not for the paradox of the multiplication of the protagonist. Let us imagine the
following situation: The protagonist is located in a given space at moment
A. Half an hour later, he gets in a time machine and returns thirty minutes into
the past, precisely at moment A. At that instant, now, there are two pro-
tagonists at the same place, who are completely identical in every other way
except one: one of them is half an hour older than the other, meaning that
their individual times are thirty minutes different. Nothing is preventing such
replicas of the first version of the protagonist from appearing in unlimited
numbers, and the difference between their individual times could increase to
any value within the normal human lifespan. In such a situation, since
ultimately one and the same protagonist is in question, it is no longer clear
which of his differing individual times should be chosen as authoritative.
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Z. Živkovic
Linear causality, thus, is inapplicable to the situation that results from the
chronomotive premises about movement from the future toward the past. In
other words, in the temporal labyrinth there is no wall that we could follow
and thus certainly find the way from entrance to exit. In that case, how does
one find one’s way around in it? Is there some alternative linear causality which
could eliminate the aforementioned paradoxes and remove the dead-end
street?
Yet, is this question, perhaps, faulty from the outset? Perhaps science fiction
has no ambition whatsoever to eliminate paradoxes and remove dead-end
streets. Perhaps SF really wants to have them. Finally, regardless of the prefix
“science”, it is still fiction. Didn’t one famous fantasy writer lucidly observe
that sometimes the path to the goal is more important, the labyrinth more
important than the exit, the paradox more important than a clear solution, and
the dead-end street more important than the wide avenue? Because, if every-
thing could be reduced to causality, we would have, to be honest, a mathe-
matically perfect world, but it would be quite difficult to say that great art is
one of its virtues.
Translated from the Serbian by Randall A. Major
5
Annotations 1
Science fiction has made two major contributions to the thematic treasury of
the art of prose: time travel and first contact. Both these themes had already
appeared in the opus of one of the founding fathers of the SF genre, Herbert
George Wells: time travel in The Time Machine (1895) and first contact in The
War of the Worlds (1898).
As for time travel, Wells brought out the main literary value of this theme:
human drama. If it is intense enough, it can camouflage the inevitable
paradoxes that pop up everywhere in a chronomotion story, threatening to
ruin its delicate narrative coherence.
With regard to first contact Wells established a model for the non-human
protagonist: invaders who come to Earth to conquer its human inhabitants.
This model reflected our profound fear of the menacing vastness of space,
potentially full of unknown threats. The idea of malevolent extraterrestrials
was very present in the first half of the 20th century, in both SF literature and
cinematography.
Only in the 1950s did there begin to appear, rather timidly, literary
works in which the Others were more or less benevolent: missionaries rather
than invaders. It took us even longer to realize that there was a third
possibility—that the Others might be neither good nor bad, but indifferent.
When we imagine Others, in our SF works, as either invaders or mission-
aries, either good or bad, we always anthropomorphize them. We tailor them
to our own measures. We project our own motivations on them. But it is only
really safe to suppose that they are fundamentally different from us, entities
with inconceivable motivations, far outside our anthropomorphic norms.
© Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018
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Z. Živkovic
If this is so, then we have to face a crucial question: do we even have the
mental ability to imagine genuinely heterogeneous entities? Others which
would not be in the least anthropomorphic?
This question was the pivotal one in my MA thesis. I examined it through
the SF opus of Arthur C. Clarke because it contained works that were
exemplary, both for differentiating various types of anthropomorphism and
for establishing how far one can go in imagining first contact between humans
and a truly heterogeneous entity.
Many of Clarke’s first contact novels and stories were not taken into account
in my thesis. This was because they were not relevant to my investigation. For
example, in Clarke’s two major first contact novels—2001: A Space Odyssey
(1968) and Rendezvous with Rama (1973)—there are no Others at all, only
their artefacts. In his letter to me, written after he had read my essay on the first contact theme in his SF works, Clarke expressed surprise that I hadn’t mentioned
his story “Rescue Party”. It is indeed an excellent first contact story, but again, not relevant to my study.
Clarke’s novel Childhood’s End (1953) is another fine example of his first
contact works. I did not mention this either in my MA thesis, although it is
one of the first books in the history of science fiction in which benevolent
aliens appear. I was, however, interested in it because of another theme it dealt
with: Utopia. Although much older than science fiction, the utopian theme
was generally considered SF “property” in the 20th century.
