ChronoSpace

by Allen Steele

  And indeed he had. After the Oberon landed the day before out on the outskirts of suburban Virginia, Murphy had left the timeship, taking with him the remaining reserves of 1937 American dollars and German marks left over from the Hindenburg expedition. After hitchhiking into downtown Washington, he visited a succession of rare-coin dealers until he found one willing to purchase his cache without asking many embarrassing questions. The currency was counterfeit, of course, but Franc had assured him that it was as authentic in appearance as the CRC’s Artifacts Division could make it. After acquiring nearly $500 in trade, he visited a second-rate car-rental place and, using a photo-laminated credit card from his wallet to prove his identity, managed to lease an automobile. After that, a shopping trip to a mall outside Arlington, where he bought suitable clothing for Franc. This might not be the 1998 of his worldline, but he still knew how to get around.

  “Maybe you will,” Franc admitted. “You’re a smart person.” He fell quiet as a woman hastily strode past, then he walked a little closer. “But even if you do, where will that take you? You know how all this will eventually end.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way. A hundred . . . a thousand different things could happen that would prevent . . .”

  “No.” Franc shook his head. “I’m sorry, Zack, but you know better than that. You’ve seen the historical record. In a few years, David Murphy will publish a well-regarded science fiction novel which, in turn, will inspire his son to pursue time travel. Steven Murphy’s theories will inevitably lead to the invention of timeships, which will result in Lea, Vasili, and me visiting 1937. The chain of paradoxes will begin there, and continue until . . .”

  “Shut up!”

  “. . . And when it’s all over, everything you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve ever loved, will be gone, and you’ll be . . .”

  Without really intending to do so, Murphy balled his right hand into a fist, swung it at Franc’s face. He hadn’t hit anyone since he was a teenager, though, and Franc saw it coming. He ducked the punch, but in doing so he lost his balance. His feet slipped on the icy sidewalk and he fell sideways, sprawling against the concrete basin surrounding the Reflecting Pool. He yelped in pain, then rolled away, wincing in pain as he clutched his left elbow

  “Oh, Jesus!” His anger vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, Murphy knelt down next to Franc. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I mean, I . . .”

  “It’s all right. I’m not hurt.” Massaging his arm, Franc pushed himself up against the side of the basin. “I probably had that coming,” he said, scowling as he gently flexed his bruised elbow. “If that’s the best you can do, though, you’ve proven my point.”

  Murphy sat down on the wall. Like it or not, Franc was right. He was an old man . . . worse, an old man stuck out of time. For chrissakes, he couldn’t even punch out someone anymore, not even in anger. If he was going to survive the winter streets of Washington in 1998, he was going to have to do better than that. A lot better.

  “So . . . what’s your idea?” he asked.

  Franc didn’t immediately answer. He gazed off into the distance, studying the thin spire of the Washington Monument at the far end of the mall. A few tentative flakes of snow were beginning to drift down from the slate sky. It was the beginning of a cold and sunless afternoon, with the threat of many more like it to come.

  “There’s nothing else I can do,” he said at last. “At least, not now. I’ve got to return to the Oberon. You’re going to have to take over from here.”

  “Okay.” Murphy let out his breath. Like it or not, he was committed. “Now what?”

  “Follow Murphy . . . David, I mean . . . after he leaves his office. He told me he rode the . . . the M, I think you call it? Is that a rapid-transit system?” Murphy nodded, and Franc went on. “He rode the M to work today, from where he parked his car in Virginia. Had something to do with local traffic conditions . . .”

  “The Beltway.” Murphy smiled. “Happens a lot around here.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Franc reached to the front of his parka, unbuttoned its weather flap. “I want you to follow him from his office until you reach the place where he parked his car. Hopefully, the two of you will be alone by then.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “That’s going to be the hard part.” Franc unzipped the parka, thrust his hand inside. “But I’m going to give you something that will make the job a little easier . . .”

  6:52 P.M.

