Time Travel Tourist Trap

“Got any psychotropic popsicles?”

The man wore the usual tight-fitting spandex suit, though the color scheme looked to be a few years out of fashion. Across his lower face and jaw hung a dark, unshaven shadow. His dark hair, slicked back but resistant to smoothing, stood up here and there at odd angles. Baker Olson closed the ledger book, removed his reading glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. “No psychotropic popsicles. We don’t carry any hallucinogenics.”

“Oh.” The man continued to gaze at the sliding door refrigerator. “It’s just that the kids are demanding them.” He looked at Baker with shell-shocked panic in his eyes. “They’re so bored on this trip. They’re really causing a lot of fuss, although I can’t say I blame them. There’s not a lot to look at driving through here.”

“Just the river,” said Baker. The man fidgeted, his head swiveling desperately around, eager for something, anything to mollify his children. Yes, Baker thought. Maybe him. “Of course, I have quite the attraction behind the store. Why don’t you take a break? Take the wife and kids up in it? Authentic civil war battle, 1863. Seven hundred casualties. Refresh your mind and renew your spirit. The adrenaline will keep you going the rest of your trip.” Baker leaned forward expectantly. As it had turned out, he hadn’t had the opportunity to pitch the time turret very often.

“Yeah, I saw the billboard,” the man said cautiously. He scratched at his chin stubble. “How much you charge?”

“Seventy credits for adults, fifty for the kids,” said Baker. “Less than the cost of going to the movies, if you factor in the tranquilize popcorn and stimulant soda.”

“That’s not a bad price,” said the man. “I’ve heard the Gettysburg Time Turret charges two hundred and fifty credits a piece.”

“And I’ve got no time limit,” added Baker.

“Ah.” The man’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I see your point. We can stay up there and let the kids wear themselves out with excitement. Or they’ll be too scared to talk the rest of the way.” A smile crept across his lips. “Let me go ask my wife. I’ll be right back.” Baker watched as the man exited the store quickly and headed for the silver gasoline-powered station wagon parked at pump number three.

His back cracking in a dozen different places, Baker lifted himself from the old wooden stool and made his way out from behind the counter. I’m getting too old for this, he thought despondently. What a way to make a living. He shook his head wearily and walked down the aisles of his gas station’s little convenience store, surveying its rows of unsold high-margin junk foods, cheap cosmetics and various low-grade stimulants and depressants. Grimly, he eased up next to the automatic sliding doors and watched the man gesticulate at the passenger side of the station wagon.

A hundred yards further away, across the highway, the big river slowly ran its course. A barge carrying farm machinery ticked upwards against the current. The old sub-sonic train tracks that ran along the river sat unused, abandoned, with tufts of grass growing between the ties. Now and then, a gasoline-powered car passed the gas station, driver staring fixedly ahead, uninterested in the large, attractive billboard mounted at the side of the road, advertising the time turret.

Baker frowned. When he had commissioned the billboard a few years ago he had spared no expense. It had been painstakingly hand-painted by a local artist and the metal of the muskets and swords was real sheet metal, screwed onto the sign so that it would shine and glimmer in the sun. But no one seemed interested in the time turret. Why? Was it because it was behind a gas station? The snobs! Or had word gotten around about certain minor kinks? Nonsense, thought Baker.

The man was coming back now. And, to Baker’s delight, he noticed that the passenger doors were all opening as well. From out of the car emerged a woman and two brown-haired boys, all dressed alike in the slightly dated spandex suits. The boys ran from the car, kicking gravel at each other. The man turned and said something to the boys, who paused momentarily and then resumed their play. The man approached Baker with his wallet out.

“How much we owe you for the gas plus four tickets?” he asked.

Baker thought a moment. “Tickets are two-forty. And, let’s see, a fill up for a tank your size is about one hundred and fifty. Want any refreshments for the show?”

“No, we’re bringing our own,” said the man. “We have a cooler full of coconut water and clam juice in the back of the station wagon.”

“Oh.” Baker lightly gnawed at the tip of his pencil as he performed the calculation. “Well, I guess that makes your total roughly four-ninety plus tax.”

The man frowned. “Three-ninety,” he said.

“Wait, let me see.” Baker began counting on his fingers. He glanced up at the ceiling and squinted. “Oh, my mistake. You’re right. Three-ninety it is. You know how it is when you get old.” He threw a sidelong glance at the man. “Or maybe you don’t, but you’ll find out eventually. Believe me.”

