For Us, the Living Page 3

  “You mentioned Reno. Are we near there?”

  “Yes, we are about thirty kilometers south of Lake Tahoe.”

  “Tell me, is Reno still a divorce mill?”

  “A divorce mill? Oh, no, Reno is not, as you call it, a divorce mill. There are no such things as divorces anymore.”

  “There aren’t? What do a man and his wife do if they can’t get along together?”

  “They don’t live together.”

  “Rather awkward in case one of them should fall in love again, isn’t it?”

  “No, you see—Good heavens, Perry, what a lot there is to teach you. I don’t know where to start. However, I’ll just plunge in and try to answer your questions. In the first place, there isn’t any legal contract to be broken, not in your sense of the word. There are domestic contracts but they don’t involve marriage in the religious or sexual aspects. And any of these contracts can be dealt with like any other secular contract.”

  “But doesn’t that make a rather confusing situation, homes broken up, children around loose—what about children? Who supports them?”

  “Why they support themselves on their heritage.”

  “On their heritage? They can’t all be heirs.”

  “But they are—Oh, it’s too confusing. I’ll have to get some histories for you and a code of customs. These things are all bound up in major changes in the economic and social structure. Let me ask you a question. In your day what was marriage?”

  “Well, it was a civil contract between a man and a woman usually sealed by a religious ceremony.”

  “And what did this contract stipulate?”

  “It stipulated a lot of things not specifically mentioned, but under it the two lived together, she worked for him, more or less, and he supported her financially. They slept together and neither one was supposed to have love affairs with anybody else. If they had children they supported them until they were grown up.”

  “And what were the objects of this arrangement?”

  “Well, principally for the benefit of the children, I guess. The children were protected and given a name. Also women were protected and supported and looked out for when they were bearing children.”

  “And what did the man get out of it.”

  “He got—well—a family and home life, and someone to do his cooking, and a thousand other little services, and if you will pardon me mentioning it, he had a woman to sleep with any time he needed one.”

  “Let’s take the last first; was she necessarily the woman he wanted to ‘sleep’ with as you so quaintly put it?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, else he probably wouldn’t have asked her to marry him. No, by God, I know that is not true. It may be true when they first marry, but I know damn well that most married men see women every day that they would rather have than their own wives. I’ve watched ’em in every port.”

  “How about yourself. Perry?”

  “Me? I’m not—I wasn’t married.”

  “Didn’t you ever see a woman you wanted to enjoy physically?”

  “Of course. Many of them.”

  “Then why didn’t you marry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to be tied down.”

  “If a man didn’t have children to support and a wife to support would he be tied down by marriage?”

  “Why yes, in a way. She would expect him to do everything with her and would raise Cain if he stepped out with other women and would expect him to entertain her sisters and her cousins and her aunts, and would be sore if he had to work on their anniversary.”

  “Good Lord! What a picture you paint. I don’t understand all of your expressions but it sounds unbearable.”

  “Of course not all women are like that, some of them are good sports—man to man, but you can’t tell when you marry them.”

  “It sounds from your description as if men had nothing to gain by marriage but an available mistress. And tell me, weren’t there women for hire then at a lower cost than supporting one woman for life?”

  “Oh yes, certainly. But they weren’t satisfactory to most men. You see, a man doesn’t like to feel that a woman goes to bed with him just for the money in his pocket.”

  “But you just said that women married to be supported.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant. Or that’s not all—at least not usually. Anyhow it’s different. Besides men don’t always play the game. You see a man marries partially to have exclusive right to a woman’s attention, especially her body. But lots of them carry it to extremes. Marriage is no excuse for a man to slap his wife’s face for dancing twice with another man—as I’ve seen happen.”

  “But why should a man want to have exclusive possession of a woman?”

  “Well, he just naturally does. It’s in his nature. Besides a man wants to be sure his children aren’t bastards.”

  “We are no longer so sure, Perry, that such traits are ‘nature’ as you call them. And bastard is an obsolete term.”

  At this moment an amber light flashed at the other end of the room. Diana arose and returned shortly with a roll of papers. “They have arrived. Here, look.” She unrolled them and spread them on the shelf-table. Perry saw that they were photostatic copies of pages of the Los Angeles Times, Harold-Express, and Daily News for July 13, 1939. She pointed to a headline:

  NAVAL FLIER KILLED IN CAR CRASH

  Torrey Fines, Calif., July 12. Lieutenant Perry V. Nelson, Navy pilot of Coronado, was killed today when he lost control of the car he was driving and plunged over the palisade here to his death on the rock below. Lieut. Nelson jumped or was thrown clear of the car but landed head first in a pile of loose rock at the foot of the cliff, splitting his skull. Death was instantaneous. Miss Diana Burwood of Pasadena was bathing on the beach below and narrowly escaped injury. She attempted to give first aid, then scaled the bluff and reported the accident with aid of a passing motorist.

  There were similar stories in the other papers. The Daily News included a column cut of Perry in uniform. Diana examined this with interest. “The story checks perfectly, Perry. This is just a fair likeness of you, however.” Perry glanced at it.

  “I should say that it wasn’t bad, considering the limitations of a half-tone reproduction.”

