Callahan's Place 02 - Time Travelers Strictly Cash (v5.0)

by Spider Robinson

  "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 that 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?"

  "Now: about why you're Atlases. Atlas isn't just a giant. He's the very worst kind of giant. The one to avoid at all costs. Because he's got the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. And he wants you to take it over for him as soon as you're big enough." Suddenly, finally, the grin was gone. "Well stuff you, Atlas! You're not even cured yet, are you? You're still looking for a Nice Young Kid Who Wants To Make Something Of Himself, you want a god damned volunteer! You're suddenly-childless, and you're so fucking lonely you tell each other you'll settle for anything just to have a kid around the house again. But in your secret hearts you can't help hoping you'll find one with some ambition, can you?"

  He sat back. He was done. "Well," he said in a different voice, knowing the answer, "how'd I do?" and he began eating peanuts.

  Teddy and Freddy were speechless for a long time. The blood had drained from both their faces; garish bar lighting made them look like wax mannequins, save that Teddy was swaying slightly from side to side. Her hand crushed Freddy's hand; neither noticed.

  It was Teddy who found her voice first, and to her horror it trembled, and would not stop trembling. "You did very damned well. Two insignificant errors. It was going to be Swahili Immersion after the Japanese. Not French."

  "And…?"

  "Our mutual occupation. You bracketed it, but no direct hit."

  "So? All right, surprise me."

  "We're cops."

  It was Davy's turn to be speechless. He recovered faster. "Pigs."

  Teddy could not get the quaver out of her voice. "Davy, how do you feel when some Atlas calls you 'punk,' or 'kid,' or 'baby'?"

  Davy's eyes flashed.

  The quaver was lengthening its period. Soon she would be speaking in sing-song ululation, and shortly after that (she knew) she would lose the power to form words and simply weep. She pressed on.

  "Well, that's how we feel when some punk kid baby calls us 'pigs'."

  He raised his eyebrows, looked impressed for the first time. "Good shot. Fair is fair. Except that you chose to be pigs."

  "Not at first. We were drafted at the same time, worked together in a black and white. After the Troubles when our hitch was up we got married and went career."

  "Huh. Either of you ever work Juvenile?"

  Teddy nodded. "I had a year. Freddy three."

  Davy looked thoughtful. "So. Sometimes Juvie cops are all right. Sometimes they get to see things most Atlases don't. And hick cops aren't as bad as New York cops, I guess." He nodded. "Okay, I grant you the provisional status of human beings. Let's deal. I've got no eyes for anything lengthy right at the moment, but I could flash on, say, a weekend in the country or two. If we're compatible, I like your place and all, maybe we could talk something a little more substantial—maybe. So what's your offer?"

  Teddy groped for words. "Offer?"

  "What terms are you offering? We might as well start with your resumes and stuff, that'll give us parameters."

  She stared.

  "Oh, my God," he said,
"don't tell me you came here looking for something permanent! On a first date? Oh, you people are the Schwartzchild Limit!" He began to laugh. "I'll bet your own contract with each other is permanent. Not even ten-year-renewable." When that sank home he laughed even harder. "Unbelievable!" He stopped laughing suddenly. "Oh Momma, you have a lot to learn. Now how about those resumés?"

  "Shut up," Freddy said quietly.

  Davy stared at him. "What did you say?"

  "Shut up. You may not call her that."

  Teddy stared as well.

  Freddy's voice did not rise in volume, but suddenly there was steel in it. "You just granted us the provisional status of human beings. We do not reciprocate. You are cruel, and we would not inflict you on our town, much less our home. You can go now."

  The enormity of the affront left Davy momentarily at a loss for words, but he soon found some. "How'd you like to wake up in the alley with a broken face, old man? You read the house-rules, your badges are shit in here. All I have to do is poke you right in the eye, and let the bouncers do the rest."

  Freddy had the habit of sitting slouched low, curled in on himself. He sat up straight now, and for the first time Davy realized that the man topped one hundred and eighty-five centimeters and massed well over ninety kilos. Freddy's shoulders seemed to have swollen, and his eyes were burning with a cold fire. Teddy stared at him round-eyed, not knowing him. Suddenly it registered on Davy that both of her hands were now visible on the table, and that neither of Freddy's were.

