Time Travel Omnibus, page 721
He was right, more right than he could have possibly imagined. Once I, too, was preoccupied and self-important. Once I was brilliant and ambitious. I was twenty-eight years old, and I’d made the greatest discovery in the world.
From my hiding place I watched him come up the service elevator. He was thin almost to the point of starvation, a nervous man with stringy blond hair and an armless white T-shirt. He looked up and down the hall, but failed to see me hidden in the janitor’s closet. Under each arm was a two-gallon can of gasoline, in each hand another. He put down three of the cans and turned the last one upside down, then walked down the hall, spreading a pungent trail of gasoline. His face was blank. When he started on the second can, I figured it was about enough. As he passed my hiding spot, I walloped him over the head with a wrench, and called hotel security. Then I went back to the closet and let the ripples of time converge.
I arrived in a burning room, flames licking forth at me, the heat almost too much to bear. I gasped for breath—a mistake—and punched at the keypad.
NOTES ON THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF TIME TRAVEL
1. Travel is possible only into the past.
2. The object transported will return to exactly the time and place of departure.
3. It is not possible to bring objects from the past to the present.
4. Actions in the past cannot change the present.
One time I tried jumping back a hundred million years, to the Cretaceous, to see dinosaurs. All the picture books show the landscape as being covered with dinosaurs. I spent three days wandering around a swamp—in my new tweed suit—before catching even a glimpse of any dinosaur larger than a basset hound. That one—a theropod of some sort, I don’t know which—skittered away as soon as it caught a whiff of me. Quite a disappointment.
My professor in transfinite math used to tell stories about a hotel with an infinite number of rooms. One day all the rooms are full, and another guest arrives. “No problem,” says the desk clerk. He moves the person in room one into room two, the person in room two into room three, and so on. Presto! A vacant room.
A little later, an infinite number of guests arrive. “No problem,” says the dauntless desk clerk. He moves the person in room one into room two, the person in room two into room four, the person in room three into room six, and so on. Presto! An infinite number of rooms vacant.
My time machine works on just that principle.
Again I return to 1965, the fixed point, the strange attractor to my chaotic trajectory. In years of wandering, I’ve met countless people, but Daniel Ranien-Dancer was the only one who truly had his head together. He had a soft, easy smile, a battered secondhand guitar, and as much wisdom as it has taken me a hundred lifetimes to learn. I’ve known him in good times and bad, in summer days with blue skies that we swore would last a thousand years, in days of winter blizzards with drifted snow piled high over our heads. In happier times we have laid roses into barrels of rifles, we have laid our bodies across the city streets in the midst of riots, and have not been hurt. And I have been with him when he died, once, twice, a hundred times over.
He died on February 8, 1969, a month into the reign of King Richard the Trickster and his court fool Spiro, a year before Kent State and Altamont and the secret war in Cambodia slowly strangled the summer of dreams. He died, and there was—is—nothing I can do. The last time he died I dragged him to the hospital where I screamed and ranted until finally I convinced them to admit him for observation, though nothing seemed wrong with him. With x-rays and arteriograms and radioactive tracers, they found the incipient bubble in his brain; they drugged him, shaved his beautiful long brown hair, and operated on him, cutting out the offending capillary and tying it off neatly. When the anesthetic wore off, I sat in the hospital room and held his hand. There were big purple blotches under his eyes. He gripped my hand and stared, silent, into space. Visiting hours or no, I didn’t let them throw me out of the room. He just stared. In the gray hours just before dawn he sighed softly and died. There was nothing at all I could do.
Time travel is subject to two constraints: conservation of energy, and causality. The energy to appear in the past is only borrowed from the Dirac sea, and since ripples in the Dirac sea propagate in the negative t direction, transport is only into the past. Energy is conserved in the present as long as the object transported returns with zero time delay, and the principle of causality assures that actions in the past cannot change the present. For example, what if you went into the past and killed your father? Who, then, would invent the time machine?
