ChronoSpace

by Allen Steele

  Lea cast him a hostile glare. “Better be nice, or I’ll have him wake you up tomorrow morning.” She smiled at Marcel as she fed him the rest of his favorite treat. “Sousa. Do you remember Sousa, Marcel? Dah-dah-dah . . . dum-de-dah-dah-dum-de-dah . . . ?”

  On cue, Marcel lifted his head from the bag and began to whistle “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” just as Lea had taught him several months ago. That was as much as Franc could stomach. He had a low tolerance for cuteness.

  “I get the point.” He turned and pushed himself toward Arm 6. “Let’s go see what Paolo has to say.”

  Monday, January 14, 1998: 9:15 A.M.

  Sixteen letters awaited Murphy when he checked his morning email. This wasn’t unusual; given a choice between picking up the phone or writing a memo, NASA people tended to opt for the latter. Sometimes his email came from people in the same building, even just down the hall. It was more convenient this way, to be sure, especially since it allowed the sender to attach files without having to use paper that inevitably would have to be recycled.

  Nonetheless, there were times when he wondered whether email wasn’t the largest drawback of the computer revolution. At least three times a day he had to check for new messages, and every one of them had to be answered, if only by a short line: “Got it. Thanks. DZM.” Government work used to be a never-ending paper chase; now it was an electron derby.

  Murphy pulled off his snow boots, slipped on a pair of felt loafers he kept beneath his desk, then settled the keyboard on his lap as he put his feet up on the desktop. Most of the stuff in queue was fairly routine. A note from one of his contacts at JPL in Pasadena, answering a couple of questions he had about Galileo data. Another message from another JPL scientist, with an attached GIF from Mars Pathfinder. A half dozen news releases from the press office, updates on the next shuttle mission and the current status of the Space Station program. A letter from a friend at Goddard Space Flight Center out in Greenbelt, telling him that he was coming into D.C. on Thursday and asking if he would be free for lunch. A Dilbert strip from last week which he had already read and forgotten, sent via listserv by a pal at Interior who apparently believed the comic strip was the font of all human wisdom; another jester relayed Letterman’s Top-Ten list of the come-on lines President Clinton might have tried on Paula Jones, which Murphy deleted without reading.

  As he scrolled down the screen, Murphy picked up the chipped Star Wars mug Steven had given him for his birthday a couple of years ago, sipped the lukewarm coffee he had taken from the break room down the hall. Yet even as he skimmed through the email, his mind was elsewhere.

  Why would an article in Analog garner so much attention from an associate administrator? After all, January was the beginning of the Washington budget season. As always, NASA would not only have to put together a proposal for the White House to take before Congress, but the Office of Space Science would also have to publicly defend its programs from critics on the Hill. So why would Roger Ordmann take an hour from his schedule—indeed, be willing to make himself late for a House subcommittee hearing—just to talk to some junior staffer who had written a piece about UFOs for a science fiction magazine?

  And wasn’t there something rather unconstitutional about Ordmann’s insistence that he submit all future articles to Public Affairs Office? NASA was a civilian agency; although it still maintained ties to the Department of Defense, it had been several years since the last time a military payload had been sent into orbit aboard a shuttle, and now that the Air Force had its own space program, Murphy never heard of any classified projects being undertaken by NASA. Had Kent Morris, a former Pentagon PAO, simply been overeager? And if so, why would Ordmann mandate a review of any future articles Murphy might write?

  Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he glanced out the window. White flakes of snow flurried outside, obscuring the low rooftops that stretched out toward the Potomac. Although he was fortunate enough to have a window office, he didn’t rate high enough for a view of the Capitol. He gazed up at the narrow shelf above his desk: loose-leaf report binders, reference texts on astronautics and space physics, a few recent pop-science books about planetary exploration, guarded by the Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker action figures he bought for himself once when he had taken Steven to Toys “R” Us.

  “Trust the Force, Luke,” he murmured. Yeah, right. And you know what Darth Vader would have said. The Force is strong with you . . . but you’re not a Jedi yet. . . .

