“What kind of action?” I asked in a dead man’s voice.
“You were removed from your tour on that evening in 1204 two hours prior to your original shunt to 1105 for your tryst with Pulcheria. Another Courier replaced you in 1204; you were plucked from the time-flow and brought down the line to stand trial in 2059 for assorted timecrimes.”
“Therefore—”
“Therefore,” Sam swept on, “you never did slip away to 1105 to pay that call on Pulcheria. Your whole love affair with Pulcheria has become a nonevent, and if you were to visit her now, you’d find that she has no recollection of having slept with you. Next: since you didn’t go to 1105, you obviously didn’t return to 1204 and find Sauerabend missing, and anyway Sauerabend had never been part of your tour group. And thus there was no need for you to make that fifty-six-second shunt up the line which created the duplication. Neither you nor Jud B ever came into being, since the existence of both of you dates from a point later than your visit to Pulcheria, and you never made that visit, having been plucked out of the time-flow before you got a chance to do it. You and Jud B are nonpersons and always have been. You happen to be protected by the Paradox of Transit Displacement, as long as you stay up the line; Jud B ceased to be protected the moment he returned to now-time, and disappeared irretrievably. Got that?”
Shivering, I said, “Sam, what’s happening to that other Jud, the — the — the real Jud? The one they plucked, the one they’ve got down there in 2059?”
“He’s in custody, awaiting trial on timecrime charges.”
“What about me?”
“If the Patrol ever finds you, you’ll be brought to now-time and thus automatically obliterated. But the Patrol doesn’t know where you are. If I you stay in Byzantium, sooner or later you’ll be discovered, and that’ll be the end for you. When I found all this out, I shot back here to warn you. Hide in prehistory. Get away into some period earlier than the founding of the old Greek Byzantium — earlier than 700B.C., I guess. You can manage there. We’ll bring you books, tools, whatever you need. There’ll be people of some sort, nomads, maybe — anyway, company. You’ll be like a god to them. They’ll worship you, they’ll bring you a woman a day. It’s your only chance, Jud.”
“I don’t want to be a prehistoric god! I want to be able to go down the line again! And to see Pulcheria! And—”
“There’s no chance of any of that,” Sam said, and his words came down like the blade of a guillotine. “You don’t exist. It’s suicide for you ever to try to go down the line. And if you go anywhere near Pulcheria, the Patrol will catch you and take you down the line. Hide or die, Jud. Hide or die.”
“But I’m real, Sam! I do exist!”
“Only the Jud Elliott who’s currently in custody in 2059 exists. You’re a residual phenomenon, a paradox product, nothing more. I love you all the same, boy, and that’s why I’ve risked my own black hide to help you, but you aren’t real. Believe me. Believe me. You’re your own ghost. Pack up and clear out!”
63.
I’ve been here for three and a half months now. By the calendar I keep, the date is March 15, 3060 B.P. I’m living a thousand years before Christ, more or less.
It’s not a bad life. The people here are subsistence farmers, maybe remnants of the old Hittite empire; the Greek colonists won’t be getting here for another three centuries. I’m starting to learn the language; it’s Indo-European and I pick it up fast. As Sam predicted, I’m a god. They wanted to kill me when I showed up, but I did a few tricks with my timer, shunting right before their eyes, and now they don’t dare offend me. I try to be a kindly god, though. Right now I’m helping spring to arrive. I went down to the shore of what will someday be called the Bosphorus and delivered a long prayer, in English, for good weather. The locals loved it.
They give me all the women I want. The first night they gave me the chief’s daughter, and since then I’ve rotated pretty well through the whole nubile population of the village. I imagine they’ll want me to marry someone eventually, but I want to complete the inspection first. The women don’t smell too good, but some of them are impressively passionate.
I’m terribly lonely.
Sam has been here three times, Metaxas twice. The others don’t come. I don’t blame them; the risks are great. My two loyal friends have brought me floaters, books, a laser, a big box of music cubes, and plenty of other things that are going to perplex the tails off some archaeologists eventually.
I said to Sam, “Bring me Pulcheria, just for a visit.”
“I can’t,” he said. And he’s right. It would have to be a kidnapping, and there might be repercussions, leading to Time Patrol troubles for Sam and obliteration for me.
I miss Pulcheria ferociously. You know, I had sex with her only that one night, though it seems as if I knew her much better than that. I wish now that I’d had her in the tavern, while she was Pulcheria Photis, too.
My beloved. My wicked great-great-multi-great-grandmother. Never to see you again! Never to touch your smooth skin, your — no, I won’t torture myself. I’ll try to forget you. Hah!
I console myself, when not busy in my duties as a deity, by dictating my memoirs. Everything now is recorded, all the details of how I maneuvered myself into this terrible fix. A cautionary tale: from promising young man to absolute nonperson in sixty-two brief chapters. I’ll keep on writing too, now and then. I’ll tell what it’s like to be a Hittite god. Let’s see, tomorrow we’ll have the spring fertility festival, and the ten fairest maidens of the village will come to the god’s house so that we—
Pulcheria!
Why am I here so far from you, Pulcheria?
I have too much time to think about you, here.
I also have too much time to think unpleasant thoughts about my ultimate fate. I doubt that the Time Patrol will find me here. But there’s another possibility.
The Patrol knows that I’m hiding somewhere up the line, protected by displacement.
The Patrol wants to smoke me out and abolish me, because I’m a filthy spawn of paradox.
And it’s in the power of the Patrol to do it. Suppose they retroactively discharge Jud Elliott from the Time Service prior to the time he set out on his ill-starred last trip? If Jud Elliott never ever got to Byzantium that time at all, the probability of my existence reaches the zero point, and I no longer am protected by the Paradox of Transit Displacement. The Law of Lesser Paradoxes prevails. Out I go — poof!
I know why they haven’t done that to me yet. It’s because that other Jud, God bless him, is standing trial for timecrime down the line, and they can’t retroactively pluck him until they’ve found him guilty. They have to complete the trial. If he’s found guilty, I guess they’ll take some action of that sort. But court procedures are slow. Jud will stall. Sam’s told him I’m here and have to be protected. It might be months, years, who knows? He’s on his now-time basis, I’m on mine, and we move forward into our futures together, day by day, and so far I’m still here.
Lonely. Heartsick.
Dreaming of my forever lost Pulcheria.
Maybe they’ll never take action against me.
Or maybe they’ll end me tomorrow.
Who knows? There are moments when I don’t even care. There’s one comforting thing, at least. It’ll be the most painless of deaths. Not even a flicker of pain. I’ll simply go wherever the flame of the candle goes when it’s snuffed. It could happen at any time, and meanwhile I live from hour to hour, playing god, listening to Bach, indulging in floaters, dictating my memoirs, and waiting for the end. Why, it could even come right in the middle of a sentence, and I’d