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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Spring, 2002



Chapter 13: Staying with the Script


"Good god," she cried with a giggle, "are they stuck together?"

Her question arose in regard to a man and a woman carried bodily
out into the hall by three suits.  The woman's legs and arms were
locked around the man's hips and neck while his arms enclosed her
back.  Perhaps they had refused to part and the suits simply
brought them out together.  He was a slim fellow with
short-cropped blond hair.  Did the suits mistake him for me?

Raids are like that.  The scene in the hall was as near to bedlam
as anything I recall since the nuclear conference of '88, when I
discovered that my hotel in Milan was actually a whorehouse which
had fallen behind in its payoffs.  This time, incredibly, not a
single police uniform was visible.  The two-dozen or so raiders
were all dressed in business suits of various shades of gray with
neckties to match.  And that was clearly Jones giving directions.
Could Cleaver somehow have come to the attention of the U. S.
Secret Service?

Or was Jones looking for me?

I saw Tilly.  With a wild light in her eyes and big tits waltzing
on her chest, she caught a suit from behind.  Her hands raised
his coat and dipped under the front of his belt.  His elbow came
up immediately and bounced into her head.  Down she went.  The
suit paused long enough to feel himself.  Had she squeezed a bit
too hard?

Suddenly my own dick was taken in hand.  The woman half-crouching
with her back to me, eye below mine at the door crack, began to
frig me.  She said without turning her head, "This is exciting to
you too, isn't it?"

If my dick didn't loose some starch soon it might get 
embarrassing.  What was wrong with it?

Just then Cleaver appeared, pulling on the suit who held his arm.
He shouted over the screams and oaths, "I demand to see whoever's
in charge!"

Most of the noise subsided at that.  Cleaver did not abate his
tone, however.  "This is my house.  Who are you bastards and what
are you doing?"

All up and down the hall people straightened up.  Jones stepped
forward.  "You are Archibald Harrison Cleaver?"

"Yes.  And who the hell are you?"

Now the hall was silent.  Jones' response was clear.  "Mr.
Cleaver, we will release your house and all its occupants soon as
we find the two people we came for."

Suddenly it clicked: by now it was June 25, 1950, and had been
for over 14 hours on the Korean peninsula.  The north had invaded
the south and a rump division or two of U. S. troops was sitting
in harm's way.  Truman wanted the best intelligence he could get.

"I repeat," screamed Cleaver, his face turning bright red, "just
who the hell are you to invade my home like this?"

Jones grinned sourly.  "Handcuff him."  He turned away, beckoning
at someone further up the hall, while the man holding Cleaver's
arm jerked his hands together behind him with a click of metal.
I distinctly heard the captor say, "Calm down before you have a
heart attack."

Why hadn't Jones named his objectives?  But who else could it be?
"Excuse me," I said, jerking my dick out of the woman's hand, and
looking back into the room.  Those piles of clothing greatly
resembled what my girls had worn here.  At least they were the
right colors.

In the bathroom Rosalind and Alice were lying on the floor in a
69, slurping each other's cunts.  I jerked them roughly apart.
"Quick, get up and get dressed.  The Secret Service is looking
for us."

Alice raised her head, a wild light in her eyes.  "Where are
they?"

"Not to screw, damn it.  They mean to haul us to Washington.
Remember the Korean War?  Quit fooling around and get dressed.
Unfortunately _my_ clothes are in Cleaver's room."

Rosalind shook her head to clear it.  "The Secret Service?"

"Yes.  And to simplify things, you're going with us."  I made my
voice deep as I could.  "Now get up and get dressed, goddamn it!"

It worked.  Both females rose and followed me into the bedroom.
"What Korean War?" asked Rosalind of Alice.

I said, "You'll find out.  Get your clothes on.  I have to go out
there.  Excuse me."

Gently I pulled the strange woman back, opened the door wide
enough and slipped into the hall.  Jones happened to be looking
my way.  His eyes widened when he saw me emerge from the door
with the _Trash Cans_ label.

He tilted his head back and shouted hoarsely, "Tally ho!"  At
that cry silence fell and everyone in the hall turned to regard
him, including the manacled Cleaver.  Suited figures emerged from
other rooms, now without prisoners in hand.

Jones looked at my erect dick.  His lip curled and he said to me
in Russian, "Enjoy party?"

I responded in the same language.  "Confirm that I and my cousin
are your objectives."

"_Da_."

"My clothes are down hall."

"Where is your, ah, cousin?"

"She gets dressed with friend who goes also."

"Friend?  Your aunt waits outside."

"I mean different friend, another girl."

He studied me.  We both ignored the many silent spectators.
"Will you come voluntarily this time?"

"If friend comes with us."

"Is well."  He gestured up the hall and said in English, "Dress
quickly, please."

I wove my way among the staring spectators.  One or two women
snickered at my strangely persistent erection.  Eyebrows rose
above several suits.  When one stretched out an arm for me, Jones
called, "Let him pass!"

I found Cleaver's door open a crack.  Mona and Donald fell back
nude when I pushed it wide.  "Excuse me," I intoned, brushing
past them.

"Tim," asked Mona breathlessly behind me, "they came for _you_?"

"Yes."  I made straight for my clothes, appreciating finally that
Mona had thoughtfully hung them over a chair.

"Then you must know who they are," she speculated.

I had noticed Jones' care in omitting personal names, all but
Cleaver's.  Had he gained entry to the house without showing
anyone a Secret Service ID?  Was I now on his -- the government's
-- side?  The answer came instantly to my mind, still that of a
liberal academic from 2002.  It occurred to me that leaving
someone behind who knew our whereabouts might even prove
advantageous.

"Yes, I know."

She and Donald stood with linked arms.  He had lost his erection.
What was keeping mine alive? 

She said, "They were pushing people from downstairs up ahead of
them.  I heard the butler tell somebody they overpowered him with
guns.  He thinks they're the mob, even if none of them has a
black shirt."

