impossible.”
Louise could not think of a thing to say to the man. He looked as if his faith had been as profoundly shaken as a small boy discovering the truth about Santa Claus. Louise shook her head. “All I want is to watch you fly; once I’ve done that I’ll be gone and you won’t have to worry about the pictures I took.”
“This is why you were so certain the Flyer will work today, isn’t it?” There was no wonder in his voice, only resignation.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what you told the boy, about Orville rebuilding the plane. True? So, we’ll be enough of a success that someone builds a museum and sends a time traveler back to visit. That’s something, even if I’m not around to see it.”
Startled, Louise replayed the things she had told Homer. “Why do you think that?”
“Because everything you said was about my brother. At some point, I’ll stop registering on the pages of history.” He twisted the glasses in his hands. “Is the future fixed?”
Louise hesitated. “The Good Book promises us free will.”
“You have not answered my question.” He took his bowler off and wiped a sheen of sweat from his scalp before settling it back in place.
When he looked back at her with eyes as blue as a frozen river, she could see the boy she’d read about. Self-taught and brilliant, he had been described as having a voracious mind. Everything she said would go in and fill his mind with ideas.
“You understand that I’m only a traveler and don’t understand the science? If you think about time like a stalk of broccoli, what Mr. Barnes’s machine does is it takes a slice of the broccoli and shuffles it to a different point in the stalk. My past is one big stalk. My future is made up of florets. So the only places I can travel back to are the ones that lead to the future I live in. If I tried to go forward, they tell me that the future will be different every time. Which I believe means that you can do things different and wind up in a different stalk of the broccoli, but I’ll only ever see the pieces of broccoli that lead to my present.” She shook her head. “If that makes any sense to you, then I’ll be impressed.”
“It makes sense enough.” Wilbur lifted the glasses to his eyes again, and with them masked said, “I’ll thank you not to intimate this to my brother.”
“Of course not.” Louise shuddered.
“Very good.” Wilbur spun on his heel. “Well, find a spot to watch.”
“But Miss Jackson’s opera glasses . . .” Homer trotted after him.
“I’ll give them back after I’ve flown.” Wilbur Wright grinned. “If your history is going to lose track of me, then perhaps the future needs to be reminded.”
* * *
On the far side of the hanger, the other men were still celebrating the flight. Eighteen minutes and forty-two seconds precisely. She’d recorded their joy, but whenever Wilbur looked at her, Louise got the shivers and had finally given up to wait out her remaining time out of sight. She leaned against the side of the hanger, studying her watch. Time was almost up.
At a run, Homer rounded the corner of the hanger with the opera glasses in his hands. He relaxed visibly at the sight of her. “I was scared you’d be gone already.”
She held the watch up. “Two minutes.”
“He didn’t want to come. Said that the doubt would be better than knowing for certain.” Homer chewed his lip and handed her the opera glasses. “What happens to him, Miss Jackson?”
Louise sighed and remembered all the things she’d read about Wilbur Wright before coming here. “He dies of typhoid when he’s forty-seven. I do wish I hadn’t said a thing about the future.”
Homer shook his head. “I’m glad you told me. I’ll—”
And he was gone.
The tall grass of Huffman Prairie was replaced by a crisply mown lawn of chemical green. Where the weathered hanger had been stood a bright, white replica. Neither the hanger nor the lawn seemed as real as the past. Louise sighed. The air burned her nostrils, smelling of carbon and rubber. The homing beacon in her handbag should bring them to her soon enough.
She leaned back against the barn to wait. A paper rustled behind her. She pulled away, afraid that she’d see a big “wet paint” sign, but it was an envelope.
An envelope with her name on it.
She spun around as quickly as she could, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Breath fighting with her corset, Louise pulled the envelope off the wall. She opened it carefully and found a single sheet of paper. A shaky hand covered the surface.
Dear Louise,
You will have just returned from your first time travel mission and meeting me, so this offers the first opportunity to introduce myself to you in your present. I wish I could be there, but that would mean living for another forty years, which task I fear would require Olympian blood. You have been such a friend to me and my family and so I wanted you to know two things.
1. Telling me the truth was the best thing you could have done for me. Thank you.
2. We are (or will be by the time you read this) major shareholders in the Time Travel Society. It ensures that your future trips to my past are without incident, and also will let my children know precisely when your first trip takes place in your present. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of asking my children to purchase shares for you as well. I wish we could have presented them to you sooner.
Be well, my friend. And happy travels.
Sincerely yours,
Homer Van Loon
At the bottom of the sheet was a bank account number, and then a list of addresses and phone numbers arranged in order of date.
Her eyes misted over at the gift he’d given her—not the account, but the knowledge that she had not harmed him by telling the truth.
In the parking lot, the Time Travel Society’s minivan pulled in, barely stopping before Mr. Barnes and the rest of the team jumped out. “How was the trip?” he shouted across the field, jogging toward her.
Louise smiled and held out the opera glasses. “I think you’ll like the footage I got for you.”
“May I?” He stopped in front of her, as long and lanky as she imagined Homer being when he was grown up.
“Of course. That’s why you sent me, isn’t it?”
He took the opera glasses from her and rewound. Holding it to his eyes as the rest of the team gathered around, Mr. Barnes became utterly still. “Miss Jackson . . . Miss Jackson, how did you get the camera on the plane?”
Dr. Connelly gasped. “On the Wright Flyer?”
“Yes, ma’am. I watched from the ground with the hat-cam while Wilbur was flying. I’m quite curious to hear the audio that goes with it. We could hear him whooping from the ground.”
“But how did you . . .” Dr. Connelly shook her head.
“I told him the truth.” Louise sighed, remembering the naked look on his face at the moment when he believed her. “He took the camera because he understood the historical context.”
Copyright © 2009 Mary Robinette Kowal
Cover art copyright © 2009 by Pascal Milelli
Books by Mary Robinette Kowal
Scenting the Dark and Other Stories
(Subterranean Press, 2009)
The Hugo Award Showcase 2010 edited by Mary Robinette Kowal
(Prime Books, 2010)