Callahan's Place 02 - Time Travelers Strictly Cash (v5.0)

by Spider Robinson

  I have heard variations on this theme for many years now, with increasing frequency. It's not too hard to understand, I suppose. Here on Starship Earth, after a great many thousand years, we finally got together a reasonably efficient intercom-system—and mostly what we broadcast over it are damage reports. Bad news and situations comedies and mock-combat on Sunday afternoons. I can't blame anybody who's depressed. But what my cousin was talking about was despair, what the Catholics call the only unforgivable sin, and that is a different thing altogether. My cousin, I'm sorry to say, is part of the problem, the only real problem we've got.

  With so much bummer energy going around, the only way I can stay sane, or one of the only ways I can stay sane, is to come to Minicons, to get high and have a good time, with people who know better than to think it's all pointless.

  There's an anecdote Ben told earlier in the weekend about one convention we both attended where the toastmaster talked for an hour and a half and said essentially nothing. When he was done, people applauded fairly enthusiastically because he was done, but that was about all the enthusiasm they had left. Nobody wanted to hear a word from anybody else on any subject whatsoever. Poor Jay Kay Klein stepped up to the mike next, into the hot seat. He looked around the room and tears came into his eyes, and he said, "Holy smokes, just about everybody in the world I love is in this room." And the whole place was his; at that moment we'd have followed him into battle with a song.

  Make no mistake: it is love, not a shared hobby, that has brought us together here. Oh, we have as much trouble loving our own personal selves as the mundanes do—perhaps more trouble. But we love each other a great deal. Most important, we love our species, we love the damfool human race—or we would not be so passionately concerned with its future.

  Like it or not, I think the majority of you are sane—I think you agree in your secret heart of hearts with what the wise and holy Frederik Pohl said at Discon: that as a species we have few real problems, but only complex games we have agreed to play with ourselves.

  (I have a copy of that speech, Fred, and I'm thinking seriously of having it privately printed and selling it through the mail. I'll talk to you about the rights later.)

  The more audacious of you out there are actually working hard on solutions for the pseudo-problems we've posed ourselves. I think nearly all of you are sane enough to know at least that there are solutions, and that nothing but our best and hardest work will provide them. The government won't do it, the man with the white beard won't do it, not even Cal Tech will do it—thou art God, and you cannot refuse the nomination.

  I cannot precisely echo Jay Kay—only a lot of the people I love are in this room, or would even be at a Worldcon held everywhere at once by videophone. But those of you here whom I do know and love, and those of you here whom I don't know and love, are a part of my family, an indispensable part of my life, and part of what makes it possible for me to write my stories.

  As a Johnny-Come-Lately, I am proud to be considered a Fan. Contrary to the belief and expectation of most of you I seem to run into, I know extremely little of Fannish legends and rituals and famous personalities and such. I knew nothing at all about any of this until a very few years ago. I have a particularly abominable memory for names, which cripples me. And frankly, there are just too damned many of you for me to keep track of, too much lore to be absorbed, too many letters to answer more than a fraction of them. I am hampered in convention-going by having to meet many deadlines to stay alive, and I have no time to spare for fanac or letterhacking or even keeping up with the fanzines. (I seem to get them all—and do you have any idea how many fanzines there are?) I rarely have time for more than one or two carefully-selected conventions a year.

  But this is one of them, and I've had a fabulous time so far, and I must tell you that I have never in my life felt so at home and so at ease with so many drunken strangers.

  I really do try to do my part for fanac, but economics require that I publish it in the prozines. I hope that is satisfactory to fandom; fandom is satisfactory to me.

  In closing, I would like to thank you for your attention. But your at-ease was disgraceful, and your parade-rest was barely better than parading around undrest. I hope we don't fall out over this, I'm rather sensitive about face, and I'm certain that eyes right.

  Nonetheless I love you all. Let's go somewhere else and put on even funnier clothes than these and have a good time.

  Concerning "Mirror/rorriM, Off The Wall":

  As I say, I've never actually caught Jake in a flat lie. But often his earns are built on elements I find oddly familiar—perhaps because both Jake and I are regular readers of sf (We take prunes to keep it that way.)

