Sitting in his office, Maxwell thought about the Swede. He had been rude the prior night, but the Swede had earned the attitude. How could a person spend years around the time projects and not understand the fine details of the community? How could the man he believed a friend behave in this fashion?

It was a question that could only be answered by Anson. Maxwell was not in the mood to ask the man for an explanation. The past few days had been blessedly free of the man and Maxwell could pull from his depression, but that did not mean he forgot Anson.

The only thing he could do was to attend to the work at hand, shuffling the paperwork on his desk to reorganize his thoughts.

The coming project was a big one and not something he wanted to do; prospects for this mission were frightening.

On his computer the image of a ship spun slowly, the point of view rising from waterline to smoke stacks. He stared at the ship and worked the information in his mind to help memorize the facts.

The Titanic was constructed at the Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast under a British government subsidy, gaining the prefix RMS, Royal Mail Ship, to the Titanic’s name. Construction started in nineteen-oh-nine, the hull built at a rapid pace beside her sister ship, the Olympic. The launch took place in May nineteen-eleven, the final construction phase being delayed when the Olympic was damaged in a collision with the cruiser Hawke. On April tenth the Titanic began her maiden voyage. Four days later at eleven-forty in the evening, she hit the iceberg. Two hours and forty minutes after impact the ship had sunk taking three hundred and twenty-two passengers and crew to their deaths. One thousand nine hundred and five people survived.

The gates barring third class access to the boat deck were padlocked shut, and the Titanic’s officers drove vast numbers of the ship’s crew below deck. Public outrage after the accident increased when the gentry discovered three non-English speaking third class men were found in the lifeboats.

It must have been horrible for the hundreds of third-class men, women and children trapped below decks when the ship sank. The excuse presented by the surviving ship’s officers and representatives of the White Star Line was that they had not wanted the lifeboats rushed by foreigners. No one remembered the order to lock the gates, but no one would remember that kind of order.

History honored the participants declaring the sinking displayed man’s greatest traits of heroism, stability in a crisis and self-sacrifice. History seemed to have a jaundiced eye many times but the Titanic sinking became a subject claiming a near holy aspect. The admirers seemed to forget the pain and anguish involved. First Officer Murdoch’s suicide, Captain Smith’s inability to act decisively, Bruce Ismay’s inglorious flight from the ship, Sir Cosmo Duff Gordon’s bribing of Titanic crew members, the Marconi operators’ haphazard handling of ice warnings, and the fire in the forward coal bunker all part of an incredible list of events that occurred on the doomed liner within the space of a few days and a few critical hours.

Setting the report aside and placing a blank piece of paper on his desk, Maxwell jotted a base design on the observation technique.

Triangulating the sinking with three or more observation ships was excessive, but it was a place to start. The ship, or ships, would have to be small; trawlers disguised to look like tramp steamers seemed a good idea. Or they could use one ship with zodiacs for recording posts taking position around the Titanic after the collision with the iceberg.

The one convincing argument against multiple ships on the timeline was the amount of people involved in that type of operation. Added to the number of travelers on the Titanic, the mission was saturated with observers.

He could place telescopic recording equipment on the ship, thus limiting the encroachment to a mile and still get a good recording of the event. The holo-cameras on the Titanic would be duplicates of the type used on the Hindenburg observation or smaller if they removed the self-destruct option from the package. The holo-cameras would go down with the Titanic after an off load of recorded data to the observation ship; time and salt water would remove any trace of the equipment.

The same could be said for remote drones circling the ship, but there was still a problem with the noise generated by the small engines propelling the crafts. A military version of the drones would be quieter. That was an option he had to explore.

The amount of data would be tremendous if they recorded the entire voyage, which dictated the travelers would have to carry data storage units, probably disguised as luggage. This required the travelers to ride first class, where the passengers had access to rooms with closets. Wireless technology was the best route for data transfer, but they would have to beef up the battery power on the recorders.

It might be a good idea to have the travelers disguised as a married couple...

