Chronica Page 6

  She rose from the bed and walked to the shower.

  Max took in the view, and wondered if they had time—

  "We don't have the time," Sierra said, as she entered the bathroom, correctly reading Max's mind as she usually did in these situations.

  ***

  The two found Astor waiting for them at a sumptuously appointed table in the hotel's restaurant. He stood up, beamed, and motioned Sierra and Max to join him.

  A waiter brought a bowl of olives a moment after the three were seated.

  "Do you like olives?" Astor asked Sierra and Max. "These are from Greece, from the Kalamata Mountains. A fellow by the name of Monopati imports them, then cures them in olive oil, salt, and vinegar made from his own wine on his farm in Sandwich, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. He makes them the ancient way. I assure you, if you never tasted an olive like this, once you have, you'll never go back to those clumsily spiced Roman kind."

  He passed the bowl to Sierra, who had indeed enjoyed olives like these, many times, over dinners with Alcibiades. She speared one with a small narrow fork and passed the bowl on to Max. She placed the olive in her mouth, bit into it, and her eyes began to water.

  Astor gently put his hand on hers. "It's ok my dear. Your secrets are safe with me. I only want to help." His gaze included Max.

  Sierra withdrew her hand, though she didn't mind the feel of Astor's on hers. "What secrets would those be?" she asked Astor, coldly.

  Max moved his chair back from the table, and started to stand. "Maybe this lunch is not such a good idea."

  Astor stood, and urged Max to sit. "Please," he said. "I only want to be of assistance to you. What you are endeavoring to do, what you are doing, must be a Herculean task indeed, if I am understanding correctly."

  Max slowly sat. Neither he nor Sierra spoke.

  "I know William very well," Astor continued. "He has not betrayed you. But I can put two and two together – it isn't too hard to guess how he suddenly obtained this wealth of manuscripts."

  Sierra decided at that instant that there was nothing to gain by continuing to play this so coyly. "Most people would think anyone who claimed to travel through time was either lying or insane," she said, quietly.

  Astor nodded. "Do you know the philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce – spelt P, e, i, r, c, e, but pronounced 'purse'?" I met him at a lecture William James was giving, several years ago."

  "A silk purse from a sow's ear?" Max quipped. "Yes, of course we know of him – he is also a disciple of John Dewey, the pragmatist, is he not?" Max was taking care to use the present tense as well as converse in as old-fashioned a way as he could manage, in case Sierra needed to say that she was just playing games with this Astor with her remark about time travel.

  "Good," Astor replied. "I'm gratified that his work has survived into your future. He speaks of fallibilism – that everything, including the keenest rationality, has its flaws and its limits. So, yes, most rational minds would think time travel was impossible, but that does not mean they would be right."

  Again, Sierra and Max said nothing.

  Astor continued, looking with a penetrating gaze at Sierra. "I had dinner at the Millennium Club with your mentor, Thomas, a few years ago. He told me about the wondrous things the two of you are doing. He told me how William Appleton was helping you. He asked me to keep on eye on William, who of course is no youngster. He wanted a younger man, back here, to know what has happening. I was honored that he chose me."

  "Thomas O'Leary?" Sierra was barely able to speak the name.

  "When did you have this dinner with him?" Max asked.

  "Several years ago, as I said," Astor replied. "I have not seen him since."

  The waiter approached to take their order, and with a written message for Astor. He read it quickly at looked up and Sierra and Max. "Business calls, but it's just as well – I do not want to overwhelm you. We shall speak again, soon." He stood, bowed slightly, and walked away. Then he turned around and came back to the table. "Dvořák – Antonin Dvořák – do you know him?"

  Sierra nodded.

  "Will you join me tomorrow – as my guests? His From the New World symphony is being performed," Astor said, "on West 25th Street. It's a marvelous work! Do you know it? Of course you do – it's a masterpiece that will survive for millennia! I'll leave details for you at the front desk, this afternoon." Astor turned again, walked away, softly whistling the theme from the Symphony's Second Movement.

  ***

  Max and Sierra ordered a lunch of cheese, fruit, and breads and consumed it quickly. Neither said a word about Astor, operating on the unconscious futuristic assumption that, who knew, this dining room and their conversation could have been bugged.

  Sierra finally said something about being recorded by Astor as the two walked out onto Fifth Avenue in the early autumn sunshine and began to stroll north.

  "That's logically not very likely," Max said, "certainly not with equipment that could pick up what we were saying. The phonograph is still very weak, and can't record very clearly at a distance. Though – Astor did say that logic has its limits."

