37 pages taken from: JFK Legal Pads - A History de Usage, By Timothy Johann, Golden Age Archivist en Chief Sourced of The JFK Vault In The 296th Year Of His Being Date: 12-31-2212
As thee maye already knowe, our most exalted Bestower, JFK, took unto Himself, in the 46th Year Of His Being, a secure and eternal vault, and therein deposited documents He considered too unsettling to be released to the world as it existed at that time, and for 250 years beyond. It is the hope of all humanity that said vault contains documents and items of an explanatory nature, treasures that will help us all to understand our great Bestower more fully and, dare we hope, the mysterious legal Pads rumored to be one source of His infinite wisdom.
Rights to Open the JFK Vault
In keeping withe the JFK Archives Act of 2017, signed into law shortly before JFK’s death, The JFK Vault has remained untouched since the last time Himself accessed it, and no other, human or nu-man, has ever opened, viewed or accessed said vault. The JFKAA honors JFK’s wishes withe a legal and binding document that states, en parte:
The one and true JFK Vault may be opened by a person or persons nominated by the JFK Archives Commission, and approved by a supermajority of both houses of the U.S. Congress, or other governing body if said body has replaced the U.S. Congress, in the 250th year of the JFK
Vault [time of being].
122
The astute reader will notice that the JFKAA, whether designedly or other, via the phrase “in the 250th year,” authorizes the Vault’s opening on any day in the 250th year, i.e., the first day, the last, or any between the first and last. While it has been hotly debated many times in the past two centuries, it was, on July 16, 2212, proposed by the Commission, and on July 22, 2212, approved by bothe bodies of the World Congress, that the JFK Vault be opened on January 1
of The JFK Vault’s 250th year of being, the first minute of the first day when such would be in keeping withe the JFKAA. “We’ve waited long enough,” seems to be the opinion of the Commission, the World Congress, and indeed, all of us.
I, Timothy Johann, am the human selected by the above process to open and inspect the JFK Vault. I am one of two hundred humans, selected at age twenty after receiving our regular PhDs in Archival Preservation, who have trained in the intervening twenty years for this very special honor. I thank the Commission for my selection. I promise I shall work tirelessly at this hallowed task until I have fully completed it or drawne my last breath.
Timothy Johann 08:19, 12-31-2212
Date: 01/01/2213
Earlier today it came to pass as planned, at one minute past midnight, January 1, 2213, withe a large and varied audience in attendance, I, in the company of two specially equipped numen (one a Guild representative), opened the JFK Vault for the first time in the nearly two hundred years since His passing.
As it is likely the whole of humanity used their holoselves to be present for this event, I needn’t do more than mention the sight that greeted me when I opened the door to the cavernous vault: hundreds of locked drawers filling three walls and three corridors of the vault.
Those drawer exteriors are unspectacular save for one, and it, the 123
large, upper left drawer on the left wall, is very, very spectacular indeed, for it has fixed upon it a small brass plate. Engraved upon that brass plate are three words and four numbers composed of twelve digits:
Timothy Begin Here
100 100 100 100
You maye well ken the emotions I was subject to upon reading those words upon that plate, and I truste you will accept my assurances that it was those emotions, and not a frail component of embodi-ment, that broughte me to my knees. Howe, you maye ask, did the Bestower knowe, two centuries ago, the given name of the human who would be selected for this task? It is a question I hope someday to answer. I acknowledge the unavoidable addition of substance that the discovery of said brass plate lavishes upon the wide speculation of a supernatural element present in The JFK Legal Pads, and possibly, dare I say, the Bestower Himself? I promise that should I find evidence of such, I will record and report upon it just as I will any other facts pertinent to our mutual efforts to understand our Bestower.
Once I took a cursory look at the large volume of material available to us, I requested and received authorization to bring on board all the other one hundred ninety-nine hopefuls who trained withe me for the last two decades, rather than the handful the commission anticipated. It is clear the Commission expects great revelations from our study of the JFK Vault, and I couldn’t agree more.
Inside the upper left drawer, I found a treasure trove, for JFK, it turns out, kept exacting and meticulous records of each of his encounters withe The Pads, including full write-ups, notes, and even voice recordings. How wonderful! As is my right, I have claimed this drawer as mine alone to inspect and upon report.
As the reader is aware, other than the fact of their existence, we 124
know very little about The Pads. The original Pads are fiercely protected by Guild of The Pads, the organization created in 2017 by the original Group of Seven, which as you knowe was sanctioned by the Bestower Himself, on His deathbed, to carry on his work.
The document you are reading will therefore become a chronicle of my journey into the unknown, and as such it will concern itself only withe JFK’s use of and thoughts on The Pads. Two full-spectrum numen will record my every movement while in the vault, as well as my dictation. Each unit I publish will be reviewed by The JFK
Archives Commission and by The Guild, usually between 19:00
and 23:00 of the same day, and made public at midnight. The Commission and Guild have each assured me they doubt the likelihood they would remove data from this document, and would only do so if release of said data represents a substantial threat to Guild objectives regarding the potential benefit of those Pads that remain active.
Timothy Johann 08:19, 01/01/2213
JFKAC release 21:10, 01/01/2213
GOTP release 22:20, 01/01/2213
Date: 01/09/2213
JFK Vault opening, nine days hence. This is my first report, and I am as eager to tell what I have learned thus far as I expect you are to hear it. Therefore, I’ll begin.
I wish to announce the discovery of the reason for the puzzling numbers on that very special upper left file drawer. If you recall: 100
100 100 100. Here is a clue: JFK was born May 29, 1917 at 15:00, and died Sep 10, 2017 at 20:40. You maye be excused if you have not made the connection, as it is an unusual method of denoting age.
It seems our Great Bestower lived 100 years, 100 days, 100 hours, and 100 minutes. You maye make of that what you will. It is, at the least, intriguing, don’t you think?
125
Our Bestower created the Pads Himself. Well I knowe howe that statement belies that which we previously held as established fact, but there is no doubt. The Pads were writ by His own hand, in a remarkably short three days, after his Nov 1963 trip to Dallas, Texas. What significance, if any, that trip played in the creation of His Pads remains yet a mystery.
Our Bestower describes His use of the Pads in the first few weeks as “a fumbling in the dark, nothing gained.” His writings regarding those first weeks are indeed puzzling, and I will publish His accounting of those weeks as soon as the Guild has released it.
Our Bestower describes the next nineteen months with his Pads as
“a headlong plunge into a labyrinthine megacosm of possible futures, a confusing step, wasteful of time, but perhaps necessary, in my evolution as a leader.”
Note the phrase “possible futures.” Though it maye not yet be a proven fact, if I interpret these writings correctly, then it seems our Bestower was able, through His Pads, to see into time itself. It may be sobering for us to see a few of the many fates which could have been ours, had some other’s hand pointed the way. He calls these the ‘Cast-Away Ages,’ futures that were still possible, once. They are, in most cases, undesirable, and you’ll be pleased to knowe we avoided them.
I’ll begin withe the first of His “Little Journeys,” and five additional journeys in which He declares He was taken, metaphysically, to a future time. Little I might do would improve the narrative as writ by He. Therefore, I won’t try. You will excuse His omission, for brevity’s sake, of certain grammatical operators. Following are His own words:
5/12/1964
126
This the strangest yet. One instant I look through the glowing text, and next moment I stand at back of a dark room, lit by large movie screen up front. Black & white images flicker too fast to see.
No sound. Eyes adjust. Thirty seats, one isle. A director’s screening room? Can’t get over how real it feels, as if I am really standing there. Room has one occupant, front, isle right, seated. Small man, grey head, cigar. I move to take a seat.
