Counter-Clock World

  “She’s a buyer. You said never to turn away a buyer, even after six P.M. That’s your philosophy.”

  Sebastian grated, “If she’s a customer, take care of her; you’re our salesman.”

  “She asked for you; she won’t talk to anyone else.”

  “I feel like killing myself,” Sebastian said to him. “Something terrible must have happened in the Library; I’ll probably never find out what it was—she’ll never be able to put it into words.” Lotta was so bad with words, he thought. Too many, too few, the wrong ones or to the wrong person; always miscommunicating in one way or another. “If I had a gun,” he said, “I would kill myself.” He got out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “You heard what Lotta said. I let her so badly down she left me. Who’s this customer?”

  “She says her name—” R.C. Buckley examined his jotting. “Miss Ann Fisher. Know her?”

  “No.” Sebastian walked toward the front of the store, out of the work area and into the reception lounge with its moderately modern chairs, carpet, and magazines. In one of the chairs sat a well-dressed young woman with smartly clipped, fashionable short black hair. He paused, collecting his wits and considering her. The girl had lovely slim legs; he could not help noticing that. Class, he thought. This girl really has it; even in her earrings. And in the very slight make-up; all the tints of her eyes and lashes and lips seemed her own very intense natural coloration. Her eyes, he saw, were blue, unusual for a girl with black hair.

  “Goodbye,” she said, and smiled a warm, crinkly smile; her face was extraordinarily mobile; when she smiled her eyes danced with light, and she showed perfect, regular teeth, with mischievous little incisors; he found himself fascinated by her rows of teeth.

  “I’m Sebastian Hermes,” he said.

  Rising, putting aside her magazine, Miss Fisher said, “You have a Mrs. Tilly M. Benton in your catalog. In the most recent daily supplement.” She fumbled with her smart shiny purse, brought out the addenda ad which the Flask of Hermes Vitarium had placed in that day’s evening ’papes. She seemed to be a determined, pert young woman . . . a titanic contrast, he could not help noticing, from Lotta’s indecisive-ness, which he had over a long period of time been forced to accustom himself to.

  “Technically,” he said, “we’re closed for the day. Mrs. Benton is of course not here; we have her in a hospital bed, recuperating. We’ll be glad to take you over there tomorrow. Are you a relative?”

  “She’s my great-aunt,” Ann Fisher said, with a kind of philosophical exasperation, as if one had regularly to be ready to cope with reborn elderly relatives. “Oh, I’m so damn glad you heard her calling,” she went on. “We kept visiting the cemetery, hoping we’d hear her voice, but it always—” She made a wry face. “Always seems to happen at weird hours.”

  “True,” he agreed. That was indeed part of the problem. He looked at his watch; it was, roughly, sogum time; normally he would want to be at home with Lotta. But Lotta wasn’t there. And anyhow he wanted more or less to keep in the vicinity of the store, pending these new, critical hours of life for the Anarch. “I guess I could take you briefly to the hospital tonight,” he began, but Miss Fisher interrupted him.

  “Oh no; thanks, but forget it. I’m tired. I’ve been working all day long and so have you.” Astonishingly, she reached out her smooth, tapered hand and patted his, meanwhile beaming sunlike, radiant understanding, as if she knew him intimately. “I just want to make sure that the State of California doesn’t make her its ward, and turn her over to one of those awful public rest homes for the old-born. We can take her; we have the money, my brother Jim and I.” Miss Fisher examined her wristwatch; he saw that her wrist was lightly, enticingly freckled; more coloration. “I’ve just got to get some sogum into me,” she said. “I’m about to faint. Is there a good sogum palace near here?”

  “Down the street,” he said. And once again he thought of Lotta, of the emptiness at home, so bewildering and abrupt; who was she with? Tinbane, evidently; Joe Tinbane had rescued her and—well, it probably was Tinbane; that made sense. In a way he hoped so. Tinbane was a good man. Thinking of Lotta and Tinbane, both of them young, both nearly the same age, he felt fatherly; perversely, he wished her luck, but primarily he wished her back. Meanwhile . . .

