World Enough (And Time)

by Edmund Jorgensen

  “Alfred, thank goodness. I know the office doesn’t open officially for another two minutes, but I need your help. Jeremiah, do you mind if I jump the line and go first? This is bad,” said Mr. Porter, offering up the towel-wrapped bundle as evidence of the situation’s badness. “Very, very bad. By the way, Jeremiah, did you know they were calling you to the Financial Office?”

  “Actually, Mr. Porter,” Reynolds said, “I’m just on my way out. But Jeremiah is working in the office now. He’ll sort you out.”

  “Jeremiah?” said Mr. Porter. He did not seem to be asking a question of Jeremiah, but rather the broader “Question of Jeremiah,” and he did not appear optimistic about the answer—the towel’s range of motion widened by a few millimeters.

  “But I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jeremiah reminded Reynolds, under his breath.

  “I have every confidence in you,” said Reynolds to Jeremiah. He smiled broadly, more in Mr. Porter’s direction than Jeremiah’s, and leaned in close to Jeremiah’s ear. “And so must our guests,” he whispered, “if they are to be satisfied with your service.”

  Reynolds retreated and gave Jeremiah a significant look and a subtle toss of his head towards the dubious Mr. Porter. Jeremiah would not have described the look on Mr. Porter’s face as “satisfied,” and he could imagine several plausible futures where a continued lack of belief in Jeremiah’s abilities could translate into Mr. Porter’s full and unequivocal dissatisfaction. So he smiled as broadly as he was able and unlocked the door.

  “After you, Mr. Porter,” Jeremiah said. “Let’s have a look at what’s under that towel.” Despite his deep misgivings, Jeremiah flattered himself that Reynolds himself could not have delivered the line more naturally. Nor could a dermatologist, for that matter. Or a director of adult waves. Luckily Mr. Porter still appeared too preoccupied with questions of Jeremiah’s competence to pick up on any such untoward resonances.

  Mr. Porter entered the office, alternating suspicious looks at Jeremiah with wistful gazes towards Reynolds, who meanwhile gave free rein to the pressing appointments pulling the other end of his mustache and took his cheery leave. Sensing Mr. Porter’s movement, the lights of the office came up. Jeremiah followed and shut the door.

  The Office of Guest Services and Event Planning was decorated in the same stew of 20th- and 21st-century styles as all the guest areas of the Einstein IV. In the back of the room a brass lantern, swinging in the climate-controlled breeze, cast its faux flicker through a curtain of colored beads, dappling the walls. Only the coffee and tea synthesizer was incongruously modern—it looked to have been recently repaired and not yet re-covered with a period-appropriate vending machine facade. Jeremiah saw Mr. Porter give the synthesizer a once over—no doubt considering a quick cuppa to steady his nerves—before deciding that he had not yet sunk so low into addiction as to accept synthed java.

  “So you’re Reynolds now?” Mr. Porter asked as he and Jeremiah walked to their respective sides of the desk.

  In the interest of brevity, Jeremiah jumped past any legal or philosophical questions of function vs. identity. “Yes,” he said.

  “I see. So I should just—take a ticket?” Mr. Porter asked when Jeremiah had finished. “Like always?” The question seemed as much a test as a request for guidance.

  “Just like always,” said Jeremiah.

  Watching Jeremiah carefully, as if he might be waved off at any moment, Mr. Porter reached to his left and took a ticket from the dispenser next to the desk. Immediately a button, positioned behind the desk where it was visible only to Jeremiah, began to blink red. Mostly sure that he was not summoning The Specimen from security or dropping the ship’s shielding against lethal space debris, Jeremiah pushed it.

  “Now serving number,” said a female robotic voice from hidden speakers. “ONE,” finished a recorded male, in a tone that made it clear no nonsense would be brooked from numbers two or higher until the urgent matter of number one had been cleared up. And just like that, the first rule was in the books.

  “Hello Mr. Porter,” Jeremiah said, making short work of rule number two, “how may I help you today?” Everyone was sticking to their parts, and Jeremiah felt a meager swell of confidence.

