Read The Probability Broach Online
Authors: L. Neil Smith
Tags: #Science Fiction, #General, #Fiction
The Probability Broach (6 page)
So help me, an animated drawing answered, a pleasantly stereotypical old-timey operator, crisply pretty in a high-collared blouse and headset—like Betty Crocker’s kid sister. “May I help you?”
I’d never talked to a cartoon before, but this seemed like the day for it. “Could you give me Long Distance? The Denver Police, two-six-six, two-four-two-one. And reverse the charges. This is Lieutenant Win Bear.”
“One moment, please Lieutenant Bear.” The screen blanked, then she reappeared. “I’m sorry, we have no records for a Denver Police in either local or trunkline memories. Are you sure you’re using the correct name?”
That stopped me. “What do you mean? Try ‘Denver, City, and County of.”’
Her face registered good-natured exasperation. “I’m
very
sorry, sir. I’ve accessed 36,904 listings: but no ‘Denver, City and County of.”’
very
sorry, sir. I’ve accessed 36,904 listings: but no ‘Denver, City and County of.”’
The 3-D display made it almost irresistible to try strangling her cute little cartoon neck. But
something
catastrophic had resulted in a brand-new calendar. Hell, Denver could be in a different
country
by now! “Hold on! How far away—if that’s the way to put it—is your directory good for?” Back home you still can’t dial lots of places—try calling Moscow for a little excitement at the FBI’s expense.
something
catastrophic had resulted in a brand-new calendar. Hell, Denver could be in a different
country
by now! “Hold on! How far away—if that’s the way to put it—is your directory good for?” Back home you still can’t dial lots of places—try calling Moscow for a little excitement at the FBI’s expense.
She hesitated. “Sir, we list over seven billion individuals and organizations currently contracting with some twelve thousand telecommunications companies on this planet, the Moon, Mars, and Ceres Central. I am confident to sixteen decimals that there is no ‘Denver, City and County of’ in the known solar system. May I be of further assistance, or would you prefer a
live
operator?”
live
operator?”
There was a definite “asshole” at the end of that sentence. “No,” I answered dizzily, “that’s enough.” The screen returned to NEED ASSISTANCE? I certainly did—oxygen and a saline drip. So much for The Next Best Thing to Being There.
Okay, Denver was obliterated. They’d finally Pushed the Button, and at least 117 years ago, judging by the university sign. Ragnarok’s a pretty good reason to start a new calendar. Yet this society had pulled through it, recovered without a scar. Hey! People are on Mars!
But where did that leave me? All my friends must be dead. I was my folks’ only kid. I had no close relatives or descendants I was
aware
of. Jesus, with Denver gone, did
anyone
I know have any descendants? Maybe the local cops could recommend a nice rubber room for my declining years.
aware
of. Jesus, with Denver gone, did
anyone
I know have any descendants? Maybe the local cops could recommend a nice rubber room for my declining years.
Wait a minute! This was no way for Sergeant Billy Bear’s son Winnie to be thinking! There must be
something
I could do, if only looking up Otis Bealls’s great-grandson to punch him in the nose.
something
I could do, if only looking up Otis Bealls’s great-grandson to punch him in the nose.
Maybe that
wasn’t
such a screwy idea: Bealls might be long dead. That explosion might not have been in Meiss’s lab, but IT—the opening remarks of World War III! On the other hand, he could have lived long enough to pinch the nurses in some postwar wrinkle-ranch. One way or another, my explosion would surely rate some footnote in his family history.
wasn’t
such a screwy idea: Bealls might be long dead. That explosion might not have been in Meiss’s lab, but IT—the opening remarks of World War III! On the other hand, he could have lived long enough to pinch the nurses in some postwar wrinkle-ranch. One way or another, my explosion would surely rate some footnote in his family history.
I typed out BEALLS, OTIS. The screen displayed something like a regular phonebook page with a glowing orange cursor dot wiggling up and down the margin.
