A flash of lightning illuminated the newspaper folded next to a steaming cup of tea on the antique mahogany coffee table. The November 10, 1862 headline screamed in bold type - LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON! A slim finger slowly followed the smaller print beneath it.
Yesterday, November 9, 1862, it was announced to the satisfaction of this newspaper and many others, that Major General George Brinton McClellan was dismissed as Commander of the Union Army. This newspaper wishes to applaud President Lincoln for finally taking such matters to task. It was after the Battle of Antietam, that he was ordered to turn over his command to his good friend Ambrose E. Burnside and to go home to New Jersey to await further orders. We of Harper’s Weekly wish much success to General Burnside.
Prescott Stevens, president of the 1800s Club, raised the wick of the oil lamp he was reading by and picked up the TV remote next to his tea. He aimed and clicked it at the big-screen TV opposite him, and rubbed his eyes as he went to the Weather Channel 7:00 PM broadcast. After finishing the mid-west coverage, the young woman said, “. . . and in the New York, New Jersey, and in some areas of Connecticut, rain accompanied by thunder storms continue for the second straight day. It promises to let up early tomorrow.”
Turning the set off, he stood and stretched to his full height of five feet seven inches and rubbed his plump stomach. He faced the full-length mirror and buttoned the vest of his three-piece brown suit then remade the dark brown silk cravat tighter around the starched collar and pushed the pearl stickpin through the shirtfront. He patted his short brown and gray beard. He pulled and twisted the almost-full handlebar mustache until he was fairly satisfied. He pressed a button next to the large mahogany desk and was answered immediately by his butler and right-hand person, Matt.
“Yes sir?”
“Matt, has the weather deterred many of our dinner guests?”
“No sir, all guests have faxed or e-mailed their acceptances.”
Prescott nodded and asked, “So, we can expect Mister William Scott to attend then?”
“Yes sir. Mister Scott e-mailed this afternoon that he’d be attending this evening.”
“Thank you Matt. Oh, and Matt, I’ve just finished proofing the newspaper and it may be distributed for this evening’s dinner.”
Matt answered “Very well sir.”
Prescott signed off as he rubbed his hands and smiled.

