Killing Time (28 page)

"Malcolm, I wonder if you
realize the language you're using. And if it doesn't suggest something to
you." He didn't answer, which I took as a sign that he was willing to
listen to what I had to say. "You talk of 'engineering the past,' " I
went on. "Don't those words strike you as awfully loaded, given your
personal history? I don't doubt that you'd like to change the present that was
'handed' to you—you have every conceivable reason. But you need to hear
this—" I stood up and walked to him. "You can use the tools your
father developed to try to destroy the world he helped build. You can bury
society in confusion, deceive the public into believing your version of
history, even watch people and cities be destroyed, and you can tell yourself
all the while that it's a necessary and noble crusade. But in the end you're
still going to be the man you are—you're still going to be ill, you're still
going to need those crutches and that chair, and you're still going to be
consumed by heartbreak and anger. You don't want to change
the
past,
Malcolm—you want to change
your
past."

For several long minutes neither
of us spoke; then Malcolm's glittering eyes went narrow and he nodded once or
twice, making his way back to his chair. He got himself into it slowly, then
looked up at me and asked:

"Do you have anything to
offer, Gideon, other than the utterly obvious?"

Insults from patients with
grandiose delusions were certainly nothing new to me; but this one, I must
admit, stung. "Can you really call it obvious," I answered, trying to
sound unfazed, "and still go on with what you're doing?"

He let out a disdainful hiss.
"Gideon," he said, shaking his head in evident disappointment.
"Do you imagine I haven't been over all this? And through the kinds of
programs you're suggesting? In my youth I tried them all: psychotherapy,
electroshock, drug treatments, everything—with the exception of further gene
therapy, of course, which I think I can be excused for ruling out. And yes, I
learned what drives me, how deep the anger inside me runs, how personal as well
as philosophical my motives are. But in the end I'll say to you what I said to
every doctor I saw." Some of the manic gleam went out of his eyes, to be
replaced by undiluted sadness. "It doesn't really change anything, does
it?"

"Doesn't really change
anything?" I echoed in astonishment. "My God, Malcolm, if you know
that you're acting out of personal prejudices and unresolved feelings—"

"Oh, they're
resolved,
Gideon,"
he answered. "I'm
resolved
that I hate the world that my father and
his kind built—a world where men and women tamper with the genetic structure of
their children simply to improve their intelligence quotients so that they can
grow up to devise better and more convenient ways to satisfy the public's petty
appetites. A world where intelligence is measured by the ability to amass
information that has no context or purpose save its own propagation but is
nonetheless serviced slavishly by humanity. And do you know the hard truth of
why information has come to dominate our species, Gideon? Because the human
brain
adores
it—it plays with the bits of information it receives,
arranging them and storing them like a delighted child. But it loathes
examining them deeply, doing the hard work of assembling them into integrated
systems of understanding. Yet that work is what produces knowledge, Gideon.
The rest is simply—
recreation."

"And how," I asked,
making no attempt to hide my weariness with his tirade, "does this relate
to your awareness of your personal motivations?"

Again shaking his head, he
replied, "Gideon—these
are
my personal motivations now. I
understand that you think I need treatment, but I've traveled that road—and shall
I tell you something? It's led directly back to the point where it started.
Admittedly, having made the trip, one knows just where that point is and what
surrounds it. But one is still there. So what do you want people to do,
Gideon, when they discover their personal motivations? Abdicate? Stop playing a
role in the world? What person in history was not driven by his own personal
motivations? And how could there have been any development without those
drives?"

"That's not the point,"
I countered. "If you're genuinely self-aware, then your behavior can
change."

"Ah, the mantra of the
psychologist!" Malcolm's voice was rising disturbingly. "Yes, Gideon,
it can indeed change, but change to what? Shall we be Christlike and turn the
other cheek to avarice, exploitation, and ruination? Shall we watch the world
burn down because we fear that our motives might not be strictly impersonal? I
tell you, I'd hurl myself into that sea first! Because you're not talking about
change, Gideon — you're talking about paralysis!"

