FRIDAY


Books by Robert A. Heinloin


Assignment in Eternity
The Best of Robert Heinlein
Between Planets
Beyond This Horizon
Citizen of the Galaxy
The Door into Summer
Double Star

Expanded Universe: More Worlds

Of Robert A. Heinlein
Farmer in the Sky
Farnham's Freehold
Friday
Glory Road

The Green Hills of Earth
Have Space Suit--Will Travel
I Will Fear No Evil

The Man Who Sold the Moon
The Menace from Earth'
Methuselah's Children

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
The Notebooks of Lazarus Long
The Number of the Beast
Orphans of the Sky


The Past Through Tomorrow:

"Future History" Stories
Podkayne of Mars
The Puppet Masters
Red Planet
Revolt in 2 I00
Rocket Ship Galileo
The Rolling Stones
Sixth Column
Space Cadet
The Star Beast
Starman Jones
Starship Troopers

Stranger in a Strange Land
Three by Heinlein
Time Enough for Love
Time for the Stars
Tomorrow the Stars (Ed.)
Tunnel in the Sky

The Unpleasant Profession of

Jonathan Hoag

Waldo & Magic, Inc.

The Worlds of Robert A. Heinlein


Winston


N E
	Y 0


Copyright  1982 by Robert A. Heinlein

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book or portions thereof in any form.

Published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston,

383 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10017.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt, Rinehart
and Winston of Canada, Limited.


Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Heinlein, Robert A. (Robert Anson), 1907-Friday.

I. Title.

PS3515.E288F77 813'.54 81-13221 AACR2
ISBN: 0-03-061516-X

ISBN: 0-03-061553-4 (Limited edition)


First Edition


Designer: Amy Hill

Printed in the United States of America

10987654321


Lines from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward
Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923,  1969 by Holt,
Rinehart and Winston. Copyright 1951 by Robert
Frost. Reprinted by permission of Holt, Rinehart
and Winston, Publishers.


This book is for


Ann
	Elinor
	Pepper

Anne
	Gay
	Polly

Barbie
	leanne
	Roberta

Betsy
	loan
	Tamea

Bubbles
	]udy-Lynn
	Rebel

Carolyn
	Karen
	Ursula

Catherine
	Kathleen
	Verna

Dian
	Marilyn
	Vivian

Diane
	N ichelie
	Vonda

Eleanor
	Patricia
	Yumiko


and always--semper toujours!--for Ginny.


R. A. H.


T'O,I
	nn'3nr
	'1 Cql


FRIDAY


As I left the Kenya Beanstalk capsule he was right on my heels. He
followed me through the door leading to Customs, Health, and Immigration.
As the door contracted behind him I killed him.

I have never liked riding the Beanstalk. My distaste was fullblown
even before the disaster to the Quito Skyhook. A cable that
goes up into the sky with nothing to hold it up smells too much of
magic. But the only other way to reach Ell-Five takes too long and
costs too much; my orders and expense account did not cover it.

So I had been edgy even before I left the shuttle from Ell-Five at
Stationary Station to board the Beanstalk capsule... but, damn it,
being edgy isn't reason to kill a man. I had intended only to put him
out for a few hours.

The subconscious has its own logic. I grabbed him before he hit
the deck and dragged him quickly toward a rank of bonded bomb-proof
lockers, hurrying to avoid staining the floor--shoved his
thumb against the latch, pushed him inside as I grabbed his pouch,
found his Diners Club card, slid it into the slot, salvaged his IDs
and cash, and chucked the pouch in with the cadaver as the armor
slid down and clanged home. I turned away.

A Public Eye was floating above and beyond me.

No reason to jump out of my boots. Nine times out often an Eye
is cruising at random, unmonitored, and its twelve-hour loop may
or may not be scanned by a human before it is scrubbed. The tenth


time-- A peace officer may be monitoring it closely... or she may
be scratching herself and thinking about what she did last night.
So I ignored it and kept on toward the exit end of the corridor.
That pesky Eye should have followed me as I was the only mass in
that passageway radiating at thirty-seven degrees. But it tarried,
three seconds at least, scanning that locker, before again fastening
on me.
I was estimating which of three possible courses of action was safest
when that maverick piece of my brain took over and my hands
executed a fourth: My pocket pen became a laser beam and "killed"
that Public Eye--killed it dead as I held the beam at full power until
the Eye dropped to the deck, not only blinded but with antigrav
shorted out. And its memory scrubbed--I hoped.
I used my shadow's credit card again, working the locker's latch
with my pen to avoid disturbing his thumbprint. It took a heavy
shove with my boot to force the Eye into that crowded locker. Then
I hurried; it was time to be someone else. Like most ports of entry
Beanstalk Kenya has travelers' amenities on both sides of the barrier.
Instead of going through inspection I found the washrooms and paid
cash to use a bath-dressingroom.
Twenty-seven minutes later I not only had had a bath but also
had acquired different hair, different clothes, another face--what
takes three hours to put on will come off in fifteen minutes of soap
and hot water. I was not eager to show my real face but I had to get
rid of the tersona I had used on this mission. What part of it had not
washed down the drain now went into the shredder: jump suit,
boots, pouch, fingerprints, contact lenses, passport. The passport I
now carried used my right name--well, one of my names--a ste-reograph
of my bare face, and had a very sincere Ell-Five transient
stamp in it.
Before shredding the personal items I had taken off the corpse, I
looked through them--and paused.
His credit cards and IDs showed four identities.
Where were his other three passports?
Probably somewhere on the dead meat in that locker. I had not
given it a proper search--no time!--I had simply grabbed what he
carried in his pouch.

12

Go back and look? If I kept trotting back and opening a locker full
of still-warm corpse, someone was bound to notice. By taking his
cards and passport I had hoped to postpone identifying the body and
thereby give myself more time to get clear but--wait a moment.
Mmm, yes, passport and Diners Club card were both for "Adolf
Belsen." American Express extended credit to "Albert Beaumont"
and the Bank of Hong Kong took care of "Arthur Bookman" while
MasterCard provided for "Archibald Buchanan."
I "reconstructed" the crime: Beaumont-Bookman-Buchanan had j ust thumbed the latch of the locker when Belsen sapped him from
behind, shoved him into the locker, used his own Diners Club card
to lock it, and left hastily.
Yes, an excellent theory . . . and now to muddy the water still
more.
Those IDs and credit cards went back of my own in my wallet;
"Belsen's" passport I concealed about my person. I could not stand a
skin search but there are ways to avoid a skin search including (but
not limited to) bribery, influence, corruption, misdirection, and
razzle-dazzle.
As I came out of the washroom, passengers from the next capsule
were trickling in and queuing up at Customs, Health, and Immigration;
I joined a queue. The CHI officer remarked on how very light
my jumpbag was and asked about the state of the up-high black
market. I gave him my best stupid look, the one on my passport picture.
About then he found the correct amount of squeeze tucked
into my passport and dropped the matter.
I asked him for the best hotel and the best restaurant. He said that
he wasn't supposed to make recommendations but that he thought
well of the Nairobi Hilton. As for food, if I could afford it, the Fat
Man, across from the Hilton, had the best food in Africa. He hoped
that I would enjoy my stay in Kenya.
I thanked him. A few minutes later I was down the mountain and
in the city, and regretting it. Kenya Station is over five kilometers
high; the air is always thin and cold. Nairobi is higher than Denver,
nearly as high as Ciudad de Mxico, but it is only a fraction of the
height of Mount Kenya and it is just a loud shout from the equator.
The air felt thick and too warm to breathe; almost at once my

31


clothes were soggy with sweat; I could feel my feet starting to swell--and
besides they ached from full gee. I don't like off-Earth assignments
but getting back from one is worse.

I called on mind-control training to help me not notice my discomfort.
Garbage. If my mind-control master had spent less time
squatting in lotus and more time in Kenya, his instruction might
have been more useful. I forgot it and concentrated on the problem:
how to get out of this sauna bath quickly.

The lobby of the Hilton was pleasantly cool. Best of all, it held a
fully automated travel bureau. I went in, found an empty booth, sat
down in front of the terminal. At once the attendant showed up.
"May I help you?"

I told her I thought I could manage; the keyboard looked familiar.
(It was an ordinary Kensington 400.)

She persisted: 'Td be glad to punch it for you. I don't have anyone
waiting." She looked about sixteen, a sweet' face, a pleasant
voice, and a manner that convinced me that she really did take pleasure
in being helpful.

What I wanted least was someone helping me while I did things
with credit cards that weren't mine. So I slipped her a medium-size
tip while telling her that I really did prefer to punch it myself but I
would shout if I got into difficulties.

She protested that I did not have to tip her but she did not insist
on giving it back, and went away.

"Adolf Belsen" took the tube to Cairo, then semiballistic to Hong
Kong, where he had reserved a room at the Peninsula, all courtesy
of Diners Club.

"Albert Beaumont" was on vacation. He took Safari Jets to Timbuktu,
where American Express had placed him for two weeks at
the luxury Shangri-La on the shore of the Sahara Sea.

The Bank of Hong Kong paid "Arthur Bookman's" way to Buenos
Aires.

"Archibald Buchanan" visited his native Edinburgh, travel prepaid
by MasterCard. Since he could do it all by tube, with one
transfer at Cairo and automated switching at Copenhagen, he
should be at his ancestral home in two hours.

I then used the travel computer to make a number of inquiries---but
no reservations, no purchases, and temporary memory only.


14


Satisfied, I left the booth, asked the dimpled attendant whether or
not the subway entrance I saw in the lobby would let me reach the
Fat Man restaurant.

She told me what turns to make. So I went down into the sub-way--and
caught the tube for Mombasa, again paying cash.

Mombasa is only thirty minutes, 450 kilometers, from Nairobi,
but it is at sea level, which makes Nairobi's climate seem heavenly; I
got out as quickly as I could arrange it. So, twenty-seven hours later
I was in the Illinois Province of the Chicago Imperium. A long
time, you might say, for a great-circle arc of only thirteen thousand
kilometers. But I didn't travel great circle and did not go through a
customs barrier or an immigration checkpoint. Nor did I use a credit
card, even a borrowed one. And I managed to grab seven hours of
sleep in Alaska Free State; I hadn't had any sound sleep since leaving
Ell-Five space city two days earlier.

How? Trade secret. I may never need that route again but someone
in my line of work will need it. Besides, as my boss says, with all
governments everywhere tightening down on everything wherever
they can, with their computers and their Public Eyes and ninety-nine
other sorts of electronic surveillance, there is a moral obligation
on each free person to fight back wherever possible--keep
underground railways open, keep shades drawn, give misinformation
to computers. Computers are literal-minded and stupid; electronic
records aren't really records . . . so it is good to be alert to
opportunities to foul up the system. If you can't evade a tax, pay a
little too much to confuse their computers. Transpose digits. And
so on ....

The key to traveling half around a planet without leaving tracks is:
Pay cash. Never credit, never anything that goes into a computer.
And a bribe is never a bribe; any such transfer of valuta must save
face for the recipient. No matter how lavishly overpaid, civil servants
everywhere are convinced that they are horribly underpaid--but
all public employees have larceny in their hearts or they
wouldn't be feeding at the public trough. These two facts are all you
need but be careful!--a public employee, having no self-respect,
needs and demands a show of public respect.

I always pander to this need and the trip had been without incident.
(I didn't count the fact that the Nairobi Hilton blew up and


burned a few minutes after I took the tube for Mombasa; it would
have seemed downright paranoid to think that it had anything to cl'o
with me.)
I did get rid of four credit cards and a passport just after I heard
about it but I had intended to take that precaution anyhow. If the
opposition wanted to cancel me--possible but unlikely--it would
be swatting a fly with an ax to destroy a multimillion-crown property
and kill or injure hundreds or thousands of others just to get me.
Unprofessional.
As may be. Here I was at last in the Imperium, another mission
completed with only minor bobbles. I exited at Lincoln Meadows
while musing that I had garnered enough brownie points to wheedle
the boss out of a few weeks R&R in New Zealand. My family, a
seven S-group, was in Christchurch; I had not seen them in
months. High time!
But in the meantime I relished the cool clean air and the rustic
beauty of Illinoisit was not South Island but it was the next best
thing. They say these meadows used to be covered with dingy fac-tories--it
seems hard to believe. Today the only building in sight
from the station was the Avis livery stable across the street.
At the hitching rail outside the station were two Avis RentaRigs as
well as the usual buggies and farm wagons. I was about to pick one
of the Avis nags when I recognized a rig just pulling in: a beautiful
matched pair of bays hitched to a Lockheed landau. "Uncle Jim!
Over here! It's me!"
The coachman touched his whip to the brim of his' top hat, then
brought his team to a halt so that the landau was at the steps where I
waited. He climbed down and took off his hat. "It's good to have
you home, Miss Friday."
I gave him a quick hug, which he endured patiently. Uncle Jim
Prufit harbored strong notions of propriety. They say he was convicted
of advocating papism--some said that he was actually caught
bare-handed, celebrating mass. Others said nonsense, he was infiltrating
for the company and took a fall to protect others. Me, I don't
know that much about politics, but I suppose a priest would have
formal manners, whether he was a real one or a member of our
trade. I could be wrong; I don't think I've ever seen a priest.

16

As he handed me in, making me feel like a "lady," I asked, "How
did you happen to be here?"
"The Master sent me to meet you, miss."
"He did? But I didn't let him know when I would arrive." I tried
to think who, on my back track, could have been part of Boss's data
net. "Sometimes I think the boss has a crystal ball."
"It do seem like it, don't it?" Jim clucked to Gog and Magog and
we headed for the farm. I settled back and relaxed, listening to the
homey, cheerful clorat clorap! of horses' hooves on dirt.
I woke up as Jim turned into our gate and was wide awake by the
time he pulled under the porte-cochere. I jumped down without
waiting to be a "lady" and turned to thank Jim.
They hit me from both sides.
Dear old Uncle Jim did not warn me. He simply watched while
they took me.

