As so often happens in good stories, let us start at the beginning. Later, if all goes well, we will conclude with the ending, although that outcome, as you will grow to understand, is far from certain. Indeed, there is much ground to plough in the journey between here and there. Most of the action will take place in what traditionalists would label the story’s middle. I, employing perhaps a bit more hubris than is appropriate for such a serious affair, prefer instead to regard this central bit as the plot, or if you like, the storyline. In any event, to enhance the pedagogical value of this poignant vignette, I shall periodically endeavor to expound upon key points as they occur.
The beginning in this case is a Thursday evening, let us say eight o’clock. Our two principal players, who shall be properly introduced shortly, are enjoying a much-anticipated dinner together, and such an hour seems altogether appropriate for this casual repast. The characters, both men of considerable education and erudition, as well as generally high opinions of themselves (if not each other), sit opposite one another at a circular oaken table in a quiet restaurant in Boston’s Back Bay district. Though, as already established, eight o’clock is a perfectly civilized hour for dinner, the establishment is nonetheless lightly attended this evening, owing largely to it being a week night, and somewhat to there being a moderate but intensifying snow falling outside. For purposes of reference and visualization, let us imagine we are ensconced in the uppermost forward corner of the large room, no more than five meters or so from the aforementioned table. Such a height and angle will play to our favor later, for reasons that will become apparent soon enough.
A bit more description, though not strictly central to the narrative, will further enhance the visualization. Covering the table is a crisp white linen tablecloth, delicately laced round its periphery, on which is set two as yet undisturbed place settings of finest Elizabethan silver and hand painted china. Though exquisitely crafted and quite expensive, such implements are easily come by, as we are now witnessing a scene in the year eighteen hundred and ninety seven. In keeping with the date and the hour, both men are formally accoutered for the evening meal – one in a black vested suit whose matching bowler hat now hangs on a stand by the door. His companion is similarly clad, but younger, and so in a marginally less formal suit of deep burgundy tincture. The lighting in the restaurant is modestly attenuated, as befits an elegant dining establishment. The men have only just arrived, and so are perusing their dinner menus while enjoying the faint strains of viola music emanating from a quartet in the corner of the room.
The young man’s name is Jonathan, and he is part scientist, part idealist – a potentially incendiary combination, as he is possessed of the intellectual tools necessary to directly test some of his more dubious theories and concepts, more often than not using himself as subject. His companion, the older man, is Benjamin, a journalist and man of letters, whose views of life are solidly riveted to the here and now. Whereas Jonathan is the sort of fellow who looks to the heavens and wonders what sort of mechanism might get him there, Benjamin, surveying the same firmament, offers thanks for the gravity that keeps his feet solidly planted on the ground.
“And so,” Jonathan begins, glancing up from his menu with a hopefully raised eyebrow, “have you taken a moment to consider my proposal of last week.”
“I have,” rejoins Benjamin, “and you are, without question, out of your arguably demented mind.”
This simple exchange, though brief and apparently benign, in fact reveals much. It is worth noting, for example, that the two men, their major personality differences aside, share several traits that make them oddly compatible. Firstly, they are, as is already becoming apparent, candid to a fault, particularly Benjamin. Indeed, a large part of what makes their relationship function so smoothly is their willingness to say whatever is on their mind, irrespective of consequence.
“Look here,” counters Jonathan, undaunted by Benjamin’s opening volley. As we watch from our vantage point, we see that the younger man has produced from his inner jacket pocket a crisply folded piece of paper, creased, in fact, to look rather like an airline ticket, except that with the aeroplane still six or so years from invention, this is clearly not the case.
“I’ve written it down, the better to elucidate my principal arguments,” Jonathan continues.
“You may write it down, publish it, and distribute it to every citizen in this city if you like,” Benjamin replies in his best peremptory tone. “It will in no way diminish the lunacy of your proposition.”
“My friend,” Jonathan entreats, “I have never known you to be so patently dismissive of well thought out scientific advances.”
“Well thought out?” Benjamin haughtily responds. “WELL THOUGHT OUT??” He is occasionally given to redundancy. “Not only does your proposition pose extraordinary hazard to yourself, and I might add, anyone in your immediate vicinity, it also disregards cavalierly the past hundred or so years of scientific reasoning and progress. Bottom line, my good chap, is that it simply cannot be done – and you’re bloody apt to kill yourself if you attempt it.”
