Astonishingly, the charade was a success. He put in good hours at work. Tony invited him for a family dinner and that worked out well, too, with Tony and Loreen making casual but pointed inquiries about his health and his “attitude,” Tom fending them off with carefully fuzzy answers. Time passed easily except at night, when his doubts came sneaking back like guilty prodigals. He installed a hardware store deadbolt on the door leading into the back basement—not that this would stop any serious traffic coming up the tunnel, but it was a useful psychological prop, a sleeping aid, like the small white pills he bought at the Valu-Save Pharmacy. He found some popular histories of the 1960s in the library and invested some study in the first third of that decade, everything up to the Kennedy assassination. It struck him as an oddly quiescent time, large events jostling in the wings but not quite ready to put in an appearance on stage. Call it a nervous appendage of the fifties. He began to recognize names: Gagarin, Khrushchev, John Glenn, Billie Sol Estes— but history paled in the face of this enormity, his secret shortcut through the maze of years and death. The week wheeled on.
He woke up before dawn Saturday morning, marked the space between the wall studs and carved an opening with a keyhole saw—he was getting good at this.
At the opposite end of the tunnel he noted with relief that the rubble had not been disturbed—only his own footprints in the dust—and that the broken lock on the adjoining door had not been replaced.
No one knows yet.
He was safe here still.
He left the tunnel and ventured into the street on a cool and cloudy spring morning. Time passed at the same rate, he noted, here and at home, though the seasons were out of synchronization by a couple of months. He wrote down the street number of the tenement building he emerged from and then the street as he passed the sign at an intersection. Then simply walked. He was a tourist. That was what he’d say if anyone asked. I’m from out of town. Basic and quite true.
Of course, he got lost.
He had been to New York on business trips for Aerotech but his grasp of the city’s geography was vague at best. He walked across Fourteenth Street to Fifth Avenue with the notion that he might find some familiar landmarks … but he didn’t want to stray that far from the tunnel.
Not that he would have a hard time finding his way back; the address was there in his pocket. But he couldn’t hail a cab and he couldn’t even buy a tourist map in a dimestore; his money was useless—or at least ran the risk of being mistaken for counterfeit—unless he put it in a vending machine. He told himself that getting lost wasn’t such a bad thing; that he had planned to spend the day wandering—aimlessly or otherwise.
But it was hard to navigate coherently. He walked in a daze, blinded by the miraculous. The most prosaic object—a woman’s hat in a milliner’s window, a billboard, a chromium hood ornament—would suddenly capture all his attention. They were tokens of the commutation of time, bodies risen from the grave. He could not say which was stranger, his own numbing awareness of the transiency of these things or the nonchalance of the people he passed—people for whom this was merely the present, solid as houses.
It made him grin. It made him shiver.
Of the people he passed, many must have died by 1989. These are the lives of the dead, Tom thought. These are their ghost-lives, and I’ve entered into them. If they’d known, they might have looked at him twice. He was a cold wind from the land of their children … one more cold wind on a cold afternoon.
It was afternoon now, and colder than it had been, and the rain started again; a bitter, squalling rain that ran down his collar and seemed to pool, somehow, at the base of his spine. From Fifth Avenue he crossed Washington Square North into the park. He recognized the arch from one of his visits to the city, but that arch had been a canvas for spray-paint graffiti; this arch was visibly marble, if not pristine. He found a bench (the rain had subsided a little) and occupied it while he calculated his route home; then a young woman in harlequin-rimmed glasses and a black sweater stopped and looked at him—really looked—and asked him his name, and wondered whether he had anywhere to go.
Her name was Joyce Casella. She bought him coffee.
She took him home.
He woke once in the night. Waking, he unfolded his memory of the day and examined it—read it like a text, for clues. The mystery was what he ought to do next. He had come a great distance without a compass.