Less than one hour later a taxi splashed a torrent of water at Bill Scott, who nimbly jumped out of the way, only to step into a rain-filled pothole. Shaking what water he could off his shoe he looked across the street at the six-story brownstone building as he shivered. I’m going to get soaked by the time I get there.
Lightning flashed as he ducked under an awning across from his destination at 520 East Ninth Street in New York City.
“Almost there,” he said, getting a look from an elderly woman who brushed past to enter the building behind him. “Pardon me, ma’am.” She harrumphed and shook water off her umbrella, making up for what the taxi had missed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, with a touch of sarcasm. Seeing a break in the traffic, Bill pulled his overcoat tight and ran between parked cars across the wet street and almost collided with the doorman at 520.
“Evening, Mr. Scott. Wet one, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Jim, but it could be worse . . . could be snow.” Bill answered thinking: “A standard answer for a rainy November evening.”
The doorman held the door open and Bill entered.He went downstairs, sliding his hand along the well-polished curved mahogany banister, and then walked on the dark brown wall-to-wall carpet. An oversized ornate wooden door with a large brass handle faced him. His cold fingers fumbled for the old-fashioned key each club member used for entry. This is one of the many things I love about the club: No electronic entry card, no worry about a power failure, plain and simple, old-fashioned and reliable. This is the way it should be.
He inserted his key, and the door swung open noiselessly.He went in, and heard a low hissing sound. Gaslight, he thought. No neon or incandescent lighting making harsh shadows. Just gaslight with its soft yellow flickering glow that makes a person feel safe. Bill’s theory as to why people felt safe around the controlled, dancing gaslight flame was that it had been ingrained in the culture since early mankind discovered that fire kept the danger away. But whatever the reason, it did make him feel more relaxed.
A man dressed in dark pants and shoes, a red vest and a white, heavily starched shirt with a dark bow tie at his neck stood at the end of the hallway.
Bill acknowledged him, “Good evening, Matt.”
“Good evening, Mr. Scott,” said the short, balding man. “May I help you change, sir?”
“No thanks, Matt, but if you could put my coat and shoes somewhere to dry, that’d be great.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll attend to that straightaway. Will you be staying for dinner?”
Bill nodded. “Yes, I am. Do you know what’s on the menu tonight?”
“Roast goose, sir, with baked potatoes, glazed carrots, gravy and beets.”
Bill smiled, “I’m drooling already. Tell me, is Stan Walker here this evening?” Matt nodded yes and Bill cringed as he thought, well, maybe I can avoid him.
He entered a small walk-in closet that had his name etched in a silver nameplate on the door and sat on an upholstered bench to remove his wet shoes and socks. From the rack he selected a brown wool three-piece suit, white shirt with a stiff collar, and a brown cravat. He added a mother-of-pearl stickpin. Lastly, he sat to button up his brown high-topped shoes. A final look in the full-length door mirror and he saw a six-foot, two-inch dark-haired man from the mid eighteen hundreds looking back at him. He opened the door to hand out his damp shoes, socks and overcoat to Matt.
After thanking him for his service, Bill walked down the mahogany-paneled hallway to another door and pressed a button. A humming sound announced the arriving elevator. The door opened, and a young man in a dark brown uniform topped off with a flat cap greeted him.
“Good evening, Mr. Scott.”
“Evening, Drew. Nice size crowd tonight?”
“Not bad, sir. Especially for a rainy evening.”
“Good, good.”
The door opened at the third floor, and Bill stepped out. He heard the mumble of indistinct voices as he headed to the spacious room filled with other club members. He saw a stack of newspapers on a table just outside the doorway. He picked one up and looked at it.
I love it! No e-mail here, he thought as he folded the newspaper, no Charlene Greene either. Then again, no Charlene Greene out there anymore, either, except of course when I go to work. Boy, I really have to change jobs. He winced, Got to stop thinking about her . . . got to, but four years is a long time to hear her say, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then asking if I could get a different apartment. He shook his head; she seems to have forgotten that she moved in with me!
He stood straight and looked in a long mirror. “It’s a new life,” he said to his reflection - “Each day is a new day and I’m going to have fun doing things I’ve always wanted to do.” He smiled at himself- “Like coming to my club and indulging in my favorite pastime; pretending that I’m back in the mid-eighteen hundreds.”
He entered the room and noticed the cigar smoke that clung close to the ceiling. A waiter approached him with glasses of white and red wine. “Wine, sir?”
“Thanks,” Bill said, lifting a glass of the red.
He walked over to a window covered by heavy, red, floor-to-ceiling curtains, which were always kept closed. No sense in making believe that we are back in the mid-eighteen hundreds if we see the present-day New York skyline. He put down his wineglass and picked up a cigar from one of the silver trays strategically placed around the room and lit it. He blew a large round oval of smoke and watched it join the haze close to the ceiling.
“Bravo! I tell you, Bill, we should have a smoke-ring contest. I do believe you are the only person who can get close to matching my orbs.”
Bill smiled at Philip Corouso, a heavyset gray-bearded man in his mid-fifties. “Well, Philip,” he said, “I think you take lessons from the smoke-belching cannons of your artillery unit.”
The big man laughed and the medals on the breast of his blue uniform tinkled against each other. Crossed-cannons on the collar denoted that he was a colonel of the Union Army.
“You also have the fastest retort in the club.”
Bill nodded graciously.
“I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak out of club time.”
“It’s easy for me not to drift out of it, I’ve always been happy in club time. And I think we are walking a fine line even acknowledging the term ‘club time.’ Agree?”
“Yep! Right you are. I don’t want to be another Stan Walker.” Bill nodded. “I understand he’s attending tonight’s dinner.”
Philip nodded as he inhaled deeply on his cigar. “Yes. He’s still a member. But . . . the word is he’s on probation, and nobody will talk to him. Nobody wants to take a chance and slip up if he starts talking of . . . of . . . er . . . talking of other things.”
Bill winked. “Right.”
Phil took a final swig of his drink. “Got to excuse me, Bill. Have to use the facilities, and it’s hell with these buttons.” He grinned and walked off.
Bill looked around the room at the other members, but he was content to lean against the windowsill and enjoy his cigar, sip his wine and glance at the Harper’s Weekly headlines; LINCOLN FIRES GENERAL MCCLELLAN, WAR DRAGS ON!
It’s easy, he thought, for me to stay in club time. I’m happy in club time.
He had long felt that the 1860s must have been a wonderful period, except for the war. But it seemed as though there was a war almost every twenty or thirty years and it came with the territory.
Bill glanced up to see a thin man approaching him. Damn! It’s Stan Walker.
Too late to escape, Bill smiled and started a conversation along the correct lines.
“Evening, Mister Walker. It seems as though Mister Lincoln fired another general. Pretty soon we’ll have no one left to lead our boys to victory. What do you think of this latest turn of events, sir?”
Walker fidgeted with his cravat, obviously uneasy with it. “Uh . . . yes . . . I . . . er . . . I haven’t seen tonight’s paper. He fired McClennon you say?”
“McClellan, Mr. Walker, not McClennon. General George McClellan. They say he was inept. Kept letting the Johnny Rebs slip away.”
“Oh McClellan. Yes, I remember now. He lost a few battles, didn’t he?”
“More than a few.”
“So, Mister Scott. How do you think the war will turn out?”
“Hard to tell, Mr. Walker. We northerners have the railroads and that’s a big thing in our favor.”
“Yes, but if I remember my history correctly, the rails are what won the war for-“
Bill abruptly turned to leave as he shook his head. “Mr. Walker, I do not mean to be rude, but you speak as though you know the end result of this turmoil, and we both know that’s not possible. Am I right, sir?”
Walker knew he had slipped up . . . again. He had spoken out of club time. He looked around to see if he had been overheard.
Bill leaned closer and said softly, “Walker, for your own good and mine, I’m ending this conversation. I truly enjoy this club. No hassle, no hustle and bustle. It’s my few hours each week that I can escape reality. Some people drink to escape. This club is my refuge, and you keep breaking its only rule by speaking out of club time.”
Walker looked embarrassed. “I . . . I try. I just slip now and then.”
“Maybe you’re not as at ease as the others, Mr. Walker. You wouldn’t be the first person to quit.”
“No, no, I really like the club. It’s just that I seem to forget and - “
A waiter approached Walker and said, “Mr. Walker, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the President’s office?”
Walker looked lost. “The President’s office? Why would he want to see me?”
Walker was escorted away. Bill shook his head, sank into an overstuffed leather chair and started to read again. Thunder rumbled in the background.
“Dinner is served,” Matt announced.
Bill checked his pocket watch and noted to himself, “Eight sharp.”
He followed the small group into a lavish dining room. Looking around, he saw that Stan Walker was missing. Then Bill noticed that club president Prescot Stevens’ seat at the head of the table was empty.
As he chose a chair next to Miss Alexander, a thirtyish blonde with an oversized bustle, she turned and said, “Hello, Mr. Scott. Terrible weather, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is, Miss Alexander.”
“Please call me Jane.”
Bill nodded. “And call me Bill,” thinking; Charlene never understood my love of this period. Too bad she couldn’t be more like Jane . . . oh well.
She inclined her head, and then turned her attention to Phil Corouso across the table.
“Colonel, please enlighten us as to the reason our great President fired General McClellan?”
The colonel furrowed his brow and, sensing that he had just become the center of the table’s conversation, pushed back his chair and pronounced, “Well, ma’am, General McClellan was in way over his head, so to speak. He sat still so long that General Lee just built up his resources and struck first. He forced the President’s hand.”
“Tell me, sir, what would you have done in the general’s position?” came a question from Andrew Truscot, an “old money” member whose fortune came from the railroads.
The colonel shifted his chair to face Truscot. “I’d have attacked two months ago. The weather was perfect, and he had plenty of manpower and supplies.”
Truscott acknowledged agreement. “And the rails to move them, I might add.”
The colonel nodded vigorously, “Absolutely, sir, absolutely. The rails will take the war to a decision on our side, I dare say.”
Truscot smiled and raised his glass of wine, saying, “To the railroads of the north!”
The colonel raised his glass in agreement as the diners heard a new voice say, “I see the war is the topic of the evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Chairs scraped as all turned to see President Prescott Stevens being seated at the head of the table. The guests smiled at him. He signaled a waiter, and dinner was served.
The conversation continued, with the weather and the war being the subjects most discussed. After-dinner cigars were offered along with brandy. Most of the women demurely declined the cigars, the exception being Jane Alexander. She easily joined the dozen men at the great, roaring fireplace in the club’s den.
President Stevens turned and with an exaggerated bow said, “You grace us with your presence, Miss Alexander.”
Jane did a mock curtsy back. “This is the place to be if one wants to learn the inner workings of the world, is it not, President Stevens?”
He smiled at her. “That it is, that it is.”
Stevens looked quickly around the room and then raised his voice and said somberly, “Mr. Stan Walker left the club this evening. He asked me to say good-bye for him.”
No one spoke. The grandfather clock chimed 10 p.m., watches were taken out of vest pockets, and the guests decided it was getting late. They headed toward the door, but Stevens put a hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Mr. Scott, will you stay behind? I’d have a word with you, if possible.”
Bill looked questioning but said, “Certainly President Stevens.” He mentally shrugged his shoulders and thought, it’s not like I have a warm reception waiting for me at the apartment.
They turned back into the den. Stevens pulled a thick cord on the wall, and Matt appeared.
“Sir, you rang?”
“Yes, Matt, another brandy for me and whatever Mr. Scott prefers.”
“Another brandy is fine,” Bill replied.
As Matt closed the door behind him, Stevens walked toward two wingback chairs in front of the fire and settled into one. “I’ve had a long day and shall have my nightcap seated,” he said. He indicated the other chair to Bill and said, “Sit, sir. Relax.”
Bill sat in the warm chair. Matt returned, served the brandies, and Stevens raised his toward Bill and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Bill responded.
Stevens took a sip and said thoughtfully, “Two years tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two years tonight. It’s your anniversary, sir. Two years ago this evening you joined the club.”
Bill smiled. “Yes, two years tonight. I was wondering why you asked me to stay behind. Is this the norm for someone’s anniversary?”
“No, sir, it’s not. May I address you by your given name? William, is it not?”
“My friends call me Bill, but if you prefer William, that’s fine.”
“Bill it is then, and I’m Prescott, at least when we are alone. I must keep to being the head of the club in front of the members, and perceived familiarity breeds’ relaxation of the club’s rules. Would you agree?”
Bill nodded. “Oh I do agree, Prescott. May I ask why Mr. Walker left the club?”
“Yes, you may. In fact, I took his key. He was asked to leave. He could not keep the rule. He kept speaking out of club time. But you knew that didn’t you?”
Bill looked at him nervously. “Yes, I knew that. Do you think I spoke out of club time with him tonight? Because if you do . . .”
“No, not at all, Bill. In fact, I believe that you have never slipped up.”
“Then why did you ask me to stay? Surely not to ask me to renew my membership?”
Prescott took a deep pull of his drink and put it down. He leaned toward Bill. “No, not to renew. I have no problem filling the club’s memberships. There’s a very long waiting list of potential members. In fact, I’d like to ask you to play a little game with me.”
Bill was puzzled. “What kind of a game?”
“Well, pretty much the same kind of game you play every time you enter the club. The game of make-believe.”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Make-believe?”
Prescott sat, elbows on knees, chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yes, Bill, make-believe. Every time you come here you pretend you are back in the 1860s. A time of quiet streets, no blaring radio, TV, car horns, a make-believe time trip back to gentler times. Am I right?”
Now Bill leaned forward. “Then yes, I do play a make-believe game. I guess we all do.”
“Some of us better than others. Some of us are so good at this, that if they suddenly found themselves back in 1863, they could carry on as though they belonged there.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Then with a sense of purpose, Stevens rose and said, “Bill, follow me to my office.”
They went up a heavily carpeted staircase that was off-limits to club members. An ornate key attached to Prescott by a thick gold chain around his neck opened a heavy oak door. Gas lamps lit the room. All the furniture, except for the television, was from the 1800s.
Bill whistled in admiration. “Federal pieces! Where did you ever get them? They are priceless! I know. I have a coat tree, and it set me back some. These look brand new.”
Prescott smiled. “Would you like this desk?” he said as he patted the top.
Bill’s eyes opened wide. “Sir, I’d have to sell my coat-tree, car and then some to afford this beauty.”
“It’s yours, Bill. No charge. I can get another anytime I want.”
Bill looked confused. He knew the market fairly well and was certain there was no way there could be two desks like this one. Then with grin he said, “All right, Prescott, did you invite me here to show me that you have the mid-eighteen hundreds furniture market cornered?”
Grinning back, Prescott went around to a chair behind his desk and motioned for Bill to sit in another of the period pieces. “Please, Bill, sit. And I mean it. This desk is yours. No charge. You see, I watch each and every member of the club. I watch to see how well they stay in character. You are simply the best! In all the time the club has been around, I’ve never seen a person adapt so well. When you are here, you are in the 1860s. You are simply, the best.”
“So I win the antique desk because I’m good at keeping the rule?”
“First of all, it’s not an antique, it’s modern,” Stevens said.
“Do you mean it’s a knockoff? A copy made in China or somewhere?”
“No, I mean it’s a modern piece for the 1860s.”
“But this is the 21st century . . . not the 19th century.”
“Where? You mean here? In this club?” Stevens said. “But you say you believe this is the 1800s every time you come here.”
“Yes, but, I mean, it’s really 2011, not 1863,” Bill said.
Prescott pointed to the door they had come in. “Out there, the way we came in, that’s 2011.” He turned and pointed to another door on the far wall. “Out that door is the year 1863.”
Bill looked at the far door, then back at Prescott. “Out that door is 1863?”
Prescott nodded. “Yes. And that’s where I can get another desk. Or another wingback chair or clothes tree. Right out there.”
Bill laughed. “Well, Prescott . . . you got me. I love the club, I really do. And I kind of had you on a pedestal before this evening. But now . . . well, I really don’t know what to do. I wish we could have kept this on the level it was before tonight. It was more enjoyable just coming here and playing dress up.” He got up to leave.
“So, now you’re quitting?” Stevens said with annoyance. “Taking the easy way out? I can’t believe I was wrong. I had you as the adventurous type. An ex-U.S. Navy SEAL turned reporter whose hobby is the 1800s. Liked it so much he would jump at the chance if he could to live in that time period. Am I wrong?”
“No, you are right,” Bill answered. “But I don’t believe what you are proposing is true. I think this is some kind of a test . . . a test to see if I’ll talk out of club time, right?”
“Couldn’t be more mistaken, sir. What I’m proposing is true. And I believe you’re interested in hearing me out.” He looked intently at Bill. “I’ve studied you, and I pride myself on my accurate assessments of people. What I’m telling you is something that the average person just could not comprehend.”
Bill sat back down. The room’s curtains were open and he looked out the window at the rain. “Well, the weather tells me to stay at least until it lets up. So I might as well hear you out.”
Prescott seemed relieved and sat back. “Good, Bill, good. Now, I’d like to tell you a story. I come from 1863. I was like you in a sense . . . a happy bachelor with a good job. I was a history teacher in New York City. One day a man introduced himself to me in a restaurant I frequented. His name was John Smith, so he said, and he also was a history teacher. He told me he was the father of one of my past students, Harold Smith, who was killed in the war, but always spoke highly of me.” He paused a moment then continued as he sat forward. “I felt that he was a sick man for he constantly fought for air as he spoke.” He sat back as he went on. “He visited me for short visits over the next few weeks, and after gaining my confidence, he told me a different story . . . an entirely different story, believe me! I was, as you are, shocked to hear it. But I did, as you did, sat back and listened. He said that his real name was James Prescott. He said he was a future Prescott, a future relative of mine. He claimed to live in the year 2066! I thought it was preposterous and told him so. He said he understood my stance, of course, but was willing to prove it to me. Would I accompany him to his home? As I said, he had gained my confidence and, as it was a short carriage ride, I accompanied him to his home.” He grinned as he patted the desk once again. “This very building.”
The grandfather clock chimed eleven times and the storm outside was still in full force.
Prescott does tell a good yarn, Bill thought. He’s probably a lonely guy with good taste in furniture and bad taste in sci-fi stories, hoping I can get it published for him.
Stevens continued, “James Prescott, of the future, showed me a door in his den and said it opened to the future. I, of course, was a non-believer as are you, until he opened the door. He took me down a flight of stairs and opened a second door that led to a garden surrounded by a high stonewall outside of which was a well-lighted street. No cobblestone street was this, nor was it asphalt, as you are used to. Rather, it was a light blue plastic-like substance, which glowed, giving off enough illumination that no gaslights were needed. The first thing I noticed was the smell, or rather the lack of smell. No horse manure! I never realized how one became so used to the stench. Why, in my time it was just there! Always there! And now, well it was truly a breath of fresh air. But here was the bad part. The people of the future had cleaned up their atmosphere so well that there was no pollution. Why the air was so clean that I had a hard time breathing it. It was as though I were on top of Mount Everest. Of course I was never on the mountain, but they assured me that the air they breathed was so clean that I couldn’t stay there long nor could they stay in my time for too long a spell. An automobile glided soundlessly by, borne not on wheels nor powered by a pollution producing engine, but on shafts of compressed air. People were walking casually around, not in a so-called ‘New York Minute,’ but leisurely. They wore close fitting one-piece suits with shoes. It was fantastic to say the very least! I was overwhelmed, and seeing this, he smiled and escorted me back inside where my breathing was much improved. He assured me that I was now back in the 1800s, and proved it by opening the front door through which we had entered. It was a dark night of 1863 lighted only by gas lamps with horse-drawn carriages rumbling by on cobblestones and the familiar smells of my time. He gave me a brandy, and we sat by his fireplace as he explained all.”
Prescott took a sip of his drink, and Bill reached for his. Not a bad story, he thought. Wonder where it’s going?
Prescott rested his drink on the desk. “It seems that overall, the 1800s were in many ways a key to the future . . . the future as we know it now. He told me that this time period saw many inventions that would shape the world all the way up to 2066 and beyond. He showed me points in history that were crucial to the development of the human race.”
Bill interrupted him. “Tell me a few.”
Prescott started ticking off on his fingers, “Cotton gin, use of peanuts, steel-hulled ships, development of steam power, development of the railroads, ending slavery . . . “
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bill said.
“As I was saying,” Prescott went on, “it was a period that was important to the world. And at times needed help.”
“Help? Help from whom?” Bill asked.
“Help from the people of 2066, that’s who. There were times when history needed a hand because it veered off course.”
“But if it was helped when it was veering off course, wasn’t that sort of changing history? And if you were changing . . .oh boy, you got me. I’m starting to react as though your story is for real.” Bill looked at his watch. “I really have to go. It’s getting late and I have a deadline tomorrow.”
Prescott shook his head. “Tomorrow may never come. I believe you are as ready as I was to take a glimpse back.” He gestured toward the door as he stood up. “Shall we?”
Bill smiled and, with some reluctance, followed him to the large mahogany door on the far side of the den. Prescott took out the gold chain, and Bill saw that a second key was on it. Prescott turned that key in the lock and opened the door a crack.
“Ready, Bill?”
“Sure, but I hope you don’t have any skeletons in your closet,” he joked.
The door was opened wider, revealing a flight of descending stairs.
“Allow me to go first, Bill?” Prescott asked.
“Please do, Prescott,” Bill replied.
They went down the stone stairs flanked on either side by a red brick wall that was illuminated by hissing gas lamps. The stairs ended in front of a large steel door. Prescott unlocked this door with the same key but before opening it, he turned to Bill and asked, “Set, sir? Set to walk the streets of 1863?”

DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

Bill nodded, and Prescott pushed the door open onto a high-walled courtyard filled with singing birds, flowers, butterflies and sunshine. A small pond was in the corner with goldfish breaking the surface. Bill could hear a horse-drawn carriage clattering by on cobblestones. He slowly followed Prescott toward a high gate across the courtyard. Prescott opened that gate with the same key, and then flung his arms wide and proclaimed, “Voila! Welcome to 1863, Mr. Bill Scott.”
Bill looked around in disbelief. “But, but how can the sun be up? It’s after eleven at night!” He shook his head as he looked around. “It’s true! My God, man, it’s true! You did it . . . I can’t believe it.” The flowers feebly masked the smell that finally reached Bill.
“Horse manure! My God, it stinks!” He looked around and tried to breath through his mouth as his eyes filled with tears. Prescott offered him a handkerchief.
“It takes time Bill. Breathe slow.”
Bill wiped his eyes and did as Prescott said; took slow deliberate breaths. It’s mind over matter, he thought.
He saw two women walking slowly by, arm in arm. Prescott gave a hint of a bow. Both were about ten years younger then Bills’ thirty-two years of age.
“Good day, Miss Davenport, Miss Jenkins. Nice day for a walk, is it not?”
Both answered, “Good day, Mr. Stevens.”
Miss Davenport said, “Yes, it’s a beautiful day for a walk.”
Prescott turned to Bill. “A colleague of mine, Mr. Scott. He just came from a long trip. A very long trip.”
The young lady smiled at Bill. “Did you come by boat, Mr. Scott?”
“Uh . . . no, I took the train,” Bill answered, trying to collect himself. “Best way to travel these days, I would say.”
The women nodded in unison and began to wander off. “Good day, gentlemen,” they said, with Miss Jenkins adding, “Enjoy our fair town, Mr. Scott.”
“I will, ma’am, I will,” Bill replied. He was still wide-eyed as he watched them cross the street. They picked up their long skirts a tiny bit and stepped gingerly over and around the horse manure, which literally covered the street. He turned to Prescott and said, “How . . . I mean . . . well, I guess I do mean, how . . . how did it happen? How did we go from 2011 to 1863 just by walking out a door?”
“Not just a door, Bill. A time-changing portal! Let’s go back upstairs while I explain as much as I can to you.”
He closed and locked the gate. Bill was still awed by the sights . . . and the smell.
“This is utterly fantastic!” he exclaimed as he wiped his eyes.

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

They sat in the club’s den. Coffee had been served, and they were once again in front of the fireplace.
Bill was still incredulous as he wiped his watery eyes. “Please explain, Prescott. This is beyond my wildest dreams. Has anyone else from the club gone back?”
“Over the years a few. Three men and one woman.
“Are they still in the club?”
“No, unfortunately one was killed in an auto accident, the woman left New York when her husband’s job was moved, and the others just got too elderly for the trips.”
Prescott sat back and looked at the fire. “The club is a place that has been set up to be able to find people who have no problem traveling to and from the past. It is a continuous job interview so to speak.”
Scott asked, “So, did I pass the interview?”
“With flying colors,” came the answer.
Bill pressed him, saying, “I really need more information about this. I mean, is the government behind this?”
“No! And they must never know of it,” Stevens said with alarm. “I’ve been directed to keep this just between any chosen traveler and myself. My Lord, why, if the government knew of this, we’d have troops stationed in ancient Rome!”
Bill laughed. “I’m ex-Navy SEAL. I know where you’re coming from. They mean well, but it just seems to go bad when they meddle in things. So who’s the big honcho? There has to be a top guy. Right?”
“Well, not so much a top guy as a top group. Tell me, Bill, do you believe in alternate worlds?”
“You mean another world just like ours but where history took a different course? Heck, yesterday I would have said no, but today I think anything is possible.”
Prescott smiled. “Well, not only is it possible, but I’ve seen it. And that’s the mission of the club. You see, when the group first invented the time exchangar and started sending probes back, they saw that at times a few of the key historic people didn’t do what our history books said they did. So they realized that someone was either writing the history books wrong, or someone was going back and helping those key historic people do as they were supposed to do, according to our history books. The group concluded that the history books were not wrong, so the people somehow were being persuaded to do as our history books said they did. Therefore, a time traveler who knew of our present history books, helped out. Understand?”
“Yes . . . but what if the ‘helping hand’ person got sick or something, and he didn’t get the chance to do the ‘helping hand’ thing, what then?”
“Oh, it has happened. And then they have to send someone else. The problem is that if historical people are interfered with too many times, they get suspicious of strangers and that causes other troubles. It tends to change them.”
“How so?” Bill queried.
“Well, perhaps they are an adventurous type with a devil-may-care attitude. If they are interfered with, they may become suspicious of others and alter history by shying away from crowds. What if George Washington had become suspicious of his troops? Would he have been able to lead them if he had shunned them? Would he have been able to persuade them to stay at Valley Forge for that long, cold winter? See what I mean? That’s why we are so meticulous about the people we choose to take a trip. “
“Trip? You mean like we just did?” Bill asked.
“More, much more. I’m talking about mingling with the people from 1800s. You know, Bill, to you they were just people long dead. Just written pieces of history. But you go through that door and you are with living, breathing everyday people. They eat and drink, have likes and dislikes just as we do. That’s the real purpose of this club. To find the person who fits easily into another time, without anyone from that selected period ever suspecting a thing. Do you feel you can do that, Bill?”
“Hell yes! What do I have to do?”
Prescott offered him a cigar and then lit both. He sat back and puffed it to life and as he looked at Bill through a ring of smoke, said, “What do you have to do? Simple. You have to give the Gettysburg Address. Do you know it?”
Bill looked back, stunned. “Do I know the Gettysburg Address? No. Who really can recite the entire address? No one I know.”
Prescott pointed to the bookcases that lined the walls. “It’s all in there,” he said.
“Wait a second,” Bill said. “What do you mean give the Gettysburg Address? Are you or the group trying to . . . to . . . change history?”
Prescott tapped some ash from his cigar as he shook his head. “No, we want to get history back on course. You see, history tells us that Lincoln was a very depressed man. What wasn’t known was that when he was in his depressed state, he would sleep for hours at a time even during the day, and forget many things he did when he was awake. He just could not function. There were times when his bouts of depression had him down for weeks at a time.”
Prescott flicked some ash off his jacket and continued, “Well, one of our probes showed that he never made the Gettysburg Address. It seems that when he was supposed to give the famous speech, he was in the grip of depression. He never got to give it, the slaves never got their freedom, the British entered the war on the side of the South, and the North settled for a stalemate. The United States of 2066 would be a split union. Not still at war, of course, but with different trading partners, politics, money system and many other things. The U.S. of the North would not have been the superpower we see today. This and many other things have made the group decide to send someone back to take Abraham Lincoln’s place and make the famous speech.”
Bill asked in a low voice, “And you think I’m that guy?”
“Yes, we do,” Prescott answered.
“You’re crazy,” Bill said emphatically. “I’d never pull it off. Why his Secret Service guys . . . “
“First, there wasn’t any Secret Service at that time. The U.S. Army protected him. However, he did have a private detective of sorts that looked after him, and he’s in on it.”
Bill was stunned once again. “He’s in on it? What do you mean?”
“We simply had to tell him. I can take you back, but you still have to get into the White House and switch places with the President of the Union. We had to tell him.”
“Tell him what? That I’m going to take the presidents place?”
Prescott nodded. “Yes, of course. They know how he gets. It’s their job to keep it a secret. It’s their sworn duty to protect the President and the Union. Knowing that the country is being run by a person who suffers from depression, they are protecting him from being looked upon as a weakling by the world.”
“So you told the top security guy?”
“Yes, in fact, I dined with the head of White House security last night.” He held a hand up as he corrected himself, “Well, actually last night, one hundred and forty-seven years ago.”
Bill took a drink of his brandy. “This is too much,” he said.
“You can handle it, Bill. I have faith in you.”
“I still can’t believe this,” He sat forward. “What did the security guy say when you said you were from the future? I mean did he freak out?”
“Why? Why would he, ‘freak out,’ as you say? The only thing different between him and you is the one hundred plus years. He’s a smart man, and after I took him through the door to this period, he was in all the way. So, to answer your question, no, he didn’t freak out. He was happy to know that his generation was being watched and helped from a future time.”
“So, 1984 hadn’t been written yet.”
Prescott grinned. “No, he doesn’t know of ‘Big Brother’ yet. But I feel that he’d be all for it.” He stretched out his legs, as the clock struck again. “When I told him of your pending visit, he said he’d take care of the switch.”
“I guess you were pretty sure I’d be the guy to do it. Even before you told me.”
“As I said, Bill, your temperament showed me you were the right person for this job.”
“But I don’t even look like Lincoln.”
“That’s easy. You are pretty close to his height and from a distance with a little touching up you’ll do fine.”
“Does his wife know?”
“No, she’s going to be out of Washington that day, and Lincoln was to leave for Gettysburg early in the morning before the city really gets moving. It’ll be you and the Security men.”
“But, his voice! I don’t have a clue what he sounds like. Do you?”
“No, but that day, Lincoln, that is you, will have a cold that will keep him covering his mouth with a handkerchief.”
Bill was becoming more interested. “Well, then, let’s say I’m in, what’s the plan?”
Prescott continued, “We will meet with Kenneth Reilly, his security man, and he’ll brief you as to your mannerisms . . . that is, Lincoln’s mannerisms. He will give us the plan for the switch and we’ll go from there.”
“If I do this, I have a request,” Bill said. “I want to spend some time there. I mean, back there,”
Prescott shook his head vigorously, “No! Too dangerous. You have to operate out of the club and return as soon as possible. Besides, the group in the future would be dead against it.”
“Then I won’t do it.”
Prescott raised one eyebrow. “You won’t do it? Are you telling me you don’t want to walk the streets of 1863 to see what it’s really like? I believe you should rethink it, Bill. This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Pass it up and you will live the rest of your life regretting it.”
Bill looked at the door and, after a pause, said, “You’re right. But if I didn’t insist, I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
As both men looked at each other, Prescott grinned. “A modern day Mexican standoff, so to speak.”
Bill finished his drink and put down the glass, signaling his determination. “Prescott, if I’m as good as you think I am, you’ll get me some time back there. You know I won’t mess up.”
“Damn, man. You must understand the gravity of the situation. One slip, one ounce of suspicion from any of the locals and . . . and . . . why, we just don’t know what will happen.”
“Know what, Prescott? You said you’re from the 1800s. Am I right?”
Prescott nodded reluctantly. “Yes, yes, I am. 1860 to be exact. But what’s that have to do with . . . “
Bill continued to present his argument. “With me going back for a bit, on my own? Well, you did it. You came forward and didn’t mess up. What makes you think I’ll blow it?”
“Because I had the club to retreat to if I felt out of place. When the fast moving automobiles, high-flying aircraft and loud motorcycles put me in a panic, I simply retreated into the club and settled down. Should you travel on your own and get a sort of panic attack, why, what would you do?”
“I think there’s a big difference, Prescott, between what you did and what I’m proposing to do. I’ve had the time to study the past while you had no way to prepare for the future. It seems to me that you had a much tougher time of it than I would. Don’t you agree?”
Prescott shrugged. “Yes, I agree you would be more prepared than I was. But they have rules.”
“Then why doesn’t one of them go back and fix it?”
Prescott finished his drink and shook his head. “They can’t. You see, as I said after years of polluting the air and oceans, mankind wised up and passed stringent laws against polluting, and enforced them. The laws worked so well that the air that people from your future era breathe is cleaner than it’s been in hundreds of years. Because people from the group were raised in such a clean atmosphere, when they traveled back to my time, or earlier, they felt they were suffocating. So they could bear it for only a short time, not long enough for a mission. To keep history on track, they sent back mechanical probes to check historical facts. When they saw a problem developing, they knew they had to send back someone to help straighten it out. That was another problem. Since none of them could stay back in time long enough to fix it, they decided to seek help from someone of that period. I was selected to be that person. I did some ‘saves’ over the years, but over time I realized I needed help. People who had various aptitudes were needed to make the missions a success. So I sold the Time Watchers on backing a club for recruits.”
“Without the club members knowing it.” Bill said.
“Yes, of course. I mean, I couldn’t really advertise that I was looking for Time Travelers, could I? Would you have joined the 1800 Club reading that advertisement?”
Bill shook his head and said, “No, guess not.”
“That’s why I set up the club.”
“To start your own farm team.”
“Farm team? I don’t follow you.”
Bill explained, “Baseball talk for training up-and-coming possibilities for their team.”
“Oh, I see. Well then, yes. The group did set up this club to attract certain types of people. People who could operate in the time that needed attention. People who could blend in and complete the mission.”
“And you are the person who selects that person. Correct?”
“Correct. I am that person. And, correct again, sir, I believe that you could travel around in that period and be accepted as one of them. Therefore Bill, I shall allow you to do just that. But after I buy you lunch at my favorite restaurant in 1863. Agree?”
Bill smiled broadly. “Agree!”
The clock struck once again and Prescott shook his head and laughed. “However, not this evening. It’s way past my bedtime. Tomorrow, say, 11 a.m.?”
“You’re on! Where?”
“Come to the club and change. Matt will bring you to me and I suggest you wear walking shoes. Till then, Bill, pleasant dreams.”
The two men shook hands and Bill left the club, tired yet completely awake.

