After Flame departed, my immediate predicament was that I was alone and friendless in the Klondike and unable to raise any response from Tibet as to the measures being taken to bring about my return to my own time. Maybe it wasn’t the best of all possible worlds, but it was my world and I missed it. A man out of his own time never really becomes oriented.
Still, disoriented as I was, the Klondike in the 1890s was close enough to my own life experience so that I could relate to it. Given the scope of history, there were worse situations in which I might have found myself. Given the possibilities of the future, the past might indeed be a featherbed by comparison. Or vice versa. The future might have its compensations, as I was to find out shortly.
It happened -- as usual—at a most disconcerting moment. Cold weather affects the bladder and it had grown mighty cold in Dawson City. So I’d stepped out to the little shack behind the Lucky Seven which was used as an outhouse. Bundled against the cold as I Was, it had taken quite a bit of fumbling before I was in position to relieve my kidneys. That done, I was just starting to fumble again -- to rebutton, as it were—-when the force field picked me up, bounced me over umpteen or so centuries and dropped me on the instant into an all new environment. I was dizzy and trying to catch up with myself when I finally remembered I was still exposed. By then it was too late.
Three or four Oriental women were clustering around me and pointing. More were approaching, drawn by the commotion. All were chattering in a language I didn’t understand. Nevertheless, there could be no mistaking the object of their curiosity.
One reached out tentatively as if to touch me to satisfy her curiosity. I blocked her with my hand. But before I could button my fly, a second girl, young and pretty, grabbed me by the arm and addressed me in English.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You speak English.” I was relieved. One thing my time travels had shown me was the importance of getting around the language barrier.
“We all do.” She said it as if I should have known. “You must be one of the new reinforcements,” she decided, as if that explained my ignorance. “We have all had to become bilingual,” she told me. “After all, there are more Americans here now than Vietnamese.”
So I was in Vietnam! But when? The question went out of my mind as more women arrived on the scene, pointing and chattering.
“Is it some sort of growth like a wart?” The girl who had spoken to me in the first place persisted. Her mini-skirt hiked up her shapely thighs as she fell to her knees in front of me to make a closer examination.
“No, it’s not a wart.” I backed away, trying to reach for the buttons, but being stopped repeatedly by one or another of the girls tugging at my arms.
“Did you grow it yourself?” the cute one persisted.
“Uh . . . You might say that.” I blushed.
“But what is its purpose?”
Hell! With all those women clustered around me, hadn’t one of them ever seen a man’s machinery before? They couldn’t all be virgins! Or could they? “Its purpose? Well, it’s twofold. Very complicated. Too complex to explain on the spur of the moment.”
“You make it sound like it’s one of those new weapons you Americans are always trying out here. Is that what it is?”
“Umm . . . Well, maybe . . . In a way . . ”
“What does it do? Does it spray?”
“Sometimes.”
“Germs? Is it another one of those germ warfare things? Does it spread germs?”
“Certainly not!” First humiliation, now insult. What next?
“Does it shoot?” she wanted to know.
“Sometimes,” I mumbled, feeling myself getting very red.
The other women had fallen silent during this interrogation. Now a sort of murmur of understanding passed among them.
“How does it work?” my questioner persisted. “Is there an ejector mechanism? Does it detach?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“Then you’re an American kamikaze,” she concluded. “You die with your weapon.”
“Damn right!”
“Why can’t I touch it? I just want to see how it works.”
“It’s top secret,” I told her.
“Oh, you Americans! Everything is always top secret! But we always find out about your new armaments in the end. When we are killed by them.” She shook her head sadly. “That pouch with the two round gismos in it—-” She pointed. “Is that the firing mechanism?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t you demonstrate it for us?” she cajoled.
“No. I told you, it’s top secret.” Somehow I managed to push the interfering hands away and button my fly to cover myself. “Just forget you ever saw it,” I instructed the crowd of women.
Slowly, they dispersed. Finally I was left with only the girl who’d been questioning me. She got to her feet and smiled at me. “Top secret!” She laughed aloud. “You must be a new replacement. How naive can you get? The Viet Cong24 is probably already arranging to get the blueprints for your weapon.”
“The Viet Cong?”
“I recognized at least two women among those who Just left who are member of the Viet Cong.”
“What! Which two? Why don’t you report them? After all, they’re the enemy!”
“I’m not political. I don’t get involved. It’s the law of survival here in Saigon. But you can be sure your weapon isn’t top secret any more. The Cong will have one before long.”
“Not mine they won’t!” I said firmly.
“They’ll steal the blueprints and figure it out.”
“If they spend time on that,” I reflected, “I’ll have struck a blow against Asian Communism.”
“You Americans are fantastic! A blow against Asian Communism indeed! You keep striking blows like the crazy man banging his head against the wall because it feels so good when he stops. Only you Americans never stop.”
“I’m not political either.” I grinned at her. “And I don’t get into political arguments.”
“Only wars.” She sighed. “Where is your insignia?” she asked after a moment.
“Huh?”
“The insignia for your uniform.”
“This isn’t a uniform.”
“It’s not? Then why are you wearing such heavy clothing in such a warm climate?”
“Why would the army issue such a heavy uniform?” I countered.
“That’s a silly question. Who knows why the American Army does anything? Last week they shelled their own munitions storehouse. The week before they hung a guerrilla and then discovered he was one of their own CIA men assigned to infiltrate the Viet Cong. They issued K rations with chocolate bars to a whole platoon and by the time they found out the chocolate was Ex-Lax, the Cong was shooting them up like squatting ducks. How many times have they issued the wrong calibre ammunition to your riflemen? How many times have they bombed the wrong villages by mistake? How many times have they issued raincoats during the dry season and salt tablets during the rainy season? So why shouldn’t they issue winter uniforms in the summer? By their standards, it’s logical.”
“I guess so. But this isn’t a uniform,” I told her again.
“Then you’re not a soldier?”
“No.”
“American civilian personnel?”
“I guess so.”
“Then what are you doing in this neighborhood? You’re miles from Tu Do Street.”
“Tu Do Street?”
“The American Quarter,” she explained. She looked at me curiously. “Are you a deserter?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“Are you sure‘? You don’t have to be afraid. You can tell me. I won’t turn you in. I know lots of deserters and I never squeal.”
“Thanks. But that won’t be necessary. I’m really not a deserter.” I smiled to show her I wasn’t offended. “What’s your name?” I asked.