Rose of Time
By Dan McGee
I wish to thank the Chairman and the Directors of the Council of Research Physics for granting me this chance to address the group, and my good friend, Dr. Rudolph Gerritsen, for his assistance in obtaining that permission. I know that I have no credentials as a theoretical physicist, and I fully understand and expect a great deal of skepticism about what I have to say.
First, let me say that I became aware of your Chronos Project as most outsiders did, by that set of articles on the Internet. And, for many, I am certain that the idea that a temporal projection device is under development was of only a momentary interest. But, when you have learned of my experience, you will understand why I have such grave concerns.
The incident occurred nearly seven years ago. I had been traveling to inspect some new equipment for my firm. That is how this all began.
When I first saw her, she obviously had been crying, and she looked scared to death. I had been crossing the lobby of the hotel and happened to look toward the row of benches that were situated near the elevators.
She was sitting alone and in such a state that I could not resist sitting on the opposite end of the bench and waiting quietly until she noticed me. Her eyes were moist, and her lips were pressed tightly when she finally turned my way.
“Is there anything I can do, Miss?”
Thinking back on it now, I really feel embarrassed at being so unobservant. I should have noticed the strangeness of her attire: a wide brimmed black hat worn back on her head, a green wool coat with some kind of brown fur trim and dark green leather gloves. I suppose I took it for granted that it was some kind of unique fashion statement. But even as it was early March, the coat and gloves should have caused more curiosity than they did.
She replied, speaking slowly and carefully, as if she wanted to be certain that I understood her. The accent seemed to be New England, but there was another accent overlaying it.
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think that there is anything you can do.”
Her face, framed as it was by auburn hair that was oddly set: sweeping downward with a slight upward curl at the end, captivated me. But for the tears and the paleness of her features, she was quite pretty. I thought about leaving, but something made me stay.
“I don’t want to leave you if you are in trouble,” I said, “Are you sure you don’t need me to call someone? The hotel staff could–”
Her reply was definite. Her voice had grown in strength, and she seemed to be gaining control of herself. “They cannot help me either.”
It was then that I noticed the newspaper in her hand; crumpled in her hand, in fact. In addition, there was a sheet of paper visible, also crumpled, beside the newspaper.
“Is there something in the news that is making you unhappy?”
Her face got a mysterious expression on it. She glanced down at the newspaper again and her hand relaxed a bit. As the single sheet opened slightly, I caught sight of the letterhead. It was an odd geometric design that I did not recognize, but I did catch sight of the words “RCA Pavilion”.
She seemed to be a bit calmer, as if some great shock had passed and was now becoming forgotten like a nightmare or a toothache. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief from her purse and was even relaxed enough to check her face in her compact mirror.
“My name is Edward,” I said, offering my hand. “Edward Walton.”
“Mary,” she replied, and then a sudden thought came to her, “Mary Rose Metivier. Have you ever heard of me?”
I confessed to her that I had not heard of her, and she seemed about to lose control again, but rallied and spoke again with her chin held high.
“It was just a thought. I had hoped that—I guess it was just as I feared when I saw the paper.”
My curiosity was growing by the second, and I tried to remember what I had read in the newspaper just an hour before at breakfast. I could not recall any major news items that could have induced such a reaction. I was desperate to learn more.
“Could I offer you a cup of coffee? Or perhaps something to eat? When did you eat last?”
“It’s been nearly–” she started to say something and stopped herself. “It’s been a while. Yes, breakfast would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Walton.”
Her face got that odd expression on it as she spoke, as if there was something she knew that she could not then share with me.
“Let’s go,” I replied, standing and offering my hand to assist her. It felt odd to feel a gloved hand in mine and I could not recall when that had happened last.
The waitress seated us in a booth near the window and it was then that I noticed the attention Mary was getting from the others present in the dining room. She slipped off her coat, revealing a well-fitted deep red dress. She then removed her gloves and used the strangest thing I have ever seen to clip them to the handle of her purse. She noticed me watching.
“I just clip them this way, so I don’t forget them.”
I was also quite distracted by a pin she wore: a rose set with small stones. I complimented her on it.
“It was a good luck gift from my aunt. She gave it to me when I left home.”
The waitress returned and Mary ordered slowly and carefully, and I began to wonder if English was not her native language, and she was merely concerned about making a mistake. I must admit that I was becoming attracted to this strange young woman with her unusual manners.
