Unless something, unless someone, got in the way.
Eventually, about four in the morning, the woman said they had to get some sleep, so they buzzed Frederick—still the same Frederick, too, to Moe's surprise—and he set things up so that Moe slept on a pull-down bunk and the woman on the nice bed that folded out from the back wall. Moe's little bed was too small and too hard, but he didn't mind, it beat the hell out of trying to sleep cheap on the train from Chicago to Boston to play the Braves, which he'd done too many times.
They were up by eight and into the dining car for breakfast. Two eggs over easy with bacon and toast for Moe. A couple of pancakes for the supposed missus. Coffee, black. Clarissa spent the two bucks plus tip on the nice breakfast spread for the both of them. Pricey, but the food was good. Then it was back to the room and back to work.
She did most of the talking as they arrowed straight west through Missouri and Kansas and onto the f lat high plains of Colorado. The scenery was so bad they pulled down the blinds for a while and turned on the lights and talked in general terms about how things were. In the California they were going to the Germans already had the superbomb, so it was too late to stop that, and the world wasn't at war any-more since the Japanese and Germans had about everything they wanted.
Except for America, where the Japanese were clearly angling for all of the West Coast while the Germans itched to break the pact with Japan and make North America theirs for the next thousand years. Fascist Mexico would be the proxy, using German weapons and with German officers and with a very ambitious Generalissimo O'Rourke, he of the Irish heritage but the Mexican ambitions. An excuse was all that was needed.
All of which might well happen if Moe didn't get the job done as she outlined it. He thought it was something he could do. Would do. No question. And she smiled when he said that, shook her head slightly, said, "There are too many possibilities, Moe, too many paths. But we have to try, and you're the man for the job. I'll help when I can, where I can. But all the twists and turns..."
She let that thought trail off, sat back into her cushioned seat, stared at Moe. "Whatever happens, Moe, just try and get where you have to be and do what you have to do. I hope to be there to help."
"Hope?" Moe didn't like that choice of words.
She nodded. "You never know, Moe. Just get there and take care of things. Don't let that bomb explode. We're counting on you."
She reached out to touch his hand. She smiled. "You always seem to get it done, Moe, in a lot of different places. There'll be a moment there when it could go wrong. I can't tell you more, but you'll make the right decision. You and that Beretta. Two shots to her chest. Do that, get it right, and a lot of important dominoes are still standing."
"But you're coming along, right?"
She nodded, said, "That's the plan." And sat back again, lost in thought.
They rode in silence for long minutes, Moe watching the Colorado scenery go by out the window. They were in the mountains now, the tracks carved out of the side of
the mountains at times. Other times, they wound their way through river valleys that had done the carving long before steam engines arrived.
The last time Moe had seen mountains was in Switzerland, in Zurich. That seemed a long time ago now. Funny how he'd damn near forgotten about that whole thing, though at the time it had been about the most exciting and worthwhile thing he'd ever done. Beat the hell out of baseball.
The woman was napping, despite the improved scenery, and Moe finally nodded off himself, too. Fifteen minutes was all. Then back to work.
But the hard flash of nausea—a feeling he knew too well now—brought him upright after just a few minutes of closed eyes. The woman was gone, her book lying there on the table. The train felt different, the rhythm had changed.
They were rounding a big curve and slowing some. The whistle blew. It sounded breathy. Moe leaned over and looked out the window. They were in the same wide river valley they'd been in before and Moe could see the front five cars and a coal car there, at the front, a huge steam engine pulling them along, smoke pouring out the stack. He hadn't seen one of those in years. Well, be damned. He sat back. He suspected she was gone; wasn't in this place anymore, this version of things. She'd warned him that might happen. He wondered if he'd see her again or if he was on his own now. He wondered if it mattered.
Moe stood on the wet-slick road and listened to the big rig's engine strain as it worked its way up the slope. He looked around for the woman. She'd said she'd be here. She'd promised that, in fact, and yet the moment was almost here and there were a couple of hundred people standing by the side of the road and over in the parking lot of the gas station and its café and not one of those people was her. The whole week in Los Angeles, knocking around, checking things out, using his press credentials to get into the workshop at Caltech; he'd been looking for her, expecting her to show up again after that conversation in Oakland. But nothing.
