by MK Alexander
“Stuff? I find the very word offensive in its inexactitude. What stuff do you mean?”
“Time travel.”
“I’m not sure that I want to explain anything, Mr Patrick.”
“Oh, sorry for asking then. I thought you might be the one.”
“The one what?”
“The one who knows.”
The Quantifier bristled. “I will say that all this stuff has to do with science’s failure to comprehend the nature of space.”
“Space?”
“All that surrounds us, yes. Space. Once a greater understanding evolves, many things will be come evident.”
“Can you give me a for instance?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Out of ignorance comes the most extraordinary questions…” He patted me on the shoulder. “One small misconception I will clear up: if something is not moving, it cannot occupy space… Ah, but such an object is very rare in the whole cosmos, that is to say, there are no such things.”
“What things.”
“Things that do not move, things which have no space.”
“I think I remember Fynn explaining that space is only a measurement for motion. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Tractus has a limited grasp of things.”
I was about to protest when we both heard a twig snap, maybe more than one. We turned to look behind us. I spotted a conspicuous patch of red among the bare trees. It could be no one else but the brigadier. He rushed across the meadow, though neither of us could be sure of his intent. For a moment it seemed he might be leading a charge, his sword drawn and waving. His pace slowed when we stood to face him, a glimmer of recognition crossed his previously fierce expression.
“Well, gentlemen, a sight for sore eyes, I’ll say…” He sheathed his sword and removed his busby, greeting the Quantifier with great enthusiasm. “Who’s your comrade?” The brigadier turned his eye to me.
“I don’t know. Says he’s your friend.”
“Why would he say that? I’ve never seen him before.” The brigadier gave me a close inspection, this time with some suspicion.
I was astonished and confused. “Of course you know me. I was here just the other day.”
“Were you? I don’t seem to remember.”
“Um, I chiseled the number three on your dice.”
The brigadier laughed. “Did you now?”
“Where have you just come from?” the Quantifier asked.
“Me? Oh, August,” I said, thinking it was best not to mention the prairie or the world’s fair.
“He claims to be Fynn’s friend.”
“Does he…? Ah, yes… I think he may have written a memorandum about that.” He looked at me anew. “Mr Jardel, right?”
I nodded and smiled.
“A terrible thing, eh?” Brigadier Thomas said and stared at the ruins. “Just you wait till I get my hands on the blighter.”
“Who did this?”
“Who? Why… it’s…” his voice trailed off. “I’m not really sure. But it’s got to be fixed, immediately.”
It was then that I noticed the brigadier was not quite himself. Though still fairly young, he seemed a bit unsteady on his feet and somewhat bewildered. I helped him to the wall where he sat down, defeated.
“Is everyone okay? Madeline?” I asked.
“Mostly,” he replied. “They’ve relocated to the carriage house. Some have jumped away… We should go,” he said after a time and made every effort to stand again. The three of us trudged through the meadow and down the dirt track to the cottage. We passed the columns of trees again, leafless now.
Madame Madeline, Ming and Cook greeted us at the guest house. I was re-introduced, though Madeline seemed to have at least some recollection of me. This time, she was in her late thirties and still very beautiful. “Of course I remember you, Patrick… You’re the man with so many questions to answer.”
There was a roaring fire in the hearth and plenty of hot food. I learned that the other guests had survived, fled at the temple, though a certain Mr Chang Apana did not manage to escape the blaze and was presumed perished. The brigadier seemed most concerned about catching the arsonist.
“We must go back immediately and fix this.”
“All in good time, Thomas…” the Quantifier said.
“But—”
“Until we know more, it would be useless to go back. Can you even say when this happened exactly? Or how?”
“Who would do such a thing?” Madeline asked tearfully.
“I suppose Tractus would have a thing or two to say about it,” Brigadier Thomas remarked.
“Indeed, where is Fynn?” the Quantifier asked.
“He was here this morning. On some fools errand to Florida now…”
“Going to save FDR,” I explained.
“Well, isn’t that ambitious...”
“Kip,” added the brigadier.
“You ought not meddle in things like this, whoever you are,” the Quantifier said and glared at me.
“The timeline is already pretty screwed up thanks to Drummond and Mortimer. We’ve got to do something.”
“Doing nothing is always the preferable course of action.”
“That’s not what you told Kaiser Wayne,” I said, guessing there was a connection between them.
“The name is not familiar to me.”
“Can’t miss him… big bushy beard?”
“Oh yes, of course I know the man, not by this name however. A splendid fellow, very reliable. Always does what’s asked of him.”
“And what’s that?”
“Lately?”
“Anytime… Like Colorado maybe?”
“The Colorado Territory… He was watching someone for me, that fellow trying to establish a family dynasty.”
“Drummond?”
“Could be… He’s from the Republic of Texas, I believe.”
“That’s the guy.”
“You’ve encountered him as well?”
“Not in a good way.”
“Say, aren’t you supposed to be with Fynn by now?” the brigadier interrupted.
“What day is it?” I asked.
