To Sail Beyond The Sunset: The Life and Loves of Maureen Johnson

Chapter 14 - Black Tuesday

World-as-Myth... Much as I love Hilda, much as I love Jubal and respect his analytical genius, World-as-Myth doesn't explain anything.

As Dr Will Durant would put it, it is an insufficient hypothesis. I studied philosophy under Dr Durant in Kansas City in 1921 and ‘22, not long after he left the Catholic Church - and turned agnostic, socialist, and benedict, all through sniffing a fourteen-year-old girl half his age.

Dr Durant must have been a disappointment to Mrs Grundy - he married his jailbait sweetheart and stayed married to her till his death in his nineties, with never a breath of scandal. For Mrs Grundy it must have been a case of ‘Some days it is hardly worth while to listen at keyholes.'

The Church's loss was the World's gain. A horny young teacher's ability to keep his hands off a pretty, smart, and nubile student gave several universes a great teacher in history and philosophy... and gave Maureen her introduction to metaphysics - my greatest intellectual adventure since Father introduced me to Professor Thomas Henry Huxley.

Professor Huxley introduced me to the fact that theology is a study with no answers because it has no subject matter.

No subject matter? That's right; no subject matter whatever - just coloured water with artificial sweetening. ‘Theo-‘ = ‘God' and ‘-logy' = word(s), i.e., any word ending in ‘-ology' means ‘talk about' or ‘discussion of' or ‘words concerning' or ‘study of' a subject named in the first part of the word, whether it is ‘hippology', or ‘astrology', or ‘proctology', or ‘eschatology', or ‘scatology', or something else. But to discuss any subject, it is first necessary to agree on what it is you are discussing. ‘Hippology' presents no problem; everybody has seen a horse. ‘Proctology' - everybody has seen an arsehole... or, if you have been so carefully brought up that you've never seen one, go down to your city hall; you will find the place full of them. But the subject tagged by the spell-symbol ‘theology' is a horse of another colour.

‘God', or ‘god', or ‘gods' - have you ever seen ‘God'? If so, where and when, how tall was She and what did She weigh? What was Her skin colour? Did She have a belly button and, if so, why? Did She have breasts? For what purpose? How about organs of reproduction and of excretion - did She or didn't She?

(If you think I am making fun of the idea of a God fashioned in Man's image or vice versa, you have much to on.)

I will agree that the notion of an anthropomorphic God went out of fashion some time ago with most professional godsmen... but that doesn't get us any nearer to defining the English spell-symbol ‘God'. Let's consult fundamentalist preachers... because Episcopalians won't even let God into His sanctuary unless He shines His shoes and trims that awful beard... and Unitarians won't let Him in at all.

So let's listen to fundamentalists: ‘God is the Creator. He Created the World. The existence of the World proves that it was created; therefore there is a Creator. That Creator we call "God". Let us all bow down and worship Him, for He is almighty and His works proclaim His might.'

Will someone please page Dr S. I. Hayakawa? Or, if he is busy, any student who received a B-plus or better in Logic 101 ? I'm looking for someone able to discuss the fallacy of circular reasoning and also the concatenative process by which abstract words can be logically defined by building on concrete words. What is a ‘concrete' word? It is a spell-symbol used to tag something you can point to and thereby agree on, e.g. ‘cat', ‘sailboat', ‘ice-skating' - agree with such certainty that when you say ‘sailboat' there is no chance whatever that I will think you mean a furry quadruped with retractile claws.

With the spell-symbol ‘God' there is no way to achieve such agreement because there is nothing to point to. Circular reasoning can't get you out of this dilemma. Pointing to something (the physical world) and asserting that it has to have a Creator and this Creator necessarily has such-and-such attributes proves nothing save that you have made certain assertions without proof. You Nave pointed at a physical thing, the physical world; you have asserted that this physical thing has to have a ‘Creator'. (Who told you that? What's His mailing address? Who told Him?) But to assert that something physical was created out of nothing - not even empty space - by a Thingamajig you can't point to is not to make a philosophical statement or any sort of statement, it is mere noise, amphigory, sound and fury signifying nothing

Jesuits take fourteen years to learn to talk that sort of nonsense. Southern fundamentalist preachers learn to talk it in much shorter time. Either way, it's nonsense.