"They're a mob, all right," I sniffed, pulling on my socks.
"They're the United States Secret Service."

"The ... the _what_?"

"You know: our presidential Praetorian Guard."  I jammed feet
into shoes without lacing them.  "And their leader is a guy named
Jones."  I couldn't remember his first name -- or if I had ever
heard it.  "Mona, can you tie a bow?"

She swung around to my front, abandoning Donald, who stood
gaping.  Her hands worked busily at my neck.  "What do they want
with you?"

"The president wants my cousin and me in Washington.  Presidents
always need a lot of advice."

"Advice about what?"

"You'll guess when you see the morning papers."

"Who told _you_ about it, whatever it is?"

Slipping on my jacket, I grinned at her.  "That's the right
question.  You're a smart girl, Mona, and you give great head."
To Donald I said, "Why don't you take up where you left off?"

The buzz of talk in the hall fell silent at my reappearance.  It
was comical: the clumps of suits, grim of face and closed of
mouth, surrounded by nattering nabobs of nudity -- to mangle the
originality of a future VP.  But I marched solemnly among them.

As I passed Jones, I said, "I'll be back with the girls."

He looked me wryly up and down and said, again in Russian, "So
kin to man of steel dress up prettily!" adding in English, "Hurry
them along.  We have a plane to catch."

Black pants in the pleated style of the Forties concealed an
erection rather well.  The crowd had lost interest in my dick,
but it was still standing tall.  What the hell was wrong with it?

I was pleased to see that my girls had at last taken me
seriously.  They were fully dressed.  The strange woman, still
nude, had found a comb and was doing up Rosalind's full head of
auburn hair while Alice and Rosalind applied makeup to each
other's face.

"Let's go," I directed.

"One moment," protested Alice, doing something to Rosalind's
eyes.

"We can't keep the Secret Service waiting," I warned.  "They have
a plane for us."

"Can't we?" asked Alice sweetly.  She flashed me a grin.  "We've
always kept the government waiting."

But Rosalind was impressed.  She rose to her feet, turned and put
a hand on her attendant's shoulder.  "Thank you, Prissy.  You're
sweet."

The strange woman's eyes were large.  "The Secret Service!" she
breathed.

Rosalind stared at me and said with a similar tone, "A _plane_?"

I thought a moment.  "In fact, Rosalind, you don't have to go
with us.  It's just ...  I guess I'm old-fashioned.  I hate to
leave you alone in this, ah, den of iniquity."  I grinned at her
sourly.  "Although I suspect it's about the same as leaving Br'er
Rabbit in the briar patch."

Her face grew solemn.  "I want to go with you and Alice, Tim."

"Then you shall.  Follow me, ladies."

I didn't mean to include Prissy, but of course she brought up the
rear.  Jones looked from her to Rosalind, grinned darkly and
asked in German this time, "Should I guess which is the correct
one?"

Alice chirped in English in her high voice, "Fancy meeting you
here, Mr. Jones."

He lost his smirk.  "No names, please."

"Oh, excuse me," she retorted.  "I mean, Mr. Smith."

"Let's move it," Jones sniffed.  He raised his voice.  "Form up!
We're leaving."

And down the stairs we went, a boy and two females in formal
clothes, surrounded by suits.

* * *

As Jones had said, Clara was waiting in one of the cars.  His men
bundled me in the back with her.  Apparently Alice and Rosalind
must ride in another car.  Jones himself plopped in beside my
driver and away we went.

"How was the party?" asked Clara, hugging me.

I shook my head.  "Don't ask for _my_ conclusions.  I want to
hear yours after you've seen the views.  I assume you know what's
going on?"

She opened her mouth to reply but Jones had overheard us.  He
said, "I think you already know, Tim."

I grinned sourly at him.  "I know I talked too much coming home
from Washington the last time.  I was hoping you had forgot."

He grunted.  "Are you kidding?  You folks have quite a dossier at
headquarters.  The important thing is, the _man_ hasn't
forgotten."

"Well, I've not been near a radio in several hours.  Did the
North Koreans invade?"

In the light of oncoming traffic I saw him wink.  "Sorry, Tim.
We are specifically ordered not to discuss anything but logistics
with you."

The last time the government called, Clara provided the details,
but now I didn't need her for that.  Against the dark seatback
before me my 24th Century computer produced a glowing response on
my retinas when I keyed, _Korean War, Initial Invasion_.

I winked appreciatively at Clara.  "Just about eleven hours ago,
wasn't it?"  Then I jumped to the wrong conclusion.  "But that
was the 24th!"

"Tim," she reminded me patiently, "you may not be stating current
fact."

"Oh," I muttered involuntarily.  Of course this was a different
universe from the one her records described.

She added, "And keep in mind that the Korean peninsula is 14 and
a half hours ahead of Chicago."

The present timestamp was June 25, 1950, 1:32 a.m.

I heard Jones gasp.  He had run out the arithmetic in his head.
Apparently the universes don't differ very much.  "Eleven hours!
That's exactly right.  The first word came into our embassy in
Seoul at 0500 local time, June 25th.  How in hell did you know
that?"

"Remember," I said ironically: "only logistics."  But after a
moment I added, "Why has Truman waited so late to bother us?"

His voice was dry.  "We have troops there, you know.  Maybe it's
more accurate to say, 'We had.'  Nobody knows exactly what's
going on, nor the enemy strength or intention."

I announced brightly, "Seven assault divisions, plus one tank
brigade and two infantry regiments.  And they intend to unite the
peninsula.  They have Stalin's blessings."

"Wh-what?  Good god!  How can you possibly know this?"

I shrugged.  "I might be wrong."

"But you don't believe it.  Step on it, Anderson!   I've gotta
get to a phone."

