“Your world?” I repeated, breaking the silence first.
“Yes, but you on Earth know nothing about it. Or rather, nothing was known until recently. Until the work I am searching for was written. Our star doesn’t even have a name here, just a number, although it is relatively close, less than eleven and a half light years away. But it’s a small star, much less conspicuous than those around it, so there’s nothing strange in it being anonymous.”
I slowly nodded my head to indicate understanding, as if he were telling me something quite commonplace. So that was it. One more of those. Yet he hadn’t the look of one. Quite the contrary. But appearances can be deceptive, as had been proved often enough. Clothes alone do not the eccentric make.
All kinds of oddballs visit my bookshop. They seem to be irresistibly drawn to it, and they constitute an ineluctable hazard of my chosen genre. I am most often visited by those who have had first-hand experience with extraterrestrials, and for some reason feel this is the right place to bare their souls. At first I entered into discussions with them, explaining that I class science fiction as imaginative prose. Their real-life experiences had no place in this category, for the very reason that they were real. As a rule, however, this distinction was too fine for them.
Then, in my naivete and inexperience I tried to talk them out of it. Why go to the inconvenience and expense of shooting across from the other side of the cosmos, only to subject some commonplace citizen in an isolated house to unusual lights or sounds? That was when I got into serious trouble. Not only did they turn a deaf ear to the reasons I cited, they resolutely interpreted my unwillingness to believe them as reliable confirmation that I, too, was part of the great conspiracy to hush up visits by extraterrestrials. That was the milder version. Several flying saucer fans accused me openly and rather peevishly of being an extraterrestrial myself.
There is no complete defence against such accusations. Indeed, how can anyone prove he is not an extraterrestrial to someone who can see antennae sprouting from his forehead? What arguments can ever shake the believer’s blind conviction? But to me the primary difficulty stemmed from my profession. As the owner of a bookshop I could hardly draw distinctions among my customers based on their view of the world, so my hands were tied. Should I meet this type of person in some other context, I could solve the problem simply by raising my voice. A slightly sharper tone has a truly amazing effect on them. They fall silent at once and withdraw, often in embarrassment. But here, that would be out of the question. How would it look if a bookshop-owner yelled at those customers who just happened to take a somewhat unusual view of his ancestry?
And so I resorted to the last means still at my disposal. Whenever an eccentric like this one drops in, I listen to his story with utmost patience, regardless of how far-fetched it is, taking great care to speak as little as possible. My most frequent reaction is to nod or shake my head from time to time, as befits the situation, to demonstrate that I am carefully following the story. This technique has often proved useful. First of all, the whole affair is concluded far more quickly than if one were to start a discussion; second, after baring his soul almost every single visitor of this kind ends up buying a book.
Over time this proved adequate compensation for approximately a quarter hour of my attention. I could almost have made this part of my price list: “The purchase of a book gives the buyer the right to squander fifteen minutes of the owner’s time in any way he sees fit”. At first my conscience bothered me a bit, feeling this partook of prostitution; then my business sense over-rode such improvident moral purism.
Furthermore, over time I came to see myself as a psychiatrist—a rather poorly paid psychiatrist, it’s true, but at least there was never a shortage of patients. Quite the contrary. There were so many of them I could no longer rely on memory alone, and had had to buy a notebook in which to write down what each one of them bought, so they would not accidentally buy the same book twice. This, to be sure, didn’t bother them in the least, since most of the books were never read—occasionally I even found them discarded next to a nearby trashcan—but for me this was a matter of professional attitude towards my work. Every customer deserves the best possible treatment, and the handicapped get a bonus to boot.
But never before had I encountered a case like this. This was the first time that an extraterrestrial had visited my book-shop! Perhaps I should have been jealous. Up till that moment the role had been reserved for myself. Granted, the situation hadn’t changed essentially. It was just a matter of nuances. My basic strategy remained the same: don’t question anything and encourage the speaker to tell his story without holding back.
“Eleven and a half light years,” I said. “Why, that’s really not so small. You had to travel quite a distance! It must have taken you a long time.”
The man shook his head. “No time at all. It’s hard even to call it travelling.”
“I see. Did you spend the flight in hibernation, then? Is that why it seemed so short?”
“No, hibernation wasn’t necessary.”
“Oh. Then that means you must have a very fast spaceship. Judging by how quickly you got here, it must travel considerably faster than the speed of light.”
He looked at me the way a teacher looks at a student who has blurted out an absurdity. “No spaceship can travel faster than the speed of light.”
“Of course it can’t,” I said, hastening to correct myself. “How silly of me. I forgot that for a minute. Then how did you get here so fast? Excuse me for not being able to figure it out for myself—space travel is not one of my strong points.”
“In the only way possible. Using the fifth force.”
It’s not easy to carry on a conversation like this. One must keep a straight face, and there is great temptation to poke fun. It’s even harder to suppress the laughter that is ready to bubble to the surface. But through long experience I have become very skilled in self-control.
“The fifth force?” I repeated, expressing the mild surprise I felt appropriate.