Pardon me. Attempts to define ‘God' cause one to break out in hives.

Unlike theology, ‘metaphysics' does have a subject, the physical world, the world that you can feel, taste, and see, the world of potholes and beautiful men and railroad tickets and barking dogs and wars and marshmallow sundaes. But, like theology, metaphysics has no answers. Just questions.

But what lovely questions!

Was this world created? If so, when and by whom and why?

How is consciousness (‘Me-ness') hooked to the physical world?

What happens to this ‘Me-ness' when this body I am wearing stops, dies, decays, and the worms eat it?

Why am I here, where did I come from, where am I going?

Why are you here? Are you here? Are you anywhere? Am I all alone?

(And many more.)

Metaphysics has polysyllabic words for all of these ideas but you don't have to use them; Anglo-Saxon monosyllables do just as well for questions that have no answers.

Persons who claim to have answers to these questions invariably are fakers after your money. No exceptions. If you point out their fakery, if you dare to say aloud that the Emperor has no clothes, they will lynch you if possible, always from the highest of motives.

That's the trouble I'm in now. I made the mistake of flapping my loose lower jaw before learning the power structure here... so now I am about to be hanged (I hope it is as gentle as hanging!) for the capital crime of sacrilege.

I should know better. I didn't think anyone would mind (in San Francisco) when I pointed out that the available evidence tended to indicate that Jesus was gay.

But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to get out of town.

(I do wish Pixel would come back.)

On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits, while the brides mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities that week and the groom's mother wore a quiet smile and a faraway look in her eyes from similar (but not identical) private activities.

I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.

Let's go back two days.

On Wednesday my zoo got home from the circus at 6.05 p.m.; we had a picnic dinner in our back yard at 6.30, the exact timing being possible through Carol's having prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger ones played croquet while we elders - Brian, Father, Theodore, and I - sat in the garden glider swing and talked.

Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.

But I must note first that I had gone to Father's room the night before (Tuesday) after the house was quiet, pledging him a King's X, then told him about a strange story Sergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a Howard from the future.

Despite my promise of King's X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father's bed and facing me listened soberly to my repetition.

Father said, ‘Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and all.'

‘Father, he knew Woodrow's birth date. Did you tell him?'

‘No. I know your policy.'

‘He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you tell him?'

‘No, but it's no secret. I've set it down on all sorts of documents.'

‘But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother's birthday - day, year, and month:

‘That's harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: anyone with access to the Foundation's files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.'

‘But why would he know Woodrow's birthday and not Nancy's? Father, he came here knowing quite a bit about al his ancestors - those he claims as ancestors - that is to say, Woodrow and his ancestors but not the birthdays of Woodrow's brothers and sisters.'

‘I don't know. If he did have access to judge Sperling's files, he could have memorised just those data needed to back up his story. But the most interesting item is his assertion that the War will end on 11 November, this year. I would have guessed sometime this summer, with bad news for Britain and worse news for France, and humiliation for us... or not earlier than the summer of 1919, with victory for the Allies but a horribly expensive one. If it turns out that Ted is right - 11 November 1918 - then I'll believe him. Ali of it.'

Nancy said suddenly, ‘I believe him!'

Father said, ‘Why, Nancy?'

‘Grandpa, do you remember - No, you weren't here. It was the day war was declared, a year ago. Papa had kissed us goodbye and left. Grandpa, you went out right after Papa left -‘

Father nodded. I said, ‘I remember.'

‘ - and, Mama, you had gone up to lie down. Uncle Ted telephoned. Oh, I know that he telephoned later and you talked to him, Grandpa. You... You were mean to him -‘

‘Nancy, I'm sorry about that.'

‘Oh, that was a misunderstanding, we all know that. This was before he talked to you, maybe an hour before, maybe longer. I was upset and crying a bit, I guess, and Uncle Ted knew it... and he told me to stop worrying about Papa, because he - Uncle Ted, I mean - had second sight and could tell the future. He told me that Papa would come home safely. And suddenly I quit worrying and have not worried since - not that way. Because I knew that he was telling the truth. Uncle Ted does know the future... because he is from the future.'

