Timemaster

by Robert L. Forward

  "Everyone else is too awed by the Hunter name to suggest that I might be wrong in some decision," said Harold. "But Rosey isn't. She keeps me on my toes."

  Not a bad idea, thought Randy. I had been wondering how I was going to pass on the company to two kids.

  "And where's your mother? I expected her to come with you," said Randy, now a little worried.

  Harold looked at Andrew. "I guess he doesn't know yet," he said. He turned to look at his father.

  "She left with you some eleven years ago—into the future. They occasionally come back through time for brief visits with the grandchildren. They're both doing fine."

  Randy had been hoping for at least one night with Rose. Now, the thought of Rose happily going off hand in hand with the bearded man brought back again a flood of unreasoning jealousy.

  Andrew's cuff-comp beeped, and he looked at the message. "The work on Rip has proceeded faster than expected," he announced. "It'll be ready to go at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow. If you'd like to get a full eight hours' sleep at a comfortable one gee, you'd better go to bed soon."

  Chapter 12

  Homeward Bound

  BY SIX-forty the next morning, Randy was in the high-gee protection tank and breathing liquid, head encased in a virtual helmet and arms in gauntlets. The virtual screen in front of his eyes contained the icon of the persona for the computer of Rip van Winkle. It was a skinny, bearded old man with an extremely long beard and mustache.

  "The spacecraft is ready," said the icon in Dutch. "Shall I initiate the acceleration profile?"

  NEE RIP, typed Randy in reply, trying to remember the little Dutch he had picked up in his youth. I FLY IT.

  AFTER five weeks, the Rip van Winkle had reached 0.995 cee, and Rip interrupted a language lesson to pass on a warning from its safety monitor program.

  "The radiation level on the control deck has reached ten millirems per day," said Rip. "You have reached the maximum recommended limit for even urgent missions."

  HOW LONG BEFORE I REACH EARTH? typed Randy.

  "Fifteen months ship time and not quite twelve years Earth time," said Rip. "If you continue to accelerate you can cut the ship time somewhat, but you are so close to the speed of light you will not cut the Earth time by very much."

  Twelve years for an eleven-point-nine-light-year trip ... thought Randy. That's good enough. He pushed the virtual joyball down and the Rip van Winkle stabilized at a comfortable one gee while the stars passed quickly by. His yearnings for Rose turned into jealousy as he remembered the last time he saw her—wrapped in an indecent body-to-body hug around that know-it-all with the mustache. Hmmm ... Rose had liked that mustache ... perhaps he should grow one. He certainly had plenty of time to do it.

  A FEW weeks later, Randy found himself plowing his way through yet another detailed quarterly earnings report for Reinhold Company. The company was now so large and had so many divisions it was nearly impossible for one person to keep on top of it all—especially if that person was trying to do it from light-years away. Fortunately, Alan was there to manage things, but although he was a good bean-counter, he didn't have the innovative spirit and drive that was necessary to keep a high-tech business like Reinhold Astroengineering Company thriving.

  What I need to do is to clone myself, thought Randy. He then remembered that he did have a clone of himself back on Earth. But the bearded old fart had insisted that he was "retired". He puttered around in comfort in the Princeton Enclave mansion, "writing his memoirs", while Randy slaved away at the double job of running Reinhold Astroengineering Company and traveling through space at dangerous speeds to save himself.

  I wish I could retire, he thought. But somebody has got to keep the company going. Rip interrupted his thoughts with a message from the appointment calendar.

  "Your son will be eighteen next month," reminded Rip. "What shall I arrange for you to give him as a birthday present?"

  "Hmmm ..." Randy fiddled with his new mustache as he thought. Then he came up with an idea. "See if you can't connect me through to old fuzzface at the mansion. I have something I'd like to talk to him about ..."

  BY THE time Randy and the Silverhair were approaching the solar system, Randy had taught the Silverhair the samba and the Irish jig. Using the vocabulary Siritha had inserted in the ship's memory, Randy and the Silverhair had also learned to talk to each other, although in a limited way.

