Open Writing

They’ve let me have this writing pad and a stub of a pencil. I told them I wanted to write some letters; maybe they’re hoping I’ll put down a convenient confession. Actually, they weren’t too bad about it, considering the way they must feel about me. I guess now that they’ve got me safely locked up, they can afford to be magnanimous.

Well, whatever their motivation, I’m grateful. It’ll give me the opportunity to get the story down before…well, before whatever is going to happen, happens.

It’s now sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning, the twenty-fourth. I don’t know the exact time, and that could be crucial; they took my watch, along with anything else I might use to do myself harm. Obviously, they want to reserve that privilege for themselves. Or, more accurately, someone else.

Whatever, I’m glad of the opportunity to get things down in something like coherent order. If anyone here were to read it, they’d think I was crazy as well as everything else, but that’s the least of my worries. There’s a chance it’ll be taken back when the field reverses, even if I don’t make it. Something to do with its having been written by me. I never pretended to completely understand the physics, but apparently, if it comes from me, at my instigation…Well, anyway, here goes.

My name is Alex Hydell, and I am/was/will be an agent, trouble-shooter if you like, for the Defence Department. We’re kind of watchdogs for the government, keeping an eye on the various research facilities around the country. We’re particularly interested in any new scientific developments or breakthroughs that may occur, especially if they have military or intelligence applications. It’s not as sinister as it sounds; we’re not faceless Men In Black making innovative inventors disappear, nor do we spy on honest citizens going about their daily work. Just think of me as a guy who works for the People In Charge, making sure your tax dollar is being spent responsibly, and you’ll be pretty close. An accountant with attitude, maybe. One who carries a gun.

Anyway, when we got the whisper from our source at JPL we were, to say the least, a little sceptical. Personally speaking, I thought it was a gag, and fully expected to walk in there to cries of “April Fool”, or something similar.

When I arrived at the Jet Propulsion Laboratories in Pasadena on October 12, 2021, I was met by a Doctor Hugo James. He intercepted me at the front desk, a dapper little man with coke-bottle glasses and an ill-fitting hairpiece, (anachronisms in these days of follicle re-growth and laser surgery), which he kept surreptitiously nudging back into place. By the way, just to let you know I’m not a complete philistine on the subject of scientific advances, even I had heard of him and his work in Quantum Physics. Anyway, he showed me to his office, and when we were seated, he began to give me a summary of the work he had been engaged in for the past three years. What he had to tell me, I listened to mainly because of his reputation. All the same, my scepticism was hard to suppress; his opening statement, for example, was a doozy.

“Quite simply, Mr. Hydell,” he said, in that characteristic, fussy manner with which I was soon to become familiar, “we here at JPL, my little team, that is, have conquered time.”

Now that’s not something you hear every day, so I thought about it for a few moments. I watched the other man as he sat on the opposite side of the desk; fidgeting, constantly moving and looking like a bespectacled budgerigar. Then I asked the obvious question.
“And what does Professor Einstein have to say about that?”

As I’ve indicated, I’m not totally ignorant on the subject, and like everyone else, I know you can’t travel through time. That has been basic scientific law since the beginning of the last century, when the great man first published his thoughts on the subject. I went on, only slightly disconcerted by the amused cat-that-got-the-cream expression on my host’s face.

“I’m not a physicist, Doctor, nor am I any kind of scientist at all, but even I know that the laws of the physical universe don’t change overnight. Are you seriously telling me you’ve found a way to travel in time?”

He nodded his head in an odd, bobbing manner that further reinforced the caged-bird analogy, and replied, “Yes, yes, indeed we have, but”- he raised a hand against my half-formed objection- “it is not time travel as is conventionally thought of.” He paused, obviously enjoying himself. “You see, we don’t physically go anywhere. Or anywhen.”

At that point, totally lost, I decided that I’d had enough of his cryptic smugness, and I said so, although not in quite so many words. He immediately became apologetic.

“I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you, Mr. Hydell,” he said, and he genuinely appeared to be. “I suppose you will just have to put it down to the magnitude of our discovery. I expect most people would react the way you have, but I assure you, you will see.”

I looked at him speculatively. “You mean I’m going to get a demonstration?”

He grinned at me impishly, and waggled a finger. “Aha, not so fast, Mr. Hydell. First you have to understand what it is we have done here.”

Well, I like a good story as much as anyone, so I settled back in my chair and motioned him to proceed. He leaned forward, folded his fingers under his several chins, and began.

*

Fifteen minutes later, he paused for breath, and I sat motionless, held in thrall despite my scepticism by his narrative. Then I said, “So, what you’re saying is, if I understand it correctly, we can go, but we go as ghosts.”

James peered at me through his thick lenses, and cleared his throat, but I jumped in before he could speak.

“And on top of that, you have little or no control over where or when the traveller ends up, if you can find anyone dumb enough to play test pilot in the first place.”

That stung him, and he rose from his chair and went to the window, overlooking the carpark. “Now hold on, that’s not fair,” he said, looking back over his shoulder, taking a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blowing his nose before continuing. “We have almost a ninety-five percent probability of achieving the physical location. Unfortunately,” he went on, his eyes downcast, “we are not quite so accurate regarding the temporal position. Time, it seems, unlike the other dimensions, is not as precise as our previous attempts to measure it, down to the last nanosecond, have led us to believe. In that respect, you are correct. It requires more work. A lot more work.” He returned to his chair and sat down.

“So,” I continued, injecting just a small amount of sarcasm into my voice, “what you’re really saying is that your hypothetical time traveller has a five percent chance of ending up in the wrong place, and a much greater chance of it being the wrong time.” He made no move to interrupt, and I bored relentlessly on. “And no matter where he goes, he isn’t really there. In other words, he doesn’t exist.”

