SciFi of the Day
You Don't Make Wine Like the Greeks Did
On the sixty-third floor of
the Empire State Building
is, among others of its
type, a rather small office consisting
of two rooms connected
by a stout wooden door.
The room into which the office
door, which is of opaque glass,
opens, is the smaller of the
two and serves to house a receptionist,
three not-too-comfortable
armchairs, and a disorderly,
homogeneous mixture
of Life's, Look's and New
Yorker's.
Donald was determined to make Mimi go back to
their world—dead or alive!
The receptionist is a young
woman, half-heartedly pretty
but certainly chic in the manner
of New York's women in
general and of its working
women in particular, perhaps
in her middle twenties, with a
paucity of golden hair which
is kept clinging rather back
on her skull by an intricate
network of tortoise-shell
combs and invisible pins. She
is engaged to a man who is in
turn engaged in a position for
an advertising firm just
thirty-seven stories directly
below her. Her name is Margaret.
She often, in periods when
the immediate consummation
of the work on her desk is not
of paramount importance, as
is often the case, gazes somnolently
at the floor beside her
large walnut desk, hoping to
catch a lurking image of her
beloved only thirty-seven stories
away. She rarely succeeds
in viewing him through
the intervening spaces, but
she does not tire of trying; it
is a pleasant enough diversion.
There is an electronics
firm just five stories above her
fiance, and perhaps, she reasons,
there is interference of
a sort here. Someday maybe
she will catch them with all
their tubes off. Margaret is a
romantic, but she is engaged
and thus is entitled.
Beyond the entrance that is
guarded by the stout wooden
door is a larger room, darker,
quieter, one step more removed
from the hurrying hallway.
A massive but neat desk is
placed before the one set of
windows, the blinds of which
are kept closed but tilted toward
the sky so that an aura
of pale light is continually
seeping through. The main illumination
comes from several
lamps placed in strategic
corners, their bulbs turned
away from the occupants of
the room.
To one side of the desk is a
comfortable-looking deep
chair, with leather arms and
a back quite high enough to
support one's head. In front
of this is the traditional
couch, armless but well-upholstered
and comfortable. At
the moment Dr. Victor Quink
was sitting not in the deep
chair but in the swivel chair
behind the desk. His glasses
were lying on the desk next to
his feet, the chair was pushed
back as far as it might safely
be, his arms were stretched
out to their extremity, and his
mouth was straining open, as
if to split his cheeks. Dr.
Quink was yawning.
His method of quick relaxation
was that of the blank
mind; he was at this very moment
forcibly evicting all
vestiges of thought from his
head; he was concentrating intently
on black, on depth, on
absolute silence. He was able
to maintain this discipline for
perhaps a second, or a second
and a half at most, and then
his mind began, imperceptibly
at the first, to slip off
along a path of its own liking,
leading Dr. Quink quietly and
unprotestingly along. The
path is narrow, crinkly, bending
back upon itself. It is not
a path for vehicles, but one
worn by a single pair of boots,
plodding patiently, slowly,
wearily. The path runs, or
creeps, through a wild and
desolate district where hardly
more than a single blade of
grass shoots up at random
from the bottomless drift-sand.
Instead of the garden
that normally embellishes a
castle (there is in the vague
distance a blurred castle), the
fortified walls are approached
on the landward side by a
scant forest of firs, on the
other by the snow-swept Baltic
Sea. Spanish moss hangs
limply from the evergrays,
disdainful of the sun and of
its reflection by sea; the scene
is somber and restful, serene,
and flat.
The buzzer rang once,
twice.
Dr. Quink brought his feet
down to their more dignified
position, out of sight beneath
his desk. His conscious once
more took hold of his mind,
only vaguely aware that it
had not been able to achieve
the incognito serenity it
sought. He put on his glasses
and the heavy wooden door
opened and a man walked
through.
He carried his hat in both
hands, he was nervous, he was
out of his element. He looked
to both sides as he came past
the doorway, and when Margaret
closed the door behind
him he jumped, though nearly
imperceptibly, and advanced
toward the desk. "I'm not sure
at all I should have come
here," he said.
Dr. Quink nodded, but said
nothing. He judged the man
to be on the order of thirty or
thirty-one. His hair was black,
curly, and sparse; perhaps
balding, perhaps not.
"You see, I can't be quite
candid with you. Nothing personal,
of course. It just ...
Oh, this is frightfully embarrassing,"
he said, taking a
seat before the desk at Dr.
Quink's waved invitation. "I
just thought that perhaps,
even without knowing all the
details, you might be able to
effect merely a temporary
cure. So that I can get her
back home, to our own doctors.
Nothing personal, of
course. I do hope I don't offend
you."
"Not at all, I assure you,"
Dr. Quink assured him. "Just
whom did you mean by her?"
"Why, my wife." He looked
at Quink quizzically for a moment,
then with sudden fresh
embarrassment. "Oh, of
course. You naturally assume
that it was I who is ... um,
in need of treatment. No, no,
you couldn't be more wrong.
No, it is my wife. Yes, I've
come to see you on her account.
You see, of course, she
wouldn't come herself. Ah,
this is rather awkward, I'm
afraid."
"Not at all," Quink answered.
"If you would just tell me
what your wife's trouble is?"
"Yes, of course. You have
to know that, at least, don't
you? I mean, do you? You
couldn't possibly just treat
her on general principles, so
to speak, without being told of
the immediate symptoms?
You don't, I take it, have any
technique that would correspond
to penicillin, and just
sort of clear things up in her
head at random?"
Dr. Quink assured him that
it was necessary, in psychiatry
at least, to determine the
disease before curing it.
"I suppose so," the gentleman
said. "Incidentally, my
name is Fairfield. Donald
Fairfield. Did I mention that?
But of course, you have all
that on your little card there,
don't you? Yes, I thought so.
I do hope your secretary's
handwriting is legible, it
doesn't seem so from this angle.
By the way, did you know
that she is prone to staring at
the floor? A spot right next to
her desk. The right-hand side.
I think I never should have
come here."
Dr. Quink reassured him
that he was free to leave at
any moment, never to return.
By a longish glance at the
wall clock, in fact, Dr. Quink
gave him to understand that
he might do so with no hard
feelings left behind. Mr. Fairfield,
however, gathered his
resources and plunged forward.
"I think you'll find this a
rather interesting case, Doctor.
Most unusual. Of course,
I have little notion of the variety
of situations one comes
into contact with in your line
of work, still I have every
reason to believe this will
come as a bit of a shock. I
wonder just how dogmatic
you are in your convictions?"
Dr. Quink raised his eyebrows
and made no answer;
he was desperately stifling a
yawn.
"I mean no intrusion on
your religious life, by any
means. Not at all. No, that is
the furthest thought from my
mind, I assure you. No, I am
concerned at the moment with
my wife's problems, meaning
no disrespect to yourself at
all, sir. I merely asked, not
out of idle curiosity, but because
... Doctor, I suppose
there's no way for it but to
explain." He gestured with
his hat toward the desk calendar
between him and Quink.
"This is the year 1959, correct?
Well, you see, sir, the
fact of the matter is that I
just wasn't born in 1959."
He stopped there, and the
room relapsed into silence.
Dr. Quink looked at him for
a few moments, but no explanatory
statement was
forthcoming. Dr. Quink removed
his eyeglasses, opened
his left drawer two from the
top, removed a white wiper,
and wiped his glasses carefully.
Mr. Fairfield waited patiently.
Dr. Quink replaced
the glasses. He leaned forward
across the desk.
"Mr. Fairfield," he said,
"this may come as some shock
to you, but I wasn't born this
year either."
"You don't understand,"
Mr. Fairfield wailed. "Oh, I
just knew I shouldn't have
come. When I say I wasn't
born—"
He stopped, at a loss to explain.
He wrung his hat in his
hands until it was crumpled
probably beyond repair. Then
he jumped up, pushed it onto
his head, and quickly walked
out of the office. As his back
disappeared from the doorway
Margaret's head poked
up in its place. She looked
quite startled.
"It's all right, Margaret,"
Victor Quink said. "He was
just a bit upset. You get all
kinds in here. This one claimed
there's something abnormal
with his wife. Better
leave an hour free tomorrow.
He'll come back."
But he didn't.
He didn't come back during
the following three weeks,
then one afternoon Margaret
ushered him through the
doorway. He walked to the
chair before the desk, looking
neither at the doctor nor to
the right nor left, and sat
down, holding his hat in his
hands.
