College Years

This story is dedicated to Sam Beckett and Al Calavicci who, by their actions, inspired a universe of their own. It is also lovingly dedicated to my husband, Richard, who was part of MIT when Sam was there.

A special thank you to Don Bellisario and Debra Pratt for creating such wonderful characters and to Scott Bakula and Dean Stockwell for bringing them to life.

College Years

Jo Fox

Sam Beckett became aware of the pencil in his hand and the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. His hand was poised above the paper as if he had been in the middle of writing something. The sheet was covered with equations. Sam kept his head bent over the paper, but raised his eyes to take in the rest of his surroundings. A man stood at the front of the room, watching each student closely. The others around him were spaced one desk apart. From the scattering of heavy coats on the backs of seats and the stuffy heat of the classroom, Sam was certain it was winter. He wondered where. He looked back down at the paper and grimaced.

Oh, great! I’ve leaped into a test!

Then his eye caught the open quantum physics book and Sam turned the pages to the copyright. The date said the book was published in 1971. He was still in college in '71. Hopefully, the material would be somewhat familiar.

Sam studied the equation again for a very long moment. Suddenly he straightened his slouch and a grin played at the corners of his mouth. The leaper was on familiar ground. Sam erased the equation from the point it had strayed and thumbed pages in the text till he found the theory that applied. Speed reading the three chapters, he wrote furiously for several minutes. Laying the pencil down, Sam leaned back in his chair to again study the room. It looked vaguely familiar.

“Finished, Mr. Islesworth?” the man called from the front of the room. Eyes looked his way, then quickly back to the tests.

“Uh, yes, sir,” Sam squirmed.

“Then bring me the test and leave. You are distracting the class.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam sheepishly replied, gathering his things. He took the test paper to the professor and hastily exited, but outside the door, Sam couldn’t quite leave. He stood to the side, surreptitiously watching the rest of the class for awhile longer. Maybe it was the test but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew this place. With a mental sigh of, “Oh, well,” Sam set his books down to rummage in his pockets for identification. The hall outside the classroom was quiet.

In the wallet, Sam found a driver’s license, two photographs, a student ID card, and a Social Security card. The name on the license declared he was Stephen Tolestoy Islesworth. One of the pictures was of a couple he assumed was Stephen’s parents. The other showed a dark-haired, brown-eyed, youth with a long-face and a beaked nose. Perched on top of the beak were a pair of black- rimmed glasses. Stephen’s mouth hung slightly open, giving the face a somewhat moronic look. The student ID card listed his address as 362 Memorial Drive. Behind him, a gravely voice said, “Looks like you’re home, kid.”

Sam jumped, bobbling the wallet. “Al! I wish you’d quit doing that.”

“Sorry,” Al said, grinning around his cigar as Sam turned to face the hologram. Sam was nearly blinded by a gold lamé suit that shot needles of light into his eyes. The suit covered a wine-colored silk shirt. A wine-colored brushed velvet fedora and black and white wingtips topped the outfit.

“Is there a shiner’s convention in town,” Sam asked innocently as he subconsciously pushed the eyeglasses higher on his nose. To his chagrin, he found they were broken and taped with white adhesive.

“Shiner’s convention? You mean Shriner’s?”

“No, Al. I mean shiner. That suit’s got enough wattage to light up a city.”

“Very funny,” Al puffed, not at all amused. “Tina and I are going to Vegas. This happens to be the latest fashion.”

Sam grinned at his friend, but decided not to needle him.

“It is like being home, isn’t it Al?” Sam laughed. “I’m back at MIT and 362 Memorial’s my old dorm, Baker House. I was just taking a quantum physics test and it all came back. I could see the text in my head. 'Course, the kid I leaped into...”

“Stephen Islesworth,” Al interjected.

“Yeah, Stephen Islesworth, he was doing okay, but on the last equation he was off on the wrong tangent and I fixed that. It was great, Al. Like being back in the same classroom....” Sam looked back through the door window into the room. “I was, wasn’t I?” he continued, awed. “That was the very same classroom I took quantum physics in - with Professor LoNigro...” his voice trailed off.

“The very same,” Al agreed.

“And it’s 1971. Al, I’m still a student here!”

“1971,” Al agreed. “Actually it’s December 14. You graduated in June, Sam. Today is Tuesday, and that was Stephen’s last quiz before Christmas break.”

Al began walking and Sam picked up his books to follow. They were heading for the tunnel system that protected students from the cold Boston wind. The tunnels would lead Sam to within a quarter mile of the dorm.

“All right, so why am I here,” Sam queried. “Not to take a physics test or I would have leaped already.”

“You’re right,” Al said. “It’s not to take a test.” He took the cigar from his mouth and punched buttons on the handlink. “You’re here to stop a prank.”

Sam stopped in mid stride. If anyone had been behind him, they would have collided. He had to rush to catch up with Al.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. I’m serious.”

“I’m here to stop a hack?”

