by Steve White
On the other hand, it might not have happened at all. Maybe I'd failed, leaving that ship a Flying Dutchman of the oceans of time.
Was Chloe dead, or in limbo?
The lifeboat began to bump and vibrate—it was too tiny to mount artificial gravity generators—and I could hear a thin scream of cloven air. Looking forward through the transparency, I could see the craft's nose begin to glow a dull furnace-red. But its design took account of the possibility that its occupants might be incapacitated, or include no qualified pilot. Its automatic pilot was capable of analyzing its surroundings in terms of gravity, atmospheric density, and everything else needful to achieve a safe planetary landing.
So I had nothing to do except grit my teeth against the bucking ride that brought renewed pain with every vibration, and force myself not to think about all I had lost. That would come later.
Chapter Nineteen
I lay under the wide blue sky of my birth planet, bathed in its sunlight, rocked by the swells of the Atlantic.
I knew it was the Atlantic because, shortly before touchdown, I had glimpsed what was unmistakably the eastern seaboard of North America. After that, I could only hang on as the lifeboat burned out its paltry power sources performing the one atmospheric reentry it had in it, with no margin for picking and choosing among sites for a safe landing. Safe, but not necessarily comfortable. Even strapped in, the arrival in the ocean was bumpy enough to renew the pain and the blood flow. Only after the lifeboat had settled could I stand up and seek out the first-aid kit. I smeared antiseptic gel on the gash, and used an adhesive strip to keep the lips of the cut together. Then I opened the transparent bubble. The salt air came flooding in, so warm that it had to be summer.
But summer of what year?
It was a difficult question. My watch told me that about seventeen hours of my life had passed since first going into temporal displacement. At the rate Khorat's ship had been maintaining, that would have put me more than thirty years into the past. But we'd spent part of that time in the "slower" dimension Novak had been using, so it was impossible to say for certain. At any rate, I wouldn't be seeing any Spanish galleons or clipper ships on these seas.
The question was whether I'd see anything at all. The lifeboat had an automatic transponder, but there was no one on Earth, or even in the Solar System, with the capability of picking it up. And I wasn't going anywhere; the lifeboat had done what it was designed to do, and burned out its tiny one-shot impeller doing it.
So I took stock. There was a small supply of concentrated rations and drinking water, both of which I used. There was also a flare gun, and I found myself face-to-face with the unwelcome question of whether I ought to use that if I sighted a ship or a plane. Whatever year I was in, the discovery of this lifeboat couldn't fail to change history.
It was an awkward ethical problem, and I should have been pondering it deeply. Instead, I found myself thinking about Chloe, and trying to understand.
Ever since she'd regained consciousness after fainting at the sight of my new guise, I'd been taken in by her pose of normalcy because I'd wanted to be taken in by it. I could see that now. Then had come her seduction of me—there was no other word—in a blaze of passion she couldn't possibly have faked . . . but must have faked, given what she'd been doing at the same time. But after that crushing piece of treachery, she had followed me unhesitatingly into hell . . . and then, at the very end, sundered us permanently, with calm determination.
And what was it she had said to me, at that last instant. I had seen her lips moving, and I thought they had formed the words I love you. But maybe that was just what I wanted to think. I couldn't be sure.
Now I would never be sure of anything.
Try I as might, I could understand none of it. So I let a kind of numb fatalism take me as the sun climbed to the zenith and began to sink in the west, occasionally going behind scattered clouds and giving some relief from the heat. I finally dozed off.
When I awoke, it looked like late afternoon . . . and I saw that the decision as to using or not using the flare gun had been taken out of my hands. A ship was approaching from out of the westering sun, by whose reflected light it had probably spotted the lifeboat. And even if I'd been feeling heroic—which I wasn't—I had no way of scuttling the lifeboat. It was built to float, not to sink.
