State of the Union

The Senate hearing room was packed with reporters. It was a slow news day. Even the prospect of listening to a mad scientist testify before the organized crime committee was welcome.

At the moment, only one member of that committee was missing from the chamber. Since the missing man was Josiah Hitch, the ranking minority member, the session had not yet been formally opened even though everyone else had been in place for twenty minutes. There was a noisy buzz in the room as reporters talked about whatever they had to talk about. At the witness table, a single man, obviously still on the sunny side of forty, sat waiting patiently. Part of the twitter among the reporters was because the witness had come in without even one attorney. In Washington, that was news almost on the level of Man Bites Dog.

Josiah Hitch eventually arrived, scowling as always, and muttered pro forma apologies for being “unavoidably detained.” Both the scowl and the apology were garbled by the Churchill cigar in his mouth. His colleagues were too polite to snicker. Everyone knew what had detained Hitch, what always detained him. He spent so much time in men’s rooms that his less sympathetic colleagues had started talking about “going to the hitch.”

Chairman Robert Tavish banged the gavel. As soon as the daily formula was complete, Tavish introduced the witness and Dr. William G. Wilson, Jr. was sworn in.

“Mister Chairman,” Hitch interrupted. “Before we go any farther, I would like to make a statement.” He used his cigar as if it were a conductor’s baton, gesturing wildly with it, making certain that thick clouds of smoke were generously distributed. During the previous Congress, while the Republicans were still in control of both houses, the ban on smoking had been lifted. Hitch had ignored it even while it was in effect. He represented a tobacco state. Vigorously.

Tavish quickly suppressed the instinctive frown and nodded. “The chair recognizes the deputy chair.”

“In all my many years in public life, I have never, never, seen such an incredible and unconscionable waste of time and taxpayers’ money,” Hitch said, fixing Dr. Wilson with his most malevolent stare and poking his cigar toward the witness table. Wilson had no business sitting there looking so smug and handsome and young. “That is quite a statement, since we all know that this body has witnessed some extraordinary wastes of both.” He paused to make sure that the reporters were at least making a pretense of listening to him. He saw red lights on three video cameras. That was enough to let him continue. “Dr. Wilson, you have the temerity, the absolute gall, to come before this august body and claim that you have single‑handedly wiped out major organized crime in this country?”

Wilson’s smile showed more than confidence. It was the smugness of a man who knew without checking that his fly was securely zipped and all was well with the world. The smile was the result of his best efforts at moderation. Left to his natural inclinations, he would have laughed his head off. He was not the least bit nervous about this hearing, or the ranking minority senator.

“Not exactly, Senator,” Wilson said. “I did not, personally, wipe out all of major organized crime in this country. But,”—he continued when he saw that Hitch was about to launch another oration—“I am responsible for it being wiped out. I created the mechanism and made it possible.”

“I fail to see the distinction,” Hitch said.

“I came here to explain that,” Wilson pointed out. “The committee has already seen much of my data. That was the reason for the hasty scheduling of these hearings, despite the fact that some individuals obviously feel that I am unhinged.”

Chairman Tavish cleared his throat. “That is true—I mean, that these hearings were scheduled so quickly because of the data we have seen, and because of the obvious evidence that major organized crime does seem to have virtually disappeared over the past few weeks. And I fear that this is getting beyond simply making a statement.” He glanced at Hitch. Hitch’s scowl deepened. There was more he wanted to say, about the idiocy of wasting time with this witness’s claim that he had invented a time machine, but the ranking Republican member of the committee nodded his acceptance of the chair’s observation.

“Dr. Wilson, I believe you have an opening statement to read?” Tavish said, turning his attention to the witness.

“I do, sir,” Wilson said.

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“Thank you.” Wilson positioned the text of his statement directly in front of him, and started to read.

