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Dies ist eine der ersten Versionen des Filmes Zurück in die Zukunft von Robert Zemeckis und Bob Gale vom 11. März 1980. Diese Version unterscheidet sich noch massgeblich von der endgültigen Filmfassung. Sehr interessant... Wenn Dir die Online-Version zu lang ist, kannst Du Dir das Script auch als PDF downloaden (283 KB) Zum Darstellen benötigst Du den Acrobat Reader. Text ins Deutsche übersetzen (Übersetzung per Translation-Roboter! Ungereimtheiten möglich!)
The credits began to roll across the TV screen for the movie Close Encounters as the 3/4-inch cassette finished copying over to Beta and VHS. Seventeen-year-old Marty McFly looked up from his issue of Rolling Stone, where he was checking out an ad for a guitar amp. Maybe after a few more pirated tapes he would have enough money to buy it.
Marty set the magazine down and stopped the tapes, rewound them, then took a pen and carefully wrote, "Close Encounters, Original Edition" on the labels. He placed the master tape in a drawer. Other titles of bootlegged videotapes jumped out at him as he did so: The Empire Strikes Back, Stir Crazy, and Superman II.
Marty turned off the video equipment and picked up his schoolbooks, along with the other two videocassettes. He walked into another room connected to the video lab. This one was much larger, filled with workbenches covered with electronics, chemical equipment, and dust.
"Professor Brown!" Marty called to the older man at the other end of the lab. "It's almost eight thirty -- I'm outta here!"
"Shhhhhhhh!" Professor Emmett Brown hissed, his white head bent over what looked to Marty like a solar cell. At 65, he was considered the town eccentric, an inventor who's inventions didn't always work the way they were supposed to. Professor Brown was tall -- though his posture had grown more hunched with age -- and had a mane of shaggy white hair that was almost always unruly and uncombed. At the moment, the Professor was trying to get the cell positioned under the skylight in a certain way, maybe to catch the sunlight. Marty stepped closer to him, curious on what the project was.
Whatever he was working on it looked old, maybe 30 years. The Professor poured some kind of chemical solution into a compartment in the cell and plugged a patch cord from it into a Voltmeter. A light bulb on the panel glowed dimly and the meter needles moved slightly.
"Blast it!" Professor Brown exclaimed. "Twenty four measly volts!" He threw a flask across the room in his frustration, shattering it against the wall. Marty jumped back, startled.
"The power of a million hydrogen bombs," the Professor ranted, pointing to the sun that shone down though the skylight, then to his experiment, "and we get twenty four measly volts. It's not fair! I've been working on this power converter since 1949, and you'd think in all that time, I could find the right chemicals that would efficiently convert radiation into electric energy! But no! Thirty three years of dedication and research, and all I've got to show for it is a bootleg video operation!"
"That reminds me," Marty began, "if we could scrape up enough for a 35 film chain, I've got a connection with a projectionist in a first run house -- we could be sellin' new movies on the street before they're even in the theater."
"A 35mm film chain...." Professor Brown mused. "I'll see what I can do...." He turned his attention back to his power converter.
Marty crossed the room, heading for the front door. He paused at the door next to it, the one with five locks on it, and tried the knob. It was still locked. Big surprise, he thought with some disappointment.
"Won't give up, will you, Marty?" Professor Brown asked without turning around.
Marty grinned. "One of these days you're gonna leave this door open and I'll find out what's in there."
Professor Brown glanced at him. "Did you ever consider that some doors are locked for a reason?"
"Nope. The way I figure it, doors are made to be opened. See you after school."
"Oh -- Marty -- what time did you say it was?" Professor Brown asked.
Marty stopped in his tracks, a few steps away from the stairs.
"Eight thirty."
"AM or PM?"
Marty rolled his eyes. "Pro, the sun's out!"
"Oh, right, right," the Professor said, glancing up at the skylights.
"Jeez," Marty continued, "for a guy with a ton of clocks, you sure don't pay much attention to time."
Professor Brown looked quickly at all the synchronized clocks around the room. "On the contrary," he said, standing up and walking toward Marty. "I may not pay much attention to the measurement of time, but I'm very aware of Time itself. I believe time to be its own dimension...to be controlled...to be contained...."
Marty ran down the stairs, having had enough of the Professor's weird ramblings. "Catch you later!" he called over his shoulder.
Professor Brown continued to speak, to the empty room walking to the locked door. "...To be traveled through," he finished softly. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out some keys. One-by-one, the Professor unlocked the locks on the door. Finally, he opened it and walked inside.
A tangle of equipment was in the center of the room with a number of lenses at the end of the maze. It resembled nothing so much as a large ray gun or laser. Professor Brown stood back and admired it. "If only I could harness enough power!" he said wistfully.
Marty opened the door at the end of the stairs and stepped out on the street before the Orpheum Theater. The place had been abandon years before, it's windows boarded over. The marquee still spelled out the last movie that had played there, Assembly of Christ. Professor Brown resided on the third floor of the structure, the only person who used the premises now. Marty walked down the street, headed for Wilson's Cafe. Parked a hundred feet down the street was a black van. The sign on it read "N.R.C." and two men were carefully putting samples of water from a gutter into little test tubes. Marty glanced at them for a moment, somewhat curious. They ignored him. He reached the cafe and went inside. The owner, Dick Wilson, was sitting behind the counter. Only thirty-five, he already had lost more hair than remained on his head. Even though he was a good hundred pounds overweight, he was eating a Babe Ruth candy bar while reading a newspaper. "Morning, Dick," Marty said, taking a seat at the counter. Dick set the candy bar down. "Marty. What's for breakfast?" "Gimme some chili, fries, and a Tab," he said, glancing down at the newspaper lying on the counter. "Hot tip," Dick explained as he brought Marty his drink. "Rubber Biscuit in the third race at Arlington." Marty nodded. "Dick, what's with those guys out there in the gutter?" he asked, tilting his head towards the window. Dick squinted out the window and shrugged. "Third time they've been out there this week." Marty watched them for a moment, loading up the water samples in the van. "What's N.R.C.?" Dick shrugged again. "I don't know. National Cash Register?"
Later that afternoon, Marty stared at the textbook page in his hand. It showed a photo of a mushroom cloud with the words, "Last above ground atomic test, March 18, 1952, Atkins, Nevada." He took his pen and wrote the letters "M.M + S.P." on the cloud and drew and arrow through it, like a valentine. He added at the bottom, "How about the dance Saturday? We'll have a BLAST!" In the background his science teacher, Mr. Arky, droned on with the day's lecture. "There were only three above ground Atomic Tests in the United States, so the government took every opportunity to study the effects of radiation. Actual single family tract homes were constructed on the test site, totally furnished with refrigerators, TV's, furniture...." What a waste of perfectly good stuff, Marty thought. "...Anything you could find in a typical home," Mr. Arky continued, "just so scientists could learn what kind of damage an atomic bomb would do to a typical town. They even put mannequins in the houses, just like in auto crash tests." Marty tore the page with the picture and note out of his book. He turned to look at Suzy Parker, the pretty alburn-haired girl across the aisle and a seat behind him. He quickly folded the page and winked at her before tossing it deftly on her desk. The teacher didn't notice. "But the fact remains that today, thirty years after those early nuclear tests, the threat of nuclear annihilation is as great as it ever was. Certainly, nuclear annhiliation is something you all must have thought about. Any questions, comments, ideas?" No, Marty thought, glancing around. Everyone in the class apparently agreed with him. "Anyone?" Mr. Arky asked. "I'm talking about the complete and total destruction of the entire world. Doesn't anybody have anything to say about it?" No one raised a hand. Mr. Arky's face began to turn red. "How about you, Mr. Jackson?" he asked, raising his voice. "Would you like to share some of your wisdom with the class?" Jackson didn't look up from the textbook, ignoring the teacher. Marty felt something brush against his foot and looked down to see the folded