TIMELY INTERFERENCE

Updated Sunday 15 May, 2011 12:18 PM

TIMELY INTERFERENCE

by Thomas Wm. HAMILTON

Vivian Grafton clicked the remote to mute her television. Not that she was uninterested in watching the first lunar landing, but she despised the President, and that crook was on a split screen talking to the astronauts. Her husband had a similar, although not quite as violent a reaction to the President. Vladimir had emigrated to the United States only sixteen years ago, so he felt a bit less personally affronted. He kept an eye on the split screen without being concerned at the loss of sound. Grafton went back to considering the thesis proposal of one of her doctoral students, Brian Dunbar. A study of the various newspapers that popped up in the aftermath of the Revolution seemed a possibly acceptable topic. Grafton was immersed in the supporting material submitted when her phone rang.

"Vivian, my favorite pedant. How' ya doin'?"

Grafton sighed. Abe Ruckemov had agented four popular history books for Grafton, which had been reasonably profitable, but they weren't currently involved. "Hi, Abe. What's doing?"

"Got an interesting announcement from a big name publisher. They're looking for a quote distinguished historian of American history who is experienced in writing for the public to do a book or books for release timed to the anniversary two years from now of the Declaration of Independence unquote."

"I suppose you mean the sesquicentennial, although I wouldn't use such language in a popular level book."

"See, it's figurin' out stuff like that what makes you such a great writer."

"No doubt," Grafton replied dryly, "but have they any specified requirements other than about the Revolution, such as a narrower topic, or length? What kind of payment are they offering?"

"Two thousand on signing the contract, three thousand when the first draft is completed, seven thousand and generous royalties on acceptance. Less my fifteen per cent, of course. They're talkin' in the neighborhood of two fifty to three hunnerd pages."

Grafton thought swiftly. As full professors their income wasn't bad, but this would be a nice not so little addition to the family treasury. "Rights?"

"Pretty generous. Just first North American serial."

"Not bad at all. Any topics particularly favored or unwanted?"

"No, from what I've heard, so long as it relates to the Revolution, and is aimed at the general public, you're wide open."

"How soon would you need a proposal?"

"Can you come up with something in two weeks?"

Her husband was making shushing signals. She glanced at the screen. The President was gone, and they were looking at an astronaut bouncing away from the landing site. "I'll have something for you in less than that. Gotta go."

When the celestial hijinx were ended for the day, Grafton told her husband, a music professor, what Ruckemov wanted. "Is very good idea. Americans should be proud of revolution. Maybe someday Russia have one." She smiled, and gave him a kiss. It turned sloppy, the way they both liked it.

The following day, when she had time, Grafton looked over an index of topics relating to the Revolution. She could, of course, simply write a popular level book describing the events, but her professional pride made her look for something more creative, and possibly novel. Nothing came to mind, and she was sitting in her office staring into space when Dunbar knocked on the door.

"Come on in, maybe you'll inspire my tired brain."

"Uh, well professor, I just wondered about how the thesis committee might react to my putting something amusing in my dissertation."

"Amusing? These things aren't supposed to have jokes. What are you talking about?"

"Well, I was reading in the early editions of the Massachusetts Centinel, and I found an article one of the editors wrote about his visit to North Shore Military Academy. He described it as a religious cult because they had painted a red cross on one of their buildings. That made him assume it was a chapel or church, when it was really the school's infirmary."

"Hmm, well, that is mildly amusing, but I would just mention it as an example of misunderstanding, and let the committee members decide for themselves if they want to be amused." Privately, she felt a couple committee members had most likely never laughed in their lives.

Grafton and Dunbar had some more conversation about his planned thesis, but finally he left. Something he had said bothered her, and she couldn't put a finger on it. Finally she looked up the dates the Massachusetts Centinel had published. and found that it was started in 1784 and ceased publication in 1790. A red cross on the infirmary in the 1780s? When was that symbol adopted? She grabbed her phone, and called the New York office of the American Red Cross.

"Have you anyone on your staff who is knowledgeable in the history of the Red Cross?"

Whoever had answered the phone asked her to wait a moment. She heard a few clicks, and a voice said, "Hi, this is Evelyn Moskowitz. How may I help you?"

