A Man of Many Years
Patrice Conrad, the beautiful young wife of the United States Ambassador to Great Britain and one of the wealthiest men in the world, watched the news broadcast on her diamond-studded digital multimedia wristlet. The news was not good. Talks between the East and West had broken down, and war now seemed inevitable. She wearily closed her eyes, unable to believe that after all the misery and destruction caused by so many armed conflicts, mankind had not yet learned to avoid war.
Hayden, her husband, who had been searching for her throughout the house, was surprised to find her in the kitchen.
"There you are, darling," he said. "What are you doing in here, getting a snack? You know there will be plenty of food at the reception."
"I just came in for a glass of water, and then I started watching the news."
"In all my long years in the diplomatic corps, I have learned one lesson: never watch, read or listen to the news before an embassy event. It only depresses you! It is one of my obligations as an ambassador to present a strong positive image and a calming influence. Now, how can I do that when these newscasters have me half-convinced that the end of the world is in sight?"
"And what if it is?" Patrice asked.
"There's really nothing we can do except go on with our lives. I certainly don't intend to hide under the bed and cower. If the worst happens, I want to go down like the band on the Titanic, doing my job until the very end."
Patrice smiled and took her husband's hand. Although she had never felt any grand passion for the man she married, she respected and admired him a great deal. It was when things were at their worst that Hayden was at his best. That was why she had married him, despite the thirty-year difference in their ages.
"What say, M'lady, care to stroll along the promenade deck with me before we hit that iceberg?" he joked in an exaggerated British accent.
"Damn the iceberg," she laughed, slipping her slender arm through his. "Full speed ahead!"
In less than an hour, the embassy limousine delivered the ambassador and his wife to Buckingham Palace. Upon entering, Patrice was surprised at the gaiety of the atmosphere. Given the fact that the world was literally on the brink of war, she had expected a more somber evening. Yet even the Royal Family appeared to be unconcerned with world events.
It could be a good sign, she thought.
Maybe they knew something that the newscasters did not. Maybe the outlook was not so gloomy after all. Or, maybe they all felt like Hayden did: if the end is unavoidable, then one must face it bravely. Was it all a matter of "keep calm and carry on," or were all the smiles and laughter a façade that masked deeper feelings of fear and hopelessness?
As Patrice debated the question in her mind, she glimpsed a man who was deep in conversation with the prime minister. There was something familiar about his face.
Where have I seen him before? she wondered.
A slight frown appeared on her face as she pondered the question of his identity.
"Smile, my dear," Hayden whispered in her ear. "At least pretend to be having a good time."
"Sorry, darling," she said, beaming up at her husband. "I was just trying to remember something."
"Remember what?"
"See that man talking to the prime minister? I know I've seen him before, but I can't remember where or when."
"Handsome fellow. An old boyfriend, perhaps?"
"If he were a former boyfriend, I wouldn't have forgotten him."
Hayden experienced a slight twinge of jealousy. He and Patrice had been married for twenty years, and he knew that she had never been unfaithful to him, but he also knew that their emotions were not equal, that he loved her far more than she ever loved him.
"Relax, it will come to you," he assured her.
"I'm sure you're right. When I least expect it, his name will pop into my head!"
"Ah, look; there's no line at the buffet. Now's our chance to get something to eat."
As though he were a death row inmate to be executed at sunrise, Hayden piled a variety of rich food on his plate. Following her husband's example, Patrice gave no thought to calories as she helped herself to some of England's finest foods.
Those who are about to die salute you! she thought.
* * *
Hayden woke his wife early the next morning. Despite having gotten only two hours of sleep, she was immediately alert.
"Are we at war?" she asked anxiously.
"Not yet," her husband replied. "I'm sorry to wake you up, but I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye."
"Leave? Where are you going?"
"I've been called to Washington for an emergency meeting with the president. I won't be gone long. In fact, I'll probably catch a plane back to Heathrow tonight."
"Give me a minute to get dressed, and I'll go with you."
"When has it ever taken you only a minute to get dressed?" Hayden teased. "No. You stay here. I'll be back soon."