The man smiled. He either pitied Baker or was in on the joke. Regardless, he was not offended. How could he be? “Here’s four-fifty.” He handed Baker a wad of bills. “Have my change and a receipt when we come back down?”

“Sure,” Baker said. He handed the man four full-color, laminated souvenir tickets.

“And have the tank full, too?”

“Will do.”

The man departed, jogging after his wife and children who had already disappeared around the side of the convenience store. Baker followed them at a respectful distance, watching as they hurried down the gentle yellow-grass slope to the base of the time turret’s tall steel tower. One by one, they scanned their tickets and squeezed into the mini-elevator. The doors closed behind them and the elevator ascended at a crawl. Baker began to turn back to go fill the station wagon’s gas tank, but something caught his eye.

Perhaps a hundred yards from the base of the time turret, a young woman was bent over, digging in the dirt. Treasure hunter! thought Baker as he jogged toward the woman. Come to deprive the land of all the historic belt-buckles, coins and bullets that could be found, leftovers from the battle that was fought here two hundred years ago. Vulture! He waved his hands in the air.

“Hey, hey, you!” he shouted. The woman looked up lazily as he neared. “Yes, you! Stop what you’re doing.”

The woman stood up. She was very tall, dressed in khaki shirt and shorts. Her skin was slightly sunburned and stood out from her blonde hair. Around her waist was secured a complicated tool belt, filled with many small wooden and metal implements. Baker glanced back up at the face. “Who do you think you are?” he demanded.

“Sorry,” said the woman. She pulled a handkerchief from one of the tool-belt’s pouches and wiped her face. Then she sighed, smiled and cast her gaze around the sun-parched land. “Is this your lot?”

“It sure is!” Baker said gruffly. He could feel his temper starting to rise. But that wasn’t a bad thing. It was called for. Best to nip these treasure-hunters in the bud. Don’t give ‘em no quarter, otherwise they’ll be back. Gotta scare ‘em off! “Now, don’t play dumb with me!” He raised his voice. “I know exactly what you’re doing, don’t think I don’t. And I don’t permit it! Understand?”

“Oh?” The woman tilted her head, a glimmer in her eye. “What is it that you think I’m doing?”

Baker scoffed. “Oh come now. It’s obvious. Do you really think that this doesn’t happen all the time? Everybody knows my land was a battlefield in the Civil War.” Baker jabbed a finger up at the time turret. The woman looked at the spherical turret mounted high above them, its metal exterior gleaming in the sun.

“Oh, yes, I see,” said the woman. “A time turret. For the battle.” She considered the turret for a moment. “But how could you afford it? Did you get it on the secondary market?”

Baker was growing red. “Yes,” he grated. “I bought it at a used time turret dealership.”

“Does it work?” asked the woman.

“Of course it works! Didn’t you see that family just go up in the mini-elevator?”

“No, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s right,” said Baker. “You were too busy trying to rob me. Now, go away. Leave my property and don’t come back. If I see you back around here, I’ll call the police. Understand?”

The woman put her hands up. “I understand.” Turning, she put her hands in the pockets of her khaki shorts and began to walk up the dusty hill towards the road. Baker watched her go and then began to trudge back as well, back to the gas station and the convenience store, back to his business which was failing to produce a profit, despite his investment in the time turret.

*

Baker screwed the cap back on the station wagon’s gas tank, wiped his sweating forehead with a rag and leaned up against pump number three. He still probably had at least a few minutes to spare. Pulling the air hose from out of its receptacle, he began topping off the station wagon’s tires. When that was done, he grabbed the combination strip washer-squeegee from its holster on the side of the pump and efficiently cleaned the wagon’s fly specked, dusty windows. Then he brought out a terry cloth rag from his back pocket and began to polish the wagon’s chrome fenders, working in small circles until he could see his reflection clearly.

“Hey!”

Baker got up quickly and turned. It was the man, walking swiftly towards him, his wife and children straggling behind, looking deflated.

“I want to talk to you in private,” said the man. His voice was cool, business-like and calm. He led Baker across the lot and into the convenience store. Baker tugged at his collar and tried to appear friendly, easy-going.

“So, how’d it go?” he asked. “You folks have a good time up there?”

The man turned to face him. His eyes were steady and his jaw was set. “I have to say, we didn’t enjoy ourselves. I don’t know what kind of two-bit operation you’ve got here, but you can’t see a damn thing out of that time turret.”

