'East London 2065. Hammersmith, Barking, Whitechap-' the soft recorded female voice stopped abruptly. An eerie wail surrounded the passengers of the TT7-EastLondon-2030 to Barking-2065. The compartment lurched and all the passengers swayed suddenly in unison. The overhead lights glimmered as the vehicle slowed, then hiccuped, lurched and inexorably came to a stuttering halt.
Darkness overwhelmed the passengers. 'Bugger!', someone exclaimed. 'Mother of Bollocks!' said another. Emergency lights flickered on. Small polite but irritable conversations began to form a low murmur in the cabin.
Thurston prepared himself for the inevitable. He opened his newspaper and pretended to read it in the insufficient light. "You must have very good eyes, I suspect," said a bespectacled gentleman next to him. "Trevor Willsgate" he said, extending his hand politely. "Thurston Howell", he replied as he shook it. A pause followed. Thurston readied himself. "The Third?," Trevor proferred with an unsuppressed grin. Thurston lowered his head for a moment, then rallied himself and raised it bearing a requisite smile, saying "No, no, I'm afraid not. My parents broke the mold, as they say. ha ha". Thurston sighed.
Thurston remembered his parents. Abigail and T. Elton Howell, were in fact ex-patriates, but somehow had never seen the show, or any television for that matter as they were devoted readers of books. He wished that the memory exchanger had been invented before he was born. If so, and perhaps with the aid of a time-tube he could somehow change out one of his mum's more useless memories, such as the dustbin holiday schedule or the number of ounces in a troy pound or the identity of some lesser character from Crime and Punishment, with the fact that 'Thurston Howell', is the name of a ridiculous old posh chap on a tiresome American television show about a boat full of strangers thrust onto an improbably remote island - only three hours journey from proper civilization, yet somehow managing to remain stranded there for the better part of 15 years.
Thurston returned from his reverie and looked about the cabin. Trevor, relievedly, had taken up a new, less awkward conversation with another passenger.
His attention was drawn to a motion in the aisle. A rotund fellow wearing a serviceman's cap bearing the trademark underground logo proceeded slowly towards him. "Ah, an employee, perhaps we shall be underway soon!," he hoped to himself. 'Tickets Please!', he announced. 'I'll need to check your tickets, please have them at the ready when I come to you'. Thurston tossed aside the absurdity of this proceeding with the rationalization that surely we must be moving soon and this was somehow a necessity. 'Your ticket sir?', he addressed Thurston directly. He seemed to be wearing a striped shirt under his jacket. "Excuse me, do you have any information on the status of the vessel?," Thurston inquired. 'All in good time,', he assured. 'No pun intended,' he winked jovially and nudged the air with his elbow. 'Got to maintain order meantimes. I will need to ascertain the validity of your ticket,' he puffed up his chest as he said this, clearly proud of his bureaucratic status. Thurston presented his ticket. The serviceman tipped his hat, smiled warmly and continued past him.
"Oh sir!," said a woman. "Oh do please excuse me sir!", she continued, arising from her seat sinuously. "Will the tube be moving soon?" she asked breathlessly. "I really have to make it to my audition today!," she pleaded. "I dare not be late! I have a meeting with the director of the Royal Theater". "Himself." she added rather sensually. The steward tipped his hat her direction. "All in good time, my dear" and gave her a kindly wink. "Tickets! ..."
He looked to his phone. Perhaps it could provide mental escape while they wait for repairs that surely must be in progress. No bars. Low battery warning. The phone screen went black as it shut itself off. "Do they even have cell phone service now, he wondered. Surely retrotech was accommodated in 2065. If it even was 2065, who could say? Phone dead, there was no telling how long they'd been stopped. His shoulders fell as he realized he had nothing else to do but socialize and the dreaded inevitable introductions would be required anew.
The semi-darkness gave Thurston time to study each passenger at length. In their boredom, the passengers had begun to stand up and mill about the cabin visiting and exchanging stories of missed appointments, and other impediments to their future lives progress. In the semi-darkness, Thurston could just make out a neatly groomed young man in a crisp white shirt crouched down in the vestibule. The man had an air of technical competence, a repairman perhaps. He pulled an instrument from his shirt pocket and began to worry a steel door panel with it. Thurston watched as he opened the panel and studied its contents thoughtfully. He began exposing wires, selecting and reconnecting them. Noticing his gaze, the man waved him closer.
"Look there," the white shirted man pointed into the mechanical enclosure. Thurston watched as wires spontaneously shrunk in size, rearranged themselves and then disappeared entirely into a small box. The logo and identifying numbers of the box blurred and then changed. First it read 'Intellitech A3759-03', then blurred and then 'Geniad G1105', then blurred again becoming 'Afterline 18-TT'. "You see, as we travel through time in this tube, the technology actually changes along with the change in years." "What time is it?," the technician asked. "My phone is not charged, I am sorry". "Nevermind the phone, isn't that a retrotech chronometer on your wrist?," the man persisted. "Oh, I'd quite forgotten it." Thurston answered, surprised at his oversight. The chronometer read '2045'. "Okay, you see, I am from 2050, and that is as far as my technical training can be of use. When we pass 2050, I cannot help us anymore" Our only hope is to derail the train again."
He gently disconnected and crossed two small cables, drawing sparks and was visibly delighted by this. Thurston saw the box change backwards through its prior metamorphosis, connect to other boxes which appeared, changed color and then disappeared.
The train lurched backward screeching, throwing alarmed people back into their seats. The loudspeaker began to speak gibberish. Thurston watched the interior contents of the box resolve into yet further shapes, chambers and now, he saw, glass tubes with glowing orange wires.
fizz crackle zorch... hiss... the speaker came to life. "p-p-pel, Newkirk, District. Please prepare for time arrival to the year 1932 by fastening your seatbelts. Please be sure to take all your personal belongings with you as you exit the capsule. Welcome to the past and please have a pleasant stay." the recorded voice enthused neutrally. The vehicle surged to a stop, causing the passengers to lurch simultaneously towards the rear. The vestibule doors opened briskly, the light blinding Thurston's now darkness adjusted pupils.
He emerged from the tube and stepped onto a fairly new looking platform. Nearby he heard the steamy huff of a train on the adjacent side, bearing a wooden plaquard which read 'Arnos Grove'. He didn't have his time legs yet, and lost his balance, collapsing to the ground. A pleasantly attractive silver haired woman approached him, extending her arm. "Let me help you, my dear". Embarassed, he accepted her arm and rose shakily. "I am Eunice," she politely offered and inquired "Are you quite alright?" Thurston looked into her eyes and felt a warming sense of familiarity upon meeting her. "Charmed, madam, I am Thurston Howell." "I feel as if I know you already," she replied pleasantly. "Call me Lovey", she insisted, "Everyone does." "It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lovey." He smiled at her, and together they walked hand and hand into the past to start a new future.