World Enough (And Time)

by Edmund Jorgensen

  Just at that moment, before the viewers who had assembled in the middle of the hall could even gasp collectively, another disturbance compelled them to abandon the center of the passageway and hug the walls. Moving through the concourse like a presidential motorcade, eleven surprisingly spry butlers in Edwardian tails jogged in formation around a courtesy cart piloted by what appeared to be a linebacker sporting sunglasses and a chauffeur cap. Perched exquisitely on the back of the cart, wearing a smart white pants suit with matching pillbox hat and holding a pink clutch on her bended knees, rode Mrs. Mayflower.

  When she saw Jeremiah, she raised her hand, and the motorcade stopped short just in front of him. Two of the butlers slid aside to give her a clear line of sight.

  “You were right,” Mrs. Mayflower said to Jeremiah.

  This was not a phrase Jeremiah had heard much in recent memory, and he required clarification.

  “It was Uncle Dave Macon,” said Mrs. Mayflower.

  “You’re going back to Earth,” Jeremiah said, and Mrs. Mayflower pursed her lips in disappointment that he should have squandered the capital he had so recently acquired by spouting something so obvious. Her hand fluttered, as if she might signal her motorcade to drive on and end the conversation there. But it seemed she was in a celebratory mood.

  “I am going to establish my museum,” she said. “Through an intermediary I have acquired a swath of land near Montreal. He reports that the area is accessible, the climate sufficiently temperate, and the radiation levels low enough to allow for the preservation of the antiquities. The site inhabits a microclimate where the rain is unusually free of acid, so that the stones of the cloister that made up my courtyard may be exposed to the natural air. Construction will begin as soon as the stones can be transported from the Einstein IV, and if we do not welcome our first visitors sometime next year, I shall be greatly disappointed.”

  Her tone of voice suggested that for Mrs. Mayflower disappointment was not an unpleasant emotional state for her to occupy, but a state of activity, in which she planned to cause widespread and unpleasant emotional states in others.

  “Perhaps it is selfish of me not to take the collection even further into the future,” she said, as if Jeremiah had asked as much, “but recent, tragic events have made me realize that it is neither possible nor desirable to wrap these instruments in perfect safety. I want more than just to see them hang untouched in the perfect temperature and ideal humidity. I wish to hear them played. I believe I have earned that.”

  She frowned.

  “I hope I have earned that. Roosevelt, what is the meaning of this?”

  Roosevelt the butler had just arrived, staggering and panting as if he had once been the twelfth escort of the motorcade but, unable to maintain the pace set by the younger members of the cadre, had fallen off somewhere along the concourse. At the moment, despite Mrs. Mayflower’s question, he did not appear able to explicate his exertion to any degree beyond what was already evident. He bowed shakily instead, and when he came back up his face was red.

  “Do we have any Darjeeling?” Mrs. Mayflower asked him.

  “No, milady,” he said, with a pronounced breath in between the words.

  “Bring me some. And for God’s sake, don’t run.”

  “But the elevator is about to depart, milady,” Roosevelt said.

  Mrs. Mayflower narrowed her eyes slightly as she responded.

  “They will hold it.”

  Roosevelt bowed again and departed at a brisk but dignified pace.

  “As for you, young man,” said Mrs. Mayflower, turning back to Jeremiah, “the next time you are in the vicinity of Montreal, you are welcome to exercise the banjos.”

  She lifted her hand as if refusing a drink. With a fluid grace the detail of butlers slid back into formation and the courtesy cart started off with a jerk that did nothing to upset either Mrs. Mayflower’s equanimity or her pillbox hat.

  * * *

  Eventually Jeremiah would have broken out of the daze caused by Mrs. Mayflower’s visit and turned back around to face his friends, but without Appleton’s timely clearing of the throat, he might have been too late to catch sight of Katherine walking quickly away from him down the hall.

  “Wait!” he cried, but he did not wait himself to see if she would listen before running after her, which was just as well, as she did not stop until he had trotted up to her side.

