PROLOGUE

John Naile turned the Cadillac off the county highway and onto the black pavement of a pine-flanked single lane road. Not yet that familiar with his latest vehicular acquisition, he took his eyes off the road and glanced at the wood-accented dashboard in order to find the cigar lighter. He found the lighter and pushed it in. There was a half-filled package of Luckies in the cigarette pocket of his single-breasted gray suit. He started to reach for a cigarette. 

“You should try being pregnant sometime, John.” 

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that, sweetheart,” Naile replied, looking over at his wife in the front seat beside him. Audrey was nearing the end of what she called her “first trimester,” but hardly looked pregnant at all. The A-line skirt of her maroon suit barely showed a bulge, even when she was sitting. 

“No, what I mean is these seats. I don’t know what it was about the ‘63. I mean, John, I really didn’t notice it until I got pregnant. But there was no back support!” 

“I think it’s more your back than it was the seats, babe. The New Yorker was a comfortable car.” He’d gone through two Chryslers, one Lincoln, a Mercedes and a Ford Country Squire in search of the perfect car for his wife, all because his father wouldn’t buy anything but a Cadillac. When the ‘64 model year was announced, John Naile surrendered to fate and ordered one. 

But John Naile had no intention, however, of abandoning his longtime personal car, the red Thunderbird. He was vice-president of Horizon Industries, the family business. He was married to the girl of his dreams and the arrival of their first child was only six months away. Behind the wheel of the T-Bird, its top off, the sound of its exhaust when he changed gears as throaty as Peggy Lee’s singing—sometimes that sporty little roadster was the only way of reminding himself that he wasn’t yet thirty. 

Adulthood had gotten him used to driving vehicles the size of a sport boat on wheels, but he didn’t have to like them. 

“You want me to try the radio, John, and see how it picks up out here?” 

“Sure, honey.” 

Audrey apparently found WLS at 89 on the AM band from Chicago, or at least it sounded like she had; it was an Elvis Presley song playing. “Do you think Elvis will last, John? Like Sinatra?” 

“I don’t know, Audrey. He’s got a good set of pipes, though.” 

“Okay. What was the first movie you ever took me to, John Naile?” 

“We saw Elvis in King Creole five years ago, one of the theaters in the Loop, and afterward we went to that deli next to the Chicago Theater and we both had hot pastrami. How’s that for being romantic and remembering stuff? Huh?” 

“And you ate most of my pickle.” Audrey laughed softly, sliding over a little closer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. John Naile still had the “lover’s knob” mounted on the wheel of the Thunderbird, but didn’t need one to drive the Cadillac one-handed. Maybe cars like this did have their merits. He folded his right arm around his wife. Despite her Jackie Kennedy-esque pillbox hat, he could still kiss his wife’s hair. He touched his lips to her forehead. The scent of her hair, her perfume and the new-car smell of the Cadillac’s leather seats all mingled very pleasantly. He’d forgotten to light his cigarette and didn’t want to at the moment; the smoke would dispel the ambience. 

“Glad you married me?” Naile asked. 

“Well, I’ve had to put up with a lot, John, you being rich and all, with Horizon Industries being one of the leading defense contractors and everything, and that White House dinner when we met President Eisenhower and Dick Nixon. Stuff like that. And then there’s your mom and dad—they’re so nice to me it’s almost spooky! The first time I met them, it was as if they expected you to bring me home and they knew we were going to get married.” 

“Get Mom to show you her crystal ball sometime,” Naile laughed. “I never told you about her Gypsy blood, did I? And was that a yes? About being happy you married me?” 

Audrey turned her face up toward him and kissed his cheek. She whispered, “Yes, silly.” Her right hand drifted under his jacket, one smooth finger finding an opening between two shirt buttons. 

“Quit that!” He wedged his knee against the steering wheel for a split second and feigned a slap at her hand. 

“Why’d they make such a big deal about us coming up on a weekday?” Audrey did that sort of thing, picking up a conversation almost randomly. This one dated from when they’d first gotten into the car almost two hours earlier. “I mean, it’s always good to see them; I really love your folks. But you said you had a lot of stuff to do at the office with that new rocket-shooter thing and—” 

“Beats me, babe,” he told Audrey honestly. “All Dad said was that nothing could interfere with us being here this afternoon—not even prototyping the launcher.” 

Although John Naile handled the day-to-day running of Horizon Industries with a relatively free hand, his father was still president, chairman of the board and chief executive officer. Why Horizon was developing an inexpensively produced, disposable rocket launcher without any indication that the Pentagon was looking for one was something John Naile had never fully understood. With the apparent rush on the research and development so they could move into prototyping, wiping out a full day to come up to the estate was even more enigmatic. “I really don’t know,” he added lamely, “but Dad’ll tell us.” 

