VITA LONGA

by Carl Frederick

Plus ca change….

As she meandered through the Contemporary American Artists Gallery of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gale stopped to stare at a wall—where a painting could have been hung, but wasn’t. Dreamily, she fantasized stepping out of a stasis booth some hundred years from now and seeing one of her works on that unadorned expanse of wall:

Warm Earth

Gale Edgewater

(United States, mid 21st century)

She took solace in dreaming of the future. She gave a tight-lipped smile. There is no way my work would ever be accepted in today’s art world.

Checking her watch, she stalked out of the hall and headed to the Greek and Roman galleries, the venue that Malcolm preferred. She still had a quarter of an hour to kill before meeting him at the exhibit.

The Rubens exhibit. The price of admission was as much as a Broadway play, well outside the means of an impoverished art student. I have got to stop thinking this way. Even though her thin body was the result of that time of hunger, she wasn’t a starving art student anymore.

Thanks to Malcolm, her anorexic look had brought her stardom—a far cry from her art student days when she modeled nude for life classes at the league. Will model for food! And now she had real money. Not Malcolm’s definition of money, of course; he was of the filthy variety of rich.

They’d met when he was taking a life drawing class and she was modeling for it. Afterward, he’d used his family contacts to inject her into the world of high-fashion modeling, where she’d been remolded into “the Body”: the current “big thing.” Gale smiled. Malcolm considered that he personally had done the remolding. He called her “my Galatea,” after the statue brought to life in the Pygmalion myth. She sighed. She owed Malcolm a great deal. It was too bad she didn’t love him.

Gale drifted toward the Roman statuary entrance.

“Good evening, my Galatea,” came a cheerful voice from the side.

Gale spun around. “Malcolm. I was just on the way to meet you at the ticket kiosk.”

Malcolm extended an arm expansively to take in the gallery. “Then let’s leave this toga-clad era for our little excursion to seventeenth-century Holland.” He withdrew two exhibition admission tickets from his shirt pocket and handed her one. “I’ve already booked our passage.”

Gale chuckled. “Sorry to pull you away from Rome.”

“Only temporarily, my Galatea.”

Gale nodded. Malcolm was a Classics scholar—because he could afford to be. “This really is your time,” she said.

“I yearn for it as much as you crave your hundred-year leap to the future.” He guided her toward the patron entrance; he had bought the expensive tickets, thus avoiding the line. “But you have it better. In theory, you could go to your future via a stasis booth.” They passed into the exhibit hall and stopped in front of a large canvas. “But my longing for the past can only be fulfilled vicariously.”

“‘The Union of Earth and Water,’“ Gale read from the plaque aside the painting. “On loan from the Hermitage.”

“Sort of chubby, isn’t she?” said Malcolm, gazing at the nude with the bit of cloth casually draped over a sensitive section of her anatomy. “Rubenesque, not surprisingly.”

“But beautiful,” said Gale. “Timeless. Ars longa, vita brevis.”

Malcolm raised his eyebrows.

“Art is long, life is short,” said Gale.

“That’s the popular meaning, certainly. But it comes from Hippocrates—”

“The father of medicine?”

Malcolm nodded. He seemed uncharacteristically serious. “The full quote is ‘Ars longa, vita brevis, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.’ “

“That’s not particularly illuminating.”

“It means, essentially, life is short, the art of medicine takes more than a lifetime to learn, opportunity for treatment is fleeting, and judgment about treatment is difficult.” Malcolm let out a breath. “And well do I know it.”

“Something is on your mind,” said Gale. “You don’t seem your cheerful self.”

“Why don’t we go to the coffee shop?” he said. “I have something I need to talk about.”

Gale agreed, but with diffidence; she hoped he wasn’t about to propose marriage again.

At a small, out-of-the-way table in the Petrie Court Café, Gale and Malcolm sat nursing cups of coffee, his with milk and sugar, hers black; having “the Body” took work. She smelled the siren-scent from a nearby table. God, I’d almost kill for one of those pastries.

“I am ill,” said Malcolm abruptly. “An annoying disease.”

Gale moved her attention from her nose to her eyes. Malcolm appeared nonchalant, but his mouth showed thin, stretched lips, an impression of distaste as if talking about one’s health were a breach of etiquette. “Not serious, I hope.”