  "Sir was right, Sil," said Randy, holding a one-sided conversation with the Silverhair after a laborious exchange. "Talking with you is like trying to hold a serious conversation with a cuddly pet kitten. Here I am, trying to find out more about the Boötes Void and what other creatures might live there, and all you want to do is play zap-the-trainer or talk about bagpipe music. Although I've got to admit ... you imitate the bagpipes well."

  As Randy crossed the orbit of Neptune on his way back into the solar system, he was still traveling at seventeen percent of the speed of light, but by the time he had reached the Reinhold Space Station around Earth, his thirty-gee deceleration had brought his speed to zero. He was feeling apprehensive as he matched speeds with the space station that held the twin of his Silverhair.

  It's sort of like Rip van Winkle walking out of the hills back into his village after his long sleep.

  He shot out his cuff-comp and looked at the date. He had checked it earlier during his daily discussions with Alan about company business via the videolink through the Silverhair.

  Saturday the fifth of February in 2056, he thought. Say ... this is a leap year. I'll be having a real birthday in three weeks. He paused to figure. Gee ... I'll be all of eleven years old.

  The videoscreen blinked and an image appeared on the screen. It was Hiroshi Tanaka, now grey and getting along in age. Above Hiroshi's image was the date: Saturday 16 September 2079. Randy was sure he would never forget how strange he felt when he read that date.

  By making a round-trip journey from Earth to Epsidani to Tau Ceti and back, I've jumped over twenty-three and a half years of time!

  "Welcome home, Mr. Hunter," said Hiroshi. "We have been waiting for you. Alan, Siritha, and I are on our way over in a flitter to help you dilate the Silverhair for your trip back in time. Say ... that's an impressive mustache you've acquired."

  THE FLITTER robomechanics, their colorful manipulators flickering at high speed, extended a passageway that fit against the airlock, and the three visitors floated through. Alan was wearing the semiformal business jumpsuit that had long replaced the one-gee-dependent Earth suit for businessmen and women in space. The suit hadn't changed much with time. The lapels had grown wider again, the neck cloth was now a flowing bow instead of a choker, and cuffs were back in fashion. What was really striking, however, was the subdued, pearly-colored, holographic herringbone pattern that shimmered just below the surface of the fabric.

  They must have found some way to impress white-light holographic fringes right into the fabric, thought Randy as he looked at the ever-changing display.

  Siritha and Hiroshi were in their tightsuits, ready to enter the vacuum enclosure holding the Silverhair. Their tightsuits had their names in pearly letters, holographically floating a centimeter or so above their chests. Hiroshi and Siritha were carrying sealed metal boxes. Hiroshi had two green boxes and Siritha had a red one.

  "Where's Andrew?" asked Randy.

  There was a moment's silence. "He died last year," said Hiroshi. "Harold appointed me to take over his division."

  "Oh," said Randy. He shouldn't have been too surprised; Andrew would have been in his late sixties.

  "The new medical treatments that you brought back through time are marvelous things," said Siritha with a resigned shrug. "But they can't help much if you're an overweight meat-eating workaholic. Now, Alan there is taking good care of himself. He's only eighty-seven and has many more decades left."

  "She even has me eating vegeburgers most of the time," said Hiroshi wryly.

  Randy was puzzled by Siritha's remark about his bringing
medical treatments back through the timegate. He knew nothing of any treatments.

  "Let's go down and visit your Silverhair," said Siritha brightly, trying to break the somber mood.

  "You go ahead," said Alan. "I need to transmit some messages to Randolph first, and then he can join you." He shot his Rolex gold-and-titanium-grey cuff-comp from his sleeve. "Set your cuff-comp on receive," he told Randy. "You can read them later."

  "What are they about?" asked Randy.

  "Some welcome-home videos from your children and grandchildren," said Alan. "They realize that you can't spare time to visit Earth, and there wouldn't be room for them here. Most of the messages, however, are some amazing electrofaxes that recently arrived from the far future. You'll have to read them to believe them." Their cuff-comps chirped, indicating the end of the data transfer.

