"Maybe not," Shaeffer said stubbornly. "It's possible he could be lying low while the crash is being checked out. Especially if sabotage is a possibility, he might want to give the perpetrators a false sense of security. You might recall that for days after the Libyan raid back in 1986 Quaddafi disappeared—"
Hale snorted. "Jeffers wouldn't duck and hide, and you know it. That shoot-from-the-hip style of his was practically his trademark."
"Maybe lying low wasn't his idea," Shaeffer snapped. "Maybe someone persuaded him to do so."
I felt my hands start to tremble. "Shaeffer... are you saying you've been in touch with him?"
Kristin caught her breath and murmured something inaudible. But Shaeffer shook his head. "No, of course not. Do you think I want to risk frogging up your chances by contacting someone out there?"
"But if you call and find that he's there—" Rennie began.
"And if he isn't, then that's it," Shaeffer snapped back. "Right?" He glared around at all of us.
Morgan cleared his throat. "Mr. Shaeffer, we all of us understand how you feel 'bout... what's happened to President Jeffers. But denyin' the facts isn't gonna—"
"What 'facts,' Mr. Portland?" Shaeffer cut him off. "We have no facts at this point—just speculations and possibilities."
I looked at Griff, who had yet to say a word. "Griff...?"
"Yes, Griff, say something, will you?" Hale cut in. "Explain things to this idiot. Or has the wow-value of the big-city bureaucrat short-circuited your ability to think straight?"
Griff cocked an eyebrow, but that was the extent of his reaction to Hale's harshness. "If you're asking whether or not I'm going along with Mr. Shaeffer's idea, the answer is a qualified and cautious yes. We're talking about the chance to save a man's life here."
"Oh, for God's sake," Hale snarled, his eyes flicking around the table once before returning to Griff. "Will you for one minute look past the lure of a real budget and think about what we're being asked to do here? We're being asked to change the past—Shaeffer's weaseling phrases be damned, that's what's really at stake here. Don't you care what that might mean?"
For a moment Griff gazed steadily back at him. "Certainly, Hale, you have a point," he said at last. "Certainly this could prove dangerous. But have any of you stopped to consider the other side of the coin? If there's a single factor that consistently shows up on your psych evaluations, it's the frustrations Banshee creates in you—the stress of seeing disasters you can't do anything to prevent. Denials: anyone?"
I glanced around the table even as I realized that, for me, all further arguments were moot. The chance to save a life that would otherwise be lost—a life whose loss was filling an entire nation with grief and pain—was all the motivation I needed.
Besides which, Griff happened to be right. All of us hated the helplessness we felt during Jumps; hated it with a passion. If we really could do something about the disasters we had to witness...
"So," Griff continued after a moment. "Then consider what we've got here: a chance to see whether or not the past can be safely changed. Doesn't that seem like something worth taking a little risk to find out?"
"And if it leads to disaster?" Hale demanded. "What then? It doesn't matter a damn how pure or noble our motives were if we screw things up royally. I say we just forget the whole idea and—"
"Mr. Fortness, you're relieved of duty," Shaeffer said quietly.
The words came so suddenly and with such conviction behind them that it took a moment for me to register the fact that the man giving the order had no authority to do so. An instant later everyone else seemed to catch on to that fact, too, and the awkward silence suddenly went rigid. "Someone die and leave you boss?" Hale growled scornfully.
"That's enough, Hale," Griff said quietly. "Go back to your room."
From the looks on the other's faces it appeared they were as flabbergasted as Hale was. "Griff—you don't mean—" Kristin began.
Griff looked at her, and she fell silent. The awkward silence resumed as Hale got up from the table, face set in stone, and left the room. I half expected him to slam the door on his way out, but he apparently was still too stunned by it all to be thinking in terms of theatrics. Griff let the silence hang in the air another couple of seconds before looking back at Kristin. "I believe, Kristin," he said, "that the next Jump is yours. I know it's getting late, but I'd appreciate it if you'd try anyway. If you feel up to it, that is."
A muscle twitched in Kristin's cheek as she threw a glance at Shaeffer's tight face and stood up. "I'll try, Griff. Sure. Shall I go downstairs and start getting prepped?"
"Please. I'll be there shortly to set the tether and slot coordinates and see you off."
She nodded and left the room. Shaeffer watched her go, then turned back to lock Morgan, Rennie, and me into a searchlight gaze. "I realize that in a tight-knit organization like Banshee strangers like me are not especially welcome," he said, his soft voice underlaid with steel. "But at the moment I don't give a nickel damn about your feelings. We have less than sixty-six hours to get President Jeffers off that plane and into temporary hiding; and the longer it takes us, the greater the danger of exactly the sort of thing happening that you've all voiced concerns about." He paused, as if waiting to see if any of us would follow Hale's lead. But we said nothing, and after a moment Shaeffer turned to Griff. "All right, Dr. Mansfield. Let's get started."
—
"Now remember," Shaeffer said, leaning close to Kristin as if she were asleep or deaf or both. "You go right up in front of the President's face and hover there where he can see you—don't get out of his sight. If he doesn't seem to see you, or else ignores you, come back and we'll try again. Under no circumstances are you to stay long enough to see him climb up the steps to the plane. Understand?"
I half expected Kristin to remind him that this was the third replay of these same instructions and that she'd caught them all the first time around. But she merely nodded and closed her eyes. Griff gave the high sign, and with the usual flickering of lights she was gone.
Taking a deep breath, I moved away from Griff and Shaeffer, lingering by the two-foot model of Air Force One and the tiny model limo that now sat on the table beside it. The tether lead's alligator clip was attached to the limo; Shaeffer was pushing this contact as far back as he reasonably could, all the way back to the President's drive to the landing field. Passing the models, I kept going, heading for the rows of equipment cabinets at the building's west end. My father had always gone for a walk in the woods when he needed to think through a particularly knotty problem, and during my two years at Banshee I'd discovered that the maze of gray cabinets back here was an adequate substitute. I hoped the magic still worked. Upstairs, half an hour ago, I'd made my decision... but with Shaeffer's pep talk beginning to fade, things no longer looked nearly so clear cut. The greatest good for the greatest number, and attention paid whenever possible to the individual; those were the rules I'd been taught as a child, the standards against which I'd always measured my actions. But to make such judgments required information and wisdom... and I could find nothing in past experience that seemed to apply to this case.
How was I supposed to weigh the pain and suffering that could be caused by changing the past?
"Hello, Adam."
I jerked out of my reverie and spun around. Rennie stood there, leaning against one of the computer cabinets, arms crossed negligently across his chest. Blocking my way out.