The Man Who Folded Himself (2 page)

Robert A. Heinlein's juveniles were obviously an influence on David; his tribbles are clearly a loving homage to the Martian flatcats from
The Rolling Stones
. So it's no surprise that he has written some superior juveniles of his own, most recently the trilogy
Jumping off the Planet
(2000),
Bouncing off the Moon
(2001), and
Leaping to the Stars
(2002).

David finally got his long-overdue Hugo and Nebula Awards, for his autobiogra phical 1994 novelette “The Martian Child” (a novel version was published in 2002). And I do mean long overdue: he started garnering Hugo and Nebula nominations with his very first works, but the actual prizes eluded him for decades. Indeed,
The Man Who Folded Himself
was nominated for both the Hugo (SF's People's Choice award) and the Nebula (the field's Academy Award for Best Novel of 1973)—but it lost both awards to Arthur C. Clarke's
Rendezvous with Rama
.

Now,
Rama
is a fine book, and it may have deserved the Hugo—but David should have got the Nebula. See, the Hugo is for the fan favorite of the year, and
Rama
, Clarke's first novel since
2001: A Space Odyssey
, certainly was that. But the Nebula is a peer award, given by writers to writers; it's us tipping our hats to one of our own, acknowledging a work that pushed the envelope, that improved the field, that represented the best damned thing any of us had done in the past year.

Rendezvous with Rama
was a lot of fun, but it was hardly groundbreaking (indeed, in its steadfast refusal to have any sort of characterization, it was a throwback to the hard SF of a quartercentury earlier). But
The Man Who Folded Himself
did change things. Not only was it the first truly original time-travel novel since H. G. Wells invented the subgenre back in 1895, but it's also quite innovative in structure (go back when you've finished reading it and count the number of characters that appear in the book).

Moreover,
The Man Who Folded Himself
is rigorous in its extrapolation and absolutely unflinching in its characterization—the book is brutally frank about sex and narcissism, and deeply explores questions of sexual orientation. As it happens, David himself is gay, but his heterosexual love scenes—here, and in
When HARLIE Was One
and the Chtorr book
A Season for Slaughter
—are among the best in the genre. Just goes to show you what a good writer he is.

Re-reading this book, knowing all the things I know about David now that I didn't when I first encountered it—that he's a tireless fundraiser for the AIDS Project Los Angeles; that for all his counterculture Californian youth, he's a fiercely proud American; that
he's a single dad to a wonderful (and now grown) adopted son—I see the pain and honesty and truth that he wrung out of his very soul and put into
The Man Who Folded Himself
.

You'll see it, too. All you have to do is turn the page.

I hadn't seen Uncle Jim in months.

He looked terrible. Shrunken. His skin hung in wrinkled folds, his complexion was gray, and he was thin and stooped. He seemed to have aged ten years. Twenty. The last time I'd seen him, we were almost the same height. Now I realized I was taller.

“Uncle Jim!” I said. “Are you all right?”

He shook off my arm. “I'm fine, Danny. Just a little tired, that's all.” He came into my apartment. His gait was no longer a stride, now just a shuffle. He lowered himself to the couch with a sigh.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I don't have that much time. We have some important business to take care of. How old are you, boy?” He peered at me carefully.

“Huh—? I'm twenty-one. You know that.”

“Ah.” He seemed to find that satisfactory. “Good. I was afraid I was too early, you looked so young—” He stopped himself. “How are you doing in school?”

“Fine.” I said it noncommittally. The university was a bore, but Uncle Jim was paying me to attend. An apartment, a car, and a thousand a week for keeping my nose clean.

“You don't like it though, do you?”

I said, “No, I don't.” Why try to tell him I did? He'd know it for the lie it was.

“You want to drop out?”

I shrugged. “I could live without it.”

“Yes, you could,” he agreed. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself instead. “I won't give you the lecture on the value of an education. You'll find it out for yourself in time. And besides, there are other ways to learn.” He coughed; his whole chest rattled. He was so thin. “Do you know how much you're worth right now?”

“No. How much?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully; the wrinkled skin folded and unfolded. “One hundred and forty-three million dollars.”

I whistled. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not kidding.”

“That's a lot of money.”

“It's been properly handled.”

One hundred and forty-three million dollars—!

“Where is it now?” I asked. Stupid question.