  “What do you want?”

  “To see if you were all right,” said Jeremiah.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Because every credit I had in the world just went up in smoke with GW’s stock, and any chance to return to my job along with them?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for checking. Glad that things worked out for you—good luck with the ferrets. Goodbye.”

  She turned to leave again, but Jeremiah caught her hand.

  “Wait. Things haven’t worked out for me—not even remotely. Not if you turn around and walk out of my life.”

  “We have been over this, Jeremiah.”

  “Things are different now. We’re both free, we can do whatever we want.”

  “What are you proposing? That I come live with you while Appleton wrests your uncle’s credit from the ferrets, and then we live a life of travel and excitement, vowing to take in any stray iguanas or ferrets we happen upon in the meantime?”

  “That sounds pretty good to me,” said Jeremiah.

  “No, Jeremiah,” Katherine said, detaching her hand from his. “I don’t need to be kept—I don’t want to be kept.”

  “I’m not trying to keep you—I’m trying to keep myself with you.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Pretend that you’re not taking me in when I have just about enough credit to my name to buy a beer in that horrible bar?”

  “So what are you planning to do?” said Jeremiah. “Go with Battle? Go with Reynolds? Fine. Just tell me where, so I can get in touch with you.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going yet. Wherever I can find work. It’s not like I can go back on the E4 and get my old job back.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jeremiah. “Maybe you can.”

  He looked through the crowd in the hall until he spotted his target standing not far away.

  “Mr. Wendstrom!” he said. “Bernie!”

  Wendstrom’s general appearance had improved dramatically after some food, a night of chemically assisted slumber, and of course the joyous reunion with Carolus the Bold. Instead of a ghost he now looked like a man who had recovered from a grave illness just in time to barely survive being hit by a truck—and who was now beet-red with fury and biting his tongue.

  “What ith it?” Mr. Wendstrom asked, apparently unable to release his tongue long enough for lispless speech.

  “I know why you’re angry,” said Jeremiah. “Because Michael L. L. Gregory is still working on the last book, but since GW is bankrupt, you can’t take another cruise while he finishes. Right?”

  Hearing the tragedy of his situation summarized so succinctly was almost too much for Mr. Wendstrom. He nodded, but he was now biting down so hard that Jeremiah feared for the structural integrity of his tongue.

  “I know what you can do,” said Jeremiah. “Buy Golden Worldlines.”

  Slowly, slowly, like a dog releasing a favorite ball, Mr. Wendstrom eased his teeth from his tongue.

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “If I’ve got the credit.”

  He whipped out a communicator and began to speak into it in low tones. There was a moment of tense silence as he waited for the person on the other end.

  “Get it done,” said Mr. Wendstrom, full voice. “And put it all in Carolus’s name—just in case.”

  He hung up.

  “It seems that while we’ve been away,” he said, “my brand value has skyrocketed. A lot more winners up there than there used to be.” He looked with fondness at the blue marble through the glass ceiling, which had been showering credit upon h
im in his absence. “And GW is a distressed asset, so I’m getting it on the cheap.”

  “Congratulations,” said Jeremiah. “Now that you’re about to own GW, can Katherine have her old job back?”

  “Waiting tables?” said Wendstrom. “Wouldn’t you rather run the dining room instead?”

  “I—yes,” said Katherine.

  “What about me?” Jeremiah said. “Can I have my old job back too? Working in Guest Services?”

  Bernie Wendstrom looked him up and down, narrowing his eyes skeptically.

  “I don’t know, Jeremiah. I have some questions about your methods. I have this nagging suspicion that you got lucky.”

  “I had some luck at the end,” said Jeremiah, “but I had to stay in the game long enough to get lucky—which wasn’t easy. And I had the idea for you to buy GW. Anyway, I thought losers focus on methods. Winners see only results.”

  Wendstrom took a step back, as if to escape the explosion of his own faithless petard. Then he stopped and considered Jeremiah for a moment.

