Memoirs of a Space Traveler

I went over and picked it up. I recognized the cover; it was a reprint, from a cosmic-medicine quarterly, of a doctoral thesis by one of my more distant acquaintances. I could not figure out how it had ended up on the floor. Indeed, I had been absorbed in my work and had not been looking around, but I could have sworn that when I entered the room there was nothing on the floor. Such a thing would have caught my attention immediately. I concluded that I had been more absent-minded than usual, unaware of my surroundings, and had noticed the book only when my concentration was broken. There was no other explanation. I put the book back on the shelf and forgot all about it.

But now, after Molteris’s request, the maroon cover of this quite unnecessary work seemed to thrust itself into my hand, so I gave it to him without a word.

He took it, weighed it in his palm, and, without looking at the title, lifted a black lid in the middle of the machine and said, “Come here.”

I stood next to him. He knelt, adjusted what looked like a radio knob, and pushed a concave button near it. The lights in the room dimmed, and from the socket where the cord was plugged came a blue spark and a loud crackle. Nothing else happened.

I thought that at any minute he would blow my fuses, but he said hoarsely:

“Watch!”

And lay the book flat inside the machine, and flipped a small black lever on the side. The tubes returned to their normal glow, but at the same time the maroon book grew blurry. In a second it was transparent; I thought I could see the white pages and the merging lines of print through the cover, but the transition was very fast. In the next second the book dissolved and disappeared, and I saw only the empty black chamber of the machine.

“It has moved through time,” he said without looking at me. He rose heavily from the floor. His forehead glistened with sweat, in beads tiny as pinpoints. “Or, if you prefer, it has become younger.”

“By how much?” I asked. At my matter-of-fact tone, his face relaxed somewhat. Its smaller, seemingly atrophied left side (which was also darker, I now noticed) twitched.

“About a day. I am not yet able to calculate exactly. But this — “ he broke off and looked at me.

“Were you here yesterday?” he asked, obviously hanging on my reply.

“I was,” I said slowly, feeling that the floor was slipping out from under me. I understood him. In a dreamlike daze I connected the two facts: the inexplicable appearance of the book, yesterday, on that very spot against the wall, and his present experiment.

I told him. He did not beam, as one might have expected, but silently wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. I saw that he was sweating profusely and had turned pale. I pulled up a chair for him and sat down myself.

“Could you tell me now what you want from me?” I asked when he had collected himself.

“Help,” he mumbled. “Support — not charity. Let it be… an advance on a share in future profits. A time vehicle — surely you realize — “ He stopped short.

I nodded. “You need a lot of money.”

“A lot. Great amounts of energy are involved. Besides, the chronoscope — to make the transposed body reach the exact time desired — still requires work.”

“How much?” I prompted.

“A year, at least.”

“Fine, I understand. But I’ll have to seek… the help of third parties. Financiers. If you have no objection.”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. I’ll lay my cards on the table. Most people in my shoes would assume — after what you’ve told me — that they were dealing with a trick, an ingenious swindle. But I believe you. I believe you and will do what I can. That will take time, of course. At the moment I am very busy. Also, I will need to consult —”

“Physicists?” he shot out. He was listening with the greatest attention.

“No, why? You’re touchy on that point — no, please. I am not prying. But I’ll need advice in choosing the most suitable people, those willing…”

I broke off. The thought must have occurred to him the instant it occurred to me. His eyes flashed.

“Mr. Tichy,” he said, “you don’t have to consult anyone. I myself will tell you who to go to.”

“Using your machine, you mean?”

He smiled triumphantly.

“I should have thought of it before. What an ass I am!”

“You’ve already traveled in time, then?” I asked.

“No. The machine has been working for only a short while — since last Friday, to be exact. I sent a cat…”

“A cat? And it returned?”

“No. It went five years, give or take a year, into the future; the calibration is not yet precise. Precision in determining the point of cessation of time displacement necessitates the inclusion of a differentiator able to coordinate the field warps. As it is, the desynchronization caused by the quantum tunnel effect…”

“Unfortunately, I don’t understand a thing you’re saying. But you haven’t tried it yourself?”

It seemed odd to me, not to use another word. Molteris was flustered.

“I planned to, but, you see, I — my landlord turned off the electricity on Sunday.”

His face — the normal, right side of his face — went scarlet.