AFTER THE FACT

by Fred Saberhagen

  Jerry had seen rooms like these in museums. Some of the furniture inside, Jan informed him, was original, the rest being authentic-looking reproductions. Only the Interior Department, who managed the show, knew which was which, and they weren't telling.

  A hacker at heart, Jerry had developed the unconscious habit on first entering someone's house of looking around for computers. He caught himself doing it now; but naturally enough there was not even an electric outlet visible. Having registered this fact consciously, Jerry stood looking at a writing desk equipped with primitive steel-nibbed wooden pens, and a candlestick.

  "I guess what you achieve doesn't always depend on your tools," he murmured, trying to picture Old Abe at the keyboard of a word processor.

  "No! Not at all! Isn't that beautifully true?" Jan appeared to feel that he had touched on an important point.

  "I don't suppose he wrote the Gettysburg Address at this desk, or anything like that."

  "Certainly not the Gettysburg Address. But some very beautiful and logical prose. He was quite a successful lawyer."

  "After he'd given up his career as an amateur wrestler."

  "Oh yes."

  A narrow stairway brought them to the upper floor, where from behind low anti-tourist railings they considered the Lincoln bedrooms—there had been four children when the family lived here, it appeared. Jan had little to say here, evidently wanting to allow Jerry to form his own impressions. Almost the last stop on the tour was the archaeological site in the backyard where the Lincoln privy had once stood; there was not much to see now, beyond a modest display of nineteenth-century glass bottles.

  When they emerged from the house onto the wooden sidewalks again, Jan glanced at her wrist-watch. "We've still got plenty of time to see the tomb. Oak Ridge Cemetery stays open until five."

  "The tomb, and the house here, will be among the sites we work on this summer?"

  "Oh yes. Definitely."

  They were walking back toward the underground garage. Jerry said: "You know, maybe I missed an explanation or something, but I still don't get exactly what the Pilgrim Foundation is trying to do. I mean what is your historical research trying to accomplish exactly? And how?"

  Jan sighed. "Lincoln is—endlessly fascinating." It sounded like a preliminary to an explanation, but nothing followed.

  Jerry waited until he felt sure no more was coming. Then he said: "To me, 'interesting' would be a better word. Lincoln and his times are interesting, sure. But to me nothing in history can be as fascinating as what's happening now. Something you learn how to do, something that will really change the world. I mean, with all due respect, whatever you find out about Lincoln now is not really going to change much in our world."

  Jan was not at all taken aback. "Modern technology can be applied to history."

  "Well, sure. To research. But I mean… suppose you were able to discover that Lincoln was really George Washington's grandson. Or that he kept a mistress on the side. Whatever. People nowadays would pretty much shrug and say 'so what?' And the world would go on as before. I mean, as far as I can see, all this historical research just isn't going to change it any." Then, with the sudden feeling that he might be speaking too harshly about this lady's pet enthusiasm, he added: "Now come on, your turn. Tell me how I'm all wrong."

  "You're all wrong." Jan was smiling, and to his relief she didn't seem to have taken his argument all that seriously. Then, giving it thought, she became more serious. "Jerry, Lincoln had an enormous input on what our world is today. The United States is still one nation only because of him. And he's the man who killed slavery; he didn't do it all by himself of course, but far more of the credit must go to him than to any other person."

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  "And then, you see, there came along a fanatic;—John Wilkes Booth. 'A Confederate doing duty on his own responsibility' is what he called himself. Booth crept into Lincoln's box at the theater, and shot him in the back of the head, just as the Civil War was coming to an end, in the spring of 1865. Only three months into his second term." Jan seemed to think that this last point was very meaningful.

  "Well, yes, I suppose. Everyone knows it was John Wilkes Booth, right? But I mean, however Lincoln was killed—"

  "Can you imagine how much better off our world might be now if he had been allowed to live at least four more years? If he, instead of Andrew Johnson, had been President until 1869?"

  "No, can't say I ever thought about it."

