“That’s unfair.”
“Is it? I’ve got a stake in my past, too, Miss Gayl. I’m not any more eager to be relegated to the realms of unrealized possibilities than anybody else.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean that. What makes you think—there’s no reason to believe—”
“I have a funny feeling there’s no place for me in your world-picture, Mellia. Your original world-picture, that is. I’m the guy who loused up the sweet serenity of Dinosaur Beach. But for me, the old outfit would have been in operation for another thousand years at the same address.”
She started to say something, but I steam-rollered it.
“But it wasn’t. I fouled up my assignment—don’t ask me how—and as a result, blew the station to Kingdom Come—or wherever it disappeared to—”
“You don’t need to blame yourself. You carried out your instructions; it wasn’t your fault if the results . . . if after you came back . . .”
“Yeah. If what I did started a causal chain that resulted in your not being born. But you were born, L—Mellia. I met you on a cover assignment in 1936. So at that point, at least, we were on the same track. Or—” I cut it off there, but she saw the same thing I did.
“Or perhaps . . . your whole sequence in Buffalo was an aborted loop. Not part of the Main Tape. Not viable.”
“It’s viable, baby. You can depend on it.” I ground that out like a rock crusher reducing boulders to number nine gravel.
“Of course,” she whispered. “It’s Lisa, isn’t it? She has to be real. Any alternative is unthinkable. And if that means remaking the space-time continuum, aborting a thousand years of Timestem history, wrecking Timesweep and all it means—why, that’s a small price to pay for the existence of your beloved!”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
She looked at me the way a tough engineer looks at a hill that’s standing where he wants to build a level crossing.
“Let’s get to work,” she said at last in a voice from which every shred of emotion had been scraped.
22
We spent the rest of the day making a methodical survey of the installation. It was four times the size of the Dinosaur Beach stations we had known in our previous incarnations; and 80 percent of it was given over to gear that neither of us understood. Mellia pieced together the general plan of the station, identified the major components of the system, traced out the power transfer apparatus, deduced the meanings of some of the cryptic legends at the control consoles. I followed her and listened.
“It doesn’t make much sense,” she said. It was twilight, and a big red sun was casting long shadows across the floor. “The power supply is out of all proportion to any intelligence-input or interpretative function I can conceive. And all this space—what’s it for, Ravel? What is this place?”
“Grand Central Station,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just a forgotten building in a forgotten town that probably never existed. A terminal.”
“You may be right,” she said, sounding thoughtful. “If this were all designed to transfer bulk cargo, rather than merely as a communications and personnel staging facility . . .”
“Cargo. What kind of cargo?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t sound likely, does it? Any appreciable inter-local material transfer would tend to weaken the temporal structure at both transmission and reception points. . . .”
“Maybe they didn’t care anymore. Maybe they were like me: tired.” I yawned. “Let’s turn in; maybe tomorrow it will all turn into sweet reasonableness before our startled gaze.”
“What did you mean by that remark? About not caring?”
“Who me? Not a thing, girl, not a thing.”
“Did you ever call Lisa ‘girl’?” This sharply.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with everything! Everything you say and do—everything you think—is colored by your idiotic infatuation with this . . . this figmentary sweetheart! Can’t you forget her and put your mind on the fact that the Nexx Timestem is in desperate danger—if it’s not irreparably damaged—by your irresponsible actions!”
“No,” I said between my teeth. “Any other questions?”
“I’m sorry,” she said in a spent voice. She put a hand over her face and shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just tired . . . so very tired—and frightened.”
“Sure,” I said. “Me too. Forget it. Let’s get some sleep.”
We picked separate rooms. Nobody bothered to say good night.
23
I got up early; even asleep, the silence got to me. There was a well-equipped kitchen at the end of the dormitory wing; apparently even A-P theoreticians had a taste for a fresh-laid egg and a slice of sugar-cured ham from a nulltime locker where aging didn’t happen.
I punched in two breakfasts and started back to call Mellia, and then changed my mind when I heard footsteps across the big hall.
She was standing by the Timecaster’s chair, dressed in a loose robe, looking at the screen. She didn’t hear me coming, barefooted, until I was within ten feet of her. She turned suddenly, and from the expression on her face, nearly had an angina attack.
So did I. It wasn’t Mellia’s beautiful if disapproving face; it was an old woman, white-haired, with sunken cheeks and faded eyes that might have been bright and passionate once, a long time ago. She tottered, as if she were going to fall, and I shot out a hand and caught her by an arm as thin as a stick of wood inside her flowing sleeve. She made a nice recovery; feature by feature, her face put itself back together, leaving a look that was almost too serene, under the circumstances.
“Yes,” she said, in a thin, old, but very calm voice. “You’ve come. As I knew you would, of course.”
“It’s nice to be expected, ma’am,” I said inanely. “Who told you? About us, I mean. Coming, that is.”
A flicker of a frown went across her face. “The predictor screens, of course.” Her eyes went past me. “May I ask: where is the rest of your party?”
“She’s, ah, still asleep.”
“Asleep? How very curious.”
“Back there.” I nodded toward the bedrooms. “She’ll be happy to know we aren’t alone here. We had a long day yesterday, and—”
“Excuse me. Yesterday? When did you come?”
“About twenty-four hours ago.”
“But—why didn’t you advise me at once? I’ve been waiting—I’ve been ready . . . for such a long time . . .” Her voice almost broke, but she caught it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. We didn’t know you were here. We searched the place, but—”
“You didn’t know?” Her face looked shocked, stricken.
“Where were you keeping yourself? I thought we’d checked every room. . . .”
“I . . . my . . . I have my quarters in the outwing,” she said in a broken voice. A tear spilled from the outer corner of each eye and she brushed them away impatiently. “I had assumed,” she said, getting her voice under control again, “that you had come in response to my signal. But of course that’s not important. You’re here. May I have just a few minutes? There are some things—mementos—but if there’s any hurry, I can leave them, of course,” she added hurriedly, watching my face.
“I have no intention of hurrying you, ma am,” I said. “But I think there may be some misunderstanding—”
“But you will take me?” Her thin hand caught my arm; panic was in her voice. “Oh, please, take me with you, I beg you, please, don’t leave me here—”
“I promise,” I said, and put my hand over hers; it was as cool and thin as a turkey’s foot.
“But I think you’re making some erroneous assumptions. Maybe I did too. Are you a part of the station cadre?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head like a child caught with a paw in the cookie jar. “This is not my station. Not my station at all. I merely took refuge here, you see, after the collapse.”
“Where are the station personnel, ma’am?”
She looked at me as if I’d said something amazing. “There are none. No one. It’s as I stated in my reports. I found the station abandoned. I’ve been here alone, no one else—”
“Sure, I see, just you. Pretty lonely. But it’s all right now, we’re here, you won’t be alone any longer.”
“Yes, you’re here. As I knew you would be—someday. The instruments never lie. That’s what I told myself. It was just that I didn’t know when.”
“Instruments—told you we’d come?”
“Oh, yes.”
She sank into the nearest chair, and her old fingers flew over the keys. The screen lit up, changed texture, flowed through colors, ended a vivid greenish-white rectangle on the right edge of which a wavering black vertical line, like a scratch on a film strip, flickered and danced. I was about to open my mouth to admire her virtuosity on the keyboard when she made a small sighing sound and crumpled forward onto her face, out cold.