Habit makes Ernie glance up at the mirror. Big mistake.
“Jesus H.,” he says. “Why’re you telling me all this, kid?”
“So you’ll give it back to me,” the kid says, his voice quivering. His whole face is red and wet; his eyes are bloodshot. “So I won’t have to call the cops,” he says. “So I can get the device back without having to admit I lost it. So I can go back to screwing up my life, I guess.”
He starts crying again.
“Jesus,” says Ernie.
They get to Ernie’s place. “That’ll be fifty-eight fifty,” he says. The kid looks up at Ernie and laughs. At least he can take a joke.
Ernie asks him what his name is. “Ernest,” the kid says.
“You gotta be kidding,” Ernie says with a laugh. “That’s my name! My folks named me after Hemingway.”
“Mine too,” says Ernest. His voice is real quiet. “They wanted me to go into literature.”
“Hell,” says Ernie, “I don’t know what they wanted for me, but it sure as hell wasn’t driving cabs. Wait here.”
He goes inside, gets the Samsonite carry-on from the basement and crams the suit in it. It’s not a hard decision.
It might have been if they’d started their conversation on Ernie’s front porch, but they were driving all the way from Cambridge and Ernie had plenty of time to think. Plenty of places to turn off, places he could’ve dropped the kid and kept driving. This time of night, the wrong neighborhood, maybe skinny little Ernest never comes back.
Maybe. Or maybe Ernie just drives him someplace secluded, lets him out, breaks both his knees with the front bumper. Pick a dark place and turn the lights off and no one could get a good look at his plates. He could’ve made skinny little Ernest a speed bump, even backed over him to make sure, and the only description the cops would’ve had is “a taxi cab.”
Ernie could have done it but he didn’t. He can’t exactly explain why, either. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t sure he could have gotten away with it. Maybe it’s because he got away with everything so far and he didn’t want to push his luck. Or maybe getting away with it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Ernie’s not sure. He just knows this one wasn’t the hard decision.
Ernie gets behind the wheel, passes the case back to Ernest, and pulls a U-turn to take the kid back to the Yard.
“This isn’t my suitcase,” says Ernest.
“Yeah, well, the suit’s in it,” says Ernie. “Don’t get picky on me.”
“No,” the kid says. “You don’t understand.” Ernie can hear him futzing with zippers. “There was a journal,” he says. “It had a log of the time I’ve borrowed. I need it back or I won’t know where to start borrowing from again.”
Maybe you ought to lay off the borrowing, Ernie wants to say. Maybe it’ll help you quit the pills. But Ernie figures it’s not for him to get all high and mighty on this kid. “My wife’s got it,” he says.
“I need it back,” says Ernest.
Ernie looks at him through the mirror. “Kid,” he says, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”
All the kid says is, “I need it back.”
Ernie pulls up in front of Janine’s sister’s place and the living-room drapes are thin enough that he can see they’ve still got the kitchen lights on. He sighs and says, “Give me the damn suitcase.”
He rings the doorbell and her sister peeks out between the drapes. Janine comes down after a minute. Ernie takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you something,” he says, “and I’m gonna tell it to you straight.”
It’s a month later when Ernie gets a call. It’s seven PM and Ernie’s been driving since seven that morning. That’s become a regular thing for him. He knocks off for half an hour once or twice to grab a bite and read, but otherwise he’s running Logan and Brigham and Massachusetts General like clockwork. He does it for Janine, he says, but when he takes the time to think about it he knows it’s more than just that.
He’s got another regular thing going these days: he tends to take lunch at a particular Seven-Eleven. The old guy behind the counter there probably thinks Ernie’s a scatterbrain, what with him always forgetting his change on the counter when he leaves. Ernie would do the same at a particular gas station too, only the girl they used to have got fired. It wasn’t even over Ernie robbing the place. The poor kid was too honest to keep the change he kept leaving on the counter, and her boss canned her for being over whenever she closed out her register.
