“Well, Burr and I seem to be the foci of one of those times covering a period of about ten years starting in 1802 or so. There are whole sets of time-tracks where Burr was President, where I was, where he was Emperor of Mexico, and where the duel was fought with varying results. The histories of thousands of Americas in thousands of parallel time-worlds are dependent upon what Burr or I did, or didn’t do, from 1803 till about 1812.”
“Fascinating,” Swift said, seeing that Hamilton had paused for his reaction. “It must give you a strange sense of power.”
Hamilton stared sadly into his silver glass. “It gives me a strange sense of fate, of destiny,” he said. “I feel like some sort of marionette in a puppet play; and the puppeteer keeps rewriting the ending.”
“How did you get out of this cycle?” Swift asked. Hamilton looked at him strangely for a second, as though he did not understand the question, then he nodded. “The duel!” he said. “That happened about five years ago now, my time, subjective time. Some Prime-Timers came to watch, you see, because it was such a famous, important event. They hid in the trees.”
“So?” Swift asked.
“So, they are very careless, the Primes; thoughtless of what they do.” Hamilton broke off and stared out the window. “This was the segment, you know, where Burr shoots me and I die in agony some days later,” he said finally. “Like your segment, except I live a day or two longer and scream more. Everyplace I go, if it’s uptime from my own time, I find out what happened to Alexander Hamilton. It’s very sobering.
“Well, in this particular case, in this particular time, one of the Primes took a picture of the duel. A flash picture. It startled Burr so that his shot went wild, hit a stone, and ricocheted into the leg of the photographer. We were startled, he was displeased; it wasn’t supposed to work out this way. I was supposed to be shot, and I wasn’t. He was supposed to have a picture of me getting shot, and instead he had a ball in the photographer’s leg.”
“Don’t these Primes have any sense of ethics in dealing with, ah, others?” Swift asked.
“Why should they have any more regard for those on the lower lines—that’s what they call them, the lower lines—than we had for the Indians, or the Christians had for the Moslems, or the Catholics had for the Huguenots?”
“What happened?” Swift asked, refusing to get drawn into philosophy when what he wanted was facts.
“To me? I didn’t die. To the Prime? We took him to a doctor. There was a surgeon waiting in the barge, but the Prime would have none of our primitive doctoring: he insisted on one of his own. He was perfectly willing to let me spend three days in agony dying, as long as he got his picture; but the thought didn’t appeal as much when it was he who was doing the screaming. And at that, it was only a flesh wound. So we took him to one of his doctors—through an It. And our lives have never been the same.”
“The experience of travelling through multiple worlds must be enough to entice anyone,” Swift said.
“That’s not it,” Hamilton said, shaking his head. “It’s the Primes. Not content with having ruined our duel; not content, I say, with saving life, they had to interfere further. There is some sort of rudimentary law in Prime Time about not interfering with the affairs of the lower lines. Something like your prohibition: the law seems to be there only to encourage the violators. However, in this case, as Burr and I were important to the very fabric of space-time (I quote, I assure you, I quote), they would have to do something about it. The Prime authorities spent large sums of money on my world to convince the citizens that I was dead and Burr was the murderer. As with everything else, they overdid it. I could never go back, as myself, since I was dead. Burr could never go back—they would have lynched him. A consummation most devoutly to be wished, perhaps, but not by Burr. Lynch came from Virginia, you know: Washington, Jefferson and Lynch, three shapers of American destiny, all from Virginia. It giveth one to pause.”
“So what did you do?” Swift asked.
“What you see,” Hamilton said. “I found a world which had a North American Continent inhabited only by uncivilized tribes, and I started my own civilization. With a few dozen picked people from different times as a core, and amenities obtained through the It, we will found here a republic of which Plato would be proud.”
“What about the Indians?” Swift asked.
“What about them?” Hamilton replied, puzzled.
Swift shrugged. “Different points of view, I suppose.”
“More of that democratic idealism of yours?” Hamilton asked. “You worried about the welfare of the Indians? My dear sir, when we came to this continent—to this version of our continent—the Toltec civilization was busily sacrificing people to the gods, in a particularly bloody manner, at the rate of about one a week.”
“You’ve stopped that?” Swift asked.
“Well, we’ve at least reduced it, although many of the traditionalist priests are muttering about it. I don’t know what we’re going to do if there’s a bad harvest, at any time within the next five years.”
“I’m not convinced,” Swift said. “There are always rationalizations for destroying someone else’s civilization: they don’t behave in a manner you consider gentlemanly. I think they have as much right to their customs as you have to yours.”
“You wouldn’t think so quite as eagerly if it was your chest being bared to the obsidian knife,” Hamilton said. “But I’ll make you a sporting offer: join our little society here, and have an equal voice in the changes to be made. What do you say, sir?” Hamilton leaned back, arms akimbo, and stared speculatively at Nate Swift.
“It’s a nice offer, Mr. Hamilton,” Swift said, “and I’ll certainly consider it. But my present job is to find and restore the Constitution of the United States to its rightful place under glass. I have the additional job of finding my partner, Ves Romero, before we get too thoroughly separated by the sands of time.”