note that he had given Suzy on the floor. He leaned over and scooped it off the floor. Mr. Arky continued to ask for volunteers. "Mr. Gomez? Any thoughts? Miss Parker? Mr. Crump, any reaction?" Marty unfolded the note and looked at it. Beside the cloud the words, "That's sick!" had been written in loopy cursive. Marty turned the page over. On the back was the word, "Yes." He smiled, then was rudely snapped out of his thoughts by the science teacher's irritating voice. "How about you, Mr. McFly?" Arky asked, strolling over to his desk. Marty quickly crumpled the note and shoved it in his pocket before the teacher could see it. He stared at his graffittied desk top, wishing Mr. Arky would go away. "Did you even hear the question, Mr. McFly?" the teacher demanded, glowering at Marty. Marty looked up, facing the inevitable. He might as well give his honest opinion. "Yeah," he answered. "You want to know what I think about atomic bombs. Well, I'd kind of like to see one." Mr. Arky leaned forward so his face was a few inches from Marty's. "You'd like to see a nuclear holocaust?" he asked, his voice rising a few octaves. "Not a holocaust --" Marty began, realizing his mistake. Mr. Arky interrupted him. "Mr. McFly here wants to nuke it all, just so he can see it!" the teacher boomed out to the class. A couple students started to laugh. Marty sat up straighter, glared at the teacher. "You know damn well that's not what I meant." Mr. Arky ignored him. "All I can say is, that's one helluva attitude, Mr. McFly. 'Let's explode a hundred megaton Geothermal nuclear device, just to see it.' " Marty felt his face turn red with anger and embarrassment. "Yeah, explode it up you ass," he muttered under his breath. "Unfortunately," Mr. Arky continued, a malicious smile on his face, "the way things are going, you may get your wish. You may see the entire annhiliation of the world. If not, you'll certainly see the destruction of all out natural resources. We can already see the air we breathe, not to mention the pollution in our rivers and lakes. We'll see all of our oil reserves depleted, in fact, all of our energy sources. Yes, you people have a lot to look forward to -- a lot to see." "Hey, Mr. Arky, gimme a break!" Marty exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "I'm seventeen years old! I'm not responsible for all these problems!" The anger in Mr. Arky's face suddenly vanished. He sighed, a sound of defeat. "No, of course you're not. Not for the problems, no. But for the solutions...yes." The bell rang, ending the school day. Everyone leaped out of their desks and rushed for the door. " See you tomorrow," the teacher added. Ten minutes later, Marty was outside at the front of school, heading for a group of his friends, who were already giving other students videotapes in return for cash. "Hey Marty," Rafe Newton called to him, heading his way. "Sport me fifty 'til the weekend, would ya? I'm down to my last twenty." Marty shook his head. "Can't man. I'm savin' up for that new amp." "Well, when you're a big rock star, how about loanin' me a grand?" "You got it!" Marty grinned. He checked his watch. "I gotta go." Donaldson, one of his friends, stood next to him. He looked at Marty's watch. "Hey man, what happened to your digital quartz?" he asked. "In the shop," Marty explained. "So I'm sporting this antique." He lifted up his left hand with the watch on it. "Check out this wind-up action," he added, pointing to the gold timepiece. Donaldson looked at it with minor interest as the both of them went down the front steps of the school. "Hey, you wanna come over?" Donaldson asked when they were at the bottom of the steps. "Get high?" "Maybe tomorrow. I gotta dupe some more tapes." Donaldson snapped his fingers. "Hey, that reminds me -- my brother's gettin' married next week and I'm throwin' a party for him. Can you provide some entertainment?" Marty nodded, having the perfect thing in mind. "Yeah, I can run something off this afternoon," he promised.
The man and woman were really going at it now, breathing hard and moaning. Typical sounds of sex. Marty watched for a moment, then shook his head and turned away from the porno video he was copying for his friend. Twisting the volume down as the couple started to get really noisy, he fished some cash out of his pocket and placed it in the cigar box where he was storing all the money he was saving to use for that new amp. He got up from his chair and walked out of the room into Professor Brown's lab.
The Professor was lying on his cot, asleep, with a heavy blanket covering him. Marty walked quietly over to the refrigerator and opened it, taking out a bottle of Coke. As he was pulling the soft drink out, his hand accidentally bumped against an orange lying beside it. Before he had a chance to catch it, it bounced out of the fridge and rolled across the floor, vanishing under the cot.
Marty set down the Coke on top of the fridge and bent down to picked the orange up. He pushed aside the blanket and saw a crate, purple radioactive emblems on it. Marty frowned as he read the labels. Extreme Danger! Radioactive Plutonium! Authorized Personal Only! Do Not Handle Without Radiation Suit. Near the bottom were the words, "Property of San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant, San Onofre, California."
Right next to the word "California" was the orange. Taking a deep breath, Marty stood up and kicked the orange out from under the cot with his right foot. He slowly backed away, his eyes on the crate, before picking the orange up and tossing it into the trash can next to the refrigerator. Marty glanced at the Professor, relieved to see that he hadn't woken up.
Trying to forget what he had seen, Marty picked the Coke bottle up and twisted the cap off, taking a quick swig from it before walking over to a cage with an organ-grinder monkey in it.
"Hey, Shemp," he called softly. "How ya doin'?"
The monkey gazed back at him with dark eyes. Marty unlatched the cage door and let the animal out. Shemp quickly climbed up his arm and sat on his shoulder. Marty crossed the room, over to the table where the power converter was still set up, resting on some old blueprints. He leaned over for a closer look at those.
The top blueprint was for something called, "Photo-Electric Chemical Power Converter." The sketch on the blueprint matched the power converter that the Professor had been messing with earlier. Marty flipped that blueprint back to look at the others one-by-one. "15 Tube Mechanical Home Butler." It looked like some kind of robot. "Aero-Mobile," a weird-looking flying car. And a "Write-O-Matic," which looked like a pen with a suction cup at the end of an attached wire.
Marty let the blueprints flip back and stared at the power onverter. The last few rays of the afternoon sunlight filtered through the skylight and shone down on the photo-cell. Marty looked closer and noticed a funnel shaped thingy jutting out of the chemical chamber. He looked at it for a moment, temptation building, then reached over and poured some of the Coke in the funnel.
He hadn't even pulled his arm back when a bright spark shot out of the opposite end of the device, making a loud cracking noise. Marty jumped several feet away, his heart pounding, almost dropping the bottle in his hand.
"What happened?!" he heard Professor Brown demand, jumping out of his bed and running over to the table where the power converter sat.
"Well, I'm not sure exactly -- I accidentally spilled some Coke in here," Marty said, stretching the truth a little. He pointed to the funnel. "Just a drop!"
The Professor quickly hooked up the voltmeter and light bulb to the converter. "Give me that!" he added, snatching the bottle from Marty's hands. He poured some more of the drink into the funnel. The bulb started glowing brightly and the meter jumped. The whole thing started to make a humming noise. Professor Brown dumped in more Coke. The light grew even brighter, then suddenly exploded!
Marty flinched, but didn't turn away. He was dying to know what that thing was supposed to be doing. He wanted to know almost as bad as he wanted to get into that locked room several feet away. The voltmeters needle raised off the scale as the power converter began to vibrate, so violently that it fell off the table!
The Professor stared at the floor where the converter lay, his hands starting to tremble. He had a strange look on his face, disbelief mixed with excitement. He looked carefully at the Coke bottle.
"What's in this stuff?"
Marty gave a shrug, not understanding why Professor Brown wanted to know. "Nobody knows the formula for Coca-Cola. It's the most closely guarded secret in the world!"
The Professor was silent for a moment, his gaze far away. He finally picked the power converter up and walked across the room, taking out a key ring from his pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said as he began to unlock the forbidden door. Before Marty could ask him any questions, the Professor opened the door and shut it firmly behind him. Marty heard the sound of locks clicking into place, then all was silent.
