Finally, the Four-Eye Monogahela made its first appearance (as did a variant of Tiger Breath called “Tiger Bone”) in a magnificent Oliver La Farge story called “Spud And Cochise”—which was reprinted in my anthology, The Best Of All Possible Worlds, Volume One. (Ace Books, another coincidence.)
Does all this mean that Jake is putting us on?
I don’t think so. I might have thought so—if Jake hadn’t shown me the 01$ bill that Trebor left behind. And if Mike hadn’t privately slipped me a snort of the Wonderbooze…
Instead I find myself wondering whether Zelazny, Asimov or La Farge ever owned unusual mirrors…
16 —All right, all right, Isaac: the real title is In Memory Yet Green.
SERPENTS’ TEETH
LOOKOVER LOUNGE
House Rules, Age 16 And Up:
IF THERE’S A BEEF, IT’S YOUR FAULT. IF YOU BREAK IT, YOU PAY FOR IT, PLUS SALES TAX AND INSTALLATION. NO RESTRICTED DRUGS. IF YOU ATTEMPT TO REMOVE ANY PERSON OR PERSONS FROM THESE PREMISES INVOLUNTARILY, BY FORCE OR COERCION AS DEFINED BY THE HOUSE, YOU WILL BE SURRENDERED TO THE POLICE IN DAMAGED CONDITION. THE DECISIONS OF YOUR BARTENDER ARE FINAL, AND THE MANAGEMENT DOESN’T WANT TO KNOW YOU. THE FIRST ONE’S ON THE HOUSE; HAVE A GOOD TIME.
Teddy and Freddy both finished reading with slightly raised eyebrows. Any bar in their own home town might well have had nearly identical—unofficial—house rules. But their small town was not sophisticated enough for such rules to be so boldly committed to printout.
“You can surrender those sheets at the bar for your complimentary drink,” the door-terminal advised them. “Good luck to you both.”
Freddy said “Thank you.” Teddy said nothing.
The soft music cut off; a door slid open. New music spilled out, a processor group working the lower register, leaving the higher frequencies free for a general hubbub of conversation. Smells spilled out as well: beer, mostly, with overlays of pot, tobacco, sweat, old vomit, badly burned coffee and cheap canned air. It was darker in there; Teddy and Freddy could not see much. They exchanged a glance, shared a quick nervous grin.
“Break a leg, kid,” Teddy said, and entered the Lounge, Freddy at her heels.
Teddy’s first impression was that it was just what she had been expecting. The crowd was sizable for this time of night, perhaps four or five dozen souls, roughly evenly divided between hunters and hunted. While the general mood seemed hearty and cheerful, quiet desperation could be seen in any direction, invariably on the faces of the hunters.
Teddy and Freddy had certainly been highlighted when the door first slid back, but by the time their eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light no one was looking at them. They located the bar and went there. They strove to move synchronously, complementarily, as though they were old dance partners or old cop partners, as though they were married enough to be telepathic. In point of fact they were all these things, but you could never have convinced anyone watching them now.
The bartender was a wiry, wizened old man whose hair had once been red, and whose eyes had once been innocent—perhaps a century before. He displayed teeth half that age and took their chits. “Welcome to the Big Fruit, folks.”
Freddy’s eyebrows rose. “How did you know we’re not from New York?”
“I’m awake at the moment. What’ll it be?”
Teddy and Freddy described their liquid requirements. The old man took his time, punched in their order with one finger, brought the drinks to them with his pinkies extended. As they accepted the drinks, he leaned forward confidentially. “None o’ my business, but…you might could do all right here tonight. There’s good ones in just now, one or two anyways. Don’t push is the thing. Don’t try quite so hard. Get me?”
They stared at him. “Thanks, uh—”
“Pop, everybody calls me. Let them do the talking.”
“We will,” Freddy said. “Thank you, Pop.”
“Whups! ’Scuse me.” He spun and darted off at surprising speed toward the far end of the bar, where a patron was in danger of falling off his stool; Pop caught him in time. Teddy would have sworn that Pop had never taken his eyes from them until he had moved. She had smuggled a small weapon past the door-scanner, chiefly to build her morale, but she resolved now not to try it on Pop even in extremis. “Come on, Freddy.”