  "IT'S ALMOST open," said Siritha, pointing to the widening hole in the Silverhair. "Fortunately, you don't need to bother with a pod, since the Silverhairs at the two ends of the warpgate are at the same speed." She handed Randy the two green metal boxes.

  "Keep these with you," she said.

  "What's in them?" asked Randy.

  "Some things sort of like warpmouths, but they're called 'feeders'," said Siritha. "They came through the timegate from the future yesterday. According to the message we got along with them, it is essential that you have them. I have no idea what they're for."

  "I do." Randy nodded. They were the reason it had been essential that he come back to Earth. It would have been much easier for him to warp back into the past from Tau Ceti rather than having to fly all the way to Earth and make practically the same time jump from here.

  "You go first," said Siritha. "I'll be following right behind with the red box."

  "What's in that box?" asked Randy.

  "An artificial warpgate mouth," said Siritha. "The other end of it is set up in the space station over there. As soon as I take it through the Silverhair into the past, it will be an alternative timegate into the future in parallel with the Silverhairs. We can then let the Silverhairs retire and enjoy their celebrity status."

  "Celebrity status?" said Randy.

  "Their first video with the Deadly Scum was such a success, they have produced four more," said Siritha. "The latest one is going osmium."

  "Osmium?" said Randy, rapidly getting lost.

  "A billion copies sold," said Siritha. "The Silverhair Trust Fund is making money faster than the Silverhairs can spend it."

  "What do they need money for?" asked Randy, now thoroughly bewildered.

  "Buying evacuated globes with electrostatic levitation systems so they can visit the surface of Earth—plus the costs of shipping the globes around in cargo craft," she said. "A Highland Game is not complete without a Silverhair playing along with the bagpipe band, and next month a Silverhair is going to conduct the Tokyo Orchestra in a performance of one of its own compositions, Black Sphere. It is an attempt to get across in atonal music the vast nothingness of the Boötes Void."

  "I'll be ..." Randy was impressed with the capabilities of the aliens despite their limited language skills. "I was going to put them out to pasture in the asteroid belt, but it looks like they're taking good care of themselves. Say ... did you ever really learn how to communicate properly with them?"

  "I consider myself the world's expert in Silverese," said Siritha. "But who wants to spend the rest of their life talking to the alien equivalent of rambunctious zap-clawed kittens—even if they are supertalented billionaire musicians?"

  "The timegate is open, Mr. Hunter," said Hiroshi from his position at the laser beam expander.

  "I'll be coming through, then," said Randy. Holding the two green boxes in front of him, he positioned himself inside the hollow, cylindrical laser beam that was boring a hole in the Silverhair, and floated through.

  On the other side of the timegate were Andrew Pope, Siritha Chandresekhar, Hiroshi Tanaka, and a few technicians. Randy experienced a slight shock when he saw Andrew alive. He was wondering how it would hit Siritha when she came through, although he was sure she would be more bothered by seeing her younger self and realizing how old and grey she had become.

  Fortunately, Andrew left the Silverhair chamber with Randy before Siritha floated through. After changing into business jumpsuits in the dressing room, Andrew took him to the main part of the space station where the rotation supplied a firm footing of one gee. Andrew stopped at a door.

  "Your family and the older version of you are on the other side of that door."

  "Hold these," said Randy, handing him the two green boxes. They went through the door and Randy was immediately smothered with kisses from Rose and thirteen-year-old Rosey.

  Rosey stepped back, giggling and rubbing her cheek. "That tickles, Daddy!" she squealed. Rose stayed in his arms and Randy gave her a long kiss. Over her shoulder, he could see the bearded man looking annoyed. Randy deliberately prolonged the kiss to bug the old geezer even more. The bearded man finally broke up the clinch by coming over to shake hands.

  "Hello, young man," he said. "Glad to see you got this far in good time, at least."

  After releasing Rose, Randy went over to his towering nineteen-year-old son, who was standing to one side with Alan. "How's business, son?" he said, shaking his hand and reaching up to slap him on the shoulder.

