Chronospace (29 page)

“I rather doubt that,” Franc said. “You don’t show any signs of surgery.” He peered up at the top of the nearby observation tower. The “angel” had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, yet nonetheless he had the eerie feeling that it hadn’t gone very far away. “Telepathic link?” he asked quietly, glancing at Lea. “It might be using him as a conduit.”

“It’s possible. Right now, it’s as good an explanation as
any.” She looked back at Murphy. “But why doesn’t it want to reveal itself?”

“Where were you before you woke up?” Metz asked. He had left the
Oberon
and joined the others by the fire. “Did the angel . . . ?”

“Wait, please.” Murphy shook his head, held up his hands “I realize you’ve got a lot of questions, but you’ve got to believe me when I say I don’t know all the answers.” Shivering against the late-afternoon wind, he tucked his hands within his armpits for warmth. “I’m just as confused about this as you are. The last time I clearly remember anything, it was . . .”

Once again, he abruptly fell silent, his eyes half-closing as his head tilted slightly forward. “I’m told,” he said at last, “that we’ve got to take this one step at a time, or otherwise you won’t understand anything. Does that make sense to you?”

“Sort of,” Franc said. Apparently, for reasons as yet unknown, Murphy was acting as a spokesman for the entity they had glimpsed at the top of the tower. “All right, we’ll take this bit by bit. What does it want us to know first?”

Frowning with concentration, Murphy stared into the fire. “Your history . . . your past . . . is somehow different from mine,” he said slowly. “The
Hindenburg
explosion . . . that’s when everything changed.”

“Yes, we know that,” Lea said. “We had gone back to 1937 to research its causes, and . . .” She glanced uncertainly at Franc, and he silently nodded. “Well, somehow we made a mistake that caused history to be changed, so that when we tried to return to our future . . .”

“You crashed in 1998,” Murphy said, “but now it was a different worldline than the one you left behind.” Again, the attentive pause, but this time his mouth dropped open in surprise. “There was a major war in the middle of the twentieth century, wasn’t there? Between Germany and the rest of Europe, with the United States, Russia, and Japan eventually becoming involved. Right?”

“That’s correct,” Franc said. “You mean that didn’t happen in your worldline?”

Murphy shook his head. “Germany annexed Austria in 1938, but that was as far as it went. The destruction of the
Hindenburg
was the turning point for the Nazi regime. After that, the German resistance movement rose against the Nazis, and it wasn’t long before the Vatican began secretly funneling aid to a Catholic underground organization known as White Rose.”

Hearing this, Franc felt a chill run down his back. Suddenly, he recalled the conversation he’d had with William Shirer in the bar at the Frankfurter Hof. The journalist had mentioned something about meeting with Catholic clergymen who were . . . how had he put it? . . . concerned about recent events. “Were they successful? White Rose, I mean.”

“Yeah, sure. It’s in all the history books . . . or at least, the ones I read. A few days after Germany took over Austria, the resistance staged a mass protest in Berlin. When the Gestapo arrested their leaders and publicly executed them, it touched off riots all across Germany. Nazi headquarters in major cities were torched, prominent party members were shot in their homes . . . overnight, the whole country turned against the Nazis. It ended when Adolf Hitler was assassinated by a conspiracy of his own generals, and after that the government fell apart pretty quickly. Their leaders were rounded up, or at least the ones who didn’t escape the country, and most of them put on trial and hanged or imprisoned. By then, the German army had retreated from Austria, and by 1940 it was all over.” Murphy seemed mildly surprised. “You mean it didn’t happen that way in your worldline?”

“No Second World War.” Lea was incredulous. “That means . . . no development of rocketry, no invention of the atomic bomb . . .”

“Sure, we got those,” Murphy said. “The U.S. tested the first atomic bomb in 1945. It was supposed to be dropped on Japan during the Pacific War, but President Truman
opted for invasion instead. Russia sent the first satellite into orbit in 1960, and we launched ours a few months later. In 1976, America, Germany, and England sent a five-man expedition to the Moon, but that was the only time we . . .”

“When was the first computer invented?” Vasili asked.

