But the evidence was all around him in addition to being on the dashboard. This was how the neighborhood must have looked while it was under construction. The roll of the land was the same and in the background were several familiar objects. Somehow he had entered a world that would not hear of him for another thirteen years.
“What a trip…” he murmured.
His eyes fell on the dashboard readouts once again. One in particular caught his eye. It was located directly below the Plutonium Chamber, a flashing light that blinked EMPTY over and over.
Shifting into gear and moving ahead, Marty realized that did not mean he was unable to move. It simply meant—
“Good God!” he said. “What does that mean? That I won’t be able to go back?”
Having nowhere else to go, he backed into the driveway of his new home and sat, thinking, for quite some time. Idly, out of habit, he turned on the radio. Although it was nearly morning, there were still a few stations on the air, but they were all playing absolutely terrible music. One featured someone named Eddie Fisher singing the songs of Jerome Kern, another played numbers by Mitch Miller’s orchestra and a bland singer named Guy Mitchell, and the announcers were all so tired-sounding.
“Is this what it was like?” Marty, aced, turning the dial.
He stopped at a newscast. “President Eisenhower predicted that 1955 would see an increase in housing starts,” the man intoned.
“Eisenhower?” Marty repeated. “Yeah, sure. We studied him in history. A nice enough guy who didn’t do much except give Nixon his chance.”
The news continued, much of it sounding exactly like news of 1985. “Big Four envoys gave up on disarmament talks,” the announcer said. “The Russians re
jected a United States plan that would have banned nuclear weapons…Officials at the First Smog Conference in Los Angeles said that smog may keep industry away from cities affected by this form of air pollution…Census watchers, meanwhile, predict that Los Angeles will be the second largest metropolitan area in the United States in a few years, passing Chicago…In the troubled Middle East, the United States laid down new rules to Egypt and Israel…”
As the newscast continued, there were many strange-sounding items and some that were slightly familiar. “In college football, quarterback John Brodie of Stanford continued to lead…” (The same middle-aged gentleman who occasionally turns up as color man on football broadcasts?) “U.C.L.A.’s ace placekicker Jim Decker…” (Jim Who?) “Texas Christian’s sensational quarterback Jim Swink…” (Swink? Is he kidding?)
Marty turned up the radio, leaned back against the DeLorean’s plush interior. He rather enjoyed this trip through his own personal time tunnel. Now the announcer was reading a few items dealing with gossip and entertainment. “Actress Joan Crawford and new husband, soft-drink executive Alfred Steele, celebrated their first half-year of marriage…Jack Webb and actress-wife Dorothy Towne are reportedly having marital troubles…Back after this word from Northwest Ford…”
A different announcer launched into a sales pitch that Marty found not only irresistible but humorous. “You can get a new Ford pickup truck for just $1454,” he said. “That’s right—$1454 for a 1956 Ford. That’s because we deal in volume…”
Recognizing the outline of a police cruiser, Marty quickly killed the lights and turned off the radio. It would not do, of course, for him to be picked up by the police. Even forgetting the fact that he had just arrived from a different time period, he would have enormous difficulty explaining the DeLorean, plus he did not have the necessary registration papers for it or a 1955 driver’s license. He wondered what the officers would say if he showed them his 1985 license!
“Low profile,” he murmured. “That’s the best thing to keep for right now.”
Sliding down in the seat, he watched as the patrol car passed quietly by. Then he got out, walked to the garage door and tried to open it. It was locked.
“Damn,” he muttered.
On a whim, he reached into his pants pocket and took out his key ring. Thirty years was a long time for a lock to remain operative, but it was worth a try…
He whistled softly as the key slid into the lock and turned. “That’s better,” he said. “I was beginning to think this wasn’t my day.”
Opening the garage door, he got into the DeLorean and backed it onto the pristine concrete slab. A moment later, in his normal street clothes, he walked out of his house and down the road toward Hill Valley.
Somewhere in the town below him was the key to getting back to 1985. Wherever it was, he had to find it.
? Chapter Five ?
Although most of the streets around his 1955 home were not yet constructed, it was comparatively easy for Marty to find his way from his house into Hill Valley. His sense of direction was good, and there were enough benchmarks for him to find his way through woods and across lots that later became streets and housing developments. Keeping his eyes fixed on the courthouse made it simple, of course, and as he drew closer to the center of town, the streets and buildings had changed less over the years.
At least it looked that way from a distance. As he moved closer, Marty realized that practically every building would undergo a change of identity from 1955 to 1985. Overall, the area seemed cleaner now, more vibrant, bustling with activity and excitement. The people who moved about appeared to know each other and be friendlier. But if this was true, it also worked against a stranger such as Marty. Several times he noted people watching him, staring at his clothes in a suspicious manner. He could almost hear them asking themselves—who is that young man? Why is he wearing green shoes? Is he some kind of pseudo-sophisticated showoff from New York?
The attitude bothered Marty but only briefly. As he neared the Town Square, he found himself quite caught up in seeing, live and in living color, genuine history. Even more fascinating was the fact that no one here could possibly share his feelings of amazement. To them it was humdrum, perhaps boring. The passing parade of subjects and styles was something they saw every day and took for granted. To Marty it was a museum that was one hundred percent accurate and throbbing with life.
The first object to greet his eye was the large sign at the corner of the square, at 2nd and Main streets. WELCOME TO HILL VALLEY, it read. A NICE PLACE TO LIVE, PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY. Symbols for the Jaycees, Optimists, and Future Farmers of America decorated the sign like medals on an old soldier’s chest.
Turning right on Main, Marty strolled past Lou’s Cafe, the “soda shop” he associated with his mother and father’s growing-up years. Painted a sickly light green, the shop was largely empty now, probably because it was still quite early in the morning. Marty could imagine the place teeming with young people, though, ordering Cokes and malts, sundaes and burgers just as his mother had described the scene. Now the store was occupied only by a counterman and one or two coffee-drinking customers.
Turning away from the soda shop, Marty continued walking past Roy’s Records, another hangout for Hill Valley teens. Out front was a sandwich-board poster which announced: JUST ARRIVED—THE BALLAD OF DAVY CROCKETT, 16 TONS, MANY MORE…Color posters in the window showed four women singers who called themselves The Chordettes; others promoted “Patti Page in the land of Hi Fi,” “Eydie in Dixie Land,” and “Unforgettable Songs by Nat ‘King’ Cole.” There did not seem to be the slightest hint that rock ’n’ roll existed or was on its way.
Next to Roy’s was a Texaco filling station with a large hand-printed sign that proclaimed: PRICE WAR 19½¢ GALLON. Chuckling to himself, Marty walked close to the two pumps. One, green and silver, contained Sky Chief “super” gasoline for 21.9 cents; the red pump offered regular gas for just 19.9 cents per gallon. A cigarette machine against the front of the building advertised cigarettes for “20¢ a pack all brands,” while a soft-drink machine offered Pepsi-Cola for a dime.