  “I’ll treat you,” Miss Fisher said. “I just got paid today; if I don’t spend these inflation bills they won’t be worth anything tomorrow anyhow. And you look tired.” She scrutinized him, and it was a different sort of scrutiny; Lotta had always searched to discern whether he was pleased with her, mad at her, in love with her, not in love with her; Miss Fisher seemed to be judging what he was, not how he felt. As if, he thought, she has the power—or anyhow the ability—to determine whether I’m a man. Or just playing at being a man.

  “Okay,” he said, surprising himself. “But first I have to close up in the back.” He indicated one of the store’s reasonably modern chairs. “You wait here; I’ll be back.”

  “And we can talk about Mrs. Tilly M. Benton,” Miss Fisher said, emitting her approving smile.

  He made his way back to the work area of the store, carefully closing the door so that Miss Fisher could not see; having brought the Anarch here they had been forced to become adept at this, on short notice.

  “How is he?” he asked Dr. Sign. A bed had been fashioned, pro tem. In it lay the Anarch, small, dry, everything about him gray or black, his eyes fixed apparently on nothing; he seemed content, and Dr. Sign still looked pleased.

  “Healing rapidly,” Dr. Sign said. He led Sebastian over to one side, then, out of the Anarch’s hearing. “He asked for a ’pape and I gave him one, the evening edition with our ad in it. He’s been reading about Ray Roberts.”

  “What’s he say about Roberts?” Sebastian asked, chewing his lip. “Is he afraid of him? Or does he consider Roberts one of those ‘friends’ he mentioned?”

  Dr. Sign said, “The Anarch has never heard of Ray Roberts. According to all the public relations material released by Roberts, he was handpicked by the Anarch to succeed him. This appears not to be true. Not unless—” His voice dimmed to a whisper. “There may be brain damage, you realize. I’ve run an EEG now for some time, and find nothing out of order. But—let’s call it amnesia. From the rebirth shock. Anyhow, he’s puzzled about Udi; not what it is—he remembers founding it—but what it’s up to.”

  Going over to the bed, Sebastian said, “What can I tell you? That you’d like to know?”

  The old brown eyes, with so much hidden wisdom in them, so much experience, fastened on him. “I see that, like all other religions, mine has become a hallowed institution. Do you approve of it?”

  Taken aback, Sebastian said, “I—don’t think I’m in a position to judge. It has its followers. It’s still a vital force.”

  “And Mr. Roberts?” The old eyes were keen.

  Sebastian said, “Opinions differ.”

  “Does he believe Udi is for both whites and colored?”

  “He—tends to restrict it to colored.”

  The eyebrows knitted; the Anarch said nothing, but he no longer looked tranquil. “If I ask you an embarrassing question,” the Anarch said, “will you kindly give me a truthful answer? No matter how unpleasant it might be?”

  “Yes,” Sebastian said, preparing himself.

  The Anarch said, “Has Udi become a circus?”

  “Some people think so.”

  “Has Mr. Roberts made efforts to locate me?”

  “Possibly.” His answer was guarded; this was explosive.

  “Have you notified him of my—rebirth?”

  “No,” Sebastian said. After a pause he said, “Generally, an old-born is kept in a hospital for a time, and the vitarium solicits bids on him from relatives and friends. Or, if he’s a public figure—”

  “If he has no relatives or friends,” the Anarch said, “and he is not a public figure, is he put to death again?”

  “He’s made a ward of the state. But in your case, obviou
sly you—”

  “I would like you to ask Mr. Roberts to come here,” the Anarch said in his hoarse, dry voice. “Since he will be in California on a pilg it won’t be much trouble for him.”

  Sebastian pondered. And then he said, “I would prefer that you let us handle your sale. We’re experts. Your Mightiness. We do nothing but this. I would prefer not to bring Ray Roberts here, or in fact give him any information about you. He’s not the buyer we have in mind.”

  “Do you want to give me the reason?” The wise eyes again fastened on him. “Won’t the Uditi care to put up the money?”

  “It’s not a matter of that,” Sebastian said. He made a covert signal to Dr. Sign, who immediately came over.

