MIND OUT OF TIME

by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 2003

The whole thing probably wouldn't have happened if Angus MacAran had been born like other kids.  But he was a breech birth, came out feet first.  It set a precedent—the rest of his life, he went at everything bass-ackwards.  His whole personality was built around perversity; maybe that's why he could understand people so well.

Also, he was born of Halloween.  That might have had something to do with it.

Even then, nothing probably would've happened is his body had been standard.  But it wasn't.  Right arm a few inches too long, left leg a few inches too short—he looked as if his whole right side had been shifted up about three inches higher than the left.  His shoulder was about on a level with his ear and there was a large lump of muscle on it; he called himself a hunchback.  And his right leg was three inches shorter than his left, so his shoe-sole was a trifle thick.  Add to that a head two sizes too large for his body, and he could make the rest of the world seem out of balance.

He grew up scrawny.  His hair was always thin, and so blond it seemed white, with eyebrows of the same ilk, over hard, sharp bone.  His eyes were so pale they scarcely seemed to have any color at all, and they were set way back under hard, sharp brows in a perpetual glower.  His nose would have looked more appropriate on an eagle, and his mouth never smiled.

He was deformed.  He knew it, and would allow no dodging of the point; he was deformed, and said so.  He was not an "exceptional person" or an "extra-normal" or a "special;" he was deformed—and if anyone called him anything else, he shut them up fast.  "Cripple" he would allow, or "grotesque,"—but never "handicapped."

Especially not "handicapped."  Physically, he had to admit they had a point; he wasn't exactly  built for sports and, in the Midwest, that meant he wasn't exactly built for socializing.

So he grew up a loner.  By the time he got to high school, the other kids were willing to be friendly—but he could tell they were trying, so he wasn't.  Three years later, when he hit college, solitary living had gotten to be a habit, and he'd developed an intense interest in machines—they were so easy to understand, compared to people.  So he majored in electronics and computer science and, having a unique, off-center viewpoint, he managed to come up with a few concepts the professors had overlooked.  He had patents (pending) on several very interesting devices before he even graduated, Class of '64.

Yah.  A genius.

At least, when it came to dealing with electrons.  With people, all he had was a lively interest.  But that was very lively; being on the outside, he had a huge hunger to find out what was going on inside.  So he took large doses of anthropology, psychology, and sociology and, to catch what the scientists missed, he added literature and history.  So he had a good grounding in theory, but when it came to the practice of getting along with people, he was still inept—unless there was a good argument going on that he could work his way into.  Then it was his idea that counted, not his personality.

Defense mechanism?  Of course.  He'd been carrying the shield around since he was five and, by the time he realized it'd expanded into a complete suit of armor, he'd lost his monkey wrench.  He had to wait for someone to come along with a can opener.

So he stepped out of college lonely and compensated for it by diving into his work like a mole.  He was an electrical engineer, and a brilliant one; he was also a physicist.  There aren't too many men with that combination, and when there are, they're usually spelled "inventor."

Which he was.  He was also 4-H, a major consideration back in the Sixties—so InterContinental Business Mechanisms swallowed him up the instant he took off his cap and gown, put him to work in Research & Development twenty hours a week at a fat salary with full benefits, and paid for him to go to graduate school with the rest of his week.  By the time he hit thirty he had a whole barrel of patents filed for his company (which paid him quite well for the privilege).  No royalties of his own yet, but ICBM paid him $100,000 a year to "do research" for them—not bad, in the Sixties—and marketed at least two new products of his design every year.  They made quite a profit on McAran.

So they didn't mind at all if he was unruly—he could, if he wanted to, come in at two a.m.; that was fine, and the guard wouldn't ask any questions.  If he didn't want to show up at all, that was fine, too.  He wanted a fully-equipped laboratory in his home for the days he didn’t feel like coming in?  Fine, nothing easier.  Terminal installed in his study with a dedicated line to the mainframe at the lab?  Sure, but shouldn't he let them add a bigger study to his house so he wouldn't feel cramped?  A secretary?  No problem.  Did he want her at home, too?  No?  Well, how many lab assistants?  What flavor, male or female?  None at all?  Was he sure?  Well—how about a cyclotron?

But he didn't have women.  He wouldn't have anything to do with them; he was deformed, and he knew any woman who gave him a smile had eyes on his wallet—any woman he found attractive, anyway.  Oh, there were a few who showed genuine interest in him—but he did have certain minimal standards of appearance and intelligence, and he was sure that any women meeting those standards was bound to be interested him only one aspect of his character, and it was green and gave a crisp crackle when you folded it.

So he didn't like company.  His youth in the schools on the wrong side of town—there hadn't seemed to be any right side, for him, and he'd tried enough schools to know—had convinced him of that.  It'd been worst in high school and college, where the other students showed pity and concern, however well-masked (and it hadn’t been until high school).  At least in grade school his classmates had been honest.  He'd had the bruises to prove it—and still had the worst ones, there on his ego.

Which was why he lived like a pauper.  The only thing he really wanted was ownership of the patents on the machines he invented—which he didn't have.  What else would he spend money on?  Girls?  He wanted them, sure—but all he knew how to do with them was argue.  Steak?  Vintage wines?  He thought of food as fuel.  Luxury?  He didn’t have time for it.

