Chronospace (3 page)

Thinking about their destination, Franc reached to the comp in the seatback in front of him. He ran his forefinger across the index, and the panel changed to display a forward view. Now he could see what the pilots saw from the cockpit: a cruciform-shaped station, each arm comprised of five cylindrical modules, with two spherical spacedocks located at opposite ends of its elongated central core. Within the rectangular bay of the closer dock, Franc could make out tiny spacecraft, while others hovered in parking orbit nearby.

Out of curiosity, Franc touched his finger against the image of the spacedock farther away from the shuttle. As the shuttle completed an orbit around the station, for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a small, saucer-shaped craft nestled within the hangar bays. Then, just as he expected, the scene was blotted out by a graphic inverted triangle.

*** CLASSIFIED ** CLASSIFIED ***
REMOTE IMAGING NOT
PERMITTED
CRC 103-B
*DOWN*

The screen wiped clean, to be replaced by the original index bar. “
Verdammt,
” Franc murmured in disgust. It was at times like this when the gentlemen in Security Division took their work a little too seriously. As if no one aboard a CRC shuttle had ever seen a timeship before . . .

Lea chuckled. “You’re getting better with your explicatives.”

“Cut it out.” He cast her a warning look. “I’ve been studying as hard as I can, and you know it.”

Closing her eyes, she laid her head back against the seat.
“I just hope you’ve learned your history better than your German. You’re going to need it.”

Franc opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it. There was no sense in arguing with Lea when she was in one of her moods. So he tried to relax, but after a moment he touched the comp again, and passed the remaining minutes of the flight watching the shuttle complete its primary approach.

As the spacedock filled the screen, he reflected that Chronos Station was just over a kilometer in length. It wasn’t very large, at least in comparison to some of the colonies in Lagrange orbit, yet it was amazing to think that, almost three hundred years ago, airships nearly this same size had been built—and actually flown!—on Earth.

Franc smiled to himself. In just two days, they would see the
Hindenburg.
Then he’d offer Lea a pfennig for
her
thoughts.

L
ike so many physicists, David Zachary Murphy had fallen in love with science by reading science fiction.

His love affair began when he was ten years old and saw
Star Trek
on TV. That sent him straight to his elementary-school library, where in turn he discovered, tucked in among more conventional fare like
The Wind in the Willows
and
Johnny Tremain,
a half dozen lesser-known books:
Rocket Ship Galileo, Attack from Atlantis, Islands in the Sky,
and the Lucky Starr series by someone named Paul French. He read everything in a few weeks, then reread them a couple more times, before finally bicycling to a nearby branch library, where he found more sophisticated fare:
I, Robot; Double Star; Needle in a Timestack; Way Station;
and other classics of the genre.

By the time David Murphy reached the sixth grade, not only was he reading at college freshman level, but he was also taking a sharp interest in science, so much so that he regularly confounded his teachers by asking questions they couldn’t answer, such as the definition of a parsec. For Christmas, his bemused yet proud parents gave him a hobby telescope; when he caught a flu after spending one
too many winter evenings in the backyard, his mother brought back from the neighborhood drugstore, along with Robitussin and orange juice, a magazine she happened to spot on the rack just below the new issue of
Look:
the January, 1969, issue of
Analog.
It seemed to be just the sort of thing her strange young son would like, and it might help keep him in bed.

David recovered from the flu two days later, but he faked sick for another school day so he could finish reading every story in the magazine. One of them was the first installment of a three-part serial by Gordon R. Dickson,
Wolfling;
for the next two weeks, he haunted the pharmacy newsstand until the February issue finally appeared. Not only did it have the second part of
Wolfling,
but it also contained, as the cover story, a novelette by Anne McCaffrey, “A Womanly Talent.” An insightful observer might have noted, in retrospect, that the lissome young lady depicted in Frank Kelly Freas’s cover painting for this story bore a strong resemblance to the woman David would eventually marry, yet that may have only been a coincidence.

For the next twenty-nine years of his life, David Murphy remained a devoted reader of
Analog,
seldom missing an issue, never disposing of any after he read them. On occasion he picked up some of the other science fiction magazines—
Galaxy, If, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Vertex
—but it was only in
Analog,
in some indescribable way, that he found the sort of thing he liked to read. He went through high school with a copy tucked in among his textbooks—no small matter, for during the seventies it was far more socially acceptable to smoke pot than to be caught reading science fiction—and when he was in college and faced a choice between a meal or the latest issue, he would sooner go hungry before passing up on what he called “his
Analog
fix.” After he met Donna during his third semester of his postgrad tenure at Cornell, on the first night she spent with him she was astonished to find a dozen issues of
Analog
beneath the bed of his small apartment.
She was even more amused the first time he took her home to visit his mother for Christmas, and she found boxes upon boxes of science fiction magazines stacked in the attic.

It was during this time, while he was working on his Ph.D. in astrophysics, that David attempted to write science fiction. It didn’t take very long—only a couple of dozen reject slips, garnered not only from
Analog
but also
Asimov’s, Omni,
and
F&SF—
for him to realize that, no matter how much he enjoyed reading SF, he had absolutely no talent for creating it. Not that he couldn’t write at all—in fact, one of his dissertation advisors, no less than the estimable Carl Sagan, often remarked on his innate writing skills—yet the art of fiction was beyond him; his dialogue was tone-deaf, his characters wooden, his plots contrived and reliant upon unlikely coincidences. This wasn’t very heartbreaking; writing was little more than a hobby, and certainly not a passion. Nonetheless, his secret ambition was to have his name appear in the same magazine he had followed since he was a kid. Even after he received his doctorate and was happily married to Donna, with a ten-month-old baby in his arms and a new job at NASA waiting for him, he considered his life to be incomplete until he was published in
Analog.

