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GENERATION GAP


Page 4 of 4

by Stanley Schmidt

This story originally appeared in Artemis Magazine Issue #1, Spring 2000, and is copyright 1999 by Stanley Schmidt, all rights reserved. This story may not be reprinted or republished without the express written permission of the author.
It is currently on the Hugo Award ballot for Best Novelette of 2000.


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It was a long haul from Bloomington, which gave him a lot of time for second thoughts. Am I crazy to be doing this? he thought more than once. Most people would have said so, but most people hadn't read Robert's letter and watched so much of it come true. The evidence, if not the theory, suggested that the letter should be taken seriously. As a scientist, wasn't Rob supposed to pay more attention to the evidence?

What if he did change Robert's past? Was Robert right about Rachel being a better life partner for him, or was that just a theory? He was, after all, just extrapolating from old letters. He'd never actually spent any time with her, and other grass often looks greener whether it is or not.

No matter. Rob wasn't making this trip to start a thing with Rachel; he already had one with Gloree. All he wanted to do with Rachel was keep her from killing herself, and then go home. Of course, if he'd taken Robert's advice in the first place and got to know Rachel right away, this trip might not be necessary. Maybe neither of them would be anywhere near MacLaren College -- but it was too late for that, too.

He knew practically nothing about MacLaren or its college, so he got off the bus at a rest stop in Fort Wayne to browse in some travel guides. He didn't buy them; his money was tight and this trip was using too much of it even without extras. Besides, the books didn't have as much detail as he needed. Good thing he'd allowed some extra time. . . .

The bus got into MacLaren at dusk. It was a comfortable little town, clean and neat with sturdy stone and brick houses on tree-lined streets. The bus station looked like bus stations everywhere. Rob changed a little money and found a city map in the newsstand there. He was pleased to see that there was a YMCA not far from the station, and the campus was a comparable distance beyond.

It was colder outside than he expected. He grabbed a burger and fries in a greasy spoon next to the bus station, then walked briskly to the Y, checked in, and tried to sleep. Not very successfully, though; his dreams were too haunted by two girls -- one he knew personally and one who came highly recommended by a source with unique credentials.

Morning dawned clear and crisp. After a donut and coffee in the Y cafeteria, Rob was off to learn his way around the college. The autumn chill was even more pronounced this morning; his breath shone in the sun. The colors were farther along here than back home, mostly maples and white birches with an occasional cluster of dark green conifers. The tang of wood smoke hung in the air, and he could see plumes of it drifting skyward from several chimneys.

The campus, with more stone and less brick than the rest of the town, was fairly compact. Good; that would improve the odds. Rob started by walking all around it, looking at everybody he passed, hoping but not expecting to see a familiar face. Ideally, he would simply find Rachel and distract her so she wouldn't be near the Administration Building at the fateful hour. Maybe he'd take her to lunch, and they could stretch out small talk until three o'clock or so. . . .

In practice, he felt sadly sure, it wouldn't be that easy. MacLaren wasn't big, but it had 3000 students and enough buildings and walkways to make a chance meeting unlikely. So pretty soon he'd have to start a more aggressive, purposeful search.

He wasn't eager to do that. He hadn't thought of a way to do it without letting someone else know who he was and what he was trying to do. He still felt a little silly about that himself, and couldn't imagine how to explain it to anyone else without it sounding even sillier to them.

He paused in front of the Administration Building, looking at its columned facade and the sculpted lions that flanked the front steps. He'd been all the way around it twice, and decided that this must be what Robert's letter meant by the front. It looked like a main entrance, and it faced the busiest street in town -- a surprisingly busy street, considering the size of the town and how quiet it had seemed last night. Somewhere around here was where it was going to happen, if he couldn't keep things from getting that far.

He shuddered at the thought that he might not only fail, but arrive just in time to see Rachel killed. For all he knew, he might still have made no significant change in the history Robert remembered. The news report on the accident probably wouldn't have mentioned him even if he'd been here. Maybe history was essentially immutable.

