Thrice upon a Time

by James P. Hogan

  Fennimore gasped. "January! But I thought you said that the machine only had a range of one day. How could you possibly do anything that would affect what happened in January?"

  "It's a long story," Cartland came in. "We might as well let you in on a secret: The machine has, we believe, already been used for something similar. We'll tell you all about that later. But to answer your question for now, we already possess a computer program that employs an ingenious method to jump a message as far back as January in one-day hops. In a nutshell, it uses itself as a relay. The program worked before; therefore it can work again."

  "It's already been used for something like this?" Fennimore stared incredulously. "You mean in connection with this situation?"

  "No," Charles replied. "For something entirely different. We can talk about that later, as Ted says. But to do something about the present situation, obviously we will need your help and cooperation."

  Fennimore shook his head rapidly. "But… it's outlandish. From the things you said earlier, an action like that could affect all kinds of people's lives radically. Surely you're not suggesting that we—just a handful of individuals making a decision in isolation, without reference to anybody—can take it upon ourselves to change what might turn out to be a large section of the world all the way back to January? How can anybody presume such a right?"

  "I'm not proposing that we do," Charles replied. "I agree with what you say. It's for the governments of this world to decide. They need a full-scale, controlled experiment to convince them of the potential of this technology. This could be the perfect opportunity to give them one. But before they'll even go as far as approving such an experiment, they'll need something that will make their minds up for them that it can be of real benefit. It's a vicious circle. The only way to break out of it is to present them with a fait accompli and let them draw their conclusions from that. That's what I'm proposing we do here."

  "Are you sure that the governments are that deeply involved?" Fennimore asked with a trace of suspicion in his voice.

  "Oh, come on!" Cuthrie exclaimed. "What do you think I'm doing here? And didn't you say yourself that it was Lansing who insisted on your coming here?"

  Fennimore closed his eyes for a moment, drew a long breath, and then nodded. "Very well. Exactly what kind of fait accompli have you in mind? What would it be designed to achieve?"

  "A pilot test," Charles answered at once. "I don't want to do anything that would affect January; that exercise should be reserved for the main experiment, and be conducted in such a way that all of the appropriate government leaders and their advisers know about it." He paused. "I just want to go back five days. I've been thinking about the tragic error in California that you told us about, and it seems an ideal candidate for what I have in mind. I want to go back five days and have the bad batch of vaccine intercepted. That in itself, I'm sure you will agree, constitutes a worthwhile objective. But as well as that, I want the value of this pilot test to be endorsed by somebody whose reputation and integrity are beyond question, and whose authority is indisputable. I want you, Sir Giles, to be the witness."

  Fennimore gaped in undisguised astonishment as what Charles was saying slowly dawned on him:

  Charles was offering to wipe away the nightmare that Fennimore had been living for days. One simple message sent from the machine downstairs would be all it would take. For the moment, Fennimore was unable to find any words to reply.

  "I assume that you now possess complete details of what went wrong with the New Jersey batch—how, what the effects were, when it happened, and all that kind of thing," Charles went on. "Is that correct?" Fennimore nodded. "I'd like you to send all of that data," Charles said. "Data that nobody could possibly have possessed five days ago. And I'd like you to compose it in a way that only you would recognize, perhaps by including phrases of your own private shorthand if you use one, or any special symbols or abbreviations. You see, it will be you who eventually reads it; I want to make sure that you'll have no doubts as to who sent it. When that happens, there must be no doubt whatsoever as to its authenticity."

  "There's another thing too," Cartland said. "Don't forget that Murdoch and I only figured out the Centurion story in the last couple of days. If you're going back five days, you'd better put in something about that as well. Otherwise we might not be so lucky on the new timeline."

  "That's a good point," Charles agreed. "Aye, we'll put all that in as well." He turned and looked inquiringly at Fennimore. "Well, that's my proposal. What do you say to it, Sir Giles?"

