Nancy did so; my husband turned to me. “Flame top, it is now five-forty. Can you figure out a way to entertain Ted and me for the next twenty-five minutes?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll try.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Black Tuesday
WORLD-AS-MYTH Much as I love Hilda, much as I love Jubal and respect his analytical genius, World-as-Myth doesn’t explain anything.
As Dr. Will Durant would put it, it is an insufficient hypothesis. I studied philosophy under Dr. Durant in Kansas City in 1921 and ’22, not long after he left the Catholic Church—and turned agnostic, socialist, and benedict, all through sniffing a fourteen-year-old girl half his age.
Dr. Durant must have been a disappointment to Mrs. Grundy—he married his jailbait sweetheart and stayed married to her till his death in his nineties, with never a breath of scandal. For Mrs.Grundy it must have been a case of “Some days it is hardly worthwhile to listen at keyholes.”
The Church’s loss was the World’s gain. A horny young teacher’s inability to keep his hands off a pretty, smart, and nubile student gave several universes a great teacher in history and philosophy…and gave Maureen her introduction to metaphysics—my greatest intellectual adventure since Father introduced me to Professor Thomas Henry Huxley.
Professor Huxley introduced me to the fact that theology is a study with no answers because it has no subject matter.
No subject matter? That’s right, no subject matter whatever—just colored water with artificial sweetening. “Theo-” = “God” and “-logy” = word(s), i.e., any word ending in “-ology” means “talk about” or “discussion of” or “words concerning” or “study of” a subject named in the first part of the word, whether it is “hippology,” or “astrology,” or “proctology,” or “eschatology,” or “scatology,” or something else. But to discuss any subject, it is first necessary to agree on what it is you are discussing. “Hippology” presents no problem; everybody has seen a horse. “Proctology”—everybody has seen an arsehole…or, if you have been so carefully brought up that you’ve never seen one, go down to your city hall; you will find the place full of them. But the subject tagged by the spell-symbol “theology” is a horse of another color.
“God,” or “god,” or “gods”—have you ever seen “God”? If so, where and when, how tall was She and what did She weigh? What was Her skin color? Did She have a belly button and, if so, why? Did She have breasts? For what purpose? How about organs of reproduction and of excretion—did She or didn’t She?
(If you think I am making fun of the idea of a God fashioned in Man’s image or vice versa, you have much to go on.)
I will agree that the notion of an anthropomorphic God went out of fashion some time ago with most professional godsmen…but that doesn’t get us any nearer to defining the English spell-symbol “God.” Let’s consult fundamentalist preachers…because Episcopalians won’t even let God into His sanctuary unless He shines His shoes and trims that awful beard…and Unitarians won’t let Him in at all.
So let’s listen to fundamentalists: “God is the Creator. He Created the World. The existence of the World proves that it was created; therefore there is a Creator. That Creator we call ‘God.’ Let us all bow down and worship Him, for He is Almighty and His works proclaim His might.”
Will someone please page Dr. S. I. Hayakawa? Or, if he is busy, any student who received a B+ or better in Logic 101? I’m looking for someone able to discuss the fallacy of circular reasoning and also the concatenative process by which abstract words can be logically defined by building on concrete words. What is a “concrete” word? It is a spell-symbol used to tag something you can point to and thereby agree on, e.g., “cat,” “sailboat,” “ice-skating”—agree with such certainty that when you say “sailboat” there is no chance whatever that I will think you mean a furry quadruped with retractile claws.
With the spell-symbol “God” there is no way to achieve such agreement because there is nothing to point to. Circular reasoning can’t get you out of this dilemma. Pointing to something (the physical world) and asserting that it has to have a Creator and this Creator necessarily has such-and-such attributes proves nothing save that you have made certain assertions without proof. You have pointed at a physical thing, the physical world; you have asserted that this physical thing has to have a “Creator” (Who told you that? What’s his mailing address? Who told him?). But to assert that something physical was created out of nothing—not even empty space—by a Thingamajig you can’t point to is not to make a philosophical statement or any sort of statement, it is mere noise, amphigory, sound and fury signifying nothing.
Jesuits take fourteen years to learn to talk that sort of nonsense. Southern fundamentalist preachers learn to talk it in a much shorter time. Either way, it’s nonsense.
Pardon me. Attempts to define “God” cause one to break out in hives.
Unlike theology, “metaphysics” does have a subject, the physical world, the world that you can feel, taste, and see, the world of potholes and beautiful men and railroad tickets and barking dogs and wars and marshmallow sundaes. But, like theology, metaphysics has no answers. Just questions.
But what lovely questions!
Was this world created? If so, when and by whom and why?
How is consciousness (“Me-ness”) hooked to the physical world?
What happens to this “Me-ness” when this body I am wearing stops, dies, decays, and the worms eat it?
Why am I here, where did I come from, where am I going?
Why are you here? Are you here? Are you anywhere? Am I all alone?
(And many more.)
Metaphysics has polysyllabic words for all of these ideas but you don’t have to use them; Anglo-Saxon monosyllables do just as well for questions that have no answers.
