"Son, North Miami is three blocks south of here. Of course I've got a gun."
"Was North Miami that bad in 1947?"
"It's been bad ever since the Dominican Republic fell under the control of Haiti. Every refugee refused entry by Batista ends up here."
Wilson seemed nonplused. “I guess I don't know much Florida history.” He went back to scrabbling on the paper. He stopped again. “I didn't know you were in Florida."
Sam sat down across from him. “I was born in 1891. But everything else you said about me was wrong. I studied in the Saint Petersburg Conservatory until 1921 when the revolution closed it down. I composed and gave concerts until things went to hell after Trotsky followed Lenin. I fled first to Paris and then to America. I played jazz clubs and bet at the racetrack and bluffed at poker and met and married Carolina Codina—she sang under the name, Lina Llubera. This is the house I bought her. She loved living somewhere warm all year long. Lina got sick five years ago and died three years ago. Now I live here by myself. So: I'm not who you think I am."
Wilson stared at him, his face heavy. He turned back to his pad of paper.
Sam leaned back. He could use another cup of coffee. Wilson made him feel tired.
"Okay, then,” Wilson said, his lips pursed. He stared at the pad of paper. “I'm from the future. I invented a time machine to come back and save you from suicide. Except this isn't where I aimed and you aren't him."
"That's a time machine?” Sam pointed at the harness.
"Wormhole generator, anyway. You trigger the wormhole and it takes you back in time."
Sam could see now the dials. “Looks like date and time. Latitude and longitude?"
"Yeah,” admitted Wilson. “But those aren't the controls I used. I used this part.” He pointed at a slim device plugged into a socket on the side of the bigger box on his chest. “This finds you—Sergei Prokofiev—and determines your closest chronological point to me. Which I figured was when you died. That would be the latest point in your life and therefore closest to me. But, clearly it doesn't work.” Wilson turned back to the pad and paper. “It's a proof of the many worlds hypothesis, anyway."
"It doesn't look complicated enough to be a time machine. It's just a set of numbers, a couple of dials and a big red button."
"Why make everything complicated? The computer does all the work. It figures out the best path, makes sure I don't end up inside a wall."
"Computer?"
Wilson shrugged. “Never mind."
"What's the big red button?"
"Automatic return. But it's only good for a few hours. Then, I have to dial in my return. Safety factor in case I got hurt.” He returned to his figures.
"Was I famous where you come from?” Sam asked after a few moments.
"Absolutely.” Wilson looked up. “Everybody thinks about you the same way they think about Mozart: cut down in the prime of life. Who knows what you might have produced?"
"I would have been fifty-six. Hardly the prime of life."
"You never know.” Wilson shrugged. “All right, I thought you were cut down in the prime of your life. The first piece of music I ever heard in my whole life that I actually liked was Suite for Three Oranges. And the scraps you left of Ode on the End of the War are really, really good. I wanted to hear the rest."
"You're a sweet boy."
Wilson stared at the pad. “That's not what most people say."
"What do they say?"
"That I'm crazy."
Sam looked over. Wilson was writing some kind of equations. Sam noticed the thickness of his arms. The strength in his fingers. Suddenly, he felt old and vulnerable.
"Care for another lemonade?"
"That would be great."
Sam took his glass, filled it and set it down next to him. Wilson gulped it down, starting to sweat. “Is it always this hot?"
"It's Florida."
"I guess.” Wilson looked up at Sam. “I could have come using lat, longs and time. But I didn't think that was precise enough. I could miss your death. You could be out shopping. Walking the dog."
"I don't have a dog."
"Instead, I zeroed in on distance."
"Distance?"
"It's a complex function—I call it distance. I wanted to find the closest approximate chronological point from me, in the present, to you, in the past. Then, I'd be close to you near the moment of your death.” Wilson threw up his hands. “I have no idea how this happened. Instead of California, I get Florida. Instead of Prokofiev wracked with grief over the death of his beloved Mira, I get you, pretty much over the death of Lina."
"Not completely over,” Sam commented dryly.
