He quickly located the stacks of the Wonka factory and used them as a reference, sprinting toward that all-important landmark as fast as his legs would carry him. Snow crunched under his boots, ice sending him sprawling several times…heedless of any pain, he scrambled to his feet and kept moving. People turned on the sidewalk, staring unabashedly as he passed, but he paid no attention to them. He reached the walls of the Wonka factory and started to turn left, toward where he believed the gates were…he was certain he could find the correct street again if he could use the factory gates as a reference. Only then he realized he was on the wrong side. Swearing, he took off again, forced to circle nearly half the perimeter of the massive facility…he wondered if any of his brethren might have been looking out of upper floor windows, staring as an apparently deranged compatriot ran down the street in a military uniform. 101's breath was coming shorter, his muscles burning with fatigue, but he never slowed. He drew exclamations of surprise from fellow pedestrians as he slid to a stop in front of the Wonka factory's main gates, his head hanging down between his knees as he quickly took stock of his surroundings. They had gone to the right from here, down to the corner before turning into the next street…he dashed across the road, narrowly avoiding a delivery van as it emerged from a nearby driveway. The driver shouted something and 101 whispered silent thanks that the van had not been moving even slightly faster: I came all the way back into the past, only to doom the future when I was hit by a truck. The idea was both so ridiculous and so appalling that 101 could not suppress a grin as he ran: That would just top it all.
But the humor did not last. He reached the next corner, only something was wrong. He did not recognize this place. His eyes frantically swept the neat business fronts, hoping for any clue, but then he saw it directly across from him: the same alley where the crew had stopped to enjoy a bar of Chadworth chocolate, so very long ago…and yet not long ago at all. Waiting for a break in the light morning traffic, 101 darted into the mouth of the alley and crossed the next block, emerging onto what he instantly recognized as the right street.
This was it. On the corner of the next block was the candy shop where even now his past self might be buying a bar of the enemy's candy in the interests of satisfying his curiosity…almost straight across from him was the same snowdrift where they had found the ten-pound note. 101 had no idea how long he had been running or where the past Deepstar crew might now be; he could not see the original ten-pound note from where he was, but it might have simply been the distance. He was about to cross the street and check when there was a crunch of snow to his right. He turned to see three tiny sets of footsteps moving toward him, apparently creating themselves of their own volition. Swearing, he ducked back into the alley…in less than ten seconds, he was about to walk around the corner and come face-to-face with himself. And as much as he liked the idea of blowing his own mind, 101 was fairly certain that making contact with a past copy of the Deepstar crew would cause more problems than it would solve. We've already spent the money…no way to stop that. 101 turned, looking frantically for any place to conceal himself. A cluster of garbage cans marked the only viable alternative, and he ducked into the narrow, stinking space behind them with another muttered curse. He could not see the snowdrift…Charlie Bucket might well pass while he hid here, waiting for the past versions of the crew to leave! The crunch of footsteps stopped, voices now coming clearly to him behind the trash cans…he tried to recall the flow of conversation, tried to remember how close they were to leaving. He shifted his position silently, trying desperately to see across the street, but it was of no avail. In fascination, he turned to look at the past members of his own crew…the past version of himself.
There was 48, alive again, and the Captain…101 ducked back, refusing to watch any more. Resolution burned in his chest: SC-80 could not die. Losing 77 and 48 had been bad enough, and the loss of the Doctor had been even worse. RP-18 had not been a soldier, an action hero; he was the scientist, an institution unto himself, the man that one did not expect to lose in combat. Now, if the Captain died, his mentor and superior officer…101 could not even process the idea. He's not going to die. The moments passed with agonizing slowness, but at last the footsteps moved off…every nerve screaming at him to move, 101 forced himself to wait until he was certain the past Deepstar crew had gone before he stood and barreled across the street. His head jerked frantically from side to side, his only hope that the heir to the Company had not already come and gone. He yanked the ten-pound note from one of his vest pockets and jammed it into the snow, adjusting it several times before he finally forced himself to stop fiddling with it. Drawing his pistol, he rolled beneath a parked car nearby, his eyes fixed on the money. There was only once chance to set things right, and he would not allow it to go wrong. If anyone tried to pick up the money, anyone other than the heir…101 was not entirely sure what he planned to do…murder in the street was hardly a realistic option…all he knew was that he had one chance, and he would not allow anything to interfere with it. If he had to kill to protect the future, so be it. Several people passed his hiding spot, their shoes shiny and immaculate, and 101 tensed as he prepared to move. But no one stopped, no one reached down to the money.
And then a new set of shoes appeared. They were small and brown and heavily-worn, the seams open in several places and a section of the sole threatening to peel away on one heel. 101 tensed again, though not for the same reason; he shifted forward as far as he dared, trying to get a better view. He could now see the legs of threadbare pants and the lower fringe of a worn sweater, the clothes far too thin for the cold day. 101 craned his neck, hoping against hope…the worn shoes passed the money, stopped, but then suddenly turned back. Knees bent and a small, pale hand reached down, its movements almost reverent as it plucked the note from the snow…101 strained a bit further and then, for just an instant, he looked straight into the face of Charlie Bucket. The boy did not see him, his attention turning wonderingly to the candy shop down the street; a smile slowly spread across Charlie's face, and he took several hesitant steps in the direction of the candy store. Then the hesitant steps became quicker, and he was walking hurriedly toward the shop door, the bill held between both hands like some object of veneration. The door opened, Charlie Bucket disappeared inside, and 101 rolled out from beneath the car. He could not say how, could not put into logical terms what he felt, but an instinctive feeling of peace stole over him, a sudden calm. We've done it. Everything would be all right. The future was safe. He wanted to stay, to see Charlie Bucket come running out through that door with Golden Ticket in hand, but there was no time. He had to get back to the Captain, to make the Jump, to see with his own eyes whether or not things had been set right. He had done all he could here.