Harry Turtledove - Counting Up,Counting Down

Counting Up, Counting Down

Forty, Counting Down

This story is a mirror-image twin of “Twenty-one, Counting Up,” the last piece in this book. If you read

one, you’ll see one thing. If you read the other, you’ll see something else. If you read them both, I hope

they prove more than the sum of their parts. I don’t recommend that you read them back to back—I

think they should have a little time between them. But if you choose not to listen to me, who’s going to

know?

“Hey, Justin!” Sean Peters’ voice floated over the top of the Superstrings, Ltd., cubicle wall. “It’s twenty

after six—quitting time and then some. Want a drink or two with me and Garth?”

“Hang on,” Justin Kloster answered. “Let me save what I’m working on first.” He told his computer to

save his work as it stood, generate a backup, and shut itself off. Having grown up in the days when

voice-recognition software was imperfectly reliable, he waited to make sure the machine followed

orders. It did, of course. Making that software idiotproof had put Superstrings on the map a few years

after the turn of the century.

Justin got up, stretched, and looked around. Not much to see: the grayish-tan fuzzy walls of the cubicle

and an astringently neat desktop that held the computer, a wedding photo of Megan and him, and a

phone/fax. His lips narrowed. The marriage had lasted four years—four and a half, actually. He hadn’t

come close to finding anybody else since.

Footsteps announced Peters’ arrival. He looked like a high-school linebacker who’d let most of his

muscle go to flab since. Garth O’Connell was right behind him. He was from the same mold, except

getting thin on top instead of going gray. “How’s the Iron Curtain sound?” Peters asked.

“Sure,” Justin said. “It’s close, and you can hear yourself think—most of the time, anyhow.”

They went out into the parking lot together, bitching when they stepped from air conditioning to San

Fernando Valley August heat. Justin’s eyes started watering, too; L.A. smog wasn’t so bad as it had been

when he was young, but it hadn’t disappeared.

An Oasis song was playing when the three software engineers walked into the Iron Curtain, and into air

conditioning chillier than the office’s. The music took Justin back to the days when he’d been getting

together with Megan, though he’d liked Blur better. “Look out,” Sean Peters said. “They’ve got a new

fellow behind the bar.” He and Garth chuckled. They knew what was going to happen. Justin sighed. So

did he.

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Peters ordered a gin and tonic, O’Connell a scotch on the rocks. Justin asked for a Bud. Sure as hell, the

bartender said, “I’ll be right with you two gents”—he nodded to Justin’s coworkers—“but for you, sir,

I’ll need some ID.”

With another sigh, Justin produced his driver’s license. “Here.”

The bartender looked at him, looked at his picture on the license, and looked at his birthdate. He

scowled. “You were born in 1978? No way.”

“His real name’s Dorian Gray,” Garth said helpfully.

“Oh, shut up,” Justin muttered, and then, louder, to the bartender, “Yeah, I really turned forty this past

spring.” He was slightly pudgy, but he’d been slightly pudgy since he was a toddler. And he’d been very

blond since the day he was born. If he had any silver mixed with the gold, it didn’t show. He also stayed

out of the sun as much as he could, because he burned to a crisp when he didn’t. That left him with a lot

fewer lines and wrinkles than his buddies, who were both a couple of years younger than he.

Shaking his head, the bartender slid Justin a beer. “You coulda fooled me,” he said. “You go around

picking up high-school girls?” His hands shaped an hourglass in the air.

“No.” Justin stared down at the reflections of the ceiling lights on the polished bar.

“Middle school,” Garth suggested. He’d already made his scotch disappear. Justin gave him a dirty look.

It was such a dirty look, it got through to Sean Peters. He tapped Garth on the arm. For a wonder, Garth

eased off.

Justin finished the Bud, threw a twenty on the bar, and got up to leave. “Not going to have another one?”

Peters asked, surprised.

