Bound in time, p.1
Bound in Time, page 1
Bound in Time
D. F. Jones
www.sfgateway.com
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Gateway Introduction
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Website
Also by D F Jones
Dedication
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter 1
‘Time-travel — me?’ Lacking words, Mark Elver laughed shortly. ‘It’s had a lot of wear, but incredible is the only word that fits! And you want me as the guinea pig? Me?’
Elver felt he had every right to ask the question: why him, an obscure biophysics researcher touching thirty-one and going nowhere? Genuinely nowhere: he was dying …
The first awful shock had faded, replaced by a dull, nagging awareness. Six months back UNCLA’s top cardiac man had confirmed his personal diagnosis; an inoperable heart condition. In two years at most he’d be dead. The fact was no secret in his department — he even made grim jokes about it — and if his visitor was aware of his condition, why this fantastic proposition?
Mark repeated the question. ‘Why me?’
The way Joe Heimblatt shifted uneasily in his chair spoke volumes: in the past half-year Mark had become adept at reading the signs. ‘So you know.’
Heimblatt shrugged apologetically. A red-faced overweight forty-five, he looked far more like a cardiac case than slim, pale-faced Mark. ‘Yeah. I know. But what can I say — sorry? I am, but what does that mean to you? Sorry if I’m blunt, but that’s the way I am. Death is the price we all pay for life: I drink too much, I smoke too much and I eat too much; could be I’ll be off before you.’ He slapped a meaty hand on the desk, dismissing the subject. ‘I’ve been looking around; over in the med faculty your name came up —’
Mark cut in swiftly. ‘Because I’m expendable?’
Joe took his time, weighing up the other man. He did feel sorry for Mark, but they were strangers, and Joe’s concern was with his project. He wanted Elver for the next, vital, step forward. Elver seemed calm enough, if anything, too calm for a man being offered the most fantastic proposition ever made. Care was necessary in handling him … His mind made up, Joe took a chance.
‘Yes. Essentially you’re right.’ He spoke calmly, deliberately, ‘but “expendable” is the wrong word. You know you’ve no future. It’s possible — I won’t say reasonable — that you might think this offer, at the worst, a meaningful end for a scientist, but your heart’s not the main reason. No doubt there are many in the state penitentiary who’d jump at the chance, but their qualifications would be slightly suspect.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And there’d be problems: I hate to think what the authorities would say. No, the first man to go must be a scientist.’
‘Scientist? I’m a doctor of medicine with two years research experience.’
‘You’ve a trained mind, wide interests, you’re articulate and it is said you’re remarkably observant.’ Joe smiled like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. ‘So I’ve checked you out.’ He leaned forward, his belt lost beneath the roll of his majestic stomach. ‘I’ll level with you, doctor. I want you.’
A smile softened Mark’s tense expression. ‘Level with me just that little bit more — are there any other candidates?’
Heimblatt shook his head. ‘As of this time, no, but I’ve no doubt I could get a dozen if I put it about; most would be screwballs with the wrong motivation.’ He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. ‘D’you mind?’
‘Go right ahead.’ Mark picked up his pipe.
‘A crazy habit, but I tell myself I’m too old to kick it.’ Joe lit up. ‘Let’s look at this proposition from your angle: I won’t push the honour and glory aspect, but I expect you’ve as much vanity as the next man. The first one to go will have his name up there with Gagarin and Armstrong.’
‘If he’s that famous, our descendants will be waiting with the red carpet.’
‘Christ! I hadn’t thought of that.’ Joe sounded worried.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I don’t know.’ His fat baby-face puckered with anxiety for the unscientific unknown. ‘God! The angles …’ He got back to firmer ground. ‘The honour stuff aside, just in case you’ve not thought of it, there’s the chance of a very real personal gain: you might be cured.’
‘Don’t worry, Joe. The idea didn’t cross my mind; it got halfway and has stayed right there.’ He began to fill his pipe, his long fingers moving quickly, nervously. ‘You really think this idea of yours will work — honestly?’
Joe coughed explosively, ejecting a cloud of smoke. ‘It’s no question of thinking, Mark. We’ve done it already — many times!’ He coughed again, violently. ‘Goddam! Now this is secret; we’re not ready to publish yet — you understand? Fine. Well, right now the first time-traveller is resting in our lab! A mouse, female, Minnie — who else — and, I may add,’ he tapped Mark’s desk, ‘a proud mother since her return.’
Mark’s expression hardened. ‘You said earlier that there was no way back. Now you say this mouse — It doesn’t add up.’
