Reversion.
a Novel of Time Travel.
by Varangian Kellis.
Prolog: The Way to Go
aTim, Tim,a I heard a voice whisper and felt a hand pinching my leg. aWake up, you old man. People are staring.a Instantly I became alert and rubbed an eye, pretending that something was caught there. Eighteen eminent people looked at me, nine on each side of the long table in the wainscoted seminar room with leaded gla.s.s windows. Alice, sitting beside me, was the one who had nudged me from my doze. These scientists from half a dozen countries had come to hear the latest details of my hotly disputed theory that time travel was possible, even readily accomplished, just not to destinations within our particular universe.
The pain in my belly had returned. aWhere was I?a I took another pill with a swallow of water.
aYou were recapping your proof of the Thorn-effect that restricts reversion to alternative universes,a Alice whispered into my ear.
I looked into sober faces gazing back at me with astonishing respect, at me, an old man who would soon be oblivious to everything, who would not even be aware of oblivion.
aWhat was the question?a I asked after hacking some phlegm into a handkerchief.
A distinguished fellow with a gray van d.y.k.e a" why didnat he dye it black? a" said patiently, aI merely pointed out that we can already return to childhood in our memories. Isnat that essentially what you offer?a I chuckled derisively. aYou know better, Dr. ah, ah a"a aBoren,a whispered Alice.
aDr. Boring, if that was all I offered you would hardly be here. Yes, indeed one can remember an event. But much as he wishes, he can never change it. Until now. Now he or she can return to the exact moment in the same circ.u.mstances and do it differently if he wishes.a aMost remarkable!a the man said with a polite sneer. He held up a paper. aAnd you claim to have proven the concept with trained mice.a aSeveral of them! We have already gone over that.a I felt my temper rising.
Alice spoke for me. aActually with untrained mice a" that could nevertheless run the maze perfectly before they were trained and sent back.a aExactly! And that is the preposterous part of your argument. Why did you bother toa a" he smiled sardonically a" ago through the masquerade of training the same mice after they had already run the maze?a aBecause they werenat exactly the same mice.a I hacked more phlegm. aWe, as well as mice, can travel back, but not in the same bodies. Only our minds can do it because, as a data pattern, a mind can exist independently of the physical being.a aAre you, perhaps, speaking of the soul, Professor?a asked a smooth faced Jesuit in rather dapper clerical garb. The churchas interest in my work was hardly surprising. In any case I was glad of his diversion. Alice and I had argued long and hard about those mice. Who trained them first? Had we discovered a causal loop in time?
But this was not the forum for uncertainties. I coughed and replied to the priest, aNo. The soul is a spiritual concept. Iam talking about the collective memories of an individual, the experience of existence, that comprise the data patterns impressed on the Einsteinian Continuum by a functioning mind. They can survive the death of the body, if transported into a past where their primitive nexi already exist as the youthful form of the same mind, in a close alternate universe whose only difference with our present one may be the existence or non-existence of a single microbe.a I fumbled with my foils and hissed at Alice, aWhereas the Thorn equation?a aOn the projector,a she hissed back indignantly.
aAh, yes.a I cleared my throat. aPlease consider the Thorn coefficient on the continuum locus.a I touched it with my quivering pointer. aIt is a complex imaginary variable, frozen at the instant of departure, that determines a"a aWhy not in the same universe?a interrupted an impatient young physics professor not a day over fifty.
Several voices rose to condemn his impertinence. I waved my hand in grand absolution. aNo, no, itas all right. The short answer is that in the same universe, as Einstein proved, travel into the past, even only of data patterns, requires one to exceed the speed of light.a I smiled. aThe Thorn effect, while it limits displacement and format, offers a loophole in the law. We merely supply an alternate universe, in effect a different law book.a aThatas an elegant notion,a the priest retorted with a sniff, hunching his shoulders and leaning forward at the table, aand the math is pretty, but your Thorn coefficient ranks with the tachyon. Itas no more provable than the hinges on the pearly gates.a aQuite right, Father Quinn,a I forced myself to smile through the nagging pain in my stomach. aWhoever manages the trip cannot return to tell us about it. Furthermore the effects, if any, of his appearance in the past cannot appear to his future in the universe he departs.a aThe trip,a said a callow youth not yet forty. aHow could it be accomplished?a aIave been working on that,a I replied dourly, abut unfortunately it requires the termination of oneas consciousness in this universe. That is to say, it requires suicide, and of course we can never know the results of that. Father Quinn is quite correct. Weare dealing here with the question of life after death.a aIn what sense?a demanded someone with a shocked expression.
