For Us, The Living

III

Later while Diana monkeyed with the gadgets in the Demeter niche, the green light and gong note announced a tube delivery. "Get it, will you, Perry?" she called. "I've got both hands full." Perry puzzled with the controls, then found a small lever that opened the receptacle. He brought over the roll to Diana. "Read it aloud, Perry, while I finish dinner." He unrolled it and first noticed a picture of a young man who resembled his own memory of himself. He commenced to read. "Gordon 932-016-755-82A, Genes class JM, born 2057 July 7. Qualified and matriculated Arlington Health School 2075, transferred (approved) Adler Memorial Institute of Psychology 2077. Selected for research when Extra-sensory station was established by Master Fifield in 2080. Author ofAStudy of Deviant Data in Extra-Sensory Perception. Co-author (with Pandit Kalimohan Chandra Roy) ofProteus: a History of the Ego. Address Sanctuary (F-2), California. Unofficially reported in voluntary corporal abdication in 2083 August and transferred at the request of Sanctuary Council to inactive status 2085 August, body to remain in Sanctuary. Credit account on transfer to inactive $11,018.32 less depreciation $9,803.09, credit account re-entered with service deduction $9802.09 less $500 credit convenience book $9,302.09 (enclosed)."

Attached to the end of the roll was a small wallet or notebook. Inside Perry found that the leaves were money, conventional money, differing only slightly in size and design from money in 1939. In the back of the book was a pad of blank credit drafts, a check book.

"What do I do with this stuff, Diana?"

"Do with it? Anything you like, use it, spend it, live on it."

"But it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to this fellow Gordon something-or-other."

"You are Gordon 755-82."

"Me? The hell I am."

"You are, though. The Bureau of Records has already acknowledged it and has your account re-entered. You have the body listed as 932-016-755-82A. You can use any name you like, Perry, or Gordon, or George Washington, and the Bureau will gladly note the change in the record, but that number goes with that body and that credit account and they won't change it. Of course you don't have to spend it but if you don't, nobody will, and it will just get bigger."

"Can't I give it away?"

"Certainly—but not to Gordon."

Perry scratched his head. "No, I guess not. Say, what is this voluntary abdication stuff?"

"I'm not able to give a scientific account of it, but so far as anyone else is concerned it amounts to suicide by willing not to live."

"Then Gordon is dead?"

"No. Not according to the ideas of the people who monkey with these things. He simply was not interested in living here and chose to live elsewhere."

"How come his body is here okay?"

"According to this report Gordon's body—this body—" She pinched his cheeks. "—has been lying quietly in a state of arrested animation in the Sanctuary on the other side of this mountain. And so the mystery is partially cleared up."

His wrinkled brow showed no satisfaction. "Yes, I suppose so. But each mystery is explained with another mystery."

"There is just one mystery left that worries me, Perry, and that is why in the world you didn't break a leg and maybe your brand-new neck in getting over here. But I'm glad you didn't."

"So am I. Lord!"

"But now I must get to work." She stacked the supper dishes as she spoke.

"What work?"

"My paid work. I am not one of the ascetic souls that are content with their heritage checks. I've got to have money for ribbons and geegaws."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a televue actress, Perry. I dance and sing a little, and occasionally take part in stories."

"Are you about to rehearse?"

"No, I go on the waves in about twenty minutes."

"Goodness, the studio must be close by or you'll be late."

"Oh, no. It will be picked up from here. But you will have to be a good boy and sit still and not ask questions for a while or I shall be late. Come. Sit over here. Now face the receiver so." Another section of the wall flew up and Perry faced a flat screen. "There you can see the whole performance and watch me dance directly too." She opened the communicator drawer and raised the small screen. A rather homely debonair young man appeared. He wore a helmet with bulges over his ears. A cigarette drooped from one corner of his sardonic mouth.

"Hi, Dian'."

"Hello, Larry. Where j'a get the circles under your eyes?"

"That from you—and you so huffy about the private sphere of action. I had a blonde paint 'em on."

"She got the left one crooked."

"Cut out the arcing and get down to work, wench. Got your setup made?"

"Yeah."

"OK, testing." Lights sprang out from the near end of the room. Diana walked to the center of the room, turned around twice, and walked back and forth and up and down, then returned to the communicator.

