killing thousands. That bit of history from five years ago is happening now right in front of my eyes.
“We could have saved some of them,” I say as a great cloud of dust rises. “We could have saved all of them if we wanted to.”
“And if we did?” Marie asks.
I know what answer she wants me to say but I find it impossible to voice. Who cares what happens after? Who cares what changes would occur to our present? We could have saved them!
“Suppose we did,” she says when I don’t answer. “Perhaps we convince a worker who would have been on the seventy-sixth floor to stay home. What if, in his relief for not having been in the accident, he gets drunk and causes the death of someone who wasn’t in the tower, someone who, in our home time, was still alive when we left? Now that person is not. Babies will be born who shouldn’t have been, and others who were born will cease to exist. Relationships with husbands and wives and lovers and friends and enemies and business partners will all play out differently. There’s no way to predict what will happen, except to say that our time will be forever altered. All this because we save the lives of those who were already dead. As much as we all wish it were different, a Rewinder is not a god. A Rewinder is an observer, who keeps his contact with those in the time he’s visiting to a bare minimum.”
“I get it,” I say. “I just…”
“It’s human nature to want to help,” she says.
I nod. That’s it exactly.
“I feel the same way every time I watch this happen,” she says.
“How do you keep from acting?”
She’s silent for several seconds, then says something that sounds more like she’s reading it from one of the institute’s manuals than feeling it in her heart. “By doing nothing you are serving the greater good of humanity.”
I have a hard time believing that but don’t know how to respond, so I quietly watch the dust cloud grow. When I can take the tragedy no longer, I look over at the others along the lip.
“More of your students?” I ask.
“Three of them are. One is someone I haven’t met yet, but I see him here every time.”
I look at her. “You’ve seen me here, too?”
“I have.”
My brain is starting to hurt. “Everyone’s in the same position?”
She nods.
“Doing the same things?”
Another nod.
“Did you notice us having this conversation before?”
“I’m watching us right now.”
She nods past me, and I look back to see the second Marie over looking in our direction.
“What if you do something you haven’t seen before?”
She looks uncomfortable. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. What if you wave? Have you waved at the others before?”
“No, but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“You mean it’s kind of like if we tried to save those people?”
After a silent moment, she suddenly raises her hand above her head and waves at the other groups. A few respond in kind.
“Whoa,” I say, surprised. “Do you now remember seeing you do that?”
“It doesn’t work like that. My memory doesn’t change.”
“So what does that mean?”
She looks back toward the city. “What’s your understanding of what caused the Dawson Tower disaster?”
I’m actually glad she’s changing the subject, because any answer she might give would undoubtedly lead to more questions and my head is already overfilled. “Disgruntled workers sabotaged the project,” I say, following her gaze. “They were led by a guy named, uh, Wendell something, I think.”
“Wendell Barber,” she says.
“Right.”
“They were scapegoats,” she says. “He and the people who were executed with him knew nothing about what caused the disaster.”
I get the sense this conversation is turning political, and as an Eight who was taught long ago what should and shouldn’t be discussed, it’s not a comfortable direction for me.
“There was sabotage, all right, but not by disgruntled workers,” she goes on.
“We could have saved some of them,” I say as a great cloud of dust rises. “We could have saved all of them if we wanted to.”
“And if we did?” Marie asks.
I know what answer she wants me to say but I find it impossible to voice. Who cares what happens after? Who cares what changes would occur to our present? We could have saved them!
“Suppose we did,” she says when I don’t answer. “Perhaps we convince a worker who would have been on the seventy-sixth floor to stay home. What if, in his relief for not having been in the accident, he gets drunk and causes the death of someone who wasn’t in the tower, someone who, in our home time, was still alive when we left? Now that person is not. Babies will be born who shouldn’t have been, and others who were born will cease to exist. Relationships with husbands and wives and lovers and friends and enemies and business partners will all play out differently. There’s no way to predict what will happen, except to say that our time will be forever altered. All this because we save the lives of those who were already dead. As much as we all wish it were different, a Rewinder is not a god. A Rewinder is an observer, who keeps his contact with those in the time he’s visiting to a bare minimum.”
“I get it,” I say. “I just…”
“It’s human nature to want to help,” she says.
I nod. That’s it exactly.
“I feel the same way every time I watch this happen,” she says.
“How do you keep from acting?”
She’s silent for several seconds, then says something that sounds more like she’s reading it from one of the institute’s manuals than feeling it in her heart. “By doing nothing you are serving the greater good of humanity.”
I have a hard time believing that but don’t know how to respond, so I quietly watch the dust cloud grow. When I can take the tragedy no longer, I look over at the others along the lip.
“More of your students?” I ask.
“Three of them are. One is someone I haven’t met yet, but I see him here every time.”
I look at her. “You’ve seen me here, too?”
“I have.”
My brain is starting to hurt. “Everyone’s in the same position?”
She nods.
“Doing the same things?”
Another nod.
“Did you notice us having this conversation before?”
“I’m watching us right now.”
She nods past me, and I look back to see the second Marie over looking in our direction.
“What if you do something you haven’t seen before?”
She looks uncomfortable. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. What if you wave? Have you waved at the others before?”
“No, but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“You mean it’s kind of like if we tried to save those people?”
After a silent moment, she suddenly raises her hand above her head and waves at the other groups. A few respond in kind.
“Whoa,” I say, surprised. “Do you now remember seeing you do that?”
“It doesn’t work like that. My memory doesn’t change.”
“So what does that mean?”
She looks back toward the city. “What’s your understanding of what caused the Dawson Tower disaster?”
I’m actually glad she’s changing the subject, because any answer she might give would undoubtedly lead to more questions and my head is already overfilled. “Disgruntled workers sabotaged the project,” I say, following her gaze. “They were led by a guy named, uh, Wendell something, I think.”
“Wendell Barber,” she says.
“Right.”
“They were scapegoats,” she says. “He and the people who were executed with him knew nothing about what caused the disaster.”
I get the sense this conversation is turning political, and as an Eight who was taught long ago what should and shouldn’t be discussed, it’s not a comfortable direction for me.
“There was sabotage, all right, but not by disgruntled workers,” she goes on.
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