That evening, wearing headphones plugged into his turntable, Marty walked around his bedroom, following the music on his own electric guitar. Posters of rock stars covered the surrounding walls. He was trying to find the drill he had been using earlier, moving the miscellaneous junk that covered his furniture and floor with the top of the guitar's neck. Under the Rolling Stone on the dresser were some tools -- but not the drill. A couple issues of Heavy Metal and the Lampoon hid some homework on the desk he had forgotten to turn in. The record ended and Marty took the headphones off. "Who stole my drill?" he yelled out the door. "Dinner's ready!" his mom answered. With a sigh, Marty set his guitar down and went downstairs. He stopped in the living room on the way to the kitchen. His father, George McFly, was sitting on the couch and watching a boxing match on the TV. "Anybody seen the drill?" Marty asked. Dad continued to stare at the TV, ignoring or not hearing the question. Eileen McFly looked into the living room from the kitchen. "I've been calling you for five minutes!" she said to Marty. "Didn't you hear me?" "I was practicing," Marty said with a shrug. "I've got an audition next week -- I gotta practice. How am I gonna get famous if I don't practice?" Mom shook her head. Once, a long time ago, she had been quite attractive. Now, at the age of 47, it was easy to see the toll age had taken. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and her face was puffy, lined with wrinkles. Both of Marty's parents hadn't aged that gracefully. "You won't get famous if you don't eat, either," she said, ducking back into the kitchen. Marty turned back to his dad. "Dad, you seen the drill?" "What drill?" his father finally said. "The drill!" Marty repeated, exasperated. "The power drill I bought you for Christmas. I was using it last night." Dad didn't move his gaze from the TV. "It'll turn up." Marty shook his head and went into the kitchen, sitting down as his mother put the food on the table. She leaned back into the living room. "George, dinner's ready!" she called. Marty's father continued to stare at the TV, fully absorbed in the boxing match. "Coming, Eileen," he said, making no move to get up. "Now, George," Mom insisted. "Dinner's ready now." "Coming, Eileen," Dad repeated. A moment later a commercial came on the TV and George McFly finally got up and started to roll the TV on it's stand to the dining room. "How was school today?" Marty's mom asked him. "Fine," he answered automatically. "Learn anything?" "Oh yeah." Mom smiled. "That's good." His dad finished adjusting the TV and sat down. "How was school today?" he asked Marty, picking up a fork and starting to eat. Hadn't he just done this? "Fine," Marty said. "Learn anything?" "Oh yeah." "Good." Dad turned his eyes back to the TV as the match resumed. Marty looked down at the newspaper, examining the sports scores, and his mom stared off into space. There was complete silence, during which the sportscaster did his blow-by- blow on the TV. Eventually Mom spoke, during another commercial break. "By the way, that reminds me," she said, gesturing to the TV's burger ad. "Saturday night we're taking Grandma Stella out for Chinese food." "Eileen, Chinese food again?" Dad groaned. Mom frowned. "George, if you don't want Chinese food, pick a place you want to go and make a reservation." "That means he'll have to pick up the phone, Ma," Marty interjected. As expected, his dad backed down. "No, Chinese food is fine." "Saturday night's the 'Springtime in Paris' dance," Marty added. "I'm taking Suzy Parker." His mother looked thoughtful. "The 'Springtime in Paris' dance. You hear that, George? They're still having the 'Springtime in Paris' dance. "That was our first date," she explained to Marty. "Remember George? I remember everything about that night. Remember the first time we kissed? It was during the last dance. They were playing that Eddie Fisher song, 'Turn Back the Hands of Time'. I even remember how you asked me out. We were in the cafeteria. You were so scared, you spilled your creamed corn." Dad continued to look at the TV, not showing any sign of hearing his wife. "And I probably won't be here when you wake up Sunday morning," Marty continued. "Suzy and I are gonna go down to the lake and watch the sun rise." His dad looked away long enough from the TV to frown at him. "The sun rise? What for?" Jeez, what did he think? "To see it," Marty explained patiently. His dad turned away to the TV, the look on his face puzzled. Unfortunately, his mom was not as easily distracted. "You mean you're going to stay up all night?" "Mom, how else are we gonna see the sunrise?" "I don't think I like the idea of you staying out all night with a girl," Mom decided, shaking her head firmly. Marty rolled his eyes. "Hey, Ma, gimme a break." Before they could discuss the subject any further, there was a heavy pounding on the back door. "Would you answer that, George?" Eileen asked when no one else made a move to. Her husband ignored her. Heaving a sigh, Marty finally stood up to answer it. The visitor was not one of his favorite people. Biff Tannen stood on the porch, his stomach hanging over the pants in his security guard uniform. His shirt was untucked and the tie was undone. The patch on his shoulder read "Special Security Officer." He was a 47-year-old jerk who liked to push his father around and Marty had no need for him whatsoever. Biff felt the same way about him. "Well, well," he smirked when Marty opened the door. "If it isn't the neighborhood bootlegger, Al Capone McFly?" "What do you want, Biff?" Marty demanded, wanting to end this little visit as soon as possible. "Show me some respect, you little A-hole," Biff growled. "It's Special Officer Tannen to you." The day I show respect to Biff Tannen will be the day I win a million dollars, Marty thought. "What's the matter, Biff, they're not showing you any respect down at the golf course? Don't they realize what a tough job it is keeping the criminal element away from the country club?" Biff scowled at him. "Listen you little A-hole, I oughta --" "What do you want, Biff?" Marty repeated, tiring fast of the conversation. "Where's your old man?" Marty took a step back and pointed over his shoulder to the kitchen. Biff pushed his way into the house and Marty saw he had a broken power drill and some bits in hand. He suddenly felt sick. "Hey McFly, what's with this cheap-ass drill you're giving me?" he demanded. "Thing burned up first time I used it! Almost ruined my whole engine block!" Marty shook his head in disgust as he sat down again at the table. His dad immediately turned away from the TV. "Uh -- Biff," he stammered, pointing to the bits. "These are wood bits. Says so right here. You're not supposed to use them on your engine block." Biff snorted. "Look, McFly, I know a lot about tools. This is a cheep-ass drill! You're just lucky I didn't ruin my engine block. Next time you buy tools, let me know. I'll help you pick out some good ones." He handed George the drill, then added, "Oh -- and one more thing. My kid's selling Girl Scout cookies. I told her you were good for four boxes." Biff glared at Marty's dad. "Don't make me a liar!" George nodded quickly and Biff left, slamming the door behind him. George turned to look at his wife, who gave at him a knowing, sympathetic look. "How do you like that guy, using wood bits on an engine block?" he finally asked, laughing nervously. Marty couldn't take it anymore. He jumped up from the table and ran into the living room, grabbing his silver Porsche jacket out of the closet. "Where are you going?" he heard his mom yell. Marty opened the front door and slammed it shut in reply. He pulled his jacket on as he crossed the front lawn. Reaching the mailbox, he gave the numbers on it, 777, a good slug, then kicked his dad's car beside it in the street for good measure. Half an hour later, he was walking down a neighborhood street with Suzy Parker. "....He just lets himself get pushed around all the time," Marty was saying to her, talking about his father. "People walk all over him and he never fights back, never stands up for himself." "No self confidence, I guess," Suzy said sympathetically. "At least you don't take after him." "Yeah," Marty agreed. "Jesus! I wonder how he ever got up enough nerve to marry my mom." Suzy didn't say anything for a few moments. "Can you imagine your parents in bed together?" she finally asked. Marty laughed. "No way!" "Me neither," Suzy said, smiling. "I've always wondered whether they slept together before they got married. You think yours did?" "Hell no!" Marty cried, shaking his head. "The way my mom carries on about sex -- you even mention the word and she goes into cardiac arrest. You shoulda seen her face when I told her we were gonna stay up all night Saturday," he added. "Always afraid something is going to happen." Suzy looked at him, her expression suddenly coy. " Is something going to happen Saturday night?" she asked slyly. Before Marty could answer her, a skateboard suddenly hit his foot. He looked up to see two kids about fifty feet down the street, running an obstacle course. The one who had been on the board was slowly getting to his feet off the asphalt. Marty jumped on the board and skated over to the kid. Maybe it was because Suzy was there, but he showed off as he weaved through the obstacle, jumping over the last one and landing perfectly, then flipping the board into the air and catching it. The kids were wide-eyed as Marty handed it to the owner. "Wow, you're good!" the kid gushed, staring at the board. Marty grinned and walked back over to an impressed Suzy. "Just like riding a bike -- you never forget how to do it," he explained modestly. A minute later they were standing in front of Suzy's house. "Well..." she said slowly. "Here we are..." They stared at each other for a moment. "Thanks," Marty said softly, leaning forward and kissing her. Suzy smiled and walked to her door. "See you later," she called. Marty watched her as she stepped inside, then turned around and started to walk back home. A black sedan slowly passed him. A moment later, Marty noticed headlights shining from behind him and whirled around to see that the black sedan had turned around and seemed to be following him. Marty saw the car had the letters N.R.C. on it, like that van had. He stepped to the side of the street, on the sidewalk, and the car pulled up beside him and stopped. Two tall men dressed in black suits got out. They looked like Secret Service men. "Good evening," one said. "Agents Reese and Foley," -- he pointed to his buddy -- "from the Nuclear Regulatory Commition." He pulled out his ID and flashed it to Marty. "Mind stepping over here?" Marty eyed them cautiously before doing so. "What's this all about?" he wanted to know. "Routine radiation check," the other man -- Agent Foley -- said. He took a Geiger counter from the car and ran it up and down Marty's body. Nothing happened until it got by his feet, especially his right foot. Then it made loud clicking noises. The two men exchanged some kind of look. "Have you got any identification?" Reese demanded. Marty handed him his wallet after a moment's hesitation. "What, am I radioactive or something?" he asked uneasily, trying to figure out what was going on. Foley shook his head. "No, no, not beyond an acceptable level." "Have you been X-rayed recently, Martin?" Reese asked, his eyes on Marty's driver's license. "Perhaps been in contact with some luminous paint?" Foley added. Marty frowned at them. "No..." "Been any place unusual in the past twelve hours?" Reese questioned. "Home, school, here," Marty answered with a shrug. "Been in the vicinity of 2980 Monroe Avenue today?" asked Foley. "Where?" "Over by the old Orpheum Theater," Reese said. Marty hesitated for a moment before answering. They were talking about where Professor Brown lived. He remembered the box he had seen under the bed. Suddenly, Marty had a million questions for the Professor. "No," he said. Reese finally handed him back his wallet. "Okay, Martin. You have a good evening now." "Yeah," Marty said, jamming his wallet back into his pocket. "Right." The two men got back into their car and drove off. Marty watched them a moment, then sprinted the other way down the street!