He shook his head, and leaned towards me. “No, no, that’s where you haven’t understood.” He gazed out the window for a moment, then returned his attention to me. “The traveller doesn’t remain a, er, ghost, as you put it, for more than a few moments.”

Now I have to admit, that puzzled me even more, so I sat back and let him continue.

“You see,” he said, warming to his subject, “it’s partly a matter of physics, but only partly. The rest of it is…something else.” His eyes went away for a moment, then returned. “As you correctly postulated, Einsteinian theory holds that time travel is impossible, and as far as conventional physics is concerned, that is still true. Immutable, in fact. You cannot send a physical object back in time. Not now, and not ever.”

I was to remember that dogmatic statement later, but at that moment, I also held it to be true. Meanwhile, James went on.

“However, what we have discovered about quantum physics is that it is more concerned with a person’s essence, their soul, I suppose you’d call it, and it is this that we send through the temporal gate.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his tie. “Tell me,” he asked, in an offhand manner, “what do you know about astral travelling?”

I have to admit, his sudden switches in theme were disconcerting, to say the least. One moment he was talking scientifically, the next he had slipped into la-la land. With an effort, I switched mental gears, and replied. “Not a lot. I’ve never been all that interested in fantasy” – I laced the word with a fair dollop of scorn – “ but I gather it has something to do with the soul leaving the body and flitting about the countryside or some such mumbo-jumbo.”

He replaced his glasses and nodded enthusiastically, his head bobbing up and down. “Yes, yes, that’s right, more or less. But normally,” he went on, “when a soul is journeying astrally, it does so in our world, in our time. Only the location changes.” He sat back, that satisfied look once again all over his face. “What we have done,” he said, “is take that several steps further. In short, we induce astral travelling, then send the soul, or, if you prefer, the essence of the traveller, through time.” He steepled his fingers again, obviously enjoying my gaping incredulity.

I shut my mouth, and stared at him. “Without any real idea of where or when it’s going to fetch up?” This was the real object of my open-mouthed wonder, that a scientist would conduct so uncertain an experiment.

James merely shrugged fatalistically. “We’re working on that, as I said, but what we really need is more volunteers to go through the gate.”

This time, my gawking reached Sesame-like proportions. “Are you telling me you’ve actually found someone crazy enough to do this?” I got to my feet. “Who was it? Where is he? Did he get back?” I shook my head as I realized what I was saying. “Listen to me. I sound like I actually believe this crap.”

Smiling, James stood up. “Relax,” he said. “The subject is fine. No harm was done, either physically or spiritually.”

“The first you can probably ascertain, but how would you know about the second?” I thought for a moment. “I want to meet him. Now.”

James looked at me for a moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, heading towards the door. “Follow me.”

He led the way out of his office and down a long corridor to a bank of elevators. He took a card from his pocket and ran it through a swipe on the wall, and we waited only a few seconds before the doors slid open and we stepped inside. The elevator descended a lot more floors than there were in the building, which led me to assume, rightly, that we were well below ground level when we stepped out.

I followed him down another corridor that ended in a pair of large, solid-looking doors. James used his card again, and the doors slid open. We stepped into a large room, and the doors slid shut behind us. There were a number of people in the room, and they turned to greet James as we approached them, while glancing curiously at me. James introduced me to two of them; one, a tall, thin man by the name of Michealson, nodded and went back to his work. The other, a woman, smiled and held out her hand.

As I took it, I also took in her beauty; short, black hair, green eyes, trim and athletic-looking despite the white lab coat, and very attractive. She released my hand, and said, to my host, “Well, Hugo, and who is this? Military or bureaucracy?” She appraised me coolly. “Doesn’t look like the pen-pushing type, so I’d guess the former.”

I smiled back, answering for James. “Well, as a matter of fact, I’m very interested in meeting your time-traveller.”

The as-yet-unidentified woman looked uncertainly at James, and the professor smiled reassuringly.

“It’s all right, Juliet,” he said. “Mr. Hydell has a higher clearance than either of us. We’ve been asked to co-operate with him in every way.”

At this, she relaxed slightly, and said, “OK, what would you like to know?”

It took a moment to sink in, then I said, “You mean that you…?”

She gave me a look that was half scorn, half amusement, then turned to James.

“You know, Hugo, it never fails. The idea that a woman could do something daring or imaginative is just too much for some men to entertain.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she went on. “Yes, Mr. Hydell, I was the first person to test the temporal field, to go through the time gate, as we call it. I am your time traveller.”

She stood there, hands on hips, daring me to mock her. I smiled politely. “If we are going to argue, might I at least know your name?”

James broke in at this point, all bustling apologies. “Oh, dear, how very remiss of me. Alex Hydell, meet Doctor Juliet Gale, one of our leading physicists.”

I held out my hand, and she took it again, although somewhat more reluctantly this time. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” I said.

We exchanged looks for a moment, then James broke in again. “Mr. Hydell would like to know more about your trip, Juliet. I must warn you, though, he’s a bit of an unbeliever.”

She looked at me for a moment longer. “Imagine my surprise.” Then she shrugged, and said, “All right. My office.”

She led the way out of the lab and down a short corridor to a spacious office containing a large desk and several chairs. When we were all seated, she began.

“Can I assume that Hugo has told you something about the project?” she asked. I nodded, and repeated what he had said about astral travelling.

She smiled at this. “Astral travelling. Yes, it’s a good analogy. When I went through the gate, though, it was like nothing I had ever experienced before. A moment of extreme coldness, a kind of otherworldly chill, the sense of being on the brink of some immeasurable void, and then I was simply…somewhere else. Not here.”