Although his words were reassuring, the look in his eyes told a different story. Behind his playful banter, her husband was as frightened as she was.
"Oh," Hayden said, turning toward her when he reached the bedroom door, "that man you were so interested in last night, the one talking to the prime minister ...."
"Ugh! I still can't place him."
"His name is Tristan Marklin. Ring any bells?"
"No. What does he do?"
"Damned if I know!"
"Ambassador, your flight leaves in thirty minutes," the synthesized voice on Hayden's wristlet announced.
"Sorry, dear. I've got to go. Love you."
"I love you, too," Patrice called, but her husband was rushing down the stairs and never heard her reply.
* * *
Tristan Marklin. Patrice searched her memories again and again but was unable to recall the name. After a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, she checked her calendar on her wristlet. There were no appointments scheduled, and with Hayden out of the country, her day was free. Determined to learn more about Tristan Marklin, she headed upstairs to the media room.
"Identification," the speaker at the side of the door instructed.
She rested her chin and forehead on the cushioned headpiece as the security system scanned her retina.
"Enter, Mrs. Conrad."
Patrice took a seat at her husband's desk, facing the wall of media screens.
"Search," she commanded the computer system.
An inquiry screen instantly appeared on the largest of the video monitors.
"Tristan Marklin."
A moment later a photograph of Marklin appeared on the screen. Although the accompanying text mentioned his name, it offered no additional information about the man.
"That doesn't help me," Patrice groaned. "Maybe I've never met him, after all. It could be that he just resembles someone I once knew."
"Search," she repeated and the inquiry screen returned. "Coordinate with facial analysis. Scan Tristan Marklin's features and find similar-looking individuals."
One by one the screens revealed images of faces that bore a striking resemblance to Marklin's. In each instance the man was in the company of a well-known figure in history: John Kennedy, Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, Woodrow Wilson—all the way back to Abraham Lincoln.
Are these men Marklin's ancestors?
"Zoom in."
The monitors instantly revealed close-ups of the men's faces.
The resemblance is uncanny! Patrice thought as she studied the men in the images. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear they were pictures of the same man.
"Identify the people in these photographs."
In each instance, the computer's answer was the same: unknown.
How could anyone's identity not be in the computer's database? Unless ....
"Search classified state documents."
"Security one clearance is required."
Before becoming the wife of an ambassador, Patrice worked for the U.S. Department of State. As such, she had high-level security clearance.
"Code M11011954W," she replied.
A single record appeared on the screen. According to the information on file, all the faces belonged to the same man, one known as the count of St. Germaine.
"That's impossible! He'd have to be over two hundred years old!"
"Additional documentation discovered associated with name," the computer announced as a second document appeared on another monitor.
Although there were no photographs, the records linked the count with personages such as George Washington, Napoleon and Edward I.
"In the immortal words of Alice in Wonderland, this is getting curiouser and curiouser!"
* * *
Shortly before dinner, Patrice's wristlet announced a transatlantic call from her husband.
"How did your meeting go?" she inquired.
"It's not completed yet. That's why I'm calling," Hayden replied. "I'm not going to make it home tonight after all. In fact, this may take a few days."
"All right. Call me when you get the chance."
Again, Patrice checked her wristlet calendar for appointments; there were none.
After dinner, she returned to the media room where she found the address for Tristan Marklin. The following morning Patrice drove her personal car to Marklin's house. She walked to the front door and rang the bell.
"Mrs. Conrad?" Tristan said with surprise when he saw her on his doorstep.
"You know me?" Patrice asked, equally surprised.
"Yes. You're the wife of the U.S. ambassador."
"May I come in?"
"Certainly," he said, opening the door wide to allow her to enter. "To what do I owe this honor?"
"I've come here to discuss the count of St. Germaine."
"St. Germaine, you say? I haven't heard that name in years."
"So you know him?"
"Naturally. He and I both share an interest in politics and world events."
"Is that all you share?" Patrice pressed.
"I don't know what you mean."
"I've seen photographs of men going back as far as the 1860s and continuing through the twentieth century. They have all been identified as the count of St. Germaine."
"The man must have enjoyed a remarkably long life then."