For Bill, the next morning took a long time to arrive. Finally, dressed in the clothes of a gentleman of the mid-1800s, he stood with Matt as he knocked on the big wooden door. Prescott opened it and said, “Good morning, Bill.” He gestured him into the room as Matt left and closed the door behind him. They shook hands.
“Good morning Prescott.”
“Are you ready for a leisurely lunch?”
“I ate hardly anything all morning,” Bill said. “I still can’t believe it.”
Prescott unlocked the door and went through, as Bill followed close behind.

DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: The 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

They entered the garden and went out through the Iron Gate entrance in the wall. Prescott locked it behind them and tucked the key inside his starched shirt. He smiled at Bill and said, “Shall we dine, sir?”
“A wonderful idea, Prescott. Which place do you prefer?”
“The Botterhouse Restaurant over on Worth Street,” came the answer. “Bit of a walk but worth the trip. Up to it?”
“Lead on, Prescott, lead on.”
They walked downtown and Bill was agog at seeing sights he had only dreamed of or had seen only in black-and-white grainy photos. That’s when it hit him; everything was in color! Living color! He was used to looking at black and white photographs of the era and here it is in every day color! And he was surprised at the variety of colors they wore. The bright yellows and reds replaced the flat dark colors that appeared in the old photos.
Prescott was right. The people were real, as real as anyone Bill had ever encountered. But the air was even more horrible then he thought it would be. Horse waste was giving off a scent that individuals were fighting, with overpowering scents of their own. It’s a battle they’re losing, Bill thought as he covered his nose with his handkerchief as though he had a cold. Birds sat on trees overhanging the streets and added to the waste.
The noise of the city was also different. No automobiles or bus engine noise, no horns or underground train noises. He could hear horses braying and the clopping of their hooves on cobblestones, but this noise was all on a smaller scale then he was used to hearing. He found he could hear the people as they chatted amongst themselves without having to shout over the noise of a busy street of his time.
Still, Bill was part of it. He was one of them. People walked past him with parcels under their arms. He was happily surprised to note that they were not staring at him. He truly was one of them . . . and he loved it! He noticed that they all did the same thing when crossing the street, look left and right then down to step around and over the horse waste. It was everywhere, as were the thousands of flies it brought. Still, he loved every minute of it!
All the while, Prescott was giving a running commentary as they worked their way toward the restaurant. They turned right on Worth Street, leaving Broadway behind. The old buildings that Bill remembered were now new. Many had long, high sets of stone steps and banisters going up to second floor doors. Too bad they would be torn down, he thought, to make way for the wider streets of the future. He took note of the fact that even though the weather was warm, the city was powered by coal burning furnaces, and the soot they gave off was horrendous. The black smoke, which belched from the chimneys, darkened the buildings facades’ and when caught in a breeze, tended to mix with the already bad smelling air.
Prescott started to cross the street but stepped quickly out of the way of a horse team pulling a wagon loaded with kegs of beer. When it had passed, he and Bill headed across to the open door of the Botterhouse Restaurant. The sidewalk menu boasted the freshest leg of mutton in New York City. On entering, a rotund man in a red vest greeted them.
“Good day, Mr. Stevens. Have you been out of town? Haven’t seen too much of you lately.”
“Yes, Timmy, I’ve been visiting my sister over in New Jersey. How’s business?”
“Couldn’t be better. Just got some of your favorite liver in yesterday. Got it before Linden’s Restaurant even knew it was available. Interested?”
Prescott patted his ample stomach. “Now, that sounds like a great lunch. My friend and I would like to sit by the window, if possible. He’s from New Jersey and doesn’t get to see much of our town.”
Timmy ushered them around full tables to a window seat facing Worth Street. The windows all had their awnings down, trying, in vain, to keep the sun’s heat out of the restaurant. He gave them menus and then went to attend to other customers.
Bill focused on the specials written on the chalkboard and said, “Leg of lamb, roasted potatoes, cabbage and carrots smothered in a thick brown gravy. Chicken soup and a special Botterhouse greens dish with their own secret dressing . . . no burger and fries I take it?”
Prescott smiled. “Not yet. But, the liver and onions is done with true love here, and I haven’t had any in over three weeks. It’s also not as heavy as the lamb dish.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have that, too,” Bill said.
“And a beer?”
“Sure, that’d be perfect.”

After the meal, Prescott sat back and offered Bill a cigar. “No law against smoking in restaurants yet, Bill. Have one?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” They both lit up, as Timmy reappeared.
“So, gentlemen, how was your lunch? Satisfactory, I hope.”
Prescott once again patted his stomach, “My Lord, Tim, you have outdone yourself. I don’t think I’ll be having anything to eat for . . . for . . . well, at least until this evening.”
Timmy and Bill laughed at the man making fun of himself. Prescott paid the cashier and left a tip for Timmy who quickly pocketed it, as they went out into the bright sunny day.
“Prescott, that was magnificent! Can we stroll for a bit?”
“A bit is about all I can do, Bill. I have a game knee that keeps me sitting a lot.”
Their attention was taken by the sound of a marching band. Coming up the street toward them was a military band followed by a group of men in civilian clothes being marched by a grizzled old sergeant as best he could. Running alongside the column were excited children.
Prescott frowned as they passed. “Poor sods,” he said. “Marching blithely off to victory and glory. Of course, getting maimed or killed is not on the recruiting posters. And to think that more Americans will be killed in this war than in any other future war.”
Bill looked at him. “Talking out of club time, Prescott. That could get you kicked out, you know.”
Prescott laughed and slapped Bills’ back. “Ha! Right you are my friend, right you are. Must remember where, or rather, what period I’m in.” Then, becoming serious, he said, “It’s just the knowledge of knowing there’s nothing we can do to undo the bad parts that we know are coming.” He shook his head. “Frustrating!”
Bill nodded in agreement.
A rumble of thunder threatened their walk, and Bill reluctantly offered to end it prematurely. Prescott agreed and they turned back.

