3
CON FULFILLED THE NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT UNTIL
it came time to pack. There were strict weight limitations on what she could bring, and her frequent trips to the bathroom scales caught her mother's attention. She looked into Con's room and saw small piles of clothing spread over her bed next to a duffel bag.
"Con, what's going on?"
"Nothing, Mom." Con put the stack of underwear she was about to weigh down on the bed.
"It looks like you're going somewhere."
"I'm just sorting through my things."
"I don't believe you. You're up to something."
"Daddy said that I couldn't tell anyone. I had to promise in writing that I wouldn't." The suspicion on her mother's face changed to alarm. "Not even me? What are you two up to?"
"It's just a trip, a little vacation."
'To where? For how long? Why the secrecy?"
Con sighed. "It's nothing to worry about, Mom. I'll be gone less than a day. If you hadn't caught me, you'd have never missed me."
Con's mother looked dubious. "That's a lot more than one day's worth of clothes." She picked up a sleeveless top from off the bed. "It looks like you're going someplace warm."
"It's some new hush-hush technology. We all had to prom-ise to keep it secret, even Daddy. It's like an instant vacation. I'll be gone only seconds, literally. I wasn't even supposed to tell you this much."
"That's nonsense. Don't lie to me."
"I'm not," said Con. "I know it sounds crazy. I have a hard time believing it myself. Look, if it's going to be a hassle, I'll just stay here. This was all Daddy's idea."
"Then you should go," said Mother.
"But I thought..."
"It's important to maintain good relations with your father. You're his only child. You should be his heir."
"Don't start, Mom."
"He owes you that! Besides, I only want what's best for you."
"I don't care about being an heiress, I just want to be myself," said Con.
"And you will be. But to the world, you'll always be John Greighton's daughter. You can't escape that, so you might as well benefit from it. It won't compromise you to accept your due."
"I don't need anything."
"Not even a new face?"
"Mom! We've been through this before. My face is fine."
"It's not very fashionable. Why seem common? All your friends..."
"All my friends look the same now!"
"Stylish," retorted Con's mother, "that's what they look. I told your father when he named you
'Constance' it would make you old-fashioned."
"You used to tell me it'd make me rich, like my ancestor that discovered all that gold."
"Oh yes," said Mother, "the family legend. Well, you don't have to look like a nineteenth-century woman, just because you're named after one."
"Mom, could we stop this. If you want me to go, I need to weigh these so I can finish packing." Mother held up a swimsuit, saying, " This certainly isn't going to put you over your limit."
"We're going to an island, there'll only be the three of us."
'The three of you?"
"He's taking Sara," said Con.
"The new one? What's she like?"
"We didn't talk much. She seems fairly young. She looks a lot like Daddy's last wife."
"The next one will probably be younger than you," said Mother.
"Maybe there won't be a next one," said Con.
Her mother's face colored at that remark. 'There's always another one. But I gave him his only child," she said with fierce satisfaction. "Take that trip and have a good time. I'll leave you to finish packing."
"Don't let Daddy know I told you about it."
"Small chance of that," said Mother as she left the room.
Con sighed and looked at the pile of clothes on the bed. Ten kilograms was not a lot of clothes, especially since Daddy insisted she bring two dinner dresses. She put a light sweater in the duffel bag along with the underwear and made one more trip to the scales. When she took off her shoes and put them on the bag, she was still over. She rummaged through the bag and removed her makeup case. There, she thought as the scale registered ten kilograms, no one will really care how 1 look anyway. If Daddy wants me made up for dinner, I'll borrow Sara's. I bet she didn't have a weight limit. When Con put the makeup case back on her bureau, she saw herself in the mirror. Her short, brown hair framed large hazel eyes, a petite nose and full lips. She would have been considered pretty in earlier times, but the softness of her features ran contrary to current tastes. It isn't a fashionable face, she thought. Con assessed herself critically. My nose is wrong, my mouth's too big and my chest—forget it't Then she stopped herself. It was a stupid game, and she hated when she gave in to it. If I don't like the way I look, Daddy will be glad to pay to change me, Con reminded herself. Then I'd end up looking like Sara.
TOM CLEMENTS STRUGGLED to hide the disappointment in his eyes as he looked at his younger brother. He failed miserably. "Not going on the dig?" he said incredulously.
"It's not definite," said Rick, "but something's come up. I may not be available this summer." Ever since their parents had died, Tom, who was twelve years older, had been both brother and father to Rick. The summers they spent excavating fossils together were special times for them both. When they had begun, Tom was a first-year graduate student at the university. Now he was an assistant professor of paleontology.
"What's come up?"
"I can't tell."
Tom's face colored. "You haven't signed on with a commercial collector?"
"God, no!" said Rick. He hesitated a moment, weigh-ing the hurt in his brother's eyes against all the lawyers' threats. Then, five days after he signed the nondisclosure agreement, he broke it. "I'll be in trouble if this gets out. I've promised in writing I wouldn't discuss it."
"Discuss what?"
Rick looked around the faculty dining room nervously and lowered his voice. "Time travel," he whispered.
"Time travel!" said Tom so loudly it made Rick wince.
"Keep it down," whispered Rick.
"This has got to be a joke," said Tom more quietly.
"No, it's serious," replied Rick, "I've been hired as a guide for a trip to the Upper Cretaceous. I've already received airfare and a five-thousand-Euro advance on my salary. If it were some joke, would they pay me an ad-vance?"
Tom appeared dumbfounded. After a long silence he said, "We need to talk about this seriously, but I've got a class in a few minutes. Why don't you drop by my apartment this evening? I'll cook dinner."
"You've got to keep this secret."
"Don't worry," said Tom, "I've a reputation for sanity. I want to protect it."
"Okay, I'll see you at dinner." Rick got up to leave.
"One thing, before you go," said Tom.
"What's that?"
"Who invented this..." Tom lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "... time machine?"
"Someone named Peter Green. But, Tom, please don't talk . . ."
"Don't worry, bro, mum's the word."
TOM'S APARTMENT LOOKED like a stage designer's idea of a bachelor professor's habitat. It was crammed with clutter reflecting his fascination for the past. Books, pa-pers, and maps mingled with geologists' tools, camping gear, fossils, and an extensive collection of toy dinosaurs. When Rick entered the door, he smelled the pungent spices of Southwestern cooking combined with the scent of rock dust. Tom called from the kitchen, "Want a beer?"
Rick walked to the kitchen and grabbed one from the fridge. "Thanks." Tom threw some chilies in oil. "You're going to miss my cooking this summer. Is that when you're going?"