"In every photo, he looked the same age—I'd say somewhere in his early to mid-forties. Furthermore, every photograph looked exactly like you."
Having laid down the verbal gauntlet, Patrice waited for Tristan to pick it up.
"Humph! Imagine that."
"Is that all you've got to say?" she asked with disappointment.
"What did you expect me to say, Mrs. Conrad? Obviously, for you to drive all the way over here rather than phone me, you must have expected some sort of reaction. What is it?"
The interview was not going at all as Patrice had expected, and she became flustered.
"I ... I don't know. I thought maybe you'd tell me this man was your great-grandfather or something."
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the count was not my great-grandfather."
What was I thinking, confronting this man with my wild suspicions? Patrice thought with embarrassment.
Rather than leave her standing in his foyer looking for a way out of an uncomfortable imbroglio, Tristan came to her rescue.
"I was just about to have a cup of tea and a scone. Won't you join me? I would love to have the company."
One cup of tea became three as the two Americans discussed a wide range of subjects. They enjoyed each other's company so much that Patrice accepted Tristan's invitation to lunch and then stayed for dinner. It was nearly midnight before she told her host she had to leave. Marklin escorted her to the car and opened the door for her.
"Thank you for being so nice," the ambassador's wife said. "I don't know whatever possessed me to come barging over here this morning, and yet you were the most gracious host."
"I enjoyed every moment of your visit," he confessed. "I can't remember the last time I had such an enjoyable lunch or dinner companion."
When Patrice looked up at his face, Tristan had the irresistible urge to lean forward and kiss her full, red lips. It was only the fact that she was a married woman that stopped him.
"Maybe we'll see each other again at some diplomatic function," Patrice said.
"That would be nice."
However, such a meeting could be dangerous—at least to Marklin, who felt a tremendous sense of loss and loneliness when he watched the taillights of Patrice's car fade into the darkness of the London night.
* * *
Patrice had difficulty falling asleep since she could not get Tristan out of her mind. It occurred to her that despite their hours of conversation, she still knew very little about him. Finally, near four in the morning, she slept from sheer exhaustion, not waking until nine.
After two cups of strong coffee, she went to the media room and, again using her State Department security code, asked for all data on Tristan Marklin. All she received was his name and address.
"Date of birth?" she asked.
"No data found," the computer replied.
"Place of birth?"
"No data found."
"Political affiliation?"
"No data found."
Patrice asked several more questions, none of which the computer could answer.
"Who are you?" she asked, looking at Tristan's handsome face on the center monitor.
Had Marklin not been such a man of mystery, Patrice might not have become so fixated on him. After all, she had met many handsome, intelligent, personable men in her life. Yet none of them made her feel the way Tristan did.
"Maybe his name isn't really Tristan Marklin," she told herself. "Maybe he's an intelligence agent."
Patrice felt a stab in her heart at the thought that he might be working for the enemy.
"This is crazy! What does it matter to me who or what he is?"
It did matter, though; it mattered very much. After just one day, Patrice was falling in love with Tristan Marklin.
* * *
Later that afternoon Patrice's wristlet alerted her that Hayden wanted to speak to her.
"Hello, darling!" she answered. "How are things going in Washington?"
"Honestly! I don't know how anything gets done here. No one wants to give an inch."
"I guess that means you won't be coming home tonight?"
"I'll be here for a few more days. I hate to ask you this, but would you represent me at the prince's birthday party tomorrow night? It wouldn't look good if there were no representatives from the States there."
"Of course, I will."
"Good. I knew I could count on you. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Normally, such a statement would have filled Patrice's heart with pride. Why, then, did it cause such sadness now? The answer was painfully obvious: as much as she admired and respected Hayden, she wished she were free of him so that she could pursue a romantic relationship with Tristan.
"No!" she firmly told herself. "I will not allow myself to think such thoughts. Hayden is my husband, and in my own way I love him."
For the remainder of that day and the following morning and afternoon, Patrice did everything she could to keep her mind off the captivating Mr. Marklin, but nothing worked.
"Maybe once Hayden returns from Washington, things will get back to normal."
She held on to that hope as she dressed for the prince's birthday party.
