by Greg Ahlgren
“We’ll come to the lab separately at 8 p.m. Timing is, of course, crucial. Lewis will enter the formulas to put us back exactly where we want to be, July 23, 1962. That time cannot be compromised. The window is open 38 minutes and 16 seconds at this end and 42 minutes and eleven seconds at the other. That’s almost a one to one ratio which is almost perfect.”
“Huh?” Amanda asked.
“A one to one ratio.” DeVere paused. “You know, one to one. Even.”
“No, I don’t know,” Amanda said. “Humor the ignorant. What are you talking about?”
Lewis stepped in. “Think of the wormhole as a tunnel. There is the mouth of the tunnel at this end, in what we think of as the present, and one at the other end, in the past. The wormhole’s openings have mouths and these mouths have sizes. But a wormhole is not three dimensional.”
“It’s not?” Amanda asked, looking at Paul with alarm. “Then how can we fit through it?”
“It’s actually four dimensional, so we can fit through it. Its dimensions are height, width, length and time,” Paul answered.
Amanda looked doubtful. “O.K. I understand it transports us through time but how is time a dimension of the wormhole?”
“The mouth of the wormhole at both ends is open for a fixed amount of time,” Ginter answered. “The departing wormhole on September 1 is open for 38 minutes. Since the temporal opening on July 23, 1962 is also open for about the same length of time, a little over 42 minutes, the ratio is almost one to one. Symmetrical wormhole openings. This means that if two people go through the wormhole at this end three minutes apart they would arrive in Central Park about three minutes apart. The person who went through three minutes earlier at this end would arrive three minutes earlier at that end.
“But let’s say that we have a 10 minute window at this end and a 20 minute window at the other. Then the ratio is one to two. So if someone left here three minutes after the first person he or she would arrive at the other end six minutes after the first person. The two wormhole openings in time are stretched out to meet each other so someone leaving at the beginning of the wormhole here arrives at the beginning of the wormhole there. Someone leaving at the end of the window here arrives at the end of the window there.”
“I think I see,” Amanda answered slowly. “Does that apply to the return also?”
Ginter shook his head. “The contrapositive wormhole is the universe’s safety valve. All returning objects arrive back here at the same instant.”
“Regardless of when they left,” deVere added.
“O.K.,” Amanda said slowly. “So, go on.”
Paul looked at Amanda, wondering if she had that sense of no return that he was experiencing, if she were as worried as he was. But her eyes seemed to betray only interest, and determination, and, as she looked at him, also admiration. Of him. Of what he was doing, of how he was leading them.
He continued. “Lewis will bring the communicators. Virtual coast-to-coast scrambled range and energy packs that will last years. Of course no satellite hook-ups but they’ll suffice. I’ll have the cash. It’s hidden in my car. Amanda will bring three laptops that we’ll load with scanned newspapers–New York Times and the Washington Post. How is that coming, Amanda?”
“Almost done. I’ve got about three quarters of 1962 loaded. I’ll keep the laptops in my campus office. The information on them won’t raise any suspicions since this is my field. I printed a hard copy of Kennedy’s daily itinerary from when he took office in ‘61 until the end of 1964 after the withdrawal from Vietnam. It includes all the Cuba stuff too. It’s a daily log of where he went, how he got there, and who he met with that day. Before we go back I want to learn more about the people he met with and when he met with them concerning Cuba and Vietnam, including anyone he’ll meet with after we return back here.”
Ginter nodded. “We’ll each have a little over fifty thousand United States dollars and a New York State driver’s license. That was the only identification anyone needed back then. Paul will keep the licenses with the cash. There were no photos on them. I used our same names and birthdays but subtracted 64 years from our years of birth. We’ll have to remember our new birth years in case we are challenged but at least the month and day will remain the same.”
The other two nodded. Ginter continued. “Three printers, each with two batteries and three re-chargers which will work fine with the electrical current back then. Anything else we need we can buy once we get there.”
DeVere studied the faces of his two compatriots. He looked from Lewis to Amanda and saw nothing but determination.
“All right, Amanda will once again outline the plan. Also, I guess you have some cultural and historical stuff for us consistent with our new years of birth. Then Lewis can cover the operational aspects.”
Ginter put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “We’re doing it. We’re really doing it.”
Paul swallowed. “We are.”
Lewis reached over and switched the song to The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” and cranked up the volume a notch. “Just to get you all in the right time frame,” he explained.
Amanda sighed before she began her briefing. “You’re off by a few years,” she groused as she began explaining.
Igor’s airplane touched down at Logan Airport at 2:30 on Saturday, August 8, 2026. “Thank you Mr. Adams,” the stewardess chirped as he left first class.