We were in the lead car.  As its speedometer climbed, I glanced
back.  The other cars were hanging close to our bumper.  At that
late hour traffic was light.  Even so we had a couple of close
calls as we darted through red lights with horns blaring and
headlights blinking up and down.  Before long a couple of
flashing red lights were added to our train.

We sailed past the airport entrance.  It was the same Municipal
Airport except the sign now said _O'Hare_.  Did they change the
name while I wasn't looking?  The cops followed us, sirens
blaring, while we made for the private field.  I felt certain
that official vehicles had been radio-equipped by 1950, the cops
at least, but maybe not Secret Service field cars.  Aha!  These
were probably rented just for this mission, which explained the
lack of U. S. government tags that the cops would have noticed.

When we had parked close to the flight line, I considered
screaming, "Kidnap!" at the cops storming in behind us but
realized it would only cause delay -- and might attract attention
that we didn't want either.

This time they had a Connie waiting for us, two of its four
engines idling.  The Lockheed Constellation was arguably the
prettiest and most graceful design of a large airplane ever
produced, even dimly lit in the dark.  With its super-long
nose-wheel strut right at the front it always reminded me of a
swan sipping from the tarmac -- or maybe a mosquito, if a mosquito
could ever look so graceful.  Anyway, we have obviously come up
in the world!

Soon as we had boarded the plush cabin -- no bucket seats this
time! -- the plane began to roll.  An Air Force sergeant made sure
we were buckled in, all four of us, me in the bosom of my family,
plus Rosalind, looking at the sergeant with a predatory eye.  The
girls were a bit disheveled, an interesting contrast with their
formal gowns.  Jones had gone immediately forward, apparently to
use the aircraft radio instead of a telephone.

Rosalind had lost her emerald tiara; I hoped it wasn't valuable.
The girls were giggling at each other.  Rosalind said, "Did you
see his face in the streetlights?  Did you actually get under his
belt?"

"You know I did!" Alice declared in a fierce whisper.  "That
wasn't _his_ hand that came after me."

"You only got there first because he was staring at me."

"Because you had popped out a boob!"

I leaned partly across Alice to make sure Rosalind understood me
over the revving engines.  "Are you two still talking about
Cleaver's party?"

Alice laughed.  "No.  About the ride to the airport."

I gaped.  "You two were feeling up a Secret Service man?"

Alice smirked.  "I'll testify that a Secret Service cock gets
just as hard as an FBI cock."

"Speaking of that ..."  I turned away to Clara and pitched my
voice for privacy.  "I've got a problem."

She glanced around.  A couple of suits were lounging across from
us but the seats beside her were empty.  She responded in a low
voice, "I brought my large purse.  It contains a pair of shorts
for you."

"That's very thoughtful, you sweetheart, but I have a worse
problem than that.  My ..."

"Go on."

How does a lad tell his mother that his dick won't soften?  Clara
was hardly my mother, but she had often acted in that capacity
the last two years, my incestuous second mother.  Finally I
blurted it out.  "I've _still_ got a hard-on!"

"Still?"  She stared at me.  Her eyes began to twinkle.

"Don't you dare laugh," I ordered.  "I suspect you're at the
bottom of it."

"Oh, I do always try to reach the bottom."  She coughed behind
her hand.

"Clara ..." I warned.

Her expression grew serious.  "I think this is the vice
president's plane.  I'm sure it has a bedroom."  If her eyes
twinkled harder they'd jump out of her face!

I ground my teeth and turned away from her, but she leaned close,
breath tickling my ear, and asked, "By chance did Alice
french-kiss you before you went into the party?"

I thought back.  "Yeah.  She kissed Rosalind too, to put us in
the mood, don't you know!  Not by chance, eh?"

Clara's humor faded.  "I introduced her to the APHRODY program."

Of course Alice also contained a 24th Century computer, probably
one better exercised than mine.  "The what program?"

"Among other things it generates powerful sexual stimulants in
the saliva."

I stared at her.  "Holy shit!"

"Not that," she responded, eyes twinkling again, "though it does
affect other body fluids."

With quick fingers on my thighs I brought up the APHRODY help
file.  Spit stimulants are apparently just one of a _lot_ of
things it can generate.  Then I found the antidote.  My dick lost
its starch quickly.  Hmm.  _This_ could be very useful
information!

I studied Clara.  "Is sex so important in the 24th Century?"

"Of course.  We were -- will be -- still striving to reach a viable
population."

I shook my head.  "Clara, you're amazing.  I'm slowly beginning
to appreciate how much restraint you have exercised here."

"Thank you.  You are fast developing the same powers.  I'm hoping
that by now it's your old man who has control."

"Most of the time," I agreed, "but perhaps we should worry a bit
about Alice."

Clara laughed slightly, shaking her head.  "Not Alice!  She only
does what the people around her, particularly the men, want."

"Really?  What if some demented fool orders her to jump off a
bridge -- and gives her a shove?"

"Sooner or later someone will try something like that, most
likely this friend of Rosalind's whom you met tonight."  Clara
chuckled wryly.  "He won't care for the results."

"I hope you're right," I said doubtfully.  Yes, Cleaver was not a
man noted for inhibitions.

Traffic in the sky was also light at this hour -- in 1950.  At the
end of a long taxi run, conversation became impossible as the
four engines revved up deafeningly and we began the takeoff roll.
I stretched out my legs -- first class indeed!  I was asleep
before we reached cruising altitude.

Some time later I awoke to find Clara shaking my shoulder.  "Tim,
perhaps you ought to check on the girls."

I sat up.  One of the suits drowsed across from us.  Otherwise
our cabin, probably meant for newspapermen, was deserted.  I
stretched and asked, "Have they been gone long?"

"They went forward almost two hours ago, but the lavatory is
toward the rear."

I released my seat belt and stood up, muttering facetiously, "I
hope they haven't seduced the pilots too!"

She blinked at me.  "Surely you wouldn't be jealous after the
last two years!"

