Bootstrapped

Under my menacing glare, Leda withdrew from the control pulpit entirely.

"There," I said. "That's better." The idea which had been forming in my mind took full shape. The controls, I knew, were still set on my own dorm room back in the twenty-first century. From what I had seen through the tiny viewscreen, the time control was set to take me right back to the day in 2006 from which I had started.

"Stand there," I commanded her, "I want to see something."

I walked over to the Gate as if to inspect it. Instead of stopping when I reached it, I stepped on through.

I was better prepared for what I found on the other side than I had been on my two earlier occasions of "time travel." Nevertheless, it's never too easy on the nerves to encounter oneself face-to-face. Or oneselves.

They were very much preoccupied with each other; I had a few seconds in which to get them straightened out in my mind. "Trish Number Two" had a beautiful black eye and a badly battered mouth. That tagged her as having been through the Gate. The other Trish, though somewhat worse for wear to begin with, showed no signs of a fist fight.

They were arguing. One of them headed purposefully toward the bed. The other grabbed her by the arm. ''You can't do that," she said.

"Leave me alone!"

"Leave her alone!" I snapped.

The other two swung around and stared at me. I watched the more experienced of the pair size me up, saw her expression of amazement change to startled recognition, then dismay. The other, the earliest Trish, seemed to have trouble accepting me at all.

"This is going to be a job," I thought. "The chick is absolutely wired." I wondered why anyone would be foolish enough to drink bottle after bottle of coffee on an empty stomach.

I wondered if they had left a bottle for me.

"And who are you?" demanded my caffiene-maxed double.

I turned to Cloe. "She knows me," I said.

Cloe studied me. "Yes," she conceded, "I suppose I do. But why are you here? Are we throwing the plan? Are you--"

I interrupted her. "No time for long-winded explanations. I know more about it than you do--you'll probably concede that--and my judgment is maybe just a little better than yours. She doesn't go through the Gate."

"I don't concede anything of the sort--"

The ringing of the telephone halted the argument. I greeted the interruption with relief, realizing I had started out on the wrong tack. Was it possible that I was really as dense myself as this woman appeared to be? Did I look that way to other people? But the time was too short for self-doubts and soul-searching. "Answer it!" I commanded to the original Trish.

Our put-upon first edition looked at me belligerently, but acceded when she saw that Cloe was about to beat her to the phone.

"Hello. . . . Yes. Who is this? . . . Hello. . . . Hello!"

"Who was that?" demanded Cloe.

"I don't know! Some kid with a misplaced sense of humor!" The telephone rang again and Trish Number One grabbed the receiver before the Cloe could reach it. "Look, you butterfly-brain!"

I paid little attention to the telephone conversation--I had heard it twice before, and I had too much on my mind. My earliest persona was much too stressed-out to be reasonable; I must concentrate on some argument that would appeal to Cloe--otherwise I was outnumbered.

"So look, I'll stop by later on and bring you your hat and you can take me out to a bar and get me good and fucking drunk. How's that?" Trish Number One asked. "Whatever! I'll see you tonight." She slammed down the receiver.

Now was the time, I thought, before pea-brain could open her mouth. But the pea-brain beat me too it.

"Okay, you two! Out! Vamoose! Blow the popkins!"

"No!" Cloe protested. "You can't. I mean, you have to!"

"She does not!" I contradicted. "And she won't!"

"I won't do anything at all!" Fried-Trish shouted back. "Except call the cops!" Then, with a comical popping-open of the eyes, she added: "Or maybe I will!"

This was getting out of hand. I'd have to make them realize what was going on, and quickly. But I got no chance to do so. As I stepped in front of the Gate to head Trish off, she charged me. We struggled for a moment, her yelling to be let go, and then she swung on me; my temper snapped. I knew with sudden fierce exultation that I had been wanting to take a punch at someone for some time. Who the hell did they think they were anyway, screwing around with my future?

Fried-Trish was clumsy and inexperienced; I stepped under her guard, took a glancing blow on the shoulder and hit her hard on the right cheek, just below the eye. It was a solid enough punch to have convinced another woman that I meant business; Trish just shook her head and came back for more. I looked at Cloe for support, but Cloe closed in on the side of my opponent. I decided that I would have to put Trish away in a hurry, and give my attention to Cloe--by far the more dangerous of the two.