"My wife believes she's
just," he waved his hat vaguely
toward the shielded window,
"just like everybody else
here."
"And isn't she?" Doctor
Quink queried, with the patience
due his profession.
"No, she isn't. But she's
forgotten. She hasn't really
forgotten. I don't know your
technical terminology; she refuses
to remember. Oh, you
know. Her subconscious, or
unconscious, or whatever, is
blinding her. She won't face
reality. And it's time for us to
go back. But she won't budge.
She claims she's normal, and
I'm the one who's crazy. In
fact, she was very happy that
I was coming to see you today.
I told her I was going to see
you, but she persisted in insisting
that I was coming here
because I needed help. She
said I'm coming to you because
subconsciously I know I
need you. Well, enough of
that. I'm here because we
have to go home, and if you
could just make her face life
long enough to admit that, I'm
sure that when we do get
home our doctors will have no
difficulty with her case. It
won't be so bizarre to them, of
course, as it must seem to
you."
"Frankly, Mr. Fairfield,"
Dr. Quink said, "you're not
being entirely clear in this
matter. First of all, you say
you have to go home. You're
not a native of New York
then?"
"A native? How quaintly
you put it, Doctor. You might
better say a savage, mightn't
you? But that's neither here
nor there. I am, of course, a
native, as you say, of New
York. I thought I explained
last time. I am simply not of
this time."
Doctor Quink slowly shook
his shaggy head. "I'm afraid
the precise meaning of your
phrase escapes me, Mr. Fairfield."
"I am not of this time, Doctor.
Nor is my wife. We are
from ... well, from the future."
"From very far in the future?"
Quink asked quietly.
"Quite far. I'm not sure
just exactly how far. Systems
of time measurement have
changed, you understand, between
our time and this, so
that the calculations become
rather involved, though, of
course, only superficially."
"Of course. Quite understandable."
"Quite. You are being understanding
about this. Much
better than I had hoped for,
actually. At any rate, let's get
on with it. For some obscure
reason my wife has fled reality,
and now that our vacation
is up she refuses to return
with me, stating flatly that
she has never, to make a long
story short, traveled through
time—except, of course, at the
normal velocity with which
we all progress in the course
of things—and that it is I who
am out of my head and
though, while not actually
troublesome, it would be
thoughtful of me to see a doctor
or at least to shut up about
this nonsense before the neighbors
hear me. Could you see
her tomorrow evening? She'd
never come here, feeling as
she does, but I thought if you
would come to dinner you
might hypnotize her unawares
or—"
"I don't think that's feasible
under the circum—"
"Isn't it really? I'm afraid
I don't know much about this
sort of thing. I'm quite helpless
in this affair, really. I assure
you I was driven to desperation
to tell you all this; I
mean, you must understand
that absolute silence, secrecy,
that is, is our most absolute
sacred rule. Perhaps you could
just slip something into her
drink, knock her out, so to
speak, and I could then bodily
take her back—"
"Mr. Fairfield," Dr. Quink
felt it necessary to interrupt,
"you must understand that it
would not be ethical for me to
do as you suggest. Now it
seems to me that the essence
of your wife's peculiarity lies
in her relationship with you,
her husband. So if you don't
mind, perhaps we might talk
about you for a while. It
might be more comfortable
for you on the couch. Please,
it doesn't obligate you in any
way. Yes, that's much better,
isn't it. And I'll sit here, if I
may. Now, then, go on, just
tell me all about yourself. Go
on just start talking. You'll
find it'll come by itself after
you get started."
"I suppose I asked for this.
I mean, coming here as I did.
I don't know what else I could
have done, though. They prepare
one for every emergency,
as well, of course, as one can
foresee the future, which is
in this case actually the
past, speaking chronologically.
Your chronology, that is,
not ours. I'm sure you follow
me, though it seems to me I'm
talking in circles. Are we accomplishing
very much, do
you think?"
"We mustn't be impatient,"
Dr. Quink said. "These things
come slowly, they take time, if
you'll pardon the expression.
But of course, it's impudent
of me to lecture you on temporal
effects."
"Not at all, not at all, I assure
you. I am no expert on
the time continuum, no expert
in the slightest. I daresay I
don't understand the most
basic principles behind it, just
as you aren't required to understand
electromagnetic theory
in order to flick on the
electric light. In fact, I believe
it wasn't even necessary for
Edison to understand it in
order to invent the damned
thing."
"You know about Edison
then?"
"Oh, certainly. I've studied
up quite a bit on this section
of our history."
"You're sure," Dr. Quink
went on, "that you simply
didn't learn about Edison in
grammar school?"
"Quite. Oh, yes, quite. No
offense meant, sir, but you
must certainly realize that between
my time and this there
have been a great many discoveries
in the manifold fields
embraced by science, so that
people who in your own time
were famous to schoolchildren
are now, then, that is,—oh, I
hope you know what I mean—known
only to scholars of the
period involved. In the time to
which I belong the schoolchildren
may know of Newton,
Einstein and Fisher, but
of such lesser luminaries as
Edison, or even Avogadro or
Galdeen, they are quite ignorant."
"Galdeen?"
"Yes, Galdeen. Surely you
know of Galdeen. Perhaps I'm
mispronouncing it. Oh, damn.
I'm actually rather proud of
my knowledge of your histories,
I hate to be tripped up
on something like this. Galineed,
perhaps?"
"Well, it's not worth bothering
about."
"Damned annoying, just
the same. It's on the tip of my
tongue. Galeel?"
"Would you mind very
much if we went on to some
other subject? I don't think
we're gaining much right
here."
"You're the doctor, you
know," Fairfield replied. "I
was just explaining how I
knew about Edison, though
I never attended grammar
school in this century. So,
then, where were we? You
asked me to tell you about myself,
didn't you? You know,
I'd much rather you told me
about yourself." Fairfield suddenly
sat upright on the
couch, drew his legs up to his
chest, crossed his ankles, and
hugged his knees. "I was noticing
that picture you have
hanging on the wall," he said.
"The sea, la mer, das Weltmeer,
te misralub, et cetera.
The roaring, crashing waves,
the bubbling, foaming spray.
The deep dank mystery of the
green wet sea. Marvelous,
marvelous. Do you indulge in
sex? I mean you, personally,
of course, not as a representative
of your species."
Victor Quink laid down his
pad in his lap. "I'm not married,
Mr. Fairfield," he said.
"Do you often ask such questions
of people you've recently
met?"
"The sun came up this
morning, Dr. Quink," Fairfield
answered jovially, "the
sun came up. You'll pardon my
answer, of course, I was merely
trying to top your own non
sequitur. Many of your people
do indulge, you know. In fact,
it would seem, from my own
necessarily limited observations,
that it is more universal
in its appeal than any of your
other sports. Do you classify
it as a sport? It's amazing,
really, how these simple connections
escape one until one
tries to formulate one's recollections
into a consistent line
of reasoning. Have you ever
noticed? Of course, though,
you do it for procreation,
don't you? Now I mean you as
a representative of your species,
naturally. Seeing as you
are not married, eh, doctor,"
and he winked at Quink. "It
seems to me, however, and
again I insist that I am no expert
in the field, however it
does seem to me that this matter
of procreation is in many
cases just an excuse; there
seems to be an inherent taste
for mating per se, or wouldn't
you agree?"
"You seem to take a disinterested
view of the whole
business, Mr. Fairfield. Do
you, ah, indulge?"
"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
I couldn't, thank you just the
same. I'm really flattered, believe
me I am, but thank you,
no."
"That was not an invitation,
Mr. Fairfield," Dr.
Quink put in, "I was trying
to—"
"Galui?"
"Mr. Fairfield, I was trying
to ascertain whether or not
you lead an active sex life, or
whether your interest is purely,
shall we say, metaphysical?"
"Yes, let's do say metaphysical.
Rather clever of you,
applying the term to sex that
way. My estimation of your
capabilities shoots up a notch
or two, Dr. Quink."
"You mean to say," Dr.
Quink kept up, "that you do
not participate in the physical
ramifications?"
"Oh, you do have a turn for
words, Doctor. No, of course
not. None of us do."
"By us you mean your cohorts
in the future?"
