C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The silent blast from the verbal bombshell was as inaudible as Ben Collins's detonation of the bridge pillar had been deafening. No fall out. No thunderous, earth-shattering tremors. No incendiary. No smoke….
…Just numb silence.
Val Reid sat speechless, petrified in embarrassment, hand over her mouth, dark eyes wide and staring in consternation.
The Milto family appeared equally shocked as mother, father and daughter stared at Val, gobsmacked. Tension flickered about the room like northern lights on a clear, cold night….
Danny and Val Reid were guests at the Milto ranch. The young couple had initially been invited to attend the Prairie Hills Hall Christmas concert on a Friday night in mid December; the invite later extended to include the remainder of the weekend. Through the efforts of Connie Milto and Myrna Yeast, the country school tradition of having a Christmas concert had continued. The two energetic ladies recruited youngsters from the district to provide a program of community entertainment. Folks from as far away as Stockton turned out to enjoy the show. There were skits, carols, a Christmas pageant and an amusing monologue or two. No amount of rehearsing could prevent the inevitable situation of dumb stage fright and forgotten lines, but the audience applauded enthusiastically; it was all part of the entertainment. The highlight of the evening came when “Santa Claus” arrived. Amid an often repeated, “HO! HO! HO!” Rex Miller, sporting a flowing white beard and dressed in the traditional jolly-old-elf attire ?white fur trim on a stuffed red suit, fuzzy white tassel on a long red toque, wide black belt and big black boots? distributed the gifts, bags of candies and Japanese oranges that had been prepared for the wide-eyed little ones. Careful planning on behalf of the organizers ensured that no child should go without a present; there were a few extras.
Next afternoon, the Reids and Miltos were enjoying steaming cups of hot chocolate and squares of crumb cake following a fun-filled but frosty outing of tobogganing and skiing towed behind the horses. In the background the AM radio in the kitchen played a combination of Christmas carols and current tunes. Jeannie C. Riley had just sung Harper Valley PTA and the conversation shifted to recent releases.
Connie said, “There have been so many hits this year. I can't decided which is my favourite.”
Val Reid said, “I can't wait 'til they release 'American Pie'.”
Danny was the first to break the speechlessness. “Val,” he said, “Don McLean released 'American Pie' in the early seventies… this is still 1968.”
Though the Miltos shifted their focus to the young lineman, their faces appeared no less incredulous. A genuine Santa Claus may as well have materialized in their midst.
“I thought Madonna sang 'American Pie,'” Milt said.
“She re-did the song a very long time after the original release,” Connie Milto murmured.
“Song of the year, song of the decade; I would have voted it song of the century in Millennium 2000. I believe it did make number five without my input,” Robert Milto said. “It seems there are some cats out of the bag?”
Danny laughed ruefully and the tension and surprise dissipated. “I wondered if there might be something amiss out here for almost a year but it was during our week of riding and camping in your pastures that I really noticed something odd. I'm sorry,” he turned to his wife, “I never let you know what I suspected.”
“This is unbelievable!” Connie cried. “What is your history, er… I mean, future?”
“Yeah, and how did you know during our trail ride? Was it something I said?” Milt asked.
Danny smiled at her. “Yes, Button, it was something you said that made me pretty sure but you mustn't be faulted for my 'expert' sleuthing. Only someone from the future could possibly have twigged.”
A salvo of questions continued, back and forth, until Robert Milto held up his hand, bringing a pause to the commotion. “Hold on, hold on. It seems you,” he nodded at Danny, “have all the answers, so how about if you talk and we listen?”
Danny agreed, saying this would be a long story and there would be no point in making it short.
“First of all, I don't know anything about your future, but Val and I have been transplanted from the year 2025. Our tenure will end in 1978; ten more years.”
“We only have ten years left too,” Milt interjected.
Connie nodded curtly,trying to discourage further interruption.
“One day last spring, while I worked on the line over here,” Danny indicated with his thumb pointed backward and over his shoulder, “Milt came riding along the road on Whiskey. We had a short chat and as I climbed in my truck, she said something about, “No one is connecting to the Internet.” I was quite preoccupied with work at the time so the word really didn't register for a few months until one evening it popped into my head again.”
Val interrupted, “What's Internet?”
“GIT,” Danny answered. “In 2025 the world favours the term GIT, spelled G-I-T, an acronym for Global Information Transfer; in in the beginning it was called DARPANET; later, INTERNET became the word of the day.
“So, that indicated a couple things: you must be history transplants; you come from near the turn of the century, give or take maybe ten years. However, I did not know dimension travel came into existence way back then so I decided my hearing had misled. It did cause me to pay more attention though.
“Vera alerted me to a terrible screeching sound on your telephone line from time to time and, though I never actually heard it, her description of the noise reminded me of data transmission. This thought, coupled with the fact that you folks paid a small fortune for the private line out here and the high degree of specification required along with it, I felt something more than chitchat may be going out on the line.
“You have a modem hook up, Robert?”
“Yes, it is connected to a laptop. I call a number in Ottawa that taps me through to another system. It is prohibitively slow and we try not to over use the system because I had already considered that you or Vera may be curious.”