Once I tried to commit suicide by killing my father, before he met my mother, twenty-three years before I was born. It changed nothing, of course, and even when I did it I knew it would change nothing. But you have to try these things. How else could I know for sure?
Next we tried sending a rat back. It made the trip through the Dirac sea and back undamaged. Then we tried a trained rat, one we borrowed from the psychology lab across the green without telling them what we wanted it for. Before its little trip it had been taught to run through a maze to get a piece of bacon. Afterwards, it ran the maze as fast as ever.
We still had to try it on a human. I volunteered myself and didn’t allow anyone to talk me out of it. By trying it on myself, I dodged the University regulations about experimenting on humans.
The dive into the negative energy sea felt like nothing at all. One moment I stood in the center of the loop of Renselz coils, watched by my two grad students and a technician; the next I was alone, and the clock had jumped back exactly one hour. Alone in a locked room with nothing but a camera and a clock, that moment was the high point of my life.
The moment when I first met Dancer was the low point. I was in Berkeley, a bar called “Trisha’s,” slowly getting trashed. I’d been doing that a lot, caught between omnipotence and despair. It was 1967.’Frisco then—it was the middle of the hippie era—seemed somehow appropriate.
There was a girl, sitting at a table with a group from the university. I walked over to her table and invited myself to sit down. I told her that she didn’t exist, that her whole world didn’t exist, it was all created by the fact that I was watching, and would disappear into the sea of unreality as soon as I stopped looking. Her name was Lisa, and she argued back. Her friends, bored, wandered off, and in a little while Lisa realized just how drunk I was. She dropped a bill on the table and walked out into the foggy night.
I followed her out. When she saw me following, she clutched her purse and bolted.
He was suddenly there under the street light. For a second I thought he was a girl. He had bright blue eyes and straight brown hair down to his shoulders. He wore an embroidered Indian shirt, with a silver and torquoise medallion around his neck and a guitar slung across his back. He was lean, almost stringy, and moved like a dancer, or a karate master. But it didn’t occur to me to be afraid of him.
He looked me over. “That won’t solve your problem, you know,” he said.
And instantly I was ashamed. I was no longer sure exactly what I’d had in mind or why I’d followed her. It had been years since I first fled my death, and I had come to think of others as unreal, since nothing I could do would permanently affect them. My head was spinning. I slid down the wall and sat down, hard, on the sidewalk. What had I come to?
He helped me back into the bar, fed me orange juice and pretzels, and got me to talk. I told him everything. Why not, since I could unsay anything I said, undo anything I did? But I had no urge to. He listened to it all, saying nothing. No one had ever listened to the whole story before. I can’t explain the effect it had on me. For uncountable years I’d been alone, and then, if only for a moment . . . it hit me with the intensity of a tab of acid. If only for a moment, I was not alone.
We left arm in arm. Half a block away, Dancer stopped, in front of an alley. It was dark.
“Something not quite right here.” His voice had a puzzled tone.
I pulled him back. “Hold on. You don’t want to go down there—” He pulled free and walked in. After a slight hesitation I followed.
The alley smelled of old beer, mixed with garbage and stale vomit. In a moment, my eyes became adjusted to the dark.
Lisa was cringing in the corner behind some trash cans. Her clothes had been cut away with a knife, and lay scattered around. Blood showed dark on her thighs and one arm. She didn’t seem to see us. Dancer squatted down next to her and said something soft. She didn’t respond. He pulled off his shirt and wrapped it around her, then cradled her in his arms, and picked her up. “Help me get her to my apartment.”
“Apartment hell. We’d better call the police,” I said.
“Call the pigs? Are you crazy? You want them to rape her, too?”
I’d forgotten; this was the sixties. Between the two of us, we got her to Dancer’s VW bug and took her to his apartment in The Hashbury. He explained it to me quietly as we drove, a dark side of the summer of love that I’d not seen before. It was greasers, he said. They come down to Berkeley because they heard hippie chicks gave it away free, and they’d get nasty when they met one who thought otherwise.
