The Gods of Foxcroft

By David Levy

Earth has been reduced to a vast laboratory, it's people survivors of carbon-saturated air that increased surface temperature, melted giant glaciers, turned land into swamp and forced population into drastically reduced habitable areas. Observing these survivors from space are human beings whose evolution has been as startling as it was predictable centuries before from known biology, medicine and psychology.

Theirs is a world of instant molecular restructuring of matter, of people without need for sleep, free of all presently known diseases, capable of implanting complete memory systems, of altering humans to survive in any environment, on any planet. It is a time when time is meaningless, when human life is created outside the uterus, and death is a dispensation from Foxcroft, not a natural result or individual right.

Into this time and this world, restored, reborn from their cryogenic capsules by now highly sophisticated techniques, come a man and a woman from the twentieth century. Their very human story involves the drama of their sudden awakening into a world they never made or expected. Theirs also, in a very new world, is a very old story about a man and a woman in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 18, 2000
• ISBN: 9781475917598

David Levy

David Levy is an internationally recognized expert on artificial intelligence and the president of the International Computer Games Association. He is also the author of the industry primer Robots Unlimited. He lives in London.

Book preview

also by David Levy

The Chameleons,

Network Jungle,

Potomac Jungle,

and Executive Jungle

THE GODS OF FOXCROFT

Image307.PNG

by

David Levy

iUniverse.com, Inc.

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

The Gods of Foxcroft

All Rights Reserved © 1970, 2000 by David Levy

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

620 North 48th Street,

Suite 201

Lincoln, NE 68504-3467

www.iuniverse.com

Originally published by Arbor House

ISBN: 0-595-12936-6

ISBN: 978-1-4759-1759-8 (ebook)

For my mother and father,

Lillian and Benjamin Levy,

Whom I expect to meet again

Somewhere beyond Foxcroft.

The

Gods

of

Foxcroft

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WHEN I awoke that morning to another dawn, I had a strange feeling within me, an undercurrent of nervous sensations that made the reddish dawn, for all its familiarity, curiously different from any I’d ever experienced. It was the beginning of a new day, but I had only a vague sense of time; even my surroundings, with all their familiar furnishings, seemed somehow altered. I had a sense of foreboding as though my identity had vanished. I did not know why.

As I tried to rest, I hardly moved in my old-fashioned brass bed, allowing myself only the pleasure of watching the sun rise over the rolling fields that stretched out from my window to the green hillside beyond. I felt almost powerless to move. I felt, too, something rising within me, some sort of profoundly indeterminate mixture of doubt and surprise, surprise that I was, indeed, awake. Awake, but tired, perhaps even mysteriously feeble.

How much time had passed I didn’t know, but the vague uneasiness I felt in that first instant of consciousness still enveloped me. I lay quietly watching birds—cardinals, jays, robins—as they swooped past my window. I strained to hear sounds, too, but disconcertingly, I heard nothing. It was not merely quiet; it was still, to the point of creating anxiety. I tried to relax, to find comfort in the warming glow of the sun. Its heat was reassuring. Its very presence in the blue sky was also curiously reassuring, and yet I still felt strangely anxious.

A puzzling thought occurred: I was surprised to be alive, yet had no idea why. As if to prove my own existence I slowly raised my arm and studied the palm of my left hand. There it was, as sharply defined as ever, just as I’d always remembered it—my long life-line. I wanted to close my hand into a fist. The fingers moved together, but so slowly, almost imperceptibly, I had the impression they hadn’t been used for a long time. The effort and the fantastic thought exhausted me and I let my eyes close, noting as I did the flash of sunlight dazzling across the brass rods at the footboard of my bed.

I do not know how long I slept, but I was suddenly startled by a crack of thunder that thrust me into a confusion of consciousness, half somnolent, half awake. I realized then that I’d been vaguely thinking about my own beginning, of that tumultuous time I’d once spent in the fluid abyss of the womb. I thought in lurid, Daliesque flashes about the miracle of that creative instant, the microscopic union in those dark depths; fierce, cataclysmic changes that multiplied and twisted. I wondered at the months I’d spent in that black flood, unaware of daylight, of thunder, of fear. Lightning split the sky, the clouds came apart, and my eyes opened. I shuddered and knew I was still alive.

