“Doctor Simcoe!” shouted one, a middle-aged white man. “Doctor Simcoe! What happens if consciousness doesn’t drop back to the present day? What happens if we’re all stuck twenty-one years in the future?”
Lloyd was tired. He hadn’t been as nervous speaking in front of people since his Ph.D. oral defense. He really just wanted to go back to his hotel room, pour himself a nice Scotch, and crawl into bed.
“We have no reason to think that such a thing could happen,” he said. “It seemed to be a completely temporary phenomenon that began the moment we started the particle collisions and ceased the moment we ended them.”
“What about the families of any people who might die this time? Will you take personal responsibility for them?”
“How about the ones who are already dead? Don’t you feel you owe them something?”
“Isn’t this all just some cheap quest for glory on your part?”
Lloyd took a deep breath. He was tired, and he had a pounding headache. “Gentlemen and ladies—and I use those terms loosely—you are apparently used to interviewing politicians who can’t be seen to lose their temper, and so you can get away with asking them questions in haranguing tones. Well, I am not a politician; I am, among other things, a university professor, and I am used to civilized discourse. If you can’t ask polite questions, I will terminate this exchange.”
“But, Dr. Simcoe—isn’t it true that all the death and destruction was your fault? Didn’t you in fact design the experiment that went awry?”
Lloyd kept his tone even. “I’m not kidding, people. I have had quite my fill of media exposure already; one more bullshit question like that, and I’m walking away.”
There was stunned silence. Reporters looked at each other, then back at Lloyd.
“But all those deaths…” began one.
“That’s it,” snapped Lloyd. “I’m out of here.” He began walking away.
“Wait!” cried one reporter, and “Stop!” shouted another.
Lloyd turned around. “Only if you can manage intelligent, civilized questions.”
After a moment’s hesitation, a melanic-American woman raised her hand, almost meekly.
“Yes?” said Lloyd, lifting his eyebrows.
“Dr. Simcoe, what decision do you think the UN will make?”
Lloyd nodded at her, acknowledging that this was an acceptable interrogative. “I’m honestly not sure. My gut feeling is that we should indeed try to replicate the results—but I’m a scientist, and replication is my stock-in-trade. I do think the people of Earth want this, but whether their leaders will be willing to do what the people desire I have no way of knowing.”
Theo had come to New York, as well, and he and Lloyd that night enjoyed the extravagant seafood buffet at the Ambassador Grill in the UN Plaza-Park Hyatt.
“Michiko’s birthday is coming up,” said Theo, cracking a lobster’s claw.
Lloyd nodded. “I know.”
“Are you going to throw a surprise party for her?”
Lloyd paused. After a moment, he said, “No.”
Theo gave him a “if you really loved her, you’d do it” look. Lloyd didn’t feel like explaining. He’d never really thought about it before, but it came to him full blown, as if he’d always known it. Surprise parties were a cheat. You let someone you were supposed to care about think you’d forgotten their birthday. You deliberately bring them down, make them feel neglected, uncared for, unremembered, unappreciated. And then you lie—lie!—to them for weeks on end leading up to the event. All this, so that in the moment when people yell “Surprise!” the person will feel loved.
In the marriage he and Michiko were going to have, Lloyd wouldn’t have to manufacture situations in order to make Michiko feel that way. She’d know of his love every day—every minute; her confidence in that would never be shaken. It would be her constant companion, his love, until the day she died.
And, of course, he’d never lie to her—not even when it was supposedly for her own good.
“You sure?” said Theo. “I’d be glad to help you organize it.”
“No,” said Lloyd, shaking his head a little. Theo was so young, so naïve. “No, thank you.”
23
THE UNITED NATIONS DEBATES CONTINUED. While he was in New York, Theo got another reply to his ads looking for information about his own death. He was about to simply issue a short, polite response—he was going to give up the quest, really he was—but, damn it all, the message was just too enticing. “I did not contact you initially,” it said, “because I had been led to believe that the future is fixed, and that what was going to happen, including my role in it, was inevitable. But now I read otherwise, and so I must elicit your help.”
