Now that you're gone
I'm left all alone
All by myself
To wander and roam
Cause I love my girl
Donna, oh where can you be?
Where can you be?

Well darlin, now that you're gone
I don't know, what I'll do
All the time, and all my love for you

– Ritchie Valens (Donna)

The endless parade of hotties had settled on candidate Teresa Marquez – Rick hadn’t met her, so he imagined her as a raven-haired, overly attentive doctor and he was a not-so-badly injured patient when the alarm went off.

2009, said the Wells’s instrument panel. He was right on schedule. The ship was speeding along, nearing Eris.

“Computer, load and play selected music,” he said. He had chosen two songs apiece from the three subjects, “Random order.”

First was the Big Bopper’s Chantilly Lace, “Hellooooo, baby!” came JP Richardson’s voice, booming across the kilometers, and the years.

Then, it was Buddy Holly’s Every Day, and then back to Richardson for The Big Bopper’s Wedding. And then it played Valenzuela’s La Bamba and Come On, Let’s Go, finally ending with Holly’s Rave On.

The recordings were crackly, but they gave him some ideas about the time, and the three men he had to send to their deaths.

He scratched his head. Vitalis. He had forgotten it. He went to the Replicator, which was off to the side, “Computer, Vitalis.”

The Replicator spat out a tiny tube. He squeezed out its contents and combed it into his hair, “Man, oh man,” he said, “I bet I smell just like 1959 now.”

He had a few more minutes, so he tuned in an actual radio station on Earth, and listened to Alan Freed introducing, and then spinning Dion and the Belmonts singing Teenager in Love. He switched on the cloak as soon as he had gotten within visual range of Ceres.

There was but one satellite circling the Earth in 1959. It was Sputnik. And, that was it. Telstar wasn’t scheduled to go up for another three years, and even then it would only beep a bit.

Closer to the ground, things were, of course, far livelier. Pan Am had a flight heading from Los Angeles to Buenos Aires. TWA was sending planes into and out of O’Hare. Idlewild saw its share of air traffic as countless stewardesses turned off No Smoking signs and began to walk around cabins and take drink orders.

Rick saw none of that, except for a blip or two from Sputnik. A few beeps and not much else, unless he checked broadcasts. I Love Lucy and Rawhide were on. 77 Sunset Strip was offering up its own patented brand of cool, or a viewer could tune into the Nairobi Trio from Ernie Kovacs instead.

It was getting late and he waited until he figured that evening’s performances were finished. He got a visual on Clear Lake. It was snowy, and few people were outside. All he cared about was the Surf Ballroom. Once he was satisfied that no one was going to see, he grabbed a phaser and a Transporter remote control and beamed to the surface.

The leather jacket wasn’t much good against the cold, but it was what he had. He found a door beneath the marquee, but it was locked. He circled around to the back – that would be better than picking the front door’s lock, although he would do that if he had no other alternatives.

There was a side door to the stage, and he was pleasantly shocked that it was open.

Inside was a small hallway, with a sign to the stage and another leading back to dressing rooms. He went in the direction of the dressing rooms.

“And just where do ya think you’re going?” asked a middle-aged security guard.

“Uh, I have something for, uh, for Mr. Holly.”

“Lemme see it.”

The only thing he had in his hands was the Transporter remote control – not a good choice to hand out to anyone.

“Uh, just a second,” he pretended to fumble in his pockets. He didn’t really want to stun the guy, but it seemed like his best option. He saw another door and started to walk toward it.

The security guard followed, “C’mon, fella.”

“Oh, yes. Here,” There was no one around. Stunning was quick. The door opened to a supply closet. He got the guard in there and stunned him again, “An hour. Huh,” he said to himself as he checked the man for temporal signatures, and found none.

He turned around to walk to the dressing rooms. There were sounds of music, a radio station. Whoever was listening fiddled with the volume and turned it down. A dressing room door opened, and the music got louder again.

Out of that door stepped Buddy Holly.

Rick stared at him for a moment.

Then Buddy sneezed.

“Uh, bless you,” said Rick.

“Thanks. Uh, is the stage knocked down yet?” he asked Rick.

“I, uh, almost.”

“Good. I gotta get outta here. Atchoo!”

“Bless you.”

There was the sound of giggling. Two young women, a blonde and a brunette, were walking down the hall. They shrieked when they saw Buddy.

“Oh, Mr. Holly! Mr. Holly!” they called out. They both had autograph books, and thrust them into his hands.

He sneezed again, but then signed. They started rubbing up against him, on either side of him, “Ladies, ladies, please,” he protested amidst more sneezing, “I’m a married man,” he looked at Rick, “They friends of yours?”

“Nope.”

“Ladies, really!” Buddy protested again.

Another door opened, and Rick first heard, rather than saw, JP Richardson, who called out, “Hellooooo, baby!” just like at the start of Chantilly Lace.

The girls giggled again. The blonde grabbed a cigarette from her purse but didn’t light it. The brunette adjusted a cotton candy pink cardigan and, surreptitiously, the underside of her bra.

Buddy retreated to his dressing room. Richardson took one look at Rick and said, “You got the stage all torn down yet?”

“Uh, we’re working on it.”

“Yeah, well get back to working on it,” JP commanded, and then thought better of it as he looked over the girls. Rick made as if to leave, and JP came over to him, “Actually, son, my apologies,” he stuck his hand out and Rick shook it, a little bemused at JP – who was over a decade younger than him – calling him son. JP came closer, “Which do you prefer?” he asked quietly, indicating the girls, “Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor?”

“I hardly think ….”

“Now, you’re not gonna leave me without a wingman, are ya?”

Rick shook his head. This could be interesting.

“Now, which do ya prefer?” JP repeated, “Keep in mind that blondes do have more fun.”

“Uh, the, uh, the brunette.”

“Elizabeth Taylor. Smart choice. You’ll go far in this business.”

I had a girl
Donna was her name
Since she left me
I've never been the same
Cause I love my girl
Donna, oh where can you be?
Where can you be?

Oh, Donna Oh, Donna
Oh, Donna Oh, Donna
Oh, Donna Oh, Donna

– Ritchie Valens (Donna)