Killing Time

poster I'd seen in the miserable bar in Naples. None of us could find anything to say, though this was not our usual horrified shipboard silence: this was, for once, a quiet delight, occasionally broken by laughter and quick, astonished cheers.

The question of what to do next arose comparatively slowly. I offered the suggestion that we make for the coast to see if, along the way, we couldn't find some clue as to what was going on. But the journey that followed was only more bewildering. Prosperous villages and towns now dotted the landscape where days before there had been only ghostly ruins left by war and plague. Still more wildlife abounded, along with an occasional luxury bus full of tourists. As we neared the coast, the signs of prosperous civilization grew thicker and more impressive, until finally we broke through to the sea to behold:

Zanzibar. The impoverished island of Zanzibar, in bygone eras a center of the slave trade and in more recent times a decrepit, disease-ridden relic of that evil past. But now? Now what loomed before us looked more like Hong Kong, or rather what Hong Kong would look like had it been designed by people with not only money but taste. A gleaming city stood at the center of the beautifully landscaped island, made up of high-rise buildings that accented the colors of the sea, the mainland jungle, and Zanzibar's pristine white coral beaches. It was, in short, an oasis of enlightened industry and beauty — one whose existence was impossible to explain.

Our ship now lies beneath the waves off that oasis. We still have no definite answers, of course, nor have the ship's communications and monitoring systems been of much help. We seem to be having trouble establishing and maintaining satellite links, and even when we do, we hear strange reports from around the world that make as little sense as what we've seen in East Africa. There are occasional tales of conflicts in parts of the world where there should be none, along with even more frequent and remarkable stories that indicate many previously war-torn parts of the world are enjoying peace and prosperity. All of it supports a seemingly impossible but no less obvious theory:

That Malcolm has actually succeeded in his quest to conquer time.

If this is indeed so, then his mechanism must have self-destructed after completing its task — indeed, it may have been designed to do so — and we therefore have no idea where, or rather when, he has gone. The list of possibilities is infinite, as we discovered when we tried over dinner this evening to determine precisely what place and point in history one would have had to reach, and what one would have had to do once there, in order to produce the effects we have witnessed and heard about. Nor have we yet determined the full range of those effects; assuming that the incomprehensible has in fact happened, we must now travel the world as Larissa once proposed to me that we do, living by our own law and observing what may well be the many signs of our departed friend and brother's handiwork in a further effort to unravel the riddle of his destination. But time and history are infinite webs, and the slightest touch on any of their innumerable filaments can provoke change beyond imagining; thus the truth may ever elude us.

If he has managed it, did he leave any clues? Notes? The others could find none, but certainly we must return to St. Kilda to search again. Yet even if we should discover such documentation, will any of us be able to understand it enough to repeat his experiment? Would we want to? More questions without answers. The one thing we can be sure of is that, whatever has happened, Malcolm will never come back. Nor do I think that he would wish to — even if he were dead. Improved as this new modern world may be, it is still the modern world, and it would likely suit Malcolm no better than it did before. Throughout his life, his terrible physical and emotional wounds made him a man to whom Time could offer no comfortable moment. Perhaps now he has returned the favor by destroying the very concept of Time; and perhaps in so doing he has experienced, if only for a fleeting instant, the kind of ordinary human contentment that so consistently and tragically eluded him in this reality.

As for the rest of us, we have all taken heart from even the possibility that Malcolm has achieved his final dream — no one more so than Larissa. She will of course miss the brother with whom she shared more secrets and sorrows than anyone should ever have to bear. But she knows that whether he has broken Time or been broken by it, he is finally at peace; and the torments that seemed to him so unending have been revealed as the transitory vexations of a troubled world — one that he may, in the end, have helped to make less mad.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book has been dedicated to my literary agent, Suzanne Gluck, not simply because she has handled my career with enormous skill and compassion, but because, when asked by Walter Isaacson and Jim Kelly of Time magazine if she could suggest an author to write a serialized novella about the near future, she put my name forward. During a remarkable meeting that followed, many of the ideas that were eventually embodied in Killing Time were worked out, and as the first parts of the story were being written for Time, Walter and Jim provided much insight and encouragement, for which I am deeply grateful. Also of great help at Time were Teresa Sedlak and Barbara Maddux. But Suzanne remained the person who ultimately made everything work, as she always does; and this book is truly almost as much her doing as it is mine.

Despite the appearance of its first chapters in Time, publication of the book remained a gamble, one that I am thankful that my editor and publisher, Ann Godoff, was willing to take. Ann remains the most daring single person in her business: the extent of her success should surprise no one.

I am also indebted to Hilary Hale for her friendship, advice, and stewardship of my work in the rest of the English-speaking world.

Many authors' ideas about what the future will be like have affected my own opinions, either by challenging or reinforcing them.

In the realm of scientific speculation I must mention Michio Kaku, Lawrence M. Krauss, and Clifford Stoll. Books and articles by Robert Kaplan, Benjamin Schwartz, and David Rieff helped me refine my thoughts on what world politics and society will be like in the years to come, as did conversations with my good friend and mentor, James Chace, who took the time to study the manuscript. I learned a great deal about the history and impact of hoaxes from the work of Adolf Rieth and Ian Haywood. And my ever-incisive friend David Fromkin helped me speculate as to just what historical frauds would have the most impact on the world.

Thoughts on the story itself, as well as personal support, came from Hilary Galanoy, Joe Martino, and Tim Haldeman. For helping to keep me going I must thank my parents; my brothers, Simon and Ethan, and their wives, Cristina and Sara; Gabriella, Lydia, Sam, and Ben (the last three especially for their creative input early on); my cousin Maria and her husband, Jay (and Nicholas); John, Kathy, and William von Hartz; Dana Wheeler-Nicholson; Jim Turner and Lynn Freer (and Otto, of course); Bill and Diane Medsker; Ellen Blain; Lindsey Dold; Michelle McLaughlin; Jennifer Maguire; Ezequiel Vinao; everyone who 'survived' at Oren Jacoby and Betsy West's house; and Perrin Wright.

Debbie Deuble, the best of friends and my West Coast agent, has endured my ranting without giving in to the temptation to break my arm. She knows how much it's meant to me.

Special words of thanks go to Tom Pivinski, Bruce Yaffe, Ernestina Saxton, and Vicki Hufnagel, all of whom have never stopped trying to get me well.

The difficult home stretch was gracefully illuminated by Laura Bickford, whose arrival was well worth the wait.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CALEB CARR was born in Manhattan and grew up on the Lower East Side, where he still lives. He is the author of the bestsellers The Alienist and The Angel of Darkness, along with several volumes of nonfiction. Carr writes frequently on military and political affairs and is an editorial adviser to The World Policy Journal and MHQ The Quarterly Journal of Military History.