She took a deep breath, and continued. “From my surroundings and the peoples’ clothing, I appeared to be sometime in Elizabethan London, which was the destination we had aimed for. I was on a street, unpaved, with a shallow open sewer running down its centre. I was in possession of all my faculties, with the exception of speech. When I tried to say something to a man who was approaching, he ignored me, and made to walk on by as if I was not there. I looked down at myself, but could see nothing. It was then that I realized that I was there in essence only, not physically.

“As the man drew level with me, I began to feel this odd attraction. Not empathic; it was more magnetic than anything else, as if I were being drawn to him. There was nothing special about him that I could see, just an ordinary citizen, although somewhat more well-to-do than most that I saw. Nevertheless, I was being pulled to him.

“There was a second or so of blankness, then a moment of inner conflict, as if he was resisting this invasion, then suddenly I was looking out at the world through his eyes. I reeled from the shock of finding myself in a body other than my own, but no-one noticed anything; I suppose to them I merely appeared drunk, not an uncommon sight in that time and place. Then I examined the body I inhabited.

“He was a small man, about my own height, not more than five feet five or so. I knew this by the fact that objects, my surroundings and such, seemed to be at about the same height to me as they would normally have been. Looking at the other men in the street, he appeared to be of average height. He was dressed in knee-length stockings and pantaloons, with a doublet and ruffled collar; in short, your typical Elizabethan gentleman.” She paused again, and smiled wryly. “I have to say, it was quite an odd experience being in the body of a man. I learned a few things about male physiology of which I was previously unaware.”

James and I exchanged slightly uncomfortable glances, and Juliet continued. “It could have been a lot worse; he might have been a peasant. The aristocracy might have smelled a bit, Mr. Hydell, but I can assure you they didn't call the peasantry the Great Unwashed for nothing.

“I wandered around the city for a while, I’m not sure how long, and from the snatches of conversation I overheard, I determined I was in fact in London. However, I have been on vacation there four times, and it was not a London I recognized. I was afraid to try to speak to anyone, but I managed to find the Globe Theatre, London at that time having been a much smaller place than it is now. A performance was about to start and, since I have always been a lover of Elizabethan drama, I went in. Fortunately, my host was carrying a large purse, so I was able to pay my way.”

She paused again, and looked at each of us in turn. “I saw, gentlemen, what must have been one of the first performances of Hamlet that day, and when it was over, the play’s author came on to the stage to accept the applause of the crowd. William Shakespeare himself stood there, no more than twenty feet away from me, while the audience threw coins that clattered on the stage at his feet. I even threw a couple myself. The whole experience was…overwhelming.

“He was small, like most of the people, and quite ordinary. I remember he didn’t smile, just stood there looking a bit stern, almost embarrassed, as if he were receiving a dressing-down rather than an accolade. Then he bowed, turned and left the stage, leaving his minions to collect the coins.

“I left the theatre with the crowd, and was walking back the way I had come, thinking I ought to find something to eat, when I felt that tug again. Then, everything went grey, and I woke up here in the lab. And that was it.”

I stared at her, unable to take in what I had just heard. Maybe I’ve taken a wrong turn, I thought. Maybe this isn’t the JPL at all. Maybe it’s the local booby hatch, and any minute now the men in the white coats with the butterfly nets will come through the doors and strap us all, me included, into restraints and sedate us with needles.

My thoughts must have registered on my face, because Juliet said, with a slight smile, “No, Mr. Hydell, I’m not crazy. Unless it was the most vivid dream anyone ever had, it really happened.”

James spoke up for the first time since Juliet began her narrative. “I’m convinced it’s quite real, Mr. Hydell. As soon as we activated the temporal field, Juliet went into a coma. We were all very worried, as I’m sure you can imagine. Nothing we did could bring her out of it, and that was why we took the decision to turn off the field after only five minutes and forty-two seconds. When we did so, she awoke immediately.”

I stared at him, calculating. “But Doctor Gale said she saw a play, and walked around the city. How…?”

Juliet replied. “The ratio seems to be about one to sixty. In other words, for every minute that passes here, you spend about an hour ‘over there’. More or less. As I said, I’m not sure just how long I walked around before the play.” She looked at me speculatively. “Do you know much physics, Mr. Hydell?”

I shrugged. “A little. Schoolboy stuff, mostly. A layman’s general knowledge.”

She smiled to remove any insult from her next words. “Then I won’t bother you with the science; actually, we ourselves are not absolutely certain how it works. But in theory, as you travel down the time line, you encounter several anomalies; fluctuations in the earth’s rotation, and in its journey round the sun, for example. Then there’s the matter of leap years, because a day is fractionally more than twenty-four hours. But the ratio seems to hold more or less true, as I suspect it would for any time-period. Even for a short trip, just a few decades, it would probably still be the same. At least,” she finished dryly, “that’s the theory. The math is too complex to go into, but we’re pretty sure.”

I would remember this later, too, but just then, I chewed it over for a moment, then said, “So, if you set the field for, say, an hour, the traveller’d spend about two and a half days in the past?”

James nodded. “That’s about right, give or take a little.” He exchanged a glance with Juliet, then went on. “Unfortunately, as Juliet said, we don’t know exactly how much that little is. I’m afraid it’s all very hit and miss at the moment, but we’re working on it all the time. We can only improve.”

There was little else to say, so after engaging in some small talk, I left them and went back to my office. To be perfectly honest, I still thought they were at least partially cracked, but we managed to part amicably.

*

The next time I heard anything about the work of Doctor James and the lovely Doctor Gale and their project was about six months later. My boss informed me there had been some further developments in Project Nostrodamus, as it was now known, and I was sent to the JPL. Once again, James greeted me at the front desk.

“Good morning, Doctor,” I said, shaking his hand. “I understand you have something more to tell me about your project.”

