Chronospace (36 page)

“It seems that way.” Franc furtively glanced over his shoulder, then began walking a little faster. “He excused himself to visit the men’s room and left the restaurant. I followed him, stayed back so he wouldn’t see me, and saw him go to a phone and make a call. I decided that he might
be trying to check up on me, so I waited until his back was turned, then I sneaked down the stairs.”

“And he didn’t see you?”
I would have,
Murphy silently added.

Franc shook his head. “No. I hid behind a post on the second floor and waited until he left the restaurant and ran back down to the first floor, then I came out behind him.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t search the whole museum.” Murphy smiled to himself. “I must be a little dumber in this worldline,” he murmured.

Franc shrugged. “It’s a big place. He wouldn’t have found me.” Then he sighed. “We can’t afford for him to see me again, or at least in this persona. If he’s discovered that I’m not Benford . . .”

“The way he flew out of there, I’d say it’s a pretty good chance he has.” Just ahead, on the other side of the street, lay the Capitol Reflecting Pool, its waters covered with a thin sheet of milky ice. Office workers and bureaucrats strode past it, the collars of their overcoats turned up against the brisk wind. “So what did you find out? Has there been another paradox?”

“No. Of that, I’m certain.” Franc waited until a cab trundled past, throwing icy slush onto the curb, then he stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street, heading for the broad terrace surrounding the pool. “He made it all up. It was a good guess, but nothing more than that. He hasn’t seen any timeships, that’s the main thing.”

“That means we’re in the clear.”

“No, not quite. It only means that he doesn’t know anything . . . or at least not yet. But I’m afraid this incident may lead him to investigate further, and if that’s the case, it may lead him to conclusions that we don’t want him to make.” Franc shoved his hands deeper within the pockets of his parka. “We can’t let that happen,” he added quietly, looking down at the snow-covered ground.

Hearing this, Murphy stopped. Lost in his own thoughts, Franc walked a few more steps before he noticed that
Murphy was no longer with him. He halted, turned around, gazed back at him. He didn’t say anything, but simply waited.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Murphy asked.

“I don’t know,” Franc replied. “What do you think I’m saying?”

“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying,” Murphy said, “then this is where we part company. No thanks, I’m getting off here.” He took a step back, half-intending to walk away as fast as he could.

“And where do you plan to go?” Franc pulled off his fake glasses and put them in his pocket. “You’re a man who’s already here. If you’ve got any identification, it’s from twenty-six years in the future. I hope you’re not planning on using it, because no one will ever honor it, let alone believe your story.”

“I’ll get by,” Murphy said. “I’ve done well so far.”

And indeed he had. After the
Oberon
landed the day before out on the outskirts of suburban Virginia, Murphy had left the timeship, taking with him the remaining reserves of 1937 American dollars and German marks left over from the
Hindenburg
expedition. After hitchhiking into downtown Washington, he visited a succession of rare-coin dealers until he found one willing to purchase his cache without asking many embarrassing questions. The currency was counterfeit, of course, but Franc had assured him that it was as authentic in appearance as the CRC’s Artifacts Division could make it. After acquiring nearly $500 in trade, he visited a second-rate car-rental place and, using a photo-laminated credit card from his wallet to prove his identity, managed to lease an automobile. After that, a shopping trip to a mall outside Arlington, where he bought suitable clothing for Franc. This might not be the 1998 of his worldline, but he still knew how to get around.

“Maybe you will,” Franc admitted. “You’re a smart
person.” He fell quiet as a woman hastily strode past, then he walked a little closer. “But even if you do, where will that take you? You know how all this will eventually end.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. A hundred . . . a thousand different things could happen that would prevent . . .”

“No.” Franc shook his head. “I’m sorry, Zack, but you know better than that. You’ve seen the historical record. In a few years, David Murphy will publish a well-regarded science fiction novel which, in turn, will inspire his son to pursue time travel. Steven Murphy’s theories will inevitably lead to the invention of timeships, which will result in Lea, Vasili, and me visiting 1937. The chain of paradoxes will begin there, and continue until . . .”

