John Wray - The Lost Time Accidents

“We were affected by your book, Mr. Tolliver, as I’ve said. We intuited that it contained, uh, mysteries. We intuited this, and felt altered even by this as-yet-inchoate knowledge. But it wasn’t until the publication of the paperback edition, with its supplementary directives , that the way became clear.”

“Directives?” said Orson, shifting uneasily on the couch.

Haven opened the Codex to a crisply dog-eared page. “‘Science can offer you what no religion can,’” he read aloud. “‘Science does more than simply recount bygone miracles for credulous ears; science shows us its miracles, then explains them for us, and even, occasionally, brings new miracles about. Trust in science, dear reader — in empirical science — and you will live the existence that countless religions have promised: you will never walk alone. You will be part of a continuum of intelligence and rational thought that began with the first question man ever asked.’” He paused a moment. “Did you write those words, sir?”

“I may have,” Orson stammered, trying to dodge his wife’s triumphant stare. “But I think you kids — well, I think you might be placing undue emphasis—”

Haven waited, politely, for Orson to finish. When it became clear nothing more was forthcoming, he turned the page and kept reading.

“‘Science in the twentieth century — physics especially — has moved from the study of what we can see and judge with our five senses to things too vast and/or infinitesimal to perceive. This, in turn, has ushered in the most fascinating phase of scientific exploration in human history, one that challenges our commitment to science as never before. Common sense — on which we have always relied as our first defense against superstition — is no longer adequate. In fact, to see the world as the great minds of physics now see it, we, the scientific faithful, must be prepared to put our common sense aside.’”

“Now, right there,” Orson protested. “Right there, you see? You’ve got to be careful, you know, not to read too much into that. I’m not saying we should do away with common sense altogether , obviously.”

Haven squinted at him. “Obviously.”

“All right, then,” Orson muttered. “I just wanted to get that on the record.”

Johnson — who was taking down the conversation in what looked to be some form of shorthand — gave a squeak of assent. Haven picked up where he’d left off.

“‘Science hasn’t yet vanquished religion — not fully — but it will surely do so, given time. One day, perhaps very soon, a system will be developed: a system of applied philosophy (philosophy in the classic sense, meaning a passion for knowledge) that will distill the accomplishments of all human inquiry into the elixir that religion has repeatedly promised, but never achieved. If you must live by belief, in other words, believe in Science .’”

“I get it,” Orson said roughly (though he was enjoying the performance more than he was willing to let on). “You like the book. You agree with the afterword. No law against that, in this country at least. You’re all enlightened souls.” He glanced involuntarily at Ursula. “What I want to know is, what did you come to see me for? What’s your agenda, Mr. Haven? What have you got up your sleeve?”

“We mean to structure our lives according to the Codex’s principles,” Haven said. “To serve mankind as an example, by living an ethical, rational life.”

“It would be hard for me to argue with that, wouldn’t it?” Orson said, giving a tight little laugh. “That would mean disagreeing with myself!”

“We also plan to reestablish the antediluvian fraternal order of Philadelphia on a coral atoll off the coast of Hawaii,” the woman said. “We plan to live out all of our manifold iterations there, synchronously, so that we may finally experience death.”

“Tut, Miss Menügayan!” Haven said smoothly. “Let’s not burden our host with specifics.”

The silence that followed was highly subjective in nature. For Haven it was a tranquil intermezzo; for his colleagues, to judge by appearances, it was a breathless pause; for Ursula it was a span of blank bewilderment; for Orson it was the nightmarish silence of fate.

“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

Haven smiled and ran a thumb across his downy upper lip. “In this iteration,” he said, “I’ve just turned twenty-six.”

“No offense, son, but you look about twelve.”

“I age at a reduced rate, Mr. Tolliver. I keep my metabolism at a minimum. I also try to keep out of the sun.”

Orson came to his senses and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, kids. What you say is certainly very stimulating, but I can’t join your society at the present time. Now if you’ll pardon—”

“Join us?” Haven said, breaking into a grin. The others were already laughing. “ Join us, Mr. Tolliver? There’s no need for that. You’re the spiritual head of our entire movement.”

* * *

Orson stood in a kind of Greco-Roman squat for a while after his callers had left, replaying the conversation in his head; then he drifted back into the parlor and stared into space like a mongoloid, which was still an acceptable term at the start of the seventies. He reached for his meerschaum — he’d started smoking it the year before, as a publication day gift to himself — but set it down as soon as Haven came to mind. Gradually, grudgingly, the image of his personal evangelist withdrew, replaced by the recollection of what his wife had told him in the kitchen.

He glanced across the parlor at Ursula. She was sitting in his father’s old overstuffed chair, her posture characteristically perfect, her face a dappled field of light and shadow. He felt suddenly faint.

“I’m thinking about what you told me,” he said in a circumspect voice. “There’s a trick to understanding it, I’m sure. But right now it’s making me feel kind of funny.”

Ursula sighed. “There’s no trick to it, Orson.”

“There is a trick,” he said. “There’s got to be.” He studied her face. “It doesn’t seem to bother you at all.”

“I think it’s a wonderful thing to have happened.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Look here, Orson. You should have told me if this was a thing you were against — and you ought to have taken precautions. Enzie told me you were in favor of this, and I took her at her word.”

“That’s bullshit. You’ve never taken anybody at their word in your whole life.”

“Softly now, please.” Her English had gone subtly pidgin, the way it often did when she was angry. “Genny and I talked about this via telephone, and I did this with Enzie as well. I can’t believe one of them didn’t say so to you. Or maybe this is something you forgot.”

Orson took hold of the bridge of his nose and pinched it fiercely. “Something I forgot ?”

“Every idiot knows how to keep this from happening. You never once used a—”

“Hold it right there, Ursula. What have my sisters got to do with this? Was this something they planned ?”

Ursula said nothing for a time. “You must know that I care about you, Orson.”

“Answer the goddamn question.”

“Your sisters have their reasons, always, for the little plans they make. I’m learning this myself. Why do you think they brought me to this place?”

Orson hesitated. “Because of school,” he said finally, though he knew, as he said it, that Enzie had cut all ties with the university years before. “Because of Enzie’s work, I mean. Out of a common interest in science.”

“I thought so, too,” Ursula said softly. “But I’ve revised my understanding.”