Part 1 (1/2)

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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rt 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!