"OK, Larry?"

"There's a halo in the lower left and it's not in my side, I don't believe."

"I'll take a look." She returned with the tube that had contained the Gordon dossier in her hand. "Gone now, Larry?"

"Yeah, what was it?"

"This." She held up the tube.

"Just like a female. Can't integrate. Sloppy minds, unable to—"

"Larry, one more crack out of you and I'll report you for atavism—probably Neanderthal."

"Cool down, small one. You have a super-magnificent brain. I love you for your intellect. Time's running short. Want some music?"

"Give it a blast.—Okay, turn it off."

"What are you giving the mob tonight, Dian'?"

"Highbrow stuff. Watch it—you might get an idea."

He glanced down at his controls. "Take your place, kid. I'm clearing."

Diana went quickly to the middle of the room and the lights went out. The larger screen facing Perry came suddenly to life. Facing him in stereo and color was a brisk young man, who bowed and smiled and commenced to speak: "Friends, we are again in the studios of the Magic Carpet in the tower of the Edison Memorial overlooking Lake Michigan. We bring you tonight your favorite interpreter of the modern theme in dance, lovely Diana, who will present another stanza in the Poem of Life."

The colors on the screen melted together, then faded to a light blue and a single high clear crystal note impinged on Perry's ears. The note trembled, then pursued a minor melody. Perry felt a mood of sadness and nostalgia creep over him. Gradually the orchestra picked up the theme and embroidered it while on the screen the colors shifted, blended, and ranged in patterns. Finally the colors faded and the screen went dark as the harmony wafted out of the music leaving a violin alone carrying the theme in the darkness. A dim finger of light appeared and picked out a small figure far back. The figure was prone, limp, helpless . The music conveyed a feeling of pain and despair and overpowering fatigue. But another theme encouraged, called for effort, and the figure stirred gently. Perry glanced over his shoulder and had to exert self control to refrain from going to the poor forlorn creature's assistance. Diana needed help, his heart told him, go to her! But he sat quietly and watched and listened. Perry knew little about dancing and nothing about it as a high art. Ballroom dancing for himself and tap dancing to watch were about his level. He watched with intent appreciation the graceful, apparently effortless movements of the girl, without any realization of the training, study and genius that had gone before. But gradually he realized that he was being told a story of the human spirit, a story of courage, and hope, and love overcoming despair and physical hurt. He came to with a start when the dance ended leaving Diana with arms flung out, face to the sky, eyes shining, and smiling in joy as a single bright warm light poured over her face and breast. He felt happier than he had since his arrival—happy and relieved.

The screen went dark, then the ubiquitous young man re-appeared. Diana cut him off before he spoke, switched on the room lights and turned to Perry. He was surprised to see that she appeared shy and fussed.

"Did you like it, Perry?"

"Like it? Diana, you were glorious, incredible. I—I can't express it."

"I'm glad.

"And now I'm going to eat and we can visit some more."

"But you just had dinner."

"You didn't watch me closely. I don't eat much before dancing. But now watch—I'll probably get it down on the floor and worry it like an animal. Are you hungry?"

"No, not yet."

"Could you drink a cup of chocolate?"

"Yes, thanks."

A few minutes later they were seated on the couch, Diana with her legs curled up under her, a cup of chocolate in one hand, an enormous sandwich in the other. She ate busily and greedily. Perry was amused to think that this hungry little girl was that unearthly glorious creature of a few minutes before. She finished, hiccoughed, looked surprised and murmured, "Excuse me," then wiped up with one finger a blob of mayonnaise which had dropped on her tummy and transferred it to her mouth. "Now, Perry, let's take stock. Where are we?"

"Damned if I know. I know where I am and when I am and you tell me that I know who I am. Gordon zip zip zip and six zeros, but I might as well be a day old baby as for knowing what to do about it."

"Not so bad as that, Perry. In addition to an identity you have acquired a nice credit account, not large but adequate and your heritage check will keep you going, too."

"What is this heritage check business?"

"Let's not go into that now. When you study the economic system you'll understand. Right now it means a hundred and fifty dollars, more or less, every month. You could live comfortably on two-thirds of that, if you wanted to. What I wanted to talk about was the 'what to do about it' aspect."