  The phone rang, startling him from his reverie. Murphy dropped his feet from the desk, reached forward to pick up the receiver.

  “Space Science, Murphy,” he said.

  For a moment, he heard nothing, making him wonder if someone in the building had dialed the wrong extension. It happened all the time. Then, a male voice:

  “Is this Za . . . I mean, David Z. Murphy?”

  “Speaking.”

  “The same David Z. Murphy who writes for Analog?”

  “Sometimes, yeah.” He glanced at the button pad, noted that the call was coming in from the outside line. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Dr. Murphy, this is Gregory Benford. I’m a professor of physics at the University of California-Irvine. I also write science fiction on occasion.”

  Murphy’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of you.” He sat up straight in his chair. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

  Which was the unvarnished truth. One of the SF authors whom he admired the most was Gregory Benford; not only did he have a superb imagination, but he was also one of the small handful of writers whose novels and stories possessed a high degree of scientific plausibility. When Murphy began writing, one of the authors whose style he had consciously attempted to emulate was Benford’s, albeit unsuccessfully.

  A dry chuckle from the other end of the line. “Call me Greg, please. And I rather like your stuff, too.”

  “But I haven’t written any . . .” Then he realized Benford wasn’t talking about science fiction. “Oh, you mean my Analog articles.”

  “You mean you’ve been published elsewhere? I haven’t seen your by-line except in . . .”

  “No, no,” Murphy said hastily. “The things I’ve done for Analog are all . . . I mean, y’know, I’ve tried to write fiction, but they didn’t . . . I mean, it just didn’t work out.”

  “That’s too bad. Anyway, Dr. Murphy . . .”

  “David.”

  “Sure. Anyway, as I was saying, the reason why I’m calling is that I’ve just read that article about time travel . . .”

  “Really?” Murphy absently picked up a paper clip, tumbled it between his fingers. “Hope you liked it. I mean, I was really out in left field . . .”

  “No, no, it was really quite interesting. The premise is a bit radical, to be sure, but you managed to support it quite well. I’m quite intrigued by the idea. In fact, I was hoping we could discuss it further. I have questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Certainly. My pleasure.” Murphy craned his neck to glance at the wall clock near the door. “I’ve got a department meeting in about a half hour, but I’ve got time before then. What do you want to know?”

  “Actually, I sort of hoped we could get together for lunch.”

  Murphy’s eyebrows rose. “For lunch? Today?”

  “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble. I’m in town right now . . . there was a physics conference in Baltimore last weekend, and I stayed over to visit some friends in the area. I’m catching a flight back to L.A. this afternoon, but I’ve got some time to kill before then. Since I knew you worked at NASA, I thought I’d give you a buzz and see if you were available for lunch.”

  Odd. Murphy hadn’t heard of any physics conferences being held in Baltimore, and his colleagues at Goddard were usually pretty good about keeping him informed of these things. Yet such conferences were commonplace; this one probably slipped his mind. “No . . . I mean, yes. By all means, I’d love to get together with you. Wher
e are you staying? I’ll . . .”

  “I was at the Hyatt, but I’ve already checked out,” Benford said. “Actually, I was thinking about dropping by the Air and Space Museum. It’s close to you, and I don’t want to take up your whole lunch hour, so why don’t we meet there?”

  “Well . . . sure,” Murphy said, a little more reluctantly than he meant to sound. There was a restaurant on the museum’s fourth floor, but it wasn’t anything special: a cafeteria for tourists, offering little more than cheeseburgers and pizza. If he was going to have lunch with Gregory Benford, he would have preferred a more upscale bistro. There were a half dozen good cafés on Capitol Hill where they could meet. Yet Benford was probably in a hurry; after all, he had a plane to catch later today. “The Air and Space it is. How about twelve noon?”

  “That’s good for me. I’ll meet you . . . how about on the ground floor, in front of the lunar lander? At twelve o’clock?”

  “Fine by me. Twelve noon, then.”

  “Very good, David. I’ll see you then.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure, Dr. . . . Greg, I mean.”