71


II

My own stupid fault! I was taught in basic that no place is ever totally
safe and that any place you habitually return to is'your top danger
spot, the place mosi likely for booby trap, ambush, stakeout.
But apparently I had learned this only as parrot rote; as an old pro
I had ignored it. So it bit me.
This rule is analogous to the fact that the person most likely to
murder you is some member of your own family--and that grim
statistic is ignored too; it has to be. Live in fear of your own family?
Better to be dead!
My worst stupidity was to ignore a loud, clear, specific warning,
not just a general principle. How had dear old "Uncle" Jim managed
to meet my capsule?--on the right day and almost to the minute.
Crystal ball? Boss is smarter than the rest of us but he does not
use magic. I may be wrong but I'm positive. If Boss had supernatural
powers he would not need the rest of us.
I had not reported my movements to Boss; I didn't even tell him
when I left Ell-Five. This is doctrine; he does not encourage us to
check in every time we move, as he knows that a leak can be fatal.
Even I didn't know that I was going to take that particular capsule
until I took it. I had ordered breakfast in Hotel Seward's coffee shop,
stood up without eating it, dropped some money on the counter--three
minutes later I was sealed into an express capsule. So how?
Obviously chopping off that tail at Kenya Beanstalk Station had
not eliminated all tails on me. Either there had been a backup tail
on the spot or Mr. "Belsen" ("Beaumont," "Bookman," "Buchanan")
had been missed at once and replaced quickly. Possibly they
had been with me all along or perhaps what had happened to "Bel-sen"
had made them cautious about stepping on my heels. Or last
night's sleep may have given them time to catch me.
Which variant was immaterial. Shortly after I climbed into that
'capsule in Alaska, someone had phoned a message somewhat like
this: "Firefly to Dragonfly. Mosquito left here express capsule International
Corridor nine minutes ago. Anchorage traffic control
shows capsule programmed to sidetrack and open Lincoln Meadows
your time eleven-oh-three." Or some such chatter. Some unfriendly
had seen me enter that capsule and had phoned ahead; otherwise sweet old Jim would not have been able to meet me. Logic.
Hindsight is wonderful--it shows you how you busted your skull
 . . after you've busted it.
But I made them pay for their drinks. If I had been smart, I would
have surrendered once I saw that I was.hopelessly outnumbered.
But I'm not smart; I've already proved that. Better yet, I would have
run like hell when Jim told me the boss had sent him... instead of
climbing in and taking a nap, fer Gossake.
I recall killing only one of them.
Possibly two. But why did they insist on doing it the hard way?
They could have waited until I was inside and gassed me, or used a
sleepy dart, or even a sticky rope. They had to take me alive, that
was clear. Didn't they know that a field agent with my taining
when attacked goes automatically into overdrive? Maybe I'm not the
only stupid.
But why waste time by raping me? This whole operation had
amateurish touches. No professional group uses either beating or
rape before interrogation today; there is no profit in it; any professional
is trained to cope with either or both. For rape she (or
he--I hear it's worse for males) can either detach the mind and
wait for it to be over, or (advanced training) emulate the ancient
Chinese adage.
Or, in place of method A or B, or combined with B if the agent's
histrionic ability is up to it, the victim can treat rape as an opportu-

9l


nity to gain an edge over her captors. I'm no great shakes as an actress
but I try and, while it has never enabled me to turn the tables
on unfriendlies, at least once it kept me alive.

This time method C did not affect the outcome but did cause a
little healthy dissension. Four of them (my estimate from touch and
body odors) had me in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It may have
been my own room but I could not be certain as I had been unconscious
for a while and was now dressed (solely) in adhesive tape over
my eyes. They had me on a mattress on the floor, a gang bang with
minor sadism... which I ignored, being very busy with method C.

In my mind I called them "Straw Boss" (seemed to be in charge),
"Rocks" (they called him that--rocks in lis head, probably),
"Shorty" (take that either way), and "the other one" as he did not
have distinctive characteristics.

I worked on all of them--method acting, of course--reluctant,
have to be forced, then gradually your passion overcomes you; you
just can't help yourself. Any man will believe that routine; they are
suckers for it but I worked especially hard on Straw Boss as I hoped
to achieve the status of teacher's pet or some such. Straw Boss wasn't
so bad; methods B and C combined nicely.

But I worked hardest on Rocks because with him it had to be C
combined with A; his breath was so foul. He wasn't too clean in
other ways, too; it took great effort to ignore it and make my responses
flattering to his macho ego.

After he became flaccid he said, "Mac, we're wasting our time.
This slut enjoys it."

"So get out of the way and give the kid another chance. He's
ready."

"Not yet. I'm going to slap her around, make her take us serious-

ly." He let me have a big one, left side of my face. I yelped.

"Cut that out!" --Straw Boss's voice.

"Who says so? Mac, you're getting too big for your britches."

"I say so." It was a new voice, very loud--amplified from the
sound-system speaker in the ceiling, no doubt. "Rocky, Mac is your
squad leader, you know that. Mac, send Rocky to me; I want a word
with him."

"Major, I was just trying to help!"


I10


"You heard the man, Rocks," Straw Boss said quietly. "Grab
your pants and get moving."

Suddenly the man's weight was no longer on me and his stinking
breath was no longer in my face. Happiness is relative.

The voice in the ceiling spoke again "Mac, is it true that Miss
Friday simply enjoys the little ceremony we arranged for her?"

"It's possible, Major," Straw Boss said slowly. "She does act
like it."

"How about it, Friday? Is this the way you get your kicks?"

I didn't answer his question. Instead I discussed him and his family
in detail, with especial attention to his mother and sister. IfI had told
him the truth that Straw Boss would be rather pleasant under other
circumstances, that Shorty and the other man did not matter one way
or the other, but that Rocks was an utter slob whom I would cancel at
the first opportunity--it would have blown method C.

"The same to you, sweetie," the voice answered cheerfully. "I
hate to disappoint you but I'm a criche baby. Not even a wife,
much less a mother or a sister. Mac, put the cuffs on her and throw
a blanket over her. But don't give her a shot; I'll be talking to her
later."

Amateur. My boss would never have alerted a prisoner to expect
interrogation.

"Hey, cr/eche baby!"

"Yes, dear?"

I accused him of a vice not requiring a mother or a sister but anatomically
possibleso I am told for some males. The voice answered,
"Every night, hon. It's very soothing."

So mark one up for the Major. I decided that, with training, he
could have been a pro. Nevertheless he was a bloody amateur and I
didn't respect him. He had wasted one, maybe two, of his ables,
caused me unnecessarily to suffer bruises, contusions, and multiple
personal indignities---even heartbreaking ones had I been an untrained
female--and had wasted two hours or more. If my boss had
been doing it, the prisoner would have spilled his/her guts at once
and spent those two hours spouting her fullest memoirs into a recorder.

Straw Boss even took the trouble to police me--led me into the


bathroom and waited quietly while I peed, without making a production
of it--and that was amateurish, too, as a useful technique,
of the cumulative sort, in interrogating an amateur (not a pro) is to
force him or her to break toilet training. If she has been protected
from the harsher things in life or if he suffers from excessive amour-propre--as
most males do--it is at least as effective as pain, and po-tentiates
either with pain or with other humiliations.
I don't think Mac knew this. I figured him for basically a decent
soul despite his taste for--no, aside from his taste for a bit of rape--a
taste common to most males according to the kinseys.
Somebody had put the mattress back on the bed. Mac guided me
to it, told me to lie on my back with my arms out. Then he cuffed
me to the legs of the bed, using two pairs. They weren't the peace-officer
type, but special ones, velvet-lined--the sort of junk used by
idiots for SM games. I wondered who the pervert was? The Major?
Mac made sure that they were secure but not too tight, then gently
spread a blanket over me. I would not have been surprised had he
kissed me good-night. But he did not. He left quietly.
Had he kissed me would method C call for returning it in full? Or
turning my face and trying to refuse it? A nice question. Method C
is based on I-just-can't-help-myself and requires precise judgment
as to when and how much enthusiasm to show. If the rapist suspects
the victim of faking, she has lost the ploy.
I had just decided, somewhat regretfully, that this hypothetical
kiss should have been refused, when I fell asleep.

I was not allowed enough sleep. I was exhausted from all the things
that had happened to me and had sunk into deep sleep, soggy with
it, when I was roused by a slap. Not Mac. Rocks, of course. Not as
hard as he had hit me earlier but totally unnecessary. It seemed to
me that he blamed me for whatever disciplining he had received
from the Major... and I promised myself that, when time came to
cancel him, I would do it slowly.
I heard Shorty say, "Mac said not to hit her."
"I didn't hit her. That was just a love tap to wake her up. Shut up
and mind your own business. Stand clear and keep your gun on
her. On her, you idiot!--not on me."

112

They took me down into the basement and into one of our own
interrogation chambers. Shorty and Rocks leff---I think that Shorty
left and I know that Rocks did; his stink went away--and an interrogation
team took over. I don't know who or how many as not one of
them ever said a word. The only voice was the one I thought of as
"the Major." It seemed to be coming through a speaker.
"Good morning, Miss Friday."
(Morning? It seemed unlikely.)"Howdy, crche baby!"
"I'm glad that you are in fine fettle, dear, as this session is likely to
prove long and tiring. Even unpleasant. I want to know all about
you, love."
"Fire away. What will you have first?"
"Tell me about this trip you just made, every tiny detail. And
outline this organization you belong to. I might as well tell you that
we already know a great deal about it, so if you lie, I will know it.
Not even a little white fib, dear for I will know it and what happens
then I will regret but you will regret it far more."
"Oh, I won't lie to you. Is a recorder running? This will take a
long time."
"A recorder is running."
"Okay." For three hours I spilled my guts.
This was according to doctrine. My boss knows that ninety-nine
out of a hundred will crack under sufficient pain, that almost that
percentage will crack under long interrogation combined with nothing
more than raw fatigue, but only Buddha Himself can resist certain
drugs. Since he does not expect miracles and hates to waste
agents, standard doctrine is: "If they grab you, sing!"
So he makes sure that a field operative never knows anything
critical. A courier never knows what she is carrying. I know nothing
about policy. I don't know my boss's name. I'm not sure whether we
are a government agency or an arm of one of the multinationals. I
do know where the farm is but so do many other people... and it is
(was) very Well defended. Other places I have visited only via closed
authorized power vehicles--an APV took me (for example) to a
practice area that may be the far end of the farm. Or not.
"Major, how did you crack this place? It was pretty strongly dended."


"I ask the questions, bright eyes. Let's have that part again about
how you were followed out of the Beanstalk capsule."

After a long time of this, when I had told all I knew and was repeating
myself, the Major stopped me. "Dear, you tell a very convincing
story and I don't believe more than every third word. Let's
start procedure B."

Somebody grabbed my left arm and a needle went in. Babble
juice! I hoped these frimping amateurs weren't as clumsy with it as
they were in some other ways; you can get very dead in a hurry with

an overdose. "Maior! I had better sit down!"

"Put her in a chair." Somebody did so.

For the next thousand years I did my best to tell exactly the same
story no matter how bleary I felt. At some point I fell off the chair.
They didn't stick me back onto it but stretched me on the cold concrete
instead. I went on babbling.

Some silly time later I was given some other shot. It made my
teeth ache and my eyeballs felt hot but it snapped me awake. "Miss
Friday!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you awake now?"

"I think so."

"My dear, I think you have been most carefully indoctrinated under
hypnosis to tell the same story under drugs that you tell so well
without drugs. That's too bad as I must now use another method.
Can you stand up?"

"I think so. I can try."

"Stand her up. Don't let her fall." Someone--some two--did so.

I wasn't steady but they held me. "Start procedure C, item five."
Someone stomped a heavy boot on my bare toes. I screamed.
Look, you! If you are ever questioned under pain, do scream.
The Iron Man routine just makes them worse and it worse. Take it
from one who's been there. Scream your head off and crack as fast
as possible.

! am not going to give details of what happened during the following
endless time. If you have any imagination, it would nauseate
you, and to tell it makes me want to throw up. I did, several times. I
passed out, too, but they kept reviving me and the voice kept 07'
asking questions.


J14


Apparently the time came when reviving didn't work, for the next
thing I knew I was back in bed--the same bed, I suppose--and
again handcuffed to it. I hurt all over.

That voice again, right above my head. "Miss Friday."

"What the hell do you want?"

"Nothing. If it's any consolation to you, dear girl, you are the
only subject I have ever questioned that I could not get the truth out
of, eventually."

"Go soothe yourselfi"

"Good night, dear."

The bloody amateur! Every word I had said to him was the naked
truth.


15!


III


Someone came in and gave me another hypodermic shot Presently
the pain went away and I slept.

I think I slept a long time. I either had confused dreams or half-awake
periods or both. Some of it had to be dreamsdogs do talk,
many of them, but they don't lecture on the rights of living artifacts,
do they? Sounds of a ruckus and people running up and down may
have been real. But it felt like a nightmare because I tried to get out
of bed and discovered that I couldn't lift my head, much less get up
and join the fun.

There came a time when I decided that I really was awake, be-
cause cuffs no longer bothered my wrists and sticky tape was no
longer across my eyes. But I didn't jump up or even open my eyes. I
knew that the first few seconds after I opened my eyes might be the
best and possibly the only chance I would have to escape.

I twitched muscles without moving. Everything seemed to be under
control although I was more than a little sore here and there and
several other places. Clothes? Forget them--not only did I have no
idea where my clothes might be but also there is no time to stop to
dress when you are running for your life.

Now to plan-- There didn't seem to be anyone in this room; was
anyone on this floor? Hold still and listen. If and when I was fairly
sure I was alone on this floor, get noiselessly out of bed and up the
stairs like a mouse, on past the third floor into the attic, and hide.


Wait for dark. Out an attic gable, down the roof and the back wall
and into the woods. If I reached the woods back of the house, they
would never catch me . . . but until I did, I would be an easy
target.

The chances? One in nine. Perhaps one in seven if I got really
cranked up. The weakest spot in a poor plan was the high probability
of being spotted before I was clear of the house... because, if I
was spotted---no, when I was spotted--I would not only have to kill
but I would have to be utterly quiet in doing so--

because the alternative was to wait until they terminated me
 . . which would be shortly after "the Major" decided that there
was no more to be squeezed out of me. Clumsy as these goons were,
they were not so stupid--or the Major was not so stupidas to let a

witness who has been tortured and raped stay alive.

I stretched my ears in all directions and listened.

"Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse." No point in waiting;
every moment I delayed brought that much closer the time when

someone would be stirring. I opened my eyes.
"Awake, I see. Good."
"Boss! Where am I?"

"What a time-ridden clich. Friday, you can do better than that.
Back up and try again."

I looked around me. A bedroom, possibly a hospital room. No
windows. No-glare lighting. A characteristic gravelike silence enhanced
rather than broken by the softest of ventilation sighing.

I looked back at Boss. He was a welcome sight. Same old unsty-lish
eye patch why wouldn't he take time to have that eye regenerated?
His canes were leaning against a table, in reach. He was
wearing his usual sloppy raw-silk suit, a cut that looked like badly
tailored pajamas. I was awfully glad to see him.

