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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Spring, 2002



Chapter 10: And a Little Child Shall Lead Them


When the last seminar of the day finally ended, I remembered my
appointment with the dean and hurried across the campus, egged on
by the blustery cold day and my interest in teasing Margery
Holmes.  Sitting at the offset secretary's desk, she looked up
from a book as I closed the door behind me.  To my dismay her
face failed to dissolve in its familiar fond smile.

"What is it, Tim?" she demanded.

"Uh, time for my monthly check-in.  Don't I have a standing
appointment?"

She sighed and licked oddly tense lips.  "Professor Dell is not
here, Tim.  I mean he's no longer dean of Graduate Studies."

Although she usually did business from behind her desk, now she
rose and came to me in the middle of the room.  The pretty blonde
was clearly flustered.  Always before she had seemed to enjoy my
friendly and precocious teasing when I came to visit Professor
Dell.  She reacted by tousling my hair and commenting on what a
"pretty boy" I was, laughing when I pretended annoyance.  Today,
however, she acted as though I were an adult, or at least someone
responsible enough to understand grave matters.

She placed a hand on my shoulder and lowered her head slightly to
look directly into my face.  She was six inches taller than I.

"Men with badges took him away this morning," she whispered as if
people were eavesdropping in the hall.  "I can't imagine what
it's all about.  No one has told me a thing except that Professor
Buckholtz from the Philosophy Department is to be the interim
dean.  He won't be here until tomorrow.  What do you suppose has
happened?"

The lilac aroma of the woman excited me.  I inched a little
closer.

"It's either sex, money or politics," I said flippantly, also
whispering.

"Politics?"  Her cute nose wrinkled in incomprehension.

"Maybe he's a spy," I said in a very low voice with my face
almost touching hers.

"What kind of spy?" she asked incredulously.

The Cold War had not quite begun.  The Soviet Union was still a
valiant, suffering nation in the eyes of most Americans, an
attitude that would soon change with the Berlin Airlift.

"I don't know what kind," I said with a smirk, placing a hand on
her narrow waist, "but he has the main accessory of a spy."

"What's that?"

"A sultry blonde secretary."

"Oh, you!"  A grin flickered on her lips as she punched my
shoulder lightly.  "This is very serious."

"I know it.  I was just acting smart.  We'll find out soon enough
what sort of trouble Professor Dell is in."

We stood in the middle of the room, her hand on my shoulder, mine
on her waist, our faces almost touching.  Were she not twice my
age and more it would have been a compromising posture.  But her
cotton blouse was buttoned to the neck and her golden hair coiled
atop her head like a schoolmistress.  The casual observer would
not have suspected my cock was half hard or that I desired to
bury my face in her healthy bosom.

On three occasions I had spent the night with this lovely woman,
but that was fifteen years in the future.  I recalled how she had
discarded her primness the moment the bedroom door shut behind
us, how she had shocked me with unexpected wantonness.  Now it
seemed as if time had stopped in the office with our hands on
each other, although seconds had passed.  Her lips, lush with
ruby tint, were too close to resist.  I quickly kissed them as if
in play.

"Timmy!" she exclaimed in surprise and stood straight, though we
continued to touch.  "You're being naughty today."

"I stole a kiss!" I bragged with a huge grin and let my hand drop
from her waist.  I looked shyly at the floor and murmured,
"You're so beautiful I couldn't help it."

In an instant I thought of Clara's ladybug.  Did she have one
following me around?  Well, I had promised not to fuck without
permission.  Nothing was said about kissing.  In that instant I
resolved on a campaign of seduction:  I would lure this lovely
blonde with the bait of an adoring adolescent, a cutely
impetuous, delightful and illicit toy.

"That's very sweet," she cooed, moving her hand from my shoulder
to cheek. "You're a favorite of mine too, only we mustn't be
caught kissing."

I was still a little boy to her, sexually uninteresting.  But I
noticed a glint in her eye.  Or was it the slight movement of 
one corner of her upper lip that betrayed an interest of her 
own, one she did not yet fully comprehend?

"Why not?" I asked.  "Who's to see?"

I caught her around the waist with both arms and pulled our lips
together.  She sniffed and stiffened but failed to withdraw.  I
thought, _In for a penny, in for a pound_, and stuck out my
tongue.  Her lips parted for it, but she allowed only a second's
probing.

Pulling back, she frowned.  "Timmy, do you have any idea what
you're doing?"

"You know what I'm doing, Margie."

"Yes, _I_ know."  She laughed slightly.  "But this isn't why you
came here today."

"Why are _you_ hanging around?" I countered.  "I was always
Dell's last appointment."

She looked at me curiously.  "That was unusual, you know.  He
told me once he meant to get the secret from you."

"Secret?"  I shrugged playfully and grinned.  "He should've asked
_you_ to get it."

"Some secret!"  She chuckled deep in her throat.  "What you're
after now is easy to guess."

"That's true," I agreed, stroking her hairless forearm, so
delightfully feminine.  "If Buckholz doesn't arrive until
tomorrow, I repeat: why are you hanging around?"

Her eyes glittered.  "Why indeed?"

She took keys from her purse and locked her desk, then donned
scarf, heavy coat and fur hat from the coat tree.  "Let's go."
She indicated the door.

She turned off the lights and followed me out, locking the door
behind her.  Keys returned to purse and out came mittens.  We
departed the building into the thickly falling snow of the
quadrangle, I half a step behind her.  Nothing was said about our
destination.

She took my glove in her mitten and I felt her thumb stroke my
palm through the leather.  Snow fell heavily around us from the
windless sky.  We encountered no one, but I'm sure we appeared to
be quite innocently together in any case.  I dared to hope I had
hooked her.  Whether I would land her as early as that same
afternoon was another question.

She laughed.  I turned inquiringly.

"Terry used to do that," she remarked.

"Do what?"

"Catch snowflakes on his tongue."  She winked.  "He also had a
nice long tongue."  She shook her head.  "I tried it.  It's
tasteless.  Why do you do it?"

"_Tasteless_?"  Leering, I wiggled my tongue at her suggestively.

"I mean snowflakes," she corrected with a snort.  "Why do you
taste snowflakes?"