“In stocks, bonds, properties. Things like that.”

“I can't touch it then, can I?

He looked at me and smiled. “I keep forgetting, Danny, How impatient you were—are.” He corrected himself, then looked across at me; his gaze wavered slightly. “You don't need it right now, do you?

I thought about it. One hundred and forty-three million dollars. Even if they delivered it in fifties, the apartment wasn't that big. “No, I guess not.”

“Then we'll leave it where it is,” he said. “But it's your money. If you need it, you can have it.”

One hundred and forty-three million dollars. What would I do with it—what couldn't I do with it? I had known my parents had left me a little money, but—

One hundred and forty-three million—!

I was having trouble swallowing.

“I thought it was in trust until I was twenty-five,” I said.

“No,” he corrected. “It's for me to administer for you until you're ready for it. You can have it any time you want.”

“I'm not so sure I want it,” I said slowly. “No—I mean, of course, I want it! It's just that—” How to explain? I had visions of myself trapped in a big mansion surrounded by butlers and bodyguards
whose sole duty was to make sure that I dusted the stacks of bills every morning. One hundred and forty-three million dollars. Even in hundreds, it would fill several closets. “I'm doing okay—” I started to say, then stopped. I didn't know what to say.

Uncle Jim frowned. “Yes, I keep forgetting. There's been so much—Danny, I'm going to increase your allowance by an extra thousand dollars a week, but I want you to do something to earn it.”

“Sure,” I said, delighted in spite of myself. This was a sum of money I could understand. “What do I have to do?”

“Keep a diary.”

“A diary?”

“That's right.”

“You mean write things down in a black book every day? Dear diary, today I kissed a girl, that kind of stuff?”

“Not exactly. I want you to record the things that seem important to you. Type out a few pages every day, that's all. You can record specific incidents or just make general comments about anything worth recording. All I want is your guarantee that you'll add something to it every day—or let's say at least once a week. I know how you get careless sometimes.”

“And you want to read it—?” I started to ask.

“Oh, no, no, no—” he said hastily. “I just want to know that you're keeping it up. You won't have to show it to me. Or anyone. It's your diary. What you do with it or make of it is up to you.”

My mind was already working—an extra thousand dollars a week. “Can I dictate it and have someone type it up for me?”

He shook his head. “It has to be a personal diary, Danny. That's the whole purpose of it. If it has to pass through someone else's hands, you might be inhibited. I want you to be honest.” He straightened up where he sat, and for a moment he looked like the Uncle Jim I remembered, tall and strong. “Don't play any games, Danny. Be truthful in your diary. If you're not, you'll only cheat yourself. And put down everything—everything that seems important to you.”

“Everything,” I repeated dumbly.

He nodded. There was a lot of meaning in that word.

“All right,” I said. “But why?”

“‘Why?'” He looked at me. “You'll find out when you write it.” As usual, he was right.

I'm not fooled. Uncle Jim is trying to teach me something. This isn't the first time he's thrown me into the deep end of the pool.

Okay, this is it. At least this is today's answer:

There's a point beyond which money is redundant.

This is not something I discovered just this week.

I've suspected it for a long time.

A thousand dollars a week “spending money” (—like what else are you going to do with it?—) gives you a lot of freedom to do whatever you want. Within limits, of course—but those limits are wide enough to be not very restricting. Increase them to two thousand dollars a week and you don't feel them at all. The difference isn't that much. Not really.

Okay, so I bought some new clothes and compact discs and a couple of other fancy toys I'd had my eye on—but I'd already gotten used to having as much money as I'd needed (or wanted), so having that much more in my pocket didn't make that much more difference.

I just had to start wearing bigger pockets, that's all.

Well—

I like to travel too. Usually, about once or twice a month I'd fly up to San Francisco for the weekend, or something like that. Palm Springs, Santa Barbara, Newport, San Diego. Follow the sun, that's me.

Since Uncle Jim increased my allowance, I've been to Acapulco, New York, and the Grand Bahamas. And I'm thinking about Europe. But it's not all that fun to travel alone—and nobody I know can afford to come along with me.

So I'm staying home almost as much as before.

I could buy things if I wanted—but I've never cared much about owning things. They need to be dusted. Besides, I have what I need.

Hell, I have what I want—and that's a lot more than what I need. I have everything I want now.

Big deal.

I think it's a bore.