“Frankly, Benjamin, your quotidian nature aside, I expected a bit more vision from a man of your education and experience. I do not, as you suggest, disregard modern science. To the contrary, I not only acknowledge and celebrate it, but in fact I exploit it to the fullest in my theories.”
“I may be quotidian, good fellow, but at least I know when and how to keep my feet on the ground,” Benjamin offers as a trenchant rejoinder. “Speaking of which, why don’t you apply your apparently boundless imagination to something of practical value instead of this nonsense. Why, I heard just the other day that there are chaps down in North Carolina or thereabouts who actually believe they can construct a contraption that will enable them to fly through the air. Could be a useful means of conveyance someday, and it sounds like good fun in the meantime, and only mildly hazardous. Now there’s something worthy of your energies.”
“Ironic that you should proffer that particular example,” Jonathan replies, beginning to unfold the earlier produced sheets of paper. He is, among his other characteristics, tenacious, and will not be denied. “Have a look at this,” he says, inverting the sheet for his colleague’s benefit. “I’ve reworked the accuracy calculations, and I expect now I can select a time and place to within plus or minus one day in time and half a mile or so in position.”
“Half a mile?!” exclaims Benjamin, throwing both hands into the air in exasperation. “That’s rich! So what’s to stop you materializing inside of a mountainside or building or half within the space being occupied by another person? Things do rather move about as time proceeds, or hadn’t that figured into your calculations?”
“You really are a cynical man,” Jonathan rejoins, folding the papers and sliding them back into his jacket breast pocket. “It appears that nothing short of incontrovertible proof will sway your intractable mind.” We notice now beside Jonathan’s chair a canvas duffel bag. Apparently it has not occurred to Benjamin to question just why his companion would carry such a thing into a restaurant. Still, there is nothing excessively noteworthy about the bag; it is olive green in color, loosely shaped, equipped with a large brass zipper running its entire length, and appears to be altogether capacious. As Benjamin returns his attention to the menu, still fuming at his friend’s maddening assertions, Jonathan leans down and draws back the zipper half the length of the bag. Reaching inside, he extracts a small unusual object, which he places without explanation in the center of the table.
We should pause for a moment and note here that, at the risk of producing a narratively unsatisfying tale, we shall not, for the purposes of this exposition, be delving into any but the most peripheral technological elements of what must by now be obvious to all as the core of this story – time travel. It is this correspondent’s contention that what didactic interest may lie in the Wellsian aspects of this phenomenon are more than amply surpassed by the physical and moral consequences of such an endeavor. And it is, at any rate, those consequences that comprise the marrow of this tale. And so back to Jonathan and the curious item he has placed on the table.
Benjamin has still not taken his gaze from the menu, and, in frustration, Jonathan feels obliged to snap his fingers a time or two to gain his comrade’s now apparently grudging attention.
“For goodness sake! Can’t you at least manage the decency of letting a man select his dinner in pea–,” at which instant Benjamin’s gaze falls upon the object from Jonathan’s bag. From our discrete purchase in the far upper corner of the restaurant, it is, at first, difficult to discern the piece’s details. And even though Benjamin is only inches away, he too is clearly having difficulty making sense of what has now removed, for the moment, all thought of the menu’s contents from his mind. He peers intently at the object, reaches toward it, but cannot quite convince himself to touch it. Jonathan only sits silently, awaiting whatever reaction should ensue.
“It’s a bracelet of some sort, eh?” Benjamin finally opines, overcoming his curiosity and finally picking it up from the table. He hefts it in his hand, turning it over and over. “It’s quite heavy. And the sheen is rather novel.”
Jonathan offers only a knowing smile. “Much more than a bracelet, my friend. Much more indeed. It’s a timepiece. Have a good look at the front.”
Benjamin gazes at the watch’s face, tentatively touching the polished crystal, watching the second numerals as they move beneath – black on a sandy gray background. “What on earth is a see-ko?” he asks.
