Gridlock and Other Stories Part 23

"They won't be able to."

"What if they all come up with the idea of sending their machines to the one point in the universe where they can be sure to arrive? What if they aim for a bubble of empty s.p.a.ce 12 light-minutes in diameter where they can observe the creation of the universe?"

There was a long silence. Finally, Irina said, "I suppose it could get crowded."

"You're d.a.m.ned right it could! You were correct, Irina. We will never see the Big Bang. We won't see it because that whole volume of s.p.a.ce is crammed with time machines! They are jammed time field to time field until the whole d.a.m.ned pygmy universe is gridlocked!"

"What sort of machines?" she asked.

"All kinds. I saw big things that looked like pa.s.senger liners, small b.a.l.l.s that must have been instrument packages. There are cigar shapes, and cubes, and one h.e.l.luva lot of spheres. Some are radiating light as though they are trying to compete with The Big Bang. Others do not even reflect. The only way you can see them is by their silhouette against the more distant machines. They're packed so close together that I couldn't see more than a dozen kilometers in any direction!"

"Then the time machines are the source of our anomalous CBR readings?"

He nodded. "Your instruments were detecting the heat and light from the machines and averaging them out. The fluctuations are caused by a kind of Brownian motion."

"Jesucristo!"Vasquez swore. "Then our failures..."

"Were due to the fact that every possible position in that entire 12 light-minute volume of s.p.a.ce is occupied by a time machine. There have to be trillions of them! The time fields are packed edge to edge everywhere. I have no idea what factor selects which machines make it to the bubble and which do not.

How can one machine get therebefore another when all machines arrive at the same instant?"

"That will bear thinking about," Irina agreed. "Obviously, the majority of probes fail because they can't find an empty parking place."

"Obviously," Smith agreed.

"Did you see nothing of the Big Bang?" Vasquez asked.

"How could I? All I saw for 5.6 minutes were time machines. Then I found myself back here."

Irina looked at Vasquez. "Can you imagine what the total collection must ma.s.s?" she asked, suddenly excited. "This changes every a.s.sumption we've ever made about the creation of the universe!"

Vasquez was no longer sitting. He had begun to pace the floor. "If we can see these other beings, we can communicate with them. That means we can exchange knowledge across unimaginable gulfs oftime and s.p.a.ce."

"But we'd only have a maximum of six minutes in which to communicate," she told her subordinate.

He shrugged. "We broadcast everything in high speed bursts. They do the same."

Irina's face lit up. "Then the information exchange is already going on, and we have it recorded on the instruments we sent back with Smith!"

"Of course. It must be," he said. "We'd better get that data reduced as quickly as we can. I wonder what we should look for first."

Irina was not listening. She sat on the edge of Smith's lounger and hugged him. The warmth and perfume of her was a tonic after the discomfort of the past hour and a half. "You'll be famous for this, John! Possibly the most famous man who ever lived."

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course. You are the man who opened s.p.a.ce and time for us. You guided us to the universal meeting place. There must be millions of different species out there, all anxious to exchange ideas.

We're about to join in that exchange." She picked up her hand computer and began to figure. "Let's see. We made it three times in 95 attempts. That means, on average, we will succeed once every thirty tries.

"We're going to need a much bigger budget if we are to properly exploit this. Too bad the bubble is not larger. It would increase the number of machines that can congregate there and lengthen the average stay time as well. It would be much more efficient."

Smith nodded. "I only wish I'd had a longer stay."

Irina looked up from her calculation in surprise. "Why is that?"

He smiled in remembrance. "The being in the next machine over was almost human. We started a conversation using gestures. She was very beautiful, even considering the pointed ears and the greenish cast to her skin. Also buxom. If I had had another few minutes, I might have convinced her to join me in my machine. After all, there are better ways to spend time stuck in traffic than staring out the window!"

Author's notes forGridlock :

Science fiction comes in a number of flavors. The earliest science fiction stories such asGulliver's Travels were social commentary, basically criticisms of the prevailing political order that were disguised as fantastic stories to keep the authors from being lynched. Jules Verne wrote extraordinary voyage stories, while H. G. Wells built the foundation of modern SF by concentrating on the science in science fiction. Since then, the field has developed a large number of sub-categories.

The lady directly to my left on the bookshelves is Anne McCaffrey, the leading pract.i.tioner of what I refer to as "that dragon c.r.a.p." Other writers specialize in fantasy, sword and sorcery, cyberpunk, s.p.a.ce opera, alternate history, and even mystery science fiction. Each writer has his or her adherents and others who would not read their stuff if youpaid them. The success of a writer depends not only on how well they write, but also, on how many people there are who like the sort of thing that they write. People tell me that my style is reminiscent of Tom Clancy's (although since I've been writing longer, I feel that his style is reminiscent of mine). So why the disparity in our sales figures? He writes about things that seem to be interesting to just about everyone on the planet; whereas, when my books aren't selling, my wife tells me, "But dear, you've already sold one to every physics major alive!"