  “This is embarrassing,” said Mr. Porter. “I was in the bath, playing the backgammon program—I have to beat Wendstrom at least once before we get home—and I dropped it into the water. Just for a second! I fished it right out and dried it off, but now it won’t stop doing this.” He unwrapped the towel to reveal a PED upon whose dark screen glowing white letters winked on and off endlessly, spelling out “12:00 A.M.”

  Jeremiah’s meager confidence vanished in a puff. He knew exactly one thing about the Einstein IV’s PEDs, which was that they seemed to have something against him personally. Back on the red leg of the journey his own had started reporting an occasional error of type 12, which had progressed naturally into an error of type 13 several times per day, then an error of type 14 every few minutes, and then—in a display of astonishingly hostile escalation—a fatal error of type 255 every time Jeremiah dared so much as touch the screen. Not realizing back then that he could have wrapped it in a towel and brought it to Reynolds at the Guest Services desk, Jeremiah had instead buried the PED at the back of his sock drawer, where he assumed it was still waiting for the day he reached back for the argyles he never wore so it could pounce on him with an error of even more impressive magnitude and severity. Jeremiah was about to suggest that Mr. Porter’s best course of action might be to sprint down the hall and see if by any stretch he could still catch Reynolds—but then he remembered the playbook.

  Jeremiah opened the drawer of the desk, and there it was, precisely as Reynolds had promised: a black and battered binder. Gently, almost reverently, Jeremiah lifted the object from the drawer, feeling in its heft the romance, the antiquity, the sheer physicality of the thing. He had not even seen a three-ring binder since—well, he supposed since he had taken Lana antiquing in the stores of Detroit, which felt like a lifetime ago. The cover was original cardboard laminated with a vintage black plastic, which had faded in some areas to a dark gray and was coming apart at the edges. The metalwork of the binder itself—also apparently original—showed spots of green corrosion and others that looked like salt deposits. The paper of the pages, when Jeremiah swung the cover open, had yellowed over the years to a wise shade. Jeremiah truly felt that he held in his hands a tome, a collection of experience and tough lessons learned the hard way, all wrapped up as a gift for posterity—which was to say, a gift for Jeremiah himself.

  After this powerful first impression Jeremiah could not doubt that he would find the answer he sought within, and there it was, right on the first page of the contents:

  1. Personal Entertainment Devices ... D) Time / Date ... i) Blinking 12:00 A.M. p. 35-6

  Jeremiah flipped to page 35 and skimmed the contents.

  “Hand the beast over for just a moment, if you would,” he said to Mr. Porter. “Let’s see, up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B and finally: A.”

  The screen flickered once, twice, and then settled into a steady display of “9:08 a.m.”

  “It seems to be behaving just fine now,” said Jeremiah. He handed the PED back before it had a chance to change its mind. “Is there anything else?”

  Mr. Porter, awe-struck, shook his head. It seemed all he could do to take a mint from the bowl—which, Jeremiah noted in passing, could use some topping up.

  “Then thank you for visiting the Guest Services Desk,” Jeremiah said, “and have a Golden Worldlines day.”

  As Mr. Porter made his exit, the clock on the wall ticked over to 9:09. The dust had not even settled on the door before the morning’s next customer came through it, holding another PED—this one uncovered.

  “Now serving number … TWO.”

  “This is embarrassing,” said Mrs. Telluride, “but I can’t get my Personally Entertaining Device to lower the volume. Also, did you know they were calli
ng you to the Financial Office earlier? And where’s Reynolds?”

  * * *

  “Now serving number … FOUR.”

  “Jeremiah?” Mr. Morton said. “What are you doing here? Ah, yes? Well: bad luck for you. Anyway, this is embarrassing—it’s stuck on mute.”

  * * *

  “Now serving number … EIGHT.”

  “I heard what happened in the Financial Office, Jeremiah. That sounds terrible. Anyway, I need to clear the viewing history on my PED before my wife sees this.”

  * * *

  “Now serving number … FIFTEEN.”

  “You know, I don’t ever remember choosing Spanish subtitles on my PED to begin with.”

  * * *

  “Now serving number … TWENTY-ONE.”

