The Accidental Time Machine | Joe Haldeman | Talks at Google

Thank you all so much for attending today's author event. I feel very privileged to introduce today's speaker, Joe Haldeman. He's been writing since 1970 and working with MIT since 1983, where he is currently teaching a workshop on writing science fiction. An Author of over 25 books, including short stories, essays and science fiction, he's won numerous awards, including the World Fantasy Award, the John W. Campbell Award, the James Tiptree Award, the Dittmar, and several were Hugo and Nebula awards. Joe is here today to discuss his latest book, the Accidental Time Machine, to which Publishers Weekly proclaims, skillful writing makes this unusually thoughtful and picturesque tale, showing producing prose that feel this effortless must be hard work. But Haldeman never breaks his sweat. Please welcome Joe Haldeman.

Thank you. I've never, never worked a place that had such luscious things to munch on while you're waiting. I owe a debt to Google for this book. In fact, for the past 10 books or so, I live in a house with perhaps 10,000 or between 10 and 12,000 reference books. I hardly ever look at them anymore. I could sell them, but they're, you know, keeps the place from blowing away. No, it's weird. When I started teaching at MIT back in 83, I shipped 21 boxes of books up here for references for my own writing, and now we're down to about three, all because of Google. So I guess I owe you thousands of dollars of ups. This one, a lot of it occurs in Cambridge, and some of it occurs in Cambridge in the 19th century. It's a time travel novel. It's about MIT, and part of it takes place when MIT was on the other side of the river. And that was interesting to, to research. I started actually researching this, oh, I don't know, back in the early 90s or the late 80s. And I, I was calling it the Time Machine then. Isn't that an interesting title? And my editor said she didn't want to print it, so I stopped working on it. And then I just came up with this new title, the Accidental Time Machine. And I didn't tell her this is something that you rejected eight years ago. I just told her I've got this great novel idea and she said, oh yeah, go ahead, run with it. So I just picked up on page 30, or whoever it was that I stopped writing before. This is about a guy named Matt Fuller. He's all dissertation in physics and he's a bum. He basically is living at mit, doing lab work, teaching, grading papers, whatever he can do to make a living. He doesn't want to leave mit, but he doesn't want to get a real job either. And he suspects that if he actually presented his dissertation on particle physics, that it wouldn't go, it won't fly anymore. He knows the math is weak and he doesn't want to redo it. He doesn't want to present it and have other people pick it apart. So he's still a lab assistant. He's been a lab assistant for a long time. Anyhow, he's putting together a photon graviton coordinator calibrator for his Prof. And you know, he's going, gets everything made. He's a very neat man. So this is a perfectly aligned black metal box on a piece of oak, and he's very proud of it. He pushes the button to put power through, and it disappears as just looking at it. And about a second later, it returns and his professor, in a kind of a. Kind of a slapstick scene. Whenever the professor turns around to look at it, it comes back and his professor thinks that he's been up too long. So been up for 33 hours on Benzedrine and all sorts of nice futuristic stuff like caffeine and truth serum. So finally the professor leaves and he starts measuring it. And he realizes that every time he pushes the button, it disappears for about 12 times longer. 11.813, something like that. And so he can only push it so many times before it's going to be like months and then years before it comes back. So he takes it home and starts doing some experiments on it. He finds out that if he attaches a Faraday cage to it, a container that's made of things that conduct electricity, then the things inside that box go with it into the future. So you've got what is essentially a totally useless time machine. You can't do anything with it except wait for it to come back. You can't look up stock quotations or anything because it's already the present by the time it comes back. But it is useful for a person who's searching about for a doctoral degree in physics because it does change space, time and relativity and, you know, all these things that everybody else is taking for granted. So he's trying to make a dramatic demonstration of it. And so he has to find a big metal box. Well, one person he knows has a metal car. This is up in the future when cars are made of plastic. But he's got a buddy who's a drug dealer, and he's got a 1956 Ford Thunderbird made of metal. And he asked him whether he could come over and use his car. You know, just get in and for just a few minutes, you know. You wouldn't mind, would you? And he said, sounds crazy to me. But you know, you're a nice guy. I'll do it. Let me see. 41. 