* * *
Patrice looked stunning in a designer gown of royal blue satin, a color that enhanced her eyes. Her long blond hair was swept up off her shoulders in an elaborate coiffure.
When the king and queen greeted her, she offered her husband's apologies.
"Hayden was so looking forward to the party, but he's been detained in Washington."
"We quite understand," the king confided. "Given the state of affairs, we considered canceling the party, but we thought it best to keep up appearances."
"Delighted you could come," the prince said and kissed her hand. "You brighten every occasion."
"Thank you," she responded and continued down the reception line.
As she headed toward the refreshment table for a glass of champagne, a familiar voice spoke behind her.
"Seeing you here in the palace, one might think you were a princess yourself."
"Why, Mr. Marklin!" she exclaimed, not wanting to meet his eyes for fear he would read the emotion in hers. "What a surprise seeing you here."
"Is the ambassador with you?"
"No. I'm afraid he's still in America. And you? Are you here with anyone?"
"Alas, I am a man doomed to a perpetual solitary state."
"By choice?" Patrice asked.
"By necessity."
"An intriguing answer! But then that's what I would expect from you."
"Ah, so you think you know me well enough to predict what I will say?" he laughed.
"Know you well? I know absolutely nothing about you except your name and address."
Despite his intentions to avoid the ambassador's wife, Tristan could not walk away from her.
"Why don't we dance, and I can tell you my life story?"
Patrice knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't pass up the chance to learn more about the mysterious, beguiling man. Besides, what harm was there in one dance? she concluded. The music was slow, and she shivered when Tristan took her in his arms.
"I was born in a small town in Massachusetts," he told her as though he were being interviewed by a journalist. "One so small, it doesn't even warrant a dot on the map."
"From being a small town boy to hobnobbing with British royalty—a true American success story."
"I was an exceptional student at school."
"What did you study?"
"History."
"I can't imagine you wasting your time on such a boring subject."
"History is far from boring. Why, just pick up the newspaper and read the headlines."
"That's not history; that's news."
"What's news today is history tomorrow."
"You know, you are the most fascinating man I've ever met."
The sentiment was out of Patrice's mouth, and she could not call it back. Her words were not lost on Tristan who tightened his arm on her back and drew her closer to him.
"I had no right to say that," she said, dropping all pretense of innocent flirtation.
"One of us had to say it. I was afraid it was going to be me."
"I'm a married woman."
"And I'm ...."
Tristan stopped speaking when he realized what he was about to reveal. Then he led his dancing partner outside to the seclusion of the royal gardens.
"You're what?" Patrice prompted.
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"You're a spy, aren't you?"
"I guess you could call me that, but I'm not a spy in the sense that you understand the word."
"Can't you stop with all the evasions and give me a straight answer?" she cried. "The world can come to an end at any moment. What will it matter to us then if you're an agent from an Eastern power?"
"I'm no one's agent," Tristan reassured her. "East or West. I observe what goes on for my own reasons, not to report back to any government agency. And as for the world coming to an end at any moment, you needn't fear. I wouldn't let anything happen to you."
Seeing her fair hair bathed in moonlight, all of Tristan's resistance broke down. He took her in his arms and kissed her lips. After a brief moment of surprise, she returned his passion.
"I swore I wouldn't," he said after Patrice finally broke the kiss.
"So did I. I'm married to a wonderful man, and I don't ever want to hurt him."
Tristan's fingertips traced an imaginary line down Patrice's face, from her cheek to her chin to her lips. At his touch, Patrice felt her resolve beginning to melt away.
"No," she moaned softly and turned her head. "I must get back to the party."
Tristan watched her walk away, praying she would turn and look back, but she didn't.
* * *
The next day Patrice woke to learn that war had been declared. Her breakfast was interrupted by a call from her husband.
"The president has recalled me for the duration of the war. It seems I am more needed in Washington than in London. Stephens is going to take over as ambassador until things blow over. My attaché will arrange a flight for you back to Washington."
"I'll go pack a few of my things right now."
"Hopefully, I'll see you by dinnertime." He hesitated only a moment before continuing, "You be careful. You mean everything in the world to me."