Teddy found them a table near one of the air-circulators, with a good view of the rest of the room. “Freddy, for God’s sake quit staring! You heard what the old fart said: lighten up.”
“Teddy!”
“I like him too; I was trying to get your attention. Try to look like there isn’t shit on your shoes, will you?”
“How about that one?”
“Where?”
“There.”
“In the blue and red?” Teddy composed her features with a visible effort. “Look, my love: apparently we have ‘HICK’ written across our foreheads in big black letters. All right. Let’s not make it ‘DUMB HICK,’ all right? Look at her arms, for God’s sake.”
“Oh.” Freddy’s candidate was brazenly wearing a sleeveless shirt—and a cop should not miss track marks.
“I’m telling you, slow down. Look, let’s make an agreement: we’re not going to hit on anybody for the first hour, all right? We’re just out for an evening of quiet conversation.”
“I see. We spent three hundred and sixty-seven New dollars to come to New York and have a few drinks.”
Teddy smiled as though Freddy had said something touching and funny, and murmured, “God damn it, Freddy, you promised.”
“All right, but I think these people can spot a phony a mile away. The one in pink and yellow, on your left.”
“I’m not saying we should be phony, I’m—” Teddy made an elaborate hair-adjusting gesture, sneaked a look, then frankly stared. “Wow. That’s more like it. Dancing with the brunette, right?”
“Yes.”
Freddy’s new choice was golden-haired and heartbreakingly beautiful, dressed daringly by their standards but not shockingly. Ribs showed, and pathetically slender arms, and long smooth legs. Intelligence showed in the eyes, above lips slightly curled in boredom.
“Too good to be true,” Teddy said sadly. “All these regulars here, and we walk in our first night and score that?”
“I like wishful thinking. You shoot for the moon, once in a while you get it.”
“And end up wishing you’d settled for a space station. I’d settle for that redhead in the corner with the ventilated shoes.”
Freddy followed her glance, winced, and made a small sound of pity. “Don’t mock the funny-looking.”
“Me? I grew up funny looking. I worked four summers selling greaseburgers for this chin and nose. I’ll settle for anyone halfway pleasant.” She lowered her voice; the musicians were taking a break.
“I love your chin and nose. I don’t like him anyway. He looks like the secretive type.”
“And you aren’t? This drink is terrible.”
“So’s this—”
The voice was startlingly close. “Hey! You’re in my seat, Atlas.”
It was the stunning golden-haired youngman. Alone.
Freddy began to move and speak at the same time, but Teddy kicked him hard in the shin and he subsided.
“No we’re not,” she said firmly.
There was nothing especially grudging about the respect that came into the youngman’s eyes, but there was nothing especially submissive about it either. “I always sit by a circulator. I don’t like breathing garbage.” He made no move to go.
Teddy refused her eyes permission to drop from his. “We would be pleased if you’d join us.”
“I accept.”
Before Teddy could stop him, Freddy was up after a chair. He placed it beside the youngman, who moved it slightly to give himself a better view of the room than of them, and sat without thanks.
“You’re welcome,” Freddy said quietly, slouching down in his own chair, and Teddy suppressed a grin. When she led firmly, her hus
band always followed well. For the first time Teddy became aware that she was enjoying herself.
The youngman glanced sharply at Freddy. “Thanks,” he said belatedly.
“Buy you a drink?” Teddy asked.
“Sure. Beer.”
Teddy signaled a waiter. “Tell Pop we’d like a couple of horses over here,” she said, watching the youngman. The pacification of Mexico had made Dos Equis quite expensive, but his expression did not change. She glanced down at her own glass. “In fact, make it three pair.”
“Tab?” asked the waiter.
“Richards Richards, Ted Fred.”
When the waiter had left, the blond said, “You people always know how to do that. Get a waiter to come. What is that, how do you do that?”
“Well,” Freddy began, “I—”
“Which one of you is which?”
“I’m Freddy.”
