LOOSE ENDS
                         
                           
                            by Paul Levinson

[novella, Analog, May 1997]
Copyright (c) 1997 by Paul Levinson; all rights reserved.


     Jeff felt a certain hardness under his backside, like he
had fallen asleep on a plush chair and come awake on a park
bench somewhere.
     He opened his eyes and stared at his destiny: a large and
messy lounge of some sort, outlines indistinct in what must have
been the reflected light of evening street lamps. There was no
doubt about it.  The broken-down couch in the corner, worn
wooden study tables to the right, books and papers and misshapen
armchairs strewn around like some old rummage sale -- this was a
far cry indeed from the cool flowing continuum of the control
room. The Thorne had worked after all.
     Jeff strained to keep his adrenaline in check.  Not even a
cleaning person in the unlit room.  Good.  It was late at night,
maybe even a weekend.  No one to bump into. He pulled a low
intensity fireflighter from his pocket.  In the weak
approximation of daylight, the lounge looked even more 20th
century.   Remarkable!  On the floor near his feet, he noticed a
ratty looking issue of _Look_ magazine.  The August 23, 1963
date on the cover caused another rush in his veins, but told him
not enough of what he needed to know. The magazine could have
been lying around for years by the looks of this room. 
     He had to know the exact date of his arrival. It would tell
him which of the eight plans to implement. Clutching his
deliberately nondescript suitcase, he walked quickly to the
door.  He noticed a torn _Time_ magazine dated
October-something, 1963, and frowned.
     Jeff delicately opened the door and patted the shirt of his
janitor's outfit.  He was an academic with strong ties to the
working class -- his great-great-grandparents had slaved in
sweatshops -- and he welcomed the prospect of testing out his
jargon, costume, and identity on the local populace.
Unfortunately -- or fortunately -- no victims were in sight.  He
walked out, carefully  closed the door behind, and strode in
search of an exit.
     "Sher-er-ry, Sherry baby.  She-er-ry..."
     For some moments now, Jeff thought he had been hearing a
faint falsetto whining.  He walked down the last flight of
stairs, out into the street, and recognized the shrieks as
"Sherry"  -- an early rock hit by the Four Seasons. More
inconclusive  evidence, not particularly  heartening. He'd  done
a special lecture on the Seasons and the Beachboys just last
year, and knew for a fact this song came from the summer of 1962.
     The air felt chilled, like maybe early October.  A '59 or
'60  Fairlane 500, from which the Seasons' song seemed to be
emanating, was no more help in establishing an exact date than
the song.
     The street beyond the Fairlane looked clearer and uglier
than he'd expected -- a bright messy watercolor spilling onto
itself. He wondered what his expectations about this place were
really based on.  Probably more on Andrews' "Village Square" hit
of last year than the hours of 1980s film and photographs he had
reviewed till his eyes had burned with fatigue.
     He spotted a blonde girl in what used to be called
dungarees walking towards him.  "Uh, pardon me, Miss," he said
as nonchalantly as he could, "do you know the time ... and the
date please?" 
     She gave him a strange look and glanced at her watch.  "A
quarter to twelve," she said, without slowing a step. 
     Well thanks a lot, Jeff thought.  "Excuse me, Miss, I'm
sorry to bother you, but if could you tell me the date as
well..." He found himself shouting after her.  She just kept
walking.  He shook his head and walked the other way. 
     The chill was beginning to eat at him as he made his way
towards West Fourth Street and Washington Square Park.  There
the usual complement of derelicts and weirdos -- some things
never change, he smiled -- were keeping the late-night vigil.
No point in trying to get a straight answer about the date from
that crew.  He sighed, then noticed the quaint old phone booth
on the corner.  He picked up the receiver and pumped in eight
quarters in rapid sequence to make sure he would get a
connection.  "Hello, Operator, could you tell me what today's
date is?" 
     "The date, sir?  I'm sorry, but we're only supposed to give
out numbers." 
     "Well, is there a number I can call to find out the date?"
A faint odor of urine permeated the booth. 
     "Checking, sir.  No, I have a number for the time, but I
don't see one for the date." 
     "Well, then, do you think you could be a human being
instead of, uh, a com-puter, and tell me the date anyway?"
     "I'm sorry, sir, but we're only supposed to give out
numbers." 
     "And have you no function in the universe or reason for
existence other than giving out numbers?" 
     "I have no function, sir." 
     Jeff slammed the phone down and shook his head.  I'd make a
great diplomat, he thought.  At this rate, I--
     "Having trouble with the phone, Jack?"  Jeff turned to find
himself addressed by -- was it a slacker or a hippie? -- about
25 years of age.  "The phone company's been hangin' _every_one
up lately, man." 
     "Yeah," Jeff smiled, "it's getting worse and worse.  Look,
I wonder if you might be able to help me.  I'm disoriented, I've
got to know what the date is."  Jeff leaned out of the booth,
deaf to the quarters that clanged in the coin return. 
     "I can dig it, man, really." 
     "Good, then, can you tell me what the date is?"  He inhaled
deeply of the less tainted air outside the booth.  Compared to
what he had just been breathing in, it smelled like perfume.
     "Well, like, that's a difficult question, man.  I mean it's
November 21st now, but it'll be November 22nd in a few minutes.
And of course for the cats over in England it's already been
November 22nd for a few hours, and--" 
     "Ok, good," Jeff said.  "And the year?"
     "The year?"
     "Right, the year -- as in 19..."
     "Oh, well that's the same everywhere, man.  1963."
     "What?"
     "I know it, man, time flies faster and faster these days..."
     Jeff walked dazedly down the street, fighting to think
through flashes that spat at his brain.  What the hell was this?
He was supposed to have emerged some time in the Fall -- the end
of November was cutting it a little close, but ok, that still
gave him at least some weeks to get to NASA, Morton Thiokol,
whomever. He knew the Thorne wasn't perfectly precise.  How
could it be -- generating the kind of savagely powerful local
field needed to keep the Artificial Worm Hole open long enough
to operate across time.  So it couldn't be that exact.  But 23
years?  What could he do to prevent the Challenger explosion
back here in 1963?
     He shook his head and it cleared a little.  He had no
choice now but to return to the lounge, activate the mechanism
for return to 2084, and try the damn thing again.  He retraced
his steps to the Student Building. But his legs moved slower and
slower, as if they opposed the decision to return. Finally he
stopped.  
     He stared at the Student Building across the street. He
focused on its gargoyled facade and played with a quarter in his
pocket.  He pivoted suddenly and walked quickly again in the
direction of the Park.  A hundred and twenty-one years was a
long time to have traveled into the past just to rush right
back. He could take a few more minutes to think this over. 
     ***
     He wandered towards Sixth Avenue, then inside a coffee
shop.  He sat down and read the sticky plastic menu  without
comprehension.  The cracks in the red leatherette upholstery
jabbed his thighs.
     "Had a rough day, huh honey?  What'll it be?"  The dyed
blonde waitress was right out of a turn-of-the-cen video.  Upset
as he was, Jeff  the cultural historian liked this. 
     "Just a tea with milk, please." By any conceivable logic,
he ought to return as soon as possible to 2084, so he could try
this again, and with any luck arrive at least a few months
before January 28, 1986.  To do that, he had to go back now to
the lounge in the NYU Student Building from which he'd emerged,
the exact same place, that was the way the Thorne worked.
     But something in Jeff rebelled against this logic --
something in his nature which said, look, you've gotten this
far, it's not good, but you may never get this far again, so you
better  take what you can of this chance to save the space
program...
     But how?  
     He'd have to improvise.
     He thought about the endless careful plans his team had
made for him to avoid getting caught up in some paradox -- keep
the loop clean, don't do anything in the past that might
undermine the very foundation of this project. Steer clear of
everyone's great-grandparents...  Jeez, how the hell was he
supposed to do that back here, 23 years earlier than he'd
planned to arrive, when he had no idea where everyone he was
supposed to avoid was?
     Jeff rubbed his head.  Every second that he stayed here was
a knife at the throat of his future.  He was off the screen, way
out of  equation-range -- a single word to a wrong person, some
land-mine of the past, could set in motion a chain of events
that erased his colleagues, maybe even him, from existence.
True, he had no close family, no one that he really loved deeply
anymore -- well, maybe still Rena, in a way -- but he certainly
hadn't undertaken this job to kill his friends, make himself a
martyr to a reconstituted future that might never know he'd
existed in the first place.
     On the other hand, how really likely was it that he'd run
into such a land-mine?  Painstaking tests had shown that the
effects of most  interjections in the past were sooner or later
washed out in the myriad of everything else that remained the
same.  And how could anyone from his vantage point truly know
what was intended all along? Maybe he'd always been supposed to
arrive here back in 1963 -- maybe he was ordained to help the
space program, or humanity, in some way other than stopping the
Challenger. Maybe that's why the Challenger blew up after all,
because there was no way he could influence events this far back
to stop the explosion that took the heart and soul out of the
space program, had set up the 21st century to be little more
than an age of commentary looking back on the Golden Age. His
head spun.  He could feel the sweet buzzing vortex of paradox
whispering in his brain, drawing him in... No, I have free will,
I'll do what I damn well choose, I don't have time for paradox
now, I only have time to act.
     He looked at the clock on the wall.  Twelve minutes after
twelve.  Too much lead time for the Challenger -- the shuttle
had barely been conceived of in 1963. He supposed he could live
the next 23 years in normal time here, and devise a new plan to
thwart the explosion.  Thiokol Chemical Corporation had been
awarded the NASA contract to build the shuttle's solid rocket
boosters on November 20, 1973 -- just about 10 years from where
he was now -- so if he could hang on for a decade, he might even
be able to begin doing some good then.  Leroy Day had been
picked to head planning for the shuttle in 1969, a few years
nearer. 
     But this didn't seem appealing. Ten years, even five, was a
long time to stay out of trouble. And he couldn't even be sure
that the Artificial Worm Hole would remain operational that
long.  The most their tests had  confirmed was safe return after
18 months in the past.
     He of course knew exactly what else he might try to do on
this date. He knew its obvious significance.  He didn't have to
be a cultural  historian by training to know it.  Jeez, he'd
arrived at the edge of the oldest cliche in the science fiction
CD.  Everyone and their  great-aunt Martha had written a story
about it.
     What was the likelihood that some error in the team's
calculations, some unexpected flux in the AWH, had landed him
here on this of all dates?  Maybe it wasn't an accident that
he'd somehow been dropped at the doorstep of what _Time_ nearly
a century in his past and 37 years from now had dubbed one of
the  top five murders of the millennium.
     But if so, what was its deeper purpose?
     Surely not to stop the events in Dallas tomorrow -- there
really wasn't enough time. He was in New York City, after
midnight, on November 22,  1963.  Way too soon for Challenger.
All but too late for JFK.
     All but too late ... But what else could he could do back
here, then? What else had he perhaps been _meant_ all along to
do here?
     He shook his head.
     Did they even have air service to Dallas this late at
night?  He didn't know.  What kinds of planes?  Propellers?  No,
probably jets already.