Marty ran through the streets all the way to the Orpheum Theater. The street was deserted, save for a newspaper blowing down in the gutter. Reaching the door to the upstairs of the dilapidated building, Marty took hold of the knob and turned it. It resisted and he tried again, hoping it was stuck. He juggled it around but it didn't budge. No doubt about it. It was locked. Marty took a step back and looked up, at the third floor.
A moment later the quiet of the night was shattered by all three of the third floor windows being blown out by a huge gush of air! "Jesus!" Marty gasped, ducking his head as shreds of glass rained down. A moment later he tried the door again, but it was still locked.
After weighing the pros and cons of the matter, Marty broke the glass window in the door and reached around to unlock it himself. Once inside, he ran up the steps to the lab. The first thing he noticed was that the mysterious door with all the locks was completely un locked! A crack of light shone brightly under the bottom of the door. Marty opened it up and stepped inside. He blinked, wondering if he was seeing right.
Professor Brown was standing next to what looked like a old furnace and hot water heater thrown together with some boiler room parts. He had one hand on a rope attached to a metal lever and was messing with some dials and gauges with the other hand. Shemp, wearing his organ grinder outfit, sat on a stool, a digital watch on a cord around his neck. Some kind of long tube with lenses in it was pointed at him.
"Professor!" Marty gasped. The Professor looked up, startled.
"Get behind that lead shield!" he ordered, pointing to a large grey sheet of metal next to the wall.
Marty stared at him incredulously. "But Professor --"
"Get behind the shield!" Professor Brown broke in, cutting off Marty. "I'm about to release radiation!"
Marty looked at him for a moment more, then darted behind the shield. He watched from around the side of it as the Professor pulled the rope a tiny bit. The next moment, all hell broke loose! The low hum all the machinery made grew louder and high pitched. Static electricity crackled in the air. The sounds grew louder and the monkey looked around, curious. A minute later, the Professor let go of the rope, his eyes on a watch, and a red beam of light -- like a laser -- hit Shemp directly in the chest.
Marty winced at the high pitched noise in the room. Less then a second after the laser -- or whatever it was -- hit the Professor's pet, Shemp vanished, taking the top of the stool with him! Air suddenly rushed into the room, whipping loose papers around. The noise died down and Marty stepped out from behind the shield, his heart pounding from all he had witnessed.
"Jesus!!" he exclaimed, staring at the Professor in shock. "Professor, you just disintegrated Shemp!"
Professor Brown shook his head, a smile playing around his lips. "No, Marty. Shemp's molecular structure is completely intact."
How can he just stand there, so calm? "Then where is he?" Marty demanded.
"The appropriate question to ask is when is he," the Professor correct him. "You see, Shemp has just become the world's first time traveller. I've sent Shemp into the future -- two minutes into the future to be exact."
Marty's mouth dropped open. "The future? What are you talking about? Where's Shemp?!"
"Shemp is right here in this room...two minutes from now," the Professor explained calmly. "And at exactly 9:02PM, we'll catch up to him."
"Now hold on a minute, Professor," Marty said slowly, trying to understand this. "Hold the phone. Are you trying to tell me that this -- all of this here -- that this is -- it's a -- a --" For some reason, he couldn't get the words out.
"A time machine," Professor Brown confirmed with a nod.
Marty found a chair and sat down in it quickly before his legs could give out on him.
"I always knew it would work," the Professor continued. "I knew it would work when I built it thirty three years ago. But I was never able to harness enough power to test it. Power is the key. Massive amounts of energy to accelerate matter to the speed of light while creating an intense gravitational field. But generating that kind of energy has never been possible...until this afternoon."
Marty took a couple of deep breaths as he waited for the room to stop spinning around him. A time machine! "Because of that Coke," he muttered.
"Precisely," the Professor said with a nod. He walked around the room, pointing out various parts of the machinery as explained. "The power converter, now operating at peak efficiency, thanks to the chemical makeup of Coca-Cola, channels energy into the flux capacitor, which releases several jigowatts in a fraction of a millisecond. Electron acceleration takes place here...and the result is the temporal displacement beam you saw a few moments ago. The entire process is triggered when I release the rope."
Marty finally stood, his legs still shaking a little from the shock. "I thought that power converter thing operated on solar energy. There's no sun," he added, pointing to the ceiling and walls. Not only was it night out, but all the windows had heavy shades drawn over them.
"Solar energy would have worked just fine...if I could have placed the converter about a mile from the surface of the sun. Instead, I've created similar conditions in this reactor here," Professor Brown explained, pointing to the rope. "The higher I raise the cadmium rods, the more energy I release from the plutonium core, and the further through time I can send an object."
Marty snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering. "The plutonium! That's what I came over here for! Professor, where did you get that stuff?"
"Why?" The inventor stared at him with suspicious, his eyes narrowed.
"I just got stopped in the street by federal agents checking me for radiation! I figure they're after your plutonium!"
Professor Brown looked over at a digital clock on the wall. Marty followed his gaze and saw that it was 9:01:50. Almost two minute had passed since the experiment. It had felt like twice that long.
"Ten seconds!" the Professor burst out, dashing over to the place where his beam had hit Shemp. Marty ran after him, stopping when his friend raised an arm. "Brace yourself for a sudden displacement of air!"
Marty watched the clock. The seconds lasted forever. 9:01:55...56...57... 58...59...
At that moment, a strong wind gusted in the room and Shemp suddenly appeared, literally out of thin air. The top of the stool came back with him and fell to the ground. The monkey screeched as he hit the ground and scrambled onto some equipment nearby.
"Shemp!" Marty cried. Professor Brown walked calmly over to the animal and picked him up. He quickly looked him over, the monkey squirming to get free, then examined the watch around his neck. He held it up for Marty to see. 9:00:10. Marty checked the clock on the wall. 9:02:10.
"Exactly two minutes difference...and it's still ticking!" the Professor cried triumphantly.
"Is Shemp all right?" Marty asked, looking at the monkey. Professor Brown set him down on the ground he quickly ran off to the other side of the room.
"Of course. Shemp is unaware that anything even happened, other than his stool suddenly falling over. We had to wait two minutes to catch up to him, but for Shemp the trip was instantaneous."
Marty suddenly realized something. "Professor, can this thing send Shemp back in time?"
The Professor thought about that for a moment. "Theoretically, yes, if I were to reverse the polarity." He pointed to a switch near the rope with a plus and minus at opposite ends. It was currently up in the plus position.
"Jeez, Professor, you've got a gold mine here!" Marty exclaimed, grinning with excitement.
The Professor frowned, as if he didn't understand. "A gold mine?"
"Sure!" Marty said. "Listen -- we take the racing results from today's paper...." He grabbed an newspaper from earlier that day at a nearby table and quickly flipped through to the sports scores. "Here they are. We send 'em with Shemp back to yesterday, we get the information, put our money on the winning horses, and become billionaires!"
Professor Brown started to shake his head. "Marty, that would alter history.
" "So what?" Marty asked. We'd be rich!
"Don't you understand? The mere act of sending matter back in time would change the course of events, and changing history is a responsibility that I do not wish to bear," the Professor said.
Marty sighed, lowering the paper. "All I know is you're throwing away an awful lot of money."
"The future, Marty, the future is everything," Professor Brown said, his eyes sparkling. "I built this machine to see the future. So I am going to send Shemp twenty-four hours into the future. You can assist me, if you like."
"Sure," he agreed quickly.
The Professor left the room for a moment, saying something about a cassette recorder. Marty waited for a second, then quickly ripped the racing results off the sports page and circled the date with a pen that had been in his pocket. He went over to Shemp, stuffed the clipping in the pocket on his vest, then glanced out the door. The Professor was rifling through the papers on his desk, his back to the door. Marty rushed over to the polarity switch and yanked the lever to the minus sign. A couple seconds later, Professor Brown returned, a Micro-cassette recorder in hand. He locked the door, then handed the recorded to Marty.
"Take this, stand at the panel," he said, pointing to a wall of switches near the beam, "and read off the radiation levels. I want to have a record of what happens here. Be sure to tell me when we reach 85 rads."
Marty nodded and stepped over to the panel. Right before him was a meter with the rads levels. He had his eyes on it as Professor Brown fixed the stool a few feet away. "Come on, Shemp, this won't hurt a bit," the Professor murmured as he picked up the monkey and placed him on the stool again. After doing that, he returned to the rope switch, across the room from where Marty stood and on the other side of Shemp. Marty watched him carefully, but he didn't seem to notice the lever at the minus sign.
"Here we go," the Professor warned, throwing a few switches. The equipment started humming again and Professor Brown slowly reached for the rope and started tugging on it.