Beallses,
about sixty of them, but no Otis. I stared at the list, wondering how to ask someone, “Pardon me, did you have an ancestor named Otis, back before the End of the World?” The cursor dot slide-whistled up and down the page uncertainly.
Beallses,
about sixty of them, but no Otis. I stared at the list, wondering how to ask someone, “Pardon me, did you have an ancestor named Otis, back before the End of the World?” The cursor dot slide-whistled up and down the page uncertainly.
Then, in the right-hand column across from the Beallses, it caught me, right between the eyes:
BEAR, EDWARD W.,
Consulting Detective
626 E. Genêt PI.ACMe 9-4223
I wouldn’t have taken a million “metric ounces” not to dial that number. Seeing your own distinctive name and more-or-less correct profession in a strange city’s directory is interesting, but not that rare: five years after he was killed, my Dad was still getting mail for
another
Tech Sergeant Bill Bear. But on a Picturephone, possibly decades in the future?
another
Tech Sergeant Bill Bear. But on a Picturephone, possibly decades in the future?
Perhaps this wasn’t the time for idle curiosity, sitting in a futuristic phone booth, torn and filthy, still disoriented and getting more that way every minute. I’m not sure
what
was called for. Catatonic schizophrenia, maybe.
what
was called for. Catatonic schizophrenia, maybe.
PLEASE INSERT ONE TENTH COPPER OUNCE
I rummaged through my pockets: ball-point, notebook, badge holder and wallet, empty cartridges, felt-tip, two dimes, a quarter, four pennies. How much is a tenth-ounce of copper? Those little watch-pockets they put in trousers are good for something: I pulled out the Lysander Spooner coin from Meiss’s desk. Half an ounce of silver ought to do it. Do
polite
phone companies give change?
polite
phone companies give change?
The coin! I hadn’t associated the numbers—dates—with the university sign until now. To hell with it, time enough for going batty later. I inserted the silver coin, the machine started hiccuping into its coin return. I didn’t have time to examine the result, because:
WE’RE SORRY, YOUR PARTY IS BUSY. IF YOU’D LIKE TO WAIT, PLEASE ENTER
H
FOR HOLD. TO CANCEL THE CALL, ENTER
C
—YOUR MONEY WILL BE REFUNDED. THANK YOU.
I said, “You’re welcome,” and punched
H,
fidgeting nervously. Is there another way to travel through time besides starting at birth and plodding on to Social Security, collecting varicose veins along the way? Meiss
had
to have gotten that coin from here. Was it
time travel
he’d been working on? It wasn’t any crazier an idea than amnesia, and I could see how the government might be interested.
H,
fidgeting nervously. Is there another way to travel through time besides starting at birth and plodding on to Social Security, collecting varicose veins along the way? Meiss
had
to have gotten that coin from here. Was it
time travel
he’d been working on? It wasn’t any crazier an idea than amnesia, and I could see how the government might be interested.
But who was this gink with my name? Let’s see, if I
hadn’t
gone through Meiss’s machine, I might have survived World War III or whatever, eventually moving to Fort Collins. But I
did
go through, so I couldn’t have … anyway, I’d be at least 165 by now! Not that I didn’t feel it. Of course, I could have had a kid
after
1987 … but no, the same objection applies: after 1987, I was—am—already
here.
This is where my lifeline and Meiss’s confounded gadgetry had carried me, not through Armageddon to Father’s Day.
hadn’t
gone through Meiss’s machine, I might have survived World War III or whatever, eventually moving to Fort Collins. But I
did
go through, so I couldn’t have … anyway, I’d be at least 165 by now! Not that I didn’t feel it. Of course, I could have had a kid
after
1987 … but no, the same objection applies: after 1987, I was—am—already
here.
This is where my lifeline and Meiss’s confounded gadgetry had carried me, not through Armageddon to Father’s Day.