“Good enough,” Hamilton said. “I couldn’t respect a man who dishonored a commitment. Find your friend, find that scrap of paper and return home. When you find yourself bored with your own world, come back here and take me up on my offer.”
“How much trouble will there be in finding my own world?” Swift asked.
“In one sense, none,” Hamilton told him. “In another sense, you’ll never be able to find your own world, not ever again.”
“What?” Swift demanded.
“In one sense, none—” Hamilton repeated.
“It was the second half of that,” Swift said. “And don’t bother repeating it, just explain it.”
“Well,” Hamilton said, putting his hand in front of his face and looking thoughtful, “I’ll see if I can.
“The Intertemporal Transporter, because of some design feature in the Universe that it cannot overcome, something about bundles of energy, makes jumps of so-many millions or milliards of parallel times. Because of the slowing down—or speeding up, if you’re going the other way—of the time stream, these jumps come some years apart in what I may refer to as the common history. Nine and seven-tenths years, to be precise.
“But, because of this gradual change in rate of the time stream, a nine and seven-tenths years jump does not take you back to exactly the world you left; but to one a few tracks to the, ah, right, or left. Normally, these are so close to identical that you never know the difference. A man you will never meet might have taken on a different, unimportant profession, for example; or a building you will never see might be painted a different shade of green.”
“That’s all?” Swift said. “It doesn’t sound like much. Still, it would be a funny feeling to know that somewhere, something is different, and you’ll never be able to tell where or what.”
“There is a chance, of course, that a major nexus point will come into the time flow between you and your home, and that you will land just on the wrong side of it. The chance is
vanishingly small, but it is there.”
“Wait a minute,” Swift said, “don’t you have to go back to the world where the It is?”
“Of course,” Hamilton explained. “But that world has fissioned and split into parallel worlds many times since the It was planted there, and the It remains in each of them.”
“Let me think about that,” Swift said.
“Have another glass of rum,” Hamilton offered. “It will clear your head.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The two-horse brougham raced up Broadway as fast as the late evening traffic would allow. The Countess, sitting next to Ves in the rear seat, held his arm and bounced up and down joyfully. “Magnificent!” she said. “The quick thinking. The droll wit. The marvelous ambiance. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Oh magnificent! It is an honor to rescue you.”
Ves nodded; he was sort of proud of himself. Cleverness is too often in the realm of the “I should have said”, and to have been able to call upon it when necessary left a sort of smug afterglow. “I had to learn to think quickly in my business,” he said. “Before I retired, in the early days when it was mostly repo work, we had to be able to be inventive at short notice.”
“ ‘Repo work?’ ” asked the Countess.
“Automobile repossession. For banks, you know.”
“What do banks want with automobiles?” she asked.
“Never mind,” Ves said, “it’d take too long. I’d just like to thank you, and your Cossack friend here, for your timely intervention in my affairs.”
“Think of it as nothing,” the Countess said. “For now, the job of importance is getting safely to the It and away from this unfriendly time.”
“Nate!” Ves said.
“What?” the Countess inquired politely. “I am unfamiliar with that expression.”
“Nate!” Ves repeated. “My friend Nate, who is here with me; we must find him. We can’t leave without Nate.”
“We can,” the Countess told him. “We must. He has not been arrested; I would have heard from Captain Richardson. Tell me where to find him, and I will see that a message reaches your friend.”
Ves thought about it for a minute, as the carriage plunged on up Broadway. “You’re right,” he told the Countess. “The Gouverneur Morris Hotel on 34th Street, right off Fifth Avenue. If he’s not there, try the Library.” With a sudden little shock of memory, Ves felt in his pocket and found the transmitter pin. “As a matter of fact,” he said, bringing the button up to his mouth, concealed between his fingers, and squeezing it: “Nate! Can you hear me, Nate? Are you there?”
Nothing, not even the hiss of static, which was automatically suppressed by the receiver.
“Why are you speaking to your thumb?” Countess Tatiana Petrovna asked. “Is it some sort of rite in your religion?”
“It’s not my thumb,” Ves said patiently, showing the tiny pin to the Countess, “it’s this.”
Tatiana Petrovna took the pin and examined it with cross-eyed intensity. “So,” she said. “This is a fetish I am unfamiliar with. You’re not a Christian Realist, are you: one of those people who do not believe in their own material existence, so they keep sticking pins in themselves to prove that they’re here?”
“Not at all,” Ves said. “That is a miniature radio transmitter. Do you have radio on your world?”
“Ah, da! You mean the spark-gap wireless mechanisms, and Vashinitsky Code with its blips and bloops. You send blips and bloops with that button?” She rolled the pin contemplatively between her thumb and forefinger, then handed it back to Ves. “Great for spies,” was her final comment.
Ves pinned the button back onto the inside of his jacket lapel. “That’s been thought of,” he said.
The brougham pulled up at a large, squat building constructed of old red bricks. The bricks may have been new when the building was constructed; if so, neither aged gracefully. The driver hopped off his high seat and opened the door for his passengers.
