======================
10^16 to 1
by James Patrick Kelly
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Copyright (c)1999 James Patrick Kelly
First published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, June 1999

Fictionwise Contemporary
Science Fiction
Hugo Award Nominee

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        But the best evidence we have that time travel is not possible, and
never will be, is that we have not been invaded by hordes of tourists from the
future.
        Stephen Hawking, "The Future of the Universe"

       I REMEMBER now how lonely I was when I met Cross. I never let anyone
know about it, because being alone back then didn't make me quite so unhappy.
Besides, I was just a kid. I thought it was my own fault.
       It looked like I had friends. In 1962, I was on the swim team and got
elected Assistant Patrol Leader of the Wolf Patrol in Boy Scout Troop 7. When
sides got chosen for kickball at recess, I was usually the fourth or fifth
pick. I wasn't the best student in the sixth grade of John Jay Elementary
School -- that was Betty Garolli. But I was smart and the other kids made me
feel bad about it. So I stopped raising my hand when I knew the answer and I
watched my vocabulary. I remember I said albeit once in class and they teased
me for weeks. Packs of girls would come up to me on the playground. "Oh Ray,"
they'd call and when I turned around they'd scream, "All beat it!" and run
away, choking with laughter.
       It wasn't that I wanted to be popular or anything. All I really wanted
was a friend, one friend, a friend I didn't have to hide anything from. Then
came Cross, and that was the end of that.
       One of the problems was that we lived so far away from everything. Back
then, Westchester County wasn't so suburban. Our house was deep in the woods
in tiny Willoughby, New York, at the dead end of Cobb's Hill Road. In the
winter, we could see Long Island Sound, a silver needle on the horizon
pointing toward the city. But school was a half hour drive away and the
nearest kid lived in Ward's Hollow, three miles down the road, and he was a
dumb fourth-grader.
       So I didn't have any real friends. Instead, I had science fiction. Mom
used to complain that I was obsessed. I watched Superman reruns every day
after school. On Friday nights Dad used to let me stay up for Twilight Zone,
but that fall CBS had temporarily cancelled it. It came back in January after
everything happened, but was never quite the same. On Saturdays, I watched old
sci-fi movies on Adventure Theater. My favorites were Forbidden Planet and The
Day The Earth Stood Still. I think it was because of the robots. I decided
that when I grew up and it was the future, I was going to buy one, so I
wouldn't have to be alone anymore.
       On Monday mornings I'd get my weekly allowance -- a quarter. Usually
I'd get off the bus that same afternoon down in Ward's Hollow so I could go to
Village Variety. Twenty five cents bought two comics and a pack of red
licorice. I especially loved DC's Green Lantern, Marvel's Fantastic Four and
Incredible Hulk, but I'd buy almost any superhero. I read all the science
fiction books in the library twice, even though Mom kept nagging me to try
different things. But what I loved best of all was Galaxy magazine. Dad had a
subscription and when he was done reading them he would slip them to me. Mom
didn't approve. I always used to read them up in the attic or out in the
lean-to I'd lashed together in the woods. Afterwards I'd store them under my
bunk in the bomb shelter. I knew that after the nuclear war, there would be no
TV or radio or anything and I'd need something to keep me busy when I wasn't
fighting mutants.
       I was too young in 1962 to understand about Mom's drinking. I could see
that she got bright and wobbly at night, but she was always up in the morning
to make me a hot breakfast before school. And she would have graham crackers
and peanut butter waiting when I came home -- sometimes cinnamon toast. Dad
said I shouldn't ask Mom for rides after five because she got so tired keeping
house for us. He sold Andersen windows and was away a lot, so I was pretty
much stranded most of the time. But he always made a point of being home on
the first Tuesday of the month, so he could take me to the Scout meeting at
7:30.
       No, looking back on it, I can't really say that I had an unhappy
childhood -- until I met Cross.
         ****
I remember it was a warm Saturday afternoon in October. The leaves covering
the ground were still crisp and their scent spiced the air. I was in the
lean-to I'd built that spring, mostly to practice the square and diagonal
lashings I needed for Scouts. I was reading Galaxy. I even remember the story:
"The Ballad of Lost C'Mell" by Cordwainer Smith. The squirrels must have been
chittering for some time, but I was too engrossed by Lord Jestocost's problems
to notice. Then I heard a faint crunch, not ten feet away. I froze, listening.
Crunch, crunch ... then silence. It could've been a dog, except that dogs
didn't usually slink through the woods. I was hoping it might be a deer --
I'd never seen deer in Willoughby before, although I'd heard hunters shooting.
I scooted silently across the dirt floor and peered between the dead saplings.
       At first I couldn't see anything, which was odd. The woods weren't all
that thick and the leaves had long since dropped from the understory brush. I
wondered if I had imagined the sounds; it wouldn't have been the first time.
Then I heard a twig snap, maybe a foot away. The wall shivered as if something
had brushed against it, but there was nothing there. Nothing. I might have
screamed then, except my throat started to close. I heard whatever it was
skulk to the front of the lean-to. I watched in horror as an unseen weight
pressed an acorn into the soft earth and then I scrambled back into the
farthest corner. That's when I noticed that, when I wasn't looking directly at
it, the air where the invisible thing should have been shimmered like a
mirage. The lashings that held the frame creaked, as if it were bending over
to see what it had caught, getting ready to drag me, squealing, out into the
sun and ...
       "Oh, fuck," it said in a high, panicky voice and then it thrashed away
into the woods.