Ernie talked Roberta at dispatch into getting her a job but the kid hasn’t taken to it. Ernie’ll tell you it just goes to show how hard it is to do right by somebody after you did them wrong.
He’s at home on the sofa reading Sherman Alexie when the phone rings. It’s Ernest; he recognizes the voice right away.
He doesn’t know how the kid got his number, but then the kid is wicked smart. “I just wanted to thank you,” he says.
“For what?” says Ernie.
“Returning the device,” says Ernest. “And the suitcase and the journal.”
Ernie laughs. He ended up driving that kid all the way back to the Yard for free that night, but does he get thanks for that? “You don’t have to thank a guy for returning what he stole from you,” he says.
“Yeah, well, thanks anyway.”
“How you doing with those pills?” says Ernie.
“How are you doing with that wife?” says Ernest.
Ernie laughs again, but for once he’s pretty happy on that front. Janine spent the night. They both had a few drinks in them the night before and in the morning Janine said it was probably a mistake, but Ernie liked the sound of the word probably. She let him give her a kiss on his way out the door, and that’s not bad.
The night he came to get the kid’s carry-on he told her the whole shebang. She didn’t believe him. Called him a lying sack of shit, actually, but he was surprised to learn he really didn’t care whether she believed him or not. The big thing was that he told her the truth. It was the hardest decision he’d made in a long time. He still can’t say it felt good, but it felt right.
That’s not much comfort, by the way, and he’ll be the first to say so. He’ll say, You know that satisfaction people talk about? The one you get from doing the right thing? Well, that and a buck’ll get you a cup of coffee.
On the phone he says, “Let me tell you this, kid: it’s not easy to make things right with someone when she don’t believe you. It’s even harder when the true story is the most cockamamie thing you ever heard of. So thanks for inventing that suit, huh? And for leaving it in my cab. You damn Harvard types.”
Now the kid laughs. He says, “You’re the one who put it on. I suppose you’re going to blame me for that too?”
A memory comes back to Ernie: the image of a skinny drunk in his back seat on the drive back to the Yard, folding that suit over and over in his hands. He looked like he was thinking pretty hard about it. Ernie doesn’t know the kid well or anything, but for some reason he’s got hope for him.
“Hey, you’re not going to believe what happened to me today,” Ernie says. “I’m dropping off a couple of Frenchmen at their hotel and they don’t understand tipping. Fifty bucks they left me. I tell you what, me and Janine are eating steak tonight.”
“That’s great, Ernie.”
The kid’s tone is flat and Ernie knows their conversation is over. “Listen,” he says, “you take care of your girls, kid. Keep ’em close.”
“You too, Ernie,” says the kid, his tone still flat, and Ernie’s not sure he’ll ever hear from him again.
But if it’s the last thing the kid ever told him, at least it was good advice. Ernie’s going to keep Janine as close as he can. He’s already decided he’s taking her to Davio’s tonight if she’s up for it. If not, the next night, maybe. He figures it’ll all work itself out. They’ve got time.
HIMSELF IN ANACHRON
Cordwainer Smith
Cordwainer Smith was the pseudonym of American writer Paul M.A. Linebarger
. As a child, he traveled and lived overseas in Europe and also the Far East with his family and was fluent in several languages. His first professional science fiction story, “Scanners Live in Vain,” was published in Fantasy Book in 1950; however, it wasn’t until the mid-1950s that he was encouraged to write more. Most of his science fiction was written between 1955 and 1966. In addition to his many short stories, he also wrote one science fiction novel, Norstrilia and three mainstream novels, Ria, Corola, and Atomsk. This story was published posthumously in his definitive collection, The Rediscovery of Man, in 2003.
And Time there is
And Time there was
And Time goes on, before –
But what is the Knot
That binds the time
That holds it here, and more –
Oh, the Knot in Time
Is a secret place
They sought in times of yore –
Somewhere in Space
They seek it still
But Tasco hunts no more...
