Rudy Rucker - Master Of Space And Time

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Master of Space and Time

by Rudy Rucker

version 1.0

This Is the Name of This Chapter

MY screen began flashing. I had the console

rigged to measure quitting time to the nano-

second. Softech had a flexitime system, which meant

that you could quit for the week after putting in

forty hours. A few quick keypunches and I'd logged

off for the weekend. I yawned and looked around

the too-familiar room. I was pretty old to be work-

ing this hard. A couple of years ago I'd had it

made—my own company and my own signature

on the paychecks. But now ...

"Finished so soon, Dr. Fletcher?"

It was my supervisor, an angular young blond

woman named Susan Lacey. Dr. Lacey. No one

used first names at Softech. Company policy.

"No, I'm not finished. But I've clocked in my

forty hours. It's Friday afternoon."

She flashed her human-relations smile. "It's two

forty-seven, Dr. Fletcher. I don't have to tell you

that they're in an awful rush for your program.

You know how anxious they do get."

They. Lacey was always talking about her higher-

ups as if it were her and me against some abstract

impersonal them. It was her way of trying to win

my sympathy, even though she was a slave driver.

A pathetically transparent con job. I wished I could

be my own boss again; I was too good for this

noise.

"Don't worry." I snapped shut my briefcase. "The

deadline's only Wednesday, you know. I'll bring

the thing in under the wire. I always do."

All around me, my coworkers were still tapping

away at their terminals. I was the only one with the

nerve to take flexitime seriously. I'd never move

up the Softech corporate ladder this way, but so

what? All I needed from them was a steady

paycheck. Soon I'd find a way to get my engineer-

ing firm back on its feet. I gave Lacey a curt nod

and headed for the parking lot.

It was a hot day in late September. Buzzing

around the trash cans were hornets, drunk with a

summer's fatness. My car was the biggest on the

lot—I had a black and white 1956 Buick, black on

the bottom and white on top. Little Serena called it

Dada's saddle shoe. I'd bought it just before Fletcher

& Company went bankrupt, as a final present to

myself. The guy I'd bought it from had gotten it

off the original owner, a little old lady who only

drove it to church, no lie.

As I unlocked my big old bomb, I noticed some

things moving around in there. Bees? The biggest

one was perched right on top of the white plastic

steering wheel. But that was no bee. A wave of

strangeness swept over me—a thick, airless feeling

as if the world had suddenly turned into a giant

movie set.

Harry Gerber was sitting on my steering wheel.

He was two inches tall. A much smaller version of

him was perched on the gearshift as well. And the

tiny dots darting around on my dashboard—some-

thing told me they were a flock of yet tinier Harrys.

All of them wore gray polyester suits, white shirts,

and no neckties. Oh, my. Who else but Harry?

Harry Gerber: the out-of-it genius who'd been

the inventor at Fletcher & Co. We'd had some

wild times together, Harry and me. But now

I hadn't seen him for over a year. He'd had a big

fight with my wife Nancy—something about over-

population and world hunger—and after that we'd

drifted apart. He lived in New Brunswick, New

Jersey, and I lived twenty miles away, in Princeton.

The little figure on the steering wheel hailed me

with a cheerful wave of its tiny arm. "Hey, Fletch!

Pretty slick, huh?" He sounded like Mickey Mouse.

I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone

from Softech was watching. Buzzing hornets and

thick, sweet sun. I got in my car and closed the

door. I took the thumb-sized Harry off my steer-

ing wheel and set him down on the dashboard.

The smaller Harrys moved right along with him.

They all stood there in a row, staring at me.

"Why all the copies, Harry?"

"I'm real, and the others are correction terms,"

said the thumb-sized man. "A convergent series of

echoes. You've been reading The Cat in the Hat

Comes Back, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I was reading it to Serena last night." I

didn't bother asking how Harry knew. "You must

be thinking about the scene where the Cat has a

smaller cat in his Hat, and the smaller cat has a yet

smaller cat in his hat, and the yet smaller cat has a

still smaller cat, and so on forever, right?"

"You're a rational man, Fletcher. Watch this!"

Each of the little Harrys squatted down by the

next smaller one. The big one—the thumb-sized

Harry—stuck some fingers in his mouth and at-

tempted a sharp whistle. It came out as a wet hiss.

But this was enough.

The smallest Harry I could see, a speck-sized

one, jumped into the coat pocket of the next larger

one, a flea-sized Harry. The flea-sized Harry

jumped into the coat pocket of the ant-sized Harry.

The ant-sized Harry jumped into the coat pocket

of the thumb-sized Harry. They nested themselves

together like Chinese boxes. I wondered how many

levels there were.

"You like it better now?"

"I like it better."

"Aren't you going to ask me how I got this

way?"

