I had little in the way of money or property. But for services rendered, I received a paragraph of Montaigne, a saying ascribed to Socrates, and ten fragmentary lines by Anacreon.
An unexpected customer was Mr. Lind, who came stomping into the Mnemone’s office one crisp winter morning. Mr. Lind was short, red-faced, and easily moved to anger. He was the most successful farmer in the area, a man of no-nonsense who believed only in what he could see and touch. He was the last man whom you’d ever expect to buy the Mnemone’s wares. Even a policeman would have been a more likely prospect.
“Well, well,” Lind began, rubbing his hands briskly together. “I’ve heard about you and your invisible merchandise.”
“And I’ve heard about you,” the Mnemone said, with a touch of malice to his voice. “Do you have business with me?”
“Yes, by God, I do!” Lind cried. “I want to buy some of your fancy old words.”
“I am genuinely surprised,” the Mnemone said. “Who would ever have dreamed of finding a law-abiding citizen like yourself in a situation like this, buying goods which are not only invisible, but illegal as well!”
“It’s not my choice,” Lind said. “I have come here only to please my wife, who is not well these days.”
“Not well? I’m not surprised,” the Mnemone said. “An ox would sicken under the workload you give her.”
“Man, that’s no concern of yours!” Lind said furiously.
“But it is,” the Mnemone said. “In my profession we do not give out words at random. We fit our lines to the recipient. Sometimes we find nothing appropriate, and therefore sell nothing at all.”
“I thought you sold your wares to all buyers.”
“You have been misinformed. I know a Pindaric ode I would not sell to you for any price.”
“Man, you can’t talk to me that way!”
“I speak as I please. You are free to take your business somewhere else.”
Mr. Lind glowered and pouted and sulked, but there was nothing he could do. At last he said, “I didn’t mean to lose my temper. Will you sell me something for my wife? Last week was her birthday, but I didn’t remember it until just now.”
“You are a pretty fellow,” the Mnemone said. “As sentimental as a mink, and almost as loving as a shark! Why come to me for her present? Wouldn’t a sturdy butter churn be more suitable?”
“No, not so,” Lind said, his voice flat and quiet. “She lies in bed this past month and barely eats. I think she is dying.”
“And she asked for words of mine?”
“She asked me to bring her something pretty.”
The Mnemone nodded. “Dying! Well, I’ll offer no condolences to the man who drove her to the grave, and I’ve not much sympathy for the woman who picked a creature like you. But I do have something she will like, a gaudy thing that will ease her passing. It’ll cost you a mere thousand dollars.”
“God in heaven, man! Have you nothing cheaper?”
“Of course I have,” the Mnemone said. “I have a decent little comic poem in Scots dialect with the middle gone from it; yours for two hundred dollars. And I have one stanza of a commemorative ode to General Kitchener which you can have for ten dollars.”
“Is there nothing else?”
“Not for you.”
“Well . . . I’ll take the thousand dollar item,” Lind said. “Yes, by God, I will! Sara is worth every penny of it!”
“Handsomely said, albeit tardily. Now pay attention. Here it is.”
The Mnemone leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to recite. Lind listened, his face tense with concentration. And I also listened, cursing my untrained memory and praying that I would not be ordered from the room.
It was a long poem, and very strange and beautiful. I still possess it all. But what comes most often to my mind are the lines
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
We are men: queer beasts with strange appetites. Who would have imagined us to possess a thirst for the ineffable? What was the hunger that could lead a man to exchange three bushels of corn for a single saying of the Gnostics? To feast on the spiritual—this seems to be what men must do; but who could have imagined it of us? Who would have thought us sufferers of malnutrition because we had no Plato? Can a man grow sickly from lack of Plutarch, or die from an Aristotle deficiency?
I cannot deny it. I myself have seen the results of abruptly withdrawing an addict from Strindberg.
Our past is a necessary part of us, and to take away that part is to mutilate us irreparably. I know a man who achieved courage only after he was told of Epaminondas, and a woman who became beautiful only after she heard of Aphrodite.
The Mnemone had a natural enemy in our schoolteacher, Mr. Vich, who taught the authorized version of all things. The Mnemone also had an enemy in Father Dulces, who ministered to our spiritual needs in the Universal Patriotic Church of America.
The Mnemone defied both of our authorities. He told us that many of the things they taught us were false, both in content and in ascription, or were perversions of famous sayings, rephrased to say the opposite of the original author’s intention. The Mnemone struck at the very foundations of our civilization when he denied the validity of the following sayings:
—Most men lead lives of quiet aspiration.
—The unexamined life is most worth living.
—Know thyself within approved limits.
We listened to the Mnemone, we considered what he told us. Slowly, painfully, we began to think again, to reason, to examine things for ourselves. And when we did this, we also began to hope.
And then one day, quite suddenly, the end came. Three men entered our village. They wore gray uniforms with brass insignia. Their faces were blank and broad, and they walked stiffly in heavy black boots. They went everywhere together, and they always stood very close to one another. They asked no questions. They spoke to no one. They knew exactly where the Mnemone lived, and they consulted a map and then walked directly there.
