Memories of the Future Page 7

  He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her and he did not kiss her now, not really. His lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair—that was all. “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said. “I know how much he meant to you.”

  “He knew he was dying all along,” she said. “He must have known it ever since the Strontium 90 experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone—he never even told me. . . . I don’t want to live. Without him there’s nothing left to live for—nothing, nothing, nothing!”

  He held her tightly. “You’ll find something, Julie. Someone. You’re young yet. You’re still a child, really.”

  Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his. “I’m not a child! Don’t you dare call me a child!”

  Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. “I didn’t mean—” he began.

  Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, Mr. Randolph. But I’m not a child, honest I’m not. Promise me you’ll never call me one again.”

  “All right,” he said. “I promise.”

  “And now I must go,” she said. “I have a thousand things to do.”

  “Will—will you be here tomorrow?”

  She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made her blue eyes glisten. “Time machines run down,” she said. “They have parts that need to be replaced—and I don’t know how to replace them. Ours—mine may be good for one more trip, but I’m not sure.”

  “But you’ll try to come, won’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’ll try. And, Mr. Randolph?”

  “Yes, Julie?”

  “In case I don’t make it—and for the record—I love you.”

  She was gone then, running lightly down the hill, and a moment later she disappeared into the grove of sugar maples. His hands were trembling when he lighted his pipe, and the match burned his fingers. Afterward he could not remember returning to the cabin or fixing supper or going to bed, and yet he must have done all of those things, because he awoke in his own room, and when he went into the kitchen there were supper dishes standing on the drain-board.

  He washed the dishes and made coffee. He spent the morning fishing off the pier, keeping his mind blank. He would face reality later. Right now it was enough for him to know that she loved him, that in a few short hours he would see her again. Surely even a run-down time machine should have no trouble transporting her from the hamlet to the hill.

  He arrived there early and sat down on the granite bench and waited for her to come out of the woods and climb the slope. He could feel the hammering of his heart and he knew that his hands were trembling. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

  He waited and he waited, but she did not come. She did not come the next day either. When the shadows began to lengthen and the air grow chill, he descended the hill and entered the grove of sugar maples. Presently he found a path and he followed it into the forest proper and through the forest to the hamlet. He stopped at the small post office and checked to see if he had any mail. After the wizened postmaster told him there was none, he lingered for a moment. “Is—is there a family by the name of Danvers living anywhere around here?” he blurted.

  The postmaster shook his head. “Never heard of them.”

  “Has there been a funeral in town recently?

  “Not for nigh onto a year.”

  After that, although he visited the hill every afternoon till his vacation ran out, he knew in his heart that she would not return, that she was lost to him as utterly as if she had never been. Evenings he haunted the hamlet, hoping desperately that the postmaster had been mistaken; but he saw no sign of Julie, and the description he gave of her to the passers-by evoked only negative responses.

  Early in October he returned to the city. He did his best to act toward Anne as though nothing had changed between them; but she seemed to know the minute she saw him that something had changed. And although she asked no questions, she grew quieter and quieter as the weeks went by, and the fear in her eyes that had puzzled him before became more and more pronounced.

  He began driving into the country Sunday afternoons and visiting the hilltop. The woods were golden now, and the sky was even bluer than it had been a month ago. For hours he sat on the granite bench, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

  Then, on a rainy night in mid-November, he found the suitcase. It was Anne’s, and he found it quite by accident. She had gone into town to play bingo, and he had the house to himself; and after spending two hours watching four jaded TV programs, he remembered the jigsaw puzzles he had stored away the previous winter.

  Desperate for something—anything at all—to take his mind off Julie, he went up to the attic to get them. The suitcase fell from a shelf while he was rummaging through the various boxes piled beside it, and it sprang open when it struck the floor.

  He bent over to pick it up. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her to the little apartment they had rented after their marriage, and he remembered how she had always kept it locked and remembered her telling him laughingly that there were some things a wife had to keep a secret even from her husband. The lock had rusted over the years, and the fall had broken it.

  He started to close the lid, paused when he saw the protruding hem of a white dress. The material was vaguely familiar. He had seen material similar to it not very long ago—material that brought to mind cotton candy and sea foam and snow.

  He raised the lid and picked up the dress with trembling fingers. He held it by the shoulders and let it unfold itself, and it hung there in the room like gently falling snow. He looked at it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, tenderly, he folded it again and replaced it in the suitcase and closed the lid. He returned the suitcase to its niche under the eaves. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

  Rain thrummed on the roof. The tightness of his throat was so acute now that he thought for a moment that he was going to cry. Slowly he descended the attic stairs. He went down the spiral stairway into the living room. The clock on the mantel said 10:14. In just a few minutes the bingo bus would let her off at the corner, and she would come walking down the street and up the walk to the front door. Anne would . . . Julie would. Julianne?