“If you mean the very first one, that was designed by Charles Babbage sometime in the 1820s, but it was never actually . . .”

“No, I mean the ones that caused an information revolution in the late twentieth century.”

“Desktop computers?” Murphy shrugged. “I bought mine in ’91. A DEC Spectrum. One of the first on the market. Why?”

“I’m beginning to see a pattern.” Franc picked up a branch, fed it into the bonfire. “With the exception of the atomic bomb, there wasn’t major technological progress during the 1940s. Without World War II, there wasn’t an urgent need for the V-2 rocket or the Enigma codebreaker. Manned spaceflight and microelectronics were eventually developed, but at a much slower pace.”

“You mean, it happened sooner than that?” Murphy was outright astonished, and just a little envious. “If your worldline is that different, you must have had people living on the Moon by the end of the twentieth century.”

“Well, not really,” Lea said. “We didn’t build the first lunar colony until . . .”

“Never mind that now.” Franc didn’t want to get sidetracked. “When I met you. . . when I first met you, I mean. . . you mentioned something about an Office of Paranormal Sciences. What’s that?”

“OPS? It’s . . .” Again, there was an abrupt silence as Murphy listened to the voice in his head. “They . . . the ones you call angels, I mean . . . say that’s important. They don’t say why, but I guess this is another point where the worldlines diverge.”

“Go on.” Franc struggled to remain patient. “What’s different?”

Murphy stared into the fire for a few moments before he answered. “I think . . . I mean, I think it has to do with something that happened while I was in college. Sort of a social trend or a fad or whatever you want to call it, but in the seventies and eighties a lot of people started getting interested in psuedoscience. Astrology, ESP, channeling, dowsing, all that stuff . . .”

“UFOs?” Metz asked, giving a meaningful glance at the others.

“UFOs, sure. Seemed like everyone you knew had seen one, or at least knew someone who had seen one.” Murphy glanced in the direction of the
Oberon.
“Guess they weren’t that far off. But the biggest part of it was what people called lost German science . . . the crap a lot of the Nazis believed in.”

“I don’t understand.” Lea shook her head.

“Ariosophy, the hollow earth theory, using pendulums for decision-making, the world ice doctrine . . .” Murphy picked up a stick, prodded the bonfire’s embers. “It was all bullshit, of course, but a couple of best-sellers were published which claimed that the Nazis achieved scientific breakthroughs that were deliberately suppressed after the fall of the Hitler regime.”

“Makes sense.” Lea absently rubbed a forefinger across her lips. “Without a major European war or the Holocaust, the Nazis might not have been as stigmatized in the West as they were in our worldline. Some of the things they believed in might have been romanticized.”

“That’s what happened, exactly.” Murphy nodded. “Psuedoscience became popular, and it led people in the United States to demand that the government do more to investigate . . . y’know, that sort of thing.” His expression became grim. “So while NASA was being cannibalized and the National Academy of Sciences was begging for chump change, Congress founded OPS. I took a job with them because it was either that or flip burgers at McDonald’s.”

He shook his head at the memory. “The irony of all this was that, while Americans were going nuts over Nazi pseudoscience, the Germans themselves were racing ahead of us in terms of technological progress. So was England, France, Italy . . . first it started with basic research, then it went to product development, and finally it reached consumer goods. Got to the point that if you wanted a half-decent car, you had to buy European. Good ol’ Yankee know-how became knowing how to get the best deal from an Audi or BMW salesman . . . and then you guys crashed in ’98, and that changed the ball game.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” Franc said. “If the U.S. had fallen so far behind, how were you able to develop time travel?”

“Blue Plate was . . . well, it was done on the bootstrap principle.” Murphy picked up a branch, broke it over his knee, tossed the short end into the fire, and used the long end to poke at the embers. “You know the idea of someone trying to jump up by pulling at his bootstraps? No? Well, it’s sort of the same thing . . . if you can do it, you’ve taught yourself a new trick. The final objective of Blue Plate was figuring out time travel . . . because, y’know, if y’all were able to accomplish it, then that meant it must be possible . . . but the point was using this as a means of developing new technologies that would once again put the U.S. ahead of Europe. We needed a goal, and being the first country to accomplish time travel was it. Like the Manhattan Project all over again, only this time we didn’t have to worry about nuking anyone. War without casualties.”