     Dallas was a thriving city even back in the 1960s, and at
the very least he would probably be able to get a businessman's
flight early in the morning. But would that leave him enough
hours?  What was the point of flying all the way to Dallas just
in time to hear that  JFK had been shot?
     But what was his alternative if he didn't use the AWH to
return to his starting point?  Sit around like a jackass and
wait for Walter Cronkite's tear-choked voice to announce the
assassination on TV?
     Blondie arrived with his tea.  Fortunately it was lukewarm,
and Jeff was able to drink it down in two gulps.  He pulled a
crumpled bill out of his wallet and left it on the table.  Some
bank clerk in the next few weeks would be stunned to see a
1981-issue ten-dollar bill with Donald T. Regan's signature, but
he had no other money, and had to take a chance that such a
minor anonymous anachronism wouldn't  disturb the time-line.
Loops could be perfectly clean only in theory.  The bill would
likely be dismissed as a clumsy counterfeit or a joke. Or who
knows, maybe  it would be lost before it even got to a bank
teller.
     He walked out onto Sixth Avenue and surveyed his options
yet one more time.  The city was harsh, the air stank, he didn't
belong here.  The sensible thing to do was return to 2084.  And
yet...
     He flagged down a passing cab.  "Kennedy, uh ... Idlewild
Airport.  On the double, Chief."  As the cab pulled away, Jeff
recalled George Bernard Shaw's line that the reasonable man
adapts to his surroundings, the unreasonable man attempts to
change his surroundings to suit himself, and all progress
depends upon the unreasonable man.
     There had to be something more to this than Dallas, but at
this point Dallas seemed the only way to get to it.
     Inside the coffee shop, the waitress stuffed the bill in
her bosom pocket and laughed. "I tell ya," she said to the fat
man stuck behind the cash register like a melon, "these actor
types are all the same.  They never remember to wait for their
change.  I'm gonna keep this for good luck." 
     ***
     "Tunnel or Bridge?" the cabbie grunted through chewing gum. 
     Jeff wasn't completely sure what he was talking about. "Do
what you  think best, Mac. Just get me to the airport as fast as
you can."  He shifted his weight on the springy seat and looked
through the dirt-caked window ...
     "Just got off the late shift, right?  My brother-in-law
does the midnight-to-eight shift for Helmsley. You gotta do what
you gotta do to make a living these days, right?   What's the
use of talking." 
     "Yeah, the inflation's impossible," Jeff agreed.  Can't go
wrong in any century griping about inflation.  And he made a
note to himself to get out of the janitor's outfit as soon as he
got to the airport.
     "Yeah," the cabbie growled, "ain't it the truth." 
     Jeff felt in his pocket for his reassuring puterwafer but
got no comfort from it.  He knew he was fully on his own now,
plans pertaining to 23 years in the future all but worthless.
In a worst-case scenario, if all he could catch was an early
morning flight, he'd have maybe an  hour or two to get to the
Book Depository Building in Dealey Plaza after his plane arrived
in Dallas. If he could somehow get to the Building by 11, he'd
stake out the upper floors and try to intercept the gunman ...
or gunmen ...  or gunwomen. He wondered whether he'd find Lee
Harvey Oswald up there by those windows.  Historians would give
their right arms to know.  A hundred-and-twenty years of
theorizing had left them no closer to knowing who had killed
Kennedy than the unsatisfying "lone nut" explanation of the
Warren Commission.
     One thing Jeff did know: the assassination of JFK probably
did more to ultimately harm the prospects of humans in space
than even the  horrible Challenger disaster. His team had
briefly considered sending him back here to 1963 in the first
place, but rejected it on the grounds that too much was still
unknown about the assassination for them to mount an effective
plan to stop it.  So here Jeff was without a plan anyway...
rushing like a moth to a flame that he had little chance of
extinguishing, but was too attractive to resist...
     "Any special terminal, Mac?"  The grunt drew Jeff back to
the real world, though this ride seemed scarcely more real than
his musings. He looked at his watch and whistled.  This old
gasser had gotten him to the airport in under an hour.
"American  Airlines, Chief, and thanks."  Jeff set  his watch to
the time on the foolish-looking clock pasted on the cabbie's
dashboard.  It was now 1:07 in the morning of November 22. 
     He paid in dirty dollar bills printed 20 years in the
future and sprinted into the terminal, a garish but not
uncharming combination of wine red carpet and shiny chrome
trimming.  It reminded Jeff of early technicolor movies. He
ducked into the men's room, unpacked clothes from his suitcase,
and shortly emerged a  stylish 80s businessman.  He expected
this wouldn't cause too much of a problem -- if his clothes
looked a little odd, people would likely chalk that up to his
dressing European.  There was more difference in hemispheric
styles in this century.
     He approached what appeared to be a mock-wood ticket desk.
The pert red-headed kewpie-doll behind the counter added to his
feeling that he was in an ancient film.  "Am I in  time for the
late-night flight to Dallas?" he asked with his friendliest
smile. 
     "Oh, I'm very sorry, sir, but our last flight to Dallas
left at 12:30. Our next one leaves at 8:00 this morning,  and I
believe that Delta has a flight that leaves at 6:20.  Shall I
make a reservation for you?" 
     Damn.  "Could you tell me what time the Delta flight
arrives in Dallas?" 
     She pulled out a paper directory and checked. "Nine
fifty-seven Dallas time, sir.  Shall I make the reservation?" 
     "Yes, please do," Jeff said, "and could you point me in the
direction of the airport hotel?"  Jeff paid in cash -- he had a
bunch of credit cards too, but they were all hopelessly out of
date, in the wrong way.  She counted the money and Jeff held his
breath.  The bills were small denomination, suitably soiled,
from the 1970s.  She didn't notice anything askew.
     Jeff walked slowly to the end of the terminal.  It would be
ridiculously close in Dallas -- even if the plane landed on
time, he'd barely have an hour to get to the Book Depository and
stop the killing.
     ***
     The bed in the International was unexpectedly comfortable,
though the room like the airport terminal had some faintly
artificial smell.  Jeff fell soundly asleep, and dreamed he was
in a classroom giving his "Earth Was Never Room Enough" talk
while Dion's "Abraham, Martin, and John" played in the
background.  Rena sat in the front with her legs seductively
crossed, but her face looked a lot like Sandra Dee's.  He could
hear someone talking just  outside the classroom, going on and
on and utterly ignoring his lecture.  It was James C. Fletcher,
NASA administrator who had had the most to do with the shuttle
program. Jeff was screaming at his students to pay attention
when the phone rang. 
     He fumbled with the ungainly receiver and dropped it.  Then
he smacked himself in the mouth with it.  "Hello," he finally
managed, rubbing his eyes and looking in vain for the viewer. 
     "Good morning, Dr. Harris!  Five thirty wake-up call!" a
female sing-song voice chimed merrily. 
     "Thanks."  Jeff replaced the receiver with great effort and
sat up.  He rubbed his sore lips and fought off the impulse to
go back to sleep for just another 15 minutes.  He could sleep
for 15 days the way he felt, but he dragged his body out of bed
and quickly dressed.  Last night's businessman with maybe a blue
knit tie to go with the grey wool suit would do fine. 
     The coffee house was a zoo. He hadn't much appetite, but
forced himself to eat the soggy eggs for strength.  Looking
around, he realized again that there was a lot he didn't like
about this place.  Historians like their history from the safety
and convenience of the future -- the past on a platter with all
the comforts of home.  Not like this...
     "Excuse me, sir." The waitress startled Jeff as she leaned
over with the check. "That's an interesting bracelet you've got
on there. My husband's a jeweler, and I don't think I've ever
seen anything like it." 
     "Uh, thank you."  Jeff glanced down at his watch, scooped
up the check, and quickly left the table. "My, uh, kid's
studying electronics," he said half over his shoulder, "and it's
something he designed for me."  Great.  He'd been wearing this
flector for six years now, and with all the departure commotion
yesterday he'd forgotten to take it off.  Hustling to Delta
Departures, he removed the silver sliver from its embed on his
wrist and placed it in a side compartment of the suitcase.  Then
he took out the clunky Timex analog someone had given him, and
stopped a moment to set it and strap it on his wrist. He shook
his head in self-disgust.  First the future bills he was handing
out everywhere like candy, and now this.  The money he had no
choice about, but the flector was sheer stupidity on his part.  
     He sighed.  It didn't really matter.  If by some wild luck
he could stop the JFK assassination in Dallas, nothing that he
did now would make much difference. If not, well...
     The Delta was a sardine can, and Jeff sat white knuckled in
a window seat waiting for take-off.  Finally  it began making
taxiing noises, the comforting rumblings of some great beast's
innards, and Jeff leaned back and tried to relax.  The
stewardess had a tight skirt on, pitching her derriere right at
him, better view than the window.
     Well, so far his rating of 1963 was food and decor not too
good, women a distinct possibility.  This seemed in line with
that refrain from the classic Woody Guthrie song about the
social fallout of relativity: Can't go North, can't go South,
or up, down, anymore. But I can still go in and out, Mr.
Einstein, I can still go in and out...
     It remained to be seen whether he could get in and out of
the Book Depository in time.
     ***
     The 707 pierced like a needle through the remnants of haze
over Dallas.  Jeff peered through his peephole at the airport
below as the captain announced they'd be landing momentarily. 
     He had so little time.  Everything depended on his getting
to the Book Depository as quickly as possible.  He'd shove
through lines, jump over turnstiles, knock down people if he had
to.  No gesture of asinine civility could be allowed to slow his
exit. 
     The screech of aircraft hitting the ground hiked his pulse.
He felt the seconds ticking, each in phase with his pounding
blood.  He braced for the performance.   He could see nothing
but taxi at the end of the tunnel, the taxi that would bring him
face-to-face with God-knew-what at the Book Depository. 
     The plane shuddered still.  Its doors grumbled open.
Debarking passengers spilled like mindless ooze into the
terminal.  But one of their number was more minded than he'd
ever been in his life: single-minded in his determination to
dive into that cab.  Get out of my way, you goddamn fools.  I
don't have time to say sorry.
     Jeff swam in powerful strokes through the current, half-way
through the terminal, now three-quarters through and almost out.
Every shred of his being, every ounce of his purpose, was
focused on closing this last little gap to the exit.  He was
almost believing that maybe he would stop the assassination
after all, maybe this was the way indeed that he was destined to
save the space program.  He saw JFK's face before him,
superimposed on the Challenger, superimposed on the flames,
superimposed on innumerable stars...
     Which was why he never saw the towering cart of luggage
that fell upon him less than three feet from the glass doors,
and knocked him unconscious. 
     ***
     He opened his eyes to a throbbing headache and blurry white
of what must have been a hospital room.  Fumes of formaldehyde
hung in his nostrils and made him gag.  "I see you're awake, Dr.
Harris," a lazy Texas accent jarred him.  "You ran into a rack
of luggage at the airport and sustained a moderate concussion,
but you're going to be just fine." 
     Jeff leaned up on an elbow to get a look at the nurse.
"Where am I?" 
     "Dallas General Hospital.  We'll need to run a few tests on
you, and if everything's all right you'll probably be able to
leave in the morning." 
