ChronoSpace

by Allen Steele

  “And you have evidence for this?” Kent Morris had his copy of Analog open on the boardroom table.

  “Well . . . no. But it isn’t a theory.” Murphy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Kind of a thought experiment, really. This is a science fiction magazine, after all. This kind of speculation goes on all the . . .”

  “I understand that,” Morris said impatiently, “but here, in your footnotes . . .” He peered at the last page of the article. “You’ve cited a NASA study on wormholes . . .”

  “A paper from an academic conference held last spring on interstellar travel. I found it on the Web.”

  “I know. I read it after I read your piece.” Morris frowned as he tapped a finger against the magazine. “The paper says nothing about time travel, let alone any connection with UFOs. You’ve drawn upon it to reach some rather far-fetched conclusions.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy stole a glance at Cummisky. Harry wasn’t looking directly at anyone; his hands were folded together in his lap. He had remained silent so far, offering no comment, and Murphy had gradually come to the realization that Harry’s main concern was covering his own ass. There was no way his boss would rise to his defense.

  “They’re far-fetched, I’ll admit,” Murphy said, “but they’re not inappropriate.”

  Ordmann looked up sharply, and Morris raised a skeptical eyebrow. Cummisky softly let out his breath. Too late, Murphy realized that he had said the wrong thing. “What I mean is, I don’t think . . .”

  “Please.” Ordmann held up a hand. “Perhaps we should back up a little, summarize what we know so far.” He put on his glasses again, picked up his copy of Analog. “David, on your own initiative, you’ve written an article for this . . . uh, sci-fi magazine . . . which claims that the UFOs aren’t from another planet, but instead may be time machines.”

  “I didn’t make any such claim, sir. I merely speculated that . . .”

  “Let me finish, please. Your main point is that, since there’s no feasible way for small spacecraft to cross interstellar distances, and since the star systems most likely to contain planets capable of harboring intelligent life are dozens of light-years from Earth, the only reasonable explanation for UFOs is that they’re vehicles somehow capable of generating wormholes, which in turn would enable their passengers to travel backward in time. Therefore, UFOs may have originated on Earth, but from hundreds of years in the future. That’s the gist of it, right?”

  From across the table, Morris regarded him much as if he was one of the fanatics who haunted Lafayette Park across from the White House, holding up signs demanding the release of the Roswell aliens from Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Harry sank lower in his seat, if that was at all possible.

  “Yes, sir,” Murphy said, “but, like I said, it’s an entirely speculative proposition. I mean, I don’t think this is what’s happening. I’m only suggesting . . . extrapolating, that is, that . . .”

  “I understand.” Unexpectedly, Ordmann smiled, with no trace of condescension. “As I said, it’s an intriguing idea. If someone in Hollywood made a movie out of it, it’d probably be a hit.” He chuckled and shook his head. “If I were you, I’d write a screenplay and send it to Steven Spielberg. Maybe he’d buy it for a few million dollars.” His smile faded. “But that’s not the point. You’ve written this article as a NASA scientist . . .”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Murphy interrupted, “but I didn’t present my credentials in the article. There’s nothing in the piece which states that I work for the agency . . .”

  “I understand that,” Ordmann said. “Nevertheless, you’re a senior NASA scientist. That lends a certain amount of credibility to your theory . . . or speculation, as you call it.”

  Murphy was about to object, only to be headed off by Morris. “I went back and read your earlier pieces,” the Public Affairs chief said. “On two separate occasions, you made mention of the fact that you’re a physicist working for NASA. Although you don’t present your credentials in this particular article, many of them are bound to remember your affiliation with the agency.”

  “Right. And there’s the problem.” Ordmann closed the magazine, placed it on the table. “David, I can take you downstairs to the mailroom and show you how many crackpot letters we receive each month. People claiming the Apollo program was canceled because we found cities on the Moon, that shuttle astronauts have seen flying saucers in orbit, that we’re covering up everything from alien invasions to the Kennedy assassination. That sort of thing’s been going on since the Mercury days, and hasn’t let up since.”

