Time Twisters Page 5

  “That’s why Paul Atreides is a fifteen-year-old boy.” Frank was clearly starting to get angry.

  “But a desert planet with giant sandworms and some sort of addictive drug? Drugs, Frank? And what is all this religious guff? Give us bug-eyed monsters and scantily clad women. Your female character doesn’t even scream when she sees a sandworm! Nobody’ll believe that.”

  “I believe in this book, Lurton. Bev believes in it, too, and if you can’t support what I want to do, then you don’t have any business being my agent.”

  It was time for Jimmy to barge in before things got out of hand. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Are you by any chance Frank Herbert, the author?”

  The bearded man looked surprised. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Certainly! I loved your first novel, The Dragon in the Sea. I certainly hope you’re working on something new. It’s been quite some time.”

  “And I have quite a novel . . . but no publisher.” His large beard swallowed up his downturned lips.

  “We’ve exhausted all the possibilities,” Lurton said—Lurton Blasingame, the agent. “As I was just explaining to my client, every possible publisher has turned down the manuscript. It’s time to move on.”

  Jimmy swung his sample case up onto the bar. “Could I offer an idea? I’m an auto parts salesman. Have you heard of Chilton Books? They print auto-repair manuals, the best in the business. You could send Mr. Herbert’s manuscript there.”

  Lurton finished his Scotch. “It would be nonsense to send a huge sci-fi novel to a publisher of auto-repair manuals. Thanks for the suggestion anyway.”

  Jimmy pressed the issue. “Wait a minute, it may not be such a strange possibility. At our recent conference, the Chilton editor, Sterling Lanier, told me he’s a science fiction fan. He said that he wanted to publish something unusual, and not just the same old manuals.”

  Frank Herbert had a gleam in his eyes. “Why not give it a try, Lurton? Maybe we could change the title to How to Repair Your Ornithopter.”

  “You realize, Frank, this is the longest of long shots.”

  “Maybe this man Lanier won’t be constrained by the rigid thinking of his fiction house peers,” Frank said. “Maybe he can market it to an audience other than twelve-year-old boys. I’m sure it’ll be a big seller.”

  Lurton remained skeptical. “All right, but I warn you, Frank, this is the last time. If Chilton Books doesn’t go for it, I don’t think Dune World will ever be published.”

  Frank extended his hand to shake Jimmy’s. “I appreciate the thought, mister. Could we buy you a drink?”

  Jimmy desperately wanted to stay, but he shook his head. “I’m very sorry. I don’t have the time.”

  Attendance at the 1968 World Science Fiction Convention was abysmally low, the smallest turnout yet for one of the annual gatherings. Originally scheduled for the posh Claremont Hotel in Oakland, California, the venue had been changed to the Rodeo Motel in downtown Emeryville. In Jimmy’s timeline, this would be the last such gathering before fandom collapsed as an organized entity. In his day there were no longer any science fiction conventions at all.

  He wandered through the motel, poking his head in the various panels held in small meeting rooms, the minimally crowded autograph sessions with a few old writers from the pulp magazine days. He was thrilled to find others who had read every issue of Amazing and Astounding. In all his adult years, Jimmy had met only a couple of like-minded souls who didn’t consider him weird or immature to be reading “that strange spaceman stuff.”

  This tiny World Science Fiction Convention had gathered the few remaining readers who didn’t mind being identified with the genre. By his guess, only a hundred or so people were there, most of them gloomy because of the recent news that the television show Star Trek had just been cancelled. When it aired, Star Trek was seen as not one small step, but a giant leap for science fiction, with intelligent and thought-provoking episodes (along with a pointy-eared alien and very short skirts on the female crewmembers).

  Jimmy found a few fans sitting in the lobby, some of them dressed in costumes, others trading battered out-of-print books, all of them grumbling about the show’s cancellation. “There’s simply nothing we can do,” said one brown-haired woman with glasses who sat on a sofa, putting her chin in her hands. “I loved Star Trek. I even met Mr. Roddenberry at the Hugo ceremony last year.”

