Poul Anderson - Two In Time

THERE WILL BE TIME

by Poul Anderson

BE AT EASE. I’m not about to pretend this story is true. First, that claim is a literary convention which

went out with Theo-dore Roosevelt of happy memory. Second, you wouldn’t be-lieve it. Third, any tale

signed with my name must stand or fall as entertainment; I am a writer, not a cultist. Fourth, itis my own

composition. Where doubts or gaps occur in that mass of notes, clippings, photographs, and

recollections of words spoken which was bequeathed me, I have supplied conjectures. Names, places,

and incidents have been changed as seemed needful. Throughout, my narrative uses the techniques of

fiction.

Finally, I don’t believe a line of it myself. Oh, we could get together, you and I, and ransack official files,

old newspapers, yearbooks, journals, and so on forever. But the effort and ex-pense would be large; the

results, even if positive, would prove little; we have more urgent jobs at hand; our discoveries could

conceivably endanger us.

These pages are merely for the purpose of saying a little about Dr. Robert Anderson. I do owe the book

to him. Many of the sentences are his, and my aim throughout has been to capture something of his style

and spirit, in memoriam.

You see, I already owed him much more. In what follows, you may recognize certain things from earlier

stories of mine. He gave me those ideas, those backgrounds and people, in hour after hour while we sat

with sherry and Mozart before a drift-wood fire, which is the best kind. I greatly modified them, in part

for literary purposes, in part to make the tales my own work. But the core remained his. He would

accept no share of payment. “If you sell it,” he laughed, “take Karen out to an extravagant dinner in San

Francisco, and empty a pony of akvavit for me.”

Of course, we talked about everything else too. My memo-ries are rich with our conversations. He had

a pawky sense of humor. The chances are overwhelming that, in leaving me a boxful of material in the

form he did, he was turning his pri-vate fantasies into a final, gentle joke.

On the other hand, parts of it are uncharacteristically bleak.

Or are they? A few times, when I chanced to be present with one or two of his smaller grandchildren,

I’d notice his pleasure in their company interrupted by moments of what looked like pain. And when last

I saw him, our talk turned on the probable shape of the future, and suddenly he exclaimed, “Oh, God, the

young, the poor young! Poul, my generation and yours have had it outrageously easy. All we ever had to

do was be white Americans in reasonable health, and we got our place in the sun. But now history’s

returning to its normal climate here also, and the norm is an ice age.” He tossed off his glass and poured a

refill more quickly than was his wont. “The tough and lucky will survive,” he said. “The rest . . . will have

had what happiness was granted them. A medical man ought to be used to that kind of truth, right?” And

he changed the subject.

In his latter years Robert Anderson was tall and spare, a bit stoop-shouldered but in excellent shape,

which he attributed to hiking and bicycling. His face was likewise lean, eyes blue be-hind heavy glasses,

clothes and white hair equally rumpled. His speech was slow, punctuated by gestures of a pipe if he was

en-joying his twice-a-day smoke. His manner was relaxed and ami-able. Nevertheless, he was as

independent as his cat. “At my stage of life,” he observed, “what was earlier called oddness or orneriness

counts as lovable eccentricity. I take full advantage of the fact.” He grinned. “Come your turn, remember

what I’ve said.”

On the surface, his life had been calm. He was born in Phila-delphia in1895, a distant relative of my

father. Though our family is of Scandinavian origin, a branch has been in the States since the Civil War.

But he and I never heard of each other till one of his sons, who happened to be interested in genealogy,

happened to settle down near me and got in touch. When the old man came visiting, my wife and I were

invited over and at once hit it off with him.

His own father was a journalist, who in 1910 got the edi-torship of the newspaper in a small

upper-Midwestern town (current population 10,000; less then) which I choose to call Senlac. He later

described the household as nominally Episco-palian and principally Democratic. He had just finished his

pre-medical studies when America entered the First World War and he found himself in the Army; but he

never got overseas. Discharged, he went on to his doctorate and internship. My impression is that

meanwhile he exploded a bit, in those hip-flask days. It cannot have been too violent. Eventually he

returned to Senlac, hung out his shingle, and married his long-time fiancée.