“Terminal, I’m afraid.”

Gale felt her eyes widen. She sucked in a breath. “I—”

“Hopefully…” Malcolm interrupted, making calming motions. “Hopefully, my death will only be temporary.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pancreatic cancer.” Malcolm spoke calmly, as if discussing a wine vintage. “Aggressive form. Metastasized. No available treatment at this stage.”

“That’s horrible,” said Gale at a whisper.

“The only horrible thing is that I must lose you.”

Gale opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Oh, it’s not hyperbolic gallantry,” said Malcolm. “My family has some, well, resources. So I’ve managed to get myself cleared for a stasis booth without the usual wait. I’ll be in there until a cure is found.” He looked down at his cup. “And I’m sure there will be a cure before not too long.” His statement seemed addressed as much to himself as to Gale. His gaze shot up to her eyes. “I won’t ask you to come with me and leave everything you know.” He moved his hand to cover her wrist on the table. “I’ve told you often enough that I love you, but I know you don’t love me. So—”

“No, I…” said Gale, flustered. “It’s that … But go with you? Well, I mean … I thought only patients could go into stasis.”

“Amazing sometimes, what one can do with money.”

“Well, it’s hard to—”

“Not another word about it.” Malcolm patted her wrist gently, as if a caress. “It’s just my fantasy. Pure fantasy; I would never allow you to risk the one-in-a-thousand chance of dying from the procedure.”

“I didn’t know,” said Gale at a whisper, “that you could die from stasis.”

“Pretty damned good odds you won’t … I won’t.” He flashed a quick and clearly forced smile. “So let’s just enjoy the time we have together. And who knows? My disease might be curable in just a month and we could just continue as we are.”

“Are there no treatment options?”

“None.” Malcolm gripped her wrist more firmly. “I ask you … no, I demand that you not think of me as ill.” He released her wrist and sat back in his chair. “It’s funny. I feel somehow guilty about coming down with a disease.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Again, he smiled at her. “More coffee?”

Gale shook her head. “When do you go into stasis?”

“Soon—to give future doctors the best shot at curing me.”

“When, exactly?”

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon?” The immediacy of losing Malcolm struck home.

“I hate drawn-out good-byes.” He turned and gazed at her, tenderness apparent in his eyes. “Will you come and see me off? Two in the afternoon, Cornell Medical Center, Temporal Technology Wing.” He looked down at his hands. “I need you.”

In the hospital waiting room, next day, Gale waited to be admitted to the stasis hall. There were several other patients scheduled before Malcolm. Each patient had a quarter of an hour for saying good-byes.

More to kill time than out of any real interest, she read a brochure about the technique. In a stasis booth, the brochure informed her, time effectively stops. It worked by the quantum mechanical phenomenon called Zitterbewegung—flitter motion: the effect where charged particles constantly zigzag back and forth at the speed of light. Gale let her eyes glaze over; she was no scientist. Instead of reading more, she thought of all the great times she and Malcolm had experienced together. This time, instead of glazing, her eyes teared over.

“You may go in and visit now.”

Gale, startled by the voice, looked up and saw a nurse staring at her. She recognized the look; the nurse had recognized her as “the Body” and was trying hard to pretend she hadn’t. The nurse gave a professional smile masking any sign of admiration or envy. “This way, please.”

Gale thanked the woman and followed her to a long, narrow ward. Many little glass-doored booths were arrayed along a wall. Alongside each stood a locker such as one might find in a school or a health club: tall and thin and secured with a combination lock. A few rolling office chairs broke the stark symmetry of the ward.

Looking down the hall, Gale saw a figure wearing a hospital gown and slippers sitting on one of the chairs. In back of him, Gale saw a booth, the only booth with its door open. Inside was just a very minimal seat—a thin slat mounted to the sides of the booth.

As the nurse and Gale approached, the man swiveled in the chair, stood, then with a smile, bowed.

“Hello, Malcolm,” said Gale with genuine warmth.

“Hello, my Galatea.”

“You have about ten minutes,” said the nurse, “before Dr. Ernst comes to begin the procedure.” She gave a mechanical smile and clattered back down the hall.

Gale and Malcolm looked at each other awkwardly for a moment before Malcolm said, “Stopping time. An interesting effect, actually.”

