Gregory Benford - Timescape

John Renfrew came over to the window and peered out into the gloom. “Who—I say, they’re into our garage!”

Markham turned from the window, thinking of the man at the bus stop the other day. “What’ve you got in there?”

Renfrew hesitated, studying the shadowy figures who now had the garage door swung open. “Tools, old things, I—”

“Food!” Marjorie exclaimed. My preserves, some are stored there. And tinned things.”

“That’s what they’re after,” Markham said decisively.

“The squatters down the way,” Renfrew muttered to himself. “Call the police, Marjorie.”

“Oh my,” she said, unmoving.

“Go on.” John gave her a push.

“I’ll do it,” Jan said briskly. She ran into the hall.

“Let’s head ’em off,” Markham said. He picked up a poker from the hearth almost casually.

“No,” John said, “the police will—”

“These guys’ll be long gone by that time,” Markham said. He strode quickly to the front door and opened it. “Let’s go!”

“They may be armed,” Peterson’s voice called after him.

Markham sprinted out the door and onto the lawn. Renfrew followed.

“’ey!” a voice from the garage cried. “Scarper!”

“Come on!” Markham called.

He ran towards the dark maw of the open garage. He could make out a man stooped over, picking up a carton. Two others were carrying things. They hesitated as Markham came down on them. He raised the poker and called out towards the house, “Hey, John! Got your gun?”

The men unfroze. Two bolted down the drive. Greg charged forward and got between them and the gate. He swung the poker. It made a loud swoosh . The men stopped. They backed away, looking at the hedges to each side of the yard.

Renfrew ran at the third man. The dark figure sidestepped and slipped past him. At that moment Cathy Wickham came down the steps of the porch. Renfrew slipped on the wet grass. “Christ!” The man picked up speed, looking back at Renfrew. Cathy Wickham, trying to make out the shadows on the lawn, stopped dead in the path. The figure smashed into her. They sprawled on the stones.

Markham swung the poker back and forth in front of him. The men seemed paralyzed by the sound of it. In the gloom they could not tell how close it came. Markham could not judge the distance either. Ignorant armies clash by night , he thought giddily. Should he charge them?

“Your friend’s bought his,” he called out clearly.

They both turned to look. The yellow rectangle of the doorway sent a blade of light out onto the glistening lawn. In the beam John Renfrew yanked the fallen man to his feet and said “What’re you—”

Markham stepped quietly forward and swung the poker crack into the nearest man’s leg.

“Awrrr!” The struck man collapsed. His partner saw Markham rearing up out of the shadows and backed away. Suddenly he turned and ran diagonally across the lawn. Markham tried to keep both men in sight. Two down, one to go.

“Look out, Greg, he’s got a knife!” Cathy Wickham shouted.

The man turned, transfixed by the yellow light in the center of the lawn. Metal glinted in his hand. “Naw, you just leave off,” he said roughly.

Markham walked towards him. Swoosh, swoosh . The sound caught the man’s attention. Ian Peterson came trotting forward. “Let him go,” he called to Markham.

“Hell no!” Markham answered with gusto.

“No point in risking—”

“We’ve got ’em,” Markham insisted.

“That one’s getting away!” Cathy Wickham cried. The man lying in the drive had moved at a crouch towards the gate. As she spoke he ran with a limp to the gate and vaulted over it.

“Damn!” Markham said with chagrin. “Should’ve covered him.”

“No need for melodramatics,” Peterson called mildly. “The police will be here shortly.” Markham glanced back at Renfrew.

“Eric!” the man with the knife shouted. “Switch!”

Abruptly, before Markham could understand the signal, the two men moved. Renfrew’s captive wrenched away from him and dashed back towards the garage. Markham followed. The man ran into the dark of the garage. Markham hesitated. He could see nothing. Suddenly the man reappeared, a shadow. Markham could make out that he had something long in his hand. Markham backed away warily. He saw the man with the knife moving towards the gate. An elementary maneuver to distract him. The shadow stepped further into the light and swung a rake at Markham’s head. Markham ducked and jumped backward. “Christ, somebody—” Both men suddenly ran for the gate. One turned and threw the rake directly at Markham. He dodged aside. “Bastards!” he shouted and hurled the poker after them into the darkness. He listened to their footsteps fade away.

“No use going after them,” Renfrew said at his side.

Cathy Wickham agreed, “Leave them to the police, Greg.”

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled.

They trailed back into the house. There was a moment of silence and then everyone began chattering about the incident. Markham noted that those who had stayed inside and watched from the door had a different view of the details. They thought Renfrew had subdued his man, when in fact the fellow had simply been waiting for a proper opening for escape. The relativity of experience , Markham thought. He was still puffing from the exertion, adrenalin singing in him.

From the distance came the two-tone hooting of a siren.

“The police,” Peterson said swiftly. “Late, as usual. Look, I’m going to cut and run before they get here. I don’t want to have to answer questions for the rest of the night. You fellows are the heroes, anyway. Thanks for the drinks and goodbye, everyone.”

He left hastily. Markham watched him go. He reflected on the fact that their first unthinking response had been to assume the shadowy figures were thieves. There was no hesitation, no one suggesting it was some mistake, people who’d got the wrong house. Twenty years ago that might have been the case. Now…

The others, standing in the center of the living room, drank a toast to each other. The siren drew nearer.

GORDON SAW THAT HE WOULD HAVE TO SPEND A LOT of the summer working with Cooper. The candidacy exam had been a blow. Cooper took weeks to recover his self-confidence. Gordon finally had to sit him down and give him a Dutch uncle talk. They decided on a routine. Cooper would study fundamentals each morning, to prepare for a second try at the exam. Afternoons and evenings he would take data. By autumn he would have enough to analyze in detail. By that time, with coaching from Gordon, Cooper could take the exam again with some confidence. With luck, winter would find him with most of his thesis data complete.

Cooper listened, nodded, said little. At times he seemed moody. His new data came out smooth, unblemished: no signals.

Gordon felt a letdown whenever he looked over Cooper’s lab books and saw the bland, ordinary curves. Could the effect come and go like that? Why? How? Or was Cooper simply discarding all the resonances which didn’t fit his thesis? If you were damned certain you weren’t looking for something, there was a very good chance you wouldn’t see it.

But Cooper kept everything in his notebooks, as a good experimenter should. The books were messy but they were always complete. Gordon thumbed through them daily, looking for unexplained blank spots or scratched-out entries. Nothing seemed wrong.