"Jealous?  I'd be afraid for our lives!"

She laughed.  "Is it the old man or an old woman?  They have
autopilots even in 1950."

I found a cabin, then a bedroom followed by another cabin, a
galley and two more lavatories.   Three naked men snored in the
bedroom on a bed stained in various colors, all covers thrown to
the floor.  Turning over the pile, I found both girls' gowns.

Other men sprawled, asleep and half-clothed, in the next cabin.
The cockpit door stood open.  Dimly I saw a naked leg and foot,
red painted toenails pointing toward me.  As I approached the
door, a bare-chested man lurched to his feet.  He had been
sitting in a jumpseat reserved for a stewardess on a normal
airliner.  Standing, his face was under the dim bulb.  It was
Jones.

"Tim, you ... you better not go in there."  His voice was thick.
He clutched my arm.

"Are you drunk?" I demanded incredulously.

"I guess I am," he mumbled, mouth working owlishly.  "Didn't know
women could do that!  Huh!  On second thought, maybe you _had_
better go in there if we're ever gonna land thish thing."

He released me and fell back into the seat, banging his head on
the cockpit wall.

"Tim ..."

I bent close.  "What?"

"You know everything elshe.  What can you do for a hard dick?"

"Hang on."

Passing the door, I came upon the usual bewildering array of
switches and dials -- and two naked couples.  The control chairs
were slid all the way back.  A naked man slumped in each with a
naked girl seated facing him in his lap.  The light was very dim,
deriving mainly from the illuminated dials on the instrument
panel, but it was enough to show the girls bodies moving slowly
up and down.  The smaller one raised her head.

"Hiya, Tim," said Alice.  After a moment she added, "How about
that -- we missed _you_!"

I spotted the compass, quivering on 100 degrees.  That seemed
about right as a heading for Washington.  Our altitude was 11,000
feet and holding steady.  Apparently they did indeed have an
autopilot!  I wondered briefly if Alice had even considered that
point.

Hands on my thighs, I ordered up a massive quantity of
ANAPHRODY, the antidote.  With half a mouthful of spit I leaned
down to Alice.  "Kiss me."

She raised her head.  I caught it in my hands, plastered my mouth
over hers and filled her up.  She sputtered but I held our mouths
together until she swallowed.

"Tim!  What was that?" she demanded.

"Anaphrody.  Start making your own.  You have to kiss nearly
every man on this plane."

Our eyes locked.  She understood me.  The glow faded from her
cheeks and shoulders.  "Tim, you've ruined it!"

"Ruined it, have I?  Just how do you plan to explain this?
Better yet, just how did you plan to land the plane?"

She blinked.  "Ooops!"

I pointed at the nearly somnolent man beneath her.  They occupied
the right-hand seat, so I guess he was the co-pilot.  Not that it
made much difference.  "Now kiss him and get plenty of the stuff
into him, you hear?"

"How _will_ we explain this?"  Her voice was strained.  Her eyes
stared in prescient horror.

"I can handle that part, maybe, if you get busy and cure this
planeload of hard dicks."

"Oh, god.  At least Rosalind can help!"

"Can she?  _She_ didn't pop in the APHRODY."

"Yes, she did.  Some.  I made a mouthful for her."

"Christ!" I muttered in disgust.  "All right, get going.  I'll
fix Rosalind."

I worked up another wad, pulled Rosalind's face up to me and
thrust it into her mouth.  Her eyes opened wide.  She grinned.
"Timmy!"  Suddenly she frowned.  "That's not jism!"

"But don't spit it out!" I ordered.  "Swallow."

"I already did, damn it."  She shivered, eyes large as marbles,
looking down at the man under her.  "My god!  What am I doing?"

"Trying to fuck every man in North America," I explained dryly.
"You were in on Alice's scheme.  Well, it's over.  Kiss this
pilot and let him get on with flying the plane.  You and Alice
have got to wake up the rest of the men."

"Oh.  Okay, Timmy."

She leaned toward the other female.  I spun out of the cockpit
and paused beside Jones to work up the third wad.  He looked up
wobbly.

Bending down, I said, "Kith me."

He blinked and grinned.  "You're not _that_ way, are you, Tim?"

"No, I'm not!"  I gritted my teeth and took more care with the
pronunciation.  "Just kiss me.  Then we've got to talk."

He even opened his mouth for me.  He made tasting motions and
blinked at me as I backed away.  I said, "Swallow it.  It'll fix
that hard dick, among other things."

He swallowed with a desperate gulp.  Odd, the things a hard dick
will prompt a man to do!  As I waited the naked girls pushed past
me.  "Here'sh one," said Rosalind with a mouthful.

"Not this one," I corrected.  I pointed to a guy snoring two
seats down, head tilted back.  "That one over there will be
easy."

"Wh-what's going on?" asked Jones, staring up at me and licking
his lips.

I sat down in the facing passenger seat.  "Your dick any better?"

"Than what?  I never thought I'd be glad for it to shrink.  Huh!
I never thought I'd kiss a queer, either!"

"You haven't, if you mean me."  I added a lie.  "I just got the
antidote from the girls."

"The what?"

I took a deep breath and lied through my teeth.  "Some stuff that
Cleaver had.  It makes women generate an aphrodisiac in their
spit.  And this one really works, as you know very well by now.
But when the girls cool off, so does their spit.  For a while it
even works like an antidote.  That's what I gave you.  That's
what the girls are giving your men right now."

If anything his eyes got even larger.  "My god!  What's it
called?"

I laughed sourly.  "That's not the important part, Jones.  You
know Alice's age, don't you?"

He blinked.  "I told my men several times that she was 13.  Then
Rosie kissed me and it ceased to matter."

"'Rosie,' eh?  That's because she popped the stuff into you.
Rosalind is on the rag.  Which one did you fuck, Jones?"

