The Winds of Change and Other Stories

by Isaac Asimov

  Her mission! Was that an incredible oversight? Or pure innocence? She was barely five feet tall - but would height prevent her from--) Sando Sanssen was looking impatiently about. 'You, Miss Metro, how much longer?'

  'We'll be through soon, Mr Sanssen. Is there anything you particularly want to see?'

  'The power station. I'm an electrical engineer, woman, and I am not interested in grainfields and fish pools.'

  'I'm not sure', said Elaine, soothingly, 'if the hub is open to tourists--'

  'I am not a tourist,' said Sanssen, heavily. 'I am an official of my government.'

  'Yes, of course. We are on our way up a spoke to visit a hospital area. Gamma is proud of its medical facilities and we would very much like for you to see it. While there, I will inquire for permission to enter the hub.'

  Sanssen nodded, but didn't look much mollified.

  There was a hospital area in each spoke, six altogether. This one was higher up the spoke than the others since it dealt with low-gravity biological research.

  All five of the tourists seemed at ease at low gravity, which was now little more than quarter-normal. Medjim Nabellan stumbled once but that seemed mere circumstance. Sanssen looked outraged at moving higher than he expected at one point, and came down with a clatter, but did not fall. But then, even Elaine sometimes forgot and took a giant step.

  'I think you'll all be interested', she said, 'in the low-gravity research we are doing here. That's one line of investigation that can't be carried on back on Earth at all, and while all the Orbital Worlds are active in this field, none has gone as far as Gamma. We are entering the laboratories now and there will be research assistants to describe the research and answer your questions. - Oh, Mr Sanssen.'

  'Yes?'

  'I just wanted to point out to you that we are only four hundred metres from the hub. Now, I will try to get you an entry permit' - they were alone now, the others having vanished into the hospital area - 'at Government Centre, which is, of course, at the other side of the World.'

  She gestured - and her heart beat high at his response. That had to be it.

  But there was no way in which she could keep her new knowledge from flooding her eyes and Sanssen saw it - and probably realized the mistake he had made. It was as if he suddenly dropped his role.

  'One moment, girl,' he said, with no trace whatever of his Deltan accent. He moved towards her in a rush.

  She evaded him like a matador side-slipping a bull with minimum motion. She couldn't, somehow, unblock her throat to call for help. - Would he dare kill her? How would he explain her body? Or must nothing stand in the way of his mission? Would he kill her and then rush on to do what had to be done?

  He turned and lunged, but his foot slipped on ground made far more slippery than usual by low gravity. Elaine turned on tiptoe and sidled past him in a low-gravity manoeuvre with which she was well acquainted. He missed by a greater margin this time.

  He stopped, turned, edged slowly between her and the door, threw off his hat and, tearing open the static seam that held his blouse together, threw that off, too. He was hard-muscled and strong and his face was grim. He had a matter of minutes to get rid of her before someone came, and he looked as though he were ready.

  She could call out now but, for the moment, she dared not waste the breath for it. She kepi her eyes on him as she swayed this way and that, playing him carefully. He was being equally careful, no longer disregarding the low gravity.

  He moved forwards in small steps, but she drifted away, watching, watching. She shifted direction and moved forward in a longer glide, then whirled behind him and pushed. He flailed forward but caught himself and was between her and the door again.

  And then she tried to get to the door for one minute longer than was safe, for his hand snaked out and seized her arm.

  For a moment, they stood in tense stillness, and then his lips stretched into a merciless smile and he drew her towards him. She called out hoarsely and kicked at him, but he blocked that neatly with his hip. She wrenched desperately, but did not pull loose.

  --And then a dark arm passed around the Earthman's throat, clamping down on his windpipe and yanking him erect. Elaine was loose.

  'Thank you,' she whispered.

  Medjim Nabellan's expression was darker than her skin. 'Has this Deltan animal been--'

  'He's not a Deltan,' said Elaine, gasping heavily now that it was over. She looked at the faces crowding around and said, 'Please call the police, and please don't let go, Nabellan.'

