two hours and ten minutes long and then we travel by coach for a short distance.”
“Well,” Prescott quipped, “it sounds as though the nineteenth is the day of your trip, gentlemen. What time do you leave the White House, Mister Reilly?”
“Eleven in the morning.”
Prescott nodded and continued, “I need two hours to apply the makeup. Any suggestions as to where?”
“Indeed I do. I suggest you both check into the Anthony House Hotel on the nineteenth where you’ll find reservations for you both. My assistant will greet and escort you both to my office. If, as you say, the President will be, ah, incapacitated, I shan’t need to worry that he might call and there is no safer place to do this transformation than my office.”
Bill and Prescott nodded in agreement, stood up and shook hands with the security man, then walked away into the sunny afternoon.
DATELINE: NOVEMBER 10, 1863 PLACE: RAILROAD CAR
Eleven am on November 10 found Bill and Prescott traveling in an almost-empty 1860s railroad train. Although it was stuffy they kept the windows closed because every now and then hot embers from the coal-burning engine would fly into the train’s interior along with the smoke. Old burn spots on the seats and rug kept them alert for fire. Bill thought the hissing of the overhead gas lamps were annoying whenever they sat in a station until they pulled out and the sound was replaced by the much louder clackerty clack of the steel wheels as they rolled over the small space between the separate rails. 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.
“Prescott, I’ve been wondering: do you really think that the makeup will allow me to pass for the president?”
Prescott nodded, “I’ve had to use the makeup kits supplied by our friends of the future a few times before and believe me, it will allow you to pass for Lincoln.”
Bill shrugged and asked, “So is it more than grease paint and powder?”
Prescott sighed and nodded, “Much more, my friend. You see each kit is designed for a specific person to look like a specific person. In your case our friends have pictures and measurements of you and they worked on a model that was a duplicate of you. The kit uses a molecular changing formula that when applied transforms your facial muscles into a replica of Abraham Lincoln. It also contains synthetic hair for a beard and mustache. Please don’t ask me how it works but the ends of the hair have a molecular additive that adheres to your skin.”
“And how is this all removed?”
“A simple solution that when mixed with water and splashed on the face allows your normal facial muscles to take over and allow the real Bill Scott to return.”
“And the beard and mustache?”
“Ahhh,” answered Prescott, “I’m sure you’ll have your shaving kit with you, correct?”
“Yes, I will. Is that how the beard and mustache is removed?”
Prescott grinned as he said, “Yes. But just think: if you ever wondered how you would look in a beard and mustache, this is your chance to see.”
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. The newest time traveler found the cobblestone streets jarring and more than 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 Bill’s and he said as he opened his door. “See you in a few minutes, Bill.”
Bill opened his door to find overstuffed furniture and heavy curtains, which made the room gloomy. He opened the curtains, put his overnight bag on the high bed, and went to the washbasin, scooped up water and buried his face in it. After drying off, using a clean but thin towel, he took out a soft, brown leather attaché case that contained a small inkbottle, straight pens and paper in a pocket holder. He put his hands on his hips and said with a grin, “Tools of the time traveling writer’s trade.”
A light rap sounded on his door and he opened it to let Prescott in.
“How good are you with the straight quill pen?” asked Prescott 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. I must ask a favor, Bill. In our encounter with Mr. Lincoln, I ask 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! I mean 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 d
id 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! Why, 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, please, sir, indulge me.” 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