The Whenabouts of Burr

by Michael Kurland

  “You bubble again,” she informed him. “Of course I am Russian. I am not from this Time, but I am certainly Russian. In my time it is Nineteen forty-seven, Gregorian.”

  “Ah!” Ves said. “You’re a Stalinist.”

  “A which?” she asked. “I am Countess Tatiana Petrovna Obrian: I hold the rank of Colonel in Secret Service of Tsar Alexander the Seventh.”

  “A countess in the secret service?” Ves asked. “Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “Certainly not,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her full five-foot four, her eyes blazing. “Would you ask a peasant to spy?”

  “I guess not,” Ves admitted. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tatiana Petrovna; I am Amerigo Vespucci Romero, prisoner of his Democratic Majesty, Jacob Schuyler.”

  She clicked the heels of her boots together and bowed from the waist. “A pleasure,” she said. “We might be political antagonists in home worlds, but as fellow travelers sideways through time, we must aid each other, depend on each other, love each other. Russians good at love.” She looked at him suggestively, relaxing her rigid military pose.

  Ves shook his head. “You go too fast for me,” he said. “One second you’re clicking your heels, and the next you’re talking about love.”

  “It is the complex Russian character,” she told him. “It is why we are so sad.” She removed an iron key from her boot and inserted it into the keyhole. “Contrived,” she said. “They want you to escape, they give you key. No prisoner ever wonders why is keyhole inside of door. Most cells, is not keyhole inside door. Come, we leave now.”

  “Your accent seems to be thickening,” Ves commented, following her into the hall.

  “I am feeling patriotic,” she told him. “Keep voice down.” She tiptoed down the corridor to the far end, where an iron door on massive hinges barred their way. “We get out by going in,” she whispered to Ves. “This leads to inner courtyard, now closed off and used as exercise yard for those prisoners who are allowed and able to exercise.” Another key opened this door, and locked it behind them. “This way,” she said, “to right. Leads to courtyard. Straight ahead leads to recalcitrant prisoners’ block. Ochen disgusting. Come.”

  She led; Ves followed. Down the narrow corridor they hurried, to a thick, barred, wooden door at the end. There the countess paused, with Ves behind her, and there they waited.

  “What’s the matter?” Ves asked, in an urgent whisper.

  “Nada,” the countess said. “Nothing. I have not the key for this door, so we must wait until it is opened from the other side.”

  “By anyone special?” Ves asked, “or are we waiting until someone just happens by with the key?”

  “I have a confederate in the courtyard,” Tatiana Petrovna whispered harshly to him. “He will open the door.”

  “When?” Ves asked. “What is he waiting for? I mean, they’re liable to notice that I’m gone any time now; they just might come looking for me out of spite.”

  “Pah!” the countess said. “No chance. They suffer from inefficiency and conceit, and the combination is fatal. If anyone comes for you and you are not in your cell, he will assume that someone else has already removed you for some official purpose: delousing perhaps. He knows you cannot escape, you see; because no one ever escapes. When anyone ever does escape, they are ashamed to mention it and write down that the prisoner either died or was released.”

  “The guard won’t notice that I’m gone?” Ves asked.

  “Pah! The guard. Pah!” The countess dismissed this menial with a wave of her hand. Just at that moment a gong started ringing in a far section of the building, and the sound of running feet could be heard down the corridor.

  “What do you suppose that is?” Ves asked, pressing up against the wall and trying to melt into the stone.

  “The guard has discovered that you have escaped,” Tatiana Petrovna explained.

  “Do you think we could convince your friend on the far side to open this door?” Ves asked. “I don’t want to seem anxious—”

  “He will open it at any second now,” the countess said. “The door is quite thick, and we can’t yell for him; so he is opening it at a prearranged time.”

  “Which is how far off?” Ves inquired.

  “I do not know,” the countess said. “I have no watch.” Before Ves had a chance to think about that, the door creaked, shuddered, groaned, vibrated, and swung open. A tall man in a Hussar’s uniform, complete with saber and busby, embraced Tatiana Petrovna, pulled them both through the door, and closed it. “Come along,” his voice boomed in the courtyard, “I am tired of crouching innocuous in the corner. Let us get away from here.”

