Timeline Read Free

have a look. He stepped over a very large pothole, considered showing it to his wife, then decided not to.
    Off the road, he didn’t see any tire tracks, but he saw clearly the old man’s footprints in the sand. The footprints ran back from the road into the desert. Thirty yards away, Baker saw the rim of an arroyo, a ravine cut into the landscape. The footprints seemed to come from there.
    So he followed the footsteps back to the arroyo, stood at the edge, and looked down into it. There was no car. He saw nothing but a snake, slithering away from him among the rocks. He shivered.
    Something white caught his eye, glinting in the sunlight a few feet down the slope. Baker scrambled down for a better look. It was a piece of white ceramic about an inch square. It looked like an electrical insulator. Baker picked it up, and was surprised to find it was cool to the touch. Maybe it was one of those new materials that didn’t absorb heat.
    Looking closely at the ceramic, he saw the letters ITC stamped on one edge. And there was a kind of button, recessed in the side. He wondered what would happen if he pushed the button. Standing in the heat, with big boulders all around him, he pushed it.
    Nothing happened.
    He pushed it again. Again nothing.
    Baker climbed out of the ravine and went back to the car. The old guy was sleeping, snoring loudly. Liz was looking at the maps. “Nearest big town is Gallup.”
    Baker started the engine. “Gallup it is.”
    :
    Back on the main highway, they made better time, heading south to Gallup. The old guy was still sleeping. Liz looked at him and said, “Dan . . .”
    “What?”
    “You see his hands?”
    “What about them?”
    “The fingertips.”
    Baker looked away from the road, glanced quickly into the back seat. The old guy’s fingertips were red to the second knuckle. “So? He’s sunburned.”
    “Just on the tips? Why not the whole hand?”
    Baker shrugged.
    “His fingers weren’t like that before,” she said. “They weren’t red when we picked him up.”
    “Honey, you probably just didn’t notice them.”
    “I did notice, because he had a manicure. And I thought it was interesting that some old guy in the desert would have a manicure.”
    “Uh-huh.” Baker glanced at his watch. He wondered how long they would have to stay at the hospital in Gallup. Hours, probably.
    He sighed.
    The road continued straight ahead.
     
    Halfway to Gallup, the old guy woke up. He coughed and said, “Are we there? Are we where?”
    “How are you feeling?” Liz said.
    “Feeling? I’m reeling. Fine, just fine.”
    “What’s your name?” Liz said.
    The man blinked at her. “The quondam phone made me roam.”
    “But what’s your name?”
    The man said, “Name same, blame game.”
    Baker said, “He’s rhyming everything.”
    She said, “I noticed, Dan.”
    “I saw a TV show on this,” Baker said. “Rhyming means he’s schizophrenic.”
    “Rhyming is timing,” the old man said. And then he began to sing loudly, almost shouting to the tune of the old John Denver song:
    “Quondam phone, makes me roam,
    to the place I belong,
    old Black Rocky, country byway,
    quondam phone, it’s on roam.”
    “Oh boy,” Baker said.
    “Sir,” Liz said again, “can you tell me your name?”
    “Niobium may cause opprobrium. Hairy singularities don’t permit parities.”
    Baker sighed. “Honey, this guy is nuts.”
    “A nut by any other name would smell like feet.”
    But his wife wouldn’t give up. “Sir? Do you know your name?”
    “Call Gordon,” the man said, shouting now. “Call Gordon, call Stanley. Keep in the family.”
    “But, sir—”
    “Liz,” Baker said, “leave him alone. Let him settle down, okay? We still have a long drive.”
    Bellowing, the old man sang: “To the place I belong, old black magic, it’s so tragic, country foam, makes me groan.” And immediately, he started to sing it again.
    “How much farther?” Liz said.
    “Don’t ask.”
    :
    He telephoned