Killing Time

and no doubt they'll know of hospital facilities we can use quietly. If you let me run some tests and suggest a course of treatment—'

'You haven't answered my question yet, Gideon,' Malcolm said, his voice still betraying no emotion.

'Your question?' I said. 'Your question about roaming back and forth through time, that question?'

He shook his head slowly. 'Not back and forth. No one seriously believes that we can create closed timelike curves that could allow a subject to move in one direction and then return to the exact point from which he or she started. At this point it's just not feasible.'

'Oh, but going one way is?'

Malcolm ignored my sarcasm. 'The physical problem isn't particularly exotic or complex,' he said. 'Like most things it's really just a question of power — electromagnetic power. And the only conceivable way of generating such power—'

'Would be superconductors,' I said with a sudden shudder, vaguely remembering an article I'd read on the subject some months earlier. I looked to the floor, still in a state of disbelief but for some reason quite shaky all the same. 'Highly miniaturized superconductors,' I added, real apprehension beginning to belie my dismissal of his words.

'Sounds familiar, doesn't it?' Malcolm had increasing difficulty controlling his emotions as he went on: 'Imagine not being forced to accept the present that's been handed down to us. Having instead the ability to engineer a different set of historical determinants. You say that the contemporary world can't be helped by the work we're doing now, Gideon, that it's beyond such remedies. Well, the same thought began to occur to me over a year ago. But the answer, I saw, wasn't to suspend what we were doing. We needed to adjust the work, certainly — that was part of the reason we brought you in. But we had and have to keep at it until the day comes when we can change the actual circumstances of our present reality by modifying the past.' He put a hand to his head, obviously feeling the effects of the controlled but no less extreme passion with which he had told me his tale. 'That day isn't far off, Gideon — not far off at all.'

I sat back down in my chair. The worst insanities often come in ostensibly rational forms; and I told myself that such was the reason I had been momentarily uneasy, even credulous. I also acknowledged that there was no way I could force him into the kind of serious program of rest, medication, and psychotherapy that he clearly needed; nevertheless, I made one final, weary attempt to reach him:

'Malcolm, I wonder if you realize the language you're using. And if it doesn't suggest something to you.' He didn't answer, which I took as a sign that he was willing to listen to what I had to say. 'You talk of 'engineering the past,' ' I went on. 'Don't those words strike you as awfully loaded, given your personal history? I don't doubt that you'd like to change the present that was 'handed' to you — you have every conceivable reason. But you need to hear this—' I stood up and walked to him. 'You can use the tools your father developed to try to destroy the world he helped build. You can bury society in confusion, deceive the public into believing your version of history, even watch people and cities be destroyed, and you can tell yourself all the while that it's a necessary and noble crusade. But in the end you're still going to be the man you are — you're still going to be ill, you're still going to need those crutches and that chair, and you're still going to be consumed by heartbreak and anger. You don't want to change the past, Malcolm — you want to change your past.'

For several long minutes neither of us spoke; then Malcolm's glittering eyes went narrow and he nodded once or twice, making his way back to his chair. He got himself into it slowly, then looked up at me and asked:

'Do you have anything to offer, Gideon, other than the utterly obvious?'

Insults from patients with grandiose delusions were certainly nothing new to me; but this one, I must admit, stung. 'Can you really call it obvious,' I answered, trying to sound unfazed, 'and still go on with what you're doing?'

He let out a disdainful hiss. 'Gideon,' he said, shaking his head in evident disappointment. 'Do you imagine I haven't been over all this? And through the kinds of programs you're suggesting? In my youth I tried them all: psychotherapy, electroshock, drug treatments, everything — with the exception of further gene therapy, of course, which I think I can be excused for ruling out. And yes, I learned what drives me, how deep the anger inside me runs, how personal as well as philosophical my motives are. But in the end I'll say to you what I said to every doctor I saw.' Some of the manic gleam went out of his eyes, to be replaced by undiluted sadness. 'It doesn't really change anything, does it?'

'Doesn't really change anything?' I echoed in astonishment. 'My God, Malcolm, if you know that you're acting out of personal prejudices and unresolved feelings—'

'Oh, they're resolved, Gideon,' he answered. 'I'm resolved that I hate the world that my father and his kind built — a world where men and women tamper with the genetic structure of their children simply to improve their intelligence quotients so that they can grow up to devise better and more convenient ways to satisfy the public's petty appetites. A world where intelligence is measured by the ability to amass information that has no context or purpose save its own propagation but is nonetheless serviced slavishly by humanity. And do you know the hard truth of why information has come to dominate our species, Gideon? Because the human brain adores it — it plays with the bits of information it receives, arranging them and storing them like a delighted child. But it loathes examining them deeply, doing the hard work of assembling them into integrated systems of understanding. Yet that work is what produces knowledge, Gideon. The rest is simply—recreation.'

'And how,' I asked, making no attempt to hide my weariness with his tirade, 'does this relate to your awareness of your personal motivations?'

Again shaking his head, he replied, 'Gideon — these are my personal motivations now. I understand that you think I need treatment, but I've traveled that road — and shall I tell you something? It's led directly back to the point where it started. Admittedly, having made the trip, one knows just where that point is and what surrounds it. But one is still there. So what do you want people to do, Gideon, when they discover their personal motivations? Abdicate? Stop playing a role in the world? What person in history was not driven by his own personal motivations? And how could there have been any development without those drives?'

'That's not the point,' I countered. 'If you're genuinely self-aware, then your behavior can change.'

'Ah, the mantra of the psychologist!' Malcolm's voice was rising disturbingly. 'Yes, Gideon, it can indeed change, but change to what? Shall we be Christlike and turn the other cheek to avarice, exploitation, and ruination? Shall we watch the world burn down because we fear that our motives might not be strictly impersonal? I tell you, I'd hurl myself into that sea first! Because you're not talking about change, Gideon — you're talking about paralysis!'

'No,' I said, 'I'm talking about addressing those problems in ways that don't end up killing millions of people.'

'I did not destroy that city!' he shouted, and by the way his body had begun to tremble I could see trouble coming; yet, much as it shames me to admit it, I was too appalled by what he was saying to do anything about it. 'I didn't train Dov Eshkol,' he went on, 'and I didn't turn him loose on the world. Nor did I create a society so obsessed with commerce that it refuses to effectively regulate even the most dangerous forms of trade! But I'll tell you what I did do. I suffered through a set of experiences that gave me a unique perspective from which to view — and perhaps affect — that same society. Should I refuse to do so because my motives have a personal dimension that worries people like you? Take my advice, Gideon — worry about the purity of your own motives, and let mine be.' He spun his chair around toward the window, raising one fist. 'I know why I am what I am — but I will not let those who made me this way enjoy the final triumph of my acquiescence in their effort to make the world a massive hive, one in which human beings play with information endlessly for the profit of hidden masters — and in the process learn nothing.'

Far more than the conversation, it seemed to me, had ended with that last fateful word. I offered no argument, for there was no point in arguing with such profound psychosis. Some of what he'd said was doubtless true, though I couldn't say how much. All I knew for certain were the same two things I'd been sure of when I'd entered the room: that I could no longer stay on that island or participate in Malcolm's schemes, and that when I left I wanted Larissa to go with me. My uneasiness about telling Malcolm these things had vanished in the face of his mad monologue, and I blurted it all out in a fairly arch manner; yet as soon as I did, his features began to draw into an expression of defiant threat that made me regret my boldness.