Igor nodded. They don’t call it the Russian Upgrade for nothing, he thought as he glanced at his boarding pass, over which he had simply scribbled with his pen “1A.” In the old days, any agent above the rank of…but these weren’t the old days.
Of course it wouldn’t do to call Natasha and tell her he was finally in town. A five-hour delay in arriving wasn’t half bad now-a-days. Not bad at all. He had called Natasha from the Yeltsengrad Airport when the delay had reached three hours. She suggested that he take a cab as she had afternoon lab responsibilities.
He gathered his bags and hailed a cab. As he was driven past Petrovyards he scoffed at the notion that these simple people could so love an athletic team that had only won two World Championships since the Bolshevik Revolution.
Natasha returned to her Charles River apartment to see Igor with his feet up on her desk, his IM2 laptop plugged into her MIT line.
“Igor. What a surprise.”
“Evidently. However, I note that you didn’t say ‘pleasant.’ I also see that you haven’t been sitting by the phone waiting for my call from the airport. I’d hoped you were out buying some proper vodka.” He swirled a glass. “I had no idea this is such a hardship post that you cannot find any.”
“Nobody here can tell the difference, and with what the Agency pays there’s no point.”
“Right, you’re the wine connoisseur. Being a wine connoisseur in Soviet America is much like being a snow expert in the Sahara.”
“What are you doing on my MIT line? It’s monitored, you know.”
“Not anymore,” Igor said, smirking. “You underestimate us, my dear. I’m downloading Amanda Hutch’s personal computer files.”
“I assume you have authority to do that? Not being the agent on the scene?” she asked carefully.
Igor laughed caustically. “Don’t be timid! When I break this little plot I’ll have all the authority I want.”
Natasha shrugged. “It’s your career.” She sat down on the couch. “Can’t the Agency spring for a new IM3 for one of their top supervisors?”
“I’m used to this one. Interesting society,” he said, standing up and observing the scene along the Charles River. “Far too much freedom, wouldn’t you say? I’d love to put all this under direct Soviet leadership.”
“Misery loves company,” Natasha said, sotto voce.
“Excuse me?”
“I said you certainly make pleasant company,” Natasha said, standing up and reaching up in her cabinet and pouring a drink. “By the way, I keep the good vodka here in this bottle marked “Distilled Water.”
“Why is that?”
“Tends to last longer,” she answered, nodding toward his glass. “So, you never said why you were coming to Boston?”
“Judging from your reports, I feel Dr. Hutch is the key to this whole…problem. So I thought I would take a peek and see what I can see.”
“Good God, you’re downloading her whole hard drive?”
“Only the interesting parts.”
“I could’ve saved you the trouble. They’re planning on going back September first,” she said as she turned and searched in her cupboard.
“September first? That’s 24 days! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“From the MIT lab. I don’t know what time, though.”
“And do what?”
“Change history. They’re going back to 1962 I believe.”
“And how do you know this?” Igor asked carefully.
Natasha shrugged. “Detective work. On site snooping. But I don’t know what time on the first they are planning on going.”
“So that’s our next mission, finding the time,” Igor said, turning back toward Natasha. His laptop started beeping.
“Downloading complete.” He punched a few buttons and unplugged from the MIT line. He connected to Natasha’s regular phone line and hit a few more buttons.
“There we are. In a few hours everything will be decoded and we’ll know a lot more about this plan.”
Natasha went into her bedroom, locked the door behind her, and changed out of her dress. She put on jeans and sneakers. By the time she had come out Igor had poured a glass of the good vodka and was sitting on the sofa. She took the overstuffed chair opposite him.
“Which leaves us more time for the interesting conversations,” he said, patting the sofa beside him. “I must say you’re looking unusually lovely, Natasha.”
Natasha looked at him and grinned, shaking her head.
“Sorry, Igor. It’s time for good girls to get their work done.”
“I can wait,” he said.
“It will be a very long wait.”
“Oh, all right,” he said. He took a deep swig from his glass and stood up. “But you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“It’s mystery that makes life worth living.”
He closed his IM2, disconnected the line, and put the laptop in its case. “Some mysteries are to be explored.”
“Some aren’t,” she said.
He smiled. “I’m at the Copley. Call if there’s anything.”
“Copley? I will.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and turned to Natasha. “But if it might get dangerous, it might be better if we’re together, don’t you think?”
“Good night, Comrade.”
“Right.”
Natasha closed the door and he left. Just maybe, Comrade Rostov, we may be together sooner than you think.
Ginter slid into his usual seat at The Marbury. “Hey Lew,” the bartender said, pulling a draft and sliding it down the bar to Ginter’s stool.”