41. So he shows up. His friend is named Dopey. Dopey Denny. Dopey Denny lived in a large three story Victorian in Back Bay. He swung open the door and gave Matt a big hug. 300 pounds of dope dealer, understandably stoned at nine in the evening. Dr. Einstein, I presume. He was wearing a black robe with glittering astrological symbols tied with a silver rope. Barefoot in January. Hi, Denny. He looked over the big man's shoulder. Louise home? No, no, she moved on. How you doing with. What's her name? Kara. She moved on too. Ain't it a bitch? Want a drink? He came here to do science, not socialize. But why? Not sure what you got? He looked back. Got it all. He took Matt by the elbow and dragged him toward the kitchen. Matt hauled along the duffel bag with all of his time machine stuff in it. The kitchen was all chrome and tile and looked like no one had ever cooked a meal in it. I'm doing Heineken with a whiskey chaser. Or is it whiskey with a Heineken chaser? You have one, I'll have the other. Matt took a seat at the kitchen table. A spare elegant Swedish thing. There was a bottle of 25 year old Glenmorangi on it and one crystal glass. Then he produced another glass and got two Heinekens from a huge metal refrigerator that seemed to have nothing in it but beer and wine. He should use that for his time machine. It would be cold, but he wouldn't die of thirst. Then he tried to twist the bottles open, then remembered that that wouldn't work with imported beer and crashed through a drawer until he found an opener. He put the beers down and poured Matt a generous amount of whiskey and himself a little more generous one. He sat down on the delicate chair with exaggerated caution. So you say you need the tea bird but just to sit in it? Basically, yeah. He took a sip of the whiskey and wanted the beer. Then it should disappear and then come back. He nodded slowly. Like those guys who made the Statue of Liberty disappear way back when. I don't know anything about that. This isn't magic. Well, hell, maybe it is magic. I don't know what the hell it is. Not going to Hurt the car? No way. It just goes like somewhere sideways in space. Hell, I'm going to be in it. I wouldn't do that if there was any danger, would I? Matt resisted the impulse to slug back the whole glass. That might communicate uncertainty. Then he took a vial out of his shirt pocket and tapped out a small pile of white powder. Then produced a little cocktail straw and sniffed it up. Then he shook all over like a big dog. Ah, I want some. No, no thanks. I haven't done it in years. Are you sure you can? Sure, sure. It's not cocaine. It's a DD Beta for alertness. He shook again, grinning. God damn. Cuts to the chase. This was just great. The sole witness to a scientific revolution, stoned on an untried drug. Fortunately, all he had to do was push a button. Which is all Matt had to do as well. He took another sip from each reagent. How long have you been taking it? Got it last night. Right up your alley, man. Work till dawn. Maybe later, after. It's not a beta. He laughed. You're a fucking wild man, Denny. Hey, it's a job. Somebody has to do it. Matt unzipped the duffel bag and brought out the camera. You know how to work this? Yeah, sure. Point and shoot. Right. But I want to make sure the time function's on the clock down in the right hand corner. He toggled the switch until clock came up and selected it. See? Denny took the camera. No sweat. He held it up and looked at Matt through the point and shoot viewfinder. Just push the big button, right? It'll be on a tripod set for video, already aimed. Just start it when I tell you to. And if I disappear, leave it running till I come back. Maybe in a taxi. He looked at the back of the camera. No picture, no use the viewfinder. That's to save power. Don't know how long it'll be till I come back. He heard his voice quaver. He really didn't know whether he'd be back. He pushed the glass away. Better not drink anymore. Change in the bathroom. He waved an arm back the way they'd come. Mi casa su casa. Matt picked up the duffel and went back down the hall. The bathroom was Italian tile with gold plated hardware and a shower curtain by Salvador Dali. Ornately framed nude paintings. Matt unzipped the duffel and laid out the gear, stripped and threw his clothes back into the bag. Wallet and keys and change in a plastic bag which he would carry into the uncertain future. The wetsuit was talcumed on the inside and slid on easily. How would he explain it to Denny? Just that he didn't know what to expect. Denny would probably not be able to understand, under the best of conditions, the tensor calculus he'd used as a shot in the dark guess for describing the thing's behavior. And these were not the best of conditions. He opened the Chinese carryout box and looked at Herman, who stared back accusingly. Herman is a little turtle that he got in a pet store when he tried first to send