  Another warm chuckle. “The pleasure’s all mine. See you at noon. Bye.”

  Murphy put down the phone, took a deep breath, slowly let it out as he leaned back in his chair. How strange life could be sometimes. You start the morning getting carpeted by an associate administrator for something you’ve written, then less than an hour later you receive a call from one of the world’s leading SF authors, complimenting you for the same material and requesting your company for lunch.

  “Maybe he’s right,” he muttered. “I ought to be a science fiction writer.”

  Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1101Z

  The Chief Commissioner’s suite was located on Deck 6A, at the top of Arm 6. Like nearly half of Chronos Station’s personnel, Paolo Sanchez had been born and raised on the Moon, and therefore preferred the decks closer to the hub, where the centripedal force was one-sixth Earth-normal. Unlike most other selenians, though, Sanchez had never visited Earth. As a former starship captain who had spent most of his ninety-seven Gregorians aboard ships and orbitals, it was likely that a trip to his ancestral home in Mexico City would be lethal. If high gravity didn’t crush his bones or bring about a coronary seizure, then he would soon become fatally ill from any one of thousands of airborne microorganisms against which his body did not have any natural defenses.

  Franc and Lea entered Sanchez’s office through an antechamber that briefly subjected them to intense UV radiation. They shut their eyes and covered their faces with their hands until the humming ceased and a bell chimed, then the door slid open. The mimosaur, who had buried its face within Lea’s collar during the decontamination procedure, immediately leaped from her shoulder and bounded across the broad, semicircular room.

  “Franc here, Lea here!” Marcel’s voice was an excited squeal. “Lea give Marcel nuts! Franc say . . .” Its voice changed to a pitch-perfect imitation of Franc’s: “That’s one way of shutting him up. He’ll make a fine pair of shoes one day.”

  Franc winced. One more reason why he disliked mimosaurs in general, and Marcel in particular: they had a tendency to repeat verbatim everything they heard, particularly when it had to do with themselves. “A joke, sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounds.”

  “I certainly hope not,” Sanchez replied coldly. “I like my friend just the way he is.”

  The Commissioner was seated in a wing-back chair, surrounded by the three-dimensional framework of his desk. Writing tables, flatscreens, data units, shelves, and cabinets encompassed him like a cage; when he moved in a certain direction, his chair automatically pivoted upon six major points of axis. As Marcel ran toward him, Sanchez shifted his skeletal body slightly, and the chair rotated him from upside down to an upright position. The blue lizard leaped onto a slender bar holding a flatscreen, then bounced into Sanchez’s lap.

  “Sing Sousa for Lea!” Marcel yelped as it nuzzled against the long, white-streaked beard flowing down Sanchez’s shallow chest. “She like! Sing for you. . .?” Once again, it began to whistle the archaic marching-band song.

  “No, no, Marcel. Thank you, but another time.” Sanchez gently stroked the back of the mimosaur’s neck with his bony fingers. The mimosaur went quiet, save for a contented reptilian purr. “Hush now. We have many things to discuss.”

  Having soothed his pet to silence, Sanchez raised dark eyes that vaguely hinted at his Latino bloodline. “Dr. Oschner, Dr. Lu, gracias for coming here on such short notice. I hope your holiday was pleasant.”

  “Muchas gracias, señor.” Franc found a seat in one of the normal-style chairs positioned outside the Commissioner’s desk. “It was very pleasant. Thank you for allowing us to take a furlough.”

  “Sì, señor. Taking a break helped us immensely.” Like Franc, Lea addressed the Commissioner in formal Spanish. It wasn’t necessary to do so, of course, yet it was common knowledge among CRC researchers that Sanchez was proud of his Mexican ancestry. His office was decorated with murals of nineteenth-century Catholic missions, and a matador’s costume and swords, brought back from a CRC expedition to that period, hung within an airtight frame on the wall behind his desk. If Sanchez had been physically capable of leading an expedition himself, it would probably be a Class-1 to the Republic of Texas, so he could witness the Battle of the Alamo firsthand.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” The Commissioner switched back to colloquial English. “So you’re ready for the C120- 37?” he added, referring to the upcoming expedition by its serial number. “I take it that you’ve completed your research.”

