The Man Who Folded Himself

The Da

And if he can be different from me—

—then there are an infinite number of Da

Somewhere there exist all the possible variations of all the possible people I could be.

I could by any of them — but I ca

I can only be one of the variations. I will be the variation of myself that pleases me the most.

And that suggests—

—that my free will may be only an illusion, after all.

If there are an infinite number of Dans, then each one thinks he is choosing his own course. But that isn’t so. Each one is only playing out his preordained instructions — excising, altering, and designing his timestream to fit his psychological template and following his emotional programming to its illogical extreme…

But if each of us is happiest in the universe he builds for himself, does it matter?

Does it really matter if there’s no such thing as free will?

It bothers me — this me.

I need to know that there is some important reason for my existence. There must be something special about me.

I will find the answer!

Yes. Of course.

I know what my mission is. I know who I am. I should have realized it when the timebelt was first given to me.

I am destined to rule the universe. I am God.

But I must never let them find out, or they will try to kill me.

I think I will kill them first.

If I ever get out of this room, I will kill them all!

I made a point of cautioning Da

Da

I said, “I think he wanted to be caught. We got him at a point where he was still conscious of what was happening to himself.”

“If he ever does get his hands on another timebelt,” Da

I nodded. “That’s partly why it was so hard to trap him. We had to get him into a timeline where he had no foreknowledge of where he was going, otherwise he would have jumped ahead to help himself against us. We wouldn’t even have known about him if he hadn’t kept coming farther and farther back into the past; one of us must have eventually recognized what was happening and gone for treatment, then come after this one who was still rampaging around. That’s when I was called in to help. We had to deny him any chance to look into his own future until we could get the belt off him. The fact that he hasn’t been rescued yet is a pretty good sign that this is the end of the line for this variant.”

Da

“Uh-huh,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m from a line where they caught it in me before it got this far. I never went through that.” I pointed at the glass. “You, you’re a variant too. You’re from even earlier. Neither of us is in there. He could be incurable — and if that’s the case, then he has to stay in there. Forever. He — and I mean all of us — has to be either completely safe, or the timebelt must be held beyond his reach. The consequences—” I didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Da

“It’s for his own good,” I said. “More important, it’s for our good. If time travel is the ultimate personal freedom, then it’s also the ultimate personal responsibility.”

“I guess so,” he said and turned away from the glass.

I didn’t add anything to that and we left the hospital for the last time.

Today President Robert F. Ke

So in order to protect myself (and my one-man monopoly), I had to go back and unkill Sirhan Sirhan. Dammit.

The “recent discoveries” he was referring to were some unfortunate anachronisms which I seem to have left in the past.

I thought I had been more careful, but apparently I haven’t. One of the Pompeiian artifacts in the British Museum has definitely been identified as a fossilized Coca-Cola bottle from the Atlanta, Georgia, bottling plant.

Well, I never said I was neat…

I don’t remember dropping the Coke bottle, but if it’s there, I must have. Unless some other version of me left it there—

That is possible. The more I bounce around time, the more versions of me there are; many of us seem to be overlapping, but I have observed Dans and Dons doing things that I never have or never will — at least I don’t intend to — so if they exist in this timeline, they must be other versions, just “passing through.”

Either they’re around to react to me, or I’m supposed to react to them. Or both. Certain fluxes must keep occurring, I guess — I assume there are mathematical formulae for expressing them, but I’m no mathematician — which necessitate two or more versions of myself coming into contact: such as the Don who came back through time to warn me against wi

That one was a situation where three versions of me had to exist simultaneously in one world: Dan, Don, and ultra-Don (who was excising himself). Other situations have been more complex; the more complex I become, the more me’s there are in this world.

The whole process is evolutionary. Every time Daniel Eakins eliminates a timeline, he’s removing a nonviable one and replacing it with one that suits him better. The world changes and develops, always working itself toward some unknown utopia of his own personal design.

My needs and desires keep changing, so does the world. (I must be about thirty now. I have no way of keeping track, but I look about that age.) I have lived in worlds dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure — sexual fan-

tasies come true. I had lived in other worlds too, harsher ones, for the sense of adventure. World War II was my private party.

But always, whenever I create a specialized world, I make a point of doing it very, very carefully with one or two easily reversed changes.