“There’s no way of knowing really, our calendar is gone.”
“Ming will know,” Madeline said. “Tractus left a message reminding you to meet him at the train station. I think that’s tonight.”
“Hmm, I could hitchhike to the bridge... or maybe Ming is available?”
***
Sonny Ming was more than just available, he was extremely helpful. While I was dressed for Miami, this was still New York, and he lent me his green jacket, embroidered silk in a Chinese style. Though inadequate against the cold, it was a nice gesture. He also provided me with some loose change and a wad of dollar bills.
“I can take you as far as the Hudson River Bridge,” he said quietly.
“You mean the GW?”
Ming looked at me as if I were slightly crazy. “The new bridge, the great gray one in Fort Lee.”
He dropped me on the Jersey side. I joined a long line of men waiting for a bus and was the only one not wearing a heavy overcoat. It was an odd version of reverse rush hour. There were no police this time. I half expected that we’d all have to pass through a security cordon, patted down for weapons presumably. So far, this timeline showed promise; things seemed normal.
The bus loaded up to standing room only and then clanked over the bridge, the gears grinding in traffic. I got a quick peek of the skyline to my right; impressive even in this year, and ablaze against the coming night. The Chrysler and Empire State buildings dominated all else. The bus stopped at Washington Heights and I followed the departing crowd of people, hopefully towards the subway. Shivering in the cold, I began to think of how to get to Penn Station. I remembered, the A-train, downtown…
At 168th Street I found the subway, though it was a bit more confusing than I had hoped. Signs pointed to the IND 8th Avenue Line. The station looked pretty new and I follo
wed the arrows towards downtown. It was no warmer underground. I hurried onto the middle platform; on one side stood the local train, a double-A. The express rolled in as well, along the other side. The doors slid open and a small rush of people switched trains. The very complexion of the passengers changed and I felt much more at home.
I boarded an empty express rather than the crowded local. The train was much narrower than I expected, fastened with large rivets and painted a dark green. Inside, I noticed two giant fans hanging from the ceiling. The doors slid closed, the subway bucked and rattled out of the station in near tandem with the local. They converged in a dark tunnel to travel in parallel, at nearly the same speed. I stared out the window, watching the faces on the other train through the glass: hollow, vacant and despairing.
Quite unexpectedly, I saw myself sitting in the local train. This should not be possible. I took it to be a reflection in the darkened window. But whoever it was, they stared back at me. I became confused and for a moment felt unsure which train I was actually riding. I looked again and noticed the local was beginning to fall behind. The reflection of myself couldn’t be what I thought, since it was slowing as well.
The faces now passed backwards and I could see each one with an objective glimpse. It was no reflection. It was my doppelgänger. I stared in disbelief. He was there. It was me, smiling, and then the train picked up speed and rushed from sight. Our car slowed for the station. It stopped and the doors slid open.
My mind was reeling, the train started again and rattled through the tunnels relentlessly. I had lost all sense of reality.… Luckily, I heard the conductor, “Next stop, Pennsylvania Station.”
PART VI
SATURDAY
* * *
chapter thirty-four
miami fla
I opened my eyes and blinked several times, not at all sure where I was. I looked around to see a dark room. There was a light from somewhere but it didn’t illuminate anything significant. There was a table nearby. I could see two glasses, both of them empty. I think there was a window too, and I heard a soft rumbling in the distance. It was probably the sound of surf pounding a nearby shoreline. Across from me was a familiar man sitting in a chair. It was Tractus Fynn, of course. I recognized him at once and watched as a smile slowly came to his face. Needless to say this was a huge comfort to me. I immediately presumed to be back in his living room, but something else occurred to me:
“Fire,” I whispered.
“What?”
“The library… it’s been burned to the ground, I saw it.”
“When?”
“This afternoon, just before I left… and he was there, Mr Quandary.”
“Who?”
“The Inquisitor.”
“You mean to say the Quantifier? Surely he wouldn’t do something so drastic?”
“No, it wasn’t him.”
“Madeline, Thomas, the others, are they unhurt?”
“For the most part…”
“Thank goodness.”
I sat up. It was not Fynn’s living room this time. I could hear the clacking of tracks, the rumbling of rails. A long train whistle confirmed this.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“Not more than an hour or so.”
“We’re on a train,” I said.
“Indeed, the Havana Special, and we’re right on schedule.” Fynn smiled again. “It’s Saturday, just after midnight… and it’s good to see you, Patrick.”
“Likewise,” I said but still felt a bit groggy.
“Don’t you remember coming aboard?”
“Um, maybe something…” I dimly recalled walking along the narrow train searching for Fynn and squeezing past members of a jazz band preparing for bed; sleeping cars with drawn curtains all along, and numerous conductors, porters, all very helpful and polite.
“You must tell me everything if you can,” Fynn said gently. “Your journey to here has not been uneventful, I will guess.”
“You might say that.”
“Did everything go alright at the temple?”
“I wish I could say yes… I’m not exactly sure about that.”