"I still want to know where I am. And how. And why. Somewhere
underground, surely--but where?"

"Underground, surely, quite a few meters. 'Where' you will be
told when you need to know, or at least how to get to and from.
That was the shortcoming of our farm--a pleasant place but too
many people knew its location. 'Why' is obvious. 'How' can wait.
Report."


17[


"Boss, you are the most exasperating man I have ever met."
"Long practice. Report."

"And your father met your mother at a swing ding. And he didn't
take off his hat."

"They met at a Baptist Sunday-school picnic and both of them
believed in the Tooth Fairy. Report."

"Dirty ears. Snot. The trip to Ell-Five was without incident. I
found Mr. Mortenson and delivered to him the contents of my trick
bellybutton. Routine was interrupted by a most unusual factor: The
space city was experiencing an epidemic of respiratory disorder, etiology
unknown, and I contracted it. Mr. Mortenson was most kind;
he kept me at home and his wives nursed me with great skill and

tender loving care. Boss, I want them compensated."

"Noted. Continue."

"I was out of my silly head most of the time. That is why I ran a
week behind schedule. But once I felt like traveling I was able to
leave at once as Mr. Mortenson told me that I was already carrying

the item he had for you. How, Boss? My navel pouch again?"
"Yes and no."

"That's a hell of an answer!"

"Your artificial pochette was used."

"I thought so. Despite the fact that there aren't supposed to be
any nerve endings there, I can feel something--pressure, maybe--when
it's loaded."

I pressed on my belly around my navel and tightened my belly

muscles. "Hey, it's empty! You unloaded it?"

"No. Our antagonists did so."

"Then I failed! Oh, God, Boss, this is awful."

"No," he said gently, "you succeeded. In the face of great danger
and monumental obstacles you succeeded perfectly."

"I did?" (Ever had the Victoria Cross pinned on you?) "Boss, cut

the double talk and draw me a diagram."

"I will."

But maybe I had better draw a diagram first. I have a 'possum
pouch, created by plastic surgery, behind my bellybutton. It isn't
large but you can crowd one whale of a lot of microfilm into a space
of about one cubic centimeter. You can't see it because the sphincter
valve that serves it holds the navel scar closed. My bellybutton
looks normal. Unbiased judges tell me that I have a pretty belly and
a sightly navel . . . which, in some important ways, is better than
having a pretty face, which I don't have.

The sphincter is a synthetic silicone elastomer that holds the navel
tight at all times, even if I am unconscious. This is necessary as
there are no nerves there to give voluntary control of contraction
and relaxation, such as is possible with the anal, vaginal, and--for
some people---throat sphincters. To load the pouch use a dab of K-Y
jelly or other nonpetroleum lubricant, and push it in by thumb--no
sharp corners, please! To unload it I take the fingers of both
hands and pull the artificial sphincter open as much as I can, then
press hard with my abdominal muscles--and it pops right out.

The art of smuggling things in the human body has a long history.
The classic ways are in the mouth, in the nasal sinuses, in the
stomach, the gut, the rectum, vagina, bladder, eye socket of a missing
eye, ear canal, and exotic and not very useful methods using
tattoos sometimes covered with hair.

Every one of the classic ways is known to every customs officer
and every special agent public or private the world round, Luna,
space cities, other planets, and anywhere men have reached. So forget
them. The only classic method that can still beat a pro is the
Purloined Letter. But the Purloined Letter is high art indeed and,
even when used perfectly, it should be planted on an innocent who
can't give it away under drugs.

Take a look at the next thousand bellybuttons you encounter socially.
Now that my pouch has been compromised, it is possible
that one or two will conceal surgically emplaced hideaways like
mine. You can expect a spate of them soon, then no more will be
eraplaced as any novelty in smuggling becomes useless once the
word gets around. In the meantime customs officers are going to be
poking rude fingers into bellybuttons. I hope a lot of those officers
get poked in the eye by angry victims--navels tend to be sensitive
and ticklish.

"Friday, the weak point of that pochette in you has always been
that any skillful interrogation--"

"They were clumsy."


191


"--or rough interrogation using drugs could force you to mention
its existence."

"Must have been after they shot me with babble juice. I don't
recall mentioning it."

"Probably. Or word may have come to them through other channels,
as several people know of it--you, me, three nurses, two surgeons,
one anesthesiologist, possibly others. Too many. No matter
how our antagonists knew, they did remove what you were carrying
there. But don't look glum; what they received was a very long list
reduced to microfilm of all the restaurants listed in a 1928 telephone
book of the former city of New York. No doubt there is a
computer somewhere working on this list right now, attempting to
break the code concealed in it... which will take a long time as
there is no code concealed in it. A dummy load. Sense-free."

"And for this I have to chase all the way to Ell-Five, eat scummy
food, get sick on the Beanstalk, and be buggered. about by brutal
bastards?'

"Sorry about the last, Friday. But do you think I would risk the
life of my most skillful agent on a useless mission?"

(See why I work for the arrogant bastard? Flattery will get you
anywhere.) "Sorry, sir."

"Check your appendectomy scar."

"Huh?" I reached under the sheet and felt it, then flipped the
sheet back and looked at it. "What the hell?"

"The incision was less than two centimeters and straight through
the scar; no muscle tissue was disturbed. The item was withdrawn
about twenty-four hours ago by reopening the same incision. With
the accelerated repair methods that were used on you I am told
that in two more days you will not be able to find the new scar in
the old. But I am very glad that the Mortensons took such good care
of you as I am sure that the artificial symptoms induced in you to
cover what had to be done to you were not pleasant. By the way,
there really is a catarrhal-fever epidemic there--fortuitous window
dressing."

Boss paused. I stubbornly refused to ask him what I was carry-ing--he
would not have told me anyhow. Shortly he added, "You
were telling me about your trip home."


120


"The trip down was without incident. Boss, the next time you
send me into space I want to go first-class, in an antigrav ship. Not
via that silly Indian rope trick."

"Engineering analysis shows that a skyhook is safer than any ship.

The Quito cable was lost through sabotage, not mat6riel failure."
"Stingy."

"I don't intend to bind the mouths of the kine. You may use anti-gray
from here on if circumstances and timing permit. This time
there were reasons to use the Kenya Beanstalk."

"Maybe so, but someone tailed me out of the Beanstalk capsule.
As soon as we were alone, I killed him."

I paused. Someday, someday, I am going to cause his face to register
surprise. I retackled the subject diagonally:

"Boss, I need a refresher course, with some careful reorienta-tion."

"Really? To what end?"

"My kill reflex is too fast. I don't discriminate. That bloke hadn't
done anything to rate killing. Surely, he was tailing me. But I
should either have shaken him, there or in Nairobi, or, at most,

knocked him cold and placed him on ice while I went elsewhere."
"We'll discuss your possible need later. Continue."

I told him about the Public Eye and "Belsen's" quadruple identity
and how I had sent them to the four winds, then I outlined my
trip home. He checked me. "You did not mention the destruction
of that hotel in Nairobi."

"Huh? But, Boss, that had nothing to do with me. I was halfway
to Mombasa."

"My dear Friday, you are too modest. A large number of people
and a huge amount of money have gone into trying to keep you
from completing your mission, including a last-ditch attempt at our
former farm. You may assume, as least hypothesis, that the bombing
of the Hilton had as its sole purpose killing you."

"Hmm. Boss, apparently you knew that it would be this rough.
Couldn't you have warned me?"

"Would you have been more alert, more resolute, had I filled
your mind with vague warnings of unknown dangers? Woman, you
made no mistakes."


"The hell I didn't! Uncle Jim met my capsule when he should
not have known the time I would arrive; that should have set off
every alarm in my head. The instant [ laid eyes on him I should
have dived back down the hole and taken any capsule anywhere."

"Whereupon it would have become extremely difficult for us to
achieve rendezvous, which would have aborted your mission as
thoroughly as losing what you carried. My child, if affairs had gone
smoothly, Jim would have met you at my behest; you underestimate
my intelligence net as well as the effort we put into trying to watch
over you. But I did not send Jim to get you because at that moment I
was running. Hobbling, to be precise. Hurrying. Trying to escape. I
assume that Jim took the ETA message himself--from our man, or
that of our antagonists, or possibly from both."

"Boss, if I had known it at the time, I would have fed Jim to his
horses. I was fond of him. When the time comes, I want to cancel
him myself. He's mine."

"Friday, in our profession it is undesirable to hold grudges."

"I don't hold many but Uncle Jim is special. And there is another
case I want to handle myself. But I'll argue with you later. Say, is it
true that Uncle Jim used to be a papist priest?"

Boss almost looked surprised. "Where did you hear that nonsense?"

"Around and about. Gossip."

"'Human, All Too Human.' Gossip is a vice. Let me settle it.
Prufit was a con man. I met him in prison, where he did something
for me, important enough that I made a place for him in our organization.
My mistake. My inexcusable mistake, as a con man never
stops being a con man; he can't. But I suffered from a will to believe,
a defect of character that I thought I had rooted out. I was
mistaken. Continue, please."

I told Boss how they had grabbed me. "Five of them, I think.
Possibly only four."

"Six, I believe. Descriptions."

"None, Boss, I was too busy. Well, one. I had one sharp look at
him just as I killed him. About a hundred and seventy-five trill,
weight around seventy-five or -six. Age near thirt3'-five. Blondish,
smooth-shaven. Slavic. But he was the only one my eye photographed.
Because he held still. Involuntarily. As his neck snapped."


[22


"Was the other one you killed blond or brunet?"

"'Belsen'? Brunet."

"No, at the farm. Never mind. You killed two and injured three
before they piled enough bodies on you to hold you down by sheer
weight. A credit to your instructor, let me add. In escaping, we had
not been able to thin them down enough to keep them from taking
you... but, in my opinion, you won the battle in which we recaptured
you by your having earlier taken out so many of their effectives.
Even though you were chained up and unconscious at the
time, you won the final fracas. Go on, please."

"That about wraps it up, Boss. A gang rape next, followed by interrogation,
direct, then under drugs, then under pain."

"I'm sorry about the rape, Friday. The usual bonuses. You will
find them enhanced as I judge the circumstances to have been unusually
offensive."

"Oh, not that bad. I'm hardly a twittering virgin. I can recall social
occasions that were almost as unpleasant. Except one man. I
don't know his face but I can identify him. I want him! I want him
as badly as I want Uncle Jim. Worse, maybe, as I want to punish
him a bit before I let him die."

"I can only repeat what I said earlier. For us, personal grudges are
a mistake. They reduce survival probability."

'TI1 risk it for this bucko. Boss, I don't hold the rape qua rape
against him; they were ordered to rape me under the silly theory that
it would soften me up for interrogation. But the scum should bathe
and he should have his teeth fixed and he should brush them and
use a mouthwash. And somebody must tell him that it is not polite
to slap a woman with whom he is copulated. I don't know his face
but I know his voice and his odor and his build and his nickname.
Rocks or Rocky."

"Jeremy Rockford."

"Huh? You know him? Where is he?"

"I once knew him and I recently had one clear look at him,
enough to be sure. Requiescat in pace."

"Really? Oh, hell. I hope he didn't die quietly."

"He did not die quietly. Friday, ! have not told you all that I

know"


"You never do."


"--because I wanted your report first. Their assault on the farm
succeeded because Jim Prufit had cut all power just before they hit
us. This left us nothing but hand weapons for the few who wear
arms at the farm, only bare hands for most of us. I ordered evacuation
and most of us escaped through a tunnel prepared and concealed
when the house was rebuilt. I am sorry and proud to say that
three of our best, the three who were armed when we were hit,
elected to play Horatius at the bridge. I know that they died as I kept
the tunnel open until I could tell by the sounds that it had been
entered by the raiders. Then I blasted it.

"It took some hours to round up enough people and to mount our
counterattack, especially in arranging for enough authorized power
vehicles. While we conceivably could have attacked on foot, we had

to have at least one APV as ambulance for you."

"How did you know I was alive?"

"The same way I knew that the escape tunnel had been entered
and not by our rear guard. Remote pickups. Friday, everything that
was done to you and by you, everything you said and was said to
you, was monitored and recorded. I was unable to monitor in person
busy preparing the counterattack--but the essential parts were
played for me as time permitted. Let me add that I am proud of you.

"By knowing which pickups recorded what, we knew where they
were holding you, the fact that you were cuffed, how many were in
the house, where they were, when they settled down, and who
stayed awake. By relay to the command APV I knew the situation in
the house right to the moment of attack. We hit-- They hit, I
mean---our people hit. I don't lead attacks hobbling on these two
sticks; I wield the baton. Our people hit the house, were inside, the
designated four picked you up--one armed only with a bolt cutter--and
all were out in three minutes eleven seconds. Then we set fire
to it."

"Boss! Your lovely farmhouse?"

"When a ship is s!nking, one does not worry about the dining-room
linens. We can never use the farm again. Burning the house
destroyed many awkward records and many secret and quasi-secret
items of equipment. But, most compelling, burning the house gave
us a quick cleanup of the parties who had compromised its secrets.


Our cordon was in place before we used incendiaries, then each one
was shot as he attempted to come out.

"That was when I saw your acquaintance Jeremy Rockford. He
was burned in the leg as he came out the east door. He stumbled
back in, changed his mind and tried again to escape, fell and was
trapped. From the sounds he made I can assure you that he did not
die quietly."

"Ugh. Boss, when I said that I wanted to punish him before I
killed him, I didn't mean anything as horrible as burning him to
death."

"Had he not behaved like a horse running back into a burning
barn, he would have died as the others did... quickly, from laser

beam. Shot on sight, for we took no prisoners."

"Not even for inte.rrogation?"

"Not correct doctrine, I so stipulate. But, Friday my dear, you are
unaware of the emotional atmosphere. All had heard the tapes, at
least of the rape and of your third interrogation, the torture. Our
lads and lassies would not have taken prisoners even if I had so ordered.
But I did not attempt to. I want you to know that you are held
in high esteem by your colleagues. Including the many who have
never met you and whom you are unlikely ever to meet."

Boss reached for his canes, struggled to his feet. "I'm seven minutes
over the time your physician told me I could visit. We'll talk
tomorrow. You are to rest now. A nurse will be in to put you to
sleep. Sleep and get well."

I had a few minutes to myself; I spent them in a warm glow.
"High esteem." When you have never belonged and can never really
belong, words like that mean everything. They warmed me so
much that I didn't mind not being human.


