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“Oh, he’s thought on it,” Maeve put in with a smile, secretly pleased to find herself the referee again in another sparring session between the two senior researchers. Dorland was the Master Of Sciences on the project, and Nordhausen was Chief Historian. They had argued Time Theory many times before, but now that the project was at the very edge of their first real attempt at opening the continuum, the debate had begun to heat up again. Nordhausen, ever the devil’s advocate, was constantly jabbing at Dorland’s theory, in spite of his enormous commitment of time and resources to the effort that had brought them all this far. It was, however, the last thing Dorland needed just now. Healthy skepticism was one thing, but lately Nordhausen had begun to show real signs of backing out of the project altogether.

“Well it’s obvious that he hasn’t given it much thought,” said Dorland over his shoulder at Maeve. “I mean there are any number of ways I could answer his argument.”

“Indulge me.” Nordhausen folded his arms with a smug look on his face. “And will you please stop drumming your fingers on the table!”

Dorland looked at his hand, and then ran it through his full brown hair. Unlike Nordhausen the ravages of time lay gently on him. They were the same age, but Paul still looked ten years younger, and some even thought he was still in his thirties. “Alright,” he began, “let’s put your pessimism aside for a moment and suppose we’re successful tomorrow. If that’s the case then we will have accomplished something that will have the most profound effect I can imagine on the future course of history.”

“Yes, yes,” said Nordhausen, conceding the point. “All future time lines would be vulnerable to alteration if we’re successful.”

“All time lines,” said Dorland, “both future and past. That makes the experiment tomorrow a Deep Nexus, which would make this whole milieu a Point of Origin—closed to any temporal contamination according to my theory—unless it’s done by one of us here on the inside. So that’s why we don’t have visitors in the back of the room slurping coffee, Professor. It’s really simple, if you think on it.” He mocked his adversary to make his point, but the grin on his face betrayed the long friendship between the two men, in spite of their obvious intellectual differences. It was this bond, forged over some thirty years, that had kept Nordhausen involved in the project, though at times he was a reluctant warrior.

“Well there wouldn’t be enough to go around anyway,” Maeve chimed in as she slid another volume from the bookcase, frowning at the dust on the binding. “Make another pot, Paul. It looks like we’re going to be here for a while. Did you bring Peets?”

“Guatemala,” said Dorland absent mindedly as he flipped through the pages of a notebook, still hot on the trail of his argument with Nordhausen.

“I thought you were going to bring Major Dickason’s blend tonight. Guatemala is a good breakfast coffee but we’ll need something a little stronger if Robert starts digging his heels in again.”

“Oh come now, Maeve,” Nordhausen protested mildly. “I’m just trying to make him think about his own theory here. He dreamt up all this stuff, remember? The idea of a time ‘penumbra’ is convenient, but nothing more than pure speculation. I think my argument still holds up quite well. If they could visit a pivotal event like this, they would visit it. And since we can’t even seem to get Kelly to join us in a timely manner, I’m not expecting anyone else to show up either.”

Maeve was frowning at the spine of a volume of The Norton Anthology of Literature. “Don’t you ever clean in here, Robert? I could spend a whole day getting the dust off these books.”

“Be my guest.” Nordhausen warmed to the offer immediately, but Maeve shook a warning finger at him. He tacked back to the argument with Paul, as if suddenly remembering something. “I thought you said a Prime Mover was the primary causative factor for an Imperative, and that only an Imperative event can cast a time penumbra.”

“Precisely,” said Dorland as he scribbled a brief note in his journal.

“Getting a bit overconfident, aren’t we?” Nordhausen needled his friend again. “I mean if the experiment does become a Deep Nexus then the first moment when we open the continuum would be an Imperative event, an event that must happen—is that what you’re starting to think now, Paul?”

“Why shouldn’t I? If I had your attitude I would have torn out my hair long ago over this business, and given up.” He gave Nordhausen an accusing glance but the other man brushed it aside. “If you’re so convinced this is all poppycock, then why are you here? Could it be that there’s just a thimbleful of faith in your heart as well?”

“Believe me,” said Nordhausen, “If there’s any possibility that you might actually gain access to the continuum tomorrow, then someone has to be certain you don’t start mucking things up.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dorland. “You want to supervise again, is that it?”

“He ought to hire a maid,” said Maeve again from the bookcase.

“What are you doing over there, Maeve?” Nordhausen took advantage of the interruption to veer away from the conversation with Dorland for a moment. The two had quarreled in recent weeks over who should have final authority over the experiment. Up to this point it had been Dorland’s team of science experts and physicists that had been the key players in the project. The time and investment required to build the project launch site, with its massive computing and power requirements, had been the mainstream of their effort thus far. Nordhausen worked on the sidelines with his team of historical researchers to isolate an appropriate target for their first experiment. Now that the project plant was fully operational, he argued that the historians should exercise primary operational control. Dorland was too close to the effort expended thus far to relinquish control, and the friction between them had been building as the launch date neared.

Nordhausen slipped away from his place at the table and headed for the coffee station. He tugged on a gold chain attached to his sweater and drew out a pocket watch. “Eight-forty,” he muttered. “Wasn’t the meeting scheduled for eight? What’s Kelly up to? I know,” a mischievous glint brightened his eyes as he turned to Dorland. “He’s botched up the numbers again, and the whole thing is off. That’s why we don’t have visitors tonight. Kelly never shows and the meeting gets cancelled.” A satisfied grin dressed his features as he bent over the coffee station.

“He’ll be here,” said Maeve, defending their missing compatriot. “He’s probably just stuck in traffic with all this weather. My lord—” She was squinting through the rain drizzled pane of the study window now, still clutching the volume of the Norton Anthology under her arm. “What’s going on out there? You’d think it was rush hour.”

“Probably a concert letting out over at Sidney Hall,” said Nordhausen. “I think they were presenting a Verdi set tonight.”

“Not exactly the type of crowd you’d expect to be rushing about like that. Especially in the rain. Maybe there was a fire or something.”

“Good!” said Nordhausen. “They should never have built that hall, if you ask me. The acoustics are terrible in the place. In fact, there isn’t a decent concert hall on this side of the bay. You have to go into the city if you really want to hear anything.” The professor taught at U.C. Berkeley, and he kept a private study on the northwest fringe of the city as it reached towards the East Bay community of Orinda. It was a small apartment that was more of an office, completely furnished as a library and work area. The professor maintained living quarters elsewhere and was generous enough to donate the study as the primary meeting place for key project team leaders. It was convenient for his work, but he hated having to cross the Bay Bridge any time he wanted to pursue his love of classical music. He had chosen this place for his study because of the proximity of the newly built Sidney Hall, but was soon disappointed in the acoustics there. He frowned at the near empty coffee pot, tilting it to try and dribble the last of the coffee into his mug.