John Schettler - Meridian

“Ayez eh? Rayeh feen?”

Nordhausen turned slowly and saw a scraggly, bearded man behind him, his head swathed in henna cloth with a simple black circlet at the crown. The dim light revealed dull gleam of metal, and Nordhausen saw that a pistol was aimed at his belly. The professor eyed the gun with some trepidation.

“No need for that,” he said. “I mean you no harm. I’m lost, that’s all.”

“Ismack eh? Shoe betiimal?” The man squinted at him in the dark, still guarded as he approached the professor and extended his other arm towards him. He fingered the sash at Nordhausen’s waist and searched cautiously, his dark eyes watching the professor’s every move. Nordhausen stayed very still, understanding that the man wanted to make a cursory search to see if he was armed.

“I mean no harm,” he said again. “I’m lost, you see. Just trying to reach help and get to a telephone. Is there a telephone nearby, or perhaps a radio? Do you have a vehicle with you?”

The man gestured that he should be silent, and Nordhausen waited, frustrated that he could not make himself understood. The local was looking him over very closely, suspicion growing in his eyes as he leaned in to have a closer look at Nordhausen’s face.

“Eh dah?” The man seemed confused by Nordhausen’s appearance, and the professor realized the idea of masquerading as an Arab had some definite liabilities. He decided to try and use sign language, cautiously placing his open palms on his chest as he spoke again.

“I’m an American,” he started, indicating himself. “A scientist from Lawrence Labs in Berkeley; here on a mission.” That wasn’t helpful, he thought, but the man stepped back, his head cocked to one side.

“Aurens?” The tone of his voice carried a note of excitement.

Nordhausen did not catch the implications of the man’s reply at first, and he tried again. “A- mer -i-can,” he sounded out the word, patting his chest. “Lost.”

The stranger eyed him suspiciously again, gesturing at his belt line. “Eftah,” he said, waving the pistol in his hand.

Nordhausen saw that he wanted him to open his robes. Cautious fellow, he thought, but he undid the sash and let the gown fall open, feeling a bit silly to be standing there in wet khaki trousers and a British officer’s uniform from the First World War. How will this help my story if I manage to get to the authorities? It occurred to him that Americans may not be particularly welcome here. The chaos of the Middle East in recent years had built up a tremendous resentment among common Muslims against the West, and America in particular. Most of the population of the region would be Jordanian Palestinians, and they were not very well disposed to foreigners. Old news stories of Western reporters and missionaries taken as hostages and brutally murdered came to mind, and he was suddenly very afraid, and angry again that no one had told him he would remain at the spatial coordinates of the drop site when they shifted home.

The man had a very different reaction to Nordhausen’s uniform, however. He stooped to have a closer look, noting the thick belt at Nordhausen’s waist, and the high, leather army boots.

“English?” The word was badly spoken, but Nordhausen understood it. He was momentarily taken by surprise. How would he come to that assessment, he wondered?

“Sadiq, English.” The man smiled at him and Nordhausen saw that he was missing one tooth. “Sadiq Aurens?”

Nordhausen caught the hint of a name the second time the man spoke the word. His mind whirled for a moment, remembering what Maeve had said about coming across local Arabs in the desert. It couldn’t be so, he thought, his eyes searching the horizon. The rain had stopped and the clouds parted to reveal a crescent moon in the sky, low on the horizon. It suddenly occurred to him that he should be seeing the glow of urban centers on the horizon as well. Even if he was in the desert, the light from major cities like Amman and others would still be visible, but all was pitch black.

“Good God,” he breathed. “What’s happened? Where am I?”

The stranger gave him an odd look. “Sadiq Aurens?”

The moon was wrong. It was full the night they went through the Arch. Something went wrong on the retraction! That thought jarred his thinking for a moment until he remembered what Paul had said about Kelly on the watch. ‘He’ll see what’s happened and make adjustments.’ What has Kelly done?

“Taa’la maei,” the man gestured toward the distant camp fire. He no longer brandished the gun but he was nonetheless insistent that the professor start moving as he indicated. Nordhausen started walking, and the man fell in at his side, just slightly behind, chattering away as they went. The professor didn’t understand anything he was saying, but occasionally the word ‘English’ or ‘Aurens’ would come through again. It dawned on him, with a sinking feeling, that he had not reached his own time after all. Kelly botched the retraction, he thought at first, but upon consideration he realized this was probably not the case. He made his adjustment, Nordhausen concluded. He made one last attempt at getting us to the right temporal coordinates. If he was anywhere close, I’m still nearly a hundred years in the past! The stranger didn’t react to the word American, but he immediately recognized my uniform as English. And he called me Aurens. He can’t possibly think I’m Lawrence of Arabia.

“Oh God,” Nordhausen breathed. Kelly had moved them forward in time to the right coordinates. He wasn’t home, as he first thought. He was back in the middle of the First World War. How did this happen? Paul said there were only two chances for retraction—one triggered to the target date, and the other some kind of fail-safe system they had programmed. Kelly must have used up one of his trump cards to get them back on target. The mission was on, then. He had an Arab in with him mouthing the word Aurens and the whole thing was still on. But would he ever make it home?

A sensation of real anxiety enfolded him as he realized the weight of the operation was descending heavily on his shoulders again. He wasn’t home. Now he had to figure out just exactly where he was. He had to find the rail line, and discover what day it was. He had to pick the right train and decide what to do about it. Paul said he and Maeve had the whole thing figured out, but they never had time to go over it with him. Oh God, he thought. I have to unravel all this mischief and save the world after all. I have to find Paul’s little Pushpin and figure out what to do. It was imperative. He whispered a silent invocation to any deity who would hear him, and hoped he would get it all right.

Paul was wishing he was somewhere else. The leather thongs that bound his wrists were tight and painful, and the stern regard of the Turkish Colonel was beginning to unnerve him. At least he had put away the knife, though Paul did not hold out much hope for himself in this situation. The man had obviously concluded he was a spy, and he knew that a lengthy interrogation was probably in order for him now.

The Colonel took a long drag on his cigarette, studying Paul closely. “Not English, you say? You are certainly not an Arab. What mischief are you up to in the night? What are you doing here?”