Ryan Martin, Time Detective
Ryan Martin. Of
course, that’s not really my name,
but this is too good for me to keep to myself.
Tomorrow morning, you are going to wonder: Was I so drunk that I imagined
this? Or was this Ryan guy so drunk that
he believed it? It doesn’t really matter.
I work for the Historical Integrity Verification
Project. We show up on the National
Endowment for the Humanities budget, but we are really a “black project”
reporting to the CIA. Other parts appear
on the National Science Foundation budget as “Neutrino Focusing Research
Project.” We work out of a building near
Danvers, Massachusetts.
The CIA’s Office of Inspector General recruited me out of
the Department of State Security service as an investigator. Why?
I’m short enough and slight enough of build to not stand out where I am
going undercover—or should I say when
I am going undercover. Mass matters,
too; I will get to that soon. The XBI
clearance also speeded up getting me to work.
I have a certain facility with languages and accents, too.
Anyway, my new boss Jane Rodgers, (you can waste plenty of
time trying to find her, too) explains that the reason we are called Historical
Integrity Verification Project (HVIP) is to explain the fairly large number of History PhDs and
MAs we hire. What we do is going to
sound absurd, but trust me, I’ve done it, it’s true.
HIVP’s nominal mission is to verify the accuracy of
published historical research. Some
years back, a History Professor at Emory University wrote an absurdly false
book, and its widespread acceptance in the academic community, and then the judiciary,
exposed how weak the history profession is on accuracy. That’s our cover story, and occasionally HVIP
finds an error—and then has to find a
way to prove it without explaining: “We interviewed King Philip’s killer.”
But the truth is, that some scientists working under a
National Science Foundation grant involving neutrino focusing (and no, I have
no idea what neutrinos are, how you focus them, or why) discovered that they
could see into the past; they could
see events that happened centuries before.
They were immediately ordered/bribed into the CIA’s black project, and
told that when declassified, they could publish their research, after appropriate
sanitization, and go directly to Stockholm for their meeting with the Committee
and the King.
One thing led to another and they figured out how to
transfer objects through this neutrino lens back and forward in time. But no dinosaur safaris: this portal (so far)
only works to one particular year: 1692.
The theory has a lot of work left; they have one example that
works. Like Alexander Fleming’s
penicillin in a petri dish, it is a fortunate accident, with a more complex problem
than Fleming had to solve. There is no
choice about where; you end up in the same spot as you start. There is some limited ability to select a
time; otherwise you might leave Danvers at 8:00 AM and land at 42 degrees, 34 minutes north latitude over the Atlantic Ocean depending on how many rotations
the Earth has made in the intervening centuries. But so far, location latitude, seems to be fixed.
You can see why the CIA would be interested. Remote viewing of the past means remote
viewing of five minutes ago. Time travel
allows past mistakes to be corrected, assuming that you know that you change
will actually work without causing unexpected results. The CIA has lots of smart people who will
always get that right, right?
I mentioned that mass matters. Mass and energy are conserved, I am
told. This transfer back in time
requires an amount of energy equal to the mass of the object times the speed of
light squared. Yeah, Einstein’s E=mc squared
formula. They recover that energy when
you come back, but you better not weigh a lot more coming back than when you
left; the energy has to come from somewhere.
Remember that blackout that took down the whole Northeast a few years
ago? Someone had some silver pennies in
his pocket and the extra mass demanded huge amounts of power right now.
So why did they recruit me?
They were suspicious about one of their researchers who was verifying
history by going to Salem and watching the events that led to the Salem Witch
Trials. It turns out that this guy, Dr.
Williams, was suddenly getting very wealthy.
He thought he was hiding his new-found riches, but CIA keeps careful
watch on black project employees and their finances.
Was he selling information?
Not that anyone could tell. Was
he bringing back goods from 1692? It
seemed unlikely; economists call the trading of goods between two different
markets to take advantage of price differences arbitrage. No one could
figure out any arbitrage between then and now that made sense and was possible. Most items were actually more expensive in
the era before mass production. He could
be selling steel tools, or chainsaw, or power screwdrivers in 1692. But these would clearly qualify as
witchcraft. And how would he transport
gold or silver to the present. Any
substantial amount would show up as a huge energy consumption as came back to
the present compared to energy used to send him back.
So, my mission was to follow him and see what, if anything,
Dr. Williams was doing. The day
came. They had taught me late 17th
century Colonial American English vocabulary and accent as best as their
researchers had been able to record it on previous trips. My clothes were the best possible replicas of
Colonial cotton breeches, waistcoat, cravat, and coat, both heavier and warmer
than I would have chosen; apparently temperatures were lower back then (my
instructor called it the Little Ice Age).
They had picked colors that a visitor from another colony might have
worn, so that I could explain my odd attire, if I stood out in some way.