"I figure you'll tell me—if you can." A frustrat-

ing aspect of Harry's inventions was that he rarely

understood how they worked. He was like some

drunken chef who never writes down a recipe.

This idiosyncrasy of Harry's had prevented Fletcher

& Company from getting patents on any of his

inventions, and had eventually made people unwill-

ing to contract with us.

"I needed your encouragement, Fletcher. I've

come back here to make sure you really are going

to see me tomorrow. I remember that when you

showed up tomorrow you'd seen me tiny in your

car."

This was a very strange mixture of tenses. I

thought for a minute, then got the picture. "You

mean you're from the future? You've invented

time travel?"

The little man on the dashboard glowed with

pride. "Time travel's nothing compared to what

I'm going to do. I'm master of space and time,

Fletch."

I fought back a laugh. Dumpy, rope-lipped

Harry, the king of creation? "Do you write that

with capital letters, Harry? Master of Space and

Time?"

"It's not funny. I could kill you right now if I

wanted to. But you're the one who'll give me the

idea to build the blunzer. You have to come see

me tomorrow. I'll be at the shop. Tomorrow we get

the parts, and Sunday night we build the machine."

"I suppose you want money?" I looked around

the car, expecting to spot a holocaster. This had to

be some kind of trick.

"Money? As I recall, you took two thousand out

of your bank account. And you can stop looking

around like that, Fletcher. This is for real. I'm

master of space and time."

"Prove it. Do something weird. Put me—put me

in an infinite regress."

"I knew you'd say that. You're so anal, Fletcher.

Too much math. Here, you can light this to get

back out."

The little figure tossed something at me. A tiny

stick of dynamite, bright red and with a wispy

unlit fuse. Something went funny with the time

just then; it was like my time line branched right

off from reality. Instead of hitting me in the face,

the little stick of dynamite just hung there in midair,

barely moving. Meanwhile, Harry was shrinking,

moving away from me in some unknown dimension.

Everything was getting dark and Harry's voice was

too faint and high to understand.

Then Harry was all gone, and the world went

black, blacker than night, zero photons black. I

fumbled around, found the controls, and turned

on my headlights. I could see outside, but I couldn't

figure out what I was looking at. My car seemed to

be resting on black felt, and ahead of the car was a

soft, horizontally grooved wall. There was more

black cloth to the left of me, and to the right there

was a cliff with a big white pole swooping up from

its edge. White plastic with sebaceous cracks. The

scene made no sense whatsoever.

Although my dome light wasn't on, the inside of

my car was lit up. I glanced around to find the

cause. Resting on the seat next to me, there was a

sort of toy car, a scale-model 1956 Buick with

blazing headlights. The headlights were aimed at

my corduroy-clad right leg. It looked as if the little

car even had a toy driver. I put my hand on it,

then drew back with a scream.

Just as my thumb touched the wraparound wind-

shield of the model car, a giant's hand had swooped

down out of the darkness to press its hamlike

thumb against my own windshield! When I with-

drew my hand, the giant followed suit.

I leaned down to peer into the model car's side

window. It was lit up in there, too. I could make

out a very strange sight. Sitting on the front seat

of the model car was a still smaller model car. And

peering into the window of the still smaller model

was a thumb-sized little copy of me, Joseph Fletcher.

The hair on my neck prickled as I realized that,

staring in through my own car's window, there

must be the eye of a giant Joe Fletcher.

I whirled around, hoping to see the giant's eye,

but he turned as fast as I did. All I could see of

him was the cheek of his huge head. He had

whirled to stare out the window of his car, the

giant car on whose seat my own car was resting. I

could see beyond his cheek and out his window—

out there was the head of a yet larger giant, and so

on and on, forever up and down. I was embedded

in a doubly infinite regress. Why on earth had I

asked for this? And how had Harry done it? I had

to escape!

I flung open my car door, jumped out, and

found myself on the seat of the giant's car. When I

looked out the giant's car door, I could see the

giant, standing on the seat of a yet larger car, and

staring out at the yet larger giant. Looking back

into my own car, I could see the little model on the

seat, and the thumb-sized Fletcher standing next

to it and staring back in at the ant-sized Fletcher

on the model's seat. No matter how fast I turned, I

could never see myself face to face.

I threw myself back into my car and turned on

the radio. Static crackled from my speaker and

from the endless speakers beyond and within my

car. Static, and then a voice, a strangely familiar

voice.

-THE RED GLUONS ONLY WORK ONCE," said the radio.

"Hi?" I called questioningly. The giant Fletcher

outside roared along, and from the tiny car on the

seat came thumb-sized Fletcher's squeak: "Hi?"

"USE BLUE GLUONS THE SECOND TIME."

"What's your name?"

"IT'S A TYPE OF EXCLUSION PRINCIPLE."

"Please help me get out."

"LIGHT THE FUSE."

Silence fell. After a minute I flicked off the

radio. Just then something bounced off my cheek.

