"On the grounds that your future self knows better than you do now? That assumes that you're actually learning as you go along," Max added with a sarcastic chuckle. "The more we do this, the more I think Dylan was on to something literally true for us in 'My Back Pages' – I knew more when we started this than now."
"We've been at this three days," Sierra said, trying not to lapse into the self-pity that was always on the verge of being the time traveler's companion. "If we keep waiting for the line to the far future to open up, we may find the Chairs gone."
"Or additional Chairs in the room, with their passengers hunting for us in 2062."
"Exactly," Sierra said.
"So we go to the past?" Max asked.
"Let's wait one more day, and if the future is still blocked, yeah, we go to Mr. Appleton in 1896, a year after we left, and see if we can do anything to make this 2062 less . . . disconcerting than it is."
***
Sierra and Max climbed the spiral staircase to the room with the Chairs the next day. The two in which they had arrived a few days earlier were still glistening in the center of the room.
"I called my father one more time this morning, when you were sleeping," Max said suddenly. "I guess my way of saying goodbye."
"I'm glad you did," Sierra said, "but it's not necessarily goodbye."
"I know," Max said, hoarsely. "Nothing's definite about anything. He thought I was playing some kind of joke on him. Apparently my other self called him yesterday, and of course had no recollection of my call to my father a few days ago. My father asked me to stop it."
Sierra put down her bag with 1890s garb and took Max's hand. "That's part of why it's a good idea that we get out of this time, one way or the other."
She squeezed Max's hand, walked to one of the Chairs, and ran her fingers lightly over the inlaid digital controls. She shook her head no. "The future is still blocked. Should we try 1896?"
Max nodded, gave Sierra her travel bag, and sat in the second chair with his. The two decided on a specific time and date in 1896. Sierra synced the two Chairs, Max confirmed that the sync was engaged, and Sierra tapped the key on the control that would send the two chairs back to arrive at precisely the same time in 1896.
Bubbles ascended around each of them, they each had the sensation of a snowflake on their lips, and the bubbles receded.
[New York City, 1896 AD]
They took their time dressing in their 1890s clothing, appropriate for a couple in their late 20s in the Millennium Club. They helped each other with the hooks and buttons. Max gave Sierra an encouraging kiss on the neck and stepped back. "You look lovely, my dear," he said, with a reasonably good approximation of 1890s cadence.
Their plan was to get a room in the hotel they had stayed in the last time they had been here – just a week ago in their lifetimes – then call Appleton on one of those brand new spanking old phones to see if he was home, and, if he was, take a train from Grand Central, just down the block, up to Appleton's home in Wave Hill.
But they caught sight of his familiar moustache and bowtie as they walked near the edge of the dining area. He looked up and saw them, smiled broadly, and gestured them grandly to his table.
"I had hoped the two of you would find some peace in the future," Appleton said, "but it always delights my heart to see you! It has been well more than a year in my life since last we met!"
Max shook his hand, Sierra squeezed his shoulder, and the two sat.
"Tea?" Appleton lifted a cup. "The Millennium has some new flushes from the Orient, quite good."
"Whatever you have that's black and strong would be good," Sierra said.
Max nodded.
Appleton summoned a waiter and gave the order. He turned to Max and Sierra as the waiter receded. He grew more serious. "It wasn't easy," he said, quietly. "Jowett was not at his peak. His focus was diminishing. He managed to complete the translations of the Aristotles before he died, but never made much progress on the Chronica." He nearly whispered the name of the Heron text. "Science was never Jowett's strong suit. But I think I may have someone who can help with this." He touched a stack of papers – under which, Sierra realized, was a book.
"That's not—" Sierra began.
"No, no, of course not," Appleton said. "I would never bring the Chronica like this to the club. And it is as yet still in the scroll form in which you entrusted it to me, and the one manuscript copy that I gave to Jowett and then retrieved when it became clear that he could not do the job. But here," Appleton took a book with a blue grey marbled cover and gold embossing out from under his papers and handed it to Sierra. "It's by Jack Astor. Do you know it?"
Sierra took the book, nodded slowly, and tensed.
"A Journey In Other Worlds by John Jacob Astor," Max leaned in to get a better look. "No, I don't think I know it."
"It is a scientific romance. The air vessel that leaves the Earth makes its departure from Van Cortlandt Park in the borough of the Bronx, just a few miles from my home!" Appleton said, triumphantly. "How could I resist publishing it?"
Appleton and Max both became aware that Sierra was frowning. "Oh, of course not," Appleton said to Sierra. "I know better than to ever reveal to him any hint of that."
Max looked at Appleton and then Sierra. "You want to fill me in?"
