After the riding lesson he went straight to the house on Massachusetts Avenue. Just sitting down hurt now. The admiral was waiting for him. He pushed over a long-barrelled steel pistol.
'This is a Colt revolver made in eighteen fifty-seven. A precision instrument, even if the cartridges are pin fire. They are slower to load than centre-fire cartridges, which weren't introduced until the eighteen-sixties, but they work just as well. This pistol resembles the original exactly, but the barrel and chambers, all of the important parts of the firing mechanism, are of modern steel. I've had a thousand rounds made up and can get more if you need them. We have a small shooting gallery in the basement. Get down there and fire the thing and get used to it. Your life may depend upon it.'
In two weeks the preparatory work was finished. The lease on his apartment had been cancelled and all of his personal possessions were in storage. He was certain that he would never see them again, but could not bear the thought of simply disposing of them. The admiral had understood and had promised to pay all the storage costs. Neither of them mentioned just how long this might be for.
The arrangements were done, the lists complete, everything ready. They came out of the Massachusetts Avenue building into the rain-filled night. With the admiral at the wheel the big Cadillac steamed like a barge through the darkness. When they turned onto the Beltway he glanced at Troy sitting silently beside him. 'You've checked the list carefully?' he asked.
'At least two dozen times. All my clothing is in the suitcase on the back seat. The equipment that we put together, it's in the saddlebags. All I need now is a horse.'
'The Colt — and the money?'
'In the bottom of the bags. It's all in order.'
'Yes. I suppose it is. I imagine that you are as prepared now as you'll ever be. You know you'll be strung up in a second if they find the gun?'
'I know that. But I'll have little chance of getting one after I arrive. Blacks — I mean niggers — don't get near that kind of thing in the old South.'
'And that is what really concerns me…'
'Don't let it. The odds would be exactly the same if I were white. At least I have what might be called protective colouration!'
'Don't joke about it… all right, joke. Damn, but I wish I were going in your stead. How I envy you! My job is looking more and more boring every day.'
'It's an important one, sir. And you are the one person who can do it best.'
'I know that — or I would have been taking the riding lessons instead of you. This exit?'
'That's right. Look for the small road.'
It was half-past eleven. It had been agreed that basic precautions must be taken to prevent any investigation of Troy's disappearance. None of the laboratory staff, or the military security people, would be on duty at this time of night, so they did not have to be considered. Their arrival was carefully timed just before the guards changed shift at midnight. Their visit would of course be logged in the security computer, but the fact that Troy had not logged out might not be noticed at once, since it normally would be in the next day's file. In any case, since no trace of him would be found in the buildings, and the admiral would state that they had gone out together, it might very well be chalked up to computer error.
Bob Kleiman was waiting for them inside the front door. Troy introduced them. 'I've heard a good deal about you, Admiral Colonne,' Kleiman said.
'And the same, Dr Kleiman. I'm looking forward with great anticipation to seeing this machine of yours. May I congratulate you on a truly miraculous achievement.'
'Save your thanks for Dr Delcourt — Roxanne. It's her equations that got the whole thing rolling. She's waiting for us in Lab Nine. Here, let me help with the bags.'
The guard at the laboratory entrance scrutinized their passes closely, then let them through. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Troy pointed to the washroom. 'I'm going to change. See you in a few minutes.'
It wasn't any sense of false modesty that made him wish to be alone; years in the barracks had eliminated that. It was just the desire to be by himself for a few minutes. Up until this instant everything had been talk and planning. But the moment of truth had finally arrived. He wasn't afraid, he knew more than enough about fear to recognize it in any guise, but he was possessed by a different sensation altogether. It was a little like a night parachute drop; a fall into the unknown. He undressed slowly, right down to the skin, and laid his clothes to one side.
One by one he donned his new clothes. Ankle-length cotton drawers, then rough trousers. A cotton shirt and a shapeless jacket which had been torn at the shoulder, then repaired. Patches made of a different kind of cloth covered the elbows. His high boots were handmade from thick leather, with hobnailed leather soles, well-worn and dusty. He laid aside the hat that completed the outfit, it was wide-brimmed, made of straw and drooping around the edge. Before he put his uniform into the suitcase he emptied the pockets onto the glass ledge over the sink.
Keys, coins, pocketknife, handkerchief, dogtags, pen and pencil, notebook, then his wallet with some money, ID, membership cards, some photographs. It was all staying behind. He took out the picture of Lily, smiling happily, with Disneyland in the background. Life had always been a pleasure for her, right up until those last bad months, something to be savoured and shared with others. But he couldn't bring this modern photograph with him. He put it back into the wallet, then dumped the lot into the empty suitcase on top of his uniform and started to close it. And stopped. Opening it again to retrieve her picture. There was nothing else he wanted from the twentieth century, nothing at all. He would put it in with the gun and ammunition. If those were discovered, a little, crumple-edged picture of the smiling black girl wouldn't make any difference. This time he closed the suitcase all the way and snapped it shut.
Troy patted the side pocket of his jacket, feeling the bulge of the leather wallet that held all of his papers. There was a large clasp knife alongside it, as well as a square of unbleached muslin. And a few small coins. Everything else was in the saddlebags. When he turned back he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped short.
A stranger looked back at him. This wasn't dressing up for a party — this was for real. He stared at the solidly built black man dressed in well-worn rough clothing. People wore clothes like this where he was going. There were no nylon fabrics or zippers, no cars or planes either. A different age. What would it be like? Well, that was one thing that he would be finding out soon enough.
Then he put the hat under his arm, took up the suitcase and went out. The journey was about to begin.
Chapter 21
They had been talking, explaining the apparatus to the admiral, but they grew silent when Troy came up. Seeing him dressed like this drove home the realization that this was not just another experiment, that he would be gone soon. Though they had planned this together he was the one who was leaving, who would travel through time, who would leave this world forever. For the instant he was gone he would be dead as far as they were concerned, would have been dead for a century or more. Now that the moment had come, there was also the understanding that this was something more than time travel. It was also execution.
'I have never seen so many long faces in my entire life,' Troy said. 'Cheer up — it's not the end of the world. In fact, I am going to make sure that it won't be.'
'You can still change your mind,' Kleiman said. 'We would understand…'
'Well I wouldn't. Here I am about to go to a more healthy world, to escape from all the smog and pollution, the threat of the atomic bomb, television commercials, all that — and you want to stop me.'