The-Man-Who-Folded-Himself-David-Gerrold

him from falling into those bitter, empty moods, those gritty moments of aching frustration. It would be
good for both of us.) “I don’t like being alone either. This way I can share the things I like with
somebody I know likes them too.” (No, I would never be lonely again; I would have my Danny to take
care of. And my Don to take care of me. Oh, it was such a wonderful feeling to have—how could I
make him see?) “I don’t have to try and impress you, you don’t have to try to impress me. There’s
perfect understanding between us. There’ll never be any of those destructive little head games that
people play on each other, because there can’t be.” It all came spilling out, a flood of emotion. (I
wanted to reach out and touch him. I wanted to hold him.) “I like me, Danny; that’s why I like you.
You’ll feel the same way, you’ll see.
“And I guarantee, there are no two people in this world who understand each other as well as we do.”
* * *
Life is full of little surprises.
Time travel is full of big ones.
My worrying about paradoxes and canceled checks had been needless. If I had thought to read the
timebelt instructions completely before I went gallivanting off to the past and the future, I would have
known. I was right that paradoxes were impossible, but I was wrong in thinking that the timestream
had to be protected from them. After all, they were impossible. It wouldn’t have mattered whether I had
given Danny a check or not; changes in the timestream are cumulative, not variable.
What this means is that you can change the past as many times as you want. You can’t eliminate
yourself. I could go back in time nineteen years and strangle myself in my crib, but I wouldn’t cease to
exist. (I’d have a dead baby on my hands though . . .)
Look, you can change the future, right? The future is exactly the same as the past, only it hasn’t
happened yet. You haven’t perceived it. The real difference between the two—the only difference—is
your point of view. If the future can be altered, so can the past. Every change you make is cumulative;
it goes on top of every other change you’ve already made, and every change you add later will go on
top of that. You can go back in time and talk yourself out of winning a million and a half dollars, but
the resultant world is not one where you didn’t win a million and a half dollars; it’s a world where you
talked yourself out of it. See the difference? It’s subtle—but it’s important.
Think of an artist drawing a picture. But he’s using indelible ink and he doesn’t have an eraser. If he
wants to make a change, he has to paint over a line with white. The line hasn’t ceased to exist; it’s just
been painted over and a new line drawn on top.
On the surface, it doesn’t seem to make much difference. The finished picture will look the same
whether the artist uses an eraser or a gallon of white paint, but it’s important to the artist. He’s aware of
the process he used to obtain the final result and it affects his consciousness.
He’s aware of all the lines and drawings beneath the final
one, the layer upon layer of images, each one not quite
the one—all those discarded pieces; they haven’t ceased
to exist, they’ve just been painted out of view.
Subjectively, time travel is like that.
I can lay down one timeline and then go back and do things differently the second time around. I can
go back a third time and talk myself out of something, and I can go back a fourth time and change it yet
again. And in the end, the timestream is exactly what I’ve made it—it is the cumulative product of my
changes. The closest I can get to the original is to go back and talk myself out of something. It won’t be
the same world, but the difference will be undetectable. The difference will be in me. I—like the artist
with his painting—will be conscious of all the other alternatives that did exist, do exist, and can exist
again.