Zooming in a bit from our omniscient perch several meters away, we can now plainly see that Benjamin holds in his hand a perfectly ordinary stainless steel digital wristwatch, of the sort manufactured in the millions by Seiko, Timex, and other such firms from the late nineteen seventies onward. Benjamin rubs his fingertip slowly along the polished steel surface, apparently more impressed by the casing than by the anachronism of incomprehensible technology he holds in the palm of his hand.
“Nonsense,” Benjamin exults peremptorily. “It’s not a watch at all . . . Where are the hands?” He returns the Seiko derisively to the tabletop. “Watches are round and come with chains. Any buffoon knows that.” He cannot resist continuing to stare at the timepiece though, and Jonathan is content to let him absorb what he is seeing at whatever pace suits his skeptical mind. “And besides, what sort of lunatic would want to wear a watch on his arm even if it were possible . . . bloody rubbish.” He pauses, lightly touching the casing again. “Wherever did you find such a thing?”
“Well there’s the crux of it. I’m afraid, my friend, I’ve mooted your earlier objections by seizing the initiative and accomplishing that which you so callously dismiss as unachievable. This is simply a souvenir of my sojourn in . . . another place.”
“Oh, I see,” Benjamin responds mockingly, momentarily feigning acquiescence. “So you’ve jaunted off through time and returned with what I can only assume is an artifact from the future. Is that it then?”
“Precisely!” Jonathan says excitedly, momentarily overlooking Benjamin’s obvious sarcasm.
“Why the future then?” Benjamin probes, keeping up the game. “Surely you’d be keen to witness the Revolution or the Crusades or some other grim historical uprising.”
“Posh! Where’s the sport in that? We already know what happened back then. I’m interested in what’s to come. Will our brave sociological experiment result in a compassionate new world or bitter anarchy?”
“Well? Which is it then?” Benjamin says, gesturing toward the watch on the table. “Surely you weren’t just off on a souvenir buying trip. Is there a future for us wretched beings, or are we all doomed to kill off one another?”
“Bit of a mixed bag, I’m afraid,” Jonathan offers enigmatically. “I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve cured you of your insufferable cynicism.” The younger man leans toward his bag again, reaching in and withdrawing yet another curiosity, which he lays next to the Seiko on the table. It is a thin rectangular box about the size of a pack of cigarettes from which extends a thin black wire. At the other end of the wire is a semicircle of thin metal approximately eight inches in diameter, and at each end of the semicircle is attached a small black object whose precise contours rather defy description. Still, to our learned future-savvy eyes, the new object of Benjamin’s attention is an unremarkable Sony Walkman (the cassette tape version).
“Another timepiece from the future?” Benjamin asks, gazing uncomprehendingly at the new item.
“Nothing so utilitarian, my friend. In this case, pure unbridled entertainment. “Care to give it a go then?”
At this point in the proceedings, it is worth noting that, weather notwithstanding, the restaurant has filled a bit more, and the animated conversation of the two men has somewhat captured the attention of several tables in the immediate vicinity. In particular, a young couple adjacent have become captivated by the curious items on the men’s table. Not quite close enough to enjoy the benefit of Jonathan’s explanations, they periodically shift their gaze as unobtrusively as possible toward the gentlemen and the objects of their animated discourse.
We note also that the waiter, having approached and departed unacknowledged several times in recent minutes, has taken on a look of only slightly masked frustration, bordering on annoyance. Therefore, rather than waste the reader’s time on the banalities of ordering one’s supper (and to allow our long-suffering waiter to get on with his life), let us assume here a momentary respite while the men place their orders.
The attention of several of the aforementioned diners is now all the more engaged as Jonathan lifts the Walkman’s headset and leans over the table to place it across the head of the suddenly quite wary Benjamin.
Hearing nothing and uncomfortable with the foreign feel of the smooth cold plastic earpieces, Benjamin effects the beginning of a face comprising equal parts annoyance and embarrassment. He has only just begun to notice the attention that their discussion has gained throughout the establishment.