MY room was gloomy; and outside where it had been cheerful, twilight had settled over the fields and summer thunder growled in the distance. Occasionally a stiletto shaft of lightning pierced the deepening darkness.

I wondered how long I’d been dozing and whether this was the same day or another. Then, as I settled back, the light-blue walls of my room and the gleaming mahogany of its furnishings began to emerge and to comfort me. I found that I could see my surroundings more clearly this time, and it even occurred to me that sometime during my sleep my bed had been gently raised. But how, and by whom?

My desk was to my right, a delicate Sheraton piece of dark mahogany with its red burnished, leather-tooled top protected under heavy plate glass. Above it was the one Streeter Blair painting I owned, with its striking yellow sky, its primitive gray barns and silos, its crescent moon, and its blue brook winding through a golden pasture. All the desk ornaments I had so carefully acquired over the years were in their proper places—the Steuben glass egg with the sign of Capricorn etched on its surface, the slender, rusted iron railroad spike that I had removed from an abandoned silver mine in Tonapah, Nevada, the hand-made, brilliantly uniformed lead soldier of an English eighteenth-century grenadier—the books, my Florentine blue leather case of pencils, and my oblong-shaped magnifying glass.

I pushed myself forward and lowered my legs over the side of my bed. Almost instantly I had to let myself rest, fighting off a sudden blinding dizziness. But slowly, warily, I made my way over to the desk, and as I glanced with affection at its clutter, I also thought its leather surface seemed older than I’d remembered, more worn, criss-crossed by a thousand twisting hairlines under its glowing patina. Then I examined the painting close up; it, too, had lost some of its original brilliance. The yellow Blair sky was a shade more subdued than I recalled, the same web of tiny little cracks was present, and the canvas appeared hard and dried—an appearance I’d always associated with old masterpieces.

I can’t say how, but suddenly I knew that this was not my home. Peculiarly, these were my things—the desk, the painting, the chairs, all of them—and I must have lived here for some time, but for how long I was uncertain. I knew that my home was in Iowa, which was one reason I enjoyed the view from this room. But I also had an odd sense of dislocation in place and time.

I had selected my home because I loved Iowa’s rolling green countryside. This place I was now in reminded me of those typical Grant Wood ice-cream-cone contours that seem so exaggerated to anyone but an Iowan. I loved the land and the people of Iowa. I liked its association with two of our Presidents, Grant and Hoover, and its closeness to a third, Lincoln, who rests just across its border. I was reminded of all these things here . . . except that I continued to find myself wondering—where was here?

I saw a cream-colored telephone across the room, but I knew it was too far away and getting to it was simply beyond my strangely limited energies. I also wondered whom I’d be calling, and if the phone did ring, who would ask for me? There was a preposterous touch to these first minutes of awakening, or had they, indeed, been hours, or days?

As I struggled between feelings of absurdity and alarm I still had a distinct pleasure in realizing that I was alive. I tried to convince myself that of course I knew who I was, where I was, why I was there . . . and felt a sting of fear. I fell back on my bed, somehow knowing I wasn’t ready, even competent, to answer such questions.

I’D been resting my head back against my palms, staring at the blankness of the white ceiling, wondering if I were suffering from hallucinations or possibly even amnesia. I recalled reading in a newspaper about an old man in a state asylum in Mississippi, and of my having been touched by his request that readers study his face in the newspaper photograph to help him find his identity; he didn’t want to die nameless as well as alone. Recalling the story, I started to concentrate on my own name, but afraid I might not know it I shifted to simpler goals to fill my time, such as shaving, getting out of my pajamas, dressing.

Looking across the room, I noted three doors. One was open and led to the bathroom. Another I assumed opened on a closet. But the last, on the other side of the room—where, I wondered, did that lead?

I found myself gripping the telephone, unaware I’d even moved from the bed. I pulled my hand back as though it were burnt and then found myself grasping the knob of the door leading from the room. I turned the knob and felt the door slowly giving way, but I stopped and cautiously closed it again, unaccountably terrified. Clearly I knew I wasn’t ready for the phone, or the door. Not yet.