  The Associate Administrator sighed as he removed his glasses once more. “This is why NASA has no official position on UFOs, other than to state that we’re not actively engaged in researching them. Even unofficially, we say that they don’t exist. Son, if a flying saucer landed in front of the White House and the Post called to ask for my opinion, I’d say it wasn’t there. That’s how carefully we have to play this sort of thing.”

  Although he nodded, Murphy remained unconvinced. His previous articles had touched on subjects nearly as far-fetched. Indeed, in his piece on lunar agriculture, he had playfully suggested that marijuana could be potentially useful as a cash crop. No one had complained about that. Yet any public discussion of UFOs appeared to be off-limits.

  There was no sense in arguing the point, though. “I see,” he said. “I’m sorry if this has embarrassed the agency. That wasn’t my intent.”

  Ordmann smiled. “I’m sure that wasn’t the idea, David. And believe me, I don’t want to do anything that would stifle your creativity. When Kent brought this to my attention, I asked Harry to let me see some of the other things you’ve done. You’re a pretty good writer.” He chuckled a little. “You know, back when I was a kid, I used to read this magazine when it was still called Astounding. It was one of the things that got me interested in space. I’m glad to see that one of our people has this connection. It’s a good way of touching base with the public.”

  Then he shook his head. “But I can’t let you go off half-cocked like this. Have you done any other articles lately?”

  “Is there anything else awaiting publication?” Morris asked more pointedly.

  “No, sir,” Murphy replied. “I’ve been a little too busy lately to do much writing.” Which was only a half-truth. Although he had been involved with analyzing the data received from the Galileo space probe, he had also been collecting notes on the same for an article he hoped to pitch to Analog. Perhaps he should come clean. “I’ve been thinking about doing a piece about Jupiter,” he added. “What Galileo tells us about the possibility of life in the Jovian system, that sort of thing.”

  Morris ran a hand across his brow. There was no mistaking the look on his face: Christ, here we go again. Ordmann didn’t seem to notice, yet he frowned slightly. “Well, if and when you write that piece . . . or any other articles, for that matter . . . I want you to forward a copy to Kent, just to let him see what you’re doing.”

  “Send it to me before you submit.” Morris glared across the table at Murphy. “And let me know if it’s going anywhere else other than this magazine. Understand?”

  Murphy’s stomach turned to glass. For him, writing was an intimate experience; he never let anyone, not even Donna, see what he was doing before it was published. Being mandated to show his work to someone before he sent it away was like being told that he had to set up a camcorder in the bedroom. Yet the Associate Administrator had just laid down the law, with no hope of compromise.

  “I understand, sir,” he said quietly.

  Ordmann smiled sympathetically. “David, you’re a fine writer. I don’t want to do anything that puts a crimp in your creativity. But you’ve got to contain some of your wilder ideas . . . or at least while you’re working for NASA.”

  And that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? For all Roger Ordmann cared, David Zachary Murphy could write that the President was under mind control by aliens from Alpha Centauri and
that the Air Force had a fleet of starships hidden at the Nevada Test Range . . . but the moment he did so, he was out on the street. The last thing NASA HQ would tolerate was an in-house crank.

  “I understand, sir,” Murphy repeated.

  Harry exhaled as if he had been underwater for the last five minutes. He wasn’t going to lose his job today. Morris looked like a hyena gloating over a giraffe carcass. “Well, then . . . I’m glad we’ve got this settled.” Ordmann pushed back his chair, glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for a budget meeting on the Hill. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Murphy.”

  Then he was out the door, where a female aide anxiously waited for him, attaché case in hand. Harry mumbled something about making a phone call, then he hastily stood up and exited the conference room. Out in the hall, Murphy heard him taking the opportunity to shake hands with Ordmann and thank him profusely for his time and patience. Never too late to curry favor, he reflected sourly.