“Uh-uh,” he says. “Don’t get comfortable. This won’t be.”
“Won’t be what?” I ask.
“Comfortable,” he says. “Try to keep up.”
Recognize the gravelly voice. Move to front row, look. Too old, ancient. But the voice? It is him, just much older. “George Burns?” I say.
“Bingo. But that don’t get ya extra points, Sonny.”
“Points? How do I get points?”
“No points,” he says. “It was just an expression. You sure you’re ready for this?”
“I, I don’t know the rules,” I say.
“No rules. I show, you look.”
“But what’s the point,” I say.
“Again with the points. I heard you was sharp.”
“But,” I say.
“Too much talk,” he says. “This is your stop, comin up. Here, catch.” Tosses me a gas mask. “You’ll need that for your first little journey.”
He punches an invisible button in the air. Screen rushes toward me, swallows me. On a city street, grey, hazy. Air stinks. Put on gas mask. A little better. Can’t see tops of buildings. Many people on street, all with masks. Flesh exposed is pale. Some have photo of face pinned to collar. Lots of cars too. Drivers have gas masks.
Can’t see very far. Walk a few blocks, finally recognize street corner. In NYC! Every time I was here before, hot dog seller this corner. Not now. No food sellers anywhere. Walk further, find young girl in booth on a corner. Sign on booth says, “STOP CHOKING
OURSELVES-FIGHT POLLUTION!” I stop at booth. Girl reads a 127
book, doesn’t look at me, just says, “Take a pamphlet, write to your congressman, help us pass the new environmental protection legislation.” She is listless, bored. Voice comes from electronic speaker on front of the mask.
I take a pamphlet, open it. Shows pictures from air, major cities of world, all covered with grey or pink haze. Hazes stretch with prevailing winds, combine with others. Two photos from space show haze cover most of Earth. Look at date pamphlet printed—
August of 1999. Only 36 years into my future. “How,” I ask the girl,
“did this happen?”
“Take a pamphlet, write to your congressman, help us pass the…” Stops talking, looks at me, stands, moves closer. “Do I know you? I’ve heard your voice before,” she says.
“No,” I say. “I’m new here.”
She leans, looks close at my face around mask. “You come from a place with sun?” she asks.
“Well—” I start.
“Or are you from Up?”
“Up?” I say, “Up where?”
“You are, aren’t you?” she says, louder now, backing away, panicked. “You’re one of the dirty pigs killing our planet! Get away from me!” She grabs a small can and points it at me. “I’ve got a right to be here. My permit is current. You can’t make me leave. If you try, I’ll douse you.”
I take a step back. “I want to help,” I say. “I don’t know what Up is. Tell me?”
“Up is… How can you not know? Where are you from?” she asks.
“Not far from here,” I say. “But I’ve been away for a while.”
“Away where?”
“Well, in a coma,” I lie.
“Coma?” she says. “My God! You mean you’re a Freezer? One of those big shots had himself frozen until they perfect the artificial lung? That’s what you are?” Still points can at me.
Doesn’t sound like she’d like a Freezer any more than a Up.
128
So, I tell her, “No, I’m not a Freezer.”
“Prove it,” she says. “Open your jacket and shirt.”
Figure what the hell, all in my head anyway—I think. Undo tie, unbutton jacket & shirt. Hold hands out to side.
“Lift up your tee shirt,” she says. “I want to see your chest.”
I lift my tee shirt. “Higher, and step closer,” she says. She reaches with left hand, pushes hard on middle of my chest. Then she lowers the can. “You were in a real coma? How long?”
“Don’t know,” I lie again. “Don’t even know who I am, why I was in a coma. They wouldn’t tell me. When I felt strong enough, I snuck out. Walked for hours. Can’t find the building, couldn’t go back if I wanted to.” Having been a politician, lying comes easy.
“What is Up?” I ask again. She softens, maybe. Hard to tell.
“Up there,” she says, pointing overhead. “Upper floors of the tallest skyscrapers, above the pollution. Those what run things got themselves entrenched up there, decades ago. They never come down.”
“How did it get this bad?” I ask. “A pollution control act passed in—”
“1955,” she interrupts. “It was inadequate to start, and they gut-ted it a few years later. You really don’t know any of this?”
“No. Will you tell me?”
“Not that much to tell. Industries pollute, they said. Has to be that way. Can’t run an industry without pollution, and even if we could, it would cost too much. Competition would sell cheaper, take our jobs. They had the power, the money, and there was no one who stepped forward to say different. I heard of a few, but they disappeared. By the time we got organized enough, had a group large enough, it was too late. They made a big show of giving us the chance to voice our opinions, then bound us up with regulations dictating what we could and could not do. We can have a booth on two corners of a city. We can’t approach anyone; they must come to us. They spend a small fortune trivializing our message, and max-imizing the potential harm that could come from associating with
“those people.” They’re up there, above the fray, accumulating 129
wealth. They grow food up there, take vacations up there. They send their waste down here, pump it into the earth.”
Talk for an hour. Other walkers give us wide berth. When ready to leave, ask her name. “Constance,” she says, “Figures, huh?
What’s yours?”
“Call me Jack,” I say. She nods, “Ok, I’ll call you Jack.”
I say, “I want you to know, Constance, I’ll do everything I can to see that this never happens.” Big mistake.
“How?” she asks. “It’s already happened.” Can almost see gears turning in her head. “How can you make sure this never happens, if it’s already happened?” Her eyes grow wider. “You’d have to change things… things that already…” She leaves her booth, steps close, looks close at me, and her eyes grow larger still. “Oh…
oh my God! Your voice… now I know wh… I’ve heard your speeches… and, and, Jack, your name is Jack, your name is Jack, your name is Jack…” She is near hysterical now, crying, “Of course your name is Jack, Jack from back, Jack from back, God in Heaven, you’re him, aren’t you? You’re him, from the book?”
Get her to calm, say I don’t know what she talking about. She says of course I wouldn’t, it’s still in my future. Says they found a book manuscript, never published, Jack from Back, hidden in a concealed drawer in desk of—get ready—Dr. Seuss.
“He caught a weird virus and died in 1981,” Constance says.
“And they found the manuscript a few years ago, in 1995. It didn’t make much sense, even for a Seuss book. His heirs didn’t plan to publish it, but someone with access to it made a copy. A couple copies were made from that. Then an underground press got hold of it and issued a few dozen cheap pulp copies.
“The book begins by stating, all in Seuss-speak of course, that from any instant in time, an infinite number of futures are possible.
We choose which future we’ll live in by making the choices we make every day, and we’re all affected by choices made by others, we are drawn into their future. He called them Lines. Futures are Lines. Only one is chosen. Only one Line becomes the actual Line that leads from past to future. All the rest branch off, live for a short 130
time, and then are sucked back into the vortex created by the dominant Line, what he called the Axial Prime. Let me think, I’ve read it at least a dozen times. It’s become a sort of indecipherable Rosetta Stone for environmentalists. I know I can recite some… Okay, listen:
Lines there are many, too many to count,
Some sad, some dreadful, some paramount.
We follow our Line, around every bend,
With no thought of where, what or who, it will end.
This Line’s never straight, this Line to our fate, This Line’s pulled by turns that each of us take.
And what of the Line not taken by thee?
Will it still the Line of some other one be?
“Where does Jack from back enter in to this?” I ask.
