Temporal Gambit

by Larry A. Brown

  Andrea spoke up. “John Rey and Rosa, once you have confirmed the information and are certain the log reflects what truly happened, I’ll deliver the official report to our sponsor. But Martin, I must say: you were in the pod for twelve hours. We never opened the lid during that time, so none of us saw your disappearing act. How do we know that you didn’t take a long nap and dream all of this?”

  The others stared at her.

  Undaunted, she pressed on. “With your prior knowledge of the event, coupled with a vivid imagination, you could have invented all the details of this wild story. Pardon my skepticism, but I represent the sponsor’s interests and significant investment in this project. I have to ask the hard questions if no one else will.”

  “That’s OK,” Martin responded. “No offense taken. But if you want some evidence, follow me to my office.”

  He led Andrea and the others down the hall. From his bookcase filled with history texts, he selected a volume titled America’s Greatest Conflict. “One of my professors in grad school wrote this. It’s fully illustrated. Turn to the page with the bookmark.”

  Andrea flipped through the book and examined the old photograph reproduced there.

  “Matthew Brady took that photo on the day of the Gettysburg Address,” Martin explained. “Look over to the right side of this grouping of men. There, in the back.” Andrea squinted at the image, then her eyes widened. “Yes, that’s me.”

  David grabbed the book from her while John Rey and Rosa peeked over his shoulder to see the photo.

  Martin smiled. “I wanted a souvenir of the trip and assumed this one change wouldn’t have any serious historical consequences.”

  Andrea had to admit, “This does seem convincing.”

  “And I swear, that photo didn’t have me in it yesterday.”

  S.P. chuckled. “I think he’s got you, my dear.”

  “Well, I’ll accept this evidence for what it appears to be, for now. John Rey, when will you have your report ready?”

  “Rosa and I should be able to get it done by tomorrow. After that, we’ll start on the recalibrations for the next jump with David’s assistance.”

  “And remind me, when is that scheduled?” S.P. asked. “I need to make a quick trip to Santa Fe for supplies. Will there be time?”

  “Odd question to ask someone with a time machine,” David quipped.

  “We are aiming for one week from today as long as the diagnostic tests of the equipment go smoothly,” Rosa replied with John Rey nodding in agreement.

  “Where to next, Martin?” S.P. never paid attention at the planning meetings.

  “May 6, 1937. The Hindenburg airship disaster.”

  “Very well,” said Andrea. “I suppose you have the week off, Martin. Enjoy yourself. Dr. Hewes, have a safe trip. Be sure to turn in your expense report. We’ll see everyone back together here in seven days.”

  During the next week, Martin struggled to find activities that would interest him. Reading the history books that filled every room of his home paled in comparison to his thrilling experience at Gettysburg. He couldn’t get the sights, sounds, and smells of the past out of his head. He thought about rewatching classic films by his favorite twentieth century directors like Alfred Hitchcock and Steven Spielberg, but he wasn’t in the mood for second-hand adventures.

  So instead of his usual pastimes, he spent most of his days walking the neighborhoods of Roswell with his dog Sadie. But there are times when an affectionate golden retriever cannot take the place of more desirable companionship.

  After a few days, he worked up the courage to break the ice and announced to his house system, “Contact Andrea Carlton.” The seconds ticked by like hours as he anxiously waited for a response. His heart raced; his palms felt clammy. Defending his dissertation before the graduate committee had been a breeze compared to asking a woman out — in particular, this woman.

  Then the comm screen, which filled one wall of his home office, lit up. It looked as if Andrea were standing in an adjacent room.

  “Hello, Martin. What a surprise.”

  “Andrea. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Can I help you with something?”

  “Oh, I was wondering if … This may seem rather abrupt, but I want to ask … Well, we see each other at the Chronos center, but I really don’t know you that well. Would you perhaps …”

  “Martin, if you are asking me for a date, I’m rather busy.”

  “Not a date, really. That is, we don’t have to call it that. Nothing serious. It’s just that I’ve wanted to take a tour of the Snowy River Cave in Fort Stanton and wondered if you might be interested in going along. Think of it as historical research of the Paleozoic era.” He chuckled lamely.

  “Martin, I firmly believe professional relationships should remain professional.”

  “Yes, I agree … in theory, but …”

  “Now if you will excuse me, there’s a lot still to do before the next jump.”

  “All right, I guess I’ll see you —” but she had already exited the call.

  When it came to reading women, Martin had to admit he was practically illiterate.

  “Well, Sadie, it looks like it’s just you and me, girl. How about another walk?” Sadie was one step ahead of him, bringing her leash in her mouth. She never turned down a date.

  The town of Roswell was an isolated oasis in the desert of southeastern New Mexico. Its population had remained stable for many decades, having grown a bit to around seventy thousand after the eastern migration following the Great California Quake in ’45. In a world of nine billion people, Martin appreciated that some places still retained their small town charm. He was glad that the Chronos Project had located about twenty miles outside the city limits. He certainly did not miss his apartment on the 285th floor of the Metroplex skyscraper in Chicago with its twelve thousand residents. Sadie liked it better here too.

