The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  Nick reciprocated the gesture. “And to their prompt identification. Now, what can I tell you about humanity’s future, however much of it that I may know?”

  “How about starting with humanity itself? How have we changed from my time to yours?”

  “Smarter. Stronger. Better-looking. Dangerous.”

  “Sounds like a pro sports franchise.”

  “Apt analogy, except for one thing. ‘Pro sports,’ at least in the sense you’re referring to it, was pretty well dead by 2100 or so.”

  Jack took his time contemplating this news, looking closely at Nick for some indication of a joke. Seeing none, he said, “So. No Yankees, no Dodgers, no Knicks, no football Giants. What the hell happened?”

  “Oh, a great deal, but the primary thing was -- will be -- the individual’s acquisition of more and more power over his personal circumstances. People’s need to identify with things outside their personal sphere, particularly in activities over which they had no control, naturally fell off pretty quickly. The appreciation of athletic prowess gave way to the appreciation of intellectual prowess.”

  “So we go from playing ball to playing chess? What do people do with those stronger, better-looking bodies? Don’t tell me they don’t want to show them off, if only to get laid.”

  Nick chuckled, dismissing that thought with a brief back-handed wave. “No, some things change only over millennia, if then. Look what we were up to last night, for example. But being bright outpaced being cute; it became the primary criterion for choosing sex partners. In the developed countries, anyway.”

  “Hm. So, 150 years from now, there’ll still be undeveloped countries?”

  “Yep. The differences won’t be as drastic as they are today, and society will focus on narrowing the gap even more. That’ll take another hundred years or so.”

  “How’ll they do it?

  “Think of it as the power of suggestion, or mental telepathy, to use current terminology. Women by the millions suddenly barren. Reversible, to be sure, but unwanted pregnancies became a thing of the past. And speaking of millions, the earth’s population was hovering right around that figure when I departed 4231.”

  “Right around what?” Jack asked. “How many millions?”

  “Oh. Guess I wasn’t clear on that point. One.”

  “One? One million? That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Amazing what a roomy place earth is with just that many people around.”

  Jack bent forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, and slowly shook his head. “But how does that work? From hundreds of millions down to one? Those have got to be some pretty damn busy people. How does everything get done?”

  “Quite handily, thanks. Remember, the “everything” of today includes a lot of human-intensive activity that’s been largely done away with by the fifth millennium. Agriculture, manufacturing, medical care, right down to domestic services, everything’s done with a degree of automation that you’d find extremely hard to believe, just sitting here listening to me talk about it. Everything’s customized and localized to fit the needs of the individual.”

  “So are you telling me that farms, factories, hospitals don’t exist in 4231?”

  “Oh, no, they’re still around; just not in such profusion. As a matter of fact, most of the things that you find necessary to leave home for, fifth-millennium humans don’t. It’s all taken care of -- dare I say it? At the subatomic level. The majority of the average person’s needs are manufactured at home, in one kind of material synthesizer or another.”

  “What about work?” Jack asked. “Since you still have hospitals, there are obviously doctors. Any ditch diggers? What I’m seeing in my mind is a whole lot of unoccupied space, with economics to match. I’m sure I’m missing something, but it sure doesn’t sound like many people, particularly if a lot of them are like you.”

  Nick laughed. “Well, there aren’t, and I don’t know if that’s likely to change anytime soon. Humanity and sensuality look to be inextricably tied together, and sensuality isn’t really sensuality without a body to sense it through, despite my occasional second-hand efforts to get around that. Fifth millennium bodies, by the way, are way more finely-tuned than the model that’s carting your brain around.”

  “So what’s the life expectancy for these finely-tuned bodies? 150? 200?”

  “Oh, no. Far more than that. And smarter all the time too, with intelligent nanobots moving through the capillaries into the brain and interacting directly with neurons. When people can stay healthy and amuse themselves in so many ways and in so many places, they’re not all that resigned to dying.”

  “Nannybots?”

  “Let’s come back to that.”