  The mirror-reversal business in this story, for instance, bears a remarkable resemblance to ideas put forth in Roger Zelazny's demonically inventive novel, Doorways In The Sand (although the two stories in no other way resemble each other).

  Similarly, Isaac Asimov has written extensively about thiotimoline—which in this continuum has the odd property of reacting a split second before it contacts the reagent. Interested readers are directed to the Good Doctor's (Is he a good doctor? Does he make house calls?) autobiography: specifically to Volume One, In Memory Almost Ripe. (All right, all right, Isaac: the real title is "In Memory Yet Green".)

  Finally, the Four-Eye Monogahela made its first appearance (as did a variant of Tiger Breath called "Tiger Bone") in a magnificent Oliver La Farge story called "Spud And Cochise"—which was reprinted in my anthology, The Best Of All Possible Worlds, Volume One. (Ace Books, now sadly out of print.)

  Does all this mean that Jake is putting us on?

  I don't think so. I might have thought so—if Jake hadn't shown me the 01$ bill that Trebor left behind. And if Mike hadn't privately slipped me a snort of the Wonderbooze…

  Instead I find myself wondering whether Zelazny, Asimov or La Farge ever owned unusual mirrors…

  SERPENTS' TEETH

  LOOKOVER LOUNGE

  House Rules, Age 16 And Up:

  IF THERE'S A BEEF, IT'S YOUR FAULT. IF YOU BREAK IT, YOU PAY FOR IT, PLUS SALES TAX AND INSTALLATION. NO RESTRICTED DRUGS. IF YOU ATTEMPT TO REMOVE ANY PERSON OR PERSONS FROM THESE PREMISES INVOLUNTARILY, BY FORCE OR COERCION AS DEFINED BY THE HOUSE, YOU WILL BE SURRENDERED TO THE POLICE IN DAMAGED CONDITION. THE DECISIONS OF YOUR BARTENDER ARE FINAL, AND THE MANAGEMENT DOESN'T WANT TO KNOW YOU. THE FIRST ONE'S ON THE HOUSE; HAVE A GOOD TIME.

  Teddy and Freddy both finished reading with slightly raised eyebrows. Any bar in their own home town might well have had nearly identical—unofficial—house rules. But their small town was not sophisticated enough for such rules to be so boldly committed to printout.

  "You can surrender those sheets at the bar for your complimentary drink," the door-terminal advised them. "Good luck to you both."

  Freddy said "Thank you." Teddy said nothing.

  The soft music cut off; a door slid open. New music spilled out, a processor group working the lower register, leaving the higher frequencies free for a general hubbub of conversation. Smells spilled out as well: beer, mostly, with overlays of pot, tobacco, sweat, old vomit, badly burned coffee and cheap canned air. It was darker in there; Teddy and Freddy could not see much. They exchanged a glance, shared a quick nervous grin.

  "Break a leg, kid," Teddy said, and entered the Lounge, Freddy at her heels.

  Teddy's first impression was that it was just what she had been expecting. The crowd was sizable for this time of night, perhaps four or five dozen souls, roughly evenly divided between hunters and hunted. While the general mood seemed hearty and cheerful, quiet desperation could be seen in any direction, invariably on the faces of the hunters.

  Teddy and Freddy had certainly been highlighted when the door first slid back, but by the time their eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light no one was looking at them. They located the bar and went there. They strove to move synchronously, complementarily, as though they were old dance partners or old cop
partners, as though they were married enough to be telepathic. In point of fact they were all these things, but you could never have convinced anyone watching them now.

  The bartender was a wiry, wizened old man whose hair had once been red, and whose eyes had once been innocent—perhaps a century before. He displayed teeth half that age and took their chits. "Welcome to the Big Fruit, folks."

  Freddy's eyebrows rose. "How did you know we're not from New York?"

  "I'm awake at the moment. What'll it be?"

