AND WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?
"Albert.” Unlike certain previous wives—Al wondered suddenly how many previous wives he’d had in this particular timeline—her use of his name indicated great patience and a certain amount of humor.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “It’s nothing, really.”
It occurred to him, all of a sudden, that he could probably resolve this mess simply by taking the handlink and going back into the Imaging Chamber and encouraging Sam to do something. Anything. Lord only knew what small things would change the future. A dead butterfly in the Cretaceous could lead to a new world government; doubtless Sam Beckett’s choice of breakfast beverage could get Al Calavicci out of an unexpected marriage. . . .
Janna smiled at him.
Well. He didn’t have to change things right away, did he? It could always wait until morning. Couldn’t it? ...
QUANTUM LEAP
OUT OF TIME. OUT OF BODY. OUT OF CONTROL.
To the memory of Dennis Wolfberg, a fine actor who will be sincerely missed by all the fans of Quantum Leap
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks for this one go to the ever-merciful and understanding editors, Ginjer Buchanan and Nancy Cushing-Jones, and to Kathy Mclaren, Anne Wasserman, Kim Round, Lisa Winters (woof woof) and Arianwen, Nancy Holder, John Donne, all those who hang out in Those Topics on GEnie, and all the people I meant to acknowledge all along.
A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PROLOGUE
Somewhere in time . . .
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;. . . any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind . . .
—John Donne, Devotions XVII
Wind in his face. Sunlight.
He wobbled, clenched a rope under his hand and caught himself. Nylon fibers bit into his palm. Ignoring them, he looked around and laughed, delighted. He was standing in the air.
Well, almost—Al was standing in the air; Sam Beckett was balanced precariously on the rounded wicker edge of a hot air balloon gondola, shivering in a cold thin breeze, as close to floating as he had ever been. He could remember being afraid of heights as if the fear mattered to someone else, but up here, up in the perfect silence of the upper sky, the ground had nothing to do with him. He could look down and see carefully groomed fields, Impressionist trees, mitelike cars crawling along lines of highway, and none of it had to do with Sam Beckett. He was the center of a painting, a panorama. Below him was the earth; around him, the sky.
A raven floated by, teetering on the wind, and looked him over with bright black eyes. He reached out with his free hand. The bird squawked indignantly and tilted away to glide on a convenient thermal at a safer distance.
“Er, Sam, don’t do that,” Al advised him. The Observer was concentrating on the handlink, punching a series of patterns on the colored cubes, frowning with pursed lips, trying another series. The wind failed to ruffle his hair, to flutter his rich dark forest green suit with the matching dark green-and-gold brocade vest.
Sam glanced at the man standing on nothing and laughed again. “It’s like flying!” he cried. He didn’t even bother to look to check who he was or what he was wearing this time; he was having too much fun simply looking around at the world.
Behind him, someone else in the gondola laughed in agreement. Sam twisted around to see who shared his delight. A woman in her late twenties, clinging to the opposite side of the wickerwork basket that held them both, smiled widely at him. Sam grinned back.
“Yeah,” Al grunted, not looking up. “Hmmm. Sam, clip that thing there.”
“What thing?” If Al was in a Mood, Sam was willing to humor him. He made a mental note to go hot-air ballooning again, and hoped that he’d remember.
“What?” the woman echoed. Sam could see his own exhilaration reflected in her eyes as she reached for a lever. “Are you ready?” she said.
“That thing there.” Still not looking up, Al pointed with his ever-present cigar to a large metal clip hanging over the edge of the basket.
“Okay, fine.” Sam grabbed the clip, snapped it onto a strap hanging over the nearest piece of gondola, and looked up just as the blower roared to life. The sound was earsplitting; heat slapped at his face and hands. Tongues of fire, nearly colorless against the sky, shot straight up into the mouth of the balloon. Leaning his head back and squinting against the temperature-distortion of the atmosphere, he could see rippling silk panels in jewel tones of red and green meeting in a small open circle, high overhead.
But it was nothing, nothing to the expanse of horizon all around him. The blower shut down, and the balloon floated silent again, serene among the white mountains of the air. He reached out, only half believing the cold wetness in his palm. “I touched it,” he exulted. “I touched the clouds!”
"Ahuh,” Al said, still busily jabbing. He spared a glance to the cloud, which was drifting through his left shoe, and shook his foot automatically to free it. The raven circled him, squawked once, and flapped away. “Nyyyaaahhhh,” the hologram jeered after it.
He could see the curvature of the earth, Sam thought, if he tried. He could calculate how high he had to be to really see it, but he didn’t want to waste the moment with mere calculation. He wanted to step off the wickerwork and spread his arms and follow the raven.
As if in answer to his wish, the woman behind him said, You’re sure you’re ready?”
He answered, “Yes!”
And a solid shove in the small of his back sent him off the edge of the gondola
