John Schettler - Meridian

It was the only sensible thing he could think of to account for the change. The mission had failed. Kelly botched the numbers, just as he knew he would, and they went so far back in time that it was a miracle they survived it. At least Paul was correct with his time theory, he mused. How did he explain it? Something in the infusion expired and they got pulled back into their own time. That was the only way he could understand it, like a sand clock running out of grains. Thankfully, it happened after only a few hours, and they were saved from the agony of the dying Cretaceous.

“Well, I suppose it would be too much to ask to be delivered safe and sound to the comfort of my study again,” he said aloud. “And what has happened to Paul?”

He squinted into the darkness, looking for any sign of his friend, but the cold, empty desert surrounded him on every side, stretching away to bleak horizons. He stood up, on unsteady legs, and felt the blood pound at his temples with the effort. It seems that time travel had a very severe physical effect, so he gave himself a moment to compose himself.

They had failed. Now he was lost in the Jordanian desert; perhaps miles from the nearest road. He decided the best thing to do would be to head for the high ground in the distance. That way he could take in the lay of the land and sort out what to do. Perhaps he might even start a fire to attract attention. He determined to go over all of this with the Operations Group when he got back to California. They should have told him the spatial location was going to remain fixed at the target coordinates! Had he known this was going to happen he would have insisted that they take some kind of emergency transponder beacon with them, no matter what Maeve and her silly Outcomes committee said about it.

The more he thought about his situation the more sullen and despondent he became. The fate of the world has been sealed, he concluded. This penumbra business with the Palma Event was going to cause some kind of interference and they wouldn’t be able to go through it again, at least not without a great deal of trouble. A pity, he thought, imagining the chaos that must be reigning on the Eastern Seaboard. There was nothing more he could do about it, God rest their souls. Perhaps they could try a second time, but something told him that it was all too late. Maybe the machine would never work again.

He sighed, chagrined by the thought that he might not have the chance to visit the Globe Theatre. For that matter, his hopes at catching a glimpse of Lawrence had been foiled as well. All he saw of this mission was a sour sky full of smoke and volcanic debris, and the fossil, of course. They had certainly ended up somewhere, and the discovery of the Ammonite fossil had been the high point of it all for him. Perhaps he could fish the spatial coordinates from Kelly and fly back out here in a month or so with a few students for a dig. If the remains were still anywhere near the surface it would be a splendid recovery, and might even stand as evidence that they had actually gone somewhere. He resolved to discuss the matter with Paul and Maeve the instant he got back.

But where was Paul? He pulled up short with that thought again, and searched about him, calling out Paul’s name at the top of his voice. There was no answer.

Just like him to get himself lost. Where did he wander off to? He said he was only going to look for a few more dead fern leaves for the fire and then… He was suddenly struck by the thought that Paul may still be stranded in time. What if the damn retraction scheme was limited to a certain radius around their entry point? Paul may have wandered just outside its influence. He passed a moment of deep misgiving, thinking that his long time friend may be doomed to a lonesome existence in the deeps of time, the only human being alive on the planet, and fifty million years to wait for company. Then he remembered how Paul had been worrying over the possibility of contamination and brooding about the necessity of killing himself to prevent complications to the future time lines. Where was he? He wished he was here, nagging at him again with some silly temporal concept or physics problem.

Poor Paul. The memory of his friend’s voice returned to him once more, offering a note of solace as he spoke about Time. ‘ She knows we don’t belong on this side of the door, Robert, and she won’t rest until we’re safe in our own Meridian again. You’ll see.’

That thought gave him some hope, and he resolved to plod on and find some higher ground. If Paul were around he would probably do the same thing. It was bound to be light soon, and perhaps he would catch a glimpse of a road. There had to be traffic of some kind in the area. He would find his way out of this mess soon enough.

He started off, his mind rummaging about with his worry. What if he couldn’t find a road? He had no water, and no food. Lord, he didn’t even have any money with him! How was he supposed to get back to California? It reminded him of a cruel joke the Freshmen would play on the newly elected president of the Sophomore class at the university. They would waylay the poor sap, and put him on a plane to some random destination with nothing more than a single dime in his pocket. That’s exactly the way he felt now, kidnapped by Paul’s time machine and set adrift in the desert without so much as a dime for a telephone call to console him.

He trudged on, intent on making the rise ahead of him before first light. Almost as if to reassure himself, he stopped from time to time to study the ground, looking for any sign of tektite glass or shocked quartz. He found none.

The light mist became a rain, and he gathered his Arabic robes about him, trying to hold in as much body heat as possible. His feet ached in the boots that Maeve had forced upon him, and he was tired, hungry and wet. There’s bound to be a village nearby, he thought, and soon had his first prospect of finding help. He stumbled around a low rise and saw the wavering light of a small campfire guttering in the distance. His spirits rose immediately, and he smiled inwardly as he made for the light.

It occurred to him that it might not be wise to just come stampeding up on some sheep herder’s camp in the dark, so he started waving his arms and shouting as he approached the place, intent on eliciting aid.

“Hello!” he shouted. “Anyone there?”

There was a scuffling sound in the distance and then he was surprised by the sharp crack of a gun. A bullet whizzed by and he instinctively fell to the ground in a panic. Another shot was fired, passing wide of the mark and vanishing in the darkness. He heard a voice muttering something, and quiet footfalls.

Now what have I gone and done, he thought? This ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ attitude would have been expected in the desert on a dismal night like this. He saw a shadowy form drifting to his right, barely silhouetted against the horizon. There was no good shouting at the man, he realized. Who would speak English here? The only thing to do, he reasoned, was to play possum and hope the man would not find him. Then he could eventually slip away to find more agreeable assistance.

He waited, stilling his breath for what seemed an awfully long time and peering into the dark for any sign of his attacker. He had fallen on a sharp stone and, as he tried to roll away from it, he heard a crisp metallic click behind his right ear.

“Entabeh!” A voice spoke in a sibilant whisper behind him. He did not know what the man was saying, but the note of caution in his tone was obvious enough.

“Don’t shoot,” he said, raising both hands to demonstrate that he was unarmed. It was foolish to say anything more, but he rambled on just the same. “I’m unarmed. I’m lost and seeking help. I mean you no harm.”