The weather WLS was reporting for Chicago didn’t match at all what John Naile saw through the Cadillac’s windshield. Usually, central Wisconsin would have worse weather this time of year, but on this day at this moment, it was a classically beautiful November landscape through which they drove. They’d been on the grounds of the estate since twenty feet or so after leaving the county highway. And suddenly, he was reminded of the musical “Camelot,” the song that Richard Burton sang about the sheer perfection of that mythical kingdom’s climate. This was such a place this day, and John Naile wouldn’t have been too much surprised to learn that James Naile had decreed it thus. 

John Naile glanced at his watch and compared the Rolex to the dashboard clock; surprisingly, they were in perfect agreement that the time was a few minutes after noon. “You know, how Dad’s pushing how great Cadlillacs are and everything? I’ll say one thing—the clock keeps time.” 

“I still like the seats, John.”Audrey Naile pulled her legs up under her and nuzzled her nose against his neck. 

“Is that okay for you to sit like that? All scrunched up and everything?” 

“I’m not that pregnant, John. It’s still okay for me to do a lot of stuff.” 

“Hmm,” John Naile murmured. 

“Hmm, indeed. Maybe after we leave your parents’ place, we can—” 

“Why don’t we spend the night at Lake Lawn Lodge?” John Naile suggested. 

“I don’t have any clothes with me, John.” 

“You won’t need any for what I’ve got in mind. Besides, we can buy what we need, or you can borrow something from Mom.” 

“‘Gee, Mary Ann? Could I borrow some stockings and underwear? Your son and I are going to go misbehave and—’” 

“Hush,” he scolded his wife good-naturedly. The road was just about to split at the driveway leading to the main house, the fork to the left leading deeper into the property. The turn was a little sharp, and John Naile slowed the Cadillac before making the right. Audrey sat up and smoothed her dress. She slid over fully into the passenger side, turned down the visor and began adjusting her hat and her hair in the vanity mirror. As always, she wore very little makeup; when she woke up beside him each morning, she looked as perfect as if she’d spent hours in front of a mirror. 

All of this—the very comfortable living he made, the estate which someday he would inherit, and all the other family investments—was thanks to David Naile, who founded Horizon Industries in 1914 and never made a bad investment in his life. Phenomenal business judgment seemed to be a family trait. James Naile, David’s son and John’s father, bought large blocks of stock in obscure companies that always grew into dependable profitability. Who would have figured IBM would have gotten so hot? And why would anyone invest in Japanese electronics? John Naile shook his head just thinking about it. 

“What’s on your mind, besides your fedora, John?” 

“I always think about how things got started, every time I drive up here. My grandfather must have been a genius, you know? He piloted Horizon through the Depression as if there wasn’t any stock-market crash in ‘29 at all. Horizon’s steel foundries refused to sell scrap metal to Imperial Japan, and our aircraft and munitions plants were already working double shifts before Hitler invaded Poland in ‘39. And Dad seems to have his father’s magic touch. You’d better hope I’m just a late bloomer, babe.” 

“It’s experience, John, and you’re getting that.” 

“Maybe.” He nodded soberly. Every once in a while, he’d pick a winner in the stock market, but not that often and never anything that weird. His father and late grandfather possessed skill; with him, it was educated dumb luck. 

After his stint in the army at the end of the Korean War, he’d picked up his sidetracked life and gone to college. Because he “knew” his destiny—Horizon Industries— he’d studied business administration, but carried a second major in music. A certain natural proclivity for the piano and the Naile family jawline seemed to be his principal genetic inheritances from his grandfather, the natural business acumen noticeably lacking. He’d begun growing into that, yes, he supposed, since finishing college in ‘58 and marrying Audrey that same year. But he had a long way to go. 

“Haya Goldsmith was raving about your parents’ place.” Another resurrected conversation appeared magically out of the blue. “Remember when you and your dad had that big dinner for everybody in the international divisions last year? She talked my ear off! Haya loves Tudor; there isn’t a Tudor anywhere in Israel as far as she knows! Did you ever date Haya?” 

“No, she was only thirteen or so when Dad got her dad to start up the Israeli division for him, and their whole family packed up and left the country.” Then John Naile remembered something. “I take that back about dating her, though. The summer before my senior year in high school? Dad took me over to Israel with him on business, 

and I took Haya to a movie once.” 

“What movie did you see with Haya?” 

John Naile thought about it, but couldn’t remember. It was probably just as well that he couldn’t, all things considered. Haya was a genuine knockout, the prettiest comptroller anybody could hope for. Finally he said, “Can’t remember what movie it was.” 

“Right. You’ve got a memory like a steel trap, John.” 

“No kidding, Audrey. Something old with Humphrey Bogart, I think.” Horizon was one of the first companies to pump money into Israel after independence, and—John Naile had learned only in 1960—had secretly smuggled arms to Israel while the fledgling Jewish state fought for its very existence after the British withdrew from Palestine. The man who’d run that clandestine operation for Horizon was the same man David and James Naile had used to coordinate intelligence data for Horizon during World War Two. Horizon had provided Allied Intelligence with a lot of information both the U.S. and Great Britain had cheerfully—and quietly—accepted. The intelligence data concerning the death camps, sadly, the Allied governments had largely—and quietly—chosen to ignore. 