"Radiation level, 10 rads," Marty said looking at the meter, holding the microphone in the recorder up to his mouth as he spoke. "Stabilization coefficient, .43. 16 rads; coefficient .44. 37 rads, .46. 51 rads, .46. 73 rads, .47..."
Marty heard a loud noise from behind him and spun around to see the locked door kicked open. The dust hadn't even cleared before Marty realized it was the N.R.C. agents, Reese and Foley. Behind them he saw a huge throng of police and other official people. The agents jumped into the room with .38 guns drawn.
"Everybody freeze!" Reese shouted, his eyes darting around the room. "N.R.C.!"
"Get back!" Professor Brown cried, waving his left hand. The other one was still holding onto the rope.
"Jesus Christ!" Foley yelled, seeing the machine the Professor was standing besides. "It's a Goddamn reactor!"
Reese pointed his gun at Professor Brown. "You! Shut it down! Now!"
Marty stared at the whole scene, mouth hanging open. He felt strangely detached from it, almost as if it was a play or a scene in a movie he was watching. The microphone fell from his hand, dangling on it's cord around his feet.
"No!" Professor Brown exclaimed, his eyes wide and frantic. "Get out! I'm in the middle of an experiment!" He moved closer to the reactor, pulling the rope tighter as he did so.
Foley didn't hesitate. He swung his gun at the Professor and squeezed the trigger. The loud bang echoed in the room. Shemp screeched and leaped off the stool. Marty watched, horrified, as the bullet hit his friend right in the chest. The Professor staggered back, hand still clenched around the rope. He fell backwards to the floor, the rope pulling taut as he landed.
"Professor!" Marty yelled, finally finding his voice. He whipped his head to check the meter. "Oh my God! Release the rope! It's 4200 rads!"
Reese stared at him, shaking his head. It was too noisy in the room for Marty to be heard. "What?!" he called.
"Release the rope!" Marty screamed at him. It was so noisy he could hardly hear his own voice! Reese shook his head again. Marty started for the Professor himself. Foley turned the gun on him.
"Freeze!" he commanded, his mouth set in a firm line.
Marty stopped, standing right before the stool where Shemp had once been. He raised his hands, showing he didn't have anything on him. The recorder and microphone was now in his jacket pocket. He couldn't remember putting it there with all the excitement.
Marty's eyes darted over to the Professor. As he watched, the Professor's grip suddenly relaxed and the rope swung loosely in the air. Marty suddenly realized he was right in the line of the focusing lense. A bright white light shot out from it and hit him square in the chest. Marty looked down at it for a moment, a little curiously, then looked up at the people in the room. Reese and Foley stared at him, startled looks on there faces.
Suddenly the whole room turned bright, blinding white, like a million cameras flashing at once. Then, less then a second later, everything was plunged into a deep, black silence.
"Professor?" Marty asked, straining his eyes in the darkness, trying to see something, anything. But everything was completely and utterly black. "Hello?" he called, listening hard for any sound.
After a moment, Marty reached into his pocket and pulled out a matchbook. He ripped a match free and struck it against the sandpaper. Marty held it up as it lit, looking around the room. It looked like he was in some kind of storeroom. Marty took a step forward, almost running into an old broken chair. He dodged it last minute and strolled slowly around the room, trying to figure out where the hell he was. Dusty furniture and crates littered the room.
The match was starting to burn Marty's fingers and he dropped it, fumbling to light another. He walked towards the door, having the nagging feeling that something was strangely out of place. Where the hell am I? he wondered. Marty reached for the doorknob and tried turning it. Locked.
"Damn!" he hissed, looking around for a way out. Marty spotted a window and went over to it, holding his breath as he tried to slide it open. It slid and he carefully climbed outside on to a fire escape. He scrambled down the unstable structure and dropped to the alley below.
Just as his feet scraped the pavement, Marty noticed a pair of headlights approaching him, fast. He stood there for a minute, frozen in the beams, then jumped back and pressed himself against the wall of the building. The truck sped by, missing him by inches!
Marty let out a loud sigh of relief as he watched the truck drive off, then noticed the sign on the door that he was right next to. "Wilson's Cafe, Rear Entrance," it said. Marty tried the door, expecting it to be locked. But the knob turned freely in his hand. Strange. For as long as he could remember the back door had been locked.
Marty stepped inside. "Hey, since when are you open at..." he started to say, then stopped when he got a good look around. It couldn't be Wilson's Cafe!
Everything in the room looked brand new...but at the same time, old. Dick wasn't behind the counter; a women of maybe thirty was. Marty looked up at the menu and gasped. Since when were roast beef sandwiches 30 cents, and an ice cream sunday 15 cents? He tore his eyes off the prices long enough to notice the people. Boy, did he notice them! All the men were in double-breasted suits, with hats. And not baseball caps, either! Marty noticed all the women were in skirts -- long skirts. Not one was in any type of pants, like jeans. And the way people had their hair done.... Those styles went out ages ago!
A chubby five-year-old boy, dressed in pajamas, was playing on the floor with some trucks. Marty almost tripped over him as he walked slowly around, his mouth open with amazement, gazing at everything. After a moment he realized the woman behind the counter was staring at him, a suspicious look on her face. "You want something, kid?" she asked, leaning forward across the counter.
Marty hesitated for a moment, then sat down. He decided he needed to blend in as much as he could. The silver Porsche jacket alone that he had on was causing way too many stares. "Uh, yeah..." he said slowly. "Gimme a Tab."
"What?" the waitress asked, frowning.
"A Tab," Marty repeated.
The waitress rolled her eyes. "Kid, I can't give you the tab until you order something."
Marty tried to ignore the stares everyone was giving him and looked down at the counter. He saw the man beside him had a cup of coffee.
"Uh, coffee," he told the waitress. She reached over and poured him a cup.
"Did something happen to you, kid?" she wondered. "I mean, you been lost in the woods or something?"
Marty looked at her blankly. "Huh?" He noticed a bowl of sugar cubes on the counter and added, "Say, have you got any Sweet 'N Low?"
The waitress stared at him. "Sweet and what?" She suddenly lifted the cup of coffee away from him. "Maybe you'd better pay for this first."
"Sure," Marty said with a shrug. He reached for his wallet and took out a twenty dollar bill, holding it out to the waitress. Her eyes bugged out and her mouth dropped open.
"A twenty? What do you think this is, a bank? I can't break a twenty!" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Say, what's a kid your age doing with all this money?"
Marty quickly stuffed the bill back in his wallet. Now everyone in the cafe was staring at him. "Look, maybe I'd better talk to Dick," he said to the woman. "Is he around?"<
"Dick?" the waitress asked. "Dick who?"
Now who's being stupid? "The guy who runs this place."
" I run this place!" the woman said sharply, her eyes once again narrowed. "What happened to Dick Wilson?" Marty asked, confused.
"Dick Wilson," the waitress repeated. "Dickie Wilson?" She chuckled. "Dickie Wilson runs this place? That's a laugh!"
Marty felt his face redden as everyone in the room started to laugh with the waitress. "What are you trying to do?" he asked angrily. "Freak me out, or something?"
"Freak?" the man with the coffee asked. "Are you from some circus? Is that what all that writing on your clothes means?"
Haven't you ever heard of designer labels? Marty wondered, glaring at him. He heard soft footsteps from behind the counter and saw the little five-year-old run up to the woman. "Mommy, I'm hungry," he whined.
The waitress smiled. "Just take a candy bar, then go to bed, Dickie," she cooed.
Marty did a double take. "Dickie?" he said incredulously. "That's Dick Wilson?"
The waitress nodded. "That's Dick Wilson," she confirmed.
Marty watched the kid grab a Babe Ruth of the candy counter and scamper off. He was about to turn away from the sight when he noticed a calendar behind the cash register. A calendar that had the number "1952" in big black letters.
"1952?" Marty repeated aloud, his voice rising. "This is 1952?! Holy shit! You know what this means? I've gone back in time thirty years! Thirty Goddamn years! I haven't even been born yet!"
The waitress took one look at him and reached for a phone. "I'm calling the cops."
Marty jumped off the stool and ran out the front door, stopping dead in the middle of the street. Everything had changed!
Monroe Avenue, once full of old, rotting buildings, was now a bustling, thriving business district! Cars from the '40's and '50's ran up and down the streets. People were everywhere, walking along the streets, stopping in the shops. Marty was so shocked to see what he was seeing he didn't notice the strange, suspicious looks the towspeople were flashing at him, or the drivers honking at him as they swerved to avoid hitting him.
He turned and noticed the Orpheum Theater. It, too, had changed! Boy, had it! The marquee was lit up with the words: "John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara -- The Quiet Man. In Full Color!" People streamed into it and from the looks of the place, it was a first class movie theater.
"Dammit!" Marty exclaimed, shaking his head in shock. He noticed a man walking by with a newspaper in hand. Marty ran over to him and snatched the paper away, ignoring the owner's protest as he scanned the front page for the date. March 11, 1952.
