That had been the ultimate horror: doing terrible things and belonging nowhere or when.
After the last time, Ophon had given him a choice. He could stay in the timewave and continue to help with their work, or they could wipe him and place him somewhere in time, away from the wave.
He was sick of it all.
He had taken the wipe.
It became clearer as the wipe faded, restoring what there was left of his normal memory, which appeared to be full of holes. Richard Dreyfuss. His task had been nothing more than to replace someone. He had been wiped and trained for that, as well. But had he been someone named X replacing someone called Richard Dreyfuss, or was he Richard Dreyfuss who had replaced an X?
Close Encounters had been the key. There were changes that had to be made to bend events in a particular direction. Somewhen, dozens of centuries in the future, there were beings from elsewhere who needed to be shown how humans regarded them, leaving aside for the moment the thousands of bug-eyed monsters from outer space flicks that had been absorbed by humanity over the decades.
There had been only one killing on that mission, an obstinate writer named Lacey. It had been enough, though. Sick of it all, at last, Richard had chosen to go back into the stream.
Locating in stream, however, had to be at a different time. Richard Dreyfuss, or Mr. X, whoever it had been, was back in his own place, the time warden had explained.
He remembered the words, but not the time warden’s face.
And there was more.
Isa Childs.
There were time local liaisons who looked after this special kind of immigrant, and that’s what Isa Child’s did in the year 2080 for what Richard used to call the time surfers.
There was the familiar plastic smell of his therapist’s air couch. Roger opened his eyes and saw the indirectly lit ceiling of Isa Childs’s office.
That was it, then. At last he had achieved emotional balance. He was happy that he had been proven right about being who he thought he was, and he was quite prepared to strangle Isa Childs.
“He’s awake,” said Childs.
“God damned right, I’m awake, you bastard!” He tried to get up but found he was restrained around the chest, arms, wrists, and ankles. “What in the hell is this?”
Childs’s face appeared above his. The therapist rolled Richard or Roger’s left sleeve and pressed an inject-pac against his upper arm. It hissed and the arm began to sting. “It’s just a precaution until you completely recover from the shockspan, Roger.”
“Richard,” he insisted as another piece dropped into place. The shockspan. It was a gadget from the far future, even beyond Ophon’s time. They were made by animated gobs of pus from another galaxy called the Gnarleys or something. “Still,” he said out loud, “I really am Richard Dreyfuss. I know it now.”
Childs faced someone else and said, “I’m afraid he’s still rather confused.”
“Those old D-70 wipes had some terrible side effects,” remarked an old familiar voice. “The ones we use now are much better. Very short lag time, complete restoration of previous identity—“
“Do you mind?” said Roger/Richard as he twisted his head around to see Dalik Ophon, the time warden, standing next to Isa Childs. A few more blocks dropped into place as he slumped back on the couch and pieced it together.
Confirmation.
He was from another time, several other times, actually, and after the Dreyfuss mission, he wanted off the timewave. He wanted time stream, a local moment, and a lifetime he could call his own. But the memory wipe and implant had been not so good, and thus the insanity of the past two years had a perfectly sane explanation.
Dalik stood over him and looked down. His face was smooth beneath a shock of jet black hair. Roger/Richard somehow remembered that Dalik Ophon was approaching two hundred years of age. Of course Ophon was from the early third millennium. Amazing, thought Roger, how quickly one can get used to reality suddenly being turned inside out.
“Roger,” the time warden began, “we don’t really have the time for you to work out your personal problems on the job—”
“Personal problems!” he exploded. “You’re the one who had these holes burned into my brain, Dalik. Besides, I’m not on the job. I’m out, quit, finished.”
The time warden slowly shook his head. “All you had was some time off, Roger. As I told you before you were wiped, if we needed you again, I’d have to come and get you.”
Roger/Richard frowned and thought back. It was all so murky. “I don’t remember agreeing to anything like that.” He rubbed his eyes and said to himself, “I don’t remember getting paid for Close Encounters . That was a lot of money, too.” Roger/Richard raised an eyebrow at the time warden. “What I do remember, turkey, is threatening to initiate an event ripple that would turn reality into a horror show unless I was retired. That’s what I remember.”
Dalik Ophon held out a hand and said, “It’s all quite irrelevant. We need you, and there isn’t any other choice. You’ll understand once it’s explained to you.”
“I don’t get it, Dalik. I was never very good at it. I get too involved emotionally. Why do you need me?”
The time warden raised his eyebrows and nodded. “True, you’re no expert killer, Roger. However, you are incredibly lucky. Remember that time when the mission called for taking out the Secret Service officer who interfered with the assassination of President Quayle? Remember how you—“
“I still want to know about Richard Dreyfuss,” demanded Roger. “What about the real Richard Dreyfuss you keep talking about? You grabbed him once before, didn’t you? Why not snatch him this time?”
“Perhaps we just did.” Dalik stood there, his eyebrows raised, until he shrugged. “Actually, there is no more Richard Dreyfuss,” answered Dalik. “He was never born.” He nodded toward Childs. “Remove the restraints. He should be sitting up for this.”
As the therapist bent to the task of opening the restraints, Roger/Richard muttered, “You geeky son of a bitch. I ought to wring your neck like a god damned chicken. I’ve been in a lot of pain and coming to you for over two years! That cost one hell of a lot of money, too!”
Child’s smiled as he finished opening the cuffs on Roger/Richard’s ankles. “And we’ve achieved quite a breakthrough, haven’t we?”
With a great deal of restraint, Roger/Richard refrained from kicking Isa Childs in the crotch.
It was something that had always been feared. Someone with timewave access and a self-appointed mission to change things would again attempt to go back to reverse or alter some core incident thereby sending an event ripple forward that would make the world a better place. Projections being the imprecise things that they were, however, the ripple might take a turn and eliminate the future altogether.
Ever since the rogue time warden, Damil Rin, took it upon himself to reverse the U.S. presidential election of 1992, the time wardens, and the world, had been suffering the consequences. Thus the absolute ban on event altering, save somehow to ameliorate the effects of the so-called “Bubba Bomb.”
This time it hadn’t been a time warden who had slipped. Instead, it was local time liaison for 1994, Peter Ryan. He was an unsuccessful television actor, part time autograph hound, and full time historian. He had gained access to the wave, had gone back to 1885 Washington, DC, and fulfilled a lifelong fantasy by preventing the assassination of U.S. President Abraham Lincoln. Of course, in so doing he killed a very popular actor known to be sympathetic to the south.