Grafton introduced herself, and explained she would like to know the history of the red cross emblem. Moskowitz sounded as though it was the favorite thing in her life to lecture. The symbol was used in the Crimean War and afterwards by Swiss medical volunteers serving both sides. In 1873, when newly elected American President Roger Howard had called the Washington Conference on adopting standard time zones, the British had tried to add adoption of the red cross symbol as an internationally recognized sign of medical facilities, to be avoided by military forces. This proposal was so removed from the purpose of the conference that it almost died, until President Howard had enthusiastically endorsed it, and announced all American military would use the symbol on their hospitals and aid stations, and that he would back legislation requiring it on civilian facilities as well.

Grafton listened to all this and more, finally managing to turn off the flow by thanking Moskowitz and hanging up. She next called Dunbar. "What makes you think the building with a red cross on the roof wasn't a chapel or church?"

"I checked a map. NSMA is clearly marked, along with all their buildings."

"I assume that's a current map. The 1780s were a long time ago. Who's to say buildings have not been replaced or changed how they're used? I think if you intend to pursue this, you had better be able to prove how the building was used when the Centinal was being published."

When her husband got home she told him the story as a deplorable example of how even graduate students these days needed their hands held as they were walked through what should be an obvious exercise. Her husband laughed. "I have student this semester in electronic music cannot even read ordinary music. I would ask him drop course, but he is only one in class able to read German language assignments. Is truly deplorable, students today!"

Dunbar called back two days later. "I just got back from Lynchburg, where they store all the census data from 1850 and earlier. The first census in 1790 asked for a listing of buildings on properties, and get this, I found North Shore Military, and the building was an infirmary even then."

That evening she told her husband Dunbar was finally showing some initiative. He laughed, and asked if her initiative had come up with a book proposal. "I've been thinking about a book on the weapons used in the Revolution. It would appeal to gun types, history fans, military students, could attract a fair readership."

"I have maybe different idea for you. One of my students is doing paper on Lorenzo Da Ponte."

"And I'm sure you'll tell me who that is," she said expectantly.

He laughed. "Is deplorable, lack of knowledge of faculty these days." Before she could get insulted, he added, "Lorenzo Da Ponte was librettist for five of Mozart's operas, including Cosi fan Tuti and Franklin, Ein Mensch. He moved to Trieste in 1793, married an Englishwoman, and wound up settling here in New York. He became friendly with President of Columbia, then a Bishop Moore, and was hired to teach Italian. He also taught the first music courses at Columbia, in opera. When he died, his children donated his papers to Columbia, and they sit in file from that day to now. My student found reference to military academy in his papers. Write book on them."

"That sounds like a pretty specialized topic for something aimed at the public. How is this academy connected to a European librettist?"

"Very mysterious. Da Ponte writes three men from academy using fake names came to Mozart and hired him to write march to send to academy. One was doctor and cured Mozart's wife of bad leg, and Mozart of some illness. Da Ponte says Mozart never believed their only reason for visit was to hire for writing march, but could not understand real purpose. But bandmaster at academy bought hundreds of first editions of Mozart works. If they still have, must be worth millions!"

"You know, for someone chairing Columbia's electronic music studio, you seem awfully enthused about old music."

"Ha! Is not all Sonnet in Bells and Cycles," he replied, citing one of his own better known electronic works.

After considerable further discussion, her husband convinced her that at least a visit to NSMA was in order. He offered to set it up, using the Mozart connection as an excuse for visiting a place known to discourage visitors. Suiting his words to action, she watched as he picked up a phone, and called the school.

"Hello, is here Professor Vladimir Ursetsky of Music Department at Columbia University, wishing to speak with your bandmaster or head of music, whatever you call." She looked at him quizzically. His accent had definitely increased, and his English seemed just a bit worse. After a few minutes he resumed speaking, apparently with the desired person. His argument did not take long, and a visit was set up for the next day. As he hung up, he winked at his wife.

The following day, the two college professors made sure their car was fully charged up for the long drive out to Long Island. Close to two hours later, approaching the school, they saw an arch over a driveway leading into the military academy. Before they could drive through it, two guards stepped out of a small shack. Vivian leaned out the window and presented their faxed invitation. The guards saluted, and a corporal indicated they should park in a lot just outside the arch. The other guard wrote out a receipt for their car, sticking part under a windshield wiper, and handing the other half to Ursetsky. Vivian noticed a slight sneer when he wrote the make of the car was a two year old Desmond 500. However, they lived in Manhattan, where anyone who actually had a car was practically forced to drive a very small model.

