At 3:30 he went back to Building 1 for his appointment with the bursar, a fat little man with a scowl and a squint and the improbable name Father Gouger. He said that in addition to room and board, Matt would be given an allowance for clothing and books. Paper and ink and pen points had to be ordered in advance from Supply. Above that, he’d be paid fifty dollars for every class he taught. The price of two and a half cups of “real coffey.” A good thing he was shaking the habit, and the coffee was lousy, anyhow.
MIT offered him a hundred dollars a week stipend while he wasn’t teaching. Not unreasonable, Matt thought, since all his basic needs were taken care of, but on general principles he asked for two hundred, and eventually settled on $127.50.
To his surprise, Gouger counted out that amount and handed it to him, saying henceforth it would be delivered to his office with the noon meal every Monday.
He went out onto Mass Ave and took his newfound fortune to the nearest tavern, which had a faded sign that identified it as the Brain Drain. He got a mug of beer and a small glass of spirits and retreated to the darkest corner, away from four young men arguing over free will and destiny.
His own destiny was unsure and complex in a way the boys wouldn’t be able to understand. He knew that on 2 February 2058, someone had appeared from somewhereto set him free—free enough to go to 2059 for a second or two, then zip to 2074 to celebrate Professor Marsh’s genius.
But where was that benefactor now? Matt might be caught in a strange closed loop of space-time that contacted another strange closed loop at the moment he stole the cab—and that might be two other strange closed loops away from the one where the shadowy benefactor showed up with the million-dollar check.
There was a jar of pickled eggs on the bar. Maybe that was the model. Each egg was a closed three-dimensional solid touching other closed three-dimensional solids, unaware that it was floating in a larger universe of vinegar. Unaware of the bartender with his fork, ready to change any egg’s destiny.
The liquor had an astringent green-apple taste, not unpleasant. The beer was even somewhat cool, having come up from the basement.
But he should be thinking, not drinking. He moved the shot glass a symbolic foot away.
One thing linking this egg with the one he’d come from was the fact that the library had scanned him and identified him as a full professor. A 177-year-old personnel record? Well, he’d neither quit nor died. Maybe there was no cell on the spreadsheet for “fired because he stole a taxi and escaped into the future.”
There was a larger question about causality; about how he should act. Assume that it hadbeen he who came back with the bail money. Since that had already happened— arguably, he couldn’t be sitting in this bar if it hadn’t happened—then it was going to happen no matter what he chose to do in the here and now.
That was A. Here was B: There was no way he was going to invent a time machine into the past with the resources of the Massachusetts Institute of Theosophy.
Therefore C: He had to be jumping into the future at least one more time, to a place and time where such a machine could be built.
Built by him? He hadn’t really built the one he was using now.
So somebody else would do the actual inventing—and maybe do the rescuing as well. Whatever, it wasn’t likely that he was going to stay here and make a career in theosophy. So it would be wise not to stray too far from the machine and keep an eye out for large metal containers. There weren’t a lot of cars and Dumpsters around.
Dean Eagan had said a team was bringing in the taxi. Better find out where it was going to be parked. Carry the time machine with him all the time? That could be awkward.
Another possibility was not exactly honest. He could follow his late, unlamented father’s motto: “Shut up and play the cards you’re dealt.” He could settle in here, teaching natural philosophy and doing research—and he could “discover” special and general relativity. Quantum mechanics.
And maybe get burned at the stake. It would be smart to tread carefully.
He sipped the applejack and followed that train of thought a little distance. To be honest, it was unlikely that he was ever going to make a significant breakthrough in the direction of his research back at the real MIT. The gravity-wave stuff looked like a dead end. Here, he had a chance to reinvent physics and perhaps give these people a chance to rediscover what they’d lost.
But the lesson of Giordano Bruno was hard to ignore. He’d tried to teach medieval Europe that their small Catholic God was inadequate in the face of the majesty of the actual universe. Matt didn’t know much about him, but remembered an image from a cube biopic he’d seen as a teenage protoscientist: Bruno dragged up from the Inquisitors’ dungeon and tied to the stake by chest and legs with rough rope, his arms free, over a pile of dry brambles and sticks. They brought the torch forward, and the priest presented him with a crucifix. He knocked it away scornfully and watched with a stony, heroic expression as they put the torch to the pile.
Matt didn’t think he was quite up to that. He moved his drinks up to the bar and bought one of the eggs and nibbled on it thoughtfully. He resisted the temptation to have another beer, and walked through the cooling afternoon sun back to his cottage.
He opened the strongbox and considered his worldly possessions. If he were to start carrying the time machine around with him, it would be in the expectation of having to use it with little or no warning. What else should he carry, planning to disappear suddenly into the future?
The gun. But no need for the whole box of ammunition; just the six cartridges that it carried fully loaded. It was just a noisemaker to him. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where he would shoot all six bullets and then have time to reload, and not be killed during the pause.
The money, of course, and the two rare documents. They might still be worthless 2094 years from now, or they might be priceless.
But the notebook with its store of pornography was questionable. In some futures it might also be a priceless asset. In others, presumably like here, it might be a serious crime to possess one.
Or maybe not like here. The attitude toward nudity was evidently relaxed, and to his knowledge there was nothing in the Bible about pornography. Thou shalt not look at graven images of professional sex workers in improbable geometries?
Besides, it would be hard to turn on the thing accidentally, especially in a culture almost innocent of modern machinery. It was childproof, which also meant “ignorant-adult-proof. ”
He put it all in the black leather bag and hefted it, less than ten pounds. Other professors didn’t carry their own bags, perhaps, but he was the man from the past, and ought to be allowed an eccentricity or two. For legitimacy, he put the New Testament Bible and the natural philosophy text in there, along with a pencil and several sheets of paper, folded over and slipped into the Bible.
Four rapid knocks on the door. “Come in?”
It was Martha, out of breath from running. “Professor! I just got word from Father Hogarty! You’re going to see Jesus! ”
“See . . . Jesus?”
“Right now—ten minutes from now!” She actually grabbed his arm and pulled. “Faculty chapel!”
He started to pick up the bag, but she snatched it away from him. “I’ll take that. Let’s go!”
When Jesus calls, Matt reflected, you might as well pick up the phone. “Okay. Lead on.”
14
The Faculty Chapel was in Christ Hall, a big “oldmodern” building that used to house art exhibits in the old days. The part for general worship was roomy and bright, even at this late hour, but the Faculty Chapel was a side room, lit with flickering oil lamps. The homey smell of corn oil burning reminded Matt of the popcorn in theater foyers, and the attendant feeling of expectation.