by James Gunn
Episode Four
Touch of the Match
The room was illuminated only by the feeble glow of a night light through the open door of a white-tiled bathroom. The man lying quietly on his back, his arms extended beside his body outside the covers, opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. His eyes blinked once and then twice quickly and then he threw back the covers and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the narrow bed, and put his face into his upturned palms.
It was a good face, brown and well-formed, but now it was blank as if all the character shaped by a lifetime of crises and decisions had been erased from it. The man lowered his hands and stood up carefully. He walked to the glow of the bathroom and turned on the light. He tried to look at his face in the mirror over the lavatory, like a man trying to verify his identity after a bad night, but the mirror was covered with small, precise red letters. The man refocused his eyes on them. “Your name is Bill Johnson,” the letters said. “You have stopped a man from becoming a dictator and ending a great experiment in democracy, and you don't remember. You may find the newspapers filled with reports of what happened, but you will find no mention of the part you played.
“For this there are several possible explanations, including the likelihood that I may be lying or deceived or insane. But the explanation on which you must act is that I have told you the truth: you are a man who was born in a future that has almost used up all hope; you were sent to this time and place to alter the events that created that future.
“Am I telling the truth? The only evidence you have is your apparently unique ability to foresee consequences—it comes like a vision, not of the future because the future can be changed, but of what will happen if events take their natural course, if someone does not act, if you do not intervene.
“But each time you intervene, no matter how subtly, you change the future from which you came. You exist in this time and outside of time and in the future, and so each change makes you forget.
“I wrote this message last night to tell you what I know, just as I learned about myself a few days ago by listening to a recording in a used-record shop, for I am you and we are one, and we have done this many times before."
The man stared at the message for several minutes, his face slowly changing from comprehension to understanding to acceptance, and then he took a washcloth from a rack beside the lavatory, moistened it from the hot water tap, and wiped the mirror clean. He stared down at the red smears on the cloth for a moment as if wishing that he could wipe other things away as easily and then tossed it into the clothes hamper in the corner.
After he had showered and dressed in the oldest clothing he found in the closet of the windowless room, he put into his pockets a small heap of belongings from the top of the small dresser. They included a few coins, a black pocket comb, and a billfold. In the billfold were a Visa credit card, three one-dollar bills and a five in U.S. currency, and one hundred seventy-five dollars in twenty-five-dollar bills printed in black, yellow, and red and labeled “King International Scrip.” In the center of the bills was a full-color picture of a man with white hair but a strong, tanned, and youthful face. Underneath the picture a legend said, “Arthur King."
The man put his few belongings into an old suitcase he found in the closet. He left hanging in the closet a navy blazer and a pair of gray slacks that seemed to go with them, and made his way down a gray concrete corridor lined with closed doors on one side and a solid wall on the other, past a busy dining room and kitchen that seemed to have been carved out of rock, and up a flight of stairs to a well-lighted living area. In front of him was a glass-walled atrium. On either side of the atrium was a wide hallway. Doors opened off the hallway on either side. The atrium was bright with morning sun and filled with sand and cactus, snakes, lizards, and birds, and other desert creatures.
The man paused, as if he would have liked to have stopped and watched the atrium scene, but at the far end of the hall, where one might expect to find a front door, men were busy with some kind of construction work, and he went toward them. As he passed the open doorway of a room filled with books, a woman with a face like an arrangement of chisels and anvils looked up from the enormous desk she sat behind. “Johnson?” she said. “Where do you think you're sneaking off to?"
Johnson put his suitcase down beside the door and stepped into the room. “Whatever I've been doing here,” he said in a gentle, well-modulated voice, “has come to an end. I belong somewhere else."
“You'll go when we tell you it's time to go—” she began, and was interrupted by the opening of the door to her left.
A tall, white-haired man stood in the doorway. He wore a blue robe that looked as if it had cost as much as some men's suits. His face was the one pictured on the King International scrip, but it was softer in real life, less touched by destiny, more reconciled with life as it is. He evaluated the scene at a glance. “Johnson?” he said. “You're leaving us?"
“He thinks he's leaving,” the woman said.
“If Bill wants to leave, that's his right,” the white-haired man said, “but I hope he won't.” The woman looked scornful. “Oh, I know, Jessica, you still hold Bill responsible for the collapse of our presidential hopes, but that's folly. He was nowhere near any of the equipment. No, it was my own stupidity. I cut my own throat. I'm just sorry I cut yours in the process. It's too bad. We would have made a good President, you and I."
The brief expression of wistfulness passed from his face, and he turned to Johnson. “It's happened again?"
“Yes, Mr. King."
“But you know my name."
“It was on the scrip."
“Of course,” King said. “You know you're welcome to stay, to pick up what you've forgotten."
“That wouldn't be fair to those who have memories of relationships or to those who would have to instruct me again in everything I was supposed to have learned. It's better for me to be among strangers."