IV


Someday I'm going to win an argument with Boss.

But don't hold your breath.

There were days when I did not lose arguments with him--the
days he did not visit me.

It started with a difference of opinion over how long I was going
to have to remain in therapy. I felt ready to go home or back to duty,
either one, after four days. While I didn't want to get into a dockside
fight just yet, I could take light duty---or a trip to New Zealand, my
first choice. All my hurts were repairing.

They hadn't been all that much: lots of burns, four broken ribs,
simple fractures left tibia and fibula, multiple compound fractures
of the bones of my right foot and three toes of my left, a hairline
skull fracture without complications, and (messy but least disabling)
somebody had sawed off my right nipple.

The last item and the burns and the broken toes were all that I
recalled; the others must have happened while I was distracted by
other matters.

Boss said, "Friday, you know that it will take at least six weeks to
regenerate that missing nipple."

"But plastic surgery for a simple cosmetic job would heal in a
week. Dr. Krasny told me so."

"Young woman, when anyone in this organization is maimed in
line of duty, she will be restored as perfecfiy as therapeutic art can
achieve. In addition to that our permanent policy, in your case
there is another reason, compelling and sufficient. We each have a
moral obligation to conserve and preserve beauty in this world; there
is none to waste. You have an unusually comely body; damage to it
is deplorable. It must be repaired."

'Cosmetic surgery is all right, I said so. But I don't expect to have
milk in these jugs. And anybody in bed with me won't care."

"Friday, you may have convinced yourself that you will never
have need to lactate. But esthetically a functional breast is very different
from a surgery-shaped imitation. That hypothetical bedmate
might not know... but you would know and I would know. No,
my dear. You will be restored to your former perfection."

"Hmm! When are you going to get that eye rgenerated?"
"Don't be rude, child. In my case, no esthetic issue obtains."
So I got my tit back as good as ever or maybe better. The next
argument was over the retraining I felt I needed to correct my hair-trigger
kill reflex. When I brought up the matter again, Boss looked
as if he had just bitten into something nasty. "Friday, I do not recall
that you have ever made a kill that turned out to be a mistake. Have
you made any kills of which I am unaware?"

"No, no," I said hastily. "I never killed anybody until I went to

work for you and I haven't made any that I didn't report to you."
"In that case all of your killings have been in self-defense."

"All but that 'Belsen' character. That wasn't self-defense; he never
laid a finger on me."

"Beaumont. At least that was the name he usually used. Self-defense
sometimes must take the form of 'Do unto others what they
would do unto you but do it first.' De Camp, I believe. Or some
other of the twentieth-century school of pessimistic philosophers.
I'll call up Beaumont's dossJet so that you may see for yoursel? that
he belonged on everyone's better-dead list."

"Don't bother. Once I looked into his pouch, I knew that he
wasn't following me to kiss me. But that was afienvard."

Boss took several seconds to answer, far beyond his wont. "Friday,
do you want to change tracks and become a hatchet man?"

My chin dropped and my eyes widened. That was all the answer I

ITlade.

"I didn't intend to frighten you off the nest," Boss said dryly.
"You will have deduced that this organization includes assassins. I

I 26
	27 I


don't want to lose you as a courier; you are my best. But we always
need skilled assassins as their attrition rate is high. However, there is
this major difference between a courier and an assassin: A courier
kills only in self-defense and often by reflex . . . and, I concede,
always with some possibility of error . . . as not all couriers have
your supreme talent for instantly integrating all factors and reaching

a necessary conclusion."

"Huh!"

"You heard me correctly. Friday, one of your weaknesses is that
you lack appropriate conceit. An honorable hatchet man does not
kill by reflex; he kills by planned intent. If the plan goes so far wrong
that he needs to use self-defense, he is almost certain to become a
tatistic. In his planned killings, he always knows why and agrees
with the necessity... or I won't send him out."

(Planned killing? Murder, by definition. Get up in the morning,
eat a hearty breakfast, then keep rendezvous with your victim, cut
him down in cold blood? Eat dinner and sleep soundly?) "Boss, I
don't think it is my sort of work."

"I'm not sure that you have the temperament for it. But, for the
nonce, keep an open mind. I am not sanguine about the possibility
of slowing down your defense reflex. Moreover I can assure you
that, if we attempt to retrain you in the way that you ask, I will not
again use you as a courier. No. Risking your life is your business
 . . when on your own time. But your missions are always critical; I
won't use a courier whose fine edge has been deliberately blunted."

Boss did not convince me but he made me unsure of myself.
When I told him again that I was not interested in becoming a
hatchet man, he did not appear to listen--just said something about
getting me something to read.

I expected it--whatever--to show up on the room's terminal. Instead,
about twenty minutes after he left me, a youngster--well,
younger than I am--showed up with a book, a bound book with
paper pages. It had a serial number on it and was stamped "EYES
ONLY" and "Need-to-Know Required" and "Top Secret SPECIAL
BLUE Clearance."

I looked at it, as anxious to handle it as a snake. "Is this for me? I
think there has been a mistake."


128


"The Old Man does not make mistakes. lust sign the receipt."

I made him wait while I read the fine print. "This bit about 'never
out of my sight.' I sleep now and then."

"Call Archives, ask for the classified documents clerk---that's
me--and I'll be here on the bounce. But try not to go to sleep until I
get here. Try hard."

"Okay." I signed the receipt, looked up and found him staring

with bright-eyed interest. "What are you staring at?"

"Uh-- Miss Friday, you're pretty."

I never know what to say to that sort of thing, since I'm not. I
shape up all right, surely--but I was fully clothed. "How did you
know my name?"

"Why, everybody knows who you are. You know. Two weeks
ago. At the farm. You were there."

"Oh. Yes, I was there. But I don't remember it."

"I sure do!" His eyes were shining. "It's the only time I've had
a chance to be part of a combat operation. I'm glad I had a piece
of it!"

(What do you do?)

I took his hand, pulled him closer to me, took his face in both my
hands, kissed him carefully, about halfway between warm-sisterly
and let's-do-it! Maybe protocol called for something stronger but he
was on duty and I was still on the disabled list--not fair to make
implied promises that can't be kept, especially to youngsters with
stars in their eyes.

"Thank you for rescuing me," I said to him soberly before letting
go of his cheeks.

The dear thing blushed. But he seemed very pleased.

I stayed up so late reading that book that the night nurse scolded
me. However, nurses need something to scold about now and then.
I'm not going to quote from the incredible document... but listen
to these subjects:

Title first: The Only Deadly Weaton. Then--


Assassination as a Fine Art

Assassination as a Political Tool

Assassination for Profit


291


Assassins Who Changed History

The Society for Creative Euthanasia

The Canons of the Professional Assassins Guild

Amateur Assassins: Should They Be Exterminated?

Honorable Hatchet Men--Some Case Histories
"Extreme'Prejudice"--"Wet Work"--Are Euphemisms Necessary?
Seminar Working Papers: Techniques & Tools


Whew! There was no good reason for my reading all of it. But I
did. It had an unholy fascination. Dirty.

I resolved never to mention the possibility of changing tracks and
not to bring up retraining again. Let Boss bring it up himself if he
wanted to discuss it. I punched the terminal, got Archives, and stated
that I needed the classified documents clerk to accept custody of
classified item number such-and-such and please bring my receipt.

"Right away, Miss Friday," a woman answered.

Notoriety--

I waited with considerable unease for that youngster to show up. I
am ashamed to say that this poisonous book had had a most unfortunate
effect on me. It was the middle of the night, early morning;
the place was dead quiet--and if the dear thing laid a hand on me, I
was awfully likely to forget that I was technically an invalid. I needed
a chastity girdle with a big padlock.

But it was not he; the sweet youngster had gone off duty. The
person who showed up with my receipt was the older woman who
had answered me on the terminal. I felt both relief and disappoint-ment--and
chagrin that I felt disappointed. Does convalescence
make everybody irresponsibly horny? Do hospitals have a discipline
problem? I have not been ill often enough to know.

The night clerk swapped my receipt for the book, then surprised

me with: "Don't I get a kiss, too?"

"Oh! Were you there?"

"Any warm body, dear; we were awfully short of effectives that
night. I'm not the world's greatest but I had basic training like anyone
else. Yes, I was there. Wouldn't have missed it."

I said, "Thank you for rescuing me," and kissed her. I tried to
make this simply a symbol, but she took charge and controlled what


sort of a buss it would be. Rough and rugged, namely. She was telling
me clearer than words that anytime I wanted to work the other
side of the street, she would be waiting.

What do you do? There seem to be human situations for which
there are no established protocols. I had just acknowledged that she
had risked her life to save mine--precisely that, as that rescue raid
was not the piece of cake that Boss's account made it appear to be.
Boss's habitual understatement is such that he would describe the
total destruction of Seattle as "a seismic disturbance." Having
thanked her for my life how could I snub her?

I could not. I let my half of the kiss answer her wordless mes-sage--with
my fingers crossed that I would never have to keep the
implied promise.

Presently she broke the kiss but remained holding on to me.
"Dearie," she said, "want to know something? Do you remember
how you told off that slob they called the Major?" ,
"I remember."

"There is a bootleg piece of tape floating around of that one sequence.
What you said to him and how you said it is highly admired
by one and all. Especially me."

"That's interesting. Are you the little gremlin who copied that
piece of tape?"

"Why, how could you think such a thing?" She grinned. "Do
you mind?"

I thought it over for all of three milliseconds. "No. If the people
who rescued me enjoy hearing what I told that bastard, I don't mind
their listening to it. But I don't talk that way ordinarily."

"Nobody thinks you do." She gave me a quick peck. "But you did
so when it was needed and you made every woman in the company
proud of you. And our men, too."

She didn't seem disposed to let go of me but the night nurse
showed up then and told me firmly to go to bed and she was going to
give me a sleepytime shot--I made only the usual formal protest.
The clerk said, "Hi, Goldie. Night. Night, dear." She left.

Goldie (not her name bottle blonde) said, "Want it in your
arm? Or in your leg? Don't mind Anna; she's harmless."
"She's all right." It occurred to me that Goldie probably. could


monitor both sight and sound. Probably? Certainly! "Were you
there? At the farm? When the house was burned?"
"Not while the house was burning. I was in an APV, taking you
here as fast as we could float it. You were a sad sight, Miss Friday."
"I'll bet I was. Thanks. Goldie? Will you kiss me good-night?"
Her kiss was warm and undemanding.
I found out later that she was one of the four who made the run
upstairs to grab me back--one man carrying big bolt cutters, two
armed and firing... and Goldie carrying unassisted a stretcher basket.
But she never mentioned it, then or later.

I remember that convalescence as the first time in my life--except
for vacations in Christchurch--when I was quietly, warmly happy,
every day, every night. Why? Because I belonged!
Of course, as anyone could guess from this account, I had passed
years earlier. I no longer carried an ID with a big "LA" (or even
"AP") printed across it. I could walk into a washroom and not be
told to use the end stall. But a phony ID and a fake family tree do
not keep you warm; they just keep you from being hassled and discriminated
against. You are still aware that there isn't any nation
anywhere that considers your sort fit for citizenship and there are
lots of places that would deport you or even kill you--or sell you--if
your cover-up ever slipped.
An artificial person misses not having a family tree much more
than you might think. Where were you born? Well, I wasn't born,
exactly; I was designed in Tri-University Life Engineering Laboratory,
Detroit. Oh, really? My inception was formulated by Mendelian
Associates, Zurich. Wonderful small talk, that! You'll never hear it;
it does not stand up well against ancestors on the Mayflower or in
the Domesday Book. My records (or one set) show that I was "born"
in Seattle, a destroyed city being a swell place for missing records. A
great place to lose your next of kin, too.
Since I was never in Seattle I have studied very carefully all the
records and pictures I could find; an honest-to-goodness native of
Seattle can't trip me. I think. Or not yet.
But what they gave me while I was recovering from that silly rape
and the not-so-funny interrogation was not phony at all and I did

Town o'f M3rkh,m Public Libraries

not have to worry about keeping my lies straight. Not just Goldie
and Anna and the youngster (Terence) but over two dozen more before
Dr. Krasny discharged me. Those were just the ones I came
into contact with. There were more on that raid; I don't know how
many. Boss's standing doctrine kept members of his organization
from meeting each other save when their duties necessarily brought
them together. Just as he firmly snubbed questions. You cannot let
slip secrets you do not know, and you cannot betray a person whose
very existence is unknown to you.
But Boss did not have rules just for the sake of rules. Once having
met a colleague through duty one could continue the contact socially.
Boss did not encourage such fraternizing but he was no fool
and did not try to forbid it. In consequence Anna often called on me
in the late evening just before she went on duty.
She never did try to collect her pound of flesh. There wasn't
much opportunity but we could have found one if we had tried. I
didn't try to discourage her--hell, no; if she had ever presented the
bill for collection, I would not only have paid cheerfully but would
have tried to convince her that it was my idea in the first place.
But she didn't. I think she was like the sensitive (and fairly rare)
male who never paws a woman when she doesn't want to be
pawed--he can sense it and doesn't start.
One evening shortly before my discharge I was feeling especially
happy--I had acquired two new friends that day; "kissing friends,"
persons who had fought in the raid that saved me--and I tried to
explain to Anna why it meant so much to me and found that I was
starting to tell her how I was not quite what I seemed to be.
She stopped me. "Friday dear, listen to your big sister."
"Huh? Did I goofY'
"Maybe you were about to. 'Member the night we met, you returned
through me a classified document? I have supreme top-se-cret
clearance awarded to me by Mr. Two-Canes years back. That
book you returned is where I can get at it anytime. But I have never
opened it and never will. The cover says 'Need to Know' and I have
never been told that I have need to know. You've read it but I don't
know even the title or the subject--just its number.
"Personnel matters are like that. There used to be an elite mili-


tary outfit, a foreign legion, that boasted that a legionnaire had no
history before the day of his enlistment. Mr. Two-Canes wants us to
be like that. For example, if we were to recruit a living artifact, an
artificial person, the personnel clerk would know it. I know, as I
used to be personnel clerk. Records to forge, possibly some plastic
surgery needed, in some cases laboratory identifications to excise
and then regenerate the area ....

"When we got through with him, he would never again have to
worry about a tap on the shoulder or being elbowed out of a queue.
He could even marry and have children without worrying that
someday it might cause trouble for his kids. He wouldn't have to
worry about me, either, as I have a trained forgettery. Now, dear, I
don't know what you had on your mind. But, if it is something you
don't ordinarily tell people, don't tell me. Or you'll hate yourself in
the morning."