Her wounds were mostly superficial. Dancer cleaned her, put her in bed, and stayed up all night beside her, talking and crooning and making little reassuring noises. I slept on one of the mattresses in the hall. When I woke up in the morning, they were both in his bed. She was sleeping quietly. Dancer was awake, holding her. I was aware enough to realize that that was all he was doing, holding her, but still I felt a sharp pang of jealousy, and didn’t know which one of them it was that I was jealous of.
NOTES FOR A LECTURE ON TIME TRAVEL
The beginning of the twentieth century was a time for intellectual giants, whose likes will perhaps never again be equaled. Einstein had just invented relativity, Heisenberg and Schrödinger quantum mechanics, but nobody yet knew how to make the two theories consistent with each other. In 1930, a new person tackled the problem. His name was Paul Dirac. He was twenty-eight years old. He succeeded where others had failed.
His theory was an unprecedented success, except for one small detail. According to Dirac’s theory, a particle could have either positive or negative energy. What did this mean, a particle of negative energy? How could something have negative energy? And why didn’t ordinary—positive energy—particles fall down into these negative energy states, releasing a lot of free energy in the process?
You or I might have merely stipulated that it was impossible for an ordinary positive energy particle to make a transition to negative energy. But Dirac was not an ordinary man. He was a genius, the greatest physicist of all, and he had an answer. If every possible negative energy state was already occupied, a particle couldn’t drop into a negative energy state. Ah ha! So Dirac postulated that the entire universe is entirely filled with negative energy particles. They surround us, permeate us, in the vacuum of outer space and in the center of the earth, every possible place a particle could be. An indefinitely dense “sea” of negative energy particles. The Dirac sea.
His argument had holes in it, but that comes later.
Once I went to visit the crucifixion. I took a jet from Santa Cruz to Tel Aviv, and a bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. On a hill outside the city, I dove through the Dirac sea.
I arrived in my three-piece suit. No way to help that, unless I wanted to arrive naked. The land was surprisingly green and fertile, more so than I expected. The hill was now a farm, covered with grape arbors and olive trees. I hid the coils behind some rocks and walked down the road. I didn’t get far. Five minutes on the road, I ran into a group of people. They had dark hair, dark skin, and wore clean, white tunics. Romans? Jews? Egyptians? How could I tell? They spoke to me, but I couldn’t understand a word. After a while two of them held me, while a third searched me. Were they robbers, searching for money? Romans, searching for some kind of identity papers? I realized how naive I’d been to think I could just find appropriate dress and somehow blend in with the crowds. Finding nothing, the one who’d done the searching carefully and methodically beat me up. At last he pushed me face down in the dirt. While the other two held me down, he pulled out a dagger and slashed through the tendons on the back of each leg. They were merciful, I guess. They left me with my life. Laughing and talking incomprehensibly among themselves, they walked away.
My legs were useless. One of my arms was broken. It took me four hours to crawl back up the hill, dragging myself with my good arm. Occasionally people would pass by on the road, studiously ignoring me. Once I reached the hiding place, pulling out the Renselz coils and wrapping them around me was pure agony. By the time I entered return on my keypad I was wavering in and out of consciousness. I finally managed to get it entered. From the Dirac sea the ripples converged . . .
and I was in my hotel room in Santa Cruz. The ceiling had started to fall in where the girders had burned through. Fire alarms shrieked and wailed, there was no place to run. The room was filled with a dense, acrid smoke. Trying not to breathe, I punched out a code on the keypad, somewhere, anywhere other than that one instant . . .
and I was in the hotel room, five days before. I gasped for breath. The woman in the hotel bed shrieked and tried to pull the covers up. The man screwing her was too busy to pay any mind. They weren’t real anyway. I ignored them and paid a little more attention to where to go next. Back to ’65, I figured. I punched in the combo . . .
and was standing in an empty room on the thirtieth floor of a hotel just under construction. A full moon gleamed on the silhouettes of silent construction cranes. I flexed my legs experimentally. Already the memory of pain was beginning to fade. That was reasonable, because it never happened. Time travel. It’s not immortality, but it’s got to be the next best thing.
