Time Travel

  So Pitkin applies the tools of logic. These are his chief points:

  • As the time machine rushes through the years, everything ages rapidly, so the man in the machine should, too. “Nations rise and fall, tempests leap up, destroy, and subside, houses are built with toil and burned in the frenzy of sudden war, and so on.” As for the tourist, his clothes are unruffled and he scarcely ages a day. “How is this possible? If he has passed through a hundred thousand generations, why isn’t he a hundred thousand generations old?” Here is an obvious contradiction: “the first contradiction in the whole proceeding.”

  • Time goes at a certain rate, and this rate must be the same for everyone, everywhere. “Two objects or systems” cannot have “different rates of displacement or change in time”—obviously. Pitkin scarcely knew what devilishness Albert Einstein was conjuring in Berlin.

  • Traveling through time must obey rules of arithmetic, just like traveling through space. Do the math: “To traverse a million years in a few days is exactly like traveling a thousand miles in one inch.” A thousand miles does not equal one inch; ergo, a million years cannot equal a few days. “Now is not this a pure self-contradiction, on a par with the proposition that you or I can go from New York to Pekin without moving farther than our own front door?”

  • The time traveler would surely bump into things. Example: Let’s say he leaves his workshop for a future date, January 1, 1920. While he’s gone, his abandoned wife sells the house. It is torn down. Bricks are heaped where the workshop stood. “But where, oh where, is the traveler? If he remains in the same place, he is surely beneath the ton of bricks and so is his precious machine….This, we aver, is most uncomfortable for the tourist. He is fairly interpenetrated with bricks.”

  • Looked at from an astronomical point of view, celestial motion must be considered as well. “The traveler who moves only in time and not at all in space would suddenly find himself strangling in the empty ether, while the earth went hurtling away from beneath him.”

  Impossible, concludes the philosopher. No one can travel into the future or the past on Mr. Wells’s time machine. We must find other ways of dealing with past and future, every day of our lives.

  —

  WE NEED NOT DEFEND Mr. Wells, because he never meant to promulgate a new theory of physics. He didn’t believe in time travel. The time machine was the handwaving—the pixie dust that helps the willing reader suspend disbelief and get through the story. (See handwavium, n.) It was sheer coincidence that the Time Traveller’s mumbo-jumbo tracked so well with a revolutionary view of spacetime that emerged in physics a decade later. Except, of course, that it was no coincidence at all.

  Wells worked hard to make the handwaving plausible. This first technology of time travel ended up being fairly robust. In fact, he anticipated Pitkin’s semiscientific objections and some others as well. For example, it is the Medical Man who says that space differs from time in that we move freely through one but not the other.

  “Are you so sure we can move freely in space?” the Time Traveller retorts. “Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough….But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there.” That was more true, of course, in the nineteenth century than in the twenty-first. Now we’re used to whizzing about in all three of our dimensions, but space travel (as we might call it) used to be more constrained. Railroads and bicycles were new. So were elevators and balloons. “Before the balloon,” says the Time Traveller, “save for spasmodic jumping and the inequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical movement.” What the balloon does for the third dimension, the time machine might do for the fourth.

  Our hero presents his miniature prototype time machine as an amalgam of science and magic: “You will notice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd twinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way unreal.” A turn of the tiny lever sends the gizmo into the void with a puff of wind. Now Wells anticipates the next objection from the realists. If the time machine has gone back to the past, why had they not seen it en route (as it were) when they were in the room last Thursday? And if into the future, why is it not still visible, passing through each successive moment? The explanation comes in ersatz psychological jargon. “It’s presentation below the threshold,” says the Time Traveller, nodding to the Psychologist. “You know, diluted presentation.” The same reason you can’t see the spokes of a spinning bicycle wheel or a bullet whizzing through the air. (“Of course,” the Psychologist replies. “I should have thought of it.”)

  Wells likewise foresaw the objection of the Philosopher that the traveler risked crashing through piles of bricks and other unexpected alterations in the landscape. “So long as I travelled at a high velocity through time, this scarcely mattered; I was, so to speak, attenuated—was slipping like a vapour through the interstices of intervening substances!” Simple, when you put it that way. Halting in the wrong place, however, would still be dangerous. And exciting.

