by Allen Steele
Monday, January 14, 1998: 8:06 A.M.
Like so many physicists, David Zachary Murphy had fallen in love with science by reading science fiction.
His love affair began when he was ten years old and saw Star Trek on TV. That sent him straight to his elementary-school library, where in turn he discovered, tucked in among more conventional fare like The Wind in the Willows and Johnny Tremain, a half dozen lesser-known books: Rocket Ship Galileo, Attack from Atlantis, Islands in the Sky, and the Lucky Starr series by someone named Paul French. He read everything in a few weeks, then reread them a couple more times, before finally bicycling to a nearby branch library, where he found more sophisticated fare: I, Robot; Double Star; Needle in a Timestack; Way Station; and other classics of the genre.
By the time David Murphy reached the sixth grade, not only was he reading at college freshman level, but he was also taking a sharp interest in science, so much so that he regularly confounded his teachers by asking questions they couldn’t answer, such as the definition of a parsec. For Christmas, his bemused yet proud parents gave him a hobby telescope; when he caught a flu after spending one too many winter evenings in the backyard, his mother brought back from the neighborhood drugstore, along with Robitussin and orange juice, a magazine she happened to spot on the rack just below the new issue of Look: the January, 1969, issue of Analog. It seemed to be just the sort of thing her strange young son would like, and it might help keep him in bed.
David recovered from the flu two days later, but he faked sick for another school day so he could finish reading every story in the magazine. One of them was the first installment of a three-part serial by Gordon R. Dickson, Wolfling; for the next two weeks, he haunted the pharmacy newsstand until the February issue finally appeared. Not only did it have the second part of Wolfling, but it also contained, as the cover story, a novelette by Anne McCaffrey, “A Womanly Talent.” An insightful observer might have noted, in retrospect, that the lissome young lady depicted in Frank Kelly Freas’s cover painting for this story bore a strong resemblance to the woman David would eventually marry, yet that may have only been a coincidence.
For the next twenty-nine years of his life, David Murphy remained a devoted reader of Analog, seldom missing an issue, never disposing of any after he read them. On occasion he picked up some of the other science fiction magazines—Galaxy, If, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Vertex—but it was only in Analog, in some indescribable way, that he found the sort of thing he liked to read. He went through high school with a copy tucked in among his textbooks—no small matter, for during the seventies it was far more socially acceptable to smoke pot than to be caught reading science fiction—and when he was in college and faced a choice between a meal or the latest issue, he would sooner go hungry before passing up on what he called “his Analog fix.” After he met Donna during his third semester of his postgrad tenure at Cornell, on the first night she spent with him she was astonished to find a dozen issues of Analog beneath the bed of his small apartment. She was even more amused the first time he took her home to visit his mother for Christmas, and she found boxes upon boxes of science fiction magazines stacked in the attic.
It was during this time, while he was working on his Ph.D. in astrophysics, that David attempted to write science fiction. It didn’t take very long—only a couple of dozen reject slips, garnered not only from Analog but also Asimov’s, Omni, and F&SF—for him to realize that, no matter how much he enjoyed reading SF, he had absolutely no talent for creating it. Not that he couldn’t write at all—in fact, one of his dissertation advisors, no less than the estimable Carl Sagan, often remarked on his innate writing skills—yet the art of fiction was beyond him; his dialogue was tone-deaf, his characters wooden, his plots contrived and reliant upon unlikely coincidences. This wasn’t very heartbreaking; writing was little more than a hobby, and certainly not a passion. Nonetheless, his secret ambition was to have his name appear in the same magazine he had followed since he was a kid. Even after he received his doctorate and was happily married to Donna, with a ten-month-old baby in his arms and a new job at NASA waiting for him, he considered his life to be incomplete until he was published in Analog.
