another reply to his ads looking for information about his own death. He was about
to simply issue a short, polite response --he was going to give up the quest, really
he was --but, damn it all, the message was just too enticing. "I did not contact you
initially," it said, "because I had been led to believe that the future is fixed, and that
what was going to happen, including my role in it, was inevitable. But now I read
otherwise, and so I must elicit your help."
The message was from Toronto --just a one-hour flight from the Big Apple. Theo
decided to head on up and meet face to face with the man who'd sent the letter. It
was Theo's first time visiting Canada, and he wasn't quite prepared for how hot it
was in the summer. Oh, it wasn't hot by Mediterranean standards --rarely did the
temperature rise above thirty-five degrees Celsius. But it did surprise him.
To get a cheaper airfare, Theo had to stay overnight, rather than fly in and out on
the same day. And so he found himself with an evening to kill in Toronto. His travel
agent had suggested he might enjoy a hotel out along the Danforth --part of
Toronto's major east-west axis; Toronto's large Greek community was centered
there. Theo agreed, and, to his delight, he found the street signs in that part of town
were in both the English and Greek alphabets.
His appointment, though, wasn't on the Danforth. Rather, it was up in North York,
an area that apparently had once been a city in its own right but had been subsumed
into Toronto, which now had a population of three million. Toronto's subway took
him there the next day. He was amused to discover that the public transit system
was referred to as the TTC (for Toronto Transit Commission); the same abbreviation
would doubtless be applied to the Tachyon-Tardyon Collider he would supposedly
someday helm.
The subway cars were spacious and clean, although he'd heard they were severely
overcrowded during rush hour. One thing that had impressed him greatly was riding
the subway --poorly named at this particular point --over the Don Valley Parkway;
here the train ran what must be a hundred meters above the ground in a special set
of tracks hanging below the Danforth. The view was spectacular --but what was
most impressive was that the bridge over the Don Valley had been built decades
before Toronto got its first subway line, and yet it had been constructed so as to
eventually accommodate two sets of tracks. One didn't often see evidence of cities
planning that far into the future.
He changed trains at Yonge Station, and rode up to North York Centre. He was
surprised to find that he didn't have to go outside to enter the condominium tower
he'd been told to come to; it had direct access from the station. The same complex
also contained a book superstore (part of a chain called Indigo), a movie-theater
complex, and a large food store called Loblaws, which seemed to specialize in a line
of products called President's Choice. That surprised Theo; he would have expected it
to be Prime Minister's Choice in this country.
He presented himself to the concierge, who directed him through the marble lobby
to the elevators, and he rode up to the thirty-fifth floor. From there, he easily found
the apartment he was looking for and knocked on the door.
The door opened, revealing an elderly Asian man. "Hello," he said, in perfect
English.
"Hello, Mr. Cheung," said Theo. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."
"Won't you come in?"
The man, who must have been in his mid-sixties, moved aside to let Theo pass.
Theo slipped off his shoes, and stepped into the splendid apartment. Cheung led
Theo into the living room. The view faced south. Far away, Theo could see downtown
Toronto, with its skyscrapers, the slender needle of the CN Tower and, beyond, Lake
Ontario stretching to the horizon.
"I appreciated you emailing me," said Theo. "As you can imagine, this has been
very difficult for me."
"I am sure it has," said Cheung. "Would you care for tea? Coffee?"
"No, nothing, thank you."
"Well, then," said the man. "Do have a seat."
Theo sat down on a couch upholstered in orange leather. On the end table sat a
painted porcelain vase. "It's beautiful," said Theo.
Cheung nodded agreement. "From the Ming Dynasty, of course; almost five
hundred years old. Sculpture is the greatest of the arts. A written text is meaningless
once the language has fallen out of use, but a physical object that endures for
centuries or millennia --that is something to cherish. Anyone today can appreciate
the beauty of ancient Chinese or Egyptian or Aztec artifacts; I collect all three. The
individual artisans who made them live on through their work."
Theo made a noncommittal sound, and settled back in the couch. On the opposite
wall was an oil painting of Kowloon harbor. Theo nodded at it. "Hong Kong," he said.
"Yes. You know it?"
"In 1996, when I was fourteen, my parents took us there on vacation. They
wanted us --me and my brother --to see it before it changed hands back to
Communist China."
"Yes, those last couple of years were exceptional for tourism," said Cheung. "But
they were also great times for leaving the country; I myself left Hong Kong and
came to Canada then. Over two hundred thousand Hong Kong natives moved to
Canada before the British handed our country back to the Chinese."
"I imagine I would have gotten out, too," said Theo sympathetically.
"Those of us who could afford it did so. And, according to the visions people have
had, things get no better in China during the next twenty-one years, so I am indeed
glad I left; I could not stand the idea of losing my freedom." The old man paused.
"But you, my young friend, stand to lose even more, do you not? For my part, I
would have fully expected to be dead twenty-one years from now; I was delighted to
learn that the fact that I had a vision implies that I will still be alive then. Indeed,
since I felt reasonably spry, I begin to suspect that I might in fact have much more
than twenty-one years left. Still, your time may be cut short --in my vision, as I told
you by email, your name was mentioned. I had never heard of you before --forgive
me for saying so. But the name was sufficiently musical --Theodosios Procopides -that
it stuck in my mind."
"You said that in your vision someone had spoken to you about plans to kill me."
"Ominous, to be sure. But as I also said, I know little more than that."
"I don't doubt you, Mr. Cheung. But if I could locate the person you were speaking
to in your vision, obviously that person knows more."
"But, as I said, I do not know who he was."
"If you could describe him?"