"No, I wouldn't?

"All right. If you still want to tell me a week from now, I'll listen.
A deal?"

Anna was right; a week later I felt no need to tell her. I'm 99 percent
certain that she knew. Either way, it's swell to be loved for
yourself alone, by somebody who doesn't think that APs are monsters,
subhuman.

I don't know that any of the rest of my loving friends knew or
guessed. (I don't mean Boss; he knew, of course. But he wasn't a
friend; he was Boss.) It did not matter if my new friends learned that
I wasn't human; because I had come to realize that they either
didn't care or wouldn't care. All that mattered to them was whether
or not you were part of Boss's outfit.


One evening Boss showed up, tapping his canes and whuffiing, with
Goldie trailing him. He settled heavily into the visitor's chair, said
to Goldie, "I won't need you, nurse. Thank you"--then to me,
"Take off your clothes."

From any other man that would be either offensive or welcome,
depending. From Boss it merely meant that he wanted my clothes
off. Goldie took it that way, too, as she simply nodded and left--and
Goldie is the sort of professional who would buck Siva the Destroyer
if He attempted to interfere with one of her patients.


I took my clothes off quickly and waited. He looked me up and

down. "They again match."

"Seems so to me."

"Dr. Krasny says that he ran a test for lactation function. Positive."

"Yes. He pulled some stunt with my hormone balance and both
of them leaked a little. Felt funny. Then he rebalanced and I dried
up."

Boss grunted. "Turn around. Show me the sole of your right foot.
Now your left. Enough. Burn scars seem to be gone."

"All that I can see. Doctor tells me the others have regenerated,
too. The itching has stopped, so they must be."

"Put on your clothes. Dr. Krasny tells me that you are well."
"If I were any weller, you would have to bleed me."
"Well is an absolute; it has no comparative."
"Okay, I'm wellest."

"Impudence. Tomorrow morning you leave for refresher training.
Be packed and ready by oh-nine hundred."

"Since I arrived without even a happy smile, packing will take me
eleven seconds. But I need a new ID, a new passport, a new credit
card, and quite a bit of cash--"

"All of which will be delivered to you before oh-nine hundred."
"--because I'm not going for a refresher; I'm going to New Zealand.
Boss, I've told you and told you. I'm overdue for R and R, and
I figure that I rate some paid sick leave to compensate for time I've
been laid up. You're a slave driver."

"Friday, how many years will it take you to learn that when I
thwart one of your whims, I always have your welfare in mind as
well as the efficiency of the organization?"

"Hully gee, Great White Father. I abase myself. And I'll send
you a picture postcard from Wellington."

"Of a pretty Maori, please; I've seen a geyser. Your refresher
course will be tailored to fit your needs and you will decide when it
is complete. Although you are 'wellest,' you need physical training
of carefully increasing difficulty to get you back into that superb
pitch of muscle tone and wind and reflex that is your birthright."

"'Birthright.' Don't make jokes, Boss; you have no talent for it.
'My mother was a test tube; my father was a knife.'"


"You are being foolishly self-conscious over an impediment that
was removed years ago."
"Am I? The courts say I can't be a citizen; the churches say I
don't have a soul. I'm not 'man born of woman,' at least not in the
eyes of the law."
"'The law is an ass.' The records concerning your origin have
been removed from the production laboratory's files, and a dummy
set concerning an enhanced male AP was substituted."
"You never told me that!"
"Until you displayed this neurotic weakness, I saw no need. But a
deception of that nature should be made so airtight that it will utterly
displace the truth. And so it has. If you attempted, tomorrow, to
claim your true lineage, you would not be able to get any authority
anywhere to agree with you. You may tell anyone; it doesn't matter.
But, my dear, why are you defensive? You are not only as human as
Mother Eve, you are an enhanced human, as near perfect as your
designers could manage. Why do you think I went out of my way to
recruit you when you had no experience and no conscious interest
in this profession? Why did I spend a small fortune educating and
training you? Because I knew. I waited some years to be sure that
you were indeed developing as your architects intended . . . then
almost lost you when you suddenly dived off the map." He made a
grimace that I think means a smile. "You gave me trouble, girl.
Now about your training. Are you willing to listen?"
"Yes, sir." (I didn't try to tell him about the laboratory crche;
human people think all crches are like those they've seen. I didn't
tell him about the plastic spoon that was all I had to eat with until I
was ten because I didn't want to tell how, the first time I tried to use
a fork, I stabbed my lip and made it bleed and they laughed at me. It
isn't any one thing; it's a million little things that are the difference
between being reared as a human child and being raised as an animal.)
"You'll be taking a bare-hands combat refresher but you are to
work out only with your instructor; there are to be no blemishes on
you when you visit your family in Christchurch. You will receive
advanced training in hand weapons, including some you may never
have heard of. If you change tracks, you will need this."

136

"Boss, I am not going to become an assassin!"
"You need it anyhow. There are times when a courier can carry
weapons and she must have every edge possible. Friday, don't despise
assassins indiscriminately. As with any tool, merit or demerit
lies in how it is used. The decline and fall of the former United
States of North America derived in part from assassinations. But
only in small part as the killings had no pattern and were pointless.
What can you tell me of the Prussian-Russian War?"
"Not much. Mainly that the Prussians got their hides nailed to
the barn when the smart money figured them for winners."
"Suppose I tell you that twelve people won that war--seven men,
five women--and that the heaviest weapon used was a six-millime-ter
pistol."
"I don't think you have ever lied to me. How?"
"Friday, brainpower is the scarcest commodity and the only one
of real value. Any human organization can be rendered useless, impotent,
a danger to itself, by selectively removing its best minds
while carefully leaving the stupid ones in place. It took only a few
careful 'accidents' to ruin utterly the great Prussian military machine
and turn it into a blundering mob. But this did not show until
the fighting was well under way, because stupid fools look just as
good as military geniuses until the fighting starts."
"Only a dozen people--Boss? Did we do that job?"
"You know that is the sort of question I discourage. We did not.
It was a contract job by an organization as small and as specialized
as we are. But I do not willingly involve us in nationalistic wars; the
side of the angels is seldom self-evident."
"I still don't want to be an assassin."
"I will not permit you to be an assassin and let us have no more
discussion of it. Be ready to leave at nine tomorrow."


V

Nine weeks later I left for New Zealand.
I'll say this for Boss: The supercilious bully always knows what
he's talking about. When Dr. Krasny let me go, I wasn't "wellest." I
was simply a recovered patient who no longer needed sickbed nursing.
Nine weeks later I could have taken prizes in the old Olympics
without working up a sweat. As I boarded the SB Abel Tasman at
Winnipeg freeport, the skipper gave me the eye. I knew I looked
good and I added a waggle to my seat that I would never use on a
mission--as a courier I usually try to blend into the scenery. But
now I was on leave and it's kind of fun to advertise. Apparently I
hadn't forgotten how as the skipper came back to my cradle while I
was still belting in. Or it may have been the Superskin jump suit
that I was wearing--new that season and the first one I had had; I
bought the outfit at the freeport and changed into it in the shop. I'm
sure that it is only a matter of time until the sects that think that sex
has something to do with sin will class wearing Superskin as a mortal
sin.
He said, "Miss Baldwin, is it not? Do you have someone meeting
you in Auckland? What with the war and all it is not a good idea for
an unescorted woman to be alone in an international port."
(I did not say, "Look, Bub, the last time I killed the bloke.") The
captain stood a hundred and ninety-five, maybe, and would gross a
hundred or more and none of it fat. Early thirties and the sort of
blond you expect in SAS rather than ANZAC. If he wanted to be
protective I was willing to stand short. I answered, "Nobody's meeting
me but I'm just changing for the South Island shuttle. How do
these buckles work? Uh, do those stripes mean you're the captain?"
"Let me show you. Captain, yes--Captain Ian Totracy." He
started belting me in; I let him.
"Captain. Collee! I've never met a captain before." A remark like
that isn't even a fib when it's a ritual response in the ancient barnyard
dance. He had said to me, "I'm on the prowl and you look
good. Are you interested?" And I had answered, "You look acceptable
but I'm sorry to have to tell you that I don't have time today."
At that point he could adjourn it with no hurt feelings or he could
elect to invest in goodwill against a possible future encounter. He
chose the latter.
As he finished belting me in--tight enough but not too tight and
not using the chance to grab a feelsquite professional--he said,
"The timing on that connection will be close today. If you'll hang
back when we disembark and be last out, I'll be happy to put you
aboard your Kiwi. That'll be faster than finding your way through
the crowds by yourself."
(The connection timing is twenty-seven minutes, Captain--leav-ing
twenty minutes in which to talk me out of my comm signal. But
keep on being sweet about it and I may give it to you.) "Why, thank you, Captain!--if it's really not too much trouble."
"ANZAC service, Miss Baldwin. But my pleasure."
I like to ride the semiballistics--the high-gee blastoff that always
feels as if the cradle would rupture and spurt fluid all over the cabin,
the breathless minutes in free fall that feel as if your guts were falling
out, and then teentry and that long, long glide that beats any sky
ride ever built. Where can you have more fun in forty minutes with
your clothes on?
Then comes the always interesting question: Is the runway clear?
A semiballistic doesn't make two passes; it can't.
It says right here in the brochure that an SB never lifts until it
receives clearance from the port of reentry. Sure, sure, and I believe
in the Tooth Fairy just like Boss's parents. How about the dumb-



I
	39 I


john in the private APV who picks the wrong strip and parks? How
about the time in Singapore when I sat in the Top Deck bar and
watched three SBs land in nine minutes?--not, I concede, on the
same strip, but on crossing strips! Russian roulette.
I'll go on riding them; I like them and my profession often calls
for me to use them. But I hold my breath from touchdown to full
stop.
This trip was fun as usual and a semiballistic ride is never long
enough to be tiring. I hung back when we landed and, sure enough,
my polite wolf was just coming out of the cockpit as I reached the
exit. The flight attendant handed me my bag and Captain Tormey
took it over my insincere protests.
He took me to the shuttle gate, took charge of confirming my reservation
and selecting my seat, then brushed past the Passengers
Only sign and settled down beside me. "Too bad you're leaving so
quickly--too bad for me, that is. Under the rules I have to take
three days turnaround... and I happen to be at loose ends this trip.
My sister and her husband used to live here--but they've moved to
Sydney and I no longer have anyone to visit with."
(I can just see you spending all your off time with your sister and
your brother-in-law.) "Oh, what a shame! I know how you must
feel. My family is in Christchurch and I'm always lonesome when I
have to be away from them. A big, noisy, friendly family--I married
into an S-group." (Always tell them at once.)
"Oh, how jolly! How many husbands do you have?"
"Captain, that is always the first thing men ask. It comes from
misunderstanding the nature of an S-group. From thinking that S
stands for 'sex.'"
"Doesn't it?"
"Goodness, no! It stands for 'security' and 'siblings' and 'sociability'
and 'sanctuary' and 'succor' and 'safety' and lots of other things,
all of them warm and sweet and comforting. Oh, it can stand for
'sex,' too. But sex is readily available everywhere. No need to form
anything as complex as an S-group just for sex." (S stands for "synthetic
family" because that is how it was designated in the legislation
of the first territorial nation, the California Confederacy, to legalize
it. But it is ten-to-one that Captain Tormey knew this. We were
simply running through standard variations of the Grand Salute.)

"I don't find sex that readily available--"
'(I refused to answer his ploy. Captain, with your height and broad
shoulders and pink, well-scrubbed look, and almost all of your time
free for The Hunt... in Winnipeg and Auckland, fer Gossake, two
places where the crop never fails .... Please, sir! Try again.)
"--but I agree with you that it is not reason enough to marry. I'm
not likely to marry, ever . . . because I go where the wild goose
goes. But an S-group sounds like a fine deal to come back to." "It is."
"How big is it?"
"Still interested in my husbands? I have three husbands, sir, and
three group sisters to match . . . and I think you would like all
three-especially Lispeth, our youngest and prettiest. Liz is a redheaded
Scottish lassie and a bit of a flirt. Children? Of course. We
try to count them every night, but they move pretty fast. And kittens
and ducks and puppy dogs and a big rambling garden with roses all
year round, almost. Ifs a busy happy place and always watch where
you put your feet."
"Sounds grand. Does the group need an associate husband who
can't be home much but carries loads of life insurance? How much
does it cost to buy in?"
"I'll speak to Anita about it. But you don't sound serious."
The chitchat continued, neither of us meaning a word of it, other
than on a symbolic level. Shortly we declared it a draw while providing
for a possible rematch by exchanging corem codes, that of
my family in Christchurch in answer to his offer to me of the casual
use of his flat in Auckland. He had taken over the lease, he said,
when his sister had moved... but he needed it only six days out of
the month, usually. "So if you find yourself in town and need a
place for a wash-up and a nap, or overnight, just call."
"But suppose one of your friends is using it, Ian"--he had asked
me to drop calling him Captain--"or yourself."
"Unlikely but, if so, the computer will know and tell you. If I'm
in town or about to be in town, it will tell you that, too--and I certainly
would not want to miss you."
The pass direct, but in the politest terms. So I answered it by telling
him, through giving him our Christchurch number, that he was
welcome to try to get my pants off... if he had the guts to face my


husbands, my co-wives, and a passel of noisy kids. I thought it most
unlikely that he would call. Tall, handsome bachelors in glamorous,
high-paying jobs don't have to carry the anvil that far.

About then the loudspeaker that mumbles the arrivals and departures
interrupted itself with: "It is with deep sorrow that we pause to
announce the total destruction of Acapulco. This flash comes to
you courtesy of Interworld Transport, Proprietary, the Triple-S
Lines: Speed--Safety--Service."

I gasped. Captain Ian said, "Oh, those idiots?

"Which idiots?"

"The whole Mexican Revolutionary Kingdom. When are the territorial
states going to learn that they cannot possibly win against

corporate states? That's why I said they were idiots. And they are!"
"Why do you say that, Captain?--Ian?"

"Obvious. Any territorial state, even if it's Ell-Four or an asteroid,
is a sitting duck. But fighting a multinational is like trying to
slice a fog. Where's your target? You want to fight IBM? Where is
IBM? Its registered home office is a P.O. box number in Delaware
Free State. That's no target. IBM's offices and people and plants are
scattered through four hundred-odd territorial states groundside
and more in space; you can't hit any part of IBM without hurting
somebody else as much or more. But can IBM defeat, say, Great
Russia?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "The Prussians weren't able to."