I think he was always restless. However, the work of gen-eral practitioners was far from dull-before

progress con-demned them to do little more than man referral desks-and his marriage was happy. Of

four children, three boys lived to adulthood and are still flourishing.

In 1955 he retired to travel with his wife. I met him soon afterward. She died in 1958 and he sold their

house but bought a cottage nearby. Now his journeys were less extensive; he re-marked quietly that

without Kate they were less fun. Yet he kept a lively interest in life.

He told me of those folk whom I, not he, have called the Maurai, as if it were a fable which he had

invented but lacked the skill to make into a story. Some ten years later he seemed worried about me, for

no reason I could see, and I in my turn worried about what time might be doing to him. But presently he

came out of this. Though now and then an underlying grim-ness showed through, he was mostly himself

again. There is no doubt that he knew what he was doing, for good or ill, when he wrote the clause into

his will concerning me.

I was to use what he left me as I saw fit.

Late last year, unexpectedly and asleep, Robert Anderson took his death. We miss him.

-P. A.

1

THE BEGINNING shapes the end, but I can say almost nothing of Jack Havig’s origins, despite the

fact that I brought him into the world. On a cold February morning, 1933, who thought of ge-netic

codes, or of Einstein’s work as anything that could ever descend from its mathematical Olympus to dwell

among men, or of the strength in lands we supposed were safely conquered? I do remember what a slow

and difficult birth he had. It was Eleanor Havig’s first, and she quite young and small. I felt re-luctant to

do a Caesarian; maybe it’s my fault that she never conceived again by the same husband. Finally the red

wrinkled animal dangled safe in my grasp. I slapped his bottom to make him draw his indignant breath, he

let the air back out in a wail, and everything proceeded as usual.

Delivery was on the top floor, the third, of our county hos-pital, which stood at what was then the edge

of town. Removing my surgical garb, I had a broad view out a window. To my right, Senlac clustered

along a frozen river, red brick at the middle, frame homes on tree-lined streets, grain elevator and water

tank rearing ghostly in dawnlight near the railway sta-tion. Ahead and to my left, hills rolled wide and

white under a low gray sky, here and there roughened by leafless woodlots, fence lines, and a couple of

farmsteads. On the edge of sight loomed a darkness which was Morgan Woods. My breath misted the

pane, whose chill made my sweaty body shiver a bit.

“Well,” I said half aloud, “welcome to Earth, John Franklin Havig.” His father had insisted on having

names ready for ei-ther sex. “Hope you enjoy yourself.”

Hell of a time to arrive, I thought. A worldwide depression hanging heavy as winter heaven. Last year

noteworthy for the Japanese conquest of Manchuria, bonus march on Washing-ton, Lindbergh

kidnapping. This year begun in the same style:

Adolf Hitler had become Chancellor of Germany. . . . Well, a new President was due to enter the White

House, the end of Prohibition looked certain, and springtime in these parts is as lovely as our autumn.

I sought the waiting room. Thomas Havig climbed to his feet. He was not a demonstrative man, but the

question trem-bled on his lips. I took his hand and beamed. “Congratulations, Tom,” I said. “You’re the

father of a bouncing baby boy. I know-I just dribbled him all the way down the hall to the nursery.”

My attempt at a joke came back to me several months after-ward.

Senlac is a commercial center for an agricultural area; it maintains some light industry, and that’s about

the list. Having no real choice in the matter, I was a Rotarian, but found ex-cuses to minimize my activity

and stay out of the lodges. Don’t get me wrong. These people are mine. I like and in many ways admire

them. They’re the salt of the earth. It’s simply that I want other condiments too.