“Nope.” Justin shook his head. “Got some things to do. See you in the morning.” Out he went, walking

fast so his friends couldn’t stop him.

As soon as the microchip inside Justin’s dead-bolt lock shook hands with the one in his key, his

apartment came to life. Lamps came on. The stereo started playing the Pulp CD he’d left in there this

morning. The broiler heated up to do the steak the computer knew was in the refrigerator. From the

bedroom, the computer called, “Now or later?”

“Later,” Justin said, so the screen stayed dark.

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Counting Up, Counting Down

He went into the kitchen and tossed a couple of pieces of spam snailmail into the blue wastebasket for

recycling. The steak went under the broiler; frozen mixed vegetables went into the microwave. Eight

minutes later, dinner.

After he finished, he rinsed the dishes and silverware and put them in the dishwasher. When he closed

the door, the light in it came on; the machine judged it was full enough to run a cycle in the middle of

the night.

Like the kitchen, his front room was almost as antiseptically tidy as his cubicle at Superstrings. But for a

picture of Megan and him on their honeymoon, the coffee table was bare. All his books and DVDs and

audio CDs were arranged alphabetically by author, title, or group. None stood even an eighth of an inch

out of place. It was as if none of them dared move without his permission.

He went into the bedroom. “Now,” he said, and the computer monitor came to life.

A picture of Megan and him stood on the dresser, another on the nightstand. Her high-school graduation

picture smiled at him whenever he sat down at the desk. Even after all these years, he smiled back most

of the time. He couldn’t help it. He’d always been happy around Megan.

But she hadn’t been happy around him, not at the end. Not for a while before the end, either. He’d been

a long, long time realizing that. “Stupid,” he said. He wasn’t smiling now, even with Megan’s young,

glowing face looking right at him out of the picture frame. “I was stupid. I didn’t know enough. I didn’t

know how to take care of her.”

No wonder he hadn’t clicked with any other woman. He didn’t want any other woman. He wanted

Megan—and couldn’t have her any more.

“E-mail,” he told the computer, and gave his password. He went through it, answering what needed

answering and deleting the rest. Then he said, “Banking.” The computer had paid the monthly Weblink

bill, and the cable bill, too. “All good,” he told it.

The CD in the stereo fell silent. “Repeat?” the computer asked.

“No.” Justin went out to the front room. He took the Pulp CD out of the player, put it in its jewel box,

and put the jewel box exactly where it belonged on the shelf. Then he stood there in a rare moment of

indecision, wondering what to pull out next. When he chose a new CD, he chuckled. He doubted Sean or

Garth would have heard of the Trash Can Sinatras, let alone heard any of their music. His work buddies

had listened to grunge rock back before the turn of the century, not British pop.

As soon asCake started, he went back into the bedroom and sat down at the computer again. This time,

he did smile at Megan’s picture. She’d been crazy for the Trash Can Sinatras, too.

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The music made him especially eager to get back to work. “Superstrings,” he said, and gave a password,

and “Virtual reality” and another password, and “Not so virtual” and one more. Then he had to wait. He

would have killed for a Mac a quarter this powerful back in 1999, but it wasn’t a patch on the one he

used at the office. The company could afford the very best. He couldn’t, not quite.

He went to the keyboard for this work: for numbers, it was more precise than dictating. And he had to

wait again and again, while the computer did the crunching. One wait was long enough for him to go

take a shower. When he got back, hair still damp, the machine hadn’t finished muttering to itself. Justin

sighed. But the faster Macs at the office couldn’t leap these numbers at a single bound. What he was

asking of his home computer was right on the edge of what it could do.

Or maybe it would turn out to be over the edge. In that case, he’d spend even more lunch hours in his

cubicle in the days ahead than he had for the past six months. He was caught up on everything the

people above him wanted. They thought he worked his long hours to stay that way.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Justin murmured. “And it may do me some good.”

He didn’t think anyone else had combined superstring physics, chaos theory, and virtual reality this way.