  Which left him, for the moment, alone with Morris. At first, the Public Affairs chief studiously avoided meeting his eye as he folded his notebook and gathered his papers. Then he picked up the copy of Analog and his gaze lingered on the cover art, a Vincent Di Fate painting of an astronaut spacewalking outside a large spacecraft.

  “You really like this sci-fi stuff, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Been reading it all my life.” Murphy kept his voice even. Like most lifelong science fiction fans, he despised the word “sci-fi.”

  Morris shook his head. “Not for me,” he murmured. “Too unbelievable. I prefer real stories.” He dropped the magazine on the table. “Kinda like The X-Files, though. That’s pretty good.” He turned toward the door. “Anyway, keep in touch. ”

  Murphy waited until he was gone, then he picked up the discarded Analog. Leafing through the magazine, he noted that several passages of his article had been highlighted with a yellow marker.

  For some reason, he found himself oddly flattered. At least Morris had bothered to read the piece. Too bad he hadn’t understood a word.

  Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1045Z

  Franc expected to have a meeting with the Commissioner, yet not for several hours. When he arrived at his quarters on Deck 5E to drop off his bag, however, his desk had a message for him: Sanchez wished to see him and Lea as soon as possible.

  Lea apparently had received the same message; he found her waiting for him in the central hub corridor, just outside the hatch leading to Arm 5. As a selenian, she could have taken a room on one of the upper levels, but since she was trying to get herself reacclimated to Earth-normal gravity, she had requested a berth on 4E. During the flight up from Tycho, Franc had once again tried to talk her into sharing his quarters on 5E. She had politely turned down his invitation, but it wasn’t too late to ask one more time.

  “We can still get a room together, you know,” he said. “I checked with the AI. It told me there’s a double available on my deck, right across from where I am now. I looked at it before I came up here, and it’s really quite comfortable. All we have to do is move our stuff over there and . . .”

  “Thank you, but no.” She favored him with a smile. “I’d prefer to sleep alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well . . .” He hesitated. “Yes, I do mind, since you ask. I thought we were partners.”

  “Oh, come on now.” She gave him a admonishing look. “We are partners . . . but I think you’re taking this a little too seriously for your own . . . our own good. Keep this up, and the next thing you know, you’ll be asking for a contract.”

  “I never said anything about a contract.” Although, in fact, the thought had crossed his mind more than a few times lately. Even a twelve-month MH-2, with a nonexclusionary clause, would do. “I just hate breaking up a good team.”

  She was about to say something when they were interrupted by a shrill electronic beep. They looked around to see a service bot moving down the corridor, the electrostatic brushes at the ends of its rotating arms sweeping dust from the cylindrical walls. “Move aside, please,” it droned as it approached. “Move aside, please.”

  Irritated, Franc resisted the urge to kick the bot out of the way. That would have been recorded by the bot’s camera, though, and then he would have received a warning from the station AI not to interfere with maintenance equipment. He reached up to grasp an overhead handrail, and swung his legs up to let the bot pass. “Thank you for your cooperation,” the bot said as it whirred beneath him; its brushes barely missed Lea, who had flattened herself against the wall. “Please do not block the corridor.”

  “That’s the whole point.” Lea looked up at Franc while he was still hovering above her. “We’re teammates. We’ve got to work together. Not only that, but we’re about to go on another expedition . . .”

  “You didn’t mind New York.”

  “That was different.” The first time they had slept together, it was while they were researching the causes of the Great Depression of the twentieth century. Three days after the crash of the New York Stock Exchange, it had been easy to get a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria; by then, they wanted some relief from the mass panic that had caused young millionaires to throw themselves through office windows. “That was a Class-3,” she added, speaking a little more softly now. “We’re about to do a Class-1. You know how dangerous that is.”