a living object into the future, and Herman didn't seem to be hurt by it. Of course he couldn't communicate too well, but anyhow, he couldn't leave Herman at home and couldn't leave him with his mother with no explanation. Herman probably had a better chance of surviving hurtling into the unknown in a 56 Thunderbird than risking Denny's pet sitting abilities. He put the jar of baby reptile chow in the suit's blouse pocket and picked up the time machine along with the case of bottled water and the bright yellow square of emergency raft, and walked back into the kitchen. Holy shit, denny said. I'm swearing off the stuff. He blinked twice, slowly. I could swear you were standing there in a scuba outfit. Just the wetsuit. I don't know what environment where I'm going into. Couldn't afford a spacesuit. You're going into fucking outer space? No, nothing like that. No. The last time I used this machine it moved, but less than a millimeter. He held up his thumb forefinger. So not outer space, guaranteed. No, not outer space. He hoped. Just the fucking ocean. You're gonna take my teaboard and drop it in the ocean? No. It probably won't move more than an inch, but just in case, you dump it in the ocean or the Charles or the harbor. Look, Danny, I can't swim. The probability is almost zero, but it scares me shitless. That mollified him a little. Yeah, me neither. He shrugged. If it was the Charles of the harbor, I guess we could haul it back up. Yeah, no problem. Unless I drowned. Then you wouldn't be able to tell you. Then I wouldn't be able to tell you where it was. He nodded rapidly and stood up with surprising speed. Let's do it. Matt and Herman followed him through the kitchen and out into the garage. There was a there. It was, a 270 horsepower dinosaur, gleaming under a dozen coats of Tahitian red lacquer. It's beautiful, matt said. New paint job. Be careful with it. He opened the door and snapped on the radio it started playing I'm Mr. Blue by the Belmonts. Matt unfolded the tripod and set up the camera so it would be pointed at him from the front seat. In the front seat he put the machine and the rest of his gear on the passenger side and hooked up the alligator clip to the car's frame. Hey, and don't get any Chinese food on the Chinese on the upholstery. It's not Chinese food. It's a turtle. Oh yeah, of course. Almost forgot. He reached into the pocket with the baby reptile chow and brought out a three by five card with Professor Marsh's name and phone number. Anything goes wrong, call this guy, my boss, Professor Marsh. Like in swamp. Right. He started to close the door but left it open. If he wound up in water, he wanted to be able to jump out. I'm ready if you are. Just point and shoot. When Denny pushed the button, so did Matt. He was suddenly blind, immersed in opalescent gray. He heard Herman nervously scratching around in his box. It was strange but not unexpected. He had time to wonder whether it would be a minute, 10 minutes, 40 days. And then all hell broke loose. Bright daylight dazzled him and a yellow cab crashed into his open door, tearing it off and spinning into the oncoming traffic, where it was broadsided by the slow crawling number one bus. He was in the middle of Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge, outside of the Plow and Stars Pub. Traffic was squirreling to a halt all around him, horns blaring. With a loud bang, the yellow raft decided to inflate itself. He grabbed Herman and scrunched out of the car, pursued by a wall of yellow plastic, his wetsuit rather incongruous under the present conditions. Morning rush hour with snow all around. A siren wailed and a large female police officer came bearing down on him with her ticket book flapping in the cold breeze. Officer, he said. I can explain. Or could he? She sniffed at his breath. Are you drunk? A male voice yelled. Hands in the air. Put your goddamn hands in the air. Matt did, and another policeman marched toward him, holding a really large pistol at eye level with both hands. But I haven't done anything, he said inanely. Just dropped an antique car in the middle of Mass Ave. During rush hour with no tires. Those were still in Denny's garage. The man's pistol was homing in on Matt's nose. Grind the plate, he said to the woman. The car is stolen. Owner murdered. What? Matt said. Denny, you have the right to remain silent, the woman said, her own gun pointed at Matt's heart. Anything you can say, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney or to have an attorney present during the questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. But I didn't kill anybody, including the yellow cab driver, who was very much alive, even though his nose was bleeding profusely. As he stomped toward the three of them, yelling incoherently, never losing her point of aim, the woman reached up and took the Chinese carry out box and expertly thumbed it open with one hand. She peered inside. A turtle. Well, matt said. It's a long story. Anyhow, that's