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Back in the club sipping a brandy, Bill stared into his drink and said, “Amazing. Breakfast in 2011, lunch and a stroll in 1863 and brandy back in 2011. Amazing.”
Smiling, Prescott queried, “Are you ready to take the trip, Bill?”
“Absolutely! When?”
“November nineteenth.”
“Two weeks away.”
“No, I mean November nineteenth their time. You can go whenever you are ready. I can avail you of our very extensive library. It also contains the complete speech by Lincoln at Gettysburg.”
“I do need to go over that. What do you do to get me to the time needed? Sort of dial it up?” Bill asked.
Prescott explained, “A good analogy. I have a TFM, short for Time Frequency Modulator. With it I can dial up, if you will, any time I wish, back until 1820. That’s when this building was built. We can go back earlier, but we’d have to operate outside of this building. The TFM has been entrusted to me by the Time Watchers of the future.”
“I would love to take a look at it,” Bill said.
Prescott looked at him pensively. “You will, and I hope that soon it will be yours.”
“Mine?” Bill wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Yes. You see, as I said this is an interview. The job consists of not only doing what’s asked of you in the past from time to time, but also running this club.”
“Running this club? What do you mean?”
“Simple, Bill. I’m tired. I want to spend more time with my family . . . back in 1863. I’ve had a great experience over the past twenty-five of your years. I’ve traveled extensively and met some of the most important people in history. But I’m tired. And part of my job was to watch for someone to inherit the club. And Bill, I think you are that person, as do the Time Watchers.”
“They know about me?”
“Yes, of course. We had a meeting yesterday, and they went over your records. With my recommendation they agreed that you would be the best person to run the club. What do you say?”
“I . . . I don’t know. What do I have to do? I mean, my job, my apartment . . . “
“This will be your job. At whatever your price, although money for living expenses will not be needed. The club has been owned privately since the very beginning. The dues more than cover the costs. And as for your apartment, this is a ten-room apartment in the heart of New York City. And all you have to do is, when contacted by the future people about a kink in time, fix it. Any more questions?”
“Just a million or so,” Bill said. “But if I accept, what happens to you?”
“I’ll be going back to my time.” He sighed as he spread his hands wide. “Bill, this is a wonderful period that you are from, but I do miss the slower pace of the 1800s. I’m sure you understand.”
Bill raised his eyebrows and asked, “Are you financially all right?”
Prescott laughed heartily. “I’m fine. I have all I’ll ever need. I’m supposed to live another twenty plus years, and I want to be with my sister and her family.”
Bill’s mouth dropped. “You . . . you know when . . . when . . . “
“When I’m going to die? Yes, July 9, 1886. In Port Monmouth, New Jersey, while at the beach. The papers will say I passed quietly while napping on a blanket on the beach with my sister and her grandchildren. I had to look it up. Just had to.”
Bill nodded. “Yes, I guess I would have to, too. I’m sorry.”
Waving off Bill’s concern, Prescott said, “Sorry for what? Sorry that I died? I did, in your history, but as you can see I’m still very much a warm-blooded being just like you. Now, let’s get down to business. Ready?”
“Ready!”
Prescott took a small cell-phone-sized unit out of his pocket and showed it to Bill. On the face were number pads.
“The TFM. Now, to open the portal, you simply type in the date and time you want. As I said, this building was built in 1820, and the door is always the way into and out of the period you selected.”
“Does the TFM have to be recharged?”
“No, never. But the next thing you have to do is memorize Lincoln’s speech.” Prescott handed Bill a small notebook. “I’ve picked up a copy from our archives. When you are ready, we’ll schedule the trip. Meanwhile, we have a meeting with the security gentleman in one hour.”
Bill flipped through the pages. “I’m a quick study. I’ll have it memorized by tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Prescott led him back to the door. “One more thing Bill, your resume states that you are single. Is that still correct?”
Bill nodded his head and smiled, “Yes, that’s correct. And it’ll be this way for a long time.”

DATELINE: 1863 PLACE: CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK CITY

It was a sunny day in 1863. A little boy ran by, scaring a flock of birds into the air, as his nanny chased after him. The birds fluttered over the large park bench where Bill and Prescott sat and they ducked instinctively. A man dressed in a brown three-piece suit strolled by and nodded at a woman pushing a baby carriage. He stopped and smiled at Prescott as he tipped his top hat. “Good day, sir. Are you waiting for someone or may I sit a spell?”
Prescott tipped his hat. “Please, I insist. It’s a beautiful day and one simply could not enjoy New York better than by sitting in the park.” He turned to Bill and said, “Don’t you agree, Bill?”
“I do, I do. One should live each day as though it’s the first day of the rest of his life.”
The man looked at him admiringly. “Well said, sir. Well said.” He reached into his breast pocket and took out a small, silver calling-card case and flipped it open in his palm.
“Kenneth Reilly. My card.”
Both men accepted a card, and Prescott turned to the man with a similar case, saying, “And mine, sir.”
Bill patted his breast pocket. “Blast! I seem to have left mine in my other jacket.” He read the card in his hand, as he introduced himself. “I am Bill Scott. I write for a small newspaper based in Chicago, Mr. Reilly. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir.” The two shook hands.
Prescott smiled at Reilly. “All is well, Mr. Reilly?” he asked.
“As well as can be, sir. This, then is the person who will step in for my employer?”
“He is.”
Reilly looked at Bill, and Bill returned the gaze. Reilly was stocky with jet-black hair streaked with white through his beard and mustache. His handshake was powerful, and Bill felt that Reilly was sending him a message. Bill’s handshake was as firm as the security man’s and Reilly nodded in acknowledgment.
“A powerful grip for a newspaperman,” he said.
“From setting lead type on deadlines,” Bill responded.
Reilly addressed Bill in a low voice. “Prescott has told me a mighty wild tale, sir. I thought him to be one of the new science fiction writers that seem to be popping up these days.” He smiled and went on, “But a close and very dear friend of mine vouched for him and begged that I would hear him out.”
Reilly continued, “I am assured that you will pass for my employer, and I don’t doubt it. However, if, as Prescott says, the world must never know about it, you must do nothing unless I say so. Do you agree to this?”
“Of course,” Bill said. “This is your territory and you know the ground rules better than I do.”
“Well said, sir. I believe we’ll get along just fine. Now then, what is the plan of action?”
Prescott shifted closer to both men. “The date of the speech is November nineteenth. Is there a way we can have Mr. Scott observe your employer before that? Say, November seventeenth or eighteenth? It’ll give him a chance to get acquainted with his mannerisms.”
Reilly scratched his beard in thought. “M . . . m . . . m, yes. I can take him in for an interview. I’ll write him in for two o’clock on the eighteenth. My employer will never question it because he tends to forget things told to him because of his . . . his . . . shall I say, times of forgetfulness?”
Bill and Prescott nodded in agreement, stood up and shook hands with the security man, then walked away into the sunny afternoon.

DATELINE: NOV. 18, 1863 PLACE: RAILROAD CAR

November eighteenth found Bill and Prescott traveling in an almost-empty 1860s railroad train. It was hot but they kept the windows closed because every now and then hot embers from the coal-burning engine would fly into the trains’ interior along with the smoke. Old burn spots on the seats and rug kept them alert for fire. A middle-aged conductor made his way through the cars, touching the seats briefly to steady himself from the sway of the train. He stopped and tipped his hat to them.
“’bout ten minutes till Washington, gentlemen,” he said through a droopy white mustache, “Sorry about the delay. Some day they just haf’ta put up some fencing to keep them dang sheep off the tracks.”
Bill and Prescott smiled at him, and the conductor shuffled through the door and into the next car.
On arrival in the city, Bill was conscious that Washington had the same bad smells and smoke darkened buildings as New York City did. At the station, they caught a horse-drawn taxi over to the Anthony House Hotel on Twelfth Street. He found the cobble stone streets jarring and more then a match for the primitive suspension system of the carriage.
Three flights of stairs took them to their rooms. Prescott’s room was across from his and he said as he opened his door. “See you in a few minutes, Bill.”
Bill opened his door to see overstuffed furniture and heavy curtains, which made the room gloomy. He opened the curtains and put his overnight bag on the high bed then went to the washbasin, scooped up water and buried his face in it. He dried off using a clean but thin towel. He then took out a soft brown leather attaché case that contained a small inkbottle, straight pens and paper in a holder. He put his hands on his hips. “Tools of the time travelers’ writers trade.”
A light rap on the door and he opened it and let Prescott in.
“How good are you with the straight quill pen?” asked Stevens as he pointed to them.
“Not good. Barely passable.”
There was another knock at the door, and Bill opened it to find a slim, young, blond haired man in his mid-twenties with his hat in his hand.
“Mr. Scott?” he queried.
“Yes, I am Scott,” Bill said.
The man offered his hand.
“O’Neil, John O’Neil. I’m with White House security.”
They shook hands, and Bill turned toward Prescott and said, “Prescott Stevens, my editor. We are both with the Chicago Times.”
“I understood that it’d be just you here for the interview,” O’Neil said to Bill.
“Mr. Stevens is here to do some research on another article we are working on,” Bill explained.
“Good. Mr. Reilly isn’t one for surprises or changed plans,” O’Neil said, with relief.
Prescott walked out the door past O’Neil and said, “In fact, I must go to my room and prepare for it now. Good luck, Bill. See you for dinner?”
“Dinner it is, Prescott. I’ll knock on your door after my return.”
O’Neil took a watch from his vest pocket. “Two past noon. We shall have to leave now to make our appointed time. Are you ready, sir?”
“I am. Just let me gather my notebook and pens.” Bill repacked the writing materials, and the two men left.
After another bone jarring carriage ride, Bill found himself in front of the White House of 1863. An armed Army officer checked O’Neil’s credentials and waved them through. As they walked down the corridor, Bill was amazed by how much the building looked like the White House he had seen back, or rather forward, in the 1980s on a high school tour. O’Neil led the way upstairs and stopped in front of an unmarked door, knocked and waited. Reilly opened it. He had no jacket on, and Bill saw an 1860 Navy Colt pistol strapped under his arm. Reilly smiled broadly and greeted Bill like an old friend.
“Bill Scott! Damn, man, good to see you again,” he said as he pumped his visitor’s hand and slapped his back, allowing his hand to casually drop to the small of Bill’s back. He guided his guest to a seat by gently grasping his arm. Bill didn’t let on that he knew he had just been frisked by a pro. Reilly went over to a bar on one wall and picked up two glasses.
“Your pleasure, Bill?”
“Brandy, Kenneth.”
“Brandy it is then. Bill, I must ask a favor. In our encounter with Mr. Lincoln, I prefer that you call me Mr. Reilly.”
“I understand,” Bill responded. “What’s the procedure?”
“Simple. At 2 p.m. I will take you into his private chamber, introduce you, and you follow his lead. You will have one half hour. Will that be good for your needs?”
“Hope so,” Bill said. “I guess I just want to observe him. But believe me, this is fantastic! To meet one of our most famous presidents is almost beyond belief!”
Reilly handed Bill his drink and said, “Almost beyond belief? My God, man, it is beyond belief! To have traveled back and forth in time. Why, it is like that French writer Jules Verne. He writes as though he has been in the future.”
“Yes, he had, or rather, has, a fantastic imagination,” Bill said.
Reilly sat down and selected a cigar from a box, offering one to his guest. Bill declined, but Reilly lit his and let out a long plume of smoke.
“Have you read any of his works, Bill?”
“Yes, I have, and I’m guessing you did too.”
Reilly responded enthusiastically, “I got my hands on his notes of a future book he is working on, through a friend of mine, ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.’ Nothing but fantastic! A vehicle that carries men under the oceans. Preposterous.” He suddenly sat forward. “Or, is it preposterous? Does the future hold such an under-the-ocean carriage?”
Bill took a sip, and, looking perplexed, said, “I don’t want to sound as if I’m speaking down to you, Kenneth, but do you really want to know such things?”
Reilly seized the opening. “I am by nature a curious man, Bill. I’m curious about you and Prescott. I’m curious about your mission. I’m curious about the people who sent you here. Why should I believe that Mr. Lincoln must deliver this speech? What happens if he doesn’t deliver it?”
Bill started to say something, but Reilly put up his hand and stopped him. “As I said, Bill, I’m curious. But, after getting a glimpse of your world and hearing what Prescott had to say, I want to go along with your plan. I, too, believe that the speech must be made. I also feel that I’m doing my part now to preserve the United States of the future. And that overrides all of my curiosity. My duty calls from years after I am in the ground, and I shall answer that call. So if I ask for a little glimpse into your world, indulge me, sir.” He drew on his cigar and exhaled through his nostrils, reminding Bill of a dragon.
Bill nodded. “You have a point, Kenneth. I’m not sure of the rules, if any, that this group has, but they did bring you into this plan. They needed you, so I will indulge you. You asked if an under-the-ocean vehicle exists in my time? Well, one not only exists, but it was an American named John Holland who perfected it. I have been on one many times.”
Reilly’s eyes opened like a child seeing birthday presents. “Lord, man, tell me what it’s like. I mean to travel beneath the waves and not even get a drop of water on oneself. Amazing!”
Bill went on, “Amazing, true. But the submarine, as we call it, became a weapon of war. In fact, it’s safe to say it’s the ultimate weapon of war. It can’t be seen or heard except by another submarine. It can sit on the bottom of the ocean and wait for months to do what it has been designed to do . . . wage war. We’ve become very good in the future at creating weapons that science fiction writers have only fantasized about. So you see my reluctance in enlightening you.”
Reilly sat back in his chair. “I do, sir, I do. You must forgive me and my curiosity.”
“Of course.”
The security man looked at his pocket watch. “Finish your drink, Bill. The time is near.”
They drained their glasses, and left the room. They went up a flight of stairs then walked down the red-carpeted hallway toward a large white door guarded by two armed soldiers. The time traveler smiled to himself as he noted there were only fifteen paintings of past Presidents on the walls. Bill was nervous as Reilly tapped on the door. A voice sounded from within.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President, it’s Reilly.”
“Come on in, Reilly.”
Reilly opened the door and stood aside to allow Bill to enter. Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States, sat behind a desk that looked too small for him. He was signing some papers and looked up as the men entered. Bill’s first thought was how large his hands and head seemed.
“Afternoon, Reilly,” he said as he lowered his glasses until they dangled close to the end of his nose, “who’ve we got here?”
“Mr. President, this Mr. Bill Scott, the reporter from Chicago who wants to interview you for an article to run in next week’s paper. I told him he has no more than one half hour because at three o’clock you are meeting with General Grant.”
The president rose and offered Bill his hand. Lincoln smiled and said as he took in his height, “My, but you’re also punished with having to look high an’ low for garments that fit. I know what you go through in the everyday clothing and shoe store, sir, and I pity you.”
Bill smiled at the natural warmth Lincoln exuded and was amazed how his own hand seemed to disappear in the president’s.
“Mr. President, I’d like to thank you in advance for allowing me a few minutes of your precious time.”
“Nonsense. Sit down, sir. Coffee or somethin’ a mite stronger perhaps?”
“No sir. But don’t let that stop you.”
“I can wait. Now, what paper is it that you write for?” the President asked.
“The Chicago Times.”
“Well then, shoot away,” Lincoln said as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.