Even in late autumn, the landscaping within the immediate vicinity of the main house and its garage retained a pleasant degree of understated, evergreen elegance. The driveway looped toward the eight-thousand-square-foot Tudor’s three front steps. John could see the front door opening and his father and mother emerging. 

Mary Ann Naile was still a pinup-quality beauty, her son thought. He’d seen plenty of pictures of her from the time when his mom and dad first met and through the years since before he was born. She had a reasonable amount of gray in her shoulder length hair, but didn’t dye it. And she still had her figure, too. There was a heavy cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders, beneath it a silk-looking blouse of the identical shade of gray above a black knee-length skirt, sheer stockings and medium black heels. She hadn’t fallen into the First Lady look that Audrey only occasionally affected. 

James Naile was tall and straight as ever. Facially and structurally, he resembled the great swashbuckler Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., in his role opposite Ronald Coleman in The Prisioner of Zenda—or so it had always seemed to John Naile. Only, unlike Fairbanks’ character of the dashing swordsman, James Naile hadn’t a nefarious bone in his body—and he had more gray hair. He wore a white shirt, blue slacks and black loafers, a pipe—unlit— clenched in the right side of his mouth. 

John Naile stopped the car, turned off the engine and climbed out. Before he could cross over to the passenger side, his father was already opening Audrey’s door. “How are you, sweetheart?” James Naile swept Audrey into his arms and hugged her. “You look great, kid! Feeling okay?” 

“Just fine, Jim. Never better.” 

“Good! Good!” 

John took off his hat, intercepted his mother and touched at her shoulder as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, John! It’s good to see you.” 

“What’s the matter, Mom? It’s like we haven’t seen each other for months. But it’s less than a week since—” 

“It’s just that it’s today, and today is a funny day, John. Not funny like funny, but funny like—well, I don’t know what.” 

“Are you guys . . . ?” 

“We’re fine, the business is fine. Now, go say hello to your father.” John put his arm around his mother’s shoulders and she rested her head against him for a split second, then announced, “Jim! Aren’t you going to say hello to your son?” 

“Sure, after I’m through hugging the pretty girl he came in with.” James Naile turned around and extended his hand. John took it, and his father leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I like the new car, son.” 

“Figured you would, Dad. It’s a Cadillac, as you’ve no doubt noticed.” 

They were all mounting the steps, but before entering the house, Mary Ann said, “Audrey, help me out in the kitchen, will you? We gave everybody the day off, and after Jim and your husband take care of a little business, I thought we could have some lunch.” 

“Sure, Mary Ann,” Audrey responded. “Let me take off my hat and freshen up.” 

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen, then.” 

John Naile caught an odd look in his wife’s eyes as she veered off along the entrance hall. She paused in front of a gateleg table in the hall, set down her purse and looked in the mirror, beginning to remove her hat. 

John Naile looked at his father and mother. “What’s up, guys?” 

James Naile looked at his wristwatch, a Rolex identical to the one John Naile wore. “We don’t have a lot of time, John. Mary Ann?” 

She paused before answering, her eyes following Audrey as her daughter-in-law walked out of sight. “I know. Linger over making lunch.” 

“Yeah.” James Naile turned to his son. “Come with me, John. Everything you want to know—actually, a lot more than that, in spades—you’ll know.” James Naile grabbed a vintage brown-leather bomber jacket from the larger of the two hall closets, donning it as he said, “Let’s cut through the house, John. It’s faster,” and started walking. 

John, gray fedora in hand, followed his father, looking once at his mother’s face to see if he could get a clue as to what was about to transpire. She looked oddly sad. 

“Dad? What’s going on?” John Naile quickened his pace to come even with his father. They left the main hallway, passed the base of the circular staircase and under it toward his father’s office. They passed a small bathroom, a closet, came out from beneath the stairwell and through an open space—sunlight filtered through a floor-to-ceiling bank of windows and washed the checkerboard-pattern black-and-white tiles in a pale yellow light. 

James Naile quickened his pace, opened the double doors to his office and passed through. “Close them behind you, John.” In some ways, parents never looked at their children as getting past the age of ten or so, John Naile had often thought, and his father’s remark had just confirmed it. “And skip the ‘Gee, I thought I’d leave ‘em open’ riposte, alright?” 

“Sure.” 

His father’s office was as he always had seen it since his childhood: big, expensive wooden desk; big, expensive leather desk chair; big, expensive leather couch and easy chairs; a coffee table that matched the desk; the side walls of the fifteen-by-fifteen room obscured floor-to- ceiling with built-in bookshelves; the library steps and a ladder on casters (he could never remember the proper name for one of the things, but thought there was one). The far wall was consumed at its center with double French doors leading out onto a small patio; on either side of the doors stood glass-fronted cabinets. The one on the right was a beautifully executed piece showcasing about a dozen long guns, rifles and shotguns evenly mixed, all premier grades from FN/Browning, Beretta, Winchester, Remington and some of the English gun makers. His father never touched them except to clean them; they were investments only. 

