The Whenabouts of Burr (15 page)

“Now to get to your problem,” Franklin said. “Come look at this.” He led the way across the room to the farthest table and waved his hand at a modest tangled ball of wires, tubes, coils, pipes, ceramic doodads, and carefully-carved ivory whatnots that occupied one end.

“Beautiful,” Swift said appreciatively. “What does it do?”

“This apparatus is an Intertemporal Translator,” Franklin said. “It moves objects from here to there; or perhaps from now to then. What can one say about a device which travels sideways through time?”

“You invented this?” Swift asked.

Franklin shook his head. “A great-grandson of mine manufactures them in a different time-line, but I don't even know how it works. I've got this one set up here to try and discover that very thing: how it works, what it is capable of doing; for that matter, what powers it. All mysteries. But we make some slow progress. Mostly in the sphere of what the device is capable of doing. What natural law it operates by and where it draws its power— if it uses power—are still unanswered questions, at least by this investigator.”

The young girl who had served in the common room opened the door of the workroom and backed in, carrying a pewter tray of bread, sausage, cheese, and a pitcher of ale. She set these down on the near table, producing two mugs from under her arms and wiping them off with a towel before setting them down. Then she curtsied and left. “Good girl, Maryanne,” Franklin said, filling the two mugs. “Teaching her to read. There are those who don't hold with teaching a girl to read, but I ain't one of them.”

Swift, who had been regretting the missed opportunity of eating in the common room, constructed himself a large sandwich and began to eat. “The Constitution,” he reminded Franklin, “and the Intertemporal Translator.”

“Yes,” Franklin said. “Let me organize my thoughts.” He closed his eyes, pursed his lips and his hands created universes in the thin air. Then his eyes opened. “I shall show you.” He scrabbled about the table, picking up and discarding various small objects, before finally settling on a stone beetle about the size of a thumbnail. “Scarab,” he said. “Sacred to the Egyptians. Given me by a Frenchman, who found it in a tomb. Says it's over three thousand years old. It'll do.”

He fastened the scarab into the apparatus on the table. “This is an alternate use, you see,” he said. “The way it's usually set up—the way this one was set up when I found it—it's built into something that's quite old, quite large, quite solid. It then somehow sends whoever uses it to the identical base object in another time line.”

“Even if the base object is no longer in the same location?” Swift asked.

“Apparently,” Franklin said. “As you should know, judging by your instantaneous trip across country when you translated with Hamilton. The important thing is that the two objects be identical; it doesn't seem to matter where they are. Now, what I have done is to alter the operation so that instead of sending us from object to object, it will change object for object, from another time to this. Here, watch.” Franklin touched the switch on his apparatus…

…and nothing happened. The scarab remained where it was, and changed not a scale.

“It didn't work,” Swift said, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt. For a second he could see possibilities that would have explained—

“Of course it worked,” Franklin insisted. “How do you expect to be able to tell when two identical objects changed place?”

“Well, how do you know it happened?” Swift demanded.

“Easy to prove,” Franklin said. “Wait a few minutes—the machine seems to have a short recycling time before it will work again.”

Swift ate his sandwich and drank his beer and tried to moderate his impatience.

“Long enough,” Franklin finally said, after what was certainly long enough. “Now watch!” He took a wooden mallet from a peg on the wall and brought it down squarely on the tiny scarab. The beetle shattered into sufficient fragments to destroy whatever identity it had held. There was nothing to show, now, that it ever had been aught but a pile of stones and a mound of dust.

“What does that prove?” Swift asked, shocked by the sudden destruction.

“Patience,” Franklin said, setting the mallet back on its peg. He touched the switch again…

…and the scarab was restored.

Swift stared at it. He picked it up and examined it closely. “It looks identical,” he said.

“Better than that,” Franklin said, “it is identical. It is the same, unique object. Somewhere in another time-line, in some tomb by the Nile, or in some Egyptologist's glass-topped case, is a small mound of fragments that were a few seconds ago a stone scarab.”

“Hah!” Swift said.

“Do you see?”

“What?” asked Swift.

“That's how your Constitution was stolen,” Franklin said triumphantly. “That's why an alternate copy, which tested genuine except for the, eh, discrepancy in autographs, was left. It must be the identical parchment on which your Constitution was inscribed. It just carried along that tiny bit of different ink when the switch was made.”

“Hah!” Swift repeated. “It sounds good. Yes, I like it. I believe it. But then, why? Who would want to exchange our real Constitution for another real Constitution? It makes no more sense now than it did before I understood how it was done.”

“That may be,” Franklin said, “but at least it considerably shrinks your list of suspects. It almost had to be someone from Prime Time. No one else would have known how to use the It for such a purpose, or had a spare one at his disposal.”