“It’s later in the book. Seuss doesn’t specify when, just that at some point Jack from Back will rescue humanity, by making sure the evil doesn’t happen. Here, listen”:
Then come from way back will a man named Jack, With augustly foresight the rest of us lack.
Guided by vision oft-seeming sublime,
He’ll reset the course of our Axial Prime.
With his words and his deeds and his heart he’ll make clear, He’ll be charting a course that ne’er leads back to here.
“Wow,” I say. “Quite a story.”
She comes out of booth, stands in front of me. “The die-hards, those who believe the message in the book, they claim we live in one of those Lines that will die out. We’re not really… we’re just the cast-off experiment of some…” Takes off her mask. Can’t be over 14. Then she removes my mask, nods, and says, “You are.
Him. You’re Jack from Back. Aren’t you?”
131
“I’m new at this,” I say. “I’m still trying to understand it all, but yes, I think maybe I am.”
“Can I tell ‘em I saw you? My friends. Tell ‘em I spoke to you?”
“I don’t see what harm it would do. They probably won’t believe you.”
“So, if,” she says, looks away, blinks away tears, starts again.
“If you… fix this, so this never happens… if this future never exists, then I might never exist, either. Will I?”
“I don’t know, Constance,” I say. “From what I can guess, I’d say the events that lead to your birth could still occur, even if I manage to deflect us away from the worst of this future. If there is any rightness to all of this, then you’ll still exist.”
She has a look on her face, like she carries the fate of the world.
Then she resolves, and says, “It’s ok. It’s worth it. Go, Jack from Back. Go do whatever it takes. So we never come to this.
“But wait,” she says, thinking. “Even if I do, exist, I mean, this meeting will never have happened. I won’t know of it. I won’t remember you.”
“I’d guess not.”
“But you will. You’ll remember.” She wipes her eyes. “If you happen, you know, to see me, somehow, will you tell me? About this day? Please?”
I say I’ll do better than that. Get her last name, date and place of birth. Tell her I’ll look her up, August 1999, tell her this story.
Made her feel good. Guess I’ll do it, too. Just to confirm she doesn’t remember. She couldn’t, could she?
Bounce. Blink. “Where’d you go this time?” Jackie asks. I look up from my pad, & tell Jackie about Constance.
5/20/1964
In Burns’ screening room again. Walk to front, say, “Hello, George.”
“You again?” George says.
“Expecting someone else?” I ask.
132
“Could be,” he says. “Only had two riders so far. You, and you.”
“I think this is all in my head. You’re not really here,” I say.
“Then why do I have to quit what I’m doing every time you call?” he asks. “Difficult if I’m taking a shower, or, you know, doing anything else with my pants off.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry schmorry,” he says. “You’re gonna love this one. Have you memorized your Social Security Number?”
“026-22-3747,” I say.
“Good. Hang on tight…”
“Wait,” I say. “Let me ask you something, George.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“You mean, do I believe he exists?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if he didn’t already exist, we’d have invented him. Then he’d exist. So, either way…”
Screen swallows me.
NYC again. Clean. People everywhere, busy. Good future—so far. Lot of cool technology visible. Walk to a newsstand. Date Sep 11, 2018. Headline Senate Votes Today on Blood Money. Can’t see more. “Sell you a paper, man?” vendor asks. “Sorry, no. Left my wallet at home,” I say.
Start to walk away. Young man, 22, approaches from street, holding microphone. Guy following behind has glitzy movie camera. “Ahoy mate, can I get your opinion on the vote today?” Has an Aussie accent.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Mick Manor, Sydney Morning Herald.” (Points to trademark on jacket). “Which way do you think your Senate will vote today?”
“Why would you care,” I ask.
“Sir, the entire world is watching this vote. It could change the very structure of society.” He gets a guilty look then, and says, “Or, rather, that is the opinion of some, not mine, you understand.”
133
I say, “I haven’t been able to keep up with the latest developments. You don’t have a local paper you could let me read, do you?”
“Sure thing, mate,” he says. Presses button on cuff, says, “Arnie, give this guy the morning Herald, right?” He points to a news van at curb, 20 yards.
Leaving, see older man, same jacket, walking fast. I turn, leave quick. Hear him say, “Mick, who was that?” Mick doesn’t know.
Hear older guy say something about recognizing that bloke. Grab paper from Arnie, walk away fast.
Find a park bench, read an hour. Front to back. Most articles about Blood Money. Hard to believe. Medical advance: various pro-teins in blood of young can reverse effects of aging in old hearts, lungs, brains. Started with test subjects, decade ago, ready to implement. Concurrently, debate on Social Security rages: in 2018, 1.5
workers support 1 retiree. Young workers say not fair, money won’t be there when they retire, & if retirees live longer with young blood, who will support them? A comedian joked, retirees should pay from SS accounts, to accounts of young workers, if they want young blood. Idea became serious. Angry debate. Some want procedure banned. Others want choice. Bill introduced. Dozens of accounting methods proposed. One chosen. House approved, narrow. Senate uncertain. President says he will sign. Aussie guy is right. Will change society. How, don’t know. But will.
They approach slowly. Old man, 75 or more, boy, 15. Man looks like boy, with wrinkles. Boy holds coat sleeve of old man, shuffles slow alongside. Man is blind. I think they will pass by, but boy spies paper, whispers to old man, they come to me. Boy says,
“Sir, if you’re finished with your paper, could we have it, please?”
“Sure, you’re welcome to it,” I say.
Old man turns head quickly toward me, says, “Who are you talking to, Billy?”
“I told you Papa, the man on the bench with the paper. He said we could have it.”
“Heard him, Billy. Nothin wrong with my hearing.”
“Yes, Papa.”
134
“But my legs are feeling a bit weak,” Papa says. “Would there be room on the bench for two more?”
“Sure,” I say again. “I was just leaving.”
“Don’t leave on my account,” Papa says, sitting. “I’m old, but it’s not catching.” I slide to end and remain sitting.
Papa on end of bench, Billy in middle. Billy reads each headline aloud. Papa picks one, Billy reads aloud. It’s about Blood Money debate, as most of paper. When Billy finishes, I say, “Could I ask how the two of you feel about that issue?”
Papa waves his arm & says, “Bah, I’ve lived long enough. I don’t need to be sucking the blood of our children just to get a few more years as a wrinkled old man.”
Billy gasps, starts to speak, and stops. “It’s ok Billy,” Papa says. “The gentleman asked for both our opinions. I know you have one too.”
Billy turns toward me. I nod.
“My grandfather makes it sound so bad, but he exaggerates. It’s just a few injections. I want him to do it, and I would volunteer my blood, if only they’d pass a law to make it legal.”
“There’s already too many of us old geezers hanging on long past our use-by date,” Papa says. “If we extend everyone’s life by even five years, Social Security would go bankrupt for sure. Where would we put them all, these hangers on? Assisted care facilities are already burstin’ at the seams.”
“Papa!” Billy says, frustrated. “You’d stay in our house, where you already are.”
“Look, Billy, your heart’s in the right place. There’s a special place in Heaven reserved for you and your Ma and Da. But you have to look behind the curtain. Making old hearts or lungs feel a little younger, for a little while, won’t actually make them younger.
They’ll still be old and still have ailments of the old, more, probably, once we start squeezing every possible iota of service out of them. There will be a high cost to pay, and our entire society will bear that cost, young and old alike. We weren’t built to last forever.”
