Murphy scribbled down the number on the back of his left hand, then repeated it back to Jan to make sure he had copied it correctly. “Thanks, dear,” he said. “I’ve really got to run. I’ll get back to you.”
Hoping he wasn’t being rude, he hung up, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket. After locating his ATT card, he carefully dialed the number Jan had given him, charging it to his home phone.
Somewhere on the other side of the continent, a phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times . . . Murphy glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten to one; in California, it would be almost ten o’clock. It shouldn’t be too early to . . .
The phone was picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” a familiar voice said.
Murphy felt something tickle the nape of his neck.
“Ahh . . . Dr. Gregory Benford, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Greg Benford?” Murphy flattened the receiver against his ear. “Is this Gregory Benford, the writer?”
“Ahh . . . well, yes, it is, May I ask who’s calling?”
The very same voice. From over three thousand miles away.
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” Murphy felt a hot rush through his face. “I’m sorry, sir, but . . . sorry, I think there’s been a mistake.”
“What? I don’t. . . .”
Murphy slammed down the phone, his mind racing as he sought to understand what was happening.
He had just met someone who looked exactly likeGregory Benford, who sounded just like Gregory Benford, but who was not only ignorant of one of the most common mathematical denominators in theoretical physics, but had also forgotten that he had coauthored a best-selling novel with another physicist, David Brin. Sure, all this might be explained by travel fatigue. Yet Gregory Benford would never be amnesiac of the fact that he had written Timescape, a novel which was not only regarded as one of his best-known works, and a Nebula Award winner as well . . .
But also a time-machine story.
Yet the Greg Benford with whom he had just shared lunch claimed never to have written a time-machine story.
And now, however briefly, Murphy had spoken with a Gregory Benford whose voice was absolutely identical, yet who was in his office on the other side of the country.
“Son of a . . . !” Murphy slammed his fist against the phone, then turned and stalked back down the hall toward the restaurant. Whoever this guy was, he had just played him like a yo-yo. It was a good impersonation, to be sure. For a little while there, the impostor had actually convinced him that he was the real deal. But just wait until . . .
Murphy stopped at the cafeteria entrance.
Their table was vacant. The chair where the impostor had been seated had been pushed back. Only their cafeteria trays remained in place. Children ran back and forth through the restaurant, but his lunch companion was nowhere to be seen.
Murphy stared at the table, then dashed to the nearby stairwell. Catching himself against the railing, he peered down. Far below, he saw the top of Apollo lunar module, but nothing else. No one was on the stairs.
What the hell was going on here?
Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1427Z
L ike a scarab caught within a web of electrical lines and mooring cables, the Oberon floated in spacedock, its silver hull reflecting the raw sunlight that steamed through the bay doors. Hardsuited space workers moved around the timeship, their tethers uncoiling behind them as they inspected the vehicle’s negmass grid and wormhole generators. Standing in an observation cupola overlooking the spherical hangar, Franc watched the activity while he waited for the gangway to mate with the vessel. A foreman at a nearby console studied his screens as he gently coaxed the joystick that maneuvered the gangway into position; when its boxlike airlock was firmly nestled against the Oberon, he locked it into place and glanced over his shoulder at Franc.
“All right, Dr. Lu, you can go through now. Vasili’s waiting for
Hoping he wasn’t being rude, he hung up, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket. After locating his ATT card, he carefully dialed the number Jan had given him, charging it to his home phone.
Somewhere on the other side of the continent, a phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times . . . Murphy glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten to one; in California, it would be almost ten o’clock. It shouldn’t be too early to . . .
The phone was picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” a familiar voice said.
Murphy felt something tickle the nape of his neck.
“Ahh . . . Dr. Gregory Benford, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Greg Benford?” Murphy flattened the receiver against his ear. “Is this Gregory Benford, the writer?”
“Ahh . . . well, yes, it is, May I ask who’s calling?”
The very same voice. From over three thousand miles away.
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” Murphy felt a hot rush through his face. “I’m sorry, sir, but . . . sorry, I think there’s been a mistake.”
“What? I don’t. . . .”
Murphy slammed down the phone, his mind racing as he sought to understand what was happening.
He had just met someone who looked exactly likeGregory Benford, who sounded just like Gregory Benford, but who was not only ignorant of one of the most common mathematical denominators in theoretical physics, but had also forgotten that he had coauthored a best-selling novel with another physicist, David Brin. Sure, all this might be explained by travel fatigue. Yet Gregory Benford would never be amnesiac of the fact that he had written Timescape, a novel which was not only regarded as one of his best-known works, and a Nebula Award winner as well . . .
But also a time-machine story.
Yet the Greg Benford with whom he had just shared lunch claimed never to have written a time-machine story.
And now, however briefly, Murphy had spoken with a Gregory Benford whose voice was absolutely identical, yet who was in his office on the other side of the country.
“Son of a . . . !” Murphy slammed his fist against the phone, then turned and stalked back down the hall toward the restaurant. Whoever this guy was, he had just played him like a yo-yo. It was a good impersonation, to be sure. For a little while there, the impostor had actually convinced him that he was the real deal. But just wait until . . .
Murphy stopped at the cafeteria entrance.
Their table was vacant. The chair where the impostor had been seated had been pushed back. Only their cafeteria trays remained in place. Children ran back and forth through the restaurant, but his lunch companion was nowhere to be seen.
Murphy stared at the table, then dashed to the nearby stairwell. Catching himself against the railing, he peered down. Far below, he saw the top of Apollo lunar module, but nothing else. No one was on the stairs.
What the hell was going on here?
Mon, Oct 15, 2314—1427Z
L ike a scarab caught within a web of electrical lines and mooring cables, the Oberon floated in spacedock, its silver hull reflecting the raw sunlight that steamed through the bay doors. Hardsuited space workers moved around the timeship, their tethers uncoiling behind them as they inspected the vehicle’s negmass grid and wormhole generators. Standing in an observation cupola overlooking the spherical hangar, Franc watched the activity while he waited for the gangway to mate with the vessel. A foreman at a nearby console studied his screens as he gently coaxed the joystick that maneuvered the gangway into position; when its boxlike airlock was firmly nestled against the Oberon, he locked it into place and glanced over his shoulder at Franc.
“All right, Dr. Lu, you can go through now. Vasili’s waiting for
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