The Man Who Folded Himself. David Gerrold
lots of em-dashes, pages of introspection with nothing external happening—came from. It’s David’s style. I owe him, and this tour de force, more than I ever realized.
David Gerrold was born in Chicago in 1944, but he grew up in Southern California. I first got to know him online, in 1990, on the CompuServe science-fiction literature forum, but we didn’t actually meet physically until five years later.
(Fan-boy confession: I know the exact moment, because, just like Daniel Eakins, the viewpoint character of The Man Who Folded Himself, I keep a journal. We met on Friday, August 25, 1995, at a Tor Books party at the World Science Fiction Convention in Glasgow, Scotland. And although I think I kept a cool outward demeanor, inside I was freaking out; I’d met lots of authors whose books I’d admired before, but this guy standing in front of me had written words that Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock had said!)
David’s Star Trek connection, by the way, goes much deeper than just the episode the bookstore clerk was alluding to when he handsold Space Skimmer to my dad, although there’s no doubt that David will always be best known to Trekkers for writing “The Trouble With Tribbles.”
But David also wrote two fascinating nonfiction books about the series, wrote by far the best episode of the animated Star Trek (called “Bem”), was an extra in Star Trek: The Motion Picture, and was instrumental in shaping Star Trek: The Next Generation (a version of Trek that conformed much more to David’s insightful analysis of what the show should be, as outlined in his 1973 The World of Star Trek, than to anything Gene Roddenberry ever articulated).
Reinventing Star Trek has occupied a lot of David’s career. There’s no doubt that his Star Wolf novels are his very successful attempt to do just that. But there’s also much more to him; indeed, what’s astonishing is just how versatile a writer he is.
For instance, David also wrote one of the great novels of artificial intelligence, called When HARLIE Was One (1972; a reissue is forthcoming from BenBella). He’s also the author of a wonderful action-adventure series—thirty years in the making, and still going strong—collectively known as The War Against the Chtorr.
And he was story editor for the first season of The Land of the Lost, the most intelligent Saturday-morning science-fiction show ever. It premiered in 1974, boasting scripts by Larry Niven, Ben Bova, Theodore Sturgeon, and, of course, David himself (David’s varied TV credits led to him teaching scriptwriting at Pepperdine University for many years).
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 autobiographical 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 quarter-century 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.
Robert J. Sawyer won the Nebula Award for Best Novel of 1995 (for The Terminal Experiment). His latest novel is Humans , the second volume of his “Neanderthal Parallax” trilogy from Tor. Visit his website at SFwriter.com.
I N THE BOX was a belt. And a manuscript.
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