"Forget about me—for the moment. Later I may want to talk about myself. For now, what about Mr. Lincoln?"
"What about him? He was dead and buried a century before I was born, and it wasn't my fault what happened to him."
"Not quite a century—but it wasn't your fault. I agree. Not up until now. But what happens Friday night will be your fault. If you fail deliberately."
For a moment Jerry could find no words. In the effort he made a whispered sputtering. "Fail? Fail? I didn't sign up to do anything here. You kidnapped me here and then started giving me orders. Recorded orders. Garbled lectures from a talking watch. Guessing games and a disappearing act on a train. Why should I—" Jerry paused, quietly strangling on his anger.
"Nevertheless." Pilgrim, who had listened with an air of attentive sympathy, rubbed his forehead and stared out into the gaslight, which came between the dull red curtains of the box to turn his face and hairy forearms faintly orange and yellow. From the position he had taken he could see most of the interior of the theater, but it would be very difficult for anyone outside the box to see him, unless he leaned farther forward in his chair.
He went on: "Nevertheless, you are here now, and what happens to Mr. Lincoln now depends on you. There is information, vital information, I must try to give you while I can. My time is limited here, as it was on the train. I can sympathize with your anger; in your place I should be angry too. After matters are decided on Friday night I can bring you home, and I will do so—if all goes well. Before then I cannot. Now, will you listen to me?"
"I'm listening. It better be good."
"It is good. It is better than you think. To begin with, you have inherent powers of a rare kind, that you have hardly begun to realize as yet."
"Sure. And where did I get these powers from?"
"They are usually inherited. Your father—I understand that he disappeared early in your childhood—was probably a timewalker."
Jerry said nothing. He had come to a stop.
Pilgrim was watching him, perhaps with understanding. Pilgrim said: "Inherited. And danger calls them forth. Not ordinary danger, even of the degree that you confronted on the train. It might be more accurate to say that only death itself can activate them."
Jerry was silent, his long-nursed anger slowly quenching in an inner chill. "You mean…"
"You have spoken of your powers to Jan Chen. But we were practically sure you had them, even before we set out to recruit you."
Twice Jerry began to say something, and each time reconsidered. At last he said, in an altered voice: "You mean the time I ran into the burning house, when I was a kid."
"I mean exactly that. I can only approximate those powers mechanically. Perhaps I can help you by augmenting them, in a way. But without your help I have no chance of doing what must be done here Friday night. You, with my help, can do it. You can save Mr. Lincoln, if you will."
Jerry was silent for a few moments. He had the feeling he was losing the argument, had lost it already, even before his cry for justice had been fairly heard. "You've tricked me once already," he said finally. "Why should I believe anything you tell me now?"
Pilgrim gave him a hard look. "I tell you you are going to stay here, trapped in this century, unless you help Mr. Lincoln. Do you have any difficulty in believing that?"
"You bastard."
The swarthy man accepted the insult calmly. "I have been called much worse than that. You can spend the remainder of your life here, as I say. Forget about being a computer engineer, forget a great many other things as well. Or, you can do what I ask of you Friday night—and then return to your own time, with your future education financed as we had agreed. Not to mention the feeling of a job well done."
Jerry shifted in his chair. "You think you can manipulate anyone."
"I usually have fair success." It was said modestly.
"I think I just might knock your teeth down your throat. That would be a job well done."
"No." Pilgrim's answer was mild but prompt. "I will not tolerate a physical assault, especially by someone as well-trained as yourself. I make allowances for your anger in being tricked into this expedition—but I will not go that far in making allowances. By the way, that little skirmish on the train was well fought, if perhaps a touch too boldly, I was afraid that we were going to lose you there." Pilgrim was leaning back in his chair, quite relaxed, arms folded, watching Jerry. Everything in his attitude said very convincingly that his teeth were not subject to any knocking that Jerry might attempt.
"You were watching me on the train?"
