Timescape

everything at the same time, laundry and vacuuming and”… “between ten and noon and the evening hours”… “Next month will be worse, when the hours change round again”… “East Anglia gets what the Midlands are getting now, twelve to two and eight to ten”—

John put in, “How long will it be before East Anglia gets this six to eight time slot again? It’s good for dinner parties, at least.”

“Not until November,” Marjorie answered. “Coronation month.”

“Ah, yes,” Greg murmured. “Dancing in the dank dark.”

“Well, they may make an exception,” Heather said, somewhat daunted by Greg’s wry tone. “How?”

“By letting the power stay on. So people round the country can all see it.”

“Yes,” Marjorie said, “London won’t need extra power to put it on. Come to think of it, a Coronation is quite ecological.”

“You intend ‘ecological’ to mean ‘virtuous,’ don’t you?” Greg asked.

“We-e-ell.” Marjorie drew out the word while she tried to judge just what Greg meant. “I know that’s a misuse of the word, but really, at a Coronation they always use horse-drawn coaches and the Abbey will be lit by candles. And they don’t need any heat there with all the peers in their furred robes.”

“Yes, I love to see them,” Jan said. “So colorful.”

“Quite public-minded, too, the peers.” James stated judiciously. “They’ve been very helpful to the government. Getting legislation through speedily and so on.”

“Oh, yes.” Greg smiled. “They’ll do anything for the worker, except become one.”

To a chorus of agreeing chuckles, Heather added, “Well, yes, anyone would rather talk than work. The peers just fill the air with their speeches.”

“And from what I’ve seen, vice versa,” Greg responded.

James’ face stiffened. Marjorie suddenly remembered that he had an influential relative in the House of Lords. She stood quickly and murmured something about fetching the chicken. As she left, Markham started a sentence about the American view of the opposition party and James’ thin-lipped mouth relaxed. One end of the table focused on Greg’s political stilettos and at the other James asked, “It still seems strange saying ‘the King’ after a whole lifetime of ‘the Queen,’ doesn’t it?”

Marjorie returned with a large casserole of chicken in cream sauce with spring vegetables and a rice pilaff. Appreciative murmurs greeted the wash of steamy aroma that rose when she lifted the lid. As she served the chicken, the conversation fragmented, James and Greg talking about the labor laws, the others talking of the forthcoming Coronation. Queen Elizabeth had abdicated in favor of her eldest son the previous Christmas and he had chosen to be crowned on his fiftieth birthday, in November.

John had gone to get more wine, a home-made hock this time.

“I think it’s a terrible waste of money,” Heather declared. “There are so many better things we could spend the money on than a Coronation. What about cancer for instance? The statistics are horrifying. One in four, is it now?” She abruptly fell silent.

Marjorie knew the cause, and yet it seemed pointless to smooth over it. She leaned forward. “How is your mother?”

Heather did not hesitate to take up the topic; Marjorie realized she needed to talk about it. “Mummy’s doing fine, all things considered. I mean, she’s deteriorating, of course, but she really seems to have accepted it. She was dreadfully afraid of being doped up at the end, you know.”

“She’s not going to be?” John asked.

“No, the doctors say not. There is this new electronic anaesthetic thing.”

“They simply tap into the superficial brain centers,” James added. “It blocks the perception of pain. Much less risky than chemical anaesthetics.”

“Less addictive, too, I suppose?” Greg asked.

Heather blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that. Could you get addicted?”

“Maybe not, if they simply turn off the pain,” Jan said. “But what if they find a way to stimulate the pleasure centers as well?”

“They already have,” Greg murmured.

Really? Marjorie said. “Are they using that too?”

“They don’t dare.” James spoke with an air of finality.

“Well, in any case,” Heather continued, “it’s all quite beside the point for Mummy. The doctors haven’t a clue how to stop the cancer she has.”

Before interest could center on details of the prognosis, Marjorie steered talk to other subjects.

•  •  •

When the telephone rang John answered. A reedy voice identified itself as Peterson.

“I wanted to let you know before I packed it in for the night,” he said. “I’m in London; the Council’s European meeting just broke up. I think I’ve got what you need, or at least part of it.”

“Tremendous,” John said rapidly. “Bloody good.”

“I say ‘part’ because I’m not sure the Americans will send everything you need. They say there are other uses they have in mind. Uses aside from this tachyon business, I mean.”

“Could I get a list of what they have?”

“I’m working on it. Listen, I must ring off. Wanted to let you know.”

“Right. Fine. And, and thanks!”

The news changed the tenor of the party. Heather and James knew nothing of John’s experiment, so there was much explaining to do before they could understand the import of the telephone call. Renfrew and Markham took turns explaining the basic idea, skipping over the complicated matter of Lorentz transformations and how tachyons could propagate backward in time; they would have needed a blackboard to make the attempt. Marjorie came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. The men’s voices were authoritative, booming in the small dining room. Candlelight bathed the faces around the table in a pale yellow glow. The women spoke with rising inflections, questioning.

“It seems strange to think of the people in one’s own past as real,” Marjorie said distantly. Heads turned towards her. “That is, to imagine them as, as still alive and changeable in some sense…”

The company sat silent for a moment. Several frowned. Marjorie’s way of putting the issue had caught them off balance. They had spoken often this evening of things changing in the future. To imagine the past as alive, too, as a moving and flexing thing—

The moment passed, and Marjorie returned to the kitchen. She came back with not one but three desserts. When she set them down, the piece de resistance—a meringue confection with early raspberries and whipped cream—created the wave of ahs she had anticipated. She followed this in short order with pots of strawberry mousse and a large glass bowl of carefully decorated sherry trifle.

“Marjorie, you’re too much,” James protested.

John sat and beamed silently as the guests heaped praises on his wife. Even Jan managed two helpings, though she refused the trifle.

“I think,” Greg commented, “that sweets must be the English substitute for sex.”

After dessert the party moved near the fireplace as Greg and John cleared away the dessert plates. Marjorie felt a warm relaxation seeping through her as she brought in the tea things. The room had taken on a chill as darkness deepened; she added a small, glimmering candle heater to warm the cups. The fire crackled and shot an orange spark onto the worn carpet.

“I know coffee is supposed to be bad for you but I must say it goes better with liqueurs,” Marjorie observed. “Would anyone like some? We’ve got Drambuie, Cointreau, and Grand Marnier. Not homemade.”

She felt a relaxed sense of accomplishment now that the meal was over. Her duties ended with handing out the cups. Outside, a wind was getting up. The curtains were open and she could see the silhouetted pine branches tossing outside the windows. The living room was an oasis of light and peace and stability.

As if reading her thoughts, Jan quoted softly: “Stands the church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?”