"Where do we start?"

"I can't decide what you are to do about anything, but it seems to me that the very first thing to do is to bring you up to date so that you will fit in twenty-eighty-six. It is a rather different world. You must learn a lot of new customs and a century-and-a-half of history and a number of new techniques and so forth. When you are up to date, you can decide for yourself what you want to do—and then you can do anything you want."

"It sounds to me as if I'd be too old to want to do anything by that time."

"No, I don't think so. You can start right away. I've got a number of ideas. In the first place, while I haven't very many useful books in this house, I do have a pretty fair history of the United States and a short world history. Yes, and a dictionary and a fairly recent encyclopedia. Oh and I nearly forgot, an abridged code of customs that I had when I was a kid. Then I am going to call Berkeley and ask for a group of records on a number of subjects that you can play on the televue whenever you like. That will really be your most beneficial and easiest way to learn in a hurry."

"How does it work?"

"It's very simple. You saw my act in the televue tonight. Well, it's just as easy to put a record on it and see and hear anything that you want to that has ever been recorded. If you wanted to, you could see President Berzowski open Congress in 2001 January. Or if you like, you could see any of my dances from records."

"I'll do that first. To hell with history!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort. You will study until you are oriented. If you want to see me dance, I'll dance for you."

"OK, right now."

She stuck out her tongue at him. "Be serious. Besides the records, I'll think over who among my friends can help and I'll get them to come talk with you and explain the things that I can't."

"Why do you take all this trouble about me, Dian'?"

"Why, anybody would, Perry. You were sick and cold and needed help."

"Yes, but now you undertake to educate me and set me on my feet."

"Well, I want to do it. Won't you let me?"

"Well, maybe. But look here, oughtn't I to get out of your house and find some other place to stay?"

"Why, Perry? You're welcome here. Aren't you comfortable?"

"Oh, of course. But how about your reputation? What will people say?"

"I don't see how it could affect my reputation; you don't dance. And what does it matter what people think—all they could think is that we were companions, if they bothered to think about it at all. Besides very few people except my friends will know. It is strictly in the private sphere of action. The custom is quite clear."

"What custom?"

"Why, the custom which says that what people do out of public service or private employment is private as long as it doesn't violate the other customs. Where people go, what they eat, or drink, or wear, or how they entertain themselves, or who they love, or how they play are strictly in the private sphere. So one must not print anything about it or broadcast it, or speak about it in a public place, without specific permission."

"Paging Walter Winchell! What in the world is in your newspapers?"

"Lots of things. Political news and ships' movements and public events and announcements of amusements and most anything about public officials—though their private sphere is much narrower. It's an exception in the custom. And new creations in clothing and architecture and food and new scientific discoveries and lists of new televue records and broadcasts, and new commercial projects. Who's Walter Winchell?"

"Walter Winchell, why he was a—Dian', I don't think you will believe it but he made a lot of money talking almost entirely about things in what you call the private sphere of action."

She wrinkled her nose. "How disgusting!"

"People ate it up. But look, how about your friends? Won't they think it strange?"

"Why should they? It isn't strange. I've entertained lots of them."

"But we aren't chaperoned."

"What's 'chaperoned'? Is it something like married?"

"Oh Lord, I give up. Listen, Dian', just pretend like we never said anything about it. I'll be most happy to stay if you want me to."

"Didn't I say I did?"

They were interrupted by the appearance of a large grey cat who walked out to the middle of the floor, calmly took possession, sat down, curled his tail carefully around him, and mewed loudly. He had only one ear and looked like a hard case. Diana gave him a stern look.

"Where have you been? Do you think this is any time to come home?"

The cat mewed again.

"Oh, so you'll be fed now? So this is just the place where they keep the fish?"

The cat walked over, jumped on the couch, and commenced bumping his head against Diana's side while buzzing loudly.

"All right. All right. Come along. Show me where it is." He jumped down and trotted quickly over toward Demeter, tail straight as a smoke column on a calm day, then sat and looked up expectantly. He mewed again.

"Don't be impatient." Diana held a dish of sardines in the air. "Show me where to put it." The cat trotted over in front of the fire. "All right. Now are you satisfied?" The cat did not answer, being already busy with the fish.

