Bearing an Hourglass Read online

  "But a ghost can't impregnate a living woman. That is indeed a problem."

  "Yes. I really don't see how—"

  "I'm coming to that. My wife may associate with any man she chooses—but she is my wife, by the ghost marriage, and her child is mine. He will inherit my estate and carry on my line."

  "But then she's being unfaithful to you!" Norton protested.

  "I had trouble with that concept, too, at first. But I came to terms with it. She knows she must provide the heir and that I can not do it personally. But I am involved, for I am choosing the man. With her consent, of course; marriage is a partnership. She has refused several good prospects."

  "Are yon sure she really wants to—?"

  "Oh, I'm sure," Gawain said confidently. "She is a good and honest woman. She is not trying to renege. She merely wants to do it exactly properly. She has this magic talent: she can tell by looking at a man how good a consort he would make. That's one reason my family selected her. They didn't want the heir sired by some ne'er-do-well bum with poor heredity. She really is special. If I had met her in life, I surely would have loved her, though I wouldn't have had much patience with her views about dragons. She can't bear to hurt any living creature. So if I bring her a man she deems good enough to—"

  Realization struck Norton. "This favor—"

  The ghost nodded. "Precisely. I want you to meet my wife, and if she likes you—"

  "Wait!" Norton spluttered. "I take my women where I find them, when they are amenable, but never a married one! That wouldn't be right."

  "I like you, Norton. You have the right instincts. I was afraid out here in the park I'd find only wishy-washy sentimentalists, but you've got style. I think my wife would like you, when she didn't like the warrior types I sent before. Look at it this way: I have no physical body and I need an heir. I'm asking you to substitute for me in this one respect. After that you can go your way, with no further commitment. It's like repairing my house for me, and I'll pay you for the service—"

  "Some service!"

  "Literally." The ghost chuckled. "I realize this is hard for you to accept right away and I like that in you. But at least come to meet Orlene. Maybe she'll reject you."

  From the way the ghost spoke, Norton had no certainty of that. Gawain thought this girl, Orlene, would like him. If he went, expecting to be rejected, and then... "I don't know—"

  "Please, Norton! You're a good man—and I must have that heir."

  "I understand that part. But to cuckold you—that's against my philosophy."

  "I am, after all, a ghost. You can consider her a widow. If it helps, you can remember that you will have no rights over her at all. You can not marry her, and your part will be forever unrecognized. Legally there is no adultery here. So this is the ultimate chance to sow wild oats—"

  "Complete irresponsibility! That's not what I—"

  "Well, then, think of it as artificial insemination, and you're the donor. Hell, man, that's done all the time, in life, when the living husband is infertile."

  This was haywire, but the concept helped. The ghost did have a case. "All right—I'll meet her," Norton said guardedly.

  "And I'll teach you how to slay dragons!"

  "Oh, you don't really need to—"

  "Yes, I do. I insist on paying for it!"

  Norton realized that what a man paid for belonged to him. Gawain had to have his personal, private claim on the heir. "Yes. But first we had better find out whether she's even interested. This may all be for nothing." He wondered what this fine girl who had sold her body in such fashion for security actually looked like. Quality and lineage could normally net a girl a good husband, unless she was ugly or had a vile temper. That latter kind might be the sort who would settle for a ghost.

  "We can go right now," Gawain said eagerly. "There's an elevator not far from here."

  Norton thought to protest, but remembered that he was broke, so would not be able to camp out much longer anyway. A stay with a good woman, even an ugly one, was at least worth considering. He really could not claim to have anything better to do.

  He doused the fire and cleaned up the area so that future hikers would not be annoyed. Wilderness hiking and camping were privileges, not rights, and were strictly licensed. He was always careful not to mistreat the cultivated wilds. He burned only deadwood, left the animals alone, and tried not to harm even caterpillars and worms. He never littered. It was not that anyone was watching; it was that Norton had genuine respect for the heritage of nature and for the parks that sought to emulate it.