A siren wailed in the outer darkness. He stood up, here in this shabby room in the city of New York in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-two, stumbled through a dim wash of streetlight to the bathroom and pissed into the rusty porcelain bowl. He was embedded in a miracle, he thought, not just the miracle of 1962 but the miracle of its dailiness, of this toothpaste-stained 1962 medicine cabinet, this 1962 bottle of aspirin, this leaky 1962 faucet …
He rinsed his face and shook off a little sleep. Three forty-five in the morning, according to the digital watch he’d bought at a Kresge’s a quarter century or so in the future. He leaned against the tiled wall and listened to the rain beat against a narrow window. He was full of thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself for a long, long time.
How much he missed sharing his home with a woman, for instance.
He liked Joyce and he liked the sensation of being in her apartment, of seeing—for the first time in nearly a year—a bathroom shelf stocked with Midol and a tampon box; seeing her hairbrush, her toothpaste (neatly rolled from the bottom), a Sloan Wilson novel splayed open on the back of the toilet tank. Sharing these small, quotidian intimacies reminded him how thirsty he had been for intimacy in general. This tiny oasis. Such a dry and formidable desert.
“Thank you, Joyce,” he said—aloud, but not loud enough that she might hear him in her bedroom. “Shelter from the storm. That’s really nice.”
Cold rain spattered against the window. The radiator clanked and moaned. Outside, in the dark, the wind was picking up.
In the morning he found his way home.
“I might be back,” he told Joyce. It wasn’t a promise, but it startled him when he said it. Would he be back? This was a miracle; but was it possible to inhabit a miracle? Miracles, like Brigadoon, had a way of disappearing.
Later, he would think that perhaps it had been a promise, if only to himself … that he had known the answer to these questions all along.
□ □
□ □
His last day in Belltower. His last day in the 1980s.
He drove to work prepared to quit, but Klein finessed that by handing him a pink slip. “You’re a fuck-up in general,” Klein informed him, “but what made up my mind was that deal you wrote on Wednesday.”
The Wednesday deal had been a retired County Court judge. The customer might have had an illustrious career on the bench, but he suffered from what Tom had learned to recognize as a common malady: big-purchase panic. The judge regarded the offer form as if it were a writ of execution and offered full sticker price for a car he’d barely looked at. “Let’s write up a lower offer,” Tom said, “and see what the sales manager has to say.”
He told Klein, “We made money on that deal.”
“I know the son of a bitch,” Klein said. “He comes in every other year. He just toddles in and pays list.”
“Nobody pays list”
“If they’re giving away money,” Klein said, “it’s not your job to turn it down. But I don’t want to argue with you. I just want you off the lot.” He added, “I cleared this with your brother, so don’t go running off to him and expect any help. He told me, ‘Hey, if Tom fucked up, he’s history. That’s all there is to it.’ ”
Tom couldn’t help smiling. “I guess that’s right,” he said. “I guess I’m history.”
He phoned Tony and said he was going away for a while. Tony wanted to talk—about the job, about the future. Tom said, “I have to get things sorted out by myself. Thank you for everything, though, Tony. Don’t expect to hear from me for a while.”
&n
bsp; “You’re acting crazy,” Tony said.
“This is something I have to do.”
He packed a change of clothes into his knapsack. Money was a problem, but he was bringing along some items he thought he might be able to pawn: the guitar he’d owned since college (bulky but potentially valuable, a Gibson); a set of silver spoons. By Friday noon he was ready to go.
He hesitated when he noticed the TV had been plugged in again. It seemed to sense his presence; as he watched, it flickered to life.
“You’re too late,” he said. “I’m leaving.”
TOM WINTER, WE DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD GO.
Their punctuation had improved. He considered the statement, considered its source. “You can’t stop me,” he said. Probably this was true.
IT’S NOT SAFE WHERE YOU’RE GOING.
“It’s not safe where I am.”
YOU WANT IT TOO BADLY. IT ISN’T WHAT YOU THINK.
“You don’t know what I want. You don’t know what I think.”