Persons who claim to have answers to these questions invariably are fakers after your money. No exceptions. If you point out their fakery, if you dare to say aloud that the emperor has no clothes, they will lynch you if possible, always from the highest of motives.
That’s the trouble I’m in now. I made the mistake of flapping my loose lower jaw before learning the power structure here…so now I am about to be hanged (I hope it is as gentle as hanging!) for the capital crime of sacrilege.
I should know better. I didn’t think anyone would mind (in San Francisco) when I pointed out that the available evidence tended to indicate that Jesus was gay.
But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to get out of town.
(I do wish Pixel would come back.)
▣
On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits, while the bride’s mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities that week and the groom’s mother wore a quieter smile and a faraway look in her eyes from similar (but not identical) private activities.
I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.
Let’s go back two days—On Wednesday my “zoo” got home from the circus at 6:05 P.M.; we had a picnic dinner in our back yard at 6:30, the exact timing being possible through Carol’s having prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger ones played croquet while we elders—Brian, Father, Theodore, and I—sat in the garden glider swing and talked.
Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.
But I must note first that I had gone to Father’s room the night before (Tuesday) after the house was quiet, pledging him a King’s X, then told him about a strange story S
ergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a Howard from the future.
Despite my promise of King’s X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father’s bed, facing me, and listened soberly to my repetition.
Father said, “Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and all.”
“Father, he knew Woodrow’s birth date. Did you tell him?”
“No. I know your policy.”
“He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you tell him?”
“No, but it’s no secret. I’ve set it down on all sorts of documents.”
“But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother’s birthday—day, year, and month.”
“That’s harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: Anyone with access to the Foundation’s files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.”
“But why would he know Woodrow’s birthday and not Nancy’s? Father, he came here knowing quite a bit about all his ancestors—those he claims as ancestors—that is to say, Woodrow and his ancestors but not the birthdays of Woodrow’s brothers and sisters.”
“I don’t know. If he did have access to Judge Sperling’s files, he could have memorized just those data needed to back up his story. But the most interesting item is his assertion that the war will end on November eleventh, this year. I would have guessed sometime this summer, with bad news for Britain and worse news for France, and humiliation for us…or not earlier than the summer of 1919, with victory for the Allies but a horribly expensive one. If it turns out that Ted is right—November 11, 1918—then I’ll believe him. All of it.”
Nancy said, suddenly, “I believe him.”
Father said, “Why, Nancy?”
“Grandpa, do you remember—No, you weren’t here. It was the day war was declared, a year ago. Papa had kissed us good-bye and left. Grandpa, you went out right after Papa left—”
Father nodded. I said, “I remember.”
“—and, Mama, you had gone up to lie down. Uncle Ted telephoned. Oh, I know that he telephoned later and you talked to him, Grandpa. You—You were mean to him—”
“Nancy, I’m sorry about that.”
“Oh, that was a misunderstanding, we all know that. This was before he talked to you, maybe an hour before, maybe longer. I was upset and crying a bit, I guess, and Uncle Ted knew it…and he told me to stop worrying about Papa, because he—Uncle Ted, I mean—had second sight and could tell the future. He told me that Papa would come home safely. And suddenly I quit worrying and have not worried since—not that way. Because I knew that he was telling the truth. Uncle Ted does know the future…because he is from the future.”
“Father?”
“How can I tell, Maureen?” Father looked terribly thoughtful. “But I think we must assume as least hypothesis—Occam’s Razor—that Ted believes his own story. Which of course does not exclude the hypothesis that he is as loony as a June bug.”
“Grandpa! You know Uncle Ted isn’t crazy!”
“I don’t think he is. But his story sounds crazy. Nancy, I’m trying to be rational about this. Now don’t scold Grandpa; I’m doing the best I can. At worst we’ll know in about five months. November eleventh. Which is little comfort to you now, Maureen, but it may make up somewhat for the dirty trick Woodrow played on you. You should have clobbered him, on the spot.”
“Not out in the woods at night, Papa, not a child that young. And now it’s too late. Nancy, you remember that spot where Sergeant Theodore took you all on a picnic a year ago? We were there.”
Nancy’s mouth dropped open. “Woodie was with you? Then you didn’t—” She chopped off what she was saying. Father put on his draw-poker face.
I looked from one to the other. “You darlings! I confided my plans to each of you. But did not tell either of you that I had told the other. Yes, Nancy, I went out there with the precise purpose I told you about: to offer Sergeant Theodore the best warrior’s farewell I could manage, if he would let me. And he was about to let me. And it turned out that Woodrow had hidden in the back seat of the car.”
“Oh, how dreadful!”
“I thought so. So we got out of there quickly and went to Electric Park and never did have the privacy we needed.”
“Oh, poor Mama!” Nancy leaned across Father’s legs and grabbed my head and made mother-hen sounds over me, exactly as I had over her for all those years, whenever she needed sympathy.
Then she straightened up. “Mama, you should go do it right now!”
