Nightwatch:  The Kindness of Strangers

Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama

"Whoever you are, I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers."

Blanche DuBois, A Streetcar Named Desire

Dr. Simon Litchfield, Ph.D Civil Engineering, stood on the shore of the of the old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, watching as the brown waters sloshed against the remains of an old wooden locke.  Though it was early February, a spurt of warmer air had moved through the Washington, D.C./Georgetown area, and the weather was turbulent--thundershowers, heavy downpours, steady and occasionally fierce winds.  Litchfield, one hand grasping a safety railing and the other clutching an umbrella that was doing it's best to haul him into air, was alone.  Those who weren't at work were simply staying put where they were. For Simon, however, there was no staying put.  In fact, he had a strong desire to leave the city, but at the moment that wasn't an option.  Not wanting to remain in his office at the Nightwatch Institute for Strategic and Economic Studies, he'd taken his Saturn VUE to the canal.  

This, Simon thought as he watched the roiling waters, is what an engineer should be worrying about.  As always, he marveled at the canal, at the work that had gone into creating something that to the layperson would seem incredibly mundane.  Taming a river, any river, and harnassing it was anything but mundane.  However, as he thought of the massive amounts of earth that had to be moved, of the retaining walls that had to be constructed to bear both structural loads and the power of water, he found them being crowded out by more pressing matters.  He had other things to think about, frightful things.  There was too much at play in the world and elsewhere, and there were too many decisions to be made.  One, in particular, loomed the largest, and Simon didn't like what he saw.

"Sword of Damecles," he said as thunder rolled over the canal.  "Damn Sword of Damecles!"  When the cold air hits tonight, he thought, there'll be thundersnow for sure.  The rain, moving into one of its temporary spells of simple drizzle, afforded Dr. Litchfield the chance to fold up his umbrella, and as he walked towards a cluster of red-brick and wooden buildings, he converted the umbrella into a makeshift walking stick.  There was someone he had to see, and he hadn't much time.

****

The Cannon Moon Cafe sat on a corner of a quaint area near the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal.  While certainly not large by any stretch, the restaurant nestled behind the brown-brick and oak walls could handle virtually any reasonably sized crowd, and reservations were rarely required in order to be seated.  Simon approached, opening his black umbrella emblazened with Nightwatch's logo to deflect the rain which suddenly started falling again.  He approached the wooden door and grabbed one of the brass handles, but the door wouldn't budge.   Sighing, he felt in his pocket and pulled out a key-ring.  Carefully, he picked through each one, laughing quietly as he pulled up an old-fashioned looking gold key.  "Found you," he said as he headed for a side entrance.

Reaching the door, he inserted the key and turned it, jiggling it several times to keep the balky tumbers moving.  Finally, he heard the click at the lock released, and he let himself in.  The inside of the cafe was dim, and Simon waited for his eyes to adjust to the off-hours lighting.  During the lunch and supper hours, the place was a vibrant mix of yellow-white light, clinking dinnerware, and a heady aroma of steaks, vegetables, and, especially, lobster bisque, the Cannon Moon's specialty.

Now, however, the restaurant was quiet save for the occasional sounds coming from the kitchen or the rustling of waitstaff preparing silverware and napkins for the dinner rush.  As Simon's eyes adjusted, he looked to see if cafe's piano was still in place.  Every time Gillian Eckleberry, the head-chef and proprietress of the Cannon Moon, received the tuning bill for the Steinway, she threatened to sell the thing on e-Bay.  Simon, however, was pleased to see that she hadn't carried through, at least not yet.

Making his way past the tables, Simon sat down on the black piano stool and lifted the lid, revealing the exquisite black and white keys.  Then, he took off his khaki hat and placed it on the top of the instrument.  Quickly, he massaged his fingers, which were aching terribly in the stormy weather, and then he fanned out his hands over the keys.  The opening notes of Mary Catherine Stockdale's "Catch and Release" wafted softly into the still air.  As played by Simon, the song was thin, missing some significant parts, but servicable, and his well-scarred hands moved with some grace on the keyboard. 