  “OK. What’s the oldest person you’ve ever seen, anyway?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Don’t believe I’ve run across anybody who’s hit the thousand mark yet.”

  At that, Jack’s credulity gave way. “What in the hell could a thousand-year-old person look like? That’s just too much for me to swallow.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? You couldn’t tell a thousand-year-old person from a 40-year-old person. When the old body gets a little creaky with too many replacement parts, which includes virtually any part of the body, the person just steps into a new one.”

  Peering intently at Nick, Jack ventured a guess. “Brain transplants?”

  Nick smiled indulgently. “No, too messy. And brain tissue wears out, too. We use a process that’s still known by its archaic name; cloning. A far more sophisticated process than you’ll see done in the 20th century under the same name, or the 21st for that matter. What it amounts to is copying a person from scalp to toe nails, cranking it up and transferring the old body’s knowledge and other traits to the new one. A snappy new body with roughly the same capabilities as a hardware humanoid.”

  Jack shook his head like a wet cocker spaniel. “Hardware humanoid? OK. Now you’re going to tell me that we’ll be sharing the planet with robots as smart as we are...”

  “Well, smarter in many cases. And much more easily upgradable. And it’s not just the planet that we’re sharing; they’re already farther out in the galaxy than any human’s ever gone.”

  “So what’s to keep these smart, upgradable machines from just shoving humanity out of the way at some point?”

  Nick’s eyebrows went up a millimeter or two. “Up to now it’s been their eleemosynaric circuitry, the quantum-entangled encryption of which is changed thousands of times a day. Renders them unable to have negative thoughts about humans. So far.”

  19 “OH, SCORPIO DICK…”

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Oh, hi, Mom. You beat me to it. Figured I’d shower and then call you.”

  “That’s OK, sweetie. How was your drive home?”

  “Just fine. Hard to have a bad ride in that car.”

  “Yes, I enjoyed the ride to Nantucket a lot, but I think that I might start to feel a little cramped, going from here to Bisque. Guess that puts me in the ‘old lady’ category, huh?”

  “Nah. You’re ageless, Momma.”

  “You know exactly what to say to boost my confidence, don’t you?

  “Well, you’ve always known how to boost mine. How’s everything else going?”

  “Pretty darn good, if I do say so. Tiffany’s running the first ad for Clare’s bust in this Sunday’s Times. Pretty good size, too. Quarter page in Arts and Leisure. Can’t wait to see it.”

  “Me either. I’m gonna drive over to Atlanta and pick up a few copies to hand out to the home folks. It’d take at least three days for them to get here if I asked the law firm to do it for me.”

  “Oh, honey, that’d be great, if you have time...”

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s time you got famous around here.”

  “Oh, speaking of famous, Clare called yesterday and asked for your phone number, and I gave it to her. Probably wants to thank you again for bringing the bust uptown. I hope you do
n’t mind; again, if you have time, I think it would be sweet for you to call her before she calls you. Just to thank her for setting up the cottage and all. She’s up in Ridgefield for a few weeks; her number there’s 203-431-1606. And Jack-”

  “Ma’am?”

  “She’s going through the most awful thing right now with Harry Luce. He’s seeing another woman, Jane Campbell, and making no bones about it as far as their being seen together around New York’s concerned. I know Clare’s just miserable, even though she wouldn’t let on to most people, including me. She likes you; she told me so, so do be really nice to her when you call.”

  “Hey Mom, I like her. Matter of fact, I was thinking that I should call her to thank her for the Nantucket cottage. We’d have never found something that nice without her help. It must be really tough for her to have him running around like that, not even trying to keep it secret. You bet I’ll be nice, even nicer if possible. But my nice is pretty nice.”

  Serena’s laugh, tinkling and maternal, brought a broad smile to Jack’s face. “I know it is, honey. And I’m sure that’s what Clare’ll tell me the next time I see her. So listen, are you still looking forward to the Navy?”

