The Time Traveller's Almanac

by Ann VanderMeer

  Dr. Tilly wrote again: got to break it though, this is ridiculous!!

  “This is beyond ridiculous. Did you forget to defrost the fridge again?”

  Will experiment. You forget what happens each time I reset the loop. Judiciously she added a sad face, :(

  “Let’s not go into the physics and assume you’re creating endless worlds in 14 Arden Lane with each new loop, it will give the chinchillas and I a logistics headache,” he said, leaning back and drumming his fingers on his knee. “Go ahead. What’s the worst that can happen? Goodbye from the future, you know – I as Future Daniel Tsai will cease to be.”

  that is horrible do not put it that way!!

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do what you have to do, Rosamund.”

  “I will, I promise,” she said, and—

  *

  “Well?” said Danny Seven. “Did worlds collide?”

  *

  Dr. Tilly went around and touched all the walls and the photographs, hoping the house would respond. New try. “Did worlds collide?” asked Danny Eight. On the next loop she went and made sure all of the chinchillas were coping in their hutch as Danny Nine craned his head, nonplussed, and that didn’t do anything either. Next. Danny Ten followed her as she left the house but going out into the street did nothing more than make her eyes squint in the chill lemon-rind glare of the lamps, and at 8:18 in that iteration her eldest daughter Sparrow sent her a text message she didn’t read. The neighbours peered at her through their curtains. “Did worlds collide?” asked Danny Eleven. In the throes of despair and rattling around the house like an old car, Dr. Tilly dusted her glass cats. Nothing happened, though at one point her cellphone tweeted in her pocket.

  Sitting there on the sofa with what felt like an ice-cream headache, Dr. Tilly permitted herself an expletive: “Jesus H. Christ,” she said.

  “Well?” said Danny Twelve. “Did worlds collide?”

  She said a ruder word.

  *

  Dr. Tilly put her head in her hands, which caught Danny Thirteen’s attention immediately as he reached over to touch her shoulder. “What happened?” he said, and for a moment she was tempted to explain everything again; to rely on his thoughtfulness and candor, but instead she sighed and went to get her notebook. Perhaps waiting was another experiment too, and she didn’t have to worry him in the process.

  I’m mute. The house is not happy with me.

  “Is that all?” The relief in her best friend’s voice was palpable. “Well, that’s nothing. We could play Charades.”

  NO

  “We could enjoy the quiet.” Rosamund made a very rude motion like a gunshot salute, and seeing her so uncharacteristically hangdog he relented: “Well, come here and we’ll watch TV until the house forgives you, but we just missed the news.”

  They both pretended to watch the Food Network on mute. 14 Arden Lane was silent except for the low burble of the dishwasher and the muffled sound of chinchillas in the next room. She put her head on the shoulder of his dusty coat and allowed herself five seconds of frustrated self-pity, and enjoyed those five seconds immensely. When she and Daniel were alone she pretended that he never flinched slightly or was given pause by anything, and she just smelled the old familiar smell of his shampoo and overheated laptop. At 8:18 her cellphone buzzed in her pocket, which she ignored.

  She and Danny had once both sworn that they would be presidents, astronauts and rock stars, and now in their forties they shared mid-life crises in the same way they’d used to share chocolates. She knew she could be careless and cavalier and hard to deal with, and had won the lottery with Daniel. As best friends went he was reliably fantastic. She liked the way his dark hair was cut short, with sprigs of early grey at the temples, liked his hair in general: it was a pretty shallow thing to like about a person, but she liked so much about Danny that she was amazed by every new thing she found charming. There were lines at his eyes and mouth that made his rare smile a little lopsided and piratical, no asset for a chartered stockbroker. When she touched his hair he hesitated.

  “It’s bizarre not to have you talking,” he said. “I have to admit, I don’t actually like it.”

  Rosamund wrote afresh in her notebook:

  Sometimes I think you’re angry at me.

  “Don’t even try to have a conversation like this,” he said, avoiding the issue like a champ, “it annoys me watching you painstakingly write that out.”

