IAN’S IONS AND EONS

by Paul Levinson

When there’s a buck to be made... Ian’s Ions and Eons . . . that’s what the neon sign said, in glowing script above the door. I don’t know when it first opened. I had been out of town for about a year, and I never could get a straight answer out of Ian. I don’t know what everyone else in the neighborhood thought when they walked by Ian’s on Johnson Avenue in the Bronx. Some kind of computer store, an electronic gimmick shop, a latter-day Radio Shack, perched on the second floor above a dry cleaner?

* * * *

“We’re a travel agency,” Ian told me.

“Oh? Where do the ‘ions’ fit in, then?” I asked him. “Some kind of faster-than-hypersonic propulsion?”

“Nope. Not like that at all.”

I looked around the store. It was nondescript. I guess that was a bit self-refuting. There was an old picture of the Parthenon on one wall and a drawing of the Roman Coliseum on another, next to a stained photo of some Mayan ruin. “You specialize in travel to ancient places, like Rome and Athens, and that’s where the ‘eons’ come in?”

“Something like that,” Ian replied. He stroked his mustache. It was a fine mix of black and white. His hair was a little lighter, his eyes a little darker.

“What’ll it cost me to travel back to 2000?”

“So you knew what we do, all along.”

“Word gets around,” I replied. “You’d be surprised—or maybe you wouldn’t.”

Ian shook his head.

“So what’s your pricing?” I asked again.

“2000 isn’t too far back; we consider it part of the twenty-first century, a break for you. The rest of the price would depend on the purpose of your trip—personal or societal?”

“Strictly personal.”

Ian scowled.

* * * *

He explained that nothing was strictly personal in his business—you want to go back and kiss that girl again in the seventh grade, well that could still have unforeseen consequences for the world. And that meant such a trip required all the standard precautions, which were expensive. But they were less costly than protection from the possible results of a trip intended to change some kind of public event.

He quoted me a price, 20 percent less than the standard societal rate. “All inclusive.”

“Jeez.” I shook my head and whistled. “That’s still a small fortune.”

“You’re welcome to try the competition,” Ian said blandly. He knew that I knew there was none.

“You’ll need the complete payment up-front?”

“Obviously.”

I nodded and pressed in my account number and the desired dates of my journey on the thin terminal embedded in front of me on the counter. It fast-printed a twenty-five-page itinerary. Ian still did some of his business the old-fashioned way.

I looked at the first page. “A train?”

“Yep—somewhere between Philadelphia and Wilmington. That’s the way we do it.”

“For the East Coast?”

“For any coast.”

* * * *

The itinerary was fairly explicit. Go down to Penn-Moynihan Station beneath the Farley Post Office. Fare already paid for, included in the package. Take the Tricela to Washington . . .

“Any Tricela?” I asked Ian. “They run every half hour, don’t they?”

He nodded. “The specific Tricela doesn’t matter. You supplied the date and time. It’s the speed, the curve, and what they got going on down there, under the ground, between Philadelphia and Wilmington.”

“That’s where the ‘ions’ come in?”

He nodded again. “Some kind of future underground technology produces them. They poke a little hole in the fabric of time. And if you hit it just right—at the speed and angle at which the Tricela is traveling—you get through.”

“But it doesn’t affect anyone else on the train?” I asked.

“It does not,” Ian replied. “You have to be in just the right spot on the train, at just the right time. Plus, you need to be wearing this.” Ian reached under the counter, rummaged around, and pulled out a blue-gray woolen vest with silvery buttons.

“You’ve got the 2000 model,” Ian advised. “It’s the micro-weave that attracts the ions.”

I massaged the textile between my thumb and forefinger. “Feels like wool. . . . Okay if I try this on right here?”

“By all means,” Ian said. “As I told you, the vest attracts the ions only on the Tricela, between Philadelphia and Wilmington—”

I tried on the vest.

“One size fits all,” Ian said.

“Good,” I said. “And how do I get this back to you?”

“It’s all in the itinerary,” Ian replied. He pulled the counter screen back toward him and regarded it. “Let’s see . . . in 2000, you’ll find yourself on a Metroliner. You do your business back there. Then get on a northbound Metroliner. Wear the vest. And somewhere just south of Trenton, you’ll go to the right place in the train and the next thing you’ll know, you’ll be back on the Tricela, heading north, in our time. The fabric of time ‘remembers’ you. It’ll pull you back to the time you left, as long as you’re wearing the vest. The fabric of time attracts the fabric of your vest. It’s all in the itinerary,” he said again.

I looked at it again. The relevant line began, ‘Go to the café car, just as in the Tricela—’ I nodded. “When exactly in 2000 do I arrive? Can I specify the arrival date?”

“You get there on whatever month, day, hour, minute, second you leave in our time. Nothing other than the year changes. Same with the return—you get back here on whatever month, day, et cetera in 2000 you happen to find yourself on the Metroliner heading north, south of Trenton. It’s all in the itin—”

“Okay. How come the jump to the past takes place between Philadelphia and Wilmington, and the jump back to the present between Philadelphia and Trenton?”