The half hour flew by, thought Bill as he closed the door behind him. He walked past the soldiers and over to Reilly’s office.
“How did the interview go?” Reilly wanted to know.
Bill was still tingling. “What a great man! He has an easy-going attitude and speech. No wonder he goes down in history as one of the greatest men of all time.”
“Yes, Bill, he is a great man. And I’m truly sorry that you have to help him through this. He has a great load on his shoulders and I can understand how it could get a strong man down. But, if as you say, history doesn’t know of these trying times of his, well, I’ve done my job.”
“You and your team have done a great job, Kenneth, a great job.” They shook hands and Reilly said, “Let me get O’Neil to take you back to your hotel.”
“No,” Bill said. “I’m going to walk. I have so much to think about. It’s been a great day and I want to savor it. Thank you.”
“Prescott said he would brief you about the day of the switch. Do you feel comfortable with it, still?” Reilly asked.
“I do. I believe I can pull it off.”
“You may need this pass during your stroll,” Reilly said as he scribbled on a White House memo pad, tore the sheet off and handed it to him. “See you soon Bill.”
“Good afternoon, Kenneth.”
Bill walked back to his hotel thinking he truly was in a different world. The atmosphere had more than an odor to it; it had a feeling that at any moment something could happen. The streets were alive with squads of marching soldiers and cavalry. Bill noticed that cannons were placed at various spots throughout the city. He felt that the soldiers could pick him out as an outsider every time one looked at him. He turned a corner and saw a field cannon being set up in a small square and stopped to watch the men unlimber the weapon. As he watched a young captain approached him.
“You enjoy watching soldiers set up their pieces mister?” he asked.
Caught off guard Bill nodded and answered, “Yes. Are you on maneuvers?”
The captain took a step back and put his hand on his pistol but didn’t open the holster cover. “Why don’t you show me some papers mister?”
Bill was puzzled and mumbled, “Wha? Papers? Why?”
Now the Captain unbuttoned his holster and said, “You a Reb spy or somethin’? Ya’ better show me some convincen’ papers real fast mister, and don’t make no sudden moves.”
Bill put his hands out as though to show he was weaponless. He saw the Captain looking at his writing case. “I’m a writer Captain. I just had the good fortune to interview President Lincoln.”
The military man eyed him as he said, “You interviewed Mr. Lincoln?”
Bill bent down slowly and removed his writing tablet and showed it to him. “Yes, I just left the White House this afternoon.”
The captain looked at his notes and shrugged his shoulders, “Danged if this proves that you’re not a Johnny Reb. I need to see some papers.”
Bill reached inside his jacket with his left hand and removed the note Reilly gave him. He wasn’t sure what it said and he was upset with himself for not reading it.
The Captain took and opened the folded paper as he stepped back a safe distance from Bill to read it. His eyes opened wide. He refolded it and returned it to Bill. He did a slight bow and smiled as he said, “Sorry Mr. Scott, but these here are hard times for all of us and I just can’t take no chances. I do hope you understand.” He pointed at the river, “Johnny Reb is right across the Potomac. Dang, spies can be anywhere.” He did a casual salute and walked back to his troops who were leaning against their gun while not being supervised by him.
Bill watched as the captain started shouting orders at his men and they got back to setting up the field gun. Got to remember that Washington is in the front lines in this war, and I also have to read the note Reilly provided me, he thought as he smiled, I might be important. He opened the note and read it. It was simple and to the point, “Let this man pass. He is a reporter, Mister William Scott. Ordered by White House Security Chief, Kenneth Reilly” It was signed with a very flourished Reilly signature. Looks like it’s Reilly that’s important. Bill thought as he put the note away.

DATELINE: NOVEMBER 19, 1863 PLACE: WHITE HOUSE

The morning of November 19, 1863, was cold with overcast skies. Bill and Prescott were with Kenneth Reilly in a room with no windows. The security man stared at the tall man in the black coat and high hat, familiar to all as Lincoln-like attire. Prescott stood back and admired his handiwork. He passed a small hand mirror to Bill who looked at himself. He saw the sixteenth president of the United States staring back. Now he understood Reilly’s shocked look.
Bill said, “Prescott, you’ve missed your vocation. You should have been a stage makeup artist.”
“Believe me, Bill, the makeup kit I was given was made to have only one effect. To have you look like the President,” Prescott responded.
Reilly spoke up. “Damn, man, he is the President’s double!”
Bill fingered his fake beard and said, “Never had a beard . . . and now I know why. It’s just not me. And thanks for the mole, Prescott. Nice touch. Will it stay on?”
“It’s guaranteed. Why, just look at the old photos of him . . . rather you, at Gettysburg,” Prescott answered.
Reilly checked his watch. “Let me hear you speak,” he said to Bill.
“Fourscore and seven years ago . . .”
Reilly winced. “You have to speak in a higher tone of voice.”
Prescott handed Bill a large handkerchief. “You have a cold, remember? Use the cloth as a cover for the deeper voice.”
Bill covered his mouth and spoke a few more words.
Reilly nodded and said, “Better. And I’m going to keep everyone away from you. A few key people know of this. They are watching over Mr. Lincoln who is in one of his states just as Prescott predicted he’d be. The fewer people who know, the better. Keep reading your speech, and I’ll let on that you are under pressure to put it to memory. We’d better move out to the carriage.” He turned to Prescott, “I’m afraid you have to stay behind, Prescott.”
“I understand. I’ll wait at the hotel. Good luck gentlemen.”
Reilly opened the door, and Bill, in his Lincoln guise, started to follow.
Prescott caught up with them and whispered to Bill, “Walk tall, sir, you are the President of the United States of America. Make all who see you, believe it.”
Bill walked purposefully out the door and into the carriage. Reilly climbed in next to him. As they drove off, Bill held the speech so it shielded his face. He turned to Reilly, “What are you going to tell Lincoln about this when he reads of it in the papers?”
Reilly lit a cigar. “I’m going to tell him he did a wonderful job today. You know, Bill, being with a person who has an illness, who you really like, makes you a great liar. He doesn’t think we know he has these bouts of depression, and we make believe that we don’t know. I’m not here to change him, just to protect and serve him and the Union.” Bill nodded agreement, and they rode on.