“Can’t see?” Baker popped his eyelids open and formed his mouth into a little ‘o’. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” said the man. “The whole battlefield is enveloped in a fog. Oh, you can hear pretty well. The screaming, the cannons, the gunshots, the horses. But you can’t see anything. We spent almost an hour up there, waiting for the scene to clear out, until I realized that wasn’t going to clear out! The battle is a wash! It has zero entertainment value.”

“Maybe you just caught it on a bad day,” Baker tried to explain. “Some days it’s foggy, some it’s not. It comes and goes. Now, I’m sorry you had a bad experience, but-”

“But nothing,” said the man. “Now, I know that line must work with an awful lot of the hicks around here, but not me. I was a NASA engineer before it closed down. I know that if it’s foggy now, it’s always foggy. There are no good days or bad days. It’s always exactly the same day!”

“Gee, I didn’t know that,” Baker said. “But, then again, I’m no engineer. If you really feel that way, maybe I’ll go up and take a look, and if it’s the way you say it is, I’ll be happy to refund you your money.”

The man said nothing. He only got redder.

“Honey!”

Baker and the man turned to look. It was the man’s wife, walking over to them, waving. She was smiling. “Hello,” she said to Baker. Baker nodded. She turned to her husband. “Honey, go and have a look at the wagon! It’s so clean. The tires look like they’ve been filled, and the windows are washed and even the fenders look shiny! It looks like it’s been serviced! Did you do that, sir?”

“I sure did, ma’am,” Baker said. “While you were up there, experiencing a great battle of the Civil War, I didn’t have nothing to do, and I never like to just lay around, so I figured I would fix up your car a bit.”

“Oh, how lovely,” the woman said. “The battle was a bit…subdued. We couldn’t really see very well. But, I suppose there are good weather days and bad weather days. Maybe if we had come at a different time the fog wouldn’t have been there. Oh well! Anyways, the car looks wonderful. Thank you so much!”

“My pleasure,” Baker said. “Shall I get your change, sir?”

The man looked at his wife and then back to Baker. “Keep it,” he said. He walked off, shaking his head. The kids were herded back into the station wagon and, as it lumbered back up onto the highway, Baker sighed and wiped his forehead. That had been close. But a sale was a sale- his first of the day, and hopefully not his last.

Going back into the store, Baker made his way back around the counter and sank down onto the old wooden stool behind the cash register. Carefully, he opened his ledger book. The little influx of cash would temporarily halt the downward red line, but it was a drop in the bucket. The trend was clear. Baker sighed and put his head in his hands.

So what if the time turret hadn’t worked out? So what if business was still on a steady downward slope? There were still things that could be done. Perhaps, if he could raise the money, he could install a mini-jet refueling setup like the ones found at the bigger chains. And then he could snag the wealthy commuters that flew in from their country estates into Chicago every morning. That would bring in the business. And perhaps he could stock more exotic foods in the convenience store. He could import caviar from Russia and champagne from France. Stock your jet-limo’s refrigeration unit while you fill up its gas tank! The ideas came one after the other. As for the time turret, it could only be viewed as a total loss.

*

At half past one, Baker took his usual late lunch. Like an underweight, elderly cow, he grazed among his convenience store’s aisles, gathering up whatever stock was both past date and acceptably appetizing. Soon his arms bulged with sacks of corn chips, refrigerated sandwiches, doughnuts and fruit juices. He would pick at these items like a bird, and the majority of his lunch would consist of black coffee. He dumped the heap of soon-to-be-expired food on the counter and searched his pockets for his pipe and tobacco. Finding them missing, he grabbed up a pack of cigarettes from behind the counter instead.

Outside, the morning “rush hour” had abated. Instead of an intermittent sighting of a lonely car every so often, now there were absolutely none at all. It was the long stretch between sunrise and sunset when there was nothing to do. Why did he even stay at the gas station? Why not open for a couple of hours in the morning, and a couple of hours at night, and during the day perhaps pick up work in town? He could possibly advertise himself as a handyman. Or a junk hauler, he had a good gasoline-powered truck. Baker’s brow furrowed as he considered this other genus of options.

Suddenly, he heard a far off scraping sound. Dashing outside, he peered around. Perhaps an ancient train, plodding along the tracks, or a car in disrepair, limping up the road? He looked to the north and to the south, but both tracks and road were clear of all traffic. He looked above. A few mini-jets streaked across the sky, but they didn’t make that kind of sound. Now he heard what suspiciously sounded like a hammer striking rock. Treasure hunters! Baker stubbed out his cigarette and swept around the side of the store.