I answered readily, "It amuses me to think of water drops
crystallizing in the air and falling unknown thousands of feet
just to melt on my tongue -- a few out of the trillions that
otherwise gather in the anonymity of a snow bank.  And you're
wrong.  They're not quite tasteless.  They have a hint of spice,
rather as that other good tongue attractor.  Who is Terry?"

"He died on Saipan."

"Many did," I noted sympathetically, sorry I asked.  Presumably
Terry was one of the three she would tell me about in 14 years.

She led me past the Quadrangle Club, where I had once been feted
on the occasion of wining a Nobel Prize.  Two doors beyond we
entered the building and ascended to a second floor apartment
that overlooked 59th Street.  Unlike Rosalind's place, which
smelled of girl, Margery's household aroma was that of furniture
polish.  It was delightfully warm inside.

Her first words after she closed the door were promising.  "Will
you be missed?  Is someone waiting for you: your aunt, perhaps?"

I shook my head.  "I have a couple hours."

"Then let's take off that coat."

She did it for me and tossed it onto a chair along with her own.
"I bet you're cold," she suggested, looking into my face
thoughtfully.  Vigorously she rubbed my upper arms while fondling
my shoulders.  Her expression changed subtly.  Perhaps she was
registering that I was far more than half grown.  She cleared her
throat.  "I think you need a hot bath."

"That would be nice," I agreed, "if you'll join me."

"Oh, I'm warm enough already!"  With a chuckle she urged me
toward the hallway.

The windowless bathroom was already warmer than the rest of the
apartment.  I stood beside her as she knelt and ran the water,
testing it repeatedly with her hand.  My fingers stroked the back
of her neck and slipped under her collar to massage her
shoulders.  She shivered and goose-bumps appeared on the extended
arm.

When she approved of the temperature she stood up.  "Undress and
soak yourself.  I'll get you a fresh bath towel."

She left but did not close the door completely.  I disrobed
jubilantly and stepped cautiously into the hot bathwater.  It
felt splendid.  I slid down until it lapped at my chin, although
I could not fully extend my legs, the knees remaining exposed to
the room's suddenly cool air.  Margery returned carrying a large,
pale blue bath towel.

"Don't be embarrassed," she said gaily as she knelt beside the
tub.  "I used to bathe my two kid brothers."  She took a bar of
soap from a niche in the wall and splashed it in the water.  "Sit
up and I'll wash your back."

I soon saw that hygiene was not her only concern.  She stroked my
back languidly with a soapy hand as she fondled a bare shoulder
with the other.

"It's curious how some boys your age have raised nipples," she
murmured with her face close to mine while slippery fingers
excited one of them.  "Mine felt almost the same at your age."
She grinned and kissed the tip of my nose.  "Isn't it strange
that a cute young guy like you could possess such an awesome
brain?"

"You think it's awesome?"

"What do _I_ know?  But Dell surely thought so."

Her voice was that of an admiring older sister.  I began to doubt
my initial assessment of her and feared she was not sexually
interested in me.  A way to test that theory occurred to me.
Staring into her pretty face, I caught her hand in my wet one and
pulled it slowly down my body into the water until it nudged my
erection.

"My, you _are_ a naughty one!"  She squealed gaily and gave my
member a playful pinch.  "But below the neck you're all boy."  It
was not said contemptuously, but still the _boy_ rankled.

She rose to her feet and held the bath towel open for me.  "Let's
get out now.  You can't stay there all day."

I stood without hesitation and turned my rigid five-incher toward
her.  She displayed no embarrassment.  She gazed at it pointedly
before looking me up and down with head slightly tilted and lips
forming a gentle smile.

"Come," she urged me, shaking the towel.

I climbed from the tub and she wrapped it around me tightly,
pinning my arms to my sides.

"Now I have you, you beauty," she announced cheerfully.  She put
her arms around me and kissed my lips.  This time I felt her
tongue and sucked it into my mouth.

She laughed and pulled back but cocked her head.  "Did you know
your mouth is sweet, Timmy?"

"Sweet!" I repeated incredulously.

"And your breath.  Does your aunt make you brush very often?"

I had begun to leave personal hygiene pretty much up to Clara's
nanobiots, along with the wasps.  But Margery would never ask a
new man such a question.  I protested childishly, "I'm not a
baby," and struggled to free my arms.

"Of course you aren't, Timmy," she cooed and gave me another
kiss.  "But you're not a man yet either."

"Man enough," I suggested, staring into her eyes.

She did not respond at first.  She unfolded me from the towel and
sat on the toilet seat, one hand holding me in place before her.
With casual pats and swipes of the terrycloth she presumed to dry
my midriff and thighs.  My hard organ was just inches from her
mouth.  I moved forward slightly in an unmistakable gesture.  She
shook her head.  "How do you know about such things, Timmy?"

I suppose it was a good question.  Her mouth saved me from
answering.  She leaned forward and engulfed the entire offering.
For a moment I felt suction and her tongue enclosed the glans.
She withdrew to look up thoughtfully into my face.  "I think Dell
was right about your mind, though except for the fate of
snowflakes I've seen little evidence of it this afternoon."

I sniffed.  "Did you bring me home with you to discuss the
natural world?"

She tossed her head.  "I brought you home because I was curious
about Dell's ideas."

"And now you agree with him?"

She sniffed.  "Maybe, but if so, it's a shame such a brilliant
mind can be ruled by such a small thing."

I scowled at her, taking a backward step.

"Don't be offended," she hastened to add.  "I did not mean to
insult you.  It will grow large very quickly.  In three years or
so it will be fully adult."

"Little good that does me now."

Her eyes sparkled.  "Oh, I wouldn't say that!  Actually I am
flattered that you want me, Timmy."  Her mouth worked.  "Such a
firm interest!"  Did she struggle to avoid laughing aloud?

"I thought _you_ might be interested," I said with a sigh.

"I am!  Playing with you beats listening to the radio any snowy
afternoon!"  Gently her hand closed on my cock.  "We can give
each other sexual pleasure.  And I don't fear you would ever tell
anyone.  But this pretty thing offers me no particular
satisfaction.  I need a more, ah, dramatic man to please me."

"You mean better endowed," I groused.

