Heinlein, Robert A - To Sail Beyond the Sunset.txt

TO SAIL BEYOND THE SUNSET

THE LIVES AND LOVES OF MAUREEN JOHNSON

(Being the Memoirs of a Somewhat Irregular Lady)

Robert A. Heinlein

To little girls and butterflies and kittens.

To Susan and Eleanor and Chris and (always) to Ginny.

With my Love,

R.A.H.

CONTENTS

1 The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions

2 The Garden of Eden

3 The Serpent in the Garden

4 The Worm in the Apple

5 Exit from Eden

6 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home...'

7 Ringing the Cash Register

8 Seacoast Bohemia

9 Dollars and Sense

10 Random Numbers

11 A Dude in a Derby

12 'Hang the Kaiser!'

13 'Over There!'

14 Black Tuesday

15 Torrid Twenties-Threadbare Thirties

16 The Frantic Forties

17 Starting Over

18 Bachelorhood

19 Cats and Children

20 Soothsayer

21 Serpent's Tooth

22 The Better-Dead List

23 The Adventures of Prudence Penny

24 Decline and Fall

25 Rebirth in Boondock

26 Pixel to the Rescue

27 At the Coventry Cusp

28 Eternal Now

Appendix: People in this Memoir

Come, my friends,

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

Tennyson, Ulysses

Chapter 1 - The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions

I woke up in bed with a man and a cat. The man was a stranger; the cat was not.

I closed my eyes and tried to pull myself together - hook 'now' to mp memory of last

night.

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No good. There wasn't any `last night'. My last dear memory was of being a passenger

in a Burroughs irrelevant bus, bound for New Liverpool, when there was a loud bang,

my head hit the seat in front of me, then a lady handed me a baby and we started

filing out of the starboard emergency exit, me with a cat in one arm and a baby in

the other, and I saw a man with his right arm off -

I gulped and opened my eyes. A stranger in my bed was better than a man bleeding to

death from a stump where his right forearm ought to be. Had it been a nightmare? I

fervently hoped so.

If it was not, then what had I done with the baby? And whose baby was it? Maureen,

this won't do. Mislaying a baby is inexcusable. `Pixel, have you seen a baby?' The

cat stood mute and a plea of not guilty was directed by the court.

My father once told me that I was the only one of his daughters capable of sitting

down in church and finding that I had sat on a hot lemon meringue pie... anyone else

would have looked. (I had looked, But my cousin Nelson - Oh, never mind.)

Regardless of lemon pies, bloody stumps, or missing babies, there was still this

stranger in my bed, his bony back toward me - husbandly rather than loverly. (But I

did not recall marrying him.)

I've shared beds with men before, and with women, and wet babies, and cats who

demand most of the bed, and (once) with a barbershop quartet. But I do like to know

with whom I am sleeping (just an old-fashioned girl, that's me). So I said to the

cat, `Pixel, who is he? Do we know him?'

'No-o-o-o.'

'Well, let's check: I put a hand on the man's shoulder, intending to shake him awake

and then ask where we had met - or had we?

His shoulder was cold.

He was quite dead.

This is not a good way to start the day.

I grabbed Pixel and got out of bed by instantaneous translation; Pixel protested. I

said sharply, `Shut up, you! Mama has problems.' I forced a thalamic pause of at

least a microsecond, maybe longer, and decided not to flee headlong outdoors, or out

into the hallway, as the case may be... but to slow down and attempt to assess the

situation, before screaming for help. Perhaps just as well, as I found that I was

barefooted all the way up. I am not jumpy about skin but it did seem prudent to

dress before reporting a corpse. Police were certain to want to question me and I

have known cops who would exploit any advantage in order to throw one off balance.

But first a look at the corpse.

Still clutching Pixel I went round and bent over the other side of the bed. (Gulp.)

No one I knew. No one I would choose to bed with, even were he in perfect health.

Which he was not; that side of the bed was soggy with blood. (Two gulps and a

frisson.) He had bled from his mouth - or his throat had been cut; I was not sure

which and was unwilling to investigate.

So I backed away and looked around for my clothes. I knew in my bones that this

bedroom was part of a hostelry; rooms for hire do not taste like private homes. It

was a luxury suite; it took me a longish time to poke through all the closets and

cubbyholes and drawers and cupboards et cetera . . . and then to do it all over

again when the first search failed to locate my clothes. The second search, even

more thorough, found not a rag - neither his size nor my size, neither women's

clothes nor men's.

I decided willy-nilly to telephone the manager, tell him the problem, and let him

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cal the cops - and ask him for a courtesy bathing robe or kimono or some such.

So I looked for a telephone.

Alexander Graham Bell had lived in vain.

I stopped in frustration. `Name of a dog! Where have they hidden that frimping

phone?'

A bodyless voice said, `Madam, may we offer you breakfast? We are proud of our

Harvest Brunch: a lavish bowl of assorted fresh fruits; a tray of cheeses; a basket

of freshly baked hot breads, crisp breads, and soft breads with jams and jellies and

syrups and Belgian butter. Basted baby barlops en brochette; drawn eggs Octavian;

smoked savannah slinker; farkels in sweetsour; Bavarian strudel; your choice of

still and sparkling wines, skullbuster Strine beer, Mocha, Kona, Turkish and Proxima

coffees~ blended or straight; all served with -'

I repressed a gagging reflex. 'I don't want breakfast!'

`Perhaps Madam would enjoy our Holiday Eyeopener: your choice of fruit juice, a roll

hot from our oven, your choice of gourmet jams or jellies, your choice in a filling

but non-fattening hot cup. Served with the latest news, or background music, or

restful silence.'

'I don't want to eat!'

The voice answered thoughtfully, `Madam, I am a machine programmed for our food and

beverage services. May I switch you to another programme? Housekeeping? Head porter?

Engineering?'

'Get me the manager!'

There was a short delay. 'Guest services! Hospitality with a smile! How may I help

you?'

'Get me the manager!'

'Do you have a problem?'

`You're the problem! Are you a man, or a machine?'

Is that relevant? Please tell me how I can help you.'

'If you are not the manager, you can't. Do you run on testicles? Or electrons?'

'Madam, I am a machine but a very flexible one. My memories include all curricula of

Procrustes Institute of Hotelier Science, including all case studies updated to

midnight yesterday. If you will be so good as to state your problem, I will match it

at once with a precedent case and show how it was solved to the satisfaction of the

guest. Please?'

'If you don't put me through to the manager in nothing flat, I guarantee that the

manager will take an axe to your rusty gizzard and install a Burroughs-Libby

analogue brain in your place. Who shaved the barber? What do your case studies say

about that? Moron.'

This time I got a female voice. 'Manager's office. How may I help you?'

'You can take this dead man out of my bed!'

Short pause. 'Housekeeping, Hester speaking. How may we help you?'

'There's a dead man in my bed. I don't like it. Untidy:

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Another pause. 'Caesar Augustus Escort Service, serving all tastes. Do I understand

that one of our gentleman companions died in your bed?'

'I don't know who he is; I just know that he's dead. Who takes care of such things?

Room service? Garbage removal? House physician? And I want the sheets changed, too.'

This time they gave me background music while I waited... and waited - through the

first two operas of the Ring Cyde and well into the third.

'Accounting and bookkeeping, our Mister Munster speaking. That room was not rented

for double occupancy. There will be an additional -'

'Look, buster, it's a corpse. I don't think a corpse counts toward "double

occupancy". Blood is dripping off the bed and on to your rug. If you don't get

somebody up here right away, that rug will be ruined.'

'There will be a charge for damage to the rug. That is more than normal wear and

tear.'

'Grrr!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I am about to set fire to the drapes?

'You're wasting your time; those drapes are fireproof. But your threat has been

recorded. Under the Rooming House Act, section seven dee -'

'Get this dead man out of here!'

'Please hold. I'll connect you with the head porter.'

'You do and I'll shoot him as he comes through the door. I bite. I scratch. I'm

foaming at the mouth. I haven't had my shots.'

'Madam, please contain yourself. We pride ourselves on -'

'And then I'll come down to your office and find you, Mister monster Munster, and

pull you out of your chair and sit down in it myself and turn you over my knee and

take your pants down and... Did I mention that I am from Hercules Gamma? Two and a

half gravities surface acceleration; we eat your sort for lunch. So stay where you

are; don't make me have to hunt for you.'

'Madam, I regret that I must tell you that you cannot sit in my chair.'

'Want to bet?'

'I do not Nave a chair; I am securely bolted to the floor. And now I must bid you

good day and turn you over to our security force. You will find the additional

charges on your statement of account. Enjoy your stay with us.'

They showed up too quickly; I was still eyeing those fireproof drapes, wondering if

I could do as well with them as Scarlet O'Hara had with the drapes at Tara, or could

I arrange a simple toga, like Eunice in The Last Days of Pompeii (or was she in Quo

Vadis?), when they arrived: a house doc, a house dick, and a house ape, the last

with a cart. Several more oddments crowded in after them, until we had enough to

choose sides.

I need not have worried about being naked; no one seemed to notice... which irked

me. Gentlemen should at least leer. And a wolf whistle or other applause would not

be out of place. Anything less makes a woman feel unsure of herself.

(Perhaps I am too sensitive. But since my sesquicentennial I have been disposed to

check the mirror each morning, wondering.)

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There was only one woman in this mob of intruders. She looked at me and sniffed,

which made me feel better.

Then I recalled something. When I was twelve, my father told me that I was going to

have lots of trouble with men. I said, `Father, you are out of your veering mind.

I'm not pretty. The boys don't even throw snowballs at me.'

'A little respect, please. No, you aren't pretty. It's the way you smell, my darling

daughter. You are going to have to bathe oftener . . . or some warm night you will

wind up raped and murdered.'

'Why, I bathe every week! You know I do.'

'In your case, that's not enough. Mark my words.'

I did mark his words and learned that Father knew what he was talking about. My body

odour when I'm well and happy is much like that of a cat in heat. But today I was

not happy. First that dead man scared me and then those bleeping machines made me

angry... which adds up to a different sort of stink. A tabby cat not in heat can

walk right through a caucus of toms and they will ignore her. As I was being

ignored.

They stripped the top sheet off my erstwhile bedmate. The house physician looked

over the cadaver without touching it, then looked more closely at that horrid red

puddle - leant down, sniffed it, then made my skin crawl by dipping a finger into

the slop and tasting it.

'Try it, Adolf. See what you think.'

His colleague (I assumed that he was another physician) also tasted the bloody mess.

`Heinz.'

`No. Skinner's.'

`With all due respect, Dr. Ridpath, you have ruined your palate with that cheap gin

you guzzle. Heinz. Skinner's catsup has more salt. Which kills the delicate tomato

flavour. Which you can't taste, because of your evil habits.'

`Ten thousand, Dr Weisskopf? Even money.'

`You're on. What do you place as the cause of death, sir?'

'Don't try to trap me, Doctor. "Cause of death" is your job:

'His heart stopped.?'

'Brilliant, Doctor, brilliant! But why did it stop?'

In the case of judge Hardacres, for some years the question has been: What keeps him

alive? Before I express an opinion I want to place him on a slab and slice him up. I

may have been hasty; he may turn out not to have had a heart.'

`Are you going to cut him up to learn something, or to make certain he stays dead?'

'Noisy in here, isn't it? Do you release the body? I'll have it taken downtown.'

`Hand me a form nine-oh-four and I'll drop it. Just keep the meat out of sight of

our guests. Grand Hotel Augustus does not have guests dying on its premises.'

'Dr Ridpath, I was handling such things discreetly before you slid through that

diploma mill.'

'I'm sure you were, Adolf. Lawn ball later?'

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'Thank you, Eric. Yes.'

`And dinner after; Zenobia will be expecting you. I'll pick you up at the morgue.'

`Oh, I'm sorry! I'm taking my assistant to the Mayor's Orgy.'

`No fuss. Zenobia would never miss the first big party of Fiesta; we'll all go

together. So bring her with you.'

'Him, not her.'

'Pardon my raised eyebrows; I thought you had sworn off. Very well; bring him.'

'Eric, don't you find it depressing to be so cynical? He's a satyr, not a goose.'

'So much the better. With Fiesta starting at sundown, Zenobia will welcome any

gallant indecency he offers her, as long as he does not break her bones.'

This silly chatter had told me one thing: I was not in New Liverpool. New Liverpool

does not celebrate Fiesta - and this local festival sounded like Fasching in Munich

combined with Carnival in Rio, with a Brixton riot thrown in. So, not New Liverpool.

What city, what planet, what year, and what universe remained to be seen. Then I

would have to see what could be done about my predicament. Clothes. Money. Status.

Then, how to get home. But I was not worried. As long as the body is warm and the

bowels move regularly no problem can be other than minor and temporary.

The two doctors were still sneering at each other when I suddenly realized that I

had heard not one word of Galacta.

Not even Spanglish. They were speaking English, almost the harsh accent of my

girlhood, with idiom and vocabulary close to that of my native Missouri.

Maureen, this is ridiculous.

While flunkies were getting ready to move the body (disguised as a nameless

something draped in dust covers) the medical examiner (coroner?) got a signed

release from the house physician, and both started to leave. I stopped the latter.

'Dr Ridpath!'

`Yes? What is it, Miss?'

'I'm Maureen Johnson Long. You are on the staff of the hotel, are you not?'

`In a manner of speaking. I have my offices here and am available as house physician

when needed. Do you wish to see me professionally? I'm in a hurry.'

`Just one quick question, Doctor. How does one get the attention of a flesh and

blood human being on the staff of this hotel? I can't seem to raise anyone but

moronic robots - and I'm stranded here with no clothes and no money.'

He shrugged. `Someone is certain to show up before long, once I report that Judge

Hardacres is dead. Are you worried about your fee? Why don't you call the talent

agency that sent you to him? The judge probably had a running account with them.'

'Oh! Doctor, I'm not a prostitute. Although I suppose it does look like it.'

He cocked his left brow so high that it disturbed the tilt of his toupee, and

changed the subject. `You have a beautiful pussy.'

I assumed that he was speaking of my feline companion, who is a most beautiful pussy

- a flame-coloured tomcat (just the colour of my hair) in a striking tiger pattern.

He has been much admired in several universes.

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`Thank you, sir. His name is Pixel and he is a much traveled cat. Pixel, this is Dr

Ridpath:

The doctor put out a finger close to the little pink nose. `Howdy, Pixel.'

Pixel was helpful. (Sometimes he is not - a cat of firm opinions.) He sniffed the

proffered finger, then licked it.

The doctor smiled indulgently, then withdrew his finger when Pixel decided that the

ritual kiss had gone on long enough. 'He's a fine boy, that one. Where did you find

him?'

'On Tertius.'

'Where's Ontershus? Canada? Hmm, you say you have a money problem. What'll you take

for Pixel, cash in hand? My little girl would love him:

(I didn't swindle him. I could have but I didn't. Pixel can't be sold - he can't

stay sold - because he can't be locked up. For him, stone walls do not a prison

make.)

`Oh, I'm sorry! I can't sell him; he's not mine. He's a member of the family of my

grandson - one of my grandsons - and his wife. But Colin and Hazel would never sell

him. They can't sell him; they don't own him. No one owns him; Pixel is a free

citizen:

'So? Then perhaps I can bribe him. How about ir, Pixel? Lots of horse liver, fresh

fish, cat nibbles, all you want. Plenty of friendly girl cats around and we'll leave

your spark plugs right where they are. Well?'

Pixel gave the restless wiggle that means 'Let me down,' so I did. He sniffed the

doctor's legs, then brushed against him. 'Nnnow?' he enquired.

Dr Ridpath said to me, 'You should have accepted my offer. I seem to have acquired a

cat.'

`I wouldn't bet on it, Doctor. Pixel likes to travel but he always comes back to my

grandson Colin. Colonel Colin Campbell. And his wife Hazel.'

For the first time Dr Ridpath really looked at me. `"Grandson." "Colonel." Miss,

you're hallucinating.'

(I suddenly realized how it looked to him. Before I left Tertius, Ishtar had given

me a booster treatment-it had been fifty-two years - and Galahad had given me a

cosmetic refresher and had overdone it. Galahad likes 'em young, especially redheads

- he keeps my twin daughters permanent teenagers, and now we three look like

triplets. Galahad cheats. Except for Theodore, Galahad is my favorite husband, but I

shan't let anyone find out.)

`Yes, I must be hallucinating,' I agreed. 'I don't know where I am, I don't know

what day this is, I don't know what became of my clothes or my money or my purse,

and I don't know how I got here... save that I was in an irrelevancy bus for New

Liverpool and there was an accident of some sort. If Pixel were not still with me, I

would wonder if I were me.'

Dr Ridpath reached down; Pixel allowed himself to be picked up. 'What was that bus

you mentioned?'

'A Burroughs shifter. I was on Tellus Tertius at Boondock on time line two at

Galactic year 2149, or Gregorian 4368 if you like that better. I was scheduled for

New Liverpool in time line two, where I was to base for a field trip. But something

went wrong.'

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'Ah, so. Hmm. And you have a grandson who is a colonel?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And how old are you?'

'That depends on how you count it, Doctor. I was born on Earth in time line two of

the Fourth of July, 1882. I lived there until 1982, one century minus two weeks,

whereupon I moved to Tertius and was rejuvenated. That was fifty-two years ago by my

personal calendar. I've had a booster just recently, which made me younger than I

should be-I prefer to be mature rather than girlish. But I do have grandchildren,

lots of them.'

'Interesting. Will you come down to my office with me?'

'You think I'm out of my head.'

He was not quick to answer. 'Let me put it this way. One of us is hallucinating.

Tests may show which one. Besides that, I have an exceptionally cynical office nurse

who can, without tests, almost certainly spot which one of us has slipped his

clutch. Will you come?'

'Yes, certainly. And thank you, sir. But I've got to find some clothes first. I

can't very well leave this room until I do.' (I wasn't certain that this was true.

That crowd that had just left obviously did not have the attitudes on 'indecent

exposure' that were commonplace in Missouri when I was born. On the other hand,

where I now lived on Tertius nudity at home was unremarkable and it didn't cause any

excitement even in the most public places - like overalls at a wedding: unusual but

nothing to stare at.)

'Oh. But Festival is about to start.'

'"Festival?" Doctor, I'm a stranger in a strange land; that is what I've been trying

to say.'

'Uh - Our biggest holiday is about to start. Starts at sundown, theoretically, but

there are many who jump the gun. By now the boulevard out front will have quite a

percentage of naked people, already drunk and looking for partners.'

'Partners for what?' I tried to sound innocent. I'm not much for orgies. All those

knees and elbows -

'What do you think? It's a fertility rite, my dear girl, to ensure fat crops. And

fat bellies for that matter. By now, any virgins left in this fair city are locked

up.' He added, 'But you won't be bothered simply going with me to my office... and I

promise I'II find you some sort of clothing. A coverall. A nurse's uniform.

Something. Does that suit you?'

'Thank you, Doctor. Yes!'

'If I were you and I was still jumpy, I would look for a big beach towel in that

bathroom, and make a caftan out of it. If you can, do it in three minutes. Don't

dilly-dally, dolly; I've got to get back to the grind.'

`Yessir!' I hurried into the bathroom.

It really was a bathroom, not a refresher. When I had searched the suite for

clothing, I had noticed a stack of Turkish towels in there. Now I looked more

closely and spotted two that bulged fat in that stack. I worked one out and unfolded

it. Eureka! A towel fit for a rich South American, one at least six feet long and

three feet wide. A razor blade from the medicine chest placed a slit big enough for

my head span down the center. Now to find something, anything, to tie around my

waist.

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While I was doing this, a human head appeared in front of - in place of, rather -

the hairdryer. A head female and rather pretty. No body. During my first century

this would have made me jumpy. Today I'm used to realistic holos.

'I've been trying to catch you alone,' the head said in an organlike baritone. 'I

speak for the Committee for Aesthetic Deletions. We seem to have caused you some

inconvenience. For that we are truly sorry.'

'You should be! What became of that baby?'

'Never mind the baby. We'll be in touch.' It flickered.

'Hey! Wait!' But I was talking to the hairdryer.

Dr Ridpath looked up from scratching Pixel's chin. `Five minutes and forty seconds.'

I'm sorry to be late but I was interrupted. A head appeared and spoke to me. Does

that happen often around here? Or am I hallucinating again?'

'You really do seem to be a stranger here. That's a telephone. Like this -

Telephone, please!'

A head appeared in a frame that had contained a rather dull still life, a male head

in this case. 'Your call, sir?'

'Cancel.' The head blinked out. 'Like that?'

'Yes. But a girl.'

'Of course. You're female and the call reached you in a bathroom, so the computer

displayed a head matching your sex. The computer matches lip movements to words...

but the visual stays an impersonal animation unless you elect to be seen. Same for

the caller.'

'I see. A hologram.'

'Yes. Come along.' He added, 'You look quite fetching in that towel but you looked

still better in your skin.'

'Thank you.' We went out into the hotel corridor; Pixel cut back and forth in front

of us. 'Doctor, what is "The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions"?'

'Huh?' He sounded surprised. 'Assassins. Criminal nihilists. Where did you hear of

them?'

`That head I saw in the bathroom. That telephone.' I repeated the call, word for

word, I think.

'Hmm. Interesting.' He did not say another word until we reached his office suite,

ten storeys down on the mezzanine.

We ran across several hotel guests who had 'jumped the gun'. Most were naked save

for domino masks but several wore full masks - of animals or birds, or abstract

fantasy. One couple were dressed most gaudily in nothing but paint. I was glad that

I had my terry cloth caftan.

When we reached Dr Ridpath's office suite, I hung back in the waiting-room while he

went on into an inner room, preceded by Pixel. The doctor left the door open; I

could hear and see. His office nurse was standing, her back to us, talking 'on the

telephone' - a talking head. There appeared to be no one else in the suite.

Nevertheless I was mildly surprised to find that she had joined the epidemic of

skin; she was wearing shoes, minipanties, a nurse's cap, and had a nurse's white

uniform over one arm as if caught by the phone while she was undressing. Or

changing. She was a tall and slender brunette. I could not see her face.

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I heard her say, 'I'll tell him, Doc. Keep your guard up tonight. See you in jail.

Bye.' She half turned. 'That was Daffy Weisskopf, Boss. He has a preliminary report

for you. Cause of death, suffocation. But - get this - stuffed down the old

bastard's throat, before the catsup was poured in, was a plastic envelope with a

famous - or infamous - card in it: "The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions." '

'So I figured. Did he say what brand of catsup?'

'Fer cry eye yie!'

'And what are you doing peeling down? Festival doesn't start for another three

hours.'

'Look here, slave driver! See that clock - ticking off the precious seconds of my

life? See what it says? Eleven past five. My contract says that I work until five.'

'It says that you are on duty until I relieve you, but that overtime rate starts at

five.'

'There were no patients here and I was changing into my festival costume. Wait till

you ser it, Boss! It'd make a priest blush.'

'I doubt it. We do have a patient and I need your help.'

'Okay, okay! I'll get back into my Florence Nightingale duds.'

'Don't bother; it would just waste time. Mrs Long! Come in, please, and take off

your clothes.'

'Yes, sir.' I came in at once, while peeling off that scrounged caftan. I could see

what he was doing: a prudent male doctor has a chaperone when examining a female

patient; that's a universal. A multi-universal. If the circumstances happen to

supply a chaperone in her skin, so much the better; there need be no time wasted on

"angel robes" and other such nonsense. Having helped my father and having stood

years of watches in the rejuvenation clinic at Boondock and in the associated

hospital, I understood the protocol invoked; a nurse in Boondock wears clothes only

when the job requires it. Seldom, that is, as the patient is usually not clothed.

`But it's not "Mrs Long", Doctor. I am usually called "Maureen".'

`"Maureen" it is. This is Dagmar. Roast, meet Alice; Alice, meet Roast. And Pixel,

too, Dagmar. He's the one with the short legs.'

`Howdy, Maureen. Hi, Pixel.'

'Mee-ow.'

`Hi, Dagmar. Sorry to keep you late.'

'De nada, ducks.'

`Dagmar, either I am out of my skull, or Maureen is. Which is it?'

`Couldn't it be both? I've had my doubts about you for a long time, Boss.'

`Understandable. But she really does seem to have lost a chunk of her memory. At

least. Plus possible hallucinations. You've studied materia medica much more

recently than I have; if someone wanted to cause a few hours temporary amnesia, what

drug would he choose?'

'Huh? Don't give me your barefoot boy act. Alcohol, of course. But it might be

almost anything, the way the kids nowadays eat, drink, snort, smoke, or shoot

anything that doesn't shoot back.'

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`Not alcohol. Enough alcohol to do that produces a horrible hangover, with

halitosis, twitches and shakes, and bloodshot eyes. But look at her - clear eyes,

healthy as a horse, and innocent as a pup in the clean laundry. Pixel! Stay out of

that! So what do we look for?'

`I dunno; let's operate and find out. Urine sample. Blood sample. Saliva, too?'

`Certainly. And sweat, if you can find enough:

`Vaginal specimen?'

'Yes.'

`Wait,' I objected. `If you intend to poke around inside me, I want a chance to

douche and wash:

`Not bleedin' likely, ducks,' Dagmar answered gently. 'What we need is whatever is

in there now... not after you've washed your sins away. Don't argue; I wouldn't want

to break your arm:

I shut up. I do indeed want to smell good, or not smell at all, when being examined.

But as a doctor's daughter (and a therapist myself) I knew that what Dagmar said

made sense... since they were looking for drugs. I didn't expect that they would

find any... but they might; I certainly was missing some hours. Days? Anything could

have happened.

Dagmar had me pee in a cup and took my blood and saliva, then told me to climb on to

the table and into the stirrups. `Shall I do it? Or the Boss? Out of the way, Pixel!

And stop that.'

'Either of you.' (A truly considerate nurse. Some female patients can't stand to be

touched down below by females, others are shy with males. Me, I was cured of all

such nonsense by my father before I was ten.)

Dagmar came back with a dilator... and I noticed something. Brunette, I said she

was. She had remained undressed save for scanty panties - which were not opaque. she

should have shown a dark, built-in fig leaf, no?

No. Just skin shade and a hint of the Great Divide.

A woman who shaves or otherwise depilates her pubic curls has a profound interest in

recreational sex. My beloved first husband Brian pointed this out to me in the Mauve

Decade, circa 905 Gregorian. I've checked Brian's assertion through a century and a

half, endless examples. (I am not counting prepping for surgery or for childbirth.)

The ones who did it because they preferred that styling were without exception

hearty, healthy, uninhibited hedonists.

Dagmar wasn't prepared for surgery; she (obviously!) was not about to give birth.

No, she was about to take part in a saturnalia. QED.

It made me feel warm toward her. Brian, bless his lecherous soul, would have

appreciated her.

By now, in the course of chatting while she took samples, she knew the essentials of

my `hallucination', so she knew that I was a stranger in town. As she was adjusting

that damned dilator (I have always detested them, although this one was blood

temperature and was being handled with the gentle care that a woman can bring to the

task, having been there herself) - while she was busy with this, I asked a question

in order to ignore what she was doing. 'Dagmar, tell me about this festival.'

'La Fiesta de Santa Carolita? Hey, you clamped down! Watch it, ducks, you'll hurt

yourself.'

I sighed and tried to relax. Santa Carolita is my second child, bron in 1902

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Gregorian.

Chapter 2 - The Garden of Eden

I remember Earth.

I knew her when she was clean and green, mankind's beautiful bride, sweet and lush

and lovable.

I speak of my own time time, of course, numbered 'two' and coded 'Leslie LeCroix.'

But the best known time lines, those policed by the Time Corps for the Circle of

Ouroboros, are all one at the time I was born, 1882 Gregorian, only nine years after

the death of Ira Howard. In z88z the population of Earth was a mere billion and a

half.

When I left Earth just a century later it had increased to over four billion and

that swarming mass was doubling every thirty years.

Remember that ancient Persian parable about doubling grains of rice on a chessboard?

Four billion people are a smidgen larger than a grain of rice; you quickly run out

of chessboard. On one time line Earth's population swelled to over thirty billion

before reaching final disaster; on other time lines the end came at less than ten

billion. But on all time lines Dr Malthus had the last laugh.

It is futile to mourn over the corpse of Earth, as silly as it would be to cry over

an empty chrysalis when its butterfly has flown. But I am incurably sentimental and

forever sad at how Man's Old Home has changed.

I had a marvellously happy girlhood.

I not only lived on Earth when she was young and beautiful but I also had the good

fortune to be born in one of her loveliest garden spots, southern Missouri before

people and bulldozers ravaged its green hills.

Besides the happy accident of birthplace, I had the special good fortune to be my

father's daughter.

When I was still quite young my father said to me, 'My beloved daughter, you are an

amoral little wretch. I know this, because you take after me; your mind works just

the way mine does. If you are not to be destroyed by your lack, you must work out a

practical code of your own and live by it.'

I thought about his words and felt warm and good inside. 'Amoral little wretch

-'Father knew me so well.

'What code should I follow, Father?'

'You have to pick your own.'

'The Ten Commandments?'

'You know better than that. The Ten Commandments are for lame brains. The first five

are solely for the benefit of the priests and the powers that be; the second five

are half-truths, neither complete nor adequate.'

'All right, teach me about the second five. How should they read?'

'Not on your tintype, lazy bones; you've got to do it yourself.' He stood up

suddenly, dumping me off his lap and almost landing me on my bottom. This was a

running game with us. If I moved fast, I could land on my feet. If not, it was one

point to him.

'Analyse the Ten Commandments,' he ordered. 'Tell me how they should read. In the

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meantime, if I hear just once more that you have lost your temper, then when your

mother sends you to discuss the matter with me, you had better have your McGuffey's

Reader tucked inside your bloomers.'

'Father, you wouldn't.'

'Just try me, carrot top, just try me. I will enjoy spanking you.'

An empty threat - He never spanked me once I was old enough to understand why I was

being scolded. But even before then he had never spanked me hard enough to hurt my

bottom. Just my feelings.

Mother's punishments were another matter. The high justice was Father's bailiwick;

Mother handled the low and middle - with a peach switch. Ouch!

Father spoiled me rotten.

I had four brothers and four sisters - Edward, born in I876; Audrey in'78; Agnes in

i88o; Tom,'8i; in'8z I carne along; Frank was born in I884, then Beth in'92;

Lucille,'94; George in I897 - and I took up more of Father's time than any three of

my siblings. Maybe four. Looking back on it, I can't sec that he made himself more

available to me than he did to any of my brothers and sisters. But it certainly

worked out that I spent more time with my father.

Two ground-floor rooms in our house were Father's clinic and surgery; I spent a lot

of my free time there as I was fascinated by his books. Mother did not think I

should read them, medical books being filled with things that ladies simply should

not delve into. Unladylike. Immodest.

Father said to her, 'Mrs Johnson, the few errors in those books I will point out to

Maureen. As for the far more numerous and much more important truths, I am pleased

that Maureen wants to learn them. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make

you free." John, eight, verse thirty two.'

Mother set her mouth in a grim line and did not answer. For her the Bible was the

final word... whereas Father was a freethinker, a fact he did not admit even to me

at that time. But Father knew the Bible more thoroughly than Mother did and could

always quote a verse to refute her - a most unfair way to argue, it seems to me, but

an advantage he needed in dealing with her. Mother was strong-willed.

They disagreed on many things But they had rules that let them live together without

bloodshed. Not only live together but share a bed and have baby after baby together.

A miracle.

I think Father set most of the rules. At that time and place it was taken for

granted that a husband was head of his household and must be obeyed. You may not

believe this but the wedding ceremony in those days required the bride to promise to

obey her husband - in everything and forever.

If I know my mother (I don't, really), she didn't keep that promise more than thirty

minutes.

But they worked out practical compromises.

Mother bossed the household. Father's domain was his clinic and surgery, and the

barn and outbuildings and matters pertaining thereto. Father controlled all money

matters. Each month he gave Mother a household allowance that she spent as she saw

fit. But he required her to keep a record of how she spent it, bookkeeping that

Father examined each month.

Breakfast was at seven, dinner at noon, supper at six; if Father's medical practice

caused him to need to eat at other times, he notified mother - ahead of time if

possible. But the family sat down on time.

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If Father was present, he held Mother's chair for her; she thanked him, he then sat

down and the rest of us followed. He said grace, morning, noon, and night. In

Father's absence my brother Edward seated Mother and she said grace. Or she might

direct one of us to return thanks, for practice. Then we ate, and misbehaviour at

the table was only one notch below high treason. But a child did not have to sit and

squirm and wait for the grown-ups after he was through eating; he could ask to be

excused, then leave the table. He could not return even if he discovered that he had

made a horrible mistake such as forgetting that it was a dessert night. (But Mother

would relent and allow that child to eat dessert in the kitchen... if he had not

teased or whined.)

The day my eldest sister Audrey entered high school Father added to the protocol: he

held Mother's chair as usual. Once she was seated Mother said, 'Thank you, Doctor.'

Then Edward, two years older than Audrey, held her chair for her and seated her just

after Mother was seated: Mother said, 'What do you say, Audrey?'

'I did say it, Mama:

'Yes, she did, Mother.'

'I did not hear it.'

'Thank you, Eddie.'

'You're welcome, Aud.'

Then the rest of us sat down.

Thereafter, as each girl entered high school, the senior available boy was

conscripted into the ceremony.

On Sundays, dinner was at one because everyone but Father went to Sunday School and

everyone including Father went to morning church.

Father stayed out of the kitchen. Mother never entered the clinic and surgery even

to clean. That cleaning was done by a hired girl, or by one of my sisters, or (once

I was old enough) by me.

By unwritten rules, never broken, my parents lived in peace. I think their friends

thought of them as an ideal couple and of their offspring as 'those nice Johnson

children'.

Indeed I think we were a happy family, all nine of us children and our parents.

Don't think for a minute that we lived under such strict discipline that we did not

Nave fun. We had loads of fun, both at home and away.

But we made our own fun, mostly. I recall a time, many years later, when American

children seemed to be unable to amuse themselves without a fortune in electrical and

electronic equipment. We had no fancy equipment and did not miss it. By then, i89o

more or less, Mr Edison had invented the electric light and Professor Bell had

invented the telephone but these modern miracles had not reached Thebes, in Lyle

County, Missouri. As for electronic toys the word `electron' had yet to be coined.

But my brothers had sleds and wagons and we girls had dolls and toy sewing machines

and we had many indoor games in joint tenancy-dominoes and draughts and chess and

jackstraws and lotto and pigs-in-clover and anagrams...

We played outdoor games that required no equipment, or not much. We had a variation

of baseball called 'scrub' which could be played by three to eighteen players plus

the volunteer efforts of dogs, cats, and one goat.

We had other livestock: from one to four horses, depending on the year; a Guernsey

cow named Clytemnestra; chickens (usually Rhode Island Reds); guinea fowl, ducks

(white domestic), rabbits from time to time, and (one season only) a sow named

Gumdrop. Father sold Gumdrop when it developed that we were unwilling to eat pigs we

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had helped raise. Not that we needed to raise pigs; Father was more likely to

receive fees in smoked ham or a side of bacon than he was to be paid in money.

We all fished and the boys hunted. As soon as each boy was old enough (ten, as I

recall') to handle a rifle, Father taught him to shoot, a .22 at first. He taught

them to hunt, too, but I did not see it; girls were not included. I did not mind

that (I refused to have anything to do with skinning and gutting bunny rabbits, that

being their usual game) but I did want to learn to shoot... and made the mistake of

saying so in Mother's hearing. She exploded.

Father told me quietly, 'We'll discuss it later.'

And we did. About a year later, when it was established that I sometimes drove

Father on country calls, unbeknownst to Mother he started taking along in the back

of his buggy under gunny sacks a little single-shot .22... and Maureen was taught to

shoot... and especially how not to get shot, all the rules of firearm safety. Father

was a patient teacher who demanded perfection.

Weeks later he said, 'Maureen, if you will remember what we taught you, it may cause

you to live longer. I hope so. We won't tackle pistol this year; your hands aren't

yet big enough.'

We young folks owned the whole outdoors as our playground. We picked wild

blackberries and went nutting for black walnuts and searched for pawpaws and

persimmons. We went on hikes and picnics. Eventually, as each of us grew taller and

began to feel new and wonderful yearnings, we used the outdoors for courting -

'sparking', we called it.

Our family was forever celebrating special days - eleven birthdays, our parents'

wedding anniversary, Christmas, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, Washington's

birthday, Easter, Valentine's Day, the Fourth of July (a double celebration, it

being my birthday), and Admission Day on the tenth of August. Best of all was the

county fair - 'best' because Father drove in the harness races (and warned his

patients not to get sick that week - or see Dr Chadwick, his exchange). We sat in

the stands and cheered ourselves hoarse... although Father seldom finished in the

money. Then came Halloween and Thanksgiving, which brings us up to Christmas again.

That's a full month of special days, every one of them celebrated with noisy

enthusiasm.

And there were non-special days when we sat around the dining table and picked the

meats from walnuts as fast as Father and Edward could crack them, while Mother or

Audrey read aloud from the Leatherstocking Tales or Ivanhoe or Dickens - or we made

popcorn, or popcorn balls (sticky all over everything!), or fudge, or we gathered

around the piano and sang while Mother played, and that was best of all.

There were winters when we had a spell-down every night because Audrey was going for

it seriously. She walked around with McGuffey's speller under one arm and Webster's

American Spelling Book under the other, her lips moving and her eyes blank. She

always won the family drills; we expected that; family competition was usually

between Edward and me for second place.

Audrey made it: first place in Thebes Consolidated Grammar and High School when she

was in Sixth Grade, then the following year she went all the way to Joplin for the

regional - only to lose to a nasty little boy from Rich Hill. But in her freshman

year in high school she won the regional and went on to Jefferson City and won the

gold medal for top speller in Missouri. Mother and Audrey went together to the state

capital for the finals and the presentation - by stage coach to Butler, by railroad

train to Kansas City, then again by train to Jefferson City. I could have been

jealous - of Audrey's travel, not of her gold medal - had it not been that by then I

was about to go to Chicago (but that's another story).

Audrey was welcomed back with a brass band, the one that played at the county fair,

specially activated off-season to honour 'Thebes' Favourite Daughter' (so it said on

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a big banner), 'Audrey Adele Johnson', Audrey cried. So did I.

I remember especially one hot July afternoon - 'Cyclone weather,' Father decided,

and, sure enough, three twisters did touch down that day, one quite close to our

house.

We were safe; Father had ordered us into the storm cellar as soon as the sky

darkened, and bad helped Mother down the steps most carefully - she was carrying

again... my little sister Beth it must have been. We sat down there for three hours,

by the light of a barn lantern, and drank lemonade and ate Mother's sugar cookies,

thick and floury and filling.

Father stood at the top of the steps with the slant door open, until a piece of the

Ritters barn came by.

At which point, Mother was shrill with him (for the only time that I know of in the

presence of children). 'Doctor! You come inside at once! I will not be widowed just

to let you prove to yourself that you can stand up to anything!'

Father came down promptly, fastening the slant door behind him. 'Madam,' he stated,

'as always your logic is irrefutable.'

There were hayrides with young people of our own age, usually with fairly tolerant

chaperonage; there were skating parties on the Marais des Cygnes; there were Sunday

School picnics, and church ice-cream socials, and more and more. Happy times do not

come from fancy gadgets; they come from 'male and female created He them,' and from

being healthy and filled with zest for life.

The firm discipline we lived under was neither onerous nor unreasonable; none of it

was simply for the sterile purpose of having rules. Outside the scope of those

necessary rules we were as free as birds.

Older children helped with younger children, with defined responsibilities. AI] of

us had assigned chores, from about age six, on up. The assignments were written down

and checked off-and in later years I handled my own brood (larger than my mother's)

by her rules. Hers were sensible rules; they had worked for her; they would work for

me.

Oh, my rules were not exactly like my mother's rules because our circumstances were

not exactly alike. For example, a major chore for my brothers was sawing and chopped

wood; my sons did not chop wood because our home in Kansas City was heated by a coal

furnace. But they did tend the furnace, fill the coal bin (coal was delivered to the

kerb, followed by the backbreaking chore of carrying ir a bucket at a time to a

chute that led to the coal bin), and clean out the ashes and haul them up the

basement stairs and out.

There were other differences. My boys did not have to carry water for baths; in

Kansas City we had running water. And so forth... My sons worked as hard as my

brothers had, but differently. A city house with electricity and gas and a coal

furnace does not create anything like the heavy chores that a country house in the

Gay Nineties did. The house I was brought up in had no running water, no plumbing of

any sort, no central heating. It was lit by coal-oil lamps and by candles, both

homemade and store-bought, and it was heated by wood stoves: a big baseburner in the

parlour, a drum stove in the clinic, monkey stoves elsewhere. No stoves upstairs...

but grilles ser in the ceilings allowed heated air to reach the upper floor.

Ours was one of the larger houses in town, and possibly the most modern, as Father

was quick to adopt any truly useful new invention as soon as it was available. In

this he consciously imitated Mr Samuel Clemens.

Father judged Mr Clemens to be one of the smartest and possibly the smartest man in

America. Mr Clemens was seventeen years older than Father; he first became aware of

'Mark Twain' with the Jumping Frog story. From that time on Father read everything

by Mr Clemens he could lay hands on.

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The year I was born Father wrote to Mr Clemens, complimenting him on A Tramp Abroad.

Mr Clemens sent a courteous and dryly humorous answer; Father framed it and hung it

on the wall of his clinic. Thereafter Father wrote to Mr Clemens as each new book by

'Mark Twain' appeared. As a direct result, young Maureen read all of Mr Clemens'

published works, curled up in a corner of her father's clinic. These were not books

that Mother read; she considered them vulgar and destructive of good morals. By her

values Mother was correct; Mr Clemens was clearly subversive by the standards of all

'right-thinking' people.

I am forced to assume that Mother could spot an immoral book by its odour, as she

never, never actually read anything by Mr Clemens.

So those books stayed in the clinic and I devoured them there, along with other

books never seen in the parlour-not just medical books, but such outright subversion

as the lectures of Colonel Robert Ingersoll and (best of all) the essays of Thomas

Henry Huxley.

I'll never forget the afternoon I read Professor Huxley's essay on 'The Gaderene

Swine'.

'Father,' I said in deep excitement, 'they've lied to us all along!'

'Probably,' he agreed. 'What are you reading?'

I told him. `Well, you've read enough of it for today; Professor Huxley is strong

medicine. Let's talk for a while.

How are you doing with the Ten Commandments? Got your final version?'

`Maybe,' I answered.

`How many are there now?'

'Sixteen, I think.'

`Too many.'

`If you would just let me chuck the first five -'

`Not while you're under my roof and eating at my table. You see me attending church

and singing hymns, do you not? I don't even sleep during the sermon. Maureen,

rubbing blue mud in your belly button is an indispensable survival skill...

everywhere, anywhere. Let's hear your latest version of the first five.'

'Father, you are a horrid man and you will come to a bad end.'

'Not as long as I can keep dodging them. Quit stalling.'

`Yes, sir. First Commandment: Thou shalt pay public homage to the god favoured by

the majority without giggling or even smiling behind your hand.'

'Go on.'

'Thou shalt not make any graven image of a sort that could annoy the powers that be,

especially Mrs Grundy - and, exempli gratia, this is why your anatomy book doesn't

show the clitoris. Mrs Grundy wouldn't like it because she doesn't have one.'

`Or possibly has one the size of a banana,' my father answered, 'but doesn't want

anyone to find out. Censorship is never logical but, like cancer, it is dangerous to

ignore it when it shows up. Darling daughter, the purpose of the second commandment

is simply to reinforce the first. A "graven image" is any idol that could rival the

official god; it has nothing to do with sculpture or etchings. Go on.'

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`Thou shalt not take the name of thy Lord God in vain... which means don't swear,

not even Jiminy or Golly or darn, or use any of those four-letter words, or anything

that Mother might consider vulgar. Father, there is something here that doesn't make

sense. Why is "vagina" a good word while "cunt" is a bad word? Riddle me that.'

`Both are bad words out of your mouth, youngster, unless you are talking to me... in

which case you will use the medical Latin out of respect for my vocation and my grey

hair. You are permitted to say the Anglo-Saxon synonym under your breath if it

pleasures you.'

'Somehow it does, and I haven't been able to analyse why. Number four -'

'Just a moment. Add to number three: Thou shalt not split infinitives, or dangle

participles. Thou shalt shun solecisms. Thou shalt honour the noble English

language, speech of Shakespeare, Milton and Poe, and it will serve thee all the days

of thy life. In particular, Maureen, if 1 ever again hear you say "different than" I

will beat you about the head and shoulders with an unbated ablative absolute.'

'Father, that was an accident! I meant to -'

'Excuses. Let's hear number four.'

'Commandment number four. Go to church on Sundays. Smile and be pleasant but don't

be too smarmily a hypocrite. Don't let my children, if and when I have any, play out

in front on Sunday or make too much noise out the back. Support the church by deeds

and money but not too conspicuously.'

'Maureen, that's well put. You'll be a preacher's wife yet.'

'Oh, God, Father, I'd rather be a whore!'

'The two are not incompatible. Continuez, ma chère enfante.'

'Mais oui, mon cher papa. Honour thy father and thy mother where anyone can see you.

But once you leave home, live your own life. Don't let them lead you around by the

nose. Mon papa, you phrased that one yourself... and I don't like it much. I do

honour you, because I want to. And I don't have anything against Mother; we just

don't sing in the same key. But I'm grateful to her.'

'Avoid gratitude, my dear; it can sour your stomach. After you marry and I'm dead,

are you going to invite Adele to move in with you?'

'Uh -' I stopped, unable to answer.

'Think about it. Think it through carefully, in advance... because any answer you

make in a hurry while my grave is still fresh is certain to be a wrong answer. Next

item:

'Thou shalt not commit murder. "Murder" means killing somebody wrongfully. Other

sorts of killing come in several flavours and each sort must be analysed. I'm still

working on this one, Father.'

So am I. Just bear in mind that a person who eats meat is on the same moral level as

the butcher.'

'Yes, sir. Thou shalt not get caught committing adultery... and that means don't get

pregnant, don't catch a social disease, don't let Mrs Grundy even suspect you, and

above all don't let your spouse find out; it would make him most unhappy... and he

could divorce you. Father, I don't think I would ever be tempted by adultery. If God

had intended a woman to have more than one man he would have supplied more men...

instead of just enough to go around.'

`Who intended? I didn't catch the name.'

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'I said "God" but you know what I mean!'

`I do indeed. You are indulging in theology; I would rather see you take laudanum.

Maureen, when anyone talks about God's will or God's intentions or Nature's

intentions if he is afraid to say "God", I know at once that he is selling a gold

brick. To himself, in some cases, as you were just doing. To read a moral law into

the fact that about as many males are born as females is to make too much stew from

one oyster; it's as slippery as Post hoc, propter hoc.

`As for your belief that you will never be tempted, here you are, barely dry behind

the ears and only a year past first onset of menses... and you think you know all

there is to know about the perils of sex... just as every girl your age throughout

history has thought. So go right ahead. Jump the fence with your eyes closed. Break

your husband's heart and ruin his pride. Shame your children. Be a scandal in the

public square. Get your tubes filed with pus, then let some butcher cut them out in

some dirty back room with no ether. Go right ahead, Maureen. Count the world well

lost for love. For that's what sloppy adultery can get you: the world lost all right

and an early grave and children who will never speak your name.'

`But, Father, I was saying that I must shun adultery; it's too dangerous. I think I

can manage it.' I smiled at him and recited:

'"There was a young lady named Wilde - "'

Father picked it up:

` "Who kept herself quite undefiled

By thinking of Jesus,

Contagious diseases,

And the dangers of having a child."

`Yes, I know; I taught you that limerick. Maureen, you failed to mention the safest

route to prudent adultery. Yet I know that you've heard of it; I mentioned it the

day I tried to give you an estimate of the amount of fence jumping going on in this

county.'

`I must have missed it, Father.'

`I know I mentioned it. If you've just gotta - and the day might come - tell your

husband what is biting you, ask his permission, ask for his help, ask him to stand

jigger for you.'

'Oh! Yes, you did tell me about two couples like that here in our county... but I

could never figure out who they are.'

'I didn't intend you to. So I threw in a few false clues.'

'I discounted for that, sir, knowing you. But I still couldn't guess. Father, that

seems so undignified. And wouldn't, uh, my husband be terribly angry?'

'He might give you a fat lip; he won't divorce you for asking. Then he might help

you anyhow, on the sound theory that you would get into worse trouble if he says No.

And -' Father gave a most evil grin,` - he might discover he enjoys the role.'

`Father, I find that I'm shocked.'

`Then, get over it. Complacent husbands are common throughout history; there is a

lot of voyeur in everyone... especially in males but females weren't left out. He

might jump at the chance to help you... because you helped him just that way, six

weeks earlier. Stood lookout for him and that young schoolteacher, then you lied

like a diploma to cover up for them. Next commandment.'

`Wait a minute, please! I want to talk about this one some more. Adultery.'

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'And that is just what I'm not going to let you do. You think about it but not a

word out of you on this subject for at least two weeks. Next.'

'Thou shalt not steal. I couldn't improve that one, Father.'

'Would you steal to feed a baby?'

'Uh, yes.'

'Think about other exceptions; we'll discuss it in a year or two. But it is a good

general rule. But why won't you steal? You're smart; you can probably get away with

stealing all your life. Why won't you do it?'

'Don't grunt.'

'Father, you're infuriating! I don't steal because I'm too stinking' proud!'

'Exactly! Perfect. For the same reason you don't cheat in school, or cheat in games.

Pride. Your own concept of yourself. "To thine own self be true, and then it follows

as the night from day -" '

'"- thou canst not then be false to any man." Yes, sir.'

'But you dropped the "g" from the participle. Repeat it and this time pronounce it

correctly: You don't steal because -'

'I am too... stinking... proud!'

'Good. A proud self-image is the strongest incentive you can have towards correct

behaviour. Too proud to steal, too proud to cheat, too proud to take candy from

babies or to push little ducks into water. Maureen, a moral code for the tribe must

be based on survival for the tribe... but for the individual correct behaviour in

the tightest pinch is based on pride, nor on personal survival. This is why a

captain goes down with his ship; this is why "The Guard dies but does not

surrender". A person who has nothing to die for has nothing to live for. Next

commandment.'

Simon Legree. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour. Until you

corrupted me -'

'Who corrupted whom? I am the epitome of moral rectitude... because I know exactly

why I behave as I do. When I started in on you, you had no morals of any sort and

your behaviour was as naively shameless as that of a kitten trying to cover up on a

bare floor.'

'Yes, sir. As I was saying, until you corrupted me, I thought the ninth commandment

meant: Don't tell lies. But all it says is, if you have to go into court and be a

witness, then you have to tell the truth.'

'It says more than that.'

'Yes. You pointed out that it was a special case of a general theorem. I think the

general case ought to read: Don't tell lies that can hurt other people -'

'Close enough.'

'Father, you didn't let me finish.'

'Oh. Maureen, I beg your pardon. Please go on:

'I said, "Don't tell lies that can hurt other people" but I intended to add, "- but

since you can't guess ahead of time what harm your lies may do, the only safe rule

is not to tell any lies at all." '

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Father said nothing for quite a long time. At last he said, 'Maureen, this one we

will not dispose of in an afternoon. A liar is worse to have around than a thief...

yet I would rather cope with a liar than with a person who takes self-righteous

pride in telling the truth, all of the truth and all of the time, let the chips fall

where they may - meaning "No matter who is hurt by it, no matter what innocent life

is ruined." Maureen, a person who takes smug pride in telling the blunt truth is a

sadist not a saint. There are many sorts of lies, untruths, fibs, nonfactual

statements, et cetera. As an exercise to stretch the muscles of your mind -'

'The mind has no muscles.'

'Smarty. Don't teach Grandma how to steal sheep. Your mind has no muscles and that's

what I'm trying to correct. Try to categorise logically the varieties of not-true

statements. Having done so, try to decide when and where each sort may be used

morally, if at all... and if not, why not. That should keep you out of mischief for

the next fourteen, fifteen months.'

'Oh, Father, you´re so good to me!'

'Stop the sarcasm or I'll paddle your pants. Bring me a preliminary report in a

month or six weeks.'

`Thy will be done. Papa, I do have one special case. "Don't tell fibs to Mother lest

thy mouth be washed out with lye soap." '

'Correction: "Don't tell any fibs to your mother that she can catch you in." If you

ever told her the ungarnished truth about our private talks, I would have to leave

home. If you catch Audrey spooning with that unlikely young cub who's been calling

on her, what are you going to tell your mother?'

Father took me by surprise on that one. I had indeed caught Audrey spooning... and I

had an uneasy suspicion that there had been something more than spooning - and it

worried me. 'I won't tell Mother anything!'

'That's a good answer. But what are you going to tell me? You know that I don't have

your mother's moralistic and puritanical attitudes about sex, and you know - I hope

you do - that I won't use anything you tell me to punish Audrey but to help her. So

what do you-tell your father?'

I felt walls closing in on me, caught between loyalty to Father and my love for my

oldest sister, who had always helped me and been good to me. 'I... I will... I won't

tell you a durn thing!'

'Hooraw! You took the hurdle without even ticking the top rail. Dead right, dear

one; we don't tell tales out of school, we don't confess on behalf of someone else.

But don't say "durn". If you need it, say "damn".'

'Yes, sir. I won't tell you a damn thing about Audrey and her young man.' (And, dear

Lord if there is one, don't let my sister get pregnant; Mother would have fits and

pray over her and all would be terrible. Thy will be done... but not too much of it.

Maureen Johnson. Amen.)

'Let's deal with number ten quickly, then move on to the ones Moses neglected to

bring down the mountain. Ten doesn't seem to be a problem to you. Coveted anything

lately?'

`I don't think I have. Why is there a rule against coveting your neighbour's wife

but not a word about not coveting your neighbour's husband? Was it an oversight on

Jehovah's part? Or was it truly open-season on husbands in those days?'

'I don't know, Maureen. T suspect that it was simply conceit on the part of some

ancient Hebrews who could not imagine their wives wanting to jump the fence when

they had such virile heroes at home. The Old Testament doesn't place women very

high; it starts right out with Adam putting all the blame on Mother Eve... then it

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gets worse. But here in Lyle County, Missouri, we do have a rule against it... and

if any wife catches you making eyes at her husband here, she is likely to scratch

out your pretty green eyes.'

'I don't intend to let her catch me. But suppose it's the other way. Suppose he

covets me, or seems to. Suppose he pinches my bottom?'

`Well, well! Who was he, Maureen? Who is he?'

'Hypothetical case, mon cher père.'

`Very well. If he hypothetically does it again, you may hypothetically respond in

several hypothetical fashions. You may hypothetically ignore him, pretend to a

hypothetical lack of sensation in your gluteus maximus sinister - or is he

left-handed?'

`I don't know:'

'Or you can hypothetically whisper, "Don't do that here. Meet me after church." '

`Father!'

`You brought it up. Or, if it suits you, you may hypothetically warn him that one

more hypothetical pinch will be reported to your hypothetical father who owns both a

hypothetical horsewhip and a hypothetical shot-gun. You may say this most

privately-or shout it loudly enough for the congregation and his hypothetical wife

to hear it. Lady's choice. Wait one moment. You did say "husband", did you not?'

`I did not say. But that was assumed in the hypothesis, I suppose.'

'Maureen, a pinch on the bottom is an expression of direct intent. Encouraged, it

leads in three short steps to copulation. You are young but you are physically a

mature woman capable of pregnancy. Is it your intention to assume full womanhood in

the immediate future?'

Chapter 3 - The Serpent in the Garden

Father's question as to whether or not I was thinking about getting rid of my

virginity upset me because I had been thinking about nothing else for weeks. Months,

maybe. So I answered, 'Of course not! Father, how could you think such a thing?'

'Meeting's adjourned.'

'Sir?'

'I thought we had cured you of that sort of trivial fibbing. I sec we have not, so

quit wasting my time. Come back when you feel the need for serious discussion.' He

swivelled his chair around to face his desk and raised its roll top.

'Father -'

'Eh? Haven't you left?'

'Please, sir. I have been thinking about it all the time.'

'Thinking about what?'

'That. Losing my virginity. Breaking my maidenhead.'

He glowered at me. '"Hymen" is the medical term, as you know. "Maidenhead" is from

that list of Anglo-Saxon synonyms, although it doesn't carry quite the curse that

the shorter ones do. But don't talk about "losing" anything, when in fact you will

be achieving your birthright, that supreme status of functioning female that your

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biological inheritance makes possible.'

I thought about his words. 'Father, you make it sound so desirable that I should run

right out at once and find someone to help me break my hymen. Now. Right away. So,

if you will excuse me?' I started to stand up.

'Whoa! Steady there! If that is your intention, it won't hurt to wait ten minutes.

Maureen, if you were a heifer, I would say that you are ready to be serviced. But

you are not; you are a human maiden faced by a world of human men and women, in a

complex and often cruel culture. I think that you will be better off if you wait a

year or two. You could even go virgin to your marriage bed - although, as a

physician, I know that does not happen too often these modern days. But - what's the

eleventh commandment?'

'Don't get caught.'

'Where do I hide the French purses?'

'Lower right-hand drawer, and the key is in the top left pigeonhole, all the way

back.'

I did not do it that day, or that week. Or that month. But it was not many months

thereafter.

I did it about ten o'clock in the morning on a balmy day the first week of June

1897, just four weeks before my fifteenth birthday. The place I picked was the floor

of the judges' stand at the race track in the county fairgrounds, with a folded

horse blanket to pad the bare boards. I knew the area because I had sat up in that

judges' stand on many a frosty morning, clocking Father's practice miles, my eyes

lined up on the wire and his fat stopwatch in my hand - I had needed both hands to

handle that big watch when I had first done this, at six. That was the year that

Father bought Loafer, a black stallion sired by the sire of Maud S. - but (sadly!)

not as fast as his famous half-sister.

In June of 1897 I went there prepared, resolved to do it, with a condom (a 'French

purse') in my handbag, and a sanitary napkin - homemade, but all of them were in

those days - as I knew that I might bleed and, if anything went wrong, I would have

to convince my mother that I was simply three days early that month.

My partner in this 'crime' was a high school classmate, a boy named Chuck Perkins, a

year older and almost a foot taller than I. I was not even in puppy love with him,

but we pretended that we were (perhaps he was not pretending, but how is a girl to

know?) and we had been progressively seducing each other all that school year -

Chuck was the first man (boy) with whom I opened my mouth to a kiss... and from that

I formulated another 'commandment': 'Open thy mouth only if thou planned to open thy

limbs' - for I discovered that I liked it.

How I liked it! Chuck's mouth was sweet; he did not smoke, he kept his teeth clean

and they were as sound as my own teeth, and his tongue was sweet and loving against

mine. At later times I encountered (too often!) men who did not keep their mouths

and breaths sweet... and I did not open my mouth. Or anything.

To this day I am convinced that tongue kissing is more intimate than coition.

In preparing for this meeting I had followed also my fourteenth commandment: `Thou

shalt keep thy secret places as clean as a boiled egg lest thou stink in church,' to

which my lusty father had added '- and to hold thy husband's love when thou cachet

one.' (I told him I had figured that out.)

Keeping really clean in a house not supplied with running water and too well

supplied with running children is not easy. But I had worked out expedients from the

time Father had warned me some years earlier. One expedient was to sneak in extra

washing behind a locked door in Father's surgery. One of my duties was to place a

pitcher of hot water in the surgery each morning and again after lunch, and to

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refill that pitcher as needed. This put me in position to-do washing that Mother did

not know about. Mother believed that 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness' - but I did

not dare give her ideas by letting her catch me giving myself extra scrubbing in

places I was supposed to be ashamed to touch; Mother didn't approve of too much

washing of 'those places' as it could lead to 'immodest behaviour'. (It certainly

could!)

At the fairgrounds we left Chuck's horse and buggy in one of the big empty barns,

with a nosebag of oats to keep him happy, then we climbed up into the judges' stand.

I led the way, up the back stairs, then up a vertical ladder through the roof of the

grandstand and to a trap door in the floor of the judges' stand. I tucked up my

skirts, and climbed the ladder ahead of Chuck, and I delighted in the scandalous

display I was making of myself. Oh, Chuck had seen my legs before but men always

like to peek.

Once we were both inside the stand I had Chuck close the trap door and drag a heavy

box over it - heavy with weights used in racing.

'Now they can't possibly reach us,' I said gleefully, turned, got a key from a

ditching place over a locker and opened its padlock.

'But they can see us, Mo. This front side is wide open.'

'Who cares? Just don't stand in front of the judges' bench. If you can't see them,

they can't see you.'

'Mo, are you sure you want to do this?'

'Isn't that why we carne up here? Here, help me spread this blanket. We'll use it

doubled. The judges spread it along the bench to protect their tender behinds. It

will keep splinters out of my tender behind, and out of your knees.'

Chuck didn't say a word as we made our 'bed'. I straightened up and looked at him.

He did not look like a man about to achieve a joyful consummation long desired; he

looked like a scared little boy.

'Charles... are you sure you want to?'

He looked sheepish. 'It's bright sunlight, Mo. This is awfully public. Maybe we

could find a quiet place on the Osage?'

'Chiggers and mosquitoes and youngsters hunting muskrats. And they'll pop up just

when we're busiest. No, thank you, sir. But, Charles - Charles dear - I thought we

were agreed on this? I certainly don't want to rush you into anything. Would you

mind cancelling the trip to Butler?' (A shopping trip to Butler was my excuse to my

parents for asking Chuck to drive me that morning - Butler was not much bigger than

Thebes, but it had much better shopping. Bennett and Wheeler Mercantile Company was

six times as big as our biggest general store. They even stocked Paris styles - or

so they claimed.)

'Why, no, Mo, if you don't want to go.'

'Then would you mind swinging past Richard Heiser's house? I need to speak to him.'

(Chuck, I'm smiling and speaking gently... but I would like to massage you with a

basebali bar!)

'Uh - Something wrong, Mo?'

'Yes and no. You know why we came up here. If you don't want my cherry, well,

Richard let me know that he wanted it.

I didn't promise him anything... but I did tell him that I would think about it.' I

looked up at Chuck and then dropped my eyes. 'And I did think about it and decided

you were the one I wanted... had wanted ever since that time you took me up the bell

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tower. The school Easter party. You know. But, Charles, if you've changed your

mind... I still don't intend to let the sun set with me still a virgin. So will you

drive me to Richard's house?'

Cruel? Not truly so. A few minutes later I delivered what I had promised. But men

are far more timid than we are; sometimes the only way you can get one to move is by

placing him in sharpest competition with another male. Even a tabby cat knows that.

(By 'timid' I do not mean 'cowardly'. A man - what I think of as a man - can face

death calmly. But looking ridiculous... such as being surprised in copulation... can

distress him to his marrow.)

'I haven't changed my mind!' Charles was most emphatic.

I gave him my sunniest smile and opened my arms to him. 'Then come here and kiss me

like you mean it!'

He did, and we both caught fire again. (His backing and filling had cooled me.) At

that time I had never heard the word 'orgasm' - I am not sure it had been coined by

1897 - but I had done some private experimenting and I knew that it was possible for

something strongly resembling fireworks to happen inside me. By the end of that kiss

I felt myself getting close to that point.

I pulled my face away just far enough to murmur against his lips, 'Dear Charles.

I'll take off all my clothes... if you want me to.'

'Huh? Jeepers, yes!'

'All right. Do you want to undress me?'

He undressed me, or tried to, while I unfastened ail the snaps and buttons and ties

ahead of him. In a few moments I was bare as a frog and ready to burst into flame. I

happily struck a pose I had practised and let him look. He stared and caught his

breath; I felt a fine tingle deep inside me.

Then I closed in on him and started unfastening his buttons and things. He was shy

and I didn't push it. But I did get him to take off his trousers and drawers. I put

them on top of mine on the box over the trap door, then sank down on the blankets.

'Charles -'

'Coming!'

'You have a safe?'

`A what?'

'A Merry Widow.'

'Oh. Gee, Mo, there isn't any way I can buy them. I'm only sixteen. Pop Green is the

only one who sells them... and he won't unless you're either married or over

twenty-one.' The poor dear looked quite woebegone.

I said quietly, 'And we aren't married, and don't want to have to get married - not

the way Joe and Amelia had to - my mother would have a fit. But... Quit looking grim

and hand me my bag.'

He did so, and I got out the condom I had fetched.

'There are advantages to being a doctor's daughter, Chuck. I swiped this while I was

cleaning Father's clinic. Let's see how it fits.' (I wanted to check something else.

Having become so acutely conscious of my own cleanliness I had become quite critical

of cleanliness in others. Some of my classmates, both sexes, could have used

Father's advice and some hot soapy water.)

(I'm a decadent today. The best aspect of Boondock aside from its gender customs is

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its wonderful plumbing!)

Chuck looked clean and smelled clean - scrubbed as recently as I was, was my guess.

A whiff of male musk, but fresh. Even at that age I had learned the difference.

I felt happy and gay. How sweet of him to offer me such a well-kept toy! It was just

inches from my face. I suddenly ducked and planted a quick kiss on it.

'Hey!' Charles almost squealed.

'Did I shock you, dear? It was just so pretty and sweet that I felt like kissing it.

I didn't mean to shock you.' (No, but I do want to find your shock point.)

'I wasn't shocked. Uh... I liked it.'

`Cross your heart and shame the Devil?'

'Yes, indeed!'

'Good.' I waited while he got ready. 'Now, Charles. Take me.'

I was clumsy and inexperienced but nevertheless I had to guide him - gently, as his

pride had already been hurt once. Charles was even less skilled than I. Probably

what he knew of sex came from barber shops and pool halls and behind barns - the

ignorant boasts of bachelor males... whereas I had been taught by an old and wise

medical doctor who loved me and wanted me to be happy.

I had in my purse a patent medicine, 'Vaseline', to use as a lubricant if I needed

it. Not necessary! -1 was as slippery as boiled flaxseed.

In spite of that - `Charles! Please, dear! Take it easy. Not so fast:

'But I ought to go fast, first push, Mo. It'll hurt you less. Everybody knows that.'

'Charles, I'm not "everybody°; I'm me. Take it slowly and it won't hurt me at all. I

think.' I felt eager, terribly excited, and wanted him deep inside me -but he did

feel bigger than I had expected. If didn't really hurt. Or not much. But I knew it

could hurt plenty if we did this too fast.

Dear Charles did hold still, his face intent. I bit my lip and tried. And again. At

last be was firmly against me and all of him that could reach was inside me.

I relaxed and smiled up at him. 'There! That's just fine, dear. Now move if you want

to. Do it!'

But I had taken too long. He grinned, then I felt a couple of quick twitches and he

stopped smiling and looked distressed. He bad spent.

So there weren't any fireworks for Maureen that first trip, and not much for

Charles. But I wasn't too disappointed; my prime purpose had been achieved; I was no

longer a virgin. I made note to ask Father about how to make it last longer - I was

certain that I could have reached those fireworks had I been able to stretch it out

a little longer. Then I put it out of my mind and was happy with what I had

accomplished.

And started a custom that stood me in good stead for a long lifetime: I smiled up at

him and said softly, `Thank you, Charles. You were splendid.'

(Men don't expect to be thanked for it. And at that moment a man is always willing

to believe any sort of compliment... most especially if he hasn't really earned it

and is uneasily aware of his shortcoming. To thank him and compliment him is an easy

investment that pays high dividends. Believe me, sister mine!)

'Gosh, Maureen. You're swell:

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'You are, too, Chuck sweetheart: I hugged him, arms and legs, then relaxed and

added, 'Maybe we had better get up. This floor is hard, even with a doubled blanket'

Charles was quiet while he drove us on into Butler - not at all the suave Don Juan

who has just relieved a maiden of that which enriched her not. I was encountering

for the first time that tristesse that some males have after intercourse... while I

myself was bubblingly happy. I no longer minded that I had missed climax - if I had;

I was not sure. Maybe those 'fireworks' were something one could do only by oneself.

We had gotten away with it cold and I felt very grown up. I sat up straight and

enjoyed the beautiful day. 1 didn't hurt, not enough to matter.

I think men often feel buffeted by sex. They have so much to lose and we often give

them little choice. I am minded of a very odd case that involved one of my

grandchildren - how he was pushed around by late and his first wife.

It involved our cat Pixel, too, at that time a small kitten, all fuzz and buzzes.

My grandson, Colonel Campbell, son of my son Woodrow who is also my husband

Theodore, but don't let that worry you; Woodrow and Theodore are both Lazarus Long,

who is an odd one in any universe - don't let me forget to tell about the time that

Lazarus quite unintentionally got three women pregnant at once, a grandmother, her

daughter, and her granddaughter... and thereby had to make some unusual arrangements

with the Time Corps in order to carry out the first commandment in his own private

decalogue, which is: Never leave a pregnant woman to face her destiny unsupported.

Since Lazarus has been knocking them up over centuries in several universes this has

taken up quite a bit of his time.

Lazarus quite innocently broke his own first commandment with respect to my

grandson's mother, and this mishap resulted indirectly in my grandson marrying my

sister wife, Hazel Stone, who was on leave of absence from our family for that

purpose... for you see (or perhaps you don't) Hazel had to marry Colin Campbell so

that these two could rescue Mycroft Holmes IV, the computer that led the Lunar

Revolution on time line three, code 'Neil Armstrong'. Let's skip the details; it's

all in Encyclopaedia Galacta and other books.

`The operation was a success but the patient died.' It was almost that way. The

computer was saved and is alive and well and happy in Boondock today. All of the

raiding party got away without a scratch... except Colin and Hazel Campbell and the

kitten, Pixel, all of whom were terribly wounded, and were left dying in a cave in

Luna.

I must digress again. In that raiding party was a young officer, Gretchen Henderson,

great-great-granddaughter of my sister wife, Hazel Stone. Gretchen had had a baby

boy four months before this raid, which my grandson knew.

What he did not know was that he was the father of Gretchen's son.

In fact he knew beyond doubt that he had never copulated with Gretchen and knew with

equal certainty that he had left no sperm in any donor bank anywhere/when.

Nevertheless Hazel, dying, had told him firmly that he was the father of Gretchen's

child.

He had asked how; she had answered, 'Paradox.'

A time paradox Colin could understand. He was a member of the Time Corps; he had

been through time loops; he knew that, in a time paradox, it was possible to turn

around and bite oneself in the back of one's own neck.

Therefore he now knew that he was going to inseminate Gretchen somewhere forward on

his own time line; somewhere backward on her time line - the inverted loop paradox.

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But `God helps those who help themselves'. That would happen only if he lived

through this squeeze and made it happen.

When the three were rescued shortly after this revelation, Colin had piled up new

corpses and had been wounded twice more - but all three were still alive. They were

flashed two thousand years into the future to the greatest physicians in any

universe: Ishtar and her staff. My sister wife Ishtar won't let a patient die as

long as the body is warm and the brain is intact. It took some doing, Pixel

especially. The baby creature was held at Kelvin nought point three for several

months while Doctor Bone was fetched from another universe and a dozen of Ishtar's

best including Ishtar herself were put through a crash course in feline medicine,

surgery, physiology, etc. Then they raised Pixel to simple hypothermia, rebuilt him,

brought him to blood temperature and wakened him. So today he is a strong, healthy

tom, still travelling as he pleases and making kittens wherever he goes.

In the meantime Hazel arranged the time loop and Colin encountered and wooed and won

and tumbled and impregnated a somewhat younger Gretchen. So she had her baby, and

later on (by her personal time line) she joined Hazel and Colin in saving the

computer Mycroft Holmes.

But why such extreme effort over a kitten? Why not give a dying kitten the release

he needs to end his pain?

Because, without Pixel and his ability to walk through walls, Mycroft Holmes would

not have been rescued, all of the raiding party would have died, and the future of

the entire human race would have been placed at risk. The chances were so evenly

balanced that in half of the futures they died, in half of them they succeeded. A

few ounces of kitten made the difference. He warned them, with the only word he had

mastered: 'Blert!'

On the way back from Butler Charles had recovered from his postcoital depression; he

wanted to do it again. Well, so did I, but not that day. That buggy ride over dirt

roads had reminded me that what I was sitting on was just a leede tender.

But Charles was raring to go; he wanted an encore right now. `Mo, there is a spot

lust ahead there where we can get a buggy clear off the road and out of sight. Quite

safe.'

`No, Chuck.'

'Why not?'

'It's not perfectly safe; anybody else could pull off there, too. We're late now and

I don't want to have to answer questions today. Not this day. And we don't have

another Merry Widow and that settles it because while I do plan to have children, I

don't want to have them at fifteen.'

'Oh.'

'Quite so. Be patient, dear, and we will do it again... another day, with careful

arrangements... which you might be thinking about. Now take your hand away, please;

there is a rig coming down the road - see the dust?'

Mother did not scold me over being a half-hour late. But she did not press Charles

when he refused her offer of lemonade, on the excuse that he had to get Ned (his

gelding) home and curried and the buggy wiped down because his parents were going to

need it. (A too complex lie - I'm sure he simply did not want to meet Mother's eye,

or be questioned by her. I'm glad Father taught me to avoid fancy lies.)

Mother went upstairs as soon as Chuck left; I went out back.

Two years earlier Father had indulged us in a luxury many of our church members felt

was sinfully wasteful: two outhouses, one for the boys and one for us girls, just

like at school. In fact we truly needed them. That day I was delighted to find the

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girls privy empty. I flipped the bar to lock, and checked up.

Some blood, not much. No problems. Slightly sore, nothing more.

So I sighed with relief and peed and reassembled myself, and went back to the house,

picking up a piece of stove wood for the kitchen as I passed the wood pile - a toll

each of us paid for each trip out back.

I dropped off the wood and stopped in the wash shed adjoining the kitchen, washed my

hands and sniffed them. Clean. just my guilty conscience. I went to the clinic,

stopping only to tousle Lucille's strawberry hair and par her bottom. Lucy was

three, I think - yes, she was born in '94, the year after Father and I went to

Chicago. She was a little doll, always merry. I decided that I wanted one just like

her... but not this year. But soon. I was feeling very female.

I reached the clinic just as Mrs Altschuler was leaving. I spoke politely; she

looked at me and said, 'Audrey, you've been out in the sun without a sunbonnet

again. Don't you know any better than that?'

I thanked her for her interest in my welfare and went on in. According to Father all

she suffered from was constipation and lack of exercise... but she showed up at

least twice a month and had not, since the first of the year, paid a single penny.

Father was a strong man, firm-minded, but not good at collecting money from people

who owed it to him.

Father entered her visit in his book and looked up: 'I'm taking your bishop, young

lady.'

'Sure you don't want to change your mind, sir?'

`No. I may be wrong but I'm certain. Why? Have I made a mistake?'

'I think so, sir. Mate in four moves.'

`Eh?' Father stood up, went over to his chess table. 'Show me.'

'Shall we simply play it out? I may be mistaken:

'Grrummph! You'll be the death of me, girl: He studied the board, then went back to

his desk. 'This will interest you. This morning's mail. From Mr Clemens -'

`Oh, my!'

I remember especially two paragraphs:

I agree with you and the Bard, sir; let's hang them. Hanging its lawyers might not

correct all of this country's woes but it would be lots of fun and could do no harm

to anyone.

Elsewhere I have noted that the Congress is the only distinct criminal class this

country has. It cannot be mere coincidence that ninty-seven per cent of Congress are

lawyers.

Mr Clemens added that his lecture agency had scheduled him for Kansas City next

winter. 'I recall that four years ago we failed to rendezvous in Chicago by a week.

Is it possible that you will be in KC next January?'

'Oh, Father! Could we?'

`School will be in session:

'Father, you know that I made up all time lost by going to Chicago. You know, too,

that I am first among the girls in my class... and could be first including the boys

if you hadn't cautioned me about the inadvisability of appearing too smart. But what

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you may not have noticed is that I have enough credits and could have graduated -'

`-with Tom's class last week. I noticed. We'll work on it. Deus volent and the crick

don't rise. Did you get what you wanted in Butler?'

`I got what I wanted. But not in Butler.'

'Eh?'

'I did it, Father. I am no longer virgin.'

His eyebrows shot up. `You have managed to surprise me.'

'Truly, Father?' (I didn't want him to be angry with me... and I thought that he had

implied long back that he would not be.)

'Truly. Because I thought that you had managed it last Christmas vacation. I have

been waiting the past six months, hoping that you would decide to trust me with it.'

'Sir, I didn't even consider keeping it from you. I depend on you.'

`Thank you. Hmm, Maureen, freshly deflowered, you should be examined. Shall I call

your mother?'

'Oh! Does Mother have to know?'

'Eventually, yes. But you need not have her examining you, if it frets you -'

'It does!'

'In that case, I'll take you over to see Dr Chadwick.'

`Father, why must I see Dr Chadwick? It is a natural event, I was not hurt, and I

feel no need.'

We had a polite argument. Father pointed out that an ethical doctor did not treat

members of his own family, especially his women folk. I answered that I was aware of

that... but that I needed no treatment. And back and forth.

After a bit, having made sure that Mother was upstairs for her nap, Father took me

into the surgery, locked the door, and helped me up on to the table, and I found

myself in much the position for examination that I had been in earlier for Charles,

except that this time I had removed only my bloomers.

I suddenly realised that I had become excited.

I tried to suppress it and hoped that Father would not notice it. Even at fifteen I

was not naive about my unusual and possibly unhealthy relations with my father. As

early as twelve I had had the desert-isle daydream with my father as the other

castaway.

But I also knew how strong the taboo was from the Bible, from classic literature,

and from myth. And I remembered all too well how Father quit letting me sit on his

lap, had stopped it completely and utterly, once I reached menarche.

Father put on a pair of rubber gloves. This was something he had started as a result

of the Chicago trip... which had not been to allow Maureen to enjoy the Columbian

Exposition but to permit Father to attend school at Northwestern University in

Evanston in order to get up to date on Professeur Pasteur's germ theories.

Father had always been strong for soap and water, but he bad had no science to back

up his attitudes. His preceptor, Dr Phillips, had started to practise in. 1850, and

(so said Father) regarded the rumours from France as 'just what you could expect

from a bunch of Frogs.'

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After Father returned from Evanston, nothing ever again could be clean enough to

suit him. He started using rubber gloves, and iodine, and boiling and sometimes

burning used instruments, especially anything used with lockjaw.

Those impersonal clammy rubber gloves cooled me down... but I was embarrassed to

realise that I was quite wet.

I ignored it, Father ignored it. Shortly he helped me down and turned away to strip

off his gloves while I got back into my bloomers. Once I was 'decent' he unlocked

and opened the door.

'Healthy, normal woman,' he said gruffly. 'You should have no trouble bearing

offspring. I recommend that you refrain from intercourse for a few days. I conclude

that you used a French purse. Correct?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. If you will continue to use them... every time!... and are discreet about

your public conduct, you should have no serious problems. Hmm... do you feel up to

another buggy ride?'

'Why, certainly, sir. Is there any reason why I should not?'

'No. Word came in that Jonnie Mae Igo's latest baby is ailing; I promised to try to

get out there today. Will you ask Frank to hitch up Daisy?'

Ir was a long drive. Father took me along to tell me about Ira Howard and the

Foundation. I listened, unable to believe my ears... save that Father, the only

utterably dependable source of information, was telling me.

After a long stretch I at last spoke up. 'Father, I think I see. How does this

differ from prostitution? Or does it?'

Chapter 4 - The Worm in the Apple

Father let Daisy amble on quite a piece before he answered.' I suppose it is

prostitution, if you want to stretch the definition to cover it. It does involve

payment, not for intercourse per se, but for the result of that intercourse, a baby.

The Howard Foundation will not pay you to marry a man on their list, nor is he paid

for marrying you. In fact you are never paid; he is paid... for every baby you bear,

sired by him!

I listened and found myself humiliated by these arrangements. I was never one of

those women demanding the vote... but fair is fair! Somebody was going to inseminate

me... then, when I groaned and moaned the way Mother does and gave birth to a baby,

he gets paid. I fumed to myself.

'It still sounds like whoring, Father, from where I sit. What's the going rate? How

much does my hypocritical, hypothetical husband get paid for each set of my labour

pains and one smelly baby?'

'No set price.'

'What? Mon papa, that is a hell of a way to run a business. I lie down and spread my

legs, by contract. Nine months later my husband is paid... five dollars? Fifty

cents? This is not a good bet. I think I would be better off to move to Kansas City

and walk the streets.'

'Maureen. Behave yourself.'

I took a deep breath, and held it. Then I lowered my voice an octave, the way I had

been practising lately. (I had promised myself never to let my voice get shrill.)

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I'm sorry, sir. I guess I'm just another vapourish ex-virgin - I had thought I was

more grown up.' I sighed. 'But it does seem crass.'

'Yes, perhaps "crass" is le mot juste. But let me tell you how it works. No one will

ask you to marry anyone. If you consent, your mother and I will submit your name to

the Foundation, along with a questionnaire that I will help you fill out. In return

they will send you a list of young men. Each man on that list will be what is called

an "eligible bachelor" - eligible quite aside from the Foundation and its money.

'He will be young, not more than ten years older than you are, but more likely about

your age -'

'Fifteen?' I was amazed. Shocked.

'Simmer down, flame top. Your name is not yet on the list. I'm telling you this now

because it is not fair not to let you know about the Howard Foundation option once

you have graduated to functioning woman. But you're still too young to marry:

'In this state I can marry at twelve. With your permission.'

'You have my permission to marry at twelve. If you can manage it.'

'Father, you're impossible.'

'No, merely improbable. He'll be young but older than fifteen. He will be of good

health and of good reputation. He wilt be of adequate education -'

`He had better be able to speak French, or he won't fit into this family.'

The Thebes school system offered French and German; Edward had picked French, then

Audrey also, because both Father and Mother had studied French, and made a habit of

shifting to French when they wanted to talk privately in front of us. Audrey and

Edward established a precedent; we all followed. I started on French before I could

take it in school; I did not like having words talked in front of me that I did not

understand.

This precedent affected my whole life - but, again, that's another story.

'You can teach him French - including that French kissing you asked me about. Now

this faceless stranger who ruined our Nell - Can he kiss?'

'Gorgeously!'

'Good. Was he sweet to you, Maureen?'

'Quite sweet. A bit timid but he'll get over that, I think. Uh, Father, it wasn't as

much fun as I think it could be. And will be, next time.'

'Or maybe the time after that. What you're saying is that today's trial run was not

as satisfying as masturbation. Correct?'

'Well, yes, that is what I meant. It was over too fast. He Goodness, you know who

drove me to Butler. Chuck. Charles Perkins. He's sweet, cher papa, but... he knows

less about it than I do.'

So I would expect. I taught you, and you were an apt student.'

'Did you teach Audrey... before she got married?'

'Your mother taught her.'

'So? I suspect that you taught me more. Uh, was Audrey's marriage sponsored by the

Howard Foundation? Is that how she met Jerome?'

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'That is a question never asked Maureen. It would be polite not even to speculate.'

'Well, excuse my bare face!'

'I won't excuse your naked manners. I never discuss your private affairs with your

siblings; you should not ask me about theirs.'

I suddenly felt the curb bit. 'I'm sorry, sir. This is all new to me.'

'Yes. This young man these young men - will all be acceptable prospects... or, if I

don't approve of one, I'll tell you why and not permit him in my house. But in

addition to everything else, each one will have four living grandparents.'

'What's special about that? I not only have four living grandparents but also eight

living great-grandparents. Have I not?'

'Yes. Although Grandpaw McFee is a waste of space. If he had died at ninety-five he

would have been better off. But that is what this is all about, dear daughter; Ira

Howard wanted his fortune used to extend human life. The Foundation trustees have

chosen to treat it as if it were a stock breeding problem. Do you recall the papers

on Loafer, and the reason I paid a high price for him? Or the papers on

Clytemnestra?

You have long life in your ancestry, Maureen, all branches. If you marry a young man

on the list, your children will have long life in all their branches.'

Father turned in his seat and looked me in the eye. 'But nobody - nobody! - is

asking you to do anything. If you authorise me to submit your name - not today but

let's say next year - it simply means that you will have six or eight or ten or more

additional suitors to choose from, instead of being effectively limited to the few

young men near your age in Lyle County. If you decide to marry Charles Perkins, I

won't say a word. He's healthy, he's well behaved. And he's not my cup of tea. But

he may be yours.'

(He's not my cup of tea, either, papa. I guess I was just using him. But I've

promised him a return match... so I must.)

'Father, suppose we hold off until next year?'

'I think that is sound judgement, Maureen. In the meantime, don't get pregnant and

try not to get caught. Oh, by the way - if you submit your name and a young man on

the list comes along, if you wish, you can try him out on the parlour sofa: He

smiled. `More convenient and safer than the judges' stand.'

'Mother would have heart failure!'

'No, she would not. Because that is exactly the arrangement her mother provided for

her... and that is why Edward was officially a premature baby. Because it is stupid

to go the Howard route, then find out after you're committed by marriage vows that

the mo of you are infertile with each other.'

I had no answer. Mother... my mother who thought 'breast' was a dirty word and that

'belly' was outright profanity... Mother with her bloomers off, bouncing her bawdy

buttocks on Grandma Pfeiffer's sofa, making a baby, out of wedlock, while Grandma

and Grandpa pretended not to know what was going on. It was easier to believe in

virgin birth and transubstantiation and resurrection and Santa Claus and the Easter

Bunny. We are strangers, all of us, family most of all.

Shortly we pulled into the Jackson Igo place, eighty acres, mostly rocks and hills,

a shack and a sorry barn. Mr Igo cropped it a bit but it didn't seem possible that

the place supported him and his thin, tired wife and his swarm of dirty children.

Mostly Jackson Igo cleaned cesspools and built privies.

Some of those children and half a dozen dogs gathered round our buggy; one boy ran

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shouting into the house. Presently Mr Igo came out.

Father called out, 'Jackson!'

'Yeah, Doc.'

'Get these dogs away from my rig.'

'They ain't no harm.'

`Do it. I won't have them jumping up on me.'

`Jest as you say, Doc. Cleveland! Jefferson! Get them hounds! Take 'em around back.'

The order was carried out; Father got down with a quiet word over his shoulder,

'Stay in the buggy.'

Father was inside their shack only a short time, which suited me, as the oldest boy,

Caleb, my age or near it, was pestering me to get down and come see a new litter of

pigs. I knew him from school, where he had attended fifth grade for some years. He

was, in my opinion, a likely candidate for lynching if some father did not kill him

first. I had to tell him to get away from Daisy and quit bothering her; he was

causing her to toss her head and back away from him. I took the whip out of its

socket to point up my words.

I was glad to see Father reappear.

He climbed into the buggy without a word. I clucked to Daisy and we got out of

there. Father was frowning like a thunder cloud, so I kept quiet.

A quarter of a mile down the road he said, 'Please pull over on to the grass,' so I

did, and said to Daisy, 'Whoa, girl,' and waited.

'Thank you, Maureen. Will you help me wash, please?'

'Certainly, sir.' This buggy, used for his country calls and specially built by the

carriage-wrights who built his racing sulkies, had a larger baggage space in the

back, with a rain cover. In it was carried a number of items that Father might need

on a call but which did not belong in his black bag. One was a coal-oil can with a

spout, filled with water, and a tin basin, and soap and towelling.

This time he wanted me to pour water over his hands. Then he soaped them; I rinsed

them by pouring. He shook them dry; then washed them all over again in the basin and

dried them after shaking, on clean towelling.

He sighed. 'That's better. I did not sit down in there, I did not touch anything I

could avoid touching. Maureen, remember that bathtub we used in Chicago?'

`I certainly do!' The World's Fair had been an endless wonder and I'll never forget

my first view of the Lake and my first ride on a railroad train up high in the

air... but I dreamed about that tub, all white enamel, and hot water up to my chin.

I could be seduced for a hot bath. They say every woman has her price. That's mine.

`Mrs Malloy charged us two bits for each bath. This minute I would happily pay her

two dollars. Maureen, I need glycerine and rose water. In my bag. Please.'

Father compounded this lotion himself and it was intended primarily for chapped

hands. Right now he needed it to soothe his hands against the strong lye soap he had

just used.

Once back on the road he said, 'Maureen, that baby was dead long before Jackson Igo

sent for me. Since last night, I estimate.'

I tried to feel sorry about that baby. But growing up in that household was no fate

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to wish on anyone. `Then why did he send for you?'

`To bless the death. To get me to write a death certificate, to keep him from

trouble with the law when he buries it... which he is probably doing this very

minute. Primarily to cause me - and you - to make a six-mile round trip to save

himself the trouble of harnessing his mule and coming into town.' Father laughed

without mirth. `He kept pointing out that I couldn't charge him for a call since I

didn't get there before the baby died. I finally said, "Shut up, Jackson. You

haven't paid me a cent since Cleveland beat Harrison." He said something about hard

times and how this administration never does anything for the farmer.'

Father sighed. I didn't argue with him; he had a point.

Maureen, you've been keeping my books this past year, would you say these were hard

times?'

That brought me up sharp. I had been thinking about the Howard Foundation and

Chuck's pretty penis. `I don't know, Father. But I know that you have far more on

the books than you ever get paid. He noticed something else, too: the worst of the

deadbeats would rather owe you a dollar for a house call than fifty cents for an

office visit. Like Jackson Igo.'

'Yes. He could have fetched that little cadaver in - never saw a child so

dehydrated! - but I'm relieved that he did not; I don't want him in my clean

clinic... or Adele's clean house. You've seen the books; do you estimate that

collections are enough to support our family? Food, clothing, shelter, oats and hay,

and a nickel for Sunday School?'

I thought about it. I knew my multiplication tables through twenty times twenty,

same as everybody, and in high school I had been learning the delights of more

advanced ciphering. But I had never applied any of it to our household affairs. Now

I drew a blackboard in my mind and did some hard calculating.

`Father... if they all paid you what they owe you, we would be quite comfortable.

But they don't pay you, not enough of them.' I thought. 'Nevertheless we are

comfortable.'

`Maureen, if you don't want the Howard option, better marry a rich man. Not a

country doctor.'

Presently he shrugged and smiled. `Don't worry about it. We'll keep food on the

table even if I have to slide over into Kansas and rustle cattle. Shall we sing?

"Pop Goes the Weasel" would be appropriate today. How is your weasel by now, dear?

Sore?'

'Father, you are a dirty old man and you will come to a bad end.'

`I've always hoped so, but I've been too busy raising Kinder to raise Cain. Meant to

tell you: someone else is interested in your welfare. Old lady Altschuler.'

'So I know.' I told him about her remark. 'She thinks I'm Audrey.'

'That unspeakable old cow. But she may not really think you are Audrey. She asked me

what you were doing na the grandstand at the fairgrounds.'

'Well! What did you tell her?'

`I told her nit. Silence is all a snoopy question deserves... just fail to hear it.

But the insult direct is still better. Which I handed that snapping turtle by

ignoring her question and telling her next time to bathe before she comes to see me,

as I found her personal hygiene to be less than adequate. She was not pleased.' He

smiled. 'She may be so angry that she will switch to Dr Chadwick. One may hope.'

`One may. So somebody saw us go up. Well, sir, they did not actually see us doing

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it' I told Father about the box heavy with weights. 'Spectators would have to have

been in a balloon.'

'I would say so. Safe enough if not very comfortable. I wish I could extend to you

the courtesy of the sofa... but I can't, until you take up the Howard option. If you

do. In the meantime let's think about it. Safe places.'

`Yes, sir. Thank you. What I can't figure out is this: we trimmed the trip to Butler

short, in order to conceal the time used up in unscheduled activity. I've been

figuring times and differences in my head. Cher papa, unless my arithmetic is wrong

-'

`It never is.'

'Whoever spotted us climbing up into my hideaway must then have proceeded at a fast

trot to the Altschuler place, reported my sins, then the Ugly Duchess must have been

already dressed, with her buggy hitched and ready, to hurry over to sec you. When

did she show up?'

`Let me see. When she arrived, three patients were waiting. I made her wait her

turn... so she carne in already angry. I sent her out boiling mad. Hmm... she must

have arrived at least an hour before you showed up and bumped into her coming out.'

'Father, it won't work. Physically impossible. Unless she herself was at the

fairgrounds, then drove straight to our house on the pretence of needing to see

you.'

`That's possible. Quite unlikely. But, Maureen, you Nave just encountered a

phenomenon that you will see again and again all your life after this red-letter

day: the only thing known to science faster than the speed of light is Mrs Grundy's

gossip.'