“Oh God, and you’re Teddy, huh?” He sighed. “I hope I die before I get cute. I’m Davy Pangborn.”
Teddy wondered if it were his legal name, but did not ask. It would not have been polite; Davy had not asked them. “Hello, Davy.”
“How long have you been in the city?”
Teddy grinned broadly, annoyed. “Is there hay in my hair or something? Honest to God, I feel like there’s a fly unzipped on my forehead.”
“There is,” Davy said briefly, and turned his attention to the room.
Teddy and Freddy exchanged a glance. Teddy shrugged.
“How old are you, Davy?” Freddy asked.
Davy turned very slowly, looked Freddy over with insolent thoroughness. “How many times a week do you folks do the hump?” he asked.
Teddy kept her voice even with some effort. “See here, we’re willing to swap data, but if you get to ask questions that personal, so do we.”
“You just did.”
Teddy considered that. “Okay,” she said finally. “I guess I understand. We’re new at this.”
“Is that so?” Davy said disgustedly and turned back to face the room.
“We make love about three times a week,” Freddy said.
“I’m nine,” Davy said without turning.
The beer arrived, along with a plate of soy crunchies garnished with real peanuts. “Compliments of the house,” the waiter said, and rolled away.
Teddy glanced up, craned her head until she could see through the crowd to the bar. Pop’s eyes were waiting for hers; he shook his head slightly, winked, and turned away. Total elapsed time was less than a second; she was not sure she had not imagined it. She glanced at Freddy, could not tell from his expression whether he had seen it too.
She examined Davy more carefully. He was obviously bright and quick; his vocabulary and grammar were excellent; his education could not have been too badly neglected. He was clean, his clothes were exotic but neat and well-kept. He didn’t look like a welfare type; she would have given long odds that he had some kind of job or occupation, perhaps even a legal one. He was insolent, but she decided that in his position he could hardly be otherwise. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and must know it. She was sure he was not and had never been a prostitute, he didn’t have that chickie look.
Her cop-sense told her that Davy had potential.
Did Pop know something she didn’t? How honest was Davy? How many scars were drawn how deep across his soul, how much garbage had society poured into his subconscious? Would he grow up to be Maker, Taker, or Faker? Everyone in this room was walking wounded; how severe were Davy’s wounds?
“How long have you been single, Davy?”
He still watched the roomful of hunters and hunted, face impassive. “How long since your kid divorced you?”
“Why do you assume we’re divorced?”
Davy drank deeply from his beer, turned to face her. “Okay, let’s run it down. You’re not sterile, or if you are it was postnatal complications. You’ve had it before, I can see it in your eyes. Maybe you worked in a power plant, or maybe Freddy here got the measles, but once upon a time someone called you Mommy. It’s unmistakable. And you’re here, so the kid walked out on you.”
“Or died,” she suggested. “Or got sent up, or institutionalized.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You’re hurting, but you’re not hurting that bad.”
She smiled. “All right. We’ve been divorced a year last week. And you?”
“Three years.”
Teddy blinked. If Davy was telling the truth—and a lie seemed pointless—he had opted out the moment he could, and was in no hurry to remarry. Well, with his advantages he could afford to be independent.
On the other hand—Teddy looked around the room herself, studying only the hunters, the adults, and saw no one who made her feel inferior. He never met a couple like us before, she told herself, and she made herself promise not to offer him notarized resumé and net-worth sheets unless and until he offered them his.
“What was your kid like, Atlas?” Davy sipped beer and watched her over the rim of the glass.
“Why do you call us that?” Freddy asked.
Teddy frowned. “It’s pretty obvious, darling. Atlas was a giant.”
Davy grinned through his glass. “Only half the answer. The least important half. Tell me about your kid—your ex-kid—and I’ll tell you the other half.”
Teddy nodded. “Done. Well, his name is Eddie, and he’s—”
“‘Eddie’?” the youngman exclaimed. “Oh my God you people are too much!” He began to laugh. “If it’s been a girl it would’ve been Hedy, right?”