"No," I said, "I'm
talking about addressing those problems in ways that don't end up killing
millions of people."

"I did not destroy that
city!"
he shouted, and by the way his body had begun to tremble I
could see trouble coming; yet, much as it shames me to admit it, I was too
appalled by what he was saying to do anything about it. "I didn't train
Dov Eshkol," he went on, "and I didn't turn him loose on the world.
Nor did I create a society so obsessed with commerce that it refuses to
effectively regulate even the most dangerous forms of trade! But I'll tell you
what I
did
do. I suffered through a set of experiences that gave me a
unique perspective from which to view — and perhaps affect — that same
society. Should I refuse to do so because my motives have a personal dimension
that worries people like you? Take my advice, Gideon — worry about the purity
of your own motives, and let mine be." He spun his chair around toward the
window, raising one fist. "I know why I am what I am — but I will not let
those who made me this way enjoy the final triumph of my acquiescence in their
effort to make the world a massive
hive,
one in which human beings play
with information endlessly for the profit of hidden masters — and in the
process learn
nothing."

Far more than the conversation,
it seemed to me, had ended with that last fateful word. I offered no argument,
for there was no point in arguing with such profound psychosis. Some of what
he'd said was doubtless true, though I couldn't say how much. All I knew for
certain were the same two things I'd been sure of when I'd entered the room:
that I could no longer stay on that island or participate in Malcolm's
schemes, and that when I left I wanted Larissa to go with me. My uneasiness
about telling Malcolm these things had vanished in the face of his mad
monologue, and I blurted it all out in a fairly arch manner; yet as soon as I
did, his features began to draw into an expression of defiant threat that made
me regret my boldness.

"I'm not sure I like the
idea of you roaming loose, Gideon," he said in a measured tone, "now
that you know all our secrets. And do you honestly think that Larissa would go
with you?"

"If you didn't stand in her
way," I replied, as bravely as I could. "And as far as your secrets
go, what are you worried about? I'm a criminal, remember, I'm in no rush to go
to any authorities. And even if I was, who in the world would believe me?"

Malcolm cocked his head,
considering it. "Perhaps ..."

Suddenly he sucked in a rush of
air, and his hands fairly flew to his temples. I made a move to help him, but
he waved me off. "No!" he said, gritting his teeth and fumbling in
his pocket for his injector. "No, Gideon. This—is no longer your affair.
Take your tender conscience—and leave—now!"

What was there to do but comply?
Farewells would have been inappropriate, even grotesque, in light of all we'd
been through and said to each other. I simply crossed over to the door and
opened it, all anger gone, all compassion numbed. As I stepped out I turned
once, to see Malcolm sitting there, huddled with the injector at a vein in his
hand, murmuring something to himself through his still-clenched teeth.

I found myself thinking that it
was a pity that all his talk of time travel had been so obviously delusional;
for when all was said and done there really was very little in the present for
such a man.

My only remaining quandary was
how much to tell the others about my conversation (if conversation it could be
called) with Malcolm. I knew that all of them were immensely loyal to him,
though each in a different way, and it was not my purpose to tamper with those
relationships. But they had a right to know that his behavior and statements
had been such as to make me question his sanity, and so I asked them to join me
in my quarters, which they did at sunset. As I related my tale, I sat in the
bay window that looked out over the little cove, the omnipresent flocks of
seabirds keeping up a chatter during their evening feed that made it difficult
for me to speak in the hushed tone that I could not help but feel the situation
warranted. I tried not to be biased in my explanation, but I also tried to be
frank and complete, stressing Malcolm's consistent refusal to accept any
responsibility for the Moscow disaster and detailing in full his apparently
genuine belief that he would soon be able to travel through time.

"Did he happen to say,"
Eli remarked, looking, to my surprise and dismay, very intrigued, "whose
configuration he's emulating?"