"It is much easier to watch from another time-frame than it is to interfere. Thus, your re-establishment in this one, not to mention my bastardly schemes, became necessary to help Mr. Lincoln. I had to find some way to bring your rare inherent powers into play."
"Oh yeah, my rare inherent powers. I had almost forgotten. Tell me about those."
"I shall try." For a moment Pilgrim looked almost humble. "You have seen that time can be manipulated. That we can sometimes travel through it, if you will. Some people, one in a million, can do something similar without the aid of technology—just as some are lightning calculators who on their good days can emulate the performance of a computer. You are one such. At the vital moment on Friday evening you ought to have more than one swing at the ball."
"What's that mean?"
"You will be able to back up, a matter of a few seconds or a minute, and start over."
"I will?"
"At least once, perhaps as many as three times. I hope no more than that; it is possible to get caught up in something like a closed programming loop."
"You're saying if I fail, I'll—I'll somehow be able to try again?"
"That is my fond hope. And the ability may save us all. You see, Jerry, there are usually great, and often prohibitive, paradoxes involved in any attempt to manipulate the past. Sometimes the difficulty can be overcome by making an abstract of the past, and manipulating that—but there are reasons why that approach is ruled out in this case. There is only one timeline, one universe, one past, and we must live with it, or try to change it at our peril."
"Why do we have to try to change it?" Pilgrim ignored the question. He said in a business-like way. "You came here to this theater today to scout the ground, did you not? With a view to going along with my plan on Friday night?"
"Yes. All right, I admit I did that. I couldn't see anything else to do."
"A courageous and logical decision. Now." Pilgrim pointed straight out across the stage. "The box directly opposite, the counterpart of this one on the right-hand side, is the Presidential box where Lincoln will sit on Friday night. At this moment on Wednesday, no one in this city but you and I, not even Lincoln himself, knows that he is going to decide to attend the theater on Good Friday. But he will attend; unless of course you should be so foolish as to warn him. That would defeat all our plans utterly."
"All your plans. My only plan is to go home."
"I am afraid such a warning would defeat that modest ambition also."
"Huh. The talking watch seemed to be trying to explain something along that line. But I'm not sure I got the message. A lot of it was too noisy for me to understand."
"The noise of paradox, my friend. I am not going to attempt to explain the theory of time-travel and of paradoxes to you now. But the simple difficulty in transmitting a message is as nothing to the problems that would ensue were I to attempt to interfere directly in the matter of the attack upon Mr. Lincoln. Without, that is, the beacon signal that you will transmit to me as guidance. You still have your watch, I trust—? Good. History must be allowed to run smoothly in its time-worn bed."
"Then exactly what do you plan to do to help him? Lincoln?"
"Save him from being shot. On Friday evening, unless we interfere, John Wilkes Booth will enter the vestibule leading to the Presidential box yonder, across the stage. After blocking the vestibule door behind him to prevent interference, he will quietly step i
nto the box itself, so quietly that none of the four occupants will at first turn around.
"He will shoot Lincoln in the back of the head, wounding the President fatally. Then Booth will leap from that box to the stage, breaking his leg in the process. Still he will manage to hobble to his horse out in the alley and escape."
Jerry looked. "I don't wonder he breaks his leg. Isn't it about twelve feet?"
"It is. I must warn you now not to underestimate Booth as a physical opponent. He is a good rider, an excellent shot and swordsman, and famed for his athletic feats on stage. He would not break his leg were it not for the fact that one of his spurs catches on a flag."
"Hooray for Booth."
"I am pleased that you are willing to rise to the challenge posed by such a worthy opponent."
"That's only because I haven't discovered a choice yet. Suppose I get within three meters of Lincoln at the fatal moment, and I do send the beacon signal you want. What do you do then?"
"Leave that to me."
"I expected you to say that. Anyway, suppose we somehow do save Lincoln. Isn't that going to turn history out of its bed rather drastically?"
"There are limits on what I am allowed to explain to you now."