  The call-tone from the bedside vi-set brought Fennimore out of a deep sleep. He switched on the lamp to light up his room in the Glasgow Hilton, and glanced instinctively at his watch; it was almost two A.M. Stifling a yawn, he reached out for the screen, pivoted it toward him, and accepted the call. The caller was Desmond Sawyer from the Ministry in London.

  "It's looking as if the balloon's going up," Sawyer said without preamble. "Your San Francisco tickets are fixed for flight twenty-eight out of Edinburgh at seven-thirty in the morning. A car will pick you up from the hotel at six-forty-five."

  "It's started, has it?" Fennimore said.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "What about Dr. Patterson?"

  "I've just called her. She'll meet you on the plane; you've got adjacent seats. Everything else is fixed at the other end."

  "Very good," Fennimore said. "Call Fisher at the Glasgow Royal in the morning, would you, and tell him what's happened. I'll call him when I get to San Francisco."

  "I'd already planned to," Sawyer said. "Well, I'll let you get some sleep for what's left of the night. Good night. Have a good trip."

  "Night, Desmond. Thanks."

  Fennimore cut off the screen, turned out the light, and settled down to go to sleep. Two minutes later the call-tone sounded again. "Damn and blast it!" he muttered as he fumbled for the lightswitch again. This time the face was not familiar. It was an elderly man, possibly in his late sixties or early seventies, with white hair and a proud, jutting, gray beard. His face was rugged and ruddy in hue, and somehow gave the impression of belonging to a body large in stature.

  "Yes?" Fennimore inquired irritably.

  "I'm sorry to have to disturb you at this time of night," the caller said in a distinctly Scottish voice. "You are Sir Giles Fennimore?"

  "Yes."

  "My name is Sir Charles Ross. Among other things I'm engaged as a consultant physicist to the EFC at Burghead."

  "Kindly get to the point," Fennimore said. "What do you want? It's two o'clock in the morning."

  "I'm sorry, but it was vital for me to contact you before you leave for San Francisco in the morning."

  Fennimore's eyes widened suddenly, and he hauled himself into a more attentive position. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know about my going to San Francisco? I only found out about it myself for certain a few minutes ago."

  "I told you, my name is Ross. I have some important information for you."

  "What kind of information?"

  "It concerns Centurion."

  Fennimore's face at once became serious. "What do you know about Centurion?" he asked in a guarded tone.

  "The specification being used for production of the vaccine at the New Jersey plant contains an error in the purification cycle," Ross said. "The batch being manufactured there will not reproduce the prototype results; it will induce lethal side effects. It's imperative that distribution of that batch is stopped."

  "My God!" Fennimore gasped, staring at the screen in disbelief. "How do you know about all this? Why haven't we met before? Which department are you with?"

  "I'm not with any department," Ross replied. "I'm engaged in private research."

  "Then who told you about it?" Fennimore demanded.

  "You did."

  "Me? When?"

  "About four hours ago," Ross said.

  Fennimore's bewilderment increased visibly. "Don't be absurd," he said curtly. "I've been here all eveni
ng. I've never seen you before."

  Ross hesitated for an instant. "Err… you were five days in the future at the time," he explained. There was a hint of apology in his tone.

  Pause.

  "Are you some kind of lunatic?"

  "Would a lunatic have been able to tell you about Centurion and New Jersey?" Ross asked.

  "No," Fennimore admitted after a few seconds' thought. "Perhaps you'd better explain yourself… from the beginning, please."

  "It might take a while," Ross replied. "It would be better if I came to talk to you there."

  "What, at this time of night?" Fennimore objected. "I've got an early plane to catch, as you seem to know perfectly well already."

  "Allow me to show you something that might persuade you," Ross said. "Would you activate your hardcopy unit, please." Fennimore looked puzzled, then stretched out his arm to tap a pad below the screen of the vi-set. Moments later, the slot in the base of the set began disgorging sheets of paper. Fennimore took the first from the tray beneath the slot and scanned it hurriedly. After a second or two, he gasped aloud and looked up at the screen.