the first of many problems he's going to have pushing that button, I should say. There is no science behind this. There's a lot of arm waving. And I read about time travel. I do have a degree in physics. I could spread it really thick and be fairly convincing. But the weird thing that happened with this one was I had come up with a time travel scheme that used gravitons because nobody's ever seen a graviton, so I can say what I want with them. And I used to an 11 dimensional space that. Well, basically I got to find the guy's name here. Yeah. 10 dimensional string universe. So nobody understands string theory. And so I'm okay with that too. But it turned out after I was about halfway through the book, there was an article, a New Scientist, that pointed me to a paper by Heinrich Paz and Sandip Pak Vasa of the University of Hawaii and Thomas Wyler at Vanderbilt. Closed time like curves and asymmetrically warped brain universes, which uses gravitons and string theory to explain a time travel scheme that's just like the one I use in the novel. You know, strange things happen. But this is about the strangest thing that's happened to me because really I wasn't using any math. I was just trying to choose things that nobody knew anything about except these guys out in Hawaii. It happened to me once before when I needed a scheme for traveling through space, a novel called the Forever War, and I made up wormhole tunneling before it was described by physicists. But I needed it for my plot. You know, I didn't know anything about black holes. In fact, they were called collapsars at that time. So that's what I called them in my book. And then what, seven years later, Kip Thorne described black hole tunneling for going from one place to another in real space and, ooh, that was strange. I've never met him. Are there any. If there are any questions, just interrupt me because I have read my eight pages. I don't want to read too much. Yeah. Did this book.

Did the idea start with time travel or did it more start with sort of the protagonist of the book and what he might be in the lab, maybe at mit? So where did the foundation for the.

Book it started with, actually, I was writing about one of my students who was a curious fellow who'd take on almost every course MIT had to offer. He was afraid they were going to graduate him. No, really, he'd been there for like 10 years, 12 years. And he had. He's lacking one course in like 13 different majors, so he's just casting around to find courses he could take without graduating. And he had a suspicious amount of money all the time. And one of the kids told me he was a dope dealer. I thought, well, that makes sense. He also had a big fistful of keys. He could open any door at mit. And we wandered around into various labs. Well, you know, couldn't we be in trouble here? It's 2:00 in the morning, nobody's going to come. So I just wanted to write a story with him in it. And I started the description of this machine and then realized what the implications were. The idea of a time machine that you couldn't make any profit from was kind of appealing and that nobody understood at all. That just happened by accident. I just started writing it. A lot of my books start that way because not knowing whether I'm going to do a short story or a novel, you just take somebody who's interesting and put them in an interesting situation and, you know, sometimes it works. That's the way I did the Forever War. I just started out with a line, Tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man. Which they delivered to me in basic training before we went to Vietnam. And we were. This was like two in the morning and we were up to our armpits in snow in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, training for jungle warfare. And so they put us in this freezing quonsetat and this shavedale comes out and says, tonight we're going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man. And we go, oh, yeah, right. And then can we sleep? But so I just. We were at a friend's house down in Florida and I just typed out that line and looked at it for a while and then wrote some more. And after about 10 pages, I knew it was a novel rather than a short story, and it's still in print after 36 years. So it was my most successful novel by far. The Forever War I. This one. We were surprised to find that this is the first printing. It's in the fourth printing now, and that's unusual for a science fiction book. It's only been out for a couple of months. And so you look on ebay, this first printing is worth about $10 more than a regular printing. And just hang on to it. You know, it'll be real, real collector's item before long. I wish we had some. No, we have a box of them at home and people ask us for first editions. Collectors want first editions. We say, sure. And now we don't have any first printings anymore, except our little box that I'm going to keep. I'm not an idiot. Any questions about book collecting or anything yet?