“Should have offered you a coat, John, or had you get your overcoat from the Cadillac. Long walk to the bomb shelter, and it’s a little cold out.” 

“The bomb shelter? Why are we—?” 

“You’ll know. Trust me, son.” 

The cabinet on the left, as they walked through the double doorway and onto the flagstones beyond—”I know! Close the doors.”—held a solitary bolt-action Remington, a lever-action Winchester, a lever-action Marlin, a Remington pump shotgun, various knives and an assortment of handguns, some of them cowboy-style single actions, all except the four long guns heavily engraved and, like the guns in the flanking cabinet, investment quality. 

“You ever shoot any of those things, Dad?” 

“Why? I keep that ‘97 Winchester pump of your grandfather’s in our bedroom, and I’ve got 1911s stashed all over the house, as you’ll recall, I believe.” 

Once, as a child, John Naile had committed the allbut-unpardonable sin of attempting to show a couple of his buddies one of his dad’s .45 automatics. No Roy Rogers matinees for a very long time after that, and a serious feeling of being considered untrustworthy. His father was not a hobby shooter, John Naile had learned, but a dead shot when he needed to be. 

That was proven once and forever when they walked into a bank together and the bank was being robbed. John Naile hadn’t even known his father ever carried a gun on his person, but suddenly a little pistol just appeared in his father’s right hand and the bank robber went down with a single shot in the throat. 

That was the first time—John Naile was twelve—that he had realized that there was more to his father than met the eye. 

“Why are we going to the bomb shelter?” John Naile plopped his gray fedora on his head, snapped up the collar of his suit and hunched his shoulders as they started into the gardens. 

“To watch a soap opera on television.” 

“What?” 

“Remember what they say about asking silly questions, son?” 

“I remember, Dad.” 

“Walk faster. We’ll miss the commercial.” 

“Are we advertising on television? Hey! You can’t get television reception underground.” 

“No shit, Sherlock! Come on.” 

John Naile reached into his coat and pulled out a Lucky Strike, then lit it with his Zippo. “Television? I haven’t liked anything on television since Have Gun—Will Travel went off in September.” 

“Try Richard Boone’s new show. An anthology kind of thing. It’s pretty darn good.” Still trying to keep pace with his father, John Naile heeled out his cigarette. 

They passed the tennis courts and the pool and pool house and the garden shed and turned at the end of the line of privet hedge and started toward the small structure that looked like a pump house but was really a disguised entrance to the family bomb shelter. 

“Why can’t we watch television up at the house? Is this some kind of dirty program Mom and Audrey can’t see?” 

“Your mother already has the TV on. I bought one of those portable ones and put it in the kitchen. They’ll see what we see.” 

“I don’t understand, Dad!” 

“Good! You’re not supposed to. Yet! You ever wondered why I built the bomb shelter in the first place, John?” 

“Oh, gee whiz, I don’t know, Dad! Maybe to protect the family and the servants from blast, fallout and radiation in the event of an attack by the Soviet Union?” 

His father was opening the pump house door; a flashlight appeared in James Naile’s hand just as suddenly as that pistol had seventeen years earlier. 

“There won’t be a nuclear war, at least not until sometime after the mid-1990s, John.” The light switch inside the pump house went on, and James Naile pocketed the flashlight. “And it certainly won’t be the Soviet Union we’ll be fighting.” James Naile actuated the entrance mechanism into the bomb shelter and the fake rear wall of the pump house slipped left; visible beyond it in the lights James Naile turned on was a wide metal stairwell winding downward. 

“I know you were a confidant of President Eisenhower, Dad, and that you get along okay with Jack Kennedy and most of the Kennedy clan, but I didn’t realize you knew Khrushchev and those guys, too.” 

Unbidden, John closed the shelter door, sealing them inside. He could hear the subtle hum of the ventilation system. During normal times, when the structure was occupied, all electrical systems ran off ordinary household current. There were diesel generators standing by that would take over if the shelter was ever to be used for real. As a kid, John had considered the bomb shelter a kind of tree house, only underground. And, like an elaborate tree house, it consisted of several levels. 

James Naile took the steps downward, and John Naile followed him. “I built the bomb shelter in order to mask what’s on the fourth level, John.” 

“Fourth level?” 

“I do have special knowledge of the future, John. On days like today, I wish to God that I didn’t.” 

They reached the first level of the shelter, some eighteen feet below the surface. 

Half of this level was given over to things such as the diesel generators and their backups, with a separate fuel- storage area, sealed off from the rest of the level for safety reasons, on the far end. 

James Naile opened another doorway, flipped another set of switches, and John Naile followed him into the next stairwell. 

