‘So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of history lay before you like a shining ribbon, where would you go? What would you like to witness?’
‘The Trojan War,’ I said, words tumbling over each other. ‘Or the Spartans’ stand at Thermopylae. Or Henry at Agincourt. Or Stonehenge. Or the pyramids being built. Or see Persepolis before it burned. Or Hannibal getting his elephants over the Alps. Or go to Ur and find Abraham, the father of everything.’ I paused for breath. ‘I could do you a wish list.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps one day I shall ask you for one.’
He set down his cup. With hindsight, I can see how he was feeling his way through the interview, summing me up, drip-feeding information, watching my reactions. I must have done something right, because he said, ‘As a matter of interest, if you were offered the opportunity to visit one of the exciting events listed, would you take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just like that? Some people feel it incumbent to enquire about safe returns. Some people laugh. Some people express disbelief.’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I don’t disbelieve. I think it’s perfectly possible. I just didn’t know it’s possible right now.’
He smiled, but said nothing, so I soldiered on. ‘What happens if you can’t get back?’
He looked at me pityingly. ‘Actually, that’s the least of the problem.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, you see, the technology has been around for some time. The biggest problem now is History itself.’
Yes, that made everything clear. But as Lisa Simpson once said, ‘It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.’ So I remained silent.
‘Think of History as a living organism, with its own defence mechanisms. History will not permit anything to change events that have already taken place. If History thinks, even for one moment, that that is about to occur, then it will, without hesitation, eliminate the threatening virus. Or historian, as we like to call them.
‘And it’s easy. How difficult is it to cause a ten-ton block of stone to fall on a potentially threatening historian observing the construction of Stonehenge? Another cup?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said, determined not to be outdone in sangfroid.
‘So,’ he said, handing me a cup. ‘Let me ask you again. Suppose you were offered the opportunity to visit sixteenth-century London to witness, say, the coronation parade of Elizabeth I – you see, it’s not all battlefields and blood – would you still want to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘You understand very clearly that this would be on an observation and documentation basis only? Interaction of any kind is not only extremely unwise, it is usually strictly forbidden.’
‘If I was to be offered any such opportunity, I would understand that very clearly.’
‘Please be honest, Dr Maxwell, is this admirable calm because deep down, very deep down, you think I’m clearly insane and this is going to be one to tell in the pub tonight?’
‘Actually, Dr Bairstow, deep down, very deep down, I’m having a shit-hot party.’
He laughed.
Waiting in Mrs Partridge’s office sat the quiet, dark man with the startling eyes I’d met on the stairs.
‘I’ll leave you with the Chief,’ Dr Bairstow said, gathering up some papers and data cubes. ‘You’re in for an interesting afternoon, Dr Maxwell. Enjoy.’
We left his office and headed down the long corridor I’d noticed before. I experienced the oddest sensation of entering into another world. The windows, set at regular intervals along one side, cast pools of sunlight along the floor and we passed from light to dark, from warm to cool, from this world into another. At the end of the corridor was a key-coded door.
We entered a large foyer area with another set of big doors opposite.
‘Blast doors,’ he said, casually.
Of course, what was I thinking? Every historical establishment needs blast doors. On my right, a flight of stairs led upwards with a large, hospital-sized lift alongside. ‘To Sick Bay,’ he said. On the left, a corridor with a few unlabelled doors disappeared into the gloom.
‘This way,’ he said. Did the man never say more than two or three words together?
The big doors opened into a huge, echoing, hangar-style space. I could see two glassed-in areas at the far end.
‘Those are offices. One for IT,’ he gestured at the left room. ‘And one for us technicians.’ He gestured right. An overhead gantry ran down one side with three or four blue jump-suited figures leaning on the rail. They appeared to be waiting for something.
‘Historians,’ he said, following my stare. ‘They wear blue. Technicians wear orange, IT is in black, and Security wears green. Number Three is due back soon. This is the welcoming committee.’
‘That’s … nice,’ I said.
He frowned. ‘It’s a dangerous and difficult job. There’s no support structure for what we do. We have to look after each other, hence the welcoming committee; to show support and to talk them down.’
‘Down from what?’