Futures Past

by Gardner Dozois

  Mo went out there last Easter. Remember?"

  "Uh, yeah," I said.

  "Are you sure you're okay, after the shock, I mean?"

  "Fit as a fiddle," I said, lying through my teeth.

  "You sure you don't need help with the saw?"

  "It'll be a snap."

  "Well, be careful."

  "The breakers are still off."

  "Thanks for the beer," he said, putting a couple of albums under his arm and going toward the door.

  "Bye. Go get some sleep," I said.

  I'll have to remember to call Bob, Bill.

  MO WAS BACK, in a hurry.

  "What is it, Dad? I've never seen Bill so upset"

  "I don't know. Things are just so mixed up. In fact, they're wrong"

  "What do you mean, wrong? I'm really worried about you now, and so's Bill."

  I've never been a whiner, even in the worst of times.

  "Oh, Dad," she said. "Maybe you should go see Doc Adams, maybe get some tests done. See if he can't recommend someone …"

  "You mean, like I've got Alzheimer's? I don't have Alzheimer's! It's not me, it's the world that's off the trolley. Yesterday—I don't know, it's like everything I thought I knew is wrong. It's like some Mohorovic discontinuity of the mind. Nixon was president. He had to resign because of a break-in at the Watergate Hotel, the Democratic National Headquarters, in 1972. I have a bumper sticker somewhere: "Behind Every Watergate Is A Milhous.' It was the same bunch of guys who set up Kennedy in 1963. It was ..

  I started to cry. Maureen didn't know whether to come to me or not.

  "Are you thinking about Mom?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, I'm thinking about your mother." Then she hugged me.

  * * *

  I DON'T KNOW what to say.

  I'm a bright enough guy. I'm beginning to understand, though, about how people get bewildered.

  On my way from the library after embarrassing myself, I passed the comic book and poster shop two blocks away. There were reproduction posters in one window; the famous one of Clark Gable and Paulette Goddard with the flames of Atlanta behind them from Mules in Horses' Harnesses; Fred MacMurray and Jack Oakie in The Road to Morroco, and window cards from James Dean in Somebody Up There Likes Me, along with Giant and East of Eden.

  I came home and turned on the oldies station. It wasn't there, one like it was somewhere else on the dial.

  It was just like Bo—Bill said. The first thing I heard was The Quarrymen doing "Gimme Deine Hande." I sat there for two hours, till it got dark, without turning on the lights, listening. There were familiar tunes by somebody else, called something else. There were the right songs by the right people. Janis I. Fink seemed to be in heavy rotation, three songs in the two hours, both before and after she went to prison, according to the DJ. The things you find out on an oldies station …

  I heard no Chuck Berry, almost an impossibility.

  Well, I will try to live here. I'll just have to be careful finding my way around in it. Tomorrow, after the visit to the doc, it's back to the library.

  Before going to bed, I rummaged around in my "Important Papers" file. I took out my old draft notice.

  It wasn't from Richard Nixon, like it has been for the last thirty-two years. It was from Barry Goldwater. (Au + H2O = 1968?)

  THE PSYCHIATRIST SEEMED like a nice enough guy. We talked a few minutes about the medical stuff Doc Adams had sent over; work, the shock, what Mo had told the doc.

  "Your daughter seems to think you're upset about your environment. Can you tell me why she thinks that?"

  "I think she means to say I told her this was not the world I was born in and have lived in for fifty-six years," I said. He didn't write anything down in his pad.

  "It's all different," I said. He nodded.

  "Since the other morning, everything I've known all my life doesn't add up. The wrong people have been elected to office. History is different. Not just the politics-battles-wars stuff, butt also social history, culture. There's a book of social history by a guy named Furnas. I haven't looked, but I bet that's all different, too. I'll get it out of the library today. If it's there. If there's a guy named Fumas anymore."

  I told him some of the things that were changed just in two days' worth. I told him it—some of it anyway—was fascinating, but I'm sure I'll find scary stuff sooner or later. I'd have to learn to live with it, go with the flow.

  "What do you think happened?" he asked.

  "What is this, The Sopranos?"