You can’t change the past, no matter how you try.
In the morning I explored Dancer’s pad. It was crazy, a small third floor apartment a block off Haight Ashbury that had been converted into something from another planet. The floor of the apartment had been completely covered with old mattresses, on top of which was a jumbled confusion of quilts, pillows, Indian blankets, stuffed animals. You took off your shoes before coming in—Dancer always wore sandals, leather ones from Mexico with soles cut from old tires. The radiators, which didn’t work anyway, were sprayed in Dayglo colors. The walls were plastered with posters: Peter Max prints, brightly colored Eschers, poems by Allen Ginsberg, record album covers, peace rally posters, a “Haight is Love” sign, FBI ten-most-wanted posters torn down from a post office with the photos of famous antiwar activists circled in Magic Marker®, a huge peace symbol in passion pink. Some of the posters were illuminated with black light and luminesced in impossible colors. The air was musty with incense and the banana sweet smell of dope. In one corner a record player played “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band” on infinite repeat. Whenever one copy of the album got too scratchy, inevitably one of Dancer’s friends would bring in another.
He never locked the door. “Somebody wants to rip me off, well, hey, they probably need it more than I do anyway, okay? It’s cool.” People dropped by any time of day or night.
I let my hair grow long. Dancer and Lisa and I spent that summer together, laughing, playing guitar, making love, writing silly poems and sillier songs, experimenting with drugs. That was when LSD was blooming onto the scene like sunflowers, when people Were still unafraid of the strange and beautiful world on the other side of reality. That was a time to live. I knew that it was Dancer that Lisa truly loved, not me, but in those days free love was in the air like the scent of poppies, and it didn’t matter. Not much, anyway.
NOTES FOR A LECTURE ON TIME TRAVEL (continued)
Having postulated that all of space was filled with an infinitely dense sea of negative energy particles, Dirac went on further and asked if we, in the positive-energy universe, could interact with this negative energy sea. What would happen, say, if you added enough energy to an electron to take it out of the negative energy sea? Two things: first, you would create an electron, seemly out of nowhere. Second, you would leave behind a “hole” in the sea. The hole, Dirac realized, would act as if it were a particle itself, a particle exactly like an electron except for one thing: it would have the opposite charge. But if the hole ever encountered an electron, the electron would fall back into the Dirac sea, annihilating both electron and hole in a bright burst of energy. Eventually they gave the hole in the Dirac sea a name of its own: “positron.” When Anderson discovered the positron two years later to vindicate Dirac’s theory, it was almost an anticlimax.
And over the next fifty years, the reality of the Dirac sea was almost ignored by physicists. Antimatter, the holes in the sea, was the important feature of the theory; the rest was merely a mathematical artifact.
Seventy years later, I remembered the story my transfinite math teacher told and put it together with Dirac’s theory. Like putting an extra guest into a hotel with an infinite number of rooms, I figured out how to borrow energy from the Dirac sea. Or, to put it another way: I learned how to make waves.
And waves on the Dirac sea travel backward in time.
Next we had to try something more ambitious. We had to send a human back further into history, and obtain proof of the trip. Still we were afraid to make alterations in the past, even though the mathematics stated that the present could not be changed. We pulled out our movie camera and chose our destinations carefully.
In September of 1853 a traveler named William Hapland and his family crossed the Sierra Nevadas to reach the California coast. His daughter Sarah kept a journal, and in it she recorded how, as they reached the crest of Parker’s ridge, she caught her first glimpse of the distant Pacific ocean exactly as the sun touched the horizon, “in a blays of cryms’n glorie,” as she wrote. The journal still exists. It was easy enough for us to conceal ourselves and a movie camera in the cleft of rocks above the pass, to photograph the weary travelers in the ox-drawn wagon as they crossed.