The second level housed, on one side, living and working quarters for the family and, on the other end, similar but more modest accommodations for the staff, as well as sleeping quarters. At the center were common rooms and storage areas. Within the storage areas were food, water, toilet paper and everything else one might need for a stay of three months, with certain items regularly rotated out of stock and replaced so that everything would be fresh. There was also a vault. James Naile didn’t open it, but John Naile glanced at it while his father opened the next doorway. Within the vault were a dozen each M1 Garand rifles, Colt 1911A1 pistols and Remington 870 pump shotguns. Ammunition and all other necessities for the guns were housed within the vault as well. 

John Naile closed the door behind them, and they descended to the third level. 

The third level was the smallest. There was an office, smaller but otherwise somewhat similar to his father’s office in the house, minus windows, of course. On this floor as well there were three bedrooms—the sleeping accommodations for the family. There was a gymnasium, small but efficient, with free weights, a heavy bag and a treadmill. 

“Okay, son. Where do you think the entrance to the fourth level is?” 

“What?” 

“Where do you think I put it?” 

“Why would we have a fourth level to begin with, Dad?” 

James Naile didn’t smile. “You’ll know all of that. 

Where’s the entrance, son?” 

John stood in the smallish hall, the office in front of him, the gymnasium to his left, the sleeping accommodations to his right and behind him. “Secret stuff there, right?” 

“Right. Come on, son. We don’t have a lot of time.” 

“I know—we’ll miss the commercial.” 

“At the very least.” 

John turned around. “Your office would be too obvious a spot. Yours and mom’s bedroom. Right?” 

“Right.” James smiled, evidently pleased. He led the way into the bedroom. It was a pretty standard room; a chest of drawers, a dresser with a vanity mirror, a large double bed. John started toward the dresser, but stopped, looking intently at the large headboard of the bed. “Bingo, John! That a boy! Help me move this sucker.” 

Actually, moving the bed was relatively easy, a matter of merely pulling on the footboard, and the bed’s headboard pivoting away from the wall. Behind it was a vault door. James spun the dial through its combination and unlocked it. “Your mother and I are the only ones who know the combination. I’ll give it to you to memorize.” James reached into the darkness beyond and flicked light switches. The staircase beyond was like the ones connecting the other levels. 

“This place must have set you back a small fortune, Dad.” 

“Not too bad, really; it helps owning your own construction companies and concrete plants.” At the bottom of the stairwell, John Naile found himself standing beside his father in what looked like a library or study, book-shelves lining paneled walls. There was a television set—a big one—and there were pieces of unfamiliar electronic equipment. “Here we are, son.” 

“The Russians will never get you here, Dad.” 

“Russians, maybe; Soviets, no way, unless future history is to be radically altered. That’s why only your mother and I knew about the fourth level until today.” As James Naile went over to the television set, almost as an aside he said, “And, by the way, the Soviet Union will officially cease to exist twenty-eight years from now, in December of 1991.” 

“You mean there’ll be a war, then?” John Naile was starting to question either his own sanity or that of his parents. “But you just said there wasn’t—” 

“Not a war; just evolution, son. The leadership of the Soviet Union will finally realize what folks like us have been saying all along: Communism flat out doesn’t work. Economics, son, not philosophy will win out. But that’s a long story. Just thank God for Ronald Reagan.” 

“The ACTOR?” 

“That’s a long story, too. Anyway, when you feel it’s appropriate, John, the secrets I’m revealing to you can be shared with your wife. Someday, that baby Audrey’s carrying will need to be told, but not until he or she is an adult and you can be absolutely certain the knowledge won’t be abused. That child will someday be the head of Horizon Industries. Unlike you or me, though, during the greater part of his or her tenure, the future will be a mystery.” 

“The future’s a mystery for everybody, Dad.” John Naile leaned against the wall, blinked his eyes. 

“Not for us, John, thanks to your great-grandparents moving west to Nevada. It’s from them that I—and now you—have inherited the records of future history. I don’t know if they realized what a moral burden it would be, despite all the care that they took. On the other hand, that knowledge of the future has made Horizon Industries what it is today. I’ve often considered—but subsequently dismissed—the idea of going to have a chat with your great-grandparents, of trying to tell them that bringing data from the future into the past is more dangerous than they suspect, despite the potential for positive change. 

“In the records you’ll be reading, John, mention is several times made of eight million Jews being killed in the death camps, for example, but six million were killed according to our perception of recent history. So, maybe the effort Horizon made during the war wasn’t for naught. Who can say?” 

“Are you alright, dad? You’re talking like—well, I don’t know what you’re talking like. Jack and Ellen, and your Dad and your aunt Elizabeth—they moved to Nevada seventy years ago. So how could you go and talk with Jack and Ellen Naile now? It’s my fault. I should be taking on more responsibilities in the company so you and Mom could—” 

“Actually, it was sixty-seven years ago that Jack and Ellen Naile moved west, or a little over three decades from now, depending on your perspective.” 

