by John Norman
“That’s the one just outside of superstring theory?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Harrelson. “I never studied paleophysics. Incidentally, I prefer rubber-band theory. It’s more flexible.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist.
“I’m not as old as you might think,” said Harrelson. “I’m really a kid, only about 100,000 of your years or so, some seven rotations, roughly, of my megaworld. I’m on a field trip, from my junior high school, extra-credit assignment, came here to study earth fauna, thought I’d blend in better in this disguise.”
“100,000 years?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Yes, already,” said Harrelson, regretfully. “What is life but a puff of smoke on the wind, a drop of dew on the petal of a flower, evanescent, vanishing with the first rays of the morning sun?”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist.
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” said Harrelson, moodily. “One of our greatest poets began to lament the passing of youth when he was only 250,000 years old. But that seems extreme.”
“You’re in more trouble than I thought,” said the psychiatrist.
“You’re telling me,” said Harrelson.
“Do you have any evidence to back up your story?” asked the psychiatrist.
“We travel light,” said Harrelson. “We’re not supposed to bring any evidence with us.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist.
“Photon transportation,” said Harrelson.
“Oh?” said the psychiatrist.
“Plus interdimensional spacefolding, naturally,” said Harrelson, absently.
“Of course,” said the psychiatrist.
“You’ve got to help me, doctor,” said Harrelson.
“I’ll try,” said the psychiatrist.
“It’s this guilt complex, it’s hell.”
“What has a frog to feel guilty about?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Harrelson, “as I am not a frog.”
Harrelson, you see, had not fallen into the psychiatrist’s cleverly laid trap.
“Tell me a bit about your world,” suggested the psychiatrist.
“Well,” said Harrelson, “It’s not far from here, interdimensionally speaking. It’s a pretty ordinary world, I suppose. It has a geocentric solar system, and crystalline spheres, the whole works.”
“I find that surprising,” said the psychiatrist.
“Not at all,” said Harrelson. “It’s a matter of engineering. Where I come from, science and theology is a joint venture. The scientists check out the texts, and then arrange the world in accordance with them. This eliminates hard feelings. It took a long time, I’m told, in the beginning, to get enough material together to get the sun orbiting around us. We dug it out of a few neighboring solar systems.”
“The gravitational pressure on your world must be enormous,” said the psychiatrist.
“It used to be, mostly in the late summer,” said Harrelson. “But it’s not really so bad now, at all. Even in the beginning the sun wasn’t a big fellow, and we put it pretty close, though with a stable orbit. No point in destroying the planet. It helps, too, to start off with the 27th dimension. Makes things a lot easier. Different laws of nature, and such.”
“And the crystalline spheres?” asked the psychiatrist.
“You hit it,” said Harrelson, admiringly. “You’re good. That was the real trick. We only thought of it later. Better than using gravity, and such, less risky.”
“I don’t understand,” said the psychiatrist.
“It’s a neat way to keep the sun and planets where you want them. You just fix them on the spheres, fasten them there, but good.”
“Crystalline spheres?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Sure,” said Harrelson, “otherwise you can’t see through them.”
“What are they made of?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Celestial substance,” said Harrelson.
“You look skeptical,” observed Harrelson. “Aristotle was actually right, you see. The stuff exists, only he had it in the wrong universe.”
“Crystalline spheres would tear each other apart, grind each other to pieces, destroy one another, from friction,” said the psychiatrist.
“There are tolerances, and we lubricate them,” said Harrelson.
“I find that hard to believe,” said the psychiatrist.
“Ask Hal Clement,” suggested Harrelson.
The psychiatrist made a note to do so.
“If you have crystalline spheres,” asked the psychiatrist, “how do you pass through them, to travel in space?”
“We put doors in them,” said Harrelson. “What do you think? We’re not stupid.”
“You are familiar with the Kardashev Index, I suppose,” said the psychiatrist.