A slight mix-up between the two allies gave me my chance. I landed a blow on Cloe's already battered face and the woman staggered away, clenching her mouth in pain. I then aimed carefully and landed a long jab with my right fist, one of the hardest blows I had ever struck in my life. It snapped back Trish's head and nearly took her off her feet. She staggered backward and then stopped; almost cross-eyed, she looked at her bloody hand.

"You hit me!" Already, the area around her right eye and the corner of her mouth were beginning to swell. Tears welled in her eyes.

The realization of what I'd done hit me like a ton of bricks. "I know," I whispered in disbelief. "I didn't mean--"

I got no more out because Cloe picked that moment to charge me. I knew with bitter certainty that I had once again played through the scene to its inescapable climax; even as my opponent got me into that ridiculous head-lock, all I had to do was acquiesce to keep Trish Number One from tumbling through the Gate. But the absurdity of the situation fired my temper again and, ignoring the voice of reason clamoring inside my head, I took aim at the infuriating pea-brained edition of myself and threw her upon the altar of destiny.

* * *

My first impulse was the illogical but quite human and very common feeling of look-what-you-made-me-do. "Now you've done it!" I said angrily, rubbing at my right hand. The knuckles were bruised and bleeding freely. What a day.

"Me?" Cloe protested. "You knocked her through. We were just fine until you shoved us sideways!"

"Yes," I was forced to admit. "But it's your fault. If you hadn't interfered, it wouldn't have happened."

"Me interfere? Why, you dumb little hypocrite bimbo--you butted in and tried to stop the whole thing from happening. What would have happened if she hadn't gone through, huh? Which reminds me--you owe me some explanations here. What's the idea of--"

"Stow it." I hated being wrong and I hated still more to have to admit that I was wrong. It had been hopeless from the start; I felt bowed by the utter futility of it all. "It's too late now. She's gone on through."

"Too late for what?"

I was aware now that it always had been too late, regardless of what time it was, what year it was, or how many times I came back and tried to stop it. Events would have to work out their own weary way.

"Too late to put a stop to this chain of events."

"Why should we? I mean if it's already going on . . . "

It was not worth while to explain, but I felt the need for self-justification. "Leda has played me--I mean us--for a fool, for a couple of fools. She told you she was going to set you up for life over there, didn't she?"

"Yes," came a hesitant reply.

"Well, that's a lot of crap. All she means to do is to get us so incredibly tangled up in this Time Gate thing that we'll never get straightened out again."

Cloe looked at me anxiously. "How do you know?"

Since it was largely hunch, I felt pressed for a reasonable explanation. "I don't want to go into it," I said. "Just take my word for it, okay?"

"Why should I?"

Why should you? Why, you stupid little shit, can't you see? I'm yourself, older and more experienced--you have to believe me! Aloud I answered, "If you can't take my word, Trish, whose word can you take?"

Cloe grunted. "I'm from Missouri," she said. "I'll see for myself."

I was suddenly aware that Cloe was about to step through the Gate. "Where are you going?" I asked stupidly.

"Through! I'm going to hunt down Leda and have a little talk her."

"Don't." I pleaded. "Maybe we can break this chain right now." But the stubborn, sour look on her face made me realize how futile it was. We were still enmeshed in inevitability; it had to happen. "Go ahead," I shrugged. "Have it your way. I wash my hands of the whole thing."

Cloe paused at the Gate. "My funeral, huh? Just remember something, Little Miss Pontius Pilot, if it's my funeral, then it's your funeral too."

I stared silently while Cloe stepped through the Gate. Funeral? I had not thought of it in quite that way before. I felt a sudden impulse to rush through the Gate myself, catch up with my alter ego, and keep watch over her. The stupid jerk might do anything. Like get herself killed. Where would that leave Trish Wilson, huh? Dead, of course.

* * *

Standing before the mirror in the closet-sized bathroom, I stripped off my warm-up suit--how long had I had this on? I definitely smelled bad to my own nose--threw it on the floor and brushed out my shoulder-length hair. It was greasy to the touch and hung limply between my grimy fingers. Yuck.

