By His Bootstraps
By Robert A. Heinlein
(as by Anson MacDonald)
Concerning the man who not only met himself, but stood by while hisself fought himself!
Illustrated by Rogers
* * *
An ANN/A Preservation Edition.
Notes
* * *
Bob Wilson did not see the circle grow.
Nor, for that matter, did he see the stranger who stepped out of the circle and stood staring at the back of Wilson’s neck—stared, and breathed heavily, as if laboring under strong and unusual emotion.
Wilson had no reason to suspect that anyone else was in his room; he had every reason to expect the contrary. He had locked himself in his room for the purpose of completing his thesis in one sustained drive. He had to—tomorrow was the last day for submission, yesterday the thesis had been no more than a title: “An Investigation into Certain Mathematical Aspects of a Rigor of Metaphysics.”
Fifty-two cigarettes, four pots of coffee, and thirteen hours of continuous work had added seven thousand words to the title. As to the validity of his thesis he was far too groggy to give a damn. Get it done, was his only thought, get it done, turn it in, take three stiff drinks and sleep for a week.
He glanced up and let his eyes rest on his wardrobe door, behind which he had cached a gin bottle, nearly full. No, he admonished himself, one more drink and you’ll never finish it, Bob, old son.
The stranger behind him said nothing.
Wilson resumed typing. “—nor is it valid to assume that a conceivable proposition is necessarily a possible proposition, even when it is possible to formulate mathematics which describes the proposition with exactness. A case in point is the concept ‘Time Travel.’ Time travel may be imagined and its necessities may be formulated under any and all theories of time, formulae which resolve the paradoxes of each theory. Nevertheless, we know certain things about the empirical nature of time which preclude the possibility of the conceivable proposition. Duration is an attribute of consciousness and not of the plenum. It has no ding an sicht. Therefore—”
A key of the typewriter stuck, three more jammed up on top of it.
Wilson swore dully and reached forward to straighten out the cantankerous machinery. “Don’t bother with it,” he heard a voice say. “It’s a lot of utter hogwash anyhow.”
Wilson sat up with a jerk, then turned his head slowly around. He fervently hoped that there was someone behind him. Otherwise—
He perceived the stranger with relief. “Thank God,” he said to himself. “For a moment I thought I had come unstuck.” His relief turned to extreme annoyance. “What the devil are you doing in my room?” he demanded. He shoved back his chair, got up and strode over to the one door. It was still locked, and bolted on the inside.
The windows were no help; they were adjacent to his desk and three stories above a busy street. “How did you get in?” he added.
“Through that,” answered the stranger, hooking a thumb toward the circle. Wilson noticed it for the first time, blinked his eyes and looked again. There it hung between them and the wall, a great disk of nothing, of the color one sees when the eyes are shut tight.
Wilson shook his head vigorously. The circle remained. “Gosh,” he thought, “I was right the first time. I wonder when I slipped my trolley?” He advanced toward the disk, put out a hand to touch it.
“Don’t!” snapped the stranger.
“Why not?” said Wilson edgily. Nevertheless he paused.
“I’ll explain. But let’s have a drink first.” He walked directly to the wardrobe, opened it, reached in and took out the bottle of gin without looking.
“Hey!” yelled Wilson. “What are you doing there? That’s my liquor.”
“Your liquor—” The stranger paused for a moment. “Sorry. You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you?”
“I suppose not,” Bob Wilson conceded in a surly tone. “Pour me one while you’re about it.”
“O. K.,” agreed the stranger, “then I’ll explain.”
“It had better be good,” Wilson said ominously. Nevertheless he drank his drink and looked the stranger over.
He saw a chap about the same size as himself and much the same age—perhaps a little older, though a three-day growth of beard may have accounted for that impression. The stranger had a black eye and a freshly cut and badly swollen upper lip. Wilson decided he did not like the chap’s face. Still, there was something familiar about the face; he felt that he should have recognized it, that he had seen it many times before under different circumstances.
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.
“Me?” said his guest. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“I’m not sure,” admitted Wilson. “Have I ever seen you before?”
“Well—not exactly,” the other temporized. “Skip it—you wouldn’t know about it.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name? Uh… just call me Joe.”
Wilson set down his glass. “O. K., Joe Whatever-your-name-is, trot out that explanation and make it snappy.”
“I’ll do that,” agreed Joe. “That dingus I came through”—he pointed to the circle—“that’s a Time Gate.”
“A what?”
“A Time Gate. Time flows along side by side on each side of the Gate, but some thousands of years apart—just how many thousands I don’t know. But for the next couple of hours that Gate is open. You can walk into the future just by stepping through that circle.” The stranger paused.
Bob drummed on the desk. “Go ahead. I’m listening. It’s a nice story.”
“You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll show you.” Joe got up, went again to the wardrobe and obtained Bob’s hat, his prized and only hat, which he had mistreated into its present battered grandeur through six years of undergraduate and graduate life. Joe chucked it toward the impalpable disk.
It struck the surface, went on through with no apparent resistance, disappeared from sight.
