“I suppose you’re right,” said Nordhausen. I’ve studied history for decades and I’ve often remarked how much of it just seems to happen on its own. Oh yes, the kings and princes and generals and emperors thought they had it all firmly in hand. In the end, however, they were doing little more than blundering about, just as we were. In fact, Lawrence expressed the same feeling about the writing of his book. How did he say it? ‘Things happen, and we do our best to keep in the saddle.’ Those were the words of one of your Prime Movers, Paul.”
“Doesn’t sound very comforting, does it?” Paul scratched the back of his head. “The notion that we change things unknowingly, that history turns on the slightest whim, is unnerving. Now do you know why I was so concerned about contamination?”
“Yes, but did it change?” Nordhausen was pointing at the book lying on the floor of the safety lock chamber. “Did you read it, Maeve?”
“Yes. I was frightened out of my wits, but I found the passage and read it just before Paul came through. Our assumption is correct. We all remember clearly that the second train was the one Lawrence blew up, right?”
“That’s how I remember the narrative,” said Nordhausen, and Paul gave him a nod of agreement.
“Right then,” Maeve continued. “As it reads now, the second train rolls on by without incident. Well, not entirely without incident. Lawrence was sitting with his exploder and the damn thing failed to ignite the charges.” She recounted the passage she had read, relating how Lawrence had been exposed on the open ground, waving at the Turks on the train with a silly grin on his face. “Look here,” she said with some delight. “He even penned an illustration into this version of the narrative!”
She flipped open the book and they were amazed to see that Lawrence had drawn a little cartoon to illustrate his plight. “And it goes on to show that they waited for the third train, just as we hoped. Lawrence managed to fix the exploder box—apparently that was the Pushpoint, Paul. He recounts working on the interior of the box to set it right, and when the third train showed up their mine went off without a hitch. But we still came very close to ‘mucking things up,’ as you would say professor. Do you know who was on the third train?”
Paul and Robert waited her out, speechless. “Jemal Pasha, the Commander of the whole Turkish Corps in that region. He was traveling with his Headquarters Company to try and get closer to the disintegrating front in that area.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “The Colonel and I had a little chat about it. He spoke English fairly well. Allenby had just pushed the Turks out of Beersheba.”
“Well, we could have gotten the man killed!” Maeve gave him a peeved look. “But lucky for the both of you, he survived the attack. Lawrence and his men grabbed some booty and fled into the desert. I don’t know what you did, exactly, but it altered the mechanism of the exploder box and changed this narrative dramatically. I can only hope it changed the rest of the continuum as well…” Her voice trailed off a bit as she said that, and a squall of concern clouded her features.
“Where’s Kelly,” said Nordhausen? “He should be down here celebrating with us!”
“He’s late again,” Paul chimed, still rummaging through his memory of the trip to try and figure out what he could have done to cause the exploder box to fail.
“Get him on the intercom.” Nordhausen was pointing at the call box on the far wall.
“You mean you haven’t checked the radio yet, Maeve?”
“Checked the radio? Well, as you can see, I’ve been a little preoccupied these last few minutes.”
“Look at the time,” said Nordhausen. “It’s 4:20 AM. You said the first waves were scheduled to hit the coast at 4:11. Come on! I left my radio in the changing room upstairs. Let’s get up there and see what else has changed.”
Paul helped the professor to his feet, and they opened the outer door of the safety lock, making their way back to the elevator for the long ride up to the surface. Paul tried the intercom on the way up, but no one answered. “I wonder where Kelly went,” he said. The low moaning sound of the descending turbines added a somber note to the scene. It sounded like a pack of howling dogs, lost and forlorn in the distance.
Maeve stood in sullen silence. Each mention of Kelly’s name seemed like a lash upon her and, as the seconds passed, the cruel whip of her understanding began to score her with a growing pain. She already feared what the others had not even begun to guess at, though the look on Paul’s face began to betray a small hint of anxiety as the elevator doors swished open at the top. He’s thinking about it now, she thought. God, don’t let it be so.
They reached the last great door and activated the controls to swing it back on the gleaming metal hinges. It glided open and they stepped through the portal to the control room, eyes adjusting to the darkness. A purple haze drifted over the consoles, and the emergency lighting projected long radiant cones through the vapors. Paul rushed in, almost tripping on a swivel chair that was square in the center of the room. The circular control consoles arched around him, still dimly lit by battery power. He sniffed the air, smelling something wrong.
“What happened, here,” he began? “Smells like they had a fire. Where’s Kelly?”
“Looks like they put it out there at the main console.” Nordhausen pointed at the streaks of dark char on the silver plating of the console panels. There was obvious evidence of a fire, and the whole area was dusted with the white powder of a chemical extinguisher that was lying on the floor. “Kelly?” he called out, but no one answered. “Well, perhaps he’s gone down to see Tom about shutting this contraption off. Can you hear the turbines winding down? We must have tripped circuit breakers all over the Bay Area with all the power this thing requires.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “that must be it.” He gave Maeve a quick glance and was disturbed to see a single teardrop well at the corner of her eye and trace a solitary path along her cheek. Was it the smoke in the room irritating her eyes? He started to say something but held his thoughts for a moment.
“I’ll get the radio.” Nordhausen diverted his attention to getting some news on the Palma Event. He rushed off towards the changing room, nearly tripping on the sodden robes of his costume as he went.
Paul was looking around the room, and he spied a chair off by the communications console. He walked over, eyes searching the area for any sign or clue. He did not know exactly what he was looking for, but his senses were keenly alert just the same. When he reached the chair he encountered a palpable cold spot on the misty air and shuddered.
I’m just suffering from the cold and the rain in the desert, he tried to tell himself, even though he knew better. He extended an arm, feeling forward to the chair like a blind man groping the darkness. He felt a frosty tingle, the cold handshake of Time, and he knew why Maeve was crying. Something in him resisted the thoughts that welled in his mind. He did not want them to be so. Then his eye spied a crumpled notebook on the console that seemed oddly out of place.
Maeve was padding softly to the scene behind him. She wrapped her arms close about her when she encountered the icy chill near the chair. Then she stopped, as if frozen with emotion, unwilling to take one single step further and have her senses confirm the terrible sadness that seemed to settle on her now. Paul looked at her with knowing eyes.
He reached for the notebook and strained to see the single word that was written there. Tears welled in his eyes as he read it. Then he slowly extended the note to Maeve. She stepped back, one arm out in front of her as if she thought to ward off the inevitable truth by refusing to look. Then she softened, her hand opening with gentle affirmation, and taking the notebook from Paul. She held it for a moment, then raised it to her breast, a sacred object that branded her with memories and hopes that she could neither embrace nor shun. She looked at the notepad and recognized the errant scrawl of Kelly’s handwriting.