The ship drew closer, a lean greyhound shape flying a forty-eight-star US flag. I recognized a World War II-era destroyer—no missile launchers, just five-inch guns in boxy turrets and 40 mm AAA in gun tubs. There was also no helicopter on a stern platform. Instead, a launch was lowered.
"Ahoy, there!" called the young lieutenant (j.g.) in charge, as the launch drew alongside. (He was wearing officer's short-sleeved khakis, confirming that this was no earlier than the 1940s.) "Do you speak English?"
"Yeah," I replied listlessly. The kid's open face reflected a mixture of relief and bewilderment at hearing Americanese from the oddly dressed occupant of this even odder life craft. I got the impression that the sweat on his brow wasn't entirely due to the weather.
"Here," he called, tossing me a line. "Secure that, and we'll tow you to the ship . . . and get you to sick bay."
They towed my lifeboat around to the fantail, where depth charges were racked. As the destroyer's stern came into view, I read her name: USS Elijah Ashford.
Now why, I asked myself, did I feel there was something familiar about that name—something I ought to remember? And why did I feel a shiver running up my spine, as though rising from realms below that of conscious thought?
I continued thinking about it as they hoisted me aboard and took me to the small sick bay. The medical lieutenant's expression was eloquent as he examined my left cheek.
"Hey, you should see the other guy," I quipped feebly.
The doctor gave me a brief professional smile, and got busy stitching up my cheek. Even with the painkiller he injected into my face, it was almost unpleasant enough to take my mind off things. Almost . . . but not quite.
"There," the doctor finally said. "You'll be okay. But I'm afraid you're probably going to have one hell of a permanent scar."
"The least of my worries," I mumbled, using the non-numbed right side of my mouth. "Thanks, Doc. Oh, by the way, about my life craft—"
"Don't worry about that. They're winching it aboard now. It's a very unusual craft." He gave me a curious look, but was too polite to say that the lifeboat wasn't the only thing that was unusual. "The skipper is anxious to talk to you when you're able."
"I'm sure he is," I sighed.
"In fact, that's probably a messenger from him right now." The doctor turned to a sailor in the hatchway. The sailor said something I couldn't quite make out. The doctor shook his head firmly.
"No, not yet. He's suffering from exposure and mild shock, in addition to having lost a fair amount of blood. Tell Commander Bryant that I'll send word as soon as—"
I heard no more. At the sound of that name, a tidal wave of realization crashed over me and swept me under, and my consciousness drowned in the swirling depths.
* * *
When I awoke, there was a blessed moment of forgetfulness—the last I was ever to experience. Then it all came back to me. My eyelids, which had begun to flutter open, squeezed shut again, and I thought furiously in darkness.
Chloe Bryant had known. She had known just after seeing the face Nafayum had given me. Her few seconds of puzzled nonrecognition had been due to my lack—then—of a facial scar. But after that, she had known . . . and understood.
As I understood now.
Khorat had been wrong. There was no possibility of obliterating subsequent history by temporal meddling; it was simply a matter of things coming to pass that already had. Yes, Chloe had understood. With that clear, fine, tough-minded intelligence of hers, she had realized what was going to happen, and why it must happen.
But we couldn't be absolutely certain that Khorat was wrong. Chloe had seen that too. There was always the chance that
reality helps those who help themselves. That was why Chloe had scuppered my wild idea of taking over the ship and stopping Khorat. But, in the usual mixed-up way we humans do things, she had also seen that our reasons for denying ourselves the final consummation of our love no longer applied. So the calculation had been there, but the passion—the long-denied passion—had been real.
And just as real had been her sheer, cold courage at the very end, when my slashed cheek had removed the last possible doubt in her mind, and she had unhesitatingly consigned herself to death or worse because it was the only way to force me to fulfill the destiny on which everything depended. A destiny in which she had no part.
And I couldn't take chances either. Khorat had been right about one thing, as I knew because my own knowledge of my own race confirmed it: if humans knew time travel was possible, they would never rest until they had attained it . . . and set in motion the unraveling of the universe.