"Of course. He was white. White, like a northern European, not olive-skinned like
yourself. He was no older than fifty in my vision, meaning he'd be about your age
today. We were speaking English, and his accent was American."
"There are many American accents," said Theo.
"Yes, yes," said Cheung. "I mean he spoke like a New Englander --someone from
Boston, perhaps."
Lloyd's vision apparently placed him in New England as well; of course, it couldn't
be Lloyd that Cheung had been speaking to --at that moment, Lloyd was off
boinking that crone ...
"What else can you tell me about the man's speech? Did he sound well-educated?"
"Yes, now that you mention it, I suppose he did. He used the word 'apprehensive'
--not an overly fancy term, but not one likely to be employed by an illiterate."
"What exactly did he say? Can you recount the conversation?"
"I will try. We were indoors somewhere. It was North America. That much was
apparent by the shape of the electrical outlets; I always think they look like surprised
babies here. Anyway, this man said to me, 'He killed Theo.' "
"The man you were speaking with killed me?"
"No. No, I was quoting him. He said, 'he' --some other he --'killed Theo.' "
"You're sure he said 'he'?"
"Yes."
Well, that was something, anyway; in one fell swoop, four billion potential
suspects had been eliminated.
Cheung continued. "He said, 'He killed Theo,' and I said, 'Theo who?' And the man
replied, 'You know, Theodosios Procopides.' And I said, 'Oh, yeah.' That is precisely
how I said it --'Oh, yeah.' I fear my spontaneous English speech has not yet
attained that degree of informality, but, apparently given another twenty-one years,
it will. In any event, it was clear I will know you --or at least know of you --in the
year 2030."
"Go on."
"Well, then my interlocutor said to me, 'He beat us to him.' "
"I --I beg your pardon?"
"He said, 'He beat us to him.' " Cheung lowered his head. "Yes, I know how that
sounds --it sounds as though my associate and I had designs on your life as well."
The old man spread his arms. "Dr. Procopides, I am a wealthy man --indeed, a very
wealthy man. I will not say to you that people do not reach my level without being
ruthless, for we both know that that is untrue. I have dealt very harshly with rivals
over the years, and I have perhaps even skirted the edges of the law. But I am not
just a businessman; I am also a Christian." He lifted a hand. "Please, do not be
alarmed; I will not lecture you --I know that in some Western circles to boldly
declare one's faith engenders discomfort, as if one had brought up a topic best never
discussed in polite company. I mention it only to establish a salient fact: I may be a
hard man, but I am also a God-fearing man --and I would never countenance
murder. At my current advanced age, you can well imagine that I am set in my
ways; I cannot believe that in the final years of my life, I will break a moral code I
have lived by since childhood. I know what you are thinking --the obvious
interpretation of the words 'he beat us to him' is that somebody else killed you
before my associates could have done the deed. But I say again that I am no
murderer. Besides, you are, I know, a physicist, and I do little business in that realm
--my principal area of investment, besides real estate, which, of course, everyone
should invest in, is biological research: pharmaceuticals, genetic engineering, and so
on. I am not a scientist myself, you understand --just a capitalist. But I think you
would agree that a physicist would not possibly be an obstacle to the sorts of things I
pursue, and, as I say, I am no killer. Still, there are those words, which I report to
you verbatim: 'He beat us to him.' "
Theo looked at the man, considering. "If that's the case," he said at last,
measuring his words carefully, "why are you telling me this?"
Cheung nodded, as if he'd expected the question. "Naturally, one does not
normally discuss plans to commit murder with the intended victim. But, as I said, Dr.
Procopides, I am a Christian; I believe, therefore, that not only is your life at stake,
but so too is my soul. I have no interest in becoming involved, even peripherally, in
such a sinful business as homicide. And since the future can be changed, I wish it to
be so. You are on the trail of whomever it was who will kill you; if you do manage to
prevent your death at the hands of that person, whomever it might be, well, then,
my associates will not be beaten to it. I take you into my confidence in hopes that
you will not only avoid being shot --it was death by gunshot, was it not? --by this
other person, but also by anyone involved with me. I do not want your --or
anyone's --blood on my hands."
Theo exhaled noisily. It was staggering enough to think that one person would
someday want him dead --but to hear now that multiple parties would wish him that
way was shocking.
Perhaps the old man was crazy --although he didn't seem that way. Still, twentyone
years hence he would be ... would be ... well, exactly how old? "Forgive my
impertinence," said Theo, "but may I ask when you were born?"
"Certainly: February 29, 1932. That makes me all of nineteen years old."
Theo felt his eyes go wide. He was dealing with a loon ...
But Cheung smiled. "Because I was born February 29, you see --which comes but
once every four years. Seriously, I am seventy-seven years old."
Which made him a good deal older than Theo had guessed, and --my God! -would
mean he'd be ninety-eight in the year 2030.
A thought occurred to Theo: he had talked to enough people who were dreaming
in 2030; it was usually not hard to distinguish a dream from reality. But if Cheung
was ninety-eight, could he perhaps have Alzheimer's in the future? What would the
thoughts of such a brain be like?
"I'll save you from asking," said Cheung. "I do not have the gene for Alzheimer's.
I'm as surprised as you are to think that I will be alive twenty-one years hence, and
as shocked as you are that I, already having lived a full life, will apparently outlive a
young man such as yourself."
"Were you really born February 29?" asked Theo.
"Yes. It's hardly a unique attribute; there are about five million people alive who
have that birthday."
Theo considered this, then: "So this man said to you, 'He beat us to him.' What
did you say after that?"
"I said, and, again, I ask you to forgive my words, 'It's just as well.' "
Theo frowned.
"And then," continued Cheung, "I added, 'Who's next?' To which my associate