If anyone had, he was keeping quiet about it—nothing in the journals, not a whisper on the Web. Justin

would have known; he had virbots out prowling all the time. They’d never found anything close. He had

this all to himself . . . if he hadn’t been wasting his time.

Up came the field parameters, at long, long last. Justin studied them. As the computer had, he took his

time. He didn’t want to let enthusiasm run away with him before he was sure. He’d done that half a

lifetime ago, and what had it got him? A divorce that blighted his life ever since. He wouldn’t jump too

soon. Not again. Not ever again. But things looked good.

“Yes!” he said softly. He’d been saying it that particular way since he was a teenager. He couldn’t have

named the disgraced sportscaster from whom he’d borrowed it if he’d gone on the rack.

He saved the parameters, quit his application, and had the computer back up everything he’d done. The

backup disk went into his briefcase. And then, yawning, he hit the sack.

Three days later, Garth O’Connell was the first to gape when Justin came into the office. “Buzz cut!” he

exclaimed, and ran a hand over his own thinning hair. Then he laughed and started talking as if the past

twenty years hadn’t happened: “Yo, dude. Where’s the combat boots?”

In my closet,Justin thought. He didn’t say that. What he did say was, “I felt like doing something

different, that’s all.”

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Counting Up, Counting Down

“Like what?” Garth asked. “Globalsearching for high-school quail, like the barkeep said? The

competition doesn’t wear short hair any more, you know.”

“Will you melt it down?” Justin snapped.

“Okay. Okay.” Garth spread his hands. “But you better get used to it, ’cause everybody else is gonna say

the same kind of stuff.”

Odds were he was right, Justin realized gloomily. He grabbed a cup of coffee at the office machine, then

ducked into his cubicle and got to work. That slowed the stream of comments, but didn’t stop them.

People would go by the cubicle, see the side view, do a double take, and start exclaiming.

Inside half an hour, Justin’s division head came by to view the prodigy. She rubbed her chin. “Well, I

don’tsuppose it looks unbusinesslike,” she said dubiously.

“Thanks, Ms. Chen,” Justin said. “I just wanted to—”

“Start your midlife crisis early.” As it had a few evenings before, Sean Peters’ voice drifted over the

walls of the cubicle.

“And thankyou , Sean.” Justin put on his biggest grin. Ms. Chen smiled, which meant he’d passed the

test. She gave his hair another look, nodded more happily than she’d spoken, and went off to do

whatever managers did when they weren’t worrying about haircuts.

Sean kept his mouth shut till lunchtime, when he stuck his head into Justin’s cubicle and said, “Feel like

going over to Omino’s? I’ve got a yen for Japanese food.” He laughed. Justin groaned. That made Peters

laugh harder than ever.

Justin shook his head. Pointing toward his monitor, he said, “I’m brown-bagging it today. Got a ton of

stuff that needs doing.”

“Okay.” Peters shrugged. “Anybody’d think you worked here or something. I’ll see you later, then.”

Between noon and half past one, Superstrings was nearly deserted. Munching on a salami sandwich and

an orange, Justin worked on his own project, his private project. The office machine was better than his

home computer for deciding whether possible meant practical.

“Yes!” he said again, a few minutes later, and then, “Time to go shopping.”

Being the sort of fellow he was, he shopped with a list. Vintage clothes came from Aaardvark’s Odd

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Counting Up, Counting Down

Ark, undoubtedly the funkiest secondhand store in town, if not in the world. As with his haircut, he did

his best to match the way he’d looked just before the turn of the century.

Old money was easier; he had to pay only a small premium for old-fashioned smallhead bills at the

several coin-and-stamp shops he visited. “Why do you want ’em, if you don’t care about condition?”

one dealer asked.

“Maybe I think the new bills are ugly,” he answered. The dealer shrugged, tagging him for a nut but a

harmless one. When he got to $150,000, he checkedmoney off the list.