I am what is known as a hi-tech or hard SF writer. For those of you who know the field, that should not be surprising. Most of my stories have been published in a.n.a.log, which has been the home of hi-tech for more than 60 years. Hi-tech SF is engineer fiction, where we try to explain the practical aspects of the machinery and give you some idea of how things operate, while still attempting to keep the story moving smoothly. This can be an extremely difficult trick to pull off. Hard SF writers do not give you a ration of meaningless jargon in lieu of an explanation, or failing that, at least try to make you believe the jargon for as long as you are reading the book. The major sin in hi-tech SF is pulling a bonehead stunt like forgetting about the speed of light, or the conservation of momentum, or some other inconvenient law of the universe. Oh, it is all right to violate them, but you have to demonstrate that you are aware of their existence.

Hard SF is not to everyone's liking. Since you are this far in the book, you either like the stuff, are extremely m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic, or else have been reading this collection of stories as an a.s.signment for school. Whatever your reason for sticking with me this long, thanks! If you do not like hi-tech, that is okay, too. As they say, opinions vary! [The Russian verb "to write"

is "peesat," with the emphasis on the second syllable. If you place the emphasis on the first syllable, you have the Russian verb "to pee!" Your opinion of any particular brand of writing probably determines where you place your emphasis.]

Again,Gridlock was the result of having a momentary insight while doing something else. While it may seem that these insights come to me regularly, three in 20 years is not that often. I wrote the story in a single weekend, and as it began to take shape, I began to worry that it was too hi-tech, even fora.n.a.log . My fears proved unfounded. Stan Schmidt boughtGridlock and published it in the mid-December, 1989, issue of the magazine.

DREAM WORLD.

Does modern life ever remind you of a bad 1950s science fiction story? You may be closer to the truth than you think!

Paula Kaplan was tired and irritable, a natural consequence of having been on the road for the past ten days. It was not traveling that she disliked, but rather the endless string of snotty department store managers and purchasing agents with whom she spent her days. Her nights were no better. During her five years as district sales representative for Dream World Cosmetics, she had developed a routine for pa.s.sing the hours between dinner and bedtime. Often in a strange town, she would search out the local Cineplex and take in a movie or two. When nothing on the marquee appealed to her, she stayed in her motel room and watched cable TV. Once or twice each trip, especially when she did not have to travel the next day, she would find a local tavern and get quietly drunk. Occasionally she would encourage one of the local Lotharios to buy her a drink and then take him back to her motel. Even these rare adventures had a dreary sameness to them. Almost without exception, her lovers sported an untannedstrip of skin on the third finger of their left hand.

This particular night she did not feel like the movies and the television didn't work in the seedy motel into which her bosses had booked her. There was a bar next door, but it was a country-western place.

If there was anything that irritated Paula more than purchasing managers, it was s.h.i.+t-kicker music.

Bored, she hopped into her Hertz rental and sought out the little town's main drag. There she found a quiet bar in a residential neighborhood.

The bar was a small white structure with a blank front wall adorned by a red neon sign that spelled outBob's. The lot behind the building was filled with cars parked more or less at random among the potholes. The entrance on the side was framed in blue neon lights. Inside she found the usual dimly lit drinking establishment whose air held a whiff of stale beer. The bar stretched along an interior wall to her left, while a row of booths hugged a yellow-painted, windowless concrete block wall. To her left was an open doorway leading to a short corridor that fronted the restrooms and led to a back room with tables.

Soft rock music floated from speakers precariously balanced on plywood shelves mounted high on the walls.

The booths were filled with couples and small groups. There were several empty stools at the bar, but Paula ignored them, not wanting to be mistaken for the new prost.i.tute in town. After a momentary pause while her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she made her way down the corridor, past the restrooms, to the back room.

The back was more brightly lit than the front, courtesy of a clock surrounded by an illuminated sign advertising Coors beer. Here, too, the tables seemed to be fully occupied. As Paula turned to leave, she noticed one table placed slightly apart from the others in the far corner of the room. A single figure sat there contemplating his surroundings while a half-full gla.s.s of beer adorned the table in front of him. He was not looking in her direction. He seemed preoccupied by the conversation of three j.a.panese businessmen and their Caucasian counterpart at the next table over.