“You have one,” Swift pointed out.

“Yes, that's true. But I am unique,” Franklin said. “And I certainly didn't manipulate any copies of the Constitution of the United States.”

Swift, deep in thought, finished his second sandwich. “I must go to Prime Time,” he said, cleaning up the crumbs with the large square of linen provided.

“Of course, my boy,” Franklin said, eyeing the remains of the food tray. “Would you like me to pack you a box lunch?”

“You mean it's that easy?” Swift asked.

“Of course, now that you're here,” Franklin told him. “We have an It connection through to Prime Time, right here in Manhattan. Whenever you're ready to go, just speak.”

“Well,” Swift said. “I see. Um. Is there anything I should know? I mean, is there anything you can tell me about Prime Time, or its citizens, that I would find helpful?”

“What sort of things?” Franklin asked.

“Well, for example: what about capital crimes? Do they put you to death for spitting in the street, or daring to look in the face of an unmarried woman? Is it against the law to go down Main Street without your roller skates on? Do the people regard an unbearded male as an offense against nature? Things like that.”

“Sensible information to request,” Franklin agreed. “Let's see what I can tell you.

“The people are so diverse, so unstructured, and so blase, that almost any mode of dress or pattern of conduct that is not physically harmful will be inoffensive to them. Their major flaw, as far as I'm concerned, is that they really don't give a damn about anybody else. To the extent that it means that they're not nosy, and don't pry into your business, that's an excellent quality; but when it means they'll casually stroll by the spot where you're sinking in quicksand without sticking out a hand to help, I think it's a pernicious custom.”

“But unharmful as long as I keep away from the quicksand,” Swift said.

“I think it will eventually destroy their society,” Franklin said. “But so long as the breakup doesn't occur while you're there, it should be harmless to you. That is true.”

“I'll have to suppress any philosophical objections until after I find the Constitution,” Swift said.

“The man with the mission,” Franklin said. “Very fine. I approve.”

“I should like to sleep in a bed tonight, after a week on the berth in that coach. And tomorrow I shall go onward to Prime Time.”

“My inn is yours while you're here,” Franklin said. “Go off now and tell Maryanne to give you room six, and get some sleep. See me before you leave tomorrow; I might have some notions to talk over with you.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The toga'd gentleman looked puzzled, but the muzzle of his gun persisted in pointing toward Ves's midsection. “Where did you come from,” he insisted, “and why are you dressed like that?”

“Make it good,” Tatiana Petrovna whispered to Ves, with her body turned away from the Roman couple.

“We came from around the corner,” Ves told the couple, indicating the curve of the observation tower off to the left. “Can't you get us out of here?” he whispered to the countess.

“Not for ten or fifteen minutes,” she murmured, “then it has to recycle. Keep talking.”

“Around the corner?” the man demanded. “Why are you dressed like that? Aren't you part of the tour?”

“The tour?” Ves asked. “Which tour is that?”

The man shook his head. “Evidently you're not,” he deduced.

The bare-breasted young lady pulled at the Roman gentleman's arm. “Come on, Harry,” she said. “We've got to get all the passengers checked in.”

The man shook his head. “They might be dergs,” he said. It sounded like “dergs.”

“They're not dergs,” the woman said. “Look at them. Come on now, we have to hurry—the dergs are probably halfway up the stairs.”

“We never should have come,” the man said. “I told them it was a poor idea. I don't know what to do.” He looked at the woman, appealing for help.

“I don't know,” she said. “And I really don't care what you do, but do something. We have to get the group boarded and out of here.”

“Damn,” the man said with feeling. “Look,” he waved the pistol at Ves. “What are you two doing here?”

“We were trying to get away from the dergs,” Ves said calmly. “There was nowhere else to go.”

“Ah,” the man said. “Then you're not dergs?”

“I assure you,” the countess said, “we are not.”

“Look at them,” the Roman lady said. “Now let's get busy. They're not dergs. We have a ship to load.”

“You're right,” the man said. “You must have an interesting story,” he told Ves. “We must talk later.”

“Indeed we must,” Ves agreed.

“Come on, Harry,” the lady said. And she pulled him away, around the bend of the observation tower.

“Dergs?” Ves said.

The countess shrugged. “A totally different world; I've never been here before. Ship?”

“How does that happen?” Ves asked. “The totally different worlds, I mean.”

“I can tell you
what
happens,” the countess said. “But as to how—that can only be expressed mathematically, and I don't speak the language.”

“Can we go yet?” Ves asked. “The dergs, whatever they are, are getting closer.”

“Patience,” the countess said. “If I push the button too soon it will drain off all the charge being accumulated, and we'll have to wait all over again.”

