Time Loves a Hero (35 page)

“You might have something there.” Franc stroked his chin as he regarded the image on the wallscreen. “You know,” he said slowly, “there may be a common thread here.” Turning around, he looked down at Murphy. Huddled on the floor of the compartment, his arms wrapped around his knees, the scientist once more looked as distraught as when they found him in 2314. “Zack, in your worldline—Worldline B, in 1998—you began work on a project that led to the development of time travel. That happened because you encountered us and therefore discovered that time travel was possible.”

“That's … yeah, I follow you.” Murphy seemed to stir himself from his misery. “I think I do, at least …”

“Stay with me. In this worldline—Worldline A, in 1998, the very same year—your counterpart also began work on time travel, although in an indirect way … he wrote a magazine article postulating that UFOs might be timeships. This, in turn, inspired your son …
his
son, I mean …”

“I prefer to think that's my son, thank you.” Murphy smiled despite himself. “Stevie's a good kid, but his idea of intellectual discourse is comparing batting averages.”

“What's a …? Oh, right. Baseball.” Franc waved it off. “Never mind. What I'm trying to say is, the point of conjunction between these two worldlines may not be the
Hindenburg
disaster, but rather you yourself.”

Murphy raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Me? But haven't we already decided that the
Hindenburg
was …?”

“No,” Lea interrupted. “That was what we assumed, certainly, but it may be that the different outcomes of the
Hindenburg
disaster were only a consequence of the paradox. The true cause may well be something different. Both you and David Murphy did things that resulted in …”

“Wait a minute. Hold on.” Metz broke into the conversation. “Look, I'm not sure I'm following all of this, but aren't you missing something? If Murphy … the other Murphy, I mean … wrote an article about timeships being mistaken for UFOs, then where did he get the idea?” He looked at Murphy. “If he's as smart as you are, then something must have given him a clue … right?”

For the first time in several minutes, no one said anything. Lea fell silent as she turned back toward the pedestal, and Murphy stared up the photo of his alternative-worldline son. Franc finally let out his breath.

“I think we all know where this is going,” he said quietly. “Whatever the reason, we're going to have to pay another visit to 1998 …
this
1998, that is.” He glanced at Metz. “Can we do that? Without crashing this time, I mean?”

“Sure.” The pilot gave a weary shrug. “Why not? The coordinates are still entered, so we shouldn't have any problems.”

“And what do you propose we do when we get there?” Murphy asked.

“We're going to have a little chat with you,” Franc replied.

Monday, January 14, 1998: 12:55
P.M.

Murphy had just bought a hot dog from the pushcart vendor and was about to cross Independence to have lunch on a park bench in the Mall when he heard someone running down the front steps of the National Air and Space Museum.

He turned just in time to see Dr. David Z. Murphy come to a stop on the sidewalk only a dozen feet away. Behind him, a pair of nuns near the glass doors were glaring at him; a few feet away, the Washington police officer who had been carrying on a bull session with the vendor gave him a curious eye.

As David looked his way, Murphy stepped behind the hood of one of the school buses parked at the curb, ducking his head to avoid being spotted. Neither of the teachers taking a cigarette break in front of the bus noticed him, nor did the cop or the homeless man rooting through a nearby garbage can.

Murphy waited a few moments, then he cautiously emerged from hiding. He observed the younger version of himself striding the opposite way down the sidewalk; once past the last school buses, he dashed across Independence. Careful to remain out of direct line of sight, Murphy followed him across the street, and watched from a discreet distance as David began jogging down the Mall, heading in the direction of the M station.

For a moment, he had an impulse to follow him. It was a strange thing to see himself as others must have seen him twenty-six years ago: a time-dilated mirror image, observed from afar. So far as he could tell, there was no significant physical difference; indeed, he had recognized himself immediately. He would have liked to continue spying upon himself, yet at the same time, the eeriness of the situation left a cold sensation in his stomach.

Finding that he had lost his appetite, Murphy walked back to the Air and Space Museum and offered his hot dog to the homeless man, who regarded it with suspicion for a second before taking it from him with mumbled thanks. He reflected that he probably looked only a little less shabby: old Army parka, battered Mets cap, sleepless eyes. Probably just as well; it might help him fade into the background.

Yet that wasn't his immediate concern. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked up the front steps of the museum, then loitered just outside the front entrance. He didn't have long to wait; less than a minute later, Franc came out of the building.

The traveller pushed open the glass door carefully, glancing both ways. Once again, Murphy found himself marvelling at his changed appearance; when Franc had emerged from
Oberon
's replication cell, Murphy couldn't quite believe this was the same man he had seen climb into the cylinder only thirty minutes earlier. True, he wasn't a perfect physical match for the author Gregory Benford—they had been forced to rely upon the biographical information in the timeship's library, which fortunately included a digital recording of the real Benford's voice along with a full-body photograph—but it was enough to fool anyone whom, they presumed, had never actually met the man. Yet one look at Franc's—or rather, Benford's—face told him that something had gone wrong.

“Which way did he go?” Franc asked quietly as he joined Murphy.

“That way.” He nodded in the direction David had taken. “He ran out about two or three minutes ago, looked around, then took off down the Mall. He looked rather upset.”

“That way?” Franc asked, and Murphy nodded again. “All right, let's walk the other way. Better hurry … he might be back any minute.”

Zipping up the parka Murphy had purchased for him yesterday, Franc trotted down the steps. Murphy fell in beside him as he began marching up the sidewalk toward the Capitol. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure,” Franc murmured. “He believed I was Benford when we met. I'd even say he was a bit awestruck, although he tried to hide it. We went to lunch, had a long conversation, and then …” He shook his head. “He made some references to Benford's work, and I think I gave the wrong answers.”

“I was afraid that might happen.” The biographical information had covered Benford's contributions as a physicist, but hadn't gone in great detail into his dual role as a science fiction author; Murphy had noticed the gaps when he and Franc were studying his background. Yet since the strategy had been for David Murphy to be interviewed by someone he would immediately recognize and trust, yet was unlikely ever to see again, Gregory Benford had been the best possible candidate, and Franc had undertaken the mission with the foreknowledge that a certain element of risk was involved. “He got suspicious, right?”

“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.