'I guess so.'

'I know so. When yon next encounter it, how will you handle it? Do you have that in

your commandments?'

`Uh, no.'

'Think about it. How will you defend yourself?'

I thought about it for the next half-mile. 'I won't'

'Won't what?'

`I won't defend myself against gossip; I will ignore it. At most I will look her -

or him - in the eye and state loudly, "You are a filthy-minded liar." But it's

usually best to ignore it entirely. I think.'

'I think so, too. People of that sort want to be noticed. The cruellest thing you

can do to them is to behave as if they did not exist.'

During the remaining half of 1897 I ignored Mrs Grundy while trying to avoid being

noticed by her. My public persona was straight out of Louisa M. Alcott while in

private I tried to learn more about this amazing new art I don't mean to imply that

I spent much time on my back, sweating away for the mutual pleasure of Maureen and

His Name Is Legion. Not in Lyle County, not in 1897. Too hard to find a place to do

it!

'Conscience is that little voice that tells you that someone may be watching.' (Anon

and op. cit.)

And there was the problem of a satisfactory partner. Charles was a nice boy and I

did offer him that encore, and even a third try at it for good measure. The second

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and third attempts were more comfortable but even less exciting - cold mush without

sorghum and cream.

So after the third one I told Charles that someone had seen us on top of Marston

Hill and had told one of my sisters... and a good thing that it hadn't been one of

my brothers, because I had been able to cool things down with my sister. But he and

I had better act as if we had quarrelled... or next time the word might get all the

way to my mother, who would tell my father, and then there was just no telling. So

you had better leave me alone until school starts, huh? You see, don't you. dear?

I learned that the hardest problem of all in dealing with a man is how to stop

dealing with him when he does not want to stop. A century and a half of quite varied

experience has not given me any answer that is totally satisfactory.

One partly satisfactory answer that I did not learn until much later than 1897

requires considerable skill, great self control, and some sophistication: the

intentional 'dead arse'. Lie there like a dead woman and, above all, let your inner

muscles be utterly relaxed. If you combine that with garlic on your breath, it is

likely - although not certain - that he will save you the trouble of thinking of a

reason to break off. Then, when he initiates a break, you can be brave about it. A

'good sport'.

I am not suggesting that lively hips and tight muscles constitute 'sex appeal'. Such

qualities, while useful, are merely equivalent to sharp-tools for a carpenter. My

sister wife Tamara, mother of our sister wife Ishtar and at one time the most

celebrated whore in ali Secundus, is the epitome of sex appeal... yet she is not

especially pretty and no one who has slept with her talks about her technique. But

their faces light up when they sec her and their voices throb when they speak of

her.

I asked Jubal Harshaw about Tammy because Jubal is the most analytical of my

husbands. He said, `Mama Maureen, quit pulling my leg. You of all people know the

answer.'

I denied it.

`Ali right,' he said, `but I still think you are fishing. Sex appeal is the outer

evidence of deep interest in your partner's pleasure. Tammy's got it. So have you

and just as strongly. It is not your red hair, wench, or even the way you smell,

which is yummy. It is the way you give... when you give.'

Jubal got me so stirred up that I tripped him, then and there.

But in Lyle County in 1897 one cannot simply trip a darling man and have at it; Mrs

Grundy is sitting up in every tree, eager to catch you and publish it. So the

preliminaries must be more complex. There are plenty of eager males (about twelve in

every dozen) but it is necessary to pick the one you want - age, health,

cleanliness, personal charm, discretion (if he gossips to you, he will gossip about

you), and other factor, that vary with each candidate. Having selected him for the

slaughter you must cause him to decide that he wants you while letting him know

silently that it is possible. That is easy to phrase but to put it into practice...

You'll be honing your skills for a lifetime.

So you reach an agreement... but you still haven't found a place.

After picking a place to shed my virginity I resigned that aspect of the problem. If

a boy/man wanted my immoral carcass, he would get his grey matter churning and solve

it. Or he could go chase flies.

But I did risk chiggers and (once) poison ivy. He caught it; I seem to be immune.

From June to January three boys ranging from sixteen to twenty had me, and one

married man of thirty-one. I added him in on the assumption (false) that a married

man would be so skilled that he could set off those fireworks without fail.

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Total copulations: nine. Orgasms: three - and one was wonderful. Time actually spent

copulated: an average of five minutes per go, which is not nearly enough. I learned

that life can be beautiful indeed... but that the males of my circle ranged from

clumsy to awkward.

Mrs Grundy apparently did not notice me.

By New Year's Eve I had decided to ask Father to submit my name to the Howard

Foundation... not for the money (I still did not know that the payments could amount

to enough to matter) but because I would welcome a chance to meet more eligible

males; the hunting in Lyle County was too poor to suit Maureen. I had firmly made up

my mind that, while sex might not be the be-all and end-all, I did want to marry and

it had to be a man who would make me eager to go to bed early.

In the meantime, I kept on trying to make Maureen as desirable a female animal as I

could manage and I listened most carefully to my father's advice. (I knew that what

I really wanted was a man just like my father, but twenty-five years younger. Or

twenty. Make that fifteen. But I was prepared to settle for the best imitation I

could find.)

There were two hundred days left in 1897 from that day Chuck and I climbed up into

the judges' stand; that makes 200 x 24 x 60 - 288,000 minutes. Circa 45 of those

minutes I spent copulated; that leaves 199 days, 23 hours, 15 minutes. It is obvious

that I had time for other things.

That summer was one of the best of my life. While I did not get laid very often or

very effectively, the idea was on my mind awake and asleep. It brightened my eyes

and my days; I shed female pheromones like a female moth and I never stopped smiling

- picnics, swimming parties in the Osage (you wouldn't believe what we wore),

country dances (frowned on by the Methodist and Baptist churches but sponsored by

jack Mormons who welcomed gentiles who might be converted - Father overruled Mother;

I went and learned to swing on the corners and dosey-doh), watermelon contests, any

excuse to get together.

I stopped thinking about the University of Missouri at Columbia. From Father's books

I could see that there just wasn't money to put me through four years of college. I

was not anxious to be a nurse or a schoolteacher, so there seemed to be little point

in my aspiring to formal (and expensive) higher education. I would always be a

bookworm but that does not require a college degree.

So I decided to be the best housewife I could manage - starting with cooking.

I had always taken my turn in the kitchen along with my sisters. I had been

assistant cook for the day in rotation since my twelfth birthday. By fifteen I was a

good plain cook.

I decided to become a good fancy cook.

Mother remarked on my increased interest. I told her the truth, or some of it.

'Chére mama, I expect to be married someday. I think the best wedding present I can

bring my future husband is good cooking. I may not have the talent to become a

gourmet chef. But I can try.'

'Maureen, you can be anything you want to be. Never forget that'

She helped me, and she taught me, and she sent away to New Orleans for French

cookbooks, and we pored over them together. Then she sent me for three weeks to Aunt

Carole's house, who taught me Cajun skills. Aunt Carole was a Johnny Reb, married

after the War to - Heavens - a damn Yankee, Father's eldest brother, Uncle Ewing,

now deceased. Uncle Ewing had been in the Union occupation of New Orleans, and had

poked a sergeant in the nose over a distressed Southern girl. It got him a reduction

from corporal to private and a wife.

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In Aunt Carole's house we never discussed the War.

The War was not often discussed in our own house as the Johnsons were not native to

Missouri, but to Minnesota. Being newcomers, by Father's policy we avoided subjects

that might upset our neighbours. In Missouri sympathies were mixed - a border state

and a clave state, it had veterans from both sides. But that part of Missouri had

been `local option' - some towns had never had any claves and now permitted no

coloured people; Thebes was one such. But Thebes itself was so small and unimportant

that the Union troops had ignored it when they came through there in'65, burning and

looting. They burned Butler to the ground and it never fully recovered. But Thebes

was untouched.

Even though the Johnsons had come down from the North, we were not carpet baggers as

Missouri never seceded; Reconstruction did not touch it. Uncle Jules, Father's

cousin in Kansas City, explained our migration this way:

'After fighting four years in Dixie, we went back home to Minnesota... and stayed

just long enough to pack up again and git. Mizzourah ain't as hot as Dixie but it

ain't so cold, that the shadows freeze to the sidewalks and the cows give

ice-cream.'

Aunt Carole put a polish on my cooking and I was in and out of ha kitchen quite a

lot until I married. It was during that three weeks that the matter of the lemon pie

took place - I think I mentioned it earlier.

I baked that pie. It was not my best work; I had burned the crust. But it was one of

four, and the other three were all right. Getting the temperature just right on a

wood range is tricky.

But how did my Cousin Nelson get that pie into church without anyone seeing it? How

did he slide it under me without my noticing it?

He made me so furious that I went straight home (to Aunt Carole's house), then, when

Nelson showed up to apologise, I burst into tears and took him straight to bed...

and had one of those three fireworks occasions.

Sudden impulse and quite reckless and we got away with it cold.

Thereafter I let Nelson have me from time to time when we could figure out a safe

way right up to my wedding. Which did not quite finish it, as years later he moved

to Kansas City.

I should have behaved myself with Nelson; he was only fourteen.

But a smart fourteen. He knew that we didn't dare get caught; he knew that I

couldn't marry him no matter what and he realised that he could get me pregnant and

that a baby would be disaster for each of us.

That Sunday morning he held still while I put a French purse on him, grinned and

said, `Maureen, you're smart.' Then he tackled me with unworried enthusiasm and

brought me to orgasm in record time.

For the next mo years I kept Nelson supplied with Merry Widows. Not for me; I

carried my own. For his harem. I started him off; he took up the sport with zeal and

native genius, and never got into trouble. Smart.

Besides cooking, I endeavoured to straighten out Father's accounts receivable, with

less success. After consulting with Father 1 sent out some polite and friendly

dunning letters. Have you ever written over one hundred letters, one after another,

by hand? I found out why Mr Clemens had grabbed the first opportunity to shift from

pen to typewriter - first author to do so.

Dear Mr Deadbeat,

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In going over Dr Johnson's books I find that your account stands at umpteen dollars

and that you have made no payment on it since March 1896. Perhaps this is an

oversight. May we expect payment by the first of the month?

If it is not possible for you to pay the full amount at once, will you please call

at the Clinic this Friday the tenth so that we can work out arrangements mutually

satisfactory?

The Doctor sends his good wishes to you and to Mrs Deadbeat, and also to Junior and

the twins and little Knothead.

I remain,

Faithfully yours,

Maureen Johnson

(On behalf of Ira Johnson, MD)

I showed Father sample letters ranging from gentle to firm to tough; the sample

above shows what we used on most of them. With some he said, `Don't dun them. They

would if they could, but they can't.' Nevertheless I sent out more than a hundred

letters.

For each letter postage was two cents, stationery about three. Can we reckon my time

as worth five cents per letter? If so, each letter comes to a dime, and the whole

mailing cost slightly over ten dollars.

Those hundred letters did not bring in as much as ten dollars in cash.

About thirty patients came in to talk to us about it. Perhaps half of those fetched

some payment in kind - fresh eggs, a ham, side meat, garden truck, fresh bread, and

so forth. Six or seven arranged schedules of payment; some of those actually met

their promises.

But over seventy totally ignored the letters.

I was upset and disappointed. These were not shiftless peckerwoods like Jackson Igo;

these were respectable farmers and townspeople. These were people for whom my father

had got up in the middle of the night, dressed, then driven or ridden horseback

through snow or rain, dust or mud or frozen ruts, to attend them or their children.

And when he asks to be paid, they ignore it.

I couldn't believe it.

I asked, `Father, what do I do now?' I expected him to tell me to forget it, as he

had been dubious as to the usefulness of these letters. I awaited his response with

anticipated relief.

'Send each of them the tough one and mark it "Second Notice":

`You think that will do it, sir?'

`No. But it will do some good. You'll see.'

Father was right. That second mailing brought in no money. It fetched a number of

highly indignant replies; some of them scurrilous. Father had me file each with its

appropriate case record, but make no reply.

Most of those seventy patients never showed up again. This was the good result

Father expected. He was cheerful about it.

'Maureen, it's a standoff; they don't pay me and I don't do them much good. Iodine,

calomel, and Aspirin - that's about all we have today that isn't a sugar pill. The

only times I'm certain of results are when I deliver a baby or set a bone or cut off

a leg.

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`But, damn it all, I'm doing the best I know how. I do try. If a man gets angry at

me simply because I ask him to pay for my services... well, I see no reason why I

should get out of a warm bed to physic him.'

1897 was the year that the Katy ran a line not a mile from our town square, so the

council extended the city limits and that put Thebes on the railroad. That brought

the telegraph to Thebes, too, which enabled the Lyte County Leader to bring the news

to us direct from Chicago. But still only once a week; the Kansas City Star by mail

was usually quicker. The Bell telephone reached us, too, although at first only from

nine to nine and never on Sunday mornings, because the switchboard was in the Widow

Loomis's parlour and service stopped when she was not there.

The Leader published a glowing editorial: `Modern Times.'

Father frowned. `They point out that it will soon be possible, as more people

subscribe, to call for a doctor in the middle of the night. Yes, yes, surely. Today

I make night calls because somebody is in such trouble that some member of the

patient's family has hitched up in the middle of the night and driven here to ask me

to come.

`But what happens when he can rout me out of bed just by cranking a little crank?

Will it be for a dying child? No, Maureen, it will be for a hangnail. Mark my words;

the telephone signals the end of the house call. Not today, not

tomorrow, but soon. They will ride a willing horse to death... and you will see the

day when medical doctors will refuse to make house calls.'

At New Year, I told Father that I had made up my mind: put my name in to the Howard

Foundation.

Before the end of January I received the first of the young men on my list.

By the end of March I had received all seven of them. In three cases I did go so far

as to avail myself of the privilege of the sofa... although I used the couch in

Father's office, and locked the door.

Wet firecrackers.

Decent enough young male, those three, but... to marry? No.

Maureen felt glum about the whole matter.

But on Saturday the second of April Father received a letter from Rolla, Missouri:

My dear Doctor,

Permit me to introduce myself. I am a son of Mr and Mrs John Adams Smith of

Cincinnati, Ohio, where my father is a tool and die maker. I am a senior at the

School of Mines of the University of Missouri at Rolla, Missouri. I was given your

name and address by judge Orville Sperling, of Toledo, Ohio, Executive Secretary of

the Howard Foundation. Judge Sperling tells me that he has written to you about me.

If I may do so, I will call on you and Mrs Johnson on Sunday afternoon the

seventeenth of April. Then, if you permit, I ask to be presented to your daughter

Miss Maureen Johnson for the purpose of offering myself as a possible suitor for her

hand in marriage.

I welcome any investigation you tare to make of me and I will answer fully and

frankly any questions you put to me.

I look forward to your reply. I remain, sir,

Faithfully your servant,

Brian Smith

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Father said, 'See, my dear daughter? Your knight comes riding.'

'Probably has two heads. Father, it's no good. I shall die an old maid, at the age

of ninety-seven.'

'Not a fussy old maid, I trust. What shall I tell Mr Smith?'

'Oh, tell him Yes. Tell him I'm drooling with eagerness.'

'Maureen.'

'Yes, Father. I'm too young to be cynical, I know. Quel dommage. I will straighten

up and give Mr Brian Smith my best smile and approach the meeting with cheerful

optimism. But I have grown a bit jaundiced. That last orang-utang -'

(That ape had tried to rape me, right on Mother's sofa, just as soon as Mother and

Father went upstairs. He then left abruptly, clutching bis crotch. My study of

anatomy had paid off.)

'I'll tell him that we will welcome him. Sunday the seventeenth. That's two weeks

from tomorrow.'

I greeted Sunday the seventeenth with little enthusiasm. But I did stay home from

church and prepared a picnic lunch, and grabbed the chance for an extra bath. Mr

Smith turned out to be presentable and well spoken, if not especially inspiring.

Father grilled him a bit and Mother offered him coffee; about two we got away -

Daisy and a family buggy, with his livery stable nag left in our barn.

Three hours later I was certain that I was in love.

Brian made a date to come back on the first of May. He had final examinations to get

out of the way in the meantime.

One week later, Sunday 24 April 1898, Spain declared war on the United States.

Chapter 5 - Exit from Eden

This is not a bad jail, as jails go. I was in a much worse one, in Texas,

seventy-odd years back on my personal time line. In that one the cockroaches slugged

it out with each other for a thin chance of finding a few crumbs on the floor, there

was no hot water at any time, and the screws were all cousins of the sheriff. Bad as

that joint was, wetbacks used to sneak across the Rio and break a window or mo in

order to get themselves locked up, so they could fatten up for the winter. That says

something about Mexican jails that I don't care to investigate.

Pixel comes to see me almost every day. The guards can't figure out how he does it.

They all like him and he has given several of them his conditional approval. They

fetch titbits in to him; he deigns to eat some of their tribute.

The warden heard about Pixel's Houdini talents, came to my cell, happened to show up

when Pixel was making a call on me, tried to pet him and got nipped for his

presumption not hard enough to break the skin, but the message was clear.

The warden told me (ordered me) to be sure to let him know ahead of time when Pixel

went in or out; he wanted to see how Pixel managed to sneak past and not set off

alarm. I told him that no mortal man or woman could predict what a cat would do

next, so don't hold your breath, buster. (Guards and trustees are okay, in their

place, but a warden is not my social equal. Apparently Pixel realises this.)

Dr Ridpath has been in a couple of times, to urge me to plead guilty and throw

myself on the mercy of the court. He says that I would be certain to get no worse

than a suspended sentence, if I convinced the tribunal that I was truly contrite.

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I told him that I was not guilty and would rather be a cause célèbre and sell my

memoirs for an outrageous sum.

He told me that I was apparently unaware that the College of Bishops had passed a

law years back under which any profits arising out of a case of sacrilege went to

the Church, after the fee for disposing of the body was paid. `Look, Maureen, I'm

your friend, although you don't seem to know it. But there is nothing I or anyone

can do for you if you won't co-operate.'

I thanked him and told him that I was sorry that he was disappointed in me. He said

to think it over. He didn't kiss me en he left, so I conclude that he really is

vexed with me.

Dagmar has been in almost daily. She doesn't try to coerce me into confessing, but

what she did do last time had more effect on me than Dr Eric's reasonableness: she

smuggled in a Last Friend. `If you are going to be stubborn about confessing, this

will help. Just break off the tip and inject it anywhere. Once it takes hold - five

minutes or less - even a slow fire won't hurt... not much. But for Santa Carolita's

sake, ducks, don't let anyone find it!'

I'll try not to.

I would not be dictating this if I were not in jail. I don't necessarily have

publication in mind, but the discipline of sorting it all out may show me where I

went wrong... and that may show me how to straighten out the mess and go right.

The Battle of New Orleans was fought two weeks after the War of 1812 was over. Poor

communications... But in 1898 the Atlantic Cable was in use. The news of Spain's

declaration of war went from Madrid to London to New York to Chicago to Kansas City

to Thebes almost with the speed of light - only the delays of retransmission. Thebes

is about eight hours west of Madrid, so the Johnson family was in church when the

dreadful news arrived.

The Reverend Clarence Timberly, our pastor at Cyrus Vance Parker Memorial Methodist

Episcopal Church, was preaching and had just finished fourthly and was digging into

fifthly when someone started ringing the big bell in the county courthouse cupola.

Brother Timberly stopped preaching. `Let us suspend services for a few moments while

the Osage Volunteers and members of the bucket brigades withdraw.'

Ten or a dozen of the younger men got up and left. Father picked up his bag and

followed them. Being a doctor Father did not serve on the volunteer fire team but,

being a doctor, he usually did go to fires if not actively engaged in treating a

patient when the bell rang.

As soon as Father closed the church door behind him our preacher got back to work on

'fifthly' - what it was I don't know; during sermons I always tried to looked alert

and attentive, but I rarely listened.

On down Ford Street someone was shouting; he could be heard right through Brother

Timberly's loud voice. Those shouts came closer.

Presently Father came back into the church. Instead of returning to his pew he

walked up to the chancel rail and handed a sheet of newspaper to our pastor.

I should interject that the Lyle County Leader was a four page single sheet, printed

on what was then called `boiler plate' - newsprint printed on one side with

international and national and state news, and shipped that way to small country

papers, who would then fill the inside pages with local news and local advertising.

The Lyle County Leader bought 'boiler plate' from the Kansas City Star with the

Leader's own masthead printed on it.

The sheet Father handed to Brother Timberly was of that sort, with the same local

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stuff inside as had been in the Leader's weekly edition dated Thursday, 21 April

1898, except that the upper half of page two had been reset in large type with one

short news story:

SPAIN DECLARES WAR!!!

By wire from the New York journal April Z4 Madrid - Today our Ambassador was

summoned to the office of the Premier and was handed his passport and a curt note

stating that the `crimes' of the United States against His Most Catholic Majesty

have forced His Majesty's government to recognise that a state of war exists between

the Kingdom of Spain and...

Reverend Timberly read that one news story aloud from the pulpit, put the paper

down, looked solemnly at us, took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, then blew

his nose. He said hoarsely, `Let us pray.'

Father stood up, the rest of the congregation followed. Brother Timberly asked Lord

God Jehovah to lead us in this time of peril. He asked Divine guidance for President

McKinley. He asked the Lord's help for all our brave men on land and sea who now

must fight for the preservation of this sacred, God-given land. He asked mercy for

the souls of those who would fall in battle, and consolation and help in drying the

tears of widows and orphans and of the fathers and mothers of our young heroes

destined to die in battle. He asked that right prevail for a speedy end to this

conflict. He asked for help for our friends and neighbours, the unfortunate people

of Cuba, oppressed for so long by the iron heel of the King of Spain. And more,

about twenty minutes of it.

Father had long since cured me of any belief in the Apostles' Creed. In its place I

held a deep suspicion, planted by Professor Huxley and nurtured by Father, that no

such person as Jesus of Nazareth had ever lived.

As for Brother Timberly, I regarded him as two yards of noise, with his cracks

filled with unction. Like many preachers in the Bible Belt, he was a farm boy with

(I strongly suspected) a distaste for real work.

I did not and do not believe in a God up there in the sky listening to Brother

Timberly's words.

Yet I found myself saying 'Amen!' to his every word, while tears streamed down my

cheeks.

At this point I must drag out my soap box.

In the twentieth century Gregorian, in the United States of America, something

called 'revisionist history' became popular among 'intellectuals'. Revisionism

appears to have been based on the notion that the living actors present on the spot

never understood what they were doing or why, or how they were being manipulated,

being mere puppets in the hands of unseen evil forces.

This may be true. I don't know.

But why are the people of the United States and their government always the villains

in the eyes of the Revisionists? Why can't our enemies - such as the King of Spain,

and the Kaiser, and Hitler, and Geronimo, and Villa, and Sandino, and Mao Tse-Tung,

and Jefferson Davis - why can't these each take a turn in the pillory? Why is it

always our turn?

I am well aware that the Revisionists maintain that William Randolph Hearst created

the Spanish-American War to increase the circulation of his newspapers. I know, too,

that various scholars and experts later asserted that the USS Maine, at dock in

Havana harbour, was blown up (with the loss of 226 American lives) by faceless

villains whose purpose was to make Spain look bad and thereby to prepare the

American people to accept a declaration of war against Spain.

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Now look carefully at what I said. I said that I know that these things are

asserted. I did not say that they are true.

It is unquestionably true that the United States, acting officially, was rude to the

Spanish government concerning Spain's oppression of the Cuban people. It is also

true that William Randolph Hearst used his newspapers to say any number of

unpleasant things about the Spanish government. But Hearst was not the United States

and he had no guns and no ships and no authority. What he did have was a loud voice

and no respect for tyrants. Tyrants bate people like that.

Somehow those masochistic revisionists have turned the War of 1898 into a case of

imperialistic aggression by the United States. How an imperialist war could result

in the freeing of Cuba and the Philippines is never made clear. But revisionism

always starts with the assumption that the United States is the villain. Once the

revisionist historian proves this assumption (usually by circular logic) he is

granted his Ph.D. and is well on his way to a Nobel peace prize.

In April 1898, to us benighted country people certain simple facts were true. Our

battleship Maine had been destroyed, with great loss of life. Spain had declared war

on us. The President had asked for volunteers.

The next day, Monday 25 April, came the President's call asking the state militias

to furnish one hundred and twenty- five thousand volunteers to augment our

almost-nonexistent army. That morning Tom had ridden over to Butler Academy as

usual. The news reached him there and he came trotting back at noon, his roan

gelding Beau Brummel in a lather. He asked Frank to wipe Beau down for him and

hurried into the house, there to disappear into the clinic with Father.

They came out in about ten minutes. Father told Mother, `Madam, our son Tom is about

to enlist in the service of his country. He and I will be leaving for Springfield at

once. I must go with him in order to swear that he is eighteen years old and has

parental approval.'

'But he is not eighteen!'

'That is why I must go with him. Where is Frank? I want him to hitch Loafer.'

'I'll hitch him, Father,' I put in. `Frank just now left for school, in a rush. He

was a bit late.' (Tending Beau had made Frank late, but it wasn't necessary to say

so.)

Father looked worried. I insisted, 'Loafer knows me, sir; he would never hurt me.'

I had just returned to the house when I saw Father standing at the new telephone

instrument, which hung in the hallway we used as a waiting-room for patients. Father

was saying, 'Yes... yes, I understand... Good luck, sir, and God speed. I will tell

her. Goodbye.' He took the receiver away from his ear, stared at it, then remembered

to hang it up.

He looked at me. 'That was for you, Maureen.'

`For me?' I had never had a telephone call.

`Yes. Your young man, Brian Smith. He asks you to forgive him but he will not be

able to call on you next Sunday. He is catching a train for St Louis at once in

order to return to Cincinnati, where he will be enlisting in the Ohio State Militia.

He asks to be permitted to call on you again as soon as the war is over. Acting for

you, I agreed to that.'

`Oh.' I felt an aching tight place under my wishbone and I had trouble breathing.

'Thank you, Father. Uh... could you show me how to call him, call Rolla I suppose I

mean, and speak to Mr Smith myself?'

Mother interrupted. 'Maureen!'

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I turned to face her. 'Mother, I am not being forward, or unladylike. This is a very

special circumstance. Mr Smith is going off to fight for us. I simply wish to tell

him that I will pray for him every night while he is gone.'

Mother looked at me, then said gently, `Yes, Maureen. If you are able to speak to

him, please tell him that I shall pray for him, too. Every night'

Father cleared his throat, loudly. 'Ladies -'

'Yes, Doctor?' Mother answered.

'The matter is academic. Mr Smith told me that he could talk only a few moments

because there was a long line of students waiting to use the telephone. Similar

messages, I assume. So there is no use in trying to reach him; the telephone wire

will be in use... and he will be gone. Which in no way keeps you two ladies from

praying for his safety. Maureen, you can tell him so in a letter.'

'But I don't know how to write to him!'

`Use your head, daughter. You know at least three ways.'

`Doctor Johnson, please.' Mother then said gently, to me, `Judge Sperling will

know.'

'Judge Sperling. Oh!'

`Yes, dear. Judge Sperling always knows where each of us is.'

A few minutes later we all kissed Tom goodbye, and Father also, while we were about

it, although he was coming back... and, so he assured us, it was extremely likely

that Tom would be back - sworn in, then told what day to return for duty, as it was

most unlikely that the state militia could accept a thousand or more new bodies all

on the same day.

They drove off. Beth was crying quietly. Lucille was not - I don't think she

understood any of it - but was solemn and round-eyed. Mother did not cry and neither

did I... not then. But Mother went upstairs and closed her door... and so did I. I

now had a room to myself, ever since Agnes married, so I threw the latch and lay

down and let myself cry.

I tried to tell myself that I was crying over my brother, Thomas. But I knew better;

it was Mr Smith who was causing that ache in my heart.

I wished, with all my soul, that I had not caused him to use a French purse in

making love to me a week earlier. I had been tempted - I knew, I was certain, that

it would be ever so much nicer just to forget that rubber sheath and be bare to him,

inside and out.

But I had told Father solemnly that I would always use a sheath... until the day

when, after sober discussion with the man concerned, I omitted it for the purpose of

becoming pregnant... under a mutual firm intention of marrying if we succeeded.

And now he was going off to war... and I might never see, him again.

I dried my eyes and got up and took down a little volume: of verse, Professor

Palgrave's 'Golden Treasury'. Mother had given it to me on my twelfth birthday, and

it had been given to her on her twelfth birthday, in 1866.

Professor Palgrave had found two hundred and eighty-eight lyrics which were fine

enough, in his exquisite taste, for his treasury. That day I wanted just one:

Richard Lovelace's To Lucasta, On Going To The Wars':

- I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

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Loved I not Honour more.

Then I cried some more, and after a while I slept. When I woke up, I got up and did

not let myself cry again. Instead I slipped a note under Mother's door, telling her

that I would get supper for all of us by myself... and she could have supper in bed

if it pleased her to do so.

She let me cook supper but she came down and presided and, for the first time, Frank

seated Mother and sat opposite her. She looked at me. 'Maureen, will you return

thanks?'

`Yes, Mother. Dear Lord, we thank nee for that which we are about to partake. Please

bless this food to our use and bless all our brothers and sisters in Jesus

everywhere, both known to us and unknown.' I gulped and added, `And on this day we

ask a special blessing for our beloved brother, Thomas Jefferson, and for all other

young men who have gone to serve our beloved country.' (Et je prie que le bon Dieu

garde bien mon ami!) 'In Jesus Name. Amen.'

`Amen,' Mother said firmly. 'Franklin, will you carve?'

Father and Tom returned the next day, late in the afternoon.

Beth and Lucille threw themselves on Tom and Father, and I wanted to, but could not,

as I was carrying George and he had picked that moment to wet a nappy. But I just

held him and let him wait, so that I wouldn't miss any news - a spare nappy under

him; I knew George. That baby peed more than all the rest put together.

Beth demanded, 'Did you do it, Tommy, did you do it, did you do it, did you?'

'Of course he did,' Father answered. 'He's Private Johnson now; next week he'll be a

general.'

`He will?'

`Well, maybe not that fast' Father stopped to kiss Lucile and Beth. `But they do

promote them fast in wartime. Take me, for example. I'm a captain:

'Doctor Johnson!'

Father straightened up. 'Captain Johnson, Madam. Both of us enlisted. I am now

Acting Surgeon, Medical Detachment, Second Missouri Regiment, with assigned rank of

captain.'

At this point I ought to say something about the families of my parents, especially

Father's brothers and sisters, as what happened that week in April 1898 in Thebes

had its roots a century earlier.

Father's grandparents were:

George Edward Johnson (1795-1897) and Amanda Lou Fredericks johnson (1798-1899);

Terence McFee (1796-1900) and Rose Wilhelmina Brandt McFee (1798-1899).

Both George Johnson and Terence McFee served in the War of 1812.

Father's parents were:

Asa Edward Johnson (1813-1918) and Rose Altheda McFee Johnson (1814-1918).

Asa johnson served in the War with Mexico, a sergeant in the Illinois Militia.

Mother's grandparents were:

Robert Pfeiffer (1809-1909) and Heidi Schmidt Pfeiffer (1810-1913);

Ole Larsen (1805-1809) and Anna Kristina H Larsen (1810-1912);

and her parents were:

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Richard Pfeiffer (1830-1932) and Kristina Larsen Pfeifer (1834-1940)

Father was born on his grandfather Johnson's farm in Minnesota, in Freeborn County,

near Albert, on Monday August 1852, the youngest of four boys and three girls. His

grandfather George Edward Johnson (my great-grandfather) was born in 1795, in Bucks

County, Pennsylvania. He died in a nursing home in Minneapolis in December 1897, and

newspapers made a to-do over the fact that George Washington was still alive when he

was born. (We had nothing to with this publicity. While I was not aware of the

policy until I was married, even at that time Howard Foundation family avoided

public mention of ages.)

George Edward Johnson married Amanda Lou Fredericks (1798-1899) in 1813 and took her

to Illinois, where she had her first child, Asa Edward Johnson, my grandfather, that

same year. It seems likely that Grampaw Acey was the sort of `premature' baby as my

eldest brother, Edward. After the war with Mexico the Johnson family migrated west

homesteaded in Minnesota.

There was no Howard Foundation in those days, but all my ancestors appeared to have

started breeding young, had lots of children, were healthy despite the uncontrolled

diseases of those times, and lived long lives, mostly to hundred and more.

Asa Edward johnson (1813-1918) married Rose Alth McFee (1814-1918) in 1831. They had

seven children:

1. Samantha Jane Johnson 1831-1915 (died injuries suffered while breaking a horse.)

2. James Ewing Johnson 1833-1884 (killed attempting to ford the Osage during spring

flood. I bare remember him. He married Aunt Carole Pelletier of New Orleans.)

3. Walter Raleigh Johnson 1838-1862 (killed at Shiloh.)

4. Alice Irene Johnson 1840-? (I don't know what became of Aunt Alice. She married

back east.)

5. Edward McFee Johnson 1844-1884 (killed in a train wreck.)

6. Aurora Johnson 1850-? (last heard of in California circa 1930. Married several

times.)

7 Ira Johnson 2 August 1852-1941 (reported missing in the Battle of Britain.)

When Fort Sumter fell in April 1861, Mr Lincoln asked for volunteers from the

militias of the several states (just as Mr McKinley would do in a later April). On

the Johnson farm in Freeborn County, Minnesota, the call was answered by Ewing (28),

Walter (23), Edward (17)- and Grampaw Acey, at that time forty-eight years old, thus

producing a situation that utterly humiliated Ira Johnson, nine years old and a

grown man in his own estimation. He was going to be left home to do chores, while

all the other men went to war. His sister Samantha (whose, husband had volunteered)

and his mother would run the farm.

Small comfort to him that his father returned home almost at once, turned down for

something, I do not know what.

Father endured this humiliation for three long years... and at twelve ran away from

home to enlist as a drummer boy.

He found his way down the Mississippi on a barge, managed to locate the encampment

of the 2nd Minnesota before it joined Sherman's drive to the sea. His cousin Jules

vouched for him and he was tentatively accepted (subject to training; he knew

nothing of drums, or of bugles) and was assigned quarters and rations with

headquarters company.

Then his father showed up and fetched him home.

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So Father's service in the War was about three weeks and he was never in combat. He

was not credited even with those three weeks... as he learned to his dismay when he

attempted to join the Union veterans organisation, the Grand Army of the Republic.

There was no record of his service, as the regimental adjutant had `discharged' him

and let Grampaw Acey take him home simply by destroying the paper work.

I think it is necessary to assume that Father was marked life.

During the nine days that Father and Tom waited at home before they could be

inducted into army life I saw no indication that Mother disapproved (other than her

first expression of surprise). But she never smiled. One could the tension between

our parents... but they did not let it be seen.

Father did say something to me that, I think, had bearing on this tension. We were

in his clinic and I was helping him to thin out and update his patients records so

that he could turn them over to Dr Chadwick for duration of the war. He said to me,

`Why no smiles, Turkey Egg? Worried about your young man?'

'No,' I lied. 'He had to go; I know that. But I wish you weren't going. Selfish, I

guess. But I'll miss you, cher papa.'

`I'll miss you, too. All of you.' He was silent for several minutes, then he added,

'Maureen, someday you may faced - will be faced, I think - with the same thing: your

husband going off to war. Some people say - I've heard talke that married men should

not go. Because of their families.

`But this involves a contradiction, a fatal one. The family man dare not hang back

and expect the bachelor to do fighting for him. It is manifestly unfair for me to

expect a bachelor to die for my children if I am unwilling to die for them myself.

Enough of that attitude on the part of married men and the bachelor will refuse to

fight if the married man stays safe at home... and the Republic is doomed. The

barbarian will walk in unopposed.'

Father looked at me - looked worried. 'Do you see?' I think he was honestly seeking

my opinion, my approval.

`I - 'I stopped and sighed. 'Father, I think I see. But at times like these I am

forced to realise that I am not very experienced. I just want this war to be over so

that you can come home and Tom will come home... and -'

'And Brian Smith? I agree.'

'Well, yes. But I was thinking of Chuck, too. Chuck Perkins.'

`Chuck is going? Good lad!'

'Yes, he told me today. His father has agreed and is going to Joplin with him

tomorrow.' I sniffed back a tear. 'I don't love Chuck but I do feel sort of

sentimental about him.'

`That's understandable.'

Later that day I let Chuck take me up on Marston Hill and defied chiggers and Mrs

Grundy and told Chuck I was proud of him and demonstrated it the very best I knew

how. (I did use a sheath; I had promised Father.) And an amazing thing happened. I

had gone up there simply intending to run through some female calesthenics to

demonstrate to Chuck that I was proud of him and appreciated his willingness to

fight for us. And the miracle happened. Fireworks, big ones! I got all blurry and my

eyes squinched shut and I found I was making loud noises.

And about half an hour later the miracle happened again. Amazing!

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Chuck and his father caught the eight-oh-six out of Butler the next morning and were

back that same afternoon - Chuck sworn in and assigned to the same company (C

company, 2nd regiment) Tom was in, and with similar delay time. So Chuck and I went

to another (fairly) safe spot, and I told him goodbye again, and again the miracle

overtook me.

No, I did not decide I was in love with him, after all. Enough men had had me by

then that I was not inclined to mistake a hearty orgasm for eternal love. But it was

nice that they happened since I intended to tell Chuck goodbye as often and as

emphatically as possible, come what may. And did, right up to the day, a week later,

when it really was goodbye.

Chuck never came back. No, he was not killed in action; he never got out of

Chickamauga Park, Georgia. It was the fever, whether malaria or yellow jack, I'm not

sure. Or it could have been typhoid. Five times as many died of the fevers as were

lost in combat. They are heroes, too. Well, aren't they? They volunteered; they were

willing to fight... and they wouldn't have caught the fever if they had hung back,

refused to answer the call.

I've got to drag out that soap box again. All during the twentieth century I've run

into people who have either never heard of the War of 1898, or they belittle it.

'Oh, you mean that one. That wasn't a real war, just a skirmish. What happened? Did

he stub his toe, running back down San Juan hill?'

(I should have killed them! I did throw an extra dry martini into the eyes of one

man who talked that way.)

Casualties are just as heavy in one war as in another... because death comes just

once to the customer.

And besides... In the summer of 1898 we did not know that the war would be over

quickly. The United States was not a superpower; the United States was not a world

power of any sort... whereas Spain was still a great empire. For all we knew our men

might be gone for years... or not come back. The bloody tragedy of 1861-65 was all

we had to go by, and that had started just like this one, with the President calling

for a few militiamen. My elders tell me that no one dreamed that the rebel states,

half as big and less than half as populous and totally lacking in the heavy industry

on which modern war rests - no sensible person dreamed that they could hold out for

four long, dreary, death-laden years.

With that behind us, we did not assume that beating Spain would be easy or quick; we

just prayed that our men would come back... some day.

The day came, 5 May, when our men left... on a special troop train, down from Kansas

City, a swing over to Springfield, then up to St Louis, and east - destination

Georgia. All of us went over to Butler, Mother and Father in the lead, in his buggy,

drawn by Loafer, while the rest of us followed in the surrey, ordinarily used only

on Sundays, with Tom driving Daisy and Beau. The train pulled in, and we made

hurried goodbyes as they were already shouting 'All abo . . . ard!' Father turned

Loafer over to Frank, and I inherited the surrey with the gentle team.

They didn't actually pull out all that quickly; baggage and freight had to be loaded

as well as soldiers. There was a flat car in the middle of the train, with a brass

band on it, supplied by the 3rd regiment (Kansas City) and it played all the time

the train was stopped, a military medley.

They played 'Mine eyes have seen the glory...' and segued right into 'I wish I was

in de land of cotton' and from that into 'Tenting tonight, tenting tonight' and '-

stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni!' Then they played 'In my prison

cel I sit' and the engine gave a toot and the train started to move, and the band

scrambled to get off the flat car into the coach next to it, and the man with the

tuba had to be helped.

And we started home and I was still hearing 'Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are

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marching' and that tragic first line, In my prison cell I sit...' Somebody told me

later that the man who wrote that knew nothing about it, because wartime prison

camps don't have anything as luxurious as cells. He cited Andersonville.

As may be, it was enough to make my eyes blur up and I couldn't see. But that didn't

matter; Beau Brummel and Daisy needed no help from me. Just leave the reins slack

and they would take us home. And they did.

I helped Frank unharness both rigs, then went in and upstairs. Mother came to my

room just as I closed the door, and tapped on it. I opened it.

'Yes, Mother?'

'Maureen, your Golden Treasury - May I borrow it?'

'Certainly. 'I went and got it; it was under my pillow. I handed it to her. 'It's

number eighty-three, Mother, on page sixty.'

She looked surprised, then thumbed the pages. 'So it is,' she agreed, then looked

up. 'We must be brave, dear.'

'Yes, Mother. We must.'

Speaking of prison cells, Pixel has just arrived in mine, with a present for me. A

mouse. A dead mouse. Still warm. He is so pleased with himself and clearly he

expects me to eat it. He is waiting for me to eat it.

How am I going to get out of this?

Chapter 6 - 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home...'

The rest of 1898 was one long bad dream. Our men had gone to war but it was

difficult to find out what was happening. I remember a time, sixty-odd years later,

when the malevolent eye of television turned war into a spectator sport, even to the

extent (I hope that this is not true!) that attacks were timed so that the action

could be shown live on the evening news. Can you imagine a more ironically horrible

way to die than to have one's death timed to allow an anchor man to comment on it

just before turning the screen over to the beer ads?

In 1898 the fighting was not brought live into our livingrooms; we had trouble

finding out what had happened even long after the fact. Was our Navy guarding the

east coast (as eastern politicians were demanding), or was it somewhere in the

Caribbean? Had the Oregon rounded the Horn and would it reach the Fleet in time? Why

was there a second battle at Manila? Hadn't we won the battle of Manila Bay weeks

ago?

In 1898 I knew so little about military matters that I did not realise that

civilians should not know the location of a fleet or the planned movements of an

army. I did not know that anything known to an outsider will be known by enemy

agents just minutes later. I had never heard of the public's 'right to know', a

right that cannot be found in the Constitution but was sacrosanct in the second half

of the twentieth century. This so-called 'right' meant that tr was satisfactory

(regrettable perhaps but necessary) for soldiers and sailors and airmen to die in

order to preserve unblemished that sacred `right to know'.

I had still to learn that neither Congressmen nor newsmen could be trusted with the

lives of our men.

Let me try to be fair. Let us assume that over ninety per cent of Congressmen and

newsmen are honest and honourable men. In that case, less than ten per cent need be

murderous fools indifferent to the deaths of heroes for that minority to destroy

lives, lose battles, turn the course of a war.

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I did not have these grim thoughts in 1898; it would take the War of 1898 and two

world wars and two undeclared wars ('police actions' for God's sake!) to make me

realise that neither our government nor our press could be trusted with human lives.

`A democracy works well only when the common man is an aristocrat. But God must hate

the common man; He has made him so dadblamed common! Does your common man understand

chivalry? Noblesse oblige? Aristocratic rules of conduct? Personal responsibility

for the welfare of the State? One may as well search for fur on a frog.' Is that

something I heard my father say? No. Well, not exactly. It is something I recall

from about two o'clock in the morning in the Oyster Bar of the Renton House in

Kansas City after Mr Clemens' lecture in January 1898. Maybe my father said part of

it; perhaps Mr Clemens said all of it, or perhaps they shared it - my memory is not

perfect after so many years.

Mr Clemens and my father were indulging in raw oysters, philosophy, and brandy. I

had a small glass of port. Both port and raw oysters were new to me; I disliked

both... not helped by the odour of Mr Clemens' cigar.

(I had assured Mr Clemens that I enjoyed the aroma of a good cigar; please do smoke.

A mistake.)

But I would have endured more than cigar smoke and raw oysters to be present that

night. On the platform Mr Clemens had looked just like his pictures: a jovial Satan

with a halo of white hair, in a beautifully tailored white suit. In person he was a

foot shorter, warmly charming, and he made an even more fervent admirer of me by

treating me as a grown lady.

I was up hours past my bedtime and had to keep pinching myself not to fall asleep.

What I remember best was Mr Clemens' discourse on the subject of cats and redheads

.. . composed on the spot for my benefit, I think - it does not appear anywhere in

his published works, not even those released by the University of California fifty

years after his death.

Did you know that Mr Clemens was a redhead? But that must wait.

News of the signing of the peace protocol reached Thebes on 12 August, a Friday. Mr

Barnaby, our principal, called us all into the lecture hall and told us, then

dismissed school. I ran home, found that Mother already knew. We cried on each other

a little while Beth and Lucille were noisy around us, then Mother and I started in

on a complete, unseasonal spring cleaning so that we would be ready when Father and

Tom (and Mr Smith? - I did not voice it) got Nome sometime next week. Frank was told

to cut the grass and to do anything else that needed doing outdoors - don't ask;

just do it.

Church on Sunday was a happy Praise-the-Lord occasion, with Reverend Timberly being

even more long-windedly stupid than usual but nobody minded, least of all me.

After church Mother said, 'Maureen, are you going to school tomorrow?'

I had not thought about it. The Thebes school board bad decided to offer summer high

school (in addition to the usual make-up session for grammar school dullards) as a

patriotic act to permit older boys to graduate early and enlist. I had signed up for

summer school both to add to my education (since I had given up the idea of college)

and to fill that aching emptiness caused by Father and Tom (and Mr Smith) being away

at war.

(I have spent the longest years of my life waiting for men to come back from war.

And for some who did not come back.)

`Mother, I had not thought about it. Do you really think there will be school as

usual tomorrow?'

'There will be. Have you studied?'

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(She knew I hadn't. You can't do much with Greek irregular verbs when you are down

on your knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor.) 'No, Ma'am.'

'Well? What would your father expect of you?'

I sighed. `Yes, Ma'am'

'Don't feel sorry for yourself. Summer school was your idea. You should not waste

that extra tuition. Now git! I will get supper by myself tonight.'

They did not come home that week.

They did not come home the following week.

They did not come home that fall.

They did not come home that year.

(Chuck's body came home. The GAR provided a firing squad and I attended my first

military funeral and cried and cried. A bugler with white hair played for Charles:

`- sleep in peace, soldier brave, God is nigh.' If I ever come close to believing,

it is when I hear 'Taps'. Even today.)

After that summer session in 1898, when September carne it was necessary to make a

choice; go to school or not, and if so, where? I did not want to remain home, doing

little but play nursemaid to George. Since I could not go to Columbia, I wanted to

go to Butler Academy, a two-gear private school that offered a liberal arts course

acceptable at Columbia or at Lawrence in lieu of lower division. I pointed out to

Mother that I had saved Christmas and birthday presents and `egg money' ('egg money'

was any earned money - taking care of neighbours' children, minding a stand at the

county fair, and so forth - not much and quite seldom) - I had saved enough for my

tuition and books.

Mother said, 'How will you get back and forth?'

I answered, 'How does Tom get back and forth?'

`Don't answer a question with a question, young lady. We both know how your brother

did it: by buggy in good weather, on horseback in bad weather... and he stayed home

in the very worst weather. But your brother is a grown man. Tell me how you will do

it.'

I thought about it. A buggy was no problem; the Academy had a barn for horses

awaiting their masters. Horseback? I could ride almost as well as my brothers... but

girls do not arrive at school wearing overalls, and lide-saddle was not a good idea

for weather not suited to a buggy. But even good weather and a buggy... From late in

October to early in March I would have to leave home before daylight and return home

after dark.

In October 1889 Sarah Trowbridge had left her father's farm to go four miles by

buggy to Rich Hill. Her horse and buggy came home. Sarah was never seen again.

Ours was a quiet countryside. But the most dangerous animal in all history walks on

two legs... and sometimes slinks along country roads.

`I am not afraid, Mother.'

'Tell me what your father would advise you to do.'

So I gave up, and prepared to go back to high school for another semester, or more.

School was less than a mile away and there were people we knew within shouting

distance the whole way. Best of all, our high school had courses I had not had time

to take. I continued Greek and another year of Latin and started differential

equations and first-year German and audited geology and medieval history instead of

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study hall those two hours. And of course I still continued piano lessons on

Saturday mornings - Mother had taught me for three years, then she had decided that

I could profit from more advanced training than she could give me. It was an 'in

kind' deal; Miss Primrose owed Father both for herself and for her ailing and

ancient mother.

So that kept me out of mischief the school year starting September 1898 while still

leaving me plenty of time to write a newsy unsentimental letter to Mr Smith

(Sergeant Smith!) each week, and another to Tom, and another to Father, and another

to Chuck... until one carne back to me the week before Chuck came back to us,

forever.

I didn't see boys or young men any to speak of. The good ones had gone to war; those

who remained behind struck me, mostly, as having drool on their chins. Or too

impossibly young for me. I was not consciously being faithful to Mr Smith. He had

not asked me to, and I would not expect him to be faithful to me. We had had one -

just ore - highly successful first meeting. But that did not constitute a betrothal.

Nor was I faithful. But it was just my young cousin Nelson, who hardly counts.

Nelson and I had ore thing in common: we were both as horny as a herd of goats, all

the time. And another thing - we were both as cautious as a vixen with kits in

coping with Mrs Grundy.

I let him pick the times and places; he had a head for intrigue. Between us, we kept

each other toned down to a pleasant simmer without waking Mrs Grundy. I could

happily have married Nelson, despite his being younger than I, had we not been so

closely related. A dear boy. (Except for that lemon pie!)

They were not home for Christmas. But two more bodies came home. I attended each

funeral, for Chuck's sake.

In January my brother Tom came marching home with his regiment. Mother and Frank

went to Kansas City to see the troop train arrive and the parade down Walnut, and

the countermarch back to the depot where most of them got back aboard to go on

terminal furlough at their home towns. I stayed home to take care of my sisters and

George, and thought privately that it was pretty noble of me.

Tom had a hand-carried letter for Mother:

Mrs Ira Johnson

Courtesy of Lance-Corporal T. J. Johnson,

C Company, 2nd Missouri Regiment.

Dear Madam,

I had hoped and expected to return home in the same train as our son Thomas. Indeed,

by the terms of enrolment under which I accepted appointment as surgeon in our state

militia on federal duty, I cannot be held more than ore hundred and twenty days

beyond the proclamation of peace, id est, the 12th of December last, or the 6thof

January, this current month - the difference in dates being a legal technicality now

moot.

I regret that I must inform you that the Surgeon General of the Army has asked me

and my professional colleagues to continue on duty here on a day to day basis until

our services can be spared, and that I have accepted.

We had thought that we bad these devastating fevers under control under control and

that we could dismantle the field hospitals here and send our remaining patients to

Fort Bragg. But, with the arrival three weeks ago of casuals and casualties from

Tampa, our hopes were dashed.

In short, Madam, my patients need me. I will come home as quickly as the Surgeon

General decides that I can be spared... under the spirit of the Oath of Hippocrates

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rather than through any quibble over the letter of the contract.

I trust that you will understand, as you have so many times in the past.

I remain, faithfully yours,

Your loving husband,

Ira Johnson, M.D.,

Captain (M.C.) AUS

Mother did not cry where anyone could see her... and I didn't cry where anyone could

see me.

Late in February I received a letter from Mr Smith... postmarked Cincinnati!

Dear Miss Maureen,

By the time this reaches you I will have laid aside my Army blues and resumed

wearing mufti; our engineering battalion, Ohio militia, is rolling west as I write

this.

It is my dearest wish to see you and to resume my suit for your hand in matrimony.

With that prime purpose in mind, after a few days at home with my family, I purpose

going at once to Rolla with the intention of reenrolling. Although I was granted my

degree in April last year about six weeks early, that sheepskin does not supply me

with academic work that I missed. So I intend to make up what I lost, plus a bit

more for good measure - which puts me close to Thebes for each weekend (which is

what the wily fellow had in mind all along!).

May I hope to see you on Saturday afternoon March 4th, and again on Sunday, March

5th? A postal card should reach me at School of Mines - but if I do not hear from

you, I shall assume that your answer is Yes.

This train is moving too slowly to suit me!

My respects to your parents and my greetings to all your family.

While looking forward eagerly to the 4th,

I remain faithfully yours, Brian Smith, B.S.,

Sergeant, Eng. Battalion,

Ohio Militia (Federal Duty)

I reread it, then took a deep breath and held it, to slow my heart. Then I found

Mother and asked her to read it. She did so, and smiled. 'I'm happy for you, dear.'

'I don't have to tell him to wait until Father gets home?'

'Your father has already expressed his approval of Mr Smith... in which I concur. He

is welcome.' Mother looked thoughtful. 'Will you ask him to consider fetching with

him his uniform?'

'Really?'

'Truly. So that he can wear it in church on Sunday. Would you like that?'

Would I! I told her so. 'Like Tom did, his first Sunday home. Goody!'

'We will be proud of him. I intend to ask your father to wear his uniform his first

Sunday home, too.' She looked thoughtful. 'Maureen, there is no reason why Mr Smith

should have to put up with Mrs Henderson's boarding house, or drive clear back to

Butler to the Mansion House. Frank can sleep in the other bed in Tom's room and Mr

Smith can have Edward's old room.'

'Oh, that would be nice!'

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'Yes, dear. But - Look at me, Maureen.' She held my eyes. 'Don't let his presence

under this roof cause either of you to permit any of the children - including

Thomas, I must add to see, or even to suspect, any impropriety.'

I blushed clear to my collarbones. 'I promise, chère mama.'

'No need for promises; just be discreet. We are women together, dear daughter; I

want to help you.'

March came in like a lamb, which just suited me, as I did not want to spend a long

afternoon being primly proper in our parlour. The weather was warm and sunny, with

no breeze to speak of. So on Saturday the fourth I was the perfect shy young maiden,

with parasol and leg o' mutton sleeves and a silly number of petticoats... until

Daisy had us a hundred yards from the house and out of earshot of anyone. 'Briney!'

'Yes, Miss Maureen?'

'"Miss Maureen," my foot. Briney, you've had me in the past; you can stop being

formal, now that we are alone. Do you have an erection?'

'Now that you mention it - Yes!'

'If you had said No, I would have burst into tears. Look, darling, I've found the

loveliest place -'

(Nelson had found it.) There seemed to be evidence that no one else knew of it.

Daisy had to be led through two tight spots, then she could be unharnessed and

allowed to graze - while we two turned the buggy around. Impossible for the mare to

do ir; not enough room for her to back and fill.

I spread the blanket down on a grassy spot separated from the bank by a thick

bush... and undressed while Brian watched me - right to my skin, right to stockings

and shoes.

That spot was certainly private but anyone within a quarter mile must have heard me.

I fainted on that first one, then opened my eyes to find my Briney boy worried. 'Are

you all right?' he asked.

'I've never been more all right in my life! Thank you, sir You were splendid!

Terrific. I've died and gone to heaven.'

He smiled at me. 'You aren't dead! You're here and you're wonderful and I love you.'

'Do you, truly? Brian, are you honestly intending to marry me?'

'I am.'

'Even with me disqualified for the Howard Foundation?'

'Redhead, the Foundation introduced us... but it had nothing to do with me coming

back. I would happily indenture myself for seven years, like what's-his-name in the

Bible, for the privilege of marrying you.'

'I hope you mean that. Do you want to hear how I'm disqualified?'

'No.'

'So? I'm going to tell you anyhow, because I need your help.'

'At your service, Ma'mselle!'

I'm disqualified because I'm not pregnant. If you will raise up just a little, I

will take that rubber mockery off you. Then, sir, if you please, as soon as you are

rested enough, I ask you to qualify me. Briney, let's start our first baby!'

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He surprised me... by being ready again almost at once. Even Nelson could not manage

it that quickly. My Brian was a remarkable man.

Bareness to bareness was just as perfect as I always knew it would be. This time I

was even louder. I have since learned to have an orgasm silently... but I would much

rather sound off, if conditions permit. Most men like applause. Especially Briney.

At last I sighed. 'That did it. Thank you, sir. I am now an expectant mother. I felt

it hit the target. Spung!'

'Maureen, you're wonderful.'

'I'm dead. I died happy. Are you hungry? I made some tiny cream puffs for our lunch

and filled them just before you arrived.'

'I want you for lunch:

'Blarney. We must keep up your strength. You won't be deprived.' I told him about

the arrangements we would have that night - and other nights. 'Of course Mother

knows all about it; she was a Howard bride herself. She just asks that we keep a

good face on things. Briney, are your parentes redheaded?'

'Mother is. Dad's hair is as dark as mine. Why?'

'I told him about Mr Clemens' theory. 'He says that while the rest of the human race

are descended from monkeys redheads derive from cats.'

'Seems logical. By the way, I forgot to tell you. If you marry me, my cat is part of

the package.'

'Shouldn't you have mentioned that before you knocked me up?'

'Perhaps I should have. You object to cats?

'I don't even speak to people who object to cats. Briney, I'm cold. Lee's go home.'

The sun had gone behind a cloud and the temperature suddenly dropped - typical March

weather for Missouri.

While I dressed, Briney got Daisy backed into the shafts and hitched up. Brian has

that gentle but firm touch that horses (and women) understand; Daisy obeyed him as

readily as she obeyed me, although she was usually terribly shy with strangers.

By the time we were home my teeth were chattering. But Frank had the baseburner in

the parlour fired up; we had my picnic lunch next to it. I invited Frank to share.

He had had lunch, but he found room for cream puffs.

My period was due on 18 March; I missed it. I told Briney but no one else. 'Father

says that to miss just one is nothing. We should wait.'

`We'll wait'

Father got home on the first of April, and the house was in a happy uproar for days.

My next period should have been 15 April - I didn't even spot. Briney agreed that it

was time I told my father, so I did, that same Saturday afternoon.

Father looked at me solemnly. 'How do you feel about it, Maureen?'

Tm utterly happy about it, sir. I did it on purpose - we did it on purpose. Now I

would like to marry Mr Smith as soon as possible.'

`Reasonable. Well; let's call in your young man. I want to speak to him privately.'

`I can't be present?'

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'You may not be present.'

I was called back in, then Father stepped out. I said, `I don't see any blood on

you, Briney.'

`He didn't even get out his shot-gun. He just explained your trifling ways to me:

'What trifling ways?'

`Now, now. Simmer down.'

Father came back in with Mother. He said to us, 'I have explained to Mrs Johnson

about the skipped periods.' He turned to Mother. 'When do you think they should get

married?'

'Mr Smith, when is your last class at Rolla?'

'I have my last examination on Friday, 19 May, Ma'am. Commencement isn't until:

June, but that doesn't affect me.'

'I see. Would Saturday, 20 May, suit you two? And, Mr Smith, do you think your

parents will be able to come here for the wedding?'

At 7.I3 p.m. on 20 May my husband and I were rolling north from Butler on the Kansas

City Southern Express... `express' meaning that it stopped for cows, milk cans, and

frogs, but not for fireflies.

I said, `Briney, my feet hurt.'

'Take your shoes off.'

'In public?'

`You no longer have to pay attention to any opinion but mine... and durned little to

mine.'

`Thank you, sir. But I don't dare take them off; my feet would swell and I would

never get them back on. Briney, the next time we get married, Iet's elope!

'Suits. We should have this time. What a day!'

I chose to have a noon wedding. I was overruled by my mother, my prospective

mother-in-law, the minister, the minister's wife, the organist, the church janitor,

and anyone else who cared to speak up. I had thought that the bride was supposed to

get her own way about her wedding (if what she wanted was not too dear for her

father's purse), but apparently I had been reading too many romantic stories. I

wanted a noon wedding so that we could reach Kansas City before dark. When I found

myself frustrated on every side, I spoke to Father about it.

He shook his head. I'm sorry, Maureen, but it is written right here in the

Constitution that the father of the bride has no rights whatsoever in a wedding. He

gets to pay the bills and he must give the bride away. Otherwise they don't let him

out of his cage. Did you tell your mother why you wanted to catch the earlier

train?'

`Yes, sir.'

'What did she say?'

`She said that all the planning had been done on the assumption that the Smiths

would arrive on the ten-forty-two, soon enough for a four o'clock wedding but not

for a noon wedding. I said, "But, Mother, they are already here." And she said that

it was too late to change everything. And I said, "Who says so? And why wasn't I

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consulted?" And she said, "Keep quiet and stop wiggling. I've got to pin this over

again." Father, this is dreadful. I'm being treated like a prize cow about to be

shown at the fair. And I'm listened to just as much as that cow.'

'Maureen, it probably is too late to change anything now. Stipulated, your wishes

should have been followed. But now it is less than forty-eight hours till your

wedding and when Adele takes the bit in her teeth, she doesn't listen. I wish I

could help you. But she won't listen to me, either.' Father looked as unhappy as I

felt. 'Grit your teeth and wait it out. Once Brother Timberly says, "I pronounce you

man and wife", you no longer have to pay any attention to anyone but Brian. And I

see that you have a ring in his nose; you won't find that too difficult.'

'I don't think I have a ring in his nose.'

The Reverend Timberly had been told that the Methodist Episcopal service was to be

followed exactly, none of these modern innovations. He had been told also that it

would be a single-ring ceremony. The muttonhead didn't listen on either point. He

stuck in all sorts of stuff (from his lodge rituals, I think; he was a past Grand

Chancellor of the Knights and Lords of the High Mountain), stuff that had not been

in the rehearsal, questions and responses I didn't recognise. And he preached,

telling each of us things we didn't need to hear, matters not in the wedding

service.

This went on and on, while my feet hurt (don't buy shoes by mail order!) and my

corset was stifling me. (I had never worn one before. But Mother insisted.) I was

about to tell Brother Timberwolf to stick to the book, stop improvising (it was

getting closer and closer to train time), when he reached the point where he wanted

two rings and there was of course but one.

He wanted to back up and start over.

Brian spoke up (and a groom isn't supposed to say anything but 'I will' and 'I do')

and said in a whisper that could not be heard more than a hundred yards, 'Reverend,

stop stalling and stick to words in the book... or I won't pay you a red cent.'

Brother Timberly started to expostulate and looked at Briney - and stopped suddenly,

and said, 'By AuthorityvestedinmebythesovereignstateofMissouri I pronounce you man

and wife!' And thereby saved his own life. I think.

Brian kissed me and we turned and started down the aisle and I tripped on my train.

Beth was carrying my train and was supposed to move it off to the left.

It wasn't her fault; I turned the wrong way.

'Briney, did you get any wedding cake?'

'Never had time.'

'Me, too. I suddenly realise that I haven't eaten anything since breakfast... and

not much then. Let's find that dining car.'

'Suits. I'll enquire.' Briney got up, was gone a few moments. When he came back he

leaned over me. 'I found it.'

'Good. Is it in front of us, or behind us?'

'Behind us. Quite a bit behind us. They left it off in Joplin.'

So our wedding supper was two stale ham sandwiches from the news butcher and a

bottle of soda pop, split.

About eleven o'clock we finally reached the Lewis and Clark, where Briney had a

reservation for us. The hack driver had apparently never heard of that hotel but was

willing to search for it as long as his horse held out. He started away from the

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depot in the wrong direction. Briney spotted this and stopped him; the driver gave

him an argument and some lip. Briney said, 'Back to the depot; we'll have another

hack.' This ultimatum finally got us there.

I suppose that it was only to be expected that the night clerk had never heard of

Briney's reservation. But Brian can't be pushed around and he won't be intimidated.

He said, 'I made my reservation by mail three weeks ago with a postal money order

deposit. I have my receipt right here along with a letter of confirmation signed by

your manager. Now wake him up and put a stop to this nonsense.' Briney shoved the

letter under the clerk's nose.

The clerk looked at it and said, 'Oh, that Mr Smith And the bridal suite. Why didn't

you say so?'

'I did say so, ten minutes ago.'

'I am very sorry, sir. Front!'

Twenty minutes later I was in a wonderful tub of hot, soapy water, just like Chicago

six years earlier. I almost fell asleep in the tub, then realised that I was keeping

my bridegroom out of the bath, and pulled myself together. 'Briney! Shall I fill a

tub for you?'

No answer. I dried off a bit, wrapped the towel around me, aware that I was a

scandalous sight (and a provocative one, I hoped).

My gallant knight was fast asleep, still in his clothes, lying across the bedspread.

There was a silver bucket just inside the door - ice and a bottle of champagne.

I got out my nightgown (virginal white and perfumed; it had been Mother's bridal

nightgown) and a pair of bunny slippers. 'Brian. Briney. Please wake up, dear. I

want to help you undress, and open the bed, and get you into it.'

'Murrf.'

'Please, dear.'

'I wasn't asleep.'

'No, of course not. Let me help you off with your boots.'

'I c'n get 'em.' He sat up and reached for them.

'Ali right, dear. I must let the water out of the tub, then I'll run a bath for

you.'

'Your water is still in the tub?'

'Yes.'

'Let it be; I'll use it. Mrs Smith, you couldn't get a tub of water dirty; you would

just impart a delicious flavour?

Sure enough, my gallant knight did bathe in my bath water (still lukewarm). I

climbed into bed... and was sound asleep when he came to bed. He did not wake me.

I woke up in darkness about two or three, frightened to find myself in a strange bed

- then remembered. 'Briney?'

'You awake now?'

'Awake some.' I snuggled closer.

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Then I sat up and got rid of that nightgown; I was getting bound up in it. And

Briney took off his nightshirt, and for the first time both of us were bare all over

and it was wonderful and I knew that all my life had just been preparation for this

moment.

After an unmeasured time that had started out slowly, we both took fire together -

after that, I was lying quietly under him, loving him.

'Thank you, Briney. You are wonderful.'

'Thank you. Love you.'

'Love you, my husband. Briney. Where's your cat? In Cincinnati? In Rolla?'

'Eh? No, no. In Kansas City.'

'Here? Boarded with someone?'

'I don't know:

'I don't understand.'

'You haven't picked it out yet, Mo. It's the kitten you're going to give me. Bride's

present to the bridegroom.'

- 'Oh! Briney, you're a scamp!' I tickled him. He tickled me. It resulted, by

stages, in Maureen being disgracefully noisy again. Then I got my back scratched.

Having your back scratched is not the only reason to be married, but it is a good

one, especially for those spots that are so hard to reach by yourself. Then I

secratched his back. We finally went to sleep all tangled up in each other like a

basket of kittens.

Maureen had at last found out what she was good for, her true destiny.

We had champagne for breakfast.

Chapter 7 - Ringing the Cash Register

From having read candid autobiographies written by liberated women in the twentieth

century, especially those published after the second phase of the Final Wars, c.

195= et seq., I know that I am expected to tell in detail all aspects of my first

pregnancy and of me birth of my first child - all about morning sickness and my

cyclic moods and the tears and the loneliness... then the false labour, the

unexpected breaking of the bag of waters, followed by eclampsia and emergency

surgery and the secrets I spilled under anaesthesia.

I'm sorry but it wasn't that way at all. I've seen women with morning sickness and

it's obviously horrible, but I never experienced it. My problem has always been to

`stay on the curve', not gain more weight than my doctor thought was healthy for me.

(There have been times when I would have killed for a chocolate éclair.)

With my first baby labour lasted forty minutes. If having babies in hospitals had

been the expected thing in 1899, I would have had Nancy on the way to the hospital.

As it was, Brian delivered Nancy, under my direction, and it was much harder on him

than it was on me.

Dr Rumsey arrived and retied the cord and cut it, and told Brian he had done an

excellent job (he had). Then Dr Rumsey took care of the delivery of the afterbirth,

and Briney fainted, poor lamb. Women are more rugged than men; they have to be.

I've had longer labours than that one but never a terribly long one. I did not have

an episiotomy with that first one (obviously!) and I did not need a repair

afterwards. On later births I never allowed a knife to be used on me down there and

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so I have no soar tissue there, just undamaged muscle.

I'm a brood mare, built for it, wide in my thighs and with a birth canal made of

living rubber elastic. Dr Rumsey told me that it was my attitude that made the

difference but I know better; my ancestors gave me the genetic heritage that makes

me a highly efficient female animal, for which I am grateful... as I have seen women

who were not; they suffered terribly and some of them died. Yes, yes, `natural

selection' and `survival of the fittest' and Darwin was right -stipulated. But it is

no joke to attend the funeral of a dear friend, dead in her golden youth because her

baby killed her. I was at such a funeral in the twenties and heard a sleek old

priest talk about 'God's will'. At the graveside I managed to back away from the

coffin such that I got him proper in his instep with a sharp heel. When he yelped, I

told him it was God's will.

Once I had a baby in the middle of a bridge game. Pat it was, Patrick Henry Smith,

so that makes it 1932 and that makes it contract we were playing, not auction, and

that all fits together, as Justin and Eleanor Weatheral taught us contract after

they learned it and we were playing at their house. Eleanor and Justin were parents

of Jonathan Weatheral, husband of my first-born, so the Weatherals were a Howard

marriage themselves, but they were our friends long before we knew that about them.

We did not learn it until the spring Jonathan showed up on Nancy's Howard Foundation

list of young male eligibles.

In this bridge game I was Justin's parmer; Eleanor was Briney's partner. Justin had

dealt; contract had been reached and we were about to play, when I said, `Put your

hands face down and put paperweights on them; I'm having a baby!'

`Forget the hand!' said my husband.

`Of course,' agreed my partner.

`Hell, no!' I answered in my ladylike way, 'I bid the bloody thing; I'm damn well

going to play it! Help me up from here!'

Two hours later we played the hand. Dr Rumsey, Jr., had come and gone; I was on

Eleanor's bed with the table, legs collapsed and supported by pillows, across my

lap, and my new son was in my partner's arms. El and Briney were on each side of me,

half seated on the bed. I had bid a small slam in spades, doubled and redoubled,

vulnerable.

I went down one trick.

Eleanor tilted her nose at me and pushed it up with the tip of her finger. 'Smarty,

smarty, missed the party!' Then she looked very startled. 'Mo! Move over, dear! I'm

about to have mine!'

So Briney delivered two babies that night and Junior doc had to come back just as

soon as he reached home and grumbled at us that he did wish we would make up our

minds; he was going to charge us mileage and overtime. Then he kissed us and left -

by that time we had long known that the Rumseys were Howards, too, which made Junior

Doc a member of the family.

I called Ethel, told her we were staying overnight, and why. Is everything all

right, dear? Can you and Teddy manage? (Four younger ones at home. Five? No, four.)

'Certainly, Mama. But is it a boy or a girl? And how about Aunt Eleanor?'

'Both. I had a boy, Eleanor just had a girl. You youngsters can start working on

names... for mine, at least.'

But the best joke was another matter entirely, something we didn't tell Junior Doc

or the children: Briney put that little girl into my sweetheart Eleanor, and her

husband Justin put Pat into me... all at a weekend in the Ozarks to celebrate

Eleanor's fifty-fifth birthday. The birthday party got a bit relaxed and our

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husbands decided that, since all four of us were Howards, there was no sense in

bothering with these pesky rubber sheaths... when we could be ringing the cash

register.

(Cultural note: I mentioned that Eleanor got pregnant on her fifty-fifth birthday.

But the age of the mother on the birth certificate junior Doc filled was

forty-three, or close to that. And the age filed on mine was thirty-eight, not

fifty. In 1920 all of us had received a warning from the Howard Foundation trustees,

delivered by word of mouth, to trim years off our official ages at every

opportunity. Later that century we were encouraged and helped to acquire new

identities every thirty years or so. Eventually this became the full 'Masquerade'

that saved the Howard Families during the Crazy Years and following. But I know of

the Masquerade only from the Archives, as I was taken out of that turmoil - thank

Heaven and Hilda! - in 1982.)

We rang the cash register five times, Brian and I, during the Mauve Decade - five

babies in ten years, 1900-1910 Gregorian. I was the first to call it 'ringing the

cash register' and my husband went along with my crass and vulgar jest. It was after

I had recovered from unloading my first one (our darling Nancy) and had been cleared

by Dr Rumsey to resume 'family duties' (so help me, that's what they called it then)

if we so pleased.

I came home from that visit to Dr Rumsey, started dinner, then took another bath and

used some scandalous perfume Briney had given me for Christmas, got into a

lime-green négligé Aunt Carole had given me as a wedding present, checked dinner and

turned down the gas - I had it all planned - and was ready when Briney got home.

He let himself in; I was posed. He looked me up and down, and said, 'Joe sent me. Is

this the right address?'

'Depends on what you are looking for, sport,' I answered in a deep sultry voice.

'May I offer you the specialty of the house?' Then I broke my pose and dropped my

act. 'Briney! Dr Rumsey says that it is all right!'

'You'll have to speak more plainly, little girl. What is all right?'

'Anything is all right. I'm all back together again.' I suddenly dropped the

négligé. 'Come on, Briney! Let's ring the cash register!'

So we did, although it didn't work that time - I didn't catch again until early in

1901. But it was always delirious fun to try, and try we did, again and again. As

Mammy Della once told me, 'Lawsy a mercy, chile, jes hunnuds an' hunnuds a times

ain't nuffin happen a tall.'

How did Mammy Della get in here? Brian found her, that's how, when I started being

too big to do a washing easily. Our first house, a tiny one on 26th Street, was only

a short distance from darktown; Della lived within walking distance, and she would

work all day for a dollar and car fare. That she didn't use the streetcar was

irrelevant; that dime was part of the bargain. Della had been born a slave and could

not read or write... but she was as fine a lady as I have ever known, with a heart

full of love for all who would accept her love.

Her husband was a roustabout with Ringling Brothers; I never laid eyes on him. She

continued to come to see me - or to see Nancy, `her' baby - after I no longer needed

help, sometimes bringing along her latest grandchild... then she would drop her

grandchild in with Nancy and insist on doing my work. Sometimes I could nail her

down with a cup of tea. Not often. Later she went back to work for me with Carol.

Then with each baby, up to 1911; when `the Lord took her in His arms'. If there is a

heaven, Della is there.

Can it be that Heaven is as real as Kansas City to those who believe in Heaven? This

would fit, it seems to me, the World-as-Myth cosmology. I must ask Jubal about this,

when I get out of this jail and back to Boondock.

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In gourmet restaurants in Boondock 'Potatoes a la Della' are highly esteemed, as are

some others of her recipes. Della taught me a great deal. I don't think that I was

able to teach her anything, as she was far more sophisticated and knowledgeable than

I in the subjects we had in common.

These were my first five `cash register' babies:

Nancy Irene, 1 December 1899 or 5 January 1900

Carol (Santa Carolita, named for my Aunt Carole), 1 January 1902

Brian junior, 12 March 1905

George Edward, 14 February 1907

Marie Agnes, 5 April 1909

After Marie, I did not catch again until the spring of 1912. That one was my spoiled

brat and favourite child, Woodrow Wilson... who was later my lover, Theodore

Bronson... and much later, my husband, Lazarus Long. I don't know why I didn't catch

sooner, but it was not from lack of trying; Briney and I tried to ring the cash

register at every opportunity. We did not care whether it caught or not; we did it

for fun... and if we missed, that simply postponed those several weeks when we would

have to refrain before and after each birth. Oh, not refrain from everything; I

became quite skilled with hands and mouth and so did Briney. But for solid day-in

and day-out happy fun, we both preferred the old-fashioned sport, whether it was

missionary style or eighteen other ways.

Perhaps I could account for all the times I failed to catch if I had a calendar of

the Mauve Decade, with a record of my menstrual periods. The calendar would be no

problem, but a record of my menses, while I did keep one at that time, is long gone

and irretrievable - or nearly so; it would take a Time Corps operation to retrieve

it. But here is my theory: Briney was often away on business; he was `ringing the

cash register' his own way, as an analyst and planner for corporate mining ventures,

one whose exceptional talents were increasingly in demand.

Neither of us had heard of the simple fourteen-day role for ovulation, or the

thermometer check, much less the more subtle and more reliable techniques developed

in the latter half of the twentieth century. Dr Rumsey was as good a family doctor

as you could find at that time and he was not constrained by the taboos of the time

- he had been sent to us by the Howard Foundation - but Dr Rumsey knew no more about

this than we did.

If it were possible to prepare a calendar showing my menses 1900-1912, then mark on

it by the fourteen-day role my probable dates of ovulation, then mark the dates that

Briney was away from Kansas City, it is long odds that such a chart would show that

those little wigglers never had a target to shoot at on those occasions that I

failed to catch. This seems certain, as Briney was a prize stallion and I was Myrtle

the Fertile Turtle.

But I am glad that I did not know the roles of ovulation at that time, because there

is nothing that beats the tingling excitement of laying back, legs open and eyes

closed and bare to the possibility of impregnation. And I know that this is not just

one of Maureen's many eccentricities; I have checked this with endless other women:

the knowledge that it can happen adds to the zest.

I am not running down contraception; it's the greatest boon to women in all history,

as efficient contraception frees women from that automatic enslavement to men that

has been the norm through all histories. But the ancient structure of our female

nervous systems is not tuned to contraception; it is tuned to getting pregnant.

So it was grand for Maureen that, once I ceased being a bawdy school girl, I almost

never needed to use contraception.

One balmy March day in 1912 Briney nailed me to the ground on a bank of the Blue

River, almost exactly duplicating an earlier occasion, 4 March 1899, on a bank of

the Marais des Cygnes. We both delighted in making love outdoors, especially with a

spice of danger. On the occasion of that 1912 prank I was wearing opera-length silk

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hose and green round garters, and my husband photographed me so, standing, naked in

the sunlight, facing the camera and smiling - and that picture played a major part

in my life six years later, and seventy years later, and over two thousand years

later.

That picture, I am told, changed the entire history of the human race in several

time tines.

Maybe so, maybe not. I'm not fully sold on World-as-Myth even though I am a Time

Corps field agent, even though the smartest people I know tell me it's the real

McCoy. Father always required me to think for myself, and Mr Clemens urged me to,

also. I was taught that the one Unforgivable Sin, the offence against one's own

integrity, was to accept anything at all simply on authority.

Nancy has two birthdays: the day I bore her, which was registered with the

Foundation, and the date we handed out to the world, the day that matched more

properly the date of my marriage to Brian Smith. That was easy to do at the end of

the-nineteenth century, as in Missouri vital statistics were just beginning to be

taken. Most records were still of the family-Bible sort. The County Clerk of Jackson

County recorded births and deaths and marriages if offered to him, but nothing

happened if such milestones were not reported.

Nancy's birth was reported correctly to the Foundation, a report signed by me and

Brian, and certified by Dr Rumsey. Then a month later Dr Rumsey filed a birth

certificate with the county clerk, with the false date.

Easy to do - Nancy was born at home; all my babies were born at home until the

middle thirties. So there were no hospital records to confuse the issue. On 8

January I wrote the happy news (false date) to several people in Thebes and sent an

announcement to the Lyle County Leader.

Why such a silly hooraw to fuzz the date of birth of a baby? Because the customs of

those times were cruel, cruel, harshly cruel. Mrs Grundy would have counted on her

fingers and whispered that we had to get married to give our sinful bastard a name

she shouldn't bear. Yes. It was all part of the nastiness of the grim age of

Bowdler, Comstock, and Grundy, the vultures that corrupted what could have been a

civilisation.

Near the end of that century single women openly gave birth to babies whose fathers

might or might not be around. But this was not the behaviour of a truly free

culture; it was the other swing of the pendulum and not easy for mother or child.

The old rules were being broken but no workable new code had as yet evolved.

Our expedient kept everyone in Thebes County from knowing that sweet little Nancy

was a `bastard'. Of course Mother knew the date was false... but Mother was not in

Thebes; she was in St Louis with Grandpa and Grandma Pfeiffer. And Father had gone

back into the Army.

I still don't know how to look at this. A girl should not pass judgement on her

parents... and I shan't.

The Spanish-American War had brought me closer to Mother. Her worry and grief made

me decide that she really did love Father; they just kept it private from the

children.

Then, on the day of my wedding, while Mother was dressing me, she gave me that

motherly advice that traditionally the brides mother gives the bride to ensure

matrimonial tranquillity.

Can you guess what she told me? Better sit down to hear this.

She told me that I must be prepared to endure without resentment submission to my

husband for `family duties'. It was the Lord's plan, explained in Genesis, and was

the price that women must pay for the privilege of having children... and if I would

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just look at it that way, I could submit cheerfully. But I must realise also that

men have needs different from ours; you must expect to meet his needs. Don't think

of it as animal, or ugly - just remember your dear children.

I said, 'Yes, Mother. I will remember.'

So what happened? Did Mother cut Father off? Whereupon he went back into the Army?

Or did he tell her that he wanted to get out of that little town, so deep in the

gumbo mud, and try a second career in the Army?

I don't know. I don't need to know; it's not my business. Father did go back into

the Army, so quickly after my wedding that I feel sure he had it planned before

then. His letters showed that he was in Tampa for a while, then Guantanamo in

Cuba... then clear out in the Philippines, in Mindanao, where the Muslim Moms were

killing more of our soldiers than the Spaniards had ever managed... and then he was

in China.

After the Boxer Rebellion I thought my father was dead, for I did not hear for a

long time. Then at last he was at the Presidio in San Francisco and his letter from

there referred to other letters I had never received.

He left the Army in 1912. He was sixty that year - was he retired on age? I don't

know. Father always told you what he wanted you to know; if you crowded him, he

might treat you to some creative fiction... or he might tell you to go straight to

hell.

He came to Kansas City. Brian invited him to come live with us, but Father had

already found himself a flat and settled into it before he let us know that he was

in town, indeed before we knew that he had left the Army.

Five years later he did move in with us because we needed him.

In the 1900s Kansas City was an exciting place. Despite three months in Chicago ten

years earlier I was not used to a big city. When I went there as a bride, Kansas

City had one hundred and fifty thousand people in it. There were electric

streetcars, almost as many automobiles as horse-drawn vehicles, trolley wires and

telephone wires and power wires everywhere. All of the main streets were paved and

more of the side streets were being paved each year; the park system was already

famous worldwide and still not finished. The public library had (unbelievable!)

nearly half a million volumes.

Kansas City's Convention Hall was so big that the Democratic party was scheduled to

hold its 1900 presidential nominating convention in it - then it burned down

overnight and its reconstruction was underway before the ashes were cold and the

Democrats nominated William Jennings Bryan in that hall just ninety days later.

Meanwhile the Republicans renominated President McKinley and, with him, Colonel

Teddy Roosevelt, heroe of San Juan hill. I don't know for whom my husband voted...

but it never seemed to displease him when someone would notice a resemblance between

him and Teddy Roosevelt.

I think Briney would have told me, had I asked - but in 1900 politics was not a

woman's business, and I was doing my utter best to simulate publicly the perfect

modest housewife, interested only in kirk, kitchen, and kids as the Kaiser put it.

(Kische, Küche, und Kinder.)

Then in September 1901, only six months into his second term, our President was

murdered most vilely... and the dashing young war hero was precipitated into the

highest Office.

There are time lines in which Mr McKinley was not assassinated and Col. Roosevelt

was never president, and his distant cousin was not nominated in 1932, which utterly

changes the patterns of wars, both in 1917 and 1941. Our Time Corps mathematicians

deal with these matters, but the structural simulations are large even for the new

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computer complex combining Mycroft Holmes IV with Pallas Athene, and are quite

beyond me. I'm a baby factory, a good cook, and I aim to be a panic in bed. It seems

to me that the secret of happiness in life is to know what you are and then be

content to be that, in style, head up and proud, and not yearn to be something else.

Ambition can never change a sparrow into a hawk, or a wren into a bird of paradise.

I'm a Jenny Wren; it suits me.

Pixel is a fine example of being what he is in style. His tail is always up and he

is always sure of himself. Today he brought me still another mouse, so I praised him

and petted him, and kept the mouse until he left, then flushed it away.

A midnight thought finally surfaced. These mice are the first proof anyone has had

(I'm almost sure) that Pixel can take anything with him when he grasps a probability

and walks through walls (if that describes what he does - well, at least it labels

it).

What message can I send, and to whom, and how can I fasten it to him?

In shifting from school girl to housewife I had to add to Maureen's private

decalogue. One was: thou shalt always live within thy household allowance. Another I

formulated earlier: thou shalt not let thy children see thee cry - and when it

became clear that Brian would have to be away frequently, I added him in. Never let

him see me cry and be sure to offer him a smiling face when he returns... don't,

Don't, DONT sour his return with fiddling details about how a pipe froze, or the

grocer boy was rude, or see what that dadratted dog did to my pansy bed. Make him

happy to come home, sorry to have to leave.

Do let children welcome him; don't let them smother him. He wants a mother for his

children... but he wants a willing and available concubine, too. If you are not she,

he will find one elsewhere.

Another commandment: promises must be kept - especially ones made to children. So

think three times before making one. In case of tiniest doubt, don't promise.

Above all, don't save up punishments `until your father comes home'.

Many of these rules did not yet apply when I had only one baby and that one still in

nappies. But I did think out most of my roles ahead of time and then wrote them down

in my private journal. Father had warned me that I had no moral sense; therefore it

would be necessary to anticipate decisions I would have to make. I could not depend

on that little voice of conscience to guide me on an ad hoc basis; I did not have

that little voice. Therefore I would have to reason things out instead, ahead of

time, forming rules of conduct somewhat like the Ten Commandments, only more so, and

without the glaring defects of an ancient tribal code intended only for barbaric

herdsmen.

But none of my roles were really difficult and I had a wonderfully good time!

I never tried to find out how much Briney was paid whenever I had a baby; I did not

want to know. It was more fun to believe that it was a million dollars each time,

paid in red gold ingots the colour of my hair, each golden ingot too heavy for one

man to lift. A king's favourite, lavished with jewels, is proud of her 'fallen'

state; it is the poor drab on the street, renting her body for pennies, who is

ashamed of her trade. She is a failure and she knows it. In my daydream I was a

king's mistress, not a sad-faced mattress-back.

But the Foundation must have paid fairly well. Attend me - Our first house in Kansas

City was close to minimum for respectable middle class. It was near the coloured

district; in 1899 this made it a cheap neighbourhood even though it was segregated

for whites. Besides it was on an east-west street and faced north, two more points

against it. It was on a high terrace with a long flight of steps to climb. It was a

one-storey frame house, built in 1880 with its plumbing added as an afterthought -

the bath opened directly off the kitchen. It had no dining-room, no hallway, just

one bedroom. It had no proper basement, just a dirty-floor cellar for the furnace

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and coal bin. It had no attic, just a low, unfinished space.

But houses for rent that we could afford were scarce; Briney had been lucky to find

it. I had thought for a while that I was going to have my first baby in a

boarding-house.

Briney took me to see it before he closed the deal, a courtesy I appreciated as

married women could not sign contracts in those days; he did not have to consult me.

`Think you could live here?'

Could I! Running water, a flush toilet, a bathtub, a gas range, gas lamp fixtures, a

furnace -'Briney, it's lovely! But can we afford it?'

`That's my problem, Mrs S., not yours. The rent will be paid. In fact you will pay

it for me, as my agent, the first of every month. Our landlord, a gentleman named

Ebeneezer Scrooge - '

"Ebeneezer Scrooge" indeed!'

'I think that was the name. But there was a streetcar going by; I may have

misunderstood. Mr Scrooge will collect in person, the first of every month, except

Sundays, in which case he will collect on the Saturday preceding, not the Monday

following; he was firm about that. And he wants cash; no cheques. He was firm about

that, too. Real cash, silver cartwheels, not banknotes.'

Despite the house's many shortcomings its rent was high. I gasped when Briney told

me: twelve dollars a month. 'Oh, Briney!'

'Get your feathers down, freckled one. We're going to be in it just one year. If you

think you can stand it that long, you won't have to deal with dear Mr Scrooge - his

name is O'Hennessy - as I can tie it down for twelve months with a discount of four

points. Does that mean anything to you?'

I thought about it. 'Mortgage money is six per cent today... so three points

represents the average cost of hiring, the money, since you are paying in advance

and they don't own the money until they have earned it, month by month. One point

must be because Mr O'Hennessy Scrooge won't have to make twelve trips here to

collect his rent. So that comes to one hundred and thirty-eight dollars and twenty

four cents.'

'Flame Top, you continue to amaze me.'

'But they really ought to give you another point, for administrative overhead.'

'How is that?'

`For the bookkeeping they don't have to do because you are paying it all in a lump.

That brings it down to one hundred thirty-six eighty. Offer him one hundred and

thirty five, Briney. Then settle for one thirty-six.'

My husband looked at me in astonishment. 'To think I married you for your cooking.

Look, I'll stay Nome and have the baby; you go do my job. Mo, where did you learn

that?'

'Tbebes High School. Well, sort of. I worked a while on Father's accounts, then I

found a textbook at home that my brother Edward had used, Commercial Arithmetic and

Introduction to Bookeeping. We had our school books in common; there were shelves of

them in the back hallway. So I didn't take the course but I read the book. But is

silly to talk about me doing your job; I don't know beans about mining. Besides I

don't want that long streetcar ride down to the west bottoms.'

'I'm not sure I can have a baby, either.'

I'll do that, sir; I'm looking forward to it. But I would like to ride downtown with

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you each morning as far as McGee Street.'

'You are more than welcome, Madam. But why MeGee Street?'

'Kansas City Business College. I want to spend the next few months, before I get too

big, learning to use a typewriter and to take Pitman shorthand. Then, if you ever

become ill, dearest man, I could work in an office and support us... and if you ever

go into business for yourself, I could do your office work. That would save you

hiring a girl and maybe get us past that tight spot the books say every new business

has.'

Briney said slowly, It was your cooking and one other talent; I remember clearly.

Who would have guessed it?'

'Do you mean I may?'

'Better figure up what it will cost in tuition and carfare and lunch money -'

`I'll pack lunches for both of us.'

'Tomorrow, Mo. Or the next day. Let's settle this house.'

We took the house, although that skinflint held out for one hundred and thirty-eight

dollars. We stayed in it two years and another girl baby, Carol, then moved around

the comer on to Mersington and into a slightly larger house (same landlord), where I

had my first boy, Brian junior, in 1905... and learned what had become of the Howard

bonuses.

It was the spring of 1906, a Sunday in May. We often took a streetcar ride on

Sundays, to the far end of some line we had never explored before - our two little

girls in their Sunday best and Briney and me taking turns holding junior. But this

time he had arranged to leave our three with the lady next door, Mrs 0hlschlager, a

dear friend who was correcting and extending my German.

We walked up to 27th Street and caught the streetcar heading west; Briney asked for

transfers as usual, as on Sundays we might change anywhere, wind up anywhere. This

day we rode only ten blocks when Briney pushed the button. 'It's a lovely day; let's

walk the boulevard a while.'

'Suits.'

Brian handed me down; we crossed to the south side, headed south on the west side of

Benton Boulevard. `Sweetheart, would you like to live in this neighbourhood?'

`I would like it very much and I'm sure we will, in twenty years or so. 'It's

lovely.' It truly was - every house on a double lot, each house ten or twelve rooms

at least, each with its carriage drive and carriage house (barn, to us country

jakes). Flower beds, stained-glass fanlights over the doors, all the houses new or

perfectly kept up - from the styles I guessed 1900; I seemed to recall building

going on here the year we came to KC.

'Twenty years in a pig's eye, my love; don't be a pessimist. Let's pick out ore and

buy it. How about that ore with the Saxon parked at the kerb?'

`Must I take the Saxon, too? I don't like that door that opens to the rear; a child

could fall out. I prefer that phaeton with the matched blacks.'

'We're not buying horses, just houses.'

'But, Brian, we can't buy a house on Sunday; the contract would not be legal.'

`We can, my way. We can shake hands on it; then sign papers on Monday.'

`Very well, sir.' Briney loved games. Whatever they were, I went along with them. He

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was a happy man and he made me happy (in or out of bed).

At the end of the block we crossed over to the east side and continued south. In

front of the third house from the corner he stopped us. 'Mo, I like the looks of

this ore. It feels like a happy house. Does it to you?'

It looked much like the houses around it, big and comfortable and handsome - and

expensive. Not as inviting as the others, as it seemed to be unoccupied - no porch

furniture, blinds drawn. But I agreed with my husband whenever possible... and it

was no fault of the house that it was unoccupied. If it was.

Tm sure it could be a happy house with the right people in it'

'Us, for instance?'

`Us, for instance,' I agreed.

Brian started up the walk toward the house. `I don't think there is anyone at home.

Let's see if they left a door unlocked. Or a window.'

`Brian!'

`Peace, woman.'

Willy-nilly, I followed him up the walkway, with a feeling that Mrs Grundy was

staring at me from behind curtains all up and down the block (and learned later that

she was).

Brian tried the door. 'Locked. Well, let's fix that' He reached into his pocket,

took out a key, unlocked the door, held it open for me.