  “Oh, sure. Particularly since my other option was a foxhole. Or KP, like Beetle Bailey. Or maybe KP in a foxhole. The idea of getting dirty and staying that way for a few days at a time doesn’t appeal to me at all. Rick and I sat in the Doghouse parking lot last Sunday night talking about all kinds of things- I told you he was home on leave, didn’t I?”

  “You mentioned you were going to get together with him when he passed through, yes. How’s he doing?”

  “Jesus, he seems to be thriving on it, and he’s already been through plenty of the foxhole crap in basic training. Guess all that football got him used to it.” Jack paused, just for a heartbeat, then against his better nature, he said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but if you found out later and knew I knew about it, you’d throw a fit.”

  He could feel the silence at the other end of the line. Finally, the single word, muted, watchful. “What?” Serena asked him.

  “Well, we went over to this nightclub in Atlanta where Ziggy Williams was singing, Paschal’s- don’t know if you’ve never heard of it, it’s out in West End.”

  “Jack! That’s in ni- uh, a black area. Isn’t it?”

  “It is, but lots of whites go there. They book jazz artists exclusively, mostly major talent like Ramsey Lewis, but Ziggy managed to get booked there on Fridays- and he invited Rick and me over. The hostess took us to the table he’d reserved for us, and guess who was sitting there?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Trisha McNeil.”

  “Ziggy had invited her, too?”

  “You might say so; turns out they’re a couple.”

  “My God.” A rush of exhaled air followed Serena’s exclamation. “That girl sure knows how to stir up trouble. How’d Rick take it?”

  “Just about the way you’d expect. Says it’s all over between them and he doesn’t love her anymore, but of course he does. One more thing-”

  “There’s more?”

  “Just one little minor thing. Courtesy of Ziggy, she’s now part of the civil rights movement. Couldn’t say enough about Martin Luther King; you’ve heard of him.”

  “Yes, but not much more than that. Jack, this’ll worry Frank and Susan McNeil to death. Do you think they know about it?”

  “Hard to say. She works at Clark College, so I suppose they’d expect her to bring a black guest home sooner or later. But not Ziggy.” Jack suppressed a chuckle.

  “Jack, please don’t go back over there. I don’t care how many whites go there, it’s still dangerous. The club may be OK, but you’ve still got to get there and back in one piece.”

  Apprehension about his decision to share this incendiary information about his friends began seeping into Jack’s head until its level approached flood stage, and he began looking for a way to close out the conversation. “OK, OK; I’m honestly not all that fond of being stuck behind a table listening to music anyway. I’ll just wait till he gets an album out, which he says won’t be all that long. How’re things going at the gallery, anyway? Hap moving your stuff as fast as you’d like?”

  A few seconds ticked by before Serena answered. “Hap’s doing fine with my work. Didn’t I tell you that he’d sold two pieces of mine last month? I’m sure I did.”

  Jack’s face contorted for a split-second at the clumsy faux pas. “Oh, yeah, of course I remember. I must still be kinda whacked out from the drive. Well, if he goes on like that and Tiffany sells out their bust order, you’re gonna have more money than you know what to do with.”

  “Coming from you, moneybags, that’s a bit more than moderately hilarious. I assume that yours is all safely stashed away; so much was going on while you’re here I didn’t get around to asking you. If you’re at all concerned, I could ask Hap to check out some alternative sources of advice for you here in New York.”

  Jack sees the opportunity to steepen the exit slope of the conversation, already looking forward to the excitement of his next call. “No, Mom, the gray suits have got me in a very conservative program, strictly high-yield blue chips and high-grade municipals. And of course Bruce looks over their shoulder for me every so often. Thanks for asking, though. Look, I better get going; I’ll call you before I head down to Pensacola. Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, sonny boy. Oh, I talked to your father a couple of days ago. He said you two had a really nice visit.”

  “Yeah, we sure did.” About six hours’ worth, he thought, jumping from one asymptotic curve to the next. “OK, Mom, say hi to Hap for me; catch you later.”