He took a breath, shook his head vigorously and giggled.  "I'll
tell you this: that stuff may be dynamite on dicks but it's not
worth a damn as a truth serum."

"No, but you're in charge and Alice's body is crawling with
spermatozoa.  You'll never flush it all out of her.  And if she's
not in this plane when it lands, your problems will be even worse
than a charge of statutory rape."

His face had sobered.  "What are you getting at?"

"Forgetfulness."

He bit his lip.  "Whose?"

"Everybody's."

He stared at me.  I could see the wheels turning.

"You'll have a talk with your men.  Tell them whatever you think
is advisable, especially Alice's age.  But tell them to clam up
like a dummy on events in this plane.  The pilots too, by the
way.  Tell them to note how uneventful the flight was, how
perfectly routine, how the passengers behaved like angels, asleep
most of the way.  And get somebody to throw out the sheets on
that bed."

"What about the girls?  What about _you_?"

"This was a perfectly uneventful flight," I intoned.  "We all
slept most of the way.  We were tired and a little drunk from the
party where you so rudely extracted us.  Truman will expect us to
complain about that."

"Yeah."

"One of your guys was still asleep in the back cabin.  I suppose
he missed all the fun that didn't happen."

"Atkins.  He's pushing retirement.  What about him?"

"Don't invite him to the meeting."

Jones took a deep breath and stood up, looking around.  Several
men in various stages of undress glanced sheepishly back at him.
"Christ, where are my clothes?"

I rose and dodged my way back to the bedroom.  Several men were
getting dressed.  I told them Jones wanted to see them upfront.
They groaned but departed half-clothed.  I untangled the girls'
clothing from the bedsheets and pressed on into the rear cabin.

The naked girls, hovering over Clara, looked up expectantly and
sighed in relief at sight of their clothing.  I put finger to
lips, pointing to the still sleeping suit, presumably Atkins.
They dressed half-heartedly, dabbing at each other's face with
Clara's handkerchief, then fell into their seats, asleep almost
instantly.  Atkins snored on.

I sniffed the heavy odor of sex arising from my companions and
said to Clara, "We need to make some arrangements.  Do you know
the girls' dress sizes?"

I committed them to memory and declared, "Back in a minute."

I came in on the tail end of Jones' speech to his men, assembled
with both pilots and the Air Force sergeant in the forward cabin.
I didn't hear his explanation for the wholesale seduction, but
apparently they all accepted it meekly, which surprised me
somewhat.  Had _all_ of them poked little Alice?

When he finished and took a seat, I slipped in beside him.  "We
need to do just a little more for this cover-up."

"This what?"

Didn't they call it that in 1950?  "To make this flight as
routine as we said, get on the radio and find us a hotel room
between the airport and the White House where we can take
showers."

"Oh.  Okay."

"Got a notepad?"

"Huh?  Sure."  He whipped it out, along with a stubby pencil.

I told him the girls' sizes.  "And lay in a full change of
clothes for them.  You know their coloration."

"At this hour?" he was aghast.

"What time will we land?"

"Supposed to be about 0530."

"Will Truman be up at 6:30?"

"No.  He'll want to see you about 0900.  Your girls will have
time to change if I can find them a room."

"I'm sure the government has lots of rooms."

* * *

Clara had caused a suitcase to accompany us with complete changes
for Alice and myself, but I was still glad I thought to have
Jones order clothes for the girls because of course she had not
anticipated Rosalind.  And Jones thought still further ahead.
That resourceful cop managed to arrange hairdresser appointments
for the girls at 6:30 a.m. on Sunday!

Rosalind criticized the new blouse and skirt, the former too
sheer, she said, and the latter too short in this era of low
hemlines, but she looked pretty good to me when we pulled up at
the side door of a fairly large building in the city.  It was
just before 9:00 a.m. on a sunny morning that resounded with bird
chirps, distant church bells and little else.

"What's this?" I asked Jones and pointed through the trees to the
south.  "That's the White House over there."

"This is Blair House."

"Oh, yeah?  Who lives here, the Russian ambassador?"

He grunted.  "Take it easy, Tim.  These days the president lives
here.  Where've you been?  They started redoing the White House
interior in '48."

He pulled me aside as we got out of the car.  "Tim," he said,
eyes on ground, "I'm about to turn you folks over to the day
shift."  He took a deep breath and looked up.  "I don't know what
to say except thanks."

I slugged his arm lightly.  "I think you did _us_ the real favor
when you got us safely home two years ago."

"Maybe."  He sighed.  "I know you're tired.  Maybe the man won't
keep you too long."

He straightened up and said to the suit standing before the door
with his arms crossed behind his back, "This is Timothy Kimball
with the Edgeworth ladies and Miss Rosalind Cannell.  They're
clean."

For sure he was not referring to our hygiene!  I wondered if
Rosalind would correct his error in her title, but she stood
quietly if a bit wide of eye.

"Very well," acknowledged the man, a mustachioed, bigger and
beefier one than Jones, wearing a very crisp gray suit and maroon
necktie with a Windsor knot instead of the more common
four-in-hand.  "My name is Pontief and I'm pleased to meet you
folks.  Won't you come in."

He opened the door, passed inside and waited for us.  "Do you
need to stop for refreshment?  No?  Then follow me, please."

We walked down a short hall, footsteps echoing.  He leaned close
to me and lowered his voice.  "Who's the Cannell dame?"

"_Dr._ Rosalind Cannell, if you please.  She's a member of my
party."

He frowned.  "POTUS doesn't expect her."

I had to think a minute.  They were using that acronym for
_President Of The United States_ in 1950?  Yeah.  Roosevelt
started it.  I explained, "The circumstances of our departure,
you know.  Don't worry; she'll be an asset."

"I hope so," he agreed dourly.  "At least Jones vouched for her."