The Countess emerged and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Nate what?” she asked Ves as he climbed down. “Swift,” Ves said, “Nate Swift. Nathan Swift.”
“Very American,” the Countess said, scribbling on the back of an envelope and handing it to the driver. “Here, proceed to the Gouverneur Morris and find Mr. Nathan Swift. Bring him after us.”
The driver saluted and departed, leaping back into his driver’s seat and flogging the tired horses into a new spasm of excitement as they galloped off.
“Boris, you will wait here,” she told her tall Cossack. “Guard our retreat, if necessary. Follow in four or five hours with our friend’s friend, or word of him.”
He nodded assent. “Take care,” he said.
Tatiana Petrovna turned to Ves, “Come!”
“You’re taking me to Prime Time now?” Ves asked, following her through the narrow door in the brick, and into a darkness as deep as the space between the galaxies.
“Yes,” her voice came, “but the way is long and not always safe.” Her hand reached out and took his. “Come, let me guide you; I know the way through the dark.”
Ves allowed himself to be led along a twisting path through what must have been several rooms or corridors. Only once, for a short distance, could he touch a wall on either side. “You certainly do know your way,” he told her, his voice coming back to him as a hollow echo.
“Once my feet have walked any path,” she said, “I no longer need my eyes to repeat the walk. It is a useful skill in my peculiar profession. Keep your voice down.” She turned once more to the left, twice more to the right, and then halted. “We are there,” she said positively. “Have you a match?”
“I don’t think so,” Ves whispered. “They cleaned out my pockets when they were interrogating me.”
“I too am matchless,” the Countess said. “I do not smoke. At times I burn, but I do not smoke. No matter, I shall proceed by touch. I must let go of you, as I need both hands. Put your hand on my shoulder or around my waist, to insure our togetherness at the critical moment.” Ves put his hand around the slim, feminine waist that was as firm to his touch as spring steel.
“I wouldn’t want to jeopardize our togetherness at the critical moment,” he said.
“We Russians have no sense of humor,” Tatiana Petrovna told him. “Was that funny?”
Ves sighed. “Ten years ago, I would have thought it romantic,” he said. “But now, I suppose, it’s funny.”
“That is maudlin,” the Countess said. “Age is merely a state of mind. Do not say sad things to me because I may cry. Russians are good at crying; but I won’t be good at anything else for hours if you make me cry. I put myself into it wholly.”
“I thought that was funny too,” Ves said. “I guess we Etruscans have no sense of humor either. But we make great potsherds. How’s it coming?”
“The wall is open,” she told him. “I am fondling the dial even now. Results any second. Be patient.”
Ves waited patiently, wondering how the Countess could travel so precisely and manipulate things so accurately in the blackness. An instinct “we Russians” have acquired through the long winters, no doubt, he thought. It was a shame that the light from the window high on the wall to his left was so faint, or it might be useful, Ves thought. Then, with a start, he realized that the window hadn’t been there a second ago.
“That should have done it,” Tatiana Petrovna said.
“It did,” Ves assured her. “We are now elsewhere. Elsewhen? Well, wherever it is, we’re there.”
“Very good,” the Countess said. “That’s step one. Now we must proceed to the site of step two.”
“This isn’t Prime Time?” Ves asked. “Why don’t we just go straight to Prime Time?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Tatiana Petrovna told him. “It goes where it goes, and we must follow it as we may. Each individual It goes throu
gh a limited number of parallel times following a definite pattern. Think of it as having to transfer to a number of different trams to get to your destination.”
“So this is a sort of bus stop,” Ves said, trying to make sense of the shadows passing outside the high window.
“But the next, ah, bus doesn’t come to us; we must go to it,” the Countess said. “It is not far. Judging by the window light, it is either late evening, or early morning. I do hope it is early morning: there are less objectionable people about at this very objectionable bus stop.”
“What’s objectionable about it?” Ves asked, peering into the gloom. “Where are we? Is it still New York? How many more transfers are there before we get to Prime Time?”
“Patience, and stay close to me,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “God knows what will happen if we get separated here. It is still New York, I believe; but you will find little similarity to any New York you are familiar with, except for the name. Come.”
She led him through the blackness to a wide entrance hall, which was semi-lit by two dim, uncovered incandescent bulbs set high up on opposite sides of the hall. There were thick black drapes hung on the walls, covering what must have been windows, and a black curtain shielding the door.
As their feet tapped hollow echoes across the tiled floor, Ves suddenly realized that he was cold. By the time they reached the black-curtained door a few seconds later, he had modified this feeling to damn cold: overcoat cold; parka cold; crawl under the covers and forget about going out today cold; stick your hands under your arms, stamp up and down and contemplate building a fire on the living room rug out of broken pieces of dining room furniture cold. And his brand-new, gaudy red suit jacket wasn’t even lined, for crissakes; and the waistcoat had a false back (all in fashion, the tailor had told him, better for the line of the garment). And they were still inside the building. Ves didn’t think he wanted to go out.
The Whenabouts of Burr Page 13