No sooner did Patrice say goodbye to Hayden than her wristlet alerted her that she had another call.
"Mrs. Conrad," the voice over the wristlet's speaker said, "this is Collins, the ambassador's attaché. I've arranged a flight for you at three this afternoon. I'll have a car pick you up and take you to the airport."
"Thank you, Collins," Patrice replied. "I'll be ready."
After finishing her breakfast, she walked through the rooms of the Conrads' London home, a beautiful Georgian mansion which, if rumors could be believed, Charles Dickens once visited for a brief time. Whether or not the great writer ever spent the night there did not matter to Patrice. She loved the place. Although Hayden owned eight other houses around the world, it was the one in London his wife preferred.
She recalled seeing photographs of London in the 1940s. So many buildings were destroyed during the Blitz. She prayed that when she and Hayden returned to the British capital, their house would be unharmed.
Although deeply saddened by the necessity of having to leave London, Patrice called a meeting of the housekeeping staff and explained that she and the ambassador would be living in Washington until further notice.
"Deputy Ambassador Stephens will be staying here during our absence."
"We do hope you and the ambassador will be back soon," the butler said, on behalf of the staff.
"Thank you; so do I. Now, could you have someone bring my suitcases to my dressing room? I have to pack some things for my flight."
"Certainly, Madam."
Patrice then went upstairs and began opening her dresser drawers and removing items she wanted to take with her. She was looking through her clothes in the closet when she heard a knock on the door.
"Come in," she called, assuming it was the servant with her luggage.
"Madame," the butler said, "you have a visitor."
Oh, great! An unscheduled visitor just when I'm in the middle of something, she thought with annoyance.
"Does he or she have an appointment?" Patrice asked.
"No, but he asked me to give you this," the butler replied and handed the lady of the house a folded note.
She opened it and read: It's imperative I speak to you. Tristan.
Her heart fluttered when she read his name at the bottom of the note. She wanted desperately to see him, yet she was afraid she might lose her tenuous hold on her emotions if she did. It was the realization that the war might part them forever that swayed her decision.
"Please show Mr. Marklin to the sitting room. I'll be down in a moment."
Patrice could not resist going into the bathroom, freshening up her makeup and running a brush through her blond hair. Only when she was pleased with her appearance did she head downstairs to the sitting room.
"What is it, Tristan?"
The look of fear on his face made him even more endearing to her.
"I've come here to warn you," he said.
"About what?"
"To remain here in London. You mustn't leave the city under any circumstances."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. I'm flying to Washington this afternoon."
"No, you mustn't. Please promise me you won't get on that plane."
"I can't. My husband has been reassigned to Washington. My place is there with him."
"You can't go," he cried, grabbing her by the arms.
"You had better leave," she said, pulling away from him.
"Not until you promise me you'll stay here in London."
"Don't make me call security and have you forcibly removed from the premises."
"Patrice, you have to trust me."
"Trust you? How can I? I don't even know you."
"But you love me."
It was a statement, not a question.
"I'm married. Don't you understand that?"
"You might not be for long. If your husband remains in Washington, he'll soon be dead."
The look of pure terror marred her beautiful face.
"You are an enemy spy!"
"No. I'm no one's enemy."
Tristan's shoulders slumped, and he seemed to visibly shrink before Patrice's eyes.
"I swore I'd never divulge my true identity to anyone, and in all my travels I've never broken that promise. But then I never loved anyone until now."
"You must go," Patrice pleaded, fighting the urge to run into his arms.
"First, let me tell you the truth about myself."
"If I hear you out, will you go and never try to see me again?"
"If you still insist on flying to Washington after you hear what I have to say, then there'll be no danger of that."
"All right. Who are you?"
"My real name is Chandler Stires, not Tristan Marklin. I have been known by many others including Cartaphilus."
"Cartaphilus, the Wandering Jew, the man who taunted Christ as he carried his cross to Golgotha? But that's impossible. Christ was crucified thousands of years ago."
"Nevertheless, I was there, but I in no way taunted Jesus. I only tried to help him; it was the Roman soldiers who tormented him."
Tristan waited several minutes for his words to sink in before continuing.