I had to shake my head hard.
«What?»

"Was it Gödel?" Eli
went on. "Kerr? Or Thorne maybe?"

"Not
Thorne"
Jonah
said dismissively. "Even Malcolm doesn't have the power to create a
wormhole
in his lab—"

"Eli? Jonah?" I was a
bit dismayed and let it show. "You're not going to do any good by humoring
him about this. It's a fantasy, and a potentially dangerous one, based in a lot
of old and new psychological trauma—"

"Do you
know
that?"
The tone was Malcolm's, but the voice belonged to Larissa. She was sitting
near me but looking away, deep concern all over her face; she seemed to have
known from the moment I'd begun speaking that she would shortly face a crisis
of her own.

"If you do, Gideon,"
Julien threw in, "then you know more than many brilliant minds who have
studied the subject for generations."

"Listen, I've read Einstein
and Hawking," I countered. Then I added, with some embarrassment,
"Well, I've read Einstein, anyway. But I've read
about
Hawking. And
both said that the paradoxes inherent in the idea of time travel forbid it as
a physical possibility."

"They forbid one
type
of
it," Eli countered, adding, in terminology that matched Malcolm's,
"closed timelike curves. But there are other ways to move through time,
though they're not particularly appealing—"

"I
think,"
Colonel
Slayton said firmly, "that this is perhaps not the moment for an academic
discussion of time travel." He eyed me sternly. "Gideon, I'm sorry to
have to say this, but you
could
be seen as having personal reasons for
calling Malcolm's judgment into question. You're aware of that, I trust—and
aware of the fact that
we're
aware of it."

Julien, Eli, and Jonah looked
away in evident discomfort; Larissa, however, moved closer to me. "That
statement's a little out of line, isn't it, Colonel?" she said.
"Gideon's never done anything to warrant suspicion—or disrespect."

"Gideon is fully aware of
the respect I have for him, Larissa," Slayton replied. "But he also
knows that I have to ask."

I nodded to Larissa, indicating
that what the colonel had said was true but trying at the same time to silently
thank her for coming to my defense. "I understand, Colonel," I said.
"But believe me, no personal interest would ever make me misrepresent
something like this. It's not just that it would be unethical—I've considered
Malcolm a friend. And it's friendship that's making me warn you about this.
There's nothing more I can do. I told him I can't participate in this undertaking
anymore, and after a rather dicey moment he agreed that I should depart. So it
won't be up to me to deal with the question of his mental health. But I had to
tell you that in my opinion it needs dealing with—badly."

Colonel Slayton took this all in
with a slow nod and a look that was, for him, very close to being emotional.
Julien and the Kupermans, on the other hand, were quite openly saddened.
"But," Eli said eventually, "where will you go, Gideon?"

I glanced at Larissa, who did not
return the look. "I haven't really decided."

"There will be warrants out
for you," Slayton advised. "The U.S. is certainly out of the
question, and Europe will be dangerous, too."

"I know." For the first
time since I had started to anguish morally over my participation in Malcolm's
enterprise, I began to realistically consider leaving these people with whom I
had shared so much in such a compressed time; and it tugged at me hard. "I
suppose I'll head south," I went on, turning away from them. "Try to
find someplace where no one's paying attention to any of this." I
attempted to rally and smile. "If anybody feels like coming along, I
wouldn't say no."

Slayton, Julien, and the
Kupermans tried to return my halfhearted smile, but with as little success as
I was enjoying: the moment had arrived for good-byes, and we all knew it.
Slayton was the first to approach me, his strong hand extended. "One of us
will get you over to Scotland in the jetcopter, Gideon. We've got an emergency
reserve of various currencies, you can dip into that. And you'll want some
alternate identity documents and discs. But be careful— we can adjust them to
match your DNA for the average reader, but if anyone runs one through the
universal database, you'll be in trouble. You'd better have a couple of
sidearms, as well."