  "They'll put us in the same Emergency Room," Freddy said dreamily. "You're a lot younger than I am. But I'm still faster. Leave this table."

  Shortly Davy realized that his face was blank with shock, and hastily hung a sneer on it. "Hah." He got to his feet. "My pleasure." Standing beside them he was nearly at eye-level. "Just another couple of dumb Atlases." He left.

  Freddy turned to his wife, found her gaping at him. The fire went out in him; he slumped again in his chair, and finished off his beer. "Stay here, darling," he said, his voice soft again. "I'll get us another round."

  Her eyes followed him as he walked to the bar.

  Pop had two more beers waiting for him. "Thanks for the munchies, Pop. And the wink."

  "My pleasure," Pop said, smiling.

  "Can I buy you a drink, Pop?"

  The old man's smile broadened. "Thank you." He punched himself up an apricot sour. "You're well shut of that one. Little vampire."

  Freddy's eye was caught by graffiti crudely spray-painted on a nearby wall. It said: "TAKE OUT YOUR OWN FUCKIN GARBAGE." On the opposite wall a neater hand had thoughtfully misquoted, "HOW SHARPER THAN A SERPENT'S TOOTH IS A THANKLESS CHILD."

  "Why is it that the word 'another' is the crudest word in the language, Pop?"

  "How d'ya mean?"

  "Well, when he's alone with himself a man may get real honest and acknowledge—and accept—that he is a fool. But nobody wants to be 'just' another fool. 'Another couple of dumb Atlases,' he called us, and of all the things he said that hurt the most."

  "Here now—easy! Here, use this here bar rag. Be right back." While Freddy wiped his eyes, the old man quickly filled a tray of orders for the waiter. By the time he returned Freddy was under control and had begun repairing his makeup with a hand mirror. "See here," Pop said, "if you're hip deep in used food, well, maybe you could climb out. But if you see a whole other bunch of people hip deep too, then the chances of you becoming the rare one to climb out seem to go down drastic. But you see, that's a kind of optical illusion. All those others don't affect your odds atall. What matters is how bad you want to get up out of the shit, and what purchase you can find for your feet."

  Freddy took a sip of his new beer, and sighed. "Thanks, Pop. I think you're into something."

  "Sure. Don't let that kid throw you. Did he tell you his parents divorced him? Mental cruelty, by the Jesus."

  Freddy blinked, then roared with laughter.

  "Now take that beer on back to your wife, she's looking kind o' shell-shocked. Oh, and I would recommend the redhead over in the corner, the funny-looking boy with the holes in his shoes. He's worth getting to know better, he's got some stuff."

  Freddy stared at him, then raised his glass and drank deep. "Thanks again, Pop."

  "Any time, son," the old man said easily, and went off to punch up two scotches and a chocolate ice cream soda.

  Concerning "Serpents' Teeth":

  This is the Age of the Minority Group. Women's rights, Indians' rights, writers' rights, left-handed people's rights (motto: "Left is right; right is wrong.")—name a group and you'll find it lobbying for its legal and societal rights. What more logical minority group than minors?

  It has been shown that a minority group need not even have the franchise to achieve its aims (women's suffrage, ex-cons' rights, wetbacks, etc.), although it helps. All you really need are the sympathies of enough liberals who do have the vote, and you're in. My own experience has been that liberals tend to have few or no children, while conservatives tend to have a lot. (There's nothing like having a bunch of kids to make you conservative, I guess.) So perhaps Kid's Lib will make the great strides postulated by this story.

  But even if it doesn't, the issues raised by "Serpents' Teeth" remain.

  It is, at this writing, my most recent story. It reflects some of the ambiguity I feel about being a parent, about having become somehow my own Natural Enemy of old. Jeanne and I have a five-year-old, Luanna Mountainborne, and we often wonder what our daughter is going to come up with that will shock us as badly as we shocked our parents. (It'll have to be a pip; we're hard to shock. Ritual murder? Senior Prom suicide pacts? Celibacy?) In the meantime, Luanna has reached the age/stage where she's getting feisty, constantly challenging our authority, working hard to define and expand the limits of what she can get away with. This is as it should be, and delights me—but it forces me to constantly re-evaluate those limits myself, and then enforce them, and frankly limit-enforcer is not a role I enjoy a whole lot. Especially when the limits are so hard to pin down fairly.