"Exactly. You have an analytical
mind, keen, keen. We
do not die, we do not give
birth. And I never would have
brought the whole morbid
subject up except that it has
a direct bearing on Mimi's
trouble. So it is necessary that
you realize that sex is entirely
foreign to us."
"Then," said Dr. Quink, "if
what you say is true, your
physical, let us say, equipment,
must have degenerated.
And so a simple physical examination—"
"Evolution is slow, my doctor,
slow, slow, slow. No, I'm
physically indistinguishable
from you. Assuming normalcy
on your part, of course. To
continue along this train of
thought, though, it is the mental
process that provides the
difference. There is no desire
in me or mine, Doctor, no
urge, no depravity, no sexual
hunger. It simply died out
over the eons."
"Since it was no longer
necessary," Quink prodded
him.
"Or vice versa. With the
urge dying, it might have
been necessary for us to circumvent
the entire business.
An academic question, really.
The chicken or the egg all
over again. But since we have
conquered time, so to speak, it
must have occurred to you
that there is no need for us to
die, and thus no need for
birth."
"You are immortal, then,"
Dr. Quink said, scribbling in
his note pad.
Mr. Fairfield shrugged. "It
beats sex. Which brings us to
the problem we are discussing,
if we can forget myself
for a few moments. Mimi
seems to have been awakened
to the sexual urge, and that
provides an embarrassing situation.
Of course, its real significance
is in relation to her
problem as a whole, in the illumination
it sheds upon her
neurosis, yet in itself it is, as
I say, embarrassing. Coupled
with my complete indifference,
I mean. Have you any
plans for this evening? Perhaps
you could dine with us
without delay?"
Dr. Quink would not ordinarily
have accepted such an
invitation, being of that class
of physician which believes a
disease, be it physical or mental,
best treated in the antiseptic
confines of the office or
hospital. Mr. Fairfield, however,
struck him as being the
altogether unprepossessing
possessor of an altogether distinguished
psychosis. He was,
in fact, rapidly supplanting
in Dr. Quink's estimation his
previous favorite. Already
Dr. Quink was writing, mentally
of course, the introduction
to the paper he would
present to his professional
journal.
Throughout the automobile
ride out to Long Island Donald
Fairfield was quiet as,
both hands tightly on the
steering wheel of his new
Buick, he alternately fought
and coasted with the east-bound
traffic. Dr. Quink forced
himself to relax, to ignore the
ins and outs of the commuters'
raceway. He folded his
arms across his chest, slumped
down in his seat with his
legs stretched out as far as
they would reach, and observed
the facial contortions of
his driver-patient.
Fairfield's lips would twitch
as he twisted the wheel and
shot into the left lane. His
foot pressed down on the gas
and the right corner of his
lip pulled back in sneering response,
the sudden surge of
the Buick seemed intimately
linked to one muscular act no
more than to the other. His
eyebrows pressed intensely together,
caressing one another,
as the big car whipped back
into line. A sharp outlet of
breath between tightly clenched
teeth preceded the sharper
blast of the horn and then the
Buick was swerving out to
the left again with the accompanying
lip twitch. A car
they were about to pass pulled
out in front of them, initiating
a spasmodic clutching of
the wheel by the left hand, a
furious pounding on the horn
by the right, and a synchronized
twitch, sneer, and muttered
"goddam it" from the
lips, repeated twice while the
eyebrows maintained their position
of togetherness.
Dr. Quink closed his eyes
finally. There was nothing
more to be gained at the moment
from observation. The
patient's responses while driving
were normal.
Mrs. Fairfield greeted them
at the door with a martini
pitcher in one hand and
a modernistically designed
apron around her waist. She
uttered little squeals about
them being early and ushered
them into the living room
where she settled Dr. Quink
on one end of an eight-foot
powder blue divan before she
left the room with the martini
pitcher still clutched tightly
in the one hand, the other
rapidly undoing the apron of
modernistic design. Donald
Fairfield had not said one
word since the front door had
opened in response to their
ring; none had seemed to have
been necessary nor, in fact,
possible, under the deluge of
Mrs. Fairfield's effusive greeting.
Now he sat in the tilted
green armchair in one corner
of the room and, closing his
eyes, relaxed from the strain
of the drive.
"Your wife is very pretty,"
Dr. Quink said.
"Yes, she's probably the
most beautiful woman I
know," Fairfield said. "That's
probably why I took her
along. There's something
about a beautiful woman....
It was certainly a mistake."
"Feminine beauty is enjoyable
even though you don't indulge
in sex?"
"Of course, it is," he replied,
with a gesture of annoyance.
"You're still bound by that
Freed—Freud, is it?—of
yours. Damn him. That's really
the main reason I hesitated
so long before I brought her
case to you. I was afraid you
were going to place too much
emphasis on the sexual aspects
which, of course, by
your standards are abnormal.
It has really nothing to do
with the problem, and I wish
you'd forget about it, but I
suppose you can't. To you, her
sexual instincts will be normal
and it will be mine which
will appear abnormal, whereas
in reality, of course, it's the
other way around. You'll
never cure her, I can see that
now. But then, you don't have
to really cure her. If you can
just get her to admit the truth
for just a moment or two, just
temporarily, I can get her
back to some really competent
men. No reflection on your
ability meant, you know. I
realize you're the best available
in this age, naturally."
"Naturally."
"But you can't know that,
can you? Well, take my word
for it, you are. So suppose you
start acting like it and get to
work on her, eh? Could it be
Gilui? No."
Dr. Quink bent over and
tied his shoelace once or twice
before he replied. He would
have to talk to Mrs. Fairfield
in private, of course, Mr.
Fairfield could understand
that, of course, it was not that
Dr. Quink did not want Mr.
Fairfield around when the discussion
took place but simply
that one could not achieve rapport
without absolute confidence
and, of course, privacy.
"Of course," Mr. Fairfield
agreed. "I'll go up and shower
now, perhaps I'll take a bit of
a nap before dinner. I'd like
to avoid that horrible liquid
she was stirring up when we
came in anyhow. Somewhere
she's picked up the idea that
one should offer those things
to dinner guests, and I can't
stand them. Will you want a
pen and some notepaper?"
When he had left the room
to tread up the stairs one at a
time, leaning heavily on the
cast-iron bannister but making
no sound on the wall-to-wall
carpeting, Dr. Quink
leaned back and had barely
time to pass his hand wearily
over his eyes in a circular motion
that he found soothing
when Mrs. Fairfield entered
from behind a swinging door
bearing a small circular tray
on which were balanced the
aforementioned martini pitcher
and two high-stemmed
glasses, properly frosted and
rounded with lemon.
"Has he left already?" she
asked. "Well, shall we get
right down to business? You
call me Mimi and I'll call you
Victor. What did you think of
his story? Pretty wild, isn't
it? But he's harmless, I'm
sure. I'm not in the least bit
afraid of him. Do you think I
should be?"
Victor smiled and accepted
the proffered martini. He
cradled it in long fingers and,
elbows on knees, contemplated
his hostess, analyzing her
physical attraction. He finally
decided it emanated in the
main from her almond-shaped
eyes and in their somewhat
mystical synchronization with
her wide, sensual lips. There
was definitely a disconcerting
correlation between them
when she smiled, and as he
was studying this phenomenon
he realized that of course
she was smiling.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It
was rude of me to stare."
"Don't be silly," she said.
"It was most complimentary.
But I suppose in your position
it's best to be extremely careful."
"My position?"
"Flirting with your patient's
wife."
He put down the martini
rather too quickly, sploshing
a bit over the edges of the
glass, leaving colorless stains
that evaporated in a few moments.
"I don't want you to
think that, Mrs. Fairfield," he
said. "It's just that ...
that ..."
But she didn't interrupt
him to say, "Of course not,"
or "I was just teasing," or
"Isn't it amazing how little
rain we've had lately. Did you
realize that this is the driest
November in sixteen and a
half years?" She just stared
and smiled at him, and let him
flounder and make noises until
he gave it up as a bad job and
took a long drink from the
frosted glass he had so recently
and abruptly put down. She
refilled his glass and leaned
back in her chair.
"Could you tell me about
him, Mrs. Fairfield?" he said
then. "Start as far back as
you can, please."
"All right, Victor," she
said. "But it won't be much
help, I'm afraid. Did he tell
you he came from the future?"
"He said that both of you
did."
"Yes, that's right. Both of
us. And I refuse to go back, is
that it?"