“Several reasons. The Metroliner has a space-time configuration slightly different from the Tricela—it’s heavier than the Tricela, therefore cuts through space in a slightly different way—even when the two are moving at the exact same speed. And it’s actually helpful that the going and returning happen in different places—too much action in the same place could tear the temporal fabric with who knows what consequences.” Ian shrugged. “That’s what it is. The snap in the space-time continuum is ‘elastic,’ extending from Wilmington to Trenton. You all set?” His tone indicated he was about through with the conversation.

I tried one more question, anyway. “And you wouldn’t happen to know who built this future underground technology?”

“I would not,” Ian answered. “I’m just an agent selling tickets on a river boat. I have no idea how the river was created.”

* * * *

Many people consider the post office an anachronism. E-mail has been on mobile media for decades, and if you want to mail a package, hey, just fill out a Web form, and someone will be by your side to pick up your parcel in under an hour, in most parts of the country.

One thing neither the post office or the Web could ever do, though, is mail people. That still required planes and trains. Fortunately, the famous inscription above this post office usually worked as well for trains: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

Trains had become swift. They usually kept their appointments. I knew it wasn’t always that way. There was a time, right around the turn of the century, when most people thought trains were all but finished. . . .

I looked up at the inscription one more time for good luck and hurried downstairs to board my Tricela. It was new and gleaming. I found my seat, reserved in the itinerary, and sat down next to a blonde. She was pretty nice too.

“Going to Washington?” she asked politely.

I entered my ID into the terminal on my armrest. It beeped confirmation. “Actually, Philadelphia.” I didn’t want her to wonder where I was when we headed south from Philadelphia.

She smiled. Her eyes were agate gray and sparkled slightly in the soft train light. “Oh, I think you’ll be going down to Washington, eventually.”

I looked at her. “You’re with Ian.”

“Don’t worry—I’m included in the package.”

“But you’re not in the itinerary,” I said.

“Ian didn’t want you looking for me on the train—didn’t want you to look as if you were looking for someone you couldn’t find. That could attract attention you don’t need. Especially given the significance of your mission.”

The train sighed and glided imperceptibly into its journey. My head felt as if it was moving a million times faster.

“So . . . Ian knows I was lying, about my business being personal.”

“Of course he does. How could he not? He checked the past and the future. It’s his business.”

She caught my expression. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to stop you, I can assure you. I’m here to help. I’m part of the package,” she repeated.

“But Ian charged me for the personal trip?” I asked.

The blonde smiled. “As Ian probably told you, there’s really no such thing as a purely personal trip in time, as far as unforeseen major consequences go. We just keep the ‘personal rate’ as an incentive for our customers. People like a bargain. It’s a lot of money.”

* * * *

The train sped under the Hudson. “Philadelphia, twenty minutes,” an announcement advised. “Next stop, Philadelphia. No stops at Newark or Trenton on the Tricela.”

“Think of me as your guide and your guardian,” the blonde said. “My name’s Ilene. With an ‘I.’”

“So Ian has no problem with what I really want to do in 2000?” I asked her.

“He has no problem with your plans for Washington. But people who listen in on Ian’s Ions and Eons might feel differently. That’s another reason he was happy to go along with your ‘personal business’ cover story.”

I considered.

“Eavesdropping is unavoidable,” Ilene continued. “It’s cat and mouse, provisions to stop eavesdropping versus eavesdropping, whatever the age.”

“If I succeed, history could be hashed. Ian’s okay with that?”

“He’s mapped all of the time-lines,” Ilene replied. “He does well in all of them. . . . “

“And me?” It couldn’t hurt to ask.

Ilene arched an attractive eyebrow. “You know the terms and the rules. Ian makes no guarantees, except to do all in his power to get you to the past and back.” She leaned closer. “And the guiding principle, always, is that once a plan is in motion, there are few certainties, positive or negative. . . .”

The train slid out of Philadelphia. “Wilmington, next stop,” the announcement said.

“Better get to the café car,” Ilene advised. “You want to stand in the vestibule adjacent to the car. No problem if one or two other people are around—the time disturbance will blind them for a split second. Then they’ll have tears in their eyes. They’ll think it’s an allergy to the air in the train or whatever. When they wipe their tears away, they’ll just think you moved on—”

“I know, it’s in the itinerary.”

She smiled again.

I looked at her lilac sweater. It was a thin weave, a snug fit. I doubted there was a vest or any other clothing underneath.

“Right,” she said. “You’ll be going alone. I’ll be here for you on the Tricela back to New York.”

“Looking forward to that.”

* * * *

I made my way to the designated vestibule. It was filled with passengers, overflowing from the line in the café car.

I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible.

To no avail.

