Author: Robert A. Heinlein
Translator: Buggy
Original link: 《By His Bootstraps》
Introduction: Robert Heinlein is one of the three giants of the Golden Age of Science Fiction, having produced a large number of excellent science fiction novels throughout his life, many of which have yet to be introduced. "By His Bootstraps" is one of them. This short novella, published in 1941, is one of Heinlein's early works and tells a story about time travel. In 1959, he published another novel with a similar theme but even more astonishing, "All You Zombies," which has been translated into Chinese, commonly titled "You Zombies." This novel was adapted into the 2014 film "Predestination." About two months ago, I came across the English version of "By His Bootstraps" and lamented the lack of a Chinese version for this interesting story, so I took it upon myself to translate it. If you encounter any unclear semantics while reading, it is likely due to my limitations, and if you feel confused logically, it is more likely due to Heinlein's careful design. If you are interested in some translation details, please visit 《By His Bootstraps Translation Notes》. The novel is approximately 35,000 words long and takes about an hour to read.
Bob Wilson did not see the circle grow larger.
Nor did he see the stranger who stepped out of the circle. The man was staring intently at the back of Wilson's neck, panting as if he were experiencing an extraordinary surge of emotion.
Wilson had no reason to suspect that there was anyone else in his room; on the contrary, he had every reason to believe he was the only person in the room. He had locked himself in to finish his thesis in one go. He had to do it—tomorrow was the last day for submission, and just yesterday, the paper had only a title: "The Rigorousness of Metaphysics from a Specific Mathematical Perspective."
Fifty-two cigarettes, four pots of coffee, and thirteen hours of continuous work had added seven thousand words under that title. As for the feasibility of the paper, he was too dizzy and exhausted to care. Completing it was his only thought: finish it, submit it, then drink three stiff drinks and sleep for a week.
He lifted his head, his gaze resting on the door of his wardrobe, behind which was a bottle of gin he had hidden before, still mostly full. No, he admonished himself, just one sip and you won't be able to stop, Bob, stay steady.
The stranger behind him remained silent.
Wilson continued typing: "…the conceivable proposition must necessarily be a possible proposition, and such an assumption is also invalid, even if a precise mathematical representation of that proposition could potentially be constructed. 'Time travel' is a typical example. Time travel is conceivable, and its necessity could potentially be mathematically supported based on any and all theories related to time—formulas that resolve the paradoxes of each theory. Nevertheless, we know some facts about the practical evidence regarding the nature of time, which exclude the possibility of this conceivable proposition. Duration is a property of consciousness, not a property of material space. It does not possess Ding an sich."
One of the keys on the typewriter jammed, and three other keys stuck on top of it. Wilson muttered a curse, leaning forward to adjust the troublesome machine. "Don't bother," he heard a voice say, "it's all nonsense anyway."
Wilson jumped, sitting up straight and slowly turning his head. He eagerly hoped someone was behind him; otherwise...
He saw the stranger and sighed with relief. "Thank goodness," he said to himself, "I thought I was going crazy." His relief turned into extreme annoyance. "What the hell are you doing in my room?" he demanded. He pushed his chair back, stood up, and strode toward the only door. The door was still locked and bolted from the inside.
It couldn't have come in through the window; they were right next to his desk and located on the third floor beside a busy street. "How did you get in?" he added.
"Through that," the stranger said, pointing his thumb at the circle. Wilson had seen it from the beginning, then blinked and looked again. It hung between them and the wall, like a huge void disk, colored like what one sees when closing their eyes.
Wilson shook his head vigorously. The circle still existed. "Good grief," he thought, "I was right from the start. When did I go insane?" He approached the disk, reaching out a hand to touch it.
"Don't!" the stranger said sharply.
"Why can't I touch it?" Wilson said anxiously, but he stopped.
"I'll explain. But first, let's have a drink." He walked straight to the wardrobe, opened it, reached in, and pulled out the bottle of gin without looking.
"Hey!" Wilson shouted, "What are you doing? That's my gin."
"Your gin..." the stranger paused, "sorry. You won't mind if I have a drink, will you?"
"I guess not." Bob Wilson relented, but his tone was rude, "Pour me a drink while you're at it."
"Okay," the stranger agreed, "and then I'll explain."
"It better be a good reason," Wilson said harshly. But he drank his gin and stared at the stranger.
He saw a man about his size, roughly the same age—maybe a bit older, but that impression might stem from the three days of unshaven stubble. This stranger had black eyes and a badly swollen upper lip that had recently been split. Wilson felt he didn't like this guy's face. That said, he felt somewhat familiar with it; he thought he should recognize it—he must have seen this face many times in different contexts before.