"Because of some deep-seated
neurosis which he
wants me to cure. His story is
plausible, logical, once you
grant the basic premise that
time travel is an actuality.
You see, Mrs. Fairfield—"
"Mimi, please, Victor. After
all, we're not in your office,
and I'm not really your patient,
am I? Or am I?"
"Of course not. Well, Mimi,
then, the first step is to break
down his story. Show him for
once and all that it is not
plausible, that it is not even
possible, that it is plainly and
simply a lie which he himself
has made up to hide something
that he is afraid of.
Once we can get him to see
this, or at least to wonder
about it, once we can break
the granite assurance of his
that he comes from another
time, then perhaps we can
probe into his festering secret.
But we can't do that, I'm
afraid, until he begins to admit,
at least to himself, that
he is sick and that he needs
help. In this case it shouldn't
be too hard."
"My, you are brilliant. I
wonder how you do it. Oh, you
shouldn't gulp a martini so
quickly. Here, let me pour you
some more, but sip it this
time. I know, I can't stand the
taste either, but it's really the
only way."
"Mrs. Fairfield—"
"Mimi," she insisted.
"Mimi," he said, then hesitated.
"Mimi," she prompted.
"I forgot what I was going
to say," he admitted.
"Cheers."
"Don't gulp," she said.
"Here, I'll pour you another
one, but sip it, now promise."
"God, it does taste awful,
doesn't it?" he said, grimacing.
"I don't think I ever
tasted one before. Do you
think limes might help?"
"We have some in the kitchen,
but it doesn't sound like a
good idea to me. Why don't we
just throw the mess away and
whip up something else? I just
wanted you to think I was chic
this season to serve martinis."
"What season? Football?"
"Hunting," she said, and
the eyes and lips smiled together
again.
"Mimi," Victor said a bit
pompously, standing up and
leaning over her, "I hope you
are not flirting with me. You
are, remember, a married
woman and are, in fact, married
to a patient of mine."
"First of all," she said,
"you're being pompous. Second
of all, he's not your patient,
he says I'm your
patient. Third of all, I'm not
married to him. And fourth,
of all ... is it fourth or fifth
... well anyway, fourth or
fifth of all, let's try the limes.
We've nothing to lose, it
couldn't taste worse."
"First of all," he said, following
her to the kitchen, "I
am never pompous. Second of
all, he is my patient because
he came to my office obviously
seeking psychiatric help but
too sick to ask for it. I feel it
only my duty to help him and
besides, his case is fascinating."
"And his wife isn't, I suppose,"
she said over her shoulder.
"Third of all," he said, "and
I ignore the interruption,
what the hell do you mean
you're not married to him?
And fourth of all, it is fourth,
not fifth, I think the limes will
help immeasurably."
"Well, I think it all comes
back to your original question.
You know, about telling you
all about him, and how it
started, and all that. You see,
I can't, because I don't remember.
Here, you cut the limes
while I look for the squeezer."
While Dr. Quink was cutting
the limes he didn't exactly
talk to himself, but thoughts
did present themselves to his
mind with very nearly verbal
exactitude. The immediate
progression towards a solution
of this case did not seem
to be so clearly cut out as he
had assumed it would be.
There were, it now became
more and more obvious, complications
he had not foreseen.
Mrs. Fairfield was not exactly
acting toward him as a psychiatrist
normally expects the
wife of a patient to, so that,
although he found her pleasant
and indeed invigorating, if
that is the word and he was not
sure that it was but the only
alternative that came to his
mind, stimulating, had connotations
that he was not yet
ready to accept, although he
did find her pleasant and et
cetera yet he found her behavior
also disturbing, in the
clinical sense this time, and
the revelation as to her distinctly
limited memory should
be described not as a disturbance
but as a downright
earthquake, to ring in a seismological
metaphor that occurred
to him as he nicked his
finger during the slicing of
the fourth lime.
"Oh, did you cut yourself?"
she said, straightening up
from the lower shelves of a
pine cupboard. "I'm so sorry,
but never mind. Here's the
squeezer."
The apparent non sequitur,
coming in the midst of his
thoughts that were already
confused, bewildered him for
the moment, but he felt it
would be more fruitful to get
back to the problem at hand
and, blotting his seeping blood
with a handkerchief, he inquired
after her reticent memory.
"Oh, let's mix in the lime
juice first. Aren't you at all
anxious to see how it will
taste? Honestly, men have no
curiosity."
Well, as it turned out, it
tasted pretty good. At any
rate, that was the consensus
of opinion, alcoholic as it
might have been, as they returned
with the pitcher of
green martinis to the living
room. "The furthest back that
I can remember," Mimi said
after they had settled themselves
on the divan, "the absolutely
first thing I can remember
is relieving my bladder, if
that makes any sense to you."
"As a matter of fact," Victor
said, "it makes extremely
good sense indeed. If you will
pardon me and kindly direct
me towards the wash room?"
When he returned after an
absence of a few minutes, during
which time the muted
sound of snoring emanated
from the master bedroom into
the silence left by his absence,
he attempted once again to
take up the thread of conversation
that had been so abruptly
snapped. "You were
telling me, I believe, about the
first thing you can remember."
"Yes," she said. "Have another
martini. Here, I'll pour.
I was on a train, you see, at
this moment when my memory
begins. It was, by the way,
eight months ago. As I emerged
from the ladies' room I
could not remember from
which direction I had come.
That is, I didn't know in
which direction my seat was,
if you follow me."
Victor nodded more vigorously
than he had intended,
and she went on. "I didn't
know whether to turn to right
or left. That's a frightening
feeling to have in a train, not
knowing where your seat is,
when you're all closed in anyhow
and you can feel the floor
beneath your feet and the
walls and ceiling all rushing
somewhere so terribly fast
and carrying you with it and
all. I wasn't really frightened,
you understand, but anyway,
as I say, it's a terrible feeling.
So I leaned back against the
wall and tried to collect my
wits. But I couldn't think of
anything. That really frightened
me. So I said to myself,
now just relax and think back
to where you're going and
when you got on the train and
who you're with and everything
like that and just relax
and you'll remember where
your seat is in half a moment.
But I didn't. Remember, I
mean. And suddenly I realized
that I didn't remember where
I was going or who I was with
or when I had got on the train
or anything, anything at all. I
simply couldn't remember
anything previous to a moment
ago. I was scared silly by
this time, and that damned
train kept on rumbling and
shaking and rushing on into I
didn't know what. So I said to
myself, now just relax and
keep calm. This is all very
silly. Now, then, I said after
taking two deep breaths and
exhaling slowly, my name is
... my name is ... And by
God, I didn't know my own
name! It was such a queer
feeling I got goose pimples all
over, just like that. I mean, I
felt as if I knew my name, it
was on the tip of my tongue,
but I just couldn't say it, I
just couldn't remember my
own name.
"Then I began to run. I
didn't know where I was going
but I was scared to hell
and I just ran. I ran through
five or six cars and the panic
kept getting worse, and then I
turned around and began
running back the way I had
come, just running as fast as
I could and you know what
that's like on a train, I kept
falling against people and
pushing them off and running
and suddenly this man grabbed
me and said, 'Mimi,
Mimi,' he kept saying that and
I guess some more and finally
he calmed me down and, of
course, it was Donald. He told
me I was all right and to be
quiet and what the hell was
the matter with me anyhow.
Well, to make a long story
short, we got off the train
here and stayed in a hotel for
a while and then Donald
bought this place and here we
are. But I don't know if I'm
really his wife or not. Did he
mention sex to you?"
Victor nodded and she said,
"So you know I'm not his wife
that way, at least. And I have
only his word that we were
ever married."
"You don't have a marriage
certificate, or pictures?"
"We don't have anything
that would prove our existence
prior to that date we
were on the train. Naturally,
he'd have left all that behind
when we left wherever we
were coming from. Any documents
at all would ruin his
story. For all I know he just
picked me up at the train station."
"And you just picked up
life here?" Victor asked. "As
simple as that!"
"What else could I do? I
was terribly frightened, and
Donald was so calm and assuring.
I didn't really think I
had lost my memory, you
know. I mean, I couldn't believe
it. I didn't seem bewildered
or anything, I just could
not remember anything. Am
I making sense? Anyway, I
felt it would all come back
to me any moment, and I went
on living from one moment to
another, and here I am and I
still can't remember anything."
