The Man Who Folded Himself

Down through the decades, I bought a little here, a little there — not enough to change the shape of the world, but enough to supply me with a comfortable lifelong fortune. It was a little tricky setting up an investment firm to manage it, but it was worth the effort. When I got back to 1975, I found I was worth—

—one hundred and forty-three million dollars.

Hmm.

Actually, the number was meaningless. I was worth a hell of a lot more. It turned out I owned an investment monopoly worth several billion dollars, or let’s say I controlled it. What I owned was the holding company that held the holding companies. By the numbers, its value was only one hundred and forty-three million, but I could put my hands on a lot more than that if I wanted.

What it meant was that I had unlimited credit.

Hell! If I wanted to, I could own the country! The world!

Believe it or not, I didn’t want to.

I’d lost interest in the money. It was just so much numbers. Useless except as a tool to manipulate my environment, and I had a much better tool for that.

Those frequent trips to the past had whetted my appetite. I had seen New York grow — like a living creature, the city had swelled and soared; her cast-iron facades had become concrete; her marble towers gave way to glass-sided slabs and soaring monoliths. And beyond that, she became something enchanted: a fantasy of light and color. Oh, the someday beauty of her!

I became intrigued with history—

I went back to see the burning of the Hindenburg. I was there when the great zeppelin shriveled in flame and an excited announcer babbled into his microphone.

I was there when Lindbergh took off and I was there again when he landed. The little airplane seemed so frail.

I was there when another airplane smacked into the • Empire State Building, shattering glass and concrete and tumbling to the horrified street below. It was unreal.

I saw the Wright brothers’ first flight. That was unreal too.

And I know what happened to Judge Crater.

I saw the blastoff of Apollo II. It was the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.

And I witnessed the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. It wasn’t dramatic at all; it was sad and clumsy.

I was there (via timeskim) at Custer s last stand.

I witnessed the completion of the first transcontinental railroad. (The guy who was supposed to pound in the gold spike slipped and fell in the mud.)

I’ve seen the Chicago fire and the San Francisco earthquake.

I was at the signing of the Declaration of Independence. (How far we have come since then… )

I saw the burning of Atlanta.

And I’ve seen the original uncut versions of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance and Merian C. Cooper’s King Kong and 2001: A Space Odyssey.

I was there the day the Liberty Bell cracked.

And I saw the fall of the Alamo.

I witnessed the battle of the Monitor and the Merrimack.

I attended a band concert conducted by John Philip Sousa.

I heard Lincoln deliver his Gettysburg Address. I recorded it on tape.

I’ve seen Paul Revere’s midnight ride and the Boston Tea Party.

I’ve met George Washington and Thomas Jefferson.

And I watched Columbus come ashore.

I saw Ben Franklin flying a kite on a rainy day.

I was there when Bell tested his first telephone. “Mr. Watson, come here. I want you.”

I witnessed Galileo’s experiment — when he dropped two lead balls of different weights from the tower of Pisa.

I have seen performances of plays by William Shakespeare. At the Globe Theater in London.

I watched Leonardo da Vinci as he painted La Jaconde, the Mona Lisa. (I will not tell you why she smiles.) And I watched as his rival, Michelangelo, painted the Sistine Chapel.

I’ve heard Strauss waltzes, conducted by Strauss himself.

I saw the disastrous premiere of Stravinsky’s Rites of Spring. And Ravel’s Bolero too.

I’ve heard Beethoven’s symphonies — as conducted by Beethoven himself.

And Mozart. And Bach. (I’ve seen the Beatles too.)

And the beheading of Ann Boleyn and Thomas More.

I’ve seen the signing of the Magna Carta.

I have visited Imperial Rome. Nero and Tiberius and Julius Caesar himself. Cleopatra was ugly.

And ancient Greece. The sacking of Troy was more than a myth.

I have witnessed performances of plays by Sophocles and watched as Plato taught Aristotle and Aristotle taught Alexander. I saw Socrates drink the cup of hemlock.

I have witnessed the crucifixion of one Jesus of Nazareth. He looked so sad.

And more.

I have seen dinosaurs. I have seen the thunder lizards walk the Earth. The Brontosaurus, the Stegosaurus, and Triceratops — and the Tyrannosaurus Rex, the most fearsome monster ever to stalk the world.

I have seen the eruption of Vesuvius and the death of Pompeii.

I have seen the explosion of Krakatoa.

I watched an asteroid plunge from the sky and shatter a giant crater in what would someday be Arizona.

I’ve witnessed the death of Hiroshima by atomic fire.

I’ve timeskimmed from the far distant past and watched as the Colorado River carved out the Grand Canyon — a living, twisting snake of water cutting away the rock.

And more.

I’ve been to the year 2001 and beyond. I’ve been to the moon.

I’ve walked its surface in a flimsy spacesuit and held its dust in my hands. I’ve seen the Earth rise above the Lunar Apennines.

I’ve visited Tranquillity Base — and flashing back to the past, I watched the Eagle land. I saw Neil Armstrong come ashore.

And more.

I’ve been to Mars. I’ve been to the great hotels that orbit Jupiter and I’ve seen the rings of Saturn.

I’ve timeskimmed from the far past to the far future.

I have seen Creation.

I have seen how Entropy ravages everything.

From Great Bang to Great Bang — the existence of the Earth is less than a blink; the death of the sun by nova, almost unnoticeable.

I’ve seen the future of mankind—

I like to think I understand, but I know that I don’t. The future of the human race is as alien and incomprehensible to me as the year 1975 would be to a man of Charlemagne’s era. But wondrous it is indeed, and filled with marvelous things.

There is nothing that I cannot witness—

—but there is little that I can participate in.

I am limited. By my language, by my appearance, by my skin color, and my height.

I am limited to life in a span of history maybe two hundred years in each direction. Beyond that, the languages are difficult: the meanings have altered, the pronunciations and usages too complex to decipher. With effort, perhaps, I can communicate; but the farther I go from 1975, the harder it is to make myself understood.

And there are other differences. In the past, I am too tall. The farther back I travel, the shorter everybody becomes. And the farther forward I go, the taller. In the not-too-distant future, I am too short — humanity’s evolution is upward.