“Well, what then?” he rejoins, leaning forward and speaking in what he hopes is a more discrete tone, but which is, in fact, a bit louder than necessary, owing to the headset. He is clearly impatient to see what parlor trick Jonathan has conjured up this time, for surely that is what the younger man is about. He has contrived with a machinist (of some extraordinary talent, he must concede) to fabricate devices whose clear purpose is to make a mockery of his associates and colleagues. There is no other conceivable explanation, and Benjamin’s utterly grounded mind will admit none, certainly not the alternative explanation that Jonathan is laboring so hard to expound, i.e. that he has indeed contrived to travel into the future and return with a bag of admittedly clever trinkets to support his ludicrous story.
“Well? Benjamin repeats (we have previously noted his predilection for repetition). Over Jonathan’s shoulder we watch in rapt anticipation as he gently lifts the device from the table, pushes a circular polished steel button illuminating a tiny red light, and then slowly turns a knurled round knob. At which instant, and to the bemusement of the entire restaurant patronage, Benjamin emits a pained shriek, tears the headset from his ears, and pushes back from the table so suddenly and irreversibly that the chair, and its occupant, tumble backward onto the waxed oaken floor.
Benjamin is, as we have already established through the expedient of straightforward historical/temporal dialectic, unfamiliar with the very premise of powered manned flight, and only vaguely so with the notion of lighter-than-air vehicles, mere curiosities in this time and place, known as zeppelins. He is thus ill prepared, both physically and psychologically, for the strident strains of the nineteen-seventies musical ensemble that will take its name from such a vehicle, and whose tones and volume are, to his refined ear, so violently at odds with, say, the viola strains that continue to pervade the restaurant.
At this auspicious juncture, a sort of penultimate lead-in to what we are now surely hoping is a satisfying narrative denouement, it’s worth pausing for a moment to regroup, interject a few additional hopefully clarifying albeit omniscient insights, and give Benjamin a moment to collect himself, and the roomful of heretofore undisturbed diners the same. With a look of glib self-satisfaction, Jonathan pushes again the button on the device that extinguishes the red power light. He wraps the headset slowly and insouciantly around the device several times, all the while watching as Benjamin rights his chair, glances sheepishly about the restaurant at the diners only just returning to their own conversations and meals. There is a small but noticeable bead of sweat on Benjamin’s upper lip, whether of surprise, embarrassment, or some other difficult to describe emotion we cannot say. He sits down, pulls himself back up to the table, and attempts a gesture of either authority or disdain with his right finger.
“Now look here…” he pauses, seemingly unsure of precisely the point he wants to make to the younger man. Jonathan has deposited the cassette player and the watch back into the duffel bag and sits silently facing Benjamin, enjoying to the fullest the elder man’s nearly complete discomfiture. “What…” the older man gasps, “was that odious cacophony?” is all he can manage, still in only slowly abating shock at the rending electric guitar riffs of which he has heard only brief seconds.
“Sad to say, but that is what passes for art in the late twentieth century.” Jonathan smiles with condescension, and then turns to acknowledge the waiter who has just appeared bearing the two men’s entrées – for Jonathan a rare porterhouse steak, and for his companion a lightly breaded whole brook trout encrusted, to our utter lack of surprise, with some indeterminate dun colored coating. “Let us just say that the notion of music will evolve somewhat in the coming decades.”
“But it sounded like a pig in an abattoir,” Benjamin exclaims, unable to fully divest his mind of the wails and screeches of Page’s over-driven Les Paul sunburst electric.
“The only thing of which I can assure you concerning the future,” Jonathan offers with what he supposes is a clever wink, “is that things change.”
“Quite,” Benjamin concedes with a reluctant scowl, adjusting his napkin as he steals a glance at the duffel bag from which have emerged these oddities. “I give you full marks for cleverness, sir. I should like to examine your curiosities in greater detail, and learn more about the artisans responsible for their fabrication. For now though, would it be impertinent to ask if we might enjoy our dinner in peace? I’m sure I speak for my fellow diners,” he adds, nodding in a general all-encompassing manner, “when I say that we’ve had quite enough excitement for one evening.” The older man lifts a delicate portion of the pure white fish from his plate, regarding it with apparent satisfaction.
Jonathan can barely contain himself long enough to ingest a single small bite of his steak. With his mouth still impertinently and bovinely occupied, he leans again for the duffel bag, which action elicits a sigh somewhere between agitation and resignation from Benjamin.