  “I think you should rest, Anarch,” Dr. Sign said.

  “I’ll talk to you again later,” Sebastian said to the Anarch. “I’m going out for a pipeful of sogum, but I’ll be back again this evening.” He left the work area and the Anarch, carefully maneuvered the door open and shut; however, Miss Fisher sat reading, engrossed.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sebastian said.

  She glanced up, smiled, slid gracefully to her feet, stood facing him; she was relatively tall and very slender with extremely meager breasts; her figure, in fact, was that of a supple adolescent. But her face was sharp-etched and mature, with strong features. And again he thought, This is one of the best-dressed women I have ever seen. And clothes had never impressed him before.

  After they had imbibed sogum they wandered along the evening street, looking in store windows, saying very little, glancing cautiously at each other every now and then. Sebastian Hermes had a problem. He still intended to return to his vitarium, to talk further with the Anarch, but he could not very well do it until he had parted company with Miss Fisher.

  Miss Fisher, however, did not seem inclined toward the normal, customary moment of saying hello. He wondered why; as time passed it seemed more and more strange.

  All at once, as they stood studying a window display of furniture made from Martian wobwood, Miss Fisher said, “What day is this? The eighth?”

  “The ninth,” Sebastian said.

  “Are you married?”

  He thought briefly; one had to calculate carefully in answer to this question. “Technically,” he said. “Lotta and I are separated.” It was true. Technically.

  “The reason I ask,” Miss Fisher said, starting on, “is that I have a problem.” She sighed.

  It was emerging, now. Her reason for sticking so close to him. He glanced sidelong at her, once again noted her attractiveness, marveled at the amount of communication already achieved between them, and said, “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  “Well, see . . . just about nine months ago, there was this lovely little baby, named Arnold Oxnard Ford. You get the situation?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “He was so darling.” Her lips pursed, babytalk-wise, motherly. “And he was there in that children’s ward, in the hospital, and he was searching for a womb, and I was doing volunteer work of various kinds for the city of San Bernardino, and I was getting really terribly sick of it, the volunteer work, and I thought, Gee wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a sweet little creature like Arnold Oxnard Ford inside my tummy.” She patted her flat stomach as they walked aimlessly along. “So I went to the nurse in charge of the ward and I said, Could I apply for Arnold Oxnard Ford? And she said, Yes, you look healthy, and I said I was, and she said, It’s just about time for him; he’ll have to go into a womb—he was in an incubator already—and I signed the papers, and—” She smiled at Sebastian. “I got him. Nine months of having him day by day become more and more a part of me; it’s a marvelous feeling— you have no idea how it feels to sense another creature, one whom you love, merging molecule by molecule with your own molecules. Every month I had an examination and an X ray, and it was working out fine. Now, of course, it’s really over.”

  “I wouldn’t know to look,” he agreed; there was no bulge.

  Miss Fisher sighed. “So now Arnold Oxnard Ford is a part of me and always will be, as long as I live. I like to think—a lot of mothers think—that the baby’s spirit is still here.” She tapped her black bangs, her forehead. “I think it is; I think his soul migrated there. But—” Again she made a face, wistfully. “You know what?”

  “I know,” he said.

  “That’s right. By the eleventh—the doctor says no later—I have to give up the final physical bit of him. To a man.” She made a mocking, but not hostile, face. “Whether I like it or not, I have to go to bed with some man; as a medical necessity. Otherwise the process won’t be complete and I won’t ever be able to offer my womb for any other babies again. And—it’s strange—for the last two weeks, even longer, I’ve been experiencing it as a drive, a biological urge. To sleep with some man; any man.” She glanced at him perceptively. “Or does that offend you? It wasn’t meant to.”

  Sebastian said, “Then Arnold Oxnard Ford will be a part of me, too.”

  “Does the idea appeal to you? I had pictures of him, but of course the Erads got them. Ideally, you should have seen him; if we had been married you would. But I’ve been told I’m very good in bed, so maybe you could enjoy just that part alone; would that be enough?”

