The radio, once a silent relic, now became the heart of the house. Every evening, its warm, wooden cabinet would glow, filling the kitchen with the sounds of the world—big band music, serialized dramas, and the sober tones of the news. But for Robert, the magic had curdled into anxiety. The awe in Arthur's eyes was a spotlight, and he felt exposed beneath its glare.
He tried to retreat back into silence, into the simple, physical labor of the workshop. But the genie was out of the bottle. Arthur now watched his every move, not with suspicion, but with a fervent, almost possessive curiosity. He began asking questions that strayed far beyond carpentry.
"That water pressure idea for the bridge," Arthur said one afternoon as they varnished a new table. "You think something like that could work for an irrigation pump? Old Man Henderson's well runs low in the summer."
"Robert," Eleanor asked, her voice tentative, "you seem to know about… well, everything. My sister's boy has a cough the doctor can't shake. You haven't read about anything new for that, have you?"
These questions were a minefield. He could suggest a more efficient pump design, but the materials and precision engineering required didn't exist. He knew that penicillin would be the miracle cure, but it was a decade away from mass production, and the knowledge of its existence was confined to a handful of labs in England. To mention it would be to speak pure fantasy, or worse, witchcraft.
He gave vague, non-committal answers, pleading a faulty memory. But the pressure was building. He was being pushed to perform another miracle, and he had nothing safe to give.
The breaking point came on a Saturday trip into town. Arthur needed a specific type of wood oil only sold at a hardware store across town. As they walked down the main street, the sun bright overhead, a sleek, new Cord 810 sedan—a marvel of streamlined, futuristic design—was parked at the curb. A small crowd of admiring men had gathered around it.
"Something, ain't it?" Arthur murmured, his own eyes wide. "Looks like it's doing sixty standing still."
One of the men, the owner, was proudly pointing out the features. "…and the front-wheel drive eliminates the driveshaft tunnel, gives you more interior space…"
Robert, without thinking, nodded. "The coffin-nose design is brilliant for aerodynamic efficiency. And the hidden headlights are a nice touch. Shame about the reliability of the pre-selector transmission, though. They'll have issues with the vacuum shift mechanism."
The words left his mouth before his brain could engage. A dead silence fell over the small group. Every head turned to stare at him. The owner's proud smile vanished, replaced by a look of offended confusion.
"The… what?" he said, his voice cold. "What did you say about my transmission?"
Robert's blood ran cold. Pre-selector transmission.Aerodynamic efficiency.Vacuum shift. These terms didn't exist in the common parlance of 1935. He had just critiqued a brand-new, cutting-edge automobile with the casual expertise of a veteran mechanic from the future.
Arthur's hand clamped firmly on his arm. "My apologies, sir," Arthur said, his voice tight. "The boy reads too many magazines. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Come on, Robert."
He pulled Robert away, his grip like iron. They walked in a stiff, hurried silence for two blocks before Arthur finally stopped in a quiet alley, releasing his arm. He turned to Robert, and his face was a mask of anger and fear.
"What in God's name was that?" Arthur hissed, keeping his voice low. "'Aero-dynamic efficiency'? Who are you?"
"I told you, I just read a lot—" Robert began, panic seizing him.
"Don't!" Arthur snapped, cutting him off. "Don't you lie to me. I've seen it. The bridge. The radio. The way you talk about things you can't possibly know. Men in this town get called 'odd' for less. They get visited by men in suits who ask questions. They get taken away to places they don't come back from." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "I don't know if you're a German spy or… or something else. But you're putting me and my wife in danger. Our home. Our lives."
The words landed like physical blows. Robert saw the genuine terror in Arthur's eyes. He wasn't angry about the deception; he was terrified of the consequences. In this paranoid, pre-war America, a mysterious man with advanced knowledge was not a curiosity; he was a threat.
"I'm not a spy," Robert whispered, the fight draining out of him. It was the truth, but it was the most unbelievable thing he could have said.
"Then what are you?" Arthur pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "You have to tell me. I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
Robert looked into the face of the man who had given him shelter, who had protected his secret, who had looked at him with awe. He saw that trust shattering, replaced by the primal fear of the unknown. He was at the cliff's edge. The carefully constructed lie of the disoriented inventor was in ashes.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. The truth was impossible. But the alternative was being cast out, or worse. He had to give Arthur something. A story so unbelievable it might just be accepted as the only possible explanation.
"Arthur," he said, his voice barely audible. "I need you to listen to me, and I need you to believe me. I'm not from here. I'm not from… this time."
He met Arthur's horrified gaze, and began to speak, unspooling the impossible tale of the Chronos Anomaly, the mistake in the formula, the liquid darkness, and the waking nightmare of finding himself ninety years in the past. He told him about the world he came from, a world of pocket-sized computers, of machines that flew at the edge of space, of a war that had already happened in his memory.
He told him everything.
When he finished, the alley was silent. Arthur stood frozen, his face pale, his eyes wide with a kind of cosmic horror. He didn't speak. He simply turned and walked away, leaving Robert standing alone in the shadows, the echo of his own impossible confession hanging in the air between them. The unraveling was complete.