Unspecified Future Year

My people now go into the long sleep. We do that out of terror of Taa, for when he roams the land in wrath no thing that can feel, see or hear can survive.Only in these catacombs is it possible to bear his thunders and live. We call it the Sleep of Ten Thousand Years, though no one knows how long the time really is.

Past, present, future—all one. And we, moving along the dimension called time, intersect them. I can’t grasp it. But I can’t deny it. If only there were proof—

“They are not dead,” he averred; “within half an hour of your time they will be returned, unaware of what has taken place. They must wait for Time to catch up with them!”

The tracer fields are following all the world lines that intersected at the battle, back across the months and years. The analyzers will isolate the smallest—hence most easily altered—essential factor.

But Alveron and his kind had been lords of the Universe since the dawn of history, since that far distant age when the Time Barrier had been folded round the cosmos by the unknown powers that lay beyond the Beginning.

Looking backward later, Oliver thought that in that moment, for the first time clearly, he began to suspect the truth. But he had no time to ponder it, for after the brief instant of enmity the three people from—elsewhere—began to speak all at once, as if in a belated attempt to cover something they did not want noticed.

For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched The Defender grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sized battle globe.

It was sensitive enough to pick up the “fingerprints” of light and sound waves imprinted on matter, descramble and screen them, and reproduce the image of what had happened.

How did it happen? Can you remember nothing at all?

But the big puzzle: how had he—his earlier self—known that a piece of wire and a bus token would save his life? He had known, all right. Known in advance. But how? And the other five. Probably they were just as precious, or would be.

I want the name and address of every girl over twenty-one who fits this description.

Somewhere in the future, a postal error had been made and a package destined for a yet as unborn grandson had been lost in time and delivered to this house!

And then the terminator’s claws began to manufacture their own varieties and attack Soviets and Westerners alike. The only humans that survived were those at the UN base on Luna.

Research has to be along practical lines! The trustees demand it!

It’s just like this picture . . . of a time machine!

Every event that happens on this cockeyed world, from a picnic to a wedding to a company merger or a war, it’s all based on astrology.

Your work, this house, everything must be destroyed!

Oh . . . The Crucifixion. You want to witness it, of course—

“But wouldn’t our objective reality be affected?”

He nodded. “It could be,” he said, “since, in the absence of any real passage of time, it would be in temporal ratio to our involvement in our pasts, which might force it into a different time plane altogether.”

Three times I have come to give warnings—to help you, and I have been treated with scorn and ridicule!

“And watching the great Pythagorous at work.”
“And the three days that he spent on that little surveying problem. How one longed to hand him a slide-rule through the barrier and explain its working.”

Tel était le but des expériences : projeter dans le Temps des émissaires, appeler le passé et l’avenit au secours du présent.

translate

Such was the purpose of the experiments: to project emissaries into Time, to summon the Past and the Future to the aid of the Present.

But lots of things were crazier and some bigger, nd now they’re commonplace.

This bark is from a redwood that’s stood for five thousand years! But no matter what tests I subject it to, I’m unable to unearth its longevity factor!

Open up! I’ve had enough of this! Whatever crazy explanation there is, I want it now!

The vanguard arrived, decked out in refrigeration suits, installed ten Worldchange units in either hemisphere, began setting up coldsleep bunkers in several of the larger caverns.

Apart from its stupendous novelty value, the commercial success of slow glass was founded on the fact that having a scenedow was the exact emotional equivalent of owning land.

The danger was definitely not within the walls of Hold Ruath. Nor approaching the paved perimeter without the Hold where relentless grass had forced new growth through the ancient mortar, green witness to the deterioration of the once stone-clean Hold.

“Dragons can go between times as well as places. They go as easily to a when as to a where.”

Robinton’s eyes widened as he digested this astonishing news.

“That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours between times to meet the Threads as they fell.”

“Dragons can go between times as well as places. They go as easily to a when as to a where.”

Robinton’s eyes widened as he digested this astonishing news.

“That is how we forestalled the attack on Nerat yesterday morning. We jumped back two hours between times to meet the Threads as they fell.”

The commercial success of slow glass was founded on the fact that owning a scnedow was the exact emotional equivalent of owning land.