‘Father?'

‘How can I tell, Maureen?' Father looked terribly thoughtful. ‘But I think we must assume as least hypothesis - Occam's Razor - that Ted believes his own story. Which of course does not exclude the hypothesis that he is as loony as a June bug.'

‘Grandpa! You know Uncle Ted isn't crazy!'

‘I don't think he is. But his story sounds crazy, Nancy, I'm trying to be rational about this. Now don't scold Grandpa; I'm doing the best I can. At worst we'll know in about five months. November eleventh. Which is little comfort to you now, Maureen, but it may make up somewhat for the dirty trick Woodrow played on you. You should have clobbered him, on the spot.'

‘Not out in the woods at night, Papa, not a child that young. And now it's too late. Nancy, you remember that spot where Sergeant Theodore took you all on a picnic a year ago? We were there.'

Nancy's mouth dropped open. ‘Woodie was with you? Then you didn't - ‘ She chopped off what she was saying. Father put on his draw-poker face.

I looked from one to the other. ‘You darlings! I confided my plans to each of you. But did not tell either of you that I had told the other. Yes, Nancy, I went out there for the precise purpose I told you about: to offer Sergeant Theodore the best warrior's farewell I could manage, if he would let me. And he was about to let me. And it turned out that Woodrow had hidden in the back seat of the car.'

‘Oh, how dreadful!'

‘I thought so. So we got out of there quickly and went to Electric Park and never did have the privacy we needed.'

‘Oh, poor Mama!' Nancy leaned across Father's legs and. grabbed my head and made mother-hen sounds over me, exactly as I had over her for all those years, whenever she needed sympathy.

Then she straightened up. ‘Mama, you should go do it right now!'

‘Here? With a house full of children? My dear! No, no!'

‘I'll jigger for you! Grandpa! Don't you think she should?'

Father kept quiet. I repeated, ‘No, dear, no. Too risky.'

She answered, ‘Mama, if you're scared to, here in the house, I certainly am not. Grandpa knows I'm pregnant, don't you, Grandpa? Or I wouldn't be getting married. And I know what Jonathan would say.' She sat up straight and started to get off the edge of the bed. ‘I'm going straight down and give Uncle Ted a soldier's farewell. And tomorrow I'll tell Jonathan. And - Mama, I have a message for you from Jonathan. But I'll tell you when I come back upstairs.'

I said, weakly and hopelessly, ‘Don't stay down too long. The boys get up at four-thirty; don't get caught by them.'

‘I'll be careful. Bye.'

Father stopped her. ‘Nancy! Sit back down. You are crowding in on your mother's prerogatives.'

‘But, Grandpa -‘

‘Pipe down! Maureen is going downstairs to finish what she started. As she should. Daughter, I will stand jigger and Nancy can help me if she wishes. But take your own advice; don't stay down too long. If you aren't upstairs by three, I'm coming down to tap on the door.'

Nancy said eageriy, ‘Mama, why don't we both go down? I bet Uncle Ted would like that!'

‘I'll bet Uncle Ted would like that, too,' Father said grimly, ‘but he's not going to get it tonight. If you want to give him a soldier's send off, that's fine. But not tonight, and not until after you have consulted Jonathan. Now git for bed, dear... and you, Maureen, go downstairs and see Ted.'

I leaned over and kissed him and got quietly off the edge of the bed and started to leave. Father said, ‘Get along, Nancy; I'll take the first watch.'

She shoved out her lower lip. ‘No. Grandpa, I'm going to stay right here and bother you.'

I left, via the sleeping porch and my own room, then went downstairs barefooted and wearing just a wrapper, not stopping to see if Father threw Nancy out. If she had managed to tame Father when I had not been able to manage it in twice her years, I didn't want to know it. Not then. I thought about Theodore instead... so successfully that by the time I quietly opened the door to my sewing-room I was as ready as a female animal can be.