     "I..."  Jeff fell back on the pillow and tried to breathe
slowly.  He felt cold and clammy and slightly in shock.  He took
several deep breaths, and tried to focus more clearly on the
nurse. Her eyes looked red and puffy.  Outside his room he heard
what sounded like a radio or holocenter blaring in the corridor
-- a tumult of loud talking and wailing.  "What's going on out
there?" 
     Nurse K. Arthur burst into tears, and Jeff got a sudden
feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew exactly what the
ruckus was about. 
     "They killed the President," she sobbed.  "I really
shouldn't disturb you with this.  They rushed him to Parkland
Memorial, but he was too far gone."  She heaved with tears.  "He
was so young, so beautiful.  Why would anyone want to _do_
something like that?" 
     Jeff reached out to comfort her.  "Ow!"  Pain cut through
his back like a stiletto. 
     "Here, let me help you."  Arthur leaned over and gently
eased Jeff back into bed.  "You probably wrenched a muscle or
two." She puffed up the pillow and smiled.  "There. I'll tell
the doctor you're up and I'm sure he'll look in on you a little
later." Her smiled suddenly wavered and tears welled up again in
her eyes. "They wounded Vice President Johnson and killed
Governor Connally. They say it was one of those Communists.
What's going to happen to the country now?" 
     "I don't know," Jeff barely answered, too tired to tell her
that although her information was wrong, her sense of impending
catastrophe was all too on-target. 
     He slept fitfully the rest of the day, pestered and
punctured by a procession of interns and orderlies bent on
waking him up, taking his temperature, and telling him he needed
more sleep.  He asked for a TV or radio at least five times and
got nothing. The phone by his bed was broken.  He couldn't tell
whether the morgue-like atmosphere was standard or a consequence
of the assassination.  The assassination -- every time he
thought of it, he felt like retching.  A leaden, queasy
thickness of despair seemed to hang over everything. 
     He fell asleep at last into something deeper that let him
dream. He watched a team of 19th century surgeons, long hair and
whiskers and bitter-sweet alcohol smell in the room, work over
what must have been a very important patient.  Straining his
head closer, he could see that the patient was a fish, cut open
and spread apart down the middle.  The Chief Surgeon produced a
mallet and began pounding the fish, while others cut off pieces
and put them in little bags.  "Oh, I'm only joking, old boy,"
the Surgeon turned to Jeff and said in a crisp British accent,
"this is dinner, of course!" 
     Jeff sat up sharply in bed, awakened by yet another nurse
come to stick something in him.  "What do you want now?" he
rasped, wincing from the pain that came as he propped himself
up. 
     "Just some intravenous for the evening, Dr. Harris.  It'll
help you sleep."  She wheeled some torture-like contraption over
to him. She was a big-boned, handsome, light brown woman, about
35, who spoke with a lilting accent. 
     He shook his head to clear some of the cobwebs.  "I already
ate your lousy supper.  Why do I need intravenous?" 
     "Pity the nurse who has a doctor for a patient," she said
in the mildly scolding tone of voice that seemed a part of every
nurse's repertoire.  "Now why don't you just lie back like a
good boy and let me get this working."  A strong arm pushed Jeff
back gently but firmly, and she began applying alcohol to his
skin. 
     Once again the door flung open, this time admitting two
burly black men carrying an impossibly fat TV set.
     "I tell you what, Nurse, ah, Daniels."  Jeff freed himself
from her grip.  "I'll take this intravenous only if it's
prescribed and administered by an intern or resident.  So you
want me on that, you call in a doctor, fair enough?"  This
should buy him a little time to think this through.  There was
something he didn't like about this nurse, not to mention that
he wasn't particularly partial to the prospect of being
festooned with intravenous needles and tubing, 1960s style,
carrying who knew what kind of viruses and sub-vees they didn't
even know about back here, and he might not have been inoculated
against.
     Daniels looked at the two men hooking up the TV set and
then back at Jeff. "No meat off my behind, honey," she said, and
abruptly wheeled the equipment out the door.
     Good -- she'd apparently decided it wasn't worth making a
scene in front of the techies.  "Thank you, gentlemen," Jeff
told them as they finished up.  "See?  It's not true what they
say about the media always causing problems.  Sometimes a TV can
be very helpful."
     They looked at him like he was crazy, and left.
     Jeff pivoted gingerly in the bed, placing his feet on the
floor in slow, exaggerated motions.  Pushing himself up shakily
from his seated position, he found he could stand.   He walked
unsteadily to a chair by the window, and sat himself down with
the utmost caution.  The pain he expected in his back was
mercifully slight.  He reached for the suitcase lodged neatly
against the window and fished inside for his clothing. Thank God
the case wasn't lost at the airport.  And a good thing, too,
that it had been programmed to open only in response to his and
no one else's sweat.  Otherwise he'd have had some explaining to
do about some of the contents. 
     He had to get out of here right away.  He had to get back
to New York, back to the student lounge. He reached deeper
inside the suitcase.  The rough fiber of the janitor's uniform
finally chafed his fingertips. He doubted that an NYU janitor
looked anything like the hospital variety, but this was still
his best choice.  He dressed very carefully,  praying that his
body would hold up long enough for him to walk out of this
horror-movie of a hospital -- this horror-show of a world.
     Suitcase under his arm, he tiptoed to the door and opened
it a crack.  His room seemed to be in the middle of a long,
orange-pink tiled corridor that stretched in either direction
with no one in sight.  Peering out a bit more, he could see what
looked like a nurse's station down to his right.  He hesitated.
His mind felt swollen and paranoid, he had no confidence in his
judgements.  He didn't feel good about just walking out, but he
felt much worse about staying. He opened the door and strode as
casually as he could to the left. 
     He slowly became aware of voices ahead of him.  He took a
few more steps, then stopped and listened.  They were definitely
moving closer.  He looked down the corridor the other way. Too
long a distance to try returning to his room.  He glanced
quickly around at the rooms within reach and tried the door of
the nearest one. 
     Locked! 
     He tried another one. 
     Same result! 
     His hands grew moist and his head light and the voices
louder.  He felt nauseated, as if he was about to vomit and pass
out. He breathed deeply, steadied himself, and tried another
door. 
     It opened!  He leaned against the inside of the door,
thankful and quaking, until the entourage passed.  From what he
could hear, they seemed to be just a team of porters. 
     Relaxing a bit, he groped for the light switch to see upon
whose room he had intruded.  This was an extremely stupid move,
he realized just as his hand flicked the switch, for the patient
might well begin screaming. Fortunately the room seemed to be
some sort of storage facility. 
     He looked around and stopped on a lumpy something stretched
out in a far corner.  Again his heart started pounding, for he
suddenly was sure he was looking at a dead body.  He forced
himself to walk over and focus. The lumpy something was a long
bag of stained linen.
     He resumed his journey down the corridor, this time with a
bit more assertion in his gait.  He turned randomly down several
connecting passages, passed several orderlies and nurses and
made a point of not avoiding their gazes, and eventually wound
up at what looked like a service elevator.  The doors were open.
He walked in and pressed Lobby and hoped for the best.
     The elevator wobbled its way down, Jeff envisioning himself
a dead man dangling from a slowly descending rope.  The doors
finally opened on a poorly lit hallway that said Ground Floor.
He walked a few feet, and was glad to see the hospital lobby. He
wondered why the act of leaving a hospital always felt like
escape from a high-security prison.
     He hailed a cab and said take me to the airport. The cabbie
talked Kennedy, but Jeff was too tired to give more than grunts
in response.
     He sank into bed in the motel room, utterly drained.  He
closed his eyes and looked again at the lumpy bag in the
hospital laundry room. It was a woman's body, face down, wearing
only a 20th-century bra and shiny beige panties that clung
tightly to her rear.  She looked familiar.   He turned her over
and found eyes staring blankly up at his. He tried to scream,
but his throat stuck.  The eyes were Rena's. 
     He sat up in bed, broken out in a cold sweat, and shuddered
for a long time...
     I guess I'm not as cut out for time travel as once I
thought, he thought. But how could anyone know that beforehand?
You had to actually live through these loops, bristling with
serrations, to know the toll they took.
     ***
     Twelve hours later, he was on a plane for New York.
Staring out of the window as the engines revved up, Jeff
realized he was losing a golden opportunity to stop the killing
of Lee Harvey Oswald.   He looked at his watch.  That would
happen tomorrow.  He toyed with the idea of making a last-minute
dash from the plane and calling the Dallas police.  He'd have
plenty of time and ... No!   For once he'd do the cautious thing
and return to New York and then 2084.  No chance the police
would take his call seriously anyway  -- just another crank come
out of the now festering assassination woodwork. 
     Of course, a crank who knew about Oswald's murder would be
someone Jeff would want to meet.  Wasn't there some story that
the Dallas police were indeed warned by someone about the
shooting of Oswald?  Was that someone Jeff?  Or someone else on
trespass from the future? 
     He fidgeted with his seatbelt.  Maybe the attempt on his
life in the hospital last night -- if that nurse with the
intravenous was indeed trying to kill him -- was  intended
precisely to stop him from interfering with Ruby's murder of
Oswald.  No, that sort of reasoning would get him nowhere.  It
was paranoid nonsense.  Yet he was here on this plane leaving
the scene of the crime of the century, when there were plenty of
things he still might do...
     The plane's lift-off ended his reverie.  Jeff tried to
direct his  thinking to what awaited him -- going back to 2084
through the Thorne, then into it  again, through a new AWH, and
out again in 1985, the time he should have arrived in the first
place, to stop the explosion of the Challenger. He stared
steel-eyed out the window.  No one could help JFK -- that should
had been obvious all along.  You can't change history on that
major a level.  But the Challenger -- that was more mechanical,
presumably an accident of technology, not of sick human
intention, more amenable to the time traveler's ministration.
     That was what he kept telling himself, but it gave him
little comfort. Obviously, travelling back to 1985 wasn't as
easy as he and his team had thought -- if it was, why was he
here?  There were things about time travel they didn't
understand.
     He laughed bitterly. The last thing he wanted to be was a
"Fourth Magi" -- that additional wise man from the East who had
gotten a late start in his journey to give the infant Jesus a
gift.  The potentate then spent the next thirty years in a vain
search for Jesus, always arriving in places a few hours after
Jesus had left.  When he finally caught up it was too late --
Christ was already  on the cross.  Just as Jeff had been with
JFK.  Would he be that way with the Challenger too?  Arriving
just in time to see that horrendous explosion that took so much
else with it?  Impotent witness wasn't the role Jeff had trained
for.
     ***
     He landed at Idlewild in the early evening.  The sadness in
the air was thicker than pollution.  Soon it would harden into
the cynicism and outrage that disrupted the sixties and deformed
a good deal more of the times that came after.
     It's not my fault, Jeff kept telling himself.  My job was
to stop the Challenger tragedy -- I never really had a chance to
stop what happened in Dallas.  I wasn't properly prepared. It
was crazy even to try.
     He took a cab back to the Village, the same trip he had
taken 48 hours ago, in reverse.  Everything was different.  It
was Saturday night, and throngs of people were out, but the
sounds  and colors were drained of  vitality -- like someone had
pulled the plug on the watercolor, and all of its light had
leaked away.