Under such circumstances, Kate’s and my friends tended to be few but close. There was her banker

father, who’d staked me; I used to kid him that he’d done so because he wanted a Democrat to argue

with. There was the lady who ran our public library. There were three or four professors and their wives

at Holberg College, though the forty miles between us and them was considered rather an obstacle in

those days. And there were the Havigs.

These were transplanted New Englanders, always a bit homesick; but in the ‘30’s you took what jobs

were to be had. He taught physics and chemistry at our high school. In addi-tion, he must coach for

track. Slim, sharp-featured, the shy-ness of youth upon him as well as an inborn reserve, Tom got

through his secondary chore mainly on student tolerance. They were fond of him; besides, we had a good

football team. Elea-nor was darker, vivacious, an avid tennis player and active in her church’s poor-relief

work. “It’s fascinating, and I think it’s useful,” she told me early in our acquaintance. With a shrug:

“At least it lets Tom and me feel we aren’t altogether hypo-crites. You may’ve guessed we only belong

because the school board would never keep on a teacher who didn’t.”

I was surprised at the near hysteria in her voice when she phoned my office and begged me to come.

A doctor’s headquarters were different then from today, es-pecially in a provincial town. I’d converted

two front rooms of the big old house where we lived, one for interviews, one for examination and

treatments, including minor surgery. I was my own receptionist and secretary. Kate helped with

paper-work-looking back from now, it seems impossibly little, but perhaps she never let on-and, what

few times patients must wait their turns, she entertained them in the parlor. I’d made my morning rounds,

and nobody was due for a while; I could jump straight into the Marmon and drive down Union Street to

Elm.

I remember the day was furnace hot, never a cloud above or a breath below, the trees along my way

standing like cast green iron. Dogs and children panted in their shade. No birdsong broke the growl of

my car engine. Dread closed on me. Eleanor had cried her Johnny’s name, and this was polio weather.

But when I entered the fan-whirring venetian-blinded dim-ness of her home, she embraced me and

shivered. “Am I going crazy, Bob?” she gasped, over and over. “Tell me I’m not go-ing crazy!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I murmured. “Have you called Tom?” He eked out his meager pay with a

summer job, quality control at the creamery.

“No, I. . . I thought--”

“Sit down, Ellie.” I disengaged us. “You look sane enough to me. Maybe you’ve let the heat get you.

Relax--flop loose--unclench your teeth, roll your head around. Feel better? Okay, now tell me what you

think happened.”

“Johnny. Two of him. Then one again.” She choked. “Theother one!”

“Huh? Whoa, I said, Ellie. Let’s take this a piece at a time.” Her eyes pleaded while she stumbled

through the story. “I, I, I was bathing him when I heard a baby scream. I thought that must be from a

buggy or something, outside. But it sounded as if it came from the . . . the bedroom. At last I wrapped

Johnny in a towel--couldn’t leave him in the water--and carried him along for a, a look. And there was

another tiny boy, there in his crib, naked and wet, kicking and yelling. I was so astonished I. . . dropped

mine. I was bent over the crib, he should’ve landed on the mattress, but, oh, Bob, he didn’t. He

vanished. In midair. I’d made a, an instinctive grab for him. All I caught was the towel. Johnny was gone!

I think I must’ve passed out for a few seconds. And when I hunted I--found—nothing--”

“What about the strange baby?” I demanded.

“He’s. . . not gone. . . I think.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go see.”

And in the room, immensely relieved, I crowed: “Why, no-body here but good ol’ John.”

She clutched my arm. “He looks the same.” The infant had calmed and was gurgling. “He sounds the

same. Except he can’t be!”

“The dickens he can’t. Ellie, you had a hallucination. No great surprise in this weather, when you’re still

weak.” Actually, I’d never encountered such a case before, certainly not in a woman as levelheaded as

she. But my words were not too im-plausible. Besides, half a GP’s medical kit is his confident tone of

voice.

She wasn’t fully reassured till we got the birth certificate and compared the prints of fingers and feet

thereon with the child’s. I prescribed a tonic, jollied her over a cup of coffee, and returned to work.

