Her attention was drawn to a shop with a curious mix of antique knick-knacks spilling out of its entrance and on to the pavement. Ancient-looking wooden furniture, a rocking-horse and clothes that looked like surplus theatrical costumes. But among them, bric-a-brac, a second-hand TV set, a toaster, a Dyson vacuum cleaner. A little bit of everything, it seemed.
She figured she had as much chance of finding something here that might fit Bob as she might anywhere else and, anyway, everything here appeared to be pretty cheap. She stepped inside the boutique and squeezed through the front of the store, cluttered with a set of chrome bar stools and several flaking display-window mannequins wearing dodgy-looking leather corsets and feather boas.
‘May I help you, young lady?’
The voice seemed to come out of nowhere and she jumped. Then she spotted a tiny old lady with jet-black hair who was even shorter than she was.
‘I, uh… You made me jump.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I do tend to blend into the store.’
Sal laughed. She could imagine a customer slapping ten dollars down on the counter for the ‘realistic old lady mannequin’, tucking her under one arm and walking out with her.
‘What are you after, my dear?’
‘You have a clothes section?’
She waved an arm. ‘At the back. I have racks and racks of old, old clothes and party costumes. Lots of cast-outs from the Broadway theatres and a few antique items too.’
‘Thank you.’
Sal weaved her way further into the store, her nose tickled and teased by the dust that seemed to be on everything and the faint smell of mothballs and turpentine. She found the clothes racks at the back and almost found herself giggling at the bizarre mix of garments on display. She flicked through the racks in front of her, chuckling at some of the exotic costumes and cooing appreciatively at others. Eventually she found some things that looked suitable for Bob: a baggy pair of striped trousers with extra-long legs that she suspected might have been part of a clown’s outfit at one time and an extra-large bright orange and pink Hawaiian shirt that looked like it might just about fit over the top of his broad shoulders and rippling muscles.
‘You must have a very big friend,’ said the old lady as she took Sal’s payment and folded the clothes into a plastic bag for her.
‘Uncle,’ she replied. ‘My Uncle Bob. He’s a very big man.’ Sal was about to add that he was also pretty dumb as well — dumb, and kind of child-like — when she spotted something dangling from a hanger on one walclass="underline" a white tunic, buttoned down the left side, with an emblem on the chest that she recognized — the White Star lines. It was a steward’s tunic just like Liam’s.
She pointed at it. ‘Is that… is that a uniform from the Titanic?’
The old woman looked round at where she was pointing. ‘Oh, that? No, it would be worth a lot more if it was genuine. I could sell it to a museum or a collector for thousands of dollars. Unfortunately it’s not; it’s just a theatre costume. Not a very well-made costume either. Friends of mine… they did a production set on the Titanic. It didn’t do very well. You want to have a look at it?’
Sal shook her head. She could’ve said something about it being a funny coincidence that her bunk-buddy was a young lad who’d actually worked on the ship for real. The old lady would think her mad, of course, or that she was just being cheeky. Mind you, in just over half an hour’s time, when the first plane hit the Twin Towers, whatever odd conversation she might have now would be instantly forgotten.
Sal returned to the archway with Bob’s clothes and some groceries before the first plane hit and the Manhattan sky started to fill with smoke. She was about to mention the coincidence to Liam — the steward’s tunic exactly like his — when she realized by the expressions on Maddy’s and Liam’s faces that something important had just happened.
She forgot all about it.
CHAPTER 11
2001, New York
‘It’s a message from the agency,’ said Liam as Sal joined them beside the computer desk. ‘From the future.’
‘So.’ Sal looked at them both. ‘There’s our answer. We’re not alone, then.’
‘Yup!’ replied Maddy, grinning, clearly the most encouraged and excited by that news. ‘Bob’s decoding the message right now. He’s estimated the year of origin to be about 2056. That’s the time of Roald Waldstein, the inventor of time-travel technology.’
‘Do you think it’s him? The Waldstein fella?’ asked Liam.
Maddy reached for her inhaler on the desk and took a quick puff on it. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Hopefully it’s the agency checking in with us. You know? Seeing if we’re OK. Which would be nice.’
‘But how…’ started Liam, frowning. ‘But how will we talk back to them? These tachyon signal things can only go backwards in time, right? That’s what Foster said.’
‘He said that… but he was keeping it simple. It takes a lot more energy to project forward. Plus, more importantly, in 2056, everyone’s on the lookout for tachyon particles, right, Bob?’
› Correct. A signal aimed at the agency could be detected and reveal its location. In 2056, international laws against time travel have been established.
‘In any case, I wouldn’t know which direction to point a signal,’ said Maddy. ‘Who knows where in the world they’re based?’
‘So is there a way to talk back?’ asked Liam.
Maddy nodded. ‘Yup… there is.’ There was an entry in Foster’s ‘how to’ guide on how to contact the agency, a short explanation by Foster looking ten years younger as he spoke to the webcam. An entry he must have recorded much earlier than the others.
‘It’s the same principle, Liam, that you used actually,’ said Maddy. ‘The museum guest book, remember? Only it’s a New York newspaper. We place an advert in the lonely hearts section of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. It has to begin with the phrase “a soul lost in time…”’
Liam clicked his fingers; he understood the rest. ‘And I suppose they have a crinkly old yellowing copy of that paper?’
‘Dated September twelfth, 2001. That’s right.’
Sal looked from one to the other, her eyes widening. ‘And… and do you mean the words in the paper change? They actually change on the page?’
Maddy nodded. ‘It’s a tiny ripple in time. Nothing that would change anything else. After all… who’s going to be reading the lonely hearts section of the papers tomorrow?’
‘The papers would be full of that plane-crashing-into-building story, will they not?’ said Liam.
‘Exactly. Our little advert won’t be noticed by anyone, except, of course… a bunch of people carefully studying a page of a fifty-five-year-old newspaper in 2056, or thereabouts.’ Maddy clucked with excitement. ‘I can’t tell you how freakin’ relieved I am that there’s somebody else out there!’
Liam nodded at the screen in front of her. ‘Looks like Bob’s done.’
› I have decoded the message, Maddy.
‘What is it?’
› It is only a partial message. The signal has been interrupted.
‘Uh? OK… give us what you’ve got, Bob.’
Words spooled across the dialogue box:
› Contamination event. Origin time appears to be 10.17 a.m. 18 August 2015. Major contamination ripples. Significant realignment of time stream. Death of Edward Chan, author of original theory on time travel, resulting in failure to write thesis in 2029. Death may have been deliberate assassination attempt. Occurred while visiting Instit The three of them waited for a moment for Bob to print out more of the message.
› That is all I have. The partial ends there.
‘That’s it?’
› That is it, Maddy.
She turned to look at the others. ‘Er… what the hell are we supposed to make of that?’