"Very convenient."
"On the contrary. But it is so." Pilgrim once again became practical. "On Friday night no one will occupy this box where we sit now. Perhaps I will be able to establish here an observation post. In one way or another I will be watching events closely. But I cannot interfere until you, who are now an established member of this time-frame, trigger the beacon for me."
"I bet."
If Pilgrim was perturbed by his agent's lack of enthusiasm he gave no sign, but pressed on. "Remember the white door that you opened to enter the vestibule outside these boxes. There is a corresponding door on the other side of the theater, through which Booth must pass on his way to destiny. When he has passed through that door, he will immediately block it against outside interference. You must pass through that doorway also, before he barricades it."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"It is up to you to find a way. You might consider concealing yourself in the Presidential box ahead of time, or in the darkened vestibule just behind. But I do not think that approach would work."
"Thanks for the helpful advice. By the way, who is Colleen Monahan? Is she another of your conscripted agents?"
"Colleen Monahan does not, I devoutly hope, even suspect that I exist. She is Secretary Stanton's agent, as she told you. And Stanton is Lincoln's loyal servant, according to his lights."
"Then I can trust her? Am I going to meet her again?"
"I can only guess at the answers to both questions, insofar as they depend upon the actions of individuals with free will. Certainly you must not trust her with any knowledge of my plans—or of your origins. Beyond that, it is your decision. Any other questions? I am going to have to leave you at any moment."
"Don't run off. Am I going to have a chance to talk to you again, before… ?" But Pilgrim was already gone. As on the train, his chair had emptied itself into thin air. Just like that.
A few moments later, feeling somewhat shaken, Jerry groped his way through the dim lobby downstairs and tapped on the half-closed office door. The voices inside, which had been still droning away, broke off as if startled.
A moment later the door was opened wide by a youthful-looking man with blue eyes, curly hair and large sideburns. He said in a salesman's voice: "You startled me, sir. What can we do for you?"
"The door to the street was open—I believe I may want some tickets, for Friday."
"Certainly, sir—how many tickets did you have in mind?"
"It would be a fairly large theater party." Jerry frowned, as if in thought. "I wonder if I might have a look at the auditorium before I decide on a location."
"Well, we have a good selection of seats—seventeen hundred of them to choose from. By the way, I am John Ford, the owner."
"Jeremiah Flint."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Flint. You're from out of town?"
"Illinois."
"I see. This is Tom Raybold, who works for me." The second man in the office was standing up now, moving forward to shake hands. His face had something of an odd expression, as if he were afraid that it was going to start hurting at any moment. "Tom, why don't you show Mr. Flint the auditorium?"
"I'll see to it right away."
Jerry, standing in the doorway waiting for Tom Raybold to pull his coat on over his shirtsleeves, looked around the little office. On a table just in front of him was a litter of old playbills and posters, once in ordered stacks, now undergoing entropy. A printed name caught his eye as he glanced down, and he looked more closely. One of the bills, dated in March, advertised the notable actor John Wilkes Booth, starring in THE APOSTATE. Unfortunately there was no picture.
A minute later Jerry was back in the auditorium, getting his second look at the place, this time with the official guidance of Tom Raybold, ticket seller and general executive aid.
Meanwhile another man, a carpenter with a thin brown mustache and thin short beard, had come into the cavernous space and was banging away at something near the foremost row of seats.
"Ned!" Raybold called out. "Are you going to have that finished before tonight?"
"Reckon I will." The man's voice wheezed with the tones of a lifelong drunk, though Jerry guessed his age at no more than an ill-preserved thirty. He went back to his hammering.
"I understand," said Jerry to Raybold, "that the President comes here sometimes."
"Oh, yes sir, he does indeed. Mr. Lincoln was here in attendance twice just last month, I do believe." And Raybold touched his jaw; he did indeed seem to have some kind of pain on the side of his face, a toothache maybe. Jerry could sympathize. He wondered what the dentists were like here. Did they even have anesthetics? Suddenly he was in abject terror of being trapped.
