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Time plays a major role, as the search for a theory to explain the universe and all its constituents continues.

... It was also suggested that we live in only one particular model of the universe, one of the several models permitted by the theory of relativity. In this universe, it has been speculated, past and future are distinguishable by the fact that it is expanding. Future time is linked to a larger universe. If shrinking occurred, time might seem to run backwards. (From a news report of a meeting of the Physical Sciences Association.)

* * * *

Meanwhile, Fred Hoyle has published (Galaxies, Nuclei, and Quasars, Harper and Row, 1965) a book questioning his own “steady-state” theory of cosmology, in the light of new information about quasars; and all around, it seems, the more we know, the less we seem to know—and the more we seem on the verge of Knowing. (Just what, we will have to wait a bit to find out—trusting in Time to keep moving forward for a while.)

The last word, for this year, comes in still one more “first,” from a freshman at Knox College in Illinois.

* * * *

ADO ABOUT NOTHING

BOB OTTUM, JR.

Today we reached the end of the universe. It was a big sign with red letters all lit up.

this is the end of the universe-

do not proceed beyond this point

We pulled the ship in close and cut all the power. Frank hollered over the intercom:

“What in the hell is this?”

We didn’t have any charts of the area. The reason we had come out this far was so that I could make some. No ship had ever been out this far before.

“Well, Frank, I ... I guess it’s the end of the universe. That’s what the sign says.”

“Dammit, there isn’t any end to the universe! It just keeps on going! You know that as well as I do. If this is your idea of a joke . . .”

“Ah, Frank, I didn’t put the sign there. This is uncharted area, you know, and . . .”

“Well, give me a fix and we’ll fly around the thing!”

“But Frank, it says . . .”

“I see what it says! Now give me a fix!”

“Yes sir. We’re in section six, semisection nine, sector three, parallel eight, diagonal seven, subsector . . .”

“Johnny?”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever read that story about the guys who are out in a space ship, and they come to a wall?”

“No sir.”

“Well, they try to get past the wall, and when they do, they die, because the wall is what separates heaven from the rest of the universe.”

“Oh.”

“It looks solid, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but that could just be an optical illusion.”

“Do you think we ought to chance revving her up to full power and going ahead?”

“Well, I don’t know sir. Maybe one of us better get out and have a close look at the thing. It could be just a cloud of dust particles that .. .”

“Can we pull in any closer?”

“Maybe. If it is solid, then it may have some gravity of its own. Then it would just pull us right smack into it.”

“Are you a religious man, Johnny?”

“No ... I, uh ... well, how do you mean?”

“I mean like believing that this is the wall that separates heaven from the rest of the universe. Do you think there is a heaven?”

“I guess there’s a heaven. But I never thought . . .”

“We could even be dead right now. Like, you know, maybe we crashed into an asteroid or something. Maybe we’re dead, and now we’ve reached heaven.”

“I don’t feel like I’m dead. Wouldn’t we have remembered it if we had crashed?”

“Yeah, I guess so. One of us is going to have to go out there and have a look.”

“I’ll go, Frank.”

“No you won’t. The Space Administration needs men like you. I’ll go.”

“But Frank, what if . . .”

“Aw, come on! All this upset over nothing! Let’s behave like a couple of men.”

“Okay. You’re right. Can I help you put on your suit?”

“Yeah. Meet me in the pressure room.”

Ours was one of the two-man jobs, used only for charting. One of us sat at either end. He flew, and I drew. The pressure room was right in the middle of the ship. I helped the captain put on his suit, and then went back to watch him on the television monitor.

“How is it out there, Frank?”

“I’m fine. I’m almost there. I think I can see the ... the . J . well, I’ll be damned!”

“Is something the matter? Frank?”

He was right up against the wall. It was solid all right. I could see him hunched over in one little spot.

“Johnny?”

“Yes sir?”

“Have you got a quarter?”

“A ... a what?”

“A quarter. Twenty-five cents.”

“Well, I don’t know, sir. What do you need a quarter for?”

“You find me one. I’m coming back for it.”

There was some money in the ship. I don’t know why, but for some reason, somebody had known to have some money on board. When the captain got back, I gave him the money.

“Why do you want a quarter, Frank?”

“You’d better get one for yourself, too. And start getting your suit on. I’ll be right back.”

He took the quarter and left. And he came right back. But there was something wrong. His eyes were all glassy, and his mouth just hung loosely at the jaw. His eyebrows were turned up, and his forehead was all wrinkled.

“What is it, Frank? What’s the matter?”

“It was nothing. Really. It was nothing.”

* * * *

When I got about twenty feet away from the wall, I could see them. There were hundreds of them, plastered all over it. Old signs. There was an “Eat At Joe’s,” and a great big “Kilroy was here,” and hearts with names in them. As I got closer, I could even see the hand-scrawled four-letter words with crude drawings.

As I got right up against the wall, I noticed the little white square sign. It said,

obviously you are not convinced that this is the end of the universe. if you will place a quarter in the slot below, the peep-hole will open, and you can see for yourself.

And the captain was right. I paid my quarter and looked through the peep-hole. But it was nothing.

SUMMATION

Burroughs would have been lost . . . Edgar Rice Burroughs, that is. Since the days of his novel The Warlord of Mars things have changed in outer space. Yet William Burroughs, he of Naked Lunch and Nova Express fame, would have loved nearly every minute of it.

At ten o’clock on Sunday morning, when the decent folk of London were still in their beds, delegates to the 23rd World Science Fiction Convention in London were discussing “The Robot in the Executive Suite,” speculating on practical optimums for robot construction.

Only one lonely bug-eyed monster appeared at the convention— at the costume ball/ and Penguin Books had great difficulty in persuading a Dalek [Unautomated, man-sized U.K. version of Robbie the Robot— controls, mike, etc., are inside, as is operator.] to appear. Monsters and Martians get harder to find every day. Science fiction, since the good old days when Hugo Gernsback first named the genre “Scientifiction” and printed space operatics in pulp magazines, has come of a respectable age. Unlikely Martians are of less interest than what one British writer, J. G. Ballard, has called “inner space,” a very real world. In the space age Jules Verne can’t shine a candlepower before the reality of Gemini.