issue, even if some people don’t believe us. Near-past transports are inherently risky. The odds of survival, pretty mediocre. We can’t even grab particles from those sorts of horizons.”
“I just needed to ask before I made my decision.”
“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” continued Whelan. “But there are lots of incidents like the one that killed your mother every year. Lots of accidents in which bodies are never found.”
“I know,” said Nick, again. “But if she was transported…”
“Then we wouldn’t know about it until a few years down the line.”
“But could you rescue her? If you wanted to?”
Whelan paused. “Do you know how many requests we get from people who want us to save their relatives? Do you think we would be able to save them all?”
“No.”
“Good. Because despite what the crackpots might tell you, people only have one chance to live. Which is a good thing, Nick, because the world doesn’t have the resources to provide for two. And it would be cruel, wouldn’t it? To be zapped into the future, only to find your baby boy a full-grown man? Maybe it would be different if we could reach back a few hours. But thirty years? Isn’t that too much for people to pick up where they’d left off? Didn’t Flight 391 prove that? Isn’t that why we’ve gone to such lengths to create our Roman bubble?”
Nick suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It made it difficult to swallow, or speak. “Yes.”
“So, this opportunity of a lifetime we’re offering you: what are you going to say?”
It was time. And he had his answer ready. He took a deep breath. Tried not to think of what his father would say. “I’m in.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead. Nick continued to hold the phone as if Whelan might call back. Finally he headed for the hallway. “Ronnie!”
No answer. He rapped on the bedroom door, then pushed it open.
The room was empty. The bedcovers were thrown back, the mattress and pillows still showing the impression of a sleeping form. Nick looked about, confused. A cup of coffee sat steaming on the bedside cabinet.
Which meant he hadn’t been gone long.
Nick hurried out of the flat and moved down the steps at speed. How much of his conversation with Whelan had Ronnie overheard?
When he opened the front door, he realised he’d made a mistake. There was a man waiting on the pavement. No, there were three. And Ronnie wasn’t among them.
The man in the centre of the group spoke first. “Mr Houghton,” he said. “We’d like a word.”
14
“C HICKEN OR FISH? ”
Nick couldn’t help but be disappointed by the question. For one thing, it didn’t fit with the plush interior of the private jet. The stewardess smiled amiably and waited for his answer. If he’d been on a commercial flight, her eyes would have already been filled with impatience but, given how few people were on board, she probably had more than enough time to deal with indecisive passengers.
“Just water,” said Nick, feeling his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’d forgotten how much he hated flying. The drone of the engines and the dry atmosphere of the cabin always seemed to give him a headache. He could feel a new one starting to drill into his temples, and it hadn’t been helped by the requirement to give a blood sample before they’d taken off.
He rubbed at the crook of his arm. “How long until we land?”
“Not long now, sir.” It was the same answer he’d been given half an hour ago; the same vagueness with which she’d answered his question about where they were heading. He let his head fall back into the soft beige leather of his seat.
Six weeks. He’d potentially given everything up for just six weeks of gainful employment. Nick rapped his fingers gently against the armrest. The throbbing in his temples seemed to turn up a notch as he went back over the last argument he’d had with his father. After all, if it all went wrong, he’d
“I just needed to ask before I made my decision.”
“I didn’t mean to be insensitive,” continued Whelan. “But there are lots of incidents like the one that killed your mother every year. Lots of accidents in which bodies are never found.”
“I know,” said Nick, again. “But if she was transported…”
“Then we wouldn’t know about it until a few years down the line.”
“But could you rescue her? If you wanted to?”
Whelan paused. “Do you know how many requests we get from people who want us to save their relatives? Do you think we would be able to save them all?”
“No.”
“Good. Because despite what the crackpots might tell you, people only have one chance to live. Which is a good thing, Nick, because the world doesn’t have the resources to provide for two. And it would be cruel, wouldn’t it? To be zapped into the future, only to find your baby boy a full-grown man? Maybe it would be different if we could reach back a few hours. But thirty years? Isn’t that too much for people to pick up where they’d left off? Didn’t Flight 391 prove that? Isn’t that why we’ve gone to such lengths to create our Roman bubble?”
Nick suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It made it difficult to swallow, or speak. “Yes.”
“So, this opportunity of a lifetime we’re offering you: what are you going to say?”
It was time. And he had his answer ready. He took a deep breath. Tried not to think of what his father would say. “I’m in.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
The phone went dead. Nick continued to hold the phone as if Whelan might call back. Finally he headed for the hallway. “Ronnie!”
No answer. He rapped on the bedroom door, then pushed it open.
The room was empty. The bedcovers were thrown back, the mattress and pillows still showing the impression of a sleeping form. Nick looked about, confused. A cup of coffee sat steaming on the bedside cabinet.
Which meant he hadn’t been gone long.
Nick hurried out of the flat and moved down the steps at speed. How much of his conversation with Whelan had Ronnie overheard?
When he opened the front door, he realised he’d made a mistake. There was a man waiting on the pavement. No, there were three. And Ronnie wasn’t among them.
The man in the centre of the group spoke first. “Mr Houghton,” he said. “We’d like a word.”
14
“C HICKEN OR FISH? ”
Nick couldn’t help but be disappointed by the question. For one thing, it didn’t fit with the plush interior of the private jet. The stewardess smiled amiably and waited for his answer. If he’d been on a commercial flight, her eyes would have already been filled with impatience but, given how few people were on board, she probably had more than enough time to deal with indecisive passengers.
“Just water,” said Nick, feeling his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He’d forgotten how much he hated flying. The drone of the engines and the dry atmosphere of the cabin always seemed to give him a headache. He could feel a new one starting to drill into his temples, and it hadn’t been helped by the requirement to give a blood sample before they’d taken off.
He rubbed at the crook of his arm. “How long until we land?”
“Not long now, sir.” It was the same answer he’d been given half an hour ago; the same vagueness with which she’d answered his question about where they were heading. He let his head fall back into the soft beige leather of his seat.
Six weeks. He’d potentially given everything up for just six weeks of gainful employment. Nick rapped his fingers gently against the armrest. The throbbing in his temples seemed to turn up a notch as he went back over the last argument he’d had with his father. After all, if it all went wrong, he’d
Similar Books