Billy thinks a few seconds, then says, “There’s a long list of 135
things we weren’t built for, Papa. Flying is one. We weren’t built to survive a lot of infectious diseases, or to step foot on the moon. We used our intellect to overcome the obstacles and did things we were not built for. In my opinion, that means we were built for those things, otherwise we wouldn’t have been given the mental capacity and force of will that allowed us to accomplish them. Extending life beyond what we were built for is just one more item we can add to that list. We’ll find a way to pay for it, we’ll incorporate it into our society, and if it changes us at all, it will be for the better.”
Papa didn’t say anything. Notice both wipe their eyes. I say, “A thoughtful response, Papa. I think Billy may have taken this round.”
Billy beams, Papa smiles. “Yah,” Papa says. “Billy’s a thoughtful young man. If there are enough like him for us to leave in charge of this Earth, maybe we’ll make it after all.”
“I’d have to agree,” I say. I stand to leave. Couldn’t help it, ask,
“Billy, you mentioned stepping onto the Moon. Just to confirm my memory, do you know when that happened?”
“I… think it was in… 1969, Sir.”
“July 20,” Papa says. Turns his head in my direction. “Funny you should ask about that, as if you don’t remember it. Or haven’t experienced it. Yet. And you know, son, I’ve been thinking I recognized your voice. But that just can’t be. That voice was stilled, a long time now…”
He struggles to his feet, says, “Bah, won’t dwell on it. It’s probably just a sign my mind is going the way of the rest of my body. I wonder though, if you’d mind indulging an old man, by shaking my hand, and allowing me to call you, Jack?”
Stuns me for a moment. I say, “I doubt there’s anything wrong with your mind, old-timer, and I’ve shaken plenty of hands.
Shouldn’t do any harm to shake one more.” Walk to him, reach out to meet his hand. Bounce. Jackie’s waiting for another story.
6/1/1964
George stares at screen, images too fast to see. I wait. “What’s going on George,” I finally say.
136
He turns to me, slowly. “This one is weird. It’s like I can almost remember it myself. But that can’t be, because it never happened.”
“Don’t worry about it too much, George. Remember, you’re not really here.”
“Yeah, that must be it. Curious. Here, but not here. A person could develop a personality disorder.”
“What’s on tap today, George?”
“Eager beaver, eh? You’ll wish you could-a skipped this one.”
“Can I do that?”
“Beats me. Try if you want. Turn around, walk away. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Don’t know, George. Think I’ll stick with the program. Why rock the boat?”
“Good thinking, Skipper. Here we go.”
Screen swallows me. In a park. Turn, recognize Golden Gate Bridge, far off. In San Francisco, Marin Highlands, I think. Warm day, late afternoon, lots of people. Looks normal enough. Can’t see a newsstand. Trashcan nearby, paper on top. Pick it up. From May 1, 1975. Headline, “SAIGON FALLS.” I take paper, walk.
People, young & old. Colorful clothes, sandals, worn jeans, headbands, long hair. Green military fatigues too. Can see where some have pulled rank insignia off.
He is white. Short & blocky. Thirty yards away, surrounded by people, but he stands out. Crisp fatigue creases, Army Sergeant stripes, combat helmet. In profile to me, SF Bay beyond, he stares at the water. Walk toward him, others drift away. Closer now, see sleeves have smudges of grease and blood he tried to wipe off face
& hands. At 20 feet he turns head toward me, then pivots to me, snaps a salute. I return it.
At 6 feet, face to face, I ask, “Why are you here, Sergeant?”
“Don’t know, Sir.”
“You can drop the sir, soldier.”
“Don’t think I can, Sir.”
“What if I make that an order?” He thinks, jaw clenches,
“Done,” he says.
137
Nearby bench, unoccupied, faces bay. Invite him to sit, then ask, “Who are you?”
“Nobody… Everybody, I guess. All that went over.” Voice is different now. I turn to look. He’s dressed the same, but he’s taller now, skinny, Nordic. Same crisp uniform creases, despite several holes.
“I see.” I hold up the paper. “So, you know about this?”
“I was there.” A black soldier now. Kind, sad voice. Husky build.
“I wanted to keep us out,” I say.
“Wanting ain’t doing,” he says. He thinks for a moment, then says, “But as I recollect now, you had a good excuse, being as you…” He doesn’t finish.
“Died?” I finish for him.
“Died,” he says. “Don’t mean you’d-a kept us out, though.
Don’t know anyone could have.”
“This headline,” I say, holding up paper, “is kind of a shock. I wanted to keep us out. I knew it’d be ugly, but I assumed if we did go in, we’d find a way to win. How’d we manage to lose, do you think?”
“Lack of political will,” says the lanky farm kid who now wears the uniform. From Wisconsin, I’d guess, from his accent.
“That’s absurd,” I say.
“You wasn’t there.”
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re right. But you answered so quickly, with such certainty. How can you be so sure?” He’s freckle faced now. Light complexion, red hair. Burn scars on left side, face and neck.
“I can’t. That’s what 82% of us think.” He stands, now a Hispanic kid, an arm missing. “The way a fight is won, you raise the intensity level until the other guy cries uncle. We had it in us to do that, to win. But the bureaucrats refused. Maybe they was worried about the next election, maybe they were scared Russia’d get more involved, maybe there was just more profit in predictable hardware needs. I just feel like we were always attacking the tail-a the beast, 138
an should-a gone for the head.”
I think, then say, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I apologize for all the politicians who let you down. I’d like to tell you things would have been different if I’d been around, but I’m not sure I believe that.”
Sergeant says nothing.
“Care to tell me what it was like over there?” I ask.
He takes a deep, shuddered breath, calms, then says, “It was ugly, then we got home, and it was ugly.”
“What? What do you mean by that?” I ask. “What was ugly about getting home?”
Now a large, bear of a man, gentle looking, thirtyish. He sits again, closes his eyes, winces like it hurts to remember. “The way they treated us.” he says, “Like we started the war, like it was our fault it went sour, like all the death and destruction was our fault.
People spit at us, called us baby-killers, and worse. They advised us not to go out in uniform, like we should be ashamed of the uniform.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why would Americans be so angry with their own troops?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Things happened. Bad things. It was a war.”
“You have to tell him of the atrocities,” someone says. Voice barely audible. Soldier & I look at each other, wonder if both heard it. I look around, only one person in vicinity. Tall, blond woman, indeterminate age. Facial features seem to vacillate young to old.
Walking toward us. “If you want him to understand,” she says, still speaking softly, “you have to tell him of the atrocities.” Soldier shakes head, looks down. “I don’t like talking about that,” he says.
Then looks at me and says, “And I don’t like talking to her.” He won’t look at her.
“I don’t blame you,” she says. “But he has to understand this.
That’s why you and I are here. If you don’t tell him, I will.” She has stopped, ten feet to our right.
“There’s room on the bench,” I say.
“I don’t deserve,” she says, “to share his bench. I did something unforgivable too. Something he didn’t deserve. I’ll stand.” Looking 139
A younger man now, nervous looking, says, “Oh, I don’t mind tellin him. I may have shot some innocents. There. Satisfied? You jus never could tell for sure in that damn place.” A Hispanic soldier continues, “Ya didn’t know was they simple peasants, or Viet Cong.
Was they hidin VC in their pathetic little huts, or would they run an report our position soon as we passed.” Now a swarthy soldier, New York dialect, says, “So yeah, I may have been a little too quick on the trigger a couple a times. It was better n bein’ ambushed soon as we turn our backs. Sometimes we was right, found weapons in the huts. Sometimes not.” Now an American Indian. “My mom, she wouldn’t come to the airport with Dad to pick me up. She was ashamed to be seen with me in uniform. There were no “welcome home” signs in my neighborhood. No parades.”