The journey was long, bumpy and chilly. Bill was nervous about his upcoming speech, not so much about the speech, but rather in meeting General Grant and being an important part of history.
Reilly was drifting off into a nap when the officer of the guard rapped on the side of the carriage. “Gettysburg, Mr. President.”
Reilly was awake in an instant and out of the carriage. He held the door for Bill.
“This way, Mr. President.” The security man pointed toward a sea of Army tents on an open plain. Broad, flat boards acted as bridges over mud puddles. Wet laundry hung on ropes tied from trees, and it was so cold that Bill could see his breath. The area had the smell of troops that worked hard and didn’t have the chance to wash well. There was also, the now familiar, odor of horses along with beef being slaughtered for food.
Funny, Bill thought, when you see pictures of the famous meeting, it looks gray and colorless, and here in person, it is gray and colorless.
Soldiers emerged from their tents to see what the fuss was. When they realized it was their President, they started to cheer him. Bill was startled and looked to Reilly for guidance. Reilly gave a sly nod and said in a low voice, “Wave to them, sir. They are seeing their President. Give them a danged good wave. Show them confidence.”
Bill smiled and waved to the gathering crowd. Sergeants stepped between the soldiers and Bill, shouting for them to stay at ease and quiet down. They fell silent and watched in awe as history unfolded before them.
The officer in charge stopped at a tent larger than the others, and a heavyset figure stepped out putting his hat on. Bill tried to hide his excitement at meeting General Ulysses S. Grant, victor of the Civil War. Grant stepped forward and saluted his Commander-In-Chief. Bill answered it with a snappy salute back and offered his hand. Grant’s eyebrows rose, and he smiled as he shook Bill’s hand.
“Mr. President. Good to see you again.”
Bill coughed, cleared his throat and in a deep voice answered, “Good to see you too, General. How have you been? This is nasty weather.”
“Good, sir. Nice of you to ask, but are you coming down with a cold?”
“I am, sir,” the impostor said. “But how can I complain when I see the field conditions that you and the troops must endure.”
“As you know, Mr. President, we shall be marching in a short time, and if it goes as I plan, we shall be in warmer weather soon.”
Bill smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure it’ll go your way, General. Pray Godspeed to you and your men.”
The officer in charge stepped in and said, “Excuse me, sirs, but the scheduled time of Mr. Lincoln’s speech is approaching, and we feel that the weather shouldn’t be tempted. There are a few of them photographers here who would like some pictures for their papers and they promise to be swift.”
After a few flashes, the cameramen were having a hard time igniting the illuminating powder with the light mist from the clouds. Grant took Bill’s elbow and said, “Come, Mr. President, there are newspaper reporters from the four corners of the world awaiting your words.”
The General and the President walked toward a small wooden stage sheltered by an awning. In front of the stage were wooden seats for the reporters. It was apparent that Bill would be on the platform alone when Grant, the officer and Reilly stopped at the bottom of the three steps going up to the stage.
Bill went up the steps and looked out at the audience of reporters. They had their notebooks at the ready. As thunder rumbled overhead, Bill took out the notes he had been given by Prescott. As he looked at them, it suddenly hit him that he would be performing one of the most historic moments in history. What he would say now, would determine the future of the United States of America, and in many ways, the world.
He put the notes back in his pocket. As he began to give the famous speech, Reilly realized that Scott didn’t have to disguise his voice. The tremble in his delivery let the crowd of people know they were hearing words that would change history. The man speaking them didn’t need to read them as they truly were coming from his heart.
When the speech ended, the silence was profound. Bill took a last look at the stunned audience and slowly walked off the stage. Only then did the crowd go wild. They stood and cheered, and many had tears in their eyes. Bill had just recited the Gettysburg Address the same way Lincoln would have. He felt drained. Grant shook his hand long and hard.
“Mr. President,” the general said with feeling, “the world will learn of your words and join our worthy cause. You, sir, have inflicted a grave wound on the rebel armies.”
Bill nodded his thanks. He turned to Reilly and said, “Mr. Reilly, we have a long journey ahead of us, both as a nation and as travelers back to Washington. I suggest we start while the weather holds.”
Reilly replied in a low voice, “I agree Mr. President.”
They walked back to the carriage through knots of soldiers standing with their hats in their hands. The ride back was quiet.

Later, a clean-faced Bill sat in his hotel room having a drink with Reilly and Prescott.
Reilly raised his glass. “Hail to the chief. You were masterful, sir. I do believe all were fooled by your performance.”
Bill threw back his drink and poured another. “I shook hands with so many boys who are going to die. I looked into their eyes and saw hope. Hope in me! Me . . . a make-believe President. They looked at me as a person who will hopefully bring this war to an end. I feel . . . dirty. As if I’m letting them down.”
Prescott patted him on his shoulder and said, “Don’t berate yourself. This is what it’s all about. Getting a chance to keep history on its correct track. It’s the same history, but with a personal touch now that you’re a part of it. You did a great job, Bill. Shall we go home?”
Bill nodded yes; Reilly finished his drink, stood, and offered his hand. “Gentlemen, thank you for the most wonderful adventure of my life. Will I see you again?”
Prescott shook his hand. “No, we will go back to New York, and then I’m off to New Jersey and retirement.”
“And I’m off to my own times,” Bill said as he shook Reilly’s hand. “But this has been my most fantastic adventure.”
Reilly nodded in agreement.

The next morning, Bill knocked on Prescott’s door. One moment later he opened it, half dressed.
“Good morning, Bill. Am I late?”
“No,” said Bill. “I am taking the liberty of staying another day in Washington. I want to take it all in before I return. Do you mind traveling alone or do you wish to extend your stay also?”
Prescott answered, “No, my friend. It’s time for me to go home. Our job is done and my sister awaits me. You stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”
As the men were parting, Bill looked him in the eyes and said, “Prescott, will I see you again?”
Prescott shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I want to stay in my own time. I want to see my family and maybe do some painting.”

Bill left the hotel and went out into the busy streets of Washington. He was suddenly aware of how relaxed he was. He truly felt a part of the 1800s as he hailed an open carriage and deftly climbed up and took his seat. The driver looked back over his shoulder, “Where to, sir?”
Bill replied with a big grin, “Nowhere in particular. I just want to take a sightseeing tour of the area.”
The man relaxed the reins, and allowed the horse to walk slowly down the street. Bill felt great satisfaction that he had pulled off a job that could have come only from a novel.
But here I am, he thought, back in the time I’ve always dreamed about, looking at buildings being built that are more than one hundred years old in my time.
The carriage turned down the streets of Georgetown. In the bright daylight, people strolled past quaint row houses and small restaurants along cobblestone streets. As usual the smoke poured from most of the chimneys as people prepared food. Bill noticed that the air seemed especially foul today and many people had their noses covered.
The driver said to no one in particular, “Poor luck for us. The wind brings the Potomac’s smell this way today.” Bill remembered the river was polluted at this time.
The carriage turned a corner, and he suddenly spotted Reilly sitting in a restaurant having mid-morning coffee.
Bill was about to stop the carriage when he saw that Reilly was not alone. He was with another man. The difference was striking. The man was dressed fashionably with long hair, pointed beard and mustache. Reilly was wearing a non-descript three-piece suit and had well-trimmed hair and mustache. The man was good-looking and quite animated.
Bill decided to keep going, but looked back. The man seemed familiar, but, he thought, that’s impossible. I can count on one hand the people I’ve met in this time.
The cab turned down another street, and Bill’s attention drifted at the sight of children running beside a marching military band leading more recruits to their barracks.
Washington and History passed by as the cab plodded slowly along.

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
The next day Bill was back at the club. He sat behind the large desk that once belonged to Prescott, sipped coffee and munched on toast with peanut butter. He was tired from the long, Washington to New York trip and looked forward to sleeping that evening in the large Federal-style bed that came with the job. He thought about calling Charlene and telling her about his new job then shrugged it off. It’s over. Forget her. He sat straight up as he realized he hadn’t thought of her in days. He smiled as he finished his coffee. I’ll trot over while she’s at work and grab my stuff. Heck, maybe I’ll even leave her a note.
After breakfast, he took a book on Lincoln from the huge library and with a magnifying glass studied a photograph of the President at Gettysburg as he stood outside an Army tent. Bill chuckled as he remembered how he had tripped over one of the tent-peg ropes. Every soldier around and even a general had rushed to help him.
He returned the book to the shelf and scanned over some of the other titles. He stopped at one, Lincoln: Birth, Life and Death of a Great Statesman. Bill took it over to his desk and began to thumb through the pages. Grainy black-and-white photos illustrated the large coffee-table book. He stopped to look at himself once more outside the tent and smiled again.
As he turned the pages in a section titled, “Death of a President,” a small photo caught his attention. He stared at it and reached for the magnifying glass. It was the man Reilly had had coffee with. Bill’s eyes went wide. The caption read. “John Wilkes Booth shot President A. Lincoln on April 14, 1865.”
He gasped as he thought, John Wilkes Booth! Why was Reilly having coffee with him? Doesn’t he know . . . no, wait! Of course he doesn’t know. I’ve got to go back and tell him. He sat back and continued to stare at the photo. Tell him what? That his friend is going to kill his boss? No, I’ve got to do some more research on both men before I act.
Thirty minutes laterBill sat on the floor, books strewn about. “Prescott, where are you now that I need you?” he muttered. “Man, I have to think about this.” He found paper and a pencil. “All right, let me make a list of all this. “
#1: Lincoln has spells of depression; the top level of his Security Service knows it and covers it up.
#2: Security guy knows John Wilkes Booth, Lincoln’s killer.
#3: Security guy doesn’t know that Booth is a killer.
#4: Is Booth using Security guy to get information about the President so he can kill him?
“Or #5: Security guy knows that Booth is going to kill the President and is in on it.”
Bill’s mind continued to race. Wow, either way I have to handle this carefully. I don’t want to go back and start being seen by Reilly in case he is in on the assassination, so I have to pick the right time to be there. 

He looked at the book and read again, “John Wilkes Booth shot President A. Lincoln on April 14, 1865.” He slammed the book closed. “That’s the time. That’s when I have to be there,” Bill said to himself.

