Nordhausen planned to head for that very room in just a minute or two. He waited patiently, counting out the seconds, and then stood up with a clear resolve. He hefted the stout walking cane he had brought along, as if to test its strength for the odd use he had in mind. It was a solid piece of lacquered hickory, with a burnished brass cap. It would serve him quite well, he thought, as long as he kept a bit of guts behind it.
He would make his way into the station and take a seat in the Refreshment Room, very close to Lawrence himself. Yes, it was Lawrence he had come to see again. His presence on the train had been well documented, and Nordhausen was sure he would be here. The professor wondered whether he would still have that eerie glow about him now that he had fled from the heroics of his desert to the relative anonymity of the English countryside. Still, he would have his book with him—the manuscript, the very first draft of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Lawrence claimed it was stolen on this train trip, and Nordhausen would soon find out if that was true.
The version of the book the professor relied upon for their first excursion to the desert was actually the third draft Lawrence made of the story. The first he lost, on this very trip to Oxford. The second he destroyed himself, perhaps out of grief for what he failed to accomplish, or some hidden shame that would dog him the rest of his brief life. The third would survive to become the classic that had saved the Western World, but the first two copies of the manuscript were never found. There was no point trying to get at the second draft. The research was too hazy in that direction. But this first draft was right here on the train, in the bank messenger’s bag, and reputedly left under his table when Lawrence stopped here for a brief refreshment. Someone was going to try and make off with it, and that someone was going to feel the sharp crack of Nordhausen’s cane before the hour was through—unless the professor could get to the bag first.
Lawrence would reach Oxford, and realize his bag was gone. He would place a call to the Reading Station in the hopes that someone there would recover it. The professor thought about that for a moment. Should he turn the bag over to the Station Master? He would still be able to read it, as it would undoubtedly be published at some time. The more he considered the matter, however, the more he began to hear the snarl and growl of Paradox on the fringes of his surreptitious plan.
Would Time punish him for this little transgression? No, he thought, this time the threat of Paradox favored his plan. If he turned the manuscript in, then Lawrence would not have to re-write the book as he did later that year. If the story was altered, ever so slightly, then the clues, which led them all to their rendezvous in the desert, might never be there. Everything could come unraveled in that event— everything. Maeve was really quite correct in the end. They would change things without even knowing it, just as they did at Kilometer 172. He couldn’t take the risk, so he decided to take the bag instead. After all, it was lost and never recovered. It was probably taken by some ignorant station worker who did not have the slightest appreciation of what he was stealing, or even who his poor victim was. All he had to do was make certain Lawrence was well away on his train before he recovered it, and if someone got to it first he had his cane.
Still, the feeling of uncertainty redoubled. The manuscript had not been recovered—not yet, but thousands of artifacts and art treasures of his day had been lost for millennia before they were finally found. What if someone was slated to find the manuscript in another hundred years? What if the find was to prove a very significant event in the life of that unborn person? Nordhausen realized that even this seemingly innocuous trip may have unforeseen consequences for future generations.
What might he do this time, and without even knowing it? He could return and find everything changed; everyone gone; lives askew and no one even realizing that the present they embraced was not meant to be; that it was all the heedless doings of a selfish man who refused to listen to the voice of caution. The misgivings spawned by Maeve’s warnings were riding him with each mile and dogging every step he took. What if he botched the mission? What if he bumped into Lawrence again at Reading Station? What if there was a struggle for the manuscript with the original thief? The prospect that he might be involved in a scuffle was not so palatable now, in spite of his sturdy cane. The more he thought, the deeper his misgivings became, but there was only one thing to do now that he was here. Get on with it! Get the damn manuscript and head home, with as little fuss and bother as possible. He would just have to suffer the consequences, whatever they might be.
Nordhausen steadied himself as the train approached the station and people began to jostle up from their seats. He was still a bit bemused by the effects of his time shift. Yes, he knew it was dangerous to open one’s eyes during transit time in the Arch, but he could not resist. The spectacle was so completely encompassing that it was worth the dizzying nausea that resulted. What would one endure, he thought, to but glimpse the face of God? Maeve did not know. She had stayed behind in the lab on the first mission. She never saw it, and Nordhausen knew that she would never understand until she stood there in the auroras and opened her eyes. There was no explaining it. You just had to open your eyes and take it in.
Perhaps he would not hear her chiding voice so sharply if she came along, just one time, and felt the exhilaration of that terrible moment in the stream of infinity. But Nordhausen was alone in this now. Nobody knew he was here—not even the simpleton of a graduate student he had press-ganged into a long night shift in the main lab facility. All the lout had to do was toggle a switch at precisely three AM; just a few hours of idle time in the lab, but eight hours for Nordhausen on his trip to England in the year 1919.
The train whistle blew its shrill warning as it slowed to enter Reading Station. The professor rubbed his hands in anticipation. He would see to the matter once and for all. If history could find no use for the precious draft, he would be quite happy to take it under his loving wing, and fly away.
And that is exactly what he did.
He accomplished his mission, and was greatly relieved to find that nothing seemed amiss when he finally returned to the Lab. The dutiful grad student he had secreted into the facility had done his job. He toggled the switch that set Nordhausen’s retraction scheme running, and the professor was pulled back through the open gateway in Time to reappear in the Arch. In spite of the temptation to look, he made a point of keeping his eyes clenched shut this time through, to minimize the effects of the shift. As soon as his senses were clear he raced up stairs to cover his tracks in the data module. A few deletions here and there would do the job. He sent the grad student on his way with a nice monetary treat so he could enjoy the rest of the holiday weekend.
Three hours after his safe retraction he was back in his study in Berkeley, gleefully paging through Lawrence’s handwritten notes. He would celebrate Independence Day by recounting Lawrence’s efforts to bring exactly that to his Arab friends.
It had all been so easy, he thought. So painless. All of his misgivings had been for naught—aside from the hefty deposit he would have to make to cover the added electricity usage that weekend. No matter. It would be well worth it. He didn’t even have to bother with the original thief! The bag was just sitting there unattended.