“Flitter motion,” said Gale flatly.

“Oh, you know?”

“Just the word.”

“Ah.” Malcolm kicked off his slippers and took off his gown, leaving him wearing only white gym shorts. He stepped into the booth and sat. “They give my body an electrical charge, force it into a single quantum state, whatever that means, and force the Zitterbewegung. My body oscillates rapidly at the speed of light. And for objects traveling at the speed of light, time stops. Simple, isn’t it?”

Gale looked at him; in those shorts, he looked virile and the picture of life—as if he were ready to run in the Olympics. “I’d expected to see you strapped to an operating table and covered in wires and sensors.”

“Fortunately not,” said Malcolm. He stroked his classic, rippled abs. “I’d hate to think of my body disfigured by sensors and wires.” He chuckled. “Galatea. Funny, the name rather applies to me; I am to be the statue brought to life—I hope.”

“I’m sure you will be.”

Malcolm gazed at her. “I love you, you know.”

“I’m beginning to think that maybe I love you too.”

“Ah,” said Malcolm, softly, “if only….”

After some minutes of what-ifs, Gale heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Quickly,” said Malcolm. “A kiss. A kiss before … before I sleep.”

Gale complied and Malcolm prolonged the embrace until the doctor arrived.

Dr. Ernst was all pleasantness and charm. Gale found it comforting that Dr. Ernst didn’t seem to recognize her.

“This will just take a moment,” said the doctor to Malcolm. “Just a moment in your time, that is.” He inserted a key-card into a slot and a control panel slid open. “Assume a position you’d be happy having the world see for a while.” He began to close the door. “Bon voyage!”

Malcolm struck a noble pose and with that, Dr. Ernst snapped closed the transparent door and flipped a switch.

Gale heard an electrical hum and saw Malcolm’s features slow and go rigid. He looked like the statue of a Greek god, especially so under the alabaster white of the overhead fluorescent lights.

“Is he safe in there?” said Gale, feeling the need to say something.

“Safe?” Dr. Ernst pulled out his key card and the panel slid closed.

“Well, he might be there for years.”

Dr. Ernst sighed. “For many years, perhaps. I’m familiar with his disease.” He brightened. “But the risk from the procedure is all in the going into stasis, not coming out. He’s quite … safe, as you put it. The ward has a five-week battery backup so there won’t be any accidental cycling.” He gave a good-natured chuckle. “We will decant no patient before his time.”

“I will miss him.”

Dr. Ernst gave an avuncular smile. “You can, of course, come and see him during weekly visiting hours.” She looked at him quizzically. “Think of it as visiting a work of art—his form in sculpture.”

Gale left the hospital with mixed feelings and mixed-up emotions. Although she felt guilty about it, she resented and even envied Malcolm traveling to the future. He had no business there. The future was hers. His time was Imperial Rome.

Walking to the corner to hail a cab, she felt adrift and also depressed. On impulse, she darted into a drugstore along the way for her standard over-the-counter drug for depression, a chocolate bar. Outside the store, she broke off and ate a square of the dark lusciousness. For the sake of her career, she’d normally eat one square and throw away the rest. But this time, one square didn’t help. She devoured the entire bar. It still didn’t help.

During the following week, Gale made a dilatory attempt to rekindle an old relationship—and did. But it gave her little satisfaction. She felt empty—convinced that this time, this era, held nothing for her. She found herself wishing she’d gone into stasis with Malcolm.

Over the next few days the wish grew stronger, transforming from a mere desire to a course of action. She would herself go into stasis. She would not leave the future to Malcolm.

On the morning of her first visiting day, she penned a note to Malcolm and, en route to the hospital, had it notarized.

The ward reminded Gale of the active statuary storage hall at the Met, the not-open-to-the-public facility where conservators and art students could study works not currently on exhibit. Small clusters of downcast people stood in front of stasis booths peering in at the time-frozen patients.

Gale went to Malcolm’s booth and gazed in at him. He was certainly one of the more impressive items in the row of statuary. She felt comforted by being near to him. I wonder if I could get the curator—she smiled at herself—Curator! What am I thinking? Could I get the doctor to bring him back to life for a few minutes? Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. No way they’d do that—not with a one-in-a-thousand chance of death when returning to stasis.