“Hack?” Al asked, at the same time punching keys on the handlink as he queried Ziggy about the word.

“Yeah. That’s what pranks were called. Hacks.”

“Well, this hack burns down a dorm. Unless it’s stopped.”

“Oh.” After another pause for thought, Sam asked, “Who’s responsible?”

“Don’ know. The culprits were never caught.”

“Suspects?”

Al called up the information on the handlink. “A bunch, including your roommate. His name’s Langley Simms. Simms. Wasn’t that the name of the guy who played Scrooge in ‘A Christmas Carol’?”

“Al....”

“Alister Simms, I think. Best Christmas movie ever made.”

“Al...”

“Except for ‘It’s a Wonderful Leap.’ Er Life. It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Al!”

“Okay, okay,” Al relented, but his eyes twinkled and mentally he gave Sam a ‘gotcha..’

“According to Ziggy, this Simms boy and a kid named Al Norton were prime suspects but no charges were ever filed. Not enough evidence. But Norton sure had a guilty conscience about something. Never amounted to much though he had the potential.”

“When?”

“Huh?”

“The hack. When does it happen?”

“Friday night at midnight. Dramatic.”

The hologram stopped and Sam realized he was at a stairwell leading back to ground level. Al gave Sam Stephen’s room number, punched the handlink, and stepped through the chamber door. He promised to return in the morning. Sam struggled into his topcoat and headed up the stairs for the quarter mile hike to the dorm

Above ground, the cold slapped him like a giant Arctic hand, stinging his eyes and reddening his cheeks. The wind put the chill factor near 0º and Sam walked quickly to Baker House, huddling down inside his coat. He stamped slush from his shoes before entering the dorm. The leaper climbed the stairs two at a time to the third floor, pausing in front of room 320. The lock responded to his key and Sam entered Stephen’s room. Langley Simms was not there.

The room was neat. That was the first thing that impressed Sam. Dorm rooms often weren’t. The room was also a lot smaller then he remembered. Sam hung his coat on the coat tree and took in his surroundings.

The beds were along two walls with an end table in the corner between them. Two student desks with a straight back chair in front of each leg opening occupied another wall. A large bulletin board was mounted to the brick above one of the desks and a bookshelf hung above the second desk. The bottom two shelves were loaded with text books. A ham radio, reel to reel tape recorder, and an electronic box with flashing lights sat on the top shelf.

The wall next to the door was taken up with a sink, a refrigerator, and a closet. Across from the door, above one of the beds, a large sash window peered out on the top of the nearest defoliated tree. A chess board sat on the end table with pieces arranged in a way that told Sam a game was in progress. There was another chess board set up on one of the desks, but it was not in play.

As he studied the room, it dawned on Sam that he had no idea which bed was his and he had forgotten to ask Al what his persona was like. Closing the door behind him and locking it so he’d have some warning if his roommate showed up, Sam began looking for clues through what he thought were Stephen’s possessions. He had just finished and was about to choose a bed when the key turned and a tall, blond, and handsome fellow bounded jubilantly into the room and plopped on the bed nearest the door. Langley was beaming happily from ear to ear.

“It’s on,” he told Sam.

“What’s on?”

“The marriah war, silly. We start Friday at 8. You in?”

From his tone, Sam knew Stephen usually wasn’t ‘in.’ “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe.”

Langley was grinning wolfishly as he eyed Sam. Sam decided he didn’t like the grin.

“I don’t think so,” Sam told him. “I think I’ll study in the library.”

“Suit yourself,” Langley sighed. He rolled toward the wall, tucked his arm under his head, and proceeded to relax. Sam thought he was falling asleep when his roommate remarked, “They’ll get you anyway. You know that, don’t you? I heard Norton and a couple of others planning to waylay you.”

Oh boy, Sam thought. He sighed heavily.

“Well,” Simms persisted. “You staying to fight or are you chickening out as usual?”

Sam hesitated. He knew Langley was baiting him. Al hadn’t given him details about the fire except Simms was probably involved. He should stick close to Simms, but there was something about Langley’s manner that said tread carefully. Sam pushed his glasses back upon his nose.

“Well?” Langley prompted.

“Okay. I guess so,” Sam said haltingly. There was the hint of a smirk at the corner of Langley’s lips when he answered, “Good.” Langley rolled onto his back and the blinking box on the top bookshelf caught his eye.

“That new?” he asked.

Sam followed his glance. “Guess so,” he said, thinking his answer safe.

“What is it?”

Sam blinked. Electronics was not his field, but he seemed to remember a box like this from his own college experiences. “It’s a fooh box,” he told Langley.

“Yeah?” Langley asked, impressed. “What’s it do?”

“It counts foohs.”

“Oh.” Langley’s face never changed. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me, fooh on you.”