“It's a hard world out there,” King said. “A man needs friends and walls to protect him. There's a lot of passion in the world, a lot of hatred, a lot of angry people with bombs and weapons in their hands. I thought maybe I could do something about it, but it wasn't to be."
“'The best lack all conviction,'” Johnson quoted, “'while the worst are full of passionate intensity.’”
“You remember Yeats?” King said.
“It's just Johnson I forget."
“I can see there isn't any stopping you."
“There's always a way,” Jessica said.
“I used to think that,” King said. “Now I'm not so sure. I think there are some things we must accept the way they are. And maybe that's best. We can relax, enjoy life, people. Angel and Evangeline will miss you. I know you don't remember them, but Evangeline is my wife and Angel is my daughter, and they are very fond of you."
“Tell them good-bye for me,” Johnson said. And he turned to the door and picked up his battered suitcase and walked down the corridor and out the front door past the workmen who were putting armorplate coated with imitation wood on the outer door. Beyond, other men were building a heavy metal entranceway.
“What's that?” Johnson asked.
King answered from the doorway behind him. “That's one of those new anti-bomb devices. Radio waves detonate any kind of chemical explosive. When these get installed all over the world, it will take care of the terrorists for sure."
Johnson looked through the tunnel formed by the device as if he could see far down it to a vision at the end of the world. “I hope so,” he said. “Civilization depends on trust. Without trust there may be no future."
King looked at the construction and smiled. “Not as long as people are strong."
“Or sensible,” Johnson said. “May the future be kind."
* * * *
The Los Angeles airport had been fortified. Barbed wire encircled the entire perimeter, and tank traps had been placed wherever it was possible for an automobile or a truck to
approach a runway or a building. All incoming vehicles had to park far from the terminal, and the passengers were transported to their airlines in electric buses that passed through metal tunnels—larger versions of the entranceway Johnson had seen being built to King's residence—and even the electric carts and trucks that dashed around the airfield itself were funneled through similar devices.
Johnson studied it all as he made his way by bus and foot to the counter where he bought his ticket and had to sign a form swearing that he had read the list of materials that would explode, and that he had none of them on his person or in his luggage, and a waiver of responsibility for damage to body or property that might be caused by such explosions. He also had an opportunity to purchase temporary insurance against any of these contingencies. That application he threw away.
He and his bag passed through a series of devices without incident, and he found himself on an airplane sitting in the middle seat of three on the right of the aisle. On his right was a pretty, dark-haired young woman who seemed to be frightened at the prospect of taking off. On his left was a dark-haired, brown-faced young man who seemed nervous for some other reason.
Johnson turned to the woman on his right as the plane engines began to roar and the plane picked up speed slowly for its takeoff. “First time?” he asked. She nodded, apparently unwilling or unable to speak. “Don't worry,” he said. “Everything will be all right."
“It's not the airplane I'm afraid of,” she said breathlessly. “It's the people on it."
“They've all been checked,” he said. “There's nothing to worry about."
“There always are things to worry about these days,” she said. “Every time you leave the house you worry whether some crazy fanatic will blow you up before you return. Not because he hates you. Just because you're there. And if you don't leave home you still worry. Lying in bed at night. Maybe the car engine you hear at night that stops near your house is a bomb waiting to go off."
“Then you can feel safer here,” Johnson said.
“They're clever,” she said. “They always seem to find a way of getting around everything."
As if that were a signal—though it was more likely the fact that the plane was committed to flight—the brown-faced man beside Johnson sprang to his feet and held his right hand threateningly in the air. “Nobody move!” he said with a Middle Eastern accent. “I have bomb. It go off if this plane no go to Teheran!” The last word he said so well that it was almost incomprehensible.
One of the flight attendants approached the man from the front of the cabin. “Now,” she said soothingly, “you know you don't have a bomb. Just sit down, and we will be in Washington before you know it. You can get a flight there to Teheran."
“I have gun,” the dark-complexioned man said.
“Now, you know you don't have a gun,” the attendant said with professional calm. “You can't get a gun through the detectors."
A male flight attendant moved up behind the hijacker but made no attempt to seize him.
“I have new bomb!” the hijacker said desperately. “No set off."
“You know that's not true,” the attendant in front said. She reached out a hand to turn him back toward his seat. Defeated, the would-be hijacker turned and allowed the attendant behind him to help him into his seat beside Johnson.
“I fail,” the dark-complexioned man said disconsolately and then spoke a few rapid words in a foreign language. He stared down at his hands clasped helplessly in his lap.
“What kind of person would try something like that, anyway?” the girl by the window demanded, her voice breaking from tension.
“He must be a person under a great deal of stress,” Johnson said.
“That's no excuse!” the girl said angrily.
“I fail,” the man said again. “I die."
