by Greg Ahlgren
Lewis Ginter remained quiet on the bench, his eyes focusing on the woods at the rear of the clearing.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Ginter began. “We don’t know whether changing history changes life forces. David theorized that life forces were static, that there would always be a Paul deVere or Lewis Ginter, maybe in just a different form or with another name...”
DeVere grunted.
“But hey,” Ginter continued, “you might be right. Look, I don’t want to sound corny or trite but there is never success without sacrifice, and sometimes that sacrifice is the ultimate one. People die in every military operation, but that doesn’t make the operations unjust.”
“Tell that to the dead, their families and friends.”
“Yeah, well, what do we do that doesn’t have consequences? If 100,000 cars are built in Detroit we know that a certain number of people will be killed by them. Yet we still build them.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Ginter asked. “Why?”
DeVere waved him off. “You’re being pedantic. It’s real people we’re talking about. Although, who knows, maybe we’ll go back and find out that we can’t interact with the physical world, we’ll just float around in a different plane unable to affect anything. Like the souls Jacob Marley describes to Scrooge,” he added with a wry chuckle.
Ginter nodded. “I’ve thought of that. There is a test we could run if we get the money. We could build a canister with a spring loaded robot arm-a sort of catapult attached to it. We could load the arm with a biodegradable object, like an apple. We could send the canister back to the middle of nowhere for two hours, and make sure that the spring is powerful enough to launch the apple beyond the mouth of the wormhole one hour after arrival. When the canister comes back without the apple, we know that quantum mechanics exists in the time travel realm and that the traveler will be able to interact with the physical world of the past. We make the object to be tossed biodegradable to minimize the risk of the object itself somehow affecting anything. Send it back to a desert or whatever.”
“Not bad,” deVere agreed, suddenly intrigued. “Why not ice? Prevents the possibility of an apple starting a forest in the middle of a desert and changing the environment.”
“I thought of ice. But if the canister comes back without ice how do we know the ice didn’t just melt in the wormhole?”
DeVere nodded and pursed his lips. “O.K.,” he said. “How about two cubes? Right next to each other? One on the catapult and one in a net of some sort attached to the canister. Find a smaller window of time and bring the canister back. If the netted cube is still there and the other one is not, then the catapult worked.”
Ginter nodded. “Even better.”
“But not perfect,” deVere said. “The problem is that launching an ice cube, or anything else, does not prove that whatever goes back can necessarily interact. It might still just hover in suspended animation outside the mouth of the wormhole. The launch might be successful but it might just be a launch along its own plane.”
“And you don’t think that the canister we sent to the Concord Bridge disproves that?”
“Actually, I don’t,” deVere said. “The chronometer was solid when I picked it up. But what was it for that year when originally it had not been there? Was it physically present? Physicists have argued this one for years. We have to find out before we risk people.”
“So, we need to send back a canister that can interact with the past by bringing something back.”
DeVere nodded.
“A drill bit,” Ginter said. “Sent to the middle of our favorite desert and scoop up some identifiable sand.”
DeVere nodded again. “Not a bad idea.”
Ginter let out a low chuckle. “You’re right. Of course. We do need to do more experiments.”
“Which means we need to contact this Pam woman and let her see what we’re doing.”
Ginter shook his head. “I don’t like that. I don’t know her. She was a friend of Pomeroy’s and he’s disappeared. I have no contacts in Portland. Don’t even like the town.”
“Can we scam her?” deVere asked. “Show her something else?”
“She knows it’s at MIT.”
“Well, can we show her the lab but tell her the Accelechron is something else?” DeVere was desperate.
“I have an idea.” Ginter reached for his cell phone, laid it on the picnic table, and began fishing through his wallet. He located a slip of paper and picked up his phone. He studied the slip and began punching numbers.
“You’re going to call her on an open cell phone?” deVere asked.
“What do you think? I’m supposed to leave a note for her in a secret location at midnight? Don’t be corny. I’ll be discreet.”
DeVere sighed. “I’d think you’d be better organized with women’s phone numbers, given your proclivity to collect them.”
Ginter grinned. He looked at the phone, frowned, and walked up the hill toward the house.
“The reception is only slightly better up there,” deVere called out after him. “At least you don’t have her on speed dial.”
“I’m actually calling Lorrie to set it up with her and Eckleburg,” Ginter said as he walked toward the garage.
