Thrice upon a Time (42 page)

"You sound very sure of yourself," Fennimore commented. "Do you really believe they can do anything like that? How can you, in your position?"

"I have to," Cuthrie said simply. "I've seen them do it."

"Pah! And I've seen some clever conjurors too," Fennimore declared. "And it wouldn't be the first time that one has fooled a panel of reputable scientists. Scientists are good in their own specialties, but they're simply not experienced in detecting deliberate fraud; Nature is often complex, but never dishonest."

"Yes, and the rest," Cuthrie replied. "And Ross isn't one of them. Let's wait and see how you feel about it a couple of hours from now."

Sir Giles Fennimore sat in an armchair in the library at Storbannon, staring with dazed eyes at the things written on the pieces of paper that he had brought with him from the lab. Sawyer, looking equally bemused, was sitting to one side of him while Cuthrie watched impassively from where he was standing with his back to the hearth. Charles, Cartland, and Murdoch looked on from various other points around the room. At last Fennimore looked up and found his voice.

"I still can't believe this," he said, looking at Charles. "You can assure me that this is genuine? It really isn't some kind of trick?"

"You don't have to take my word for it," Charles replied. "Enough of Graham's people have been here and gone through it all." He held up a hand as if to stifle a protest. "I know what you're thinking—good scientists have been taken in before. But aside from that, do you think I'd play cheap tricks at a time like this? If the circumstances were different, then aye, I might be tempted. But with things as they are, I'd hardly stoop to raising any hopes just for the fun of it. In short: Yes, the machine is genuine."

Fennimore looked from Charles to Cartland and then to Murdoch, as if seeking confirmation in their faces. He was even more drawn than when Murdoch had seen him at Burghead, and his eyes seemed to harbor a permanent haunted look. Since the day before his departure to the United States, he had aged ten years.

"That device downstairs really can alter the past?" Fennimore whispered.

"Haven't the trivial things we've shown you proved that?" Charles asked. "We've been doing exactly that for the last two hours."

Fennimore looked down again at the papers in his hand, and cast his mind back over the things he had seen in the lab. By this time he was too weary for further rounds of questions, answers, and reasons. "What is your proposal?" he asked simply.

"Earlier on, we asked you if the vaccine would neutralize a virus that was already resident in the body in its gestating state," Charles answered. "You said that it would."

"That is correct," Fennimore confirmed.

Charles nodded and continued, "Murdoch has proposed a solution to the complete problem—change the whole timeline all the way back to January. He wants complete details of how to prepare the vaccine sent back to then. Then, hopefully, the inhabitants of that universe will be able to take timely action to protect not only the people who are at risk now, in June, but also those who, in this universe, are already victims of the active virus, and therefore incurable."

Fennimore gasped. "
January!
But I thought you said that the machine only had a range of one day. How could you possibly do anything that would affect what happened in January?"

"It's a long story," Cartland came in. "We might as well let you in on a secret: The machine has, we believe, already been used for something similar. We'll tell you all about that later. But to answer your question for now, we already possess a computer program that employs an ingenious method to jump a message as far back as January in one-day hops. In a nutshell, it uses itself as a relay. The program worked before; therefore it can work again."

"It's
already been used
for something like this?" Fennimore stared incredulously. "You mean in connection with this situation?"

"No," Charles replied. "For something entirely different. We can talk about that later, as Ted says. But to do something about the present situation, obviously we will need your help and cooperation."

Fennimore shook his head rapidly. "But… it's outlandish. From the things you said earlier, an action like that could affect all kinds of people's lives radically. Surely you're not suggesting that we—just a handful of individuals making a decision in isolation, without reference to anybody—can take it upon ourselves to change what might turn out to be a large section of the world all the way back to January? How can anybody presume such a right?"

"I'm not proposing that we do," Charles replied. "I agree with what you say. It's for the governments of this world to decide. They need a full-scale, controlled experiment to convince them of the potential of this technology. This could be the perfect opportunity to give them one. But before they'll even go as far as approving such an experiment, they'll need something that will make their minds up for them that it can be of real benefit. It's a vicious circle. The only way to break out of it is to present them with a
fait accompli
and let them draw their conclusions from that. That's what I'm proposing we do here."

"Are you sure that the governments are that deeply involved?" Fennimore asked with a trace of suspicion in his voice.

"Oh, come on!" Cuthrie exclaimed. "What do you think I'm doing here? And didn't you say yourself that it was Lansing who insisted on your coming here?"

Fennimore closed his eyes for a moment, drew a long breath, and then nodded. "Very well. Exactly what kind of
fait accompli
have you in mind? What would it be designed to achieve?"

"A pilot test," Charles answered at once. "I don't want to do anything that would affect January; that exercise should be reserved for the main experiment, and be conducted in such a way that all of the appropriate government leaders and their advisers know about it." He paused. "I just want to go back five days. I've been thinking about the tragic error in California that you told us about, and it seems an ideal candidate for what I have in mind. I want to go back five days and have the bad batch of vaccine intercepted. That in itself, I'm sure you will agree, constitutes a worthwhile objective. But as well as that, I want the value of this pilot test to be endorsed by somebody whose reputation and integrity are beyond question, and whose authority is indisputable. I want
you,
Sir Giles, to be the witness."

Fennimore gaped in undisguised astonishment as what Charles was saying slowly dawned on him:

Charles was offering to wipe away the nightmare that Fennimore had been living for days. One simple message sent from the machine downstairs would be all it would take. For the moment, Fennimore was unable to find any words to reply.