  “You see? Green. Everything on the PED is green. Even the faces of the people are green. It’s like every wave I watch is about Martians.”

  * * *

  Customer number 25, also known as Mrs. Biltmore, was making her Highly Satisfied way out of the office when she nearly bumped into Alfred Reynolds, who, having averted collision, held the door for her.

  “Thank you, Alfred,” she said. “I was worried when it wasn’t you behind the desk, but this nice young man fixed my PED so it plays at regular speed again. Now I don’t have to worry about having a heart attack every time I put on my Senior Exercise Program.”

  “You look like a natural there behind the desk,” Reynolds said to Jeremiah after Mrs. Biltmore had gone. “To the manner born. And 25 tickets already! How did the first morning go?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” said Jeremiah, trying not to sound too nonchalant.

  “Good, good. How are the mints holding up?”

  “I’ve refilled the dish twice.”

  “Like I said, a natural.” Pressing matters had already started tugging at Reynolds’s mustache again, and he responded in kind. “I’m off, then. I’ll check in on you again at five o’clock.”

  “Oh,” said Jeremiah. “Do you have to run? I thought maybe we could talk shop for a few minutes.”

  “Knock knock!” shouted someone from the hall, without actually knocking.

  Before either Reynolds or Jeremiah could answer, a head poked through the door. It was a perfectly round head, like the head of a snowman, topped with an inch of fluffy white hair. It was unfortunate that the Powers that Be had plopped such a head on top of a man as nice as Clarence Drinkwater in the first place—but it was downright tragic that afterwards they had not found it in their hearts to endow him with a nose that bore less resemblance to a carrot.

  “Hello Alfred,” said Mr. Drinkwater, still keeping his body in the hall. “Hello Jeremiah—they told me you were working here now. I’ve actually come to ask for your help with something. Did I catch you in time? I can come back after lunch if I’m too late.”

  Reynolds looked at Jeremiah, who looked at the clock, which now read 12:01. For a moment Jeremiah hesitated—he had already missed breakfast in the line of duty, and he was hungry. But then he thought he saw a glimmer of nascent respect in Reynolds’s eyes, and in response a swell of pride rose in Jeremiah’s chest. Not only was this “working for a living” thing not nearly as bad as folks had made it out to be, but he was going to seize this opportunity to go above and beyond. And besides, with the playbook at his side, how long could it take to straighten out one more misbehaving PED?

  “Of course not, Mr. Drinkwater,” Jeremiah said. “Please come in. Take a number and a seat.”

  Mr. Drinkwater waddled in, puffing slightly as he coordinated his big round belly and expansive hips and thighs, the motions of which were rendered semi-independent by his narrowish waist. This neck-down resemblance to two stacked spheres of increasing size did not do much to mitigate his unfortunate resonance with all things snowman, and Jeremiah reflected that perhaps Mr. Drinkwater had not done himself a great service earlier that morning by choosing to accessorize his usual costume with a turquoise wool scarf.

  Jeremiah was not the only one to notice the scarf: Reynolds did too, and seemed suddenly uncomfortable about the similarity, in material and style, that it bore to his turquoise blue wool sweater—which sweater, when Mr. Drinkwater saw it, appeared to kindle the very same awkwardness in him.

  “Cold on the ship these days,” Mr. Drinkwater said, half acknowledging his scarf.

  “Isn’t it?” said Reynolds, admitting the existence of his sweater in the same fraction. “The climate is on the fritz—they say they won’t have it fixed before we dock. Well, Jeremiah seems to have things well in hand, and I have some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  As Reynolds did so, Jeremiah could not help but notice that Mr. Drinkwater was not carrying a PED, or even a PED-shaped bundle wrapped in a towel. In fact he was not carrying anything, which made Jeremiah nervous. He touched the playbook like a talisman.

  “This is actually more of a personal matter,” said Mr. Drinkwater, “but should I still take a ticket? Pad the numbers a bit?”

  “Sure,” said Jeremiah, all nerves vanishing. Mr. Drinkwater’s visit was not a brewing failure, and not even another notch on the PED repairman belt—this was a windfall, a personal visit for which Jeremiah would earn professional credit.