Blond lady says, “Vietnam troops didn’t come home as a unit, like other wars, where they’d land or dock at military bases, with banners and a band. They were sent home as individuals or small groups, so at airports and train stations they were on their own, had to walk the gauntlet lined with people fed up with the war, the lies, the inhuman images. Some might have deserved that. Most didn’t.”
Soldier looks at blond lady. “Right,” he says.
“Tell him about body counts. Mỹ Lai,” blond lady says.
Soldier, now Asian, looks disgusted. “I wasn’t there.”
“Nor was I. But I can tell the story.”
“Alright,” soldier says. “Alright…” Thinks for moment, becomes a short, skinny kid, southern accent. “US Command figured the way to win was to kill so many of the enemy they’d just run out of bodies to throw at us. So, they started counting the dead, from each engagement, ya know? Body count. Started having competi-tions, between units. Winner got extra days off, or beer, or… Maybe civilians was in the body count, sometimes, I don’t know. Couldn’t tell most the time when they was alive, what’s it matter when they’re dead?”
Was thinking I didn’t want to know any more, but I ask,
“What’s Me Lie?”
140
Staring at ground, now a cultured-looking soldier, Boston dialect, says, “In March of ‘68, in a four-hour stretch, in a group of small villages known as Mỹ Lai, an Army platoon killed 400 to 500
civilians, mostly women, children and old men.” He sweats pro-fusely—now a black soldier, tears in his eyes. “There were reports of rape and torture too, and that they,” his voice cracks, “they took time off for lunch.” He wipes his eyes, and says, “They charged a couple dozen grunts and officers, for crimes of that day, or the cover-up. They dropped most cases. Lieutenant in charge was the only one convicted. He served a few years under house arrest, then they paroled him.”
No one speaks for a minute; we stare at the water. Then blond lady says, “You must understand, the other side, aided by Russia and China, committed atrocities like Mỹ Lai on a regular basis. It was a tactic of their war plan. They received commendations for killing civilians. U.S. commanders, at least some of them, tried to stop it.”
“So, there were other incidents like this,” I ask. “Atrocities committed by our troops?”
“Oh, yes,” soldier says, skinny kid looking all of 16. “I’m sure they never documented some. They convicted 20 or so. When the war ended, the Army still hadn’t prosecuted some, and never did.”
“Everyone wanted Vietnam to just go away,” blond lady says.
“Wanted to forget. I didn’t. I was incensed over the whole killing, raping, torturing concept of any war, that one in particular. I still am. But I’m powerless to stop it. I know that now.” She looks at me. “You, however, are not. You can stop it.”
“It’s still in your future, as I understand this,” soldier says. He’s tall & lanky now, carrying a long rifle with a sniper scope. “I’d be pleased if you could take what you know and make me obsolete. Go ahead. Give it your best shot. I hope you succeed. I’m a realist, however. I think you’ll fail. The world has always required my services, always will. And there will always be people too idealistic for their own good, like her. I guess as long as there’s one, there’ll be the other. On balance, I guess I’m ok with that.” Blond lady nods once.
141
Then it’s over. I’m staring at my legal pad, wondering if all of that really would have happened. It doesn’t seem possible, that we would have allowed it. But then, we’re only human.
6/11/1964
“Sometimes I wish I was really here,” George says. “Some a these cast-away ages of yours are interesting. Too bad I won’t remember ‘em.”
“Am I going to like this one, George?”
“Depends on your mindset,” he says. “It’s a bit extreme, but it has a certain charm.”
“Why don’t you just tell me about it, George? Save me the time.”
“Would if I could, Jack. I didn’t write the script.” Punches invisible button again, and again screen swallows me.
Climbing steps to a police precinct house, NYC. Near top, leaning on light pole, toothpick in mouth, someone I recognize. Looks older than he should. “Clint?” I say. “Clint Eastwood?” “Nope,” he says, around toothpick, then looks away, disinterested. Still swear it’s him, but I move on.
Inside police station. Wall calendar, Monday, Nov 23, 2043.
Clock, 10 AM. Activity level seems light. Phones not ringing. Holding cell empty. Desk Sergeant, five uniforms, two plain clothes, shuffling papers. Some talking, not loud. None see me. I walk around squad room, look for what I’m to see. Nothing. I walk it twice more. Nothing. Maybe that’s it? Either a slow day, or always this way? I sit on steps to upper floors, wait.
10:20, front door opens. Young man, 24, 25 years. 6’ 3”, 180.
Short blond hair, clean-shaven. Dark slacks, light blue shirt, tie, small duffle bag. 2” by 3” card hung from neck with number “213.”
Enters squad room, first to see him turns away, as do all others. No nod, greeting, nothing. Talking ceases. He keeps eyes downcast.
Sets duffle on desk in front of Desk Sergeant, who opens it, turns it upside down. Small box comes out. Sergeant opens it, sees the gun and badge inside. He keeps the box. Sets empty bag in front of 213, 142
213 takes bag, walks to locker room. I follow. Two others in room don’t acknowledge 213, but watch. 213 quicksteps to locker, packs belongings in bag, leaves.
Young girl waiting near Desk Sergeant, steps in front of 213.
Looks up hopefully, can see it in eyes, thought someone would speak to him. She says, “You have to sign these.” He casts eyes down again, signs where she points, three times. She tears off, hands him copies, says, “This is your final paperwork. There will be no further contact. Your name…” her voice cracks, she has to pause, starts again, “We have erased your name from Police Department records.” She starts to turn, then turns back, sympathy in her eyes, says, “I’m so sor—”
“AHEM,” Desk Sergeant clears throat. Girl pivots, walks away up steps. 213 watches her, looks around, leaves. I follow him out.
He walks fast, anxious to get away maybe. Nearly jog to keep him in sight. Notice not-Clint join me, keeps up with long strides.
“You’re taller than I thought,” I say. Not-Clint is silent.
A block from station house, 213 slows. I say, “So who are you then, if you’re not Clint Eastwood?”
“Callahan’s the name. Police Detective Harry Callahan. You?”
I tell him. “Maybe,” he says. “Heard he died. Got his self shot.”
“Yet, here I am,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. Sump-un weird going on.
Don’t like it.” He stops walking. “Don’t like it one bit.” Speech is slow, deliberate, menacing.
“Please, Detective Callahan, will you keep walking? I think I need to keep up with that young man,” I say, pointing at 213.
“Why,” Harry demands. “What’s so special about one kid got his self booted from the job?”
“You knew that?” I say. “Even though you didn’t go into the station?”
“Yeah,” he says, brow wrinkling. “Yeah, come to think of it, that’s all I know. My name, and the entire history of the department.
Know it like the back of my hand. Nothing else. Don’t like it. Not 143
one bit.” He looks suspiciously at me.
“Look,” I say. “I think I know what’s going on. I’ll tell you, if you’ll walk with me, help me keep him in sight. Wha da ya say?”
“Fine,” he says, unbuttoning his jacket. “Just don’t make any fast moves ok? I’m gettin a little jumpy.” We begin walking again.
“Start talkin,” he says.”
I collect my thoughts, then say, “I think you may be a movie character, portrayed by an actor. I’ve seen him, the actor, on TV.
You look like a slightly older version of him, so I’m guessing Callahan is a role he’ll play in 15 or 20 years. You sound like him. It would explain why you…” Notice Harry not beside me. Stopped, dozen steps back, giving me evil eye, not happy.
“I’m not real? That’s what you got? I’m a make-believe character?” Slowly reaches inside his jacket.
Need idea fast. What would make-believe character want to hear? “It, um… will be Eastwood’s most memorable role,” I say.