He bobbed his head, and answered in the same way that I remembered. “Yes, yes, we have. It’s very exciting. Please follow me, Mr. Hydell. The others are waiting in the lab.”

We walked down the same corridors, through the double doors, and into the laboratory. There, we were met by Juliet Gale, looking as beautiful as I remembered.

“Well, Mr. Hydell,” she said, “how nice to see you again.”

I replied that it was mutual, and she went on. “There have been a few developments since you were last here.” She turned to James, who was hovering in a way that would make a hummingbird look positively lethargic. “Do you want to explain, Hugo, or shall I?”

James smiled and bobbed. “No, no, my dear, you go ahead.” Juliet led us to her office, where she again took up the narrative.

“As I indicated, we have made some significant advances since your last visit, Mr. Hydell, the most important of which concerns the passing of material objects through the temporal gate. Now,” she said, forestalling my interruption, “I know we agreed that was impossible and, for the most part, it still is. However, there seem to be some... exceptions, I suppose you’d say. We still don’t understand why that is so, but it seems that from time to time, the occasional personal object can go through the gate. Also, sometimes an object personally created in the past by the traveller can come back with him.”

I sat there, completely nonplussed. By now, I had heard a lot more about the project and its personnel, and had accepted that it was a real and bona fide thing, but this revelation re-awakened my original scepticism. I asked, “By ‘created’, exactly what do you mean?”

Doctor James answered. “It has to be something that originated from the traveller’s own mind, or by their own hand, as it were. The most obvious example is writing, something written down. For some reason we don’t understand, writing, and whatever it is written on, can sometimes return with you. However, nothing from the past can come back.”

I thought about this, then said, “So, we can’t go back to first-century Israel and get the original Dead Sea Scrolls, or the gospel according to Jesus, or anything like that?”

James shook his head. “No, that’s correct,” he replied. “However, it seems that certain personal possessions can make the transition, but what they are appears to be completely random. For example, when I went…”

“You went?” I asked, surprised. Somehow, he didn’t strike me as the pioneering type.

He drew himself up in a way that immediately made me feel contrite. “Yes, Mr. Hydell, I went. To revolutionary Pennsylvania; 1777, to be precise. I wanted very much to see the signing of the Declaration of Independence, so we tried for ’76, but missed by a little, although not as much as we would have six months ago. I, like Juliet, was only there for a few hours. I occupied the body of a coachman, a most interesting experience. Fortunately, my horse was very knowledgeable, and I wasn’t required to do much more than hold the reins and tip my hat to the fine people I conveyed.” He smiled at Juliet. “I carried four passengers that night. Made six shillings for my host, including tips.” He seemed so childishly proud, I had to smile also.

“Anyway,” he went on, “at one point I was rummaging through my, er, his pockets, and I found this.” He produced the card with which I had seen him open the doors to the lab. “Very curious,” he said. “Very odd, indeed. Also, in an inside jacket pocket I found a shopping list I had made out only that morning. It really is a significant breakthrough.”

I said, to both of them, “So you don’t have any control over what comes and goes through the gate?”

They looked at each other, then Juliet said, “I’m afraid not. It appears to be, as Hugo said, totally random. Fortunately, the card did come back. It might have been difficult to explain had it remained there. Then again, perhaps that’s why it came back.”

I considered this, then asked, “Has anyone else tried to bring anything else back from…the other side? Maybe write something down, or…?”

Juliet nodded. “Yes, Mr. Hydell, that has been tried. Five times, in fact. It has been successful on three occasions.”

James said, “It does appear to be completely aimless. Even the frequency with which it happens cannot be predicted. There just doesn’t seem to be a pattern.”

I pondered that for a moment, then dropped my bombshell. “Well, if I’m to go, you’d better warm up the machine, or whatever it is you do.”

There was a stunned silence, then Juliet burst out, “You? You mean you’re going through the gate?”

“That’s right.”

“But how...why..?” said James? “On whose authority?”

I took a disk from my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “I believe this covers all the necessary protocol,” I said. “You’ll find it’s all in order.” He placed it in the scanner on the desk, and I added, dryly, “I also think you’ll recognize the signature at the bottom.”

He nodded, and handed the disc to Juliet, who put it into her pocket reader. Then she looked at me for a moment, a softer look in her eyes than I had seen up until then, and James said, “You certainly carry some big guns, Mr. Hydell. Well, we’d better get things moving, I suppose. Juliet, will you assist me with the field inducer? Mr. Hydell, this way, if you please.”

He walked to a small door set into one side of the lab, and used his much-travelled card to open it. We followed, and he gestured towards a table in the middle of the room, not unlike a surgical operating table, but more comfortable-looking, surrounded by complex machinery. The comparison made me feel more than a little ill at ease.

“Well, there it is, Mr. Hydell,” he said. “Climb aboard.” Without another word, he moved to a bank of computers on one side of the lab, and busied himself at them.

I turned to Juliet. “Just like that?”

She nodded, smiling and obviously enjoying my discomfort. “Just like that,” she said. “No bugles, no drums, no big send-off. But tell me one thing; why you?”

“Nothing sinister, just making it official. After I get back and turn in my report, the government will take it from there. What they do with it…”

I must say, she took it well. James, however, was not so impassive. He turned from the computers, his face showing more animation than I had seen before.

“What? They can’t do that!” He groped for words. “We’re not ready, we….”

“You said you had made several trips to the past,” I said reasonably. “That sounds like ready to me.” I turned to Juliet. “Are you ready, Doctor?”

She hesitated a moment, then addressed the keyboard before her. “Anywhere you’d like to go, Mr. Hydell? Or anywhen? We have the temporal accuracy up to about 95% now.”

