Gregory Benford - Timescape

“The town is getting carved up into sealed-off enclaves,” Kiefer went on. “Oldsters, mostly.”

Peterson nodded as Kiefer cited statistics for California, which was second only to Florida in percentage of old people. Since the foldup of the Social Security system, the Senior Movement lobby had been pressuring even harder for special privileges, tax breaks, and extra favors. Peterson was sure he knew more of the demographics than Kiefer; the Council had got a worldwide picture on them two years ago, including some confidential projections. Attaining the zero-population-growth birth rate had left the US and Europe with a bulge in the population curve, now hitting retirement age. They expected hefty monthly checks, which had to come from the reduced ranks of younger people through taxes. It led to an “entitlement syndrome.” The old felt they’d paid heavy taxes all along and then been put on the shelf before they could earn the immense salaries now going to junior executives. They were “entitled,” the Senior Movement argued, and society had damned well better cough up. The oldsters voted more often and with a sharper eye for self-interest. They had power. In California a gray head had become a symbol of political activism.

“—they don’t come out for weeks , with the spiffy televideo systems they buy. Saves ’em shopping or going to the bank or seeing anybody under sixty. They just do it all electronically. Kills the town, though. The oldest movie theater in La Jolla, the Unicorn, closed last month. Damned shame.”

Peterson nodded with a show of interest, still thinking about rearranging his schedule. The car swung into a steep driveway as the gate opened before it. They climbed up towards a long white house. Bastard Spanish, Peterson classified silently. Expensive, but without style. Kiefer parked in the carport and Peterson noticed bicycles and a wagon. Christ, children. If he had to share the dinner table with a crew of American brats—

It looked as though his fears were going to be realized when they were met at the door by two young boys jumping at Kiefer and both talking at once. Kiefer managed to quiet them down long enough to introduce them to Peterson. Both children then trained their attention on him. The older boy dispensed with preliminaries and asked directly, “Are you a scientist like my dad?” The younger fixed him with an unwinking stare, shifting from foot to foot in an irritating way. Of the two, he was potentially the noisier and more troublesome, Peterson decided. He knew the older boy’s type—earnest, talkative, opinionated, and nearly uncrushable.

“Not exactly,” he began, but was interrupted.

“My dad is studying diatoms in the ocean,” the boy said, dismissing Peterson. “It’s very important. I’m going to be a scientist too when I grow up but maybe an astronomer and David’s going to be an astronaut but he’s only five so he doesn’t really know. Would you like to see the model of the solar system I made for our science project?”

“No, no, Bill,” Kiefer answered hastily. “I know it’s very nice but Mr, Peterson doesn’t want to be bothered now. We’re going to have a drink and talk about grown-up things.” He led the way to the living room, followed by Peterson and the two boys. Kiefer would be the sort of parent who called adults “grown-ups,” Peterson thought drily.

“I can talk about grown-up things too,” Bill said indignantly.

“Yes, yes, of course you can. What I meant was, we’re going to talk about things that wouldn’t interest you. What’ll you have to drink? Can I offer you a whisky and soda, wine, tequila… ?”

“How do you know they wouldn’t interest me, lots of things interest me,” the child persisted, before Peterson could answer. The situation was saved by a light, firm voice calling from another room. “Boys! Come here at once, please!” The two vanished without argument. Peterson stored for future use the verbal backhand he had been about to deal the older boy.

“I see you have some Pernod there. Could I have a Pernod and tequila, with a dash of lemon, if you please?”

“Jeez, what a mixture. Is it good? I don’t often drink hard liquor myself. Liver, y’know. Sit down, I’m pretty sure we have some lemon juice. My wife will know. Does that drink have a name or did you invent it?” Kiefer was acting erratically again.

“I believe it’s called a macho,” Peterson said wryly.

He looked around the room. It was simple and elegant, totally white except for a few Oriental pieces. An exquisite screen stood against the far wall. To the right of the fireplace was a Japanese scroll, and a flower arrangement sat in an alcove. Opposite the fireplace, uncurtained picture windows looked over roofs and treetops towards the Pacific. The ocean was a black blanket beside lights that glittered everywhere else, up and down the coast, as far as Peterson could see. He chose a seat on a low white sofa, sitting sideways at the end of it so he could see both the room and the view. In spite of little heaps of muddled papers here and there, obviously Kiefer’s, the room exuded a certain serenity.

“I hope this is right. Equal amounts of Pernod and tequila, is that it? I’ll go and check on the lemon juice. Oh, here’s my wife now.”

Peterson turned toward the doorway, looked and looked again. He rose slowly to his feet. Kiefer’s wife stunned him. Japanese, young, slender, and very beautiful. Not taking his eyes from her, he tried to sort out his first disoriented impressions. In her late twenties, he decided, which explained Kiefer’s having such young children. A second marriage for him, no doubt. She was dressed in white Levis and a high-necked white top of some slithery material. Nothing under it, he noted with approval. Her hair fell smooth and straight, almost to her waist, so black it seemed to have a blue sheen. But it was her eyes that riveted his attention. Seeing her all in white in this dimly lit white room, he had the eerie sensation that her head was floating by itself. She had paused in the doorway, not deliberately for effect, Peterson thought, but her appearance was dramatic. He felt unable to move until she did. Kiefer darted nervously forward.

“Mitsuoko, my dear, come in, come in. I want you to meet our guest, Ian Peterson. Peterson, this is my wife, Mitsuoko.” He looked eagerly from one to the other like a child bringing home a prize.

She came forward into the room, moving with a fluid grace that delighted Peterson. She held out her hand to him: cool and smooth.

“Hello,” she said. For once Peterson felt he could use the standard American greeting “Glad to meet you” with sincerity.

He murmured “How do you do?” narrowing his eyes slightly to communicate what his formal greeting lacked. The merest hint of a smile lifted the corners of her lips at his unspoken message. Their gazes held fractionally longer than convention dictated. Then she withdrew her hand from his and went over to sit on the sofa.

“Do we have any lemon juice, honey?” Kiefer was rubbing Iiis hands together again in his awkward way. “And what about you? Will you have something to drink?”

“Yes to both questions,” she answered. “There’s some lemon juice in the fridge and I’ll have a little white wine.” She turned to Peterson with a smile. “I can’t drink much at all. It goes straight to my head.”

Kiefer left the room in search of lemon juice.

“How are things in England, Mr. Peterson?” she asked, tilling her head back slightly. “It sounds grim in the news here.”

“It is bad, although a lot of people don’t yet realize how bad,” he replied. “Do you know England?”

“I was there for a year a while back. I’m very fond of England.”

“Oh? Were you working there?”