TEN: THAT
UNCERTAIN FEELING
Genevieve awoke, stretched, watched the sunlight stream across the bedclothes. From the living room of their suite she heard her father humming a tune.
She got out of bed, pulled on her robe. August was programming a sequence of words into the animal carrier he had bought. He tested it. "CAUTION: LIVE ANIMAL . . ." The words flowed from right to left across the display strip, over and over. He looked up as Gen entered, and smiled.
"Just remember, daughter. The poor may pass away, but the rich we have always with us."
"You're in high spirits this morning," she said.
"Always a good morning when there's work to be done."
His good humor disquieted her. Gen retreated to the bedroom and began to brush her hair, put down the hairbrush and stared at her reflection. It was a beautiful face. She stuck her tongue out at herself.
She remembered Owen's warm, dry hand on hers, trembling slightly as they danced. How he had stood at the edge of the pavilion before he spotted her, feet together, head tilted a little forward and to the side as if he were trying to find her by ear. She imagined him standing like that in whatever godforsaken prep school his parents had consigned him to, listening to the headmaster tell them about their moral obligations as children of wealth.
Yet he treated everyone the same, with no hint of arrogance because of his money. Difference made no difference to him. She had delighted to watch Owen confront the Roman soldier, with his lame story about Thor from Cincinnati.
On the way back to her room, Owen had babbled like a boy, so cheerful that his shoes hardly touched the floor. He'd insisted on opening the door for her, fumbling with her key. He blushed when she turned and kissed him on the lips. Her last glimpse of him through the closing door was of his astonished blue eyes.
She had told Owen that she was smarter than he was, and it was true that she could think rings around him. Yet he had put his arm around her waist and guided her away as if he were the one in control! Classic mark behavior--but instead of feeling contempt, Gen wanted to protect him from his own naiveté. To protect him from her.
She watched her father over her shoulder in the mirror. August was tapping some code into the pad on the top of the metal carrier. He finished and came into her room. "Did he tell you last night that the hotel made him move his dinosaur down to the kennel? This is going to be absurdly easy: forget the gypsy switch. We simply go down for our dog, you distract the staff person at the desk, and I'll get Wilma."
Without turning, she said, "August, I don't want to do this."
He sat on the corner of her bed. "There's no real risk, Genevieve. I'll be in and out in a minute, and Dr. Nice none the wiser."
"I'm not worried about you."
He took a file from her table, and began to file his nails. "I notice you came back pretty late last night."
"Yes, I did."
"I assume he’s primed for a fall."
"I assume you're right."
"And why shouldn't he be? I hate to see the most enchanting woman in this moment universe wasted on a man who doesn’t know what to do with a trillion dollars except spend it on dinosaurs."
"There’s something extraordinary about that, isn't there?"
"One might say so."
She turned to the window, looked out over the city dawn. She had played her father's wife more than once, had acted as bait for his scams even more often, but she wasn't his wife, or some tart he kept on a string--she was his daughter. "Why do we always have to be so smart?"
August put down the file, came over to her, sat down on the sill. "Is something wrong, Genevieve?"
"I don't know. I just don't like the idea of taking the guy, I guess. He's too innocent.”
"They're all innocent. It's just that some of them think they aren't. I'll give this one credit for being more obviously naïve, but that's to our advantage."
"I'm tired of thinking about advantages."
"Owen Vannice was brought up in the world of advantages."
"He's not like that.”
"Well if he didn't learn to be mercenary from his father then he learned to be superior from his mother. You've seen enough of the rich. Don't forget his five years of dancing school."
She remembered Owen's trembling hand. "I haven't."
"They use their innocence as a shield, when they're not using it as a club."
"He's not like that."
"That remains to be seen."
"Regardless, I don't want to go through with this."
He took her hands in his, made her look into his eyes. The beard was gone this morning. He looked to be in his fifties, almost as old as he really was. She remembered how tall and handsome he’d seemed to her when, as a little girl, she'd watched him and her mother dress for work. "You’re telling me you're falling in love," he said.
"Doesn't it ever bother you to be making our living by tricking people? It's sordid."
He let go of her hands.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Your mother said the same thing to me when she took you and ran off.”
Gen put her hand on his. “I’m not running anywhere.”
"How long has our life seemed sordid to you?”
“It’s not sordid when we’re dealing with the Sloanes of the world. But Owen is different. I’m not going to abandon you, Father. If I marry him, we'll have enough money to swim in."
"Marry him?” August got off the sill. "This is worse than I thought. Has he asked you?”
“Not yet. But he will. Then there’ll be no need for us to bilk people.”
He stared at her, silent for a moment. “Do you actually think I do this for the money?”