  Teddy and Freddy described their liquid requirements. The old man took his time, punched in their order with one finger, brought the drinks to them with his pinkies extended. As they accepted the drinks, he leaned forward confidentially. "None o' my business, but… you might could do all right here tonight. There's good ones in just now, one or two anyways. Don't push is the thing. Don't try quite so hard. Get me?"

  They stared at him. "Thanks, uh—"

  "Pop, everybody calls me. Let them do the talking."

  "We will," Freddy said. "Thank you, Pop."

  "Whups! 'Scuse me." He spun and darted off at surprising speed toward the far end of the bar, where a patron was in danger of falling off his stool; Pop caught him in time. Teddy would have sworn that Pop had never taken his eyes from them until he had moved. She had smuggled a small weapon past the door-scanner, chiefly to build her morale, but she resolved now not to try it on Pop even in extremis. "Come on, Freddy."

  Teddy found them a table near one of the air-circulators, with a good view of the rest of the room. "Freddy, for God's sake quit staring! You heard what the old fart said: lighten up."

  "Teddy!"

  "I like him too; I was trying to get your attention. Try to look like there isn't shit on your shoes, will you?"

  "How about that one?"

  "Where?"

  "There."

  "In the blue and red?" Teddy composed her features with a visible effort. "Look, my love: apparently we have 'HICK' written across our foreheads in big black letters. All right. Let's not make it 'DUMB HICK,' all right? Look at her arms, for God's sake."

  "Oh." Freddy's candidate was brazenly wearing a sleeveless shirt—and a cop should not miss track marks.

  "I'm telling you, slow down. Look, let's make an agreement: we're not going to hit on anybody for the first hour, all right? We're just out for an evening of quiet conversation."

  "I see. We spent three hundred and sixty-seven New dollars to come to New York and have a few drinks."

  Teddy smiled as though Freddy had said something touching and funny, and murmured, "God damn it, Freddy, you promised."

  "All right, but I think these people can spot a phony a mile away. The one in pink and yellow, on your left."

  "I'm not saying we should be phony, I'm—" Teddy made an elaborate hair-adjusting gesture, sneaked a look, then frankly stared. "Wow. That's more like it. Dancing with the brunette, right?"

  "Yes."

  Freddy's new choice was golden-haired and heart-breakingly beautiful, dressed daringly by their standards but not shockingly. Ribs showed, and pathetically slender arms, and long smooth legs. Intelligence showed in the eyes, above lips slightly curled in boredom.

  "Too good to be true," Teddy said sadly. "All these regulars here, and we walk in our first night and score that?"

  "I like wishful thinking. You shoot for the moon, once in a while you get it."

  "And end up wishing you'd settled for a space station. I'd settle for that redhead in the corner with the ventilated shoes."

  Freddy followed her glance, winced, and made a small sound of pity. "Don't mock the funny-looking."

  "Me? I grew up funny looking. I worked four summers selling greaseburgers for this chin and nose. I'll settle for anyone halfway pleasant." She lowered her voice; the musicians were taking a break.

  "I love your chin and nose. I don't like him anyway. He looks like the secretive type."

  "And you aren't? This drink is terrible."

  "So's this—"

  The voice was startlingly close. "Hey! You're in my seat, Atlas."

  It was the stunning golden-haired youngman. Alone.

  Freddy began to move and speak at the same time, but Teddy kicked him hard in the shin and he subsided.

  "No we're not," she said firmly.

  There was nothing especially grudging about the respect that came into the youngman's eyes, but there was nothing especially submissive about it either. "I always sit by a circulator. I don't like breathing garbage." He made no move to go.

  Teddy refused her eyes permission to drop from his. "We would be pleased if you'd join us."

  "I accept."

  Before Teddy could stop him, Freddy was up after a chair. He placed it beside the youngman, who moved it slightly to give himself a better view of the room than of them, and sat without thanks.

  "You're welcome," Freddy said quietly, slouching down in his own chair, and Teddy suppressed a grin. When she led firmly, her husband always followed well. For the first time Teddy became aware that she was enjoying herself.

  The youngman glanced sharply at Freddy. "Thanks," he said belatedly.

  "Buy you a drink?" Teddy asked.

  "Sure. Beer."

