Jim Baen’s Universe

by Edited by Eric Flint

  He stop­ped tal­king for a mo­ment and sat qu­i­etly lo­oking to­wards the ho­use. I tur­ned my he­ad from the vi­ew of the Loch and saw the yo­ung wo­man stan­ding at the win­dow aga­in. Ha­gan’s eyes we­re fil­led with a kind of gre­edy re­ve­ren­ce which ma­de me fe­el un­com­for­tab­le and at the sa­me ti­me con­vin­ced me Se­li­na had be­en wrong. In my ex­pe­ri­en­ce hus­bands ne­ver lo­oked at wi­ves that way, at le­ast, not at the­ir own.

  The girl re­ma­ined in vi­ew for a few se­conds, dress glo­wing warmly, then mo­ved back in­to the ro­om. Sud­denly I re­ce­ived a dis­tinct, tho­ugh inex­p­li­cab­le, im­p­res­si­on she was blind. My fe­eling was that Se­li­na and I we­re per­haps blun­de­ring thro­ugh an emo­ti­onal in­ter­p­lay as vi­olent as our own.

  “I’m sorry,” Ha­gan con­ti­nu­ed, “I tho­ught Ro­se was go­ing to call me for so­met­hing. Now, whe­re was I, Mrs. Gar­land? Ten lig­ht-ye­ars com­p­res­sed in­to a qu­ar­ter of an inch me­ans…”

  I ce­ased to lis­ten, partly be­ca­use I was al­re­ady sold, partly be­ca­use I had he­ard the story of slow glass many ti­mes be­fo­re and had ne­ver yet un­der­s­to­od the prin­cip­les in­vol­ved. An ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce with sci­en­ti­fic tra­ining had on­ce tri­ed to be hel­p­ful by tel­ling me to vi­su­ali­ze a pa­ne of slow glass as a ho­log­ram which did not ne­ed co­he­rent light from a la­ser for the re­con­s­ti­tu­ti­on of its vi­su­al in­for­ma­ti­on, and in which every pho­ton of or­di­nary light pas­sed thro­ugh a spi­ral tun­nel co­iled out­si­de the ra­di­us of cap­tu­re of each atom in the glass. This gem of, to me, in­com­p­re­hen­si­bi­lity not only told me not­hing, it con­vin­ced me on­ce aga­in that a mind sho­uld con­cern it­self less with ca­uses than ef­fects.

  The most im­por­tant ef­fect, in the eyes of the ave­ra­ge in­di­vi­du­al, was that light to­ok a long ti­me to pass thro­ugh a she­et of slow glass. A new pi­ece was al­ways jet black be­ca­use not­hing had yet co­me thro­ugh, but one co­uld stand the glass be­si­de, say, a wo­od­land la­ke un­til the sce­ne emer­ged, per­haps a ye­ar la­ter. If the glass was then re­mo­ved and in­s­tal­led in a dis­mal city flat, the flat wo­uld-for that ye­ar-ap­pe­ar to over­lo­ok the wo­od­land la­ke. Du­ring the ye­ar it wo­uldn’t be me­rely a very re­alis­tic but still pic­tu­re-the wa­ter wo­uld rip­ple in sun­light, si­lent ani­mals wo­uld co­me to drink, birds wo­uld cross the sky, night wo­uld fol­low day, se­ason wo­uld fol­low se­ason. Un­til one day, a ye­ar la­ter, the be­a­uty held in the su­ba­to­mic pi­pe­li­nes wo­uld be ex­ha­us­ted and the fa­mi­li­ar gray cit­y­s­ca­pe wo­uld re­ap­pe­ar.

  Apart from its stu­pen­do­us no­velty va­lue, the com­mer­ci­al suc­cess of slow glass was fo­un­ded on the fact that ha­ving a sce­ne­dow was the exact emo­ti­onal equ­iva­lent of ow­ning land. The me­anest ca­ve dwel­ler co­uld lo­ok out on misty par­ks-and who was to say they we­ren’t his? A man who re­al­ly owns ta­ilo­red gar­dens and es­ta­tes do­esn’t spend his ti­me pro­ving his ow­ner­s­hip by craw­ling on his gro­und, fe­eling, smel­ling, tas­ting it. All he re­ce­ives from the land are light pat­terns, and with sce­ne­dows tho­se pat­terns co­uld be ta­ken in­to co­al mi­nes, sub­ma­ri­nes, pri­son cells.