The message was from Toronto—just a one-hour flight from the Big Apple. Theo decided to head on up and meet face to face with the man who’d sent the letter. It was Theo’s first time visiting Canada, and he wasn’t quite prepared for how hot it was in the summer. Oh, it wasn’t hot by Mediterranean standards—rarely did the temperature rise above thirty-five degrees Celsius. But it did surprise him.
To get a cheaper airfare, Theo had to stay overnight, rather than fly in and out on the same day. And so he found himself with an evening to kill in Toronto. His travel agent had suggested he might enjoy a hotel out along the Danforth—part of Toronto’s major east-west axis; Toronto’s large Greek community was centered there. Theo agreed, and, to his delight, he found the street signs in that part of town were in both the English and Greek alphabets.
His appointment, though, wasn’t on the Danforth. Rather, it was up in North York, an area that apparently had once been a city in its own right but had been subsumed into Toronto, which now had a population of three million. Toronto’s subway took him there the next day. He was amused to discover that the public transit system was referred to as the TTC (for Toronto Transit Commission); the same abbreviation would doubtless be applied to the Tachyon-Tardyon Collider he would supposedly someday helm.
The subway cars were spacious and clean, although he’d heard they were severely overcrowded during rush hour. One thing that had impressed him greatly was riding the subway—poorly named at this particular point—over the Don Valley Parkway; here the train ran what must be a hundred meters above the ground in a special set of tracks hanging below the Danforth. The view was spectacular—but what was most impressive was that the bridge over the Don Valley had been built decades before Toronto got its first subway line, and yet it had been constructed so as to eventually accommodate two sets of tracks. One didn’t often see evidence of cities planning that far into the future.
He changed trains at Yonge Station, and rode up to North York Centre. He was surprised to find that he didn’t have to go outside to enter the condominium tower he’d been told to come to; it had direct access from the station. The same complex also contained a book superstore (part of a chain called Indigo), a movie-theater complex, and a large food store called Loblaws, which seemed to specialize in a line of products called President’s Choice. That surprised Theo; he would have expected it to be Prime Minister’s Choice in this country.
He presented himself to the concierge, who directed him through the marble lobby to the elevators, and he rode up to the thirty-fifth floor. From there, he easily found the apartment he was looking for and knocked on the door.
The door opened, revealing an elderly Asian man. “Hello,” he said, in perfect English.
“Hello, Mr. Cheung,” said Theo. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“Won’t you come in?”
The man, who must have been in his mid-sixties, moved aside to let Theo pass. Theo slipped off his shoes, and stepped into the splendid apartment. Cheung led Theo into the living room. The view faced south. Far away, Theo could see downtown Toronto, with its skyscrapers, the slender needle of the CN Tower and, beyond, Lake Ontario stretching to the horizon.
“I appreciated you emailing me,” said Theo. “As you can imagine, this
has been very difficult for me.”
“I am sure it has,” said Cheung. “Would you care for tea? Coffee?”
“No, nothing, thank you.”
“Well, then,” said the man. “Do have a seat.”
Theo sat down on a couch upholstered in orange leather. On the end table sat a painted porcelain vase. “It’s beautiful,” said Theo.
Cheung nodded agreement. “From the Ming Dynasty, of course; almost five hundred years old. Sculpture is the greatest of the arts. A written text is meaningless once the language has fallen out of use, but a physical object that endures for centuries or millennia—that is something to cherish. Anyone today can appreciate the beauty of ancient Chinese or Egyptian or Aztec artifacts; I collect all three. The individual artisans who made them live on through their work.”
Theo made a noncommittal sound, and settled back in the couch. On the opposite wall was an oil painting of Kowloon harbor. Theo nodded at it. “Hong Kong,” he said.
“Yes. You know it?”
“In 1996, when I was fourteen, my parents took us there on vacation. They wanted us—me and my brother—to see it before it changed hands back to Communist China.”