“My name is William G. Wilson, Jr. I have dual doctorates, in physics and mathematics. I am currently a tenured member of the physics faculty of the University of Chicago.” Wilson spent just a few minutes establishing his professional bona fides, then looked up from his text.

“Mister Chairman, this next bit is not in the prepared statement I submitted to you, but 1 can’t help but interject it, with your permission.”

Tavish nodded, mostly because he hoped that whatever Wilson had to say would annoy Hitch more than it would him.

“Over the past several decades,” Wilson said, letting his gaze travel along the arc of faces behind the raised bench at the head of the room, “it has become increasingly difficult for scientists to obtain proper funding for any research, even the most pressing and—potentially—most rewarding. Success in scientific research has become more a function of a researcher’s ability to raise funds than his scientific acumen. That has been particularly true since the midterm elections in ’94.” Wilson paused. There was considerably more he wanted to say, but there would be time, later, for the rest. Deeds were ever so much more impressive than words.

“We have to be open‑minded about obtaining research grants. A scientist who wants to stay in business has to be willing to accept offers, even if there are disagreeable strings tied to the money.” He hesitated again, thinking that there had often been disagreeable strings attached even back when the money had come primarily from congress. Then he looked to the committee chairman and said, “I’ll return to my prepared statement now.”

The primary thrust of my research has always been time. On a theoretical level, that needs no more than computer, paper and pencils, and a brain. I have, of course, made use of whatever experimental data others have managed to collect, measuring the differing passage of time at different distances from the center of Earth, and at different velocities, and so forth, using those data for my calculations.

Four years ago I published a paper which suggested, among other things, that it might be feasible to build a working time machine—given rather liberal funding. I was unable to obtain that funding through any of the usual channels. Those people responsible for judging the merits of such requests saw the words “Time Machine” and immediately freaked out without bothering to properly evaluate the proposal or submit it to peer review. It was impossible, it was impractical, and anyhow, there were all of those nasty paradoxes we’ve been reading about since H.G. Wells.

It wasn’t long before the department chair suggested that, tenure or not, it might be wise if I quit giving the university such a black eye. Research funding for my colleagues might be adversely affected if people thought that there was a certifiable lunatic on the faculty. I had little choice, actually. I continued my theoretical work, but decided that unless I won a very large lottery prize, I would never get the chance to see if my device could actually be built.

Then, just over three years ago, a week before fall semester finals, two visitors came to my office at the university, and arrived just at the end of my scheduled office hour, when I was always available for any students who want to come in and talk.

These two were obviously not students, even though it isn’t unusual to find people in their thirties attending school. They were simply dressed too well. One wore a knee‑length leather coat. The other’s coat was genuine camel hair. The suits they wore underneath were likewise expensive and tailored, the sort a professor can’t hope to afford unless he pens a bestseller.

There was nothing particularly distinctive about either man except for their clothing. I detected no accents or anything like that. They were quiet. They were polite. They sounded well‑educated.

“Dr. Wilson,” the man wearing camel hair said, “we would like to talk with you for a few minutes if you have the time.”

I allowed that I had a little time available and asked both men to sit. With three of us and winter coats, the office was rather crowded. They took off the coats and sat.

Camel hair introduced himself as Frank Zarelli and his companion as Carl Pastor. Zarelli also introduced himself as an attorney. It wasn’t until somewhat later that I learned that Pastor was a CPA.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I think, perhaps, it’s more what we can do for each other,” Zarelli said. “You wrote a paper last year suggesting that it might be possible to build a working time machine.” I nodded.

“Since that time, you have been totally unable to get any research funds to actually build that machine.” I nodded again.

“I represent a group of... clients who might be willing to fund that experiment,” Zarelli said.

A nod simply wasn’t enough this time. I leaned forward. At the possibility of funds I came close to salivating—a Pavlovian response that any academic would recognize. “That would be welcome,” I said.

“Just how much money would you require?” the other man, Pastor, asked.

