkinson at the other; the principal looked worried, the English teacher merely bored.
It looks like a courtroom, Sam registered with disquiet. A kangeroo court. With no defence and no jury ...
"... the school’s reputation has to be considered - "
"This school’s reputation is unblemished, Mr Chairman, and I will have you know - "
The words were flying back and forth with vehemance, mostly between the lean faced individual who occupied the most central seat and the two extremes of the U. One end was taken up by a portly man with a florid face, the other by an equally impassioned woman in a dark blue dress.
"Surely the needs of the students - "
"The students do not need poor role models ..."
From somewhere to Sam’s right, Commodore Calavicci sighed. With feeling.
"Committees," he remarked. "Don’tcha just love ‘em?"
The comment was amused, but it also carried a hint of weary martyrdom, an acknowledgement of all too familiar territory. Sam experienced a disconcerting moment of deja vu; he could recall Al saying exactly the same thing to him, in exactly the same tone - only he couldn’t place the where, the when, or the why ...
"Let’s see," his hologram continued, unlimbering the handlink to check his facts. "That’s Frank Pucket in the middle there - owner of the town construction company and Chairman of the school board. Then you got Martin Snorgard from the town council, Sherman Gallard, George Weiss ..."
Sam let the names wash over him as he assessed the scene; the debate seemed to be more about scoring political position than making a point and Parkinson was fiddling discomfortedly with his pen, obviously torn between the need to stay on the board’s good books and the desire to silence their inanity with the kind of authority he showed to his students. Kinnison seemed unconcerned. He appeared to be doodling, scrawling lines of text in the margins of the otherwise pristine notepaper under his hand. Once Al had completed his introductions he wandered over to take a look at what his old mentor might be doing.
"... and personally speaking, I think a real gentleman would offer his resignation on the spot."
Eva Yorgenson’s final point; she sat down after it, leaving an expectant silence hanging in the air. Practically every eye on the room swivelled round to fix on the subject of their discussion, who sighed.
"And Brutus is an honorable man," he muttered, half under his breath. Kinnison put down his pen, glanced sideways at his Principal, and then slowly leaned back into his chair. "It sounds like you’ve all made up your minds," he said. "Which rather makes anything I might say redundant, doesn’t it? Well," he sighed a second time, "if you really want my resignation - "
"No!" The reaction was involuntary, the denial expressed before the time traveller could stop himself. He took a step forward, making himself the centre of attention. "Jim - don’t ..."
Kinnsion looked as startled as the rest of them. "Miss Allister?" he questioned, just as Parkinson said, in equal suprise, "Lizzie May?"
Sam’s determination faltered; he was surrounded by hostile eyes and - now he had their attention - he wasn’t at all sure of what to say to them. "Say something, kid," he heard Al advise encouragingly.
"Mr Pucket," he began hesitantly, "I don't really think this is very fair ..."
"Were you invited to this meeting, Miss Allister?" Frank Pucket’s question was barbed. It carried a really heavy hint of you’d better not make trouble or else, and was decidely intimidating. Sam forced himself to take a deep breath.
"No, Mr Pucket," he admitted, only too aware of Parkinson’s disconcerted expression. "But the Consititution gives every man the right to a fair hearing and I don’t think that’s what’s happening here."
"Mr Kinnsion has had every chance to speak on his own behalf," Pucket announced, earning several nods of agreement from the rest of the board.
"Against what?" Sam demanded, taking another step into the room. "Against unsubstantiated rumor? Against narrow minded assumptions? Does he even know what he’s supposed to have done?"
Kinnsion winced. Parkinson made shushing motions with his hands and Pucket frowned. Sternly.
"Miss Allister," he growled. "This really is none of your business. We are trying to keep the matter quiet for the sake of the school’s reputation."
"For the sake of your reputation more like," Al interjected sarcastically. "Come on, milord," he muttered, frowning at Kinnison’s inaction. "Once more into the breech, and all that stuff. Geesus ... " He waved his hands in helpless frustration. "Do something, will ya? Before they shoot Miss Lizzie May here down to join ya. And what would Buckie say about that?"