To conclude, the essay section of this book contains my early works, mostly
written about 40 years ago and covering two themes unique to science fiction:
first contact and time travel. I find the fact that they are still readable (and
publishable) after nearly half a century rather flattering. But they are not my
last word on these themes. I returned to them much later in life when I became
a writer myself. Because there are things one can only say as a writer.
Annotations 1
57
An Arthur C. Clarke’s private letter to Zoran Živkovic
58
Z. Živkovic
An Arthur C. Clarke letter published in the May 2002 issue (p. 4) of Interzone
Part II
Fiction
6
The Bookshop
The fog, as usual, set in swiftly.
Only a few minutes had passed since the last time I’d raised my eyes from
the computer screen and looked out of the bookshop’s large display window.
In the early twilight I had been able to see buildings on the other side of the
river quite clearly, speckled with the first evening lights. Now everything had
suddenly disappeared in the thick greyness; not only the opposite bank but
also the long row of horse chestnut trees extending along the quay on this side
of the river, just a few steps away. Although this transformation had taken
place almost every evening since the middle of autumn, it n
ever ceased to
fascinate me. One moment the world was there, real, visible, tangible; then, in
what seemed like the twinkling of an eye it would magically dissolve in the
humid breath of the river spirits.
I could have closed the bookshop and gone home. For days no one had
entered the shop after the fog rose. In autumn the river reversed its genial
summer personality. When the weather was warm, the promenade under the
horse chestnut trees was thronged till late in the evening. Then I would often
stay open until midnight and sometimes even later, until the last customer had
finally finished leafing through what I hoped would shortly be his book. The
customer has always come first in this bookshop. But now I remained in the
shop not only because the shop hours posted on the door obliged me to. I did
not have a computer at home, and it seemed somehow inappropriate for me to
write science fiction in the old-fashioned way, pen to paper.
“The Bookshop.” Written in 2000. Originally published in Serbian in 2000 as “Knjižara” in Nemoguci susreti/Impossible Encounters, Polaris, Belgrade, Serbia.
© Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018
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Z. Živkovic
But tonight I was not to be allowed to return my attention to the screen. My
eyes were still gazing, unfocussed, at the wall of mist on the other side of the
window, when a figure took shape in front of the entrance, seeming to
materialize out of nowhere. Its sudden appearance, unannounced by any
footsteps on the pavement—unless, lost in thought, I had simply not heard
them—made me start. Fog is apt to produce such eerie surprises, and I disliked
it almost as much for that as for taking away my customers.
The man who came in was small and slight, with a short, sparse beard and
wire-rimmed glasses. Although he appeared youthful, his grizzled sideburns
and the silver streaks in his beard, particularly on his double chin, strongly
suggested that he had passed the half-century mark. I have a good memory for
faces, so one glance was enough to tell me that I had never seen him here
before.
It must have been rather cold outside, for no sooner had the visitor entered
the heated air of the bookshop than moisture condensed on his glasses, fogging
them up completely. He stood by the door without moving, seeming to stare
fixedly at me through large, empty eyes of unearthly blankness.
I pressed two keys at the same time, saving the text. This was not really
necessary, as I had made no changes since the previous save, but that is what I
always do, automatically, whenever there is about to be a break in work.
“Good evening,” I said. “The fog is really thick tonight.”
The man took off his glasses. He rummaged for a while through his long,
green coat until he found a crumpled white handkerchief in an inside pocket
and started to wipe his glasses. His movements were brisk and impatient, and
left patches of condensation by the edges of the frame when he put them
back on.
“This is a science fiction bookshop.” It was somewhere between a question
and a statement. There was something strange about the way he drew out his
vowels, as if he were a foreigner who had learned the language well, but still
hadn’t quite mastered the proper accent.
“That’s right,” I replied with a smile, “Polaris. At your service. If it weren’t
for this terrible fog you wouldn’t have to ask. There’s a large neon sign above
the entrance, but what good is it now? I paid a ton of money for it, but they
forgot to tell me that it’s completely useless in the fog. It would probably be
better to turn it off. Drives customers away more than it attracts them. Even
when you’re right under it, it just looks like a bright, shiny rebus.”