       In that moment I was transformed -- and I suppose that history too was
forever changed. I had somehow scared the thing off, twelve-year-old scrawny
me! But more important was what it had said. Certainly I was well aware of the
existence of the word fuck before then, but I had never dared use it myself,
nor do I remember hearing it spoken by an adult. A spaz like the Murphy kid
might say it under his breath, but he hardly counted. I'd always thought of it
as language's atomic bomb; used properly the word should make brains shrivel,
eardrums explode. But when the invisible thing said fuck and then ran away, it
betrayed a vulnerability that made me reckless and more than a little stupid.
       "Hey, stop!" I took off in pursuit.
       I didn't have any trouble chasing it. The thing was no Davy Crockett;
it was noisy and clumsy and slow. I could see a flickery outline as it
lumbered along. I closed to within twenty feet and then had to hold back or I
would've caught up to it. I had no idea what to do next. We blundered on in
slower and slower motion until finally I just stopped.
       "W-Wait," I called. "W-What do you want?" I put my hands on my waist
and bent over like I was trying to catch my breath, although I didn't need to.
      The thing stopped too but didn't reply. Instead it sucked air in wheezy,
ragged hooofs. It was harder to see, now that it was standing still, but I
think it must have turned toward me.
       "Are you okay?" I said.
       "You are a child." It spoke with an odd, chirping kind of accent. Child
was Ch-eye-eld.
       "I'm in the sixth grade." I straightened, spread my hands in front of
me to show that I wasn't a threat. "What's your name?" It didn't answer. I
took a step toward it and waited. Still nothing, but at least it didn't bolt.
"I'm Ray Beaumont," I said finally. "I live over there." I pointed. "How come
I can't see you?"
       "What is the date?" It said da-ate-eh.
       For a moment I thought it meant data. Data? I puzzled over an answer. I
didn't want it thinking I was just a stupid little kid. "I don't know," I said
cautiously. "October twentieth?"
       The thing considered this, then asked a question that took my breath
away. "And what is the year?"
       "Oh jeez," I said. At that point I wouldn't have been surprised if Rod
Serling himself had popped out from behind a tree and started addressing the
unseen TV audience. Which might have included me, except this was really
happening. "Do you know what you just ... what it means when ..."
       "What, what?" Its voice rose in alarm.
       "You're invisible and you don't know what year it is? Everyone knows
what year it is. Are you ... you're not from here."
       "Yes, yes, I am. 1962, of course. This is 1962." It paused. "And I am
not invisible." It squeezed about eight syllables into invisible. I heard a
sound like paper ripping. "This is only camel." Or at least, that's what I
thought it said.
       "Camel?"
       "No, camo." The air in front of me crinkled and slid away from a dark
face. "You have not heard of camouflage?"
       "Oh sure, camo."
       I suppose the thing meant to reassure me by showing itself, but the
effect was just the opposite. Yes, it had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. It
stripped off the camouflage to reveal a neatly-pressed gray three piece
business suit, a white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. At night, on a
crowded street in Manhattan, I might've passed it right by -- Dad had taught
me not to stare at the kooks in the city. But in the afternoon light, I could
see all the things wrong with its disguise. The hair, for example. Not exactly
a crewcut, it was more of a stubble, like Mr. Rudowski's chin when he was
growing his beard. The thing was way too thin, its skin was shiny, its fingers
too long and its face -- it looked like one of those Barbie dolls.
       "Are you a boy or a girl?" I said.
       It started. "There is something wrong?"
       I cocked my head to one side. "I think maybe it's your eyes. They're
too big or something. Are you wearing makeup?"
       "I am naturally male." It -- he bristled as he stepped out of the
camouflage suit. "Eyes do not have gender."
       "If you say so." I could see he was going to need help getting around,
only he didn't seem to know it. I was hoping he'd reveal himself, brief me on
the mission. I even had an idea how we could contact President Kennedy or
whoever he needed to meet with. Mr. Newell, the Scoutmaster, used to be a
colonel in the Army -- he would know some general who could call the Pentagon.
"What's your name?" I said.
       He draped the suit over his arm. "Cross."
       I waited for the rest of it as he folded the suit in half. "Just
Cross?" I said.
       "My given name is Chitmansing." He warbled it like he was calling
birds.
       "That's okay," I said. "Let's just make it Mr. Cross."
       "As you wish, Mr. Beaumont." He folded the suit again, again and again.

       "Hey!"
       He continued to fold it.
       "How do you do that? Can I see?"
       He handed it over. The camo suit was more impossible than it had been
when it was invisible. He had reduced it to a six inch square card, as thin
and flexible as the queen of spades. I folded it in half myself. The two sides
seemed to meld together; it would've fit into my wallet perfectly. I wondered
if Cross knew how close I was to running off with his amazing gizmo. He'd
never catch me. I could see flashes of my brilliant career as the invisible
superhero. Tales to Confound presents: the origin of Camo Kid! I turned the
card over and over, trying to figure out how to unfold it again. There was no
seam, no latch. How could I use it if I couldn't open it? "Neat," I said.
Reluctantly, I gave the card back to him.
       Besides, real superheroes didn't steal their powers.
       I watched Cross slip the card into his vest pocket. I wasn't scared of
him. What scared me was that at any minute he might walk out of my life. I had
to find a way to tell him I was on his side, whatever that was.
       "So you live around here, Mr. Cross?"
       "I am from the island of Mauritius."
       "Where's that?"
       "It is in the Indian Ocean, Mr. Beaumont, near Madagascar."
