The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  New equations, she said; new technologies.

  Ernst’s voice breaks the silence. ‘Otto. I need to see you.’

  I sit up and, sensing my movement, the lamp comes on. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hecht’s back,’ he says, his voice sounding clear in the air. ‘Only before you go and see him, you need to know a few things. I’ve been talking to Zarah.’

  I stare across the room thoughtfully, then get up and walk across.

  ‘Otto?’

  I hesitate a moment, then press the pad. The hatch hisses open. Ernst is standing there. He gives me the briefest smile, then moves quickly past me. As the door hisses shut again, I turn to find him staring at me strangely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s you, Otto. You’re the one the Elders choose to replace Hecht. Only …’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘It’s unclear. I mean, they’ve only just begun to piece it all together, but something happens. And then you’re gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ I laugh. ‘But I can’t go. I have to be there. The loop.’

  ‘As I said, it isn’t clear. They’re finding out more about it by the hour. They’ve agents coming back all the time now. There’s a lot of conflicting stuff, but the reports are consistent in one respect: you aren’t there.’

  ‘They’ve looked for me, then? Followed me? Seen where I went, what I did?’

  ‘No, it’s … it’s apparently not that easy. It’s like, well, it’s like you step outside of things suddenly. One moment you’re there, the next …’

  I frown at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, the machines stop tracking you. One moment you’re there, a pulse on the screen, like every other Reisende, the next … nothing! Not a trace of you. Like you’ve vanished from the Game.’

  ‘Or died …’

  ‘No. Zarah was quite adamant about that. There’s a distinct signal pattern when an agent dies. It’s not instantaneous, apparently. It takes an instant or two for the body to shut down, for the focus to stop sending back its trace. Likewise if the focus was cut out of your chest …’

  I look down. ‘Maybe I was nuked. That would be pretty damn instantaneous.’

  ‘Yes!’ Ernst laughs, then recollects himself. ‘Sorry …’

  ‘It’s okay. So what does she think happened? Where does she think I went?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Ernst says. ‘They’ve none of them a clue.’

  ‘And Hecht? Does Hecht know any of this?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him? As I said, he’s back, and he wants to see you.’

  264

  I don’t know how many times I’ve gone to see Hecht in his room, but this time it’s different, as different as it could get and remain familiar. Different because I know now that in thirty-seven days this man will die, this man who has been central to my life for almost half a century, who has shaped and guided me and always – always – been there, like a rock at the centre of it all. Or, better yet, like the still, strong trunk of a tree rooted in Four-Oh.

  His manner is no different. He looks up as I enter, his grey eyes taking me in and weighing me up at a glance, while his fingers continue their quick, precise movements across the keyboard.

  ‘Sit down, Otto. Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.’

  I sit. But as for what’s on my mind … I hesitate, not knowing what to say first or even whether to say it.

  I look back at Hecht and see that he’s watching me, his fingers fallen still. ‘All right,’ he says quietly. ‘Let me guess. You want to know if I know? Correct?’

  I swallow, then nod.

  ‘The truth? I didn’t. Not until an hour back. It was quite a surprise. It seems I misjudged you. I thought you … cooler than you are, better dominated by reason. If I’d known …’

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘If you’d known …’

  He meets my eyes again, his own colder than I’ve ever seen them. ‘You would never have gone back. But what’s done is done, eh? And not to be undone.’

  I go to speak, but he raises a hand to silence me. ‘Six hours ago I’d have been angry. Very angry. Six hours ago …’ He pauses then gives a strange little shake of his head, an uncharacteristic gesture. ‘No matter. We’re tied in now. Locked tight. Things have to be.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  His eyes harden. ‘Don’t you? Then for Urd’s sake work it out! Just think what you might have done!’

  ‘Done?’

  I know what I have done. Only nothing so dramatic, surely, as to deserve this tirade?

  ‘You of all people, Otto! My Eizelkind …’

  I feel awful, letting him down, but less awful than I would if I did nothing. If I left Katerina and the girls to perish.

  ‘I have to do this,’ I say. ‘They are my family.’