Breathless and frightened, I went in, then was slightly relieved when bare floors

and echoes showed that it was empty. `Brian, what is this? Don't tease me, please.'

Tm not teasing, Mo. If this house pleases you... it's my long delayed wedding

present from the groom to the bride. If it does not please you, I'll sell it'

I broke ore of my roles; I let him see me cry.

Chapter 8 - Seacoast Bohemia

Brian held me and patted my back, then said, 'Stop that infernal blubbering. Can't

stand a woman's tears. Makes me horny.'

I stopped crying and snuggled up close to him. Then my eyes widened. `Goodness! A

real Sunday special.' Brian maintained that the only effect church had on him was to

arouse his passion, because he never listened to the service; he just thought about

Mother Eve, who (he says) had red hair.

(I did not need to tell him that church had a similar effect on me. Every Sunday

after church a `special' was likely to happen, once we got the children down for

their naps.)

`Now, now, my lady. Don't you want to look around your house first?'

'I wasn't suggesting anything, Briney. I wouldn't dare do it here. Somebody might

walk in.'

`Nobody will. Didn't you notice that I bolted the front door? Maureen... I do

believe that you didn't believe me when I said that I was giving this house to you.'

I took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. 'My husband, if you tell me that

the sun rises in the west, I will believe you. But I may not understand. And this

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time I do not understand.'

'Let me explain. I can't really give this house to you, because it's already yours;

you've paid for it. But, as a legality, title still rests in me. Sometime this

coming week we'll change that, vest title in you. It is legal for a married woman to

own real property in her own name in this state as long as the deed describes you as

a married woman and I waive claim... and even that last is no 'more than a

precaution. Now as to how you bought it -'

I bought it flat on my back, I did, `ringing the cash register'. The down payment

was money Brian had saved while in the Army, plus money from a third mortgage his

parents had accepted from him. This let him make a sizeable, down payment, with a

first mortgage at the usual six per cent and a second mortgage at eight and a half

per cent. The house was rented when he bought it; Brian kept the tenants, invested

the rent to help pay off the mortgages.

The Howard bonus for Nancy cleared that too-expensive second mortgage; Carol's birth

paid off Brian's parents. The Foundation's payment for Brian, Junior, let Brian,

Senior, refinance the first mortgage down to the point where the rental income let

him at last clear the property in May 1906, only six and a half years after he had

assumed this huge pyramid of debt.

Briney is a gambler; I told him so.

`Not really,' he answered, `as I was betting on you, darling. And you delivered.

Like clockwork. Oh, Brian junior was a little later than I expected but the plan had

some flexibility in it. While I had insisted on the privilege of paying off the

first mortgage ahead of time, I didn't actually have to pay it earlier than June

first, 1910. But you came through like the champion you are.'

A year ago he had discussed his projected programme with his tenants; a date was

agreed on; they had moved out quite amicably just the Friday past. `So it's yours,

darling. I did not renew our lease this time; Hennessy O'Scrooge knows we are

leaving. We can move out tomorrow and move in here, if this house pleases you. Or

shall we sell it?'

`Don't talk about selling our housel Briney, if this truly is your wedding present

to me, then at last I can make my bride's present to you. Your kitten.'

He grinned. 'Our kitten, you mean. Yes, I had figured that out.'

We had postponed getting a kitten because there were dogs on both sides of the

little house on 26th - and one of them was a cat killer. By moving around the corner

we had not gotten away from that menace.

Brian showed me around the place. It was a wonderful house: upstairs a big bathroom

and a smaller one, a little bathroom downstairs adjacent to a maid's room, four

bedrooms and a sleeping porch, a living-room, a parlour, a proper dining-room with a

built-in china closet and a plate rail, a gas log in the parlour in what could be a

fireplace for logs if the gas log was removed, a wonderful big kitchen, a formal

front staircase and a convenient back staircase leading from the kitchen, privately

oh, just everything and anything that a family with children could want, including a

fenced back yard just right for children and pets... and for croquet and picnic

dinners and a vegetable garden and a sand pile. I started to cry again.

'Stop it,' ordered Briney. 'This one is the master bedroom. Unless you prefer

another room.'

It was a fine, big, airy room, with that sleeping porch off it. The house was empty

and reasonably clean (I looked forward to scrubbing every inch), but some items not

worth hauling away had been left here and there.

'Briney, that old porch swing out there has a pad on it. Would you please bring that

pad in?'

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'If you wish. Why?'

'Let's ring the cash register!'

'Right away, Madam! Honey, I wondered how long it would take you to decide to

baptise your new home.'

That pad didn't look too clean and wasn't very big, but I didn't care about trifles;

it would keep my spine from being ground into the bane boards. As Briney was

fetching it in and placing it on the floor, I was getting out of the last of my

clothes.

He called out, 'Hey! Leave your stockings on.'

'Yes, sir. Right away, Mister. Aintchu gonna buy a drink first, dearie?' Drunk with

excitement, I took a deep breath and got down on my back. 'What's your name,

Mister?' I said huskily. 'Mine's Myrtle; I'm fertile.'

'I'll bet you are.' Briney finished getting out of his clothes, hung his coat on a

hook behind the bathroom door and started to mount me. I reached for him. He stopped

me, paused to kiss me. 'Madam, I love you.'

'I love you, sir.'

'I'm pleased to hear it. Brace yourself.' Then he said, 'Unh! Ease off a notch.'

I relaxed a little. 'Better?'

'Just dandy. You're wonderful, lady mine.'

'So are you, Briney. Now? Please!'

I started to peak almost at once, then the skyrockets took off and I was screaming

and just barely conscious when I felt him let go, and I fainted.

I'm not a fainter. But I did that time.

Two Sundays later I missed my period. The following February (1907) I had George

Edward.

Our next ten years were idyllic.

Our life may have looked dull and humdrum to other people since all we did was live

quietly in a house in a quiet neighbourhood and raise children... and cats and

guinea pigs and rabbits and snakes and goldfish and (once) silkworms on top of my

piano - a project of Brian, Junior, when he was in fourth grade. That required

mulberry leaves, silkworms being fussy eaters. Brian, Junior, made a deal with a

neighbour who had a mulberry tree. Quite early he displayed his father's talent for

always finding a way to work out a deal to accomplish his ends, no matter how

unlikely they seemed at first.

A deal for mulberry leaves was big excitement the way we lived those years.

We had kindergarten Crayola pictures with stars on them posted in my kitchen, and

tricycles on the back porch, and roller skates beside them, and fingers that had to

be kissed well and bandaged, and special projects to do at home and take to school,

and lots of shoes to be shined to get our tribe ready for Sunday School on time, and

noisy arguments over who gets the buttonhook next - until I got shoe buttonhooks for

each child and put names on them.

Ali the while Maureen's belly waxed and waned like the round belly of the Moon:

George in 1907, Marie in 1909, Woodrow in 1912, Richard in 1914, and Ethel in

1916... which by no means ended it but brings us up to the War that changed the

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World.

But endless things happened before then, some of which I should mention. We moved

from the church we had attended while we were tenants of 'Scrooge' soon after we

moved to our new neighbourhood. In part we were upgrading in churches just as we

were upgrading in houses and neighbourhoods. In the United States at that time

Protestant denominations were closely linked to economic and social status, although

it was never polite to say so. At the top of the pyramid was high-church

Episcopalian; at the bottom were several pentecostal fundamentalist sects whose

members piled up treasures in Heaven because they were finding it impossible to pile

up treasures on Earth.

We had been attending a middle-level church selected largely because it was close

by. We would have moved eventually to a more prosperous boulevard church now that we

had moved to a more prosperous neighbourhood... but we moved when we did because

Maureen got herself quasi raped.

My own silly fault. In any century rape is the favourite sport of large numbers of

men when they can get away with it, and any female under ninety and over six is at

risk anywhere and at all times... unless she knows how to avoid it and takes no

chances - which is close to impossible.

On second thought, forget that bracket of six and ninety; there are crazies out

there who will rape any female of any age. Rape is not intercourse; it is murderous

aggression.

On third thought, what happened to me was not even quasi-rape, as I knew better than

to place myself un-chaperoned in private with a preacher yet I had gone ahead and

done so, knowing quite well what would happen. Reverend Timberly (the slob!) had

managed to let me know when I was fourteen that he felt that he could teach me a

great deal about life and love... while patting my fanny in a fatherly (!) way. I

had complained to my father about it without quite naming him, and Father's advice

had enabled me to put a stop to it.

But this Bible thumper - It was six weeks after we moved into our new house; I knew

I was pregnant, and I was horny; Brian was away. I'm not complaining; Brian had to

go where business took him and this is true of endless trades and professions; the

breadwinner must go where the bread is. This time he was in Denver; then, when I had

expected him home, he sent me a telegram (niteletter) telling me that he must go to

Montana - just three or four days, a week at the most. Love, Brian.

Spit. Dirty drawers. Garbage. But I kept my smile because Nancy was watching me and

at six she was hard to fool. I read her a revised version, then put the typed sheet

where she could not get at it; she had taught herself to read.

At three that afternoon, bathed, dressed, and wearing no drawers, I tapped at the

door of the study of the Reverend Doctor Ezekiel `Biblethumper'. My usual baby

watcher was with my three, with written instructions including where I was going and

the Home system telephone number of the pastor's study.

The reverend doctor and I had been doing a silent and inconspicuous barnyard dance

ever since he had been called to that pulpit three years earlier. I didn't like him

all that much, but I was acutely aware of him and his deep, organlike voice and

clean masculine odour. It is too bad that he didn't have bad breath or smelly feet

or something like that to put me off. But physically I could not fault him - good

teeth, sweet breath, bathed and shampooed regularly.

My excuse for going to his study was that I needed to confer with him because I was

chairman of the ladies auxiliary committee for the forthcoming whoop-te-do - I don't

remember what. But twentieth century Protestant churches were always preparing for

the next whoop-te-do. Yes, I do remember; a citywide revival. Billy Sunday? I think

he was the one - a ball player and reformed drunkard who had found Jesus in a big

way.

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Dr Zeke let me in; we looked at each other and we both knew; we didn't need to say

anything. He put his arms around me; I turned my face up. He put his mouth to mine

and my mouth came open as my eyes closed. In scant seconds after he answered his

door he had me down on the couch at the back of his desk, my skirts up, and he was

trying to couple with me.

I reached down and took hold of him and got him aimed properly; he had been about to

make his own hole.

Big! With a lost feeling of `Briney is not going to like this', I took him. He had

no finesse; he just romped on home. But I was so excited that I was teetering on the

edge and ready to explode when I felt him spend - just as someone knocked at his

study door and he pulled out of me.

The bleeping affair had lasted under a minute... and my orgasm had shut down like a

frozen pipe.

But all was not lost. Or should not have been. Once that jack rabbit jumped off me,

I simply stood up and was immediately presentable. In 1906 skirts came down to the

ankles and I had picked a dress that would stand up under crushing. I had left my

drawers off not alone for his convenience (and mine) but because, if you are not

wearing drawers and encounter an emergency, you don't have to scramble to put them

on.

As for Dr Zeke the stupid geek, all he needed to do before he answered that door was

to button his pants... which he had to do anyhow.

We could have brazened it out. We could have looked them in the eye, refused to look

guilty, invited them into our conference.

But what he did was grab my arm, shove me into his coat closet, and turn the key on

me.

I stood in there, in the dark, for two solid hours that seemed like two years. I

kept my sanity by thinking up painful ways to kill him. 'Hoisting him by his own

petard' was the simplest. Some of the others are too nasty to think about.

Finally he unlocked the door, looked at me and whispered hoarsely, 'They're gone

now. Let's slip you out the back door.'

I didn't spit in his face. I said, 'No, Doctor, we will now have our conference.

Then you will escort me out the front door of the church, and you will stand there,

chatting with me, until several people have seen us.'

'No, no, Mrs Smith! I think -'

'You didn't think. Doctor, the only alternative is for me to run screaming out of

here shouting "Rape!"... and what a police matron will find inside me that you left

there will prove rape to a jury.'

When Brian got home, I told him about it. I had considered keeping it to myself. But

we had reached a friendly agreement three years earlier concerning how and when we

could each adulterate our marriage without offending or damaging the other. So I

decided to make a clean breast of it and accept a spanking if he thought I rated it.

I thought I did rate a spanking... and if it was a truly hard spanking, that would

be an excuse to cry and that would probably wind up wonderfully.

So I wasn't too worried. But I did want to confess and be shrived.

That friendly agreement for prudent adultery - we had resolved to operate together

whenever possible, and always to help each other, cover up for each other, and help

the other make the kill. The discussion had come about through Dr Rumsey's

confirming that I was pregnant again (with Brian, Junior) and I was feeling

especially sentimental. That, plus an incitement: we had received a pianissimo

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'mixed doubles' invitation from a couple we liked.

I started in by telling Briney solemnly that I intended to be utterly faithful to

him. I had been faithful for four years and now that I knew that I could be, I would

be, till death do us part.

He had answered, 'Look, stupid, you're sweet but not smart. You started in at

fourteen -'

'Almost fifteen!'

'Short of fifteen. You told me that twelve other men and boys had sampled your

sweetness - but you wanted to know if I thought that the candidates on your Howard

list need be counted? Then you revised the tally, telling me that a couple of minor

incidents had slipped your mind. You also told me that you had learned to enjoy it

almost at once... but you wanted me to know that I was the best. Swivel Hips, do you

really think that it changed you and your happy loving ways forever just because

that bonehead preacher said some magic words over you? Truth will out, the leopard

does not change his spots, and the day inevitably comes. When it does, I want you to

enjoy it but to stay out of trouble... for your sake. But I do not expect you to be

what society calls "faithful" forever amen. I do expect you not to get pregnant, not

to catch some filthy disease, not to cause a scandal, not to shame me or yourself,

not to risk the welfare of our children. Mostly that means using common sense and

always pulling down the shades.'

I gulped. 'Yes, sir.'

'Now, my love, if it is true, as you assert, that Hal Andrews causes your gizzard to

throb but that you are avoiding the temptation on my account, then be assured that

your forebearance gains you no stars in your crown. We both know Hal; he's a

gentleman and he keeps his nails clean. He's polite to his wife. If you don't mean

business, quit flirting with him. But if you do want him, go get him! Don't mind me;

I'll be busy. Jane is as delectable a piece as I've seen in a long time. I've

hankered to bisect her angle from the day we met them.'

'Briney! Is that true? You never showed it. Why didn't you tell me?'

'And give you a chance to go female and jealous and possessive? Sweetheart, I've had

to wait until you admitted out loud, with no coaxing or coaching from me, that you

were feeling a deep curiosity about another man... with a suggestion that perhaps I

might feel the same way about his wife. It turns out that I do. So call Jane and

accept their dinner invitation. We'll see what develops.'

'But what if it turns out that you like Jane more than you like me?'

Impossible. I love you, my lady.'

'I mean what she's sitting on. How she makes love.'

'Possible, but unlikely. If I did, I would not stop loving you or lose interest in

what you are sitting on; it's special. But that doesn't mean I don't want to try

Jane; she smells good.' He licked his lips and grinned.

He did and she did and we four did and they remained our loving friends for years

although they moved to St Joe two years later when he got a better offer from the

school board there. That put them too far away for quiet family orgies, mostly.

Over the course of time Brian and I worked out detailed rules about how to handle

sex, all of them intended to avoid the hazards while leaving both of us free to

'sin' - not carelessly but prudently, so that we could always look Mrs Grundy in the

eye and tell her to peddle her papers elsewhere.

Brian made no concessions whatever to the prevalent belief that sex was in some way

innately sinful. He was utterly contemptuous of popular opinion. 'If a thousand men

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believe something and believe otherwise, then it's a thousand to one that they are

wrong. Maureen, I support us by having contrary opinions.'

When I told Briney about being locked in that closet, he sat up in bed. 'That

bastard! Mo, I'm going to break both his arms.'

'Then you had better break mine, too, as I went there intending to do it. I did it.

The rest derived from that bald, inexcusable fact. I took a risk I should not have

taken. My fault at least as much as his.'

'Yes, yes, but that's not the point. Sweetheart, I'm not faulting him for screwing

you; any man not castrated will screw you if he has a clear chance at you. So your

only protection is not to give him that chance if you don't want him to take it.

What I'm angry about is his shoving my poor baby into a closet, into the dark,

locking her in, frightening her. I'll kill him slowly. God damn him. I'll nut him

first. I'll take his scalp. And cut off his ears.'

'Briney -'

'I'll drive a stake - What, dear?'

'I've been a bad girl, I know, but I got away with it cold. I didn't get pregnant

because I am pregnant. No disease... or I don't think so. I'm almost certain nobody

twigged, no scandal. I would like to watch you do all those things to him; I despise

him. But, if you hurt him even a little bit, even punch his nose, it's no longer a

secret... and that could hurt our children. Couldn't it?'

Briney conceded this pragmatic necessity. I wanted us to leave that church. Briney

agreed. 'But not right away, love. I'll be home for the next six weeks at least.

We'll go to church together -'

We got there early and sat down at the front, facing the pulpit. Briney caught Dr

Zeke's eye and held it, all through the sermon, Sunday after Sunday.

Dr Zeke had a nervous breakdown and had to take a leave of absence.

Briney and I did not work out all our rules for sex and love and marriage too

easily. We were trying to do two things at once: create a whole new system of just

conduct in marriage - a code that any civilised society would have taught us as

children - and simultaneously create an arbitrary and utterly pragmatic set of rules

for public conduct to protect us from the Bible-belt arbiters of morals and conduct.

We were not missionaries trying to convert Mrs Grundy to our way of thinking; we

simply wanted to hold up a mask so that she would never suspect that we did not

agree with her way of thinking. In a society in which it is a moral offence to be

different from your neighbours your only escape is never to let them find out.

Slowly over the years we learned that many Howard families had been forced to face

up to the fact that the Howard Foundation programme simply did not fit the

Midwestern Bible belt... yet the majority of Howard candidates came from the Middle

West. Eventually these conflicts and contradictions resulted in most Howards either

dropping out of organised religion, or paying it lip service as Brian and I did,

until we left Kansas City in the late thirties and quit pretending.

So far as I know, there are no organised religions in Boondock, or anywhere on

Tellus Tertius. Question: is this an inevitable evolutionary development as mankind

approaches true civilisation? Or is that wishful thinking?

Or did I die in 1982? Boondock is so utterly unlike Kansas City that I have trouble

believing that they are in the same universe. Now that I am locked up incommunicado

in what appears to be a madhouse run by its inmates it is easy to believe that a

traffic accident that hit an old, old woman in 1982 was fatal... and that these

dreams of weirdly different worlds are merely the delirium of dying. Am I heavily

sedated and on I.C. life support in some Albuquerque hospital while they decide

whether or not to pull the plug? Are they waiting to hear from Woodrow for

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authorisation? As I recall, I listed him as `Next of Kin' in my wallet.

Are `Lazarus Long' and 'Boondock' a senile fantasy?

Must ask Pixel next time he visits me. His English is scarce but I've no one else to

ask.

One fine thing we did even before we got our new house furnished: we got the rest of

our books out of storage. In the crackerbox we had been living in we had had room

for only a couple of dozen volumes, and that precious few only by storing them on

the top shelf in the kitchen, a spot I could reach only by standing on a stool -

something I did not risk when I was big with child. Once I waited three days for

Brian to come home from Galena, intending to ask him to reach down my Golden

Treasury for me - I could see it; couldn't reach it - then, when he did get home, I

forgot it.

I had two boxes of books in storage, Brian had more than that... and I had

`inherited' case after case of my father's books. He had written to me when he went

back into the Army to tell me that he had had them packed and shipped to Kansas City

Storage and Warehousing - receipts enclosed. His bank was instructed to keep the

storage paid up... but if I wanted to give them a home, that would please him.

Perhaps someday he might ask for some of them back, but in the meantime treat them

as my own. 'Books are meant to be read and loved, not stored.'

So we got our printed friends out of bondage and into the light and air - although

we had no bookcases as yet. Briney got boards and bricks and set up temporary

shelves... and I learned what my husband liked better than sex.

Books.

Almost any books but what hooked him that weekend were Professor Huxley's essays...

which I hardly noticed because I had my hands on Father's Mark Twain collection, Mr

Clemens' books, for the first time since May 1898 everything of his up to that date,

mostly first editions and four of them signed by Mr Clemens and `Mark Twain'

-'signed on that great night in January 1898 when I fought to stay awake in order

not to miss any of Mr Clemens' words.

For perhaps two hours Brian and I took turns touching the other one's elbow and

saying, 'Listen to this!' - then reading aloud. It turned out that Brian had never

read The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg or Some Notes on the Recent Carnival of Crime

in Connecticut. I was astonished. `Dear, I love you - but why did they let you

graduate?'

`I don't know. The War, probably.'

'Well, I'll just have to tutor you. We'll start with the Connecticut Yankee.'

`I've read it. What's that fat one?'

`That's not Mark Twain; that's one of Father's medical books.' I handed it to him

and returned to The Prince and the Pauper.

A couple of moments later I looked up when Briney said, `Hey, this plate is not

correct.'

I answered, `Yes, I know. As I know what plate you are looking at. Father says that

any layman who gets his hands on that book invariably looks at that plate first,

Shall I take off my drawers so that you can check it?'

`Quit trying to divert me, wench; I have an excellent memory.' He thumbed on

through. `Fascinating. One could study these plates for hours.'

'I know. I have.'

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'Amazing how much machinery can be packed into one set of skin.' He went on thumbing

through, then got hooked by a work on obstetrics, shuddered at parts of that one

(Brian was a good jackleg midwife, but he didn't like blood), put it aside and

picked up another one. 'Whee!'

'What is it this time, dear? Oh. What Every Young Girl Should Know.' (He had picked

up the Forberg etchings, Figuris Veneris. I was startled, too, the first time I

opened it.)

'That's not its name. Here's the title page: Figures of Venus.'

'Joke, dear. Father's joke. He had me study it as a sex instruction manual, then we

discussed each picture and he answered any question I asked. Lots of questions, that

is. He said that Mr Forberg's pictures were anatomically correct... which is more

than we can say about that censored plate you complained about. Father said that

these pictures should be used in school, because they were far superior to the

behind the-barn cartoons or photographs that were the only thing most young people

get to look at - until they were confronted by the real thing and were frightened

and sometimes hurt.' I sighed. `Father says that this so-called civilisation is sick

throughout but nowhere more so than about sex, every aspect of sex.'

`Your father is dead right, I think. But, Maureen, do I understand that Dr Johnson

gave this to you as an instruction manual? My revered father-in-law endorsed

everything in these pictures? Everything?'

`Oh, heavens, no. Just most of them. But in general Father says that anything two -

or more - people want to do is all right as long as it does no physical harm. He

felt that the words "moral" and "immoral" were ridiculous when applied to sexual

relations. Right and wrong were the correct words, used exactly as they would be

used in any other human relation.'

`Mon beau-père a raison. And my wife is a smart cookie, too:

`I had tutoring by a wise man all my life, until he turned me over to you. At least

I think my father is wise. Here, let me sit beside you and I'll point out what he

approved of, what he didn't.'

I moved across beside him, he put his arm around me and I held the book on his lap.

`The title-page - Note the date, 1824. But the pictures are mostly classic Greece

and dome, except one in Egypt. Father said that, despite that date less than a

hundred years back, these pictures match murals in whorehouses in Pompeii... except

that these are artistically much superior to the Pompeii paintings.'

`Dr Johnson has been to Pompeii?'

'No. Well, I don't think he has. With Father it is sometimes hard to be sure. He did

tell me that he had seen photographs of Pompeii murals in Chicago. At Northwestern

or in some museum:

`But how did he get these pictures? I hate to tell you, my sweet innocent, but I'm

certain that these pictures would get us a long rest at Federal expense... under the

Comstock Act. If we were caught with them.'

`If we were caught. "Caught" is the important word. Father urged me to know the law

as thoroughly as possible... so as not to get caught when I broke one. Father never

felt that any law applied to him... other than in that sense.'

'I think it is clear that your father is a subversive character, a bad influence, a

wicked old man... and I admire him without limit and hope to grow up like him.'

'I love him all to pieces, mon homme. He could have had my maidenhead just by

lifting his eyebrow. He wouldn't take it.'

'I know that, beloved. I've known it since I first met you.'

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'Yes, I'm a woman scorned... and someday he'll pay. But I want to take his advice

about the Law. Briney, do you suppose I could attend classes at the Kansas City

School of Law... if I could squeeze the tuition out of my household allowance?'

'Perhaps. But you won't have to squeeze it out of your housekeeping money; any

schooling you want we can now afford. But never mind such trivial matters; we're

talking about sex. S-E-X, the stuff that makes the world go around. Next picture,

please.'

'Yes, sir. Missionary sty1e. Approved even by priests. 'Me next picture is almost as

widely accepted, although perhaps Mrs Grundy never gets on top. This next one is

certainly not used by Mrs Grundy although by everybody else - says Father. But he

noted that a gentleman, in coupling with a lady from behind and standing up, will

reach under and find her button, so that she is ensured a good time, too. Now the

next - Oh! Briney, someday, when we can afford it, I want a bed just the right

height so that you can put me on it in that position, on my back, legs up - just the

right height so that you can stand up and enter me without crouching. I like that

position, so do you - but the last time we used it, you got cramps in your legs and

were trembling toward the last, you got so tired. Darling, I want you to enjoy it as

much as I do. Loads, that is.'

'Lady, you're a gentleman.'

'Why, thank you, sir! If that is not a jest.'

No jest. Most ladies are not gentlemen; they will pull stunts that would get a man

ten days in the stocks... and walk on, with their noses in the air. But not my Mo.

With you, fair is fair and you don't expect to get by on your sex.'

'Ah, but I do. By "ringing the cash register".'

'Don't confuse me with logic. You treat everyone decently, that's all, even your

poor old husband. Yes, I'll build you that bed. Not only the right height but one

guaranteed not to squeak. I'll get busy on the design. Hmm, Mo, how would you like a

really big bed? Say one that would hold you and me and Hal and Jane - or playmates

of your choice - all at once.'

'Goodness, what a thought! I hear that Annie Chambers has a bed like that.'

'But I'll design a better one. Mo, where did you hear of KC's top Madam?'

'At a Ladies' Aid meeting. Mrs Bunch was deploring the open immorality of this city.

I kept my ears open and my mouth closed. Darling, I'll love that bed when it's

built... and in the meantime I'll be happy with any reasonably level place or even a

pile of coal if Briney puts me on it.'

'Go along with you. Next picture.'

'Then quit teasing my right nipple. Young man masturbating, his daydreams in the

background. Father strongly approves of masturbation. He said that all the stories

about it were nonsense. He urged me to masturbate all I want to and whenever I want

to, all my life, and to be no more ashamed of it than I am of peeing - just close

the door, as I do when peeing.

'They told me that it would make me go blind. But it didn't. Next.'

'He's an "irrumator" and she is a "fellatrix" and that's Vesuvius in the background.

Only Father says that those names are silly; it's just two youngsters discovering

that sex can be fun. He pointed out that not only is it fun for both of them but

also there is a major advantage. If she discovers that it smells bad, she can

suddenly remember that it's bedtime; goodnight, Bill - and, no, I can't see you next

Saturday. Don't come back at all; I'm entering a nunnery. Briney, I've done that -

tossed a boy out because I didn't like the way his penis smelled. One was a Howard

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candidate. Phew! Father told me that a penis that smelled bad was not necessarily

diseased, but that was the way to bet... and in any case if it wasn't sweet enough

to kiss, it wasn't sweet enough to put inside me.'

I moved on to the next one. `Same situation, comme ci instead of comme ça.

Cunnilingus. Another silly word, says Father; it's just a kiss. The sweetest kiss of

all... unless you combine this one with the one we just looked ar, to make a

sixty-nine. Soixante-neuf. Although there is much to be said for taking the two

sorts of kisses at one rime, and concentrate.'

I turned the page. `Oh, oh! Here's one that Father did not care for.'

`Me, too. I prefer girls.'

'Yes, but you can do it to a woman, too. Father said that some day some man was

going to want to do that to me... and that I should think about it ahead of time and

be prepared to cope with it. He said that it was not immoral, or wrong, but that it

was dirty and physically risky -'

(This was in 1906, long before AIDS showed that buggery could be a special and

deadly hazard.)

`- but that if I got curious and just had to try it, make him use a sheath and get

him to be ultra slow and extra gentle - or I would wind up buying fur coats for

proctologists' wives.'

`Seems likely. Next, please.'

`Beloved -'

`Yes, Mo?'

`If you want to do that to me, I'm willing. I'm not in the least afraid that you

would hurt me.'

`Thank you. You're a silly wench, but I love you. I'm not yet tired of your other

hole. Next picture, please; there are people queued up for the second show.'

`Yes, sir. I think this one is meant to be funny: hushand surprises wife playing

happy games with the housewife next door - look at the expression on his face!

Briney, I had never suspected that a woman could be so much fun until that time Jane

made a grab for me. She's real cuddly. Or anything.'

`Yes, I know. Or anything. So is Hal. Or anything.'

'Well! I must have slept through something. This next one - Briney, I can't see why

women would use dildoes when there are so many live, warm ones around, attached to

men. Do you?'

'They don't all have your opportunities, my love. Or your talents.'

`Thank you, sir.' I moved on. 'Cunnilingus again, but two women. Briney, why are

mermaids used as a symbol of Lesbos?'

`I don't know. What did your Father say?'

`Just what you did. Oh, this next one does show something Father disapproves of. He

says that anyone who mixes whips and chains, or either, with sex, is crazy as a pet

coon and should be kept away from healthy people. Hmm, the next one is nothing

special, just a different position, one that we've tried. Fun for variety, I think,

but not for every day. And now - Oh, this one Father called, "the hetaera's

examination, or three ways for a dollar." Do you think Annie Chambers' girls are

examined this way? I hear that they are top quality this side of Chicago. Maybe New

York.'

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`Look, my sweet, I know nothing of Madam Chambers, or her girls. I can't support

both you and Annie Chambers, not even with the, help of the Foundation. So I don't

patronise brothels.'

'What do you do in Denver, Briney? Cancel that - under our agreement, I'm not

supposed to ask.'

'That wasn't in our agreement; of course you can ask. You tell me your bedtime

stories and I'll tell you mine - then we'll play doctor. Denver... I'm glad you

asked that. In Denver I met this young fat boy -'

`Briney!'

`- who has the most gorgeous big sister, a grass widow a little younger than you

are, with long slender legs, natural blonde, honey-coloured hair down to her waist,

a sweet disposition, and big, firm tits. I asked her, "How about it?" ' Briney

stopped.

`Well? Go on. What did she say?'

`She said no. Hon, in Denver I'm usually too tired for anything more adventurous

than Mother Thumb and her four daughters. They are faithful to me in their own

fashion and they don't expect me to take them out to dinner and a show first.'

`Oh, piffle! What is the blonde's name?'

`What blonde?'

I've just figured out how to get a message out via pixel. So, if you will excuse me,

I'll get it ready at once so that I will have it ready the next time he shows up.

Chapter 9 - Dollars and Sense

Where is that damned cat?

No, no, cancel that. Pixel, Mama Maureen didn't mean that; she's just worried and

upset. Pixel is a good boy, a fine boy; everybody knows that.

But, damn it, where are you when I need you?

As soon as we were settled into our new home we shopped for Briney's kitten, but not

in pet shops. I'm not sure that there was such a thing as a pet shop in KC in 1906;

I don't recall ever having seen one that far back... and I do remember that we

bought goldfish at Woolworth's or at Kresge's, not at a pet shop. Special items for

cats, such as flea powder, we bought at the Dog and Cat Hospital at 31 st and Main.

But finding a kitten required asking the wind.

First I got permission to put a notice on the bulletin board at Nancy's school. Then

I told our grocer that we were looking for a kitten, and left the same word with our

huckster - a greengrocer who stopped his wagon in our block every weekday morning to

offer fresh fruits and vegetables.

The Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company peddled its wares the same way but its

Sales wagon called only once a week since it carried only tea and coffee, sugar and

spices. But that meant it covered a larger area with more customers and therefore

greater chances of finding kittens. So I gave their driver our telephone number,

Home Linwood 446, and asked him to call me if he heard of a litter of kittens, and

then (having asked a favour) I bought his special for the week, twenty-five pounds

of sugar for a dollar.

A mistake - He insisted on carrying it in for me, asserting that twenty-five pounds

was much too heavy for a lady... and I learned that what he really wanted was to get

me alone. I evaded his hands by picking up Brian, Junior, a tactic Mrs Ohlschlager

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had taught me when Nancy was tiny. It works best with a small and very wet baby but

any child small enough to pick up will throw a hopeful male off his stride and cool

him down. Oh, it won't stop a crazy rapist, but most deliverymen (and plumbers,

repairmen, etc.) are not rapists; they are simply ordinary rutty males who will go

for it if offered. The problem is simply to turn him down firmly but gently, without

causing him to lose face. Picking up a child does this.

It was bad judgement also because a whole dollar was too much of my household budget

to tie up in sugar, and (worse) I did not have ant-proof storage for that much

sugar... sol wound up spending another sixty cents on a sugar safe as big as my

flour bin - which left me so short on cash a week later that I served fried mush for

supper when my 'plan ahead' called for ground beef patties. It was almost the end of

the month, so it was serve mush or ask Briney for an advance... which I would not

do.

With fried mush I served mo strips of bacon to Brian and one to me, and one strip,

fried crisp, and crumbled, divided for Carol and Nancy. (Brian, Junior, still

regarded Cream o' Wheat as a gourmet dish, so he got that plus what milk I had left

in my breasts.) Fresh dandelion greens helped to fill out the menu, and their

butter-yellow blooms I floated in a shallow dish as a centrepiece. (Can anyone tell

me why such pretty flowers are considered weeds?)

It was a skimpy supper but I ended it with a substantial dessert I could make with

what I had on hand, plus two cooking apples picked up cheap that morning from my

huckster: apple dumplings with hard sauce.

Hard sauce should be made with confectioners' sugar - but Aunt Carole had taught me

how to crush and crush and keep on crushing granulated sugar, using a big spoon and

a bowl, to achieve a fair imitation of powdered sugar. I had enough butter on hand

and vanilla extract, and I used one teaspoon of cooking brandy - also on hand; Aunt

Carole had given it to me on my wedding day. (It was now half gone. I tasted it once

- horrible! But a smidgen of it at the right time and place certainly enhanced the

flavour of food.)

Brian made no comment on fried mush, but complimented me on the dumplings.

On the first of the month following he said, 'Mo, the papers say that food prices

are up even though the farmers are squawking. And I'm certain that this bigger house

is costing you more to run, if only in electricity, gas and Sapolio. How much more

each month do you need?'

'Sir, I'm not asking for more money. We'll get by.'

I'm sure we will but the hot weather will be with us next month. I don't want you

paying the iceman the way some housewives do. Let's raise your allowance by five

dollars.'

'Oh, I don't need that much!'

'My lady, let's do raise it that much, and see how it works out. If you have money

left over at the end of the month, tuck it away. At the end of the year you can buy

me a yacht.'

`Yes, sir. What colour?'

'Surprise me.'

I managed to add pennies and nickels and dimes to that 'egg money' over the months

by never using a charge account, even with my grocer-which was just as well, as

Brian was in business for himself sooner than he had anticipated.

His employer, Mr Fones, had made him a junior associate after two years, then

assistant manager in 1904. Six months after we moved into our wonderful new house Mr

Fones decided to retire and offered Brian a chance to buy him out.

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It was one of the few times I have seen my husband in a quandary. He usually made

decisions quickly with the icy calm of a riverboat gambler; this time he seemed

bemused sugaring his coffee twice, then forgetting to drink it.

At last he said, 'Maureen, I'm going to have to consult you on a business matter.'

'But, Brian, I don't know anything about business.'

'Listen to me, my love. Ordinarily I will not bother you about business. Deo

volente, I will not need to do so again. But this affects you and our three children

and the one that has caused you to get out your fat clothes again.' He told me in

detail what Mr Fones had offered.

I thought hard about it, then said, 'Brian, under this agreement you are to pay this

- drawing acount you called it - to Mr Fones each month?'

'Yes. If the business makes more profit than the average of the last few years, his

share increases.'

'Suppose it makes less. His share goes down?'

'Not below that drawing account figure.'

`Even if the business loses money?'

'Even if it loses money. Yes, that's part of the proposal.'

`Briney, just what is it he is selling you? You are contracting - will be

contracting if you accept - to support him indefinitely -'

'No, just twelve years. His life expectancy.'

'If he dies, it ends? Hmm! Does he know about my great aunt Borgia?'

`No, it doesn't end if he dies, so get that gleam out of your eye. If he dies, it

goes to his estate.'

`Ali right, twelve years. You support him for twelve years. What do you get out of

it?'

'Well... I receive a going business. Its files, its records, and, principally, its

goodwill. I'll have the right to use the name "Fones and Smith, Mining

Consultants".' He stopped.

'What else?' I asked.

'The office furniture and the lease. You've seen the office.'

Yes, I had. Down in the west bottoms, across from International Harvester. In the

spring flood of 1903 when the Missouri River again failed to turn that comer and

tried to run up the Kaw almost to Lawrence, Briney had to go to work in a row boat.

I had wondered then why a mining company would be down there - no mining in the west

bottoms, just black mud clear down to China. And the heavy stink of the stockyards.

`Brian, why are the offices there?'

'Cheap rent. It would cost us four times as much to get the same space on Walnut or

Main, even clear out at 15 th. I take over the lease, of course.'

I thought about it hard for several minutes. `Sir, how much of the firm's travelling

has Mr Fones been doing?'

'Originally? Or recently? When I first went to work for him, both he and Mr Davis

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made field trips; I stayed in the office. Then he broke me in on what he expected

from a survey - that was bafore Mr Davis retired. Then -'

'Excuse me, sir. I mean, how much travelling has Mr Fones done this past year?'

'Eh? Mr Fones has not made a field survey for more than two years. He's made a

couple of money trips. Two to St Louis, one to Chicago.'

`While you made all the muddy-boots trips?'

`You could call it that.'

`That's what you call it, Briney. Dear, you do want to go into business for

yourself, don't you?'

`You know that I do. This is just sooner than I had thought I could manage it.'

`Are you seriously asking me to say what I think you should do? Or are you just

using me as a sounding board to get your thoughts straight?'

He gave me his endearing grin. `Maybe some of both. I'll make the decision. But I do

want you to tell me what to do, just as if it were entirely up to you.'

`Very well, sir. But I need more information. I have never known the amount of your

salary - and I don't want to know now; it's not fitting for a wife to ask - but tell

me this. Is that drawing account figure more or less than your salary?'

`Eh? More. Quite a bit more. Even with the bonuses I have received on some deals.'

`I see. All right, Briney; I'll express my advice in the imperative. Refuse his

offer. Go down tomorrow morning and tell him so. At the same time hit him for a

raise. Ask him - no, tell him - that you expect a salary equal to that drawing

account he was proposing to siphon out of the business.'

Briney looked startled, then laughed. `He'll have a stroke.'

'Perhaps, perhaps not. But he is certain to be angry. Count on that and be braced

for it. Don't let him get you even the least bit angry. Just tell him calmly that

fair is fair. For the last two years you have been doing all the hard and dirty

work. If the business can afford to pay Mr Fones that big a drawing account for not

working at all, it can certainly pay you the same amount for working very hard

indeed. True?'

'Well... yes. Mr Fones won't like it.'

`I don't expect him to like it. He's trying to hornswoggle you; he's certain not to

like it when the same swindle is offered to him. Briney, that's a touchstone for a

fair deal that my father taught me: does it feel like a fair deal if it's turned the

other way round, mirror image? Point this out to him.'

`All right. When he comes down off the ceiling. Mo, he won't pay me that much.

Wouldn't it be better for me to resign?'

'Truly, Briney, I don't think so. If you simply quit, he will make loud squawks

about your disloyalty - how he took you on as a youngster with no experience and

taught you the trade -'

'There's some truth in that. Before he hired me, I had had practical experience

underground in lead and zinc and in coal through working summers while I was going

to school. But no experience with precious metals, just book learning. So I've

learned quite a lot while working for him.'

'Which is why you must not resign instead you are simply asking to be paid what you

are worth. What the proposition he offered you shouts aloud that you are worth. Fair

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is fair. He can go ahead and retire, and pay you that amount to run the business,

while he enjoys the net profit himself.'

`He'll give birth to a porcupine. Breech presentation.'

`No, he'll fire you. Oh, he may possibly offer you a counterproposal; it may take a

while. But he will fire you. Briney, would it suit you to stop on your way home at

Wyandotte Office Supply and buy a second-hand Oliver typewriter? Pretty please? No,

best to rent one for a month with privilege of applying rent on purchase; I should

try it out before we tie up so much money. In the meantime we'll design some

stationery. "Brian Smith Associates", I think. Mining Consultants. No, Business

Consultants. Mining Properties. Farms and Ranches. Mineral Rights. Petroleum Rights.

Water Rights.'

`Hey, I don't know all those things'

`You will.' I patted my tummy. 'three months from now this little boiled pig will

ring the cash register for us.' I thought about the double eagle Father had slipped

into my purse on our wedding day. I had never spent it; I was fairly sure Briney did

not know that I had it. Father's formal wedding present to us had been a cheque that

had gone into furniture for that little crackerbox we had first lived in. `Dear, I

guarantee to keep us fed until you can report this baby to judge Sperling. Then the

Foundation's payment for this baby ought to keep us going for a while... and you and

I can try to ring the cash register a fifth time before the cash from number four

runs out'

I went on, 'If the business isn't making money by then, it might be time for you to

look for a job. But I'm betting that from now on you will always be your own boss...

and that we will wind up rich. I have confidence in you, sir. That's why I married

you.'

'Really? I thought there was another reason. That wee bit of proud flesh:

'There's that, I admit. A contributing factor. But don't change the subject. You've

given Mr Fones more than six hard-working years - much of your time away from home -

and now he wants to indenture you, make you his bound boy, for a pittance. He's

trying to milk you like a cow. Let him know that you know it... and that you won't

let him get away with it.'

My husband nodded soberly. 'I won't let him. Beloved, I knew what he was trying to

do. But I had to think of you and our children.'

`You do. You will. You always have.'

Brian came home early the next day, carrying a battered Oliver typewriter. He put it

down and kissed me. `Madam, I have joined the ranks of the unemployed.'

'Really? Oh, goodie!'

`I am an ungrateful wretch. I am no better than a Wobbly and I probably am one. He

has treated me like his own son, his own flesh and blood. And now I do this to him.

Smith, get out of here! Leave these premises; I don't want to see your face again.

Don't you dare take even a piece of paper out of this office. You are through as a

mining consultant; I'm going to let the whole mining community know how thoroughly

unreliable, completely undependable, utterly ungrateful you are.'

'Doesn't he owe you some salary?'

'Salary and two weeks notice and earned participation in that Silver Plume Colorado

deal. I declined to budge until he paid up. He did, reluctantly, with more comments

on my character.' Briney sighed. 'Mo, it upset me to listen to what he said. But I

feel relieved, too. Free, for the first time in more than six years.'

'Let me draw you a tub. Then dinner in your robe and then to bed. Poor Briney! I

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love you, sir.'

My sewing-room became an office and we installed a Bell telephone in addition to our

Home instrument and put the them side by side near my typewriter. Our letterhead

carried both numbers and a post office box number. I kept a baby bed in there and a

couch I used for quick naps. Mr Fones animosity did not seem to hurt' us, and it may

have helped simply by emphasising that Brian was no longer working for Davis and

Fones - a fact Brian advertised in all the trade journals. My first job with the

typewriter was to write to about one hundred and fifty people and or firms,

announcing that Brian Smith Associates was now in business... and announcing a new

policy.

'The idea is, Mo, that I am betting on my own judgement, I'll confer with anyone,

first visit free, here in Kansas City. If I travel, it's my railroad ticket, two

dollars a night for a hotel room, three dollars a day for food, costs such as livery

stable rents as required by the survey, plus per diem consulting fee... all in

advance. In advance because I saw while working for Mr Fones how nearly impossible

it is to get a client to pay for a dead horse. Fones did it by refusing to budge

until he had a retainer in hand equal to his projected expenses, applied overhead,

and expected minimum profit... more, if he could squeeze it out.

'It's on that per diem that I'll differ in my methods from Davis and Fones. I will

use a formal, signed contract, with two options, the client to make his choice ahead

of time. Forty dollars a day -'

'What!!'

But Briney had spoken seriously. 'Mr Fones charged a client that much for my

services. My dear, there are plenty of lawyers who get paid that much per diem for

nice clean work in a warm courtroom. I want to be paid at that rate for trudging and

sloshing and sometimes crawling through mines that are always cold and usually wet.

For that price they'll get my best professional judgement as to how much it will

cost to work that mine, including capital investment required before they ship their

first ton of ore... and my best guess, based on assays, geology, and other factors,

as to whether or not the claim can be worked at a profit... for it is a sad fact

that, in the mining business as a whole, more money goes into the ground than ever

is taken out.

`That's the business I'm in, Mo. Not in mining. I get paid for telling people not to

mine. To cut their losses and run. They often don't believe me, which is why I must

insist on being paid in advance.

`But once in a while I have had the happy privilege of telling someone, "Go ahead,

do it! It will cost you this big wad of money... but you should get it all back and

more."

`And that is where the second option comes in, the one I really prefer. Under the

second option I gamble with the client. I lower my per diem and instead take some

points on the net, if and when. I won't take more than five points at most, and I

won't do a held survey for less than expenses plus a per diem of fifteen dollars a

day, minimum. That bracket leaves room to dicker.

Now-Can you write a model letter for me, explaining the tariff schedule? How they

can have our best work, at our standard fee. Or we'll gamble with them at a much

lower fee, and they will still have our best work.'

'I'll try, Mister Boss Man, sir.'

It paid. It made us rich. But I did not suspect how well it paid until forty years

later when circumstances caused my husband and me to count up all our assets and

figure their worth. But that is forty years later and this account may not go on

that long.

It paid especially well through an oddity of human psychology... or an oddity of

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persons seized by the mining mania, which may not be the same thing. Like this...

The compulsive gamblers, the sort who try to beat lotteries or slot machines or

other house games, almost always were betting on striking it rich on some caim that

could not be worked at a profit. Each of these saw himself as another Cowboy

Womack... and did not want to share his lucky star with some hireling, even at only

five points. So, if he could scrape it up, he paid the full fee, grumbling.

After a survey (when I was my husband's secretary) I would prepare a letter along

these lines, telling this optimist that his best vein was:

- surrounded by country rock that has to be dug out to get at the high grade. The

mine can not be worked successfully without drifting a new tunnel out to the north

to the highway, through a right of way still to be negotiated via the third level of

the claim to the north of yours.

In addition, your claim requires a blacksmith, a tool repair shop, a new pumping

system, new ties and rails for approximately two hundred yards of track, etc., etc.

- plus wages for eighty shifts per month as required by the bond-and-lease for an

estimated three years before appreciable pay tonnage could be taken to the mill,

etc., etc., see enclosures A, B, and C.

In view of the state of the claim and the capital investment required to work it, we

regret to have to report that we recommend against attempting to work this claim.

We agree with your arithmetic as to the effect on the commercial feasibility of

processing low-grade ore if the new Congress does in fact pass legislation requiring

free and unlimited coinage of silver at sixteen to one. But we are not as sanguine

as you are that such legislation will indeed pass.

We are forced to recommend that you sell your bond-and-lease for whatever it will

bring. Or cut your losses and surrender it.

We remain, sincerely at your service,

Brian Smith Associates

By

Brian Smith, President

This report was typical for an old claim being reopened by a new optimist - the

commonest situation in mining. (The West is pocked with holes where some prospector

ran out of money and luck.)

I wrote many letters like that one. They hardly ever believed unfavourable reports.

They frequently demanded their money back. Then a client often took the bit in his

teeth and went ahead anyhow... and went broke trying to satisfy a bond-and-lease on

country rock assaying only enough silver per ton to go broke on, plus a trace of

platinum and a whiff of gold.

The clients attempting to mine gold were even worse. There is something about gold

that has an effect on human judgement similar to that of heroin or cocaine.

But there were also a few rational investors - gamblers, but gambling the odds

correctly. Offered a chance to reduce upfront expenses in exchange for points, they

often took that option... and the claims selected by these more level-headed people

were more likely to merit a go-ahead from Brian.

Even these worthwhile mining claims usually lost money in the long run, through

failure of their owners/operators to shut down soon enough when the operations

stopped paying their costs. (Brian did not lose when that happened; he simply

stopped making money from his percentage of the net.) But some of them made money

and some of them made lots of money and some of them were still making money

regularly forty years later. Brian's willingness to postpone his return other than a

modest fee put our children into the best schools and Brian's quondam secretary,

Mama Maureen, into big, fat emeralds. (I don't like diamonds. Too cold.)

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I see that I've missed telling about Nelson and Betty Lou and Random Numbers and Mr

Renwick. That's what comes of being a Time Corps operative; all times look alike to

you, and temporal sequence becomes unimportant. All right, let's fill in.

Random Numbers may have been the silliest cat I've ever lived with - although all

cats are sui generis, and Pixel has his supporters for the title of funniest cat,

unlimited, all times, all universes. But I'm sure Betty Lou would vote for Random

Numbers. Theoretically title to Random lay in Brian, since the cat was his bride's

wedding present to him, somewhat delayed. But it is silly to talk of title to a cat,

and Randie felt that Betty Lou was his personal slave, available at all hours to

scratch his skull, cuddle him, and open doors for him, a conviction she supported by

her slavish obedience to his tiniest whim.

Betty Lou was Brian's favourite sweetheart for, oh, pretty steadily for three years,

then as circumstances brought them together for years and years. Betty Lou was

Nelson's wife, Nelson being my cousin who played fast and loose with a lemon

meringue pie. My past had come back to haunt me.

Nelson showed up in December of 1906, shortly after Brian had decided to strike out

on his own. Brian had met Nelson once, at our wedding, and neither of us had seen

him since that day.

He had been fifteen then, no taller than I; now he was a tall, handsome young man of

twenty-three, who had earned a master's degree in agronomy at Kansas State

University, Manhattan... and was as charming as ever, or more so. I felt that old

tingle deep inside me and those cold lightnings at the base of my spine. I said to

myself, Maureen, as a dog returneth to its vomit, you are in trouble. The only thing

protecting you is that you are seven months gone, big as a house, and as seductive

as a Poland China sow. Tell Briney in bed tonight and get him to keep a close eye on

you.

Big help! Nelson showed up in the afternoon. Brian invited him to stay for dinner.

When he learned that Nelson had not checked into a hotel, he invited Nelson to stay

overnight. That was to be expected; at that year and in that part of the country,

people never stayed in hotels when homes of kinfolk were at hand. We had had

overnighters several times even in our first crackerbox; if you didn't have a spare

bed, you made up a pallet on the floor.

I didn't say anything to Brian that night. While I was sure that I had told Briney

the lemon-pie story, I wasn't sure that I had mentioned Nelson by name. If I had

not-or if Brian had not made the connection - then let sleeping dogs bury their own

bones. It was swell to have an understanding and tolerant husband but, Maureen,

don't be a greedy slut! Don't stir it up again.

Nelson was still there the next day. Brian was his own boss now, but not overwhelmed

by clients; he had no need to leave the house that day other than to check our post

office box at the Southside substation. Nelson had arrived in an automobile, a smart

four-passenger Reo runabout. Nelson offered to drive Brian to the post office.

He offered to take me, too. I was glad that I had the excuse of a little girl -

Nancy was at school; Carol at home - and a baby boy not to accept. I had never

ridden in an automobile and, to tell the truth, I was scared. Surely, I expected to

ride in one someday; I could see a time coming when they would be commonplace. But I

was always more timid when I was pregnant, especially toward the end - my worst

nightmare concerned miscarriage.

Brian said, `Can't you get the Jenkins girl to come over for an hour?'

I said, 'Thank you, another time, Nelson. Brian, paying for a baby watcher is an

unnecessary expense.'

'Penny pincher.'

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'I surely am. As your office manager I intend to pinch every penny so hard that the

Indian will scream in pain. Go along, gentlemen; I'll get the breakfast dishes done

while you're out.'

They were gone three hours. I could have walked to the post office and back in less

time. But, following a corollary in my expanded Ten Commandments, I said nothing and

did not mention my frets about accidents. I smiled and said happily, 'Welcome home,

gentlemen! Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes.'

Briney said, 'Mo, meet our new partner! Nel is going to justify our letterhead. He's

going to teach me farms and ranches and which end of a cow the milk comes out of...

and I'm going to teach him how to tell fool's gold from fools.'

'Oh, wonderful!' (One fifth of zero is zero; one sixth of zero is still zero - but

it's what Brian wants.) I gave Nelson a quick peck. 'Welcome to the firm!'

'Thank you, Maureen. It should be a good team,' Nelson said solemnly. 'Brian tells

me he is too lazy to swing a pick, and you know I'm too lazy to pitch manure... so

we'll both be gentlemen and tell other people how to do it.'

`Logical,' I agreed.

'Besides, I don't own a farm and I haven't been able to find a job as a county agent

- or even as the boy who opens the mail for a county agent. I'm looking for a job to

let me support a wife. Brian's offer is heaven sent.'

`Brian is paying you enough to support a wife?' (Oh, Briney!)

'That's just it,' Brian answered. 'I'm not paying him anything. That's why we can

afford to hire him.'

`Oh.' I nodded in agreement. Seems a fair arrangement. Nelson, after a year, if your

performance is still satisfactory, I'll recommend to Brian that we double your

wages.'

`Maureen, you always were a dead game sport.'

I did not ask him what he meant by that. I had a bottle of muscatel tucked away,

bought by Briney for Thanksgiving. It was full, save for a little used for one

toast. I fetched it for that purpose. 'Gentlemen, let us toast the new partnership.'

`Hear, hear!'

So we did and the gentlemen drank and I touched my lips to mine, then Nelson offered

another toast: 'Life is short.'

I looked at him, kept surprise out of my face, but answered, 'But the years are

long.'

He answered, just as judge Sperling had given it to us:

'Not "While the evil days come not":

`Oh, Nelson!' I spilled my glass. Then I threw myself on him and kissed him

properly.

There was no mystery, truly. Nelson was of course eligible on one side of his

family; we shared Johnson grandparents (and great-grandparents, although three of

four were dead now all past a hundred). My father had written to judge Sperling (I

learnt later) and said that it had come to his attention that his sister in law, Mrs

James Ewing Johnson of Thebes, née Carole Yvonne Pelletier of New Orleans, had

living parents; therefore his nephew Nelson Johnson might be eligible for Howard

Foundation benefits, stipulating that he married an eligible.

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It took them awhile, as they check health and other things, and, in Nelson's case,

that his father had actually died by mischance (drowning) and not through other

cause.

Nelson was in Kansas City because Thebes and its environs had no Howard-listed young

females. So he was given a list for Kansas City - both Kansas Cities, Missouri and

Kansas.

And that's how we met Betty Lou - Miss Elizabeth Louise Barstow Nelson did his final

courting - got her pregnant, I mean - under our roof, while Maureen played shut-eye

chaperone, a role I would fill repeatedly for my own girls in future years.

This protected me from my own folly - and I felt rather grumpy about it. Nelson had

been my personal property before Betty Lou ever set eyes on him. But Betty Lou is a

darling; I couldn't stay grumpy. Eventually I had no need to feel grumpy.

Betty Lou was from Massachusetts. She had been attending KU, God knows why -

Massachusetts has some adequate schools. But it worked out that we stood in for her

parents as they could not come out for her wedding; they were taking care of their

parents. Theoretically Nelson and Betty Lou should have gone back to Boston to be

married. But they did not want to spend the money. The Gold Panic was getting

underway, and, while that would make a boom in Brian's business, as yet it just

meant that money was tight.

Her wedding took place in our parlour on 14 February, a blustery cold day. Our new

pastor, Dr Draper, tied the knot, I presided over the reception, with too much help

from Random Numbers, who was convinced that the party was in his honour.

Then, when Dr and Mrs Draper had left, I went slowly upstairs, with Brian and Dr

Rumsey helping me... the first time and almost the last time that I waited long

enough for my doctor to arrive.

George Edward weighed seven pounds three ounces.

Chapter 10 - Random Numbers

Pixel went away, wherever it is that he goes, with my first attempt to call for

help. Now I can only keep my fingers crossed.

I once heard my beloved friend and shared husband Dr Jubal Harshaw define happiness.

`Happiness,' Jubal stated, `lies in being privileged to work hard for long hours in

doing whatever you think is worth doing.

`One man may find happiness in supporting a wife and children. Another may find it

in robbing banks. Still another may labour mightily for years in pursuing pure

research with no discernible result.

`Note the individual and subjective nature of each case. No two are alike and there

is no reason to expect them to be. Each man or woman must find for himself that

occupation in which hard work and long hours make him happy. Contrariwise, if you

are looking for shorter hours and longer vacations and early retirement, you are in

the wrong job. Perhaps you need to take up bank robbing. Or geeking in a sideshow.

Or even politics.'

For the decade 1907-1917 I was privileged to enjoy perfect happiness by Jubal's

definition. By 1916 I had borne eight children. During those years I worked harder

and for longer hours than I ever have before or since, and I was bubbling with

happiness the whole time save for the fact that my husband was away oftener than I

liked. Even that had its compensations, as it made our marriage a series of

honeymoons. We prospered, and the fact that Briney was oftenest away when business

was best resulted in our never experiencing what the Bard called so aptly: `- the

tired marriage sheets.'

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Briney always tried to telephone to let me know exactly when he would be home... and

then he would tell me: B.i.b.a.w.y.l.o. and I w.w.y.t.b.w.'

Day or night I would do my best to follow his instructions exactly; I would be in

bed asleep with my legs open and wait for him to wake me the best way, but I always

took the precaution of bathing first and my sleep might be only that I closed my

eyes and held still when I heard him unlock the front door. Then as he got into bed

with me he might call me by some outlandish name, `Mrs Krausemeyer,' or `Battleship

Kate,' or `Lady Pushbottom' - and I would pretend to wake up, and call him anything

but Brian - `Hubert' or 'Giovanni' or `Fritz' - and perhaps enquire, still with my

eyes closed, whether or not he had placed five dollars on the dresser... whereupon

he would scold me for trying to run up the price of tail in Missouri and I would get

busier than ever, trying to prove that I was so worth five dollars.

Then, sated but still coupled, we would argue over whether or not I had put on a

five-dollar performance. Which could result in tickling, biting, wrestling,

spanking, laughing, and another go at it, with much bawdy joking throghout. I

delighted in trying to be that duchess in the drawing-room, economist in the

kitchen, and whore in the bedroom that is the classic definition of the ideal wife.

Perhaps I was never perfect at it, but I was happiest working hard at all three

aspects of that trinity.

Brian also enjoyed singing bawdy songs while coupling, songs with plenty of rhythm

to them, a beat that could be matched to the tempo of coition and speeded up or

slowed down at will, songs like:

Bang away, my Lulu!

Bang away good and strong!

Oh, what'll I do for a bang away

When my Lulu's dead and gone!

Then endless verses, each bawdier than the last:

My Lulu had a chicken,

My Lulu had a duck.

She took them into bed with her

And taught them how to -

BANG! away my Lulu!

Bang away good and strong!

Until at last Briney couldn't stretch it out any longer and had to spend.

While he was resting and recovering, he might demand of me a bedtime story, wanting

to know how I had improved each shining hour with a little creative adultery.

He didn't mean what I may have done with Nelson and or Betty Lou; that was all in

the family and didn't count. 'What's new, Mo? Are you getting to be a dead arse in

your old age? You, the Scandal of Thebes County? Tell me it's not true!'

Now believe me, friends, between dishes and nappies, cooking and cleaning, sewing

and darning, wiping poses and soothing children's tragedies, I didn't have time to

commit enough adultery to interest even a young priest. After that ridiculous and

embarrassing contretemps with Reverend Zeke I can't recall any illicit bed-bouncing

Maureen did between 1906 and 1918 that my husband did not initiate and condone in

advance... and not much of that as Briney was if anything even busier than I.

I must have been a great disappointment to Mrs Grundy (several of her lived in our

block, many of her went to our church) as, during those ten years leading up to the

war that eventually was called World War One or War of the Collapse, First Phase -

during that decade I not only tried to simulate the perfect, conservative,

Bible-belt lady and housewife, I actually was that sexless, modest, church-oriented

creature - except in bed with the door locked, alone or with my husband or, on rare

and utterly safe occasions, in bed with someone else but with my husband's

permission and approval and usually with his chaperonage.

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Besides which, only a robot can stay coupled enough hours out of the year to matter.

Even Galahad, tireless as he is, spends most of his time being the leader of

Ishtar's best surgical team. (Galahad... Galahad reminds me of Nelson. Not just in

appearance; the two are twins in temperament and attitudes - even in body odour now

that I think of it. When I get home, I must ask Ishtar and Justin how much of

Galahad derives from Nelson. Since we Howards started with a limited gene pool,

convergence, along with probability and chance, often comes close to physically

reincarnating a remote ancestor in some descendant on Tertius or Secundus.)

Which reminds me of what I did with part of my time and how Random Numbers got his

name.

I don't think there was ever a month in the first half of the twentieth century but

what both Briney and I were studying something... and usually studying a language

besides, which hardly counts; we had to stay ahead of our children. We usually did

not study the same thing - Briney did not study shorthand or ballet; I did not study

petroleum extraction methods or evaporation control in irrigation. But study we did.

I studied because I had been left with a horrid feeling of intellectual coitus

interruptos through not being able to go on to college at least through a bachelor's

degree, and Brian studied because, well, because he was a Renaissance man with all

knowledge his field. According to the Archives my first husband lasted one hundred

and nineteen years. It is a cinch bet that he was studying some subject new to him

the last few weeks of his life.

Sometimes we studied together. In 1906 he started in on statistics, probability and

chance by mail, the ICS school - and here were the books and the lessons in our

house, so Maureen did them, too, all but mailing my work in. So we were both

immersed in this most fascinating field of mathematics when our kitten, Random

Numbers, joined our lives, courtesy of Mr Renwick, driver salesman for the Great

Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company.

The kitten was an adorable mass of silver grey fluff and was at first named Fluffy

Ruffles through an error in sex; she was a he. But he demonstrated such lightning

changes in mood, direction, speed, and action that Brian remarked, `That kitten

doesn't have a brain; he just has a skull full of random numbers, and whenever he

bangs his head into a chair or ricochets off a wall, it shakes up the random numbers

and causes him to do something else.'

So Fluffy Ruffles became Random Numbers or Random or Randie.

As soon as the snow was gore in the spring of '07 we installed a croquet lawn in our

back yard. At first it was played by us four adults. (Over the years it was played

by everyone.) Then it was four adults and Random Numbers. Every time a ball was hit

that kitten would draw his sword and charge! He would overtake the ball and throw

himself on it, grabbing it, all four limbs. Imagine, please, a grown man stopping a

rolling hogshead by throwing himself around it. Better imagine football pads and a

helmet for him.

Random wore no pads; he went into action wearing nothing but fluff and his do-or-die

attitude. That ball must be stopped, and it was up to him to do it - Allah il Allah

Akbar!

Only one solution - Lock up the cat while playing croquet. But Betty Lou would not

permit that.

Very well, add to the roles this special ground rule: anything done to a croquet

ball by a cat, good or bad, was part of the natural hazards; you played it that way.

I remember one day when Nelson picked up the cat and cradled it in his left arm,

then used his mallet with one hand. Not only did it not help him - Random jumped out

of his arm and landed ahead of the bail, causing Nelson to accomplish nothing - but

we also convened a special session of the Supreme Croquet Court and ruled that

picking up a cat in an attempt to influence the odds was unfair to cats and an

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offence against nature and must be punished by flogging the villain around the

regimental square.

Nelson pleaded youth and inexperience and long and faithful service and got off with

a suspended sentence, although a minority opinion (from Betty Lou) called for Nelson

to drive to a drugstore and fetch back six ice-cream cones. Somehow the minority

opinion prevailed, although Nelson complained that fifteen cents was too heavy a

fine for what he had done and the cat should pay part of it.

Eventually Random Numbers grew up, became sedate, and lost his enthusiasm for

croquet. But the cat rule remained and was adjudged to apply to any cat, be he

resident or travelling salesman, and to puppies, birds, and children under the age

of two. At a later time I introduced this rule on to the planet Tertius.

Did I mention the transaction under which I obtained Random Numbers from Mr Renwick?

Perhaps I didn't. He wanted to swap a little pussy for a little pussy - that's the,

way he expressed it. I walked right into that because I asked what he wanted for the

kitten - expecting him to say that there was no charge as the kitten hadn't cost him

anything. I did not expect anything else because, while I was aware that some

pedigreed cats were bought and sold, I had never actually encountered one. In my

experience kittens were always given away, free.

I had not intended ever again to let. Mr Renwick inside the house; I remembered the

first time. But I was unexpectedly confronted with a fact: Mr Renwick carrying a

cardboard shoebox with a kitten in it. Grab the box and shut the door in his face?

Open the box on the front porch when he was warning me that the kitten was eager to

escape, and scraping, scrambling sounds confirmed it? Lie to him, tell him, sorry,

we have already acquired a kitten?

When the telephone rang -

I wasn't really used to having a telephone. I felt that a ringing telephone meant

either bad news or Briney was calling; either way, I had to answer it at once. I

said, 'Excuse me!' and fled, leaving him standing in our open door.

He followed me in, through the central hall, and into my sewing-room/offiee/chore

room, where I was on the phone. There he put the shoebox down in front of me, and

opened it... and I saw this adorable grey kitten while I was talking with my

husband.

Brian was on his way home and had called to ask if there was anything I wanted him

to pick up.

`I don't think so, dear. But do hurry home; I have your kitten. She's a little

beauty, just the colour of a pussy willow. Mr Renwick brought her, the driver for

the Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company. He's trying to screw me, Briney, in

exchange for the kitten... No, I'm quite certain. He not only said so, but he has

come up behind me and put his arm around me and is now playing with my breasts...

What?... No, I didn't tell him anything of the sort. So do hurry. I won't fight with

him, dear, because I'm pregnant. I just give in... Yes, sir; I will. Au 'voir.' I

hung up the receiver... although I had thought of using it like a policeman's

truncheon. But I truly was unwilling to fight while I had a baby inside me.

Mr Renwick did not let go of me, but when what I was saying penetrated his head, he

held still. I turned around in his arms.

'Don't try to kiss me,' I said. 'I don't want to risk so much as a cold while I'm

pregnant. Do you have a rubber? A Merry Widow?'

'Uh... Yes.'

'I thought you would have; I'm sure I'm not the first housewife you've tried this

with. All right; do please use it, as I don't want to contract a social disease, and

neither do you. Are you married?'

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'Yes. Christ, you're a cool one!'

'Not at all. I simply won't risk being raped while I'm carrying a baby; that's all.

Since you are married, you don't want to catch anything, either, so put on that

rubber. How long does it take to drive from 31 st and Woodland?' (Brian had called

from 12 th and Walnut, much further away.)

'Uh... Not very long.'

'Then you'd better hurry or my husband will catch you at it. If you really do mean

to do this to me:

'Oh, the hell with it!' He abruptly let go of me, turned away and headed for the

front door.

He was fumbling with the latch when I called out, `You forgot your kitten!'

'Keep the damned cat!'

That is how I 'bought' Random Numbers.

Raising kittens is fun, but raising children is the most fun - if the children

happen to be your own - if you happen to be the sort of person who enjoys bearing

and rearing children. For Jubal was right; it is subjective, a matter of one's

individual disposition. I had seventeen children on my first go-around and greatly

enjoyed rearing all of them - each different, each individual - and I've had more

since my rescue and rejuvenation, and have enjoyed them even more because Lazarus

Long's household is organised so that taking care of babies is easy for everyone.

But I often find other people's children repulsive and their mothers crashing bores,

especially when they talk about their disgusting offspring (instead of listening to

me talking about mine). It seems to me that many of those little monsters should

have been drowned at birth. They strike me as compelling arguments for birth

control. As my father pointed out years ago, I am an amoral wretch... who does not

necessarily regard an unfinished human being, wet and soiled and smelly at one end

and yelling at the other, as 'adorable'.

In my opinion many babies are simply bad-tempered, mean little devils who grow up to

be bad-tempered, mean big devils. Look around you. The sweet innocence of children

is a myth. Dean Swift had an appropriate solution for some of them in A Modest

Proposal: But he should not Nave limited it to the Irish, as there are many

scoundrels who are not Irish.

Now you may be so prejudiced and opinionated that you feel that my children are less

than perfect - despite the overwhelming evidence that mine were born with halos and

cherubs' wings. So I won't bore you with every time Nancy brought home straight A's

on her report cards. Practically every time, that is. My kids are smarter than your

kids. Prettier, too. Is that enough? All right, I'll drop the matter. My kids are

wonderful to me, and your kids are wonderful to you, and let's leave it at that, and

not bore each other.

I mentioned the Panic of 1907 when I told about Betty Lou's marriage to Nelson but

at the time I had no idea that a panic was coming. Nor did Brian, or Nelson, or

Betty Lou. But history does repeat itself, somewhat and in some ways, and something

that happened in early 1907 reminded me of something that happened in 1893.

After the birth of Georgie on Betty Lou's wedding day, I stayed at home as usual,

for a while, but as soon as I felt up to moving around, I left my brood with Betty

Lou and went downtown. I planned to go by streetcar, was unsurprised when Nelson

volunteered to drive me down in his Reo runabout. I accepted and bundled up warm;

the Reo was rather too well ventilated; it had an open buggy somewhere in its

ancestry.

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My purpose was to move my savings account. I had placed it in the Missouri Savings

Bank in 1899, when we married and settled in Kansas City, by a draft on the First

State Bank of Butler (the booming metropolis of Thebes had no banks), where Father

had helped me to open a savings account when we carne back from Chicago. By the time

I was married, it had grown to more than a hundred dollars.

Footnote: if I had more than a hundred dollars in a savings account, why did I serve

my family fried mush for their evening meal? Answer: do you think I am crazy? In

1906 in the American Middle West, a sure way for a wife spiritually to castrate her

husband would be to suggest that he was incapable of keeping food on the table; I

didn't need Dr Fraud to tell me that. Males live by pride. Kill their pride and they

won't support wives and children. It would be some years before Brian and I would

learn to be utterly open and easy with each other. Brian knew that I had a savings

account but he never asked me how much I had in it, and I would serve fried mush or

do any symbolic equivalent as often as needed before I would buy groceries with my

own money. Savings were for a rainy day. We both knew this. If Brian fell ill, had

to go to a hospital, I would use my savings as needed. We had no need to talk about

it. Meanwhile Brian was the breadwinner; I did not intrude into his responsibility.

Nor he into mine.

But what about Foundation moneys? Didn't that hurt his pride? Perhaps it did. It may

be indicative to take a look into the future: in the long run every dime we received

from ringing the cash register wound up with our children, as each got married.

Brian never mentioned to me any such intention. In 1907 it would have been silly to

do so.

By early 1907 my savings account had grown to over three hundred dollars, by nickels

and pennies and tightest economies. Now that I was working at home and could no

longer go to school downtown it seemed smart to me to move my account to a little

neighbourhood bank near the southside post office substation. One of us four had to

go to our post office box each day; whoever did it could make deposits for me. If

ever I had to withdraw money, then that one could be I.

- Nelson parked his runabout on Grand Avenue and we walked around to 920 Walnut. I

took my passbook to a teller - did not have to wait; the bank was not crowded - and

told the teller that I wanted to withdraw my account.

I was referred to an officer of the bank, over behind the railing, a Mr Smaterine.

Nelson put down the newspaper he had been glancing at, stood up. `Difficulty?'

`I don't know. They don't seem to want to let me have my money. Will you come with

me?'

`Sure thing.'

Mr Smaterine greeted me politely, but raised his brows at Nelson. I introduced them.

`This is Mr Nelson Johnson, Mr Smaterine. He is my husband's business partner.'

`How do you do, Mr Johnson. Please sit down. Mrs Smith, our Mr Wimple tells me that

you need to see me about something.'

`I suppose I do. I attempted to withdraw my account. Ht told me that I must see

you.'

Mr Smaterine gave a smile that displayed his false teeth. `We are always sorry to

lose an old friend, Mrs Smith. Has our service been unsatisfactory?'

`Not at all, sir. But I wish to move my account to a bank closer to my home. It is

not too convenient to come all this way downtown, especially in this cold weather.'

He picked up my passbook, glanced at the address in the front, then at the current

amount further on. 'May I ask where you propose to transfer your account, Mrs

Smith?'

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I was about to tell him, when I caught Nelson's eye. He didn't actually shake his

head... but I've known him a long time. `Why do you ask that, sir?'

'It is part of a banker's professional duty to protect his customers. If you wish to

move your account - fine! But I want to see you go to an equally reliable bank.'

My wild animal instincts were aroused. 'Mr Smaterine, I have discussed this in

-detail with my husband' - I had not - and I do not need to seek advice elsewhere.'

He made a tent of his fingers. 'Very well. As you know, the bank can require three

weeks notice on savings accounts.'

`But, Mr Smaterine, you yourself were the officer I dealt with when I opened my

account here. You told me that that fine print was just a formality, required by the

state banking act, but that you personally assured me that any time I wanted my

money, I could have it.'

'And so you can. Let's change that three weeks to three days. Just go home and write

us a written notice of intent, and three business days later you can close your

account'

Nelson stood up, put his hands flat on Mr Smaterine's desk. 'Now just one moment,'

he drawled loudly, `did you or did you not tell Mrs Smith that she could have her

money any rime she wanted it?'

`Sit down, Mr Johnson. And lower your voice. After all, you are not a customer here.

You don't belong here.'

Nelson did not sit down, did not lower his voice. `Just answer yes or no.'

`I could have you evicted.'

`Try it, just try it. My partner, Mr Brian Smith, this lady's husband, asked me to

come with Mrs Smith' - Brian had not -'because he had heard that your bank was just

a leetle bit reluctant -'

`That's slander! That's criminal slander!'

`- to be as polite to ladies as you are to businessmen. Now - Do you keep your

promise to her? Right now? Or three days from now?'

Mr Smaterine was not smiling. `Wimple! Let's have a cheque for Mrs Smith's account'

We all kept quiet while it was made out; Mr Smaterine signed it, handed it to me.

'Please see that it is correct. Check it against your passbook.'

I agreed that it was correct.

'Very well. Just take that to your new bank and deposit it. You will have your money

as soon as it clears. Say about ten days.' He smiled again, but there was no mirth

in it.

'You said I could have my money now.'

`You have it. There's our cheque.'

I looked at it, turned it over, endorsed it, handed it to him. 'I'll take it now.'

He stopped smiling. 'Wimple!'

They started counting out banknotes. 'No,' I said, 'I want cash. Not paper issued by

some other bank.'

'You are hard to please, Madam. This is legal tender.'

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'But I deposited real money, every time. Not bank notes.' And I had nickels and

dimes and quarters and sometimes pennies. Once in a while a silver cartwheel. `I

want to be paid back in real money. Can't you pay me in real money?'

`Of course we can,' Mr Smaterine answered stiffly. 'But you will find, ah, over

twenty-five pounds of silver dollars quite cumbersome. That's why bank certificates

are used for most transactions.'

`Can't you pay me in gold? Doesn't a great big bank like this one carry any gold in

its vaults? Fifteen double eagles would be ever so much easier to carry than would

be three hundred cartwheels,' I raised my voice a little and projected it. `Can't

you pay me in gold? If not, where can I take this to change it for gold?'

They paid in gold, with the odd change in silver.

Once we were headed south Nelson said, `Whew! What bank, out south do you want?

Troost Avenue Bank? Or Southeast State?'

'Nellie, I want to take it home and ask Brian to take care of it.'

'Huh? I mean, yes, Ma'am. Right away:

`Dear, something about this reminds me of 1893. What do you remember about that

year?'

`Eighteen ninety-three... Let me see. I was nine and just beginning to notice that

girls are different. Uh, you and Uncle Ira went to the Chicago Fair. When you got

back I noticed that you smelled good. But it took another five years to get you to

notice me, and I had to slide a pie under you to manage it?

'You always were a bad boy. Never mind my folly in '98; what happened in '93?'

`Hmm... Mr Cleveland started his second term. Then banks started to fail and

everybody blamed it on him. Seems a bit unfair to me - it was too soon after he was

sworn in. The Panic of'93, they called it'

`So they did and my father did not lose anything in it, for reasons he described as

pure dumb luck.'

`Nor did my mother, because she always did her banking in a teapot on the top

shelf.'

'Father accidentally did something like that. He left Mother a four-month allowance,

in cash, in four sealed envelopes, each with a date. He took with him cash, in gold,

in a money belt. And he left money behind - whatever it was beyond what we needed -

in a lockbox, again in gold.

`Nelson, he told me later that he had not guessed that banks were about to fail; he

did it just to annoy Deacon Houlihan - Deacon Hooligan, Father called him. Do you

remember him? President of Buder State Bank.'

`No, I guess he died without my permission.'

`Father told me that the Deacon had remonstrated with him for drawing out cash. The

Deacon said it was poor business practice. Just leave instructions to pay Mrs Smith

- Mother I mean - so much each month. Father should leave his money where it was and

use cheques - the modern way to do business.

`Father got balky - he's good at that - and consequently the bank failures never

touched him. Nelson, I don't think Father did business with any bank after that. He

just kept cash in a lockbox in his surgery. I think. Although with Father one is

never sure.'

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We had a conference about it when we got home, Brian, me, Nelson, Betty Lou. Nelson

told them what had happened. 'Getting money out of that bank was like pulling teeth.

This boiled shirt certainly did not want to part with Mo's money. I don't think he

would have done so if I had not made a loud, obnoxious nuisance of myself. But that

is only partly the point. Mo, tell 'em about Uncle Ira and a similar case.'

I did so. 'Dears, I don't claim to know anything about finance. I'm so stupid that I

have never understood how a bank can print paper money and claim that it is just the

same as real money. But today felt like 1893 to me... because it is just the sort of

thing that happened to Father just before the banks started to fail. He didn't get

caught by bank failures because he was balky and stopped using banks. I don't know,

I just don't know... but I felt uneasy and decided not to put my egg money back into

a bank. Brian, will you keep it for me?'

`Here in the house it could be stolen.'

Nelson said, 'And if it's in a bank, the bank can fail.'

`Are you getting jumpy, Nel?'

`Maybe. Betty Lou, what do you think?'

`I think I'm going to draw out my thirty-five cents and find a Mason jar and bury it

in the back yard.' She paused. `And then I'm going to write to my father and tell

him what I've done and why. He won't listen - he's a Harvard man. But I'll sleep

better if I tell him.'

Brian said, `Some others also we must tell.'

`Who?' said Nelson.

`Judge Sperling. And my own folks.'

`We don't want to shout it from the house tops. That could start a run.'

`Nel, it's our money. If the banking system can't afford to let us draw out our own

money and sit on it, then maybe there is something wrong with the banking system.'

`Tsk, tsk. You some kind of an anarchist or something? Well, let's get busy. The

first ones in line always get the biggest pieces.'

Brian was so serious about it that he made a trip back to Ohio, expensive though it

was for him to travel without a client to pay for it. There he talked to Judge

Sperling and to his parents. I do not know details... but neither the Foundation nor

Brian's parents were hurt by the Panic of 1907. Later on we all saw the United

States Treasury saved by the intervention of J.P. Morgan... who was vilified for it.

In the meantime the assets of Brian Smith Associates were not buried in the back

yard... but were locked up in the house, and we started keeping guns.

Correction: so far as I know, that was when we started keeping guns. I may be

mistaken.

While Brian went to Ohio, Nelson and I tried a project: articles for trade journals

such as Mining Journal, Modern Mining, and Gold and Silver. Brian Smith Associates

ran small display advertisements in each issue. Nelson had pointed out to Brian that

we could get major advertising free by Brian writing articles for these journals -

each of them carried about the same number of pages of articles and editorials as it

did of advertisements. So instead of a little bitty one-column three-inch display

card-no, not instead of but in addition to - in addition to advertising Brian should

write articles. `Lord knows that the stuff they print is dull as ditch water; it

can't be hard to write.' So said Nelson.

So Brian tried and the result was dull as ditch water.

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Nelson said, `Brian old man, you are my revered senior partner... Do you mind if I

take a swing at this?'

'Help yourself. I didn't want to do it, anyhow.'

`I have the advantage of not knowing anything about mining. You supply the facts -

you have; I have them in my hand - and I will slide in some mustard.'

Nelson rewrote Brian's sober factual articles about what a mining consultant's

survey could accomplish in a highly irreverent style... and I drew little pictures,

cartoons, styled after Bill Nye, to illustrate them. Me an artist? No. But I had

taken Professor Huxley's advice (A Liberal Education) seriously and had learned to

draw. I was not an artist but I was a competent draughtsman, and I stole details and

tricks from Mr Nye and other professionals without a qualm without realising that I

was stealing.

Nelson's first attempt retitled Brian's rewritten article as 'How to Save Money by

Skimping' and featured all sorts of grisly mining accidents - which I illustrated.

The Mining Journal not only accepted it; they actually paid for it, five dollars,

which none of us had expected.

Nelson eventually worked it into a deal in which Brian's by-line (ghosted by Nelson)

appeared in every issue, and a quarter-page display for Brian Smith Associates

appeared in a good spot.

At a later time a twin of that article appeared in the Country Gentleman (the

Saturday Evening Post's country cousin) telling how to break your neck, lose a leg,

or kill your worthless son-in-law on a farm. But the Curtis Publishing Company

refused to dicker. They paid for the article; Brian Smith Associates paid for their

display cards.

In January 1910 a great comet appeared and soon it dominated the evening sky in the

west. Many people mistook it for Halley's Comet, due that year. But it was not;

Halley's Comet came later.

In March 1910 Betty Lou and Nelson set up their own household - two adults, two

babies - and Random Numbers had a bad time trying to decide where he lived, at The

Only House, or with his slave, Betty Lou. For a while he shuttled between the two

households, riding any automobile going his way.

In April 1910 the real Halley's Comet began to be prominent in the night sky. In

another month it dominated the sky, its head as bright as Venus and its tail half

again as long as the Great Dipper. Then it got too close to the Sun to be seen. When

it reappeared in the morning sky in May it was still more magnificent. On is May

Nelson drove us out to Meyer Boulevard before dawn so that we could see the eastern

horizon. The comet's great tail filled the sky, slanting up from the east to the

south, pointing down at the Sun below the horizon, an incredible sight.

But. I got no joy from it. Mr Clemens had told me that he had come in with Halley's

Comet and he would go out with, it... and he did, on 21 April.

When I heard - it was published in the Star- I shut myself in our room, and cried.

Chapter 11 - A Dude in a Derby

They took me out of my cell today and led me, cuffed and hoodwinked, into what was

probably a courtroom. There they removed the hoodwink and the cuffs... which left me

the only one out of step; my guards were hooded and so were the three who (I think)

were judges. Bishops, maybe, they were wearing fancy robes with that sacerdotal

look.

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Other flunkies here and there were also hooded - put me in mind of a Ku-Klux-Klan

meeting, so I tried to check their shoes-Father had pointed out to me during the

recrudescence of the Man in the twenties that those hooded `knights' showed under

their sheets the cracked, scuffed, cheap, and worn-out shoes of the social bottom

layer who could manage to feel superior to somebody only by joining a racist secret

society.

I could not use that test on these jokers. The three `judges' were behind a high

bench. The court clerk (?) had his recording equipment on a desk, his feet under it.

My guards were behind me.

They kept me there about two hours, I think. All I gave them was `name, rank, and

serial number' -'I am Maureen Johnson Long, of Boondock, Tellus Tertius. I am a

distressed traveller, here by misadventure. To all those silly charges: not guilty!

I demand to see a lawyer.'

From time to time, I repeated `Not guilty' or stood mote.

After about two hours, judged by hunger and bladder pressure, we had an

interruption: Pixel.

I didn't see him come in. Apparently he had come to my cell as usual, failed to find

me, and went looking - found me.

I heard behind me this `Cheerlup!' with which he usually announces his arrival; I

turned and he jumped into my arms, started head bumping and purring, while demanding

to know why I wasn't where I was supposed to be.

I petted him and assured him that he was a fine cat, a good boy, da kine!

The middle ghost behind the bench ordered: `Remove that animal:

One of the guards attempted to comply by grabbing Pixel.

Pixel has absolutely no patience with people who do not observe correct protocol. He

bit the guard in the fleshy pare of his left thumb, and got him here and there with

his claws. The guard tried to drop him; Pixel did not let go.

The other guard tried to help - now two wounded. But not Pixel.

That middle judge used some quite colourful language, got down and carne around,

saying: `Don't you know how to grab a cat?' - and proved at once that he did not.

Now three wounded. Pixel hit the deck, running.

I then saw something that had been known to me only through inference, something

that none of my friends and family claimed to have seen. (Correction: Athene has

seen it, but Athene has eyes everywhere. I mean meat-and-bone people.)

Pixel headed straight for a blank wall at emergency full speed - and just as he

seemed to be about to crash headlong into it, a round cat door opened in front of

him, he streaked through it, and it dosed instantly behind him.

After a bit, I was returned to my cell.

In 1912: Brian bought an automobile, a car - somewhere during that decade

`automobile carriage' changed to- `automobile', and then to `auto', and then to

`motor car, or `car' - the ultimate name for the horseless carriage, as it could not

get any shorter.

Brian bought a Reo. Nelson's little Reo runabout had proved most durable and

satisfactory; after five years of hard wear it was still a good vehicle. The firm

used it for many things, including dusty drives to Galena and Joplin and other towns

in the white metals area, and records were kept and Nelson was paid mileage and

wear-and-tear.

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So when Brian decided to buy a car for his family he bought another Reo, but a

family car, a five-passenger touring car - a beauty and one that I could see was

safe for children, as it had doors and a top - the runabout had neither. Mr R.E.

Olds called the 1912 Reo his `Farewell Car', claiming that it was the best car that

he could design with his twenty-five years of experience, and the best that could be

built, in materials and workmanship.

I believed him, and (far more important) Brian believed him. It may Nave been the

`farewell' Reo but, when I left Earth in 1982, Mr Olds' name was still famous in

autos, in 'Oldsmobile'.

Our luxury car was quite expensive - more than $1200. Brian did not tell me what he

had paid, but the Reo was widely advertised and I can read. But we got a lot for our

money; it was not only a handsome, roomy touring car but also it had a powerful

engine (35 horsepower) and a top speed of 45 miles per hour. It was never driven at

that speed, I think - the speed limit in the city was 17 miles per hour, and the

rutted dirt roads outside the city were quite unsuited to such high speed. Oh, Brian

and Nelson may have tried it - opened the throttle wide on some freshly graded,

level road out in Kansas somewhere; neither of them believed in bothering ladies

with things that might worry them. (Betty Lou and I did not believe in worrying our

husbands unnecessarily, either; it evens out.)

Brian fitted out the basic car with all sorts of luxuries that would make it

pleasant for his wife and family - a windshield, a self-starter, a set of side

curtains, a speedometer, a spare tyre, an emergency gas tank, etc. The tyres had

demountable rims and only rarely did Brian have to patch a tyre beside the road.

It did have one oddity; its top could predict the weather. Put the top down; it

rained. Put the top up; the sun came out.

It was a one-man top, just as the ads claimed. That one man was Briney - assisted by

his wife, two half-grown girls, and two small boys, all of us straining and sweating

and Brian nobly repressing the language he wanted to use. But eventually Brian

figured out how to outsmart that top: leave it up all the time. This ensured good

weather for motoring. We surely did enjoy that car. Nancy and Carol named it `Ei Reo

Grande'. (Brian and I had lately taken up Spanish; as usual our children were trying

to outwit us. Pig Latin never did work; they cracked the code at once. Alfalfa

speech did not last much longer.) We had established early in our marriage that some

occasions were for the entire family... and some were for Mama and Papa alone -

children would stay home and not whine about it, lest the middle justice be invoked.

(Mother had used a peach switch; I found that one from an apricot tree worked just

as well.)

By 1912, with Nancy a responsible twelve-gear-old girl, it was possible to leave the

youngsters at home in her charge for a couple of hours or more in the daytime. (This

was before Woodrow was born. Once he was big enough to walk, controlling him called

for an Oregon boot and a morningstar.) This let Briney and me have some precious

outings alone - and one of them got me Woodrow, as I have mentioned. Briney

delighted in making love outdoors, and so did I; it gave a spice of danger to what

was otherwise a sweet but lawful occasion.

But when the whole family went for a joy ride, we piled Nancy and Carol, Brian

junior and George, into the roomy tonneau... with Nancy charged with seeing that no

one stood up on the back seat (not to save the leather upholstery but to protect the

child); I sat up front with Marie, and Brian drove.

The picnic basket and the lemonade jug were carried, in the tonneau, Carol being

charged with keeping her brothers out of the picnic. We would drive out to Swope

Park, picnic there, and see the zoo animals, then joy ride again after the picnic,

perhaps clear out to Raytown or even Hickman Mills... then home with the children

falling asleep, to a supper of picnic remains and cups of hot soup.

1912 was a good year, despite a blizzard touted as the 'worst since'86' (it may have

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been; I don't remember the '86 blizzard too clearly). It was a campaign year, with a

noisy three-sided race, Mr Taft running for re-election, Teddy Roosevelt at outs

with his former protégé Mr Taft and running on his own `Bull Moose' (Progressive

Republican) ticket, and Professor Wilson of Princeton, now Governor of his state,

running on the Democratic ticket.

That last was a surprise outcome to an unbelievable month-long convention in which

it seemed for days that Missouri's favourite son, Mr Champ Clark, Speaker of the

House, would be nominated. Mr Clark led for twenty-seven ballots and had a clear

majority on several but not the two thirds majority the Democrats required. Then Mr

Wilham Jennings Bryan made a bargain with Dr Wilson, to be named Secretary of State,

and Governor Wilson was nominated on the forty-sixth ballot after many of the

delegates had gone home.

I followed all this in the Star with deep interest as I had read Dr Wilson's

monumental (eighteen volumes!) History of the American People, borrowing it a volume

at a time from the Kansas City Public Library. But I did not mention my interest to

my husband as I suspected that he favoured Colonel Roosevelt.

The election day was on the fifth but we did not learn the outcome at once - three

days I think it was. Woodrow was born Monday afternoon the eleventh at 3.0 p.m., and

arrived squalling. Betty Lou midwifed me; as usual I was too fast for my doctor and

this time Briney was at work, as I had told him that it couldn't be sooner than the

end of that week.

Betty Lou said, `Have you picked a name for this one?'

I said, 'Yes. Ethel.'

She held the baby up. `Take another look; that name doesn't match this tassel;

better cave it. Why don't you name him after our new President? That should give him

a running start.'

I don't remember what I said as Brian arrived about then, Betty Lou having

telephoned him. She greeted him at the door with, `Come meet Woodrow Wilson Smith,

President of , the United States in 1952.'

Sounds good.' Brian marched into our bedroom, imitating a brass band. The name

stuck; we registered it with the Foundation and with the County.

When I thought it over, the name pleased me. I wrote a note to Dr Wilson, telling

him of his namesake and saying that I was praying for the success of his

administration. I received back, first, a note from Mr Patrick Tumulty,

acknowledging my letter and saying that it was being brought to the attention of the

President Elect 'but you will understand, Madam, that recent events have flooded him

with mail. It will be several weeks before all of it can be answered personally.'

Shortly after Christmas I did receive a letter from Dr Wilson, thanking me for

having honoured him in the naming of my son. I framed it and had it for years. I

wonder if it is still in existence somewhere on time line two?

The 1912 Presidential campaign had been fought on the issue of the high cost of

living. The Smith family was not suffering but prices, food prices especially, were

indeed rising - while as usual the farmers were complaining that they were not

receiving even cost-of-production prices for what they grew. This may well have been

so - I recall that wheat was less than a dollar a bushel.

But I did not buy wheat by the bushel; I bought food at a local grocery store and

from my huckster and milkman and so forth. Again Brian asked me if I needed a raise

in household allowance.

'Possibly,' I answered. 'We are getting by, but prices are going up. A dozen

freshly-gathered eggs cost five cents now, and so does a quart of grade A. The

Holsum Bread Company is talking about changing from two sizes at a nickel and a dime

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to two sizes at ten cents and fifteen cents. Want to bet that this does not mean a

raise in price by the pound - I repeat, by the pound, not by the loaf - of at least

twenty per cent?'

