by Iain Pears
The first scenario posited that the presidential election in the United States in 1960 was won by the Republican nominee, Richard Nixon, who defeated his Democratic opponent, a man called John Kennedy. Nixon’s much greater depth and knowledge came through and he won the election by a small margin. The result was inevitable; while Nixon had a good track record and gravitas, Kennedy had little knowledge of government and a reputation (fiercely exposed in the campaign and confirmed in a bitter divorce in 1965) as a playboy. Nixon’s greater experience led him to quash a foolish attempt to invade Cuba in 1961. However, this allowed his enemies to accuse him of weakness, which he tried to counter by ordering troops to Vietnam the following year.
Nixon won the 1964 election, defeating Lyndon Johnson, but by that stage was committed to an all-out war. In 1968 he was replaced by Johnson, who died of appendicitis in 1971 and was replaced in turn by Jimmy Carter, who ended up in jail for gross misconduct. Ultimately the actor Ronald Reagan, Nixon’s vice-president for his second term and by then a man of great experience, became president in 1980.
So far so good. Then the computer programme turned its attention to the second scenario, in which the 1960 election was won by Kennedy, not Nixon. The result, it opined, was narrow but inevitable because of Nixon’s reputation for dishonesty. Kennedy was dashing, young, handsome and fresh. This came across in a television debate in which Kennedy was bright and confident, Nixon unshaven, scruffy and hesitant.
Kennedy’s true potential is unknown, due to his assassination in 1963. He made a badly bungled attempt to invade Cuba in 1961, but redeemed this by defusing the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. After his murder he was succeeded by Lyndon Johnson, who destroyed his presidency by ordering, then losing, a full-scale war in Vietnam. Johnson was replaced by Nixon at a time of political turmoil following the murder of Kennedy’s brother and other high-profile figures. Nixon also destroyed his presidency, this time through illegal activities. There followed Gerald Ford, who declined to run when he could have won, then Jimmy Carter, who destroyed his presidency with another ill-thought-out foreign venture. Finally, Reagan was elected in 1980.
Hanslip was a bit despondent at this, as the simulation suggested very strongly that, although individuals and small events did affect the course of historical development, the influence of even major figures was strictly limited. In the long term, it appeared exceptionally difficult to alter the past except through massive intervention. If any individual was not born, for example, they seemed to be replaced by someone similar.
Even here, though, warning signs should have been spotted by the people running the experiment. For example, the programme changed the parameters of its task all on its own in order to achieve what it called dramatic credibility. It also restructured events to take account of the results it was getting, as it was set up to disregard coincidence. So it changed Nixon’s reputation for decency, based on his Quaker upbringing, to one for duplicity and ruthlessness. It married Kennedy to a dowdy, pious woman rather than a charming and beautiful one, in order to explain his otherwise incomprehensible womanising.
*
My objection – set out forcefully in a memorandum which was completely ignored – was that the fundamental problem stemmed from Hanslip’s penny-pinching. The programme was instructed to take into account only internal political dynamics. External actions – such as decisions taken by other countries, for example – were ignored, which struck me as unwise, even if it was cheaper.
A clear sign that something was badly wrong came from a small control that had been built in. For the sake of objectivity, the programme analysed both histories – real and alternative – without being informed which was which. It concluded that the second, actual sequence of events was statistically so improbable that it could not possibly happen.
Specifically, it reasoned that there were too many random events whose only purpose seemed to be to get history back on track. History returned to what the programme thought should be its normal path by 1980 only through what it sneeringly referred to as plot devices which even a novelist of the period would have rejected as ludicrously far-fetched.
I quote the conclusion: ‘We are required to believe a) that a drug-addled, womanising, inexperienced Catholic with strong links to criminal organisations could defeat the most experienced politician in the country, and that his dire medical condition and dubious character could be kept secret. Also that he could conduct exceptionally successful diplomacy in 1962 while being as high as a kite on a cocktail of painkillers and stimulants;
b) that a president, his brother and several others could all be murdered in a short space of time, by insane gunmen, each acting alone, for no discernible reason. Also that Kennedy could be shot by someone with known links to the Soviet Union without there being any consequences;
c) that Nixon in office would sanction a pointless burglary, during an election campaign he was bound to win anyway, and that a man of such experience would fail to control the very minor political scandal that resulted;
d) that in 1980 the United States would elect as president an ageing actor with little experience and dyed orange hair.
None of these make any sense whatsoever. In fact the second scenario would have resulted in a nuclear war at some stage in the period covered, in which case history would most certainly not have returned to normal by 1980.’
The only product of merit from this otherwise worthless experiment was the one which was dismissed as a programming error. The implication that, under certain circumstances, not only the future but also the past could and must rearrange itself to fit available events was an extraordinary conclusion, which stuck in my mind simply because of its sheer improbability.
*
That simulation was run just a week before I left, and I have no doubt whatsoever that no one paid the slightest attention to my objections. The response – that if history could not be changed in small ways, then it might be necessary to explore bigger ones – demonstrated how weak my position already was and strengthened my conviction that flight was the only real option. So that is what I did. I cleared everyone out of the section, locked myself in and set to work.