  'No fear,' said Nabellan, 'unless someone wants to take over for a moment. Shall I break his neck for you?' She looked quite capable of it and the Earthman's eyes bulged out of his face.

  'No, please,' said Elaine. 'I think he's needed alive.'

  10

  She was back in Janos's office, two days after the earlier session with him.

  He was utterly jovial now, as he said, 'It couldn't have been better, Elaine. He was the man all right. Delta denies all knowledge of him, and whether that is true or not, they are forced to plump heavily for union now. We have played up Medjim Nabellan's part and Theta will strengthen its own pro-union stand. The Earth government is embarrassed and the American region's Tricentennial stand is now in an excellent position. While there are always unpredictables and unforeseens, I really think we will have independence and union before the magic year of 2076 is over. - But how did you do it, Elaine? How did he give himself away?'

  Elaine said, 'I had to think of something an Earthman would forget on an Orbital World even though the World was designed as like Earth as possible. At one point I began thinking of curves. Earth is a large World and its people live on an outside surface that curves down very gently. On the Orbital Worlds the people live on an inside surface that curves upward. 'On Earth, the "other side of the World" is downwards, far downwards. In speaking of it, I imagine Earthmen point downwards or make no gesture at all. They certainly don't point upwards. On an Orbital World "the other side of the World" is upwards, and Other Worlders always point upwards and look upwards when they speak of it. You do, I do, we all do.

  'So I tried it. I would mention the other side of the World to each one and point downwards as I did so. It didn't matter that I did. Four of them looked upwards anyway, quite automatically. It was just a brief glance in each case, but I could tell by that glance they were Orbital Worlders. When I tried it on Sanssen, his eyes followed my finger. He looked down and I knew he was an Earthman. He recovered at once but it was too late. I could tell at a glance, you see.'

  Janos nodded his head. 'I would not have been that resourceful myself, Elaine. This will be worth while for you; you will be suitably rewarded.'

  Elaine said, Thank you - but independence and union are the best rewards for all of us, aren't they?'

  Introduction to THE WINDS OF CHANGE

  I have edited two anthologies along with Alice Laurance (a hard-working, intelligent, and good-looking woman, with whom it is a pleasure to work). The first was a mystery anthology, the second a science fiction anthology, and, in both cases, the stories that were included were originals written for the volumes in question. What's more, in each case, the identity of the author was hidden and the reader was asked to guess that identity, if he cared to. I wrote one of the stories in the science fiction anthology and that story was 'The Winds of Change'. I wonder, though, if I managed to hide my identity. A list of the contributors was placed at the beginning of the book, and I imagine anyone searching for an 'Asimovian' story could scarcely fail to pick this one out of the lot. But that doesn't matter. I honestly feel that in some ways this story (which the alphabet has fortunately brought to the very end of the story list) is the strongest in the book. That's why I'm using it for the title of the collection as a whole, aside from the fact I like the title. In fact, I consider the ending so strong that I'm going to forgo the 'final word' I would ordinarily put. in. I want no anticlimactic addition to the last page of this book as it now stands. (And don't lo
ok at it now! Read the story!)

  21

  The Winds of Change

  Jonas Dinsmore walked into the President's Room of the Faculty Club in a manner completely characteristic of himself, as though conscious of being in a place in which he belonged but in which he was not accepted. The belonging showed in the sureness of his stride and the casual noise of his feet as he walked. The nonacceptance lay in his quick look from side to side as he entered, a quick summing-up of the enemies present.

  He was an associate professor of physics and he was not liked.

  There were two others in the room, and Dinsmore might well have considered them enemies without being thought paranoid for doing so.

  One was Horatio Adams, the ageing chairman of the department who, without ever having done any single thing that was remarkable, had yet accumulated a vast respect for the numerous unremarkable but perfectly correct things he had done. The other was Carl Muller, whose work on Grand Unified Field Theory had put him in line for the Nobel Prize (he thought probably) and the presidency of the university (he thought certainly).