  Was that her full name? Probably. People invariably retained part of their original names when adopting aliases; and having completely altered her last name, she had probably thought it safe to take liberties with her first. She must have done other things, too, in addition to changing her name, to elude the time police. No wonder she had never wanted her picture taken! And how terrified she must have been on that long-ago day when she had stepped timidly into his office to apply for a job! All alone in a strange generation, not knowing for sure whether her father’s concept of time was valid, not knowing for sure whether the man who would love her in his forties would feel the same way toward her in his twenties. She had come back all right, just as she had said she would.

  Twenty years, he thought wonderingly, and all the while she must have known that one day I’d climb a September hill and see her standing, young and lovely, in the sun, and fall in love with her all over again. She had to know because the moment was as much a part of her past as it was a part of my future. But why didn’t she tell me? Why doesn’t she tell me now?

  Suddenly he understood.

  He found it hard to breathe, and he went into the hall and donned his raincoat and stepped out into the rain. He walked down the walk in the rain, and the rain pelted his face and ran in drops down his cheeks, and some of the drops were raindrops, and some of them were tears. How could anyone as agelessly beautiful as Anne—as Julie—was be afraid of growing old? Didn’t she realize that in his eyes she couldn’t grow old—that to him she hadn’t aged
a day since the moment he had looked up from his desk and seen her standing there in the tiny office and simultaneously fallen in love with her? Couldn’t she understand that that was why the girl on the hill had seemed a stranger to him?

  He had reached the street and was walking down it toward the corner. He was almost there when the bingo bus pulled up and stopped, and the girl in the white trench coat got out. The tightness of his throat grew knife-sharp, and he could not breathe at all. The dandelion-hued hair was darker now, and the girlish charm was gone; but the gentle loveliness still resided in her gentle face, and the long and slender legs had a grace and symmetry in the pale glow of the November streetlight that they had never known in the golden radiance of the September sun.

  She came forward to meet him, and he saw the familiar fear in her eyes—a fear poignant now beyond enduring because he understood its cause. She blurred before his eyes, and he walked toward her blindly. When he came up to her, his eyes cleared, and he reached out across the years and touched her rain-wet cheek. She knew it was all right then, and the fear went away forever, and they walked home hand in hand in the rain.

  Glass Houses

  SHE IS STANDING IN HER WINDOW waiting for me. She waits for me every night when I come on guard. She knows my post as well as I do—knows exactly when I will appear around the curvature of the force field. We are would-be lovers, she and I, thwarted by time and electronic sorcery.

  In the lights that the army installed around the Time colony, we can see each other as well as though it were day. She smiles at me as I gaze up at her through the invisible field. Marianne. Her face is that of a beautiful woman and simultaneously that of a child. She has just combed her bright yellow hair. Her negligee is pink, but not much more so than the flesh it tries to conceal.

  The field acts as a sound barrier, too, but we have learned to read each other’s lips. With hers, she forms the words I love you, Wayne. I form the words I love you, too with mine.

  Who would dream that love could come to a sentry while he walked his post? Who would dream he could awaken love in a girl from the future who had come back to the past?

  I ask the oft-repeated question: Marianne, have you found a way? She answers: No, but I will soon.

  I want to take you in my arms. I want to kiss your hair.

  I want you to.

  So somehow you must escape.

  Only with a disseminator can I burn through the field, and a disseminator is difficult to obtain.

  Why are you imprisoned in the past?

  I told you before, it does not matter why.

  You must escape, Marianne. I cannot live without you.

  I will, I will, I will.

  * * *

  I continue on my way. At unexpected times, the corporal of the guard makes his rounds, and I do not want him to catch me talking to Marianne. I walk to where the next post begins. The sentry who has it has moved out of sight beyond the curvature of the field. I would be able to see him, but the colonists’ houses are in the way. I am grateful for the conformation of the colony, for it has enabled me to keep my trysts with Marianne a secret from the other guards.

  I unsling my rifle and rest for a while before starting back. It is a warm August night. I cannot see the stars because of the mercury-vapor lights, but I know that they are out. I think the moon has set. I re-sling my rifle and start back. It is unnecessary baggage. It is meant to discourage people from coming too close to the field, but the colony is out of bounds by night and no one ever comes near it.

  Marianne disappeared from the window when I left. Now she reappears. I have thought of you all day, she “says.”

  And I have thought of you.

  There must be other women in your life besides me.

  There are none anymore.

  I find that hard to believe.

  It is true. But with you, there must be other men.

  The men I know, compared to you, are dead leaves blowing in the wind.

  We converse at intervals the whole night through. We do so every night when I am on guard. At 6:30, we say good night; at 7:00, I am relieved. She must be sound asleep by now. Perhaps she is dreaming of me.