“The guy behind the counter in there looks like he has arthritis,” the man in front of me said. “The line hasn’t moved in five minutes.” He looked at me for confirmation.

I nodded.

The train lurched. Was this the launch of my jump through time? Seemed a minute or two earlier than the timetable. . . . I looked at my watch. It was exactly forty-two seconds too soon. And I was still in the same Tricela vestibule. It was just a lurch.

But it made the man even angrier. “Why can’t they give smoother rides?” He clutched his stomach. “Maybe we’re lucky we haven’t eaten yet!”

I touched my own midsection in solidarity.

The man was not consoled. “I’m going back to my seat.”

“Yeah.” Actually, this could be a good tack—let him think I went back to my seat, when the tears cleared from his eyes. I stroked my vest.

But he was staring intently at me, a fellow traveler in suffering. No way he would not wonder what had happened to me . . . when I disappeared just a second or two from now.

Ilene came through the door. She had on a nice short skirt too. She slipped and fell all over the man—

And I was off. Nothing lurched. It felt more like the cosmos had kissed me.

* * * *

. . . after drinking some stinking beer. The place reeked of some kind of brew. I saw suds on the floor. The door opened. A woman with dark hair entered and delicately side-stepped the wet part of the floor—then swerved past me, as the train took another sharp turn. She steadied herself against the side of the vestibule.

It was definitely not the same compartment I had just been in. This one was bigger, warmer . . . and stank of beer.

“Traveling to Washington?” she inquired sweetly.

“And you would be?”

“Irene,” she replied and smiled.

“Everyone in Ian’s organization has a name that begins with ‘I’?”

“I know an Eileen whose name begins with an ‘E,’” Irene replied. “And we have an Ellen.”

“Of course.” Irene was dressed more casually than Ilene, in jeans and a plum-colored sweater. I didn’t bother to ask her if some shade of purple was required for Ian’s employees.

She gestured to the door. “I have a seat for you.”

We left the vestibule and entered the adjacent car. The seats were plush blue.

“Don’t let those cushions fool you,” Irene advised. “This is definitely less comfortable than where you’ve just been. The past usually is.”

I sat in a seat by the window, and she by my side. It was raining outside. Big beads of water pelted the pane, slightly stained with some kind of white. It had been crystal clear where I had just been—the result of a sunny day and a new kind of genetically engineered glass. I hadn’t realized it had been so clear, then, until now. Funny how you don’t appreciate some things until you encounter their opposite.

Irene was right about the comfort. My back and legs were accustomed to better things. “So, anything special I should know about this time?” I asked. I realized I had not yet confirmed just when this was.

“The Supreme Court will announce its decision the day after tomorrow. Gore’s people want the recount to proceed in Florida, Bush’s do not. Everyone expects the decision to be very close. But you know that.”

I nodded. Good. “Will you be . . . helping me in Washington?”

“No,” Irene answered. “I’m strictly for the trains.”

* * * *

We parted company in Union Station. “Remember, a thousand bucks is the limit,” she said and walked away. She had given me a bank card for expenses. “Comes with the package.”

I spotted an antique ATM and took out some cash. I broke a $10 bill for singles and change. I looked for a public phone. Good they still had them back here—mobile phones left trails.

The first five phones I encountered were broken, broken, in use, broken, in use. I got lucky with the sixth. I put in a quarter, waited for the tone, and carefully dialed the number I had stored on a piece of paper without a name in my pocket. I didn’t want to fumble with the itinerary in public in the past. A man’s voice answered.

I told him the reason for my call. It was dangerous, of course, but anything I did back here was dangerous, and I could use his help and had no choice but to contact this guy. It was in bold letters on the itinerary.

There was a long silence. “Okay,” he finally said and gave me his address. Confirmation of what I already knew, but that was important.

I stepped outside into the rain and summoned a cab.

* * * *

We sped through the slick wet streets of Georgetown and pulled up to a brownstone on Wisconsin. The gray rain had given way to early evening.

I walked up the stairs. At closer view, the pits and scrapes were visible. The building had seen better days.

He was waiting for me inside the front door. He looked like his picture—wire-rimmed glasses, straight brown hair combed back, button-down pin-striped shirt, and an argyle sweater. Anonymous to this time and world, well known to me, even though I knew him only from his image. He looked to be about twenty-five, but I had a feeling he was older. He looked me over and nodded. I guess I looked enough like my picture.

He invited me into his ground floor apartment. It smelled faintly of butterscotch, not unpleasant.

We exchanged the usual introductions.

“What do I call you?” he asked me.

“Tom, though it’s not my name.”

He nodded. “Eric, which actually is my name,” he said.

“Right,” I said.

“Good to meet you,” he said, and we shook hands.

Then we talked.

“It’s wrong,” he said.

“The decision or—”

“Both,” he said.

“Sometimes two wrongs can make a right.”

He shook his head dubiously.

“He’ll be out of commission for only two months,” I continued. “And if that cowboy gets into office—”

“I know the future as well as you,” he said.