Still standing by the door, the visitor began to look around the shop. He
slowly skimmed the shelves full of books and magazines, appearing somewhat
bewildered, as though he had entered some amazing place, and not an ordinary
bookshop at all. That is to say, maybe not exactly ordinary, since science
The Bookshop
63
fiction bookshops are a bit unusual, but they don’t generally induce such
bewilderment.
“I’m looking for a...work of science fiction,” said the man, after his eyes had
finally reached the counter with the cash register and computer, next to the
display window, where I was sitting. His voice sounded hesitant, as though he
had trouble choosing his words.
“Then you’ve come to the right address,” I replied cordially. “We offer a
wide selection of science fiction—new editions and secondhand. We really
pride ourselves on them. We’ve got some truly old books. Real rarities you
won’t find anywhere else. And should we happen to be temporarily out of what
you want, we can get it very quickly. In two or three days at most.”
The visitor finally moved away from the door and headed towards the
counter. He stopped uncertainly when he got close to me, as though not
knowing what to do with himself. I got a sudden whiff of a fresh, outdoorsy
smell. It immediately brought to mind newly mown grass. The man must use a
deodorant based on plant extracts.
“The work I’m looking for is in this bookshop,” he said. His tone had lost its
previous uncertainty and become self-confident. Even more than that: he said
it in a voice that would brook no objection. “And it’s not old at all. Quite the
contrary, it’s just been written.”
“In that case,” I replied, “it must be here.” I got up from my chair and
headed towards the shelf where I kept the latest editions. “Here you are.”
Seven narrow rows contained some fifty books that had been published in
the last several months. Science fiction was on the upswing again. This time
last year those shelves had held barely fifteen volumes. I reached towards the
middle shelf and pulled out a rather small book with a shiny cover.
“This is our most recent acquisition—Impossible Encounters. Might this be
what you are looking for?”
The customer briefly examined the book in my hand, then shook his head.
“No, that’s not it.”
“I suggest you have a look at the other books. These are all recent editions.”
I left the visitor in front of the shelf and returned to the counter. People
don’t like you to hover round while they leaf through a book. It gives them an
unpleasant feeling of being under surveillance.
My eyes dropped to the screen, with its tangle of words. The story I was
writing was practically finished. All that was left was to read it once again and
polish it up here and there. I would have had no trouble doing so in the
solitude I’d expected until I closed the shop. Now that solitude had been
interrupted, but I hoped the man would quickly find what he was looking for
so that I could resume my concentration on the text. I could not, of course,
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Z. Živkovic
work while he was there. Not knowing
what else to do while I waited, I pushed
the ‘save’ keys once more.
My fingers were still on the keyboard when the visitor came up to me again.
At first I thought he’d found the book he wanted, but when I raised my eyes I
saw that his hands were empty.
“It’s not there,” he said.
“You’ve already looked at everything?” I asked, unable to conceal a note of
disbelief.
“Yes, there are only forty-eight books,” he replied in an even tone. If he’d
noticed the surprise in my voice, he did nothing to show it.
I gazed briefly at the man in front of me, and then at the shelf with new
editions. “Why, yes,” I said at last, “only forty-eight.”
“Where else could I look?” he asked rather quickly.
“If it’s a really new book, then that’s the only place it could be. I don’t keep
them anywhere else. The other shelves contain older editions. Which book are
you looking for? If you tell me the title, I can help you find it.”
“Title?” The visitor squinted in dismay through his glasses, which were now
dry. “I don’t know the title.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I hastened to assure him. This was by no means a rare
occurrence. I encountered variously incomplete requests almost every day.
“The writer’s name will be enough. That will make it easy for us to find the
book.”
The man took his handkerchief out of his pocket once again and wiped the
top of his forehead. He was clearly dressed too warmly for indoor tempera-
tures, and beads of sweat had started to break out. I was assailed by another
outdoor smell. Instead of mown grass it was some wildflower this time, but I
couldn’t determine which.
“I don’t know the author’s name.” A look of unease crossed his face.
I sighed inwardly. Any chance of finishing work on my story that evening
was receding. This was likely to take some time.
“Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable,” I suggested. “It’s rather
warm in here, and it may take us a while to find this work, with its unknown
title and unknown author. You can leave your coat on the hook by the door.”
The visitor shook his head briskly. “No, no. I can’t take off my coat. I don’t
have much time. It’s an urgent matter. I have to find the work as soon as
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