Again Val interjected, “What is a laptop?
Robert said, “It is a compact portable computer that people carry around with them when they travel.”
Danny added, “Laptops are similar to our personal communications devices.” He turned to the Miltos, “There are no conventional telephones or even cellular units and only a handful of computers, as you know them, left in our world. Computers are ginormous memory links accessible to the entire populace. Even the term 'computer' has become a by-word. Host Memory Bus is the ultimate data source and storage with world wide distribution. The world interacts using ubiquitous computing where individuals have simple, compact and portable 'smart pads' that interact with devices placed everywhere: in vehicles, stores, walls, appliances, schools, sidewalks, etcetera; these units are equipped with micro keyboards having life time passwords, issued like birth certificates encoded with P-I-P, another acronym, for Pass Identification Print; originally a finger print, or a retinal scan, now an instant DNA test performed on the individual's personal smart pad. The pads are equipped with plenty of dynamic micro-gadgetry and are used to connect to the HMB where all memory is stored. I think waste computers and components eventually became a severe pollution problem. With a world population surpassing seven billion and few impoverished nations, users have increased exponentially over the previous twenty to twenty-five years.”
Danny nodded toward several papers resting on a small stand: The Western Producer and the Stockton Herald. “The forests have been given a reprieve as well; the news, for the most part is readily available from the Host. Actual printed paper distribution has lost flavour with the world populace.”
Now Connie interrupted, “You said 'few impoverished nations,' what became of the third world countries?”
“Well, GIT, or, I suppose, initially, the Internet, promoted the information age and, coupled with satellite communication, no one anywhere on the globe was denied source. Inevitably, even the poorest of nations gradually became more educated. This learning growth expanded dramatically. An international catchphrase of our time is: 'impecuniosity is no reflection of intellectuality.' Most of the developing or, as you say, Third World, nations were poised for tremendous growth, however, their advancement had always been hampered by a lack of basic education, training and even understanding for their burgeoning populations. GIT made man equal. We still have poverty, but not at a national level.
“However, I digress.
“The data noise had me scratching my head and while chasing that problem I found that a line had been installed in your house, one that I had not put there. That is an unlikely situation in this area, day and age.”
“Sometimes, my suspicions seemed so ludicrous that I'd forget about it for days on end. Another instance occurred at the branding when the subject of dial telephones came up.” He looked at Connie, “You asked if there would be “Name And Number Display”, definitely out of place in 1968, obsolete in 2025.…
“I've had the odd lip-slip myself: When we were pitching tents out at the holding corrals, I offhandedly said to Brenda that we should have a microwave and television.”
“I remember that!” Milt interjected. “It seemed strange, but you made some excuse about a radio telephone and I forgot all about it until now.”
“But the trail ride brought out additional information I could not overlook.”
“My big mouth again,” Milt groaned.
“Actually, Button, no. It was your mother who cost me some sleep out there in the tent.”
Connie blushed and said, “Oh dear, what did I blab that time?”
“When you folks came to visit one evening, I inquired as to the state of affairs with respect to my employment.”
“You said something to the effect that there were no major nine-one-one's or perhaps nine-eleven's which meant nothing to me except it seemed an abnormal response. Around then, Milt and Tom had a conversation about time travel and possibly the two subjects were lodged in my subconscious. That night a horrible dream haunted me and I saw this vision of people jumping from a burning, smoking skyscraper. Nine-eleven, the bombing of the World Trade Center in New York, happened about the time I was born. All I knew of it was old history from out-moded video, but the nightmare jogged my memory and I realized another anachronism had appeared.”
No one spoke and Danny turned to the rancher. “The real clincher came the evening we were playing cards in that straight-wall tent you and your good wife set up for us spoiled campers. After a few hands of Dealer's Choice, Button here,” he nodded toward Milt, “had her turn to deal. She said 'Cripple Mr. Onion'.”
Milt gasped. “Oh no! I did! I thought I was being clever.”
Danny laughed. “Well, Terry Pratchett and 'Cripple Mr. Onion' continue to be quite well known in the year 2025. Pratchett has printed more than four million words and has more than fifty books published; most of them made into a complete Discworld video sensation. He is the most read and viewed author, ever. And though Pratchett, Cripple Mr. Onion and the Discworld will last forever, they were not in the limelight in 1968.”
Robert said. “Yes, our family went through a Discworld withdrawal when we first arrived back in time.”
Val turned to Connie, “So, what year did you transplant from?”
“We departed December, 2005 and arrived in Ottawa, the same time of year, in 1962. We have been here just about six years exactly.”
Robert Milto laughed and said, “Val, you would be a preschooler in our time.”
“You too, Danny,” said Milt. “I'm older than you are…finally I've met someone who isn't sixty! When we return I'll look up your parents and bounce you on my knee.”
The rancher reluctantly excused himself from the exciting flow of conversation announcing that he had some outdoor obligations before dark. After donning their winter apparel, Danny accompanied Robert to the corrals to do the evening chores and release the horses that had been left in the barn to cool down after their earlier workout. In the warm steamy confines of the capacious hip-roofed barn the men continued the discussion. Danny was not at liberty to expound upon the treasures of the future in great detail but in general terms he fielded the rancher's enquiries.