Damn. Maxwell pushed the paper away in disgust. It was sheer madness to place travelers on the Titanic; they would almost certainly die. Maxwell knew he was going to do everything in his power to limit the madness. Even with censure, his reputation in the community was formidable and his connection to the top was beyond value.

The trick was to keep his position in Retrograde.

A tone sounded, startling Maxwell from his work. He touched a glowing pad set in the desktop. “Maxwell.”

“Bob, come up to my office,” a male voice, touched by a Boston accent, replied.

“I’m working on the field of view calculations, Mr. Rathent.” Maxwell replied reasonably. It was hard to stop the work mid stride.

“You work too much, Bob. And you’re ahead of the game. Come up for a drink.” Rathent pursued with good humor.

“I can’t seem to remember what was so important,” Maxwell smiled tiredly. “I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Good,” the light blinked off. Maxwell shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and locked them in his desk. Shrugging into his suit jacket and straightening his tie, Maxwell took a moment to look out his window.

The setting sun was casting a red glow on the western side of New York’s buildings. It was almost beautiful, and it was late; the automatic lighting system in his office had fooled Maxwell once again. One of these days, he would remember to turn off the auto system and lead a normal day’s work. He glanced down at the monument and focused his disparate thoughts. If he tried to emulate the honor of the firefighters and police who had died that horrible day, he would follow the right track.

Turning off the office lights, he opened the door and entered the hallway. Dozens of cubicles sat empty of workers, their computer screens glowing a soft blue. The thick gray carpet muffled his footsteps as he passed the receptionist’s desk and stopped at the door of Rathent’s private elevator.

Theirs was a strange relationship. Maxwell knew Rathent would listen to any suggestion he put forward and decide in Rathent’s typically flamboyant manner, despite the best of advice. Still, they were tentatively friends with the same dark sense of humor.

The door opened. He walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the upper floor. It would be convenient to blame Anson for his preoccupation with the hazards of an ill-conceived leap, but in all honesty, he could not lay much of the blame on the Swede. The tension had begun during the Hindenburg observation and instead of decreasing when the moment was past; it was increasing.

Maxwell had wondered about the future, to wonder what they were doing to the people of the next generations. What people would they become after watching all the historic disasters portrayed in horrid glory? Would they become inured to human suffering?

Yet the Titanic was not the basis of the problem. What would come after the Titanic? What would the public’s next thrill be? The Lusitania sinking? Hiroshima? Voyeurism was addictive, a truth he should have known before Gantry died.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Dokins once compared this progressive disillusionment to an extended submarine cruise. Over time, a sense of isolation crippled the men until they no longer felt anything existed outside the ship. Their existence centered on the ship and the functions needed to keep it operational; family became nothing more than mental shadows.

Active time leaps were to the Retrograde travelers the equivalent of the submariners’ dependence on their ship. Despite the risk involved, Maxwell could not let go of time travel, nor could any member of Retrograde find a safer form of satisfactory work.

There was a myriad of rationalizations for this behavior, from safeguarding the project to the desire for knowledge, but it was a matter of adventure. Maybe he was no better than the public who shouted for more holographic displays of past catastrophes.

The elevator stopped. Maxwell did not know how long the door had stood open. He shook his head ruefully and stepped out of the elevator, feeling like two people; one who hated what Retrograde had done to the world and an explorer who could not leave time well enough alone.

He composed himself, striving for the humor of a few minutes earlier. If Rathent witnessed this wide mood swing, he would remove Maxwell from the project. He walked down the short hallway to a pair of large oak doors leading to Rathent’s office, his confidence returning.

Maxwell opened the doors and stepped into the office.

Rathent sat at a large desk set before a wall size window overlooking New York. Plants and paintings dominated the office. Leather chairs sat before a marble fireplace. Persian rugs lay on the floor. All the details pleasantly combined the old and the new, reflecting Rathent’s choice of lifestyle. Here was a man who literally lived with one foot in the present and one in the past.