The Blair House!  My internal computer reported that Truman had
indeed lived here from 1948 to 1952 while the White House
interior was gutted and restored.  Looking deeper, I discovered
that a nuclear explosion destroyed both buildings in 2038, during
the attempted terransoming of D.C.  Not any time soon.  No, I
didn't bother to look up that word.

Pontief nodded to the guard and knocked on a gilded door.  A
light blinked beside it.  He turned the knob and led us in.
Truman in his rimless eyeglasses sat behind the big desk with the
famous sign, "The Buck Stops Here."  He watched us cross the
room.  Two guys sat near him.  They didn't get up either.

Pontief said, "Mr. President, may I present Drs. Kimball,
Edgeworth and Cannell, and Mrs. Edgeworth."

"We've met," said Truman, wearing his trademark white summer
suit, "most of us."  He gestured.  "Get them some chairs."

The guard had followed us in.  He and Pontief hustled up padded
straight chairs before the big desk and we sat.  Pontief moved to
stand against the wall.  The guard departed and closed the door.

My review of this period while crossing the Potomac let me
recognize the two men who flanked the president:  Frank Pace,
Secretary of the Army, and Gen. Omar Bradley, Chairman of the
Joint Chiefs.  The general's summer khakis were adorned with a
chest full of fruit salad but only four stars in a line on each
shoulder.  Shouldn't he be wearing the clusters of five that
meant "General of the Army?"

"You've grown," said the president, eyeing Alice and me, "and I
don't see a bruise on your cheek this time, Tom."

I said, "It's Tim, Mr. President.  Perhaps I learned a lesson."

His eyes cut to Rosalind.  "And who is this pretty young lady?
By elimination she must be Dr. Cannell."

Rosalind drew breath to respond, I guess, but when her bottom lip
trembled, I answered for her, "Rosalind Cannel, linguistics."

He cocked an eyebrow.  "From the reports of your last visit, I
thought _you_ were the linguist!  Does she share your talents?"

I had devoted some thought to this line of questioning.  "I think
she should be described as an apprentice."

"Implying that your special abilities are teachable?  How
interesting!"

He flashed me a calculating expression.  I didn't care for its
implications but before I could do further damage he went on.  "I
wish we had time for a nice visit."  His grin now favored Alice.
"I'd like to see if you can do better with Mozart than I."  He
sighed.  "But we don't have the time.  You do know why you're
here."

I nodded reluctantly.  "Yes, sir.  We're here because the
Russians unblocked Berlin in May, 1949, right on schedule."

"On _your_ schedule -- along with the barrage balloons and the one
collision.  You called that tune exactly, Tim.  How about calling
this one?"  He looked down at a paper on his desk.  "I understand
you've already provided the North Korean order of battle.  Brad
wants to ask you about that."

The general cleared his throat.  "I'm Omar Bradley."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledged, "but I'm surprised to see you with
only four stars."

He blinked at me.  "You what?"

Woops!  My hands darted into my pockets.

The president chuckled.  "It's in the senate, Brad.  Don't
pretend to be surprised."

The general groused, "Just that everyone knows about it."

Christ, he didn't get his last promotion until September!  Here
it was only June.

Truman tilted his head.  "I assure you, not _everyone_ knows!  As
I said, Tim and his ladies are very special."

I saw my opening.  "Then you've told him how I know what I know."

The presidential lip curled.  "I've told him what _I_ know about
what you know, which isn't much."  He leaned back in his chair.
"I had a long phone conversation with J. Edgar an hour ago.  You
and your people have never admitted to our surmise.  All we
actually have are the claims of a Mexican boy who unfortunately
died during interrogation.  Tell me, Tim: how _do_ you know?"

I turned to scan Alice and Clara.  They stared back.  Alice said,
"You're in charge, Tim."

Anywhere else I would've grinned at that!  I took a deep breath.
"Mr. President, is the _how_ so important?  Tonio told you how
and your experts immediately rejected his explanation.  I'll
admit this: we have factual knowledge of the future, but only so
long as it remains factual."

The president stared.  His lip curled again.  "By 'factual' you
mean only so long as I do what you claim I did, is that right?"

"Exactly.  If you depart from my foreknowledge in any significant
way -- and frankly I don't see anything to stop you except this --
subsequent dependent events must obviously be different.  For
them my advice would become no more valuable than ... Gen.
Bradley's -- probably a good deal less."

The office was silent except for an electric fan oscillating in
the open window behind Truman.  The general spoke first.  "Seven
divisions, a tank brigade and two infantry regiments.  Where did
you get this information, Tim?"

"From an archive compiled after the war."

"The war," repeated Truman.  "How big a war?"

"That's up to you," I said, "though only in part.  North Korea
has the Kremlin's blessing along with plenty of Soviet arms and
ammunition."

"Are Russians with them?" asked the general.

"Only a few officers and observers."  I shifted in my seat.  "Mr.
President, excuse me, but I don't want to go into much detail.  I
don't want to increase the chance of ..."

When I hesitated, he filled in, "Some variance from the script?
I understand, but we may have to press you.  Tell me this: if I
do everything my, ah, counterpart did according to you, how will
it turn out?"

"The war continues, though at a lower level of hostilities,
through your departure from office in 1953."

He blinked.  "More than three years altogether?"

"Slightly less."

"My god!  Three years of war over South Korea?  Who ever heard of
the place?"

I opened my mouth to provide an argument but he beat me to it.
"We have now contained the goddamn Russians in Europe, so they're
bu'sting out somewhere else.  That's it, isn't it?  Uncle Joe,
the syphilitic bastard -- excuse me, ladies -- is playing chess
with me, I see.  He's got his own bomb now and he's advanced a
new pawn, thinking my queen is covered."

"Which it is," said Pace, the Secretary of the Army, sitting
beside the general, his necktie and shirt collar loosened.

"I've got pawns too -- and plenty of higher ranks.  You notice
that Stalin is not using his own troops."