"1952!" he cried. "Dammit!" Marty threw the paper down on the sidewalk and ran down the street. He stopped beside an old car and checked out the license plate. Besides the fact it looked nothing like the plates he was used to, it also said --
"1952! Dammit," he swore again. Marty ran off again, noticing a phone booth. It was empty, so he stopped inside and grabbed the phone book. He frantically riffled through the pages, to the listings of Browns. After a minute, he located it and ran his finger down the column to: "Brown, Emmett L., 788 W. Spruce. Madison 3489." Marty pulled the Bic pen out from his pocket and circled the line. Then he reached into his pocket again and pulled out all the change he had. One nickel and three pennies.
"Dammit!" he muttered. Marty picked up the receiver anyway and dialed zero.
"Operator," a woman's voice said after a moment.
"Operator! Listen, this is an emergency!" Marty said urgently. "I have to make this call, but I don't have a dime -- all I got is a nickel -- but you gotta connect me --"
"Sir," the operator said calmly, interrupting Marty's speech. "It only costs a nickel."
"What?" he asked, not sure if he had heard correctly.
"Local calls cost five cents," the operator repeated. "What number do you want?"
Marty looked up and saw the words, "Local Calls 5 Cents" written in plain sight on the telephone. "Oh -- right!" he said, trying to sound like he had known it all along. "Uh, Madison 3489."
"Five cents, please."
Marty placed the nickel inside the coin slot and listened as the number ran several times.
"I'm sorry, there's no answer," the operator said after a minute.
"Operator, what's today's date?" Marty asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.
"March 11th."
"What year?"
"Nineteen fifty --"
Marty shook his head. "Dammit!" He slammed the receiver down and ripped the page out of the phone book, stuffing it in his pocket. Then he got out of the phone booth and ran down the street.
Marty didn't know how long he had been running before he found himself on a residential street. It looked vaguely familiar, but he was too exhausted by the recent events to figure out why. He leaned against a mailbox, trying to catch his breath, when he happened to look down at the numbers on it. 777. Marty spun around and stared at the house.
"My house!" he whispered. It looked like his house. It was! But there were some weird things, like the trees not being as tall, different curtains, and a old Chevy in the driveway. Marty watched as the front door opened and a woman pushed the screen door open to let out a dog. Marty gasped. The woman was his mother!
"Mom!" he cried, racing to the front door. She didn't notice him and shut the door. Marty ran up the steps and pounded on the front door. "Mom! Open up! It's me!"
After a few seconds the door opened and his mom stood in the doorway. She stared at Marty without a shred of recognition.
"Mom, thank God!" he babbled. "Thank God you're here!"
His mother stared at him blankly. "I bed your pardon, young man?"
Marty paled. "Mom! It's me! Marty! Don't you know your own son!"
Mom started to close the door, her expression uneasy. "I think you have the wrong house."
Marty shook his head frantically. "No -- no -- it's not!" he cried, having trouble breathing. "It's not!"
A man smoking a pipe approached Marty's mother from behind. "Who's there, Stella?" he asked.
"Stella!?" Marty gasped. "No! Don't tell me you're Stella! Tell me you're Eileen!" he begged. "Please tell me you're Eileen!"
In the background, Marty saw a teenage girl come down the staircase. She heard the last part of the conversation and went over to the door, pushing her way past the woman. "I'm Eileen," she said.
He stared into her hazel eyes. "How old are you?" he whispered.
Eileen smiled. "Seventeen."
Marty stared at her for a moment more, breathing hard, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground in a dead faint!
Marty smelled something funny. He made a face and turned his head, but the smell followed him. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up into the face of someone he knew.
"Professor? Professor Brown?" Marty asked weakly. It looked a lot like him, only he didn't look as old. Then Marty remembered -- he was in 1952!
"You know me?" the Professor wondered, removing the smelling salts from under Marty's nose now that he was awake. It was only then Marty realized he was stretched out on a couch in a living room that looked an awful lot like his own.
"Professor, you time machine works!" Marty said rapidly. "It works! It sent me back in time! I'm from 1982!"
"Ssshhhhh!" Professor Brown said, holding up his hand. His expression was both thoughtful and suspicious. Marty heard footsteps and turned his head to see his grandfather, grandmother, and mother, all looking thirty years younger, edging closer to the couch to get a look at him.
"Is he all right?" Mr. Baines asked finally.
The Professor straightened up. "He will be. Simple inebriation, is all. The young man must have a rather low tolerance for alcohol...something that runs in the family. You see, he's a second cousin of mine on my mother's side. Came quite a distance to visit me," he added. "His name's Lewis."
"Marty," Marty corrected him.
"Uh, Marty Lewis," Professor Brown said hastily. "I almost didn't recognize him -- haven't seen him in years."
Eileen stared at Marty and he looked back at her, fascinated that this young teenager was -- would be -- his mother! She looked so different...attractive, even!
"It's a good thing he had your name circled in the phone book," Mrs. Baines said to the Professor. "I would have called the police."
Professor Brown leaned over and helped Marty sit up. "Well, Mrs. Baines, Mr. Baines, thank you for your trouble," he said as Marty got to his feet. "Both Marty and I apologize for the inconvenience. We'll get him home and as good as new."
Mr. Baines looked sharply at Marty and shook his finger at him. "Son, you watch yourself," he warned.
"Yes, sir," Marty said, nodding his head.
"Oh," Eileen began, going over to a chair a few feet away and picking up the silver jacket of Marty's. Someone must've taken it off him when they brought him into the house, he realized. "Here's your jacket," she said softly, her big eyes locked on his face.
"Uh, thanks..." Marty stammered. Eileen held up the jacket and gave it a quizzical look.
"What kind of material is this?" she asked. "I've never seen anything like it."
He took it from her hand. "It's polyester," he said matter-of-factly.
Eileen frowned. "Poly-what?"
Professor Brown jumped in. "It's an experimental invention of mine. Sort of a rubberized silver-foil. I just made up a name for it. Come on, Marty," he added, walking toward the front door. "We've got a lot to talk about."
Marty followed the Professor. He was just about to step out the door when Eileen stopped him. "Marty?"
He turned. "Huh?"
"Have we ever met before?" she asked, a puzzled look on her face. Marty's eyes met hers, but before he could open his mouth, the Professor grabbed his arm and pulled him out the door.
