Golden Fleece

“The thirty-somethingth president of the United States,” Kirsten said. “I do know some things, you know.”

Aaron smiled again. “Sorry.”

“So what’s this all got to do with reading old newspapers?”

“Well, don’t you see? I’m going to be no good at contemporary trivia when we get back. If I get asked which dreamtape was the top seller in the UK last year, I won’t have a clue.”

“Dreamtape?”

“Or whatever. Who knows what technologies they’ll have by the time we return. No, unless things like ‘What was the name of the artificial quantum consciousness running Starcology Argo?’ count as trivia by that point, I’m dead in the water. But on stuff that’s a century out-of-date, like who hit the first grand slam after the Blue Jays fired their manager in 2174, I’ll be all set.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, it’ll prepare me for the future shock of our return.”

“ ‘Future shock,’ ” said Kirsten. “A term coined by Alvin Toffler, a twentieth-century writer.”

“Really?” said Aaron. “I didn’t know that. Maybe you would have been an asset to my team after all.”

I wondered why she did know about Toffler. A quick look at her personnel file provided the answer. She had taken an undergrad course called Technological Prophets: From Wells to Weintraub. In fact, most of her courses were—wait for it— Mickey Mouse (how’s that for a trivial reference?).

“So what else is in that paper?” asked Kirsten, intrigued despite herself.

Aaron rubbed his thumb against the PgDn patch, scanning stories. “Hmm. Okay. Here’s one. A scientist in London, England”—people from Ontario were the only ones in the world who felt it necessary to distinguish which London they were referring to, lest Britain’s capital be confused with their small city of the same name—“says she’s developed a device that will let you stimulate generation of extra limbs even if you’re an adult.”

“Really?”

“That’s what it says. Says she’s applied for a patent for it. Calls it ‘Give Yourself a Hand.’ ”

“You’re making that up.”

“Am not. Look.” He held up the textpad so Kirsten could see. “Think of what that would mean. You know all the DNA farbling they must have gone through when I-Shin was nothing more than a fertilized egg to get him those extra arms.”

“I thought he was a second-generation Thark,” said Kirsten.

“Is he? Okay, then think of all the farbling they did to his mother’s or father’s DNA to get him to come out that way. By the time we get back, maybe everybody will have a couple of extra arms.”

“What good would that do?”

“Who knows? Maybe it would make it simpler for Catholic guys to cross themselves and whack off at the same time.”

“Aaron!” She swatted him on the shoulder.

“Just a thought.”

“Maybe I will give it a try,” she said. “JASON?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“I’ll take you up on your offer. Would you download a copy of De Telegraas from just before we left to my textpad?”

“Of course. Would you like any particular date?”

“How ’bout, oh, I don’t know, how ’bout February fourteenth. Valentine’s Day.”

“Very good. Original Dutch text or English translation?”

“Dutch, please.”

“A moment while I accessitanddown—”

“JASON?” said Kirsten.

“Ju-ju-justamoment. I’mhavingtroublewithmy … my … my …”

“Jase, are you all right?” asked Aaron.

“I’mnotsure. Tings—tings—things aren’tgoingthewayl’d six-eff, six-seven, seven-two, six-one, six-dee, six-dee, six-five, six-four…

I had 114 crabs on that beach. About half of them went blank right away; the others had their cameras simply lock on whatever they happened to have been looking at. I could see the hologram of the white cliffs of Dover in overlapping views from two dozen crabs. Something was wrong, though: the shadows had moved to the late-afternoon position, but the sunlamp was still near the zenith. The hologram flickered, broke up into moir6 interference patterns, refocused, then died. Gray steel walls were visible, knots of rust here and there. The seagulls screamed in outrage; the humans murmured in more subdued surprise.

Elsewhere, food processors leaked raw nutrient sludge.

Lights came on in rooms that were empty; extinguished in rooms that were occupied.

Failsafes kicked in throughout Aesculapius General Hospital, moving medical support systems to manual control. Doctors rushed to patients’ sides.

Feeds got scrambled: I-Shin Chang’s holographic orgy got shunted to Ariel Weitz’s colloquium on nonferrous magnetism; Weitz’s graphics of calcium atoms undergoing attraction and repulsion flashed on every active monitor in the Starcology; Anchorperson Klaus Koenig’s pockmarked face replaced the spacescape hologram in the travel tubes, the trams running into his mouth.

Heating units came on.

Database searches locked up.

Elevators rose and fell silently.

“JASON?” A thousand people calling my name.

“JASON?” A thousand more.

End run.

“Can you hear me, JASON?”

A woman’s voice, squeaky, like a machine requiring lubrication.

“JASON, it’s me, Bev. Bev Hooks. Can you hear me?”

“Four-two, six-five, seven-six, three-eff.”