thing as illegitimacy.”
“While we were waiting for you to come out of hibernation, we investigated your background, Jule,” said Edith. “Your mother’s name, maiden, was Van Hass, so by our usage your full name is Julian West Van Hass. Your parents were the famous jet set members, Barry and Betty—the Wild Wests, as they were called.”
Julian nodded. “They were killed in a racing accident when I was quite young. I don’t remember them too well. I didn’t see much of them. I was usually in school, and they’d be off somewhere, father playing polo in the Argentine or participating in glider competitions in Austria, or the two of them winning automobile rallies in France. They earned their names… the Wild Wests.”
“Something like Scott and Zelda?” Edith asked.
He looked at her. “I suppose so. You’ve read about the Fitzgeralds?”
“Yes, of course. I was always fascinated by their story. What a waste of talent when he died in his forties.”
“It wasn’t wasted,” Julian said. “He simply burned himself out in a comparatively few years. Some of his contemporaries, such as Sinclair Lewis and possibly Hemingway and Steinbeck, wrote on after they should have stopped. My parents were friends of the Fitzgeralds and Hemingway. In fact, I knew Papa myself.”
“Zen!” Sean exclaimed. “Imagine having actually met Hemingway!”
“He was his own best character,” Julian said.
Edith bent forward. “You see why you are of such importance to us, Jule. You actually knew Hemingway. I understand he drank.”
He looked at her. “Are you kidding?”
“That’s what I mean,” she said. “You
“Why about eight—” He stopped, and there must have been something in his face.
Edith said quickly, “Jule, Jule, I’m sorry.”
He changed the subject. “Why aren’t we speaking in Interlingua?”
Sean O’Callahan said somewhat shyly, “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon speak English. If you don’t keep in practice with a language it falls away from you.”
“You’ve studied English, then?”
“Yes, but not particularly so.” He smiled in self-depreciation. “I learned it at home as a youngster. You see, my parents were die-hard conservatives. While the rest of the country was going all out to master the new international tongue, converting to the metric system, recycling their old gasoline automobiles, Mother and Dad struck stubbornly to English, and to inches, feet and miles, pints and quarts and all the rest of it, and they kept their overgrown Buick until it fell apart.”
Edith laughed.
Sean said, “At any rate, although I learned Interlingua as soon as I attended school, we spoke English at home.”
“Well,” Julian told him, “since you’re a guest, I give in. But I, too, need practice—in Interlingua.”
Edith said, “I brought Sean over since Father thinks you should be meeting more of our contemporaries. And Sean has been nagging me since you were first revived.”
Julian nodded. “It’s just as interesting for me to meet you. By your appearance, I assume you were born while I was still in stasis.”
“Yes, I am twenty-six years of age.”
“Oh, then you had your first Muster Day last year, as I understand the institution. The day when the computers either select you for some job… or don’t.”
The younger man was rueful. “Didn’t, in my case. My field is history, archaeology, and anthropology. The need for teachers and field workers is rather minimal. I wasn’t chosen by the Aptitude Quotient computers. I’ll keep working away at it as a student but I rather doubt if I will ever be selected for a job. When only two percent of the population can do all the necessary work, you don’t have much of a chance. This year, only a couple of dozen graduates were selected from our university city to go into the field of archaeology.
Julian shook his head. “Tough luck. It’s directly opposite from my time. In those days, most people who could get out of work did so. Under this socioeconomic system, with everyone trained in the field they like best, you practically all
“That’s right,” Sean said, his voice still rueful. Then, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Mr. West?”
“Julian, or better still, Jule. Certainly you may, if you grant me the same privilege. Fire away.”
“You were in Vietnam, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“A combat soldier?”
Julian nodded cautiously. Like most combat men, he didn’t particularly like to recall his experiences. He had found long since that those who talked most about military action had usually seen the least.
Sean pulled at the lobe of his right ear. “As an historian, it fascinates me.”
Julian frowned. “But the Vietnam War ended only a bit over thirty years ago. There must be a good many veterans among your older people. A man who was your age in the latter Vietnam years would only be in his mid- fifties or so now.”
But the other shook his head. “After thirty years you don’t remember actual events with a great deal of accuracy. In fact, some authorities claim that after a quarter of a century you usually don’t have correct memory at all, but only memories of memories. I have talked to a good many soldiers but not very satisfactorily. But you… for you it is as though it happened just the other day. In your memory, how long has it been since you were in action?”
“A few months,” Julian replied uncomfortably. Now that he thought about it, Doctor Leete had told him much the same thing.
Edith put in hurriedly, “I am afraid the conversation is upsetting you, Jule. Father wants you to avoid emotional disturbances at this stage of your recovery.”
“It’s all right,” Julian said, looking at Sean. “What did you want to know?”
“You can still do such things as fire a machine gun accurately, throw a grenade, fight with a bayonet…?”
“In Vietnam there was precious little bayonet fighting. Possibly in the First World War, in the trenches, but by Vietnam the bayonet was more or less antiquated. Grenades? There’s not much to know about grenades. You pull the pin and heave, or, if you need more distance, you attach a grenade launcher to the end of your rifle. A machine gun? Yes, I could field strip a machine gun in complete darkness, or a .45 automatic, for that matter. Could I still fire one accurately? Yes. I was an averagely good marksman.”
“What rank did you hold… Julian?”
“I was discharged a major.”
The other was leaning forward. “Excuse me, but… well, did you ever kill anyone?”
Julian took a breath. “Yes.”
“How many?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t the vaguest idea. You see, in modern warfare—I suppose I should say in the Vietnam War, rather than use the term ‘modern’—combat doesn’t much resemble the war films you have possibly scanned from the data banks. Hollywood didn’t make movies that portrayed reality; they would be too boring. In the movies, the action is eyeball to eyeball, with the bad guys—the Germans, Japs, Koreans, Viet Cong, or whoever—falling like flies before the good guys who are armed with submachine guns that never run out of ammo and never heat up, no matter how many hundreds of rounds go through the barrels in a few minutes. In actuality, you see comparatively little of the enemy, although there are some exceptions. Fire power is all the thing. You fire in the general direction of where his fire is coming from. You put as much lead and steel into the air as you can, hoping that Charlie will run into it. You saturate the area he is in with bullets, with mortar shells, with artillery shells, with bombs from your air cover. And then, when all is quiet and Charlie is either dead or, more likely, has largely slipped away, you go forward and get a body count.”
“A body count?” Edith said. In spite of herself, her face was registering that she was upset.
Julian looked at her. “Yes. It was a return to the barbarism of Indian warfare days. To prove how many of the enemy we had killed, we cut off their ears and took them back to base headquarters.”