Kinnsion didn’t hear him - but his resigned expression was deepening into a frown of disquiet. A spark - just a hint of one - flared in the depths of his eyes.
"What matter?" Sam was into his stride by now, and that flicker of promise was inspiring. "Some half baked rumour about a student spending the night? That’s just so much - " He caught back the first description that came to mind, concious that it was probably a word Miss Allister didn’t even know, let alone ever use. "- stuff and nonsense. He wasn’t even home that evening."
"And how would you know?" Pucket questioned, sharing a knowing smile with his nearest neighbour. His tone was decidedly condescending.
"I - " The scientist wasn’t sure how to answer that. Claim he was there? Hardly, since that would simply demolish Miss Allister’s reputation along with Kinnison’s. "A friend told me ..." He let his voice tail off, knowing that it sounded lame, however true it might be. Parkinson reached out a sympathetic hand and patted soothingly at Sam’s arm.
"It isn’t just the rumours, Lizzie May," he said gently. "The board are concerned that Mr Kinnison’s lifestyle makes him an inappropriate role model for our students."
"Inappropriate? Jim Kinnison?" Sam’s reaction was one of startled disbelief. "The man’s a hero. His war record - "
"His war record is not at issue here," Pucket interrupted sternly. "It was because of that that we took him on in the first place. But he has not lived up to our expectations. We have to ask - what kind of future will he give Atherton’s children? And I’m afraid that I - along with a great many others - feel that Mr Kinnison’s teaching will never inspire any kind of great acheivement."
Sam couldn’t help the sideways glance he threw towards his otherwise unseen company.
Any kind of great acheivement? Like reaching senior rank in the Navy? Or even becoming an astronaut ...?
But he could hardly produce that as evidence, and he doubted that the man’s teacher would claim much responsiblity for it in any case.
"Some are born great," Kinnison drawled ironically, slumping in his chair, "some acheive greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them ... Let it go, Miss Allister. They’re right. I’m not reaching these kids where it matters."
"But you are," the scientist insisted, his expression twisting with frustration as he realised he had no way of proving that. "You can’t just - give up, Jim. You can’t."
Al was staring disconsolately at the handlink. "Odds are he’s goin’ too, kid. Ah, come on, milord. I believe in ya. Sam here beleives in ya. Why can’t you believe in yourself ...?"
Why can’t he?
Sam considered the question anxiously, aware that he was losing this particular battle and that he was practically out of ammunition, too.
Because he thinks he has nothing left to fight for, that’s why ...
Shot down in flames.
Mid ocean and drowning.
Twixt feilds of dreaming and the startled sky ...
Maybe there was one line of attack he hadn’t used yet.
"You’ve got to keep trying," Sam offered encouragingly. "To touch the far horizon, which stays forever out of reach. Isn’t that what Buckie would say?"
The echo of his own words lifted Jim Kinnison’s head; the mention of his friend’s name curled a slow smile onto his face.
"Yeah," he breathed softly. "That’s exactly what he’d say ..."
"Miss Allister," Frank Pucket said with indications of impatience. "Your loyalty to your fellow teacher is probably commendable, but I’m afraid that we have to account for public opinion - that is," he corrected hastily, "we must consider the needs of the students at all times."
"So why not just ask them what they want?" The question was out before Sam really thought about it. It earned him a very surprised look from Parkinson, a frown from Pucket - and a decided grin from Kinnison. One that was echoed by the intangible figure who stood at his shoulder - although the Commodore shook his head behind the reaction, only too aware that the idea was a good twenty or thirty years ahead of its time ...
"Miss Allister, please." Pucket sigh was patient. "I really don’t think - now what? "
His question was an irritated one; the door that Sam had shut discretely behind him had opened again, allowing a lanky figure who wore an ill fitting suit and a patently false moustache to poke his head into the room.
"Dad?" Eugene Pucket enquired cautiously. "Can I have a word with you?"
"Not now, Eugene," was the instant reaction, growled with annoyance. "I’m dealing with school business. And what the - heck - are you doing in that ridiculous get up?"