  Sierra stopped walking. She turned to Max. "Look, the question for me is can we work with him, get to know him as we have William, and not tell him about his appointment to drown on the Titanic?"

  "We'll need to think about that," Max replied, "but that's not the only question."

  "Ok," Sierra said, not sure where Max was headed. "What's the other one?"

  "I saw your face when Astor mentioned Thomas's name," Max said.

  "He might be a good person to talk to," Sierra responded, "as a check on what Astor says Thomas told him. For all we know, Astor could be working with Heron."

  "Appleton seems to have confidence in Astor, but fair enough," Max said. "Still, that's not the only reason you'd love to see Thomas."

  Sierra began walking, then reached back to take Max's hand and pull him along.

  "I know you still love him – Alcibiades," Max said, softly. "I can't compete with that. But I thought—"

  "Alcibiades made his decision when he decided to leave me in the past, and live in the future as Thomas," Sierra said, with a husky voice. "I don't know what I could do to change that, and at this point I really don't want to."

  Max squeezed her hand. "I'm not trying to wring a commitment out of you— All right, let's talk about John Jacob Astor."

  Sierra smiled. "You know, this whole thing started with our attempt to save Socrates. Now we're about to consider whether we should try to save John Jacob Astor from his fate. I guess not exactly the loftiest progression."

  ***

  The two continued north on Fifth Avenue. "Are we going to the Millennium Club?" Max asked.

  "I'm not sure," Sierra replied. "You know, I always loved Dvořák's New World Symphony – my mother took me to a Philharmonic concert when I was a kid, and they gave it a rousing rendition. Come to think of it, I'm sure I heard it at least once, playing in Thomas's office, when I went in to see him about my dissertation. He was leaning back in his chair, dangling that long pen in his fingers like a plastic cigarette – God, that seems like more than one lifetime ago. Maybe Thomas heard the symphony when he was back here on one of his trips, with Dvořák sitting right next to him in the audience. You think Astor talking about Dvořák to us now is a coincidence?"

  "Probably not," Max replied. "Time travel strings together events that otherwise would be taken as coincidence."

  "Time travel makes a mockery of coincidence," Sierra agreed, then drew Max's attention to a man across the street, walking briskly on Fifth Avenue, in a white suit. "That's not Samuel Clemens, is it?"

  Max tried to squint without being too obvious. "No – same shock of hair, but no moustache. He always had a moustache, didn't he? And Astor said he was overseas now."

  "You're right," Sierra said, "not Clemens. But that gives me an idea. Why don't we continue to the Millennium Club, and see if we can take a pair of Chairs ten years forward, to 1906. If tha
t movie I saw about Clemens when I was in high school was right—"

  "The Belle of New York?" Max asked.

  "Yeah. According to that movie, Clemens was a fixture on this avenue in 1906. And if we don't run into him here, we can visit him at his townhouse, also on Fifth Avenue."

  "What about Astor?" Max asked.

  "The Chairs are much more precise now – someone must've made some adjustments in the future," Sierra said. "We should have no trouble getting back here just a few moments after we left, regardless of how long we stay in 1906."

  "And if the Chairs are gone?"

  "Then Astor will just have to wait for another meeting with us," Sierra replied. "I don't trust him completely, not yet. And another ally – Clemens – that we bring into this, rather than thrusts himself upon us, could be good for us."

  ***

  They were at the Millennium Club on West 49th Street off Fifth Avenue in a few minutes.

  A familiar face greeted them at the open door. "I know better than to ask where the two of you have been," Cyril Charles said with a big smile, "far too complicated. So I'll confine myself to inquiring if the two of you are well, which you appear to be."

  "We are, Mr. Charles, thank you," Sierra said and returned the big smile. She decided not to hug him, because he seemed a little younger than usual, which meant she couldn't be too sure about the status of their father-and-daughter-like relationship at this point, though judging the age of these Millennium guys was always a challenge.

  "Will you be relaxing in the lounge or using the room upstairs?" Charles inquired.

  "Upstairs," Sierra replied.

  Charles nodded. "I believe there is only one Chair there at the moment, but by all means go up and see for yourselves," he said, and pointed to the first set of stairs, wide and gradual, that would bring them to a floor with the bar, the dining room, and a second set of stairs, also wide and gradual, which led to the floor with the main part of the library. In the corner of the main library was another set of stairs, not as wide, which led to the classics library, all of its books in Greek and Latin – decreasingly visited as the years progressed – and a final set of stairs, narrow, steep, and winding, which led up to the room with the Chairs. "You know the way," Charles said, "but allow me to unlock the door for you."

