Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  I nodded my head, remembering comments he had made about this story in his autobiography. And then I made a blunder, but I couldn't help myself.

  "You know, you got it wrong," I said.

  "What?"

  "That isn't how time travel really works," I said, and then I clamped my mouth shut.

  "What are you talking about?"

  In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. I had already started to tell him the truth; I might as well finish it. "Isaac, if there's anyone in 1938 who can believe my story, you can."

  "What story?"

  "I'm a time traveler. I've come back from the future for this." I lifted the manuscript.

  Isaac looked around for a moment, then looked back at me. "This is a joke, right? Someone put you up to this?"

  I sighed, and put the manuscript onto the counter. "It's not a joke.

  You've been thinking about how to deliver this story to Astounding, and you're planning to talk with your father about it."

  "How --"

  "Tomorrow you're going to take the subway to the offices of Astounding, and meet with John W. Campbell, Jr. for the first time.

  He's going to take your manuscript, read it, and reject it. But you'll begin a working relationship with him that will change the face of science fiction." I didn't want to stop now. "'Cosmic Corkscrew' will disappear, Isaac. You'll let it get lost, and you'll bemoan the fact in a collection of your early works. You'll write about how many fans of yours regret its loss, and how you do too. You'll point out that there was no way you could have known how much people might wanted to have read the story in the future.

  "But I'm from the future, and we know, Isaac. We want the story."

  I gave him a moment to assimilate everything I had said. Then he shook his head. "I don't believe this."

  "It's true. How could I know so much about your story, or what you're planning to do with it?"

  "It's no secret that I read science fiction, or that I might want to write it. You could have guessed some of what you said, and made up the rest. I'm a scientist. You'll have to offer better proof if you want me to believe your story."

  "Fair enough." I pulled back my left sleeve and showed him my wrist chronometer.

  He studied the digital display intently, and lightly touched the molded metal and plastic of the device. I knew what he was thinking: could this device be a product of 1938 technology?

  And the answer had to be no.

  Finally, he looked up at me, his face slightly pale. "My word," he said. "You're telling the truth. You really are from the future."

  I nodded. "Yes, I am."

  "And I -- I become a famous writer?"

  "Yes, you do."

  "And you've come back for -- for me?"

  I shook my head. "Not for you. For your manuscript." I pointed to where it lay on the counter "The future wants it."

  He shook his head. "I don't believe it. I mean, I do, but I don't."

  I nodded. "I understand. But it is true. I'm here, and I need your manuscript." I pointed at it.

  He picked it up quickly. "I can't let you have it. It's my only copy."

  "Oh, don't worry about that. I'm not going to take that particular copy. I've come prepared." From under my coat I pulled out my scanner, a thin rod just about nine inches long.

  "What is that?"

  "It's --" I paused. They didn't have photocopy machines in 1938, did they? Or xerography? "It's like carbon paper. Watch."

  As I ran the scanner over each sheet of manuscript, it spit out an identical copy. I suppose I didn't have to bother with the hard copy, as the scanner stored a copy of anything it scanned in its memory, but I wanted to feel the manuscript in my own hands as I brought it to the future. When I was done, I had a pile of papers that matched Isaac's manuscript almost perfectly.

  He whistled. "A device like that could change the world."

  "It will. And it's because of people like you that such devices will be made."

  I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't. I told Isaac all about how he would go to meet John W. Campbell, the editor of Astounding, at the offices of Street & Smith tomorrow. I told him how his friendship with Campbell would lead to a career as a full-time writer. I told him that his first published story, "Marooned Off Vesta," would appear in Amazing next March, and that his first sale to Campbell, a story he would call "Ad Astra" but which Campbell would change to "Trends," would appear in the July 1939 Astounding.

  We talked, of space, and galaxies, and tesseracts, and time travel, and rockets to the Moon, and of all the dreams that were yet to be. I wanted to stay forever, but every millisecond I stayed increased the possibility of disrupting the timeline. Isaac noticed me glancing at my watch every so often, and after a while he got the idea.