They issued me a large hunting knife and a pair of flintlock
pistols. My first reaction was: “I can’t
take my Sig Sauer?” My instructor
pointed me to the sign on the wall: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is
indistinguishable from magic.—Arthur C. Clarke”; a true statement with which I
was not previously familiar. Of
course. If I had occasion to use it, I
might find myself accused of witchcraft, in a time when people were being
hanged for witchcraft based on claims of what young girls could see, but no one
else could. A gun that can shoot many
times in a row with enormous power and accuracy? With glow in the dark sights? No need for a trial.
There was another reason.
All of us have ancestors in the past.
My instructor was part-Wampanoag Indian.
If I defended myself from one of her ancestors, it would change who she
was, and perhaps others in unpredictable ways.
Not everyone of mixed blood was willing to admit it to their children in
the past; many “white” people today might suddenly have a different ancestor. The logic on this was very clear. So I went
along, and practiced loading and firing my flintlock pistols.
“So what if I need more than two shots?” I asked.
“Are you expecting repeating guns in 1692?”
Still, I feel a bit naked with only two shots. I packed a tiny .22 pistol, the Walther TPH
that I have always carried as a backup, in my backpack. They had built a leather bag similar to what
they had observed in the forest, but these were usually distant travelers they
were viewing; appearance was thus largely guesswork. I also weighed my cartridges against pebbles;
if I actually had to fire any shots, I needed to roughly balance that loss in
mass to keep backward and forward energy as close to equal as possible. I did not need this to be perfect. Most travelers lost a few pounds in 1692;
hiking through the forest, cooler weather, and a shortage of fast food usually
dropped a couple pounds.
The morning came. I
stood by in the shadows watching Dr. Williams walk into the time travel booth
(no, not a British phone booth), and after a couple seconds, poof! They had a viewing screen pointed at his
arrival spot, and they could see him remove his goggles and secrete them under
the pine needles. Dr. Williams was, like
me, fairly short and slight of build, in his 40s, with hair beginning to gray
in a way so professorial that all that was missing was a tweed jacket and a
pipe. They had to wait a few hours to
recharge the capacitors to send me back.
As it was, the electric utilities all over the Northeast were probably
wondering why there was this sudden surge in demand.
A few hours later, I put on my goggles and walked in to the
booth. I confess that had I not seen Dr.
Williams arrival in 1692, I might have been reluctant; when he went, there was
a dimming of all our lights that made me think of 1930s prison films where the
electric chair draws too much current.
As I was warned, the goggles were absolutely needed. As I felt a strange tingling, I became aware,
even through the dark goggles, of a very bright white light. Next, I fell.
I was warned that there would be an elevation change. The floor of our building was a few feet
above ground level. Also, New England,
like many areas that were covered by ice during the last Ice Age, has been
rising as the ice melting allowed the ground to rise. Ground level today is several feet higher
than in 1692.
It was only a few feet and I was expecting it. As soon as I landed, at least on both feet, I
took off the goggles. There were still
afterimages of the bright light. After
looking around quickly, I found a nearby tree that I was sure that I would
recognize in a few days, buried them under the pine needles, and pulled a
hatchet from my bag to “blaze” the tree’s bark.
We were not sure when this practice for marking trails through a forest
came into use, but it did not seem too out of character for the time.
I knew from the map that I had tried to memorize which
direction would take me to Danvers. Any
modern compass would be too obviously anachronistic. Within a few minutes, I was both walking past
a small pond, then the edges of wheat fields.
Ahead I could see a scattered collection of wood buildings that I would
have to remember was “Salem Village,” not the more recently named “Danvers.” In retrospect the delay on sending me back
was probably a good thing; two strangers arriving within a few minutes of each
other might excite suspicion, especially in such a paranoid time as the
Witchcraft Trials. The entire
Massachusetts Bay Colony population in 1692, I had been told, was only in the
thousands.
When I entered the village, I immediately recognized the
strange looks on the faces of the villagers.
They were not hostile or frightened; more curious than anything. I asked around, and found the Ship Tavern,
where I exchanged a few expertly counterfeited threepence coins for ale and
roast beef. They indeed has a place for
me to bed down for the night on a quilt.
In the morning, I rose early, and began the task of locating Dr.
Williams, hinting to villagers that a fellow traveler from Plymouth might have
recently arrived. Eventually my
inquiries were rewarded. He apparently
had spent the night with John Darling near Hathorne’s Hill. I arrived as he was leaving the Darling
house.
I was briefly concerned that he might see me, and somehow
identify that I was too modern. I kept
my mouth shut. The inhabitants, like
most people of English ancestry, were all in desperate need of
orthodontia. My teeth were the result of many unpleasant years in junior high.
But we passed in the road.
He was headed toward Lindal Hill, if my memory of the map was
correct. After a minute, I turned
around, and from a safe distance, followed him past Whipple Hill to the Meeting
House. Dr. Williams was, in a subtle way,
interviewing people outside the Meeting House.
I was not close enough to hear the conversations distinctly, but I was not
too concerned; this was what he was supposed to be doing.
The next day or two was uneventful. I enjoyed ale, roast beef, and lamb. I remembered the horrors of the outhouse and
found myself amazed that more were not dying here. There were enough people walking around the
village that I did not stand out, even staying within sight of Dr.
