“Congratulations,” he said. “And just in case you’re worried about it, Biff was dead serious.”
“Good,” George said. The one tiny fear in his paranoia that somehow Biff Tannen had faked being knocked out was now laid to rest and George was completely happy. “Congratulations yourself,” he said. “You’re terrific.”
“Thanks.”
They stood smiling and chatting about small things until Lorraine finally put her hand on Marty’s arm.
“Marty,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but George asked if he could take me home.”
“That’s fine, Lorraine,” Marty nodded. “In fact, that’s great. I’d like nothing better. You know, I had a feeling about you two.”
“I know,” she said. “I sort of have a feeling, too. I think George could really make me happy.”
“Yeah. Listen, I’ve gotta be leaving town.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. When? At the end of the semester?”
“No. Tonight. And I just wanted to say that it’s been…educational.”
“Will we ever see you again?” Lorraine asked.
“Oh, yeah. I guarantee it.”
George stepped forward to shake his hand again.
“Good night and good-bye then,” he said. “Thanks for your help…and all your good advice. I hope I can do the same for you someday.”
Marty laughed. “You’ll probably give me more advice than I can possibly handle.”
He turned to go, then paused. “Uh, listen,” he said, “if you guys ever have kids, and one of them when he’s eight years old accidentally sets fire to the living room rug…please go easy on him.”
“Er…sure,” George replied, thinking it one of the strangest requests he had ever heard.
A moment later, he was gone. George and Lorraine stood looking at each other, their hands tightly clasped.
“Marty,” she breathed. “It’s such a nice name. When I have kids, I’m going to name one of them Marty.”
“Aren’t you rushing things a little?” George laughed.
“Well, maybe a little. I was thinking I’d like to go to college next year.”
“Me, too,” George said. “In fact, I’m gonna go no matter what my father says.”
? Chapter Thirteen ?
/> At 9:45, Doc Brown began to grow apprehensive. Five minutes later, he was definitely in a nervous state. By 9:55, he was pacing wildly back and forth.
“Damn!” he muttered. “Where is that kid?”
His trenchcoat was whipping loudly in the wind, like the spinnaker of a sailboat caught in a storm. The distant thunder now rumbled sullenly all about him, punctuated by sharp flashes of lightning illuminating the outline of his tower-to-lamp-post cable network. Town Square was deserted except for a small pack of dogs and he was ready to go. But no Marty.
Doc reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round watch, circa 1890. It read: 9:56. The same time was also showing on watches worn on either wrist. There was no doubt in his mind that only eight minutes remained before the appearance of the lightning bolt that could send Marty back to 1985.
“Damn!” he repeated, this time in a loud and clear voice. Moving away from the curb into the center of the street, he grunted as he saw a car moving toward him with precipitous speed.
“Good,” he grunted finally, satisfied that the vehicle was his Packard. “But why drive like that, dummy? Why crack up in the wrong car?”
A moment later, Marty was available for the answer. Dressed in his 1985 clothes, he pulled Doc’s car to the curb, leaped out, took a deep breath and smiled a bit sheepishly.