"This is school business," the young man protested. "And this is my costume, Dad. For the play? I’m the clown." And he slid the rest of the way into the library with a perfect Groucho Marx stalk, complete with the wiggled eyebrows and a wave of his prop cigar. Several of the board members chuckled; Pucket was not one of them.
"Eugene," Parkinson began to say, getting to his feet as he did so. "This really is not - " He broke off in confusion; Rowdy Lynch had followed his fellow thespian into the room - and a hasty gesture on his part had encouraged a whole troupe of students to follow him.
In fact troupe was the literal word for them; they were all still in costume, from the drape of Moe Lawson’s long tailed morning coat to the bobby socks and ra-ra skirts of the Count Orsino’s female courtiers.
"Please, sir," Rowdy requested, addressing his principal with a vaguely sheepish expression, "we’d like to say something to the school board."
"Well, whaddya know, Sam?" Al noted with delight. "I think the cavalry just came over the hill ..."
Sam threw him a wary glance - and Kinnison obviously thought it was meant for him, because he responded with a small shrug. One that clearly said don’t look at me.
Which was exactly what everyone did.
"Mr Kinnsion," Frank Pucket demanded tightly, "is this your idea? Or yours Miss Allister?"
"Nobody asked us to come, Mr Pucket," Jo-jo announced, pushing forward through the group.
"We just - wanted to," Sarah added with a hesitant smile.
"It - isn’t fair, Dad," Eugene protested, getting nods of agreement from the group behind him. "You firing Mr Kinnison. He didn’t do anything. And you said - you said that if the play was a success then you’d have to admit you were wrong. Well, you were wrong. Mr Kinnison and Miss Allister have worked real hard for this and - well," he admitted with a grimace, "we should have done. It was us, dad. All the japes, and the damage to the costumes ... Even the business with Sarah. That was a joke on her and Jo-jo, and nothing to do with Mr Kinnison at all. You can’t fire him, Dad. It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right, and - he’s the best teacher we’ve got in this school. He can even get Rowdy reading poetry."
"Yeah," Rowdy interjected. "The hard stuff."
Someone on the board smothered a chuckle at that; even Pucket had to fight hard not to smile. Parkinson didn’t bother to conceal his reaction. He grinned instead, a broad smile that quite transformed his authoritarian face.
"Please, dad. We all talked it over, and - we want Mr Kinnison to stay."
If only it were that simple ...
Sam turned to consider Frank Pucket’s expression. It had settled into disconcerted lines, and the look he shared with his fellow board members was an anxious one. Eva Yorgenson frowned.
"Mr Parkinson," she demanded haughtily, "is this how you keep discipline in your school? Letting the children run wild, thinking they can just interrupt important meetings? This is hardly a matter that concerns them - "
"On the contrary," the principal interrupted with authority. "On this occasion they are the matter. Mr Pucket," he said, turning towards the chairman with a resolute expression, "Frank - I have been sitting here for the past hour, listening to the kind of narrow minded opinion that you and I swore we would never succumb to, back in the days when we were at school. And I would hate to think that we were raising these children to accept such dictates as gospel. Mr Kinnsion is a fine teacher - and one that inspires real loyalty, if this is anything to go by - and is definite asset to this school. The board can ask for his resignation if they wish - but if they do, then they can expect mine to follow it."
"And mine," Sam piped up, not sure if he were expressing solidarity with his fellow teacher, or their principal. Since both men offered him a quick glance of gratitude, he guessed it didn’t really matter. Pucket sat down. Heavily.
"I see," he said. The man sitting next to him leant across and muttered something that made its hearer wince. "Yes, I know ... Henry," he sighed. "You do make things difficult."
"If you wanted easy, Frank," Parkinson smiled, "then you should have stayed a hall monitor."
"You know," Al remarked with surprise, "I think I could get to like this guy ..."
Me too, Sam thought, looking at Parkinson with new respect. Kinnsion was obviously fighting to hold back a grin.
"Please, Dad - " Eugene interjected, only to snap his mouth shut under his father’s glare.
"Out." Pucket ordered sharply. "All of you kids, out. You too, Miss Allister. Mr Kinnsion. The board has business to discuss."