Vivian found walking across a cobblestone courtyard with high heels was a less than pleasing experience, and was delighted when they entered a vast lobby. A telephone switchboard sat to the right, next to the bottom of a swooping staircase. The walls had great lists of past valedictorians and salutatorians on the left, battalion commanders and adjutants on the right.

Curiously, although there were many names listed before the year 1770, no years were given before then. The earliest valedictorian with a date was Oliver Larkin, probably, she thought to herself, the father of a mid-nineteenth century President of the same last name. She checked the battalion commander list. The years again were not shown prior to 1770. The battalion commander for that year had a cross next to his name, presumably indicating he fell fighting for his country. She leaned over the switchboard and asked the cadet running it, "Why are there no years shown for many of the names on the walls here?"

He replied coolly, "Records are confused that far back. We honor them even if we aren't sure when they did it." Before they could converse further, fancy doors at the top of the stairs opened, and a man came out.

"Hello, I'm Robert Reese, bandmaster for NSMA,"

"And I Vladimir Ursetsky, with my wife, Vivian."

Reese bowed slightly. "Honored to meet both of you. I must say, I'm curious as to why a world-renowned director of an electronic music facility would be interested in our collection of Mozart materials."

"Hah! Is not always I am with electronic technique. Started out as student in Moscow Conservatory, but Czar felt would serve rodina better as soldier during Serbian crisis of 1908. One does not argue with Little Father, so I move quietly to America. Then crisis ended with no war because Austro-Hungarian Emperor not want two front war threatened by Triple Republican Alliance of France, Bavaria and Tirol Republic. But I already here and cannot return or Little Father is very angry with wayward son."

Reese snickered. "I daresay England and Prussia declaring their neutrality had something to do with that one also. Well, I checked, and we do have a tremendous number of Mozart's sheet music, but the only thing I remember anyone ever looking at is a march he supposedly wrote for our school. You're welcome to look through all of it." He hesitated. "Mrs. Ursetsky, are you enough of a musicologist to help your husband? If not, I could arrange a tour for you, and you'll both be my guests for lunch."

"I'm no musician. I can't read normal musical notation, and I've barely picked up a little of the strange symbols my husband and his electronic colleagues use. I came with him mainly because he's a terrible driver, and I didn't want him to have an accident on the Long Island Turnpike. I'm sure a tour would be a wonderful way to keep me out of his hair while he's working."

Grafton watched as her husband was led away down a long hall. A cadet came up, and introduced himself. "Mam, I'm Private First Class Stone. I've been ordered to give you a tour of our school."

"Why, thank you. Do I address you as 'Private First Class' or "Mister', or how?"

"Just Cadet Stone, Mam."

She smiled at his serious demeanor. "Lead on, Cadet Stone."

He took her just a short distance, and they were standing at the entrance to the school library. Looking in, Grafton could see a few cadets, both male and female, scattered around at long tables. The walls had shelves filled with books, floor to ceiling. She was surprised to note some computer terminals around the room, a couple of which had cadets apparently using them.

"I'm sorry, Mam, but tradition prohibits visitors from actually entering the library."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Well, personally, I think it's just a legend to explain a silly rule, but supposedly, when Benjamin Franklin visited the school, he stole one of our books."

"I should think, with his reputation, that Franklin would have been more interested in the women." She was astonished to see Cadet Stone blush!

"Mam, the cadets also tell a story that when Franklin was here he didn't stay in the room we gave him overnight. It's said he stayed at the home of a woman neighbor."

"Now that sounds like the Franklin I've heard about." She smiled, and added, "Don't worry about not taking me into the library. I've been in far too many school libraries in my time to need to see another. Tell me, Cadet Stone, what year are you in?"

"I'm a junior, Mam."

"So you should be starting to think about college. Have any idea what you want to major in or where you want to go?"

"I'll probably major in communications, since I work now on the school radio station. As for what college, our guidance office pretty much picks it for us."

"Subject," she said with a sly grin, "to the whims of the college admissions office. Well, if you're ever interested in Columbia, contact me there."

"Yes, Mam, and thank you," They walked down the corridor past the library. Grafton noticed several portraits on the walls, between doorways leading into classrooms. She paused to study the first. "President Larkin. I see he graduated from here in 1818." She went to the next.

"President Howard. A member of the class of 1840." A few more steps. "President Rollandson, class of 1875." Further along. "Vice President Green, 1816. This is quite a proud collection."