Wilson got up, walked carefully around the circle and examined the bare floor. “A neat trick,” he conceded. “Now I’ll thank you to return to me my hat.”
The stranger shook his head. “You can get it for yourself when you pass through.”
“Huh?”
“That’s right. Listen—” Briefly the stranger repeated his explanation about the Time Gate. Wilson, he insisted, had an opportunity that comes once in a millennium—if he would only hurry up and climb through that circle. Furthermore, though Joe could not explain in detail at the moment, it was very important that Wilson go through.
Bob Wilson helped himself to a second drink, and then a third. He was beginning to feel both good and argumentative. “Why?” he said flatly.
Joe looked exasperated. “Dammit, if you’d just step through once, explanations wouldn’t be necessary. However—” According to Joe, there was an old guy on the other side who needed Wilson’s help. With Wilson’s help the three of them would run the country. The exact nature of the help Joe could not or would not specify. Instead he bore down on the unique possibilities for high adventure. “You don’t want to slave your life away teaching numskulls in some fresh-water college,” he insisted. “This is your chance. Grab it.”
Bob Wilson admitted to himself that a Ph.D. and an appointment as an instructor was not his ideal of existence. Still, it beat working for a living. His eye fell on the gin bottle, its level now deplorably lowered. That explained it. He got up unsteadily.
“No, my dear fellow,” he stated, “I’m not going to climb on your merry-go-round. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m drunk, that’s why. You’re not there at all. That ain’t there.” He ge
stured widely at the circle. “There ain’t anybody here but me, and I’m drunk. Been working too hard,” he added apologetically. “I’m goin’ to bed.”
“You’re not drunk.”
“I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles.” He moved toward his bed.
Joe grabbed his arm. “You can’t do that,” he said.
“Let him alone!”
They both swung around. Facing them, standing directly in front of the circle was a third man. Bob looked at the newcomer, looked back at Joe, blinked his eyes and tried to focus them. The two looked a good bit alike, he thought, enough alike to be brothers. Or maybe he was seeing double. Bad stuff, gin. Should ’ave switched to rum a long time ago. Good stuff, rum. You could drink it, or take a bath in it. No, that was gin—he meant Joe.
How silly! Joe was the one with the black eye. He wondered why he had ever been confused.
Then who was this other lug? Couldn’t a couple of friends have a quiet drink together without people butting in?
“Who are you?” he said with quiet dignity.
The newcomer turned his head, then looked at Joe. “He knows me,” he said meaningly.
Joe looked him over slowly. “Yes,” he said, “yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?”
“No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do—you’ll concede that—and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn’t go through the Gate.”
“I don’t concede anything of the sort—”
The telephone rang.
“Answer it!” snapped the newcomer.
Bob was about to protest the peremptory tone, but decided he wouldn’t. He lacked the phlegmatic temperament necessary to ignore a ringing telephone. “Hello?”
“Hello,” he was answered. “Is that Bob Wilson?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Never mind. I just wanted to be sure you were there. I thought you would be. You’re right in the groove, kid, right in the groove.”
Wilson heard a chuckle, then the click of disconnection. “Hello,” he said. “Hello!” He jiggled the bar a couple of times, then hung up.
“What was it?” asked Joe.
“Nothing. Some nut with a misplaced sense of humor.” The telephone bell rang again. Wilson added, “There he is again,” and picked up the receiver. “Listen, you butterfly-brained ape! I’m a busy man, and this is not a public telephone.”
“Why, Bob!” came a hurt feminine voice.
“Huh? Oh, it’s you, Genevieve. Look—I’m sorry. I apologize—”
“Well, I should think you would!”
“You don’t understand, honey. A guy has been pestering me over the phone and I thought it was him. You know I wouldn’t talk that way to you, Babe.”
“Well, I should think not. Particularly after all you said to me this afternoon, and all we meant to each other.”
“Huh? This afternoon? Did you say this afternoon?”
“Of course. But what I called up about was this: You left your hat in my apartment. I noticed it a few minutes after you had gone and just thought I’d call and tell you where it is. Anyhow,” she added coyly, “it gave me an excuse to hear your voice again.”
“Sure. Fine,” he said mechanically. “Look, Babe, I’m a little mixed up about this. Trouble I’ve had all day long, and more trouble now. I’ll look you up tonight and straighten it out. But I know I didn’t leave your hat in my apartment—”
“You’re hat, silly!”
“Huh? Oh, sure! Anyhow, I’ll see you tonight. ’By.” He rang off hurriedly. Gosh, he thought, that woman is getting to be a problem. Hallucinations. He turned to his two companions.
“Very well, Joe. I’m ready to go if you are.” He was not sure just when or why he had decided to go through the time gadget, but he had. Who did this other mug think he was, anyhow, trying to interfere with a man’s freedom of choice?
“Fine!” said Joe, in a relieved voice. “Just step through. That’s all there is to it.”
“No, you don’t!” It was the ubiquitous stranger. He stepped between Wilson and the Gate.
Bob Wilson faced him. “Listen, you! You come butting in here like you think I was a bum. If you don’t like it, go jump in the lake—and I’m just the kind of guy who can do it! You and who else?”