Oh, not about book collecting, but more about sort of how the creative influence or interacts with the business sense of writing. So you said you started your first book with that line, which is a great line. How much have you been influenced by sort of how commercial and marketable your books will be, if at all?

I have almost no instinct for that, and I don't think about them as marketing. I should. Maybe I really should. Because, you know, there's one thing that's really obvious. You read Publishers Weekly, which is the weekly summation of the publishing business, and they have reviews cut apart by genre science fiction and fantasy reviews nowadays. Well, when this was reviewed and it got a star, it was the best reviewed book in that week. But every other book that was reviewed was one of a series. You know, book 11 of Xanthar the Great, you know, and mine is a standalone. They have to stay that now in reviews. It used to be that all books were standalones. I mean, how's a book going to get up and walk away? Jesus. They're now, they're all parts of series because publishers know that people buy the first one and then about half of them will buy the next one. And if you go 11, one of these was the 11th book in a series of some horrible thing about flying aliens. But so if I were. If I were commercial, I would start doing books that I could crank out a duplicate with. You know, the names change, the serial numbers filed off, and just keep doing that for the rest of my life or until I died of boredom. But, you know, I don't do that because that's not the kind of book I would read. And so I have this paradox that I am one of the most well reviewed science fiction writers certainly in my generation, but I don't make any money. You know, just. Well, I make enough. You don't complain about things like that. Yeah, the guys who make money are the guys who operate these mimeograph machines in their mind and keep cranking the same thing out over and over. Sad business. But, you know, when I was a kid, I couldn't wait for the new James Bond book to come out. Every year. Everybody in my generation would leap on the paperback stands and get the new James Bond book. And so it's the same sort of thing. So I shouldn't complain. They're just doing it in my genre rather than some other genre. So what's it like teaching writing to MIT students? Have you ever thought about trying to push a snake uphill? That's a metaphor I just saw a couple of days ago. No, actually, they're all real bright. Then the first thing they learn is that intelligence has almost nothing to do with writing ability. And you have to get that into their heads first, because writing is about feeling and not about thinking. And yeah, you should be smart enough to read a book before you try to write one. But almost all of them are that smart, even if they have not exercised the ability to read a book in a long time. They don't have time to read books, but of course they have to have these humanities credit. So they walk into a course about writing science fiction. Not only have they never written any science fiction, they haven't read a science fiction book in four years. And they have not the faintest idea of what the parts of a story are. You know, a beginning, you got to have a beginning. Yeah, yeah, you have to have a beginning, then a middle, too, and maybe an end if you have time. So what I have is about to generalize. 15% over the past 20 some years of my students are really, really good writers. I mean, brilliant writers. And maybe there are 15% on the other side who you just really would like to put back into high school and say, would you please learn how to write one sentence, one coherent sentence so I don't have to spend all my time on you. And then the people in the middle are various kinds of writers. Some of them are. Have really good ideas and can't write very well. Some of them can write gracious, wonderful prose. And what I don't get, though, is things that are egregiously stupid, which I would get if I were teaching writing anyplace else. And those are difficult. There's always a problem when a beginning writer gives you a story to evaluate. Because I tend to be. Well, I've done thousands of stories, and I tend to be fairly hard on my students. But if they've never written a story before. And here comes this authority figure whose books they've been reading since they were born, and he says, you know, this really so sucks, and tell them why. And they're going, ah, because this is the first thing they ever wrote. This is their first child. And I'm saying, stuff it back in the womb came out a little early, didn't it? So, no, I tried to be nice.