“Who isn’t?” said Harrelson. “The Type I Civilization has control of its own planet’s energy resources, the Type II Civilization has control of its solar system’s energy resources, in particular, that of its sun. And the Type III Civilization has control of its galaxy’s energy resources.”
“Where would you put your own civilization?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Well,” said Harrelson, “we could have had a type MDCCCCXVI Civilization but we settled for a III.V Civilization.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist.
“We’re not pushy,” said Harrelson. “And besides, who needs all that energy? What are you going to do with it, mow the lawn?”
“You can’t be too rich or too thin,” said the psychiatrist.
“If you get too rich, the IRS comes after you,” said Harrelson. “They get suspicious, and they can be mean. If you get too thin, you disappear.”
“I never thought of it just that way before,” admitted the psychiatrist.
“Do so, now,” urged Harrelson.
“All right,” said the psychiatrist, and did so, briefly, largely to pacify Harrelson.
“I’m miserable,” said Harrelson.
“It doesn’t help to keep living in a fairy tale,” said the psychiatrist.
“Don’t knock it, until you’ve tried it,.” advised Harrelson. “Besides, at the bottom of every fact, there’s a kernel of fiction.”
“I find that hard to believe,” said the psychiatrist.
“Take the story of the “Frog Prince,”” said Harrelson.
“What about it?” asked the psychiatrist, warily.
“You’ve heard of various dynastic anomalies, genetically transmissible, afflicting certain royal lines, such as the Hapsburg Jaw, hemophilia and such?”
“Yes,” said the psychiatrist.
“There was this princess,” said Harrelson, “not a bad looker, but a little strange. I was minding my own business, taking it easy on a lily pad in the palace pool. I always used palace pools when practical, cleaner, no serf urchins, nasty little nuisances, rushing about, trying to catch frogs, and so on. I saw she was struggling to control herself. She approached me, half timid, half crazed. I watched her. After all, I was on my field trip, and here was a neat little bit of Earth fauna, implicated in some sort of intriguing behavioral regimen. ‘I don’t want to kiss you!’ she cried. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘don’t do it then.’ I was just a little guy then. I could take it or leave it.”
“She was not surprised that you could talk?”
“No,” said Harrelson. “This was the Middle Ages. They were more open-minded then. They took such things in their stride. ‘But I must!’ she cried. I could see the kid had a problem. ‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘that’s that.’ Well, to make a long story short, she came over and kissed me, and I gave her a good one back. She screamed with horror then, as though there might be something improper about smooching with a frog, and fainted. A handsome pr
ince passing by, he had come to sue for her hand, and the rest of her, actually, hearing her scream, leaped over the wall to rescue her. She awakened in his arms, and inferred, naturally enough under the circumstances, I suppose, at least for the time and place, that he had been the frog, that he had been enchanted, and that her kiss had broken the spell. She explained it all to him in suitable detail. Now this prince was no dope. He played along with it, and got the kingdom. They lived happily ever after, until they died, and their union was blessed with abundant issue, this accounting for the persistence of the frog-kissing gene, transmitted through the female line in several European dynasties.”
“I had not heard of this,” said the psychiatrist.
“It’s not the sort of thing they publicize,” said Harrelson. “But it’s real. It’s even used as a test for legitimacy in certain disputed cases. Pretenders to the throne have been known to practice frog kissing, and such.”
“But this doesn’t solve your identity crisis,” said the psychiatrist, returning to business.
“My problem,” said Harrelson, “is not an identity crisis. It s a guilt complex.”
“What have you to feel guilty about?” asked the psychiatrist.
Harrelson’s body, with its bulging eyes, turned squarely, meaningfully, toward the psychiatrist. “The downfall of your species,” said Harrelson. He trembled, visibly. A bit of water went over the edge of his pan, onto the shiny, brown leather of the couch.
“Sorry,” said Harrelson.
“That’s all right,” said the psychiatrist, discretely repairing the matter with a tissue.