When nothing similar happened for a while, I pretty well forgot the incident. That was the year when the

only daughter Kate and I would ever have caught pneumonia and died, soon after her second birthday.

Johnny Havig was bright, imaginative, and a loner. The more he came into command of limbs and

language, the less he was inclined to join his peers. He seemed happiest at his minia-ture desk drawing

pictures, or in the yard modeling clay ani-mals, or sailing a toy boat along the riverbank when an adult

took him there. Eleanor worried about him. Tom didn’t. “I was the same,” he would say. “It makes for

an odd childhood and a terrible adolescence, but I wonder if it doesn’t pay off when you’re grown.”

“We’ve got to keep a closer eye on him,” she declared. “You don’t realize how often he disappears.

Oh, sure, a game for him, hide-and-seek in the shrubbery or the basement or wherever. Grand sport,

listening to Mommy hunt up the close and down the stair, hollering. Someday, though, he’ll find his way

past the picket fence and--” Her fingers drew into fists. “He could get run over.”

The crisis came when he was four. By then he understood that vanishings meant spankings, and had

stopped (as far as his parents knew. They didn’t see what went on in his room). But one summer

morning he was not in his bed, and he was not to be found, and every policeman and most of the

neighbor-hood were out in search.

At midnight the doorbell rang. Eleanor was asleep, after I had commanded her to take a pill. Tom sat

awake, alone. He dropped his cigarette-the scorch mark in the rug would long remind him of his

agony-and knocked over a chair on his way to the front entrance.

A man stood on the porch. He wore a topcoat and shadow-ing hat which turned him featureless. Not

that that made any difference. Tom’s whole being torrented over the boy who held the man by the hand.

“Good evening, sir,” said a pleasant voice. “I believe you’re looking for this young gentleman?”

And, when Tom knelt to seize his son, hold him, weep and try to babble thanks, the man departed.

“Funny,” Tom said to me afterward. “I couldn’t have been focusing entirely on Johnny for more than a

minute. You know Elm Street has good lamps and no cover. Even in a sprint, nobody could get out of

sight fast. Besides, running feet would’ve set a dozen dogs barking. But the pavement was empty.”

The child would say nothing except that he had been “around,” and was sorry, and wouldn’t wander

again.

Nor did he. In fact, he emerged from his solitariness to the extent of acquiring one inseparable friend, the

Dunbar boy. Pete fairly hulked over his slight, quiet companion. He was no fool; today he manages the

local A & P. But John, as he now wanted to be called, altogether dominated the relationship. They

played his games, went to his favorite vacant lots and, later, his chosen parts of Morgan Woods, enacted

the histories of his visionary worlds.

His mother sighed, in my cluttered carbolic-and-leather-smelling office: “I suppose John’s so good at

daydreaming that even for Pete, the real world seems pale by contrast. That’s the trouble. He’s too good

at it.”

This was in the second year following. I’d seen him through a couple of the usual ailments, but otherwise

had no cause to suspect problems and was startled when Eleanor requested an appointment to discuss

him. She’d laughed over the phone:

“Well, you know Tom’s Yankee conscience. He’d never let me ask you professional questions on a

social occasion.” The sound had been forlorn.

I settled back in my creaky swivel chair, bridged my fingers, and said, “Do you mean he tells you things

that can’t be true, but which he seems to believe are? Quite common. Always out-grown.”

“I wonder, Bob.” She frowned at her lap. “Isn’t he kind of old for that?”

“Perhaps. Especially in view of his remarkably fast physical and mental development, these past months.

However, prac-ticing medicine has driven into my bones the fact that ‘average’ and ‘normal’ do not

mean the same. . . . Okay. John has imaginary playmates?”

She tried to smile. “Well, an imaginary uncle.”

I lifted my brows. “Indeed? Just what has he said to you?”

“Hardly anything. What do children ever tell their parents?

But I’ve overheard him talking to Pete, often, about his Uncle Jack who comes and takes him on all

sorts of marvelous trips.”