Then, late one afternoon while sitting out a Beltway traffic jam with nothing but All Things Considered on the radio to keep him company, Murphy had a brainstorm. He may not have much talent as a fiction writer, but he wasn’t half-bad at nonfiction. After all, he had already published three articles in major astrophysics journals; it might be possible for him to turn those same skills to writing pop-science articles. Indeed, he knew several working scientists who moonlighted as regular contributors to Astronomy and Discover. Why couldn’t he do the same with Analog?
After dinner that evening, Murphy sat down in his study and, very methodically, made a list of ideas for articles he could see himself writing for Analog. It was remarkably easy; as a lifelong reader, he had a good grasp of what the magazine published, and as a NASA researcher he was able to keep up with the latest developments in the space science community.
At the top of the list was “Spacewarp Drives—Are They Possible?” This was followed by “Three Ways to Terraform Mars,” “Biostasis for Interstellar Travel,” “New Space Suit Designs,” “How to Grow Tomatoes on the Moon,” so forth and so on … and at the bottom of the list, added almost as an afterthought, was: “UFOs—A Different Explanation (Time Travel).”
Much to his surprise, Analog bought his article about spacewarp drives. The check he received for six weeks of part-time work amounted to a little less than half of his weekly take-home pay from NASA, but that wasn’t the point. Nine months later, when the article finally saw print, Murphy blew away the money by getting a baby-sitter to look after Steven and taking Donna to the best five-star restaurant in Georgetown. He proudly showed his advance copy to everyone from the maître’d to the cab driver, and Donna was embarrassed when he got mildly drunk and suggested that they have sex in the ladies room, but it was all worth it. His life was complete. He had been published in Analog.
Few of his colleagues saw the article. This didn’t surprise Murphy; during the last three years he had learned that all too many NASA employees were civil-service drudges who cared nothing for space and would have gladly gone to work at the Department of Agriculture or the IRS for a few more dollars and a reserved parking space in the garage. Yet a handful of people in the Space Science office were Analog readers; they recognized his by-line, and they stopped by his office to offer their compliments. Among them was Harry Cummisky; much to Murphy’s surprise, Harry not only liked the piece, but he also gave him permission to do research during office hours, so long as it didn’t interfere with his work.
That response, along with favorable letters published several months later in the magazine, was sufficient encouragement to send Murphy back to the keyboard. Over the course of the next four years, he became a semiregular contributor to Analog. The checks he received were deposited in Steven’s college fund, but earning a little extra cash wasn’t the major reason why he wrote. Besides the satisfaction of the craft itself, on occasion he found himself exchanging correspondence with science fiction authors who had read his articles and wanted to ask a few questions for stories they were developing. Likewise, his stock at NASA gradually rose. After his article on human biostasis was published, Harry sent him down to Huntsville to lecture on the subject at the Marshall Space Flight Center; a few months later he and his family were invited to Cape Canaveral to watch a shuttle launch from the VIP area. He became regarded within NASA headquarters as a member of the brain trust.
Then he wrote an article linking UFOs to time travel, and that’s when the shit hit the fan.
“This is … ah, it’s an intriguing theory.” Roger Ordmann slipped off his wire-frame glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket to clean the lenses. “Rather unorthodox, but intriguing nonetheless.”
“And you have evidence for this?” Kent Morris had his copy of Analo
g open on the boardroom table.
“Well … no. But it isn’t a theory.” Murphy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Kind of a thought experiment, really. This is a science fiction magazine, after all. This kind of speculation goes on all the …”
“I understand that,” Morris said impatiently, “but here, in your footnotes …” He peered at the last page of the article. “You’ve cited a NASA study on wormholes …”
“A paper from an academic conference held last spring on interstellar travel. I found it on the Web.”
“I know. I read it after I read your piece.” Morris frowned as he tapped a finger against the magazine. “The paper says nothing about time travel, let alone any connection with UFOs. You’ve drawn upon it to reach some rather far-fetched conclusions.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy stole a glance at Cummisky. Harry wasn’t looking directly at anyone; his hands were folded together in his lap. He had remained silent so far, offering no comment, and Murphy had gradually come to the realization that Harry’s main concern was covering his own ass. There was no way his boss would rise to his defense.
