“And now he plants the holy seed,
That grows in Mommo’s womb,
And now a little sibling comes—”
There is an unpleasant and unscheduled interruption. A woman rushes toward Mattern and Gortman in the corridor. She is young, untidy, wearing only a flimsy gray wrap; her hair is loose; she is well along in pregnancy. “Help!” she shrieks. “My husband’s gone flippo!” She hurls herself, trembling, into Gortman’s arms. The visitor looks bewildered.
Behind her there runs a man in his early twenties, haggard, bloodshot eyes. He carries a fabricator torch whose tip glows with heat. “Goddam bitch,” he mumbles. “Allatime babies! Seven babies already and now number eight and I gonna go off my head!” Mattern is appalled. He pulls the woman away from Gortman and shoves the visitor through the door of the school.
“Tell them there’s a flippo out here,” Mattern says. “Get help, fast!” He is furious that Gortman should witness so atypical a scene, and wishes to get him away from it.
The trembling girl cowers behind Mattern. Quietly, Mattern says, “Let’s be reasonable, young man. You’ve spent your whole life in urbmons, haven’t you? You understand that it’s blessed to create. Why do you suddenly repudiate the principles on which—”
“Get the hell away from her or I gonna burn you too!”
The young man feints with the torch, straight at Mattern’s face. Mattern feels the heat and flinches. The young man swipes past him at the woman. She leaps away, but she is clumsy with girth, and the torch slices her garment. Pale white flesh is exposed with a brilliant burn-streak down it. She cups her jutting belly and falls, screaming. The young man jostles Mattern aside and prepares to thrust the torch into her side. Mattern tries to seize his arm. He deflects the torch; it chars the floor. The young man, cursing, drops it and throws himself on Mattern, pounding in frenzy with his fists. “Help me!” Mattern calls. “Help!”
Into the corridor erupt dozens of schoolchildren. They are between eight and eleven years old, and they continue to sing their hymn as they pour forth. They pull Mattern’s assailant away. Swiftly, smoothly, they cover him with their bodies. He can dimly be seen beneath the flailing, thrashing mass. Dozens more pour from the schoolroom and join the heap. A siren wails. A whistle blows. The teacher’s amplified voice booms, “The police are here! Everyone off!”
Four men in uniform have arrived. They survey the situation. The injured woman lies groaning, rubbing her burn. The insane man is unconscious; his face is bloody and one eye appears to be destroyed. “What happened?” a policeman asks. “Who are you?”
“Charles Mattern, sociocomputator, 799th level, Shanghai. The man’s a flippo. Attacked his pregnant wife with the torch. Attempted to attack me.”
The policemen haul the flippo to his feet. He sags in their midst. The police leader says, rattling the words into one another, “Guilty of atrocious assault on woman of childbearing years currently carrying unborn life, dangerous antisocial tendencies, by virtue of authority vested in me I pronounce sentence of erasure, carry out immediately. Down the chute with the bastard, boys!” They haul the flippo away. Medics arrive to care for the woman. The children, once again singing, return to the classroom. Nicanor Gortman looks dazed and shaken. Mattern seizes his arm and whispers fiercely, “All right, those things happen sometimes. But it was a billion to one against having it happen where you’d see it! It isn’t typical! It isn’t typical!”
They enter the classroom.
The sun is setting. The western face of the neighboring urban monad is streaked with red. Nicanor Gortman sits quietly at dinner with the members of the Mattern family. The children, voices tumbling one over another, talk of their day at school. The evening news comes on the screen; the announcer mentions the unfortunate event on the 108th floor. “The mother was not seriously injured,” he says, “and no harm came to her unborn child.” Principessa murmurs, “Bless God.” After dinner Mattern requests copies of his most recent technical papers from the data terminal and gives them to Gortman to read at his leisure. Gortman thanks him.
“You look tired,” Mattern says.
“It was a busy day. And a rewarding one.”
“Yes. We really traveled, didn’t we?”
