“Maybe so. I never heard of your chronochemistry. Maybe they don’t do it anymore.”
“Chronophysics, but you’re right. That would be a … a shame.” Not to say a goddamn kick in the balls.
Matt was wondering what would be the best way to approach MIT. Probably best not to walk in and say, “Hi! I’m the chrononaut you’ve all been waiting for.” The fact that there had been nobody waiting for him up at the New Hampshire border spoke volumes. He should try to sneak in and get the lay of the land before he identified himself. It might save him from being ridiculed, or burnt at the stake.
Abraham had come to whisper something to his father. “Ask him,” Mose said.
He came over. “Father said I could ask you could we look in the car.”
“Sure. I’ll go over with you, unlock it.” Matt stood up and fished in his pocket for the thick bunch of keys on the taxi driver’s ring. Mostly plastic electronic keys, with a few old metal ones. One of the plastic ones said MIT-SUBISHI. He clicked on it as they approached the car and the key blinked red twice. Of course, out of power. The doors unlocked one last time, with a slow thunk.
The two girls had tagged along, and now they all piled into the cab and bounced around. The musty old thing was probably the newest car in the state, or the East Coast. Let them play, though; there was no way they could do any harm.
“What’s this, mister?” Abraham had found a .357 Magnum cartridge on the floor.
“Here, I’ll take it.” Matt reached for it.
“Is that a bullet?” Mose said, behind him.
Matt paused. A cartridge, actually. “Looks like.” He passed it to Mose.
The black man pushed it around on his palm. “Never seen one like this. Not a rifle?”
Could they have peeked into his bag? “It’s for a hand-gun. ” He didn’t look in the bag’s direction. “You have rifles but not pistols?”
“Not since my father’s time. They’re illegal.” He looked through the car window. “You be careful, Abraham.” He glanced at Matt. “No pistol in there?”
“Not that I know of. I haven’t looked all through it.”
“Children, go back to the fire.” They protested. “Abraham, see if the coals are ready.”
The kids moped away from their forbidden toy. “You weren’t surprised,” Mose said. “At this.” He handed Matt the cartridge.
“No. Plenty of guns back in my time.”
He nodded. “Be careful. They’re big trouble here.”
“Thanks. I have a lot to learn.”
Abraham was calling that the fire was ready.
Lunch was polite but strained. They gave profuse thanks to both God and Matthew for the fish, but the adults were obviously glad to see him go. Mose asked him to lock the car, but the key didn’t work; not enough power. They gave it a thorough search and didn’t find any contraband or anything useful.
A bike path still ran by the lake to the subway stop he’d last used to bring his mother wine and groceries. Mose warned him away from the subway, home to “tunnel rats,” vagabonds who lived there year-round. It was relatively cool in the summer, and survivable in the winter, but a haven for the lawless, and unsafe even for them.
Matt said good-bye and walked up the hill to Mass Ave. He’d never walked from here to MIT, but it couldn’t be more than six or seven miles. He’d biked it a couple of times.
It was pretty grim. The street was a ruin of frost heaves, unmaintained for decades. Shop fronts were decrepit, signs faded out, painted over. There were brick-and-board tables along the sidewalk where people sold food and drink or had stacks of worn clothes and junk for sale or trade. Matt got a questionable glass of homemade beer, warm and sour, for a quarter. One fourth of his contemporary money.
When he felt he wasn’t being watched, he ducked into a door and fished a single hundred from the taxi driver’s wallet. He didn’t want to flash a thick roll, but sooner or later he’d come to a bank—or whatever or whoever served as one—and wanted to find out whether the old money was worth anything more than the paper it was printed on.
He wished he’d been able to talk more with Mose. The pistol cartridge had shut that door, with the accurate implication that Matt was lying and dangerous.
Walking down the sidewalk, he drew less attention than he would have back in his own time—wrinkled, slept-in clothes of an odd style, lugging a knapsack and a toolkit. A lot of people were similarly attired and burdened, a mobile population without Laundromats.
There was an actual bank, of sorts, where Arlington became Somerville. It had once been a savings and loan establishment. Now there was a card in the cracked window that said FAMILY BANK • DEPOSITS PROTECTED • LOANS MADE TO PERMENT RESADENTS. The best spelling he’d seen so far.
The place had a big walk-in safe, standing open, flanked by young men armed with assault rifles. It probably had a worthless electronic lock.
Even with the big window and open door, it was kind of gloomy inside. There was a man wearing a shabby coat and tie sitting at a broad table in the middle of the lobby, a tall filing cabinet behind him. In front of him, bowls of coins and a sawed-off shotgun.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I don’t know you.”
“Just passing through. I wondered what this was worth.” He took the hundred-dollar bill from his shirt pocket and unfolded it and laid it in front of the man.
The banker picked up a white plastic thing that resembled Mose’s fishing reel, but when he cranked the handle it made an intense spot of white light. He scrutinized the bill with a magnifying glass, then held the light behind it, looking at the structure of imbedded wires. He rubbed the president’s face with his thumb and it faintly said “hundred.”
“It’s well preserved,” he said. “Where’d you find it?”
“In a trunk,” he said, true enough. “What’s it worth?”
He rubbed his chin. “I could give you fifty for it.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, reaching for the bill. “I may be back.”
The banker snatched it away. “Just a second.” He cranked the light up again, and studied both sides, then sniffed it. “Twenty seventy-four … maybe I could give you seventy. Seventy-five if you have more.”
“That’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll take seventy-five for it.”
The man pretended to consider it. “All right.” He pulled out a fat wallet and extracted three faintly glowing twenties, then scooped three heavy five-dollar coins from a bowl. Matt put the coins in his pocket and held up the bills to the dim light. He couldn’t identify the portrait. They were soft and worn but looked like real currency.
“Come by if you find another one of those.”
“I might.” First see what he could get in Boston proper.
When he got to Porter Square he had to make a decision: keep going down Mass Ave where it turned, or continue straight on through what used to be a bad neighborhood. On a bike, from here it was a ten-minute cruise to campus. He’d never walked it, but it was probably half the distance of going down Mass Ave through Harvard Square.
Carrying the bag and toolbox was wearing him down, and the neighborhood didn’t look that foreboding in the afternoon light.
Besides, he did have a gun, though the idea of using it gave him a sudden thrill of dread. His total experience with firearms was a forbidden friend’s BB gun at the age of twelve, and he hadn’t even been able to hit the target.
Well, he didn’t intend to shoot it. But it could be a powerful psychological weapon. Unless his adversary had one as well.
Mose hadn’t ever seen a pistol, yet the idea of it was obviously potent and frightening. Matt felt its considerable weight and strode on down through the slums.
Actually, once he was in the neighborhood, it didn’t seem any more run-down than what he’d just come from. No street merchants and fewer people. No pets, he suddenly realized; there ought to be dogs barking and cats lazing in the sun. An unaffordable luxury, he supposed, when you couldn’t just pop down to the grocery for pet food.