So I knew what I must do, lest Chloe's sacrifice be meaningless.
I finally opened my eyes. I wasn't in the sick bay. They had moved me to a two-man officers' bunkroom, and laid me on the lower bunk. The tiny compartment held the usual fold-down writing desks, and chairs. Sitting on one of those chairs was a stocky man in khakis with lieutenant commander's gold oak leaves.
"I'm glad you're finally awake," he remarked affably.
"Have you been waiting for me long, Skipper?"
"Not very. But I wanted to talk to you in private. I'm hoping you can satisfy my curiosity about certain things."
I looked at the strong, unforgettably ugly face I'd seen on a slide, once upon a time, at a secret facility in the Alaska panhandle—yes, the bulbous nose with the cleft tip was there in all its glory—and smiled as widely as I could without intolerable pain.
"I hope I can, too. It's the least I can do to repay you for rescuing me."
"Yes, well, there are quite a few questions in connection with your . . . presence here. Let's start with the most obvious one: what name do you go by?"
I met his eyes—blue eyes, his only point of resemblance to his daughter—and gave the answer that history required of me.
The homely features hardened. "Okay, mister. If you want to play games, I'm willing to play along . . . up to a point. But in the end I'm going to need straight answers. That getup you were wearing, for example: at first I thought it was some kind of flight suit, but it doesn't really look like one, and nobody can figure out what that stuff is that it's made of. And as for your life craft . . . I've been going over it, and it's not clear what most of the gizmos in it even do. For one thing, what propels it in the water?"
"Nothing does, Skipper."
"Oh? I hope you're not going to tell me it just fell out of the sky. It can't be an aircraft; it has no propulsion for that either, and it hasn't even got wings. And—ha-ha!—I don't think it's one of those 'foo fighters' that nervous flyboys were reporting over Germany toward the end of the war. You're obviously an American, of some national origin or other."
"To take those points in order: actually, it did fall out of the sky. And . . ." I recalled the story as I'd heard it when I was learning of the Project's origins. "I speak American English because my brain was provided with that language—plus detailed background information—electronically, by means of direct neural induction." I held up a forestalling hand. "I've got a pretty good idea of what you're thinking. But if I gave you the straight answers you want—and I'm more than willing to do so—you'd be even more convinced I'm crazy than you already are. All I ask is that you give me a chance to demonstrate that what I say is true, however fantastic it may sound. For that, I need access to my life craft. You've got it aboard this ship, don't you?"
"Yes. I've got it covered with a tarp and under guard. There's been a lot of loose talk about it among the men."
"Very sensible. When you've seen what I have to show you, and hear what I have to say, you'll realize the overriding need for secrecy. Your crew will have to have that impressed on them in the strongest possible terms—maybe with some vague hints about 'atom bomb stuff'—so they'll keep their mouths shut about what they've seen."
"You don't know sailors," said Commander Bryant dryly.
"Oh, maybe some of them will get drunk and blab. But it probably won't be taken any more seriously than any other sea stories." In fact, I knew it wouldn't. "But we'll worry about that later. How about it, Skipper? Will you let me demonstrate to you—in private—why you should take me seriously? You've got absolutely nothing to lose. If it turns out I'm not as good as my word, you can heave me into the brig and deny me access to sharp instruments."
"I probably ought to go ahead and do that right now. Only . . . damn it, you don't act like a crazy man! And that craft of yours is real enough." He reached a decision. "All right, I'll give you your chance. You say you can show me whatever it is you want to show me in the life craft? I recall seeing something in it that had a kind of . . . screen. Sort of like these television sets I've read about in magazines."