Sam shot a wary glance at his hovering hologram - who was studying the handlink with a thoughtful frown - and was relieved to see the start of a satisfied smile curl onto his friend’s face.
That’s it. That has to be it.
So why haven’t I Leaped yet ...?
Sam hesitated - and Parkinson turned to wave both him and the gathered youngsters away with senatorial authority. "Take your players and finish your rehearsal, Lizze May," he requested. "Take care of her," he added as an aside to Kinnsion, who’d risen to his feet to follow the general exodus.
Within moments, Sam found himself back outside the library, guided by the warm touch of a man’s hand on his arm. "On stage in five," Kinnison warned, sending the gaggle of would be thespians scurrying down the passageway. Then he turned and smiled at his company with grateful warmth. "Thank you," he said softly. "I think you may have just saved my life in there."
"It wasn’t me," the scientist protested with an embarresed shrug. "It was all of them ..."
"Maybe," the ex-pilot smiled. "But I think you had a lot to do with it. You know," he added thoughtfully, "you may be the wrong sex, but - you kinda remind me of Buckie. He never gave up, either. I wish you’d been able to meet him." He took half a step away then turned back, the smile widening into a much warmer one. "No, I don’t," he decided. "He’d have stolen your heart for certain."
He leant forward, probably intending to plant a soft kiss on Miss Allister’s cheek. A contact Sam probably should have ducked, only he caught sight of Al watching them both from further down the corridoor - and a sudden sense of utter mischeif inspired him to turn and meet that proffered kiss with one of his own.
It won’t hurt to do this one more time ...
"Saam!" he heard, his name spluttered with decided indignation, and it was hard not to succumb to the temptation of laughter.
What’s the matter, Al?
Jealous?
He hid a decided grin as he pulled away, a little disconcerted by discovering that kissing Kinnison had been just as pleasent an experience the second time around. Al was staring at them both as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes.
"I think he’d have competition," Sam murmured, acknowledging the teacher’s earlier remark, and intending it to be the complement it sounded. Kinnison chuckled softly.
"Maybe," he said. "Come on." He stepped back and offered up his arm. "Let us to Illyria, lady."
There was still no tingle of an impending Leap. It was as if that one last thing still waited somewhere, just out of reach. Jim Kinnison was smiling at him, a warm and confident smile that looked as if it might be back to stay.
Not that I’m exactly in a hurry to leave ...
He risked a darted glance in his holgram’s direction. Al’s indignant astonishment had given way to a mild frown - one that mixed exasperation, affection, and just a little reproach.
What’s left? the traveller wanted to ask. Why haven’t I Leaped? But there was no way he could - so he smiled and took the arm instead, returning his attention to the man at his side.
"As you command, milord."
Kinnison chuckled, starting to lead the way down the coridoor. "You know," he noted reminiscently, "that was what that imp Calavicci always called me ..."
Act 5: Scene 3. And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges ....
Imp? Imp?
Alonzo wasn’t sure if he felt insulted - or flattered. The off-hand comment certainly threw him. He was left standing by the library door with his mouth open while his old mentor gallantly escorted his friend and lover away down the hall. So Kinnison does remember me ...
The realisation sparked a flare of decided warmth - along with a surge of embaressment and a hint of self-satisfaction.
Well, whad’ya know ...?
After that startled moment, he gave himself a little shake and went in pursuit. A hurried one: he knew that Sam had undoubtably completed the task he’d been set and that he would probably Leap at any minute.
Which would mean that he was about to lose him all over again ...
There was always drama and tension in a Leap - some much more so than others - and he dealt with that as best he could, an intangible witness to events played out in past time. He’d get caught up in the momentum of events, becoming entangled in the intricacies of other people’s lives almost as much as Sam had to - and over all of that lay the constant emotional punch of being there and yet not being there. Of sharing his absent lover’s company; of seeing him, of hearing him - and knowing that he was helpless to interfere whenever danger threatened. Knowing that he could not touch him; that all he had was an image, and that was of a man who did not remember, who had no idea ...