“There’s one,” Sam grinned. Langley winced, stifling a groan. He sat up, swinging his feet off the bed. “Well, dinner time,” he announced. With that, Langley was up and out of the room again. The announcement made Sam realize how hungry he was. Hungry enough for dorm food? Sam thought about the dimly lit, red brick basement cafeteria. He didn’t feel brave enough to face recycled rolls and fries containing metal shards. Grabbing his coat, Sam braved the chilling Boston twilight in search of non-cafeteria food.

It was a forty-five minute hike from the dorm across Smoot Bridge to the subway station. By the time he caught the train, Sam thought his cheeks would fall off. The ride into Boston hardly gave him time to warm up. He got off the train and walked the short distance to Elsie’s.

The restaurant was a well-known hangout for college students. The food was cheap and plentiful. The main course wasn’t the greatest, but at least it was hot and free of UFO’s (unidentified food objects).

Sam ordered two bowls of soup, and a large salad. He hungrily devoured several of the free sticky buns throughout the meal, then pocketed several more for the trip back to Baker House. They would also serve as breakfast. It was after nine by the time he got back to the dorm.

When Sam awoke the next morning, his roommate was already gone. The time traveler got up and checked Stephen’s schedule, but there were no classes until eleven so he had plenty of time. Making sure the door was unlocked, Sam shrugged into a white terry robe, grabbed a towel and toiletries, and trudged barefoot down the hall to the shower. He was delighted to find that there was still hot water. He stayed in the shower till the water began to turn, then dripped his way back to Stephen’s room. Sam was toweling his hair dry, when the telephone rang.

Momentarily startled, the leaper waited for someone else to answer. The telephone, a black dial type common in the 40’s and 50’s, was hardwired into the wall. The receiver sat in a cradle on top of the dial. Finally deciding that it was up to Stephen to answer, Sam lifted the receiver off its hook. The phone continued to ring.

Sam attempted to shout, “Hello?” through the ring but no one answered. The loud bell reverberated through the brick. There was no volume adjustment that Sam could find and the ringing was becoming incessant and annoying.

Sam’s nerves were jangling, yet there was no way to unplug the phone from the wall. He really didn’t know what else to do to turn it off. In desperation, he buried it under a pillow when there was a knock.

Now what? Sam thought as he answered the door. A slim, young man with salt and pepper hair and brown eyes stood before him.

“Look,” the student said without preliminary, “that thing’s making it hard to study. Don’t you think you should answer it?”

“I was trying to. It just keeps ringing and there’s no one on the other end. Do you know anything about phones?”

“No, but you better get it fixed in a hurry.”

The student left and Sam began to dismantle the phone. About ten seconds later, the ringing stopped. With a happy sigh, the leaper rebuilt the telephone and got dressed. He was heading out the door when the ringing began again.

Sam’s stomach gave a queasy lurch. Sure enough, when he picked up the handset, the ringing wouldn’t quit. The irate student was at Stephen’s door a lot sooner then before.

“Don’t look at me,” Sam told him. “I thought I’d fixed it.”

“I don’t care what you have to do, but make it quit ringing!” The student stormed back to his room, leaving Sam to ponder the life expectancy of the irritating device. Again, Sam began taking the phone apart when it suddenly stopped ringing. He left it disassembled and was heading down the hall. When he passed the student’s open door, he was hailed from inside. The numerous announcements and newspaper articles taped beside the door implied the fellow’s name was Ritchie.

“How’s it going? I don’t hear anything.”

“I dismantled it,” Sam told him.

“You didn’t leave it that way, did you?”

Sam sheepishly nodded affirmation.

“Man, I don’t want to be in your shoes when the phone company finds it. You better get it put back together fast.”

Obediently, Sam trudged back to his room and reassembled the phone. His hand was on the doorknob to leave when the phone began again. Sam closed his eyes in frustration and banged his head against the doorjamb. Other students popped their heads into the hallway, shouting at Stephen to answer the phone. Reluctantly, Sam complied, knowing it was useless. For the third time, he began to dismantle the thing when Ritchie appeared to see if he could help. Ritchie stayed through several rings, watching Sam at work, then returned to his own room. About twenty seconds later, the phone stopped ringing. Sam was beginning to suspect there was a correlation. Apparently other students thought so as well. A commotion in the hallway pulled Sam away from reassembling the phone. He poked his head around the door in time to see a loudly protesting Ritchie carted off on the shoulders of several students. There was a loud yell, then Sam heard water running. The quantum leaper watched awhile longer and sure enough, Ritchie emerged from the showers soaking wet and fully clothed. Sam’s sigh was one of total satisfaction.

“Looks like he got his just deserts,” Al remarked from the wall and Sam jumped.

“Al,” he yelled in exasperation. The hologram walked into the room and Sam closed the door again.

“You’re worse than a new puppy.”

“Me?” Al shot Sam a look of innocence.

“You. Puppies can be house broken.”

“Aw, Sam. You take all the fun out of being a hologram.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He glanced at the clock on the end table, then stretched out on his bed, hands clasped behind his head. Patiently he waited while Al brought a holographic chair close to the bed and sat down.