Maybe, Moe thought, he was in the wrong reality? Maybe he needed a lot more nausea? The woman had said she'd be here, hadn't she? He took a deep breath, thought it through. Maybe, in fact, she hadn't made any promises. Maybe she'd just said she'd hoped to be here. Maybe he was on his own. Maybe that was the point of the whole thing.
Now here he was coming down to the final few minutes of this little drama and Moe didn't know for sure if what she'd asked him to do was still the right thing at the right time for this place, this
here,
this
now.
Thing was, it felt right. In his gut, that same gut that wrenched at him each time he shifted from one version to another, he felt this was it.
The California Republic was playing nice with the Japanese Occupied Territories here, just like it was supposed to. The emperor's own son, Akishino, was here, ready to cut the ribbon on the big Subaru telescope, and that too was right. It was Japanese money that finished the observatory, it was Japanese expertise that built the housing for the big mirror that was coming on that truck. That, too, was spot on. And all of this was pissing off the Germans who wanted California for their own, for the West Coast ports they needed for their navy, Moe was guessing. For that the Germans were willing to set off a superbomb that would take off the top of Mount Palomar and start a war to clear the Rising Sun out of California. Hell, they probably had a superbomb in Tokyo Harbor ready to go off right now, too.
He looked down the road and there, maybe five hundred yards away, was that big Aerocar flatbed trailer being pulled along by the overhead cab. And on that trailer was the mirror, the two hundred-incher, polished to perfection, maybe the only remnant in this time and place of the technology that the old United States once had.
The big rig was down to a mile or two per hour, straining to make the climb. Moe knew why. There was an extra ton of weight on that flatbed. A deadly ton. Hidden under the tarp. The device—the superbomb—he had to do something about.
And he was ready. Mr. Eveready, Johnny on the spot. SuperMoe. Two shots to the chest would do it. He looked around. No woman. No Donovan either. Well, that was all right. He knew what he was supposed to do and he was ready to do it. Hell, might be fun.
And then it started to fall apart. A kid who'd been looking at him earlier, wearing a Hollywood Stars ball cap, grabbed his pal by the sleeve and came over to Moe and said, "Say mister, ain't you Moe Berg, the ballplayer? Hughie and I think you are."
"I didn't say it, you did," said Hughie, who looked bookish and quiet but stood up for himself.
Moe didn't have time for this, but couldn't draw any attention to himself, either; so there was no pushing these kids out of the way. Play nice for another few minutes. "No, kid," Moe told him, "you got me confused with someone else. Sorry."
But the kid, twelve or thirteen, at that age where he was starting to think he knew things, was dead certain of them, said, "You
are
Moe Berg. I saw you play for the Oaks. I told Hughie, you were playing shortstop and then you went and hit a homer against us and scored on a play at the plate to win the game. That was two years ago, in August. That knocked us out of first place. You really gave those homers a ride; I'll say that."
"Sorry about that, kid," Moe said. He had no recollection of that at all, of course. He hadn't even been there. In fact, he was starting to figure out, it hadn't actually happened at all until he, Moe Berg, had shown up in this version of reality. He'd arrived and then, instantly, there was a whole history of Moe Berg, pacific Coast League ballplayer, Oakland Oaks shortstop. Moe Berg who had always been there, who'd played for years in the PCL, who had a personal history that included being born in Sacramento and raised in San Jose, and going to college at Stanford and getting that law degree and a Ph.D. to boot, and then throwing all that education away playing baseball, a kid's game, an inconsequential career in an inconsequential league in an inconsequential sport.
And now he was here, all the tiny drops of rain becoming rivulets of action coming together into larger streams and rivers and lakes and oceans of reality, until Moe Berg, ballplayer, was talking to this kid who'd seen him play, seen him hit home runs, knew for a fact that there was a Moe Berg here and always had been.
It was dizzying. Here. Now. Back a few doors, back in Chicago, back with the White Sox: was that Moe still there? Was that possible? He didn't know.
Not that it mattered, whether he knew it or not, whether he understood how it all worked. Here was the deal. He was here and had something to do and these kids were here getting in the way of things.
