Time Travel Omnibus, page 648
It was early evening when, guided by a map of the area prepared by a friend who was both a cartographer and amateur historian, Wallace reached the quiet little town of Woolsthrope-by-Colsterworth. It was here, in a small farmhouse, that Wallace would meet his hero of the ages. A cold, gentle rain was falling as he approached the door. The soft, hazy light of an oil lamp glowed inside, revealing through the translucent glass the form of a man bent over a table. The fragrant smoke of well-dried burning wood curled from the chimney, announcing a warm fire within.
With his heart about to burst from excitement, Wallace rapped upon the door. After a pause, the shadow rose and moved away from the window. The door opened, and there stood Isaac Newton, a young man of 23 with an intellect that Hume and Voltaire considered “the greatest and rarest genius that ever rose for the adornment and instruction of the species.” But for the importance of his self-appointed mission, Wallace would have fainted dead away from the thrill of it all.
“Is this the home of Isaac Newton?” he asked in a voice quavering with the trembling tones normally used by lovers about to reveal their deepest feelings.
The young man, of medium height and with thick hair already showing signs of gray, swung open the door and replied, “My home it is, indeed, stranger. Come into the parlor, please, before the wetness takes you ill.”
Isaac followed Wallace into the room and stood quietly watching as his visitor removed his soaked coat and hat. The portable time machine was gently placed on the floor next to a wall. The calculator was snug and safe in its plastic case in Wallace’s shirt pocket. “Thank you, Master Newton. May we sit while we talk? I am afraid you may wish to take some time to consider my words.”
Motioning to a chair near the table, Isaac pulled a second chair from a darkened corner and joined Wallace. “You have a strange sound to your speech, stranger. Are you from hereabouts, or have you traveled far? Please commence slowly your tale.”
Wallace laughed aloud at this question, a response prompted by his nervous excitement, and it quite surprised him. It also startled Isaac. “Please forgive me. It is just that I have traveled so very, very far to see you. You see, I am from the future.” Wallace was not one to play his cards close to his chest.
Now it was Isaac’s turn to laugh. “Oh, this is most ridiculous. Are you a friend of Barrow’s at Trinity? It would be so like him to play such a trick. From the future, indeed!”
Wallace’s eyes ached at the sight of the papers on the table where Isaac had been working. What wonders must be there about to be born! In any other situation, Wallace would have asked about their contents, but the die had been cast. He had to convince Isaac of the truth of his tale.
But he had to walk a tight line, too. It just wouldn’t do to misdirect Isaac’s interest away from the calculator and toward the time machine itself! He must do something dramatic, something that would rivet his idol’s attention and hold it.
“Yes, yes, I understand your reluctance to believe me. But, look here. This will convince you of the honesty of my words.” Wallace pulled the shiny black plastic-cased calculator from his shirt pocket and flipped the power switch on. The array of LEDs glowed bright in the gloomy room as they flashed on in a random, sparkling red burst. Isaac’s eyes widened, and he pushed his „ chair back. Was he frightened? ‘As the Lord is my Savior, is it a creation of Lucifer?’ The eyes of it shine with the color of his domain. Are you one of his earthly agents?”
“Oh my, no! Look here, Master Newton, let me show you that there is no black magic or chicanery involved. It is all perfectly understandable in terms of the laws of Nature. What I have here is an automatic calculator, a device to perform all of your laborious mathematical labors.”
So saying, Wallace squeezed the sides of the calculator case together, releasing pressure snap-fittings, and flipped the case open on a hinge at the top. Revealed to Isaac were the innards of the electronic marvel—a tightly packed interior of printed circuit boards, a mass of integrated circuitry, the small LED display, and the sealed nuclear battery. Isaac stared intently at the sight, and Wallace could see the natural curiosity of Newton’s great mind begin to drive away the initial apprehension.