"I was also known as the count of St. Germaine, which I'm sure you're more likely to believe since you've seen his photographs."
"You must be immortal then."
"I'm as mortal as you are. I looked forty-five back when I was photographed with both Lincoln and Kennedy. I looked very much the same age when my portrait was painted in 1781."
"You're mortal, but you don't age?"
"When I encountered Jesus of Nazareth, I was thirty-five years old—as measured in your time reference. I'm now forty-six. During the intervening eleven years, I've traveled to places and times I've wanted to study. You see, I'm a historian, a chronicler of the past."
"You aren't from this time, are you?"
"No. I'm from your future, precisely six hundred twenty-one years from now."
Patrice sat down on the sofa and tried to come to terms with everything he'd told her.
"Your story is incredible, and yet I believe you."
"That's why you mustn't go to Washington. In two days an atomic bomb will wipe the capital off the face of the planet."
Patrice's wrist immediately came up and she pressed the button on her multimedia wristlet.
"I must warn Hayden."
Tristan grabbed her arm.
"No, you mustn't. I've already exceeded my boundaries by warning you."
"He's my husband!" she said angrily. "I can't sit by and do nothing if his life is in danger."
What have I done? he thought with panic. By telling Patrice the truth, have I inadvertently set off a chain reaction of events that will change the course of history?
"Hayden, listen to me," Patrice cried into the microphone of her wristlet. "You've got to ...."
Patrice felt a sharp, sudden pain in her arm. Within moments her vision blurred and she collapsed into Tristan's arms.
* * *
The future was not how Patrice imagined it would be. There were no flying cars or floating cities. In fact, technology had progressed at a far slower rate during the six hundred years that followed her time than it had in the six hundred years that preceded it.
"Mankind has lost its love affair with gadgets," Tristan explained. "We have different priorities now."
Marklin picked up what looked like a television remote control unit and pressed a button. A highly detailed, three-dimensional hologram appeared. As he worked the buttons on the unit, Patrice saw the world as she knew it transformed by war. She cried when she saw mushroom clouds appear over the major cities on the East Coast of the United States.
"The war dragged on for a hundred and sixteen years," Tristan explained. "By the time peace was declared, more than seventy percent of the world's population had been killed. After the war, famine and disease claimed nearly another billion people. Those who survived formed a new society. They learned to work together, to see to each other's needs."
Not able to process the enormity of the tragic war, Patrice focused her attention on the item in Tristan's hand.
"You said mankind lost its love affair with gadgets. What's that you've got there?"
"Oh, we still use machines to help make our lives easier, but we came to the realization that things are not as important as people. We don't value wealth as humans did before the war. We value knowledge and our ability to serve our fellow man."
"So your world is a true Utopia?" Patrice asked. "You have no crime? No war?"
"No hatred either. We postwar humans have established a true brotherhood."
"And now that I'm here, what will I do?"
"You can do whatever you want. I'm hoping you'll stay with me, but if you choose not to, I can make other arrangements for you."
"I want to stay with you. In fact, I'd love to travel through time with you. Will you show me how?"
"It'll take a while for your body to be able to withstand the ordeal, but once you're ready, I'd love to have you join me."
"Just think of it!" Patrice said, smiling like a little girl with a new doll. "We can go to ancient Egypt, Colonial America, Victorian England ...."
"We can go to all those times and so many more. But for now, you must rest. I'm afraid your unexpected trip here has taken its toll on your health."
* * *
"What's that you're looking at?" Tristan asked when he walked into the room and saw Patrice reading a hologram of an old document from five hundred years ago.
"It's a description of the war as regards the North American continent."
Tristan looked closely and concluded, "It's a casualty list."
"Hayden's name is there. He was killed the day after I was supposed to join him in Washington."
Tristan was saddened by her continued interest in her personal past.
"Aren't you happy here with me?" he asked.
Patrice clicked off the hologram and put her arms around him.
"You know I am, but I had to know what happened to Hayden. I had to know if he survived."
"And now that you know he didn't?"
"I'll continue living my life here, in this time, with you."
Three weeks later—more than six months since she had arrived in the future—a physician certified her healthy enough for time travel.