But even that was precious. If he allowed himself to think about it, every moment he spent in the Imaging Chamber would be an exquiste torture, a tantalising reward for constancy. For faith. He knew how to hold on to hope; he’d anchored himself in it, that first day, that soul shaking moment when - immersed in the elation of finding Samwise alive, and whole, and living in the past, just he’d planned - he’d met only confusion in those wide and trusting eyes.
I’ll remember for the both of us, he’d vowed, unsure if he were spitting angry at the scientist’s impetuous actions, or just weeping through all the jagged cracks in his soul. The ones that had been smoothed down and sealed by the gentle ministrations of a man’s love ...
Love and hate, Beeks had said, perhaps unaware of how close he had come to the truth. That there were days when the anger and the bitterness got the upper hand - days when Alonzo Calavicci could quite cheerfully strangle his determined saint for ever having Leaped in the first place. For leaving him to deal with the aftermath, for leaving him to face all the diplomatic shit he had to shovel just to keep the Project functioning - and sometimes, sometimes, just for leaving him at all ...
Negative feelings for negative moments. It was easier to get angry than to invite despair. And sometimes the anger kept him focused in the days of uncertainty between Leaps.
The echoing, empty days he was going to have to face again, real soon.
But not now. Now was the moment to snatch every last ounce of what he could; to savour each and every second that he had left. And this time not just Sam’s company - but also that of the man they had helped, the hero who had once set his feet on the path towards the stars ...
I owe him, Al considered as he stood in the empty auditorium and watched Jim Kinnison conjure magic from young and eager hearts. I owe him my dreams, and through them my acheivements - and a few of my failures, I guess.
He adjusted the orientation of Vega’s imagery so that he could stalk across and perch himself on the edge of the stage, and settled there to provide an unseen audience to the disjointed rehersal. The handlink slipped easily into his pocket, and he extracted a fat cigar and lit up, intending to make the best of those final moments.
"What is love? ‘Tis not hereafter;
"Present mirth hath present laughter;
"What’s to come is still unsure."
Eugene’s voice cracked a little on the high notes, but he made up for his small talent by delivering the song with sheer enthusiasm. Al gave him a round of applause at the end of it, one the artiste was totally unaware of but earned its perpetrator an indulgent frown from the prompter’s chair.
It was never going to hit Broadway - not even off, off Broadway - but the insipid, wooden performances that he’d seen that first day had somehow become transformed into something far more animated. Something inspired. And the breathlessly amateur delivery of the players held a decided charm all of its own. So much so, in fact, that Al nearly missed Parkinson’s arrival, his attention being firmly fixed on Moe Lawson’s over dramatic playing of Malvolio’s imprisonment in the dark. The principal had been speaking quietly to Kinnison for a couple of minutes before the hologram slid from his perch and stepped across to find out what was going on.
And after he’d heard, he hoiked the handlink out of his pocket and popped himself across to stand right next to Sam’s anxious expression.
"Well?" the time traveller hissed. Alonzo made a pretence of studying the screen on the link, drawing out the inevitable for as long as he could.
"Looks like you did it, kid," he offered at last. "The school board have backed down - on condition that the play is a success. Which it is," he added with emphasis. Sam had looked decidedly sceptical. "Bad dress rehersal - great first night. Eugene over there gets bitten by the acting bug and is still doing Shakespeare on tour. Jo-jo gets his scholarship. And the girl," he noted with a grin. Vega was feeding him the altered history in short staccatto bites. "He makes it to the pro’s for a couple of years and then becomes a high-school coach instead. Sarah’s still with him, too."
"What about Jim?" Sam asked, half under his breath. He was watching the two men in the auditorium, the broad shoulders of the ex-pilot making the school principal look leaner than ever.
"Well - " The Commodore sighed, lowering the link to follow his friend’s gaze. "He stays in this school for another couple of years, then goes back to New York - where he becomes Principal of a real back-water inner city school and helps turn it around. He gets published too. By an underground press in the 60’s. I guess his poetry was never going to be main stream."
"I guess not," Sam smiled. The look of quiet delight in the man’s eyes turned his observer’s heart over.