“Shut up!”

“. . . And when it’s all over, everything you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve ever loved, will be gone, and you’ll be . . .”

Without really intending to do so, Murphy balled his right hand into a fist, swung it at Franc’s face. He hadn’t hit anyone since he was a teenager, though, and Franc saw it coming. He ducked the punch, but in doing so he lost his balance. His feet slipped on the icy sidewalk and he fell sideways, sprawling against the concrete basin surrounding the Reflecting Pool. He yelped in pain, then rolled away, wincing in pain as he clutched his left elbow

“Oh, Jesus!” His anger vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared, Murphy knelt down next to Franc. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . I mean, I . . .”

“It’s all right. I’m not hurt.” Massaging his arm, Franc pushed himself up against the side of the basin. “I probably had that coming,” he said, scowling as he gently flexed his bruised elbow. “If that’s the best you can do, though, you’ve proven my point.”

Murphy sat down on the wall. Like it or not, Franc was right. He was an old man . . . worse, an old man stuck out of time. For chrissakes, he couldn’t even punch out
someone anymore, not even in anger. If he was going to survive the winter streets of Washington in 1998, he was going to have to do better than that. A lot better.

“So . . . what’s your idea?” he asked.

Franc didn’t immediately answer. He gazed off into the distance, studying the thin spire of the Washington Monument at the far end of the mall. A few tentative flakes of snow were beginning to drift down from the slate sky. It was the beginning of a cold and sunless afternoon, with the threat of many more like it to come.

“There’s nothing else I can do,” he said at last. “At least, not now. I’ve got to return to the
Oberon.
You’re going to have to take over from here.”

“Okay.” Murphy let out his breath. Like it or not, he was committed. “Now what?”

“Follow Murphy . . . David, I mean . . . after he leaves his office. He told me he rode the . . . the M, I think you call it? Is that a rapid-transit system?” Murphy nodded, and Franc went on. “He rode the M to work today, from where he parked his car in Virginia. Had something to do with local traffic conditions . . .”

“The Beltway.” Murphy smiled. “Happens a lot around here.”

“So I’ve been told.” Franc reached to the front of his parka, unbuttoned its weather flap. “I want you to follow him from his office until you reach the place where he parked his car. Hopefully, the two of you will be alone by then.”

“Then . . . ?”

“That’s going to be the hard part.” Franc unzipped the parka, thrust his hand inside. “But I’m going to give you something that will make the job a little easier . . .”

C
onsciousness returned as the gentle sensation of movement within darkness, interrupted now and then by an abrupt jar, a sporadic glimmer of light. From somewhere nearby he heard a wet flopping sound.

At first he thought he was at home and in bed—it was early morning, and Donna was nudging him awake; the alarm must not have gone off, and it was time to go to work—but then he opened his eyes and discovered the source of the sound: windshield wipers, brushing aside thick flakes of snow streaming past headlights like thousands of tiny stars.

Another pair of headlights appeared in the left lane, dazzling him for a few moments until they suddenly dimmed, then the other vehicle swept past. Through the windshield, he caught brief glimpses of lighted windows—farmhouses, a Mobil station, a Maryland Farms convenience store—which quickly passed by, disappearing like mirages into the cold winter night.

He was in the front passenger seat of his own car.

Murphy slowly turned his head, saw the old man from
the parking lot, his bearded face backlit by the dashboard. He drove with his left hand on the wheel, his right hand resting next to his thigh. Although Murphy wasn’t aware of making any sound, the old man glanced his way, smiled slightly.

“You’re awake,” he quietly observed. “Feeling okay?”

He had a faint headache, but Murphy didn’t answer at once. He looked to the right, peering through the side window. Wherever they were, it was out in the country—it looked like Virginia, but it could also be Maryland for all he knew. The headlights caught the reflective coating of a highway sign as it flashed by:
Route 234.
He knew the road; they were about twenty miles from Arlington.