“It doesn’t really matter where or when I go, but my bosses have insisted on a longish trip, say a couple of days or so.” I paused for a moment, and Hugo said, “If your superiors are looking at this as a way to meddle with the past, they’ll be in for a disappointment, you know.” I looked at him, and he went on.
“As far as we have been able to ascertain, the past is immutable, unalterable. Set in stone, you might say. Nothing you do back there will change anything that has already happened.”

“Theory, Doctor? Or have you tried it, perhaps on one of your trips?”
James blanched. “Good Lord, no,” he said. “The risk to the continuum is too great. But the theory is sound.”

I looked at Julia, but she gave no sign of wanting to add anything, so we busied ourselves with the preparations. I said, “I’ve always been a fan of old-time rock’n’roll, although I was born way after it all started. How about the late nineteen fifties, early sixties, something like that?”

He typed briefly on his keyboard, and Juliet said, “And the location?”

“Oh, the USA for sure. Maybe somewhere in the south, where all that music originated. You know, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Elvis...”

For a terrible moment, I thought from her perplexed expression that Juliet was going to say ‘Elvis who?’, but it was Hugo who spoke. “If it’s of any help, Buddy Holly was from Texas.”

Both Juliet and I turned in surprise. “Why, Hugo,” she said, “I would never have taken you for an old roller.”

He smiled good-naturedly. “A little less of the ‘old’, if you don’t mind, my dear. And that’s ‘rocker’. You’d be surprised at my collection of discs.”

This exchange served to lighten the mood brought on by my somewhat tactless handling of the future, or otherwise, of their project, for which I was grateful. Juliet typed in the information on her keyboard, then said, “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Hydell – “

“Look,” I interrupted, “call me Alex, will you?” I glanced over at James. “You too, Doctor. I keep thinking my father’s walked into the room.”

They smiled, and Juliet said, “Well, as I was saying, Alex, I’ll program the mission for one hour on this side. That will give you about two and a half days ‘over there’, as we said.”

I nodded. “Fine by me.”

“Well, approximately,” Hugo interrupted. “One thing we’ve discovered is, the longer the stay, the less precise that ratio becomes. Before now, no one has gone for such a long trip, no more than ten of our minutes at the most, so this will be a kind of test case.”
James left his place and came to stand next to Juliet. “All right, Alex, up on the table, if you please.”

I removed my jacket and, after a disapproving glance from Juliet, my shoulder holster containing my 10mm Sig. as well. Then I climbed gingerly on to the table, beginning to wonder what I had let myself in for. Juliet noticed my hesitation, and relented, smiling wickedly. “Don’t worry, Alex, it’ll be fun. You never know, you might even get to be Buddy what’s-his-name for a couple of days.”

I grimaced, glanced at Hugo, and said, only half-jokingly, “Just so long as it’s not February fourth, 1959.”

James smiled grimly. “ ‘The day the music died’.” Then, at Juliet’s blank look, he shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll explain later.”

Juliet shrugged, and adjusted a pair of headphone-like terminals on either side of my head. “All right, here we go.” She saw my fists clench, and said, “Just relax, Alex. It’ll be fine.” She looked over at James, who was back at his terminal. “Ready, Hugo?”

“Ready,” he replied.

I had a vague idea that there was something I meant to ask them, something that had been triggered by the talk about old rock’n’roll stars. Then a low hum began, and I just had time to hear Juliet say, “Have a nice trip,” and then I was falling through a frozen blackness. Gradually, the black turned to grey, and suddenly I was on a street corner, in what appeared to be an American city. There was a Laundromat directly in front of me, and further down the road I could see a sign for a MG dealership.

I looked down at myself, and felt an instant’s panic when I could see nothing. Then I remembered what Juliet had told me about her trip, and the feeling passed. A moment later, a car pulled up beside me, and a man got out. I only had time to see him briefly, and he seemed vaguely familiar. With my investigator’s training, I noted that he was of average height, slim, dark brown hair, was wearing blue jeans and a white tee shirt, and carrying a brown paper parcel under one arm. Then I felt a tug, drawing me to him, and he seemed to rush towards me. I felt his surprise as my essence overpowered him, pushing who he was into a far corner of his being. Then I blinked, and opened ‘my’ eyes.

I found myself standing on the front steps of a building, frozen in the act of walking up them. I could feel the warm sun on my back, and turned when I heard a voice behind me. The driver of the car ‘I’ had just got out of said, in a strong Texas accent, “G’wan, what’re y’ waitin’ fer? If yer late again, Gruzman will have yer ass fer sure.” Then he drove around the side of the building and away.

I looked up at the building, and saw a drab, grey façade, about seven or eight stories high, with windows along the front and one side. I walked unsteadily up the steps and in through the front doors, still clutching the parcel my host had been carrying. I moved into the lobby, feeling my way in the strange body. I felt dizzy, and had a sudden urge to sit down, and looked around for a men’s room. There was one at the end of a long corridor, and I headed towards it. There were few people around; I passed only two on that short walk, and neither of them took any notice of me.

I pushed open the door to the men’s room and walked towards the row of cubicles. There was a line of urinals along one wall, and a long mirror on the other, and I was almost past it before my reflection registered. I stopped, turned and stared at the image of the man who was staring back at me, still clutching the parcel under one arm. Looking at him, I felt a sensation of dread welling up from the pit of my stomach. Now, I knew where I was, I even knew what day it was; most importantly, I knew who I was.

I stared at the man in the mirror for a few moments, then entered one of the cubicles, locked the door and sat down on the seat. I looked at the parcel I was carrying, then laid it on the floor and pushed it behind the cistern. Then I clasped unfamiliar hands together and tried to think things through.

In my capacity as a law-enforcement officer, I had been something of a student of famous cases of the past. Now, I realized I had the chance to change history, to ensure that one of the worst events in America’s past did not take place, simply did not happen. But what would happen if I did that? Or what would not happen? Was my existence, or that of any of my friends or family, dependent on this monstrous deed being done? Was Hugo right? Would nothing I did make any difference?