  There was a terrible loneliness in her as she touched his neck, folded down a piece of his collar. It wasn’t 14 Arden Lane that was lonely, she suddenly thought, it was her; she was an armoured creature, self-sufficient, but for the terrible fact of needing her best friend all the time excepting when she wanted to finish a book. Her fingers curled at his neck and she was aware of everything, aware of the outside night-time and how her clothes felt on her skin, of how his face was a mask and how he wouldn’t look at her. Her fingers brushed his cheek and his jaw and the side of his mouth, sifted through his hair. Rosamund Tilly was an empty glass.

  “Don’t,” said Danny.

  At university they’d draped all over each other and never cared. They’d both had their gay periods then, reverting straight the next semester when Rosamund admitted she couldn’t do all the clogged-up sinks and he admitted he couldn’t deal with the late nights, and life proceeded from there. Daniel had one and a half divorces and Dr. Tilly had littered Hartford with a committed lack of commitment. She’d also littered Hartford with Snowdrop and Sparrow Tilly, who were the delights of her life, or at least would be when one or the other stopped texting her, and now that they were grown up being without Daniel was a terrible chore. Rosamund had never been lonely for anyone except Daniel Tsai, and when she pressed closer she could feel the beat of his heart slithering arrhythmically against her arm.

  “Don’t,” he said again. Her mouth was very close to his mouth. Danny’s dark eyes were fathomless and closed. “We can’t handle change, Rosamund. I love you too much and know you too well. Think about this.”

  The room closed down claustrophobically on her. She wanted to say: do you know how long I’ve thought about this? Or: I want you more than anyone I ever thought I wanted. And: I’m so sorry. Instead she accidentally said, “I—”

  *

  “Well?” Danny Fourteen said. “Did worlds collide?”

  *

  Dr. Tilly quit wasting time. She shot to her feet, made a beeline for her notebook, laptop jabbing into her thigh and irritated at the faint smell of chinchillas as she wrote. He said, “What,” as she flipped over pages, pretty patient as she gestured him away from trying to look – all he did was eventually get up and get himself a glass of water, as though this were a perfectly normal evening.

  “Just nod your head for all’s well and shake it for things not well,” said Daniel, “maybe flailing a little for something in the middle, God knows, I didn’t learn how to deal with this in school.”

  Now used to gestures, she jabbed a finger at him until he sat back down on the squashy sofa and looked up at her expectantly. Dr. Tilly did not expect to feel so shaky. She tasted nervousness in her saliva as she flipped up the notebook—

  Don’t stop me, Daniel.

  “Oh, yes, that calms me down,” said Danny. “That makes me feel perfectly at ease.”

  Flip. We need to talk.

  “Okay. Any reason you’re using flashcards?”

  Flip. & what I’m saying here is all true and nothing to do with any house magic.

  Danny still looked pretty buttoned-up and patient, but his voice had that overly reasonable cast people took on if they thought you were a bit loopy. “Okay. Go on.”

  what did you have for lunch today??

  “Rose, you already asked, and it was a peanut butter protein bar.”

  Mr. Daniel Tsai, are you in love with me?

  He didn’t even take it in. He read it, looked at her face, saw the question there as well, and smiled as gently as a chartered stockbroker could when faced w
ith a woman for whom the date was over – self-effacing, running one hand through that grey-sprigged hair as though trying to consider how best to put things. “So that’s what you’re worried about,” he said carefully. “Rosamund, you know I care about you, don’t you? You and the girls are the most important people in my life who don’t share my genetic code.”

  This was not going well. She had made some mistake. When Danny decided the best defense was a good offense, he went in with irritated guns blazing. “I know we joke around a lot,” he was saying. “Is it the flirting? We can stop if it makes you uncomfortable. To be honest, I do love you. But I haven’t been in love with you since I was eighteen.”

  It was incredible. She hadn’t thought you could physically feel your heart breaking, a sort of sucking sensation near the aorta as it imploded into itself. Dr. Tilly hadn’t thought her heart would break at all. “Don’t worry,” he added, “nothing’s going to change, Rose. Nothing.”