I nodded but continued anyway, “We’ll see the damaging effects far into the future.”

“I know,” he repeated, far less amicably, and he hadn’t been too amicable the first time.

“So—”

“Their decision was wrong, outrageous,” he said. “A coup-d’état by the Court. It was wrong. They had no right to override the state on this. It went against their own principles. Most future historians agree. But removing the Chief Justice from the decision, making him unable to sit in this case—”

“His health is deteriorating anyway,” I said. “This might well have happened even without my intervention.”

“But it didn’t.” Eric looked at me. “So you’re a subscriber to the principle that it’s okay to make changes that accentuate or further what may already be happening on its own.”

“That’s about right, yes,” I responded.

“And what if I’m in favor of not making any changes at all?”

“I’d wonder if what you are doing here is providing a fair consideration of what I propose to do, or if your mind is already made up on this,” I replied. Eric came with the itinerary provided by Ian. He was supposed to be one last check and balance, one last hurdle I had to overcome, in order to proceed. He was supposed to help with the logistics if my plan received his final approval. Except I had lied to Ian and told him my mission was personal, and Ian had known that. I hadn’t known that Ian had known that, so now I was here being grilled by Eric about my plan to incapacitate a Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. I guess that’s what I got for lying.

“I can provide means to accomplish your mission, if I agree that it makes sense, and isn’t too dangerous to the future,” Eric said.

“Understood,” I said. I knew I’d be entitled to a 50 percent refund if Eric said no, but that’s not what I wanted. I also knew Ian’s rationale for keeping his 50 percent if the mission was not approved—”it’s payment for the thrill of time travel, even if you’re not given the final go-ahead,” the itinerary explained, and I couldn’t completely disagree. “So what do I do to convince you?”

Eric gestured to a chair. “Sit down and talk a little more about it. What are you drinking?”

* * * *

I sipped a ginger ale. I envisioned my future, hypothetical biography, which of course would never be written, because time travelers inevitably had to be anonymous: “He was no fun when time-traveling. Having a clear head trumped everything.”

Eric apparently had no such mandates. He was on his second glass of dark red wine. He rested it on the maple coffee table and turned to the paperwork he had prepared and I had just gone through. I couldn’t really begrudge Ian his 50 percent if my mission was not approved, if only because of this paperwork. It represented a huge amount of preparation and research, almost as much as I had done, and I had been working on this for years.

“So I think we can go quickly through the obvious basics,” Eric said. “Obama will still be elected in 2008, even with Gore in the White House for the eight years before.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Lieberman won’t get the nomination in 2008—he’s way too centrist for the Democratic voters.”

“A Republican in Democratic clothing, as his bio says,” Eric said and nodded.

“And the immediate downsides of Gore as President?” I asked, though I knew it was really only one.

“His work on the greenhouse effect and his Nobel prize is postponed,” Eric replied. “No big deal—the danger wasn’t as imminent as they made it out to be back then, anyway.”

I nodded. “And you might count as a downside that Gore in office won’t stop September 11—but that’s not really a downside to Gore, since it is highly unlikely that any President or administration could have stopped that.”

“Agreed. Bush didn’t. And Clinton was really no better at containing Bin Laden than was Bush. Hastings in the 2030s was not much better with Bin Laden’s successor, and she had all kinds of early warnings going for her. They never see it until it’s too late.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, let’s look at the short-range positives of Gore as President,” Eric said.

“No war in Iraq, no economic collapse worse than anything since the 1930s Great Depression,” I said.

Eric agreed. “Those are impressive benefits, I’ll grant you.”

“And the economic is especially significant,” I continued. “Without Bush mangling the economy, the U.S. continues as a superpower until well into the twenty-first century. Obama’s able to build on the Gore prosperity, just as Gore built on Clinton. China grows but doesn’t dominate the world.”

Eric agreed again.

“So where’s the long-range downside?” I asked.

Eric took a long sip of wine before answering. “The space program could be damaged.”

“The space program?” I asked. “Obama succeeding Bush made a big show of turning space exploration over to private enterprise, going to Mars, not the Moon. Never really took off. And the space program continued to slide. Obama had no real choice, given the economic mess that Bush left him. Whatever money Obama had at his disposal was spent here on Earth. How could Obama succeeding Gore be any worse for space?”

“The focus on spending money to improve the Earth, before we extend to the cosmos,” Eric replied, “really takes root in the Gore administration, according to our projections. Obama’s not inclined to go against that. And since the Earth has so many problems, the Earth-first approach means we never really get beyond the planet, and space travel becomes a blip of the twentieth century.”

I considered. “A lot of speculation there.”

“Yes,” Eric said. “But that’s what all of this is—pro arguments as well as con to your intervention.”

“The damage of the economic near-depression brought on by Bush is not speculation, it was very real in our time-line and is still causing problems, including shrinking the space program, as you know.”