"Excuse me," she said to the short, balding man after threading her way through the crowd to his table. "Would you mind if I sat with you? There doesn't appear to be an open table in the room."

He turned to face her. In addition to being bald and overweight, he possessed a receding chin and thick, c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses.

Paula was aware of the figure she cut in her business suit with the paisley scarf. She expected him to jump to his feet and fall all over himself welcoming her. His reaction surprised her. For fully five seconds he stared as though he were having trouble focusing. The dilation of his pupils, along with the drooping eyelids, told her that the beer on the table was not his first ... or even his fifth. Finally, as though in slow motion, some unidentifiable emotion crossed behind his eyes and he gestured toward a chair.

"Sure, why not? It might be interesting."

"Thank you," she replied. She removed her coat and draped it over one of the empty chairs, then pulled another from beneath the table. It came out with a loud sc.r.a.ping noise. She settled into it and immediately kicked off her shoes. It felt good to wiggle her toes and feel the cool air waft across her soles through the nylon of her pantyhose.

When she was settled, she looked at her tablemate, put on her most sincere smile, and extended her hand. "My name is Paula Kaplan."

"Morris Cramer," he replied listlessly, shaking her hand. She noted that his palms were as soft as her own. Obviously not a mill worker."Is there a hostess in here, Morris, or do I need to go to the bar for my drink?"

"Kerri should be right over."

Less than a minute later, a young blonde with a perky manner and a low-cut blouse materialized from out of nowhere. "Whattaya have, honey?" she asked in a Texas tw.a.n.g that was misplaced this far north.

"White wine spritzer, if you have one."

"Sure enough. Morris?"

"Another beer."

"Coming right up."

A minute later, she was back with the order. Paula reached into her purse and pulled out a five, received change, and left a tip on the hostess's tray. She noticed that Morris did not bother to pay.

"I take it you have a tab here?"

"Something like that," he grunted.

She sipped her wine and decided that it matched the rest of her expectations of this sleepy little town.

"Well, what did you think of the game today?" she asked as a means of breaking the uncomfortable silence that had arisen.

"Game?" Morris responded dully, staring at her. From this range, it was possible to smell the beer on his breath. She sighed and decided to leave soon. He struck her as a sloppy drunk, another thing she hated in life.

"The Dolphins against the Cardinals."

"I'm not much of a baseball fan."

"I should say not," she replied with a laugh, "since those are football teams."

"Oh, right."

"What do you do for a living, Morris?"

"I'm a writer."

"Really? That sounds exciting. I'm regional sales rep for Dream World Cosmetics."

"Figures."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Just thinking aloud."

"What do you write?"

"Science fiction mostly. Also a few detective novels and westerns to put bread on the table.""Science fiction? Do you mean likeStar Wars andTotal Recall ?"

"Something like that."

"Tell me, Morris. Is there any money to be made in sci-fi in 1996?"

Being in sales, Paula considered herself a fair judge of people. She noted Morris's reaction with professional interest. He seemed to be struggling with some inner decision. Evidently, he resolved his problem because, a moment later, the corners of his mouth turned upward in a tiny smile. The expression was so fleeting that she doubted anyone else had seen it.

When he finally spoke, it was in a voice soft enough that the music nearly drowned him out. "What makes you think this is 1996?"

She blinked in surprise, wondering if this was his idea of a joke. She laughed out of politeness and pointed to the tattered calendar hanging on the wall next to the storage room door.

"Because it says so right there."

He turned to look, causing the fat rolls on his neck to pile up in an interesting pattern. "So it does."

He turned back. "It isn't, you know. The date is October 12, 1956. I do not expect you to believe me, of course. Not that it matters."

"Why doesn't it matter, Morris?"

"Because you aren't really here. None of you are."

Nuts were another thing that she hated about life on the road. No matter how normal a guy might seem on the surface, they were all a little twisted inside. Looking at Morris, she had trouble thinking of him as dangerous, but then that is what people had said about Ted Bundy. She considered leaving and then thought about how good it felt to have her shoes off. Rather than go back to her room and spend the night staring at the walls, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, Morris was a science-fiction writer and they were all supposed to be eccentric, weren't they? Besides, there were enough husky men in this bar that all she needed to get help was scream.

"If I'm not here, where am l?"

"You're a figment of my imagination. Everyone is. This world," -- he made an expansive gesture with his right hand -- "is one I imagined as the background for my next book."

Paula took a sip of her spritzer. "It sounds to me like you are losing your grip on reality, Morris."

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course I don't believe you."

"What if I can prove it?" he asked in a tone that was less belligerent than challenging.

"How?"