  “All right,” he said at last. “At the end of the day, you did smooth things over with Porter. Carolus the Bold is back where he belongs, and thanks to you he might still get to read Final Battle Royale before he dies. You’ve earned a shot—but just a shot. One chance to prove to me that you’re actually a winner, Jeremiah. Don’t blow it.”

  “I won’t. Thank you, Mr. Wendstrom. Appleton, let the ferrets keep the credit. Oh, and there’s a guy who I worked with on the E4—Luis—who was wrongly accused of stealing a veecar. He’s got some credit now and wants to start a repair shop with some friends. Would you take him under your wing and make sure things work out for him?”

  “Of course I will,” said Appleton, “but are you sure about this?”

  “Never surer.”

  “Never mind,” said Katherine. “I mean, thank you for your offer, Mr. Wendstrom, but on second thought I’ve decided I’m not going back to the E4.”

  “Me neither,” said Jeremiah. “But thank you, Mr. Wendstrom. Appleton, prepare yourself for battle—we’re going to wrest my birthright from the clutches of those grubby little weasels. I still want you to help Luis, though.”

  “Actually, Mr. Wendstrom, on third thought, I’d love to run the dining room,” said Katherine.

  “In that case,” said Jeremiah, “I would also—”

  “Damn it,” said Bernie Wendstrom, “would you two make up your minds? I have a business to run.”

  “Are you just going to go wherever I don’t?” Jeremiah asked Katherine.

  “Are you just going to go wherever I do?”

  “Of course I am. That’s what you do when you’re in love with someone.”

  “So now you’re in love with me?”

  “Of course I’m in love with you.”

  “We’ve never even kissed,” Katherine said.

  “A shocking omission that we should remedy at the very first opportunity.”

  “What if I don’t want you to be in love with me?”

  “Finally we’ve found something that’s none of your business,” said Jeremiah. “What is your business is deciding if you love me. Or even if you could, maybe, someday. Because I can’t possibly face a future where our worldlines diverge—not if there’s any chance, the remotest snowflake’s chance in hell, that maybe you might change your mind. It’s not like I’m asking you, right now, to go live with me on a lake instead of John Battle. Just let me stay on the same side of Albert Einstein.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” said Katherine, “I’m not moving in with John Battle. We’ve been on a few dates. Don’t grin so widely—you and I haven’t even been on one.”

  “Maybe not, but we solved a murder, liberated an iguana, and breathed together with the stars—and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Look, Katherine, all I’m asking is for a chance, and I’m willing to fight for it, but if you really want me out of your life, tell me right now—say those words—and I’ll never bother you again.”

  Jeremiah held his breath through the most anxious seconds in all of his life, Real or otherwise. But as five seconds became ten, and ten became 20, Katherine opened her mouth but did not say the fateful words.

  “That’s good enough for me,” Jeremiah said finally. “I’m going where you’re going. Which is?”

  A crowd was slowly gathering around them in the concourse. Henry and Sara Chapin had stopped to watch, as had Luis, Manny, Héctor, Adelfo, Humberto, Jesús and Carloses one through three, one of whom was nodding and giving the thumbs up. The security officer and bartender had just emerged from the office as well, the latter looking shaky and the former warmed up.

  “You,” said the security officer, pointing to Jeremiah, “you’re next.”

  “Just a minute,” Jeremiah called back. Then, to Katherine: “Say the word and we’ll stay here on Earth and make a go of this insane future that neither of us knows the first thing about.”

  “What if I’d rather go back to the E4?”

  “Then we’ll go back,” said Jeremiah. “I’ll help crazy rich people arrange romances and fix their PEDs and track down their missing iguanas, and you’ll serve them venison that tastes like oysters and oysters that taste like venison and brighten their long empty days immeasurably. And every day I’ll wake up and overflow with gratitude for whatever absurd chance in this cold universe brought me to you, while life on Earth gets weirder and weirder, and we fall further and further out of step with it, just an old-fashioned romance smeared in slow motion across the stars.”