When he had mastered the pang of fear, and could again be sure that his voice was steady, he asked, over the sound of Ned's hammer: "Will he be here Friday, do you suppose?"
"I've no reason to think so, Mr. Flint. Of course sometimes he and his lady decide to come to the theater on short notice. And then—" The ticket-seller looked suddenly doubtful.
"What is it?"
"Well, you were asking about box seats. And if Mr. Lincoln were to come on Friday night, we would be unable to honor tickets for any of the other boxes. Out of respect for the President. We'd give you other tickets in exchange, of course, here on the main floor. Or up there in the front of the dress circle if you'd prefer." He pointed upward.
Jerry craned his neck, trying to see up into the dark first balcony from here. He could use another look at that part of the auditorium. "Might we go up and take a look?" Of course.
A minute later, standing again at the front of the first balcony, he surveyed the scene with a slightly more knowledgeable eyes, thanks to Pilgrim's little lecture.
There were cane-bottomed chairs for the audience in this balcony, more than four hundred of them if Raybold had his numbers right. And it appeared that, in accordance with what Pilgrim had said, Booth would be compelled to pass this way to reach the President's box. On the right side of the dress circle, as you faced the stage, a narrow white door at the end of the front aisle gave access to the passageway that would run behind the two, upper boxes on that side. That is, assuming the layout on the right was a mirror-image of the box seats Jerry had already visited on the left. Pilgrim had said it was. That white door was the one that Booth was going to block; the one that Jerry was going to have to get through before it closed behind the assassin.
"Do you mind," Jerry asked, "if I take a look into the boxes?"
"Certainly."
They went through the little white door, which opened inward and was unlocked. The lock looked broken; and Jerry could see no ready means of putting up a barricade. Inside was a gloomy passage just like the one on the other side of the stage where
Jerry had met Pilgrim. The passage on this side led to the rear of Box 7 and Box 8. Here, as in the boxes on the opposite side, the gaslights over the stage shone in. The furnishings in the boxes were not impressive, except for a crimson sofa at the rear of Box 7.
Tom Raybold explained that when the President attended, and on certain other important occasions, the wooden partition dividing Boxes 7 and 8 was removed, converting them to one unit suitable for a large party. Then more comfortable chairs were brought in, some of them from Mr. Ford's own living quarters upstairs in the building. There was one particular rocking chair in which President Lincoln liked to sit.
There was no reason to prolong the tour any longer. Walking with Raybold back down to the lobby, Jerry announced, as if it had just occurred to him, that he thought he would take just two tickets for Friday night, in the dress circle, and organize his theater party some other time. Privately he decided that a man buying two tickets to any theater was less likely to attract attention that someone buying only one.
Aloud he explained that some of his companions might not be ready to go out for an evening of fun on Good Friday.
"And another thing," he added, "some of my friends have recommended a certain actor to me—John Wilkes Booth. I believe he has played here in the past?"
"Oh yes, certainly, a number of times. Everyone at Ford's knows Mr. Booth—he has his mail sent here sometimes. He's in town now, but he won't be on our stage Friday night. Can't say when he'll be in one of our plays again."
They had reached the ticket office, where there was no problem in buying two seats in the dress circle for Friday night—Jerry got the impression that the performance was a long way from being sold out.
As Raybold was showing him out of the theater, Jerry paused. "I would certainly like to meet Mr. Booth. When my sister back home heard that I was about to visit Washington, and that he might be here, she commissioned me to get his autograph."
Raybold smiled. "He's in town now. Staying at the National Hotel."
TWELVE
A minute later Jerry had got his directions from Tom Raybold and was on his way again, still traveling on foot. Four blocks east and four blocks south from Ford's Theater and he had found his goal, a long, five-story building of pale brick at the corner of Sixth and Pennsylvania.
AFTER THE FACT Page 12
