The John Varley Reader (84 page)

They invaded fifteen years ago . . . but they also invaded in 1854, and in 1520, and several other times in the “past.” The past seems to be merely another direction to them, like up or down. You'll be shown books, old books, with woodcuts and drawings and contemporary accounts of how the Martians arrived, what they did, when they left . . . and don't be concerned that you don't remember these momentous events from your high school history class,
because no one else does, either
.

Do you begin to understand? It seems that, from the moment they arrived here, in the late part of the twentieth century, they changed the past so that they had already arrived several times before. We have the history books to prove that they did. The fact that no one remembers these stories
being
in the history books before they arrived
this
time must be seen as an object lesson. One assumes they could have changed our memories of events as easily as the events themselves. That they did not do so means they
meant
us to be impressed. Had they changed both the events
and
our memories of them, no one would be the wiser; we would all assume history had
always
been that way, because that's the way we remembered it.

The whole idea of history books must be a tremendous joke to them, since they don't experience time consecutively.

Had enough? There's more.

They can do more than add things to our history. They can take things away. Things like the World Trade Center. That's right, go look for it. It's not out there, and we didn't tear it down. It never existed in this world, except in our memories. It's like a big, shared illusion.

Other things have turned up missing as well. Things like Knoxville, Tennessee, Lake Huron, the Presidency of William McKinley, the Presbyterian Church, the rhinoceros (including the fossil record of its ancestors), Jack the Ripper (and all the literary works written about him), the letter Q, and Ecuador.

Presbyterians still remember their faith and have built new churches to replace the ones that were never built. Who needed the goddam rhino, anyway? Another man served Mckinley's term (and was also assassinated). Seeing book after book where “kw” replaces “q” is only amusing—and very kweer. But the people of Knoxville—and a dozen other towns around the world—
never existed.
They are still trying to sort out the real estate around where Lake Huron used to be. And you can search the world's atlases in vain for any sight of Ecuador.

The best wisdom is that the Martians could do even more, if they wanted to. Such as wiping out the element oxygen, the charge on the electron, or, of course, the planet Earth.

They invaded, and they won quite easily.

And their weapon is very much like an editor's blue pencil. Rather than
destroy
our world, they
rewrite
it.

 
 
So what does all this have to do with me? I hear you cry.

Why couldn't I have lived out my one day on Earth without worrying about this?

Well . . . who do you think is paying for this fabulous apartment?

The grateful taxpayers, that's who. You didn't think you'd get original Picassos on the walls if you were nothing more than a brain-damaged geek, did you?

And why are the taxpayers grateful?

Because anything that keeps the Martians happy, keeps the taxpayers happy. The Martians scare hell out of
everyone
. . . and you are their fair-haired boy.

Why?

Because you don't experience time like the rest of humanity does.

You start fresh every day. You haven't had fifteen years to think about the Martians, you haven't developed any prejudice toward them or their way of thinking.

Maybe.

Most of that could be bullshit. We don't know if prejudice has anything to do with it . . . but you
do
see time differently. The fact is, the best mathematicians and physicists in the world have tried to deal with the Martians, and the Martians aren't interested. Every day they come to talk to
you
.

Most days, nothing is accomplished. They spend an hour, then go wherever it is they go, in whatever manner they do it. One day out of hundred, you get an insight. Everything I've told you so far is the result of those insights being compiled—

—along with the work of others. There are a few hundred of you, around the world. No other man or woman has your peculiar affliction; all are what most people would call mentally limited. There are the progressive amnesiacs I mentioned earlier. There are people with split-brain disorders, people with almost unbelievable perceptual aberrations, such as the woman who has lost the concept of “right.” Left is the only direction that exists in her brain.

The Martians spend time with these people, people like you.

So we tentatively conclude this about the Martians:

They want to teach us something.

It is painfully obvious they could have destroyed us anytime they wished to do so. They
have
enslaved us, in the sense that we are pathetically eager to do anything we even
suspect
they might want us to do. But they don't seem to want to
do
anything with us. They've made no move to breed us for meat animals, conscript us into slave labor camps, or rape our women. They have simply arrived, demonstrated their powers, and started talking to people like you.

No one knows if we can learn what they are trying to teach us. But it behooves us to try, wouldn't you think?

 
Again, you say: Why me?

Or even more to the point: Why should I care?

I know your bitterness, and I understand it. Why should you spend even an hour of your precious time on problems you don't really care about, when it would be much easier and more satisfying spending your sixteen hours of awareness gnawing on yourself, wallowing in self-pity, and in general being a one-man soap opera.

There are two reasons.

One: You were never that kind of person. You've just about exhausted your store of self-pity during the process of reading this letter. If you have only one day—though it hurts like hell . . . so be it! You will spend that day doing something useful.

Reason number two . . .

You've been looking at the third picture off and on since you first picked it up, haven't you? (Come on, you can't lie to me.)