Simon cringed as he momentarily produced a sour note, but as he corrected himself, he heard the opening of a door.  Smiling, he slid over to his left and began playing more of the song's bass notes.  However, a few seconds later, a figure in white sat down next to him and began playing the treble notes.  Simon looked to his right and smiled at Gillian, who returned the smile before focusing on the piano.  From the corner of his eyes, Simon noticed Gillian's hands, hands that, like their owner, showed the beauty and grace only time and experience could produce.

The two of them came to a very tricky part, a section of the song requiring them to reach over each others' hands to hit the proper notes, and while a flat harmonic rose up in the background, it was quickly drowned out by the notes the two of them managed to sound correctly.  From the shadows, various waitstaff gathered to watch the players.  Those who had worked there the longest simply shook their heads and smiled before returning to their tasks, but the younger ones stayed and watched with increasing amusement and bemusement.

The song played to its conclusion--"Catch and Release" running just over three minutes--but the final notes lingered and Simon's and Gillian's fingers remained resting on the keys.  Finally, as the remaining tones faded, Simon took his foot off of the sustaining pedal.  Then, he turned and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Last time I was in," he said, "we didn't have a chance to talk.  If you're not busy..."  Gillian smiled and then finally laughed out loud, her blue-gray eyes widening.

"Not really," she said, "just the dinner rush to get ready for, a couple of pots of bisque simmering away."  Simon smiled and nodded as he stood up.  

"I figured as much," he said as he stood and grabbed his hat.  "I was down by the canal and thought I'd take the chance, but I really didn't expect..."

"The canal?" Gillian asked as she too stood.  She ran her head over her brown-grey hair and let her fingers fall to the pony tail.  "That's never a good sign."

"This time's no exception," Simon added.  "Difficult days ahead.  Difficult decisions to make.  Really tough adjustments to be made...stop me when I've played the sympathy card enough to warrant a drink."  Gillian was laughing even before he finished the thought, and she grabbed him by the arm.

"Come on," she said, "I can't just send you out like a lost puppy.  The least I can do is see if there's anything to tempt you in the wine cellar!"

"That," he said, "would do the job nicely."  Gillian pushed open the the oak and brass door and hit the light switch.  

"Let's see," she spoke as Simon took a seat on one of the black-leather covered barstools.

****

....

****

After coming in from field work, and before being able to return a gun he'd taken with him, Simon's phone had relayed a text message at 5:30PM, just as he was about to leave for an evening at a local pub.  After cursing his luck, he grabbed his hat and coat and headed for the library, the public lair of Ian Cowell.  As Litchfield entered the little used popular culture section, he found Cowell sitting at his usual table.  Unusually, Cowell had nothing with him--no laptop, no strange yet sophisticated equipment, no packets of microdots.  Instead, he sat there with a grin on his face, a look that filled Simon with a mix of dread and disgust.  He hated it when Cowell knew something Simon didn't, something that occurred with alarming frequency.

"Simon," Cowell said, "you're punctual as usual.  DON'T sit down," he said as he pulled the chair Simon had grabbed back under the table.  

Simon tsked tsked tsked Cowell.  "Well," he said, "that wasn't very polite."

"We aren't staying here," Cowell said as he stood up and straightened his gray coat and tie.  "There's something I want to show you.  Something," he paused as the grin returned to his face, "something I just know you're going to love.  If you'll follow me."  Callow headed into the stacks, and Litchfield followed and then made sure to pace himself so that he walked exactly beside the Lower Echelon functionary.

"So, Ian," Litchfield said, and, as usual, using his first name severely annoyed Callow, "just where are you taking me?  That little science project down in the sewers finally starting to bear fruit?"  Callow shook his head, his slightly graying hair glinting in the light of the library.

"Nothing so crude," Callow half spoke, half hissed.  "And you berate my sense of humor?"

"If you weren't such a pompous ass," Simon spoke, "your lack of human warmth wouldn't be an issue."  Callow smiled a cheerless smile as he stopped and began fishing in his pocket.

"It never ceases to amaze, Simon, you know," he pulled out a small, copper-colored keychain, "the things we've accomplished, the good we've done, and you show such an astonishing lack of appreciation."  Simon watched as Callow inserted the key into the binding of a book on one of the shelves, a book that appeared to be a copy of Herman Melville's Clarel.