She took the note from her purse, scanned the ward from the corners of her eyes, then casually sidled up to Malcolm’s locker. Quickly, she pushed the note under the door and into the locker, then left the ward and the hospital.

Filled with a clear purpose and a sense of urgency, she trod quickly out into the sunlight. She needed to arrange stasis for herself, and to do so quickly; every day she delayed, she’d age a day and Malcolm wouldn’t. She did not want to arrive at Malcolm’s future older than he.

She thought of her note, reassuring herself that she’d made herself clear. She’d accepted his offer of marriage. All he had to do, after his cure, was locate her stasis facility, show her note to the authorities, and have the doctors bring her back to life. Easy!

Gale hung up the phone in shock—in sticker-shock.

She had hunted down a number of private stasis companies and found that what they provided was mainly a time-killing service for the privileged—those who were willing to accept the risk in exchange for being younger than their contemporaries. The time intervals were usually in the range from weeks to a few months, and it was expensive. One of the companies did provide long-term stasis, but at a cost of fifty thousand dollars per year. And she’d have to pay up front. She wanted an assured century, but there was no way she could come up with five million dollars.

Gale wondered how she might contract some incurable and fatal disease. She had a good health plan that provided stasis-until-cure. But, as she soon discovered, acquiring such a disease seemed no easier than curing it. No. I need an idea, a real idea.

Seeking a place to think on her feet, Gale returned to the museum. She used her re-entry ticket and, strolling among the Rubens paintings, pondered her situation.

She was sure her modeling fees would eventually provide the five million dollars she required. But in stasis, she couldn’t earn anything. Her body was her only marketable asset, and she was taking that with her.

Meandering through the nudes, Gale couldn’t help comparing Rubens’ voluptuous figures to her own. I have a fabulous body—I know that. She visualized Malcolm in his stasis booth—regal and looking like a god, and got an idea. Maybe I can make money while in stasis.

On impulse, she left the exhibit and strode to the museum director’s office. Invoking the name of Malcolm’s parents, big contributors to the Met, she finagled a meeting and explained her idea.

“Are you serious?” said the director, incredulity in his voice. “You propose leasing yourself to the museum as artwork?”

“A statue.” With seeming nonchalance, she moved forward in her chair and arched her back slightly to better emphasize her “assets.” “In stasis. Posed tastefully in the nude with a piece of cloth covering what needs to be covered. I wouldn’t want to be X-rated.” She smiled, consciously emulating the Mona Lisa. “The Met could surely do very well on exhibit fees.”

The director eyed her analytically; clearly, he’d recognized her. He chuckled. “An intriguing proposition, I must say.” His eyes narrowed. “And just what would you get out of this?”

“Nothing,” she said, innocently. “All I ask is that the museum cover the cost of stasis.”

“Hmm.”

“I really would like the Met to be the first,” she went on. “I’d much prefer being exhibited in New York than in, say, Paris.

“The Louvre is considering this?” The director seemed worried.

She gave a noncommittal shrug.

“You know,” said the director, “that for this to work, you can’t be a statue for just a day or two as a … as a publicity stunt. I imagine you’ll have to remain in stasis for some time—a month or two at least.”

“That won’t be a problem.” Gale smiled.

The director gently slapped the top of his desk. “I’ve got to admit it is a genuinely intriguing idea. I’ll take it up with the museum board.”

“I’m not sure,” said Gale in a conspiratorial voice, “how long I can wait before entertaining competing offers.”

“The board meets in a week.”

“One hundred years!” The director bolted to his feet. “That’s insane. You’d be … you’d be essentially part of our permanent collection.”

“A valuable acquisition, I assure you.” Gale had gotten the board’s approval, and now she’d have to struggle to keep it. “Look, it’s a good deal for the Met. I’ll be the owner of the sculpture of course, but I’ll be on long-term lease to the museum. You could exhibit me any way you want, within good taste, of course. If you want, you could even lend me out to other institutions.”

“But a hundred years,” the director sputtered. “That’s … that’s a century!” He sat, heavily.

Gale decided to tell all. And as she did, she detected sympathy on the part of the director. Inwardly, she smiled. He was clearly a romantic. And now to close the deal—I hope.