  “Lead the way,” Ves said.

  “No,” the tall man said. “The countess leads; I stay last, to influence those who would follow.” He touched his sword, and nodded significantly.

  “You’ve convinced me,” Ves said. “Let’s go!”

  “Keep against the wall,” Tatiana Petrovna said, “someone may be looking out from an upper window.”

  The courtyard was a long, narrow area, walled by five stories of brick building on all sides, and floored in cement. The ground floor windows were sealed closed by iron shutters, the second and third floor windows were heavily barred, the fourth floor windows were encased in thick iron mesh, and the fifth floor windows were open. “I suppose those are the executive suites,” Ves muttered.

  Tatiana Petrovna inched forward, her back pressed against the wall; then she stopped and shook her head. “Is stupid!” she announced. “Sneak like criminals and anyone who sees you knows you are criminal. Proceed in self-assured manner, and he thinks you are guard—or maybe warden. We will proceed in self-assured manner!” She strode into the direct gloom of the central courtyard, then turned around and beckoned to the men. “Come!” she said. “Stride like a Cossack.”

  At the far end of the courtyard was a short flight of cement stairs, going down, leading to a painted metal double-door. They strode like Cossacks to the doors, and paused while the countess opened them. “Storeroom behind kitchen,” she whispered. “We now pass through kitchen and to side exit door. Simple—no problems.”

  They entered the storeroom, closed and sealed the door behind them. It was a large, high-ceilinged room, lit by a pair of gas fixtures high on the wall at each end. It was stocked with cartons, kegs, canisters, barrels, boxes, bins, and the sort of loose unaccountable effluvia that piles up in a storeroom as the decades pass. There was a stack of rusted metal trays in one corner, a collection of cups of various patterns missing their handles on a shelf, and a broken machine that once stirred large amounts of something-or-other squatting by the door. They passed through the storeroom as rapidly and quietly as possible, and gathered at the inner door.

  “Kitchen,” Tatiana Petrovna whispered. “Might be empty; might be one-two cooks inside.” She shrugged. “Pay them no attention and they will do the same. Head for side door to left. Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door.

  The light dazzled, and the sound clamored. The kitchen was a large expanse of spotless white, relieved here and there by a scrubbed wood counter top or a polished brass pipe. Scattered among the counter tops, ranges and sinks were groups of people in white smocks and white aprons, with floppy white hats or round white caps; tasting, stirring, seasoning and discussing. All such activity ceased when the door opened, all mouths closed except for those which opened wider in astonishment. All eyes stared at the three who emerged. A man in a deep red suit, fashionably tailored (at least Ves still wore his own clothing, and not prison stripes), a lady in a fur-trimmed jacket and pants (pants!) tucked into riding boots, and a uniformed soldier from no army that they’d ever seen.

  Ves took one quick look at the situation and, smoothly closing the door behind him, turned to his companions and waved his right hand toward the gaping cooks. “This is the kitch
en,” he said loudly. “If Madam Commissioner will come this way…” He walked forward with an air of obsequious nonchalance. “Notice how clean everything is kept in the actual food handling area. Quite unlike the storeroom.”

  “Um,” Tatiana Petrovna said, striding over to the nearest counter: “Um.” She produced a pair of white gloves from an inner pocket of her jacket, ceremoniously put them on, then drew her fingers across the counter top and around the rim under the counter. “Grime,” she said, examining the gloved finger.

  “Grime?” Ves said, sounding incredulous. He turned to face the white-smocked horde and allowed his voice to rise. “Grime? Grime?”

  Suddenly all the starers remembered something they had to do urgently, right now. They turned aside and stirred, checked the flame, washed the spoon, bowed the head, bent the knee, and averted the eye.

  Tatiana Petrovna stalked haughtily through the kitchen without another word; behind her came Ves, wheedling and supplicating, “But Madam, they weren’t prepared—but Madam Commissioner, you must give them another chance—I assure you they make every effort—this is normally the cleanest of kitchens—” and so they passed through the door and out.