  "Pretty good, Dad," said Junior. "Mr. Davidson has been tutoring me for the past year in corporate finance." He turned and gestured to the bearded man standing with Rose. "And ... ah ... Dad ... has helped by arranging a series of technical briefings by the senior scientists."

  "Even though he's only just turned nineteen, he's been doing a good job for the past year as president of Reinhold Astroengineering Company," said the bearded man proudly. "He even started a new Nanobiology Division recently."

  "Nanobiology?" Randy repeated.

  "Nanotechnology is finally going to become real after decades of failure," said the bearded man. "What Harold realized is that instead of approaching the problem from the viewpoint of an engineer, you should make the nanomachines out of the components that biology uses—carbohydrate molecules—but don't include all the evolutionary baggage of normal carbohydrate life-forms—like cellular structure and junk DNA."

  "Say, that's a good idea!" said Randy. Junior gave a pleased smile at the compliment.

  After the conversation had gone on for a while, Andrew looked at the time on his cuff-comp. "The next rotovator that connects to the space station holding the Tau Ceti warpgate will be arriving shortly," he reminded them.

  "I guess I better say good-bye," said Randy. "Got to go off and rescue the kid in his mansion in the sky." He gave Rosey a big hug and Rose another long kiss—interrupted by a loud "Ahem!" from the bearded man. Then he shook hands with the men, ending with his son.

  "I'll be keeping in touch through the videolink," he said. "But I'm glad to know the company is in good hands." He took his two green metal boxes from Andrew and followed him back down the corridor.

  AT THE Reinhold Space Station holding the Tau Ceti gate, the capsule bringing Randy in from the interstation rotovator had to pick its way through the heavy traffic flowing into the openings in the sphere at the central hub of the rotating space station.

  "The warpgate to Tau Ceti opened only seven months ago," said Andrew. "So most of the traffic is outward while we build up the transportation infrastructure."

  The capsule docked at the space station, and Andrew led Randy down one corridor and up another, with the gee level varying from normal to zero.

  "When do we get to the warpgate?" asked Randy.

  Andrew gave a startled look and burst out laughing. "We went through the warpgate from Sol to Tau Ceti two corridors ago. I should have stopped and mentioned it at the time." They came to a door. "This is the airlock leading to the ship you are going to use to fly to meet Timemaster."

  Randy went to a porthole and looked out. Sure enough, the planet they were orbiting was not Earth. In the past
few minutes he had traveled five short corridors and twelve long light-years. He looked to the right and saw his ship. It was a Reinhold freighter with a greatly elongated cargo hold. The name was visible on the nose: John Wayne.

  "Are the tanks in the hold loaded?" he asked.

  "Everything is ready as you instructed," Andrew assured him.

  BEFORE an hour had passed, the John Wayne had been moved off a distance from the Tau Ceti base station, and Randy was in the high-gee protection tank and breathing liquid, head encased in a virtual helmet and arms in gauntlets. The virtual screen in front of his eyes contained the icon of the persona for the computer of the John Wayne, it was a rugged-looking cowboy with a confident grin on his face.

  "The stagecoach is ready," said the icon in a western twang. "Shall I crack the whip?"

  NOPE, MARION, Randy typed. I'LL DRIVE IT.

  "OK, pardner," said the icon. "But don't call me Marion. The name's Duke."

  Randy rotated the imaginary joyball with his virtual glove until the icon of the spacecraft was lined up with the faint green line that pointed at Epsilon Eridani. He pulled up on the joyball and the acceleration rose until the ship reached a steady thirty gees.

  ON THE way out, Randy had time to read the letters that Alan had transferred to his cuff-comp. Alan was right; they were nearly unbelievable. Most of them were invitations for him to be guest of honor at celebrations commemorating the opening of the first timegate in 2056. There were invitations from 2156, 2256, 2356, 2556, 3056, and even as far ahead as 5056. The phrasing of the last one was rather awkward, as if the language had changed so much that even the machine translators had difficulty translating the original version of the invitation into proper 2056 English. The thought of how strange the world would be that far in the future gave Randy the shivers.

  The most amazing of the letters, however, was one dated 2133 from the director of the Hunter Institute for Aging Research.