  "Thank you," Sierra said.

  "Who used the second chair," Max said quietly to Sierra, as to the two slowly walked up the stairs to the library floor, then to the second library floor, about half a staircase behind Cyril Charles. "We haven't been here that long, since we arrived with the two Chairs."

  "Very good question," Sierra said.

  The three climbed the final, winding set of stairs. Cyril Charles opened the door to the room with the Chairs. "I shall leave you to your business," he said, in his courtly way. He bowed and walked back down the stairs.

  Sierra and Max entered the room, which indeed contained only one Chair. "I suppose you want to take the one Chair to 1906 and Mark Twain," Max said. "I'm not happy with leaving you alone again."

  They both knew that the first time he had left her alone had been when he had been killed – or, almost killed, depending on how you looked at it – on the shores of the Thames in Londinium in 150 AD.

  "No, I'm much more interested now in who took the second chair," Sierra said. "And I agree that it's not a good idea for us to split forces in these circumstances."

  "So maybe we should have a drink in the bar after all," Max said, "and see if anyone arrives."

  "That could take months or longer," Sierra said, "but a drink is a good idea."

  Max pointed to the weak incandescent bulb that lit the room. "I wonder if they have a way, back here, of knowing if a Chair has arrived in the room – they seem to already have some kind of primitive electrical wiring."

  "Could be," Sierra said. "We can ask Mr. Charles."

  "Hell, we can ask him who took the Chair," Max said.

  "He won't tell us – they don't usually talk about those things."

  The two walked out of the room and closed the door.

  "Was that bulb flashing?" Max asked. "I just caught a glimpse."

  Sierra re-opened the door. The incandescent bulb was indeed flashing. "Could be an alert for an arriving Chair," Sierra said.

  She closed the door and they both walked a little down the winding stairs. They both knew that standing in too close proximity to an arriving or departing Chair could be lethal.

  They slowly walked back up the stairs after a few minutes. They heard noise in the room within. The door opened.

  "Fancy meeting you two here," John Jacob Astor said, beaming, and extended his hand for a handshake with Max and a squeeze of the hand with Sierra.

  ***

  Sierra knew this changed everything with Astor, instantly making him less and more dangerous. He had not only heard about time travel from Thomas, he was doing it himself. So he was less dangerous in terms of knowing their secrets, but more so in terms of what he might be doing with these Chairs.

  Sierra also noted that Astor was wearing the exact same clothes as when they last saw him, little more than an hour ago.

  Astor caught the meaning of Sierra's appraising expression. "I went back to 1881 to help Bell with the funding for his telephone device – marvelous invention," Astor said. "Most people back then don't yet see that – William Orton, God rest his soul, President of Western Union when the telephone was patented, declined to invest. He was under the misapprehension that the telephone would never be more than a scientific toy."

  Sierra nodded.

  "In any event, I'll leave you two to your business with these Chairs," Astor said jovially and winked. "You don't yet know me well enough that I would presume to ask where you are going. I'll see you tomorrow night at the concert." He tipped his hat – which Sierra for the first time noticed he was wearing – and walked quickly down the spiral stairs.

  "Maybe we should postpone the visit with Mark Twain," Max said, "and see if we can find out more about this Astor guy."

  "My thoughts exactly," Sierra said. "And I'm regretting as always that our digital devices don't survive our travels with the Chairs – Heron's doing, I once brought back a little digital dictionary to Alcibiades."

  "They have libraries back here," Max said. "Maybe we should visit one and see what the newspapers have to say about Astor."

  Sierra laughed, ironically. "If I'm not mistaken, Astor's grandfather or great-grandfather founded the New York Public Library in the 1850s. But I don't know where the main branch is now – we didn't pass it as we walked up Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street."

  "I think that's a few years away from being constructed there," Max said. "Cyril Charles would know where the closest, decently-stocked branch is now."

  ***

  They encountered Cyril Charles as expected at his post in the vestibule. He knew better than to ask them whether they had traveled somewhere and returned, or had decided not to travel through time at this point at all.

  Max smiled and shook his hand. "Do you know the address of the closest branch of the New York Public Library?"

  "That would be the Lenox Library, up on 70th Street and Fifth Avenue," Charles answered, immediately. "There's also the Astor Library to the south – but that is a bit further away, below Washington Square Park." He smiled slightly, knowingly, at the name Astor.