“No, nothing,” Paul answered quickly. “We were just going over curriculum stuff for this fall.”
“I didn’t realize that the curriculum ever changed for physics,” Valerie answered dryly.
“Dumb one, dad,” Grace said in a low voice. “You gotta’ do better than that.”
Paul ignored the sarcasm. “Is the catalogue for Brown that interesting?” he asked.
“Actually, today’s Globe has a follow up story on that campus security officer who disappeared at the college. Yolanda Jackson.”
“His car’s pretty nice,” Paul called out. “You should have come out. He’s put a lot of work into it.”
“Apparently not enough,” Valerie called back.
“He thinks it’s the timing chain,” Paul said, trying to sound authoritative.
“The paper kind of hints that she may have been murdered,” Grace said.
He turned back to his daughter. “Murdered? I thought the District Police said she just took off. Had a lot of debts or something.”
“That’s what they said. But the Cambridge Police think she didn’t do that. She had two kids.”
“Kids?” Paul took a sip of his Tab and moved behind Grace’s shoulder. The newspaper was open to an inside page. “I don’t remember them saying anything about kids. I thought they said she wasn’t married.”
Grace rolled her eyes and clucked. “Dad!”
“Well, they didn’t mention a husband,” Paul said defensively as he stared down at a picture of a black man he estimated to be in his late thirties. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mr. Gardner didn’t seem real impressed,” Valerie called from the far room. “Look how trim he keeps his lawn while ours is now the longest in the neighborhood.”
“Dad prides himself on his length,” Grace called out and giggled.
“Grace!” Paul admonished, trying to sound stern, but he couldn’t help but smile also.
“It’s Luther Colvin,” Grace answered, ignoring his rebuke. “He’s the father of their kids. He has them now. The police suspected him at first but he had an airtight alibi. That’s when the District cops figured she had just taken off and closed their file. But the Globe kept digging into this story.”
“And why don’t the Cambridge police think she just took off?” Paul asked, suddenly intrigued.
“They found her patrol car,” Grace said. “Carol Rumsky of The Globe got the inventory list and Yolanda Jackson was an asthmatic. Her inhaler was found in the car. Rumsky figures there’s no way an asthmatic would have taken off and left that behind.”
“That’s it?” Paul asked. “One inhaler? Maybe she had another.”
Valerie appeared at the door, her face flushed. “You know, you two think it’s funny to make sexual references but I hope you don’t do that in public. And I don’t think it’s appropriate to do that with a teenage daughter.”
“I don’t have a teenage daughter,” Grace said standing up and grabbing the Brown catalogue. “So I guess it’s O.K. for me,” she said as she swept out of the room.
“You have any interest in going to a game this week?” Paul asked. “I can get tickets.”
“Not this week,” Valerie said coolly and opened a cabinet. “I’m kinda’ busy.”
Paul was tempted to ask with what but preferred to avoid an afternoon clash. “You used to like going,” he said lamely.
“Things were different then,” she said closing the cabinet rather loudly. “We didn’t have a child, remember?”
“It’s not like we need a babysitter for Grace,” he protested.
She turned on him. “Look, if you want to go, go with Lewis. I don’t care. You’re always hanging out with him anyway. Besides,” she added as she walked back toward the study, “the team used to be good. They stink now.”
Paul grimaced. When she had gone he leaned over, picked up the paper, and folded it back to the front page. A lot of things stink now that used to be good.
Chapter 13
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Paul said. It was Wednesday, August 5, 2026 and Lewis and Amanda sat around the Roadrunner in Lewis’ garage. Music played loudly.
“We’re going back September first.” He faltered, and momentarily Paul couldn’t continue. The finality of the moment hit him—he was going to step out into unknown space. The conservative, privileged, buttoned-down Paul deVere was about to become the most radical and unlikely of revolutionaries. A real fire-eater.
“We’ll come to the lab separately at 8 p.m. Timing is, of course, crucial. Lewis will enter the formulas to put us back exactly where we want to be, July 23, 1962. That time cannot be compromised. The window is open 38 minutes and 16 seconds at this end and 42 minutes and eleven seconds at the other. That’s almost a one to one ratio which is almost perfect.”
“Huh?” Amanda asked.
“A one to one ratio.” DeVere paused. “You know, one to one. Even.”
“No, I don’t know,” Amanda said. “Humor the ignorant. What are you talking about?”
Lewis stepped in. “Think of the wormhole as a tunnel. There is the mouth of the tunnel at this end, in what we think of as the present, and one at the other end, in the past. The wormhole’s openings have mouths and these mouths have sizes. But a wormhole is not three dimensional.”
“It’s not?” Amanda asked, looking at Paul with alarm. “Then how can we fit through it?”
“It’s actually four dimensional, so we can fit through it. Its dimensions are height, width, length and time,” Paul answered.
Amanda looked doubtful. “O.K. I understand it transports us through time but how is time a dimension of the wormhole?”
“The mouth of the wormhole at both ends is open for a fixed amount of time,” Ginter answered. “The departing wormhole on September 1 is open for 38 minutes. Since the temporal opening on July 23, 1962 is also open for about the same length of time, a little over 42 minutes, the ratio is almost one to one. Symmetrical wormhole openings. This means that if two people go through the wormhole at this end three minutes apart they would arrive in Central Park about three minutes apart. The person who went through three minutes earlier at this end would arrive three minutes earlier at that end.
“But let’s say that we have a 10 minute window at this end and a 20 minute window at the other. Then the ratio is one to two. So if someone left here three minutes after the first person he or she would arrive at the other end six minutes after the first person. The two wormhole openings in time are stretched out to meet each other so someone leaving at the beginning of the wormhole here arrives at the beginning of the wormhole there. Someone leaving at the end of the window here arrives at the end of the window there.”
“I think I see,” Amanda answered slowly. “Does that apply to the return also?”
Ginter shook his head. “The contrapositive wormhole is the universe’s safety valve. All returning objects arrive back here at the same instant.”
“Regardless of when they left,” deVere added.
“O.K.,” Amanda said slowly. “So, go on.”
Paul looked at Amanda, wondering if she had that sense of no return that he was experiencing, if she were as worried as he was. But her eyes seemed to betray only interest, and determination, and, as she looked at him, also admiration. Of him. Of what he was doing, of how he was leading them.
He continued. “Lewis will bring the communicators. Virtual coast-to-coast scrambled range and energy packs that will last years. Of course no satellite hook-ups but they’ll suffice. I’ll have the cash. It’s hidden in my car. Amanda will bring three laptops that we’ll load with scanned newspapers—New York Times and the Washington Post. How is that coming, Amanda?”