Heading toward the bathroom, I saw my face reflected in the mirror. For how long I could not exactly say, I studied that face, its gray eyes, full lips, square jaw, brown hair neatly trimmed, one lock falling across the forehead. Lined some, rugged, too, if not handsome. Thirty-five, I estimated the age. I tried to smile; I knew that this was my face, one I’d seen thousands of times. Still, the morbid thought that I might die nameless, alone, persisted as I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

The important thing, I told myself, was to stay calm, take things slowly, keep busy with a simple routine; I was sure that all of the rest would come, and soon. I shaved myself, studying the dark circles under my eyes, the faint wrinkled lines in my forehead. Perhaps I was over forty. Forty-five?

Know thyself, the philosopher has said, but first one must have some checkpoints from which to start. I dressed myself in clothes that looked familiar—a softly striped blue suit, a regimental tie with red, blue, and yellow stripes, a blue silk handkerchief, and black shoes. As I finished dressing, I realized these familiar clothes were nonetheless strange. They were all new.

At that moment I felt drawn to the center of the room, to a mahogany coffee table with a great fish carved on its surface. As I studied it, I suddenly remembered! I remembered hauling up that particular table alongside the black hull of an ocean liner from a tossing rowboat as the liner lay at anchor off Haiti. Checkpoint. I knew I’d been to Haiti. On the table I picked up a magazine—Time—with a cover story on Adolf Hitler. Checkpoint. I knew his face, I knew his name, but I was puzzled at that particular issue, because it dated from the 1940’s. I glanced at the painting by Streeter Blair, remembering now that I’d bought it long before he was famous, long before he died.

Though I’d been on my feet for only a few minutes I felt so exhausted I fell onto the bed fully clothed, staring up again at the white ceiling. Suddenly, like a TV set turning off, the white ceiling went to black, leaving at its center only a gleaming pinpoint of light. Then it, too, vanished, plunging everything into absolute darkness. A clammy sweat broke out across my forehead and on the palms of my hands. As if in a nightmare, I felt as though I were being dragged, in spite of furious protest, back into a tomb. I sank back, back, back into the coldness of oblivion.

I woke with the peculiar notion I was lost—in familiar surroundings. I wasn’t sure whether it was day outside or only an appearance of day. Spring? I wasn’t sure, just as I wasn’t sure of any dates, any months, any year. I knew only that I had to be calm, be patient and wait. They also serve who only stand and wait. Milton. Checkpoint. I had some education.

Something had happened to me. I was wearing a black robe with a gold-silk lining. Checkpoint. I remembered buying it at Saks Fifth Avenue, New York. I’d worn it a thousand times. But it, too, seemed like new. Why? The ship off Haiti—I knew its name, the Nieuw Amsterdam. Again, I wondered how long I’d been conscious. Outside the window everything seemed beautiful, tranquil, picture-book green. No sound. Was it, I wondered, because the room was soundproof or had I lost my sense of hearing? I snapped my fingers, pleased not only that I heard them but that they moved much more easily than before.

I looked over at the phone and decided I had to pick it up. I held it closely to my ear and waited. For a few chilling moments I half suspected it was dead. No one would be on the other end and I would have to go to the far door, open it, and face whatever was on the other side. I had almost cradled the phone when I heard a soft, almost melodic voice say, Yes, Mr. Walker? I was so startled I looked at the phone as if it were alive. Would you like some lunch, Mr. Walker? the distinctively feminine voice inquired.

Why yes, yes I would, I said, still examining the telephone, delighted finally to hear another voice—and one that called me by name.

We’ll send it right up, sir, and is there anything else?

So I did have a name, one that I recognized instantly, a fact that gave me a new and stable sense of belonging. And then a first name was in my mind. Stephen. Stephen Andrew Walker. Sir, I heard the voice again, is there anything else?

As a matter of fact, there is, I began. There’s something I want to discuss about my room, about a picture on the wall, and some clothes—

After lunch? the voice broke in, pleasantly, to be sure, but also curiously firm, and then added, Thank you, Mr. Walker. We’re pleased you’re with us.

I heard the connection gently cut off, but at least I now knew I had a name. My questions would surely be answered. The important thing was to keep cool, to wait for lunch to be sent in. Maybe this was all just a mild case of amnesia.

But if so, what about the new clothes, the curious look of the desk, the old magazine? And why hadn’t I yet seen another human being?

