Gramp stared at him, under knotted brows. "What are you, Ted? Pro-German?"
"No."
"Pacifist, maybe? Come to think about it, you've never had one word to say about the war."
"No, I'm not a pacifist. And I'm not pro-German. But if we win this war-"
"You mean 'When we win this war!'"
"All right, 'when we win this war,' it will turn out that we've actually lost it. Lost everything we thought we were fighting for."
Mr. Johnson abruptly changed tactics. "When are you enlisting?"
Lazarus hesitated. "I've got a couple of things I must do first."
"I thought that might be your answer, Mr. Bronson. Good-bye!" Gramp fumbled with the door latch, cursed, and stepped over onto the running board, thence to the curb.
Lazarus said, "Gramp! I mean 'Mr. Johnson.' Let me finish running you home. Please!"
His grandfather paused just long enough to look back and say, "Not on your tintype...you pusillanimous piss-ant." Then he marched steadily down the street to the car stop.
Lazarus waited and watched Mr. Johnson climb aboard; then he trailed the trolley car, unwilling to admit that there was nothing he could do to correct the shambles he had made of his relations with Gramp. He watched the old man get off at Benton Boulevard, considered overtaking him and trying to speak to him.
But what could he say? He understood how Gramp felt, and why-and he had already said too much and no further words could call it back or correct it. He drove aimlessly on down Thirty-first Street.
At Indiana Avenue he parked his car, bought a Star from a newsboy, went into a drugstore, sat down at the soda fountain, ordered a cherry phosphate to justify his presence, looked at the newspaper.
But was unable to read it- Instead he stared at it and brooded.
When the soda jerk wiped the marble counter in front of him and lingered, Lazarus ordered another phosphate. When this happened a second time,. Lazarus asked to use a telephone.
"Home or Bell?"
"Home."
"Back of the cigar counter and you pay me.'~
"Brian? This is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to your mother?"
"I'll go see,"
But it was his grandfather's voice that came on the line: "Mr. Bronson, your sheer effrontery amazes me. What do you want?"
"Mr. Johnson, I want to speak to Mrs. Smith-"
"You can't."
"-because she has been very kind to me and I Want to thank her and say good-bye."
"One moment-" He heard his grandfather say, "George, get out. Brian, take Woodie with you and close the door and see that it stays closed." Mr. Johnson's voice then came back closer: "Are you still there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then listen carefully and don't interrupt; I'm going to say this just once."
"Yes, sir."
"My daughter will not speak to you, now or ever-" Lazarus said quickly, "Does she know that I asked to speak to her?"
"Shut up! Certainly she knows. She asked me to deliver that message. Or I would not have spoken to you myself. Now I too have a message for you-and don't interrupt. My daughter is a respectable married woman whose husband has answered his country's call. So don't hang around her. Don't come here or you'll be met with a shotgun. Don't telephone. Don't go to her church. Maybe you think I can't make this stick. Let me remind you that this is Kansas City. Two broken arms cost twenty-five dollars; for twice that they'll kill you. But for a combined deal-break your arms first and then kill you-there's a discount. I can afford sixty-two fifty if you make it necessary. Understand me?"
"Yes."
"So twenty-three skidoo!"
"Hold it! Mr. Johnson, I do not believe that you would hire a man to kill another man-"
"You had better not risk it."
"-because I think you would kill him yourself."
There was a pause. Then the old man chuckled slightly. "You may be right." He hung up on Lazarus.
Lazarus cranked his car and drove away. Presently he found that he was driving west on Linwood Boulevard, noticed it because he passed his family's church. Where he had first seen Maureen- Where he would never see her again.
Not ever! Not even if he came back again and tried to avoid the mistakes he had made-there were no paradoxes. Those mistakes were unalterably part of the fabric of space-time, and all of the subtleties of Andy's mathematics, all of the powers built into the Dora, could not erase them.
At Linwood Plaza, he parked short of Brooklyn Avenue and considered what to do next.
Drive to the station and catch the next Santa Fe train west. If either of those calls for help lasted through the centuries, then he would be picked up on Monday morning-and this war and all its troubles would again 'be something that happened a long time ago-and "Ted Bronson" would be someone Gramp and Maureen had known briefly and would forget.
Too bad he had not had time to get those messages etched; nevertheless, one of them might last, If not-then make rendezvous for pickup in 1926. Or if none of them got through-always a possibility since he was attempting to use Delay Mail before it was properly set up-then wait for 1929-and carry out rendezvous as originally planned. No problem about that; the twins and Dora were ready to keep that one, no matter what.
Then why did he feel so bad?
This wasn't his war.
Time enough and Gramp would know that the prediction he had blurted out was simple truth. In time Gramp would learn what French "gratitude" amounted to-when "Lafayette, we are here!' was forgotten and the refrain was "Pas un sou a l'Amérique!" Or British "gratitude" for that matter. There was no gratitude between nations, never had been, never would be. "Pro-German"? Hell, no, Gramp! There is something rotten at the very heart of German culture, and this war is going to lead to another with German atrocities a thousand times more terrible than any they are accused of today. Gas chambers and a stink of burning flesh in planned viciousness- A stench that lasted through the centuries- But there was no way to tell Gramp and Maureen any of this. Nor should he try. The best thing about the future was that it was unknown. Cassandra's one good quality was that she was never believed.
So why should it matter that two people who could not possibly know what he knew misunderstood why he thought this war was useless?
But the fact was that it did matter-it mattered terribly.
He felt the slight bulge against his left ribs. A defense for his gold-gold he did not give a damn about. But a "termination option" switch, too.
Snap out of it, you silly fool! You don't want to be dead; you simply want the approval of Gramp and Maureen-of Maureen.
The recruiting station was under the main post office, far downtown. Late as it was, it was still open, with a queue outside. Lazarus paid an old Negro a dollar to sit in his car, warned him that there was a grip in the back, promised him another dollar when he got back-and did not mention ' the money vest and pistol, both now in the grip. But Lazarus did not worry about car or money-might be simpler if both were stolen. He joined the queue.
"Name?"
"Bronson, Theodore."
"Previous military experience?"
"None."
"Age? No, date of birth-and it had better be before April 5, 1899."
"November 11, 1890."
"You don't look that old, but okay. Take this paper and through that door. You'll find sacks or pillow cases. Take your clothes off, put 'em in one, keep 'em with you. Hand this to one of the docs and do what he tells you."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Get moving-next."