That didn’t mean I was happy about having to leave, not least because I arrived in Germany in 1936. It was hardly the best time or place, what with one thing and another. But my departure was hurried and, in the circumstances, I think I did pretty well, although it was unfortunate that I hadn’t loaded up the newspapers for the period. I took them for 1960 onwards only, as I thought that would be all I’d need. I didn’t have that much space in my head.
For the first nine months it didn’t matter, as I spent the time in a lunatic asylum. This was not the best introduction to my new world, although if you really want to understand any society, looking at it through the eyes of the mentally deranged is remarkably illuminating. One thing I learned was that the transmission process plays merry hell with your brain, although I suspected this was due to the effects of cerebral implants rather than an inevitable consequence of the shift. Even more unfortunately, I had popped a few hallucinogens before I left, to ramp up my performance; many of the settings I had to do manually, so I needed all the help I could get. As I say, I did pretty well, but I emerged the other end raving and incoherent. Even the little sense I could talk merely convinced people that I was completely nuts.
I had been aiming for San Francisco in 1972; hitting a small village three miles south of Munich in 1936 was pretty good. I will not here describe the experience of landing in a world so foreign to my experience, so brutal and so intoxicating in many ways. Suffice it to say that it is a most peculiar business. The new reality is so overwhelming that you quickly forget your own past circumstances: I found that I spent little time thinking about my previous life, which very speedily took on the nature of a dream, dissociated from my current existence.
That didn’t make it any easier, mind you; even when I returned to sanity, the chances of making mistakes and attracting attentio
n were enormous. Social mores were very different, for a start. Getting money was a strange business and quite how you were supposed to behave with others – depending on your age, sex, wealth, education, location and beliefs – was incomparably complex. I was, in fact, quite glad I had a long time to get used to it all. I was convalescing, so I thought I might as well make it pleasant. I had set my heart on a surfboard and a Thunderbird but, once I moved to France in 1937, I found there were more than enough pleasures to fill my days for a while.
I had left with a full suite of implants which made my life very much easier. I could speak German fluently, for example, and could manage just as well in twenty-three other languages. I had the expertise to be a highly successful lawyer or surgeon; I could have won the Nobel Prize many times over simply by printing other people’s work a little ahead of them. By the standards of the day, I was also quite remarkably beautiful and healthy, and could easily have become a major film star. I did none of that, of course, as I did not want to attract any attention, just in case.
The lack of newspapers was a nuisance, though; I remembered that a war was going to start, for example, and knew more or less who would win it, but I had no more idea what the following day would bring than anyone else. Foolish, no doubt, but I was a psychomathematician whose speciality was time; events were mere epiphenomena which interested me not at all. I was briefly worried that the lack of stock market reports (I wanted a simple life, but not a poor simple life) might doom me to poverty, but soon enough realised that calculating asset price movements was absurdly easy. Rudimentary mathematical ability and a simple star chart were the only things needed.
So I spent several months in Paris amassing some seed money in the most enjoyable way women could in those days, and also worked out the formula for predicting the markets. I then sorted out my finances once and for all and settled in a quiet location in the countryside where a studied eccentricity – my behaviour was, in fact, very bizarre, and it took years to learn how to behave properly and inconspicuously – protected me from prying eyes until I felt able to blend in.
Only during the war did I emerge, as not doing anything would have been more noticeable than actually taking part. I also relocated to England, as France didn’t promise to be so very entertaining. Then I was free to get on with my work. Oddly I found that my greatest advantage was having no assistance whatsoever. My mind could roam freely and, unshackled from the limits of standard procedure, could approach the problem from entirely new directions. It was wonderful.
10
As the years passed, Jay worked, learned and grew. By the time he was nearly seventeen, he had become a young man who was more self-confident and somewhat better at hiding his natural tendency to doubt authority, query orders and try to do things in the way he thought best. He had his friends, although he was not known as one of the wild and sociable students. He was still difficult to manage but, on the whole, this was confined to his work and only rarely affected his behaviour, which was polite and considerate. It was true that he was often chastised for missing lectures, but the talks he missed tended to be judiciously chosen. Only the most tedious had reason to complain that he had not turned up again. Jay considered an afternoon sitting by the river staring at the sky with a dreamy look on his face to be more valuable and instructive and often enough Henary found it difficult to disagree.
He progressed through the levels of studentship well and without major incident; his knowledge grew, his understanding grew much faster. Only the indiscipline remained; sooner or later the frustration at the unasked question would burst forth. Some of his contemporaries nicknamed him ‘Master Yesbut’.
‘You know,’ Henary had said after one lesson, ‘that part of your training is to write your own thesis?’
Jay nodded. He also knew that soon enough he would have to appear before a committee and say what his subject would be. Most chose some old scholar, their work unread for generations, who was disinterred from the shelves and analysed. Then put back and forgotten again.
‘Do you have any ideas?’
‘I’ve thought of many. But they are all so …’
‘Boring?’ Henary said lightly. Jay blushed. ‘You are quite right. Many of the commentaries are entirely useless, except to lull you to sleep late at night. Besides, all the really good ones have been gone over again and again.’