"Callow," Simon spoke with a mixture of amusement and confusion, "I believe the expression is 'turn the page.'"  Callow, looking directly at Simon's face, grinned widely, a grin that seemed to tell the engineer I know something you don't.  Callow then withdrew the key and pulled on the binding of the book, which opened to reveal a series of buttons.  Quickly, he tapped a complicated sequence, so quickly in fact that despite his best efforts to keep up, Simon wasn't entirely sure that, if the occasion warrented, he could repeat the code.  Then, just after Callow replaced the binding, that section of shelving withdrew into the wall.

"You really do enjoy cloak and dagger, don't you," Simon muttered as he followed Callow into the chamber beyond.  As Callow pushed the shelving unit back into place, he turned to look at Litchfield.

"No more than you do, doctor," he said as the locking mechanism clicked.  "Not one single atom more than you do, and," he smiled, "you know it."  Simon stared at Cowell, something gnawing deep inside him.  A quick succession of memories flashed through the engineer's head:  a set of knives imbedding themselves in the ground around him, a guard just barely elluded, a lock being thrown open surruptiously by an electronic device.

"So," he said, "where the hell are we?"  Simon looked around the chamber, a small room with unpainted walls and a small yellow light dangling from the ceiling.  Callow reached up and released a catch.  This, in turn, allowed a steel door to drop in front of the bookshelf exit.

"Did you know," Cowell said, "that the Nightwatch Institute has a fallout shelter?"  Simon nodded. 

"Sure," he said, "everyone does.  They converted it into C Building's cafeteria.  I think they even used some of the old rations for the entrees."  Callow reached up and tugged on the light, and, suddenly, the room began to descend.  Simon watched as the metal door disappeared and as rough, concrete walls passed by.

"Some of us wanted another one," Cowell said proudly.  "Some of us had the power to budget for, what was it, ah yes, worldwide fleet renewal, and then build," the elevator stopped at another metal door, "a new facility without anyone noticing."  Simon was barely able to contain his anger, but as Cowell lifted the door, the engineer was able to speak.

"Impressive," he said mockingly, "your own private doomsday cellar."  Cowell cocked his head and smiled.

"Doomsday cellar," he said, allowing the words to roll gracefully off of his tounge, "I like the sound of that.  Very good, Dr. Litchfield!"  Cowell walked into the next room, and it was at that moment that Simon saw something, something he'd had a feeling he'd meet again. 

Simon grabbed at the door frame, his knuckles turning white.  "Well, I can't say I didn't expect to see it again."  Before him, surrounded by an array of flat, shining panels, and sitting on a what appeared to be a rotating pedastal, was the egg.  The object, which was large enough to require a large crate when transported, was discovered buried in the dirt in Afghanistan.  It then perplexed the best minds on the planet with the apparently indestructible nature of its milky-white shell.  Finally, Simon had made the most significant discovery, that the object actually affected time if it was properly "stimulated."  Representatives of Russia, China, and the United States had then taken the egg and dumped it into Mount Erebus in Antarctica so that no one would have possession of it.

Except Simon knew the truth, that Nightwatch, or at least Callow's part of Nightwatch, had managed to switch the real egg for a fake.  Ever since that discovery, the thought of the egg had rested uneasily in the back of his mind, like an old nightmare.

"Well, well, well," Simon spoke as he tried to put on a brave face, "just what have you been doing down here?"

"You mean, what have we been doing," Callow corrected as he looked with awe upon the egg.  It was then that Simon noticed another person in the room, a man facing a bank of computers and various intrumentation monitors, some of which beeped rhythmically as if they had jumped straight from a 1950s B-movie.  

"And who is this?" Simon said as he tried to ignore the egg and machinary surrounding it, the machinery that appeared to have been purposely built around it.  The man flicked a few toggle switches, which caused a wave pattern to appear on one of the monitors, and then he turned to face Dr. Litchfield.  He was a relatively small man, about 5"9' and seemingly weighing less than 200 pounds.  His red-brown hair, which he appeared to have wet down and then lifted with his fingers, rested in uneven spikes on the top of his head.  Gold-rimmed glasses, which covered dark chesnutt eyes, rested securely on the bridge of his slighty hooked nose.  The man's smallish mouth curled into a tight smile as he extended his hand towards Simon.

