Tom laughed a little, holding up both hands as if to ward him off. “Now you know my wife would have my head if I left on that ship. Not only that, I honestly don’t want to go.” He reached over to shake George’s hand. “She’s as safe as we can make her, George. The workers are confident, but even more, I think the world is confident about that. No other ship has been watched as closely as this one has been during her construction, yet she’s going off with nearly every berth full.”
“They must think we did something right,” George agreed, “thanks to all the rule changes since the inquiry. Listen, I appreciate you looking in on Susan while I’m gone. I know you and Casey can understand her nervousness.”
“Indeed we do. We’ll have her and the children over as often as they want to come. We’ll keep her occupied.”
The “all ashore!” whistle blew and Tom gathered his papers. “Good voyage, George.”
“Thanks, mate. See you soon.”
Tom walked down the gangway, meeting Ham at the bottom and handing off the reports. Saxon joined them, as they watched the Britannic make her slow way to the river and on to Southampton, before the three of them went back to their duties. Tom sent off a telegram to Lord Pirrie, informing him the ship was off without a hitch.
Back in his office, he pulled out his time travel journal and entered the information, staring thoughtfully at the page as he finished. After a few minutes, he continued writing.
So many changes. Fourteen hundred people that died in another timeline, still walk the earth, still building their dreams, because Sam and Casey chose to act. We now have shipping rules in place that reflect both the reality of the ships we build, and the dangers that nature can throw at us. World War I, as Sam and Casey call it, has been vicious, but is already contained. Sam insists the differences there are enormous. Was it because of someone on Titanic who lived instead of died?
Sam’s ‘inventions’ have begun to appear everywhere, even among the poor. His work to harness the sun’s energy is remarkable. I’m going to talk to Uncle Will about using his solar sails in the next ships we build. Sam thinks we’re ready to try that. He says if this is the primary energy source for the world, the changes from his future will be astronomical. He’s convinced it’s a good thing, and I believe him.
We are making real progress in keeping the various factions of Ireland talking to each other. Despite the effort it takes, Sam and I both want to concentrate on bringing our Ireland in this timeline to a peaceful existence, without all the bloodshed that occurred before. There are no guarantees, but ever since that letter, people have been insisting we live together in peace, and they’re voting like they mean it. I suspect we won’t be part of the UK much longer, but once again, Sam has helped with that. Ireland is the world’s technological leader, and we can deal with England from a position of strength, so breaking off will not beggar us. We can make it worthwhile for England, too.
From my point of view, these things are amazing, but I don’t see the future as changed. I am just living, with life going along as it always has, except for outside knowledge from a couple of future time travelers.
Tom smiled slightly, at the joy he always felt when thinking of one particular time traveler. His pen continued to move.
I am willing to just let life be. It’s good this way.
Epilogue
August 1972, Belfast
Avoiding the busy pedestrian traffic, 26-year-old Sam Altair parked in front of the house known as Dunallon, and waited a moment to gather his nerve, reflecting back over the strange invitation he’d received. He knew who Casey Andrews was, of course. Everyone in Ireland did. The widow of Thomas Andrews, the man who brought Harland & Wolff through the twentieth century with increasingly modern sailing ships, airplanes, and eventually space shuttles. He made Ireland a force in modern industry and gave her a real presence in space. The Andrews had been tireless advocates for a peaceful Ireland, and instrumental in bringing the warring factions together, even if they couldn’t always keep them together. They were heroes a hundred times over. But he could not imagine what her interest was in him.
Only one way to find out. He locked the car and approached the house, looking around him at the famous garden. A the door, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman who shook his hand, informing him she was Mrs. Andrews’ secretary. She guided him through the parlor and into a library at the back of the house, pausing in the doorway. “Dr. Altair is here, Ma’am.”
An old woman balanced on a cane in the center of the room. She turned from her contemplation of a box of books. When she saw him, her face crinkled into what could only be described as a huge grin. She limped toward him, taking his hand and studying his face intently. Sam took the time to study her in return.
He’d seen pictures of her as he was growing up and had even seen her on a television talk show once, but he wasn’t prepared for how small she was. Her hair was white, the eyes a vivid green. She was pale and wrinkled, dressed impeccably, and stood straight, supporting herself with the cane. He knew she was nearly ninety, and he was impressed with her bearing. He gripped her hand with care, afraid of hurting her, and bowed briefly. “Mrs. Andrews. How do you do?”
The smile widened. She shook her head as if amazed. “Incredible,” she murmured, then gestured to the divan. “Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”
He acquiesced, as the tea service was already in place. She poured, her hand shaking a bit. As he took his cup, she sat back in her chair and looked at him. “This will all be very strange to you, Sam,” she said, then blinked. “Excuse me, may I call you Sam? I know it seems forward, but it will make sense, shortly.”
He smiled at the old world formality and nodded, not without some confusion. “I have no objections, ma’am. I’m honored to meet you, but I don’t understand what I can do for you.”
Her eyes were bright, as if tears had formed in them. “I read your Ph.D. thesis.”
He nearly choked on the tea. “My thesis? It’s not even published, yet.”
Her smile was enigmatic. “I have connections. I understand your hypothesis predicts time travel.”
He put the cup down. “Mrs. Andrews, my work is extremely esoteric, even among physicists. What is your interest in it?”
Still that smile. “I’m going to do the same thing to you, that I did to my husband over sixty years ago. I’m going to tell you the bottom line, then we’ll go back to fill in the details. I practically had to tackle Tom to keep him in the room after I told him. I’ll beg a little more forbearance from you. I’m afraid my tackling days are over.”
He couldn’t help returning her smile, deciding she was senile and harmless. He spread his hands in submission. “Consider me glued to the chair, ma’am.”
She laughed. “I’ll remind you of your promise. You see, Sam, in the year 2006, you create an experiment in time travel, with unforeseen results. You end up moving yourself backwards through time to the year 1906. Along with a not very appreciative twenty-year-old American girl who had been attending school at Queens.”
He thought of his hypothesis and stared at her. “I know what my hypothesis predicts, but even I don’t think that’s possible, Mrs. Andrews.”
Her lips tightened and she gestured toward the boxes on the floor. “These journals are yours, Sam.” She seemed to sense his alarm and smiled briefly. “I don’t mean they were all written by you. Some of them were. Some were written by my husband, some by me. But they will be given to you, Sam. For your work.”