“Uncle Jack, eh? What kind of trips? To this kingdom you once mentioned he’s invented, which Leo the

Lion rules over?”

“N-no. That’s another weird part. He’ll describe Animal Land to Tom and me; he knows perfectly well

it’s pure fan-tasy. But these journeys with his ‘uncle’ . . . they’re different. What snatches I’ve caught are,

well, realistic. A visit to an In-dian camp, for instance. They weren’t storybook or movie In-dians. He

described work they had to do, and the smell of drying hides and dung fires. Or, another time, he claimed

he’d been taken on an airplane ride. I can see how he might dream up an airplane bigger than a house.

But why did he dwell on its having no propellers? I thought boys loved to goeee-yowww like a diving

plane. No, his flew smooth and nearly noiseless. A movie was shown aboard. In Technicolor. He actually

had a name for the machine. Jet? Yes, I think he said ‘jet.’”

“You’re afraid his imagination may overcome him?” I asked needlessly. When she nodded, swallowing,

I leaned forward, patted her hand, and told her:

“Ellie, imagination is the most precious thing childhood has got. The ability to imagine in detail, like those

Indians, is be-yond valuation. Your boy is more than sane; he may be a gen-ius. Whatever you do, never

try to kill that in him.”

I still believe I was right-totally mistaken, but right.

On this warm day, I chuckled and finished, “As for his, uh, jet airplane, I’ll bet you a dozen doughnut

holes Pete Dunbar has a few Buck Rogers Big Little Books.”

All small boys were required to loathe school, and John went through the motions. No doubt much of it

did bore him, as must be true of any kid who can think and is forced into lockstep. However, his grades

were excellent, and he was genuinely gripped by what science and history were offered. (“A star passed

near our sun and pulled out a ribbon of flaming gas that became the planets. . . . The periods of world

civilization are Egypt, Greece, Rome, the Middle Ages, and modern time, which began in 1492.”)

His circle of friends, if not intimates, widened. Both sets of parents regretted that my Billy was four years

older, Jimmy two and Stuart three years younger, than Johnny. At their stage of life, those gaps dwarfed

the Grand Canyon. John shunned or-ganized games, and by and large existed on the fringes of the tribe.

For instance, Eleanor had to do the entire organizing of his birthday parties. Nevertheless, between his

gentle manner and his remarkable fund of conversation--when someone else took the initiative and

stimulated him--he was fairly well liked.

In his eighth year he caused a new sensation. A couple of older boys from the tough side of the tracks

decided it would be fun to lie in wait for individuals on their way back from school and pummel them.

Buses only carried farm children, and Senlac wasn’t yet built solid; most walking routes had lonely spots.

Naturally, the victims could never bring them-selves to complain.

The sportsmen did, after they jumped John Havig. They blubbered that he’d called an army to his aid.

And beyond doubt, they had taken a systematic drubbing.

The tale earned them an extra punishment. “Bullies are al-ways cowards,” said fathers to their sons.

“Look what hap-pened when that nice Havig boy stood up and fought.” For a while he was regarded

with awe, though he blushed and stam-mered and refused to give details; and thereafter we called him

Jack.

Otherwise the incident soon dropped into obscurity. That was the year when France fell.

“Any news of the phantom uncle?” I asked Eleanor. Some families had gotten together for a party, but I

wanted a respite from political talk.

“What?” She blinked, there where we stood on the Stocktons’ screened porch. Lighted windows and

buzzing conversa-tion at our backs didn’t blot out a full moon above the chapel of Holberg College, or

the sound of crickets through a warm and green-odorous dark. “Oh.” She dimpled. “You mean my

son’s. No, not for quite a while. You were right, that was only a phase.”

“Or else he’s learned discretion.” I wouldn’t have uttered my thought aloud if I’d been thinking.

Stricken, she said, “You mean he may have clammed up completely? He is reserved, he does tell us

nothing important, or anybody else as far as I can learn--”

“I.E.,” I said in haste, “he takes after his dad. Well, Ellie, you got yourself a good man, and your

daughter-in-law will too. Come on, let’s go in and refresh our drinks.”