The waitress returned with her breakfast. As she ate, her spirits seemed to rise.
“New England?” I asked.
“What?”
“I meant, are you from New England? I recognize the accent.”
“Oh, well, I was born in New Hampshire, but for the past three years I’ve been living in New York.”
“Ahah,” I replied. “I see now. You’re an actress?”
She seemed embarrassed that I guessed a detail of her life. I took this to mean that she was not very successful.
“Actually, I am a singer, but it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Trying to get a break. I have done some supper clubs and hotels, but nothing big. I was running out of money, so I had to get a regular paying job.”
“At RCA?”
“Now, how–? Oh, you saw this.” She held up the badly crumpled stationery.
I nodded and a sudden expression of sadness passed over her face, as if she had suddenly remembered what had made her so sad earlier.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Walton. I just keep–”
“First of all, my name is Edward to my friends. And since I bought breakfast, I am including you in my list of friends now.” That got a smile out of her. A genuine, dazzling smile that melted my heart. “Now, as we are friends, perhaps you should share what is troubling you, and perhaps I could offer help or advice.”
Her face went through several expressions, and I could see that she was torn. I began to gather that the problem was quite personal and wondered if I had made a mistake by trying to interfere.
Just when I had thought I was right, she smiled again and relaxed. She sipped her coffee, and her eyes locked with mine. At that moment, I felt as if the rest of the room had vanished. All I could see was her and all I could hear was her voice.
“I came to New York to be a singer, but as I said, that has not worked out. Money was getting tighter, and my folks were not about to help. So, I got a job. Well, sort of, with RCA.”
“Sort of?”
“Well, actually it was a job with the Fair.”
She spoke cautiously then, as if testing my reaction.
“I didn’t know there was a fair in New York.”
She looked at me and I could see she was thinking of how to tell me something. Her voice got soft, and I felt even more drawn in than I thought possible.
“It’s the World’s Fair. A big one. Countries from all over the world.”
“Yes, I know what a world’s fair is. I didn’t know New York was having another. This would be–what?–the third one.”
She paused, and I wondered if she would stop there and then. I could see the expression on her face. She possessed some knowledge and desperately wanted to share it with someone. A secret too big to contain. I touched her hand, gently, and nodded for her to continue. She did.
“The World’s Fair that I am speaking of, is the first one. It opened in April 1939.”
I am not sure how I reacted, but I must have looked shocked because I could see it in Mary’s face. She seemed afraid of my reaction; of what I might do or say.
“So, the Fair opened in 1939? That is the place you were working?”
“It is where I am working. To me this still feels like 1939, but I saw the newspaper and I know it’s not.”
That had been the reason for her reaction to the newspaper. Not to the news in the paper, but to the date shown upon the paper. I began to think of possible explanations: mental illness, intoxication, narcotics. All this passed through my mind. But there was something about her – something that said to me, “I don’t belong here. I am not from here.” I knew I had to keep her talking; I did not want her to run off.
“All right,” I continued, “you were at the Fair and it was 1939. How did you arrive here in 2025?”
She held out her hand and passed the sheet of paper to me. On it was a typewritten message. I could see the small logo showed a pointed obelisk and a large sphere beside it and the header read “FROM THE OFFICE OF DR. ELLIOTT GRANGER, RCA PAVILION NEW YORK WORLD’S FAIR”.
I read on, silently, as Mary sat watching my reaction. “My Dear Mary,” it began, “by the time you read this you will be in October of the year 2001. I thank you for your courage and I hope that you will return to us unharmed. If all goes well, you have probably already returned a few seconds after you departed. However, if something goes wrong, contact the nearest RCA office. Tell them to check my records and look for a file in your name. It will explain everything to them, and they should be able to assist you.” The signature was a mess, but I could read enough to see that it read “Elliot Granger.” I handed the paper back to her.
“So, it was Dr. Granger who—eh—sent you here?”
“Yes. Myself and the two others.”
That statement grabbed my interest.
“Two others? Sent here?”
She flinched a bit, “They were to be sent to 2001 as I was, but they never re-appeared in 1939.”
“And after that—those disappearances—they sent you anyway?”
“I had volunteered. So had the other two. I think they may have arrived at the wrong date as I did. They might not have been able to return.”
This story was becoming too complex. If it was true, then the lovely young woman seated opposite me was older than my grandparents. There was more, too. Something was buzzing around in my brain. If this was fraud, what was the purpose? How could anyone profit from a story like this? Was Mary delusional? Or just doing this to get publicity for her career?