"Yes, Mam, we hear all about them in history classes." (Was there just a hint of adolescent ennui in that statement?)

"Do the classes point out what they all have in common besides graduating from here?"

"Mam?"

"Every one of these Presidents pushed the technology of his time. Larkin introduced airships for passengers, mail, cargo, and military use. And he started Larkin Air after leaving office. It's still the largest air carrier, still using his logo of a meadowlark, although today it's on jets instead of dirigibles. Howard promoted standard time zones, and furthered the national observatory program started by John Quincy Adams. Rollandson, of course, was the father of the space program. And yet, they were all from different political parties, Federalist, Democrat, and Whig."

Stone looked at her out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. Grafton had the feeling he had heard nothing from her he didn't already know, but that he had not intended to mention any of the technology connections. Instead, he steered her to a classroom where French was being taught, followed by a classroom with an English class. Eventually they walked past a door labelled "Planetarium".

"Oh, have you one of those? I guess you'll have to be up-dating any shows you do about the Moon, now that people are walking there."

Stone giggled. "You eighteeners are so funny. Uh, Mam."

Grafton wondered where she had previously come across that bit of academy slang for outsiders. That wasn't important right now, compared to "Why do you refer to people not connected with NSMA as 'eighteeners'?"

"Gee, Mam, I don't know. We've always done that, far as I know."

"Yes," she said, suddenly remembering the editor of the Massachusetts Centinel, back in the 1780s, had thought the term had something to do with the Bible. "You're sure it's not some sort of religious reference?"

Again he giggled. "No way, Mam!"

Her husband worked clear through lunch, apparently, at least she never saw him there. She was surprised, however, to find that she was dining with another visitor, a United States Senator. Louis Mackenzie devoted some time to chatting with her upon finding she was a constituent. He explained he was on the Board of Trustees of the academy, and visited whenever his senatorial duties permitted.

"I assume that means you graduated from here?"

"Yes, indeedy, class of 1899, but don't go looking on those lobby plaques for me." A chucKle. "I was no shining scholar, and never got past first sergeant in rank."

"But you've certainly done well enough for yourself since graduation."

After lunch the academy had a two hour time block of marching detail for cadets working off demerits, while others joined various athletic teams. Then came a time block for clubs. Strolling around watching the teams was of limited interest, except for tennis, which she played in a mediocre manner, but followed avidly. The tennis team, like other teams, seemed a combination of good and terrible players. The tennis court fencing had a number of plaques commemorating past cadets who had won tournaments. One plaque listed tennis team captains of the past.

Like the lists of valedictorians and battalion commanders, some of the earliest had no dates attached.

When Stone moved her along to the school's in door swimming pool, she looked for similar plaques and lists. Both lined the walls of the pool. Basketball, baseball, football, even riflery had the same combination of recognition with a lack of precision on early dates. Clubs included the school newspaper, where past editors-in-chief were listed on a wall, and a school radio station.

She was not surprised to see again names, but dates vanishing. Then a thought occurred to her. Radio had been invented by a Jack Stahl in 1878. President Howard had pushed its immediate adoption for military use, and upon leaving office had started one of the first commercial radio stations. In fact to this day Howard Broadcasting was the Stahl Network's leading competitor.

Past presidents of the radio station had dates next to their names as far back as 1880. But there were dozens of radio station presidents listed without dates. One was Jack Stahl. Another was Roger Howard. At least twenty names without dates separated Stahl from Roger Howard.

Vivian Grafton felt a cold shudder up her spine. She was unable to do more than follow Stone around wordlessly until the day finally ended with her husband joining her at dinner.

Vivian waved off her husband's attempt to tell her what he had found. She insisted upon just idle chatter, leaving the serious talk until they were again in their car, headed back towards home in Manhattan. When they were about ten miles from NSMA, she finally said, "Alright, talk."

"So, you no longer be silent. Well, band room has framed letter from Mozart to band master in 1792 thanking him for buying all Mozart sheet music, and saying a little thank you march enclosed. Is march used by academy at parades. In back room cabinet has collection of hundreds of first edition Mozart sheet music, very dusty, like nobody look for long time. No question very valuable. Has book listing all Mozart works, supposedly, in cabinet, like a librarian's index."

"You mean the Nissen catalog?"

"Ha, you learn much from me, but no! Nissen is standard catalog of all Mozart works, but this book is by someone name of Ludwig, Ritter von Koechel."