Impatiently, I fiddled with the coin return and found a copper tenth-piece among the change: an overweight penny with somebody named Albert Jay Nock staring out of it. Damn it, still busy! Seething now, I punched out MAP and 626 GENET PL. ACMe was as good as its word: a city map materialized, two pulsing amber dots explaining YOU ARE HERE and ADDRESS REQUESTED. Pretty fancy. I’d have a few suggestions for Ma Bell if I ever got the chance—
Which I might! If Meiss had invented a time machine back in 1987, surely by now—I almost looked up “Travel Agents, Time” in the
Grand Combined Directory,
but didn’t want to risk getting a cartoon sore at me twice in one day.
Grand Combined Directory,
but didn’t want to risk getting a cartoon sore at me twice in one day.
However, Genet Place was only six blocks away, and I was beginning to feel cocky—giddy if you prefer. Judging from the phone rates, I had a pocket full of high-caliber change—including the gold slug I’d never had a chance to turn in—and three freshly loaded guns. I’d figured out, within certain sloppy tolerances, what had happened to me. Thanks to my almost Sherlockian genius, I even had a rough idea of the history of this place—and a definite destination: 626 Genet Place. Not bad, for only an hour in Futureland!
Shock can be a pretty wonderful thing.
When I emerged, traffic was still heavy, and
fast.
Looking for a break, I glanced back the way I’d come only minutes ago. A flashing arrow at the curb spelled out PEDESTRIANS and pointed to an escalator that flowed down into a broad, well-lit area lined with shops, then became a moving walkway. Halfway through the trip, I passed a tunnel labeled, paradoxically, OVERLAND TRAIL. Here and there cheerful three-dimensional posters advertised food, entertainment—and tobacco. Prohibition was over! There seemed to be a lot of ads for various intimidating firearms, and something calling itself SECURITECH—WHILE YOU SLEEP. Was that a burglar alarm or a sleeping pill?
fast.
Looking for a break, I glanced back the way I’d come only minutes ago. A flashing arrow at the curb spelled out PEDESTRIANS and pointed to an escalator that flowed down into a broad, well-lit area lined with shops, then became a moving walkway. Halfway through the trip, I passed a tunnel labeled, paradoxically, OVERLAND TRAIL. Here and there cheerful three-dimensional posters advertised food, entertainment—and tobacco. Prohibition was over! There seemed to be a lot of ads for various intimidating firearms, and something calling itself SECURITECH—WHILE YOU SLEEP. Was that a burglar alarm or a sleeping pill?
I passed another TELECOM, decorated like a candy-striped guardpost, an enterprise of CHEYENNE COMMUNICATIONS. At least Wyoming had made it through Doomsday—but who’d know the difference? This booth offered background music and scenic rear-projections to convince ’em you were in Tahiti—or in a phone booth with scenic rear-projections.
The escalator headed up again into the sunlight, dumping me out on the other side of Confederation Boulevard. Somewhere at the end of this day was a mattress and a pillow. I wished I knew where. I was weary, lightheaded, surrounded by the totally strange and the strangely familiar. I started giggling a couple times, mostly from hysteria rather than from the scenery.
Escalator tunnels and underground shopping centers lay beneath every intersection, sometimes connected with their neighbors up and down the block. I got a lot of free rides that way, though once I rode too far and had to double back. There was almost more city below ground than above, which made sense with a thermonuclear war in the recent past.
Forcibly reminded of certain biological facts, I stopped off at a door with appropriate markings, a model of understatement as it turned out. More than the usual monument to the ceramic arts, the rest room was an updated Roman bath: swimming pool, snack bar, even sleep cubicles for rent. I thought of Colfax Avenue hookers who’d love the setup, then noticed that such services—your choice, organic or mechanical—were available at a modest fee. To my taste, the whole arrangement looked too much like drawers in the city morgue.
Experimentally, I fed my shirt into another slot and got it back looking almost good as new. So I turned in my pants, jacket, shorts, and socks and stood around feeling silly in my Kevlar, shoes, and shoulder holster. I found an empty shower stall and afterward discovered that the laundry had fixed my pants. It all came to about an ounce of copper.