'Find yourself another sucker, sister; I already bet on the election. I was thinking

about meat prices.'

`Up. Oh, just a penny or two a pound, but it goes on. But I've noticed something

else. Mr Schontz used to include a soup bone without being asked. And some liver for

Random. Suet for birds in the winter. Now those things happen only if I ask for them

and, when I do, he doesn't smile. Just this week he said that he was going to have

to start charging for liver as people were beginning to eat it, not just cats. I

don't know how I'm going to explain this to Random.'

'Let's keep first things first, my love; my wedding present must be fed. How you

behave towards cats here below determines your status in Heaven.'

`Really?'

'That's straight out of the Bible; you can look it up. Have you talked to Nelson

about cat food?'

`It would not occur to me to do so. Betty Lou, yes; Nelson, no.'

`Just remember that he is a professional economist concerning the growing and

marketing of foodstuffs and he has a handsome sheepskin to prove it. Nel tells me

that, starting any time now, cats and dogs are going to have their own food industry

- fresh food, packaged food, canned food, special stores or special departments in

stores, and national advertising. Big business. Millions of dollars. Even hundreds

of millions:

`Are you sure he wasn't joking? Nelson will joke about anything.'

'I don't think he was. He was quite serious and he had figures to back his remarks.

You have seen how gasoline powered machinery has been displacing horses, not just

here in the city, but on farms - slowly but more each year. So we have out-of-work

horses. Nelson says not to worry about those horses; the cats will eat them.'

'What a horrid thought!'

At Brian's urging I worked up a chart that told me how grocery prices were rising.

Fortunately I had thirteen years of exact records of what I had spent on food, what

items, how much per pack, or pound, or dozen, etc. Briney had never required me to

do it but it matched what my mother had done and it truly was a great help to me

during those years of pinching every penny to know just what return I had received

in food for each cent I had spent.

So I worked up this big chart, then figured out what a year's ration was, per

person, as if I were feeding an army - so many ounces of flour, so many ounces of

butter, sugar, meat, fresh vegetables, fresh fruits - not much for canned goods as I

had learned, early on, that the only economical way to get canned goods was by

canning stuff myself.

Eventually I produced a curve, the cost of a ration for one adult, 1899-1913.

It was a fairly smooth curve, trending steadily up, and with inflexure upwards.

There were minor discontinuities but, on the whole, it was a smooth first-order

curve.

I looked at that curve and it tempted me. I got down my old text for analytical

geometry, from Thebes High School, measured some ordinates, abscissas, and slopes -

plugged in the figures and wrote down the equation.

And stared at it. Had I actually derived a formula by which food prices could be

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predicted? Something the big brains with Ph.D.s and endowed chairs could not agree

on?

No, no, Maureen! There is not a crop failure on there, not a war, not any major

disaster. Not enough facts. Figures don't lie, but liars figure. There are lies,

damned lies, and statistics. Don't make too much stew from one oyster.

I put my analytical work away where no one would find it. But I kept that chart. I

did not use it for prediction but I did keep plotting that curve because it let me

go to Briney and show him exactly why I needed a larger allowance, whenever I did -

instead of waiting until it reached the fried mush situation. I did not hesitate to

ask because Brian Smith Associates were prosperous.

I was no longer secretary-bookkeeper of our family firm; I had relinquished that

status when Nelson, Betty Lou, and our business office had all moved out of the

house together, two years earlier. No friction between us, not at all, and I had

urged them to stay. But they wanted to be on their own and I understood that. Brian

Smith Associates took an office near 31 st and Paseo, second floor, over a

haberdashery, a location near the Troost Avenue Bank and the PO substation. It was a

good neighbourhood for an office outside the downtown financial district. The Nelson

Johnsons had their first home of their own about a hundred yards south on a side

street, South Paseo Place.

This meant that Betty Lou could handle the records and go to the bank and pick up

the mail, while still taking care of her two children, i.e., the back room of the

company's `palatial suite' was converted into a day nursery.

Yet I was only twenty minutes away and could relieve her if she needed me, straight

down 3ist by trolley car, good neighbourhoods st both ends, where I need not feel

timid even after dark.

We continued this way until 1915, when Brian and Nelson hired a downy duckling fresh

out of Spaulding's Commercial College, Anita Boles. Betty Lou and I continued to

keep an eye on the books and one of us would be in the office if both men were out

of town, as this child still believed in Santa Claus. But her typing was fast and

accurate. (We had a new Remington now. I kept my old Oliver at home - a loyal

friend, grown feeble.)

So I continued to know our financial position. It was good and got steadily better.

Brian accepted points in lieu of full fee several times in the years 1906-1913; five

of these enterprises had made money and three had paid quite well: a reopened zinc

mine near Joplin, a silver mine near Denver, and a gold mine in Montana... and

Briney was just cynical enough that he paid freely under the table to keep a close

check on both the silver mine and the gold mine. He told me once, `You can't stop

high-grading. Even your dear old grandmother can be tempted when gold ore gets so

heavy that you can simply pick it up and know that it is loaded. But you can making

stealing difficult if you are willing to pay for service.'

By 1911 there was plenty of money coming in, but I could not tell where much of it

was going - and I would not ask Briney. It came in, it showed in the books; Nelson

drew out some of it, Brian drew out more of it. Some of it wound up in my and in

Betty Lou's hands to support our two households. But that did not account for all of

it. The firm's cheque account was simply an aid to bookkeeping, a means to pay Anita

and to pay by cheque other expenses; it was never allowed to grow larger than was

needed for those purposes.

It was many years before I learned more than that.

On 28 June 1914 in Sarajevo, Serbia, the heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian

Empire was assassinated. He was Archduke Franz Ferdinand, an otherwise useless piece

of royalty, and to this day I have never been able to understand why this event

could cause Germany to invade Belgium a month later. I read carefully all the

newspapers at the time; I studied all the books I could lay hands on since, and I

still can't see it. Sheer folly. I can see why, by a sort of insane logic, the

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Kaiser would attack his first cousin in St Petersburg - a network of

`suicide-compact' alliances.

But why invade Belgium?

Yes, yes, to get at France. But why get at France at all? Why go out of your way to

start wars on two fronts? And why do it through Belgium when that would drag in the

one nation on Earth with a navy big enough to bottle up the German High Seas Fleet

and deny it the high seas?

I heard my father and my husband talking about these matters on 4 August 1914.

Father had come over for dinner but it was not a merry occasion - it was the day of

the invasion of Belgium and there had been extras out on the streets.

Brian asked, `Beau-père, what do you think about it?'

Father was slow to answer. `If Germany can conquer France in two weeks, Great

Britain will drop out.'

'Well?'

'Germany can't win that fast. So England will come in. So it will be a long, long

war. Write the ending yourself.'

`You mean we will be in it.'

`Be a pessimist and you will hardly ever be wrong. Brian, I know little or nothing

about your business. But it is time for all businesses to get on a war footing. What

do you deal in that is bound to get involved?'

Briney said nothing for several moments. `All metals are war materials. But...

Beau-père, if you have some money you want to risk, let me point out that mercury is

indispensable for munitions. And scarce. Mostly they mine it in Spain. A place

called Almaden.'

`Where else?'

`California. Some in Texas. Want to go out to California?'

`No. Been there. Not my taste. I think Ml go back to my digs and get a letter off to

Leonard Wood. Damn it, he made the switch from medical corps to line officer- he

ought to be able to tell me how I can do it.'

Briney looked thoughtful. `I don't want to be in the engineers again, either. I

don't belong there.'

`You'll be a pick-and-shovel soldier again if you wait and join up here.'

'How's that?'

'The old Third Missouri is going to be reorganised as an engineer regiment. Wait

around long enough and they'll hand you a shovel:

I kept my best unworried mask on, and kept on knitting. It felt like the end of

April, 1898.

The European War dragged along, horribly, with stories of atrocities in Belgium and

of ships being sunk by German submarine boats. One could feel a division building up

in America; the sinking of the Lusitania in May 1915 brought the dichotomy sharply

to the fore. Mother wrote from St Louis about the strong sentiment there for the

Central Powers. Her parents, my Grandpa and Grandma Pfeiffer, apparently took it for

granted that all decent people supported `the Old Country' in this struggle - this,

despite the fact that Grossvater's parents had come to America in 1848 to get away

from Prussian Imperialism, along with their son, who was just the right age to be

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conscripted if they had not emigrated. (Grandpa was born in 1830.)

But now it was `Deutschland Über Alies' and everybody knew that the Jews owned

France and ran everything there, and if those American passengers had minded their

own business and stayed home where they belonged, out of the war zone, they wouldn't

have been on the Lusitania - after all, the Emperor had warned them. It was their

own fault.

My brother Edward in Chicago reported much the same sentiment there. He did not

sound pro-German himself, but he did express a fervent hope that we would stay out

of a war that wasn't any of our business.

This was not what I heard at home. When President Wilson made his famous (infamous?)

speech about the sinking of the Lusitania, the `too proud to fight' speech, Father

carne over to see Brian and sat there, smouldering like a volcano, until all the

children were in bed or elsewhere out of earshot. Then he used language that I

pretended not to hear. He applied it mainly to the cowardly tactics of the Huns but

he saved a plentiful portion for that 'pusillanimous Presbyterian parson' in the

White House. `Too proud to fight! What sort of talk is that? It requires pride in

order to fight. A coward slinks away with his tail between his legs. Brian, we need

Teddy Roosevelt back in there!'

My husband agreed.

In the spring of 1916 my husband went to Plattsburg, New York, where the previous

summer General Leonard Wood had instituted a citizens training camp for officer

candidates - Brian had been disappointed not to be able to attend it in ages, and

planned ahead not to miss it in 1916. Ethel was born while Brian was away, through

some careful planning of my own. When he returned at the end of August, I had the

property back in shape and ready to welcome him, i.b.a.w.m.l.o., so that he could

w.m.t.b.w. - and 'Mrs Gillyhooley' did her best to be worth more than five dollars.

I suspect that I was, as my biological pressure was far up past the danger line.

It was the longest dry spell of my married life, in part because I was thoroughly

chaperoned at home. At Brian's request Father lived with us while Brian was away. No

harem guard ever took his duties more seriously than Father did. Brian had often

chaperoned me as a shut-eye sentry; protecting me from the neighbours, not from my

own libidinous nature.

Father included protecting me from himself. Yes, I tested the water. I had known way

back when I was still virgo intacta how thoroughly incestuous were my feelings

toward my father. Furthermore I was certain that he was just as moved by me.

So about ten days after Brian drove away, when my animal nature was crawling up on

me, I arranged it so that I missed saying goodnight to Father, then came into his

room right after he had gone to bed, dressed in a low-cut nightgown and a not too

opaque peignoir-freshly bathed and smelling good ('April Showers', a euphemism) -

and said that I had come in to say goodnight, which he echoed. So I leaned over to

kiss him, exposing my breasts and producing a wave of that sinful scent.

He pulled his face back. 'Daughter, get out of here. And don't come around me again

half naked.'

'All naked, perhaps? Mon cher papa, je t'adore.'

`You shut t'door... behind you.'

`Oh, papa, don't be mean to me. I need to be cuddled. I need to be hugged.'

`I know what you need but you are not going to get it from me. Now get out.'

`What if I won't? I'm too big to spank.'

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He sighed. `So you are. Daughter, you are an enticing and amoral bitch, we both know

it, we have always known it. Since I can't spank you, I must warn you. Get out this

instant... or I will telephone your husband right now, tonight, and tell him that he

must come home at once as I am unable to carry out my responsibilities to him and to

his family. Understand me?'

'Yes, sir.'

`Now get out.'

'Yes, sir. May I make a short statement first?'

'Well - make it march.'

`I did not ask you to couple with me but if you had - if we had dope so, it would

have done no harm; I am pregnant.'

`Irrelevant '

`Let me finish, please, sir. Ages ago, back when you were requiring me to work out

my own personal commandments, you defined for me the parameters of prudent adultery.

I have conformed meticulously to your definition, for it turned out that my

husband's values in this matter match yours exactly.'

`I am pleased to know that... but, possibly, not pleased that you told me. Did your

husband specifically authorise you to tell me that?'

`Uh... No, sir. Not specifically.'

`Then you have told me a bedroom secret without the consent of the other person

affected by the secret. Materially affected, as it is his reputation at risk as well

as yours. Maureen; you have no right to place another person at risk without his

knowledge and consent and you know it.'

I kept quiet a long, cold moment. `Yes. I was wrong. Goodnight, sir.'

`Goodnight, my darling daughter. I love you.' .

When Brian returned, he told us that he would be going back to Plattsburg again in

1917 - if we were not already at war by then. `They want some of us to get there

early and turn instructor to help train the new ones with no military experience...

and if I will, I go from second to first lieutenant in a hurry. No promise in

writing. But that's the policy. Beau-père, can you be here next year? Why don't you

just stay on? No point in your opening up your flat again, and I'll bet that Mo's

cooking is better than the restaurant cooking at that Greek joint under your flat.

Isn't it? Careful how you answer.'

`It's somewhat better.'

`"Somewhat!" I'll burn your toast!'

We had a small war on our southern border in 1916; `General' Pancho Villa raided

across the border again and again, killing and burning. 'Black Jack' Pershing, of

Mindanao fame, who had been jumped by President Roosevelt from captain to

brigadier-general, was sent by President Wilson to find and seize Villa. Father had

known Pershing when they were both captains in the fight against the Moros; Father

thought well of him and was delighted with his meteoric rise (with more to come).

Father pacified a small war at home, for he did stay on with us, and largely took

Woodrow out of my hands, with full authority to exercise on Woodrow the low, the

middle, and the high justice without consulting either of his parents. Both Brian

and I were relieved.

Father took a shine to my sixth child, and that left me free to hold Woodrow as

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favourite in my heart, with no need or temptation to let it show. (My children were

all different, and I liked each one of them differently, just as with other

people... but I did my utter best to treat them all with even justice, without any

favouritism in act or manner. I tried. Truly I tried.)

At this great distance, more than a century, I think I at last know why my least

likeable son was my favourite: because he was most like my father, both in his good

points and his bad. My father was by no means a saint... but he was `my kind of a

scoundrel'... and my son Woodrow was almost his replica, sixty years younger, the

same faults, the same virtues - and the two most stubborn males I have ever met.

Perhaps an unbiased judge might think that we three were 'triplets' - aside from the

unimportant fact that we were father, daughter, and daughter's son... and that they

each were as emphatically male as I am female (I am so totally every minute a set of

female glands and organs, that I can cope with it only by carefully simulating the

sort of `lady' approved by Mrs Grundy and Queen Victoria).

But those two males were stubborn. Me? Me stubborn? How could you think such a

thing?

Father clobbered Woodrow as necessary (frequently), took over his education as he

had taken over mine, taught him to play chess at four, did not need to teach him to

read - like Nancy, Woodrow taught himself. It left me free to rear my other,

civilised, well-behaved children with no difficulty and with no need to raise my

voice. (Woodrow could have pushed me into being the sort of screaming scold I

despise.)

Father's 'adoption' of Woodrow left me more time with my lovely and loving and

lovable husband. All too soon it was time for him to leave again for Plattsburg.

Then I settled down for a truly dry spell. Nelson had been in town part of the time

the year before. But now Brian Smith Associates had moved its physical location to

Galena where Nelson was supervising a new mine that Brian had bought into, when his

survey showed its worth but its developer needed more capital. Anita Boles had

married and left us; our KC office was now just a post office box number, a

telephone number transferred back to our house, and a little clerical work I could

handle with ease, as my biggest boy, Brian junior, now twelve, picked up the mail

from the box on his bicycle each day on his way home from school.

So Nelson, my only utterly safe `relief husband' was too far away... and my father,

the puritanical shikepoke, was watching me closely... so Maureen resigned herself to

four, five, possibly six months in a nunnery.

Father often spent a couple of hours in the evening at a pool hall he called his

`chess club'. On a rainy night at the end of February he surprised me by bringing a

stranger home with him.

He thereby subjected me to the greatest emotional shock of my life.

I found myself offering my hand and greeting a young man who matched in every way

(even to his body odour, which I caught quite clearly - clean mate, in fresh rut) -

a man who was my father as my earliest memory recalled him.

While I smiled and made small talk, I said to myself, `Don't faint. Maureen, you

must not faint.'

For I had immediately gone into high readiness to receive a male. This male. This

male who looked like my father, thirty years younger. I forced myself not to

tremble, to keep my voice low, to treat him exactly like any other welcome guest

brought to my house by husband or father or child.

Father introduced him as Mr Theodore Bronson. I heard Father say that he had

promised Mr Bronson a cup of coffee, which gave me the respire I needed. I smiled

and said, `Yes indeed! For a cold and rainy night. Gentlemen, do be seated' - and

fled into the kitchen.

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The time I spent in the kitchen, slicing pound cake, dishing up mints, setting out

coffee service, cream and sugar, transferring coffee from the kitchen-range

coffee-pot into a silver `company' serving-pot - this busy-ness gave me time to pull

myself together, not expose my own rut and (I hoped) cover some of my body odour

simply by the odours of food and the fact that female clothing in those days was

all-encompassing. I hoped that Father would not notice what I had been sure of, that

Mr Bronson felt the same way about me.

I carried in the tray; Mr Bronson jumped up and helped me with it. We had coffee and

cake and small talk. I need not have worried about Father; he was busy with an idea

of his own. He too had seen the family resemblance... and had formed a theory: Mr

Bronson was a by-blow of his brother Edward, killed in a train wreck not long after

I was born: Father had us stand up, side by side, then look in the mirror over the

mantelpiece together.

Father trotted out this possible theory of Mr Bronson's 'orphan' origin. It was many

months before he admitted to me that he suspected that Mr Bronson was not my cousin

through my rakehell Uncle Edward, but my half-brother through Father himself.

The talk that night let me, with all propriety and right under my father's nose,

tell Mr Bronson that I looked forward to seeing him at church on Sunday and that my

husband expected to be home for my birthday and we would expect him for dinner...

since it was Mr Bronson's birthday, too!

He left soon after that. I bade Father goodnight and went up to my lonely room.

First I took a bath. I had bathed before supper but I needed another one - I reeked

of rut. I masturbated in the tub and my breasts stopped hurting. I dried down and

put on a nightgown and went to bed.

And got up and locked my bedroom door and took off my gown and got naked back into

bed, and masturbated again, violently, thinking about Mr Bronson, how he looked, the

way he smelled, the timbre of his voice.

I did it again and again, until I could sleep.

Chapter 12 - `Hang the Kaiser!'

I'm wondering whether Pixel will come back at all, so disastrous was his last visit.

I tried an experiment today. I called out, `Telephone!' just as I had heard Dr

Ridpath do. Sure enough, a hologram face appeared... of a police matron.

'Why are you asking for a telephone?'

`Why not?'

'You don't have telephone privileges.'

`Who says so? If that is true, shouldn't someone have told me? Look, I'll bet you

fifty octets that you're right and I'm wrong.',

`Huh? That's what I said.'

`So prove it. I won't pay until you prove it'

She looked puzzled and blinked out. We shall see.

Mr Bronson was at church on Sunday. After the services, at the huddle at the front

entrance where church members say nice things to the minister about his sermon (and

Dr Draper did preach a fine sermon if one simply suspended critical faculty and

treated it as art) - at the door I spoke to him.

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'Good morning, Mr Bronson.'

`Good morning, Mrs Smith. Miss Nancy. Fine weather for March, is it not?'

I agreed that ii was, and introduced him to the others of my tribe who were present,

Carol, Brian junior, and George. Marie, Woodrow, Richard, and Ethel were at home

with their grandfather - I do not think Father ever entered a church after he left

Thebes other than to get some friend or relative married or buried. Marie and

Woodrow had been at Sunday School but, were, in my opinion, too young for church.

We chatted inanities for a few moments, then he bowed and turned away and so did I.

Neither of us showed in any fashion that the meeting had any significance to either

of us. His need for me burned with a fierce flame, as did mine for him and we both

knew it and neither acknowledged it

Day after day we conducted our love affair wordlessly, never touching, not even a

lover's glance, right under my father's eyes. Father told me later that he had had

his suspicions - `smelled a rat' - at one point, but that both Mr Bronson and I had

behaved with such propriety that Father had had no excuse to clamp down on us.

`After all, my darling, I can't condemn a man for wanting you as long as he behaves

himself - we both know what you are - and I can't scold you for being what you are -

you can't help it - as long as you behave like a lady. Truth is, I was proud of both

of you, for behaving with such civilised restraint. It's not easy, I know.'

Through playing chess with my father and, shortly, with Woodrow as well, Mr Bronson

managed to see me, en passant, almost every day. He volunteered as assistant

Scoutmaster for the troop at our church... then drove Brian Junior and George home

after Scout meeting the next Friday night - which resulted in a date with Brian

junior for the following afternoon to teach him to drive. (Mr Bronson owned a luxury

model Ford automobile, a landaulet, always shining and beautiful.)

The following Saturday he took my five older children on a picnic; they were as

charmed by him as I was. Carol confided to me afterwards: `Mama, if I ever get

married, Mr Bronson is just the sort of man I want to marry.'

I did not tell her that I felt the same way.

The Saturday after that one Mr Bronson took Woodrow downtown to a Hippodrome Theatre

matinee to see the magician Thurston the Great (I would have been delighted to have

been invited along; stage magic fascinates me. But I didn't dare even hint with

Father watching me.) When Mr Bronson returned the child, asleep in his arms, I was

able to invite him inside as Father was with me, lending his sanction to the

meeting. Never once during that strange romance did Mr Bronson enter our house

without Father being there and then publicly present.

Once when Mr Bronson fetched Brian junior back from a driving lesson, I invited him

in for tea. He enquired about Father. Learning that Father was not home, Mr Bronson

discovered that he was already late for an appointment. Men are more timid than

women... at least in my experience.

Brian arrived home on Sunday 1 April, and on the same day Father left on a short

visit to St Louis - to see my mother I assume, but Father never discussed his

reasons. I could have wished that Father had stayed at home, so that Brian and I

could have taken a little journey to nowhere, while Father guarded the tepee and

Nancy did the cooking.

But I said nothing about this to anyone, as the children were as anxious to see

their father and visit with him as I was to get him alone and take him to bed.

Besides... Well, we no longer had an automobile. Before leaving for Plattsburg this

time Brian had sold El Reo Grande.

'Mo,' he had said, last year, leaving in April, it made sense to drive to

Plattsburg; I got lots of use out of the Reo there. But only a fool would attempt to

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drive from Kansas City to upstate New York in February. Last year in April I had to

be pulled out of the mud three times; had it been February I simply would not have

made it.

'Besides,' Briney had added, with his best Teddy Roosevelt grin, I'm going to buy us

a ten-passenger car. Or eleven. Shall we try for eleven?'

We tried for eleven but failed to ring the cash register that time. Briney went off

to Plattsburg by train, with a promise to me that when he got back,' he intended to

buy the biggest passenger car available - a seven-passenger, if that was the biggest

- and what did I think of a closed car this time? A Lexington seven-passenger sedan,

for example? Or a Marmon? Or a Pierce-Arrow? Think about it, dear one.

I gave it little thought as I knew that, when the time carne, Brian would make his

own decision. But I was glad to know that we were going to have a bigger motor car.

A five passenger car is a bit cramped for a family of ten. (Or eleven, when I

managed to catch.)

So, when Brian got home on 1 April 1917, we stayed home and did our lovemaking in

bed. After all, it isn't necessary to do it in the grass.

That night, when we were tired but not ready to go to sleep, I asked, `When must you

return to Plattsburg, my love?'

He was so long in answering that I added, 'Was that an improper question, Brian? It

has been so long since '98 that I am unused to the notion of questions that may not

be asked.'

'My dearest, you may ask any question. Some I may not be able to answer because the

answer is restricted but far more likely I won't be able to answer because a first

lieutenant isn't told very much. But this one I can answer. I don't think I'll be

going back to Plattsburg. I'm sufficiently sure of it that Ididn't leave anything

there, not even a toothbrush:

I waited.

'Don't you want to know why?'

'My husband, you will tell me if it suits you. Or when you can.'

'Maureen, you're too durned agreeable. Don't you ever have any female-type

nosiness?'

(Of course I have, dear man - but I get more out of you if I am not nosy!) 'I would

like to know.'

'Well... I don't know what the papers here have been saying but the so-called

"Zimmerman telegram" is authentic. There is not a chance that we can stay out of the

War more than another month. The question is: do we send more troops to the Mexican

border? Or do we send troops to Europe? Or both? Do we wait for Mexico to attack us,

or do we go ahead and declare war on Mexico? Or do we declare war first on the

Kaiser? If we do, do we dare turn our backs on Mexico?'

'Is it really that bad?'

'A lot depends on President Carranza. Yes, it's that bad; I already have my

mobilisation assignment. All it takes is a telegram and I'm on active duty and on my

way to my point of mobilisation... and it's not Plattsburg.' He reached out and

caressed me. `Now forget war and think about me, Mrs Mac Gillicuddy:

'Yes, Clarence.'

Two choruses of `Old Riley's Daughter' - later Brian said, `Mrs Mac, that was

acceptable. I think you've been practising.'

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I shook my head. `Nary a bit, my love; Father has watched me unceasingly - he thinks

I'm an immoral woman who sleeps with other men.'

'What a canard! You never let them sleep. Never. I'll tell him.'

'Don't bother; Father made up his mind about me before you and I ever met. How are

the Plattsburg pussies? Tasty? Affectionate?'

'Hepzibah, I hate to admit this but... Well, the fact is.. . I didn't get any. Not

any.'

`Why, Clarence!'

`Honey, girl, they worked my tail off. Field instruction and drills and lectures in

the daytime, six days a week - and surprise drills on Sundays. More lectures in the

evenings and always more book work than we could possibly handle. Stagger to bed

around midnight, reveille at six. Feel my ribs; I'm skinny. Hey! That's not a rib!'

`So it isn't; it's not a bone of any sort. Hubert, I'm going to keep you in bed

until we get you fatted up and stronger; your story has touched my heart.'

`It's a tragic ore, I know. But what's your excuse? Justin would have offered you a

little gentle exercise, I'm certain.'

`Dearest man, I did have Justin and Eleanor over for dinner, yes. But with a house

full of youngsters and Father a notorious night owl I didn't even get my bottom

patted. Nothing but a few gallant indecencies whispered into my horrified ear.'

'Your what? You should have gone over there.'

`But they live so far away.' It was a far piece even by automobile, an interminable

distance by streetcar. We had first met the Weatherals at our new church, the

Linwood Methodist, when we moved into our home on Benton Boulevard. But that same

year, after we got on friendly but not intimate terms with the Weatherals, they

moved far out south into the new J.C. Nichols subdivision, the Country Club

district, and there they switched to an Episcopalian church near their new Nome,

which put them clear out of our orbit.

Briney and I had discussed them - they both smelled good - but they had moved too

far away for much socialising, and they were older than we and clearly quite well to

do. All these factors left me a bit intimidated, so I had moved the Weatherals to

the inactive file.

Then Brian ran into them again when Justin tried to get accepted for Plattsburg;

Justin had given Brian as a reference, which flattered him. Justin was turned down

for officer candidate training - a damaged foot, an accident that had maimed him

before he learned to walk. He limped but it was hardly noticeable. Brian wrote a

letter, urging a waiver; it was not granted. But as a consequence Eleanor had

invited us to dinner in January, a week before Brian left for Plattsburg.

A fine big house and even more children than we had - Justin had incorporated into

the house design an elegant but expensive idea; Justin and Eleanor occupied not just

a master bedroom but the entire upper floor of ore wing, a master suite consisting

of a sitting-room (in addition to a formal parlour and a family sitting-room

downstairs), a huge bedroom with a pantry and wine safe in ore corner, a bath broken

into units; a tub, a shower, and two closets, ore of the latter having in addition

to its WC a fixture I had heard of but never seen before: a fountain bidet.

Eleanor helped me try out the latter and I was delighted! Just what Maureen, with

her give-away body odour, needed. I told her so, and told her why.

'I think your natural fragrance is delightful,' Eleanor told me seriously, 'and so

does Justin.'

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'Justin said that about me?'

Eleanor took my face between her hands and kissed me, softly and gently, her mouth

slack-not a tongue kiss but not totally dry. 'Justin said that. He said considerably

more than that. Dear, he feels enormous attraction to you' - I knew that - 'and so

do I. And so I do for your husband. Brian affects me all through. If by any chance

you two share our feelings... Justin and I are willing and eager to realise our

feelings in acts.'

'You mean a trade-off? All the way?'

'All the way! A fair exchange is no robbery.'

I didn't hesitate. 'Yes!'

'Oh, good! Do you want a chance to consult Brian?'

'Not necessary. I know. He wants to eat you, raw.' I took her face between my palms,

kissed her deeply. 'How do we go about this?'

'Whatever is easiest for you, Maureen little love. My sitting-room converts into a

second bedroom in only seconds, and it has its own little powder room. So it can be

either two couples, or all four of us together.'

'Briney and I don't hide from each other. Eleanor, I have found in the past that, if

I simply take my clothes off, it saves time and words.'

Her mouth twitched. 'I've found it so. Maureen, you astound me. I've known you ten

years, I think. Back when we still lived on South Benton and we all attended Linwood

Boulevard Methodist, Justin and I discussed you two as possible playmates I told

Justin that Brian had that look in his eye but I couldn't see any way to crack your

armour. The perfect lady, right out of Goday's Lady's Book. Since in order to be

safe this sort of family seduction has to be negotiated between wives, we simply

moved you to the Too-Bad list.'

I was unhooking and unbuttoning, while chuckling. 'Eleanor love, I broke my

maidenhead at fourteen and I've been in heat ever since. Brian knows it and

understands me, and loves me anyhow.'

'Oh, delightful! Sweetheart, I gave my cherry away at twelve to a man four times my

age.'

'Then it couldn't have been Justin.'

'Heavens, no!' She stepped out of her drawers; it left her in opera-length hose and

evening slippers. I'm ready.'

'So am I.' I was eyeing her and was sorry, Briney hadn't shaved me, as she was as

smooth as a grape - Briney was going to love her! Tall, statuesque, blonde.

A few minutes later Justin placed me on the Persian rug in front of the fire in

their upstairs sitting-room. Eleanor was beside me, with my husband. She turned her

head toward me and smiled and took my hand, as we each received the other's husband.

I've heard formal discussions at salons in Boondock, complete with Stimulator and

Interlocutor, debating the ideal number for polymorphous sensuality. There were some

who favoured trios, each of the four sorts of all four or any, and some who favoured

high numbers, and some who insisted that any odd number could produce maximum

pleasure but no even number. Me, I still think that a foursome of families, all

loving and lovable, cannot be, beaten. I'm not running down any other combination

and I like them all. I'm simply naming what I like best, year-in and year-out.

Later that night Brian telephoned Father and explained that the streets were getting

icy; would he mind being zookeeper for us tonight?

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Brian looked down at me. 'What was the far-away look in your eye?'

'I was thinking about your favourite girl -'

'You're my favourite girl:

'Favourite blonde girl. Eleanor.'

'Oh. Granted.'

'And your favourite oldest daughter.'

'Something ambivalent there. Positional grammar? Oldest favourite daughter.

Favourite oldest daughter. Yes, I guess they both mean Nancy. Continue.'

'News I couldn't put into a letter. Nancy did it.'

'Did what? If you mean she did it with that pimply kid, I seem to recall that you

concluded that a year ago. How many times can she stop being a virgin?'

'Briney, Nancy finally decided to tell me. She had a scare and that pimply kid

doesn't come here any more, because he wouldn't stop after a rubber broke. So she

told Mama. So I douched her and checked her calendar with her and she Game around,

just fine three days later, and she stopped being scared. But at last we were women

together and we talked. I gave her some hurry-up Father Ira instruction, including

the lecture that goes with the Forberg etchings - hey, that thing does have a bone

in it after all!'

'What do you expect? You're talking about Nancy's fancy; did you think I could stay

limp? While Nancy's pretty fancy is verboten to me, I can dream, can't I? If you can

dream about your father, I can dream about my daughter. Go ahead, hon; get to the

good parts.'

`Nasty man. Lecher. Brian, don't tempt Nancy unless you mean business or she will

rum and sink her fangs into you; she's in an unstable state.

'And now to the good parts. Brian, as we agreed, I told Nancy about the Howard

Foundation, and promised that you would talk to her about it, too... and I

telephoned Judge Sperling. He referred me to a lawyer here in town, Mr Arthur J.

Chapman. Do you know him?'

`I know who he is. Corporation lawyer, never goes into court. Very expensive.'

'And a trustee of the Howard Foundation:

`So I inferred from your remark. Interesting.'

`I called on him, identified myself, and he gave me Nancy's list. For this area, I

mean: Jackson and Clay Counties, and Johnson County in Cansas.'

`Good hunting?'

`I think so. On the list is Jonathan Sperling Weatheral, son of your favourite

blonde.'

'I'll be a brass-balled baboon!'

Later on that night Brian said, So Ira thinks this city slicker is his brother's

woods-colt?'

'Yes. You will think so, too, when you see him. Dear one, he and I look so much

alike that you would swear that we are brother and sister.'

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'And you have an acute case of flaming drawers about him.'

`That's a mild way of putting it. I'm sorry, dear.'

'What is there to be sorry about? If your interest in sex were so mild that you

never thought about any man but your poor, old, tired, worn out - Ouch!' - I had

pinched him -`husband, you wouldn't be half as good tail as you are. As it is, you

are quite lively, Mrs Finkelstein. I prefer you as you are, good points and bad.'

`Will you sign a certificate to that effect?'

`Certainly. You want it to show to your customers? Darling girl, I slipped the leash

on you years ago, as I knew then and know now that you would never do anything that

could risk the welfare of our children. You never have, you never will.'

'My record isn't all that good, dearest. What I did with the Reverend Doctor Ezekiel

was stupidly reckless. I blush whenever I think of it.'

`Zeke the Geek was your rite of passage, my love. It scared the hell out of you and

you'll never take a chance on a second-rater again. That's the acid test for adult

adultery, my true love: what sort of person you select with whom to share your

escapades. All other factors follow naturally from that choice. This Bronson who may

or may not be your cousin: would you be proud to have him here in bed with us

tonight? Or would it embarrass you? Would you be happy about it? How does this bloke

measure up?'

I thought about Brian's acid test and checked over Mr Bronson in my mind. `Brian, I

can't pass judgement. My head is spinning and I haven't any sense about him.'

`Want me to talk to Father Ira about him? Nobody can pull the wool over Ira's eyes.'

`I wish you would. Oh, don't suggest that I want to go to bed with Mr Bronson; it

would embarrass Father and he would say Mrrrph! and grunt and stalk out of the room.

Besides, he knows it. I can feel it.'

`I can understand that. Of course Ira is jealous of this city slicker, over you. So

I'll stay away from that aspect of the subject.'

`Jealous? Father? Over me? How could he be?'

'My love, your great sweetness makes up for your slight stupidness. Ira can be - is

- jealous over you for the same reason that I can be jealous over Nancy and her

little pink fancy. Because I can't have her. Because Ira wants you himself and can't

have you. Whereas I have no need to be jealous over you as I do have you and know

that your riches are an inexhaustible bonanza. That beautiful flower between your

sweet thighs is the original horn of plenty; I can share it endlessly with no

possibility of diminishing its wealth. But for Ira it's the unattainable, the

treasure that can never be reached.'

`But Father can have me any time!'

'Woops! Did you finally get past his guard?'

'No, damn it! He won't give.'

'Oh. Then the situation is unchanged; Ira won't touch you for the same reason I

won't touch Nancy - although I'm not dead sure I'm as noble as Ira. You had better

warn Nancy to stay covered up and downwind when dealing with her poor, old, frail

Pop.'

I'm damned if I'll warn her, Briney. You are the only male in the whole world I am

absolutely certain would not hurt our Nancy in any way. If she can get past your

guard, I'll cheer her on - I might learn something from her about how to cope with

my own chinchy, impossible-to-seduce father.'

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'Okay, you redheaded baggage - I'll sniff Nancy and jump you. That'll learn yuh!'

'T'm skeered. Want a giggle? Brian junior wanted to look. Nancy let him.'

'Be damned.'

'Yes. I kept my face straight; I neither laughed nor pretended to be shocked. B.

Junior told her that he had never had a chance to see just how girls are different

from boys -'

'What nonsense! All our kids have been naked in front of each other from time to

time; we brought them up that way.'

'But, dear, he really did have a point. A boy's differences hang right out where

they can be seen; a girl's girlishness is mostly inside and doesn't show unless she

lies down and makes it show. That is what Nancy did for him. Lay down, pulled up her

robe - she was just out of her bath - spread her thighs wide, pulled her lips apart

and showed him the baby bole. Probably winked at him with it. Probably enjoyed it

herself. I would have... but none of my brothers asked me to.'

'Wench, we haven't found anything yet that you don't enjoy.'

I thought about that. 'I think you're right, Brian. Some things hurt a little but

mostly I have a wonderfully good time. Even this frustration over Mr Bronson

pleasures me more than it hurts... since I can tell my beloved husband all about it

without causing him to stop loving me.'

'Do you want me to tell Ira to lay off? Ask him to give you the shut-eye chaperonage

that I would give you?'

'Uh, let's wait until you have sized up Mr Bronson. If you approve of him, I'll have

my drawers off in a jiffy. If you don't, I'll continue my best Vestal Virgin act,

which is what he has been getting. But, as I told you, my head is in a whirl and my

judgement is no good. I need your cool head.'

On Tuesday the Post and the Star each reported that President Wilson had asked the

Congress to declare that a state of war exists between the United States of America

and the German Empire. Wednesday we waited for the shout of `Extra!' in the street,

or for the telephone to ring, or both and neither happened. We required the children

to go to school although they did not want to, Brian Junior especially. Woodrow was

utterly unbearable; I had to refrain from switching him too often.

On Thursday Father returned home, in a state of tense excitement. He and Brian kept

their heads together, and I stayed with them, mostly, while delegating all that I

could. Woodrow demanded that his grandfather - or someone - play chess with him,

until Father turned him over his knee and walloped him, then make him stand in a

corner.

On Friday it happened. War. The extras were on our street just before noon, and my

husband was on his way almost at once, after telephoning a brother officer, a

Lieutenant Bozell, who picked him up and off they drove to Fort Leavenworth, their

M-Day assignment. Brian did not wait for his telegram.

Brian junior and George were home for lunch, waited until their father left - then

were late for school for the first time ever. Nancy and Carol came home from their

school - Central High School, just a few blocks away - just in time to kiss their

father goodbye. I did not ask if they were cutting classes or had school closed

early; it did not seem to matter.

Father exchanged salutes with Lieutenant Bozell and with Brian, then headed straight

for the streetcar line without coming back into the house. He said to me, 'You know

where I'm going, and why. I'll be back when you see me.'

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I agreed that I knew. Father had been increasingly restless ever since his request

for active duty had been turned down.

I turned everything over to Nancy and went back to bed... for, the second time, as I

had impressed Father as baby watcher earlier, so that Brian and I could go back to

bed after breakfast; we both guessed that this would be der Tag.

But this time I went to bed just to cry.

About three I got up and Nancy served me tea and milk and toast; I ate some of it.

While I was fiddling with it, Father returned home in the most towering rage I had

ever seen him in. He offered no explanation. Nancy told him that Mr Bronson had

called and had asked for him... and that brought it out of him in a flood.

I think `poltroon' was the mildest term that he used about Mr Bronson. `Pro-German

traitor' may have been the bitterest. He did not use profanity, just words of rage

and disappointment.

I had great trouble believing it. Mr Bronson a coward? Pro German? But Father was

detailed in his account and broken hearted in his response. In my own confused grief

- my beloved country, my beloved husband, my secret lover, all the same day - I had

to force myself to remember that Father was hit just as hard. His brother's boy - or

was Tbeodore Bronson his own son? Father had hinted at the possibility.

I went back to bed, cried some more, then lay there, dry eyed; with this triple ache

in my heart.

Father tapped on my door. 'Daughter?'

`Yes, Father?'

`Mr Bronson is on the telephone, asking for you.'

'I don't want to talk to him! Must I?'

'Certainly not. Is there anything you wish me to say to him?,

'Tell him... not to call me. Not to come here. Not to speak to any of my children...

now or ever.'

'I'll tell him. With a few words for myself, too. Maureen, his sheer gall amazes

me.'

About six Carol brought me a tray. I ate some of it. Then Justin and Eleanor came to

see me and I cried on my big sister and they consoled me. Later - I don't know the

time but it was after dark. Eight-thirty? Nine? I roused at some commotion

downstairs. Shortly my father came up, tapped on the door.

`Maureen? Mr Bronson is here.'

'What?'

`May I come in? I have something to show you.'

I didn't want to let Father in; I hadn't cleaned up and I was afraid Father would

notice. But... Mr Bronson here? Here? After what Father had said to him? 'Yes,

Father, come in.'

He showed me a piece of paper. I read it; it was a carbon copy of an Army enlistment

form... which stated that `Bronson, Theodore' was enlisted at the rank of Private in

the National Army of the United States.

`Father, is this some sort of bad joke?'

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`No. He's here. That's authentic. He did it.'

I got out of bed. `Father, will you start me a tub? I'll be down quickly.'

`Certainly.'

He went into my bath; I peeled off my gown, went in after him, thanked him. I didn't

realise that I was naked in front of him until he looked at me and looked away. 'Ask

Nancy to serve him something, please. Is Nancy still up?'

`Everyone is up. Get into that tub, dear; we'll wait for you.'

Fifteen minutes later I went downstairs. I suppose my eyes were red but I was

smiling and no longer stunk and I was dressed in Sunday best. I hurried to him and

offered my hand. `Mr Bronson! We are all so proud of you!'

I don't remember details of the next hour or two hours or whatever. I sat there in a

golden haze of bittersweet happiness. My country was at war, my husband was off to

war, but at last I knew the deeper meaning of `better death than dishonour' - I knew

now why Roman matrons said, 'With your shield or on it.' Those hours of believing

that my beloved Theodore was not what I had believed him to be but a coward who

would refuse to defend his country - those hours had been the longest, most hateful

hours of my life.

I had not really believed that there were such subhuman creatures. I had never known

one. Then to have it rum out simply to be a bad dream, the result of a

misunderstanding over words... I've read somewhere that pleasure is relief from

pain. Psychologists are a silly lot, mostly, but that night I enjoyed that sort of

ecstatic pleasure. Even my fires of libido were banked and, for the time, I did not

worry about Briney, so joyed was I that Theodore was indeed what a man to be loved

must be: a hero, a warrior.

My big girls did their best to stuff him full and Carol made him a sandwich and

wrapped it to take with him. Father was full of man-to-man advice, old soldier to

new recruit; my big boys were falling over each other to try to do things for him,

and even Woodrow was almost well-behaved. At last they all lined up to kiss him

goodbye, even Brian junior, who had given up kissing save for an occasional peck on

his mother's cheek bone.

They all went up to bed but Father... and it was my turn.

I have always been of such rugged health that winning testaments for perfect

attendance at Sunday School was never any trouble to me - so wasn't it nice that I

had two testaments when I needed them? I did not even need to think up a new

inscription; what I had written for my husband was right for any Lucasta to any

warrior off to the wars:

To Private Theodore Bronson

Be true to self and country.

Maureen J. Smith

April 6, 1917

I gave it to him, saw him read it, then I said, `Father?' He knew what I wanted, a

decent amount of privacy.

`No.' (Damn him! Did he really think that I would drag Theodore down on to the rug?

With the children awake and only a flight of stairs away?)

(Well, perhaps I would.) 'Then turn your back.'

I put my arms up and kissed Theodore, firmly -, but chastely... then knew that a

chaste kiss was not enough to say farewell to a warrior. I let my body grow soft and

my lips come open. My tongue met his and I promised him wordlessly that whatever I

had was his. 'Theodore... take care of yourself. Come back to me.'

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Chapter 13 - `Over There!'

My father, having been refused a return to active duty in the Army Medical Corps,

was then turned down again when he tried to enlist as an infantry private (he made

the mistake of showing his separation papers... which showed his 1852 date of

birth), and then tried to enlist in St Louis with a claimed date of birth of 1872

but was tripped up somehow - and finally did manage to enlist in the Seventh

Missouri, an infantry militia regiment formed to replace Kansas City's Third

Missouri, which was now the 110th Combat Engineers training at Camp Funston and

about to go `Over There'.

This new home guard, made up of the too young, too old, too many dependents, too

halt, or too lame, was not fussy about Father's age (sixty-five) in view of his

willingness to accept a dull job as supply sergeant and the fact that he needed no

training.

I greatly appreciated Father's decision to live with us for the duration. For the

first time in my life I had to be the head of the family, and it's really not

Maureen's style. I like to work hard and do my best while the key decisions are left

up to someone bigger, stronger, and older than I, and with a warm male odour to him.

Oh, I'll be a pioneer mother if I must. My great-great-grandmother Kitchin killed

three hostiles with her husband's musket after he was wounded -and Father did teach

me to shoot.

But I would rather be a womanly woman to a manly one.

Brian was emphatic that I must not let Father dominate me, that I must make the

decisions - that I was head of the family. `Use Ira to back you up - fine! But you

are boss.

Don't let him forget it, don't let our children forget it, and don't you forget it '

I sighed internally and said, 'Yes, sir.'

Brian junior did nobly when he suddenly found himself in his father's shoes - but

twelve is young for that job; it was well that his grandfather had agreed to stay

with us. Brian junior and his brother George kept on with their jobs, delivering the

Journal and lighting street lamps, and still brought home straight A's. When the

summer ended and the weather turned cold, I started getting up at 4.30 a.m. as they

did, and served them hot cocoa before they started out. They enjoyed it and it made

me feel better as I watched them start off to work before daylight. 1917-18 was a

bitter winter; they had to bundle up like Eskimos.

I wrote to Betty Lou every week, and also to Nelson. My beastly, lovable cousin

Nelson came home on the Monday following the declaration of War and told Betty Lou,

'Hon, I've found a wonderful way to avoid going into the Army.'

'How? Castration? Isn't that rather drastic?'

'Somewhat At least I think so. Guess again:

'I know! You're going to jail:

'Even better than jaill. I've joined the Marines.'

So Betty Lou was managing our mine. I had no doubt that she could do it; she had

been in on every detail from the day we acquired majority ownership. She was not a

mining engineer but neither was Nelson. The minority owner was our mining

superintendent - not a graduate engineer either but with over twenty-five years of

white metals experience.

It seemed to me that it would work. It would have to work. It was 'Root, hog, or

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die.'

During those war years people all over our beloved country were doing things they

had never done before - doing them well or doing them badly, but trying. Women who

had never driven even a team of horses were driving tractors, because their husbands

had gone to 'Hang the Kaiser!' Student nurses were supervising whole wards because

graduate nurses were in uniform. Ten-year-old boys such as my George were knitting

squares for blankets for British Tommies and buying Baby Bonds with money earned

from newspaper routes. There were dollar-a-year men, and four-minute speakers, and

Salvation Army lassies (loved by every serviceman), and volunteers for every sort of

special war work, from rolling bandages to collecting walnut shells and peach pits

for gas masks.

Meanwhile, what did Maureen do? Nothing much, I suppose. I cooked and kept house for

a family of ten, with much help from my four oldest and even some from my eight

year-old, Marie. I never missed a Red Cross bandage rolling. I saw to it that my

family observed all meatless, wheatless, sweetless day and other economies of scarce

foods decreed by Mr Herbert Hoover... while learning how to make candies and cookies

and cakes with sorghum and com syrup and honey (all unrationed) in place of sugar

(rationed) as Corporal Bronson's buddies appeared to be capable of eating a whole

bakeshop of such things.

Shortly Carol took over this attempt to fill hollow legs; she considered Corporal

Bronson 'her soldier'. We all wrote to him, in rotation - and he wrote back, to all

of us but especially to Father.

There arose a church-sponsored movement for families to 'adopt' lonely service men.

Carol wanted us to adopt Corporal Bronson... so we did, subject to Brian's approval,

which came by return mail.

I wrote to my husband every day - and would tear up a letter and start again if, on

rereading, I found in it bad news or a flavour of self-pity... which meant that I

tore up letters again and again and again until I learned how to write a proper

Lucasta letter, one to lift a warrior's morale, not drag him down.

That early in the War Brian was not far away, at Camp Funston, adjacent to

Manhattan, Kansas, about a hundred miles west of Kansas City. After three months of

not coming home at all Briney started coming home about once a month for short

weekends - Saturday afternoons to Sunday evenings - when and if he could arrange to

ride with another officer. It was a practical distance for a 44 hour pass (noon

Saturday to 8.= a.m. Monday) by automobile, but not for travel by train. In those

days trains were ordinarily much faster than automobiles, as there were so few paved

roads - none in Kansas that I can remember. There was a direct rail line, the Union

Pacific. But on all railroads troop trains had first priority, freight trains

heading east had second priority, other freight trains had third priority - and

passenger trains could use the rails only when nobody else wanted them. Wartime

precedence - Mr McAdoo was strict about it. So Brian's trips home were infrequent as

they depended on duty schedules of brother officers with automobiles.

I sometimes wondered whether or not Brian regretted having sold El Reo Grande. But I

did not say anything and neither did he. Count your blessings, Maureen! This is

wartime and your husband is a soldier. Be glad he is able to come home occasionally

and that he is not (yet) being shot at.

The carnage in Europe got worse and worse. In March 1917 the Tsar was overthrown. In

November 1917 the Communist Bolsheviki displaced President Kerensky's government,

and the Communists immediately surrendered to the Germans.

From then on we were in for it. The German veterans from the Eastern Front were

moving by whole divisions to the Western Front at a time when we had landed only a

few of our troops in France. The Allies were in bad trouble.

I did not know it. Certainly my children did not. I suspect that they reckoned their

father was equal to at least to German divisions.

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In May 1918 I was able to tell my husband that we had 'rung the cash register' on

his last weekend at home; I was two weeks overdue. Yes, I know that with many women

this is not a sure sign - but it is with Maureen. I felt so euphoric about it that I

avoided reading the newspapers and just enjoyed being me.

Brian went into Manhattan and telephoned me from there, for privacy. `Is this

Myrtle, the Fertile Turtle?'

I answered, not so loud, Claude; you'll wake my husband. No, I won't be fertile

again for another eight months.'

'Congratulations! I'll plan on coming home for Christmas; you won't need me sooner

than that'

'Now you listen to me, Roscoe; I'm not taking the veil, I'm merely having a baby.

And I do have other offers.'

'From Sergeant Bronson, perhaps?'

I caught my breath and did not answer. Presently Brian said, 'What's the matter,

love? Children where they can overhear you?'

'No, sir. I've taken the phone into our bedroom and there is no one else upstairs.

Beloved, that man is as stubborn as my father. I have invited him here, Father has

invited him here, and Carol invites him at least once a week. He thanks us... and

then says that he doesn't know when he'll be granted any leave. He's admitted that

he is off duty alternate weekends but he says that the actual time on pass is not

enough to go that far from camp.'

`That's almost true. Since he doesn't have a car. Since he left his car with Ira. Or

with Brian Junior.'

`Pish and tosh. The Weston boy is home every other weekend and he's only a private.

I think I'm a woman scorned.

`Nick Weston picks up his son in Junction City and you know why. But don't fret,

Mabel; the money's on the table. I saw Carol's favourite soldier just today.'

I reswallowed my heart. `Yes, Briney?'

`I find that I agree with Carol. And with mon beau-père. I already knew that Bronson

is as fine a sergeant instructor as we have; I've checked his efficiency marks each

week. As for Sergeant Bronson himself, he puts me in mind of Ira. As Ira must have

looked at that age.'

'Sergeant Bronson and I look like twins.'

'So you do but on you it looks better.'

'Oh, fiddle! You have always said that I look my best with a pillow over my face.'

'I say that to keep you from becoming too conceited, beautiful. You are gorgeous and

everybody knows it, and you look like Sergeant Bronson in spite of it. But he is

most like Ira in his personality and in his gung-ho attitude. I fully understand

your wish to trip him and beat him to the rug. If you still feel that way. Do you?'

I took a deep breath and sighed it out. 'I do, sir. If our daughter Carol doesn't

crowd me out and beat me to it.'

'No, no! By seniority, please; this is wartime. Make her wait her rum.'

'Don't tell Carol it's okay unless you mean it, dear man because she means it.'

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'Well, somebody's going to do it to Carol... and I think a lot better of Bronson

than I do of that pimply young snot who broke in our Nancy. Don't you?'

'Oh, heavens, yes! But the matter is academic; I have given up all hope of getting

Sergeant Bronson to enter this house. Until the War is over, at least.'

'I told you not to fret. A little bird whispered in my ear that Bronson will soon

receive a midweek pass.'

'Oh, Brian!' (I knew what a midweek pass meant: orders overseas.)

'Ira was right; Bronson is eager to go Over There, so I put him on the list, a

special requisition from Pershing's staff for sergeant instructors. Another little

bird let me know that my own request was being acted on favourably. So I expect to

be home about the same time. But - Listen closely. I think I can arrange it so that

you will have a twenty-four-hour clear shot at him. Can you bring him down in that

length of time'?'

'Oh, goodness, Briney!'

`Can-you, or can't you? I've known you to manage it in an hour with just a horse and

buggy to work with; today you have at your disposal a guest bedroom with its own

bath. What does it take? Cleopatra's barge?'

'Brian, Father supplied that horse and buggy knowing what was up and actively

co-operating. But this time he considers it his bounden duty to stand over me with a

shotgun. Except that it is a loaded thirty-eight and he would not hesitate to use

it.'

'Can't have that; General Pershing wouldn't like it good sergeant instructors are

scarce. So I had better brief Ira on the operation plan before I hang up which I

must soon; I am running out of nickels and dimes. Is Ira there?'

'I'll get him.'

Sergeant Theodore did get that midweek pass, from just after Retreat on Monday to

eight o'clock muster Thursday morning - and at last he did come to Kansas City. At

that time the picture shows always included a comedy - John Bunty, Fatty Arbuckle,

Charlie Chaplin, or the Keystone Kops. That week I managed to outdo both Fatty

Arbuckle and the Keystone Kops in always stepping into a bucket or falling over my

feet.

To begin with, that difficult man, Sergeant Theodore, did not show up at our house

until late Tuesday afternoon... when Brian had told me that Sergeant Theodore's pass

should cause him to arrive at our house by mid-morning at the latest.

'Where have you been? What took you so long?' No, I did not say anything of the

sort. I may have felt like saying it... but I had learned the relative merits of

honey and vinegar back when I was still a virgin - a long time ago indeed. Instead I

took his hand, kissed his cheek, and said in my warmest voice, 'Sergeant Theodore...

it is so good to have you home.'

I played Cornelia and her jewels before and during dinner - held my peace and smiled

while all my children vied for his attention... including Father who wanted to talk

soldier talk with him. At the end of dinner Father suggested (by prearrangement with

me) that Staff Sergeant Bronson take me for a spin, and then squelched attempts by

the younger children to come along especially Woodrow who wanted both to play chess

and to be taken to Electric Park.

So at last Sergeant Theodore and I headed south just at sundown. In 1918 there was

very little south ff 39th Street on the east side of Kansas City even though the

city line had been pushed clear south to 77th Street in order to include Swope

Street in order to include Swope Park. Swope Park had many popular lovers' lanes but

I wanted a place much more private - and knew some, as Briney and I searched all the

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back roads one time and another, looking for what Briney called 'poontang pastures',

grassy places private enough to evade the buzzard eye of Mrs Grundy.

All along the east side of Kansas City runs the Blue River.

In 1918 it held many delightful spots - as well as thick bushes, deep mud, chiggers,

mosquitoes, and poison ivy; one had to know where to go. If you went south but not

too far south, and knew where to cross the tracks of the St Looie and Frisco, you

could work your way into a wooded, grassy dell as nice as anything in Swope Park but

utterly private, as it was surrounded by river and railroad embankment save for one

narrow lane leading into it.

I wanted that particular spot; I was sentimental about it. When in 1912 we had

become footloose through Briney's having purchased El Reo Grande, that was the first

place Briney had taken me for outdoor loving. That delightful picnic (I had fetched

along a lunch) was the occasion on which I became pregnant with Woodrow.

I wanted to receive my new love into me first on that very spot - and then tell my

husband about it in every detail, giggling with him over it while we made love.

Briney did so enjoy my trips over the fence and always wanted to hear about them

before, during, or after our own lovemaking, or all three, as a sauce to encourage

us in more and heartier lovemaking.

Brian always told me about his own adventures, but what he liked best was to hear

about mine.

So I took Sergeant Theodore to the spot marked X.

Time was short; I had promised Father that I would stay out, at most, only long

enough to tumble him, then wait another half or three-quarters of an hour for that

wonderful, relaxed second go at it - cal it ten-thirty or eleven. So I should be

home about the time you get back from the Armoury, Father.'

Father agreed that my plans were reasonable... including our need for a second

engagement if the first one went well.

'Very well, Daughter. lf you have to be later, please telephone so that we won't

worry. And... Maureen.'

`Yes, Father?'

`Enjoy it, darling.'

`Oh, mon cher papa, tu es aimable! Je t'adore!'

'Go out there and adore Sergeant Ted. You will probably be his last piece for a long

time... so make it a good one! Love you, best of daughters.'

My usual method of letting myself be seduced is to decide ahead of time, create or

help create the opportunity, then cooperate with whatever advances the nominal

seducer makes. (Contrariwise, if I have decided against it, I simply see to it that

no opportunity arises.) That night I did not have time for the ladylike pianissimo

protocol. i had just this one chance and only two hours to make it work - and no

second chance; Theodore was going overseas. A warrior's farewell had to be now.

So Maureen was not ladylike. As soon as we turned off Benton Boulevard and the

gathering dusk had given us some privacy, I asked him to put his arm around me. When

he did so, I reached up, took his hand and placed it on my right breast. Most men

understand that.

Theodore understood it. He caught his breath. I said, `We haven't time to be shy,

dear Theodore. Don't be afraid to touch me.'

He cupped my breast. 'I love you, Maureen!'

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I answered soberly, `We have loved each other since the night we met. We simply

could not say so.' I raised his hand, then slid it down the full neck of my dress,

felt scalding excitement as his hand touched my breast.

He answered huskily, `Yes. I didn't dare tell you.'

`You would never have told me, Theodore. So I had to be bold and let you know that I

feel just as you do. Our turn is just ahead.'

`I think I remember it from bringing your children out here. I'll need both hands to

drive that lane'

So I'll let you have your hand back - temporarily. As soon as we are in there and

you have stopped the car, I want both your hands on me and all your attention.'

'Yes!'

He drove in, turned his car around and headed out, turned off his lights and stopped

his engine, set his hand brake and turned to me. He took me in his arms and we

kissed, a fully shared kiss, with our tongues exploring and caressing and talking

wordlessly. I was in Heaven. I still think that a totally unrestrained kiss is more

intimate than coupling; a woman should never kiss that way unless she intends to

couple at once in whatever way be wants her.

Without words I said this to Theodore. As soon as our tongues met I pulled up my

skirt, took his hand and put it between my thighs. He still hesitated, so I moved

his hand further up.

No more hesitation - All Theodore needed was to be certain that I knew what I wanted

and that his best attentions were welcome. He explored me gently, then slipped a

finger inside. I let it enter, then squeezed it as hard as I could - and

congratulated myself on never having skipped my exercises even a day since Ethel was

born, two years earlier. I love to surprise a man with the strength of my vaginal

sphincter. My passage is so baby-stretched that, if I did not work endlessly to

overcome it, I would be `big as a barn door and loose as a goose' - so says my

father, whose advice got me started on this routine years ago.

We were now past all shyness, any turning back. But I had something I had to tell

him. I got my tongue back and took my mouth a half-inch from his, chuckled against

his mouth.

`Surprised to find that I am not wearing bloomers? I took them off when I went

upstairs... for I can't tell my gallant warrior a proper farewell with drawers in

the way. Do hold back, beloved soldier mine; you can't harm me, I'm expecting.'

'What did you say?'

`Must I always be the bold one? I am pregnant, Theodore; no possible doubt, I am

seven weeks gone. So don't use a rubber on me -'

'I can't, I don't have one.'

'So? Then isn't it nice that you don't need one? But didn't you expect to have me?'

'No. I did not. Not at all.'

'But you're going to have me. You can hardly get out of it now. You'll have me bare,

darling, no rubber. Would you like me to be bare all over? I will be if you ask me

to. I'm not afraid.'

He stopped to kiss me fiercely. 'Maureen, I don't think you are ever afraid of

anything.'

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`Oh, yes, I am. I would not dare be alone on 12th Street at night. But afraid of sex

and loving? No, not anything I can think of. So help yourself, my darling. If I know

how, I'll do it. If I don't, show me and I'll try.' (Theodore, stop talking and take

me!)

'This seat is narrow.'

'I hear that the young people take out the back seat and put it on the ground. There

is a robe in the back seat, too.'

'Um, yes.'

We got out of his car - and ran into the most confounded Keystone Kops contretemps I

have ever experienced.

Woodrow.

My favourite, Woodrow, whom I could happily have throttled at that, moment, was in

the back seat, and woke up as I opened the door. Well, I think be woke up; he may

have been awake and listening the whole time - memorising any words he did not know,

for later investigation - and blackmail.

Oh, that boy! Would the world let him grow up? I wondered.

But what I said, in my happiest voice, was: `Woodrow, you're a scamp! Sergeant

Theodore! See who was sleeping in the back seat' I reached behind me and tried to

button Tbeodore's breeches.

'Sergeant Ted promised to take me to Electric Park!'

So we went to Electric Park, thoroughly chaperoned.

I wonder if other women have as much trouble getting themselves 'ruined' as I do?

About twenty hours later I was in my own bed, my husband Captain Brian Smith on my

right, my lover Captain Lazarus Long on my left. Each had an arm under my neck, each

was using his free hand to caress me.

I was saying, 'Brian beloved, when Lazarus completed the ritual by answering, "But

not 'While the Evil Days Come Not'," I almost fainted. When he said that he was

descended from me - from us, you and me - from all three of us, you and me and

Woodrow - I was convinced that I was losing my mind. Or had lost it.'

Briney tickled my right nipple. 'Don't worry about it, Swivel Hips; on a woman it

hardly shows. As long as she can still cook. Hey! Stop that.'

I eased up on him. 'Sissy. I didn't do that very hard.'

'I'm in a weakened condition. Captain Long, as I understand it, you decided to

reveal yourself - against your own best interests I believe - in order to tell me

that I won't get hurt in this war.'

`No, Captain, not that at all.'

Briney sounded puzzled. `I must confess that I don't understand.'

'I revealed that I am a Howard from the future in order to reassure Mrs Smith. She's

been worrying herself sick that you might not come back. So I told her that I was

certain that you did come back. Since you are one of my direct ancestors, I studied

your biographical résumé before I left Boondock. So I knew.'

'Well... I appreciate your motives; Maureen is my treasure. But it is reassuring to

me, too.'

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'Excuse me, Captain Smith. I did not say that you won't get hurt in this war.'

`Eh? But you just did. So I thought.'

`No, sir. I said that you will come back. You will. But I did not say that you won't

get hurt. The Archives in Boondock are silent on that point. You may lose an arm. Or

a leg. Or your eyes. Or even become a basket case; I don't know. I'm sure of just

this much: you will live through it and won't lose your testicles and penis, because

the Archives show that you two have several more children. Ones you will sire after

you come back from France. You see, Captain, the Howard Family Archives are mostly

genealogies, with few details otherwise.'

`Captain Long -'

'Better call me "Bronson", sir. Here I'm a staff sergeant; my ship is light-years

away and far in the future.'

`Then knock off calling me "Captain" for Pete's sake. I'm Brian; you're Lazarus.'

'Or Ted. Your children call me Uncle Ted or Sergeant Ted. Calling me Lazarus could

involve all sorts of explanations.'

I said, 'Theodore, Father knows you are Lazarus and so do Nancy and Jonathan. And so

will Carol when you take her to bed. You let me tell Nancy when you took her to bed;

my big girls are too close to each other to keep such secrets from each other. So it

seems to me.'

`Maureen, I said that you could tell anyone because you would not be believed.

Nevertheless each case involves long explanations. But why are you assuming that I

am going to take Carol to bed? I did not say that I would. And I have not asked for

that privilege.'

I turned my face to the right. `Briney, do you hear this man? Do you see now why it

has taken me more than a year to trip him? He didn't offer the slightest objection

to screwing Nancy -'

Tm not surprised; neither did I.' My husband leered and licked his lips. `Nancy is

special. I told you.'

'You're an old goat, my beloved. I don't believe you've turned down anything female

since you were nine -'

`Eight.'

`You're boasting. And untruthful. And Theodore is just as bad. He let me think that

he was willing to satisfy Carols greatest ambition once I cleared it with

headquarters, meaning you... and I did, and then I told Carol not to despair, that

Mama was working on it and it looked hopeful; quite hopeful. And now he acts as if

he had never heard of the idea.'

`But, Maureen, I expected Brian to object. And he has:

'Now wait a moment, Lazarus. I did not object. Carol is physically a grown woman and

- I have today learned - no longer a virgin... and not surprising; she's a year

older than her mother was -'

`More nearly two,' I put in.

`Shut up, you; I'm pimping for our daughter. All I did was lay down some reasonable

rules for Carol's protection. Lazarus, you did agree that they were reasonable?'

`Oh, certainly, Captain. I simply refused to accept them. My privilege. Just as it

is your privilege to make them. I have accepted that you do not want me to copulate

with your daughter Carol other than by your rules. That settles it; I won't touch

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her.'

`Very well, sir!'

`Gentlemen, gentlemen!' I almost let my voice rise. `You both sound like Woodrow.

What are these rules?'

Theodore said nothing.

Brian answered in a pained voice, 'First, I asked him to use a rubber. Didn't matter

with you or Nancy; both of you broads are knocked up. He refused. I then -'

`Are you surprised, my darling? I've often heard you refer to it as "washing your

feet with your socks on".'

`Yes, but Carol does not need a baby this season. Certainly not a little bastard

before she's considered her Howard options. But, Mo, I did concede that Ted is

himself a Howard. I simply said that, all right, if Carol got pregnant from giving

him a soldier's farewell, I wanted him to promise that he would come back when the

war is over and marry Carol and take her and her baby to - What's that you call your

planet, Captain? Boondock?'

'Boondock is a city; my home is in its suburbs. The planet is Tellus Tertius, Earth

Number Three.'

I sighed. `Theodore, why wouldn't you agree to that? You tell us that you have four

wives and three co-husbands. Why wouldn't you be willing to marry our Carol? She is

a good cook, and she doesn't eat all that much. And she's very sweet tempered and

loving.' I was thinking how dearly I would like to go to Boondock... and marry

Tamara. Not that I ever would; I had Briney and our babies to take care of. But even

an old woman can dream.

Theodore said slowly, `I abide by my own roles, for my own reasons. If Captain Smith

does not trust me with respect to my behaviour toward other people -'

`Not "other people", Captain! A particular sixteen-yearold girl named Carol. I am

responsible for her welfare.'

`So you are. I repeat, "other people", be they sixteen-yearold girls or whosoever.

You don't trust me without promises; I don't give promises. That ends it and I am

sorry the matter ever came up. I did not bring it up. Captain, I did not come here

to bed your ladies; I came to say goodbye and thank you to a whole family all of

whom had been most generous and hospitable to me. I have not intended to disturb

your household. I'm sorry, sir.'

`Ted, don't be so damned stiff-necked. You sound just like my father-in-law when he

gets his back up. You have not disturbed my household. You have pleased my wife

enormously and for that I thank you. And I know that you were trapped by her; she

told me months ago what she intended to do to you if she ever got you alone. This

discussion is just over Carol, who has no claim on you. If you don't want her under

what I see as minimum protection for her welfare, then let her stick to boys her own

age. As she should.'

`Agreed, sir.'

`Damn it; knock off the sirs; you're in bed with my wife. And me.'

`Oh, dear!'

`Mo, it's the only sensible solution.'

`Men! Always doing what you call "sensible" and always so wrong-headed and stubborn!

Briney, don't you realise that Carol doesn't give a hoot about promises? She just

wants to spread her legs and close her eyes and pope that she catches. If she

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doesn't catch, a month from now she's going to cry her eyes out. If she does catch,

well, I trust Theodore and so does Carol.'

Briney said, `Oh, for God's sake, Mo! Ted, ordinarily she is quite easy to live

with.'

Theodore said, `Maureen, you said, "A month from now she's going to cry her eyes

out." Do you know her calendar?'

`Why, yes. Well, maybe. Let me think.' My girls kept their own calendars... but old

snoopy Mama kept her eyes open, just in case. `Today is Wednesday. If I recall

correctly, Carol is doe again three weeks from tomorrow. Why?'

'Do you remember the thumb rule I gave you to ensure, uh, "ringing the cash

register" you called it.'

`Yes, indeed. You said to count fourteen days from onset of menses, then hit that

day. And the day before and the day after, if possible.'

`Yes, that is how to get pregnant, a thumb role. But it works the other way, too.

How not to get pregnant. If a woman is regular. If she is not abnormal in some way.

Is Carol regular?'

'Like a pendulum. Twenty-eight days.'

`Brian, stipulating that Maureen's recollection of Carol's calendar is accurate -'

`I would bet on it. Mo hasn't made a mistake in arithmetic since she found out about

mo and two.'

` - if so, Carol can't get pregnant this week... and I'll be on the high seas the

next time she is fertile. But this week a whole platoon of Marines could not knock

her up.'

Briney looked thoughtful. `I want to talk to Ira. If he agrees with you, I'll drop

all objections.'

`No.'

`What do you mean "No"? No rules. Relax.'

'No, sir. You don't trust and I don't promise. The situation is unchanged.'

I was ready to burst into tears from sheer exasperation. Men's minds do not work the

way ours do and we will never understand them. Yet we can't get along without them.

I was saved from making a spectacle of myself by a knock on the door. Nancy.

`May I come in?'

`Come in, Nance!' Briney called out.

`Come in, dear,' I echoed.

She came in and I thought how lovely she looked. She was freshly shaved that

morning, in preparation for a swap that Nancy and Jonathan had asked for - Jonathan

into my bed, Nancy into, Theodore's. Theodore had hesitated - afraid of hurting my

feelings - but I had insisted, knowing what a treat our Nancy would be for Theodore

(and Theodore for Nancy!)

(And Jonathan for Maureen; I was flattered enormously that Jonathan had suggested

it.)

Father had taken the rest of my zoo to the Al G. Barnes Circus, playing in

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Independence - all but Ethel, too young for the circus, too young to notice; I had

her crib in my bathroom, safe and in earshot.

That playful swap had gore beautifully and made me think even more highly of my

prospective son-in-law. About three o'clock we four, Nancy and Theodore, Jonathan

and I, had gathered in 'Smith Field', my big bed, mostly to chat. As Briney often

said, 'You can't do it all the time, but there is no limit to how much you can talk

about it.'

We four were still lounging in Smith Field, talking and necking, when Brian

telephoned - he had just arrived in town, on leave. I told him to hurry home and

cued him in family code as to what he could expect. Nancy understood the coded

message and looked wide-eyed but said nothing.

Thirty-odd minutes later she closed her eyes and opened her thighs and for the first

time received her father - then opened her eyes and looked at Jonathan and me, and

grinned. I grinned back at her; Jonathan was too busy to look.

What this world needs is more loving, sweaty and friendly and unashamed.

Then the children had gore downstairs; Nancy had sensed that I wanted time alone

with my two men. She took the telephone with her, long cord and all. Now she stood

by the bed and smiled at us.

`Did you hear the phone ring? It was Grandpa. He said to tell you that the zoo wagon

will arrive - that's your car, Ted-Lazarus darling - will arrive at exactly

six-oh-five p. . So Jonathan is bathing and I warned him not to use all the hot

water. He left.his clothes up here; I'll take them down to him, then I'll bathe and

dress up here. Ted-Lazarus dear, where are your clothes?'

'In the sewing-room. I'll be right down.'

`Cancel that,' Brian said. `Nance, fetch Ted's clothes when you come up, that's my

sweet girl. Ted, in this family we spit in their eyes and tell'em to go to hell. You

don't need to dress until we do, after the doorbell rings: A husband is all the

chaperone a wife needs, and I don't explain to my children why we choose to have a

guest upstairs. As for mon beau père, he knows the score and is our shut-eye sentry.

If Carol guesses, she won't talk. Thanks, Nancy.'

'Pas de quoi, mon cher père. Papa! Is it true that Ted doesn't have to go back

tonight?'

'Ted goes back with me, Sunday night. Special duty, assigned to me - and I sold him,

body and soul, to your mother, who may kill him by then -'

`Oh, no!' Both my daughter and I said it.

`Or not, but shell try. Now get along, darling, and ser that door to latch as you

close it.'

Nancy did so; my husband turned to me. `Flame Top, it is now five-forty. Can you

figure out a way to entertain Ted and me for the next twenty-five minutes?'

I took a deep breath. I'll try.'

Chapter 14 - Black Tuesday

World-as-Myth... Much as I love Hilda, much as I love Jubal and respect his

analytical genius, World-as-Myth doesn't explain anything.

As Dr Will Durant would put it, it is an insufficient hypothesis. I studied

philosophy under Dr Durant in Kansas City in 1921 and '22, not long after he left

the Catholic Church - and turned agnostic, socialist, and benedict, all through

sniffing a fourteen-year-old girl half his age.

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Dr Durant must have been a disappointment to Mrs Grundy - he married his jailbait

sweetheart and stayed married to her till his death in his nineties, with never a

breath of scandal. For Mrs Grundy it must have been a case of `Some days it is

hardly worth while to listen at keyholes.'

The Church's loss was the World's gain. A horny young teacher's ability to keep his

hands off a pretty, smart, and nubile student gave several universes a great teacher

in history and philosophy... and gave Maureen her introduction to metaphysics - my

greatest intellectual adventure since Father introduced me to Professor Thomas Henry

Huxley.

Professor Huxley introduced me to the fact that theology is a study with no answers

because it has no subject matter.

No subject matter? That's right; no subject matter whatever - just coloured water

with artificial sweetening. `Theo-' = `God' and `-logy' = word(s), i.e., any word

ending in `-ology' means `talk about' or 'discussion of' or 'words concerning' or

`study of' a subject named in the first part of the word, whether it is 'hippology',

or 'astrology', or `proctology', or `eschatology', or `scatology', or something

else. But to discuss any subject, it is first necessary to agree on what it is you

are discussing. 'Hippology' presents no problem; everybody has seen a horse.

'Proctology' - everybody has seen an arsehole... or, if you have been so carefully

brought up that you've never seen one, go down to your city hall; you will find the

place full of them. But the subject tagged by the spell-symbol `theology' is a horse

of another colour.

`God', or `god', or 'gods' - have you ever seen 'God'? If so, where and when, how

tall was She and what did She weigh? What was Her skin colour? Did She have a belly

button and, if so, why? Did She have breasts? For what purpose? How about organs of

reproduction and of excretion - did She or didn't She?

(If you think I am making fun of the idea of a God fashioned in Man's image or vice

versa, you have much to on.)

I will agree that the notion of an anthropomorphic God went out of fashion some time

ago with most professional godsmen... but that doesn't get us any nearer to defining

the English spell-symbol `God'. Let's consult fundamentalist preachers... because

Episcopalians won't even let God into His sanctuary unless He shines His shoes and

trims that awful beard... and Unitarians won't let Him in at all.

So let's listen to fundamentalists: `God is the Creator. He Created the World. The

existence of the World proves that it was created; therefore there is a Creator.

That Creator we call "God". Let us all bow down and worship Him, for He is almighty

and His works proclaim His might.'

Will someone please page Dr S. I. Hayakawa? Or, if he is busy, any student who

received a B-plus or better in Logic 101 ? I'm looking for someone able to discuss

the fallacy of circular reasoning and also the concatenative process by which

abstract words can be logically defined by building on concrete words. What is a

`concrete' word? It is a spell-symbol used to tag something you can point to and

thereby agree on, e.g. `cat', 'sailboat', `ice-skating' - agree with such certainty

that when you say 'sailboat' there is no chance whatever that I will think you mean

a furry quadruped with retractile claws.

With the spell-symbol `God' there is no way to achieve such agreement because there

is nothing to point to. Circular reasoning can't get you out of this dilemma.

Pointing to something (the physical world) and asserting that it has to have a

Creator and this Creator necessarily has such-and-such attributes proves nothing

save that you have made certain assertions without proof. You Nave pointed at a

physical thing, the physical world; you have asserted that this physical thing has

to have a `Creator'. (Who told you that? What's His mailing address? Who told Him?)

But to assert that something physical was created out of nothing - not even empty

space - by a Thingamajig you can't point to is not to make a philosophical statement

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or any sort of statement, it is mere noise, amphigory, sound and fury signifying

nothing

Jesuits take fourteen years to learn to talk that sort of nonsense. Southern

fundamentalist preachers learn to talk it in much shorter time. Either way, it's

nonsense.

Pardon me. Attempts to define `God' cause one to break out in hives.

Unlike theology, `metaphysics' does have a subject, the physical world, the world

that you can feel, taste, and see, the world of potholes and beautiful men and

railroad tickets and barking dogs and wars and marshmallow sundaes. But, like

theology, metaphysics has no answers. Just questions.

But what lovely questions!

Was this world created? If so, when and by whom and why?

How is consciousness (`Me-ness') hooked to the physical world?

What happens to this `Me-ness' when this body I am wearing stops, dies, decays, and

the worms eat it?

Why am I here, where did I come from, where am I going?

Why are you here? Are you here? Are you anywhere? Am I all alone?

(And many more.)

Metaphysics has polysyllabic words for all of these ideas but you don't have to use

them; Anglo-Saxon monosyllables do just as well for questions that have no answers.

Persons who claim to have answers to these questions invariably are fakers after

your money. No exceptions. If you point out their fakery, if you dare to say aloud

that the Emperor has no clothes, they will lynch you if possible, always from the

highest of motives.

That's the trouble I'm in now. I made the mistake of flapping my loose lower jaw

before learning the power structure here... so now I am about to be hanged (I hope

it is as gentle as hanging!) for the capital crime of sacrilege.

I should know better. I didn't think anyone would mind (in San Francisco) when I

pointed out that the available evidence tended to indicate that Jesus was gay.

But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to

get out of town.

(I do wish Pixel would come back.)

On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore

white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits,

while the brides mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities

that week and the groom's mother wore a quiet smile and a faraway look in her eyes

from similar (but not identical) private activities.

I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To

their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress

dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect

lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.

Let's go back two days.

On Wednesday my zoo got home from the circus at 6.05 p.m.; we had a picnic dinner in

our back yard at 6.30, the exact timing being possible through Carol's having

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prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger

ones played croquet while we elders - Brian, Father, Theodore, and I - sat in the

garden glider swing and talked.

Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he

wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.

But I must note first that I had gone to Father's room the night before (Tuesday)

after the house was quiet, pledging him a King's X, then told him about a strange

story Sergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned

visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a

Howard from the future.

Despite my promise of King's X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we

invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father's bed and facing me listened

soberly to my repetition.

Father said, 'Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and

all.'

'Father, he knew Woodrow's birth date. Did you tell him?'

'No. I know your policy.'

'He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you

tell him?'

'No, but it's no secret. I've set it down on all sorts of documents.'

'But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother's birthday - day, year,

and month:

'That's harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: anyone

with access to the Foundation's files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.'

'But why would he know Woodrow's birthday and not Nancy's? Father, he came here

knowing quite a bit about al his ancestors - those he claims as ancestors - that is

to say, Woodrow and his ancestors but not the birthdays of Woodrow's brothers and

sisters.'

'I don't know. If he did have access to judge Sperling's files, he could have

memorised just those data needed to back up his story. But the most interesting item

is his assertion that the War will end on 11 November, this year. I would have

guessed sometime this summer, with bad news for Britain and worse news for France,

and humiliation for us... or not earlier than the summer of 1919, with victory for

the Allies but a horribly expensive one. If it turns out that Ted is right - 11

November 1918 - then I'll believe him. Ali of it.'

Nancy said suddenly, 'I believe him!'

Father said, 'Why, Nancy?'

'Grandpa, do you remember - No, you weren't here. It was the day war was declared, a

year ago. Papa had kissed us goodbye and left. Grandpa, you went out right after

Papa left -'

Father nodded. I said, 'I remember.'

` - and, Mama, you had gone up to lie down. Uncle Ted telephoned. Oh, I know that he

telephoned later and you talked to him, Grandpa. You... You were mean to him -'

'Nancy, I'm sorry about that.'

'Oh, that was a misunderstanding, we all know that. This was before he talked to

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you, maybe an hour before, maybe longer. I was upset and crying a bit, I guess, and

Uncle Ted knew it... and he told me to stop worrying about Papa, because he - Uncle

Ted, I mean - had second sight and could tell the future. He told me that Papa would

come home safely. And suddenly I quit worrying and have not worried since - not that

way. Because I knew that he was telling the truth. Uncle Ted does know the future...

because he is from the future.'

'Father?'

'How can I tell, Maureen?' Father looked terribly thoughtful. 'But I think we must

assume as least hypothesis - Occam's Razor - that Ted believes his own story. Which

of course does not exclude the hypothesis that he is as loony as a June bug.'

'Grandpa! You know Uncle Ted isn't crazy!'

'I don't think he is. But his story sounds crazy, Nancy, I'm trying to be rational

about this. Now don't scold Grandpa; I'm doing the best I can. At worst we'll know

in about five months. November eleventh. Which is little comfort to you now,

Maureen, but it may make up somewhat for the dirty trick Woodrow played on you. You

should have clobbered him, on the spot.'

'Not out in the woods at night, Papa, not a child that young. And now it's too late.

Nancy, you remember that spot where Sergeant Theodore took you all on a picnic a

year ago? We were there.'

Nancy's mouth dropped open. 'Woodie was with you? Then you didn't - ' She chopped

off what she was saying. Father put on his draw-poker face.

I looked from one to the other. 'You darlings! I confided my plans to each of you.

But did not tell either of you that I had told the other. Yes, Nancy, I went out

there for the precise purpose I told you about: to offer Sergeant Theodore the best

warrior's farewell I could manage, if he would let me. And he was about to let me.

And it turned out that Woodrow had hidden in the back seat of the car.'

'Oh, how dreadful!'

'I thought so. So we got out of there quickly and went to Electric Park and never

did have the privacy we needed.'

'Oh, poor Mama!' Nancy leaned across Father's legs and. grabbed my head and made

mother-hen sounds over me, exactly as I had over her for all those years, whenever

she needed sympathy.

Then she straightened up. 'Mama, you should go do it right now!'

'Here? With a house full of children? My dear! No, no!'

'I'll jigger for you! Grandpa! Don't you think she should?'

Father kept quiet. I repeated, 'No, dear, no. Too risky.'

She answered, 'Mama, if you're scared to, here in the house, I certainly am not.

Grandpa knows I'm pregnant, don't you, Grandpa? Or I wouldn't be getting married.

And I know what Jonathan would say.' She sat up straight and started to get off the

edge of the bed. 'I'm going straight down and give Uncle Ted a soldier's farewell.

And tomorrow I'll tell Jonathan. And - Mama, I have a message for you from Jonathan.

But I'll tell you when I come back upstairs.'

I said, weakly and hopelessly, 'Don't stay down too long. The boys get up at

four-thirty; don't get caught by them.'

'I'll be careful. Bye.'

Father stopped her. 'Nancy! Sit back down. You are crowding in on your mother's

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prerogatives.'

'But, Grandpa -'

'Pipe down! Maureen is going downstairs to finish what she started. As she should.

Daughter, I will stand jigger and Nancy can help me if she wishes. But take your own

advice; don't stay down too long. If you aren't upstairs by three, I'm coming down

to tap on the door.'

Nancy said eageriy, 'Mama, why don't we both go down? I bet Uncle Ted would like

that!'

'I'll bet Uncle Ted would like that, too,' Father said grimly, 'but he's not going

to get it tonight. If you want to give him a soldier's send off, that's fine. But

not tonight, and not until after you have consulted Jonathan. Now git for bed,

dear... and you, Maureen, go downstairs and see Ted.'

I leaned over and kissed him and got quietly off the edge of the bed and started to

leave. Father said, 'Get along, Nancy; I'll take the first watch.'

She shoved out her lower lip. 'No. Grandpa, I'm going to stay right here and bother

you.'

I left, via the sleeping porch and my own room, then went downstairs barefooted and

wearing just a wrapper, not stopping to see if Father threw Nancy out. If she had

managed to tame Father when I had not been able to manage it in twice her years, I

didn't want to know it. Not then. I thought about Theodore instead... so

successfully that by the time I quietly opened the door to my sewing-room I was as

ready as a female animal can be.

Quiet as I was, he heard me and had me in his arms as I closed the door. I returned

his embrace, then let go and shrugged off my wrapper, and reached up to him again.

At last, at last I was naked in his arms.

Which led, inevitably, to my sitting with Theodore and Brian and Father in our

backyard glider swing after our picnic dinner on Wednesday, listening to a

discussion between Father and Theodore, while our young people played croquet around

us. At Briney's request, Theodore had repeated his statements about when and how

female h. sapiens could and could not get pregnant.

The conversation drifted off from reproduction to obstetrics and they started using

ungrammatical Latin at each other - some difference of opinion about the best way to

handle a particular sort of birth complication. They became more and more polite to

each other the more they differed. I did not have any opinions as birth

complications are something 1 only know about from reading, since I have babies

about as easily as a hen lays eggs - one big ouch and it's over.

Briney finally interrupted them, somewhat to my relief. I don't even want to hear

about the horrible things that can happen if a birthing goes wrong. 'This is all

very interesting,'

Brian said, 'but, Ira, may I ask one question? Is Ted a medical doctor, or not?

Sorry, Ted.'

Not at all, Brian. My whole story sounds phoney, I know. That's why I avoid telling

it.'

Father said, 'Brian, haven't you heard me addressing Ted as "Doctor" for the last

thirty minutes? The thing that makes me so angry - so gravelled, rather - is that

Ted knows more about the art of medicine than I could ever possibly learn. Yet his

shop talk makes me want to go back to the practice of medicine.'

Theodore cleared his throat, sounding just like Father. 'Mrrrph. Dr Johnson -'

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'Yes, Doctor?'

'I think my superior knowledge of therapy - correction: my knowledge of superior

therapy - bothers you in part because you think of me as being younger than you are.

But, as I explained, I simply look young. In fact I am older than you are.'

'How old?'

'I declined to answer that question when Mrs Smith asked it -'

'Theodore! My name is Maureen.' (That exasperating man!)

'Little pitchers with big ears, Maureen,' Theodore said quietly. 'Dr Johnson, the

therapy of my time is not harder to learn than is therapy today; it is easier,

because less of it is empirical and more of it - most of it - is based on minutely

developed and thoroughly tested theory. With correct and logical theory as a

framework you could catch up on what new has been learned in jig time, then go

quickly into clinical work under a preceptor: You would not find it difficult.'

'Damn it, sir, I'll never have the chance!'

'But, Doctor, that's what I'm trying to offer you. My sisters will pick me up at an

agreed rendezvous in Arizona on 2 August 1926, eight years from now. If you wish, I

will be delighted to take you with me to my time and my planet, where, if you wish,

you can study therapy - I am chairman of the board of a medical school there; no

problem. Then you can either stay on Tertius, or return to Earth - to the exact spot

and instant that you left, if that is your wish, but with your medical education

updated and you yourself rejuvenated... and with renewed zest for life, that being

merely a side effect but a fine bonus of rejuvenation.'

Father looked strange, haunted. I heard him murmur, '"- unto an exceeding high

mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world -"'

Sergeant Theodore answered, '"- and the glory of them". Matthew, four, verse eight.

But, Doctor, I am not the. Devil and I am not offering you treasure or power -

simply the hospitality of my home as I have enjoyed the hospitality of this home...

plus an opportunity for a refresher course if you want it. But you don't have to

make up your mind tonight; you have more than eight years for that. You can postpone

your decision right up to the last minute. Dora - that's my ship - has ample room.'

I turned and put my hand on Father's arm. 'Father, do you remember what we did in

1893?' I looked across at Ted. 'Father read medicine under a preceptor who never

believed in germs. So, after Father had been in practice for many years, he went

back to school at Northwestern University in 1893 to learn the latest knowledge

about germ theory and asepsis and such things. Father, this is the same thing - and

an incredible opportunity! Father accepts, Theodore - he's just slow to admit what

he wants, sometimes.'

'Mind your own business, Maureen. Ted said I could take eight years to answer.'

'Carol would not take eight years to answer. And neither would I! If Brian

permitted. If Theodore can bring me back to the same hour and day -'

'I can:

'Would I meet Tamara?'

'Of course.'

'Oh, my! Brian? Just a visit and I come back the same day -'

Theodore put in, 'Brian, you can come with her. A few days or a few months vacation,

and back the same day.'

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'Uh... Oh, Heavens! Sergeant, you and I have a war to win first. Can we table this

till we come back from France?'

'Certainly, Captain:

I don't recall how the talk got around to economics. First, I was sworn to silence

about the periodic nature of female fertility... and took the oath with my fingers

crossed. Fiddlesticks. Both doctors, Papa and Theodore, pointed out that my mucous

membranes had never been invaded by bugs - gonococci and spirochete treponema

pallidum and such - because I had been drilled and drilled in `Always use a rubber

except when you want a baby', and my girls had been trained the same way. I didn't

mention the far more numerous times when I had happily skipped those pesky sheaths

because I was pregnant and knew it. Such as the night before. Avoiding disease does

not depend on anything as trivial as a rubber purse; it depends on being very, very

fussy about your intimates. A woman can catch something bad in her mouth or in her

eyes just as quickly as in her vagina - and much easier. Am I going to copulate with

a man without kissing him? Let's not be silly.

I can't recall ever using a rubber after Theodore explained exactly how to chart my

fertile span. Or ever again failing to ring the cash register when I wished to.

Then I heard, ` - 29 October 1929.'

I blurted, 'Huh? But you said you were leaving in 1926. August second.'

My husband said, 'Pay attention, Carrot Top. There will be a quiz Monday morning.'

Theodore said, 'Maureen, I was speaking of Black Tuesday. That is what future

historians will call the greatest stock market crash in all history.'

`You mean like 1907?'

'I'm not sure what happened in 1907 because, as I told you, I studied closely only

the history of the decade I planned to spend here - from the gear after the end of

this War until shortly before Black Tuesday, 29 October, 1929. That ten years from

after the First World War -'

'Hold it! Doctor, you said "First World War - " First?'

'Doctor Johnson, except for this one Golden Age, from 11 November 1918 to 29 October

1929, there are wars all through this century. The Second World War starts in 1939,

and is longer and worse than this one. Then there are wars off and on - mostly on -

the rest of this century. But the next century, the twenty-first century, is far

worse.'

Father said, 'Ted. The day war was declared. You were simply speaking the truth as

you saw it. Weren't you?'

'Yes, sir.'

`Then why did you enlist? This isn't your war... Captain Long.'

Theodore answered very softly, 'To regain your respect, Ancestor. And to make

Maureen proud of me.'

`Mrrph! Well! I hope that you will never regret it, sir.'

`I never will.'

Thursday was a busy day indeed; Eleanor and I, with the aid of all my older children

and all her older children, with much help from Sergeant Theodore as my aide-de-camp

('dog robber' he called it, and so did Father - I declined to let them get my goat),

with some help from our spouses and from Father - Eleanor and I mounted a formal

church wedding in only twenty-four hours.

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Oh, I must admit that Eleanor and I had done spadework ahead of time - guest lists,

plans, alerting of minister and janitor and caterer as soon as Brian's first phone

call had made it possible, engraving of invitations on Tuesday, envelopes addressed

on Wednesday by her two best penmen, invitations delivered by my two boys and two of

hers, with RSVP to Justin's office by telephone, etc., etc.

We managed to have the bride dressed correctly and on time because Sergeant Theodore

displayed another unexpected talent: ladies' sempstress - no, sempstor - no, I think

it must be ladies' tailor. I had already accomplished my prime purpose of using

Eleanor's special telepathic talent by having Theodore drive me to Eleanor's house

out south on Thursday morning and there putting my problem to her bluntly - speeding

things up by peeling my clothes off the instant the door was locked on El and me in

her private apartment, then bringing her up to date - then Eleanor had her maid show

Theodore to El's private suite.