  They walked a quarter mile to a giant blazed oak tree. Norton touched the lowest branch and stepped inside the chamber that opened in the trunk. The elevator descended to the residential level, where they stepped out and took a conveyor belt to the ghost's address. Gawain, of course, could simply have popped across directly, but he preferred to honor the living conventions among the living.

  This was an affluent section of the city, as befitted the ghost's description of his family's status. Poor people did not worry much about preservation of their estates.

  They stepped off the belt, took a smaller side-passage belt, and moved into the really refined region of the Who's Who lineages. A uniformed guard barred the way as they stepped off. "Identity?" he asked Norton sternly.

  "It's all right, Trescott," Gawain said. "He's with me."

  Trescott eyed Norton's somewhat sweaty and worn hiking outfit disapprovingly. "Very good, sir," he muttered.

  "The guards don't always let themselves see me," Gawain explained. "Unless I take pains to manifest to them. Ghosts are not much in fashion here; the management worries about property values."

  "Or about scruffy-looking characters like me," Norton said. "I feel out of place here."

  "Um, there's a point," Gawain agreed. "We really ought to spruce you up a bit to make a good impression."

  "I am what I am," Norton said. "If she has the power to judge a man's true worth at a glance, what difference does clothing or polish make?"

  "There is that. Very well, we'll try it this way. But if she accepts you, you'll have to dress the part."

  "First things first," Norton said, not totally pleased.

  They arrived at the door. "Now I can't go in," Gawain said. "Rules of the cosmos. Everyone can see a ghost like me except the one most concerned. You'll introduce yourself."

  "What, smile toothily and say, 'Hi, girl, I'm here to—'?"

  "Tell her Gawain sent you. She'll understand."

  "Sure," Norton said glumly. How had he gotten into this? He felt like a traveling salesman about to approach the farmer's daughter.

  "Good luck," Gawain said.

  Norton wasn't sure whether "good luck" would mean acceptance or rejection. He nerved himself and touched the door's call button.

  Chapter 2 - VERIFICATION

  A panel became translucent after a moment. "Yes?" a soft-voiced woman inquired. He could not quite make out her features; the glass was, of course, designed to pass a clear image only one way.

  "Uh, Gawain sent me." Idiocy!

  The door slid aside, and she stood framed within. She had hair the hue of honey and eyes the same. Her figure was adorably proportioned, and her face was cute. She was the loveliest creature he had met.

  Orlene studied Norton. Her eyes seemed to shine. "Oh, I was afraid this would happen someday," she said.

  "This wasn't exactly my idea," Norton said. "I'll go."

  "No," she said quickly. "No fault in you! I just was not prepared."

  "Since I'm unsuitable, I won't bother you further." He felt quite awkward, sorry he had come here, yet also deeply regretful. He had been braced to meet a different sort of woman; for one like this, he would do almost anything.

  "No, wait," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to—please, sit down, have some tea."

  "That's not necessary, thank you. I'm intruding. This whole business—" He turned away—and paused. Gawain was right there behind him, spreading his arms to
block his retreat. He did not want to walk through the ghost.

  Orlene came up and took his arm. Her touch was light and gentle and utterly right; he had a momentary mental picture of a porcelain statuette, a work of art, inconceivably delicate, precious, and cool. "Please," she repeated.

  "He set it up," Norton said, indicating Gawain.

  "You don't have to say that," Orlene said, sounding just a bit nettled. "You don't have to justify yourself."

  "Yes, I do! He's your husband! I can't simply—even if I were satisfactory, I mean, it would still be wrong."

  "My husband is dead," she said.

  "I know. That's why—" Norton shrugged, confused about his own emotions, wishing he were back in the forest. "How can you face him like this and—?"

  "Me?" she flared. She was one of those few women who really did seem as pretty angry as happy. "How can you men exchange stories, and use a great warrior's death to try to—to—!"

  "But he told me!" Norton said. "Gawain brought me here! Ask him! He'll tell you!"

  She looked into Norton's face, then turned away, hurt. He felt like a monster who had just pulled the wings off a dozen beautiful butterflies.