     His cab pulled up to the Student Building. Three
green-and-black police cars huddled like ugly roaches near the
entrance.  Students were milling about, five or six officers
were conferring on the side, and the night air crackled with the
sound of police bulletins and the glare of pulsing lights. 
     "What's going on here, Officer?"  Jeff demanded, more
sharply than he'd intended. 
     "Who the hell are you?" 
     Jeff fumbled for his faculty ID, crafted to look like a
1985 edition, and hoped it would get by the beefy, florid-faced
policeman.  "Sorry, Officer.  I teach at the College of Liberal
Arts and Science here." 
     The cop eyed the ID, Jeff, and softened.  "You're a teacher
from another division?"
     "Right," Jeff said, not really knowing what that meant.
     The cop nodded. "The student lounge was broken into two
hours ago and severely vandalized.   These kids got no respect
for property.  Hey Professor, you ok?" 
     Jeff felt his knees buckle.  He reached out to the police
car for support. "Officer, I've got to get up there right away.
I ... there are some important papers that I must get a look
at."  He was pleading.
     "Out of the question."  A big arm restrained Jeff, already
in motion towards the building.  "The place is a mess.  Glass
and garbage all over.  Someone torched that whole floor --
probably some kid didn't like his grades.  Believe me,
Professor, it's  not safe." 
     Jeff pulled free of the blue arm.  For a second he
considered making a run to the building.  But he knew it was
hopeless. He hadn't the vaguest idea what was really going on,
what had happened in the lounge. But he knew with cloying
certainty that his life was now seriously derailed.
     Maybe the AWH had imploded, maybe some kid had torched the
place as the cop had said, but whatever had happened there was
no way that soft shimmering light would be there for him --
surely no way he could code it for use and enter it even if it
was there now, without a dozen witnesses looking on.  A few
dozen bills out of time he could take a chance on leaving back
here; walking into the AWH with 1960s people as an audience,
maybe even trying to follow, was insane.  He couldn't risk what
that would do to reality -- might do to his very existence.
     So he turned and walked shakily down the street.  The cop
might have said something but he couldn't hear it. The off-key
amusement park quality of the Village congealed now into a
proper smarmy nightmare.  Jeff staggered a bit further, then
grabbed on to a corner lamp pole.  Then he leaned over and did
what he had wanted to do for nearly two days: he threw up what
seemed like every ounce of substance in his stomach.
     He looked at the mess he had made on street, and wondered
what part of that food might have come from 2084.  Would be a
long, long time if ever, he knew, before he was likely to see
any of that again.  
     *** 
     A Beatles' song was playing somewhere in the distance.  A
DJ was talking.  No historical moment, no hushed build-up.  Just
the Beatles...
     Jeff opened his eyes. He looked out of his window at the
street below.  Mid-April sunshine coated the sidewalk like
clarified butter.
     "...traffic light in most places but still heavy on the
Kosciusko Bridge," the radio continued. "H0A halfway through the
third shift with you on WABC.  Good morning!" 
     Jeff hoisted himself out of the easy chair.  His clothes
felt stale and rumpled -- he had spent the night in them -- and
he needed a shave.  He stripped, showered, shaved, and
approached the pile which served as his wardrobe closet. Today
would be a special day.  He put on a blue buttondown shirt, dark
brown corduroy slacks, and pulled his Navy blue knit tie into a
loose fitting  double-Windsor, the only kind of knot he knew how
to make. He slung a  corduroy jacket over his shoulder and
ambled down the three flights of stairs.
     Jeff played with his scrambled eggs at the Yorkville
Restaurant and considered his situation for a thousandth time.
He pushed three pieces of egg to one side. His arrival 23 years
earlier than planned, the luggage accident in Dallas, the
destruction of the student lounge --  were these all related, or
three pieces of random, rotten luck?
     He couldn't accept his being a Robinson Crusoe in the past.
He understood his predicament, his utter stranding in the 1960s,
logically enough.  And yet some part of him had waited these
past five months, hoping that one of his team would one day
miraculously appear to rescue him.  He'd imagined Rena in this
role, but how could she?  The mouth to 1963 had  been sealed
with the implosion or trashing or whatever had taken out the
lounge. He'd been back up there several times, when no one was
around, but the lounge had been totally reconstructed, with no
sign of the AWH.
     The team had no way of knowing he was even here --
presumably all they would know is that he hadn't succeeded in
stopping the Challenger disaster.  If they sent anyone else
back, it would likely be to 1985, where he was supposed to have
gone, not here. And who knows if Rena or whoever would succeed
any better than he.  Maybe Steven Hawking was right in his
chronology protection conjecture -- maybe the universe protects
itself from alterations via time travel -- removes unwelcome
Thornes from its side -- whether by misdirecting  travellers,
blowing up AWHs, both, more.
     So he was probably stranded. But maybe not totally without
options.  He had to gingerly probe the contours of time travel
-- see just what small things it might allow, and then perhaps
he'd try a few larger things.  What he had in mind for today was
the first modest step in this direction. 
     Jeff paid for his breakfast and walked out into  the cool
morning sunlight. His money problems were finally over -- he had
a job with a decent salary. Some parts of the team's  exhaustive
planning had worked out after all, had survived his  immersion
in a time 23 years earlier than expected. Their massive search
of historical records had uncovered  fourteen Harrises who had
done graduate work at universities in the mid-20th century. One,
named Geoffrey, had earned a Ph.D. in social psychology from the
University of Edinburgh in 1958.  Their names and academic
disciplines were close enough that Jeff with a mixture of
Geoff's credentials and his own knowledge of the field would
have been able to demonstrate a convincing identity in 1985-86
-- the team's reason for coming up with this. But it turned  out
to also be enough for Jeff to land a job back here as an Adjunct
Professor at the third school whose ad he'd answered, his act
sufficiently polished, hinting just enough knowledge of new
trends in the field to kindle admiration without suspicion. It
was a last-minute Spring teaching appointment, to fill in for a
regular Professor unexpectedly on leave, that required only
cursory credentialing. But it was a foot in the door, and it
paid real money.  
     He squinted at the sun and inhaled deeply. The polluted air
still bothered him, and he sometimes felt as if little pieces of
black soot were burning holes in his chest.  He wheezed
slightly. But the day felt promising,  even beautiful, and he
caught the crosstown bus to the IRT subway on West 86th Street.
This would take him to the "Intro to Sociology" class that he
taught at City College on l37th Street in Harlem. 
     ***
     Further up the subway line, near a place called Pelham
Parkway in the Bronx,  Mrs. Sarah Harris also made her way to
work.  The day was beautiful to her too, and she also wheezed a
bit -- from asthma -- as she walked down the block to Saperman's
Bakery where she worked behind the counter.  Her mind was filled
today, as it was on many days, with images of the Ukrainian
countryside around Kiev, and with pictures of her father.  She
could see him as clearly as if he were standing right in front
of her, even though she had last seen him more than 60 years ago
and a continent away. Her brown eyes, still keen and always
wise, glistened a drop, not from soot but sentiment.  Those eyes
were almost identical to Jeff's.  She was his
great-great-grandmother.
     ***
     At City College, in a place presciently named Harris Hall,
Jeff  labored to  make a concluding point about McLuhan.  "So
you see, it's not what we watch on television that's important,
it's the fact that we're watching television -- rather than
reading a book or listening to the radio -- that McLuhan says
really counts.  This is what he means by  `the medium is the
message.'" 
     Jeff looked at the students, most of whom were scribbling
his words without the slightest comprehension.  The three girls
from Queens who smiled at him certainly hadn't the vaguest idea
what he was talking about.  Neither did the foreign kid, his
mouth continuously hanging open, who at least made no attempt to
disguise his puzzlement. But a few in the class did seem to have
some tiny understanding of what Jeff was saying.  The girl in
the back with the soft brown eyes seemed to be in touch with
him.  Anyway, Jeff liked the way she looked at him. 
     "Ok, that's about it for today.  Read the pertinent
sections of _Gutenberg Galaxy_, and I'll see whether I can get
you some advance copies of _Understanding Media_."  Jeff grabbed
his corduroy coat and strode out the door, smiling at the girl
with the soft brown eyes. 
     He hurried to the subway at l37th Street.  He looked at his
watch -- the flector model, for Jeff no longer cared about
keeping such minor aspects of his cover.  In fact, he hoped
future artifacts like this might attract someone's benevolent
attention, maybe  someone else from the future, who could help
him. He'd have gladly kept spending his 1980s money too for the
same reason, had he not been afraid that sooner or later some
good samaritan would have him arrested for counterfeiting.
     It was 11:56 -- more than enough time.
     But the subway took longer than expected, and it was 12:35
when Jeff ran down the long flights of stairs at the Pelham
Parkway station in the Bronx.  Saperman's was only a few minutes
away by foot, so Jeff wasn't too worried. Still, he half-walked,
half-ran. 
     He was sweating when he reached the bakery.  He realized
this was more from anxiety than exertion.  His
great-great-grandmother had  died in 1992, at the age of 97. His
grandfather, whom Jeff had spent some of the most satisfying
times of his childhood with, had been just 6 when Sarah Harris
had died, but grandpa carried memories of her warmth and voice
and summers they had spent together in their cottage on Cape Cod
Bay, and Jeff felt he knew Sarah through this. 
     But he stopped, suddenly not sure he could do this. What
would he say to this woman?  How would she react?  A smell of
apple strudel permeated his thoughts -- grandpa's strudel, an
old family recipe grandpa had loved to bake -- and this gave him
courage. He walked in.
     "Hello," he said in the direction of the three matronly
women who stood behind the counter and looked up at him as a
clanking bell on the inside of the door announced his presence.
Not a single one of them looked anything like his
great-great-grandmother.  "Can I help you?" one of them said in
a soothing Jewish accent that he'd heard only in the movies.
     "Uhm, yes ..." he began, not quite sure what to say.  "Does
a Mrs. Sarah Harris work here?"
     Just then he heard a rustle from the back.  His
great-great-grandmother walked out from behind a curtain,
carrying some sort of cake in an open box.
     "Sarah, a _boichik_ to see you," one of the women said with
a laugh. 
     Jeff felt like shouting with joy.  He suppressed this,
along with the urge to jump over the counter and hug her.  She
looked great -- like her best picture, from someone named Sol's
bar-mitzvah, come to life.
     Sarah was smiling, a wonderful smile he had seen in his
father and some of his aunts and uncles and his grandfather.
"You look like I know you," she said.  "You're one of Louie's
grandsons?"
     "Right, Louie," Jeff answered quickly.  His mind sped
through family history.  Louie was Sarah's older brother. The
two had come with a middle brother -- Hymie -- to New York
around 1900.  Sarah was a little girl then, about 5, and Louie
was like a father to her.  Her real father and nine other
brothers and sisters she would never see again.  Louie -- Uncle
Louie, Jeff's grandfather had always called him -- had moved to
the West Coast after World War II.  He had fathered a big family
himself, and Jeff recalled that these in turn had given Louie
dozens of grandchildren who from time to time showed up at
weddings and bar mitzvahs on the East Coast.  Good.  Jeff for
now would be one of them.
