Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (384 page)

In the third kind of time travel narrative, time is not conceived as unified time line. It is several time lines that may or may not intersect. This conception of time travel borrows from contemporary insights of quantum mechanics. The final form of time travel narrative is suggested by theories around current physics, which argues that there may be multiple time lines in multiple universes. The novel
Timescape
written by Gregory Benford, who is a research physicist, describes a much more complex understanding of time than the time loop or the time travel narratives, though it shares with
The Minority Report
the idea that only information, not people, travel. In
Timescape
scientists from the future try to send information into the past to prevent an ecological disaster from happening. It may be that they succeed, but their own present does not change, instead the time line diverges from that apocalyptic future and a different future takes its place for those in the past. This kind of narrative takes advantage of theoretical aspects of quantum theory that suggests that decisions lead to one of many possible outcomes, each of which could exist in its own universe. H. Piper Beam’s “Paratime” series is another example of this, in which a people from an Earth time line move between time lines to exploit resources for their own depleted world, but who also must police the time lines to prevent others from polluting the time lines.

One can also see this more complex theory of time in the movie
Primer
directed by Shane Carruth, whose narrative about time travel ends with a meditation by the narrator admitting that he does not know how hard it was for a version of himself from a different time to change a time line. He is left hoping that it was not as bad as he feared it was. Despite the fact that he controls the ability to travel through time, every travel that he makes displaces him further from his own time, and he would have to return through each jump to get back to his own time. Just because he can keep track of the multiple timeline he has created, does not mean that he can move between them at will. With a quantum-theory-influenced understanding of time, the narrative again becomes about the limits of human will and thus intention can return to the tricky place of importance that it holds in our realityworld.

By asking what time travel does in or for a narrative, we can of course use the answer as a way of interpreting that narrative, but it also allows us to look at broader questions of where the boundaries of the genre of science fiction are. Science fiction as a genre does not have any necessary content, however its quality of subjunctivity gives it a specific kind of reading process that asks the reader to accept a hypothetical. The hypothetical of time travel asks us to step outside of the boundaries of what it usually means to be human, , to consider what else may be possible, whether hoped-for or feared. It challenges us to consider and reconsider our finitude.

* * * *

Ellen M. Rigsby
is an Associate Professor of Rhetoric in the Department of Communication at Saint Mary’s College of California. She works in the areas of speculative fiction, political theory, and media law.

(1925–1993)

Stories about western diplomatic ineptitude were not uncommon in the Cold War years of the late 1950s and early 1960s. Searing best-sellers like
The Ugly American
(1958),
A Nation of Sheep
(1961), and
Fail-Safe
(1962) exposed the same sort of unforced errors in the Third World that were dragging the U.S. into Vietnam and other messes. Keith Laumer’s Retief stories, however, were a lot funnier. Part story-of-manners, part comedy of errors, his tales of a clever junior diplomat able to solve alien crises despite his superiors’ ham-fisted adherence to protocol were light in tone, but effective satire nonetheless (with an unsurprisingly real feel, given Laumer’s own experiences as a diplomat). At the same time, Laumer was writing straight-ahead military SF in his Bolo series.

Born John Keith Laumer in Syracuse, New York, the early part of his career was deeply affected by World War II and the Korean War. College at Indiana University was interrupted by Army service in Europe. After the war he attended Stockholm University in Sweden and received a BA in architecture in 1950 from the University of Illinois. An airplane enthisiast, Laumer did two tours in the U.S. Air Force, 1953–56 and 1960–65, rising to the rank of captain. Between his Air Force hitches, he served in the U.S. diplomatic corps in Burma and India. By that time his writing career was taking off, and Laumer became a full-time writer in 1965.

His airplane enthusiasm actually helped start his writing career; Laumer built working model airplanes, and his first publications were designs and articles in
Air Trails
,
Model Airplane News
,
Flying Models
, and
Aeromodeller
. He also wrote a book on the subject,
How to Design and Build Flying Models
(1960).