Diana returned to the couch and reached for a cigarette. "That's Captain Kidd. He's an old pirate with no manners and no morals. He owns this place."

"So I gathered. How did he get in?"

"He let himself in. He has a little door of his own that opens up when he mews."

"For Heaven's sakes! Is that standard equipment for cats these days?"

"Oh no. It's just a toy. He can't let himself in my door. It opens only to my voice. But I made a record of the mew he used to let me know he wanted to come in the house and sent it to be analyzed and a lock set to it. Now that lock opens his own little door. I suppose that doors that open to a voice are somewhat marvelous to you, Perry?"

"Well, yes and no. We had such things but they weren't commercially in use. I've seen them work. In fact I believe that I could design one if I had to."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Really? I had no idea that technical advance was so marked in your day."

"We had a fairly involved technical culture, but unfortunately most of it wasn't used. People couldn't afford to pay for the things that the engineers could build, especially luxuries like automatic doors and television and such."

"Television isn't a luxury. It's a necessity. How else could one keep in touch? Why I would be helpless without it."

"Yes, no doubt you feel that way about it. People were beginning to say that about the telephone in my day. But the fact remains while we knew how to accomplish pretty fair television we didn't because there was no market. People couldn't afford it."

"I don't see why not."

"I don't know how to tell you. Perhaps I don't see either, except in some way I can't explain. But we did have a lot of unused or only partially used mechanical and technical knowledge. The application of any advance in invention or art was limited by whether or not there were people willing and able to pay for it. I served for a couple of years in one of the big aircraft carriers. There were boys in her—enlisted men—who used the most amazing technical devices—mechanical brains that could solve the most involved ballistic problems, problems in calculus using a round dozen variables, problems that would have taken an experienced mathematician days to solve. The machine solved them in a split second and applied the solutions, yet more than half of those boys came from homes that didn't have bathtubs or central heating."

"How awful! How in the world could they stay clean and healthy in such houses?"

"They couldn't. I don't suppose that I can make you realize just what the conditions were in which a lot of people lived. A classmate of mine at the Naval Academy joined the navy because he got tired of walking behind a mule and plowing. So he walked fifteen miles to town barefooted and slept on the doorstep of the post office. When the postmaster arrived in the morning he enlisted. He was selected for the Naval Academy and became one of the most brilliant young officers in the fleet and expert in the use and design of equipment that makes your automatic door seem simple. But his father and mother and brothers and sisters were still living in a one room dirt-floored cabin, dirty and sick from hookworm, anemia, and malnutrition."

"Why in the world would the government spend all that effort on machinery for an aircraft carrier when its citizens were living in such abominable squalor?"

"Well, I guess we had something like your private and public spheres of actions, Dian'. The lives of these people were in the private sphere of action, but national defense is public."

"But it's obviously the same thing. Any government official would know that it is dangerous to everybody to let people be hungry and sick. Why, from the most selfish standpoint possible, if people are sick, they can be the center of epidemic, and anybody knows that a hungry man is not responsible for his actions and may do something dangerous."

"I don't know how to answer you, Diana. We knew it in the navy of course, and we kept them clean and healthy and well fed, but to say that any government official would naturally know that—well, either men have grown very much wiser in a hundred and fifty years or something has happened to change the point of view."

"I don't believe that we are any smarter than people were in your day. I don't think such a thing is possible in four or five generations. But I don't see how anyone could be so short-sighted."

"Even if an official did have your viewpoint and wanted to do something, he would be bound to ask 'where is the money to come from?'. And no one could answer him. Cost of government was already too high."

"Where is the money to come from, Perry? Why, I never heard such silly talk. Where does any money come from? When the government sees a need for exchange, it creates it, of course. Why you had that in your day, Perry. It says right there in the original constitution, 'Congress shall have the sole right to coin money and regulate the value thereof.'"

"Yes, I remember that phrase. But that isn't the way it worked out in my day. Money was created by the banks, most of it at least—the important part anyhow. If the government needed money and couldn't raise it via taxes in time, it borrowed from the banks."

"But I don't understand—the banks are a part of the government."

"Not in my day. They were private institutions. It might be proper to say that the banks were the government. In some ways they were stronger than the government."

"But that would be sheer blind anarchy!"

"It was—pretty much."

