saw the guy. When they put that on TV ... "
"I --ah, shit," said Lloyd. His heart was pounding. "Shit."
"I'm sorry," said Theo. "The press will have a field day." A pause. "Like I said, I
thought you should know."
Lloyd tried to calm himself. How could he have been so wrong? "Thanks," he said,
at last. And then, "Look, look, that's not important. How are you? Are you okay?"
"I'll be all right."
"'Cause if you don't want to be alone, Michiko and I can come over."
"No, that's okay. Franco della Robbia is still here at CERN; I'll spend some time
with him."
"Okay," said Lloyd. "Okay." Another pause. "Look, I've got to --"
"I know," said Theo. "Bye."
"Bye."
Lloyd replaced the handset in its cradle.
He'd never met Dimitrios Procopides; indeed, Theo didn't speak of him very often.
No surprise there; Lloyd rarely mentioned his sister Dolly at work, either. When it all
came down to it, it was just one more death in a week of countless deaths, but ...
"Poor Theo," said Michiko. She shook her head gently back and forth. "And his
brother --poor guy."
He looked at her. She'd lost her own daughter, but for now, at this instant, she
found room in her heart to grieve for a man she'd never met.
Lloyd's heart was still racing. The words he'd been about to say before the phone
rang still echoed in his head. What was he thinking now? That he wanted to continue
to play the field? That he wasn't ready to settle down? That he had to know that
white woman, find her, meet her, and make a sensible, balanced choice between her
and Michiko?
No.
No, that wasn't it. That couldn't be it.
What he was thinking was: I am an idiot.
And what he was thinking was: She's been incredibly patient.
And what he was thinking was: Maybe the warning that the marriage might not
automatically last was the best damned thing that could have happened. Like every
couple, they'd assumed it would be till death did they part. But now he knew, from
day one, in a way that no one else ever had, not even those others like him who
were children of broken homes, that it wasn't necessarily forever. That it was only
permanent if he fought and struggled and worked to make it permanent every
waking moment of his life. Knew that if he was going to get married, it would have to
be his first priority. Not his career, not the damned elusive Nobel, not peer-review,
not fellowships.
Her.
Michiko.
Michiko Komura.
Or --or Michiko Simcoe.
When he'd been a teenager, in the 1970s, it looked like women would forever
dispense with the silliness of taking someone else's name. Still, to this day, most did
adopt their husbands' last names; they'd already discussed this, and Michiko had
said that it was indeed her intention to take on his name. Of course, Simcoe wasn't
nearly as musical as Komura, but that was a small sacrifice.
But no.
No, she shouldn't take his name. How many divorced women carried not their
birth names but the cognomen of someone decades in their past, a daily reminder of
youthful mistakes, of love gone bad, of painful times? Indeed, Komura wasn't
Michiko's maiden name --that was Okawa; Komura was Hiroshi's last name.
Still, she should retain that. She should remain a Komura so that Lloyd would be
reminded, day in and day out, that she wasn't his; that he had to work at their
marriage; that tomorrow was in his hands.
He looked at her --her flawless complexion, her beguiling eyes, her oh-so-dark
hair.
All those things would change with time, of course. But he wanted to be around
for that, to savor every moment, to enjoy the seasons of life with her.
Yes, with her.
Lloyd Simcoe did something he hadn't done the first time --oh, he'd thought
about it then, but had rejected it as silly, old-fashioned, unnecessary.
But it was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.
He lowered himself onto one knee.
And he took Michiko's hand in his.
And he looked up into her patient, lovely face.
And he said, "Will you marry me?"
And the moment held, Michiko clearly startled.
And then a smile grew slowly across her face.
And she said, almost in a whisper, "Yes."
Lloyd blinked rapidly, his eyes misting over.
The future was going to be glorious.
22
Ten Days Later: Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Gaston Béranger had been surprisingly easy to convince that CERN should try to
replicate the LHC experiment. But, of course, he felt they had nothing to lose and
everything to gain if the attempt failed: it would be very hard to prove CERN's
liability for any damage done the first time if the second attempt produced no time
displacement.
And now it was the moment of truth.
Lloyd made his way to the polished wooden podium. The great globe-and-laurelleaf
seal of the United Nations spread out behind him. The air was dry; Lloyd got a
shock as he touched the podium's metal trim. He took a deep breath, calming
himself. And then he leaned into the mike. "I'd like to thank --"
He was surprised that his voice was cracking. But, dammit all, he was speaking to
some of the most powerful politicians in the world. He swallowed, then tried again.
"I'd like to thank Secretary-General Stephen Lewis for allowing me to speak to you
today." At least half the delegates were listening to translations provided through
wireless earpieces. "Ladies and gentiemen, my name is Dr. Lloyd Simcoe. I'm a
Canadian currently living in France and working at CERN, the European center for
particle physics." He paused, swallowed. "As you've no doubt heard by now, it was,
apparently, an experiment at CERN that caused the consciousness-displacement
phenomenon. And, ladies and gentlemen, I know at first blush this will sound crazy,
but I've come here to ask you, as the representatives of your respective
governments, for permission to repeat the experiment."
There was an eruption of chatter --a cacophony of languages even more varied
than what one hears at CERN's various cafeterias. Of course, all the delegates had
known in advance roughly what Lloyd was going to say --one didn't get to speak in
front of the UN without going through a lot of preliminary discussions. The General
Assembly hall was cavernous; his eyesight really wasn't good enough to make out
many individual faces. Nonetheless, he could see anger on the face of one of the
Russian delegates and what looked like terror on the faces of the German and
Japanese delegates. Lloyd looked over at the Secretary-General, a handsome white
man of seventy-two. Lewis gave him an encouraging smile, and Simcoe went on.