  "Andrew Johnson was rather better than the reputation that some historians have given him. But he simply was not in Lincoln's league as a politician."

  "Somehow I don't think of Lincoln that way."

  Jan smiled at him. "He was a politician, take my word for it. And he was a very effective leader, beginning to be recognized as a national hero, with the war winding to a close. Andrew Johnson made some effort to follow his policies, true, but… Johnson was almost impeached." Jan seemed to despair of being able to convey the magnitude of the difference in the two men.

  "Too bad we can't get Lincoln up out of his tomb, then. We could use him now."

  Jan smiled at him more brightly than ever. "It's been tried."

  "Huh?"

  "Some years after the War, there was an attempt to kidnap his body and hold it for ransom. No, I'm not making this up. That's why there are twelve tons of poured concrete over him now."

  The tomb, a gray stone structure rising out of a green lawn, was bigger than most houses, even if you didn't count the granite shaft ten stories high that rose from the middle of it like a miniature Washington monument. On the flat roof of the tomb surrounding the central shaft were groups of bronze soldiers in Civil War uniforms, posed in dramatic attitudes, gripping weapons, waving their bronze flag, beating their drums, pointing out the enemy in the distance. Jan and Jerry walked into a marble foyer, where Jan pointed out a scaled-down replica of the seated Lincoln from the Memorial in Washington. There were park attendants on hand in this room, and a few other tourists. Jan led Jerry down a hallway of pink and brown marble to peer over a velvet rope into a chamber of red stone.

  The tomb itself, the single stone standing over the actual resting place, was simple. On the wall of rock behind it was carved: NOW HE BELONGS TO THE AGES. And on the single stone the legend read simply:

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  1809-1865

  Information carved into the walls indicated what auxiliary entombments there had been in this room.

  MARY TODD LINCOLN

  1818-1882

  EDWARD (Eddie) BAKER LINCOLN

  1846-1850

  WILLIAM (Willie) WALLACE LINCOLN

  1850-1862

  THOMAS (Tad) LINCOLN

  1853-1871

  "Poor guy didn't have very good luck with his family," Jerry observed. "Two of his kids died before he did. One didn't live much longer."

  "No." Jan was almost whispering, as if the family had been her personal friends. There was no doubt that she was moved. "No, neither he nor his wife had very good luck that way."

  They drove out through the iron gates of the cemetery shortly before closing time, and only a few minutes later were back in the heart of town. Jan dropped Jerry in front of his hotel; they had agreed to meet in the lobby in an hour to discuss dinner arrangements.

  As Jerry showered he thought to himself that he still had learned next to nothing about the Pilgrim Foundation, its organization, financing, goals and methods. Obviously its people somehow planned to glean something from the past by using their tripod machines and a computer network. But his hosts had been avoiding his questions on that subject all day. Well, probably they were waiting until he was confirmed as an employee and had signed something giving them legal protection against his disclosure of their secrets. That was all right with Jerry. He'd do the same, he supposed. But he was growing ever more curious and impatient.

  Jan was sitting and waiting for him in the lobby when he came down, promptly on time. She had changed into what he sup
posed ought to be called an evening dress, of startling red. It looked beautiful on her, and there was nothing at all about it to suggest the nineteenth century. "I'm hungry," she greeted him. "Do you like Italian food?"

  "One of my favorites."

  Jan said she knew a good place within walking distance of the hotel.

  He was moderately impressed when they reached the place; more evidence that the Foundation was not going to stint on its expense account. When they were asked if they wanted anything from the bar before dinner, Jerry hesitated at first. He was not ordinarily a teetotaler, nor very much of a drinker either. But when Jan immediately ordered a vodka martini he decided this wasn't part of the test, and went along—with a better conscience when she launched into a story involving Pilgrim's preference for something called akvavit. The story raised in Jerry's mind the question of just what relationship existed between Jan Chen and Pilgrim, other than that of employee and employer. So far he had no sense that there was any.