  “Brilliant,” the countess said, saluting Ves. “My carriage is on the next block. Let us go.”

  “Where,” Ves asked, “are you taking me?”

  “To the It,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “We take you to Prime Time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The train travelled twenty-four hours a day, pausing only to satisfy the engine’s insatiable desire for fuel and water. Even so, the trip took almost a week: six days and most of the seventh. River fording, on great cable-pulled barges, ate up much of the time. Crossing the Mississippi took three trips and nine hours. The fuel was cordwood or soft coal; the only difference to the engine seemed to be in the color and intensity of the smoke it put out. During the stops food and water for the passengers was also hoisted aboard, but it was clear that no waiting would be tolerated for that. The train changed crews every day; one crew being on duty for twenty-four hours before being relieved at the appropriate water stop. Toilet necessities were provided for with the aid of specially designed carriage-pots kept under the seat. The design, Swift found, was poor.

  Hamilton spent the time reading, expounding his theories of government, philosophy, religion, ethics, and morality to Swift, and writing in a thick daybook which he kept in his travelling-case. He seemed glad of Swift’s company, and willing to answer any questions Swift had about what was happening, to the best of his ability. On the third day out, Swift asked him how he and Burr had gotten involved in the parallel time worlds.

  “It was the duel,” Hamilton explained. “You know about the duel?”

  “Yes,” Swift said. “On my world you, ah, got killed.”

  Hamilton nodded. “That conclusion seems predominant on worlds where the duel happened.”

  “It wasn’t, ah, universal?”

  “In some worlds Burr shot me and I lived; in most I died. In all we both fired, but I missed. At least, all I have any knowledge of. Which is very strange because I had no intention of firing; that is, I was going to discharge my piece into the air. But I aimed and fired. At least—” he shook his head “—I aimed and fired. I can only assume my doppelgangers did the same.

  “In some worlds, of course, the duel didn’t happen at all: either Burr didn’t challenge me, or I contrived an honorable way to apologize for the insults in question. It is true: sometimes I let my mouth—or my pen—run ahead of my brain. I should never have said those things about Burr.”

  “What did you say?” Swift asked.

  “I gave my opinion of Burr. I said he was a dangerous man and not to be trusted with the reins of government. I said more . . .”

  “You didn’t mean it?” Swift asked.

  “Of course I meant it,” Hamilton said, sounding annoyed. “Where I made my mistake was in saying it in public. Public, in this case, was a gentleman named Charles Cooper. Doctor Charles Cooper. He wrote a letter quoting me—half-quoting me, which is worse—which was published in the Albany Register. The letter said that I had uttered my ‘despicable opinion’ of Burr. You see, sir, in our society words are taken literally. What I had uttered was a political opinion of Burr. But despicable means personally vile, not merely politically contemptible.

  “This was Cooper’s word, not mine; but I was put in the position of having to defend it. If, when Burr called upon me I had retracted, my word would have been valueless, dishonored. And of course he had to call upon me: ‘despicable’ was not an epithet that he could, with honor, let pass. So we were forced by the code of our times to fight a duel that I’m sure neither of us really wanted.”

  “What happened?” Swift asked. “I mean, to you. Obviously, you weren’t killed.”

  The train jerked and squealed to a stop; the high-pitched, agonizing sound of softwood brakes pressing against iron wheels. Hamilton and Swift were bounced forward and then back again, as the train came to rest. The sound of yelling carried clearly from the front of the train.

  “There seems to be some earnest discussion going on up front,” Hamilton said, opening his travelling bag and removing a pepperbox revolver. “We’d best go see.”

  They swung down off the carriage, Hamilton and his pepperbox in the lead, and trotted up toward the disturbance. The countryside was hilly and, except for the corridor cut for the train, heavily wooded. Because of the trees and a slight curve, the front of the train was just out of sight. The discussion seemed to be getting louder and more vigorous. A peculiar sound, half squeal, half bellow, was heard periodically. “Gods are fearless,” Hamilton said, mostly to himself, and rounded the curve.

