The Nostalgia Gene
By ROY HUTCHINS
Illustrated by COUGHLIN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
If you cannot get the "good old days" out of your mind,
there is only one person to blame—Edgar's grandmother!
Folks who knew Edgar Evans said he was a strange young man. Certainlyhe was the darling of the old ladies and the despair of the young.The sternest fathers positively beamed when Edgar called for theirdaughters, but fellows his own age declared in the authoritative tonesof youth that Edgar was a square.
Handsome enough he was. The real reason for all the fuss was Edgar'smanners. The trouble was that he had them.
For Edgar had been orphaned at four by an Oklahoma tornado and raisedby his Hoosier grandmother, a dear old lady whose hand had once beenkissed by a passing Barrymore. The result was Edgar's manners. Herealized, of course, that one didn't kiss a lady's hand these days, butsuch was Edgar's gracious way that women always got the impression hewas about to.
One parent, in something of a trance after encountering Edgar, summedup the reaction.
"That kid," he told his wife dazedly, "akshully called me 'sir.' Themother punks come aroun' afta Milly, they call me 'Mac.' Too bad thatthere Edgar was born fifty years too late."
Before very long, Edgar came to the same conclusion.
He knew a good many young men, but none he could call friend. The boptalk which fascinated them seemed to him a repulsive travesty uponEnglish, just as their favorite music sounded like the braying of assesin agony.
Many girls were willing enough when Edgar asked for a first date, butan amazing number of them developed ill health when he suggested asecond evening of classical records or good conversation.
The girls themselves could not be blamed if they mistook his courtlyapproach for a new dreamy line. Alas, the very hearts which flutteredat his old-world chivalry grew icy when no pass was made. A girl wantsto know her charms are appreciated.
So Edgar sank more deeply into himself. He recalled his grandmother'sstories about life and living back near the end of the century, whenfolks knew how to be pleasant and kind.
Even at his job—he was a technician in an electronic lab—Edgarcouldn't stop longing for that era when existence had been more gentle,simple and leisurely. His social life virtually ceased.
"Man, you ain't livin'," said one of the technicians he worked with."We're gonna buzz a few dives tonight. Why not drag it along with us?"
Edgar blanched. "Thank you just the same, but I—I have some work todo."
After a while, naturally, they stopped asking.
He continued to dream hopelessly, miserably, but one day he wasyanked out of it by—of all people—a military man. The brass wereon inspection tour and the lab's Chief Engineer was apologizing fora faulty run of synchros which had occurred some time ago, when theBrigadier snorted.
"What's past is finished. I'm interested in five years from now!"
Edgar found himself staring fixedly at a top secret gadget still in thebreadboard stage.
"Great heaven!" he thought. "I have a fixation. This isn't doing me anygood."
But what would? Suppose, instead of dreaming, he spent time actuallyworking toward what he wanted most?
Here in the lab, he helped to build