"It would just depend on whether or not IBM could see a profit in
it. So far as I know, IBM doesn't own any guerrillas; she may not
even have agents saboteurs. She might have to buy the bombs and
missiles. But she could shop around and take her own sweet time
getting set because Russia isn't going anywhere. It will still be there,
a big fat target, a week from now or a year. But Interworld Transport
just showed what the outcome would be. This war is all over. Mexico
bet that Interworld wouldn't risk public condemnation by destroying
a Mexican city. But those old-style politicians forgot that
corporate nations aren't nearly as interested in public opinion as territorial
nations have to be. The war's over."

"Oh, I hope so! Acapulco is--was--a beautiful place."

"Yes, and it would still be a beautiful place if the Montezuma's


Revolutionary Council wasn't rooted somewhere back in the twentieth
century. But now there will be face-saving. Interworld will
apologize and pay an indemnity, then, with no fanfare, the Montezuma
will cede the land and the extraterritoriality for the new space-port
to a new corporation with a Mexicano name and a DF home
office... and the public won't be told that the new corporation is
owned sixty percent by Interworld and forty percent by the very politicians
who stalled just a little too long and let Acapulco be destroyed."
Captain Tormey looked sour and I suddenly saw that he
was older than I had first guessed.

I said, "Ian, isn't ANZAC a subsidiary of Interworld?"

"Perhaps that's why I sound so cynical." He stood up. "Your
shuttle is locking into the gate. Let me have your bag."


1

Christchurch is the loveliest city on this globe
Make that "anywhere," as there is not yet a truly lovely city off
Earth. Luna City is underground, Ell-Five looks like a junkyard
from outside and has only one arc that looks good from inside. Martian
cities are mere hives and most Earthside cities suffer from a misguided attempt to look like Los Angeles.
Christchurch does not have the magnificence of Paris or the setting
of San Francisco or the harbor of Rio. Instead it has things that
make a city lovable rather than stunning: The gentle Avon winding
through our downtown streets. The mellow beauty of Cathedral
Square. The Ferrier fountain in front of Town Hall. The lush beauty
of our world-famous botanic gardens smack in the middle of
downtown.
"The Greeks praise Athens." But I am not a native of Christ-church
(if"native" could mean anything for my sort). I am not even
an Ennzedd. I met Douglas in Ecuador (this was before the Quito
Skyhook catastrophe), was delighted by a frantic love affair compounded
of equal parts of pisco sours and sweaty sheets, then was
frightened by his proposal, calmed down when he made me understand
that he was not then proposing vows in front of some official
but a trial visit to his S-group--find out if they liked me, find out if I
liked them.
That was different. I zipped back to the Imperium and reported,
and told Boss that I was taking some accumulated leave--or would
he rather have my resignation? He growled something about go
ahead and get my gonads cooled off, then report in when I was fit to
work. So I rushed back to Quito and Douglas was still in bed.
At that time there really wasn't any way to get from Ecuador to
New Zealand . . . so we tubed to Lima and took an SB right over
the South Pole to West Australia Port at Perth (with the oddest S-shaped
track because of Coriolis)--tube to Sydney, bounce to Auckland,
float to Christchurch, taking nearly twenty-four hours and the
wildest of tracks just to cross the Pacific. Winnipeg and Quito are
almost the same distance from Aucklanddon't be fooled by a flat
map; ask your computer--Winnipeg is only one-eighth farther.
Forty minutes versus twenty-four hours. But I had not minded
the longer trip; I was with Douglas and dizzy in love.
In another twenty-four hours I was dizzy in love with his family.
I hadn't expected that. I had looked forward to a lovely vacation
with Douglas and he had promised me some skiing as well as sex--not
that I insisted on skiing. I knew that I had an implied obligation
to go to bed with his group brothers if asked. But that didn't worry
me because an artificial person simply can't take copulation as seriously
as most humans seem to take it. Most of the females of my
creche class had been trained as doxies from menarche on and then
were signed up as company women with one or another of the construction
multinationals. I myself had received basic doxy training
before Boss showed up, bought my contract, and changed my track.
(And I jumped the contract and was missing for several months--but
that's another story.)
But I wouldn't have been jumpy about friendly sex even if I had
received no doxy training at all; such nonsense isn't tolerated in APs;
we never learn it.
But we never learn anything about being in a family. The very
first day I was there I made us all late for tea by rolling on the floor
with seven youngsters ranging from eleven down to a nappy-wetter
 . . plus two or three dogs and a young tomcat who had earned the
name Mister Underfoot through his unusual talent for occupying
all of a large floor.
I had never experienced anything like that in all my life. I didn't
want to stop.
Brian, not Douglas, took me skiing. The ski lodges at Mount

144
	45 I


Hurt are lovely but the bedrooms aren't heated after twenty-two and you have to snuggle up close to keep warm. Then Vickie took me
out to see the family's sheep and I met socially an enhanced dog
who could talk, a big collie called Lord Nelson. Lord had a low
opinion of the good sense of sheep, in which he was, I think, fully j ustified.
Bettie took me to Milford Sound via shuttle to Dunedin (the "Edinburgh
of the South") and overnight there--Dunedin is swell but
it's not Christchurch. We took a fiubsy little steamer there around
to the fiord country, one with tiny little cabins big enough for two
only because it's cold down at the south end of the island and again
I snuggled up close.
There isn't any other fjord anywhere that can compare with Milford
Sound. Yes, I've been on the Lofoten Islands trip. Very nice.
But my mind's made up.
If you think I am as blindly pigheaded about South Island as a
mother is about her firstborn, that is simply because it's true; I am.
North Island is a fine place, with its thermal displays and the world
wonder of the Glowworm Caves. And the Bay of Islands looks like
Fairyland. But North Island does not have the Southern Alps and it
doesn't have Christchurch.
Douglas took me to see their creamery and I saw huge tubs
beautiful butter being packed. Anita introduced me to the Altar
Guild. I began to realize that, maybe, just possibly, I might be invited
to make it permanent. And found that I had shifted from Oh-God-what'll-I-do-if-they-ask-me
to Oh-God-what'll-I-do-if-they, don't-ask-me and then simply to Oh-God-what'll-I-do?
You see, I had never told Douglas that I am not human.
I've heard humans boast that they can spot an artificial
every time. Nonsense. Of course anyone can pick out a living
fact that does not conform to human appearance--say a man
ture with four arms or a kobold dwarf. But if the genetic desi
have intentionally restricted themselves to human appearance
being the technical definition of "artificial person" rather than
ing artifact"), no human can tell the difference--no, not even an.
other genetic engineer.
I am immune to cancer and to most infections. But I don't wear

146

sign saying so. I have unusual reflexes. But I won't show them off by
picking a fly out of the air with thumb and forefinger. I never compete
with other people in games of dexterity.
I have unusual memory, unusual innate grasp of number and
space and relationship, unusual skill at languages. But, if you think
that defines a genius IQ, let me add that, in the school I was trained
in, the object of an IQ test is to hit precisely a predetermined scot--not to show off your smarts. In public nobody's going to
catch me being smarter than those around me . . . unless it's an
emergency involving either my mission or my neck or both.
The complex of these enhancements and others is reliably reported
to improve sexual performance but, fortunately, most males are
inclined to regard any noticeable improvement in this area as simply
a reflection of their own excellence. (Properly regarded, male
vanity is a virtue, not a vice. Treated correctly, it makes him enormously
pleasanter to deal with. The thing that makes Boss so infuriating
is his total lack of vanity. No way to get a handle on him!)
I was not afraid that I would be caught out. With all production
laboratory identification removed from my body, even the tattoo
that was on the roof of my mouth, there is simply no way to tell that
I was designed rather than conceived through the bio roulette of a
billion sperm competing blindly for one ovum.
But a wife in the S-group was expected to add to that swarm of
kids on the floor.
Well, why not?
Lots of reasons.
I was a combat courier in a quasi-military organization. Picture
me trying to cope with a sudden attack while pushing an eight-months
belly ahead of me.
We AP females are released or marketed in a reversible sterile
condition. To an artificial person the yen to have babies--grow
them inside your bodydoesn't, seem "natural"; it seems ridiculous. In vitro seems so much more reasonable--and neater, and
more convenient--than in vivo. I was as tall as I am now before I
ever saw a pregnant woman near term--and I thought she was
deathly ill. When I found out what was wrong with her, it made me
sort of sick to my stomach. When I thought about it a long time


later in Christchurch, it still made me queasy. Do it like a cat, with
blood and pain fer Gossake? Why? And why do it at all? Despite the
way we are filling up the sky, this giddy globe has far too many people
on it--why make it worse?

I decided, most sorrowfully, that I was going to have to duck the
issue of marriage by telling them that I was sterile--no babies. True

enough if not all the truth.

I wasn't asked.

Not about babies. For the next several days I reached out with
both hands to enjoy family life as much as possible while I had it:
the warm pleasure of woman talk while washing up after tea; the
rowdy fun of youngsters and pets; the quiet pleasure of gossip while
gardening--these bathed every minute of my day in belonging.

One morning Anita invited me out into the garden. I thanked her
while pointing out that I was busy helping Vickie. Whereupon [ was
overruled and found myself seated at the far end of the garden with
Anita, and children firmly shooed away.

Anita said, "Marjorie dear"--I'm "Marjorie Baldwin" in Christ-church
because that was my public name when I met Douglas in
Quito--"we both know why Douglas invited you here. Are you
happy with us?"

"Terribly happy!"

"Happy enough, do you think, to wish to make it permanent?"

"Yes but--" I never had a chance to say Yes-but-I'm-sterile;
Anita firmly cut me off.

"Perhaps I had better say some things first, dear. We must discuss
dowry. If I left it up to our men, money would never be mentioned;
Albert and Brian are as dotty about you as Douglas is, and I quite
understand it. But this group is a family business corporation as well
as a marriage, and someone must keep an eye on the bookkeeping
 . . and that is why I am chairman of the board and chief executive;
I never become so emotional that I fail to watch our businesses.
She smiled and her knitting needles clicked. "Ask Brian--he calls
me Ebenezer Scrooge--but he hasn't offered to take over the
ties himself.

"You can stay with us as a guest as long as you like, What's
more mouth to feed at a table as long as ours? Nothing. But if
want to join us formally and contractually, then I must become Ebenezer
Scrooge and discover what contract we can write. For I won't
let the family fortunes be watered down. Brian owns and votes three
shares, Albert and I each own and vote two shares, Douglas and
Victoria and Lispeth have one each and vote it. As you can see, I
have only two votes out of ten... but for some years, if I threaten
to resign, I suddenly receive a strong vote of confidence. Someday
I'll be overruled and then I can quit and be Alice Sit-by-the-Fire."
(And the funeral will be later that same day!)

"Meanwhile I cope. The children each have one nonvoting share
 . . and a child never does vote his share because it is paid to him or
her in cash on leaving home, as dowry or as starting capital--or
wasted although I like to think not. Such reductions in capital must
be planned; were three of our girls to marry in the same year the
situation could be embarrassing if not anticipated."

I told her that it sounded like a very sensible and warm arrangement
as I didn't think that most children were so carefully provided
for. (In fact I didn't know anything at all about such things.)

"We try to do right by them," she agreed. "After all, children are
the purpose of a family. So I'm sure that you will see that an adult
joining our group must buy a share, or the system won't work. Marriages
are arranged in heaven but the bills must be paid here on
earth."

"Amen." (I could see that my problems were solved for me. Negatively.
I could not estimate the wealth of the Davidson Group
Family. Wealthy, that was certain, even though they lived with no
servants in an old-fashioned unautomated house. Whatever it was, I
could not buy a share.)


"Douglas told us that he had no idea whether you had money or

not. Money in capital amounts, I mean."

"I don't."

She never dropped a stitch. "Nor did I when I was your age. You
are employed, are you not? Couldn't you work in Christchurch and
buy your share out of your salary? I know that finding work can be a
problem in a strange city . . , but I am not without connections.
What do you do? You've never told us."


(And I'm not about to!) After evading her and then telling her


I 48
	49 I


bluntly that my work was confidential and I refused to discuss any
aspect of my employer's business but, no, I couldn't leave and look
for work in Christchurch, so there wasn't any way it could work but
it had certainly been wonderful while it had lasted and I hoped--

She chopped me off. "My dear, I was not empowered to negotiate
this contract for the purpose of failing. Why it can't be done is not
acceptable; I must discover how it can be done. Brian has offered to
give you one of his three shares . . . and Douglas and Albert are
backing him, pro rata, although they can't pay him at once. But I
vetoed the whole scheme; it is a bad precedent and I told them so,
using a crude old country expression about rams in the spring. Instead
I am accepting one of Brian's shares as security against your
performance of your contract."

"But I don't have a contract?

"You will have. If you continue your present employment, how
much can you pay per month? Don't pinch yourself but do pay off
as quickly as possible as it works just like an amortized real-estate
purchase: Part of each payment services the remaining debt, part reduces
that debt--so the larger the payment the better, for you.

(I had never bought any real estate.) "Can we figure that in

I can convert into any money, of course, but I get paid in gold."

"In gold?" Anita suddenly looked alert. She reached into her
knitting bag and pulled out a portable relay to her computer termi'
hal. "I can offer you a better deal for gold." She punched for a
while, waited, and nodded. "Considerably better. Although I'm not
really set up to handle bullion. But arrangements can be made."

"I said I can convert. The drafts are for grams, three nines fine
drawn on Ceres and South Africa Acceptances, Limited,
City. But it can be paid in New Zealand money, right here,
automatic bank deposit even when I'm not on Earth at the time..
Bank of New Zealand, Christchurch office?"

"Uh, Canterbury Land Bank. I'm a director there."

"By all means keep it in the family."

The next day we signed the contract and later that week they
tied me, all legal and proper, in a side chapel of the cathedral,
me in white, fer Gossake.

The following week I went back to work, both sad and


happy. For the next seventeen years I would be paying NZ$858.13
per month, or I could pay it faster. For what? I could not live at
home until it was all paid because I had to keep my job to meet
those monthly payments. For what, then? Not for sex. As I told
Captain Tormey, sex is everywhere; it's silly to pay for it. For the
privilege of getting my hands into soapy dishwater, I guess. For the
privilege of rolling around on the floor and being peed on by puppies
and babies only nominally housebroken.

For the warm knowledge that, wherever I was, there was a place
on this planet where I could do these things as a matter of right,
because I belonged.

It seemed like a bargain to me.