“True,” Eric conceded. “Perhaps Gore versus Bush is a draw in terms of our future in space.”

“Agreed. Any other negatives?” I asked.

“Well, there is the immorality of nearly killing somebody,” Eric replied.

“I want to prevent him from participating in the final decision, incapacitate him, not kill him,” I replied.

“Without your intervention, Rehnquist dies of anaplastic thyroid cancer on 3 September 2005,” Eric said. “He has less than five years of life remaining. It’s an aggressive cancer. Obliging him to be hospitalized and sidelined from his life’s work for even two months at this point is an action that should not be taken lightly.”

I considered. “Fair enough.”

Eric nodded. “Let’s turn to the means.”

I reached into my pocket and extracted a vial. “This will trigger all the symptoms of a stroke, which will continue on and off for about two months, but it won’t be a stroke. There will be no lasting damage.”

“May I?” Eric reached for the vial. I gave it to him. It was made of plastic as tough as steel, so there was no chance of it breaking. And I had two backup vials in different parts of my clothing, in case Eric wanted to get nasty and lose this one.

Eric held it up to the light. “Good thing there are no customs inspectors at time-travel portals,” he said and smiled.

“That’s more or less your job, isn’t it?” I replied.

“True.”

“When can I have your decision?” There was not much more for us to talk about.

“This is a very difficult matter,” Eric replied.

“I know.”

“Mixed potential consequences for society, plus it’s always a problem when you diminish anyone’s life.”

I knew all of this and saw no point in rehashing. Nonetheless—”You want to talk about this more? You need more time to think about it? There are only two days until the Supreme Court’s decision is announced.”

He shook his head slowly. “You made your points clearly enough. No need for further conversation. I have just one final question for you, and then I’ll give you my decision.”

I looked at him.

“Why did you lie to Ian about the purpose of this trip being personal? It was more than the money. I need you to be truthful with me.”

I saw no advantage in further deception at this point. “I was concerned that he might not have sold me this trip to 2000 Washington if he knew its real purpose.”

“And yet here we are discussing precisely that purpose of this trip.”

“Yes.”

Eric sighed. “That’s the way it is about time travel and truth. No matter how hard you try to disguise or avoid it, when you travel through time the truth sooner or later jumps up through the floor board and bites you.”

Ian was a businessman; this guy apparently was a philosopher.

“My answer is yes,” Eric said.

I exhaled slowly. “I—”

“No need to be so relieved,” Eric said. “It’s in the itinerary. It says we make every effort to accommodate the time traveler’s goal. And in difficult, close decisions, we side with the time traveler, not with conflicting historical situations or moral principles. It’s part of Ian’s commitment—which also includes delivering the contents of this vial not to the personal relation you lied to Ian about, but to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

I wondered why Eric didn’t tack on some penalty payment for what must have been the far more difficult task of triggering a faux stroke in the Chief Justice, but I decided not to press my luck with this conversation. For all I knew, Ian would be insisting on an additional hefty payment when I returned his vest. “How are you going to do that? You know someone close to the Chief Justice? A law clerk?” I had researched two excellent possible agents. For all I knew, Eric would be enlisting one or both of them. If not, or if Eric’s special delivery failed to get to Rehnquist for any reason, I still had just enough time to use one of the vials I had in my pockets. But it made sense to let Eric do the heavy lifting. If his plan was to betray me, he could do that even if I walked out of here and told him I could take care of this myself.

Eric smiled. “You know I can’t reveal those details.”

* * * *

I was hoping Eric might have offered a room to me in his brownstone—I would have liked to have kept an eye on him and the proceedings—but no such luck, and it was not in the itinerary. I settled for a room in a comfortable hotel and stayed focused on the television.

The news came through the next morning. Rehnquist was stricken, not clear as yet if he could continue on Bush v. Gore. I had researched this carefully. The case would be argued before the Court today, December 11, 2000. Had Rehnquist been stricken earlier, he might well have temporarily mustered enough strength to hear and decide this case. Getting the fast-acting pseudo-stroke inducer to him early in the morning was cutting it very close and left little room for error, but there was no other way.

More good news on the television: Rehnquist would not be hearing the Bush v. Gore arguments today and would not be participating in the decision. The court reporter on CNN explained that, in view of the importance of the case, the Court would have wanted to wait until Rehnquist was better and could sit with them for the decision. But given the urgency of rendering a decision in time for the electoral college meeting on December 18—the “safe harbor” for determining the electors having already been set as December 12—the Court had no choice but to go ahead with the proceedings without Rehnquist. I of course had no definite knowledge of how any of this would play out in the Court’s decision in Bush v. Gore, only hopes and expectations. The good result wasn’t part of history I knew, the history I wanted to change. It was happening for the first time, due to my intervention, or, more precisely, Eric’s getting the contents of the vial into Rehnquist. I watched with intense attention. I ate, drank, paced as I watched this primitive television. I kept half an eye on it as I went to the bathroom. The light from the two-dimensional screen hurt my eyes. But what I was seeing on the screen made me increasingly happy.

