Chapter 7

Thursday, September 3rd, 1885

Hill Valley

11:32 A.M.

Well – that should do it.

Doc leaned back as the tentacles curled over his shoulders, looking from the time circuit control panel to the new control electronics deck they'd just wired in. The board was a hodgepodge of various scavenged technology from the far future and distant past, seemingly thrown together without any plan at all. Only a very careful eye could detect the subtle patterns of wires and switches that brought it all into harmony. It was ugly, crude, and likely to only work twice at the most. But – so long as it worked that first time. . . . "This is it, boys," Doc continued aloud, needing to break the unnatural silence hanging around the shop.

Do you think it'll work? Tommy asked nervously, weaving around the box that housed the conglomeration.

If it doesn't, we're up a creek without a paddle – or, more accurately, without even a boat, Albert said, clacking his claw.

Have to start over from the very beginning, Verne agreed with a squeak.

Would you like to know the odds of the device working, Father? Jules asked, pointing his claw at Doc's ear.

Doc shook his head. "I get the feeling they'd only depress me," he said. "Besides, when have the odds ever applied to us?" Jules oscillated his body in a shrug.

Let's try it and get it over with, Albert said, impatience clear in his voice. The suspense is killing me.

Doc nodded and reached for the activation handle. The polished wood felt slippery beneath his fingers – though maybe that was just sweaty palms. "Ready?" The tentacles nodded, cameras fixed on the time circuits. "Here goes." Taking a deep breath, Doc twisted the switch.

The control deck crackled, followed by the familiar high-pitched "beowp" of the circuits coming on. For a long moment, the display panel was an empty black. Then, suddenly, a line of zeros flashed across every readout. A surge of hope came up inside Doc. Could it be – ? He darted toward the driver's seat and sent his fingers flying over the keypad, programming in the current date. Another flash, and SEP 03 1885 11:34 A.M. appeared in the middle row, glowing a friendly green. Getting excited, Doc tried a destination date. Another flash, and the top row lit up bright red with OCT 26 1985 1:21 A.M. "Jules, plug in and see if you can trick it into thinking it's gone to 88 miles per hour," he whispered. "Just be careful."

On it, Father. Jules hooked his internal wires into the control board and began hacking, while Doc and the others waited with baited breath.

The deck emitted a spark or two, whined a little – and then the Present Time readout changed to OCT 26 1985 1:21 A.M., with the Last Time Departed now showing off the present date in yellow. Doc threw his hands in the air, letting out a laugh of triumph. The tentacles followed suit, screeking joyfully. "WE DID IT! IT WORKS!"

Marty and Jennifer ran in from the horse paddock, eyes wide with baffled surprise. "What? What is it?" Marty asked, panting. "Heard you yell. . . ."

Doc gave them his biggest, brightest grin, pointing to the display. "It works!" he repeated. "The new time travel control 'chip' works!"

The teens crowded around him to get a good look. Their jaws dropped as they saw the display lit up. "It – it works?" Jennifer said weakly. "You mean – we can go home?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!"

Marty and Jennifer gaped at each other. Then, almost simultaneously, their faces broke out into huge grins. "We can go home!" Marty yelled, throwing his arms around his girlfriend. Laughing, Jennifer did the same. "We can finally get out of here! Go back to civilization!" He turned and gave Doc and the tentacles the tightest hug he could manage. "You guys are the greatest!"

"Thank you thank you thank you!" Jennifer cried, squeezing them around the middle.

Doc returned the embrace with the tentacles as he struggled to control his own joy. "All right, all right, let's settle down now," he said, finally getting a hold of himself. "While this is a triumph of the ages, we've only licked one problem. Now we need to solve the one involving momentum."

Marty peered around him toward the DeLorean's rear. "Well, we've got a working gas tank, right? When does this place get a gas station?"

"Not until some time in the next century," Doc said. "Cars go west a lot slower than people. If I remember my history right, there might be one that was recently built in Indiana."

"Indiana? How the hell does that help us?"

"Maybe we could order some gas from them?" Jennifer suggested, frowning thoughtfully. "Say it's some sort of emergency?"

"I haven't a clue, but I guess we can–"

"Where is that blacksmith?!"

Everyone jumped, all heads swiveling toward the door. "What the – was that Buford?" Marty asked.

"Certainly sounded like him. . . ." Doc headed to the door and peeked out. Sure enough, he could see the outlaw and his cronies riding around the square. None of them looked very pleased. "Oh Great Scott. . . ."