Stop that! he scolded. You don't know that. You're here because you hope it isn't, and so does Robert.

He forced his attention back to the building in front of him. It stretched along at least 200 feet of the street. Exactly where in front of it was the danger spot?

He felt his throat getting dry as he visualized scenarios in which his lack of that knowledge was fatal. He had to get more information, something he could use to keep things from getting that critical.

He checked his watch. Already 11:18; the letter said Rachel would be hit at 2:32. Definitely time to get cracking.

Resolutely he marched up the steps between the lions. The registrar had to know her class schedule and where she lived -- though he had only the vaguest idea how he would convince anyone he deserved that information.

His footsteps echoed off the hard corridor walls. It was an old building, and hardly anyone was in the halls. He found a directory, noted the room number for the registrar's office, and started in that direction.

Halfway there, the word "directory" tripped something in his mind. Shouldn't there be a student directory? He found a pay phone in a nearby alcove, with several tattered volumes hung on a chain. One of them was indeed a MacLaren College Directory. I don't even know she's here, he thought as he flipped eagerly through its pages. I didn't check. All I know is that the letter said she would be. . . .

She was. There was her name, with a dorm name and a phone number. Heart pounding, he dialed the number and let it ring twenty times.

No answer.

He checked the nearest campus map. The dorm wasn't far away. He asked the young woman guarding its entrance if she knew where Rachel Flanagan was, and drew a blank. He thought about leaving a message, couldn't think of a way to word it that didn't sound ridiculous, and headed back to the Admin Building.

He tried calling her once more, with the same frustrating result. Okay; time to try the registrar -- if the office wasn't closed for lunch.

Fortunately MacLaren was a big enough college to keep the registrar's office staffed and open all day, though the lone person on duty looked like another student. Rob walked up to the desk and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. I need to talk to a student named Rachel Flanagan. Can you help me find her?"

The young man behind the counter looked up. "Well, we could leave a message in her mailbox for you."

"It might take her too long to pick it up," said Rob. "This is urgent--"

"Family emergency?"

Well, it's certainly an emergency, Rob thought. "Not exactly," he said lamely, "but it's very important that I talk to her. If you could just let me look at her class schedule--"

The clerk gave him a suspicious look. "I'm afraid we can't do that," he said frostily. "We can't aid and abet strangers who are looking for our students and won't say why."

A sigh of frustration. "I was afraid of that." Rob left in disgust.

An hour to go. Maybe he should get some lunch himself -- and the student cafeteria should be a good place to watch for a student. He tried Rachel's number once more, then walked over to the Student Union and bought a plate of spaghetti. He ate it listlessly, alone at a corner table, anxiously scanning every face already at a table or coming through the line.

Nothing. He wondered whether he'd even recognize her if he saw her. He'd grown a beard since they graduated; who knew how she might have changed?

He finished his meal, dropped off his tray and garbage, and headed back out to the nearest pay phone. Still no answer -- and it was after two o'clock.

How accurate was the time in the letter?

He was coming down to the wire. Back across campus, still scanning faces. Once in a while he'd see one that made him wonder: Is that her? Or am I clutching at straws because time's running out?

One more futile phone call from a booth in front of the Admin Building. No time to go anywhere else now; only fifteen minutes to go. He spent it pacing the length of the building, wondering where she'd appear. He didn't even know whether she'd be crossing toward or away from the building. There was a little park across the street; maybe he should take a look over there. Besides, he was probably starting to look suspicious, pacing back and forth along this side like a caged tiger.

He crossed over; traffic was so heavy that it took him a full minute to find a suitable opening. When he got there he wondered if it had been a good idea. If she showed up on the other side, would he have time to get back to her?

Well, just one quick look around here. . . Walking fast, he circled the square. There were plenty of obvious students there, lounging, laughing, tossing Frisbees, a group with signs gathering around the central fountain; but no Rachel. And when he got back to the sidewalk his watch said 2:30.