Of course, maybe they did—it was entirely possible. But they didn’t contradict him.
YOU CAN HELP US.
“We talked about that.”
WE NEED PROTEINS.
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
MEAT.
“Meat?” Here was an unforeseen development. “Ordinary meat? Grocery store meat?”
YES, TOM.
“What are you building out in the woods that needs meat?”
WE’RE BUILDING US.
He wanted to dismiss the whole disturbing notion; but it occurred to him that he owed these creatures something. It was their territory he was about to trespass through. And more than that: he’d been in their power for a long time. They had implied that they could have changed him; if they’d wanted a slave they could have made him one. They hadn’t. He owed them.
Nevertheless—“building us”? And they wanted meat?
He said, “I have some steaks in the freezer—”
THAT WOULD BE FINE, TOM.
“Maybe I can leave them on the counter.”
THANK YOU.
“How come you can talk so much better now?”
WE’RE ALMOST REPAIRED. THINGS ARE MUCH CLEARER.
THE END OF THE WORK IS VERY CLOSE.
Something ominous about that, Tom thought. When the sleeping giant woke, this might not be a safe place to be. The implication? Get out now.
He tried to pull the plug on the TV set but it wouldn’t come out of the wall—they must have welded it there. But the screen remained blank. He hurried to the kitchen, left a stack of frozen steaks and ground beef on the countertop—a little queasy at the thought of them wanting it—then gathered up his baggage.
The phone rang once more. He debated letting it ring, then relented and picked up the handset. He expected Tony with some last-minute badgering, but it was Doug Archer’s voice he heard.
“I heard you got fired.”
“News travels fast,” Tom said.
“It’s a small town. I’ve done business with a lot of these people. Yeah, everybody talks.”
“Keeping tabs on me?”
“Hell, no. If I had been, I would have noticed you aren’t looking for another job. So are you taking a vacation, Tom, or just bugging out?”
“The property’s not for sale.”
“I’m not calling as your fucking realtor. Are things okay up there?”
“Things are okay.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He sighed. He liked Doug, he didn’t want to hurt Doug’s feelings—but he didn’t want Doug involved, not at this stage. “I’ll be out of town for a while.”
“Son of a bitch,” Archer said. “You found something, didn’t you? You don’t want to talk about it, but you found something.”
Or something found me. “You’re right … I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How long are you gone for?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“The guy who lived there before—you’re going where he went, right?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“When you come back,” Archer said, “will you talk to me about this?”
Tom relented a little. “Maybe I will.”
“Maybe I should drive by while you’re gone—make sure the place is in reasonable shape.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” A thought occurred. “Doug, promise me you won’t try to get in.” He lied, “I had the locks changed.”
“I promise I won’t try to get in if you promise you’ll explain this one day.”
“Deal,” Tom said. “When I get back.” If I get hack.
“I mean to hold you to that,” Archer said. There was a pause. He added, “Well, good luck. If you need luck.”
“I might need a little,” Tom admitted.
He hung up the phone, pulled the shades, turned off the lights, and left the world behind.
PART TWO — Ghosts
Seven
For a long, lost span of years, the time traveler was dead.
Ben Corner’s death was not absolute, but it was nothing less than death. The marauder’s weapon had opened his skull and scattered much of his brain matter in a bloody rain across the lawn. His heart had given one final, convulsive pump, fibrillated for thirty seconds as wild impulses radiated from his traumatized brainstem, then fallen silent, a lump of static tissue in the cooling cavern of his chest.
Throughout his body emergency repair systems stuttered and shut down. Auxiliary circulatory pumps responded to his failing heart, then failed in turn as blood pressure dropped below maintainable levels. He continued to take huge, ratcheting breaths—like yawns—for nearly a minute. The lungs were the last major system to give up their independent life, and they did so with a final sigh of resignation. By then the body had begun to cool.
