Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 (11 page)

"Mary," she said, "Mary Smith."

"Sure," he said, and didn't even write it down. "Mary Smith. And you're from Smalltown, USA, I bet, right?"

"You got it," she said, and she snapped open her clutch, reached in to grab a cigarette and began to light it. It was just catching when they both heard a grinding of gears from below and she stopped as they walked over to the edge of the mountain road and looked down. The flatbed was down there, struggling up the incline that led to the switchback turn and then up toward where they stood. Miriam Ruggiero was a fascist, a real fan of Benito and his pals, and now she was working for the Germans, making sure the special package that had been added onto that tractor-trailer this morning back in Pasadena got where it was going. Moe was there to make sure something else happened instead.

Light rain started falling. It was damn cold. The woman had told him that would happen and she hadn't often been wrong. What the hell was her name? Jesus, he didn't forget things like that very often, but in her case his memory got slippery. She'd told him her name, he was sure; but he couldn't think of it. Too many changes, at least three, since he'd talked to her in Oakland.

There were maybe a hundred spectators gathered at the intersection on the road where Moe and Miriam Ruggiero waited. The road up the mountain took a Y at this spot, and if you went left instead of right you went back down the mountain on the narrow, old road. Take the right instead of the left and you went uphill another half-mile on the new road and you were at the construction site for the Mount Palomar Observatory.

In about twenty minutes the big flatbed with the two hundred-inch mirror on it would slowly amble along and they'd all be standing by the side of the road getting a good close look at history as it passed them at two miles an hour. There might be sleet by then, sometimes that's how it went, the woman in Oakland had told Moe. He believed her.

The sleet would make it all trickier and it was complicated enough already. Moe had to take control of that rig and get it back down the mountain, down that narrow old road with its tight turns and steep grade. Halfway down the mountain there was a quarter-mile of flat plateau and there he'd be met and he'd hand over the rig to some Californians who would unhook the big mirror and leave it behind before taking the rest of that cargo down onto the flatlandsbelow and Lake Hayward. If the Mexican Muertes didn't get them. If the old P-38s could hold them off. Too damn many "ifs." But that was the plan. It might work out. It could.

Moe pushed open the glass door to walk into the Abbotsford Bar in the Piccadilly Hotel and there she was, sitting alone at the small table in the back corner.

Moe liked the bar, a nice Southside place on Blackstone Avenue. Moe knew the hotel and stayed there sometimes. A couple of the Sox players lived there during the summer.

She wore a nice little mauve hat with a feather on it, and a long skirt with a white blouse, long-sleeved even in the August heat. She had on a pair of glasses and the color of the frames matched her hat and the skirt. She looked good.

He walked up to her and she smiled and said, "Hello, Moe. Nice to see you again."

"You ever going to tell me your name?" he asked. He remembered more of it now. It was coming back even as he looked at her: Heisenberg, Weizsäcker, the Hindenburg. Moe had been involved in that somehow, had done some shooting and, he thought, killed someone for the good of the cause. Something about a Nazi superbomb? Hidden in that huge zeppelin? Yeah, it was coming back. But how the hell was that possible? He played baseball for the Chicago White Sox. He had f lat feet. Until he'd talked with Donovan a couple of hours ago the damn war had been going on without him.

Again that smile of hers. Nice teeth; perfect in fact. And the glasses didn't look like they were doing anything particularly useful for those brown eyes. Moe suspected her eyesight was just fine. "We knew you'd begin to remember it, Moe," she was saying, "and we have another situation that you can help us with."

He didn't remember it all yet, but it was coming back fast. And he didn't recall anyone—her or anyone else—ever explaining how things changed all the time, how reality kept shifting around. He thought maybe he didn't want to get too involved with this woman, no matter how good looking she was.

"I have a meeting at the Drake tonight," he said, "with a Mr. Donovan. So I'm really damn busy and I don't think I'll be able to help you this time." But then he was thinking about that bomb, and remembering what good pals he'd been with Paul Scherrer, the Swiss physicist. Hell, he'd stayed at the guy's house, gotten to know the wife and kids, liked it there, liked it just fine. It was coming back. More of it.

