Gregory Benford - Timescape

James approached. “Greg, have you any information on the political mood in Washington? I was wondering…”

Marjorie saw the moment between herself and Greg was broken and she moved off, surveying the geometry of her guests. James and Greg fell to discussing politics. Greg shifted conversational gears immediately. They quickly disposed of the incessant strikes, the Trades Union Council taking most of the blame. James asked when the American government might reopen the stock market. John was hovering rather awkwardly. How odd, Marjorie thought, for a man to be so ill at ease in his own home. She sensed, from the wrinkling of his brow, that he was uncertain whether to join the two men. He knew nothing of the stock market and rather despised it as a form of gambling. She sighed and took pity on him.

“John, come and give me a hand, will you? I’m going to put the first course on the table now.”

He turned with relief and followed her into the house. She checked the mottled gray pâté and touched up the plates with carrot curls and lettuce from her vegetable garden. John helped her set out butter pats and Melba toast made from home-baked bread. He gingerly popped open some of her homemade wine.

Marjorie went among the knots of conversing people, shepherding them with little bursts of bright invitation toward the dining table. She felt rather like a sheep dog, doubling back to urge on those who had snagged at a point of interest and had stopped drifting in from the garden. There were murmured comments of appreciation at the table, set with flowers from the garden and individual candles cleverly folded into the napkins. She organized them around the table, Jan next to James as they seemed to be getting on well together. Greg sat by Heather; she seemed a bit nervous about this.

“Marjorie, you’re a marvel,” Heather declared. “This pâté is delicious—and this is home-made bread, isn’t it? However do you manage, with the power rationing and everything?”

“God, yes. Terrible, isn’t it?” Greg exclaimed. “I mean the power rationing,” he added quickly. “The pâté is excellent. Good bread, too. But to have electricity only four hours a day—incredible. I don’t know how you people can live with it,” and the table dissolved into “It’s an experimental measure, you understand”… “think it will last?”… “too many inequities”… “factories get power, of course”… “staggered working hours”… “ones who suffer—old codgers like us”… “the poor don’t care, do they?”… “as long as they can open a tin of beans and a pint of beer”… “the wealthy who have all the electrical gadgets who”… “that’s why it’ll be thrown straight out”… “I just do everything at the same time, laundry and vacuuming and”… “between ten and noon and the evening hours”… “Next month will be worse, when the hours change round again”… “East Anglia gets what the Midlands are getting now, twelve to two and eight to ten”—

John put in, “How long will it be before East Anglia gets this six to eight time slot again? It’s good for dinner parties, at least.”

“Not until November,” Marjorie answered. “Coronation month.”

“Ah, yes,” Greg murmured. “Dancing in the dank dark.”

“Well, they may make an exception,” Heather said, somewhat daunted by Greg’s wry tone. “How?”

“By letting the power stay on. So people round the country can all see it.”

“Yes,” Marjorie said, “London won’t need extra power to put it on. Come to think of it, a Coronation is quite ecological.”

“You intend ‘ecological’ to mean ‘virtuous,’ don’t you?” Greg asked.

“We-e-ell.” Marjorie drew out the word while she tried to judge just what Greg meant. “I know that’s a misuse of the word, but really, at a Coronation they always use horse-drawn coaches and the Abbey will be lit by candles. And they don’t need any heat there with all the peers in their furred robes.”

“Yes, I love to see them,” Jan said. “So colorful.”

“Quite public-minded, too, the peers.” James stated judiciously. “They’ve been very helpful to the government. Getting legislation through speedily and so on.”

“Oh, yes.” Greg smiled. “They’ll do anything for the worker, except become one.”

To a chorus of agreeing chuckles, Heather added, “Well, yes, anyone would rather talk than work. The peers just fill the air with their speeches.”

“And from what I’ve seen, vice versa,” Greg responded.

James’ face stiffened. Marjorie suddenly remembered that he had an influential relative in the House of Lords. She stood quickly and murmured something about fetching the chicken. As she left, Markham started a sentence about the American view of the opposition party and James’ thin-lipped mouth relaxed. One end of the table focused on Greg’s political stilettos and at the other James asked, “It still seems strange saying ‘the King’ after a whole lifetime of ‘the Queen,’ doesn’t it?”

Marjorie returned with a large casserole of chicken in cream sauce with spring vegetables and a rice pilaff. Appreciative murmurs greeted the wash of steamy aroma that rose when she lifted the lid. As she served the chicken, the conversation fragmented, James and Greg talking about the labor laws, the others talking of the forthcoming Coronation. Queen Elizabeth had abdicated in favor of her eldest son the previous Christmas and he had chosen to be crowned on his fiftieth birthday, in November.

John had gone to get more wine, a home-made hock this time.

“I think it’s a terrible waste of money,” Heather declared. “There are so many better things we could spend the money on than a Coronation. What about cancer for instance? The statistics are horrifying. One in four, is it now?” She abruptly fell silent.

Marjorie knew the cause, and yet it seemed pointless to smooth over it. She leaned forward. “How is your mother?”

Heather did not hesitate to take up the topic; Marjorie realized she needed to talk about it. “Mummy’s doing fine, all things considered. I mean, she’s deteriorating, of course, but she really seems to have accepted it. She was dreadfully afraid of being doped up at the end, you know.”

“She’s not going to be?” John asked.

“No, the doctors say not. There is this new electronic anaesthetic thing.”

“They simply tap into the superficial brain centers,” James added. “It blocks the perception of pain. Much less risky than chemical anaesthetics.”

“Less addictive, too, I suppose?” Greg asked.

Heather blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that. Could you get addicted?”

“Maybe not, if they simply turn off the pain,” Jan said. “But what if they find a way to stimulate the pleasure centers as well?”

“They already have,” Greg murmured.

Really? Marjorie said. “Are they using that too?”

“They don’t dare.” James spoke with an air of finality.

“Well, in any case,” Heather continued, “it’s all quite beside the point for Mummy. The doctors haven’t a clue how to stop the cancer she has.”

Before interest could center on details of the prognosis, Marjorie steered talk to other subjects.

When the telephone rang John answered. A reedy voice identified itself as Peterson.

“I wanted to let you know before I packed it in for the night,” he said. “I’m in London; the Council’s European meeting just broke up. I think I’ve got what you need, or at least part of it.”

“Tremendous,” John said rapidly. “Bloody good.”

“I say ‘part’ because I’m not sure the Americans will send everything you need. They say there are other uses they have in mind. Uses aside from this tachyon business, I mean.”