  He pondered. Again astute calculation was required. How would Lotta feel if she knew? Would she know? Should she know? And it seemed strange, Miss Fisher selecting him this way, virtually at random. But what she said was true; mothers, nine months after a baby had entered their womb, became— in need. As Miss Fisher said, it was a biological necessity; the zygote had to separate into sperm and egg.

  “Where could we go?” he asked artfully.

  “My place,” she offered. “It’s nice and you could stay all night; you wouldn’t get tossed out after it was over.”

  Again he thought, I have to get back to the store. But—this was, at this time, fortuitous. He needed the psychological lift; one woman—probably quite rightly—had abandoned him, and now another had fixed her attention on him. He could not manage to be anything else but flattered.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Ann Fisher hailed a passing cab and in a moment they were en route to her conapt.

  It struck him as beautifully decorated; he roamed about the living room, inspecting a vase here, a wall-hanging there, books, a small jade statue of Li Po. “Nice,” he said. However, he found himself alone; Miss Fisher had slipped off into the other room to, ahem, disgorge.

  Presently she returned, her beaming, warm smile manifesting itself cheerfully in his direction. “I have some very fine, aged, imported Siddon’s sogum,” she said, holding up the flask. “Care for some?”

  “Guess not.” He picked up an LP record of Beethoven cello and piano sonatas. Just think, he thought. Someday, a couple of centuries from now, these will be eraded; the Library in Vienna will receive back the original botchy, tormented note-pages which Beethoven with murderous labor and pain copied from the last printed edition of the score. But, he reflected, Beethoven will also live again; one day he would call up anxiously from within his coffin. But for what? To erad some of the finest music ever written. What a dreadful destiny.

  “Want me to put those on the phonograph?” Ann Fisher asked.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “These are so lovely.” She put the earliest one on, Opus Five Number One; they both listened but after a moment she became restive; obviously attentive listening was not her style. “Do you think,” she asked him, strolling about the living room, “that the Hobart Phase will peter out eventually? And normal time will restore itself?”

  “I hope so,” he said.

  “But you gain. You were dead once. Weren’t you?”

  “Can you tell?” he said, nettled.

  “I don’t mean to offend you. But you are about fifty, aren’t you? So you have a longer life, this way; in fact you have two complete lives. Are you enjoying this one more than the first?”

  “My problem,” h
e said candidly, “is with my wife.”

  “She’s much younger than you?”

  He was silent; he inspected a Venusian snoffle-fur-bound copy of English poetry of the seventeenth century. “Do you like Henry Vaughn?” he asked her.

  “Didn’t he write the poem about seeing eternity? ‘I saw eternity the other night’?”

  Opening the volume, Sebastian said, “Andrew Marvell. To His Coy Mistress. ‘But at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near, and yonder all before us lie deserts of vast eternity.’” He shut the volume, convulsively. “I saw it, that eternity outside of time and space, wandering among things so big—” He ceased; he still found it pointless to discuss his afterlife experience.

  “I think you’re just trying to hurry me into bed,” Ann Fisher said. “The title of the poem—I get the message.”

  He quoted, “‘The worms shall try that long-preserved virginity.’” Smiling, he turned toward her; perhaps she was right. But the poem kept him from anticipation; he knew it too well—knew it and the experience it envisioned. “‘The grave’s a fine and private place,’” he half-snarled, feeling it all return, the smell of the grave, the chill, the cramped, evil darkness. “‘But none, I think do there embrace.’”

  “Then let’s hop into bed,” Miss Fisher said practically. And led the way to her bedroom.

  Afterward they lay naked, with only the sheet over them; Ann Fisher smoked in silence, the red glow identifying her presence. He found it peaceful, now; his grim tension had departed.

  “But it wasn’t eternity for you,” Ann Fisher said distantly, as if deep down in her own meditations. “You were dead only a finite time. What, fifteen years?”

  “It feels the same,” he said brusquely. “I try to make this point, and no one who hasn’t gone through it understands. When you’re outside of the categories of perception, time and space, then it’s endless; no time passes, no matter how long you wait. And it can be infinite bliss or infinite torment, according to your relationship with it.”

  “With what? God?”