Cloe's actions could not endanger me here; I remembered everything that Cloe had done--was going to do--the crash course in Time Travel control, the argument with Leda, the stepping back through the Gate. No, I was in no danger here.

Staring at my face in the mirror, I wondered why I had failed to recognize it the first time. I had to admit that I had never looked at it objectively before. I had always just taken it for granted. I acquired a crick in my neck from trying to look at my own profile through the corner of one eye, gave up and started the shower.

"I want a bath!" I complained. Sighing, cursing the cheap university accommodations, I stepped into the stall and adjusted the flow of water over my head. I let the water drown me. I stood there while the almost unbearable heat worked the kinks out of my body and forced me to relax. I wanted to fuck. Jesus, I wanted to fuck. How long had it been? Thirty thousand years? This struck me as funny and soaping myself up into a lather, I found myself laughing without end.

On leaving the bathroom, the Gate caught my eye--forcibly. For some reason, I had assumed that it would be gone. It wasn't. I inspected it, walked around it, carefully refrained from touching it. Wasn't the damned thing ever going to go away? It had served its purpose, hadn't it? Why didn't Leda just shut it down?

I stood in front of it, felt a sudden surge of the compulsion that leads men to climb mountains and jump from high places--with or without parachutes--and wondered would happen if I went through again? What would I find? I suddenly thought of Arma, off in the dim future without me, wondering what that thought meant to me. Certainly I wasn't . . .

"I know my own orientation," I said to the Gate. "And it's not in that direction." Still, I had Arma on my mind and the thought would not go away.

I restrained myself and forced myself to sit back down at the desk. If I was going to stay here--and of course I was, I was resolved on that point--I must finish the thesis. I needed the degree to get a decent job in this time. No half-ruler of the western world, here.

Twenty minutes later I had come to the conclusion that the thesis would have to be rewritten from scratch. My prime theme, the application of the empirical method of the problems of speculative metaphysics and its expression in rigorous formulae was still valid, but I had acquired a mass of new and as yet undigested data to incorporate into it. If incorporation was even possible. In rereading the manuscript, I was amazed to find how dogmatic I had been. Time after time I had fallen into the pathetic fallacy of Descartes, mistaking clear reasoning for correct reasoning.

The telephone rang.

I answered it absentmindedly. "Yes?"

"Is that you, Trish?'

"Hi. Who's this?"

"It's me, of course. What's with you today? That's the second time you haven't recognized my voice."

His voice had a distinctly peevish tone and that brought on a surge of annoyance. I ignored his complaint. "Look, Greg, I've asked you before not to call while I'm working. Now I have to go."

"Hey, wait a minute! First of all, you weren't working today. In the second place, what makes you think you can be all milk and honey to me and two hours later practically snarl? I'm not so sure I want to marry you after all."

I sat up, positively stunned. "Marry you? What put that silly idea in your head?"

The phone was silent for several seconds. "Excuse me? Are you kidding?" he finally said.

I wondered how much confusion I could take in one day. "Now listen just a minute. I like you a Greg, I like you a lot, but you can't just assume that after a few dates that I intend to marry you."

There was another long silence. I had just begun to think the line had gone dead when Gregory said: "So that's the game, is it?" His voice was so cold and hard and completely un-Greg-like that I almost failed to recognize it. "Well, there's a way to handle women like you, Trish. A woman isn't guaranteed anything on this campus except a place to spread her legs and fuck!"

"You ought to know!" I answered savagely. "You've hung around the campus enough years."

The receiver clicked in my ear.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. That son-of-bitch! I knew he was trouble. His father was on the board of admissions and his uncle was Dean of Women. I had been warned before I ever started running around with him that he was a shit, but I had been so sure of my own ability to take care of myself that I had ignored the cautions. I should have known better--but then I had never expected anything quite so raw as this.

I tried to get back to work on the thesis, but found myself unable to concentrate. The deadline of 10 a. m. the next morning seemed to be racing toward me--like a runaway munitions train. I looked at my watch. Four-ten in the afternoon. Even if I sat up all night I could never get it done in time.