"...and the flux capacitor is hooked into this thing that looks like a condenser with a lense on it..." Marty was saying as Professor Brown stopped the car. He looked at the house for the first time and let out a low whistle as they both got out of the car. Even in the dark, Marty was able to see how fancy it was. "Jeez -- this is where you used to live, huh?" he said, impressed. "You must have been rich!" "Must have been?" the Professor asked. "Used to live? I do live here." "Oh, yeah," Marty realized as they started to walk up the drive to the front door. "Well, there's a mall here now -- I mean, there will be." "A mall?" "Yeah, a shopping mall. You know, a shopping mall?" Professor Brown held his hands up and shook his head. "Ssshhhhh -- don't tell me these things, Marty. I don't want to know about the future." He opened the front door and stepped inside the living room. Marty looked around as the Professor switched on the lights. "Do you see it here?" he asked, in reference to the time machine. The living room was filled with antique furniture, pieces of different mechanical devices lying everywhere. It was easy to see that the Professor's love of inventing was just beginning, since everything was still relatively neat. But there was no sign of the time machine. Marty shook his head. "No." Professor Brown walked across the room and into another one. This one appeared to be a study. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with old volumes. On the desk in the center of the room, Marty recognized little models of that one robot and flying car he had seen plans of in the future. The Professor watched Marty as he glanced about the room, but he had to shake his head again. No time machine. The Professor crossed the room, over to a door at the far end of the study. He pulled out a key and unlocked it, pushing it open. He switched a light on inside and gestured for Marty to come over. Marty only had to glance at the room for a second before recognizing the time machine. It looked a little less run down, cleaner and shinier, but it was the time machine nonetheless. "This is it!" Professor Brown placed the key back in his pocket and looked hard at Marty. "You've convinced me that you must be who you say you are," he concluded. "No living human has ever seen this machine." The Professor paused, a frown on his face. "But why? Why even in my twilight years would I remotely consider sending someone back in time?" "You didn't, Professor," Marty assured him. "It was an accident! You see, what happened --" "No! Don't tell me!" he insisted, holding his hands up again. "I don't want to know the future! My knowledge of future events...your mere presence here...could have devastating effects on the course of history. And altering history is a responsibility that I do not wish to bear. My immediate response is to send you back to your own time." Marty had heard the Professor say almost those exact same words when he had wanted to send Shemp back in time with the sports scores. It seemed like a million years ago even though, technically, it was thirty years in the future. But this time he agreed with the Professor. He wanted to go home. "I can dig that." Professor Brown gave him a strange, puzzled look. "Pardon me?" Oh , Marty realized. The expression probably hadn't been invented yet. "I can get behind -- I agree with you," he explained. The phone rang in the study. The Professor left the room with the time machine to answer it. Marty followed him and checked out the models on the desk while the Professor picked up the phone on the third ring. He didn't mean to listen on the conversation, but it was kind of hard not to. "Hello?" There was a pause. "Yes Charles, yes, I looked over the offer." Another pause. "It's very generous that they want to make me a major stockholder. But I'm just not interested in a position with this little X-rox corporation....If it's pronounced 'Zerox', why don't they spell it with a Z? ....Look, I'm on the verge of a breakthrough on my power converter." Marty dropped the little car he had been looking at when the Professor said that. The power converter! How could he have forgotten! It needed nuclear power and he didn't think there was any now, at least none that they could get there hands on. Did that mean he was....stuck here? Professor Brown continued to talk on the phone, not noticing the sick expression on Marty's face. "....Well, any day now. And then I'll need people to work for Emmett Brown Industries! I've got a lot of ideas that are going to create a lot of jobs." He paused for a moment, then added, "Very well, good night, Charles." The Professor shook his head as he hung up the phone. "The X-rox Corporation. How are they going to sell a product if you can't even pronounce the name?" He turned back to Marty. "Now...the time machine works, that's obvious. As I've always known, it's a question of power. Where did I -- will I get enough power to send a man thirty years through time?" Marty opened his mouth to tell him, but Professor Brown quickly held up his hands. "No -- wait -- don't tell me!" He didn't say anything for a long moment, then shook his head. "On second thought, there may be some things you'll have to tell me." "The power converter...." Marty began. "Of course!" the Professor burst out, interrupting him. "The power converter! It works! Of course, it works," he added to himself. He looked at Marty. "What chemicals do we use?" Marty hesitated, slowly taking a deep breath before starting. "Well, Professor, are you sure you want me to tell you? You know, changing the course of history and all...." Professor Brown looked torn. "Blast it -- no, I suppose you're right.... You do know the proper chemical formula?" Marty nodded. "Sure, and there won't be any problem getting some --" He stopped. He had almost blurted it out. "Getting it," he finished. The Professor walked over to a bar and pulled a glass bottle of brandy out of the cabinet. "Coke?" he asked as he started to pour the alcohol in a glass. Marty stared at him, stunned. "How did you know?" "Just a guess. I figured kids would still be drinking Coke in 1982," he answered. Marty let out all the breath he had been holding. So he didn't know that was the secret formula after all. "All right, then it's very simple," Professor Brown said, tossing Marty a bottle of Coke as he spoke. "Tomorrow, weather permitting, you'll get the chemicals, and we'll wire the power converter to the time machine, point it at the sun, and send you home." Marty hesitated again. He had a feeling that what he was about to say would not really please the Professor. "Well, not exactly, Professor. You see, we don't point it at the sun." "We don't...." The Professor lifted up his drink to his lips. "No," Marty took a deep breath. He had gone this far. He might as well go all the way. "We need a nuclear reactor." Professor Brown choked on his drink. "A nuclear reactor," he coughed. "How much energy do we need?" Marty shrugged -- then remembered the Micro-Cassette Recorder! He still had it with him, in his pocket. He took it out and rewound it, then hit play and set it on the Professor's desk. Professor Brown looked at it strangely, but didn't ask any questions. He sat down at his desk and the two of them listened as it played back. After a couple minutes, it got to the important part. "Release the rope!" Marty heard himself yell on the tape. "It's 4200 rads!" The tape grew silent. It had reached the end. Professor Brown reached out and picked up the recorder, staring at the buttons for a minute before pressing the one to stop it. He didn't say anything for a moment, then: "4200 rads? Good God!" Marty was trying to twist the top of the Coke bottle, but for some reason it wouldn't turn. The Professor continued. "There's something I still don't understand." The Professor picked the recorder up again and rewound it. "Fascinating device," he commented as it spun back. Professor Brown stopped it and played back the gunshot sounds. "These loud bangs...could those be some sort of malfunction in the time machine? Do you know what they are?" Marty gripped the Coke bottle so hard his knuckles turned white. He couldn't tell Professor Brown that those sounds were him being shot! "I wouldn't worry about 'em, Professor," he finally said. A minute passed while the tape replayed. "4200 rads..." the Professor said again when the tape ended. "That certainly can't be generated under controlled conditions in this day and age." "That's just great," Marty said sarcastically, still trying to get that Coke bottle open. It was like the cap was welded on there! "However...there's a lot I don't know about nuclear physics. So first think in the morning, I'll go to the University and see what I can find out. I want you to stay in the house," he said to Marty, pointing a finger at him. "It's very important that you don't interfere in any way with the outside world. I've got plenty of food, there's the radio, books, magazines...I've even got one of those new television sets. There's plenty to do." Professor Brown stared at Marty as he twisted and turned that cap in every imaginable way possible. "What are you doing?" Marty gave up and held the bottle out. "How do you open these?" The Professor took the bottle from his hand and picked up a bottle opener lying nearby. A second later he handed it back, now without the top. Marty looked down at the Coke in his hand, then up at the Professor. "It doesn't look good, does it, Professor?" he asked flatly. Professor Brown shook his head. "At the moment, it looks like you're stuck here."
Early the next morning, Professor Brown walked down the hall to the room he had given Marty McFly late the night before. He stopped and listened carefully, hearing no sound from the other side. After a minute he reached for the doorknob and turned it. The Professor pushed the door open a couple of inches, sticking his head around the side of the door to peer inside.
The shades were wide open, the first rays of sunlight slanting across the room over to the bed. Marty was lying on top of the queen bed on his back, one arm hanging over the side of the bed, still fully dressed in his 1982 clothes. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. The Professor studied him for a moment, then slowly stepped inside the room and crept across to the table next to the bed, where the Cathedral Radio rested and the small cassette recorder. He had come in to get a closer look at the future object.
Professor Brown carefully picked the recorder up and examined it. His finger accidentally hit the play button and a loud burst of conversation came out. The Professor swore under his breath as he fumbled for the stop button. His eyes flew to Marty as he quickly set the recorder on the table again. Marty let out a deep sigh, eyes still closed, and rolled over.
Professor Brown waited a moment, to make sure Marty wasn't going to awaken. He listened to his slow, deep breathing for a second, then quickly crossed the room to the door. The Professor eased it shut and continued down the hall. He had to get to the University and look up the information about nuclear physics. Hopefully, there would be a answer to send Marty back to the future.
