Infinite Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page B

built up to the breaking point, and an egg went sliding down the left Fallopian tube, to be met by a wiggling intruder approximately halfway; together they were the first manifestation of the organism that ninemonths later, or a million years earlier, would be christened Douglas MacArthur Graham.
    This made a problem for time, or Time, which is neither like a rubber band nor like a spring; nor even like a river nor a carrier wave—but which, like all of these things, can be deformed by certain stresses. For instance, two people going into the future and three coming back, on the same time-casting beam.
    In an earlier age, when time travel was more common, time-casters would have made sure that the baby, or at least its aborted embryo, would stay in the future when the mother returned to her present. Or they could arrange for the mother to stay in the future. But these subtleties had long been forgotten when Nine-hover relearned the dead art. So Sarah went back to her present with a hitch-hiker, an interloper, firmly imbedded in the lining of her womb. And its dim sense of life set up a kind of eddy in the flow of time, that Sarah had to share.
    The mathematical explanation is subtle, and can’t be comprehended by those of us who synapse with fewer than four degrees of freedom. But the end effect is clear: Sarah had to experience all of her own life backwards, all the way back to that embrace on the beach. Some highlights were:
    In 1992, slowly dying of cancer, in a mental hospital.
    In 1979, seeing Bob finally succeed at suicide on the American Plan, not quite finishing his 9,527th bottle of liquor.
    In 1970, having her only son returned in a sealed casket from a country she’d never heard of.
    In the 1960’s, helplessly watching her son become more and more neurotic because of something that no one could name.
    In 1953, Bob coming home with one foot, the other having been lost to frostbite; never having fired a shot in anger.
    In 1952, the agonizing breech presentation.
    Like her son, Sarah would remember no details of the backward voyage through her life. But the scars of it would haunt her forever.
    They were kissing on the beach.
    Sarah dropped the blanket and made a little noise. She started crying and slapped Bob as hard as she could, then ran on alone, up to the cabin.
    Bob watched her progress up the hill with mixed feelings. He took a healthy slug from the bourbon bottle, to give him an excuse to wipe his own eyes.
    He could go sit on the beach and finish the bottle; let her get over it by herself. Or he could go comfort her.
    He tossed the bottle away, the gesture immediately making him feel stupid, and followed her. Later that night she apologized, saying she didn’t know what had gotten into her.

The Mazel Tov Revolution
    I know exactly where this story comes from. One evening I was sitting with good friend Jack Dann, discussing anthologies. He wanted to edit a “theme” anthology—these are Great Science Fiction About Root Vegetables-type books—and we were bouncing around various topics that hadn’t been done yet, or at least not recently, and might be saleable. I suggested he do an anthology of Jewish science fiction, as he is quite Jewish (try to imagine a creature that’s a cross between Isaac Bashevis Singer and Henny Youngman) and does write science fiction. We even made up a list of various stories he might be able to use.
    Lo and gevalt, he sold it. He wrote asking me for a Jewish science fiction story—but for three cents a word. I wrote back saying, Jack, my friendship knows no bounds, but there is a lower bound on my word rate for original stories. Five cents a word, boychik. He didn’t write back.
    A year or so later, he sold another anthology, this time needing stories about faster-than-light travel. Again, three cents a word. Again, I demurred. Again, he refused to beg.
    And then yet
another:
science fiction stories about political power. Word rate, three cents. Again he would not