Marty snapped his fingers.
“Ah!” Doc Brown said. “You’ve had an idea, but you forgot to say ‘Eureka!’”
“Maybe it’s not a Eureka-type idea,” Marty replied. “It just occurred to me that if we could use a lightning bolt for energy—”
“A reasonable thought,” Brown interrupted, “and quite practical except for one thing. You never know when or where a bolt of lightning is going to strike. Of course, you’ve got a start by waiting for an electrical storm, but even then there’s no assurance a bolt will even get close enough to use as a power source.”
Marty waited patiently for him to finish, then smiled.
“Except that I know when and where a bolt of lightning is going to strike.”
“You do?”
“I do indeed.”
He turned over the piece of paper on which Jennifer had written her note. It was the flyer given them by the lady for the 1985 clock tower preservation campaign. At the very top of the sheet was a replica of the 1955 newspaper headline which read: CLOCK TOWER STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. CLOCK STOPPED AT 10:04.
Underneath was the date: Sunday, November 13, 1955. Now it was Doc Brown’s turn to snap his fingers.
“Eureka?” Marty asked.
“Eureka, yes,” Doc Brown replied, nodding several times. “You’re right! This is it! This is the answer! Since the newspaper came out on Sunday, it means that the clock tower will be struck next Saturday night. If we could somehow harness this lightning…channel it into the flux capacitor…it just might work…”
Mart
y grinned. Now they were on the track! At least there seemed to be hope. All he wanted was a shot at getting back. If they tried and he failed, that would be unfortunate. But to remain here with absolutely no hope…It wasn’t an alternative he cared to consider.
Doc Brown looked up at the portrait of Benjamin Franklin. “What do you think of that, Ben? Harness lightning? If you could do it, why can’t I? It’s brilliant.”
He turned to look at Marty again. “You were right, Marty,” he said. “I was right! We can accomplish anything if we put our minds to it. And we’re gonna do it! Next Saturday night, we’re sending you back to the future—with a bang! This calls for a toast.
He walked briskly to the water cooler and poured each of them a glassful. Then, raising his dramatically, he said:
“To me! To you! To Ben Franklin! And to your girlfriend for writing this note.”
“I’ll drink to all of that,” Marty agreed. They drank silently.
“Yeah, Jennifer’s really great,” Marty smiled. “I can hardly wait to see her again and tell her about this. But I don’t guess a week in 1955 will hurt me. As a matter of fact, it might be fun to check things out. You know, take in some of the local color, rub elbows with the natives, that sort of thing.”
To Marty’s surprise, Doc Brown frowned and began shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s completely out of the question.”
“Why?”
“Because of the delicate nature of your being here. Apparently you still haven’t accepted what a potential threat you are to this town, other people’s lives, our whole society. No, I’m afraid you must stay in this house and not go outside. You can’t see anybody or talk to anybody. Anything you do or say could have serious repercussions on future events. Do you understand?”
“Uh, sure,” Marty replied. He didn’t really accept Doc Brown’s notion that he was such a “threat” to society. Especially now that he knew what could happen if he started talking a lot about the future. On the other hand, if he guarded what he said and just observed, what possible harm could he do? It was certainly better than hanging around Doc Brown’s house and garage for a week.
“Marty, who else did you interact with today?” Doc Brown asked. “Besides me, that is.”
“Well, I went to the movies. Do you think the fact that the Town took in an extra fifty cents today will change the course of history?”
“Don’t be smart,” Doc Brown replied. “That’s a tiny item but even it could happen. Let’s suppose the theater operator is looking at the balance sheet one day and thinking about selling. Maybe that extra fifty cents pushes the receipts from $999.75 to $1000.25. That is, it goes from three figures to four figures. That might be the psychological difference between keeping the theater or selling it. So, influenced by the extra fifty cents, he keeps it. Not long afterward, when the theater would be closed if he’d sold it, a fire starts and some people are trapped inside. One of them is a youngster who’s destined to become President of the United States—except that now he’s dead.”
“And I did it,” Marty muttered. “I killed him with my fifty cents.”
“Not directly, but you get the point. History is a very fragile thing. A guy looks one way or coughs and one thing happens. He looks another way or doesn’t cough and a different thing happens. It’s scary. Didn’t you see that movie, It’s a Wonderful Life? That’s a textbook on how our little lives influence everybody else’s.”