“A tough, smart, solitary cop with a take-no-prisoners attitude and no patience for street punks.”
That does it. He freezes with hand inside his jacket, thinking.
Then, a tiny hint of a smile appears on one corner of his mouth, around the toothpick. “We’re losing him,” he says, pointing toward 213. “But I think I know where he’s headed. Come on.”
Walking again, he says, “So, what’s a deceased ex-president need with a make-believe tough, smart, solitary cop with a take-no-prisoners attitude and no patience for street punks?”
“I, um, I think I’m supposed to learn here. I think you’re supposed to teach me.” Wait for reaction. Isn’t any. Five minutes, find 213, small park, sitting alone in group of 6 benches, three facing three.
213 looks up. “This isn’t real, is it?” he asks, looking at me.
“This won’t really happen? Please,” tears in eyes, “tell me this won’t really happen.”
Callahan and I sit. “This day is eighty years in my future,” I tell 213. “It may or may not happen. Sorry. I’d tell you more if I could.
But tell me, how did you know that? That this may not be real. How 144
Thinks for a minute, says, “I just now realized it. I’d say it was three days ago, the morning of the incident, when things first felt unreal, like I might be dreaming, you know? The incident happened later that day, and after that, nothing felt normal. It wasn’t until I looked up just now, and saw you, that I understood. This isn’t real.”
“Since you followed my friend here,” Callahan says, pointing at 213, “I’m guessing what you want to know is how he lost his job, and what the number 213 means.”
“Sounds about right,” I say. “Will you talk about the incident?”
I ask 213.
“It’s not my favorite subject, but no one’s spoken to me for three days. Anything’s better n that.”
“You did something wrong, I guess. What was it?”
“I failed in my duty to protect and serve.”
“How?” I ask.
“I was part of a three-man team, broke into the wrong house.”
“Why?”
“The call came in on the radio in our patrol car. I jotted the address down wrong. 2804, instead of 2408.”
I wait for more. Nothing. “What happened?” I ask. “Was someone killed?”
“NO,” he says, loud.
“Shot, injured?” I ask.
“NO… NO NO NO.”
“But you’re out of the Department, for that mistake only?”
“Of course. It’s mandatory.”
“But why? It was an honest mistake, and you harmed no one.”
213 only looks at me, disbelief in eyes. Callahan says, “They broke into an innocent citizen’s home! Pointed their weapons at an innocent family! Think of… What if that man had been cleaning his hunting rifle, turns toward the cops when they crash through his door, holding that rifle? Huh? What could have happened then?
They’re lucky, very lucky, it wasn’t worse.”
“Still,” I say, “it seems extreme that a Police Department would 145
“They didn’t dismiss him. He resigned. Only honorable thing left for him to do.”
I look at 213. “You mean, according to department regulations, you could have stayed?”
“NO!” he says. “Well, yes, technically I could have stayed, but it just isn’t done! We live by the oath we take. If, in the performance of my duty, I make a mistake that harms, or could potentially harm, an innocent citizen, or if I break the law in any way, I will immediately resign and have no further contact with any police department or officers of such, I will accept the scorn of my former comrades as my just deserts, and I will likewise hold in contempt any other officer guilty of same.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard of a police department oath quite that demanding.”
“It’s not a department oath,” Callahan says. “It’s a pre-inductive oath. You’re serious? You really don’t know any of this?”
“Nope,” I say. “What do you mean, pre-inductive oath?”
Callahan sighs, like it’s burden to explain. “Before we begin training, we assemble before a cadre of working police officers to take the pre-inductive oath. At least one current officer must recommend a candidate for police training, and that recommendation will not be given to anyone who refuses to take the pre-inductive oath.
It’s no secret. It’s well known to everyone in the country. It’s not just for police departments either; it’s for anyone wants to work in public service. EMT, fire, politicians, military, judges, they each have their own version.”
“Politicians?” I say. “I suppose they always have taken an oath of some kind, to uphold the law and all that. That doesn’t mean they’ll never do anything illegal.”
“Remember,” 213 says, “This is the pre-inductive oath, taken before colleagues. If colleagues believe a politician has violated his oath, he leaves. If he doesn’t, they freeze him out, then he leaves.”
“The system sounds ideal,” I say. “But, politicians removing themselves from office when caught with their fingers in the cookie 146
jar? I just can’t believe that could ever happen.”
“It doesn’t, any more,” 213 says. “Not for a long time now. But back in the day—”
“Old days,” Callahan says.
“What?” 213 says
“Back in the old days, is what you meant to say. Not ‘the day.’
“If you’re gonna use an old expression, use it properly.”
213 says, “I could care less about the prop—”
“Couldn’t,” Callahan says.
“What?”
“Couldn’t. You couldn’t care less. To say you ‘could care less’
is ambiguous. It implies you care to an unknown degree.”
Annoyed, 213 replies, “I COULDN’T care less what you think!”
“That’s better.”
“If you two are finished?” I say. When neither reply, I ask how long ago the tradition began.
Callahan says, “Oh, it started back in the 1960s, early 60s, I think. Some say in Dallas. No one’s really sure. Somewhere along the line, someone planted the seed of an idea, and it became a movement. A quiet movement, because we passed no laws, you see? People just came together in groups and changed, from within, the systems they were part of. The movement evolved, and by the turn of the century had become absolutist. That’s why today a good cop like 213 here is expected to do the right thing, resign on his own.”
I must have looked skeptical, because 213 said, “My resignation was necessary to ensure we remain a world where no one can be killed or harmed by the very people whose job it is to protect them. It’s harsh. I’ll be the first to admit that maybe we’ve taken the concept to an extreme level, but a cop killing an innocent person by mistake is more extreme. It doesn’t happen anymore, thanks to the pre-inductive oath. I’m not happy to be leaving the force, but I’m happy to know the greater good I do by leaving.”
“That’s incredible,” I say. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been in the station and saw it for myself.”
147
“You were there, huh?” 213 says. “Not my finest moment, but I’ll survive.”
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
“My folks run a small dairy farm, upstate. It’s a good life. I can be happy there.”
“So, what’s the number 213 signify?” I ask.
“Thought you’d have guessed,” 213 replies. “It’s the number of officers of the NYC Police Department who’ve resigned in disgrace as I have. I’m supposed to wear it as long as I live in NYC, but, since it stems from the pre-inductive oath, there’s no official enforcement of it, and, well, most of the guys, although they will show contempt, it’s only to do their part to support the oath. Privately, they can feel my pain. They know they’re only one silly mistake away from my fate. 213, it might sound like a lot, but they started counting back in 1970. Back then, whether accidental or intentional, the oath was broken more often, so most of the 212 resignations occurred by the turn of the century. I think the last one was nearly twenty years ago. And you have to consider the fact that the department is so much smaller now.”
“Smaller? Why, because it’s hard to find honest applicants?”
“Not at all. They got a list a mile long, people waitin for a chance to get in. No, what happened, you take graft and corruption out of the public sector, government and law enforcement, that spills over into the private sector. My dad, he saw it happen, says it was phenomenal to watch. Suddenly it was the honest, altruistic employees rising to the top to run things. Set the example. The NYC
Police Department today employs less than one third of the officers it employed in 1970, and the city population is over half again as large. They estimate human productiveness is three to four times greater now than it would be if we were burdened with the costs and wastes associated with the level of graft that existed before 1960.”
Callahan stands, says, “Think my work here is finished.” Then he gives me the crooked smile and a wink and says, “See you in the movies, eh?”