Never mind the sweaty details; in another thirty minutes Eleanor reported to me,

'Maureen love, Theodore believes every word of what he has been telling us,' which

Theodore countered by pointing out that every Napoleon in every insane asylum

believed his own story just as firmly.

'Captain Long,' Eleanor had answered, 'few males have a firm grip on reality; I

can't see that it matters. You were telling me the truth as you know it when you

told about your home in the future and you were again telling the truth when you

told me that you love Maureen. Since I love her, too, I hope to earn some portion of

your love. Now, please, if you will let me up - and thank you, sir! you pleasured me

immensely.'

It was immediately after that that we ran into a time conflict: how to get Eleanor's

wedding dress and Nancy to Eleanor's sempstress at a time when Justin said that

Jonathan must fetch Nancy and Brian to Justin's office so that all four could go to

City Hall together to obtain the necessary special licence, both principals being

under age.

Theodore said, 'Why do we need a sempstress? Eleanor, doesn't that cabinet over

there conceal a Singer sewing machine? And why do we need Nancy? Mama Maureen,

didn't you tell me that you and Nancy can wear the same clothes?'

I agreed that Nancy and I could (and did) borrow clothes from each other. I'm an

inch more in the thighs and about the same bigger in the bust. But, Lazarus, we

don't dare touch Eleanor's dress - wait till you see it.'

Although Eleanor was taller and bigger than I, her wedding dress was dose to my size

as it had already been cut down once for her daughter Ruth, three inches shorter

than her mother. It was a magnificent gown of white satin, lavishly beaded with seed

pearls. It had a Belgian lace veil and a ten-foot train. It had originally had

mutton-leg sleeves and a derrière cut for a bustle; these had vanished in the

alteration for Ruth.

Ali the money in the world could not produce a wedding dress of that quality in the

few hours until it would be needed; my Nancy was lucky that her Aunt El was willing

to lend it to her.

Eleanor fetched it. Theodore admired it but did not seem intimidated by it.

'Eleanor, let's fit it snugly to Mama Maureen, then there will be just room for its

slip under it for Nancy. What other underclothes? Corset? Brassière? Panties?'

I said, 'I've never put a corset on Nancy and she says she's never going to start.'

'Good for Nancy!' agreed Eleanor. 'I wish I never had. Mau, Nancy doesn't need a

brassière. What about underpants? Can't wear bloomers with that dress. Both Emery

Bird and Harzfeld carry sheer underpants... but they will still make lines under

this dress if it is fitted as well as it should be.'

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'No pants,' I ruled.

'Every old biddy there will know she's not wearing any,' Eleanor said doubtfully.

I explained in Chaucerian terms my lack of interest in what old biddies thought.

'I'll put round garters on her. She can shift to hose supporters when she changes to

leave.'

'At which time she can put on underpants,' Theodore added.

I was startled. `Why, Theodore! I'm surprised. What need has a bride for pants?'

'The tiniest, scantiest, sheerest girl panties that are sold today, I mean - not

bloomers. So Jonny can take them off when he gets her there, darling. Symbolic

defloration, an old pagan rite. It tells her she's married.'

El and I giggled. 'I must be sure to tell Nancy about that.'

'And I'll tell Jonathan so that he will make it a proper ceremony. Eleanor, let's

put Maureen up on that low table and start shoving pins into her. Mama Maureen, are

you clean and dry all over? I'm about to turn this dress inside out. Satin shows

water marks something 'orrible.'

For the next twenty-five minutes Theodore was very busy, while I held still and

Eleanor kept him supplied with pins. Presently El said, 'Lazarus, where did you

learn women's clothes?'

'In Paris, about a hundred years from now.'

'I wish I hadn't asked. Are you descended from me? As well as from Maureen?'

'I wish I were. I'm not. But I'm married to three of your descendants - Tamara,

Ishtar, and Hamadryad - and co-husband to another, Ira Weatheral. Probably -

certainly - other connections, but Maureen was right; I checked the archives only

for my own ancestors. I didn't guess that I would meet you, El of the beautiful

belly. I'm almost through. Shall I go ahead and make the alterations? Or do we take

this to your ladies' sempstress?'

El said, `Maureen? I'm willing to risk the dress; I have confidence in Lazarus - I

mean M'sieu Jacques Noir. But I won't risk it for Nancy's wedding without your

permission.'

I answered, 'I don't have any judgement about Theodore, or Lazarus, or whatever name

he's using today - I mean this stud who's treating me like a dressmaker's dummy. But

Sergeant, didn't you tell me you had retailored your breeches yourself? Pegged

them?'

'Oui, Madame.'

` "Oui, Madame" my tired back. Where did you leave your pants, Sergeant? You should

always know where your pants are.'

'I know where they are!' said El, and fetched them.

`Around the knees, El. Turn them inside out and look.' I joined her in checking

Theodore's tailoring. Shortly I said, `El, I can't sec where they were altered.'

'I can. See? The original thread is just barely faded; the thread he used in

altering is the same shade as the cloth of the outlets - the cloth that has not been

in sunlight.'

I agreed. 'Hmm, yes, once I get it into stronger light. If I look closely.'

El looked up . 'You're hired, boy. Room, board, ten dollars a week, and all the tail

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you can use.'

Theodore looked thoughtful. 'Well... all right. Though I usually get paid extra for

that'

El looked surprised, then laughed merrily, ran to him, and started rubbing tits

against his ribs. `I'll meet your terms, Captain. What is your stud fee?'

'I usually get the pick of the litter.'

`It's a deal.'

The wedding was beautiful and our Nancy was dazzlingly lovely in a magnificent dress

that fitted her perfectly. Marie was flower girl; Richard was ring bearer, both in

Sunday white. Jonathan was (to my surprise) in formal cutaway, ascot in pearl grey

with pearl stickpin, grey striped trousers, spats. Theodore was his best man, in

uniform; Father was in uniform and wearing his many medals and acting as usher and

groomsman; Brian was utterly beautiful in boots and Sam Browne and spurs and sabre

and his '98 medals and forest-green jacket and pinks.

Carol was maid of honour and almost as dazzling as the bride in lime-green tulle and

her bouquet. Brian junior was the other usher and groomsman and was dressed in his

grammar-school graduation suit; brand new only two weeks earlier - double-breasted

blue serge and his first long pants and very grown-up in his manner.

George was charged with just one duty, to see to it that Woodrow kept quiet and

behaved himself, and was authorised to use force as necessary. Father gave George

this instruction in Woodrow's presence... and Woodrow did behave himself; he could

always be counted on to act in his own self interest.

Dr Draper did not indulge in any of the nonsense with which the Reverend Timberly

had almost spoiled my wedding; he used the M.E. service straight out of the 1904

Discipline, not a word more, not a word less... and in short order our Nancy was

going back down the aisle on her husband's arm to the traditional strains of the

Mendelssohn recessional, and I sighed with relief. It had been a perfect wedding, no

rough spots whatever, and I thought to myself how dumb founded Mrs Grundy would have

been had she seen a majority of the wedding party thirty-six hours earlier, behind

locked doors, in a gentle orgy inaugurating Carol's Day.

It was the first celebration of the holiday that would spread at the wave front of

the diaspora of the human race: Carol's Day, Carolmas, Carolita's Birthday (it was

not!), Fiesta de Santa Carolita. Theodore had told us what it had become (would

become) - the midsummer fertility rite for all planets, anywhere. Then he had

toasted Carols graduation to womanhood in champagne, and Carol had answered his

toast with great seriousness and dignity - and got bubbles up her nose and gagged

and coughed and had to be consoled.

I did not know then and do not know now whether or not Theodore granted my second

daughter the boon she craved.

All I can say is that I gave them every opportunity. But with Theodore (stubborn,

difficult man!) one never knows.

On Saturday afternoon there was a rump session of the trustees of the Ira Howard

Foundation, Judge Sperling having come all the way from Toledo for that purpose:

Judge Sperling, Mr Arthur J. Chapman, Justin Weatheral, Brian Smith (by unanimous

consent), Sergeant Theodore... and me. And Eleanor.

When judge Sperling cleared his throat, I understood the signal and started to

withdraw. Whereupon Theodore stood up to leave with me.

There was some backing and filling, but the result was that I stayed and Eleanor

stayed because Theodore headed for the door when we did. He did explain that the

Howard Families, in their permanent organisation, used absolute equality of the

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sexes... and, as Howard Chairman in his own time, attending this meeting as a

courtesy to the twentieth century Howard organisation, he could not in conscience

take part in any Howard meeting from which women were excluded.

Once they got past that hurdle, the meeting simply consisted of Theodore's repeating

his prediction of 11 November 1918 as the day the War would end, followed by his

prediction of Black Tuesday, 29 October 1929. On being questioned he embellished

this latter, with mention of devaluation of the dollar, from twenty dollars to the

ounce down to thirty-five dollars to the ounce. 'President Roosevelt will do this by

what amounts to decree, although Congress will ratify it... but this doesn't happen

until early in 1933.'

'Just a moment, Sergeant Bronson, or Captain Long, or whatever you call yourself,

are you saying that Colonel Roosevelt makes a comeback? I find that hard to swallow.

In 1933 he will be, uh -' Mr Chapman stopped to think.

'Seventy-Five years old,' Judge Sperling put it. 'What's so unusual about that,

Arthur? I'm older than that, but I have no intention of retiring anytime soon.'

Theodore said, 'No, gentlemen, no. Not Teddy Roosevelt. Franklin Roosevelt. Now

assistant secretary to Mr Josephus Daniels.'

Mr Chapman shook his head. 'I find that even harder to believe.'

Theodore answered rather testily, `It does not matter what you believe, Counsellor;

Mr Roosevelt will be inaugurated in 1933 and shortly after that he will close all

the banks and call in all gold and gold certificates and devalue the dollar. The

dollar never does regain its present value. Fifty years later an ounce of gold will

fluctuate wildly, from around a hundred dollars an ounce to around a thousand

dollars an ounce.'

'Young man,' Mr Chapman pronounced, 'what you describe is anarchy.'

'Not quite. It gets worse. Much worse. Most historians call the second half of this

century "The Crazy Years". Socially the Crazy Years start at the end of the next

World War. But from m a standpoint of the economy the Crazy Years start on Black

Tuesday, 29 October 1929. For the rest of this century you can lose your shirt if

you don't maintain a strong cash position. But it is a century of great opportunity,

too, in almost every field.'

Mr Chapman closed down his face. I could see that he had made up his mind not to

believe anything. But Justin and Judge Sperling exchanged some side remarks, then

the judge said, `Captain Long, can you tell us what some of these great

opportunities will be?'

`I'll try. Commercial aviation both for passengers and for freight. Railroads will

be in deep trouble and will not recover. The present picture shows will add sound -

talking pictures. Television. Stereovision. Space travel. Atomic power. Lasers.

Computers. Electronics of every sort. Mining on the Moon. Asteroid mining. Rolling

roadways. Cryonics. Artificial manipulation of genetics. Personal body armour.

Sunpower screens. Frozen foods. Hydroponics. Microwave cooking. Do any of you know

D. D. Harriman?'

Chapman stood up. `Judge, I move we adjourn.'

'Sit down, Arthur, and behave yourself. Captain, you realise how shocking your

predictions are, do you not?'

`Certainly,' Theodore answered.

'The only way I can listen to your words with equanimity is to recall the changes I

have seen in my own lifetime. If your prediction as to the day the war ends turns

out to be accurate, then I feel that we must take your other predictions seriously.

In the meantime, do you have anything more to tell us?'

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`I guess not. Two things, maybe. Don't buy on margin after the middle of 1929. And

don't sell short if a wrong guess could clean you out.'

'Good advice at any time. Thank you, sir.'

Carol and I and the children kissed them both goodbye on Sunday 30 June then went

back inside as Captain Bozell's car drove away, to cry in private.

The news got worse and worse all that summer.

Then in the late fall it began to be apparent that we were gaining on the Central

Powers. The Kaiser abdicated and fled to Holland, and then we knew we were going to

win. The false armistice came along and my joy was shaded by the realisation that it

was not the eleventh of November.

And the real armistice did arrive, right on time, November the Eleventh, and every

bell, every whistle, every siren and horn, anything that could make noise all

sounded at once.

But not in our household. On Thursday George fetched home from his route the Kansas

City Post. In its casualties report it listed as `MISSING IN ACTION - Bronson, Cpl

Theo, KCMo'.

Chapter 15 - Torrid Twenties Threadbare Thirties

During the fifty-odd years on my personal time line from my rescue in 1982 to the

start of the Time mission which aborted into my present predicament on this planet I

spent time equal to about ten years in the study of comparative history, in

particular the histories of the time lines that the Circle of Ouroboros attempts to

protect, all of which appear to share a single ancestral time line at least through

AD 1900 and possibly through to about 1940.

This sheaf of universes includes my own native universe (time line two, code Leslie

LeCroix) and excludes the uncounted but far more numerous exotic time lines -

universes in which Columbus did not sail for the Indies (or failed to return), ones

in which the Viking settlements succeeded and 'America' becomes 'Great Vinland',

ones in which the Muscovite empire on the west coast clashes with the Hispanic

empire on the east coast (worlds in which Queen Elizabeth dies in exile), other

worlds in which Columbus found America already owned by the Manchu emperors - and

worlds with histories so exotic that it is hard to find even a remote ancestral line

in common with anything we can recognise.

I am almost certain that I have slipped into one of the exotics... but of a

previously unsuspected sort.

I did not spend all my time studying histories; I worked for a living, supporting

myself first as a nursing assistant, then as a nurse, then as a clinical therapist,

then as a student rejuvenator (all the while going to school), before I shifted

careers to the Time Corps.

But it was this study of histories that caused me to think about a career in Time.

Several of the time lines known to 'civilisation' (our name for ourselves) appear to

split away about 1940. One cusp at which these splits show is the Democratic

National Convention of 1940 at which Mr Franklin Delano Roosevelt either was or was

not nominated by the Democratic Party for a third term as President of the United

States, then either was or was not elected, then either did or did not serve through

to the end of the Second World War.

In time line one, code John Carter, the Democratic nomination went to Paul McNutt...

but the election to Republican Senator Robert Taft.

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In the composite time lines coded 'Cyrano', Mr Roosevelt had both a third and a

fourth term, died in his fourth term and was succeeded by his vice-president, a

former Senator from Missouri named Harry Truman. In my own time line there was never

a senator by that name but I do remember Brian speaking of a Captain Harry Truman

whom he knew in France. `A fighting son of a gun,' Briney called him. `A real buzz

saw.' But the Harry Truman whom Brian knew was not a politician; he was a

haberdasher, so it seems unlikely that it could be the same man. Briney used to go

out of his way to buy gloves and such from Captain Truman. He described him as 'a

dying breed - an old-fashioned gentleman.'

In time line two, code Leslie LeCroix, my own native time line and that of Lazarus

Long and Boondock, Mr Roosevelt was nominated for a third term in july 1940, then

died from a stroke while playing tennis the last week in October, thereby creating a

unique constitutional crisis. Henry Wallace, the Democratic nominee for

vice-president, claimed that the Electors from the states that went Democratic were

bound by law to vote for him for president. The Democratic National Committee did

not see it that way and neither did the Electoral College - and neither did the

Supreme Court - three different points of view. Four, in fact, as John Nance Garner

was President from October on... but had not been nominated for anything and had

bolted his party after the July convention.

I will return to this subject as this was the world I grew up in. But note that Mr

Roosevelt was stricken `while playing tennis'.

I learned while studying comparative history that in all other time lines but mine

Mr Roosevelt had been a poliomyelitis cripple confined to a wheel chair!

The effects of contagious diseases on history are a never ending subject for debate

among mathematico-historians on Tertius. I often wonder about one case, because I

was there. In my time line Spanish influenza killed 528.000 US residents in the

epidemic of the winter of 1918-19, and killed more troops in France than had been

killed by shot and shell and poison gas. What if the Spanish flu had struck Europe

one year earlier? Certainly history would have been changed - but in what way?

Suppose a corporal named Hitler had died? Or an exile who called himself Lenin? Or a

soldier named Pétain? That strain of flu could kill overnight; I saw it happen more

than once.

Time line three, code Neil Armstrong, is the native world of my sister-wife Hazel

Stone (Gwen Campbell) and of our husband Dr Jubal Harshaw. This is an unattractive

world in which Venus is uninhabitable and Mars is a bleak, almost airless desert,

and Earth itself seems to have gone crazy, led by the United States in a

lemming-like suicide stampede.

I dislike studying time line three; it is so horrid. Yet it fascinates me. In this

time line (as in mine) United States historians call the second half of the

twentieth century the Crazy Years - and well they might! Hearken to the evidente:

a) The largest, longest, bloodiest war in United States history, fought by conscript

troops without a declaration of war, without any clear purpose, without any

intention of winning - a war that was ended simply by walking away and abandoning

the people for whom it was putatively fought;

b) Another war that was never declared - this one was never concluded and still

existed as an armed truce forty years after it started... while the United States

engaged in renewed diplomatic and trade relations with the very government it had

warred against without admitting it;

c) An assassinated president, an assassinated presidential candidate, a president

seriously wounded in an assassination attempt by a known psychotic who nevertheless

was allowed to move freely, an assassinated leading Negro national politician,

endless other assassination attempts, unsuccessful, partly successful, and

successful;

d) So many casual killings in public streets and public parks and public transports

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that most lawful citizens avoided going out after dark, especially the elderly;

e) Public school teachers and state university professors who taught that patriotism

was an obsolete concept, that marriage was an obsolete concept, that sin was an

obsolete concept, that politeness was an obsolete concept - that the United States

itself was an obsolete concept;

f) School teachers who could not speak or write grammatically, could not spell,

could not cipher;

g) The nation's leading farm state had as its biggest cash crop an outlawed plant

that was the source of the major outlawed drug;

h) Cocaine and heroin called `recreational drugs', felonious theft called

'joyriding', vandalism by gangs called 'trashing', burglary called 'ripping off',

felonious assault by gangs called `mugging' and all of these treated as `boys will

be boys', so scold them and put them on probation but don't ruin their lives by

treating them as criminals;

i) Millions of women who found it more rewarding to have babies out of wedlock than

it would be to get married or to go to work.

I don't understand time line three (code Neil Armstrong) so I had better quote Jubal

Harshaw, who lived through it. `Mama Maureen,' he said to me, 'the America of my

time line is a laboratory example of what can happen to democracies, what has

eventually happened to all perfect democracies throughout all histories. A perfect

democracy, a "warm body" democracy in which every adult may vote and all votes count

equally, has no internal feedback for self-correction. It depends solely on the

wisdom and self-restraint of citizens... which is opposed by the folly and-lack of

self-restraint of other citizens. What is supposed to happen in a democracy is that

each sovereign citizen will always vote in the public interest for the safety and

welfare of all. But what does happen is that he votes for his own self-interest as

he sees it... which for the majority translates as "Bread and Circuses".

`"Bread and Circuses" is the cancer of democracy, the fatal disease for which there

is no cure. Democracy often works beautifully at first. But once a state extends the

franchise to every warm body, be he producer or parasite, the day marks the

beginning of the end of that state. For when the plebs discover that they can vote

themselves bread and circuses without limit and that the productive members of the

body politic cannot stop them, they will do so, until the state bleeds to death, or

in its weakened condition the state succumbs to an invader - the barbarians enter

Rome.'

Jubal shrugged and looked sad. `Mine was a lovely world until the parasites took

over.'

Jubal Harshaw also pointed out to me a symptom that, so he says, invariably precedes

the collapse of a culture; a decline in good manners, in common courtesy, in a

decent respect for the rights of other people.

'Political philosophers from Confucius to the present day have repeatedly pointed

this out. But the first signs of this fatal symptom may be hard to spot. Does it

really matter when a honorific is omitted? Or when a junior calls a senior by his

first name, uninvited? Such loosening of protocol may be hard to evaluate. But there

is one unmistakable sign of the collapse of good manners: dirty public washrooms.

'In a healthy society public restrooms, toilets, washrooms, look and smell as clean

and fresh as a bathroom in a decent private home. In a sick society -' Jubal stopped

and simply looked disgusted.

He did not need to elaborate; I had seen it happen in my own time line. In the first

part of the twentieth century right through the thirties people at all levels of

society were habitually polite to each other and it was taken for granted that

anyone using a public washroom tried hard to leave the place as clean and neat as he

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found it. As I recall, decent behaviour concerning public washrooms started to slip

during World War Two, and so did good manners in general. By the sixties and the

seventies rudeness of all sorts had become commonplace, and by then I never used a

public restroom if I could possibly avoid it.

Offensive speech, bad manners, and filthy toilets all seem to go together.

America in my own time line suffered the cancer of `Bread and Circuses' but found a

swifter way to commit suicide. I don't boast about the difference, as in time line

two the people of the United States succumbed to something even sillier than `Bread

and Circuses': the people voted themselves a religious dictatorship.

It happened after 1982, so I did not see it - for which I am glad! When I was a

woman a hundred years old, Nehemiah Scudder was still a small boy.

The potential for religious hysteria had always been present in the American

culture, and this I knew, as my father had rubbed my nose in it from an early age.

Father had pointed out to me that the only thing that preserved religious freedom in

the United States was not the First Amendment and was not tolerance... but was

solely a Mexican stand-off between rival religious sects, each sect intolerant, each

sect the sole custodian of the One True Faith - but each sect a minority that gave

lip service to freedom of religion to keep its own One True Faith from being

persecuted by all the other True Faiths.

(Of course it was usually open season on Jews and sometimes on Catholics and almost

always on Mormons and Muslims and Buddhists and other heathens. The First Amendment

was never intended to protect such outright blasphemy. Oh, no!)

Elections are won not by converting the opposition but by getting out your own vote,

and Scudder's organisation did just that. According to histories I studied at

Boondock, the election of 2012 turned out sixty-three per cent of the registered

voters (which in turn was less than half of those eligible to register); the True

American Party (Nehemiah Scudder) polled twenty-seven per cent of the popular

vote... which won eighty-one per cent of the Electoral College votes.

In 2016 there was no election.

The Torrid Twenties... Flaming Youth, the Lost Generation, flappers, cake eaters,

gangsters and sawn-off shot-guns and bootleg booze and needled beer. Hupmobiles and

Stutz Bearcats and flying circuses. A joy hop for five dollars. Lindbergh and the

Spirit of St Louis. Skirts climbed unbelievably until, by the middle of the decade,

rolled stockings permitted bare knees to be seen. The Prince of Wales Glide and the

Finale Hop and the Charleston. Ruth Etting and Will Rogers and Ziegfeld's Follies.

There were bad things about the Twenties but on the whole they were good years for

most people - and they were never dull.

I kept busy as usual with housewifely things of little interest to outsiders. I had

Theodore Ira in 1919, Margaret in 1922, Arthur Roy in 1924, Alice Virginia in 1927,

Doris Jean in 1930 - and they all had the triumphs and crises that children have,

and aren't you glad that you don't have to look at their pictures and listen to me

repeating their cute sayings?

In February of 1929 we sold our house on Bentos Boulevard and leased with the option

to buy a house near Rockhill Road and Meyer Boulevard - an old farmhouse, roomy but

not as modern as our former Nome. This was a hard-nosed decision by my husband who

always believed in making every dollar work twice. But he did consult me and not

alone because title was vested in me.

`Maureen,' he said to me, 'do you feel like gambling?'

'We always have. Haven't we?'

`Some yes, some no. This time we would tap the pot, shoot the works, shout Banco! If

I failed to bring it off, you might have to go out and pound a beat, just to keep a

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potato soup on the table.'

`I've always wondered if I could make a living that way. Here I am, forty-seven in

July -'

`Woops! Your age is now thirty-seven. And I'm forty one.'

`Briney, I'm in bed with you. Can't I be truthful in bed?'

`Judge Sperling wants us to stick to our corrected ages at all times. And Justin

agrees.'

`Yes sir. I'll be good. I always wondered if I could make a living as a

streetwalker. But how do I find a beat? I understand that a gal can get per eyes

scratched out if she just goes out and starts soliciting without finding out who

owns that territory. I know what to do in bed, Briney; it's the merchandising of the

product that I must learn.'

`Don't be so eager, slippery bottom; it may not be necessary. Tell me... Do you

still believe that Ted - Theodore - Corporal Bronson - carne from the future?'

I suddenly sobered. `I do. Don't you?'

'Mo, I believed him as quickly as you did. I believed him before his prophecy about

the end of the War proved true. Now I'm asking you this: do you believe in Ted

strongly enough that you are willing to risk every cent we own that his prediction

of a collapse in the stock market will be right on the button exactly like his

prediction of Armistice Day?'

'Black Tuesday,' I said softly. `29 October. This year.'

'Well? If I take this gamble - and miss - we'll be broke. Marie won't be able to

finish at Radcliffe, Woodie will have to scratch for a college education, and Dick

and Ethel - well, we'll cross those bridges later. Sweetheart, I'm into this bull

market up to my ears... and I propose to get deeper into it on the firm assumption

that Black Tuesday takes place on the dot and exactly as Ted said it would.'

'Do it!'

`Are you sure, Mo? If anything goes wrong, we'll be right back to fried mush.

Whereas it is not too late to hedge my bets - pull half of it out and stash it away.

Gamble with the other half.'

`Briney, I wasn't brought up that way. You remember Father's harness racer Loafer?'

'I saw him a few times. A beautiful beast.'

`Yes. Just not quite as fast as he looked. Father regularly bet on himself. Always

on the nose. Never to place or show. Loafer could usually come in second or third...

but Father would not bet that way. I've heard him talk to Loafer before a heat,

softly, gently: "This time we're going to take 'em, boy! This time we're going to

win!" Then later I've heard him say, "You tried, old fellow! That's all I can ask.

You're still a champion... and we'll take 'em next time!" And Father would pat him

on the neck and Loafer would whinny and nicker to him, and they would comfort each

other.'

`Then you think I should bet across the board? For there isn't going to be any next

time.'

`No, no! Shoot the works! You believe Theodore and so do I. So let's do it!' I

added, as I reached down and grabbed his tool, `If it's fried mush time again, it

need not be for long. You can knock me up, uh, let me see' - I counted - `next

Monday. Which would mean that I would unload about' - I stopped to count again -

'oh, a couple of weeks after Black Tuesday. Then we will receive another Howard

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Foundation bonus shortly thereafter.'

'No.'

'Huh? I mean, Excuse me? I don't understand.'

'Mo, if Ted's prediction is wrong, the Foundation's principal assets may be wiped

out. Justin and Judge Sperling are betting that Ted's prediction is correct; Chapman

is bucking them. There are four other trustees... and two are Hoover Republicans,

two were for Al Smith. Justin doesn't know which way it will go.'

Selling our house when we did was part of the gamble. It was a hard-nosed decision

as it involved what came to be known as 'block-busting'. We lived in an all-white

neighbourhood, but Darktown was just north of us, not far away, and had been growing

steadily closer in the twenty-odd years we had owned that house. (Dear, sweet house!

- stuffed with happy memories.)

Brian had been approached by a white real estate agent who said he had an offer from

an undisclosed client: how much did Brian want for his house?

`Darling, I did not ask about his client... because, if I had asked, it would turn

out that the client was a white lawyer who, if pushed, would be acting for a client

in Denver or Boston. In this sort of a deal the cover-up is about six levels deep...

and the neighbours are not supposed to find out the colour of the new owner's skin

until the new owner moves in.'

`What did you tell him?'

'I told him, "Certainly 1'm willing to sell my house if the price is right. But the

price would have to be attractive, as we are comfortable where we are and moving is

always expensive in time and in money. What price does your client offer? In cash, I

mean - not a down payment and take back a mortgage. If I am going to have to find

another house for my large family - eleven of us - I'll need cash to work with. I

may have to build, rather than buy - not too many houses can handle big families

today; I probably would have to build. If I do this. So the price would have to be

attractive and it would have to be in cash."

'This false face points out that any bank would discount the paper on such a

property; a mortgage is as good as cash. "Not to me, it isn't," I told him. "Let

your client arrange the mortgage directly with his bank and bring the cash up front.

My dear sir, I'm not anxious to sell. Give me a cash figure and, if it's big enough,

we'll go straight to escrow. If it's not, I'll tell you no just as quickly."

'He said that escrow would not be necessary, as they were satisfied that I could

grant good title. Mo, that told me more than the words he said. It means that they

have already run a title search on us... and probably on every house in our block.

It means to me that this is probably the only house in this block that does not have

a mortgage against it... or some other legal matter that would have to be cleared in

escrow, such as lifetime tenancy under a will, or the property is currently in

probate, or involved in a pending divorce, or there is a lien against it, or a

judgement, or something. A man trying to put together this sort of a deal doesn't

like escrow, because it is during that waiting period that the "Gentlemen's

Agreement" sort of people can find out what is going on, and move in to stop it...

often with the connivance of a sympathetic judge.'

'Briney, maybe you had better explain "Gentlemen's Agreement" to me. I don't recall

it from that course in commercial law we took.'

'You would not have heard of it there because it is extralegal. Not against the law,

just not covered by law. There is no covenant in your deed to this house that

forbids you to sell to anyone you wish to, black, white, or green polka dots... and

it might not stand up in court if there was. But, if you were to ask our neighbours,

I guarantee that they would assure you that there is indeed a gentlemen's agreement

binding you not to sell your house in this block to a Negro.'

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I was puzzled. 'Have we ever agreed to anything of the sort?' My husband made all

sorts of commitments and rarely told me. He simply assumed that I would back him up.

And I always did. Marriage is not a sometime thing; it's whole hawg or you're not

married.

'Never.'

`Are you going to ask our neighbours what they think about this?'

'Mo, do you want me to? It's your house:

I don't think I hesitated as long as two seconds. But it was a new ides and I did

have to decide. 'Briney, several houses in this block have changed hands since we

moved in here, uh, twenty-two years ago. I don't recall that we were ever asked our

opinion about any of those transactions.'

'That's right. We never were.'

'I don't think it is any of their business to decide what a Negro can or can't buy.

Or to tell us. What they do with their property is their business; what we do with

ours is our business - as long as we obey the laws and abide by any open covenants

that run with the land. That twenty-five-foot setback rule, for example. I can think

of just one way they can legitimately keep us from selling this house to anyone who

wants to buy it.'

'What way is that, Mo?'

'By coming to us before we are committed with the same sort of offer that Mr False

Face has made but with more money. If they buy this house from us, they can do with

it as they wish.'

Tm glad you see it that way, my love. A year from now every house in this block will

be occupied by a Negro family. Mo, I could see it coming. Population pressure works

much like a rising river. You can put up dikes or levees, but the day comes when the

river has to go somewhere. Kansas City's Darktown is terribly crowded. If the whites

don't want to live next door to Negroes, then the whites must back off and give them

room. I'm not especially concerned about Negro problems; I've got problems of my

own. But I don't fight the weather and I don't bang my head against a stone wall.

You and I will see the day when Darktown will run south all the way to 39th Street.

There is no use fussing about it; it is going to happen.'

Briney did get a good price for our old home. After figuring in the rise in prices

from 1907 to 1929 there was only a modest profit, but Briney did get the price in

cash - gold certificates, not a cheque; the recorded price was `ten dollars and

other valuable considerations' - and Briney put the money straight into the stock

market.

`Sweetheart, if Theodore's predictions are correct, in a year or so we'll be able to

take our pick of big houses in the Country Club district at about a third of the

going prices today... because it will turn out that Black Tuesday will leave about

half of the nominal owners unable to meet their mortgage payments. In the meantime

try to stay happy in this old farmhouse; Justin and I have to go to New York.'

I did not have any trouble staying happy in that farmhouse; it reminded me of my

girlhood. I told Father so, and he agreed. `But put that second bathroom in. Do you

remember why we had two outhouses? You can't afford to encourage piles and

constipation.'

Father was not formally living with us - he got his mail elsewhere - but, since 1916

and Plattsburg, Brian had insisted that we always keep a room for Father. When Brian

went to New York to stay closer to his stock-market gambling, Father did agree to

sleep (usually) at our house, just as he had when Brian was away in France. But by

then I had had that second bath installed and a washroom downstairs and the outhouse

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out back, limed and filled.

My children readjusted to the change with little fret. Even our resident cat, Chargé

d'Affaires, accepted it. He fretted on the long trip there, but he did seem to

understand that the moving vans meant that home was no longer home. Ethel and Teddy

kept him fairly well soothed during the move - I was driving that load; Woodrow had

the rest of the family in his jalopy. Chargé looked over our land as soon as we got

there, then came back, got me, took me with him while he went all the way around the

inside of the fence. He sprayed all four comer posts, so I knew that he had accepted

the change and his new responsibilities.

It was from Woodrow that I had expected the most fuss as he was due to enter his

senior year at Central High School in September 1929 and was a likely candidate for

cadet commander of the ROTC battalion at Central, especially as both Brian Junior

and George had each commanded the cadet battalion in their senior year.

But Woodrow did not even insist on finishing the second semester; he transferred in

mid-term to Westport High School - somewhat to my dismay, as I had counted on him to

drive Dick and Ethel to Central, one in junior High there, the other just entering

Senior High. So, willy-nilly, they had to transfer in mid-term, too, as I did not

have time to drive them and it was an impossible trip by streetcar. Teddy and Peggy

I put in Country Day School, an excellent private school, as Eleanor suggested that

she could handle two more in her car along with the three she had in that school.

It was several years before I realised that Woodrow's willingness to switch schools

abruptly had to do with a renovated cow pasture still farther south that had a sign

on it: ACE HARDY'S FUING SCHOOL. Woodrow had acquired (I think that is the right

word) his unlikely automobile in the summer of 1928, and after that we had seen

little of him other than at meals. But I discovered later that Woodrow had learned

to fly while still in high school.

As everyone knows, Black Tuesday arrived on the dot. Briney called me long distance

a week later. `Frau Doktor Krausmeyer?'

`Elmer!'

`Children okay?'

`Everyone is fine but they miss their Papa. As do I. Hurry home, dear; I'm honing to

see you.'

'Didn't that hired man work out?'

'No staying power. I let him go. I decided to wait for you.'

'But I'm not coming home.'

'Oh.'

'Don't you want to know why?'

(Yes, Briney, I do want to know why. And some day I'm going to put itch powder into

your jock-strap for these guessing games.) `Buffalo Bill, you'll tell me when it

suits you and whatever suits you.'

`Rangy Lil, how would you like to go to Paris? And to Switzerland?'

`Hadn't you better make it South America? Some country where there is no

extradition?' (Damn you, Briney! Quit teasing me.)

`I want you to leave tomorrow. Take the C and A to Chicago, then the Pennsy to New

York. I'll meet your train and take you to our hotel. We sail for Cherbourg on

Saturday.'

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`Yes, sir.' (Oh, that man!) `About our children - Seven, I believe. Are you

interested in the arrangements I make for them? Or shall I just use my judgement?'

(What arrangements can I make with Eleanor?)

`Use your judgement. But if Ira is there, I'd like to speak to him.'

`To hear is to obey, Effendi.'

After Brian spoke to him, Father said to me, `I told Brian not to worry, as Ethel is

a competent cook. If she needs help, I will hire help. So, Maureen, you mo run along

and have fun; the youngsters will be safe. Don't pack more than two bags, because -'

The phone rang again.

`Maureen? Your big sister, dear. Did you hear from Brian?'

`Yes.'

`Good. I have the train schedules and the Pullman reservations; Justin arranged them

from New York. Frank will drive us to the station. You must be ready by ten tomorrow

morning. Can you manage it?'

`I'll have to manage it. I may be barefooted and my hair in a bath knot -'

I became addicted to travel in a luxury liner in nothing flat. The Île de France was

a wonderful shock to little Maureen Johnson whose idea of luxury was enough

bathrooms for seven - usually seven; it varied - children and enough hot water.

Briney had taken me to the Grand Canyon two years earlier and that was wonderful ...

but this was another sort of wonderful. A concierge who seemed anxious to swim back

and fetch anything Madame wishes. A maid who spoke English but understood my French

and did not laugh at my accent. A full orchestra at dinner, a chamber music trio for

tea, dancing to live music every night. Breakfast in bed. A masseuse on call. A

living-room for our suite bigger and much fancier than Eleanor's at home, and two

master bedrooms.

`Justin, why are we at the Captain's table?'

`I don't know. Because we have this suite, maybe.'

`And why do we have this suite? Everything in first class looks luxurious; I would

not have complained if we had been in second class. But this is gilding the lily.

Isn't it?'

`Maureen my sweet, I ordered two outside double staterooms, first class, which were

confirmed and we paid for them. Then two days before sailing the agent telephoned

and offered me this suite at the price we had paid plus a nominal surcharge, one

hundred dollars. Seems the man who had reserved this suite had not been able to

sail. I asked why he had cancelled. Instead of answering he cut the surcharge to

fifty dollars. I asked who had died in that suite and was it contagious. Again

instead of answering he offered to eliminate the surcharge if we would just let the

New York Times and L'Illustration photograph us in our suite-which we did, you

remember.'

`And was it contagious?'

`Not really. The poor fellow jumped out a twenty-storey window - the day after Black

Tuesday:

`Oh! I should keep my mouth shut.'

`Mo darling, this suite was not his home, he was never in it in his life; it is not

haunted. He was just one of many thousands of chumps who became paper-wealthy

gambling on margin. If it will make you feel any better, I can assure you that both

Brian and . I made no secret of our intention of getting out of the market when we

did because we expected the market to collapse before the end of October. Nobody

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would listen.' Justin shook his head, shrugged.

Brian added, `I almost had to strangle one broker to get him to execute my orders.

He seemed to think it was immoral and possibly illegal to sell when the market was

going steadily up. "Wait till it tops," he said. "Then sell. You're crazy to quit at

this point." I told him that my grandmother had read the tea-leaves and told me that

now was the time to unload. He again said that I was crazy. I told him to execute

those orders at once... or I was going straight to the governors of the Exchange and

have him investigated for bucket shop operations. That really got him angry, so he

sold me out... and then got still angrier when I insisted on a certified cheque. I

took the cheque and cashed it at once. And changed the cash to gold... as I recalled

all too clearly that Ted said that banks would start to go boom.'

I wanted to ask where that gold was now. But I did not.

Zurich is a lovely city, prettier than any I had seen in the United States. The

language there is alleged to be German but it is not the German spoken by my

neighbour from Munich. But I got along fine once I realised that almost everyone

spoke English. Our men were busy; Eleanor and I had a wonderful time being tourists.

Then one day they took us with them and I found myself the surprised owner of a

numbered bank account, for 155.515 grams of fine gold (which I had no trouble

interpreting as one hundred thousand dollars, but it was not called such). Then I

found myself signing powers of attorney over `my' bank account to Brian and to

Justin, while Eleanor did the same with a similar account. And a limited power of

attorney to someone I had never heard of in Winnipeg, Canada.

We were not placed in that fancy suite because we were high society; we were not.

But the purser was carrying in his safe I do not know how many ounces of gold, most

of which belonged to the Ira Howard Foundation, and some of which belonged,

personally to Brian, and to Justin, and my father. That gold was moved by the Bank

of France from Cherbourg to Zurich, and we rode with it.

In Zurich Brian and Justin, as witnesses and trustees for the Foundation, saw the

shipment opened, saw it counted and weighed, and then deposited with a consortium of

three banks. For the Foundation had taken very seriously Theodore's warning that Mr

Roosevelt would devalue the dollar, then make it illegal for American citizens to

own or possess gold.

'Justin,' I asked, 'what happens if Governor Roosevelt does not run for the

presidency? Or does but is not elected?'

'Nothing. The Foundation would be no worse off. But have you lost confidence in Ted?

On his advice we rode the market up, and then cashed out before it crashed, and now

the Foundation is about six times as wealthy as it was a year ago, all through

depending on Ted's predictions.'

`Oh, I believe in Theodore! I was just wondering.'

Mr Roosevelt was elected and he did indeed devalue the dollar and made it illegal

for Americans to possess gold. But the assets of the Foundation had been placed out

of reach of this confiscation. As was my own numbered bank account. I never touched

it but Briney told me that it was not simply lying idle; he was using `my' money to

make more money.

Brian was now a trustee of the Foundation, vice Mr Chapman, who had been removed

from the board for having lost his own money in the stock market. A trustee of the

Foundation had himself to be qualified for Howard benefits (four living grandparents

at time of marriage) and a money-maker. If there were other requirements, I do not

know what they were.

Justin was now chairman of the board and chief executive, vice judge Sperling, who

was still a trustee but was past ninety and had elected not to work quite so hard.

When we got back to Kansas City, Justin and Brian set up offices in the Scarritt

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Building as 'Weatheral and Smith, Investments' while `Brian Smith Associates' took

an office on the same floor.

We never again had money worries but the decade of the Depression was not a time

when it was fine to be rich. We strove to avoid the appearance of being rich.

Instead of buying a fancy house in the Country Club district we bought that

farmhouse at a bargain price, then rebuilt it into a more satisfactory structure. It

was a period when skilled craftsmen were eager to get work at wages they would have

sneered at in 1929.

The nation's economy was stuck on dead centre and no one seemed to know why and

everyone from bootblack to banker had a solution he wanted to see tried. Mr Franklin

Roosevelt took office in 1933 and, yes, the banks did close but the Smiths and the

Weatherals had cash under the mattress and groceries squirrelled away; the bank

holiday did us no harm. The country seemed invigorated by the energetic actions of

'The New Deal', the new President's name for a series of nostrums that came pouring

out of Washington.

In retrospect it seems that the 'reforms' that constituted the New Deal did nothing

to correct the economy - yet it is hard to fault emergency measures that put food

into the mouths of the destitute. The WPA and the MA and the CCC and the NRA and the

endless make-work programmes did not cure the economy and may well have done

damage... but in Kansas City in the 1930s they almost certainly served to avoid food

riots by desperate people.

On 1 September 1939, ten years after Black Tuesday, Nazi Germany invaded Poland. Two

days later Britain and France declared war against Germany. World War Two had

started.

Chapter 16 - The Frantic Forties

In the summer of 1940 Brian and I were living in Chicago at 6105 Woodlawn, an

address just south of the Midway. It was a large apartment building, eighty units,

owned by the Howard Foundation through a dummy. We occupied what was called 'the

Penthouse' - the west end of the top floor, a living room and balcony, a kitchen,

four bedrooms, two baths.

We needed the extra bedrooms, especially in July during the Democratic National

Convention. For two weeks we had from twelve to fifteen people sleeping in an

apartment intended for a maximum of eight. I do not recommend this. The apartment

did not have air-conditioning, it was an exceptionally hot summer, and Lake Michigan

a few hundred yards away turned our flat into a Turkish bath. At home I would have

coped with it by walking around in my skin. But I could not do so in the presence of

strangers. One of the real benefits of Boondock is that skin is just skin - means

nothing.

I had not been in Chicago, other than to change trains, since 1893. Brian had

frequently visited Chicago without me, as this flat was often used for Howard

Foundation board meetings, the Foundation having moved its registered address from

Toledo to Winnipeg in 1929. As Justin explained to me, 'Maureen, while we don't

advertise what we're doing, we won't be breaking any laws about private ownership of

gold; we are simply planning for whatever develops. The Foundation is now

restructured under Canadian law, and its registered secretary is a Canadian lawyer,

who is in fact a Howard client himself and a Foundation trustee. I never touch gold,

even with gloves on.'

(Brian expressed it otherwise. 'No intelligent man has any respect for an unjust

law. Nor does he feel guilt over breaking it. He simply follows the Eleventh

Commandment.')

This time Brian was not in Chicago for a board meeting; he was there to watch the

Chicago commodities market and to deal in it, because of the war in Europe - while I

was in Chicago because I wanted to be. Much as I enjoyed being a brood mare, after

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forty years of it and seventeen babies, I relished seeing something other than wet

nappies.

There was indeed much to see. The parkway a hundred yards north of us, stretching

from Washington Park to Jackson Park and called the Midway Plaisance, was in fact a

midway the last time I had seen it, with everything from Little Egypt's belly dance

to pink cotton candy. Now it was a beautiful grassy park, with the matchless

Fountain of Time by Lorado Taft at the west end and the lovely 57th Street beach at

the east end. The main campus of the University of Chicago, great grey Gothic

buildings, dominated its north side. The University had been founded the year before

I had come here as a girl, but none of these buildings had been built by then - as

near as I could recall several major exhibition halls had occupied the ground now

constituting the campus. I could not be certain, as nothing looked the same.

The elevated trains were much more widespread and now they were powered by

electricity instead of steam. On the surface there were no longer horse cars or even

cable cars; electric trolley cars had replaced them. No more horses anywhere - autos

bumper to bumper, a dubious improvement.

The Field Museum, three miles to the north and on the Lake, had been founded after

my long visit in '93; its Malvina Hoffman exhibit, `The Races of Man', was in itself

worth a trip to the Windy City. Near it was the Adler Planetarium, the first one I

ever visited. I loved the shows at the planetarium; they let me daydream of

travelling among the stars like Theodore - but I did not dream that I would ever

really do so. That hope was buried, along with my heart, somewhere in France.

Chicago in '93 had kept eleven-year-old Maureen Johnson round-eyed; Chicago in 1940

kept Maureen Smith, now officially forty-one years old, still more round-eyed, there

were so many new wonders to see.

One change I did not like; in 1893 if I happened to be out after dark, Father did

not worry and neither did I. In 1940 I was careful never to be caught out after

dark, other than on Brian's arm.

Just before the 1940 Democratic convention the Phoney War ended and France fell. At

Dunkirk on 6 June the British evacuated what was left of their army which was

followed by one of the greatest speeches in all histories: `- we shall fight them on

the beaches, we shall fight them in the streets, we shall never surrender -'

Father telephoned Brian, told him that he was signing up with the AFS. `Brian, this

rime even the Home Guard says I'm too old. But these folks are signing up medics the

Army won't accept. They want them for support service in war zones and they'll take

anybody who can saw off a leg - meaning me. If this is the only way I can fight the

Huns, then this is what I'll do -1 owe that to Ted Bronson. Understand me, sir?'

'I quite understand.'

`How soon can you put somebody else here to watch the youngsters?'

I could hear both sides, so I took the phone. `Father, Brian can't come home now but

I can. Although I may be able to put Betty Lou there in my place even quicker.

Either way, you can go ahead with your plans. But, Father, listen to me. You take

care of yourself! Do you hear me?'

`I'll be careful, daughter.'

`Please do so, please! I'm proud of you, sir. And Theodore is proud of you, too. I

know.'

`I shall try hard to make both you and Ted proud of me, Maureen.'

I said goodbye quickly and hung up before my voice broke. Briney was looking

thoughtful. 'I'll Nave to get busy right away and correct my age with the Army. Or

they might start saying that I am too old.'

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`Briney! Surely you don't expect to convince the Army that you are your Howard age?

'they have years and years of records on you.'

`Oh, I wouldn't try to sell the Adjutant-General my Howard age. Although I don't

think I look any older than the forty-six it says on my driver's licence. I mean

that I want to correct the little white lie I told in 1898, when I was actually

fourteen but swore that I was twenty-one so that they would let me enlist.'

`Fourteen indeed! You were a senior at Rolla.'

`I was precocious, just like our children. Yes, dearest, I was a senior at Rolla in

'98. But there is nobody left in the War Department who knows that. And nobody is

likely to tell them. Maureen, a reserve colonel fifty-six years old is a lot more

likely to be ordered to duty than one who is sixty-three. About one hundred per cent

more likely.'

I'm using a Time agent's field recorder keyed to my voice and concealed in a body

cavity. No, no, not concealed in the tunnel of love; that would not do, as Time

agents aren't nuns and are not expected to be. I mean an artificial cavity about

where my gall bladder used to be. This gadget is supposed to be good for a thousand

hours and I hope it is working properly because, if these spooks scrag me - better

make that when they scrag me - I hope that Pixel can lead somebody to my corpse and

thereby let the Time Corps retrieve the record. I want the Circle to understand what

I was trying to do. I should have done it openly, I suppose, but Lazarus would have

grabbed it away from me. I have perfect hindsight - not so good in the other

direction.

Brian did manage to 'correct' his War Department age, simply because his general

wanted him. But he did not manage to get himself ordered to a combat command.

Instead combat came to him - he was holding down a desk at the Presidio and we were

living in an old mansion on Nob Hill when the Japanese pulled their sneak attack on

San Francisco, 7 December 1941.

It is an odd feeling to look up into the sky, see planes overhead, feel their

engines deep in your bones, see their bellies give birth to bombs, and know that it

is too late to run, too late to hide, and that you have no control whatever over

where those bombs will hit - on you or on houses a block away. The feeling was not

terror; it was more a sense of déja vu, as if I had been there a thousand times

before. I don't care to feel it again but I know why warriors (real ones, not wimps

in uniform) always seek combat assignments, not desk jobs. It is in the presence of

death that one lives most intensely. `Better one crowded hour of life -'

I have read that in time line three this sneak attack was made on Hawaii, not San

Francisco, and that Californian Japanese were thereafter moved back from the coast.

If so, they were extremely lucky, for that spared them the blood bath that took

place in time line two, where more than 6o.ooo Japanese-Americans were lynched or

shot or (in some cases) burned alive between Sunday and Tuesday, 7-9 December 1941.

Did this affect what we did to Tokyo and Kobe later? I wonder.

Wars that start with sneak attacks are certain to be merciless; all the histories

prove it.

As one result of those lynch mobs, President Barkley placed California under martial

law. In April 1942 this was eased off and only the twenty-mile strip inland from the

mean hightide line was militarised, but the zone was extended up the coast to

Canada. In San Francisco this caused no special inconvenience - it was much like

living on a military reservation and a marked improvement over San Francisco's usual

civic corruption... but after dark on the coast itself there was always a danger

that some sixteen-year-old boy in a National Guard uniform, armed with a World War

One Springfield, might get nervous and trigger happy.

Or so I heard; I never risked it. The beach from Canada to Mexico was a combat zone;

anyone on it after dark was risking sudden death and many found it.

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I had my youngest with me, Donald, four, and Priscilla, two. My school-age children

- Alice, Doris, Patrick, and Susan - were in Kansas City with Betty Lou. I had

thought of Arthur Roy as being school age (born 1924), but his cousin Nelson swore

him into the Marine Corps the day after the bombing of San Francisco, along with his

elder brother Richard (born 1914); they went to Pendleton together. Nelson was on

limited duty, having left a foot in Belleau Wood in 1918. Justin was on the War

Production Board, based in Washington but travelling rather steadily; he stayed with

us on Nob Hill several times.

Woodrow I did not see even once until the war was over. I received a Christmas card

from him in December 1941, postmarked Pensacola, Florida: 'Dear Mom and Pop, I'm

hiding out from the Nips and teaching Boy Scouts how to fly upside down. Heather and

the kids are stashed for the duration at Avalon Beach, PO Box 6320, so I sleep home

most nights. Merry Christmas and have a nice war. Woodrow.'

The next we heard from Woodrow was a card from the Royal Hawaiian at Waikiki: 'The

service here is not quite up to peacetime standards but it is better than that at

Lahaina. Despite any rumours to the contrary the sharks in Lahaina Roads are not

vegetarian. Hoping you are the same. W.W.'

That was our first intimation that Woodrow had been in the Battle of Lahaina Roads.

Whether he was in the Saratoga when she was sunk, or whether he ditched from the

air, I do not know. But his card implies that he was in the water at some point. I

asked him about this after the War. He looked puzzled and said, `Mom, where did you

get that notion? I spent the war in Washington, DC, drinking Scotch with my opposite

number in the British Aircraft Commission. His Scotch, it was - he had worked out a

scam to fly it in from Bermuda.'

Woodrow was not always strictly truthful.

Let me see... Theodore Ira, my World War One baby, went to active duty with Kansas

City's 110th Combat Engineers and spent most of the war in Noumea, building

airstrips and docks and such. Nancy's husband and Eleanor's son, Jonathan, had

stayed in the Reserve but not in the Guard; he was a column commander in Patton's

Panzers when they drove the Russians out of Czechoslovakia. Nancy helped organise

the WAAC and finished the war senior to her husband, to the vast amusement of all of

us - even Jonathan. George started out in the 35th Division HQ but wound up in the

OSS, so I don't know what he did. In March 1944 Brian Junior made the landing at

Marseilles, caught a piece of shrapnel in his left thigh, and wound up back in

Salisbury in England, an executive officer in the training command.

My letters to Father were returned to me in 1942, along with a formal letter of

regret from the national headquarters of the AFS.

Richard's wife, Marian, stayed in nearby San Juan Capistrano while Richard was at

Camp Pendleton. When he shipped out, I invited her to move in with us, with her

children - four, and one that was born shortly after she arrived. We could make room

for them and it was actually easier for us mo women to take care of seven children

than it had been for each of us to cope with our own unassisted. We worked things

out so that one of us could assist at Letterman Army Hospital every afternoon, going

to the Presidio by bus (no gasoline ration expended) and coming back with Brian. I

was fond 'of Marian; she was as dear to me as my own daughters.

So it came about that she was with us when she received that telegram: Richard had

earned the Navy Cross on Iwo Jima - posthumously.

A little over five months later we destroyed Tokyo and Kobe. Then Emperor Akihito

and his ministers shocked us all by ritually disembowelling themselves, first the

ministers, then the Emperor, after the Emperor announced to them that his mind had

been quieted by President Barkley's promise to spare Kyoto. It was especially

shocking in that Emperor Akihito was just a boy, not yet twelve, younger than my son

Patrick Henry.

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We will never understand the Japanese. But the long war was over.

I am forced to wonder what would have happened if the Emperor's father, Emperor

Hirohito, had not died in the 'Star Festival' air strike on 7 July? He was reputed

to be so westernised. The other pertinent histories, time lines three and six, give

no firm answers. Hirohito seems to have been the captive of his ministers, reigning

but not ruling.

Once Japan surrendered Brian asked for early separation, but was sent to Texas -

Amarillo, then Dallas - to assist in contract terminations - the only time, I think,

that he regretted having passed his bar examinations back in 1938.

But moving away from San Francisco at that time was a good idea - a change of

background to a place where we knew no one - because on arrival in Texas Marian

became 'Maureen J. Smith' and I dyed my hair and became her widowed mother, Marian

Hardy. None too soon; she was already showing - four months later she gave birth to

Richard Brian. We kept it straight with the Foundation, of course, and registered

Marian's new baby correctly: Marian Justin Hardy + Brian Smith, Senior.

What happened next is difficult for me to talk about, because there are three points

of view and mine is only one of them. I am certain that the other two are each as

fair-minded as I am, if not more so. `More so' I think I must concede, as Father had

warned me, more than half a century earlier, that I was an amoral wretch who could

reason only pragmatically, not morally.

I had not tried to keep my husband out of my daughter-inlaw's bed. Neither Briney

nor I had ever tried to own each other; we both approved of sex for fun and we had

established our rules for civilised adultery many years earlier. I was a bit

surprised that Marian had apparently made no effort to keep from getting pregnant by

Brian... but only in that she did not consult me ahead of time. (If she consulted

Briney, he never mentioned it. But men do have this tendency to spray sperm around

like a fire-hose while letting the females decide whether or not to make practical

use of the juice.)

Nevertheless I was not angry, just mildly surprised. And I do recognise the normal

biological reflex under which the first thing a freshly bereft widow does, if she

can manage it, is to spread her legs and sob bitterly and use her womb to replace

the dear departed. It is a survival mechanism, one not limited to wars but more

prevalent in wartime, as statistical analysis demonstrates.

(I hear that there are men who watch the newspapers for funerals, then attend those

of married men in order to meet new widows. This is shooting fish down a well and

probably, merits castration. On the other hand, those widows might not thank us.)

So we moved to Dallas and everything was satisfactory for a while. Brian was simply

a man with two wives, a situation not unknown among Howards - just pull the shades

against the neighbours, like some Mormons.

A short time after the birth of Marian's new baby Brian came to me with something on

his mind, something he had trouble articulating.

I finally said, `Look, dearest, I am not a mind reader. Whatever it is, just spill

it.'

'Marian wants a divorce.'

`Huh? Briney, I'm confused. If she's not happy with us, all she needs to do is to

move out; it doesn't take a divorce. In fact I don't see how she could get one. But

I'm terribly sorry to hear it. I thought we had gone to considerable trouble to make

things happy for her. And for Richard Brian and her other children. Do you want me

to talk to her? Try to find out what the trouble is?'

'Uh - Damn it, I didn't make myself clear. She wants you to get a divorce so that

she can marry me.'

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My jaw dropped, then I laughed. 'Goodness, Briney, what in the world makes her think

I would ever do that? I don't want to divorce you; you're the nicest husband a gal

ever had. I don't mind sharing you - but, darling, I don't want to get rid of you.

I'll tell her so. Where is she? I'll take her to bed and tell her so as sweetly as

possible.' I reached up, took his shoulders and kissed him.

Then I continued to hold his shoulders and look up at him. 'Hey, wait a minute. You

want a divorce. Don't you?'

Briney didn't say anything; he just looked embarrassed.

I sighed. 'Poor Briney. Us frails do make your life complicated, don't we? We follow

you around, climb into your lap, breathe in your ear. Even your daughters seduce

you, like - what was his name? Old Testament. And even your daughters-in-law. Stop

looking glum, dear man; I don't have a ring in your nose, and never have had.'

'You'll do it?' He looked relieved.

`Me? Do what?'

'Divorce me.'

'No. Of course not'

`But you said -'

`I said that I didn't have a ring in your nose. If you want to divorce me, I won't

fight it. But I'm not the one who wants a divorce. If you like, you can simply do it

to me Muslim sty1e. Tell me "I divorce you" three times, and I'll go pack my

clothes:

Perhaps I should not have been stubborn about it but I do not see that I owed it to

either of them to go through the fiddle-faddle - the trauma - of finding a lawyer

and digging up witnesses and appearing in court. I would co-operate... but let them

do the work.

Brian gave in once he saw that I meant it. Marian was vexed with me, stopped

smiling, and avoided talking with me. Finally I stopped her when she was about to

leave the living-room as I came in.

`Marian!'

She stopped. 'Yes, Mother?'

'I want you to stop pretending to be aggrieved. I want to see you smile and hear you

laugh, the way you used to. You have asked me to rum my husband over to you and I

have agreed to co-operate. But you must co-operate, too. You are acting like a

spoiled child. In fact, you are a spoiled child.'

'Why, how utterly unfair!'

'Girls, girls!'

I turned and looked at Brian. `I am not a girl. I am your wife of forty-seven years.

While I am here, I will be treated with respect and with warmth. I don't expect

gratitude from Marian; my father taught me years ago never to expect gratitude

because there is no such thing. But Marian can simulate gratitude out of politeness.

Or she can move out. At once. Right this minute. If you mo expect me not to fight

this divorce, you can both show me some appreciation.'

I went to my room, got into bed, cried a little, then fell into a troubled sleep.

Half an hour later, or an hour, or longer, I was wakened by a tap on my door. `Yes?'

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`It's Marian, Mama. May I come in?'

'Certainly; darling!'

She came in, closed the door behind her; looked at me, her chin quivering and tears

starting. I sat up, put out my arms.

`Come to me, dear.'

That ended any trouble with Marian. But not quite with Brian. The following weekend

he pointed out that the sine gua non of an uncontested divorce was a property

settlement agreed to by both parties. He had fetched home a fat briefcase.

`I have the essential papers here. Shall we look them over?'

`All right' (No use putting off a trip to the dentist.)

Brian put the briefcase down on the dining-table. `We can spread them out here.' He

sat down.

I sat down on his left; Marian sat down opposite me. I said, 'No, Marian, I want to

go over these in private. So you are excused, dear. And do please keep the children

out.'

She looked blank and started to stand up. Brian reached out and stopped her.

`Maureen, Marian is an interested party. Equally interested.'

'No, she's not. I'm sorry.'

`How do you figure?'

`What you have there, what is represented by those papers, is our community

property, yours and mine, what you and I have accumulated in the course of our

marriage. None of it is Marian's and I don't care to go over it in the presence of a

third party. At a later time, when she divorces you, she'll be present at the

divvy-up and I will not be. Today, Brian, it is between you and me, no one else.'

`What do you mean? - when she divorces me.'

`Correction: if she divorces you.' (She did. In 1966.) 'Brian, did you fetch home an

adding machine? Oh, all I really require is a sharp pencil:

Marian caught Brian's eye, left the room and closed the door behind her.

He said, `Maureen, why do you always have to be so rough on her?'

`Behave yourself, Briney. You should not have attempted to have her present for this

and you know it. Now... do you want to do this politely? Or shall we wait until I

can call in a lawyer?'

`I see no reason why it can't be done politely. And even less reason why a lawyer

should look at my private business.'

'And still less reason why your fiancée should look at mine.

Briney, stop behaving like Woodie at age six. How did you plan on whacking this up?'

'Well, first we must plan on the marriage allotments for the kids. Seven, that is.

And Marian's five. Six, now.'

(Each time we had rung the cash register - received a baby bounty from the Ira

Howard Foundation - Brian had started a bookkeeping account for that child, letting

that amount enhance on his books at six per cent compounded quarterly, then had

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passed on the enhanced amount to that child as a wedding present - about three times

the original baby bounty. In the meantime Brian had the use of the money as working

capital for eighteen or more years... and, believe me, Brian could always make

working capital pay more than six per cent, especially after 1918 when he had

Theodore's predictions to guide him. Just one word - 'Xerox' or 'Polaroid' - could

mean a fortune, known ahead of time.)

'Woops! Not out of this pile, Briney. Richard received his marriage allotment from

us when he married Marian. Her children by Richard are our grandchildren. What about

our other grandchildren? I haven't counted lately but I think we have fifty-two. Are

you planning to subsidise ail fifty-two out of what we own today?'

`The situation is different'

'It certainly is. Brian, you are trying to favour five of our grandchildren at the

expense of all our other grandchildren and all our remaining unmarried children. I

won't permit it'

'I'll be the judge of that.'

No, you will not. It will be a real judge, in a real court. Or you will treat all

our children equally and not attempt to favour five grandchildren while ignoring

forty-seven others.'

'Maureen, you've never behaved this way in the past.'

'In the past you never broke up our partnership. But now that you have done so, that

break up will be on terms that strike both of us as equitable... or you can tell it

to the judge. Brian, you can't cast me off like an old shoe and then expect me to

continue to accept your rulings as docilely as I have done all these years. I say

again: quit behaving like Woodie as a child. Now... stipulating that we have agreed,

or will agree, on what is earmarked for marriage allowances, how do you want to

divide up the rest of it?'

'Eh? Three equal portions. Of course.'

'You're giving me two portions? That's generous of you, but more than I had

expected.'

'No, no! A share for you, a share for me, a share for Marian. Even all the way

around.'

'Where is the fourth share? The one for my husband.'

'You're getting married again?'

'No immediate plans. I may.'

'Then we'l1 cross that bridge when we come to it'

'Briney, Briney! Your needle is stuck in a groove. Can't you get it through your

head that you cannot force me to accept your fiancée as co-owner of the property you

and I have accumulated together? Half of it is mine. Fair is fair.'

'Damn it, Mo, you cooked and kept house. I am the one who got out there and

struggled to build up a fortune. Not you.'

'Where did the capital come from, Briney?'

'Huh?'

'Have you forgotten? How did we ring the cash register? For that matter how did it

come about that you knew ahead of time the date of Black Tuesday? Did I have

something to do with it? Briney, I'm not going to argue it because you don't want to

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be fair about it. You keep trying to hand over to your new love some of my half of

what you and I accumulated together. Let's take it into court and let a judge

decide. We can do it here, a community property state, or in California, another

community property state, or in Missouri where you can count on it that a judge

would give me more than half. In the mean time I will ask for temporary alimony -'

'Alimony!'

' - and child support for six children while the court determines what my share,

plus alimony, plus child support, adds up to.'

Brian looked astounded. 'You intend to strip me bare? Just because I knocked up

Marian?'

'Certainly not, Brian. I don't even want alimony. What I do want... and expect...

and insist on - or we go to court over it is this: after an equitable arrangement

for support of the children and for their marriage allowances, based on what we have

done for our married children in the past and based on what you are now sending to

Betty Lou for our children in Kansas City... once the kids are taken care of, I want

exactly half, right down the middle. Otherwise we let a judge settle it.'

Brian looked grim. 'Very well':

'Good. Make up two lists, two halves, and then we can draw up a formal property

settlement, one we can file with the court. Where do you intend to divorce me?

Here?'

'If you have no objection. Easiest.'

'All right.'

It took Brian all that weekend to make the two property lists. On Monday night fie

showed them to me.

`Here they are. Here is a summary list of my half, and here is yours.'

I looked at them and could sec at once that the totals matched... and I suppressed a

need to whistle at the totals. I had not guessed even to the nearest million how

wealthy we were.

'Brian, why is this list mine and that list yours?'

'I've kept on my list the properties I want to handle. On your list are things that

don't require my expertise, such as commercial bonds and municipals. It doesn't

matter; it's an even split.'

'Since it is even, let's just swap them. I'll take everything on your list, you take

the half you listed for me.'

'Look, I explained to you why I -'

`Then, if there are properties on my list that you really want, you can buy them

from me. At a mutually agreeable price.'

'Mo, do you think I am trying to cheat you?'

'Yes, dear, you have been trying to cheat me from the moment this matter of a

divorce and property settlement came up.' I smiled at him. `But I shan't let you;

you would regret it later. Now take those two lists and rearrange them: Make the

division so meticulously fair that you really do not care which list I take, which

list I leave to you. Or, if you prefer it, I will make the division and you can take

your choice. But you are not going to put all of the goodies into one list and then

claim that the list with the goodies is yours. So - Do I make the lists and you

choose? Or do you make them and I choose?'

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It took him a week to do it, and the poor man almost died of frustration. But at

last fie produced new lists.

I looked at them. `This suits you, Briney? You now have our community property

divided so perfectly that you really don't care which list I choose?'

He smiled wryly. 'Let's say that I will wince and shudder and bleed equally either

way.'

`Poor Briney. You remind me of the donkey and the two piles of hay. There are ample

liquid assets in each list; you can buy from me anything dear to your heart.' I

reached for one list while watching his eyes - then picked up the other list.

'Here's my half. Let's start in on the paper work.'

Brian squawked again when fie wanted to buy from me some of the items of my list and

I agreed to sell but insisted on dickering over the prices. But my memory serves me

well, and I had made a point of remembering and looking up the name D. D. Harriman

after I heard Theodore mention it on that sad, glad, mad Sunday he went away and

never came back. At the time we divided our property I knew exactly which companies

Mr Harriman controlled, whether they were listed on the NYSE or not.

So I sold Brian what he wanted, but not at nominal book value. At replacement value,

plus a reasonable profit I'm not totally ignorant about business. But Brian had

never left enough cash in my hands for me to treat it as capital. However, for years

I had found it entertaining to speculate on paper. The game made reading the Wall

Street journal quite entertaining.

Brian divorced me in the middle of 1946 and I went back to Kansas City. He did not

hold a grudge and neither did I and neither did Marian. Briney had not truly been a

bad boy; he had simply fought as hard for Marian as he had once fought for me... and

I had done the same, once 1 realised that I was on my own and that my beloved

husband was no longer my champion.

No point in holding grudges. Once the ship lifts, all bills are paid.

Chapter 17 - Starting Over

My daughter Susan married Henry Schultz on Saturday, 1 August 195, in Mark's

Episcopal Church, The Paseo at 63rd in Kansas City. Brian was there and gave his

daughter in marriage; Marian stayed behind in Dallas, with her children... and, I

must add, with an acceptable excuse. She was at or near term with her latest baby,

and could reasonably have asked Brian to stay at home. Instead she urged him not to

disappoint Susan.

I'm not sure Susan would have noticed, but I would have.

Over half of my children were there, most of them with their spouses, and about

forty of my grandchildren and their spouses, along with a sprinkling of

great-grandchildren - and one great-great-grandchild. Not bad, for a woman whose

official age was forty-seven. Not bad even for a woman whose actual age was seventy

years and four weeks.

Impossible? Not quite. My Nancy gave birth to her Roberta on Christmas Day 1918.

Roberta married at sixteen (Zachary Barstow) and bore Anne Barstow on 2 November

1935. Anne Barstow married Eugene Hardy and had her first child, Nancy Jane Hardy,

on 22 june 1952.

Name Birth Date Relationship

Maureen Johnson (Smith) 4 Jul 1882 great-great-grandmother

Nancy Smith (Weatheral) 1 Dec 1899 great-grandmother

Roberta Weatheral (Barstow) 25 Dec 1918 grandmother

Anne Barstow (Hardy) 2 Nov 1935 mother

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Nancy Jane Hardy 22 Jun 1952 daughter

According to the Archives Nancy Jane Hardy (Foote) gave birth to Justin Foote, first

of that name, on the last day of the twentieth century, 31 December 2000. I married

his (and my) remote descendant, Justin Foote the forty-fifth, in marrying into the

Lazarus Long family in Gregorian AD 4316, almost twenty-four centuries later - my

hundred-and-first year by my personal time line.

The Schultz family was almost as well represented at Susan's wedding as the Johnson

family, even though most of them had to fly in from California or from Pennsylvania.

But they could not show five generations, all in one room. I was delighted that we

could, and I did not hang back when the photographer, Kenneth Barstow, wanted a

group picture of us. He seated me in the middle with my great-great granddaughter in

my lap, while my daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter hovered around us,

like angels around Madonna and Child.

Whereupon we got scolded. Ken kept shooting pictures until Nancy Jane got bored with

it and started to cry. At that point Justin Weatheral moved in and said, `Ken, may I

see your camera?'

`Certainly, Uncle Justin.' (Honorary uncle - first cousin twice removed, I believe.

The Howard Families were beginning to reach the point where everyone was related to

everyone else... with those inevitable defects through inbreeding that later had to

be weeded out.)

`You can have it back in a moment. Now, ladies - you especially, Maureen - what I

have to say is strictly among ourselves, persons registered with the Foundation.

Look around you. Is the lodge tyled? Are there any strangers among us?'

I said, 'Justin, admission to this reception is by card only. Almost anyone could

have been at the wedding. But it takes a card to get inside this room. I sent them

out for our family; Johanna Schultz handled it for Henry's relatives.'

`I got in without a card.'

'Justin, everybody knows you.'

`That's my point. Who else got in without a card? Good old Joe Blow, whom everybody

knows, of course. Is that Joe behind the table, ladling out punch?'

I answered, 'Of course there are hired staff inside. Musicians. the caterer's

people. And such.'

'And such. Exactly.' Justin lowered his voice, spoke directly to us five and to Ken.

'You all know the efforts of all of us are making to keep our ages optimised. You,

Maureen, how old are you?'

'Uh... forty-seven.'

'Nancy? Your age, dear?'

Nancy started to say, 'Fifty-two.' She got out the, first syllable, bit it off. 'Oh,

shucks, Papa-Weatheral, I don't keep track of my age.'

`Your age, Nancy,' Justin insisted.

`Let me see. Mama had me at fifteen, so - How old are you, Mama?'

'Forty-seven.'

'Yes, of course. I'm thirty-two.'

Justin looked at my granddaughter Roberta, my great-granddaughter Anne, and my

great-great-granddaughter Nancy Jane, and said, I'm not going to ask the ages of you

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three, because any way you answer would emphasise the impossibility of reconciling

your very existence with Nancy's and Maureen's claimed age. Speaking for the

trustees I can say how pleased we are with how thoroughly all of you are carrying

out the purpose of Ira Howard's will. But, again speaking for the trustees, I must

again emphasise the necessity of never calling attention to our peculiarity. We must

try to avoid having anyone notice that we are in any way different.'

He sighed, then went on: 'So I am forced to say that I am sorry to see you five

ladies all in one room at one time, and to add that I hope that it will never happen

again. And I shiver at the idea that you are being photographed together. If that

photograph wound up in the society section of next Sunday's Journal-Post, it could

ruin the careful efforts of all our cousins to avoid calling attention to ourselves.

Ken, don't you think it would be well to kill that picture?'

Ken Barstow was outgunned; I could see that he was about to let the Foundation's

chief officer have his own way.

But I was not outgunned. `Hey! Justin, you stop that! You're chairman of the board,

surely. But nobody appointed you God. Those photos were taken for me and my kids.

You kill them, or get Ken to, and I'm going to beat you over the head with his

camera.'

'Now, Maureen - '

` "Now Maureen" my tired feet! We'll keep it out of the papers, certainly. But I

want five copies of Ken's best shot, one for each of us. And Ken is entitled to a

copy for his own files, if he wants it.'

We agreed on that and Justin asked for one to place in the Archives.

I thought at the time that Justin was being unnecessarily cautious. I was wrong.

Justin, in instituting and stubbomly pressing the policy later known as the

Masquerade, caused our cousins to enter the Interregnum of the Prophets with eighty

per cent having public ages under forty, only three per cent with public ages over

fifty. Once the Prophet's thought police were active it became both difficult and

dangerous to switch backgrounds and change identities; Justin's foresight made it

usually unnecessary to attempt it.

According to the Archives Brian died in 1998 at the age of 119 - a newsworthy age in

the twentieth century. But his public age at that time was eighty-two, which is not

newsworthy at all. Justin's policies allowed almost all Howard clients to enter the

Interregnum (2012) with reduced public ages that let them live and die without

conspicuously living too long.

Thank God I didn't have to cope with it! No, not `Thank God' - Thank Hilda Mae, Zeb,

Deety, Jake, and a wonderful, lovable machine named `Gay Deceiver'. I would like to

see all five of them right now; Mama Maureen needs rescuing again.

Maybe Pixel will find them. I think he understood me.

Several out-of-towners stayed over the weekend, but by Tuesday morning 5 August I

was alone - truly alone for the first time in my seventy years of life. My two

youngest - Donald, sixteen, and Priscilla, fourteen - were still unmarried. But they

were no longer mine. In the divorce settlement, they had elected to stay with the

children they had been living with as brothers and sisters - and who were now

legally their brothers and sisters as Marian had adopted them.

Susan was the youngest of the four who had lived with Betty Lou and Nelson during

the War, and the last to marry.

Alice Virginia had married Ralph Sperling right after the War ended; Doris Jean

married Roderick Briggs the following year; and Patrick Henry, my son by Justin, had

married Charlotte Schmidt in 1951.

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Betty Lou and Nelson moved to Tampa shortly after I returned home, taking with them

their three who were still at home. Her parents and Nelson's mother Aunt Carole were

in Florida; Betty Lou wanted to look after all of them. (How old was Aunt Carole in

1946? She was the widow of Father's elder brother, so she - Goodness! In 1946 she

must have been on or near her century mark. Yet she looked the same as ever the last

time I had seen her, uh - shortly before Japan's sneak attack in '41. Did she dye

her hair?)

On Saturday I had been triste not only because my last chick was getting married and

leaving home but also (and primarily) because Susan's wedding day was Father's

century day; he was born 2 August 1852.

Apparently no one associated the date with Father, and I mentioned it to no one

because a wedding day belongs to the couple getting married and no one should bring

up any subject, say or do anything, that might subtract from the joyfulness of the

occasion. So I had kept quiet.

But I was constantly aware of the date. It had been twelve years and two months

since Father had gone to war... and I had missed him every one of those four

thousand, four hundred, and forty-one days - and most especially during the years

after Brian turned me in for a newer model.

Please understand me; I am not condemning Brian. I had stopped being fertile around

the beginning of World War Two, whereas. Marian was still decidedly fertile - and

children are the purpose of a Howard-sponsored marriage. Marian was willing and able

to bear him more children but she wanted that marriage licence. That's

understandable.

Neither of them tried to get rid of me. Brian assumed that I would stay, until I

made it clear that I would not. Marian begged me to stay, and cried when I left.

But Dallas is not Boondock, and the unnatural practice of monogamy is as rooted in

the American culture of the twentieth century as group marriage is rooted in the

quasi anarchistic, unstructured culture of Tertius in the third millennium of the

diaspora. At the time I decided not to stay with Brian and Marian I had no Boondock

experience to guide me; I simply knew in my gut that, if I stayed, Marian and I

would be locked, willy-nilly, in a struggle for dominance, a struggle that neither

of us wanted, and that Brian would be buffeted by our troubles and made unhappy

thereby.

But that does not mean that I was happy about leaving. A divorce, any divorce no

matter how necessary, is an amputation. For a long time I felt like an animal that

has gnawed off its own leg in order to escape from a trap.

By my own time line all this happened more than eighty years ago. Am I still

resentful?

Yes, I am. Not at Brian - at Marian. Brian was a man with no malice in him; I am

sure in my heart that he did not intend to mistreat me. At worst, one may say that

it was not too bright of him to impregnate his sons widow. But how many men are

truly wise in their handling of women? In all history you can count them on the

fingers of one thumb.

Marian - She is another matter. She rewarded my hospitality by demanding that my

husband divorce me. My father had taught me never to expect that imaginary emotion,

gratitude. But am I not entitled to expect decent treatment from a guest under my

roof?

Gratitude: an imaginary emotion that rewards an imaginary behaviour, altruism. Both

imaginaries are false faces for selfishness, which is a real and honest emotion.

Long ago Mr Clemens demonstrated in his essay `What is Man?' that every one of us

act at all rimes in his own interest. Once you understand this, it offers a way to

negotiate with an antagonist in order to find means to cooperate with him for mutual

benefit. But if you are convinced of your own altruism and you try to shame him out

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of his horrid selfishness, you will get nowhere.

So, in dealing with Marian, where did I go wrong?

Did I lapse into the error of altruism?

I think I did. I should have said, `Listen, bitchie! Behave yourself and you can

live here as long as you like. But forget this idea of trying to crowd me out of my

own home, or you and your nameless babe will land out there in the snow. If I don't

tear, out your partition instead.' And to Brian: 'Don't try it, buster! Or I'll find

a shyster who will make you wish that you had never laid eyes on that chippie. We'll

take you for every dime.'

But those are just middle-of-the-night thoughts. Marriage is a psychological

condition, not a civil contract and a licence. Once a marriage is dead, it is dead,

and it begins to stink even faster than dead fish. What matters is not who killed it

but the fact of its death. Then it becomes time to divvy-up, split up, and run, with

no time wasted on recriminations.

So why am I wasting time eighty years later brooding over the corpse of a long-dead

marriage - when I am having enough trouble from these murderous spooks? I feel sure

that Pixel does not fret over the ghosts of long-dead tabby cats. He lives in the

eternal now... and I should, too.

In 1946, as soon as I was back in Kansas City, the first thing I wanted to do was to

register as a college student. Both the University of Kansas City and Rockhurst

College were a mile north of us at 53rd Street, each a block off Rockhill Boulevard,

Rockhurst to the east and KCU to the west - five minutes by car, tem by bus, or a

pleasant twenty-minute walk in good weather. The Medical School of the University of

Kansas was just west of 39th and State line, ten minutes by car. The Kansas City

School of Law was downtown, a twenty-minute drive.

Each had advantages and shortcomings Rockhurst was very small but it was a Jesuit

school and therefore probably high in scholarship. It was a school for men but not

totally so. I had been told that its coeds were all nuns, schoolteachers improving

their credentials, so I was not sure that I would be welcome. Father McCaw,

president of Rockhurst, set me straight:

`Mrs Johnson, our policies are not set in stone. While most of our students are men,

we do not exclude women who seriously desire what we offer. We are a Catholic school

but we welcome non-Catholics. Here at Rockhurst we do not actively proselytise but

perhaps I should warn you that Episcopalians, such as yourself, exposed to sound

Catholic doctrine, often wind up converted to the true Church. If, while you are

among us, you find yourself in need of instruction in faith and dogma, we will be

happy to supply it. But we will not pressure you. Now... Are you degree-seeking? Or

not?'

I explained to him that I had registered as a special student and potential

candidate for a bachelor's degree at KCU. 'But I am more interested in an education

than I am in a degree. That is why I have come here. I am aware of the reputation of

the Jesuits for scholarship. I hope to learn things here that I would not learn on

the other campus.'

'One may always hope.' He scribbled something on a pad, tore it off and gave it to

me. 'You are a special student now, entitled to attend any lecture course. There are

additional fees for some courses, such as laboratory courses. Take this to the

Bursar's office; they'll accept your tuition fee and straighten you out on other

charges. Stop in and see me in a week or two.'

The next six years, 1946-52, I spent in school, including summer sessions. My home

had no babies in it and no small children. There is not much work in such a

household and what there was, I delegated - to Doris, sixteen and just starting to

check her Howard list under my protective chaperonage, and to Susan, who was only

twelve and still virgin (I felt fairly sure) But an outstanding cook for her age. So

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I started in on her sex education, being aware of the strong correlation between

good cooking and a high libido... only to find that Aunt Betty Lou had done well by

my girls in bringing them up as innocent sophisticates, well-informed about their

bodies and their female heritage long before they would have to face that heritage

emotionally.

I had just one son at home, Pat, fourteen in '46. I decided, somewhat reluctantly,

that I was going to have to check on his knowledge of sex - before he contracted

some silly disease, or impregnated a twelve-year-old moron with big breasts and a

small brain, or got caught in a public scandal. I had never had to cope with this

before; either Brian, or Father, or both, had taught my sons.

Patrick was patient with me.

Finally he said, `Mama, is' there something special you want to ask me? I'll try.

Auntie B'Lou gave me the same examination she gave Alice and Doris... and I missed

only one question.'

(Shut my mouth.) 'What was the question you missed?'

'I couldn't define "ectopic pregnancy". But I can now. Shall I?'

'Never mind. Did Aunt Betty Lou or Uncle Nelson discuss the Ira Howard Foundation

with you?'

Some. When Alice started courting, Uncle Nelson got me aside and told me to mind my

own business and keep my mouth shut... then to see him again when I wanted to start

courting myself. If I did. I didn't think I would. But I did. So I did... and he

told me about baby subsidies. For Howard babies. For Howard babies only.'

'Yes. Well, dear, Aunt Betty Lou and Uncle Nelson seem to have told you everything I

could tell you. Uh... Did Uncle Nelson ever show you the Forberg etchings?'

'No.'

(Damn it, Briney; why aren't you here? This is your job.) `Then I must show them to

you. If I can find them.'

'Auntie B'Lou showed them to me. They're in my room.' He smiled shyly. 'I like to

look at them. Shall I get them for you?'

'No. Well, at your convenience. Patrick, you seem to know all about sex a boy your

age needs to know. Is there anything I can tell you? Or do for you?'

'Uh... I guess not. Well - Auntie B'Lou used to keep me supplied with fishskins. I

promised her that I would always use them... but Walgren's won't sell them to anyone

my a age,'

(What else has Betty Lou dope for him? Is intercourse with an aunt incest?

Correction: is an aunt-in-law incest? They are certainly no blood relation. Maureen,

mind your own business.)

'All right, I'll keep you supplied. Uh, Patrick, where have you been using them? Not

who, but where?'

'Right now I only know one girl that well... and her mother is very fussy. Her

mother has told her to do it only at home, in their basement playroom. Or else.'

(I did not ask about 'Or else'.) 'Her mother seems very sensible. Well, dear, you

can do it safely here at home, too. But nowhere else, I hope Not in Swope Park, for

example. Too risky.' (Maureen, who are you to talk?)

All three were good children and I had no trouble with them. Aside from some mild

supervision the household ran itself and I had plenty of time for school. By the

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time Susan married in August 1952 I had not one but four degrees: bachelor of arts,

bachelor of laws, master of science, and doctor of philosophy. Preposterous!

But here is how the rabbit got into the hat:

I could not claim a high school education because a high school diploma dated 1898

would have been horribly inconsistent with my claimed Howard age (forty-four in

1946). Oh, whenever possible I listed my age as 'over 21' but, if pinned down, I

claimed my Howard age and avoided situations that could possibly tie me into

anything that happened before about 1910. Mostly I did this by keeping my lips

zipped - no 'Did you know so-and-so?' and no 'Remember whens'.

So, when I registered at KCU ir was not as a freshman, but as a special student.

Then I asked for advanced standing and degree-seeking status, through examinations,

and did not boggle at the high fees quoted to me for special examinations to

discover just where I stood in English and American literature, American history,

world history, mathematics, Latin, Greek, French, German, Spanish, anatomy,

physiology, chemistry, physics, and general science. During the remainder of that

semester I took examinations steadily, cramming for the next one at night and

sometimes attending lectures across the boulevard for dessert.

Toward the beginning of the summer session I was called to the office of the Dean of

Academics, Dr Bannister.

'Please sit down, Mrs Johnson.'

I sat down and waited. In appearance he reminded me of Mr Clemens, even though he

did not wear white suits and did not smoke (thank goodness!) those horrible cigars.

But he had that untidy halo of white hair and that look of a jovial Satan. I liked

him on sight.

He went on: 'You have completed your special examinations. May I ask what standing

you expected to receive here?'

'I had no expectations, Doctor. I asked to be examined in order to find out where I

belong.'

'Hmm. Your application shows no schools.'

'I was privately tutored, sir.'

'Yen, so I sce. You've never attended school?'

'I have attended a number of schools, sir. But briefly, never long enough for

academic credit. My father travelled a great deal:

'What did your father do?'

'He was a doctor of medicine, sir.'

'You used the past tense.'

'He was killed in the Battle of Britain, Doctor.'

'Oh. Sorry. Mrs Johnson, your correct advanced standing is that of bachelor of arts

- no, no, attend me. We do not award that degree or any degree simply on the basis

of examinations with no time in residence. Do you expect to be on campus for the

next two semesters? The academic year of 1946-47?'

'Certainly. And this present summer session as well. And then some, as I purpose

asking to be accepted as a candidate for a doctor's degree if and when I achieve a

baccalaureate.'

Indeed. In what field?'

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'Philosophy. Metaphysics, in particular.'

'Well. Mrs Johnson, you amaze me. In your application you describe yourself as

"housewife".'

'Me description is correct, Doctor. I still have three children at home. However,

two of them are adolescent girls; both are good cooks. With cooking and housekeeping

divided among us we all have time to go to school. And, I assure you, there is

nothing basically incompatible between dishwater and curiosity abut noumera. I am a

grandmother who never had time to go to college But I cannot believe that I'm too

old to learn. This granny refuses to sit by the fire and knit.' I added, 'Dr Will

Durant lectured here in 1921. That was my initial exposure to metaphysics.'

'Yes, I heard him myself. An evening series at the Grand Avenue Temple. A charming

speaker. Goodness, you hardly seem old enough. That was twenty-five years ago.'

'My father took me. I promised myself that I would resume the study of philosophy

when I had time. Now I do.'

'I see. Mrs Johnson, do you know what I taught before I went into administration?'

'No, sir.' (Of course I know! Father would be ashamed of me if I failed to scout the

territory.)

'I taught Latin and Greek... and the Hellenic philosophers. Then the years moved

along, and Latin was no longer required and Greek no longer offered, and Greek

philosophers were ignored in favor of "modern" ideas, such as Freud and Marx and

Dewey and Skinner. So I was faced with a need to find something else to do on

campus... or go look for a job somewhere in the busy marts of trade.' He smiled

ruefully. 'Difficult. A professor from the physical sciences can find work with Dow

Chemical or with D. D. Harriman. But a teacher of Greek? Never mind. You say you

plan to take this summer session:

'Yes, sir.'

'Suppose we call you a senior now... and graduate you at the end of the first

semester, January '47, as a bachelor of arts, uh, major subject, modern languages;

minor in - oh, what you will. Classical languages. History. But you can use the

summer session and the first semester to support your real purpose, metaphysics. Um.

I'm a grandfather myself, Mrs Johnson, and an obsolete teacher of forgotten

subjects. But would it suit you to have me as your faculty adviser?'

'Oh, would you?'

'I find an interest in your purpose... and I feel sure that we can assemble a

committee sympathetic to that purpose. Hmm -

' "Old age hath yet hls honour and his toil.

Death doses all; but something ere the end

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods." '

I picked it up:

'"The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes, the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world." '

He smiled widely, and answered:

'"Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

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Of all the western stars, until I die." '

He stood up. 'Tennyson wears well, does he not? And if Odysseus can challenge age,

so can we. Come in tomorrow and let's start planning a course of study toward your

doctorate. Most of it will have to be independent study but we will look over the

prospectus and see what courses could be useful to you.'

In June 1950 I was awarded the degree of doctor of philosophy in metaphysics, my

dissertation being tided 'A Comparison of the World Pictures of Aristocles, Arouet,

and Dzhugashvili considered through interaction of epistemology, teleology, and

eschatology.' The actual content was zero, as honest metaphysics must be, but I

loaded it with Boolean algebra, which (if solved) proved that Dzhugashvili was a

murdering scoundrel... as the kulaks of the Ukraine knew too well.

I gave a copy of my dissertation to Father McCaw and invited him to my convocation.

He accepted, then glanced at the dissertation and smiled. 'I think Plato would be

pleased to be in the company of Voltaire... but each of them would shun the company

of Stalin.'

Over the course of many years the only person to translate correctly at first glance

all three of those names was Father MeCaw... except Dr Bannister, who thought up the

joke.

The dissertation was not important. But the rides required that I submit enough

pounds of scholarly manuscript to justify the degree. And for four years I had a

wonderfully good time, both there and across the boulevard.

The same week I got my Ph.D. I registered at KU Medical School and at Kansas City

School of Law - little conflict as most lectures at the Law School were at night,

whereas the courses I took at the Medical School were during the day. I was not a

candidate for MD but for a master's degree in biochemistry. I had to register for a

couple of upper division courses, but was allowed to do so while being accepted as a

candidate for MS (I think I would have been turned down had I not walked in with a

still-damp doctorate). I did not really care whether or not I received the master's

degree; I simply wanted to treat an excellent applied-science school as an

intellectual smorgasbord. Father would have loved it.

I could have had that degree in one year; I stayed longer because there were still

more courses I wanted to attend. In the meantime the KC School of Law was supposed

to require four years... but I had been there before, having attended several of

their courses while Brian was getting his law degree, 1934-38. The dean was willing

to credit me with courses simply by examination as long as I paid full-fees for each

course - it was a proprietary school; fees were a prime consideration.

I took the bar examinations in the spring of 1952 - and passed, to the surprise of

my classmates and professors. It may have helped that my papers read: 'M. J.

Johnson' rather than 'Maureen Johnson'. Once I was admitted to the bar there was no

fuss about my law degree; the school boasted about the percentage of its students

that made it all the way into the bar - a much tougher hurdle than the degree.

That is how I legitimately got four academic degrees in six years. But I honestly

think that I learned the most at the tiny little Catholic college at which I was

only a listener, never a candidate for a degree.

Especially from a Japanese-American Jesuit priest, Father Tezuka.

For the first time in my life had an opportunity to learn an oriental language and I

jumped at the chance. This class was for prospective missionaries to replace those

liquidated in the war; it had both priests and seminarians. I was welcome for just

one reason, I think: Japanese language structure and idiom and Japanese culture make

even greater differences between male and female than does American culture and

American language. I was an instructional tool'.

In 194=, the summer we spent in Chicago, I took advantage of the opportunity to

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study semantics under Count Alfred Korzybski and Dr S. I. Hayakawa, as the Institute

for General Semantics was dose to where we lived - across the Mall and east a couple

of blocks at 1234 East 56th. One thing that stuck in my mind was the emphasis both

scholars placed on the fact that a culture was reflected in its language, that

indeed the two were so interwoven that another language of a different structure (a

`metalanguage') was needed to discuss the matter adequately.

Now consider the dates. President Patton was elected in November 1948 and succeeded

President Barkley in January 1949.

The Osaka Incident took place in December 1948, Between President Patton's election

and his inauguration. So President Patton was faced with what amounted to open

rebellion in the Far Eastern Possessions formerly known as the Japanese Empire. The

secret society, The Divine Wind, seemed willing to exchange ten of their number for

one of ours indefinitely.

In his inauguration address President Patton informed the Japanese and the world

that this exchange was not acceptable. Starting at once, it was one American dead,

one Shintoist shrine destroyed and defiled, with the price going up with each

incident.

Chapter 18 - Bachelorhood

I am not an expert on how to role a conquered country, so I will refrain from

criticising President Patton's policies concerning our Far Eastern Possessions. My

dear friend and husband, Dr Jubal Harshaw, tells me (and the histories at Boondock

confirm) that on his time line (code Neil Armstrong) the policies were utterly

different - supportive rather than harsh to the conquered foe.

But both policies (both time lines) were disastrous for the United States.