“My friend,” Jonathan expounds, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I have saved the very best for last.” Having fidgeted in the duffel for some seconds, he rights himself again, nudging aside his scarce touched plate. Before Benjamin’s acquiescent gaze he places a new object, its size roughly that of an ordinary hardcover volume, and entirely similar in finish to the previously described cassette player. Apparently by now beyond surprise, Benjamin sets his fork gently onto the table and pauses while looking the young man directly in the eyes.
“This is about concession, isn’t it?” he asks enigmatically.
“Not sure I follow you,” Jonathan responds absently as he plays with a small clasp on the front lip of the newly revealed device. “How do you mean exactly?”
“Concession,” Benjamin repeats. “If I concede that you have indeed slipped the odious bonds of time, raced up and down the tracks of history in complete disavowance of all physical law, will you then leave me in peace to enjoy my dinner?”
“My friend, my friend,” Jonathan waves a hand dismissively. “I have done no more than jaunt about a bit in time’s playground, while you…you…” He succeeds finally in releasing a mechanism that allows the lid of the polished silver object to swing open revealing on the thinner side a smooth gray surface, and on the thicker side, the side lying in contact with the tabletop, a circle of some transparent material and a plethora of buttons in various textures of silver, from chrome to brushed matte. “You, Benjamin, have truly made – or shall I say, will make – a difference.”
“You’re quite mad,” the older man responds, reaching tentatively to touch the new object in the center of the table. “The only thing I’m keen to make a difference in is the quantity of trout on my plate, but you’ve seen fit to deprive me of even that modest pleasure.” He swallows another bit of his fish, and somewhat indelicately picks a small sliver of bone from between his teeth. “So, do horrific sounds emanate from this one as well?” he asks grinning and sliding a fingertip along the polished edge.
“Push the PLAY button and see for yourself,” Jonathan suggests. There is a smugness in his rejoinder that gives the objective observer pause, knowing a bit more now about the younger man’s character and his penchant for the dramatic. We, from our omniscient perch, are aquiver with expectation. Benjamin, alas, is not. He leans forward, slides his small round spectacles down the bridge of his nose a bit and peruses the array of controls until he locates the large rectangular button Jonathan has suggested. He places a tentative finger on it and visibly braces himself as if expecting to be again blown out of his chair by the result. He is indeed surprised, though not to the point of discomfiture, when a crisp color video image appears on the heretofore-gray screen that faces him. From our position behind and above Jonathan, we cannot see the screen, but must infer its contents from the resulting expressions that appear on the older man’s face. For the first time this evening, Benjamin smiles, although still with a measure of restraint.
“Why, it’s delightful!” he exclaims. “Pictures that move…and talk as well. I say, if you haven’t traveled into the future, you and your inventor shall be wealthy men indeed.” Jonathan admits a smile at the acknowledgement.
“Sadly, I can take no credit for the conception or fabrication of this wonderful device, but as you can see it reproduces visual recordings of all sorts with remarkable fidelity. It will be a hundred years or so before these are commonplace, I’m afraid. You though have the distinct benefit of being only the second person in history – our history – to witness its capabilities. The images are recorded there on that small disc spinning beneath the glass. It can go on playing like that for several hours, if you can imagine it!”
A deep sonorous voice comes from within the device, someone talking of wartime and years of travail, grievous injury, and lost life. Benjamin is quickly caught up in the images of ruined battlefields, the sounds of gunfire (reproduced with suitable clarity to attract again the notice of several other diners seated close by). Jonathan deftly reaches out and slides the volume control slightly downward.
“I trust this is a work of fiction, a dramatization of some sort,” Benjamin says. “I would hope that with such marvelous innovation, we would have reached a state of harmony and understanding. Surely this cannot be an historical account.”
“Sadly, I’m afraid it is,” Jonathan replies. “For all of mankind’s cleverness, war seems the one thing we never quite outgrow.”
“Mightn’t you have returned with something a bit more upbeat, if you were going to go to the trouble?” Benjamin’s tone has now lost nearly all of its cynical edge, and he speaks as if addressing someone who is, indeed, actually displaying artifacts from a journey into the future. “Was this really the best you could manage?”