Should we hide, Father? Verne asked, his tone indicating that he thought that was a very good idea. Anyone who gets Buford that upset is probably not liable to live much longer.

Doc shook his head. "No, I think it's better to go outside and confront him directly. If he comes into the shop, he's liable to try and break something – especially if he's upset with me for some reason. And considering we just finished repairing the time circuits on the DeLorean. . . ." The tentacles nodded, a shudder going down their sinuous bodies. "Besides, it's not a guarantee he'll shoot me on sight. It sounds like he wants me to know why he's upset. We might be able to defuse the situation."

Do you really think we can do that with a Tannen? Albert asked dubiously.

"We've got to try. We've come too far to let him ruin our chances of getting home now." Doc opened the door and stepped out, the tentacles reluctantly slipping under his coat. Marty and Jennifer followed, holding hands and sharing an anxious glance.

Buford and his gang didn't immediately spot the blacksmith as he approached, too busy circling the square with ugly expressions. Doc noted with surprise that Buford was mounted on a different horse – still black, but obviously not the one he'd worked on. What happened to his old steed?

Maybe those carrots really did make it too fat for him, Tommy joked, forcing him to resist a smile.

One of the gang finally noticed Doc. "There he is, boss!" he said, jabbing a grimy finger at the blacksmith.

Buford turned his horse around and glared. The look in his eyes made Doc suddenly wish he'd thought to bring some sort of weapon out as insurance. "You owe me money, blacksmith," Buford growled.

"Huh?" Marty said, blinking. "What the hell are you talking about? We never made any deals with you."

"My horse threw a shoe," Buford said, shooting Marty a dirty look before focusing back on Doc. "And seeing as how you were the one who done the shoeing, I say that makes you responsible!"

Ahhh. Doc folded his arms, matching Buford's frown with one of his own. "Well, since you never paid me for the job, I saw that makes us even."

Payback's a bitch, asshole, Albert added, sounding pleased.

"Wrong!" Buford roared. "You see, I was on Blackie when he threw the shoe, and I got throwed off! And that caused me to bust a perfectly good bottle of Fine Kentucky Red-Eye!"

Huh. Well, I believe we finally found out where Biff gets his driving habits from, Jules commented.

Probably, Doc agreed. Like ancestor, like descendant. "So?" he said.

"So – the way I figure it, blacksmith, you owe me five dollars for the whiskey, and seventy-five dollars for the horse," Buford finished up. "How ya gonna pay?"

"Eighty dollars?!" Marty gasped.

"Why do we owe you for the horse?" Jennifer added, making a face in her confusion.

"Lady has a point," Doc nodded. "Just bring Blackie back and I'll reshoe him."

"I shot him when he throwed me!" Buford snapped.

Doc couldn't help an irritated huff. Wasn't that just like a Tannen? "Then I'll shoe this one!" he said, pointing to the horse Buford currently rode.

"Like hell you will," Buford said. "I'll take my eighty dollars in cash."

"I don't have eighty dollars on me," Doc replied, feeling his temper rising. God damn it, why did Tannens always have to have the worst timing? Buford was ruining his moment of glory more than any lack of fuel ever could. "And frankly, I don't see why I should have to pay for a perfectly good horse that you shot! That is your problem, Tannen!"

Buford scowled deeply and aimed a dirt-encrusted finger at Doc. "No – it's yours," he said, voice low and menacing. "I'm getting my money one way or another. So from now on, you'd better be looking behind you when you walk – 'cause one day you're gonna get a bullet in your back!"

With that, Buford whacked his horse on the side and rode off, followed closely by his gang. Doc watched them go, his stomach slowly twisting itself into a knot. On some level, he supposed he'd expected the death threat – as Verne had said, those who pissed Tannen off didn't last long – but that didn't make him any happier about it. He turned back to Marty and Jennifer, who were regarding him with no small amount of shock and anxiety. "Jesus," Marty said. "I thought I was gonna be the one he threatened to shoot first. What are you doing beating me to the punch, Doc?"

Despite everything, Doc couldn't help a small smile at that. "Let's be fair – he probably hates all of us equally." His expression turned serious again. "All joking aside, though, this is about the worst thing that could happen right now."

Tell me about it, Jules agreed. We need to leave Hill Valley as soon as possible.

Well, do you have any brilliant plans to solve our fuel problems? Albert inquired, the master of sarcasm as always.