A few more blocks took me away from the energetic university district to a quieter residential area, elaborate in architectural extremes. Victorian and Edwardian gingerbread sat grandly between the baroque and a sort of Swiss-chalet style—ornate, almost rococo, but taken all together, neither garish nor intimidating. Just different. The homes were set back deeply from the road, on enormous lots with gracefully curving rubber driveways winding through gardens and wrought-iron fencery. If Edward W. Bear lived like this, being a P.I. must pay better here than it did in my jurisdiction.
Definitely feeling more like myself, whoever
that
was (another twinge of curiosity about this “Edward W. Bear”), I ambled along in the afternoon sun, absently aware that the almost-silent vehicles swooshing along beside me in the street produced no noticeable exhaust. Down in the curbing there wasn’t a scrap of garbage. As my head cleared I began to notice other things—the streets might be Kentucky Blue, but there’s a lot to be said for rubber sidewalks. Soon, except for where I’d kicked that SecPol agent, my feet were the only part that didn’t hurt. I thought resentfully about the million concrete miles I’d trod on downtown foot patrol.
that
was (another twinge of curiosity about this “Edward W. Bear”), I ambled along in the afternoon sun, absently aware that the almost-silent vehicles swooshing along beside me in the street produced no noticeable exhaust. Down in the curbing there wasn’t a scrap of garbage. As my head cleared I began to notice other things—the streets might be Kentucky Blue, but there’s a lot to be said for rubber sidewalks. Soon, except for where I’d kicked that SecPol agent, my feet were the only part that didn’t hurt. I thought resentfully about the million concrete miles I’d trod on downtown foot patrol.
Here, the underground crossings ran to neighborhood groceries, stationery, and candy stores—the kind of mom-and-pop operations nearly killed off by city zoning back home. I took another fling, stopping for some cigarettes, my first decent ones in almost five years. Two copper pennies for the most expensive in the place.
Topside again, I did a little people-watching. It was more than their weird colorful clothing and strangely relaxed briskness. Something was missing—the barely concealed hostility and fear that haunted
my
city streets. These people never seemed to push or jostle, never avoided looking at one another. They’d nod politely—even speak!—and they carried their heads high, unafraid of the world around them. It sent shivers down my spine.
my
city streets. These people never seemed to push or jostle, never avoided looking at one another. They’d nod politely—even speak!—and they carried their heads high, unafraid of the world around them. It sent shivers down my spine.
What I first took to be an extraordinary number of children became even more confusing. Some of these little people spotted muttonchops and mustaches. I noticed gangly arms and clumsy gaits. Mutants—the city was full of them. Even my bleary eyes could see the effects of radiation-distorted genes: protruding jaws, rubbery lips; some practically had muzzles.
Even more jarring were the weapons—men and women alike, little people,
children.
I passed one obvious kindergartener carrying a pistol almost as big as he was! Was there some danger here I wasn’t seeing? Or was the hardware merely a legacy of the brutal time that must have followed an atomic war? Yet these people seemed so full of cordiality. Could the source of their pride and dignity be nothing more than the mechanical means of dealing death they carried? Well, the alternative, thousands of variations on the Sullivan Act, had been no shining success back home.
children.
I passed one obvious kindergartener carrying a pistol almost as big as he was! Was there some danger here I wasn’t seeing? Or was the hardware merely a legacy of the brutal time that must have followed an atomic war? Yet these people seemed so full of cordiality. Could the source of their pride and dignity be nothing more than the mechanical means of dealing death they carried? Well, the alternative, thousands of variations on the Sullivan Act, had been no shining success back home.
What the hell, it was a nice day, a fine day. Nothing wrong that a long drink and a longer snooze wouldn’t cure. Maybe there was an opening on the local force—would a century and a half’s experience count for anything?
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