The Man Who Folded Himself Read Online Free PDF Page A

called Timestop and something else called Timeskim. According to the instructions, each was an interrupted time jump resulting in a controlled out-of-phase relationship with the real-time universe. Because the rate of phase congruency could be controlled, so could the perceived rate of the timestream.
    What that meant was that I could view events like a motion picture film. I could speed it up and see things happening at an ultra-fast rate via the Timeskim, or I could slow them down—I could even freeze them altogether with the Timestop.
    The Timeskim was necessary to allow you to maintain your bearings over a long-range jump; you could skim through time instead of jumping directly. The movement of people and animals would be a blur, but you would be able to avoid materializing inside
of a building that hadn’t been there before. The Timestop was intended to help you get your bearings after you arrived, but before you reinserted yourself into the timestream, especially if you were looking for a particular moment. With everything seemingly frozen solid, you could find an unobserved place to appear, or you could remain an unseen observer of the Timestopped still life. Or you could Timeskim at the real-time rate without being a part of real-world events, again an unseen observer. I guessed that the Timestop and Timeskim were necessary for traveling to unfamiliar eras—especially dangerous ones.
    There were other functions too, complex things that I didn’t understand yet. I decided to leave them alone for a while. For instance, Entropy Awareness left me a bit leery. I concentrated on the keyboard instead. If I was going to use this thing, I’d better know how to program it.
    The top two buttons controlled Jump and Target, Forward and Back. The second row of six controlled any six digits of the date; the third row of three was for programming—they determined the settings of the second and fourth rows. The fourth row had six buttons; used in combination with the third row, they determined ways of using the belt. Maybe more. Each of the buttons on the keyboard was multi-functional. What it controlled, and how, was determined by which other buttons it was used in combination with.
    Clearly this timebelt was not a simple device. There was a lot to learn.

    I felt like a kid with a ten-dollar bill in a candy store—no, like an adolescent with a credit card in a brothel.
    I was ready—but what should I do first?
    Possibilities cascaded across my mind like a stack of unopened presents. I was both eager and scared. My hand was nervous as I fumbled open the buckle.
    I eyed the readout plate warily. All the numbers had been cleared and were at zero; they gazed right back at me.
    Well, let’s try something simple first. I touched the third button in the third row, setting the second row of controls for minutes,
seconds, and tenths of seconds. I tapped the first button in the second row twice: twenty minutes. I set the top right-hand button for Forward, the top left-hand button for Jump.
    I double-checked the numbers on the panel and closed the belt.
    Now. All I had to do was tap the upper right-hand corner of the buckle twice.
    The future waited.
    I swallowed once and tapped.
    â€”POP!—
    I staggered and straightened. I had forgotten about that. The instructions had warned there would be a slight shock every time I jumped. It had something to do with forcing the air out of the space you were materializing in. It wasn’t bad though—I just hadn’t been expecting it. It was like scuffing your shoes on a rug and then touching metal, that kind of shock, but all over your whole body at once.
    Aside from that, I had no way of proving I was in the future.
    Oh, wait. Yes, I did. I was still wearing my wristwatch. It said 1: 43. I strode into the kitchen and looked at the kitchen clock.
    It said 2:03.
    If the kitchen clock were to be believed, then the belt was real, and I had just traveled