       I knew where Madagascar was from playing Risk, so I told him that but
then I couldn't think of what else to say. Finally, I had to blurt out
something -- anything -- to fill the silence. "It's nice here. Real quiet, you
know. Private."
       "Yes, I had not expected to meet anyone." He, too, seemed at a loss. "I
have business in New York City on the twenty-sixth of October."
       "New York, that's a ways away."
       "Is it? How far would you say?"
       "Fifty miles. Sixty, maybe. You have a car?"
       "No, I do not drive, Mr. Beaumont. I am to take the train."
       The nearest train station was New Canaan, Connecticut. I could've hiked
it in maybe half a day. It would be dark in a couple of hours. "If your
business isn't until the twenty-sixth, you'll need a place to stay."
       "The plan is to take rooms at a hotel in Manhattan."
       "That costs money."
       He opened a wallet and showed me a wad of crisp new bills. For a minute
I thought they must be counterfeit; I hadn't realized that Ben Franklin's
picture was on money. Cross was giving me the goofiest grin. I just knew
they'd eat him alive in New York and spit out the bones.
       "Are you sure you want to stay in a hotel?" I said.
       He frowned. "Why would I not?"
       "Look, you need a friend, Mr. Cross. Things are different here than ...
than on your island. Sometimes people do, you know, bad stuff. Especially in
the city."
       He nodded and put his wallet away. "I am aware of the dangers, Mr.
Beaumont. I have trained not to draw attention to myself. I have the proper
equipment." He tapped the pocket where the camo was.
       I didn't point out to him that all his training and equipment hadn't
kept him from being caught out by a twelve-year-old. "Sure, okay. It's just
... Look, I have a place for you to stay, if you want. No one will know."
        "Your parents, Mr. Beaumont ..."
        "My dad's in Massachusetts until next Friday. He travels; he's in the
window business. And my mom won't know."
        "How can she not know that you have invited a stranger into your
house?"
        "Not the house," I said. "My dad built us a bomb shelter. You'll be
safe there, Mr. Cross. It's the safest place I know."
          ****
        I remember how Cross seemed to lose interest in me, his mission and the
entire twentieth century the moment he entered the shelter. He sat around all
of Sunday, dodging my attempts to draw him out. He seemed distracted, like he
was listening to a conversation I couldn't hear. When he wouldn't talk, we
played games. At first it was cards: Gin and Crazy Eights, mostly. In the
afternoon, I went back to the house and brought over checkers and Monopoly.
Despite the fact that he did not seem to be paying much attention, he beat me
like a drum. Not one game was even close. But that wasn't what bothered me. I
believed that this man had come from the future, and here I was building
hotels on Baltic Avenue!
        Monday was a school day. I thought Cross would object to my plan of
locking him in and taking both my key and Mom's key with me, but he never said
a word. I told him that it was the only way I could be sure that Mom didn't
catch him by surprise. Actually, I doubted she'd come all the way out to the
shelter. She'd stayed away after Dad gave her that first tour; she had about
as much use for nuclear war as she had for science fiction. Still, I had no
idea what she did during the day while I was gone. I couldn't take chances.
Besides, it was a good way to make sure that Cross didn't skin out on me.
        Dad had built the shelter instead of taking a vacation in 1960, the
year Kennedy beat Nixon. It was buried about a hundred and fifty feet from the
house. Nothing special -- just a little cellar without anything built on top
of it. The entrance was a steel bulkhead that led down five steps to another
steel door. The inside was cramped; there were a couple of cots, a sink and a
toilet. Almost half of the space was filled with supplies and equipment. There
were no windows and it always smelled a little musty, but I loved going down
there to pretend the bombs were falling.
        When I opened the shelter door after school on that Monday, Cross lay
just as I had left him the night before, sprawled across the big cot, staring
at nothing. I remember being a little worried; I thought he might be sick. I
stood beside him and still he didn't acknowledge my presence.
        "Are you all right, Mr. Cross?" I said. "I bought Risk." I set it next
to him on the bed and nudged him with the corner of the box to wake him up.
"Did you eat?"
        He sat up, took the cover off the game and started reading the rules.
"President Kennedy will address the nation," he said, "this evening at seven
o'clock."
        For a moment, I thought he had made a slip. "How do you know that?"
        "The announcement came last night." I realized that his pronunciation
had improved a lot; announcement had only three syllables. "I have been
studying the radio."
        I walked over to the radio on the shelf next to the sink. Dad said we
were supposed to leave it unplugged -- something about the bombs making a
power surge. It was a brand new solid-state, multi-band Heathkit that I'd
helped him build. When I pressed the on button, women immediately started
singing about shopping: Where the values go up, up, up! And the prices go
down, down, down! I turned it off again.
        "Do me a favor, okay?" I said. "Next time when you're done would you
please unplug this? I could get in trouble if you don't." I stooped to yank
the plug.
        When I stood up, he was holding a sheet of paper. "I will need some
things tomorrow, Mr. Beaumont. I would be grateful if you could assist me."
        I glanced at the list without comprehension. He must have typed it,
only there was no typewriter in the shelter.

      To buy:
      -One General Electric transistor radio with earplug
      -One General Electric replacement earplug
      -Two Eveready Heavy Duty nine volt batteries
      -One New York Times, Tuesday, October 23
      -Rand McNally map of New York City and vicinity
      To receive in change:
      -Five dollars in coins
      -twenty nickels
      -ten dimes
      -twelve quarters

       When I looked up, I could feel the change in him. His gaze was
electric; it seemed to crackle down my nerves. I could tell that what I did
next would matter very much. "I don't get it," I said.
       "There are inaccuracies?"
