Lashing out with all his strength, George mistimed the sway of the bag and missed it completely. Whizzing past its intended target, his fist smashed solidly into the tree behind it.
“Yeeeowww! Goddammit!” he yelled.
“Good,” Marty said. “That’s real anger.” He waved as he walked off. “See you later.”
George watched him go, fuming at his own ineptness.
His right hand continued to throb but the frustration in him was stronger than the pain. Balling his left hand into a fist, he took two steps forward and uncorked a mighty punch at the slowly swaying bag. The shock of solid contact raced up his arm and he knew instinctively that he had finally done something right. He was not prepared, however, for the sight of the bag flying loose from the rope, sailing toward and shattering the window of his own home. Realizing the possible repercussions of the broken window, George did what he always did in similar situations—ran away.
“The weather forecast for this evening, Hill Valley and vicinity…lots of cold wind out of the southwest, generally clear and brisk…Down at the airport, they’re predicting a bit of a thundershower, although it seems awfully late in the year for that…Consensus with the United States Weather Service seems to be that it’ll be getting colder with temperatures dropping to about forty-five tonight but nothing worse…So have a nice evening. Now back to Bill Sharp, who’s gonna give us fifty-five minutes of Eddie Fisher and Patti Page…”
The sounds emanating from the radio of Doc Brown’s Packard were heard only by the few Hill Valley residents who passed by his car early Saturday evening. Doc Brown himself was standing on a ladder at the corner of 2nd and Main Streets, connecting the paddle plug end of a cable to an extension cord tied to a lamp post.
The Packard was parked several feet away from the lamp posts; behind it, covered with a tarpaulin, was the DeLorean.
Whistling softly, Doc Brown completed the connection and looked across at the courthouse. Swaying softly in the light breeze was the cable he had just finished installing a very expensive 500 feet of triple-strength wire from the lightning rod atop the courthouse to the connection he had just made.
“There,” he said, looking down at Marty, who was waiting at the bottom of the ladder: “We’re all set up and ready to go. But it doesn’t look much like a thunderstorm’s brewing and the weather forecast I just heard said cold and clear. You sure about this storm?”
Marty nodded. “Doc,” he said. “Since when can a weather man predict the weather—let alone the future?”
“You’re right,” Brown smiled. Testing the cables once again to make sure the connection was tight, he grunted with satisfaction and came down the ladder.
“You know, Marty,” he said when he had descended. “I…well…I’m gonna be sad to see you go. You’ve really made a difference in my life. You’ve given me something to shoot for. Just knowing that I’m going to live to see 1985…that I’ll succeed in this…that I’ll get a chance to travel through time…well, it’s gonna be hard for me to wait thirty years before we can talk about everything that’s happened in the past few days. I’m gonna really miss you…”
“I’ll miss you, too, Doc,” Marty replied. “But it could be you won’t see me, you know. If something goes wrong with this…” He indicated the cable connection. “…I might not be around in 1985, or any year for that matter.”
Brown nodded grimly. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know,” he said. “Why not just stay here? We can work on projects together—”
“No, thanks, Doc,” Marty said. “If I don’t get all this straightened out with Mom and Dad and get back to 1985, it’ll mess up too many lives. I’ve gotta take the chance that your experiment will work.” He smiled. “After all, everything else you’ve done has turned out all right. Except the brain-wave analyzer.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Once again Marty’s mind projected the image of Doc Brown being killed by terrorist bullets, and once again he yearned to warn him. Could it really hurt that much? After all, by the time the terrorists arrived on the scene, Doc Brown’s time machine was already a success. Thus history would not be affected if he escaped their vengeance; he would merely be given a few years of extra time to enjoy the fruits of his labor, perhaps travel back and forth in time a bit. Was that so bad?
He concluded that it was not. “Doc,” he said. “About the future and you…”
Again the upraised hand.
“No, Marty, my boy. Say no more. We’ve already agreed that having knowledge of the future can be extremely dangerous. Even if your intentions are good, it could backfire drastically. Whatever it is you want to tell me, I’ll find out through the natural course of time.”
Marty could see that there was no use arguing with him. Nevertheless, the desire was still in him to convey the warning.
“Yeah, Doc…I see,” he nodded. “Listen, I’m gonna get a candy bar. You want anything?”
“No,
thanks.”
Marty turned and went into the cafe nearby. He purchased an Almond Joy bar from the perennially scowling counterman and also bummed a piece of paper and envelope. Then he sat at a booth and composed a brief note to Doc. It read:
Doc Brown—On October 26, 1985, at about 1:30 a.m., you will be shot by terrorists at the Twin Pines shopping mall parking lot. Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster.
Your friend, Marty. November 12, 1955
He read it over a couple times, folded the paper and put it in the envelope, which he sealed. On the outside he wrote: “Do Not Open Until October 1, 1985.”
Meanwhile, Doc Brown was in the process of stringing one final strand of cable between the two lamp posts. As he went merrily about his work on municipal property, a cop meandered over from the Bank of America to watch.