I sat there, I didn’t know how long, and slowly my training as an intelligence operative took over. What happens to me is unimportant, I decided. Even if I must sacrifice myself or others close to me, this opportunity to redress such an atrocious wrong had to be taken. If I simply returned to my own time and told my superiors that I had just stood by while…Such an option was unthinkable, and I really had no choice.

How to do it? Simple. I would just go on with my work here in this building, and undo the deed for which I had been chosen by a cruel fate, a perverse act of random chance, to commit, one I now had the power to alter. Then, after the appointed time had passed, the world would forever be a different place. I thought about that for a moment. Would it also be a better one? I was certain it would be. The mistakes of this hopeful, troubled era could be rectified right here, right now.

I had no choice, really. I had to try.

I stood up, took a deep breath, and opened the door of the cubicle. There was no one else in the men’s room, and I stopped in front of the mirror again. Then I noticed I was wearing a cheap wristwatch, and held it up before me. To my amazement, it read two minutes before midday. I had been in the cubicle for hours! I must have entered the building at about eight a.m., and I would have sworn less than an hour had passed. That which I had resolved to prevent was due to happen in just over thirty minutes.

I walked out of the men’s room and went to the floor directory in the foyer of the building. The canteen was on the second floor, and I started up the stairs, not willing to trust the elevators. If I stay there, I thought, surely everything will be all right. No matter what happens, I must not go above that floor.

I entered the lunchroom, and sat at a table in one corner, next to a window. A few people nodded to me, but I ignored them, not wanting to get into a conversation. If I spoke, my voice might be different, and I wasn’t about to try a Texas accent.

At about 12:25 p.m., the canteen emptied out, and I was left alone. I tried to think what to do. The possibility that I might be acting from a false premise never occurred to me. I had always agreed with the findings of the Warren Commission, and I had discounted so-called “eyewitnesses” as being either mistaken or hysterical. God help me, I had always believed that a single assassin, a lone gunman acting alone, had killed John F. Kennedy.

Lee Harvey Oswald.

Me.

I emptied Oswald’s pockets and laid the contents on the table. A handkerchief, a small comb, a few coins, a set of keys on a ring and a wallet. I opened the wallet, which contained about nine dollars, and removed the ID, his Social Security card. There it was, as if any further confirmation was needed. Well, I was determined to change history. This man, whose name was synonymous with infamy would, very shortly, be just another radical passing out left-wing propaganda literature on street corners, the deed for which he was reviled wiped out.

I felt something else in my hip pocket, pulled it out, and stared in amazement at my own Social Security card. Nothing else, it seemed, had made it past the gate from the future. I looked at my watch again; 12:27. I put the card and the other pieces back in my pockets, and used one of Oswald’s quarters to get a coke from the machine in the corner, then sat back at the table. In just a few more minutes, the time would be past. I told myself again that it was a great thing I was doing, but part of me wondered whether the past could be changed that easily.

Surely, in this case, it must be so! No force on earth was going to drag me up those four flights of stairs; I had only to sit and watch the parade pass by. I resolved again to do just that, and moved closer to the window.

I looked down into the street, saw the crowds and heard the noise swell as they began to cheer. A few seconds later, the first of a line of black Lincolns passed directly beneath my vantage point. Then, there he was, the man with the movie-star looks sitting in the back seat of the open-top car, his beautiful wife beside him, both of them smiling and waving to the cheering throngs as they passed.

The cars turned the corner and headed off, away from me. I watched as they approached the fateful point; in a few seconds, history would be changed, and the world would be a different place from the one I had left.

The shot made me jump as it rang out from somewhere above me, the professional part of my mind registering the report as that of a high-powered rifle. I looked in horror at the retreating cars, saw the man bending forward, clutching his neck, his wife turning to him in alarm. Then his body snapped back as another shot removed half of one side of his head, spraying blood and bone and brain tissue over the woman and the top of the rear seat.

Nonononono! It cannot be! This cannot happen, I raged silently. I jumped to my feet and stared helplessly out of the second floor window as the car carrying the dying President and his wife accelerated away, a secret service agent clinging on to the back. There was chaos in the street; sirens sounded, and people began running in all directions as they began to realize that the sounds were not car backfires, that something was seriously wrong.

I don’t know how long I stood there, looking at the panic and confusion in the street, but eventually I heard voices outside the lunchroom, and turned to see a uniformed Dallas policeman talking to another man. They looked at me through a small square of glass set into the door’s upper half, and I turned away, expecting them to come in. When the door didn’t open, I looked back; inexplicably, they were gone. Then I remembered; I worked there! There was nothing unusual about my being in the canteen at lunchtime.

The shots, I remembered, came from the sixth floor, southeast corner. I went to the door, opened it, and looked out. There was no one in sight, but I knew I had to move fast. I didn’t fire the shots, so whoever did had to still be in the building. Suddenly, a thought struck me, and I ran down the two flights of stairs to the lobby, to the men’s room, and wrenched open the door of the cubicle where I had spent most of the morning. I knelt on the floor and felt behind the cistern. The parcel I had left there was gone.

I walked quickly out of the building and hailed a cab. I gave the driver the address on Oswald’s ID, in the Oak Cliff area of Dallas, then sat back in the seat and tried to think what I should do.

If the parcel had contained a gun, and I hadn’t used it, then presumably someone else had. If that was so, then I was a part of the conspiracy, and a liability to the other conspirators. They had just killed the President of the United States, and they would have no qualms at all about killing me to ensure my silence. My only chance was to get away, get somewhere I could lie low until I was taken back through the gate to my own time. For that, I needed money, and I had to hope I would find some at Oswald’s lodgings.