“Yes, those last couple of years were exceptional for tourism,” said Cheung. “But they were also great times for leaving the country; I myself left Hong Kong and came to Canada then. Over two hundred thousand Hong Kong natives moved to Canada before the British handed our country back to the Chinese.”
“I imagine I would have gotten out, too,” said Theo sympathetically.
“Those of us who could afford it did so. And, according to the visions people have had, things get no better in China during the next twenty-one years, so I am indeed glad I left; I could not stand the idea of losing my freedom.” The old man paused. “But you, my young friend, stand to lose even more, do you not? For my part, I would have fully expected to be dead twenty-one years from now; I was delighted to learn that the fact that I had a vision implies that I will still be alive then. Indeed, since I felt reasonably spry, I begin to suspect that I might in fact have much more than twenty-one years left. Still, your time may be cut short—in my vision, as I told you by email, your name was mentioned. I had never heard of you before—forgive me for saying so. But the name was sufficiently musical—Theodosios Procopides—that it stuck in my mind.”
“You said that in your vision someone had spoken to you about plans to kill me.”
“Ominous, to be sure. But as I also said, I know little more than that.”
“I don’t doubt you, Mr. Cheung. But if I could locate the person you were speaking to in your vision, obviously that person knows more.”
“But, as I said, I do not know who he was.”
“If you could describe him?”
“Of course. He was white. White, like a northern European, not olive-skinned like yourself. He was no older than fifty in my vision, meaning he’d be about your age today. We were speaking English, and his accent was American.”
“There are many American accents,” said Theo.
“Yes, yes,” said Cheung. “I mean he spoke like a New Englander—someone from Boston, perhaps.”
Lloyd’s vision apparently placed him in New England as well; of course, it couldn’t be Lloyd that Cheung had been speaking to—at that moment, Lloyd was off boinking that crone…
“What else can you tell me about the man’s speech? Did he sound well-educated?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I suppose he did. He used the word ‘apprehensive’—not an overly fancy term, but not one likely to be employed by an illiterate.”
“What exactly did he say? Can you recount the conversation?”
“I will try. We were indoors somewhere. It was North America. That much was apparent by the shape of the electrical outlets; I always think they look like surprised babies here. Anyway, this man said to me, ‘He killed Theo.’”
“The man you were speaking with killed me?”
“No. No, I was quoting him. He said, ‘he’—some other he—‘killed Theo.’”
“You’re sure he said ‘he’?”
“Yes.”
Well, that was something, anyway; in one fell swoop, four billion potential suspects had been eliminated.
Cheung continued. “He said, ‘He killed Theo,’ and I said, ‘Theo who?’ And the man replied, ‘You know, Theodosios Procopides.’ And I said, ‘Oh, yeah.’ That is precisely how I said it—‘Oh, yeah.’ I fear my spontaneous English speech has not yet attained that degree of informality, but, apparently given another twenty-one years, it will. In any event, it was clear I will know you—or at least know of you—in the year 2030.”
“Go on.”
“Well, then my interlocutor said to me, ‘He beat us to him.’”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
“He said, ‘He beat us to him.’” Cheung lowered his head. “Yes, I know how that sounds—it sounds as though my associate and I had designs on your life as well.” The old man spread his arms. “Dr. Procopides, I am a wealthy man—indeed, a very wealthy man. I will not say to you that people do not reach my level without being ruthless, for we both know that that is untrue. I have dealt very harshly with rivals over the years, and I have perhaps even skirted the edges of the law. But I am not just a businessman; I am also a Christian.” He lifted a hand. “Please, do not be alarmed; I will not lecture you—I know that in some Western circles to boldly declare one’s faith engenders discomfort, as if one had brought up a topic best never discussed in polite company. I mention it only to establish a salient fact: I may be a hard man, but I am also a God-fearing man—and I would never countenance murder. At my current advanced age, you can well imagine that I am set in my ways; I cannot believe that in the final years of my life, I will break a moral code I have lived by since childhood. I know what you are thinking—the obvious interpretation of the words ‘he beat us to him’ is that that somebody else killed you before my associates could have done the deed. But I say again that I am no murderer. Besides, you are, I know, a physicist, and I do little business in that realm—my principal area of investment, besides real estate, which, of course, everyone should invest in, is biological research: pharmaceuticals, genetic engineering, and so on. I am not a scientist myself, you understand—just a capitalist. But I think you would agree that a physicist would not possibly be an obstacle to the sorts of things I pursue, and, as I say, I am no killer. Still, there are those words, which I report to you verbatim: ‘He beat us to him.’”