  "You need to leave, don't you?"

  I nodded. "This is it, Isaac. I have to go now."

  Isaac smiled at me. Then he got a worried look on his face. "What happens now? Do you erase my memory?"

  "No," I lied. "Just -- do me a favor. When you write your autobiography --"

  "I'll leave you out of it, I promise."

  "Good."

  But he got a twinkle in his eye. "Although -- you know, that gives me an idea for a story. What if I put something in print here in the past that can only be recognized in the future?"

  I thought for moment. "It does sound like a good idea for a story, but don't start it until late 1953."

  A second later, Isaac laughed. "I guess I do use the idea, then."

  "Yes, but don't do it before then. Otherwise it'll be the end of -- of everything."

  He nodded, letting me know that he was aware of the dangers of disrupting the timeline. "Thanks for telling me about my future. It's nice to know that I'll succeed."

  "You're welcome," I said sadly. "Farewell."

  As I walked to the door to leave, I turned back to look at him one last time. He was already looking away, staring into space. I wanted both of us to be able to treasure this conversation forever, but I knew that I couldn't let that happen, despite his assurances. So I pulled the disorienter out of my pocket and fired it at him. It made no noise, displayed no light, but I knew it had worked. His face took on an air of bewilderment and confusion, and then readjusted to normal. I dashed out before he could notice me, and left him to dream the daydreams of the idle shopkeeper.

  I headed back to the alleyway where I had left the Chronobox, clutching the manuscript in my hands as I walked. I shook with fear over the possibility that I might have disrupted the timeline; but no, I was still here, meaning that my interference had been negligible.

  The Chronobox was undisturbed, and the alleyway was as empty as before.

  All that I needed to do was enter the Chronobox, set the date for the present, and return home.

  But I hesitated.

  I wanted to stay here, in 1938. I knew what was about to happen: the golden age of science fiction. I could hang around, watch the greatest writers of the genre come of age. I could attend the first Worldcon, read the stories and novels as they first appeared, and own a collection of works to rival that of anyone. Living in the United States through World War II would be a small price to pay, as far as I was concerned.

  I could be a part of it all. I would just have to make sure that I remained a small, insignificant member of science fiction fandom, so as not to disturb the future in which I would eventually be born.

  I looked at the copy of "Cosmic Corkscrew" I held in my hand, and I looked at the Chronobox. I owed something to the future, I knew that, but I wanted something that was only available to me here in the past.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I gently placed the manuscript inside the Chronobox, closed the door, hit the button on my chronometer and punctured Stasis. Immediately, the manuscript disappeared and the Chronobox appeared empty. A moment later, the Chronobox itself vanished.

  I turned on my heel and left the alleyway, readier than any other man in 1938 to face the future.


  Except, perhaps, for Isaac Asimov.

  WHIPTAIL

  Robert Reed

  “What a beautiful morning,” I was singing. “And so strange! Isn't it? This incredible, wonderful fog, and how the frost clings everywhere. Lovely, lovely, just lovely. Is this how it always is, Chrome…?”

  “Always,” she joked, laughing quietly. Patiently. “All year long, practically.”

  She was teasing. I knew that, and I didn't care. A river of words just kept pouring out of me: I was talking about the scenery and the hour, and goodness, we were late and her poor mother would be waiting, and God on her throne, I was hungry. Sometimes I told my Chrome to drive faster, and she would, and then I would find myself worrying, and I'd tell her, “Slow down a little.” I'd say, “This road doesn't look all that dry.”

  Chrome smiled the whole time, not minding my prattle.

  At least I hoped she didn't.

  I can't help what I am. Dunlins, by nature, are small and electric. Nervous energy always bubbling. Particularly when they're trying not to be nervous. Particularly when their lover is taking them to meet her family for the first time.

  “Have you ever seen a more magical morning, Chrome?”

  “Never,” she promised, her handsome face smiling at me.