  “We know, Bjo.”

  “They’ll probably replace Star Trek with another doctor show,” groaned a beanpole-thin young man wearing a floppy Three Musketeers hat. “But what can you do? We’re not studio executives.”

  Jimmy took a seat on the floor next to the fans. “You could write a letter.”

  “What good would one letter do?” asked the woman named Bjo.

  “Not just one letter—why not a whole campaign? There are at least a hundred people gathered right here at this motel. It would be a start. Then you could all tell your friends. There must be other fans in the world.”

  “A few,” said the man in the Three Musketeers hat.

  Bjo seemed delighted to have something to hold onto. “I’ll do it for Star Trek. I’ll write a letter. In fact, I’ll write a sample letter and mimeograph it so everybody has a starting point. You’ll all write to the studio, won’t you?” It didn’t sound like a question. “It’s time we stop hiding. As fans, we shouldn’t be ashamed of what we enjoy to read or watch.”

  The skinny man said, “We’re embarrassed because we feel so alone.”

  “Then we need to get organized,” Bjo said. “Even though the pulp magazines died, a couple of fan publications managed to survive. They’ve got mailing lists. They’ve got friends. It’ll be a genuine letter-writing campaign. We’ll bury Paramount with letters demanding that Star Trek be given another chance!”

  “How can you think that’ll work, Bjo? It’s never been done before.”

  She leaned forward. “Isn’t that what science fiction’s about? Imagining things that other people consider impossible?”

  “This could be really important.” Jimmy clutched his hands together earnestly. “By putting together a letter-writing campaign, you’ll light a fire under fandom again. If we win this battle, then everybody in Hollywood will realize that we have power after all.”

  “Sounds even more far-fetched than something written by Edgar Rice Burroughs,” said a quiet, chubby young man who had been dozing against the corner of the lobby sofa.

  “I like ERB!” a woman next to him snapped, then her expression softened. “I didn’t know anybody still read him. Do you prefer John Carter of Mars or Carson of Venus?”

  “We all prefer Star Trek.” Bjo got to her feet. Jimmy could see that she was going to take charge. This movement was in her hands now. If she could get Star Trek renewed for one year, if she could organize fandom and prove there was a strong audience for science fiction, it would certainly get the ball rolling.

  “We don’t have much time,” Bjo said.

  “None of us does,” Jimmy admitted.

  He longed to stay with the fans and meet some of his favorite old authors, but he had far more important things to do. Saving the human race had to take precedent over the dealers’ room.

  Jimmy pedaled his bicycle on the MGM Studio lot, gawking at the standing sets like a tourist. He was dressed as a script runner, but the papers in his bicycle basket were all blank. Timing now had to be impeccable.

  He headed toward the main building just as a young man with dark hair and a neat beard emerged, shoulders slumped, his gaze downward. The cloud over his head was like a billboard announcing that he’d had another defeat.

  Pedaling furiously, Jimmy brought the bike over to the sidewalk, skidded to a stop, and jingled his bell, startling the man. “Excuse me! You’re Mr. Lucas, aren’t you? George Lucas? I loved your student film.”

  The bearded man looked at him. “My student film? You mean the futuristic one?”

  “Yes, THX 1138. I especially loved the robot policemen.”


  Lucas heaved a heavy sigh. “The only thing of mine anybody seems to know is American Graffiti. I swear their attention span is only two months long.” He forced an unconvincing smile. “What can you do? American Graffiti earned a lot of money, but now that I want to make something different and dear to my heart, I keep getting turned down.”

  “What are you trying to do, Mr. Lucas?”

  “When I was a kid growing up in Modesto, I used to read comic books and pulp science fiction magazines.” He turned and looked at Jimmy. “I’m willing to bet there’s a whole generation who’d love to see an ambitious movie with interesting special effects, not just giant rubber monsters on strings. Unfortunately, studios aren’t willing to bet on it. I’ve pitched and pitched my new movie, The Star Wars. They can’t imagine giving me the budget I want—ten million dollars!—to make a sci-fi movie they ‘know’ won’t make money.”