My records tell me the exact day when, for a while, Jack Havig’s control broke apart.

Tuesday, April 14, 1942. The day before, Tom had made the proud announcement to his son. He had

not mentioned his hope earlier, save to his wife, because he wasn’t sure what would happen. But now he

had the notice. The school had ac-cepted his resignation, and the Army his enlistment, as of term’s end.

Doubtless he could have gotten a deferment. He was over thirty, and a teacher, of science at that. In

truth, he would have served his country better by staying. But the crusade had been preached, the wild

geese were flying, the widowmaker whis-tled beyond the safe dull thresholds of Senlac. I also,

middle-aged, looked into the possibility of uniform, but they talked me out of trying.

Eleanor’s call drew me from bed before sunrise. “Bob, you’ve got to come, right away, please, please.

Johnny. He’s hysterical. Worse than hysterical. I’m afraid . . . brain fever or-Bob, come!”

I hurried to hold the thin body in my arms, try to make sense of his ravings, eventually give him an

injection. Before then Jack had shrieked, vomited, clung to his father like a second skin, clawed himself

till blood ran and beaten his head against the wall. “Daddy, Daddy, don’t go, they’ll kill you, I know, I

know, I saw, I was there an’ I saw, I looked in that window right there an’ Mother was crying, Daddy,

Daddy, Daddy!”

I kept him under graduated sedation for the better part of a week. That long was needed to quiet him

down. He was a list-less invalid until well into May.

This was absolutely no normal reaction. Other boys whose fathers were off to war gloried, or claimed

they did. Well, I thought, Jack wasn’t any of them.

He recovered and buckled down to his schoolwork. He was in Tom’s company at every imaginable

opportunity, and some that nobody would have imagined beforehand. This included furloughs, spent at

home. Between times, he wrote almost daily letters to his father—

--who was killed in Italy, August 6, 1943.

2

A DOCTOR cannot endure having made his inevitable grisly blun-ders unless he recalls enough rescues

to offset them. I count Jack Havig among those who redeemed me. Yet I helped less as a physician than

as a man.

My special knowledge did let me see that, beneath a tight-held face, the boy was seriously disturbed.

Outside the eastern states, gasoline was not rationed in 1942. I arranged for a col-league to take over my

practice, and when school closed, Bill and I went on a trip. . . and we took Jack along.

In Minnesota’s Arrowhead we rented a canoe and entered that wilderness of lakes, bogs, and splendid

timber which reaches on into Canada. For an entire month we were myself, my thirteen-year-old son,

and my all but adopted son whom I believed to be nine years of age.

It’s rain and mosquito country; paddling against a headwind is stiff work; so is portaging; to make camp

required more effort than if we’d had today’s ingenious gear and freeze-dried rations. Jack needed those

obstacles, that nightly exhaustion. After fewer days than might have been awaited, the land could begin to

heal him.

Hushed sunrises, light gold in the uppermost leaves and ashiver across broad waters; birdsong, rustle of

wind, scent of evergreen; a squirrel coaxed to take food from a hand; the soar-ing departure of deer;

blueberries in a bright warm opening of forest, till a bear arrived and we most respectfully turned the

place over to him; moose, gigantic and unafraid, watching us glide by; sunsets which shone through the

translucent wings of bats; dusk, fire and stories and Bill’s young wonderings about things, which showed

Jack better than I could have told him how big a world lies beyond our sorrows; a sleeping bag, and

stars uncountable.

It was the foundation of a cure.

Back home again, I made a mistake. “I hope you’re over this notion about your father, Jack. There’s no

such thing as fore-knowing the future.” He whitened, whirled, and ran from me. I needed weeks to regain

his confidence.

His trust, at any rate. He confided nothing to me except the thoughts, hopes, problems of an ordinary

boy. I spoke no fur-ther of his obsession, nor did he. But as much as time and circumstance allowed, I

tried to be a little of what he so desper-ately lacked, his father.

