From Robert Charles Wilson, the Hugo Award-winning author of Spin , A Bridge of Years is a classic science fiction story of time-travel and human transformation. Tom Winter thought the secluded cottage in the Pacific Northwest would be the perfect refuge―a place to nurse the wounds of lost love and happiness. But Tom soon discovers that his safe haven is the portal of a tunnel through time. At one end is the present. At the other end―New York City, 1963. His journey back to the early 1960s seems to offer him the chance to start over in a simpler, safer world. But he finds that the tunnel holds a danger far greater than anything he left behind: a human killing machine escaped from a bleak and brutal future, who will do anything to protect the secret passage that he thought was his alone. To preserve his worlds, past and present, Tom Winter must face the terrors of an unknown world to come. “Wilson transforms a simple time travel novel into a moving reflection on love, despair, and the resilience of the human spirit.” ― Publishers Weekly “Robert Charles Wilson is a hell of a storyteller.” ―Stephen King “Robert Charles Wilson is one of the best science fiction writers alive.” ― Rocky Mountain News Robert Charles Wilson was born in California and lives in Toronto. His novel Spin won science fiction’s Hugo Award in 2006. Earlier, he won the Philip K. Dick Award for his debut novel A Hidden Place; Canada’s Aurora Award for Darwinia; and the John W. Campbell Award for The Chronoliths. A Bridge of Years By Robert Charles Wilson Orb Books Copyright © 2011 Robert Charles Wilson All right reserved. ISBN: 9780765327420 1   It was a modest three-bedroom frame house with its basement dug a little deeper than was customary in this part of the country, pleasant but overgrown with bush and ivy and miles away from town. It had been empty for years, the real estate agent said, and the property backed onto a cedar swamp. Frankly, I dont see a lot of investment potential here. Tom Winter disagreed. Maybe it was his mood, but this property appealed at once. Perversely, he liked it for its bad points: its isolation, lost in this rainy pinewoodits blunt undesirability, like the frank ugliness of a bulldog. He wondered whether, if he lived here, he would come to resemble the house, the way pet owners were said to resemble their pets. He would be plain. Isolated. Maybe, a little wild. Which was not, Tom supposed, how he looked to Doug Archer, the real estate agent. Archer was wearing his blue Bell Realty jacket, but the neat faded Levis and shaggy haircut betrayed his roots. Local family, working class, maybe some colorful relative still logging out in the bush. Raised to look with suspicion on creased trousers, which Tom happened to be wearing. But appearances were deceptive. Tom paused as they approached the blank pine-slab front door. Didnt this used to be the Simmons property? Archer shook his head. Close, though. Thats a little ways up the hill. Peggy Simmons still lives up thereshes nearly eighty. He raised an eyebrow. You know Peggy Simmons? I used to deliver groceries up the Post Road. Came by here sometimes. But that was a long while ago. No kidding! Didnt you say Ive been in Seattle for most of twelve years. Any connection with Tony Winterup at Arbutus Ford? Hes my brother, Tom said. Hey! Well, hell! This changes things. In the city, Tom thought, we learn not to smile so generously. Archer slid the key into the door. We had a man out here when the property went up for sale. He said it was in fairly nice shape on the inside, but Id guess, after its been closed up for so longwell, you might take that with a grain of salt. Translated from realty-speak, Tom thought, that means its a hellacious mess. But the door eased open on hinges that felt freshly oiled, across a swatch of neat beige broadloom. Ill be damned, Archer said. Tom stepped over the threshold. He flicked the wall switch and a ceiling light blinked on, but it wasnt really necessary; a high south-facing window allowed in a good deal of the watery sunshine. The house had been built with the climate in mind: it would not succumb to gloom even in the rain. On the right, the living room opened into a kitchen. On the left, a hallway connected the bedrooms and the bath. A stairway led down to the basement. Ill be damned, Archer repeated. Maybe I was wrong about this place. The room they faced was meticulously clean, the furniture old but spotless. A mechanical mantel clock ticked away (but who had wound it?) under what looked like a Picasso print. Just slightly kitschy, Tom thought, the glass-topped coffee table, the low Danish Modern sofa; very sixties, but immaculately preserved. It might have popped out of a time capsule. Well maintained, he said. You bet. Considering it wasnt maintained at all, far as I know. Whos the owner? The property came up for state auction a long time ago. Holding company in Seattle bought it but nev