He felt himself sweating. He half-ran back and forth along this side, scanning, wondering again which side he should be on.

As he made his turn at one end, he saw her -- unmistakably her -- step out the front door of the Admin Building and start down the stairs. She was wearing tattered jeans and a bulky navy sweatshirt and her hair was even longer than she'd worn it in high school. She was too far away to see any details of her face, but recognition was instant and positive; he had not the slightest doubt of who she was.

"Rachel!" he yelled as loud as he could, breaking into a run. He obviously didn't have much time; she was looking straight ahead, descending between the lions with a fast, purposeful stride, just as Robert had described her. She'd be crossing at the midpoint, straight toward the fountain. Rob ran that way, watching frantically for a break in the traffic that he could run through, seeing none. Just slow up, he pleaded mentally. "Rachel! Stop!"

She showed no sign of hearing him, and she was almost off the steps now. Nothing left between her and the street but the sidewalk -- Rob saw the big tanker at the same time he heard the deep-throated blare of its horn. The horn blast seemed to go on forever, joined by the scream of air brakes and tires. Rachel was stepping into the street now and a weirdly detached part of Rob's mind, its time sense slowed at least an order of magnitude by adrenaline, was coolly calculating its options. There was traffic coming both ways; a safe normal crossing was out of the question. But if he ran as fast as he could, zigging here and zagging there, and if three drivers had good reflexes. . .

He'd have to risk it. Before the thought had fully formed, he was halfway across the street, cars screeching to a halt all around him in slow motion, closer than he'd want to think about. But he was running faster than he'd ever run before, and Rachel, however briskly, was walking. He hit her in a flying tackle, sending books flying and Rachel sprawling onto the curb, Rob landing in a heap on top of her. He felt something tug slightly at his foot, and then, gradually, all the sounds stopped -- except his heart thudding in his ears -- and time returned to normal.

He lay there panting. The first thought that formed as his mind approached normality was that she had cushioned his landing but nothing had cushioned hers. "Sorry," he said. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so," she panted. "No more than bruises, anyway--" She broke off and grinned at him. "What do you mean, sorry? You saved my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"But I did it so--" He rolled off her and offered his hands to help her up as another voice interrupted.

The truck driver had flung his door open and was running toward them, yelling, "Are you all right? I didn't see you in time--"

"No problem," Rachel assured him, brushing herself off. "I'm okay, thanks to this gentleman here, and it wasn't your fault. I should have been paying attention. Too much on my mind . . ."

Talk about grace under pressure, Rob marveled as he watched her. It took a few minutes to reassure the truck driver, who insisted on leaving his name and address, and to fend off a multitude of concerned witnesses. During all that Rob's eyes wandered to the black skid mark of the tanker's right tires. He shuddered when he saw a tiny indentation in the right edge, a place where the rubber had somehow missed the pavement, and found a matching streak of black on the toe of one of his shoes. It had been that close; he had quite literally gambled his life to save hers, and almost lost.

But not quite. They were both alive, without serious injuries, and standing together on a sidewalk somewhere in Canada. When the last bystanders finally drifted off, she turned to him and said, "I really can't thank you enough. I'm sorry to have put you on such a spot--" She never finished the sentence. A puzzled frown had been growing on her face, and now she broke off and almost whispered, "Robby? Are you Robby Lerman?"

"Guilty as charged. Uh. . . it's good to see you, Rachel."

She broke into a hearty laugh. "And absolutely incredible to see you. What on Earth are you doing here? I thought you were going to school back home."

"I am," he said awkwardly. "I just. . . uh. . . had a hunch. And. . . I've always sort of had a crush on you." Now why had he blurted that out? He'd done what he came for; it was time to start home! He felt himself blushing.

But Rachel's good-natured grin put him at ease. He felt his blush fade as he became aware of the light freckles across her nose. "That's funny," she said. "So have I. On you, I mean."

So it was true! "Really? Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Why didn't you?"