  To come to a stop involved the jamming of myself, molecule by molecule, into whatever lay in my way; meant bringing my atoms into such intimate contact with those of the obstacle that a profound chemical reaction—possibly a far-reaching explosion—would result, and blow myself and my apparatus out of all possible dimensions—into the Unknown.

  Wells laid down the rules, and from then on all the world’s time travelers would have to obey. Or if not obey, at least explain. Jack Finney put it this way in a time-travel story in the Saturday Evening Post, 1962: “There’s a danger a man might appear in a time and place already occupied….He’d be all mixed in with the other molecules, which would be unpleasant and confining.” Explosions are ever popular. Philip K. Dick in 1974: “…the hazard in re-entry of being out of phase spatially and colliding right down to the molecular level with two tangent objects….You know, ‘No two objects can occupy the same space at the same time.’ ” At last, the perfect corollary of “Nobody can be in two places at once.”

  Wells never did justify treating the earth as a fixed point of the cosmos. Nor for that matter did he worry about where the Time Machine gets the energy to power its voyages. Here, too, he established a tradition. Even a bicycle needs someone to pedal, but time machines have unlimited free fuel, by the universe’s grace.

  —

  WE’VE HAD A CENTURY to think about it, and we still need to remind ourselves every so often that time travel is not real. It’s an impossibility, just as William Gibson suspected—a magic on the order of kissing one’s own elbow. But when I say that to a certain well-known theoretical physicist, he gives me a pitying look. Time travel is no problem, he says. At least if you want to travel to the future.

  Oh, well, sure—you mean we’re all traveling forward in time anyway?

  No, says the physicist, not just that. Time travel is easy! Einstein showed us how to do it. All we have to do is approach a black hole and accelerate to near the speed of light. Then, welcome to the future.

  His point is that acceleration and gravitation both slow the clocks, relativistically, so you could age a year or two on a spaceship and return home a century hence to marry your great-grandniece (as Tom Bartlett does in Robert Heinlein’s 1956 novel Time for the Stars). This is proven. GPS satellites have to compensate for relativistic effects in their very exact calculations. It’s hardly time travel, though. It is time dilation (per Einstein, Zeitdilatation). It’s an antiaging device.*2 And it’s a one-way street. There’s no going back to the past. Unless you can find a wormhole.

  “Wormhole” is John Archibald Wheeler’s word for a shortcut through the warped fabric of spacetime—a “handle” of multiply connected space. Every few years someone makes headlines by hailing the possibility of time travel through a wormhole—a traversable wormhole, or maybe even a “macroscopic ultrastatic spherically-symmetric long-throated traversable wormhole.” I believe that these physicists have been unwittingly conditioned by a century of science fiction. They’ve read the same
stories, grown up in the same culture as the rest of us. Time travel is in their bones.

  We have arrived at a moment of cultural history when the doubters and naysayers are the real practitioners of time travel, the science-fiction writers themselves. “Totally impossible on theoretical grounds,” declared Isaac Asimov in 1986. He didn’t even bother to hedge his bets.

  It can’t and won’t be done. (If you’re one of those romantics who thinks nothing is impossible, I won’t argue the case, but I trust you won’t decide to hold your breath until such a machine is built.)

  Kingsley Amis, assessing the literary culture of science fiction in 1960, felt he was stating the obvious when he said, “Time travel, for instance, is inconceivable.” Thus practitioners of the genre resort to some version of Wells’s hand-waving explanation—“an apparatus of pseudo-logic”—or, as time goes on, simply trust their readers to suspend disbelief. And so it’s the science-fiction writers who remain willing to treat the future as open, while all around them physicists and philosophers surrender to determinism. “One is grateful that we have a form of writing which is interested in the future,” said Amis, “which is ready to treat as variables what are usually taken to be constants.”