"Who on earth is that?"

"I don't know either. But very curious book. Shows Mozart died in December 1791, leaving Requiem incomplete." He looked at her expectantly.

"Watch the damned road!" she shrieked, as they almost hit a large truck. Once the driving had settled down, Vivian said, "Didn't Mozart die during Napoleon's second siege of Vienna in 1806? The siege failed when Hofer proclaimed independence for the Tirolian Republic , and cut the French lines."

"I don't know about military part, but yes, Mozart died October 1806. Ritter von Koechel book in academy basement has list istkustvo, ah, printed only to December 1791, but someone wrote in works to 1798."

"What happened then?"

"Appears bandmaster who was sent march in 1792 died, and replacement did not keep up list. But Mozart kept sending copy of new works."

Vivian shook her head, and told her husband about the undated lists of NSMA achievers, with emphasis on Stahl and Howard. He looked very puzzled. "I think we want to look at Da Ponte papers at Columbia."

"Not a bad idea, but I want to consult with one of my former college classmates when we get home."

"Who's that, and why?"

"Monica Lomax is a Dean at the University of California at San Dimas, but she's rather well known as a scholar of science fiction and imaginative literature. I want to bounce a really weird idea off of her." Vivian shared no further thoughts with her husband, just demanding greater care in watching the road and passing traffic.

It took Vivian two days to connect with Lomax, but finally they were talking. After some idle chat catching up on one another, Vivian got to the point. "In your studies of science fiction and imaginative literature, how often do you see stories about travel through time?"

"Travel through time? You mean, like someone from today visits the past, or someone from the future visits today?"

"Yes, or any other combination."

Lomax paused for a moment. "I can't think of any stories using that idea. Now that you mention it, travel in time seems like a natural for an imaginative story. You could visit all sorts of historical times and people, the Trojan War, Julius Caesar, Jesus, King Arthur, George Washington. I wonder why no one has written such stories."

"Are you friendly with anyone currently active in writing that sort of thing?"

"You mean science fiction and imaginative literature? Sure, quite a few live around the L.A. area, and I also know several from out of the area."

"Could you ask a few authors why they haven't written such stories?"

"What's this all about?"

"I was asked to write a popular level book on the Revolution for the up-coming sesquicentennial, and stumbled on something so unlikely and so shocking, that if true, it would make the Moon landing last month look trivial."

"Wow! Save me a copy if it's a best seller. Okay, I'll get busy pronto on checking with some of my favorite writers. With any luck, I'll be back to you by the weekend with a report. That soon enough?"

"That would be fine. And I much appreciate this."

"Hey, no problem. Maybe I'll write up a piece on why writers don't do stories about travelling in time."

"That should be so interesting even I'll read it." They both laughed.

The next few days kept Vivian Grafton busy fulfilling her obligations as a teacher. Vladimir Ursetsky also was busy, but he still found time to look through a bit of Lorenzo Da Ponte's papers. Late Sunday afternoon Monica Lomax called back. "Some of my favorite science fiction and imaginative fiction writers have tried to sell stories about travelling through time without success. Would you like to hear some of their experiences?"

"Don't bother with their names, I don't know the field well enough for them to mean anything. But I would appreciate a bit of a run down on rejected plots."

"Fine, okay, the first is a short story involving a barmaid who is seduced by a stranger. The stranger vanishes, but the barmaid is delivered of a girl and undergoes a sex change operation, after which she goes back in time and seduces herself. The baby grows up to be the bar maid."

"Whew, now that's one self-involved plot."

"Well, the first editor turned it down on the grounds that while SF is supposed to expand minds, he wasn't interested in expanding thinking about incest."

"Incest! That's stretching the definition a bit, wouldn't you say?"

"Agreed. The next editor said he was amused by making a common vulgar insult into a science fiction tale, but he couldn't print it. Subsequent editors just sent form rejection letters."

"Good grief. What else?"

"My next author did an entire novel a couple years ago about an archaeologist swept back to sixth century Rome, who tries to apply his advanced knowledge to avert the end of the Roman Empire. The first editor to look at this one said the era was too arcane, and no one today much cares about the Roman Empire or when it collapsed."

"I guess I should be offended. Anything else?"

"Yeah, a fellow wrote a novel about a man from our era travelling thousands of years into the future, to find the human race had split into two subspecies. One lived above ground, and were gentle folk who spent most of their time at play. The other subspecies lived underground, and ate the surface dwellers. This was rejected as being tasteless, as well as taking a dubious position on class warfare."