“It was on January 11th, in 49 B.C.,” said Harrelson, moodily. “This guy, Caesar, was on the north bank of a little stream, the Rubicon, or Rubipond, I think. He wasn’t sure whether he should bring his army across that stream or not. If he left his army behind he would have to go to Rome and face his enemies alone, which was not a pleasant prospect. His future, and maybe his life, would be in jeopardy. If he took it across he would be marching on Rome itself, taking it over, ending the Republic and founding a dictatorship. Well, he was a bit chicken, and was about ready to turn around and go back to Gaul, or someplace, when I, as luck would have it, popped into the dimension, landing right on his shoulder. We were both startled, I tell you. I took a super leap off his shoulder and landed on the south bank of the stream. He looked at me, and his eyes lit up. He took this as some sort of omen. Omens were big then. He drew his sword, cried out “The die is cast!” and marched across, the army following. It was all I could do to avoid being trampled by all the horses, soldiers, and wagons. Well, you know what happened. Rome became a dictatorship, and eventually went out and conquered the world, setting an example of power and imperialism which dazzled the planet, and exerted its influence for centuries, and even today.”
“So?” asked the psychiatrist.
“‘So’?” cried Harrelson, aghast. “Surely you understand the significance of this!”
“I’m afraid not,” said the psychiatrist.
“You really don’t see why I am responsible for the downfall of your species?” asked Harrelson, bewildered.
“Not clearly,” admitted the psychiatrist.
“It’s a load of guilt, I tell you,” said Harrelson.
“How long have you felt this guilt?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Roughly since the 11th of January, in 49 B.C.,” said Harrelson. “But it’s worse every fourth year.”
“Why is that?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Because of the bisextus,” said Harrelson.
“We may be getting somewhere now,” said the psychiatrist.
“Your pupils are dilating,” said Harrelson.
“Go on,” said the psychiatrist.
“It’s not what you think,” said Harrelson. “You guys have sex on the brain. Why don’t you try peanuts, or strawberry jam, or something?”
“Continue,“ pressed the psychiatrist.
“As you know,” said Harrelson, “the bissextile year in the Julian calendar, instituted in 46 B.C. by Caesar’s astronomers, contains an intercalary, or stuck-in, day. It comes up every fourth year. This is the bisextus, from ‘bis’, meaning twice, and ‘sextus’, meaning sixth. This was the sixth day before the Calends, the first day, of March, from the Latin ‘calare’, meaning to solemnly announce, from the Greek ‘kalein’, meaning to proclaim, from which, one way or another, somehow, you guys get “calendar,” and, every fourth year, was counted twice, like having two February 24ths, in the same year.”
“Ha!” said the psychiatrist. “February 24th would be the fifth day, not the sixth, counting backward from the Calends, the first of March!”
“Sorry,” said Harrelson. “The Romans counted backward from the next named day, the Calends, the Nones or the Ides, including both the named day and the numbered day in the count.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I was there,” said Harrelson.
“Continue,” said the psychiatrist, a bit grumpily.
“The Gregorian, or New Style, calendar,” said Harrelson, “kept the idea of the bissextile year, only they add an extra day in February, with its own number, the 29th.”
“Leap Year,” said the psychiatrist.
“You’re good,” said Harrelson.
“It’s called Leap Year,” said the psychiatrist, “because it seems that a day in the week is skipped over every fourth year, for example, if February 28th, presumably the last day in February, is a Wednesday, one would expect the next day to be March 1st, and be a Thursday, but, if it is a leap year, March 1st, because of the insertion of an extra day, will not be a Thursday, but a Friday. Thus, it seems that a day in the week has been “leaped over.””
“That is the popular explanation,”: said Harrelson.
“There is another?” asked the psychiatrist.
“The true explanation,” said Harrelson.
“What is that?” asked the psychiatrist.
“The real reason, the secret reason,” said Harrelson. “The popular explanation is nothing but a pathetic rationalization. Did you know that?”