     Sarah took off her apron and moved out from behind the
counter. "I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off," she said to
the matrons.  "You tell Murray I'll make up the time this
weekend, ok?"
     "No, no, please, Mrs. Harris," Jeff raised his hand and
smiled. He didn't think he could take more than a few minutes
with his great-great-grandmother in this first meeting. "I've
got  just a little over an hour before an appointment downtown,
and I don't want you to lose time from your job.  How about we
go for a cup of tea at the Dairy Restaurant by Lydig Avenue.
It's Kosher, right?"  He had checked out this whole neighborhood
a week ago.
     Sarah laughed heartily.  "It seems you know me and this
area very well.  OK, let's go to Lydig.  Tell Murray I'm back in
an hour," she said over her shoulder to the counter.
     "So it seems you know my name but I don't know yours,"
Sarah said as the two walked the half a block around the corner
to Lydig Avenue.
     "I'm Jeff.  Jeffrey Rosenberg."  Jeff was 99% positive that
Rosenberg was Sarah's maiden name.
     Sarah's eyes widened in pleasure.  "Yosef was the name of
my father.  Wonderful of Shlomo to name you after him. We have
only one son, and we named him after my husband's -- Yitzhak's
-- mother. So you're Shlomo's boy, then?"  Now Sarah's eyes
furrowed in some confusion. "Or are you Harry's?"
     Jeff smiled and thought frantically as they entered the
restaurant.  He ushered Sarah to a table, and once seated,
ordered two cups of tea -- with lemon for Sarah, milk for him --
from the elderly waiter who looked like he had about five
minutes left to live.
     He knew that Sarah prided herself on perfect recall of
every relationship in her extended family.  Right now she was
probably realizing that as far as she knew, Shlomo had no son
named Jeffrey, and neither did Harry.  Jeff breathed in sharply.
Time to talk about the impossible.
     "I'm not really Louie's grandson," he said slowly.
     In another time and place -- in fact, in most times and
places, including this one -- such an admission would have been
cause for alarm for Sarah.  But her powerful intuition told her
this was not a stranger to be feared -- not a stranger at all.
     "You're much closer to me than Louie's grandchildren,"
Sarah finally said.  Her eyes looked loving, not challenging, to
Jeff.
     "You've travelled very far in your lifetime, Sarah," Jeff
said softly.  "Do think it might be possible to travel across
years, across time, just like you've travelled across great
distances?"
     Sarah chuckled.  "You mean like angels?  Or maybe  like the
_meshugenas_ on the Twilight Zone?"  She pronounced the "w" like
a "v," so the show sounded like "Tvilight Zone."
     Jeff couldn't help laughing.  He would have sworn that the
only TV this woman would have ever watched other than the news
was the Lawrence Welk Show.  "Yes, something like that."  Jeff
felt much better after laughing.  He put his teacup down.
"Sarah, I'm going to tell you something now.  You're a very
intelligent women, and what I'm going to tell you will seem
totally crazy to you.  But please hear me out.  It will take
just a minute. And then I'm going to ask you to do a very
important favor for me. You don't have to agree now, but please
promise me that you'll think about it."
     "It's about what Hitler did in Europe?" she asked with a
cry in her voice. Her hand shook, and she spilled some of her
tea, though the cup was only half full. Jeff suddenly felt very
guilty. His great-great-grandmother looked so much younger than
he had pictured her, seen her in her pictures, that she had
seemed  at first not so old to him.  Now she looked every one
one of her sixty years, and  Jeff felt terrible that he was
stirring up these demons about the holocaust and who knows what
else. But he had to finish what he had started here.
     "No, it's not about Hitler." He paused.  "I'm your
great-great-grandson, Jeffrey Harris."
     A small shriek came from Sarah, and the blood left her
cheeks. "Sarah, please." Jeff took her hand.  "I have to leave
now. But I need you to do something for me that is very very
important -- my life may depend upon it.  In 25 years, you'll
get to know my grandfather, when he was just a little boy and
you'll be much older." Jeff realized there were tears in his
eyes.  "And you'll be a wonderful grandma to him, believe me.
But I want you to promise that you'll tell him -- your little
grandson -- about this meeting.  I'm not asking you to believe
me now.  You can tell your grandson  that you had this meeting
with a crazy man who claimed to be your great-great-grandson
years ago.  But everything depends on your telling him something
-- something about me, about this -- 25 years from now."
     Sarah's head shook -- not no, but from tremors.  Her eyes
were a confused mixture of anger, uncertainty, love.  Now she
slowly shook her head no.  "I don't know you," she whispered.
     "I know.  But I'm part of you -- I'm your DNA, your blood."
Jeff stood up, then leaned over and kissed her.  "I love you,
Sarah, I always will.  Go by your instincts in this."  He put a
five dollar bill on the table, and hurried out the door.
     Now the April breeze caught his face, seemed to move him
along.  He walked in a daze, not really knowing where he was
going, to the Pelham Parkway station.  He paid his fare, walked
through the wooden turnstile -- nearly getting a splinter in his
thigh -- and sat down on the rotting green bench to wait for the
train.
     And then he remembered.  His grandpa swinging with him on
the hammock.  Talking about a summer he'd spent years ago when
_his_ grandma was still alive, on Cape Cod.  He was four, maybe
five, so it was 1990 or 1991.  His parents and little sister had
gone out to Cooke's for supper.  He'd had a bad cold, and had to
stay in the cottage. Grandma Sarah stayed with him.  It had
started raining -- very hard -- an August Cape Cod storm that
seemed to drench the beach and every living thing.   And she
told him about the strange man who had come to her long ago in
Saperman's, the bakery where she used to work...
     Jeff was shaking.  Thank you, Sarah -- you came through for
me.  He felt like running back and hugging her, but didn't dare,
lest this somehow throw a curve into what he had just
accomplished here.
     He was sure this memory of what his grandfather had told
him about what _his_ grandmother had told _him_ hadn't existed
before.  It proved that he was real in this convoluted past --
that he could do things here which could indeed change the
future, even if the change were as slight as a grandmother's
words in a Cape Cod storm some 60 years before he'd been born.
But those words, his memory of his grandfather's conveyance of
them, meant everything. Sarah Harris had given him his first
real hope.  If he could change the future through her, he could
figure out a way to somehow contact his team, and get back to
where he belonged.
     He was crying.  For he also realized that in a deep,
indescribable way he missed Sarah Harris  even more than his
world of 2084, and he knew there was no way he ever could have
both.
     *** 
     "I think he's very attractive," Carla Caplan of Flushing
said.  "You know, not in the Marlon Brando or Paul Newman way,
but in a cuddly way.  Like a teddy bear."  She stroked her left
thumbnail with an emery board. 
     "Oh, I don't know," Amy Jacobson replied.  "His accent is a
little strange.  And anyway, he never pays any attention to us.
The only girl he ever looks at is the girl in back of the
class." 
     Carla moved her hand along the nylon stocking on her leg.
"That's not true, Amy.  I've seen him look at us lots of times." 
     "The two of you are ridiculous."  Sandy Greenfarb shook her
curly brown hair.  "Besides, teachers don't date students in
this pathetic school.  City College is too old-fashioned for
that." 
     "Who said anything about dating?" Carla replied.  "And
you're wrong, anyway.  Didn't you hear about Atwick in the Bio
Department?  They say he got a girl pregnant.  Put some Spanish
Fly in her drink."
     Sandy blushed.  "That's absurd.  And anyway, Professor
Harris is nothing like Professor Atwick.  He's much more refined
-- more of a gentleman." 
     "How would _you_ know?" Amy jumped back in.  
     "No one knows much about Professor Harris.  He just started
teaching here this term," Carla said.
     "He's not married.  That's all Carla needs to know."  Amy
laughed.
     "Shh," Sandy said as Jeff walked into the room.  
     "Late as usual," Amy whispered. 
     "Well, I've read through most of your papers." Jeff
slouched into the chair on wheels and stretched his feet out on
the desk. "And I'm sorry to say that they were more gruesome
than I expected." 
     A murmur of irritation rippled through the class. 
     "Now to begin with..." Jeff began, as one student, even
later than he, hurried through the door.  It was the girl with
the soft brown eyes, who bit her lower lip in an apologetic
smile and slipped into a rear seat as inconspicuously as
possible. 
     "Miss, uh..." Jeff inquired, returning the smile. 
     "Laura Chapin." 
     "Yes, uh, Miss Chapin, I was just telling the class that
most of these papers on the McLuhanesque interpretation of the
Beatles missed the point entirely.  But there were a few
exceptions.  And yours was among the most refreshing." 
     Amy shot an I-told-you-so glance to Carla. 
     Laura's eyes dilated with delight.  "Thank you." 
     Jeff finished the class five minutes early and headed
quickly out the door.  "Professor Harris," Laura called after
him.  He stopped a few feet down the hall and turned to face
her.   Jeff realized she looked taller and older than he had
thought, her brown hair jostling invitingly around her
shoulders.  "I wanted to thank you for what you said about my
paper," she said, slightly out of breath. 
     "You earned it.  You have a fine mind." 
     She smiled without looking too embarrassed.  "I was
wondering if we might be able to get together and talk sometime
-- in your office -- I, um, have some questions I'd like to go
over with you about grad school." 
     Jeff looked at his watch and gestured Laura to walk with
him towards the stairs.  "Look, I'd ask you to join me for lunch
right now, but I've a departmental meeting to attend.  Why don't
we have lunch together next Monday?" 
     Now Laura's face flushed a bit.  "I ... that would be very
nice, but I've got labs starting at noon that run to four
o'clock.  Do you think it might be possible for us to meet in
your office at 4:30 on Monday?" 
     Jeff stopped and looked steadily at Laura for a moment.
Those eyes were alluring.  "Monday at 4:30 it is, then," he said
crisply, and strode away. 
     *** 
     "I almost didn't keep our appointment today," Jeff said,
sipping the third glass of red wine he and Laura had partaken
since they'd adjourned their meeting from his office. 
     "Oh?  And what possibly could have kept you?"  The wine had
lowered Laura's voice to a quiet, warm contralto.  The cafe,
five minutes on the subway from his office, had the smell of
fine spirits and food. 
     "I didn't want the aggravation," Jeff said.
     Laura considered his deadpan face, then burst out laughing.
"Well thank you very much."
     "What would you say if I told you that I could predict the
future?" Jeff asked off-handedly, taking another sip of his wine.
     "You mean in a socially forecasting way?" 
     "I mean in every way."
     "Well, Professor Harris, you told us in one of your
lectures that for very good reasons no one can ever really know
the future. So I would say either you were lying ... or speaking
metaphorically." 
     "Good," Jeff nodded, "but let's say I stubbornly insisted
that I did know the future, and that this in no way contradicts
what I said in my lecture about no one ever being able to know
the future.  What would you say then?" 
     "I'd say you were kidding me or crazy." Laura thought for a
bit.  "I don't think the future exists yet -- it doesn't exist
until it's actually created, in the present -- so there's no way
you or anyone could really know it in the way that we know we're
here in this little bistro on Broadway, for instance."