John Naile stared at his father, then glanced about at the strange trappings in the underground room. Without looking at his father, he said, “What?” 

“Ever wonder why I had you learn building and carpentry skills even though you’re a rich man’s son?” 

“Well, I guess you thought it was good for me. Right? Okay, why?” 

“Someday you might have to fit out a secret room like this, John, so you’ll need to know how. There’s a box on the bookshelf there beside you. Take it down carefully, open it and tell me what you see there sealed under the glass inside.” 

John Naile took the box from the shelf, opened it and looked at the object beneath the glass. Two pages from a magazine article, including a photo of a streetscape from turn-of-the-century Nevada. There were several storefronts visible, one of them reading “Jack Naile—General Merchandise.” John Naile looked up from the photo and at his father. “Great-Grandpa’s store.” He looked more closely at the picture, his eyes drifting down to the bottom of the page. There was a date: 1991. “This date must be screwed up, Dad. You ever notice it?” 

“That magazine article is what made your great-grandparents realize that they were moving west, John, going to wind up in Nevada. A friend sent it to them shortly after the article was published, kind of as a gag. Jack took it more seriously than Ellen—at least at first, anyway. And my father, David, refused to even consider that there was something strange going on. You remember what a hardhead my father always was about almost everything except business,” James Naile said. John Naile glimpsed a faint smile crossing his father’s lips with the memory. “A fine and generous man of great intelligence and foresight, David Naile. He totally refused to believe, up until the very last minute, that some sort of time anomaly was going to take place and that he and his sister and parents would be caught up in it. But, to be on the safe side, he planned for it, even though he didn’t believe in it. The business knowledge he entered the past with enabled him to become the richest man in the state of Nevada. Hell of a guy.” 

“What the hell is going on, Dad?” 

“Take down the copy of Atlas Shrugged. Right there on the shelf next to Jack and Ellen’s family Bible. The bible was printed next year, by the way, if you care to check the date.” 

“How can you say ‘was printed next year?’ What’s—” 

“Look at the Ayn Rand novel there, in the flyleaf.” John Naile took the book and opened it. His father went on. “The book is a 1957 first edition of Atlas Shrugged. But there is something stamped into the endpapers.” 

“‘From The Library of Jack and Ellen Naile,’” John Naile read aloud. He stared at his father. 

“Now, that volume that you’re holding in your hands, John, is one of the few actual books—most of their reference materials were on microfiche, which is like microfilm—but that book and their family Bible and only a few other works were in actual book form when Jack and Ellen Naile packed up the family and moved to Nevada.” 

John Naile pushed himself away from the bookcase against which he’d leaned. “That’s impossible, Dad; you know that. Jack and Ellen Naile moved to Nevada before the turn of the century, and Ayn Rand’s book here wasn’t published until six years ago.” 

“If I’d brought you down here six years ago or ten years ago or as soon as you were old enough to read numbers, John, you could have read that same publication date from that same book. You’ll have to believe something. 

And I’ve got all the proof you or anyone could require confirming that belief. 

“Your great-grandparents and my father and his sister, Elizabeth, did indeed move to Nevada just before the turn of the century, but the century I’m talking about was this one, this century—not the last one. When they arrived at their destination, they were not only more than half a continent away from their home in Georgia, but almost an even century back in the past.” 

Before John Naile could think of anything to say, James Naile looked at his wristwatch and announced, “It’s nearly time for Walter Cronkite to come on.” 

“It’s only a little after one-thirty, Dad. All that’s on television this time of the day is soap operas. Remember?” 

“As the World Turns, to be precise, John. See?” 

For the first time, John Naile looked at the television screen. There was a picture, all right. “How’d you get—” 

“A picture down here? I’ve got sheathed cable running up to the roof of the pump house up above and to an antenna array. I was down here earlier checking reception. It’s perfect. It’s a color television, but CBS won’t go to color broadcasting for a while yet. Pour yourself a drink, John. You’re going to need it. Trust me. What you’re about to see is no soap opera.” 

James Naile placed some sort of black plastic cartridge into one of the unfamiliar-looking electronic gadgets, this particular one right beside the television set. “What’s that?” 

“It’s a VHS videocassette, which will be invented by the JVC Corporation sometime in the future. I don’t know exactly when. I have a supply of the cassettes, handmade for me at considerable expense by the boys in our research labs. Both the machine and the cassettes themselves were copied from equipment owned by Jack and Ellen Naile. Your great-grandparents had planned to bring several of these machines to Nevada with them, but the circumstances of their actual trip came up suddenly. So they only had one, which doubled as a handheld television camera. The thing was made by the Japanese, or will be, depending on point of view. Rest easy; we have stock in several companies which will be big players in this. And the Nailes had about a dozen cassettes with them when the time transfer took place. The original cassettes couldn’t be duplicated or even played until recently, because of the printed circuitry required for the machine. Getting images off those old cassettes was almost impossible. Seems the magnetic surface can start flaking off, kind of like a photograph fading in sunlight.” 