Ah, agony in a tearing that made him feel, for the first time, every particle of his body as it screamed in pain.

He put on a special space-suit, went out through the air-lock, and pulled the fin into shape.

Physicians listened to heartbeats that dragged on, lonely and deep, for over a minute per. They worried over eyes that refused to blink, yet remained somehow moist. They despaired over encephalograms whose spikes could be counted in single neuron flashes, adding up to a complex pattern that was . . . normal!

Then it was as if whatever was holding us had just stopped existing, no jolt, but like sliding on oil, like a horrible falling where there is no falling.

They were called slow birds because the flew through the air—at the stately pace of three feet per minute.

He knew very little about himself, but he knew that he was not one of them. That he knew. He knew that his name was Charles Phillips and that before he had come to live among these people he had lived in the year 1984, when there had been such things as computers and television sets and baseball and jet planes, and the world was full of cities, not merely five but thousands of them, New York and London and Johannesburg and Parks and Liverpool and Bangkok and San Francisco and Buenos Ares and a multitude of others, all at the same time.

“I said, have you got something going,” she repeated, still with the accent—the accent of my own time.

‘Honeymoon in time,’ indeed. Why? Is it that your woman is jealous of your time trips? Don’t be an idiot, Tasco. You know that ship’s not built for two.

Zero pollution, maximum ozone shield: Something tells me we’re not in New Los Angeles any more.

He had made three training jumps, two hundred years, then four hundred, then six hundred, and he thought he knew what to expect, that sickening sense of breathlessness, of dizziness, of having crashed into the side of a mountain at full tilt; but everyone had warned him that even the impact of a six-C jump was nothing at all compared with the zap of a really big one, and everyone had been right.

And she was continually amazed at how easily everyone else accepted their situation, the blunt, apparently undeniable reality of the time slips, across a hundred and fifty years in her case, perhaps a million years or more for the wretched pithecine and her infant in their net cage.

Sure. Researchers. Tourists. Criminals altering their present by manipulating the past. Religious pilgrims. Collectors. Who knows what motivates people in a million years from now?

“I’m going to the future and you can’t stop me,” said Peter.

A few documents, smuggled to the colonies on Earth’s Moon, suggested that stealth tech was based on interdimensional science—that the ships didn’t vanish off radar because of a “cloak” but because they traveled, briefly, into another world—a parallel universe that’s similar to our own.

I recognized the theory—it’s the one on which time travel is based, even though we’ve never discovered time travel, at least not in any useful way, and researchers all over the universe discourage experimentation in it. They prefer the other theory of time travel, the one that says time is not linear, that we only perceive it as linear, and to actually time travel would be to alter the human brain.

But what Squishy is telling me is that it’s possible to time travel, it’s possible to open small windows in other dimensions, and bend them to our will.

The exterior parts of the station move in a slower time frame. The interior part, nearest the stealth tech itself, is moving at an accelerated pace.

At any rate, ready your cameras and make sure your bows are rosined.

Will they get it right? Will SpongeBob and Patrick get to see their superheroes in their super-prime?

Ignoring this, I sit down at the table to pick up a cup and spit calding hot coffee into it. Then I proceed to vomit food onto my plate so I can sculpt it with a knife and fork into peas, carrots, and omelette.

That's a much nicer narrative device than having to find the right kind of black hole orbiting the right kind of star and then build a machine around both of them.

Guys, we’re gonna go check out this [spooky] tunnel.

He told me all the horrible things that would happen if I broke any Time Laws. Worlds would collapse. I would turn inside out. Important people would die and important things wouldn’t happen.

It nullifies Gödel’s theorem.

[. . .] all of the data-gathering instruments are kaput.

This isn’t Germany. And this can’t be 1924.

Some days it’s hard to believe that there’s not something wrong with the lettuce.

I’ve been chasing him for years and forever. Spinning through time and space without a sail.

Like all those stories where the world goes to hell because of some tiny stupid thing I might do back then.

“Twentieth century,” said Davos, and I whistled, long, and low, and falling. “Special assignment,” he said, and I whistled again. I’d never heard of anyone going that far back.

Time dilation is quite simple. As you approached hyperspeed, your time slowed relative to our own, so during your mission, you aged only minutes, while the rest of us have aged years. Simply put, the faster you fly—