Quiet as I was, he heard me and had me in his arms as I closed the door. I returned his embrace, then let go and shrugged off my wrapper, and reached up to him again. At last, at last I was naked in his arms.

Which led, inevitably, to my sitting with Theodore and Brian and Father in our backyard glider swing after our picnic dinner on Wednesday, listening to a discussion between Father and Theodore, while our young people played croquet around us. At Briney's request, Theodore had repeated his statements about when and how female h. sapiens could and could not get pregnant.

The conversation drifted off from reproduction to obstetrics and they started using ungrammatical Latin at each other - some difference of opinion about the best way to handle a particular sort of birth complication. They became more and more polite to each other the more they differed. I did not have any opinions as birth complications are something 1 only know about from reading, since I have babies about as easily as a hen lays eggs - one big ouch and it's over.

Briney finally interrupted them, somewhat to my relief. I don't even want to hear about the horrible things that can happen if a birthing goes wrong. ‘This is all very interesting,'

Brian said, ‘but, Ira, may I ask one question? Is Ted a medical doctor, or not? Sorry, Ted.'

Not at all, Brian. My whole story sounds phoney, I know. That's why I avoid telling it.'

Father said, ‘Brian, haven't you heard me addressing Ted as "Doctor" for the last thirty minutes? The thing that makes me so angry - so gravelled, rather - is that Ted knows more about the art of medicine than I could ever possibly learn. Yet his shop talk makes me want to go back to the practice of medicine.'

Theodore cleared his throat, sounding just like Father. ‘Mrrrph. Dr Johnson -‘

‘Yes, Doctor?'

‘I think my superior knowledge of therapy - correction: my knowledge of superior therapy - bothers you in part because you think of me as being younger than you are. But, as I explained, I simply look young. In fact I am older than you are.'

‘How old?'

‘I declined to answer that question when Mrs Smith asked it -‘

‘Theodore! My name is Maureen.' (That exasperating man!)

‘Little pitchers with big ears, Maureen,' Theodore said quietly. ‘Dr Johnson, the therapy of my time is not harder to learn than is therapy today; it is easier, because less of it is empirical and more of it - most of it - is based on minutely developed and thoroughly tested theory. With correct and logical theory as a framework you could catch up on what new has been learned in jig time, then go quickly into clinical work under a preceptor: You would not find it difficult.'

‘Damn it, sir, I'll never have the chance!'

‘But, Doctor, that's what I'm trying to offer you. My sisters will pick me up at an agreed rendezvous in Arizona on 2 August 1926, eight years from now. If you wish, I will be delighted to take you with me to my time and my planet, where, if you wish, you can study therapy - I am chairman of the board of a medical school there; no problem. Then you can either stay on Tertius, or return to Earth - to the exact spot and instant that you left, if that is your wish, but with your medical education updated and you yourself rejuvenated... and with renewed zest for life, that being merely a side effect but a fine bonus of rejuvenation.'

Father looked strange, haunted. I heard him murmur, ‘"- unto an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world -"'

Sergeant Theodore answered, ‘"- and the glory of them". Matthew, four, verse eight. But, Doctor, I am not the. Devil and I am not offering you treasure or power - simply the hospitality of my home as I have enjoyed the hospitality of this home... plus an opportunity for a refresher course if you want it. But you don't have to make up your mind tonight; you have more than eight years for that. You can postpone your decision right up to the last minute. Dora - that's my ship - has ample room.'

I turned and put my hand on Father's arm. ‘Father, do you remember what we did in 1893?' I looked across at Ted. ‘Father read medicine under a preceptor who never believed in germs. So, after Father had been in practice for many years, he went back to school at Northwestern University in 1893 to learn the latest knowledge about germ theory and asepsis and such things. Father, this is the same thing - and an incredible opportunity! Father accepts, Theodore - he's just slow to admit what he wants, sometimes.'

‘Mind your own business, Maureen. Ted said I could take eight years to answer.'

‘Carol would not take eight years to answer. And neither would I! If Brian permitted. If Theodore can bring me back to the same hour and day -‘

‘I can:

‘Would I meet Tamara?'

