"Trevor Goldberg" tried not to watch as she rejoined her group and walked away, but he had been waiting for just this moment, and for a very long time. He rejoined his own group, diplomats from the British legation, and he listened to their talk of agenda items -- mainly how to keep Churchill's being pushed out of the main flow of the conversation between Roosevelt and Stalin -- when he felt William Thacker's eyes boring into his.
"Who was that?" Thacker asked.
"Who? The girl?" Goldberg replied. "Claire Aubuchon. I met her once, in D.C., I think. Rather cute, don't you think?"
He watched as Thacker looked after the girl for a moment, then Goldberg continued. "I was thinking I'd try to ask her out -- again," he said, grinning conspiratorially.
"Oh, was she so interesting?" Thacker said, now eying Goldberg with renewed interest.
"I'll never tell," Trevor said, for indeed, he never would.
"What did she say?"
"I'm going to meet up with her when the afternoon session wraps up, or perhaps in the morning. Say, I'd bet you didn't know she's Charles Wilkinson's sister."
"Seriously? I hear he's in the queue for an ambassadorship."
"So I've heard."
"They'll probably send him to Oman."
"Family has too much money for that."
"Ah," Thacker sighed. "So that's where your interest resides, eh, Trevor?"
Goldberg grinned, looked sheepishly away.
"You sly dog," Thacker joshed before he walked quickly to catch up with the ambassador.
Trevor groaned inwardly, then thought of the time they'd been apart. How many lifetimes ago had that been? A hundred? A thousand? And...that last night...
And just then, watching her disappear into the main conference room, he had to admit he really didn't know her anymore, and that hurt most of all.
+++++
She listened to the introductory remarks, tried to take in Stalin's ambiguous statement of greeting, his continued insistence that America and Britain open up a second front as soon as possible, then she listened as Roosevelt thanked Stalin for the sacrifices of the great Russian people. She looked at Churchill from time to time, too; at the old man's chin resting on his chest, his hooded eyes barely concealing the anger seething away inside. Everyone in the room knew he was being pushed aside, that Roosevelt was, in a very real sense, relegating the United Kingdom to the dustbin of History, and Stalin, his wolfish eyes darting here and there, could barely conceal his glee. The sun would, his darting glances confirmed, set on the British Empire, and none too soon. Tehran would forever be remembered as the final changing of the guard; Japanese aircraft had put an end to any just claim that Britain had rights to a global empire now. The sinking of the battleships Prince of Wales and Repulse, on 10 December 1941 off the east coast of Malaya, and just three days into the Pacific war, simply codified for all time Neville Chamberlain's grotesque appeasements. Those results were cast in stone now, and History's judgment would be severe, and final.
It was odd, too, Claire thought. Churchill was by far the most astute wartime politician since Napoleon, and yet Napoleon, too, had squandered his empire. Were all empires doomed to rise and fall, she wondered? Was western civilization so doomed, as well? If mankind held firm to its stoking the fires of religious intolerance, could life on this planet survive the atomic age? Was that what she saw in Churchill's eyes just now? Communist atheism running headlong into the Judeo-Christian impulse -- the various crashing atoms smashing each other to bits?
And the Manhattan project was now teeming with scientists from both Britain and Canada, not to mention all the other European emigres that had fled Hitler's spreading malignancy. The best, the greatest minds in the world, all gathered under the vast New Mexican sky. Her mind drifted to Santa Fe, to Taos, to the spine of mountains that ran between them...the Sangre de Cristos, the Blood of Christ mountains, snow-capped and brilliant. Her little house in Los Alamos, her casita, looked out on those mountains, and when she took walks in the sharp air her mind always drifted to them, and now, sitting in this faraway land, she found herself thinking about that jagged spine of rock once again.
How many civilizations had those mountains borne witness to? The various native tribes that came and went on their nomadic wanderings to and from Mesa Verde, only to give way to the Spaniard? The French, under Napoleon III had tried to push into New Mexico, too. Then the Republic of Texas had laid claim to the valley for a few decades, only to be absorbed by the United States of America. What would come next?
Yes, empires rose to the symphonic strains of a mighty roar, then whispered like a sigh as they faded in the spasms of their varied twilights.
Then the words 'quantum mechanics' drifted into her mind's eye, and she saw the man again, in the same waking dream. She closed her eyes and tried to see him now as he was then, standing on that ship.
It was the same ship, wasn't it?
Her eyes popped open in that instant and her eyes darted around the room again. Yes, there he was, sitting behind Churchill and Anthony Eden -- and he was looking directly at her. Why, she wondered, did that not surprise her? And why did he suddenly seem so familiar? And, oh yes! Why had he said those two vexing words? There were not a hundred people in the world who knew what those two words, quantum mechanics, really meant, and most of those lived within a few blocks of her -- under the gaze of those spiny mountains in New Mexico.
She wondered what he knew, too. Wondered if he had heard of the Aubuchon Shift.
Time was like an arrow, or so the saying went. Once loosed, that arrow went on and on, and in one direction only. But what happened before the arrow left the bow? What happened when you tricked time, and made it go backwards?
+++++
Her eyes burned and she rubbed them again, rubbed them until she felt the sclera detach like old, dry paper -- then she cursed under her breath and stopped.
"When are you ever going to learn?" she heard Charles say, and she looked up at him and grinned sheepishly.
She shrugged, then looked at the note in his hand. "What now?"
"Franklin would like to see you. I think Secretary Hull will be there too."
"Why him, for God's sake?"
Charles shrugged. "Hull is always around when the discussion turns to Stalin, or even to Russia generally. Get used to it."
"He's too serious," she sighed. "I don't like him, Charles."
He chuckled. "Serious? Cordell? And why wouldn't he be? He and Acheson have only been charged with creating the post-war political framework of the world."
"Right. And just what the hell have I got to do with that?"
"Well, there's been some talk of this shift you discovered..."
"Talk? How..."
"I think that's the point. There've been some very serious discussions about it, I can tell you. The whole paradox thing that Oppenheimer brought up, as I guess you can imagine, shook a lot of people out of their reveries."
"Myself included," Claire didn't have to add.
"Exactly. Now, I'd suggest you not try to conceal a thing. Answer Hull's questions, but pay attention to Acheson. Dean has a better grasp of scientific matters, so if you see him struggling you'll need to dumb it down a little."
"Okay. Is Acheson the one you've been working for?"
"Uh-huh. He's the brains of the outfit, and don't you forget it. Roosevelt ain't stupid, and neither is Hull, but Acheson is in another league compared to those guys. He's smart, and his eyes don't miss a thing. Don't even think of lying when he's in the room."
"I wasn't planning on lying, Charles."
"I know. Now, come on."
"Do you know a Trevor Goldberg?" she blurted.
"With the Brits, right? I've heard the name before. Why?"
