Summer of Love, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

with absurd pointed toes. Straight-leg Levi’s that have
been styled much the same since 1849 to Chi’s day. The pharmaceutical necklace
and nutritional necklace will easily pass for love beads. His French flight
jacket in a tough brown synthy looks, feels, and smells like real goatskin.
    Everything
is bacteria-resistant, waterproofed, and dust-proofed. The payload on a t-port
has got to be light, so he’ll have to wear the costume for seventy-six days.
The Archivists assured him no one will think this unusual. Runaways to the
Haight-Ashbury often brought nothing but their ideals and the shirts on their
backs.
    His
jacket pockets are well supplied: Block, a maser, a scanner, a scope, filters,
wipes, and a good supply of prophylaks. It’s imperative he avoid the bacteria,
pollutants, and viruses of this Day.
    His
knuckletop is the largest payload and was the object of the fiercest
contention. It looks just like a man’s ring of carved silver with a raised
bezel. The power in there—wow. No t-porter before Chi had been allowed to take
such a modern tool. The temptation to violate Tenet Seven of the Grandmother
Principle—which forbids the use of modern technologies in the past--was just too
great.
    His
skipmother insisted over the objections of several directors. My skipson
takes the knuckletop , she said, or he doesn’t go.
    Now
Chi pats his jeans pocket. The moment he touches it, he knows what his skipmother
slipped him. He fishes out the stash cube. What’s inside? Tiny crystal slivers
he can insert in the knuckletop. Holoid discs.
    What’s
on the discs? He can’t wait to view them.
    Chi
breaks into a jog. Where to? Just keep moving. He dodges through the crowd,
seeking someplace quiet, someplace private. He sprints down Page, crosses over
to Clayton Street.
    Suddenly
he sees something that stops him in his tracks in the middle of the street. A
flatbed truck jammed with kids screeches to a halt. The driver yells and flips
him the finger.
    Chi
doesn’t care. Excitement squeezes his chest as he sprints down the block.
There, at the corner, is a three-story Victorian commercial building. The
address, 555 Clayton Street. Above a door on the ground floor is the sight that
has sent him sprinting. There’s a sign above a shop:

    Wow!
Like the carving that’s supposed to be on the Portals of the Past!
    But
not the same. He calms down. The two other symbols are missing. Not the same,
at all.
    Still,
the resemblance is striking. The resemblance is good enough for him.
    Chi raises
the knuckletop to his lips. “K-T,” he whispers and cups his hand behind the
ring. A little field of lavender light pops up halfway between his hand and his
face.
    He
whispers a description of the shop sign.
    The
knuckletop analyzes his description against the Archival files in its memory
and calculates how meaningful the information may be. Bright red alphanumerics
flash. Not that meaningful, it turns out, but there is some probability edging
up to forty percent.
    Some
probability is also good enough for him. It’s a sign, a portent, a good omen.
    Chi
slides a prophylak out of his jacket pocket, shakes it free of its folds. With
a gesture he’s practiced hundreds of times, he sweeps the fine PermaPlast over
his hand. The prophylak adheres to his palm and fingers, forming a shield
against the toxins of the past.
    He
pulls open the door handle and enters the shop. A flickering blue neon sign
informs him the place is called the Mystic Eye.

3
    Somebody to Love
    Ruby
A. Maverick says, Dig It:
    The
media moan and whine that they don’t understand these crazed folks with their
frolics and their TITillations. And since the media don’t understand—and why
should they? diatribe and invective make such good copy—it follows that the hip
community stands for nothing. Who knows what their principles are, let alone
their MORALS?
    Yet
when the Mayor of San Francisco and the Chief of Police decline to do a THING
about the stampede of kids—who were