I made a vague gesture. “I couldn’t possibly give you a figure that would have any pretense of being accurate. Assuming a best‑case scenario, I think we would be talking a minimum of eight to ten million dollars to design, construct, and adequately test a small model—a proof‑of‑concept apparatus. Assuming that the model were successful, it might take three times as much to construct a full‑scale machine and conduct an adequate regime of testing.” I smiled. “Of course, once I can demonstrate that the machine works and is practical, additional funding would be relatively easy to obtain.”

Pastor nodded, very slightly. His eyes never left mine, and I realized that I hadn’t seen him blink once. “You said those figures were mini‑mums. What do you think the maxi‑mums might be?”

I couldn’t restrain a small laugh. “There’s no way to be certain. If we can keep the government out, perhaps no more than double the mini‑mums. But—no guarantees.”

“I think we can guarantee that the government would not become involved,” Zarelli said. He and Pastor exchanged looks. Then they both looked at me again.

“I believe that it might be possible,” Zarelli said. “At least through your proof‑of‑concept model. If that is successful, the funding would be extended through to completion. You understand, there would be certain... conditions.”

“If those conditions are acceptable,” I said. “I’ll have to know what they are in advance.”

“My clients will provide you with trained research assistants. You will provide us with lists, blueprints, or schematics of whatever you need in the way of equipment and supplies, and we will obtain them for you. We will provide a place for you to do your work, and take care of anything else you need. A representative of our principals will be on hand to act as your liaison throughout the project.”

“Those conditions don’t sound too onerous,” I said. True, I would have preferred to choose my own assistants and so forth, but I know all about gift horses and their notorious mouths.

“Those are not the conditions,” Zarelli said. “The conditions are, one, that my clients will determine how and when the full‑scale machine will be used for a period not to exceed six months from the date it becomes operational; and, two, that until the completion of that time there will be no publicity at all concerning what you are doing. It is to be as secret as the work that was done here on nuclear fission during World War Two.”

“Absolute secrecy,” Pastor said. “Even after this six‑month period, you are never to reveal the exact source of the funds or make any statement whatsoever concerning the operations that our clients undertake during that six‑month period.”

“Those are onerous conditions,” I said. “Particularly the first. A working time machine under the control of... unknown individuals? Whether the time is six months or six minutes, that is still asking a lot.”

“There is no alternative,” Zarelli said, so flatly that I knew that I could not negotiate my way out of it. I could make a time machine (if I could make a time machine) that someone else would operate out of my control for six months, or I would have no chance to make the machine, no opportunity to see if my theoretical work had any practical validity.

“I’m going to need time to consider this,” I said after a lengthy silence. “It goes against every ethical fiber I have to agree to such conditions. And, in this case, the results could be more cataclysmic than a million nuclear bombs going off.”

“I can offer you one assurance,” Zarelli said. “My clients have no interest in altering the past. I assume that that is your primary concern, that they would do something in the past that would have repercussions that would change the present in some catastrophic way. My clients have absolutely no interest in doing anything like that.”

“But I would have no way to, ah, make certain of that,” I said. “Unless I had the authority to at least... veto uses that I considered dangerous, those assurances are, if you will excuse the bluntness, empty.”

“We will convey your... apprehensions,” Zarelli said. “In the meantime, please give our offer serious consideration. We will be in touch with you in a day or two.”

As it turned out, it was four days later, the following Monday, before they returned to my office.

“We have discussed this matter with our clients,” Zarelli said. “They are reluctant to offer any easing of the conditions I outlined on our previous visit. I told them that unless we could offer you something more, you would likely not agree to the arrangement. After several days of consultations among themselves, my clients have agreed to the following modification. You may be present during any use of the apparatus. If you feel that a particular action that my clients want to take would adversely affect the present by changing what happened in the past, they will stop—time permitting—to at least discuss the situation, give you time to express your concerns. They promise to give those concerns full consideration. But, in the final analysis, the decision on whether or not to proceed must remain with them.”