As soon as the shuttle floated off, I phoned ahead, got Vickie, and,
once she stopped squealing, gave her my ETA. I had intended to
call from the Kiwi Lines lounge in Auckland port but my curly
wolf, Captain Ian, had used up the time. No matter--although the
shuttle floats just short of the speed of sound, a stop at Wellington
and a stop at Nelson uses up enough time that I thought someone
would meet me. I hoped so.

Everybody met me. Well, not quite everybody. We're licensed to
own an APV because we raise sheep and cattle and need power
transportation. But we aren't supposed to use it in town. Brian did
so anyhow and a working majority of our big family was spilling out
the sides of that big farm floatwagon.

Most of a year since my last visit home, over twice as long as any
such period earlier--bad. Children can grow away from you in that
length of time. I was most careful about names and made sure that I
checked off everyone in my mind. All present save Ellen, who was
hardly a childseleven when they married me, she was a young lady
now, university age. Anita and Lispeth were at home, hurrying together
my welcome-home feast . . . and again I would be gently
scolded for not having given them warning and again I would try to
explain that, in my work, once I was free to leave, it was better to
grab the first SB than it was to try to get a call through--did I need
an appointment to come to my own home?

Shortly I was down on the floor with kids all around me. Mister


15o
	511


Underfoot, a gangly young cat when I first met him, waited for opportunity
to greet me with dignity befitting his status as senior cat,
elderly, fat, and slow. He looked me over carefully, brushed against
me, and buzzed. I was home.


After a time I asked, "Where is Ellen? Still in Auckland? I thought
university was closed for vacation now." I looked right at Anita
when I said this but she appeared not to hear me. Getting hard of
hearing? Surely not.

"Marjie--" Brian's voice--I looked around. He did not speak and
his face held no expression. He barely shook his head.

(Ellen a taboo topic? What is this, Brian? I tabled it until I could
speak to him privately. Anita has always maintained that she loves
all our children equally, whether they are her own bio children or
not. Oh, certainly! Save that her special interest in Ellen was always
clear to everyone within reach of her voice.)

Later that night when the house was settling down and Bertie and
I were about to go to bed (under some lottery system in which our
teasing darlings always insisted that the loser had to spend the night
with me), Brian tapped at the door and came in.

Bertie said, "It's all right. You can leave. I can take my punishment."

"Stow it, Bert. Have you told Marj about Ellen?"

"Not yet."

"Then fill her in. Sweetheart, Ellen got married without Anita's
blessing... and Anita is furious about it. So it's best not to mention
Ellen around Anita. Verb. sap., eh? Now I must run before she
misses me."

"Aren't you permitted to come kiss me good-night? Or to stay
here for that matter? Aren't you my husband, too?"

"Yes, of course, dear. But Anita is touchy as can be at present and
there is no point in getting her stirred up."

Brian kissed us good-night and left. I said, "What is this,

Why shouldn't Ellen marry anyone she wishes to marry? She is
enough to make her own decisions."

"Well, yes. But Ellen didn't use good judgment about it. She's
married a Tongan and she's gone to live in Nuku'alofa."


"Does Anita feel that they should live here? In Christchurch?"
"Eh? No, no! It's the marriage she objects to."
"Is there something wrong with this man?"
"Marjorie, didn't you hear me? He's a Tongan."

"Yes, I heard. Since he lives in Nuku'alofa, I would expect him
to be. Ellen is going to find it awfully hot there, after being brought
up in one of the few perfect climates. But that is her problem. I still
don't see why Anita is upset. There must be something I don't
know."

"Oh, but you do! Well, maybe you don't. Tongans are not like
us. They aren't white people; they are barbarians."

"Oh, but they're not!" I sat up in bed, thereby putting a stop to
what hadn't really started. Sex and arguments don't mix. Not for
me, anyway. "They are the most civilized people in all Polynesia.
Why do you think the early explorers called that group 'the Friendly

Isles'? Have you ever been there, Berrie?"

"No but--"

"I have. Aside from the heat it's a heavenly place. Wait till you
see it. This man-- What does he do? If he simply sits and carves
mahogany for the tourists, I could understand Anita's unease. Is
that it?"

"No. But I doubt that he can afford a wife. And Ellen can't afford
a husband; she didn't finish her degree. He's a marine biologist.'.'

"I see. He's not rich... and Anita respects money. But he won't
be poor, either--he'll probably wind up a professor at Auckland or
Sydney. Although a biologist can get rich, today. He may design a

new plant or animal that will make him fabulously wealthy."
"Darling, you still don't understand."
"Indeed I don't. So tell me."

"Well... Ellen should have married one of her own kind."

"What do you mean by that, Albert? Someone living in Christ-church?"

"It would help."

"Wealthy?"

"Not a requirement. Although things are usually smoother if financial
affairs aren't too one-sided. Polynesian beach boy marries
white heiress always has a stink to it."


"Oh, oh! He's penniless and she has just collected her family
share--right?"
"No, not exactly. Damn it, why couldn't she have married a
white man? We brought her up better than that."
"Bertie, what in the world? You sound like a Dane talking about
a Swede. I thought that New Zealand was free of that sort of thing. I
remember Brian pointing out to me that the Maori were the politi-
cal and social equals of the English in all respects."
"And they are. It's not the same thing."
"I guess I'm stupid." (Or was Bettie stupid? Maori are Polynesians,
so are Tongans -- what's the ache?
I dropped the matter. I had not come all the way from Winnipeg
to debate the merits of a son-in-law I had never seen. "Son-in-law
 . ." What an odd idea. It always delighted me when one of the
little ones called me Mama rather than Marjie--but I had never
thought about the possibility of ever having a son-in-law.
And yet he was indeed my son-in-law under Ennzedd law -- and I
didn't even know his name!
I kept quiet, tried to make my mind blank, and let Bettie devote
himself to making me feel welcome. He's good at that.
After a while I was just as busy showing him how happy I was to
be home, the unwelcome interruption forgotten.

VII

The next morning, before I was out of bed, I resolved not to open
the subject of Ellen and her husband, but wait until someone else
brought it up. Aftei' all, I was in no position to have opinions until I
knew all about it. I was not going to drop it--Ellen is my daughter,
too. But don't rush it. Wait for Anita to calm down.
But the subject did not come up. There followed lazy, golden
days that I shan't describe as I don't think you are interested in birthday
parties or family picnics--precious to me, dull to an outsider.
Vickie and I went to Auckland on an overnight shopping trip.
After we checked into the Tasman Palace, Vickie said to me,
"Marj, would you keep a secret for me?"
"Certainly," I agreed. "Something juicy, I hope. A boyfriend?
Two boyfriends?"
"If I had even one boyfriend I would simply split him with you.
This is touchier. I want to talk to Ellen and I don't want to have an
argument with Anita about it. This is the first chance I've had. Can
you forget I did it?"
"Not quite, because I want to talk to her myself. But I won't tell
Anita that you talked to Ellen if you don't wish me to. What is this,
Vick? That Anita was annoyed about Ellen's marriage I knew--but
does she expect the rest of us not even to talk to Ellen? Our own
daughter?" '
"I'm afraid it's 'her own daughter' right now. She's not being very
rational about it."



154
	551


"It sounds that way. Well, I will not let Anita cut me off from
Ellen. I would have called her before this but I did not know how to
reach her."
"I'11 show you. I'll call now and you can write it down. It's--"
"Hold it!" I interrupted. "Don't touch that terminal. You don't
want Anita to know."
"I said so. That's why I'm calling from here."
"And the call will be included in our hotel bill and you'll pay the
bill with your Davidson credit card and-- Does Anita still check every
bill that comes into the house?"
"She does. Oh, Marj, I'm stupid."
"No, you're honest. Anita won't object to the cost but she's certain
to notice a code or a printout th"a't means an overseas call. We'll
slide over to the G.EO. and make the call there. Pay cash. Or, easi-
er yet, we'll use ray credit card, which does not bill to Anita."
"Of course! Marj, you would make a good spy.'"
"Not me; that's dangerous. I got my practice dodging my mother.
Let's pin our ears back and slide over to the post office. Vickie, what
is this about Ellen's husband? Does he have two heads or what?"
"Uh, he's a Tongan. Or did you know?"
"Certainly I knew. But 'Tongan' is not a disease. And it's Ellen's
business. Her problem, if it is one. I can't see that it is."
"Uh, Anita has handled it badly. Once it's done, the only thing
to do is to put the best face on it possible. But a mixed marriage is
always unfortunate, I think--especially if the girl is the one marrying
below herself, as in Ellen's case."
"'Below herselfl' All I've been told is that he's a Tongan. Ton-gans
are tall, handsome, hospitable, and about as brown as I am. In
appearance they can't be distinguished from Maori. What if this
young man had been Maori . . . of good family, from an early canoe...
and lots of land?"
"Truly, I don't think Anita would have liked it, Marj--but she
would have gone to the wedding and given the reception. Intermar-
riage with Maori has long precedent behind it; one must accept it,
But one need not like it. Mixing the races is always a bad idea."
(Vickie, Vickie, do you know of a better idea for getting the ,
out of the mess it is in?) "So? Vickie, this built-in suntan of mine--you
know where I got it?"

"Certainly, you told us. Amerindian. Uh, Cherokee, you said.
Marj! Did I hurt your feelings? Oh, dear! It's not like that at all!
Everybody knows that Amerindians are-- Well, just like white people.
Every bit as good."
(Oh, sure, sure! And "some of my best friends are Jews." But I'm
not Cherokee, so far as I know. Dear little Vickie, what would you
think if I told you that I am an AP? I'm tempted to... but I must
not shock you.)
"No, because I considered the source. You don't know any better.
You've never been anywhere and you probably soaked up racism
with your mother's milk."
Vickie turned red. "That's most unfair! Marj, when you were up
for membership in the family I stuck up for you. I voted for you."
"I was under the impression that everyone had. Or I would not
have joined. Do I understand that my Cherokee blood was an issue
in that discussion?"
"Well... it was mentioned."
"By whom and to what effect?"
"Uh-- Marjie, those are executive sessions, they have to be. I
can't talk about them."
"Mmm, I see your point. Was there an executive session over Ellen?
If so, you should be free to talk to me about it, since I would
have been entitled to be present and to vote."
"There wasn't one. Anita said that it wasn't necessary. She said
that she did not believe in encouraging fortune hunters. Since she
had already told Ellen that she could not bring Tom home to meet
the family, there didn't seem to be anything to be done."
"Didn't any of you stand up for Ellen? Did you do so, Vickie?"
Vickie turned red again. "It would simply have made Anita
furious."
'I'm getting kind of furious myself. By our family code Ellen is
your daughter and my daughter as quite as much as she is Anita's
daughter, and Anita is wrong in refusing Ellen permission to bring
her new husband home without consulting the rest of us."
"Marj, it wasn't quite that way. Ellen wanted to bring Tom home
for a visit. Uh, an inspection visit. You know."
"Oh. Yes, having been under the microscope myself, I do
know."

I 56
	57 I


"Anita was trying to keep Ellen from making a bad marriage. The
first the rest of us knew about it Ellen was married. Apparently Ellen
went right straight out and got married the minute she got Anita's
letter telling her no."

"Be damned! A light begins to dawn. Ellen trumped Anita's ace
by getting married at once--and that meant that Anita had to pay
out cash equal to one family corporation share with no notice.
Could be difficult. It's quite a chunk of money. It is taking me years
and years to pay for my share."

"No, it's not that. Anita is simply angry because her daughter--her
favorite; we all know that--has married a man she disapproves
of. Anita hasn't had to scrape up that much cash becauset wasn't
necessary. There is no contractual obligation to pay out a share...
and Anita pointed out that there was no moral obligation to siphon
off the family's capital to benefit an adventurer."

I felt myself getting coldly angry. "Vickie, I have trouble believing
my ears. What sort of spineless worms are the rest of you to allow
Ellen to be treated this way?" I took a deep breath and tried to
control my fury. "I don't understand you. Any of you. But I'm going
to try to set a good example. When we get home I'm going to do
two things. First I'm going to the family-room terminal when everybody
is there and phone Ellen and invite her and her husband
home for a visit--come for the next weekend because I've got to get

back to work and don't want to miss meeting my new son-in-law."
"Anita will burst a blood vessel."

"We'll see. Then I'm going to call for a family meeting and move
that Ellen's share be paid to her with all orderly haste consonant
with conserving assets." I added, "I assume that Anita will be furious
again."

"Probably. To no purpose, as you'll lose the vote. Marj,
must you do this? Things are bad enough now."

"Maybe. But it's possible that some of you have just been

for someone else to take the lead in bucking Anita's tyranny. At
I'll find out how the vote goes. Vick, under the contract I signed
have paid more than seventy thousand Ennzedd dollars into
family and I was told that the reason I had to buy my way into
marriage was that each of our many children were to be paid a
share on leaving home. I didn't protest; I signed. But there is an
implied contract there no matter what Anita says. If Ellen can't be
paid today, then I shall insist that my monthly payments go to Ellen
until such time as Anita can shake loose the rest of one share to pay
Ellen off. Does that strike you as equitable?"

She was slow in answering. "Marj, I don't know. I haven't had
time to think."

"Better take time. Because, along about Wednesday, you are going
to have to fish or cut bait. I shall not let Ellen be mistreated any
further." I grinned and added, "Smile! Let's slide over to the post
office and be sunny-side-up for Ellen."

But we didn't go to the G.P.O.; we didn't call Ellen at all that
trip. Instead we proceeded to drink our dinner and argue. I'm not
sure just how the subject of artificial persons got into the discussion.
I think it was while Vickie was "proving" still another time how free
she was from racial prejudice while exhibiting that irrational attitude
every time she opened her mouth. Maori were just dandy and
of course American Indians were and Hindu Indians for that matter
and the Chinese had certainly produced their quota of geniuses; everybody
knew that, but you had to draw the line somewhere ....

We had gone to bed and I was trying to tune out her drivel when

something hit me. I raised up. "How would you know?"

"How would I know what?"

"You said, 'Of course no one would marry an artifact.' How
would you know that a person was artificial? Not all of them carry
serial numbers."

"Huh? Why, Marjie, don't be silly. A manufactured creature

can't be mistaken for a human being. If you had ever seen one--"
"I've seen one. I've seen many!"
"Then you know."
"Then I know what?"

"That you can tell one of those monsters just by looking at it."

"How? What are these stigmata that mark off an artificial person
from any other person? Name one!"

"Marjorie, you're being dreadfully difficult just to be annoying!
This is not like you, dear. You're turning our holiday into something
unpleasant."


