Clarke County, Space
Page 28
By this time, Leonard Cray had been recruited by Globewatch, which was now functioning above-ground as a quasi-governmental agency. (“Sorry,” he added, “but I can’t tell you which government.”) Globewatch’s historical researchers had long been interested in certain pivotal events which might have been disastrous if not for the introduction of seemingly random occurrences, which—coincidentally yet almost inexplicably—changed their outcomes, and in the long run had affected all human history. One of these pivotal events was the near-destruction of Clarke County in May, 2049.
“So they sent you back in time to influence events,” I said.
“Sort of like that, yes.” McCoy seemed uncomfortable. He steepled his fingers together in his lap. “I was sent back in 2101. My mission was somewhat unclear, since the events themselves seemed to be nebulous even in the eyes of contemporary historians. So my first priority was merely to observe events as they occurred. I was only to step in and … well, for lack of a better term, manipulate things if it seemed there was no other alternative.”
“I see.”
“Naturally, my name was changed for the mission. I’m afraid that the real Simon McCoy died in childbirth in Oxford, Maine, in 2019. So adopting his identity was …”
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
He hesitated, looking out at the ocean. “As I said, I was bored with the twenty-second century. I had little to live for in the future. Interest on my trust money made me comfortable, but …” He spread his hands. “I found myself mostly interested in the years that had gone by while I was in suspended animation, not the era I was inhabiting. 2049 seemed a lot more interesting than 2101.”
He propped his legs up on the wooden railing and darted a jovial look at me. “Besides, I had a vested interest in what was happening in Clarke County in that year. The immortality Partnership had transferred its sleepers to Clarke County by then, so Leonard Cray’s brain … or, more accurately, my whole head … rested in a cryogenic sarcophagus in the colony. So I was looking out for myself by coming back to this time.” He grinned. “We were very good at looking out for Number One in the nineteen-eighties.”
“Yeah, uh-huh.”
For a little while we were both silent. The dark waters moaned against the shoreline. Off in the distance we could see the lights of the launch towers on Merritt island. “So,” I said at last, “I guess you’re going to hop in your time machine and”—I swept my hand skyward—“Zoom, it’s back to the twenty-second century.”
“No.” He smiled. “No, even if I wanted to, I can’t. Time travel’s strictly a one-way trip. I’m stuck here.” He shrugged. “So I get another life to live. As long as I die before 2096, I’m okay. Nothing gets seriously disturbed in the continuum …”
“Okay, uh-huh.” I looked out at the launch towers. “I, uh … don’t suppose you have something you could show me that would prove your story?”
“About time travel? Maybe like a coin inscribed with a futuristic date, or a newspaper from tomorrow—an object like that?” He patted his knees. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t show it to you. Besides, what’s to say that I didn’t have a fake made, just to convince you?”
A dark thought entered my mind. “Then … when do I die?”
He gave me a sullen look. “If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.” He shrugged again. “Believe me, knowing your fate is a hard thing to have to live with. I mean, I know I have to die sometime within the next forty-five years, even if I have to … ah, take the matter into my own hands. Just to keep the balances checked.”
“I suppose you have a point there,” I said.
Abruptly, Simon McCoy stood up. “So.” He brisked his hands across the back of his trousers. “You know all there is to know. Use your knowledge well. I’ll be looking forward to reading your book again.…”
As he said this a look of mild horror spread across his face, like a man being told that his trousers were open. “Again?” I repeated.
He closed his eyes, shook his head once, then hurried for the door. “I’ll settle the bill,” he said. “So long.”
Then he was gone. I have never seen nor heard from him since.
It was a long time before I left the nameless bar on Canaveral Pier. My wife would scold me when I got home, for being so late. You’re old now, she would say. And you’ve got beer on your breath. What are you trying to prove? I don’t know, I would reply, but it’s not the end of the world, is it?
No, it was not the end of the world.