  It was the morning of the Solstice, which helped that sense of magic. But mostly it was because of the weather. A powerful cold front had fallen south from the chilly Arctic Sea, smashing into the normally warm winter air. The resulting fog was luscious thick, except in sudden little patches where it was thin enough to give us a glimpse of the pale northern sun. Wherever the fog touched a cold surface, it froze, leaving every tree limb and bush branch and tall blade of grass coated with a glittering hard frost. Whiteness lay over everything. Everything wore a delicate, perishable whiteness born of degrees. A touch colder, and there wouldn't have been any fog. Warmed slightly, and everything white would have turned to vapor and an afternoon's penetrating dampness.

  The road had its own magic. A weathered charm, I'd call it. Old and narrow, its pavement was rutted by tires and cracked in places, and the potholes were marked with splashes of fading yellow paint. Chrome explained that it had been thirty years since the highway association had touched it. “Not enough traffic to bother with,” she said. We were climbing up a long hillside, and at the top, where the road flattened, there was a corner and a weedy graveled road that went due south.

  “Our temple's down there,” she told me.

  I looked and looked, but all I saw was the little road flanked by the white farm fields, both vanishing into the thickest fog yet.

  For maybe the fiftieth time, I asked, “How do I look?”

  “Awful,” she joked.

  Then she grabbed my knee, and with a laughing voice, Chrome said, “No, you look gorgeous, darling. Just perfect.”

  I just hoped that I wasn't too ugly. That's all.

  We started down a long hillside, passing a small weathered sign that quietly announced that we were entering Chromatella. I read the name aloud, twice. Then came the first of the empty buildings, set on both sides of the little highway. My Chrome had warned me, but it was still a sad shock. There were groceries and hardware stores and clothing stores and gas stations, and all of them were slowly collapsing into their basements, old roofs pitched this way and that. One block of buildings had been burned down. A pair of Chrome's near-daughters had been cooking opossum in one of the abandoned kitchens. At least that was the official story. But my Chrome gave me this look, confessing, “When I was their age, I wanted to burn all of this. Every night I fought the urge. It wasn't until I was grown up that I understood why Mother left these buildings alone.”

  I didn't understand why, I thought. But I managed not to admit it.

  A big old mothering house halfway filled the next block. Its roof was in good repair, and its white walls looked like they'd been painted this year. Yet the house itself seemed dark and drab compared to the whiteness of the frost. Even with the OPEN sign flashing in the window, it looked abandoned. Forgotten. And awfully lonely.

  “Finally,” my Chrome purred. “She's run out of things to say.”

  Was I that bad? I wondered.

  We pulled up to the front of the house, up under the verandah, and I used the mirror, checking my little Dunlin face before climbing out.

  There was an old dog and what looked like her puppies waiting for us. They had long wolfish faces and big bodies, and each of them wore a heavy collar, each collar with a different colored tag. “Red Guard!” Chrome shouted at the mother dog. Then she said, “Gold. Green. Pink. Blue. Hello, ladies. Hello!”

  The animals were bouncing, and sniffing. And I stood like a statue, trying to forget how much dogs scare me.

  Just then the front door crashed open, and a solid old voice was shouting, “Get away from her, you bitches! Get!”

  Every dog bolted.

  Thankfully.

  I looked up at my savior, then gushed, “Mother Chromatella. I'm so glad to meet you, finally!”

  “A sweet Dunlin,” she said. “And my first daughter, too.”

  I shook the offered hand, trying to smile as much as she smiled. Then we pulled our hands apart, and I found myself staring, looking at the bent nose and the rounded face and the gray spreading through her short black hair. That nose was shattered long ago by a pony, my Chrome had told me. Otherwise the face was the same, except for its age. And for the eyes, I noticed. They were the same brown as my chrome's, but when I looked deep, I saw something very sad lurking in them.

  Both of them shivered at the same moment, saying, “Let's go inside.”

  I said, “Fine.”