I sat at the desk, straining to detect a sound in the corridor outside. And then I heard footsteps approaching. Out of some dim recollections I now had a sense of where I was, oppressed with thoughts I could barely suppress. Startled by a light knock on my door, I was suddenly, irrationally, determined not to open it. Somehow I didn’t want to see what was on the other side. Again, there was the soft knock. Please, I managed to get out, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want lunch. I felt faint and then, in the last moments of consciousness, I saw the door slowly open. Standing before me was a familiar face!

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FOXCROFT. I was at Foxcroft Hall, or at least I thought so. And I had to be alive. Unless everything around me was dead or a dream. No, that was impossible. I’d heard footsteps. I’d talked on the phone. Dead men don’t talk. And I wasn’t dreaming.

But what had happened to me? When? How long ago? Memories flooded back. I remembered the doctor telling me I had a choice—certain death or Foxcroft Hall. Foxcroft was new; the forerunner of the future, some called it—a place to go to find peace. Possible oblivion. Possible future. One couldn’t be sure.

Its patronage was limited, carefully supervised, with numerous checks and balances, a place where one could choose to die, instantaneously, easily, pleasantly. Or to postpone death. Possibly cheat it. For a time. Perhaps a long time. Perhaps eternally, however long eternity is. One could make the choice—or let Foxcroft choose.

I recalled my arrival at the airport in Washington and the long drive into the country, some forty miles, the black limousine and the close-mouthed, enigmatic chauffeur. I was to learn that the employees of Foxcroft were as carefully selected as those of the CIA or the FBI.

To be admitted to Foxcroft was not an easy matter, and was accomplished only after a systematic, comprehensive investigation. No one could enter without one’s family or doctor knowing about it. I had no family. I’d applied for admission with my doctor’s knowledge and approval. Without looking it, I was a terminal case. No medical knowledge in my time could save me, my doctor had told me.

I knew I would die—unless Foxcroft made a difference.

I remembered my first sight of Foxcroft Hall. It sat off the road, from the exterior an imposing English manor house visible only after one had driven a mile or so past the formidable iron gate through which we’d entered the grounds. I’d expected to see guards and nurses about the place, perhaps some poor souls in wheel chairs spinning out their last dreams amidst the gardens and sweeping lawns. But no one was in sight there, or in front of the cobbled courtyard or the great baronial oaken door of the house. Later, I was to learn that new arrivals were brought to Foxcroft on a carefully timed schedule so as to avoid chance meetings.

I was at once depressed and yet curious as the great door automatically swung open. I entered. I’d had time to adjust to the fact that there was no real choice for me—except for the final choice. I could choose to die today. I could let Foxcroft choose the day. I could also let Foxcroft decide to postpone my death, and perhaps thereby eventually cure me, if Foxcroft wished to do so.

There was no one in the expansive foyer as I entered and looked around; I had expected to see a hall of wainscotting, of heavy stately oaken furnishings, but I found myself in a comfortable chamber, even elegant, reminding me of the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel with its gracious dimensions, its bright and cheerful colors, predominantly green, a color that seemed to me to identify with life. As I made my way to a lighted stone fireplace to study a charming Watteau landscape that hung above the mantel, I became aware of an unusual fragrance—so feminine and pervasive that it automatically lifted me out of my somber mood. I turned to find an enchanting face, soft blue eyes, hair shoulder length with the subtle reddish hue of a Renoir brush stroke, dimples that creased into a hesitant but friendly smile.

I beg your pardon, she said. I should have been waiting outside to greet you. I’m Julie Hamilton and I’m on the staff.

I couldn’t resist looking her up and down. Is there anything wrong? She straightened her blue-and-white uniform and brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead.

Hardly. It’s just that I was expecting to meet someone more on the, well, funereal side. Someone in black. Male.

Oh, we’re full of surprises, she said.

I can see that. Next I’ll discover this isn’t Foxcroft at all. We’ll be having cocktails, followed by dancing.

She took me by the arm. No sooner said than done, sir. Now if you’ll just come with me.

What about my bags?

Don’t worry about a thing, she said, pulling me along a wide, red-carpeted hallway lighted at frequent intervals with small, charming brass carriage lamps.

