David Gerrold - The Man Who Folded Himself.pdf

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This book is for Larry Niven, a good
friend who believes that time travel is
impossible. He's probably right.
Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It was frae monie a blunder free us,
An foolish notion.
—Robert Burns
To a Louse, stanza 8
* * *
In the box was a belt. And a manuscript.
* * *
I hadn't seen Uncle Jim in months.
He
looked
terrible.
Shrunken.
His
skin
hung
in
wrinkled
folds,
his
complexion
was
gray,
and
he
was
thin
and
stooped.
He
seemed
to
have
aged
ten
years.
Twenty.
The
last
time
I'd
seen
him,
we
were
almost
the
same
height. Now I realized I was taller.
"Uncle Jim!" I said. "Are you all right?"
He
shook
off
my
arm.
"I'm
fine,
Danny.
Just
a
little
tired,
that's
all."
He
came
into
my
apartment.
His
gait
was
no
longer
a
stride,
now
just
a
shuffle.
He
lowered
himself to the couch with a sigh.
"Can I get you anything?"
He
shook
his
head.
"No,
I
don't
have
that
much
time.
We
have
some
important
business
to
take
care
of
How old are you, boy?" He peered at me carefully.
"Huh—? I'm nineteen. You know that."
"Ah."
He
seemed
to
find
that
satisfactory.
"Good.
I
was
afraid
I
was
too
early,
you
looked
so
young—"
He
stopped himself. "How are you doing in school?"
"Fine."
I
said
it
noncommittally.
The
university
was
a
bore,
but
Uncle
Jim
was
paying
me
to
attend.
Four
hundred dollars a week, plus my apartment and my car.
And an extra hundred a week for keeping my nose clean.
"You don't like it though, do you?"
I
said,
"No,
I
don't."
Why
try
to
tell
him
I
did?
He'd
know it for the lie it was.
"You want to drop out?"
I shrugged. "I could live without it."
"Yes,
you
could."
he
agreed.
He
looked
like
he
wanted
to
say
something
else,
but
stopped
himself
in-
stead.
"I
won't
give
you
the
lecture
on
the
value
of
an
education.
You'll
find
it
out
for
yourself
in
time.
And
be-
sides,
there
are
other
ways
to
learn."
He
coughed;
his
whole
chest
rattled.
He
was
so
thin.
"Do
you
know
how
much you're worth right now?"
"No. How much?"
He
pursed
his
lips
thoughtfully;
the
wrinkled
skin
folded
and
unfolded.
"One
hundred
and
forty-three
mil-
lion dollars."
I whistled. "You're kidding."
"I'm not kidding."
"That's a lot of money."
"It's been properly handled."
One hundred and forty-three million dollars — !
"Where is it now?" I asked. Stupid question.
"In stocks, bonds, properties. Things like that."
"I can't touch it then, can I?"
He
looked
at
me
and
smiled.
"I
keep
forgetting,
Danny,
how
impatient
you
were—are."
He
corrected
himself,
then
looked
across
at
me;
his
gaze
wavered
slightly. "You don't need it right now, do you?"
I
thought
about
it.
One
hundred
and
forty-three
million
dollars.
Even
if
they
delivered
it
in
fifties,
the
apartment wasn't that big. "No, I guess not."
"Then
we'll
leave
it
where
it
is,"
he
said.
"But
it's
your money. If you need it, you can have it."
One
hundred
and
forty-three
million
dollars.
What
would
I
do
with
it—what
couldn't
I
do
with
it?
I
had
known my parents had left me a little money, but—
One hundred and forty-three million —/
I found I was having trouble swallowing.
"I
thought
it
was
in
trust
until
I
was
twenty-five,"
I
said.
"No,"
he
corrected.
"It's
for
me
to
administer
for
you
until
you're
ready
for
it.
You
can
have
it
any
time
you
want."
"I'm
not
so
sure
I
want
it,"
I
said
slowly.
"No—I
mean,
of
course,
I
want
it!
It's
just
that—"
How
to
ex-
plain?
I
had
visions
of
myself
trapped
in
a
big
mansion
surrounded
by
butlers
and
bodyguards
whose
sole
duty
was
to
make
sure
that
I
dusted
the
stacks
of
bills
every
morning.
One
hundred
and
forty-three
million
dollars.
Even
in
hundreds,
it
would
fill
several
closets.
"I'm
doing
okay
on
five
hundred
a
week,"
I
said,
"All
that
more—"
"Five
hundred
a
week?"
Uncle
Jim
frowned.
Then,
"Yes,
I
keep
forgetting—There's
been
so
much—Danny,
I'm
going
to
increase
your
allowance
to
two
thousand
dollars
a
week,
but
I
want
you
to
do
something
to
earn
it."
"Sure,"
I
said,
delighted
in
spite
of
myself
This
was
a
sum
of
money
I
could
understand.
(One
hundred
and
forty-three
million—I
wasn't
sure
there
was
that
much
money
in
the
world;
but
two
thousand
dollars,
yes,
I
could count to two thousand.) "What do I have to do?"
"Keep a diary."
"A diary?"
"That's right."
"You
mean
write
things
down
in
a
black
book
every
day?
Dear
diary,
today
I
kissed
a
girl
and
all
that
kind
of
stuff?"
"Not
exactly.
I
want
you
to
record
the
things
that
seem
important
to
you.
Type
out
a
few
pages
every
day,
that's
all.
You
can
record
specific
incidents
or
just
make
general
comments
about
anything
worth
recording.
All
I
want
is
your
guarantee
that
you'll
add
something
to
it
every
day—or
let's
say
at
least
once
a
week.
I
know
how
you get careless sometimes."
"And you want to read it—?" I started to ask.