     "Fair enough."  Jeff waved to the waiter for another round
of wine.  "You're sharp.  But let's say I were to tell you that
Lyndon Johnson will beat Barry Goldwater by a landslide this
November?" 
     Laura shook her head.  "No. Not good enough.  Everyone
expects Goldwater to get the nomination, and there's no way that
Johnson won't win big what with the Kennedy sympathy vote.
You'd have to do better than that." 
     Jeff smiled and rubbed his lips with his fingers.  The
Beatles' "Thank You, Girl" played languorously in the
background. "Ok, how's this: Let's say I tell you that in about
a year and a half from now, the Beatles will have a hit record
called `Help' from a movie by the same name?" 
     Laura laughed.  "You've got imagination, I'll say that for
you.  But I still don't think I'd be convinced.  How do I know
that you're not a personal friend of George Martin's with some
special information about the Beatles' plans?"  Laura frowned
for a moment then snapped her fingers.  "No, I've got it!  You
tell me what number on Billboard's Hot 100 a _non_-Beatle record
-- one that won't almost certainly make Number One -- will be in
1966, and I'll believe that you know the future!" 
     Laura extended her hands in a triumphant gesture, pitching
over a nearly full glass of red wine onto her shirt in the
process.  Jeff jumped up, napkin in hand, and began patting
Laura's soaked sleeve dry.  He progressed from her sleeve to her
cheek, and suddenly was less than an inch from Laura's upturned
face.  Her eyes were rosy with wine, her mouth soft and parted.
He touched his lips to hers, gently at first, then found himself
lost in a realm of warmth and darkness...
     He finally pulled away.  "Well," he managed, gasping a bit
for breath, "no one can ever say that I don't give my students
personal attention." 
     "I'd be glad to write you a letter of recommendation," she
said, smiling.  "Now you see why I didn't want to have lunch
with you."
     "You found this aggravating?" 
     "Quite the opposite," Laura replied.
     Still standing over her, Jeff touched her hair with his
finger.  "I've got a lot I need to tell you," he said softly.
"By the way, no one but a record producer would know the exact
number on the charts of a record even now, so your test of my
knowledge of the future is too demanding."  
     ***
     They walked hand in hand a few evenings later along groves
overlooking  the Hudson River.  Across they could see the
Palisades of New Jersey, carved whole out of stone as if by some
supreme civilization, and near them the palette of Wave Hill
Park in the late Spring.  Wave Hill -- home of Mark Twain, of
Toscanini, and an Easter parade of a notables across a century.
In the late 1800s, William Appleton had lived here, amidst his
publication in America of Darwin and Spencer.  JFK had lived in
a house across the street in the 1930s.  Recently a British
ambassador had donated most of this to the people of New York. 
     Jeff knew it wouldn't especially help his larger
predicament to get involved with Laura, to tell her what he was
about.  On the other hand, what harm could it do -- set in
motion a jagged timeloop which would wink him out of existence?
Not likely. And the smell of her neck and his need to talk had
been compelling. So he'd told her.  And here he was, still
around, and feeling fine.
     He breathed in slowly. Fragrances real and recalled bathed
his brain.  "You know, when I was a kid, my grandfather used to
tell me about summers he spent on Cape Cod when he was a kid
himself.  At night, sometimes two or three in the morning, he'd
walk along the beach and gradually leave his cottage in the
distance.  Sometimes he'd turn around and, still seeing the
light of the cottage, would walk further until it was completely
gone.  Then he'd close his eyes and think, there's no difference
between what I see with my eyes open and my eyes closed.  He'd
sit in the salty water, a foot or two deep, and feel the cold
fluid pulse of the cosmos throbbing through his clothes.  Then
he'd get up and walk again, cold but not shivering, until he
made contact with that spot of light that was his cottage.  He
was never sure until it happened that he would see that light
again.  But when he did, he'd walk with the satisfaction of
knowing that after having gone out to the very limits and beyond
of his usual reality, he was about to enter it again.  I never
really fully understood what my grandfather was saying to me --
until now."
     Laura looked at him, stroked his face with the center of
her palm.  "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
     "Serious about what?"
     "The time travel," Laura said.
     Jeff said nothing.
     "I can be with you anyway," Laura said.  "I don't have to
believe it's real.  I can pretend to believe it's real, play
along that you're from the future, like you say you are.  I'm
not sure there's all that much difference between really
believing and pretending to believe anyway, if you pretend
sincerely enough."
     "You've got some philosophy there," Jeff said.
     Laura took his hand, put it to her lips.
     "And you're not worried that I really _am_ crazy -- maybe
dangerous?" Jeff asked.
     "Oh, you're dangerous all right," she said, grazing her
teeth over his index finger. "And as to your story -- my feeling
is that whatever the truth of it, you're a good man.  I feel
right about that."
     Jeff sighed.  "You remember what I said the first day of
class about no one really knowing for sure that anything is real
-- we could well be dreaming all of this, and might even dream
that someone pinched us and tried to awaken us and nothing
happened -- but that we'd all go crazy unless we took at least
some leap of faith, and assumed on nothing better than faith
that the world is real and we were really here?" 
     "I was late for that lecture, wasn't I?"
     "No, I'm quite sure you were there,"  Jeff said. "Look, I'm
trying to say that--"
     "I know what you're saying."  Now she looked at him very
intently. "You want me to take that leap of faith with you and
your story.  You want me to assume that what you're saying is
true, even though I have no evidence for it and it flies in the
face of reason.  You want me to say, look, I know this is crazy,
but I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, entertain
your insanity, see where it leads us.  In other words, pretense
isn't good enough for you -- you want to make this really hard
for me."  She turned away.
     "Something like that, right," Jeff said.
     "What is it about me that's always attracted to lunatics,"
she  murmured.  She turned around and kissed him full on the
lips.
     ***
     "Two Papaya." Jeff held up two fingers to the man  at the
Papaya King on 3rd Avenue and 86th Street. "One to drink here
and a quart to go." There was nothing like this drink in his
century.  Whatever the hell it was -- whatever its special
mixture of pulp and sugars -- it was delicious.
     He walked down 86th Street, package in hand, towards his
place by the East River.  His place ... he was feeling more and
more comfortable in this place, and that made him feel
uncomfortable, out of place.  There were things he missed from
his world -- faces on the phone, words on the screen, poles of
the planet as easily accessible as the north and south parts of
this borough -- but he missed them less and less.  Especially
when he was with Laura.
     Still... He picked up a copy of the _Daily News_.  Johnson
was on the cover, saying he was going ahead full force on the
space program, and on the inside was a picture of Gus Grissom.
Jeff had thought about doing something to prevent the fire that
would kill Grissom, White, and Chafee in their Apollo 1 capsule
on January 27, 1967.  But that was still over a year and a half
away, and he couldn't be sure what impact that might have on the
Moon landing, which was still the lonely high watermark of human
penetration of space.  No, he didn't dare mess with that --
better to bide his time, and wait the 19 further years, almost
to the day, for a chance to avert the Challenger catastrophe,
and the fatal blow it had delivered, in retrospect, to the space
program.
     But Jeff didn't suffer abidances of time very well.  What
was the point of time travel, anyway, if not to short-circuit
ordinary time, make new things happen?  It seemed the last thing
that should be required of the time traveler was patience.  Jeff
knew now, ever since his experience with Sarah, that he could
change the future -- which meant that his existence here could
make a difference.  But he had to get some word back to his team
in 2084.  How?  He'd even tried taking a page from Asimov --
what was that book, _The End of Eternity_? --  and placed small,
discrete, but clearly informative ads in a variety of
significant journals and newspapers like _The New York Times_.
But nothing had happened. He had no idea if any of the ads had
even come to the attention of the team -- 1964 was after all
well before the age of online information, and an ad in a
newspaper this old might well have slipped by the Big Scannings
in the new millennium.
     He opened the door to his apartment quietly, so as not to
wake Laura.  She'd been sleeping over a lot, and Jeff figured
she'd  be moving in with him soon.  He wasn't sure how his
colleagues at City College would take this -- the 1960s were one
of the decades of sexual liberation, but Jeff wasn't enough of
an expert on that aspect of popular culture to know just how far
that went.
     He tiptoed into the bedroom.  He liked looking at Laura
when she was sleeping.  Her eyes were open just a crack, and he
could see the bottoms of her soft brown eyes tracing some sort
of REM-dream diagram.  He hoped it was of him.  He looked at her
body, her breasts, one nipple partly exposed.  He could do a lot
worse than spending the next 23 years with her.
     He walked carefully back into the kitchen, put the papaya
juice into the refrigerator -- he loved it, a living antique,
right out of the Smith-Sonyian -- and took out some eggs.  Was
cholesterol verboten in this decade?  He'd been meaning to ask
Laura.  It certainly wasn't in his.  He started a pot of water
boiling for the eggs, and sat down at the table to read the
paper...
     "Jesus!" he shouted.
     "What's the matter?" Laura shuffled out of the bedroom,
rubbing her eyes.
     Jeff shook his head in shock, disbelief.
     "What's the matter, honey?" Laura walked over, put a
concerned hand on his shoulder.
     Jeff pointed to the paper.
     "What?  What is it?" Laura asked.
     Jeff jabbed at a picture.  "I know her," he rasped.  "She
was a member of my team.  Rena Sarrett."
     ***
     Laura leaned over, and read aloud the article associated
with the photograph.  "... run down by a bus on Central Park
South last week.... died the next day ... her co-workers say she
was hired by Gaulin's, an insurance firm, about six months ago
... attempts to locate Miss Sarrett's relatives have all proven
unsuccessful ... police would appreciate anyone with information
contacting them..."
     "She was part of your project?" Laura asked.
     "Right," Jeff said, his voice choked with emotion.
     Laura had the presence of mind to turn off the water, which
was furiously boiling.  "And you and she were lovers?"
     "What?" Jeff croaked.
     "I'm sorry," Laura said.
     "Yeah, we were lovers.  Once.  A long time ago -- actually,
in a time which doesn't even goddamn exist yet.  Does that
matter?"
     "Did you love her?" Laura asked.
     "Yes," Jeff said, tears in his eyes.  "But not as much as I
love you."
     Laura put her arms around his neck, stroked his chest.
"That's all that matters to me.  I love you too."
     Jeff rubbed the side of his face against her hand.
     "What does this mean?" Laura asked.  "I mean, your friend
getting killed..."
     "It means they sent her back too -- maybe to find me here,
who knows, maybe they got one of my messages after all," Jeff
said. "Or maybe they were trying to send her back to 1985, to do
the same job I was supposed to do, but for some reason she got
sucked back here to the 1960s too.  I don't know."
     "What are you -- we -- going to do now?" Laura asked.
     "I don't know," Jeff said.
     ***
     "I don't really want to go to this party," Jeff said,
trudging   reluctantly after Laura up a steep street in
Washington Heights.
     "Come on," Laura turned around and pulled his hand.  "It's
been over a month since you found out about Rena, and all you've
been doing is moping and brooding -- it's time you got out and
saw some people.  It's summer already, for God's sake." 