"What are we in it for, then?"
"For the thrill of the hunt." August sounded hurt.
But he was her father, not her lover. He had no right to feel hurt. He had brought her into this way of life when she was too young to imagine any other. "That gets old, Dad. I'm getting old."
August went back to the carrier. "I don't think it's old that you're getting. It's something more disturbing." He crouched, checked the lock code again. "Why do I do it?" he said without turning his head. "You know why. I do it for the look on their faces when they figure out they've been taken. For the thought that they go back to their corrupt lives and never even realize they've been taken. I do it because I'm not one of them. They tell lies all their lives and never see it. Well, I know the difference between a lie and the truth. When I tell a lie, I know I'm lying."
"Owen can't lie. It isn't in him."
"He's a chronological protectionist yet he's carrying around a dinosaur."
"So? Is Lance Thrillkiller going to take better care of this dinosaur than Owen?"
August drew himself up. “You may do whatever you please in your love life, but I have no wish to sit around listening to my arteries harden. I've got business to transact. Today my business, sordid as it may seem, is liberating this dinosaur--with or without you."
Gen stood up. "If you can do it."
"Just how do you propose to stop me, short of finking on me?”
"I'd never do that. But you're not the only operator in this family."
"Why, you little sprout! I taught you everything you know. Don't tell me you expect to beat me in this game."
"I'm not your daughter for nothing," Gen said.
ELEVEN: MAD
WEDNESDAY
The lead story of the Intertemporal Herald Tribune concerned a riot at a Las Vegas rhetoric conference in the 1956 moment universe. The trouble started when the old Saint Augustine took offense at the young St. Augustine’s bringing a showgirl to a session on “Sex and Religion: (Re)dressing the Naked Truth.” Young Augustine ("Call me Augie") branded his older self a hypocrite and ran a video of their sex life. Old Augustine wore a traditional fourth century Roman scholar’s garb; Augie wore skin-tight leather pants and a egg-yolk yellow silk shirt. In the ensuing melee three sophists were trampled to death; the report included a video of Frank Sinatra’s bodyguard beating up the Greek philosopher Protagoras.
=They ought to know better than to try to hold an academic meeting in the 20th century,= Bill said.
"We mustn't judge the past by the standards of the present," Owen said. "If we had lived then we might have been crazy, too."
He switched off the paper and checked his wristward. It was after nine. The atrium restaurant, morning sunlight filtering down through the fronds of fan palms, was filled with the discreet murmur of breakfast conversations and the clink of china. He scanned the entrance hoping to find Gen. Had she changed her mind about meeting him?
=I suppose you’re never going to ask about that report you ordered.=
“What report?” Owen replied impatiently.
=On that hotel employee, Simon. It’s possible he is Simon the Zealot who was an apostle of Jesus.”
“But Jesus is gone. There are no apostles in this moment universe.”
=Right. We snatched Jesus just before we started to colonize here. But in this M-U we didn’t do it until he was already preaching, so this Simon already had the career of the apostle before we arrived. He’s a fanatic religious revolutionary.=
“Even if this is the same Simon, which I doubt, you haven’t thought it through. He was a fanatic. Then he became an apostle of a man who preached non-violence. And it’s been ten years since Jesus left. Now he’s a hotel employee.”
=How about Halam? I know that man is a gun runner.=
“If I can trust your memory.”
=What you ought to trust is my judgment. I don’t expect you noticed, but it was Halam who raised that ruckus at the restaurant last night in order to let the boy escape.=
Owen was nonplussed. “So?” he said. “You don’t know why he made a fuss.”
=Here’s why: it’s a conspiracy to steal Wilma. Listen. The zealot shows up in your suite, creates a disturbance! He gets your dinosaur transferred down to the kennel! Women think obsessive wicked men are therefore dysfunctional! There’s a known smuggler in the hotel! Genevieve Faison knows the boy! The boy is Simon's son! What more do you need?=
“I knew you'd have to work Genevieve in here somewhere.”
=I’ve got a theory about her. 'Faison' is close to 'faiseur', which means 'quack' in French. Now if you assign each of the letters in her first name a numerical value according to the pitch of the phoneme in Aramaic pronunciation, then--=
“Bill, I don’t want you to think any more about this.”
=As a precaution, I’ve already take steps to secure--=
Just then Genevieve stepped into the light of the restaurant’s atrium, and all thought flew from Owen’s mind. “Shut up, Bill.”
Genevieve wore a striped blouse and a broad straw hat. The sunlight brought out the light spray of freckles on her forearms; the shadow of the hat's brim fell across her mouth. When she saw him wave, she came toward him, smiling. Her white teeth were bright between her painted red lips. From her shoulders wafted the faintest scent of her perfume. She kissed him on the cheek.