  “Let me try this again,” she said.

  *

  “Well?” Danny Fifteen said. “Did worlds collide?”

  *

  It was a little funny, even, how his reactions didn’t change, how she noticed the quirk of his eyebrows once he got to halfway through her litany. Her handwriting had perhaps been a little messier this time. There was only one change now, a question of semantics—

  “Rose, you already asked,” said Danny, “and it was a peanut butter protein bar.”

  Mr. Daniel Tsai: I am in love with you.

  Dr. Tilly held that one for the longest time, gripped between her knees. Once she’d gotten to forty she thought she’d been an emotional bulwark, but now she felt as though all her insides were scooped out and replaced with packing peanuts. She felt thick and heavy. Danny re-read the sign six times, eyes darting to her face before going back and reading it again, and she thought she imagined him swallowing.

  “Well,” he said, with admirable calmness, “what do I do with that information, Dr. Rosamund Tilly?”

  She scribbled inanely: I’m not sure? Romantic embraces??

  “So you immediately assume I’m in love with you, in a fit of o’erweening hubris,” snapped her best friend, but even as she gaped and horrible dread filled her he made the queerest half-smile expression. The smell of sofa and dusty chinchillas no longer irritated Dr. Tilly. “Don’t mind me,” he said, and Danny leaned over to kiss her. He kissed her kindly until she didn’t want to be kissed kindly any more, at which point he smeared her chapstick from her top lip to her bottom lip. “Please just talk,” he said, and she was too busy trying to memorize the way that his mouth felt and how the cradle of his hips were against her own. “I love you. Say it again.”

  “I’ve never loved anyone else,” said Dr. Tilly.

  *

  “Well?” Danny Sixteen said. “Did worlds collide?”

  *

  This time all she did was unfold herself: got up wearily off the sofa and could not look him in the eye, had that quizzical expression of his burned repulsively into her brain forevermore. Dr. Tilly stood up and paced around the room, hating every hair on her head and every brick in 14 Arden Lane’s walls, and at one point kicked the chimney grate until it hurt her big toe. Danny just watched.

  The cellphone buzzed for the umpteenth time in the pocket of her skirt, and now she yanked it out savagely to read:

  8:18 PM

  Sent from: Sparrow

  Dont forget to fix the fridge mum!

  Dr. Tilly imagined that the house was a little sorry as she got the hairdryer and proceeded to defrost everything up to and including the freezer, cartons of milk and meat sitting on the countertop as Danny watched and provided towels. If there had been a Queen’s Award for feeling exhausted, she would have won it. Feeling tired made one feel sadder and when one was sad one felt tireder, and she got down on her knees and scrubbed out the remnants of old carrots as she half-daydreamed about being kissed.

  “There,” she said, “are you happy now, you wretched house?” Nothing happened. Her brain burst into tears.

  Danny looked at her expression and said, “All right. Plan B,” and did what he did every time she had a pressure headache, which was to turn off the lights so that only a thin filter from the kitchen made its way into the sitting-room. He spread the sofa blanket out on their laps and put his arm around her, and they listened to the far-off roar of cars in the street and the tiny squeaks of chinchillas dust-bathing. Dr. Tilly thought she understood why he was angry: there they were, two people who knew each other so well that just by an expression he could tell what she needed, and all they did was stand and stare at opposite sides of the crevasse.

  “A time loop?” he said, when she finally told him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A time loop? You met my doppelgangers?” The expression on her face must have been like a coffee stain that couldn’t be wiped clean, so he relented: “Well, I suppose worlds really did collide.”

  The house tried to get back into her good books by making tiny mandarin-coloured lights appear like fireflies, and she nearly forgave it when Danny reached out and let one alight on his finger. When he passed it to her it was sweet and warm like tumbledryer lint. So was his hand.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Tilly, “they did, now that I think about it.”