I slept fitfully with the television on. I showered and put on fresh clothes the next morning. After what seemed an eternity, but was only a matter of hours, the announcement was made: the Court had split 4-4 on the decision. Exactly the same as with the original 5-4 decision in favor of Bush, stopping the Florida recount, but with Rehnquist out if it. The split decision meant the Florida high court decision requiring the recount would be left standing. The recount would resume.

I ordered a celebratory meal from room service. The steak wasn’t as good as in my time, too many antibiotics or whatever in this beef, but I enjoyed every bite of it anyway. Everything was falling into place. Bill Clinton addressed the nation in the evening. He thanked the Court for its wise decision and wished the Chief Justice a speedy recovery. The Florida recount was complete and certified the next morning: Gore won the state by 1,731 votes. I wanted to go out onto the streets of Washington and tell the world what I had done. I wanted to be hoisted on the shoulders of a grateful populace and cheered for my daring, trumpets blaring. But I knew better. Staying in the hotel room, interacting with as few people as possible, was part of the necessary regimen, written in big letters all over the itinerary.

Bush conceded the next morning—December 14, 2000, a day after Gore had conceded in my history, because Bush had to wait for the recount. Gore made a gracious, conciliatory speech in the afternoon. I called Eric to thank him but received no answer. I left no message.

I still had some money left. I ordered another good dinner, the best bottle of wine on the menu, and went to bed early. I had a train to catch, back to New York and my time, a better time than it had been, tomorrow morning.

* * * *

I don’t know what I had expected to see at Union Station the next morning, but it was great. Gore’s victory headlined on every newspaper, broadcast on every radio, telling me this was real, real, real! I savored my eggs over easy and looked at the passersby. Truthfully, they seemed no happier than when I had arrived a few days earlier, when the results of the election were still in doubt. Maybe that was because half the country was Republican. I didn’t really care. I had no idea whether these people would have seemed happier or sadder had the outcome gone the other way, with Bush the winner, before I had stepped in and made the change. All I knew is that I was happier, because I knew what would have been. For that matter, if I understood how time travel worked, the only people who would know that there had once been a reality in which George W. Bush had been made the winner by the Supreme Court in 2000 would be me, Ian, and the people in Ian’s organization. As a part of the reality that had changed this reality, we and we alone would retain knowledge of the original Bush-wins world, as I did right now.

I finished my eggs and coffee—a little too acidic for my future tastes—and proceeded to the boarding gate. I patted my vest for what must have been the twentieth time, to make sure it was on. I would soon be back in New York. I knew there could be no guarantees about the consequences of changing the past, but—

“You seem very happy today, sir,” the wom-an collecting the tickets at the gate said to me.

I broadened my smile. “Thank you. I am.”

I walked to my train. Interestingly, the Acela—direct precursor, two models removed, from the Tricela in my time—had commenced regular service on this line just a few days ago. It would have been fun to ride it, but the itinerary called for the older Metroliner, which would continue in service until 2006.

I sat in my reserved seat by the window, with an empty seat next to me in the aisle. I assumed Irene would soon be joining me, but recalled from the trip down that I wasn’t supposed to look for any of the escorts Ian had provided for me. I half closed my eyes, put my head back, and saw a purple sweater and a smile. “Irene,” I said and smiled back up at her.

She took the seat. “So it went well,” she said.

I nodded.

“I bet you can’t wait to see how your world’s changed in the future,” she said.

“That, and a decent cup of coffee,” I replied.

“People who don’t know any better think everything tasted better in the past,” Irene said. “Not true. Depends on the time. The year 2000 is still a while before complete genetic engineering kicked in and the age of artificial ingredients washed out.”

“Yeah.” I’d been thinking of getting a cup of Amtrak coffee. Maybe not. But I was tired. I’d gotten at best one night’s sleep in the past few days, on the night before I’d boarded the Tricela in New York City.

“We’ve got about two hours until your departure at Trenton,” Irene said. “I won’t take it personally if you take a nap.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know if I like the idea of falling sound asleep on a public train, in a time not my own. I don’t know if that makes any sense—”

“It makes perfect sense,” Irene said. “You’re wise to be cautious. That’s part of my job. To make sure no harm comes to you.”

“And I do no harm to others.”

She nodded.

I patted my vest and closed my eyes but didn’t sleep. I daydreamed instead, about taking off that purple sweater, which was brushing softly against my arm. I switched from Irene to Ilene, from plum to lilac, and then to what I thought each looked like with nothing on at all. I led them to the bed in my hotel room. I thought I liked Ilene a little better. No, I liked them both. I was still in a celebratory mood.