"But _you'll_ have to," said the general, sitting a little
straighter.

"Will I?"  The president leaned forward, chin in hand.  "Brad, do
you recall that bit from the report of MacArthur's initial
landing in Japan, where an armed Japanese division lined both
sides of the airport road _with the soldiers' backs turned_,
facing away to protect him from any possible enemy?"

"I remember the story."

"Those Jap veterans have had a five year rest.  How long would it
take to form them up, outfit them and throw them across the Sea
of Japan?"

I believe Bradley was startled, at least.  He stared at his
supreme commander with wide eyes.  "Do you think they'd fight
_for_ the destroyer of Hiroshima and Nagasaki instead of against
you the moment you issued ammunition?"

"How long, Brad?"

The general took a deep breath.  "Well, I don't know.  Supplies,
uniforms -- would you put them in U. S. Army uniforms or merely
use their new constitution to wipe your -- ah ...  Retraining to
accept command by American officers, at least at the regimental
level ...  I'd guess six months at a minimum."

"Too long," I said.

"Why?" asked Truman.

"If you wait for Jap troops, they'll have to be taught amphibious
operations."

"Meaning the North Koreans would have thrown us into the sea?"

"Exactly."

"Did they do that, Tim?"

"No, sir.  But you didn't use Japs either."

"Damn!"  The president sighed.  "It's the perfect answer to the
North Koreans.  The Japs would go through them like corn through
a goose.  Why didn't you warn me of this a year ago?"

"The answer is, because I knew you'd do something different!  I
didn't think of using the Japanese, but it's just as well.  The
future Japan would be a very strange and dangerous country, I
think, if you resurrected its war-like attitudes."  I grinned at
him.  "But you did know about this in advance."

"What?"  His eyes widened.  "I categorically --"

"Excuse me," I interrupted.  "Antonio Amorosanto told you the
exact date of the next American war in Asia."

He stared at me for a second, then pulled a file folder from his
top desk drawer and flipped through it quickly.  His eyes flew
over the paper before rising to the general.  "Come here, Brad.
Look at this."

The man with the stars slipped behind the desk and stared down to
the presidential finger.  "June 25, 1950," he murmured, looking
up at me.  "Then it's true?"

I nodded.  "So long as you gentlemen don't deviate from my
script, as the president says."

Bradley resumed his seat.  "All right," he said dryly.  "What
does your script call for?"

"Telling MacArthur to move most of your occupation force from
Japan immediately.  You're right: the Japanese will find
themselves very much in the American camp on this issue, so you
won't need the troops in Japan.  Set up lots of heavy artillery
on the natural line of defense around Pusan.  It will be your
best short-term defensive weapon.  And get a mandate from the UN.
You need that, Mr. President, to quell the opposition to
Americans entering battle without a declaration of war."

"That's nuts!" declared Secretary Pace.  "If as you say the
Russians are behind this, they'll veto anything about it in the
security council."

"Not if you act fast and call an emergency meeting.  Just now the
Russians have pulled out in a snit because you refused to admit
communist China.  You have a window of about a day."

Pace frowned.  "'Window?'  Oh, I see.  He means a day's grace."

Another damned anachronism!

The president's eyes lit.  "Aha!  Uncle Joe's timing is off.
We'll win this diplomatic skirmish, by god!"

In the meantime Pontief had answered the door buzzer.  He spoke
from across the room.  "Excuse me, Mr. President, but you wanted
to be informed when the full cabinet was assembled.  It is."

"Thank you, Bill.  Tell them I'll be there in about five
minutes."  Truman shoved his chair back and got to his feet,
gesturing to me.  "Tim, would you come with me briefly?  Excuse
us, folks."

He led me through a side door and closed it behind us.  We stood
in a cramped little office with a desk, telephone, recessed
typewriter and secretarial chair, otherwise unoccupied.

"Tim, what's going to happen?  Who wins this?"

I took a very deep breath.  "You don't know how I hate to answer
that."

His eyes narrowed.  "If it's because they whip our ass, I'm
convinced your duty is to help us avoid it."

I shook my head.  "They don't win, Mr. President.  America
achieves its announced objective: South Korea never goes
communist.  In time it develops an economy to rival Japan.  And
though the war lasts almost as long as the American part of World
War Two, the American death toll is very much lower."

"How many, Tim?"

I stopped with the words, 54,000, on the tip of my tongue.  "I'm
sorry, sir.  That I won't say."

"Bad as that?"

"I repeat, a lot less than WW2."

"Over one dinky little backwater!"  He shook his head.  "Ah,
well, we all know it's about a lot more than that."  He took a
breath.  "One other thing, Tim."  He reached in his pocket and
took out a telegram in misaligned capitals, typical of the
teleprinter from which it had obviously been torn.


TO POTUS
FROM UJ VIA EMBASSY
DATE 500625:1030Z

MESSAGE BEGINS
NK WILL HOLD ABOVE TAEJON WHEN KIMBALL AND EDGEWORTH DELIVERED TO
EMBASSY
MESSSAGE ENDS

XMT 500625:1102Z BY CZZ


I looked up.  "UJ?"

"Uncle Joe."  He sniffed.  "I thought you knew everything.  Those
were the designees on our informal telegrams during World War
Two."

"Of course," I agreed.  I let my consternation show.  "Then this
actually came from the Soviet embassy?"

"Yes.  It was delivered to Blair House by a Soviet courier about
an hour ago."  He added dryly, "I think the Russians find it
easier to believe in weird science than we do."

I returned the telegram with as solemn an expression as I could
contrive.  "What will you do about it?"

"Nothing.  Double the FBI guard on your family."

I shook my head.  "I don't like this for a different reason."

"Which is?"

"I can't believe this telegram existed in my old universe.
Certainly it was never mentioned publicly.  This means that
events are already off the rails a little."

"Perhaps not, if we don't act on it, and we won't."  He shoved it
back into his pocket and returned us to the main office.

