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 anesthesia, such as it was.
Anesthesia had been a subject of much discussion at our Potemkin Village drills. It was bad enough to show up in the twentieth century with anachronistic surgical instruments…but Boondock anesthetic 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 in 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 off our table between patients, until the towel I was using was so soaked with blood that it was doing more harm than good.
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 plane’s 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 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 Messerschmitt. 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 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 farther 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 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.) “Gay 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.”
“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 meters 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-defense 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 Nottingham 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 Piccadilly 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 subvocalized, “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—”
The roof fell in.
It may have been part of a Spitfire, or perhaps a Messerschmitt. 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 burns are nasty. But Hazel got more help through, dressed in fireproofs (planning, not happenstance) 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 civilized 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 awhile 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.
People in this Memoir
Maureen Johnson Smith Long, July 4, 1882
Pixel, a cat
MAUREEN’S ANCESTORS, AUNTS, UNCLES, IN-LAWS
Ira Johnson, M.D., father, August 2, 1852
Adele Pfeiffer Johnson, mother
John Adams Smith, father-in-law
Ethel Graves Smith, mother-in-law
(Paternal Ancestors)
Asa Edward Johnson, grandfather, 1813-1918
Rose Altheda McFee Johnson, grandmother, 1814-1918
George Edward Johnson, great-grandfather, 1795-1897
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 Larsen, 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, 1882
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 Irene Smith, December 1, 1899
(married Jonathan Sperling Weatheral)
Carol Smith, January 1, 1902
(married Roderick Schmidt Jenkins)
Brian Smith Junior, March 12, 1905
George Edward Smith, February 14, 1907
Marie Agnes Smith, April 5, 1909
Woodrow Wilson Smith/Lazarus Long, et al. November 11, 1912
(first wife: Heather Hedrick)
Richard Smith, 1914-1945
(married Marian Hardy)
Ethel Smith, 1916
Theodore Ira Smith, March 4, 1919
Margaret Smith, 1922
Arthur Roy Smith, 1924
Alice Virginia Smith, 1927
(married Ralph Sperling)
Doris Jean Smith, 1930
(married Roderick Briggs)
Patrick Henry Smith (by Justin Weatheral), 1932
Susan Smith, 1934
(married Henry Schultz)
Donald Smith, 1936
Priscilla Smith, 1938
Lapis Lazuli Long, cloned from Lazarus, A.D. 4273
Lorelei Lee Long, cloned from Lazarus, A.D. 4273
Richard Colin Campbell Ames, grandson, A.D. 2133
(son of Lazarus Long and Wendy Campbell)
Roberta Weatheral Barstow, granddaughter, December 25, 1918
Anne Barstow Hardy, great-granddaughter, November 2, 1935
Nancy Jane Hardy, great-great-granddaughter, June 22, 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, Sr., M.D.
James Rumsey, Jr., M.D.
Velma Briggs Rumsey (Mrs. James Rumsey, Jr.)
Mammy Della
Elizabeth Louise Barstow Johnson (Mrs. Nelson Johnson)
Hal and Jane Andrews
George Strong
Arthur Simmons, 1917
Jubal Harshaw, 1907
Tamara
Ishtar
Galahad
Hilda Mae Corners Burroughs Long
Deety Burroughs Carter Long
Jacob Burroughs Long
Zebadiah John Carter Long
CATS
Pixel
Chargé d’Affaires
Princess Polly Ponderosa Penelope Peachfuzz
Random Numbers
Captain Blood
MORE PEOPLE
Judge Hardacres, a corpse
Eric Ridpath, M.D.
Zenobia Ridpath, a gracious hostess
Adolf Weisskopf, M.D.
Dagmar Dobbs, RN
Major Gretchen Henderson, Time Corps soldier
Jesse F. Bone, DVM—he saved a kitten
Ira Howard—he funded the Howard Foundation, 1825-1873
Jackson Igo and sons
Judge Orville Sperling, Foundation Chairman, 1840
The Reverend Clarence Timberly
Mrs. Ohlschlager, neighbor 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
Dr. Bannister, dean of academics, KCU
Alvin Barkley, President, U.S.A., 1941-1949, time line two
George S. Patton, Jr., president, U.S.A., 1949-1961, 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
&nb
sp; Helen Smith, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. W. W. Smith
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 (NOT SHOW)
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
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
To Sail Beyond the Sunset Page 48