Physically, Rathent was not what one would expect of a media giant. He was short, balding, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Yet as soon as he spoke, Rathent made his character abundantly clear.

“What happened, Bob?” Rathent leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Did you get lost in the elevator?”

“Lost in thought, sir,” Maxwell returned the smile and closed the doors. “The holographic calculations...”

“Spare me Bob,” Rathent laughed. “You know I don’t understand the details.”

Maxwell sat in a chair opposite the desk. “You know everything about Retrograde.”

Rathent’s smile faltered, and he sighed, yet the humor did not leave his eyes. “You seem to be the only man I cannot fool, and one of many who think they can fool me. What’s the problem? Are you thinking about Gantry again?”

Maxwell blinked, containing his sense of the inevitable.

“I know that look,” Rathent continued over Maxwell’s silence. “You get it every time we contemplate a leap, you consider dangerous.”

“I’m worried about the Titanic travelers.” Maxwell agreed solemnly.

“Expendable?” Rathent prodded.

Maxwell waved his hand as if to brush away the importance of the question.

Rathent stood and began pacing behind his desk. “What the hell is happening to you, Bob? I need you here, not lost in some mental limbo. Gantry was a regrettable accident brought about by our own inexperience. He was not sacrificed to get the job done. No one is expendable in this program.”

“All right, what about those people we send on the Titanic?” Maxwell challenged, to hell with subtly.

“You’re jumping the gun,” Rathent retaliated. “Why do you think I put you in the time controller position on this project despite the Eldritch Control censure? Buford and Johnson don’t have the talent to do this job and they’re yes men. You’re the only man I can rely on to tell me when I’m wrong.”

“Spare me the bull, Andrew.” Maxwell said wearily. “You’re stuffing eight people in a death trap to get money from morbid people who watch this crap.”

Rathent sat at his desk and drew a bottle and two glasses from a drawer. He poured a generous amount of Glenlivet into each glass. He matched Maxwell’s tone. “Here, drink. I know what these leaps are doing to my people, but what can I do about it without hurting my travelers? More psychological profiles? How do I keep from humiliating my people with intrusions like that?”

“You make it sound too complex.”

“You know better than to think running Retrograde is easy. I see all of it. And until I find a better way to fund us, this crap will stay, even if it means I lose people to depression.”

“Or death.”

“Stop it,” Rathent demanded. “Gantry is our only loss and not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what we could have done to prevent his death.” Rathent collected himself, using the time to polish his glasses before resuming the discussion. “I called you here to let you know the changes in the operation. You will receive a formal draft in two days. The UN has reduced our time line involvement to one observation ship and one traveler on the Titanic.”

Maxwell examined Rathent over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. He lowered the glass and took a quick breath before answering, his eyes locking on Rathent. “The operation hasn’t passed the UN yet. Why did you place the restrictions?”

“I had a sudden vision of the holy mother?” Rathent replied easily.

“No.” Maxwell replied firmly.

Rathent’s eyes widened. “Eldritch Control?”

“No.” Maxwell smiled.

“I had to pay too much bribe money,” Rathent grinned.

“Now I believe you,” Maxwell laughed. “Honesty is good for the soul.”

“Sure,” Rathent scoffed gently and gulped his drink. “Can you do the job?”

“Let me work on it,” Maxwell said, feeling better. “The ocean was smooth that night so we might be able to use zodiacs, and as long as we use enough holo-cameras on the ship, we really only need one traveler to monitor the data flow.”

“Give it to me in a report.” Rathent ordered casually. “There is another change.”

“What is it?” Maxwell asked after waiting for Rathent to continue.

“Do you know who John Miles is?” he asked eventually.

“No.”

“He’s the owner of the New York Herald.”

Maxwell’s face colored with a touch of anger.

“I see you’re familiar with the rag,” Rathent poured more Glenlivet. “As you know, they specialize in trashing Retrograde. For the last week, they have been attempting to shut down the Titanic project by printing a biased string of articles disclosing Retrograde. To do this, they have been making up facts as well as using a source from inside Retrograde.”