“So, you believe that you are now trapped in the year 2025 and there may be two others somewhere out there as well?
“I know you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t know how to prove it to you.”
“It’s not that exactly, but look at what you are asking me to believe. Even in this century, we do not know how to travel in time. If, as you say, this procedure existed in 1939, why does it not exist now?”
She replied with tears in her eyes, “That’s what frightens me most. If this procedure was not successful and something went wrong, then I probably did not survive. That may be why you have never heard of me. If I had been successful, I think that my name would be remembered for being associated with a historic event. It seems to me, what happened is this: I never returned or, I died in the re-call process and the matter was kept secret. I am worse than a ghost. I am probably dead more than seventy years now.”
She had a point. If a time travel experiment had succeeded, the news would have got out at some time. But details on an unsuccessful experiment would likely be buried in a hidden vault somewhere. Which could mean that it failed and had been a one-way trip for Mary and the other two.
Alternatively, if this was some kind of delusion or hoax, how was I to prove it?
“You were supposed to end up in the year 2001, but instead you ended up here. And you think that is what happened to the others? The miscalculation made it impossible for them to return?”
“I don’t know,” she was trembling slightly as she spoke, “I was not told much about how the thing worked, just that it could move me or anything they wished ahead in time. They had a lot of math people there and men who worked on all the electrical stuff. They gave each of us a little box that was supposed to help them find us to bring us back.”
She reached into her purse and produced a gray metal box about two inches long and one inch wide with a small green light in the center of one side. Beside the light was a smaller blue light. Neither light was lit at the time.
“How does this work?” I asked after she had handed the device to me.
“I really don’t know. When the green light goes on and starts blinking it means they have found me. They said something about an ‘interference pattern’ that their instruments could follow. We were just the paid guinea pigs, and we didn’t need to know too much. They informed us that they had sent containers forward and returned them undamaged. I think Dr. Granger was worried that we might be interrogated somehow and if we knew how this worked . . .”
She was so caught up in this that it was hard to believe that it was a performance. I decided to shy away from the technical and see if I could discern anything in her conversation.
“1939 was a difficult time, from what I remember of my history in school,” I remarked carefully. “I suppose there was a lot of concern about what was going on in the world.”
She began to elaborate on her life and her world as if a cork had popped out of a bottle. She spoke of living through the Great Depression, of her life in New York, and of the growing problems in Europe.
“We have lunch at an outdoor restaurant near the RCA Pavilion” she said, her face touched with sadness as she spoke, “and often we see the people of the other pavilions there. Some of them are so unhappy it’s heartbreaking. The way things are going, they might have no homes—no countries—to return to when the fair is done.” She paused for a second, realizing. “I guess that is all over and finished by now. You are speaking English and not German, so I guess things did turn out well.”
“Yes, for the most part. It was a long struggle. Tell me, what was it like when you got—er—sent forward?”
She thought for a moment and then, “I can’t remember anything happening. I decided on looking my best and wearing my best outfit when I was sent through. Just because. I stood where they told me, and I saw Dr. Granger talking to one of the other men at the machines.
“He came over and gave me that letter in an envelope, shook my hand and thanked me. He asked me one last time if I had changed my mind. I felt it was a little late to ask that. But I guess he knew that I had heard about Susan and Lawrence, the other two. Anyway, I shook my head ‘no’ and he smiled and nodded and wished me luck. Then he stepped back and made a motion with his hand and the lights seemed to dim out. I couldn’t see the room or him or anything. The darkness and the silence were terrifying!
“The next thing I clearly remember was finding myself in an elevator—an elevator with no operator! I did not know what to do until finally the door opened and two people came in. I hurried out and walked around for a while and then I found that newspaper. That’s when I realized that something had gone wrong.”
She was so convincing. I could not believe she was acting. I desperately wanted to have a look in her purse and see if there was anything that would be out of place: a stick of gum or a coin or anything.
“Do you feel up to seeing a bit of the future?”
She nodded. “I guess so. I may be here for quite some time. Perhaps to the end of my life.”
I paid the check and escorted her to the lobby. I let her look around a bit and she seemed to be curious about everything: the lights, the people, and the various sounds. Finally, I led her out the door. As we walked, I was surprised to find that she had placed her hand lightly on my arm.
“It’s March here. You might be glad you have that coat,” I told her.