“How did we get here?” Ves asked.

“It's the drift of the parallel worlds,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “As new ones are formed by decision points, the old ones get further apart and their rate of progress through the time stream changes. Occasionally two get far enough apart so that one, which couldn't be reached before, appears between them when you use the Translator.”

“I don't understand that at all,” Ves said.

“Regardless, we are here,” the countess said. “Relax and enjoy it.”

“Let's hope our stay here is brief,” Ves said, flopping onto the wooden bench along the inner wall. “I'd just as soon never find out what a derg is.”

“The dergs,” a high-pitched voice beside him said, “are black and have legs.” Ves jerked around to find a solemn-faced small child in a toga staring at him. The child raced off, his sandals flapping on the tile.

“A great exit line!” Ves called after the child, as he disappeared around the bend.

“Another few minutes and we can try,” the countess said reassuringly. She sat down, unzipped her boots, and pulled them off, revealing a pair of bright red socks. “Must let my feet breathe for a minute,” she said. “Take care of your feet and your feet will take care of you.”

A woman with long blonde hair, wearing a classical Cretan dress, came running around the corner. “Have you seen a five-year-old boy come by here?” she asked.

“He went that way,” Ves said, pointing.

“That boy could get lost in an empty set,” the woman stated, heading off toward where Ves had pointed. A few moments later she came back through, with the boy in tow.

“I think we can try it just about now,” the countess said, wiggling her feet one last time and pulling her boots back on. “You realize the calibration control is meaningless from this location, so I have no idea where we'll end up.”

“Do you want to wait for the dergs?” Ves asked, shrugging his approval.

“I was just informing you.” Tatiana Petrovna went back to the concealed niche in the wall and opened it.

“Here now,” the Roman with the gun said, coming back around the corner, “what do you think you're doing?”

“Just getting a drink of water,” Ves said at random. “Don't mind us. Go on with your tour.”

“We can't have that, you know,” the Roman said. “Close that now!”

Tatiana Petrovna hesitated for a moment, then swung the little hatch closed.

“That's right,” the man said, “now come along with me. Time is getting short, you know. The dergs are due! Come along, now!” He waved them along with his automatic in a friendly manner.

“Great,” Ves murmured to the countess. “A tour guide with a gun. Where the hell does he think he's taking us?” A sudden burst of thunderous sound reverberated through the closed room. Ves swung around to see the Roman putting the automatic back in his belt. A great hole was now blasted in the concealed panel to the It. The panel swung open, and little bits and pieces of the device fell out onto the floor.

“Swell,” Ves muttered. “I wonder what he thought he was doing.”

“This may present a problem,” the countess said, looking thoughtful.

The Roman trotted past them. “Come along,” he said. “There's nothing here for us.”

Ves and the countess followed him around the curve of the observation tower and there ahead of them—on the hundred and fifth floor of the Empire State Building—was the ship: a giant, silver, cigar-shaped dirigible, hundreds of meters long, swinging gondolas the size of ballrooms hung tight against the taut silver belly. The dirigible's nose was moored to the tower somewhere above them, and from a door in the observation room a flexible tube led to a corridor inside the body of the ship.

The man waited by the door. “Go on, go on,” he urged. “You are the last”

Tatiana Petrovna shrugged. “Might as well, now,” she said. They entered the tube, which was formed of ropes, with aluminum rods for flooring and fabric walls as thin as sausage skins. The aluminum framework corridor inside the dirigible, between the giant gas bags, seemed positively substantial by comparison.

After walking for longer than seemed reasonable, they came to the first ladderway down: straight down, with a sign beside it that said BRIDGE & OFFICERS' QRTRS RESTRICTED.

A bit beyond that was the next one, marked CREW ONLY. Then the third, which was marked FORWARD ENGINE ROOM—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

About ten meters further came a spiral staircase, with velvet-covered handrails, labeled FIRST CLASS CABINS AND LOUNGES. “Are we first class?” Ves asked the countess.

“Are we not?” she demanded, and started down the stairs.

They went past two corridors of staterooms before coming to a lounge. The few people they met in the corridors, mostly dressed in Roman garb, treated them with total lack of interest. Given the circumstances, they could only be grateful.

The couches in the lounge were arranged so that you could stare out the portholes, which were angled down for a better view, while sitting comfortably next to your neighbor. Tatiana Petrovna and Amerigo Vespucci settled in a corner of the lounge and watched Manhattan Island recede beneath them. “What do we do now?” Ves asked.

“Humorous,” the countess said. “I was about to ask you the same question. You realize what has happened?”

“What do you mean?” Ves asked.

“The destruction of the It,” she said.

“We'll just have to wait until we can get away from these people and find another one,” Ves said. “Avoiding the dergs.”