‘Of course.'

‘Oh, my! Brian? Just a visit and I come back the same day -‘

Theodore put in, ‘Brian, you can come with her. A few days or a few months vacation, and back the same day.'

‘Uh... Oh, Heavens! Sergeant, you and I have a war to win first. Can we table this till we come back from France?'

‘Certainly, Captain:

I don't recall how the talk got around to economics. First, I was sworn to silence about the periodic nature of female fertility... and took the oath with my fingers crossed. Fiddlesticks. Both doctors, Papa and Theodore, pointed out that my mucous membranes had never been invaded by bugs - gonococci and spirochete treponema pallidum and such - because I had been drilled and drilled in ‘Always use a rubber except when you want a baby', and my girls had been trained the same way. I didn't mention the far more numerous times when I had happily skipped those pesky sheaths because I was pregnant and knew it. Such as the night before. Avoiding disease does not depend on anything as trivial as a rubber purse; it depends on being very, very fussy about your intimates. A woman can catch something bad in her mouth or in her eyes just as quickly as in her vagina - and much easier. Am I going to copulate with a man without kissing him? Let's not be silly.

I can't recall ever using a rubber after Theodore explained exactly how to chart my fertile span. Or ever again failing to ring the cash register when I wished to.

Then I heard, ‘ - 29 October 1929.'

I blurted, ‘Huh? But you said you were leaving in 1926. August second.'

My husband said, ‘Pay attention, Carrot Top. There will be a quiz Monday morning.'

Theodore said, ‘Maureen, I was speaking of Black Tuesday. That is what future historians will call the greatest stock market crash in all history.'

‘You mean like 1907?'

‘I'm not sure what happened in 1907 because, as I told you, I studied closely only the history of the decade I planned to spend here - from the gear after the end of this War until shortly before Black Tuesday, 29 October, 1929. That ten years from after the First World War -‘

‘Hold it! Doctor, you said "First World War - " First?'

‘Doctor Johnson, except for this one Golden Age, from 11 November 1918 to 29 October 1929, there are wars all through this century. The Second World War starts in 1939, and is longer and worse than this one. Then there are wars off and on - mostly on - the rest of this century. But the next century, the twenty-first century, is far worse.'

Father said, ‘Ted. The day war was declared. You were simply speaking the truth as you saw it. Weren't you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Then why did you enlist? This isn't your war... Captain Long.'

Theodore answered very softly, ‘To regain your respect, Ancestor. And to make Maureen proud of me.'

‘Mrrph! Well! I hope that you will never regret it, sir.'

‘I never will.'

Thursday was a busy day indeed; Eleanor and I, with the aid of all my older children and all her older children, with much help from Sergeant Theodore as my aide-de-camp (‘dog robber' he called it, and so did Father - I declined to let them get my goat), with some help from our spouses and from Father - Eleanor and I mounted a formal church wedding in only twenty-four hours.

Oh, I must admit that Eleanor and I had done spadework ahead of time - guest lists, plans, alerting of minister and janitor and caterer as soon as Brian's first phone call had made it possible, engraving of invitations on Tuesday, envelopes addressed on Wednesday by her two best penmen, invitations delivered by my two boys and two of hers, with RSVP to Justin's office by telephone, etc., etc.

We managed to have the bride dressed correctly and on time because Sergeant Theodore displayed another unexpected talent: ladies' sempstress - no, sempstor - no, I think it must be ladies' tailor. I had already accomplished my prime purpose of using Eleanor's special telepathic talent by having Theodore drive me to Eleanor's house out south on Thursday morning and there putting my problem to her bluntly - speeding things up by peeling my clothes off the instant the door was locked on El and me in her private apartment, then bringing her up to date - then Eleanor had her maid show Theodore to El's private suite.

Never mind the sweaty details; in another thirty minutes Eleanor reported to me, ‘Maureen love, Theodore believes every word of what he has been telling us,' which Theodore countered by pointing out that every Napoleon in every insane asylum believed his own story just as firmly.