They both laughed. "This is really incredible," she repeated. "I think we have a lot of catching up to do. At least figure out what just happened, and maybe get a little better acquainted. Why don't we go over to Schipp's and have a beer or something? My treat."

He grinned back. "That sounds great."

"Good." She rounded up her books and started walking. "I was hurrying to a meeting, but it can wait. Maybe you'd like to come along."

He followed. The bar was cool and cozy, and half an hour later Rob felt as if he'd known her all his life. "Why didn't we ever do this in high school?" he asked with an odd mixture of exhilaration and wistful ache.

"I don't know," she said. "Yes, I do. We were both still too afraid. We hadn't learned yet that the most glorious dreams in the world aren't worth a damn unless you do something about them. And you can't always wait." She laughed shortly. "I guess we both learned that today!" Now her expression turned wistful. "I hate to think of your disappearing from my life again after the last half hour. Wouldn't it be neat if we could spend some time together and see if it led anywhere?"

"Yes," he said cautiously, "but there are problems." He paused. "Actually, I've been thinking about transferring here." He realized as he said it that his subconscious actually had, for the last few minutes. There was a larger grain of truth in it, too: back when he'd been college-shopping, he'd considered a couple of Canadian schools, but dropped the idea for fear of Dad's reaction. Now, suddenly, that seemed oddly unimportant. "Of course, I wouldn't want either of us to get our hopes up too high. . . ."

"Of course," Rachel nodded. "We've hardly met, really. Who knows what ugly truths we'll unearth about each other if we spend a lot of time together?" She grinned. "But I'd like to find out."

"So would I." A little voice inside Rob's head was shouting, What about Gloree? But it was getting fainter by the minute, as if receding into the distance.

"So what are the problems?" Rachel asked.

"The draft," he said. "I'm not worried about getting into the school; my grades are fine, and my profs will give me glowing recommendations. But there's more and more talk about phasing out student deferments, and I've been called for a physical. I came into Canada as a weekend visitor. It might be hard getting permission to stay--"

"Maybe not as hard as you think. Why don't you come to that meeting I was rushing to? The local antidraft group has good contacts with the Toronto Anti-Draft Programme, and they've been really helpful to a lot of people in situations like yours."

"You know," said Rob, leaning back and stretching, "I think I will."

As Rachel paid the bill and they got up and headed back out into the sunshine together, he marveled at how casually he was making these sweeping, radical decisions -- and how comfortable he felt with them, as if they'd been brewing all along. All at once it seemed obvious that he would stay in Canada and not let the war interrupt his concentration on physics, and that he'd just have to break it off with Gloree, as gently as possible. He saw very clearly now that she had been doing all the driving toward the future they'd been headed for, and he'd simply gone along because he saw no roads leading anywhere better. Now he did.

Only time would tell whether it was really better, of course, but one thing was very clear: he was now on his way to a very different future than the one Robert had written him from. You got me into this, he warned his far future self. I hope we both like where it leads!

An impish giggle from Rachel snapped him out of his reverie. When he looked a wordless question at her she explained, "I just thought of something funny. If this should ever lead to anything lasting between us, I'll have the perfect answer when anybody asks me how it all began. Not many women can truthfully say, 'He swept me off my feet!'"


IV. 2001

December 31, 2001
Dear Rob,

I won't be mailing this one, and you won't be reading it. The postage is just too high. But I have a few thoughts I wish I could tell you about, and I think it will do me good to get them out of my system.

I haven't noticed any change in my life that I could attribute to anything you might have done. I've given up on knowing what, if anything, you did in response to my letter. At first that disappointed me. Even though, intellectually, I understood Pereira's expectations about the probable outcome of our little experiment, emotionally, I kept hoping that somehow you could jump me onto the track I wished I'd followed. Now I understand that he was right: the most I could do was create a new branch.