“Ah, but I chose this particular portrayal for a very specific reason, my friend. I said earlier that you had made – would make – a difference. In the future is what I was referring to. What you are watching there is an historical account of a most apocalyptic period in human history known as the Second World War. It will, I’m afraid, consume the attention and energy of mankind for the better part of five years around the middle of the coming century. Most unfortunate. Count yourself lucky that neither of us will survive to see it. Nearly all of the world’s major nations will be caught up in the conflagration, including our own, I’m afraid. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost.”
“Dreary stuff, I’m sure,” Benjamin responds, “but what on earth can any of it have to do with me?”
“Ah, what indeed!” Jonathan exclaims with barely contained enthusiasm. He turns the device to face himself, affording us our first look as well. We watch as Jonathan adroitly manipulates the controls to produce a menu of options overlaid upon the video image on the screen. He scrolls downward until apparently satisfied with his selection. Pushing the PLAY button again, he turns the device to again face Benjamin.
“Things will come to a head in the summer of 1945. The Germans will have been soundly defeated, and we will spend rather a long time fighting the Japanese of all people.” Benjamin watches what appears to be a ceremony of some sort taking place on the screen. There are countless uniformed men on the deck of what looks like a massive warship. Everyone’s attention is centered on a large table in the center, at which is seated a small group of what are clearly dignitaries of some sort. The camera zooms in and we see the men – some Caucasian, some Asian – rise slowly and clasp hands. There are looks of satisfaction on the faces of the Caucasians; miens of despondency and resignation on the Asians. Benjamin absently picks up his fork and takes a small bite of his rapidly cooling dinner, as his eyes remain affixed on the screen.
“Take a close look,” Jonathan exhorts, reaching around the screen and touching a button labeled PAUSE. “Is there anything about this that looks at all familiar?”
“Afraid you’ve stumped me with this one,” Benjamin replies. “Some sort of military ceremony involving lots of Asians and Americans. One can only hope that it marks the end of your world war, although your reference to a second one suggests a singular inability to wean ourselves of the things.”
“Have a closer look at the fellow behind the center table – the one in the white uniform with all the medals.” Benjamin stares more closely into the screen, squinting a bit as he adjusts his glasses.
“Distinguished enough, I suppose. Looks rather like an uncle of mine over in Nadick. The American commander or some such thing. There to officiate at another victory celebration over a nation of heathens, I expect.”
“No need to get all snooty about it. But yes, as you so astutely observe, it is the surrender ceremony conducted by the Americans, who will, by the way, enjoy considerable assistance from various and sundry allies over the aforementioned Japanese.”
“And the mysterious man in white?” Benjamin asks, slowly chewing another bite of his nearly room temperature fish.
“None other than the American Secretary of State, presiding in lieu of the President, who won’t be able to make it for some health reason or other. The Secretary will be credited with single-handedly negotiating a peace treaty with the Japanese, and hence forestalling an imminent invasion of their mainland. History will judge that somewhere in excess of a hundred thousand allied casualties would have ensued from such an invasion, and God can only imagine how many more Japanese. This man will save countless lives and be very nearly elected President himself, losing to some terribly crass fellow from Missouri who has the good fortune to already be Vice President when the current one succumbs.”
“Indeed,” Benjamin responds laconically, returning his gaze to the screen. “An accomplished individual, it would seem. And why exactly were you supposing I would have any idea as to the identity of the chap?” At which juncture we notice a distinctly conspiratorial grin appear on the younger man’s face.
“That, my skeptical friend, is none other than your first-born son.” Benjamin freezes in mid-bite, having only just placed another morsel of cold fish into his mouth. He sits staring incongruously at Jonathan, who, for his part, leans back in his chair, crossing his arms in complete satisfaction. “Benjamin Junior, as it will turn out.” Jonathan reaches again toward the player and presses the PLAY button, setting the action to moving again. The faint sound of martial music emerges from the device’s speakers and the narrator of the documentary rejoins his description of the ceremony.
