Time Enough for Love (72 page)

DA CAPO

The End of an Era

25 September 1916 Greg.

Dear Laz-Lor,

This is the second of many letters I will attempt to send, using all the Delay Mail drops Justin suggested—three law firms, Chase National Bank, a time capsule to be forwarded with instructions to a Dr. Gordon Hardy via W. W. Smith via a safe-deposit box (unreliable coot, that Smith; he’ll probably open it and thereby destroy it—although I don’t recall it, either way), and all the other dodges I memorized. If I can get just
one
into the Archives just before the Diaspora, it should be delivered when you ask for it, late in Greg. 4291 by the schedule we worked out.

With luck, you will receive dozens of letters all at the same time. Arranged by dates, they should constitute a record of the next ten years. There may be gaps in the account (letters that failed to get through)—if so, I’ll fill those gaps (after you pick me up) by dictating to Athene, to keep my promise to Justin and to Galahad for a full report. Me, I’ll be satisfied if just
one
gets through—and tell Athene to keep working on that notion of time-capsule-cum-Delay-Mail for still earlier centuries; there ought to be
some
way to make it foolproof.

I’ll be using a wide variety of addressees—plus a wrinkle I thought up. I’m going to send a letter in the usual multiple covers to the Executive Computer, Secundus, Year 2000 Diaspora, to be opened by and read by the computer (untouched by human hands!) with a program to hold the message and deliver it to the Colony Leader, Tertius, the day
after
we left.

I don’t believe in paradoxes. Either Minerva got that message before you were born, and filed it in dead storage, and passed it on to Athene, and now (
your
now) Ira has it and has passed it to you two—or it failed to get through at all. No anomaly, no paradox—either total success or total failure. I got the idea from the fact that the executive computer opens and reads and acts on endless written messages without referring them to the Chairman Pro Tem or to any human unless necessary.

Basic Message: (This was in my first note and will be in every letter.) I made an error in calibration and arrived three years early. This is not Dora’s fault, and be sure to tell her I said so
before
you tell her what happened. Reassure her. Despite her tomboy rowdiness, she is
very
vulnerable and must not be hurt. If I had given her sufficiently accurate figures, she would have hit any split second I asked for; of this I am certain.

Basic rendezvous time and place remains ten (10.00 T-years after you dropped me and at meteor-impact crater in Arizona, other rendezvous times & places figured from basic as before.) My error changes the Gregorian date of rendezvous to 2 August 1926—but still ten T-years after drop, as planned.

If Dora will worry less if she finds the error in the data I gave her, here are time marks she can rely on: Gregorian dates of total eclipses by Luna of Sol with respect to Terra between Gregorian 2 Aug 1916 and 2 Aug 1926.

1918 June 8 1919 May 29 1922 September 21

1923 September 10 1925 January 24 1926 January 14

If Dora wants to be still fussier, she can get any ancient Solar System date from Athene she wants; the Great Library at New Rome perpetuated endless stuff of that sort. But Dora has in her own gizzards everything she really needs.

Recapitulation:

1. Pick me up ten T-years after you dropped me.

2. I’m three years early—
my
error,
not
Dora’s.

3. I’m fine, healthy, safe, holding, miss my darlings, and send love to all of you.

Now the hairy & scary adventures of a time-traveler—To begin with, they have been neither hairy nor scary. I’ve been careful to attract no attention, as retiring as a mouse at a cat show. Whenever the locals rub blue mud in their navels, I rub blue mud in mine just as solemnly. I agree with the politics of anyone who speaks to me, attend the church he does—while sheepishly admitting that I’ve missed lately—I listen instead of talking (difficult as you may find that to believe), and I never talk back. If someone tries to rob me, I will not kill him or even break his arms; I’ll shut up and let him have all he can find on me. My fixed purpose is to be on the lip of that crater in Arizona ten years from now; I shan’t let anything jeopardize keeping our date. I am not here to reform this world; I am simply revisiting the scenes of my childhood.