"What do you think of these stories?"

"I haven't had a chance to finish either of the novels, but I started both, and read the short story. All three could easily qualify for awards the field gives out, and all three authors are big names in the field that one would expect magazines and publishers would want to be associated with."

"Are you planning to write an article on the topic as you mentioned last time we spoke?"

"Certainly. But you've never told me, what's your interest in this? Did you find something in history that suggests one of the people you study wanted to write science fiction?"

"No, no, not that. You'd think I was joking if I told you now. Don't worry, when I've proved my case I'll let you know. Just one final question for you. Could you check and see if any of those editors graduated from North Shore Military Academy?"

"No problem on that one. I already know that Jesse Bacon did. He's the editor of Fabulous Fiction."

Vivian was not quite ready to start the book she now had in mind, first wanting to see what, if anything, her husband turned up in Da Ponte's records. However, her deadline for a proposal was approaching, so she wrote up ten pages of proposal entitled Timely Interference: The Story of North Shore Military Academy in the Revolution--And After. The final chapter was headed The Ultimate Interference, but gave no indication of what the text would be. The proposal was shipped off to her agent.

Ursetsky was finally ready to sit down with his wife and discuss the Da Ponte papers. "As I told you, he met three men from academy in 1791 Vienna. Da Ponte and wife move to America in 1798 to avoid Napoleon's wars. By 1800 he is friends with Moore family, and starts teaching at Columbia. Da Ponte stays in touch with Mozart, and in 1803 Mozart asks him about academy and three mystery visitors. I find Mozart letter in Da Ponte papers. Mozart autograph valuable, yes?"

"Sure, but I think there's more to this than your enriching Columbia. Go on."

"Da Ponte busy. Has classes at Columbia, couple private students taking Italian, six children, all under ten years old. Da Ponte goes into bank one day, and sees one of mystery visitors. Follows out of bank into street, where addresses him by fake name, Herrmann. Man says you have wrong person, then recognizes Da Ponte, looks very scared, says 'My God, you actually moved to New York this time, too.' Then this Mr. 'Herrmann' drags Da Ponte into coffeehouse for long conversation. Da Ponte's notes say, 'I dare not tell Mozart all that I learned, for he would think me mad. I forced "Herrmann" to tell me his real name, but even now he would not share the names of his companions, and I have promised to make no record of his correct name. All I dare write here is that "Herrmann" and his friends did Mozart and the world a far greater favor than any person has received since Jesus raised Lazarus.'"

Vivian gasped. "Then it's true. Mozart died in 1791 and these people from North Shore travelled in time and saved his life. I wonder why they didn't save him again in 1806?"

Ursetsky made a wry face, and quoted a popular advertising slogan, "Maybe they give one to a customer?"

"That's not important. I just have to hear from Monica on how many science fiction editors went to that school, and I think we'll have a pretty convincing case that they are trying to suppress anyone from even thinking about time travel. It will make a nice addition to my book on the revolution."

It was no surprise at all when Lomax called from San Dimas to report that every science fiction editor whose education she could trace had graduated from NSMA. Vivian sat down and churned out page after page of her proposed book. So hot were the fires of creation and discovery goading her, that within a month she had produced a 270 page book documenting many instances of NSMA graduates interfering with natural events. She also showed their alumni, usually as a result of invention or clever investing, controlled the entire broadcast industry, news, publishing, automotive, computers. refrigeration and air conditioning, aircraft, and much else.

Another chapter estimated that at least 18% of the American workforce was employed by NSMA graduates, and their foreign holdings were not far behind. She showed that currently nineteen members of the Senate, eight state governors, six cabinet officers and three members of the U.S. Supreme Court were alumni, as was the head of the space agency, and all three astronauts on the recent lunar landing.

Finally Vivian had her book completed, ready to ship to her agent, Abe Ruckemov. Fulfilling her promise, she packaged a second copy to go to Monica Lomax in California. A third copy would stay in her office, and the fourth copy was at home. She sealed Ruckemov's package, and was writing his address when her office door swung open without a knock. She looked up as a stranger walked in and without invitation sat down.

"Can I help you?" She tried to control her tone, but she was decidedly annoyed at his presumption. About fifty, expensively dressed, no distinguishing features.

"Well, Professor Grafton, that depends. You see, I have to ask you not to ship off that manuscript."