"Oh,
no,
no,
no—"
he
said
hastily.
"I
just
want
to
know
that
you're
keeping
it
up.
You
won't
have
to
show
it
to
me.
Or
anyone.
It's
your
diary.
What
you
do
with
it
or
make of it is up to you."
My
mind
was
working—two
thousand
dollars
a
week. "Can I use a dictation machine and a secretary?"
He
shook
his
head.
"It
has
to
be
a
personal
diary,
Danny.
That's
the
whole
purpose
of
it.
If
it
has
to
pass
through
someone
else's
hands,
you
might
be
inhibited.
I
want
you
to
be
honest."
He
straightened
up
where
he
sat,
and
for
a
moment
he
looked
like
the
Uncle
Jim
I
remembered,
tall
and
strong.
"Don't
play
any
games,
Danny.
Be
truthful
in
your
diary.
If
you're
not,
you'll
only
cheat
yourself.
And
put
down
everything —every-
thing that seems important to you."
"Everything," I repeated dumbly.
He nodded. There was a lot of meaning in that nod.
"All right," I said. "But why?"
"Why?"
He
looked
at
me.
"You'll
find
out
when
you
write it."
As usual, he was right.
* * *
I'm
not
fooled.
Uncle
Jim
is
trying
to
teach
me
something.
This
isn't
the
first
time
he's
thrown
me
into
the deep end of the pool.
* * *
Okay, this is it. At least this is today’s answer:
There's a point beyond which money is redundant.
This is not something I discovered just this week.
I've suspected it for a long time.
Five
hundred
dollars
a
week
"spending
money"
(—like
what
else
are
you
going
to
do
with
it?—)
gives
a
person
a
considerable
amount
of
freedom
to
do
whatever
he
wants.
Within
limits,
of
course—but
those
limits
are
wide
enough
to
be
not
very
restricting.
Increase
them
to
two
thousand
dollars
a
week
and
you
don't
feel
them
at
all. The difference isn't that much. Not really.
Okay,
so
I
bought
some
new
clothes
and
records
and
a
couple
of
other
fancy
toys
I'd
had
my
eye
on,
but
I'd
already
gotten
used
to
having
as
much
money
as
I'd
needed
(or
wanted),
so
having
that
much
more
in
my
pocket didn't make that much more difference.
I just had to start wearing bigger pockets, that's all.
Well—
I
like
to
travel
too.
Usually,
about
once
or
twice
a
month I'd fly up to San Francisco for the weekend, or
something
like
that.
Palm
Springs,
Santa
Barbara,
New-
port, San Diego. Follow the sun, that's me.
Since
Uncle
Jim
increased
my
allowance,
I've
been
to
Acapulco,
New
York,
and
the
Grand
Bahamas.
And
I'm
thinking
about
Europe.
But
it's
not
all
that
fun
to
travel
alone—and
nobody
I
know
can
afford
to
come
along with me.
So I find I'm staying home just as much as before.
I
could
buy
things
if
I
wanted—but
I've
never
cared
much
about
owning
things.
They
need
to
be
dusted.
Be-
sides, I have what I need.
Hell,
I
have
what
I
want—and
that's
a
lot
more
than
what I need. I have everything I want now.
Big deal.
I think it's a bore.
* * *
So
that's
what
Uncle
Jim
wanted
to
teach
me.
Money
isn't
everything.
In
fact,
it
isn't
anything.
It's
just
paper and metal that we trade for other things.
I
knew
that
already;
but
it's
one
thing
to
know
it
theoretically;
it’s
another
thing
to
know
it
from
experi-
ence.
Okay. So, if money isn't anything, what is?
* * *
I didn't exactly drop out of the university—I just
sort of faded away.
It was a bore.
I
found
I
had
less
and
less
to
say
to
my
classmates.
I
call
them
my
classmates
because
I'm
not
sure
they
were
ever my friends. We weren't talking on the same levels.
Typical
conversation:
"—can
I
borrow
five
bucks,
is
she
a
good
lay,
does
anyone
know
where
I
can
score
a
lid,
can
you
spare
a
quarter,
did
you
hear
what
he
said
in
class,
I
couldn't
get
my
car
running,
do
you
know
anyone
who's
had
her,
my
ten
o'clock
class
is
a
bitch,
lend
me
a
buck willya, what're we gonna do this weekend—"
They couldn't sympathize with my problems either.
"Problems?
With
two
thousand
dollars
a
week,
who's got problems?"
Me.
I think.
I
know
something
is
wrong—I'm
not
happy.
I
wish
I
knew why.
* * *
I
wish
the
other
shoe
would
drop.
Okay,
Uncle
Jim.
I got it about the money. Where's the rest of the lesson?
* * *
I
think
I
will
tell
this
exactly
as
it
happened
and
try
to do it without crying. If I can.
Uncle Jim is dead.
I
got
the
phone
call
at
eleven
this
morning.
It
was
one
of
the
lawyers
from
his
company,
Biggs
or
Briggs
or
something like that. He said, "Daniel Eakins?"
I said, "Yes?"
He
said,
"This
is
Jonathan
Biggs-or-Briggs-or-some-
thing-like-that
and
I
have
some
bad
news
for
you
about
your uncle."
"My—uncle—"
I
must
have
wavered.
Everything
seemed made of ice.
The
man
was
trying
to
be
gentle.
And
not
doing
a
very
good
job
of
it.
He
said,
"He
was
found
this
morning
by his maid—"
"He's . . . dead?"
I’m sorry. Yes.
Dead? Uncle Jim?
"How—? I mean—"
"He just didn't wake up. He was a very old man."
Old?
No.
It
couldn't
be.
I
wouldn't
accept
it.
Uncle
Jim

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