A second later, Isaac laughed. “I guess I do use the idea, then.”
“Yes, but don’t do it before then. Otherwise it’ll be the end of—of everything.” He nodded, letting me know that he was aware of the dangers of disrupting the timeline. “Thanks for telling me about my future. It’s nice to know that I’ll succeed.”
“You’re welcome,” I said sadly. “Farewell.”
As I walked to the door to leave, I turned back to look at him one last time. He was already looking away, staring into space. I wanted both of us to be able to treasure this conversation forever, but I knew that I couldn’t let that happen, despite his assurances. So I pulled the disorienter out of my pocket and fired it at him. It made no noise, displayed no light, but I knew it had worked. His face took on an air of bewilderment and confusion, and then readjusted to normal. I dashed out before he could notice me, and left him to dream the daydreams of the idle shopkeeper.
I headed back to the alleyway where I had left the Chronobox, clutching the manuscript in my hands as I walked. I shook with fear over the possibility that I might have disrupted the timeline; but no, I was still here, meaning that my interference had been negligible.
The Chronobox was undisturbed, and the alleyway was as empty as before. All that I needed to do was enter the Chronobox, set the date for the present, and return home.
But I hesitated.
I wanted to stay here, in 1938.1 knew what was about to happen: the golden age of science fiction. I could hang around, watch the greatest writers of the genre come of age. I could attend the first Worldcon, read the stories and novels as they first appeared, and own a collection of works to rival that of anyone. Living in the United States through World War II would be a small price to pay, as far as I was concerned.
I could be a part of it all. I would just have to make sure that I remained a small, insignificant member of science fiction fandom, so as not to disturb the future into which I would eventually be bom.
I looked at the copy of “Cosmic Corkscrew” I held in my hand, and I looked at the Chronobox. I owed something to the future, I knew that, but I wanted something that was only available to me here in the past.
I knew what I had to do.
I gently placed the manuscript inside the Chronobox, closed the door, hit the button on my chronometer and punctured Stasis. Immediately, the manuscript disappeared and the Chronobox appeared empty. A moment later, the Chronobox itself vanished.
I turned on my heel and left the alleyway, readier than any other man in 1938 to face the future.
Except, perhaps, for Isaac Asimov.
For my father Joel David Burstein (1929–1990)