"But see here, Perry. All this doesn't check. You came from 1939 when Franklin Roosevelt was president. I don't know a whole lot about history, but I do know that he is regarded as the first man in the new economic era. Why, there is a statue of him in Washington, showing him feeding the hungry."

"Yes, Mr. Roosevelt knew that all right. But he got very little cooperation, even from those he was trying to help. But it's my turn to ask questions: Tell me, is there no longer anyone hungry?"

"Of course not. Not in the United States at least."

"I meant the United States. Are there any sick?"

"Oh yes. Not many of course."

"What happens to them?"

"They are treated and taken care of to make them well. What else could you do?"

"Never mind. Is anyone out of work?"

"Out of work? Do you mean not working for money? Of course. At any one time I don't suppose you will find more than half the population working to make money."

"Don't those that work object to working while the others are idle?"

"Why should they? Everybody can't work all the time or nobody would have time to use what he has produced—no time to spend his credit. Everybody works whenever he feels the need of replenishing his credit—or if he has an occupation that he likes whether he needs more credit or not."

"Does everybody work part time?"

"No. Most professional people work regularly because they like to. Take a surgeon for example. He will work forty weeks every year. If he is famous and loves his work, his vacation will be as busy as his credit work. Take me for example, I work every week now and have for quite a long time, a broadcast like tonight every week, not to mention recordings for stories and songs."

"Is that one broadcast all the work you do?"

"I have to rehearse a lot and I'm expected to invent a new dance each week."

"How about people that aren't professional people, the various kinds of skilled or semi-skilled labor, and tradesmen and so forth."

"Some work full time and some part time. Quite a number of people work for several years and then quit. Some people don't work at all—not for money at least. They have simple tastes and are content to live on their heritage, philosophers and mathematicians and poets and such. There aren't many like that however. Most people work at least part of the time."

"Diana, is the United States a socialism now?"

"Why no, not if by socialism you mean government ownership of the factories and stores and farms and such. New Zealand has that kind of a government and I believe it works pretty well, but I don't believe it would be suited to the American temperament. But see here, Perry, I'm no economist. I've got a pal at the University of California who is. I'll get him to run up here in a day or two after you've studied up on history a little and he will be able to answer all of your questions. Which reminds me. If you are to have those recordings tomorrow, I had better order them." She stepped to the communicator. Perry heard her calling the University of California at Berkeley.

"Will you be able to order at this time of night?" he enquired.

"Probably not, not without paying an excessively high bonus. I'll simply set for recorded message and they will get the order first thing in the morning."

"How do you do that?"

"Either one of two ways. I can have my voice recorded, or write with the telautograph. Want to see the telautograph work, Perry?"

He stepped over to her side. "They haven't changed much."

"Do you mean to say that you could telewrite in 1939?"

"Uh huh. They weren't used much, but I remember seeing one in the Union Station in Kansas City. It was used for train orders."

"Hm—, maybe our mechanical marvels aren't going to surprise you as much as I had thought."

"I'm sure I'll find plenty to amaze me. But remember, Dian'. I was an engineer albeit in 1939. I take it you are an artist primarily. I may not be impressed at the things that you expect will impress me."

"That's probably true." She wrote slowly with the telautograph, stopping several times to think. Finally she signed it and closed the machine. "That will do for now. I've ordered a general catalog too so that you can pick out any records you may be interested in."

"Do you buy these records?"

"No, not unless you want to. There is a small charge for using them. If you find you want to keep a record permanently, you can pay for it and keep it."

"Do you have any here?"

"Oh yes, but not very many except for my professional library. I have quite a number of those, recordings of my own dances of course and a lot more of every sort of dancing. Most of the others are story records, just for amusement. Want to see some of them?

"Sure."

"I'll show you how to use the receiver as a reproducer at the same time. Now watch. This is the adapter switch. Turn it to 'rep'. Then you put the record in like so and fasten the end of the film with this catch. Then press the power button. No, don't do it yet. You control the volume of sound with this dial. Now push the power button." The machine whirred softly and the large screen came to life. A fool in motley appeared and laughed sardonically in their faces.