I stopped at the door we’d just come to. I know, I said, client arrives, is disarmed of black thoughts by beautiful diversion named—what is your name again?

Julie Hamilton.

Which is probably a stage name—

Directly descended from Alexander Hamilton. By several stages, if you like.

Of course, I went on, client given sense of historical association, expresses gratitude to our Founding Fathers for their unplanned parenthood, is ushered through a white door and on the other side gets a clout followed by immediate injection. Out. Out forever.

The girl smiled and put her hand on the doorknob. Shall I lead the way?

Why not? Sorry our meeting was so brief—and so full of possibilities, too, provided one isn’t a Foxcroft client.

We’ll see, she said with a fleeting, engimatic smile as she moved by me to open the door. To my surprise we were actually in a quiet, well-appointed cocktail lounge furnished in red, gold, and black. A few people were at the bar, others were grouped at small tables, and a few couples danced to the music of Richard Rodgers.

Okay, I said as I led Julie to the floor, we start to dance, gaze into each other’s eyes and suddenly from up there—I pointed to an elaborate wrought-iron chandelier—invisible gas seeps out and the charade is over.

Even for me? she said, pulling back and looking at me closely.

You’ve probably been immunized.

Of course, she said, placing her cheek against my shoulder. I promise to keep you from hitting the floor too hard.

For the next forty-eight hours I was in Julie’s custody. She’d been assigned to keep me preoccupied until the director in charge of my case at Foxcroft was ready to meet with me. But I also suspected the delay was simply a maneuver to make my stay at Foxcroft as painless as possible and that Julie’s real purpose was to help me prepare myself for whatever Foxcroft had programmed.

I discovered at lunch on that very first day that she knew a great deal about my past; she knew that I was an artist by profession, that I had studied at the Academy in Philadelphia. She seemed quite intrigued by the fact that I had never been married. With all those models, I don’t see how you escaped, she said, a mischievous look in her eyes. Would you paint me? she suddenly asked.

Of course, I said, "if there’s time."

She ignored my afterthought and led me to a small artist’s studio that Foxcroft had already provided for me. The management was certainly efficient. A canvas and paints and palette were in place. As she stepped up on the raised platform and sat before me on a little wicker chair, I pointed a brush toward the green landscape visible from the room’s only window and said, In spite of what you may think, I’m really more at home with landscapes.

Then how come you’ve painted more portraits of attractive females? she promptly asked.

Only because of demand.

You’re like that French artist I like—Dyf, is that his name? I mean—so much variety in your work.

I was pleased to note her familiarity with a contemporary artist I greatly admired. Seascapes, landscapes, portraits, still lifes, she went on. You’re both so versatile. I’m really very flattered that you’d do me.

I studied the soft contours of her face and throat as I prepared to make the first stroke. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really think I’d want to work under the circumstances.

Why not? she answered, challengingly.

Why not, I thought. Other men in pain and knowing that death was with them had stayed at their work. I tried to turn the conversation away from myself to find out something about her background, but all she would tell me was that she was from Connecticut, and had once been an airline stewardess. Foxcroft policy, she said, discouraged confidences. Even so, I felt deeply and immediately attracted to this lovely girl. As I went on with the sketch, I was diverted by her enthusiasm that had her going back and forth from her chair to the easel to study the progress of the painting. I had to insist she hold her position.

From time to time I caught a new, preoccupied look in her eyes, suggesting some private inner tension. You all right? I asked.

My voice seemed to startle her. Of course. I’m sorry. I was daydreaming. She smiled and took up her pose again. How’s that?

Perfect. I only hope I have enough time to finish this. I’d like to leave you something.

You mustn’t think about it. Besides, the doctors might surprise you. They try to make you well before—but we don’t talk about that. We attendants, I mean. The director will discuss everything.

What were you daydreaming about?

Secret, she said with a bright smile.

I couldn’t help dreaming myself those first nights I spent at Foxcroft. I’d met perhaps more than my share of beautiful women but somehow this winsome, lively girl had given me, ironically, a new sense of life—of the pleasures of life that would soon be taken from me. I tried to push her out of my thoughts; it was ridiculous to think of Julie as anything except an employee trained to ease me on my way. Still, I wondered if she’d felt some special attraction, too.

The next morning