  On se­ve­ral oc­ca­si­ons I ha­ve tri­ed to wri­te short pi­eces abo­ut the en­c­han­ted crystal, but, to me, the the­me is so inef­fably po­etic as to be, pa­ra­do­xi­cal­ly, be­yond the re­ach of po­et­ry-mi­ne at any ra­te. Be­si­des, the best songs and ver­se had al­re­ady be­en writ­ten, with pres­ci­ent in­s­pi­ra­ti­on, by men who had di­ed long be­fo­re slow glass was dis­co­ve­red. I had no ho­pe of equ­aling, for exam­p­le, Mo­ore with his:

  Oft in the stilly night,

  Ere slum­ber’s cha­in has bo­und me,

  Fond Me­mory brings the light,

  Of ot­her days aro­und me…

  It to­ok only a few ye­ars for slow glass to de­ve­lop from a sci­en­ti­fic cu­ri­osity to a si­zab­le in­dustry. And much to the as­to­nis­h­ment of we po­ets-tho­se of us who re­ma­in con­vin­ced that be­a­uty li­ves tho­ugh li­li­es die-the trap­pings of that in­dustry we­re no dif­fe­rent from tho­se of any ot­her. The­re we­re go­od sce­ne­dows which cost a lot of mo­ney, and the­re we­re in­fe­ri­or sce­ne­dows, which cost rat­her less. The thic­k­ness, me­asu­red in ye­ars, was an im­por­tant fac­tor in the cost but the­re was al­so the qu­es­ti­on of ac­tu­al thic­k­ness, or pha­se.

  Even with the most sop­his­ti­ca­ted en­gi­ne­ering tec­h­ni­qu­es ava­ilab­le thic­k­ness con­t­rol was so­met­hing of a hit-and-miss af­fa­ir. A co­ar­se dis­c­re­pancy co­uld me­an that a pa­ne in­ten­ded to be fi­ve ye­ars thick might be fi­ve and a half, so that light which en­te­red in sum­mer emer­ged in win­ter; a fi­ne dis­c­re­pancy co­uld me­an that no­on sun­s­hi­ne emer­ged at mid­night. The­se in­com­pa­ti­bi­li­ti­es had the­ir pe­cu­li­ar charm-many night wor­kers, for exam­p­le, li­ked ha­ving the­ir own pri­va­te ti­me zo­nes-but, in ge­ne­ral, it cost mo­re to buy sce­ne­dows which kept clo­sely in step with re­al ti­me.

  ****

  Selina still lo­oked un­con­vin­ced when Ha­gan had fi­nis­hed spe­aking. She sho­ok her he­ad al­most im­per­cep­tibly and I knew he had be­en using the wrong ap­pro­ach. Qu­ite sud­denly the pew­ter hel­met of her ha­ir was dis­tur­bed by a co­ol gust of wind, and hu­ge cle­an tum­b­ling drops of ra­in be­gan to spang ro­und us from an al­most clo­ud­less sky.

  “I’ll gi­ve you a check now,” I sa­id ab­ruptly, and saw Se­li­na’s gre­en eyes tri­an­gu­la­te an­g­rily on my fa­ce. “You can ar­ran­ge de­li­very?”

  “Aye, de­li­very’s no prob­lem,” Ha­gan sa­id, get­ting to his fe­et. “But wo­uldn’t you rat­her ta­ke the glass with you?”

  “Well, yes-if you don’t mind.” I was sha­med by his re­adi­ness to trust my scrip.

  “I’ll un­c­lip a pa­ne for you. Wa­it he­re. It won’t ta­ke long to slip it in­to a car­rying fra­me.” Ha­gan lim­ped down the slo­pe to­wards the se­ri­ate win­dows, thro­ugh so­me of which the vi­ew to­wards Lin­nhe was sunny, whi­le ot­hers we­re clo­udy and a few pu­re black.

  Selina drew the col­lar of her blo­use clo­sed at her thro­at. “The le­ast he co­uld ha­ve do­ne was in­vi­te us in­si­de. The­re can’t be so many fo­ols pas­sing thro­ugh that he can af­ford to neg­lect them.”

  I tri­ed to ig­no­re the in­sult and con­cen­t­ra­ted on wri­ting the check. One of the out­si­ze drops bro­ke ac­ross my knuc­k­les, splat­te­ring the pink pa­per.