We could take no more long excursions while the war lasted. However, we had country roads to tramp,

Morgan Woods to roam and picnic in, the river for fishing and swim-ming, Lake Winnego and my small

sailboat not far off. He could come around to my garage workshop and make a bird feeder for himself or

a broom rack for his mother. We could talk.

I do believe he won to a measure of calm about Tom’s death by the time it happened. Everybody

assumed his premonition was coincidental.

Eleanor had already taken a job in the library, plus giving quite a few hours per week to the hospital.

Widowhood struck her hard. She rallied gamely, but for a long while was subdued and unsocial. Kate

and I tried to get her out, but she declined invitations more often than not.

When at last she began to leave her shell, it was mostly in the company of others than her old circle. I

couldn’t keep from remarking: “You know, Ellie, I’m damn glad to see you back in circulation.

Still--forgive me--your new friends are kind of a surprise.”

She reddened and looked away. “True,” she said low.

“Perfectly good people, of course. But, uh, not what you’d call intellectual types, are they?”

“N-no. . . . All right.” She straightened in her chair. “Bob, let’s be frank. I don’t want to leave here, if

only because of what you are to Jack. Nor do I want to be buried alive, the way I was that first couple of

years. Tom influenced me; I don’t really have an academic turn of mind like his. And . . . you who we

went with. . . you’re all married.”

I abandoned as useless my intention in raising the matter--to tell her how alien her son was to those

practical-minded, loud-laughing men who squired her around, how deeply he was coming to detest them.

He was twelve when the nuclear thunderbolts slew two cities and man’s last innocence. Though the

astonishing growth rate I had noted in him earlier had slowed down to average since 1942, its effects

remained to make him precocious. That rein-forced the extreme solitariness which had set in. No longer

was Pete Dunbar, or any schoolmate, more than a casual associate. Politely but unshakably, Jack refused

everything extracurricu-lar. He did his lessons, and did them well, but his free time was his and nobody

else’s: his to read enormously, with emphasis on history books; to take miles-long hikes by himself; to

draw pictures or to shape things with the tools I’d helped him collect.

I don’t mean he was morbid. Lonely boys are not uncom-mon, and generally become reasonably

sociable adults. Jack was fond of the Amos ‘n’ Andy program, for instance, though he preferred Fred

Allen; and he had a dry wit of his own. I re-member various of his cartoons he showed me, one in

particu-lar suggested by a copy ofThe Outsider and Others which I lent him. In a dark, dank forest

were two human figures. The first, cowering and pointing, was unmistakably H. P. Love-craft. His

companion was a tweedy woman who snapped: “Of course they’re pallid and mushroomlike, Howard.

Theyare mushrooms.”

While he no longer depended on me, we saw a good bit of each other; and the age difference between

him and Bill was less important now, so that they two sometimes went together for a walk or a swim or a

boat ride-even, in 1948, a return to northern Minnesota with Jim and Stuart.

Soon after he came back from this, my second son asked me: “Dad, what’s a good book on, uh,

philosophy?”

“Eh?” I laid down my newspaper. “Philosophy, at thirteen?”

“Why not?” Kate said across her embroidery. “In Athens he’d have started younger.”

“Well, m-m, philosophy’s a mighty wide field, Jim,” I stalled. “What’s your immediate question?”

“Oh,” he mumbled, “free will and time and all that jazz. Jack Havig and Bill talked a lot about it on our

trip.”

I learned that Bill, being in college, had begun by posing as an authority, but soon found himself

entangled in problems--was the history of the universe written before its beginning? if so, why do we

know we make free choices? if not, how can we affect the course of the future . . . or the past?--which it

didn’t seem a high school kid could have pondered as thor-oughly as Jack had done.

When I asked my protégé what he wanted for Christmas, he answered: “Something I can understand

that explains rel-ativity.”

Poul Anderson - Two In Time

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