But he knew that was not how Professor Mortimer operated. Not him. Not the perfect villain. Taking the jump, he had actually started the first move in the game. It was now up to Charles to follow. Or bow out and admit defeat.
What would I do if I were Mortimer?
Jump into the future. Sometime familiar. Maybe a year or two ahead, no more than that. Spend a brief while in the future creating and fostering funds and projects that would flourish into major elements of power and influence within several more years or decades. Jump again to when the resources have swelled to allow a great freedom of action and control.
But staying too long in any one time frame was dangerous for Mortimer. Risks, illnesses. Age! The longer he remained in a particular time, the more clues to his existence and activities he would leave behind for Charles.
Then, there was the simple, irresistible curiosity of the mind. Explore the wonders of a new age, experience things that were not destined to happen in one's lifetime. How big would the temptation be? What did the future have in store?
Immortality? Eternal peace? Great wars and despair?
More of the same complicated existence that troubled the human race still?
Time, the friend and foe for both of them in this game. The more the professor used it, the more it would give Charles—if he decided to follow—the right leads to find his archenemy, or predict his next time jump.
Which meant Charles had to be ahead of the professor to learn about his work.
The portal only worked forward, but whatever one witnessed in the future had happened in the past.
And the past had to happen before the future.
Charles realized he had stepped into the portal box, gently touching the dials that set the future time. Years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and then forty-four decimal points. Why so many? That was probably the finest resolution the professor could achieve with the existing precision in metallurgy. The gears were all white gold, most likely manufactured in Antwerp.
Or maybe a definition of the universe…
Charles looked at the time-space map. It defined exactly where the world would be when the jump occurred. Professor Mortimer had to be precise enough, otherwise, the portal box would not touch the wormhole endpoint in future, and he would be lost somewhere between dimensions. Apparently, forty-four decimal points to how the human race measured time was sufficient.
I have to jump ahead of him so I can learn what he's done.
Too close, and there would not be any clues. Too far, and the ripple effect would be too significant.
It will also give the professor more time to create a future reality that could kill me.
This would be a terrific challenge. Hopping through time, trying to stay ahead of one another, trying to undo each other's work while spending as little time in the future each jump—but jumping as little as possible every time.
This, my dear Emma, is the true definition of madness.
After seventeen years of frenetic intellectual duels with the professor, Charles Dover felt like he was alive for the first time.
Emma was standing behind him, holding a writing board, ready to take notes. Bless her. She knew he was going. There was no point arguing. The best she could do was to follow his instructions.
“Investments. I will need you to travel to Geneva and deposit ten thousand pounds sterling in my account. Before that, immediately upon my departure, you must go to Place Louis Lepine and ask Prefect Allard to issue an arrest warrant for Professor Graves. He will not be happy, but do remind him that he owes me a favor as a fellow investigator and a gentleman.”
He stroked the cold walls of the cellar. “This house… check the lease on the property. If I am not mistaken, there will be a 990-year lease on this estate, in the name of some unknown, long-deceased baron with vague family relations. Now… should it be guarded?” He patted the walls nervously.
He could ask the French police to watch the estate around the clock. Anyone coming out of it should be arrested on the spot. That would be the end of the professor's time travels. But it could take a year or ten or a hundred for Mortimer Graves to show up. Or not. Charles would have to keep visiting occasionally, just to learn if his prey had fallen into a web. But there was no mental challenge to it. Besides, he knew, the professor was smarter than that. He would probably have his own men watching the estate.
Or not…
The Paradox of the Intelligent Rational.
Always one step ahead.
There are unspoken rules to this duel. We must not destroy the portal. That is a constant in this game. This house will be a safe refuge for the both of us.
Besides, how would he explain a need for an empty house to be guarded for a few centuries? Even Prefect Allard would not agree to that. Tell him what? That Professor Graves may materialize sometime in the future?
But what about criminals? Vagrants? Wars?
Has the professor accounted for these at all? Let this be a test of his genius then. “No. No guards. But I will need you to setup a Paris office, too.”
“Charles, I don't like French food!”
“You may keep an English cook, if you like.”
She made a pained face.
“Only during the winter months? Paris is less dour than London in January. I promise to… return to Paris in the winter.” Unless the professor compels me to jump to a different point in time.
She relented.
Charles kept on dictating, and Emma wrote, never once missing stride. Then, he was done, and a tense quiet descended on the cellar room.
“In the safe box, you will find my will. I do not know if and when I will return. You may open it anytime you wish.”
“Thank you, Charles.”
“Now, what does one need for time travel?”
Emma crouched, her knees never once showing below the hem of her dress, the perfect lady that she was. “Your revolver?” She picked it up between her forefinger and thumb, as if it was a rare species of plant.