“What do you have on this Stephen Islesworth? Who am I supposed to be, Al?”

“Let’s see.” Al stuck the ever present cigar in his mouth and punched keys on the handlink. The colorful unit flashed, whirled and tweeted. “You’re a sop...”

The handlink squealed appropriately when Al batted it on the side...

“o more...oh, sophomore. You’re a sophomore and something of a nebbish.”

“Nebbish?”

“Yeah. Great word, that. Nebbish. Kind of a dweeb and a nerd rolled into one.”

“Yeah. I kinda figured that out already.”

“More info, huh? Your family’s from Pennsylvania. You can trace your roots back to the French and Indian War. Your dad’s a chemical engineer with Bethlehem Steel and your mom’s a biology teacher at a private school. No siblings. You’ve been the butt of several practical jokes. You get picked on a lot 'cause you never stand up for yourself and you’re easily hoodwinked. You’re a bright kid, even got a National Honor Society pin, but the grades are just so-so. Nothing exceptional. Tough school. Uh oh.”

“Uh oh?”

“You aced that physics test yesterday?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah. I think I did.”

“Stephen may have trouble explaining how when he gets back.”

“What’s he like? Have you talked to him in the Waiting Room?”

“Nebbish. That describes him,” Al wrinkled his nose. “He’s a nervous wreck. Won’t take the tranquilizer Beeks has offered him. Doesn’t do much of anything except pace. The only reason he’s eating is Beeks has threatened him with forced feeding if he doesn’t.” Al looked skyward for emphasis.

“Not a wealth of information, I take it.”

“Oh no, just the opposite. We can’t turn him off. Problem is, the kid says a whole lot but absolutely nothing, if you get my drift. Ask him a question and two hours later he’s talked all around it without ever answering. By then everyone’s forgotten the question.”

Changing the subject, Sam said, “I met Langley last night.”

“And?”

“He said there’s a marriah war Friday night.”

“A marriah war? What’s that?”

Sam frowned, then remembered that Al’s days at MIT were not spent at Baker House.

“Think of it as a giant water fight.”

Sam sat up and faced Al.

“I don’t know how they started, but marriah wars existed the whole time I was here,” Sam explained. “You fill a piece of surgical tubing with high pressured water from the sink. The tubing can be bought as part of the chemistry lab kit. You know, Al, the stuff they tie around your arm when the nurse draws blood.” Al grimaced. Like most men, he hated needles and the mere mention of anything associated with them made him queasy.

“Cut the tubing to 10 inches, fill it with water, wrap one around your middle, and voila. Instant marriah. There’s also an anti-marriah device. That’s a long needle used to puncture a marriah. When a marriah is zapped, it instantly recoils around the wearer’s middle.”

“Sounds delightful,” Al chortled, a whole range of possibilities dancing in his mind.

“Usually, someone throws a marriah war when they get wind of a big test coming up. Sometimes only one floor is involved, sometimes it’s the whole dorm. Hmmm,” Sam mused. “They don’t have tests on Saturday. Guess this one’s to get the tools out of their rooms.”

“Tools?”

“Kids who study all the time. No one can study with a marriah war going on. Simms wants Stephen to participate.”

“That’s great, Sam. You can keep an eye on him and he’ll never know it. But what if you get caught?”

Sam grinned. “Nothing happens,” he told Al, misinterpreting the question. “No one gets caught. There’s no proctors to hand out punishments. Besides, there’s no real harm. The dorm is waterproof.” Al didn’t pursue his original thought.

Sam got up and headed for the door. A thought occurred just as he was about to leave the room. Sam turned back to the hologram who was still sitting beside the bed.

“Al, I’m not going to be able to keep much of an eye on Langley if I’m dodging high pressure water blasts all night! Besides, Langley hinted he had something special in mind for Stephen. Something I’m sure I’m not going to like. What’s Langley got against Stephen anyway?”

“Have you looked in a full length mirror?” Al asked with twinkling eyes. Sam frowned and Al pointed to the mirror on the back of the door. “Take a good look.”

Sam removed the jacket that was hanging there and studied Stephen’s image. “Poor kid,” he commented, wrinkling up his nose.

Sam - Stephen - looked like he weighed all of a hundred pounds dripping wet. He was 5’6” with a moppet of unruly hair crowning narrow eyes and a Roman nose. Though Sam was a careful dresser, nothing he put on Stephen’s body looked right The tan corduroy pants, red flannel shirt and dark maroon knit vest looked like they had been slept in for many, many days. Subconsciously, Sam pushed his glasses back on his nose.

“I see your point,” the quantum physicist told his friend. Sam sighed. “Okay. The dorm war isn’t until Friday night. What do I do in the meantime?”

Al consulted the handlink. He looked up, smiling. “According to Ziggy, relax and enjoy your stay.” With that, Al punched the handlink and winked out before Sam could retort.