He got to the office very early the next morning. The security guard chuckled as he unlocked the door.

“Old clothes and everything. Looks like you’re moving in, pal.”

“Seems like that sometimes, too, Bill.” Justin set down his suitcases for a moment. “But I’m going out

of town this afternoon. I’d rather have this stuff indoors than sitting in the trunk of my car.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bill nodded. He had to be seventy, but his hair wasn’t any lighter than iron gray. “I know

that song.” He knew lots of songs, many dating back to before Justin was born. He’d fought in Vietnam,

and been a cop, and now he was doing this because his pension hadn’t come close to keeping up with

skyrocketing prices. Justin wondered if his own would, come the day.

But he had different worries now. “Thanks,” he said when the guard held the door for him.

He staggered up the stairs; thanks to the stash of cash (a new compact car here, nothing more, even with

the premium he’d had to pay, but a young fortune before the turn of the century), some period clothes

scrounged—like the Dilbert T-shirt and baggy jeans he had on—from secondhand stores, and the boots,

those suitcases weren’t light, and he’d never been in better shape than he could help. The backpack in

which he carried his PowerBook and VR mask did nothing to make him more graceful, either.

Once he got up to the second floor, he paused and listened hard. “Yes!” he said when he heard nothing.

Except for Bill down below, he was the only person here.

He went into the men’s room, piled one suitcase on the other, and sat down on them. Then he took the

laptop out of its case. He plugged the VR mask into its jack, then turned on the computer. As soon as it

came up, he put on the mask. The world went black, then neutral gray, then neutral . . . neutral: no color

at all, just virtual reality waiting to be made real.

It all took too long. He wished he could do this back at his desk, with an industrial-strength machine.

But he didn’t dare take the chance. This building had been here nineteen years ago. This men’s room

had been here nineteen years ago. He’d done his homework as well as he could. But his homework

hadn’t been able to tell him where the goddamn cubicle partitions were back before the turn of the

century.

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Counting Up, Counting Down

And so . . . the john. He took a deep breath. “Run program superstrings–slash–virtual reality–slash–not

so virtual,” he said.

The PowerBook quivered, ever so slightly, on his lap. His heart thudded. Talk about your moments of

truth. Either he was as smart as he thought he was, or Garth or Sean or somebody would breeze in and

ask, “Justin, what thehell are you doing?”

A string in space-time connected this place now to its earlier self, itself in 1999. As far as Justin knew,

nobody but him had thought of accessing that string, of sliding along it, with VR technology. When the

simulation was good enough, it became the reality—for a while, anyhow. That was what the math said.

He thought he’d done a good enough job here.

And if he had . . . oh, if he had! He knew a hell of a lot more now, at forty, than he had when he was

twenty-one. If he-now could be back with Megan for a while instead of his younger self, he could make

things right. He could make things last. He knew it. He had to, if he ever wanted to be happy again.

I’ll fix it,he thought.I’ll fix everything. And when I slide back to here-and-now, I won’t have his

emptiness in my past. Everything will be the way it could have been, the way it should have been.

An image began to emerge from the VR blankness. It was the same image he’d seen before slipping on

the mask: blue tile walls with white grouting, acoustic ceiling, sinks with a mirror above them, urinals

off to the left, toilet stalls behind him.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. Sure as hell, the men’s room hadn’t changed at all.

“Program superstrings–slash–virtual reality–slash–not so virtual reality is done,” the PowerBook told

him.

He took off the mask. Here he sat, on his suitcases, in the men’s room of his office building. 2018?

1999? He couldn’t tell, not staying in here. If everything had worked out the way he’d calculated, it

would be before business hours back when he’d arrived, too. All he had to do was walk out that front

door and hope the security guard wasn’t right there.

No. What he really had to hope was that the security guard wasn’t Bill.

He put the computer in his backpack again. He picked up the suitcases and walked to the men’s-room

door. He set down a case so he could open the door. His heart pounded harder than ever. Yes? Or no?