  ‘Family, yes, but not your volk. They’re Russians, Otto. Russians!’

  ‘They are my blood.’

  ‘They could never be your blood.’

  For all he’s said about the last six hours having cooled his temper, anger burns in his eyes now. And something else. A kind of hatred. If he could, he’d have me killed for what I’ve done, and that knowledge sears me. I thought I was his friend, as near a son to him as I could be, but it clearly isn’t so. Or isn’t now. I have been cut adrift by him. Disinherited.

  Or so he’d have it, only he’s soon to die, and I will become Master in his place. All of this is preordained. Locked in tight, as he terms it.

  He stands, then walks away from his machine into the shadows. But I am not dismissed. Not yet.

  ‘Anyone else, yes, any one of them … but not you, Otto. I’d never have believed it of you. But I was wrong. My judgement was fatally flawed. There were clues, right from the start, and I chose to ignore them. Chose to trust you, rather than question you, thinking you somehow a different, a more trustworthy man than you are.’

  That hurts. I go to speak again, but he denies me. Talks through me.

  ‘What makes it worse is that you had them all in on it with you. Zarah, Urte, Ernst …’

  I look down. ‘I couldn’t help it. Her eyes …’

  Hecht turns and shouts. ‘Damn her eyes! And damn you for falling for her! What were you taught, Otto? Not to meddle, that’s what!’

  ‘Meddle?’

  ‘What else would you call it?’

  ‘Love. I’d call it love.’

  Hecht laughs bitterly. ‘Love? Lust, more like! Romantic clap-trap!’

  I want to argue, but I know there’s no point. Hecht has never been in love, so how could he understand? I stand, meaning to go, only he won’t let me.

  ‘No, Otto. It’s not that easy. You can’t just walk away. Not while I’m still Master here. I’ve jobs for you.’

  As the echo of his voice fades, so I wait, head bowed, my back straight, at attention, as if nothing has changed between us.

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  He walks across, then circles me slowly, as if he’s inspecting me; as if he wants to know how a traitor looks. At least, that’s how it feels, for my whole self squirms under his penetrating gaze.

  Only I won’t say sorry. Not for loving Katerina.

  ‘1952,’ he says. ‘That’s where you’re going. Berkeley, California. There’s someone there I want you to locate and get to know.’

  ‘I don’t know the era.’

  ‘Not a problem. We have an agent there already. You’ll be working with him.’

  ‘Was that where you went?’

  He doesn’t answer, merely circles me again.

  ‘Don’t fuck up,’ he says.

  ‘No, Master.’

  ‘Then go. Maria has the details.’

  ‘Maria? But …’

  ‘Zarah has been suspended from her duties until further notice. Now go. Oh … and Otto … you will report back directly to me. No one else. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Then go.’

  265

  Berkeley, Californ
ia, June 1952. America before the fall. Before the great war with China that would destroy them both. It’s an era I know almost nothing about, but my contact, Matteus Kuhn, is something of an expert. He’s been here more than eight years now, fitting in, getting to know the place, the time.

  I jump in at night, into what seems a curious mixture of barn and garage, as if the one has been half converted into the other. It’s transitional. Three of the walls look original, the fourth made out of sheets of corrugated metal. An old car lies in the shadows to one side, most of it covered up by a big green tarpaulin, but one sleek, black wing is showing, a thin-rimmed tyre exposed to sight.

  There’s all sorts of junk here, stacked up against walls, in boxes, and on shelves to one side, like the detritus of a whole age has washed up here in this godforsaken building, but there’s also a kind of loft, at the back of it all, and as I turn and look, so I hear the faint fluttering of a nesting bird.

  I see the overlarge eyes shining down on me from out of the darkness and smile. An owl.

  I move carefully through and step outside into the back garden. It’s huge, maybe one hundred feet by fifty, the lawn cropped close, the whole thing surrounded by a high, slatted wooden fence. Across the way is the house itself – a medium-sized two-storey building with a sloping roof, its windows unlit, the back porch in shadow.