  "She can't see me," Gawain said. "She can't hear me. I told you that. She doesn't really believe in me."

  Norton was shocked. "You mean she thinks this is just a scheme to—to hit on—?"

  "I told you you'd have to handle the introduction yourself," the ghost reminded him. "She's ready to accept you; don't mess it up."

  Norton turned to Orlene again. "You really can't see or hear—Gawain?"

  "Of course I can't," she said, her face still hurt. "Only his picture." She gestured to a framed painting on the wall inside.

  Norton turned around to get a better view. It was Gawain, garbed in his armor, with a dragon painted on his shield and X'd out. The bold killer of dragons.

  Norton shook his head. "This is all wrong. I think I have insulted you, Orlene. I misunderstood—the situation. I apologize and I'll leave."

  "Oh, you mustn't leave!" she protested. "I don't care what brought you here, really. You glow so brightly! I never expected to see—"

  "I glow?"

  "Her magic power," Gawain said from outside. "The right man glows. You're it, all right."

  "It's hard to explain," Orlene said. "It doesn't mean I like a man, or want to. It just means that, objectively, he is—" She spread her hands helplessly.

  "I think I understand," Norton said. He had thought he would be rejected, once he saw how lovely she was; now he was unable to turn down what was offered, though he remained disturbed by the situation. "Perhaps I will accept your tea after all." He stepped back into the apartment.

  Orlene closed the door behind him, shutting out the ghost. That was a small relief. Norton sat in a comfortable chair while she bustled in her kitchenette, dialing the tea.

  The problem was that she was too pretty, too obviously nice. Norton felt subjectively as if his touch would despoil her. This was no one-night-stand woman, and it would be a crime to treat her that way. Especially since she herself was not aware of the ghost's active participation. She would think that he, Norton, was simply a man taking advantage of a widow. Well, not exactly a widow. But it bothered him.

  Except for one thing—she saw him glow. She had no need to accept him; she could tell him to go and he would go. Why should she claim he was right for the purpose? Was her magic real, or was it a pretext to pick and choose? Was she in fact any better than she took him to be? She seemed like the ideal woman, but appearances could be deceptive. Especially when a ghost was involved.

  Oriene brought the tea in an old-fashioned pot and poured cups for them both. This wasn't tea time, but time was not of the essence here. What was required was something to occupy their hands and eyes and nominal attention—a pretext to be somewhat at ease together. That was, Norton suspected, the true basis of tea; it was a social amenity.

  But it wasn't enough. There was only so long a person could nurse along a cup of beverage, and it was necessary to make small talk meanwhile. How long could they postpone getting down to the subject?

  Norton's desperately wandering eyes spotted a large, pretty, parlor-style book, the kind with phenomenal illustrations and very little text, as befitted the fashionable, wealthy nonreaders of the day. He reached for it.

  "Oh, that's the picture-puzzle guide," Orlene said quickly. "Magic technology art. I haven't gotten into the puzzle, though I've been meaning to. I understand it's very difficult."

  "I like puzzles." Norton opened the book. The first picture was of a section of the city park, with its tall trees seeming almost alive. Almost? Now he saw their leaves fluttering in the wind. It was a moving picture and it was three-dimensional; his eyes shifted focus as he peered into its background. He had heard of books like this, with holographic illustrations, but never handled one before.

  Experimentally he poked his forefinger at the picture, for his eyes had lost track of the surface of the page. His finger penetrated beyond that surface, finding no resistance. Startled, he drew back.

  "It's a window to the park," she explained. "You could climb through it, if you could fit."

  Impressive magic! Intrigued, Norton turned the page. The next was of the nether transport center, with the escalator belts leading down to the matter transmitters. People were stepping off the belts, inserting their talismans in the MT slots, and moving through to their destinations. A big clock on the wall showed the present time and date; this was live! He wondered whether, if he should somehow squeeze into that picture, he would then be able to take a matter-mit window to another city or planet. No—he lacked the necessary token and lacked credit to buy one. Too bad; he really loved to explore, and if he had ever been able to afford interplanetary travel—

  He turned another page. This picture-window showed another planet directly: the blazing sunside surface of Mercury, so bright that the heat seemed to radiate out from the sheet. He touched his finger to the nearest baked rock—and drew it back quickly. That was hot!