As the cab moved through the inner suburbs of Dallas, an even more worrying thought occurred to me. I had no idea what would happen if my host were killed while I inhabited his body. I remembered now the nagging thought I had had just before I blanked out under the field, about the remote possibility of being trapped in Buddy Holly’s body as his light ’plane plummeted to earth, taking him and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper to immortality. Neither of them had mentioned it, and now I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.

The cab pulled up at the address I had given, and I paid the driver more than half of my money and hurried to the door. It was a seedy-looking place, only a couple of rooms, and I fumbled with the keys from my pocket until I found the right one. Once inside, I looked the place over quickly. It was small, but neat and tidy. There was a chest of drawers against one wall of the bedroom, and I rifled through it, looking for some cash. I didn’t find any, but in a bottom drawer, underneath some clothes, I found a gun. It was a small-calibre pistol, and after checking it was loaded, I stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans.

With a rising sense of dread, I checked the rest of the house for anything I might use, but found nothing. I ran out the door and down the street, fighting down the panic building in me, not really knowing where I was going. I tried to recall, from my sketchy memory of history, what Oswald did next, but could remember little. All I could think was that I had to get out, get away. The assassins would be coming for me; if I were a loose end, then they weren’t about to leave any.

Down the street I saw a bus stop, and headed that way. I didn’t have enough money for another cab, and anyway, I couldn’t afford to wait around while I called one. I stood at the stop for a few minutes, constantly looking up and down the street. A police car turned a corner and came into view, and I started walking away from it. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that it was following me, and I headed down the street towards an intersection. Looking back now with the benefit of hindsight, I don’t suppose I could have acted more suspiciously if I had tried.

As I neared the corner, I saw a man in a dark suit crossing the road and approaching from my left. He was about fifty feet away; I looked back over my shoulder again and saw that the police car was about the same distance. I thought I would probably have a better chance with the cop, so I turned back towards him. I looked back again, and the man was still coming towards me, reaching inside his jacket.

The black and white pulled into the curb, and the officer got out and started to walk around the front of the car. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he reached for the weapon on his hip. I turned, and saw that the man had his gun out, and was aiming it at me. I hit the deck as he opened fire, and the cop fell down in front of me, struck by several bullets. I got to my feet and ran round the far side of the squad car, pulling my gun out of my pocket as I did so. I turned and fired two or three shots and the man backed off, running across the road. I hesitated, then ran off in the opposite direction, towards the city. I didn’t particularly want to go that way, but the gunman left me little choice.

I put the gun back in the pocket of my jeans and slowed down, trying not to look too conspicuous. I knew the police would be looking for any white male fitting my description, and I had to find some cover, fast.

The streets were strangely deserted, and I made it to the fringes of the city centre without incident. Looking back now, I can’t help but feel that another power was at work then, because I should have been picked up. However, whether by blind luck, good management or providence, I found a movie theatre, waited until the ticket attendant was busy, then slipped inside.

I went up the stairs and sat in a seat in the deserted balcony area, and tried to think what to do next. From the few details I had been able to recall, I knew the police were not going to be my friends about this. I hadn’t fired the shots that had killed JFK or the uniformed policeman, and now I knew that the conspiracy theories were correct. That meant the Dallas police might even be in on the assassination, or at least some of them. I was thinking this unthinkable thought over when a door opened behind me, and two of Dallas’s finest came in.

I stood up, and pulled the gun from my pocket; why, I have no idea. I wasn’t about to shoot two cops who were probably just doing their job. By rights, they should have shot me there and then; instead, they ignored my gun, and simply walked towards me, fanning out and approaching from either side. One of them came at me from the front, while the other dived over the row of seats and grabbed my arm. We struggled for a few moments, then I stopped resisting and gave up. If they were going to kill me, they would have done so when I pulled the gun. Obviously, they were under orders to take me alive.

They didn’t cuff me, just held my arms and led me between them, down the stairs and out the front doors of the theatre to their waiting squad car. There was no one else there, not even the ticket collector, whom I assumed had phoned the police after seeing me enter the theatre. Then I began to wonder if in fact she had seen me, which raised all kinds of questions.

I don’t remember much about the short drive to DPD headquarters. I sat in the back of the car beside one of the cops, while the other one drove, and none of us said anything. When we arrived at the imposing grey building, I was frog-marched inside between the two men into a small room, which I took to be the charge room. There was a uniformed sergeant sitting at the desk, and he looked up as I approached.

“This him?”

“Yep,” replied the cop on my left. “This is the guy who shot Tippet, sarge.”

The sergeant looked me up and down. “That so? You shoot one of my men, boy?” Before I could answer, he went on. “Turn out yer pockets.”

I began to do so, placing each item on the desk before me. The cop on my right held out a gun, which was definitely not the one I had taken from Oswald’s rooms. That weapon had somehow disappeared. “He had this on him, too,” he said to the sergeant.

The sergeant looked at me hard, but said nothing. He began to go through Oswald’s wallet, and extracted a few items from it. He studied them for a few moments, then looked up at me.

“Well, which one is it?”

I looked blank, and he said, “What’s yer name, boy? Is it this one”- he pointed to Oswald’s ID – “ or this one?” He indicated my own card, which had come through the gate with me.

I had had about enough of his tough guy attitude, so I said, “You’re the cop, why don’t you figure it out?”

He gave me his look again, then picked up Oswald’s card and studied the photo. For security reasons, my own card had no photo, all identification details being on the magnetic strip, or I might have found myself having to explain who it was. He held up the card in front of me. “Lee H. Oswald,” he said. “What’s the ‘H’ stand fer?”

I decided it couldn’t hurt, so I mumbled, “Harvey.”