As Ginter moved up the slope deVere looked back at his house. Valerie had disappeared from view and the kitchen was empty. He turned back to the woods, stood up, and sat on the table. He raised his face and let the sun’s rays warm his skin. If all went well, in one month he, Lewis and Amanda would be plunging back to the past to change things. And maybe to destroy everything they knew. They would be creating a new world, a different world. For a moment he thought of his grandfather, and his grandfather’s overwhelming faith. His grandfather had believed in God, and Paul wondered whether he should also. Genesis. That was the story of the creation. Of course he had studied it in religion classes in college. Was that what he was doing now, creating a brand new world? A brave new world? If they succeeded, only he, Lewis and Amanda would remember the old one.
It’s not a bad life here. I have a nice home, a nice position, a great daughter; I’m respected and liked by my students. Heck, even Arnold leaves me alone. The squishers don’t harass me. What right do I have to smash up everything? Just to save one person?
Paul deVere looked up at his house again. What right, indeed?
Ginter walked back down the hill, slamming the antenna back into his cell.
“It’s all set. Lorrie says Pam can’t get down here again until next weekend. She’s busy at work.”
DeVere grunted. “Work?”
“Her real job. Insurance something. We all have real jobs, remember?”
“So, when?”
“Next Saturday night. Pam’s coming down to see Lorrie on Friday. They’ve filed a formal request with the Boston administrator to see Pomeroy and she’ll be meeting with a lawyer first, and then with someone in the Administrator’s Office. She’ll be spending the weekend at Lorrie’s so we set it up for Saturday night.”
“You mean next Saturday?” deVere asked. “The eighth?”
“Yeah, why? You got plans? I figured I’d just do it myself.”
“Next weekend the Mets are in town. You and I are going to the game Saturday night.”
Ginter stopped in his tracks. “Shit!” he exclaimed. “I forgot. Hey, maybe we can do this with Pam late in the afternoon and still get to the park by 7:00. If we do it before dinner she’ll be hungry and I’m sure she and Lorrie have dinner plans. Besides, if they’re meeting with a lawyer she may be stressed and not focusing on what I’m going to be showing her.”
“Which is?” deVere asked warily.
“Which is,“ Ginter answered, “not a time machine.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“No,” Ginter said. “Probably not.”
DeVere frowned. “Look, just give the tickets to Nigel. This is too important to screw up. We need the O.K. from Lorrie and she needs it f
rom Pam. It’s going to be tight to get the additional tests in by September first. Besides,” deVere added, “Nigel can always take our favorite CA agent to the game and get her out of our hair.”
Ginter sat staring off at the tree line, slowly shaking his head.
“You O.K.?” deVere asked.
“We must be stupid,” Ginter answered disgustedly. “Or more likely, brain dead.” He turned back to deVere.
“How the hell are we going to design an interactive experiment with a drill bit? The return wormhole is just a safety valve. It will only return what we send through in the first place. The drill bit thing won’t work because only soil that went through the original wormhole can come back.”
Paul deVere took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He stared off at the yard for several moments before he too shook his head and smiled.
“You’re right,” he said. “I guess we’re back to the spring loaded robot that fires an ice cube out of the projected diameter of the arrival wormhole. Which still isn’t a perfect experiment because it won’t categorically prove the existence of interactive planes, only that the laws of physics apply to whatever plane we end up on.”
“At least that problem won’t apply to us when we attempt to return. The DNA codes will allow all identically coded organic matter to pass through.”
DeVere agreed. “Hey, if we gain five pounds there we can still come back. We just have to remember to wear the same clothes or we’ll arrive back here buck naked.”
Now it was Ginter’s turn to smile. “Shall we remember to tell that to Dr. Hutch?”
From the driveway came the low rumbling of a diesel engine. “I think Triple A is here,” deVere said. He glanced at his watch. “That was quicker than usual.”
The pair stood up. “You must get better service here than in Boston,” Ginter said. They walked up the slope.
“This week,” Ginter said. “We’ll design that robot and do a few more tests. I want to fix the timing chain on the Roadrunner too.”
“I hope,” deVere said as the pair climbed up the hill, “that your design mechanics are better than your auto mechanics.”
A truck with “Bay State Towing” and “AAA” emblazoned across both doors sat backed in Paul’s driveway, the driver fumbling with paperwork while the diesel spewed fumes. Paul watched as the Plymouth was hauled onto the back of the carrier, Lewis climbed into the passenger seat, and the truck nosed out of the driveway and moved off.
When it disappeared around the corner Paul turned and walked back into his house. It was cool for the beginning of August and he gave an involuntary shudder as he stepped inside. Grace was sitting at the kitchen island staring at both a newspaper and a college catalogue that lay open in front of her.