aPerhaps an immoral one,a I replied, staring at my interrogator. aPresent memories, habits and prejudices become available to the earlier version of oneas own mind, even though in a slightly different universe. I cannot believe they would fail to corrupt its future.a My audience thought it over. Someone asked, aHave you picked a name for the process?a aI call it reversion.a * * *
aYouare going to do it, arenat you?a Alice growled as we walked down the hall toward the lab and our offices. She pulled on my sleeve, forcing me to stop and look at her.
aItas better than rotting away in pain,a I replied with a bit of annoyance, trying to avoid looking into her disconsolate face, aand it will be proof of concept, at least for me.a aIf it works!a she snorted.
The heavy woman with a wrinkled face was three years my junior, sixty-four years old. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. She was not pretty, although I had always found her to be extremely attractive, like the bust of an ancient Greek woman: dignified, self-a.s.sured. We loved each other, although we had never touched intimately in our 25 years of scientific collaboration. We would never be so tawdry. We were faithful to our spouses.
aWhat can I say, Tim? What can I say?a and she began to weep convulsively, losing the haughty reserve that was her hallmark.
I almost put my hands on her, almost embraced the woman, but I flinched.
aShould I say good-bye now, Tim?a she choked emotionally, tears falling down her cheeks as we stood before the door of the lab.
aGood-bye, Alice,a I said, eager to do it, to be done with the whole f.u.c.king world.
I left her crying at the door as I closed it behind me.
I sat in what could only be described as an electric chair. It was connected by thick cables to machines and processors that only Alice and I understood. It was not science. The results could not be verified. It was based on theories I had elaborated over many years, some of them when I was only half sober. But I had nothing to lose. I was dying anyway. I thought of Sara. The heartache of losing her welled up in my chest, strong as ever after more than 50 years. I vowed Iad not lose her this time. Then I pushed the b.u.t.ton.
Reversion
Chapter 1: Restart.
My mind seemed to explode and I felt an awful fear, a panic that caused me to lose control of my bicycle. It plunged into a line of privet bushes, and I fell headlong onto the hard sod of the neighboras lawn. I wanted to scream in terror, yet I was elated at being alive. My mind had been invaded, yet I knew how and why. Who are you? I asked, and I replied to myself, Timothy P. Kimball, 67, PhD, n.o.bel laureate. Lying face down beyond the fallen handlebars, I asked again, Who are you? and answered, Timmy Kimball, twelve years old, in the seventh grade at Candlespot Middle School. The fear vanished and I felt nothing but delirious joy.
aAre you hurt?a Mrs. Grierson inquired anxiously, leaning over me. How familiar was her face! Being away in school, I had not attended her funeral when she died of breast cancer. When she did what?
aTimmy!a my mother called in fright as she ran from our front yard where she had been tending a flowerbed.
aIam all right,a I replied in a soprano voice that startled me. aI think the bike hit a rock.a Yes, it was my mother who bent over me and kissed my face. Oh, Lord! Her face was unlined. Her sweetly familiar odor, now recognized as cheap cologne, filled my nostrils. But I was home again after such a long voyage! My eyes grew moist.
aAre you hurt?a Mom asked again, wiping away my tears.
aIam elatea" No, not really. I just b.u.mped myself.a aYou must be more careful,a she chided me with a warm smile.
I got up and retrieved the undamaged bike. They built them tough when I was young. Mom and Mrs. Grierson lost interest in me and began to chat. I c.o.c.ked an ear; womenas talk had often amused me in later years. In a moment they were a.n.a.lyzing the suspected motives of the new neighbors who flaunted themselves in their backyard at night. He was seen without a shirt and she with bare legs! I wanted to ask dryly if it had been a full moon.
Mom looked at me curiously. aDid you need something, dear?a aNo, no. I was just thinking.a Turning away, I chuckled to myself. What I needed was to remember that to this world I remained only a boy.
As I wheeled the bicycle down the sidewalk and then up our driveway, I experienced a feeling of settling in, which is the only way I can describe it, as if I my elderly personality was making itself comfortable in its new home, while the youthful one accepted its wondrous new confidence and understanding. Yet the combined mind marveled at the smooth, hairless shapeliness of my forearms. I was conscious of being 67 years old, but I was also the same boy as the day before. Whatas the date? I asked and knew the answer immediately: September 20, 1947, a Sat.u.r.day. I was absolutely astounded.