HE FOUND IT
from “Mad Dita’s Song”
First they threw out every bit of machinery which was not vital to their lives or the function of the ship. Then went Dita’s treasured honeymoon items (foolishly and typically she had valued these over the instruments). Next they ejected every bit of nutrient except the minimum for survival for two persons. Tasco knew then. It was not enough. The ship still had to be lightened.
He remembered that the Subchief had said, bitterly enough: “So you got leave to time-travel together! You fool! I don’t know whether it was your idea or hers to have a ‘honeymoon in time,’ but with everyone watching your marriage you’ve got the sentimental mob behind you. ‘Honeymoon in time,’ indeed. Why? Is it that your woman is jealous of your time trips? Don’t be an idiot, Tasco. You know that ship’s not built for two. You don’t even have to go at all; we can send Vomact. He’s single.” Tasco remembered, too, the quick warmth of his jealousy at the mention of Vomact. If anything had been needed to steel his determination, that name had done it. How could he possibly have backed out after the publicity over his proposed flight to find the Knot. The Subchief must have realized from the expression on his face something of his feelings; he had said with a knowledgeable grin: “Well, if anybody can find the Knot, it’ll be you. But listen, leave her here. Take her later if you like but go first alone.” But Tasco could remember, too, Dita’s kitten-soft body as she nestled up to him holding his eyes with her own and murmuring, “But, darling, you promised...”
Yes, he had been warned, but that didn’t make the tragedy any easier. Yes, he could have left her behind, but what kind of marriage would they have had with the blot of her bitterness on the first days of their married life? And how could he have lived with himself if he had let Vomact go in his place? How, even, would Dita have regarded him? He could not deceive himself; he knew that Dita loved him, loved him dearly, but he had been a hero ever since she had known him and how much would she have loved him without the hero image? He loved her enough not to want to find out.
And now, one of them must go, be lost in space and time forever. Tasco looked at her, his beloved. He thought, I have loved you forever, but in our case forever was only three earth days. Shall I love you there in space and timelessness? To postpone, if only for minutes, the eternal parting, he pretended to find some other instrument which could be disposed of, and sent through the hatch one person’s share of the remaining nutrient. Now the decision was made. Dita came over to stand beside him.
“Does that do it, Tasco? Is the ship light enough now for us to get out of the Knot? Instead of answering he held her tightly against him. I’ve done what I had to, he thought... Dita, Dita, not to hold you ever again...
Softly, not to disturb the moon-pale curve of her hair, he passed his hand over her head. Then he released her.
“Get ready to take over, Dita. I could not murder you, oh my darling, and unless the ship is lightened by the weight of one of us we will both die here in the Knot. You must take it back, you have to take back the ship and all the instrument-gathered data. It’s not you or me or us now. We’re the servants of the Instrumentality. You must understand...”
Still within his arms, she backed away enough to look at his face. She was dewy-eyed, loving, frightened, her lips trembling with affection. She was adorable, and Cranch! how incompetent. But she’d make it; she had to. She said nothing at first, trying to hold her lips steady, and then she said the thing that would annoy him most. “Don’t, darling, don’t. I couldn’t stand it... Please don’t leave me.”
His reaction was completely spontaneous: His open hand caught her across the cheek, hard. A reciprocal anger flashed across her eyes and mouth, but she gained control of herself. She returned to pleading.
“Tasco, Tasco, don’t be bad to me. If we have to die together, I can face it. Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I don’t blame you...” I don’t blame you! he thought. By the Forgotten One, that’s really rather good!
He said, as quietly as he could, “I’ve told you. Somebody has got to take this ship back to our own time and place. We’ve found the Knot. This is the Knot in Time. Look.”
He pointed. The Merochron swung slightly back and forth, from +1,000,000:1 to −500,000:1. “Look hard – twenty-years-a-minute-plus to ten-years-a-minute-minus. The ship has a chance of getting out if the load is lightened. We’ve thrown everything else we could out. Now I’m going. I love you; you love me. It will be as hard for me to leave you as for you to see me go. A lifetime with you would not have been enough. But, Dita, you owe me this... to take the ship back safely. Don’t make it harder for me. If you can hold it on Left Subformal Probability, do it. If not, keep on trying to slow down in backtime.”
