The old woman who’d grabbed my wrist stumbles backward, but she quickly gets over whatever shock she may have had and starts talking loudly at me in what I’m sure is some kind of lecture about the flaws of my character.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I scan for the door.
The apartment is stuffed with furniture that’s even older than the woman. On the walls are a few dusty paintings and some framed photographs.
The woman steps toward me again and tries to grab the pants away. I can’t help but feel like a complete jerk as I move them out of her reach, but it’s not like she’ll understand me if I tell her that I need the pants so I can save the world as she knows it.
The only exits from the room are on either side, open doorways to elsewhere in the apartment. I move toward the one on my right, hoping it will lead to the way out, but I find myself in a bedroom. There’s an old man on the bed, sleeping. These, I think, must be his pants, and I feel even worse.
The woman comes in behind me. She’s still berating me, but her tone is now a harsh whisper.
“Excuse me,” I say as I push past her back out of the room.
I hurry over to the doorway on the left. It leads into a small kitchen and dining area, but more importantly, there’s a door that looks like a main entrance.
I glance back into the other room and see the woman walking toward me as fast as she can. I wish there was something I could leave for her to pay for what I’m taking. But I have nothing of value, and all I can do is say, “I really am sorry.”
I pull open the door and enter a long dark hallway. There seem to be exits at either end. I go left and limp-run past a handful of other doors by the time the woman enters the hallway and yells after me. I worry that her neighbors will rush out to help her, but it’s not until I reach the end of the hall that I hear the first door open somewhere behind me.
Stairs lead both up and down. I head to ground level, the old woman’s shouts fading fast. When I reach the bottom floor, I peek into the hallway. The closest section is a mirror image of the fourth floor, but then, maybe ten doors down, the left side opens up in what I assume is the lobby of the building.
I want to run again, but I worry that if someone comes out and sees me, it will make them curious and could cause problems, so I keep my pace to a quick walk.
A mother and two young children are entering the building when I arrive in the small lobby. I grab the door for them, and she gives me a relieved look as she herds the kids inside.
“Danke,” she says.
This is a word I do know. I’m also pretty sure of what the response should be, but I don’t want to risk messing up the accent, so I just smile and nod as I scoot by them and exit.
I clasp my ill-gotten garments against my shirt to help keep the chaser tight to my stomach, and head down the street. Thankfully, the sidewalk here is not as busy as the others I’ve been on.
A couple of minutes later, I find another alley. This one is surrounded by mostly businesses, and there are few windows along it. I head down it until I reach several bins that will block me from view of anyone who might wander into the area.
I pull off my T-shirt and jeans and then take a moment to examine my wound. I’m happy to see that though a few of the stitches have popped, more than I expected remain. It’s a dirty mess, though. I wipe what I can away with the jeans and then tie the T-shirt around it like a bandage. This won’t keep blood from staining my new pants forever, but at least it should slow the process.
The white shirt fits well enough, but the pants are at least two sizes too wide at the top and nearly that much too short at the bottom. I look around for something I can use as a belt, and find a length of twine from a discarded package in one of the bins that will do the job. Set now, I head back toward the street.
I make it within a dozen feet of the end when Lidia moves us again.
A second later, I find myself in the backseat of a car. Since I was standing when the jump occurred, my chaser’s safety functions detected the obstructions and forced me to arrive in a crouch. It’s an unnerving sensation, but not the first time it’s happened. Thankfully, there are no other occupants.
It’s night again, and the vehicle appears to be parked along a residential street, with no one currently using the sidewalks. Satisfied there’s no immediate threat, I check my chaser. We’ve traveled about ten hours to 3:00 a.m. on July 24. Since this makes it unlikely the owner of the vehicle will be returning anytime soon, I decide to stay where I am. It’s a perfect opportunity for me to figure out how to get a fix on Lidia’s exact location.
I start methodically going through the menus again. The mapping function would have to be part of any search tool. But what else? I scroll through a dozen other menus, but nothing stands out to me. Returning to the master sections list, I’m about to select the category covering maintenance functions, when my attention is drawn to the line item several below it: COMPANION.
Back at the institute, using a companion was an integral part of every trip. Companions eased the trip effects rewinders felt by taking much of it on themselves. They also helped with the accurate arrival at destinations. I’ve grown used to jumping without a companion since I disconnected the function soon after I’d exiled Lidia. My first chaser had somehow linked to Iffy, and I didn’t want my newly appropriated one to do the same and force her to take on my pain. But the fact that the machine could reach out through the companion function makes me think there might be something there that can be used as part of this detector.
I look through its menu and identify two additional functions that I have a feeling are relevant. I think I’m close now, maybe one or two more functions to bring the tracker to life.
As I return to my search, though, I’m yanked out of time again.
I’m starting to feel like a dog on a leash that never knows when and in which direction its master will pull.
It’s night and a city again, though if this is Berlin, we are in a totally different district. The buildings along the street I’m on are much taller. Not quite the skyscrapers of 2015 Los Angeles, but working on it.
The time and date on my machine put us at 11:30 p.m. on June 1, 1950. I use the map function to decipher the location number, and discover that we’re in New York City, on the island of Manhattan. That explains the buildings. What it doesn’t explain, however, is the complete lack of activity. The New York I’ve read about, seen in movies, and experienced on a small scale myself seems to be in constant motion. Even in this earlier decade, the city was supposed to always be hopping. But the street is deserted. Even the intersections that cross it are empty.
It could be that I’m just on a minor road in a part of town that is more active during the day. Whatever the case, I have more important things to worry about. I sit on the curb and pick up my examination of the menus again.
Though I hear a car turn onto my street, I stay focused on my task. I have no interest in the occupants, and assume they’ll have no interest in me, either.
“Hey!”
I look up, startled. The sedan rolling to a stop across from me is not just any vehicle. It’s a police car.
As calmly as I can manage, I close the lid of the chaser and say, “Yes, officer?”
He stares at me, waiting, but I have no idea what he wants.
“It’s after eight,” he finally says.
“Um, okay. I know.”
Again the stare.
“What?” I ask.
With a growing scowl, he opens his door and climbs out. I can see his partner now, behind the steering wheel, looking bored. The first cop opens the back door and then motions me toward it. “All right, let’s go.”