“See, the theory is that a black hole has such a tremendous amount of gravity that it actually punctures a hole in the fabric of space-time. So the question really is, ‘If you found yourself outside space-time where would you be?’ For that matter, when would you be? Some figure that black holes are just, like, shortcuts to some other part of the universe.” Dave appraised him critically. “You’ve really never watched Star Trek? Like ever? That’s amazing.”

“I’ve seen Star Wars.”

Dave sighed. “All right. Hypothetically, a ‘hole’ in space-time could pop you out somewhere else in the universe, possibly a gazillion miles away. So you can use ’em for space travel. And they can be used as time travel devices, too, because essentially they could pop you back up anywhen as well as anywhere. But there’s also a chance they’re not shortcuts to someplace else in our own universe. Maybe they go to some other universe or just, like, outside of space-time. Which is not a place physical beings like you and me wanna be.

“Assuming,” Dave continued sarcastically, “you aren’t completely ripped apart when you go through a black hole, which is what most real scientists think would be the case.”

Denton didn’t think any of those explanations were likely to be Kobinski’s theory. He may not have understood Kobinski’s science, but he was pretty good at soaking up the general tenor of things. And it had sure sounded to him as if Kobinski had a good idea where they would go, and he hadn’t thought they’d end up dead in the process. It was possible Kobinski had been just plain wrong, but somehow, Denton believed him. Then again, Denton had never had much resistance to believing just about anything—which was why he worked for Mysterious World.

“Any more beer?” Dave fished.

Denton opened the fridge and stared into it, lost in thought. He felt like he was on the verge of a major insight. It was just lurking below the surface like a gigantic sea monster. He waited for it to swim up a little higher so he could see exactly how big it was, count its teeth.

In the next room the phone rang. Denton didn’t answer it. It was probably a woman. He listened vaguely to the voice on the answering machine as he popped the tops off a couple of beers, still trying to bring up that idea. The person on the phone wasn’t a woman; it was Jack at Mysterious World. He was wondering where the Kobinski article was—sounded a little anxious. Jack rang off.

Denton handed a bottle to Dave. Dave was giving him that look. “What are you up to?”

“Who, me? Nothing,” Denton said, aggrieved.

Dave continued to frown suspiciously. “So where are you going to go with this, Dent?”

“I don’t know,” Denton said, and it was true. Only he had the feeling he did know. He had the feeling it was part of that lumbering sea monster—already formed and just waiting to pop up. Dave was still giving him that look.

“What?”

“You’re shafting your magazine, aren’t you? That you’ve worked at for how long?” Dave snorted his disbelief.

Denton felt himself grow pink. “I am not! What… ! Why would you say that?”

No change in the Davester.

“I paid for the Kobinski pages with my own money!”

Dave gave him that look in spades.

He was making Denton feel guilty, and Denton didn’t like feeling guilty. He mustered as much dignity as he could. “I didn’t say I was going to blow them off. Jeez. I’m just… thinking, you know, what would be the best thing to do. You have to admit, this manuscript of Kobinski’s is a lot more legit than the stuff that typically goes in Mysterious World. I mean, I love ’em to death, but… I wouldn’t want to do Kobinski a disservice.”

Dave pinched his nose. “You have a point there.”

Denton glowed. He loved having a point.

“But… this manuscript… it’s not really yours, is it?”

Dave! He was still pissed off about that girl, that ancient history. “It’s not anybody’s! The copyright ran out years ago.”

“Yeah? What about this Rabbi Schwartz guy? He’s not gonna be too happy about you sticking your nose into this.”

That was true enough. Denton’s subconscious already knew it was a problem, maybe because, deep down, he already knew what he was going to do. He’d dreamed about Schwartz. In the dream Schwartz had been a wild-eyed, black-bearded maniac chasing after him (chasing after a rabbit) with knives waving. Oddly, Schwartz had on a chef’s white uniform and Pillsbury-Dough-Boy hat.

“Well… what do you think I should do with it?”

Dave looked away coolly and chugged his beer. “I think you’ll find a way to do exactly what you want to do, Dent. You always do.”

3.3. Aharon Handalman

Aharon could not believe how many cars were in the Yad Vashem parking lot—even in the middle of a workday. He’d thought it would be easier coming on a Wednesday: not so many families, maybe not so many tourists. But Israel’s biggest Holocaust memorial was packed.

He scowled as he walked down the Avenue of the Righteous among Nations (or so it was marked on the map the attendant forced upon him), scowling. He passed a statue to Oskar Schindler, huffed at it. In the distance he could see a six-branched candelabra and, in another direction, a large stone monument, the Pillar of Heroism. Such an enormous campus, such expensive buildings and artwork, all wasted on the dead. It made him sick.

The entrance to the main cluster of museums was a round red curve with black glass doors. He paused before he went in, preparing his defenses. His lips drew back like a horse chafing at the bit. A group of schoolchildren passed him, filing through the door with excited solemnity. A secular group. The beautiful Jewish boys had disposable paper kippas on their heads. Disposable! It was a shame.

He couldn’t help himself. “Torah is more important than this,” he told the teacher. The teacher smiled falteringly and hurried the children inside.

“Straight to the Hall of Names,” he told himself, and pulled open the door.

It was a fine strategy, but not practical. In order to reach the Hall of Names, he had to pass all the way through the long expanse of the Historical Museum. Arrows directed him to choose one of five halls, and he took the first: Anti-Jewish Policy in Germany, figuring that the years leading up to the war had to be the least depressing. He could hear the different guides on each side of him fading in and out as he passed the aisles. Large posterboards hung from the ceiling or were mounted on stands, photographs of the world of the Jews in Europe in the years leading up to 1939. This had been his parents’ world. He felt that finger of fire poking up from his nether regions and tried to focus on the reason he was here: Kobinski.

With some relief, he reached the Hall of Names.

The Hall of Names was part library, part mausoleum, with thick dark woods and embedded lighting. He dodged into the stacks, more hopeful of actually finding something now that he had conquered his resistance and made it here.

It wasn’t so simple. The bookcases contained binders—millions of them, all neat and similar. The binders contained “Pages of Testimony,” brief biographies of those who had been in the Holocaust. The binders were organized alphabetically by the victims’ names. As Aharon searched for Kobinski the sheer number of binders weighed heavier and heavier on his shoulders. He passed entire rows of bookcases only to move up one letter in the alphabet.

“Kobinski,” he muttered, “Yosef Kobinski,” to hear himself talk.

He narrowed in on the relevant section and found the one he wanted. His fingers trembled as he touched the first page of Kobinski’s entry. There was a photo. Without looking further, he took the binder across the room to a group of study tables and arranged himself, taking out a notepad and pencil.