In the years from 1952 to 1982 I never had any real occasion to use my study of

Japanese language and writing. But twenty-four centuries later my knowledge of

Japanese caused Jubal to ask me to accept an odd assignment, after I had shifted

from rejuvenation apprentice to the Time Corps. The outcome of the long and bitter

war between the United States and the Japanese Empire had been disastrous for both

sides on all time lines supervised by the Circle of Ouroboros, both those in which

the United States `won' and those in which the Japanese Empire `won' - such as time

Tine seven (code Fairacres) in which the Emperor and the Reichsführer split the

continent down the middle along the Mississippi River.

The Time Corps mathematicians, headed by Libby Long, and their bank of computer

simulators, supervised by Mycroft Holmes (the computer who led the Lunar Revolution

on time line three) attempted to determine whether or not a revised history could be

created in which the Japanese-American war of 1941-45 never took place. If so, would

that avoid the steady deterioration of planet Earth that had occurred after that war

on all explored time lines?

To this end the Corps needed agents before 1941 in Japan and in the United States.

Agents for the United States were no problem, as there were lavish records in

Boondock of American language, history, and culture in the twentieth century

Gregorian as well as residents of Tertius who had actually experienced that culture

at or near the target dates: Lazarus Long, Maureen Johnson, Jubal Harshaw, Richard

Campbell, Hazel Stone, Zeb Carter, Hilda Mae Burroughs, Deety Carter, Jake

Burroughs, and others - most especially Anne, a Fair Witness. I know that she was

sent. And probably others.

But residents of Tellus Tertius familiar with Japanese language and culture of the

twentieth century Gregorian were between zero and non-existent. There were two

residents of Chinese ancestry, Dong Xia and Marcy Choy-Mu, who were physically

similar to Japanese norms but neither knew any Japanese or anything of Japanese

culture.

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I could not possibly pass for Japanese - red-haired Japanese are as common as for on

fish - but I could speak and write Japanese, not like a native but like a foreigner

who has studied it. So a reasonable decision was made: I would go as a tourist - an

exceptional tourist, one who had taken the trouble to learn something of the

Language, culture, and history of Nippon before going there.

A tourist who bothers to study these aspects of a country before visiting it will

always be welcome, if he is polite by their rules of politeness, It is easy to say,

glibly, that every tourist ought to do this, but in fact this is difficult,

expensive in time and money. I have a knack for languages and enjoy studying them.

So, by the age of seventy, I knew five modern languages including my own.

That left over a thousand languages I did not know and around three billion people

with whom I had no common language. The task is too big - a labour of Tantalus.

But I was well equipped to be an inoffensive tourist in Japan for the decade

preceding the great war of 1941-45. So I went, and was put down in Macao, a place

where bribery is the norm and money will accomplish almost anything. I was armed

with lavish amounts of money and three very sincere passports; one said that I was

Canadian, another that I was American, and the third that I was British.

I went by ferry to Hong Kong, a place much more nearly honest but where nevertheless

money is highly respected. By then I had learned that neither British nor Americans

were well thought of in the Far East at that time but that Canadians had not yet

inspired any special dislike, so I started using the passport that showed that I was

born in British Columbia and lived in Vancouver. A Dutch ship, the MV Ruys, took me

from Hong Kong to Yokohama.

I spent a lovely year, 1937-38, tramping around Japan, sleeping in native inns,

feeding the tiny deer at Nara, being breathless at the sight of Fuji-San at dawn,

cruising the Inland Sea in a dinky little steamer, relishing the beauties of one of

the most beautiful countries and cultures in all histories - all the while gathering

data that I recorded in an implanted, voice-operated recorder much like the one I am

now using.

I was also wearing, internally, a finder such as I am wearing now, and the fact that

I haven't been found indicates to me that Time Corps HQ does not know what planet I

am on, as the equipment is supposed to be delicate enough to track down an agent who

has missed a rendezvous no matter where he is, as long as he is on the planet of

drop.

That's the bad news. Here is the good news. During that year in Japan I heard

several times of another redheaded English (American Canadian) woman who was touring

the Empire, studying Japanese gardens. She speaks Japanese and is said to look like

me... although the latter means little; we round-eyes all look alike to them, except

that red hair would always be noticed, and speaking Japanese is decidedly noticed.

Have I been (will I be) sent back on another visit to pre-war Japan? Am I

time-looped on myself? The paradox does not bother me; Time agents are used to loops

- I'm already looped for the gear 1937-38. I spent that year in Kansas City for the

first time, except for two weeks in July following the birth of Priscilla and after

Brian's bar exams; we celebrated both events with a trip to the Utah Canyons -

Bryce, Cedar Breaks, North Rim.

If I am also looped on myself (tripled) in Japan in the year 1937-38, then the

tripling will happen on my personal time line after my present now... which means

that Pixel will carry the message and I will be rescued. There are no paradoxes in

time; all apparent paradoxes can be untangled.

But it is a thin thread on which to hang my hope.

Tuesday, 5 August 1952, time line two, started as a sad day for Maureen... utterly

alone for the first time in my life, alone with the tedious chore of cleaning out

and closing up our old farmhouse and getting rid of it. But a glad day in one way.

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My married life had ended when Brian divorced me; my widowhood ended when Susan got

married; this chore marked the start of my bachelorhood.

The difference between widowhood and bachelorhood? Please look at it historically.

When I married, at the end of the nineteenth century, women were unmistakably second

class citizens and everyone took it for granted. In most states a woman could not

vote, or sign contracts, or own real estate, or sit on juries, or do any number of

other mundane acts without the consent of some man - her father, her husband, or her

eldest son. Most professions, trades, and occupations were closed to her. A woman

lawyer, a woman doctor, a woman engineer aroused the same surprise as a waltzing

bear.

`The wonder is not how well the bear waitzes but that it waltzes at all.' That is

from Dr Samuel Johnson, I believe - a man who regarded women as no better than

third-class citizens, lower than Scotsmen or Americans - two groups quite low in his

esteem.

All through the twentieth century the legal status of women slowly improved. By 1982

almost all the laws discriminating against women had been repealed.

More subtle but at least as important and beyond repeal was the cultural bias

against women. An example:

In the summer of 1940 when we were living on Woodlawn Avenue in Chicago, we were

especially loaded with house guests during the mo weeks bridging the Democratic

National Convention. One Howard trustee, Rufus Briggs, said to me one morning at

breakfast, I left my laundry on that balcony couch where I slept. I need

twenty-four-hour service on it and tell them to soft starch the collars - no other

starch.'

I said briskly, 'Tell them yourself' I was not feeling overly sweet-tempered, as I

had been up late the night before, arranging shake-downs for late arrivals, such as

Briggs himself - he was, one of the cheerful idiots who had arrived in Chicago

oblivious to the fact that for this period all hotel space as far away as Gary,

Indiana, had been booked solid months earlier. Then I dragged myself out of bed

early and ate in the kitchen in order to cook and serve breakfast to a dozen other

people.

Briggs looked at me as if he could not believe his ears. 'Aren't you the

housekeeper?'

`I'm the housekeeper. But I'm not your servant.'

Briggs blinked his eyes, then turned to Brian. 'Mr Smith?'

Brian said quietly, 'You have made a mistake, Mr Briggs. This lady is my wife. You

met her last night but the lights were dimmed and we were whispering because others

were asleep. So apparently you did not recognise her this morning. But I am sure Mrs

Smith would be happy to send your laundry out for you as a favour to a guest.'

I said, 'No, I would not'

It was Briney's turn to look startled. 'Maureen?'

'I won't send out his laundry and I will not cook his breakfast tomorrow morning.

His only comment this morning was to complain about his eggs; he did not even say

thank you when I put his breakfast in front of him. So he can go out for breakfast

tomorrow. I imagine he'll find something open on 63rd Street. But I have this

announcement for all of you,' I added, looking around. 'We have no servants here. I

am just as anxious to get to Convention Hall on time as you are. Yesterday I was

late because I was making beds and doing dishes. Only one of you made your own bed -

thanks, Merle! I'm not going to make beds today; if you don't make your own bed, you

will find it still unmade when you get back. Right now I want volunteers to clear

the table and do the dishes... and if I don't get them, I am not going to cook

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breakfast for anyone tomorrow.'

An hour later Brian and I left to go to the Convention.

While we were walking to the El station he said to me, `Mo, this is the first time

we had a chance to speak to you privately. I really did not appreciate your failure

to back me up in dealing with another trustee.'

`How?' I asked (knowing quite well what he meant).

'I told Mr Briggs that you would be happy to send out his laundry, and then you

flatly refused, contradicting me. My dear, I was humiliated.'

`Briney, I was humiliated when you attempted to reverse me after I had told him to

send out his laundry himself. I simply stuck by my guns.'

`But he had made a mistake, dear; he thought you were a servant. I tried to smooth

it over by saying that of course you were happy to do it as a favour to a guest.'

`Why didn't you say that you would be happy to send out his laundry?'

`Eh?' Brian seemed truly puzzled.

`I can tell you why you didn't offer to do it. Because both you men regard sending

out laundry as women's work. And it is, when it's your laundry and I am the woman.

But I'm not Rufus Briggs wife and I will not do servant's work for him. He's a

clod.'

`Maureen, sometimes I don't understand you.'

'You're right; sometimes you don't.'

'I mean - Take this matter of making beds and washing dishes. When we are at home we

never expect house guests to wash the dishes or to make their own beds.'

'At home, Briney, I always have two or three big girls to help me... and never a

dozen house guests at a time. And our women guests usually offer to help and if I

need their help, I let them. Nothing like this mob I'm faced with now. They are not

friends; they aren't relatives; most are total strangers to me and all act as if we

were running a boarding house. But most of them at least say thank-you and please.

Mr Briggs does not. Briney, at bottom you and Mr Briggs have the same attitude

towards women; you both think of women as servants.'

`I don't see that. I don't think you are being fair.'

'So? Then I ask you again: if you wanted to be gracious to a guest, why did you not

offer your own services to take tare of his laundry? You can use a telephone and the

yellow section quite as well as I can, then you can arrange for or do whatever is

necessary. There is nothing about sending out laundry that requires special womanly

skills; you can do it as easily as I. Why did you see fit to volunteer my services

in the face of my stated opposition?'

`I thought it was the gracious thing to do.'

'Gracious to whom, sir? To your wife? Or to the business associate who was rude to

her?'

`Uh - We'll say no more about it.'

That incident was not unusual; it was exceptional only in that I refused to accept

the conventional subordinate role under which a woman, any woman, was expected to

wait on men. Repealing laws does not change such attitudes because they are learned

by example from earliest childhood.

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'These attitudes can't be repealed like laws because they are usually below the

level of consciousness. Consider, please, who makes the coffee. You are in a mixed

group, business or quasi-business: a company conference, a public interest group, a

PTA meeting. As a lubricant for the exchange of ideas, coffee is a good idea, and

the means to make it is at hand.

Who makes the coffee? It could be a man. But don't bet on it. Ten to one you would

lose.

Let's move forward thirty years from the incident of Rufus Briggs the soft-starched

clod, from 1940 to 1970. By 1970 most legal impediments to equality between the

sexes were gone. This incident involved a board meeting of Skyblast Freight, a D. D.

Harriman enterprise. I was a director and this was not my first meeting. I knew all

the directors by sight and they knew me or at least had had opportunity to know me.

However I admit that I was looking younger than the last time they had seen me. I

had had my pendulous baby-chewed breasts reshaped, and at the same Beverly Hills

hospital I had tucks taken up under the hairline to take the slack out of my face,

then I had gone to an Arizona health ranch to get into top condition and lose

fifteen pounds. I had gone next to Vegas and splurged on ultra-chic, very feminine,

new clothes - not the tailored pantsuits most female executives wore. I was smugly

aware that I did not look the eighty-eight years I had lived, nor the fifty-eight I

admitted. I think I looked a smart forty.

I was waiting in the foyer outside the boardroom, intending not to go in until

called - board meetings are dull rituals... but a crisis is sure to come up if you

skip one.

Just as the light outside the boardroom started to blink a man came slamming in from

outside, Mr Phineas Morgan, leader of a large minority bloc. He headed straight for

the blinking light while shrugging off his overcoat. As he passed me, he chucked it

at me. 'Take care of it!'

I ducked aside, let his coat land on the floor. `Hey! Morgan!' He checked himself,

looked back. I pointed at the floor. `Your coat.'

He looked surprised, amazed, indignant, angry, and vindictive, all in one second.

`Why, you little bitch! I'll have you fired for that.'

`Go right ahead.' I moved past him into the boardroom, found my place card, and sat

down. A few seconds later he sat down opposite me, at which point his face managed

still another expression.

Phineas Morgan had not intentionally tried to use a fellow director as a servant. He

saw a female figure who, in his mind, must be hired staff - secretary, receptionist,

clerk, whatever. He was late and in a hurry and assumed that this subordinate

employee would as a matter of course hang up his coat so that he could go straight

to roll call.

The moral? In 1970 on time line two the legal system assumed that a man is innocent

until proved guilty; in 1970 on time line two, the cultural system assumed that a

female is subordinate until proved otherwise - despite all laws that asserted that

the sexes were equal.

I planned to kick that assumption in the teeth.

5 August 1952 marked the beginning of my bachelorhood because that was the day on

which I resolved that from that time on I would be treated the way a man is treated

with respect to rights and privileges - or I would raise hell about it. I no longer

had a family, I was no longer capable of childbearing, I was not looking for a

husband, I was financially independent (and then some!), and I was firmly resolved

never again `to send out the laundry' for some man merely because I use the washroom

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intended for setters rather than the one set aside for pointers.

I did not plan to be aggressive about it. If a gentleman held a door for me, I would

accept the courtesy and thank him. Gentlemen enjoy offering little gallantries; and

lady enjoys accepting them graciously, with a smile and a word of thanks.

I mention this because, by the 197=s, there were many females who would snub a man

unmercifully if he offered a gallantry, such as holding a chair for a woman, or

offering to help per in or out of a car. These women (a minority but a ubiquitous,

obnoxious one) treated traditional courtesy as if it w ere an insult. I grew to

think of these females as the lesbian Mafia. I don't know that all of them were

homosexual (although I'm certain about some of them) but their behaviour caused me

to lump them all together.

If some of them were not lesbians, then where did they find heterosexual mates? What

sort of wimp would put up with this sort of rudeness in women? I am sorry to say

that by 1970 there were plenty of wimps of every sort. The wimps were taking over.

Manly men, gallant gentlemen, the sort who do not wait to be drafted, were growing

scarce.

The principal problem in closing the house lay in the books; what to store, what to

give away, what to take with me. The furniture and the small stuff, from pots and

pans to sheets, would mostly be given to Good Will. We had been in that house

twenty-three years, 1929 to 1952; most of the furniture was that old, or nearly so,

and, after being worked over by a swarm of active children all those years, the

market value of these chattels was too low to justify placing them in storage -

since I had no intention of setting up a proper household in the foreseeable future.

I hesitated over my old upright piano. It was an old friend; Briney had given it to

me in 1909 - second- (third-?) hand even then; it was the first proof that Brian

Smith Associates was actually in the black. Brian had paid fourteen dollars for it

at an auction.

No! If my plans were to work out, I must travel light. Pianos can be rented

anywhere.

Having resolved to give up my piano other decisions were easy, so I decided to start

with the books. Move all books from al over the house into the living - no, into the

dining room; pile them on the dining-table. Pile them high. Pile the rest on the

floor. Who could believe that one house could hold so many books?

Roll in the big utility table; start stacking on it books to be stored. Roll in the

little tea-table; place on it books to take with me. Set up card-tables for books to

go to Good Will. Or to the Salvation Army? Whichever one will come and get the

stuff, soonest, can have the lot - clothes, books, bedclothes, furniture, whatever.

But they've got to come and get it.

An hour later I was still telling myself firmly: No! Don't stop to read anything! If

you must read it, then put that book in the 'take with' pile - you can thin it down

later.

Then I heard the mewing of a cat.

I said to myself, 'Oh, that girl! Susan, what have you dope to me?'

Two years earlier, we had become catless through the tragic demise of Captain Blood,

grandson of Chargé d'Affaires - sudden death from a hit-and-run driver on Rockhill

Boulevard. In the preceding forty-three years I had never tried keeping the house

without a cat. I tend to agree with Mr Clemens, who rented three cats when he moved

into his home in Connecticut in order to give a new house that lived-in feeling.

But this time I resolved to struggle along without a cat. Patrick was eighteen,

Susan was sixteen; each had received his Howard list. It was predictable that each

would be leaving the nest in the near future.

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Cats have one major shortcoming. Once you adopt one, you are stuck for life. The

cat's life, that is. The cat does not speak English; it does not understand broken

promises. If you abandon it, it will die and its ghost will haunt your nights.

At dinner the day Captain Blood was killed none of us ate much and we were not

talkative. At last Susan said, 'Mama, do we start watching the want-ads? Or do we go

to the Humane Society?'

'For what, dear?' (I was intentionally obtuse.)

`For a kitten, of course.'

So I laid it on the Tine: 'A kitten could live fifteen years, or longer. When you

two leave home this house will be sold, as I have no intention of rattling around in

a fourteen-room house, alone. Then what happens to the cat?'

'Nothing. Because there is not going to be a cat.'

About two weeks later Susan was a bit late getting home from school. She came in and

said, `Mama, I must be gone a couple of hours. An errand.' She was carrying a brown

paper sack.

'Yes, dear. May I ask why and where?'

'This.' She put the sack on my kitchen table. it tilted and a kitten walked out. A

jellicle cat, small and neat and black and white, just as described in Mr Eliot's

poem.

I said, 'Oh, dear!'

Susan said, 'It's all right, Mama. I've already explained to her that she can't live

here.'

The kitten looked at me, wide-eyed, then sat down and started pin-pleating its white

jabot. I said, 'What is her name?'

'She doesn't have one, Mama. It wouldn't be fair to give her one. I'm taking her

down to the Humane Society so that she can be put to sleep without hurting. That's

the errand I have to do.'

I was firm with Susan. She must feed the kitten herself. She must clean and refill

its sand box as long as it needed one. She must train it to use the cat door. She

must see to its shots, taking it back and forth to the veterinary hospital at the

Plaza as necessary. The kitten was hers and hers alone, and she must plan on taking

it with her when she married and left home.

Kitten and girl listened to this, round-eyed and solemn, and both agreed to the

terms. And I attempted not to get friendly with this cat - let her look entirely to

Susan, bond only with Susan.

But what do you do when a square ball of black and white fluff sits up on its hind

legs, sticks out its little fat belly, waves its three-inch arms beside its ears,

and says, plain as anything, 'Please, Mama. Please come fight with me.'

Nevertheless . Susan remained committed to taking her kitten with her. We did not

discuss it but the deal was never renegotiated.

I went to the front door - no cat. Then I went to the back door. 'Come in, your

Highness.'

Her Serene Highness, Princess Polly Ponderosa Penelope Peachfuzz, paraded in, tail

high. (`It's about Time! But thank you anyway and don't let it happen again. What's

for lunch?') She sat down, facing the kitchen cupboard where canned food was kept.

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She ate a six-ounce can of tuna and liver, demanded more and did equally well on

veal in gravy, then ate some crunchies for dessert, stopping from time to time to

head-bump my ankles. At last she stopped to clean.

`Polly, let me see your pads.' She was not her usual immaculate self and I had never

seen her so hungry. Where had she been the past three days?

I was certain from examining her paws that she had been on the road. I thought of

some grim questions to ask Susan when she telephoned. If she did. But in the mean

time the cat was here and this was home and the responsibility was now mine, by

derivation. When I moved out of this house, the cat had to go with me. Unavoidable.

Susan, I wish you were unmarried just long enough for me to spank you.

I rubbed Vaseline on her paws and got back to work. Princess Polly went to sleep on

a pile of books. If she missed Susan, she didn't say so. She seemed willing to pig

it with just one servant.

About one in the afternoon I was still sorting books and trying to decide whether to

make do with a cold sandwich or go all out and open a can of tomato soup - when the

front door chimed. Princess Polly looked up.

I said, `You're expecting someone? Susan, maybe?' I went to the door.

Not Susan. Donald and Priscilla.

`Come in, darlings!' I opened the door wide. `Are you hungry? Have you had lunch?' I

did not ask them any questions. There is a poem by Robert Frost, well known on that

time line in that century, 'The Death of the Hired Man', which contained this

definition: `Home is the place that, when you have to go there, they have to take

you in.' Two of my children had come home; they would tell me what they wished to

tell me when they got around to it. I was simply glad that I had a house to let them

into and that I still had bed clothes for them. Cat and children had not changed my

plans - but those plans could wait. I was glad that I had not managed to clear out

the day before, Monday the fourth - I would have missed all three. Tragic!

I got busy rustling up lunch for them - fancy cooking; I did open Campbell's tomato

soup, two cans. `Let me see. We have quite a lot of not too stale cake left over

from the reception, and a half-gallon of vanilla ice-cream that has not been opened.

How much can you two eat?'

'Plenty!'

'Priss is right. We haven't eaten anything today.'

'Oh, my goodness! Sit down. Let's get some soup into you fast, then we'll see what

else you want. Or would you rather have breakfast things, seeing that this is

breakfast for you? Bacon and eggs? Cereal?'

'Anything,' answered my son. 'If it's alive, I'll bite its head off.'

`Behave yourself, Donnie,' said his sister. `We'll start with soup, Mama.'

While we were eating Priscilla said, `Why are the books piled all around, Mama?'

I explained that I was getting ready to dose the house, preparatory to selling it.

My children exchanged looks; they both looked solemn, almost woebegone. I looked

from face to face. 'Take it easy,' I advised. `There is nothing to look sad about.

I'm not faced with any deadlines and this is your home. Do you want to fill me in?'

Most of it was fairly obvious from their condition - dirty, tired, hungry, and

broke. They had had some sort of trouble with their father and their stepmother and

they had left Dallas `forever' - 'But, Mama, this was before we knew that you were

planning to sell this house. We'll have to find somewhere else to go... because

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Donnie and I are not going back there.'

'Don't be in a hurry,' I said. 'You are not out on the street.

I'm going to sell this house, yes - but we'll put another roof over our heads. This

is the right time to sell this place because I let George Strong - he's in real

estate - know that this place would be available once Susan was married. Hmm -' I

went to the screen and punched up Harriman and Strong.

A woman's face came on screen. `Harriman and Strong, Investments. Harriman

Enterprises. Allied Industries. How may I help you?'

`I am Maureen Johnson. I would like to speak to Mr Harriman or to Mr Strong.'

`Neither is available. You may record a message-scramble and bush are on line if

needed. Or our Mr Watkins will speak to you:

`No. Relay me to George Strong.'

'I am sorry. Will you speak to Mr Watkins?'

`No. Just get this message to Mr Strong: George, this is Maureen Johnson speaking.

That parcel is now available, and I punched in to offer you first refusal as I

promised. I have carried out my promise but I am going to deal today. So now I will

call the J. C. Nichols Company.'

`Will you hold, please?' Her face was replaced by a flower garden, her voice by a

syrupy rendition of 'In an Eighteenth Century Drawing-Room'.

George Strong's face came on. `Greetings, Mrs Johnson. Good to see you.'

'Maureen to you, old dear. I called to say that I am moving. Now is the hour if you

want to bid on it. Do you still want it?'

'I can use it. Do you have a price in mind?'

'Yes, certainly. Just twice what you are willing to pay.'

`Well, that's a good start. Now we can dicker.'

'Just a moment. George, I need another house, a smaller one. Three bedrooms, within

walking distance of Southwest High. Got something like that?'

`Probably. Or across the line and close to Shawnee Mission High. Want to swap?'

`No, I'm planning to skin you on the deal. I want to lease by the year, automatic

renewal unless notice given, ninety days.'

`All right. Pick you up tomorrow morning? Ten o'clock? I want to look over your

parcel, point out to - you its shortcomings and beat your price down.'

'Ten o'clock, it is. Thank you, George.'

`Always a pleasure, Maureen.'

Donald said, 'Dallas phones are all tanks now. How come KC still uses flatties? Why

don't they modernise?'

I answered, 'Money. Donald, any question that starts out "Why don't they - " the

answer is always "Money". But in this case I can offer more details. The Dallas

try-out turns out not to be cost-effective and the 3-D tanks will be phased out. For

the full story see the Wall Street journal. The back issues for the past quarter are

stacked in the library. It's a six-part series, front page.'

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Tm sorry I brought it up. They can use smoke signals for all of me.'

'Be glad you brought it up and make use of the opportunity I offered you. Donald, if

you intend to cope with the jungle out there, you need to make the Wall Street

journal and similar publications such as The Economist your favourite comic books.'

I added, `Ice-cream and cake?'

I put Priscilla into Susan's room, and Donald into the room Patrick had had, just

beyond my bath. We went to bed early. About midnight I woke up, then got up to pee,

not bothering with a light, as there was moonlight streaming in. I was about to

flush the pot when I heard an unmistakable rhythmic sound - bed squeaks. Suddenly I

was goose-flesh all over.

Priss and Donnie had left here almost as babies, two and four years old; they

probably didn't realise that this old house was about as well soundproofed as a

tent. Oh, dear! Those poor children.

I kept very quiet. The rhythm speeded up. Then I heard Priscilla start to keen and

Donald to grunt. Shortly the squeaks stopped and they both sighed. I heard Priscilla

say, `I needed that. Thanks, Donnie.'

I was proud of her. But it was time for me to hurry - much as I hated to, I must

catch them in. the act. Or I couldn't help them.

Seconds later I tapped on Donald's door. `Darlings? May I come in?'

Chapter 19 - Cats and Children

It was after one o'clock before I left the children; it had taken that long to

convince them that I was not angry, that I was on their side, that my only concern

was to sec that they did not get hurt - because what they were doing was

exceptionally dangerous in all sorts of ways, some of which I was sure they knew but

some of which they, may not know about or had at least not thought about.

When I had gone in to see them, I had not grabbed a robe. Instead I had gone in as I

was, bare naked, because a fully dressed authority figure such as a parent, walking

in on two children caught in delectable flagrente, is all too likely to scare it out

of them - cause bladder and bowel to cut loose. But another human as naked and

vulnerable as they were themselves simply could not be a 'cop'. As Father had taught

me years earlier, to know which way the frog will jump, you have to put yourself in

the frog's place.

They still would not like being caught - they didn't! - but, if I did not catch them

in bed together, they would lie about it later if I tried to question them. It is

parallel to the old rule about puppies: if you don't catch a puppy at it, it is

useless to bring the matter up later.

So I tapped and asked to come in, and waited.

A suppressed gasp, then dead silence -

I waited a while longer, then counted ten chimpanzees and tapped again. 'Donald!

Priscilla! Please! May I come in?'

There was a whispered conference, then Donald's strong, manly baritone called out -

and cracked. 'Come in - Mother.'

I opened the door. There were no lights on, but there was moonlight and my eyes were

adjusted to the low light level. They were in bed together, sheet pulled up, and

Donald was simultaneously protecting his sister against all dangers with his strong

right arm around her while pretending hard that she was not there at all and that he

was just waiting for a streetcar - and my heart went out to him.

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The room reeked of sex - male musk, female musk, fresh ejaculate, sweat. I am expert

in the odours of sex, with many years of wide experience. Had I not known better I

would have judged that this was the site of a six-person orgy.

I must add that some of the odour came from me. Perhaps it is perverse that I should

be sexually excited by catching my son and daughter in the most scandalous of all

sex offences. But volition does not enter into it. For the moment I recognised those

squeaks and deduced what and who, I bad been flowing. If King Kong had wandered by,

he would have found me a push-over. Paul Revere I would have pulled from his horse.

But I ignored my state, reminding myself that they could not possibly smell me.

'Hello, dears! Is there room in the middle for me?'

Silence, then they moved apart. I went quickly to them before they could change

their minds, pushed down the sheet, crawled over Donald, got between them on my

back, snaked my right arm under Priscilla's neck, reached for Donald. 'have a

shoulder pillow, Donald. Turn toward me, dear.'

He did so, stiffly, then remained tense. I said nothing and cuddled both my

children, breathed deeply and tried to slow my heart. It began to work, and my

youngsters seemed to relax somewhat, too.

Presently I said softly, 'How sweet to have both my darlings in bed with me,' and

gave them each a quick squeeze and relaxed still holding them.

Priscilla said timidly, 'Mama, you're not mad at us?'

'Mad at you? Heavens, no! I'm worried about your welfare. But not angry. I love you,

dear. Love you both.'

'Oh. I'm glad you're not mad.' Then curiosity got her. 'How did you catch us? I was

very careful. I listened at your door, made sure you were asleep before I snuck in

here and woke Donnie.'

'I probably wouldn't have noticed anything if I hadn't been drinking lemonade before

going to bed. I woke up, dear, and had to pee. That wall on Donald's side of the bed

is a wall of my bathroom. Sound goes right through it. So I heard you.' I hugged her

to me. 'It sounded like a dandy!'

Brief silence - 'It was.'

'I believe you. There is nothing, just nothing, as good as a gut-wrenching orgasm

when you really need one. And you seemed to need that one. I heard you thank

Donald.'

'Uh... he deserved thanks.'

'And smart of you to tell him so. Priscilla, there is nothing a man likes more than

to be appreciated for his lovemaking. So keep it up all your life; it will make both

you and your love happy. Mark my words. Remember them.'

'I'll remember.'

Donald apparently had trouble believing what he was hearing. 'Mother? Do I have this

straight? You don't mind what we were doing?'

'Tell me what you were doing.'

'Uh - We were screwing!' He said it defiantly.

'"Screwing" is something dogs do. You were loving, you were making love to

Priscilla. Or, if you like long medical words, you mo were copulated and engaging in

coition to climax... which is like describing a gorgeous sunset in wavelengths of

the electromagnetic spectrum. You were loving her, dear, and Priscilla is lovable.

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She was a lovable baby and she is even more lovable as a grown woman.'

I decided that now was the time to grasp the nettle, so I went on, 'Loving is sweet

and good. Just the same, I'm extremely worried about you two. I suppose you both

realise that the society around us strongly disapproves of what you were doing, has

severe, cruel laws against it, and would punish you both horribly if they caught

you. Priscilla, they would take you away from Donald and me, and put you in a home

for delinquent girls, and you would hate every minute of it. Donald, if you were

lucky, they might try you as a legal infant and do to you something like they would

do to Priscilla - reform school until you are twenty-one, then registration and

supervision as a sex offender. Or they might decide to try you as an adult -

statutory rape and incest, and about twenty years at hard labour and then

supervision the rest of your life. Do you know that, dear ones?'

Priscilla did not answer; she was crying. Donald said gruffly, 'Yes, we know that.'

'Well? What's the answer?'

'But, Mother, we love each other. Priss loves me and I love Priss.'

'I know you do and I respect your love. But you didn't answer me; you avoided

answering. What is the answer to your problem?'

He took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh. 'I guess we've got to quit.'

I patted bis ribs. 'Donald, you are a gallant knight and I'm proud of you. But now I

must ask a frank question. When you started masturbating, did you ever swear off?

Resolve never to do it again?'

'Uh, yes.'

'How long did you stay stopped?'

He answered sheepishly, 'About a day and a half.'

'How long are you going to leave Priscilla alone, when you happen on a perfect,

utterly safe opportunity and she rubs up against you and tells you not to be a

sissy, and she smells good and feels even better?'

'Why, Mama, I wouldn't do that!'

Donald heaved a quiet sigh. 'The hell you wouldn't, Slugger. You have, near enough.

Mama, you've got me. What do you do? Nail me into a barrel? Or send me to Kemper?'

'Kemper isn't far enough; it had better be the Citadel. Children, that's not the

answer. Instead - I really meant it when I said I wasn't angry. Let's all engage in

a conspiracy to keep you two from being hurt. First, what contraception are you

using?'

I had addressed the question to both of them. There was an extended silence, as each

(I think) waited for the other to answer.

At last Donald said, 'We had some rubbers. But they're all gone and I don't have any

money.'

(Oh, my God!) 'A clear reason why you should include me in your plans. There are

both rubbers and fishskins in this house, and you can always have all you want.

Priscilla, when did you menstruate last? Starting date?'

'On Monday the fourteenth, so -'

No, it wasn't, Priss. The fourteenth was the day we went to Fort Worth: And we

passed the French consulate -'

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'Trade mission.'

'Well, something French, and they had a lot of bunting and flags out because it was

Bastille Day, and you certainly didn't start the curse that day because - well, you

remember. So it must have been the following Monday. If it was a Monday:

I said, 'Priscilla, don't you keep a calendar?'

'Of course I do! Always.'

'Will you run and get it, please? Lets turn on a light'

'Uh - It's in Dallas.'

(Oh, damn!) 'Well, I don't want to tall Marian this late at night. Perhaps you two

can compare notes and be certain and we won't have to call. Priscilla, do you know

why I want that date?'

'Well, I think I do. You want to count up and tell if I'm fertile tonight'

'Good. Now both of you listen carefully. Marching orders. Laws of the Medes and the

Persians, chiselled in stone. Once we figure it out, Priscilla, you will sleep with

me the day you ovulate and three days each side... and each month you will stay in

my sight during your fertile week. All the time. Every minute. We aren't going to

trust to good resolutions.'

I went on, 'I'm not moralising; I'm just being practical. The other three weeks of

each month I will not try to keep you two apart. But you will use fishskins, not

rubbers, and you will use them every time... because there are thousands of Catholic

mothers and quite a few non-Catholic ones who depended solely on "rhythm". You will

not make love anywhere but in this house, with me in the house, with no one else in

the house, and with all outside doors locked.

'In public you will always behave like most brothers and sisters, friendly but a

little bored with each other. You will never show jealousy over each other;

jealousy, possessive behaviour, is a dead giveaway. However, Donald, you can always

be your sister's gallant knight, empowered to poke anyone in the jaw or give him a

karate chop if that's what it takes to protect her from some oaf. That's both a

brother's duty and his proud privilege.'

'That's what happened,' he said gruffly.

'What, Donald?'

'Gus had her down and was giving her a bad time. So I pulled him off and beat the

tar out of him. And he lied about it and Aunt Marian believed him and didn't believe

us and told Dad and Dad backed up Aunt Marian and - Anyhow we cut out that night.

And didn't have money enough for the bus. So we hitchhiked and saved what money we

had for eating. But -' Donald started to shake. 'There were three of them and they

took what money I had left and, and - But Priss got away!' I could hear him

suppressing sobs that I pretended not to hear.

'Donnie was wonderful,' Priscilla said solemnly. 'It was last night as we were

leaving Tulsa, Mama, on 44. They carne at us and Donnie yelled for me to run and he

stood up to them while I ran down the street to a filling-station that was still

open. I told the station owner and begged him to call the cops. He was doing so when

Donnie showed up and the station owner helped us get a hitch into Joplin, and there

we stayed in an all-night Laundromat till it got light, and then we carne straight

here, in two hitches.'

(Dear Lord, if there is Anybody up there, why do You do this to children? Maureen

Johnson speaking and You're going to have to answer to me.)

I squeezed his shoulder. I'm proud of you, Donald. It sounds like you took a licking

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and got robbed to keep your sister from being raped. Did they hurt you? Besides that

bruise on your face?'

'Uh, maybe I've got a cracked rib. One of 'em kicked me when I was down.'

'Tomorrow we'll get hold of Dr Rumsey. You're both going to need physical exams

anyhow.'

'Donnie ought to have that rib looked at, but I don't need a doctor. Mama, I don't

like to be poked at.'

'You don't have to like it, dear, but as long as you are under my roof, you do have

to hold still for it when I think it is necessary. That is not open to argument. But

you've met Dr Rumsey before. He delivered you, right in this bed.'

'Really?'

`Really. His father was our first family doctor, and the present Dr Rumsey has been

my doctor since Alice Virgina was born, and he delivered both of you. His son has

just finished his internship, so it could happen that his son will deliver your

first baby. Because the Rumseys are Howards, too, and practically members of our

family. What have Marian and your father told you about the Ira Howard Foundation?'

`The Ira what?'

`I've heard of it,' Donald told me. `But just barely. Dad told me to forget what I

had heard and wait a couple of years.'

`I think a couple of years have passed. Priscilla, how would you like to be sixteen,

and you, Donald eighteen? Now, I mean. Not two years from now.'

`Mama, what do you mean?'

I told them what the Foundation is, in a handful of words or less. 'So a Howard

often needs to adjust his birthday to keep from being noticed. We'll discuss it

further in the morning; I'm going back to bed. Mama needs the rest - busy day

tomorrow. Kiss me goodnight, dears - again.'

`Yes, Mama. And I'll go back to my bed... and I'm sorry I worried you.'

`We'll handle the worries. You needn't go back to your bed. Unless you want to.'

`Really?'

`Really truly. I do not believe in burning the horse after the barn has been

stolen.' (If the first billion little wigglers did not shoot you down, dear, the

next billion will never get close to the target. So enjoy it while you can -

because, if you're pregnant, we'll have a whole new crop of worries. We haven't

discussed the real, utterly practical reason to avoid incest... but you are going to

have to have Old Granny Maureen's Horror Lecture on reinforced harmful recessives,

the one I've been giving every little while for centuries, seems like.)

I'm not sure whether this is the frying pan or the fire. Not very many minutes ago I

was sitting here in this jail, petting Pixel - he had been gone three days and I had

been worried about him - and watching a stupid grope opera for lack of anything else

to do, when a squad of spooks - well, four - robed and masked, came in, grabbed me,

put their usual dog collar on me, and secured me by four leashes, then snapped them

to rings in the walls instead of leading me away.

Pixel took one look at them and skittered away. Two of them, one on each side,

started shaving the skin behind my ears.

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`What's going on?' I demanded. `May one ask?'

'Hold still. This is for the electrodes. You have to be animated for the ceremony.'

`What ceremony?'

`After your trial and execution. Quit wiggling.'

So I wiggled harder and he back-handed me across the face, when four others carne in

and suddenly the first four were dead and shoved under my cot. Then they unsnapped

my leashes from the walls.

One said quietly, just above a whisper, `We're from the Committee for Aesthetic

Deletions. Look scared and don't make it too easy for us to lead you out of here.'

Looking scared I could do, with no practice. They took me out into the corridor, on

down and past the 'courtroom' door, then a sharp left and through a freight door

onto a loading dock, where I was shoved into a lorry and the door clanged shut. Then

it opened again; somebody chucked in a cat. The door slammed shut and the lorry

started up with a jerk. I fell down with a cat on top of me.

`Is that you, Pixel?'

`Mrrow!' (Don't be silly!)

We're still in the lorry and rolling. Now where was I? Oh, yes - I woke up early

from a nightmare in which one of my sons was humping his sister and I was saying,

`Dear, you really ought not to do that on the front lawn; the neighbours will notice

- 'when the dream woke me and I heaved a sigh of relief; it was just a dream. Then I

realised that it had not been all that much a dream; the essence of it was too, too

solid flesh - and came wide awake with a shot of adrenalin. Oh, Christ! Oh, Mary's

drawers! Donald, did you knock up your sister? Children, I do want to help you...

but, if you have let that happen, it won't be easy.

I got up and peed, and sat there and again heard the rhythmic music I had heard in

the night... and it had the same effect on me; it turned me on. And I felt better as

in all my life I have never been able to feel both horny and depressed at the same

time. Had those kids been at it all night?

When the squeaks stopped, I flushed the pot, not having wanted to disturb them until

they were through. Then I used the bidet, so that I would not start the day whiffing

of rut. I brushed my teeth and gave my face and hair a lick and a promise.

I dug out of my wardrobe an old summer bathrobe of Patrick's that I had confiscated

when I gave him a new one for his honeymoon. For Priscilla I found a wrap of mine.

And one for me.

Then I tapped on their door. Priscilla called out, `Come in, Mama!' She sounded

happy.

I opened the door and held out the robes. `Good morning, darlings. One for each of

you. Breakfast in twenty minutes.'

Priscilla bounced out of bed and kissed me. Donald approached more slowly but did

not seem much troubled at being caught in his skin by fierce old Mama. The room

reeked even more than 1 remembered.

Something brushed past my legs - Her Serene Highness. She jumped up on the bed and

started purring loudly. Priscilla said, `Mama, she bumped against the door last

night, making a terrible racket, so I got up and let her in. She stayed with us a

short while, then she jumped down, and demanded that I open the door again. So I

did, and closed it behind her. It could not have been a half-hour before she was

banging on the door again. This time I ignored her. Uh... we were busy.'

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'She resents closed doors,' I explained. 'Any closed door. I leave mine ajar and she

spent the rest of the night with me. Or most of it. Hmm - She's Susan's cat and you

have Susan's room. Do you want to move? Otherwise she is likely to wake you at any

hour.'

'No, I'll just train Donnie to get up and hold the door for her.'

'Now see here, Slugger -'

I left.

I stirred up muffins and popped a Pyrex pan of them into the oven on a six -minute

cycle. While the muffins were baking I set up baked eggs wrapped in bacon in another

muffin pan. When the oven pinged, I transferred the muffins to the warmer, reset the

cycle and put in the bacon and eggs. While they cooked, I poured orange juice and

milk, and started the samovar to cycle. That left me time to set the breakfast table

with happy mats and gaudy Mexican crockery - a cheerful table.

Priscilla appeared. 'Donnie will be right down. May I help?'

'Yes, dear. Go out into the back yard and cut some yellow roses for that bowl in the

middle. Make it quick; I am about to serve the plates. Polly Down off that table!

Take her with you, please. She knows better but she always crowds the limits.'

I served the plates and sat down just as Donald appeared. `May I help?'

`Yes, you can keep the cat off the table.'

`I mean, really help.'

'You'll find that a full-time job.'

Thirty minutes later I was working on my second cup of tea while Priscilla served

another pan of muffins and more bacon, and opened another jar of Knott's Berry Farm

marmalade. I was feeling as contented as Princess Polly looked. When you come right

down to it, children and cats are more fun than stocks, bonds, and other securities.

I would get these two married (but not to each other!) and then it would be soon

enough for Maureen, the Hetty Green of the fast new world, to tackle the Harriman

empire, force it to stand and deliver. 'Polly! Get out of that marmalade! Donald,

you are supposed to be watching that cat.'

`I am watching her, Mama. But she's faster than I am.'

`And smarter.'

`Who said that? Who said that? Slugger, you'll rue the day.'

'Stop it, children. Time we talked about the Howard Foundation.'

Quite a while later Donald said, `Let me get this straight. You're saying that I

have to marry a girl on my list and Priss has to marry a man on her list?'

'No, no, no! Nothing of the sort. Nobody has to marry anybody. If you do marry, it

will be your own free choice and it need not be another Howard. There is just one

marriage you can't make and that is to each other. Oh, you could marry each other;

there are thousands of incestuous marriages in this country - so some Kinseys have

calculated. You could do it by cutting out on your own again, supporting yourselves

somewhere else and somehow until you both look old enough to convince a county cerk

that you are over twenty one. You could do that and I would make no effort to stop

you.

'But I would not help you. Not a thin dime. I'm not going to try to give you a

course in genetics this morning, but I will later. Just let it stand for the moment

that close incest isn't just against the Bible, and against the laws of Missouri and

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all the other fifty-five states, it's against natural laws because it makes

unhealthy babies:

'I know that. But I could get a vasectomy.'

'So you could. What are you going to use for money? I certainly won't pay for it!

Donald, I bate to hear you talk that way. I would rather pay to have your eyes

removed than see you submit to sterilisation. You are here not only to live your

life but to pass that life along. Your genes are very special; that is why the

Foundation will subsidise any offspring of yours that you share with a female

Howard. The same applies to you, Priscilla; you both have the genes for long life.

Barring accidents, each of you will live to be more than a hundred. How much more we

can't tell but it has been stretching longer each generation.

`Now here is how the Howard Fouudation system works. If you ask for it, the

Foundation will supply each of you with a list of Howard eligibles near your age,

while your name and address will be supplied to each person on your list. When I was

young, it used to be eligibles close by, say fifty or a hundred miles or inside one

state. Today, with glide rockets spanning North America in thirty minutes and

everybody moving around like disturbed ants, you can elect to have your name

supplied to every bachelor or spinster Howard in North America if you like and get

back a list like a phone book. Not quite true; I understand that they dole them out

a couple of dozen at a time, grouped geographically... but you can go on shopping

until you find the man - or woman - with whom you want to spend the rest of your

life.'

I continued, 'just one thing. When you date another Howard, while it can be fun, it

is dead serious, too. You'll be looking him over as a prospective husband,

Priscilla. If he is utterly impossible, for any reason or none, you must tell him so

and tell him not to come back... or tell me and I'll tell him so. But if he appeals

to you and better acquaintance causes you to think of him as a possible husband,

then it's time to take him to bed. Right here at home and I'll arrange things so

that you can do so comfortably and without embarrassment'

`Wait a minute! Make love to somebody else? With Donnie right upstairs and knowing

what I'm doing?'

`No. One - Donnie is not likely to be upstairs. He is likely to be at the home of a

girl on his list. Two - nobody is urging you to have intercourse with anyone. That

is strictly, totally, and utterly up to you. I am saying only that if he is a young

man whose name has been sent to you by Uncle Justin, and you decide you want to try

him, you can do so safely at home... and if, after sober consideration, you and he

decide to marry, then you can get pregnant right at home. Howard brides are almost

always pregnant - always, so far as I know - because it would be sad indeed to marry

a man and discover, too late, that you and he are not fertile together. Oh, divorce

is easy today... but it is better to have a seven-month, seven-pound baby than to

have a divorce before you are twenty.'

I added, `You're going to have plenty of time to think about it. I want to check on

some basics today. Priscilla, will you stand up and take off your wrap? We can ask

Donald to leave the room if you wish. I want to guess how old you are,

biologically.'

'I'll go upstairs, Slugger.'

'Don't be silly. You've seen me before and Mama knows you slept with me last night'

My daughter stood up, took off my wrap, hung it on her chair. 'Any special way,

Mama?'

'No.' No baby fat left that I could see and hers was not a baby face. A young woman,

physically mature, functioning as such and enjoying it. Well, we'll get an expert

opinion from Dr Rumsey. 'Priscilla, it seems to me that you look about the way I did

at seventeen. We will see what Dr Rumsey says. For the sooner you start shopping

your Howard list, the sounder I will sleep.'

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I turned to my son. I'm sure you can be listed as eighteen, Donald, if you wish, and

receive a list of eligible girls. And - I may be prejudiced; you're my son - but it

is my guess that you can spend the next couple of years, if you choose to,

travelling around the country, meeting Howard couples, eating at their tables and

sleeping with their daughters - a different bed mate every week, until you find the

right one. That programme would be safest for your sister.'

'Mama! What a nasty ideal Donnie! You wouldn't! Would you?'

'Son, don't make any promises you can't keep.'

Chapter 20 - Soothsayer

'Priscilla, you have not yet admitted to yourself that you can't marry your brother.

Until you realise that, right down in your gizzard, you aren't mature enough to

start courting no matter how grown up your body is. But you must not try to

interfere with Donald's right to a-wooing go.'

'But I love him!'

'What do you mean by "love"?'

'Oh, you're just being mean to me!'

'Quit blubbering and try to behave like a grown woman. I want you to tell me what

you mean by the word "love". That you are horny about him, so hot for him that you

would couple with him behind any bush if he would let you, I will concede. It

doesn't surprise me; I find him just as attractive, he's as pretty as a collie pup.

But I have more sense about it than you have. Any woman is going to find Donald

sexually attractive; if you try to keep other women away from him, you'll be piling

up more grief for yourself than you will ever be able to handle.

'But being in sexual heat over a man is not love, my sweet daughter. I am willing to

believe that Donald loves you as he stood up to three muggers to protect you. But

tell me what you mean when you say that you love him... other than your hot pants -

an irrelevant concurrent phenomenon.'

'Uh... everybody knows what love is!'

'If you can't define a word, you don't know what it means. Priscilla, this is a

fruitless discussion and today is a busy day. We have established that you have hot

pants over Donald. We have established that Donald loves you but we have not

established that you love him. And I have pointed out what all of us know, that you

can't marry your brother... which your brother has conceded but you are not willing

to admit. So we'll continue this discussion on some later date when you've grown up

a bit.' I stood up.

'But - Mama, what do you mean by "love"?'

`"Love" means a number of things but it always means that the other person's

happiness and welfare come first. Come, let's get bathed and dressed, so -'

The telephone sounded. I said, 'Catch it, will you, Donald?'

'Yes, mum; thank'ee, mum.' The screen was in the living room; Donald went there

still carrying Princess Polly in his left arm. He flipped the switch. 'Start

talking; it's your money.'

I heard Susan's voice. `Mama, I - Polly! Oh, you bad, bad girl!'

Polly turned up her nose, wiggled and jumped down, and stalked away. I must add that

she had never taken any interest in telephone images and voices. I think it may have

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been the lack of living odour but I must admit that feline reasoning is not for

mortal man to comprehend. Or woman.

Donald said, 'Susie, am I going to have to show you the strawberry mark on my

shoulder? I'm your brother, Mrs Schultz, the handsome one. How's married life?

Boring?'

'Married life is just dandy and what are you doing in Kansas City and why didn't you

come four days ago for my wedding and where's Mother?'

'Mama is around here somewhere and you didn't invite me.'

'I did so!'

I moved in. 'Yes, you did invite him, Sweet Sue, and all the rest of his family, all

eight. Nine. But only Brian was able to come, as you know, so don't needle Donald.

Good to see you, dear. How is Henry?'

'Oh, Hanky's all right. He says I can't cook the way you do but that he has decided

to keep me for other reasons - I rub 'his back.'

'That's a good reason:

'So he says. Mama, I called for mo reasons... and the first reason no longer

applies. I've been screwing up my courage since Sunday to tell you that I lost

Princess Polly. And now she's not lost. How did she get there?'

'I don't know. How did you lose per?'

'I'm not sure. We were all the way to Olathe before we found a filling-station that

also serviced Shipstones. While Hank was trading his stone for a fully charged one,

I opened Polly's cage to change per sand box - she had made a mess and the dragon

wagon was stinking.

Tm not clear just what happened then. I thought that I saw per back in. Hank says

that I told him it was all right to let her ride free in the back. Anyhow we left

and picked up the control road at Olathe and Hank turned it over to the bug, and we

eased back the seats and went right to sleep. Oh, we were tired!'

'I'll bet you were!' I agreed, thinking about my own wedding.

'The alarm woke us when we reached Wichita and we were just getting our baggage out

at the Holiday Inn when I saw that Polly was missing. Mama, I almost had a heart

attack.'

'What did you do?'

'What could we do? We turned around and rolled back to Olathe. And the station was

closed. And we played kitty, kitty, here, Polly! for a half-hour and the station

owner's name was on the building and we asked a policeman and found his house and

woke him and he wasn't pleased.'

'I find myself unsurprised.'

'But, yes, he had seen a little black and white cat, about the time we were there,

but not later, which means she wasn't there all the time it took us to drive four

hundred miles. So we left your telecode and asked him to call you if she showed up

and we started back to Wichita but the bug quit and we took turns keeping each other

awake while we rode the wire by hand... or we would have had to get on to a slow

road. Just the same it was three in the morning by the time we got to Wichita again

and they hadn't held our room and we slept in the car till morning. Mama, it was not

the most successful wedding night on record. I think Hanky was ready to toss me

back... and I wouldn't have blamed him.'

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`Are things better now?'

`Oh, yes! But - Finding Princess Polly at home raises another point.'

'Do you want me to ship per to you?'

Susan suddenly stopped smiling. `Mama... pets are not permitted in married students'

dormitories. I didn't know. So I guess we got to go out into Tempe and find us

somewhere else to live... and I'm not sure we can afford it. You won't let her stay

there? Yes, she's my cat, but - Please?'

Susan, I'm selling this house today.'

She looked blank. `Yes, Mama. Uh, if you put, her in a kennel... with per doctor, I

guess ... I'll come and get her. As fast as I can make arrangements. We'll have to

cash a bond. I'll have to work it out with Henry. But I won't let you down. I

promised. I know it.'

`My good Susan. Dear, Princess settled it, I think, when she managed to find per way

home in only three days, when she's never been anywhere before. Yes, I'm selling

this house but we are moving only a mile or so. I want a smaller house and not all

this acreage. I can persuade Princess to accept a new home that close by, I think;

it is a problem I've coped with before.'

Susan let out a deep sigh. `Mama, have I told you lately that you're wonderful?'

'No.'

'You're wonderful!'

'Thank you. Is that all?' (The clock was crowding me.)

`Just one thing. Aunt Eleanor was here today -'

`She was? I thought she was in Toronto. On Saturday she didn't say anything about

going to Arizona.'

`Uncle Justin went to Toronto; she came here. To Scottsdale, I mean. She's going to

Toronto. Right away, if this works. She's had caretaker trouble two seasons now, she

tells me, and she wants Hanky and me to move into their place and take care of it.

What do you think?'

(I think you would be out of your mind to move into the luxurious summer palace of a

super-millionaire; you'll learn bad habits and fancy tastes - that's no way to start

a marriage. And that commuting up and down Scottsdale's Road - six miles? seven? -

might take up enough time each day to interfere with your studies.) Susan, what I

think does not matter. What does your husband think?'

'He suggested that I talk to you.'

'But what does he think?'

'Uh... I'm not sure. Will you talk to him?'

'Have him call me back. Susan, I have a business appointment and I'm late; I've got

to switch off. Bye!'

Whew! Nine-thirty-five - I punched up Harriman and Strong, got the same female

zombie as yesterday. `Maureen Johnson speaking. Let me speak to George Strong.'

`Mr Strong is not available. Will you record -'

`We went through that routine yesterday. I'm Maureen Johnson and he has an

appointment with me at my house in twenty minutes and you know it! Catch him before

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he leaves the building or phone him in his car. Move, damn it!'

'I'm here, Maureen.' George's face replaced hers. 'I've been held up. Will you

forgive me if I make it ten-thirty instead of ten?'

`Quite all right, George. You, recall those envelopes I left with you in 1947?'

'Certainly. In my personal safe. Never mingled with business papers.'

`Would you, please, bring with you envelopes numbers one and two?'

`Certainly, dear lady.'

'Thank you, sir.'

I switched off. 'Up we go, darlings, and bathe and dress. Priscilla, come share my

bath'- and my bidet; you smell like a whorehouse and don't realise it, dear - 'and

we'll put you into something of mine. Something summery, the day is going to be a

scorcher. Shorts and a halter, probably. Donald, Patrick left some clothes behind,

so look around. Shorts and a T-shirt, maybe. Or Levi's. We'll stop at the Plaza

later and do some fast shopping. Don't use all the hot water - three baths at once.

Be ready by ten-twenty. On your marks, get set, go!'

George had two houses to show me. One was near 75th Street and Mission Road in

Johnson County, close to Shawnee Mission East High School. It belonged to New World

Homes, a Harriman Enterprise, and had all the newer than-tomorrow touches New World

Homes was famous for - and it reminded me of a Bauhaus fiat.

My youngsters loved it.

The other was on the Missouri side of the line, about half way between our old house

and Southwest High School, off Linden Road. It was not as new. The appearance of the

development and my memory told me that it had been built in 1940, give or take a

year.

'George, this is a J. C. Nichols subdivision.'

'The Nichols organisation always builds excellent houses. This came into our hands

because I bought it from one of our executives in a compassionate move, following a

tragic accident. He lost his wife and two children. When he got out of hospital, we

shipped him to Tucson to recuperate, then put him to work in Paradise, at the power

plant. Complete change of work, scene, people - my partner's notion of how to

rehabilitate a good man who had had his very life chopped off. Delos - Mr Harriman -

takes care of his people. Shall we go in?'

It was a pleasant house, with good landscaping and a fenced back yard - and it was

furnished.

Mr Strong said, `Ali he asked to have shipped to him were his books and his clothes.

Her clothes and those of his youngsters and their personal possessions all went to

the Salvation Army. The rest - bedlinen, blankets, rugs, towels, drapes - have all

been cleaned and the mattresses sterilised. The house is for sale furnished or

unfurnished, and you can have it either way on lease.'

It had a master bedrooan and mo smaller ones upstairs, each with bath. The master

bedroom was on the west and. had a `sunset' balcony, like the flat we had in 1940 on

Woodlawn in Chicago. Downstairs was both a parlour and a family room, an arrangement

I strongly favour for any family having children at home. Youngsters need a place

where they can be less than neat, without disturbing mother when she has someone in

for tea.

Off the back hallway, balancing the kitchen, was a maid's room and bath. The kitchen

had a GE dishwasher and a Raytheon electronic cooking unit of the same sort that I

had in my old farmhouse - and in both cases the equipment was new, not the age of

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either house. A feature that struck my eye was an abundance of built-in bookcases...

added later, it seemed to me, except a pair of small ones flanking the fireplace in

the family room. Most houses didn't even have that much, as most people don't read.

(Before the twentieth century was out that could be worded, 'most people can't

read'. One of the things I learned in studying the histories of my home planet and

century on various time lines was that in the decline and fall that took place on

every one of them there was one invariant: illiteracy.

In addition to that scandalous flaw, on three time lines were both drug abuse and

concurrent crime in the streets, plus a corrupt and spendthrift government. My own

time line had endless psychotic fads followed by religious frenzy; time line seven

had continuous wars; three time lines had collapse of family life and marriage - but

every time line had loss of literacy... combined with - riddle me this - more money

per student spent on education than ever before in each history. Never were so many

paid so much for accomplishing so little. By 1980 the teachers themselves were only

semi-literate.)

The house had - mirabile visu! - two hot-water heaters, one for upstairs, one for

kitchen, laundry room, and maid's bath. I tried a tap and was amazed to discover

that the water was hot.

George Strong said, 'After you called yesterday I instructed our maintenance foreman

to have services turned on and the house aired. You could sleep here tonight if you

so wished.'

'We'll see.' I took a quick look in the basement and we left.

George Strong treated us to a lovely lunch in The Fiesta Patio in the Plaza, then at

my request we were taken to Dr Rumsey's office. I spoke to Jim Rumsey and told him

what in particular I wanted him to look for - I can be truthful with Dr Rumsey,

thank goodness, since he understands Howard problems.

'Don't tell her whether or not she is pregnant; tell me. She's a difficult case; I

need leverage. Do you want to know her real age?'

'You forget that I know it. I'll try not to let that fact affect my judgement.'

'Jim, you're a comfort.' I kissed him goodbye, went out and spoke to my youngsters:

`Just sit tight and wait. He has other patients ahead of you. When you are through,

make your best way home.'

`You're not picking us up?' Priscilla seemed amazed. 'I thought we were going

shopping?'

'No, we've run out of time. Perhaps we'll go to the Plaza after dinner; I believe

Sears is open late.'

'Sears?'

'Do you Nave something against Sears?'

'Aunt Marian never shops, at Sears.'

'That's interesting. I'll see you at home. You can walk or take the bus.'

'Wait a moment! Did you tell the Doctor that I don't want to be poked?'

'On the contrary, I told him that if you gave him any lip or showed any lack of

co-operation, I wanted him to tell me.'

Priscilla pouted. 'I thought that you were going to pick us up and go shopping and

then we were going back to decide which house to rent'

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'I am about to decide that right now, while you two take your physicals.'

'You mean we don't get a vote?'

'Did you think that we were going to vote on it? All right, we'll vote by the rules

of the Republic of Gondor. For each dollar each interested party invests in the deal

he or she gets one vote. How many votes do you want to buy?'

'Huh? Why, I think that's mean!'

'Priscilla, it has never been in the Bill of Rights that minor dependants get to

pick the family domicile. And, while I do not know how Aunt Marian ran things, in my

household I make such decisions. I may consult others; I may not. If I do consult

others, I am not bound by their opinions. Understand me?'

Priscilla did not answer. Donald said quietly, 'Slugger, you're crowding your luck.'

I rejoined George at his car; he handed me in. `Where now, dear lady?'

'I would like to look again at the furnished house.'

`Good.'

We rode in silence. George Strong was a comfortable man to be with; he had no small

talk. Presently I said, `Did you bring those two envelopes?'

'Yes. Do you want them now? If so, I had better park. They are in a concealed zipper

pocket, rather hard to reach.'

No, I was just checking, before we got too far from your office.'

When we reached the house, I went upstairs with George at my heels, and into the

master bedroom. I started undressing; his face lit up.

`Maureen, I had hoped that you had this in mind.' He sighed happily and started

reaching for fastenings himself. It's been a long time.'

`Too long. I've been overwhelmed with mother problems and with school. But school is

over for me, for a long time at least, and my mother problems I have under control -

I hope - and I'll have more time, if you want me.'

'I'll always want you!'

'I've been thinking about you and your sweet ways all day. But I had to park the

children first. Do you want to undress me? Or shall we both hurry and see how

quickly we can be in bed?'

'What a choice to have to make!'

George wasn't the greatest bedroom artist in the world, but in the six years I had

been his now-and-then mistress, he had never left me hanging on the fence. He was an

attentive and considerate lover and he took as his prime purpose being certain that

his partner in bed reached orgasm.

If he was no Adonis, I was no Venus. When I was Priscilla's age, I looked pretty

good - as tasty as she did, I think. But now (1952) I was seventy and a simulated

forty-seven, and did look past forty despite special effort. An older woman must

work at it, just as George worked at it (and I did appreciate his efforts). She must

keep her breath sweet, her inner muscles in good tone, her voice low and mellow, her

smile ready and her frown never, and her attitude friendly and co-operative. Father

had told me, 'Widows are far better than brides. They don't tell, they won't yell,

they don't swell, they rarely smell, and they're grateful as hell.'

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That's Maureen Johnson from 1946 to 1982. When I first heard Father's bawdy formula

I was simply amused by it and never expected it to apply to me... until that sour

day that Brian let me know that his younger concubine had displaced me. Then I found

that Father's joking description was the simple truth. So I became an available

'emergency squaw'. I worked hard at being agreeable and smelling good. And I didn't

insist on Adonis, just a friendly fair exchange with a gentleman. (Never an oaf,

never a wimp!)

I always left time for a second one, if he wanted it. He wants it, if you have done

the job on him you should do. The reason American men are such lousy lovers is that

American women are such lousy lovers. And vice versa, and around and around.

`Garbage in, garbage out.' You get what you pay for.

That twenty minutes to an hour between goes is the best time in the world for

intimate talk.

'Want first crack at the bathroom?' I asked.

'No hurry,' George answered, his voice rumbling in his chest (I had my right ear

against it). 'How about you?'

'No rush. George, that was a goody. And just what I needed. Thank you, sir.'

'Maureen, you're the one Shakespeare had in mind - "where other women satiate, she

most makes hungry":

`Go along with you, sir.'

'I mean it.'

'Tell me enough times and I'll believe it. George, when you do get up, would you

please get those envelopes? Wait a moment. Do you have time today for a second one?'

`I have time. That is what time is for.'

`All right. I did not want to waste time in bed talking business if you were in a

hurry. Because I do know ways to get you up again quickly if you are in a hurry.'

'You do indeed! But I got a day's work done before ten in order to devote the rest

of the day to Maureen.' He got up, got the two envelopes, came back, offered them to

me.

I said, `No, I don't want to touch them. George, please examine them. Is there any

way I could have tampered with them?'

'I don't see how you could have. They have been in my possession continuously since

4 July 1947.' He smiled at me, and I smiled back - that was the date of the second

time we had been in bed together. 'Your birthday, girl, and you gave me a present.'

`No, we exchanged presents, to our mutual profit. Examine the envelopes, George -

have they been tampered with? No, don't come closer. I might bewitch them.'

He looked them over. 'The flap seal has both our signatures written across it, on

each envelope. I know my signature and I saw you sign under mine. I do not see how

even Houdini could have opened them.'

'Please open number one, George, and read it aloud... and keep it. Put it back into

your zipper pocket.'

`Whatever you say, dear girl.' He opened it and read, ` "4 July 1947. In the spring

of 1951 a man calling himself 'Dr Pinero' will infuriate both scientists and

insurance men by claiming to be able to predict the date of any person's death. He

will set up in business in this sort of fortune-telling. For several months he will

enjoy great business success. Then he will be killed or die in an accident and his

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apparatus will be destroyed. Maureen Johnson." '

(As George read aloud, I thought back to that Saturday night, 29 June 1918. Brian

slept part of the time; Theodore and I not at all. Every now and then I ducked into

the bath, recorded in crisp Pitman everything Theodore told me - many details that

he had not given to judge Sperling and Justin and Mr Chapman.)

George said, 'Interesting. I never did believe that this Doctor Pinero could do what

he claimed to do. It must have been some complex hoax.'

'That's not the point, George.' (I did not speak sharply.)

'Eh?'

'It does not matter now whether he was a charlatan or not; the man is dead, his

apparatus destroyed, none of his notes remains. So said Time magazine and all the

newspapers. All this happened last year, 1951. That envelope has been in your

custody since July 1947, four years ago. How did I do it?'

He answered mildly, 'I wondered about that. Are you going to tell me?'

(Certainly, George. This man from the stars and the future came home and made love

to me and told me these things because he thought they could help me. And then he

died, killed in a war that wasn't his. For me. [Only now I know that he went back to

the stars and I lost him... and found him... and now I'm lost again, in a darkened

lorry with a screwball cat: Pixel, don't go away again!])

'George, I'm a soothsayer.'

'A soothsayer. That's a fortune-teller.'

'Literally it means one who speaks the truth. But I am a prophet, rather than a

fortune-teller. All those envelopes contain prophecies. Now for envelope number two.

Don't opera it quite yet. George, have I been in your office in the past month?'

'Not to my knowledge. The only time you were ever in it, that I can recall, was

about two years ago. We had a dinner date and it suited you to stop by my office

rather than be picked up.'

'That's right. You read the Wall Street journal, I'm sure. You are a director of the

corporation managing the Paradise atomic power plant; I suspect that you read the

journal pretty carefully concerning public power matters.'

'That's true. Managing business involves studying all sorts of finicky details.'

'What is new in the public power business lately?'

'Nothing much. The usual ups and downs.'

'Any new power sources?'

'No, nothing significant. Some experimental windmills, but windmills, even improved

ones, can't be classed as new.'

'How about sunpower, George?'

'Sunpower? Oh! Yes, there was a feature story in the Wall Street Journal. Eh...

sunpower screens. Direct conversion of sunlight to electricity. Uh, two long-hair

scientists, Dr Archibald Douglas and Dr M. L. Martin. Maureen, their gadget will

never amount to anything. If you are considering it, don't risk any money on it. Do

you realise how much of the time it is cloudy, how many hours are dark, how smog

cuts into the potential? You wind up with -'

'George. Open the second envelope.'

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He did so. '"Two scientists, Douglas and Martin, will develop conversion of sunlight

into electricity at high efficiency. Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens will

revolutionise public power and strongly affect everything else for the rest of the

twentieth century." Maureen, I just can't see how such an inefficient source -'

'George, George! How. did I know, in 1947, about these sunpower gadgets disclosed

just this year? How did I get the names right? Douglas. Martin.'

'I don't know.'

'I told you and now I'll repeat it. I am a prophet. Envelope number three tells

Harriman Industries how to cash in on the Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens. The next

three envelopes concern power, public power, big power - and the changes coming that

you won't believe. But you will have to believe when we open those envelopes one by

one. The question is: will we open them after the fact, as with these two - and then

all I could say is "I told you so" - or do we open each one long enough before the

fact that my prophecy is useful to you?'

'I'm getting chilly. Shall I get dressed, or come back to bed?'

'Oh, dear! I've talked business too long. Come to bed, George, and let me try to

make it up to you.'

He did and we cuddled, but the essential miracle did not take place. At last I said,

'Shall I apply a little direct magic? Or would you rather rest?'

'Maureen, what is it you want from Harriman Industries? You have not dope this just

to perplex me.'

'Of course not, George. I want to be elected a director of Harriman Industries, the

holding company. Later on you will need me on the board of some of the corporations

being held by it. However I will continue to decide how to time prophecies... as

timing is everything.'

'A director. There are no women on the board.'

'There will be when you nominate me and I am elected.'

'Maureen, please! All directors are major stockholders.'

'How much stock does it take to be eligible?'

'One share complies with the roles. But company policy calls for major ownership. In

the holding company or any of its subsidiaries.'

'How much? Shares. No, dollar value by the market; the various corporate shares are

not all the same value per share. Not any, I should say.'

'Uh, Mr Harriman and I think a director should own, or acquire soon after election,

at least half a million in market value of shares. It fixes his attention on what he

is voting on.'

'George, on Monday at the close of market my summed up position in all of your

companies was $872.039.81 - I can bring that up to an even million in a few days if

it would help to smooth the way.'

George's eyebrows went way up. 'Maureen, I didn't know that you owned any of our

stock. I should have spotted your name in connection with any large block.'

'I use dummies. Some in Zurich, some in Canada, some in New York. I can get it all

into my own name if there is any reason to.'

'We'll need some intelligences filed with us, at least. Maureen, am I free to tell

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Mr Harriman about your envelopes? Your prophecies?'

'How would he feel about them?'

'I'm not sure. He and I have been in business together since the twenties... but I

don't know him. He's a plunger... I'm a plough horse.'

'Well, let's keep it a bedroom secret for now. Perhaps you will want to open the

next envelope in his presence. Or perhaps not. George, if the public, particularly

the Street, got hold of the idea that you were making business decisions on the

advice of a soothsayer, it might damage Harriman Industries, might it not?'

'I think you're right. All right, bedroom secret.' He suddenly smiled. 'But if I

said that I consulted an astrologer, half of those knot-heads would consider it

"scientific":

'And now let's. drop it, and let me see if I can get our plough horse interested in

ploughing me. George, do all the men in your family have oversize penises?'

'Not that I know of and I think you are trying to flatter me.'

'Well, it seems big to me. Hey! It's getting bigger!'

Chapter 21 - Serpent's Tooth

My problems for the next ten years were Princess Polly, Priscilla, Donald, George

Strong... and a curious metaphysical problem I still don't know how to resolve - or

how I should have resolved it, although I have talked it over in depth with my

husband and friend Dr Jubal Harshaw and with some of the finest

mathematico-manipulative cosmologists in any universe, starting with Elizabeth

'Slipstick Libby' Long. It involves the age-old pseudo-paradox of free will and

predestination.

Free will is a fact, while you are living it. And predestination is a fact, when you

look at any sequence from outside.

But in World-as-Myth neither free will nor predestination have meaning. Each is

semantically null. If we are simply patterns of fictions put together by fabulists,

then one may as well speak of free will for pieces in a chess game. After the game

is history and the chessmen have been placed back in the box, does the Black Queen

lose sleep moaning, 'Oh, I should never have taken that pawn!'

Ridiculous.

I am not an assemblage of fictions. I was not created by a fabulist. I am a human

woman, daughter of human parents, and mother of seventeen boys and girls in my first

life and mother of still more in my first rejuvenation. If I am controlled by

destiny, then that destiny lies in my genes... not in the broodings of some

near-sighted introvert hunched over a roboscriber.

Mie trouble was that there came a time as we neared the end of the decade that I

realised that Theodore had told me about a tragedy that could possibly be prevented.

Or could it? Could I use my free will to break the golden chains of predestination?

Could I use my foreknowledge that something was going to happen to cause it not to

happen?

Let's turn it upside down - If I keep something from happening, how could I have

foreknowledge of something that never happened?

Don't try to sort that out; you'll bite your own tail.

Is it ever possible to avoid an appointment in Samarra?

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I knew that the power satellite was going to blow up, killing everybody aboard. But

in 1952 no one else knew that there would ever be a power satellite. In 1952 it was

not even a blueprint.

What was my duty?

On Friday Dr Rumsey told me that Priscilla was not pregnant and that she was

physically old enough to be bred and that he was willing to support a delayed birth

certificate, if I wanted her to have one, showing an age anywhere from thirteen to

nineteen... but that in his opinion she was childish in her attitudes.

I agreed. 'But I may have to phoney an age of at least sixteen.'

'I see. Her brother is screwing her, isn't he?'

I answered, 'Is this room soundproofed?'

'Yes. And so is my nurse. We've heard everything, dear, much of it a lot worse than

a little brother sister incest. We had a case last week - not Howards, thank God -

of "His brother is screwing him". Be glad your kids are normal. With brother-sister

games all that is usually needed is to see to it that she doesn't get pregnant and

that they get over it in time to marry somebody else. Which they almost always do.

Haven't you run into this before?'

'Yes. Before you took over your father's practice. Didn't he tell you?'

'Are you kidding? Pop treats the Hippocratic Oath as handed down from on high. How

did it work out?'

'Okay in the long run, although it worried me at the time. Older sister taught

younger brother and then younger brother taught still younger sister. I walked on

eggs for a while, wondering whether to catch them or just to keep an eye out for

trouble. But they never let it get intense; they just enjoyed it. My kids are a

horny lot, all of them.'

'And you aren't?'

'Shall I take off my panties? Or shall we finish this discussion?'

'I'm too tired. Go on.'

'Sissy. Eventually they all took the Howard shilling, and now all three couples are

friendly, with, I think, occasional Westchester weekends. But they keep such things

out of my sight to keep from shocking poor old strait-laced Mama. But these two

don't have that easy-going attitude. Jim, I've got to get that girl married.'

'Maureen, Priscilla isn't ready to get married. The cure would be worse than the

disease. You would ruin some man's life while spoiling hers, not to mention the

damage to possible children. Hmm - Priscilla told me she had just moved here from

Dallas. I don't know Marian. Hardy family - right? What sort of a person is Marian?'

'Jim, I am not an unprejudiced witness.'

'That from the woman who can always see the good side in the Devil himself tells me

all I need to know. Well, Marian may have had good intentions but she did not do a

good job on Priscilla. At least not good enough to risk letting her marry at

fourteen, no matter how mature her pelvic measurements are. Maureen, I'll fake any

age you say - but don't let her get married so young.'

'I'll try, dear. I've got a tiger by the tail. Thank you.'

He kissed me goodbye. Shortly I said, 'Stop that; you said you were too tired. And

you've got a waiting-room full of patients.'

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'Sissy.'

'Yup. Some other time, dear. Give my love to Velma. I want to get you both over for

dinner next week to see my new house. Maybe then.'

Princess Polly took a while to accept the move. For two weeks I kept her indoors and

using a sand box. Then I let her out. An hour later, not being able to find her, I

drove slowly back the eight blocks to our old house. When I was almost there, I

spotted her, parked quickly and called her. She stopped and listened, let me

approach her, then scampered away, straight for her old home. No, her only home.

I watched in horror as she crossed diagonally at Meyer and Rockhill - two busy

boulevards. She make it safely and I breathed again and went back for my car and

drove to our old house, arriving as she did because I conformed to traffic rules

while she did not. I let per sniff around inside an empty house for a few minutes,

then picked per up and brought per home.

For the next ten days this was repeated once, and sometimes twice, a day. Then came

a day - the day after Labor Day, I believe - when a wrecking crew arrived to clear

the site. George had warned me, so that day I did not let per out. I took per there

- let her go inside as usual and sniff around, then the crew arrived and started

tearing the house down. Princess came running to me and I let per sit in my lap in

the car, at the kerb.

She watched, while the Only Home was destroyed.

Aside from fixtures, which had been removed earlier, nothing was salvaged. So they

tore down that fine old nineteenth-century frame structure in only a morning.

Princess Polly watching, unbelieving. When the wreckers hitched bulldozers to the

north wing and pulled it down, made it suddenly rubbish, she hid per face against me

and moaned.

I drove us home. I did not like watching the death of that old house, either.

I took Polly back the next day. There was nothing but soil scraped bare and a

basement hole where our home had been. Princess Polly would not get out of the car;

I am not sure she recognised the site. She never ran away again. Sometimes gentlemen

friends came to call on her, but she stayed home. I think that she forgot that she

had ever lived anywhere else.

But I did not forget. Never go back to a house you once lived in - not if you loved

it.

I wish that Priscilla's problems had been as easy to cope with as Polly's. It was

Friday before I saw Dr Rumsey; Thursday we moved to our new house and any such move

is exhausting, even though I used professional packers and handlers, not just their

vans. It was simplified, too, by the fact that most of the furniture was not moved

to our new house, but given to Good Will - I told both Good Will and the Salvation

Army that a houseful of furniture, plus endless minor chattels, were to be donated

to charity but they must send a truck. The Salvation Army wanted to come over and

select what they wanted, but Good Will was not so fussy, so they got the plunder.

We kept only the books, some pictures, my desk and my files, clothing, some dishes

and flatware, an IBM typewriter, and a few oddments. About eleven I sent Donald and

Priscilla over to the new house with all salvaged food from pantry and freezer and

refrigerator.

'Donald, please come back for me after you unload. Priscilla, see what you can find

for lunch; I think they will be loaded by noon. But don't fix anything for which

timing is critical.'

`Yes, Mother.' Those were almost the only words she spoke to me that morning. She

had done whatever I told per to do but made no attempt to use initiative, whereas

Donald tackled the job with imagination.

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They drove away. Donald came back for me at noon, just as the crew-was breaking for

lunch.

'We'll have to wait,' I told him, `as they are not quite finished. What did you do

with Princess?'

'I shut her into my bathroom for now, with per sand box and food. She resents it.'

`She'll just have to put up with it for a while. Donald, what is eating Priscilla?

Last night and this morning she has been acting as if someone - me, I think - had

broken her little red wagon.'

'Aw, Mother, that's just the way she is. Doesn't mean anything.'

`Donald, it's not the way she is going to be, not if she stays here. I will not

cater to sullenness. I have tried to give all my sons and daughters a maximum of

freedom consistent with civilised behaviour towards other people, especially towards

their own family. But civilised behaviour is required of everyone at all times. This

means politeness and a cheerful demeanour, even if simulated rather than felt. No

one is ever exempt from these rules, no matter how old. Do you think you can

influence her? If she's sulky, I am quite capable of telling her to leave the

table... and I don't think she would like that.'

He laughed without mirth. I'm sure she wouldn't like it'

`Well, perhaps you can put it over to her. Possibly she won't resent it from you.'

`Uh, maybe.'

`Donald, do you feel that there is anything I have said or done - or required of

her, or of you - that she is justified in resenting?'

'Uh... no.'

'Be frank with me, son. This is a bad situation; it can't go on.'

'Well... she never has liked to take orders.'

'What orders have I given that she doesn't like?'

`Well... she was pretty upset when you told her she couldn't come along and help

decide which house we would take.'

`That was not an order. I simply told her that it was my business, not hers: And so

it is.'

'Well, she didn't like it. And she didn't like being told that she had to be what

she calls "poked at". You know.'

`Yes, a pelvic examination. That was indeed an order. An order not subject to

discussion. But tell me, what did you think of my requiring her to submit to a

pelvic examination? Your opinion won't change my mind; I would just like to know

what you think about it'

'Uh, none of my business.'

`Donald.'

`Well... I guess girls have to have them. If her doctor is going to know whether

she's healthy or not. Yeah, I suppose so. But she sure didn't like it.'

'Yes, girls do have to have them for their own protection. I don't like them and

never did and I've had them so many, many times that I couldn't begin to count. But

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it's just a nuisance, like getting your teeth cleaned. Necessary, so I put up with

it... and Priscilla must put up with it too, and I won't take any nonsense out of

her about it.' I sighed. 'Try to make her see it. Donald, I'm going to drive you

back and drop you, while they are still eating, and then I'll turn right around and

hurry back, or something will wind up in the wrong truck.'

I got to the house about two, then supervised where things went while carrying a

sandwich in my hand. It was after five by the time the van left and still later

before the house was arranged - if you can call it arranged when the back yard was

strewn with cardboard cartons and 'clothes were dumped on beds and books were simply

shoved into any bookcase to get them off the floor. Was it Poor Richard who said

that `Two removes equal one fire'? Yet this was an easy move.

By eight I got some supper into them. We all were quiet Priscilla was still sullen.

After supper I had us all move into the family room for coffee - and a toast. I

poured thimble glasses of Kahlua . . . because you can't get drunk on Kahlua; you'll

get sick first. I held up a glass. `Here's to our new home, dears.'

I took a sip; so did Donald. Priscilla did not touch hers.

`I don't drink,' she said flatly.

`This is not a drink, dear; it is a ceremony. For a toast, if one does not wish to

drink it, it is sufficient to lift the glass, say, "Hear, hear!" and touch the glass

to your lips, put it down and smile. Remember that. It will serve you well at other

times.'

'Mother, it is time we had a serious talk.'

`All right. Please do.'

'Donald and I are not going to be able to live here.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'I'm sorry, too. But it's the truth.'

'When are you leaving?'

'Don't you want to know why we are leaving? And where we are going?'

'You will tell me if you wish to tell me.'

'It's because we can't stand being treated like prisoners in a jail!'

I made no answer. The silence stretched out, until finally my daughter said, 'Don't

you want to know how you've been mistreating us?'

'If you wish to tell me.'

`Uh... Donnie, you tell her!'

`No,' I objected, I'll hear from Donald any complaint he has about how I have

treated him. But not about how I have treated you. You are right here, and I am your

mother and the head of this house. If you have complaints, make them to me. Don't

try to fob it off on your brother.'

'That's it! Orders! Orders! Orders! Nothing but orders, all the time... like we were

criminals in a prison!'

I recited to myself a mantra I learned in World War Two: Nil illegitimi carborundum.

I said it three times, under my breath. 'Priscilla, if that is what you mean by

orders, nothing but orders, I can assure you that I won't change it. Any complaints

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you have I will listen to. But I won't listen to them second hand.'

'Oh, Mother, you're impossible!'

'Here is another order, young lady. Keep a civil tongue in your head. Donald, do you

have any complaints about my treatment of you? You. Not your sister.'

'Uh... no, Mama.'

'Donnie!'

'Priscilla, do you have any specific complaints? Anything but a general objection to

taking orders?'

'Mother, you - There is no point in trying to reason with you!'

'You haven't tried reason as yet. I'm going to bed. If you leave before I get up,

please leave your latch keys on the kitchen table. Goodnight.'

'Goodnight, Mama,' Donald answered.

Priscilla said nothing.

Priscilla did not come down for breakfast.

'She said to tell you she doesn't want any breakfast, Mama.'

'Very well. Fried eggs and little sausages this morning. How do you want your eggs,

Donald? Broken yolks and vulcanised? Or just chased through the kitchen?'

'Uh, however you Nave yours, I guess. Mama, Priss doesn't really mean she doesn't

want breakfast. Shall I go up and tell her that you said she has to come to

breakfast?'

'No. I usually have my eggs up and easy but not sloppy. Suits?'

'Huh? Oh, sure! Please, Mama, can't I at least go up and tell her that you said

breakfast is ready and she should come eat?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I have not said that and I do not say it. The first child to try a hunger

strike on me was your brother Woodrow. He lasted several hours but he cheated - he

had stashed vanilla wafers under his pillow. When he finally gave up and came

downstairs, I did not permit him to eat until dinner time, which was several hours

away. He did not try it again.' (But he tried everything else, with lots of

imagination!) 'I don't coddle hunger strikers, Donald, or tantrums of any sort...

and I think no government should. Coddle hunger strikers, I mean, or people who

chain themselves to fences or lie down in front of vehicles. Grown-up tantrums.

Donald, you have objected to my orders twice this morning. Or is it three times? Are

you catching this from Priscilla? Don't you have it through your head yet that I do

not give unnecessary orders, but those I do give, I expect to have carried out?

Promptly and as given. If I tell you to go jump in the lake, I expect you to return

wringing wet.'

He grinned at me. 'Where is the nearest lake?'

'What? Swope Park, I guess. Unless we count a water hazard at the golf club. Or a

landscaping pond at Forest Hills. But I don't recommend disturbing either corpses or

golfers.'

'There's a difference?'

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'Oh, certainly, some at least. Donald, I don't mind that Priscilla chooses to skip

breakfast this morning, as I need to talk with you without having her hanging over

you and putting words in your mouth. When do you two plan to leave? And where do you

plan to go, if you don't mind telling me?'

'Shucks, Mama, that was never serious. How can we leave? No money, and no place to

go. Except back to Aunt Marian and we won't do that. We'll never go near her again.'

'Donald, just what is it you find so poisonous about Aunt Marian? Six years ago you

both elected to stay with her when you could have come with me. What happened? Did

she punish you endlessly? Or what?'

'Oh, no! She hardly ever punishes anybody. Sometimes she would have Pop work us

over. Like this last hooraw with Gus.'

`What happened there? Gus is a year older than you are and bigger... or was the last

time I saw him. You said, "He had her down and was giving her a bad time." How bad a

time? Was he raping her? Or trying to?'

'Uh... Mama, I'm in a prejudiced position. Jealous, I guess.'

'So I would guess, too. Was it really rape? Or - What is it you young people call it

today? They were "getting it on"?'

He sighed and looked hurt. `Yeah, they were. I - I got sore.'

I patted his hand. 'Poor Donald! Dear, are you beginning to realise that you aren't

doing yourself any good by falling in love with your sister? Or doing her any good?

You are probably harming her even more than you are harming yourself. Do you see

that, dear?'

'But, Mama, I couldn't leave her there. Uh, I'm sorry we didn't come with you six

years ago. But you were so strict and Aunt Marian wasn't, and - Oh, I'm sorry!'

'How was Marian about housework? I am about to assign each of you your share of the

work. But Priscilla seems to be clumsy in the kitchen. Yesterday she filled the

freezer, dumping stuff in any which way, then didn't turn it on. I just happened to

catch it or we could have lost the whole load. Did she take her turn at cooking

along with Mildred and Sara and whoever is the right age now?'

`I don't think so. No, I know she didn't. Granny Bearpaw does all the cooking... and

doesn't like having anyone else in her kitchen.'

'Who is Granny Bearpaw?'

`Aunt Marian's cook. Black as coal and a hook nose. Half Negro, half Cherokee. And a

swell cook! Always willing to fix you a bite. But you had better ask for it from the

door. If you step inside, she's likely to wave a frying-pan at you.'

'She sounds like quite a gal. And it sounds like I'm going to have to teach

Priscilla to cook.'

Donald made no comment. I went on, 'In the mean time we must get transcripts and get

you two into the city school system. Donald, what would you think of going to

Westport High instead of Southwest? Say yes and we might find you a jalopy, four

wheels of some sort, so that it would not be too difficult. I really don't want you

in the same school as Priscilla. She hasn't any judgement, dear; I'm afraid she

would get into fights with other girls over you.'

'Yeah, she might. But, Mama, I don't need to go to Westport.'

'I think you do. For the reasons I named.'

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'I don't need to go to high school. I graduated in June.'

I had lived-with children all my life; they had never ceased to surprise me.

`Donald, how did I miss this? I had you tagged for next year, and I don't recall

receiving an announcement'

'I didn't send out any... and, yeah, I was classed as a junior this past year. But

I've got the required hours and then some, because I took summer session last year

to make sure I got all the maths they offered. Mama, I figured on being ready to go

either way... didn't decide to graduate until May, when it was too late for the year

book and all that jazz. Mr Hardecker - he's the principal - wasn't pleased. But he

did check my record and agreed that I had the option of graduating at the end of my

junior year if I wanted to. But he suggested that he just arrange to issue my

diploma quietly and I should not attend graduation or try to convince the class

of'52 that I was in their class since I wasn't in their year book and didn't wear

their class ring and all the rest I agreed. Then he helped me apply for the schools

I was interested in. The really good technical schools, I mean, like MIT and Case

and CalTech and Rensselaer. I want to build rocketships.'

'You sound like your brother Woodrow:

'Not quite. He flies 'em; I want to design them.'

`Have you heard from any of your applications?'

`Two. Case and CalTech. Turned me down.'

'There may be good news waiting for you in Dallas. I'll check with your father - I

must call him today anyhow; I have yet to tell him that you two wanderers showed up

here. Donald, if you are turned down this year for the schools you have applied to,

don't lose hope.'

`I won't. I'll apply next year.'

Not quite what I meant. You should go to school this year. Dear, it is not necessary

to go to one of the world's top technical schools for your lower division courses.

Any liberal arts college with high scholastic standards is okay for lower division.

Such as Claremont. Or any of the so-called Little Ivy League. Or Grinnell College.

Lots of others.'

'But this is August, Mama. It's too late to apply anywhere.'

'Not quite.' I thought hard. 'Donald, I want you to let me promote you to eighteen;

we'll start by getting you a Missouri driver's licence that shows that age for you,

then we'll get you a delayed birth certificate when you need one. Not soon, unless

you need a passport. Then you'll go to... Grinnell, I think'-one of the committee

for my doctorate was now dean of admissions there and I had known him rather well-'

for one or two years. Make up, your mind just which engineering school you want and

we'll work on getting you into it next year or the year after... while you work hard

for top grades. And -'

'Mama, what am I going to use for money?'

'My dear son, I am ready to go to almost any expense to get you separated from your

sister before you two get into real trouble. I won't pay for an abortion, but I will

pay for your education over and above what you can earn yourself, working part time.

Which you should do, for self-discipline and for your own self-respect. At Grinnell

a male student can often wash dishes in a sorority house.'

I went on, 'Those cornfed coeds are luscious; I've seen them. But you may not notice

them too much as I want to submit your name to the Howard Foundation, and ask for

the Iowa list of the youngest age group of girls.'

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'But, Mama, I'm not anxious to get married and I can't support a wife!'

'You don't have to get married. But are you totally uninterested in meeting a select

list of girls about your age, all of whom are healthy, all are long-lived - as you

are - all desirable girls by all the usual criteria... and all of them guaranteed

not to scream if you make a polite, respectful, but unmistakable pass at her? And

won't get indignant - What kind of a girl do you think I am? - when it turns out you

have a fishskin or a Rameses in your pocket.

Son, you do not have to do anything whatever about your Howard list. But if you get

horny or lonely or both, shopping your Howard list surely beats hanging around bars

or attending prayer meetings; all the preliminary work has been done for you.

Because the Howard Foundation does indeed want Howards to marry Howards, and spends

millions of dollars to that end.'

'But, Mama, I can't possibly get married until I'm out of school. That's five years

away, at least. I need an MS. A Ph.D. wouldn't hurt.'

'You talked to your sister Susan yesterday. Did you wonder how Susan and Henry were

able to go to college, straight from their wedding? Quit worrying, Donald. If you

will just pick a college not too close to Kansas City, all your problems can be

worked out. And your mother can quit worrying.'

Priscilla blew all her fuses when she learned that Donald was going to, go to school

somewhere else. We kept her from knowing about it until the last minute; the day she

registered at Southwest High was the day he left for Grinnell. Donald packed while

his sister was at school, then waited until she got home to break the news. Then he

left at once, driving a Chevrolet so old that it could not be used on a control

road; it had no bug.

She threw a fit. She insisted that she was going with him. She made silly noises

about suicide. 'You're deserting me! I'll kill myself, I will! Then you'll be sorry

you did this to me!'

Donald looked glum but he left. Priscilla went to bed. I ignored the fact. Threats

of suicide are just another tantrum to me, blackmail to which I will not submit.

Besides, if a person wants to take his own life, it is (I think) his privilege.

Also, if he is dead serious about it, no one can stop him.

(Yes, I am a cruel and heardess scoundrel. Stipulated. Now go play with your dolly

somewhere else.)

Priscilla came downstairs about 10.0 p.m. and said that she was hungry. I told her

that dinner was long over but that she could fix herself a sandwich and a glass of

milk - which she did, and then joined me in the family room... and started in on

recriminations.

I cut her short. 'Priscilla, you will not sit there and call me names while eating

my food. Stop one or the other.'

'Mama, you're cruel!'

'That counts as name calling.'

'But - Oh, I'm so unhappy!'

That was self-evident and did not call for comment, it seemed to me, so I went back

to watching Walter Cronkite and listening to his sonorous pronouncements.

She gloomed around for some days, then discovered the advantages of living close to

school, of having a family room that was hers to use as she liked, and of a mother

who permitted almost any racket and mess as long as it was cleaned up afterwards -

or at least once or twice a week. The house started to be filled with young people.

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I found that as Priscilla became happy, so did I.

In late September I came downstairs one Friday night about eleven for a glass of

milk and a midnight snack, and heard those give-away squeaks coming out of the

maid's room across from the kitchen. I was not tempted to disturb them as I felt

relief rather than worry, especially as the sound effects proved that Priscilla had

learned to have orgasms as readily with another male as with her brother. But I went

up and checked a calendar in my bathroom, one that duplicated the one in hers - and

saw that it was a 'safe' day for her and then felt nothing but relief. I never

expected Priscilla to give up sex. Once they start and find they like it, they never

quit. Or perhaps I should say that I would worry if one did.