No – do you? Jules shot back.

"We don't have time to argue about this," Doc muttered as they all headed back to the shop. "What we need is to put our heads together and come up with a plan that might allow us a quick escape – short of just disappearing into the desert until he gets distracted, of course."

Jennifer tilted her head toward the paddock. "Can we try hitching up Jett, Barbie, and Archimedes? You know, to pull the DeLorean along?"

Doc shook his head. "Wouldn't work for a number of reasons – primarily, because they won't be fast enough."

"They're pretty fast horses, Doc."

"I know, but not even the fastest horse in the world can run more than forty or so miles per hour."

Marty rubbed his chin. "Would trying to round up enough horses to match the horsepower of the engine work?"

Doc shook his head. "Creative thinking, but horsepower doesn't work like that, I'm afraid. And it would be impossible to control a team of that size. Pulling it is just not a viable method of travel. What we really need is an alternate source of fuel. Any ideas?"

Marty and Jennifer stared blankly at each other. "Um. . . ."

Father – didn't we read somewhere about people who got their cars to run on alcohol? Jules put in, chittering. It might work as a temporary solution. We really need only enough power for one quick burst of speed.

"Hmmm." Doc shared a contemplative look with the tentacle. "It's a thought – and something we can procure easily. Can't hurt anything to try."

"Got an idea?" Jennifer asked hopefully.

"Jules does, at least. Let me just make sure our new control deck is securely fastened to the DeLorean's hood, and then I'll stop by the Palace and see if we can put some of Chester's whiskey to better use than drinking it."

Thursday, September 3rd

2:19 P.M.

It actually took a bit longer than Doc expected to get to their experiment. After he'd secured the time circuits, Jules had examined the board and suggested making a better protective cover for them: After all, this one doesn't have the advantage of being inside the car. And once they'd finished that, things had been further delayed by having to hide everything from a customer who needed some minor repair work on his wagon. And after that, rumbling stomachs had demanded a break for a proper lunch. Finally, with everything else out of the way, Doc managed to make it to the Palace. He returned carrying a large green bottle without a label. "All right, everyone – let's give this a shot. Pun not intended."

Marty and Jennifer eyed the bottle. "What's that?" Marty asked.

"According to Chester, the strongest whiskey he's got," Doc said, turning it carefully in his hands. "He and Joey brew it up themselves. I figured, the stronger the better."

"Bet Chester gave you a funny look when you asked for that," Jennifer commented.

"Everyone in the saloon did, honestly," Doc replied. "I just told them I was experimenting with a new way to keep my forge hotter longer."

"And he still gave you the bottle?" Marty asked, arching an eyebrow. "Last time you tried that, Doc, it didn't go so well."

"I'd never made a Presto-Log before!" Doc said, the tentacles adding their own squawking protests. "And nobody got hurt! The forge didn't even sustain that much damage!"

"Guess not, but still – that was one hell of a bang," Marty replied, smirking. "Too bad Tannen wasn't in town then – you could have scared him off."

"Don't get smart, kid," Doc said, frowning. "I learned from my mistakes – the last two worked fine, didn't they? And I strongly doubt we're going to have any similar incidents with this. We need to try every avenue of interest if we're going to get out of here." He walked toward the DeLorean, Tommy reaching forward to yank off the tarp. "Now come on – I need you to start the engine once I fill the tank."

"Gotcha, Doc." Marty climbed into the driver's seat as Doc opened up the gas flap and uncorked the whiskey. Wrinkling his nose from the strong smell, he tipped the bottle into the tank. "Do you really think it'll work?"

"Only one way to find out." Doc shook the last few drops down the spout. "Try it, Marty."

Marty nodded and turned the key. The engine chugged and spluttered in protest. Marty tried again, eliciting a few more whines – then a grumble as something seemed to catch. Jennifer grabbed the front of her dress while the tentacles chattered at each other. "Oh please, oh please, oh please. . . ."

"Give it more gas," Doc encouraged, all hope. Jules, I think we've done it!

Come on, car, come on! Tommy said, poking the side.

Marty pressed down farther on the pedal. The engine growled, on the verge of life –

BANG! Doc and Jennifer jumped back as something shot off the back of the car in a burst of white light and black smoke. What?! What happened?! Verne demanded, wiggling wildly.

Something went flying! Tommy reached down and grabbed the fallen part, holding it up for Doc to see. Look at all those tubes. . . . Is it important?

