It is very possible that you have never been present at the collapsing of an artificially- created time-loop. There is a reason for this.
Number one, only the most dementedly mad (or someone with a very good reason) would create one. Number two, it is uniquely unpleasant. For if time, as those bright young things at Harvard seem to think, is a dimension, then when you pass through a time loop, you are essentially losing a dimension, very briefly. Imagine an origami man being turned into a flat illustration in the space of a nanosecond. Imagine how he feels about the situation. In other words, it's a bit… squashy. Like playing sardines, except instead of other people you have the elemental forces.
Now imagine you're doing it with a headache and a diazepam hangover.
… See?
And that's why he's the hero.
Not to mention some… disturbing memories.
He had the sense of something… big going on. And while he was sure the solo mission against hundreds of armed enemies to destroy the portable death machine was fairly gigantic, something was nagging at the back of his mind. That fact that the "something" existed in a now-defunct dimension, if anything, made it worse. It makes your mind feel… incomplete.
But there was something that had crawled in, deep, where the silly rational mind wouldn't try to mar it with insidious logic.
Avoid snipers.
Avoid psychics.
Something about an ocelot.
Avoid ocelots. (Good advice at any time, he thought.)
Something… about a man. An older man. With glasses, or the suggestion of glasses.
What did he want? Why was he…? Or rather, why was he?
Get the job done.
He lurched away, head still buzzing.
The noise was like an old door opening; it started low, and jagged, and suggested nasty things in the woodshed, and things that go "uuurgh-blargh" in the night. Gradually, it started to smooth out, widening in timbre and range, taking on more the aspect of a tranquilized frog, or perhaps a submarine with serious bronchitis. Finally, it reached a more human level, and could be traced back to the mouth of a small, slim man, lying curled protectively around a laptop and a bottle of whisky. The noise could be attributed to the whisky, and its after-effects. The fact that the bottle was only one-third empty, yet still have the aforementioned woodshed-frog-submarine-Uuuurgh-blargh effect could be attributed in part to his small, slim frame and in part to a life lived otherwise blamelessly, with few adventures in his youth, and a lot of Friday nights spent indoors. These Fridays indoors could be largely attributed to his laptop. So it's nice to know that life, like the man's current position, was more or less circular.
A few hours later, this man will wake; he will look at the contents of his laptop, wonder what exactly he was trying to achieve, and decide never to try anything so stupid and pointless again. With the squint of one whose contact lenses are still happily watching from the bedside table, he will delete the page upon page of equation and code and never think of them again.
A few seconds after that, he will remember why he started drinking.
It will strike him, all over again.
Let us draw the veil of charity over this scene.
The great wonder of the computer age is the inconsistency.
In a way, it is fitting- for the computer age evolved from the industrial age. The same age that saw the mass- production of goods saw the mass-production of mistakes. The machines of the industrial age which tirelessly reproduced a single mistake- giving us interesting things like shoes with the heels on the front or ET for the Atari- spawned the machines of the present, which reproduce virtual mistakes with the diligence and loyalty of a not-particularly-bright Labrador pup. But of course, with machines, you have so much more variety. You can make so many different kinds of mistake. That's progress. Because wherever you have a middleman, you have misinterpretation. And the computer is a perfect middleman. A finger slips on a key- and suddenly the world changes.
Imagine a rope unravelling.
Imagine a nest of snakes.
Monks who copied and recopied the Book of Kells by hand made mistakes. These mistakes were so rare that they are now pointed out as interesting oddities. They are, in fact, valuable. Computers, dumb and trusting to the point of uselessness, will let any mistake go by.
Hal did not make mistakes.
Not in normal circumstances.
Grief, as has been mentioned, can do funny things. It can inspire. It can blind.
One wrong stroke of a key, and everything changes.
There is no such thing as perfect code.
God help us all.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
(But of course, all you smart young temporal mechanics out there have spotted the deliberate mistake in the first paragraph. "Aha", you have said knowingly, shaking your collective heads and perhaps indulging in a wry communal smirk, "but there is only one reason he would feel like that. The loop isn't closed". To you, I say "congratulations". You get the Blue wig (unlimited O2 gauge whee!)
But enough of my blather. Now the alterna-world scenarios begin. All critiscism appreciated, and of course anybody with any non-canon ideas they'd like to see explored (that they don't mind me inexpertly poking about in), please leave a comment or send a message.