“But where are the gears, levers, springs, and ratchets to carry out the calculations? All I see is a black box with lights that glow red—and how is that done, where is the lamp or candle to provide the light!—and many little isolated fragments of strange shapes. There is clearly nothing in your box that moves!”
“Oh, it is all done with electronics, Master Newton! The central processing unit has access to a solid-state memory that contains the decoding logic necessary to implement the appropriate algorithmic processes to provide the answers to the specific requests entered through these buttons. The actual performance of the box is achieved by the controlled motion of electrons and holes in suitably doped semiconductor material under the influence of electric fields induced—” Wallace, still overcome by his excitement, had rambled on wildly without thought of the essentially infinite technological gap that separated himself from Newton.
“Stop, stop,” cried Isaac. “I understand only a few of the words you use and nothing at all of their meaning! But it is obvious that for calculations to be performed, mechanical work must be done, and that implies motion. Pascal’s adding machine has shown the veracity of that. I say again, nothing moves in the box. How can it work?”
Wallace was embarrassed. The mistake of overlooking the hundreds of years of progress after Newton’s time was one a child might make. “I am sorry, Master Newton. I’m going too fast for you.” Isaac looked at Wallace with a frown, but Wallace failed to see the pricked vanity of the proud Newton. Going too fast, indeed!
Wallace prepared to lay a firmer technological foundation for Newton, but then he froze. It couldn’t be done! Newton was a genius, certainly, but the task was still impossible. Wallace would have to tell him all about Maxwell’s equations, Boolean algebra and computer structure, electronics, and solid-state device fabrication technology. It was just too much, and besides. there was the danger! The potential time paradoxes of all that knowledge out of its proper time sequence! Could Newton, in innocence, reveal some critical bit of knowledge out of its natural place in history? Wallace hesitated, and seeing the suspicion grow again in Isaac’s eyes, he realized he had to do something, anything, immediately.
“You cannot deny your own eyes,” answered Wallace. “Let me show you it works. I’ll divide two numbers for you with just the punch of a few buttons. Watch this.” And, at random, he entered 81,918 divided by 123. Poor Wallace, of all the numbers to use, they were the worst.
Within milliseconds the answer glowed brightly in fiery red characters. Wallace looked with pride at the result and then, already enjoying in his mind what he knew would be Isaac’s amazement, turned his eyes to the great man. What he saw made his spine tingle and the gooseflesh stand high on his neck! Newton had fallen to his knees, with eyes bulging and hands raised as if in prayer.
The mark of the Beast, it is the mark of the Beast! It is so written in the Book of Revelation—‘Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of man; and his number is six hundred threescore and six!’ ”
Rising to his feet, Newton fell back into his chair. ‘Your cursed box bears the brand of its master. There can be no doubt now, it is the creation of the fallen archangel!”
Wallace was aghast at Isaac’s violent reaction. The 17th century genius had now stumbled backward from his chair and had grasped a poker from the hot coals of the fireplace. “Wait, please wait! Watch this, I’ll multiply two other numbers together for you, watch!” Wallace quickly punched in the data, and then the answer gleamed steadily in burning red characters on the LEDs. Isaac’s eyes first went wide with fear as he again saw the wizard electronics do their marvelous assignment, and then he shut them tight.
Wallace was becoming desperate—this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be! “Don’t you see—imagine the tedious work, the mind-deadening labor this machine will save you from. And it is yours!”
“Yes? But only for the exchange of my soul! That is always the Devil’s price for his seductive gifts from Hell!”
As Isaac shrieked these last words at Wallace, he raised the poker over his head. “Begone, you emissary of the Dark World! I know now you must be in the employ of the Father of the Antichrist, but the Lord God Almighty will protect me if I do not waver in my resolve. Begone, or I’ll strike your brains out on the floor where you stand!”
Isaac’s eyes were wide with fear, nearly rolling back to show all white. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he yelled at Wallace, who stared in shock at the wild man who threatened him with death.