"Good morning, Dr. Nice."
"Hello," he said, uncertainly. Damn Bill. He needed to shake off the dust of the AIdvisor's paranoia. "Are you ready to come see my dinosaur?"
"It's not necessary."
"No. I want to prove to you I'm not some impostor."
"Who can say what constitutes proof, in these modern times?" She looked at him steadily, a trace of a smile. Then she took his arm and they left the restaurant.
"You have a way of keeping a man off balance," he said as they got on the elevator.
"Balance is overrated. You have to learn how to fall."
The window wall in the kennel office showed a bright alpine valley. The young woman behind the desk greeted them pleasantly. "Hello, Ms. Faison," she said. "That's a beautiful dog your father bought."
"Yes, he is."
Owen was confused. "Your father bought a dog?"
"Yesterday. We're here to see Dr. Vannice's dinosaur," Gen said.
Maureen checked Owen's identification from his wristward. "I'll show you right back."
She led Owen and Genevieve to the rows of cages. Behind the glass of a large sealed compartment lay Wilma, curled up in a twilit corner. When she saw Owen she lifted her head, then came forward to press her snout against the glass. "Here she is," Owen said to Gen. "An Apatosaurus megacephalos."
Gen leaned forward. After a moment she said quietly, "She's beautiful."
Maureen unlocked the cage. Owen examined Wilma. Her breathing was more normal, her heart rate nominal. Her eyes looked clear. All in all, though she was acting a little surly, it seemed that her stay in the controlled atmosphere had done her good.
"Can we take her for a walk?" Gen asked.
"You'll have to use a carrier if you want to take her through the hotel to the outside," the attendant said. She led Owen to the storeroom where he got the carrier, then returned to the front office. Owen went back to the cage. It took some time for him to coax Wilma into the carrier.
As he was lugging her out he heard a spate of barking from the adjacent aisle. At the end of the row August was bending over an animal carrier. He looked up. He did not seem surprised to see Gen there.
"Good morning, father," Gen said.
“Mr. Faison!” Owen said. "Hello. Your daughter just told me you bought a dog."
August Faison brought over his carrier, set it beside Owen’s and pumped his hand. “Good to see you, Owen. Yes, this is my Saluki. This breed is at the head of its gene line, very rare item.”
=A Saluki, named after an ancient Arabian city, is a dog of the greyhound family, with long ears and--=
"I know, Bill."
"Excuse me?" August said.
“A noble animal,” Owen said. He was impressed by the force of the old man’s enthusiasm. “Gen, you didn't say anything about your father being a dog fancier.”
"Didn't I?" Gen said.
"You know women, Owen. They keep all sorts of secrets."
=Finally, the guy tells the truth.=
"Yes," said Gen. "How is Pharaoh?"
"He's fine. I was just making sure his environment is stable."
"We wouldn't want him to get into an unstable environment, would we?"
"Where are you going with him?" Owen asked.
“Pharaoh needs to be walked daily. They won't let me take him on a leash through the hotel, though," August said. He picked up the carrier and started to go.
=He's taking the wrong carrier!= Bill screamed.
"Mr. Faison. You’ve got my Apatosaurus!"
"What? No, my boy. This is my saluki."
Owen stepped toward him. “I don’t think so.”
“My lord, I believe you’re right! What could I have been thinking? “He gave Owen the case he carried and went to retrieve the one Owen had left. “I’m so glad you noticed."
"What an embarrassment!” Gen said.
“It’s not a problem, sir. These things happen.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to lose that dog, which in its own way is as important to me as your dinosaur is to you.”
"Owen is going to let me take Wilma for a walk around the gardens."
"How agreeable of Owen," August said quietly. "That must be why they call him Doctor Nice." He looked over Owen’s shoulder. “Have you seen that young woman? She was supposed to get me some dog food.”
The chair behind the office desk was empty. The only person in the office was some canned shepherd in lederhosen hiking the Swiss landscape on the wall. “I don’t know what happened to her," Owen said. "I'll go back and look."
"Father can help himself, Owen," Gen said.
"No. I'd like to help," Owen said.
“Ask for a container of canine lab chow," August said.
"Surely." Owen went back into the kennel. He was glad for the chance to get away from Gen for a moment to collect his thoughts. While they walked in the garden he wanted to tell her how he felt about her. He began to rehearse a little speech.
Maureen was not in sight, but he found a worker crouched over a locker in the staff room between the kennel and the animal warehouse. “Excuse me,” Owen said.
The man threw something back into the locker with a clunk, then slammed the door. “Yes sir?” He looked vaguely familiar.
