Let me say right now that I thought the solution they came up with was nonsensical and I kept searching, all the time we talked, for ways of politely turning down the offer. Escaping to to the past was a ridiculous answer. But it was just the kind of notion that would appeal to an old-fashioned character like Mr. Atkins.
I didn't tell him so, of course. I thanked him for his consideration and shook hands and felt relieved when he finally left.
My mind was made up by then. I'd back out, quit if I had to, rather than take refuge in the past to evade the future.
It wasn't until I got out of the office that I realized there was no big decision to make; it was already made for me. Either I was going to die or I was going into the past—and I wasn't going to die if I could help it. But neither did I intend going into the past if I could really help that!
When Marge realized that I wasn't merely trying to take her mind off the fatal day, she pounced on me and hugged me as though I myself had invented the time machine just to save her life!
"It's wonderful, darling!" she cried. "You were right all along! Oh, how can you forgive me for making things so unbearable for you?"
"About this idea of going into the past—" I said.
"What's the difference when we go to," she cut in, "as long as we don't have to die?"
"But I figured on telling Mr. Atkins at the last minute that all I want is a transfer—"