‘Captain Long,' Eleanor had answered, ‘few males have a firm grip on reality; I can't see that it matters. You were telling me the truth as you know it when you told about your home in the future and you were again telling the truth when you told me that you love Maureen. Since I love her, too, I hope to earn some portion of your love. Now, please, if you will let me up - and thank you, sir! you pleasured me immensely.'

It was immediately after that that we ran into a time conflict: how to get Eleanor's wedding dress and Nancy to Eleanor's sempstress at a time when Justin said that Jonathan must fetch Nancy and Brian to Justin's office so that all four could go to City Hall together to obtain the necessary special licence, both principals being under age.

Theodore said, ‘Why do we need a sempstress? Eleanor, doesn't that cabinet over there conceal a Singer sewing machine? And why do we need Nancy? Mama Maureen, didn't you tell me that you and Nancy can wear the same clothes?'

I agreed that Nancy and I could (and did) borrow clothes from each other. I'm an inch more in the thighs and about the same bigger in the bust. But, Lazarus, we don't dare touch Eleanor's dress - wait till you see it.'

Although Eleanor was taller and bigger than I, her wedding dress was dose to my size as it had already been cut down once for her daughter Ruth, three inches shorter than her mother. It was a magnificent gown of white satin, lavishly beaded with seed pearls. It had a Belgian lace veil and a ten-foot train. It had originally had mutton-leg sleeves and a derrière cut for a bustle; these had vanished in the alteration for Ruth.

Ali the money in the world could not produce a wedding dress of that quality in the few hours until it would be needed; my Nancy was lucky that her Aunt El was willing to lend it to her.

Eleanor fetched it. Theodore admired it but did not seem intimidated by it. ‘Eleanor, let's fit it snugly to Mama Maureen, then there will be just room for its slip under it for Nancy. What other underclothes? Corset? Brassière? Panties?'

I said, ‘I've never put a corset on Nancy and she says she's never going to start.'

‘Good for Nancy!' agreed Eleanor. ‘I wish I never had. Mau, Nancy doesn't need a brassière. What about underpants? Can't wear bloomers with that dress. Both Emery Bird and Harzfeld carry sheer underpants... but they will still make lines under this dress if it is fitted as well as it should be.'

‘No pants,' I ruled.

‘Every old biddy there will know she's not wearing any,' Eleanor said doubtfully.

I explained in Chaucerian terms my lack of interest in what old biddies thought. ‘I'll put round garters on her. She can shift to hose supporters when she changes to leave.'

‘At which time she can put on underpants,' Theodore added.

I was startled. ‘Why, Theodore! I'm surprised. What need has a bride for pants?'

‘The tiniest, scantiest, sheerest girl panties that are sold today, I mean - not bloomers. So Jonny can take them off when he gets her there, darling. Symbolic defloration, an old pagan rite. It tells her she's married.'

El and I giggled. ‘I must be sure to tell Nancy about that.'

‘And I'll tell Jonathan so that he will make it a proper ceremony. Eleanor, let's put Maureen up on that low table and start shoving pins into her. Mama Maureen, are you clean and dry all over? I'm about to turn this dress inside out. Satin shows water marks something ‘orrible.'

For the next twenty-five minutes Theodore was very busy, while I held still and Eleanor kept him supplied with pins. Presently El said, ‘Lazarus, where did you learn women's clothes?'

‘In Paris, about a hundred years from now.'

‘I wish I hadn't asked. Are you descended from me? As well as from Maureen?'

‘I wish I were. I'm not. But I'm married to three of your descendants - Tamara, Ishtar, and Hamadryad - and co-husband to another, Ira Weatheral. Probably - certainly - other connections, but Maureen was right; I checked the archives only for my own ancestors. I didn't guess that I would meet you, El of the beautiful belly. I'm almost through. Shall I go ahead and make the alterations? Or do we take this to your ladies' sempstress?'

El said, ‘Maureen? I'm willing to risk the dress; I have confidence in Lazarus - I mean M'sieu Jacques Noir. But I won't risk it for Nancy's wedding without your permission.'