  “Yes, sir,” Franc said. “Lea and I finished our work at Tycho College. We’ve confirmed through contemporary census records that our personae perished aboard the Hindenburg. Pending successful extraction by the Miranda, we should able to assume their roles with no major problems.”

  “I’m meeting with the Miranda team later in order to work out the final details.” Lea raised her left arm, touched her wristcomp. “Here’s the preliminary report, as you’ve requested.”

  Thank you.” The frail fingers of Sanchez’s left hand glided across the keypad on his armrest. The chair swiveled to the right and tilted upward slightly, allowing him to gaze at a screen above his head. The two researchers patiently waited while the Commissioner skimmed Lea’s report. “And you’ll be able to record their vocal patterns?”

  “The extraction team will do that before we arrive,” Lea said. “The Frankfurter Hof was the favored hotel for American travelers, and the plan is for them to pick up our personae a few hours before our arrival.”

  “John and Emma Pannes visited the Alte Oper the night before the Hindenburg left Frankfurt,” Franc added. “That’s within walking distance of the opera, so the plan calls for the abduction to take place in a pedestrian mall between those two points.”

  Sanchez raised an elegantly tufted eyebrow. “And how do you intend to accomplish this, if it’s in a public place?”

  “Two members of the Miranda team will be posing as Gestapo agents, and they’ll have rented an automobile for transportation. They’ll drive to the curb, stop, get out, and approach Mr. and Mrs. Pannes. After presenting their documents, they’ll demand that they accompany them.” Franc smiled. “This sort of thing was a common occurrence at this place and time, particularly in regard to foreigners. No one will report it. This was a very paranoid society, after all.”

  “And the placement of your equipment?”

  “Once the Pannes have been spirited away,” Lea said, “the team members will return to the Frankfurter Hof, this time dressed as civilians. They’ll be carrying our luggage. Once they’ve checked into the hotel, they will simply take our luggage to the Pannes’ room and, after using their room keys to gain entrance, substitute our bags for their bags, replacing tags as necessary. Early the next morning, they’ll check out again and return to the safe house in Griesheim.”

  Sanchez nodded, but didn’t say anything as he c
ontinued reading the report. Franc was puzzled by his reticence. For a Class-1 briefing, the Commissioner was asking remarkably few questions. When Franc had been on the 1929 New York expedition, Sanchez had peppered his team with dozens of inquiries, and that had only been a Class-3 survey. This trip was not only more dangerous, it was also far more complex. Two timeships working in tandem, with the extraction of two contemporaries from a potentially hostile environment and replacing them with two researchers who would be in situ during a major disaster . . . any one of several dozen things could go wrong at any time. Not only that, but once he and Lea were aboard the Hindenburg and it was in flight, there was no way the mission could be aborted.

  Nonetheless, Sanchez seemed to be accepting their prognosis at face value. Was the Commissioner becoming complacent? Or, as the thought suddenly occurred to Franc, was he preoccupied with some other matter?

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lea do the same. The mimosaur stood up in Sanchez’s lap, yawned and stretched in an oddly feline way, then hopped upon the warm surface of a data unit and curled up to take a nap. After a while, Sanchez grunted with what might have been satisfaction and rotated his chair to face them.

  “Your preliminary report appears to cover all the foreseeable factors,” he said, “and as you probably expect, I have quite a few questions to ask. But there’s something I’d like to bring to your attention first . . . an incident that occurred during our last expedition.”

  “The last expedition?” Franc glanced at Lea, then back at Sanchez. “If you mean the C320-29, we didn’t . . .”

  “No, no.” Sanchez shook his head. “The C320-29 was flawless. If it hadn’t gone well, I would have never approved of the proposal for C120-37.” He smiled slightly. “And, yes, Dr. Lu, if this expedition is successful and your team delivers useful new information, I’ll consider taking your proposal for the C120-12 to the Board.”