But whatever it was he'd missed, circumstances still left him no choice. Garwood had to be stopped.
Taking a deep breath, Davidson leaned forward to the terminal again and called up Backdrop's cafeteria records. If Garwood was working around the clock, as Davidson certainly would be doing in his place... and after a few tries he found what he was looking for: the records of the meals delivered to the main assembly area at the end of Backdrop's security tunnel. Scanning them, he found there had been between three and twelve meals going into the tunnel each mealtime since two days before the dramatic upsurge in Garwood Effect damage.
And Garwood's ordering number was on each one of the order lists.
Davidson swore again, under his breath. Of course Garwood would be spending all his time down the tunnel—after their last conversation a couple of weeks ago the man would be crazy to stay anywhere that Davidson's security clearance would let him get to. And he'd chosen his sanctuary well. Down the security tunnel, buried beneath the assembly area's artificial hill, it would take either a company of Marines or a medium-sized tactical nuke to get to him now.
Or maybe—just maybe—all it would take would be a single man with a computer terminal. A man with some knowledge of security systems, some patience, and some time.
Davidson gritted his teeth. The terminal he had; and the knowledge, and the patience. But as for the time... he would know in a few days.
If the world still existed by then.
VII
The five techs were still going strong as the clocks reached midnight, but Garwood called a halt anyway. "We'll be doing the final wiring assembly and checkout tomorrow," he reminded them. "I don't want people felling asleep over their voltmeters while they're doing that."
"You really expect any of us to sleep?" one of the techs grumbled half-seriously.
"Well, I sure will," Garwood told him lightly, hooking a thumb toward the door. "Come on, everybody out. See you at eight tomorrow morning. Pleasant dreams."
The tech had been right, Garwood realized as he watched them empty their tool pouches onto an already cluttered work table: with the project so close to completion they were going to be too wired up for easy sleep. But fortunately they were as obedient as they were competent, and they filed out without any real protest.
And Garwood was alone.
Exhaling tiredly, he locked the double doors and made his way back to the center of the huge shored-up fabrication dome and the lopsided monstrosity looming there. Beyond it across the dome was his cot, beckoning him temptingly... Stepping instead to the cluttered work table, he picked up a screwdriver set and climbed up through the tangle of equipment into the seat at its center. Fifteen minutes later, the final connections were complete.
It was finished.
For a long minute he just sat there, eyes gazing unseeingly at the simple control/indicator panel before him. It was finished. After all the blood, sweat, and tears—after all the arguments with Saunders—after the total disruption of his life... it was done.
He had created a time machine.
Sighing, he climbed stiffly down from the seat and returned the screwdrivers to their place on the work table. The next table over was covered with various papers; snaring a wastebasket, he began pushing the papers into it, tamping them down as necessary until the table was clear. A length of electrical cable secured the wastebasket to a protruding metal plate at the back of the time machine's seat, leaving enough room for the suitcase and survival pack he retrieved from beneath his cot. Two more lengths of cable to secure them... and there was just one more chore to do. A set of three video cameras stood spaced around the room, silent on their tripods; stepping to each in turn, he turned all of them on.
He was just starting back to the time machine when there was a faint sound from the double doors.
He turned, stomach tightening into a knot. It could only be Saunders, here for a late-night briefing on the day's progress. If he noticed that the cameras were running—realized what that meant—
The doors swung open, and Major Davidson stepped in.
Garwood felt an instantaneous burst of relief... followed by an equally instantaneous burst of fear. He'd specifically requested that Davidson not be cleared for this part of Backdrop... "Major," he managed to say between suddenly dry lips. "Up—ah, rather late, aren't you?"
Davidson closed the doors, his eyes never leaving Garwood's face. "I only hope I'm not here too late," he said in a quiet voice. "You've done it, haven't you?"
Garwood licked his lips, nodding his head fractionally toward the machine beside him. "Here it is."
For a long moment neither man spoke. "I misjudged you," Davidson said at last, and to Garwood's ears there was more sorrow than anger in the words. "You talked a lot about responsibility to the world; but in the end you backed down and did what they told you to do."
"And you?" Garwood asked softly, the tightness in his stomach beginning to unknot. If Davidson was willing to talk first... to talk, and to listen... "Have you thought through the consequences of your actions? You went to a lot of illegal trouble to get in here. If you kill me on top of that, your own life's effectively over."
A muscle in Davidson's cheek twitched. "Unlike you, Doctor, I don't just talk about responsibility. And there are things worth dying for."
Unbidden, a smile twitched at Garwood's lips. "You know, Major, I'm glad you came. It gives me a certain measure of hope to know that even in the midst of the 'not-me' generation there are still people willing to look beyond their own selfish interests."
Davidson snorted. "Doctor, I'll remind you that I've seen this nobility act of yours before. I'm not buying it this time."
"Good. Then just listen."
Davidson frowned. "To what?"
"To the silence."
"The—?" Davidson stopped abruptly; and all at once he seemed to get it. "It's quiet," he almost whispered, eyes darting around the room, coming to rest eventually on the machine beside Garwood. "But—the Garwood Effect—you've found a way to stop it?"
Garwood shook his head. "No, not really. Though I think I may understand it a bit better now." He waved a hand around the room. "In a sense, the trouble is merely that I was born at the wrong time. If I'd lived a hundred years earlier the culture wouldn't have had the technological base to do anything with my equations; if I'd been born a hundred years later, perhaps I'd have had the time and necessary mathematics to work out a safe method of time travel, leaving my current equations as nothing more than useless curiosities to be forgotten."
"I'd hardly call them useless," Davidson interjected.
"Oh, but they are. Or didn't you notice how much trouble the various fabrication shops had in constructing the modules for this machine?"
"Of course I did," Davidson nodded, a frown still hovering across his eyes. "But if the modules themselves were falling apart...?"
"How was I able to assemble a working machine?" Garwood reached up to touch one of the machine's supports. "To be blunt, I cheated. And as it happens, you were the one who showed me how to do it."
Davidson's eyes locked with him. "Me?"
"You," Garwood nodded. "With a simple, rather sarcastic remark you made to me back in my Champaign apartment. Tell me, what's the underlying force that drives the Garwood Effect?"
Davidson hesitated, as if looking for a verbal trap. "You told me it was the possibility that someone would use time travel to change the past—" He broke off, head jerking with sudden insight. "Are you saying...?"