That was not good enough. However, I had been doing a lot of thinking. I had found a way that might allow me to agree without giving up total control—a matter of what they didn’t know wasn’t likely to hurt me. Since they were willing to have me present when the machine was being used, my “out” looked secure. But I wasn’t going to agree too quickly. I didn’t even know then that I would actually succeed in building a working machine, so I couldn’t be absolutely certain that I would be able to add my gimmick to it.

“There is one other consideration that my clients have instructed me to mention,” Zarelli said when I didn’t respond immediately. “We did not discuss your fee for undertaking this project. Over and above the costs of your work, and a salary matching that which you receive from the university, you will be paid a half million dollars when you demonstrate your proof‑of‑concept model. When you have a full‑scale apparatus working, you will be paid an additional one million dollars. And, at the successful conclusion of the tests that my clients desire to undertake, you will be paid a final five million dollars. All sums will be paid, in whatever form is acceptable to you, with all federal, state, and local taxes already paid on them, with proper evidence of those payments.”

Over the weekend it had occurred to me that Zarelli and Pastor might represent organized crime—the Mafia, if you will—and the offer of six and a half million dollars convinced me of it. Neither Zarelli nor Pastor had blinked at the amounts I had quoted during our first meeting and, apart from the government, only the mob might be able to come up with that much money.

That deduction did not affect my decision. As I said before, a researcher has to be open‑minded about getting funds. I wouldn’t be the first to take money from sources such as that to do research, or to turn research into something more concrete. And it wasn’t as if they were asking me to construct a machine for making drugs or anything like that.

Six and a half million dollars, with the taxes already paid. It was that last, I think, that convinced me that the immediate (if not the ultimate) sources of the money would be beyond reproach, from legitimate organizations of one sort of another, money as legally pure as that which pours into the election campaigns of honorable men and women running for public office. And, as I have already said, I had the first glimmers of, shall we say, a private sting operation—just in case.

I needed seventeen months to build my proof‑of‑concept model and get it working to my personal satisfaction. Satisfying my patrons took most of another month, but, finally, they gave me the go‑ahead to construct a full‑scale machine. The first model took seventeen months of steady work. I was due a year’s sabbatical, so I took that the following school year or I might have needed twice as long to get the first model built and operating.

Since my patrons were satisfied— delighted is a more accurate word— with my model, they made it possible for me to take a second year off from my duties at the university without pay. It was not all that much a sacrifice on my part since I had received my first bonus for my work on the time machine. I needed to be free of university responsibilities. Even working more than full time—sixteen to eighteen hours a day, six or seven days a week—it took a year to scale up from the proof‑of‑concept device to a full‑size working apparatus. The difficulties were technical, not theoretical. A sufficient power supply was the biggest problem. It takes a lot of electrical energy to rip a few threads from the skein of time and reach through the gap.

It was just last June, little more than seven months ago, when I first looked on the completed device, as certain as I could be that it would work. After several calibration tests, attended by representatives of my patrons, a time was set for the first major trial of the machine—the first of the runs that were to be conducted for, and at the direction of, my sponsors. I had suggested a series of smaller tests first, to make absolutely certain that there would be no glitches in the operation, but my patrons were far too impatient. They had already waited two and a half years, I was reminded.

“The test is simple,” Zarelli told me. Even though a number of his clients were present, he remained their spokesman. “We wish to bring an individual from the past to the present in order to obtain his guidance on a problem that my clients have. After their meeting, this individual will be returned to the exact time and place he was picked up from. Does that pose any ethical problem for you?”

“As long as he is returned to the same time and place, there is no possibility of changing the past, except through whatever knowledge of the present he might gain during his visit,” I said. That did worry me, but... all I can say is that after two and a half years of absolute concentration on the project, I was not as picky as I might have been in other circumstances.

