“To that end, I prepared two alternatives to submit to the President. I made sure each of the alternate probes would be unacceptable to him, and he would direct me to proceed with the original plan. I want the future!”
Chaney asked: “Outrageous?”
A short nod. “The President is a religious man; he practices his faith. He will never permit a probe to the scene of the Crucifixion with film and tape.”
“No — he won’t do that.” Chaney considered it. “But because of political consequences, not religious ones. He’s afraid of the people and afraid of the politicians.”
“If that be true, the second alternative would be more frightening.”
Warily: “Where — or what?”
“The second alternative is Dallas in November, 1963. I propose to record the Kennedy assassination in a way not done before. I propose to station a cameraman on the sixth floor of that book depository, overlooking the route; I propose to station a second cameraman in that grove atop the knoll, to settle a controversy; I propose to station a third cameraman — you — on the curb alongside the Kennedy car, at the precise point necessary to record the shots from the window or the trees. We will have an accurate filmed record of the crime, Chaney.”
SEVEN
The TDV was a keen disappointment.
Brian Chaney knew dismay, disillusionment. Perhaps he had expected too much, perhaps he had expected a sleek machine gleaming with chrome and enamel and glass, still new from an assembly line; or perhaps he had expected a mechanical movie monster, a bulging leviathan sprouting cables like writhing tentacles and threatening to sink through the floor of its own massive weight. Perhaps he had let his imagination run away with him.
The vehicle was none of those things. It was a squat, half-ugly can with the numeral 2 chalked on the side. It was unromantic. It was strictly functional.
The TDV resembled nothing more than an oversized oil drum hand-fashioned from scrap aluminum and pieces of old plastic — materials salvaged from a scrap pile for this one job. Chaney thought of a Model-T Ford he’d seen in a museum, and a rickety biplane seen in another; the two relics didn’t seem capable of moving an inch. The TDV was a plastic and aluminum bucket resting in a concrete tank filled with polywater, the whole apparatus occupying a small space in a nearly bare basement room. The machine didn’t seem capable of moving a minute.
The drum was about seven feet in length, and of a circumference barely large enough to accommodate a fat man lying down; the man inside would journey through time flat on his back; he would recline fulllength on a webwork sling while grasping two handrails near his shoulders, with his feet resting on a kickbar at the bottom of the drum. A small hatch topside permitted entry and egress. The upper end of the drum had been cut away — it appeared to be an afterthought — and the opening fitted with a transparent bubble for observing the clock and the calendar. A camera and a sealed metal cube rested in the bubble. Several electric cables, each larger than a swollen thumb, emerged from the bottom end of the vehicle and snaked across the basement floor to vanish into the wall separating the operations room from the laboratory. A stepstool rested beside the polywater tank.
The contrivance looked as if it had been pieced together in a one-man machine shop on the backlot.
Chaney asked: “That thing works?”
“Most assuredly,” Seabrooke replied.
Chaney stepped over the cables and walked around the vehicle, following the invitation of an engineer. The clock and the calendar were securely fastened to a nearby wall, each protected by a clear plastic bubble. Above them — like perched and hovering vultures — were two small television cameras looking down on the basement room. A metal locker, placed near the door and securely fastened to the wall, was meant to contain their clothing. Light fixtures recessed in a high ceiling bathed the room in a cold, brilliant light. The room itself seemed chilly and strangely dry for a basement; it held a sharp smell that might be ozone, together with an unpleasant taste of disturbed dust.
Chaney put the flat of his hand against the aluminum hull and found it cold. There was a minute discharge of static electricity against his palm.
He asked: “How did the monkeys run it?”
“They didn’t, of course,” the engineer retorted with annoyance. (Perhaps he lacked a sense of humor.) “This vehicle is designed for dual operation, Mr. Chaney. All the tests were launched from the lab, as you will be on the out-stage of the journey. We will kick you forward.”
Chaney searched that last for a double meaning.
The engineer said: “When the vehicle is programmed for remote, it can be literally kicked to or away from its target date by depressing the kickbar beneath your feet. We will launch you forward, but you will effect your own return when the mission is completed. We recall only in an emergency.”
“I suppose it will wait up there for us?”
“It will wait there for you. After arrival on target the vehicle will lock on point and remain there until it is released, by you or by us. The vehicle cannot move until propelled by an electrical thrust and that thrust must be continuous. The tachyon generators provide the thrust against a deflecting screen which provides the momentum. The TDV operates in an artificially created vacuum which precedes the vehicle by one millisecond, in effect creating its own time path. Am I making myself clear?
Chaney said: “No.”
The engineer seemed pained. “Perhaps you should read a good book on tachyon deflector systems.”
“Perhaps. Where will I find one?”
“You won’t. They haven’t been written.”
“But it all sounds like perpetual motion.”
“It isn’t, believe me. This baby eats power.”
“I suppose you need that nuclear reactor?”
“All of it — it serves this lab alone.”
Chaney revealed his surprise. “It doesn’t serve the station outside? How much does it take to kick this thing into the future?”
“The vehicle requires five hundred thousand kilos per launch.”
Chaney and Arthur Saltus whistled in unison. Chaney said: “Is that power house protected? What about wiring? Transformers? Electrical systems are vulnerable to about everything: sleet storms, drunken drivers ramming poles, outages, one thing after another.”
“Our reactor is set in concrete, Mr. Chaney. Our conduits are underground. Our equipment is rated for at least twenty years continuous service.” A wave of the hand to indicate superior judgment, superior knowledge. “You needn’t concern yourself; our future planning is complete. There will be power to spare for the next five hundred years, if need be. The power will be available for any launch and return.”
Brian Chaney was skeptical. “Will cables and transformers last five hundred years?”
Again the quick annoyance. “We don’t expect them to. All equipment will be replaced each twenty or twenty-five years according to a prearranged schedule. This is a completely planned operating system.”
Chaney kicked at the concrete tank and hurt his toe. “Maybe the tank will leak.”
“Polywater doesn’t leak. It has the consistency of thin grease, and is suspended in capillary tubes. This is ninety-nine percent of the world’s supply right here.” He followed Chaney’s lead and kicked the tank. “No leak.”
“What does the TDV push against? That polywater?”
The engineer looked at him as if he were an idiot. “It floats on the polywater, Mr. Chaney. I said the thrust against a screen, a molybdenum screen provides the momentum to displace temporal strata.”
Chaney said: “Ah! I see it now.”
“I don’t,” Arthur Saltus said mournfully. He stood at the nose of the vehicle with his nose pressed against the transparent bubble. “What guides this thing? I don’t see a tiller or a wheel.”