“They’re far-fetched, I’ll admit,” Murphy said, “but they’re not inappropriate.”
Ordmann looked up sharply, and Morris raised a skeptical eyebrow. Cummisky softly let out his breath. Too late, Murphy realized that he had said the wrong thing. “What I mean is, I don’t think …”
“Please.” Ordmann held up a hand. “Perhaps we should back up a little, summarize what we know so far.” He put on his glasses again, picked up his copy of Analog. “David, on your own initiative, you’ve written an article for this … uh, sci-fi magazine … which claims that the UFOs aren’t from another planet, but instead may be time machines.”
“I didn’t make any such claim, sir. I merely speculated that …”
“Let me finish, please. Your main point is that, since there’s no feasible way for small spacecraft to cross interstellar distances, and since the star systems most likely to contain planets capable of harboring intelligent life are dozens of light-years from Earth, the only reasonable explanation for UFOs is that they’re vehicles somehow capable of generating wormholes, which in turn would enable their passengers to travel backward in time. Therefore, UFOs may have originated on Earth, but from hundreds of years in the future. That’s the gist of it, right?”
From across the table, Morris regarded him much as if he was one of the fanatics who haunted Lafayette Park across from the White House, holding up signs demanding the release of the Roswell aliens from Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Harry sank lower in his seat, if that was at all possible.
“Yes, sir,” Murphy said, “but, like I said, it’s an entirely speculative proposition. I mean, I don’t think this is what’s happening. I’m only suggesting … extrapolating, that is, that …”
“I understand.” Unexpectedly, Ordmann smiled, with no trace of condescension. “As I said, it’s an intriguing idea. If someone in Hollywood made a movie out of it, it’d probably be a hit.” He chuckled and shook his head. “If I were you, I’d write a screenplay and send it to Steven Spielberg. Maybe he’d buy it for a few million dollars.” His smile faded. “But that’s not the point. You’ve written this article as a NASA scientist …”
“Pardon me, sir,” Murphy interrupted, “but I didn’t present my credentials in the article. There’s nothing in the piece which states that I work for the agency …”
“I understand that,” Ordmann said. “Nevertheless, you’re a senior NASA scientist. That lends a certain amount of credibility to your theory … or speculation, as you call it.”
Murphy was about to object, only to be headed off by Morris. “I went back and read your earlier pieces,” the Public Affairs chief said. “On two separate occasions, you made mention of the fact that you’re a physicist working for NASA. Although you don’t present your credentials in this particular article, many of them are bound to remember your affiliation with the agency.”
“Right. And there’s the problem.” Ordmann closed the magazine, placed it on the table. “David, I can take you downstairs to the mailroom and show you how many crackpot letters we receive each month. People claiming the Apollo program was canceled because we found cities on the Moon, that shuttle astronauts have seen flying saucers in orbit, that we’re covering up everything from alien invasions to the Kennedy assassination. That sort of thing’s been going on since the Mercury days, and hasn’t let up since.”
The Associate Administrator sighed as he removed his glasses once more. “This is why NASA has no official position on UFOs, other than to state that we’re not actively engaged in researching them. Even unofficially, we say that they don’t exist. Son, if a flying saucer landed in front of the White House and the Post called to ask for my opinion, I’d say it wasn’t there. That’s how carefully we have to play this sort of thing.”
Although he nodded, Murphy remained unconvinced. His previous articles had touched on subjects nearly as farfetched. Indeed, in his piece on lunar agriculture, he had playfully suggested that marijuana could be potentially useful as a cash crop. No one had complained about that. Yet any public discussion of UFOs appeared to be off-limits.
There was no sense in arguing the point, though. “I see,” he said. “I’m sorry if this has embarrassed the agency. That wasn’t my intent.”
