Page 103 - The Myth and the Moment

Evening

Seventh Street. Almost there.
“I am, I am. That’s what all of this has been about. I’m trying to
push it out to the other side of the wave that’s just about to swamp
us, like a note in a bottle. It’s late at night, and the surf is roaring: the
big one is just about to break, and I’m standing at the edge of the
shore, ready to throw my message forward with all my might.
Suddenly a drunken beach-bum, deaf to the thrashing tide, lurches
past and grabs the bottle out of my hand. He thinks it’s another fifth
of bourbon; seeing it isn’t, he dashes it to pieces against the rocks.
And there I stand, wondering if there’s time enough to get another.
The evidence of my ears suggests there isn’t, but I’ve got to try.”
“Got to, man? That sounds a bit irrational, like maybe even
mythological.”
“These are not ordinary times, Hamilton Jefferson. Once the
Doomsday Machine is built, moments are not what they were before.
The probability of destruction leads to drastic counter-measures: I
believe nothing matters but sending my message to the future. That
keeps me going. When Phil destroyed my work, I almost gave up. But
I’ve gotten hold of myself again. Posterity will not know Phil Kolpak
denied it an important document, if The End comes before I can
reconstruct The Myth and the Moment; I can only hope the delay will
not be material. Now, here we are: the Brack Arms. Let me out.
You’ve done a good deed, Ham: don’t blow it.”
“Don’t worry, man. If anybody asks, I never found you.”
“Thanks! See you around!”
Not likely, really, if I can get out of here in a hurry. Off he goes.
Now, to get my things together and look at a map. The light’s on in
Mrs. Fulcrone’s room! Doesn’t she ever sleep? Where should I spend
the rest of the night? Twenty-four hour coffee-shop. Get my suitcase
packed and camp out over a cup of coffee and some vulcanized pie.
Door to the room locked? Nope. Now, where’s the—aghh, pain. Not
stopping! Can’t breathe, got to sit down. Where’s the light switch?
Can’t see! Aghhh.

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