They were in Smith’s room for perhaps ten minutes.
Then the three policemen came out again into the street, all three of them walking together like one man. Their eyes darted right and left; they seemed frightened. They left our village quickly.
We buried Smith on a rise of land overlooking the valley, near the place where he had first quoted William James, among late-blooming flowers which had the glances of children and the mouths of old men.
Mrs. Blake, in a most untypical gesture, has named her latest-bom Cicero. Mr. Lind refers to his apple orchard as Xanadu. I myself have become an avowed Zoroastrian, entirely on faith, since I know nothing about that religion except that it directs a man to speak the truth and shoot the arrow straight.
But these are futile gestures. The truth is, we have lost Xanadu irretrievably, lost Cicero, lost Zoroaster. And what else have we lost? What great battles were fought, cities built, jungles conquered? What songs were sung, what dreams were dreamed? We see it now, too late, that our intelligence is a plant which must be rooted in the rich fields of the past.
In brief, our collective memories, the richest part of us, have been taken away, and we are poor indeed. In return for castles of the mind, our rulers have given us mud hovels palpable to the touch; a bad exchange for us.
The Mnemone, by official proclamation, never existed. By fiat he is ranked as an inexplicable dream or delusion—like Cicero.
And I who write these lines, I too will soon cease to exist. Like Cicero and the Mnemone, my reality will also be proscribed.
Nothing will help me: the truth is too fragile, it shatters too easily in the iron hands of our rulers. I shall not be revenged. I shall not even be remembered. For if the great Zoroaster himself could be reduced to a single rememberer, and that one killed, then what hope is there for me?
Generation of cows! Sheep! Pigs! We have not even the spirit of a goat! If Epaminondas was a man, if Achilles
was a man, if Socrates was a man, then are we also men?
PLAGUE CIRCUIT
Inexperienced travelers usually try to materialize in perfect concealment. They come stumbling out of broom closets, storerooms, phone booths, or whatever else the situation affords, hoping desperately that they’ve made a smooth transition. And inevitably, such behavior only calls attention to them—the very thing they wanted to avoid. But for a seasoned traveler like me, the thing was simple. My destination was the New York of August 1988. I chose the evening rush hour, and materialized in the middle of a Times Square crowd.
It calls for a certain knack, of course. You can’t just appear. You have to be moving as soon as you materialize, head slightly bent and shoulders hunched, a glassy look in your eye. That way, no one notices you.
I made it perfectly, suitcase in hand, and hurried into a downtown local. I exited in Sheridan Square and walked to Washington Square Park.
The location I picked for myself was near a large cistern not far from the Washington Square arch. I set down my suitcase and clapped my hands together briskly. Several people looked at me. I chanted, “Gather around, friends, gather around and hear the opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t be bashful, step up and hear the good news.”
A small crowd began to form. A young man called out, “Hey, whatcha selling?” I smiled at him but did not answer. I wasn’t going into my pitch until I had a fair-sized audience.
I continued my patter. “Come close, friends, come close and hear the big news. This is what you’ve been waiting for, friends, the great opportunity, the last chance! Don’t let it pass you by!”
Soon I had collected about thirty people. I decided that was enough for a start.
“Good citizens of New York,” I said. “I wish to speak to you about the strange disease which has suddenly come into your lives, the epidemic popularly called the Blue Plague. All of you must know by now that there is no cure for this wholesale killer. I realize that your doctors continue to assure you that research is progressing, that a breakthrough can be expected momentarily, that a method of treatment will infallibly be discovered soon. But the fact is, they have found no serum, no antibody, no specific whatsoever for the Blue Plague. How could they? They have not been able to discover the cause of the disease, much less how to stop it. To date all they have produced are unworkable and contradictory theories. Due to the rapid spread, extreme virulence and unknown properties of the disease, we must anticipate that the doctors will be unable to produce a cure in time to assist you, the afflicted. You must expect what has been true of all epidemics throughout the recorded history of the world: that despite all attempts at treatment and control, the disease will continue to rage unchecked until it has exhausted itself or run out of victims.”
Someone in the crowd laughed, and several people were grinning. I put this down to hysteria, and went on.
“What is to be done, then? Are you to remain the passive victims of the plague, seduced into quietness by people who will not reveal to you the true state of hopelessness? Or will you consent to try something new, something that comes without the seal of approval of a discredited politico-medical authority?”
By now I had a crowd of about fifty people. Quickly I ended my pitch.
“Your doctors can’t protect you from the Blue Plague, my friends, but I can!”
Quickly I opened my suitcase and took out a handful of large yellow capsules.
“This is the drug that will conquer the Blue Plague, my friends. There is no time to explain how I came by it, or how it works. Nor will I engage in scientific double-talk. But I will give concrete proof instead.”
The crowd became silent and attentive. Now I knew that I had them.