  "Where did you get this?" he demanded. "Who wrote it?"

  "Who do you think wrote it?" Ross asked. "Who's the only person who could have written it?"

  "But I never ... " Fennimore's voice trailed away. He shook his head in total confusion.

  "Now can we come and talk to you?" Ross asked.

  "We?"

  "I have two colleagues I'd like to bring, if you've no objection."

  Fennimore looked down at the sheet again, then reached out and retrieved another. He read the first few lines of symbols on it, shaking his head slowly while Ross watched in silence. When he looked up, his face had lost color noticeably. "Yes… perhaps we had better talk," he faltered. "Bring your colleagues if you wish. How long will it be before I should expect you?"

  "Give us about an hour," Ross replied. "'We're a bit of a drive away. We'll call your room when we get there. Apologies for disturbing you, once again. I'm sure that when we've finished, you'll agree that it was necessary, however."

  "I certainly hope so," Fennimore said in a still shaky voice. "Very well then, I'll expect you in about an hour."

  After he had cleared the call, he got out of bed, rinsed his face, and dressed. Then he sat down at the table by the foot of the bed and began studying carefully the sheets of data that Ross had copied through. As he read, the expression of complete and utter mystification on his face only deepened further.

  Chapter 37

  "The biggest single obstacle that the human race must learn to overcome is its persistent and morbid tendency to believe that certain things are impossible," Cuthrie said. The rows of faces arrayed in front of him around the conference theater listened in attentive silence. "I submit that there is no such thing. It was not very long ago that self-propelled carriages were proved to be 'impossible' on principle; survival at velocities above fifty miles per hour was once considered 'impossible'; heavier-than-air flight was 'impossible'; and so were rocket propulsion, space travel, nuclear fusion, feeding the Third World, and stabilizing global population. Throughout history, today's children have yawned at yesterday's miracles."

  The conference was being held in the Health Ministry's new skyscraper in the center of London. The attendees were scientific and policy advisers from the various governments that had so far been brought into the Storbannon secret. They had come to London in response to an invitation extended by the British Government following certain approaches that had been made to Lansing by the World Health Organization in Geneva. Three weeks had gone by since Charles's call to Fennimore in his hotel room in Glasgow.

  Cuthrie continued, "Yet even the most optimistic among us have always been obliged to constrain their philosophies to the observation that 'We can't change the past, but we can do something about the future.' That has remained the ultimate impossibility which has never been seriously questioned." He paused for effect, and swung his gaze slowly from one side of the room to the other. "But today, lo and behold, even that ultimate of impossibilities lies demolished at the end of the trail marked by the ruins of all the rest. The question confronting us is not 'Which direction do we take from here?'—for surely there can be no doubt about that, but, 'How do we take the next step?' "

  Cuthrie paused again to invite comments, but the silence that greeted him was total. Charles had already spoken at some length, firing the imaginations of everybody present with visions of the future heralded by the new physics. But the visions had been of distant futures that lay at the ends of long, winding roads ahead, with nothing specific to guide the first moves needed to get to them. Charles had provided the tools for shaping a world, but where were the directions for using them? The paralysis that had gripped the minds of everybody who had grappled with the problem was still as much in evidence as it had been months previously. The moving finger, having writ, could now be erased; but nobody was willing to take a contract to do the rewrite.

  "We have all been agreed for some time that the next step must be a fully controlled test," Cuthrie went on. "So far, however, nobody has been willing to decide what form such a test should take. We think that an ideal opportunity for such a test now exists, and we have called you all here in the hope that, as a result of what will be said today, your respective governments will see fit to add their endorsements to a decision for us to proceed." A sudden stir of interest ran around the rows of listeners at these words. Cuthrie waited for a moment, then concluded, "Murdoch Ross is going to describe to you what we have in mind. I think most of you have been to Storbannon at some time or other, and have already met Murdoch. For anybody who hasn't, he is from the United States and is the grandson of Sir Charles Ross, who spoke earlier. He is also a mathematician, and has been participating in the work that Sir Charles has described. Murdoch?" Cuthrie glanced across at where Murdoch was sitting, nodded, and sat down amid an undercurrent of murmuring from all sides.