“But, darling...”
He wanted to be tender. Words caught in his throat. But their time had run out. Their honeymoon had been a gamble, their own gamble, and now it and their life together were over. Three earth days! The Instrumentality remained; the Chiefs and Lords waited; a million lives would be a cheap price for a fix on the Knot in Time. Dita could do it. Even she could do it if the ship were lighter by a man.
His farewell kiss was not one she would remember. He was in a hurry now to finish it; the sooner he left, the better her chances were of getting back. And still she looked at him as if she expected him to stay and talk. Something in her eyes made him suspicious that she would try to hinder him. He cut in his helmet speaker and said:
“Goodbye. I love you. I have to go now, quickly. Please do as I ask and don’t get in my way.”
She was weeping now. “Tasco, you’re going to die...”
“Maybe,” he said.
She reached for him, tried to hold him. “Darling, don’t. Don’t go. Don’t hurry so.”
Roughly he pushed her back into the control seat. He tried to hold his anger that she would not let him do even this right, to die for her. She would make it a scene. “Sweetheart,” he said, “don’t make me say it all over again. Anyhow, I may not die. I’ll aim for a planet full of nymphs and I’ll live a thousand years.”
He had half expected to stir her to jealousy or anger... at least some other emotion, but she disregarded his poor joke and went on quietly weeping. A wisp of smoke rising in the hot moving air of the cabin made them look to the control panel. The Probability Selector was glowing. Tasco kept his face immobile, glad that she did not realize the significance of the reading. Now no one will ever find me, even if I live, he thought. But go, go, go!
He smiled at her through his shimmering suit. He touched her arm with his metal claw. Then, before she could stop him he backed into the escape hatch, slammed the door on himself, fumbled for the ejector gun, pressed the button. Pressed it hard.
Thunder, and a wash like water. There went his world, his wife, his time, himself... He floated free in anachron. Others had gone astray between the Probabilities; none had come back. They had borne it, he supposed. If they could, he could too. And
then it caught him. The others, had they left wives and sweethearts? Was it for them too a personal tragedy? Himself and Dita, they had not had to come. Vanity, pride, jealousy, stubbornness. They had come. And now: himself in anachron.
He felt himself leaping from Probability to Probability like a pebble bouncing down a corrugated plastic roof. He couldn’t even tell whether he was going toward Formal or Resolved. Perhaps he was still somewhere in Left Subformal.
The clatter ceased. He waited for more blows.
One more came. Only one, and sharp.
He felt tension go out of him. He felt the Probabilities firming around him, listened to the selector working in his helmet as it coded him into a time-space combination fit for human life. The thing had a murmur in it which he had never heard in a practice jump, but then, this wasn’t practice. He had never before gotten out between the Probabilities, never floated free in anachron.
A feeling of weight and direction made him realize that he was coming back to common space. His feet were touching ground. He stood still, attempting to relax while a world took shape around him. There was something very strange about the whole business. The grey color of the space around him resembled the grey of fast backtiming, the blind blur which he had so often seen from the cabin window when, having chosen a Probability, he had coursed it down until the Selectors had given him an opening he could land in. But how could he be backtiming with no ship, no power?
Unless—
Unless the Knot in Time in flinging him out had imparted to him a time-momentum in his own body. But even if that were so he should decelerate. Was he coming down in ratio? This still felt like hightiming, 10,000:1 or higher.
He tried briefly to think of Dita but his personal situation outweighed everything else. A new worry hit him. What was his own personal consumption of time? With time so high outside his unit was it also rising inside? How long would his nutrients last? He tried to be aware of his own body, to feel hunger, to catch a glimpse of himself. Was the automatic nutrition keeping up with the changing time? On inspiration, he rubbed his face against the mask to see if his whiskers had grown since he left the ship.
The Time Traveller's Almanac Page 25