       I tried to stall. "Look, you'll pay almost double if we buy a
transistor radio at Ward's Hollow. I'll have to buy it at Village Variety.
Wait a couple of days -- we can get one much cheaper down in Stamford."
       "My need is immediate." He extended his hand and tucked something into
the pocket of my shirt. "I am assured this will cover the expense."
       I was afraid to look, even though I knew what it was. He'd given me a
hundred dollar bill. I tried to thrust it back at him but he stepped away and
it spun to the floor between us. "I can't spend that."
       "You must read your own money, Mr. Beaumont." He picked the bill up and
brought it into the light of the bare bulb on the ceiling. "This note is legal
tender for all debts public and private."
       "No, no, you don't understand. A kid like me doesn't walk into Village
Variety with a hundred bucks. Mr. Rudowski will call my mom!"
       "If it is inconvenient for you, I will secure the items myself." He
offered me the money again.
       If I didn't agree, he'd leave and probably never come back. I was
getting mad at him. Everything would be so much easier if only he'd admit
what we both knew about who he was. Then I could do whatever he wanted with a
clear conscience. Instead he was keeping all the wrong secrets and acting
really weird. It made me feet dirty, like I was helping a pervert. "What's
going on?" I said.
       "I do not know how to respond, Mr. Beaumont. You have the list. Read it
now and tell me please with which item you have a problem."
       I snatched the hundred dollars from him and jammed it into my pants
pocket. "Why don't you trust me?"
       He stiffened as if I had hit him.
       "I let you stay here. I didn't tell anyone. You have to give me
something, Mr. Cross."
       "Well then ... " He looked uncomfortable. "I would ask you to keep the
change."
       "Oh jeez, thanks." I snorted in disgust. "Okay, okay, I'll buy this
stuff right after school tomorrow."
       With that, he seemed to lose interest again. When we opened the Risk
board, he showed me where his island was, except it wasn't there because it
was too small. We played three games and he crushed me every time. I remember
at the end of the last game, watching in disbelief as he finished building a
wall of invading armies along the shores of North Africa. South America, my
last continent, was doomed. "Looks like you win again," I said. I traded in
the last of my cards for new armies and launched a final, useless
counter-attack. When I was done, he studied the board for a moment.
       "I think Risk is not a proper simulation, Mr. Beaumont. We should both
lose for fighting such a war."
       "That's crazy," I said. "Both sides can't lose."
       "Yet they can," he said. "It sometimes happens that the victors envy
the dead."
         ****
That night was the first time I can remember being bothered by Mom talking
back to the TV. I used to talk to the TV too. When Buffalo Bob asked what time
it was, I would screech It's Howdy Doody Time just like every other kid in
America.
       "My fellow citizens," said President Kennedy, "let no one doubt that
this is a difficult and dangerous effort on which we have set out." I thought
the president looked tired, like Mr. Newell on the third day of a campout. "No
one can foresee precisely what course it will take or what costs or casualties
will be incurred."
       "Oh my god," Mom screamed at him. "You're going to kill us all!"
       Despite the fact that it was close to her bedtime and she was shouting
at the President of the United States, Mom looked great. She was wearing a
shiny black dress and a string of pearls. She always got dressed up at night,
whether Dad was home or not. I suppose most kids don't notice how their
mothers look, but everyone always said how beautiful Mom was. And since Dad
thought so too, I went along with it -- as long as she didn't open her mouth.
The problem was that a lot of the time, Mom didn't make any sense. When she
embarrassed me, it didn't matter how pretty she was. I just wanted to crawl
behind the couch.
       "Mom."
       As she leaned toward the television, the martini in her glass came
close to slopping over the edge.
       President Kennedy stayed calm. "The path we have chosen for the present
is full of hazards, as all paths are -- but it is the one most consistent with
our character and courage as a nation and our commitments around the world.
The cost of freedom is always high -- but Americans have always paid it. And
one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or
submission."
       "Shut up! You foolish man, stop this." She shot out of her chair and
then some of her drink did spill. "Oh, damn!"
       "Take it easy, Mom."
       "Don't you understand?" She put the glass down and tore a Kleenex from
the box on the end table. "He wants to start World War III!" She dabbed at the
front of her dress and the phone rang.
       I said, "Mom, nobody wants World War III."
       She ignored me, brushed by and picked up the phone on the third ring.
       "Oh thank God," she said. I could tell from the sound of her voice that
it was Dad. "You heard him then?" She bit her lip as she listened to him.
"Yes, but...."
       Watching her face made me sorry I was in the sixth grade. Better to be
a stupid little kid again, who thought grownups knew everything. I wondered
whether Cross had heard the speech.
       "No, I can't, Dave. No." She covered the phone with her hand. "Raymie,
turn off that TV!"
       I hated it when she called me Raymie, so I only turned the sound down.
       "You have to come home now, Dave. No, you listen to me. Can't you see,
the man's obsessed? Just because he has a grudge against Castro doesn't mean
he's allowed to ..."
       With the sound off, Chet Huntley looked as if he were speaking at his
own funeral.
       "I am not going in there without you."
       I think Dad must have been shouting because Mom held the receiver away
from her ear.
       She waited for him to calm down and said, "And neither is Raymie. He'll
stay with me."
       "Let me talk to him," I said. I bounced off the couch. The look she
gave me stopped me dead.
        "What for?" she said to Dad. "No, we are going to finish this
conversation, David, do you hear me?"
        She listened for a moment. "Okay, all right, but don't you dare hang
up." She waved me over and slapped the phone into my hand as if I had put the
missiles in Cuba. She stalked to the kitchen.