“Where’s mom?” he asked.
“Computer room,” Grace answered without looking up. He was relieved to see that at least she wasn’t on that damn instant messenger again.
“Looking at a particular college?” he asked, opening the refrigerator. He reached for a beer but turned his hand at the last minute and grabbed a Tab.
“Maybe Brown,” she said. “Kim’s thinking of applying there.”
“Good school,” he said, pulling up the flip top. The drink fuzzed over and he quickly lifted the can to his lips.
“You should have come out to see Lewis’ car,” he called out toward the study off the front hallway.
“Yeah, right,” Grace snickered under her breath.
“You didn’t tell me Lewis was coming over,” Valerie called back from the study. “Is something going on at the school?”
“No, nothing,” Paul answered quickly. “We were just going over curriculum stuff for this fall.”
“I didn’t realize that the curriculum ever changed for physics,” Valerie answered dryly.
“Dumb one, dad,” Grace said in a low voice. “You gotta’ do better than that.”
Paul ignored the sarcasm. “Is the catalogue for Brown that interesting?” he asked.
“Actually, today’s Globe has a follow up story on that campus security officer who disappeared at the college. Yolanda Jackson.”
“His car’s pretty nice,” Paul called out. “You should have come out. He’s put a lot of work into it.”
“Apparently not enough,” Valerie called back.
“He thinks it’s the timing chain,” Paul said, trying to sound authoritative.
“The paper kind of hints that she may have been murdered,” Grace said.
He turned back to his daughter. “Murdered? I thought the District Police said she just took off. Had a lot of debts or something.”
“That’s what they said. But the Cambridge Police think she didn’t do that. She had two kids.”
“Kids?” Paul took a sip of his Tab and moved behind Grace’s shoulder. The newspaper was open to an inside page. “I don’t remember them saying anything about kids. I thought they said she wasn’t married.”
Grace rolled her eyes and clucked. “Dad!”
“Well, they didn’t mention a husband,” Paul said defensively as he stared down at a picture of a black man he estimated to be in his late thirties. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mr. Gardner didn’t seem real impressed,” Valerie called from the far room. “Look how trim he keeps his lawn while ours is now the longest in the neighborhood.”
“Dad prides himself on his length,” Grace called out and giggled.
“Grace!” Paul admonished, trying to sound stern, but he couldn’t help but smile also.
“It’s Luther Colvin,” Grace answered, ignoring his rebuke. “He’s the father of their kids. He has them now. The police suspected him at first but he had an airtight alibi. That’s when the District cops figured she had just taken off and closed their file. But the Globe kept digging into this story.”
“And why don’t the Cambridge police think she just took off?” Paul asked, suddenly intrigued.
“They found her patrol car,” Grace said. “Carol Rumsky of The Globe got the inventory list and Yolanda Jackson was an asthmatic. Her inhaler was found in the car. Rumsky figures there’s no way an asthmatic would have taken off and left that behind.”
“That’s it?” Paul asked. “One inhaler? Maybe she had another.”
Valerie appeared at the door, her face flushed. “You know, you two think it’s funny to make sexual references but I hope you don’t do that in public. And I don’t think it’s appropriate to do that with a teenage daughter.”
“I don’t have a teenage daughter,” Grace said standing up and grabbing the Brown catalogue. “So I guess it’s O.K. for me,” she said as she swept out of the room.
“You have any interest in going to a game this week?” Paul asked. “I can get tickets.”
“Not this week,” Valerie said coolly and opened a cabinet. “I’m kinda’ busy.”
Paul was tempted to ask with what but preferred to avoid an afternoon clash. “You used to like going,” he said lamely.
“Things were different then,” she said closing the cabinet rather loudly. “We didn’t have a child, remember?”
“It’s not like we need a babysitter for Grace,” he protested.
She turned on him. “Look, if you want to go, go with Lewis. I don’t care. You’re always hanging out with him anyway. Besides,” she added as she walked back toward the study, “the team used to be good. They stink now.”
Paul grimaced. When she had gone he leaned over, picked up the paper, and folded it back to the front page. A lot of things stink now that used to be good.
Chapter 13
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Paul said. It was Wednesday, August 5, 2026 and Lewis and Amanda sat around the Roadrunner in Lewis’ garage. Music played loudly.
“We’re going back September first.” He faltered, and momentarily Paul couldn’t continue. The finality of the moment hit him–he was going to step out into unknown space. The conservative, privileged, buttoned-down Paul deVere was about to become the m
ost radical and unlikely of revolutionaries. A real fire-eater.