Visions of men in black suits with earpieces and hand guns flooded into her mind, born of a hundred science fiction movies and X-Files episodes. She shuddered to realize that the cliché images would probably play out just that way now. When the team announced that they had actually made the theory real—actually traveled in time, the government was going to descend on the project like a pack of vultures. Now that their Outcome had been proven to be a practical reality, the resulting Consequences were going to be mind-boggling. She looked ahead, realizing the staggering implications of the technology Kelly was quietly tuning in the corner alcove. They could change things; they could change anything! Now they were not merely made destroyers, but creators as well. It was no metaphor. They had become Gods. They could go back and alter the time line in any way they chose. There was a part of her that never believed it could be possible. Now it was.
A complete government lock-down on the facility would be inevitable, she knew. They would move in and take control at once. The whole thing would be surrounded with the highest possible security, and the military-industrial establishment that Eisenhower had once warned of was going to shift into high gear. Now there would be time wars, where competing interests would battle for control of the future through clever infections of the past. If they wanted someone killed, they would just go back and prune the family tree a bit. If they wanted funding they could just go back and buy lots of a few well chosen stocks and tuck them away in a holding company.
These were just the simplest possible examples that came to her mind. The Arch made anything possible—anything at all. And the strangest thing about it was that no one would ever know about it. The time-line would change, and all would seem as though it was quietly the same. Only a select few, those who held forth in the intervals of void during the missions, like this one, would ever know or recall the way things once were. The whole universe outside the void would rewrite itself but, to those inside, at the hub of the wheel, the memory of the old life would live on, a last faint recollection of the universe as it once was.
This was Paul’s theory—that while everything physical would change in the new time-line, the living recollection of people protected in a Deep Nexus would remain unaltered. The void was both a place and an experience. It had something to do with human consciousness—a living, vibrating energy of the soul that was unfathomable and yet so real. She would remember her mother’s phone call forever, but her mother might never make the call.
She shook herself, the eerie feeling of Paradox creeping into her thinking now like a wolf in the dark. As she looked at the clock, watching the seconds tick away, she wondered if things had not already changed. Her eyes shifted to the desk drawer where they had hidden Nordhausen’s copy of the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. According to the theory if the book survived it would be subtly altered. Perhaps it was already different, she thought. Perhaps she had an answer to the most immediate question right there in the desk. Were they alive or dead? Did they succeed or fail? All she had to do was go over and open the drawer.
She drifted over to the desk, setting her coffee mug on the table top with an unsteady hand. A feeling of intense anxiety thrummed in her chest. She was the one who berated Kelly not to open the book until at least four AM. She looked at the clock, watching the minutes slip away. The tension was almost too much for her.
Kelly finished what he was doing and turned to look for her. He seemed startled by what he saw. “What’s wrong, Maeve?”
She saw him moving towards her, as though in slow motion. “Maeve…?”
18
“Mokhaiam,” the man flashed a toothless grin at Nordhausen, gesturing towards a small fire where had dug out a shallow pit in the nook of a low depression. “Shurba,” he said, pointing at a pot on the fire. He indicated for Nordhausen to sit, smiling graciously when he did and offering a small bow.
To the professor’s surprise, his captor, now apparently his host, put two fingers to his lips and made a loud whistle. Nordhausen instinctively craned his neck about, thinking it was some signal that would spell no good for him. Instead he saw another man emerge from the darkness and approach the camp, and it was soon obvious that the two were in league. They began speaking to one another in Arabic, and Nordhausen tried to get some sense of what they were saying by listening to the tone of their voices.
“Well Hassan, we have caught more than a desert hare! Who is he?”
“Not Serahin, as we thought. Look at his face. He is an Englishman. Perhaps a friend of El Aurens, yes? He spoke that name to me earlier when I caught him.”
“But what is he doing here?”
“Who can say? Perhaps he means to find Aurens in the desert. He is close by, you know.”
“You have seen him today?”
“I have heard of his doings. He comes from Abu Sawana tonight. He was looking for a bridge near Tell el Shehab, but nothing happened there. One of the Serahin porters dropped his rifle, or so I have heard. Of course he claimed the strap came unfastened, but no matter. It was enough to alert the Turks at the bridge. The Serahin grew restless when the Turkish guards fired and they threw the gelatine explosives into the ravine! They are useless. Aurens should have come to us for men.”
“But Tell el Shehab is nearly two days march from here. Is this true?”
“I have heard it told this way. They gave up their quest for the bridge there and lit up the whole plain as they fled east into the desert. The dogs are still barking at their heels, but Aurens escaped. They reached the rail line at daybreak yesterday, cutting the telegraph wires for spite. They must do something, yes? So now it is said that they wish to blow up a train—perhaps tomorrow!”
“Then this man is with Aurens party? Another Englishman?”
“Perhaps so. He may have fallen behind when Aurens fled east. They left a few lame camels at Abayda before they went for the bridge, and sent many men back to Abu Sawana. Perhaps he is sick, this one. He is certainly lost.”
“Yes, he seems very upset. Did you strike him, brother?”
“On my honor, I did not! You heard him yourself. He must have seen our campfire. But any man who would bellow like a wild camel on a night like this may very well be sick. Perhaps we should feed him.”
“Yes, feed him. You may give him my portion of the soup. I can wait until morning. Let us make him a coffee as well.”
Nordhausen knew nothing of what the men had said, though he heard the name Aurens spoken many times. They can’t believe I’m Lawrence, he thought, somewhat amused with his situation. Lawrence could speak Arabic, and they certainly know that I am ignorant on that count. Now he watched closely as one man set about warming a thin broth in a simple tin cup. The thought that he had been doing that very same thing just a few hours—or fifty million years ago—brought an inward smile to the professor. The other man was rummaging at a threadbare bundle, looking for something. They eyed him with great curiosity, giving him sidelong glances as they worked at the fire. He saw that the second man was trying to make coffee. The aroma of Arabica beans was a sweet solace to him, and he instinctively reached for the bundle of Major Dickason’s blend, patting his robes.
The men gave him a cautious look, but saw they he meant no harm and continued with their chores at the fire. Now what’s happened to the coffee, he wondered? I suppose I left it back in the Cretaceous! The thought twisted in his mind with a cruel sense of incredulity. He could still scarcely believe they had been there! Maeve was not going to like this, he thought. She’ll wag her finger at us and lecture us both for littering the time line. Well, it can’t be helped now.