dredge out of the past not only the physical lineaments ofnthe person whom that bone once held perpendicular but thenpersonality traits too, down to the last little tic and stammer.nIn their own house Harry and Lydie could engage withnthree flesh-and-blood examples of history come to life. Ofncourse, it really wasn’t flesh, only a sort of protein putty, butnit was real blood, right enough. It was pig blood: that was anbiochemical necessity.n”Can they talk?” Harry asked and was assured that theynspoke, remembered their former lives in sharp detail, andneven told jokes — rather faded ones, of course. They alsonate, slept, and shaved, were human in every way. “That isnthe Departmental motto,” the voice said. “EngineeringnHumanity for Historic Purpose.”nHe asked casually about the cost, and she stated it and henwas pleased, but still desired to think just a few days aboutnwhether to subscribe to the program.n”That will not be necessary,” said the woman’s voice.n”The arrangements have already been taken care of andnyour first ancestor is on his way to you. The Archives andnHistory Division of the United States Department of Realitynis certain that you will find real satisfaction in yournencounters with Living History. Good day, Mr. Butcher.”n”Wait a minute,” Harry said. “My name is Beacham.”nBut the connection was cut and when he tried to call backnhe was shunted from one office to another and put on holdnso often and so long that he gave up in disgust.nSo then as far as Harry was concerned all bets were off’.nHe was a Beacham and no Butcher and proud of it and ifnsome artificial entity from the Archives Division showed upnat his door he would send the fellow packing.nBut he didn’t have to do that. Lieutenant Aldershot’snpapers were in apple-pie order when he presented them withna sharp salute to Lydie. She met him at the front door andnwas immediately taken with this swarthy brown-eyed man innhis butternut uniform and broadbrimmed hat. A batterednleatherbound trunk sat on the walk behind him.n”Oh, you must be the ancestor they sent,” she said.n”Lieutenant Edward Aldershot of the Northern Virginianreporting as ordered, ma’am.”nConfused, Lydie colored prettily and looked up andndown the lane to see if any of her neighbors here in thenShining Acres development were observing her resplendentnvisitor. She took the papers he proffered, started to opennthem, but paused with her fingers on the knotted ribbon andnsaid, “Oh, do come in,” and stepped back into the foyer.n18/CHRONICLESnnnThe lieutenant moved forward briskly, removing his hat justnbefore he stepped over the threshold. “Honey,” she called,n”Harry, honey. Our ancestor is here.”nHe came downstairs in no pleasant frame of mind, butnthen stood silent and wide-eyed before Aldershot whonsnapped him a classy respectful salute and declared his namenand the name of his army. “I believe the lady will be kindnenough to present my papers, sir.”nBut Harry . and Lydie only stood gaping until thenlieutenant gestured toward the packet in Lydie’s hands. Shengave it to Harry, blushing again, and Harry said in a rathernstiff tone, trying to hide his astonishment, “Ah yes. Ofncourse . . . Your papers. . . . Of course.”nAnd for a wonder they were all correct. Here was thenletter from History identifying Aldershot and congratulatingnthe Beachams on the opportunity of enjoying his companynfor three weeks and telling them what a valuable experiencenthey were in for. Then there was Aldershot’s birth certificatenand a very sketchy outline of his military career and then anfamily tree in which Harry was relieved to discover not ansingle Butcher. It was all Beachams and Lawsons andnHollinses and Bredvolds and Aldershots and Harpers as farnas the eye could see, all the way to the beginning of the 19thncentury.n”This looks fine,” Harry said. “We’re glad to have you asnone of us.”n”I’m proud to hear you say so, sir,” the lieutenant saidnand tore off another healthy salute.n”You don’t need to be so formal,” Harry told him. “Youndon’t have to salute me or call me sir. We’re just friendsnhere.”n”That’s very kind of you. I’m afraid it may take a littlendme for me to adjust, sir.”n”You’ll fit right in,” Lydie said. “I’m sure you will.”n”Thank you, ma’am,” said Aldershot. “I do take tobacconand a little whiskey now and then. I hope you won’t mind.”n”Oh no. If that’s what you did — I mean, if that’s whatnyou’re used to. Please feel free.” A bashful woman, shenblushed once more. She had almost said: If that’s what youndid when you were alive. “Harry, you can bring in thenlieutenant’s trunk, if you don’t mind.”nThe Confederate officer had too modesfly described hisnpleasures. He did not merely take tobacco, he engorgednit, sawing off with his case knife black tarry knucklesnof the stuff from a twist he carried in his trousers pocket andnchewing belligerently, like a man marching against annopposing brigade. He was a veritable wellpump of tobacconjuice, spitting inaccurately not only at the champagnenbucket and other utensils the Beachams supplied him asnspittoons but at any handy vessel that olfered a concavity.nThe sofa suffered and the rugs, the tablecloths, the lieutenant’snbedding and his clothing — his clothing most of all.nIn fact, his whole appearance deteriorated rapidly andnruinously. In three days he no longer wore his handsomenbutternut but had changed into the more familiar uniform ofnConfederate gray, a uniform which seemed to grow shabbierneven as the Beachams gazed upon it. His sprighdy blacknmoustache, which Lydie had fancied as complementing hisndark eyes perfecfly, became first ragged, then shaggy. Henwould neglect to shave for four days running and he begann