"Dr. Lyman Eckert," the man said in an even, clear, almost melodic voice.  "At your service, Dr. Litchfield, unless you attended Yale, of course."  Eckert shook Simon's hand with such vigor that his blue lab coat started to flutter.  "No self-respecting Harvard and MIT grad would ever shake the hand of a Yaley."  Simon smiled despite himself, particularly when he realized that Eckert's hair had been colored, and that the doctor had apparently had Botox injections, the skin of his face being unusually tight and wrinkle free.

"Eckert," Simon repeated.  "Why does that name sound..."

"Dr. Eckert," Callow interrupted after the closing the metal door, "is the scientist in charge of this little project."  Simon struggled to keep a smile on his face, and as he made a show of looking around at the equipment, he tried to think of everything, anything other than the likely purpose of what was happening in the basement of the library.  "We were very lucky to have secured his services."

"We?" Litchfield asked.  "And just who might we be?"  Litchfield caught site of large door on the other side of the room, and he immediately wondered where it led to.

"Aren't you the least bit curious what we are working on down here?" Dr. Eckert asked, his face clearly displaying a look of disappointed even without the presence of lines.

"No," Callow said, as Simon walked towards the egg and began examining the panels around it.  "Dr. Litchfield isn't the least bit interested.  Or, should I say, he is uniquely interested in denying the reality of what we've accomplished.  Isn't that right, Simon."  Litchfield, after carefully examining the nearest panel, which looked almost like a photoelectric solar cell, nodded and then firmly grabbed the edge of the panel.  With terrific violence, he ripped the panel off of its hinges, in the process feeling the heavy metal object in his coat pocket.

"Recent evidence," Eckert said with both amusement and pain, "would seem to indicate his failure to do so."  Simon smiled and looked back at both of them.

"You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Simon hissed at Cowell.  For his part, Cowell looked at Simon with what appeared to be great amusement.  "It wasn't enough to steal the egg, even after we promised the world that we'd do the exact opposite!"  He grabbed a second panel, looking at it so intensely that someone just entering the room would have assumed he was admiring the craftmanship.

"Would you mind," Eckert said as he inched closer to the machine, "not doing that again?  Those connections are difficult to align correctly"

"Oh really?" Simon said just before ripping it off.  "I'm terribly sorry about that.  God knows I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience."  Dr. Eckert shrugged his shoulders.

"Difficult," he said, "though not impossible.  And I did order many spares."

"Simon," Callow chimed with a voice that almost seemed to possess genuine pity, "are you planning to rip the device apart bit by bit?"

Simon smiled.  "Oh, let's call a spade a spade, shall we?  I mean, we're all adults here."  Simon looked around, and finding a glass-covered instrument cover nearby, he turned and smashed it with his elbow.  "In true understated fashion, you're calling this  a device.  Surely we can spare the actual words."  He kicked at some wires on the floor, successfully pulling two of them from their connections.  "You...bastards," he said through clinched teeth, "have built a time machine!"

"Truthfully speaking," Callow said, "whoever created the egg built the machine.  Dr. Eckert has simply created the method of harnassing it for productive purposes."

"We aren't ready for this!" Simon yelled, and he started walking, slowly, towards Callow.  "Not now, and I don't know if we ever will be.  A time machine?"  He laughed lightly at the idiocy of what was around him.  "It's obscene!  What right do we have to do anything with the past?  With the future?  What right does Nightwatch have to possess something like this?"

"I didn't think you'd understand," Callow said calmly as he straightened his tie.  "At least not right away.  But, once we've gotten some practice, I think you'll see the real value of the machine, the real good we can do."

"There's that we again," Litchfield growled.  "Just exactly how many people know about this?"

"Including yourself," Callow said, "five.  Dr, Eckert, myself, plus two technicians.  I think they've gone home."  Simon nodded.