We walked into the brilliant sunlight of a cloudless and brisk day in March. At once, she became fascinated with the cars in the parking lot and those driving past. At the airport nearby an airliner had just taken off and was passing overhead.
“What kind of plane is that?” She said covering her ears with her hands.
“A jet airliner. I’m sorry but I can’t tell you what kind. There are many different ones.”
She watched it wide-eyed as it disappeared into the distance and out of sight.
“That was amazing. Thank you, Edward.” She looked at me strangely for a moment, and then asked, “Are you married, Edward?”
I told her I was not. “How about you, Mary? Is there anyone special in your life?”
“I had no one,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “New York was a very big city, a bit impersonal, and it was hard to meet people. I mean, people to talk to. The only one who is missing me is Eloise, my cat. I don’t suppose this is New York of the future, is it?”
“No. This is St. Louis, Missouri,” I explained. “About a thousand miles west of New York. But it is of your future.”
“Goodness. I really missed the target. A thousand miles and twenty-four years. Not even close.”
Something occurred to me, “You’re going to need a place to stay tonight. I can get you a room here if you like. I don’t suppose you have much money on you?”
She patted her handbag, “I have about two hundred fifty dollars in here. They made a partial payment.”
I explained that she might want to hold on to her money for future needs. I hardly noticed the unintentional play on words. I felt it would be best if I could get her to relax and continue our dialogue before I contacted the authorities. I did not believe she was dangerous or capable of doing any harm.
And so, I arranged a room for her. It was on the same floor as mine, only a short distance down the hall. She was stunned by the size of the room and at other things.
The television set caught her attention.
“Is that a television receiver?”
“Yes. They’re standard equipment in hotel rooms. You know what television is?”
“I work at the RCA Pavilion, remember? My job is to herd people along the line past that huge television camera and the receiver and then give them a button and a card that says, ‘I Have Been Televised.’”
I turned on the set to show her and her eyes were wide with surprise and interest.
“It’s colored!”
“Yes.”
I surfed the channels to give her an idea of what it looked like. Afterward I showed her the rest of the room and she removed her coat, hat and gloves and sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes. She stretched a bit and lay back on the bed and was asleep almost instantly. Her face lost all the fear and tension as she slept, and I felt a lump in my throat as I looked down at her. I knew I had to leave right then.
I left her a note with my room number, and I indicated the room key card and that she should not lose it. I took the extra one with me just in case.
Returning to my own room, I began to ponder what to do next. As I could see it there were three possibilities: she was lying, she was delusional, or she was for real. I had trouble believing that she was lying. In our entire conversation, she had never once thought of offering any proof. She just assumed I would not believe her story. Most people who were lying would have produced something to back up the story.
Delusional? Harder to spot, surely. She reacted with genuine surprise to the elevator without an operator, and to the television with color pictures. And everything she told me had made some kind of sense. I did not believe that a delusional person could have kept that act up this long without some flaw appearing in their story. What did that leave me? That she was exactly what she said she was?
Her behavior was so different. When we had stepped outside on the parking lot, she had taken my arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I thought about the year 1939. World War II was just starting. The transistor and solid-state electronics were decades away. How had a device been built then that moved objects—and people—through time? It did not make sense.
Although I had been working with the firm Energetic Solutions for several years documenting assorted research projects for them, but I had not studied physics since college. I was fairly certain that I was keeping up with developments as much as anyone could in this era of rapid and unexpected discoveries. I was also certain that I did not know of any research into time travel—at least any that had been made public.
However, I must confess that I found myself believing her story and began to hope that she would be unable to be recalled to 1939. I thought it would be so easy to just have her remain in my time forever, rather than risk the return.
I did a search on my laptop for “Elliot Granger.” I was surprised to have about a dozen hits. There was a photo of him: a balding, round-faced man with a neatly trimmed mustache in a white suit and tie. It mentioned his credentials and accomplishments ,and there were many. It also mentioned something else: Elliot Granger had been killed in an accident in his laboratory at the New York World’s Fair.
My hands were shaking as I typed in a search for “Mary Rose Metivier” but, although I had some hits, none matched the person I had left just down the hall. Dates and places were wrong, and the few photographs I found were not even close.
That night, as I lay sleepless, something was tickling the back of my brain. Something that I kept trying to force forward. All the information I had on hand was spinning around, and then, in one flash of crystal-clear thinking, I realized what it was.