Zarelli shrugged. “His position would not permit much interference. Consider, if you will. You know nothing of time travel. Without warning you are yanked from one time and place and deposited in another. Then, after a brief time in this new place, you are returned to exactly where you were, and are left with no evidence of the reality of your excursion. Tell me, Dr. Wilson, would you believe what you had just experienced?”

I grinned. “I might, but I can see that most people would not.”

“The gentleman in question is, was, a very pragmatic sort,” Zarelli continued. “It is unlikely that he would ever mention the event to anyone, lest it be seen as a sign that he was... not in complete possession of his faculties. In addition to which, in the time following the point at which we wish to intercept him, he had troubles enough to deal with. He would not be looking for additional difficulties.”

I was curious about the identity of this troubled pragmatist that my patrons were so anxious to consult, but I knew better than to ask for his name. Zarelli gave me a date and time, and very precise spatial coordinates.

Although I have refrained from including any technical information about my apparatus, I must at least briefly describe how it functions. My machine is not the sort of thing you might imagine from whatever exposure you have had to films or novels about time travel. There is no mobile machine that flits about in time or space. The apparatus occupies much of a very large warehouse, and requires a considerable supply of electricity. The operation of reaching back in time and bringing a person or object forward consists of two distinct stages. In the first, a window (if you will) is opened on the past scene, and displayed on a computer monitor. That allows final calibration and permits me to pick up precisely what, or who, I want to collect. The second stage consists of translating the target to the destination. That can be the location of the apparatus in the present, but the apparatus does not have to be at one terminal of the operation. An object or person can be transported from one remote time and place to another without ever being brought physically to where the time machine is. The operation can also be done in reverse, sending something or someone from the present to any time and place in the past.

The past and present are the only eras available. It is, both practically and theoretically, impossible to go forward in time. The past and present are set. The future is only a quantum cloud of possibilities.

The date I was given was February 14, 1929. The time was 10:27 a.m. The location was in Florida. Zarelli remained at my side throughout the operation. I assumed that he was there to make certain that I did not back out, refuse to complete the procedure once I saw who the target was.

To be honest, the combination of the date and my suspicions about my clients should have given me enough data to anticipate the identity of the target. It did not. But when I saw the man on the monitor, I did recognize him.

“That’s him!” Zarelli said, more excited than I would have thought him capable of. “Bring him in, Doc. Hit the switch.”

If I hadn’t, Zarelli would have. No more than thirty seconds later, Al Capone was standing in the lab with us.

Wilson looked up. Senator Hitch appeared to be choking to death. Wilson wondered if Hitch had swallowed his cigar. The senator’s face was red; he was leaning forward, coughing and gagging. Senator Tavish looked at his colleague with concern. An aide leaned over Hitch, and moved a glass of water closer. After a moment of extreme difficulty, Hitch took a sip. It seemed to help, but his face remained a bright red after he stopped coughing. It was several minutes before he was able to speak, after waving off a suggestion that paramedics be summoned.

“You brought Al Capone to the present?” Hitch demanded, disbelief or shock doing strange thinks to his normally well‑tempered speaking voice.

“Scar and all,” Wilson admitted cheerfully.

“We don’t have enough hoodlums of our own? You have to import the most notorious of them all?”

“It could have been worse,” Wilson said. “Besides, I figured that Capone would be an amateur compared to some of the talent around today—or at least around at the time I brought Capone forward. If we were really talking about today, it would be different, but if I hadn’t made the time machine and brought Capone forward, we would still be up to our ears in organized crime, and all that that entails.”

“Are you trying to tell us that A1 Capone got rid of all of our mobsters?”

“More or less, Senator. He did a good job of eliminating competition in his own time, if you think about it. That’s what St. Valentine’s Day, 1929, was all about.” Wilson waited for a moment to see if Hitch had anything else to say, or if any of the other committee members wanted a turn. When no one spoke, he went back to his prepared statement.