  It was hard to say which prospect Dinsmore found more distasteful. It was quite fair to say he detested Muller.

  Dinsmore seated himself at one corner of the couch, which was old, slippery and chilly. The two comfortable armchairs were taken by the others. Dinsmore smiled.

  He frequently smiled, thought his face never seemed either friendly or pleased as a result. Though there was nothing in the smile that was not the normal drawing back of the corners of the mouth, it invariably had a chilling effect on those at whom he aimed the gesture. His round face, his sparse but carefully combed hair, his full lips would all have taken on joviality with such a smile, or should have - but didn't.

  Adams stirred with what seemed to be a momentary spasm of irritation crossing his long, New Englandish face. Muller, his hair nearly black, and his eyes an incongruous blue, seemed impassive.

  Dinsmore said, 'I intrude, gentlemen, I know. Yet I have no choice. I have been asked by the Board of Trustees to be present. It may seem to you to be a cruel action, perhaps. I am sure you expect, Muller, that at any moment a communication will be received from the Trustees to the effect that you have been named for the presidency. It would seem proper that the renowned Professor Adams, your mentor and patron, should know of it. But why, Muller, should they reserve a similar privilege for me, your humble and ever failing rival?

  'I suspect, in fact, that your first act as president, Muller, would be to inform me that it would be in all ways better if I would seek another position elsewhere since my appointment will not be renewed past this academic year. It might be convenient to have me on the spot in order that there be no delay. It would be unkind, but efficient.

  'You look troubled, both of you. I may be unjust. My instant dismissal may not be in your mind; you may have been willing to wait till tomorrow. Can it be that it is the Trustees who would rather be quick and who would rather have me on the spot? It doesn't matter. Either way it would seem that you are in and I am out. And perhaps that seems just. The respected head of a great department approaching the evening of his career, with his brilliant protege, whose grasp of concept and whose handling of mathematics is unparalleled, are ready for the laurels; while I, without respect or honour--

  'Since this is so, it is kind of you to let me talk without interrupting. I have a feeling that the message we wait for may not arrive for some minutes, for an hour, perhaps. A presentiment. The Trustees themselves would not be averse to building suspense. This is their moment in the sun, their fleeting time of glory. And since the time must be passed, I am willing to speak.

  'Some, before execution, are granted a last meal, some a last cigarette; I, a last few words. You needn't listen, I suppose, or even bother to look interested.

  '--Thank you. The look of resignation, Professor Adams, I will accept as agreement. Professor Muller's slight smile, let us say of contempt, will also do.

  'You will not blame me, I know, for wishing the situation were changed. In what way? A good question. I would not wish to change my character and personality. It may be unsatisfactory, but it is mine. Nor would I change the politic efficiency of Adams or the brilliance of Muller, for what would such a change do but make them no longer Adams and Muller? I would have them be they, and yet -have the results different. If one could go back in time, what small change then might produce a large and desirable change now?

  'That's what's needed. Time-travel!

  'Ah, that grinds a reaction out of you, Muller. That was the clear beginning of a snort. Time-travel! Ridiculous! Impossible!

  'Not only impossible in the sense that the state of the art is inadequate for the purpose, but in the greater sense that it will be forever inadequate. Time-travel, in the sense of going backwards to change reality, is not only technologically impossible now, but it is theoretically impossible altogether.

  'Odd you should think so, Muller, because your theories, those very analyses which have brought the four forces, even gravitation, measurably close to inclusion under the umbrella of a single set of relationships, make time-travel no longer theoretically impossible.

  'No, don't rise to protest. Keep your seat, Muller, and relax. For you it is impossible, I'm sure. For most people it would be. Perhaps for almost everyone. But there might be exceptions and it just might be that I'm one of them. Why myself? Who knows? I don't claim to be brighter than either of you, but what has that to do with it?