  *

  When everyone else in the faculty asked about her tired face the next day, she said “House troubles,” and everyone nodded as though that made any sort of sense. The neighbours had stuffed two notes about the hedge in 14 Arden Lane’s letterbox and the house had retaliated by covering them in snails; the water pressure in her morning shower had been shocking; the house had made jasmine bloom from the ivy trellises, but Rosamund Tilly informed it that this was a poor show and botanically incorrect. It was Danny who had to call her at lunchtime as she sat down to mark some coursework, and she hadn’t any lunch.

  “Tuna salad and three crackers,” said Daniel. “You?”

  She looked in her desk drawer. “Five Peppermint Tic-Tacs.”

  “Rose, that’s disgusting,” he said, and she could hear him drumming a pen on his desk. Danny didn’t mince words: “Look, you can’t go on like this, and I don’t mean your lunch. God only knows what your house will do the next time.”

  “It’s lonely,” she said, though her heart wasn’t really into defending it. “The girls are too far away. I was thinking of getting another chinchilla.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a roommate,” he said a bit crisply, “and before you say anything else – I was thinking of me. For one, I’m at your house so often I think I’m legally your common-law friendship-bracelet wife. What do you say?”

  Her eyelids undrooped. Her headache cleared. Dr. Tilly’s Tic-Tacs melted on her tongue, sharp and clean and sweet. “I think that might do the trick,” she said.

  It did. The plumbing was still terrible, but in Rosamund’s opinion 14 Arden Lane was good as gold.

  AGAINST THE LAFAYETTE ESCADRILLE

  Gene Wolfe

  Gene Wolfe is an award-winning American science fiction and fantasy writer. His best-known and most highly regarded work is the multi-volume novel The Book of the New Sun. He has written over thirty novels and many short stories. He was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2007. “Against the Lafayette Escadrille” was first published in the anthology Again, Dangerous Visions (edited Harlan Ellison) in 1972.

  I have built a perfect replica of a Fokker triplane, except for the flammable dope. It is five meters, seventy-seven centimeters long and has a wing span of seven meters, nineteen centimeters, just like the original. The engine is an authentic copy of an Oberursel UR II. I have a lathe and a milling machine and I made most of the parts for the engine myself, but some had to be farmed out to a company in Cleveland, and most of the electrical parts were done in Louisville, Kentucky.

  In the beginning I had hoped to get an original engine, and I wrote my first letters to Germany with that in mind, but it just wasn’t possible; t
here are only a very few left, and as nearly as I could find out none in private hands. The Oberursel Werke is no longer in existence. I was able to secure plans though, through the cooperation of some German hobbyists. I redrew them myself, translating the German when they had to be sent to Cleveland. A man from the newspaper came to take pictures when the Fokker was nearly ready to fly and I estimated then that I had put more than three thousand hours into building it. I did all the airframe and the fabric work myself, and carved the propeller.

  Throughout the project I have tried to keep everything as realistic as possible, and I even have two 7.92 mm Maxim “Spandau” machine-guns mounted just ahead of the cockpit. They are not loaded of course, but they are coupled to the engine with the Fokker Zentralsteuerung interrupter gear.

  The question of dope came up because of a man in Oregon I used to correspond with who flies a Nieuport Scout. The authentic dope, as you’re probably aware, was extremely flammable. He wanted to know if I’d used it, and when I told him I had not he became critical.

  As I said then. I love the Fokker too much to want to see it burn authentically, and if Antony Fokker and Reinhold Platz had had fireproof dope they would have used it. This didn’t satisfy the Oregon man and he finally became so abusive I stopped replying to his letters. I still believe what I did was correct, and if I had it to do over my decision would be the same.

  I have had a trailer specially built to move the Fokker, and I traded my car in on a truck to tow it and carry parts and extra gear, but mostly I leave it at a small field near here where I have rented hangar space, and move it as little as possible on the roads. When I do because of the wide load I have to drive very slowly and only use certain roads. People always stop to look when we pass, and sometimes I can hear them on their front porches calling to others inside to come and see. I think the three wings of the Fokker interest them particularly, and once in a rare while a veteran of the war will see it – almost always a man who smokes a pipe and has a cane. If I can hear what they say it is often pretty foolish, but a light comes into their eyes that I enjoy.