I answered, ‘I don't have any judgement about Theodore, or Lazarus, or whatever name he's using today - I mean this stud who's treating me like a dressmaker's dummy. But Sergeant, didn't you tell me you had retailored your breeches yourself? Pegged them?'

‘Oui, Madame.'

‘ "Oui, Madame" my tired back. Where did you leave your pants, Sergeant? You should always know where your pants are.'

‘I know where they are!' said El, and fetched them.

‘Around the knees, El. Turn them inside out and look.' I joined her in checking Theodore's tailoring. Shortly I said, ‘El, I can't sec where they were altered.'

‘I can. See? The original thread is just barely faded; the thread he used in altering is the same shade as the cloth of the outlets - the cloth that has not been in sunlight.'

I agreed. ‘Hmm, yes, once I get it into stronger light. If I look closely.'

El looked up . ‘You're hired, boy. Room, board, ten dollars a week, and all the tail you can use.'

Theodore looked thoughtful. ‘Well... all right. Though I usually get paid extra for that'

El looked surprised, then laughed merrily, ran to him, and started rubbing tits against his ribs. ‘I'll meet your terms, Captain. What is your stud fee?'

‘I usually get the pick of the litter.'

‘It's a deal.'

The wedding was beautiful and our Nancy was dazzlingly lovely in a magnificent dress that fitted her perfectly. Marie was flower girl; Richard was ring bearer, both in Sunday white. Jonathan was (to my surprise) in formal cutaway, ascot in pearl grey with pearl stickpin, grey striped trousers, spats. Theodore was his best man, in uniform; Father was in uniform and wearing his many medals and acting as usher and groomsman; Brian was utterly beautiful in boots and Sam Browne and spurs and sabre and his ‘98 medals and forest-green jacket and pinks.

Carol was maid of honour and almost as dazzling as the bride in lime-green tulle and her bouquet. Brian junior was the other usher and groomsman and was dressed in his grammar-school graduation suit; brand new only two weeks earlier - double-breasted blue serge and his first long pants and very grown-up in his manner.

George was charged with just one duty, to see to it that Woodrow kept quiet and behaved himself, and was authorised to use force as necessary. Father gave George this instruction in Woodrow's presence... and Woodrow did behave himself; he could always be counted on to act in his own self interest.

Dr Draper did not indulge in any of the nonsense with which the Reverend Timberly had almost spoiled my wedding; he used the M.E. service straight out of the 1904 Discipline, not a word more, not a word less... and in short order our Nancy was going back down the aisle on her husband's arm to the traditional strains of the Mendelssohn recessional, and I sighed with relief. It had been a perfect wedding, no rough spots whatever, and I thought to myself how dumb founded Mrs Grundy would have been had she seen a majority of the wedding party thirty-six hours earlier, behind locked doors, in a gentle orgy inaugurating Carol's Day.

It was the first celebration of the holiday that would spread at the wave front of the diaspora of the human race: Carol's Day, Carolmas, Carolita's Birthday (it was not!), Fiesta de Santa Carolita. Theodore had told us what it had become (would become) - the midsummer fertility rite for all planets, anywhere. Then he had toasted Carols graduation to womanhood in champagne, and Carol had answered his toast with great seriousness and dignity - and got bubbles up her nose and gagged and coughed and had to be consoled.

I did not know then and do not know now whether or not Theodore granted my second daughter the boon she craved.

All I can say is that I gave them every opportunity. But with Theodore (stubborn, difficult man!) one never knows.

On Saturday afternoon there was a rump session of the trustees of the Ira Howard Foundation, Judge Sperling having come all the way from Toledo for that purpose: Judge Sperling, Mr Arthur J. Chapman, Justin Weatheral, Brian Smith (by unanimous consent), Sergeant Theodore... and me. And Eleanor.

When judge Sperling cleared his throat, I understood the signal and started to withdraw. Whereupon Theodore stood up to leave with me.

There was some backing and filling, but the result was that I stayed and Eleanor stayed because Theodore headed for the door when we did. He did explain that the Howard Families, in their permanent organisation, used absolute equality of the sexes... and, as Howard Chairman in his own time, attending this meeting as a courtesy to the twentieth century Howard organisation, he could not in conscience take part in any Howard meeting from which women were excluded.