* * * *

I took my leave of Irene a little south of Trenton and walked to the Metroliner’s café car. Irene had gone over the drill with me one more time. It was the same as on the trip down. I stepped into the vestibule at the back of the car, in the appointed place. This time the café was empty. The train clanked against the tracks, keeping pace with my pulse, and—

I got kissed again by the cosmos, a kiss far sweeter than even the ones in my daydreams. I opened my eyes, which had shut momentarily, involuntarily, and saw a leaner train. The ride was smoother, the contours around me more cleanly defined.

I looked down the corridor. A lilac sweater and sparkling eyes approached me. But I could see something more than sparkle in those eyes as Ilene got closer, and she was not smiling. For the first time in this trip I felt sick.

* * * *

“How could that happen?” I had asked her this five times already.

“Please, don’t shout,” Ilene said, looking around the train car. “Attracting attention won’t help any of us.”

I shook my head. I had done all I could do not to scream even louder. Fortunately, there were few people in this car, and most seemed asleep or entwined in their gossamer headphones. I didn’t really care—

“Here, sit with me, let’s talk,” Ilene said soothingly, and gestured to a seat by the window.

“You still haven’t given me an answer,” I said. I took the seat.

She sat down next to me. “That’s because I really don’t know. Please believe me.”

There was a downy soft screen in front of each of us. I punched up Wikipedia on mine and went to “George Walker Bush . . . served as the 43rd President of the United States from 2001 to 2009. . . . “ I clenched my fist and managed to punch just the cushion above the screen.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that,” Ilene said. “I don’t blame you for being furious.”

“The recount had gone to Gore before I left,” I said. “How did this happen?”

Ilene shook her head.

“How long have you known about it?”

“All of my life,” she said. “The itinerary explains how that works. For me, George W. Bush was always President back then. Our history texts explain all about the recount, and how the Supreme Court stopped that—”

“And I stopped that Supreme Court!”

“I know,” Ilene said. “I know. A part of me, a small part of me, remembers that you had indeed changed that. But—”

I looked at her. Her lilac sweater and agate-gray eyes were no longer so appealing. I started to stand. “Would you mind getting out of my way? You’re no help to me here.”

Ilene stood but didn’t move. “There’s nothing you can do down in Wilmington. Trust me.”

“I don’t trust you,” I said with controlled raw anger. “But maybe I trust this process, a little. I know the weave in the vest was programmed to work only on the specified date. But maybe—”

“It won’t work now,” Ilene said.

Her deadpan tone was convincing. I didn’t care.

“And if you leave now, I’ll have to call the authorities. And if I don’t put a call in to Ian soon, he’ll call the authorities.”

“A fine operation you run here,” I said. “You take my money and . . . at very least, Ian owes me a complete refund and a big explanation.”

“That’s your only real option,” Ilene said.

“Taking it up with Ian?”

She nodded.

“How do I know he’ll even be there, in the Bronx?”

“I can call him right now,” Ilene said. “And I can come with you to see him. Right after we get off of this train. I won’t leave your sight.”

That was as much to keep an eye on me as my keeping an eye on her, I knew.

“You can take this up with Ian,” Ilene said again. “He’ll know things about this that I do not.”

* * * *

It occurred to me, after I’d sat in edgy silence next to Ilene for at least fifteen minutes, that maybe the screen in front of me had been programmed by her or Ian to give me the George Walker Bush bad news, which wasn’t in fact the truth, for whatever twisted reasons Ian may have had.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said and rose. “Is that all right with you?”

“I’ll have to accompany you, at least to the door,” Ilene said.

“Next stop, Newark,” the train’s voice announced.

We walked to the bathroom at the front of the car. “Okay, I was lying,” I told Ilene. “I want to see what Wikipedia says on another screen.”

“No problem,” Ilene said. She pointed to an empty seat and the computer screen in front of it.

“Let’s walk forward a few cars,” I said. “That okay with you?”

She nodded.

I picked an empty seat, suddenly, in the middle of the next car and punched up Wikipedia on the screen. I got the same infuriating words about George W. Bush.

Ilene looked at me. “There would be nothing in it for Ian or me to lie to you about this.”

“I still haven’t gotten over wondering what was in it for you and Ian to lie to me about this whole expensive trip in the first place,” I said.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Ilene said.

I thought I saw, maybe, a tear in her eye.

“You want to check another screen?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If you saw the same on every screen, that still would not be absolute proof that George W. Bush was President and what you did was reversed,” Ilene said quietly. “For all you know, Ian could have gotten to every outlet on this train.”

“I know,” I said tiredly. “For all I know, Ian could have hacked into every computer in New York City.” The truth was that I didn’t know what to think.

“He didn’t,” Ilene said. “Of that, I’m pretty sure. But that’s why I think your only recourse is to talk directly to Ian—he said he’ll be waiting for us.”

* * * *

The MetroNorth spur left us about a block and a half from Ian’s. We walked quickly to the glowing neon sign on the second story above the dry cleaner’s on Johnson Avenue. Ian opened the door and invited us in.

“I don’t usually do business so early,” he said without much of a smile. It was 2:20 in the afternoon.