“I don't know if we can,” she said. “Remember, I told you this world just became accessible to the It. In effect, as far as intertemporal travel is concerned, it just came into existence. There may not be any other Its here yet. It may have come into existence for the It we just used and for no other.”

“Does that happen?” Ves asked.

“I think so. Remember, my group just rides on the coattails of the Primes; we don't know all the rules yet. But I've heard stories.”

“Wonderful,” Ves said. “I wonder how Nate is making out. Does that mean we're stranded here for good?”

“I wouldn't think so,” the countess said. “As soon as the potential for coming here exists at the other Its, Primes or others will arrive here by accident, as we did. They will probably leave immediately, but the device will have been established. In another year or so we should be able to locate another It if we persevere. Yes, I should say definitely within a year or two.”

“Wonderful,” Ves said. “If we don't get eaten by dergs.”

“What
are
dergs?” the countess asked.

“I asked you first,” Ves said. “What are dergs, and who are these people? What sort of an alternate track are we on?”

“Do you mean that philosophically, my friends,” a rough, gravelly voice behind them inquired, “or is it an actual request for information?” They turned to look. A short man dressed all in black came down the aisle toward them. He had dark, piercing eyes under heavy brows, and a look of great intelligence and compassion. “Welcome aboard the
Titanic
” he continued, “I was told you were here.”

“The
Titanic
?” Ves couldn't help asking.

“True,” the man said. “Her name is wrote large across her prow. One of the Prime Exploration Fleet. Sister ship to the P.E.F.S.
Mary Celeste
, the
Morro Castle
, the
Kichemaru
, the
Lusitania
, the
Normandie
, the
Andrea
Doria
; is that ten?”

“No,” Ves said. “Eight, I think—no, seven.”

“Well, at any rate, there are ten of them. Beautiful ships, if you're partial to aircraft. Again: welcome aboard.” The man waved a hand about loosely. He was wearing a black suit with tight trousers that tucked into high strapped boots, and a jacket with many buttons up the front and a short split tail. His shirt was blue, fringed with lace, and closed at the soft collar with a black string tie. The effect was of sartorial elegance, in an unpressed sort of way.

“I've come to find out about you,” the man said, “and to answer your questions, if any; a fair exchange, you must admit.”

“I'm Ves Romero,” Ves said, “and this is the Countess Tatiana Petrovna Obrian. We are your welcome guests. What are dergs?”

“Little mindless beasts wearing flat tin helmets,” the man said. “And that's about all we know, except that they kill people. Why, we haven't figured out yet.”

The man sat down facing them. “My name is Colonel Burr, and I'm in charge of this expedition—which is on its way home now with all deliberate speed. You are, of course, welcome to come with us; any other choice would be unthinkable considering the circumstances. Did you enter this world through the Translator on the observation tower? Would you like a cold drink, or coffee or tea, perhaps?”

“Coffee,” Tatiana Petrovna said. “I am very partial to coffee. With cream and sugar, and perhaps the slightest taste of cognac.”

“My pleasure, Countess,” Colonel Burr said. He pushed a small red button over one of the portholes and a steward came scurrying in, his footsteps muted, on the red carpet “Coffee, Wagner, and cognac. A rum toddy for me, and whatever this gentleman wishes.”

The steward looked expectantly at Ves. “Hem,” Ves said. “Er, coffee would be fine. Just coffee. With milk.”

“Very good, sir,” the steward said, and he padded from the lounge on silent feet. He appeared, Ves noted, to be wearing slippers.

“A tradition of the dirigible service,” Colonel Burr said before Ves had a chance to ask. “Felt slippers. Lessens the chance of a spark. Hydrogen is very flammable.”

“Tell me,” the countess said. “If you know about the Intertemporal Translator, then why did you destroy it?”

“To prevent the dergs from using it, of course,” Colonel Burr explained.

“Do the dirigibles use helium now?” Ves asked.

“Afraid not,” Colonel Burr said. “For a variety of reasons. It would require effort on the part of the Primes, which they're not willing to expend. That's the main one. The hydrogen does give us ten percent greater lift, and I assure you it's perfectly safe as long as you're not careless with bombs or blowtorches.”

“You're Prime!” the countess yelled as the realization hit her. “Thank God!” She threw her arms around the little Colonel and kissed him on both cheeks. He didn't appear in the least embarrassed, but clearly enjoyed the demonstration.

“I do apologize,” Colonel Burr said when the countess released him. “I thought you knew, of course, or I certainly would have mentioned it. The
Titanic
is a Prime ship. The name is their sort of humor. The ship's captain, Captain Herrington, and most of his officers are Prime. I myself, and most of my men, are expatriates, or refugees if you prefer.”