One Thousand Years by Randolph Beck Page A

surface,
my memory will also be cleared, and given only the information I need
to carry out my mission.”
    “And
this doesn't bother you?” McHenry asked, incredulously.
    “Oh,
Sam!” Dale laughed. “He's a machine.”
    “But
he is...” McHenry searched for the word, wondering what it
was that separated himself from this machine. Dale kept grinning,
seeming to enjoy teasing him. The robot stood at ease with himself,
watching McHenry as though studying him.
    And
then it hit him. They were studying each other. This machine was
aware of itself — aware of himself .
It wasn't a machine at all in McHenry's mind, and yet it wasn't
upset that it might have its memory cleared. “He is aware ,”
McHenry finally said to Dale, and then turned to the robot. “You know what's going on. They shouldn't be able to just erase your memory
like you're some kind of a radio.”
    “He's
still a machine,” said Dale.
    The
robot stood there, now grinning like Dale, but it didn't say
anything. McHenry couldn't think of it as a machine. He wondered
what it was thinking.
    “There's
no use in arguing with you people,” he conceded. Neither Dale
nor the robot said anything for the moment. He had no hope of
knowing what the robot was thinking, but Dale's smirk led him to
assume she was relishing this victory. She looked every bit the
victor, towering over him with her imposing physique, and flashing
her perfect white teeth. The word arrogance crossed his mind and it stuck. He had thought this about her before,
and about many of these people, particularly Mtubo the SS, but the word fit
her in this moment in time.
    He
finally understood. These people hadn't merely advanced their
physical bodies. Their brains must have been advanced as well,
presumably by Nazi science. And then there was the all-too-easily
forgotten fact that she was old enough to be a great-great
grandmother. There was no telling how much smarter they were. Her
arrogance may have been justified—
    No,
he was wrong. It wasn't arrogance at all.
It was confidence .
The word fit all of them like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle.
He never had a chance to overpower them, and he now knew that
outsmarting them was out of the question. That realization was like
a stake into his heart.
    “Don't
feel bad,” said Dale, her grin fading into an expression of
concern. “You're learning.”
    “Not
fast enough,” he replied.
    “You
have all the time in the world.”
    He
wanted to contradict her. He did not have all the time in the world.
He had a war to fight.
    “Let's
have lunch,” she said. “That's one thing I'm sure you'll
enjoy.”
    *

Chapter 11
SCHOOLS TO FINANCE P-51 MUSTANG

In February, boys and
girls of the schools of Washington County financed the purchase of a
Flying Ambulance, buying $182,000 worth of War Bonds and Stamps. The
goal was $110,000. Bond and stamp sales in March totaled $75,000.
This month, April, the schools of the county are being asked to
finance a P-51 Mustang Fighter, which has the “highest ceiling
and the highest speed of any fighter in existence.”
These fighters cost $75,000 each.

— The Washington Reporter, (April 10, 1944)
    The SS officers' mess was not at all like the Luftwaffe pilots' mess.
The food could be the same, but they sat in an alcove rather than a large
open room. McHenry sat across from Dale at the small table that could
seat six at most.
    He
was also surprised that he could ask for any food he wanted. “Why
do the Luftwaffe pilots all eat the same thing?” he asked.
    “Tradition,”
Dale explained. “It goes back to the early days of space
flight when everyone ate together. It's like a social exercise to
them. It probably helps to pass the time when they're in transit.
But we're on a different schedule. And we don't have the same
traditions. Now, what would you like?”
    “What
are my options?”
    “The
rechner can serve anything you want.”
    “Steak,”
he answered. “With potatoes, greens, gravy and a