  Franc reluctantly nodded. Like it or not, he had to agree. Class-3 expeditions were relatively low-risk sorties so long as no one interfered with the turn of events. The stock-market crash of 1929 was one of these, as was the Challenger disaster of 1985. Class-2 expeditions were more difficult, since they required CRC researchers to be closer to hazardous situations: the Paris student riots of 1968 were an example, as was pre-Renaissance Europe during the Plague. Class-1 missions were those in which the lives of researchers were directly placed in jeopardy. During the entire existence of the Chronospace Research Centre, there had only been two previous Class-1 expeditions: the eruption of Mont Pelée on Martinique in 1902, and the Battle of Gettysburg in 1864. No one had been hurt during the 1902 expedition, mainly because the research team had vacated St. Pierre before the village was destroyed, but during the Gettysburg expedition a CRC historian posing as a contemporary newspaper reporter was shot and killed by a Confederate rifleman while attempting to document Pickett’s Charge. His colleagues had been forced to leave his body behind, after first removing his recording equipment. Fortunately, there had been no risk of causing a paradox; so many unidentified corpses had littered the Gettysburg battlefield, the addition of one more made no real difference.

  Since then, the Board of Review had been more careful in selecting potential missions. This wasn’t a difficult task; because of the inherent limitations posed by chronospace travel, many destinations were already out of the question. For reasons as yet unknown, it was impossible to travel farther back in time than approximately one thousand years. No one knew why, yet all previous attempts to open Morris-Thorne bridges that extended beyond the mid-1300s failed when the tunnels through the spacetime foam collapsed in upon themselves. Although there seemed to be no static cutoff line, the barrier existed nevertheless.

  Likewise, although a timeship was able to return to its point of departure—say, from 1902 to Tues, Feb 12, 2313, when the Mont Pelée expedition was sent out—it was impossible to travel past the departure point. Therefore, the future was just as unvisitable as the more distant past. Just as no expeditions would ever be sent to witness the crucification of Christ or the destruction of the Library of Alexandria no one from the early twenty-fourth century would ever know what happened even a nanosecond after their departure. Chronospace could be breached, but it would never be conquered.

  The Hindenburg expedition was dangerous. Franc didn’t dispute that. He was about to ask why this made any difference to their relationship when something scuttled across the ceiling past his shoulder. A tail gently flicked the side of his side, then a shrill voice shrieked next to his
ear:

  “Come now, come now, Franc Lu come to Paolo! Hurry! Come now!”

  Franc quickly looked around, saw a blue-skinned lizard clinging to the ceiling rail. About fifteen centimeters in length, it regarded him through doll-like black eyes. When it spoke again, a long red tongue vibrated within its elongated mouth: “Come now! Now! Paolo wants you! Now!”

  “Marcel!” Lea had anticipated seeing the little mimosaur again. Before she had boarded the shuttle at Mare Imbrium, she had taken a moment to purchase some cashews from a spaceport vendor. She pulled the bag out of her pocket and ripped open the cellophane. “Here,” she said, pushing off from the wall and gliding beneath Franc. “Brought these especially for you.”

  “Nuts! Nuts nuts nuts nuts!” Marcel leaped from the handrail onto Lea’s shoulder. She laughed delightedly as the lizard curled its long tail around her neck, then she let the mimosaur thrust its mouth into the bag, gently stroking the fin on the back of its head.

  “That’s one way of shutting him up,” Franc murmured. Personally, he found Marcel a trifle annoying. “He’ll make a fine pair of shoes one day.”

  Mimosaurs were among the more interesting inhabitants of Gliese 876-B, an Earth-like satellite orbiting a gas giant fifteen light-years from Earth. Discovered during one of humankind’s first interstellar expeditions, they possessed the ability to learn simple words or phrases and recite them at will, along with an excellent memory for faces and names. Although they weren’t much more intelligent than the average house cat, they were far more adaptable to microgravity, which made them the favored pets of deep-space explorers. Paolo Sanchez had brought Marcel home from his last voyage as captain of the Olaf Stapledon before taking his present position as CRC’s Chief Commissioner. Now the mimosaur served as Sanchez’s messenger, running errands for him within Chronos Station.