"And instead of 1945 I get 1947!"
"It'll come to you.” Sam tried to sound soothing.
"I guess.” Then, Wilson held the pencil in the air and looked at it carefully. Then, he gently put it down on the table. He put his arms on the table next to it and slowly eased his great head down on them.
"Wilson?” called Sam. “Wil-son?"
Wilson didn't move.
Sam nodded to himself. He stood up and returned to the kitchen. He replaced the bottle of chloral hydrate back in the cupboard. Sam wasn't surprised it had taken two glasses. Wilson was a big man and Sam had been careful with the dosage.
Wilson began to snore. Sam patted his shoulder. He hadn't lost his touch. This was the way he and Strav had rolled sailors and queers back when that was the only way to make a gig pay. Of course he had chloral hydrate.
Sam wrestled the harness off of Wilson so he could handle him. Wilson was too heavy to get to the floor—the safest place for an unconscious person. Sam made sure Wilson's head was turned so that if the boy vomited in his sleep, it wouldn't choke him to death. He never wanted to relive that moment again. Sam shivered.
Holding the harness, Sam picked up the phone to call the police. The phone in his hand, he held the harness up and scrutinized it. The controls were clearly visible and looked just as simple as Wilson had described them. Sam put down the phone. He stared at the harness a long time.
* * * *
Wilson snorted in his sleep and suddenly sat up. “It's the Pauli Exclusion Principle!"
Sam, sitting across from him, sipped his coffee. “Beg pardon?"
"The Pauli Exclusion Principle says that no two electrons in an atom can have the same quantum number.” He shaped something vaguely spherical in the air with his hands. Sam presumed it was an atom. Or maybe it was a quantum number. Or both.
Wilson stared at him for a moment. “Forget about that. What happens if I go into the past and change it: I change my present—possibly enough to prevent me from going into the past in the first place. Therefore, my Prokofiev isn't the closest Prokofiev at all. It's the only Prokofiev that's, in fact, infinitely far away. I can never reach him. I can only find Prokofievs that can't paradox me."
His voice fell and he looked at the table. “Maybe ‘nearness’ can only be determined by the Prokofiev least similar to mine rather than the most similar.” He shook his head. “There's no reason that the different realities have to be in any kind of lockstep with regard to time. Maybe I've got it all wrong and time travel isn't possible. Maybe there isn't any such thing as past at all—just alternate realities that are close enough to one another that one could resemble the past of another.” He held up both his hands. “You can't have time travel. You can only have a simulation of time travel.” Wilson looked at Sam desperately. “What do you think?"
"I think there's definitely such a thing as a past."
Wilson nodded absently. “Man, my head hurts.” He sat up and looked around, shook his head. “My neck is stiff. And I'm really thirsty. How long was I asleep?"
"Almost twenty-four hours."
"Really?” Wilson rubbed his face. “I'm not hungry. Usually, I'm really hungry in the morning. Do you have any more lemonade?"
"Apple juice."
"That'll do."
Sam brought the bottle and glass and
passed them over to Wilson.
"Wow,” Wilson said wonderingly. “Time—alternate world—travel really takes it out of you."
Sam picked up an envelope he'd placed on the floor next to his chair. He passed it over the table to Wilson.
Wilson picked it up. “What's this?"
"A present. For not letting me kill myself."
"Aw, man.” Wilson grinned at him. He opened the envelope and pulled out the paper. “This is music.” He squinted at the title. “This is Ode on the End of the War.” Slowly, he put it down. “You died before you could finish it."
"I'm not dead, Wilson."
"But you're not him."
Sam traced the pattern of the wood in the table. His hands ached. They were still swollen from the night before. “I'm a composer, too. Maybe it will be close enough."
"This is handwritten, man.” Wilson carefully slid the music back in the envelope. “Did you do it while I was asleep?"
"Yes. I thought you should have something for coming."
Wilson held the envelope reverently. “Thanks. Thanks a lot, man.” He sipped his juice. “Man, I dreamed of this moment for years. When I could talk to Prokofiev face to face.” He laughed shortly. “But now that I'm here, I can't think of a thing to say."