Theo looked at the man, considering. “If that’s the case,” he said at last, measuring his words carefully, “why are you telling me this?”
Cheung nodded, as if he’d expected the question. “Naturally, one does not normally discuss plans to commit murder with the intended victim. But, as I said, Dr. Procopides, I am a Christian; I believe, therefore, that not only is your life at stake, but so too is my soul. I have no interest in becoming involved, even peripherally, in such a sinful business as homicide. And since the future can be changed, I wish it to be so. You are on the trail of whomever it was who will kill you; if you do manage to prevent your death at the hands of that person, whomever it might be, well, then, my associates will not be beaten to it. I take you into my confidence in hopes that you will not only avoid being shot—it was death by gunshot, was it not?—by this other person, but also by anyone involved with me. I do not want your—or anyone’s—blood on my hands.”
Theo exhaled noisily. It was staggering enough to think that one person would someday want him dead—but to hear now that multiple parties would wish him that way was shocking.
Perhaps the old man was crazy—although he didn’t seem that way. Still, twenty-one years hence he would be…would be…well, exactly how old? “Forgive my impertinence,” said Theo, “but may I ask when you were born?”
“Certainly: February 29, 1932. That makes me all of nineteen years old.”
Theo felt his eyes go wide. He was dealing with a loon
…
But Cheung smiled. “Because I was born February 29, you see—which comes but once every four years. Seriously, I am seventy-seven years old.”
Which made him a good deal older than Theo had guessed, and—my God!—would mean he’d be ninety-eight in the year 2030.
A thought occurred to Theo: he had talked to enough people who were dreaming in 2030; it was usually not hard to distinguish a dream from reality. But if Cheung was ninety-eight, could he perhaps have Alzheimer’s in the future? What would the thoughts of such a brain be like?
“I’ll save you from asking,” said Cheung. “I do not have the gene for Alzheimer’s. I’m as surprised as you are to think that I will be alive twenty-one years hence, and as shocked as you are that I, already having lived a full life, will apparently outlive a young man such as yourself.”
“Were you really born February 29?” asked Theo.
“Yes. It’s hardly a unique attribute; there are about five million people alive who have that birthday.”
Theo considered this, then: “So this man said to you, ‘He beat us to him.’ What did you say after that?”
“I said, and, again, I ask you to forgive my words, ‘It’s just as well.’”
Theo frowned.
“And then,” continued Cheung, “I added, ‘Who’s next?’ To which my associate replied, ‘Korolov.’ Korolov—which I guess would be K-O-R-O-L-O-V. A Russian name, no? Does it mean anything to you?”
Theo shook his head. “No.” A pause. “So you were—are—going to eliminate this Korolov, too?”
“That’s an obvious interpretation, yes. But I have no idea who he or she might be.”
“He.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know this person?”
“I don’t—but Korolov is a male last name. Female Russian last names end in -ova; male ones in -ov.”
“Ah,” said Cheung. “In any event, after the man I was speaking to said ‘Korolov,’ I replied, ‘Well, I can’t imagine anyone else is after him.’ And my associate replied, ‘No need to be apprehensive, Ubu—’ Ubu being a nickname I allow only close friends to use, although, as I said, I have, as of yet, not met this man. ‘No need to be apprehensive, Ubu,’ he said. ‘The guy who got Procopides can’t have any possible interest in Korolov.’ And then I said, ‘Very well. See to it, Darryl’—which, I presume was the name of the man I was speaking to. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then I was suddenly back here, in 2009.”