  “All right,” I sa­id, “let’s mo­ve in un­der the eaves till he gets back.” You worm, I tho­ught as I felt the who­le thing go com­p­le­tely wrong. I just had to be a fo­ol to marry you. A pri­ze fo­ol, a fo­ol’s fo­ol-and now that you’ve trap­ped part of me in­si­de you I’ll ne­ver ever, ne­ver ever, ne­ver ever get away.

  Feeling my sto­mach clench it­self pa­in­ful­ly, I ran be­hind Se­li­na to the si­de of the cot­ta­ge. Be­yond the win­dow the ne­at li­ving ro­om, with its co­al fi­re, was empty but the child’s toys we­re scat­te­red on the flo­or. Al­p­ha­bet blocks and a whe­el­bar­row the exact co­lor of freshly pa­red car­rots. As I sta­red in, the boy ca­me run­ning from the ot­her ro­om and be­gan kic­king the blocks. He didn’t no­ti­ce me. A few mo­ments la­ter the yo­ung wo­man en­te­red the ro­om and lif­ted him, la­ug­hing easily and who­le-he­ar­tedly as she swung the boy un­der her arm. She ca­me to the win­dow as she had do­ne ear­li­er. I smi­led self-con­s­ci­o­usly, but ne­it­her she nor the child res­pon­ded.

  My fo­re­he­ad pric­k­led icily. Co­uld they both be blind? I sid­led away.

  Selina ga­ve a lit­tle scre­am and I spun
to­wards her.

  “The rug!” she sa­id. “It’s get­ting so­aked.”

  She ran ac­ross the yard in the ra­in, snat­c­hed the red­dish squ­are from the dap­pling wall and ran back, to­wards the cot­ta­ge do­or. So­met­hing he­aved con­vul­si­vely in my sub­con­s­ci­o­us.

  “Selina,” I sho­uted. “Don’t open it!”

  But I was too la­te. She had pus­hed open the lat­c­hed wo­oden do­or and was stan­ding, hand over mo­uth, lo­oking in­to the cot­ta­ge. I mo­ved clo­se to her and to­ok the rug from her un­re­sis­ting fin­gers.

  As I was clo­sing the do­or I let my eyes tra­ver­se the cot­ta­ge’s in­te­ri­or. The ne­at li­ving ro­om in which I had just se­en the wo­man and child was, in re­ality, a sic­ke­ning clut­ter of shabby fur­ni­tu­re, old new­s­pa­pers, cast-off clot­hing and sme­ared dis­hes. It was damp, stin­king and ut­terly de­ser­ted. The only obj­ect I re­cog­ni­zed from my vi­ew thro­ugh the win­dow was the lit­tle whe­el­bar­row, pa­in­t­less and bro­ken.

  I lat­c­hed the do­or firmly and or­de­red myself to for­get what I had se­en. So­me men who li­ve alo­ne are go­od ho­use­ke­epers; ot­hers just don’t know how.

  Selina’s fa­ce was whi­te. “I don’t un­der­s­tand. I don’t un­der­s­tand it.”

  “Slow glass works both ways,” I sa­id gently. “Light pas­ses out of a ho­use, as well as in.”

  “You me­an…?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t our bu­si­ness. Now ste­ady up-Ha­gan’s co­ming back with our glass.” The chur­ning in my sto­mach was be­gin­ning to sub­si­de.

  Hagan ca­me in­to the yard car­rying an ob­long, plas­tic-co­ve­red fra­me. I held the check out to him, but he was sta­ring at Se­li­na’s fa­ce. He se­emed to know im­me­di­ately that our un­com­p­re­hen­ding fin­gers had rum­ma­ged thro­ugh his so­ul. Se­li­na avo­ided his ga­ze. She was old and ill-lo­oking, and her eyes sta­red de­ter­mi­nedly to­wards the ne­aring ho­ri­zon.

  “I’ll ta­ke the rug from you, Mr. Gar­land,” Ha­gan fi­nal­ly sa­id. “You sho­uldn’t ha­ve tro­ub­led yo­ur­self over it.”

  “No tro­ub­le. He­re’s the check.”

  “Thank you.” He was still lo­oking at Se­li­na with a stran­ge kind of sup­pli­ca­ti­on. “It’s be­en a ple­asu­re to do bu­si­ness with you.”

