it in for the night," he said.
"I'm in London; the Council's European meeting just broke up. I think I've got what you need, or at least part of it."
"Tremendous," John said rap idly. "Bloody good."
"I say 'part' because I'm not sure the Americans will send everything you need. They say there are other uses they have in mind. Uses aside from this tachyon business, I mean."
"Could I get a list of what they have?"
"I'm working on it. Listen, I must ring off. Wanted to let you know."
"Right. Fine. And, and thanks!"
The news changed the tenor of the party. Heather and James knew nothing of John's experiment, so there was much explaining to do before they could understand the import of the telephone call. Renfrew and Markham took turns explaining the basic idea, skipping over the complicated matter of Lorentz transformations and how tachyons could propagate backward in time; they would have needed a blackboard to make the attempt. Marjorie came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. The men's voices were authoritative, booming in the small dining room. Candlelight bathed the faces around the table in a pale yellow glow. The women spoke with rising inflections, questioning.
"It seems strange to think of the people in one's own past as real,"
Marjorie said distantly. Heads turned towards her. "That is, to imagine them as, as still alive and changeable in some sense ..."
The company sat silent for a moment. Several frowned. Marjorie's way of putting the issue had caught them off balance. They had spoken often this evening of things changing in the future. To imagine the past as alive, too, as a moving and flexing thing–
The moment passed, and Marjorie returned to the kitchen. She came back with not one but three desserts. When she set them down, the piece de resistance–a meringue confection With early raspberries and whipped cream–created the wave of ahs she had anticipated. She followed this in short order with pots of strawberry mousse and a large glass bowl of carefully decorated sherry trifle.
"Marjorie, you're too much," James protested. John sat and beamed silently as the guests heaped praises on his wife. Even Jan managed two helpings, though she refused the trifle.
"I think," Greg commented, "that sweets must be the English substitute for sex."
After dessert the party moved near the fireplace as Greg and John cleared away the dessert plates. Marjorie felt a warm relaxation seeping through her as she brought in the tea things. The room had taken on a chill as darkness deepened; she added a small, glimmering candle heater to warm the cups. The fire crackled and shot an orange spark onto the worn carpet.
"I know coffee is supposed to be bad for you but I must say it goes better with liqueurs," Marjorie observed. "Would anyone like some? We've got Drambuie, Cointreau, and Grand Marnier. Not homemade."
She felt a relaxed sense of accomplishment now that the meal was over.
Her duties ended with handing out the cups. Outside, a wind was getting up. The curtains were open and she could see the silhouetted pine branches tossing outside the windows. The living room was an oasis of light and peace and stability.
As if reading her thoughts, Jan quoted softly: "Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?"
They all exaggerated, Marjorie thought, especially the press. History was a series of crises, after all, and they'd all survived so far. John worried about it, she knew, but really, things hadn't changed all that much.
CHAPTER SIX
SEPTEMBER 25, 1962
Gordon Bernstein put down his pencil with deliberate slowness. He held it between thumb and forefinger and watched the tip tremble in the air. It was an infallible test; as he brought the pencil lead near the formica table top, the jittering of his hand made a tick-tick-tick rhythm. No matter how strongly he willed the hand to be still the ticking continued. As he listened it seemed to swell and become louder than the
"I'm in London; the Council's European meeting just broke up. I think I've got what you need, or at least part of it."
"Tremendous," John said rap idly. "Bloody good."
"I say 'part' because I'm not sure the Americans will send everything you need. They say there are other uses they have in mind. Uses aside from this tachyon business, I mean."
"Could I get a list of what they have?"
"I'm working on it. Listen, I must ring off. Wanted to let you know."
"Right. Fine. And, and thanks!"
The news changed the tenor of the party. Heather and James knew nothing of John's experiment, so there was much explaining to do before they could understand the import of the telephone call. Renfrew and Markham took turns explaining the basic idea, skipping over the complicated matter of Lorentz transformations and how tachyons could propagate backward in time; they would have needed a blackboard to make the attempt. Marjorie came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. The men's voices were authoritative, booming in the small dining room. Candlelight bathed the faces around the table in a pale yellow glow. The women spoke with rising inflections, questioning.
"It seems strange to think of the people in one's own past as real,"
Marjorie said distantly. Heads turned towards her. "That is, to imagine them as, as still alive and changeable in some sense ..."
The company sat silent for a moment. Several frowned. Marjorie's way of putting the issue had caught them off balance. They had spoken often this evening of things changing in the future. To imagine the past as alive, too, as a moving and flexing thing–
The moment passed, and Marjorie returned to the kitchen. She came back with not one but three desserts. When she set them down, the piece de resistance–a meringue confection With early raspberries and whipped cream–created the wave of ahs she had anticipated. She followed this in short order with pots of strawberry mousse and a large glass bowl of carefully decorated sherry trifle.
"Marjorie, you're too much," James protested. John sat and beamed silently as the guests heaped praises on his wife. Even Jan managed two helpings, though she refused the trifle.
"I think," Greg commented, "that sweets must be the English substitute for sex."
After dessert the party moved near the fireplace as Greg and John cleared away the dessert plates. Marjorie felt a warm relaxation seeping through her as she brought in the tea things. The room had taken on a chill as darkness deepened; she added a small, glimmering candle heater to warm the cups. The fire crackled and shot an orange spark onto the worn carpet.
"I know coffee is supposed to be bad for you but I must say it goes better with liqueurs," Marjorie observed. "Would anyone like some? We've got Drambuie, Cointreau, and Grand Marnier. Not homemade."
She felt a relaxed sense of accomplishment now that the meal was over.
Her duties ended with handing out the cups. Outside, a wind was getting up. The curtains were open and she could see the silhouetted pine branches tossing outside the windows. The living room was an oasis of light and peace and stability.
As if reading her thoughts, Jan quoted softly: "Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?"
They all exaggerated, Marjorie thought, especially the press. History was a series of crises, after all, and they'd all survived so far. John worried about it, she knew, but really, things hadn't changed all that much.
CHAPTER SIX
SEPTEMBER 25, 1962
Gordon Bernstein put down his pencil with deliberate slowness. He held it between thumb and forefinger and watched the tip tremble in the air. It was an infallible test; as he brought the pencil lead near the formica table top, the jittering of his hand made a tick-tick-tick rhythm. No matter how strongly he willed the hand to be still the ticking continued. As he listened it seemed to swell and become louder than the
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