Free Time Loves a Hero by Allen Steele Page A

he’s going to be there.”
    â€œWell, I dunno …” Jan sounded reluctant. “He was a Disclave guest several years ago, but he hasn’t been back since …”
    â€œDo you have his number?” Murphy asked, seeing his opening. “I’ve been in touch with him recently … I mean, he sent me a letter just a little while ago … and maybe I could talk him into coming out here for the next convention.”
    â€œReally? That would be fantastic! Hold on a sec …” There was a short pause, during which Murphy heard a vague rustling in the background; he imagined her searching through the perpetual mess on her desk for an address book. He reached into his shirt pocket, found a Bic pen. After a few moments, her voice came back: “Okay, here it is. It’s his office number …”
    Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, Murphy scribbled down the number on the back of his left hand, then repeated it back to Jan to make sure he had copied it correctly. “Thanks, dear,” he said. “I’ve really got to run. I’ll get back to you.”
    Hoping he wasn’t being rude, he hung up, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket. After locating his ATT card, he carefully dialed the number Jan had given him, charging it to his home phone.
    Somewhere on the other side of the continent, a phone began to ring. Once, twice, three times … Murphy glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten to one; in California, it would be almost ten o’clock. It shouldn’t be too early to …
    The phone was picked up on the fourth ring.
    â€œHello?” a familiar voice said.
    Murphy felt something tickle the nape of his neck.
    â€œAhh … Dr. Gregory Benford, please.”
    â€œSpeaking.”
    â€œGreg Benford?” Murphy flattened the receiver against his ear. “Is this Gregory Benford, the writer?”
    â€œAhh … well, yes, it is, May I ask who’s calling?”
    The very same voice. From over three thousand miles away.
    â€œI’m … I’m …” Murphy felt a hot rush through his face. “I’m sorry, sir, but … sorry, I think there’s been a mistake.”
    â€œWhat? I don’t.…”
    Murphy slammed down the phone, his mind racing as he sought to understand what was happening.
    He had just met someone who looked exactly like Gregory Benford, who sounded just like Gregory Benford, but who was not only ignorant of one of the most common mathematical denominators in theoretical physics, but had also forgotten that he had coauthored a best-selling novel with another physicist, David Brin. Sure, all this might be explained by travel fatigue. Yet Gregory Benford would never be amnesiac of the fact that he had written Timescape , a novel which was not only regarded as one of his best-known works, and a Nebula Award winner as well …
    But also a time-machine story.
    Yet the Greg Benford with whom he had just shared lunch claimed never to have written a time-machine story.
    And now, however briefly, Murphy had spoken with a Gregory Benford whose voice was absolutely identical, yet who was in his office on the other side of the country.
    â€œSon of a …!” Murphy slammed his fist against the phone, then turned and stalked back down the hall toward the restaurant. Whoever this guy was, he had just played him like a yo-yo. It was a good impersonation, to be sure. For a little while there, the impostor had actually convinced him that he was the real deal. But just wait until …
    Murphy stopped at the cafeteria entrance.
    Their table was vacant. The chair where the impostor had been seated had been pushed back. Only their cafeteria trays remained in place. Children ran back and forth through the restaurant, but his lunch companion was nowhere to be seen.
    Murphy stared at the table, then dashed to the nearby stairwell. Catching himself against the railing, he peered down. Far