  Consciousness returned as the gentle sensation of movement within darkness, interrupted now and then by an abrupt jar, a sporadic glimmer of light. From somewhere nearby he heard a wet flopping sound.

  At first he thought he was at home and in bed—it was early morning, and Donna was nudging him awake; the alarm must not have gone off, and it was time to go to work—but then he opened his eyes and discovered the source of the sound: windshield wipers, brushing aside thick flakes of snow streaming past headlights like thousands of tiny stars.

  Another pair of headlights appeared in the left lane, dazzling him for a few moments until they suddenly dimmed, then the other vehicle swept past. Through the windshield, he caught brief glimpses of lighted windows—farmhouses, a Mobil station, a Maryland Farms convenience store—which quickly passed by, disappearing like mirages into the cold winter night.

  He was in the front passenger seat of his own car.

  Murphy slowly turned his head, saw the old man from the parking lot, his bearded face backlit by the dashboard. He drove with his left hand on the wheel, his right hand resting next to his thigh. Although Murphy wasn’t aware of making any sound, the old man glanced his way, smiled slightly.

  “You’re awake,” he quietly observed. “Feeling okay?”

  He had a faint headache, but Murphy didn’t answer at once. He looked to the right, peering through the side window. Wherever they were, it was out in the country—it looked like Virginia, but it could also be Maryland for all he knew. The headlights caught the reflective coating of a highway sign as it flashed by: Route 234. He knew the road; they were about twenty miles from Arlington.

  “Don’t worry,” the old man said. “We’re not far from home.” He paused. “Bet your head hurts. Sorry about that. Don’t you keep a bottle of Tylenol in the glove compartment?”

  “Yeah,” Murphy said, “I have some.” His hands were folded together in his lap, but he was surprised to find that he could move them. His kidnapper hadn’t bothered to tie him up. Which meant that, if he moved quickly enough . . .

  “Don’t even think about it,” the old man said. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Think about what?”

  The old man laughed: a dry, ironic chuckle, much the same as his own when he was amused by something which tickled him because it was so obvious. “Look at the speedometer,” he said. “We’re doing thirty-five right now. I’d drive a little faster, but the snow’s coming down hard, and I don’t think a plow’s been this way in the last half hour or so. If you tried to grab the wheel, we’d probably skid out and go off the road. Or we might hit a car coming in the other lane. Either way, you’d kill both of us.” He hesitated, then quietly added, “And jumping out is a bad idea, too. Remember what happened to Skip Baylor?”

  Skip Baylor. Who the hell was . . . ?

  A face flashed before his memory. Skip Baylor, one of his friends from junior high. A short, skinny kid with shag-cut blond hair. Used to love old Bruce Lee movies, especially when he was stoned. Skip was the class daredevil; he’d try anything once, so long as people were watching. One Saturday night, when Skip was out cruising with a bunch of guys, someone wondered aloud what it would be like to jump out of a moving car. Skip decided to give it a shot. He broke his neck and died instantly.

  “How do you know about Skip?”

  Long silence from the old man. “I know about a lot of things,” he said at last, not unkindly, even a bit sadly. “Go on, get your Tylenol. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Murphy reac
hed for the glove box. His hand was on the knob when the old man spoke again. “It’ll be stashed next to the New York and Virginia road maps. I think there’s also an old Disney coloring book in there, along with some crayons. Steven liked to use them when you and Donna drove down to Florida to visit her mother, but even though he’s grown out of them now, you haven’t . . .”

  “Who are you?” Murphy forgot about the glove box and the contents. “What are . . . who are you with? FBI? CIA? Army intelligence?”

  Another dry chuckle, punctuated by a ragged cough. “None of the above. And, no, not the Russians or Mossad or . . . well, anyone you could think of.”

  “NASA,” Murphy suggested.

  “Gimme a break . . .” The old man gave him a skeptical look. “Unless, of course, you know something about NASA I don’t.” He waited a few moments for Murphy to answer, then he shook his head. “Okay, let’s come clean here. I’m taking you someplace . . .”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going to Manassas National Battlefield. It’s closed this time of year, but someone’s going to open the gate for us. My friends . . . our friends . . . are going to be waiting for us inside. They want to talk to you, David.”