It was the miniature dynamite stick that Harry had

thrown at me—how long ago? Time was all messed

up.

I picked up the dynamite and struck a match.

The larger and smaller Fletchers did the same

thing. I lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite out the

window. A tiny, tiny version of it flew out the

window of the model car on the seat next to me. I

braced myself.

The dynamites all blew at once, and I saw stars:

cartoon stars and wacky spirals. When the dust

settled, I was back where I'd started, at the crazed

white plastic steering wheel of my Buick in the

Softech parking lot. A square of sunlight lay on

my lap, heavy and insistent. I turned the ignition

to ON and fired up the big V-8.

My American Home

WHEN I pulled into the driveway, my two-year-

old daughter Serena was out in the front

yard flailing at something with my fishing rod. She

was holding the rod by the tip and slamming the reel

down on the ground.

"Dada!" she cried. "Wiggle whack crawly bug!"

Something moved in the grass, and Serena whipped

my rod back for a real knockout punch. The fiber-

glass snapped, and the piece with the reel flew

over to crash on my Buick's shiny hood.

I got out of the car and tried to just walk on past

her. I was definitely ripe for my Friday-afternoon

beer. But Serena was too fast for me. She put

herself between me and the house.

"Bad crawly bug!" She pointed with the tip of

my broken rod. "Try bite Serena!"

I gave a heavy sigh and went over to look. Se-

rena was hell on insects. A badly mashed stag

beetle was lying in the grass. I was relieved that it

wasn't a little Harry.

"Where's Mommy, Serena?"

"Mama lie down."

"Were you a good girl today?"

"Babby bite." She held out her hand to show me

a tiny cut on her forefinger.

"The neighbor's baby bit you? What were you

doing to it?"

"Playing. Babby bite. Mary Jo wash."

Mary Jo was the name of the woman next door.

Serena liked to go over and pick on her baby.

"Was Mary Jo mad at you?"

"Mary Jo wash." Serena showed me her finger

again. The cut certainly did look clean.

"How nice of Mary Jo to wash your cut. I just

hope her baby doesn't have rabies." I patted Se-

rena on the head. She was a brat, but she was

mine. "Would you like a candy?"

"Yus."

"Here." I found a linty cough drop in my pants

pocket. "Now don't bother that baby any more.

And put my fishing rod away."

"Bug gone."

"I'm going inside to see Mommy now, Serena.

Be good." I walked into our crummy house, still

brooding over Harry's message. There could be

money in this, big money.

I found Nancy flaked out on our double bed

with a stack of old People magazines and an over-

flowing ashtray. The TV was going full blast in the

other room. I closed the door.

"God, Joey, I have such a backache today. And

this morning Serena—"

"Yeah, I've had a rough day myself. Is there any

beer?"

"Do you think you could rub my back a little?"

"If you move the ashtray. You know I don't like

you to smoke in our bedroom."

"Then why don't you buy a couch for the living

room. I hate living like this. We might as well be in

a trailer park."

When we'd first married, we'd had a much nicer

home. But I'd lost it when Fletcher & Company

went bankrupt. The house we rented now was a

low-ceilinged three-room tract home: two bedrooms

and a kitchen-dining-living room. Looking out the

bedroom window, I could see fifty-three houses

exactly like ours (one Sunday afternoon I'd counted

them). Our development was a reclaimed marsh

with woods all around it.

"I'm going to go see Harry tomorrow. I think

he's invented something new."

"Don't give him any money, Joseph. I mean it.

We need that money for our Christmas trip."

"What trip?"

"Don't you ever listen to anything I tell you?"

"Look, I'm going to get a beer. You want one?"

"How about my back rub?"

Nancy was lying on her stomach. I sat on the

backs of her legs and worked my fingers up and

down her spine. She felt small and fragile, and she

gave off a good smell. My woman.

"I'm sorry to complain so much, Joey. At least

we have enough to eat. There's another terrible

famine going on in Mexico, did you know?"

Nancy had some strange complexes about food.

She was into world hunger, often serving on com-

mittees and raising funds. Yet she herself ate very

immoderately. Somehow she never seemed to gain

weight.

"No, I didn't know that. This afternoon, when I

went out to the Buick in the lot, something really—"

Someone was trying to open the bedroom door.

Serena.

"Just a minute, sweetie! Does that feel better,

Nancy?"

"A little. Could you do something with Serena?

She's been just awful. This morning she went next

door and stuck her hand in the baby's mouth.

That baby only has one tooth, but it bit Serena and

she threw a fit. Mary Jo had to carry her back

here."

"What a brat."

"Oh, but be nice to her. I was just like Serena

when I was little."

Unable to turn the knob, Serena began kicking

the door. "Dada! Dada! Dada! Dada!"

"Here I come. Don't break the door."