  Roswell’s biggest claim to fame was the International UFO Museum and Research Center. The alleged UFO incident in 1947 was named after the town, although the crash site had occurred about seventy-five miles away. Men at the Roswell Army Air Field had handled the investigation and debris recovery of what official reports described as a downed weather balloon. The town continued to attract curious sightseers seeking evidence of extraterrestrial visitations.

  Martin stayed away from the tourist traps, preferring to stroll with Sadie through the peace and quiet of his charming residential neighborhood — that is, until the quietness was broken by the illuminated floating billboards which followed him everywhere. By linking to his cyber-chip and retrieving his personal data, the small screens offered him special deals on food, merchandise, travel packages, romantic diversions, and anything else tailored to his interests.

  “Look at this one, Sadie? What do you think?” The screen hovering a few feet above his head depicted happy people enjoying their “round-the-world” cruise on the luxurious Heavenly Holiday space station where “your earthly troubles float away.” In one scene, a man and woman were playing a zero-gravity version of dodgeball, attempting to anticipate the ball’s direction as it bounced off the twenty slanted walls of the chamber. A young boy and girl giggled as they squirted juice bottles and tried to swallow the quivering globules.

  “You think you’d like weightlessness, Sadie?” She responded with a very negative-sounding growl.

  No sooner had he dismissed the vacation ad than another popped into view. “Virtual Vision places you right at the scene of the action. Dr. Chamberlain, we recommend our Civil War reenactment package with all the excitement and none of the danger. Don’t merely read about history. Experience it!” Martin had to laugh at that one. Sadie barked again.

  Tiring of the intrusions, he mentally signaled his chip to refuse commercials for now and asked for some Mozart. A favorite, “Piano Concerto No. 21,” began playing in his head. He walked with a quicker step to the music, which made Sadie happy. They continued down the sidewalk past modest residence
s with their rooftop solar panels gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. The air was so much fresher since the country had finally adopted the widespread use of renewable energy sources over the objection of some politicians and their Big Oil contributors.

  Automatic electric cars purred by them, their occupants reading or sleeping. Martin casually wondered where they were going. Certainly not anywhere as exciting as he would be in a few days. He felt grateful for this amazing opportunity, recollecting how he had first learned of the Chronos Project.

  4

  Eleven months earlier

  For nine years after earning his PhD from Princeton, Martin had taught in the department of history at the University of Chicago. He enjoyed his courses and interacting with his graduate students, but he missed research. His department encouraged scholarly publication, but he didn’t want to spend more time reading books and articles. He wanted field work, getting his hands dirty at an archaeological site or discovering some forgotten manuscript misfiled in an old library archive.

  So when he saw the notice on his computer screen for “a unique opportunity to conduct original, firsthand research” along with the qualification “only for the adventurous,” he applied for an interview. What did he have to lose?

  Admittedly, most people would not consider this tenured professor as the adventurous type, but secretly Martin pictured himself as another Indiana Jones with an imposing name like Sahara Sam or Dirk Deadly. He had recurring dreams of exploring tropical jungles in search of crumbling temples hiding lost treasures, or diving deep into the ocean to discover sunken Atlantis. The other night, his imagination had transported him to ancient Egypt where he had confronted a living sphinx protecting the Great Pyramid.

  Waking up from his thrilling fantasies, he was always a bit disappointed to return to reality. Maybe this new job would offer a unique challenge or two to spice up his humdrum routine.

  The next morning, he received a response from the source of the email, inviting him to fly to Roswell, New Mexico, all expenses paid. Immediately he cancelled his afternoon class, giving them an online assignment, and scheduled a first-class flight.

  Once he arrived, an automated limousine picked him up at the airport and drove to the private medical facility where the interview would be conducted. The email had indicated that there would be physical and psychological exams as part of the process. Martin appeared to be the only visitor at the facility this day; there was one other car in the lot, parked in a space reserved for staff.

  The man who greeted him at the door introduced himself as Dr. Hewes and invited Martin into a side room. After a standard medical exam with the usual blood work, Martin took a physical endurance test to check his heart and stamina. Then he sat for two hours at a computer screen answering hundreds of questions about world history, foreign languages, and fluency with various American and English dialects. The program wrapped up with personality tests to determine his ability to adapt to new situations, and oddly enough, any problems with claustrophobia.

  When the tests concluded, Dr. Hewes entered the room. With no comments on how he had done, the doctor ushered him out to the limousine again that drove about twenty miles outside Roswell to an isolated location off US Highway 380. Pulling up to the site, Martin felt somewhat apprehensive, seeing a one-story building with an unimpressive exterior and no signage. This company certainly wants to stay unnoticed. Miles of empty desert stretched out in all directions.