“Don’t worry,” the old man said. “We’re not far from home.” He paused. “Bet your head hurts. Sorry about that. Don’t you keep a bottle of Tylenol in the glove compartment?”

“Yeah,” Murphy said, “I have some.” His hands were folded together in his lap, but he was surprised to find that he could move them. His kidnapper hadn’t bothered to tie him up. Which meant that, if he moved quickly enough . . .

“Don’t even think about it,” the old man said. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Think about what?”

The old man laughed: a dry, ironic chuckle, much the same as his own when he was amused by something which tickled him because it was so obvious. “Look at the speedometer,” he said. “We’re doing thirty-five right now. I’d drive a little faster, but the snow’s coming down hard, and I don’t think a plow’s been this way in the last half hour or so. If you tried to grab the wheel, we’d probably skid out and go off the road. Or we might hit a car coming in the other lane. Either way, you’d kill both of us.” He hesitated, then quietly added, “And jumping out is a bad idea, too. Remember what happened to Skip Baylor?”

Skip Baylor. Who the hell was . . . ?

A face flashed before his memory. Skip Baylor, one of his friends from junior high. A short, skinny kid with shag-cut blond hair. Used to love old Bruce Lee movies, especially when he was stoned. Skip was the class daredevil; he’d try anything once, so long as people were watching. One Saturday night, when Skip was out cruising with a bunch of guys, someone wondered aloud what it would be like to jump out of a moving car. Skip decided to give it a shot. He broke his neck and died instantly.

“How do you know about Skip?”

Long silence from the old man. “I know about a lot of things,” he said at last, not unkindly, even a bit sadly. “Go on, get your Tylenol. It’ll make you feel better.”

Murphy reached for the glove box. His hand was on the knob when the old man spoke again. “It’ll be stashed next to the New York and Virginia road maps. I think there’s also an old Disney coloring book in there, along with some crayons. Steven liked to use them when you and Donna drove down to Florida to visit her mother, but even though he’s grown out of them now, you haven’t . . .”

“Who are you?” Murphy forgot about the glove box and the contents. “What are . . . who are you with? FBI? CIA? Army intelligence?”

Another dry chuckle, punctuated by a ragged cough. “None of the above. And, no, not the Russians or Mossad or . . . well, anyone you could think of.”

“NASA,” Murphy suggested.

“Gimme a break . . .” The old man gave him a skeptical look. “Unless, of course, you know something about NASA I don’t.” He waited a few moments for Murphy to answer, then he shook his head. “Okay, let’s come clean here. I’m taking you someplace . . .”

“Where?”

“We’re going to Manassas National Battlefield. It’s closed this time of year, but someone’s going to open the gate for us. My friends . . . our friends . . . are going to be waiting for us inside. They want to talk to you, David.”

Despite the warmth of the car, Murphy felt a chill. “Who’re your friends?”

“I could tell you, but you’d never believe me.” The old man stared into the snow spiraling past the headlights. “I had trouble accepting it myself,” he added. “It’s that kind of thing. But you’re going to have to trust me on this one . . . nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Murphy found himself beginning to trust the old man. By all logic, he knew that he shouldn’t—after all, he had shadowed him on the train, trailed him into the parking lot, then somehow knocked him unconscious, after which he had abducted him and driven him clear out into the middle of nowhere (but not quite—hadn’t he taken Steven out here a couple of times, using this route?). Yet his voice, his entire demeanor . . . it was much as if he was talking to a lifelong friend, someone he had known for many years. Every facial expression, every verbal tic, even the way he laughed, were strangely familiar.

And his face . . .

The Escort’s high beams caught a large wooden sign on the right shoulder of the road:
MANASSAS NATIONAL BATTLEFIELD PARK
. The old man began to slow down, easing his foot off the gas while not braking, just as Murphy himself would have done. “Here it is. . . Molasses Park.” He glanced at Murphy. “Okay, for ten points, who used to call it that?”