"Where do you want to go first?" Tristan asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "There are so many times and places to choose from. What do you suggest?"
"I've always had a fondness for Versailles. Louis XIV really knew how to throw a great party!"
"You never told me how time travel works. Do you use a vehicle?"
"No. Vehicles only travel through three dimensions. Time is the fourth dimension. To travel in that dimension, we use chemicals to alter the body."
"I can understand freezing a human and thawing him out in the future, but how can you travel to the past?"
"Think of a piece of fruit. Even in your time, there were chemicals that could shrink the fruit by reducing the number of cells. Others could increase the number of cells, thus making the fruit larger. We first discovered chemicals that could change the age of a person. We could make a middle-aged woman a little girl or an old woman. From there, we experimented with changing a person's environment. A person's age did not change, but the time period around him did."
"Do you ingest the chemical?"
"No. To do so would alter the age of the traveler. We fill a time chamber with the chemical, and the traveler submerses himself. Moments later, he appears in the time and place of his choosing. Come with me, I'll show you my travel chamber."
He took her down to the basement of the house, to a room she never knew existed. When she crossed the threshold, she noticed what looked like a large, glass aquarium filled with a pink-tinged liquid.
"This is it," he said, showing her a control panel with a world map and a series of dials representing years, months, days, hours and minutes. "I simply zoom in on this map to the place I want to visit. I can choose a city, a street, a building—right down to the room I want to appear in. Then I set the dials for the time. Once the date and time are set, I simply climb into the chamber and immerse myself in the chemical. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and a moment later when I open them again, I am breathing in the air of the past."
"And what about when you want to come back? Do you have to have someone reset the controls?"
"No. I have a chip embedded beneath my skin that will automatically return me to my own time whenever I choose. At some point in the future, I'll have one put into you. Until then, you can travel along with me."
Patrice looked confused.
"I don't understand how any of this works, but then I never fully understood the technology of my own time. I didn't need to know how my wristlet worked in order to use it."
"You'll get the hang of it after our first few trips in time. Now, I suggest we get a good night's sleep so that you won't feel so drained after our trip to Paris."
* * *
"Here's a nice costume for you," Tristan said, presenting Patrice with a dress from the late seventeenth century.
"We have to wear period clothing?"
"It's best we blend in with the crowds whenever we travel."
Patrice shed her simple, futuristic garments and donned the elaborate French gown.
"Are you ready?" Tristan asked after he set the controls.
"You first," she said, knowing only one person could fit in the chamber at a time. "I'm nervous as hell. I'll feel better knowing you're there waiting for me."
"All right. After my body disappears, just climb in, close your eyes and hold your breath. Although you'll leave after me, we'll arrive at the same time."
"See you in Paris," she said and kissed him on the cheek.
Tristan then lay down in the pink-tinged clear liquid. When he opened his eyes, he was indeed in the Palace of Versailles, but he was alone.
He waited a few moments, silently praying that Patrice would suddenly appear. When she didn't, he activated the subdermal implant and returned to his own time.
* * *
"Patrice!" he shouted when he saw that she was not in the time chamber room. "Where are you?"
As his voice echoed through the empty house, his eyes fell on the control panel.
"Oh, no!" he cried when he saw that she had reset the device.
After giving free rein to his tears, he wiped his eyes and headed upstairs. With a shaking hand, he picked up the hologram controller and searched for the document Patrice had been reading three weeks earlier. He quickly scanned the pages until he found the list of casualties in the Washington bombings. He was struck with another bout of tears when he saw Patrice's name below her husband's.
I have to go back and get her, he thought with desperation.
After his tears dried, Chandler Stires reconsidered his course of action. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Patrice had loved him. However, she was a woman of principle, loyalty and honor. Maybe it was these qualities and not her physical beauty that he loved most about her.
Although he frequently traveled back in time to observe Patrice in public gatherings, he never tried to speak to her or to see her in private. He loved her enough to respect her choice to die at her husband's side, in her own country and during her own time.
This story was inspired by legends of the count of St. Germaine and of the Wandering Jew.
No matter what the year or century, people are always glad to see Salem leave.
