Departure(26)

So he’s made the leap.

“Let’s try it.”

For the next fifteen minutes we pepper the computerized voice with questions. But it doesn’t know anything, save for every possible thing there is to know about Stonehenge. Off-topic questions like “What year is it, by the way?” receive a curt, stock response: “Unfortunately, I cannot answer questions unrelated to Stonehenge. We need to keep your tour moving so that other visitors will have ample time to enjoy the exhibit.”

Clearly its programming doesn’t include checking the line outside.

Mike, Bob, and I pace to the next red bull’s-eye, lost in thought, wondering what to do next. Before us the tall stone columns dissolve, leaving a vast green field that seems to extend beyond the far glass walls. Oxen pull giant stones through the field. Looking closer, I notice wooden tracks shaped like a trough below the stones. The tracks hold carved wooden roller balls that move the giant pillars along. Ingenious. For the time, anyway. Groups of people wearing animal furs direct the oxen through the field to the monument area, moving the tracks and balls to stay ahead.

“What you see now is the early construction of Stonehenge. Scientists believe Stonehenge was built over the course of a thousand years . . .”

It’s a simulation. The whole structure is a hologram. Projectors of some kind must be recessed into the frame.

“End tour,” I say.

“Would you like to switch to the self-guided tour?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy your tour of Stonehenge, brought to you through the generous support of the Titan Foundation.”

The field, oxen, and prehistoric workers dissolve, leaving only the crumbling stone ruin I saw twenty-eight years ago. The glass enclosure must have been built to protect Stonehenge from the elements and vandals, to preserve this little piece of history for future generations.

Above us rain begins to pelt the glass ceiling, providing a sound track for this bizarre moment.

Mike points to the center of the green field. “Nick, look.”

Bodies. There must be a dozen of them, long dead, their bones protruding from tattered clothes.

Mike steps off the path toward them, but I catch his arm. “Be careful.”

The computer booms warnings about staying on the path, but we ignore it, which isn’t hard—the rain’s so loud now it almost drowns it out.

Mike creeps the last few feet to the bodies, kneels, and begins sifting through them.

“No IDs,” he calls.

“Doubt they’d have them in the future,” Bob says.

He’s probably right. A printed, laminated ID would look archaic to the people who created this structure. They’ve probably moved to embedded chips, fingerprints, or even retinal scans.

Mike shakes his head. “No watches, phones, nothing. Just bones and clothes.”

Bob and I walk across the grass to join him. “They could have been picked clean by vandals.” Bob coughs. He’s looking rough. Haggard.

I nod. Mentally, I try to organize my questions. How does this help us? What do this ruin and these bones tell us?

“Gentlemen,” Bob says, his voice weak but formal, “I believe we’ve just obtained a crucial piece of information.” He pauses, apparently awaiting guesses from his two favorite pupils.

I raise my eyebrows, prompting him.

He points to the bones. “This tells us that organized, effective government no longer exists in England. And hasn’t for many years. Stonehenge is a World Heritage Site, but it’s especially important to the British. If the government were still functioning, if civilization existed here, they wouldn’t leave bones at Stonehenge. Not for a day, not for a week. These bones have been here for many years—decades, I would guess.”

Mike and I nod. That makes sense.

“What’s next, Nick?” Bob asks.

“The farmhouse we saw on the way in. It’s our only shot.” I glance up at the glass roof. The rain is really coming down now. I’m famished; we didn’t stop to eat on the way in, and I’m sure Bob and Mike are hungry too, though neither has said a word.

“Let’s get a bite to eat, see if the rain lets up some.”

The three of us move away from the bones into a grassy area, sit Indian style, and have our late-afternoon picnic at Stonehenge. Surreal only begins to describe it. We consider sitting on an overturned pillar nearby, but it seems wrong somehow, whether there are any people left in this world or not. As I eat, I’m still preoccupied by the mysteries, even the small ones. The grass is better kept than on any golf course I’ve ever seen, for one thing. The structure must maintain the climate and grounds too, somehow.

If we’re in the future and a massive catastrophe has occurred, that would explain the lack of roads—or any sign of civilization, for that matter.

Mike shoves the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth and, still chewing, gets at the real mystery. “Can’t get my head around the idea that we’re in the future,” he says to no one in particular.

Bob clears his throat. Poor guy is struggling even to keep up with our eating pace. I set my sandwich down. The rain is pouring down; we have some time. “Time travel is scientifically possible—actually, it happens every day,” he says. “Einstein theorized it with relativity, and we’ve been measuring it for decades. In fact, every person who has ever flown on a plane has traveled in time.”