All the Colors of Time (18 page)

“Aye, let’s show him the box,” suggested Charley-Is.

We returned to the alley, but I seriously doubted a crateful
of incomprehensible technology was going to make Charley-Was willingly meet his
match. Nonetheless, I showed him the Box, as Charley called it, and even
demonstrated the disclite. He was impressed, but not enough to give up the life
of a happy seafaring bachelor. He had less trouble accepting time travel than
he did the idea of changing his lifestyle to exclude Four Dunne’s Cottage.

“Did I mention,” I said as he examined the disclite,
flicking its vari-colored beam on and off against the grimy alley wall, “that
Miss Maureen Llewellyn’s papa is Llewellyn, Lord Eachan? Or that after marrying
her you acquire your own ships and an estate in Hampshire?”

He looked at me with new interest. “No, you didn’t mention
that. A grave oversight under the circumstances.” He glanced at his “twin.” “You
trust that prediction, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Charley-Was gave the matter a long, hard thought. “All
right,” he agreed. “Show me this paragon of female virtue. I’ve always fancied
Hampshire.”

“Philistine,” muttered Charley-Is.

oOo

We were forced to take a room in a seedy inn since
returning to
Essex
was out of the
question. We explained the Charleys away as twins, but assigning them names
proved problematic.

“You can’t both be Charley,” I observed. “Nobody names both
twin boys Charley. What’s your middle name?”

They looked at the grimy sidewalk and scuffed in
unison—precision pouters.

“It’s . . .” began Charley-Is, glancing
obliquely at his second.

“It’s Charles.”

“Charles Charles Dunbar? I think not.”

“Charles is my middle name,” said Charley-Was. “My first
name is . . .” He glanced at Other Charley.

“It’s Percival,” Is admitted.

“P-percival?” I repeated with as straight a face as
possible. I could see why he’d gone by Charley; “Black Percy Dunbar” didn’t
quite fit the image of a hard-driving East India captain.

“Fine,” I said, pointing at Charley-Is. “You’re Charley. You’re
Percival.” I thumbed at Charley-Was.

“No I’m not,” he objected. “I am not Percival. I have never
been Percival. I will never be Percival.”

“Well, you can’t be Charley, because
I’m
Charley,” argued Is.

“I’m as much Charley as you are and you know it! Fact, I’m
more Charley, because I’m Charley
first
.”

“Well, I’ve been Charley
longer!
”

“Cut it out,” I said. They ignored me, resorting to
battering each other with childish epithets. “Belay that!” I shrieked finally.

They stopped yammering and stared at me.

I felt like the mouse that roared. “All right, fine. Nobody
has to be Percival. You’re Charley and you’re . . . Farley.
Parents might do that to twin boys.”

Charley-Is was livid. “But I should be Charley! Why should
he be Charley? After all I’ve been through—”

I gritted my teeth. “You want the girl? Let him be Charley.”
His mouth popped open to protest. “End of discussion,” I said, quoting my
mother.

Farley glared at me and went off to sulk while Charley and I
registered with the faded concierge.

oOo

Bright and early the morning of the eleventh we were at
the fated park. Dew sparkled in grass that was just awakening from winter. The
breeze was crisp and chill—vigorous, I guess you’d say—and Charleys were
frisky.

So, as it turned out, was Miss Llewellyn’s mount. It was,
appropriately, a red, red roan. A Strawberry, indeed, on which she in her vivid
green habit, was the stem. They came toward us along the bridle trail, Mary
nodding to passing acquaintances, Strawberry doing the same. When they were
about one hundred yards off, the horse, just as Mary had said, took violent
exception to another lady’s plumed hat and exploded into a wild gallop.

I glanced around quickly and saw, behind us, the ill-omened gaggle
of white geese and, coming down a garden path to our left, Dr. Ian MacCormac.
His eyes were glued to a thick leather-bound volume he carried in both hands,
while an umbrella dangled from one arm, his medical bag from the other. He
reminded me, oddly, of my father—the books were different, but the posture was
the same.

How archetypal of him,
I thought and nudged Charley-Was. “Get after her, Charley, or you’ll lose her
to the doctor all over again.”

Both Charleys glanced around and spotted their rival, both
made sneering faces, both lunged toward the oncoming runaway.