At the bottom of the dry, sun-baked slope, bent over in the dirt, was the same woman as before. Baker felt his face flush. He marched down the hill, his hands clenched into fists.

“Hey,” he shouted, “didn’t I tell you before? You’re trespassing! Off! Off!” His hands flew up, trying to shoo her away like an unwelcome insect. The woman turned slowly and lifted her eyebrows.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s you.” She turned back to the ground. “Don’t you have anything to do in that store of yours? Don’t you have any customers to take care of? Or do you spend all your time patrolling this patch of dirt?” Her elbow lifted and fell and something made a dull thud.

“How is that your business?” yelled Baker. “Get off the land!”

The woman stood up, smiling, hammer in hand. “It’s Mr. Olson isn’t it?” She took a few steps towards Baker, gloved hand extended. “I’m Patricia Pax. But you can call me Pat.”

Reflexively, Baker accepted her hand and they stood shaking silently for a moment. Then Baker realized how the tables had been turned on him and withdrew his hand in disgust. “Just get, will you? Don’t bother me anymore.” He turned and started to trudge back up the hill. He heard Pat following after him.

“Actually,” she said as they climbed, “I want to make you an offer, Mr. Olson.”

“Oh?” Baker’s ears pricked up at the word ‘offer’. He was always on the look out for offers in all their forms, and was well versed in the proper sequence of negotiation. “Not interested,” he said.

Pat laughed. “But you haven’t even heard what the offer is.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Baker. “I already know that with you, I’m not interested.” Being a treasure hunter, she either wanted to buy the land, or the time turret. So actually Baker was very interested. He had tried to unload the time turret in the past, but had found that they depreciated quickly. No one was much interested in a used one, and the dealership wouldn’t buy it back. Baker reached the concrete pad of the gas station and stamped around the corner of the store. Pat caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder.

“I want to buy your time turret and some of the land it sits on.”

Baker shrugged off her hand and continued on through the automatic doors. Once comfortably situated on his stool behind the counter, he opened the ledger book, took out a pen, and pretended to set himself to work.

“Now why would I sell you the time turret?” he asked, not looking up. “It brings in a lot of business, and, as I’m sure you know, there was a hell of a battle out there two hundred years ago. It’s in a prime location.”

“Then explain to me,” Pat said, “why you’ve only had one family go up all day. And your gas station is in the same sorry state. No customers. No customers at all.”

“We’re having a bad day,” said Baker, glowering. “It’s all very profitable.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” said Pat, turning, “I guess I’ll be on my way. Sorry to bother you.” Her tall, slim, khaki form began to drift towards the automatic doors.

Baker snarled to himself and began to shake slightly. “W-wait,” he stuttered. “My time turret brings in a lot of business, but I’m never opposed to a deal. If it’s in my interest, that is. I doubt you can afford to buy it, but what’s your offer?”

“Depends,” said Pat. “Do you have a clean title?”

“Of course,” said Baker.

“It’s never suffered any accidents?” asked Pat. “No structural damage? No missing time tourists? I won’t find my customers stranded in the past, will I?”

“Of course not,” said Baker. He groped below the counter and brought out the time turret’s remote control. “You see, this knob here, it controls how far back the they’re sent. And this screen here, it shows the date. You have complete control. Nobody will be stranded.”

Pat took the remote gently in her hands and inspected it. “So it’s this knob here?”

“Yes, that’s the knob,” said Baker, pointing. “You spin it clockwise to set the date further back.”

“Can I go up and inspect the turret?” asked Pat.

“Certainly,” said Baker. “But if the deal doesn’t go through, you’ll be liable for the cost of an adult admission ticket. That comes to…” Baker thought, trying to come up with the perfect price. “Four hundred credits.” If he couldn’t unload the thing, he could at least make a little money.

“It’s a deal,” said Pat. “I’ll see you later, after I’ve had a look around.”

“Would you like some refreshments to take along?” Baker jogged around the counter. “Some Mars Maize brand corn chips? Minimum mercury content. Or some Swell Swill Salted Soda? Only the best sea salt used. And some ‘Crab Candy’. And Ionian Mushroom yogurt.” He began to gather up the food and deposited it on the counter.

“Oh, well, sure, I guess,” said Pat. “Tack it onto my bill if we can’t make a deal?”

“I’m afraid consumables must be paid for in advance,” replied Baker. “Total comes to forty-three credits and thirty-four mini-credits after tax.” He waited expectantly behind the cash register.

