"Möbius Web" by James K Bowers

        It was a morning just like thousands of others -- rolling out of bed, fumbling around to turn off the alarm, shambling off toward the bathroom, still cursing the alarm clock for its rudeness.  But, no, this wasn't quite the same, not this morning.  You see, I looked in the mirror this time.  I mean, I really looked in the mirror -- at the tired, wrinkled old man who was staring back at me.  As I focused on his eyes, I saw a strength and alertness that seemed trapped in a body too worn and frail to contain it.  It reminded me of a time many years ago -- a time when my body matched those eyes,  God, how time does slip away...

        I was filled with apprehension when I was first called for the interview.  Not because I was being considered for a position, mind you (Lord, no! I'd had so many interviews I'd lost count.) but because Dr. Hammond himself had placed the call.  Well, I had graduated in the top ten percent of my class, but, certainly, there were others with more impressive pedigrees, and still more who had the advantage of several years of experience.  So why did I rate a call from the Institute's director -- long distance?
        That question kept me company through my eight-hour drive to the site and, for every reason I could conjure up, there were at least a half-dozen that shot it full of holes.  Nothing I could imagine made Dr. Hammond's call seem sensible; except that maybe I was dreaming.  One good pinch left a stinging red mark and a disheartening feeling as I scratched "dreaming" off my mental list.  So, there I was -- a part-time insurance salesman with a degree in physics, driving a thirteen-year-old mechanic's nightmare, groping for some logical explanation for that damned phone call.  No, things didn't add up.  And, they wouldn't subtract, divide, or multiply, either.
        The Central Administration Building was as impressive as anyone could expect it to be, considering the fact that research facilities are perpetually desperate for more funds.  The two-story wooden structure stood brightly in the mid-morning sun, in sharp contrast to the mismatched assortment of labs and warehouses that dotted the Institute's occasionally mowed acres.  A madman's maze of gravel lanes crisscrossed the grounds and (perhaps) provided access to the scattered buildings.  Thankfully, the administration building stood near the front gate and I was spared the agony of negotiating the endless gravel chaos.  With the memory of Dr. Hammond's call still lurking in the back of my mind, I parked my car in the small gravel lot, turned off the ignition, and waited for my old Ford to stop gasping.  The car gave one last shuddering cough (either it needed a tune-up, or it had bronchitis -- I couldn't tell which) then it died.  I opened the door and got out, trying, all at once, to slip on my suit coat, stretch my cramped muscles and hold onto my briefcase.  Two out of three wasn't bad, I thought, as the briefcase shook itself loose to lunge at my foot.  Picking it up, and hoping no one had noticed my clumsiness, I walked to the building and my appointment, leaving my car unlocked behind me.  Hopefully, someone would steal it.
        Speaking briefly to the solitary receptionist/secretary/courier/bookkeeper/janitor, I resigned myself to the tiny waiting area.  Though my nerves were still laboring to deal with the situation, they weren't numbed enough to miss noticing that the confining lounge was nearly as comfortable as a medieval torture chamber; however, the lighting was somewhat better.  I picked up what I hoped would be an interesting magazine from the meager selection available and had begun reading an article on the NFL's use of stop-action holography for replay officiating when Dr. Hammond's office door swung open.  Two men stepped out saying their good-byes, one of whom I recognized as Dr. Hammond.  I had once attended a three-day seminar presented by him -- I think it was my sophomore year -- but, the other fellow I didn't know, al-though I had the oddest feeling that I should.  That was when the stranger noticed me.  He gave a curious little nod in my direction, accompanied by the slightest of smiles.  As he turned and left, I was jolted back to reality by Dr. Hammond's voice.  Molly (the receptionist/secretary/etc./etc.) pointed in my direction and I knew my time was at hand.
        The interview itself progressed much as an interview was supposed to -- up to a point.  Up to the point, that is, that Molly walked into the office and handed something to Dr. Hammond.  He thanked her as she left and turned back to me.  With the slightest of apologies for the interruption, Dr. Hammond explained that I must have dropped my watch that my grandfather had given me on my eighteenth birthday.  It had been handed down from father to son for generations.  It would have come from my father except that my father had passed away when I was very young and grandpa had held on to it for safekeeping.  It was irreplaceable -- a watch and chain of 19th century beauty and craftsmanship.  I rarely carried it with me, and I could have sworn I had left it at home.  Oh, well, I had been rather addled since Dr. Hammond's call. . . no point in dwelling on my mental state.  I had to get back to the interview.