“Why is this?”
“I think I was in two places at once. At the temple and maybe in the middle of Kansas.”
“Kansas? What on earth were you doing there?”
“I wish I could say.” My brain hurt as I tried to recall the experience. “I had some trouble on the subway too.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“The express train.”
“Did you take the local instead?”
“I may have.”
“Patrick, you’re not making yourself very clear.”
“Sorry. It’s all a little confusing right now. I’m not sure if there’s a corpse in the middle of Kansas or a doppelgänger riding around the city.”
“Well, you are here at present and I suppose that’s all that matters for the moment.”
***
I thought it odd that the train pulled into Washington DC at three in the morning, and even stranger, that the platform was surprisingly full. Quite a few people embarked and I idly wondered how many of them were politicians. There was a small ruckus as well. It seems a famous ballplayer had just boarded, on his way to spring training. People were whispering it was Vernon Louis, aka, Lefty Gomez… “Plays in the Grapefruit League,” someone said.
“I wonder if I should mention he will be traded soon,” Fynn muttered.
“What?”
“I seem to remember he was traded to the Senators.”
Just around sunrise, the train pulled into Richmond, Virginia. Fynn and I walked up to the dining car hoping for an early breakfast. Everyone there was hidden behind a newspaper. I scanned the headlines:
Hoover’s Last Act: Death Valley to Become National Monument
Dutch Sea-Plane Bombs Mutineers
Hitler Gives First Speech as Chancellor. Proclamation to the German Nation. Declares the End of Marxism
Primo Carnera KO’s Ernie Schaaf. In round 13 of a boxing match at New York City’s Madison Square Garden…
Fynn caught me reading. “The poor man will be dead in four days,” he whispered as we pressed on in search of a table. We came across a single person not buried behind a newspaper. Instead, he was writing furiously at his table over coffee. Not words it seemed to me, but some kind of mathematical formula.
“Might we share this table, kind sir?” Fynn asked. The man barely looked up but nodded. We sat opposite. “Electrical disturbances apparently of an extraterrestrial origin,” Fynn said, seemingly out of the blue, though his comment had a profound effect on our new seat mate. He put down his pen, cleaned his glasses and gave us both a very long stare.
“How extraordinary. This is the very thing I’m writing…”
“You are Karl Jansky. I’m a great admirer of your work.”
“And you are?” The man looked up at the inspector.
“Tractus Fynn. I am a long time adherent of Aristarchus of Samos.”
This gave Jansky pause. “What an extraordinary thing to say, Mr Fynn, is it?”
“My apologies for interrupting, but I count you among the greats: Willem de Sitter, Jan Oort, Fritz Zwicky…”
“I’m just a humble engineer, those folks you are mentioning are luminaries, astronomers and physicists.”
“Nonetheless, I think you underestimate the importance of your accomplishments.”
“Discovering static is hardly cause for celebration.” There was some annoyance in his expression but also some curiosity.
“Static yes, but what if it could be resolved?”
“Resolved in what way?” Jansky turned to Fynn with a rather perplexed look.
“From static to signals.”
“I suppose… one could modulate the…” Jansky began muttering to himself.
“Please let me introduce you to my good friend, Patrick Jardel. He works for the newspaper.”
“Which paper?” Ja
nsky asked.
“The Chronicle.”
He took that to mean something different. “Well, I’m always happy to talk to the press.” Jansky let off his best smile. “Is this the sort of thing your readers would be interested in?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then, I was about to—”
“Excuse my interruption,” Fynn said. “Have you run across a young man named Grote Reber?”
“Hmm… I seem to remember the name. I believe he applied for a job… Regrettably, I had to turn him down. Bell Laboratories has absolutely no desire to explore this any further. It’s not practical for them. They’re certainly not going to spend money on other-worldly static.”
“This is a great shame. Surely signals from light years away are worth further study,” Fynn commented.
“I agree of course, but any signal would be extremely faint.”
“Yet, given sensitive-enough detectors? Perhaps a parabolic antenna in the shape of a dish to focus the waves?”
“A parabolic antenna, you say? I hadn’t thought of that. Like a dish, you’re meaning?”
“Aimed skywards.”
“I’d have to calculate the reflective frequency responses…” Jansky muttered, more to himself than us, and started scribbling in his notebook again. Fynn gave me a satisfied smile and ordered breakfast when the waiter appeared at our table.
***
“It’s all just a distraction, Fynn. We have an important mission and we should focus on it.”
“You are correct of course, Patrick. However cosmology is of paramount importance to all travelers at this era in history.”
“Why is that?”
“There are two very good reasons for such interest. One you will likely believe and one you will not.”
“Try me.”
“Which would you prefer to hear?”
“The likely one.”
“It’s the first time that travelers can learn to jump with any accuracy. Surely I’ve mentioned this before… Edwin Hubble? The expanding universe, so called dark matter… It’s now that we come to understand our place among the stars, and our galaxy’s place among the cosmos. A hallmark event, unrivaled since Copernicus.”