How to clear this up? "All right, kid, you got me. But I'm trying to stay out of the spotlight, you know? I'm just here to see the big mirror get up to the observatory. I'm an astronomy fan, kid, that's all. So let's keep it quiet that I'm here. All right?"
Moe looked at Hughie, who nodded yes. He looked at the other kid, whose eyes had opened wide. Now the kid thought he was being included in a Big Secret. He nodded his head. "For sure, Mr. Berg. Honest. I'll keep it quiet." And he looked around slowly. "I don't think anyone heard me, okay?"
"That's great, kids," Moe said, putting his finger to his lips and saying, "Shhh, right?"
Both kids nodded, committed now to secrecy.
Nice kids, Moe thought, looking down the road to where the big flatbed was slowly inching its way upward, still a good ten minutes or more away. Time enough, sure
ly, to help them out. So Moe said, "Say, how about I sign your cap there?" to the outspoken one. The kid smiled a big old grin. Moe had pushed the right button.
"What's your name, kid?" he asked him as the kid handed over the cap and Moe pulled out the ink pen.
"Ollie," the kid said, then shrugged. "Oliver, really. But don't write that on there. I ain't no 'Oliver,' and I can't stand the name."
Moe laughed, he knew all about not liking your first name. Ever since those damn Stooges came along in the early 1930s he'd had to put up with "Hey, Moe" and "Nyuk, nyuk" jokes. Damned annoying. "For my new pal, Ollie," he wrote, and then signed it "Moe Berg" and handed Ollie back the cap.
"Hey, thanks, Mr. Berg," Ollie said, looking at the signature in awe for a long moment.
"And how about you, Hughie? Got a piece of paper on you? I'll sign it for you."
"I do," said Hughie, quietly, and reached into his front pants pocket to pull out a little notepad.
He handed it to Moe, who saw it said "Hugh Everett" across the front. "You want Hugh or Hughie there, young man?"
"Hugh, I think," the kid said, and so Moe signed it "To my pal, Hugh, from your pal Moe Berg," and handed it back.
"That okay, now, guys?" Moe started to ask, but before he could even get it out of his mouth the two of them had turned to run back across the road to where a couple of parents stood patiently, smiling. Well, hell, Moe thought, I made the kids happy, so the day won't be a complete waste no matter what.
Sure.
Miriam Ruggiero, the fascist, the double agent that Donovan had his plans for, had watched all this, a little smile on her face. As Ollie walked away she came back over to Moe, said, "So you're really a ballplayer? I knew you weren't a reporter."
He wasn't going to say no to that. What the hell should he say? Listen, doll, I'm a spy, just like you? Only while you play both ends against the middle I travel through different versions of things trying to work my way to the One Big Fix that will bring all of you down, all you ambitious, petty, nasty, cold-blooded, vicious fascists. All of you. Down.
No, he chuckled to himself as he half-listened to her. Behind her babble he could hear the gearbox straining on the flatbed, just four hundred yards away now.
Or maybe, he thought, he could tell Ruggiero that there's this woman I like. I want to make love to her. She's gorgeous, and smart enough I can talk with her, and I bet she makes love like a train wreck, so the sheets are all scattered and in knots afterward, and the pillows are over there and the blankets I don't know, and who's on firstand what's on second. Would that work, telling her that? Sure it would. Right.
Instead, he said, "Yeah, I'm no reporter, I'm a ballplayer. A shortstop for the Oaks. You a fan?"
"Not really," she said, and then asked, "A team is named after a tree?"
Moe smiled. Small talk for a few more minutes and then all hell would break loose. Good, he was ready for that now. But where the hell was the woman? Clarissa or whatever the hell her name was. Not that names mattered, she said.
He could hear the groan of the tractor-trailer as it struggled upward and toward them. Another one of those clouds from out over the plains below had drifted their way and it was raining a little harder; a cold, steady drizzle now that gathered into droplets on his coat. He turned up the collar.
The kid, Ollie, was standing with his parents. His pal, Hughie, was off to the side a bit. Ollie's mom was a nice looking woman in a dress, so her legs were showing on this cool day near the top of the mountain. She wore dark nylons and Moe wondered
where she'd gotten them. Did the stores in the California Republic actually have nylons to sell? Moe hoped they were keeping her warm.