But after a little reflection, I realized that I had benefitted from this very limited dialogue we've had. First, I can imagine that I've helped at least one alternate Robby, in the "many Robbies" interpretation of quantum mechanics, onto a life he might find more satisfying. I'll never know, but if it's true, there is a certain deep satisfaction in helping someone else, even if it's someone I can never meet.

Second is something subtler and completely unanticipated -- but I am the beneficiary of that one. Back when Pereira was badgering me for funds, he was thinking about a better road to space; time was just an afterthought. But time was what got me interested enough to back him. I never said so in the official memos, but the whole goal of the project, for me, was to answer your letter and try to influence your actions. I was so obsessed with that that I almost forgot about the space travel aspects.

But those, as it turns out, were where the real action was. We managed to send one little message back in time, at so great a cost and so much uncertainty about the results that we may never do it again. But sending things through space turns out to be much easier. For far less money and energy, we can send much bigger things, even living things, across great distances with remarkable accuracy.

In short, we've opened up a new road to the stars that makes NASA and rockets obsolete. Rocketech's board was too shortsighted to see that, and fired Pereira and me for wasting their money. But we got great new jobs with a company that already had a good start on a private moonbase, independent of NASA. They see the potential, and they're not afraid to use whatever will help them. We're going out there, Robby, and in a very real sense, you and I did it. Making that happen was the big ambition that shaped so much of our early life. Yes, Pereira will get, and deserve, the Nobel. But you made it happen: if you hadn't written your letter, none of the rest could have occurred.

Notice the irony in all that? Thanks to your letter, I've finally achieved, or at least helped achieve, the biggest goal I ever had, and made my whole life far more satisfying in the bargain. But I effected the change not by tinkering with the past, but by changing the way I approached the present.

Maybe that's the most important lesson I've learned from all this: no matter who we are or what our circumstances, we all have to build our own futures -- and we must start from where we are, not from where we might have been. For that lesson, even above all the rest, I thank you. Whoever, wherever, whenever you are -- build yourself a great future!

With gratitude and respect,

Robert


This story originally appeared in Artemis Magazine Issue #1, Spring 2000, and is copyright 1999 by Stanley Schmidt, all rights reserved. This story may not be reprinted or republished without the express written permission of the author.
It is currently on the Nebula Award Preliminary Ballot, and is eligible for nomination for the Hugo Award as Best Novelette of 2000.


About the author:
Stanley Schmidt, born in Cincinnati and graduated from the University of Cincinnati in 1966, began selling stories while a graduate student at Case Western Reserve University, where he completed his Ph.D. in physics in 1969. He continued freelancing while an assistant professor at Heidelberg College in Ohio, teaching physics, astronomy, science fiction, and other oddities. (He was introduced to his wife, Joyce, by a serpent while teaching field biology in a place vaguely resembling that well-known garden.) He has contributed numerous stories and articles to original anthologies and magazine including Analog, Asimov's, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Rigel, The Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, American Journal of Physics, Camping Journal, Writer's Digest, and The Writer. He has edited about a dozen anthologies, including co-editing and writing several chapters of Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy (St. Martin's Press, 1991) and Islands in the Sky: Bold New Ideas for Colonizing Space (with Robert Zubrin, Wiley, 1996).

Since 1978, as editor of Analog, he has been nominated 20 times for the Hugo award for Best Professional Editor. He is a member of the Board of Advisers of the National Space Society, and has been an invited speaker at national meetings of that organization, the American Institute of Aeronautics and Astronautics, and the American Association of Physics Teachers, as well as numerous museums and universities. In his writing and editing he draws on a varied background including extensive experience as a musician, photographer, traveler, naturalist, outdoorsman, pilot, and linguist. Most of these influences left traces in his four novels, The Sins of the Fathers, Lifeboat Earth, Newton and the QuasiApple, and Tweedlioop. His nonfiction book, Aliens and Alien Societies: A Writer's Guide to Creating Extraterrestrial Life-Forms, was published in 1996 by Writer's Digest Books. He was Guest of Honor at BucConeer, the 1998 World Science Fiction Convention in Baltimore.


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