Williams. One conversation that I overheard
indicated that he was asking locals about the witchcraft trials and
accusations, under the pretense that he was visiting from Plymouth, and wanted
to know what unique features of these events Plymouth magistrates might want to
watch for; it was a clever method of gathering information that failed to make
it into the official records of the Trials.
On the fourth day, I saw Dr. Williams carrying two flintlock
pistols in his belt while walking northwest.
I had not seen him carrying pistols before, so this caused me to take
interest. I could not imagine him
robbing someone to take that wealth back to our time. How would he take it back?
I followed him at a few hundred yards until we were almost
in Rowley. We were far enough out from
town that we were now in forest. Dr.
Williams approached a tree about two feet in diameter, and dug through the pine
needles until he grabbed something and pulled up. Then he placed the flintlock pistols in two
bags, placed them in the ground, in the ground, released the handle, then
spread the pine needles over the ground again.
After he left, I walked to the tree, dug around the pine
needles where he had stood about fifteen feet from the trunk, and soon found a
handle on a metal box. Where would Dr.
Williams have found such a box? Was it
made in Salem Village? Did he order it
from Boston? It seemed to be steel of
this period. Inside were the flintlock
pistols in transparent plastic bags surrounded by a few bags of a white powder
in a perforated white bag, which I was guessing was a desiccant, and a carved
wooden rectangle. I carried it to a
sunny spot in a clearing. Carved in the
wood was: “Property Daniel Williams, Ph.D.
Please do not disturb.” I was now
beginning to see how he was making history profitable.
I carefully counted my steps back to town, using the
position of the Sun to get as accurate a bearing as I could. My reason for staying here was over. I walked to the place in the forest where I
had been delivered to this time, and waved my arms frantically to get the
attention of whoever was watching the screen.
Then I yelled, “Beam me up!” hoping the joke would not be lost on
whatever millennial was left in charge.
I put on my goggles and waited. A
bright flash of light and some tingling, and I was back in the present day.
It was a few minutes before my boss, Jane arrived. “Did you learn anything?”
“Yes. I never want to live in the 17th
century…. Oh, you mean about Dr. Williams.
Yes, I need a map of this area.”
Within a few minutes we had identified where Dr. Williams’
storage box should be, in Endicott Park.
A short drive, and I was standing next to what had been a small tree in
1692. It was now gigantic: tall and
thick. A metal detector soon found the
chest under a few feet of dirt accumulated over the many decades as leaves
degraded. It had apparently been opened
recently in our time. Inside were the
two flintlock pistols, a rather dainty little saucer, and a sealed plastic bag
of threepence coins. I suspect that the
saucer and bag of coins might have been added to the box after I returned. Everything was photographed and dusted for
prints as evidence. Jane left a note
inside: “Dr. Williams, report to me at once.
Jane Rodgers, Office of Inspector General.”
Dr. Williams’ mission ended in a few days. To my surprise, he appeared the following
morning at Jane’s office.
“Dr. Williams: We have been wondering where your sudden
income came from. Now we know.” Jane held up one of the flintlocks.
Dr. Williams had a look like a schoolboy caught texting
someone across the classroom: “I didn’t break any laws. I didn’t try to bring them back with me.”
Jane’s tone was icy. “No
laws broken, and this is far better than if you were selling information. Still, there’s a conflict of interest. Is the number of trips for historical
research? Or to gather more artifacts
for resale?”
Dr. Williams suddenly looked down in horror, like he had not
even considered that angle. “No, I never
let this sideline business influence my… research decisions.”
Jane smiled: “Good.
You will reimburse the Treasury for the profits you have earned, which I
suspect were substantial. I am guessing
two nearly flawless 17th century flintlock pistols are worth a
pretty penny to gun collectors. And this
dish, and these coins.”
Dr. Williams was clearly becoming more distraught by the
second. My guess is that he was not
fundamentally a criminal, and had not thought through the appearance or
possible consequences of his “sideline business.” “Yes.
I can write a check tomorrow, if that is agreeable. What are you going to do with those
artifacts?”
Jane took a long look at them. “We could either donate them to the
Smithsonian or have you sell them, and use it to pay for electricity. I am inclined to the latter. How would we explain such perfectly preserved
artifacts?”
Dr. Williams smiled, finally. “It wasn’t just the electricity to bring
these back with me that caused me to secrete them in the park. They needed to show some age. The desiccant and sealed bags slowed down the
oxidation process, but did not completely stop it. They look well-preserved, but not obvious
modern forgeries.”
And so Dr. Williams kept his job; the Historical Integrity
Verification Project moved a little closer to self-funding, and collectors of
17th century Colonial artifacts became a little poorer.
What, no copyright?
ReplyDeleteGood story! The most sci-fi thing about it was a government department that would make such a practical decision as in the denouement. :D
ReplyDeleteSince the U.S. signed the Berne convention, everything is born copyrighted at first publication.
ReplyDelete