Mack Reynolds: After Utopia

“Well, not exactly,” Stein said, scowling a bit. “But, yes, in a way.”

Edmonds laughed softly. “You’re not being very definite, Walter.”

The older man had taken a seat on the low stone parapet that surrounded the terrace. Now he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands together. His voice was less than comfortable. He said, “Time travel isn’t possible, Mr. Cogswell, not so far as we know. The paradoxes would seem to be insurmountable.”

“But you just said—”

The other was obviously seeking for words that would make sense. He said, “What it amounts to is that you’ve been in a state of suspended animation, I suppose you could call it.”

For Tracy Cogswell things were beginning to fit into place. There were still a lot of loose ends, but the tangle was coming out.

He said slowly, working it out as he went. “But you would have had to travel back to my day to hypnotize me. To take over my actions.”

Stein said, his tone very serious, “Not our physical selves, Tracy Cogswell. It is impossible to send matter through time. Except forward, of course, at the usual pace. However, the mind can and does travel in time. Memory is nothing more than that. In dreams, the mind even travels ahead sometimes, although we do not as yet understand how that is possible, and it is usually in such a haphazard manner that it is impossible to measure, to get into a laboratory for study and to gather usable data.”

Jo Edmonds said, “In your case, it was a matter of going back into the past, seizing control of your mind and then your body, and forcing you to perform yourself the steps that would lead to your, ah, suspended animation, as the academician puts it.”

For some reason, the younger man’s easygoing tone irritated Cogswell. “What in the hell’s an academician?”

Edmonds raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said, “that’s right. The degree evolved after your period. It was found that even the Ph.D. had become somewhat commonplace, so the higher one of academician was created. It is quite difficult to attain.”

Cogswell’s irritation was growing. The two of them, no matter how well intentioned they might seem to be now, had a lot to answer for. Besides that, they were so comfortably clean, so obviously well fed, so unworried and adjusted. They had it made. It probably took a dozen servants to keep up this house, to wait hand and foot on Betty and Walter Stein and Jo Edmonds, to devote their lives to these two so that they could continue to look so comfortably sleek. And how many people did it take, slaving away somewhere in industry or office, to provide the funds necessary to maintain this fabulous establishment? Parasites!

Tracy said flatly, “So you figured out a way of sending back through time. Of hypnotizing me. Of providing my hypnotized body with information that allowed it to put itself into a state of suspended animation. To accomplish this, I absconded with some twenty thousand dollars. Perhaps that isn’t a great deal in your eyes, but it was composed of thousands upon thousands of tiny donations… donations to a great cause. An attempt to make the world a better place to live in. To end poverty and war.”

Stein was frowning worriedly and clucking under his breath. But the ever easygoing Edmonds had an amused expression on his face, as though Cogswell couldn’t have said anything further out.

Cogswell snapped, “When I’ve got back some of my strength, I’d like to take a crack at wiping some of that vacant-minded amusement off your pretty face, Edmonds.”

“Sorry, old chap,” Edmonds said. “No idea of irritating you was intentioned.”

Tracy snarled, “For now I’d like to know this: Why!”

The girl, Betty, came out then and looked from one to the other. She said impatiently, as though the others were idiots, “What are you doing, Father? And you, Jo? Good heavens, look at the state Mr. Cogswell is in. I thought you weren’t going to discuss this project with him until he was suitably recovered.”

This project, yet! What project! Tracy Cogswell was getting more out of his depth by the minute.

He glared at the girl. “I want to know what the big idea is!” he snapped. “I’ve been kidnapped. On top of that, in spite of the fact that seemingly I did it, actually you bastards are guilty of stealing twenty thousand dollars of money that was intrusted with me. I want an explanation.” He could feel the flush of extreme rage mounting over his face, and he didn’t give a good goddamn.

“See?” she said indignantly to Academician Stein and Jo Edmonds. “You’ve upset him terribly.”

The two men looked at Cogswell in embarrassment. “Sorry. You’re right,” Edmonds said to her. He turned on his heel and left, nervously thumbing his piece of jade.

Stein began bustling and clucking again, attempting to take Cogswell’s pulse.

Tracy jerked his arm away. “Damn it,” he said, ignoring the girl. “I want to know what this is all about. You bastards have a lot to answer for.”

“Later, later,” the older man soothed.

“Later, my ass!”

It was Betty who said, “See here… Tracy. You’re among friends. Let us do it our way. Answers will come soon enough.” She added, like a nurse to a child, “Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll take you for a pleasant ride over Gibraltar and up the Costa del Sol.”

In the morning, for the first time, Tracy Cogswell ate with the rest of them in a small breakfast room. The more he saw of the house, the more he was impressed by its efficient luxury. Impressed wasn’t quite the word. Cogswell had never known this sort of life, and he had never desired to. The movement had been his life. Food, clothing, and shelter were secondary things, necessary only to keep him going. The luxuries? Oh, he liked good food when it came to him… and good drink, for that matter. But he had seen little of them, and he wasn’t particularly regretful.

He’d expected to be waited upon by Moorish servants, or possibly even French or Spanish ones. However, evidently he was being kept under wraps. The table in the breakfast nook was automated; it operated by dials. Betty did the ordering, and when the dishes appeared—the table top had sunk and then returned with them—served them.

The food, admittedly, was out of this world. He wondered if Betty Stein had cooked it herself, earlier. But no, of course not. Betty Stein was much too decorative to have any useful qualities. She was dressed today in a brief outfit that looked something like Tarzan’s wife, Jane, used to wear in Edgar Rice Burroughs movies.

The conversation was desultory, and obviously deliberately so. Walter Stein even avoided Tracy’s eyes for some reason. However, there was still amusement behind those of Jo Edmonds.

Toward the end of the meal, Stein said, “How do you feel, Mr. Cogswell? Up to the little jaunt that Betty suggested yesterday? You’re sure it wouldn’t tire you too much? After all, it’s been just a few days.”

Tracy growled, “I don’t see why not.”

The way he felt, the more information he gathered about his surroundings, the better prepared he would be to take care of himself when and if he went on the run from whatever situation they’d gotten him into. In his time, Tracy Cogswell had been on the run more than once; his experience had taught him to case the area as well as he could.

He was able to walk by himself to the garage, although Academician Stein bumbled worriedly along beside him all of the way.

Cogswell was settled into the front seat of a vehicle that didn’t look so much different from a sport sedan of his own time, except for the fact that it lacked wheels. Betty took her place behind the controls, beaming at him reassuringly. The controls didn’t look too much different from those of a car of the late 1950s, a steering wheel, some foot pedals, and a conglomeration of gadgets on the dashboard.