     "Not moping -- thinking," Jeff said. "I was knocked
unconscious in Dallas, Rena was killed by a bus, both in places
we shouldn't have been.  There's got to be some comprehensible
pattern in this."
     "I know," Laura said, more softly.  "It's almost as if
there's something in the nature of things that doesn't want
people to time travel -- and punishes them when they do."
     "You know I dreamed about Rena dead, shortly after I got
out of the Dallas hospital," Jeff said, recalling this for the
first time.  "I wonder if that has any connection to any of
this."
     "Well, remember you told me that Kip Thorpe--"
     "Thorne," Jeff corrected.
     "Right, Kip Thorne and his people hypothesized that people
flipped into alternate universes when they changed history
through time travel -- that that's how the loops opened by the
Thorne stayed clean -- so maybe, somehow, because you're here in
the past, you've caused an alternate universe to come into
being, and in that universe you'd already lived past knowing
about Rena's death, because that universe is progressing at a
different pace, and somehow your dream connected you to this
alternate version of your self..."
     Jeff smiled.  It was at times like this that he could
understand how he had come to feel so close to Laura.  "You
don't think I'm such a lunatic anymore, huh?"
     Laura snuggled against him.  "You're definitely a lunatic
-- no doubt about that -- but maybe not about time travel."
     Jeff kissed her on the forehead.
     "Well, here we are at Joannie's building," Laura said.
"Don't worry, I'm sure there'll be other teachers there.  Just
think of this as another great safari into 1960s culture."
     ***
     "What can I fix you, Professor?" 
     "A scotch and water would be fine."  Richard Atwick
adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses and quietly eyed the hosed legs
and sleek red dress of his benefactor.  "Why thank you, Carla,"
he said, taking the drink from her hand, "and I must say you're
looking as lovely tonight as always." 
     He gulped half his drink down in one swallow and, sloshing
the rest around in the glass, began walking through the six
rooms of Joannie Pernelli's parents' apartment.  The place was
packed with partiers in varying states of dress, intimacy, and
inebriation.  
     "Professor Harris."  Atwick strode over and extended his
hand to Jeff. "I've seen you around Campus, but I don't think
we've ever formally met.  I'm Richard Atwick of Biology."  He
suddenly put his hand to his ear as the Beatles' "It Won't Be
Long" blared forth without warning.
     "Nice to meet you," Jeff said loudly over the twanging
guitars. "Do you know Laura Chapin?" 
     "I don't think so, but I'm glad to now." Atwick said.
"Are you doing graduate work?" 
     "Thanks for the compliment." Laura smiled sweetly. "But
I'm afraid I'm still undergrad. And if you two gentlemen have no
objections, I think I'll go  off and mingle now with some of my
own kind." 
     "Nice."  Atwick watched her walk off and nodded at Jeff
approvingly.  "And what are you having to drink, Professor?" 
     "Please, call me Jeff." Jeff tried not to respond  to the
nod.  "I guess I'll have some white wine if there's any around." 
     "Well, let's just go and find some, shall we?"  Atwick
tugged on Jeff's arm and started towards the bottles on the far
side of the room. "You know, I'm delighted that you'll be
joining us again this Fall in the Sociology Department.
Sociology -- that's a discipline of the future!  It's good we're
building up our faculty in that area." 
     "Well, I'm happy to be here at City College.  It's
certainly one of the best schools in the country." 
     "Well, we like to think so." Atwick beamed.  "Ah, here's
some sort of Soave.  Will that do?  Good."  Atwick began
pouring.  "Now I've heard your specialty is mass culture.  And
you did your graduate work at..."  Atwick handed Jeff a brimming
paper cup. 
     Jeff sipped a little and spilled a little on his shirt.
"University of Edinburgh.  And my specialty's really mass media
-- you know, the work of Marshall McLuhan -- rather than mass
culture." Jeff got a pang as he thought again about how he had
successfully re-cycled the cover the team had provided -- any
thought of  the team brought along painful images of Rena...
     "Edinburgh, yes," Atwick was talking. "Splendid mountain in
the middle of the city.  You worked under Phillip MacKenzie?" 
     "Mackenzie?  Nope, don't think I did," Jeff said, wondering
what  he would say next if pressed.  His credentials would after
all not stand up to anyone who knew the real Geoff Harris, or
even very long to anyone who knew someone who knew Geoff...
     The sound quieted down a bit, and it occurred to Jeff that
Atwick had a familiar British accent, maybe like a surgeon he
half-remembered hearing once in a hospital...
     "Of course, it's a large university--" Atwick began.
     "Professor Harris, it's good to see you outside of the
classroom!" Carla joined the men. Jeff was delighted for the
intrusion.
     "You know, I'm really _mad_ at you for that C+."  She
batted her eyelids flirtatiously at Jeff. 
     "Well, Carla, if Professor Harris had graded you for good
looks, I'm sure you would have received an A+.  Am I right
Jeff?" 
     "Absolutely," Jeff said -- thinking that, if his grasp of
history was right, in a few decades that kind of bantering could
bring both Atwick and him up on sexual harassment charges.  He
shuddered.  Insane days they were, at the end of the 20th
century.  He'd be doing the world a big favor if the only thing
he did back here was change _that_...
     "Aw, I can't stay mad at you guys, you're too charming,"
Carla mewed. "Do you believe in dancing with students, Professor
Harris?  Professor Atwick has already honored me with one of his
cha-chas." 
     Atwick bowed.  "The honor was all mine." 
     "Well, I'd be pleased to dance with you Carla," Jeff
laughed, "but I'm afraid these new dances are too much for me." 
     Carla smiled and subtly shifted her body so that her curves
were more prominent.  "I was thinking of something nice and
slow." 
     "Well, in that case, I'd be a madman to refuse."  Jeff
winked at Atwick and extended his arm to Carla.  He looked in
vain for Laura as Carla escorted him to a room in which "The
Best of Johnny Mathis" played incessantly. 
     An hour and who knows how many red dresses later, Laura
came up behind Jeff. "Hi," she whispered in his ear and kissed
it. "Find out anything interesting?"
     "Actually, yeah," Jeff said, and handed Laura a glass of
wine.  "Amazing how many people seem to know the future when
you're primed to hear that in their conversation.  One kid told
me that he thinks the Beachboys will go on to become second only
to the Beatles in musical importance.  Now how could he know
that on the basis of `Surfin Safari' and a couple of other
uncreative songs in 1964?"
     "Tall blond, sun-tanned boy, Mark?" Laura asked.
     "Yeah, I think so."
     "Well, he looks like one of the Beachboys, so maybe he's
just self-impressed," Laura laughed, and spilled her wine.
"Oops."
     "You've got no luck with wine, have you?"  Jeff was
laughing too now. He had to admit he was having a good time.
"Here, take mine, I just poured it, I'll go get another."  
     "I think I've had _fantastic_ luck with wine at least one
time," Laura said.
     Jeff went to fetch another bottle in an adjacent room. The
music there was louder than anywhere else.  Jeff cringed a bit
under the sound assault, then realized he was hearing something
else mixed in with the music ... a piercing wail coming from the
next room.  He dropped the bottle and ran in and found Laura
shrieking on the floor. 
     "Laura, what's the matter?"  He lifted her face and looked
intently into her eyes.  They were grossly dilated.  Her shrieks
suddenly turned into hysterical laughter. 
     "Professor Harris, is she sick or something?"  Sandy, who
Jeff realized had been standing over them, was nearly in tears
herself.
     "I don't know, Sandy.  Look, could you please call me a
cab?"
     Jeff helped Laura to her feet.  She was screaming and
yelling at the top of her lungs but Jeff couldn't make out what
she was saying.  She passed out in his arms in the elevator.  He
carried her into the back seat of the cab that arrived a few
minutes later.  "Get me to the closest hospital emergency room,"
he told the driver,  who looked like he'd seen it all. 
     He carefully put her head on his lap and wiped big beads of
sweat from the bridge of her nose.  Her eyes were tightly shut
and she drooled slightly from the corner of her mouth.  He
gently wiped that also.  She was moaning and half-singing some
Beatles song. 
     He had read of the effects of sixties psychedelic drugs on
people -- assuming that's what this was, though it seemed a
little early in the 1960s for that -- and could see this was a
very bad reaction, likely from something more nasty than LSD.
Who the hell had given it to her?
     In his day and age, treating it by simple suffusion would
be child's play.  But here more than a century earlier, with no
nano-syndics at all -- jeez, he hoped these "doctors" were up to
this.  What would they use to cleanse her chemistry?  He sighed,
stroked her face.  There was no point in torturing himself.
That wouldn't stop her from dying.  He had no choice but to put
Laura in whatever primitive doctor's hands this cabbie placed
her.
     But why did this happen?
     Another damn mishap?
     He had a searing insight for an instant. Yes, of course ...
Then he lost it.
     He looked down at Laura's lips, and trembled.  
     *** 
     Jeff had always found strength in the rivers of New York.
He had spent hours as a child wandering along the banks of the
Bronx River -- more a stream, really, than a river -- admiring
its waterfalls, sticking his toes in its pools, following its
path through the Botanic and Zoological Gardens.  Years later,
he would sit on the terrace of Rena's high-rise on 125th Street,
watching the powerful Hudson roll through the ninth decade of
the stagnant 21st century.  Good in medicine, agriculture, the
intra-physics that the Thorne embodied, but not much else.  Good
in looking inward, backward, not outward. He walked now around
Carl Schurz Park, looking down on the East River and its
reflection of this 1960s city, hoping to find something he could
use to recover his balance. 
     Laura was ok, resting in his apartment, well out of danger.
That wasn't the problem.
     "Close," the doctor had said.  "Good thing you rushed her
over here.  Combo of booze and that kind of drug is dangerous.
Good thing it responded to--"
     Better get used to it doc -- you'll see a lot more of it
before this decade is over.
     Thank God Laura was ok.
     But Jeff wasn't.
     He had slept maybe an hour after bringing her home from the
hospital, undressing her, tucking her safely in their bed.  He'd
had nightmares -- older and younger versions of his
great-great-grandmother coming in and out of his life, changing
it with each appearance, editing the narrative that was him so
many times that he had no bearings. Only alterations, of
alterations.  
     Jeff had always valued the sanctity and clarity of his
mind.  That's why he'd steered clear of the psychedelic drugs of
_his_ century  -- better to improve external reality than just
your perception of it. But he figured the contamination now of
his past and future was far more toxic to the psyche than the
worst drugs.  Coleridge, de Quincey, Huxley, Leary, Goonatilake
-- you're  all pikers compared to me.
     But why was he feeling the brunt of this now?
     Something Laura had said or done -- not her almost ODing,
but something that had happened then, though he didn't know what
-- had unhinged him--
     "Hi honey." A soft, cool hand touched his as he leaned
against the stone embankment.  He turned to Laura. She still
looked pale.
     "You shouldn't be out yet.  How are you feeling?" 
     She held up her palms in an I-don't-know gesture. "I think
pretty much better.  I was going crazy in the house, and you
were gone a long time.  I was worried." 