“As proof,” I shouted, “bring me a diseased person. Bring me ten! If there is still life in them, I undertake to cure them within seconds of their swallowing this capsule! Bring them up here, friends! I will cure any man, woman, or child suffering from the Blue Plague!”
The silence held for a second more; then the crowd broke into laughter and applause. Astonished, I listened to the comments on all sides of me.
“College stunt?”
“He’s kinda old to be a hippy.”
“I bet he’s doing it for some TV show.”
“Hey, mister, what’s the gag?”
I was too shocked to attempt an answer. I simply stood there with my suitcase at my feet and the capsules in my hand. I hadn’t made a single sale in this plague city! I couldn’t even give my drugs away! It was unthinkable. The crowd dispersed, all except for one girl.
“What kind of a stunt is this?” she asked me.
“Stunt?”
“It’s a publicity stunt of some kind, isn’t it? Are you opening a restaurant or a boutique? Tell me about it. Maybe I can arrange some coverage.”
I put the handful of capsules into my jacket pocket. The girl said, “Look, I work on a Village newspaper. We go for weird put-ons. Tell me about it.”
She was quite a pretty girl. I judged her to be in her mid-twenties, slender, brown-haired and brown-eyed. Her self-confidence struck me as pathetic.
“This is no trick,” I told her. “If you people haven’t the sense to take precautions against the plague—”
“What plague?” she asked me.
“The Blue Plague. The plague that’s sweeping through New York.”
“Look, pal,” she said, “there’s no plague in New York, not blue, black, yellow, or any other kind. Now just what is this stunt of yours, really?”
“No plague?” I asked her. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Perhaps they’re concealing it from the people,” I said. “Though that would be difficult. Five to ten thousand deaths a day couldn’t be kept out of the newspapers . . . This is August 1988, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Hey,” she said, “you look a little pale. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, although I wasn’t.
“Maybe you’d better sit down.”
She walked with me to a park bench. It had suddenly struck me that perhaps I had gotten the year wrong. Perhaps the company had actually meant 1990 or 1998. If that was true, I had cost them a good deal in time-travel fees, and had possibly invalidated my peddlers license by trying to sell drugs in a non-disaster area.
I took out my wallet and removed the small pamphlet entitled The Plague Circuit. This pamphlet lists all the great plague years, type of plague, percentage of population killed, and other pertinent data. With considerable relief I saw that I was in the right place at the right time. New York, in August of 1988, was supposed to be deep in the Blue Plague.
“The Plague Circuit?” she asked, reading over my shoulder. “What is that?”
I should have moved away from her. I should even have dematerialized. The company has strict rules about salesmen giving out anything but the information we’re taught to give out in the training course. But now I didn’t care. Suddenly I wanted to talk to this pretty bright-haired girl in her quaint clothing, sitting in the sunshine with me in a doomed city.
“The Plague Circuit,” I said, “is a list of the years and places that have had major plagues, or will have them. Like the Great Plague at Constantinople in 1346, or the London Plague of 1664.”
“I suppose you were at those?”
“Yes. I was sent by my company, Temporal Medical Services. Among other things, we’re licensed to sell drugs in disaster areas.”
“Then you’re from some place in the future where they have time travel?”
“Yes.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “You go around peddling pills in disaster areas. Really, you don’t look like the sort of person who makes a living out of other people’s misery.”
She didn’t know the half of it, and I wasn’t going to tell her. “It’s necessary work,” I said.
“Anyhow,” she said, “you’ve overlooked the fact that there’s no plague here.”
�
�Something must have gone wrong,” I said. “I have an advance man who’s supposed to scout these things out for me.”
“Maybe he got lost in the time stream or something.”
She was enjoying herself. For my part I found the whole thing ghastly. This girl, unless she was one of the fortunate few, would not survive the plague. But I also found it fascinating to talk to her. This was the first time I had ever had a conversation with a plague victim.
She said, “Well, it’s been nice talking to you. Frankly, I don’t know if I can use your story.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.” I took a handful of capsules from my pocket. “Please take these.”
“Oh really now—”
“I’m serious. They’re for you and your family. Please keep them. They’ll be useful, you’ll see.”
“All right, thank you very much. Happy time-traveling.”
I watched her walk away. As she turned a corner I thought I saw her drop the capsules. But I couldn’t be sure.
I sat down on a park bench and waited.
It was close to midnight before George came. Furiously I said, “What happened? I made a damned fool of myself. There isn’t any plague here!”
“Take it easy,” George said. “I had expected to be here a week ago, but the company got a government directive to cancel everything for one year. Then they were told to cancel the cancellation and proceed as planned.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about the delay?” I asked.
“You should have been notified. But everything became confused. I really am sorry. But we can begin now.”
“Do we really have to?” I asked.
“Have to what?”
“You know,” I said.
He stared at me. “What’s the matter with you? You weren’t like this in London.”
“But that was in 1664. This is 1988. It’s closer to our own time. And these people seem more—human.”
“I hope you haven’t been fraternizing,” George said.
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