Then, late one afternoon while sitting out a Beltway traffic jam with nothing but
All Things Considered
on the radio to keep him company, Murphy had a brainstorm. He may not have much talent as a fiction writer, but he wasn’t half-bad at nonfiction. After all, he had already published three articles in major astrophysics journals; it might be possible for him to turn those same skills to writing pop-science articles. Indeed, he knew several working scientists who moonlighted as regular contributors to
Astronomy
and
Discover.
Why couldn’t he do the same with
Analog?

After dinner that evening, Murphy sat down in his study and, very methodically, made a list of ideas for articles he could see himself writing for
Analog.
It was remarkably easy; as a lifelong reader, he had a good grasp of what the
magazine published, and as a NASA researcher he was able to keep up with the latest developments in the space science community.

At the top of the list was “Spacewarp Drives—Are They Possible?” This was followed by “Three Ways to Terraform Mars,” “Biostasis for Interstellar Travel,” “New Space Suit Designs,” “How to Grow Tomatoes on the Moon,” so forth and so on . . . and at the bottom of the list, added almost as an afterthought, was: “UFOs—A Different Explanation (Time Travel).”

Much to his surprise,
Analog
bought his article about spacewarp drives. The check he received for six weeks of part-time work amounted to a little less than half of his weekly take-home pay from NASA, but that wasn’t the point. Nine months later, when the article finally saw print, Murphy blew away the money by getting a baby-sitter to look after Steven and taking Donna to the best five-star restaurant in Georgetown. He proudly showed his advance copy to everyone from the maître’d to the cab driver, and Donna was embarrassed when he got mildly drunk and suggested that they have sex in the ladies room, but it was all worth it. His life was complete. He had been published in
Analog.

Few of his colleagues saw the article. This didn’t surprise Murphy; during the last three years he had learned that all too many NASA employees were civil-service drudges who cared nothing for space and would have gladly gone to work at the Department of Agriculture or the IRS for a few more dollars and a reserved parking space in the garage. Yet a handful of people in the Space Science office were
Analog
readers; they recognized his by-line, and they stopped by his office to offer their compliments. Among them was Harry Cummisky; much to Murphy’s surprise, Harry not only liked the piece, but he also gave him permission to do research during office hours, so long as it didn’t interfere with his work.

That response, along with favorable letters published
several months later in the magazine, was sufficient encouragement to send Murphy back to the keyboard. Over the course of the next four years, he became a semiregular contributor to
Analog.
The checks he received were deposited in Steven’s college fund, but earning a little extra cash wasn’t the major reason why he wrote. Besides the satisfaction of the craft itself, on occasion he found himself exchanging correspondence with science fiction authors who had read his articles and wanted to ask a few questions for stories they were developing. Likewise, his stock at NASA gradually rose. After his article on human biostasis was published, Harry sent him down to Huntsville to lecture on the subject at the Marshall Space Flight Center; a few months later he and his family were invited to Cape Canaveral to watch a shuttle launch from the VIP area. He became regarded within NASA headquarters as a member of the brain trust.

Then he wrote an article linking UFOs to time travel, and that’s when the shit hit the fan.

“This is . . . ah, it’s an intriguing theory.” Roger Ordmann slipped off his wire-frame glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket to clean the lenses. “Rather unorthodox, but intriguing nonetheless.”

“And you have evidence for this?” Kent Morris had his copy of
Analog
open on the boardroom table.

“Well . . . no. But it isn’t a theory.” Murphy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Kind of a thought experiment, really. This is a science fiction magazine, after all. This kind of speculation goes on all the . . .”

“I understand that,” Morris said impatiently, “but here, in your footnotes . . .” He peered at the last page of the article. “You’ve cited a NASA study on wormholes . . .”

“A paper from an academic conference held last spring on interstellar travel. I found it on the Web.”

“I know. I read it after I read your piece.” Morris frowned as he tapped a finger against the magazine. “The paper says nothing about time travel, let alone any
connection with UFOs. You’ve drawn upon it to reach some rather far-fetched conclusions.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy stole a glance at Cummisky. Harry wasn’t looking directly at anyone; his hands were folded together in his lap. He had remained silent so far, offering no comment, and Murphy had gradually come to the realization that Harry’s main concern was covering his own ass. There was no way his boss would rise to his defense.

“They’re far-fetched, I’ll admit,” Murphy said, “but they’re not inappropriate.”

Ordmann looked up sharply, and Morris raised a skeptical eyebrow. Cummisky softly let out his breath. Too late, Murphy realized that he had said the wrong thing. “What I mean is, I don’t think . . .”

“Please.” Ordmann held up a hand. “Perhaps we should back up a little, summarize what we know so far.” He put on his glasses again, picked up his copy of
Analog.
“David, on your own initiative, you’ve written an article for this . . . uh, sci-fi magazine . . . which claims that the UFOs aren’t from another planet, but instead may be time machines.”

“I didn’t make any such claim, sir. I merely speculated that . . .”

“Let me finish, please. Your main point is that, since there’s no feasible way for small spacecraft to cross interstellar distances, and since the star systems most likely to contain planets capable of harboring intelligent life are dozens of light-years from Earth, the only reasonable explanation for UFOs is that they’re vehicles somehow capable of generating wormholes, which in turn would enable their passengers to travel backward in time. Therefore, UFOs may have originated on Earth, but from hundreds of years in the future. That’s the gist of it, right?”