  “The surprising thing is that it looks like you at all.”

  “Why do you say that, Diana? Don’t you believe me?” His hurt showed plainly in his face.

  “Oh, no, no. I believe that you are telling the literal truth—insofar as you know it. But think, Perry. The head that was photographed to take this picture has—if this newspaper account is true—been dust for more than a century.”

  Perry stared at her and a look of horror crept into his eyes. He closed his eyes and clasped his head between his palms. He remained thus, face averted and body tensed for several minutes until he felt a gentle touch on his hair. Diana bent over him, pity and compassion in her eyes. “Perry, please. Listen to me. I didn’t mean to distress you. I wouldn’t hurt you intentionally. I want to be your friend if you will let me.”

  Gently she removed his hands from his temples. “It is a strange and marvelous thing that has happened to you, Perry, and I don’t understand it at all. In some ways it is horrible and certainly terrifying. But it could be much worse—much worse. This is not a bad world in which you have landed. I think it is a rather kindly world. I like it and I am sure it must be better than being crushed and broken at the foot of the palisades. Please, Perry, I’d like to help you.”

  He patted her hand. “You’re a good kid, Dian’, I’ll be all right. It’s the shock more than anything. The realization that all that world I know is dead and gone. I knew it of course when you told me what year it was, but I didn’t realize it until you pointed out to me that I’m dead, too—or at least that my body died.” He jumped to his feet. “But say!—if my body is dead, where in God’s name did I get this!”—and he slapped his side.

  “I don’t know, Perry, but I have an idea.�
��

  “What is it?”

  “Not just yet. But we can start a little action toward finding out. Come with me.” She opened out the drawer containing the communication instrument, and pushed one button. A pretty red-headed girl appeared on the screen and smiled. Diana spoke. “Reno, please relay Washington, Bureau of records, Identification Sector.”

  “Check, Diana.” The red head faded out.

  “Does she know you?”

  “Probably recognized me. You will understand.”

  Shortly another face appeared, that of an iron grey studious man. Diana spoke. “Identification requested.”

  “Which one of you?”

  “Him.”

  “Check. Take position.” The face turned away and a camera-like apparatus appeared.

  “Put up your right hand, Perry,” whispered Diana. Perry did so. The grey haired man re-appeared.

  “Listen, how can I analyze if you don’t hold position? Haven’t you ever used a phone before?”

  “I—I guess not.” Perry looked confused.

  The slight irritation vanished from the man’s voice. “What’s the trouble, friend? Lost your continuity?”

  “I guess you’d call it that.”

  “That’s different. I’ll fix you up in no time. Then you’ll probably have no trouble to orient. Now do just as I tell you. Right hand, palm toward me about twenty centimeters from the screen. Down a little. Now just a hair closer. Your palm is tilted. Get it parallel to the screen. There. Hold it steady.” A soft shirring and a click. “That’s all. Do you want a full dossier or just name and number?”

  Diana cut in. “Brief of dossier, please, with last entry in full. Televuestat Reno station, tube delivery G610L-400-48, expedited rate.”

  “Charge to him when I get his number?”

  “No, to me, Diana, 160-398-400-48A.”

  “Oooh! I thought I recognized you.”

  “This is private action.” Diana’s voice was cool and crisp.

  The man looked indignant, then his face became impassive. “Madam, I am an official clerk of the Bureau of Records. I thoroughly understand the spheres of public and private action, and my oath and charge.”

  Diana melted at once. “I’m sorry. I truly am. Please forgive me.”

  He relaxed and smiled. “Of course, Miss Diana. You probably have to insist on the spheres. But, if you will permit, it would be an honor to provide this service for you.”

  “No, please, make the routine charge. But may I do you some service?” She inclined her head. The clerk bowed in return. “A picture perhaps?”

  “If madam permits.”

  “My latest stereo. Face or full?”

  He bowed without speaking.

  “I’ll send both. They shall cross your brief in the tubes.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “Thank you. Clearing.” The screen went blank. “Well, Perry, we’ll know soon. But I must get the poor chap his pictures. I didn’t mean to offend him, but he was too touchy.” She returned in a moment with two thin sheets and started to roll them up. Noticing Perry’s interest, she paused. “Would you care to see them?”

  “Yes, of course.” The first picture was Diana’s face in natural colors with a half smile warming it. But Perry was startled almost into dropping it. For the portrait was completely stereoscopic. It was as if he were looking through a window of cellophane at Diana herself posed stationary three feet back of the frame.

  “How in the world are these done?”

  “I’m neither an optics student nor a photographer, but I know the picture really does have some depth to it. It’s a colloid about a half centimeter thick. It is done with two cameras, so it works only on one axis. Turn it around sideways.” He did so. The picture went perfectly flat although remaining a fine photograph. “Now tilt it about forty-five degrees.” He did so and had the upsetting sensation of watching Diana’s beautiful features melt and run until no picture was visible, but just an iridescense like oil on water. “You have to look at it along the right axis and within a narrow view angle, but when you do the two images blend in the stereo illusion. The brain interprets the confused double image given by two separated eyes as depth and by duplicating that confusion, they achieve the illusion.”