Mattern is tired too. They have visited nearly three dozen levels already; he has shown Gortman town meetings, fertility clinics, religious services, business offices. Tomorrow there will be much more to see. Urban Monad 116 is a varied, complex community. And a happy one, Mattern tells himself firmly. We have a few little incidents from time to time, but we’re happy.
The children, one by one, go to sleep, charmingly kissing Daddo and Mommo and the visitor goodnight and running across the room, sweet nude little pixies, to their cots. The lights automatically dim. Mattern feels faintly depressed; the unpleasantness on 108 has spoiled what was otherwise an excellent day. Yet he still thinks that he has succeeded in helping Gortman see past the superficialities to the innate harmony and serenity of the urbmon way. And now he will allow the guest to experience for himself one of their techniques for minimizing the interpersonal conflicts that could be so destructive to their kind of society. Mattern rises.
“It’s nightwalking time,” he says. “I’ll go. You stay here…with Principessa.” He suspects that the visitor would appreciate some privacy.
Gortman looks uneasy.
“Go on,” Mattern says. “Enjoy yourself. People don’t deny happiness to people, here. We weed the selfish ones out early. Please. What I have is yours. Isn’t that so, Principessa?”
“Certainly,” she says.
Mattern steps out of the room, walks quickly down the corridor, enters the dropshaft and descends to the 770th floor. As he steps out he hears sudden angry shouts, and he stiffens, fearing that he will become involved in another nasty episode, but no one appears. He walks on. He passes the black door of a chute access door and shivers a little, and suddenly he thinks of the young man with the fabricator torch, and where that young man probably is now. And then, without warning, there swims up from memory the face of the brother he had once had who had gone down that same chute, the brother one year his senior, Jeffrey, the whiner, the stealer, Jeffrey the selfish, Jeffrey the unadaptable, Jeffrey who had had to be given to the chute. For an instant Mattern is stunned and sickened, and he seizes a doorknob in his dizziness.
The door opens. He goes in. He has never been a nightwalker on this floor before. Five children lie asleep in their cots, and on the sleeping platform are a man and a woman, both younger than he is, both asleep. Mattern removes his clothing and lies down on the woman’s left side. He touches her thigh, then her breast. She opens her eyes and he says, “Hello. Charles Mattern, 799.”
“Gina Burke,” she says. “My husband Lenny.”
Lenny awakens. He sees Mattern, nods, turns over, and returns to sleep. Mattern kisses Gina Burke lightly on the lips. She opens her arms to him. He shivers a little in his need, and sighs as she receives him. God bless, he thinks. It has been a happy day in 2381, and now it is over.
(NOW + n, NOW – n)
I am a dour and unsmiling sort of man who actually has a lively if dry sense of humor: no one survives decade after decade of professional writing, as I have, without a sense of humor. A lot of the things I find amusing, though, evidently don’t seem funny to other people, as I found out when I compiled an anthology of humorous science fiction and a number of startled reviewers commented on the dark tone of many of the stories.
So be it. Perhaps what I mistake for humor is actually irony, wit, or some other species of controlled and understated playfulness. I serve notice here that I think “(Now + n, Now – n)” is a comic story. Perhaps its comedy is one of tone rather than of situation; perhaps it’s really no funnier than Macbeth, and my perceptions of what humor is are all cockeyed. At least grant me that it’s a cleverly done time-paradox story, even if you don’t get any laughs out of it. I may not know what funny is, but I defy anyone to tell me that I don’t k
now my way around the twists and turns of time-travel.
I wrote this one in June of 1969, but it foreshadows the tone and sardonic approach I would be taking in the many stories I did in 1971, 1972, and 1973. Like the previous story in this book it was written at the request of Harry Harrison for his anthology Nova, and appeared in the second volume of that series.
——————
All had been so simple, so elegant, so profitable for ourselves. And then we met the lovely Selene and nearly were undone. She came into our lives during our regular transmission hour on Wednesday, October 7, 1987, between six and seven P.M. Central European Time. The money-making hour. I was in satisfactory contact with myself and also with myself. (Now – n) was due on the line first, and then I would hear from (now + n).
