Time Loves a Hero Read online

  “And I don’t argue with any of it.” Murphy chuckled. “Believe me, I’m not a UFO buff of any sort. I think Klass is on the right track. If you ask me, ninety-nine percent of UFO sightings are a crock. If they’re not hoaxes or optical illusions, then they’re cloud formations, airplanes, meteors, hot-air balloons … anything but spaceships.”

  “And the remaining one percent?”

  Murphy picked up a couple of fries, daubed them in the tiny cup of ketchup. “The remaining one percent is the stuff no one’s been able to adequately explain, or at least without stretching things … swamp gas, Venus, all that. That doesn’t mean there aren’t reasonable explanations. We just haven’t learned what they are yet.”

  “Which brings us to time machines.”

  “Sort of.” Murphy shrugged. “I’m just playing the ‘what if’ game. Time travel may not be a reasonable explanation, but it certainly is a rational one. I mean, realistically speaking, an operational time machine would have to perform much like a spacecraft. First, it would have to open a quantum wormhole, and the only place you can safely do that is outside the atmosphere. Second, it would have to be capable of atmospheric flight. A saucer-shaped vehicle could do this. And third, a time traveler would probably want to be secretive, which accounts for why no flying saucers have landed on the White House lawn.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable line of thought.”

  “I kind of think so. Maybe it’s baloney … but like I said, I was just conducting a thought experiment.” Realizing that he was hungry, he picked up his cheeseburger. “Hey, apropos of nothing, but … if I sent you my copy of Heart of the Comet, would you sign it for me?”

  “Sure, I’d be happy to.”

  “That’d be great.” Murphy lifted the cheeseburger’s bun to make sure that there wasn’t a pickle hidden beneath it. “Maybe someday I can get Brin to sign it, too.”

  “Who?”

  “David Brin.” Murphy peered at him, but Benford’s expression remained neutral. “Your collaborator. The guy who cowrote …”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” Benford grinned sheepishly. “David, of course.” He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s been a long weekend.” He plunged his fork back into his salad. “It’s an interesting theory, but not entirely original. I’ve seen some New Age books that postulate much the same idea.”

  “So have I. One guy even went so far as to claim that Einstein was a time traveller. But that’s not where I’m coming from. In fact, I don’t even believe this myself …”

  “You don’t?” Benford looked up. “But you made a pretty good case, and you supported it with known physics. The idea that wormholes, if they could be artificially created, could serve as gateways through time as well as through space … that was very convincing.”

  “Thanks, but I was only reiterating things Hawking and Thorne have said. You’re familiar with their work, of course.” Benford gave a noncommittal nod. “Really, I was just doing the same thing that science fiction writers do … throwing out ideas, playing with crazy notions. It doesn’t necessarily mean that I think UFOs are time machines. It’s just … well, it’s just something to think about.”

  “It certainly got my attention, that’s for sure.” Benford reached for the pepper shaker again. “That’s why I decided to call you. I read your piece on the plane flight over here, and thought it might be a good premise for a novel.”

  “Really? I’m flattered.”

  “Uh-huh.” Benford shook some more pepper over his salad. “I’ve never written a time-machine story, y’know. I figured this might be a good place to start.”

  Murphy said nothing for a moment. Behind them, the schoolchildren were making a ruckus as they moved through the cafeteria line, fighting over slices of pizza while their harried teachers tried to keep them from turning the restaurant upside-down. Gregory Benford continued to poke at his salad. For the first time during their conversation, it seemed to Murphy as if he was consciously avoiding his gaze.

  “Will you excuse me a moment?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Benford barely looked up from his plate. “Not a problem.”

  Murphy forced a smile as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He looked around for a moment until he found the signs indicating the way to the rest rooms. Trying not to walk too fast, he left the cafeteria.

  As he hoped, there was a pay phone on the wall between the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Picking up the receiver, he shoved a quarter into the slot, then dialed the number for NASA’s main switchboard from memory. “Jan Zimmermann, please,” he said once the operator answered, and glanced at a nearby ceiling clock. It was almost a quarter to one; he hoped that Jan was still brown-bagging her lunch at her desk.