After I parked the bike on its kickstand next to the back porch I rushed upstairs to my bedroom to examine the rest of me. I already knew how I looked naked, of course, but not from this perspective. I glanced out the window and saw Mom go into Mrs. Griersonas house, and knew that I had perhaps an hour to myself. I stripped off my clothes quickly, eagerly, and then stood in front of the long mirror on the closet door. My youthful, blond body amazed me. I stood over sixty inches tall and must have weighed 115 or 120. I had some heft, but my body was absolutely boyish; there was not even a wisp of pubic hair above my hard c.o.c.k, which jutted out four or five inches. My limbs were shapely and soft looking, almost girlish. There was no masculinity in my chest and shoulders, which were still undeveloped. My nipples were raised on small cones of flesh. I fondled myself, in love with my own young image, like Narcissus. I ran my hands up and down my soft thighs, then my belly and chest. I gazed at my boyish face and then again at my c.o.c.k.
I had not yet m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed for the first time, I suddenly realized, although I knew about it, had thought about it. Some of the guys in my sixth grade cla.s.s were doing it. Even Ritchie, a good friend, had been jacking off for almost a month. I remembered the first time when I sat on the toilet naked, just before a bath, and played with my c.o.c.k until it erupted with a stinging sensation but agreeable pleasure. I gazed into the mirror and thought that I did not have to wait until Christmas vacation, that this second time around I could begin doing it about three months early.
I grasped and gently squeezed my small c.o.c.k. It felt good. I had experienced o.r.g.a.s.ms countless times in my 67 years, although much less frequently since my late fifties. But the young body I now inhabited, the hairless boy reflected in the mirror, had yet to feel the full pleasure. I pulled on my c.o.c.k with fingers and thumb, the head of it b.u.mping against my palm. I looked at my image and thought myself pretty as I manipulated the slender shaft with growing eagerness. I felt a tingle in the head of it, that telltale sensation which from long experience I knew heralded the ecstatic release, the pleasure that could not now be avoided. My face grimaced, upper teeth on lower lip, and I spewed with a small shout onto my palm and between my fingers. The profound pleasure caused my knees to weaken. I never remembered it feeling so wonderful. I squeezed out the last dollop and in a fit of naughtiness brought the slimy hand to my face for a taste with the tip of my tongue. I then smeared my boyish chest with the stuff and then my belly and right thigh. My breathing soon reverted to its normal rhythm and after another gaze at my boyishness, I went to the bathroom for a quick shower.
Masturbation! I was back with that once more, I groused as I toweled myself dry. Here I was, on an adventure unprecedented in human history, and all I could think about was s.e.x and jacking off. The rutting instincts of my twelve-year-old body overwhelmed the elegant mind inside. The n.o.bel laureate could only dream of getting laid for the first time. At least in this new life, I felt certain, I would not have to wait until I was a college soph.o.m.ore.
I sat on the edge of my bed and pondered my unique situation. I could not announce to the world that I, Timothy Kimball, knew for a certainty what was to come in the next half century. Were I to do that, I would be placed under professional care. And if I persisted and foretold accurately the outcome of elections and sporting events, the course of the stock market and weighty international events, to say nothing of technological innovation, greedy men would probably kidnap me. Even worse, I could attract the attention of the government, which would seek to use me as a weapon in the unfolding Cold War that would begin in earnest with the Berlin Airlift next year.
Physically I was just twelve years old. No one could imagine that I had the life experience of a 67-year-old man, a man who had seen the beginning of the Twenty-first Century. At my young age, I reasoned, I could effect little change in the world. I would probably not be able to prevent even the stroke that would kill my father within two years time, although I certainly intended to nag him about his diet and high blood pressure. When I became an adult, of course, I would enjoy a breath-taking career, probably in particle physics again. I would become fabulously wealthy, a multi-billionaire, and people would marvel at my uncanny ability to make the right investments. I would win the n.o.bel prize once more. But as a p.u.b.escent boy I could affect little, except perhaps in the realm of s.e.x.
I mused about the morality of it, of being an old man in a young body, realizing that my previous judgment had been incomplete. Regardless of the effect on my own future, would it be wrong of me to exploit my inner maturity to seduce young girls? I ran my hands up and down my smooth, almost girlish thighs. Perhaps even a pretty boy or two, I thought, just as an experiment. It would be unseemly for a twelve year old to focus on adult women. It would be ludicrous, although there was a certain moral logic to it. And the logic would demand that my s.e.xual partners be at least over forty!
