“Look,” Cogswell said happily, “could I have another drink? This must be the damnedest thing that ever happened to a man. Why, why it’s as though Saint Paul woke up in the year, well, say, 1400 a.d. and saw the strength of the church that he had founded. He would have flipped, just as I’m doing.”
All three of them laughed at him again and Jo Edmonds got up, slipped his jade into a side pocket and went over to the sideboard and mixed him another drink.
Tracy Cogswell said, “That reminds me of something. How about servants? It must take a multitude of maids to run a house like this.”
Betty made a moue at him. “Nonsense. You aren’t very good at extrapolation, are you, Tracy? Why, even in your own day in the advanced countries the house was automated to the point where even the well-to-do didn’t have domestic help. Today, drudgery has been eliminated. Anyone can have just about as large a house as they want and keep it up by devoting only a few moments a day to its direction.”
It was still all but inconceivable to him. “And everybody, just everybody can afford a place like this?”
It was the academician’s turn again. As they’d all been doing, he prefaced his explanation with a laugh. “Given automation and cheap, all but free power, and what is the answer? Ultraabundance for everyone. Surely the signs must have been present in your day. That was the goal of your organization, was it not?”
“Yes,” Cogswell said, shaking his head. “Yes, of course.” Then he added, his voice very low, “Jesus H. Christ.”
They all laughed with him.
Jo Edmonds brought the fresh drink and Cogswell knocked it back in one long swallow.
He considered for a moment. “Look,” he said, “I don’t suppose anyone remembers what happened to a fellow named Dan Whiteley.”
“Whiteley?” the Academician scowled.
“He was a member of the organization,” Tracy explained. “A very active one.”
“Dan Whiteley,” Betty said. “I read something about him. Let me see. He was a Canadian.”
“That’s right,” Tracy Cogswell said, leaning forward. “He was from Winnipeg.”
“Did you know him?” Betty said, her voice strange.
He said slowly, “Yes, yes I knew him quite well.” Unconsciously, he stroked his left elbow. The others had been in favor of leaving him behind. Dan had carried him, one way or the other, half the night. Toward morning, Tito’s secret police had brought up dogs and they’d been able to hear them baying only half a mile or so behind.
Betty said gently, “The Communists got him when he was trying to contact some of their intellectuals and get your movement going in China. He succeeded, but later was caught and shot in, I believe, Hankow. He’s now sort of a martyr. Students of the period know about him.”
Cogswell took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the way Dan Whiteley would have ended. In action. Could I have another drink?”
Stein said, “You’re not overdoing, are you?”
“No, of course not. Look, how about cancer, and space flight, and how about interracial problems and juvenile delinquency?”
“Hold it!” Jo Edmonds told him. Somehow there was a strained quality in the laugh that Cogswell couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Stein said, “You can imagine how long any of the old diseases lasted once we began to devote the amount of time to them that our scientists had formerly put into devising methods of destroying man.”
Betty said, “About the space program. We have a few observatories and some laboratories on the moon, and orbiting communications satellites.”
Edmonds brought the drink and Tracy took a long swallow and then shook his head.
Walter Stein was quickly on his feet. “See here,” he said, “you’re pale. We’ve allowed you to push yourself too far.” He clucked unhappily. “Betty was premature, this morning. We hadn’t expected to allow you so much excitement for several days yet. Now, back to bed for you. We can talk further, in the morning.”
Tracy nodded. “I feel a little tired and a little tight,” he admitted.
He went back to the room they had assigned him and undressed, his mind still in a whirl. In bed, just before dropping off into sleep, he gazed up at the ceiling. What did he feel like? He felt something like he had as a kid, back there in Cincinnati, when tomorrow was going to be Christmas, when tomorrow was going to be the best day that ever was.
He was drifting off into sleep before a worrying thought wriggled up from below. He never quite grasped it all. He remembered once when his father had been unemployed and Christmas had been bleak. He never quite grasped it all. However, his subconscious worked away.
They were waiting for him on the terrace, which they had set up for breakfast, when he emerged in the morning. He was dressed, as they were, in most imaginative clothes. Cogswell had already come to the conclusion that fashions and styles were a thing of yesteryear; people dressed in the most comfortable way they damn well pleased. He supposed that followed; fashion had largely been a matter of sales promotion, and he assumed that sales promotion was in the doldrums these days. His own Bermuda shorts, sports shirt and sandals had been beside his bed when he had awakened.
And for the first time since his being brought out of hibernation, or whatever you could call it, he felt really fit, both mentally and physically alert. He felt that he was ready for anything.
After they’d exchanged the standard good mornings and questioned him on his well being, Tracy came immediately to the point.
“See here,” he told them. “Yesterday, I was pretty well taken up with enthusiasm. I doubt if many men live to see their own ideas of Utopia achieved. In fact, looking back, I can’t think of a single example. But, anyway, now I’d like to get some basic matters cleared up. I’d like to get down to the nitty-gritty.”
Jo Edmonds finished his cup of coffee, leaned back in his chair, fished his piece of jade from a pocket, and began fiddling with it. He said, “Fire away, old chap,” but he, like the other two, seemed to have a faint element of tension.
Cogswell took his chair and said, “All right now. As I understand it, through a method devised by the academician, here, you were able to send his mind back in time to my age, hypnotize me, or whatever you want to call it, and force me to take the steps that resulted in my being, well, deep-frozen.”
Walter Stein shrugged. He still reminded Cogswell of Paul Lucas playing the part of an anxious scientist. “That’s a sufficient explanation,” he said. “At least as near as I would expect a layman to get.”
Cogswell looked at him questioningly. “What was all that jazz about the monument, and that cave or grotto or whatever it was beneath it?”
Stein said, “We had to have some place to leave your body where it wouldn’t be discovered for a period of nearly a century. A cave beneath a holy man’s tomb was as good a bet as any. Even today, such monuments are respected by the local people.”
“I see,” Cogswell said, pouring some coffee into his cup. “I’ve got some mind-twisting questions I want to ask about what seem to me some really far out paradoxes, but they can wait. First, what happened after I’d gone? What do the records say about my disappearance? What did the International Executive Committee do? What kind of a report was given out about me to the membership of the movement?” As he spoke, his face tightened.