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 which 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 twenty 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 connecting flight left at 12:30. Our next one leaves at 10:00 this morning, and I believe that Braniff has a direct flight that leaves at 9:00. Shall I make a reservation for you?”
Damn. “Could you tell me what time the Braniff flight arrives in Dallas?”
She pulled out a paper directory and checked. “Eleven thirty-three 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 Jeff paid in cash—he had a bunch of credit cards too, but they were all hopelessly out of date, in the wrong way.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 have just 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 sing-song female 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 fifteen minutes. He could sleep for fifteen 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 gray 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 Braniff Departures, he removed the silver sliver from its embed on his wrist and placed it in a side compartment of his 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 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 plane was a sardine can, and Jeff sat white-knuckled in a window seat waiting for takeoff. 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 people down if he had to. No gesture of asinine civility could be allowed to slow his exit.
The screech of the 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 the 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, halfway 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…