I snagged Charley-Farley by the coat tails. “Wait your turn,
fella.”

We watched as Charley-Was raced to the bridle trail, stepped
manfully into the path of the on-rushing Strawberry and masterfully manhandled
the poor beast into speedy submission. He literally dragged it to a stop—one
thick hand on its nose, cutting off its air, the other bracing the rosy-cheeked
young lady in her side-saddle. That done, he had only to help her dismount and
stand by to receive her commendations.

“I cannot thank you enough, sir,” she said breathlessly,
gazing up into his dark, bearded face. “This silly creature has an untoward
manner of expressing fashion sense.” She indicated the bobbing crests of the
now distant hat.

Charley-Was looked after it, then threw back his shaggy head
and laughed. “But sense, it has, miss, for all it near got you killed. That hat
is atrocious! Are you all right or shall I call a doctor to see you?”

“Doctor? Good God, sir! Do you take me for a China doll?
What I need is a harness-maker to sew me up a set of blinkers for this beast.”
She rattled the horse’s bit and gave it an affectionate pat on the neck.

Charley-Was stood mutely, the most besotted smile I have
ever seen creeping from beneath his mustache. Even from here I could tell he
was hooked; my future was assured and Ian MacCormac would live. Charley-Is,
however, did not look happy. In fact, he looked like a man about to fly into a
white-faced rage.

“That mutton-headed scum! How dare he ogle her that way?”

“Don’t you mean, how dare
you
ogle her that way?”

He spluttered futilely for a moment about hand-kissers and
randy old sea-dogs, then subsided as the young lady favored his former self
with a brilliant smile.

“Such gallantry shouldn’t go unrewarded,” she told him. “My
father will most certainly wish to meet you and hear how you saved his daughter’s
silly neck. Won’t you please come to tea?”

“No reward is necessary, dear girl, but your assurance that
you are as fit as you look.”

“I am quite fit,” she assured him, promenading in a small
circle. “But I should like some help getting this over-excited animal home. By
then, it should be just about tea-time.”

The over-excited animal in question yawned exaggeratedly but
was soundly ignored. Mary-Maureen Llewellyn and Charles Percival Dunbar,
smitten beyond hope, walked off arm in arm, trailing the docile Strawberry.

Charley-Is gazed after them, his black heart in his eyes. “Will
I remember?” he asked me. “When we get back to the
Essex
will I remember the months I’ll have had with her?”

“Eventually,” I said. “But you’ve been out of your time
stream. Everything has to . . . settle into a new pattern.”

He gave me a blank stare, then looked after the retreating
lovers.

“Come on,” I said. “We’re finished here. Besides, the faster
we get back—”

That got his attention. He grinned at me, then took off in
the direction of our distant alley. I followed with a last glance around the
park. Early morning London wasn’t too bad, really. In the dewy freshness before
stoked coal fires filled the air with smaze, it was really quite pretty.

As I turned to go I saw Ian again. He was sitting on a low
wall, umbrella at his feet, medical bag in his lap, book flopped open across
its handles, the pages rippling, unread, in the breeze. He was a forlorn
figure—not at all the good-spirited man I remembered from the
Essex
. As I watched, he sighed so
deeply, I could see his shoulders heave. The breeze gusted black, ill-mannered
curls into eyes that were fixed on a distant point—the point where Charley and
his Lady had disappeared.

I had a sudden conviction, as Ian MacCormac rose and slunk
away, that this was not the first time he had taken an early morning stroll
across this particular bridle path.

oOo

By the time we’d Shifted back to the forward hold of the
Essex
, Charley Dunbar was nearly beside
himself (no pun intended). But somehow, the close, cold, creosote-soaked
atmosphere of the
Essex’
s belly had a
sobering effect on him. He took the steps topside with measured stride, only
the clenching and unclenching of his fists betraying any nervousness.

We found Mary-Maureen on the poop deck, gazing out over the
stern. The same brisk wind that snapped the sails and plucked the shrouds,
whipped bright streamers of hair about her face and fanned her cheeks to rose
flame. She was beautifully animated, in the throes of lively conversation with
her companion.

I felt as if my feet had frozen to the deck. The man she
sparkled so for was Ian MacCormac.