I was primed for some kind of trouble. I knew trouble was coming, because on Monday, while I was receiving messages from the me of Wednesday, there came an inexplicable and unexplained break in communications. As a result I did not get data from (now + n) concerning the prices of the stocks in our carryover portfolio from last week, and I was unable to take action. Two days have passed, and I am the me of Wednesday who failed to send the news to me of Monday, and I have no idea what will happen to interrupt contact. Least of all did I anticipate Selene.
In such dealings as ours no distractions are needed, sexual, otherwise. We must concentrate wholly. At any time there is steady low-level contact among ourselves; we feel one another’s reassuring presence. But transmission of data from self to self requires close attention.
I tell you my method. Then maybe you understand my trouble.
My business is investments. I do all my work at this same hour. At this hour it is midday in New York; the Big Board is still open. I can put through quick calls to my brokers when my time comes to buy or sell.
My office at the moment is the cocktail lounge known as the Celestial Room in the Henry VIII Hotel, south of the Thames. My office may be anywhere. All I need is a telephone. The Celestial Room is aptly named. The room orbits endlessly on a silent oiled track. Twittering sculptures in the so-called galactic mode drift through the air, scattering cascades of polychromed light upon those who sip drinks. Beyond the great picture windows of this supreme room lies the foggy darkness of the London evening, which I ignore. It is all the same to me, wherever I am: London, Nairobi, Karachi, Istanbul, Pittsburgh. I look only for an adequately comfortable environment, air that is safe to admit to one’s lungs, service in the style I demand, and a telephone line. The individual characteristics of an individual place do not move me. I am like the ten planets of our solar family: a perpetual traveler, but not a sightseer.
Myself who is (now – n) is ready to receive transmission from myself who is (now). “Go ahead, (now + n).” he tells me. (To him I am [now + n]. To myself I am [now]. Everything is relative. N is exactly forty-eight hours these days.]
“Here we go, (now – n).” I say to him.
I summon my strength by sipping at my drink. Chateau d’Yquem ’79 in a sleek Czech goblet. Sickly-sweet stuff; the waiter was aghast when I ordered it before dinner. Horreur! Quel aperitif! But the wine makes transmission easier. It greases the conduit, somehow. I am ready.
My table is a single elegant block of glittering irradiated crystal, iridescent, cunningly emitting shifting moire patterns. On the table, unfolded, lies today’s European edition of the Herald-Tribune. I lean forward. I take from my breast pocket a sheet of paper, the printout listing the securities I bought on Monday afternoon. Now I allow my eyes to roam the close-packed type of the market quotations in my newspaper. I linger for a long moment on the heading, so there will be no mistake: “Closing New York Prices, Tuesday, October 6.” To me they are yesterday’s prices. To (now – n) they are tomorrow’s prices. (Now – n) acknowledges that he is receiving a sharp image.
I am about to transmit these prices to the me of Monday. You follow the machination, now?
I scan and I select.
I search only for the stocks that move five percent or more in a single day. Whether they move up or move down is immaterial; motion is the only criterion, and we go short or long as the case demands. We need fast action because our maximum survey span is only ninety-six hours at present, counting the relay from (now + n) back to (now – n) by way of (now). We cannot afford to wait for leisurely capital gains to mature; we must cut our risks by going for the quick, violent swings, seizing our profits as they emerge. The swings have to be violent. Otherwise brokerage costs will eat up our gross.
I have no difficulty choosing the stocks whose prices I will transmit to Monday’s me. They are the stocks on the broker’s printout, the ones we have already bought; obviously (now – n) would not have bought them unless Wednesday’s me had told him about them, and now that I am Wednesday’s me, I must follow through. So I send:
Arizona Agrochemical, 79¼, + 6¾
Canadian Transmutation, 116, + 4¼
Commonwealth Dispersals, 12, – 1¾
Eastern Electric Energy, 41, + 2
Great Lakes Bionics, 66, + 3½
And so on through Western Offshore Corp., 99, – 8. Now I have transmitted to (now – n) a list of Tuesday’s top twenty high-percentage swingers. From his vantage point in Monday, (now – n) will begin to place orders, taking positions in all twenty stocks on Monday afternoon. I know that he has been successful, because the printout from my broker gives confirmations of all twenty purchases at what now are highly favorable prices.