  “Now serving number … TWENTY-SIX.”

  “Hello Mr. Drinkwater,” Jeremiah said. “How may I help you today? Personally, I mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to talk to you for a while, but it seems whenever we cross paths in the dining room, Mrs. Abdurov is within earshot.”

  At the mention of Mrs. Abdurov, Jeremiah’s nerves reasserted themselves ever so slightly, but he shrugged them off.

  “I suppose it’s obvious,” continued Mr. Drinkwater, “so I might as well just come out with it. I’m in love with Mrs. Abdurov, and I want you to teach me the secrets of seduction.”

  Jeremiah had always considered himself a firm believer in the principle of “to each his own”—especially where matters of the heart were concerned. But Mr. Drinkwater’s revelation tested the firmness of Jeremiah’s conviction.

  Lyuba Abdurov was an impressive lady, and no doubt about it—but an F5 tornado ripping through the Southwest’s oldest continuously operating cactus farm would have been just as impressive, about as sentimental, and almost as prickly. So how was it that someone like Mr. Drinkwater had fallen in love with her? Had he seen some softer side, revealed only in private? Detected some romantic streak hidden behind the whirlwind? Or was this merely a case of attraction between opposites so extreme that Guinness required immediate notification?

  But as much as Jeremiah would have taken a friendly and anthropological interest in digging into these questions, there was another matter to attend to first—less an exploration of the deep mysteries of the human heart, and more a pressing practical problem.

  “But Mr. Drinkwater,” Jeremiah said, “I don’t know the secrets of seduction.”

  “Don’t be modest, Jeremiah. All the ladies are in love with you—even Mrs. Abdurov pays you a lot of attention.”

  “Maybe they see me as a kind of son figure—or grandson figure—but that’s just a question of age. Seduction has nothing to do with it.”

  “And then there’s that waitress, Katherine. She’s always flirting with you.”

  “Oh,” said Jeremiah, blushing a bit, “every now and again, perhaps. Against her better judgment.”

  “You have to help me, Jeremiah,” said Mr. Drinkwater. “If I can’t win Mrs. Abdurov’s heart, my own won’t go on beating. Surely you can think of something?”

  “Well,” asked Jeremiah, wracking his brain, “have you tried just talking to her?”

  “Yes, but it seems to make her angry.”

  “Do you have any shared interests?”

  Mr. Drinkwater thought for a moment and brightened.

  “We both like seafood.”

  “Why don’t you invite her for a seafood dinner when we’re back on Earth?”

  “No,�
� said Mr. Drinkwater. “That’s too late. I have to win her heart before we dock.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Do you know why Mrs. Abdurov is on the E4?” Mr. Drinkwater asked.

  “Hmm,” said Jeremiah. He knew quite well, of course, that Mrs. Abdurov was one of the majority—the poor souls who were on the cruise to give medical science an extra eighteen years to catch up with their rare and degenerative diseases—but the Golden Unwritten Rule of the E4 was that all passengers pretend mutual ignorance concerning the misfortunes that had driven them there. As far as Polite Ship Society was concerned, an interstellar round trip at relativistic speeds was something one undertook for the larkiest of reasons, and if one possessed any knowledge to the contrary regarding one’s shipmates, one had best keep it to oneself. Jeremiah was even less sure about the etiquette of admitting such knowledge in his new circumstances as, technically, the help.

  “Of course you do,” said Mr. Drinkwater. “Everyone knows. Well, she promised her granddaughter Clara—who was eight years old when we left Earth—that she’d live to dance at her wedding, and now it seems her granddaughter has met a nice Russian man and they’re going to be married, so Mrs. Abdurov will be heading straight to Moscow when we dock. I have to go with her, Jeremiah. I have to be the man to dance with her at that wedding—which means she has to be in love with me by the time we arrive on Earth.”

  “Then I guess we don’t have much time,” said Jeremiah. “Let’s see, I remember seeing a wave once that said people fell in love in three different ways. Some wanted to be romanced, some entranced, and some impressed. I’m thinking Mrs. Abdurov is more of the ‘impress me’ type.”