Laumer’s first SF story, “Graylorn,” appeared in
Amazing
in 1959. Both the Retief and Bolo series started the next year. Laumer was astonishingly prolific for the next decade, writing a wide variety of science fiction, fantasy, and adventure, ranging from broadly humorous to action-adventure, to serious and analytical.

A fitness buff who took great pride in his health, Laumer suffered a stroke in 1971 while talking with Joe Haldeman about asteroid mining. A more devastating stroke followed a few days later, paralyzing one side of his body and damaging his brain. Although he partially recovered after a grueling therapy regimen, his writing was severely affected (he could write fiction, but not well) and he was prone to uncontrollable rages and bleak depressions. He eventually became unable to interact with most friends or fans—a tragic irony for the man who had been a master of wit and diplomacy.

His brother, March Laumer, was also a writer, known for reinterpretations of L. Frank Baum’s Oz books.

First published in
Worlds of If
, January 1962

I

Jame Retief, vice-consul and third secretary in the Diplomatic Corps, followed the senior members of the terrestrial mission across the tarmac and into the gloom of the reception building. The gray-skinned Yill guide who had met the arriving embassy at the foot of the ramp hurried away. The councillor, two first secretaries and the senior attaches gathered around the ambassador, their ornate uniforms bright in the vast dun-colored room.

Ten minutes passed. Retief strolled across to the nearest door and looked through the glass panel at the room beyond. Several dozen Yill lounged in deep couches, sipping lavender drinks from slender glass tubes. Black-tunicked servants moved about inconspicuously, offering trays. A party of brightly dressed Yill moved toward the entrance doors. One of the party, a tall male, made to step before another, who raised a hand languidly, fist clenched. The first Yill stepped back and placed his hands on top of his head. Both Yill were smiling and chatting as they passed through the doors.

Retief turned away to rejoin the Terrestrial delegation waiting beside a mound of crates made of rough greenish wood stacked on the bare concrete floor.

As Retief came up, Ambassador Spradley glanced at his finger watch and spoke to the man beside him.

“Ben, are you quite certain our arrival time was made clear?”

Second Secretary Magnan nodded emphatically. “I stressed the point, Mr. Ambassador. I communicated with Mr. T’Cai-Cai just before the lighter broke orbit, and I specifically—”

“I hope you didn’t appear truculent, Mr. Magnan,” the ambassador said sharply.

“No indeed, Mr. Ambassador. I merely—”

“You’re sure there’s no VIP room here?” The ambassador glanced around the cavernous room. “Curious that not even chairs have been provided.”

“If you’d care to sit on one of these crates—”

“Certainly not.” The ambassador looked at his watch again and cleared his throat.

“I may as well make use of these few moments to outline our approach for the more junior members of the staff; it’s vital that the entire mission work in harmony in the presentation of the image. We Terrestrials are a kindly, peace-loving race.” The ambassador smiled in a kindly, peace-loving way.

“We seek only a reasonable division of spheres of influence with the Yill.” He spread his hands, looking reasonable.

“We are a people of high culture, ethical, sincere.” The smile was replaced abruptly by pursed lips.

“We’ll start by asking for the entire Sirenian System, and settle for half. We’ll establish a foothold on all the choicer worlds. And, with shrewd handling, in a century we’ll be in a position to assert a wider claim.”

The ambassador glanced around. “If there are no questions—”

* * * *

Retief stepped forward. “It’s my understanding, Mr. Ambassador, that we hold the prior claim to the Sirenian System. Did I understand your Excellency to say that we’re ready to concede half of it to the Yill without a struggle?”

Ambassador Spradley looked up at Retief, blinking. The younger man loomed over him. Beside him, Magnan cleared his throat in the silence.

“Vice-Consul Retief merely means—”

“I can interpret Mr. Retief’s remark,” the ambassador snapped. He assumed a fatherly expression.

“Young man, you’re new to the Service. You haven’t yet learned the team play, the give-and-take of diplomacy. I shall expect you to observe closely the work of the experienced negotiators of the mission. You must learn the importance of subtlety.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Magnan said, “I think the reception committee is arriving.” He pointed. Half a dozen tall, short-necked Yill were entering through a side door. The leading Yill hesitated as another stepped in his path. He raised a fist, and the other moved aside, touching the top of his head perfunctorily with both hands. The group started across the room toward the Terrestrials. Retief watched as a slender alien came forward and spoke passable Terran in a reedy voice.