  Food arrived, custom-designed pizzas, served with class upon good dishes. Chianti was available and therefore seemed called for as an accompaniment—Jerry had absorbed this as an article of faith during his early college years, and Jan expressed a willingness to be converted.

  They ate, sipped wine, and talked. Jan, it appeared, had been born in California and had grown up in San Francisco. In Chinatown? Jerry wondered. But he didn't as yet feel quite sure enough of himself to ask her that.

  He had spent the earlier part of his own childhood in one of the smaller, more distant and less affluent suburbs of Chicago. Then, when he was about ten years old, his parents, had been able to move to the more affluent Lombard.

  "Every spring they have a Lilac Festival there—it's pretty famous. It reminded me of that today, when I saw the lilacs out at New Salem."

  " 'When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed—' ", Jan quoted. It was really marvelous, how daintily she could eat pizza, and what a respectable amount this technique allowed her to put away. "That's Walt Whitman. It has something to do with Lincoln too."

  "Oh." Jerry felt a certain sadness. "I haven't had a lot of time to look into poetry."

  His companion looked sympathetic. "In your field I can understand that. It must keep you very busy. Poetry is one of Dr. Pilgrim's favorite things."

  "I've been meaning to ask you. Does Dr. Pilgrim have a first name? I saw a first initial on the note he left for me."

  Jan smiled. "If he does, I haven't heard anyone use it."

  "Oh." Jerry smiled back. "Hey, is that lilac perfume you're wearing?"

  "Actually it is." Now she was pleased to the point of giggling. It was a quiet giggle, as if it might concern secrets. Then, seemingly with her next breath, as if there might have been a transition but Jerry had somehow missed it, she was asking him: "Was there ever a moment—probably in your childhood—that you thought you had lived through twice? Or maybe more than twice? I don't mean déjà vu, that's something else entirely. I mean twice in rapid succession, like bing-bing. Know what I mean?"

  Jerry sat back in his comfortable chair, regarding his companion's ivory skin, face and slim neck and bare shoulders over the red dress. He had the sensation the martini and the wine were rapidly turning to water in his blood, that full sobriety had suddenly returned.

  He said: "Funny you should ask. There was a moment just today… not exactly what you're asking about, but…"

  "Yes?"

  "Well, it was nothing, really. I had just arrived at New Salem, and I was starting to look for you and Dr. Pilgrim. Directly across from the hotel there's a footpath leading up into the park, and I went up that way and came on the log cabins without any warning. I looked into the first one, and there was a woman inside wearing a costume just like what Lincoln's mother must have worn. Making cornbread over a fire. And it shook me for just a moment. Like maybe I had really stepped into some kind of time warp—know what I mean?"

  Jan was listening with calm interest. "I suppose she was one of those historical society people."

  "Yeah." Jerry paused; then let it go at that.

  "Most people—" Jan had to suppress a tiny, lady-like, chianti-hiccup. She began again. "Most people would not be really shaken, even for a moment, by such a trivial experience. And yet I get the impression, from the way you talk about it now, that you really were somewhat taken aback—if only for a moment. Now, why should that have been?"

  Jerry popped a fragment of pizza crust into his mouth and followed it with another sip of wine. He chewed meditatively.

  "Well?" Jan sounded genuinely interested.

  "Well. Funny you should get me to talk about it. No one else ever has. There was one time, when I was a kid, when something happened that was really very strange, along the time-warp line. Or at least I have this memory of a strange thing happening, whether it ever actually did or not. Maybe some part of me is always on the lookout for something like it to happen again."

  "Tell me about it." Jan Chen's voice was sympathetic, her eyes intent.

  "I will. Though I've never told anyone else about it until now." He sipped his wine again. "Before my family moved to Lombard we lived farther out from the city, in a house we were renting on the edge of a small town—it was almost like living on a farm. I was only a little kid then, it was a lot of fun." He paused for a deep breath. "Anyway, one day the house we were living in burned down. Something wrong with the wiring. My dad—he's my stepfather, really—was at work, and my mother was visiting a neighbor."