"I'm not a delicate woman, Tim.  I have a remarkable capacity."
She stood.  "Come on into the bedroom."

I followed her but paused to reconsider at her bedroom door,
which she left open.  I had two adoring females at home who were
always eager to satisfy me.  I didn't need to humiliate myself
for a piece of ass.  But the memory of Margery's unbridled
wantonness led me into the bedroom.  She was the only woman I had
ever known to experience a powerful orgasm during anal
intercourse.

Which was not in the cards this time.  When she was naked,
showing me a firmer version of the shapely body I recalled, she
fell back on the bed and drew up separated knees.  "If you're so
smart, you know exactly what I want, Timmy."

That was obvious enough.  Her powerful aroma filled my nostrils
as I knelt before it.  Under my experienced tongue she reached a
heaving orgasm in less than minute.  I ceased licking, waiting
for her cool thighs to unclamp from my ears, but when they did,
she surprised me.  Pressure on the back of my head forced my face
again into her crotch.  I brought her off three more times, the
last one causing her to scream, before she released me
completely.

I clambered up her body to position myself but her hands caught
my hips.  "You squirt, don't you?" she demanded between gasps.

I admitted it.

"I don't have a rubber that will stay on you.  Come up and sit on
my boobs."

It was an ample seat.  With nostrils flaring for breath her lips
closed over me again.  I didn't try to last.  When I came, her
mouth relaxed but retained me until she had swallowed every drop.
In my previous life I had learned of her sexual skills but
today's expert performance surprised me.  Before the pill did
women routinely obtain contraception from fellatio?  I certainly
didn't recall it that way!

I slid off her body to lie beside her and kissed her with probing
tongue while one hand kneaded her breast.  When our lips parted,
she opened her eyes to stare.  "Timmy, you never cease to amaze
me."

"What now?"

"I don't think a man ever kissed me after I, ah, did that for
him."  She smiled.  "Your juice is sweet too.  Maybe boys have
their advantages."

"You didn't think so a few minutes ago."

She shook her head.  "You're no boy -- except below the neck."

As I dressed she offered advice.  "Look out for Buckholz.  His
old secretary said he's a stickler for rules and precedent."

"Which rules don't I obey?"

She chuckled wryly.  "The better question is, do you obey any?
But note this:  I looked it up.  The youngest person ever to be
awarded a doctorate from Chicago was 20."

That night Clara and Alice forgave my philandering because I'd
had no chance to obtain their prior approval.  They joined me in
hoping that a submissive Margery might become a valuable ally
against a disdainful dean.  But Alice claimed not to understand
how Professor Dell's arrest would precipitate a seduction scene
with his secretary.  "Did she seem more vulnerable to you?"  In
fact I suppose she did.

One thing is verified.  Clara needs no bird or beetle to keep up
with Alice and myself.  We have been infiltrated by cell groups
of her programmable DNA, capable of recording everything our set
of five senses reports in the last several hours and radioing the
data to her in a high-speed dump while our heads are close
together.

She had already warned us.  No longer do we have the illusion of
privacy.

* * *

Two days after my tryst with Margery I returned to the dean's
office accompanied by Alice.  We had been summoned by the new
dean, Millard Buckholtz, who also occupied the William A.
Holesworth Chair of Philosophy.  Because of Margery's warning I
was prepared for a nasty confrontation.

Margery looked up from her desk when we entered the office
without betraying our brief intimacy.  "You're five minutes
late," she said in a stern voice that belied her naturally sweet
demeanor.

I was about to reply flippantly but thought better of it.  Alice
examined the secretary intently, perhaps measuring her meager
self against the buxom woman whom she considered a rival.
Margery faltered under that appraising gaze and became flushed.
She turned abruptly toward the door of the inner office,
muttering, "This way," over her shoulder in a voice that cracked.
She cleared her throat as she opened the door, standing aside for
us to enter the dean's lair.

"They're finally here," she announced and closed the door behind
us.

Buckholtz sat at a large, strewn desk with a sheet of paper in
his hand pretending not to notice our presence.  He was a jowly
fellow in the late fifties with a florid face as smooth as mine.
He finally peeked up from the paper to look at us.  "Sit down,"
he growled, then continued reading briefly.  He slapped the item
to the desk, glanced at Alice and stared at me.

"Mr. Kimball," he said, "do you have any idea what a university
is?  This petition of yours suggests not."

So that was it, I thought.  This is where we join battle with
Buckholtz.  I had only yesterday presented a format petition
requesting that Alice and I be permitted to pass out of all
course work and seminar requirements through oral or written
examinations and that our dissertations, which we were prepared
to complete within a month, be accepted for immediate
consideration.  I had meant to do as much for Dell but somehow
never got around to it.

"The petition seems reasonable enough, sir," I responded.  "Both
of us are capable of achieving what I suggested.  It would save a
lot of time."

He glared at me.  "Why would the University of Chicago be at all
interested in such a proposal?  We don't advertise quick degrees
on the back pages of comic books or similar periodicals.  We're
not engaged in the sort of commerce that awards sheepskins to
lucky guessers in exchange for a fee."

"We don't propose to 'guess,'" I retorted dryly.  "We already
possess sufficient knowledge to satisfy the university's degree
requirements, and that includes a volume of original research
from each of us."

"You two are full of ideas, aren't you?" he sneered, "ideas that
have not been tested through interaction with other students and
the faculty.  That's the most valuable aspect of an education,
you know, and it's something you must approach with a good
measure of humility.  You seem to deny that the intellectual
atmosphere of this university offers anything of value to you,
and, I must say, you have also demonstrated an unwillingness to
contribute to that interchange of ideas, which is the essence of
a university."

"We intend to share our knowledge," I protested.  "But why must
we endure the tedium of this academic routine?  We want to get on
with our lives, lives in which we shall make great contributions
once we're free of the present restrictions."

"Such arrogance!" he shouted and sat back in his chair to glare
at us for some seconds before snarling, "If you have so much to
offer as it is, why bother to acquire degrees?"

"I'm surprised to hear you ask that," I noted.

"What's your answer?"

"We need the credentials, of course."

He stared then marginally softened.