The next two days, Sam spent immersed in Stephen Islesworth’s life. He enjoyed the classes, especially the computer class, where he worked on an Assembly language program to find the average and standard deviation of numbers on 100 punch cards.

Sam had forgotten how limited computers were in the early ‘70’s. They were huge, cumbersome things with very little memory that were accessed by punch cards or paper tape. Keyboard input was done on a Teletype. Programmers wrote in Assembly language because it used less space than BASIC. Sam wished he could write a program to play chess, but the memory needed to accomplish that exceeded what he had to work with. Still, it was interesting to see how far he could push the computer with the limitations he had.

Wednesday morning after class, Sam began a methodical search of all Stephen’s computer notes. He had to become familiar with the coding before he could add anything to the punch card program Stephen was working on. With Ziggy, the problem would have been simple; on the PDP-5 it was extremely complex.

Before attending Friday’s class, Sam had spent hours pouring over Stephen’s notes and several anomalies became apparent. For one, the program Stephen wrote did the job, but the coding was convoluted. Also, there was an awful lot of input and output that seemed unnecessary. Some of the output was followed by a line that read, “Bite the Bag.” Even when not in class, Sam mulled over Stephen’s program. He liked the mental challenge.

Dorm life was another matter. Sam suffered through five more practical jokes in those two days and found himself tripping over things that seemed to appear out of nowhere. His awkwardness followed him to the chemistry lab as well where he got sidetracked by a student and wound up grabbing a hot petri-dish with his bare hand, blistering two fingers. The knee-jerk reaction wrecked $200 worth of glassware that Stephen would have to pay for. By the time Friday rolled around, Sam was walking on eggs wondering what else would go wrong. Al was noticeably absent.

Sam watched Langley Simms from a distance. Langley was popular with the girls but stayed away from most of the female students at MIT. He preferred the social ladder climbers from the nearby women’s schools.

Though Stephen was the butt of pranks, Sam never caught Langley pulling one on him. If anything, Langley seemed to go out of his way to “make nice” to Stephen. Yet Sam was still wary. There always seemed to be a hint of nastiness behind the niceness.

Occasionally, other students would drop by for a game of chess and Sam would play them on the “clean” board. Stephen, Sam learned, was a master chess player. Sam wasn’t a master, but he was good enough that the students he played didn’t notice a difference. Except one, who thought Sam was using a wicked new strategy.

All day Friday, Sam was keyed up. Langley came and went several times during the day. Sam’s attempts to make conversation with him were half hearted at best and Langley sloughed them off quickly with chores that needed doing. By five o’clock, Sam was so nervous he was wearing a hole in the linoleum floor. When Al appeared, Sam barked at him, “Where the hell have you been?”

Al recoiled his mouth open. “Whoa, Sam. What’s eating you? Ziggy said nothing happens till tonight so Tina and I went back to Vegas for a couple of days. Is there trouble?”

Sam stopped pacing and turned to his friend. He forced his nerves under control.

“I’m sorry, Al. Bad case of nerves.”

“Why, Sam? This one should be a piece of cake.”

“How did you describe Stephen? Nebbish? Try living the life of a nebbish and see what it does for your nerves!” Sam barked, pacing again, his hands flaying wildly as he talked. “I was locked in my room behind a penny-wedged door, someone replaced my room light with a flashbulb and I was plastered with honey and exploding popcorn, I was locked out of my room for hours with nothing but a washcloth for protection - shall I continue?”

Al was grinning. Sam’s black scowl made him hide behind his hand. “Sorry, Sam. I was always on the giving end of pranks. Kick in the butt, aren’t they?”

Sam sighed again. A small smile played at the corner of his lips. Suddenly he was laughing uncontrollably until tears streamed down his face and Al thought he was really going over the edge.

“Talk to me, Sam. What’s going on in there?”

“Just the irony of it all,” Sam told him when the laughing fit had passed. “I guess I was more the prankster myself. I’d forgotten what it was like from the other side. Al, is Ziggy still predicting that I’m here to stop the fire?”

Al consulted the handlink and nodded. “Odds are still 73.2%, Sam. Why?”

“I have a feeling there’s more to this leap.”

“You find something?” Al asked around the cigar.

Sam shook his head. “Nothing I can put a finger on. I did find something strange about Stephen’s computer program.”

“Care to share?”

“Not yet. Still have to mull it out.”

“What about Langley?” Al wanted to know. “Anything to further our suspicions about him?”

“Nothing. I can’t get close to Langley. He acts nice to Stephen but he doesn’t like him. There’s not a bit of common ground between the two. And I still feel Langley’s got something up his sleeve for Stephen tonight. What else can you tell me about the fire?”

Al punched buttons on the handlink. “It happens here, Sam. Right here in Baker House. The fire started on the 3rd floor...”

Al punched keys on the handlink impatiently...

“in room 320. Sam, that’s your room!”

Sam wrinkled his forehead. “Why am I not surprised? How did it start?”

“Someone filled the room with hay. It was set on fire during the marriah fight.”

