A Place so Foreign | Page 5

of this trip that we couldn't tell you about
before we left, but you're going to have to stay quiet and hold onto your questions until
we get to where we're going."
I nearly said, "To where we're going?" but I didn't, because Mama had never looked so
serious in all my born days. So I spent an hour hunkered down in there, listening to the
clatter of the wheels and trying to guess where we were going. When I heard the trap stop
and a set of wooden doors close, all my guesses dried up and blew away, because I
couldn't think of anywhere we would've heard those sounds out in the desert.
So imagine my surprise when I stood up and found us right in our very own horsebarn,
having made a circle around town and back to where we'd started from! Mama held a
finger up to her lips and then took Mr Johnstone's soft, girlish hand as he helped her
down from the trap.

My Pa and Mr Johnstone started shifting one of the piles of hay-bales that stacked to the
rafters, until they had revealed a triple-bolted door that looked new and sturdy,
fresh-sawn edges still bright and yellow, and not the weathered brown of the rest of the
barn.
Pa took a key ring out of his vest pocket and unlocked the door, then swung it open. Each
of us shouldered our bags and walked through, in eerie silence, into a pitch black room.
Pa reached out and pulled the door shut, then there was a sharp click and we were in
1975.
#
1975 was a queer sight. Our apartment was a lozenge of silver, spoked into the hub of a
floating null-gee doughnut. Pa did something fancy with his hands and the walls went
transparent, and I swear, I dropped to the floor and hugged the nubby rubber tiles for all I
was worth. My eyes were telling me that we were hundreds of yards off the ground, and
while I'd jumped from the rafters of the horsebarn into the hay countless times, I
suddenly discovered that I was afraid of heights.
After that first dizzying glimpse of 1975, I kept my eyes squeezed shut and held on for all
I was worth. After a minute or two of this, my stomach told me that I wasn't falling, and I
couldn't hear any rushing wind, any birdcalls, anything except Mama and Pa laughing, fit
to bust. I opened one eye and snuck a peek. My folks were laughing so hard they had to
hold onto each other to stay up, and they were leaning against thin air, Pa's back pressed
up against nothing at all.
Cautiously, I got to my feet and walked over to the edge. I extended one finger and it
bumped up against an invisible wall, cool and smooth as glass in winter.
"James," said my Pa, smiling so wide that his thick moustache stretched all the way
across his face, "welcome to 1975."
#
Pa's ambassadorial mission meant that he often spent long weeks away from home,
teleporting in only for Sunday dinner, the stink of aliens and distant worlds clinging to
him even after he washed up. The last Sunday dinner I had with him, Mama had made
mashed potatoes and corn bread and sausage gravy and turkey, spending the whole day
with the wood-fired cooker back in 1898 (actually, it was 1901 by then, but I always
thought of it as 1898). She'd moved the cooker into the horsebarn after a week of
wrestling with the gadgets we had in our 1975 kitchen, and when Pa had warned her that
the smoke was going to raise questions in New Jerusalem, she explained that she was
going to run some flexible exhaust hose through the door into 75 and into our apt's
air-scrubber. Pa had shook his head and smiled at her, and every Sunday, she dragged the
exhaust pipe through the door.
That night, Pa sat down and said grace, and he was in his shirtsleeves with his suspenders

down, and it almost felt like home -- almost felt like a million Sunday dinners eaten by
gaslight, with a sweaty pitcher of lemonade in the middle of the table, and seasonal
wildflowers, and a stinky cheroot for Pa afterwards as he tipped his chair back and rested
one hand on his belly, as if he couldn't believe how much Mama had managed to stuff
him this time.
"How are your studies coming, James?" he asked me, when the robutler had finished
clearing the plates and clattered away into its nook.
"Very well, sir. We're starting calculus now." Truth be told, I hated calculus, hated Isaac
Newton and asymptotes and the whole smelly business. Even with the viral learning