"What? How dare you? And how do you know what this is?"

"Your book threatens social disorder, and would upset very many people. We can't permit that."

"You're from North Shore Military!"

"In a sense. I graduated quite a while ago, and haven't been back recently. That isn't really relevant. We have to decide how you won't publish that book."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Is that necessary to convince you not to publish?"

"I'm an academic. I have a moral obligation to truth. What right do you have to interfere?

And how did you know what I'm writing?"

"With you? The right to protect ourselves. How do you think the world would react to learning of us? And as for knowing, your visit to the academy attracted our attention. We have electronic bugs several decades more advanced than anything you could be acquainted with."

"So you're ashamed of what you've been doing?"

"Not at all. Do you remember there was a big earthquake in San Francisco eighteen years

ago?"

"Certainly. I have a cousin there. She and her family reported getting a good shaking that woke them up that morning."

"Originally several thousand people died in the 'quake and ensuing fires. Three quarters of San Francisco was destroyed. A few years before that a dam was supposed to fail in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, killing thousands. Then there are the hurricanes destroying Galveston and New Orleans. Just the disasters I've mentioned would have killed over ten thousand. We also managed to get most of the population of Krakatoa off the island before it blew. That saved thirty thousand easily. Thanks to us, there was no World War I to kill about 190,000 Americans, and something like five million people in other countries. Oh, and the American Civil War, that killed close to a million at a time when the country only had thirty million. Then there's all the advanced medicine. George Washington lived an extra nine years, and you yourself found that Mozart lived an extra fifteen years, giving the world some wonderful music. Imagine not having his Cantata in D, or his opera about Franklin."

"You mentioned World War I. That implies at least a second."

"Thirty five to forty million dead, including eight million in death camps set up explicitly to exterminate entire ethnic groups. You're fortunate that the English language never had to add the word 'genocide'."

"Yet the world you've created has had wars."

"None so destructive. You've landed on the Moon, but no one has nuclear weapons or bioweapons. We've done a pretty good job of saving your civilization from itself. We're not omnipotent, but we can't allow you to ruin what can be accomplished."

Grafton saw there was no way she would win this argument. Every word out of his mouth could be a lie, and she would have no way of knowing. And his last comments suggested he could invent ominous sounding terms she had no way of responding to, not that she believed for a moment in "death camps" that deliberately killed millions. If she had the time, she would check out the death camp concept, nuclear weapons, and bioweapons with Monica Lomax to see if they were common science fictional ideas, or something that was being suppressed like the idea of time travel.

"I'll certainly admit you've done well for yourselves. You seem to have locked up every profitable invention of the last century or more."

"Every one of them, from the telegraph on, introduced decades before it would have been invented. And we're not stopping competitors. Anyone who wants to start a radio or TV network is free to try. Of course, we've got years of programming from the original history to draw on. Naturally we re-shoot it so people see familiar actors, but there's no script writers to pay, and little time lost in rewrites, and we know what's going to be popular, most of the time. Farley Motors has nothing to do with us, and gives our automobiles some real competition. In any case, we've placed some deliberate restraints on how much money we accumulate. The average worker in this world is about thirty percent better off financially than in the original history, plus we've been able to eliminate the worst of the economic swings."

"Then you should have nothing to fear from my publishing."

"We can and will stop you . . . permanently."

"You would actually kill me to stop this book from being published?"

"It won't be published. We control the industry well enough for that. But in seeking a publisher, you would have a number of people reading it. We can't allow that. So, no, we won't kill you. Killing leaves bodies, bodies create questions and investigations, just the sort of thing we can't have."

"Then what . . ."

"With time travel many things are possible. Your parents may never meet, one of them may be sterile, your father may be out of town or your mother not in the mood the night you would have been conceived. A person who never exists will never write a troublesome book. And we'll have time to purge the papers Da Ponte left."

Vivian was near collapse. She knew she was defeated. "Have I a choice?"

"Give me all copies of your book. Since you'll lose out on the expected income, I have a payment to make up for your loss." He opened a case she had not noticed him carrying. It was stuffed with money. "All unmarked, untraceable, and no need for taxes."

She handed him the package addressed to Ruckemov, and nodded to her file cabinet. "I have a copy in there, and a copy at home."

He gave her a long stare. "Aren't you forgetting the copy for Dean Lomax?" Completely surrendering, she handed him the fourth copy.

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