  Despite the warmth of the car, Murphy felt a chill. “Who’re your friends?”

  “I could tell you, but you’d never believe me.” The old man stared into the snow spiraling past the headlights. “I had trouble accepting it myself,” he added. “It’s that kind of thing. But you’re going to have to trust me on this one . . . nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

  For reasons he couldn’t explain, Murphy found himself beginning to trust the old man. By all logic, he knew that he shouldn’t—after all, he had shadowed him on the train, trailed him into the parking lot, then somehow knocked him unconscious, after which he had abducted him and driven him clear out into the middle of nowhere (but not quite—hadn’t he taken Steven out here a couple of times, using this route?). Yet his voice, his entire demeanor . . . it was much as if he was talking to a lifelong friend, someone he had known for many years. Every facial expression, every verbal tic, even the way he laughed, were strangely familiar.

  And his face . . .

  The Escort’s high beams caught a large wooden sign on the right shoulder of the road: MANASSAS NATIONAL BATTLEFIELD PARK. The old man began to slow down, easing his foot off the gas while not braking, just as Murphy himself would have done. “Here it is. . . Molasses Park.” He glanced at Murphy. “Okay, for ten points, who used to call it that?”

  “Stevie,” Murphy whispered, feeling cold once more. “He still does.”

  The entrance came up, and the old man gently turned the wheel, steering the car into the snow-covered drive. He put his foot on the pedal again, and the car fishtailed a bit. “Damn,” he mumbled. “Wished I’d . . . you’d bought snow tires for this thing.”

  “Sorry. Can’t afford them.”

  The old man grunted as he turned into the skid. The car straightened out, then headed for the wooden gate which barred the park entrance. Yet now the gate was wide open; the Escort charged through, slewing snow as it passed the fieldstone fences on either side. “Not true,” he said. “You have enough cash, but snow tires are one more expense you don’t want to add if you didn’t have to. I mean, this is Virginia, isn’t it? Winter here isn’t as bad as it was in Ithaca, when you had the old Volvo . . .”

  Murphy looked at him sharply. “How did you . . . ?”

  “Donna sometimes snores when she’s asleep, and she doesn’t like to make love while the lights are on, but she’s got a thing for park benches. That’s one of the reasons why you like coming out here.” The old man flicked the wipers up higher. “On the way home, you always drop by a little roadside shack, where you can get fried clams and Stevie can use the pot. And sometimes you stop at the mall to rent a movie from Blockbuster. You always argue over what to get. She likes romantic comedies, but you prefer . . .”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “You’ve got three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

  That had been one of Skip’s favorite expressions.

  The road was nearly invisible, but Murphy could make out the faint furrows of tire tracks; someone had come this way only a little while earlier. They followed the road into the park, passing trees whose branches sagged beneath thick blankets of snow, the headlights barely piercing the white squall. The road led them around a small hill toward a broad pasture; the headlights caught a metallic reflection: the rear bumper of another automobile, parked in the road just ahead.

  The old man stopped behind the other car. “Okay, we’re here,” he said. He switched off the ignition, then opened his door. As the dome light came on, Murphy saw the odd gun with which he had been shot in the parking lot, nestled next to his thigh. The old man smiled as he picked it up. “Thanks for not making me use this on you again,” he said, not pointing it at him. “I didn’t like doing so the first time.”

  Murphy climbed out, shut the passenger door behind him. Even in the darkness, he could make out the snow-covered hump of the other car. He expected someone to get out, yet no one did; so far as he could tell, they were all alone. “You said someone would be here,” he said as the old man walked around to join him.

  “You’ll see.” He pulled the bill of his Mets cap low over his eyes, then motioned for Murphy to follow him. “C’mon. This way.”

