Joe Haldeman - Worlds

(I saw a real groundhog. Benny asked why it made me laugh; I said it reminded me of a friend.)

He’s not like most of the Earth men. He’s polite but not deferential or condescending. Except for a funny observation at the monkey house, he never mentioned sex, even though we went back to his apartment after the zoo, to look over the seminar notes. It could be a diversionary tactic, of course, but I don’t think so. He seems too open and simple. He reminds me a little of Damien (who also wrote poetry, I recall), and of New New men in general. I feel comfortable with him.

He lives in a tiny flat down by Washington Square, even smaller than my dormitory room; about the size of my room in New New. It was cluttered with stacks of books and files; he had a phone but no cube. When he let the bed down from the wall, it took up most of the clear floor space. (I clenched my knees at that, but it was the only place to sit besides his desk chair; he gave me my choice.)

After we’d gone over the notes, I asked whether I could see some of his poetry, and he said he’d rather wait until we knew each other better. He’d had a few of them published, but didn’t like those anymore, and he politely refused to talk about what he was doing now that was different. He said that words you used up on air could never live on paper. Fair enough, I guess. He did show me some of his artwork, which looked more like an engineer’s work than a poet’s: meticulously detailed street scenes done in rigid pen-and-ink, with carefully graded washes. He said he only did it to relax, and occasionally pick up some tourist money.

He’s lived in New York all his life; in this same flat since he was sixteen. He obviously has spent a lot of his money on books. Many of them weren’t library printouts, but were actually hard-printed and bound. One whole shelf was taken up by antique books, bound in leather.

Besides selling his art, he picked up a little money tutoring and baby-sitting (lots of small children in his apartment complex), and he had a small scholarship from the city.

I haven’t mentioned that he has a weird sense of humor and can juggle, four coins at once. He makes figures out of string, like cat’s-cradles but more complicated. He’s tall and skinny and always wears a hat, and never opens his mouth when he smiles, which is often.

I’m glad he didn’t complicate my feelings by making any overtures. I would probably say yes and regret it, or no and regret it, or later maybe and worry about it.

10 Sept. Reread the Twain and the Melville and went to the library to listen to exaggerated dialect samples, practicing the phonetic alphabet. I should have asserted myself when the advisor recommended this course. It can’t possibly help me back home.

Ate a hamburger, beef, for lunch and waited for it to explode. Nothing happened. Though I’ll probably dream about that damned cow tonight.

While at the library I made a copy of Brant’s Clarinet Concerto , though my schedule hasn’t settled down enough yet to plan regular practice hours. Played for a couple of hours before dinner. Two weeks on the shuttle didn’t help my lip. (Dropped by a music store and bought a bamboo reed—ten dollars! It tastes bitter but has a more mellow sound than plastic.)

11 Sept. The man who sits next to me in the management seminar is a federal policeman (FBI); he showed up in uniform tonight. It was a “field” uniform, light armor, and he was carrying one of those mirror helmets.

He explained that he had to go straight from class to an FBI class in night maneuvers. He’s training for a field commission but also wants to get his M.M., so he can switch over to management eventually.

I sort of liked him before; now I don’t know. He’s a quiet man, but with the uniform his quiet has a dangerous, smoldering quality. Oh, he explained about the mirrored helmets: they protect your eyes against laser fire, beyond a certain range. I’d assumed the reason was psychological. The invisible man, machine-like, invulnerable.

His name is Jeff Hawkings and he sort of reminds me of Charlie. Same slope-shouldered hugeness, and with his close-cropped blond hair, he almost looks bald. Even bigger than Charlie, and more articulate, of course, and better educated. But I have a feeling their basic drives are parallel.

It does annoy me. Nobody’s responsible for where he was born, all right; nobody has control over his early environment But I get this definite radiation from Hawkings that he’s totally in control, that I should be just quivering to slip between some sheets with him, that when he gets around to it he’ll give me the signal….

Get ahold of yourself, O’Hara. Three weeks of abstinence and every man is a penis. Projecting your own need—no, it’s not that simple. Earth men are different.

Well, there’s always the Worlds Club meeting tomorrow. Latch on to a Devonite, for old times’ sake.

12 Sept. The club meeting was informal and comfortable. We met in the back room of the River Liffey, an old Irish-style pub (black stout on draught; John will be so envious). After a short and raucous business meeting, we fell naturally into small groups from each World.

There were ten others from New New. Being the most recent addition, I was quizzed for information and gossip. Even though they can’t vote, they were interested in the upcoming elections. (I think Markus will be reelected; there are so many candidates for Engineering Coordinator-elect that it’s anybody’s game, though John thinks Good-man will at least get the engineers’ votes, for his CC work. That’s only one or two percent, though.)

The club meets on Tuesday nights because that’s the night of the weekly Worlds news broadcast. A half-hour of watching Jules Hammond drone on about balance of payments. Will I ever be nostalgic enough to look forward to that?

One of the men I slightly knew from highschool; he was in the form ahead of me, and we both played in the orchestra. He was percussion, though, on the other side of the room. I couldn’t think of his name and, after having recognized him, didn’t have any graceful way to ask him (being new, I was wearing a nametag).

I have a feeling that many of these people have no social life outside of the club. Must not fall into that trap; it is so comfortable, being with your own kind. I have to learn all I can about Earth people, especially Americans. The transition to separation and independence will come in my lifetime, and I will be involved, in administration if not politics per se. It won’t be a smooth transition.

(Suddenly I’m reminded of Benjamin Franklin, who spent twenty years trying to avert a revolutionary war, living in England most of that time, eloquently explaining the Colonies in England and vice versa. He was a glib and charming genius, and he failed. What am I? What will I have to do? Sometimes—now, in the dark morning—I have an almost mystical certainty that I will be some sort of a pivot, and the more I learn of history the less I want to be caught in the middle of it.)

I drank a little too much and so walked back to the dormitory-about three kilometers-with two other women, one from New New (Sheryl Markham Devon) and one from Von Braun (Claire Oswald). The walk cleared my head and woke me up. So deliciously cool now. I think New New’s planners made a mistake by choosing a constant subtropical climate. Too late to change, though, without importing a whole new ecology for the park.

New York’s streets are spooky after midnight. Most of the cabs are garaged and there’s almost no truck traffic, or buses. The slidewalks are all turned off. Half the people we met were police, and the other half were strange. A male prostitute made us a remarkable offer. Sheryl’s reply left Claire and me helpless with laughing; the whore just stood there open-mouthed. She was only half-joking, I suspect.