"What was Donald's reaction
when you told him you
didn't know who you were?"
Victor asked her.
"As a matter of fact, I
didn't tell him right away. I
was so afraid, I just went
along with him.... Oh, it's so
hard to explain."
"He didn't realize that you
were acting strange, bewildered?"
"Well, you know," Mimi
said, "we're not talking about
a normal man, remember. I
suppose if I acted sort of, you
know, lost, he attributed it to
our recent trip through time.
I don't know. Anyhow, he
seemed to accept me."
"Let's get back to this time-travel
bit. When did you realize
that he thought you had
both come from another
time?"
"The limes really make the
drink, don't they?" she asked.
"Well, it came out sort of
gradually. I'd listen to him
really closely whenever he
talked about the past, naturally.
I was trying to find out
about me without telling him,
I thought he'd get all excited
and all, and of course he did
when I finally told him but by
then it was all so different
and I'm afraid I've gotten confused.
Where was I? Oh, you
need a refill."
"Thank you," Victor said,
"I forget myself exactly where
it was you were. Is that
right? Where you was it
were? No, I'm sure that's
wrong. Where were you it
was, I think. Does that sound
better to you?"
"Isn't that peculiar?" she
answered. "Could it be where
I was you weren't? No, now
I'm being silly, and I can't for
the life of me understand why.
After all, this is a serious affair.
Or at least I wish it were.
Was."
"What?"
"I remember, damn it," she
said. "We were talking about
Donald again. Well, he kept
making these remarks about
coming through time and of
course I didn't understand
what the hell he was talking
about but I thought because of
my not remembering anything
and all that I better just not
say anything so I didn't, but
he kept on and little by little I
got the idea, the general idea
anyhow, but what on earth
could I do about it? And then
he started talking about it
was time to go back and all
that, and I certainly wasn't
going to go floating off in any
old time machine whether he
was nuts or not, so I just kept
putting him off the best I
could but he started getting so
impatient that finally—what
was that? I think there's
something wrong."
They both sat suddenly
quite still and listened, but
they heard nothing.
"I hear nothing," Victor
said.
"That's it," Mimi hissed.
"He's not snoring anymore.
He'll be here any minute. Act
natural. Have another martini."
"Thank you, perhaps just
one more," Victor said as
Donald Fairfield came into the
room.
He strode across the room
crossing in front of them
without turning his head or
acknowledging their presence
and made straight for the
buffet in the opposite corner.
He bent over and extracted a
thick black cigar, struck a
match, lit the cigar, puffed
several times, dropped the
match into a gigantic ashtray
made of marble, or something
that looked like marble, puffed
several more times, finally inhaled
deeply and exhaled
slowly before he turned and
nodded at his two spectators.
"You make better cigars than
we do, I'll say that for the
twentieth century," he complimented
Victor in the manner
of all tourists, as if Victor
himself were the cause and
not the product of his age.
"One of the mysteries of history,"
he continued, "how a
simple technique, like making
a good cigar or a good
mummy, can be lost once it's
been perfected. Always seems
to be though. Each age has its
secrets. You can't make wine
now like the ancient Greeks
did."
"As," Mimi interpolated.
"As the Greeks did."
"I hate to be bombastic,"
Donald answered her, "not to
say dogmatic or pedagogical,
or impecunious too, for that
matter, at least in this particular
day and age, but I believe
my original adjectival usage
to be the correct one."
"If your thought had called
for an adjective," Mimi countered,
"but properly, according
to the accepted grammar
of the present day, that is,
you should have used an adverb."
"Whatchamacallit tastes
good like a dum-dum cigarette
should," Victor put in, in an
attempt to settle the subject.
"That's ridiculous," Donald
answered, "it's completely
wrong."
"I know it's wrong," Victor
cried, "that's the point,
everybody knows it's—"
"Of course it is," Mimi
agreed. "Why on earth should
a cigarette taste good? Who
says it should? If one wants
to taste something good, why
then one takes a bite of cake,
or a smidgin of candy, or a
plate of cold borscht. If one
cares for borscht. But you
certainly don't smoke a cigarette
to taste something
good, they all taste horrible.
Horribly? Oh damn, look
what you started, Donald.
Now I can't think straight.
Anyhow, people smoke because
of the phallic symbolism,
right, Victor?"
Donald looked with distaste
from Mimi to the big black
cigar he was holding in his
right hand, and thence to
Victor for a denial. Victor,
however, shrugged his shoulders,
and murmured something
to the effect that this
consideration might possibly
have some bearing on the subject,
that it was really a matter
of interest more to the
applied psychologists and advertising
men than to the
pure scientist or doctor, and
that even so it didn't necessarily
follow that—
"You're hedging," Mimi
said. "All you have to do is
watch a woman smoke and
then watch a man and—"
"I thought we were talking
about wine," Donald interrupted,
crushing out his cigar
in the oversize marble, or
nearly so, ashtray. "What
were we saying about it?"
"You were commenting on
the relative excellence of our
wines and those of the
Greeks," Victor told him. "I
was wondering if perhaps
you've visited them too?"
Donald Fairfield did not
answer the query. He stared
at Victor contemplatively,
drew in a deep lungful of
acrid smoke-filled air from
above the smoldering ashtray,
and let it out again.
"This is not going to be as
simple an affair as it should
be," he said finally. "I can
see that now, but I suppose
there's nothing to be done but
to see it through. I take it
you've settled everything between
the two of you while
I've been gone?"
"Oh my," Mimi ejaculated,
"I've got to see about dinner.
See if you two can find something
to talk about while I'm
gone." She hurried out of the
room, one hand already reaching
for the apron of the
modernistic design as she
passed through the swinging
door into the kitchen.
"Well," Donald began,
"what did you discover from
my little wife?"
"To begin with," Victor answered
him, "she seems to
have lost her memory. Everything
previous to an experience
on the train some
eight months ago is a total
blank. Were you aware of
this?"
"I was not only aware of
it, I told you about it," Donald
answered. "What in
God's creation is this moldy
brew?" he asked after taking
a deep gulp from the lip of
the pitcher and spitting most
of it into the first ashtray he
could reach.
"Lime martinis, like a daiquiri,
only dryer. If you
don't care for them you
might refill my glass. That's
right, you did tell me she
didn't remember, but of
course—"
"You didn't believe me,"
Donald finished for him.
"Naturally. Look, Dr. Quink,
I think I'm a reasonable man.
Damn it, I know I am. I don't
expect you to believe me right
off the rat when I walk in
and tell you—"
"Bat," Victor interrupted.
"I beg your pardon," Donald
countered.
"Bat. Right off the. Not
rat, right off the bat. It's a
colloquialism, comes from
baseball, that's a sport we
play. Perhaps you haven't
come across it, if you've only
been here some eight
months?"
"Yes, just about eight
months. I've heard of the
sport, of course, but haven't
gone to see a game yet. Do
you think it's worth my
while?"
"Probably not. Strictly a
partisan sport."
"Yes, I see your point. Not
an idiom, you wouldn't say?"
"No, definitely not," Victor
said. "Takes time to make an
idiom, but only God can
make a tree. O Lord, I better
have another martini. Would
you pour, I think I might
miss. Still, a colloquialism,
not a doubt about it. The expression
hasn't lasted to your
day, I take it? If it had, then
it might be an idiom. Might,
I say, only might. I promise
nothing."
"And quite right you are,"
Donald said. "Still, I want you
to understand that I don't expect
you to believe me right
off the bat when I wander into
your busy little office and
tell you—by the way, what is
your receptionist doing always
staring at the floor
right next to her desk?"
"She's in love. He's an advertising
man."
"Oh, well yes, of course.
When I tell you I come from
the future. Obviously you're
not going to accept that right
off the rat, as I say. I mean,
no one could expect you to.
However, after talking at
length to me in your office and
then holding a private conversation
with my wife, you
should, I think, as a trained
and highly competent psychiatrist,
certainly the foremost
of your day—"
At this point Victor had
waved a deprecating hand.
"Please allow me to say
that I am certainly a better
judge of your position in this
world than you could possibly
be. Seeing it in the proper
perspective, I mean. I did not
intend to compliment you
when I described you as I just
did, I merely state a fact already
known to my confreres.
Then you should, as I say, under
these most favorable
circumstances, and certainly
being forewarned, then you
should be able to tell who is
suffering from a delusion and
who is not. Apart from what
the delusion is, and whether
or not you choose to believe
in it, simply studying the behavior
of the people involved,
you should be able to tell who
is acting normally and who
is not."