Justin took two steps down the hall toward the stairs before he whispered, “Yes!” Instead of the gray-

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green carpet he’d walked in on, this stuff was an ugly mustard yellow. He had no proof he was in 1999,

not yet. But he wasn’t in Kansas any more.

The place had the quiet-before-the-storm feeling offices get waiting for people to show up for work.

That fit Justin’s calculations. The air conditioner was noisier, wheezier, than the system that had been—

would be—in his time. But it kept the corridor noticeably cooler than it had been when he lugged his

stuff into the men’s room. The ’90s had ridden an oil glut. They burned lavishly to beat summer heat.

His time couldn’t.

There was the doorway that led to the stairs. Down he went. The walls were different: industrial yellow,

not battleship gray. When he got to the little lobby, he didn’t recognize the furniture. What was there

seemed no better or worse than what he was used to, but it was different.

If there was a guard, he was off making his rounds. Justin didn’t wait for him. He opened the door. He

wondered if that would touch off the alarm, but it didn’t. He stepped out into the cool, fresh early

morning air of . . . when?

He walked through the empty lot to the sidewalk, then looked around. Across the street, a woman out

power-walking glanced his way, but didn’t stop. She wore a cap, a T-shirt, and baggy shorts, which

proved nothing. But then he looked at the parked cars, and began to grin a crazy grin. Most of them had

smooth jelly-bean lines, which, to his eyes, was two style changes out of date. If this wasn’t 1999, it was

damn close.

With a clanking rumble of iron, a MetroLink train pulled into the little station behind his office. A

couple of people got off; a handful got on. In his day, with gas ever scarcer, ever costlier, that commuter

train would have far more passengers.

Standing on the sidewalk, unnoticed by the world around him, he pumped a fist in the air. “I did it!” he

said. “I really did it!”

Having done it, he couldn’t do anything else, not for a little while. Not much was open at half past five.

But there was a Denny’s up the street. Suitcases in hand, he trudged toward it. The young, bored-looking

Hispanic waitress who seated him gave him a fishy stare. “You coulda left your stuff in the car,” she

said pointedly.

His answer was automatic: “I don’t have a car.” Her eyebrows flew upward. If you didn’t have a car in L.

A., you were nobody. If you didn’t have a car and did have suitcases, you were liable to be a

dangerously weird nobody. He had to say something. Inspiration struck: “I just got off the train.

Somebody should’ve picked me up, but he blew it. Toast and coffee, please?”

She relaxed. “Okay—coming up. White, rye, or whole wheat?”

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“Wheat.” Justin looked around. He was the only customer in the place. “Can you keep an eye on the

cases for a second? I want to buy aTimes .” He’d seen the machine out front, but hadn’t wanted to stop

till he got inside. When the waitress nodded, he got a paper. It was only a quarter. That boggled him; he

paid two bucks weekdays, five Sundays.

But the date boggled him more.June 22, 1999. Right on the money. He went back inside. The coffee

waited for him, steaming gently. The toast came up a moment later. As he spread grape jam over it, he

glanced at theTimes and wondered what his younger self was doing now.

Sleeping, you dummy.He’d liked to sleep late when he was twenty-one, and finals at Cal State

Northridge would have just ended. He’d have the CompUSA job to go to, but the place didn’t open till

ten.

Megan would be sleeping, too. He thought of her lying in a T-shirt and sweats at her parents’ house,

wiggling around the way she did in bed. Maybe she was dreaming of him and smiling. She would be

smiling now. A few years from now . . . Well, he’d come to fix that.

He killed forty-five minutes. By then, the restaurant was filling up. The waitress started to look ticked.

Justin ordered bacon and eggs and hash browns. They bought him the table for another hour. He tried

not to think about what the food was doing to his coronary arteries. His younger self wouldn’t have

cared. His younger self loved Denny’s.My younger self was a fool, he thought.