“What a peculiar coincidence that we both leave the era in 1978. Are you and Val driven by a particular departure time slot as we are or is your return a matter of choice?”
“There were options for an extension but the timing seemed apt. In the latter half of the 1970's the government bought, or forced out, all the rural telephone companies. My position here in Stockton becomes defunct the same way Vera's job will in the next year. There isn't significant government ownership a quarter of the way into the twenty-first century but I am familiar enough to prefer avoidance of that particular enterprise.”
“Are you able to relate any grand scale innovations or discoveries for my family to look forward to in the next twenty years of the new century?” Robert asked.
Danny lifted his Christmas coloured toque and scratched his head. “Well, let me see. Issues that will be very exciting to you are old news to me so I may have a problem sorting through… At the moment of our tele-port back in time rumours of an alien existence were buzzing the satellite networks on the GIT: nothing so blatant as fossil forms of extra terrestrial life discovered in meteorites but great excitement had arisen from wave transmissions of unknown origin being received at our earth stations; a translation cannot be ciphered as yet and the origin may be of unexplained Cosmic disturbance. Still, it is no small consequence for the scientific community.
“Huge steps, no pun intended, have been made for paraplegics and quadriplegics with regard to spinal injury restructuring; Cancer research continues to receive the lion's share of benevolence; extremely expensive fossil fuels are still on the market though this cost has driven research to find alternate sources such as the hydrogen-fuel cell; nuclear power generation is far more common worldwide. Electric powered vehicles are also quite popular.”
“Any disasters of world consequence?” Robert Milto asked.
“Actually, several large-scale epidemics have made their way around the globe in the past couple of decades. The fatalities far outnumber the plagues of centuries past but the percentages are lower because of the increased population.
“War is still an attraction for some, however, there has been no wholesale world-wide conflict. There was one nuclear incident that came very close to wiping out the planet…” Danny added enigmatically, “You will be amazed to see who saves the day….”
He paused a moment, “I repeat these issues in the strictest confidence and I trust you will make no mention upon your return to 2005?”
“That's a rhetorical question. You have kept the topics quite general and I actually prefer not knowing what lies in store, especially on a day-to-day basis.” The rancher laughed. “Although, many of my decisions concerning ranching operations have been influenced by my 'keen insight' since moving here.”
After supper Milt brought out the history book for Val and Danny to see. “Ah, yes,” Danny said, “We studied the same volume too, before our transplant but weren't permitted to bring it along; I'm quite surprised they allowed you.”
The rancher frowned, “Actually, we didn't know Milt intended to bring it. I hope nothing went wrong in the early time shift experiments?”
Danny said, “There is nothing I've ever heard, but then all phase shifts are closely guarded and there are still not an abundance of transplants taking place in the year 2025. I suspect the project is only marginally more publicized than in your time.”
Connie turned to Val. “This sounds lame, but… what brings you here?”
“Actually, Connie, for us it was a combination of good fortune and coincidence: I had been working on an historical project in Sociology —I am a PhD student at the University Of Toronto, in the year 2025— and the research I completed attracted the attention of a relative of Danny's who is covertly connected with the time travel operation. One thing led to another and we were offered this unbelievable opportunity so that I could live a participative, first-hand account of western small-town life in this era. Danny is a Communications Engineer so he knew the intricacies of that industry and fit the bill for the Stockton lineman job.”
Danny laughed. “I knew the intricacies, but I had to learn the basics in a hurry!”
“What happens to everyone?” Milt pondered. “What do you know of Tom O'Brien?”
Danny held up his hand. “My history book is the same as yours and it only goes up to the turn of the century. There hasn't been another Stockton story written as yet; they usually require more than 25 years.” He paused, “Tom O'Brien, though, if he is the same fellow as our Tom, had a very successful career in politics.”
Hastily thumbing through the pages of the big volume, Milt said, “It is the same Tom. I found him in here ?Benny wrote about him? he even became a World Champion Bull Rider.”
Danny's brow furrowed in thought. “I wondered if Tom was that same person. In my school days, I wrote an essay about Tom O'Brien as a political history project; I didn't research back far enough to learn about his rodeo life. He had an illustrious international career which culminated in his appointment as King Charles's Governor General of Canada. He even received a knighthood.”
“Is he… Did he die?” Connie Milto's voice quavered.
“Not that I know of,” Danny replied. “Sir Tom O'Brien stepped down from the Governor Generalship and moved out west to the foothills of the Rockies where he purchased a piece of ranch land and built his retirement home.”
Robert Milto's eyes met those of his wife across the table. He said, “I think we know the place.”
…We haven't had a Christmas concert at Prairie Hills Hall for a long time now. Connie Milto and I staged the last one in 1977, the last Christmas before the Milto family sold the ranch and left the district. I'll never forget the excited faces of those little ones when Santa made his appearance….
Submitted by Myrna Yeast
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