  Luanna feels she is old enough to cross the street by herself. I disagree. In case of a tie, I win. But why? Why does my opinion control? Is it because of my extensive experience with children crossing streets? Hell, no—this is the first time I ever considered the matter. I have no data to offer, no observations to cite. I've never known a kid who was killed crossing a street—how do I know what a kid-who-is-too-young-to-cross-the-street looks or acts like? I'm frankly guessing—and my guess controls her freedom of action.

  It has to be that way: a wrong guess could be fatal, and it will be many years before Luanna has any conception of what "fatal" means. But how many years? At what age is she allowed to make her own mistakes, even if it kills her? (If she reaches breeding age without ever having had a chance to demonstrate survival-fitness or-unfitness, does that improve the gene-pool or harm it?) At what age do Jeanne and I change from absolute (hopefully benevolent) despots to advisors—and who decides? Society? It seems to me that my authority over my child is both necessary and inevitable—but that is what tyrants always say. It sure didn't seem fair to me when I was a kid.

  Whenever I expressed this resentment, my father offered a simple solution, the same one rotten husbands offer oppressed wives: if you don't like it here, leave. Of course, this was a bad joke and we both knew it. Like those unhappy wives before feminism got going, I could not leave; there existed no societal means which would allow me to survive as an unattached child; I could not work, own property, obtain credit or in any way supply my own needs. The child's second-class status is a result of his or her utter dependence on elders.

  So I stayed. And now—at the vantage point of age thirty-one—I see that it was a good deal, the best I've ever gotten. In exchange for absolutely minimal cooperation and politeness my father and mother gave me a solid upbringing, wise counsel, constant financial and emotional support, and advantages and opportunities which they as children could never
have dreamed of.

  But at seventeen I was convinced I was being ripped off, and yearned for my emancipation.

  As long as kids have no choice, no genuine alternative, perhaps they will always be sharper than serpents' teeth. And yet now I'm honestly glad I didn't have that choice. I'd have knocked up some twelve-year-old and today I'd be working nights in a gas station to meet the alimony and child-support, dreaming of going back to junior high school some day.

  I don't welcome Kids' Lib, the way I yearned for it when I was a kid.

  But I suspect something like it is coming… and if you're not careful, you could find yourself in the Lookover Lounge some day.

  Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I'm just beginning to understand how much I owe you.

  I think I even understand that the debt reads: "Pay to the order of Luanna Mountainborne Robinson." Isn't that right?

  I'll try to make the payments.

  As for the rest of you; perhaps I'll see you at Callahan's Place!

  Spider Robinson

  photo by Greg McKinnon

  www.spiderrobinson.com

  www.spectrumliteraryagency.com/robinson.htm

  Spider Robinson was born in the Bronx, NY, in 1948, the year Robert A. Heinlein married Virginia Gerstenfeld—and in 2006 he became the only author ever to collaborate with Mr. Heinlein on a novel, VARIABLE STAR. Since 1973 he has published over thirty-five books, and won three Hugos, a Nebula, the John W. Campbell Award, and numerous other international honours.

  He moved to Canada in 1974, and became a Canadian citizen in 2004. His Callahan’s Place stories inspired the creation of the long running Usenet newsgroup alt.callahans and other cybernetworks. From 1995-2004 he published an op-ed column (“The Crazy Years,” later called “Future Tense”) in Canada’s national newspaper, The Globe and Mail. In 2006 he became the first Writer In Residence at Vancouver’s H.R. MacMillan Space Centre, and in 2010 he was named sixth Writer In Residence at the Vancouver Public Library. He has written songs with David Crosby and Todd Butler, and recorded original music with Amos Garrett and Michael Creber. His award-winning podcast Spider On The Web has appeared regularly since 2007, and he has been Toastmaster at two World Science Fiction Conventions.