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  “Allow me to introduce my assistant,” she said. “This is Scott Ellison. He’s one semester away from completing his Ph.D. I’m serving as his informal dissertation advisor.”

  “What is your specialty?” asked Markowitz.

  The young man’s eyes lit up. “I’m writing about Non-Abelian Anyons and Topological Quantum Computation.”

  He waved his hands excitedly as he launched into a description of his work. “It is inevitable that the next generation of quantum devices will depend on the existence of topological states of matter whose quasiparticle excitations are – believe it or not – neither bosons nor fermions, but instead are particles known as non-Abelian anyons, meaning that they obey non-Abelian braiding statistics.”

  I nodded as though I understood more than a single word he had just spoken.

  “I’d expect that to be obvious,” I chuckled.

  “You lost me at ‘is’,” said Lavon.

  The young man laughed, though a bit uneasily, since he seemed unsure what the rest of us found so humorous.

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” I said.

  “I turn 23 next week.”

  “I brought Scott here to explain some of the transit procedures,” Juliet said; “to give you an idea what to expect.”

  “I hoped you knew that,” said Lavon.

  “Yes, I do,” she said, “but much of Scott’s work is out of the mainstream. To progress in this field, he will need to become more comfortable making presentations to skeptical audiences, so this seemed like a good opportunity for him to get some practice speaking to total strangers in at least a partially scientific context.”

  Ellison coughed and led us over to another thick plexiglass window. Looking through it, we saw an adjoining room about the size of an average bedroom, though the walls had been polished perfectly smooth and the corners were rounded. At the center, we could see a cube delineated by what appeared to be thin yellow twine.

  “The walls are coated with a specialized ceramic,” said Ellison. “They are essentially frictionless, for reasons it would take me hours to elaborate.”

  “We don’t have hours,” I said, hoping to avoid a long, incomprehensible lecture. “What’s all that string at the center?”

  “I believe that Dr. Bryson has already described to you the limits of the transport apparatus. That marks the departure point.”

  I considered this for a moment. “So we have to go back one at a time?”

  “That’s correct. You sit on the floor within those string markers.”

  Lavon turned to face Bryson. “You told us the return key would bring back all mammalian life forms within a two meter radius.”

  “Our calculations point to that conclusion. That’s why the transit room itself is larger.”

  “But you’ve never really tested it?”

  “Only Henry went back. How else would we have had the opportunity to do so with more than one person?”

  I glanced at the kid. He seemed competent enough; but I had enough experience with human nature to realize that under the right circumstances, this young man would be perfectly capable of stranding his benefactors in the past and seizing their invention as his own. Bryson’s real reason for sending only one person back wasn’t hard to figure out.

  “So we’re the guinea pigs,” Markowitz said to Bryson.

  “We believe our device is completely safe. You can always elect not to go,” she said.

  Markowitz shook his head and chose not to argue.

  “How do we know exactly where we’ll end up,” asked Lavon.

  She and Ellison walked to the other side of the room, where the Brysons had hung a topographical relief map of ancient Jerusalem and the surrounding area.

  The kid pointed to a hilly spot about ten miles west of the city walls.

  “Dr. Bryson selected this location because he thought the hills meant that fewer people would be likely to spot him when he first entered the world.”

  I studied it carefully. It was not far from where Lavon and his crew had discovered the skeleton.

  “I would have started out ten miles east of the city,” I said, “in the desert where the likelihood of someone spotting me would be next to zero – and where any strange sights could be attributed to a mirage.”

  “He considered that, but he worried about the flux variation,” Ellison replied. “He didn’t want to be stranded in such a desolate area without water.”

  No one spoke for a brief time. Finally, Markowitz voiced our thoughts: “are you saying error bands on this thing are that wide?”

  “It is a precisely tuned scientific instrument,” said the young man.

  Bryson raised her hand. “What Scott is trying to point out is that probability functions are a foundation of quantum mechanics. Heisenberg demonstrated this nearly a century ago, when he concluded that an observer could not simultaneously know both the position and the momentum of an electron.”

  “I can’t speak for the others,” said Lavon, “but I’d like the probability of arriving in one piece to be one hundred percent.”

  “Your anatomical structure will not change,” said Bryson. “I can assure you of that. What we are referring to as probabilities only apply to the temporal and spatial dimensions of your arrival in the past world.”

  Lavon stared into her eyes, trying to determine if she was telling the full truth.

  Juliet continued, “Given the time to be crossed and the distance to be traveled, our calculations based on our latest modifications of the device indicate that the spatial standard deviation will be 12.3 meters. This means that you have a 95% chance of ending up within a 25 meter radius of our target, which is just outside the entrance to that cave.”

  Lavon thought of the buried skeleton. “What if it puts us inside the cave, say wedged between a couple of rocks or something?”

  “The transit system is designed to require at least a two meters of clear space in all directions,” said Ellison. “If you don’t have it, you’ll automatically return here, to the present. Don’t worry; we won’t bury you in a ditch or anything like that.”

  “And the time parameter?” asked Markowitz. “How accurate is that?”