  I know that I shall dream of her.

  * * *

  I do not like the army, but it has proved to be a blessing in disguise, for if I had not enlisted, I would never have found Marianne.

  No doubt I would have come to see the Time Colony and would have stood with the other sightseers staring at the people and the houses beyond the field. But I would not have seen Marianne. Even if she had come to her window, I would not have seen her, for sightseers are not allowed to go close to the field. Then, too, the colony has many windows, and during the day many people from the future look through them into the past. With so many faces and standing so far away, I would never have been able to isolate Marianne’s.

  The first time I went on duty at night, I had the eleven-to-seven shift. For a while all the windows were empty, then Marianne stepped into hers. I looked up at her and she looked down at me. After that, I made sure I got the same post again each time I went on guard at night. The other guys did not care which section of the field they patrolled. They did not know about Marianne. Soon she and I learned to read each other’s lips. Soon we fell in love.

  I asked the lieutenant who is in charge of our contingent if I could have the eleven-to-seven shift right along. He looked at me as though he thought I were crazy. Then he shrugged and said it was all right with him. I was tempted to ask him if I could dispense with my nights off, but I did not think it would be wise. I always tell Marianne ahead of time when someone else will be walking my post. I know she does not appear in her window on those nights, for whenever one of the other guys sees an attractive woman, he raves about it for days.

  * * *

  When the Time Colony first appeared, there was a national alert, and the army at once put it out of bounds. Only after it became certain that it posed no danger and that the force field enclosing it threw forth no harmful radiation was the restriction lifted. Thousands of people began coming to view the phenomenon, people from all over the world, and the nearby town of Weberville began growing fat and rich. Only a contingent of troops guards the field now, but in the beginning our whole company was involved. But interest waned, and there really was not much of anything to see, since the colony, despite the field enclosing it, does not look markedly different from an ordinary village. People, in fact, have even begun referring to it as such. If it is indeed a village, it is a dead one, for the people in it do not work. All they do is go for leisurely walks, or sit for hours in the “village” park. The only real activity they ever engage in is a game much like croquet that they sometimes play in their back yards. Their houses are as uninteresting as they are. The structures are modular, but in appearance do not differ greatly from most modern two-story dwellings. Nevertheless, in two respects the colony, when thought of as a village, is unique: It contains no children, and all of the “villagers” are beautiful.

  My “villager” is the most beautiful one of all.

  * * *

  Marianne, you must hurry and find a way.

  The only way is with a disseminator.

  Get one now.

  I cannot. They are for emergency use only and are under lock and key. But I will get the key, Wayne—I will, I will, I will.

  Who has it? Your jailer?

  There is no jailer. We are not truly imprisoned, but it is against the rules for any of us to leave.

  Why should it be against the rules?

  It is not necessary for you to know.

  I want you, Marianne.

  I want you, too.

  I cannot wait to hold you in my arms.

  I will get the key, Wayne—I will, I will, I will.

  * * *

  A letter from my mother. Everything is fine back home. Dad sends his love. P.S.: Jennifer got married.

  Jennifer?

  Oh, yes—the girl I used to go with. I had almos
t forgotten her name.

  * * *

  Marianne, did you get the key?

  Yes. I have it hidden away.

  If you have the key, then get the disseminator now.

  I cannot get it till tomorrow, because at night there is a guard. Oh, Wayne, I am so afraid.

  You do not have to be afraid. Once you are free, I will take care of you.

  But your world is so different from mine.

  You will be happy in it. I will make you happy.

  Where will you take me?

  I will find a place for you in town. We will live there together. I will marry you.

  You do not have to marry me.

  I do not have to, but I will.

  How will I get to town?

  I will take you there. After you break free.

  Oh, Wayne I am so afraid.

  * * *

  In the beginning, the people who are from the future were thought to be from the stars. The learned men who put their heads together concluded that the colony had been transmitted to Earth by an alien race whose technology was so advanced that ours, when compared to it, was still in the Tinkertoy stage. But when closer scrutiny revealed that the colonists are exactly like us, another answer had to be found, for the odds against two identical life forms existing on two different worlds are astronomical. Nevertheless, it was a long time before the learned men finally faced the fact that since the colony could not conceivably have come from the stars, and since matter transmission is as far beyond the Russians’ ken as it is beyond ours, the colony must have been sent back from the future.

  Why had it been sent back? Certainly not so the people in it could study the past, for they never emerged from their electronic cocoon, and although they often looked through its invisible walls at the surrounding countryside, the expressions on their faces indicated that they did so out of boredom rather than scientific curiosity.

  Attempts were made to contact them, but they ignored the learned men who sought entrance at their “door.” Attempts were made to short-circuit the field, but it proved to be as far beyond the grasp of present-day electronics experts as quantum mechanics would be to a five-year-old child.