Robert Heinlein - For Us, The Living

"Perry. What's yours?"

"Perry? A nice name. Mine's Diana."

"Diana? I should think so. Perfect."

"I'm a little too cursive for Diana,"—she patted her thigh—"but I'm glad you like it. Now how did you get lost out in that storm yesterday without proper clothes and no food?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. You see, it was this way. I was driving down the palisade when a car tried to pass a truck on a hill coming towards me. I swung out to miss it and my right front wheel jumped the curb and over I went, car and all—the last I remember was staring down at the beach as I fell—until I woke up in the snow storm."

"That's all you remember?"

"Yes, and then you helping me, of course. Only I thought it was a girl in a green bathing suit."

"In a what?"

"In a green bathing suit."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "What did you say made you go over the palisade?"

"I had a blowout, I guess, when my wheel hit the curb."

"What's a blowout?"

He stared at her. "I mean that my tire blew out—when it struck the curb."

"But why would it blow out?"

"Listen—do you drive a car?"

"Well—no."

"Well, if a pneumatic rubber tire strikes a sharp edge when you are going pretty fast, it's likely to explode—blowout. In that case anything can happen. In my case I went over the edge."

She looked frightened, and her eyes grew wide. Perry added, "Don't take it so hard. I'm not hurt."

"Perry, when did this happen?"

"Happen? Why, yester—No, maybe—"

"No, Perry, the date, the date!"

"July twelfth. That reminds me, does it often snow here—"

"What year, Perry?"

"What year? Why, this year!"

"What year, Perry—tell me the number."

"Don't you know?—Nineteen-thirty-nine."

"Nineteen-thirty-nine—" She repeated the words slowly.

"Nineteen-thirty-nine. But what the devil is wrong?"

She stood up and paced nervously back and forth, then stopped and faced him. "Perry, prepare yourself for a shock."

"OK, shoot."

"Perry, you told me that yesterday was July twelfth, nineteen-thirty-nine."

"Yes."

"Well, today is January seventh, twenty-eighty-six."

Perry sat very still for a long moment.

"Say that again."

"Today is January seventh, twenty-eighty-six."

"January—seventh,—twenty—eighty—six—It can't be—I'm dreaming—pretty soon I'll wake up." He looked up at her. "Then you're not real after all. Just a dream. Just a dream." He put his head in his hands and stared down at the floor.

He was recalled to his surroundings by a touch on his arm. "Look at me, Perry. Take my hand." She grasped his hand and squeezed it. "There. Am I real? Perry, you must realize it. I don't know who you are or what strange thing happened to you but here you are in my house in January twenty-eighty-six. And everything is going to be all right." She placed a hand under his chin and turned his face up to hers. "Everything is going to be all right. Place that in your mind." He stared at her with the frightened eyes of a man who fears he is going crazy. "Now calm yourself and tell me about it. Why do you think that yesterday you were in nineteen-thirty-nine?"

"Well, I was, I tell you—It had to be nineteen-thirty-nine, because it was —it couldn't be anything else."

"Hmm—That's no help. Tell me about yourself. Your full name, where you live, where you were born, what you do and so forth."

"Well, my name is Perry Vance Nelson. I was born in Girard, Kansas in nineteen-fourteen. I'm a ballistics engineer and a pilot. You see I'm an officer in the navy. Up until today I was on duty at Coronado, California. Yesterday—or whenever it was—I was driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on my way back from a weekend when this guy in the green sedan crowds me and I crack up on the beach."

She smoked and considered this. "That's clear enough. Except of course that it would make you one hundred and seventy-two years old and doesn't explain how you got here. Perry, you don't look that old."

"Well, what's the answer?"

"I don't know. Did you ever hear of schizophrenia, Perry?"

"Schizophrenia? Split personality." He considered, then exploded. "Nuts! If I'm crazy it's only in this dream. I tell you I am Perry Nelson. I don't know anything about twenty-eighty-six and I know all about nineteen-thirty-nine."

"That gives me a notion. I want to ask you some questions. Who was president in nineteen-thirty-nine?"

"Franklin Roosevelt."

"How many states in the union?"

"Forty-eight."

"How many terms did La Guardia serve?"

"How many? He was in his second term."

"But you just told me that Roosevelt was president."

"Sure. Sure. Roosevelt was president. La Guardia was Mayor of New York."

"Oh."

"Why did you ask that? Did La Guardia become president?"

"Yes. Two terms. Who were the most popular television actors in nineteen-thirty-nine?"

"Why, there weren't any. Television wasn't yet available. But listen, you are quizzing me about nineteen-thirty-nine. How do I know it's twenty-eighty-six?"

"Come here, Perry." She walked over the wall beside the fireplace and another section of the wall slid out of view. (—disconcerting, thought Perry, everything slips and slides—) Several rows of books were exposed. She handed him a slim volume. Perry read Astronomikal Almanak and Efmerides 2086. Then she dug out an old volume whose pages were brown with age. She opened it and pointed to the title page: The Gallion of God — Sinclair Lewis, 1st printing, 1947.

"Convinced?"

"I guess I'll have to be.—Oh, God!" he threw his cigarette in the fire and paced nervously up and down. Presently he stopped. "Look, is there any liquor here? Could I have a drink?"

"A drink—of what?"

"Whiskey, brandy, rum.—Anything with a jolt in it."

"I think I can take care of you." She disturbed Demeter again and returned presently holding a square bottle filled with an amber liquid. She poured him three fingers in a cup and added a small yellow pill.

"What's that?"

"Jamaica rum surrogate and a mild sedative. Help yourself. I've got an idea." She left him and went to the far end of the room where she seated herself on the couch and pulled out a small panel set in the wall. It appeared to be the front of a drawer. She lifted up a screen approximately a foot square and pressed a series of buttons below. Then she spoke: "Los Angeles Archives? Diana 160-398-400-48A speaking. I request search of Los Angeles and Coronado newspapers of July 12, 1939 for report of automobile accident involving Perry Nelson, naval officer. Expedited rate authorized. Bonus on thirty minutes. Report back. Thank you, clearing line." She left the drawer out and returned to Perry. "We will have to wait a while. Do you mind if I open the view now?"

"Not at all. I'd like to see it."

They seated themselves at the west end of the room where they had eaten and the shutters peeled back. It was late afternoon and the sun was nearing the shoulder of the mountain. Snow lay in the canyon and the thin amber sunlight streamed through the pines. They sat quietly and smoked. Diana poured herself a cup of surrogate, and sipped it. Presently a green light flashed from the open drawer and a single deep gong note sounded. Diana pressed a button nearby and spoke, "Diana 400-48 answering."

"Archives reporting. Positive. Disposition request."

"Televuestat Reno station with tube delivery, destination G610L-400-48, expedite rate throughout, bonus on ten minutes. Thank you. Clearing."

"You mentioned Reno. Are we near there?"

"Yes, we are about thirty kilometers south of Lake Tahoe."