"Hi, brother fool," he shouted, "You want another of Touchstone's tales? Then gather round and attend me well. Touchstone Tells the Tale! Many, many years ago in ancient Greece there lived a wench of monstrous humor." A large hook appeared from the side of the screen and settled about the jester's middle. His grin changed to dismay and broke into a thousand pieces, reformed and spelled Lysistrata: A Comedy of Manners. Diana noticed Perry's reflex of recognition.

"You know it then?"

"Yes. Oh yes."

"Shall I turn it off?"

"No. Please don't." For the next hour they laughed and chuckled over the ageless farce of marriage and war. Perry was particularly delighted to recognize Diana among the Grecian wenches, and pointed out his discovery with a glee. Diana looked pleased, but protested when Perry insisted in whispers that Diana should have had the leading role.

Presently the play came to its rollicking finish, and the machine clicked to a stop. Perry found Diana smothering a yawn. She made a face at him. "Sorry, but I was up earlier than you were."

"I'm sleepy myself."

"Ready for bed?"

"I think so. Where do I sleep?"

"Anywhere you like. Where you were last night is as good as any."

Perry accepted the suggestion and made himself comfortable on that part of the couch. Diana lay down across the room, called out a languid goodnight, and with as little ceremony as a cat, curled up and appeared to fall at once to sleep. Perry lay on his back, eyes closed but head seething with confused impressions and idea sequences, each demanding immediate attention. Sleep seemed impossible but nevertheless in a very few minutes he sank into the soft warm glow that precedes it. Soon he was breathing slowly.

A scream of terror cut through the room. Diana sat up and switched on the light. Perry was sitting up also, his eyes staring, horrified. She ran to his side. "Perry, Perry, my dear. What happened?" He clung to her hand.

"I was falling. It seemed like I landed here in the dark. I'm all right now. It was just a bad dream."

"There. There. It's all right." She soothed and comforted him. "Just wait a minute. I'll leave the light on." She left him and returned quickly with a cup of the same steamy, spicy mixture that he had drunk the night before. "Now drink this slowly."

He touched her hand. "Dian', I know I'm being a baby, but will you stay with me for a little?"

"Of course, Perry."

When he finished his drink, she lay down beside him, put her arms around him, and rested his head on her breast. "Now just relax and be quiet. You're safe and I won't leave you." In a very few minutes he was sleeping peacefully. Diana held him a little while longer then gently uncurled herself and sat up. She massaged the pins and needles out of her arm and watched Perry's face. After a long time she bent over and kissed him quickly and softly on the lips. He smiled without wakening. Then she returned to her place on the couch. Now it was her turn to have trouble wooing sleep. Why had she kissed him? It was a silly thing to do. She wasn't in love with him. Of course not. She didn't know him and didn't feel any strong physical attraction for him. One didn't fall in love with savages anyhow. And that was just what he was, essentially. He hadn't acted like a savage though. Nevertheless, anyone brought up in the first part of the twentieth century couldn't possibly be a fit companion for a girl nowdays. He would be sure to be emotionally unstable. He was unstable; that crying out in the night proved it. He hadn't anything to fear. But suppose I had just fallen to my death, she thought. He wasn't dead. No, but he thought he was. No, he didn't either. It was very confusing. He had looked so hurt and lonesome. Then when he went to sleep he looked so young it had made her melt. That was why, just sympathy, just the way she had kissed the top of Captain Kidd's furry cap after she cut a thorn out of his paw. Just sympathy. But why had she urged him to stay until he got oriented? There were institutions for that, quite capable and better equipped than she was. Oh damn, why hadn't she turned Captain Kidd in when he first came mewing at the door and demanding attention? Diana, you're a fool and any animal or child or man or woman that wants to can move you right out of your own home. Hadn't she built this house for privacy? Hadn't she come here so she could take out her soul and examine it in private? And now how could she? What interesting eyes he had. Yet he didn't look at her, except to meet her gaze. Didn't he think she was pretty? Could she be getting old? Were the women in 1939 more beautiful than they were today? Or would he think so? But then what if he did? Certainly she was not interested.