The next day I called Jim Rumsey and asked him to take a smear and a blood test each

time I sent Priscilla in, as I did not trust her judgement and knew she might be

exposed.

He snorted. 'Do you think I'm not on the ball? I check everybody. Even you, you old

bag.'

'Thanks, dear!' I threw him a kiss through the screen.

It was shortly after that cheerful occasion that George Strong called me.

'Dear lady, I'm just back in town. I have good news.' He smiled shyly. 'Delos agrees

that you must be on the board. We can't put it to the stockholders until the annual

meeting but an interim appointment can be made by the director if a vacancy occurs

between stockholders' meetings. It so happens that one of my assistants is about to

resign. As a director, not as my assistant. Could you attend a directors' meeting in

Denver on Monday the sixth of October?'

'Yes, indeed. I am enormously pleased, George.'

'May I pick you up at ten? A company rocketplane will take us to Denver, arriving

there at ten, mountain time. The directors' meeting is at ten thirty in the Harriman

Building, followed by luncheon at the top of the same building - a private

dining-room with a spectacular view.'

'Delightful! George, are we returning later that day?'

'We can if you wish, Maureen. But there are some beautiful drives around that area,

and I have a car and a driver available. Does that appeal to you?'

'It does indeed! George, be sure to fetch envelope number three.'

'I will be sure to do so. Until Monday, then, dear lady.'

I moved around in a happy fog, wishing that I could tell my father about it - how

little Maureen Johnson of Muddy Roads, Mizzourah, was about to be named a director

of the Harriman empire, through an unlikely concatenation: first, an adulterous love

affair with a stranger from the stars; second, because her husband left her for

another woman; and third, an autumn affair between an immoral grass widow and a

lonely bachelor.

If Brian had kept me, I could never have become a director in my own person. While

Brian had not begrudged me any luxury once we were prosperous, aside from my

household budget I had actually controlled only 'egg money' - even that numbered

Zurich bank account had only been nominally mine. Brian was a kind and generous

husband . . . but he was not even remotely a proponent of equal rights for women.

Which was one reason I refused George Strong's repeated proposals of marriage.

Although George was twenty years younger than I (a fact I never let him suspect),

his values were rooted in the nineteenth century. As his mistress I could be his

equal; were I to marry him, I would at once became his subordinate - a pampered

subordinate, most likely... but subordinate.

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Besides, it would be a dirty trick to play on a confirmed old bachelor. His

proposals of marriages were gallant compliments, not serious offers of civil

contract.

Besides, I had become a confirmed old bachelor myself - even though I found myself

unexpectedly rearing one more child and a problem child at that.

My problem child - What to do about Priscilla while I was in Colorado overnight? Or

possibly over two nights - if George suggested staying another day, at Estes Park,

or Cripple Creek, would I say no?

Were I living alone with only Princess Polly to worry about, I could stuff her into

a kennel and ignore her protests. Would that I could do so with a strapping big girl

who outweighed me!... but who lacked sense enough to boil water.

What to do? What to do?

'Priscilla, I am going to be away from home overnight, possibly two nights. What

would you prefer to do while I am gone?'

She looked blank. 'Why are you going away?'

'Let's stick to the point. There are several possibilities. You can stay overnight

or over two nights with a chum from school, if you like. Or you could stay with Aunt

Velma -'

'She's not my aunt!'

'True and you need not call her that. It is simply customary among Howards to use

such terms among ourselves to remind us of our common membership in the Howard

families. Suit yourself. Now please let's get back to the main question: what do you

prefer to do while I'm away?'

`Why do I have to do anything? I can stay right here. I know you think I can't

cook... but I can rustle my grub for a couple of days without starving.'

'I'm sure you can. Staying here was the next possibility that I was about to

mention. I can find someone to come stay with you so that you won't have to be

alone. Your sister Margaret, for example.'

'Peggy's a pill!'

'Priscilla, there is no excuse for your calling Margaret by a derogatory slang name.

Is there someone you would like to have here to keep you company?'

'I don't need any company. I don't need any help. Feed the cat and bring in the Star

- what's hard about that?'

'Have you stayed alone in a house before?'

'Oh, sure, dozens of times!'

'Really? What were the occasions?'

'Oh, all sorts. Papa and Aunt Marian would take the whole family somewhere, and I

would decide not to go. Family outings are a bore.'

'Overnight trips?'

'Sure. Or more. Nobody in the house but me and Granny Bearpaw.'

'Oh. Mrs Bearpaw is live-in help?'

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'I just got through saying so.'

'That isn't quite what you said and your manner is not as polite as it could be.

Staying with Mrs Bearpaw in the house is not the same as staying alone... and I have

gathered an impression that Granny with a frying-pan could intimidate an intruder.'

'She wouldn't use a frying pan; she's got a shot-gun:

'I see. But I can't get her to stay with you... and apparently you have never stayed

alone before. Priscilla, I can arrange for a couple to stay here - strangers to you

but reliable.'

'Mother, why can't I simply stay here by myself? You act like I'm a child!'

'Very well, dear, if that is what you prefer.' (But I'm not going to leave it

entirely up to your good judgement. I'm going to hire the Argus Patrol to do more

than cruise slowly past three times a night - I'll place the next thing to a

stakeout on this house. I shan't leave you vulnerable to some night prowler just

because you think you are grown up.)

'That's what I prefer!'

'Very well. Everyone has to learn adult responsibility at some time; I simply was

reluctant to thrust it on you if you did not want it. I'll be leaving at ten o'clock

Monday morning, the sixth, for Colorado -'

'Colorado! Why didn't you say so? Take me along!'

'No, this is a business trip:

'I won't be any trouble. Can I take the train up to the top of Pikes Peak?'

'You aren't going; you're going to stay here and go to school.'

'I think that's mean.'

I was gone two days and I had a wonderful time. Being a director was a bit dazzling

the first time, but when it came time to vote, I simply voted the way George did,

for the nonce - later I would have opinions.

At lunch Mr Harriman had me placed at his right. I didn't touch the wine and I

noticed that he didn't, either. He had been all business at the meeting but was most

charming at lunch - no business talk.

'Mrs Johnson, Mr Strong tells me that you and I share an enthusiasm - space travel.'

'Oh, yes!' We talked about nothing else then and were last to leave the table; the

waiters were clearing it around us.

George and I spent the night at a guesthouse half way between Denver and Colorado

Springs, on the inner road, not the highway. We discussed envelope number three in

bed:

'The Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens will cause the greatest change in the American

countryside since the first transcontinental railroad. Moving roadways will be built

all over the country, powered by D-M screens. These will follow in general the

network of Federal highways now in existence - Highway One down the East Coast,

Route Sixty-Six from Chicago to LA, and so forth.

'String cities will grow up along these moving roads and the big cities now in

existence will stop growing and even lose population.

'The moving roads will dominate the rest of the twentieth century. Eventually they

will die out, like the railroads - but not until next century.'

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'Maureen,' George said soberly, 'this is awfully hard to believe.'

I said nothing.

'I don't see how they could be made to work.'

'As a starter, try multiplying a thousand miles by two hundred yards, to get square

yards, then call it horsepower. Use a ten per cent efficiency factor. Save the

surplus power in Shipstones when the Sun is high and bright; use that surplus to

keep the roads rolling when the Sun doesn't shine.' (I could be glib about it; I had

done the arithmetic many times in thirty-four years.)

'I'm not an engineer.'

'Then discuss it with your best engineer - Mr Ferguson? when you get home.'

'You stand by this?'

'It's my prophecy. It won't happen quickly - the first roadcity - Cleveland to

Cincinatti - won't roll for several years. I'm telling you now so that Harriman

Industries can get in on the ground floor.'

'I'll talk to Ferguson.'

'Good. And now let me be nice to you because you have been so very nice to me.'

I returned on Wednesday and stopped at the office of Argus Patrol before I went

Nome. I spoke to Colonel Frisby, the president of the company. I'm back; you can

take the special watch off my home. Do you have a report for me?'

'Yes, Mrs Johnson. Your house is still there, no fires, no burglars, no intruders,

nothing but a noisy party on Monday night, and one not quite so noisy last night -

kids will be kids. Your daughter did not go to school yesterday - slept in, we

think; the party Monday night ran quite late. But she's at school today and looks

none the worse. Shall we put this on your bill or do you want to pay for this

special service now?'

I paid it and went home, feeling relieved.

I let myself in and sniffed; the place needed airing.

And a thorough house cleaning. But those were minor matters.

Priscilla got Nome a little after four, looking apprehensive, but smiled when I did.

I ignored the mess the house was in, took her out to dinner, and told her about my

trip. Some off it.

On Friday I picked her up at school and we went to Jim Rumsey's office, by

appointment. Priscilla wanted to know why?

'Dr Rumsey wanted to see you again after a couple of months. It has been just two

months.'

'Do I have to be poked?'

'Probably.'

'I won't!'

'Say that again. Say it loud enough to be heard in Dallas. Because, if you mean

that, then I'll have to bring your father into it. He still has legal custody of

you. Now say it'

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She shut up.

About an hour later Jim called me into his private office. 'First, the good news.

She doesn't have crabs. Now the bad news. She does have syphilis and clap:

I used a heartwarming expletive.

Jim tut-tutted. 'Ladies don't talk that way.'

'I'm not a lady. I'm an old bag with an incorrigible daughter. Have you told her?'

'I always tell the parent first'

'All right, let's tell her.'

'Slow down. Maureen, I recommend putting her into a hospital. Not just for

gonorrhoea and syphilis, but for what her emotional condition will be after we tell

her. She's cocky at the moment, almost arrogant. I don't know what she'll be ten

minutes from now.'

'I'm in your hands, Jim.'

'Let me call Bell Memorial, see if I can get an immediate admission.'

Chapter 22 - The Better-Dead List

A noise woke me up. I was still in that pitch-dark lorry, clutching Pixel to me.

'Pixel, where are we?'

'Kuhbleeert!' (How would I know?)

'Hush!' Someone was unlocking the lorry.

'Meeroow?'

'I don't know. But don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes.'

A side door rolled back. Someone was silhouetted against the open door. I blinked.

'Maureen Long?'

'I think so. Yes.'

'I am sorry to have left you in the dark so long. But we had a visit from the

Supreme Bishop's proctors and we have just finished bribing them. And now we must

move; they don't stay bribed. Second-order dishonesty. May I offer you a hand?'

I accepted his hand - bony, dry, and cold - and he handed me down while I held Pixel

in my left arm. He was a small man, in a dark siren suit, and the nearest thing to a

living skeleton I have ever seen. He appeared to be yellowed parchment stretched

over bones and little else. His skull was completely hairless.

'Permit me to introduce myself,' he said. 'I am Dr Frankenstein.'

'Frankenstein,' I repeated. 'Didn't we meet at Schwab's on Sunset Boulevard?'

He chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. 'You are jesting. Of course it is not

my original name but one I use professionally. You will see. This way, if you

please.'

We were in a windowless room, with a vaulted ceiling glowing with what seemed to be

Douglas-Martin shadowless skyfoam. He led us to a lift. As the door closed with us

inside Pixel tried to get away from me. I dung to him. 'No, no, Pix! You've got to

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see where they take me.'

I spoke just to Pixel, almost in a whisper, but my escort answered, 'Don't worry,

Milady Long; you are now in the hands of friends.'

The lift stopped at a lower(?) level; we got out and we all got into a tube capsule.

We zoomed fifty yards, five hundred, five thousand, who knows? - the capsule

accelerated decelerated, stopped. We got out. Another lift took us up this time.

Shortly we were in a luxurious lounge with about a dozen people in it and more

coming in. Dr Frankenstein offered me a comfortable seat in a large circle of

chairs, most of them occupied. I sat down.

This time Pixel would not be denied. He wriggled out of my arms, jumped down,

explored the place and examined the people, tail up and poking the little pink nose

into everything.

There was a wheelchair in the circle, occupied by an excessively fat man, who had

one leg off at the knee, the other amputated higher up. He was wearing dark glasses.

He felt like a diabetic to me, and I wondered how Galahad would approach the case.

He spoke up:

'Ladies and gentlemen, shall we get started? We have a new sister.' He pointed with

his whole hand at me, like a movie usher. 'Lady Macbeth. She is -'

'Just a moment,' I put in. 'I am not Lady Macbeth. I am Maureen Johnson Long.'

He trained his head and dark glasses at me slowly, like a battleship's turret. 'This

is most irregular. Dr Frankenstein?

'I am sorry, Mr Chairman. The contretemps with the proctors spoiled the schedule.

Nothing has been explained to her.'

The fat man let out a long sibilant sigh. Incredible. Madam, we apologise. Let me

introduce our circle. We are the dead men. All of us here are enjoying terminal

illness. I say "enjoying" because we have found a way - hee, hee, hee, hee! - to

relish every golden moment left to us... every golden moment left to us... indeed to

extend those moments because a happy man lives longer.

Each companion of the Committee for Aesthetic Deletions - at your service, Madam! -

spends his remaining days in ensuring that scoundrels whose removal will improve the

human breed predecease him. You were elected in absentia to our select circle not

merely because you are a walking corpse yourself but as a tribute to the artistic

crimes you committed in attaining that status.

'With that synoptic explanation out of the way, permit me to introduce our noble

companions:

'Dr Fu Manchu.' (A burly Irishman or Scot. He bowed without getting up.)

'Lucrezia Borgia.' (Whistler's mother, with tatting in her lap. She smiled at me and

said, 'Welcome, dear girl!' in a sweet soprano.)

'Lucrezia is our most accomplished expunger. Despite inoperable cancer of the liver

she has counted coup more than forty times. She usually -'

'Stop it, Hassan,' she said sweetly,' before you tempt me to put you on your proper

track.'

'I wish you would, dear. I grow weary of this carcass. Beyond Lucrezia is Bluebeard

-'

'Hiyah, babe! What are you doing after?'

'Don't fret, Madam; he is disarmed. Next we have Attila the Hun - ' (A perfect

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Caspar Milquetoast, in shorts and singlet. He sat utterly still, save that his head

nodded steadily, like a nursery toy.)' - next to him, Lizzie Borden.' (She was a

young and beautiful woman, in a provocative evening gown. She looked quite healthy

and she smiled happily at me.) 'Lizzie is kept alive by an artificial heart... but

the fuel that powers it is killing her slowly. Lizzie was formerly a Sister of the

Order of Santa Carolita, but she fell out of favour at the Cathedral and was

assigned to medical and surgical research. Hence her heart. Hence her fate. Hence

her commitment, for Lizzie is 'a specialist; she terminates only the priesthood of

the Church of the Divine Inseminator. Her teeth are very sharp.

'Next is jack the Ripper -'

'Call me Jack.'

`- and Dr Guillotine.'

'Your servant, Madam.'

'Professor Moriarty is lurking back there, and with him is Captain Kidd. That

completes our circle tonight, save for myself, chairman for life if I may be

permitted a jest. I am the Old Man of the Mountain, Hassan the Assassin.'

'Where is Count Dracula?'

'He asked to be excused, Lady Macbeth; he is indisposed something he drank, I

believe.'

'I warned him that Rh-negative would poison him. Hassan, you pretmtious old fraud,

this is ridiculous. My name is not Lady Macbeth and I am not a walking corpse; I am

in perfect health. I'm lost, that's all:

'You are indeed lost, my lady, for there is no spot on the globe where in the long

run you can escape the Supreme Bishop's proctors. All we offer you, all we can offer

you, are some moments of exquisite pleasure before they find you. As for a name, do

please pick one that pleases you. Bloody Mary, perhaps? But surely it is prudent to

suppress your real name when it is posted in every post office in the realm? But

come - enough of business for the nonce. Let sweet music play and good wine flow.

Carpe diem, my cousins! Drink up, enjoy the moment. Later, when we again come to

order, we will hear nominations of new candidates for termination.' He touched a

control on the arm of his wheelchair, spun round, and rolled to a bar in ore corner.

Most of the others followed him. Lizzie Borden came over to me as I stood up.

'Let me welcome you personally,' she said in a grade, warm contralto. 'I do

especially appreciate what you did that got you condemned, as it is much like my own

case.'

'Really?'

'I think so. I was a simple temple prostitute, a Sister of Carolita, when I fell

from grace. I had always been attracted to the religious life and believed that I

had a true vocation while I was still in high school.' She smiled and showed

dimples. 'Eventually I learned that the Church is run solely for the benefit of the

priesthood, not for the good of our people. But I learned it too late.'

'Uh, are you really dying? You look so healthy.'

`With luck I can expect to live another four to six months. Here all of us are

dying, including you, my dear. But we don't waste time thinking about it; instead we

study our next client and plan the details of his final moment. May I get you

something to drink?'

'No, thank you. Have you seen my cat?'

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'I saw him go on to the balcony. Let's go look.'

We did - no Pixel. But it was a beautiful clear night; we stopped to look. 'Lizzie,

where are we?'

'This hotel is near the Plaza, and we're looking north. That's the downtown

district, and beyond it, the Missouri River.'

As I expected, Priscilla set new highs for screaming irrelevancy. She blamed

everyone - me, Dr Rumsey, Donald, President Patton, the Kansas City school board,

and unnamed others, for the conspiracy against her. She did not blame herself for

anything.

While she was ranting, Jim shoved an injector against hera tranquilliser, Thorazine,

I think, or something about as powerful. We got her imo my car and ovar to the

hospital. Bell Memorial used the bed-first-paperwork-later check-in method, so jim

got her treatment started at orce. That done, he ordered a barbiturate for 9.o p:m,

and authorised a wet pack if she failed to quiet down.

I signed all sorts of papers, showed my American Express card, and we left - back to

Jim's office, where he took a sample of my blood and a vaginal smear. 'Maureen,

where was it you sent the boy?'

'I don't think he had anything to do with it, Jim.'

'Don't talk like your daughter, you stupid little broad - We don't guess; we find

out.'

Jim dug into a reference listing, called a doctor in Grinnell. 'Doctor, we'll find

the lad and send him to you. Are you equipped to do the Morgan test? Do you have

fresh reagents and a polariser at hand?'

'In a college town, Doctor? You can bet your last dollar I do!'

'Good. We'll track him down and chase him right over to your office, then I'll wait

at this telecode for you to call me back.'

We were lucky; Donald was in his dormitory. 'Donald I want you to go straight to Dr

Ingram. His office is downtown, across from Stewart Library. I want you to go right

now, this instant.'

`Mama, what is this all about?' He looked and sounded upset.

'Call me at home, tonight, from a secure phone, and I'll tell you. I won't discuss

it over a screen in the hallway of a dormitory. Go straight to Dr Ingram and do what

he tens you to. Hurry'

I waited in Jim's private office for Dr Ingram's call. While I was waiting Jim's

nurse finished my tests. 'Good news,' she said. 'You can go to the Sunday school

picnic after all.'

'Thanks, Olga.'

`Too bad about your youngster. But with the drugs we use nowadays she'll be home in

a couple of days, as healthy as you are.'

'We cure 'em too fast,' Jim said gruffly. 'Catching something nasty used to teach

'em a lesson. Now they figure it's no worse than a hangnail, so why worry?'

'Doctor, you're a cynic,' Olga countered. 'You'll come to a bad end.'

After an agonising wait, Dr Ingram called back. 'Doctor, did you have reason to

suspect that this patient was infected?'

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'No. But he had to be eliminated, under a VD trace required by Missouri state law.'

'Well, he's negative on both of those and on two or three other things I checked

while I was at it. He doesn't even have dandruff. I don't see why he would be

included in a VD search; I think he's still a virgin. How shall I bill this?'

'To my office.'

They switched off. I asked, 'Jim, what was that about Missouri state law?'

He sighed. 'Clap and pox are among the many diseases I must report but for venereal

diseases I not only have to report them but also I must co-operate in an effort to

find out where the patient contracted the disease. Then public health officers try

to follow each infection back to its source - impossible, since the original source

is somewhere centuries back in history. But it does serve to thin it out. I know of

one case here in town where spotting one dose of clap turned up thirty-seven other

cases before it ran off the map, to other cities or states. When the track does

that, our public health officers pass along the data to those other jurisdictions

and we drop that search.

'But locating and curing thirty-seven cases of gonorrhoea is worth while in itself,

Maureen. The venereal diseases are ones we stand a chance of stamping out, the way

we did smallpox, because - do you know the definition of a venereal disease?'

(Yes, I do, but go ahead, Jim.) 'No.'

'A venereal disease is one that is so terribly difficult to catch that only

intercourse or deep kissing is likely to pass it on. That's why we stand a chance of

stamping them out... if only the idiots would co-operate! Whereas there is no

chance, none whatever, of stamping out the so-called common cold. Yet people pass on

respiratory infections with utter carelessness and aren't even apologetic about it.'

He was explosively profane.

I said, 'Tut, tut! Ladies don't talk that way.'

The screen was blinking and its alarm was sounding as I got home. I dropped my

handbag and answered it - Donald.

`Mama, what's this all about?'

'Secure phone?' I could not see what was behind him - just a blank wall.

'I'm in one of the round proof booths at the phone company.'

'All right' I know of no gentle way to tell a boy that his sister has big and little

casino, a full house. So I put it bluntly. 'Priscilla is ill. She has gonorrhoea and

syphilis:

I thought he was going to faint. But he pulled himself together. 'Mama, this is

awful. Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. I was there when she was tested and I saw the test results.

That's why you were tested. I was greatly relieved to learn that you are not the one

who gave them to her.'

'I'll be there at once. Uh, it's about two hundred and forty miles. Coming up, it

took me -'

'Donald.'

'Yes, Mama?'

`Stay where you are. We sent you to Grinnell to get you away from your sister.'

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'But, Mama, these are special circumstances. She needs me -'

'She does not need you. You are the worst possible influence on her; can't you get

that through your head? She doesn't need sympathy; she needs antibiotics and that is

what she is getting. Now leave her alone and give her a chance to get well... and to

grow up. And you grow up, tool'

After enquiring about how he was doing with his studies, I shut him off. Then I did

something I avoid doing as a matter of principle but sometimes must do through

pragmatic necessity; I searched a child's room.

I think a child has a right to privacy but that right is not absolute; his parents

have an overriding responsibility for everything under their roof. If the

circumstances require it, the child's right to privacy may have to be temporarily

suspended.

I am aware that some libertarians (and all children) disagree with me. So be it.

Priscilla's room was as untidy as her mind, but that was not what I was after. I

worked slowly through her bedroom and bathroom, trying to check every cubic inch,

while leaving her clothes and other possessions as much as possible the way I had

found them.

I found no liquor. I found a stash of what I thought was marijuana but I was not

sure how to tell 'grass' when I saw it. That it probably was 'grass' was made almost

certain in my mind by two things: two little packets of cigarette papers under the

bottom liner of another drawer, and a lack of any tobacco of any sort, loose or in

cigarettes. Are cigarette papers used for any purpose other than rolling cigarettes

of some sort?

The last odd thing I found was at the very bottom of a catch-all drawer in her

bathroom: a small rectangular mirror, and with it a Gem single-edge blade. She had a

big make-up mirror that I had given her, as well as a three-way that was part of her

dressing table; why had she bought this mirror? I stared at those two items, mirror

and razor blade, then looked elsewhere in her bathroom, and found, as my memory led

me to expect, a Gillette razor that required double-edged blades, and an opened

packet of double-edged blades - but no Gem razor. I then searched both bathroom and

bedroom a second time. I even searched the room and bath that had been Donald's,

although I knew them to be as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard; I had cleaned after

he left. I did not find a stash of white powder having the appearance of powdered

sugar... which proves only that I did not find such a stash.

I put everything back the way I found it.

About 1.0 a.m. the front door chimed. I answered it from bed. 'Who is it?'

'It's me, Mama. Donald.'

(Dirty names!) 'Well, come in.'

'I can't, it's bolted.'

'Sorry, I'm not awake yet. I'll be down.' I grabbed a robe, found some slippers,

went downstairs and let my youngest son in. 'Come in, Donald. Sit down. When did you

eat last?'

'Uh, I grabbed a Big Mac in Bethany.'

'Oh, Lordy.' I fed him first.

When he had polished off all of a giant Dagwood and had eaten a big dish of

chocolate ice-cream, I said, 'All right, why did you come here?'

'You know why, Mama. To see Priss. I know you said she didn't need me... but you're

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mistaken. Ever since she was a baby girl, when she was in trouble, she came to me.

So I know she needs me.'

(Oh, dear! I should have fought it in court. I should not have left my two youngest

in the custody of - Regrets, regrets! Father, why did you have to go get yourself

killed in the Battle of Britain? I need your advice. And I miss you dreadfully!)

'Donald, Priscilla is not here.'

'Where is she?'

'I won't tell you.'

Donald looked stubborn. 'I won't go back to Grinnell without seeing her.'

'That's your problem. Donald, you two have outworn both my patience and my

resourcefulness. You ignore my advice and disobey necessary orders and you are each

too big to spank. I have nothing else to offer.'

'You won't tell me where she is?'

'No.'

He heaved a big sigh. I'm going to stay here until I see her.'

'That's what you think. Son; you are not the only stubborn member of this family.

Any more of your lip and I'll call your father and tell him to come get you because

I can't handle you -'

'I won't go!'

`- and then close this house and take an apartment for myself at the Kansas Citian -

a single apartment, big enough for a sand box for Polly, not big enough for another

person. I was about to move into an apartment when you and your sister showed up...

so I changed my plans and rented this house, especially for you two. But neither of

you have treated me decently and I'm sick of trying. I'm going to bed. You can

stretch out on that couch and get a nap. But if you are not gone when I get up, I

intend to call your father and tell him to come get you.'

'I won't go with him!'

'Your problem. The next step could be juvenile court but that is up to your father.

As a result of your choice, six years ago, he has custody.' I stood up, then

recalled something. 'Donald, do you know marijuana when you sec it?'

'Uh... maybe.'

'Do you, or don't you?'

'Yeah... I do.'

'Wait here.' I was back in a few moments. 'What is this?'

'That's marijuana. But, shucks, Mama, everybody does marijuana now and then.'

'I don't. And no one living in this house is permitted to. Tell me what this is

for.' I reached into one pocket of my robe, got out that mirror so inappropriate to

a girl's room, reached more carefully into the other pocket, got out that

single-edged razor blade, placed it on the mirror. 'Well?'

'What am I supposed to say?'

'Did you ever cut a line of cocaine?'

'Uh... no.'

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'Have you seen it done?'

'Uh... Mama, if you are trying to tell me that Priss is hooked on coke, all I can

say is that you must be out of your mind. Of course, most kids these days have tried

it once or twice but -'

'You have tried it?'

'Well, sure. The janitor at our school sold it. But I didn't like it. It rots your

nose out - did you know that?'

'I knew that. Has Priss tried it?'

He looked at the mirror and blade. 'I suppose so. It looks like it.'

'Have you seen her try it?'

'Uh... once. I chewed her out about it. Told her not to do it again.'

'But, as you have told me and as she says herself, she doesn't like to take orders.

And apparently did not take yours. I wonder if it's the janitor at her present

school?'

'Uh, it could be a teacher just as easily. Or one of the seniors, a Big Man on

Campus. Or a book store. Lots of places. Mama, they clean up the neighbourhood

dealers every now and then - doesn't make the least bit of difference; there's a new

pusher the next week. The way I hear it, it's the same everywhere.'

I sighed. 'It beats me, Donald. I'll get you a blanket to pull over you.'

'Mama, why can't I sleep in my own bed?'

'Because you're not supposed to be here at all. The only reason you're being

indulged even this much is because I don't think it is safe to let you go back on

the road without something to eat and a few hours sleep.'

I went back to bed, could not sleep. After about an hour I got up and did something

I should have done earlier: I searched the maid's room.

I found the stash. It was between the mattress and the mattress cover, at the foot

of the bed. I was tempted to taste the least trace of it, having some notion from

biochemistry of what cocaine should taste like - but I had sense enough - or was

chicken enough - not to risk it; there are street drugs that are dangerous in the

tiniest amounts. I took it back up with me, locked it, the 'grass' and the cigarette

papers, and the mirror and blade, into a lock box I keep in my bedroom.

They won. I lost. They were too much for me.

I brought Priscilla home, cured but sullen as ever. Two Public Health officers, a

man and a woman, called on us (Jim's doing, with my co-operation) almost as we were

taking off our coats. They wanted to know, gently and politely, Priscilla's contacts

- who could have given the bugs to her and to whom she could have passed them on.

'What infections? I'm not ill, I never was ill. I've been held against my will in a

conspiracy! Kidnapped and held prisoner! I'm going to sue somebody!'

'But, Miss Smith, we have copies of your lab tests and your medical history. Here,

look at them.'

Priscilla brushed them aside. 'Lies! I'm not going to say another word without my

lawyer.'

At which point I made yet another mistake. 'But, Priscilla, I am a lawyer; you know

that. What they're asking is quite reasonable, a matter of public health.'

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I have never been looked at with such contempt. 'You're not my lawyer. You're ore of

the ones I'm going to sue. And these two characters, too, if they don't quit

heckling me.' She turned her back and went upstairs.

I apologised to the two Public Health officers. I'm sorry, Mr Wren and Mrs Lantry,

but I can't do anything with her, as you can see. I'm afraid you'll have to get her

on the witness stand and under oath to get anything out of her.'

Mr Wren shook his head. 'It would not work. In the first place, we have no way to

put her on the stand; she has not broken any laws that we know of. And we don't know

of anyone who has. In the second place, a youngster with her attitude simply takes

the Fifth Amendment and shuts up.'

'I'm not sure she knows what the Fifth Amendment is.'

'You can bet she does, Mrs Johnson. Today all these kids are street smart and every

ore of them is a chimney-corner lawyer, even in a rich neighbourhood like this ore.

Put ore on the stand and he'll holler for a lawyer and the ACLU will supply one

pronto. The ACLU figures it is more important to protect a teenager's right to clam

up than it is to protect some other teenager from infection and sterility.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'Those are the conditions we work under, Mrs Johnson. If we don't get voluntary

co-operation, we have no way to force it.'

'Well... I can do one thing. I can go talk to her principal, tell him that be has VD

running around loose in his school:

'It won't do any good, Mrs Johnson. You will find that he is extremely leary of

being sued.'

I thought about it... and had to admit (the lawyer in me) that I had nothing to tell

the principal if Priscilla refused to co-operate. Ask him to run 'short arm

inspection' (Brian's Army slang for it) on all his older boys? He would have

hundreds of parents on his neck before dark.

'What about drugs?'

'What about drugs, Mrs Johnson?'

'Does Public Health deal with drugs?'

`Some. Not much. Drugs are usually a police matter.'

I told them what I had found. 'What should I do?'

'Does your daughter admit that these items are hers?'

'I haven't had a chance to talk to her about them yet.'

'If she won't admit it, you may have great trouble proving that the key items - the

cannabis and the powder that may be cocaine - are hers, rather than yours. I know

you are a lawyer... but perhaps you need to see a lawyer who specialises in such

matters. There is an old saw about that, is there not?'

('A man who is his own lawyer has a fool for a client.')

'Indeed there is all right, I'll take advice first'

Donald showed up right after that. He had not been on the couch on Saturday morning;

I had assumed that he had gone back to Grinnell. It was now evident from the speed

with which he showed up once I fetched Priscilla home from the hospital that he had

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stayed in Kansas City and placed himself somewhere near to watch for her return.

Evident, but not true. He had learned somehow what hospital she was in - I could

think of three simple ways - then arranged for someone to let him know when she was

dismissed - again, three simple ways, including bribery if he could afford it. Never

mind; he showed up.

The door chimed.

I buzzed the door phone. 'Announce yourself, please.'

'It's Donald, Mama.'

'What are you doing here?'

'I've come to see Priss.'

'You can't see her.'

'I'll see her if I have to bust this door downt'

I reached up and set off the Argus Patrol's 'Mayday!' 'Donald, I will not let you

enter this house.'

'Try and stop me!' He started kicking the door.

Priscilla came running downstairs, started to open the front door. I grabbed at her;

there was a scuffle, we both went down.

I'm no fighter. Fortunately Priscilla was not trained, either. Brian had taught me

just one thing: 'If you have to do it, do it fast. Don't wait'

As she was getting up, I punched her in the stomach - no, the solar plexus. She went

down and lay there, trying to gasp air.

I heard from outside, 'Mrs Johnson! Argus is here:

'Nab him and take him away! I'll call you.'

'Nab who?'

'Uh -' Priscilla was trying to get up again. I punched her in the same spot; she

went down the same way. 'Can you wait around for twenty minutes or a half-hour? He

might come back.'

'Certainly. We'll stay as long as you need us. I'll call in.'

'Thank you, Rick. It is Rick, is it not?'

'Rick it is, Ma'am.'

I turned round, grabbed my daughter by the hair, lifted her head, and snarled at

her. 'Crawl upstairs, go to your room, and stay there! If I hear another peep out of

you, I'll punch you again.'

She did exactly as I told her to, crawled away, sobbing, and crept upstairs, slowly.

I made sure all doors and windows on the ground floor were locked, then I called

Dallas.

I explained to Brian in bitter detail what had happened since I had last called him

to report on our children, what I had tried to do, what had actually happened.

'Brian, I can't cope with them. You must come and get them.'

'I want no part of either one of them. I was relieved when they ran away. Good

riddance,'

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'Brian, they are your children and you have custody.'

`Which I happily turn over to you.'

'You can't; it takes a court to do that. Brian, since I can't handle them, if you

won't come for them - or send someone for them - all I can do is have them arrested

-'

'On what charges? Sassing you?'

'No. Delinquency. Incest. Use of drugs. Possession of drugs. Running away from

custodial parent, Brian Smith of Dallas, Texas.' I watched his face as I read off

what I would tell the juvenile court. He did not flinch when I said 'Incest' so I

concluded that it was no news to him. He did not flinch until I named his name and

city.

'What! The newspapers would have a field day!'

'Yes, in Dallas I imagine both the News and the Times Herald would feature it. I

don't know whether the Kansas City Star would touch it or not. Incest is a bit whiff

for their editorial policies. Particularly incest involving a sister with two of her

brothers, August and Donald.'

'Maureen, you can't mean this.'

'Brian, I'm at the end of my rope. Priscilla knocked me down not twenty minutes ago

and Donald has been trying to break down the front door. If you won't come here by

the very next rocketplane, I am calling the police and swearing out warrants, all

those charges - enough to get them locked up at least long enough for me to dose

this house and get out of town. No half measures, Brian. I want your answer, right

now.'

Marian's face appeared beside his. 'Mother, you can't do that to Gus! He didn't do

anything. He told me so, on his honour!'

'That isn't what they say, Marian. If you don't want them saying it on the witness

stand, under oath, Brian will come here and get them.'

'They're your children.'

'They are Brian's children, too, and he has custody. Six years ago, when I left them

with you, they were well-behaved children, polite, obedient, and no more given to

naughty spells than any growing child. Today they are incorrigible, uncivilised,

totally out of hand.' I sighed. 'Speak up, Brian. What will you do?'

`I can't come to KC today.`

`Very well, I'll call the police and have them arrested. Have them taken in and then

swear out the warrant, the criminal charges.'

'Now wait a minute!'

`I can't, Brian. I'm holding them off temporarily with the patrol, the private

police who watch this neighbourhood. But I can't keep them here tonight; she's

bigger than I am and he's twice as big. Goodbye; I've got to call the cops.'

`Now hold it! I don't know how soon I can get a ship.'

`You can hire one; you're rich enough! How soon will you be here?'

`Uh... three hours'

`That's six-twenty, our time. At six-thirty I'm calling the cops:

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Brian got there at six-thirty-five. But he had called me from the field in North

Kansas City well before the deadline. I was waiting for him in my living-room with

both children... and with Sergeant Rick of the Argus Patrol and Mrs Barnes, the

Patrol's office manager, who doubled as matron. It had not been a pleasant wait;

both rent-a-cops had been forced to demonstrate that they were tougher than teenage

children and would brook no nonsense.

Brian had taken the precaution of fetching four guards with him, two men, two women,

one pair from Dallas, one pair from Kansas City. That did not make it legal but he

got away with it because no one - I least of all I - cared to argue technicalities.

I saw the door close behind them, went upstairs and cried myself to sleep.

Failure! Utter and abject failure! I don't see what else I could have done. But I

will always carry a heavy burden of guilt over it.

What should I have done?

Chapter 23 - The Adventures of Prudence Penny

It took the opening of the Cleveland-Cincinnati rolling road to nail down in George

Strong's mind that my prophecies really were accurate. I was always most careful not

even to hint the source of my foreknowledge because I had a strong hunch that the

truth would be harder for George to take than leaving it all a mystery. So I joked

about it: my cracked crystal ball - a small time machine I keep in the basement next

to my Ouija Board - my seance guiding spirit, Chief Forked Tongue - tea-leaves, but

it has to be Black Dragon tea, Lipton's Orange Pekoe doesn't have the right

vibrations.

George smiled at each bit of nonsense - George was a gentle soul - and eventually

quit asking me how I did it and simply treated the message in each envelope as a

reliable forecast - as indeed it was.

But he was still chewing the bit at the time the Cleveland-Cincinnati road opened.

We attended the opening together, sat in the grandstand, watched the Governor of

Ohio cut the ribbon. We were seated where we could talk privately if we kept our

voices down; the speeches over the loudspeakers covered our words.

'George, how much real estate does Harriman and Strong own on each side of the

roadway?'

'Eh? Quite a bit. Although some speculator got in ahead of us and took options on

the best commercial sites. However, Harriman Industries has a substantial investment

in D-M power screens - but you know that; you were there when we voted it, and you

voted for it' `So I did. Although my motion to invest three times that amount was

first voted down.'

George shook his head. `Too risky. Maureen, money is made by risking money but not

by wildly plunging. I have trouble enough keeping Delos from plunging; you mustn't

set him a bad example.'

`But I was right, George. Want to see the figures on a We-Woulda-Made if my motion

had carried?'

'Maureen, one can always do a We-Woulda-Made on a wild guess that happens to hit

That doesn't justify guessing. It ignores the other wild guesses that did not hit'

'But that's my point, George - I don't guess; I know. You hold the envelopes; you

open them. Have I ever been wrong? Even once?'

He shook his head and sighed. 'It goes against the grain.'

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'So it does and your lack of faith in me is costing both Harriman and Strong and

Harriman Industries money, lots of money. Never mind. You say some speculator

optioned the best land?'

'Yes. Probably somebody in a position to see the maps before the decisions were

pubhc.'

'No, George, not a speculator - a soothsayer. Me. I could see that you weren't

moving fast enough so I optioned as much as I could, using all the liquid capital I

could lay hands on, plus all the cash I could raise by borrowing against non liquid

assets.'

George looked hurt. I added hastily, `I'm turning my options over to you, George. At

cost, and you can decide how much to cut me in for after the special position we

have begins to pay back.'

'No, Maureen, that's not fair. You believed in yourself; you got there first; the

profits are yours.'

'George, you didn't listen. I don't have the capital to exploit these options; I put

eve cent I could raise into the options themselves - if I had been able to lay hands

on another million, I would have optioned still more land further out and for longer

terms. I just hope you will listen to me next time. It distresses me to tell you

that it is going to rain soup, then have you show up with a teaspoon rather than a

bucket. Do you want me to warn you about the next special position? Or shall I go

straight to Mr Harriman and try to persuade him that I am an authentic soothsayer?'

He sighed. 'I'd rather you told me. If you will.'

I said most quietly, 'Do you have a place where we can shack up tonight?'

He answered just as quietly, 'Of course. Always, dear lady.'

That night I gave him more details. 'The next road to be converted will be the

Jersey Turnpike, an eighty-mile-per-hour road as compared with this fiddling

thirty-mile-per-hour job we saw opened today. But the Harriman Highway -'

'Harriman?'

'The D. D. Harriman Prairie Highway from Kansas City to Denver will be a

hundred-mile-per-hour road that will grow a strip city thirty miles wide from Old

Muddy to the Rocky Mountains. It will boost Kansas from a population of two million

to a population of twenty million in ten years... with endless special positions for

anyone who knows it is going to happen.'

'Maureen, you frighten me.'

'I frighten myself, George. It's rarely comfortable to know what is going to

happen.' I decided to take the plunge. 'The rolling roads will continue to be built

at a frantic pace, as fast as sunpower screens can be manufactured to drive them -

down the east coast, along Route Sixty-Six, on El Camino Real from San Diego to

Sacramento and beyond - and a good thing, too, as the sunpower screens on the roofs

of the road cities will take up the slack and fend off a depression when the

Paradise power plant is shut down and placed in orbit.'

George kept quiet so long I thought he had fallen asleep. At last he said, 'Did I

hear you correctly? The big atomic power pile in Paradise, Arizona, will be placed

in orbit? How? And why?'

'By means of spaceships based on today's glide rockets. But operating with an escape

fuel developed at Paradise. But, George, George, it must not happen! The Paradise

plant must be shut down, yes; it is terribly dangerous, it is built wrong -like a

steam engine without a relief valve.' (In my head I could hear Sergeant Theodore's

dear voice saying it: They were too eager to build... and it was built wrong - like

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a steam engine without a relief valve.') 'It must be shut down but it must not be

placed in orbit. Safe ways will be found to build atomic power plants; we don't need

the Paradise plant. In the meantime the sunpower screens can fill the gap.'

'If it's dangerous - and I know some people have worried about it - if it is placed

in orbit, it won't be dangerous.'

'Yes, George, that's why they will put it in orbit. Once in orbit, it would not be

dangerous to the town of Paradise, or the state of Arizona... but what about the

people in orbit with it? They will be killed.'

Another long wait - It seems to me that it might be possible to design a plant to

operate by remote control, like a freighter rocket. I must ask Ferguson.'

'I hope you are right. Because you will see, when you return to Kansas City and open

my envelope number six and also number seven, that I prophesy that the Paradise

power plant will be placed in orbit, and that it will blow up and kill everybody on

board, and destroy the rocketship that services it. George, it must not be allowed

to happen. You and Mr Harriman must stop it. I promise you, dear, that if this can

be stopped - if my prophecy can be proved wrong - I will break my crystal ball and

never prophesy again.'

'I can't make any promises, Maureen. Sure, both Delos and I are directors of the

Power Syndicate... but we hold a minor position both in stock and on the board. The

Power Syndicate represents practically all the venture capital in the United States;

the Sherman Anti-Trust Law was suspended to permit it to be formed in order to build

the Paradise plant. Hmm... a man named Daniel Dixon controls a working majority,

usually. A strong man. I don't like him much:

'I've heard of him, haven't met him. George, can he be seduced?'

'Maureen!'

'George, if I can keep fifty-odd innocent people from being killed in an industrial

accident, I'll do considerably more than offer this old body as a bribe. Is he

susceptible to women? If I am not the woman he is susceptible to, perhaps I can find

her.'

Dixon didn't cotton to me at all (nor I to him, but that was unimportant) and he did

not seem to have any cracks in his armour. After the Power Syndicate voted to shut

down the Paradise plant 'in the public interest' I was successful only in getting

George and Mr Harriman to vote against reactivating that giant bomb in orbit -

theirs were the only dissenting votes. The death scenario rolled on and I could not

stop it: power satellite and spaceship Charon blew up together, all hands killed -

and I stared at the ceiling for nights on end, reflecting on the bad side of knowing

too much about the future.

But I did not stop working. Back in 1952, shortly after I had given George my

earliest predictions, I had gone to Canada to see Justin: 1) to set up a front to

handle business for my 'Prudence Penny' column, and 2) to offer Justin the same

detailed predictions I was giving George.

Justin had not been pleased with me. 'Maureen, do I understand that you have been

holding all these years additional information you got from Sergeant Bronson - or

Captain Long, whatever - the Howard from the future - and did not turn it over to

the Foundation?'

'Yes.'

Justin had shown an expression of controlled exasperation. 'I must confess to

surprise. Well, better late than never. Do you have it in writing, or will you

dictate it?'

'I'm not turning it over to you, Justin. I will continue to pass on to you, from

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time to time, data that I have conserved, item by item, as you need to know it'

'Maureen, I really must insist. This is Foundation business. You got these data from

a future chairman of the Foundation - so he claimed and so I believe - so I am their

proper custodian. I am speaking not as your old friend Justin, but as Justin

Weatheral in my official capacity as chief executive officer of the Foundation and

conservator of its assets for the benefit of all of us.'

'No, Justin.'

'I must insist'

'Insist away, old dear - it's good exercise.'

'That's hardly the right attitude, Maureen. You don't own that data. It belongs to

all of us. You owe it to the Foundation.'

`Justin, don't be so tediously male! Data from Sergeant Theodore saved the

Foundation's bacon on Black Tuesday, in 1929. Stipulated?'

`Stipulated. That's why -'

'Let me have my say. And that same data also saved your arse and made you rich - and

made the Foundation rich. Why? How? Who? Old busy-bottom Maureen, that's who!

Because I'm an amoral wench who fell in love with this enlisted man and kicked his

feet out from under him - and got him to talking. That had nothing to do with the

Foundation, just me and my loose ways. I'll hadn't cut you in on it, you would never

have met Theodore. Admit it! True? False? Answer me.'

`Well, when you put it that way -'

`I do put it that way and let's have no more nonsense about what I owe the

Foundation. Not until you've counted up what the Foundation owes me. I still promise

to pass on data as needed. Right now, the Foundation should get heavily into

Douglas-Martin Sunpower screens, and if you don't know about them, see your files of

The Economist or the Wall Street Journal or the Toronto Star. After that, the

hottest new investment as soon as it opens up will be rolling roads and real estate

near them.'

'Rolling roads?'

`Damn it, Justin, I know Theodore mentioned them in that rump meeting of the board

on Saturday 29 June, 1918, as I took notes and typed them out and gave you a copy,

as well as the original to Judge Sperling. Look it up.' So clear back in 1952 I

showed Justin where the principal roadtowns would be, as told to me by Theodore.

'Watch for them, get in early. Enormous profits to the early birds. But get rid of

all railroad stock.'

At that time I decided not to bother Justin with my `Prudence Penny' venture - not

when he was feeling bruised on his macho bump. Instead, I had taken it up with

Eleanor. Entrusting a secret to Eleanor was safer than telling it to Jesus.

'Prudence Penny, The Housewife Investor' started out as a weekly column in country

newspapers of the sort we had had in Thebes, the Lyle County Leader. I always

offered the first six weeks free. If a trial period stirred any interest, a

publisher could continue it for a very small fee - those small-town weeklies can't

pay more than peanuts; there was no sense in trying to make money on it at first.

In fact my purpose was not to make money. Or only indirectly.

I set the format in 1953 with the first column and never varied it:

Prudence Penny THE HOUSEWIFE INVESTOR

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TODAY'S DEFINTTION: (Each column I gave at least one definition. Money people have

their own language. If you don't know their special words, you can't play in their

poker game. Some of the words I defined for my readers were: common stock, preferred

stock, bonds, municipal bonds, debentures, margin, selling short, puts and calls,

living trust, joint tenancy, tenants in common, float, load, points, deficiency

judgement, call money, prime rate, gold standard, flat money, easement, fee simple,

eminent domain, public domain, copyright, patent, etc., etc.

(Trivial? To you, perhaps. If so, you did not need `Prudence Penny'. But to most

people these elementary terms might as well be ancient Greek. So I offered one

definition each column, in one-syllable Anglo-Saxon words that could be

misunderstood only by a professor of English.)

Next I offered a discussion of something in the news of the day that might affect

investing. Since everything, from weather to elections to killer bees, affects

investing, this was easy. If I could include a little juicy gossip, I did. But not

anything hurtful, or cruel, and I was most careful not to offer anything actionable.

My next item each week was TODAY'S RECOMMENDED INVESTMENT. This was a sure thing,

based directly or indirectly on Theodore's predictions. The same recommendation

might be repeated many times, alternated with others from the same source.

I always closed with Prudence Penny's Portfolio:

Ladies, we started this portfolio with one thousand dollars ($1000) in January 1953.

If you invested the same amount and at the same time, investing and changing

investments just as we did, your portfolio is now worth $4823.17.

If you invested $10.000, your portfolio is now worth $48.231.70.

If you invested $100.000, today your portfolio is worth $48217.00.

But it is never too late to start prudent investing with Penny. You can start today

with $4823.17 (or any multiple or fraction), which you then place as follows:

(List of investments that add up to $4823.17.)

If you want to see for yourself the details of how a thousand dollars grows to

(current figure) in only (fill in) years and (blank) months, send ($1.oo, $2.50,

$4.00 - the price went steadily up) to Pinch-Penny Publications, Suite 8600,

Harriman Tower, New York, NY HKL030 (that being a drop box that caused mail to be

routed, eventually, to Eleanor's stooge in Toronto) or buy it at your local

bookstore: The Housewife's Guide to Thrifty Investing by Prudence Penny.

The hugger-mugger about the address was intended to keep the Securities Exchange

Commission from learning that `Prudence Penny' was a director of Harriman

Industries. The SEC takes a jaundiced view of 'Inside Information'. So far as I

could tell, it would matter not at all to them that my advice was truly beneficial

to anyone who followed it. In fact, that might get me beheaded even more quickly.

The column spread from country weeklies to city dailies and did make money after the

first year, and quite a lot of money in the thirteen years that I wrote it. Women

read it and followed it - so my mail indicated - but I think even more men read it,

not to follow my advice, but to try to figure out how this female bear could waltz

at all.

I knew that I had succeeded when one day George Strong quoted 'Prudence Penny' to

me.

My ultimate purpose was not to make money and not to impress anyone but to establish

a reputation that let me write a special column in April 11964, one headed `THE MOON

BELONGS TO EVERYONE - but the first Moonship will belong to Harriman Industries.'

I advised them to hang onto their Prudence Penny portfolio... but to take every

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other dime they could scrape up and bet it on the success of D. D. Harriman's great

new venture, placing a man on the Moon.

From then on `Prudence Penny' always had something to say about space travel and

Harriman Industries in every column. I freely admitted that space was a long-term

investment (and I continued to recommend other investments, all backed by Theodore's

predictions) but I kept on pounding away at the notion that untold riches awaited

those farsighted investors who got in early in space activities and hung on. Don't

buy on margin, don't indulge in profit-taking - buy Harriman stock outright, put it

away in your safety deposit box and forget it - your grandchildren will love you.

In the spring of 1965 I moved my household to the Broadmoor Hotel south of Colorado

Springs because Mr Harriman was building his Moonship on Peterson Field. In 1952 I

had tried half-heartedly to drop my lease in Kansas City after Brian had taken

Priscilla and Donald back to Dallas (another story and no t a good one). But George

had outflanked me. Title to that house was in George, not Harriman and Strong, not

Harriman Industries. When I told him that I no longer needed a four-bedroom house

(counting the maid's room), he asked me to keep it, rent free.

I pointed out that, if I was to become his paid mistress, it wasn't enough, but if I

was to continue the pretence of being a respectable woman, it was too much. He said,

all right, what was the going rate for mistresses? - he would double it.

So I kissed him and took him to bed and we compromised. The house was his and he

would put his driver and wife in the house, and I could stay in it any time I

wished... and the resident couple would take care of Princess Polly.

George had spotted my weak point. I had once subjected this little cat to the trauma

of losing her Only Home; I grabbed this means of avoiding doing it to her again.

But I did take an apartment at the Plaza, moved my most necessary books there; got

my mail there, and occasionally took Polly there - subjecting her to the indignity

of a litter box, true, but she did not fuss. (The new clay pellets were a vast

improvement over sand or soil.) Moving back and forth this short distance got her

used to a carrying cage and to being away from home now and then. Eventually she got

to be a true travelling cat, dignified and at home in the best hotels, a

sophisticated guest who would never think of scratching the furniture. This made it

much easier for Elijah and Charlene to take vacations or go elsewhere if George

needed them elsewhere.

So in the spring of 1965 a few weeks before the historic first flight to the Moon,

Princess Polly and I moved into the Broadmoor. I arrived with Polly in her carrying

case, baggage to follow from the terminal of the Harriman Prairie Highway fifty

miles north of there - I hated those rolling roads from the first time I rode one;

they gave me headaches. But I had been told that the noise problem had been overcome

on the Prairie Highway. Never trust a flack!

The desk clerk at the Broadmoor told me, `Madam, we have an excellent kennel at the

back of the tennis club. I'll have a bellman take your cat there.'

`Just a moment,' I got out my Harriman Industries card - mine had a gold band.

The clerk took one look at it, got the assistant manager on duty. He hurried over,

gardenia and striped pants and professional smile. `Mrs Johnson! So happy to welcome

you! Do you prefer a suite? Or a housekeeping apartment?'

Princess Polly did not have to go to a kennel. She dined on chopped liver, courtesy

of the management, and had her own cat bed and litter box, both guaranteed

sterilised - so said the paper band around each of them, like the one around the

toilet seat in my bathroom.

No bidet - aside from that the Broadmoor was a first-class hotel.

After a bath and a change - my luggage arrived while I was in the bath (of course) -

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I left Princess Polly to watch television (which she liked, especially the

commercials) and went to the bar, to have a solitary drink and see what developed.

And found my son Woodrow.

He sported me as I walked in. 'Hi, Mom!'

`Woodrow!' I was delighted! I kissed him and said, `Good to see you, son! What are

you doing here? The last I heard you were at Wright Patterson.'

`Oh, I quit that; they didn't appreciate genius. Besides, they expected me to get up

too early. I'm with Harriman Industries now, trying to keep 'em straight. It ain't

easy.'

(Should I tell Woodrow that I was now a director of Harriman Industries? I had

avoided telling anyone who did not need to know - so wait and sec.) 'I'm glad you're

keeping them straight. This Moonship of theirs - Do you have something to do with

it?'

'Sit down first. What'll you drink?'

`Whatever you're having, Woodrow.'

'Well, now, I'm having Manitou Water, with a twist.'

'It looks like vodka tonic. Is that what it is?'

'Not exactly. Manitou water is a local mineral water. Something like skunk, but not

as tasty.'

`Hmm... Make mine vodka tonic with lime. Is Heather here?'

'She doesn't like the altitude. When we left Wright Patterson, she took the kids

back to Florida. Don't raise your eyebrows at me; we get along just fine. She lets

me know when it's time for her to get pregnant again. About every three years, that

is. So I go home, stay a month or two, get reacquainted with the kids. Then I go

back to work. No huhu, no sweat, no family quarrels.'

`Sounds like a fine arrangement if it suits you two.'

'It does.' He paused to order my drink. I had never learned to drink but I had

learned how to order a tall drink and make it last all evening, while ice cubes

diluted it. I looked Woodrow over. His skin seemed tight on his face and his hands

quite bony.

The waitress left; he turned back. `Now, Mom, tell me what you're doing here.'

`I've always been a space travel buff - remember how we read Roy Rockwood's Great

Marvel series together? Lost on the Moon, Through Space to Mars -'

`Sure do! I learned to read because I thought you were holding out on me.'

'Not in those. A little in the Barsoom books, perhaps.'

'I've always wanted a beautiful Martian princess... but not the way you had to get

one on Barsoom. Remember how they were always spilling each other's blood? Not for

me! I'm the peaceful type, Mom. You know me.'

(I wonder if any mother ever knows her children. But I do feel close to you, dear. I

hope you and Heather really are all right.) 'So when I heard about the Moonship, I

made plans to come here. I want to see it lift off... since I can't go in it. What

do you think of it, Woodrow? Will it do the job?'

'Let's find out.' Woodrow looked around, then called out to someone sitting at the

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bar. 'Hey, Les! Bring your redeye over here and come set a while.'

The man addressed came over. He was a small man, with the big hands of a jockey. My

son said, 'May I present Captain Leslie LeCroix, skipper of the Pioneer? Les, this

is my daughter Maureen.'

'I'm honoured, Miss. But you can't be Bill's daughter; you're too young. Besides,

you're pretty. And he is - Well, look at him.'

'Stop it, boys. I'm his mother, Captain. You really are the captain of the Moonship?

I'm impressed.'

Captain LeCroix sat down with us. I saw that his 'redeye' was another tall, dear

drink. He said to me, 'No need to be impressed; the computer pilot does it all. But

I'm going to: ride her... if I can avoid Bill long enough. Have a chocolate écláir,

Bill.' '

'Smile when you say that, stranger!'

'A cheeseburger? A jelly doughnut? A stack of wheats with honey?'

'Mom, do you sec what that scoundrel is doing? Trying to keep me from dieting just

because he's scared I might break his arcos. Or his neck.'

'Why would you do that, Woodrow?'

'I wouldn't. But Les thinks I would. He weighs just one hundred and twenty-six

pounds. My best weight, in training, is one forty-five, you may remember. But by

lift-off day and H-hour I have to weigh exactly what he does... because, if he

catches a sniffle or slips in the shower and breaks something, God forbid, I have to

sit there in his place and pretend to pilot. I can't avoid it; I accepted their

money. And they have a large, ugly man following me around, making sure I don't run:

'Don't believe him, Ma'am. I'm very careful going through doors and I won't cat

anything I don't see opened. He intends to disable me at the last minute. Is he

really your son? He can't, be.'

`I bought him from a Gypsy. Woodrow, what happens if you don't make the weight?'

'They slice off one leg, a bit at a time, until I'm down to exactly one twenty-six.

Spacemen don't need feet.'

'Woodrow, you always were a naughty boy. You would need feet on the Moon.'

'One is enough there. One-sixth gravity. Hey, there's that big, ugly man they got

watching me! He's coming this way.'

George Strong came over and bowed. 'Dear lady! I see you have met our Moonship

captain. And our relief pilot, Bill Smith. May I join you?'

`Mom, do you know this character? Did they hire you to watch me, too? Say it ain't

so!'

`It ain't so. George, your relief pilot is my son, Woodrow Wilson Smith.'

Later that night George and I had a chance to talk privately and quietly.

'George, my son tells me that he must get his weight down to one hundred and

twenty-six pounds in order to qualify as relief pilot. Can that be true?'

'Yes. Quite true.'

'He hasn't weighed that little since his junior year in high school. If he did get

his weight down to that and if Captain LeCroix fell ill, I suspect that Woodrow

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would be too weak to do the job. Wouldn't it make more sense to adjust weights the

way they do with race horses? Add a few lead weights if Captain LeCroix flies; take

them out if the relief pilot must go?'

'Maureen, you don't understand.'

I admitted that I did not.

George explained to me just how tight the weight schedule for the ship was. The

Pioneer was stripped down to barest essentials. She carried no radio - only

indispensable navigational instruments. Not even a standard pressure suit- just a

rubber acceleration suit and a helmet. No back pack - just a belt bottle. Open the

door, drop a weighted flag, grab some rocks, get back in.

'George, this doesn't sound to me like the way to do it. I won't tell Woodrow that -

after all, he's a big boy now' - assumed age, thirty-five; true age, fifty-three -

'but I hope Captain LeCroix stays healthy.'

Another of those long waits in which George pondered something unpleasant -

'Maureen, this is utter, Blue Star secret. I'm not sure anyone is going to fly that

ship.'

'Trouble?'

'Sheriff trouble. I don't know how much longer I can hold off our creditors. And we

haven't anywhere else to rum. We've pawned our overcoat so to speak.'

'George, lei me see what I can do.'

He agreed to live in my apartment and look after Princess Polly while I was away -

okay with Princess Polly, as she was used to him. I left for Scottsdale in the

morning, to see Justin.

'Look at it this way, Justin. How bad will the Foundation be hurt if you let

Harriman Industries collapse?'

'The Foundation would be hurt. But not fatally. We would be able to resume full

subsidy in five years, ten at the outside. Maureen, one thing is certain: a

conservator of other people's money must never throw good money after bad.'

Eight million was the most I could squeeze out of him, and I had to guarantee it.

Half of it was in CDs some of which had due dates as long as six months away. (Bui a

certificate of deposit can always be used in place of cash, although it may cost you

points.)

To accomplish that much I had, first, to tell Justin that he would never get another

'Theodore' tip out of me if he didn't produce the money, and, second, that if he

laid the money on the table, I would place beside it a full and complete transcript

of those notes I had taken in the middle of the night on 29 June 1918.

In the Broadmoor the next morning George would not accept the money from me but took

me to Mr Harriman, who seemed detached, barely able to recognise me, until I said,

'Mr Harriman, I want to buy some more participation in the Lunar launching.'

'Eh? I'm sorry, Mrs Johnson; there is no more participation stock for sale. That I

know of.'

'Then let me put it this way. I would like to lend you eight million dollars as a

personal loan without security:

Mr Harriman looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. He had grown gaunt

since the last time I had seen him and his eyes burned with fanatic fervour - he

made me think of those Old Testament prophets.

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He studied me, then turned to George. 'Have you explained to Mrs Johnson what a risk

she would be taking?'

George nodded glumly. 'She knows.'

'I wonder. Mrs Johnson, I'm cleaned out and Harriman Industries is a hollow shell -

that's why I haven't called a directors' meeting lately. I would have to explain to

you and to the other directors the risks I've been taking. Mr Strong and I have been

trying to hold things together on jawbone and sheer nerve, long enough to get the

Pioneer off her pad and into the sky. I haven't given up hope... but, if I take your

money and I am forced into bankruptcy and my senior company into receivership, my

note to you could not be in a preferred position. You might get three cents on the

dollar; you might not get anything.'

'Mr Harriman, you are not going to be bankrupt and that tall ship out there will

fly. Captain LeCroix will land on the Moon and return safely'

He smiled down at me. It's good to know that you have faith in us.'

'It's not just faith; I'm certain. We can't fail now for the lack of a few pennies.

Take the money and use it. Pay it back when you can. Not only will Pioneer fly, you

also will send many ships after her. You are manifest destiny in person, sir! You

will found Luna City... freeport for the Solar System!'

Later that week George asked me if I wanted to be in the blockhouse during the

launching - Mr Harriman had said to invite me. I had already considered it, knowing

that I could demand it if I cared to push it.

`George, that's not the best place to watch the lift-off, is it?'

'No. But it's the safest. It's where the VIPs will be. The Governor. The President

if he shows up. Ambassadors.'

`Sounds claustrophobic. George, I've never been much interested in the safest

place... and the few VIPs I've met struck me as hollow shells, animated by PR men.

Where are you going to be?'

'I don't know yet. Wherever Delos needs me to be.'

'So I figured. You are going to be too busy to have me hanging on your arm -'

`It would be a privilege, dear lady, But -'

`- you are needed elsewhere. Where is the best view? If you weren't busy, where

would you watch it?'

`Have you visited the Broadmoor Zoo?'

`Not yet. I expect to. After the lift-off.'

`Maureen, there is a parking lot at the zoo. From it you would have a dear view to

the east from the spot about fifteen hundred feet higher than Peterson Field. Mr

Montgomery has arranged with the Hotel to place some folding chairs there. And a

radio link. Television. Coffee. If I weren't busy, that's where I would be.'

'So that's where I will be.'

Later that day I ran across my son Woodrow in the lobby of the Broadmoor. 'Hi, Mom!

They got me working.'

`How did they manage that?'

`I didn't read my contract carefully enough. This is "educational and public

communication activity associated with the Moonship" - meaning I have to set this

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thing up to show people how the ship works, where it will go, and where the diamonds

are on the Moon.'

`Are there diamonds on the Moon?'

'We'll let you know later. Come here a sec.' He led me away from the crowd in the

lobby into a side hall by the barber shop. 'Mom,' he said quietly, `if you want to

do it, I think I have enough bulge around here to get you into the blockhouse for

the lift-off'

Is that the best place to sec it?'

No, it's probably the worst. It'll be hot as a June bride, because the air

conditioning isn't all that good. But it's the safest place and it's where the high

brass will be. Visiting royalty. Party chairmen. Mafia chiefs.'

'Woodrow, where is the best place to watch? Not the safest '

'I would drive up Cheyenne Mountain. There is a big paved parking lot outside the

zoo. Come back into the lobby; I want to show you something.'

On a giant (four-foot) globe that made my mouth water, Woodrow showed me the

projected path of the Pioneer.

'Why doesn't it go straight up?'

`Doesn't work that way. She goes cast and makes use of the Earth's rotation... and

unloads all those extra steps. The bottom one, the biggest one, number five, drops

in Kansas.'

'What if it landed on the Prairie Roadway?'

'I'd join the Foreign Legion... right behind Bob Coster and Mr Ferguson. Honest, it

can't, Mom. We start out here, fifty miles south of the road, and where it lands,

over here, near Dodge City, is over a hundred miles south of it'

`What about Dodge City?'

'There's a little man with a switch, hired solely to push that switch and bring step

five down in open country. If he makes a mistake, they tie him to a tree and let

wild dogs tear him to pieces. Don't worry, Mom. Step four lands around here, off the

coast of South Carolina. Step three lands in the Atlantic north of this narrowest

plane where the nose of South America faces the bulge of Africa. Step two lands in

the South Atlantic near Capetown. If it goes too far, we'll hear some interesting

cussing in Afrikaans. Step one - ah, that's the one. With luck it lands on the Moon.

If Bob Coster made a mistake, why, it's back to the old drawing-board.'

It will be no news to anyone that Pioneer lifted off to plan and that Captain Leslie

LeCroix landed on Luna and returned safely. I watched from Cheyenne Mountain, the

zoo parking lot, with such a fine, horizon-wide view to the east that it seemed to

me that I could stand on my tip-toes and sec Kansas City.

I'm glad that I got to sec one of the great rockets while they were still in use - I

know of no planet in any patrolled universe where the big rockets are still used -

too expensive, too wasteful, too dangerous.

But, oh, so magnificent!

It was just dark when I got up there. The full Moon was rising in the east. The

Pioneer was seven miles away (I heard someone say) but the ship was easy to see,

bathed in floodlights and standing tall and proud.

I looked at my chrono, then watched the blockhouse through binoculars. A white flare

burst from its top, right on time.

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Another flare split into red and green fireball. Five minutes.

That five minutes was at least a half-hour long. I was beginning to think that the

launching was going to abort - and I felt unbearable grief.

White fire lapped out of the base of the ship and slowly, lumberingly, it lifted off

the pad... and climbed faster and faster and faster and the whole landscape, miles

and miles, was suddenly in bright sunlight!

Up, up, and up, to apparent zenith and it seemed to have bent back to the west and I

thought it was falling on us - and then the light was not quite as bright and now we

could see that this `sun' overhead was moving east... and was a moving bright star.

It seemed to break up and a voice from a radio said, 'Step five has separated.' I

remembered to breathe.

And the sound reached us. How many seconds does it take sound to go seven miles?

I've forgotten and, anyhow, they weren't using ordinary seconds that night.

It was 'white' noise, almost unbearable even at that distance. It rumbled on and

on... and at last the turbulence reached us, whipping skirts and knocking over

chairs. Someone fell, down, cursed, and said, 'I'm going to sue somebody!'

Man was on his way to the Moon. His first step to his Only Home -

George died in 1971. He lived to see every cent paid back, Pikes Peak Space Catapult

operational, Luna City a going concern with over six hundred inhabitants, more than

a hundred of them women, and some babies born there - and Harriman Industries richer

than ever. I think he was happy. I know I miss him, still.

I'm not sure Mr Harriman was happy. He was not looking for billions; he simply

wanted to go to the Moon - and Daniel Dixon euchred him out of it.

In the complex manoeuvrings that got a man to the Moon Dixon wound up controlling

more shares of voting stock than Mr Harriman controlled, and Mr Harriman lost

control of Harriman Industries.

On top of that, in lobbying manoeuvres in Washington and in the United Nations, a

Harriman daughter firm, Spaceways Ltd, became the `chosen instrument' for the early

development of space, with a rule, The Space Precautionary Act, under which the

company controlled who could go into space. I heard that Mr Harriman had been turned

down physically, under this rule. I'm not certain what went on behind the scenes; I

was eased off the board of directors once Mr Dixon was in control. I didn't mind; I

didn't like Dixon.

In Boondock, centuries later or about sixty-odd years ago on my personal time line,

I listened to a cube Myths, Legends, and Traditions - The Romantic Side of History.

There was a tale in it concerning time line two that asserted that the legendary D.

D. Harriman had managed, many years later, when he was very old and almost

forgotten, to buy a pirate rocket, in which he finally made it to the Moon... there

to die in a bad landing. But on the Moon, where he longed to be.

I asked Lazarus about this. He said that he did not know. `But it's possible. God

knows the Old Man was stubborn.'

I hope he made it.

Chapter 24 - Decline and Fall

I am not certain that my situation was improved when these ghouls grabbed me away

from those spooks. I suppose that almost everybody has fantasies about making the

punishment fit the crime or about some scoundrel who would look his best in the

leading role at a funeral. It is a harmless way to kill time during a sleepless

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night.

But these weirdos mean it.

Murder is all they think about. The first night I was here they listed fifty-odd

people who needed to be killed, itemised their crimes, and offered me the honour of

being the next member to count coup - pick a client, do! One whose crimes are

particularly offensive to you, Milady Johnson -

I admit that the listed miscreants were a scrofulous bunch over whom even their own

mothers would not be likely to weep but, like Mr Clemens' favourite son, Huckleberry

Finn, I am not much interested in killing strangers. I am not opposed to the death

penalty - I voted for it every time the matter came to a vote, which was frequently

during the decline and fall of the United States - but in killing pour le sport I

need to be emotionally involved. Oh, forced to a choice I would rather shoot a man

than a deer; I can't see the `sport' in shooting a gentle vegetarian that can't

shoot back.

But, given full choice, I would rather watch television than kill a stranger. Some,

at least.

I said, 'I don't see anyone on that list who is to my taste. Do you happen to have

in your file of better-deads someone who abandons kittens?'

The fat chairman smiled at me under his dark glasses. Now that's a delicious idea!

No, I think no unless by chance there is someone nominated for other reasons who

also abandons kittens. I will have Research set up an inquiry at once. Madam, what

would be an appropriate termination for such a client? Have you studied it?'

'No, I haven't. But his death should involve homesickness... and loneliness... and

cold... and hunger... and fear... and utter despair.'

'Artistic. But perhaps not practical. Such a death might stretch out over months...

and we really do not have the facilities to permit a deletion to last more than a

few days. Ah, Bluebeard! - you have something to add?'

'Do what our sister suggests for as many days as we can afford the space. Then

surround the client by a halo of enormous trucks, giant holos, the way traffic must

look to a kitten. Have the images bear down on him, with overpowering sound effects.

Then hit him with a real truck - a glancing blow to maim him. Let him die slowly, as

is often the case with a road-killed animal.'

''Madam, does that appeal to you?'

(It made me want to throw up.) 'Unless something better comes along.'

'If we can find such a client for you, he will be saved and held at your disposal.

In the mean time we must find you someone else for coup, not let you sit among us

naked of proper pride.'

That was a week ago and I have begun to feel just a hint of the idea that if I do

not promptly find on their list a client I wish to terminate, then... just

possibly... we don't want to hurry you... but still... if I don't make blood coup

soon, how can I be trusted not to betray them to the Supreme Bishop's proctors?

On that Time Corps mission I carried out in Japan in the 1930s, I wish I had

investigated those reports of another woman who might be me. If I had proved to

myself that I was indeed tripled for 1937-8, then I would sleep better here now, as

that third loop would hava to be further ahead on my personal time line... which

would prove that I will get out of this mess still breathing.

That's the real trick: to keep breathing. Isn't it, Pixel? Pixel? Pixel! Oh, damn!

Changes - in 1972 Princess Polly died in her sleep - heart failure, I think, but I

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did not have an autopsy. She was a little old lady who had lived a long life and, I

think, a happy one, on the whole. I said a prayer to Bubastis, asking her to watch

for the arrival in the eternal Catnip Fields of a little black and white cat who had

never scratched or bitten without just cause and who had had the misfortune to have

had only one kitten - by Caesarean section and the kitten never opened its eyes -

and then she had lost her kitten factory by spaying because her surgeon said that

she could never have a normal litter and could not safely risk another pregnancy.

I did not get another kitten. In 1972 I was ninety years old (although I admitted

only to fifty-nine... and tried my darnedest - exercise and diet and posture and

cosmetics and clothes - to look forty). Being ninety in fact, it was possible, even

likely, that another kitten would outlive me. I chose not to risk that.

I moved to Albuquerque because it had no ghosts for me. Kansas City was choked with

ghosts of my past, of every sort, both sad and happy. I preferred not to drive by a

site, such as our old home on Benton Boulevard, or where our old farmhouse out south

had once been, then driving past would cover the happy used-to-be with dreary or

unrecognisable what-is.

I preferred to remember Central High School the way it had been when my children

attended it. In those days the scholastic records of Central's graduates at West

Point and Annapolis and MIT and other 'tough' schools caused Central to be rated as

the finest secondary school in the west, equal in academics to the best preparatory

schools, such as Groton or Lawrenceville - instead of what it had become: mostly

babysitting for overgrown infants, a place where police prowl cars gathered every

afternoon to stop fights, to confiscate knives, and to shake down the 'students' for

drugs - a 'high school' where half the students should never have been allowed to

graduate from grammar school because they could not read or write well enough to get

along in the world outside.

Albuquerque held no ghosts for me; I had never lived them I had no children living

there, no grandchildren. (Great-grandchildren? Well, maybe.) Albuquerque had had the

good fortune (from my point of view) to be bypassed by moving roadway Route

Sixty-Six. The old paved road numbered route 66 and once called 'The Main Street of

America' had run straight through Albuquerque, but roadcity Route Sixty-Six was

miles to the south; one could not hear it or see it.

Albuquerque was favoured also through having been bypassed by many of the ills of

the Crazy Years. Despite its size - 180.000 and growing smaller because of the

roadcity south of it; such shrinkage was usual - it continued to have the sweet

small-town feeling so common in the early twentieth century, so scarce in the second

half. It was the home of the main campus of the University of New Mexico... a school

blessed with a chancellor who had not given in to the nonsense of the sixties.

Students there had rioted (some of them) just once; Dr Macintosh kicked them out and

they stayed kicked out. Parents screamed and complained at the state capital in

Santa Fe; Dr Macintosh told the trustees and the legislature that there would be

order and civilised behaviour on the campus as long as he was in charge. If they did

not have the guts to back him up, he would leave at once and they could hire some

masochistic wimp who enjoyed presiding over a madhouse. They backed him up.

In 1970 at campuses all over America half of all freshmen (or more) were required to

take a course called 'English A' (or something similar) but known everywhere as

'Bonehead English'. When Dr Macintosh became chancellor, he abolished Bonghead

English and refused to admit students who would have been required to take it. He

announced, 'It costs the taxpayers a minimum of seventeen thousand dollars a year to

keep a student on this campus. Reading, writing, spelling, and grammar are grammar

school subjects. If an applicant for admission to this university does not know

these grammar school subjects well enough to get along here, let him go back to the

grammar school that had dumped him untaught. He does not belong here. I refuse to

waste tax money on him.'

Again parents screamed - but the parents of these subliterate applicants were a

minority, while the majority of voters and legislators were discovering that they

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liked what they heard from Chancellor Macintosh.

After Dr Macintosh revised the university prospectos, it carried a warning that

students were at all times subject to surprise tests for drugs-urine, blood,

whatever. If they were caught - expulsion, no second chance.

A student who flunked a drug test found his quarters searched at once, all legal and

proper, as there were seven judges in town willing night and day to issue search

warrants on 'probable cause'. No attention was paid to tender feelings; all who were

caught in possession were prosecuted.

Especially for the benefit of drug dealers the legislature reinstituted a fine old

custom: public hangings. Gallows were erected in plazas. To be sure, drug dealers

sentenced to death always appealed to the state supreme court and then to

Washington, but with five members including the Chief justice of the Supreme Court

of the United States having been appointed by President Patton, it worked out that

drug dealers in New Mexico had little reason to complain of the 'Law's Delays'. One

bright young entrepreneur lived exactly four weeks from arrest to jack Ketch. The

average time, once the system got rolling, was less than two months.

As usual, the ACLU had a fit over all these matters. Several ACLU lawyers spent

considerable time in jail for contempt of court, not in the new jail, but in the

drunk tank of the old jail, with the drunks, the hopheads, the wetbacks, and the

quasi-male prostitutes.

These were some of the reasons I moved to Albuquerque. The whole country was losing

its buttons, a mass psychosis I have never fully understood. Albuquerque was not

immune but it was fighting back, and it had enough sensible men and women in key

posts that it was a good place to live during the ten years I was there.

At the very time that America's schools and families were going to pieces the

country was enjoying a renaissance in engineering and science, and not alone in such

big items as space travel and roadcities. While students frivolled away their time,

the research facilities of universities and of industry were turning out more good

work than ever - in particle physics, in plasma physics, in aerospace, in genetics,

in exotic materials, in medical research, in every field.

The exploitation of space flourished unbelievably. Mr Harriman's decision to keep it

out of government hands, let private enterprise go at it for profit, was vindicated.

While Pikes Peak Spaceport was still new, Spaceways Ltd was building bigger, longer,

and more efficient catapults at Quito and on the Island of Hawaii. Manned

expeditions were sent to Mars and to Venus and the first asteroid miners headed out.

Meanwhile the United States went to pieces.

This decay went on not just on time line two but on all investigated time lines.

During my fifty years in Boondock I read several scholarly studies of the

comparative histories of the explored time lines concerning what was called 'The

Twentieth Century Devolution'.

I'm not sure of my opinions. I saw it on only one time line, and that only to the

middle of 1982 and in my own country. I have opinions but you need not take them

seriously as some leading scholars have other opinions.

Here are some of the things I saw as wrong:

The United States had over 600.000 practising lawyers. That must be at least 500.000

more than were actually needed. I am not counting lawyers such as myself; I never

practised. I studied law simply to protect myself from lawyers, and there were many

like me.

Family decay: I think it came mainly from both parents working outside the home. It

was said again and again that, from mid-century on, both parents had to have jobs

just to pay the bills. If this was true, why was it not necessary in the first half

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of the century? How did labour-saving machinery and enormously increased

productivity impoverish the family?

Some said the cause was high taxes. This sounds more reasonable; I recall my shock

the year the government collected a trillion dollars. (Fortunately most of it was

wasted.)

But there seems to have been an actual decline in rational thinking. The United

States had become a place where entertainers and professional athletes were mistaken

for people of importance. They were idolised and treated as leaders; their opinions

were sought on everything and they took themselves just as seriously - after all, if

an athlete is paid a million or more a year, he knows he is important... so his

opinions on foreign affairs and domestic policies must be important, too, even

though he proves himself to be both ignorant and subliterate every time he opens his

mouth. (Most of his fans were just as ignorant and unlettered; the disease was

spreading.)

Consider these:

1) 'Bread and Circuses';

2) The abolition of the pauper's oath in Franklin Roosevelt's first term;

3)'Peer group' promotion in public schools.

These three conditions heterodyne each other. The abolition of the pauper's oath as

a condition for public charity ensured that habitual failures, incompetents of every

sort, people who can't support themselves and people who won't, each of these would

have the same voice in ruling the country, in assessing taxes and spending them, as

(for example) Thomas Edison or Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Carnegie or Andrew Jackson.

Peer group promotion ensured that the franchise would be exercised by ignorant

incompetents. And 'Bread and Circuses' is what invariably happens to a democracy

that goes that route: unlimited spending on `social' programmes ends in national

bankruptcy, which historically is always followed by dictatorship.

It seemed to me that these three things were the key mistakes that destroyed the

best culture in all known histories up to that time. Oh, there were other things -

strikes by public servants, for example. My father was still alive when this became

a problem.

Father said grimly, 'There is a ready solution for anyone on the public payroll who

feels that he is not paid enough: he can resign and work for a living. This applies

with equal force to Congressmen, Welfare "dients", schoolteachers, generals, garbage

collectors, and judges.'

And of course the entire twentieth century from 1917 on was clouded by the

malevolent silliness of Marxism.

But the Marxists would not and could not have had much influence if the American

people had not started losing the hard common sense that had won them a continent.

By de sixties everyone talked about his 'rights' and no one spoke of his duties -

and patriotism was a subject for jokes.

I do not believe that either Marx or that cracker revivalist who became the First

Prophet could have damaged the country if the people had not become soft in the

head.

'But every man is entitled to his own opinion!'

Perhaps. Certainly every man had his own opinion on everything, no matter how silly.

On two subjects the overwhelming majority of people regarded their own opinions as

Absolute Truth, and sincerely believed that anyone who disagreed with them was

immoral, outrageous, sinful, sacrilegious, offensive, intolerable, stupid,

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illogical, treasonable, actionable, against the public interest, ridiculous, and

obscene.

The two subjects were (of course) sex and religion.

On sex and religion each American citizen knew the One Right Answer, by direct

Revelation from God.

In view of the wide diversity of opinion, most of them must necessarily have been

mistaken. But on these two subjects they were not accessible to reason.

'But you must respect another man's religious beliefs!' For Heaven's sake, why?

Stupid is stupid - faith doesn't make it smart.

I recall one candidates promise that I heard during the Presidential campaign of

1976, a campaign promise that seems to me to illustrate how far American rationality

had skidded.

'We shall drive ever forward along this line until all our citizens have

above-average incomes!'

Nobody laughed.

When I moved to Albuquerque I simplified my life in several ways. I simplified my

holdings and split them among three conservative managements, in New York, in

Toronto, and in Zurich. I wrote a new will, listing a few sentimental bequests, but

leaving the major portion, over ninety-five per cent, to the Howard Foundation.

Why? The decision resulted from some long, long midnight thoughts. I had far more

money than one old woman could spend - Lawsy me, I could not even spend the income

from it. Leave it m my children? They were no longer children and not one of them

needed it - and each had received not only Howard bonuses but also the start-up

money that Brian and I had arranged for each of them.

Leave it to `worthy causes'? That is thin gruel, my friend. Most of such money is

sopped up by administration, i.e., eaten by parasites.

The original capital had come from the Ira Howard Foundation; I decided to send my

accumulation back to the Foundation. It seemed fitting.

I bought a modern condo apartment near the campus, between Central Avenue and Lomas

Boulevard, signed up for a course in pedagogy at the University, not with any

serious intention of studying (it takes real effort to flunk a course in pedagogy)

but to establish me on campus. There are all sorts of good social events on a campus

- motion pictures, plays, open lectures, dances, clubs. Doctorates are as common on

campus as fleas on a dog, but nevertheless a doctor's degree is a union card that

gives entrée to many places.

I joined the nearest Unitarian church and supported it with liberal donations, in

order to enjoy the many social benefits of church membership without being pestered

by straitjacket creeds.

I joined a square dance club, a Viennese Waltz club, a contract bridge dub, a chess

club, a current events supper club, and a civic affairs luncheon club.

In six weeks I had more passes than the Rocky Mountains. It let me be fussy about my

bed mates and still get in far more friendly fornication than had been the case in

the preceding quarter of a century. I had not limited myself to George Strong during

those years, but I had kept too busy for serious pursuit of the all-time number-one

sport.

Now I had time. As some old gal said (Dorothy Parker?), `There is nothing as much

fun as a man!'

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`Male and female created He them' - that's a good arrangement, and for ten years I

made the most of it.

I did not spend all of my time chasing men... or in letting them chase me while I

ran very slowly - the latter being my MO because it makes a man nervous for a woman

to be overt about it - it is contrary to traditional protocol. Males are

conservative about sex, especially those who think they are not.

We Howards were not inclined to keep in touch with all our relatives; it was not

feasible. By the year I moved to Albuquerque (1972) I had more descendants than

there are days in the year - I should keep track of their birthdays? Heavens, I had

trouble keeping track of their names!

But I did have some favourites, people I loved irrespective of blood relationship if

any: my older sister Audrey, my older `sister' Eleanor, my brother Tom, my cousin

Nelson and his wife Betty Lou, my father and I missed him always. My mother I did

not love but I respected her; she had done her best for all of us.

My children? While they were at home I tried to treat them all alike and to lavish

on each of them love and affection - even when my head ached and my feet hurt.

Once they were married - Now comes the Moment of Truth. I tried to do unto them as

they did unto me. If one of my offspring called me regularly, I tried to call her

(him) as often. To some I sent birthday cards, not much else. If a grandchild gave

attention to Grandma, Grandma paid attention to that child. But there just isn't

time to be both openhanded and evenhanded with one hundred and eighty-one

grandchildren, that being the number I had (unless I lost track) by my ninety-ninth

birthday.

My special loves - Blood did not necessarily enter into it. There was little Helen

Beck, who was just Carol's age, and the two little girls went to Greenwood school

together in first and second grade. Helen was a lovely child and utterly sweet

natured. Because her mother was a working widow, Helen spent quite a bit of time in

my kitchen until we moved too far away.

But she did not forget me and I did not forget her. She went into show business and

travelled; we tried to keep each other advised of moves so that we could make

rendezvous every year or six. She lived a long time for a non-Howard and was a

beauty right up to her death - so much so that she could afford to dance naked into

her seventies, at which age she still gave every man present an erection. Yet her

dancing was never styled to be provocative, nothing like the cootch dancer Little

Egypt of an earlier generation.

Helen changed her name early in her show-biz career; most people knew her as Sally

Rand. I loved Sally and Sally loved me, and we could be apart for several years,

then manage to make a rendezvous, and be right back where we had left off, intimate

friends.

Sally and I shared one oddity: both of us went to school as often as we could manage

it. She usually performed at night; in daytime she was a special student at whatever

campus was nearest. By the time she died (1979) she had far more collegiate hours

than most professors. She was a polymath; everything interested Sally and she

studied in depth. Sally did not drink or smoke; her one weakness was big, thick

textbooks.

Nancy stayed closer to me than did my other children, and I was her husband's

sometime mistress for sixty-four years... because Nancy had decided it that way

before she married Jonathan. Not often but always when we met and could find

opportunity. I can't believe that Jonathan truly had much interest in this old

carcass into its nineties - but he could lie about it delightfully. We really did

love each other, and an erection is the most flattering compliment a man can pay to

an old woman. Jonathan was a true Galahad, one who reminds me of my husband Galahad.

Not too surprising, as Galahad is descended from Jonathan (13.2 per cent, counting

convergence) - and from me, of course, but all of my husbands are descended from me

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except Jake and Zeb, who were born on another time line. (Time line four, Ballox

O'Malley) (Oops! And Jubal, time line three.)

As a by-product of Nancy's offering Jonathan to me, Brian got Nancy's sweet, young

body - the first incest in our family, I think. Whether it happened again on later

occasions I do not know and it is none of my business. Nancy and I were much alike

in temperament - both of us strongly interested in sex but relaxed about it. Eager

but not tense.

Carol - For Carol I always tried to save 26 June, Carol's Day, Carolita's Day,

Carolmas, and eventually Fiesta de Santa Carolita for millions of people who never

knew her.

After 26 June 1918, she gave up her birthday entirely in order to celebrate Carol's

Day.

During the decade that I spent mostly in Albuquerque she was star-billed several

times in Reno or Vegas on Carol's Day. She always held her luau on z6 June even if a

midnight show forced her to start it at four in the morning. No matter the hour her

friends flocked to attend, coming from around the globe. It became a great honour to

be invited to Carolita's annual party, something to boast about in London and Rio.

Carol married Rod Jenkins of the Schmidt family in 1920, when he was just back from

France - Rainbow Division and Rod picked up a Silver Star and a Purple Heart without

losing anything. (One scar on his belly -) Rod had majored in mathematics at

Illinois Tech., specialising in topology, then he had joined up between his junior

and senior years, came back and shifted to theatre arts. He had decided to try to

shift from amateur magician to professional - stage magic, I mean. He told me once

that being shot at had caused him to reassess his values and ambitions.

So Carol started her married life handing things to her husband on stage, while

dressed in so little that she constituted misdirection every time she twitched. She

tried to time it so that she had babies when Rod was resting. When that was not

possible, she would go on working until a theatre manager called a halt... usually

as a result of complaints by females not as well endowed. Carol was one of those

fortunate women who got more beautiful as her belly bulged.

She parked her children with Rod's mother when she and Rod were on the road, but she

usually had one or two with her, a privilege her youngsters all loved. Then, in' 55

(I think) Rod made a mistake in a bullet-catching illusion, and died on stage.

Carol did his act (or a magic act of some sort with his props) the next night. One

thing was certain: she was not hiding props or rabbits in her costume. When she

started working Reno and Vegas and Atlantic City, she trimmed it down to a G-string.

She added juggling to her act.

Later, after coaching, she added singing and dancing. But her fans did not care what

she did; they wanted Carol, not the gimmicks. Theatres in Las Vegas or Reno showed

on their marquees just 'CAROLITA!' - nothing more. Sometimes she would stop in the

middle of juggling and say, I'm too tired to juggle tonight and, anyhow, W. C.

Fields did it better,' and she would walk out on the runway and stop, hands on her

hips, dressed in a G-string and a smile, and say, 'Let's get better acquainted. You,

there! Pretty little girl in a blue dress. What's your name, dear? Will you throw me

a kiss? If I throw you one, will you eat it or throw it back to me?' or, `Who has a

birthday tonight? Hold up your hands.'

In a theatre crowd at least one in fifty is having a birthday, not one in three

hundred and sixty-five. She would ask them to stand, and would repeat each name

loudly and clearly - then ask all the crowd to sing Happy Birthday with her, and

when the doggerel reached 'Happy Birthday, dear - ' the band would stop and Carol

would sing out each first name, pointing at the owner: ` - dear Jimmy, Ariel, Bebe,

Mary, John, Philip, Amy, Myrtle, Vincent, Oscar, Vera, Peggy' - hand cue and the

band would hit it - 'Happy Birthday to you!'

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If visitors had been allowed to vote, Carolita could have been elected mayor of Las

Vegas by a landslide.

I once asked her how she remembered all those names. She answered, 'It's not hard,

Mama, when you want to remember. If I make a mistake, they forgive me - they know

I've tried: She added, `Mama, what they really want is to think that I am their

friend - and I am.'

During those ten years I travelled now and then to see my special darlings, but

mostly I stayed home and let them come to me. The rest of the time I enjoyed being

alive and enjoyed new friends, some in bed, some out, some both.

As the decade wore on and I approached one hundred, I found that I was experiencing

more frequently a slight chill of autumn - joints that were stiff in the mornings,

grey hairs among the red, a little sagginess here and there - and, worst of all, a

feeling that I was becoming fragile and should avoid falling down.

I didn't let it stop me; I just tried harder. I had one fairly faithful swain at

that time, Arthur Simmons - and it tikcled and pleased him when I referred to

myself, in bed with him, as 'Simmons' Mattress'.

Arthur was sixty, a widower, and a CPA, and an absolutely reliable partner in

contract bridge - so dependable that I gave up the Italian method and went back to

Goren because he played Goren. Shucks, I would have reverted to Culbertson had

Arthur asked me to; an utterly honest bridge partner is that pearl of great price.

And so is a perfect gentleman in bed. Arthur was no world-class stud - but I was no

longer eighteen and I never had Carols beauty. But he was unfailingly considerate

and did his best.

He had one eccentricity; after our first time, in my apartment, he insisted on

getting a motel room for each assignation. 'Maureen; he explained, `if you are

willing to make the effort to come where I am, then I know that you really want to.

And vice versa, if I go out and rent a motel room, you know that I am interested

enough to make an effort: When either of us stops making an effort, it is time to

kiss and part, with no tears.'

In June 1982 that time had arrived; I think each of us was waiting for the other to

suggest it. On 20 June I was heading on foot to an assignation with Arthur and was

thinking that perhaps I had best bring up the matter during that quiet time after

the first one... then a second one if he wanted it and say goodbye. Or would it be

kinder to announce that I was making a trip back east to see my daughter? Or simply

break sharp?

I had come to the intersection of Lomas and San Mateo Boulevards. I had never liked

that crossing; the timing of the traffic light was short and the boulevards were

wide - and getting wider lately. And today, because of repairs in progress on the

PanAmerican Highway, truck traffic had been routed around the repairs by sending it

down San Mateo, then west on Central, and the reverse for northbound traffic.

I was half-way across when the lights changed and a solid mass of traffic started at

me, especially one giant truck. I froze, tried to run back, tripped and fell down.

I caught sight of a policeman, knew that the truck would get me, wondered briefly

whether Father would recommend prayer after my heathen lifetime.

Somebody scooped me up off the pavement and I fainted.

It seemed to me that I was taken out of an ambulance and placed on a stretcher. I

fainted again and woke up in bed. A pretty little dark woman with wavy hair was

hovering over me. She spoke slowly and carefully in an accent that I thought was

Spanish:

`Mama Maureen... Tamara am I. For... Lazarus... and for all... your children... I

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bid you... welcome to Tertius!'

I stared at her, not believing my eyes. Or ears. `You are Tamara? You really are

Tamara? Wife to Captain Lazarus Long?'