It has been easier than I expected. Accent gave me some trouble at first. But I listened and now speak as harsh a Cornbelt accent as I did as a youngster. It is amazing how things have come back. I confirm from experience the theory that childhood memories are permanent, even though one may “forget” them until restimulated. I left this city when I was younger than you two are; I have been on more than two hundred planets since then, I have forgotten most of them.

But I find that I
know
this city.

Some changes…but changes in the other entropy direction; I am now seeing it as it was when I was four T-years old. I
am
four years old elsewhere in this city. I have avoided that neighborhood and have not yet tried to see my first family—the idea makes me a bit uneasy. Oh, I shall, before I leave to travel around the country; I’m not afraid of being recognized by them. Impossible! I look like a young man and much—I think—as I looked when I was in fact a young man. But no one
here
has ever seen what that four-year-old will look like when he grows up. My only hazard would lie in trying to tell the truth. Not that I would be believed—no one here believes even in space travel, much less time travel—but because I would risk being locked up as “crazy”—a nonscientific term meaning that the person to whom one applies that label has a world picture differing from the accepted one.

Kansas City in 1916—You put me down in a meadow; I climbed the fence and walked to the nearest town. No one noticed us—tell Dora that she did it slick as a pickpocket. The town was pleasant, the people friendly; I stayed a day to get reoriented, then moved on to a larger town, did the same there and got clothes to change me from a farm worker into someone who would not be conspicuous in a city. (You dears, who never wear clothes when you don’t need them—except festive occasions—would have trouble believing how status here-&-now is shown by clothes.
Far
more so than in New Rome—here one can look at a person and tell age, sex, social status, economic status, probable occupation, approximate education, and many other things, just by clothing. These people even swim with clothes on—I am not farcing; ask Athene. My dears, they
sleep
in clothes.)

I took a railroad train to Kansas City. Ask Athene to display a picture of one from this era. This culture is prototechnical, just beginning to shift from human muscle power and animal power to generated power. Such as there is originates from burning natural fuels or from wind or waterfall. Some of this is converted into primitive electrical power, but this railroad train was propelled by burning coal to produce expanding steam.

Atomic power is not even a theory; it is a fancy of dreamers, taken less seriously than “Santa Claus.” As for the method for moving the
Dora
, no one has the slightest notion that there is
any
way of grasping the fabric of space-time.

(I could be wrong. The many tales of UFO’s and of strange visitors, throughout all ages, suggest that I am not the first time-tripper by thousands, or millions. But perhaps most of them are as reluctant to disturb the “native savages” as I am.)

On arrival in Kansas City I took lodging at a religious hilton. If you received my arrival note, it was on stationery bearing its emblem. (I hope that note is the last I will have to entrust to paper and ink—but it took time to arrange for photoreduction and etching. The technology and materials available here-&-now are very primitive, even when I have privacy to use other techniques.)

As a temporary base this religious hilton offers advantages. It is cheap, and I have not yet had time to acquire all the local money I will need. It is clean and safe compared with commercial hiltons costing the same. It is near the business district. It offers all that I now need and no more. And it is monastic.

“Monastic”? Don’t look surprised, my loves. I expect to remain celibate throughout these ten years, while dreaming happy fantasies of all my darlings, so many years & light-years away.

Why? The local mores—Here the coupling of male and female is
forbidden by law
unless specifically licensed by the state in a binding monogamy with endless legal, social, and economic consequences.

Such laws are made to be broken—and are. About three squares or a few hundred meters from this monastic hilton, the “Y.M.C.A.,” starts the “red-light” district, an area devoted to illicit but tolerated female prostitution—and the fees are low. No, I am not too lazy to walk that far; I’ve talked to some of these women—they “walk a beat” offering their services to men on the street. But, my dears, these women are
not
recognized artists, proud of their great vocation. Oh, dear, no! They are pathetic drabs, furtive and ashamed. They are at the bottom of the social pyramid, and many (most?) are in thrall to males who take their meager earnings.