  Perry stared at the picture a moment more and tilted and twisted it. Diana watched with interest and sympathetic amusement. “May I see the other picture?”

  “Here it is.” Perry glanced at it, then swallowed. He had grown accustomed to Diana’s nudity, more or less, and had been too much occupied mentally to think much about it, but nevertheless he had been aware of it in one corner of his mind all the time. Still, he was startled to discover that the second picture portrayed all of Diana in her own sweet simplicity, nothing more, and that it was as amazingly lifelike as the first, real enough to pinch. He swallowed again.

  “You intend to send this, er—uh, these pictures to a man you’ve just met on the phone.”

  “Oh, yes, he wants them and I can afford it. And I was a bit rude. Of course some people would think it a bit brash for me to give him anything as intimate as a facial portrait but I don’t mind.”

  “But,—uh—”

  “Yes, Perry?”

  “Oh, well, nothing I guess. Never mind.”

  III

  Later while Diana monkeyed with the gadgets in the Demeter niche, the green light and gong note announced a tube delivery. “Get it, will you, Perry?” she called. “I’ve got both hands full.” Perry puzzled with the controls, then found a small lever that opened the receptacle. He brought over the roll to Diana. “Read it aloud, Perry, while I finish dinner.” He unrolled it and first noticed a picture of a young man who resembled his own memory of himself. He commenced to read. “Gordon 932-016-755-82A, Genes class JM, born 2057 July 7. Qualified and matriculated Arlington Health School 2075, transferred (approved) Adler Memorial Institute of Psychology 2077. Selected for research when Extra-sensory station was established by Master Fifield in 2080. Author of A Study of Deviant Data in Extra-Sensory Perception. Co-author (with Pandit Kalimohan Chandra Roy) of Proteus: a History of the Ego. Address Sanctuary (F-2), California. Unofficially reported in voluntary corporal abdication in 2083 August and transferred at the request of Sanctuary Council to inactive status 2085 August, body to remain in Sanctuary. Credit account on transfer to inactive $11,018.32 less depreciation $9,803.09, credit account re-entered with service deduction $9802.09 less $500 credit convenience book $9,302.09 (enclosed).”

  Attached to the end of the roll was a small wallet or notebook. Inside Perry found that the leaves were money, conventional money, differing only slightly in size and design from money in 1939. In the back of the book was a pad of blank credit drafts, a check book.

  “What do I do with this stuff, Diana?”

  “Do with it? Anything you like, use it, spend it, live on it.”

  “But it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to this fellow Gordon something-or-other.”

  “You are Gordon 755-82.”

  “Me? The hell I am.”

  “You are, though. The Bureau of Records has already acknowledged it and has your account re-entered. You have the body listed as 932-016-755-82A. You can use any name you like, Perry, or Gordon, or George Washington, and the Bureau will gladly note the change in the record, but that number goes with that body and that credit account and they won’t change it. Of course you don’t have to spend it but if you don’t, nobody will, and it will just get bigger.”

  “Can’t I give it away?”

  “Certainly—but not to Gordon.”

  Perry scratched his head. “No, I guess not. Say, what is this voluntary abdication stuff?”

  “I’m not able to give a scientific account of it, but so far as anyone else is concerned it amounts to suicide by willing not to live.”

  “Then Gordon is dead?”

  “No. Not according to the ideas of the people who monkey with these things. He simply was not interested in living he
re and chose to live elsewhere.”

  “How come his body is here okay?”

  “According to this report Gordon’s body—this body—” She pinched his cheeks. “—has been lying quietly in a state of arrested animation in the Sanctuary on the other side of this mountain. And so the mystery is partially cleared up.”

  His wrinkled brow showed no satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose so. But each mystery is explained with another mystery.”

  “There is just one mystery left that worries me, Perry, and that is why in the world you didn’t break a leg and maybe your brand-new neck in getting over here. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “So am I. Lord!”

  “But now I must get to work.” She stacked the supper dishes as she spoke.

  “What work?”

  “My paid work. I am not one of the ascetic souls that are content with their heritage checks. I’ve got to have money for ribbons and geegaws.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a televue actress, Perry. I dance and sing a little, and occasionally take part in stories.”

  “Are you about to rehearse?”

  “No, I go on the waves in about twenty minutes.”

  “Goodness, the studio must be close by or you’ll be late.”

  “Oh, no. It will be picked up from here. But you will have to be a good boy and sit still and not ask questions for a while or I shall be late. Come. Sit over here. Now face the receiver so.” Another section of the wall flew up and Perry faced a flat screen. “There you can see the whole performance and watch me dance directly too.” She opened the communicator drawer and raised the small screen. A rather homely debonair young man appeared. He wore a helmet with bulges over his ears. A cigarette drooped from one corner of his sardonic mouth.

  “Hi, Dian’.”

  “Hello, Larry. Where j’a get the circles under your eyes?”

  “That from you—and you so huffy about the private sphere of action. I had a blonde paint ’em on.”

  “She got the left one crooked.”

  “Cut out the arcing and get down to work, wench. Got your setup made?”

  “Yeah.”