"But you and Eckert are the brains behind the operation," Simon said, and before anyone could react, he lunged at Callow, throwing him hard against the concrete wall.  The breath was forced out of Callow, but though he held his mouth open and gasped, he somehow retained his composure.  Quickly, however, Simon reached in his pocket and pulled out the gun.  In one quick motion, the safety was released, and barrell was pointed at Callow's head.

Callow smiled, though the corners were turned down slightly by discomfort.  "Simon," he spoke, "you aren't that cold-blooded."

"This isn't in cold blood," Simon spoke.  "This is cooly logical.  This is pragmatism.  That machine is evil.  You and your colleague are helping to perpetuate that evil."  Simon stared hard into Callow's eyes.  "You of all people should know that Nightwatch does everything, everything, in its power to stop evil wherever we find it."  Callow nodded and seemingly truly understood Simon's logic.

Eckert walked to a cabinet and calmly took out two new panels for the machine.

"Well Simon," Callow said, "I guess you'll have to do what you'll have to do.  I would, however," he said as he reached into his pocket, "like you to make a fully informed choice."  He slowly slide a white envelope out of his pocket, and Simon had a sinking feeling that he knew what Callow was going to say.

"Go on," Simon said, easing back slightly and allowing Callow to fully inhale.

"Well," Callow continued, "just so you know the facts, should I disappear I've left instructions for copies of this document to be sent to the Attorney General, to the Secretary of State, and to the heads of the FBI and CIA."  Callow grinned.  "They would, I think, be very interested to know about some of your, um, extracurricular activities."  Simon nodded.  "And, before you go seeking out Ms. Keel's help, understand that these documents will be delivered in analog form, if you follow me."

"What if I told you that sacrificing my life and career was a price I was willing to pay to get rid of this thing?"

"I'd say that was a very noble gesture on your part," Callow said kindly as Eckert started attaching the panel to the array.  "It's also one that I anticipated.  If you'd like to take a look at this," he said as he slowly handed the envelope to Simon, "you'll find reference to Ms. Keel as well.  You wouldn't want her to spend decades of her life in prison would you?  And what about Mr. Weldon?  That practice of his seems to be..."

"Enough," Simon said as he lowered the gun and backed away from Callow.  The Lower Echelon representative grabbed his lapels and straightened his gray jacket.

"And think about this," Cowell said with sudden seriousness.  "If you go down, you'll take Nightwatch with you.  I don't even want to imagine what would be left by the time all of the investigations and the dust had settled."  [INSERT SIMON READING THE LETTER; THE REACTION SHOT SHOULD SHOW THAT SIMON IS UNSETTLED AND FEELS GUILTY]

"You made...your damn...point,"  Simon said as he snapped on the safety and put the gun back into his pocket.  He rubbed his wrists and his fingers.  "What do you want me to do?" he sighed.

"I have a job for you," Cowell spoke.  "An important job."

"We've discovered many, many things," Eckert said as he began securing the connections, "many wonderful, many amazing things since the time machine became operational.  "First, we've discovered some key restrictions.  For now, we can send nothing at all into the future.  We don't know the reason, but the collectors simply won't process the egg's outputs in that manner.  Second, experimental data have shown that we cannot go back farther than, say, 1900.  Again, the outputs beyond that are too unpredictable."

"Lucky 19th century," Simon spoke cheerlessly.  His fingers were now hurting him terribly.

"Third," Eckert continued, "the range of the machine is limited.  In fact, we can only read and reach the Washington, DC metro area.  However, it is the last thing we've found that is of greatest interested, and it is this that has caused us to bring you in."

"Do you have any ibuprofen down here?" Simon asked as he touched his temples.

"When we first began operating the machine," Eckert continued, "I noticed something anamalous in the data."  Eckert walked over thea monitor, flicking it on and then inserting a disk into a nearby CD-Rom drive.  "They were indicating something very unusual.  At first, I had to assume the machine wasn't running properly. When I eliminated that as a possibility..."

An animated bar graph of data points appeared on the monitor, and Callow walked over, pointing at two of the bars.

