April 17, 1967
Parker Elementary School
Billerica, Massachusetts

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you standing there."

"That's all right, I sort of snuck up on you."

The teacher thought the man had a southern accent. He bent down and leaned on the top of the chain link fence.

She had a tall hairdo with a bow. "God, I forget what women looked like back then," he thought.

He smiled. "You're Mrs. McNiff, aren't you?"

"Why, yes. Does your, ummm, grandchild, go to school here?"

"He's the little dark-haired boy on the grass under the willow branches, by the fence over there."

"He's a bright little kid. A little quiet, keeps off to himself. Very fast on the uptake."

The old man smiled with a little snort. "I know."

"He stays by himself too much. He needs to play with the other children more."

He leaned back with his hands on top of the fence. "Aw, leave him alone. He's thinking!"

She smiled nervously.

"I didn't see you drive up."

"I didn't. I was... within walking distance."

A bell rang. As the other children began to run towards the school, she saw the little boy under the tree.

"Louie, you need to get back inside!"

The old man grimaced and turned aside. He always hated that nickname. The boy scrambled up and began to run toward the other children.

"It was nice meeting you," he said as she left the fence.

"It was good to meet you, too, Mr...?"

"Antonelli. My name's Lou Antonelli, too." He paused. "The boy was named for his grandfather."

The teacher took off at a ladylike trot, rounding up children as she went, as the old man congratulated himself on his skillful, and honest, circumlocution.

He was Lou Antonelli, and the boy was named for his grandfather. She assumed he meant himself--which he didn't.

He looked to the shady, grassy place under the tree where the boy had been sitting. He noticed an orange streak in the green grass.

The pen had fallen out of the boy's back pocket. He thought for a moment to shout but caught himself.

He sidled along the chain-link fence and swung it open. He walked over to where the boy had been sitting and picked up the orange pen.

He looked back towards the school. A teacher saw him and peered.

"I better get lost, I've attracted enough attention," he thought as he walked deliberately out of the playground and back through the gate. He closed it carefully like he knew what he was doing, and quickly walked around the corner where the portal was cloaked.

He reached into his right pants pocket for the control and slipped the pen into his left shirt pocket.

"I spent $10 million and traveled 80 years and all I got was a lousy pen." He smiled at his own sarcasm.

He punched a preset button on the control.

"Next stop, Winnsboro, Texas."

April 9, 1967
41 Elsie Avenue
Billerica, Massachusetts

"Luigino, here's a quarter. Why don't you ride to LeDoux's and buy yourself a Drake's cake?"

The little boy's incessant chatter was giving his mother a headache. It was bad enough he talked all the time, but he went on and on in a language she didn't particularly like--and which she spoke with great effort.

"I can buy anything I want, can't I?"

"Of course."

She thought he meant like potato chips instead of a snack cake. But the ten-year old had other plans.

He had been in Mrs. McNiff's 4th grade class that day when his pen ran out of ink. He had to borrow a pen from a nice American boy to jot down his homework assignment.

It was a rich orange-yellow color and had a shiny conical black cap. It had a solid-feeling point that wrote in a clear, dark line. He liked the feel and way it looked. Before he handed it back, he read the side.

"Bic Medium Fine Point 25 cents"

He had lots of pens at home--really cheap ones, a dollar a dozen. He wanted one of those orange pens.

He jumped on his bike and rode nearly a mile to a battered old store splattered with soda and tobacco signs. He laid his bike on its side and went inside, where a beefy man leaned down on a counter, reading the sports section of the Boston Record- American. Carl Yaztremski and the Red Sox were in a hot race for the American League pennant.

"What can I help you with, son?"

The boy looked over to the counter where neat little boxes held various pens. He pulled out one of the orange ones and placed it on the counter, along with a quarter.

The man looked over his glasses. "There's sales tax on this. You need another two pennies."

The boy shook his head. The man looked at him and reached over to an old plastic ashtray that said "Cinzano."

He pulled out two pennies and dropped them loudly into the till along with the boy's quarter.

"We have to make sure Governor Volpe gets his money."

He smiled at the boy and went back to reading his paper. The boy turned around and ran out quickly.

As he went to get on his bike, he tucked the pen into his pants. He had an idea.

He rode his bicycle home with the pen stuck precariously in his back pocket.

As he came into the house his mother asked what he had bought. He thought quickly.

"A Ring Ding--but I ate already it."

He bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and ran into his room. He looked over a pile of beat-up paperbacks and picked up the top book.

He wrote with a florid script.

"Louis Antonelli"

"Science Fiction"

He closed the book and looked at the colorful cover.

"The Runaway Robot by Lester del Rey."

He liked the feel and the way the pen wrote. The boy picked up another book.

This time he wrote his name and the category in block letters, trying to imitate the type on the cover.

He closed that book and held it out front with one hand.

"Time for the Stars by Robert A. Heinlein."

"I wonder if some day I can have my name on a book?" he thought.

He opened the book again and began to re-read the tale about the telepathic twins recruited for outer space exploration. Soon he was lost in the story and was off on a great adventure.