  A short pause, then the phone buzzed twice. It was picked up on the third ring. “Policy and Plans, Janice Zimmermann.”

  “Jan, it’s David Murphy. How’ya doing?”

  The voice brightened. “Dave! I read your article in Analog this month! Great stuff!”

  Murphy smiled despite himself. Although she held a low-level position, Jan Zimmermann was one of NASA’s true believers, those who worked for the agency because they fervently supported the idea of space exploration. But more importantly, or at least at this particular moment, she was a science fiction fan.

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Murphy glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, I’m in a little bit of a rush here, but …”

  “What can I do for you, hon? Did you get my email about the next Disclave?”

  A longtime member of the Washington Science Fiction Society, Jan was deeply involved in running the annual SF convention held in Maryland. As head of programming, Jan had been bugging him to be a guest speaker for several years now. He had always turned her down, if only because the thought of sitting on a panel made him uneasy, but now that invitation might work in his favor.…

  “Sure did,” he said. “In fact, that’s sort of why I’m calling. I’d like to show up this year, but I’m sort of thinking that I’d like to do a panel with Gregory Benford, if he’s going to be there.”

  “Well, I dunno …” Jan sounded reluctant. “He was a Disclave guest several years ago, but he hasn’t been back since …”

  “Do you have his number?” Murphy asked, seeing his opening. “I’ve been in touch with him recently … I mean, he sent me a letter just a little while ago … and maybe I could talk him into coming out here for the next convention.”

  “Really? That would be fantastic! Hold on a sec …” There was a short pause, during which Murphy heard a vague rustling in the background; he imagined her searching through the perpetual mess on her desk for an address book. He reached into his shirt pocket, found a Bic pen. After a few moments, her voice came back: “Okay, here it is. It’s his office number …”

  Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, Murphy scribbled down the number on the back of his left hand, then repeated it back to Jan to make sure he had copied it correctly. “Thanks, dear,” he said. “I’ve really got to run. I’ll get back to you.”

  Hoping he wasn’t being rude, he hung up, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket. After locating his ATT card, he carefully dialed the number Jan had given him, charging it to his home phone.

  Somewhere on the other side of the continent, a phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times … Murphy glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten to one; in California, it would be almost ten o’clock. It shouldn’t be too early to …

  The phone was picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” a familiar voice said.

  Murphy felt something tickle the nape of his neck.

  “Ahh … Dr. Gregory Benford, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Greg Benford?” Murphy flattened the receiver against his ear. “Is this Gregory Benford, the writer?”

  “Ahh … well, yes, it is, May I ask who’s calling?”

  The very same voice. From over three thousand miles away.

  “I’m … I’m …�
� Murphy felt a hot rush through his face. “I’m sorry, sir, but … sorry, I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “What? I don’t.…”

  Murphy slammed down the phone, his mind racing as he sought to understand what was happening.

  He had just met someone who looked exactly like Gregory Benford, who sounded just like Gregory Benford, but who was not only ignorant of one of the most common mathematical denominators in theoretical physics, but had also forgotten that he had coauthored a best-selling novel with another physicist, David Brin. Sure, all this might be explained by travel fatigue. Yet Gregory Benford would never be amnesiac of the fact that he had written Timescape, a novel which was not only regarded as one of his best-known works, and a Nebula Award winner as well …

  But also a time-machine story.

  Yet the Greg Benford with whom he had just shared lunch claimed never to have written a time-machine story.

  And now, however briefly, Murphy had spoken with a Gregory Benford whose voice was absolutely identical, yet who was in his office on the other side of the country.

  “Son of a …!” Murphy slammed his fist against the phone, then turned and stalked back down the hall toward the restaurant. Whoever this guy was, he had just played him like a yo-yo. It was a good impersonation, to be sure. For a little while there, the impostor had actually convinced him that he was the real deal. But just wait until …

  Murphy stopped at the cafeteria entrance.