"We all _earn_ our degrees, and I emphasize that verb.  Some have
an easier time of it than others, but we all go by the rules.  If
you intend to receive, that is, to earn, a Ph.D. from the
University of Chicago, you shall have to do likewise.  Perhaps
you should discuss this with your aunt, Mr. Kimball.  She might
correctly conclude that you and your cousin are not yet
sufficiently mature for the regimen of this university."

He rose to his feet in a dismissive gesture.

"We've already matriculated!" Alice spoke up.  "We won't withdraw
voluntarily and you can't throw us out!"

He sighed.  "That is unfortunately true, little girl, but I can
insist that you two meet every requirement for the degree.  If
you are as brilliant as you presume, you can still rush through
the process in about two years.  Now please excuse me.  I have
other matters to attend."

Alice and I stood.  I pulled on her arm before she could say
anything more and led her to the door.  We had to accept the
man's decision.  In fact my petition was asking for special
dispensation.  Without Buckholtz's support it was hopeless.

* * *

The gravity seminar continued to meet even during the summer,
though not as often.  "Einstein gave us a solid clue to it," I
told my skeptical fellows one day, "and as far as I can tell,
it's the only clue ever to have any real meat."

My friendly seminarians snickered.  "What do you know about real
meat?" one asked, clutching his groin.  That got a real laugh.
Sophisticated this crowd was not.

The instructor, an assistant professor younger than some of us,
sneered.  "Tell us Einstein's meaty clue, Tiny Brain."  That
sobriquet for me, bestowed by the whole class, was not the insult
it might seem.

"Hush," muttered another.  "The rich boy is about to speak."

They had noticed and misinterpreted my suited shadows, but in
fact they did all hush.

I explained patiently, "Brinson, you were a fighter pilot.
Sitting here in that chair your ass is feeling a one-G force that
we call gravity.  In your fighter plane a few years ago, during
an inside loop, your ass sometimes felt one G when the plane was
upside-down.  It felt the same to your ass, didn't it?  Einstein
said you can't tell any difference at all between acceleration --
that is, a change of velocity -- and gravity."

"So?"

"So that's a powerful clue.  We know where the force came from in
your inside loop.  What we need is a genius who can say how it is
that you feel one G just sitting there."  I shook my head,
looking down my nose at him.  "But that ain't you."

They laughed, with me for a change, all except Brinson.  His face
screwed up.  "Something about mass causing a curve in
space-time?"

"Yes," I agreed.  "Go on.  How do we straighten it out?"

He blinked.  "It's a natural law."

I laughed.  "That's what they told the Alabama legislature too.
And about 1930, when they needed another crane in the port of
Mobile, it came within one vote of repealing the law of gravity
to save money."

"What?  What?"  The exclamation was repeated all around.  "That's
bullshit, Tiny!"

"Too bad," I agreed with a grin.

"So what's the point of Einstein's clue?" asked Brinson when
order was restored.

I had an opinion on that too.  I had parted my lips to respond
when the door opened with a crack.  We all looked up of course.
It was FBI agent Smith.

He came around the table to me and said quietly, "Get your stuff.
We have to go now."

He looked a little tense.  I didn't hesitate to stack my book on
my clipboard.  "More Russians?" I asked.

"I'll tell you on the way."

I stood up.  "On the way where?"

"Washington."  He blinked and looked around at the several
fascinated faces.  I may not have mentioned it, but Smith isn't
very bright.  Not even Alice has bothered with him.

But he hustled me out of the room.  "Washington?" I demanded.
"What Washington?"

"D.C., of course.  Come on."

"Wait a minute!" I protested, hanging back.

"I have my orders," he declared, reaching like a snake to grab my
arm.  Willy-nilly I exited the building with his ham hand clamped
on my triceps.

It was full summer, shirt-sleeve weather.  June 24.  "Ah!" I
exclaimed.  "The Russians have blockaded Berlin."

He hurried me across the quad.  "I don't know about that.  What I
do know is you've got to be at the Municipal in half an hour."

"Municipal Airport?"

"What else?  It'll be a lot easier on you if you cooperate just a
little."

Oh, no!  I didn't care for the sound of this but could only
stagger along behind him.  He had retained his grip on me.

In the yellow pages I had located one or two of the new martial
arts houses -- who had refused to talk to me after the first
sight.  Nevertheless I still remembered a few dirty tricks
learned 45 years ago or 15 years from now, depending on how you
look at it.  Smith was leading me by my upper arm.  Just as he
lifted his rearward heel, I kicked it sideways against the other
foot and in the same motion darted behind him.  He tripped, spun
around, and went down, releasing me to save himself as I had
hoped.  Instantly I leapt away to the side, pumping my legs for
all I was worth.

Still lying in the grass, the son of a bitch pulled out his
pistol and fired!

* * *

"Why is this lad in handcuffs?" asked Supervisor Raimer.  He and
my two females were waiting in a private hangar at Municipal
Airport.

"Because he tried to escape," muttered Smith reluctantly.

"Tried, hell!" I snorted.

"What does that mean?"

"I did escape -- until this fine, upstanding protector of American
citizens took a shot at me!"

"Shut up!" Smith snarled.  "I shot over your head."

"Oh, shit," muttered Raimer.  "Who saw it?"

"I don't know," was the sullen answer.  "Lots of students, I
guess."

Raimer thought for a moment.  "Well, it's in the parameters.
Smith, don't worry about it.  Take the day off.  Halleck and I'll
manage from now on."

I stared at him.  "So we're to arrive in Washington dead or
alive, is that it?"

"No, of course not."  Raimer shook his head in wonder.  "Why did
you try to escape?"

"Because I didn't like his manner.  Because I prefer not to be
kidnapped by anyone, even the FBI."

"This is not a _kidnapping_!" he asserted.

"No?  Then remove these handcuffs."

His eyes narrowed.  "Are you going to try to escape again?"

"No, because you're about to give us a ride home."

He laughed hollowly and shook his head again.  "In that case,
Tim, you leave me no choice.  You three are under arrest as
material witnesses.  Handcuff the females, Halleck."

Clara looked at me and shook her head sadly.  "They said it was
important, Tim."

Helplessly I watched the steel go around their delicate wrists.
"I hope you'll learn eventually never to believe a government."

She nodded.  "I'm learning."