  "Beg pardon?" he asked.

  "Oh. Oh. You'd like it. It's a TV show about a Mafia guy who, among other things, goes to a shrink—a lady shrink. It's on HBO."

  "HBO?"

  "Sorry. A cable network."

  He wrote three things down on his pad.

  "Look. Where I come from … I know that sounds weird. In Lindner's book …"

  "Lindner?"

  "Lindner. The Fifty-Minute Hour. Best-seller. 1950s."

  "I take it by the title it was about psychiatry. And a bestseller?"

  "Let me start over. He wrote the book they took the title Rebel Without A Cause from—but that had nothing to do with the movie …"

  He was writing stuff down now, fast.

  "It's getting deeper and deeper, isn't it?" I asked. "Go on. Please."

  "Lindner had a patient who was a guy who thought he lived on a far planet in an advanced civilization—star-spanning galaxy-wide stuff. Twenty years before Star Wars. Anyway …

  He wrote down two words without taking his eyes off me. "In my world," I said, very slowly and carefully, looking directly at him, "there was a movie called Star Wars in 1977 that changed the way business was done in Hollywood. "Okay," he said.

  "This is not getting us anywhere!" I said.

  And then he came out with the most heartening timing I'd heard in two days. He said, "What do you mean we, kemo sabe?"

  Well, we laughed and laughed, and then I tried to tell him, really tell him, what I thought I knew.

  THE PAST WAS another country, as they say; they did things differently there.

  The more I looked up, the more I needed to look up. I had twelve or fifteen books scattered across the reference tables.

  Now I know how conspiracy theorists feel. It's not just the Trilateral Commission or Henry Kissinger (a minor ARC/ NRC official here) and the Queen of England and Area 51 and the Grays. It's like history has ganged up on me, as an individual, to drive me bugfuck. I don't have a chance. The more you find out the more you need to explain … how much more you need to find out … it could never end.

  Where did it change?

  We are trapped in history like insects in amber, and it is hardening all around me.

  Who am Ito struggle against the tree sap of Time?

  THE PSYCHIATRIST HAS asked me to write down and bring in everything I can think of—anything: presidents, cars, wars, culture. He wants to read it ahead of time and schedule two full hours on Friday.

  You can bet I don't feel swell about this.

  * * *

  MY OTHER DAUGHTER, Celine, is here. I had tried and tried and tried, but she'd turned out to be a Christian in spite of all my work.

  She is watching me like a hawk, I can tell. We were never as close as Maureen and me; she was her mother's daughter. "How are you feeling?"

  "Just peachy," I said. "Considering."

  "Considering what?" Her eyes were very green, like her mother's had been.

  "If you don't mind, I'm pretty tired of answering questions. Or asking them."

  "You ought to be more careful with those tools."

  "This is not about power tools, or the shock:' I said. "I don't know what Mo told you, but I have been truly discomfited these last few days."

  "Look, Daddy," she said. "I don't care what the trouble is, we'll find a way to get you through it. "

  "You couldn't get me through it, unless you've got a couple of thousand years on rewind:'

  "What?"

&
nbsp; "Never mind. I'm just tired. And I have to go to the hardware store and get a new switch for the band saw, before I burn the place down, or cause World War III or something. I'm sure they have hardware stores here, or I wouldn't have power tools."

  She looked at me like I'd grown tentacles.

  "Just kidding," I said. "Loosen up, Celine. Think of me right now as your old, tired father. I'll learn my way around the place and be right as rain ..

  Absolutely no response.

  "I'm being ironic," I said, "I have always been noted for my sense of humor. Remember?"

  "Well, yes. Sort of."

  "Great!" I said. "Let's go get some burgers at McDonald's!"

  "Where?"

  "I mean Burger King," I said. I'd passed one on the way back from the library. "Sounds good, Dad" She said, "Let me drive."

  I HAVE LIVED in this house for twenty-six years. I was born in the house across the street. In 1957, my friend Gino Ballantoni lived here, and I was over here every day, or just about, for four years, till Gino's father's aircraft job moved to California. I'd always wanted it, and after I got out of the Army, I got it on the GI Bill.