        I needed a grownup so bad that I almost cried when I heard Dad's voice.
"Ray," he said, "your mother is pretty upset."
        "Yes," I said.
        "I want to come home -- I will come home -- but I can't just yet. If I
just up and leave and this blows over, I'll get fired."
        "But, Dad ...."
        "You're in charge until I get there. Understand, son? If the time
comes, everything is up to you."
        "Yes, sir," I whispered. I'd heard what he didn't say -- it wasn't up
to her.
        "I want you to go out to the shelter tonight. Wait until she goes to
sleep. Top off the water drums. Get all the gas out of the garage and store it
next to the generator. But here's the most important thing. You know the
sacks of rice? Drag them off to one side, the pallet too. There's a hatch
underneath, the key to the airlock door unlocks it. You've got two new guns
and plenty of ammunition. The revolver is a .357 Magnum. You be careful with
that, Ray, it can blow a hole in a car but it's hard to aim. The
double-barreled shotgun is easy to aim but you have to be close to do any
harm. And I want you to bring down the Gamemaster from my closet and the .38
from my dresser drawer." He had been talking as if there would be no tomorrow;
he paused then to catch his breath. "Now, this is all just in case, okay? I
just want you to know."
        I had never been so scared in my life.
        "Ray?"
        I should have told him about Cross then, but Mom weaved into the room.
"Got it, Dad," I said. "Here she is."
        Mom smiled at me. It was a lopsided smile that was trying to be brave
but wasn't doing a very good job of it. She had a new glass and it was full.
She held out her hand for the phone and I gave it to her.
          ****
I remember waiting until almost ten o'clock that night, reading under the
covers with a flashlight. The Fantastic Four invaded Latveria to defeat Doctor
Doom; Superman tricked Mr. Mxyzptlk into saying his name backwards once again.
When I opened the door to my parents' bedroom, I could hear Mom snoring. It
spooked me; I hadn't realized that women did that. I thought about sneaking in
to get the guns, but decided to take care of them tomorrow.
        I stole out to the shelter, turned my key in the lock and pulled on the
bulkhead door. It didn't move. That didn't make any sense, so I gave it a
hard yank. The steel door rattled terribly but did not swing away. The air had
turned frosty and the sound carried in the cold. I held my breath, listening
to my blood pound. The house stayed dark, the shelter was quiet as stones.
After a few moments, I tried one last time before I admitted to myself what
had happened.
        Cross had bolted the door shut from the inside.
          ****
I went back to my room, but couldn't sleep. I kept going to the window to
watch the sky over New York, waiting for a flash of killing light. I was all
but convinced that the city would burn that very night in thermonuclear fire
and that mom and I would die horrible deaths soon after, pounding on the
unyielding steel doors of our shelter. Dad had left me in charge and I had let
him down.
        I didn't understand why Cross had locked us out. If he knew that a
nuclear war was about to start, he might want our shelter all to himself. But
that made him a monster and I still didn't see him as a monster. I tried to
tell myself that he'd been asleep and couldn't hear me at the door -- but that
couldn't be right. What if he'd come to prevent the war? He'd said he had
business in the city on Thursday; he could be doing something really, really
futuristic in there that he couldn't let me see. Or else he was having
problems. Maybe our twentieth century germs had got to him, like they killed
H. G. Wells's Martians.
       I must have teased a hundred different ideas apart that night, in
between uneasy trips to the window and glimpses at the clock. The last time I
remember seeing was 4:16. I tried to stay up to face the end, but I couldn't.
          ****
       I wasn't dead when I woke up the next morning, so I had to go to
school. Mom had Cream of Wheat all ready when I dragged myself to the table.
Although she was all bright and bubbly, I could feel her giving me the
mother's eye when I wasn't looking. She always knew when something was wrong.
I tried not to show her anything. There was no time to sneak out to the
shelter; I barely had time to finish eating before she bundled me off to the
bus.
       Right after the morning bell, Miss Toohey told us to open The Story of
New York State to Chapter Seven, Resources and Products and read to ourselves.
Then she left the room. We looked at each other in amazement. I heard Bobby
Coniff whisper something. It was probably dirty; a few kids snickered. Chapter
Seven started with a map of product symbols. Two teeny little cows grazed near
Binghamton. Rochester was cog and a pair of glasses. Elmira was an adding
machine, Oswego an apple. There was a lightning bolt over Niagara Falls. Dad
had promised to take us there someday. I had the sick feeling that we'd never
get the chance. Miss Toohey looked pale when she came back, but that didn't
stop her from giving us a spelling test. I got a ninety-five. The word I
spelled wrong was enigma. The hot lunch was American Chop Suey, a roll, a
salad and a bowl of butterscotch pudding. In the afternoon we did decimals.
       Nobody said anything about the end of the world.
       I decided to get off the bus in Ward's Hollow, buy the stuff Cross
wanted and pretend I didn't know he had locked the shelter door last night. If
he said something about it, I'd act surprised. If he didn't ... I didn't know
what I'd do then.
       Village Variety was next to Warren's Esso and across the street from
the Post Office. It had once been two different stores located in the same
building, but then Mr. Rudowski had bought the building and knocked down the
dividing wall. On the fun side were pens and pencil and paper and greeting
cards and magazines and comics and paperbacks and candy. The other side was
all boring hardware and small appliances.
       Mr. Rudowski was on the phone when I came in, but then he was always on
the phone when he worked. He could sell you a hammer or a pack of baseball
cards, tell you a joke, ask about your family, complain about the weather and
still keep the guy on the other end of the line happy. This time though, when
he saw me come in, he turned away, wrapping the phone cord across his
shoulder.