  A man answered the door. Without introducing himself or asking Martin’s identity, he directed him through a small lobby to a hallway with closed doors at both ends. Martin sat on a cushioned bench, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

  He glanced at the picture on the wall in front of him, a quality reproduction of Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory with its surrealistic depiction of melting clocks. Then he observed that behind him was an original work by a contemporary artist. He stood to examine it more closely.

  In it, an elderly woman in a wheelchair held a portrait of herself as a smartly dressed woman in her forties, who in turn was holding a portrait of herself as a wistful teenager longing to be an adult, who was holding one of herself as a little girl peering into a cradle. All but the young girl were gazing directly at the viewer in an unnerving fashion. Martin then noticed a final, haunting detail. At the edges of the painting, skeletal fingers grasped the canvas as if the woman were viewing the receding images of her life from beyond the grave.

  In a way the painting reminded him of his visit a few years ago to a little church in Rome, Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini. During the Renaissance, the church’s crypt had been elaborately decorated with the bones of thousands of friars. A motto on the wall read: “What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you shall be.” The recollection sent chills up his spine.

  Underneath the painting was a small metal plaque that noted the work had been commissioned by the sponsor of the project. Martin reflected on the patron’s macabre taste in art and wondered who he or she might be.

  “Martin Chamberlain, please come with me.” The woman’s voice startled him as he hadn’t heard anyone enter the hall. She wore a dark-blue suit with a simple string of pearls. With glasses and hair pulled into a bun, she gave the impression of a government official, all business, no humor. Martin guessed she was in her mid-thirties. He followed her to an expensively furnished office.

  After they both sat down, she introduced herself. “My name is Andrea Carlton. I represent the founder and underwriter of the Chronos Project. I will explain the nature of our work shortly. But first, congratulations. You have been accepted as part of the team.”

  Martin paused, taken aback by the swiftness of the entire process. “I must say I’m pleased. Thank you. But what about the other candidates? Don’t you need time to notify —”

  “There are no other candidates. You were the only one who was invited. We investigated you thoroughly before sending the initial notice to your computer, which no one else received. Our sponsor wanted you, and I saw to it. So the only decision left is for you to accept the offer.”

  Martin didn’t know how to respond. This woman was impressive, not so much for her appearance but for her demeanor as a person certain of what she wanted and confident she could get it. Apparently, at the moment, she wanted him in this position, whatever that might be.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure of what this — ‘Chronos Project,’ did you call it? — what this project is about. And why all the secrecy, way out here in the middle of nowhere? It’s unnerving, to say the least. I need more information before committing to anything.”

  “The founder of our enterprise, who prefers to remain anonymous, has resources considerable enough to fund all of our research without financial associates or supervising boards. The nature of the project requires a high level of security; thus we try to draw as little attention to our work as possible.”

  After sipping from a glass of water, she continued. “Several years ago, our sponsor had a revolutionary idea and conceived of a way theoretically to travel through time.” She paused while Martin processed this surprising information. “With an expert team carefully chosen for their achievements in various fields, we have worked tirelessly for the last few years and now are close to achieving success, turning theory into reality.”

  Seeing the incredulity in his face, Andrea held up her hand to stop him from interrupting. “Now you understand why we must keep the nature of our project a secret. If the world knew about this ability, many people would attempt to exploit it for selfish and malevolent purposes. Political leaders could use the technology to eliminate their rivals before they were born. Governments could launch preemptive strikes in the past against enemy nations. Religious fanatics might try to assassinate the founders of rival faiths. Not to mention the potential uses for organized crime. In contrast, the mission of the Chronos Project will be pure research of historical events with as little interference as possible. We seek to learn from
the past, not alter it.”

  Martin wondered if he had stepped into the Twilight Zone. As a student of history, he had often wished for a time machine to explore significant events of the past, but he knew this idea was mere fantasy, the stuff of Hollywood movies. Did this woman take him for a fool? Before he could voice any objections, however, Andrea stood and led him to another room, dark except for one spotlight illuminating a beautiful Greek vase on a pedestal.

  “Examine it if you wish. You’ll find it to be in pristine condition.”

  He walked closer to the display. “Yes, it’s truly a remarkable find. This depiction of Achilles before the battle was a popular subject for classical amphorae. I assume there’s been some restoration? Surely you didn’t recover it in such perfect shape.”

  “No restoration or recovery. The vase is new. Fresh from the hand of the craftsman who created it. Notice his name around the base.”

  Martin looked more closely. “Exekias. Yes, I recognize the style now. He was one of the first Greek artisans to sign his work. But you aren’t suggesting … no, that’s impossible. Exekias lived in the sixth century BC.”

  “The time from which we retrieved the vase.”

  He stepped back, startled. “You mean someone has actually traveled through time?”

  “Not a living subject, no. At the current stage, the process only allowed us to snatch this single object from the past as a test. We are a few months away from human trials.”

  “And, I’m guessing, that you want a historian as your guinea pig?” He still had strong doubts about this project, and his raised eyebrows showed it.

  “No need for concern. We are extremely confident in our R&D team. They will achieve the objective. The only question here is if you choose to be part of this, shall we say, historic event?”