"I agree with you in every
particular," Victor said. "I
certainly should. And I think
I can, and have. In point of
fact—"
"Dinner is ready," Mimi
said. "And no shop talk,
please. I want you to taste my
squash and applesauce piece.
And no one, absolutely no
one, comes into my dining
room with a stinking black
cigar."
"Could it be Galilililu?"
Donald murmured. "Damn."
"This is excellent," Victor
said. "How do you make it?"
"Why, thank you," Mimi
replied. "It's very simple.
You just take the squash and
then pour in the applesauce
and cinnamon."
"There must be more to it
than that," Victor insisted,
smiling around a mouthful.
"Of course there is," she
said. "But I'm not telling you
all my secrets. You'll have to
come back if you want it
again."
"Damn it," said Donald,
"stop jibber-jabbering! We
know why we're here, so let's
talk about it. Can you cure
my crazy wife?"
"Donald!" Mimi spluttered.
"Now, Mr. Fairfield," Victor
said, "let's not be unfair.
Your wife has amnesia, but
she's not crazy. As a matter
of fact, psychiatrists no longer
recognize the term as
such—"
"Pass the roast," Donald
said. "Do you think I'm crazy
or don't you?"
"I most certainly do not!"
"Do you think I was born
in the future?"
"Mr. Fairfield, talking like
this isn't getting us anywhere.
Now Mimi—I'm sorry,
Mrs. Fairfield—doesn't remember
anything previous to
that train ride we were talking
about...."
"Naturally," Donald said.
"That's when we got here.
We'll skip the technicalities,
but it's always easier to land
on something that's moving.
Standard procedure. I don't
really understand it myself,
but I'm no engineer. We
landed in the twentieth century—is
it the twentieth or
the twenty-first?"
"The twentieth," Victor assured
him.
"Isn't that silly of me. I'm
always getting mixed up. It
doesn't make much difference,
though, you know. Not much
of a change from one to the
other. Not like the nineteenth
and twentieth, nothing like
that at all. Do you ever find
yourself wondering if it's the
twentieth of the month or the
twenty-first?"
"I have a calendar on my
desk."
"Oh," Donald mused. "I
didn't notice it." He stared
intently at Victor Quink
while he munched his celery.
"It's not hard to see why
you've risen to the top of your
profession. Calendar on your
desk, eh?" He looked at his
wife and tapped the side of
his head significantly.
"You landed aboard this
train some eight months
ago," Dr. Quink prompted.
"What are you doing here,
anyhow? Are you an historian?"
"Nonsense," he replied at
once. "Haven't you noticed all
the books you people are
writing? Every one of your
presidents, every general,
every field-marshal, every
scientist, manufacturer, tennis
star, and juvenile delinquent
has written a book, or
at least a serial for the Post.
No reason at all for any historian
to come back to this
particular age. No other age
in all history, I might add,
has been so fond of itself or
so cognizant of the need for
preserving itself and its records
for posterity as has
yours. And with very little
reason. But of course that
last is only a personal observation,
and I may be prejudiced,
having lived here, so to
speak, for these past months.
You get to see the seamy side
of a civilization, you know,
when you live there yourself.
Incidentally, would you be interested
to know how your
age has been classified by
posterity? Of course you
would, silly of me to ask. Well,
to get on with it, you know
how historians are always
naming periods, and groups,
and whatever. The Age of
Darkness, you remember,
then the Age of Awakening,
the Age of Enlightenment,
the Age of Reason, et cetera?
As it turns out, you've come
down to us as the Age of
Verbiage. Amusing, eh? No?
Well, you can't please everybody.
I thought it was cute.
But in answer to your question
I'll have to say no, I'm
just a tourist. I'm on vacation.
Nothing more sensational
than that, I'm afraid."
"And naturally you took
your wife with you," Victor
added.
Donald looked down at his
plate for just a moment or
two, then answered "naturally,"
without raising his eyes
at all.
"Somehow, Mr. Fairfield,"
Victor said, "somehow I get
the feeling you're holding out
on me, you're not telling me
all."
"Damn it, the more I tell
you the less you believe. I
never should have told you
the truth at all. I should have
just said my wife's suffering
from amnesia and let it go at
that."
"I'm not an engineer
either," Victor answered. "I
can't just twist a screw and
restore the proper functioning
of the memory mechanism.
I've got to know the
whole truth, Mr. Fairfield,
the whole truth."
"How come my wife is
Mimi and I'm Mr. Fairfield?"
"I'm sorry," Victor stammered,
"I—"
"Donald, you're embarrassing
him," Mimi interrupted.
"Just joshing, pulling your
toe, or leg, or some such,"
Donald assured him. "We
might as well be friends, at
least. Make it Donald too. I
might even take your autograph
back with me. I think
the fights are on television.
Want to watch?"
"I'll just do up the dishes,
dear," Mimi said.
"I'm afraid I don't care
much for the prize fights,"
Victor said.
"Just sit where you are
then, and relax. I'm going to
watch them. Won't see many
more of them before we go,"
he said, throwing a lowering
glance at his wife as he left
the room. He returned in a
few moments, however, before
the two of them had had
time to begin a conversation,
and addressed Victor, "Sorry
to interfere, promise I won't
interrupt again. I'm sure you
two are making just miles of
progress and I dislike the
role of an impedance, but a
phrase just popped into my
head and I'm sure I won't be
able to concentrate on the
fights properly until it's resolved.
I wonder, Dr. Quink,
if you could possibly tell me
if this is the age that is so
fond of saying that idiots
walk with God? You know
what I mean, that they don't
need their wit because God's
hand is on their shoulder, so
to speak, and that's why et
cetera? Childish, perhaps,
but touching, don't you
think?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fairfield,"
Victor replied, "but I hadn't
heard the phrase before. Perhaps
I'm just unfamiliar with
it, or more probably you
picked it up elsewhere on
your travels."
"Mmmm," Donald answered,
somewhat noncommittally,
"perhaps. Well, don't let me
detain you. I'll just run
along. Vaya con Dios," he
waved as he left the room.
They waited a few seconds in
silence, but he didn't return.
"Will you take him on as a
patient?" Mimi asked when
they heard the first roaring
of the crowd from the living-room.
"I'd like to very much, if
you want me to. He's a fascinating
case. But it won't be
easy, it's going to take time."
"Oh, that's all right," she
assured him. "He's not dangerous,
and we've plenty of
money. Take all the time you
want."
"You know," he said, "I
don't mind admitting I'm
pretty bewildered by now."
He shook his head two or
three times, as if to clear it,
then asked, "Where does the
money come from?"
"I don't know."
"I mean, what does he do
for a living?"
"I don't know. Did you ask
him?"
"Not yet. He'll probably say
he brought the money from
the future."
"Uh-huh," she agreed.
"Well, don't you even know
where your husband gets his
money?"
"No."
"What a combination you
two are," he muttered.
"I can't hear you," she
called from the kitchen. "The
water is making too much
noise. Come in here." He
went in and leaned against
the powder blue refrigerator
while she soaked the dishes.
"He won't come to your office
for examinations or treatments,"
she said. "He thinks
I'm the one who's nuts."
"That's probably true," he
agreed, somewhat ambiguously.
"It would be better if
you were my patient at the
same time. You do have this
amnesia anyhow, I'd like to
clear that up. Would you be
willing?"
"Oh, I'd love it," she cried.
"I can come see you for regular
treatments, and then you
can come to the house for
supper several times a week
and see him then."
"Let's go see if he agrees
to that," Victor said. Mimi
dried her hands in a hurry
on a dish towel, grabbed a
handful of his fingers, and
pulled him after her to the
living-room. Her fingers were
still cool and damp.
He saw a lot of the two of
them in the few weeks following
that night, but he
learned nothing more. Donald
Fairfield was sulky and uncommunicative,
muttering only
over and over again that
he had already said too much
and Lord knew what would
become of him when he got
back but he didn't see what
else he could have done under
the circumstances and no
one else had ever gotten into
such a fix why the hell did it
have to happen to him, a
quiet and thoughtful and considerate
man who wouldn't
swat a fly, or anyhow not a
pregnant fly. This opened up
an entire new line of discussion.
Mimi didn't know, in reply
to his query, whether
flies got pregnant or not. At
least, she had never seen one.