  As for Wells himself, he continued to disappoint his believers.*3 “The reader got a fine confused sense of immense and different things,” he said in 1938. “The effect of reality is easily produced. One jerks in one or two little unexpected gadgets or so, and the trick is done. It is a trick.” (He was just back in London after a seven-city American lecture tour titled “Organization of the World Brain,” and he felt a need to deny special futuristic powers. “It is not a bit of good pretending I am a prophet. I have no crystal into which I gaze, and no clairvoyance.”)

  —

  LET’S LOOK one more time at how the trick was done:

  …the dance of the shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how there in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little mechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes. Parts were of nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of rock crystal. The thing was generally complete, but the twisted crystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of drawings, and I took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed to be.

  “Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you perfectly serious? Or is this a trick…?”

  For Wells’s first readers, technology had a special persuasive power. This vague machine put a claim on the readers’ belief in a way that magic never could. Magic might include clouts on the head, as in Connecticut Yankee, as well as the talismanic act of turning back the hands on a clock. The cartoon “Felix the Cat Trifles with Time” employs both devices: Old Father Time unwinds his clock past “Year of 1” and “Stone Age” and whacks poor Felix with a club.

  Credit 3.1

  Before that, in 1881, a newspaperman, Edward Page Mitchell, published “The Clock That Went Backward” anonymously in the New York Sun. Old Aunt Gertrude, spectral in her white nightgown and white nightcap, has a mysterious bond with her eight-foot-tall Dutch clock. It seems defunct—until one night, when she winds it up in the flickering light of a candle, the hands begin to turn backward, and she falls dead. This becomes the occasion for a philosophical disquisition by one Professor Van Stopp:

  Well, and why should not a clock go backward? Why should not Time itself turn and retrace its course?…Viewed from the Absolute, the sequence by which future follows present and present follows past is purely arbitrary. Yesterday, today, tomorrow; there is no reason in the nature of things why the order should not be tomorrow, today, yesterday.

  If the future is different from the past, what if we reverse the mirror or rewind the clock? Can destiny carry us toward our beginnings? Can effect influence cause?

  The device of the backward-running clock reappeared in a 1919 story, “The Runaway Skyscraper,” by the pseudonymous Murray Leinster. “The whole thing started when the clock on the Metropolitan Tower began to run backward” is its opening sentence. The tower trembles, the office workers hear ominous creaking and groaning, the sky darkens, night falls, the telephones produce only static, and all too soon the sun rises again, at high speed, and in the west.

  “Great bombs and little cannon-balls,” shouts Arthur, a young engineer who has been worrying about his debts. “It looks awfully queer,” agrees Estelle, his twenty-one-year-old secretary, who has been worrying that she will become “an old maid.” The landscape transforms at a rapid pace, wristwatches are seen spinning backward, and finally Arthur puts two and two together. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he explains. “Have you ever read anything by Wells? The Time Machine, for instance?”

  Estelle shakes her head no. “I don’t know how I’m going to say it so you’ll understand,” explains Arthur manfully, “but time is just as much a dimension as length and breadth.” The building has “settled back in the Fourth Dimension,” he decides. “We’re going back in time.”

  These stories were multiplying. Another way to do the trick: bring in the devil. “A tall, flashy, rather Mephistophelean man whom I had seen from time to time in the domino-room” makes his appearance in Max Beerbohm’s “Enoch Soames,” published in the Century illustrated magazine in 1916. Enoch Soames is a “dim” man, stooping and shambling, an unsuccessful striver in 1890s literary London. He is, like some other writers, concerned about how posterity will remember him. “A hundred years hence!” he cries. “Think of it! If I could come back to life then—just for a few hours…”

  That is the devil’s cue, of course. He offers a bargain—the Faustian kind, updated.

  “Parfaitement,” he says Frenchily. “Time—an illusion. Past and future—they are as ever present as the present, or at any rate only what you call ‘just round the corner.’ I switch you on to any date. I project you—pouf!”