“We have a leak?” Maxwell asked incredulously. He knew everyone in the sensitive positions and none of them seemed like a malcontent.

“The point is academic. I expected leaks during the life of this project.” Rathent looked off into space. “What we need to do now is concentrate on controlling this problem. Hiram Bosch, under the guidance of John Miles, has issued a challenge. They dare me to remain quiet and let the smear campaign continue. Unfortunately, any leak is usually from a disillusioned person, so the information they get about Retrograde is biased.”

“You want to deal with the Herald.”

“Not enough to satisfy those ghouls,” Rathent turned his gaze on Maxwell. “I am going to allow a member of the Herald’s reporting staff into Retrograde. I want you to be its keeper.”

Maxwell closed his eyes and sighed. “It?”

“Guide it around. Let it follow you through the formation of the Titanic operation.” Rathent continued reasonably.

“Hell no,” Maxwell snapped. “This operation will be hard enough without answering thousands of questions from an intruder.”

“That was not a request.” Rathent said firmly.

“After the Hindenburg operation, I’m your worse choice.”

“Not true,” Rathent smiled. “They view you as a man among supermen. You made a mistake and have accepted the ensuing punishment. In their minds, that makes you unsatisfied with the project and therefore the perfect study for their articles.”

“Now I know why you made me the controller for the Titanic operation.”

“I told you my reason,” Rathent said coldly. “If you don’t believe me, then you have the choice of passing the position to another member of Retrograde.”

The finality of the statement shocked Maxwell out of his self-pity. To say no would end with his dismissal from Retrograde and a total inability to safeguard the project. There could be only one answer. “I’ll stay and play watchdog on the reporter.”

“Good,” Rathent smiled. “Now, go home and get some rest.”

Maxwell stood and found his legs were weak. The meeting had drained him of energy. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Take tomorrow off,” Rathent added generously.

Rathent watched Maxwell leave the room and close the doors. Men like Maxwell dwelt in the nuts and bolts of an operation and lacked the imagination required to build and maintain a project like Retrograde. Maxwell could never understand the complexity of the present operation, the physical and political realities. Miles and Bosch could never guess they were being used to force the UN’s hand. Retrograde had to rise above the restrictions.

Rathent smiled contentedly.

“Come in here,” he ordered. A side door opened, and a woman entered the office. She did not play her apparent physical mores. She seemed content to rest in the knowledge of her power. Sitting in the chair recently vacated by Maxwell, she lit a cigarette to Rathent’s annoyance, sparing no opportunity to declare her independent status; Rathent could not manipulate Helga Tornso, the Executive Officer of Eldritch Control.

“What do you think?” he asked neutrally.

A smile that did not reach her eyes displayed perfect teeth. “I believe Mr. Maxwell has entered stage one of Traveler’s Disease.”

Andrew waited.

“I also believe he will be too preoccupied with the news people to understand what is happening,” her accent playing gracefully with her words.

“What about Eldritch Control?” Rathent pressed.

“They see what I want them to see. You do not need to worry, Andrew.”

Rathent pretended to relax. He smiled at Helga. “Sorry. As soon as the news people are in Retrograde, my man will play his part or his behavior will be disclosed.”

“That is dangerous,” Helga frowned

“No one has proven the disease is cumulative. My man will be fine. What about your people?”

“I will do the same with Karl Anson, and the news people will keep him occupied. I believe he nears stage two of the disease.”

“And you talk to me about risks?” Rathent exclaimed.

“Have no fear,” Helga scorned. “If he suspects anything, we may say his claims are paranoia brought about by the disease. Consider how it will look in print, ‘our brave Eldritch Control people risk their lives to safeguard humanity’.”

“Disclose the disease?”

“Of course, Andrew,” Helga soothed. “We, not chance, pick the time of disclosure and control the situation.”

“We control,” Rathent said slowly, savoring the words.