  I know its every pop and groan, every sound it makes day or night, the feel of the one place the paint isn't smooth, on the inside doorjamb trim of what used to be Mo's room before it was Celine's. There's one light switch put on upside down I never changed. The garage makeover I did myself; it's what's now the living room.

  I love this place. I would have lived here no matter what.

  I tell myself history wasn't different enough that this house isn't still a vacant lot, or an apartment building. That's, at least, something to hang on to.

  I noticed the extra sticker inside the car windshield. Evidently, we now have an emissions-control test in this state, too. I'll have to look in the phone book and find out where to go, as this one expires at the end of the mouth.

  And also, on TV, when they show news from New York, there's still the two World Trade Center Towers.

  You can't be too careful about the past.

  THE PSYCHIATRIST CALLED to ask if someone could sit in on the double session tomorrow—he knew it was early, but it was special—his old mentor from whatever Mater he'd Alma'd at; the guy was in a day early for some shrink hoedown in the Big City and wanted to watch his star pupil in action. He was asking all the patients tomorrow, he said. The old doc wouldn't say anything, and you'd hardly know he was there.

  "Well, I got enough troubles, what's one more?"

  He thanked me.

  That's what did it for me. This was not going to stop. This was not something that I could be helped to work through, like bedwetting or agoraphobia or the desire to eat human flesh. It was going to go on forever, here, until I died.

  Okay, I thought. Let's get out Occam's Famous Razor and cut a few Gordian Knots. Or somewhat, as the logicians used to say.

  I WENT OUT to the workshop where everybody thinks it all started.

  I turned on the outside breakers. I went inside. This time I closed the door. I went over and turned on the bandsa

  AFTER I GOT up off the floor, I opened the door and stepped out into the yard. It was near dark, so I must have been out an hour or so.

  I turned off the breakers and went into the house through the back door and through the utility room and down the hall to the living room bookcase. I pulled out Vol 14 of the encyclopedia and opened it.

  Nixon, Richard Milhous, it said (1913-1994). A good long entry.

  There was a sound from the kitchen. The oven door opened and closed.

  "What have you been doing?" asked a voice.

  "There's a short in the band saw I'll have to get fixed," I said. I went around the corner.

  It was my wife, Susan. She looked a little older, a little heavier since I last saw her, it seemed. She still looked pretty good.

  "Stand there where I can see you," I said.

  "We were having a fight before you wandered away, remember?"

  "Whatever it was," I said, "I was wrong. You were right. We'll do whatever it is you want."

  "Do you even remember what it was we were arguing about?"

  "No," I said. "Whatever. It's not important. The problems of two people don't amount to a hill of beans in—"

  "Cut the Casablanca crap," said Susan. "Jodie and Susie Q want to bring the kids over next Saturday and have Little Eddy's birthday party here. You wanted peace and quiet here, and go somewhere else for the party. That was the argument"

  "I wasn't cut out to be a grandpa," I said. "But bring 'em on. Invite the neighbors! Put out signs on the street! Annoy an old man here!' "

  Then I quieted down. "Tell them we'd he happy to have the party here," I said.

  "Honestly, Edward," said Susan, putting the casserole on the big trivet. It was her night to cook. "Sometimes I think you'd forget your ass if it weren't glued on."

  "Yeah, sure," I said. "I've damn sure forgotten what peace and quiet was like. And probably lots of other stuff, too."

  "Supper's ready," said Susan.

  What Rough Beast

  Damon Knight

  Here's a poignant and bittersweet story that shows us that sometimes one man can change everything around him—in more ways than you'd think.