“Please, please, listen to me, please! I beg you to understand—I’m a scientist, just like you. The concept of the devil, and all it stands for. is contrary to everything I believe. How could I be in the devil’s employ, when I don’t even accept his existence? You must believe me!”
“Blasphemy!” screamed Isaac. “Your own words condemn you. To deny the reality of Satan in a sinful world is to deny that of God, too. Now leave my home, you dark beast from hell, or by the heavens above, I shall destroy you!”
As he shrilled these words, Isaac brought the poker down in a wild swing that barely missed Wallace’s head.
Struck dumb with confusion at the uncontrolled outburst, Wallace stuffed the calculator into his shirt, grabbed his hat, coat, and time machine and rushed from the house. As he hurried into the cold, wet night, he turned back, just once, to see Isaac Newton framed in the light of the open door. “Go, go, you foul messenger from the Lord of Evil! Back into your stinking pit of burning hell-fire! This is a house that honors the Divine Trinity and is no haven for the likes of you!” Wallace rushed away into the blackness, the time machine bouncing unheeded upon his chest.
He ran, for how long he couldn’t recall, until he fell exhausted next to a stream running heavy with the rain. Tears of rage, frustration, and shock streamed from his eyes. Rejected by the great Newton! Well, damn him! Wallace flung the calculator into the stream in his terrible anger and activated the return coordinates. He faded from Newton’s world as quickly and as quietly as he had come.
As for Isaac Newton, after having chased the Devil’s messenger from his house, he returned on shaking legs to his desk. Pushing aside his rough calculations on the orbit of the moon around the earth, he swore to redeem himself in the eyes of the Savior. Somehow, he had been found lacking and had been tested. And the test was surely not over! He began to reapply his marvelous mind to determine the origin of his failure before the Lord God Jehovah. Taking quill in hand, he wrote the first of the many hundreds of thousands of words that his religious tracts would devour from his allotted time.
Five years later, long after Newton had returned to Cambridge, a group of picnicking children were frightened when a nearby stream suddenly erupted into a geyser of steam. Moments later, as the eruption subsided. the bravest (or most foolhardy) of the boys cautiously examined the stream-bed—all he found were some twisted, hot pieces of what he thought was a hard black rock, and he tossed them back. The incident was soon forgotten.
Well over 300 years later, Wallace John Steinhope reappeared in his own time. He was essentially the same man as before he left—kind, generous, and sensitive. Ready to come to the aid of any man or beast that might need help, he was giving of himself to a fault. As far as his friends were concerned, in fact, he had even improved (naturally, they didn’t know what had brought about the welcome change, but if they had, they would have applauded it).
Wallace John Steinhope, you see, never again had another kind word for Newton, or for that matter, any words for him at all.
PALELY LOITERING
Christopher Priest
During the summers of my childhood, the best treat of all was our annual picnic in Flux Channel Park, which lay some fifty miles from home. Because my father was set in his ways, and for him no picnic would be worthy of its name without a joint of freshly roasted cold ham, the first clue we children had was always, therefore, when Cook began her preparations. I made a point every day of slipping down unnoticed to the cellar to count the hams that hung from steel hooks in the ceiling, and as soon as I found one was missing I would hurry to my sisters and share the news. The next day, the house would fill with the rich aroma of ham roasting in cloves, and we three children would enter an elaborate charade: inside we would be brimming over with excitement at the thought of the adventure, but at the same time restraining ourselves to act normally, because Father’s announcement of his plans at breakfast on the chosen day was an important part of the fun.
We grew up in awe and dread of our father, for he was a distant and strict man. Throughout the winter months, when his work made its greatest demands, we hardly saw him, and all we knew of him were the instructions passed on to us by Mother or the governor. In the summer months he chose to maintain the distance, joining us only for meals, and spending the evenings alone in his study. However, once a year my father would mellow, and for this alone the excursions to the Park would have been cause for joy. He knew the excitement the trip held for us and he played up to it, revealing the instinct of showman and actor.