       I went through the store quickly and found everything Cross had wanted.
I had to blow dust off the transistor radio box but the batteries looked
fresh. There was only one New York Times left; the headlines were so big they
were scary.

      US IMPOSES ARMS BLOCKADE ON CUBA
      ON FINDING OF OFFENSIVE MISSILE SITES;
      KENNEDY READY FOR SOVIET SHOWDOWN
      Ships Must Stop - President Grave - Prepared To Risk War.

       I set my purchases on the counter in front of Mr. Rudowski. He cocked
his head to one side, trapping the telephone receiver against his shoulder,
and rang me up. The paper was on the bottom of the pile.
       "Since when do you read the Times, Ray?" Mr. Rudowski punched it into
the cash register and hit total. "I just got the new Fantastic Four." The cash
drawer popped open.
       "Maybe tomorrow," I said.
       "All right then. It comes to twelve dollars and forty-seven cents."
       I gave him the hundred dollar bill.
       "What is this, Ray?" He stared at it and then at me.
       I had my story all ready. "It was a birthday gift from my grandma in
Detroit. She said I could spend it on whatever I wanted so I decided to treat
myself but I'm going to put the rest in the bank."
       "You're buying a radio? From me?"
       "Well, you know. I thought maybe I should have one with me with all
this stuff going on."
       He didn't say anything for a moment. He just pulled a paper bag from
under the counter and put my things into it. His shoulders were hunched; I
thought maybe he felt guilty about overcharging for the radio. "You should be
listening to music, Ray," he said quietly. "You like Elvis? All kids like
Elvis. Or maybe that colored, the one who does the Twist?"
       "They're all right, I guess."
       "You're too young to be worrying about the news. You hear me? Those
politicians ..." He shook his head. "It's going to be okay, Ray. You heard it
from me."
       "Sure, Mr. Rudowski. I was wondering, could I get five dollars in
change?"
       I could feel him watching me as I stuffed it all into my book bag. I
was certain he'd call my mom, but he never did. Home was three miles up Cobb's
Hill. I did it in forty minutes, a record.
          ****
I remember I started running when I saw the flashing lights. The police car
had left skid marks in the gravel on our driveway.
       "Where were you?" Mom burst out of the house as I came across the lawn.
"Oh, my God, Raymie, I was worried sick." She caught me up in her arms.
       "I got off the bus in Ward's Hollow." She was about to smother me; I
squirmed free. "What happened?"
       "This the boy, ma'am?" The state trooper had taken his time catching up
to her. He had almost the same hat as Scoutmaster Newell.
       "Yes, yes! Oh, thank God, officer!"
       The trooper patted me on the head like I was a lost dog. "You had your
mom worried, Ray."
       "Raymie, you should've told me."
       "Somebody tell me what happened!" I said.
       A second trooper came from behind the house. We watched him approach.
"No sign of any intruder." He looked bored: I wanted to scream.
       "Intruder?" I said.
       "He broke into the shelter," said Mom. "He knew my name."
       "There was no sign of forcible entry," said the second trooper. I saw
him exchange a glance with his partner. "Nothing disturbed that I could see."
       "He didn't have time," Mom said. "When I found him in the shelter, I
ran back to the house and got your father's gun from the bedroom."
       The thought of Mom with the .38 scared me. I had my Shooting merit
badge, but she didn't know a hammer from a trigger. "You didn't shoot him?"
       "No." She shook her head. "He had plenty of time to leave but he was
still there when I came back. That's when he said my name."
       I had never been so mad at her before. "You never go out to the
shelter."
       She had that puzzled look she always gets at night. "I couldn't find my
key. I had to use the one your father leaves over the breezeway door."
       "What did he say again, ma'am? The intruder."
       "He said, 'Mrs. Beaumont, I present no danger to you.' And I said, 'Who
are you?' And then he came toward me and I thought he said 'Margaret,' and I
started firing.
       "You did shoot him!"
       Both troopers must have heard the panic in my voice. The first one
said, "You know something about this man, Ray?"
       "No, I-I was at school all day and then I stopped at Rudowski's ...." I
could feel my eyes burning. I was so embarrassed; I knew I was about to cry in
front of them.
       Mom acted annoyed that the troopers had stopped paying attention to
her. "I shot at him. Three, four times, I don't know. I must have missed,
because he just stood there staring at me. It seemed like forever. Then he
walked past me and up the stairs like nothing had happened."
       "And he didn't say anything?"
       "Not a word."
       "Well, it beats me," said the second trooper. "The gun's been fired
four times but there are no bullet holes in the shelter and no bloodstains."
       "You mind if I ask you a personal question, Mrs. Beaumont?" the first
trooper said.
       She colored. "I suppose not."
       "Have you been drinking, ma'am?"
       "Oh that!" She seemed relieved. "No. Well, I mean, after I called you,
I did pour myself a little something. Just to steady my nerves. I was worried
because my son was so late and ... Raymie, what's the matter?"
       I felt so small. The tears were pouring down my face.
         ****
After the troopers left, I remember Mom baking brownies while I watched
Superman. I wanted to go out and hunt for Cross, but it was already sunset
and there was no excuse I could come up with for wandering around in the dark.
Besides, what was the point? He was gone, driven off by my mother. I'd had a
chance to help a man from the future change history, maybe prevent World War
III, and I had blown it. My life was ashes.
