But residents of Tellus Tertius familiar with Japanese language and culture of the twentieth century Gregorian were between zero and non-existent. There were two residents of Chinese ancestry, Dong Xia and Marcy Choy-Mu, who were physically similar to Japanese norms but neither knew any Japanese or anything of Japanese culture.
I could not possibly pass for Japanese - red-haired Japanese are as common as for on fish - but I could speak and write Japanese, not like a native but like a foreigner who has studied it. So a reasonable decision was made: I would go as a tourist - an exceptional tourist, one who had taken the trouble to learn something of the Language, culture, and history of Nippon before going there.
A tourist who bothers to study these aspects of a country before visiting it will always be welcome, if he is polite by their rules of politeness, It is easy to say, glibly, that every tourist ought to do this, but in fact this is difficult, expensive in time and money. I have a knack for languages and enjoy studying them. So, by the age of seventy, I knew five modern languages including my own.
That left over a thousand languages I did not know and around three billion people with whom I had no common language. The task is too big - a labour of Tantalus.
But I was well equipped to be an inoffensive tourist in Japan for the decade preceding the great war of 1941-45. So I went, and was put down in Macao, a place where bribery is the norm and money will accomplish almost anything. I was armed with lavish amounts of money and three very sincere passports; one said that I was Canadian, another that I was American, and the third that I was British.
I went by ferry to Hong Kong, a place much more nearly honest but where nevertheless money is highly respected. By then I had learned that neither British nor Americans were well thought of in the Far East at that time but that Canadians had not yet inspired any special dislike, so I started using the passport that showed that I was born in British Columbia and lived in Vancouver. A Dutch ship, the MV Ruys, took me from Hong Kong to Yokohama.
I spent a lovely year, 1937-38, tramping around Japan, sleeping in native inns, feeding the tiny deer at Nara, being breathless at the sight of Fuji-San at dawn, cruising the Inland Sea in a dinky little steamer, relishing the beauties of one of the most beautiful countries and cultures in all histories - all the while gathering data that I recorded in an implanted, voice-operated recorder much like the one I am now using.
I was also wearing, internally, a finder such as I am wearing now, and the fact that I haven't been found indicates to me that Time Corps HQ does not know what planet I am on, as the equipment is supposed to be delicate enough to track down an agent who has missed a rendezvous no matter where he is, as long as he is on the planet of drop.
That's the bad news. Here is the good news. During that year in Japan I heard several times of another redheaded English (American Canadian) woman who was touring the Empire, studying Japanese gardens. She speaks Japanese and is said to look like me... although the latter means little; we round-eyes all look alike to them, except that red hair would always be noticed, and speaking Japanese is decidedly noticed.
Have I been (will I be) sent back on another visit to pre-war Japan? Am I time-looped on myself? The paradox does not bother me; Time agents are used to loops - I'm already looped for the gear 1937-38. I spent that year in Kansas City for the first time, except for two weeks in July following the birth of Priscilla and after Brian's bar exams; we celebrated both events with a trip to the Utah Canyons - Bryce, Cedar Breaks, North Rim.
If I am also looped on myself (tripled) in Japan in the year 1937-38, then the tripling will happen on my personal time line after my present now... which means that Pixel will carry the message and I will be rescued. There are no paradoxes in time; all apparent paradoxes can be untangled.
But it is a thin thread on which to hang my hope.
Tuesday, 5 August 1952, time line two, started as a sad day for Maureen... utterly alone for the first time in my life, alone with the tedious chore of cleaning out and closing up our old farmhouse and getting rid of it. But a glad day in one way. My married life had ended when Brian divorced me; my widowhood ended when Susan got married; this chore marked the start of my bachelorhood.
The difference between widowhood and bachelorhood? Please look at it historically. When I married, at the end of the nineteenth century, women were unmistakably second class citizens and everyone took it for granted. In most states a woman could not vote, or sign contracts, or own real estate, or sit on juries, or do any number of other mundane acts without the consent of some man - her father, her husband, or her eldest son. Most professions, trades, and occupations were closed to her. A woman lawyer, a woman doctor, a woman engineer aroused the same surprise as a waltzing bear.
‘The wonder is not how well the bear waitzes but that it waltzes at all.' That is from Dr Samuel Johnson, I believe - a man who regarded women as no better than third-class citizens, lower than Scotsmen or Americans - two groups quite low in his esteem.
All through the twentieth century the legal status of women slowly improved. By 1982 almost all the laws discriminating against women had been repealed.
More subtle but at least as important and beyond repeal was the cultural bias against women. An example:
In the summer of 1940 when we were living on Woodlawn Avenue in Chicago, we were especially loaded with house guests during the mo weeks bridging the Democratic National Convention. One Howard trustee, Rufus Briggs, said to me one morning at breakfast, I left my laundry on that balcony couch where I slept. I need twenty-four-hour service on it and tell them to soft starch the collars - no other starch.'
I said briskly, ‘Tell them yourself' I was not feeling overly sweet-tempered, as I had been up late the night before, arranging shake-downs for late arrivals, such as Briggs himself - he was, one of the cheerful idiots who had arrived in Chicago oblivious to the fact that for this period all hotel space as far away as Gary, Indiana, had been booked solid months earlier. Then I dragged myself out of bed early and ate in the kitchen in order to cook and serve breakfast to a dozen other people.
Briggs looked at me as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Aren't you the housekeeper?'
‘I'm the housekeeper. But I'm not your servant.'
Briggs blinked his eyes, then turned to Brian. ‘Mr Smith?'
Brian said quietly, ‘You have made a mistake, Mr Briggs. This lady is my wife. You met her last night but the lights were dimmed and we were whispering because others were asleep. So apparently you did not recognise her this morning. But I am sure Mrs Smith would be happy to send your laundry out for you as a favour to a guest.'
I said, ‘No, I would not'
It was Briney's turn to look startled. ‘Maureen?'
‘I won't send out his laundry and I will not cook his breakfast tomorrow morning. His only comment this morning was to complain about his eggs; he did not even say thank you when I put his breakfast in front of him. So he can go out for breakfast tomorrow. I imagine he'll find something open on 63rd Street. But I have this announcement for all of you,' I added, looking around. ‘We have no servants here. I am just as anxious to get to Convention Hall on time as you are. Yesterday I was late because I was making beds and doing dishes. Only one of you made your own bed - thanks, Merle! I'm not going to make beds today; if you don't make your own bed, you will find it still unmade when you get back. Right now I want volunteers to clear the table and do the dishes... and if I don't get them, I am not going to cook breakfast for anyone tomorrow.'