Free End of an Era by Robert J. Sawyer Page B

time, which meant it would be just after seven on the west coast. The phone rang three times before the round Bell Canada logo did its usual self-indulgent backflip off the screen. But instead of Dr. Huang’s face, all I got was this graphic:
    Audio Only Available
    Then, thinned by what sounded like fear — the distance shouldn’t have affected the quality at all, of course — a voice made its way across the continent to me. "Hello?"
    "Hello," I replied. "May I please speak to Ching-Mei Huang?"
    A pause. Finally: "Who’s calling?"
    "My name is Brandon Thackeray. I’m with the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto."
    "I’m not interested in becoming a member. Good-bye."
    "Wait. I’m not from the membership department. I’m a vertebrate paleontologist."
    "A vert — ? How did you get this number?"
    "Then you are Dr. Huang?"
    "Yes, I am she. How did you get my number?"
    I tried to sound jaunty. "It wasn’t easy, believe me."
    "This number is unlisted for a purpose. Please leave me alone."
    I put as much reassuring warmth as I could into my voice. "You certainly keep a low profile," I said with a laugh.
    "That’s no concern of yours." A pause, while we both tried to assess who should speak next. Finally, quietly, she said, "My phone says you’re calling from area code 905. That’s not Toronto."
    "No, it’s Mississauga, where I live. Just outside of Toronto."
    I heard a sharp exhalation of breath. "And you’re not on a mobile phone, right? So you’re not here in Vancouver?" Her voice brightened slightly, but she still seemed shaken, nervous — hardly the kind of speech I would have thought anyone would have characterized as "precise." What was it the diary had said?
Measured, monotonal, clicking over the consonants like a series of circuit breakers
. That description seemed to belong to a completely different person.
    "Do you have a PicturePhone, Dr. Huang? Could we switch to visual?"
    "No."
    Did that mean, No, I don’t have a PicPhone, or No, I won’t turn on its camera? "Uh, fine," I said at last. "That’s fine." Suddenly I didn’t know how to continue. What I wanted to ask her about seemed so incredible, so inconceivable. If this was a practical joke, there’s only one person who could have done it: Klicks, now living in Toronto for his sabbatical. I’d kill him if this wasn’t for real. "I’ve been trying to track you down for some time, Dr. Huang. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you."
    She still sounded edgy. "Oh, very well. But please be brief."
    "Of course. Do you happen to know Miles Jordan?"
    "I knew a Susan Jordan once."
    "No, that wouldn’t be any relation of his. Miles is another paleontologist. He’s with the Royal Tyrrell Museum in Drum-heller, Alberta."
    "A great museum," she said absently. "But what has this got to do with me?"
    "Does the word ‘stasis’ mean anything to you?"
    "It’s Greek for standstill. What do I win?"
    "And that’s all it means to you?"
    "Mr. Thackeray, I value my privacy greatly. I don’t wish to seem rude, but I am uncomfortable on the phone."
    I mustered my courage. "All right, Dr. Huang. I put it to you: are you, or were you, doing experiments involving the cessation of the passage of time — a process you referred to as stasis?"
    "Where did you get that notion?"
    "Please, it’s very important that I know."
    She was silent for several seconds. "Well, yes," she said at last, "I guess ‘stasis’ would have been a good name for it, although I never called it that. Experiments? Hardly. I came up with a few interesting equations, but that was before — that was a long time ago."
    "So stasis is possible. Tell me: did your research give any indication that — that time travel would be a practical consequence of your equations?"
    For the first time, the voice at the other end of the line had real strength. "I see now, Mr.— Thackeray, did you say?"
    "Yes."
    "Mr. Thackeray, you are a crackpot. Good-bye."
    "No, please. I’m dead seri—"
    Dial tone. I