Doc waved away the smoke for a better look, then groaned. "Damn! Damn damn!"

Uh-oh. That's a "yes," isn't it?

"What is it, Doc?" Marty asked, scrambling out of the car.

"It blew the fuel injection manifold," Doc explained, taking the piece from Tommy. "Without it, we don't have a hope of using the engine." He stared at it a moment, then let it drop from his hands with a heavy sigh. "Strong stuff all right – it'll take us about a month to rebuild it."

"A month?!" Marty and Jennifer repeated, eyes wide.

"Don't look at me! That hooch peddler must stick more in that stuff than just whiskey!" Doc shook his head, pressing his fist against his eyes. "I'm starting to think I got off lucky with just the hangover from hell when Haney and I switched drinks."

Maybe we should have gone with the sarsparilla, Albert muttered.

I don't even want to know what might be in that, Verne said, shuddering.

"Doc, we just got the time circuits fixed," Marty pleaded, holding up his hands. "Not to mention Buford Tannen's still got you on his hit list. I can't take this anymore, Doc! I want to go home!"

"So do I, but–"

"Emmett?" Someone knocked on the door. "Are you in?"

Doc cursed softly. "We'll pick this up shortly." The tentacles grabbed the manifold and stashed it in the DeLorean before replacing its cloth and vanishing into Doc's coat. Marty and Jennifer stood guard before it as Doc opened the door. "Hello – oh, Hubert! What brings you by?"

Hubert grinned a pinch nervously at Doc, holding up a note. "Emmett, you remember how, at the town meeting, you volunteered to pick up the new schoolteacher when she arrived?"

"Oh yes, quite so," Doc lied quickly. In fact, he'd completely forgotten about that little chore in his excitement over the DeLorean. Yet another thing I have to take care of. It just never ends, does it?

I love how he says we "volunteered," Albert agreed grumpily. Politicians. Never trust 'em.

"Well, we've just gotten word – she's coming in tomorrow," Hubert said. He extended the note. "Here are all the details, including a map to the schoolhouse."

Doc nodded, accepting the scrap of paper. "Thank you."

"Thank you." Hubert touched his hat and headed back to his carriage. On the step, he paused and turned toward Doc again. "Oh – her name's Miss Clayton. Clara Clayton."

"Clara Clayton," Doc repeated. "I'll remember."

Hubert smiled and disappeared from the carriage door. Doc watched as it drove away, then sighed. "Damn it, why now?" he muttered. "If she'd just come a few days earlier. . . ."

We keep telling you, it's Brown's Law, Albert said.

"I know, I know. . . ."

"Schoolteacher's coming in?" Marty asked as Doc closed the door.

"Yup. Tomorrow on the eleven o'clock train, according to this," Doc said, skimming over the note. "A Miss Clara Clayton from – New Jersey. Huh. Rather far away."

"Guess she's got a bit of the adventurer in her," Jennifer commented, before smiling. "Clara – that's a pretty name."

Doc grunted. "Nice enough, I suppose. I just hope she's not too inquisitive. Or talkative in general, really."

"What's the matter, Doc? Scared of talking to a girl?" Marty said, gently elbowing him in the ribs.

"No, more completely disinterested," Doc returned. "All I want to do with this new schoolteacher is pick her up and bring her to her cabin. Once she's there, she ceases to be our problem. Then we can get back to the matter of achieving the proper amount of momentum to return to our own time period."

Marty winced, looking back at the shape of the DeLorean hidden beneath its tarp. "Yeah. . .are you sure fixing the fuel thing will take a month?"

"Positive – and that's a conservative estimate. In reality, with such poor tools and not a lot in the way of replacement parts. . . ." Doc sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. I know you kids want to get home. We do too, believe me." The tentacles nodded. "If you've got any suggestions on how we can get the necessary speed, I'm open to them. Anything at all."

Marty and Jennifer looked at each other, faces screwed up in concentration. "Um. . .er. . .damn it, there's gotta be something," Marty muttered. "I really don't want to wait another month for indoor plumbing."

Why don't we all sleep on it? Jules suggested, winding around the three. Perhaps after a period of rest, our brains will be working at our maximum potential, and we'll be able to formulate new ideas. It's not like we can do much about anything right at this very moment.

"You have a point. We're certainly not getting anywhere today," Doc nodded. "Let's give our minds a rest and worry about it tomorrow. Those horses need another brushing anyway."