Wendy
Copyright© 2018 by Old Man with a Pen
Chapter 13
As far as housing goes there is a definite difference between ‘necessary’ and ‘want.’ Necessary is small, heated, and convenient. Want tends to thousands of square feet, attractive views and miles of garden walks that need shoveling ... preferably by the help.
My home is a ‘want.’ Certainly the construction was regulated. There are covenants ... and not a few state requirements ... that have nothing to do with ‘necessary.’ But necessary does not ‘befit Our status and station,’ Daddy was often fond of saying.
Standing here ... where is here?
Post glacial continental north america ... about seventeen thousand BC or 19 thousand BP. The invaders from Mongolia aren’t here ... yet. Coming soon, though.
Standing here with my mind paying attention to the lecture, watching the distant thunderstorm, the herd of buffalo that are crossing the burn area and the depredations of several prides of lions hunting the young, old and injured bison that were part of a herd that must have numbered in the millions, looking down at the efforts of a family of beaver building yet another dam and watching the skies for the gigantic eagle, I heard the date and boggled.
“Nineteen thousand?”
“About ... do you need the exact date?” asked the anthropologist.
“Close enough,” I said.
Seven continued, “As I was saying ... this watch,” holding up the fake, “Was an escape route. It goes to this date and nowhere else. The ability to escape capture to the past had its problems ... you always returned to the place you left ... or so we think.
“Our watch,” she said, holding it out, “Has its limitations too. Twenty two thousand years in the future ... but ONLY that future and several hundred in the past ... depending on the number of clicks of the winder. A single click won’t be noticeable ... but unless you push the stem each additional click is cumulative ... a dozen clicks is a hundred years. The watch changes your clothes, money, ID to suit the times. And it keeps excellent time.”
“Does all that?” I asked. “How?”
“Magic,” she said. “AC Clarke’s interpretation.”
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