"These," Callow said, "are, for lack of a better term, oscillations, and over the last hundred years, over the absolute range of this machine, they have appeared at very specific points."

"Here," Eckert added, "is the Bonus Army's march on Washington.  And here is the depth of the Great Depression.;"

"This shows the period just before America's entry into World War I," Callow said.

"And the point is?" Simon asked impatiently.  He suddenly realized that the safety was still off on the gun, and he quickly flicked it into place, though he did put the weapon back into his coat pocket.

"The point," Eckert said, a slight trace of a New England accent coloring his voice, "is that every one of these oscillations can be tied directly to a period of tremendous uncertainly in the Washington metro area--the Kennedy assassination, for instance--almost as if the sheer number of possible outcomes literally cast ripples into the ocean of time.  The greatest amplitudes, as you might imagine, occur during World War II and the Cuban missile crisis."

"All of the sources can be indentified," Callow said.

"All," Eckert continued, "but one."  Simon looked at the two of them, a wry if somewhat bitter smile crossing his face, and he began shaking his head.

"No," Simon said firmly.  "The answer is a definite no.  There is no way I'm trusting you to fling me back in time.  Outside of my principles, do either of you actually know what the egg is made of?"

"That," Cowell added, "is still a matter of conjecture.  It is, however, under study."  Simon shook his head.

"Well," he said, "you at least know how the egg manipulates time, then.  You've identified its...oh, what the hell...its temporal properties?"

"Truthfully," Eckert said cheerfully, "we haven't a clue.  Much of that will have to wait until the composition of the outer shell has been identified.  However, we can say with certainty that whatever drives it, the outputs can be controlled through the device."

"You can't expect me to seriously consider doing this!" Simon yelled.  "You want me to trust my life to a damn enigma!"			
"Simon," Cowell said in his most serious tone of voice, "this is important, and this is serious.  Despite your views and misgivings, this machine..."  He stopped and looked at the egg and then at the surrounding equipment.  "This wonder, this marvel, brings with it the responsibility, the power to do real good.  Something is going on in the winter of 1939, something with the potential to undo everything we know to be reality.  And that something is growing in intensity."  He looked Simon squarely in the eye.  "We must find out what that is, and, if necessary, we must stop it.  That is what I am asking you to do."

"The first recorded oscillations," Eckert added in an equally serious tone, "were comparatively minor.  Puzzling, but minor.  But we've checked many times, Dr. Litchfield, many times.  The oscillations are getting worse.  Something is changing in that time, something dangerous, something that, if it continues to grow, could cascade into the total unravelling of everything we know to be history."

Simon, unblinking, scanned the room, staring alternately at Cowell, then Eckert (where did he know that name from), and the machine.  He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his thick, white hair.  Then, slowly, he put the hat back on and scratched the silver stubble on his chin.

"And if I still say no?" he asked, though his tone was really that of a man knowing that answer in advance.

Cowell nodded, his face seeming to acknowledge that Simon was only doing what he had to do.  "You know about the letter.  You know about the consequences."

Simon shook his head and uttered a curse beneath his breath.  "I need a little time to think."  Cowell looked towards Eckert, who nodded in assent.

"Two days," Cowell said as he released the catch on the door.  Simon walked into the lift and turned around, in the process noting a set of double doors on the other side of the room.  "When you get to the top, lift the door.  That will release the lock."

"Thanks for the tip," Litchfield said flatly.

"Oh," Cowell added, "don't bother trying to sneak back in here later.  I'm turning off the lift just as soon as you reach the top."

****

****

Simon stood and the platform and marvelled at the locomotive, his eyes wide, his hand clutching the lapel over his heart.  Pullman porters ran in a carefully orchestrated ballet, helping passengers onto the westbound passenger train.

"The westbound Comet," Emit said with a mixture of the blase and the amused.  "You saw the eastbound earlier this morning.  There's a maintenance yard about two miles down.  The morning locomotive is there being readied for tomorrow's run."  Simon heard himself laughing.

"Karl," he said, "it's real!  This is a...a real, honest-to-god, steam engine.  A working steam engine!" Karl looked at Simon in wonder.