“Um.” Pat pursed her lips. “Well, alright.” From her tool belt she brought forth an ancient bead-studded wallet that looked to be handcrafted. From the wallet she extracted the suitable number of clear plastic credit discs and placed them on the counter. Baker paid her the change and watched her struggle with the groceries as she exited the store.

Well, if nothing else, thought Baker, I got rid of some of the mushroom yogurt. And what a nightmare that had been to unload.

*

It was dusk. Outside, the sun had begun to melt lazily into the slowly flowing river. Twenty years ago, when Baker had bought the gas station, afternoon commute traffic would just be drawing down. As it was, there was no traffic to draw down from. Baker watched as a lonely, probably lost car with its high beams on rumbled past the gas station. A rare sight this time of day, he thought. The car disappeared around a bend in the road and Baker’s foot began to tap.

For the hundredth time, he checked his watch.

Pat had now been up in the time turret for over four hours. Should he check on her? Was she dead? What could she be doing? Perhaps she was messing with the internal machinery, performing some sort of sabotage. Or stealing! His skin began to flush at the thought. Just as he was about to leap down from his stool and march right on down to the time turret and drag that woman out by her heels, the automatic doors slid aside. The tall, blonde khaki figure sauntered up to the counter. She smiled at him.

“Did you happen to know that your Civil War battle is completely fogged over?” She paused, but as he began to stammer an answer, continued. “I’m sure you did. It’s a real shame. From the sound of it, you can tell it was a real good fight. But all you can see is mist.”

Well, there goes the deal, Baker thought. “Maybe you just caught it on a bad day. Some days it’s foggy, some it’s not. It comes and goes.”

“Hah!” said Pat. “Hah! Comes and goes. That’s rich.”

Baker’s shoulders sagged and he shrugged. Reaching out for the remote, he said, “Ok, Ms. Pax. I don’t care if you’re no longer interested. Just give me back the remote and pay for your ticket.”

Pat stared at him. “I want to make you an offer, Baker.”

Baker nearly slipped off his stool. “What?”

“I want to make you an offer,” continued Pat, “both on the time turret and the land. Yes or no?”

Baker tried to understand. Pat now knew that the Civil War battle was useless as a tourist attraction. And surely she knew what it was like trying to unload a second-hand time turret without any warranty. By and large, any potential time turret customer already had carved out a parcel of historical land and, with rare exceptions, that required a lot of money, which meant they didn’t want to scrimp on the hardware. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“You don’t have to understand,” said Pat. “Here, I’m going to write a number. Give me a slip of paper, please.” Baker did so, and Pat scrawled a figure. Baker looked. It constituted a loss, that much was sure. But probably a much smaller loss than he could ever hope for in the future. And he could use this money right now.

“Much too small,” said Baker, handing the slip back to Pat.

“Come off it!” said Pat. “You and I both know it’s more than you’ll ever get in the future. And I know you’ll take it.”

Baker bit his lower lip. “Okay, Ms. Pax. I’ll take it.” He hadn’t talked her up on the figure. But he had sold the money pit. He had a new infusion of cash. And a load off his mind. “I’ll write up some papers and get the title.” He began to move for his small office.

“Never mind the papers,” said Pat. “I’ve already got them.” She handed him a bundle of professional-looking contracts along with a pen. “All you have to do is sign.”

*

Three days later, Baker was creaking into work in his old gasoline-powered truck, bucking and swerving over the disrepaired, pothole-filled highway. To the east, the sun had barely eclipsed the top of the soft, weather-beaten hills that stretched out behind his property. And yet, as he neared the gas station, he detected unusual activity. It was a crowd of people clustered in front of the convenience store.

What in the heck? Baker said to himself. He steered carefully over the eroded asphalt transition and onto the concrete pad of the station, gently steered between a few of the parked cars, and finally found an empty spot near the edge. Breathlessly, he leapt from the car and made his way over to the crowd.

“Let me through,” he yelled as he elbowed his way forward. “Let me through! I’m the owner! I’ll serve you one at a time, one at a time! Be patient!”

Finally, panting and sweating, he emerged on the other end of the crowd. There, in front of the store, seated at a cheap folding table, was Pat. She looked up and smiled. A man handed her a bundle of credit discs.

“Hello, Baker,” she smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. I was counting on you for concessions.” She went back to making the man’s change, drawing smaller credit discs from a sheet metal change box. Baker saw that the box was crammed full of the plastic discs. He regarded it jealously.

“What in the heck is going on here?” Baker demanded. “Who are all these people?”