Teddy reddened but held her temper. She waited until he was done laughing, and then two seconds more, and continued, “And he’s got dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He’s short for his age, and he’ll probably turn out stocky. He has…beautiful hands. He’s got my temper, and Freddy’s hands. And he’s bright and quick, like you. He’ll go far. About the divorce…” Teddy paused. She and Freddy had rehearsed this next part for so long that they could make it sound unrehearsed. But Davy had a Bullshit-Detector of high sensitivity. Mentally Teddy discarded her lines and just let the words come. “We…I guess we were slow in getting our consciousness raised. Faster than some, slower than most. We, we just didn’t realize how misguided our own conditioning had been…until it was too late. Until we had our noses rubbed in it.” Teddy sipped her beer without tasting it.
Although he had not been fed proper cues, Freddy picked it up. “I guess we had our attention on other things. I don’t mean that we fell into parenting. We thought it through—we thought we thought it through—before we decided to conceive. But some of our axioms were wrong. We…” He paused, blushed, and blurted it out: “We had plans for Eddie.”
“Don’t say another word,” Davy ordered.
Freddy blinked. Teddy frowned; she was studying Davy’s expression.
He finished his beer on one long slow draught, stretching the silence. He set the glass down, put both hands on the table and smiled. The smile shocked Teddy: she had never, not in the worst of the divorce, not in the worst of her work in the streets, seen such naked malice on so young a face. She ordered her own face to be inscrutable. And she took Freddy’s hand under the table.
“Let me finish, it’ll save time,” Davy said. “And I’ll still tell you why you’re an Atlas.” He looked them both up and down with care. “Let’s see. You’re hicks. Some kind of civil service or social work or both, both of you. Very committed, very concerned. I can tell you what grounds Eddie cited at the hearing, want to hear me?”
“You’re doing okay so far,” Teddy said tightly.
“On the decree absolute it says ‘Conceptual Conditioning, Restraint of Personality, and Authoritarianism.’ Guaranteed, sure as God made little green boogers. But it won’t have the main reason on it: Delusions of Ownership.”
They had not quite visibly flinched on the first three charges, but the fourth got to them both. Davy grinned wickedly.
“Now, the key word for both of you, the word th
at unlocks you both, is the word future. I can even sort of see why. Both of you are the kind that wants to change things, to make a better world. You figure like this: the past is gone, unchangeable. The present is here right now and it’s too late. So the only part you can change is the future. You’re both heavy into politics, am I right? Right?”
He knew that he was getting to them both; his grin got bigger. Teddy and Freddy were rigid in their chairs.
“So one day,” the youngman went on, “it dawned on you that the best way to change the future is to colonize it. With little xeroxes of yourselves. Of course one of the first concerns of a colonizing country is to properly condition the colonists. To ensure their loyalty. Because a colonist is supposed to give you the things you want to have in exchange for the things you want him to have, and for this golden opportunity he is supposed to be properly grateful. It wouldn’t do for him to get any treasonous ideas about his own destiny, his own goals.” He popped a handful of soy crunchies into his mouth. “In your case, the world needed saving, and Eddie was elected. Like it or not.” He chewed the mouthful, washed it down. “Let me see. Don’t tell me, now. I see the basic program this way: first a solid grounding in math, history and languages—I’d guess Japanese Immersion followed by French. Then by high school begin working toward law, maybe with a minor in Biz Ecch. Then some military service, police probably, and then law school if he survived. With any luck at all old Eddie would have been governor of wherever the hell you live—one of the Dakotas, isn’t it?—by the time he was thirty-five. Then Senator Richards by forty or so.”
“Jesus,” Teddy croaked.
“I even know what Eddie wants to be instead. A musician. And not even a respectable musician, piano or electric guitar or something cubical like that, right? He wants to play that flash stuff, that isn’t even proper music, he wants to be in a processor group, right? I saw the way you looked at the band when you came in. There can’t be many things on earth that are as little use to the future as flash. It doesn’t even get recorded. It’s not supposed to be: it’s for the present. I wonder if Eddie’s any good.”
“What are you trying to do to us?”
Time Travelers Strictly Cash Page 20