That was a stupid notion. I was twelve years old, I reminded myself again as I pulled on my small c.o.c.k. It was not unheard of for a precocious boy of that age to engage in s.e.x with his contemporaries. I would never be accused of being a child molester, because no one could understand the truth of my situation, which was unprecedented, unbelievable. I had to decide the morality of it on my own, because society had no standard for my unique condition.
But at the moment, to my amazement, the good feeling, the first inkling of o.r.g.a.s.m, returned to my c.o.c.k. My G.o.d, it had hardly been half an hour! At least, I thought, moving my hand faster, this time youth would not be wasted in the young!
Sara was twelve also! For over fifty years that girl had filled my mind with fantasy and regret, because when I was twelve the first time, I had lost her. It was all about s.e.x. We had been such close friends, playmates since before we could remember, that we took each other for granted, a.s.suming that our childish world would remained unchanged.
Sara became s.e.xually conscious a year before me, and when we were eleven, I noticed a change in her that I could not comprehend. She played more physically with me, rough housing with increasing frequency, subtly inviting me to touch the nubs of her incipient b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
I was a shy boy and too unsophisticated to realize the possibilities. Ritchie, my closest male friend, eventually became her first boy friend, while I remained just pals with the two of them.
On my second chance at youth I resolved to have Sara, and it would be easy, because behind her tomboy facade, I knew, lurked a s.l.u.t who was ready for anything. I went out to find her immediately. Ritchie and she were on her back porch, heads together, whispering something.
She looked up and smiled when she saw me, suggesting, aHey, Tim! Letas go up to the field.a We had often played in that vast acreage of tall gra.s.ses and weeds, so fragrant in spring, where children could sit on the ground and be lost to the rest of the world. It was a notorious place in which teenagers enjoyed s.e.x hidden away in the lush vegetation.
But Sara was far from the sultry houri my fantasy remembered. She had a plain, somewhat mousy face, and her limbs were spa.r.s.e, almost skinny. I had imagined over the decades that she was a beautiful pixie, but the truth of it was that she looked more like an undernourished waif. I found Ritchie, who was far prettier than she, to be more s.e.xually attractive. It was a great disappointment, seeing her the second time around. A lifetime of daydreams suddenly became absurd. Yet I still wanted her, if only because I had invested so much of myself, emotionally, in my elaborate memory of the girl.
aLetas go up there by the railroad tracks,a Ritchie said, suggesting a slight detour.
aSure,a I responded as I came down the steps, and Sara agreed with a smile.
The tracks, two blocks away, were those of a little-used spur that penetrated the field and served a few industrial buildings along its route. We had played there forever, learning to walk the rails without teetering.
Sara seemed to be rather excited that morning. aLetas go into the field,a she insisted as soon as it was in view, taking our hands in each of hers.
We ran into it, the weeds slapping around our bare thighs, the houses of our neighborhood in the far distance. Sara suddenly fell to the ground, pulling Ritchie and me down with her. We rolled about to make a secret s.p.a.ce for ourselves. Only the birds and b.u.t.terflies could see us.
aDo you want to practice kissing?a she asked with a naughty smirk.
Sara was an inch taller than the two of us boys, but this time I refused to be intimidated by the bold girl. I rolled over to her and placed my palm on a small breast. I kissed her like an adult. She endured me for a while with scant response from her lips.
aItas Ritchieas turn now,a she said and pushed me off her.
He was eager for it and so was she. They kissed like lovers, although as far as I knew it was their first time. Perhaps not: I could tell that their mouths were open. I realized I was too late, that I should have reverted weeks earlier. Ritchie had Sara again, and she would probably let him f.u.c.k her, if I were not there. Suddenly I realized that it wouldnat be their first time.
aIam going home,a I said as I got to my feet, but they seemed not to hear. Ritchie was on top grinding his body at her as they kissed.
I waded through the weeds towards home, disappointed somewhat, but not too much. My long fantasy had been shattered by reality. The scrawny girl had not aroused me in the least, because what I truly wanted was a female older than she with more heft both in body and mind.
And at that instant I thought of one: Phyllis Schaefer, a sixteen year old who lived in the next block. Phyllis had a plain, blond face and was a bit heavy, although not fat. She was a studious girl, very intelligent, and we often talked like old friends despite the difference in our ages. The old man in my head could seduce that lonely girl, I thought callously, and achieve for my young body its first complete s.e.xual release.