"I assume that you now possess complete details of what went wrong with the New Jersey batch—how, what the effects were, when it happened, and all that kind of thing," Charles went on. "Is that correct?" Fennimore nodded. "I'd like you to send all of that data," Charles said. "Data that nobody could possibly have possessed five days ago. And I'd like you to compose it in a way that only you would recognize, perhaps by including phrases of your own private shorthand if you use one, or any special symbols or abbreviations. You see, it will be
you
who eventually reads it; I want to make sure that you'll have no doubts as to who sent it. When that happens, there must be no doubt whatsoever as to its authenticity."

"There's another thing too," Cartland said. "Don't forget that Murdoch and I only figured out the
Centurion
story in the last couple of days. If you're going back five days, you'd better put in something about that as well. Otherwise we might not be so lucky on the new timeline."

"That's a good point," Charles agreed. "Aye, we'll put all that in as well." He turned and looked inquiringly at Fennimore. "Well, that's my proposal. What do you say to it, Sir Giles?"

The call-tone from the bedside vi-set brought Fennimore out of a deep sleep. He switched on the lamp to light up his room in the Glasgow Hilton, and glanced instinctively at his watch; it was almost two A.M. Stifling a yawn, he reached out for the screen, pivoted it toward him, and accepted the call. The caller was Desmond Sawyer from the Ministry in London.

"It's looking as if the balloon's going up," Sawyer said without preamble. "Your San Francisco tickets are fixed for flight twenty-eight out of Edinburgh at seven-thirty in the morning. A car will pick you up from the hotel at six-forty-five."

"It's started, has it?" Fennimore said.

"I'm afraid so."

"What about Dr. Patterson?"

"I've just called her. She'll meet you on the plane; you've got adjacent seats. Everything else is fixed at the other end."

"Very good," Fennimore said. "Call Fisher at the Glasgow Royal in the morning, would you, and tell him what's happened. I'll call him when I get to San Francisco."

"I'd already planned to," Sawyer said. "Well, I'll let you get some sleep for what's left of the night. Good night. Have a good trip."

"Night, Desmond. Thanks."

Fennimore cut off the screen, turned out the light, and settled down to go to sleep. Two minutes later the call-tone sounded again. "Damn and blast it!" he muttered as he fumbled for the lightswitch again. This time the face was not familiar. It was an elderly man, possibly in his late sixties or early seventies, with white hair and a proud, jutting, gray beard. His face was rugged and ruddy in hue, and somehow gave the impression of belonging to a body large in stature.

"Yes?" Fennimore inquired irritably.

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you at this time of night," the caller said in a distinctly Scottish voice. "You are Sir Giles Fennimore?"

"Yes."

"My name is Sir Charles Ross. Among other things I'm engaged as a consultant physicist to the EFC at Burghead."

"Kindly get to the point," Fennimore said. "What do you want? It's two o'clock in the morning."

"I'm sorry, but it was vital for me to contact you before you leave for San Francisco in the morning."

Fennimore's eyes widened suddenly, and he hauled himself into a more attentive position. "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know about my going to San Francisco? I only found out about it myself for certain a few minutes ago."

"I told you, my name is Ross. I have some important information for you."

"What kind of information?"

"It concerns
Centurion."
 

Fennimore's face at once became serious. "What do you know about
Centurion?"
he asked in a guarded tone.

"The specification being used for production of the vaccine at the New Jersey plant contains an error in the purification cycle," Ross said. "The batch being manufactured there will not reproduce the prototype results; it will induce lethal side effects. It's imperative that distribution of that batch is stopped."

"My God!" Fennimore gasped, staring at the screen in disbelief. "How do you know about all this? Why haven't we met before? Which department are you with?"

"I'm not with any department," Ross replied. "I'm engaged in private research."

"Then who told you about it?" Fennimore demanded.

"You did."

"Me? When?"

"About four hours ago," Ross said.

Fennimore's bewilderment increased visibly. "Don't be absurd," he said curtly. "I've been here all evening. I've never seen you before."

Ross hesitated for an instant. "Err… you were five days in the future at the time," he explained. There was a hint of apology in his tone.

Pause.

"Are you some kind of lunatic?"

"Would a lunatic have been able to tell you about
Centurion
and New Jersey?" Ross asked.

"No," Fennimore admitted after a few seconds' thought. "Perhaps you'd better explain yourself… from the beginning, please."

"It might take a while," Ross replied. "It would be better if I came to talk to you there."

"What, at this time of night?" Fennimore objected. "I've got an early plane to catch, as you seem to know perfectly well already."

"Allow me to show you something that might persuade you," Ross said. "Would you activate your hardcopy unit, please." Fennimore looked puzzled, then stretched out his arm to tap a pad below the screen of the vi-set. Moments later, the slot in the base of the set began disgorging sheets of paper. Fennimore took the first from the tray beneath the slot and scanned it hurriedly. After a second or two, he gasped aloud and looked up at the screen.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded. "Who wrote it?"

"Who do you think wrote it?" Ross asked. "Who's the only person who could have written it?"

"But I never ... " Fennimore's voice trailed away. He shook his head in total confusion.

"Now can we come and talk to you?" Ross asked.

"We?"

"I have two colleagues I'd like to bring, if you've no objection."

Fennimore looked down at the sheet again, then reached out and retrieved another. He read the first few lines of symbols on it, shaking his head slowly while Ross watched in silence. When he looked up, his face had lost color noticeably. "Yes… perhaps we had better talk," he faltered. "Bring your colleagues if you wish. How long will it be before I should expect you?"