She could see that, could see the light bulb burning a little brighter in Moe's memory. She reached out to touch his arm and there was that brief moment of nausea and then here they were, still in the Piccadilly Hotel, but the woman wasn't wearing a hat or any eyeglasses, and the blouse was blue, and she was looking at him as he realized the changes. He looked toward the bar. "Harry's," it said across the top of the mirror. So that was it, step one. It had gone that way last time, too.

"We're on the ten P.M. Super Chief out of Union Station, Moe, heading west, out to California. It will take us a couple of days to get there and we'll need those days to get you ready. You all right with that?"

Was he? He hadn't been so sure a minute or two ago. But now, remembering, he said, "Sure, I'll go pack my bags." Donovan could wait a week or two.

But she only smiled again at that and nodded to a spot behind him and when Moe turned to look there was a nice valise, brown, a little worn from hard use. He reached down to pick it up by the handle. Full.

He had a lot of questions; about where he was and where he'd been, about time and travel and how come he seemed to be back where he'd been before, about who she was and whom she worked with and why they kept coming to him for help. He remembered now that she'd promised to answer some of those questions the last time they'd worked together.

He turned back to look at her. She smiled, shook her head no. "On the train, Moe, that's where you'll get a few answers."

Sure, he thought, and didn't believe a word of it. But on the other hand, he was either lying to himself or he was ready to do something serious with his life, get involved in the war finally, put a stop to playing a kid's game. And working for Donovan might be fine, but if he didn't show there tonight there'd be other people
who would. There were plenty of guys with f lat feet who spoke some languages, and Wild Bill would find them. Plus, the woman was a looker. A real looker. So, thought Moe, stick around in Chicago and field some groundballs, turn some double-plays, maybe work for Wild Bill Donovan. Or do something a little more worthwhile? Right here. Right now.

Oh, hell. Easy decision. "Ready when you are," he said.

"Time to go, then," she said. And they did.

The cold drizzle was making the road slick already, though it was too warm to freeze. As Moe and Miriam Ruggiero stepped back from the precipice she slipped, and he grabbed her by the elbow to keep her upright. Pretty damn ironic considering what he had planned for her in about fifteen minutes, but he figured maybe it was supposed to all happen a certain way. It hadn't gone the way it was supposed to the last time in Zurich, when he'd thought he was supposed to kill Werner Heisenberg to end the Nazi superbomb program, and instead he shot that bastard Carl Weizsäcker; but maybe that was why he was here. Things hadn't gone right and so he was now in the repair business, fixing things. Or maybe the train business, getting things back on track. Shit. Whatever. All he could do now was focus on the task at hand and do what the woman, or whatever the hell her name was, had told him to do. Two shots into Ruggiero's chest, that's what she'd said.

Miriam Ruggiero thanked him and they got to smooth ground and stood there, quiet for a few moments. Moe reached into his pocket and got his fingers around the comforting shape of the cold Beretta. Ruggiero had to die, and Moe had to do it. Well, people were dying all over the planet because of fascists like Ruggiero, getting rid of one of them—especially this one, especially here—was just fine. That little pistol had done the job for him last time during the fracas with Weizsäcker. Moe had looked at Weizsäcker lying there in the cold grass of December, dying, and hadn't felt bad about that. Then he'd turned to see Werner Heisenberg climbing the ladder up to the control car of the Hindenburg. The bomb—the only bomb that the Uranverein had been able to make in that reality—was huge and oversized and not all that powerful, but it fit into the great zeppelin's main hold and if it went off as planned by Heisenberg it sent Hitler and Goering and the others to Hell and that solved the problem in that place.

But not here, Moe thought as he turned his back to the cold mountain air. Not here.

"You'll be a good reporter, the way you love newspapers," the woman said to him as she sat in the sofa seat in the corner of their first-class Pullman sleeper room and watched Moe spread out the
St. Louis Dispatch
over the carpeted floor.

"Newspapers are clean and fresh, that's all," he said as he carefully lifted the center table and slid the sports page underneath it. The front leg of the table fell smack on Babe Ruth's face when Moe let the table back down. That felt good.