Charles tugged on the lapels of his suit. “I am not sure. Maybe in the future, they—we—do not use gunpowder weapons anymore.” He popped the joints in his neck. “Only one way to find out.” He stepped into the portal box. He closed the doors. The world outside was blue, red and milky white. Emma waved timidly.
Charles turned around and started turning the knobs. He did not bother with the decimal points, even though he knew they were important. He checked his pockets. He had his sleeping pills, his wallet with a sizable amount of money in four currencies, a small English-French dictionary, and a spare set of bullets.
He opened the door and wiggled his fingers. Emma handed him the revolver.
“Bon voyage,” she said.
Charles grimaced, closed the door, sighed, took a deep breath, sighed again.
He was either going to be ready for time travel right now—or never. There was nothing he could do that would prepare him for what essentially, philosophically and physically, had not happened yet.
He activated the time portal.
1902
“Charles, you're back!” Emma shouted with shock and delight.
“Have you developed a liking for French food yet?” he asked, storming into the Paris office.
As he expected, as he knew, Emma kept a daily copy of all major newspapers for the entire past year in the little cabinet behind her. He rifled through the headlines, just to get a sense of what had been happening in the time he had been gone.
“Charles!”
“Yes?”
“The time travel! Tell me more about it!”
“There's nothing to tell. I stepped into the portal box and stepped out. It is you who needs to be telling me about the past year.”
“Well, it's been a rather busy year, Charles. We have 707 new cases on the record, waiting for your scrutiny. You have also made close to eleven hundred pounds from interest.”
He kept on flipping the pages. “What did you tell people asking about
me?”
“That you are in Portugal, on a special assignment.”
“Anything urgent that requires my attention?”
“No, but there is -”
“No time! I need to go back.” He rolled his eyes. “Forward. I have to travel again.”
Emma stood up. “Charles! When will you be back?”
Charles made a quick calculation. The most logical way of traveling and hunting after the professor would be either in equal time increments or doubling the increment each time, but exponentiation was a concept that easily eluded the human mind, even one as astute as his own. He knew he would soon find himself trying to go into a future so distant it was unlikely the foundation of the Parisian estate, or for that matter, the tectonic plate underneath, would still be there.
Sometimes, the most accurate mathematical methods required randomness.
Not even Professor Mortimer could predict chaos.
“In five years.”
1907
He spent four months in the new time, searching for clues after Professor Graves. But there was no sign or mention of his nemesis. Maybe he had jumped much farther into the future, but Charles doubted it. The professor was not one to submit to chance. He was here, hiding his tracks, trying to confuse Charles. Make him jump too far ahead so he would have lots of time to evolve his plans.
There was no harm waiting, was there?
The world of 1907 was intriguing. He was fascinated by the advancements in radiology and electrochemistry. New theories were sweeping the world, making the scholars in Cambridge look very embarrassed indeed.
1908
Nothing at all. Professor Graves had vanished from the Earth.
1915
A great war in Europe. A clash of nations, of civilizations, of empires. His own homeland was embroiled in this madness, depleting its youth and intellect and economic power on a struggle that dated back centuries. Charles wanted to jump a decade forward, to see how the war progressed, but then, at the same time, he dreaded leaving the world in its current state.
He still had no evidence, but he believed that part of this catastrophe was the professor's doing. This was the kind of opportunity that Mortimer Graves would use to influence politicians, to force a change of governments, to cause countries to collapse. He would sway minds, play the national sentiment, use his power and money to exploit fragile markets. Make himself rich, indispensable, an adviser to kings and prime ministers, a whisperer to magnates, a magnate himself.
Charles could not leave. He had to stay.
1921
“Charles!”
“Dear Emma.”
“It's been so long, Charles. Three years since I last saw you.”
Charles suddenly noticed the gray in her hair, the creases around her eyes. Those hadn't been there at the end of 1918. He slowed down. “How have you been?”
“Very well, Charles. I am engaged now.”
“Amazing. Do I know the chap?”
“He is a banker. A French man.” She smiled shyly.
Charles snapped his fingers. “Aha! I knew it. What else have I missed?”
Emma came over and hugged him. He was surprised by her gesture of affection.
“I have compiled a summary of the last three years for you. Anything that I thought would be important and meaningful, but I am sure you will discover many other things yourself. The agency now has eleven investigators. We are doing pretty well.”
Charles wanted to protest, but then stopped himself. What appeared an innocent blink of an eye inside the portal box was almost three long years of life. Three years during which Emma had had to work, earn money, make her own life meaningful.
“No sign of Professor Graves,” she added.
Charles extricated himself from the hug. He felt a moment of panic course through his body. Had he miscalculated? Was Mortimer gone into the far, far future? Would he spend the rest of his life chasing a ghost that did not even exist?
No. Mortimer was around. He just knew it.
Emma looked at him worriedly. “How long will you stay this time?”