Sierra and Appleton both began talking, but Appleton deferred to Sierra. "John Jacob Astor IV is one of the most famous people to lose their lives on the Titanic," she said. "He was thought to be one of the richest men in the world."
"I admit, I looked at the passenger list of the Titanic, in the future, as soon as I learned of its sinking," Appleton said. "I had to know if any of my children or my family were upon it. And of course I immediately recognized Jack's name. But I know what it could do to history if I told him about that."
Sierra had opened the novel. "It says Appleton's published this in 1894 – that's two years ago. Is it just coincidence that you brought the book to the Millennium here today?"
Appleton looked at her with concern. "You seem more suspicious – of me – than the last time we met. Did something go awry in the future?"
"In a manner of sorts, yes," Sierra replied. "That's why we came back here now, to talk to you. But about the Astor novel—"
"You are right," Appleton said. "It is no coincidence that I have his novel with me now. I was just talking to him, before you arrived, about how he might help with finding a translator for the Chronica. He is a very wealthy man, as you said."
"That's very dangerous—" Sierra began.
"Of course it is," Appleton said. "Everything we are doing in this time travel business is dangerous. But you risked your lives, and others perished, in obtaining Heron's scroll. What was the point of doing that if it languished, untranslated and unread, in a dusty cubbyhole in my desk? And anything that Jack Astor may guess about what we're doing will go down with him on the Titanic, won't it?"
"That is almost 20 years from now," Sierra said, "a long time to keep a secret."
The waiter approached with their teas. Behind him was a thin man, also with a moustache but a cravat not a bowtie, and much younger than Appleton. "Jack!" Appleton rose. "Did you leave something here?"
"I had an additional thought," John Jacob Astor replied, and smiled at Sierra and Max.
"John Jacob Astor, Sierra Waters and Maxwell Marcus," Appleton intoned the introductions.
***
Astor kissed Sierra's hand, shook Max's, and told the waiter who was still hovering that no, he wouldn't be staying more than a few minutes, and wouldn't require anything more to imbibe.
"Call me Max, please," Max said to Astor, with a smile.
"Of course," Astor replied. "And my friends call me Jack – please do."
Appleton explained that Sierra and Max were part of the team that had acquired the newly unearthed scrolls by Aristotle and Heron in Egypt the year before and were here in New York for a consultation. Fortunately, Sierra and Max both were well versed in the circumstances of the
real discovery of two leaves of Aristotle's Constitution of Athens in Egypt in 1879 and the longer text in 1890, and had no difficulty appearing knowledgeable about the subject to Astor.
He beamed at both of them, especially Sierra. "It is gratifying to see such a comely woman making such a contribution to our store of knowledge. Who knows what other treasures of the past and its intellect are waiting in the sands of Egypt!"
Appleton nodded. "Jack and I were talking about the problem of obtaining a suitable translator for the Chronica."
"Poor Jowett's of course no longer with us," Astor said. "I had an idea about contacting Frederic Kenyon – he translated The Constitution of Athens for the British Museum – but they are being very peculiar about that, as William knows."
"Something shady about how they got the papyrus codex out of Egypt, is my guess," Appleton said. "My contacts at the Museum refuse to discuss it, and they are discouraging Kenyon from having any discourse about translation of ancient texts. I am not sure Kenyon has the requisite science for it, either."
"Which brings me to the reason for my unscheduled return to the Millennium," Astor said, with a flourish and a loud whisper. "I was walking up Fifth Avenue, and I saw one of Samuel Clemens' books in Brentano's – his wonderful Yankee in King Arthur's Court. He has a keen interest in the miracles of science. He knows about time traveling, of course—"
Sierra tensed slightly at the mention of time travel, and hoped it didn't show – at least, not to Astor. She couldn't help thinking that Mark Twain was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, not very far from the grave of Socrates . . . and that he would live in Appleton's beloved Wave Hill for a few years after Appleton died.
Appleton winced slightly for different reasons, thinking that if he had been better tending his publishing business in 1889, he would have made more of an effort to talk Clemens out of publishing this book with his own damned Webster company, and cast his lot with Appleton's instead. He looked for a moment at Sierra, thinking it was her mentor Thomas – who was actually so much more – who had diverted his best attention from publishing for most of that year. But in all fairness to Thomas, Appleton in 1889 had still not gotten completely over the loss of his beloved wife Mary just five years earlier. He grieved for her still. He always would.
Astor continued, apparently oblivious to Sierra's and Appleton's demeanors. "But Clemens is abroad and bankrupt. He is $100,000 in debt – I offered to help but he is a proud man. And in addition to all of that, he's taking the death of his daughter Susy very hard—"
"An inflammation of the meninges, she was just twenty-four," Appleton said, gravely. "Truly tragic."