  “Henry set the coordinates to arrive mid-morning of the Tuesday before Passover. He chose this point because it would give him most of the day to get oriented, with a lesser possibility of surprising anyone in the darker early morning hours.”

  “Makes sense. What kind of temporal variation can we expect?” I asked.

  Ellison answered, “For some reason, the temporal aspect is more of a Poisson distribution. However, our calculations based on Dr. Bryson’s trip to Dallas indicate that the arrival time should not deviate from expectations by more than one hour. In fact, we believe such a deviation to be a mathematical impossibility.”

  “That’s what they said about all those subprime derivatives,” said Markowitz. “The probability of default was eight or nine standard deviations from the mean – something that would happen about the time the next asteroid hit the earth.”

  “We’re quite confident that our calc – ”

  Bryson stepped forward. “We’re talking about physical phenomena here, Ray, not the behavior of people. Protons and electrons by themselves are incapable of such stupidity.”

  “What’s the weather going to be like?” asked Sharon.

  “The normal low in Jerusalem for this time of year is 47, with a high of 66. It should be quite pleasant,” said Bryson.

  “What if that day’s not normal? As I recall, the Gospels tell of people huddled around a fire in the courtyard, trying to stay warm.”

  “I don’t know about you,” replied Juliet, “but I find 47 degrees rather chilly. It’s a dry climate, so it will warm up quickly once the sun comes out. You can take an outer robe of wool, though, if you’d like, just in case.”

  That sounded like a good idea, so we all grabbed one. Finally, Sharon asked one last question.

  “What
does it feel like?”

  “Henry described it as waking up from a nap. You know, how you need to shake the cobwebs loose for a few seconds after you wake up.”

  “Do you feel any sensations on the trip itself?”

  “No. He said it was like falling asleep. Only you wake up somewhere else.”

  No one spoke. Bryson waited a few more seconds and then said, “If you are all ready, then I suggest we get going.”

  Chapter 13

  Juliet pressed a button near the plexiglass window as the kid returned to the transit control room. A sliding door dropped down through the floor leaving an opening about five feet tall.

  No one said anything as they checked their clothing and travel bags; then re-checked them, and then re-checked them again for good measure.

  I laughed quietly to myself. My traveling companions were behaving like raw recruits before their first parachute jump, trying to mask their anxiety with a burst of activity.

  After a couple of minutes, the system powered through a final test cycle and all was in order. Bryson glanced at Lavon and pointed to the opening.

  “Robert, I believe you’re first.”

  The archaeologist slid his staff and cloth travel pouch through the door, then took a deep breath and crept through the entrance. We heard a soft whoosh of air as the door closed, and then watched through the plexiglass as he sat on the floor between the string lines.

  After closing his eyes and taking another deep breath, he looked to the control window and flashed a thumbs-up. The spindly kid pressed a button; seconds later, Lavon vanished.

  “That’s it?” said Markowitz. “No flash of light or puff of smoke?”

  Juliet smiled. “Our first tests produced an intense burst, but we have refined the apparatus since then. I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said.

  I wasn’t disappointed at all. I for one would have found smoke quite worrying.

  She turned to me. “Your turn, Mr. Culloden.”

  I grabbed my bag and eased over to the transit room door, hoping they couldn’t see that I was as nervous as they were. After situating myself in the correct spot, I signaled to Ellison. Time to go.

  An instant later, I found myself lying on the ground, shivering suddenly in the cold. I also saw that someone in Boston had miscalculated. Instead of it being late morning, a faint strip of orange had just emerged from the horizon to the east.

  Despite the timing error, all of my body parts seemed to be intact. I was still shaking the cobwebs loose when I heard a quick ‘psst’ and looked over to see Lavon, lying flat on the ground about thirty feet away.

  When he saw me, he signaled toward a small slit in the rock, barely visible about a hundred yards in the distance. We both crept toward it without speaking.

  We had only gone a short distance when we saw a bright flash. A man in a robe jumped to his feet and started frantically casting about.

  Markowitz.

  “Robert? Bill? Where are you?” he called out.

  Lavon rushed forward and tackled him. “For God’s sake shut up.”

  We sat there for about a minute, listening and hoping no one had heard us, before we crept closer to the cave. I hesitated at the entrance, though Lavon reminded us that the state of the Professor’s bones meant that whatever had happened to him, a wild animal lurking inside had not torn him apart.

  Silly me.

  Once we had gone in, I could tell that the cave broadened considerably, though without a portable source of light, it was impossible to tell how deep into the hills it went.

  I had just begun running through my own mental checklist when we saw another flash about twenty-five feet in front of the cave entrance.

  “They’re getting more accurate,” whispered Lavon, who chirped a quiet ‘psst’ and helped Sharon into the cave.

  Her eyes bulged with disbelief. I asked her, as a joke, how things were back in Boston, but she was too stunned to speak.

  We didn’t have long to gather our wits, though. As she eased herself into a comfortable spot, Lavon continued to stare out the narrow slit with an expression of total concentration.

