Brown jumped to his feet. “Boy, I’ll say I would,” he said. “Even just enough to hum the tune every once in a while.”
“I’m sure that would be very useful, Mr. Brown,” smiled the old man. “Ah, it is a great day for the Eighth Bureau. First the father and now the son. And after that who knows, eh, Mr. Brown? A fine-looking young man like yourself. Well, come along or we will miss our train.”
He took Brown by the elbow and they started down the path. “Mr. Brown,” said the old man as they went, “do you recall my mentioning The Friends of Hector Jouvet? It occurs to me that if such a club were ever formed it might offer your father an honorary membership. I don’t imagine he’s being invited to many regimental reunions.”
Hugh B. Cave
Many Happy Returns
“Of course, it was all pretty weird and sinister. Nevertheless—”
The house was an old one on an old road, miles from anywhere, but the freshly painted sign by its driveway — TOURISTS’ REST — was as reassuring as a cleric’s smile of welcome.
“Let’s,” Grace Martin said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “There’s no telling what we might find!”
Their car was already bulging with antiques collected in six states, but Tom Martin didn’t care. He had just acquired his M.A., a teaching job at a highly regarded prep school, and a beautiful bride. “Done,” he agreed without hesitation.
The warped and weathered door creaked open as they wriggled from the car. A man as old as they had expected, with a crown of white hair glowing in the dusk, limped down the rickety steps to greet them. An equally old woman, doll-dainty, smiled and nodded in the doorway.
It was the woman who escorted the newlyweds to their upstairs room. “Our name is Wiggin,” she said, “but please call me Anna. And when you’ve freshened up, do come down for tea.”
Grace Martin became enthusiastic about the massive four-poster bed while her husband irreverently bounced on it and pronounced it comfortable. They “freshened up” by lamplight and went downstairs to a dim parlor filled with antiques and the smell of age.
Anna Wiggin poured tea into fine old cups, and her husband Jasper, in reply to Grace Martin’s question, said in a cracked voice, “No, we do not collect antiques. Not really. We have just acquired these things as we needed them.
“You are only just married, you two,” Anna said with her smile. “I can always tell.”
“Five days,” Grace admitted.
“You are very young,” Jasper said.
“Not so young. I’m twenty-two. Tom is twenty-four.”
The old man moved his head up and down as if to say he had made a guess and the guess was correct. He did not say how old he and Anna were. He did remark, “I am a little older than my wife, also,” then sipped his tea and added, “You must tell Anna your birthdays. She will read your futures.”
“By our birthdays?” Grace Martin said.
“Oh, yes.”
“How can you do that, Mrs. Wiggin?”
“I can do it.” The doll-woman leaned closer, nodding and nodding. “When were you born, my dear?”
“May eleventh.”
“It won’t work, you know,” Tom Martin said with a grin. “She—” Then puzzled by the old woman’s expression, he was silent.
Jasper rose from his chair and placed his hands on his wife’s frail shoulders. Though all but transparent in the lamplight, the hands were strong and long-fingered. “Now, Anna,” he said softly, “do not be excited.”
Grace Martin sent a half-frightened glance at her husband and said, “Is there something special about that date?”
“It is Anna’s birthday also.”
“Oh, how nice! We are special, then, aren’t we?”
“Don’t go putting on airs,” Tom Martin chided. “You’re forgetting—”
“Now, darling, don’t spoil it.”
“I will get some more tea,” the old man said. “Fresh cups, too. We must have a toast.”
The others were joking about the birthday when he returned from the kitchen with a tray. Placing four full cups on the table, he sat down again. The lamplight splashed his shadow on a wall as he raised a hand and said, “To the day that gave us two such lovely ladies.”
They laughed and drank.
“You see, my dear,” the old man said to his wife, “it never fails.”
“What never fails?” Tom Martin asked.
“Only yesterday Anna was saying we would have to leave this house and find another. So few travelers use this old road any more. And even with many guests we sometimes wait years, of course.”
“Wait for what?” Tom said.
“They have to have the same birthday, you see.”
Tom nodded solemnly. It was past the old folks’ bedtime, he supposed. When you were that old, a break with custom could make the mind a bit fuzzy. “Well, of course—” He started to rise. Grace and he had had a long day too, more than three hundred miles of driving.
“Wait, please,” Jasper Wiggin said. “It is only fair that you understand.”
With a tolerant smile Tom sank down again.
“There is a mathematical master plan, you see,” the old man said. “Each day so many people are born, so many die. The plan insures a balance.”
“Really?” Tom suppressed a yawn.
“I can simplify it for you, I think, if you will pay close attention. Each date — that is to say, each eleventh of May or ninth of June or sixth of December and so forth — is a compartment in time. Now suppose a thousand people are born today, to take their place with all the thousands born on this date in previous years. If the plan were perfect, all those born today would live exactly a year longer than those born one year ago, and so on. You follow me?”
“Uh-huh,” Tom said sleepily.
“But the plan is not perfect. There is a thinning out through sickness and accidents — there has been from the beginning — and as a consequence, some of those born today will die before the expiration date, and others will live beyond it to maintain the balance.”
“Sure,” Tom mumbled.
“Each time compartment in each of the time zones is controlled this way. Life moves according to mathematics, just as the stars do.”
“Remarkable,” Tom said. Across the table his wife Grace was practically asleep. “What about the normal increase in population?”
“Oh, that’s accounted for. So are wars, plagues, and things of that sort. If we had more time, I could make it all quite clear.”
“You discovered this yourself, Mr. Wiggin?”
“Oh, no. There was a man from Europe staying with us one summer — a mathematical genius named Marek Dziok. Not in this house, of course; we have moved many times since then. Dziok had an accident — he was very old, and one night he fell down the stairs, poor man — but before he died, he took us into his confidence.”
“I see.”
“You don’t believe me?” Jasper Wiggin said. “Dziok was writing a book — a philosophy based on his mathematics. He never finished it. But I have the manuscript...” He left his chair and limped to a bookcase, from which he lifted out a thin, paper-bound sheaf of papers. “Perhaps you would like — but no, you won’t have time.” Shaking his head, he put the sheaf of pages back.
“I guess I’d better take my wife to bed,” Tom Martin said. “She’s asleep.”
“Yes, it works faster on women.”
“What works faster?”
“The powder.”
“You mean you put something—” Staring at his wife, Tom placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself erect. It required enormous effort. “You mean—”
“You haven’t been listening, have you?” the old man complained sadly. “And I’ve tried so hard to explain. Your wife and mine share the same time compartment, don’t you see? You know yourself by now that Anna and I are much older than people get to be naturally. There’s only the one way to do it.”