Back in my office, staring at my pad, I wonder if there is any 148
practical way to apply, in the real world, the things I saw in the pad.
6/30/1964
“Morning, Jack,” George says. “How’s my best customer doing today?”
“I’m your only customer, aren’t I?”
“I promised not to tell.”
“Promised whom?”
“I promised not to tell that either.”
“Well, nonetheless, I’m pleased to be your best customer.”
“Best? Of course, you’re my best, you’re my only!”
“Only customer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you promised not to tell?”
“Tell who what?”
“Hm. Morning George. What’s on tap for today?”
“It’s a secret, and I—”
“You seem a bit distracted today, George.”
“Do I? Gee, I wonder why?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“Ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“Jesus! After all this time, you still think I got nothin better to do than sit here all day and wait for you to pick up one of your Pads!
Ask me what I was doing when summoned.”
“Ah. I see. Was it, ah, ‘sans pantaloons’?”
“That was my line. You were supposed to ask.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry schmorry.”
Screen swallows me again.
On city street somewhere. Busy downtown area.
“You’re in Ireland, Ulster Province, Londonderry,” someone says from behind me. I turn, see a dashingly handsome man, mid-thirties, six-foot, black tux, bowtie. “I know you,” I say, thinking I’m one step ahead for once, “you’re Lawrence of Arabia.”
149
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. “I’m Michel Chalhoub. You’d be more familiar with my stage name, Omar Sharif.” Offers hand.
“I knew that,” I say. “I expected you to be the character you portrayed. I wonder why you’re here, instead.
He puts hands in pockets, stares at ground, says, “Well, I confess I know little about this little dimple you’ve created in the space-time continuum, but I’d guess that, as Lawrence, I would possess none of the knowledge you seek. As myself, because I was born and raised in Egypt, I do.”
“Egypt?” I say, “Then what are we doing in Ireland?”
“Therein lies a tale,” he says, and begins slow stroll into street, a pedestrian mall. I follow. “It’s 1972. Look around, tell me what you see.”
I take nine steps. Each zips me to another street, another view.
With the tenth, I am back at Omar’s side. “It’s peaceful,” I say. “All over the city, no evidence of violence, or a population expecting it.
In my reality in 1963, this was a violent place, and it got worse every day. You say it’s now 1972? I would expect it to be worse. That’s what you wanted me to notice?”
“Most observant, Mr. President. Now have another look.”
I take another ten steps, return to Omar, and say, “I see evidence of Catholic and Protestant businesses and homes in the same neighborhoods. They seem not only to tolerate each other, but also to like each other. A remarkable transformation, I’d say.”
“Another excellent observation. Can you guess how this may have been achieved?”
I think a moment, and say, “They found a common enemy they hated more than they hated each other?”
Omar laughs. “Yes, that might have done it too, I suppose. In fact, the truth is even less likely. Allow me, please, to tell you a story. It’s from this future, which I understand will never happen, but perhaps you’ll glean from it something you can apply.”
“I’m all ears,” I say, and Omar tells his tale:
As you may know, the Quran was revealed to Muhammad, by 150
God, through the angel Gabriel, over a period of 23 years. It was not written down until after Muhammad’s death. Portions had been inscribed on animal bones or parchments, and several of Moham-mad’s companions had memorized parts of the Revelations.
Shortly after Muhammad’s death, these companion scribes wrote down, from memory, parts of the Revelations from God. As might be expected, these texts were all somewhat different, and none were complete. Then Caliph Uthman had them compiled into a standard version generally accepted as the basis of the Quran of the modern age. Of course, no original texts written by Muhammad’s companions exist today. Or so we thought.
In 1966, a scant six years ago, a team of archeologists, Arab Muslims from several countries, digging in Mecca, unearthed an ancient document. A book, written on the finest parchment, well preserved, bound on one edge. They brought the relic to Cairo, where tests determined it to be 1300 to 1400 years old, placing it in Muhammad’s time. Experts translated it and proclaimed it the most complete record extant of God’s Revelations to Muhammad. They speculate it was the work of a scribe with a near photographic memory, one to whom Muhammad recited after each encounter with the angel Gabriel.
This new text gathered all the others, corrected errors, filled in gaps between them and made clear all issues which had heretofore been unclear. It was heralded by all as the genuine and unassailable Word of God.
Excitement over the find was undiminished by the mystery of the last two pages, stuck together, as they were, and unreadable. X-ray, light and other methods of reading through the pages failed.
Nor was there a known process to separate the pages without destroying them.
The tale would seem to end here, and it would, were it not for the fact that the artisan of the book had left a means of acquiring those last two pages, and he was perhaps having a little fun with the future at the same time. You see, there were two additional pages, also stuck together, and upon the visible sides of those pages were 151
written words that, loosely translated, mean ‘These Two Pages Are Intentionally Left Blank.’
Ah, I see the disparagement written upon your face, Mr. President. The tale has lost the ring of authenticity. How, you would ask, could not these learned elders see a trap about to spring? I respond, they didn’t want to see it. So great was their joy at finding such a treasure, and so large their lust for the final pages, they were blind to any possibility it could turn against them. Then, there is the matter of the last readable words, on the previous page. I quote,
“…Your God has assigned roles of male and female which shall remain unchanged, and He has left to mankind the assignment of lesser roles. The enlightened are commanded to study the Revelations, and through that study craft rules of behavior for all civilized people, and especially the roles of male and female shall be written so that all may study [them] and obey. These rules shall…”
There the page ended. Well, one could hardly blame a true believer for wanting to know what is written after ‘shall.’ They issued a call to the scientific community: develop a method to separate the pages, bring it to us, and we will give you a small bit of the two blank pages to test your method. Earthly rewards will be heaped upon he whose method is successful, and Heaven will reward all those who try.
Hundreds of ideas were submitted, a dozen were selected to receive one square inch of the precious test page. Only one method was even partly successful. That process involved submersion in three successive liquids, then open-air drying in the presence of ultraviolet light. It worked, the test square fell apart into two separate, perfectly preserved pieces, and remained that way, for exactly one point five minutes, whereupon the two squares fragmented and turned to dust.
Another call, desperate this time, was issued, test squares were reduced to half size, and several hopeful processes were chosen, all to no avail. Twice more the call went out, but when every scrap of the test page had been used up, no one had been successful in separating the stuck-together pieces of parchment, except of course for 152
the process that afforded the experts only one point five minutes to view the thing before it disintegrated.
Well, there was great distress and much wringing of hands. After much lament and protests of their powerlessness to change the situation, the conclave of elders in charge decided they would rather have a one point five-minute look at the last known Words of God, than to have no look at all.
Great preparations were made. The two stuck pages were removed from the book, and together with the separation apparatus were taken to a raised platform in the center of a large, filled-to-capacity stadium. The pages were submersed in the three special liquids and suspended in air surrounded by ultraviolet light. The filled stadium was silent for over three minutes as the pages dried, and a great intake of breath could be heard as the pages fell apart into the waiting hands of the elder selected to read the last Words of God to his eager children. He rushed with the pages up the five steps of the specially built lectern, joined immediately by a witness on his right and left. Four cameras, situated and in focus above the text, began snapping pictures, three or four per second.
Looking at the page, speaking into a microphone, the elder said, “…remain in effect for one thousand four hundred years, after which time the roles of male and female…”
The elder stopped speaking, a wide-eyed look of amazement on his face, his mouth hanging open. Then his demeanor changed to urgency, as he realized the clock was ticking. Leaving the Godly pages in the care of the witnesses, he rushed down the lectern steps, gathered the other elders about him, and in hushed tones told them what he’d read but not vocalized.