‘Oh yes it does!’ Joe held back his excitement, going on in what he thought was a casual manner. ‘If you’re interested, drop by the lab tomorrow morning.’
Mark was not fooled. ‘I’m interested, but don’t read too much into that.’
‘We won’t.’ Joe said soberly. ‘It’s one hell of a decision I’m asking you to make, but it’s all yours. No one is going to pressure you. Give your word that, whatever, you will keep our work secret, and we’ll let you see our results,’ he stared meaningly at Mark, ‘including Minnie’s in-transit cardiograph, Minnie herself and, if you’re still interested,’ he leaned on the word, ‘we’ll show you the rig — working!’
Late that night Mark sat alone in his small apartment, reviewing his life: three years earlier the first massive blow of fate had robbed him of his wife, killed in an accident; they had no children. Now he lacked the heart, both physically and emotionally, to start again. There remained his work, long-lead research, which he would certainly never live to complete. At most he had one good year of life before him; then would start the steep downward spiral into invalidism. No more fishing, hunting or sailing — already athletics were beyond him — only the brief occupancy of a wheelchair, then bed, his final bed, where the last battle would be fought. And lost.
The birthplace of time-travel, a collection of huts huddled together well away from the main campus, did not look impressive. A cheap sign nailed to the paint-hungry door stated ‘Dept., of Physics — Project Four’, below that a thumb-tacked notice, the lettering faded, added a little more information: ‘Go away. If you must, ring bell.’ Mark rang. Somewhere inside someone screamed with agony or rage. A very untidy young man wearing Zapata moustaches looked out and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
Mark gave his name, adding, ‘Professor Heimblatt is expecting me.’
Before the young man could say anything a voice boomed — it was the screamer again, but now the tone was welcoming. ‘Come right in Mark! Come in!’
On his home ground, Heimblatt w as a vastly different man. One glance at his check shirt, open to the considerable waist, and Mark realized Joe had got himself dressed up for his visit of the previous day.
‘Glad you could make it, Mark. Very glad.’ They shook hands.
‘And I know why you’re glad,’ Mark smiled back, ‘but remember I’m only window-shopping.’
‘Right, but we’ve got you through the door, and that’s a start.’
Mark liked the man. He was sure that Joe was honest; instinctively, he trusted him. Heimblatt introduced his staff of three. All were in their twenties, plainly united by a shared sense of purpose; all radiated an air of excitement and elation. Seated in Heimblatt’s small and untidy office with its cup-marked desk, graphs taped to the wall, plus a few joke drawings which meant nothing to the outsider, Mark envied them.
Joe Heimblatt wasted no time. ‘What d’you know about physics? Maths? Magnetics?’ Each time Mark shook his head. ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Joe feelingly, ‘we won’t waste time on explanations you wouldn’t understand. Come to that, we’re not so damn sure ourselves!’ His laugh ended sharply. ‘Hell — that wasn’t the thing to say to you, was it? It’s true all the same.’ He rallied his defences. ‘Anyway, you medics would have a hard time explaining exactly how aspirin works — right?’
‘Right.’
‘Project Four began with luck, like a boy digging for worms in the back yard hitting a gold mine. Something happened in an experiment, a transient effect, which by chance, I observed. The years roll by, and a lot of work and unless Einstein and Heisenburg are your favourite bedtime reading, let’s leave it at that. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘So here’s the basics. For everyday purposes time is linear and constant. Scientifically, it’s neither. Einstein showed it could be stretched, compressed.’ His voice sank confidentially, ‘and now we can jump in time. Okay, your word was incredible, but how many folk back at the turn of the century would have believed in a fraction of the discoveries that today are solid facts? And I’m going to strain your credulity some more: those who’ve given time-travel much thought have imagined high energy would be required: it isn’t. Admittedly, our rigs so far have been small, but they work — on mains supply!’
‘Are you saying any competent scientist could build a rig in his back room?’
‘Aw, no! Take it from me, we’ve done some pretty damn weird things with magnetic fields. Given our findings, theoretically our experiments could be repeated — very probably will be — but it needs a lot of expertise, and that’s the understatement of the year.
‘In simple terms, the rig’s a gun; a gun that fires in time, not space. The specimen is positioned — that is tricky — activated, and away it goes. In time.’
Mark did not find the concept simple. He let it go. ‘You’ve not mentioned how far.’
‘For a very good reason: we can’t be sure. The theory used to be that the time-distance a body would travel would be proportional to the reciprocal of the square root of that body’s mass.’ Joe grinned at Mark’s expression. ‘So forget it. We’ve worked out what my guys insist on calling,’ he tried to look modest, ‘Heimblatt’s First Law. Simplified, it says the transit will, given a constant strength in the magnetic fields, be proportional to the mass of that body. You’ll understand more when you’ve seen more. Come and meet Minnie.’