“It’s very likely,” she concluded, “that the Met will be repaid the stasis fees.”

The director raised his eyebrows.

“The contract should contain the provision that Malcolm will have the right to buy out my contract by paying what the Met has paid in stasis fees. I can’t guarantee it, of course, but I imagine that at the current rate of medical progress, Malcolm’s cure should come within five years or so.”

“And then,” said the director, “your prince Malcolm will revive you with a kiss and the two of you will live happily ever after.”

“More or less, yes.”

The director steepled his hands on his desk. After a few moments of silence, he nodded. “Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Why not? I’ll have our lawyer write up the contract.”

“Perfect!” Gale loved the idea of a round hundred years. Either Malcolm would rescue her or everyone tiresome that she knew would be gone, and she’d see the future she’d dreamed of. “Oh, one more thing,” she said in a sudden burst of inspiration. “In my stasis booth, I’d like to hang my painting, Warm Earth.”

“Oh, so that’s it.” The director laughed. “You want temporary immortality for your work.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “You are the exhibit, not your painting.”

She put on a wounded look. “Please.”

The director sighed. “No … But as a compromise I’ll allow you to hang a, say, eight-by-ten-inch print of your painting in the booth with you—inconspicuously.”

“How about a twelve by fourteen?

“Nine by eleven,” said the director. “Final offer.”

Concerned that if she pushed the issue, the whole arrangement might fall through, Gale extended her hand. “Wonderful! Bring on that contract.”

Gale had two weeks to tidy up her affairs. She’d have preferred less, tormented as she was by the notion that Malcolm was hurtling into the future without her. In a frenzy of activity, Gale found a stolid brokerage house, the one Malcolm used, as it turned out, and put all her money in long-term investments. She had a high-quality print made from Warm Earth, and as the time grew near, gave away all her possessions to friends—all possessions except her paintings. Those, she would somehow take with her into the future. But how?

She got the idea of a “time capsule” and found a company that specialized in them. She bought one: a seven-inch-diameter tube some two feet long, with a cover that provided a hermetic seal. She thought about having the company hold the capsule for her, but didn’t trust them; she didn’t trust anyone with her paintings.

She removed her canvases from their frames, rolled them up and slid them into the tube. The question was where to bury the capsule. It had to be a place safe from development for a full century. She chose a location in Central Park close to the Met’s Temple of Dendur. For the actual entombment of the capsule she cajoled some friends to do the digging, those who didn’t think her paintings had any worth—just about all of her friends, as it turned out. They’ll see! A twinge of sadness came over her. No, maybe they won’t. If Malcolm’s cure doesn’t happen relatively soon, they’ll all be dead.

Finally, her day for stasis arrived. Carrying only a small valise to hold her clothing while she “slept,” she approached the imposing stone staircase leading into the museum. She felt anticipation and a sense of lightness. She was about to enter a new world and leave all her obligations behind.

The Grand Exhibit Hall had been closed to the public in preparation for “an exciting new exhibition.” In the center of the hall, she saw the stasis booth, its transparent front obscured by a red curtain with a gold pull-cord. A few men in white lab coats chatted with a virtual horde of reporters while the flashes from still cameras gave the impression of an indoor lightning storm.

As Gale walked in, those reporters and cameramen rushed to her. This time, everyone recognized her. It was very gratifying.

After a paroxysm of interviews, the director and one of the men in white led her behind the screen. The director, holding a swatch of fine red silk, opened the transparent door to the booth for her.

Gale felt both joy and dread; she’d left the outside world behind her and her future, her immediate future, held a one-in-a-thousand chance of death. Practicing the enigmatic smile she’d chosen for her pose, she opened the valise. It was empty save for her Warm Earth print and some double-sided sticky tape to mount it—a flimsy mount, but then it wouldn’t have to hold long, not by her measure of time.

The director handed her the silk cloth and, while the two men discreetly averted their eyes, Gale stepped into the booth. She hung her print—high, making sure it would be fully visible over her shoulder. Then she disrobed and struck a pose—Rubenesque but with a very un-Rubenesque figure striking it. Unlike the situation with magazines or billboards where her image was the body of the moment, now it had to be the body of the century. How wonderful it felt to be great art—and a great artist as well; for wasn’t she responsible for her figure and her pose?