“Here? With a house full of children? My dear! No, no!”
“I’ll jigger for you! Grandpa! Don’t you think she should?”
Father kept quiet. I repeated, “No, dear, no. Too risky.”
She answered, “Mama, if you’re scared to, here in the house, I certainly am not. Grandpa knows I’m pregnant, don’t you, Grandpa? Or I wouldn’t be getting married. And I know what Jonathan would say.” She sat up straight, started to get off the edge of the bed. “I’m going straight down and give Uncle Ted a soldier’s farewell. And tomorrow I’ll tell Jonathan. And—Mama, I have a message for you from Jonathan. But I’ll tell you when I come back upstairs.”
I said, weakly and hopelessly, “Don’t stay down too long. The boys get up at four-thirty; don’t get caught by them.”
“I’ll be careful. ’Bye.”
Father stopped her. “Nancy! Sit back down. You are crowding in on your mother’s prerogatives.”
“But, Grandpa—”
“Pipe down! Maureen is going downstairs to finish what she started. As she should. Daughter, I will stand jigger and Nancy can help me if she wishes. But take your own advice; don’t stay down too long. If you aren’t upstairs by three, I’m coming down to tap on the door.”
Nancy said eagerly, “Mama, why don’t we both go down? I bet Uncle Ted would like that!”
“I’ll bet Uncle Ted would like that, too,” Father said grimly, “but he’s not going to get it tonight. If you want to give him a soldier’s send-off, that’s fine. But not tonight, and not until after you have consulted Jonathan. Now git for bed, dear…and you, Maureen, go downstairs and see Ted.”
I leaned over and kissed him and got quietly off the edge of the bed and started to leave. Father said, “Get along, Nancy; I’ll take the first watch.”
She shoved out her lower lip. “No. Grandpa, I’m going to stay right here and bother you.”
I left, via the sleeping porch and my own room, then went downstairs barefooted and wearing just a wrapper, not stopping to see if Father threw Nancy out. If she had managed to tame Father when I had not been able to manage it in twice her years, I didn’t want to know it. Not then. I thought about Theodore instead…so successfully that by the time I quietly opened the door to my sewing room I was as ready as a female animal can be.
Quiet as I was, he heard me and had me in his arms as I closed the door. I returned his embrace, then let go and shrugged off my wrapper, and reached up to him again. At last, at last I was naked in his arms.
Which led, inevitably, to my sitting with Theodore and Brian and Father in our back yard glider swing after our picnic dinner on Wednesday, listening to a discussion between Father and Theodore, while our young people played croquet around us. At Briney’s request, Theodore had repeated his statements about when and how female h. sapiens could and could not get pregnant.
The conversation drifted off from reproduction to obstetrics and they started using ungrammatical Latin at each other—some difference of opinion about the best way to handle a particular sort of birth complication. They became more and more polite to each other the more they differed. I did not have any opinions as birth complications are something I know about only from reading, since I have babies about as easily as a hen lays eggs—one big ouch and it’s over.
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Briney finally interrupted them, somewhat to my relief. I don’t even want to hear about the horrible things that can happen if a birthing goes wrong. “This is all very interesting,” Brian said, “but, Ira, may I ask one question? Is Ted a medical doctor, or not? Sorry, Ted.”
“Not at all, Brian. My whole story sounds phony, I know. That’s why I avoid telling it.”
Father said, “Brian, haven’t you heard me addressing Ted as ‘Doctor’ for the last thirty minutes? The thing that makes me so angry—so graveled, rather—is that Ted knows more about the art of medicine than I could ever possibly learn. Yet his shop talk makes me want to go back to the practice of medicine.”
Theodore cleared his throat, sounding just like Father. “Mrrrrph. Dr. Johnson—”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“I think my superior knowledge of therapy—correction: my knowledge of superior therapy—bothers you in part because you think of me as being younger than you are. But, as I explained, I simply look young. In fact I am older than you are.”
“How old?”
“I declined to answer that question when Mrs. Smith asked it—”
“Theodore! My name is Maureen.”(That exasperating man!)
“Little pitchers with big ears, Maureen,” Theodore said quietly. “Dr. Johnson, the therapy of my time is not harder to learn than is therapy today; it is easier, because less of it is empirical and more of it—most of it—is based on minutely developed and thoroughly tested theory. With correct and logical theory as a framework you could catch up on what new has been learned in jig time, then go quickly into clinical work under a preceptor. You would not find it difficult.”
“Damn it, sir, I’ll never have the chance!”
“But, Doctor, that’s what I’m trying to offer you. My sisters will pick me up at an agreed rendezvous in Arizona on August 2, 1926, eight years from now. If you wish, I will be delighted to take you with me to my time and my planet, where, if you wish, you can study therapy—I am chairman of the board of a medical school there; no problem. Then you can either stay on Tertius, or return to Earth—to the exact spot and instant that you left, if that is your wish, but with your medical education updated and you yourself rejuvenated…and with renewed zest for life, that being merely a side effect but a fine bonus of rejuvenation.”