  Hamilton stopped short. Swift caught up with him and also stopped. They stared, silently; there was nothing to say.

  A line of camels stood in front of the train. Each camel wore a halter and a pack saddle. A group of gentlemen in long flowing robes and long, straight rifles stood beside the camels. Here in the forests of primordial Ohio, or Pennsylvania, a caravan was in front of their train.

  Hamilton stood stock still for a minute, just watching the scene. “What’s happening?” Swift demanded. “What are they doing there?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Hamilton said, and strode forward. “What’s going on here?” he bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the Native uproar. “All right, let’s have a cessation of yelling. What are you people doing here?”

  One of the Arabs, a short, stout fellow, raced over to Hamilton and grabbed his hand. “My dear man,” he said, pumping it up and down, “You speak English. How delightful! Bentham at your service, Jeremy Bentham. Although, actually I’m afraid I’m the one who requires assistance. Would you be good enough to tell me where we are, and where the Great Desert is?”

  “Desert?” Hamilton said. “There isn’t a desert within two thousand miles of here. There’s a nice desert a bit over two thousand miles West. West-south-west, to be more precise.”

  Bentham shook his head. ”I’ve been misinformed. There’s such a thing as being overly casual in giving directions. You’re sure about that, now?”

  “Sure,” Hamilton said. He turned to Swift. “Mr. Swift, how say you?”

  Swift nodded his head. “No desert around here,” he said.

  “Shocking,” Bentham said. “Simply shocking. Never trust a Prime. Never again. What am I to do now?”

  “As I see it, sir, you have two choices,” Hamilton said. “Either follow this railroad line West until you cross a great mountain range, then turn left; or follow the line East some two hundred miles until you come to Manhattan, and use the It to return to Prime Time, whence I assume you came. If you are willing to abandon your camels, you can ride along with us and be there in a day. In either case, I must ask you to get your camels off our right-of-way.”

  “Of course, dear boy,
of course. But what am I to do?” He put his hand under his chin and struck a pose. “I can’t just leave the poor beasts… I’ll follow behind you, old man. If we don’t show up in a couple of days, send the dogs out to look for the camels, ha, ha, ha, ha.” His chuckle had a dry and mechanical sound.

  Bentham pulled his camels off the roadway, the Toltecs and their small god re-boarded the train, and the journey resumed.

  Hamilton produced a thin bottle and two small silver shot glasses from his baggage. “I think, perhaps, a small libation?” He poured. He extended one of the glasses to Swift. “Rum,” he explained. “I always carry a small personal supply. There are so many places where you can’t get it. Here, for example, they don’t make it—yet. In many, ah, times, they don’t believe in it. There are even times where they don’t allow fermented beverages to be made: wine, or small beer, would you believe it?”

  “I would,” Swift said, taking the glass. He lifted it: “Your health, sir.”

  Hamilton nodded and raised his own shot glass. “And yours, sir; your very good health, indeed. You have proven a fine companion and excellent conversationalist on this long voyage.”

  Swift smiled. “You mean I listen well.”

  “I do indeed, sir,” Hamilton acknowledged, with a smile of his own. “And a rare thing that is. I own that a great bit of any success I have had in life is due to my ears; I listen well and carefully. Washington valued me for my habit of listening to him. Everyone else either stared at him respectfully, too awed to hear what he was saying, or stared absently past him, too busy framing their rebuttal to care what he had said. I listened. I didn’t always agree, but I listened.”

  “You were telling me about the duel,” Swift reminded him.

  “Ah, yes. The duel. It changed my life. Which is, I suppose, all to the good: in other time-lines, it killed me.

  “In order to properly understand what happened and why, you must know that Burr and I are a nexus-point in history. By this I mean, if you trace historic lines in adjacent time-tracks to discover where they converge—or diverge, depending on which way you’re going—you will find that they come together in bunches, all at the same point, like the straw in a broom. Actually ‘point’ is too confining a word: it’s more of a, a blob.” Hamilton clenched his left hand into a fist and held it out for examination. “A finite period of time covering one event, or one group of people.