To my surprise, I was invited to sit in on the discussions that my patrons had with Capone, once they had convinced him that he had indeed been pulled decades into his future. I guess that they figured I had taken enough money from them that I was too far in to get out. Maybe they were right.

Capone did not take nearly as much convincing as I might have expected. A calendar, two minutes of watching a television while one of Zarelli’s clients used the remote to surf the cable, a look at the front page of that day’s Tribune, and a glance out the window at the automobiles going by seemed to do the job.

My patrons asked Capone to undertake an important mission for them. They wanted him to eliminate all of the “other” gangs, the Colombian, Asian, African‑American, and so forth. The idea was for Capone to collect gunmen from his own time. They would be moved from spot to spot, with people who knew the targets. The gunners would be returned to their own time when the job was done, away from any possible prosecution. When the operation was over, Capone would be paid a sum even more outrageous than what my patrons had offered me—in gold bullion.

It was at that point that 1 offered a suggestion of my own. “I think I can make this all a lot safer and simpler.” Most of the people looked at me as if they had forgotten that I was there. The stares were enough to start the flesh crawling up and down my spine.

“How?” Zarelli asked after one of the principals gave him a look.

“The machine,” I said. Maybe I was on the hook too much to get out, but I had no liking for the bloodbath they had in mind. “Pinpoint the targets the way you did Mr. Capone’s location. We move them somewhere—some‑when —where they can no longer give you any problems. They simply disappear, more completely than if they went swimming with concrete boots. No trouble with the law. No bodies to dispose of. No chance of losing any of your own people in the process. Nice and tidy.”

Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted mentioning concrete boots. Those men were not the type to take levity well. There was a period of silence. Capone and my patrons looked around at each other. There were shrugs, facial gestures, cocked heads. They did more business with body language than some groups of people can do with millions of words.

“You’ve got a smart boy there,” Capone said after a minute or two. He looked at me. “Do it neat.”

Another thought came to me. If my patrons did it my way, Capone might be out ten million dollars. Once he realized that, he might be less kindly disposed to me. “Of course, things can go wrong,” I said. “It would be best to have an expert on hand with the people to take care of anything like that.”

Capone grinned, then laughed out loud. “I like this kid,” he said. He walked over to me and pinched my cheek. “I like you. What’s your name?” I told him.

“Well, Bill Wilson, you got a good head on your shoulders. You use it to think. I could use someone like you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Capone, but I’m booked up solid with these gentlemen.”

The principals agreed to act on my suggestion, with Capone handling security. We moved to a restaurant for a banquet. The rest of my sponsors showed up for that. Everyone wanted to meet Capone, talk with him, have their pictures taken with him. The party went on into the wee hours of the morning.

The next day the real work began. During the first couple of months it went slowly, as the targets were tracked and we worked out the necessary routines. Then, just after the elections last November, the operation went into high gear. By Christmas it was over. And now, here I am.

Wilson assembled the pages of his statement, tapping the sheaf on the table in front of him several times. He looked up at the senators. At some point, Senator Hitch had left. The gap at the bench was as obvious as a missing tooth in a wide grin.

“I will be delighted to answer any questions,” Wilson said.

Senator Tavish looked around, as if he wanted to be absolutely certain that Hitch was gone, then cleared his throat. “It’s almost time for us to recess for lunch, Dr. Wilson, but I would like to ask a couple of questions before we do.”

Wilson nodded his acceptance.

“Assuming that it was the Mafia who financed your machine, and that you got rid of all of their competition from other ethnic and national groups, what happened to them? The reports this committee have received also indicate that no known Mafia members have been seen since Christmas either. I doubt very much that they hired you to get rid of all of the competition and then retired en masse themselves.”