Having briefly pondered Jonathan’s revelation with surprising equanimity, and having considered an assortment of appropriate reactions thereto, Benjamin opts for incredulity. He withdraws the now empty fork from his mouth, but continues to hold it in his right hand. He then raises his other hand dismissively and shakes his head with apparent derision. “Well, there you go, my friend. You’ve taken a perfectly good tale and ruined it with the oldest flaw known to man – a simple failure of logic. You know perfectly well that I, sir, am unmarried, and committed to remaining so for whatever duration of life the good Lord chooses to grant me.” Having momentarily tucked the latest bit of fish into one cheek pocket in order to facilitate this derisive response, he now sets again to chewing.
“True enough, my good man, true enough. And a laudable goal, if an unrealistic one. I hate to be the spoiler of too many pleasant surprises, but let us just say that your state of matrimonial abhorrence is even now drawing to an end, and will be abandoned entirely with your introduction to a fetching young lady at some art exhibit or other in the next few years. Shortly thereafter, young Benjamin here,” he says, gesturing grandly toward the still playing video, “will make his appearance. The rest, as they say, shall be history.”
Perhaps as a result of Jonathan’s considerable powers of persuasion, perhaps due to the simple exhaustion of maintaining a state of perpetual disbelief, Benjamin’s resolve appears at this moment to crumble entirely. The evening’s first genuine untainted smile sweeps across his face even as he swallows the final bit of trout, dabbing delicately at his chin with his napkin. “My friend,” he offers, pushing back his chair as if to rise, “you are either a charlatan of the first order, or a surpassing genius. In either event, I shall enjoy many happy years, either striving to make this vision a reality, or, at the very least, thoroughly imagining that it could be so!” At this pregnant juncture, Benjamin rises from his chair, for an as-yet-undetermined purpose, although a visit to the men’s room seems most likely. While the smile remains firmly affixed, the older man effects a momentary incongruous gesture of his head, as if trying to dislodge something beneath his collar. Turning indeed to walk toward the lavatory, he pauses, apparently unsatisfied with whatever effect the head gesture was intended to produce. He tries again, this time reaching beneath his collar with a finger, working with somewhat increased urgency at whatever difficulty has developed. Having gotten no more than two steps from his seat, Benjamin now leans forward and opens his mouth as if to cough, but produces no sound at all, although his face has begun to exhibit a distinct reddish tincture.
“Good God, man. Are you all right…” is all Jonathan manages before Benjamin collapses heavily upon the oaken floor to the consternation of the diners around him. Jonathan leaps to his aid, without having any actual idea what he ought to do. As Benjamin grips his throat with now great vigor, we, from our omniscient viewpoint, realize this for what it most likely is – choking on a fishbone. As Doctor Henry Heimlich will not be born for another twenty or so years, his insights into this matter are alas of no value to the unfortunate Benjamin, who now lies thrashing about on the restaurant floor, being attended by a distraught Jonathan and an assortment of well meaning but medically vacuous diners and wait staff. They and we can only stand by and watch with good intent but complete helplessness as the older man expires.
Jonathan, having leapt from his place at the first clear sign of trouble, has inadvertently struck with his hip the corner of the table, the impact causing the still-operating DVD player to spin round so as to face our direction. And so it is that we watch in horror and disbelief as Benjamin’s death throes coincide with a slowly morphing image on the screen–the surrender ceremony fading into gray, its place gradually taken by an enormous glowing cloud rising into the unmistakable shape of a mushroom set against the blue morning sky.
* * *
As all worthwhile stories are obliged to contain some point or other, even if only allegorical, we feel compelled here to infer something of value from this unfortunate incident. Moralizing is a subjective business though, and so our lesson must, in large part, depend on our degree of overall optimism or pessimism. Whereas the optimist would in this case be challenged to come away with anything beyond the trite – something along the lines of dying happy being its own reward – the pessimist, on the other hand, can extract a veritable cornucopia of morals. The most obvious message, the one altogether commonplace to anyone versed in the art of scientific fiction, is the peril of dabbling with the smooth flow of time, particularly those events of great and broad impact on world affairs. Our pessimist could also, however, extrapolate, without risk of criticism, messages concerning the perils of trusting one’s friends, the general hazards of gullibility, or indeed the folly of knowledge itself. Having witnessed the entire grim affair ourselves, we are left only to wonder at how Jonathan will manage his remaining days, and to speculate on the multitude of lives changed by a simple entrée choice.