Dije el piano, no la pianola

Si algún día vieron un capítulo de halloween de los simpsons donde llegaba un homero del futuro remoto a hacer una advertencia y luego un homero de un futuro más remoto y en algún momento estaban los tres quizá les pareció que era una parodia in abstracto de los viajes en el tiempo, o al menos de la conceción que tenemos de ellos en -como diría Pascual- la cultura occidental.
Sin embargo es un paraodia de "By his bootsraps", la novela de culto de Robert Heinlein, les copio unas partes y ojalá se animen a leerla completa en www.xs4all.nl/~pot/scifi/byhisbootstraps.pdf .
Para que me hago pendejo, yo no la leí completa, en cuanto a ustedes ni siquiera van a leer estos fragmentos. Cuídense muchachos.

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By His Bootstraps
By Robert A. Heinlein

First publication (pseudonym Anson MacDonald): Astounding Science Fiction
(October 1941)

[...]
Wilson had no reason to suspect that anyone else was in his room; he had every
reason to expect the contrary. He had locked himself in his room for the purpose of
completing his thesis in one sustained drive. He had to-tomorrow was the last day
for submission, yesterday the thesis had been no more than a title: "An
Investigation Into Certain Mathematical Aspects of a Rigor of Metaphysics."
Fifty-two cigarettes, four pots of coffee and thirteen hours of continuous work had
added seven thousand words to the title. As to the validity of his thesis he was far
too groggy to give a damn. Get it done, was his only thought, get it done, turn it in, take three stiff drinks and sleep for a week.

He glanced up and let his eyes rest on his wardrobe door, behind which he had
cached a gin bottle, nearly full. No, he admonished himself, one more drink and
you'll never finish it, Bob, old son.

The stranger behind him said nothing. Wilson resumed typing. "-nor is it valid to assume that a conceivable proposition is necessarily a possible proposition, even when it is possible to formulate mathematics which describes the proposition with exactness. A case in point is the concept 'time travel.' Time travel may be imagined and its necessities may be formulated under any and all theories of time, formulae which resolve the paradoxes of each theory. Nevertheless, we know certain things aboutthe empirical nature of time which preclude the possibility of the conceivable
proposition. Duration is an attribute of consciousness and not of the plenum. It has
no Ding an Sich. Therefore-" A key of the typewriter stuck, three more jammed up on top of it. Wilson swore dully and reached forward to straighten out the cantankerous machinery.

"Don't bother with it," he heard a voice say. "It's a lot of utter hogwash anyhow." Wilson sat up with a jerk, then turned his head slowly around. He fervently hoped
that there was someone behind him. Otherwise- He perceived the stranger with
relief. "Thank God," he said to himself.
"For a moment I thought I had come unstuck." His relief turned to extreme
annoyance. "What the devil are you doing in my room?" he demanded. He shoved
back his chair, got up and strode over to the one door. It was still locked, and
bolted on the inside.

[...]

"What's your name?"
"My name? Uh . . . just call me Joe."
Wilson set down his glass. "Okay, Joe Whatever-your-name-is, trot out that
explanation and make it snappy."
"I'll do that," agreed Joe. "That dingus I came through"-he pointed to the circle-
"that's a Time Gate."
"A what?"
"A Time Gate. Time flows along side by side on each side of the Gate, but some
thousands of years apart-just how many thousands I don't know. But for the next
couple of hours that Gate is open. You can walk into the future just by stepping
through that circle." The stranger paused.
[...]

"No, my dear fellow," he stated, "I'm not going to climb on your merry-go-round.
You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm drunk, that's why. You're not there at all. That ain't there." He
gestured widely at the circle. "There ain't anybody here but me, and I'm drunk.
Been working too hard," he added apologetically. "I'm goin' to bed."
"You're not drunk."
"I am drunk. Peter Piper pepped a pick of pippered peckles." He moved toward his
bed.
Joe grabbed his arm. "You can't do that," he said.
"Let him alone!"
They both swung around. Facing them, standing directly in front of the circle was a
third man. Bob looked at the newcomer, looked back at Joe, blinked his eyes and
tried to focus them. The two looked a good bit alike, he thought, enough alike to be
brothers. Or maybe he was seeing double. Bad stuff, gin. Should 'ave switched to
rum a long time ago. Good stuff, rum. You could drink it, or take a bath in it. No,
that was gin-he meant Joe.


"Very well, Joe. I'm ready to go if you are." He was not sure just when or why he
had decided to go through the time gadget, but he had. Who did this other mug
think he was, anyhow, trying to interfere with a man's freedom of choice?
"Fine!" said Joe, in a relieved voice. "Just step through. That's all there is to it."

[...]