“That’s what we call it. You know about it, too, but haven’t yet recognized it as a force, so you use another name. Actually, it has several names. One of them, for example, is imagination.”
This time I didn’t have to feign surprise. “Imagination?”
“Yes. Imagination, fantasy, daydreams, whatever you like. The ability to conceive of something that does not seem to exist.” He indicated the shelves around us with a broad, sweeping gesture. “All these are the fruit of imagination, aren’t they?”
I could only confirm that they were.
“And you are convinced that they are pure fantasy. You feel that there’s no way the worlds of science fiction could ever be real. Isn’t that right?”
“Well . . . yes . . . ” I mumbled, finding myself in a spot. “I mean, for the most part . . . Although sometimes, of course, there might be certain coincidences . . . It’s not out of the question . . . But very rarely . . . ”
“Tell me,” he said, putting a stop to my stammering, “how does a work of science fiction originate?”
I didn’t reply at once. The conversation had taken a completely unexpected turn. Who would have thought that we’d wind up discussing the problem of literary creation? I have discussed many unusual subjects with the eccentrics who visit me, but never this.
“Well, I don’t know exactly. My experience in this regard is quite limited. I have only written a few stories. I suppose the writer cogitates, and then an idea flashes in his mind and . . . ”
“An idea flashes, yes! Do you know what actually happens at that moment—when, as you say, an ‘idea flashes’, seemingly out of nowhere?”
Of course I didn’t know, so I shrugged my shoulders.
“The fifth force is activated!”
The pause that followed was deliberate, a dramatic effect calculated to ensure that the revelation would make the strongest possible impression on me. To demonstrate enlightenment, I nodded sagely.
&n
bsp; “Unlike the four fundamental forces that exist on the level of the very simple, the fifth force appears solely on the level of the very complex. It can take effect throughout the cosmos, but in only a single class of locale: in centres of awareness of sufficiently developed species. In your species this centre is obviously the brain.” The visitor tapped his head with his middle finger.
“Obviously,” I readily agreed, tapping my head in fellowship.
“The fifth force is unrestricted by space or time: it acts instantly, by completely cancelling the distance between you, the emitter, and whatever point elsewhere in the cosmos towards which you have directed it. For instance, by activating the fifth force, you are able to see another world as clearly as if you were actually in it.”
“I see.” The most important thing in such conversations is to give the impression that you accept what you are being told easily and without skepticism. The more outlandish the matter, the more easily you should appear to go along with it.
“That is the idea that flashes. If you don’t really know what’s going on, that the fifth force has been activated, it will seem that you have made it all up, that nothing is real. But actually, nothing has been invented. The world that suddenly appears in your consciousness is no less real than your own, regardless of how unusual it may appear.”
“Very interesting,” I commented.
“All these books here are considered fanciful prose, while in my world they would be regarded as commonplace documents of unimpeachable authenticity. Your misconception will be rectified once you have mastered the fifth force, instead of using it in the wild, uncontrolled manner you have until now.”
“If I’ve understood properly, then this would no longer be a bookshop but some sort of . . . archive?”
“Yes, a place where data about other worlds are collected, stored and made available. That is my field of work. I use the fifth force to investigate other worlds and catalogue them. That is how I came across the Earth.”
“And so you decided to visit us?”
He shook his head abruptly. “No, no, you don’t understand. It wasn’t that simple. The fifth force does not transport matter to distant places. Only information. Whoever uses it does not move from his own world.”
“But you’ve come here to Earth, right?”
“That happened because of the interference.”
“Interference?”
“Yes. When two fifth force beams overlap.”
“Aha, so that’s it.”
The visitor did not continue right away. He took out his handkerchief again and wiped his face. Several streaks of sweat were now streaming down his forehead, winding their way downwards to lose themselves in his beard. The vegetable smell emanating from him had become more powerful in the course of our conversation, almost intoxicating.
“When I directed my beam towards Earth, something highly unexpected happened. Another beam was heading outwards from here in the opposite direction at the same time. Someone had just flashed an idea about my world. A writer of science fiction, obviously, using the fifth force quite unskilfully, because if he knew the slightest thing about it he would never have let it happen. He would have known how dangerous it is when two beams interfere with each other.”
“Dangerous?” I replied, properly aghast.
“Quite so. Two beams that interfere create a gap in the space-time continuum. If this gap is not quickly closed, it will start to suck in everything around it. First of all its two end points, Earth and my world in this case, then the planetary systems to which they belong, and then neighbouring star systems. There is actually no end to its voracity. It’s as though a black hole has opened up, eleven and a half light years long!”
I could only express appropriate horror. “Why, that’s terrible! Horrible! Is there anything that can save us, or are we doomed to annihilation?”
“Yes, there is, if I am able to cancel the interference. It’s still not too late for that. But time is running out.”
“Then you must not hesitate,” I said in haste. “How do you cancel the interference? What needs to be done?”
“I have to find the work about my world. Then go back with it and join it to my documentation about Earth. When these two fifth force products are joined together, the interference will disappear and the gap will close.”