I glared at him. “You—”

“You’d like me to explain what happened, I know,” Ian said. “I can tell you that Eric did exactly as instructed. The pseudo-stroke inducer was administered. The Chief Justice was stricken and the Court decided the case without him, and the recount in Florida continued, making Gore the winner.”

“I know that—” I said.

“He knows that—” Ilene said at the same time.

“You got exactly what was promised in the itinerary,” Ian interrupted us both. “No less, no more.”

“That’s no answer,” I said. I pounded my fist on the counter. I spoke quietly but was even more furious than I was on the train. “I want to know how it came to be that Bush became President, even though, as you say, Gore was the winner.”

Ian regarded me.

“I want to know, in other words, how it is that even though I got exactly what was promised in the itinerary, the state of reality now is precisely the opposite of what I was promised, as if what I was promised never came to be.”

I could feel Ilene looking at me. I was 100 percent sure that if I made any kind of hostile move toward Ian, she’d be on me with who knows what kind of weapon. My fist on the counter had put her on the verge. This was no doubt also the reason that she had accompanied me here.

“You’re not our only customer,” Ian said.

“What?”

“You’re not the only person who wants to travel to the past to right some wrong, real or imagined. You’ve got historical sympathies for the Democrats? There are just as many who feel the same way about the Republicans. Maybe more, since the Republicans are no longer around.”

“And—”

“You’re a smart guy. Figure it out. We’re a business. Equal opportunity for our customers.”

I thought for a moment and realized just what he was saying. “You’re telling me—”

“That’s right,” Ian said. “I booked a trip for someone to go back and undo what you did.”

I had all I could do not to wring Ian’s throat. Not to smash whatever weapon Ilene produced, smash it right out of her hand, and pummel Ian—but I controlled myself. “I swear to God I’m going to take you to court and sue you for every dollar you’ve got. You gave me a contract, the itinerary. You can’t just—”

Now Ian smiled slightly. “First of all, be my guest. Take me to any court you like. No one will believe you. Even if they did, you’ll find none has jurisdiction. Second, I didn’t violate your itinerary in the slightest. You’ve read it. It has no non-compete clause.”

“So,” I was practically sputtering, “you sell trips to the past to people who want to change the past, and then turn around and sell trips to people who want to undo the changes? That’s how you conduct this business?”

“Not all of this business, no,” Ian replied.

“I’m not getting you,” I said.

“Clause 37,” Ilene spoke. “This is the first time I’ve seen it invoked like this.”

“There is no 37,” I said. I knew my damned itinerary by heart. It had only thirty-six clauses.

“Not in your itinerary, no,” Ian said.

“There are other packages?”

“Yes, more expensive,” Ian replied.

I was beginning to understand. “The societal itinerary?”

“That’s right,” Ian said. “Our societal packages come with a Clause 37, which commits us to not selling a trip to any individual intent on undoing the societal change intended in the original itinerary.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“You lied to me. I asked you the purpose of your trip. You flat-out lied to me and said it was personal, not societal. So I gave you the personal contract.”

“You punished me for lying?”

“That’s not the way we see it,” Ian said. “You got personal enjoyment out of your trip—you had the time of your life back there, just thinking that you had changed history, didn’t you? That’s what you paid for, and that’s exactly what you received. No more, no less.”

I also understood something else. “And you had no big problem with my lying, with my getting the contract without the clause; didn’t even charge me for the extra work Eric did with my target being a public figure like Rehnquist, because you knew you’d be able to sell a second trip to someone who wanted to undo what I did.”

“I’m a businessman,” Ian said.

“But I still care about the history . . . okay, exactly what would it cost me to go back a second time and undo what was undone . . . or . . . but I guess the Clause 37 in the contract that succeeded mine wouldn’t allow that.”

“That’s right,” Ian said. “It’s in effect a clause that makes a trip to change something of societal importance in the past a one-time-only event, or a part of history that we allow to be changed only once. It’s the only way we can maintain some modicum of sanity in these circumstances. Otherwise, we’d be losing our minds with history changing back and forth, back and forth, ad infinitum. As you know, we here at Ian’s maintain memories of all the histories—”

“I know.” My mind was speeding through possibilities. “But maybe I could still purchase another trip, one which would have nothing directly to do with the 2000 election. But one which would still have the same ultimate effect. Like if I did something to make George Bush the father lose the 1988 election for President, or—”

“But I couldn’t sell you a trip like that, if you told me that was its ultimate purpose.” And now Ian was smiling, almost fully, for the first time.

“I understand,” I said.

“And a trip like that would be very expensive,” Ian said. “Societal, and earlier than the twenty-first century. Could you afford it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I know one way of reducing the cost,” Ilene said, looking tentatively at Ian.

Ian nodded slightly. “Your middle name is Isidor, is it not?” he asked me.

“Yes, but I never use it.”

“Think about using it,” Ian said. “We give a 50 percent discount to employees.”