She draped the cloth casually yet carefully over her thigh, then announced she was ready.

“Very nice,” said the director, examining her critically. “But relax your spine a little, and drop your hand to the cloth, as if the silk were an afterthought.”

Gale complied.

“Excellent,” said the director. “Beautiful.”

The man in white closed the door while the director took up Gale’s valise and placed it behind the booth. He’d promised to store it in a safe place.

The director stepped around the curtains and a few seconds later, Gale saw the curtains part. Those gathered in front applauded and Gale heard a few calls of bravo. Then the director nodded and the man in white threw the switch.

Over the next couple of seconds, Gale saw the world speed up. She experienced an increasingly rapid alternation between light and dark until her eyes registered only an unvarying gray. But just as it happened, it unhappened. In seconds, the world reappeared with the rigid clarity of a photograph, a different view than just moments ago. The room’s lighting was subdued and there was no throng of reporters. The stasis booth door stood open and Gale saw a man in a lab coat walking away. Gale, feeling a sudden vertigo, let fall her silk cloth.

Then, coming into her field of view from the side, a man looked in. Malcolm! He looked tired. No, maybe not tired—older, perhaps. And his expression held none of the studied indifference he’d formerly exhibited. “My Galatea,” he said, his voice richer and more resonant than she’d remembered.

“Malcolm,” she said, looking into his warm eyes. “Dear Malcolm.” She looked past him into the exhibit hall, a different hall. “Just a few seconds ago,” she said, still disoriented, “there were reporters. I’d have expected reporters.”

Malcolm gave a soft smile. “Things are a little different now.”

Gale, her initial shock subsiding, returned the smile. “When is now?”

Malcolm handed her the bathrobe he carried. “It’s thirty-eight years later than when you left.” He paused, then added tentatively, “And seven years after my cure.”

Gale gasped. “Didn’t you get my note?” She clasped the robe in front of her.

“It gave me such joy.” Malcolm laughed bitterly. “And such agony. Seeing you there, frozen in time while I grew steadily older. I felt myself drifting away from you.” He clenched his fists. “I argued and pleaded with the Met to release you, but they wouldn’t—until now, that is. I hadn’t the money to buy back your contract.”

“Didn’t have the money?” Gale wondered if she’d heard him correctly.

“There’d been some big upheavals in the economy while I was in stasis: hyperinflation, bank failures, brokerage house bankruptcies—including my broker.”

Gale winced; her money had also been entrusted to Malcolm’s broker.

“There was very little money waiting for me when I arrived,” said Malcolm with a sigh. “Nowhere near what I needed to free you.”

“And yet you still waited for me.” Gale held the robe in an embrace. “That’s so, well, romantic.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to nominate me for sainthood.” He gave a self-effacing chuckle. “Times have changed. Rubens would feel quite at home with his subjects here.”

Gale looked at him quizzically.

“Chubby women are the norm now. And, frankly, I find them unattractive. And those few I met who were pleasingly thin had such a bad self-image that I found it hard to build a relationship.” He chuckled again. “So yes, I’ve been loyal—but not nobly so.” He cast his eyes down. “But still, our age difference has grown by seven years. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you didn’t want to marry me anymore.”

“Oh, but I do.” Gale felt herself blush. “That is, if you still want to.”

“Of course I do.” He reached out and, ignoring the bulk of the robe she held in front, embraced her. “Perhaps for propriety,” he said as they separated, “you should wear rather than just hold the bathrobe. Animated as you are now, I don’t think you can be considered an artwork anymore, at least not by the Met.”

As she slipped on her bathrobe, she said, “How did you manage to free me, then?”

“Well, you see…” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “Tastes have changed over the years, and … and your … your body type is no longer the epitome of, well, of beauty. And…”

“And?” Gale demanded.

“And you, I mean your statue is no longer a popular item.” He spoke rapidly now, as if trying to breeze through something unpleasant. “In fact, as of a few months ago, the museum no longer considered you art. So they were happy to—” He corrected himself. “—that is, they were willing to release you—for free.”

Gale yanked tight the robe’s belt around her waist. She’d expended a lot of effort in being svelte. She was proud of her figure—and that wasn’t about to change. Angrily, she glanced around the exhibit hall. She didn’t recognize it. And the exhibits were dreadful. “What hall is this?”