"Yes," Astor said. "And then I thought – there may be someone better than Clemens, someone with the necessary training in Greek, in science, and the possible science of time travel, even more so than Samuel Clemens. He came out with a book just last year – a scientific romance, much better than I could ever write – The Time Machine, do you know it?"
Now Sierra smiled, not only to hide the turmoil within but in appreciation of the absurdity, by any rational standard, of this conversation. "Yes, by H. G. Wells, of course!"
***
Astor briefly made the case for Wells. "He is young – just thirty years of age, two years younger than me. His writing is vibrant. He clearly is energetic, more so than a man of Clemens' age, and— Oh, forgive me," he said to Appleton, "I didn't mean to suggest—"
Appleton waved away the apology. "No offense taken. I am sure Mr. Wells does have more energy than Samuel Clemens, than I do, and certainly more than Mr. Jowett." He chuckled at his own joke.
Astor smiled, stood, reached across the table and clapped Appleton on the shoulder. "So we're in agreement that we should contact Mr. Wells about this translation? I can telegraph him as soon as I leave." He gave a quick, perfunctory look at Sierra and Max.
"Yes . . . ," Appleton said slowly, also looking at Sierra and Max. "He is apparently a man of the future, which would make him ideal to translate Heron's strange book."
Sierra looked at Max, and realized there was no point in opposing Wells, certainly not now, and maybe not at all. She nodded her head yes.
Max did the same. "Makes sense to me."
"Good!" Astor beamed and started to take his leave. "Where are the two of you staying, if I might be so intrusive as to ask?" he suddenly asked Sierra and Max. "I have the perfect place for you," he said, before either replied. "The William Waldorf Astor, my cousin's hotel – just a hop, skip, and a jump from here, on Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. I'm building a better one, right next to it, but it's the best you can do right now." He pulled a fountain pen from a pocket on one side of his jacket, and a little writing pad from the other side. He tore a piece of paper from the pad, scribbled upon it, and handed the result to Sierra. "Just present this at the front desk. You'll be shown a highly comfortable room."
Appleton nodded, seeing the extent to which Astor was enjoying playing the host. Sierra nodded as well. She still had misgivings about being too close to Astor and his fate on the Titanic, but putting up too much resistance at this point would make Astor even more likely to take notice of her and Max.
"Thank you," she said with mustered brightness.
***
Sierra was in Max's arms later that night, after the two had said goodbye to Appleton for the day, after Astor had left.
"I don't know," Sierra said, softly. "I feel like ever since we saved those scrolls, everything's been moving too quickly, spinning out of our control. First Biden in our future, now Astor and H. G. Wells back here. Those two are wild cards."
"But what's the alternative?" Max asked, and stroked her hair. "If we hadn't taken the Chronica, that would have left Heron free to shut off the time travel completely, to control it in any way he wanted, whenever he pleased. It would exist just in novels and movies, or only in Heron's hands, and we would have no way of improving the world."
"I know," Sierra said. "It's just, so far, I'm not sure that anything I've done, we've done, has improved much of anything." She stretched up to Max's lips and kissed them. "Except maybe me and you."
"Thanks." Max laughed and slapped her gently on her naked backside.
"This hotel is beautiful," she said. "It's right where the Empire State Building used to stand."
"Yeah," Max said, more interested in gliding his fingers slowly down the middle of Sierra's back.
"That doesn't make you feel a little weird?" she asked.
Now his lips grazed her side. "I gave up feeling weird about any place I've been with you a long time ago," he murmured. "But I'll tell you something about John Jacob Astor. Maybe it would be good to have someone who's richer than God in our corner for a change, to bankroll whatever we have to do to stop Heron."
***
Max found an envelope under their door late the next morning, after they had awoken from a long night's sleep that had begun well after midnight.
"A bill?" Sierra asked. "Maybe Jack Astor is not so generous."
"It's from Astor, but it's not a bill," Max said. "It's an invitation – to join him for lunch in about . . . " He scooted over to his night stand, which had the pocket watch he had been carrying with him for several years now. He looked at the watch . . . "that would be about 20 minutes from now. Can we make it?"
"Do we have a choice?" Sierra asked, sarcastically, and eyed the bathroom, which contained a bathtub and a shower. "I will say this for him – this hotel has all the mod cons."
Max laughed. "Do the Brits say that now?"
"I don't think so," Sierra replied. "It's from the psychedelic era, the 1960s, if the course I took in 20th century popular culture had it right."
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