We weren’t about to believe in Dr. Deebles’ innate law of time travel until we’d tested it. It was easy enough to check. All we had to do was put ourselves into last week.
We failed miserably. We’d get the blackness, and the falling sensation. Then we’d crash into some invisible barrier, get hurled backwards, and find ourselves in our room in residence, feeling hungover.
“There has to be some way around this,” said Brent. “If the fire was caused by our being there, we have to stop it.”
Georgia toyed with the cobra bracelet on her wrist, glaring at the empty bottle of pain killers on the coffee table. Nate scanned the recording of our latest attempt frame by frame, muttering to himself. I was staring off into space, when my eye was caught by the fire extinguisher Brent’s mom had given us, hanging on the side of the cupboard by the stove. If only there was some way of getting it to the Library. But we couldn’t get back to the appropriate time window to use it. We’d been there already.
Nate hadn’t. He’d stayed behind to run the transmitter. I jumped to my feet. “Nate, how hard is it to operate that thing?”
“Programming’s tricky. But the transmitting part is easy. All I have to do is watch for the signal and flip a switch.”
“So even I could do it?”
“Sure, a six-year-old could do it.”
“How would you like to take a trip?”
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