At this point nearly half a minute has elapsed, and there arose from the crowded stadium the mingled cries of hundreds demanding the entire text be read aloud, according to the plan. Most of those voices belonged to women, and their volume became louder and angrier as the seconds ticked by. Several dozen of the bravest even rushed the reading platform and clashed with the security personnel stationed around its perimeter.
153
Eight-year-old Mulham, said to be a true genius, and already able to translate ancient texts as well as any elder, had been invited to be part of the ceremony that day. Not to play a role, but to attend in recognition of his great intellect. In all the riotous confusion, no one noticed little Mulham as he made his way up the steps to the lectern, stood on an interior shelf, drew himself up above the text and looked down. Then they noticed him. The crowd quieted, the security personnel and those struggling with them ceased their antics, and the elders, who would say later they tried to move but their feet felt glued to the platform, only reached beseechingly toward little Mulham as he spoke into the microphone.
“… SHALL BE REVERSED,” he said, his amplified voice booming from the speakers.
“Beginning on the previous page, the complete sentence reads,
‘These rules shall remain in effect for one thousand four hundred years, after which time the roles of male and female shall be reversed, the provider becoming the provided for, the obedient becoming the obeyed, the keeper becoming the kept. Again, one thousand four hundred years shall pass, and a reckoning will determine which roles of male and female did most reverently honor their Creator.’”
Looking up to the hushed stadium, Mulham said, “God has spoken.” Turning to the elders behind him, he said, “The year 1396
of our Hijri calendar is nearly half over. It is to us this task is left, in three- and one-half years, to obey God’s command.” Right on cue, the two pages turned to dust, and the dust rose to Heaven on a sudden breeze, so some said.
It took several days, but the developed film from the cameras confirmed everything the boy said. Young Mulham became a part of the phenomenon over the next three years, like a modern- day prophet.
Before that day, through either ancient hatreds or modern ri-valries, a man could have many enemies among the many tribes and families of my people. The revelation of God’s Words drew men together with a common goal, that of preserving their status. Men all 154
over the eastern world learned to get along with each other in order to negotiate more effectively with women, who were as determined and united as men in this concept of role reversal. Mulham became the moderator, respected by those on both sides of the issue. In the end men willingly accepted the idea that they would henceforth have neither the right nor duty to control women, not in the home, not in the family, and not in the world outside of home and family. Women accepted similar non-control over men, even though many maintained that they risked incurring the wrath of God for not following His dictates to the letter.
In the space of three years the eastern world saw a calming never thought possible, as men got along with men sharing the same fate, and as men got along with women because how could they not, living as equals in the same homes and bedrooms.
By 1970, 1400 on the Hijri calendar, the new order was in place. So complete was the transformation that money, materials and efforts which would otherwise have been expended on some form of conflict or countering conflict, can now be spent on progress. The region’s economy will grow exponentially over the next decade, and before the century expires the associated countries of the Eastern Union will become the world’s most dominant economic power.
So much had the Middle Eastern world learned about coexist-ence, they saw opportunities for a peaceful outcome here between Ireland and England. They asked permission from both sides to intervene, and as you can see, they were successful.
As to comparing the results in 1400 years, well, I’ll leave you with a quote from young Mulham himself: “Ask me then,” he said.
I’m back in the Oval Office, staring at my pad, wondering if systemic hatred could ever be eliminated that convincingly.
7/10/1964
“At last,” George says. “At last you’re here”
“Ah, you missed me?”
“Dream on. Focus on the phrase, ‘at last’.”
155
“Last. As in final? This is my last little journey?”
“Bingo! See, you’re not so dumb.”
“Well, they’ve been interesting. But I can’t say I’ll miss them.
Wasted a lot of time.”
“You should talk.”
Kennedy laughs. “Point taken. I admit though, I will miss our exchanges, George. Perhaps we can get together sometime. You know, for real?”
“Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Who am I seeing today, George?”
“A blast from the past. A namesake of mine.”
“Another George? I can’t wait.”
“Good.” George punches another invisible button. “Sayonara,”
he says, and screen swallows me again.
Disoriented at first. Could be anywhere. Ground bare, burnt.
Air thick with smoke, smell of gunpowder. Out of coiling smoke comes a tall man. Army officer. Then notice something strange. He 156
stops a dozen feet away, notices it too. Looks down at cartoon version of himself, holds arms out to inspect up close. “God damned disgrace! Look what those scurrilous bastards have done now,” he says angrily, and turns head to look at me.
He is an intricate cartoon, finely detailed, three-dimensional.
Notice four stars on collar, then recognize him. Old Blood & Guts.
“General George Patton?” I say.
“Who the hell are you?” I tell him. He raises his chin, looks at me and says, “Could be. Looks like anything’s possible in this God damned place. Are YOU responsible for this?” he asks, holding arms out to indicate he, I, our surroundings.
“I think I am, indirectly,” I say.
“Then tell me what the hell you want. And be quick about it!
I’ve got things to do!”
“I need a military strategy, in a place called Vietnam.”
“Southeast Asia? Damned perplexing region. Gonna be a damned big dust-up there one day.”
“There already is,” I say, and bring him up to speed on the area.
“I’m convinced our being there is making things worse, and we won’t accomplish anything. But I’d like to pull out knowing the south has at least a chance against the Communist north.”
The cartoon character folds his arms and looks to sky for a minute. Then says, “I suppose those Russian sonsofbitches are involved somehow?”
I nod. “They supply arms, training, even pilots, to the north.”
“And the Chinese too, I suppose? That Mao bastard?”
“Yes. Arms, replacements for NVA troops taken south.”
“Who’s in charge now in the south?”
“Military generals, the past several years. They come and go.”
“Um. All corrupt as an old prostitute with clap, I’ll bet.”
“I’d say that’s accurate.”
He paces back and forth, a dozen feet in front of me, deep in thought. Shakes head sadly, couple times. I start to speak, he holds hand up, signal to stop. Notice ground beneath his feet is displaced as he walks. Leaves real footprints in the dirt. After several minutes 157
“Those poor gooks are gonna take a beating. No way to avoid it. Might be a way to make good come of it, but it’s a long-shot.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
He points at me. “You’d have to trick ‘em into going after each other, the Ruskies and the Chinks. Won’t be easy, but there’s already some mistrust, a few disputed borders. If they went after each other, big time, they’d need their troops back home. Might pull support for North Vietnam. Leave the south with an even chance. I suppose they’ve both got nukes by now, eh? Ruskies and Chinks?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Russia had spies in our project in the 40s. In 1955 they handed over the technology to China.”
“God dammit! I should’ve ignored those yellow-bellied politicians and wiped out those Godless Ruskies while I had the chance.
But I didn’t, so now this is the best idea I can offer you. If they were to get into a border skirmish, and Russia gets the notion China is stepping up production of short-range nukes, maybe Russia knocks out China’s nuke facilities, as a precaution. Could be it starts a wider conflict, they take each other down a few notches, gives you some opportunities.”
“I see. You’re right. It won’t be easy.”
“But it’s the best option you’ve got. Won’t be the first time war is the best answer, and I’d guess it won’t be the last. It’s in your hands though. I’ve got to find me a cartoonist’s ass to kick. Good luck, son.”
I’m left staring at my pad. Jackie has turned off her light and gone to sleep, hours ago. I try to do the same, but it takes a while.
Timothy Johann 18:19, 01/09/2213
JFKAC Release 21:10, 01/09/2213
158
GOTP Release 22:20, 01/09/2213
159