* * *

The airplane was a four-engine transport.  I recognized it as a
DC-4 in military paint and insignia, which made it a C-54.  We
climbed rolling stairs to its rear door and moved forward to take
bucket seats along the side, where Halleck strapped us in and
removed the handcuffs.  At takeoff the engines were surprisingly
loud, worse even than jets.  I had not flown in piston-engine
craft in a hell of a long time!

At altitude the pilot throttled back.  Now you could hear someone
yell.  Raimer sat beside me after a while and yelled.

"What did the government do to you in your other life that made
you distrust it so?  I want to point out that this is not exactly
the same government."

"Isn't it?" I yelled back.  "Bending the law to compel particular
behavior sounds like every other government to me."

"Americans trust their government!" he declared defensively.

"I know they do, for the most part, despite all the suspensions
of liberty in World War Two.  The trouble is, their government
doesn't trust Americans."

"What do you mean?"

"It arrests people who have done nothing whatsoever to warrant
it."

He stared at me.  "I could claim you are aliens."

"Not just we.  Four years ago the federal prisons were full of
such people."

"That was wartime."

"Yeah.  To the government it's always wartime."

He swallowed and finally asked me his real question.  "Will the
U. S. truly go to war again on June 25, 1950?"

I grinned at him.  "In two years and one day?  What's it to you,
Raimer?"

He took a breath.  "My headstrong little brother just signed up
for four years in the navy."

I studied him.  "For you I'll answer.  He should be all right.
It's almost exclusively a land and air war."

His eyes searched mine.  "Are you sure?"

I shrugged.  "Told you: the future's not fixed."  I laughed
hollowly.  "If your bosses don't force something out of us that
changes everything, your little brother will get through this
next war all right."

A smile flickered before his face paled.

* * *

The flight to Washington National lasted almost four hours.
After landing, while taxiing to the terminal the handcuffs went
back on.  As we left the plane I saw a clock that indicated three
p.m.  45 minutes later we were across the Potomac and waiting at
a side door of the White House.

A fit fellow in a gray suit looked at us then at Raimer.  "What's
with the cuffs?"

"They are under arrest as material witnesses."

"A woman and two children?  Have you searched them?"

"No.  We left in too much hurry to round up a female agent."

The man shook his head.  "Handcuffed people are not allowed to
remain in this building."

"Who are you?" I demanded, though I guessed he was Secret
Service.  This was in the days before government agents wore
nametags.

He ignored me and said to Raimer, "Either the cuffs go off or
they do."

"Are you going to behave?" the FBI agent asked me.

I declared shrilly, "We've been kidnapped!"

The SS man's face screwed up.  "_What_?"

Halleck moved up beside me and whispered, "Shut up!"

"You see the problem?" asked Raimer.

The SS man shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  I just told you the
rules."

Raimer held up his hand.  "All right, just a minute.  My orders
are to deliver them to the cabinet meeting in progress already.
Do your precious rules allow witnesses to be led by the arm?"

The man sneered.  "You expect to get anything useful out of such
witnesses as that?"

Raimer shook his head vehemently.  "That's not my problem."

The man shrugged.  "Long as they aren't wearing cuffs.  And since
this morning they've got to be searched.  Take off the cuffs and
bring them into the west anteroom.  I'll have a woman meet you
there.  One moment and I'll search this boy myself."

While Halleck and Raimer removed the handcuffs from the females,
I endured Secret Service hands under my arms, around my waist,
down my legs and finally in my crotch, lifting.  I stepped back
with a sneer but the man continued to ignore me.

He cocked an eyebrow at Raimer.  "This boy is clean.  Since when
did the FBI start handcuffing children?"

Raimer opened his mouth to answer but snapped it shut.  He jerked
my wrists to him roughly and removed the cuffs.  He held on
tightly to an arm and pushed me ahead of him.  "Let's go."

In the foyer Raimer and Halleck had to surrender their pistols to
the SS man, who slid them into a drawer.  All the men and I
waited on a long settee while two uniformed females conducted my
women into the adjacent room for their searches.  Raimer
maintained his grip on my arm at first.

"I work out every day and you don't," he said, releasing me.  His
eyes glittered.  "I'll bet I can catch you before you reach that
door.  And if you make me do it, I predict you'll get sick
suddenly and puke all over your shoes.  Want to try for it?"

I doubted Oriental martial arts had made much inroad into federal
government training by 1948, but what was the point?  He still
had my women.  Nevertheless I grinned ferally at him and warned,
"You might be surprised."

Raimer looked up at the interested SS man and shook his head.
"This isn't going to work."

"But that's not your problem," the man responded sagely.

The women were not detained very long.  When they appeared,
Clara's cheeks exhibited the red spots I had seen before.
Alice's pale lips made a thin line.

The larger policewoman stood before the SS man.  "These people
don't belong here, Dan."

"What did you find?"

She shrugged.  "The usual.  Fingernail files.  A couple of bugs
in her purse was the only thing peculiar.  But these girls ain't
gonna cooperate with _anybody_."

The man shook his head.  "That's not our call.  Bugs, you say?"

"Yeah.  Looked like ladybugs.  That'll give you the idea.  I
asked her how they got in there.  She said they were friends who
didn't work for the government."

The SS man laughed sourly.  "Believe it or not, Hoover wants them
to testify before the man.  Hoover knows what to expect."  He
turned to Raimer.  "Doesn't he?"

The FBI man shrugged and stood up, again taking my arm.  "Come
on.  Where's the meeting?"

The whole lot of us, including the two uniformed women, proceeded
along several corridors hung with portraits until we reached a
massive door before which two more suits stood with folded arms.
Our SS man leaned close and whispered something to one of them.

"Take him," Raimer told Halleck.  I found both my arms pinioned
from behind.  I almost used one of the ducking throws I once had
down pat, but I could just imagine the ruckus that would follow
if an oddly belligerent kid got loose in the White House.  It
would likely make the papers.  Besides, the three Secret Service
agents had to be armed.  They would probably shoot me.

Raimer and one of the gray suits vanished through the huge door.
I had a glimpse of many men seated around a large table.  We
waited.  The SS guards studied us curiously.  The new women,
whose uniforms identified them as "Capitol Police," presumably a
branch of the Secret Service, restrained my women by the arms in
Halleck's manner.