“Printed circuitry?” 

“Takes the place of cathode tubes—for the most part anyway. As I was saying, the cassettes were pretty deteriorated with age, but we were able to salvage some terrific footage of your great-grandparents, your grandfather David and your great-aunt, Elizabeth. Fortunately, the climate in Nevada is usually pretty dry, so that helped preserve the tapes. The technicians who helped me never got to see the entire setup, and they were told that it was top-secret government work. My dad got me started on the project. It was kind of sweet, really, watching him sit there in front of a television set, seeing his parents as they were then, seeing himself and his sister as teenagers.” 

“So, these things play like one of the new audio cassettes?” 

“Same principle as magnetic tape, but picture as well as sound, John. We separated the camera concept from the recorder/player, though.” 

“Then you’re going to play a tape right now, and that’s how come we’ll see Walter Cronkite? This is almost incomprehensible! How’d they get this technology in the past when it couldn’t have been invented and hasn’t been invented yet? This doesn’t make any sense, Dad.” 

“I’m going to record something. You can look at the copies of the old tapes later. We’re about to see history unfolding before our eyes, son, and it won’t be pretty to watch. We’re going to make a record of it. I don’t really know why we should, but maybe I’ve come to appreciate history the same way you will.” 

A commercial for Niagara Spray Starch was just concluding. The commercial ended, and there on the screen were a man and a woman in a living-room setting. They seemed to be discussing something, but John Naile didn’t care what; his mind was sifting through the bizarre things his father had been telling him. 

The television drew his attention again as there was a thudding sound and the words “CBS News Bulletin” flashed on the screen. As his father had predicted, it was the voice of Walter Cronkite, and he was saying, “Here is a bulletin from CBS News . . . ” 

“Mother of God,” John Naile rasped as Walter Cronkite announced that President Kennedy had been shot. The bulletin ended. John Naile took the drink his father offered him. A single malt scotch with no ice. John Naile swallowed half the contents of the glass. 

A commercial was on again, a pendulum swinging back and forth. Nescafé coffee was the product. It was interrupted. Cronkite’s voice came on again. “Further details . . . ” 

John Naile took another swallow of scotch. 

In what seemed forever, but could have been the space of a single heartbeat, Walter Cronkite was on camera, in shirtsleeves, looking very tired, less than perfectly prepared. A functioning newsroom was behind him. His desk was littered with telephones and papers. 

John Naile listened, closed his eyes as the man whom America would one day trust more than any public official announced the shooting in Dallas, Texas, of President John F. Kennedy. 

John Naile opened his eyes. It was an affiliate feed. A negro man wearing a white waiter’s jacket caught John Naile’s eye: the man was weeping, a crowd of people around him. Kennedy was to have addressed a luncheon, which was the reason for the camera being there. 

John Naile heard his father’s voice. “President Kennedy is already dead, John. He died a short while ago at Parkland Hospital, never regaining consciousness. History will say that a lone man named Lee Harvey Oswald did the killing but at least well into the 1990s, no one will know for sure. More controversy will surround this assassination than has been associated with any event in American history, including the death of President Lincoln. 

“Governor Connally,” James Naile went on, “was sitting in the front passenger seat just in front of Jack Kennedy. He was shot, but he’s going to be fine. He’ll go on to become Secretary of the Treasury.” From one of the bookshelves, James Naile took what looked like a photo album. He opened it to a page showing a dollar bill. “Look at the signature.” 

John Naile did as he was told. It was Connally’s signature. 

“LBJ will serve out the remainder of Jack Kennedy’s term,” James Naile said as if reciting from well-learned rote. “The conflict in Southeast Asia is going to escalate into a full-fledged war that’ll last into the 1970s, with thousands of GIs killed. Six months ago, you asked me why I had Horizon Industries gearing up for increased production. What was my motivation for working on that rocket launcher? The answer is that I knew what would happen today, John. I knew Johnson was going to succeed Jack Kennedy in the White House and that he’d knuckle under to the people at Lakewood Industries and other companies like them who’ve been pushing for a war.” 

John Naile looked into his father’s eyes. “And Lakewood Industries wants a war because it means big bucks. The shits!” 

“Exactly, son. And if we let Lakewood Industries profit from the war that’s coming at our expense, God knows what Lakewood will push this country into in the next century. Our only choice is to compete for those same defense dollars, and at least give the American taxpayer his money’s worth and our GIs equipment that won’t let them down. LBJ will effectively rescind an order President Kennedy recently made which would have drastically cut American involvement in Southeast Asia. LBJ’s already being sworn in aboard Air Force One. By the time LBJ runs against Goldwater in ‘64—” 

“Senator Goldwater? Barry Goldwater?” 