Beside me, Charley uttered a low growl that turned my blood
to ice. “Damn you, Arthur Dunbar. You promised me. You
promised
me. And here she is with her doctor husband. I shall kill
you, Arthur, and feed you to the fishes.”

Mary turned just then and saw us: Charley, beet red; me, shade
pale. Her eyes fastened on Charley and across her face spread the most radiant
dawn of a smile I have ever seen.

“Darling!” she exclaimed and I knew profound relief that
Charley would not have to kill me after all. She crossed the deck in quick,
graceful steps and threw herself into the Captain’s outstretched arms. “You
disappeared for so long, I thought you must have fallen overboard. If dear Dr.
Mac hadn’t been so gallantly occupying my time, I’d have worried myself sick
about you, what with this past week’s goings on.”

She pulled away a little and gazed up at him, framing his
face with her hands. “Dear man, I think that between Arthur and me, we shall
have to watch over you day and night until we reach Bombay. We won’t let
anything happen to him, will we, Arthur?”

I nodded absently. It was obvious that Charley hadn’t heard
a word she said. He was too busy worshipping her with that ludicrously beatific
grin that just seemed to wriggle onto a man’s lips when Mary Llewellyn turned
her green eyes on him. And for that reason, he also failed to notice the look
on Ian MacCormac’s face. It was also an expression I had learned to associate
with the young lady. It said there was rat poison in the Captain’s brandy, sand
on the hold steps, and at least one loose cannon aboard the
Essex
.

oOo

That was two days ago. Since then, Mary and Charley have
watched each other, Ian MacCormac has watched Mary and Charley, I have watched
Ian MacCormac and, so I don’t feel at all neglected, Mr. Reardon has watched
me. I check the historical lines daily by computer; every day they tell me the
same thing: that something important will happen in Bombay and that my ancestry
is even more dubious than I previously suspected.

As I see it now, I have several options. I can stick around
and keep Black Charley Dunbar under close observation for the next several
years or so . . . at least until he produces a male heir and
names him Arthur. Or I can make him return to the Park, put things back the way
they were, and let Fate take its course—which probably means that Ian will die
and Charley will have his Maureen and she will give birth (suspiciously soon)
to a son that is probably not Charley’s after all. In which case, she will name
him Arthur because it’s what Ian would have wanted and . . .

Then again, I could just wash my hands of the whole affair,
hightail it back to 2115 in my ersatz shipping crate and pray that someone will
produce a son named Arthur, who may or may not be a Dunbar.

I am confused.

And I’m in trouble. There is the matter of that unauthorized
Shift back to April and I seriously doubt my “emergency” would hold up to any
serious scrutiny. After all, I was supposed to be observing history, not
creating it.

Still, looking on the bright side, I’m also in a unique
situation: I am probably the only person in history given the opportunity to
choose his ancestors.

As I said, the best laid plans of Arthur Dunbar
gang ne’er a’gley
—or at least they so
rarely do that it doesn’t count.

Not really.

Return to Table of Contents

“Home Is Where…” was published in
Analog
in 1991, but is further along the Questlabs timeline than
the previous stories. Am I, you may wonder, writing time travel stories
traveling backward in time? Quite possibly. “Home” is a story about the impact
on the family of parents’ career choices, about the wiliness of highly
motivated children, and the sort of compromise in which everyone really does
win. Its key elements arrived in the form of a vivid dream in which a small boy
in a familiar Nebraska classroom held a butterfly clip out on the palm of his
hand and said, “Well, yes, but I meant to make a banana clip.”

The Jones family in the story is based on a real Jones family of
my acquaintance who have been world-travelers and whose two oldest children
suffered greatly from culture shock when they returned to America after many
years in Africa.

I should also note that some of the technologies I mention in
the story have already been surpassed by real tech, but this was back in the
days before iPads, when even Jerry Pournelle wasn’t carrying an eReader
everywhere.

oOo

Anastasia Jones viewed her new town with little interest
from the crest of a maple-shaded hill. It was a fresh-washed picture postcard
of a town; all green and white and brick red under a rain-dark sky. An equally
fresh-washed breeze rolled up the hill, carrying with it the smell of . . .
popcorn.