"Who are you?" he suddenly asked.
"Me?" his guest said, "You don't recognize me?"
"I'm not sure," Wilson admitted, "Have I seen you before?"
"Well... you can't say you've seen me." The other man replied, "Forget it... you wouldn't understand."
"What's your name?"
"My name? Uh... just call me Joe."
Wilson put down his glass. "Alright, whatever your name is, Joe, hurry up and give me that explanation and get to the point."
"I will," Joe agreed, "That thing I came through..." he pointed at the circle, "that's a time door."
"What?"
"A time door. Time flows on either side of this door, but it's separated by thousands of years—I just don't know how many thousands. But for the next few hours, this door will remain open. You just have to step through this circle, and you can walk into the future." The stranger paused.
Bob tapped the table. "Go on. I'm listening. This story is good."
"You don't believe me, do you? Then I'll show you." Joe stood up, walked back to the wardrobe, and pulled out Bob's hat, the one he cherished and was his only hat. During his six years of undergraduate and graduate studies, he had abused this hat to the point of its current ragged state. Joe threw it toward the indescribable disk.
It hit the surface of the disk and penetrated through without any apparent obstruction, disappearing from view.
Wilson stood up, carefully walked around the circle to the back, and checked the bare floor. "Good trick," he admitted, "Now give me back my hat, thanks."
The stranger shook his head. "You can walk through and get it yourself."
"What?"
"That's how it is. Listen..." The stranger explained the time door again. He insisted that Wilson was facing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—all he had to do was hurry through the circle. Moreover, although Joe couldn't explain in detail at the moment, it was crucial for Wilson to go through.
Bob Wilson let himself have a second drink, then a third. He began to feel good, eager to argue. "Why?" he said flatly.
Joe looked angry. "Damn it, you just have to step through it, and you don't need me to explain. But..." According to Joe, there was an old man on the other side who needed Wilson's help. With Wilson's assistance, the three of them would be able to control the country. Joe, however, couldn't or wouldn't specify what help was needed. Instead, he launched into a possible extraordinary adventure. "You don't want to waste your life teaching a bunch of idiots at some remote university," he urged, "Your chance has come. Grab it!"
Bob Wilson admitted to himself that a PhD and a teaching job were not his life philosophy. Still, it was better than working a job. His eyes fell on the gin bottle, which was now much emptier. That explained it. He stood up unsteadily.
"No, my dear friend," he said, "I'm not going to climb onto your merry-go-round. Do you know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm drunk, that's why. You don't exist. That thing isn't there." He waved vaguely at the circle. "There's no one else here, just me, and I'm drunk. Overworked." He added apologetically, "I'm going to sleep."
"You're not drunk."
"I am drunk. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers." He staggered toward his bed.
Joe grabbed his arm. "You can't sleep," he said.
"Let him go!"
They both turned. In front of them, standing right in front of the circle, was another man. Bob looked at the newcomer, then back at Joe, blinking as he tried to focus. These two looked very much alike, he thought, too much alike, almost like brothers. Or maybe he was seeing double. Gin wasn't a good thing. He should have switched to rum long ago. Rum was a good thing. Good for drinking and bathing. No wait, bathing was for gin—he meant Joe.
Confused! Joe was the guy with the black eyes. He wondered why he had been confused earlier.
Who was the other guy? Can't a few friends have a quiet drink without being disturbed?
"Who are you?" he asked quite solemnly.
The newcomer turned his head and looked at Joe. "He knows me," he said meaningfully.
Joe slowly scrutinized him. "Yes," he said, "Yes, I think I know. But what do you want here? And why are you ruining this plan?"
"No time for detailed explanations. I know more than you do—you'll admit that—so my judgment is certainly better than yours. He can't go through that door."
"I don't acknowledge that..."
The phone rang.
"Answer the phone!" the newcomer said sharply.
Bob had wanted to protest such a harsh tone, but ultimately decided against it. He lacked the indifference required to ignore the phone ringing. "Hello?"
"Hi," he received a response. "Are you Bob Wilson?"
"That's me. Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter. I just wanted to make sure you're there. I thought you would be. You're in the best position, kid, right in the best position."
Wilson heard a light laugh, followed by the click of a disconnection. "Hello," he said, "Hello!" He shook the receiver a few times and then hung up.
"What's going on?" Joe asked.
