Rick Shelley: State of the Union

Then, just over three years ago, a week before fall semester finals, two visitors came to my office at the university, and arrived just at the end of my scheduled office hour, when I was always available for any students who want to come in and talk.

These two were obviously not students, even though it isn’t unusual to find people in their thirties attending school. They were simply dressed too well. One wore a knee‑length leather coat. The other’s coat was genuine camel hair. The suits they wore underneath were likewise expensive and tailored, the sort a professor can’t hope to afford unless he pens a bestseller.

There was nothing particularly distinctive about either man except for their clothing. I detected no accents or anything like that. They were quiet. They were polite. They sounded well‑educated.

“Dr. Wilson,” the man wearing camel hair said, “we would like to talk with you for a few minutes if you have the time.”

I allowed that I had a little time available and asked both men to sit. With three of us and winter coats, the office was rather crowded. They took off the coats and sat.

Camel hair introduced himself as Frank Zarelli and his companion as Carl Pastor. Zarelli also introduced himself as an attorney. It wasn’t until somewhat later that I learned that Pastor was a CPA.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I think, perhaps, it’s more what we can do for each other,” Zarelli said. “You wrote a paper last year suggesting that it might be possible to build a working time machine.” I nodded.

“Since that time, you have been totally unable to get any research funds to actually build that machine.” I nodded again.

“I represent a group of... clients who might be willing to fund that experiment,” Zarelli said.

A nod simply wasn’t enough this time. I leaned forward. At the possibility of funds I came close to salivating—a Pavlovian response that any academic would recognize. “That would be welcome,” I said.

“Just how much money would you require?” the other man, Pastor, asked.

I made a vague gesture. “I couldn’t possibly give you a figure that would have any pretense of being accurate. Assuming a best‑case scenario, I think we would be talking a minimum of eight to ten million dollars to design, construct, and adequately test a small model—a proof‑of‑concept apparatus. Assuming that the model were successful, it might take three times as much to construct a full‑scale machine and conduct an adequate regime of testing.” I smiled. “Of course, once I can demonstrate that the machine works and is practical, additional funding would be relatively easy to obtain.”

Pastor nodded, very slightly. His eyes never left mine, and I realized that I hadn’t seen him blink once. “You said those figures were mini‑mums. What do you think the maxi‑mums might be?”

I couldn’t restrain a small laugh. “There’s no way to be certain. If we can keep the government out, perhaps no more than double the mini‑mums. But—no guarantees.”

“I think we can guarantee that the government would not become involved,” Zarelli said. He and Pastor exchanged looks. Then they both looked at me again.

“I believe that it might be possible,” Zarelli said. “At least through your proof‑of‑concept model. If that is successful, the funding would be extended through to completion. You understand, there would be certain... conditions.”

“ If those conditions are acceptable,” I said. “I’ll have to know what they are in advance.”

“My clients will provide you with trained research assistants. You will provide us with lists, blueprints, or schematics of whatever you need in the way of equipment and supplies, and we will obtain them for you. We will provide a place for you to do your work, and take care of anything else you need. A representative of our principals will be on hand to act as your liaison throughout the project.”

“Those conditions don’t sound too onerous,” I said. True, I would have preferred to choose my own assistants and so forth, but I know all about gift horses and their notorious mouths.

“Those are not the conditions,” Zarelli said. “The conditions are, one, that my clients will determine how and when the full‑scale machine will be used for a period not to exceed six months from the date it becomes operational; and, two, that until the completion of that time there will be no publicity at all concerning what you are doing. It is to be as secret as the work that was done here on nuclear fission during World War Two.”

“Absolute secrecy,” Pastor said. “Even after this six‑month period, you are never to reveal the exact source of the funds or make any statement whatsoever concerning the operations that our clients undertake during that six‑month period.”

“Those are onerous conditions,” I said. “Particularly the first. A working time machine under the control of... unknown individuals? Whether the time is six months or six minutes, that is still asking a lot.”

“There is no alternative,” Zarelli said, so flatly that I knew that I could not negotiate my way out of it. I could make a time machine (if I could make a time machine) that someone else would operate out of my control for six months, or I would have no chance to make the machine, no opportunity to see if my theoretical work had any practical validity.

“I’m going to need time to consider this,” I said after a lengthy silence. “It goes against every ethical fiber I have to agree to such conditions. And, in this case, the results could be more cataclysmic than a million nuclear bombs going off.”

“I can offer you one assurance,” Zarelli said. “My clients have no interest in altering the past. I assume that that is your primary concern, that they would do something in the past that would have repercussions that would change the present in some catastrophic way. My clients have absolutely no interest in doing anything like that.”

“But I would have no way to, ah, make certain of that,” I said. “Unless I had the authority to at least... veto uses that I considered dangerous, those assurances are, if you will excuse the bluntness, empty.”

“We will convey your... apprehensions,” Zarelli said. “In the meantime, please give our offer serious consideration. We will be in touch with you in a day or two.”

As it turned out, it was four days later, the following Monday, before they returned to my office.

“We have discussed this matter with our clients,” Zarelli said. “They are reluctant to offer any easing of the conditions I outlined on our previous visit. I told them that unless we could offer you something more, you would likely not agree to the arrangement. After several days of consultations among themselves, my clients have agreed to the following modification. You may be present during any use of the apparatus. If you feel that a particular action that my clients want to take would adversely affect the present by changing what happened in the past, they will stop—time permitting—to at least discuss the situation, give you time to express your concerns. They promise to give those concerns full consideration. But, in the final analysis, the decision on whether or not to proceed must remain with them.”

That was not good enough. However, I had been doing a lot of thinking. I had found a way that might allow me to agree without giving up total control—a matter of what they didn’t know wasn’t likely to hurt me. Since they were willing to have me present when the machine was being used, my “out” looked secure. But I wasn’t going to agree too quickly. I didn’t even know then that I would actually succeed in building a working machine, so I couldn’t be absolutely certain that I would be able to add my gimmick to it.