The next morning at breakfast, Mary seemed disturbed. I asked her what the matter and she was looked around and said, “So much is changed. So much.” I began to realize how she must be feeling: lost in a future world that she would have to learn about all over. I recalled the word “nostalgia” and knew its full meaning when I looked at the expression on Mary’s face. “Pain of the new.” She was having it in force.
It was as we were walking from the elevator to Mary’s room that it happened.
Mary stopped suddenly in mid-stride and pulled open her handbag. In her gloved hand, I saw the small metal box. The green light was flashing, and the box was making a buzzing sound. She hurried into her room ahead of me, and I knew what she intended.
“Mary!” I shouted as I followed her into the room. I wanted her to drop the box. To throw it away. Smash it into pieces. Break the link. But she just stood still, looking at me. And then, the green light stayed on steady, and the blue light flashed. She was no more than eight feet away, but it might as well have been eight miles.
She spoke and her voice sounded odd. Distorted in some way. Like someone speaking underwater. She had a sad look, I thought, which was odd for someone who was returning home. I was frozen in place because I knew I could not stop the process now. Her fate had already happened in New York in 1939
“Goodbye, Edward,” I was able to understand. “Thank you for listening.”
She waved and I found to my surprise that I returned the wave without even knowing I was doing it. She smiled and then, suddenly, pointed across the room. And then, on impulse, she blew me a kiss. A gesture I shall remember until my dying day. No sooner had she done that, than she vanished without a sound.
I felt a strange sensation in my heart. A heavy feeling akin to learning of the unexpected death of a close friend. In a way, it was exactly that. Even if she was still alive today, Mary would be over one hundred years old. But I knew that she had not survived. The accident that had killed Elliot Granger was probably triggered by the returning volunteers, killing them as well. Granger’s math skills were impeccable, but there were still too many unknowns, and something somewhere had gone wrong. Like the error with the arrival date, something in the calculations had been incorrect. When the volunteers returned, there had been a sudden, and unexpected, release of energy—an explosion.
I knew better than trying to dig out any information on the tragedy. It had been covered up a long time ago and for good reasons. Three volunteers and a top-rated scientist had perished. Failures of that kind were destined never to see the light of day.
Mary had been pointing at something in the room, and I realized that, in the rapid series of events that had probably cost her life, she had not had time to pick up her coat and hat. I noticed that there were also some items that lay on the table.
One was a card: “Mary Rose Metivier” it read in all capitals, below it was “Musical Mary.” Then a black and white photo of a smiling Mary and the agent’s address and telephone numbers.
Beside the card, Mary had placed the rose pin. Her good luck charm. I keep wondering if she had realized what was coming and had wanted to leave a memento for me, or if she simply decided that she would have no further need for luck. I will never know.
All I do know is what I had finally remembered from a college physics class: nature always balances its books. The people sent forward could not return. Not ever. History had continued from the moment they left but without them. Without all that they might have done. The effect of their leaving—their absence—had been part of what added up and became some part—large or small—of the present in 2025. Those effects could not be undone by their return. History could not be bent that far. Mary had told me that they had sent boxes through to the future and returned them safely. But a box is not the same as a person. Removing a box from the timeline does not present the same problems as removing a person. How many interactions occur in one person’s daily life that affect countless others? And how many would there be for three people for each entire lifetime? The number had to be beyond astronomical.
I checked out of the hotel the next day, taking the hat, coat, pin and the card with me. There was now no point in informing the authorities. I would not even know whom to inform. And most likely, they would not believe me in any case. The longer I thought about it the harder it was for me to believe.
One thing I have had to block myself from thinking about is what had happened to Mary upon her return to 1939. Sometimes, against my will, I imagine hearing her final scream; sometimes she is screaming my name. I must force those thoughts out of my mind with a great deal of effort.
This is why I have come here tonight, in the hope of warning you about the danger involved. You might be able to send instruments to the future: monitoring devices; recording devices. But no human beings. If you send them, they can never be recalled. I leave this advice—this warning—for you to contemplate. And, if any of you have connections or influence with the RCA Company, you might try to locate files under the name of Elliot Granger. Perhaps they will help. I just hope the point I wished to make is clear enough.
I keep the items Mary left behind stored carefully, if, for no other reason but to remind me that the incident really had happened. Occasionally, I take the card and the pin out of the plastic bags, and I can still catch a whiff of her faint – and nameless – perfume. And remember.
“Farewell, Mary Rose. My rose of time.”