Sometimes he would start by pretending to scold or punish us for some imaginary misdemeanour, or would ask Mother a misleading question, such as whether it was that day the servants were taking a holiday, or he would affect absent-mindedness; through all this we would hug our knees under the table, knowing what was to come. Then at last he would utter the magic words “Flux Channel Park”, and, abandoning our charade with glee, we children would squeal with delight and run to Mother, the servants would bustle in and clear away the breakfast, there would be a clatter of dishes and the creak of the wicker hamper from the kitchen . . . and at long last the crunching of hooves and steel-rimmed wheels would sound on the gravel drive outside, as the taxi-carriage arrived to take us to the station.
ii
I believe that my parents went to the Park from the year they were married, but my own first clear memory of a picnic is when I was seven years old. We went as a family every year until I was fifteen. For nine summers that I can remember, then, the picnic was the happiest day of the year, fusing in memory into one composite day, each picnic much like all the others, so carefully did Father orchestrate the treat for us. And yet one day stands out from all the others because of a moment of disobedience and mischief, and after that those summery days in Flux Channel Park were never quite the same again.
It happened when I was ten years old. The day had started like any other picnic day, and by the time the taxi arrived the servants had gone on ahead to reserve a train compartment for us. As we clambered into the carriage, Cook ran out of the house to wave us away, and she gave each of us children a freshly peeled carrot to gnaw on. I took mine whole into my mouth, distending my cheeks, and sucking and nibbling at it slowly, mashing it gradually into a juicy pulp. As we rattled down to the station I saw Father glancing at me once or twice, as if to tell me not to make so much noise with my mouth . . . but it was a holiday from everything, and he said nothing.
My mother, sitting opposite us in the carriage, issued her usual instructions to my sisters. “Salleen,” (my elder sister), “you’re to keep an eye on Mykle. You know how he runs around.” (I, sucking my carrot, made a face at Salleen, bulging a cheek with the carrot and squinting my eyes.) “And you, Therese, you must stay by me. None of you is to go too close to the Channel.” Her instructions came too soon—the train-ride was of second-order interest, but it came between us and the Park.
I enjoyed the train, smelling the sooty smoke and watching the steam curl past the compartment window like an attendant white wraith, but my sisters, especially Salleen, were unaccustomed to the motion and felt sick. While Mother fussed over the girls and summoned the servants from their compartment further down the train, Father and I sat gravely beside each other. When Salleen had been taken away down the train and Therese had quietened I started to fidget in my seat, craning my neck to peer forward, seeking that first magical glimpse of the silvery ribbon of the Channel.
“Father, which bridge shall we cross this time?” And, “Can we cross two bridges today, like last year?”
Always the same answer. “We shall decide when we arrive. Keep still, Mykle.”
And so we arrived, tugging at our parents’ hands to hurry them, waiting anxiously by the gate as the entrance fees were paid. The first dashing run down the sloping green sward of the Park grounds, dodging the trees and jumping high to see along the Channel, shouting disappointment because there were too many people there already, or not enough. Father beamed at us and lit his pipe, flicking back the flaps of his frock-coat and thrusting his thumbs into his waistcoat, then strolled beside Mother as she held his arm. My sisters and I walked or ran, depending on our constitutional state, heading towards the Channel, but slowing when awed by its closeness, not daring to approach. Looking back, we saw Father and Mother waving to us from the shade of the trees, needlessly warning us of the dangers.
As always, we hurried to the tollbooths for the time bridges that crossed the Channel, for it was these bridges that were the whole reason for the day’s trip. A line of people were waiting at each booth, moving forward slowly to pay the entrance fee: families like ourselves with children dancing, young couples holding hands, single men and women glancing speculatively at each other. We counted the people in each queue, eagerly checked the results with each other, then ran back to our parents.