“No, Senator, they certainly did not. But you have to understand, sir, that this was a massive operation. I was working eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. We had to find and transport literally tens of thousands of individuals, and we had to work quickly, before significant numbers of them could ‘take a powder,’ once they realized that something serious was up. That meant that my patrons had to put virtually every man and woman on their payroll into the operation, spotting, and being ready to respond to any emergencies—their SWAT teams, you might say. The last two days....” Wilson stopped and shook his head slowly.

“I finished the operation in one thirty‑six‑hour stretch, non‑stop. When I got to that point, I had to work fast, before one of my sponsors realized what I was up to and decided that I should be eliminated. Up until the point that I started operating against my employers, I felt safe. The machine needed attention often enough that only I could provide. They had to have me to use the apparatus. And the time I had spent working on getting rid of their competitors had given me plenty of opportunities to study my patrons and their, ah, traditional employees. I had to get the right people first, scramble their command and control structure, to use the military idiom. My employers were very paranoid about security matters, and that worked against them. I got rid of them all, every last one of them, including Zarelli and Pastor. I shipped them all out, right down to the people who were there to keep watch over me.”

“All of them?” Tavish asked.

“Everyone who was targeted for me, everyone I knew about. The exception was Capone and the people we brought forward to help him. I returned them to their proper places. Capone went right back to his Florida home the morning of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. That was inescapable. If he had disappeared in February 1929, it might have altered history.” Wilson shrugged. “Besides, I sort of enjoyed his company, even with all I knew about him. As for the rest, I’m sure that there must have been some who escaped, who were missed, but not enough to pick up the reins. As long as the police stay vigilant, it should be a lot easier to make our cities and towns safe again.”

Tavish glanced at a clock, looked around at his colleagues, then finally turned to Wilson again. “ Where did you send them?”

Wilson’s smile grew even larger. “A place and time where their talents and proclivities could pose no threat to the locals. I had to be very careful. I had to make certain that I didn’t send them anywhere, or anywhen, where they might alter history, alter our present.”

“Where—when —was that?” Tavish asked.

“The early Cretaceous, Senator, back when the neighborhood bullies were dinosaurs.”

The hearings continued for another week and a half. Dr. Wilson freely answered all of the questions put to him by the committee and by the press before and alter the Senate sessions except in two areas. He steadfastly refused to give any details, even in the broadest form, of the time machine’s construction. And he refused even under threat of contempt of congress to say where the machine, or its components, were currently located. All he would say on the latter subject was, “I disassembled it immediately following the conclusion of the project and moved the parts to other locations.”

Among the things he did not say was that he had since reassembled the apparatus, and that it was now located within a half hour’s drive of the Capitol Building.

There were no hearings scheduled for the day of the President’s State of the Union Address. Wilson spent most of that day in his hotel room, watching television. Late in the afternoon, he left the hotel by a rear entrance, disguised with a navy blue watch cap and a surplus Army overcoat. None of the FBI agents, police, private investigators, or news people watching the hotel spotted him.

He made the drive to the Virginia location where he had reassembled his time machine. That evening, a little after nine o’clock, he turned the machine on.

He had the exact coordinates prepared. The only question in his mind was whether the machine could handle the overload. It had not been designed for anything quite so ... ambitious.

In just a couple of minutes, the computer monitor was showing the same scene as the portable television sitting next to it, the House of Representatives. The chamber was crowded with the Vice President, senators, Supreme Court justices, cabinet members, diplomats, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff all present in addition to the representatives who normally worked in that hall. The President of the United States was introduced and escorted down the aisle to the dais. As soon as the President started his speech, Wilson hit the switch on his machine.

“And that cuts the head off of the rest of organized crime in America,” he whispered as his television showed an empty House. He leaned back and put his feet up. It had been a good day’s work.

The cigar he lit was Cuban, the best handmade rolled in 1929, given to him by Al Capone himself. As soon as he was finished with the cigar, Wilson would use his time machine for the last time. He already had the explosives packed around each piece of equipment. A timer would take care of it all two minutes after Wilson arrived in 1929 Florida.

Mr. Capone had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.