Did I want to give Phyllis this bodyas cherry? I had to laugh. Was I saving myself for Marilyn Monroe? Phyllisas youthful freshness seemed easily preferable to the wh.o.r.e who would finally get it without my older coaching.
ah.e.l.lo, Timmy,a Mrs. Schaefer greeted me at the back door after my knock. aWhat brings you here?a She was a stout matron of about forty, a war widow in an ap.r.o.n with flour on her hands and a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Schaefer was one of my favorite persons.
aIs Phyllis home?a I inquired with a grin.
aYes, of course, Timmy. Sheas upstairs in her room. Tell her the cookies will be done soon.a It was as easy as that. Phyllis had once been my baby sitter and I had the run of her house. I climbed the stairs two at a time and burst into her room, surprising her as she lay on the bed reading a book.
aTimmy,a she exclaimed and sat up. aYou startled me.a aSorry,a I said with calculated sheepishness as I gazed at her friendly, homely face.
aWhatas up?a she asked in a chirpy tone.
aIam bored, Phyll. Sara and Ritchie got all mushy out in the field so I left.a Her eyebrows rose. aWasnat Sara your girl?a I put on a hangdog expression. aNaw. Iave never had a girl.a aIam surprised. Youare such a good looking boy.a aI suppose Sara likes Ritchieas looks better than mine.a aWell, he is really rather pretty, if one prefers dark haired boys.a Her eyes twinkled. aIam partial to blondes, myself.a She regarded me with a weak smile of yearning. I remembered, when I was eight and she twelve, how she often kissed me in a playful manner and touched my soft legs. I knew I could have her if I just reached out the way a normal twelve year old could never imagine. I did not have to conquer the girl; I only had to make myself available to her. It was so easy, so easy that I felt guilty for an instant. But this was an intelligent female just at the start of her adulthood; fair game for a h.o.r.n.y young boy with a skilled coach to guide him. My guilt was misplaced, I thought, and I sat on the bed next to her.
aWhat are you reading,a I asked casually and picked up her book.
It was Untermeyeras volume on American literature. I thumbed the pages. aI like his treatment of Dreiseras Sister Carrie,a I said as I handed the book back to her.
aYouave always been a bookworm, Timmy,a she said gaily and tousled my hair. aI canat imagine you understand much of what you read.a aWhy do you suppose I read?a I replied in a testy voice. aI understand more than most kids my age. Sara doesnat read much, you know, nor does Ritchie. Theyare just kids. Thatas why I like talking with you.a I thought the lonely girl was about to embrace me. Her arms were ready and her mouth was open in excitement, but her mother interrupted us.
aKids,a she called from downstairs. aI have cookies and milk for you.a I placed my palm on her cheek as I got off the bed. She uttered a choking sound and her eyes grew moist. I pulled her up with my hand. She suddenly comprehended the possibilities, but the illicit reality of it made her extremely nervous. It was so easy.
After our snack Phyllis and I went for a stroll. She was clearly troubled by her deep infatuation with a twelve-year-old boy who was two inches shorter and 20 pounds lighter. Her feelings for me had always been there, primly repressed. It was the nasty old man who exploited them, the old man whose young body enslaved him. p.u.b.escent hormones overruled the cranky professor who thought that Phyllis was a sweet young thing bereft of any s.e.xual allure.
I took hold of her hand and she shook it off.
aThe neighbors will see!a she protested.
The street was empty except for a few cars at the curb, but one could imagine snoopy housewives peering out windows.
aIave always liked holding your hand,a I complained.
aBut youare not a little boy any more,a she retorted, vainly trying to stay in charge.
aNo, Iam not,a I agreed. aIn some ways Iam a lot older than twelve, you know.a aYes, youare very precocious.a I let fly with a zinger. aI could even get you pregnant.a The girlas face turned beet red.
aPlease, T-Timmy,a she stuttered.
aLetas go to the field,a I said, looking up at her. This was not the same field where I had left Sara and Ritchie. For a moment I had been tempted to take her there, but Phyllis hated to ride bicycles.
She did not reply though we continued walking in that direction. She took my hand as we crossed the road, and she seemed to hurry when we pressed into the tall weeds. We went deeply into the field trotting hand in hand. As the world behind us became dimmer, we grew more elated. Finally we fell to the ground and lost the world all together.
aDonat get me pregnant, Timmy. Promise me,a she implored as we grappled to each other on the fragrant soil and weeds.
I paused.
aThereas no hurry,a I said calmly. aWe can have pleasure without making a baby.a aBut I want you to be my first boy,a she almost whined.
aIall pull out in time,a I promised. aDo you want to get naked with me?a Phyllis raised her head above the level of the weeds and looked about.