"Perhaps there is no reason to do this," said Lloyd. "We seem to have clear
evidence now that the future portrayed in the first set of visions is not going to come
true --at least not exactly. Nevertheless, there's no doubt that a great many people
found real personal insight through the glimpses."
He paused.
"I'm reminded of the story A Christmas Carol, by the British writer Charles
Dickens. His character Ebenezer Scrooge saw a vision of Christmas Yet to Come, in
which the results of his actions had led to misery for many other people and himself
being hated and despised in death. And, of course, seeing such a vision would have
been a terrible thing --had the vision been of the one, true immutable future. But
Scrooge was told that, no, the future he saw was only the logical extrapolation of his
life, should he continue on the way he had been. He could change his life, and the
lives of those around him, for the better; that glimpse of the future turned out to be
a wonderful thing."
He took a sip of water, then continued.
"But Scrooge's vision was of a very specific time --Christmas day. Not all of us
had visions of significant events; many of us saw things that were quite banal,
frustratingly ambiguous, or, indeed, for almost a third of us, we saw either dreams
or just darkness --we were asleep during that two-minute span twenty-one years
from now." He paused and shrugged his shoulders, as if he himself did not know
what the right thing to do was. "We believe we can replicate the experience of
having visions; we can offer all of humanity another glimpse of the future." He raised
a hand. "I know some governments have been leery of these insights, disliking some
of the things revealed, but now that we know the future is not fixed, I'm hoping that
you will allow us to simply give this gift, and the benefit of the Ebenezer Effect, to
the peoples of the world once more. With the cooperation of you men and women,
and your governments, we believe we can do this safely. It's up to you."
Lloyd came through the tall glass doors of the General Assembly building. The
New York air stung his eyes --damn, but they were going to have to do something
about that one of these days; the visions said it would be even worse by 2030. The
sky overhead was gray, crisscrossed by airplane contrails. A crowd of reporters -perhaps
fifty in all --rushed over to meet him, camcorders and microphones thrust
out.
"Doctor Simcoe!" shouted one, a middle-aged white man. "Doctor Simcoe! What
happens if consciousness doesn't drop back to the present day? What happens if
we're all stuck twenty-one years in the future?"
Lloyd was tired. He hadn't been as nervous speaking in front of people since his
Ph.D. oral defense. He really just wanted to go back to his hotel room, pour himself
a nice Scotch, and crawl into bed.
"We have no reason to think that such a thing could happen," he said. "It seemed
to be a completely temporary phenomenon that began the moment we started the
particle collisions and ceased the moment we ended them."
"What about the families of any people who might die this time? Will you take
personal responsibility for them?"
"How about the ones who are already dead? Don't you feel you owe them
something?"
"Isn't this all just some cheap quest for glory on your part?"
Lloyd took a deep breath. He was tired, and he had a pounding headache.
"Gentlemen and ladies --and I use those terms loosely --you are apparently used to
interviewing politicians who can't be seen to lose their temper, and so you can get
away with asking them questions in haranguing tones. Well, I am not a politician; I
am, among other things, a university professor, and I am used to civilized discourse.
If you can't ask polite questions, I will terminate this exchange."
"But, Dr. Simcoe --isn't it true that all the death and destruction was your fault?
Didn't you in fact design the experiment that went awry?"
Lloyd kept his tone even. "I'm not kidding, people. I have had quite my fill of
media exposure already; one more bullshit question like that, and I'm walking
away."
There was stunned silence. Reporters looked at each other, then back at Lloyd.
"But all those deaths ... " began one.
"That's it," snapped Lloyd. "I'm out of here." He began walking away.
"Wait!" cried one reporter, and "Stop!" shouted another.
Lloyd turned around. "Only if you can manage intelligent, civilized questions."
After a moment's hesitation, a melanic-American woman raised her hand, almost
meekly.
"Yes?" said Lloyd, lifting his eyebrows.
"Dr. Simcoe, what decision do you think the UN will make?"
Lloyd nodded at her, acknowledging that this was an acceptable interrogative.
"I'm honestly not sure. My gut feeling is that we should indeed try to replicate the
results --but I'm a scientist, and replication is my stock-in-trade. I do think the
people of Earth want this, but whether their leaders will be willing to do what the
people desire I have no way of knowing."
Theo had come to New York, as well, and he and Lloyd that night enjoyed the
extravagant seafood buffet at the Ambassador Grill in the UN Plaza-Park Hyatt.
"Michiko's birthday is coming up," said Theo, cracking a lobster's claw.
Lloyd nodded. "I know."
"Are you going to throw a surprise party for her?"
Lloyd paused. After a moment, he said, "No."
Theo gave him a "if you really loved her, you'd do it" look. Lloyd didn't feel like
explaining. He'd never really thought about it before, but it came to him full blown,
as if he'd always known it. Surprise parties were a cheat. You let someone you were
supposed to care about think you'd forgotten their birthday. You deliberately bring
them down, make them feel neglected, uncared for, unremembered, unappreciated.
And then you lie --lie! --to them for weeks on end leading up to the event. All this,
so that in the moment when people yell "Surprise!" the person will feel loved.
In the marriage he and Michiko were going to have, Lloyd wouldn't have to
manufacture situations in order to make Michiko feel that way. She'd know of his
love every day --every minute; her confidence in that would never be shaken. It
would be her constant companion, his love, until the day she died.
And, of course, he'd never lie to her --not even when it was supposedly for her
own good.
"You sure?" said Theo. "I'd be glad to help you organize it."
"No," said Lloyd, shaking his head a little. Theo was so young, so na.ve. "No,
thank you."
23
The United Nations debates continued. While he was in New York, Theo got
