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Authors: Katherine Maclean
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above them. It smelled damp and slightly
alcoholic.
“Keep moving,” said the teener,
gesturing with his gun. George turned left, wondering what happened next when
you breathed that fog. A busy day, a busy night. An experience of symbolic
insight was often reported by people who had been flattened by police anti-riot
gas. What had the day meant? Why were such things happening?
Floating in white mist, George floated free of
his body over the city and saw a vast spirit being of complex and bitter logic
who brooded over the city and lived also in its future. George spoke to it, in
thoughts that were not words. “Ahmed uses the world view of his
grandmother, the gypsy. He believes that you are Fate. He believes you have
intentions and plans.”
It laughed and thought: The wheels of time grind
tight. No room between gear and gear for change. Future exists, logical and
unchangeable. No room for change in logic. When it adds up, it must arrive at
the same concluding scene. The city is necessity. The future is built. The
gears move us toward it. I am Fate.
George made a strange objecting thought.
“The past can change. So everything that adds up from the past can
change.”
There was a wail from the atmosphere. The vast
spirit that brooded over the city vanished, destroyed, dwindling to nowhere,
uncreated, never true, like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy poured a
bucket of water over her, leaving behind the same dwindling wail. “But all
my beautiful disasters, the logic, the logic …
“No arithmetic;” George said firmly.
“If you can see the future, you can change it. If you can’t see the past,
it can change by itself and be anything. It won’t add up the same twice.”
All the crystallized visions of the city of the
future shattered and dissolved into white fog, a creative fog that could be
shaped to anything by thought. George stood at the center of creation and felt
stubborn. They were tempting him again, trying to get him into the bureaucratic
game of rules and unfreedom. “No,” he said. “I won’t fence
anyone in with my idea. Let them choose their own past.”
He came to consciousness lying on the floor in a
small tight room with the blond kid sitting on a bed pointing a gun at him.
“They got Carl Hodges back,” the kid
said. “You ruined everything. Maybe you are a cop. I don’t know. Maybe I
should kill you.”
“I just had a wild dream,” George said,
lifting his head, but not moving because he did not want to be shot. “I
dreamed I talked to the Fate of New York City. And I told Fate that the future
can change anytime, and the past can change anytime. In the beginning was the
middle, I said. And Fate started crying and boohooing and vanished. I mean, no
more Fate. Vanished.”
There was a long pause while the short blond kid
held the pistol pointed at George’s face and stared at him over the top of it.
The kid tried several tough faces, and then curiosity got the better of him. He
was basically an intellectual, even though a young one, and curiosity meant
more to him than love or hate. “What do you mean? The past is variable?
You can change it?”
“I mean, we don’t know what happened in the
past exactly. It’s gone anyhow. It’s not real anymore. So we can say anything
happened we want to have happened. If one past is going to make trouble, we can
change it just by being dumb, and everything will straighten out. Like, for
example, we just met, right now, right here, we just met. Nothing else
happened.”
“Oh.” The kid put away his gun,
thinking about that. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Larry.”
“My name’s George.” He arranged
himself more comfortably on the floor, not making any sudden moves.
They had a long philosophical discussion, while
Larry waited for the police outside to finish searching and go away. Sometimes
Larry took the gun out and pointed it again, but usually they discussed things
and exchanged stories without accepting any past.
Larry
alcoholic.
“Keep moving,” said the teener,
gesturing with his gun. George turned left, wondering what happened next when
you breathed that fog. A busy day, a busy night. An experience of symbolic
insight was often reported by people who had been flattened by police anti-riot
gas. What had the day meant? Why were such things happening?
Floating in white mist, George floated free of
his body over the city and saw a vast spirit being of complex and bitter logic
who brooded over the city and lived also in its future. George spoke to it, in
thoughts that were not words. “Ahmed uses the world view of his
grandmother, the gypsy. He believes that you are Fate. He believes you have
intentions and plans.”
It laughed and thought: The wheels of time grind
tight. No room between gear and gear for change. Future exists, logical and
unchangeable. No room for change in logic. When it adds up, it must arrive at
the same concluding scene. The city is necessity. The future is built. The
gears move us toward it. I am Fate.
George made a strange objecting thought.
“The past can change. So everything that adds up from the past can
change.”
There was a wail from the atmosphere. The vast
spirit that brooded over the city vanished, destroyed, dwindling to nowhere,
uncreated, never true, like the Wicked Witch of the West when Dorothy poured a
bucket of water over her, leaving behind the same dwindling wail. “But all
my beautiful disasters, the logic, the logic …
“No arithmetic;” George said firmly.
“If you can see the future, you can change it. If you can’t see the past,
it can change by itself and be anything. It won’t add up the same twice.”
All the crystallized visions of the city of the
future shattered and dissolved into white fog, a creative fog that could be
shaped to anything by thought. George stood at the center of creation and felt
stubborn. They were tempting him again, trying to get him into the bureaucratic
game of rules and unfreedom. “No,” he said. “I won’t fence
anyone in with my idea. Let them choose their own past.”
He came to consciousness lying on the floor in a
small tight room with the blond kid sitting on a bed pointing a gun at him.
“They got Carl Hodges back,” the kid
said. “You ruined everything. Maybe you are a cop. I don’t know. Maybe I
should kill you.”
“I just had a wild dream,” George said,
lifting his head, but not moving because he did not want to be shot. “I
dreamed I talked to the Fate of New York City. And I told Fate that the future
can change anytime, and the past can change anytime. In the beginning was the
middle, I said. And Fate started crying and boohooing and vanished. I mean, no
more Fate. Vanished.”
There was a long pause while the short blond kid
held the pistol pointed at George’s face and stared at him over the top of it.
The kid tried several tough faces, and then curiosity got the better of him. He
was basically an intellectual, even though a young one, and curiosity meant
more to him than love or hate. “What do you mean? The past is variable?
You can change it?”
“I mean, we don’t know what happened in the
past exactly. It’s gone anyhow. It’s not real anymore. So we can say anything
happened we want to have happened. If one past is going to make trouble, we can
change it just by being dumb, and everything will straighten out. Like, for
example, we just met, right now, right here, we just met. Nothing else
happened.”
“Oh.” The kid put away his gun,
thinking about that. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Larry.”
“My name’s George.” He arranged
himself more comfortably on the floor, not making any sudden moves.
They had a long philosophical discussion, while
Larry waited for the police outside to finish searching and go away. Sometimes
Larry took the gun out and pointed it again, but usually they discussed things
and exchanged stories without accepting any past.
Larry
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