He paid, again marveling at how little things cost. Of course, people didn’t make much, either; you

could live well on $100,000 a year. He tried to imagine living on $100,000 in 2018, and shook his head.

You couldn’t do it, not if you felt like eating, too.

When he went out to the parking lot, he stood there for forty minutes, looking back toward the train

station. By then, it was getting close to eight o’clock. Up a side street from the Denny’s was a block of

apartment buildings with names like the Tivoli, the Gardens, and the Yachtsman. Up the block he

trudged. The Yachtsman had a vacancy sign.

The manager looked grumpy at getting buzzed so early, but the sight of greenbacks cheered him up in a

hurry. He rented Justin a one-bedroom furnished apartment at a ridiculously low rate. “I’m here on

business,” Justin said, which was true . . . in a way. “I’ll pay three months in advance if you fix me up

with a TV and a stereo. They don’t have to be great. They just have to work.”

“I’d have to root around,” the manager said. “It’d be kind of a pain.” He waited. Justin passed him two

fifties. He nodded. So did Justin. This was business, too. The manager eyed his suitcases. “You’ll want

to move in right away, won’t you?”

Justin nodded again. “And I’ll want to use your phone to set up my phone service.”

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“Okay,” the manager said with a sigh. “Come into my place here. I’ll get things set up.” His fish-faced

wife watched Justin with wide, pale, unblinking eyes while he called the phone company and made

arrangements. The manager headed off with a vacuum cleaner. In due course, he came back. “You’re

ready. TV and stereo are in there.”

“Thanks.” Justin went upstairs to the apartment. It was small and bare, with furniture that had seen better

decades. The TV wasn’t new. The stereo was so old, it didn’t play CDs, only records and cassettes.

Well, his computer could manage CDs. He accepted a key to the apartment and another for the security

gates, then unpacked. He couldn’t do everything he wanted till he got a phone, but he was here.

He used a pay phone to call a cab, and rode over to a used-car lot. He couldn’t do everything he wanted

without wheels, either. He had no trouble proving he was himself; he’d done some computer forgery

before he left to make his driver’s license expire in 2003, as it really did. His number hadn’t changed.

Security holograms that would have given a home machine trouble here-and-now were a piece of cake

to graphics programs from 2018. His younger self didn’t know he’d just bought a new old car: a gray

early-’90s Toyota much like the one he was already driving.

“Insurance is mandatory,” the salesman said. “I can sell you a policy . . .” Justin let him do it, to his

barely concealed delight. It was, no doubt, highway robbery, especially since Justin was nominally only

twenty-one. He’d dressed for the age he affected, in T-shirt and jeans. To him, though, no 1999 prices

seemed expensive. He paid cash and took the car.

Getting a bank account wasn’t hard, either. He chose a bank his younger self didn’t use. Research paid

off: he deposited only $9,000. Ten grand or more in cash and the bank would have reported the

transaction to the government. He didn’t want that kind of notice. He wanted no notice at all. The

assistant manager handed him a book of temporary checks. “Good to have your business, Mr. Kloster.

The personalized ones will be ready in about a week.”

“Okay.” Justin went off to buy groceries. He wasn’t a great cook, but he was a lot better than his

younger self. He’d had to learn, and had.

Once the groceries were stowed in the pantry and the refrigerator, he left again, this time to a bookstore.

He went to the computer section first, to remind himself of the state of the art. After a couple of minutes,

he was smiling and shaking his head. Had he done serious work with this junk? He supposed he had, but

he was damned if he saw how. Before he was born, people had used slide rules because there weren’t

any computers yet, or even calculators. He was damned if he saw how they’d done any work, either.

But the books didn’t have exactly what he wanted. He went to the magazine rack. There was

aMacAddict in a clear plastic envelope. The CD-ROM that came with the magazine would let him start

an account on a couple of online services. Once he had one, he could e-mail his younger self, and then

he’d be in business.

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Harry Turtledove - Counting Up, Counting Down

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