“I am P’Toi. Come this way.…” He turned, and the group moved toward the door, the ambassador leading. As he reached for the door, the interpreter darted ahead and shouldered him aside. The other Yill stopped, waiting.

The ambassador almost glared, then remembered the image. He smiled and beckoned the Yill ahead. They milled uncertainly, muttering in the native tongue, then passed through the door.

The Terran party followed.

“— give a great deal to know what they’re saying,” Retief overheard as he came up.

“Our interpreter has forged to the van,” the ambassador said. “I can only assume he’ll appear when needed.”

“A pity we have to rely on a native interpreter,” someone said.

“Had I known we’d meet this rather uncouth reception,” the ambassador said stiffly, “I would have audited the language personally, of course, during the voyage out.”

“Oh, no criticism intended, of course, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Heavens,” Magnan put in. “Who would have thought—”

Retief moved up behind the ambassador.

“Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “I—”

“Later, young man,” the ambassador snapped. He beckoned to the first councillor, and the two moved off, heads together.

Outside, a bluish sun gleamed in a dark sky. Retief watched his breath form a frosty cloud in the chill air. A broad doughnut-wheeled vehicle was drawn up to the platform. The Yill gestured the Terran party to the gaping door at the rear, then stood back, waiting.

Retief looked curiously at the gray-painted van. The legend written on its side in alien symbols seemed to read “egg nog.”

* * * *

The ambassador entered the vehicle, the other Terrestrials following. It was as bare of seats as the Terminal building. What appeared to be a defunct electronic chassis lay in the center of the floor.

Retief glanced back. The Yill were talking excitedly. None of them entered the car. The door was closed, and the Terrans braced themselves under the low roof as the engine started up with a whine of worn turbos.

The van moved off.

It was an uncomfortable ride. Retief put out an arm as the vehicle rounded a corner, just catching the ambassador as he staggered, off-balance. The ambassador glared at him, settled his heavy tri-corner hat and stood stiffly until the car lurched again.

Retief stooped, attempting to see out through the single dusty window. They seemed to be in a wide street lined with low buildings.

They passed through a massive gate, up a ramp, and stopped. The door opened. Retief looked out at a blank gray facade, broken by tiny windows at irregular intervals. A scarlet vehicle was drawn up ahead, the Yill reception committee emerging from it. Through its wide windows Retief saw rich upholstery and caught a glimpse of glasses clamped to a tiny bar.

P’Toi, the Yill interpreter, came forward, gestured to a small door. Magnan opened it, waiting for the ambassador.

As he stepped to it, a Yill thrust himself ahead and hesitated. Ambassador Spradley drew himself up, glaring. Then he twisted his mouth into a frozen smile and stepped aside.

The Yill looked at each other then filed through the door.

Retief was the last to enter. As he stepped inside, a black-clad servant slipped past him, pulled the lid from a large box by the door and dropped in a paper tray heaped with refuse. There were alien symbols in flaking paint on the box. They seemed, Retief noticed, to spell “egg nog.”

II

The shrill pipes and whining reeds had been warming up for an hour when Retief emerged from his cubicle and descended the stairs to the banquet hall.

Standing by the open doors, he lit a slender cigar and watched through narrowed eyes as obsequious servants in black flitted along the low wide corridor, carrying laden trays into the broad room, arranging settings on a great four-sided table forming a hollow square that almost filled the room. Rich brocades were spread across the center of the side nearest the door, flanked by heavily decorated white cloths. Beyond, plain white extended to the far side, where metal dishes were arranged on the bare table top.

A richly dressed Yill approached, stepped aside to allow a servant to pass and entered the room.

Retief turned at the sound of Terran voices behind him. The ambassador came up, trailed by two diplomats. He glanced at Retief, adjusted his ruff and looked into the banquet hall.