The telephone rang again. It was Gregory. I let it ring. It continued to ring and finally I took the receiver off the cradle. I would not talk to him again.

I walked over to the window and stared down into the dusty, noisy quad. Half-subconsciously, I compared it with the green and placid countryside I had seen from the balcony where Leda and I had breakfasted. This was a lousy world full of lousy people. I wished poignantly that Leda had been on the up-and-up with me.

The idea broke surface in my brain like a submarine-launched missile. The Gate was still open. TheGate was still open! Why worry about Gregory? I was my own master now. Go back and play it out--everything to gain, nothing to lose.

I stepped up to the Gate, then hesitated. Was this wise to do? After all, how much did I know about the future?

I heard the elevator door open and footsteps coming down the hall; they stopped at my door. I was suddenly convinced that it was Gregory and that decided for me. I stepped through the Gate.

The Hall of the Gate was empty. The hall was eerily silent. I hurried around the control box to the passageway door, expecting to hear, "Now come on. There's work to be done," and two figures retreating down the corridor. I saw no one.

If I could work out the controls, the Gate might give me all the advantage I needed. I entered the control box and felt around where I recalled having seen Leda reach to turn it on, then reached in my pocket for my lighter. Instead, I pulled out a piece of paper.

It was the list that Leda had given me, the things I was to obtain in 2006. Up to the present moment there had been too much going on for me to look it over.

My eyebrows arched as I read. It was a very strange list. I had subconsciously expected it to call out for technical reference books, samples of modern electronic goods, weapons maybe. There was nothing of the sort. Still, there was sort of a weird logic to the assortment. I decided to make one more trip back and do the shopping. Not for Leda's benefit, but for my own. Screw Leda. I fumbled in the semidarkness of the control booth, seeking the switch or whatever it was that controlled the viewscreen. My hand encountered a soft mass tucked back into the angle formed by the side wall and the control panel and I snatched it back. Then I realized what it was: it was my hat.

Laughing, I placed it on top of my head. Leda must have stowed it there for some reason. I reached in again and this time brought forth a small, leather-bound notebook. Instructions for the machine? Hoping it was, I hurriedly thumbed to the first page and found page after page of handwritten notes. There were three columns to the page; the first was in English, the second in some type of phonetic symbols, the third in a completely strange sort of writing. It took no brilliance for me to identify it as a lexicon, a paperback version of the Rosetta Stone. I slipped it into my pocket with a broad smile; it probably have taken Leda months or even years to work out the relationship between the two languages. Now it was mine.

On the third try I located the control and the viewscreen lighted up. I felt again the curious uneasiness I had felt before; I was gazing again into my own room. There was no one inside it--or in view, anyway--but I wanted no more face-to-face encounters. Cautiously, I touched one of the colored globes.

The scene shifted, panned out through the walls of the dorm room and came to rest in the air, four stories above the campus. I was pleased to have gotten the Gate out of the room, but four stories was a little too much of a jump. I fiddled with the other two globes and established that one of them caused the scene to move toward me or away, while the other moved the Gate up or down.

I wanted a reasonably inconspicuous--and safe--place to locate the Gate. There was no ideal place I could think of; I compromised on a blind alley, a little court formed by the campus powerhouse and the rear wall of the library. Cautiously and clumsily, I maneuvered my seeing eye port and set it down between the two buildings. Then I readjusted the position so that I stared right into a blank wall.

Leaving the controls as they were, I hurried out of the booth and stepped unceremoniouslyback into my own time period. My nose bumped up against the brick wall as I slid cautiously out from between it and the Gate. The Gate hung in the air, about fifteen inches from the wall and roughly parallel to it. Close fit, but there was room enough, I decided. I ducked out of the areaway and cut across the campus toward the Students' Co-op, wasting no time. I entered and went to the cashier's window. To my surprise, the clock on the opposite wall read 9:28 am. I had thought it late in the afternoon, after my various other editions and I had fled the scene, but maybe I had nudged the wrong control somehow. At least the day was correct--or so said the date reminder sitting just behind the cashier's window glass.