She's very pretty, isn't she?

And that thought is unworthy of you, since you
know
where this letter is coming from. She would not be offered to you as a bribe. The project managers know you well enough to avoid offering you a piece of ass to get your cooperation.

Her name is Marian.

Let us speak of love for a moment.

You were in love once before. You remember how it was, if you'll allow yourself. You remember the pain . . . but that came later, didn't it? When she rejected you. Do you remember what it felt like
the day you fell in love
? Think back, you can get it.

The simple fact is, it's why the world spins. Just the
possibility
of love has kept you going in the three years since Karen left you.

Well, let me tell you. Marian is in love with you, and before the day is over, you will be in love with her. You can believe that or not, as you choose, but I, at the end of my life here this day, can take as one of my few consolations that I/you will have, tomorrow/today, the exquisite pleasure of falling in love with Marian.

I envy you, you skeptical bastard.

And since it's just you and me, I'll add this. Even with a girl you
don't
love, “the first time” is always pretty damn interesting, isn't it?

For you, it's
always
the first time . . . except when it's the second time, just before sleep . . . which Marian seems to be suggesting this very moment.

 
As usual, I have anticipated all your objections.

You think it might be tough for her? You think she's suffering?

Okay. Admitted, the first few hours are what you might call repetitive for her. You gotta figure she's bored, by now, at your invariant behavior when you first wake up. But it is a cross she bears willingly for the pleasure of your company during the rest of the day.

She is a healthy, energetic girl, one who is aware that no woman ever had such an attentive, energetic lover. She loves a man who is endlessly fascinated by her, body and soul, who sees her with new eyes each and every day.

She loves your perpetual enthusiasm, your renewable infatuation.

There isn't
time
to fall out of love.

Anything more I could say would be wasting your time, and believe me, when you see what today is going to be like, you'd hate me for it.

We could wish things were different. It is
not
fair that we have only one day. I, who am at the end of it, can feel the pain you only sense. I have my wonderful memories . . . which will soon be gone. And I have Marian, for a few more minutes.

But I swear to you, I feel like an old, old man who has lived a full life, who has no regrets for anything he ever did, who accomplished something in his life, who loved, and was loved in return.

Can many “normal” people die saying that?

In just a few seconds that one, last locked door will open, and your new life and future love will come through it. I guarantee it will be interesting.

I love you, and I now leave you . . .

Have a nice day.

INTRODUCTION TO
“In Fading Suns and Dying Moons”

The previous story and the one following have a common element that you will spot very quickly. The element is so
much
in common that I have to be thankful one can't be accused of plagiarizing oneself.

“Just Another Perfect Day” was written, more or less, during a drive from Seattle to Portland. I do a lot of my best writing while driving; if it was possible to drive and type at the same time my life would be greatly simplified. As it is, I try to make strings of ideas, linked together so that when I get home, I can type them out as rapidly as possible. Pull on the string and the next idea, or story point, or bit of dialogue comes tumbling out of the old idea box. (And if
that
worked more than about 20 percent of the time, my life would be simpler still.)

The inspiration was a book by Dr. Oliver Sacks:
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat.
In it, Sacks describes some of the more fascinating and horrible things that can happen to a human being when his or her brain is damaged. One of the most basic is amnesia, but not the type used so often in Hollywood screenplays, where the victim can't remember anything of his life, including his own name. Apparently, that sort of amnesia is fairly rare, except temporarily.

More common, and in some ways more terrifying, is amnesia that affects the short-term memory. You remember things up to a point, and from then on are unable to change new experiences into memories. Such a person can live in a perpetual state of astonishment, becoming aware of himself a hundred times a day, trying to figure out why it's not 1948 anymore, and where all the time went. In such a situation, the only mercy I can see is that he will soon forget how horrible his life has become. An excellent movie,
Memento,
was recently made about a man with this type of amnesia.

 
Now, fast forward some years. I got an email from Janis Ian. She said I probably didn't know who she was, and introduced herself as “a semi-famous singer/songwriter.”
Well, I probably would not have known who she was . . . if I'd been catatonic during the late 1960s. Her best-known hits were “Society's Child” (when she was fifteen!) and “At Seventeen,” but she has been writing and performing wonderful music ever since then.

Once again, this idea had to do with beings from a different dimension, and how we might interact with them. Once again, the fastest way to acquaint the reader with the concept of a fourth dimension was to use the book
Flatland,
since the author had already covered just about everything one needed to know about higher and lower dimensions.

No, I do
not
suffer from retrograde amnesia, like the man in the previous story. My only excuse is that I seldom go back and reread my stories after they've seen publication, unless they are being collected, as they are here. Let me tell you, when I read the references to
Flatland
in “Just Another Perfect Day,” I broke out in a cold sweat. It is every writer's nightmare. What if I'd unconsciously stolen from somebody
else
. . . ?

 
One more thing I didn't remember . . .