  I grabbed my suitcase, even though Mother Chromatella offered to carry it. Then I followed her through the old door with its cut-glass and its brass knob and an ancient yellow sign telling me, “Welcome.”

  The air inside was warm, smelling of bacon and books. There was a long bar and maybe six tables in a huge room that could have held twenty tables. Bookshelves covered two entire walls. Music was flowing from a radio, a thousand voices singing about the Solstice. I asked where I should put my things, and my Chrome said, “Here,” and wrestled the bag from me, carrying it and hers somewhere upstairs.

  Mother Chrome asked if it was a comfortable trip.

  “Very,” I said. “And I adore your fog!”

  “My fog.” That made her laugh. She set a single plate into the sink, then ran the tap until the water was hot. “Are you hungry, Dunlin?”

  I said, “A little, yes,” when I could have said, “I'm starving.”

  My Chrome came downstairs again. Without looking her way, Mother Chrome said, “Daughter, we've got plenty of eggs here.”

  My Chrome pulled down a clean skillet and spatula, then asked, “The others?”

  Her sisters and near-daughters, she meant.

  “They're walking up. Now, or soon.”

  To the Temple, I assumed. For their Solstice service.

  “I don't need to eat now,” I lied, not wanting to be a burden.

  But Mother Chrome said, “Nonsense,” while smiling at me. “My daughter's hungry, too. Have a bite to carry you over to the feast.”

  I found myself dancing around the main room, looking at the old neon beer signs and the newly made bookshelves. Like before, I couldn't stop talking. Jabbering. I asked every question that came to me, and sometimes I interrupted Mother Chrome's patient answers.

  “Have you ever met a Dunlin before?”

  She admitted, “Never, no.”

  “My Chrome says that this is the oldest mothering house in the district? Is that so?”

  “As far as I know—”

  “Neat old signs. I bet they're worth something, if you're a collector.”

  “I'm not, but I believe you're right.”

  “Are these shelves walnut?”

  “Yes.”

  “They're beautiful,” I said, knowing that I sounded like a brain-damaged fool
. “How many books do you have here?”

  “Several thousand, I imagine.”

  “And you've read all of them?”

  “Once, or more.”

  “Which doesn't surprise me,” I blurted. “Your daughter's a huge reader, too. In fact, she makes me feel a little stupid sometimes.”

  From behind the bar, over the sounds of cooking eggs, my Chrome asked, “Do I?”

  “Nonsense,” said Mother Chrome. But I could hear the pride in her voice. She was standing next to me, making me feel small—in so many ways, Chromatellas are big strong people—and she started to say something else. Something else kind, probably. But her voice got cut off by the soft bing-bing-bing of the telephone.

  “Excuse me,” she said, picking up the receiver.

  I looked at my Chrome, then said, “It's one of your sisters. She's wondering what's keeping us.”

  “It's not.” My Chrome shook her head, saying, “That's the out-of-town ring.” And she looked from the eggs to her mother and back again, her brown eyes curious but not particularly excited.

  Not then, at least.

  The eggs got cooked and put on plates, and I helped pour apple juice into two clean glasses. I was setting the glasses. I was setting the glasses on one of the empty tables when Mother Chrome said, “Good-bye. And thank you.” Then she set down the receiver and leaned forward, resting for a minute. And her daughter approached her, touching her on the shoulder, asking, “Who was it? Is something wrong?”

  “Corvus,” she said.

  I recognized that family name. Even then.

  She said, “My old instructor. She was calling from the Institute…to warn me….”

  “About what?” my Chrome asked. Then her face changed, as if she realized it for herself. “Is it done?” she asked. “Is it?”

  “And it's been done for a long time, apparently. In secret.” Mother Chrome looked at the phone again, as if she still didn't believe what she had just heard. That it was a mistake, or someone's silly joke.

  I said nothing, watching them.

  My Chrome asked, “When?”

  “Years ago, apparently.”

  Mine asked, “And they kept it a secret?”