(Now – n) then signs off for a while and (now + n) comes on. He is transmitting from Friday, October 9. He gives me Thursday’s closing prices on the same twenty stocks, from Arizona Agrochemical to Western Offshore. He already knows which of the twenty I will have chosen to sell today, but he pays me the compliment of not telling me; he merely gives me the prices. He signs off, and, in my role as (now), I make my decisions. I sell Canadian Transmutation, Great Lakes Bionics, and five others; I cover our short sale on Commonwealth Dispersals. The rest of the positions I leave undisturbed for the time being, since they will sell at better prices tomorrow, according to the word from (now + n). I can handle those when I am Friday’s me.
Today’s sequence is over.
In any given sequence—and we have been running about three a week—we commit no more than five or six million dollars. We wish to stay inconspicuous. Our pre-tax profit runs at about nine percent a week. Despite our network of tax havens in Ghana, Fiji, Grand Cayman, Liechtenstein, and Bolivia, through which our profits are funneled, we can bring down to net only about five percent a week on our entire capital. This keeps all three of us in a decent style and compounds prettily. Starting with $5,000 six years ago at the age of twenty-five, I have become one of the world’s wealthiest men, with no other advantages than intelligence, persistence, and extrasensory access to tomorrow’s stock prices.
It is time to deal with the next sequence. I must transmit to (now – n) the Tuesday prices of the stocks in the portfolio carried over from last week, so that he can make his decisions on what to sell. I know what he has sold, but it would spoil his sport to tip my hand. We treat ourselves fairly. After I have finished sending (now – n) those prices, (now + n) will come online again and will transmit to me an entirely new list of stocks in which I must take positions before Thursday morning’s New York opening. He will be able to realize profits in those on Friday. Thus we go from day to day, playing our shifting roles.
But this was the day on which Selene intersected our lives.
I had emptied my glass. I looked up to signal the waiter, and at that moment a slender, dark-haired girl, alone, entered the Celestial Room. She was tall, graceful, glorious. She was expensively clad in a clinging monomolecular wrap that shuttled through a complex program of wavelength-shifts, including a microsecond sweep of total transparency that dazzled the eye while still maintaining a degree of modesty. Her features were a match for her garment: wide-set glossy eyes, delicate nose, firm lips lightly outlined in green
. Her skin was extraordinarily pale. I could see no jewelry on her (why gild refined gold, why paint the lily?) but on her lovely left cheekbone I observed a small decorative band of ultra-violet paint, obviously chosen for visibility in the high-spectrum lighting of this unique room.
She conquered me. There was a mingling of traits in her that I found instantly irresistible: she seemed both shy and steel-strong, passionate and vulnerable, confident and ill at ease. She scanned the room, evidently looking for someone, not finding him. Her eyes met mine and lingered.
Somewhere in my cerebrum (now – n) said shrilly, as I had said on Monday, “I don’t read you, (now + n). I don’t read you!”
I paid no heed. I rose. I smiled to the girl, and beckoned her toward the empty chair at my table. I swept my Herald-Tribune to the floor. At certain times there are more important things than compounding one’s capital at five percent per week. She glowed gratefully at me, nodding, accepting my invitation.
When she was about twenty feet from me, I lost all contact with (now – n) and (now + n).
I don’t mean simply that there was an interruption in the transmission of words and data among us. I mean that I lost all sense of the presence of my earlier and later selves. That warm, wordless companionship, that ourselvesness, that harmony that I had known constantly since we had established our linkage five years ago, vanished as if switched off. On Monday, when contact with (now + n) broke, I still had had (now – n). Now I had no one.
I was terrifyingly alone, even as ordinary men are alone, but more alone than that, for I had known a fellowship beyond the reach of other mortals. The shock of separation was intense.
The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume 2: To the Dark Star: 1962-69 Page 38