  “The ple­asu­re was mi­ne,” I sa­id with equ­al, sen­se­less for­ma­lity. I pic­ked up the he­avy fra­me and gu­ided Se­li­na to­wards the path which led to the ro­ad. Just as we re­ac­hed the he­ad of the now slip­pery steps Ha­gan spo­ke aga­in.

  “Mr. Gar­land!”

  I tur­ned un­wil­lingly.

  “It wasn’t my fa­ult,” he sa­id ste­adily. “A hit-and-run dri­ver got them both, down on the Oban ro­ad six ye­ars ago. My boy was only se­ven when it hap­pe­ned. I’m en­tit­led to ke­ep so­met­hing.”

  I nod­ded wor­d­les­sly and mo­ved down the path, hol­ding my wi­fe clo­se to me, tre­asu­ring the fe­el of her arms loc­ked aro­und me. At the bend I lo­oked back thro­ugh the ra­in and saw Ha­gan sit­ting with squ­ared sho­ul­ders on the wall whe­re we had first se­en him.

  He was lo­oking at the ho­use, but I was unab­le to tell if the­re was an­yo­ne at the win­dow.

  ****

  The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut

  Mark Twain

  I was fe­eling blit­he, al­most jocund. I put a match to my ci­gar, and just then the mor­ning's ma­il was han­ded in. The first su­per­s­c­rip­ti­on I glan­ced at was in a han­d­w­ri­ting that sent a thrill of ple­asu­re thro­ugh and thro­ugh me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the per­son I lo­ved and ho­no­red most in all the world, out­si­de of my own ho­use­hold. She had be­en my boy­ho­od's idol; ma­tu­rity, which is fa­tal to so many en­c­han­t­ments, had not be­en ab­le to dis­lod­ge her from her pe­des­tal; no, it had only jus­ti­fi­ed her right to be the­re, and pla­ced her det­h­ro­ne­ment per­ma­nently among the im­pos­si­bi­li­ti­es. To show how strong her in­f­lu­en­ce over me was, I will ob­ser­ve that long af­ter ever­y­body el­se's "do-stop-smo­king" had ce­ased to af­fect me in the slig­h­test deg­ree, Aunt Mary co­uld still stir my tor­pid con­s­ci­en­ce in­to fa­int signs of li­fe when she to­uc­hed upon the mat­ter. But all things ha­ve the­ir li­mit in this world. A happy day ca­me at last, when even Aunt Mary's words co­uld no lon­ger mo­ve me. I was not me­rely glad to see that day ar­ri­ve; I was mo­re than glad-I was gra­te­ful; for when its sun had set, the one al­loy that was ab­le to mar my enj­oy­ment of my aunt's so­ci­ety was go­ne. The re­ma­in­der of her stay with us that win­ter was in every way a de­light. Of co­ur­se she ple­aded with me just as ear­nestly as ever, af­ter that bles­sed day, to qu­it my per­ni­ci­o­us ha­bit, but to no pur­po­se wha­te­ver; the mo­ment she ope­ned the su­bj­ect I at on­ce be­ca­me calmly, pe­ace­ful­ly, con­ten­tedly in­dif­fe­rent-ab­so­lu­tely, ada­man­ti­nely in­dif­fe­rent. Con­se­qu­ently the clo­sing we­eks of that me­mo­rab­le vi­sit mel­ted away as ple­asantly as a dre­am, they we­re so fre­ig­h­ted for me with tran­qu­il sa­tis­fac­ti­on. I co­uld not ha­ve enj­oyed my pet vi­ce mo­re if my gen­t­le tor­men­tor had be­en a smo­ker her­self, and an ad­vo­ca­te of the prac­ti­ce. Well, the sight of her han­d­w­ri­ting re­min­ded me that I was get­ting very hungry to see her aga­in. I easily gu­es­sed what I sho­uld find in her let­ter. I ope­ned it. Go­od! just as I ex­pec­ted; she was co­ming! Co­ming this very day, too, and by the mor­ning tra­in; I might ex­pect her any mo­ment.

  I sa­id to myself, "I am tho­ro­ughly happy and con­tent now. If my most pi­ti­less enemy co­uld ap­pe­ar be­fo­re me at this mo­ment, I wo­uld fre­ely right any wrong I may ha­ve do­ne him."