DATELINE: April 14, 1865 PLACE: WASHINGTON, FORD’S THEATER

The evening of April 14, 1865, was warm in Washington. Bill purchased a ticket at Ford’s Theater and went into the lobby where he heard other theatergoers saying excitedly that the President would be there for the performance. As he went in to find his seat, he looked up and saw on the right hand side the presidential box draped in the flag of the Union.
Scott’s seat was in the downstairs center, and he looked up again at the presidential box. It was empty. He continued to familiarize himself with the theater, noting the exits, and spotted a door on his level marked ‘To balcony.’
Then he heard murmuring from the back of the house. The sound increased as more people turned around and whispered, “The President and Mrs. Lincoln have arrived.”
The audience began to applaud as President and Mrs. Lincoln were seated in their box. One moment later the President stood and graciously bowed.
Bill saw Reilly and a uniformed guard in the open doorway behind the seated Lincolns. Excusing himself, he left his seat and headed toward the balcony door. It was unlocked, and he went quietly up the carpeted stairs. Opening the door onto the balcony, he saw another box next to the one in which the Lincolns sat. Its deep red curtains were half opened, showing it was empty.
He stepped inside and peeked around to see the rear of the presidential box. He saw the guard standing in front of the curtain. Reilly must be inside, he thought. His mind began some quick calculations, and he thought should I confront Reilly? What will I say? What if I somehow screw up history?
Then he heard Reilly addressing the guard. “If you need to have a latrine break, this is the time. Then I’d like you to tell Lieutenant Pearson that I want a few more men here. I just heard a rumor that there are some bad elements in town tonight.”
Bill heard the soldier walk away briskly and go down the stairs.
It’s time, he thought. I can’t just stand here. I’ve got to confront him.
He stepped out of the box and walked toward the President’s box. Suddenly Reilly was in front of him, gun drawn and aimed at Bill’s head.
Reilly blurted out, “You? I had a feeling there was someone in that box, but not you! What are you doing here?”
“Just lower the pistol and we can talk,” Bill said.
“Not on your life. Hands high. Walk over there and turn around,” Reilly said, gesturing toward an out-of-the-way corner.
Bill did as he was told, and Reilly patted him down. “No concealed weapon,” Reilly said, as he kept his pistol on Bill. “Why are you here? I thought your mission was over a couple of years ago?”
“That mission was over. This may not even be a mission. Tell me about John Wilkes Booth,” Scott responded.
Reilly’s eyes narrowed. “How did you find out about him? Were you following me?”
Bill shook his head no, “Just by chance. You met with him in a restaurant the day I was supposed to leave. His face looked familiar. It was. He is the man who killed Abraham Lincoln.”
Reilly was suddenly jubilant. “So, the plan works! The world is done and finished with that self-righteous, depressed, poor excuse of a man.”
Incredulous, Bill said, “But you are Lincoln’s protector! Why do you wish him harm?”
With some eagerness, Reilly began to explain, “I don’t wish him harm. Other factions do. I intend to bring them to justice after the deed is done. I see this as a chance to strengthen the States. When the President is shot, Booth has no way out but past me. I’ll shoot him during his getaway and that shot will be the signal for others to take over Washington for its own protection. After all, the people don’t know how many other criminal elements are in on the act. They’ll believe anything we tell them.”
“But why? I thought you were all for a great democracy. Why turn this into a dictatorship?”
Reilly leaned toward Bill and said fervently, “Because I want the United States of America to be the one and only power on the face of the Earth. I want all other governments to prostrate themselves before us. We shall stop all tyranny in the world and there will be one central seat of power . . . Washington!”
Still trying to make sense of what he was hearing, Bill continued, “How would you do that? I mean England and France would never stand for that. They’ll join forces to invade and defeat you.”
Reilly smiled. “Very simple. The submarine. I’ve tracked down Mr. John Holland, who you told me of, and asked him of his plans for an undersea craft. He was quite enthusiastic to share them with me. I told him to keep the meeting a secret and that I would see about getting the U.S. Navy to finance it. I have friends in the Navy who are quite willing to back it.”
“But his submarine won’t be ready until 1893, that’s still twenty-eight years away,” Bill replied.
Reilly grinned. “Perhaps. But from what I understand from your mission, history can be changed. And by getting Mr. Holland the funds he needed, years earlier, we can have a fleet of undetectable, quiet craft, and, to quote you, ‘the ultimate weapon of war.’”
Bill shook his head and responded, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“Well said, sir, and now I’m afraid you will have to die as one of the gang of hoodlums.” He cocked the pistol at the same time a muffled shot erupted from behind Bill. The crowd screamed and Reilly smiled again. “Right on time. The President’s dead! Good-bye Mr. Scott . . .”
Bill lunged at him the same moment a shot rang out. He grasped Reilly around the waist, only to feel no resistance. Both men fell to the floor, and then Bill’s eyes were even with the Security man’s. The bullet hole in Reilly’s forehead puzzled Bill for a second.
Then he saw someone wearing brown boots step out quickly from a nearby box. Holding a smoking pistol was O’Neil. He looked down at Bill and asked, “Are you hurt, Mr. Scott?”
“N . . . no . . . no, just shook up. Did you hear everything?”
The young security man was already turning away. “Everything. I can’t believe Reilly was a traitor. I must see to the President.”

Three days later Bill and O’Neil were having a drink at a local tavern. “Mr. Scott, what you tell me is fantastic, O’Neil said. “Extremely hard to believe, yet all you say comes true.”
Bill nodded in agreement. “True, all right. It’s hard for me, too. I’m new at this. But I’m puzzled. Why were you at the theater?”
“I thought it strange,” O’Neil confided. “The President and Mrs. Lincoln were going to the theater, and Reilly gave me the day off. Not the way he usually did things.But I had already become suspicious. Mr. Reilly seemed to be spending a considerable amount of time with a new group of friends. Many were officers in the military, but others were more doubtful. He met with them at their homes or clandestinely. He had taught me many ways to spot a dangerous fellow, and he started to exhibit the same traits.” O’Neil sipped his drink. “So I started to follow him. He met many times with a mister John Holland, a cheerful fellow and not part of this conspiracy as far as I can tell. One day, by accident, I saw some plans on Reilly’s desk with mister Holland’s name at the bottom. They were drawings for an ocean-going ship of destruction. I once asked him about Holland, and he became furious. Not really like him at all.”
Bill raised his glass. “I’m glad you did. And because the public has enough grief at this time, you decided to let them think Reilly was shot by Booth?”
O’Neil spread his hands and shrugged. “What good would it have done to expose him? I’ll have the officers quietly removed from their posts and let it all die down. Do you agree with my tactics, Mr. Scott?”
“I do, Mr. O’Neil, I surely do. You’re hitting the ground running as far as I can see.”
“A strange saying, sir, but I take it as a compliment.”
Bill slapped him on his back and said with a smile, “It is. You’ll go far in this business.”
O’Neil shook his head. “No, sir. I’m leaving the Security business.”
“Leaving? But why?”
O’Neil leaned back in his chair. “Too much intrigue. Too many late nights. I want to enjoy my family. My wife and I have a six-month-old baby girl, and I want to be there with my wife as we watch her grow up.”
Bill nodded, “I understand. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Such as?”
“Such as a holiday in New York . . . in my time?”
O’Neil shook his head. “No, thank you anyway, Mr. Scott. But I do believe my wife and baby would not want to see a change in me, and I do not want to tempt myself to see things I should not. As Mr. Reilly did.”
“Wise of you, sir. But will you take a little advice? Purely for the sake of your wife and child?” Bill offered.
“And what would that be, sir?”
“There’s a man looking for advice and financial assistance. His name is James Plimpton.”
“Is Mr. Plimpton in the security business?”
“No, Mr. Plimpton has an idea for a transportation system that goes on your feet. His design has four wheels, rather then the standard two, and is much, much easier to use than the old style. They will be called roller skates, and believe me, they will catch on, and you and your family will be set for life. He resides in Medford, Massachusetts and should be easy for you to look up.”
O’Neil made some notes on a small pad then finished his drink and stood up. The men shook hands, and O’Neil asked, “Mr. Scott, will we meet again?”
Bill answered, “No, Mister O’Neil, I don’t think so, but you never can tell.”

DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Back in his club office in New York, Bill sat at his computer while a snowstorm raged outside. A knock at the Time Portal door grabbed his attention.
“Prescott?” Bill happily crossed the room, slid the key in the lock and swung the door wide. “Pres . . . ”
A tall young man in his mid-twenties wearing a one-piece light blue suit stood there. He was a clean-shaven, dark haired man about Bill’s height. He smiled and his blue eyes twinkled as he offered a hand to Bill.
“Bill Scott, I’m Edmund Scott. I’m from 2066 and very pleased to meet you.”
Bill was surprised but not shocked. He shook the stranger’s hand and said, “Same here, Mr. Scott. Is it a coincidence that we share the same last name, or are we related?”
“We are related, Bill, I am your great-great-grandson.”
Now Bill was shocked, but he beamed at meeting his future relative. “Damn! This gets better and better. Did they just recruit you to meet me, or what?”
“No, I’ve been a part of the Time Watchers program since I was eighteen years old. You can say it runs in the family. After you, it was a natural selection for us Scotts.”
“Come in . . .er . . . Ed . . . er . . . Edmund. What do I call you?”
The young man entered the room and answered, “My friends call me Edmund, and I you? Great-Great . . .”
“Don’t! Stop right there,” Bill interrupted. “It’s obvious that I get married, but I don’t want to know everything. I’d prefer to let it just happen. And call me Bill.” He closed the door behind Edmund. “Would you like a drink, Edmund? Coffee, tea or whatever?”
“No thanks, Bill. I was selected to be your contact, and I waited until you finished your first mission. You did great. I’m proud to be a Scott.”
“Lots of credit has to go to Prescott Stevens. It was his call.”
“Mr. Stevens is a legend in our time and so are you. You are a perfect successor for him.” Edmund put a hand out to steady himself on the desk. “Whoa . . . little dizzy for a second. The air, you know. I can’t stay long, not used to it. Maybe over time . . . “
Bill helped him into a chair. “Stay still and breathe slowly. I’ll get you some water.”
“No, no thanks. They told me the water from this era would upset me. I’ll just sit a second.”
“Right,” Bill said, “But I’m curious. Are you here to give me an assignment or just to let me see my future family?”
Edmund smiled as he rubbed his temples. “Just to introduce myself and let you know that we of the future, appreciate your work. As for an assignment, nothing yet.” He took a slow breath, “There is a hint of Theodore Roosevelt swerving off course, but it may be nothing. We are sending a probe back to investigate the possibility.”
He started to stand up, wobbled, and Bill went to help him.
Edmund said slowly, “I’m OK, Bill. I just have to come for short visits until I become more . . . more, acclimated to your air. But for now . . . “
They shook hands, and then Bill hugged him. “Do families do that in your time?”
Edmund smiled. “They do. I’ll see you soon, Grandpa Bill.”
Bill gave him a good-natured punch on the arm and walked him to the door. “Edmund, let me just ask you this. Is there a Charlene Greene anywhere in your family line?”
“No,” Edmund said his face in thought, “never heard that name before. Should I know her?”
Bill smiled and answered, “No, just wondering. Now, take care of yourself, you young whippersnapper.”
Bill closed the door, as a tap on the den’s door drew his attention.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened, and Matt entered. “The guests are seated, sir” Bill nodded as he looked in the full-length mirror and straightened his cravat. “What’s on the menu tonight, Matt?”
“Roast pork chops, carrots, corn, mashed potatoes, cornbread and brown gravy, sir.”
“Excellent. Be down in a minute. Thanks, Matt.”
Bill turned back to his computer and looked at the results of the subject he had punched into Google. The text read, “In the late 1800s, James Plimpton invented what became the modern-day roller skates. His small company received an infusion of cash from John O’Neil, who became a partner in the firm. Both men lived to ripe old ages and saw their company grow to be at the top of the roller skate kingdom and worth millions of dollars.” Along with the text was a black and white photo of O’Neil smiling at Bill from across the years.
Bill smiled and closed the laptop. He put on his jacket on and walked toward the stairs as the storm outside continued to howl. He caught his reflection in a dark window and wondered what his next mission would be. Boy, he thought, I’d love to meet Teddy Roosevelt.