Donald was forced into a
short lecture, barely remembered
from second year biology,
but it seemed to satisfy
them. "We don't have lower
forms of life at home, you
know," Donald apologized.
On days when he didn't
come to their home for supper,
Mimi would have the last
appointment of the day with
him, and after her hour they
would leave together, waking
up Margaret before they left
the office, stop off for cocktails
before Mimi had to catch
her train, miss the train, have
dinner, miss the next train,
catch a show or walk in the
park, drive Mimi home, and
finally part. They talked a lot,
they talked seemingly without
reserve, but Victor
learned nothing new. Her life
before that train ride was
simply a blank.
"I'd like to try hypnotism,"
Victor said to her one
day in his office.
"No," she replied.
He was surprised. "I don't
think you understand," he
said. "I want to hypnotize
you and try to take you back
before that train ride, back
to your childhood—"
"No," she said.
"It's perfectly safe," he
said.
She filed a rough edge off
her nail, second finger, right
hand.
"It's standard analytic procedure.
I've used it dozens of
times. I'm quite competent—"
"No," she said.
"But why not?" he asked.
"You'll find out all about
me," she said. "I'll have no
secrets left."
"But you shouldn't want to
have any secrets from your
psychoanalyst. I can't help
you then."
"Perhaps," she agreed.
"But I want to have secrets
from you," she said softly,
and looked up quietly from
her fingers, staring directly
into his eyes, and her lips and
her eyes underwent that mysterious
synchronization once
again. "I don't want you to
know me like a book, with
everything spelled out in
black and white, but like a
portrait, with hidden shades
and nuances.... I want you
to know me gradually, slowly...."
"Mimi," he said, and paused.
He pushed back from his
desk, swiveled completely
around and back to his original
position, cracked two
knuckles, tried to force some
saliva into a suddenly dry
mouth, and started to speak
again. "Mimi, it's not unusual
for a patient to develop
a feeling of affection for her
psychoanalyst. In fact, it's the
usual—"
"It's not like that with us,
though, is it?" she asked,
more quietly, more softly and
deeply, than before.
After a long pause he said,
"No. No, it's not."
And so they sat there while
the daylight faded outside
them and the twilight crawled
up sixty-three floors to encircle
their window and continue
unhesitatingly upward.
"What are we going to do?"
she asked.
"We're not going to do
anything, Mimi," he finally
said. "When I'm with you, it's
all so light and fantastic and
funny, that I forget. But it
would be unforgivable to fall
in love with a patient, and
the wife of a patient. I can't
do it. We'll have to stop right
away. I'm no good as an analyst
to you anymore, anyway.
I'm sorry, I'll send you to
someone else. And now you'd
better go."
She stood up, walked
around his desk, and put her
hands lightly on his neck.
"You're such a dear," she
said. "I'll always love you.
I've never seen you so serious
before. We always laugh and
talk and giggle when we're
together, and I loved you
then. But now that you're sad
and serious and oh so pitiably
tragic I love you more than I
could ever tell you. But please
don't worry, don't worry
about a thing, darling. You'll
see, it will all work out."
"It can't work out, Mimi,
there's absolutely no way on
earth for it to work out.
There's no solution at all."
"Please don't worry, darling,"
she said, picking up her
gloves. "I can't bear to see
you looking so tragic. Life
isn't so serious, especially as
you're loved." She walked out
and closed the door behind
her. Victor sat quite still. He
could barely hear her saying
"Margaret, wake up, Margaret,
it's time to go home,"
through the thick wooden
door.
The phone rang in his office
three days later. He was alone
at the time, going over some
notes he had just taken with
another patient. Margaret
was out, presumably peering
through the floor of the ladies'
lounge down the hall, and he
picked up the receiver himself.
"Victor, come quick," Mimi
screamed through the wires.
"He's trying to kill me!"
She said more, but he heard
none of it. His fingers went
numb, the phone dropped, he
was out of his seat and skidding
around the desk before it
hit the carpeted floor. He had
to wait at the elevator. He
thought for one silly moment
of racing to the exit and running
down sixty-three floors,
then compromised on stamping
his feet and slamming one
fist into the other palm and
striding up and down while
three other men and two
women also waiting for the
elevator stared at him. He
thought of calling the police
just as the elevator door opened,
and he nearly turned and
left it, but couldn't and leaped
in just as the doors were closing.
"I'm Dr. Quink," he
shouted at the elevator operator.
"This is an emergency.
Take me straight down."
The elevator went straight
down. The doors opened on the
ground floor and Victor shot
out, leaving behind two nearly
mortally sick women and several
acid comments to the effect
that he was probably late
for a matinee. "I couldn't take
any chances," apologized the
elevator operator, "it might
really have been an emergency."
It wasn't raining in New
York that day, so he was able
to get a cab immediately. He
took it to his parking lot and
roared off from there. He sped
through the city traffic, incurring
the widespread wrath
and disapproval of the police
department. A patrol car
caught up with him on Grand
Central Parkway and forced
him off the road. He explained
who he was and that a madman
was threatening to kill
his wife, no, not his wife, the
madman's wife, and that he
didn't have time to sit here
and talk about it. The police
officer told him to follow him,
and, siren blazing, they roared
off once again.
It occurred to both of them
nearly simultaneously that
Victor couldn't possibly follow
the police officer, it had to be
the other way around, and so
Victor took the lead, the red
siren hanging on behind. But
when Victor left the parkway
he saw in his mirror no flashing
red light, somewhere he
had lost the police. He touched
the brake a second, for the
first time in the past fifteen
minutes, then accelerated
again and hurried on. He had
not the time to wait.
The door to the Fairfield's
home was unlocked and he
burst in without ringing.
"Mimi," he cried, then, hearing
vague noises from the upstairs
bedroom, he hurried
there.
He didn't find Mimi there.
Donald Fairfield was alone in
the bedroom, and the bedroom
was a mess, and there was a
gun in Donald Fairfield's
hand.
Victor stopped in the doorway,
a gas pain shooting up
his side. He thought at that
moment, inanely, he should
play more handball.
"Galileo," Donald Fairfield
said, "it came to me just a few
moments ago. Galileo. It was
on the tip of my tongue all the
time, I just couldn't think of
it. What were we saying about
him, do you remember? What
brought it up?"
Victor braced himself up
against the doorway, breathing
hard. He stared at the gun
in Donald's hand. Donald followed
his gaze down his side
to the gun, and seemed surprised
when he saw it. "Oh,
yes. She's in the bathroom,"
he said, waving his gun towards
the closed door. "She's
locked the door."
Victor belched.
"For God's sake," said Donald.
"There's a time and a
place for everything."
Victor crossed to the door.
"Mimi," he called. "Mimi, it's
me, Victor."
The lock clicked, the door
opened, and Mimi walked out
and folded herself into his
arms. He held her until she
stopped shaking, then until he
himself stopped shaking and
until his breath came more
easily. He kept all the while
his back toward Donald and
the gun, and his arms folded
around her so that she was
safe from him. Then he turned
and calmly as he could, he asked
what in the holy hell was
going on.
"He wants me to go back
with him, right now," Mimi
said. She was shivering in his
arms. "I'm not going, I'm not
going with him."
"Of course, you're not,"
Victor said. He turned back
to Donald. "What's the rush
all of a sudden?" he asked.
"What's the big emergency?"
he smiled.
"Don't turn on the personality,
Dr. Quink," Fairfield
said. "It's too complicated to
explain, but time's run out on
us. We've got to go tonight,
and I'm taking her with me
dead or alive, I don't give a
damn which way anymore,
she's coming with me dead or
alive."
Victor let go of Mimi and
took a step toward him, but
the hand with the gun came
up and gun was pointed
straight at him, and the voice
was flat and tired and desperate,
"I can't leave her here,
you can see what it would
mean. They're very strict
about time traveling, they
have to be, and she can't stay
here. She hasn't lost her memory,
she knows damned well
where she comes from, and
she's going back now, one way
or the other. I don't know
what'll happen to me when we
get back if I kill her, but it's
my decision and I can't let her
stay behind, no matter what."
His voice started to rise and
the words began to come faster.
He was working himself
up dangerously near the
breaking point.
"If you'll just calm down
for a few moments," Victor
tried, "I'm sure we can talk
this out sensibly enough."