  "You say this one is merely a puzzle guide?" he asked, perplexed.

  Orlene rose gracefully and went to a cupboard. Her dress rustled, and for the first time he became aware of what she was wearing: a kind of golden-tan wraparound affair, obviously intended for convenience rather than for presentation, but it fitted her marvelously. He suspected she would look wonderful in anything, however.

  She brought down a box. "To the jigsaw puzzle," she explained. "Of course, it's been decades since they actually cut them out with saws, but the name sticks." She cleared away the pot and cups and set the box down.

  Norton opened it. It was filled with bright, curly, flat fragments, indeed very much like the pieces of a jig-sawed puzzle. But these glittered with animation. Moving images here?

  He picked one up and squinted at it. Sure enough, it showed several leaves of a tree, and they did indeed flutter in whatever wind there was. It was a section of the first illustration in the book.

  "But there are a number of scenes in the book," he said.

  Orlene touched a button on the side of the box. Abruptly the image on the piece Norton held changed. Now it appeared to be part of the wall of the subterranean transport station. He looked at the other pieces in the box and saw one that displayed part of the face of the station clock. Its minute hand showed exactly the minute that Norton's own watch did. It was now only a fragment, but it kept accurate time.

  "All the scenes are available," Orlene said. "You just set it for the one you want to do—or change it in the middle. There's another button to change the shapes of the pieces so they don't get too familiar. I understand it's a lot of fun, especially since the completed puzzle is large enough for a person to step through and enter the scene."

  "Science and magic are merging faster than I knew!" Norton exclaimed, impressed.

  "Well, they always were pretty much the same thing," she pointed out. "Once the Unified Field Theorem merged the five basic
forces, including magic—"

  "I think I've been spending too much time in the wilderness!"

  "The wilderness is nice too," she said. "We mustn't sacrifice the old values for the new."

  He glanced at her with fresh appreciation. "You like the wilderness?" He remembered Gawain's remark about her affinity for animals.

  "Oh, yes! The estate has a section of the park; I go there often. Somehow it seems less lonely than the city."

  What a delight she was! But still he wasn't sure. He was not able to view people with a magic glow. "Let's do this puzzle," he suggested. "The park picture."

  Orlene smiled with glad acquiescence. "Let's!"

  And that finessed the main issue nicely. She did want him to stay, for otherwise she would not have agreed to get into a project like this that could take days. And—he did want to stay. Not necessarily to honor the ghost's request, but to explore the possibility. The notion of helping Gawain in this fashion no longer seemed so unreasonable.

  They labored on the puzzle, first sorting the colors of the park scene, then aligning the straight-edge pieces, getting the border done. Norton was an old hand at this sort of thing, except that his experience had been with the old-fashioned kind of jigsaw. This magic-picture variety was new, but the fundamental principles of strategy and matching remained. A picture was like a story, with rules of structure that were vulnerable to exploitation in a case like this.

  Orlene turned out to have a good eye for color and shape and was able to locate pieces he needed. She was assisted by her magic, she said; the particular piece she looked for tended to glow. He saw no such effect, but her accuracy in drawing pieces from the great mixed pile lent credence to the claim. The two of them were working well together.

  Norton glanced at the clock and discovered that three hours had flown by. They had completed the border and much of the forest path and were working on two trees, but there was a long way to go. Edges and paths filled in deceptively rapidly; the solid masses of single-color regions would be much slower. "Maybe we'd better let it rest for the night," he said.

  "Yes. Let me get you some pajamas." They both understood that he would be staying here indefinitely. The agreement had formed, unvoiced, as the outline of the puzzle took form. Like the puzzle, the details remained inchoate.