Sam thought about that, then shook his head. “Al, that doesn’t make sense. Why would Simms set fire to his own room? That’s closer to the way Stephen might solve a problem.” Sam’s mouth fell open and he stared at the hologram. Al frantically punched buttons. When he looked up, all he could do was shrug.

“Sorry, pal. Ziggy can’t corroborate your theory. But if Stephen caused the fire...”

“Then there’s no way the fire can start. I won’t let it. And I should leap right after midnight.”

Al checked the handlink again.

“Well, there’s an 68.1% chance Stephen’s involved, but Ziggy says there’s still a fire.”

Sam’s face fell. “Then that means I still have to face the war tonight.” His shoulders slumped dejectedly. “I’d better prepare some marriahs.”

“You bought the tubing?”

Sam nodded as he produced a roll of tubing. He cut 8 pieces of the tubing, making each piece 10 inches long. One end of each tube was tied in a knot and the other end was capped with a chemistry clamp. When all tubes were ready, Sam removed the clamp and attached the open end to the sink faucet. He filled each tube until the tubing grew to be 10 feet long and a foot in diameter. Each tube held three gallons of water under pressure. The completed marriah would be wrapped around his middle with the clamped end held in his hands. The marriah became a fire hose when the clamp was removed, releasing the pressured water in one quick burst.

“Don’t forget your anti-marriah device,” Al warned.

Sam slapped his forehead. “Thanks, Al. With that, maybe I have a fighting chance.” He began to tear the room apart, neatly of course, searching for a long straight pin or needle. There wasn’t even a sewing kit to be found. In exasperation, Sam flopped on the bed, dejected again.

Al continued to look around the room. “Sam, what about a push tack?”

Sam looked up at the bulletin board. Surgical tubing was pretty weak when stretched, but he wasn’t sure a tack was easy to operate in the heat of battle. However, it was the only sharp object he had come across. He got a tack from the board and tried palming it. Then he shook his head. The end was too short. It wouldn’t work. Al stuck his holographic head through the wall, looking both ways down the hall.

“Sam, lock the door.”

“Why,” Sam asked as he went to the door to do as instructed.

“You haven’t searched Langley’s stuff. I’ll keep a watch. See if he’s got anything you can use.”

Normally, Sam would never think of looking through someone else’s possessions, but leaping had necessitated his becoming a voyeur. The quantum physicist carefully searched Langley’s drawers. Sure enough, hidden in a plastic box at the back of a dresser drawer was a long needle that had been drilled through the center of a 2" piece of ½" dowel and laced in place. It palmed nicely and Sam confiscated it without a second thought. He put the push tack in the box in place of the needle.

Sam checked his watch. There were still a couple of hours before the war officially began. Unofficially, it could start at any moment.

Taking all 8 marriahs, one by one, Sam hid them near the 2nd story landing. He couldn’t wear a marriah to dinner and he was afraid he might not be able to make it back to his room in time to retrieve one. Then, too, he didn’t want his roommate to know what he had. With Al in tow, he headed for the basement cafeteria and some food.

When Sam and Al climbed the stairs, there was a half hour remaining before the declared start of the dorm war. Sam retrieved a marriah and cleared the 3rd floor landing cautiously, even though Al assured him the coast was still clear. Just as he reached Stephen’s room and had the key in the lock, all hell broke loose. A chilling scream pierced the air followed by the opening of every door on the floor. Students were charging down the hall in several directions. Someone bumped into Sam from behind. There was a loud bang and explosion. Sam yelped as his marriah was punctured. It snapped around his midriff, and he knew there’d be a nasty welt in the morning. Water exploded through his clothes, saturating his shirt and pants. Sam spun to see who his attacker had been. He raced back to his cache, quickly secured another marriah, then took off after the offensive student who was just rounding a corner when Sam cleared the stairwell. Al charged after Sam, calling him back to the room. With all the noise in the dorm, Al wasn’t heard. Sam continued to chase his attacker.

Sam rounded the corner armed and ready. His attacker had turned to fight. Sam was faster. He released the marriah, dousing his attacker at close range. Letting out a war whoop, Sam turned and ran back toward his cache, plowing through the hologram midway down the hall. Putting on the brakes, Sam turned back to Al, his face lit with joy.

“Al. Did you see it? Stephen’s finally on the attack. I got that kid full force at close range. I don’t think there was a dry spot on him!”

“Sam, we need to talk.”

“Later, Al. Right now, I need to rearm.”

Sam retrieved another marriah. He ducked away from a charging student armed with an anti-marriah device, barely missing being punctured again. Ignoring Al, Sam charged after Ritchie, who was rounding on Al Norton. Al, the hologram, tried to corner Sam again, but Sam only quit the chase when his weapon was emptied. He was passing his room to rearm when Al blocked his path.

“Open the door,” Al yelled above the din in the halls. Sam frowned. Annoyed, Al pointed toward the door with his cigar, waving it repeatedly in that direction until Sam complied. Hay spilled out into the corridor.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. They did it while you were at dinner.”