  Straightway the do­or ope­ned, and a shri­ve­led, shabby dwarf en­te­red. He was not mo­re than two fe­et high. He se­emed to be abo­ut forty ye­ars old. Every fe­atu­re and every inch of him was a trif­le out of sha­pe; and so, whi­le one co­uld not put his fin­ger upon any par­ti­cu­lar part and say, "This is a con­s­pi­cu­o­us de­for­mity," the spec­ta­tor per­ce­ived that this lit­tle per­son was a de­for­mity as a who­le-a va­gue, ge­ne­ral, evenly blen­ded, ni­cely adj­us­ted de­for­mity. The­re was a fox­li­ke cun­ning in the fa­ce and the sharp lit­tle eyes, and al­so aler­t­ness and ma­li­ce. And yet, this vi­le bit of hu­man rub­bish se­emed to be­ar a sort of re­mo­te and ill-de­fi­ned re­sem­b­lan­ce to me! It was dully per­cep­tib­le in the me­an form, the co­un­te­nan­ce, and even the clot­hes, ges­tu­res, man­ner, and at­ti­tu­des of the cre­atu­re. He was a far­fet­c­hed, dim sug­ges­ti­on of a bur­les­que upon me, a ca­ri­ca­tu­re of me in lit­tle. One thing abo­ut him struck me for­cibly and most un­p­le­asantly: he was co­ve­red all over with a fuzzy, gre­enish mold, such as one so­me­ti­mes se­es upon mil­de­wed bre­ad. The sight of it was na­use­ating.

  He step­ped along with a chip­per air, and flung him­self in­to a doll's cha­ir in a very free-and-easy way, wit­ho­ut wa­iting to be as­ked. He tos­sed his hat in­to the was­te-bas­ket. He pic­ked up my old chalk pi­pe from the flo­or, ga­ve the stem a wi­pe or two on his knee, fil­led the bowl from the to­bac­co-box at his si­de, and sa­id to me in a to­ne of pert com­mand:

  "Gimme a match!"

  I blus­hed to the ro­ots of my ha­ir; partly with in­dig­na­ti­on, but ma­inly be­ca­use it so­me­how se­emed to me that this who­le per­for­man­ce was very li­ke an exag­ge­ra­ti­on of con­duct which I myself had so­me­ti­mes be­en gu­ilty of in my in­ter­co­ur­se with fa­mi­li­ar fri­en­ds-but ne­ver, ne­ver with stran­gers, I ob­ser­ved to myself. I wan­ted to kick the pygmy in­to the fi­re, but so­me in­com­p­re­hen­sib­le sen­se of be­ing le­gal­ly and le­gi­ti
­ma­tely un­der his aut­ho­rity for­ced me to obey his or­der. He ap­pli­ed the match to the pi­pe, to­ok a con­tem­p­la­ti­ve whiff or two, and re­mar­ked, in an ir­ri­ta­tingly fa­mi­li­ar way:

  "Seems to me it's de­vi­lish odd we­at­her for this ti­me of ye­ar."

  I flus­hed aga­in, and in an­ger and hu­mi­li­ati­on as be­fo­re; for the lan­gu­age was hardly an exag­ge­ra­ti­on of so­me that I ha­ve ut­te­red in my day, and mo­re­over was de­li­ve­red in a to­ne of vo­ice and with an exas­pe­ra­ting drawl that had the se­eming of a de­li­be­ra­te tra­vesty of my style. Now the­re is not­hing I am qu­ite so sen­si­ti­ve abo­ut as a moc­king imi­ta­ti­on of my draw­ling in­fir­mity of spe­ech. I spo­ke up sharply and sa­id:

  "Look he­re, you mi­se­rab­le ash-cat! you will ha­ve to gi­ve a lit­tle mo­re at­ten­ti­on to yo­ur man­ners, or I will throw you out of the win­dow!"

  The ma­ni­kin smi­led a smi­le of ma­li­ci­o­us con­tent and se­cu­rity, puf­fed a whiff of smo­ke con­tem­p­tu­o­usly to­ward me, and sa­id, with a still mo­re ela­bo­ra­te drawl:

  "Come- go gently now; don't put on too many airs with yo­ur bet­ters."

  This co­ol snub ras­ped me all over, but it se­emed to su­bj­uga­te me, too, for a mo­ment. The pygmy con­tem­p­la­ted me aw­hi­le with his we­asel eyes, and then sa­id, in a pe­cu­li­arly sne­ering way:

  "You tur­ned a tramp away from yo­ur do­or this mor­ning."

  I sa­id crus­tily:

  "Perhaps I did, per­haps I didn't. How do you know?"

  "Well, I know. It isn't any mat­ter how I know."