‘Laszlo and the weather,’ Jay said despondently.
‘A fine body of work, and very useful for sailors. What is there to say apart from that?’
‘Fered on theft?’
‘Then you would end up as a lawyer. A worthy trade, no doubt, but not what you are ideally suited to do with your life. You are not nearly precise enough.’
‘What I would like to do is something on the Shrine of Esilio. You know, collect writings on the subject and compare them. I’ve read a lot about it.’
‘A bit sophisticated for one of your age.’
‘Then what? Who?’
‘I have an idea. You do not have to take it, but if you do, it will mean a little travel for you. You might also care to render me a small service and go and meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A man called Jaqui. A hermit.’
*
Two days after their conversation, and armed with a letter of introduction for the elders of Hooke, Jay took leave of absence from his lessons and walked out of Ossenfud on the Great West Road. It led, so he knew, to the towns and settlements that were scattered throughout Anterwold, curling down to the sea in the south, and west into the mountains. It was itself a tributary, so to speak, of other roads: Garlden had mapped them many generations back and tried to explain why they were as they were, although his account was so amateurish that no one ever read it. But the maps – annotated and corrected as travellers found errors – were the best available.
According to Garlden, he had a twenty-mile walk on the road, then had to branch off to the north for about twenty-five miles to the village of Hooke.
When Henary had made the suggestion, Jay had looked almost scornful. ‘A hermit?’
‘Yes. A very strange man. I assume he’s still alive. He is an intriguing character. I think you might consider writing your dissertation on the subject of painting. It is an interesting topic, in my opinion. We always think of the Story in terms of words, but there are countless times when a drawing or illustration has been added. A map, or a plan, or a scribble in the margin. No one has ever looked at how they contribute to the Story as a whole. You will find a fascinating example of storytelling through pictures at Hooke.’
‘What’s that got to do with hermits?’
‘Nothing. That’s a job for me. Before you go, you should read Lardley on hermits. An obscure and little-read text, but rather good. He tackled the problem of knowledge. Hermits are often known for their wisdom; yet all wisdom is contained in the Story, of which they know nothing. A conundrum, you see. Unfortunately, Lardley never bothered actually to talk to a hermit.’
‘So it is not much use.’
Henary peered at him. ‘Ah … no. I suppose not. But it might help when you meet Jaqui.’
‘Why do you want me to do that?’
‘Well, you see,’ said the older man, ‘Jaqui is a curious fellow. He is uneducated, but he can write. I want to know what he writes, and how he writes. I want you to bring back some of his scripts.’
‘Will he give them to me?’
‘I have no idea. I won’t blame you if you fail. It’ll give you something to do, and may win favours from your tutor. That’s me, by the way, and I’m sure you realise keeping me happy is of the utmost importance.’
*
It wasn’t a hugely successful trip, in the sense that the meeting with the hermit never happened. When Jay arrived at Hooke, he knocked at the gate of the village, stated his business and was led to the collection of buildings that comprised the communal section. There he was told to wait while the gatekeeper went to fetch someone for him to talk to. Eventu
ally a woman appeared, who introduced herself as a member of the village council and the keeper of the settlement’s stories.
‘Your name, young man?’ she asked; she seemed quite intrigued by the arrival of a student in their midst. Jay introduced himself and explained his interest in painting. ‘I wish also to see a man called Jaqui, a hermit who lives near you.’
‘I’m afraid you are too late. Jaqui left us a little while ago. We do not know why. He had everything he needed and wanted.’
‘That is a great shame.’
‘He often disappeared for short periods, but this time he said he would not return.’
‘My master met him some years ago. He wanted me to question him.’
‘That will be Scholar Henary? I remember his visit well. He was a man who brought credit to himself and our village.’
‘I trust I will also. If not, then I hope you will tell me, that I might amend what I say and do.’
‘Well said, young man. Alas, I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey. But at least we can show you our hall.’
‘Thank you,’ Jay said gloomily. He knew he would have to stand in a dark chilly building while listening to a long lecture about village history, full of names he had never heard of and events he cared nothing for. Important for the village, of course, but the few nuggets of importance would inevitably be left out in favour of long tales of families and fields.
He followed dutifully as the woman led him around the wooden buildings to the Story Hall. Jay said the right things when he glimpsed it. ‘A fine building, made with love,’ he said. ‘I congratulate your village on its devotion.’
‘Thank you. We are proud of it. It took many years to build, and the tales say we used no outside hands. It was all from our own labour and sweat and ingenuity.’
Jay had seen worse by this stage, but he had also seen better. It was nowhere near as grand as the great halls of Ossenfud, for example, but nor was it a mean hut of painted wood such as he had seen in some places. It was of dark brown stone, roughly put together and circular in shape, some forty feet in diameter and rising up two storeys in height to a conical roof covered in tiles. It resembled a huge dovecote, except that there were only four small openings at the very top to allow air to circulate and light to enter. Set apart was another small structure which contained the everlasting fire.