“Malcolm, my man, what’s the action tonight?”
“Pretty good. How’s academia?”
“Can’t complain.”
“But you still do,” Malcolm said. They chuckled. “Going to the game tonight? You’re a Mets fan, aren’t you?”
“Nah, gave away tonight’s tickets to a Limey. Have to work.”
When Malcolm looked quizzical Lewis added, “Grant applications due.”
Malcolm nodded as if he understood and moved down the bar.
Lewis took a sip of his beer and looked through the front plate glass window at Madison’s, the rival bar populated by the Harvard crowd. Each bar claimed individual identity and ambiance but Lewis realized that when you boiled it down, the two were really the same.
It simply was the way it was now, distinctions without a difference. I wonder, he thought as he sat alone, whether I will make a difference. Maybe Paul was right, maybe the cost of trying to make a difference was too high. Lewis Ginter thought of his own cost, thought of how he was going to have to lie to a number of people, and wondered if all his lies would be worth it in the end.
The bartender sidled back. “You look down, Professor. Must be some huge project.”
Lewis changed the subject.
“So, who’s hot and who’s not?”
Malcolm took a step back and shot Lewis a quizzical look. “I thought you were expecting her.” He nodded at a booth along the wall. “She’s been asking for you. Came in about an hour ago.”
Ginter looked back quickly at the booth, frowned, and checked his watch. “She’s early,” he muttered to himself. “If I had known she’d be early we still might have caught the game.” He nodded to Malcolm. “Thanks, man.” He lifted his beer and walked over to the booth.
She smiled as he approached. Her hair was now auburn.
“I thought you were going to ignore me,” Pamela Rhodes said as he slid in opposite her.
“I thought I said 5:00,” he said without smiling back.
She smiled again–was it shyly or mischievously?–and didn’t respond.
“You’re good,” he said. “You knew it was for 5:00 but figured you’d come here early and scope it out.”
“One can never be too careful,” she said.
“So, careful one, what are you drinking?”
“Sparkling water. I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Strike one,” he mused aloud.
“For me or for you?”
Lewis sucked in a deep breath and ignored the retort. “How’d your meeting go yesterday with the civil admin? Were they real sympathetic?”
“Oh, the usual. I spoke with some flunky who acted nervous and who checked through all kinds of paperwork and then claimed that he had no record of any Arthur Pomeroy being arrested and couldn’t it have been the District police and was he a drug smuggler or could he have been nabbed by a rival gang? That sort of shit. They’ll look into it,” she said and shrugged.
“So, you ready to show me this thing at the school or are you gonna’ drink all night?” she asked, changing the subject.
Lewis hesitated and checked his watch. “Why don’t we head over to my place? We can be there in about 20 minutes.”
She gave him a hard look. “I’m not that naive.”
“I’m serious,” Ginter said. “The schematics are in my apartment and you’ll need to see them first. We’re gonna’ be pretty limited in the amount of time we can spend in the lab and there’s no sense wasting valuable time there pouring over diagrams that I don’t keep there anyway.”
She hesitated. “All right,” she said cautiously. “Your place first and then the lab.”
Ginter stood up and Pamela Rhodes slid out from her seat. He let her go ahead of him. As they passed the bar Malcolm looked up, eyed the couple, and flashed Ginter the thumbs up sign. Lewis smiled, shook his head at Malcolm, and waved him off.
Amanda started driving to Chow Baby, a small Italian restaurant in Boston’s north end. However, as she wended her way under the Route 93 overpass–when would the Big Dig ever be ready?-every nerve in her body told her to go home instead, get a good night’s sleep and get a fresh start tomorrow.
Sighing, she gave in to her better angels, and over her tired body’s strenuous objections, swung her car around and headed back to her apartment.
All right, I’m here to crash out. Can’t a girl at least play a game of chess to relax? Well, one game, her conscience said.
She clicked on her chess program and chose white. The board appeared on her computer screen. “E2-E4,” she typed in. The board instantly responded with “E7–E5” and moved the black pawn.
In some ways she felt so alone. She had thought that being single at age 53 would make this easier, that she wouldn’t have any trepidation. What did she have to lose if her molecules ended up strewn over…what exactly, history? But now, just twenty-four days from departure she suddenly wished she weren’t so damn alone.
“F1–C4,” she type
d. Might as well be whimsical, she told herself. Jolly me out of this mood.
“D7–D6,” the computer responded.
The cold hand she had been feeling in her stomach tightened its icy grip. There were so many things that could go wrong.
“D1–F3,” she typed slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. She sometimes wished that someone could invent a computer where one could actually point at the screen and affect changes. But that was science fiction. Not unlike her own planned science fiction adventure.