  I look about me at the neighbouring houses, their windows shining with electric light, then pause a moment, listening, hearing the sound of cars – automobiles, there are no fliers yet – on the freeway nearby.

  I sniff the air, the all-pervasive scent of petro-carbons filling my nostrils, the defining smell of this age. It’s a warm, balmy evening – typical of the San Francisco area, I later learn. Matteus is out, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got a key, and his absence allows me to go in and have a poke around before he gets back.

  Hecht’s given me no idea why I’m here or what I’m looking for, which makes me think that maybe he’s sent me here simply to get me out of Four-Oh and thus out of his sight, only the date seems familiar.

  I walk across, letting my impressions of the time slowly settle. This is the best time for an agent, usually, the most exciting. But not this time. This time I can’t help but think that my family’s back there, stranded in the thirteenth century, easy pickings for a Russian assassination squad. Imagine how that feels. Then imagine again. Because you can’t. You can’t even begin to imagine how awful it is. I bury it deep, then get on with the job.

  I fit the key into the back door, then slip inside, into darkness. It’s a kitchen. There’s a door in the corner, to my left, the edge of which is rimmed with light from the hallway beyond. In the faint light I can pick out a number of crude household appliances: a standing cooker with a hob, a small refrigerator, and in the far corner a washing machine. There’s an old-fashioned sink with a drainer, on which is placed a single plate, a single cup.

  It all looks old and shabby. Objects from a world in transition. A world of evolving forms. A world about to undergo violent and radical technological change, not to speak of the overwhelming effects of overpopulation.

  I freeze, hearing noises from the next room. Voices. I listen a moment then, as a burst of music sounds, I understand. It’s one of their devices: a radio, I think it’s called.

  I step through. There’s carpet underfoot, a hideous mustard- and red-diamond pattern. A single coat hangs on a peg on the wall by the door, full-length black leather, like a Gestapo officer might wear. A staircase leads up.

  The sounds come from the room at the front. I walk across and look inside. There’s a standing lamp in the corner to my right. In its light I see that the room is empty, the curtains drawn. The radio is near the door, on a cabinet against the wall, a chunky thing in a walnut case, shaped like the window of an ancient church. The semi-circular dial glows faintly. Beside it there’s a funereal-looking box with a heavy lid, the purpose of which I can’t guess. I step inside. There’s a big lounger against one of the walls and a matching armchair and, on a low table on the far side, by the window, a television set.

  I crouch in front of it, studying it, amazed by its crudeness. It has the look of something that could sustain enormous pressures; that you might find at the bottom of the ocean. The screen itself is tiny – no more than nine inches corner to corner, the maker’s name on the façade just above the knobs. General Electric Company.

  I straighten up. Behind the TV set is an alcove filled with shelves of books. I study their spines, then pick one out at random.

  The Owl In Daylight.

  I put it back, frowning. There’s something wrong about it, but I don’t quite know what.

  The voices on the radio drone on: something about a man named Steinbeck and a place called Salinas.

  I turn slowly, taking it all in.

  Nothing here. Nothing …

  I go out. Go upstairs. A bedroom. A bathroom with a toilet. A small study. I go in and stand there.

  Notebooks. A strange machine, the casing green with three rows of keys, a single letter on each one.

  A typewriter, I think, the knowledge dredged up from somewhere.

  I walk over to the desk. Besides the typewriter there’s a filing tray made of bright blue plastic. In it there’s a stack of paper. A manuscript. I flick through it. Fiction or fact? It’s hard to tell. Nothing leaps out.

  There’s a notebook, just to the left of the typewriter: a small thing, six inches by three.

  I pick it up, open it. Names and addresses.

  Abendsen, Hawthorne … Anderson, Poul … Atley, Greg …

  I flick through. Nothing.

  Or nothing I know. Not yet.

  I put it down, and as I do, so I hear a car pull up outside. A car door slams. A moment later there’s the sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs.

  I go out on to the landing.

  He steps into the hallway. Matteus Kuhn. Or, as he’s known here, Matt Caldecott. As I know already from his file, he’s a short, balding man. Not like a German at all, at least, not what you’d expect from a Reisende. Which is maybe why Hecht chose him for this assignment.