  Teddy signaled a waiter. "Tell Pop we'd like a couple of horses over here," she said, watching the youngman. The pacification of Mexico had made Dos Equis quite expensive, but his expression did not change. She glanced down at her own glass. "In fact, make it three pair."

  "Tab?" asked the waiter.

  "Richards Richards, Ted Fred."

  When the waiter had left, the blond said, "You people always know how to do that. Get a waiter to come. What is that, how do you do that?"

  "Well," Freddy began, "I—"

  "Which one of you is which?"

  "I'm Freddy."

  "Oh God, and you're Teddy, huh?" He sighed. "I hope I die before I get cute. I'm Davy Pangborn."

  Teddy wondered if it were his legal name, but did not ask. It would not have been polite; Davy had not asked them. "Hello, Davy."

  "How long have you been in the city?"

  Teddy grinned broadly, annoyed. "Is there hay in my hair or something? Honest to God, I feel like there's a fly unzipped on my forehead."

  "There is," Davy said briefly, and turned his attention to the room.

  Teddy and Freddy exchanged a glance. Teddy shrugged.

  "How old are you, Davy?" Freddy asked.

  Davy turned very slowly, looked Freddy over with insolent thoroughness. "How many times a week do you folks do the hump?" he asked.

  Teddy kept her voice even with some effort. "See here, we're willing to swap data, but if you get to ask questions that personal, so do we."

  "You just did."

  Teddy considered that. "Okay," she said finally. "I guess I understand. We're new at this."

  "Is that so?" Davy said disgustedly and turned back to face the room.

  "We make love about three times a week," Freddy said.

  "I'm nine," Davy said without turning.

  The beer arrived, along with a plate of soy crunchies garnished with real peanuts. "Compliments of the house," the waiter said, and rolled away.

  Teddy glanced up, craned her head until she could see through the crowd to the bar. Pop's eyes were waiting for hers; he shook his head slightly, winked, and turned away. Total elapsed time was less than a second; she was not sure she had not imagined it. She glanced at Freddy, could not tell from his expression whether he had seen it too.

  She examined Davy more carefully. He was obviously bright and quick; his vocabulary and grammar were excellent; his education could not have been too badly neglected. He was clean, his clothes were exotic but neat and well-kept. He didn't look like a welfare type; she would have given long odds that he had some kind of job or occupation, perhaps even a legal one. He was insolent, but she decided that in his position he could hardly be otherwise. He was breathtakingly beautiful, and must know it. She was sure he was not and had nev
er been a prostitute, he didn't have that chickie look. Her cop-sense told her that Davy had potential. Did Pop know something she didn't? How honest was Davy? How many scars were drawn how deep across his soul, how much garbage had society poured into his subconscious? Would he grow up to be Maker, Taker, or Faker? Everyone in this room was walking wounded; how severe were Davy's wounds?

  "How long have you been single, Davy?"

  He still watched the roomful of hunters and hunted, face impassive. "How long since your kid divorced youT

  "Why do you assume we're divorced?"

  Davy drank deeply from his beer, turned to face her. "Okay, let's run it down. You're not sterile, or if you are it was postnatal complications. You've had it before, I can see it in your eyes. Maybe you worked in a power plant, or maybe Freddy here got the measles, but once upon a time someone called you Mommy. It's unmistakable. And you're here, so the kid walked out on you."

  "Or died," she suggested. "Or got sent up, or institutionalized."

  "No." He shook his head. "You're hurting, but you're not hurting that bad."

  She smiled. "All right. We've been divorced a year last week. And you?"

  "Three years."

  Teddy blinked. If Davy was telling the truth—and a lie seemed pointless—he had opted out the moment he could, and was in no hurry to remarry. Well, with his advantages he could afford to be independent.

  On the other hand—Teddy looked around the room herself, studying only the hunters, the adults, and saw no one who made her feel inferior. He never met a couple like us before, she told herself, and she made herself promise not to offer him notarized resumé and net-worth sheets unless and until he offered them his.

  "What was your kid like, Atlas?" Davy sipped beer and watched her over the rim of the glass.