`Wife am I to Lazarus. Tamara am I. Daughter am I, to you, our Mama Maureen Welcome,

mama. We love you.'

I cried and she gathered me to her breast.

Chapter 20 - Rebirth in Boondock

Let's review the bidding.

In 1982, on 20 June I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico, on my way to a Sunday

afternoon motel date for some friendly fornication... and that made me a scandal to

the jaybirds as I was only days away from my hundredth birthday - while pretending

to be much younger and, mostly, succeeding. My assignation was with a widowed

grandfather who seemed willing to believe that I was his own age, give or take a

bit.

Part of the orthodoxy of that time and place was that old women have no interest in

sex and that old men have limp penises and no sex drive - except dirty old perverts

with criminal and pathological interests in young girls. All young people were

certain of these ideas through knowing their own grandparents, whom they knew to be

interested only in singing hymns and in playing chequers or shuffleboard. But sex?

My grandparents? Don't be disgusting!

(At that time and in that country, nursing homes for the elderly kept their guests

chaperoned and/or physically segregated by sexes so that nothing `disgusting' could

take place.)

So this dirty old woman on evil bent got caught in heavy traffic, panicked, fell

down, fainted - and woke up in Boondock on the planet Tellus Tertius.

I had heard of Tellus Tertius. Sixty-four years earlier, when I was a modest young

matron with a snow-white reputation, I had seduced a young sergeant, Theodore

Bronson, who in pillow talk with me had revealed himself as a time traveller from

the far future and a distant star, Captain Lazarus Long, chairman of the Howard

Families in his time... and my remote descendant!

I had looked forward to years of happy adultery after the War was over, under the

tolerant, shut-eye chaperonage of my husband.

But Sergeant Theodore went to France in the AEF and was missing in action in some of

the heaviest fighting in the Great War. MIA equals killed; it never meant anything

else.

When I woke up and Tamara took me into her arms, I had great trouble believing any

of it... especially the ides that Theodore was alive and well. When I did believe

her (one cannot disbelieve Tamara), I was crushed with the grief of too late, too

late!

Tamara tried to soothe me but we had language trouble; she is not a linguist, speaks

broken English only - and I had not a word of Galacta. (Her first speech to me she

had rehearsed most carefully.)

She sent for her daughter Ishtar. Ishtar listened to me, talked to me, finally got

it through my head that being a hundred, years old did not matter; I was about to be

rejuvenated.

I had heard about rejuvenation from Theodore, long ago. But I had never thought of

it as applying to me.

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They both told me, over and over again. Ishtar said, `Mama Maureen, I am more than

twice as old as you are. My last rejuvenation was eighty years ago. Am I wrinkled?

Don't worry about your age; you will be no trouble at all. We'll start your tests at

once; you will be eighteen again in a very short time. Months, I estimate, instead

of the two or three years a really difficult case can take.'

Tamara nodded emphatically. Is true. Ishtar true word esspeak. Four century am I.

Dying was I' She patted her belly. `Baby here now.'

`Yes,' agreed Ishtar, `by Lazarus. A baby I gene-plotted and required Lazarus to

plant before he left to rescue you. We could not be sure that he would be back -

these trips of his are always chancey - and, while I have his sperm on deposit,

frozen sperm can deteriorate; I want as many warm-spenn babies sired by Lazarus as

possible.' She added, `And you, too, Mama Maureen. I hope you will gift us with many

more babies. Our calculations show that what Lazarus has, his unique gene patterns,

he got mainly from you. You need not bear babies yourself; there'll be host mothers

standing in line for the privilege of bearing a Mama Maureen baby. Unless you prefer

to bear them yourself.'

'You mean I can?'

`Certainly. Once we have you made young again.'

`Then I will!' I took a deep breath. It has been... forty-four years - I think that

is right forty-four years since I last became pregnant. Although Ne always been

willing and Nave not tried to avoid it.' I thought about it. `Is it possible for me

to postpone seeing Theodore - Lazarus, you call him for a while? Could I be made

younger before I see him? I dread the thought of his seeing me this way. Old. Not

the way he knew me.'

`Certainly. There are always emotional factors in a rejuvenation. Whatever a client

needs to be happy is the way we do it'

'I would rather not have him see me until I look more as I looked then.'

'It shall be done.'

I asked to see a picture of Theodore-Lazarus. It turned out to be a moving holo,

almost frighteningly lifelike. I was aware that Theodore and I looked enough alike

to be brother and sister; that was what Father had first noticed about him. But this

startled me. `Why, that's my son!' The holo looked just like my son Woodrow - my bad

boy and always my favourite.

'Yes, he's your son.'

'No, no! I mean that Captain Lazarus Long whom I knew as Theodore is a dead-ringer -

sorry, a twin-brother image of my son Woodrow Wilson Smith. I hadn't realised it of

course, in the brief time I knew Captain Long, my son Woodrow Wilson was only five

years old; they did not look alike then, or nothing anyone would notice. So my son

Woodrow grew up to look like his remote descendant. Strange. I find I'm touched by

it'

Ishtar looked ar Tamara. They exchanged words in a language I did not know (Galada,

it was). But I could hear worry in their voices.

Ishtar said soberly, `Mama Maureen, Lazarus Long is your son Woodrow Wilson.'

'No, no,' I said 'I saw Woodrow just a few months ago. He was, uh, sixty-nine at the

time but looked much younger. He looked just as Captain Long looks in this picture -

an amazing resemblance. But Woodrow is back in the twentieth century. I know.'

'Yes, he is, Mama Maureen. Was, I mean, although Elizabeth tells me the two tenses

are equivalent. Woodrow Wilson Smith grew up in the twentieth century, spent most of

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the twenty-first century on Mars and on Venus, returned to Earth in the

twenty-second century and -' Ishtar stopped and looked up. `Teena?'

'Who rubbed my lamp? What'll you have, Ish?'

'Ask Justin for a print-out in English of the memoirs he prepared on the Senior,

will you, please?'

'No need to ask Justin; I've got 'em in my gizzard. You want them bound or

scrolled?'

'Bound, I think. But, Teena, let Justin fetch them here; he will be delighted and

honoured.'

'Who wouldn't? Mama Maureen, are they treating you right? If they don't, just tell

me, 'cause I do all the work around here.'

After a while a man came in who reminded me disturbingly of Arthur Simmons. But it

was just a general resemblance combined with a similar personality; in 1982 Justin

Foote would have been a CPA, as Arthur Simmons had been. Justin Foote was carrying a

briefcase. ("Plus ça change, plus c'est ta même chose.") There was a degree of

awkwardness as Ishtar introduced him; he seemed about to fall over his own feet from

excitement at meeting me.

I took his hand 'My first great-great-granddaughter, Nancy Jane Hardy, married a boy

named Charlie Foote. That was about 1972, I think; I went to her wedding. Is Charlie

Foote any relation to you?'

'He is my ancestor, Mother Maureen. Nancy Jane Hardy Foote gave birth to Justin

Foote the First on New Millenium Eve, 31 December, year 2000 Gregorian.'

'Really? Then Nancy Jane had a nice long run. She was named for her

great-grandmother, my first born.'

'So the Archives show. Nancy Irene Smith Weatheral, your first born, Ancestress. And

I carry the first name of Nancy's father-in-law, Justin Weatheral: Justin spoke

excellent English with an odd accent. Bostonian?

`Then I'm your grandma, in some degree. So kiss me, grandson, and quit being so

nervously formal; we're family.'

He relaxed and kissed me then, a firm buss on the mouth, one I liked If we had not

had company,1 might have let it develop - he did remind me of Arthur.

He added then: I'm descended from you and from Justin Weatheral another way,

Grandma. Through Patrick Henry Smith, to whom you gave birth on 7 July 1932.'

I was startled. 'Good heavens! So my sins follow me, even here. Oh, of course -

you're working from the Foundation's records. I did report that case of bastardy to

the Foundation. Had to keep it straight there.'

Both Ishtar and Tamara were looking puzzled. Justin said, `Excuse me, Grandma

Maureen' - and spoke to them in that other language. Then he added to me, 'The

concept of bastardy is not known here; issue from a coupling is either genetically

satisfactory or not satisfactory. The ides that a child could be proscribed by civil

statute is difficult to explain.'

Tamara had looked startled, then giggled when Justin explained bastardy. Ishtar had

simply looked sober: She spoke to Justin, again in Galacta.

He listened, then turned to me. `Dr Ishtar says that it is regrettable that only

once did you accept another father for one of your children. She tells me that she

hopes to get many more children from you, each by a different father. After you are

rejuvenated, she means.'

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'After,' I repeated. 'But I'm looking forward to it. Justin, you have a book for

me?'

That book was titled The Lives of Lazarus Long, with a secondary title that started

'The lives of the Senior Member of the Howard Families (Woodrow Wilson Smith...

Lazarus Long... Corporal Ted Bronson... [and a dozen other names]) Oldest Member of

the Human Race -'

I didn't faint. Instead I teetered on the brink of orgasm. Ishtar, aware somewhat of

the customs of my time and place, had hesitated to let me know that my love of 1918

was actually my son. But she could not know that I had never felt bound by the

taboos of my clan and was as untroubled by the idea of incest as a tomcat is.

Indeed, the greatest disappointment of my life was my inability to get my father to

accept what I had been so willing to give him, from menarche till lost him.

I still haven't been able to do anything with Lizzie Borden's disclosure that this

city I'm in is Kansas City. Or one of its permutations that is. I don't think I am

in one of the universes patrolled by the Time Corps, although I can't be certain. So

far, all I have seen of the city is what can be seen from the balcony off the lounge

of the Committee for Aesthetic Deletions.

It's the correct geography all right. North of here, about ten miles away, is the

sharp bend in the Missouri River where it swings from southwest to northeast at the

point where the Kaw river flows into it - a configuration that causes big floods in

the west bottoms ever five or six years.

Between here and there is the unmistakable tall shaft of the War Memorial... but it

is not the War Memorial in this universe; it is the Sacred Phallus of the Great

Inseminator.

(It reminds me of the time Lazarus tried to check the historicity of the man known

as Yeshua or Joshua or Jesus. He had not been able to track him down through census

or tax records of that time at Nazareth or Bethlehem, so he went looking for the

most prominent event in the legend: the Crucifixion. He did not find it. Oh, he

found crucifixions on Golgotha all right - but just common criminals, no political

evangelists, no godstruck young rabbis. He tried again and again, using various

theories 'to date it... and got so frustrated that he started calling it the

'Crucifiction'. His current theory involves a really strong Fabulist of the second

century Julian.

The only time I've been outdoors here was the night of Fiesta de Carolita... and

then I saw only the big park in which the Fiesta was held (Swope Park?), with many

bonfires and flambeaux, endless bodies wearing masks and body paint, and the most

amazing gangbang I have ever heard of, even in Rio. And a witches' esbat, but you

can see those anywhere if you hold the Sign and know the Word. (I was stooled in

Santa Fe in 1976, Wicca rite.)

But it is amusing to see one held right out in public, on the one night of the year

when correct dress for a sabbat oresbat wouldn't be noticed and odd behaviour is the

order of the day. What chutzpah!

Could this possibly be my own time line during the reign of the Prophets? (The

twenty-first century, more or less - ) The fact that they know of Santa Carolita

lends plausibility to the idea, but this does not match too well with any accounts

that I have read of America under the Prophets. So far as I know the Time Corps does

not maintain an office in Kansas City in the twenty-first century on time line two.

If I could hire a 'copter and a pilot I would search fifty miles south of here and

attempt to find Thebes, where I was born. If I found it, it would give me an anchor

to reality. If I failed to find it, that would tell me that after a while some husky

nurses would take me out of this wetpack and feed me.

If I had any money. If I could get away from these ghouls. If I wasn't afraid of the

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Supreme Bishop's proctors. If I didn't think it would get my arse shot off in the

air.

Lizzie has promised to buy me a harness for Pixel. Not to walk him on a leash

(impossible!) but to carry a message. The bit of string around his neck that I used

on my last attempt apparently did not work. He may have clawed away that bit of

paper, or broken the string.

Ishtar set a date seventeen months after my arrival in Boondock for rendezvous with

the persons involved in rescuing me in 1982: Theodore/Lazarus/Woodrow (I have to

think of him as three persons in one, like another Trinity), his clone-sisters Lapis

Lazuli and Lorelei Lee, Elizabeth Andrew Jackson Libby Long, Zeb and Deety Carter,

Hilda Mae and Jacob Burroughs, and two sentient computers both animating ships, Gay

Deceives and Dora. Ishtar had assured Hilda (and me) that seventeen months would be

long enough to make me young again.

Ishtar pronounced me done in only fifteen months. I can't give details of my

rejuvenation because I knew nothing of such details at the time - not until I was

accepted as an apprentice technician years later, after I had become the Boondock

equivalent of RN and MD. At the medical school hospital and at the rejuvenation

clinic they use a drug tagged `Lethe' that lets one do horrid things to a patient

but not have him even recall that they happened. So I do not remember the bad days

of my rejuvenation but only the pleasant, lazy ones during which I read Theodore's

memoirs, as edited by Justin... and I spotted the authentic Woodie touch; the

raconteur lied whenever he felt like it.

But it was fascinating. Theodore really had felt moral qualms about coupling with

me. My goodness! You can take the boy out of the Bible Belt, but you can never quite

take the Bible Belt out of the boy. Not even centuries later and after experiencing

other and often better cultures utterly unlike Missouri.

One thing in those memoirs made me proud of my `naughty' son: he seems to have

always been incapable of abandoning wife and child. Since (in my opinion) much of

the decay that led to the decline and fall of the United States had to do with males

who shrugged off their duty to pregnant women and young children, I found myself

willing to forgive my `bad boy' for all his foibles since he never wavered in this

prime virtue. A male must be willing to live and to die for his female and their

cubs... else he is nothing.

Woodrow, selfish as he was in many respects, in this acid test measured up.

I was delighted to learn just how intensely Theodore had wanted my body. Since I had

wanted him with burning intensity, it warmed me all through to read proof that he

had wanted me just as badly. I had never been quite sure of it at the time (a woman

in heat can be an awful fool) and was still less sure of it as the years wore on.

Yet here was proof: eyes open, he shoved his head into the lion's mouth for me - for

my sake he had enlisted in a war that was not his... and `got his arse shot off as

his sisters expressed it. (His sisters - my daughters. Goodness!)

In addition to Lazarus' memoirs, I read histories that Justin gave me. I also

learned Galacta by the total-immersion method. After my first two weeks in Boondock

I asked that no English whatever be spoken around me and asked Teena for the Galacta

edition of Theodore's memoirs and reread them in that language. Soon I was fluent in

Galacta and beginning to think in it. Galacta is rooted in Spanglish, the auxiliary

language that was beginning to be used for trade and engineering purposes up and

down the two Americas in the twentieth century, a devised language formed by taking

the intersection of English and Spanish and manipulating that vocabulary by Hispanic

grammar - somewhat simplified for the benefit of Anglophonic users of this lingua

franca.

At a later time Lazarus told me that Spanglish had been adopted as the official

language for space pilots back at the time of the Space Precautionary Ad, when all

licensed space pilots were employees of Spaceways Ltd, or some other Harriman

Industries subsidiary. He told me that Galacta was still recognisably the same

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language as Spanglish centuries, millennia, later - although with a much amplified

vocabulary - much the same way and for the same reasons that the Latin of the

Caesars had been conserved and augmented for thousands of years by the Church of

Rome. Each language filled a need that kept it alive and growing.

`I always wanted to live in a world designed by Maxfield Parrish - and now I do!'

These words open a journal I started to write, early in my rejuvenation, to keep my

thoughts straight in the face of the culture shock I felt in being lifted bodily out

of the Crazy Years of Tellus Prime - and plunked down in the almost Apollonian

culture of Tellus Tertius.

Maxfield Parrish (1870-1966) was a romantic artist of my time and place who used a

realistic style and technique to paint a world more beautiful than any ever seen - a

world of cloud-capped towers and gorgeous girls and breath-stopping mountain peaks.

If 'Maxfield Parrish blue' means nothing to you, go to the museum of BIT and enjoy

the MP collection there, `stolen' by means of a replicating pantograph from

twentieth century museums on the east coast of North America (and one painting in

the lobby of the Broadmoor) by a Time Corps private mission paid for by the Senior,

Lazarus Long - a birthday present to his mother on her one hundred and twenty-fifth

birthday to celebrate the silver anniversary of their marriage.

Yes, my naughty-boy son Woodrow married me, sandbagged into it by his co-wives and

brother husbands, as a result of their having sandbagged me into it - a working

majority of them; Woodrow had three of his wives with him, his twin clone-sisters

and Elizabeth who used to be Andrew Libby before his reincarnation as a woman.

At that time (Galactic 4324) the Long family had seven adults in residence: Ira

Weatheral, Galahad, Justin Foote, Hamadryad, Tamara, Ishtar, and Minerva. Galahad,

Justin, Ishtar, and Tamara you have met; Ira Weatheral was the executive of such

government as Boondock had (not much); Hamadryad was his daughter who had obviously

made a pact with the Devil; Minerva was a slender, long-haired brunette who had had

a career of more than two centuries as an administrative computer before getting

Ishtar's assistance in becoming flesh and blood through an assembled-clone

technique.

They picked Galahad and Tamara to propose to me.

I had no plans to get married. I had married once 'till death do us part' - and it

had turned out not to be that durable. I was most happy to be living in Boondock, my

cup overflowed at growing young again, and I was looking forward with almost

unbearable delight at the expectation of being again in Theodore's arms. But

marriage? Why take vows that are usually broken?

Galahad said, 'Mama Maureen, these vows will not be broken. We simply promise each

other to share in taking care of our children - support them and spank them and love

them and teach them, whatever it takes. Now believe me, this is how to do it. Marry

us now; settle it with Lazarus later. We love him - but we know him. In an emergency

Lazarus is the fastest gun in the Galaxy. But hand him a simple little social

problem and he'll dither about it, trying to see all sides to arrive at the perfect

answer. So the only way to win an argument with Lazarus is to present him with an

accomplished fact. He'll be home now in a few weeks - Ishtar knows the exact hour.

If he finds you married into the family and already pregnant, he will simply shut up

and marry you himself. If you will have him:

'In marrying all of you, am I not marrying Lazarus, too?'

Not necessarily. Both Hamadryad and Ira were members of our founding family group.

But it took several years before Ira admitted that there was no reason for him not

to marry his own daughter - Hamadryad just smiled and outwaited him. Then we held a

special wedding ceremony just for them and what a luau that was! Honest, Mama

Maureen, our arrangements are flexible; the only invariant is that everybody

guarantees the future of any babies you pretty little broads give us. We don't even

ask where you got them... since some of you tend to be vague about such things.'

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Tamara interrupted to tell me that Ishtar watches such matters. (Galahad tends to

joke. Tamara doesn't know how to joke. But she loves everybody.) So later that day I

said my vows with all of them, standing in the middle of their beautiful atrium

garden (our garden!) - crying and smiling and all of them touching me and Ira

sniffling and Tamara smiling while tears ran down her face, and we all said 'I do!'

together and they all kissed me, and I knew they were mine and I was theirs, forever

and ever, amen.

I got pregnant at once because Ishtar had timed it so that our wedding and my

ovulation matched - Ira and Ishtar had planned the whole thing. (When I had that

baby girl, after the usual cow-or-countess gestation period, I asked Ishtar about

the baby's paternity. She said, 'Mama Maureen, that one is from all your husbands;

you don't need to know. After you've had four or five more, if you are still

curious, I'll sort them out for you.' I never asked again.)

So I was pregnant when Theodore returned, which suited me just fine... as I was sure

from past experience that he would greet me more heartily and with less restraint if

he knew that it was certain that copulation with me would be solely for love - and

sweet pleasure - and sheer, sweaty fun. Not for progeny.

And so it was. But at a party that started out with Theodore fainting dead away.

Hilda Mae, the head of the task force that rescued me, had rigged a surprise party

for Theodore, in which she had presented me to him, dressed in a costume of high

symbology to him - heeled slippers, long sheer hose, green garters - at a time when

he thought that I was still in Albuquerque mo millennia earlier and still in need of

rescue.

Hilda did not intend to shock Theodore so sharply that he fainted - she loves him,

and later she married Theodore and all of us, along with her husband and family -

Hilda does not have a mean bone in her little elfin body. She caught Theodore as he

fainted, or tried to. He wasn't hurt and the party developed into one of the best

since Rome burned. Hilda Mae has many other talents, in and out of bed, but she is

the best party arranger in the world.

A couple of years later Hilda was Director-General of the biggest party ever held

anywhere, bigger than the Field of the Cloth of Gold: the First Centennial

Convention of the Interuniversal Society for Eschatological Pantheistic Multiple-Ego

Solipsism, with guests from dozens of universes. It was a wonderful party and the

few people killed in the games went straight to Valhalla - I saw them go. From that

party our family gained several more husbands and wives - eventually, not all in one

day - especially Hazel Stone a.k.a. Gwen Novak who is as dear to me as Tamara, and

Dr Jubal Harshaw, the one of my husbands to whom I turn when I truly need advice.

It was to Jubal that I turned many years later when I found that despite all the

wonders of Boondock and Tertius, all the loving happiness of being a cherished

member of the Long Family, despite the satisfaction of studying the truly advanced

therapy of Tertius and Secundus, and at last being apprenticed to the best

profession of all - rejuvenator - something was missing.

I had never stopped thinking about my father, missing him always, with an ache in my

heart.

Consider these facts;

1) Lib had been raised from the dead, a frozen corpse, and reincarnated as a woman.

2) I had been rescued from certain death, across the centuries. (When an

eighteen-wheeler runs over a person my size, they pick up the remains with blotting

paper.)

3) Colonel Richard Campbell had twice been rescued from certain death and had had

history changed simply to calm his soul, because his services were needed to save

the computer that led the Lunar revolution on time line three.

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4) Theodore himself had been missing in action, chopped half in two by machine-gun

fine... yet he had been rescued and restored without even a scar.

S) My father was 'missing in action', too. The AFS didn't even get round to

reporting him as missing until long after the fact and there were no details.

6) In the thought experiment called 'Schrõdinger's Cat' the scientists(?), or

philosophers, or metaphysicians, who devised it, maintain that the cat is neither

dead nor alive but simply a fog of probabilities, until somebody opens the box.

I don't believe it. I don't think Pixel would believe it.

But - Is my father alive? or dead? away back there in the twentieth century?

So I spoke to Jubal about it.

He said, 'I can't tell you, Mama Maureen. How badly do you want your father to be

alive?'

`More than anything in the world!'

'Enough to risk everything on it? Your life? Still worse, the chance of

disappointment? Of knowing that all hope is gone?'

I sighed deeply. 'Yes. All of that'

'Then join the Time Corps and learn how such things are done. In a few years - ten

to twenty years, I would guess you will be able to form an intelligent opinion.'

'Ten to twenty years!'

It could take longer. But the great beauty about time manipulations is that there is

always plenty of time, never any hurry.'

When I told Ishtar that I wanted to take an indefinite leave of absence, she did not

ask me why. She simply said, `Mama, I have known for some time that you were not

happy in this work; I have been waiting for you to discover it.'

She kissed me. 'Perhaps next century you will find a true vocation for this work.

There is no hurry. Meanwhile, be happy.'

So for about twenty years of my personal time tine and almost seven years of

Boondock time I went where I was told to go and reported on what I was told to

investigate. Never as a fighter. Not like Gretchen whose first baby is descended

both from me (Colonel Ames is my grandson through Lazarus) and from my co-wife

Hazel/Gwen (Gretchen is Hazel's great-granddaughter) - Major Gretchen is a big,

strong, strapping Valkyrie, reputed to be sudden death with or without weapons.

Fighting is not for Maureen. But de Time Corps needs all sorts. My talent for

languages and my love of history makes me suitable to be sent to `scout the Land of

Canaan' - or Nippon in the 1930s - or whatever country or planet needs scouting. My

only other talent is sometimes useful, too.

So with twenty years of practice and some preliminary research in history of time

line two, second phase of the Permanent War, I signed off for a weekend and bought a

ticket on a Burroughs-Carter time-space bus, one with a scheduled stop in New

Liverpool, 1950, intending to scout the history of the 1939-1945 War a little closer

up. Hilda had developed a thriving black-market trade through the universes; one of

her companies supplied scheduled services to the explored time lines and planets for

a bracket of dates - exact date of choice available if you pay for it.

The bus driver had just announced `New Liverpool Earth Prime 1950 time line two next

stop! Don't leave any personal possessions aboard' - when there was a loud noise,

the bus lurched, a trip attendant said, `Emergency exit - this way, please' - and

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somebody handed me a baby, there was much smoke, and I saw a man with a bloody stump

where his hand should have been.

I guess I passed out, as I don't remember what happened next.

I woke up in bed with Pixel and a corpse.

Chapter 26 - Pixel to the Rescue

After that Mad Tea Party in which I woke up in bed with a cat and a corpse in Grand

Hotel Augustus, Pixel and I wound up in the office of Dr Eric Ridpath, house

physician, where we met his office nurse, Dagmar Dobbs - a gal who was at once

awarded Pixel's stamp of approval. Dagmar was giving me a GYN examination, when she

told me that tonight was La Fiesta de Santa Carolita.

It is a good thing that just before she put me on the table she had required me to

pee in a cup, or I might have peed in her face.

As I have explained in excessive detail, `Santa Carolita' is my daughter Carol, born

in Gregorian 1902 at Kansas City on Tellus Prime, time line two, code Leslie

LeCroix.

Lazarus Long had initiated `Carol's Day' on 26 June 1918 Gregorian, as a rite of

passage for Carol, marking her transition from childhood to womanhood. Lazarus

toasted Carol in champagne, telling her what a wonderful thing it was to be a woman,

naming for her both the privileges and the responsibilities of her new and exalted

status, and declaring that 26 June shall now and forever be known as 'Carol's Day'.

the notion of calling it 'Carol's Day' had suggested itself to Lazarus from

something he remembered from a thousand years in the future - or in the past,

depending on your time frame. On the frontier planet New Beginnings he and his wife

Dora had declared `Helen's Day' to celebrate puberty in their oldest child, Helen.

That was their stated purpose. Their unstated purpose was to attempt to place some

control over the sexual behaviour of their growing sons and daughters, in order to

head off the sort of tragedy I ran into with Priscilla and Donald.

Neither Lazarus nor I (nor Dora) had moralistic notions about incest, but all of us

had feared the damage incest can do, both genetically and socially. `Helen's Day'

and `Carol's Day' gave each set of parents some leverage in handling the touchy

problems of sex in young people, problems that can so easily end in tragedy... but

need not.

(I most despise in Marian her self-indulgent failure to carry out the parental duty

of maintaining discipline. `Spare the rod and spoil the child' is not sadistic; it

is hard common sense. You fail your children worst if you do not punish them when

they need it. The lessons you fail to teach them will be taught later and much more

harshly by a cruel world, the real world where no excuses are accepted, the world of

TANSTAAFL and of Mrs Be-Done-By-As-You-Did.)

Lazarus told me (centuries later or years later - a matter of viewpoint) that he was

half-way through his toast to Carol when he suddenly realised that he was

inaugurating the most widespread holiday of the human race: Carolita's Day - and

that he has been trying ever since to decide which came first: the chicken or the

egg.

Chicken or egg, Carol's Day did develop over the centuries and on many planets into

a public holiday - this I learned when I was taken to Tertius. Usually it was

celebrated just for the fun of it, the way the Japanese celebrate Christmas, as a

secular holiday having nothing to do with religion.

But in some cultures it developed as a religious holiday peculiar to theocracies:

the safety-valve holiday, the day of excesses, of sin without punishment, the

saturnalia.

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While I got out of those silly stirrups and down off that cold table and put on my

`clothes' (a caftan rigged. from a beach towel), Dr Ridpath and Dagmar looked over

my test results. They pronounced me healthy-merely out of my skull, which neither of

them seemed to regard as important.

Dr Ridpath said, `Explain things to her, Dag. I'm going to take a shower and get

ready.'

`What do you want to do, Maureen?' Dagmar asked me. `Doc tens me that your total

assets are that terry-cloth tent you're wearing and this orange cat. Pixel! Stop

that! This is not a night you can go to a police station and ask your way to the

county poor farm; tonight the cops skin down and join in the riot.' She looked me up

and down. 'If you go out on the streets tonight - well, you'd have a quieter time in

a lions' den. Maybe you like such things - many do. Me, f'rinstance. But tonight a

gal is either locked up or knocked up. You can stay here, sleep on the couch. I can

find you a blanket. Pixel! Get down from there!'

`Come here, Pixel: I held out both hands; he jumped into my arms. `How about the

Salvation Army?'

'The what?'

I tried to explain. She shook her head. 'Never heard of it. Sounds like another of

your daydreams, dear; nothing of that sort is ever authorised by the Church of Your

Choice.'

'What church is your choice?'

''Huh? Your choice, my choice, everybody's choice - the Church of the Great

Inseminator, of course - what other church be there? If it's not your choice, a ride

on a rail might clarify your thinking. It would mine.'

I shook my head. `Dagmar, I'm more and more confused. Back where I come from there

is total religious freedom.'

`That's what we have here, ducks - and don't let a proctor hear you say anything

else.' She suddenly smiled like the Wicked Witch of the West. `Although there are

always some proctors and some priests found stone-cold dead in the dawn's early

light, grinning in risus sardonicus, the morning after Saint Carol's feast; I am not

the only widow with a long memory.'

I must have looked stupid. `You're a widow? I'm sorry.'

'I talk too much. Not all that tragic, luv. Marriages are made in Heaven, as

everybody knows, and my patron priest picked just the man Heaven had in mind for me,

no possible doubt and you'll never hear me say otherwise. But when Delmer - my

appointed soul mate - fell out of favour at the throne and was trimmed, well, I

cried but not too long. Delmer is an altar boy now and quite a favourite among the

male sopranos, so I understand. The awkward part is that since he isn't actually

dead, just trimmed, I can't marry again.' She looked bleak.

Then she shrugged and smiled. `So Santa Carolita's nigh his a big night for me,

seeing how closely we are watched all the rest of the year.'

I said, I'm confused again. Are you saying that things are puritanical here - except

this one night?'

'I'm not sure I know what you mean by "puritanical", Maureen. And I have trouble

staying with your "Man from Mars" pose - if it is a pose -'

`It's not a pose! Dagmar, I truly am lost. I'm not on my own planet; I don't know

anything at all about this place.'

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'Ali right, I'll throw in with you, I said I would. But it is hard to keep it in

mind. Okay, the way things work here - Three hundred and sixty-four days of the year

- sixty-five on leap years - everything is either required or forbidden. The Golden

Rule, the Supreme Bishop calls it - God's Plan. But on Carolita's feast day, from

sundown to sunrise, anything goes. Carolita is the patron saint of street singers,

whores, gypsies, vagabonds, actors, of all whom must live outside the city walls. So

on her day - Boss! You're not going outdoors in that outfit!'

'And why not?'

Dagmar made retching noises; I turned to see what the fuss was about. The doctor had

gone to shower, had returned still stripped down and sporting the most amazing

phallus I have ever seen. It was standing straight up, rising out of a wide, dense

briar patch of dark brown curls. It thrust up at least twelve inches from that curly

base. Just back of the mitre it was as thick as my wrist. It curved back slightly

toward his hairy belly.

It `breathed' when he did, bowing an inch at each breath. I looked at it in

horrified fascination the way a bird looks at a snake, and felt my nipples grow

crisp. Take it away! Get a stick and kill it!

`Boss, take that silly toy right back to Sears Roebuck and demand your money back!

Or I'll, I'll - I'll flush it down the pot, that's what I'll do!'

'You do and you'll pay the plumber's bill. Look, Dagmar, I'm ing to wear it home and

I want you to snap a pic of Zenobia's face when she sees it. Then I'll take it

off... unless Zenobia decides she wants me to wear it to the Mayor's orgy. Now get

into your costume; we still have to pick up Daffy and his assistant. His goose,

although he claims otherwise. Move. Shake your tail, frail.'

`Pee on you, Boss.'

`Has the sun gone down so soon? Maureen, if I understood you earlier, you have not

eaten today. Come have dinner with us and we can discuss what to do with you later;

my wife is the best cook in town. Right, Dagmar?'

`Correct, Boss. That makes twice this week you've been right.'

`When was the other time? Did you find something for Cinderella to wear?'

`It's a problem, Boss. Ali I have here are jumpsuit uniforms, cut for me. On Maureen

they would fit too soon in one direction, too late in the other.' (She meant that

I'm shaped like a pear while she is shaped more like a celery.)

Dr Ridpath looked at me, then at her, decided that Dagmar was right. 'Maureen, we'll

see what my wife has that you can wear. It won't matter between here and there;

you'll be in a robocab. Pixel! Dinner time, boy!'

'Now? Wow!'

So we had dinner at the home of the Ridpaths. Zenobia Ridpath is indeed a good cook.

Pixel and I appreciated her, and she appreciated Pixel and was warmly hospitable to

me. Zenobia is a dignified matron, beautiful, about forty-five, with premature white

hair tinted with a blue rinse. Her face did not change when she saw the mechanical

monstrosity her husband was sporting.

He said, 'What do you think this is, Zen?'

She answered, 'Oh, at last! You promised it to me as a wedding present all these

many years ago! Well, better late than never - I think.' She stooped and looked at

it. `Why does it have "Made in Japan" printed on it?' She straightened up and smiled

at us. 'Hello, Dagmar, good to see you. Happy festival!'

'Bumper crops!'

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`Big babies! Mrs Johnson, it was sweet of you to come. May I call you Maureen? And

may I offer you some crab legs? Flown in from Japan, like my husband's new peepee.

And what would yon like to drink?' A polite little machine rolled up with crab legs

and other tasty titbits, and took my drink order - Cuba Libre but omit the rum.

Mrs Ridpath congratulated Dagmar on her costume: a black, sheer body-stocking

covering even her head - but missing wherever presence of garment would get in the

way at a saturnalia: cutaway crotch, breasts bare, mouth bare. The result was

glaringly obscene.

Zenobia's costume was provocative but pretty - a blue fog that matched her eyes and

did not hide much. Daffy Weisskopf climbed right up her front, making jungle noises.

She just smiled at him. 'Have something to eat first, Doctor. And save some of your

strength for after midnight.'

I think Dr Eric's suspicions about Dr Daffy's assistant, Freddie, were justified; he

did not smell right to me and I apparently did not smell right to him - and I was

beginning to be whiff, as I was starting to get into a party mood. As I had

requested, that Cuba Libre had no rum in it, but I had half of it inside me before I

realised that it was loaded with vodka - one hundred proof, I feel certain. Vodka is

tricky; it has no odour and no taste... and now I lay me down to sleep -

I think some of those appetisers had aphrodisiacs concealed in them... and Maureen

does not need aphrodisiacs. Has never needed them.

There were three sorts of wine at dinner and endless toasts that rapidly progressed

from suggestive to outrageous. The little robot that waited on my sector of the

table kept the wine glasses filled but was not programmed to understand 'water' -

and Mama Maureen got potted.

No use pretending anything else. I had too little to eat and too much to drink and

too little sleep and I never have learned to drink like a lady. I had simply learned

how to pretend to drink while avoiding alcohol. But on Carolita's night I let my

guard down.

I had planned to ask Zenobia to permit me to stay overnight in her house... then on

the morrow, festival over, I could tackle a city restored to its senses. First I

needed a minimum of money and clothes... and there are ways to get both without

actually stealing. A female can often wangle an unsecured loan if she hits a mate

for it who shows a tendency to pat her in a friendly fashion. She can hint pretty

strongly as to the interest she is willing to pay... and every female Time Corps

field agent has done something like that on occasion. We aren't nervous virgins; we

don't leave Boondock without being vaccinated against pregnancy and nineteen other

things you might catch if a trouser worm bit you. If you are too tender-minded for

such emergency measures, you do belong in the profession. Females are better than

males as Time Corps scouts because they can get away with such things. My co-wife

Gwen/Hazel could steal the spots off a leopard and never disturb his sleep. If she

were sent after the Rheingold, Fafnir and his flaming halitosis would not stand a

chance.

Having acquired that minimum of local money and local clothing, my next move would

be a preliminary study to determine: 1)how to get more money in this culture without

going to jail; 2)where, if anywhere, is the Time Corps message drop; 3)if the second

point is null, where is the dummy front for Hilda's crosstime black-marketers? Most

of this can be researched unobtrusively either at a public library or in a telephone

directory.

All very professional - Instead I got snagged by the proctors and did not do any of

it.

Zenobia insisted that I go with them to the Mayor's orgy, and by then I lacked the

judgement to refuse. She selected a costume for me, too, from her clothes: long

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sheer hose, green round garters, high heels, and a cape... and somehow it seemed to

me the perfect costume, just right, although I could not remember why I thought so.

I recall only vignettes of the Mayor's party. Perhaps it will help to think of a

party given jointly by Caligula and Nero, as directed by Cecil B. de Mille in

gorgeous Technicolor. I remember telling some oaf (I can't remember his face; I'm

not sure he had a face) that it was not impossible to lay me - many have tried and

most succeeded - but it had to be approached romantic like, not like a man grabbing

a bite standing up at a fast-food joint.

That party and the rest of that night was rape, rape, rape, all around me... I do

not care for rape; one does not meet a better class of people that way.

I escaped from that party and found myself out in the park. My leaving had to do

with a pompous ass dressed in a long robe (a cope?) of white silk heavily

embroidered in cardinal and gold. It was open down the front with his Flaggenstange

sticking out. He was so self-important that he had four acolytes to help him with

the chore.

He grabbed me as I was trying to slide past - stuck his tongue in my mouth. I kneed

him and ran, and jumped out an open window. Ground floor, yes-but I did not stop to

find out.

Pixel caught up with me in about fifty yards, then slowed me somewhat as he

criss-crossed ahead of me. He went into that big park and I slowed down to a walk. I

was still wearing the cape but I had lost one slipper going out the window, then had

kicked the other off at once, being unable to run one shoe off, one shoe on. It did

not matter as I had gone barefooted so habitually in Boondock that my feet were as

tough as shoe leather.

I wandered around the park for a while, watching the action (amazing!) and wondering

where I could go. I did not want to risk the Mayor's palace again; my pompous

boyfriend with the fancy vestment might still be there. I did not know where the

Ridpaths lived even though I had been there. It seemed to me that I must wait for

dawn, then locate Grand Hotel Augustas (should be easy), go to Dr Eric's office on

the mezzanine, and hit him for a small loan. Hobson's choice, no other option - but

not too unlikely as he had brailled me quite thoroughly during dinner. He wasn't

being rude; similar things or more so were going on all around the table. And I had

been warned.

I joined in briefly at the esbat - midnight, full moon overhead, and ritual prayers

being said in Latin, Greek, Old Norse (I think), and three other languages. One

woman was a snake goddess from ancient Crete. Authentic? I don't know. Pixel rode my

shoulder at the service as if he were used to the role of witch's familiar.

As I left the altar, he jumped down and ran ahead of me as usual.

I heard a shout. 'There's her cat! And there she is! Grab her'

And they did.

As I've said, I don't like rape. I especially dislike it when four men hold me while

a fat slob in an embroidered cope does things to my body. So I bit him. And

discussed his ancestry and personal habits.

So I wound up in the hoosegow and stayed there until the crazies from the Committee

for Aesthetic Deletions pulled a jail-break and got me loose.

This is called `Out of the frying-pan and into the fire.'

Last night the Committee was presided over by Count Dracula, the only case of

type-casting that I saw - this repulsively handsome creature not only wore the opera

cloak associated with video vampires, he had also taken the trouble to have a

mouthpiece fashioned for him by a prosthodontist; he had dog teeth that came down

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over his lower lip. At least I assume that they were artificial; I don't really

believe that any humans or quasi-human have teeth like that.

I joined the circle and took the one remaining chair. `Good evening, cousins. And

good evening to you, Count. Where is the Old Man of the Mountain tonight?'

`That is not a question one asks.'

'Well, excuse me, please! And pray, why not?'

`We will leave that to you as an exercise in deduction. But don't ask such a

question again. And do not be late again. You are the subject of our discussion

tonight, Lady Macbeth -'

`Maureen Johnson, if you please.'

`It does not please me. It is one more instance of your unwillingness to observe the

rules necessary to the safety of the Dead Men. Yesterday you were observed

exchanging words with one of the hotel staff, a chambermaid. What were you talking

about?'

I stood up. 'Count Dracula.'

`Yes, Lady Macbeth?'

'You can go to hell. And I'm going to bed.'

'Sit down!'

I did not. But all those near me grabbed at me, and sat me down. I don't think any

three could have managed it; they all were ill, deathly ill. But seven were too much

for me - and I was reluctant to be rough in resisting them.

The chairman went on, 'Milady Macbeth, you have been with us over two weeks now.

During that time you have refused every mission offered you. You owe us for your

rescue -

'Nonsense! The Committee owes me! I would never have been in a position to need

rescue had you not kidnapped me and shoved me into bed with a corpse, one of your

killings, Judge Hardacres. Don't talk to me about what I owe the Committee! You

returned some of my clothes - but where's my purse? Why did you drug me? How dare

you kidnap an innocent visitor to dress up one of your assassinations? Who planned

that job? I want to talk to him.'

'Lady Macbeth.'

'Yes?'

'Hold your tongue. You will now have a mission assigned to you. It has been planned

and you will carry it out tonight. The client is Major General Lew Rawson, retired.

He was in charge of the recent provocation incident in -'

'Count Dracula!'

'Yes?'

`Go hang by your heels!'

`Don't interrupt again. The operation has been fully planned. Jack the Ripper and

Lucrezia Borgia will go with you, and coach you. You can kill him in his bed, or, if

you balk, you will be killed as he is killed and the two of you arranged in a

tableau that will give substance to the rumours about him.'

The attention of everyone was on the row between the new chairman and me; proctors

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poured in off the balcony before they were seen. But a voice I recognised called

out, `Watch it, Maureen!' and I dived for the deck.

The robes and hoods were the Ku-Klux-Klan ersatz of the proctors, but the voice was

that of Dagmar. When I turned my head at her voice, I spotted Pixel with .her.

Time Corps military units have stun guns they use when killing must be selective.

They fanned the room with them. I got the edge of one charge, did not quite pass out

but did not object when a big, husky proctor (one of my husbands!) scooped me up.

Then we were all out on the balcony and into a small troop carrier hovering at the

rail.

I heard the door dose, felt it in my ears. `Ready?'

'Ready!'

'Has somebody got Pixel?'

`I've got him! Let's go!' (Hilda's voice)

And then we were home in Boondock, on the parking lawn at the Long residence.

A voice I know well said, 'Secure all systems,' and the pilot turned in his seat and

looked at me. `Mama,' he said mournfully, `you sure give me a lot of grief.'

Tm sorry, Woodrow.'

`Why didn't you tell me? I would have helped.'

'I'm sure you would, dear. But I was merely scouting.'

'But you should have -'

Hilda interrupted. 'Stop it, Lazarus. Mama Maureen is tired and probably hungry.

Mama, Tamara has lunch ready. Two hours from now - local time fourteen hundred - is

an operation briefing, all hands. Jubal is in charge of the briefing and -'

'Operation briefing? What operation?'

`Your operation, Mama,' Woodrow answered. 'We're going to go find Gramp. Either

rescue him, or slip him into a body-bag. But we're doing it right, this time. It's a

Time Corps major operation, resources as needed; the Circle of Ouroboros is

unanimous. Mama, why didn't you tell me?'

Hilda said, `Shut up, Woodie. And stay shut. We've got Mama Maureen back and that's

all that counts. Right, Pixel?'

'Rrrrite!'

'So let's go to lunch.'

Chapter 27 - At the Coventry Cusp

I didn't eat. much.

The party was in my honour and I loved it. But I needed two mouths, one for eating,

one for the fifty-odd people who wanted to kiss me - and I wanted to kiss them. I

wasn't really hungry. Even when I was a prisoner in the Cathedral the food had been

adequate, and when I was another sort of prisoner with the Committee for Aesthetic

Deletions, I was quite well fed, within the limits of hotel cooking.

But I was starved for love, and warm and loving people.

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Did I say the party was in my honour? Well, yes, but any party Pixel attends is

primarily in his honour. He is sure of that and behaves accordingly. He zigzagged

among the couches, tail high, accepting hand feeding, and rubbing against his

friends and retainers.

Dagmar came over, asked Laz to make room, and squeezed in beside me - hugged me and

kissed me. I found that I was leaking tears.

'Dagmar, I can't tell you how I felt when I heard your voice. Are you going to stay

here? You'll like it here.'

She grinned at me, hanging on to my neck. 'Do you think I want to go back to Kansas

City? Compared with KC; Boondock is Heaven.'

'Good! I'll sponsor you: I had my arm around her, which caused me to add, 'You've

put on a few pounds and it becomes you. And such a beautiful tan! Or is it out of a

spray bomb?'

'No, I did it the best way, lying in the sun and increasing the dosage slowly.

Maureen, you won't believe what a treat sunbathing is to someone who would be

risking a public flogging if she sunbathed in her home town.'

Laz said, 'Mama, I wish I could tan the way Dragmar does, instead of these kingsize

freckles:

'You get that from me, Lapis Lazuli; I always freckle. It's the price we pay for red

hair.'

'I know. But Dagmar can sunbathe every day, month after month, and never get a

freckle. Look at her.'

I sat up straight. 'What did you say?'

'I said she doesn't freckle. All our men are following her around.' Laz tickled

Dagmar in the ribs. 'Aren't they, Dag?'

'Not so!'

'You said "Month after month -" Dagmar, I saw you last two weeks ago. Less than

three. How long have you been here?'

'Me? Uh... slightly over two years. Yours was a tough case - or so they tell me.'

After being in the Time Corps twenty years of my personal time, seven years of

Boondock time, I should not have been surprised. Time paradox is no news to me; I

keep a careful journal to keep me sorted out, Maureen's personal time versus times

and time lines and dates for each of the places I scout. But this time I was the

subject of the operation (Operation Triple-M = Mama Maureen is Missing). I had been

gone (my personal time) five and a half weeks... but it had taken over two years to

find me and rescue me.

Laz called Hilda over to straighten me out. She snuggled in between Lorelei Lee and

me on my other side; the couch was getting crowded. But Hilda does not take up much

space. She said, `Mama Maureen, you told Tamara that you were just going away for a

day's holiday. She knew you were fibbing, of course, but she never contradicts any

of our little white lies. She thought you were just shuttling to Secundus for some

private fun and maybe some shopping.'

'Hilda Mae, I did intend to be back here the next day, no matter how long I spent in

research. I planned to spend a few weeks in the British Museum in 1950, time line

two, soaking up as much detail as possible about the Battle of Britain, 1940-41. I

had a fresh recorder implant for that purpose. I didn't dare go to England during

that war without careful preparation; England was a battle zone - easy to be shot as

a spy. I would have done the research and been back the next day, in time for

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dinner... if that time-twister bus had not broken down.'

'It didn't break down.'

'Huh? I mean, excuse me?'

'It was sabotage, Mo. The Revisionists. The same pascoodnyoks who came so close to

killing Richard and Gwen Hazel and Pixel on time line three. We don't know why they

wanted to stop you, or why they chose that method; neither side was taking

prisoners, and we killed too many too fast. By "we" I don't mean me; I'm the drawing

room type as everybody knows. I mean the old pros, Richard and Gwen and Gretchen and

a strike force from time line five commanded by Lensman Ted Smith. But the Circle

had put me in charge of Operation Triple-M, and I did dig out information that led

us to the Revisionists. I got most of it from one of my own employees, the pilot of

that bus. I made a bad mistake, Maureen, in hiring that evil maggot. My poor

judgement almost cost your life. I'm sorry.'

'Sorry about what? Hilda Mae, my precious, if you hadn't rescued me in Albuquerque,

years ago, I would be dead, dead, dead! Don't ever forget it, because I never forget

it.'

'Spare me your gratitude, Mau; I had fun. Both times. I borrowed some snakes from

Patty Paiwonski and hung this oaf upside down over a snake pit while I questioned

him. That sharpened his memory and got us the correct time line, place, and date -

Kansas City in Gregorian 2184 starting at 26 June on a previously unexplored variant

of time tine two, one in which the Second American Revolution never took place. It

is now designated time line eleven, and is a nasty enough place that the Circle put

it in the Someday File for cleaning or cauterising when we get around to it.'

Hilda leaned down and twiddled her fingers at Pixel, spoke to him in cat language;

he came at once and settled in her lap, purring loudly. 'We put agents into that

version of Kansas City but they lost you the same day you arrived. Or that night.

They traced you from Grand Hotel Augustus to a private home, from there to the

Mayor's palace, and then outdoors into the carnival. And I lost you. But we had

established that Pixel was with you... even though he was here every day, too. Or

almost -'

'How does he do that?'

'How does Gay Deceiver have two portside bathrooms without being lopsided? Maureen,

if you insist on believing in World-as-Logic you will never understand

World-as-Myth. Pixel knows nothing about Einsteinian space-time, or the speed of

light as a limit, or the Big Bang, or any of those fancies dreamed up by theorists,

so they don't exist for him. Pixel knew where you were, inside the little world that

does exist for him, but he doesn't speak much English. In Boondock, that is. So we

took him where he can speak English -'

`Huh?'

'Oz, of course. Pixel doesn't know what a cathedral is but he was able to describe

that one fairly well once we were able to get his mind off all those wonderful new

places to investigate. The Cowardly Lion helped us question him, and for the first

time in his life Pixel was impressed - I think he wants to grow up to be a lion. So

we hurried back and sent a task force to get you out of the Supreme Bishop's private

jail. And you weren't there.'

Dagmar picked it up. 'But I was, and Pixel led them straight to me - looking for

you. I was in the cell you had been in - the proctors came for me as soon as you

escaped.'

'Yes,' agreed Hilda. 'Dagmar had befriended you and that was not a safe thing to do,

especially after the Supreme Bishop died.'

'Dagmar! I'm sorry!'

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'About what? "All's well that ends well", to coin a phrase. Look at me now, ducks; I

like it here. So back they went to Oz, taking me along this time, and after I

listened to Pixel, I was able to tell Hilda that you were being held in Grand Hotel

Augustus -'

'Hey! That's where I started!'

'And that's where you wound up, too, in a suite that isn't in the hotel directory

and can be reached from inside only by a private elevator from the sub-basement. So

we came in by the scenic route, and caught the Committee with their pants down:

Lazarus had joined us, and now sat on the grass at my knees, without interrupting -

and I wondered how long his angelic behaviour would last. Now he said, 'Mama, you do

know how true your words are. You remember when we moved? I was in high school.'

'Yes, certainly. To our old farmhouse, out south.'

'Yes. Then after World War Two you sold it, and it was torn down?

(How well I remembered!) 'Tom down to build the Harriman Hilton. Yes.'

`Well, Grand Hotel Augustus is the Harriman Hilton. Oh, after more than two

centuries not much is the same structure, but the continuity is there. We researched

it, and that's how we located this VIP suite that is not known to the public.' He

rubbed his cheek against my knee. 'That's all, I guess. Hilda?'

'I think so.'

'What a moment!' I protested .'What became of that baby? And the man with the bloody

stump? The one with his arm chopped off in that accident.'

`But, Maureen,' Hilda said gently, 'I tell you three times: it was not an accident.

That "baby" was just a prop, a lifelike animation, to keep your hands busy and your

attention distracted. The "wounded" man was a piece of grisly misdirection while

they injected you - an old amputee with make-up; he wasn't freshly maimed. When I

had my driver hanging over the snakes, he became downright loquacious and told me

many details, mostly nasty.'

`I'd like to speak to that driver!'

'I'm afraid you can't. I don't encourage employees to sell me out, Maureen. You are

a gentle soul. I'm not.'

'The surgical teams will be' - we were gathered in a lecture room in Ira Johnson

Hall, BIT, and Jubal had started his briefing - 'matched as nearly as possible in

professional background. Tentatively they are: Dr Maureen with Lapis Lazuli as her

scrub nurse; Dr Galahad with Lorelei Lee; Dr Ishtar with Tamara; Dr Harshaw - that's

me - with Gillian; Dr Lafe Hubert a.k.a. Lazarus, with Hilda; and Dr Ira Johnson

with Dagmar Dobbs.

Dagmar, your match with Johnson Prime is not too close; you are over-qualified by a

century and a half, plus whatever you have learned here. But it's the best we can

manage Dr Johnson will not know that you are assigned to him. However, we know from

library research and from quite a lot of oral history research - interviews

conducted by field agents in Coventry and elsewhere in the years 1947-50, recording

the experiences of persons who served in civil defence first-aid teams in that war -

we know that team-up between surgeon and nurse could be last minute, scratch, either

one of them not fully qualified. Battle conditions, Dagmar. If you get there first

when the sirens sound - and you will - Dr Johnson will simply accept you.'

'I'll try '

'You will succeed. All of us assigned to first aid will be wearing gowns and masks

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that won't look odd in wartime England, 1941, and you'll be using surgical

instruments and other gear that does not scream anachronism... although anachronisms

won't matter much, we think, in the pressure of a heavy bombing raid.'

Jubal looked around the hall. 'Everyone in this operation is a volunteer. I can't

emphasise too often that this is an actual battle you are going into. If you are

killed in England in 1941, history may be revised - but you will be dead. Those so

called "iron bombs" used by the Nazi Luftwaffe will kill you just as dead as an

exotic weapon of a later century. For that reason all of us are volunteers and

anyone can quit right up to H-hour. All of Major Gretchen's young ladies are

volunteers... and are on max hazard pay, as well.' Jubal stopped and cleared his

throat, then went on.

'But there is one volunteer we don't need, don't want, and who is urgently requested

to stay home.'

Jubal looked around again. 'Ladies and gentlemen, what in the hell are we going to

do about Pixel? When the bombs start falling and the wounded start piling up at that

field station, the last thing we need is a cat who can't be shut up and can't be

shut out. Colonel Campbell? He's your cat.'

My grandson Richard Ames Campbell answered, 'You have that the wrong way around,

Doctor. I don't own Pixel.

Whatever ownership there may be points in the other direction. I agree with you that

we can't afford to have him underfoot during battle. But I don't want him there on

his own account; he's too unsophisticated to know that bombs can kill him. He got

involved in another fire fight when he was just a kitten... and it did almost kill

him. I don't want that ever to happen again. But I have never figured out how to

lock him up.'

'Just a moment, Richard.' Gwen Hazel stood up. 'Jubal, may I offer a suggestion?'

`Hazel, it says on the organisation chart that you are in command of this operation,

all phases. I think that entitles you to make a suggestion. One, at least.'

`Come off it, Jubal. There is a third member of our family that has more influence

over Pixel than either Richard or I. My daughter Wyoming.'

'Does she volunteer?

'She will;

'Stipulating that she will, can she control Pixel every second for about four hours?

For technical reasons involving how we handle the time/space gates will use about

that much Boondock time. So Dr Burroughs tells me.'

I interrupted. 'May I say something?'

'Hazel, do you yield?'

'Don't be silly, Jubal; of course I do.'

'Certainly we should use Wyoh; the child is utterly reliable. But don't have her try

to hang on to Pixel here; one sneeze and he's gone. Take both of them to Oz and have

them stay with Glinda. With Betsy, rather, but with Glinda's magic to ensure that

Pixel doesn't walk through any walls.'

'Hazel?' Dr Harshaw enquired.

'They'll both love it.'

`It is so ordered. Now back to the raid. Projection, please.' An enormous live

picture grew up behind Jubal and around him. 'This holo is not Coventry itself but

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our Potemkin Village practice ground that Athene has built for us, about eighty

kilometres east of here. Take a bow, Teena.'

The executive computer's voice came out of the air: 'Thanks, Papa Jubal, but that's

Shiva's work - Mycroft Holmes and me linked in synergistic parallel, with Minerva

waving the baton. Now that I've got you all gathered together, let me remind you

that all of you are invited to our wedding, Minnie and me to Mike, after the

conclusion of Operation Coventry Cusp. So you all had better start thinking about

wedding presents.'

'Teena, you are crassly materialistic and neither of your composite bodies can

possibly be ready that soon:

`Gotcha! Ish okayed moving our bodies to Beulahland, so now we can be uncorked and

animated on any date we pick. You better study up on the laws of temporal paradox,

Jubal.'

Dr Harshaw sighed. 'Conceded. I look forward to kissing the brides. Now will you

please let us get on with the operation?'

'Don't sweat it, Pops. You know or should know that there is never any hurry in a

time operation.'

`True. But we're all a bit eager. Friends, Teena - or Shiva - built our practice

field from photos, stereos, holos, and motion pictures taken at Coventry on 1 April

1941. You will recognise 1941 as a date so far back that all time lines patrolled by

the agents of the Circle of Ouroboros are, in 1941, a single time line. In short,

anything we do in Coventry in 1941 affects all civilised time lines - civilised in a

parochial sense, of course; the Circle is not unbiased.

'Research for this operation turned up an odd fact. Lazarus?'

My son stood up. `History of World War Two 1939-1945 as I recall it shows a more

favourable outcome in England and in Europe than that which turned up in this

operation's field research. For example, my oldest brother, Brian Smith, Junior, was

wounded in the landing at Marseilles, whereupon he was sent to England, to Salisbury

Plain and the American training command. Mama?'

'Yes, surely, Woodrow:

'But the history we researched shows that this could not have happened. The

Luftwaffe won the Battle of Britain and there never was a Marseilles landing, much

less an American training command in England. Instead, Germany was smashed from the

air by atomic bombs delivered from North Africa by American B-29 bombers. Friends

and family, I was in that war. No atomic bombs were dropped on Europe in the war I

remember.'

'Thank you, Lazarus. I was in that war, too, and in North Africa. No B-29s operated

from there as I recall it and no atomic bombs were used in the European theatre - so

this research startled me as much as it did Lazarus. This bad news changed Operation

Johnson Prime - which had as its purpose locating and recovering Dr Ira Johnson, the

Prime of the Johnson family - to Operation Coventry Cusp... which includes Operation

Johnson Prime as one of its phases, but has the far wider purpose of changing the

outcome of that war through this one raid. The raid of 8 April 1941 was selected not

only because Dr Johnson was known to have been in it, as an AFS surgeon in civil

defence, but also because the four waves of bombers - giant Heinkels - that bombed

Coventry that night were the largest number of Nazi bombers used in any one raid.

'The Circle's mathematicians, working with Shiva, all agree that this is a cusp

event, where a handful of people can turn the course of a history. So it will be the

purpose of Major Gretchen's ladies to destroy as many as possible of that air Armada

- as near 100 per cent as superior technology can manage. With this one assist, the

RAF can and will win the Battle of Britain. Without it, it can be - or was - too big

a raid for the Spitfires to handle. An almost invisible additional purpose of

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Operation Coventry Cusp, three layers down, is to save the lives of Spitfire pilots,

so that they will live to fight another day.

'This is the sort of nudge the Circle of Ouroboros specialises in, the minor assist

that makes a major change in the outcome - and the companions of the Circle feel

sanguine about this one.

`Now please look at the picture behind me. Our view is from the spot in Greyfriars

Green occupied by the dressing station where Johnson Prime served that night. Those

three towers are all that was left standing in the central city after earlier raids

- the towers of St Michael's cathedral, Greyfriars church, and Holy Trinity church.

Off to the left is a lesser tower that does not show; that tower is the only

original part of a Benedictine monastery built by Leofric, Earl of Merda, and his

wife, Lady Godiva, in 1043. We have leased that tower from the Earl, and the gate

that will deliver Gretchen's archers will be - has been - erected on it, as well as

the time gate that will move them to 1941. It may amuse you to hear that, while the

contract payment was in gold, a lagniappe was added, a magnificent white gelding

that the Lady Godiva named "Aethelnoth" - and our gift to the Lady is the very mount

she used in her famous ride through the town for the benefit of her townspeople.'

Jubal cleared his throat and grinned. `Despite widespread popular demand coming

mostly from Castor and Pollux, this operation will not be combined with a

sightseeing trip to watch Lady Godiva ride through Coventry.

'Thats all today, friends. To take part in this operation you need to be convinced

of three things: first, that the Nazi regime under Adolf Hitler was so vile that it

must not be allowed to win; second, that it is strongly desirable to defeat the

Nazis without dropping scores of atomic bombs on Europe, and, third, that it is

worth it to you to risk your neck to achieve the operation's objectives. The Circle

answers yes to these questions, but you must weigh them in your own conscience. If

your answer is not a whole-hearted yes on all points, then please do not volunteer.

'After you have thought it over, the remaining Gideon's Band will meet for first

rehearsal at ten tomorrow morning at our Potemkin-Village Coventry. A transbooth

shuttling directly to the practice village is located just north of this building.'

In Coventry, England, on Tuesday 8 April 1941, at 7.22 p.m. the sun was setting,

glowing red in smog and coal smoke. Looking at this city gave me a weird feeling, so

exactly had Shiva's simulation matched what I now saw. I was standing at the

entrance of a civil defence first-aid station, the one that research showed that

Father had worked in (would work in) tonight. It was hardly more than walls of

sandbags covered by canvas painted opaque to guard the black-out.

It had a jakes of sorts (Phew!), and an anteroom for the wounded, three pine tables,

some cupboards, and duck boards on a dirt floor. No running water - a tank with a

spigot. Gasoline lamps.

Greyfriars Green spread out around me, an untended park pocked with bomb cratera. I

could not see the monastery tower we had rented from Lady Godiva's husband, Leofric,

Earl of Mercia, but I knew that it was north of me, off to my left. Field Agent

Hendrik Hudson Schultz, who had conducted the dicker with the Earl, reported that

Godiva's hair really was surprisingly long and beautiful but that it was inadvisable

to be downwind from her, and she had apparently not bathed more than twice in her

life. Father Hendrick had spent a hard sixteen months learning eleventh century

Anglo-Saxon and customs and medieval church Latin in preparation for the assignment

- one he completed in ten days.

Tonight Father Hendrik was with Gretchen as her interpreter; it had not been judged

cost-effective to require the members of the military task force to learn an Anglic

language a century older than Chaucer, when their working language was not English

but Galacta, and their MOS involved shooting, not talking.

Northeast of me I could see the three spires that gave the city its nickname:

Greyfriars, Holy Trinity, and St Michael's. St Michael's and Greyfriar's were gutted

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in earlier bombings and much of the centre of the city was destroyed. When I had

first heard of the bombing of Coventry, a century ago on my personal time line, I

had thought that the bombing of this historic town was an example of the sheer

viciousness of the Nazis. While it is not possible to exaggerate the viciousness of

that regime and the stench of its gas ovens, I now knew that the bombing of Coventry

was not simply Schreckdich, as this was an important industrial city, as important

to England as Pittsburgh was to the United States.

Coventry was not the bucolic town I had pictured in my mind. I could see that, if

fortune favoured us tonight, we might possibly not only destroy a major part of the

Luftwaffe's biggest bombers but also save the lives of skilled craftsmen as

necessary to military victory as are brave soldiers.

Behind me I heard Gwen Hazel checking her communications: 'Blood's a Rover, this is

Lady Godiva's Horse. Come in, Blood.'

I answered, 'Blood to Horse, roger.'

We had a uniquely complex communication net tonight; one I did not even try to

understand (I'm a nappy engineer and a kitchen chemist - I've never seen an

electron), a system that parallelled an even more astounding temporary time) space

hook-up.

Like this - From outside, the west end of the aid station was a blank wall of

sandbags. From inside, that end was curtained off, a putative storage space. But

push aside the curtain and you would find mo time/space gates: one from Coventry

1941 to the medical school hospital, BIT, Tertius 4376 Gregorian, and the other

doing just the reverse, so that supplies, personnel, and patients could move either

way without traffic problems - and at the Tertius end was another double set of

gates to Beulahland, so that the worst cases could be shuttled to a different time

axis, there to be hospitalised for days or months - and returned to Coventry, fully

recovered, this same night.

(Tomorrow there would be miracles to be explained. But we would be long gone.)

A similar but not identical double-gate arrangement served Gretchen's command. She

and her girls (and Father Schultz) were waiting in the eleventh century on the

monastery tower. The gate that would place them in the twentieth century would not

be activated until Gwen Hazel notified Gretchen that the sirens had sounded.

Gwen Hazel could talk to the twentieth century, the forty-fourth century, and the

eleventh century, each separately or all at once, using a buried throat mike, tongue

switches, and a body antenna, whether she was at the Tellus Prime end or the Tellus

Tertius end of the aid-station gates.

In addition to these hook-ups she was in touch with Zeb and Deety Carter, in Gay

Deceiver, at 30.000 feet over the English Channel - too high for bombers, too high

for Messerschmidts or Fokkers, too high for AA fire of that year. Guy had agreed to

be there only if she was allowed to pick her own altitude. (Gay is a pacifist with,

in her opinion, a deplorable amount of combat experience.) But at that altitude Gay

was sure that she could spot Heinkels taking off and forming up long before the

British coastal radar could see them.

As a result of rehearsals at Potemkin Village, drills involving every casualty we

could think of, the surgical teams had been rearranged, with most of them held back

on the Boondock side of the gates. `Triage' of a sort would be practised; the

hopeless cases would be rushed through to Boondock, where no case is hopeless if the

brain is alive and not too damaged. There Doctors Ishtar and Galahad would head

their usual teams (who need not be volunteers for combat; they would never be in

Coventry). The hopeless cases, repaired, would be gated to Beulahland for days or

weeks of recovery, then gated back to Coventry before dawn.

Cas and Pol had been volunteered (by their wives my daughters Laz and Lor) as

stretcher bearers, to move the worst cases from Coventry to gurney floats on the

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Boondock side.

It had been decided that too many surgical teams and -too much equipment showing up

out of nowhere as soon as the sirens sounded would alert Father unnecessarily, make

him smell a rat. But, when the wounded started pouring in, he would be too busy to

notice or care.

Jubal and Gillian were a reserve team, and would go through when needed. Dagmar

would go through when Deety in Gay Deceiver reported that the bombers were on their

way, so that Dagmar would meet Father - Dr Johnson - as he first poked his head in.

When the sirens sounded, Lazarus and I would go through, already masked and gowned,

with me as his scrub nurse. I'm an adequate surgeon but I'm a whiz as an operating

nurse - much more practice at it. We figured that three of us could do what might

have to be done at `all clear', the end of the raid: grab Father and' kidnap him -

drag him through the gate, sit him down in Boondock, and explain things to him

there... including the idea that he could have the works - rejuvenation and expert

tutoring in really advanced therapy and still be returned to Coventry 8 April 1941.

If he insisted. If he had any wish to.

But by then I hoped and expected that, with Tamara's help, Father could be made to

see the Quixotic futility of going back to the Battle of Britain when that battle

had been won more than mo millennia earlier.

With Tamara's help - She was my secret weapon. By a concatenation of miracles I had

married my lover from the stars... and thereby married my son, to my amazement and

great happiness. Could more miracles let me marry the only man I have always loved,

totally and without reservation? Father would certainly marry Tamara, given the

chance - any man would! - and Tamara would then see to it that Father married me. I

hoped.

If not, it would be enough and more than enough simply to have Father alive again.

I had gone back through the gate to Boondock when I heard Gwen Hazel's voice:

'Godiva's Horse to all stations. Deety reports bandits in the air and forming up.

Expect sirens in approx eighty minutes. Acknowledge.'

Gwen Hazel was standing beside me by the gates in the hospital, but this was a

communication check as much as an intelligence. My own comm gear was simple: a

throat mike not buried but merely under a bandage I did not need; a `hearing aid'

that was not one and an antenna concealed by my clothes. I answered, `Blood's a

Rover to Horse, roger.'

I heard, 'British Yeoman to Horse, roger. Eighty minutes. One hour twenty minutes.'

I said 'Blood to Horse. I heard Gretchen's roger. Should I?'

Gwen Hazel shut off transmission and spoke to me, `You shouldn't hear her until you

both shift to Coventry 1941. Mau, will you please go through to Coventry for a

second comm. check?'

'I did so; we established that Gwen Hazel's link to me, forty-fourth C to twentieth

C, was okay, and that now I could hear Gretchen - both as they should be. Then I

went back to Boondock, as I was not yet gowned or masked. There was one point in the

transition where something tugged at one's clothes and my ears popped - a static

baffle against an air-pressure inequality, I knew. But ghostly, just the same.

Deety reported that the bombers' fighter escort was becoming airborne. The German

Messerschmidts were equal to or better than the Spitfires, but they had to operate

at the very limit of their range - it took most of their gasoline to get there and

get back; they could engage in dogfighting only for a few minutes - or wind up in

the Channel if they miscalculated.

Gwen Hazel said, 'Dagmar. Take your station.'

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'Roger wilco.' Dagmar went through, gowned, masked, and capped - not yet gloved...

although God knows what good gloves would do in the septic conditions we would

experience. (Protect us, maybe, if not our patients.)

I tied Woodrow's mask for him; he did so for me. We were ready.

Gwen Hazel said, 'Godiva's Horse to all stations sirens. British Yeoman, activate

gate and shift time. Acknowledge.'

'Yeoman to Horse, roger wilco!'

'Horse to Yeoman, report arrival. Good hunting!' Hazel added to me, 'Mau, you and

Lazarus can go through now. Good luck!'

I followed Lazarus through... and swallowed my heart. Dagmar was gowning Father. He

glanced at us as we came out from behind that curtain, paid us no further attention.

I heard him say to Dagmar, 'I haven't seen you before, Sister. What's your name?'

'Dagmar Dobbs, Doctor. Call me Dag if you like. I just came up from London this

morning, sir, with supplies.'

'So I see. First time in weeks we seen a clean gown. And masks - what swank! You

sound like a Yank, Dag.'

'And I am, Doctor - and so do you.'

'Guilty as charged. Ira Johnson, from Kansas City.'

'Why, that's my home town!'

'I thought I heard some tall corn in your speech. When the Heinies go home tonight,

we must catch up on home town gossip.'

'I don't have much; I haven't been home since I got my cap and pin.'

Dagmar kept Father busy and kept his attention - and I thanked her under my breath.

I didn't want him to notice me until the raid was over. No time for Old Home Week

until then.

The first bombs fell, some distance away.

I saw nothing of the raid. Ninety-three years ago, or seven months later that same

year, depending on how you count it, I saw bombs falling on San Francisco under

circumstances in which I had nothing to do but look up and hold my breath and wait.

I'm not sorry that I was too busy to watch the bombing of Coventry. But I could hear

it. If you can hear it hit, it is too far away to have your name on it. So they tell

me. I'm not sure I believe them.

Gwen Hazel said in my ear, 'Did you pear Gretchen? She says they got sixty-nine out

of seventy-two of the first wave.'

I had not heard Gretchen. Lazarus and I were busy with our first patient, a little

boy. He was badly burned and his left arm was crushed. Lazarus got ready to

amputate. I blinked back tears and helped him.

Chapter 28 - Eternal Now

I am not going to batter your feelings or mine by describing the details of that

thousand-year night. Anything agonising you have ever seen in the emergency room of

a big city hospital is what we saw, and worked on, that night. Compound fractures,

limbs shattered to uselessness, burns - horrible burns. If the burns weren't too bad

we slathered them with a gel that would not be seen here for centuries, put

dressings over the affected areas, and had them carried outside by civil defence

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stretcher bearers. The worst cases were carried in the other direction by Cas and

Pol - behind that curtain, through a Burroughs-Carter-Libby gate, to Ira Johnson

Hospital in Boondock, and (for burn cases) shifted again to Jane Culver Burroughs

Memorial Hospital in Beulahland, there to spend days or weeks in healing, then to be

returned to Coventry at `All Clear' this same night.

All of our casualties were civilians, mostly women, children, and old men. The only

military (so far as I know) around or in Coventry were Territorials manning AA guns.

They had their own medical set-up. I suppose that in London a first-aid station such

as ours would probably be in the underground. Coventry had no tube trains; this aid

station was merely sandbags out in the open but it was safer, perhaps, than it would

have been in a building - one that might burn over it. I'm not criticising.

Everything about their civil defence had a make-do quality about it, a people with

their backs to the wall, fighting gallantly with whatever they had.

In our aid station we had three tables, operating tables by courtesy, in fact plain

wooden tables with the paint scrubbed right off them between raids. Father was using

the one nearest the entrance; Woodrow was using the one nearest the curtain; the

middle one was used by an elderly Englishman who was apparently a regular for this

aid station: Mr Pratt, a local veterinary surgeon, assisted by his wife, `Harry' for

Harriet. Mrs Pratt had unkind things to say about the Germans during the lulls but

was more interested in talking about the cinema. Had I ever met Clark Gable? Gary

Cooper? Ronald Colman? Having established that I knew no one of any importance she

quit trying to draw me out. But she agreed with her husband when he said it was

decent of us Yanks to come over and help out... but when were the States going to

come into the War?

I said that I did not know.

Father spoke up. `Don't bother the Sister, Mr Pratt. We'll be along a bit late, just

like your Mr Chamberlain. In the meantime please be polite to those of us who are

here and helping.'

'No offence meant, Mr Johnson.'

`And none taken, Mr Pratt. Clamp!'

(Mrs Pratt was as good an operating nurse as I've ever seen. She was always ready

with what her husband needed without his asking for it - long practice together, I

suppose. She had fetched the instruments he used; I assume that they were the tools

of his animal practice. That might bother some people; to me it made sense.)

Mr Pratt was at the table that we had expected would be used by Jubal and Jill. (Our

research on fine details was less than perfect, since it came from questioning

people after the War was over.) So Jubal went out into the anteroom where the

wounded waited and worked on triage, tagging the cases Cas and Pol were to carry

through to Boondock - the ones who would otherwise have been allowed to die

untreated, as being beyond hope. Jill gave a hand to both Dagmar and me, especially

with anaesthesia, such as it was.

Anaesthesia had been a subject of much discussion at our Potemkin Village drill. It

was bad enough to show up in the twentieth century with anachronistic surgical

instruments... but Boondock anaesthetic gear and procedures? Impossible!

Galahad decided on pressure injectors supplying metered amounts of `neomorphine' (as

good a name as any - a drug not available in the twentieth century). Jill moved

around the station and the anteroom, injecting the damaged and the burned and

thereby left Dagmar and me with our hands free for surgery assistance. She made one

try at helping Mrs Pratt but was waved away - Mrs Pratt was using something I had

not seen since 1910 or thereabouts: a nose cone with drops of chloroform.

The work went on and on. I wiped our table between patients, until the towel I was

using was so soaked with blood that it was doing more harm than good.

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Gretchen reported a spotty kill on the second wave - sixty bombers attacked,

forty-seven shot down. Thirteen bombers dropped at least one stick before being hit.

Gretchen's girls were using particle beams and night-sight gear; the usual effect

was to blow up the planes gasoline tanks. Sometimes the bombs went off at the same

time; sometimes the bombs exploded on hitting the ground; sometimes the bombs did

not explode, leaving a touchy problem for bomb-disposal experts the next day.

But we saw none of this. Sometimes we would hear a bomb drop nearby and someone

would remark, `Close,' and someone would answer, `Too close,' and we would continue

working.

A shot-down plane makes a different sort of an explosion from a bomb... and a

fighter from a bomber. Mr Pratt said that he could tell the crash of a Spitfire from

the crash of a Messerschmidt. Probably he could. I could not.

The third wave broke into two formations, so Gretchen reported, and came in from

southwest and southeast. But her girls now had practice in using what was

essentially an infantry weapon against targets they were not used to, under

conditions where they must be sure that they had bombers in their sights, not

Spitfires. Gretchen described this one as a `skeet shoot'. I made a note to ask her

what that meant, but I never did.

There were lulls between waves, but not for us. As the night wore on we dropped

further and farther behind; they brought in victims faster than we could handle

them. Jubal grew more liberal in tagging, and routed to Ishtar and her teams more

and more of the less severely wounded. It made our help more blatant but it surely

saved more lives.

During the fourth wave of bombing, sometime early in the morning, I heard Gretchen

say, `Yeoman to Horse, emergency.'

`What is it, Gretchen?'

'Something - a piece of a plane, probably - hit our gate.'

`Damage?'

`I don't know. It disappeared. Whoof! Gone.'

`Horse to Yeoman, disengage. Evacuate via gate at aid station. Can you find it?

Range and bearing?'

`Yes, but -'

'Disengage and evacuate. Move.'

`But, Hazel, it is just our gate we've lost. We can still take out any bombers that

come over.'

'Hold. Bright Cliffs, answer. Deety, wake up.'

`I am awake.'

`Research showed four waves, no more. Is Gretchen going to have any more targets?'

'One moment -' (It was a long moment.) `Guy says she can't see any bombers warming

up on the ground. We now have signs of dawn in the east.'

`Horse to all stations, disengage. Blood, wait for Yeoman, then evacuate... bringing

Prime with you. Use injector if necessary. All stations, report.'

`Cliffs to Horse, roger wilco; here we come!'

'Yeoman to Horse, roger wilco. Father Schmidt is leading; I'm chasing.'

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`Blood to Horse, roger wilco. Hazel, tell Ishtar to get all cases back here now...

or she's got some unscheduled immigrants.'

The next few minutes were hilarious, in a Grand Guignol fashion. First the terribly

burned cases came pouring back through the incoming gate, on their own feet and now

quite well. Surgery cases followed them, some with prostheses, some with grafts.

Even the last cases, ones that Galahad and Ishtar and other surgical teams were

currently working on, were patched up somehow, pushed through to Beulahland, there

to be finished and to stay for days or weeks - and then sent back through to

Coventry only minutes after Hazel ordered an end to the operation.

I know that it was only minutes because none of Gretchen's troops had arrived from

less than a mile away. Those girls move at eight miles per hour at field trot (3.5

metres per second). They should have made it in about eight or nine minutes, plus

whatever time it took to get down that tower. I heard later that some of the civil

defence wardens tried to stop them and question them. I don't think the girls hurt

anyone very badly. But they didn't stop.

They came pouring in, Maid Marians with long bows (disguised particle projectors),

dressed for Sherwood Forest, led by Friar Tuck complete with tonsure, and followed

by Gretchen, dressed also for a Robin Hood pageant and wearing a big grin.

She paused to slap Dagmar on her fanny as she passed Father's table, nodded at the

Pratts, who were already stupefied by the procession of recovered patients going the

other way. She stopped at Woodrow's table. `We did it!'

All three tables were bare at that moment; we had reached that wonderful point where

no more wounded were waiting. Jubal came in from the anteroom, said, `You did

indeed.'

Gretchen hugged me. `Maureen, we did it!' She pulled my mask down and kissed me.

I bussed her back. `Now get your tail through that gate. We're on minus minutes.'

`Spoilsport.' She went on through, followed by Jubal and Gillian.

`All Clear' started sounding. Mr Pratt looked at me, looked at the curtain, said,

`Come, Harry.'

`Yes, Pa.,

'Goodnight, all.' The old man plodded wearily away, followed by his wife.

Father said in a gruff voice, 'Daughter, why are you here? You should be in San

Francisco.' He looked at Woodrow. 'You, too, Ted. You're dead. So what are you doing

here?'

`Not dead, Dr Johnson. "Missing in action" is not the same as dead. The difference

was slight but important. A long time in hospital, a long time out of my head. But

here I am.'

`Mmrrph. So you are. But what is this charade? People in costumes. Other people

trotting back and forth like Picadilly Circus. Hell of a way to run an aid station.

Am I out of my head? Did we take a direct hit?'

Hazel said in my ear, `Come through, all of you! Now!'

I subvocalised, `Right away, Hazel.' Dagmar had-moved until she was behind my

father. She had her injector ready; she queried me with her eyes. I shook my head a

quarter of an inch. 'Father, will you come with me and let me explain?'

'Mrph. I suppose -'

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The roof fell in.

It may have been part of a Spitfire, or perhaps a Messerschmidt. I don't know; I was

under it. Gwen Hazel heard it through my mike; her grandsons Cas and Pol got

themselves badly burned going back through to rescue us.

Everybody got burned - Castor, Pollux, Woodrow, Father, Dagmar, me - and gasoline

bums are nasty. But Hazel got more help through, dressed in fireproofs (planning,

not ha instance) and we were all dragged out.

All of this I got from later reports; at the time I was simply clobbered and then I

woke up in hospital an unmeasured time later. Unmeasured by me, that is; Dagmar says

that I was laid up three weeks longer than she was. Tamara won't tell me. It does

not matter; Lethe keeps one comfortable and unworried as long as necessary to let

one get well.

After a while I was allowed to get up and take walks around Beulahland, a beautiful

place and one of the few truly civilised places in any world. And then I was

transferred back to Boondock... and Woodrow and Father and Dagmar came to call on

me.

They all leaned over my bed and kissed me and I cried a while and then we talked.

It was a big wedding. There was Mycroft and Athene and Minerva of course, and my

grandson Richard Colin, who had at last forgiven Lazarus (for being his father). My

darling Gwen Hazel had no reason to remain on leave from the family when Richard

Colin was willing and eager to join. My daughters Laz and Lor had decided to cancel

the indentures of their husbands, Cas and Pol, in recognition of their heroism in

diving back into the fire for us four laggards - and to allow them to marry into the

family. And there was Xia and Dagmar and Choy-Mu and Father and Gretchen - and the

rest of us who had been Longs for years - some more years, some less. Our new family

members each had had one reason or another to hesitate, but Galahad and Tamara made

it clear: we take just one vow, to safeguard the welfare and happiness of all our

children.

That's our total marriage contract. The rest is just poetic ritual.

Whom you sleep with, whom you make love with, is your private business. Ishtar, as

our family geneticist, controls pregnancy and progeny to whatever extent control is

needed for the welfare of our children.

So we all joined hands in the presence of our children (of course Pixel was there!)

and we pledged ourselves to love and cherish our children - those around us, those

still to come, worlds without end.

And we all lived happily ever after.

APPENDIX

People in this Memoir

Maureen Johnson Smith Long, 4 July 1882.

Pixel, a cat

Maureen's Ancestors, Aunts, Uncles, In-Laws

Ira Johnson, MD, father 2 August 1852

Adele Pfeiffer Johnson, mother

John Adams Smith, father-in-law

Ethel Graves Smith, mother-in-law

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(Paternal Ancestors)

Asa Edward Johnson, grandfather 1813-1918

Rose Altheda McFee Johnson, grandmother 1814-1918

George Edward Johnson, great-grandfather 1795-1899

Amanda Lou Fredericks Johnson, great-grandmother 1798-1899

Terence McFee, great-grandfather 1796-1900

Rose Wilhelmina Brandt McFee, great-grandmother 1798-1899

(Maternal Ancestors)

Richard Pfeiffer, grandfather 1830-1932

Kristina Larsen Pfeiffer, grandmother 1834-1940

Robert Pfeiffer, great-grandfather 1809-1909

Heidi Schmidt Pfeiffer, great-grandmother 1810-1913

Ole Larsen, great-grandfather 1805-1907

Anna Kristina Hansen, great-grandmother 1810-1912

Ira Johnson's Siblings

Samantha Jane Johnson 1831-1915

James Ewing Johnson 1833-1884

(married Carole Pelletier 1849-1954)

Walter Raleigh Johnson 1838-1862

Alice Irene Johnson 1840-?

Edward McFee Johnson 1844-1884

Aurora Johnson 1850-?

Maureen's Siblings

Edward Ray Johnson 1876

Audrey Adele Johnson 1878

(married Jerome Bixby 1896)

Agnes Johnson 1880

Thomas Jefferson Johnson 1881

Benjamin Franklin Johnson 1884

Elizabeth Ann Johnson 1892

Lucille Johnson 1894

George Washington Johnson 1897

Nelson Johnson, cousin 1884

(son of James Ewing Johnson and Carole Pelletier)

Maureen's Descendants and their Spouses

Nancy Smith 1 Dec 1899

(married Jonathan Sperling Weatheral)

Carol Smith 1 January 1902

(married Roderick Schmidt Jenkins)

Brian Smith Junior 2 March 1905

George Edward Smith 4 February 1907

Marie Agnes Smith 5 April 1909

Woodrow Wilson Smith/Lazarus Long, et al. 11 Nov 1912

(first wife: Heather Hedrick)

Richard Smith 1914-1945

(married Marian Hardy)

Ethel Smith 1916

Theodore Ira Smith 4 March 1919

Margaret Smith 1922

Arthur Roy Smith 1924

Alice Virginia Smith 1927

(married Ralph Sperling)

Doris Jean 1930

(married Roderick Briggs)

Patrick Henry Smith 1932

(by Justin Weatheral)

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Susan Smith 1934

(married Henry Schultz)

Donald Smith 1936

Priscilla Smith 1938

Lapis Lazuli Long, cloned from Lazarus, AD 4273

Lorelei Lee Long, cloned from Lazarus AD 4273

Richard Colin Campbell Ames, grandson, AD 2133

(son of Lazarus Long and Wendy Campbell)

Roberta Weatheral Barstow, granddaughter 25 Dec 1918

Anne Barstow Hardy, great-granddaughter 2 Nov 1935

Nancy Jane Hardy, great-great-granddaughter 22 June 1952

Maureen's Spouses, Co-Spouses, Lovers, Friends

Charles Perkins 1881-1898

Brian Smith, husband 1877-1996

Justin Weatheral 1875

Eleanor Sperling Weatheral 1877

James Rumsey, Senior, MD

James Rumsey, Junior, MD

Velma Briggs Rumsey (Mrs James Rumsey, Junior)

Mammy Della

Elizabeth Louise Barstow Johnson (Mrs Nelson Johnson)

Hal and Jane Andrews

George Strong Arthur Simmons 1917

Jubal Harshaw 1907

Tamara Ishrar

Galahad

Hilda Mae Corners Burroughs Long

Deety Burroughs Carter Long

Jacob Burroughs Long

Zebadiah John Carter Long

Cats

Pixel

Random Numbers

Chargé d'Affaires

Captain Blood

Princess Polly Ponderosa Penelope Peachfuzz

More People

Judge Hardacres, a corpse

Eric Ridpath, MD

Zenobia Ridpath, a gracious hostess

Adolf Weisskopf, MD

Dagmar Dobbs, RN

Major Gretchen Henderson, Time Corps soldier

Jesse F. Bone DVM - saved a kitten

Ira Howard - funded the Howard Foundation 1825-73

Jackson Igo and sons

Judge Orville Sperling, Foundation Chairman 1840

Reverend Clarence Timberly

Mrs Ohlschlager, neighbour and friend

The Reverend Dr Ezekiel 'Biblethumper'

Mr Fones, employer of Brian Smith

Mr Renwick, driver, Great Atlantic and Pacific Tea Co.

The Reverend Dr David C. Draper

Mr Smaterine, a banker

Deacon Houlihan, a bank president

Mr Schontz, a butcher

Anita Boles, a stenographer

Arthur J. Chapman, Howard Foundation Trustee

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Dr Bannister, Dean of Academics, KCU

Alvin Barkley, President USA 1945-53 rime line two

George S. Patton, Junior, President USA 1953-61 time line two

Rufus Briggs, Foundation trustee, an oaf

D. D. Harriman

Col. Frisby, Argus Security Patrol

Rick, Argus Security Patrol

Mrs Barnes, matron, Argus Security Patrol

Mr Wren, Public Health Officer

Mrs Lantry, Public-Health Officer

Daniel Dixon, financier

Dr Macintosh, Chancellor University of New Mexico

Helen Beck, dancer/scholar

Dora Smith (Mrs W. W. Smith) New Beginnings colony

Helen Smith, daughter of Mr and Mrs W. W. Smith, New Beginnings

Freddie, a gunsel

Patty Paiwonski, a priestess with snakes

Wyoming Long, daughter of Gwen Hazel and Lazarus

Castor and Pollux, grandsons of Gwen Hazel

The Reverend Dr Hendrik Hudson Schultz, Time corps agent

Gillian Boardman Long, RN, quondam high priestess Church of All Worlds

Computer People

Mycroft Holmes IV, chairman Lunar revolution, time line three

Minerva Long, former executive computer Tellus Secundus, now flesh and blood Athene,

executive computer Tellus Tertius, Minerva's twin

Shiva - Athene/Mycroft interfaced, led by Minerva

Dora, sentient ship

Gay Deceiver, sentient ship

The First Man on the Moon

Time line one - Captain John Carter of Virginia

Time line two - Leslie LeCroix

Time line three - Neil Armstrong

Time line four - Ballox O'Malley

Time line five - Skylark DuQuesne

Time line six - Neil Armstrong (alternate time line)

The Committee for Aesthetic Deletions

Dr Frankenstein

Dr Fu Manchu

Lucrezia Borgia

Hassan the Assassin

Bluebeard

Attila the Hun

Lizzie Borden

Jack the Ripper

Dr Guillotine

Professor Moriarty

Captain Kidd

Count Dracula

Public Figures

William Gibbs McAdoo

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Josephus Daniels

Woodrow Wilson

Robert Taft

William Jennings Bryan

Al Smith

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Paul McNutt

Herbert Hoover

John J. Pershing

Pancho Villa

Patrick Tumulty

William Howard Taft

Leonard Wood

Harry S. Truman

Champ Clark

Theodore Roosevelt

William McKinley

People Off Stage

Dr Chadwick

Dr Ingram

Richard Heiser

Pop Green, druggist

Dr Phillips

Jonnie Mae Igo

Mrs Malloy, landlady

The Widow Loomis

Mr Barnaby, Principal

Major General Lew Rawson, target

Bob Coster, ship design

Elijah Madison, driver

Charlene Madison, cook

Anne, a Fair Witness

Sarah Trowbridge, dead

Miss Primrose

'Scrooge' O'Hennessy

Annie Chambers, madam

Mrs Bunch, gossip

Mr Davis, see 'Fones'

Cowboy Womack, miner

The Jenkins girl

Mr Wimple, bank teller

Nick Weston

Mr Watkins

Mr Hardecker, Principal

Granny Bearpaw, cook

Mr Ferguson, chief engineer

Associated Stories

The Man Who Sold the Moon and Other Stories

Persons in 'The Man Who Sold the Moon' - D. D. Harriman, George Strong, Daniel

Dixon, Chief Engineer Ferguson, Bob Coster, Leslie LeCroix. In 'Requiem' - D. D.

Harriman, George Strong.

Revolt in 2100 and Other Stories

In 'If This Goes On' - Nehemiah Scudder. In 'Misfit' - (Elizabeth) Andrew Jackson

Libby (Long).

Methuselah's Children

Lazarus Long a.k.a. Woodrow Wilson Smith, Andrew Jackson Libby.

Time Enough for Love

Lazarus Long, Ira Weatheral, Hamadryad, Ishtar, Galahad, Tamara, Lapis Lazuli,

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Lorelei Lee, Justin Foote 45th, 'Theodore Bronson', Dr Ira Johnson, Maureen Johnson

Smith, Brian Smith, Nancy Smith, Carol Smith, Brian Smith Junior, George Edward

Smith, Marie Agnes Smith, Woodrow Wilson Smith, Ethel Smith, Richard Smith, Justin

Weatheral, Eleanor Weatheral, Jonathan Sperling Weatheral.

The Rolling Stones

Hazel Stone, Castor Stone, Pollux Stone

The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress

Hazel Stone, Mycroft Holmes IV

Stranger in a Strange Land

Gillian Boardman, Jubal Harshaw, Anne (Fair Witness), Patty Paiwonski

The Number of the Beast

Deety Burroughs Carter, Zebadiah john Carter, Jacob Burroughs, Hilda Mae Corners

Burroughs, Lazarus Long, Elizabeth Andrew Jackson Libby Long, Lapis Lazuli Long,

Lorelei Lee Long, Maureen Johnson Long, Hamadryad Long, Tamara Long, Hazel Stone,

Castor Stone, Pollux Stone, Minerva Long, Jubal Harshaw, Athene, Anne (Fair

Witness), Dr Jesse F. Bone, Samuel Clemens.

The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

Hazel Stone a.k.a. Gwen Novak, Col. Richard Colin Campbell Ames, Gretchen Henderson,

The Reverend Dr Hendrik Hudson Schultz, Tamara, Athene, Dong Xia, Marcy Choy-Mu,

Pixel, Lazarus Long, Wendy Campbell Ames, Maureen Johnson Long, Justin Foote 45th,

Wyoming Long, Jacob Burroughs Long, Deety Burroughs Carter Long, Jubal Harshaw.

NB: The Past through Tomorrow is an omnibus volume containing The Man Who Sold the

Moon and Other Stories, The Green Hills of Earth and Other Stories, Revolt in 2100

and Other Stories, and Methuselah's Children.

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