Alice looked at me.  "What do you want to do?  Is it smart to
defy them?"

"Is it smart not to?" I asked.

She sighed.  "I'll leave it up to you, Tim."

"Shut up!" ordered her woman and Halleck simultaneously.  I
grinned around at him and said deliberately, "I haven't heard
such harmony since I asked if that was Grandpa who farted."

Whap!  Colored lights flashed in my head.  He had slapped me
stingingly.  For a moment I was dizzy but I understood when he
hissed at me, "You think you can get away with anything, don't
you, you little bastard!"

Clara said calmly, "If you strike him again I'll scream loud
enough to bring down that chandelier."

"Then let him keep his foul mouth shut."

"Are you man enough to tell your boss you gave that order?"

Halleck flushed.

"Take it easy," warned Clara's woman.

We waited a bit longer.  The door finally opened.  Raimer and our
conductor came back out.  "Follow me," said the latter.

We marched farther down the hall.  Raimer dropped back a step and
looked me over.  "What happened to you?"

"Your storm trooper slugged me."

I saw the hand rise again but Raimer grabbed it.  "What's the
matter with you, Halleck?  Are you trying to get us both fired?
You know better than to leave such a mark."

I sneered.  "He left his rubber hose at home."

Raimer sneered back.  "And you left your good sense.  Why don't
you learn to shut up?"

I grinned snidely.  "How interesting that everyone suddenly wants
me to shut up!"

We waited in another room, seated on plush couches, we three
outsiders still restrained by an arm each.  A huge, wall-mounted,
larger-than-life portrait of a man formally dressed in a
turned-up collar reached nearly from the floor to the high
ceiling.  I didn't recognize him.

Our SS conductor asked Raimer in a low tone, "What can a woman
and two kids know about the Berlin crisis?"

"That's classified," snapped Raimer.

The SS man chuckled.  "Sure it is."  He winked at me.  "They
don't look much like Stalin's kin."

Raimer blinked.  "Like _what_?"

"That's the scuttlebutt."  He said to me in fluent Russian, "What
is your advice to man of steel?"

I responded in the same language, "Beware of melting."

It was his turn to blink.  He smiled slowly and declared in
English, "Hell, maybe they are.  Even so, why Stalin would tell
_them_ anything is another good question."

Raimer glared at me.  "What did you just say?"

I smiled.  "That's classified."

The SS man laughed outright.  Raimer flushed and gritted his
teeth.  His hand tightened on my arm like a tourniquet.

I looked around at it.  "What are you trying to do, pinch it
off?"

Raimer took a deep breath and released me, letting me slouch back
on the couch.  My arm tingled as blood rushed back into it.

He said to the two policewomen, "Let go of the witnesses, but if
they try to make a break, give them a case of airsickness."

"How?" asked the woman holding Clara.

"With the end of your truncheon."

"Yes sir," the woman agreed, turning a menacing look on my woman.
"You better keep your seat."  She released Clara but detached the
short club from her belt and held it in her hand.

"Airsickness!"  I said to Raimer in pretended admiration, "And
you don't even have an accent!"

"What accent?"

I asked him in German, "Did you ever meet _Reichminister_ Himmler
personally?"

His eyes narrowed at the name of Himmler.  But finally he
demonstrated that he didn't suffer from Halleck's limitations.
Instead of flying off the handle, he asked quietly, "What are you
trying to accomplish with your baiting, Tim?"

All right, I could play that game too.  I said, "To let you down
easy."

He understood me.  He shook his head and declared as if needing
to convince himself, "That's not my problem."

I said to Alice in German, "I'm concerned about the long term
effects of this."

"For us," she asked, "or the world?"

"For us.  How should we behave so that they release us?"

She thought about it.  "Ignorant."

Halleck interrupted.  He asked Raimer excitedly, "You gonna let
them get away with this?  They're plotting right in front of us!"

"Don't worry," advised the Russian-speaking SS man.  "He asked
her what they should do to make you guys let them go.  She said
to play it dumb."

"Russian _and_ German!" I remarked to the SS man.  "How is it
you're only a cop?"

He sniffed.  "How is it you're only a kid?"

A penetrating question indeed!  But I grinned at Raimer.  "Tell
him."

Raimer responded automatically, "That's classified."

The SS man and I exchanged grins.

We sat silently after that.  About ten minutes later the double
doors opened without a prior knock.  Three men filed into our
room, led by J. Edgar Hoover in a light gray suit.  He was
slimmer than I remembered from TV, but his glowering countenance
was easily recognized.  One of his associates wore the uniform of
a three-star army officer, a "lieutenant" general.  I have always
wondered why a two-star is given the higher-sounding rank of
"major general."  Perhaps this one would tell me.

Both Raimer and Halleck jumped to their feet.  "Good afternoon,
director," intoned Raimer.

"Hello, Bob," said Hoover.  That the great man was on a first
name basis with a Chicago-office supervisor surprised me until I
recalled the latter's trip to Mexico.  I wondered if Hoover was a
believer in Reversion.

But he obviously knew all about it.  He scanned around at my
women and me.  "So these are the two kids and their mother?"

"Yes, sir."

Hoover studied the three of us, particularly Alice and myself.
"I have a little test for you, kids.  Who are the two men behind
me?"

Clara answered him immediately.  "Mr. Arleigh Cranston, second
assistant Attorney General for investigation, and Gen. Roger
Erwill, liason for Gen. Lucius Clay."

How many people's pictures could she hold in her head?  Put
another way, just how large could this DNA storage of hers be?  I
had asked her that once before and been told it was "slightly
less than infinity."  Of equal if not greater importance was the
_associative_ addressing: that is, look-up by content, afforded
by the massively parallel biological structure.  For a moment I
was stunned by a realization of how much her era had progressed
in computer science too!

But the general was speaking.  "Madam, you have the advantage of
me."  He was studying Clara in obvious appreciation.  Why should
I be the only one who recognized her beauty?

"Indeed she does," said Hoover dryly.  "Mr. Cranston and Gen.
Erwill, these are Mrs. Clara Edgeworth and her reverted children,
Alice Edgeworth and Timothy Kimball."