Johnson spoke to him quietly, to the indignation of the girl by the window and perhaps, by the shufflings around him, to the indignation of everyone within earshot. For a long time, while the airplane rose above the mountains and soared above the desert, the man didn't respond. Then, finally, he began to talk to Johnson in his broken English, and the tragic story of his life emerged.
Born a displaced Palestinian, he had grown up in the squalor of Lebanese camps. His mother had been killed by Israeli bombs, and his father and brothers had given their lives in terrorist activities when he was twelve, leaving only him and his sister. He had joined a fundamentalist Iranian group pledged to martyrdom, but he had been weak. He had been concerned about his sister's welfare. With the help of the organization, he had been slipped into this country with forged papers in order to blow up important installations or government buildings when he was given instructions, but really he had tried to get a job so that he could send money to his sister in Lebanon.
But there were no good jobs and little money, and when the instructions came he was afraid—not so much for himself, he wanted Johnson to understand, but what would his sister do if there were no money at all?
Finally, there was nothing to do but to try to return. He had no money for airfare, and his terrorist comrades would not welcome him back with his assignment unfulfilled, but perhaps if he returned with an airplane of the Great Satan it would be considered an honorable act, and if he died in the attempt perhaps the group would care for his sister.
“Can there be no end to the killing?” Johnson asked.
“Not till there be justice."
“What kind of justice?"
“We get back our land."
“What is justice to one may be injustice to another."
“Let others suffer."
“Their suffering would lead only to acts of desperation such as yours. More violence. More terrorism, this time against you rather than yours against them."
“Then there be no end, even with justice.” The Palestinian accepted that outcome fatalistically as if everything could end in blood and destruction and he would not complain.
“What if the Palestinians were given other land?"
“Where is land to give away? No matter. It not be Palestine."
“What if it were better? What if Palestinians could come to this country like the Vietnamese, could have jobs, could make new lives for themselves."
“It not be Palestine. For me, maybe good. For my sister, yes. For others there still be hatred. Those would not come; their anger be watered, or they be dirtied by the Great Satan, or if they come it be only to destroy."
Johnson looked toward the window on his right. It had been a long conversation that had lasted through lunch, and the airplane was descending into Dulles Airport. Green hills were visible, and dark clouds could be seen mounting into thunderheads far to the south.
When Johnson raised his eyes, the girl in the window seat was looking at him. She was frowning. “You see?” she said. “There's no use talking to them."
Before Johnson could reply, the plane leveled off and made a right turn. The speakers above their heads offered the peculiar hush that always preceded an announcement, and then an authoritative voice said, “This is Captain Bradley, folks. We're going to have to delay our descent into Dulles Airport for a few minutes, and we'll be circling in a holding pattern along with all the other planes about to land. This has been an eventful flight, but there's nothing to be alarmed about. It seems that the space shuttle was committed to a landing at Cape Canaveral when an unexpected thunderstorm sprang up along the Florida coast. Those passengers on the left side of the plane can see the thunderstorm if they look far to the south. The shuttle has been diverted to Dulles, and all traffic has been delayed until it lands. It should be an occasion. Maybe we'll get a glimpse of it as it comes—there it is!" The captain's voice was suddenly excited, before it descended again to its customary calm. “Those passengers on the right can see it—a speck of white at two o'clock. Passengers on the left may be able to pick it up soon...."
And so it was that they were allowed to land shortly after the incredible white delta-shaped
machine had preceded them by a few minutes into the airport. The passengers cheered and clapped, as if they had forgotten for a wonderful moment the terror in which they lived. Even the Palestinian beside Johnson had craned his neck for a look at the shuttle.
* * * *
The terror began again after they had been herded into several of the tall vehicles that were intended to ferry them between plane and terminal. Midway, the vehicle that was carrying Johnson and his seatmates and some fifty other passengers made a gentle arc whose purpose was not perceived until one of the passengers saw the terminal out of the right-hand windows and said, “We're heading the wrong way."
A babble of voices, rising in volume and querulousness, began shouting questions. People turned in their seats to look out the windows and some of them got up and looked toward the front where two uniformed figures were half hidden in the control cubicle.
As the noise level increased, one of them turned, opened the glass door, and stepped into the passenger area. “All be silent!” the person shouted. It seemed like a woman's voice, though it was hard to tell, because it was husky and the accent was foreign. The figure fumbled at its belt and then pulled free a black knifelike object. The figure held it up threateningly. “Silence!” the person warned.
One of the flight attendants stepped forward. It was the same one who had dealt with the Palestinian on the plane. “There's no use threatening us with that. You can't hold off all of us.” The noise level had dropped so that the attendant's words were heard by everyone.
“I kill many,” the terrorist said quietly, and the words were more frightening for their lack of intensity. Clearly it was a woman's voice, and that was more frightening yet. The flight attendant took a step closer and a few of the bolder passengers behind surged forward. “You I kill first,” the terrorist said to the flight attendant. The flight attendant tried to shrink back but was unable to retreat more than a step because of the bodies behind her.