“No,” admitted the psychiatrist.
“No more than a desperate attempt to conceal the truth.”
“Yes?” said the psychiatrist.
“Caesar wanted to commemorate his crossing of the Rubicon, or Rubipond, but only every so many years, so the old guard, the folks who hadn’t forgotten the Republic, wouldn’t feel uneasy, or pushed around. And he put it better than a month later, so people wouldn’t think he was stuck up. After all, demagogic dictators have to pacify the mob. That was the start of the “Leap Year.””
“Leap Year didn’t come into being until later,” said the psychiatrist.
“In the beginning it was every third year, but in 8 B.C. it was changed to every fourth year, something about trying to get the solar year and the calendar year together.”
“Leap Year did not come into being until later,” repeated the psychiatrist.
“No,” said Harrelson. “It started back then, but it was kept secret.”
“That doesn’t fit in at all with the notion of the bissextile year, with the bisextus, counting the sixth day before the first of March twice,” said the psychiatrist.
“Of course not,” said Harrelson. “That was invented to throw folks off. It was a stroke of genius, thought up by one of Caesar’s PR men, Mark Anthony, I think.”
“But why would Caesar think of it as a :”Leap Year”?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Maybe you’re not as good as I thought,” said Harrelson. “Because of my leap across the Rubicon, or Rubipond, or whatever, that leap he took as an omen.”
“Right,” said the psychiatrist. “But how come, centuries later, it came to be called “Leap Year”?”
“Secret documents disco
vered in a Benedictine monastery,” said Harrelson, “smuggled into the Vatican, brought to the attention of Pope Gregory XIII.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist.
“It was the usual business, taking over pagan festivals, traditions, and customs, reinterpreting them for political purposes, that sort of thing,” said Harrelson.
“Even secret customs?” asked the psychiatrist.
“Sure, for the sake of consistency,” said Harrelson. “They even kept the real origin secret, too, and that’s real consistency, and thought up the popular explanation.”
“I see,” said the psychiatrist, thoughtfully.
“It was a neat cover-up,” said Harrelson, admiringly.
“I’m sure,” said the psychiatrist..
“But I’ve never been sure why Caesar called it a “Leap Year,” rather than a “Hop Year,” or a “Jump Year,”” said Harrelson.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the psychiatrist.
“Why?” asked Harrelson. “Why?”
“We may never know,” said the psychiatrist.
“Probably,” said Harrelson, moodily.
“You’ve got to help me, doctor,” said Harrelson.
“I’ll try,” said the psychiatrist.
“It’s this guilt complex, it itches.”
“‘Itches’?”
“That’s the way guilt affects us, we’re allergic to it.”
“Perhaps you should see an allergist,” said the psychiatrist.
“You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?” asked Harrelson.
“Of course not,” said the psychiatrist.
“There’s no skin test for causing the downfall of a species,” said Harrelson.
“I wouldn’t know,” said the psychiatrist. “It’s not my field.”
“The allergist said I should see you,” said Harrelson.
“I’m not surprised,” said the psychiatrist. “But why do you think you brought about the downfall of a species?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Harrelson.
“Not altogether,” said the psychiatrist.
“By being responsible for the rise of the totalitarian state,” said Harrelson. “If I hadn’t landed on Caesar’s shoulder, and jumped over the stream, he wouldn’t have marched on Rome, turned it into a dictatorship, and Rome wouldn’t have gone out and conquered the world, and set a wonderful planetary example of the neat practicality of pervasive, aggressive imperialism, and all sorts of other stuff, such as legalized suppression, institutionalized theft, and governmental coercion, and, at home, inwardly directed imperialism, infringing all sorts of individual rights, such as those of a safe, personal life, of personal liberty, of personal property, and the pursuit of personal happiness, leading inevitably to the doctrine of the omnipresent, omnipotent state, naturally representing its tyranny as being in the best interest of its victims.”