Sam stared in disbelief. “Who?”

“Still no info there, Sam,” Al told him, whacking the handlink in frustration.

“Simms wouldn’t wreck his own dorm room,” Sam said emphatically. He stared vacantly at the hay. Sam had no idea how to clean out the room, especially with a marriah war going on.

“You could push it out the window,” Al offered.

“And, pray tell, how do I get to the window? Al, this room’s stuffed tighter than a scarecrow.” Ritchie ran passed him, marriah armed and ready, and Sam was doused again. Just then, Langley Simms stuck his head around the corner. He was holding a very large and dangerous marriah and advancing on Sam. Sam slammed the door shut and began backing down the hallway, away from Simms. He turned and was about to bolt when he saw Al Norton coming from that direction. He too was armed with a marriah twice the normal size. Sam was caught in a squeeze play with nowhere to run.

Suddenly the two students let out blood-curdling yells and charged. Sam fled toward Norton, the smaller of the two. The young man waited till Sam was less than a foot away before releasing his marriah. The blast made Sam reel. He turned his head away to breathe and was hit by Langley’s released marriah. Sam staggered into the wall, his arms flung up against the combined force of the two marriahs. It seemed to take forever before both marriahs were spent. Moaning miserably, the wind knocked out of him, Sam slid down the wall and huddled on the floor. Simms and Norton walked away, arm in arm, laughing at how they had gotten Stephen.

Al knelt beside Sam. “Geez, Sam. Are you all right? Sam?”

The time traveler raised his head but his eyes had a faraway look. “Can’t breathe.”

“Slow, deep breaths, Sam. I know how you must be feeling, but you still have to do something about the hay. Ziggy says the fire starts in 25 minutes. That doesn’t give you much time.”

“I’m a --- target --- every time --- I approach that room, Al,” Sam wheezed. “ I’m not even doing a very good job of defending myself. Now this fire...wait a minute. These dorms - they’re all brick, right?’

“Yeah,” Al agreed.

“If they’re flooded, there’s no place for the water to drain. It just accumulates, or runs down the stairwells. Right?”

“Sure but...Sam, what are you planning?”

Sam got up slowly and walked back toward the lavatory. Al dutifully tagged along, but Sam refused to say what he had in mind. Without a marriah around his middle, he was ignored till Simms ran by with a wastebasket of water. Sam turned his back in time to avoid the full load. There was a cackle as Langley trotted away. Sam scowled darkly at his retreating back.

In the bathroom, Sam clogged the drains with paper towels and turned on all the showers and sinks full open. When Al assured him the coast was clear, he left the bathroom and headed for Ritchie’s room. Fortunately, Ritchie was in, preparing two new marriahs. Sam bulldozed his way in.

“You owe me,” he told Ritchie and pushed the taller boy back toward his bed. Ritchie sat down, staring up at a very wet and very different Stephen Islesworth.

“What? And why?” Ritchie calmly asked.

“I don’t know how many other pranks you pulled on me, but for the phone you owe me. I want some dry clothes. I can’t get into my room.”

“How come?”

“Someone stuffed it with hay.”

Ritchie began to giggle. Sam was nonplused. “Clothes,” he demanded.

“Okay. Not because I owe you. I don’t want to be responsible for your next bout with pneumonia.” He rummaged through his wardrobe and came up with a pair of too tight jeans and a warm shirt. Sam toweled off and changed clothes. He had to roll up the jeans legs and use a piece of wire to hold the pants over his hips. Ritchie was slim, but even pants that were too tight for him were still too big for Stephen. Dressed and much warmer, Sam left the room with a parting warning.

“You better head for the hills. The hall is flooding.”

When he opened the door, the water level was already near the 1" mark and rising. Al was chortling. “I think you just saved Stephen from many future pranks.”

“I hope so, Al. What about the fire?”

Al checked the handlink. “That did it, Sam. No fire. The marriah war ends when the water reaches the 5" mark. Simms calls it a new record.”

Sam trudged through the water to the stairwell and up to the 4th floor. He sat down on the dilapidated hallway couch and waited. “Well?” he said at last.

“Well, what?” Al asked, taking the bait.

“Why haven’t I leaped?”

“Gooshie,” Al yelled, “why hasn’t Sam leaped?” He listened for a moment. “Ziggy still thinks that you were here to prevent the fire, Sam, but now he’s saying there might be something else you have to do.”

Sam sighed heavily and yawned. “I thought so.” He curled into a ball on the couch, tucked his arm under his head and announced, “I’m tired, Al. Wake me when it’s over.” Within seconds, he was snoring.

A nudge in the side woke him from a very sound sleep. Sam pushed to a sitting position and stretched to unkink. From the stiffness of muscles, he must have been asleep quite some time. He looked up to find Ritchie smiling down on him.

“It’s over?”