  “Oh, I bet it could be one of the biggest money-makers of all time.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but even I’m not that naïve.” Lucas shook his head. “Why am I talking to a script runner about this?”

  “Because I’ll listen,” Jimmy said. “I love science fiction, too.”

  “Great, then I’ll have an audience of one if I make The Star Wars. I’m trying to do a really big science fiction movie, but the execs don’t see what I see, no matter how I describe it to them.”

  Jimmy pounced with his suggestion. “A picture’s worth a thousand words, Mr. Lucas—and film is a visual medium. Instead of just giving a verbal pitch, maybe . . . bring some illustrations. Do you know any artists who can paint something spectacular and imaginative? Give them a real eye-full of what they’re going to be investing in. That could make all the difference.”

  Lucas raised his eyebrows. “I do have a friend who works at Boeing painting pictures of new aircraft designs, Ralph McQuarrie. I’ve seen him doodle and play with ideas. Maybe I should give him my movie treatment, commission him to do a set of paintings of my alien landscapes, strange ships, creatures, and characters.” Now the man stood taller, his shoulders square with new confidence. “That just might do it! I was about to cancel my pitch at Twentieth-Century Fox because I didn’t think I had a chance. Ralph can do some paintings for me in time.” Already intent, deeply focused, Lucas hurried off after saying a curt goodbye.

  Sitting on his bicycle, Jimmy watched the man go. This was the last cruxpoint he and Dr. Hawking had been able to select. He hoped he had done enough, sparked enough imagination, fertilized a field that would bear fruit beyond mundane concerns. If he succeeded, there would be an entire cultural shift, a social mindset that made mankind think forward, look to the skies, and boldly go where no man had gone before.

  Maybe that version of Earth would have a chance against an alien invasion, since Jimmy’s original Earth had no chance at all. When the time machine activated again, he didn’t know what kind of world he was going back to.

  When the marauding invasion fleet cruised into the solar system, they scanned Earth broadcasts. The alien subcommander had been hoping for easy pickings. The economics of conquering planet after planet simply did not allow for a long, drawn-out siege against vigorous resistance.

  “Such a fertile world,” the subcommander said. “We have made no prior contact with this . . . Earth?”

  “They have never seen us, have no reason to expect us,” said the strategic advisor, lifting a tentacle. “We have enough ships to intimidate them, though we cannot sustain a long battle.”

  “They will crumble easily,” predicted the subcommander.

  “Excuse me,” said the communications officer. “I have deconstructed their broadcasts and tapped into their library databases. I found a disturbing cultural trend. It seems these humans have been anticipating something like us for the past century. Observe.” He played clips of movies he had plucked from the cacophony of transmissions.

  “The inhabitants of Earth have a popular entertainment category called science fiction. Their best-selling novel in the genre describes a harsh desert planet and a vigorous resistance against a large galactic empire similar to our own. One of their longest running and most successful televised entertainment series concerns their own exploration and expansion into the galaxy. Among their most lucrative filmed entertainments is tellingly titled Star Wars, filled with images of spectacular space battles. Subcommander, if even a fraction of these images is true, our fleet stands no chance.”

  “So these humans are ready for us. Somehow they were forewarned.” After a few long and silent moments, the subcommander turned to his strategic advisor. “Do you concur?”

  The advisor looked extremely troubled. “Given this information, Subcommander, I cannot recommend that we proceed. We do not have the military capability to withstand a protracted resistance.”

  The subcommander growled, then nodded. He could not afford another failure. He was sure to be executed this time unless he easily and inexpensively conquered a new world. If these creatures could imagine such things for entertainment, how much more prepared must their military be!

  “Very well, target another solar system,” he said. “There will be plenty of others to choose from. Let us go find an unimaginative race instead.”

  Note: Frank Herbert’s Dune, the best-selling science fiction novel of all time, was rejected more than twenty times before it was finally published by a company that produced auto-repair manuals.