"I'm not your Prokofiev."
"You're as close as I'm ever going to get."
"Fair enough.” Sam watched the obsessed young man thoughtfully. “How about you tell me about who I am in your world and I'll tell you about who I am here while I cook breakfast. Do you like eggs?"
Wilson's expression grew serious. “Man, I love eggs."
It was late morning when Wilson leaned back from the table. He stood up and stretched. “I better be getting back.” He picked up the harness from the sofa and put it on.
Sam stood up. “I'm glad you came, Wilson."
"Me, too.” Wilson held out his hand to shake good-bye. Sam took it.
"Thanks, man,” Wilson said. “Thanks for everything."
Wilson fastened the harness and started the machine.
"Don't forget to dial it in,” Sam said. “You said the return button would only work for a few hours."
Wilson nodded. “Right.” He adjusted the controls on the harness. The lights glowed and the dials jumped. The fans in the back whirred. “Stand back,” he said.
Wilson waved as he flicked the switch.
His hair seemed to wave in the static electricity. There was the smell of ozone and a pop—he was gone.
Sam cleaned up the plates, the bottle of apple juice, and the glasses and put them in the sink. Then, he went to the closet and brought out a pile of books. Each one was labeled The Complete Works of Sergei Prokofiev, 1891-1953. There were twelve fat volumes of scores, commentary, and analysis.
Sam pulled out the volume containing the completed Ode and took it to the piano. He went through parts of it again. Just as it had the night before, playing this piece felt exactly like playing something he had composed but had never seen before. It wasn't quite what he would have written, but it was something he could have written. He could see ideas, variations—suggestions of different works.
He could milk just this collection for years, dribbling it out, publishing here, performing there. It could be a career in itself. But he didn't have to. As he had found last night while he was copying out Ode, this was like having an interesting conversation with somebody he knew very well: what was coming out was completely his, inspired by something he'd never done. Sam wondered how many more of him were out there. All of them similar in one way or another—or maybe there was only one of him but with a thousand faces.
After an hour, his hands were finally too swollen and painful to hold even a pencil. He went to the sink and ran cold water over them until the pain lessened. He picked up the phone and called a familiar number.
"Joe?” he said into the phone. Listened for a moment. “Yeah, it's me. Back from the grave and ready to party.” Pause. “Heart attacks are badges of honor in your business, aren't they? You don't have a Soviet Empire but agents have an empire all their own."
"Never mind,” he said after a moment. “Just a joke."
Sam looked at the clock. It was after noon. He poured himself a highball. “I've been working. Yeah. Three years’ worth. Want to start something up?” The first taste of a highball is the best, he thought. Like the first notes of a concerto. Like the first hints of a fresh start. Here's to you, Lina, he thought. And to you, Wilson. You would have liked each other.
Of course Joe wanted in. They started bouncing ideas off of one another.
Sam leaned against the counter as he listened. The sun made all the bright colors of the flowers and the bees stand out. He could smell the fragrances as they drifted in.
Another perfect day in paradise.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: Bounty by Rand B. Lee
Rand Lee contributed “Litany” to our June issue. He returns now with a very different sort of tale, a short piece that cuts like a brand-new knife.
They caught him up near the reservoir, where the wooded hills bunched like shoulders around the old cracked concrete of the retaining walls.
He was as strong as they had feared, so it took all four of them to hold him down; and then unctuous Binny, clumsy with self-importance, fumbled the stunner and shocked himself all to hell while the one they'd been hunting bucked and heaved like a bull gone crazy. “Enough of this crap,” said cool Albert, nose-blood tracking down his parka, so he kicked the guy in the balls with his big boot and again when that just seemed to make him madder. Albert picked the stunner out of Binny's limp hand and applied it to their quarry where it would do the most good. There was a snap and a flash, and the smell of meat frying, and a scream like nothing any of them had ever heard, then nothing. “Presto,” said Albert. “We have bagged ourself a perv. Get up, dumb wad.” This last was to the perpetually scowling Drew, whom their quarry had managed to shake loose in his final convulsion. “You still have your cell or did you lose it when you crapped your pants just now?"