  Their boots crunched softly as they left the cars behind and trod into the pasture. Murphy’s imagination briefly entertained a dark thought—his frozen corpse, found face-down in the snow in this very spot by a park ranger—yet he found himself more perplexed than afraid. Somehow, he intuitively knew that he wouldn’t come to any harm.

  About twenty feet from the road, the old man stopped. “Okay, we’re here.” He pointed into the darkness ahead. “Now watch . . . this is where it gets interesting.”

  Murphy stared at him, then turned to peer through the snow. At first he saw nothing.

  And then a flying saucer materialized before him.

  It appeared quietly, reverse-phasing out of the storm as if it had been there all the time. Indeed, it must have, for its upper fuselage was covered with snow and shallow drifts were piled around its wedge-shaped landing gear. Yet they were so close to it that, had he taken a few more steps, Murphy would have walked facefirst into one of the lowered flanges.

  Murphy felt his heart skip a beat. Unable to breathe, let alone muster the startled scream that caught halfway up his throat, he staggered back, his legs obeying an instinctive urge to flee, until his numbed feet slipped out from beneath him and he toppled to the ground. He landed on his back, his arms sprawled out on either side; for an absurd moment he looked as if he were trying to make a snow angel.

  “Oh, Jesus!” he croaked. “What? . . . What is that . . . ?”

  “Exactly what it looks like.” The old man chuckled. “It’s a timeship, David.”

  “A . . . a timeship.”

  “That’s right. A timeship. Just like you wrote about in your article.” He bent down, offered his hand. “Nice guess. Couldn’t have done better myself. Now, c’mon, get up. There’s some people aboard who want to meet you.”

  Murphy didn’t take his hand. Instead, he stared up the old man. His face lay in shadow, shrouded by snow and the darkness of night, yet suddenly it seemed as if he could see him as clearly as if it were high noon on a summer day.

  “I know who you are,” Murphy whispered.

  “Yes,” Murphy replied, “I expect you probably do.”

  7:38 P.M.

  “And that’s why you’re here,” Franc finished. “Do you understand now?”

  “Yeah, sure . . . sure.” David Murphy slumped in one of the couches, gazing at nothing in particular. “It’s perfectly clear.”

  “No. You’re not getting it.” Leaning against a bulkhead, Zack Murphy had remained quiet during the entire discussion. “You say you do, but you’re still trying to find a way to fit
this into your old worldview.”

  Franc glanced over his shoulder at him. “Dr. Murphy . . .”

  “You think I don’t know myself?” Zack crossed the crew compartment, sat down next to David. “Look here, son . . .”

  “I’m not your son.” David glared at the older version of himself. “Unless you’ve got another paradox you want to tell me about.”

  Zack grinned back at him. “Mom was pretty good-looking in her time,” he said drily, “but I wouldn’t go that far.”

  David surprised everyone by laughing out loud. Franc and Lea gave each other uncertain looks, and Metz stopped sniggering. Only Zack was amused. “Just a figure of speech,” he added. “Sorry.”

  “Excuse me . . . sorry . . . didn’t mean it.” David shook his head. “But y’know, you’re right. I didn’t quite believe it . . . until just now, at least.”

  “So now we’re straight, right?” Zack looked at him closely. “You know this isn’t some CIA plot, anything like that? You know this is the real deal?”

  “Uh-huh.” David let out his breath, slowly nodded. “I knew it the moment I saw this thing. I just had trouble getting used to it.” He hesitated. “The only thing I’m still unconvinced about is why I’m responsible.”

  “You’re not,” Franc said. “All of us share the burden. You’re only the primary factor, and your role in this hasn’t even begun yet. It’s what you may do in the future that concerns us.”

  “That’s the part I don’t quite understand.” David crossed his legs, bridged his hands together. “You say that, in a couple of years, I’m going to write a science fiction novel that will inspire Steven to become the scientist who figures out time travel. But I’ve already tried to write fiction, and everything I submitted to magazines was rejected. That’s why I wrote articles instead.”

  “But you originally intended to write fiction, correct?” Lea asked, and he slowly nodded. “So it could be that, a few years from now, you try your hand at it again.”