Backward Step

                     Author David Dyte

               Found on the Internet by Alex

The message began: $70 TIME MACHINE.

Matt's finger moved instinctively to the delete key.  Standard
procedure with junk mail.  File and forget.  But he hovered, just
for a moment.  He needed a good laugh.  Why not read on, just this
once?

The message wasn't quite what it seemed.  It didn't offer a time
machine, really, but a "technical report" with instructions for
building one.  With "off the shelf" parts.  If it's that easy,
thought Matt, surely we'd have met the makers of one of these
contraptions already.  Still, it was pretty funny.


Maybe Terry could use a laugh too.  He was a physics research
student, high powered quantum mechanical stuff.  Particle
accelerators.  Laser containment fields.  Might enjoy some light
relief.

Matt clicked on the forward button, entered Terry's address, and
sent it off.

. . .

$70 time machine.  Very amusing.

Terry lived in the halls of residence.  Big scholarship, low rent.
No girlfriend.  By student standards, he had money to burn.
Still, seventy bucks, American, for this report was a total waste
by anyone's reckoning.  But he was bored, and the next few weeks
promised little else of interest to do.

He went to the post office, grumbled about the pathetic exchange
rate, and purchased a money order for $US70.  And off it went.
Terry figured there was a half chance he'd never see any report at
all.

. . .

The title of the report read: A Brief History Of Time.

Matt rolled his eyes.  "Well, that's a familiar enough phrase."

"Give it a chance.  The title might be ripped, but the author has
some surprisingly good points in there.  Anyway, my supervisor is
fit to kill right now, so I'd better not be late for this
meeting."

Matt skimmed through, but was lost after page one.  Special
relativity began on page three, the general theory shortly after
that.  Before too long the text was discussing quantum effects
surrounding singularities as casually as Matt might discuss the
alcoholic effects surrounding a halls social event.  He began to
turn the pages without even looking at the pictures.  At page 47,
when the explanations suddenly gave way to a further 50 pages of
dense schematic diagrams for the machine itself, he gave up in
frustration.

. . .

"Pretend I'm thick.  Explain it to me just once more."

Terry sighed heavily, and began again.  "I think I can turn this
into a working prototype."

"I got that much.  It was the improvement and refinement strategy
I missed."

"Ok, look.  It's a bit risky now, but I think I can get this thing
to send about a kilo of material back as far as, oh, two weeks?
Maybe."

"Before you built the machine."

"Precisely.  But the problem is, the machine will burn itself out
in the process.  And off the shelf it may have been, but this baby
put a big, big dent in the bank account."

"So you can't build another?"

"Not for a long time, anyway. But what I can do is run some
experiments while the portal is open.  And send back the results
before the machine melts.  Then when I make it again. er, make it
for the first time, I'll know better how to calibrate the device.
The portal will last longer.  Perhaps I'll be able to send back
more material, further."

"So you'll be Bill Murray in Groundhog Day."

"What?"

"Live the same time over and over.  Learn and correct your
mistakes."

"Learn and correct, yes.  But I won't remember the previous, er,
parallel, attempts.  I'll just have notes to work from."

"Well, good luck.  Personally, I think you'll get killed in the
explosion.  So pardon me if I stay away for the big launch."

. . .

"So you've done this how often?"

"According to his, um, my notes, 537 times.  I'm not sure how many
parts are left from the schematic in the report, here.  The
machine is getting pretty powerful now."

"Of course it is."

"You think this is just a practical joke."

"Is my skepticism so obvious?"

"Scoff away.  I'm pretty confident this machine will send a
living, breathing human back in time as far as three or four
weeks."

"And who would that be?"

"Me, of course.  Being the first time traveller will make Neil
Armstrong look like a footnote.  One small step backwards for
man.."

"Well, good luck.  Personally, I think you'll get killed in the
explosion.  So pardon me if I stay away for the big launch."

. . .

The message began: $70 TIME MACHINE.

Matt's finger moved instinctively to the delete key.  Standard
procedure with junk mail.  File and forget.  But he hovered, just
for a moment.

Footsteps pounded through the corridor.  Terry rushed in,
breathless.  "Hey, hurry up, I've got something to show you back
here!"

Distracted, Matt pressed the key, and turned around.  But no-one
was there.












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