They didn't ask about the meaning of that word, an indication we
had already been discussed.  The general smiled, bowed, and
intoned, "I am very pleased to know you, Mrs. Edgeworth."

Clara's chin rose.  "I wish I could say the same, sir."

The general blinked.  "Why can't you?"

Clara looked at me.  I said, "Because we are here under duress."

Hoover sniffed.  "You are here to do your duty to your country."
He said to Halleck, his sweeping gaze including the two
policewomen, "Please wait outside."

As the three moved to the door, the SS man rose also.  Hoover
raised his hand.  "Please stay, Mr. Jones.  I've already spoken
to Rowley about you.  We may need an interpreter."

"Yes, sir."  The SS man moved back, however, to stand against the
wall.  I wanted to grin.  How could anyone named Jones be fluent
in German and Russian?  Though I had to admit a Jones's fluency
was probably no stranger than a Kimball's.

Hoover plopped down on a couch facing us.  The general and the
bureaucrat sat on either side.

Mr. Cranston, the second assistant, asked, "What did he mean, Ed,
about being under duress?"

Hoover opened his mouth but Clara beat him to the draw.  "We were
in handcuffs until we entered this building."

"Nonsense!" Hoover asserted.

"It's true," interjected Jones, the SS man standing at the wall.

Hoover glared from him to Raimer.  "You handcuffed them?"

Again Clara spoke first.  "They shot at Tim and slapped him.  You
can still see the fingermarks on his cheek."

Hoover clouded up.  "Is this true, Supervisor Raimer?"

Raimer took a deep breath.  "Yes, sir.  The orders were most
emphatic.  And they -- particularly the boy: that is, Mr. Kimball
-- refused to obey."

"_Shot_ at him?" demanded Cranston.

"He escaped from Agent Smith," explained Raimer.

"_Escaped_?"

"Smith shot over his head as a warning."

Hoover's eyes narrowed.  "Then the boy stopped and let himself be
taken prisoner?"

"Uh, yes, sir."

"A wise boy."  The FBI director looked meaningfully from Cranston
to the general.  "Too wise."

Cranston shook his head.  "But after such treatment as that ..."

With a sneer the general asked Hoover, "You expect them to
cooperate?"

Hoover frowned.  "I expect them to do their duty as Americans."
His eyes glowered at me.  "You do know why you're here."  It was
not a question.

"Yes," I answered in my piping voice, "because I was forced."

"Beyond that," said Hoover impatiently.  "Why were you forced?"

I shrugged.  "Ask Raimer."

"What have you told them?" Hoover asked, looking at the man.

Raimer answered, "Nothing.  I didn't need to.  Agent Smith
reported that when accosted, Kimball said, quote, 'The Russians
have blockaded Berlin.'"

Hoover looked at me.  "How did you know that?"

Now was the time to decide how to play this.  I returned his
stare.  "I don't admit any such statement."

To Raimer:  "Did anyone else hear him?"

"No, sir, not that I know of."

Hoover leaned forward.  "Look here, Tim.  Yes, you're right: the
Russians have cut off Berlin.  The argument on our response is
still going on, but I think it's clear that we won't simply cut
and run as the damned Communists hope.  We need to respond in the
best possible manner, the way that will serve American interests
now and in the future.  Your knowledge of how this plays out is
crucial.  It is your duty as an American citizen to tell us what
you know."

They waited.  Everyone was looking at me expectantly.  I
permitted myself to grin.  "You expect me to help perpetuate a
system that compels obedience as your goons did to my family
today?"

I have to admit his bureaucratic skill.  He nodded.  "Yes, I do.
I remind you that these _goons_, as you describe them, saved you
from Communist captivity just last winter.  But more than that,
the way you've been treated today should impress on you the
importance of this issue.  Your foreknowledge is vital to your
country."

I shook my head.  "What's your objection to the Communists?
Isn't it merely that they compel obedience to _their_ demands?"

"Their demands are different," he asserted.  "I'm not asking you
to do anything against your own interests.  If you encountered
expense or inconvenience in coming here, we'll compensate you.
All I'm asking is for you to tell us what you know about this
Berlin crisis.  In your world how did they handle it?"

All three of them plus the two cops were watching me intently.  I
looked around at Alice and Clara.  Alice said quietly, "Do what
you think best, Tim.  We'll back you up."

This was uncharted territory.  What behavior would cause them to
lose interest in us and take us home -- or at least let us out of
custody?  We could get home on our own.  The worst-case scenario
would have us incarcerated forever in the basement at FBI
headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, obeying the order, "Tell us
everything you know."  Alice's advice to play ignorant probably
wouldn't work: Hoover was a believer.  But if torture was our
destiny anyway, what would?

I ended up staring into Hoover's dark eyes.  "We have nothing to
say."

The general laughed.  "Come on, kid.  You're bound to have a
better imagination than that!  Tell us to bomb Moscow, why don't
you?"

Hoover glared at me.  "What would it take to make you talk?"

I couldn't resist.  "Your man, Halleck, slapped me to shut me up.
Maybe you should ask him."

Gen. Erwill got to his feet.  His humor had vanished.  He glared
at Hoover and Cranston.  "This is a waste of time.  What are you
people trying to pull anyway?"

Raimer had the balls to answer him.  "General, these kids know
what _worked_.  They've already let slip that it's an airlift.
We won't need to go to war until 1950."

"1950, eh?"  The man laughed scornfully.  "He does have a little
imagination, then?  Well, you can do whatever you want, but I
intend to cable Gen. Clay that the president has just about
bought into his whole plan."

"What plan is that?" I asked in sudden foreboding.

Erwill stared at me speculatively.  I heard whispering beside me.
It was Alice who answered my question.

"Gen. Clay, who commands all U. S. forces in Germany, wants to
drive an armed convey through to Berlin despite any Russian
resistance."

"But that ..."  I let my voice die away.

Erwill studied my face.  He had parted his lips to comment when
once again the double-doors opened with a crack but no knock.
Hoover and his party craned around to see who was daring to
interrupt.

President Harry S. Truman entered along with a civilian, another
general, this time only a two-star, and an obvious Secret Service
man who nodded at Jones.  Truman in a white suit was short with
an energetic, bustling manner.  He stood over the FBI director
and said, "One last roundup, Hoover, as we agreed.  We've got to
quit stalling.  This is your last chance before I give Clay the
go-ahead."