  'Let us argue by analogy. Consider - tens of thousands of years ago, human beings, little by little, either as a mass endeavour or. through the agency of a few brilliant individuals, learned to communicate. Speech was invented and delicate modulations of sounds were invested with abstract meaning.

  'For thousands of years, every normal human being has been able to communicate, but how many have been able to tell a story superlatively well? Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dickens, Hugo - a handful compared to all the human beings who have lived - can use those modulated sounds to wrench at heartstrings and reach for sublimity. Yet they use the same sounds that all of us use.

  'I am prepared to admit that Muller's IQ, for instance, is higher than that of Shakespeare or Tolstoy. Muller's knowledge of language must be as good as that of any writer alive; his understanding of meaning as great. Yet Muller could not put words together and achieve the effect that Shakespeare could. Muller himself wouldn't deny it for a moment, I'm sure. What then is it, that Shakespeare and Tolstoy can do that Muller or Adams or I cannot; what wisdom do they have that we cannot penetrate? You don't know and I don't know. What is worse, they didn't know. Shakespeare could in no manner have instructed you - or anyone - how to write as he did. He didn't know how - he merely could.

  'Next consider the consciousness of time. As far as we can guess, only human beings of all life forms can grasp the significance of time. All other species live in the present only; might have vague memories; might have dim and limited forethought - but surely only human beings truly understand the past, present and future and can speculate on its meaning and significance, can wonder about the flow of time, of how it carries us along with it, and of how that flow might be altered.

  'When did this happen? How did it come about? Who was the first human being, or hominid, that suddenly grasped the manner in which the river of time carried him from the dim past into the dim future, and wondered if it might be damned or diverted?

  'The flow is not invariant. Time races for us at times; hours vanish in what seem like minutes - and lag unconscionably at other times. In dream states, in trances, in drug experiences, time alters its properties.

  'You seem about to comment, Adams. Don't bother. You are going to say that those alterations are purely psychological. I know it, but what else is there but the psychological?

  'Is there physical time? If so, what is physical time? Surely, it is whatever we choose to make it. We design the instruments. We interpret the measurements. We create the theories and then int
erpret those. And from absolute, we have changed time and made it the creature of the speed of light and decided that simultaneity is indefinable.

  'From your theory, Muller, we know that time is altogether subjective. In theory, someone understanding the nature of the flow of time can, given enough talent, move with or against the flow independently; or stand still in it. It is analogous to the manner in which, given the symbols of communication, someone, given enough talent, can write King Lear. Given enough talent.

  'What if I had enough talent? What if I could be the Shakespeare of the time-flow? Come, let us amuse ourselves. At any moment, the message from the Board of Trustees will arrive and I will have to stop. Until it does, however, allow me to push along with my chatter. It serves its turn. Come, I doubt that you are aware that fifteen minutes has passed since I began talking.

  'Think, then - if I could make use of Muller's theory and find within myself the odd ability to take advantage of it as Homer did of words, what would I do with my gift? I might wander back through time, perhaps, wraith-like, observing from without all the pattern of time and events, in order to reach in at one place or another and make a change.

  'Oh, yes, I would be outside the time-stream as I travel. Your theory, Muller, properly interpreted, does not insist that, in moving backwards in time, or forwards, one must move through the thick of the flow, stumbling across events and knocking them down in passage. That would indeed be theoretically impossible. To remain outside is where the possibility comes in; and to slip in and out at will is where the talent comes in.

  'Suppose, then, I did this; that I slipped in and made a change. That one change would breed another - which would breed another - time would be set in a new path which would take on a life of its own, curving and foaming until, in a very little time--

  'No, that is an inadequate expression. "Time would, in a very little time--" It is as though we are imagining some abstract and absolute time-like reference against which our time may be measured; as though our own background of time were flowing against another, deeper background. I confess it's beyond me, but pretend you understand.