  Their table was vacant. The chair where the impostor had been seated had been pushed back. Only their cafeteria trays remained in place. Children ran back and forth through the restaurant, but his lunch companion was nowhere to be seen.

  Murphy stared at the table, then dashed to the nearby stairwell. Catching himself against the railing, he peered down. Far below, he saw the top of Apollo lunar module, but nothing else. No one was on the stairs.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1427Z

  Like a scarab caught within a web of electrical lines and mooring cables, the Oberon floated in spacedock, its silver hull reflecting the raw sunlight that steamed through the bay doors. Hardsuited space workers moved around the timeship, their tethers uncoiling behind them as they inspected the vehicle’s negmass grid and wormhole generators. Standing in an observation cupola overlooking the spherical hangar, Franc watched the activity while he waited for the gangway to mate with the vessel. A foreman at a nearby console studied his screens as he gently coaxed the joystick that maneuvered the gangway into position; when its boxlike airlock was firmly nestled against the Oberon, he locked it into place and glanced over his shoulder at Franc.

  “All right, Dr. Lu, you can go through now. Vasili’s waiting for you aboard.”

  “Danke shön.” He was still practicing his German; the foreman gave him a baffled look in return. Franc slipped his feet from the stirrups on the floor, then pushed himself toward a nearby hatch. It parted in the center with a soft hiss, and he ducked his head as he entered an accordion-walled tunnel. The gangway was cold, its handholds frigid to the touch; regretting that he had neglected to put on a sweater before coming down here, he moved quickly down the long passageway.

  At the end of the tunnel, he reached up and pressed a couple of recessed buttons on the ceiling. A panel flashed from red to green, then the gangway hatch rolled open, revealing the timeship’s outer hatch. Much to his irritation, it was still shut. “I’m here, Vasili,” he murmured, tapping his headset mike. “You can let me in anytime you’re ready.”

  There was no reply, but a few moments later the hatch irised open. A young man floating upside down within the airlock peered down at him. “Sorry, Franc,” he said, giving him a embarrassed grin as he extended a hand. “We didn’t hear you coming.”

  Vasili had doubtless known that he was on his way over; he was just subtly reminding Franc who was in the charge of the timeship, if not the expedition. “Not a problem, Tom.” He grasped Hoffman’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up into the narrow compartment. “Everything on schedule?”

  “We’re finishing the checklist now.” Hoffman backed away and nearly banged the back of his head against an open service port in the ceiling. He carefully shut it, mindful not to loosen the color-coded ribbons tied around the snakelike conduits that dangled from within. “Got a few more things to do, but we’ll be out of here on time.”

  Franc nodded as he glanced around the compartment. While in spacedock, the timeship’s artificial gravity was neutralized; since its floors and ceilings lacked handrails and foot restraints, slender nylon ropes had been temporarily laid throughout the vessel’s four major compartments. He noted that the timeship’s EVA suit was barely fastened to the wall; someone had used it recently and hadn’t stowed it properly. “Good to hear,” he said, reaching over to cinch its straps a little more tightly. “Hey, nice haircut.”

  “Like it?” The last time Franc had seen Hoffman, he was still sporting a scalplock. The braid was gone now, replaced by an early-twentieth-century hairstyle: sides and back trimmed close, slightly longer on top, neatly parted on the left. “I got it from a picture of Charles Lindbergh,” he said, running a hand through the bristles on the nape of his neck. “Think I’ll pass?”

  “Sure. You look fine.” This expedition was going to be Hoffman’s first, and he was understandably self-conscious about his appearance. “Don’t worry about it,” Franc added. “So long as you keep a low profile, nobody’ll notice. Is Vasili in the control room?”

  “He’s waiting for you.” Then he dropped his voice. “What’s going on? I hear you and Lea had a meeting with Sanchez.”

  “Just the usual. Nothing to be concerned about.” Franc didn’t like lying to a member of his team, but he didn’t want to make Hoffman any more nervous than he already was. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a library fiche. “Here,” he said, handing the wafer to the mission specialist, “do me a favor and load this into the pedestal. Historical appendices for the twentieth century.”