  By now they were surrounded by spectators. Alistair Roof had taken a spot next to the Chapins. Porter was there, looking somewhat insane with tears in his eyes, above which both brows had been singed away. And there was Drinkwater, his arm linked with Mrs. Abdurov’s, who was smiling. Kimberly was clapping her hands in delight at the romance playing out in front of her, and Bradley was managing to keep his jealous fury simmering at a brooding intensity. Appleton had folded his bulging arms, but was smiling broadly with the air of a father whose son was finally wobbling down the street free of training wheels. Beside him, Alfred Reynolds looked pleased as punch to see the receding possibility of drinking said punch with John Battle every Christmas. And there was Heriberto, grinning like the mad genius it turned out he was, and Jack, mellow as a fall day in New England, and even Grubel, looking as sentimental as it was possible to look while being a possibly jobless bureaucrat and wearing lensless glasses. Here and there, patches of turquoise wool peeked through the crowd.

  “You,” said the security officer to Jeremiah again, “my office, now.”

  “Well?” said Jeremiah to Katherine. “What do you say?”

  “I need a minute to think,” she said.

  “She needs a minute to think,” said Jeremiah to the security officer.

  “60 seconds,” countered the security officer, squinting to show he meant business.

  Jeremiah waited in silence. It seemed the entire crowd was holding its breath.

  “Katherine?”

  “I said I need a minute.”

  “You’ve already had 20 seconds,” said the security officer.

  “Then I have 40 left.”

  Jeremiah started to count in his head.

  “Come on, Katherine,” he said precisely 40 Mississippis later. “While we’re still young.”

  A Word About Reviews

  Dear Reader,

  First of all, thank you for reading World Enough (And Time). I imagine that, like most modern men and women, you have a lot going on and limited opportunity for leisure, and I deeply appreciate that you’ve invested a decent chunk of that leisure time in reading my book.

  So I don’t take it lightly when I ask if you’d be willing to spend a bit more of your time posting a review of the book you’ve just read.

  Readers are generally wary of taking a risk on an author they haven’t read before, and that goes doubly for independent authors. Nothing gives an independently published book the patin
a of respectability—and encourages new readers to take a chance—like honest reviews from real readers.

  If you’d be willing to take a few minutes right now and post a review on Amazon or Goodreads, I’d be eternally grateful. The review doesn’t have to be long, or fancy—just a few honest sentences saying what you liked (or didn’t) about the story.

  I’ve created some shortcuts so you don’t have to search around on Amazon and Goodreads:

  https://ewj.io/weat-amazon will take you to the right Amazon page.

  https://ewj.io/weat-goodreads will take you to the right Goodreads page.

  In any event, thank you again for reading World Enough (And Time), and cheers.

  Edmund

  Acknowledgements

  Jeff Ward created the excellent cover art. You can see more of his work, and hire him yourself, at stungeonstudios.com.

  Moira Racich designed the excellent cover. She is also a very fine painter, whose art can be found at moiraracich.com.

  I am grateful to the friends who read and responded to early drafts of this book: Kevin Crowe, Ben Johnson, Stephanie Nelson, Deirdre Ralston, and Eric Yablonowitz.

  Annie Stone gave me invaluable advice about the position of the book in its genre and the broader market.

  Brianna Duff and Ellie Redding both provided detailed feedback and suggestions that strengthened the story considerably.

  In addition to his novel-length feedback email, which was instrumental in making this a better book, Dan Milstein was extremely generous with his scarce time when it came time to write marketing materials and the like.

  Robin Jorgensen and Jessica Werner both read multiple drafts and responded with helpful commentary.

  Brian Jorgensen read every page of every draft, or damn near it, and helped the book find its heart in the process.

  From the bottom of my heart, thank you all.

  Finally, my profoundest gratitude, and all my love, to Mónica and Patrick.