  Star Trek was originally cancelled after only two seasons, until a group of science fiction fans led by Bjo Trimble launched a massive letter-writing campaign such as the networks had never before seen, and the show was renewed.

  Even after the success of his film American Graffitti, George Lucas could not find a studio willing to invest in his science fiction movie Star Wars. However, when he commissioned his artist friend Ralph McQuarrie to paint extravagant scenes from the proposed movie, 20th Century Fox immediately picked up the project.

  THE POWER AND THE GLORY

  Robert E. Vardeman

  Other workers leaned on their shovels, taking a break from the stifling heat. But Nikolai Tesla did not. He continued moving dirt from the trench to the pile beside it, in spite of being the slightest of the men. Tall, whipcord thin, his black hair glued itself to his head with sweat. Now and then he tossed his head to keep the sweat from burning his fever-bright dark eyes.

  “Nikolai,” complained the man next to him, “you’re showing us up. Slow down. The foreman’ll want us all to work as hard as you—and he still won’t pay us shit.”

  The Austro-Hungarian looked up. A slight sneer came to his thin lips.

  “We are near Pearl Street, aren’t we?”

  “Suppose so. What’s the difference? This is still just a hole in the ground no matter where we put it.” Anotoly Berzgi edged closer and looked at Tesla. He shook his head. The man worked like a machine, but no machine ever had such an intense look or produced such a torrent of ideas. Twice Tesla had tinkered with construction equipment and increased the amount of work they could do. And with a shovel in his hand, he worked tirelessly, in spite of the humid New York summer.

  “That’s Edison’s headquarters. Where he has his direct current generators.”

  “What? Oh, the electricity?”

  “He cheated me,” Tesla said, his voice crackling with emotion. “I worked for a year improving his generator designs, and he cheated me out of fifty thousand.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. I came to America because the French subsidiary of an Edison company cheated me. I thought it would be different here. But it is not. Edison cheats, no matter what continent his company occupies.”

  “What could you do for the great Edison that would be worth so much?” Berzgi stared at Tesla. The amount was incredible, more than a man could earn in a lifetime of digging ditches.

  “He hired me to improve his DC equipment. I tried to convince him that alternating current was better, but he scoffed,
” Tesla said, his tone clipped and precise. “He goes on to electrocute animals when I have a chance to sell my AC generators to Westinghouse.”

  “Westinghouse?” said Berzgi.

  “The inventor who died in the air brake accident,” said Tesla. He wiped away sweat and shook his head sadly. “Westinghouse had vision and saw the elegance of my designs. Together, we were going to harness Niagara Falls and send power throughout the entire state of New York!”

  Berzgi tried not to snicker. Such a thing was impossible. The great Edison had to place his generators every mile to keep the electricity flowing. He sighed. How nice it would be to read his letters from the old country by electric bulb rather than the guttering candle he had bought for a penny from old Grania. He could not afford coal oil, and with what he was being paid for digging trenches he never would.

  “A great man, Westinghouse. I went to his funeral,” Tesla said. “He left this world too soon.” Tesla hesitated and Berzgi thought a tear formed at the corner of one dark eye. “Like my brother Dane. He, too, was a genius, unlike me. I work hard every hour of the day to come to even half of those men’s brilliance.”

  Berzgi saw a change come over Tesla. He somehow grew in stature, though slight, as if coming to a momentous decision.

  “I cannot develop alternating current without the money Westinghouse offered me, and with his death, his company has been sold.” Tesla spat. “To Edison.”

  “Git off yer shovels. I ain’t payin’ ya to lollygag!” The foreman bustled up and down the line, hounding his tired, sweaty laborers back to work.

  “Tonight,” Berzgi said. “Come with me. We will have a drink and talk.”

  “Of the old country?” scoffed Tesla. “I have work to do.”

  “Work? What do you do? I have a second job in a laundry.”

  “I invent,” Tesla said, drawing himself up even more and looking down his roman nose at his comrade, dark black eyes intense. “And I have found an even more effective way of powering the world. I tap into the magnetic field of the planet itself!”