"Have you never seen one before?" he said, a touch of alarm in his voice.  Simon nodded while never taking his eyes from the locomotive, which was hissing like a cornered animal.  The station master carried a note suspended in a net-like device and held it towards the engine cab.

"Well, I've seen a few, but," Simon smiled, "never like this.  They only pull tourist trains, meaningless excursions over a few miles.  There just aren't many left that work."  The brakeman reached out of the window and grabbed the paper, which was fluttering in the breeze.

"They've gotten rid of trains by your time?" Karl questioned, and his tone indicated a sense of impending panic.

"No, we have trains.  Just not these types."  Simon walked towards the engine, getting close enough to feel the steam coming from the pressure valve.  "Steam was outmoded a long time ago.  They use diesel engines now...then."

"I've heard of them," Karl said.  "Someone from the U&I central office came through talking of a demonstration he'd seen.  I'd simply assumed they were some kind of new steam locomotive."

"Look at it!" Simon exclaimed.  "I had a few layouts when I was living in...in Chicago.  Karl," he said, looking at the strange man, "it's a Mikado isn't it."  Litchfield looked at the wheels.  "No wait...four wheels, six wheels, two wheels...Atlantic...  No!  Pacific!  Baldwin built it, I bet."

"It is a Pacific," Karl said.  "4-6-2 Pacific," he said like a child reciting multiplication tables by rote memory.  "That I know.  I'm afraid that I have no idea who built it.  I hear so many things; it's hard to tell what's truly of importance.  I heard someone talking about American Locomotive Company the other day, but that could have just be idle conversation."  He stood before the engine, suddenly looking upon it with a sense of wonder and admiration.  "I've seen so many, Dr. Litchfield, that I've never really taken the time to look at them."  He scratched his head and then straightened one of his sleaves.  "Can you tell me what this means?  The U&I man who was here the other day, the one who mentioned diesels, said they wouldn't need the Mallet up in West Virginia if they changed locomotives for the Comet."

"It means," Simon said, "that these Pacifics need help getting through the mountains.  They can't do the job on their own.  I'm not sure what a Mallet is.  They might mean articulated...two sets of drivers."

"All aboard!" the conductor called, and the porters jumped onto the train, grabbing the stepping stools from the platform and loading them onto the train.  The conductor was the last to board.  A second later, the engineer gave two blasts of the steam whistle, and then, bell clanging, the Comet began moving, slowly at first but quickly gathering speed.  Smoke and steam billowed into the cold morning air.

Simon sighed, his own steam quickly evaporating.  "That almost makes this whole thing worth it.  All right...enough of the sight seeing."

I.	The C&O Canal--Simon standing in the rain, pensive, thinking
II.	The Cannon Moon Cafe--enters and sees no one around.  Sits down at the piano and starts picking out the piano part of Enya's "Watermark."  Gillian emerges behind him and joins in.  A couple of waiters watch from the wings but don't say anything; this is obviously something they've seen before.
	--Go to the bar, and engage in a little small talk.  Gillian finally asks the million dollar question.  If there was one thing, anything in the bar that he could have at that very moment, what would it be.  His response...
	--...is four fried kippers, something his grandmother used to make.  (The scene transitions in with him eating his fish.)  Gillian knows that Simon is troubled, and he admits as much, saying that he has a decision to make, a difficult decision, a no-win decision.
III.	Flashback to Simon's meeting with Callow and Dr. Eckert.  (Eckert was Dr. Card's mentor.)  It is here that Callow reveals the time machine and what they've learned about November 1939.  Simon comes very close to killing Callow.  Callow points out that Dr. Eckert would be a witness, and Simon points out that he could kill him too.  Callow points out that Simon believes too much in saving the world to ever kill so indescriminantly (as does Callow), but just in case, he pulls out a copy of a letter. If Callow gives the signal, or if he doesn't give the signal, copies of the letter will go to the Secretary of State, the Attorney General, and the head of the FBI.  Simon understands what the letter contains, and he asks for 48 hours to think things over.
IV.	The scene back at Cannon Moon should be charged with subtle innuendo.  As Simon leaves, he states that he has made his decision,
V.	Back at Nightwatch, Simon has been kitted out with items that fit in with 1939, particularly currency and a period weapon.  He is also given a recall device.  He should, however, expect some delay between activating the recall and actually being recalled.  As Eckhart starts the machine, he asks what he should expect, what the others noticed.  As he is vanishing into the time stream, Callow simply smiles and says he has no idea, Simon is the first to use the machine.
VI.	[Continue later...Simon emerges in Washington, DC in November 1939]