  A multitalented professional whose career as writer, editor, critic, and anthologist spanned almost fifty years, Damon Knight was a major shaping force in the development of modern science fiction. He wrote the first important book of SF criticism, In Search of Wonder, and won a Hugo Award for it. He was the founder of the Science Fiction Writers of America, co-founder of the prestigious Milford Writer's Conference, and, with his wife, writer Kate Wilhelm, was involved in the creation of the Clarion workshop for new young writers. He was the editor of Orbit, the longest running original anthology series in the history of American science fiction, and also produced important works of genre history such as The Futurians and Turning Points, as well as dozens of influential reprint anthologies. Knight was also highly influential as a writer, and may well be one of the finest short story writers ever to work in the genre. His books include the novels A for Anything, The Other Foot, Hell's Pavement, The Man in the Tree, CV, A Reasonable World, Why Do Birds, Humptey Dumptey: An Oval, and the collections Rule Golden and Other Stories, Turning On, Far Out, The Best of Damon Knight, and One Side Laughing.

  MR. FRANK SAID to me, "Hey you. Get that corner cleaned up." He was a big man with red face, mouth always open little bit, wet lips always pulling back suddenly over little yellow teeth. This I remember, late at night, just after rush from theaters and before bars close. Place was empty, all sick light on the tiles and brown tabletops. Outside, dark and wet. People going by with coat collars turned up and faces gray like rain.

  On corner table was some dishes, some food spilled. I cleaned up, put dishes in kitchen sink on top of big stack, then came back to Mr. Frank. He was cutting tomato for sandwiches, using his knife too quick and hard. Tip of his big pink thumb was white from holding knife.

  I said to him, "Mr. Frank, I work here three weeks and you call me "Hey, you.' My name is Kronski. If it is too hard to remember, say Mike. But not "Hey, you: "

  He looked down on me, with lips twitching away from yellow teeth. Sides of his nose turned yellow-white, like I saw before when he was mad. And his knife went cut. He sucked air between teeth, and grabbed his hand. I saw the blood coming out dark as ink where he sliced the side of his thumb. Blood was dripping on board and pieces of tomato. It was deep cut, bleeding hard. He said through teeth, "Now look what you made me do. Christ!"

  From other end of counter, Mr. Harry called out, "What's the matter?" He started toward us—a thin man, bald, with big eyes blinking all time like afraid.

  Was my fault. I went quickly to Mr. Frank, but he pushed me away with his elbow. "Get off of me, you creep!"

  Now Mr. Harry looked at Mr. Frank's thumb and he whistled, then turned and went to the medicine box on wall. Mr. Frank was holding his wrist and cursing. From
the cashier's desk at front of cafeteria, Mr. Wilson the night manager was coming; I heard his footsteps click on the tiles.

  Mr. Harry was trying to put a bandage on, but it would not stick. Mr. Frank pushed him out of the way, shouting, "God damn it!" and pulled the medicine box off wall. Always bleeding.

  I got quickly a fork and handkerchief, not clean, but best I could do. I tied a knot in the handkerchief, and tried to put it around Mr. Frank's wrist, but he pushed me away again.

  "Give me that," says Mr. Harry, and he took from me the fork and handkerchief. Now Mr. Frank was leaning back against coffee machine looking white, and Mr. Harry slipped the handkerchief over his wrist. In coffee machine I saw myself, like shadow standing—no face, just blackness—and I looked other way.

  Always was blood, over counter, duckboards, steam tables, everything. Mr. Harry tried to tighten the fork, but he dropped it and I picked up. He took it saying, "Get out of the way, will you?" and started to turn the handkerchief.

  "Better call a hospital," says Mr. Wilson's voice behind me. Then, "Look out!"

  Mr. Frank had his eyes turned up and mouth open. His knees started to bend and then he was falling, and Mr. Harry tried to catch, but too late, and he also went down.

  Mr. Wilson was going around end of counter, so I went the other way to telephone.

  Was in my pocket, no dimes. I thought to go back and ask, but it would take minute. I thought maybe Mr. Frank would die because I was not quick. So I put fingers in the metal hole where coin is supposed to come back, and was no coin there; but I felt deeper, down where turning place was, and I found it and I turned. Then, was a dime lying in coin hole. So I took it and put in top of telephone. I called ambulance for Mr. Frank.

  Then I went back to where he was lying, and they were by his side squatting, and Mr. Wilson looked up and said, "Did you call that hospital?" I say yes, but without stopping he said, "Well, get out of my way then. Harry, you take the feet and we'll straighten him out a little."