“Apparently we’re to be kept waiting again,” he muttered. “After having been informed at the outset that the Yill have no intention of yielding an inch, one almost wonders.…”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Retief said. “Have you noticed—”

“However,” Ambassador Spradley said, eyeing Retief, “a seasoned diplomatist must take these little snubs in stride. In the end— Ah, there, Magnan.” He turned away, talking.

Somewhere a gong clanged.

In a moment, the corridor was filled with chattering Yill who moved past the group of Terrestrials into the banquet hall. P’Toi, the Yill interpreter, came up and raised a hand.

“Waitt heere.…”

More Yill filed into the dining room to take their places. A pair of helmeted guards approached, waving the Terrestrials back. An immense gray-jowled Yill waddled to the doors and passed through, followed by more guards.

“The Chief of State,” Retief heard Magnan say. “The Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau.”

“I have yet to present my credentials,” Ambassador Spradley said. “One expects some latitude in the observances of protocol, but I confess.…” He wagged his head.

The Yill interpreter spoke up.

“You now whill lhie on yourr intesstinss, and creep to fesstive board there.” He pointed across the room.

“Intestines?” Ambassador Spradley looked about wildly.

“Mr. P’Toi means our stomachs, I wouldn’t wonder,” Magnan said. “He just wants us to lie down and crawl to our seats, Mr. Ambassador.”

“What the devil are you grinning at, you idiot?” the ambassador snapped.

* * * *

Magnan’s face fell.

Spradley glanced down at the medals across his paunch.

“This is.… I’ve never.…”

“Homage to godss,” the interpreter said.

“Oh. Oh, religion,” someone said.

“Well, if it’s a matter of religious beliefs.…” The ambassador looked dubiously around.

“Golly, it’s only a couple of hundred feet,” Magnan offered.

Retief stepped up to P’Toi.

“His Excellency the Terrestrial Ambassador will not crawl,” he said clearly.

“Here, young man! I said nothing—”

“Not to crawl?” The interpreter wore an unreadable Yill expression.

“It is against our religion,” Retief said.

“Againsst?”

“We are votaries of the Snake Goddess,” Retief said. “It is a sacrilege to crawl.” He brushed past the interpreter and marched toward the distant table.

The others followed.

Puffing, the ambassador came to Retief’s side as they approached the dozen empty stools on the far side of the square opposite the brocaded position of the Admirable F’Kau-Kau-Kau.

“Mr. Retief, kindly see me after this affair,” he hissed. “In the meantime, I hope you will restrain any further rash impulses. Let me remind you
I
am chief of mission here.”

Magnan came up from behind.

“Let me add my congratulations, Retief,” he said. “That was fast thinking—”

“Are you out of your mind, Magnan?” the ambassador barked. “I am extremely displeased!”

“Why,” Magnan stuttered, “I was speaking sarcastically, of course, Mr. Ambassador. Didn’t you notice the kind of shocked little gasp I gave when he did it?”

The Terrestrials took their places, Retief at the end. The table before them was of bare green wood, with an array of shallow pewter dishes.

Some of the Yill at the table were in plain gray, others in black. All eyed them silently. There was a constant stir among them as one or another rose and disappeared and others sat down. The pipes and reeds were shrilling furiously, and the susurration of Yillian conversation from the other tables rose ever higher in competition.

A tall Yill in black was at the ambassador’s side now. The nearby Yill fell silent as he began ladling a whitish soup into the largest of the bowls before the Terrestrial envoy. The interpreter hovered, watching.

“That’s quite enough,” Ambassador Spradley said, as the bowl overflowed. The Yill servant rolled his eyes, dribbled more of the soup into the bowl.

“Kindly serve the other members of my staff,” the ambassador said. The interpreter said something in a low voice. The servant moved hesitantly to the next stool and ladled more soup.

* * * *

Retief watched, listening to the whispers around him. The Yill at the table were craning now to watch. The soup ladler was ladling rapidly, rolling his eyes sideways. He came to Retief, reached out with the full ladle for the bowl.

“No,” Retief said.

The ladler hesitated.

“None for me,” Retief said.