Alice and Clara had been whispering further.  Alice suddenly
piped up.  "You already ran one airlift for eleven days in April.
You know how to do it."

The presidential head snapped around.  "What was that?  Who are
you, little girl?"

"Alice Edgeworth."

"So she reads the papers," commented Erwill sarcastically.  "Mr.
President, we're wasting time."

But Truman raised his hand.  "_Did_ you read it in the papers,
honey?"

Alice grinned.  "I also know why Mozart's _Piano Sonata in
A-Major_ is one of your favorites."

"Do you!  Then tell me."

"It's the only thing in three sharps that I can play well too."

The president laughed.

Alice lost her grin.  "But the Russians are facing you with 40
divisions and they're nervous.  You have eight sitting idle in
garrison, one of which is French and no help.  If you try to
charge into Berlin across the Elbe, you'll find that the Russians
have already mined those bridges.  You won't be able to stop
their counterattack short of the Atlantic Ocean.  You can't use
nuclear weapons on them without blowing up Western Europe -- that
is, if you had any A-bombs within range.  Your only hope is
retaliation against Moscow itself.  Do you really want to add
another million dead to Hiroshima and Nagasaki?"

When her voice died the entire room fell silent.  The president
and his henchmen were staring with bulging eyes at this calm
little girl.  Hell, mine were bulging too!  Then I realized that
Clara must have whispered all that detail.  I approved the idea
of letting Alice deliver it, glad they didn't know Clara was a
reverter too.

Truman looked at Erwill.  "_Eight_ divisions, general?  Seven
effective?"

Erwill took a breath.  "Yes, sir."

"And Clay really wants to attack at nearly six-to-one odds?"

Erwill explained, "The Russian troops aren't in good shape."

"Oh, no?" countered Alice.  "All 40 divisions have been on
maneuvers since April."

"But what's the alternative?" Truman asked her.  "I'll be damned
before I let that Russian piss-ant run me out of what's mine."  I
assumed he referred to Joseph Stalin.

Alice looked at me.  "I think you better tell him, Tim."

I agreed.  If he went to war over this, all our prescience was
lost.  So I sat up on the couch and fixed his eyes with mine.
"Mr. President, an airlift is the solution.  It will feed the
city and most importantly avoid war."  I heard the females
whispering and paused as if gathering my thoughts.  Finally I
said, "Alice, you studied this era more than I.  Do you have the
details?"

"I think so.  Mr. President, you have three corridors into Berlin
and a solid air-travel agreement with the Soviets that you can
wave at the UN.  The two airports in the western zone can be
expanded to a third in 60 days.  You can round up the aircraft,
C-47s and C-54s, that are languishing as surplus in fields all
over the world, also the pilots, enough to deliver everything
Berlin needs to get by.  You don't need to challenge the Russians
militarily, though I'd recommend publicly sending a few wings of
nuclear-armed B-29s to England in range of Moscow to show them
you mean business."

Erwill demanded sarcastically, "Oh, yeah?  Just how much does
Berlin need to get by?  That's over three million people."

Alice answered.  "Only about two million in West Berlin.  4500
tons per day will do it.  And you can deliver that much."

"All the Russians have to do is start shooting down our planes."

I said confidently, "But they won't."

Erwill snorted.  "Just why won't they?"

Alice said, "Oh, they'll try to intimidate you.  They'll
_accidentally_ let barrage balloons drift into the flight
corridors.  Their fighters will buzz the transports.  One of them
will even collide with a transport and knock down both planes."

"_One_ of them?"

"Yes.  A young fighter pilot was -- will be -- too aggressive."

I jumped into the silence.  "But in fact it's an accident.  The
Russian's won't fight.  They'll hope you can't maintain the
airlift through the fog and snow of winter but you can, and next
May they'll lift the blockade."

"Next May," repeated the president.  I saw his face set in
decision.  He turned to Erwill.  "Roger, tell Clay thanks but
we'll try an airlift."  To the two-star he said, "Harry, get the
air force going on rounding up all the transports we have.  And
tell SAC to send some B-29s to England."

"But, Mr. President --" began Erwill.

The two-star, looking airily at the ceiling, said, "And a little
child shall lead them."

Cranston and Hoover both started to laugh but choked it off.
Truman grinned.  "You think so, Harry?  In fact, my friend, and
you too, Roger, I don't give a damn where an idea comes from if
it's a good idea.  These kids' argument, even if it's all wishful
thinking, is persuasive enough for a beginning.

"I suspect Berlin can last a month or even two without resupply.
We'll start this airlift exactly as the kids say, as if we mean
business.  At the same time, Roger, you tell Clay to quietly get
his troops up to snuff while I send him everything I can prize
loose from the ZI."  He grinned at the three-star but his eyes
held something beyond humor.  "This airlift will be our touchy
trigger.  If the Russians leave it alone as the kids say, well
and good.  But if they don't, we'll be in position to A-bomb
their massed armies and the Kremlin too, if it comes to that, and
settle their hash once and for all."

We all blinked at each other.  I had a sense of historical
inevitability, as if this was what Truman would have done in any
case, with or without our advice.  The little man was a better
leader than I had known.

"Now," said the man, "I have a question.  What are those marks on
the boy's face?"

Hoover swallowed.  Raimer looked away.  So I chimed in.  "One of
my FBI protectors slapped me silly."

Hoover found his voice.  "That man will be disciplined."

"I want him fired," said the president of the United States, eyes
glittering.  "What's his name?"

Again when Hoover hesitated, I answered, "Halleck."

"Make a note, Harry."  The two-star pulled a notepad from his
pocket.  To me Truman said, "Your name is Thomas Kimball?"

"Timothy, sir."

"How can the United States be of service to you and your ladies,
Mr. Kimball?"

"Well ..." I gathered my wits.

"Take us home!" Alice declared.

"Yes, sir," I agreed and added for no good reason, "We're
graduate students at the University of Chicago."

Truman sniffed.  "Think you can get him home, Hoover, without any
additional marks?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well.  I see no reason for delay.  Jones, go with them and
verify that this family is delivered safely."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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