No, the only thing he wanted was to be his own master (and collect his own royalties).  That took money—but not just enough for a comfortable living; that much, he already had, just from interest.  No, he meant to keep on doing R&D—but for himself, not for ICBM.  With the kind of projects he worked on, that took money, big money.  So he was hoarding every penny against the day that he could open his own company.  That's why he lived in a three-room apartment in an old building, stayed home nights winding weird coils and sketching arcane designs, took all his vacation trips at the library, and socked every penny into blue-chip stocks and gilt-edge securities.  The only thing he spent money on was clothes, and that was only because it was company policy.

Lunchtime a week after his thirtieth birthday, Angus was twisting his way through the crowded commissary at I.C.B.M., looking for an empty table and an argument, the kind where ideas counted for more than personalities.  Even at thirty he was still very much aware of his three-inch sole and twisted shoulder and couldn't believe anyone could really enjoy talking with him.  So good arguments were his only form of socializing.

"Yeah, I saw that skull," said a deep voice off to his left.  "Sure it looks like a Neanderthal—but they dug it up in Michigan!"

That was all Angus needed.  He veered to his left, zeroed in on the table with the three men and snapped, "I saw it, too!  And with that kind of prognathism and the occipital lump, you're gonna try and tell me it's anything but a Neanderthal?"

The speaker looked up, surprised.  He was broad and beefy with a shock of black hair, heavy brows, and almost no chin.  "No, matter of fact," he said slowly.  "I wasn't trying to tell you anything at all."

"Uh, Yor," said Tal Drummond nervously, "this is Angus McAran, Cybernetic Electronics.  Angus, Yorick Thall."  Then, before either of them could get a word in: "'Scuse me.  Gotta get back to the lab."  He left, hurrying a little.

So did the other two men at the table.  They'd been through Angus's arguments before.

Yorick raised an eyebrow.  "Just you and me, huh?  All right, I'll bite."

"I doubt it."  Angus sat down.  "Yorick?"

"An ancient and honorable moniker."  Yorick nodded.  "You didn't think Shakespeare invented it, did you?  ...Say, aren't you the young hot-shot with all the patents?"

"Older than you, I'd guess," Angus snorted, "and InterContinental's the one with the patents; I just invented the gadgets."

Yorick nodded.  "Accounting appreciates it."

"So does InterContinental," Angus said sourly.  "Now, about..."

"Yeah, so much that they gave you your own lab, plus full tuition and all the time you wanted to work on your doctorate."  Yorick grinned.  "You can't hide much from the boys with the books."

"Except book-learning.  You don't know much about anthropology."

Yorick shrugged.  "I've got a running interest in Neanderthals."

"Then stop running and start reading.  How could you say that new skull at the museum isn't Neanderthal?"

"Because they've never found a Neanderthal in the Western Hemisphere."  Yorick turned serious.  "And this is a new skull; they just dug it up last summer.  Sure it could be Neanderthal—but it's no older than some pre-Indian remains they've found.  So it could just be an Iroquois ancestor with a funny-shaped head.  Or it could be a hoax."

"And if it's not, the anthropologists will have to throw out one of their main theories."  Angus smiled, too sweetly.  "Right now, every prof in the country claims Neanderthals died off before they could reach the Bering Straits bridge—and they hate like hell to have to admit they were wrong."

"No, not really," Yorick said thoughtfully.  "What they do hate is to say something's true before they've got all the facts."

"This skull's a fact.  And they didn't have it."

"What fact?"  Yorick shrugged.  "There're men walking down the street today who look like Neanderthals—and some of them are on their way to the executive suite.  Could be we're all descended from hybrid Neanderthals with Cro-Magnon spouses.  Not surprising we occasionally look like our ancestors."

Angus sat back, regarding Yorick narrowly.  "You do have a point..."

"Yeah, and I'm a great example of it.  I know."  Yorick's mouth tightened; then he shrugged.  "So I've got a personal interest.  Doesn't stop me from being right."

"But it doesn't give you an occipital lump."  Angus smiled tightly.  "Only genuine Neanderthals had 'em—and so does this skull."

"And modern humans don't."  Yorick pursed his lips.  "There, it gets sticky..."

"And you can't pull it out."  Angus slapped the table and sat back triumphantly.

"Not without doing some research.  But if I sampled a hundred thousand modern skulls, I bet I'd come up with a few occipital lumps."

Angus waved a generous hand.  "Do it, by all means.  Study modern Neanderthals.  Sounds like a good way to get to know more about yourself."

Yorick's face set into grim lines.  Then he smiled sweetly.  "Beats studying gargoyles."

Angus paled, his eyes growing huge in his head.

Then he threw himself to his feet and turned away.

"Oh, stick around," Yorick said softly.  "Convince me I'm wrong."

Angus turned back.  "Don't worry, I will."

"How?  By proving the skull's a Neanderthal?"

"Yes!"

"How?"  Yorick grinned.  "Gonna hop in a time machine and run back a few hundred years to interview him?"

"Yes!"  Angus whirled away and stalked out of the commissary.

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