“So Blue Plate was a crash program,” Vasili said.

“It started out that way, but it turned into a long-term effort. Theory is one thing. Putting it into actual practice is another.” Murphy tossed the stick into the flames. “Still, we didn’t do too badly. The underlying principles were well established, of course, and many physicists had already spent considerable effort refining Einstein’s work. It was mainly a matter of figuring out how to implement them,
and then developing the hardware. We were ready for our first full-out test by . . .”

He suddenly stopped as if he had just heard something, then his face changed. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, his voice quiet with horror. “I didn’t know . . .”

“Know what?” Franc reached forward to grasp his arm. “What didn’t you know?”

“We were too early,” Murphy said. “We were much, much too early . . .”

C
old night lay across the Nevada desert. Pale moonlight glazed the distant slopes of the Papoosa Mountains, and an occasional errant breeze kicked up sand from the dry lake bed. A good night for secrets, for impossible things to become reality.

Standing at the edge of the long desert airstrip, Murphy sipped black coffee from a foam cup as he watched helicopters make a final low-level sweep across the foothills northeast of Groom Lake, their searchlights prowling the boulders and crevices of what had become unofficially named Freedom Ridge. UFO buffs had discovered the ridge about thirty years ago when it still lay in the no-man’s-land bordering the Nellis Test Range and used it as a vantage point for observing activity at this remote Air Force test site. After too many people began coming out here, the Air Force managed to persuade various congressional committees to expand the test range to include Freedom Ridge. The flying-saucer groupies retreated to Tikaboo Peak, yet that lay twenty-five miles from Groom Lake, too far for any meaningful observation, and even the most
inquisitive of them no longer dared to hike into the restricted area. Nonetheless, the military always took the precaution of making sure that the adjacent hills were deserted before any test flights; there was no telling who might be camped out there, crouched beneath camouflage tarps with high-power telescopes and tripod-mounted cameras.

Murphy smiled at the thought. If so, he wished them luck. If there was anyone lurking on Freedom Ridge tonight, they were about to witness history being made, for not since the first prototype stealth aircraft had been developed had anything like this flown out of Area 51.

He turned to gaze upon the complex sprawled across the southeast side of the dry lake. Sodium-vapor lights illuminated a collection of low-built concrete office buildings, military barracks, machine shops, radar dishes, and fuel depots, all surrounding several aircraft hangars, the largest of them spacious enough to hold a C-5A Galaxy. As he watched, its doors were being slowly rolled open, revealing the massive black shape within.

“Time to rock,” he murmured.

Murphy took a last sip from his coffee, then tossed out its lukewarm remains and began sauntering back toward the hangar. The wind chose that moment to snatch at his baseball cap; he managed to grab it before it went dancing off across the desert, yet not before his hair, which he had allowed to grow out in the last few years, was blown from beneath its cover. Steven had given him the cap last summer when he had gone down to Brooklyn to visit him and his family. Murphy wasn’t much of a baseball fan, truth be told, but he had let Stevie take him to a Mets game if only to make up for all the times he had ducked Little League playoffs and day-trips to Boston to catch the Red Sox.

He scowled as he pulled the hood of his old Army parka over his head to keep the wind at bay. It was only slightly less cold than Donna’s voice the terrible night she demanded a divorce, barely more than fourteen months after
they moved to Massachusetts. She took Steven with her when she moved back to upstate New York, and it was nearly two years before the court granted him full visitation rights; by then, his son had become alienated from his father, his ex-wife little more than a ghost seen through the living-room window of her second husband’s house in Syracuse. During the entire time, he had never been able to tell either one of them what he was really doing during all those eighteen-hour, seven-day work weeks he spent at ICR. No wonder she had left him; he couldn’t blame her for doing so. Yet losing Donna hadn’t been nearly as painful as the distance he had placed between him and Steven. Twenty-six years later, and the only tangible evidence he had that his son hadn’t utterly disowned him was a Mets cap . . .