I do not think there is a Tamara, or even a pseudo-Tamara, in all of Kansas City. Outside the ‘red-light’ district there are younger and prettier women available for higher fees and by more complex arrangements—but their status is still zero. No proud and happy artists. So they are no temptation; I would not be able to put out of my mind the gruesome fashion in which they are mistreated under local laws and customs.

(I tipped those I talked to; time is money to them.)

Then there are women who are
not
of the profession.

From my earlier life here I know that a high percentage of both “single” women and “married” women (a sharp dichotomy, much sharper than on Tertius or even Secundus)—many of these will chance unlicensed coupling for fun, adventure, love, or other reasons. Most women here are thus available sometimes and with some men—although not with all men nor all the time; here-&-now the sport is necessarily clandestine.

Nor do I lack confidence, nor have I contracted the local “moral” attitude.

But the answer is again No. Why?

First reason: It is all too likely to get one’s arse shot off!

No joke, dears. Here-&-now almost every female is quasi-property of some male. Husband, father, sweetheart, betrothed—someone. If he catches you, he may kill you—and public opinion is such that he is unlikely to be punished. But if
you
kill
him
…you hang by the neck until dead, dead, dead!

It seems an excessive price. I don’t plan to risk it.

There are a small but appreciable number of females who are not “property” of some male—so what’s holding you back, Lazarus?

The overhead, for one thing. (Better not tell Galahad this; it would break his heart.) Negotiations are usually long, complex, and very expensive—and she is likely to regard “success” as equivalent to a proposal of lifetime contract.

On top of that she is quite likely to become pregnant. I should have asked Ishtar to offset my fertility for this trip. (I am terribly glad I did not.) (And I am honing for you darlings, my other selves—and thank you endlessly for kicking my feet out from under me. I couldn’t initiate it, dearly as I wanted to!)

Laz and Lor, believe this: Mature females here
do not know
when they are fertile. They rely either on luck or on contraceptive methods that range from chancy to worthless. Furthermore, they can’t find out even from their therapists—who don’t know much about it themselves. (There are no geneticists.) Therapy is very primitive in 1916. Most physicians are trying hard, I think, but the art is barely out of the witch-doctor stage. Just rough surgery and a few drugs—most of which I know to be useless or harmful. As for contraception—hold on tight!—it is forbidden
by law
.

Another law made to be broken—and is. But law and customs retard progress in such matters. At present (1916) the commonest method involves an elastomer sheath worn by the male—in other words they “couple” without touching. Stop screaming; you’ll never have to put up with it. But it is as bad as it sounds.

I’ve saved my strongest reason for the last. Dears, I’ve been spoiled. In 1916 a bath once a week is considered enough by most people, too much by some. Other habits match. Such thing when unavoidable can be ignored. I’m well aware that I whiff like an old billy goat in very short order myself. Nevertheless, when I have enjoyed the company of six of the daintiest darlings in the Galaxy—well, I’d rather wait. Shucks, ten years isn’t long.

*

If you have received any of the letters I will send over the next ten years, then you may have rushed to check up on Gregorian 1916-1919. I selected 1919-1929 both to savor it—a vintage decade, the very last
happy
period in old Earth’s history—but also to avoid the first of the Terran Planetary Wars, the one known now (it has already started) as “The European War” then will be called “The World War,” then still later “The First World War,” and designated in most ancient histories as “Phase One of the First Terran Planetary War.”

Don’t fret; I’m going to give it a wide berth. This involves changes in my travel plans but none in the 1926 pickup. I have little memory of this war; I was too young. But I recall (probably from school lessons rather than from direct memory) that this country got into it in 1917, and that the war ended the following year—and that date I remember exactly, as it was my sixth birthday and I thought the noise and celebration was for
me.

What I can’t remember is the exact date this country entered the war. I may not have looked it up in planning this junket; my purpose was to arrive
after
11 November 1918, the day the war ended, and I allowed what I thought was a comfortable margin. I was fitting in those ten years most carefully, as the following ten years, 1929-1939, are decidedly
not
a vintage decade—and they end with the start of Phase Two of the First Terran Planetary War.