Minnie proved to be as normal as any mouse could be expected to be with six young mice to contend with, plus the burden of a micro instrument pack taped to her back. Beside her cage stood a machine that received the micropack signals, translating them into the oscillations of three recording pens on a slow-moving paper reel. Down its length ran time markers, the pens tracing by amplitude the changes in her respiration, temperature and heart rate. Mark examined the readout with a careful and professional eye, and found nothing remarkable. He said so.
‘Wait till you’ve seen this.’ Joe produced an older, much thumbed roll. ‘Minnie’s made two trips: the first time with that same micropack.’ He unrolled the record. At one point someone had scrawled in red felt pen ‘launch’ and further on, the writing shaky with excitement, ‘recovery’. Between the two, the pens had drawn straight lines; the time markers showed that twelve and one half minutes had elapsed. Mark examined the pre-launch and post-recovery traces with great care: both were as if the gap between them did not exist.
‘Not bad, huh?’ Joe anxiously watched Mark’s impassive face.
‘I’d like to know what happened in that transit time,’ said Mark carefully.
Joe laughed triumphantly. ‘Mark, my boy, that’s the one question I hoped you’d ask! Take a look at this.’ He switched on an oscilloscope cursing impatiently as he fed a tape into the input. ‘On her second trip, Minnie carried a micro-recorder, no transmitter. Because of the extra bulk, we could afford only one sensor, monitoring her heart. Below that trace you’ll see a ten-second time blip. The first two minutes were before launch, giving her time to settle down in the rig, and the last two minutes are the same thing in reverse, the initial post-recovery period. Watch.’
Mark did, and saw nothing remarkable. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
Mark checked his watch. ‘But that was a fraction over four minutes.’
‘Sure it was. Two minutes pre, two minutes post-transit. The fraction was the travel.’
‘Can you slow the tape at the transit time?’
‘I can.’ Joe rewound the tape, made careful adjustments. ‘We start ten seconds before launch.’ As he made the switch he started counting, ‘Ten, nine, eight —’
Mark watched, holding his breath. Nothing showed. He watched a second time. Still nothing. At last he said hoarsely, ‘My God, Joe — I hope you’re an honest man!’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Because I have to take that recording on trust. As far as I’m concerned it could have been made any time; there’s no significant change at the material time.’ He amended that. ‘Nothing I can see, that is.’
‘The computer agrees with you — and yes, you can trust me. That recording’s for real.’
Mark filled his pipe, absently watching Minnie having problems with her brood. ‘How long was that transit, Joe?’
‘Fifteen minutes, thirty-five seconds,’ replied Joe promptly, ‘the longer transit time was due to the difference in mass between the micro-pack and the recorder-pack.’
‘So Minnie didn’t return. Linear time just caught up with her.’
‘Right. It takes a brave man these days to bet anything is impossible, but I’d stake all I’ve got that back-tracking in time is truly impossible. A closed time-loop would be like feedback between a microphone and a speaker, sheer chaos. I’m certain it will never have been done in the future either; there’d be some evidence.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily follow. Maybe there is no future for humanity. It has been suggested.’
‘Come on, Mark — don’t start thinking like that!’ Joe was alarmed. ‘D’you believe that we’re going to blow ourselves apart or whatever?’
‘Not really. Man is far too keen on himself, but you can’t rule out accidents, madness.’
‘Oh sure, but then you — the traveller, I mean — might leap right over all that, smack into a new Golden Age.’
Mark Elver pushed a few crumbs of cheese into Minnie’s cage. For a minute or two he stood watching, considerately keeping the pipe smoke away from her. At last he spoke.
‘Why don’t you go, Joe?’
‘A simple, if arrogant, answer. I’m too valuable here, and that goes for my team, but if I’m confronted by your problem, that could be a different story.’
‘You might meet your first traveller.’
Joe looked at him sharply, unsure if he was joking. ‘Not if he was the same build as you. I’d go further.’ He slapped his feet ‘I’ve sure got mass.’
‘Just suppose — I said suppose — I went; how far would you expect to fire me?’
‘Assuming you’re still around 160 pounds — yeah, I peeked at your medical records — and you’re still supple, and allowing fifty pounds of well stowed baggage …’ Joe paused. This was the last, the biggest hurdle.
‘Okay, Joe — out with it!’ Outwardly calm, Mark’s heart beat faster.
‘Plus or minus ten per cent, my calculations say 430 years.’