  "Excuse me. You were an only child?"

  "Yeah. Anyway, I was just coming home from school. I was the first one, or almost the first one, to see the smoke and flames. The fire was just getting a good start. All I could think of was that my mother must be in the house somewhere. I wasn't even scared, except for her.

  "There was a neighbor woman running across her yard toward our place, shouting my name. But I paid her no attention. I ran on into the house, yelling for my mother. First I looked in the kitchen for her, and then in the other lower rooms—it wasn't a big house; it only took me about five seconds to discover that my mother wasn't on the ground floor anywhere. All I could think of was that she had to be upstairs.

  "There were flames on the stairs already, just getting a start there, but I hardly thought about that. By that time I was in a total panic. I ran up the stairs, yelling my head off. I had to get my mother out."

  "You were a brave little boy."

  "I was a crazy little boy, maybe. I'm telling you this like I remember it. What my memory of today tells me happened."

  "I understand." Jan nodded. Her concentration was more intense than ever; her dark eyes had widened subtly as she listened.

  "My mother wasn't upstairs, either. There were only a couple of rooms up there, and it took me only a few moments to make sure she wasn't home. But still, by the time I got back to the head of the stairs, the fire had spread. There was no getting down those stairs anymore. It would have been like stepping into a furnace."

  "You could have crawled out of a window," Jan whispered. It was the same almost reverential whisper she had used in Lincoln's tomb.

  "I might have. Except, as I remember, it was still winter and we still had these big tough storm windows on. And the window sills were high, well above the floor. I'm not at all sure I could have got out of one before the smoke got me, or the fire, the way those flames were spreading. Anyway, at the time I'm not sure I even thought about windows. Oh, one more thing. When I was running up the stairs, my left arm and my left shirtsleeve got burned. Pretty badly. But I didn't feel the pain that much right away. You know how it can be when you're excited?"

  "I know."

  "But once I was upstairs I started feeling the burn. Still not real bad. All I could think of—standing there at the top of the stairs and knowing I couldn't go down them—was that it had all been a great mistake. It had been wrong for me to come upstairs. I should have known better. If my mother had been in the house when the fire started, she would have
noticed it burning and got out. She never slept during the day. There had been no need for me to come up here looking for her."

  "So what did you do?" His soft-voiced listener, posing with unconscious art in the soft light of the candle on their table, was leaning her pale chin upon one slender wrist.

  Jerry sipped his wine. "I guess," he said, "I decided not to come upstairs after all. That's how I remember it."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "I know damn well I don't. Everything that I've told you happened, I remember it happening, as surely as anything in my life has ever happened. And yet, there I was, downstairs again, standing just inside the front door, a good ten or twelve feet from where the fire was just getting started on the stairway. And neither my arm nor my shirt were burned at all.

  "The stairs were no longer a mass of flames, at the moment they looked almost safe, just as they had when I—came in the first time. I could have run up there, but I didn't, because I had just been upstairs, and I was sure my mother wasn't there.

  "I backed out of the house, away from the flames, and just as I went out the door I saw the stairs inside start to go up like a torch." He fell silent.

  Jan occupied herself for a few moments in looking thoughtful. Then she asked encouragingly: "There's more?"

  "A little more. Yes. The neighbor lady, who had been running across the yard to keep me from going into the house? Well, she was still running across the yard when I came out. She ran up to me and grabbed me a moment later, and pulled me back farther from the burning house.

  "She said: 'Where's your mother?' and I said: 'She isn't home.' Later, quite a long time later, someone asked me how I'd known that. I don't remember what I answered."

  Frowning lightly, Jan asked an unexpected question. "How big were these yards? I mean specifically the one the lady was running across."

  "Not all that big. I couldn't possibly have had time to go inside, and search the entire house, and come running out of it again before the neighbor lady arrived on our doorstep. And yet that's exactly what I did. As I remember it."