Billy Jessup stood in one of the darker corners of the Cannon Moon Cafe, methodically wrapping exquisitely weighted flatware in creme-colored lenin napkins.  He was new to the weightstaff, having only just come in from a Bennigan's across town.  While he already liked working in the restaurant, he was not fond of the "penguin suit," particular his white, button down shirt; black, sleeveless vest; and black tie (hand-tied, no clip-on's allowed)--the latter specifically making him feel like he was walking around with a half-taut neuse.

As he prepared to carry his bundles to the tables, he was suddenly aware of a side entrance opening, one which he knew was kept locked at all times.  The light from the outside overwhelmed the semi-darkness, and Billy held his hand over his eyes until the brightness faded away.  He grabbed one of the bundles and pulled a knife free from the napkin.  If it was a burgler, and a violent one at that, he was not going down without a fight.  

Breathing heavily, he looked around the immediate area, and though he didn't see anyone, he was certain someone had come in.  Suddenly, Billy heard the sound of the cover being lifted from the piano's keyboard.

Simon Litchfield sat his hat on top of the Steinway and placed his keychain into one of the voluminous pockets in his khaki overcoat.  Looking at the line of black and white keys, he stretched his fingers and then lightly massaged the joints.  His doctor had told him that the arthritis would, for the most part, be a nuisance and nothing debilitating, but cold and rainy weather made Simon wonder about that statement.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Billy pull out the knife.  Nothing worth getting upset about, Simon thought.  If it comes down to it, I'll disarm before he does himself any harm.  

The good doctor let his fingers fall to the keys, and then he started playing the opening notes of Mary Catherine Stockdale's "Catch and Release."  As played by Simon, the song was thin but servicable, and his well-scarred hands moved with some grace on the keyboard. 

Billy tilted his head like a confused puppy trying to understand something new, but just as he started towards the man playing piano--a person doing so during a time when the Cannon Moon had finished serving lunch and closed until dinner time, Billy felt a hand on his shoulder.  Billy turned and looked at a balding older man.  The younger man's face spoke several questions before Billy was able to make himself speak.

"Should I call the police, then?" he asked in a whisper as he put the knife down.  The older waiter, whose name was Louis Griffin, smiled, and his bushy black gray eyebrows seemed to knit together.  

"If you'd been here long enough," he said kindly, "you'd understand," and he pointed a bony finger towards the kitchen.  Anout that time, the Cannon Moon's proprietress emerged from the kitchen.  She was wiping her hands on a white towel and smiling and shaking her head as she looked towards the piano.  Simon's fingers, which were rapidly loosening, glided over the lower notes, and the woman, Gillian Eckleberry, walked briskly to the piano.  She took her place on the piano bench, and after playfully bumping Simon over, she started playing the high notes.  Her hands were more graceful on the keyboard, but the two of them played with a precision that surprised Billy.

"He come here often?" he said to Louis.  

"As often as he can," Louis said, smiling.  Billy shook his head.

"What the hell fun is that?" he said with disdain.  "I heard better playing down at Ringer's the other day, and that was at 2AM?"

"You don't have to be Van Clyburn," Louis said, "to play beautiful music.  Besides, it's not the song that's important here.  Look at them?  You see it?  Do you see it?"  Billy looked at Louis, then at Gillian and Simon, and then repeated the actions.  Finally, eyes on the two players, he started nodding his head.

"Who's Van Clyburn?" he asked.  Louis rolled his eyes and then grabbed Billy's arm, pulling him back towards the silverware.  

"Son," he said, "you're just not old enough to understand.  Make sure you get those napkins fluted.  Make...aw, damn, Billy!  That's not fluted.  That's poofy!  Here, let me show you...."