        The old man in the mirror looked back at me as if he was waiting for me to finish my reminiscings and get on with the day.  I looked deep into the eyes of the wrinkled visage and heard him say, "Yes, think back -- back to when..."

        Somehow the old Ford survived the return trip, not without some occasional pleading and much deserved curses.  I had gotten the job -- damn, this was weird!  One week to pack up and move to L.A. -- and work at the Institute under Dr. Bjornstrom (the fellow I hadn't recognized on the day of my interview) on one of Dr. Hammond's pet projects.  And there was that insufferable annoying question again -- why me?  Perhaps time would tell.
        I was packing my things for the move when I came across Grandpa's watch.  I was frantic.  My God, was I finally going off the deep end?  With the watch clutched tightly in my fist, I leaped and stumbled over boxes and stacks of things not yet packed.  My suit!  Where?  Of course -- the living room -- the recliner!  In near-panic I searched the pockets of the suit and found. . . and found my grandfather's watch!  My mind was scrambling for just one handhold on sanity as I opened both hands and stared, wild-eyed, at the twin watches.

        "Yes, go on," demanded the man in the mirror.  "Finish the story.  Tell me, though I know the tale.  Tell me about Dr. Bjornstrom."  I closed my eyes and dealt out the memories one at a time, a game of solitaire with a deck of fifty-one.

        How old was I then?  Forty-two?  No, forty-one, I think.  A little grey firmly established on my temples, gradually erasing youth if not spirit.  Dr. Hammond had passed away, as had Dr. Bjornstrom, but their project lived on.  Through their efforts, and later through my own, their dream would become reality.  Yes, the Hammond-Bjornstrom Temporal Transporter (or HBTT as it was later called) was reality, and I was too modest to allow it to be named after me.  Reality, even though Dr. Bjornstrom had refused to continue working on the project as it neared completion.  He had convinced himself that the machine could only prove a disaster, and had busied himself with endless research on what he called timepaths.  Too engrossed with the transporter project, I didn't bother to familiarize myself with Dr. Bjornstrom's theories.  After Dr. Bjornstrom passed away, his notes and papers merely took up room in the Institute's files -- I had no time, nor interest in them.  It was some time after I had finished the preliminary test that I took my first journey through time -- just a short, little hop of a week.  The machine seemed to be working quite well and, soon, I was testing it with longer and longer hops.  As I became more and more involved with this experimentation, it occurred to me that I should make one special trip through time -- back to the day before my unsettling job interview with Dr. Ham-mond.  I felt compelled to let Dr. Hammond know that his theories on time travel were correct -- that it was possible -- and that there was a certain young physicist who could make it possible if only he were given the chance.  Grandpa's watch went with me (one of them, anyway) and I told Molly that it belonged to a young man who would be coming for an interview.  Why she didn't remember when my younger self arrived for the interview is anybody's guess, but it happened that way.  And, I knew it would.

        The old man in the mirror opened his eyes and looked at me.  The tear in his eye was contagious.  We both knew that the story was not yet finished.

        It was the government --the CIA and the Department of Defense, actually -- that turned the HBTT into a weapon.  That's the way it has been throughout the history of the U.S. -- scientists discover something wonderful and the warmongers twist it into something hateful.  Dynamite, atomic power, lasers -- the list is endless.  It was simple.  Travel back in time, change a few facts, increase power and influence.  Too simple, I suppose.  Things began to go awry.  The Soviets managed to build their own HBTT's from (presumably) stolen documentation, and attempts to alter history became more and more blatant.  Going through Dr. Bjornstrom's notes, I found that he had foreseen such tragedy, had theorized about the timepaths that could be altered by even the minutest tampering.  And, all the while, the governments of earth waged war with the deadliest of weapons.

        I knew, as did the man in the mirror, that I had yet one more trip to make.  The tears came easily, sadly.

        Today (or, perhaps, I should say sixty-two years from today,) I clocked out for one final hop.  It was the evening of August 4th and I sat quietly in my old apartment, knowing that soon I would be returning from my interview with Dr. Hammond.  I took out Grandpa's pocket watch and waited, watching the minutes slowly disappear.  It was just after 9:43 p.m. when I watched my younger self open the apartment door.  I sat patiently as he/I stepped into the dimness of the living room; then, I raised the pistol and fired one shot.  He (I, if you wish) collapsed, bleeding in crimson spurts from the ragged hole in his/my chest.  Then, as his heart stopped pumping, as he took his last rasping breaths, I smiled -- and faded into infinity. . .