Charles rubbed his chin. “Just a few days.”
1925
He found the French office populated by people he did not know. They worked for him, but as far as they were concerned, he was a foreigner with a bad attitude and a worse accent.
There was a letter from Emma waiting for him.
She had married the banker. Decided to bear a child, an extremely risky decision for someone her age. Luckily, the birth had gone well, without any complications. She was raising a girl, Dauphine, in a villa maybe just two miles away. She had relinquished her work to other people, in both the London and the Paris branches. He was welcome to pay a visit to her house anytime he wanted, but she expected a gift.
Charles had become a rather wealthy man, the wizards in Switzerland having done magic with his funds. Emma had not taken a penny from him. She was quite well off from what she had earned running the agency in his absence, and what she had gained through marriage.
Professor Mortimer was still listed in the prefecture records, but he was just a dusty page in a dark archive now, one of those missing, unsolved cases that no one remembered anymore.
Charles spent a month searching for his enemy.
He never gathered courage to see Emma.
1932
There was another letter.
This one, from Professor Mortimer Graves.
It was sitting on a chair in the cellar, just in front of the portal doors.
Charles tore the envelope open with trembling fingers and a rapid thud in his heart.
Dear Charlie, your generosity is touching, but you give me too much credit. I am a genius, but you have attached my name to deeds, both great and evil, that I have nothing to do with. My work is not that of a monster. I am not here to seed chaos and watch calamity shoot forth.
How has your life been, Charlie? How long have you spent really living in the last few decades? Are you not excited by all the advancement in science. The Quantum theory! The masterminds of this world are now finally coming to grasp what I have known for so long. But they still struggle with the concept of gravity and time. Maybe, one day, they will understand.
Oh Charlie, the world is so fascinating. Every day, I am torn between staying, learning more and jumping ahead, to learn even more! But the drive, the passion that had once held my heart captive are no longer as they used to be. The thrill of eluding you, of beating you gives me no satisfaction. We have not seen each other in 31 years. And I am not talking about sitting face to face for the most magnificent of intellectual duels of all time. No, Charlie. I am talking about physical presence. The world is not the same without you hot in pursuit, relentless, obsessed, possessed. 31 years. We might not have lived them to the fullest, but our little vendetta is a childish relic of history.
I would like to put this madness behind us.
All it takes is for you to concede defeat and meet me here, on December 21, 1936.
What says you, Charlie?
Charles put the letter down.
Concede defeat?
Never.
He stepped into the box and dialed 1937.
1937
Waiting for him in the cellar was no other than Professor Mortimer Graves, sitting in that same chair, a future-designed pistol in his hand.
Charles paused with his fingers on the double doors, holding his breath in.
“You are quite predictable, Charlie.”
How did he know, Charles wondered.
“Tsk tsk.” The professor shook his head in disapproval.
Will he shoot now and kill me?
“Such a disappointment.”
Risk hitting the machinery and destroy the portal?
“Almost too easy.”
He can always fix it, idiot.
“I knew you would eventually show up. It took me only forty-nine days of waiting.”
Charles swallowed. It wasn't the fear that mad
e his gullet constrict. It was the breath of humiliation. Was he really that intellectually inferior to his nemesis?
“Charlie, do you know why you are losing this… challenge, this duel? Do you know why your best efforts fall short? It is because you are so fanatically dedicated to chasing me, you are missing all the wonders the future has in store for the two of us. Oh Charlie. You are a disgrace to the intellectual community. You do not really care about what is right or wrong. Or just. You just want to capture me, regardless of the cost. Have you seen your dear secretary lately? When was the last time you saw her? A decade ago? Do you even have anyone in this world that remembers you? Have you tried searching for your own name in newspaper articles and library archives. It is such a morbid experience. You will be surprised to learn how little history has to say about the two of us. The grandeur of our time has faded. The world has much bigger villains and heroes than we can ever be.”
With consternation, Charles watched as the professor slowly angled the barrel of the pistol toward his own head, and placed it against his bottom lip.
“Charlie, what will you do if I kill myself now,” Mortimer Graves mumbled, his words distorted. “What will you do if I take away from you the only reason you still live?” His eyes were fixed on the portal, carefully watching for any reaction.
“It will be a great loss,” Charles said, his own voice sounding hollow and dead inside the box.
Professor Graves smiled suddenly. “It would be pointless. To destroy myself just to make you angry? I have accomplished so much in the last thirty-five years. Why would I stop now? Instead, I could kill you. After all, you have been defeated.”
The pistol barrel was now facing the three-colored window panes of the double doors.
“I will let you live, Charlie, if you say it.”
Never. “You will not fire, Mortimer.”
The professor's eyes lit up. “And why is that, Charlie?”
Charles carefully weighed his answer. “Because if you had wanted me dead, you would have destroyed the portal on December 21 last year.”
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