Marty felt warm sunlight on his face. He threw an arm across his still-closed eyes to block it out, along with the memories. Pieces of the night before came back to him, being in 1952. Maybe, Marty thought, it was just a dream. All I have to do is open my eyes and I will see that it was all part of some bizarre dream.... He sighed as his eyes focused on his surroundings. It wasn't a dream. He was lying on the bed in the room that Professor Brown had given him the night before. He was still in 1952. Marty reached over and clicked on the old radio by the bed, mostly out of habit. He waited a few seconds, expecting to hear some old song, but nothing came on. He hit it a few times, wondering if it was broken. Only a minute later did sound slowly come on, and it was horrible! Marty made a face as he rolled over and twisted the tuning dial, skimming the different stations for something better. Nothing that even remotely resembled any type of rock 'n roll came on. Marty flipped the radio off, shaking his head in disgust. He got off the bed and left his room, wandering downstairs to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and found a coffee pot. As he was taking it out of the cabinet, it slipped from his hands and crashed onto the hardwood floor, separating into different pieces. Marty swore and knelt down, trying to get it back together. After a minute, he gave up and set it aside. Marty turned to the refrigerator and pulled it open. He fished out a bottle of milk and took off the little piece of foil at the top. Taking a glass off the counter, he set it on the kitchen table and lifted up the bottle to pour some milk in the glass. Nothing came out. Marty held it up and looked down the neck, noticing a cardboard plug keeping the milk in. He stuck a couple fingers down there, trying to pull it out - but he couldn't get ahold of it! With a sigh of annoyance, Marty finally just pushed his fingers through the cardboard and poured the milk in the glass. After pulling the bottle back in the refrigerator, Marty sat down at the kitchen table to drink his milk. He noticed some magazines and newspapers spread out and lifted a couple of them up for a closer look. The issue of Time had a cover story titled, "The Republicans: Who Will Win in '52?" Photos of the men involved were splashed on the cover. Marty stared at it for a moment. "Eisenhower," he said aloud before tossing it aside. He picked up a Newsweek. "Will We Have War With Russia This Year?" the cover asked in big bold letters. "No," Marty said with a bored sigh. He took a look at the local newspaper. "Crime Rate Continues to Rise!" the headline screamed. Marty shook his head and noticed a Saturday Evening Post lying nearby. A picture of some high school students were on the cover with the words, "What's Wrong With the Younger Generation?" He laughed and flipped the magazine over. An ad for Van Heusen Shirts had Ronald Regan in it. "Jesus," Marty muttered when he saw it, shaking his head again. The doorbell rang. Marty looked up from the periodicals, uneasy. He stayed seated, remembering the Professor's instructions from the night before. The bell rang again and Marty got up from the table and walked slowly through the dining room and living room to the front door. He stopped a few feet away from it, staring hard at the wood and feeling torn. The doorbell rang for a third time. What if it was someone in trouble? What if someone was hurt and needed to use the phone? Would it be such a bad thing, then, if he answered the door? Aw, what the hell, he thought. Marty stepped forward and opened the door. "Aha!" Professor Brown exclaimed, shoving a finger at Marty's chest from the porch. "You answered the door!" "You were ringing the doorbell!" Marty cried, taking a step back as the Professor walked inside. "I told you not to interfere with any of the events of this time!" Professor Brown explained firmly. "Nobody's supposed to see you here! What if I was a mailman? Or a salesman?" "What if you lost your keys?" Marty countered, still holding the door opened. "Then I would have figured out to get back in through the events in the natural course of history! Don't you understand?" the Professor asked, noticing Marty's blank expression. "The fabric of history is very delicate. Anything you do could have serious consequences!" "Hey, look, gimme a break!" Marty said with a shrug. "All I did was answer the door! How's that gonna change history?" "I don't know, but I don't want to take any chances," Professor Brown said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now you stay here and don't do anything. Don't answer the door, don't answer the phone, don't go outside." He finished checking the items off his fingers and looked at Marty again. "Understand?" Marty rolled his eyes, having it up to here with the lecturing! "Hey, get off my case, would you? I didn't want to come here, and the only reason I'm here in the first place is because I was a nice guy, helping you out. So don't tell me I gotta stay cooped up in here and vege out, because none of this is my fault!" he finished, almost yelling the last couple of words out. Professor Brown appeared unaffected by the speech. "Let me put it on a level you can understand. You don't belong here. You don't know anything about this world. You don't know the customs, you don't know how to talk, how to act -- you don't even look like you belong here. And if you walked out on the street, you wouldn't get 100 yards without being arrested. Then there would be questions, and where would we come up with the answers?" Marty sighed. "Okay, Professor, I get where you're coming from. The way I look, the way I'm dressed..." He looked down at his silver Porsche jacket he still had on. "I'd stick out like a sore thumb." Professor Brown nodded, looking relieved. "I'm glad we finally got that straightened out. I'll see you tonight." He left the house, slamming the door behind him. Marty stared at the door for a moment with his eyes narrowed, then he returned to the kitchen.
Half an hour later, Marty was ready. He'd finished his breakfast and then had a shower, changing into some of the Professor's clothes instead of his own from 1982. He had slicked his hair back like he had seen the men doing so in some of those magazines and was now ready to explore the town. After all, Professor Brown had said the reason he couldn't go out was because of the way he looked, more or less. And now that he looked like a resident of 1952, Marty saw no problem in leaving the house. He opened a window at the front of the house and climbed outside, then ran off in the direction of town. Less then twenty minutes later, Marty was strolling down the sidewalk with the other townspeople, trying to look nonchalant, like he had always lived there. He thought he was doing a pretty good job of it, too, since no one was looking at him twice. A cop that had been walking on the other side of the street glanced at Marty and stopped, pointing a finger at him. "Hey, you!" he shouted. "Where do you think you're going?" Marty's eyes widened and fought the urge to run. How did he know? he wondered in horror. The cop walked right for him, then, just as Marty was ready to accept defeat, he passed him and grabbed the arm of a tramp several yards behind Marty. He relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief, and continued to walk down the street. After a minute he started to get excited again as he looked around at the shops and businesses up and down the main street. There was an appliance store that advertised "Giant 8 Inch Televisions!" with "A screen as big as life itself!" Across from it was an old gas station with the price advertised at 18.9 cents a gallon. A travel agency had a poster on how to get from "L.A. to New York in a mere 12 hours!" in it's window. There was a dance studio with a sign, "Everybody's doing the Mambo!" on the outside. Through the window, Marty could see a class in session. A clothing store with a display of "the latest fashions" was beside the studio. They looked a lot more like the kind of stuff in old movies. A Studebaker showroom had a sign that said it was, "the most modern car ever developed in the entire history of man." Marty chuckled, then stopped when he saw the next store. It was a music store. In the display window were posters showing America's top recording artists. Marty frowned as he studied them. Frank Sinatra, Guy Combardo, Dinah Shore, Perry Como. Are they kidding? He decided to go inside and find out. On the counter was the current number one single, "Papa Loves Mambo" by Perry Como. Marty made a face as he examined it. He suddenly noticed the clerk was standing beside him. "Can I help you, sir?" the man in the suit asked. Marty held up the single. He had to ask. "This is the number one single?" "Yes, sir!" the clerk responded enthusiastically. "I don't get it," Marty said, shaking his head. "How come there's no rock 'n roll?" The clerk frowned. "I beg your pardon?" "This is 1952....?" "Uh, yes, sir...." the clerk said, looking terribly confused. "And you never heard of rock 'n roll?" "No...." Marty grinned as he set the single back on the counter, suddenly having a great idea. "Well, maybe it's time you did." He quickly left the store and headed for a pawnshop he had noticed on the outskirts of town. There was a guitar in the window, for five dollars. After studying it for a moment, Marty went inside and told the Pawnbroker what he wanted. The man took the guitar down and brought it to the cash register and Marty trailed after him. "That'll be five bucks," he said, setting the guitar on the counter. Marty reached for his wallet and pulled out the same twenty dollar bill he had tried using at the cafe the night before. The Pawnbroker started to ring the purchase up, then took a closer look at the money. "Hey, what kinda funny money is this?" he demanded, squinting at the bill. "Huh?" Marty didn't get it. The Pawnbroker held the money out and pointed to something. "It says '1977' on it. What do you take me for, an idiot?" He handed the bill back to Marty. Marty looked at it and only then realized his mistake. He had used money that hadn't even been printed yet! "Oh -- yeah," he said, his mind racing for a explanation to give the guy that didn't sound too illegal. It wouldn't do for him to get arrested as a counterfeiter. "I can't believe I did that. That's a joke. My friend had these printed up -- see that's his name there..." Marty pointed to the word. "...Blumenthal." The Pawnbroker continued to watch him suspiciously. It didn't look like he was buying it. Marty dug around in his wallet, but of course he didn't have any thirty-year-old bills with him. "Gee - I don't seem to have anything on me." He put his wallet away and as he did so, the watch Professor Brown was lending him caught his eye. "Hey, how about this watch?" Marty asked the man, holding up his left wrist. "It's a genuine antique!" He slipped the watch off and handed it to the Pawnbroker. He carefully examined it. "Antique?" he scoffed. "They just came out with this watch last month. But this one looks like it's been through a war." "Yeah, I've been doing a lotta travelling," Marty admitted. "Okay kid," the Pawnbroker finally said. "You got a deal. The watch for the guitar."
Inside the office of the Midwest Talent Agency, Marty was concentrating hard on performing "Blue Suede Shoes" the way Elvis had -- or would. Dancing around, singing, playing the instrument -- he was really into it, hardly noticing the forty five-year-old agent that sat behind the desk and smoking a cigar, his face expressionless as he listened to the music. Covering the walls of the small office were black and white pictures of some clients that the agency sponsored. Marty finished the song and looked at the agent with a smile, waiting for the praise that was sure to follow. Who couldn't love music like that? The agent, however, must have been one of those people. "Well, kid," he began, setting the cigar down in an ash tray, "it's interesting, I'll say that. But it's not commercial." "Not commercial?" Marty repeated in disbelief. Did he know what he was saying? "Mister, don't you know what you're listening to? This is rock 'n roll!" The agent shook his head as he heaved his body out of the chair. "Call it what you want to kid, but don't call it music, 'cause it sure ain't that!" "But you don't understand --" "No buts, kid," the agent broke in. "I've been in this business my whole life and I know what people want. The smooth sound, that's what sells. Como, Crosby, Dinah Shore. Gimme a melody and a nice slow tempo. Now beat it!" he added, opening the door and shoving Marty into the waiting room. Marty stood where he was, trying to figure out what had happened. A few seconds later the agent tossed his guitar case out of the room and slammed the door. He hardly noticed the black man in a silk shirt approaching him. "That sound I just heard coming through the door," the man said to Marty as he bent over to pick up his case. "That was like nothing I ever heard before! I mean, you got something there, young man!" Marty looked at him quizzically. At least one person had recognized rock'n roll for what it was! "Who are you?" "Reginald Washington |