Without looking up, Pat said, “They’re your customers, if you’d open your store.”

“Customers?” Baker said.

“Yes,” Pat said. “Of course, I don’t care one way or another, but it’d be nice for my business if yours was open. These people want refreshments to take up with them in the time turret.”

Baker paused, unsure of what to do. On the one hand, he felt like he was being taken over. On the other hand, there was the briefly-glimpsed pile of plastic credit discs. “I don’t know how you did it,” Baker said. “But expect to give out a lot of refunds.”

He turned to the store and unlocked the automatic sliding doors. As he opened he thought, how on God’s green earth did she attract more attention in one morning than I could over the course of several years? How? How? He felt depressed about this and, sullenly, he served his customers, who bought ‘Crab Candy’, Swell Swill Salted Soda and even some mushroom yogurt. A half hour later, when the last of them had gone, he went outside to find Pat. She was standing at the edge of the station’s parking lot, placidly observing the line that had formed at the base of the time turret.

“How?” asked Baker quietly.

“How what?” said Pat.

“You know what.”

Pat smiled. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Baker followed Pat across the gas station and up to the gravel shoulder of the highway. She pointed. A few dozen yards in front of the Civil War billboard a brand new billboard had been installed. Probably overnight. It was black and white. It had no pictures. It was boring. But, across its top, large, blocky letters declared, ‘Dinosaur Wars! A Battle 65 Million Years in the Making! The New, Bloody Time Turret Attraction!”

“Buncha nonsense!” Baker said.

“I had it made last night,” Pat said. “Of course, I’ll get a better one soon. Or maybe not. I’ve had mini-jets illegally landing on the highway. I think they can see it from the air.” She pointed to a couple of mini-jets parked at the gas station, their wings folded up.

“Dinosaurs,” Baker spat. He shook the idea out of his head, but it came back. Dinosaurs. Then it hit him. “You went back further in the past,” he realized.

“Yes.”

“And what did you find?”

“A tyrannosaurus preying on a herd of hadrosaurs,” said Pat.

“Oh, of course, a buncha reptiles on a civil war battleground,” Baker said sarcastically. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I know you’re kidding,” Pat said, “but you didn’t think of it because you weren’t looking for it. You were too consumed by the thought of the Civil War battle. Now, I’m an archaeologist, so I was looking for something entirely different. And I found it, alright: fossils, on your land, which I excavated and sent to a lab for radiocarbon dating. And there were a lot to test, believe me.” Now Pat pointed to the hills that rose gently behind the time turret. “Those hills behind your station, they’re very old, very worn down. And they’re rifts, giant overturned sections of Earth. In fact this entire area is like that. So, there are fossils are over the place. And they’re predominantly of two distinct kinds. I received confir-”

“I don’t care,” interrupted Baker. “I feel cheated. I’ve had that land for two decades, and the time turret for half a dozen. You cheated me. You were on my land. You should have told me what was on it. You didn’t bargain in good faith.”

“You’re a business-man, Baker,” Pat said.

“You were on it illegally,” Baker muttered. “I could take you to court.”

“It wasn’t fenced off. No signs.”

“Signs be damned.”

Pat put a hand on Baker’s shoulder. “Now look, Olson. You sold me the land and the time turret fair and square. That’s over. But it’s not entirely bad. For instance, how much did you take in from grocery sales this morning?”

Baker paused and looked down at the gravel earth, figuring. “About seven hundred credits.”

“Well, see?” exclaimed Pat. “There you go. If my time turret draws in business, then your gas station and convenience store will prosper as well. It’s a win-win!” Pat smiled magnanimously.

Baker was quiet for a long while. Then, suddenly, he straightened up and violently spat on the ground. “Hooey!”

Pat frowned and put her hands on her hips. “Now you’re just being stubborn.”

“You bet,” Baker said quietly. “I’m stubborn as hell. Couldn’t you figure that?” He jabbed at the time turret. “I ran that rinky-dink beat-up thing for years. Don’t have nothing to show for it.” He pointed at the gas station. “And I’m still running those pumps, even with all these,” he waved his arms wildly in the air, “all these mini-jets clogging up the sky. And I’m going to keep on running everything, ‘til I’m folded up over the counter, dead as a doornail!”

Pat nodded her head. “Yes, I can see that you will Baker.”

They were both silent then, and Baker sat down at Pat’s table. Across the road, the river slowly ran its course. A barge ticked upwards against current. And in the back of the gas station’s convenience store, perched above a plain of yellow grass, the time turret glittered in the sun.