  He sees me and almost double-takes in shock. ‘Who the fuck …?’ Then something kicks in in his memory. ‘Otto? Otto Behr?’

  I go down and shake his hand. ‘Hecht sent me,’ I say. ‘I’m here to help you.’

  It sounds weak, and it is, but he accepts it at once. It’s as if Hecht has blessed it.

  He leads me through into the living room and shuts the door, then smiles at me, clearly pleased to have me there. ‘What century are you based in?’

  ‘The thirteenth,’ I say. ‘And the eighteenth.’

  ‘So this is …?’

  ‘Different.’ I gesture towards the box beside the radio. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A gramophone.’

  I’m no wiser. ‘And that’s a radio, right?’

  He’s grinning. He knows he’s going to enjoy this. ‘Right, though technically it’s a wireless.’

  ‘Wireless?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  His American accent is strong. It’s not so much a drawl as a kind of roundness to the way he pronounces the words, together with a kind of laziness. I can see that I’ve either got to learn it fast or play the visiting German. Matt’s cousin, maybe. Or an old friend … Only even as I think it, I realise that there’s going to be a problem with that.

  America and Germany were enemies right up until seven years back, and if Matt and I are old friends, then he’ll have some explaining to do. We need to come up with a cover story fast.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Have you arranged anything for tonight?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve some friends coming over. Buddies of mine.’

  ‘Buddies?’

  ‘Uh huh. You’ll like them. Phil’s a writer, and—’

  ‘Hold fire. There’s things we need to sort out. Like who I am and where you know me from.’

  Some of the excitement goes from his eyes. ‘Right. Sure. I gu
ess being German isn’t exactly flavour of the month right now.’

  ‘But I am. So what’s the story?’

  He thinks a moment, then smiles. ‘Okay. I got it. You’re a professor, right? And you’ve been over here since ’33. You’ve got Jewish blood and you got out while you still could. Before Kristallnacht and the camps.’

  ‘Right.’ Only I’m not a hundred per cent sure. ‘What if someone asks me about all that?’

  ‘You can bluff your way?’

  ‘The facts of it, sure. But that’s not what I mean. I’m not sure I know what I ought to be feeling about it. And if I’ve been here since ’33, wouldn’t the accent have gone by now?’

  ‘You’ll be fine. These yanks expect a German to sound like a German. They’re comfortable with that. As for the rest, well, who’s going to challenge you?’

  And I do have that number tattooed on my arm, after all. The worknumber from the twenty-eighth century. That could easily pass for something different.

  ‘D’you want a drink, Otto? A beer maybe?’

  I smile. ‘Sure.’

  And while Mattheus goes off to get me one, I lift the heavy lid of the gramophone and look inside.

  266

  ‘But that, surely, is the point,’ Phil says, pointing his beer at me as if for emphasis. ‘If Hitler hadn’t split his forces, if he had gone straight for the jugular – Moscow – then he’d have won! Europe would have been Nazi, and the USA would have stayed out of the war, and you know what? We’d have been just as happy dealing with them as we are with our present trading partners! Happier, probably, seeing how damn efficient they are. Christ! I can even see a scenario in which we went in on their side, against the Brits. I mean, we’ve been looking since the turn of the century for any excuse to weaken the Brits and split up their empire. Why, we almost came to blows, back in the twenties, when the Brits were training up the Japanese navy!’

  Phil is standing by the TV, looking down at us as we sit there, listening. Phil’s not what you’d call a handsome guy, but he’s got a nice smile and a graceful manner. Matt says he’s twenty-three, but, with his slender frame, he looks even younger, despite his receding hairline. He’s wearing a red wool shirt and jeans that are a bit too short, and scuffed Oxfords, but what strikes you most about him is his eyes. Intense green eyes. I like Phil. He’s an interesting man. Unlike Matt’s other buddy, Greg, who sits there, nursing his beer broodily, like he’s afraid to offer any kind of opinion.