       I wasn't hungry that night, for brownies or spaghetti or anything, but
Mom made that clucking noise when I pushed supper around the plate, so I ate a
few bites just to shut her up. I was surprised at how easy it was to hate her,
how good it felt. Of course, she was oblivious, but in the morning she would
notice if I wasn't careful. After dinner she watched the news and I went
upstairs to read. I wrapped a pillow around my head when she yelled at David
Brinkley. I turned out the lights at 8:30, but I couldn't get to sleep. She
went to her room a little after that.
       "Mr. Beaumont?"
       I must have dozed off, but when I heard his voice I snapped awake
immediately.
       "Is that you, Mr. Cross?" I peered into the darkness. "I bought the
stuff you wanted." The room filled with an awful stink, like when Mom drove
with the parking brake on.
       "Mr. Beaumont," he said, "I am damaged."
       I slipped out of bed, picked my way across the dark room, locked the
door and turned on the light.
       "Oh jeez!"
       He slumped against my desk like a nightmare. I remember thinking then
that Cross wasn't human, that maybe he wasn't even alive. His proportions were
wrong: an ear, a shoulder and both feet sagged like they had melted. Little
wisps of steam or something curled off him; they were what smelled. His skin
had gone all shiny and hard; so had his business suit. I'd wondered why he
never took the suit coat off and now I knew. His clothes were part of him. The
middle fingers of his right hand beat spasmodically against his palm.
       "Mr. Beaumont," he said. "I calculate your chances at 10^16 to 1."
       "Chances of what?" I said. "What happened to you?"
       "You must listen most attentively, Mr. Beaumont. My decline is very bad
for history. It is for you now to alter the time line probabilities."
       "I don't understand."
       "Your government greatly overestimates the nuclear capability of the
Soviet Union. If you a originate a first strike, the United States will
achieve overwhelming victory."
        "Does the President know this? We have to tell him!"
        "John Kennedy will not welcome such information. If he starts this war,
he will be responsible for the deaths of tens of millions, both Russians and
Americans. But he does not grasp the future of the arms race. The war must
happen now, because those who come after will build and build until they
control arsenals which can destroy the world many times over. People are not
capable of thinking for very long of such fearsome weapons. They tire of the
idea of extinction and then become numb to it. The buildup slows but does not
stop and they congratulate themselves on having survived it. But there are
still too many weapons and they never go away. The Third War comes as a
surprise. The First War was called the one to end all wars. The Third War is
the only such war possible, Mr. Beaumont, because it ends everything. History
stops in 2009. Do you understand? A year later, there is no life. All dead,
the world a hot, barren rock."
        "But you ...?"
        "I am nothing, a construct. Mr. Beaumont, please, the chances are 10^16
to 1," he said. "Do you know how improbable that is?" His laugh sounded like a
hiccup. "But for the sake of those few precious time lines, we must continue.
There is a man, a politician in New York. If he dies on Thursday night, it
will create the incident that forces Kennedy's hand."
        "Dies?" For days, I had been desperate for him to talk. Now all I
wanted was to run away. "You're going to kill somebody?"
        "The world will survive a Third War that starts on Friday, October 22,
1962."
        "What about me? My parents? Do we survive?"
        "I cannot access that time line. I have no certain answer for you.
Please, Mr. Beaumont, this politician will die of a heart attack in less than
three years. He has made no great contribution to history, yet his
assassination can save the world."
        "What do you want from me?" But I had already guessed.
        "He will speak most eloquently at the United Nations on Friday evening.
Afterward he will have dinner with his friend, Ruth Fields. Around ten o'clock
he will return to his residence at the Waldorf Towers. Not the Waldorf Astoria
Hotel, but the Towers. He will take the elevator to Suite 42A. He is the
American ambassador to the United Nations. His name is Adlai Stevenson."
        "Stop it! Don't say anything else."
        When he sighed, his breath was a cloud of acrid steam. "I have based my
calculation of the time line probabilities on two data points, Mr. Beaumont,
which I discovered in your bomb shelter. The first is the .357 Magnum
revolver, located under a pallet of rice bags. I trust you know of this
weapon?"
        "Yes." I whispered.
        "The second is the collection of magazines, located under your cot. It
would seem that you take a interest in what is to come, Mr. Beaumont, and that
may lend you the terrible courage you will need to divert this time line from
disaster. You should know that there is not just one future. There are an
infinite number of futures in which all possibilities are expressed, an
infinite number of Raymond Beaumonts"
        "Mr. Cross, I can't ..."
        "Perhaps not," he said, "but I believe that another one of you can."
        "You don't understand ... ." I watched in horror as a boil swelled on
the side of his face and popped, expelling an evil jet of yellow steam.
"What?"
        "Oh fuck." That was the last thing he said.
        He slid to the floor -- or maybe he was just a body at that point. More
boils formed and burst. I opened all the windows in my room and got the fan
down out of the closet and still I can't believe that the stink didn't wake
Mom up. Over the course of the next few hours, he sort of vaporized.
       When it was over, there was a sticky, dark spot on the floor the size
of my pillow. I moved the throw rug from one side of the room to the other to
cover it up. I had nothing to prove that Cross existed but a transistor radio,
a couple of batteries, an earplug and eighty-seven dollars and fifty-three
cents in change.
          ****
I might have done things differently if I hadn't had a day to think. I can't
remember going to school on Wednesday, who I talked to, what I ate. I was
feverishly trying to figure out what to do and how to do it. I had no place to
go for answers, not Miss Toohey, not my parents, not the Bible or the Boy
Scout Handbook, certainly not Galaxy magazine. Whatever I did had to come out
of me. I watched the news with Mom that night. President Kennedy had brought
our military to the highest possible state of alert. There were reports that
some Russian ships had turned away from Cuba; others continued on course. Dad
called and said his trip was being cut short and that he would be home the
next day.