"It won't work, Dr. Quink,
it won't work. You're trying
to talk it out like I'm nuts,
you're trying to reassure me,
but it won't work because you
can't. Because I'm not nuts!
I'm telling the truth and she
knows it! Damn you, Mimi,
tell him!"
"All right! All right, I'll
tell him," she cried. "And I'll
tell you, too. And I'm not going
back with you, you'll see.
Because I planned this from
the start. My God, what a
day," she sighed, and sat
down on the bed. "Now listen,
both of you, you, too, Donald,
because you don't know it all
either."
"He's not crazy, Victor, we
do come from the future. I
was reading about all the
Nobel prize winners, darling,
and of course, I came across
you, and right from the beginning
you fascinated me. Do
you know you were the first
psychiatrist ever to win the
award, and then you won it
twice? Oh, I can tell you, I
was terribly impressed! And
when I saw your picture, you
know the one, the portrait by
Videl in the Museum of Ancient—oh,
but of course, it
hasn't been done yet. You
have gray sideburns then, and
there's not a touch of gray in
your hair now. Anyway, you
look absolutely distinguished
with gray, it's certainly your
color. And I thought you were
just the handsomest Nobel
winner I had ever seen, and
darling, you are, not the
slightest doubt about it. Don't
you think so, Donald?"
"He's charming," Donald
replied. "Just terribly, terribly
charming. Would you
mind getting on with it?"
"Please," Victor started to
interrupt.
"Don't be modest, darling,"
Mimi went on. "So then I read
a biography, and then another,
and soon I was doing
nothing but studying you. I fell
in love with you, dear, I fell
in love with you a thousand
years after you were dead.
You never married, you know,
and you needed me, and I
guess that helped, but at any
rate I fell, and I fell all the
way.
"We're not married, Donald
and I. There's no sex then, so
there's no need for marriage.
Right, Donald? Right. But he
was coming here on vacation
and he was nice enough to
take me along, and we had to
fit in, so we came as husband
and wife. Just a matter of
convenience, really. But then
we were here for all those
months, and I didn't get to
meet you, and something
about this age just got into
my bones, I loved it so, people
really live now, not like back
home. And I nearly forgot
about you, Victor dear, although
I can't understand that
now, and all I wanted was to
live here like a normal person,
a normal wife. But he
couldn't understand that. At
any rate, I went native, I
went whole hog native.
"And then it was time to go
home. But I wasn't going. So
I made up this story about
forgetting everything and I
pretended I thought he was
nuts or something and he went
and got you and suddenly
there you were in my living
room and it all came back,
darling, it came back so fast
and strong I thought I'd die
on the spot. And I love you
now, darling, I love you now
and forever, and I won't go
back alive, I swear that."
"Mimi," Donald begged,
"think of the future. If you
don't go back it'll be all upset.
We can't have people just
popping up in the past from
the future, there has to be
discipline. It's one thing to
come here quietly for a few
months of harmless vacation,
and then just as quietly
to disappear. But to settle
down brazenly in another
time, to ... to immigrate, as it
were, well, it just can't be
done. There's no precedent,
just none at all. Nobody would
think of doing such a thing.
Why, who knows what would
happen if you stayed here? It
could upset the whole pattern
of the future!"
"The future will just have
to take care of itself," Mimi
answered. "I love him, and
you can't argue with that.
There's nothing you can say
that can argue with that. I
don't care poof for the future."
Victor sat down quietly on
the edge of the bed, he felt a
bit weak around the general
vicinity of the knees. Mimi
stood up and strode over to
the window, her back to the
conversation. "Mimi," Donald
pleaded, "just think of what
you're doing. You'll lose your
immortality, for one thing.
You know, it's not something
you're just born with, it's the
result of careful medical science.
Why, almost anything
could happen to you here.
They have all sorts of ugly
diseases. And if you should
last just a few years longer,
just maybe fifty or sixty more
years, your heart will almost
certainly pop off. They don't
have any sort of arterial rejuvenation
now, nothing at
all. You're trading immortality
for a mere moment."
"I don't give a damn or a
wild pig's snort," she replied.
"Don't be vulgar," Donald
said. "Let's keep this on a
civilized plane."
"That's not vulgarity," she
answered. "It's poetry. 'I
don't give a damn or a wild
pig's snort, but you cut just
one strand and the fashions
be damned, I swear that I'll
boil three in lime!'"
"Lime?" Victor asked rather
weakly.
"I think so, dear," Mimi
said. "Would you care for a
martini?"
"How about the toilet!"
Donald suddenly thundered.
"How about that, hey?"
"I beg your pardon," Mimi
replied.
"The toilets, the toilets," he
repeated impatiently. "Do you
want to spend the rest of your
short life with this old-fashioned
plumbing?" He waved
wildly toward the tile bathroom.
"It's all right roughing
it for a few months like we
did, but can you honestly
imagine spending the rest of
your life under such vile conditions?
Ha, you didn't think
of that, did you?" he continued
when he saw the sudden
stricken expression on her
face. "You don't like the idea,
do you?"
Mimi clenched her fists at
her side and stamped her little
foot. "I don't care," she spit
out, "I absolutely do not care!
I will stay with him, I will, I
will, I will." She turned and
looked at the bathroom that
opened off the bedroom, and
blanched for one moment,
then she shut her eyes, gave
another kick, and insisted. "I
will, I will, I will!"
Donald sighed and slapped
his hands at his side. He turned
around, hesitated for a few
seconds, then said to the wall,
"I've tried. I've tried everything
I could think of." He
turned again and faced them,
and he raised his gun. "You're
coming, Mimi. One way or
another, you're coming."
So quietly he hardly realized
what he was doing, but
thankful that the gas pain had
vanished, Victor stepped between
the gun and the girl.
"You'll have to kill me, Donald,"
he said. "You won't take
her out of here without killing
me, I promise you that, and
what will that do to your future?
A man from the future
killing somebody here? Oh, no,
that'll upset everything. And
before I've become famous?
Your whole history will be
changed. You'd better think
twice, Donald."
The gun wavered, and lowered.
"Would you care for a martini,
Donald, dear?" Mimi
asked.
Donald turned and ran from
the room. They heard his feet
slipping down the stairs, they
heard the front door slam behind
him.
Victor started after him,
but Mimi held him back.
"What are you going to do,"
she cried, "chase after him?
What will you do when you
catch him? You're needed
more here. After all," she continued,
"think what I just
went through? I'm a nervous
wreck, almost getting carted
off to God knows where like
that. I need the care of a competent
physician."
He turned back to her in a
daze, she clucked and patted
his cheek, and pushed him
down onto the bed. She pulled
out his handkerchief and mopped
his face. "Aren't you
proud of me?" she said.
"Wasn't that fast thinking?
How did you like that little
story I told? It really threw
him, didn't it? He didn't know
what to think."
"You mean," Victor stammered,
"you mean you didn't
mean it, you just made it up?
Just like that?"
"Darling," she began to
giggle, "you didn't believe
that wild story? About the future?
Oh, darling, you couldn't
possibly believe it."
"Of course not," he said.
"Of course not. Quick thinking,
Mimi, yes, very quick
thinking. It was a convincing
story, you know. Very
good. But, my God! I've got to
catch him."
"Don't be silly," she said,
pushing him down. "You'll
never find him, you'll never
see him again. He'll be lost in
the crowd. One more screwball
in New York, they'll never
notice him. He'll fit right in.
He may even become President
some day, or at least
Dean of Students at some
small New England College.
You just take my word for it,
darling, and relax a moment.
I'll rush downstairs and bring
you up a martini. We deserve
one. He'll be all right now. As
long as he's made up his mind
that he can leave me here,
he'll trot off somewhere and
dig up another neurosis, or
psychosis, or whatever. He's
not dangerous anymore. And
you heard him say we were
never married, and we have
no marriage certificate, so I
guess we're not. Can't we just
forget about him, just as if he
never existed? Maybe he
never did exist. Maybe he was
just a figment of our imagination.
Maybe he was just an instrument
of kismet to bring us
together. Maybe he was just a
wandering minstrel, or a
memory looking for a chance
to be real?"
"Maybe you'd better not
talk so much, but just bring
up the martini. Better bring
a pitcher. Green ones."
And so she did. Their first
honeymoon they spent in Bermuda;
they took their second
on a trip to Sweden ten years
later, when Victor went to accept
his first Nobel prize.
THE END