Nanomechanisms were trapped in his arteries by clotting blood. Oxygen-starved, they radiated emergency signals and shut themselves off one by one.
Billy Gargullo dragged the body into the woods and left it in an abandoned woodshed under a scatter of mildewed newspaper. Decay organisms—thick in the rainy forest—began to attack the corpse at once.
Billy hurried back to the house. When he arrived here he had disoriented the cybernetics with a pulse of electromagnetic radiation; now he triggered a second burst to keep them out of his way. He paused a moment in the kitchen and consulted his auxiliary memories for a rough estimate of his whereabouts. America, the Pacific Northwest—distinguished by the fiercely dense biomass of the forest, which appalled and frightened him—sometime after 1970: too close to the nightmare he’d left behind. He wanted a more effective buffer, even if it meant greater risk. He moved back to the basement and operated the tunnel’s hidden controls the way the dying woman had taught him. Destination was relatively unimportant: he wanted a place to hide. He would run, he would hide, he would never be found and he would never go back.
That was all of his plan. His only plan. The only plan he needed.
Billy’s EM pulses interrupted TV and radio reception throughout the town of Belltower and two neighboring counties. Along the Post Road the effect was most violent and startling. Peggy Simmons, the widow who lived a quarter mile from the house Tom Winter would eventually inhabit, was astonished to see her Zenith color television emit a vivid blue spark while the picture tube turned an ominous, fractured gray. Repairs, that summer of 1979, cost her almost three hundred dollars—the set was just out of warranty. She paid the repair bill but reminded the man at Belltower Audio-Video that the Crosley set she’d bought in 1960 lasted her fifteen years with only a tube to replace now and then, and perhaps standards of manufacture had fallen while the price of repairs had zoomed up, which was precisely the sort of thing you’d expect to happen, wouldn’t you—the world being what it was. The repairman nodded and shrugged. Maybe she was right: he’d been out on a lot of calls just recently.
The rash of electrical failur
es became a brief sensation in Belltower, reported in the local paper, discussed to no conclusion, and finally forgotten.
Many of the cybernetics died or were rendered hopelessly dysfunctional by the EM burst; but many survived. They were disoriented for days afterward. Severed paths of information needed to be patched and restored; a comprehensible memory of the day’s events had to be assembled.
Most damaging was the loss of Ben Collier. For the cybernetics, he had combined the functions of clearinghouse, lawmaker, and God. Without him they were forced to fall back on primitive subroutines. This was unavoidable but limiting. Without Ben, and with their numbers greatly reduced, they possessed only a rudimentary intelligence. They were able to perform routine tasks; all else was groping in the dark.
Many of the nanomechanisms intimately associated with the time traveler’s body had been destroyed by the impact of Billy’s weapon or the physical shutdown that followed. Some had been scattered to the winds; damaged or swept out of the range of collective mentation, they died. A few—following subroutines of their own—managed an orderly escape; in time, they made their way back to the house. They transferred their significant memory to the larger cybernetics in the manner of bees feeding pollen to the hive. The community of machines, sharing this new wisdom, understood that there were measures to be taken.
Armies of insect-sized cybernetics, following vectors the nanomechanisms described, delved into the forest behind the house. This was risky and had been the subject of debate; territory beyond the perimeter of the house had been forbidden to them—until this emergency. But their first priority (they reasoned) was the restoration of Ben Collier; other issues could be deferred until he was in a position to clarify his wishes.
Restoration was no simple task, however. Cybernetic emissaries found the body in a state of decomposition. Great numbers of microorganisms, mainly bacteria and fungi, had established themselves on the wounds, in the extremities, throughout the body. The putrefaction was extensive and would be impossible to reverse if allowed to continue much longer. Work began at once. Old nanomechanisms were enlisted and new ones created to enter the body as sterilants. The heart was isolated and meticulously restored to a potentially functional state. Open veins and arteries were sealed. Old, infected skin was sloughed off and replaced with extruded synthetics.
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