You did it, kid. You threw him the lifeline he needed, just like you did me, all those years ago. And for the same reason, damn it ...
Only that was unfair, and just the jealousy talking. Sam was a generous and compassionate man, prepared to help anyone in need without expecting any reward in return. He probably wasn’t even aware that this Leap had touched him a little deeper than most.
Or me ...
When this was over -
- don’t let this be over, not so soon -
- he’d get Vega to find him a copy of that book. As a souvenir. A keep sake. A memory of a man that he now knew had had a profound influence on his life. And when Sam came home -
- come home to me, lover -
- they would drive out into the desert and share those words together, knowing that some of that debt had finally been paid.
"So - uh - how about Miss Allister? Does she go on teaching?"
Al checked - then re-checked, unable to help the spontaneous grin of reaction. "Uh - not for long, kid. She gets married."
"Really?" Sam’s response to that was almost breathless. "To Jim?"
Alonzo’s grin got wider.
"Nope," he answered smugly. "To Henry. Henry - Parkinson," he explained, unable to help the smirk that went with the revelation. "Vega seems to think that might be why you haven’t Leaped. Because you’ve been giving Jim the wrong idea ...?"
Sam’s face was a picture; his astonishment was followed by a moment of utter guilt. "Oh - boy ... " he breathed, hurriedly putting the battered script down on the chair. A few hasty steps took him off the stage and across the hall floor. "Is it good news?" Al heard him ask, interrupting the two men’s muttered conversation.
"Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me."
Onstage the play was lurching into its closing scene. The Commodore paused to watch the players for a moment longer, hearing in their young voices the onset of more confident delivery.
"... a wrack past hope he was. His life I gave him, and did thereto add my love without retention, or restraint, all his in dedication. For his sake, did I expose myself, pure for his love ..."
He hit the translocation button on the handlink with decided force, letting the images shift so that he was standing behind Jim Kinnison, watching the final moments tick down unmercifully.
"I - didn’t want you to think -" Sam was saying, his words hesitant, his body language embaressed. "That is - " His eyes darted in search of inspiration, breifly meeting those of his intangible observer. "Friendships are very important to me, Jim and - " Sudden insight dawned in his eyes, adding a decided warmth to his voice. "I have a friend - who means as much to me as I think Buckie meant to you. I wouldn’t want to fail my friend’s trust in me, and I figured you wouldn’t want to do that either. You know," the scientist added, seemingly looking past his fellow teacher into the distance, but actually looking at the man behind him with decided affection. "Sometimes a good friend can mean more to you than anything else."
"More than one’s lover, Miss Allister?" Kinnison’s question was a wry one, making it a quiet joke to smooth what he clearly thought might be a difficult moment for them both. Sam’s expression softened into a quiet smile.
"Maybe," he answered softly.
Oh, Sam ...
Alonzo’s hands tightened around the link as he fought to keep his reaction from his face. There was so little time left. So much he couldn’t say. And it would feel like forever before they could meet again.
I love ya, kid ...
On stage Eugene Pucket had launched into the closing chorus of the play.
"When that I was and-a little tiny
boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain ..."
Jim Kinnison laughed good naturedly and executed a small but courtly bow.
"My duty, madam, and most humble service," he said, catching at his fellow teacher’s hand. "So please you, these things further thought on, to think thee as well a sister as a wife."
"I should think so, too," Parkinson muttered with obvious relief. Sam began to turn towards him, laughing in warm response - just as the Leap took him away, his hand still cradled in Kinnison’s fingers ...
And Alonzo Calavicci was left looking at nothing at all, the words of Feste’s final chorus echoing in his heart.
A great while ago the world begun
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done ...
One more Leap in the bag. One more wrong put right, one more step taken in Sam Beckett’s eventful oddessy.
Time to wind down again. To debreif, to reveiw, to reassess ...
As if it ever made any difference.
Al sighed softly, and stood for a moment, breathing in sweet cigar smoke and the echoing emptiness that made up the Imaging Chamber. Letting its quietness sink into his soul.
Outside, Beeks would be waiting. Tina would be waiting.
And so would he.
Until the next time, lover.
Until the next time ...
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