“But how will you go back? Please don’t reproach me, but I still don’t understand how you got here.” This was not exactly in the spirit of my strategy. I usually avoid unnecessary questions, if for no other reason than because they are quite likely to be answered, which needlessly prolongs the conversation. But I felt I owed it to this eccentric somehow. He had taken pains to invent an admirable story, not some tedious inanity like most of the others. Many science fiction writers would envy him for this.
“Through the gap, of course. It can be used as a shortcut until it slips out of control. The crossing is instantaneous. I traversed all those light years in just one move, ending up in front of your bookshop. It was like stepping through to the other side of a kind of mirror, which was a new and very unusual experience even for me. I never thought I would ever go through a fifth-force interference zone. It may not look that way to you, but I am really no adventurer. Although I spend most of my time investigating other worlds, this is the first time I have physically left my own. Actually, I think I am more of what you would call a bookworm.”
A rather uncomfortable smile appeared on the man’s lips, as though in apology. I returned his smile, feeling suddenly sympathetic towards him. In other circumstances, this could have been an interesting exchange of ideas between two fellow writers, even somewhat kindred souls. I really liked his story. Even the bit about the shortcut wasn’t bad. Not exactly original, but convincing nonetheless. As far as I could see, there was only one weak spot in the whole thing. I could have ignored it, but the hairsplitting critic in me prevailed in the end.
“I had no idea,” I said, “that there were humans on other worlds, too. Yet so you must be—at least, to judge by your appearance.”
“Of course there aren’t.”
“Well, then, how . . . ?” I asked, indicating his body with my hand.
“Transformation,” he replied succinctly, as though this explained everything.
“Ah, of course. I should have thought of it. Under the influence of the fifth force, indubitably.”
“That’s right. It makes it possible, while it is in interference, if you know how to manage it properly. But only for a short period. That is another reason why I am in a hurry. I won’t be able to stay in this shape much longer. And I don’t feel very happy in it. It’s very uncomfortable and clumsy. I don’t envy you this body one bit. It’s extremely unsuited for movement, in particular.”
“Surely there must have been some reason why you couldn’t appear here in your own body?”
“Of course. I would die within moments. This is an extremely poisonous atmosphere for me, and the pressure is very high. Rarely have I come across such a dangerous environment, and I am acquainted with a very large number of worlds. But even if the conditions on Earth were perfect, I would still have to take human form. Because of you.”
“Because of me?”
A smile played on the visitor’s lips again. “Yes, because of you. How do you think you would have reacted if I had appeared in your bookshop in my natural form? Would you be conversing so casually with a ball?”
“A ball?” I repeated. A bell rang softly somewhere in the back of my mind.
“Yes, a ball, perfectly round and soft. What shape is more suitable than a ball in a world completely devoid of uneven spots and obstacles, and covered with dense vegetation? It’s almost as if the entire planet were enveloped in a gigantic plant carpet. There is nothing lovelier than rolling on it.”
I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but my throat had suddenly tightened. I could feel my pulse start to pound dully in my ears.
“And what a captivating smell it has! That’s
what is actually the worst thing about Earth. I could somehow become accustomed to all the rest, but never this foul odour.” He sniffed the heated air of the bookshop with disgust. “If you ever had the chance to smell the fragrances of my world, you would never be able to stand it here again.”
I feverishly started to think. This wasn’t really happening. It could not be happening! There must be some simple explanation. But none that crossed my mind made any sense.
“Smells,” the visitor continued inexorably, “that emanate from the diversity of grasses that do not exist on any other of the multitude of worlds I have encountered to date. Lomus, rochum, mirrana, hoon, ameya, oolg, vorona . . . ”
“. . . pigeya, gorola, olam,” I continued with a voice deadened almost to a whisper.
The visitor’s face lit up. “So that means you recognize the work!” he cried.
I recognized it, or course. It was truly a new story. So new that it had not yet been published, and thus could not possibly be found on the shelf over there with the recently published works. It was a story that no one but its author should or could know about at this moment. A story that resided, saved several times too many, in the virtual space of my computer.
I nodded briefly, wordlessly.
“Please give it to me. Quickly! If I don’t hurry it might be too late.”
As I slipped a diskette into the computer with automatic movements and pressed the keys to copy it, questions teemed furiously in my head. But I knew I would not ask any of them. Not only because there was no time left for him to reply, but also because I was not really prepared for the answers.
The visitor took the diskette that I handed him, examined it carefully as though his eyes could see into its contents, then glanced at me and smiled again. He didn’t say a word. I tried to smile, too, but it looked more like a grimace.
He turned around and headed hurriedly for the door. A moment later he was swallowed up by the thick wall of fog.
I stood there for a long time, motionless, staring at the impenetrable greyness that had engulfed him. And then my fingers hit the keyboard again. The tangle of letters disappeared from the screen in an instant, leaving behind a yellow void. The story that I had almost finished faded into nothingness. It left no trace behind it, just as the visitor had left no trace behind him. I could pretend to myself that I had never even written it, and that, as on so many other evenings, no one had entered the bookshop once the wispy spirits had made their sluggish ascent from the riverbed.
Impossible Stories Page 12