  Murdoch climbed to his feet and straightened up to face the august gathering. Charles had been the one to suggest that since the whole topic of the conference had been essentially Murdoch's brainchild, Murdoch should present it. Murdoch had accepted, although with some misgivings at the prospect of having to address an audience of delegates from the world's governments. Now, as he stood facing them with an expectant silence beginning to descend, everything that he had carefully prepared in his mind was already scrambled into a hopeless mess. He looked down at the notes that he had brought with him, but they no longer meant anything. Words poured into his head, but his mouth was unable to string them together into anything coherent.

  And then he thought of the breathing vegetable that he had gone to see a few days previously in Glasgow—through which fluids circulated, and inside which proteins continued to assemble themselves only because of the never-altering vigilance of machines… which lay still only because of drugs and surgically implanted neural bypasses… which contained something that had once been a brain, but would never again think. He pushed the notes away, and looked up.

  "In early May, almost two months ago, the first cases of omnisclerosis appeared," he said. "Today the number of confirmed cases worldwide is not far short of a hundred thousand, despite the intensive inoculation program that has been in operation for almost a month. In the past seven days there have been fifty-seven deaths among the earliest-reported victims: Also, we are told, no cure is currently in sight that will arrest the disease once the virus comes out of its gestating state and begins replicating its DNA. Therefore, in the months ahead, we can expect the death-toll to rise to at least a hundred thousand. That much seems certain.

  "But that is not all. The gestation period is eight to nine months. Without doubt there are many people all over the world who are already unwitting carriers, and who, for one reason or another, will not be traced and treated before the viruses that they are carrying become active. And we know also that when that stage is reached, not only will those
people be incurable, but the disease they are carrying will become communicable.

  "Thus, one hundred thousand carriers have already been spreading it to who-knows-how-many more potential victims in who-knows-how-many parts of the world. So how many times one hundred thousand people will be under a death-sentence eight to nine months from now?"

  He paused for a moment to let his listeners reflect on the question. A solemn hush had descended on the auditorium. Murdoch did not mention anything of the connection of the QX-37 orbiting laboratory with the whole business. The origin of the virus was still officially a mystery, and the question of how to handle the QX-37 issue was not Murdoch's problem; he was quite happy to let things remain that way.

  He resumed, "Even if the inoculation program were one hundred percent successful, and every single carrier were traced and treated to contain any further spreading, we would still be left with one hundred thousand certain deaths. But that, of course, would be an unrealizable ideal situation. In reality we have to accept that the final count will be far higher than that before it's all over." He leaned forward to rest his hands on the edge of the table in front of him and swept his eyes around the conference theater.

  "But… just suppose that the vaccine had been available as little as three months ago, or maybe less, before even the first few cases turned malignant. Suppose that, three months ago, we had known in advance the name of every malignant case that subsequently developed. Suppose that the inoculation program had been commenced then, instead of three months and one hundred thousand people too late… " Excited mutterings began breaking out around the room as the gist of what Murdoch was driving at became clear. He spread his hands in appeal and raised his voice to carry above the rising hubbub.

  "Not one case of malignancy would have appeared today. Fifty-seven people who are dead wouldn't be. One hundred thousand people who are condemned to death would be living normal lives. And hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, who are already sentenced to join them would be reprieved. And you would have had your experiment." He cast a final look around the room. "That is what I'm proposing." Then he sat down. Cuthrie raised his eyebrows; beside him, Charles caught Murdoch's eye and nodded approval.