The stranger reached out and tried to collar him. Wilson let go a swing, but not a good one. It went by nothing faster than parcel post. The stranger walked under it and let him have a mouthful of knuckles—large, hard ones. Joe closed in rapidly, coming to Bob’s aid. They traded punches in a free-for-all, with Bob joining in enthusiastically but inefficiently. The only punch he landed was on Joe, theoretically his ally. However, he had intended it for the third man.
It was this faux pas which gave the stranger an opportunity to land a clean left jab on Wilson’s face. It was inches higher than the button, but in Bob’s bemused condition it was sufficient to cause him to cease taking part in the activities.
Bob Wilson came slowly to awareness of his surroundings. He was seated on a floor which seemed a little unsteady. Someone was bending over him. “Are you all right?” the figure inquired.
“I guess so,” he answered thickly. His mouth pained him; he put his hand to it, got it sticky with blood. “My head hurts.”
“I should think it would. You came through head over heels. I think you hit your head when you landed.”
Wilson’s thoughts were coming back into confused focus. Came through? He looked more closely at his succorer. He saw a middle-aged man with gray-shot bushy hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed in what Wilson took to be purple lounging pajamas.
But the room in which he found himself bothered him even more. It was circular and the ceiling was arched so subtly that it was difficult to say how high it was. A steady glareless light filled the room from no apparent source. There was no furniture save for a high dais or pulpit-shaped object near the wall facing him. “Came through? Came through what?”
“The Gate, of course.” There was something odd about the man’s accent. Wilson could not place it, save for a feeling that English was not a tongue he was accustomed to speaking.
Wilson looked over his shoulder in the direction of the other’s gaze, and saw the circle.
That made his head ache even more. “Oh Lord,” he thought, “now I really am nuts. Why don’t I wake up?” He shook his head to clear it.
That was a mistake. The top of his head did not quite come off—not quite. And the circle stayed where it was, a simple locus hanging in the air, its flat depth filled with the amorphous colors and shapes of no-vision, “Did I come through that?”
“Yes.”
“Where am I?”
“In the Hall of the Gate in the High Palace of Norkaal. But what is more important is when you are. You have gone forward a little more than thirty thousand years.”
“Now I know I’m crazy,” thought Wilson. He got up unsteadily and moved toward the Gate.
The older man put a hand on his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Back!”
“Not so fast. You will go back all right—I give you my word on that. But let me dress your wounds first. And you should rest. I have some explanations to make to you, and there is an errand you can do for me when you get back—to our mutual advantage. There is a great future in store for you and me, my boy—a great future!”
Wilson paused uncertainly. The elder man’s insistence was vaguely disquieting. “I don’t like this.”
The other eyed him narrowly. “Wouldn’t you like a drink before you go?”
Wilson most assuredly would. Right at the moment a stiff drink seemed the most desirable thing on earth—or in time. “O. K.”
“Come with me.” The older man led him back of the structure near the wall and through a door which led into a passageway. He walked briskly; Wilson hurried to keep up.
&nbs
p; “By the way,” he asked, as they continued down the long passage, “what is your name?”
“My name? You may call me Diktor—everyone else does.”
“O. K., Diktor. Do you want my name?”
“Your name?” Diktor chuckled. “I know your name. It’s Bob Wilson.”
“Huh? Oh—I suppose Joe told you.”
“Joe? I know no one by that name.”
“You don’t? He seemed to know you. Say—maybe you aren’t the guy I was supposed to see.”
“But I am. I have been expecting you—in a way, Joe… Joe—Oh!” Diktor chuckled. “It had slipped my mind for a moment. He told you to call him Joe, didn’t he?”
“Isn’t it his name?”
“It’s as good a name as any other. Here we are.” He ushered Wilson into a small, but cheerful, room. It contained no furniture of any sort, but the floor was soft and warm as live flesh. “Sit down. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Bob looked around for something to sit on, then turned to ask Diktor for a chair. But Diktor was gone, furthermore the door through which they had entered was gone. Bob sat down on the comfortable floor and tried not to worry.
Diktor returned promptly. Wilson saw the door dilate to let him in, but did not catch on to how it was done. Diktor was carrying a carafe, which gurgled pleasantly, and a cup. “Mud in your eye,” he said heartily and poured a good four fingers. “Drink up.”
Bob accepted the cup. “Aren’t you drinking?”
“Presently. I want to attend to your wounds first.”
“O. K.” Wilson tossed off the first drink in almost indecent haste—it was good stuff, a little like Scotch, he decided, but smoother and not as dry—while Diktor worked deftly with salves that smarted at first, then soothed. “Mind if I have another?”
“Help yourself.”
Bob drank more slowly the second cup. He did not finish it; it slipped from relaxed fingers, spilling a ruddy, brown stain across the floor. He snored.
Bob Wilson woke up feeling fine and completely rested. He was cheerful without knowing why. He lay relaxed, eyes still closed, for a few moments and let his soul snuggle back into his body. This was going to be a good day, he felt. Oh, yes—he had finished that double-damned thesis. No, he hadn’t either! He sat up with a start.