James Naile nodded, took a sip of his drink. “Barry’ll be the Republican standard-bearer. Johnson will withhold information from the electorate about the actual status of the war and Barry Goldwater won’t call LBJ on it because Senator Goldwater’s knowledge will be privileged information he’ll have due to his position with the Senate Intelligence Committee. Barry will lose. LBJ will keep using ground troops, racking up incredible casualty figures. Civil unrest in the United States will come dangerously close to true anarchy. LBJ’s vice-president will be Hubert Humphrey, who will run against Dick Nixon in ‘68 after LBJ declines to run for a second full term. Dick’ll win, then run again in ‘72 and win again, even though he’ll be under investigation concerning a burglary at the Democratic national headquarters. Dick’ll eventually resign the presidency.” 

John almost laughed. “The President of the United States resign? Come on, Dad!” 

“There are interesting times ahead, John. Oswald— the man I just mentioned as implicated in the killing of President Kennedy? He’ll be brought in, but he’ll never get to trial. A nightclub owner named Jack Ruby—with apparent ties to organized crime—will shoot Oswald dead in front of the television cameras, live. We’ll tape-record that, too.” 

“This is sick, Dad!” 

James Naile nodded agreement. “Sick times, son. There’ll be a string of deaths, including Ruby’s own from cancer, and Dorothy Kilgallen’s. She will be the last newswoman or reporter of any kind to talk to Ruby. She’ll die from cancer, too. In years to come, Bobby Kennedy will be killed, and so will Martin Luther King. Throughout this decade and into the next, there’ll be rioting in the cities and warfare in Asia.” 

James Naile pointed to the television screen as he continued. “Walter Cronkite there? He’ll retire from anchoring CBS News and be replaced by that young kid Dan Rather. We’ve got records of everything that will take place up until the mid-1990s. You can read through it all for yourself, John, and have your child read it someday.” 

John asked, “Is it okay to smoke down here?” 

“Give me one of those cigarettes, and I’ll join you.” 

John took out the package of Luckies, shook one out for his father and one for himself. James lit both cigarettes from his pipe lighter. “How could we have records of stuff that hasn’t happened, Dad?” 

“I read it for myself on microfiche when I was about your age, John. Your grandfather chose the day in 1929 when the stock market was going to crash, which of course he’d known about. Of course, Horizon Enterprises was fully prepared in advance, so we actually gained ground rather than lost it during the Great Depression.” 

“That’s crazy, Dad. With this Kennedy thing—why . . . why didn’t you just tell J. Edgar Hoover or somebody if you knew that the President was going to be killed? Why didn’t you tell Jack Kennedy himself, for God’s sake?” 

“The same reason why neither your grandfather nor I told your mother about our knowledge of the future before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. We can’t risk changing history, and I didn’t want your Mom to share in the guilt for that. And, anyway, first thing anyone would say is what you’re saying—that it’s crazy. After I convinced them with hard evidence, they’d invariably use knowledge of the future in ways which might change the future. We can’t risk the future of all mankind in an attempt to save the life of one man or hundreds or even thousands of men. 

“And what if Kennedy was still murdered, John?” James stubbed out the cigarette. “How can you smoke these things? What if, even if the government had alerted the Pacific Fleet, the Japs had still gotten through, somehow? What if time heals itself? Say that I’d really been able to prevent what happened just now in Dallas, but somehow in doing so I rewrote the future in such a way that we had that nuclear war we were able to avoid before history was changed? What if I caused the deaths of millions of people, maybe the destruction of all life on Earth, just by tampering with history this one time to save one man?” 

James Naile began pacing the room, shook his head, turned off the television set. “It’ll still record. No, son, rewriting time is more responsibility than I want on my shoulders, or yours. Just because I have solid connections in Washington doesn’t mean I can go in and tell them something like this with any assurance at all that they’ll behave correctly, use the knowledge wisely.” 

John lit another cigarette with the butt of the first one. “This is all true, isn’t it?” 

“Jack and Ellen Naile are teenagers now, attending the same high school in Chicago. They haven’t married yet, of course, but they know one another, and a year from now they’ll start dating, and they’ll be engaged before they graduate. They’ll marry in a few years—in 1968—and they’ll have two children. One of those will be David, my father, your grandfather, who’ll be the founder of Horizon Enterprises in 1914. Even though your grandfather has yet to be born, John, you’re almost old enough to have fathered your great-grandparents—they’re only seventeen and fifteen, respectively. And their daughter, Elizabeth, will become one of the most influential women of the early twentieth century.” 

John found a chair and sat down. 

After a long silence, James said, “Let’s get out of here in a couple of minutes—our wives will be needing us, and lunch will be ready, anyway. You can tell Audrey if you think it’s advisable. I don’t know, son; I’d probably wait a while, but do what you think is best. Might want to wait until the night we land men on the Moon. Neil Armstrong will be the first man to set foot on the Moon. That might be a more upbeat way of letting Audrey in on things—just tell her what he’s going to say before he says it. That’s about six years from now. Think about it.” 

John Naile could think about nothing else but the future.