  Serena eased her receiver back into its cradle, deliberately, carefully, slowly as if she were 100 feet underwater. My son, my sales promotion piece. What do I say to Clare, and when, to end this. He’s young enough to see his mother as gullible, but she’s the farthest thing from it. Mrs. Luce had the unmistakable “I’ve just been screwed” look when she and Jack returned from their “tour” of Nantucket. There sure as hell is no doubt whom he takes after most, and it ain’t his Daddy…

  “Luce residence,” said a male voice, in the practiced cadence and tone of a well-paid servant.

  “Hello. Jack Mason for Mrs. Luce.”

  “Will Mrs. Luce know the reason for your call, Mr. Mason?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “One moment, please.”

  It took her a couple of minutes to come on the line; when she spoke, it reminded Jack of a sorority girl taking a follow-up call after a first date. “Jack!”

  “Hi there!”

  “I presume that you’re calling from Georgia. Serena gave me your number there.”

  “Yep. Haven’t been back quite a week yet. I’m glad I was able to call you first, because I wanted to thank you... for everything.”

  Her voice dropped an octave as she spoke more quietly. “It’s I who should be thanking you, sailor. We had a glorious time, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did. Be nice if we could have an encore sometime soon.”

  “Yes, it would,” she said. Will you be there until time for you to report to Pensacola?”

  “No, I need to go back down to Coconut Grove for a few days to see my good friends there. Then I’ll spend the last week or so tidying up around here before reporting in on June 13th.”

  Silence on the Ridgefield end of the line for a few seconds. Then, “If you’re going to spend a few days there, could you spend a couple of them with me if I came down? I have a great friend in the Miami area that I’d like you to meet. Didn’t you say your friends were in the air taxi business?”

  “I sure did; they’re my partners.”

  Her enthusiasm picked up the tempo of her speech. “My friend Bill Pawley was Claire Chennault’s partner in setting up the American Volunteer Group. You’ve heard of the Flying Tigers in China, of course.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Jack replied. �
��What a great bunch of guys they must’ve been.”

  “Well,” she said, “Let me see if I can talk him into a little cruise on his yacht, the Flying Tiger II, while you’re down there. I was just checking my calendar; I could come down on the 26th, right after Memorial Day, and come back the 29th. Shall I check those dates with Bill?”

  This time the pause came on the Bisque end of the line. “Sure. I’ll check them with my friends, Pete and Linda, and call you back as soon as I know something. But if for some reason they can’t go, I’ll look forward to seeing you- and Mr. Pawley- then. What’ll you do, fly into Miami International?”

  “Yes, on Pan American. Juan Trippe wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Naturally. Call me with the flight number, why don’t you? I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  “Done and done, Scorpio Dick. You’ve got me giddy as a teenager! See you soon.”

  Momentarily taken aback by the sexual chutzpah, Jack floundered. What he came up with was, “Where is Ridgefield, anyway?”

  “Do you know where Westport is?

  “Sure.”

  “It’s just about 15 miles due north. Why don’cha come up and see me sometime?” Not many people, Jack thought, could bring new life to that line. It’ll be nice, he thought, to see her do it in person...

  “Clare Booth LUCE?” Pete was doing his best to keep from shouting. “Henry Luce’s WIFE? You’ve hardly been gone a month, and now you’re sporting around with a society woman, make that a HIGH society woman, the wife of one of the most powerful men in the world? And she’s staying at Pawley’s place? Do you know who HE is?”

  “Aside from being behind the flying Tigers, he owned Air Cuba, or whatever it is, didn’t he? And he was ambassador to somewhere. She didn’t spend too much time telling me about him,” Jack responded, more than a little amazed at Pete’s reaction to his news. They sat in the Coconut Grove house’s patio over “welcome back” Daquiris, and Jack thought it would be a good idea to expand a bit on what he’d said on his phone call, inviting them for cocktails at Bill Pawley’s house on the 27th and a cruise on the Flying Tiger II the following day.