Diana got up and fixed herself a cup of the sedative, drank it, sought a new place on the couch, arranged herself in a ball and fell asleep.*

[*Diana grew up in a transport car. Both of her parents were interested in her and liked her and she, fortunately or perhaps in consequence, felt a warm affection and respect for them. Both her father and mother preferred the more casual hit-or-miss training that a child receives from interested parents to the presumably more scientific, certainly more systematic, training a modern child receives in our development centers. Her father had spent most of his active life in food technique. He was a man of considerable imagination and great talent in organization. Several of our present home comforts can be attributed in whole or in part to his effort. He invented the autotherm food container and induced others to develop it to the point that we now have it, cheap enough to use and throw away. Nearly forty years ago as an assistant engineer for the Cuisine Company (a forerunner of Universal Foods) he started the first agitation for natural texture in synthetic proteins. He left this company and founded Ambrosia, Ltd., while still a very young man, in order to permit two synthetic chemists to use all the credit they liked in their laboratory. The results we meet every day at dinner—sausages that have never seen a pig and soup stock that grew in a test tube.

His energies were not confined to food. His bitter controversy with Polenski over the merits of dry point etching and the current acid thermal process is remembered by all devotees of that esoteric art. His assertion that the modern man is better fitted physically, mentally, and emotionally to cope with the wilderness barehanded than his savage ancestors caused a storm of argument which reached a dramatic climax in his year of practical experiment on an uninhabited South Pacific island. He took Diana with him on this adventure, a slim girl-child of ten. His triumphant return, a modern Crusoe, hale, hearty, and filled with boasts is known to every romantic boy and was the basis for a flood of story records, written, directed and acted by lesser men.

Diana's mother was less spectacular but equally important in the development of the girl's character. She was a surgeon, of a line of surgeons and healers. Calm and cool, with large slender bony hands, more expressive than her placid face, she seemed detached from her surroundings and fully alive only when those delicate sensitive fingers were cutting the line between life and death. Although it was the father who encouraged the child to dance, it was the mother who insisted that she persevere in her studies until she produced a worthwhile result, a technique of her own.

Diana grew up with first one, then the other, of these assorted progenitors and occasionally with both when their several occupations permitted family life. Her mother selected the instructional records for the child's formal primary education and cultural orientation. Her father supplemented this with little excursions to cultural and industrial centers to make concrete what she learned from the recordings. On her mother's insistence Diana lived for two years in a development center during her adolescence in order that she might experience the practical realities of social self government and understand the background of a large portion of the population.

Ideal or not, Diana flourished in this environment and grew up, not only strong and healthy, but with a mind agile and uninhibited, a temperament sunny and free from boredom, a memory packed with a wide variety of information and skills arranged in reasonably efficient integration. The possible flaw in her character, if flaw it were , lay in her quick emotional sympathy, the ease with which she felt the pain and sorrows of others. It prevented her from following in her mother's career as a surgeon, as she could not manage the detached viewpoint necessary to protect the surgeon from the emotional impact of the suffering she treated. This joint in her armor led her too easily into emotional relationships, especially with the opposite sex. In her late teens she suffered a severe hurt through a love affair with a young poet, who was ill with a cycloid neurosis probably psychotic in character. He became obsessed with her dancing and took his own life while watching the climax of one of her emotional numbers. It is easy of course to say that he should not have been at large, but the reader knows as well as the writer that our preventive diagnoses are not infallible and that we cannot afford to take the risk of violating the customs on which our liberty is based.

In any case the results were very nearly disastrous to Diana. The physical effects were naturally pronounced in a character such as hers, hysterical gastritis, disordered metabolism of course; but the mental disturbance was intense. An immediate introversion, excessive timidity, and a terror of dancing were the gross symptoms. Her father dropped what he was doing and hurried to her, where he argued with the healers over her treatment, created a bedlam, and finally snatched her away to subject her to an uproarious picaresque six months that left her no time to think. Toward the end of the time, an unimaginative handsome young animal coaxed her back into a normal sex life. She quickly tired of him, and he of her, and she awoke one morning to find herself completely cured, and anxious, not only to dance, but to enjoy the world and the people in it.

Her illness may not have improved her dancing, but it widened her horizon. Although still strongly interested in dance, and firmly believing it to be the most living and personal of all the arts, she now found herself not only cured, but grown up, with an alert interest in all life, all knowledge, the whole cultural pattern. But her reputation as a dancer grew even as it became to her more and more a means whereby she had the opportunity to enjoy more fully the myriad other aspects of living.

The Author]