"Nothing. Some idiot with a misplaced sense of humor." The phone rang again. Wilson added, "He's back." Then he picked up the receiver. "Listen, you short-circuited monkey! I'm busy; this isn't a public phone."
"Why, Bob!" came a wounded female voice.
"Ah? Oh, it's you, Genevieve. Listen—I'm sorry. I apologize..."
"Well, I guess you will apologize!"
"You don't know, sweetheart. Some guy has been calling me, and I thought it was him again. You know I wouldn't talk to you like that, babe."
"Well, I shouldn't think that. Especially after what you said to me this afternoon, and what we were both planning."
"Ah? This afternoon? You mean this afternoon?"
"Of course. But I'm calling you to say this: you left your hat at my apartment. I saw it a few minutes after you left, and I just thought I should call you to tell you where it is. Anyway," she added shyly, "it gave me an excuse to hear your voice again."
"Oh, good," he replied mechanically, "Listen, babe, this has me all confused. I've had trouble all day, and now there's more trouble. I'll come see you tonight and sort it out. But I know I didn't leave your hat at my apartment..."
"It's your hat, you silly goose!"
"Ah? Oh, right! Never mind, I'll see you tonight. Bye." He quickly hung up the phone. Goodness, he thought, that woman is getting more troublesome. Paranoid. He turned to his two companions.
"Alright, Joe. I'm ready to go through, if you're ready too." He couldn't be sure when or why he decided to go through that time device, but he had made up his mind. After all, who did the other guy think he was, trying to interfere with a person's freedom of choice?
"Great!" Joe said, relieved. "Just step through. It's that simple."
"No, you can't!" It was the stranger, who seemed to be everywhere. He stepped between Wilson and the door.
Bob Wilson faced him. "Listen, you! You barged in here as if I were a bum. If you don't like it, jump in the lake yourself—I'm the kind who can do it! Who else can?"
The stranger reached out his hand, trying to grab him. Wilson threw a punch, but it didn't land well, no faster than a postal package delivery. The stranger ducked under the punch and then landed a solid blow on Wilson—a powerful punch. Joe quickly moved in to help Bob. They exchanged punches in a chaotic brawl, and Bob joined in with enthusiasm, but it was ineffective. The only punch he landed hit Joe, who was theoretically his ally. But he had meant to hit the other man.
It was this rude act that gave the stranger the opportunity to land a clean left hook on Wilson's face. The punch landed a few inches above his nose, but because Bob was too confused, it was enough to make him stop participating in the fight.
Bob Wilson felt everything around him slowly come into focus. He sat on what seemed to be an unstable floor. Someone bent down toward him. "Are you alright?" the person asked.
"I think so," he mumbled. His mouth hurt, and he put his hand to it, getting blood on his hand. "My head hurts."
"I think it should hurt. You came through head first. I think you hit your head when you landed."
Wilson's thoughts were returning to that incomprehensible point. Came through? He looked more closely at his rescuer. He saw a middle-aged man with thick gray hair and a neatly trimmed short beard. As for the clothes he wore, Wilson thought they were purple leisure pajamas.
But what puzzled him even more was the room he found himself in now. It was circular, with a beautifully arched ceiling that made it hard to tell how high it was. The room was filled with stable, non-dazzling light, but there was no visible light source. There was no furniture except for something that looked like a podium or control panel next to the wall facing him. "Came through? Through what?"
"Of course, that door." The man's accent was a bit strange. Wilson wasn't sure what kind of accent it was; he just felt that English was not the language he was used to speaking.
Wilson turned to look in the direction the other man was looking and then saw the circle.
That made his head hurt even more. "Oh, dear." He thought, "Now I'm really crazy. Why can't I wake up?" He shook his head, hoping to clear his mind.
That was a mistake. His mind had not escaped madness—far from it. The circle was still in its original position—a simple trajectory floating in the air, deep and shallow, filled with colors and shapes that were visually difficult to capture. "Did I just come through that?"
"Yes."
"Where am I?"
"In the Hall of the Supreme Palace of Nokal. But the more important question is when you are. You stepped forward a little over thirty thousand years."
"Now I know I'm crazy," Wilson thought. He stood up unsteadily and walked toward the door.
The old man placed a hand on his shoulder. "Where are you going?"
"Back!"
"Don't rush. You'll get back just fine—I promise you. But first, let me help you bandage your wound. And you should rest a bit. I need to explain some things to you, and you can help me with something when you get back—it's mutually beneficial. You and I have a bright future, kid—a bright future!"
A bright future!