“Yeah. Water’s almost receded. Your roommate is cleaning out the hay with the help of half a dozen others. I got worried when no one knew where you were. I was planning on doing a floor-by-floor search starting at the top.”

Sam smiled back. “Thanks. Thanks for caring.”

“Sure. No problem. I’m surprised anyone let you sleep.”

“How long?” Sam asked, getting to his feet.

“You left my room over two hours ago. Well, if you’re okay, I’m going to turn in. See you.”

“Yeah,” Sam called after him as Ritchie retreated down the stairs. Maybe Sam had found Stephen a new friend. He hoped so. Sam looked around for Al, but the hologram was nowhere in sight. Still wondering why he hadn’t leaped, Sam returned to his room to help unload the hay.

Monday morning, Sam dressed to attend Stephen’s computer class. He was combing his hair when Al popped in. Sam was again a bundle of nerves.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Sorry, Sam. Ziggy’s got nada.”

“That doesn’t cut it, Al. I need information. I don’t care what you have to do to get it.”

“You don’t like being back at MIT?”

“Sure I do, but I don’t want to be here forever! If the mission’s over, I should leap. If it isn’t over, then I need to know what I’m supposed to do. I haven’t a clue and it’s driving me nuts.”

In spite of himself, Al smiled. “Have you ever thought this might be a vacation and you’re supposed to relax and enjoy it?”

Sam quit combing his hair, frowning at the image in the mirror. “As Stephen Islesworth? Give me a break.”

“More pranks uh hacks?” Al asked.

“Noooooo...”

“So enjoy. I’ll be back when I’ve got some news.”

“Al...” but it was too late. The hologram was gone.

“Damn!”

In computer class, Sam was going over the last bit of coding that Stephen had entered when he again spied the words, “Bite the Bag” at the end of a line, and he suddenly sat up straight in his chair. Sam reread the coding to be sure he was interpreting it correctly. A frown and a smile played across his face at the same time. It was a sight to behold.

“I’ll be,” he said aloud just as the chamber door opened and Al stepped into the classroom.

“Something wrong, Mr. Islesworth?” the instructor asked.

Sam’s smile disappeared as he squirmed an apology. “Uh, no sir. Everything’s fine.” To Al, Sam whispered hoarsely, “Al, look at this. Do you see it?”

Al read over Sam’s shoulder. “See what?” he mouthed around the ever present cigar.

“The little stinker,” Sam grinned. “Al, with this program, Stephen could set computing back 15, maybe 20 years!”

Al was frowning. “How?” he asked.

Sam’s reply was to gather all the papers pertaining to the program, shred them into small pieces, and deposit them in the trash can at the front of the room. On his way back to his seat, he whispered to Al, “I wish I could burn those.”

“Burn what?” Al wanted to know. “Sam....!”

Still grinning, Sam told the hologram, “Check Ziggy. See if that was sufficient to keep Stephen from starting the first computer virus.”

“Virus? You’re kidding. You think that was your mission?” Al asked as he checked the handlink.

Sam nodded. Al’s astonished look as he read the data told Sam all he needed to know.

“I became suspicious something funny was going on when I kept seeing ‘Bite the Bag’ at the end of certain lines. He’s good, Al. I almost missed the virus. It was embedded pretty deep.”

“Ain’t that a kick in the butt?” Al asked. “That would’ve been the biggest hack of all time.”

Sam nodded. “Maybe that’s what Stephen had in mind. To be the first computer hacker. He’s now got a bigger mystery to solve.”

“What’s that?”

“What happened to his computer program. I just shredded it.”

“Sam, that doesn’t stop Stephen. Ziggy says there’s a 67.3% probability Stephen still starts a computer virus. Only now, instead of starting it this year, the virus starts in '73.”

Frowning, Sam sat back down in the desk. “I’ve destroyed the program,” he told Al, “but not the idea. The coding is still in Stephen’s head.”

“Well,” Al whacked the handlink just to hear it squeal, “we can’t brainwash the kid.”

“No,” Sam agreed. Then he smiled.

“What?” Al asked. He knew the look.

For answer, Sam rummaged through Stephen’s notebook for a clean sheet of paper. He found one, wrote his message, then retrieved some cellophane tape from the instructor’s desk and taped the paper inside Stephen’s computer textbook. Sam stretched out in the desk, locking his hands behind his head, and allowed Al to read over his shoulder. The quantum physicist didn’t have to ask if the note had done the trick. The beginning of a new leap took him just as Al finished reading.

“I know what you’ve done,” the note read. “I’ve destroyed your virus program. If you ever try to rewrite it, I’ll return you to the room you’ve been locked away in for the last week. This time, I’ll throw away the key.” The note was signed, “The Ultimate Hacker.”

Post Script

Many of the hacks or pranks in this story actually happened and the character of Ritchie is real. He is my husband, Richard, who was a student at MIT. Richard provided the background color of the story and actually instigated the telephone hack with the same results I described. This story is lovingly dedicated to him.