Once they got past that hurdle, the meeting simply consisted of Theodore's repeating his prediction of 11 November 1918 as the day the War would end, followed by his prediction of Black Tuesday, 29 October 1929. On being questioned he embellished this latter, with mention of devaluation of the dollar, from twenty dollars to the ounce down to thirty-five dollars to the ounce. ‘President Roosevelt will do this by what amounts to decree, although Congress will ratify it... but this doesn't happen until early in 1933.'

‘Just a moment, Sergeant Bronson, or Captain Long, or whatever you call yourself, are you saying that Colonel Roosevelt makes a comeback? I find that hard to swallow. In 1933 he will be, uh -‘ Mr Chapman stopped to think.

‘Seventy-Five years old,' Judge Sperling put it. ‘What's so unusual about that, Arthur? I'm older than that, but I have no intention of retiring anytime soon.'

Theodore said, ‘No, gentlemen, no. Not Teddy Roosevelt. Franklin Roosevelt. Now assistant secretary to Mr Josephus Daniels.'

Mr Chapman shook his head. ‘I find that even harder to believe.'

Theodore answered rather testily, ‘It does not matter what you believe, Counsellor; Mr Roosevelt will be inaugurated in 1933 and shortly after that he will close all the banks and call in all gold and gold certificates and devalue the dollar. The dollar never does regain its present value. Fifty years later an ounce of gold will fluctuate wildly, from around a hundred dollars an ounce to around a thousand dollars an ounce.'

‘Young man,' Mr Chapman pronounced, ‘what you describe is anarchy.'

‘Not quite. It gets worse. Much worse. Most historians call the second half of this century "The Crazy Years". Socially the Crazy Years start at the end of the next World War. But from a standpoint of the economy the Crazy Years start on Black Tuesday, 29 October 1929. For the rest of this century you can lose your shirt if you don't maintain a strong cash position. But it is a century of great opportunity, too, in almost every field.'

Mr Chapman closed down his face. I could see that he had made up his mind not to believe anything. But Justin and Judge Sperling exchanged some side remarks, then the judge said, ‘Captain Long, can you tell us what some of these great opportunities will be?'

‘I'll try. Commercial aviation both for passengers and for freight. Railroads will be in deep trouble and will not recover. The present picture shows will add sound - talking pictures. Television. Stereovision. Space travel. Atomic power. Lasers. Computers. Electronics of every sort. Mining on the Moon. Asteroid mining. Rolling roadways. Cryonics. Artificial manipulation of genetics. Personal body armour. Sunpower screens. Frozen foods. Hydroponics. Microwave cooking. Do any of you know D. D. Harriman?'

Chapman stood up. ‘Judge, I move we adjourn.'

‘Sit down, Arthur, and behave yourself. Captain, you realise how shocking your predictions are, do you not?'

‘Certainly,' Theodore answered.

‘The only way I can listen to your words with equanimity is to recall the changes I have seen in my own lifetime. If your prediction as to the day the war ends turns out to be accurate, then I feel that we must take your other predictions seriously. In the meantime, do you have anything more to tell us?'

‘I guess not. Two things, maybe. Don't buy on margin after the middle of 1929. And don't sell short if a wrong guess could clean you out.'

‘Good advice at any time. Thank you, sir.'

Carol and I and the children kissed them both goodbye on Sunday 30 June then went back inside as Captain Bozell's car drove away, to cry in private.

The news got worse and worse all that summer.

Then in the late fall it began to be apparent that we were gaining on the Central Powers. The Kaiser abdicated and fled to Holland, and then we knew we were going to win. The false armistice came along and my joy was shaded by the realisation that it was not the eleventh of November.

And the real armistice did arrive, right on time, November the Eleventh, and every bell, every whistle, every siren and horn, anything that could make noise all sounded at once.

But not in our household. On Thursday George fetched home from his route the Kansas City Post. In its casualties report it listed as ‘MISSING IN ACTION - Bronson, Cpl Theo, KCMo'.