“Harvey,” he repeated, then turned to the other cops. “He bin read his rights?” They both nodded, although this was not true. In fact, I hadn’t been arrested, or even charged with a crime. The sergeant spoke again.

“Well now, Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald. Yer gonna find out that we don’t care much fer fellers who shoot po-lice officers in Texas.” To the other cops, he said, “Take ’im down.” Daown.

The two cops marched me out the door and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom was a row of cells, and they opened one of them and pushed me inside. The door clanged shut and they went away, leaving me alone. I’m not sure, but I don’t think there was anyone in any of the other cells; at least, I didn’t hear anyone else that day or during the night.

They brought me one meal that day, hot dogs and chilli beans, then the next morning they came and transferred me to another cell. We walked through the station lobby, past a battery of press and photographers. Flashbulbs popped, and questions were shouted at me as I passed.

“Did you do it?”

“Did you kill the President?”

I stopped before one of them and said, “No, sir, I didn’t do that. This is the first I’ve heard of that. I haven’t been charged with that.”

At this, the cop to my right said, “He has been charged.”

I knew there was no point in arguing with them, that they meant to frame me for the assassination, so I turned away from the throng of reporters and the cops led me out of the lobby to an even smaller, more remote holding area. Once again, I was left alone. As the officers went away, I noticed they had not taken my belt or shoelaces, normal procedure for a suspect placed in the cells. Maybe they hoped I would do their job for them.

*

That was earlier today; or yesterday, as I suppose it is now. I’ve been thinking a lot, trying to remember everything that happened after the assassination. Of course, I know now that the official line, the ‘Lone Gunman’ theory, is just so much snow, and that Oswald probably didn’t have anything to do with it. Even the brown paper parcel, I’ve come to realize, doesn’t mean much. It was too short to be a rifle, and not heavy enough. It probably did indeed contain curtain rods, as Oswald’s wife had claimed, and someone just stole it from the cubicle.

Can’t trust anyone, these days or those.

If I remember correctly, the gun found on the sixth floor was a 7.62-mm Mannlicher, a heavy calibre rifle. From my vantage point on the second floor, and with my experience in weaponry, I am one hundred percent certain that the head shot that killed Kennedy came from in front and to the right of the motorcade. The infamous grassy knoll. And right there, as Jim Garrison said, with more than one gunman you have your conspiracy.

I’ve been thinking, also, about the death of Dallas Police Officer Eugene Tippet. Originally, I thought the man who shot him was after me, but I have come to believe he was stopping Tippet from arresting me, or even talking to me. The script, you see, had to be strictly adhered to, and the unfortunate Officer Tippet, who was only doing his job, simply got in the way. That made him the only member of the Dallas police whom I knew for sure was not in on the plot.
Another thing: I’m sure the man who shot Tippet was in no danger from me. I fired two shots at him, double tap, from close range, and I’m a handgun marksman, runner-up in the interdepartmental champs last year. I’m not boasting, but I just don’t miss from anywhere inside thirty feet, and he was no more than twenty away from me. I’d drop him, ten out of ten, ask anyone. I’d be willing to bet just about anything that the gun I found in Oswald’s room was planted, and that it contained nothing more harmful than blanks. That was why the police who arrested me in the theatre showed no fear, and didn’t even draw their weapons, despite the fact that I was holding a gun on them. The weapon they handed to the charge sergeant was, no doubt, the one that had killed Tippet, and my prints would, I was sure, be found on it later.

In between writing this, I’ve been trying to figure out how much longer I will have to stay here before the field is switched off, and I am returned to my own time. And hanging over everything is the unanswered question: what will happen to me if Oswald dies while I still occupy his body? Will I die, too? Will my body, back in the lab at JPL in 2021 suddenly just stop breathing, as two souls leave the body of Lee Harvey Oswald?

Or, if Oswald dies before the field is turned off, will I simply be returned automatically to my own time, back to Hugo and Juliet? So far, I haven’t quite been able to convince myself that that will happen.

As I said when I started this, they took my watch, but I estimate it must be close to dawn now, Sunday the twenty-fourth. As I recall, they took Oswald through the underground car park at about twelve thirty p.m. That was when a small-time hood named Jack Ruby did his outraged citizen act and fulfilled, I am now certain, the last part of the contract on John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

As far as timing goes, I arrived in Dallas at about eight a.m. local time, on Friday the twenty-second. That means that by midday today I will have been here for fifty-two hours. Oswald died, as I recall, at about one p.m. Make that fifty-three hours max. But I could have as much as sixty hours here before I return, one hour for every minute back in my own time. Hopefully, as Hugo suggested, it will be a lot less.

I wonder if there is such a thing as fate, destiny, call it what you will. Are our lives, after all, mapped out for us, like a blueprint or a script, before they even begin? Or can their course be changed, diverted like a flooding stream, to flow safely past any junctions such as the one at which I now find myself?

And what of Lee Harvey Oswald? Was this man, who loved his wife and children, and probably never did anything worse than support a few left-wing causes, really on an unalterable path to this time and place from the moment he was conceived? For him, at least, there is no hope. Regardless of what happens to me, Lee Harvey Oswald will die today. Nothing can stop that, just as nothing could stop the killing of President Kennedy.

I don’t have all the answers yet, but I suspect I soon will. I’m looking up at a small grille set into the top of my cell wall where a faint light is beginning to show through, so I guess my internal clock is working just fine. Whatever fate has planned for me, I’ll know in just a few hours.

The timeframe is tight, but Hugo said the one-to-sixty ratio doesn’t hold so exactly on longer trips. If Juliet isn’t late turning off the field I might just have a chance. I could hope she’s early, but from what little I know of her I’d be willing to bet she’ll be right on the money.

It’s going to be a close run thing.