When I opened the door, Serena squealed and

toddled off at high speed. I followed her into the

kitchen and popped the top on a Bud. One thing

about Nancy, she kept the fridge well-stocked. I

inhaled the first beer and started a second. That

regress had been bad news. In a way it had taken

place outside of time. I wondered what would

have happened if I'd wrung the neck of the thumb-

sized Fletcher in the toy car. The giant would have

done the same to me, of course, while being choked

himself and uh uh uh. Hall of mirrors. Harry's

doing. Master of space and time. I'd ask him for

five million.

I got out the phone book and looked under

Appliances, Service and Repair. Harry had taken over

his family's business when his parents died last

winter. I'd never seen the place yet. The ad was

pure Harry:

Don't Think We Don't Think Don't Think Don't Robotics and Appliance Repair

GERBER CYBERNETICS

Twenty Years at the Same Location! Yes, We Take Cash! 824-1301 501

Suydam St. New Brunswick

Cybernetics. That was a word Harry and I had

always laughed about. Nobody has any idea what it

means, it's just some crazy term that Norbert Wie-

ner made up. Gerber Cybernetics. I dialed the

number.

"Hello?" An old woman's questioning quaver.

"This is Joseph Fletcher. Is Mr. Gerber in?"

"I'll get him. Haaaaaaaary!" There were footsteps,

the sound of breaking glass, a curse, some yelling.

The person at the other end knocked the phone

off the counter, then picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Harry! What do you have?" I lowered my voice

so that Nancy wouldn't hear me. "I can spare two

grand, but no more."

"Who's this?" He sounded confused. In the back-

ground the old-woman-voice was still yelling.

"Who's this. Who do you think it is, space cadet?"

"Is this Joe Fletcher?"

"I'm supposed to come tomorrow, right?"

"We're open ten to five on Saturdays."

"I'll come in early and we can have lunch

together. Like real businessmen. Do you have any

circuit diagrams for the thing?"

"You want me to invent something?"

"I thought you already had it. Master of Space

and Time, right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Fletch.

Are you drunk?"

This was getting nowhere fast. If the little Har-

rys had been from the future, then maybe he

really didn't know what I was talking about. "You're

going to be master of space and time," I explained.

"I want five million dollars."

"Hold on." There were voices in the background.

"Yes, it's ready, ma'am. Fletcher, I'm going to have

to hang up. Customers. See you tomorrow!"

Serena had climbed onto my lap while I was

talking. She was about as short as you can be and

still walk. I planted a kiss on her fat little cheek.

"You're not really a brat, are you?"

"Dada hand." She starfished her little paw against

my palm. "Serena hand!"

I looked around our shabby living area. Every-

thing plastic, piles of laundry, and the TV always

on. I wished I'd bought some good furniture when

I'd had the money. Nancy and Serena deserved

better than this.

The Peasant and the Sausage

SATURDAY was cool and rainy. I stopped by my

bank and then drove to New Brunswick. Harry's

shop was in a crummy neighborhood near the

train station. There was a bus station too, and next

to it was a place called the Terminal Bar. Some

terminal-type guys gimped past in the wet, one of

them an obvious wirehead. He was so far gone

that he used a mechanical walker. You could see

the bulge of his stim-unit under his overcoat.

"Where's Gerber Cybernetics?" I asked. "Man."

"Gug-ger-bub-ber? Ruh-hight thu-there. Man."

The shop had a big plate-glass window, a dirty

window crowded with junk: a plastic toad wearing

a crown, an old cookie tin with cityscapes em-

bossed on its sides, an out-of-date girlie calendar

from the Rigid Tool Company, an oriental lamp,

some listless houseplants, a coiled-up orange exten-

sion cord, and a terrarium with a mean-looking

little lizard in it. I squatted down to get a better

look at the lizard. He was like a miniature Godzilla,

with powerful rear legs and a long, toothy jaw. He

looked as if he'd been in a fight recently, and

seemed to be in some pain.

The letters GERBER APPLIANCE arced across the plate-

glass window, but with the APPLIANCE only a pale,

scraped-off shadow. In place of it, crudely brushed

in, was the new designation: CYBERNETICS. I opened

the door and entered, feeling like a twelve-year-

old come to play with his best friend's train set.

The front of the shop was cramped, with a waist-

high counter. A partition behind the counter di-

vided the store from the actual work area in the

rear. A robot stood behind the counter, scanning

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MasterofSpaceandTimebyRudyRuckerversion1.01ThisIstheNameofThisChapterMYscreenbeganflashing.Ihadtheconsoleriggedtomeasurequittingtimetothenano-second.Softechhadaflexitimesystem,whichmeantthatyoucouldquitfortheweekafterputtinginfortyhours.AfewquickkeypunchesandI'dloggedofffortheweekend.Iyawnedandlooke...

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