  Something was out there.

  All I could see in the early dawn light were rocky, scrub-covered hills that ran on for some distance. But Lavon’s senses proved correct: not long afterward, we heard bleating and watched a shepherd drive a small flock of about two dozen animals into a narrow ravine a quarter mile away.

  He was in a hurry, too. Just behind him, two other people moved quickly to catch up; one of them a small child whose legs struggled valiantly to maintain the pace.

  I would have laughed at the little munchkin – he was trying so hard – but moments later, we heard a distinctive clanging sound, one that even I, with my Army damaged ears, could hear plainly. It was the sound of equipment, and armor.

  Soldiers, I mouthed to Lavon, who nodded.

  Sharon started to peer outside, but he pulled her back – just in time, too – for a few seconds later, a primeval shout broke the morning’s quiet, followed immediately by the impact of stones against shields.

  I muttered a silent expletive. This was an unpleasant turn of events.

  We couldn’t do much but lie flat on the ground and listen as the clashing of swords accompanied the screams of men as they were hit. Making matters worse, the first casualties started trickling past.

  Sharon blanched at the sight of a man hobbling by, though she had the presence of mind not to make a sound. It couldn’t have been easy: the man’s left arm had been nearly sliced off at the elbow and his knee length tunic was soaked in blood.

  By some miracle, he didn’t seek shelter in our cave. Either he didn’t know of it, or, more likely, he suffered from the tunnel vision so common to wounded men in headlong flight.

  As time went on, the images outside failed to improve. Two bearded men passed by next; one helping the other, who held his hands over his belly, struggling with only limited success to keep his own entrails from falling to the ground.

  That one wouldn’t make it very far, I knew. Whatever these people had planned, it had gone badly wrong.

  A stream of men followed, all dressed in similar beige tunics, scrambling down the hill as fast as they could. A few still held onto their swords, but most had either lost their weapons or thrown them aside in their haste to get away.

  I heard a splat as another wounded man fell flat on his face only about ten yards from our position. It was then that we got our first glance at their enemies. Seconds later, a Roman soldier ran the injured man through with his sword.

  Though Sharon and Markowitz had turned their faces away, I didn’t think either of them would forget the hideous gurgling as the Roman kicked his victim to free his weapon from the man’s ribs.

  I was concerned that the soldier would spot us, but after dispatching his adversary, he charged forward, looking for others. Moments later, two more squads of Romans ran past. Like the first man’s, their weapons glowed red; and it wasn’t long before we heard additional screams coming from down the hill to our left.

  After that, no one passed by for several minutes, so I began to relax. However, my relief was premature. I heard Lavon swear quietly and glanced up in horror as a lone man, about fifty yards away, ran straight toward the cave at full speed.

  The runner had reached a point only about twenty feet from the opening when a brilliant light flashed directly in front of him. We heard the collision before our eyes could adjust. When they did, we saw both parties sprawled on the ground, momentarily stunned by the blow.

  Unfortunately, the Romans saw it, too. One drew back his spear.

  At the sight of the soldiers, the two staggered to their feet. The first man took off running in the opposite direction, and I could only watch as a legionnaire, as if by instinct, tossed his long pilum.

  I couldn’t see exactly what happened, but the sound of a thud, followed by a sharp cry of pain, told me enough. That runner wouldn’t be going home tonight.

  T
he other man staggered into the cave and collapsed, groaning and holding his bleeding nose. Though he had grown a short beard, Henry Bryson hadn’t otherwise changed in the last three years.

  I dragged him back into the darkness and cautioned him to be silent.

  He was, for a few moments at least. As he recovered his wits, though, his curiosity got the better of him. He knew he had seen me before; he just couldn’t figure out where.

  “Who are you?” he finally asked.

  “People trying not to get killed,” I replied. “Not that you’ve helped much.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Your wife sent us.”

  “My wife? Juliet? Why would she do that?”

  My eyes, however, had turned to the Romans approaching the cave’s entrance.

  “Be quiet,” I said. “Your new friends are coming to visit.”

  Chapter 14

  Now I’ve been in some hellish scrapes during my fifty-plus years on this planet, but in spite of all that followed, I can’t think of a time when I felt as much absolute raw terror as I did that morning in the cave.

  Lavon, too, had turned pale, as well he might. That the others hadn’t was only due to their blessed ignorance of the typical fate of Roman prisoners.

  About twenty feet away, three soldiers stepped cautiously toward the entrance with their swords drawn and their shields held high. The rising sun shone straight into their eyes and I could tell they were hesitant to go charging into the darkness, not knowing what dangers might lurk inside.

  That was the only thing keeping our merry little band alive, but it wouldn’t last long. We had to figure something out, and fast.

  It’s strange, the thoughts that come to mind in times of mortal peril. I recalled a BBC interview I had seen many years before, featuring a survivor of the Piper Alpha oil rig disaster in the North Sea. The man had jumped over a hundred feet into freezing water. When asked why, he said the choice was simple: the rig was on fire; certain death lay behind; only probable death lay ahead; so he jumped.