“I wish there was something I could say,” Bayard said. “But there isn’t. Good-bye, Mr. Curlon.”
I stepped down onto the ground, and the door closed behind me. I waited until the shuttle had vanished in a shimmer of light. Then I walked forward along a flower-bordered path toward the sound of Ironel’s voice.
Epilogue
Baron von Richthofen, Chief of Imperial Intelligence, looked at Bayard across the polished expanse of desk.
“Your mission was successful, Brion,” he said quietly. “At the instant the subject entered the Blighted line, the stress indicators dropped to zero readings across the board. The peril to the Net is ended.”
“I wonder,” Bayard said, “what he felt, in those last seconds ?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. In one silent instant of readjustment, the continuum closed in to seal the scar. The probability equation is satisfied.” Richthofen paused a moment. “Why? Did you see something there?”
“Nothing,” Bayard said. “Just fog, as dense as concrete, silent as death.”
“He was a brave man, Brion. He fulfilled his destiny.”
Bayard nodded, frowning.
“Brion, is there something else—something that troubles you?”
“We’ve always held the theory that history is immutable,” Bayard said. “Perhaps I’m just deluding myself. But I seem to remember a story of King Richard’s massacre of the barons of Runnymede. I checked the references to make sure, and I was wrong, of course.”
Richthofen looked thoughtful. “The idea has a certain feel of familiarity… but that’s illusory, of course,” he added. “It was King John who met with the barons—and signed their Magna Charta.”
“Where did I get the idea that John was executed by Richard in 1201?”
Richthofen started to nod, then checked himself. “For a moment—but no, I recall now. Richard was no longer living then. He was killed by a cross-bow bolt in a minor skirmish at a place called Chaluz, in 1199.” He looked thoughtful. “Curious… there was no need for him to have taken part in the engagement at all—and after he was wounded, he refused all medical aid. It was almost as though he sought death in battle.”
“It was all so clear,” Bayard said. “How he lived to a ripe old age—an overripe old age—lost his crown, died in disgrace. I’d swear I read it as a kid. But none of that’s in the books. It never happened.”
“No,” Richthofen said. “It never happened. If it had, the worlds we know would never have existed.”
“Still—it’s strange.”
“Every phenomenon in the space-time probability continuum is strange, Brion—one no more than another.”
“I suppose it was just a dream,” Bayard said. “A vivid dream.”
“Life itself is a dream, they say,” Richthofen sat up, suddenly brisk. “But this is the dream we’re in, Brion. And we have work waiting for us.”
Bayard returned his smile.
“You’re right,” he said. “One dream is enough for any man.”