"Frog you, Albert.” Drew's hands, gloved in the cold like all their hands, were shaking slightly. Ralph was closest. “Is he alive?” Ralph peered; looked up again and nodded. Drew retrieved his cell phone from the bush where it had landed and dialed the number. “We have him,” he said to the person who answered on the other end of the line, and hung up. He clipped the phone to his belt again and looked up to see all his friends’ eyes on him. “What?” he snapped.
"The money,” said big Ralph, still panting from exertion. It was he who had done most of the work in immobilizing their quarry while he had fought to evade the stun. “When do we get our money?"
"On delivery, what do you think?” Binny was groaning. The left side of his face was coming up in a mass of bruises from where he had banged it during his convulsions on the hard ground. He sat up, blubbering, saying, “Oh God, oh God,” over and over.
Drew went over to him. “Come on, man, get it together."
"Did we get him?"
"We got him, Bin."
"No thanks to you, dumb wad,” said Albert. With Drew's encouragement (though the boys were careful not to touch, always careful not to touch, not to help by touching, never ever) Binny got up and made his shaky way to where their downed prey lay unmoving, pale and a bit shrunken in a stink of relaxed bowels. Binny stood unsteadily, staring down at the man, then seemed to sway, and Ralph said, “Here it comes,” and Binny heaved, and out spewed the lovely pancakes and sausages nice Mrs. Halvorsen had treated them to that morning before they had left for the chase. “Sorry. Sorry,” Binny mumbled, and did it again. “Oh, man,” said Ralph. Ralph got up and stepped around their downed quarry and strode past Albert and Drew toward the trail. As he went by, Drew heard him say, “All I want is my money.” A moment after he had disappeared into the woods, he reappeared again and called, “Well, is somebody going to help me with the stretcher or not?"
"Be right there
,” said Binny weakly. He made no move to follow. Drew did not feel nauseated, only very light-headed, as though his skull were a balloon that a slender tether was keeping fastened to his neck and shoulders. “I'll go,” he said. “Stay put, Bin.” Bin nodded gratitude but would not look him in the eye. He said to Albert, “Leave him alone,” and followed Ralph down the trail.
Out of sight of Albert and the body, he began to breathe deeply, aware suddenly of the leaves of the sugar maples in flames all around him, and the sunbeams shafting the forest litter like searchlights. Bird song, stilled by their crashing through the underbrush and the melée that had followed, now rose and spattered about him. He realized that if he were not careful, he would begin to weep from adrenaline release, and this he refused to do, not with Albert around to hear, and see with his ferret eyes. He got to the clearing where the truck was. Ralph was leaning against the chassis, his big shoulders hunched in misery, his gray face hunched over a cupped cigarette. He looked up when he heard Drew, tried to hide the cigarette, stopped. “Don't tell,” he said. Drew snorted, dismissing it.
They stood together, together but not touching, looking out over the clearing, Drew remembering the wild ride up the mountain, their quarry's strong legs pumping prison pale in the sumac, all four of them screaming, excited, like birds of prey. “It was fair,” said Ralph suddenly, exhaling smoke. He squinted at Drew uncertainly. “A fair chase. Wasn't it? I mean, no dogs or guns. Right? He had his chance and God gave us the victory, right?"
"That's right,” said Drew.
"I mean, it was all legal and righteous and aboveboard, right? With the national anti-perv law and everything?"
"Yeah."
"Too bad the other one got away, huh? His friend? It would of meant double the bounty, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
"Boy, he really kept Albert going, this one,” said Ralph desperately, voice loud. “Didn't he? Albert, our mighty expert tracker!” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and spat in the leaves. He sounded almost admiring as he added, “All that ducking and weaving and drawing us off so his bud could get away? Man, Old Albert was crazier than a peach orchard boar. And that perv. He was sure strong, hey! Wasn't he?"
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