  The devil is au courant: like everyone else, he has been reading The Time Machine. “But it is one thing to write about an impossible machine,” he says. “It is a quite other thing to be a supernatural power.” The devil says pouf and poor Enoch gets his wish. Transported to 1997, he materializes in the Reading Room of the British Museum and heads straight for the S volumes of the card catalogue. (How better to gauge one’s literary reputation?) There he learns his fate: “Enoch Soames,” he reads, was an imaginary character in a 1916 story by a mordant writer and caricaturist named Max Beerbohm.

  —

  IN THE TWENTIES the future seemed to be arriving daily. News had never traveled so fast, and there had never been so much of it, with the advent of wireless transmission, and by 1927 Wells himself had already had enough. The technology of communications had reached maturity, he felt, with wireless telegraphy, the wireless telephone, “and all the broadcasting business.” Radio had begun as a glorious dream—the finest fruits of the culture, the wisest thoughts and best music, transmitted into homes across the land. “Chaliapin and Melba would sing to us, President Coolidge and Mr. Baldwin would talk to us simply, earnestly, directly; the most august in the world would wish us good evening and pass a friendly word; should a fire or shipwreck happen, we were to get the roar of the flames and the cries for help.” A. A. Milne would tell stories to children and Albert Einstein would bring science to the masses. “All sporting results before we went to bed would be included, the weather forecast, advice about our gardens, the treatment of influenza, and the exact time.”

  Yet for Wells the dream had turned sour. Asked by the New York Times to assess the state of radio for its readers, he ranted bitterly, disillusioned as a child finding lumps of coal in the Christmas stocking. “Instead of first-rate came tenth-rate music, played by the Little Winkle-Beach Pier Band,” he wrote. Instead of the wisest voices, “Uncle Bray and Aunt Twaddle.” Even the static irritated him. “Across it all dear old Mother Nature cast her net of ‘atmospherics’ with a humor all her own.” He did enjoy hearing a bit of dance music after a long day—“but dance music
only goes on for a small part of the evening, and at any moment it may give way to Doctor Flatulent being thoughtful and kindly in a non-sectarian way.”

  His assessment was so harsh that the Times editors were clearly taken aback. They emphasized that Wells could speak of radio broadcasting only “as He Encounters It Abroad.” Wells was not only disappointed in the present state of radio. His crystal ball showed him that the whole enterprise was doomed to fade away. “The future of broadcasting is like the future of crossword puzzles and Oxford trousers, a very trivial future indeed.” Why would anyone listen to music by radio when they could have gramophone records? Radio news vanishes like smoke: “Broadcasting shouts out its information once and cannot be recalled.” For serious thought, he said, nothing can replace books.

  His Majesty’s Government had created a “salaried official body to preside over broadcasting programs,” Wells noted—the new British Broadcasting Company. “In the end that admirable committee may find itself arranging schemes of entertainment for a phantom army of expiring listeners.” If any audience remained at all, it would comprise “the blind, lonely and suffering people”—or “probably very sedentary persons living in badly lighted houses or otherwise unable to read, who have never realized the possibilities of the gramophone and the pianola and who have no capacity for thought or conversation.” The BBC’s first experimental television broadcasts were just five years away.

  Others could play the futurism game, though. David Sarnoff of RCA retorted by calling Wells a snob; the inventor Lee de Forest told him he needed a better radio—and perhaps the most unusual rebuttal came from the publisher of Radio News and manager of station WRNY, an émigré from Luxembourg named Hugo Gernsback. After arriving in New York at the age of nineteen, Gernsback had started the Electro Importing Company, a mail-order business selling radio parts to eager hobbyists in 1905, with tantalizing advertisements in Scientific American and elsewhere. Within three years he was printing his own magazine, Modern Electrics. By the twenties he was well known to legions of radio amateurs. “I refuse to believe in such a drab and dreary demise of radio,” he wrote in a letter to the Times. “What surprises me most is that the prophetic Mr. Wells has not looked into the near future when every radio set will be equipped with its television attachment—a device, by the way, now being perfected by one of his own countrymen.” (This was not the only thing that surprised him most. “What surprises me most in Mr. Wells’s remarks,” he said in the same letter, “is that he evidently hankers to listen constantly to the great, when a simple mathematical calculation would show that this would not be possible. There are not enough great people in the world.”)