"Yeah, something like that." Television, I recalled, had been invented in 1929, but hadn't amounted to anything until after World War II, when regularly scheduled broadcasts had begun. Of course, that flat screen was just for the elementary stuff. Commander Bryant was going to find holographically projected 3-D images in the middle of the air a lot less familiar. "And yes," I continued, "we can do it in the life craft, on its own power supplies." For now, the computer could run on its own emergency reserve of stored power. Later, local sources could be adapted; it no doubt had instructions for doing just that, starting with the kind of electrical generation that could be rigged up in early nineteenth century England. "By the way, could I trouble you for something to wear so I'll be a little less conspicuous?"
"I think that would be wise. One of my officers is a tall guy like you; I'll borrow a set of khakis."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. And afterwards, you can show me all the miracles you've got stored up in that craft." The words were scornful; the tone tried to be . . . and didn't quite succeed.
"No miracles, Skipper. Just a lot of new data . . . and a warning that I'm here to deliver."
* * *
Ashford nosed her way into Hampton Roads, past Sewell's Point in Norfolk and then up the Elizabeth River to the destroyer piers at what was, with typical swabby eccentricity, called the Norfolk Naval Shipyard even though it was in Portsmouth.
What awaited us was the typical scene that greeted a returning warship: families lined up to greet husbands and fathers, after which the unmarried sailors would disembark and set about doing that which unmarried sailors do in places like Hampton Roads.
I had persuaded Commander Bryant that it would be a mistake to call for a massive security cordon that would only set the rumor mill grinding away. Let our arrival be as normal as possible; nobody would notice the tarpaulin-covered object aft. Later, at night, it could be off-loaded and turned over to the people who were eagerly awaiting it in response to the radio message he'd sent ahead, in a code that was hardly ever used.
"They're waiting for you, too," said Commander Bryant, grim-faced. Actually, that was the only kind of face he'd worn lately. "After I turn you over to them, they're going to fly you to Washington, by direct order of President Truman. He's agreed to meet with you as you requested."
"I thought he might," I replied absently. We stood on the bridge, watching the joyful scene on the pier. As per tradition, the captain would be the last to disembark.
At last the time came when we could leave the ship, amid the traditions that accompanied the captain's departure. We descended the gangway and stepped onto the pier. . . .
"Daddy! Daddy!"
I swung toward the source of the cry, just in time to see a smiling woman in 1940s dress lower a camera of the same vintage. But I barely noticed her. My universe had narrowed to the five-year-old girl who broke away from the woman with the camera and ran, light brown braids flying in the sea breeze, to embrac
e Commander Bryant's legs and gaze up into what was, for her, the handsomest face in the world.
"Chloe!" Commander Bryant lifted her up into a hug, then set her down. He turned to me with a sheepish grin. "Uh . . . my daughter," he explained unnecessarily.
In the back of my mind, I'd known this moment was coming. But I'd kept the knowledge there, back among all the clutter of things we hope will go away if we don't think about them. But it hadn't gone away, as such things generally don't, and now the moment was here, bringing with it the recollection of one of the more unwelcome conclusions I'd reached in that time of dark, silent thought in the bunk.
Renata Novak's work would outlive her. The poisonous seed she had planted with her faked evidence would sprout, and flourish . . . and I would have to let it. If the truth about Novak came out, it would result in further inquiries, which might well lead the investigators to the secret of time travel, which must never be revealed. So the time would come when I must stand helplessly by and let the name of Chloe Bryant take its place alongside those of Benedict Arnold and Judas Iscariot.
All this ran through my mind in less time than it took the little girl to raise her huge blue eyes—huger than I remembered, in that small child's face—and look timidly up at the strange man with the hideous scar. Then she smiled.
Somehow, I managed to smile back.
I know I did, because—not least among all the gifts she had given me—she had told me that I would, never dreaming who was sitting in her audience in that auditorium in Alaska. "I've never forgotten that smile he gave me—nor have I ever been able to interpret it, except that I could have sworn it held a deep sadness. For a second, I thought he was actually going to cry. But I also sensed a great love."