He gestured to the seated men.  "Come along, boys.  Let's tell
the fellows our decision and let them show how on-the-ball they
are.  Pontief, get a crew to take Tim and his ladies home
immediately.  And Tim ..."  He glowered at me.  "Don't stray too
far from Chicago.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir.  One last item for you, if I may: when the time comes,
ignore the advisers and deal with MacArthur as your instinct
suggests."

He stared at me.  Slowly a twinkle appeared in his eye.  "I
mostly do that anyway."

* * *

Rosalind stared into my eyes.  "I want to talk to you three,
especially _you_, Tim."  Her gaze was flinty.

We had just reached cruising altitude and the pilot had throttled
back so that a low voiced conversation was possible between heads
bent together.  We were alone in the aft cabin of the same plane
except for two suits sitting well apart from us.  They had
already pulled out their tray tables and a deck of cards.

"You'll have to wait in line," retorted Alice.  "I want to know
what happened when he went next door with the president."

I tilted my head toward Clara.  "She'll tell you."

Alice shook her head.  "I don't want to wait till we get home.
Is he going to do something off the wall, Tim?"

"Off the _what_?" demanded Rosalind.

I shook my head.  "No, I believe he'll behave.  I didn't tell him
anything new."

"Then why'd he call you in there?"

"To show me a telegram."  I sighed.  "Stalin offered to stop the
North Koreans half way if Truman would deliver you and me to the
Soviet embassy."

Her eyes grew large.  Quickly I added, "Truman said he'd take no
action on it."

"Won't he?  How about next week?  Even MacArthur was afraid the
commies would take Pusan."

"But at it's smallest the perimeter was miles from the city.
We'll be all right.  Except for one thing.  You heard it."

"'Don't stray too far?'"

"Exactly.  MacArthur doesn't land at Inchon until September.
Truman may want us to approve when he hears the proposal for
that."

Clara mused, "Perhaps you should've told him about it."

"Yeah.  Or that Stalin croaks in March of '53.  I thought of all
that after we left."

Alice demanded, "What good would it do to tell him about Stalin?"

"I think Truman is a little bit afraid of good old 'Uncle Joe.'
It would bolster his spirits, especially if I told him the Soviet
system went steadily toiletwards after Stalin's death."

"'Toiletwards?'" repeated Rosalind with a bemused expression.

"You're forgetting Sputnik," said Alice.

"No, I'm not.  Stalin had already approved it.  It's a use for
those ripped-off German engineers that he can admit to the
world."

"'Ripped-off?'" muttered Rosalind.

After shaking my head I said, "Sorry.  Stalin confiscated half of
Von Braun's staff in 1945."

"Whose staff?"

That surprised me.  Then _I_ surprised me.  Why should I expect a
linguistician to know anything about rocketry before Sputnik?

She immediately asked me about it.  "And what's this _spudding_
you forgot?"  She visibly gritted her teeth.  "I know my place in
line around here: _last_!  But it's time I asked you: who _are_
you people anyway?"

Alice hugged her.  "Your friends and lovers, honey."

She pulled back, staring from Alice to me to Clara.  "From the
... f-future?"

I looked at Clara.  "What's your advice on this, my dear?"

She returned my look with a twinkle.  "Will you lie to her?"

"No," I declared immediately.  Then I sighed and turned to the
young woman who was watching us with parted lips.  "What do you
really want to know, Rosalind?"

She looked from one to the other and licked her lips.  Slowly she
shook her head.  "I can put two and two together, too.  You
people are too different.  Nothing that happens fazes you.  And
you don't obey any social convention unless it suits you.  No
little girl is as knowing and _confident_ as you are, Alice, and
..."  She chuckled hollowly.  "I told myself I seduced _you_,
Timmy, but that's ...  How'd you put it the other day?  That's a
_crock_.  I meant to ask you.  A crock of what?"

"Shit," I told her.  "Surely not another anachronism!"

"Meaning that it's a lie, right?  An 'anachronism,' eh?  That's
another point.  You talk strangely, a slang that no one else
uses.  And now even the _president_ asks you what's going to
happen.  Obviously he believes you know the future."  She took a
deep breath.  "Which means you have to be _from_ the future.  On
the ride from the airport I kept asking myself, what in the world
have I stepped into now?  Or maybe not _in the world_, huh?"

When she only stared at me, I said, "Is that a question?"

"No!"  She uttered the monosyllable with a strange, rising
inflection and smiled tremulously.  "I won't ask any questions.
I won't rock the boat.  Whatever you are and whatever you're
doing, I want to be included."  Her eyes lit.  "I love it!  I
didn't know life could be so exciting!"

"It's likely to get worse," I told her rather grimly.  "We don't
intend to remain available for Truman."

"You won't?"  She blinked.  "Why not?"

"Because he'll eventually enslave us.  He'll think he has to."

She seemed to hesitate.  At last she asked, "Am I ... am I in
fact an apprentice?"

I looked from Clara to Alice.  It was the latter who answered.
She pulled herself against the anxious girl.  "Yes, you are.
Because we all love you, darling.  When you return from your
summer with your mother, I'll start teaching you about
computers."

They fell, slobbering and mewling, into each other's arms.  I
looked inquiringly at Clara, who remarked, "I noticed a long time
ago that she has the right attitude."

"Loose legs?" I asked.

"For you."  Her expression was serene.  "I can coexist with any
woman who accepts you."

"And reward her with larger tits?"

"That was only to reduce the load on Alice."

"The load!"  I had to chuckle.  "My god, Clara, sometimes you
truly are weird!"

"I regard that as a compliment.  Thank you."

I pulled her to me for a kiss.  "In fact, I just now realized, it
_is_ a compliment, the highest I can bestow."

"I know it.  You are the center of the universe, Timmy."

"That's odd.  I wouldn't have thought it could have two."

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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