Ordmann smiled. “I’m sure that wasn’t the idea, David. And believe me, I don’t want to do anything that would stifle your creativity. When Kent brought this to my attention, I asked Harry to let me see some of the other things you’ve done. You’re a pretty good writer.” He chuckled a little. “You know, back when I was a kid, I used to read this magazine when it was still called Astounding. It was one of the things that got me interested in space. I’m glad to see that one of our people has this connection. It’s a good way of touching base with the public.”
Then he shook his head. “But I can’t let you go off half-cocked like this. Have you done any other articles lately?”
“Is there anything else awaiting publication?” Morris asked more pointedly.
“No, sir,” Murphy replied. “I’ve been a little too busy lately to do much writing.” Which was only a half-truth. Although he had been involved with analyzing the data received from the Galileo space probe, he had also been collecting notes on the same for an article he hoped to pitch to Analog. Perhaps he should come clean. “I’ve been thinking about doing a piece about Jupiter,” he added. “What Galileo tells us about the possibility of life in the Jovian system, that sort of thing.”
Morris ran a hand across his brow. There was no mistaking the look on his face: Christ, here we go again. Ordmann didn’t seem to notice, yet he frowned slightly. “Well, if and when you write that piece … or any other articles, for that matter … I want you to forward a copy to Kent, just to let him see what you’re doing.”
“Send it to me before you submit.” Morris glared across the table at Murphy. “And let me know if it’s going anywhere else other than this magazine. Understand?”
Murphy’s stomach turned to glass. For him, writing was an intimate experience; he never let anyone, not even Donna, see what he was doing before it was published. Being mandated to show his work to someone before he sent it away was like being told that he had to set up a camcorder in the bedroom. Yet the Associate Administrator had just laid down the law, with no hope of compromise.
“I understand, sir,” he said quietly.
Ordmann smiled sympathetically. “David, you’re a fine writer. I don’t want to do anything that puts a crimp in your creativity. But you’ve got to contain some of your wilder ideas … or at least while you’re working for NASA.”
And that was the bottom line, wasn’t it? For all Roger Ordmann cared, David Zachary Murphy could write that the President was under mind control by aliens from Alpha Centauri and that the Air Force had a fleet of starships hidden at the Nevada Test Range … but the moment he did so, he was out on the
street. The last thing NASA HQ would tolerate was an in-house crank.
“I understand, sir,” Murphy repeated.
Harry exhaled as if he had been underwater for the last five minutes. He wasn’t going to lose his job today. Morris looked like a hyena gloating over a giraffe carcass. “Well, then … I’m glad we’ve got this settled.” Ordmann pushed back his chair, glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late for a budget meeting on the Hill. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Murphy.”
Then he was out the door, where a female aide anxiously waited for him, attaché case in hand. Harry mumbled something about making a phone call, then he hastily stood up and exited the conference room. Out in the hall, Murphy heard him taking the opportunity to shake hands with Ordmann and thank him profusely for his time and patience. Never too late to curry favor, he reflected sourly.
Which left him, for the moment, alone with Morris. At first, the Public Affairs chief studiously avoided meeting his eye as he folded his notebook and gathered his papers. Then he picked up the copy of Analog and his gaze lingered on the cover art, a Vincent Di Fate painting of an astronaut spacewalking outside a large spacecraft.
“You really like this sci-fi stuff, don’t you?” he asked.
“Been reading it all my life.” Murphy kept his voice even. Like most lifelong science fiction fans, he despised the word “sci-fi.”
Morris shook his head. “Not for me,” he murmured. “Too unbelievable. I prefer real stories.” He dropped the magazine on the table. “Kinda like The X-Files, though. That’s pretty good.” He turned toward the door. “Anyway, keep in touch.”
Murphy waited until he was gone, then he picked up the discarded Analog. Leafing through the magazine, he noted that several passages of his article had been highlighted with a yellow marker.
For some reason, he found himself oddly flattered. At least Morris had bothered to read the piece. Too bad he hadn’t understood a word.