=It's him! Simon! I never eat a naked screaming God bed!=
Owen winced. “I’m looking for some canine lab chow. Actually, my friend is, but we can't seem to find it. Can you help us?"
Simon gave him a nervous look, then dashed into a storage closet.
=If you don't get us out of here I'm going to have to kill him.=
"Will you shut up, Bill? Let me handle this."
Simon emerged carrying a sack of food, shoved it into Owen's hands, then hurried back to the lockers. "See?" Owen subvocalized. "He doesn't give a damn about us."
The discussion Gen and her father were having ended the moment Owen returned. Owen set down the bag of food. "Shall I open it, sir?"
"Please." As Owen bent to undo the lacings, August leaned toward Gen and whispered something in her ear. When Owen turned back, August was standing on the opposite side of his carrier.
"Here you go."
"Let me help you with that," Gen said, bending over. Owen got a spectacular view down the neck of her blouse. He felt his face color. "That can't be another dinosaur over there?" Gen said.
"Where?" Owen turned. "No, I think that's an iguana," he said. When he turned back now Gen had the handle of August's carrier.
"I didn't realize they had iguanas in the Middle East," August said grumpily. As he bent to open the bag of food he stepped forward and kicked it over. Owen tried to catch it, but missed, and it sprayed across the concrete floor.
"How clumsy of me," said August, lifting Wilma's carrier away from the mess.
"Yes," said Gen. "You could get into trouble, father, being so careless."
"Only if someone reports me," he chuckled.
Owen scooped as much of the dog food as he could back into the bag. "No harm done," he said. "At least mistakes aren't illegal, yet."
They gathered up their cases and left the kennel for the elevators. No one was staffing the desk in the kennel office. Owen hit the call button for the elevator.
"Still, mistakes, happen," Gen said. "Father, before we go, why don't you show Pharaoh to Owen?"
"He's seen a dog before."
"Not like this one."
Owen did not care for dogs, but just to be polite he said, "Certainly, sir. I'd like to see him."
August frowned. "He's not partial to strangers, I'm not sure--"
The elevator doors opened. Just then Owen stepped on something that crunched. It was a small mechanical device. He crouched to examine it.
"What is it, Owen?" Gen asked.
"A security midge. It seems to have gone dead."
=Of course it's dead. You stepped on it.=
"Why was it lying on the floor?" August asked.
#
Samuel did not return that night. Heart full of misgivings, Simon arrived at the hotel at seven a.m. “On time for once,” Bauer commented. “I heard Callahan was on your ass about that.”
“Mr. Callahan does not miss anything.“
“Nothing except a conscience, a heart and a little brains. He has a good, strong voice, though.”
Simon reported in to the custodial office and was assigned to the time transit warehouse. The transit stage was running double shifts to make up for time lost when it was being recalibrated. He spent an hour lugging crates of Galilean wine onto the stage, observing them shot off, waiting for it to fail. He kept watching the crates to see whether they were shifting as they left. But shipment after shipment departed and arrived with not so much as a sloshing of wine in the amphorae.
McLarty checked off the invoice numbers on his list and they loaded pallets onto the forklifts and out to Aisle 6 of the warehouse. Simon helped bring in a string of horses from the animal warehouse in preparation for sending them uptime.
About ten o’clock, while they were bringing in the last of a shipment of truck tires before sending the horses, a stack came in sideways, tipping, tipping, then toppling. The technician shouted from his booth and the warehouse crew fled. The middle stack hit the waiting forklift and scattered. Tires bounced crazily and rolled in every direction, the crew dodging them like soccer players. The horses reared in panic, but were held by their reins.
No one was hurt. Callahan came out to survey the damage. “Son. Of. A. Bitch,” he said. “Shut it down, boys. Alert the passenger stage. And somebody tell the kennel to get these damn horses out of here.”
"I will do it," Simon said.
While the crew was set to gathering the tires, Simon hurried down the main corridor to the kennel office. "The time travel stage has malfunctioned again," he told Maureen. "Can you come and help move some frightened horses? I'll be along soon."
When Maureen left he went to his locker in the staff room and got out his pistol. Simon had had little chance to practice with it. The pistol, which Halam called a “M1951 nine millimeter Beretta” radiated an unholy aura--it was another of those objects that announced by its very strangeness that it was from another world. Yet it was entirely material, weighing heavily in his hand, black, smooth, compact.
It was 10:23. The zealots were going to hit in seven minutes.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind him.
Simon tossed the pistol back into the locker and slammed the door. He turned. It was the man from the future who kept the monstrous snake thing in his hotel room. Simon was nonplused. “Yes sir?”
“I’m looking for some canine lab chow. Actually, my friend is, but we can't seem to find it. Can you help us?"