       But that was too late.
       I hid behind the stone wall when the school bus came on Thursday
morning. Mrs. Johnson honked a couple of times, and then drove on. I set out
for New Canaan, carrying my bookbag. In it were the radio, the batteries, the
coins, the map of New York and the .357. I had the rest of Cross's money in
my wallet.
       It took more than five hours to hike to the train station. I expected
to be scared, but the whole time I felt light as air. I kept thinking of what
Cross had said about the future, that I was just one of millions and millions
of Raymond Beaumonts. Most of them were in school, diagramming sentences and
watching Miss Toohey bite her nails. I was the special one, walking into
history. I was super. I caught the 2:38 train, changed in Stamford, and
arrived at Grand Central just after four. I had six hours. I bought myself a
hot pretzel and a coke and tried to decide where I should go. I couldn't just
sit around the hotel lobby for all that time; I thought that would draw too
much attention. I decided to go to the top of the Empire State Building. I
took my time walking down Park Avenue and tried not to see all the ghosts I
was about to make. In the lobby of the Empire State Building, I used Cross's
change to call home.
       "Hello?" I hadn't expected Dad to answer. I would've hung up except
that I knew I might never speak to him again.
       "Dad, this is Ray. I'm safe, don't worry."
       "Ray, where are you?"
       "I can't talk. I'm safe but I won't be home tonight. Don't worry."
       "Ray!" He was frantic. "What's going on?"
       "I'm sorry."
       "Ray!"
       I hung up; I had to. "I love you," I said to the dial tone.
       I could imagine the expression on Dad's face, how he would tell Mom
what I'd said. Eventually they would argue about it. He would shout; she
would cry. As I rode the elevator up, I got mad at them. He shouldn't have
picked up the phone. They should've protected me from Cross and the future he
came from. I was in the sixth grade, I shouldn't have to have feelings like
this. The observation platform was almost deserted. I walked completely around
it, staring at the city stretching away from me in every direction. It was
dusk; the buildings were shadows in the failing light. I didn't feel like Ray
Beaumont anymore; he was my secret identity. Now I was the superhero Bomb Boy;
I had the power of bringing nuclear war. Wherever I cast my terrible gaze,
cars melted and people burst into flame.
       And I loved it.
       It was dark when I came down from the Empire State Building. I had a
sausage pizza and a coke on 47^th Street. While I ate, I stuck the plug into
my ear and listened to the radio. I searched for the news. One announcer said
the debate was still going on in the Security Council. Our ambassador was
questioning Ambassador Zorin. I stayed with that station for a while, hoping
to hear his voice. I knew what he looked like, of course. I knew Adlai
Stevenson had run for President a couple of times when I was just a baby. But
I couldn't remember what he sounded like. He might talk to me, ask me what I
was doing in his hotel; I wanted to be ready for that.
       I arrived at the Waldorf Towers around nine o'clock. I picked a plush
velvet chair that had a direct view of the elevator bank and sat there for
about ten minutes. Nobody seemed to care but it was hard to sit still. Finally
I got up and went to the men's room. I took my bookbag into a stall, closed
the door and got the .357 out. I aimed it at the toilet. The gun was heavy
and I could tell it would have a big kick. I probably ought to hold it with
both hands. I put it back into my bookbag and flushed.
       When I came out of the bathroom, I had stopped believing that I was
going to shoot anyone, that I could. But I had to find out for Cross's sake.
If I was really meant to save the world, then I had to be in the right place
at the right time. I went back to my chair, checked my watch. It was
nine-twenty.
       I started thinking of the one who would pull the trigger, the unlikely
Ray. What would make the difference? Had he read some story in Galaxy that I
had skipped? Was it a problem with Mom? Or Dad? Maybe he had spelled enigma
right; maybe Cross had lived another thirty seconds in his time line. Or maybe
he was just the best that I could possibly be.
       I was so tired of it all. I must have walked thirty miles since morning
and I hadn't slept well in days. The lobby was warm. People laughed and
murmured. Elevator doors dinged softly. I tried to stay up to face history,
but I couldn't. I was Raymond Beaumont, but I was just a twelve-year-old kid.
       I remember the doorman waking me up at eleven o'clock. Dad drove all
the way into the city that night to get me. When we got home, Mom was already
in the shelter.
       Only the Third War didn't start that night. Or the next.
       I lost television privileges for a month.
         ****
For most people my age, the most traumatic memory of growing up came on
November 22, 1963. But the date I remember is July 14, 1965, when Adlai
Stevenson dropped dead of a heart attack in London.
       I've tried to do what I can, to make up for what I didn't do that
night. I've worked for the cause wherever I could find it. I belong to CND and
SANE and the Friends of the Earth and was active in the nuclear freeze
movement. I think the Green Party (www.greens.org) is the only political
organization worth your vote. I don't know if any of it will change Cross's
awful probabilities; maybe we'll survive in a few more time lines.
       When I was a kid, I didn't mind being lonely. Now it's hard, knowing
what I know. Oh, I have lots of friends, all of them wonderful people, but
people who know me say that there's a part of myself that I always keep
hidden. They're right. I don't think I'll ever be able to tell anyone about
what happened with Cross, what I didn't do that night. It wouldn't be fair to
them.
       Besides, whatever happens, chances are very good that it's my fault.

-----------------------

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