They'd taken a taxi from the Piccadilly to Union Station, then walked right to platform eighteen where the Super Chief hummed with anticipation. So did Moe. Ballplayers didn't ride first class on the Super Chief, that was for sure. On the three or four trips he'd made to the West Coast with the Sox for exhibitions, they'd been on the old El Capitan, the one where the porter came by and folded down opposing seats to make a bed for you. An uncomfortable bed, at that. Leave at midnight from Chicago and get to L.A. thirty-six hours later after two nights of bad sleep, then play a day-game against some PCL team. That's what cheap ownership got you when you made it to the big leagues. Low pay, no comfort, no wins.

But this? This was traveling.

"So what's the assignment? " he asked, settling into the second chair and going through the ritual of opening up the bottle of red wine—a California Merlot—that stood on the table.

She didn't answer as he got the cork out, poured two glasses and handed her one. Then she took a sip. "We're a few steps away from the real thing and while I can't tell you too much too soon, you're going to be a reporter for the next couple of weeks, working for the Chicago
Post."

"There is no Chicago
Post.
They'll know that in California, you know."

She shrugged, smiled, and leaned over with her glass, clinked it against his. A moment of nausea and he knew things had changed, but he couldn't see what was different yet. "Sure there is, Moe, and it's been the top paper in town for a hundred years."

Moe sipped on his wine, a bad Chardonnay, and set it down on top of the paper. Damnit. He looked at the woman: "Look, don't you think it's time you told me your name? At least your first name?"

She sat back, took a sip of hers. "In time, Moe, you'll get over that whole idea of names. For now, for here, you can call me Clarissa. I'm Clarissa Berg. I'm your wife."

There was a polite tap on the door and then it opened. A beefy Negro with a nice smile stood there, dressed in one sharp uniform; blue slacks and a blue coat, shined black shoes, a high collar. He wore a porter's cap, with that stiff top. He touched the bill of that cap and said, "I'm Frederick, your porter. I thought you folks might like the evening paper. You doing all right in here, Mr. and Mrs. Berg?"

He handed Moe the paper. Chicago
Post
it said on the masthead at the top. "Ruth Hits Three Homers" was the headline underneath that and the picture showed the Babe, at least some fat version of the Babe, stepping on the plate. Interesting.

"We're doing fine, Frederick," Clarissa said, "and we wonder if you could arrange a little dinner for us in here. Steak, maybe? A couple of New York strips, medium rare, with baked potatoes and some red wine, maybe a Merlot. Around nine?" And she handed him a tip, some folding money.

"Of course, Mrs. Berg," Frederick said, sliding the tip into a small front pocket. "I'll be back with your supper at nine. Y'all will love the steak. Chef Geoffrey is famous for his steaks. Otherwise, you all need anything you just press that button there," and he pointed to the porter button near the door, "and I'll be right here in a jiffy." And Frederick backed out, the door snapping shut behind him.

There was a moment of nausea, that usual brief f lash, as Moe reached over to grab the bottle of wine and pour himself another drink. He wished it was a nice Irish whiskey—Paddy perhaps—but it was now a Chablis and that would have to do. It might help settle his stomach.

Clarissa was looking out the window into the evening fields of Illinois. Corn, ready to be harvested. Every now and then what might be a field of soybeans.

"Not much to see out there," Moe said as he sat down and took a sip of the wine. She sat back. "Yes. Flat Illinois. All those crops dying in this damn drought."

Moe noticed the rain had stopped. The White Sox and the Cubs and the Cardinals had all been fighting with the rainy Midwest weather for more than a month. What drought? And then. Oh, yes. "We've already switched tracks once, I take it?" he asked her.

She nodded. "And there will be a few more before we get out West, Moe. It's a tricky path we have to take to get you and me where we need to be by the end of next week."

"You know I could use some more information on that, right? Some details? I take it this has something to do with Heisenberg and Scherrer and those guys? The German superbomb? The Uranverein? I thought we had that all done, you and me. All that stuff with Zurich and the Hindenburg and the Eagle's Nest. Last thing I recall was Heisenberg climbing into that zeppelin and heading to Hitler."

She sat back in the little sofa seat. "I'm betting you know who Erwin Schrödinger is, Moe, right? I'd think your Ivy League education included a little something on him."