     Jeff pulled her close. "Oh, Laura, Laura," he said softly,
sadly. "What's going on?"
     They parted and held hands, looking down at the lights that
slid upon the inky water below. "I don't know," she said. "Do
you?"
     "I think so," Jeff said quietly.
     "Tell me," Laura said.
     "I think you know." 
     "No."  Laura's face furrowed in confusion. 
     Jeff dropped her hand and turned to face her.  "You look
very nice in those shorts." 
     Laura patted the light red shorts she was wearing on this
humid summer evening and looked even more confused.  "What do my
shorts have to do with anything?" 
     "For God's sake, stop playing games with me, Laura!"  A
nearby elderly woman with blue-tinted hair glared at Jeff.  He
glared back and lowered his voice.  "Try being honest with me
for a change."
     She turned and looked out over the water.  "I think I have
been honest. I've told you how much I love you."  Her voice was
husky. 
     "I don't suppose you remember much of what you did when the
DMT first hit you?" Jeff continued impassively. 
     "No, I don't remember much of anything.  The whole
experience was horrible.  You know that."  She started crying. 
     "So you have no idea what song you were singing when I took
you home in the cab?" 
     She shook her head. "I can't believe I was singing in that
state--"
     "Well would it surprise you to know that you were singing a
few lines of the Beatles' `Yes It Is' over and over again?
`Please don't wear red tonight..'" 
     "And you place some sort of significance on this?" 
     "I've been driving myself crazy, wandering around here for
hours, trying to figure out what's been bothering me ever since
I heard you singing those lines.  I didn't even know until I saw
you and your red shorts a few seconds ago that that song was the
problem.  But now I'm starting to understand.  You still want to
claim you have no idea what I'm talking about?" 
     "I haven't the foggiest notion."  For the first time,
annoyance was in Laura's voice.  She had stopped crying.
     "I think you do.  Do you know what today's date is?  June
29, 1964.  Now the Beatles so far have released two albums in
America, _Meet the Beatles_ and _The Beatles' Second Album_.
Actually, they also have a third album on VeeJay Records with
some early songs.  There's also an album with songs from their
_Hard Day's Night_ movie and a few new songs, _Something New_,
which will be released here in a couple of weeks.  You see I
know all of this because I taught history of rock for five years
when I first got my Ph.D." 
     "I know all about your past and future," Laura said tartly. 
     "Good," Jeff grabbed her arm and raised his voice again.
"And do you also know that `Yes It Is' is on none of those
albums? None of them! And in fact it won't be heard in America
until an album called _Beatles VI_ is released sometime late
next year? 
     Laura pulled away and laughed sarcastically.  "And that's
what all this is about?  That when I was stoned out of my mind
on some Brazilian drug maybe intended for you I  sang some song
that won't be released in the U.S. for another few months?
There are a thousand explanations for that.  I might know some
English guy who heard Lennon and McCartney perform that song in
a personal appearance.  You yourself might have sung the song in
your sleep.  What's the big deal?"  Her voice was rasping, and
she started to cough. 
     "Your life's at stake," Jeff said. "That's the big deal.
Don't you get it?"
     Laura just looked at him, eyes wide and brimming with
tears. She started to walk away.
     "Listen to me, goddamn it!" Jeff caught up to her, spun her
around, put his hands heavily on her shoulders.  "Rena died, I
think I was almost killed.  You were almost killed.  These are
serious forces we're playing around with here."
     She turned her head away, as if from the intensity of his
reasoning.
     "Tell me the truth!" he demanded.
     "I love you," Laura said.
     "We need more now," Jeff insisted.
     Laura exhaled, squeezed close to Jeff, then pulled away.
"It's getting windy out here," she shivered.  "Let's go back to
the apartment and I'll try to tell you as much as I can."
     ***
     The kettle whistled.  Jeff carefully poured the water into
the porcelain teapot, let it warm a bit, then added two servings
of darjeeling tea and the extra one for the pot.
     Laura was on the couch, arms around her knees and legs
tucked under, talking. "We knew there was danger right after the
arrival, but we didn't think it continued years after."
     "None of our little expeditions before mine ran into any
trouble at all," Jeff said.  "As far as I know, I was the first
not to return -- the first whose AWH self-destructed, or was
destroyed by something else, after my time jump."
     "None of those little events before yours were intended to
seriously alter history," Laura said.  "Your Challenger attempt
was the first big-scale operation."
     Jeff shivered, touching the teapot for warmth.  The number
of lives lost in the Challenger explosion -- if only he hadn't
been funneled back here to the 1960s...  "Suppose you start at
the beginning," he said, "though it still bothers me to talk of
beginnings that in one sense haven't even happened yet."
     "The gist is this," Laura said. "My team was -- will be --
situated about 15 years after yours in the future.  We knew
about your team. Knew about you, Rena, her getting killed here.
When your team uncovered her death in a cache of old
micro-fiche, they stopped the project.  Sealed all the files.
_My_ team found out about it and decided, secretly and
illegally, to re-open it.  My job was to--"
     "Don't tell me -- to stop the killing of JFK."
     "No," Laura said.
     "But you're here in the 1960s," Jeff said.
     "My job was to keep an eye on you -- assuming I could find
you," Laura said.
     Jeff's mouth hung open.  "They sent you back here to find
_me_?"
     "Actually, not back here -- to 1985," Laura said.
     "But--"
     "Right," Laura said.  "But I wound up back here, just like
you, and just like Rena.  My team didn't understand that at
first. Neither did I.  But I think it's clear what's going on
now.  The Thorne operates by creating basins of subatomic
attraction, at both ends of the artificial wormhole.  But if you
create enough artificial basins, all in one place, that in
effect must begin to operate like one hugely powerful natural
basin, attracting all out-of-time units in its temporal
vicinity.  Like a well worn ditch attracting rivulets of water."
     "Three were intended to go back to 1985..." Jeff mused.
     "Yes," Laura said, "and they all ended up here more than 20
years earlier.  Think about it.  Your team perfected time
travel, tried to bury it, my team dug it up -- you can't as a
society, a species, unlearn a kind of knowledge.  There must be
thousands of time travel operations throughout the future.  And
the likely place for many of them to focus is JFK -- first
assassination on film, on tape, copied onto digiscan, holoscan,
mirrorims, and who knows what new media.  It's the cultural icon
of assassination, the beacon against which all others are
measured."
     "The glittering prize for time travellers," Jeff said,
bringing Laura her tea.
     "Yes," Laura said, gratefully sipping.
     "And pulling any other time travellers back here who
happened to be floating around nearby in time-flux," Jeff said.
     Laura nodded.  "Look at this very year.  1964.  The
Beatles, Bob Dylan, Marshall McLuhan -- the sexual revolution,
feminism, the ecology movement all get big boosts in the next
few years. Why all of that packed into this one decade?
Couldn't be coincidence. The answer is that the 1960s were
infected -- and inspired -- by time travellers.  Despite all of
our attempts at curbing possible cultural contamination from the
future, it can't be done.  You've seen that.  Some leaks out --
and causes massive cultural upheavals."
     "John Lennon was a time traveller?" Jeff asked.
     "I don't know, maybe," Laura said.  "Maybe that's why he
was murdered. At very least I'd say he was touched by time
travel."
     Jeff's head was reeling.  Someone else who didn't deserve
to die, whose death he'd like to prevent if he could.  Surprise
Chapman in that Dakota alley, break his goddamn gun-hand... Was
Jeff bound to spend his whole life now as a shackled witness to
history? "How'd you find me?"
     "Wasn't too hard," Laura said.  "Once I got back here,
realized I was stranded, I figured I might as well see if you
landed back here too.  We knew you were a teacher.  You had to
live, earn money somewhere.  So I went around to every school in
the area, saying I wanted to be a sociology major, and asking
for information about the faculty.  This was my plan for 1985,
so I had some good credentials ready, made them just right with
a little alteration. And when I talked to your Chair at City
College, I knew I hit pay dirt -- he showed me your outline, and
its emphasis on McLuhan.  McLuhan's been well known in Canada
for over a decade, but not down here."
     "Why didn't you tell me who you were?" Jeff asked.
     "I didn't want to spook you -- have you run away on me,
where I couldn't find you again."
     "Good you succeeded at least at one thing," Jeff smiled
tiredly.
     "Yeah."
     "With all the people who came back to save Kennedy, not a
single one succeeded at that, did they?" Jeff asked.
     "No," Laura, "at least not as far as we know in our
universe of knowledge." She shook her head.  "I really do think
that there's something about history that resists attempts to
change it."
     "Hawking's Chronology Protection Conjecture?" Jeff said.
"Thorne and his colleagues claimed to have refuted that, though
I admit the math was a bit beyond me."
     "Refuted in theory -- with the assumption of clean loops
with no causality interference -- but loops are much dirtier in
practice, especially with big events affecting so many people
like assassinations," Laura said. "Attempts to change those
either fail completely, or maybe just change the events a little
bit -- or cosmos forbid, maybe even ironically set up the events
to happen in the first place."
     "Not to mention that they're hazardous to the health of the
time travellers," Jeff added.
     "You really think we're in danger?" Laura asked.
     "Obviously.  My guess is the universe sort of cleans up
after itself -- does what it can to make sure there aren't too
many loose ends, joints out of time, around at any one time.
From that perspective, we're irritants to the universe -- our
very being here disturbs it.  But that doesn't mean we'll
definitely be killed.  Maybe we're just, I don't know, accident
prone, more likely in a statistical sense to meet harm than
others.  If we're really careful, maybe we'll live.  After all,
you and I are still alive and kicking."
     Laura pulled him down next to her on the couch.
     Jeff's mind flipped back to the images of the Challenger.
"It's so frustrating.  To be back here, and not be able to even
do anything about it.  I mean, we have almost 20 years to plan
some sort of intervention -- maybe we can do something,
something small that won't rock the boat too much, but just
enough the deflect the disaster, or the worst of it."  He saw
the faces again.  "Over a hundred  kids were killed when the
Challenger crashed into that schoolhouse near Miami.  The kids
dead, the astronauts dead, those images and flames burning into
everyone's brains all over America and the world -- no wonder it
stopped the space program dead in its tracks.  No President or
Congress could support it in after an accident like that -- even
dictators couldn't force it on their people--"
     "What did you say?" Laura looked at him.
     "What?  About the Challenger?"
     "What do kids in a schoolhouse have to do with that?" Laura
asked.
     Jeff looked puzzled.
     "The Challenger explosion was a terrible thing for the
country, and the space program, yes," Laura said. "It was
horrible -- everyone saw those seven astronauts walking to their
death, waving to the cameras, right on television.   But it blew
up just a minute or so after launch -- nowhere near Miami or a
school filled with kids."
     Jeff gasped. "And the space program continued in your
timeline?"
     "Oh yes," Laura said. "I mean, it's got its problems.
Serious ones. But we've got settlements on Mars and the asteroid
belt and--"
     And for the first time since he had stood in front of the
NYU Student Building with police lights mocking him in the
night, Jeff had more than a whisper of hope.
     "Maybe the difference between your version of reality and
the one I remember," he said, "is us."

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