  “No problem.” Pulling himself along a rope, Hoffman floated through the open hatch into the narrow passageway. Franc fell in behind him and waited until Hoffman entered the monitor room at the far end of the corridor before he entered the open hatch on the right.

  Oberon’s control room was a wedge-shaped compartment, its longest wall dominated by a horseshoe-shaped console. Some of the screens displayed diagrams and rapidly changing text, while others showed only test patterns. Service panels gaped open on the floor and ceiling, exposing densely packed nanocircuitry and bundled wiring. Through the single rectangular porthole above the console, he saw a space worker hovering just outside.

  Vasili Metz was seated in the pilot’s seat, his head and shoulders thrust beneath the console. “Hello, Dr. Lu,” he said, not looking up. “You’ve seen Sanchez, I take it.”

  “We met with him a couple of hours ago.” Pushing himself over to the chair, Franc grasped the seatback and let his feet dangle in the air. “He told us about the Miranda. They say they spotted an angel.”

  “Yep. That’s what I’ve heard from Brech.” Beneath the console, Metz’s penlight moved back and forth. “It was only for a couple of seconds, but Hans mentioned it in his reports, and I’ve spoken with him about it. Did Paolo give you my recommendation?”

  “Yes, he did. We discussed it for a while, and decided to proceed with the C120-37.”

  Metz said nothing. Franc waited patiently until the pilot finally backed out from beneath the console and sat up straight in his chair. “You know,” he said at last, “I should be surprised, but I’m not. Figures you’d ignore this.”

  “I’m not ignoring anything. I’m just refusing to be deterred by something we can’t explain.”

  “I can’t explain them either.” Metz clicked off the penlight, shoved it in the breast pocket of his jumpsuit. “I just know that they show up when something’s about to go wrong.”

  Franc knew all about angels. They had bee
n spotted during two previous CRC expeditions: luminescent, vaguely man-shaped apparitions that suddenly appeared in the close vicinity of timeships, then winked out of sight just as quickly as they had appeared. Each time, only CRC historians or pilots had seen them; they never appeared when locals were present. Although no one knew what they were, several theories had been advanced to explain the sightings, the most popular being that they themselves were chrononauts, yet from farther up the timestream. They had never directly interfered with an expedition or caused any historical disturbances, but timeship pilots in particular regarded them as harbingers of misfortune. This fear wasn’t entirely unwarranted; the first time an angel had been spotted, it was during the C119-64, when a historian had been lost during the Battle of Gettysburg, and the second sighting was during the C220-63, when two researchers had been inadvertently photographed by contemporary bystanders in Dealy Plaza during the Kennedy assassination.

  “But nothing went wrong during the C314-65, did it?” Franc asked. “The Miranda came home safely, right? No mishaps, no paradoxes?” Metz reluctantly nodded. “Then don’t worry about it. Whatever these things are, it’s nothing we should worry about.”

  Metz seemed unconvinced. “I still don’t like it. It’s a bad omen.…”

  “We can always find another pilot, if it makes you that nervous.”

  Franc tried not to sound too hopeful, but Metz shook his head. “No time to train another pilot. Miranda launches at 1800 hours, and Oberon follows at 0600 tomorrow.” He glanced toward the passageway. “Speaking of which, where’s Lea?”

  “Up at Artifacts Division, making sure our outfits are ready.” Franc gazed around the control room. “Is this tub going to be flightworthy by tomorrow morning?”

  “Routine maintenance. I always tear Oberon apart before we make a trip.” He scowled as he pulled an electric screwdriver from his tool belt. “And don’t call my ship a tub,” he added. “She’ll get us there and back, so treat her with a little respect.”

  “Right. Sorry.” One more reason he didn’t much care for Metz: he got along better with machines than people. Franc released the seatback, turned toward the door. “All right, then. I’ll see you at 0500 for the prelaunch briefing.”