“The Hall of Recent American Popular Culture.”

“Kitsch?” she said, almost at a shout. “They put me in with kitsch?”

Malcolm laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly—”

“Let’s get out of here.” Gale shuddered at the sight of the other exhibits, then turned to Malcolm. “Do you know where my valise is?”

“Mox venit. Coming right up.” Malcolm disappeared momentarily, scurrying behind the stasis booth and returning with the little suitcase. “But,” he said, hesitantly, “I think it best if I rushed you off to a mall to buy you some new clothes.”

Gazing at her valise, now old and faded where just minutes before it had been shiny new, the reality of her ‘time travel’ all but overwhelmed her. “So, there are still malls,” she said in a distracted voice.

“Oh yes.”

“But larger, I imagine.” Gale tried to narrow her focus to something she knew—malls.

“No, not much.” Malcolm spoke in a casual, soothing voice. “Seems there’s a size above which malls become unwieldy—except for resort malls, of course. And residential malls.”

Gale finished dressing and felt back in control. She gave a pleasant, inclusive chuckle. “Well, then, let’s go to the mall.”

Malcolm led the way to the museum parking lot, and to a very modern-looking car, but obviously not as new as the other cars in the lot.

“Much nicer than your Lamborghini,” she said.

“It’s appropriate for an associate professor of classics at an omniversity.”

“Omniversity. Impressive!”

“Oh, not really,” said Malcolm. “It’s a marketing term for a junior college.” He opened the passenger door for her. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he added, lightly. “Me, I mean. Not you.”

*

In the mall, Gale saw the truth in Malcolm’s assertion; most everyone, the women at least, ranged from Rubenesque to obese. I’ll have to go to the kids’ departments to buy clothes. She noticed people looking obliquely at her. It had been the same before, but then it was because of her uncommon beauty. Now, it was clearly a look of condescension—a distaste at how a person could allow her body to become so undernourished. Gale could even see pity on some faces.

Abruptly, Gale stopped thinking of herself as svelte. In this world she was clearly emaciated, so much so that it would be natural for people to regard her as an impoverished waif. She sighed. Her modeling days were definitely over.

As she and Malcolm walked toward an anchor store, Gale noticed a teenager ahead and stopped cold. “Oh my god!” she said at a whisper. “His t-shirt.”

Malcolm looked at her quizzically.

“That kid,” said Gale, still in a hushed voice. “The reproduction on his shirt.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Malcolm nodded appreciatively. “It’s a famous painting. Oh, but you know that; you had a print of it hung on the wall of your stasis chamber.”

“Warm Earth,” said Gale watching as her painting walked away.

“That’s it,” said Malcolm. “You wouldn’t know who painted it, would you?”

“I did.”

Malcolm chuckled. “You wish.”

“Really, I did paint it.”

“Come on!”

“Why else would I have had a print of it in stasis with me?”

Malcolm gave her a long look. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“It’s considered a great work of art.”

“Oh?” Gale thought Malcolm was teasing her. “I’m no longer art, but my painting is?” She laughed. “Ars Longa. Vita Brevis. So, you’re saying my ars has lasted longa as ars than my body did as ars.”

“Oh, I’d say you have a very comely ars.”

“Be quiet,” said Gale in mock annoyance. Yes, this was still the Malcolm she had grown to love.

“But as far as the painting…” Malcolm continued. “It is a famous work of art.”

“Famous?”

“Certainly,” said Malcolm. “I know for a fact that the Met has an open offer for the original—a very lucrative offer.”

“Wait!” Gale suddenly remembered her time capsule. “The Temple of Dendur.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Temple of Dendur. Is it still there?”

“What?”

“The Egyptian temple at the back of the Met. Is it still there and has there been any construction behind it?”

“Why are you asking about—”

“Please, Malcolm, tell me!”

“Yes, it’s still there, and it still has an unobstructed view of the park. Why?”

Gale glanced at the reproduction of her artwork—now at a table in the food court. Captivated by the view of her painting and also by the smell of rich deserts, she led Malcolm in that direction. In this Rubenesque time, there was no reason she shouldn’t have a treat—something dripping with chocolate.