I had the word of a madman: there would be no end of the world. Not very soon, at least.
After a while I got up, walked to one of the old coin-operated telescopes, and fitted a quarter into the slot. It chugged and the timer began to click as the shutters snapped open, and I pointed the lens toward the clear night sky. It took a little work, but finally I managed to find a bright, elongated point of light rising above the eastern horizon. Clarke County, shining like a distant nova in the blue-black gulf of space. I watched as it gradually coasted higher in the sky, and when the timer snapped the shutters down over the eyepiece, I dug another quarter out of my pocket. Two more quarters gave me a little more time to admire the stars.
Time and space. Space and time. Nothing ever changes, except people.
Same as it ever was …
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank:
Gerard K. O’Neill, author of The High Frontier, which initiated the O’Neill space colony concept, and the Space Studies Institute, which has continued research of the concept; Stewart Brand, who promoted the idea in Space Colonies, which inspired this novel; T.A. Heppenheimer, who refined things further in Colonies in Space and Toward Distant Suns; and Richard Erdoes and Alfonso Ortiz, whose American Indian Myths and Legends suggested the character of Coyote (as freely extrapolated here). All these books were invaluable references and are recommended as further reading.
Further appreciation is due to Michael Warshaw, Steve Jones D’Agostino, Koji Mukai, Doug Long, Bob Liddil, Terry Kepner, Frank and Joyce Jacobs, and Robert Mendel for various favors rendered. My wife, Linda, listened to my ideas, fetched beer and pizza, and refused to let me discard this book when I thought about writing something else. Many thanks, also, to Ginjer Buchanan, Susan Allison, and Martha Millard.
In particular, I wish to thank the residents of Lukachukai, Arizona, in the Navajo reservation. Among them, I am especially grateful to the Reverend Fred Harvey of the Native American Church, and his family. Ten years ago, long before this book was ever conceived, I spent several days as a house guest of the Harvey family and as a visitor to Lukachukai. My observations of the Navajo way of life went into a journal; I dug it out of a file cabinet and used it as a primary reference in the research of this work. I never heard from Fred again, but that experience has been pivotal to this work. Any mistakes that I may have made concerning the Navajo people and culture are my own; anything I got right was because Fred, his family, and friends were good hosts and teachers.
—Rindge, New Hampshire;
January, 1988 – April, 1989
About the Author
Before becoming a science fiction writer, Allen Steele was a journalist for newspapers and magazines in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Missouri, and his home state of Tennessee. But science fiction was his first love, so he eventually ditched journalism and began producing that which had made him decide to become a writer in the first place.
Since then, Steele has published eighteen novels and nearly one hundred short stories. His work has received numerous accolades, including three Hugo Awards, and has been translated worldwide, mainly into languages he can’t read. He serves on the board of advisors for the Space Frontier Foundation and is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He also belongs to Sigma, a group of science fiction writers who frequently serve as unpaid consultants on matters regarding technology and security.
Allen Steele is a lifelong space buff, and this interest has not onl
y influenced his writing, it has taken him to some interesting places. He has witnessed numerous space shuttle launches from Kennedy Space Center and has flown NASA’s shuttle cockpit simulator at the Johnson Space Center. In 2001, he testified before the US House of Representatives in hearings regarding the future of space exploration. He would like very much to go into orbit, and hopes that one day he’ll be able to afford to do so.
Steele lives in western Massachusetts with his wife, Linda, and a continual procession of adopted dogs. He collects vintage science fiction books and magazines, spacecraft model kits, and dreams.
Linda Steele
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The excerpt from Space Colonies by Gurney Norman, copyright © 1977, has been used by permission of the author and the publisher, Whole Earth Review, 27 Gate Five Road, Sausalito, California 94965.
Lyrics from “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum, copyright © 1970, have been used by permission of Great Honesty Music, Inc.
Copyright © 1990 by Allen Steele
Cover design by Kat Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7595-3
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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