I 5s
	59 I


"Not me, Vick. You are. By saying silly, stupid, unpleasant
things without a shred of evidence to back them up." (And that retort
of mine proves that an enhanced person is not a superman, as
that is exactly the sort of factually truthful remark that is much too
cruel to use in a family discussion.)
"Oh! How wicked! How untruthful!"
What I did next can't be attributed to loyalty to Other artificial
persons because APs don't feel group loyalty. No basis for it. I've
heard that Frenchmen will die for La Belle France---but can you
imagine anyone fighting and dying for Homunculi Unlimited, Pty.,
South Jersey Section? I suppose I did it for myself although, like
many of the critical decisions in my life, I have never been able to
analyze why I did it. Boss says that I do all of my important thinking
on the unconscious level. He may be right.
I got out of bed, whipped off my gown, stood in front of her.
"Look me over," I demanded. "Am I an artificial person? Or not?
Either way, how do you tell?"
"Oh, Marjie, quit flaunting yourselfl Everybody knows you
have the best figure in the family; you don't have to prove it."
"Answer me! Tell me which I am and tell me how you know.
Use any test. Take samples for laboratory analysis. But tell me
which I am and what signs prove it."
"You're a naughty girl, that's what you are."
"Possibly. Probably. But which sort? Natural? Or artificial?"
"Oh, bosh! Natural, of course."
"Wrong. I'm artificial."
"Oh, stop being silly! Put your nightgown on and come back to
bed."
Instead I badgered her with it, telling her what laboratory had designed
me, the date I had been removed from the surrogate womb--my
"birthday," although we APs are "cooked" a little longer to
speed up maturing--forced her to listen to a description of life in a
production laboratory crche. (Correction: Life in the crche that
raised me; other production crhches may be different.)
I gave her a summary of my life after I left the crche--mostl'
lies, as I could not compromise Boss's secrets; I simply
what I had long since told the family, that I was a confidential com-

160

mercial traveler. I didn't need to mention Boss because Anita had
decided years back that I was an envoy of a multinational, the sort of
diplomat who always travels anonymously--an understandable error
that I was happy to encourage by never denying it.
Vickie said, "Marjie, I wish you wouldn't do this. A string of lies
like that could endanger your immortal soul."
"I don't have a soul. That's what I've been telling you."
"Oh, stop it! You were born in Seattle. Your father was an electronics
engineer; your mother was a pediatricJan. You lost them in
the quake. You told us all about them--you showed us pictures."
"'My mother was a test tube; my father was a knife.' Vickie, there
may be a million or more artificial people whose 'birth records' were
'destroyed' in the destruction of Seattle. No way to count them as
their lies are never assembled. After what happened just this month
there will start being lots of people of my sort who were 'born' in
Acapulco. We have to find loopholes like that to avoid being persecuted
by the ignorant and the prejudiced."
"Meaning I'm ignorant and prejudiced!"
"Meaning you are a sweet girl who was fed a pack of lies by your
elders. I'm trying to correct that. But if the shoe fits, you can lie
in it."
I shut up. Vickie didn't kiss me good-night. We were a long time
getting to sleep.
The next day each of us pretended that the argument had never
taken place. Vickie did not mention Ellen; I did not mention artificial
persons. But it spoiled what had started out to be a merry outing.
We got the shopping done and caught the evening shuttle
home. I did not do as I had threatened--I did not call Ellen as soon
as we were home. I did not forget Ellen; I simply hoped that waiting
a while might mellow the situation. Cowardly, I suppose.
Early the following week Brian invited me to go with him while
he inspected a piece of land for a client. It was a long pleasant ride
with lunch at a licensed country hotel--a fricasee billed as hogget
although almost certainly mutton, washed down by tankards of
mild. We ate out under the trees.
After the sweet--a berry tart, quite good---Brian said, "Marjorie,
Victoria came to me with a very odd story."


"So? What was it?"

"My dear, please believe that I would not mention this were not

Vickie so troubled by it." He paused.

I waited. "Upset by what, Brian?"

"She claims that you told her that you are a living artifact mas-

querading as a human being. I'm sorry but that's what she said."
"Yes, I told her that. Not in those words."

I did not add any explanation. Presently Brian said gently, "May I
ask why?"

"Brian, Vickie was saying some very silly things about Tongans,
and I was trying to make her see that they were both silly and
wrong--that she was wronging Ellen by it. I am very much troubled
about Ellen. The day I arrived home you shushed me about er,
and I have kept quiet. But I can't keep quiet much longer. Brian,
what are we going to do about Ellen? She's your daughter and mine;
we can't ignore how she is being mistreated. What shall we do?"

"I do not necessarily agree that something should be done, Marjorie.
Please don't change the subject. Vickie is quite unhappy. I
am attempting to straighten out the misunderstanding."

I answered, "I have not changed the subject. Injustice to Ellen is
the subject and I won't drop it. Is there any respect in which Ellen's
husband is objectionable? Other than preiudgment against him because
he is Tongan?"

"None that I know of. Although, in my opinion, it was inconsiderate
of Ellen to marry a man who had not even been introduced to
her family. It does not show a decent respect for the people who
have loved her and cared for her all her life."

"Wait a moment, Brian. As Vickie tells it, Ellen asked to bring
him home for inspection--as I was brought home--and Anita refused
to permit it. Whereupon Ellen married him. True?"

"Well, yes. But Ellen was headstrong and hasty. I don't think she
should have done so without talking to her other parents. I was quite
hurt by it."

"Did she try to speak to you? Did you make any attempt to talk to
her?"

"Marjorie, by the time I knew of it, it was a fait accompli."

"So I hear. Brian, ever since I got home I have been hoping that


someone would explain to me what happened. According to Vickie
none of this was ever settled in family council. Anita refused to let
Ellen bring her beloved home. The rest of Ellen's parents either did
not know or did not interfere with Anita's, uh, cruelty. Yes, cruelty.
Whereupon the child got married. Whereupon Anita compounded
her initial cruelty by a grave injustice: She refused Ellen her birthright,
her share of the family's wealth. Is all this true?"

"Marjorie, you were not here. The rest of us---six out of seven--acted
as wisely as we could in a difficult situation. I don't think it is
proper of you to come along afterwards and criticize what we have
done--upon my word, I don't."

"Dear, I don't mean to offend you. But my very point is that six of
you have not done anything. Anita, acting alone, has done things
that seem to me to be cruel and unjust... and the rest of you stood
aside and let her get away with it. No family decisions, just Anita's
decisions. If this is true, Brian--and correct me if I'm wrong--then
I feel compelled to ask for a full executive session of all husbands
and wives to correct this cruelty by inviting Ellen and her husband
to visit home, and to correct the injustice by paying to Ellen her fair
share of the family's wealth, or at least to acknowledge the debt if it
can't be liquidated at once. Will you tell me your opinion of that?"

Brian drummed his nails on the tabletop. "Marjorie, that's a simplistic
view of a complex situation. Will you admit that I love Ellen

and have her welfare in mind quite as much as you do?"
"Certainly, darling!"

"Thank you. I agree with you that Anita should not have refused
to let Ellen bring her young man home. Indeed, if Ellen had seen
him against the background of her own home, with its gentle ways
and its traditions, she might well have decided that he was not for
her. Anita stampeded Ellen into a foolish marriage--and I have told
her so. But the matter cannot be immediately corrected by inviting
them here. You can see that. Let's agree that Anita should receive
them warmly and graciously... but it's God's own tr'nth that she
won't--if she has them shoved down her throat."

He grinned at me and I was forced to grin in return. Anita can be
charming... and she can be incredibly cold, rude, if it suits her.

Brian went on: "Instead, I'll have reason to make a trip to Tonga


in a couple of weeks and this will let me get well acquainted without
having Anita at my elbow--"

"Good! Take me along--pretty please?"

"It would annoy Anita."

"Brian, Anita has considerably more than annoyed me. I won't
refrain from visiting Ellen on that account."

"Mmm... would you refrain from doing something that might
damage the welfare of all of us?"

"If it were pointed out to me, yes. I might ask for explanation."
"You will have it. But let me deal with your second point. Of
course Ellen will get every penny that is coming to her. But you will
concede that there is no urgency about paying it to her. Hasty marriages
often do not last long. And, while I have no proof of it, it is
quite possible that Ellen has been taken in by a fortune hunter.Let's
wait a bit and see how anxious this chap is to lay hands on her money.
Isn't that prudent?"

I had to admit it. He continued: "Marjorie, my love, you are especially
dear to me and to all of us because we see too little of you. It
makes each of your trips home a fresh honeymoon for all of us. But,
because you are away most of the time, you don't understand why

the rest of us are always careful to keep Anita soothed down."
"Well-- No, I don't. It should work both ways."

"In dealing with the law and with people I have found a vast difference
between 'should' and 'is.' I've lived with Anita longest of any
of us; I've learned to live with her little ways. What you may not

realize is that she is the glue that holds the family together."
"How, Brian?"

"There is the obvious matter of her custodianship. As manager of
the family finances and businesses she is well-nigh irreplaceable.
Perhaps some other one of us could do it but it is certain that no one
wants the job and I strongly suspect that no one of us could approach
her competence. But in ways other than money she is a
strong, capable executive. Whether it is in stopping quarrels between
children or in deciding any of the thousand issues that come
up in a large household, Anita can always make up her mind and
keep things moving. A group family, such as ours, must have a
strong, capable leader."


(Strong, capable tyrant, I said under my breath.)

"So. Marjie girl, can you wait a bit and give old Brian time to
work it out? Believe that I love Ellen as much as you do?"

I patted his hand. "Certainly, dear." (But don't take forever!)

"Now, when we get home, will you find Vickie and tell her that
you were joking and that you are sorry you upset her? Please, dear."

(Wups! I had been thinking about Ellen so hard that I had forgotten
where this conversation started.) "Now wait one moment, Brian.
I'll wait and avoid annoying Anita since you tell me it's
necessary. But I'm not going to cater to Vickie's racial prejudices."

"You would not be doing so. Our family is not all of one mind in
such matters. I agree with you and you will find that Liz does, too.
Vickie is somewhat on the fence; she wants to find any excuse to get
Ellen back into the family and, now that I've talked to her, is willing
to concede that Tongans are just like Maori and that the real test is
the person himself. But it's that strange jest you made about yourself
that has her upset."

"Oh. Brian, you once told me that you had almost earned a de-

gree in biology when you switched to law."

"Yes. 'Almost' may be too strong."

"Then you know that an artificial person is biologically indistinguishable
from an ordinary human being. The lack of a soul does
not show."

"Eh? I'm merely a vestryman, dear; souls are a matter for theologians.
But it is certainly not difficult to spot a living artifact."

"I didn't say 'living artifact.' That term covers even a talking dog
such as Lord Nelson. But an artificial person is strictly limited to
human form and appearance. So how can you spot one? That was
the silly thing Vickie was saying, that she could always spot one.
Take me, for example. Brian, you know my physical being quite
thoroughly--I'm happy to say. Am I an ordinary human being? Or
an artificial person?"

Brian grinned and licked his lips. "Lovely Marjie, I will testify in
any court that you are human to nine decimal places... except
where you are angelic. Shall I specify?"

"Knowing your tastes, dear, I don't think it's necessary. Thank
you. But please be serious. Assume, for the sake of argument, that I


651


am an artificial person. How could a man in bed with mesas
you were last night and many other nights--tell that I was
artificial?"
"Marjie, please drop it. It's not funny.j'
(Sometimes human people exasperate me beyond endurance.) I
said briskly, "I'm an artificial person."
"Marjorie!"
"You won't take my word for it? Must I prove it?"
"Stop joking. Stop this instant! Or, so help me, when I get you
home I'll paddle you. Marjorie, I've never laid an ungentle hand on
you--on any of my wives. But you are earning a spanking."
"So? See that last bite of tart on your plate? I am about to take it.
Slap your hands together right over your plate and stop me."
"Don't be silly."
"Do it. You can't move fast enough to stop me."
We locked eyes. Suddenly he started to slap his hands together. I
went into automatic overdrive, picked up my fork, stabbed that bite
of tart, pulled back the fork between his closing hands, stopped the
overdrive just before I placed the bite between my lips.
(That plastic spoon in the creche was not discrimination but to
protect me. The first time I used a fork I stabbed my lip because I
had not yet learned to slow my moves to match unenhanced persons.
)
There may not be a word for the expression on Brian's face.
"Is that enough?" I asked him. "No, probably not. My dear, clasp
hands with me." I shoved out my right hand.
He hesitated, then took it. I let him control the grasp, then I started
slowly to tighten down. "Don't hurt yourself, dear," I warned
him. "Let me know when to stop."
Brian is no sissy and can take quite a bit of pain. I was about to
slack off, not wishing to break any bones in his hand, when he suddenly
said, "Enough?'
I immediately slacked off and started to massage his hand gently
with both of mine. "I did not enjoy hurting you, darling, but I had
to show you that I am telling the truth. Ordinarily I am careful not
to display unusual reflexes or unusual strength. But I do need them
in the work I am in. On several occasions enhanced strength and
speed have kept me alive. I am most careful not to use either one
unless forced to. Now--is there anything more needed to prove to
you that I am what I say I am? I am enhanced in other ways but
speed and strength are easiest to demonstrate."
He answered, "It's time we started home."
On the way home we didn't exchange a dozen words. I am very
fond of the luxury of horse-and-buggy rides. But that day I would
happily have used something noisy and mechanical--but fast!

For the next few days Brian avoided me; I saw him only at the dinner
table. Came a morning when Anita said to me, "Marjorie dear,
I'm going into town on a few errands. Will you come along and
help me?" Of course I said yes.
She made several stops in the general neighborhood of Gloucester
Street and Durham. There was nothing in which she needed my
help. I concluded that she simply wanted company and I was
pleased by it. Anita is awfully nice to be with as long as one doesn't
cross her will.
Finished, we strolled down Cambridge Terrace along the bank
of the Avon and on into Hagley Park and the botanic gardens.
She picked a sunny spot where we could watch the birds, and got
out her knitting. We talked of nothing in particular for a while, or
simply sat.
We had been there about half an hour when her phone buzzed.
She took it out of her knitting bag, put the button to her ear. "Yes?"
Then she added, "Thank you. Off," and put the phone away without
offering to tell me who had called her. Her privilege.
Although she did speak of it indirectly: "Tell me, Marjorie, do
you ever feel regret? Or a sense of guilt?"
"Why, I do sometimes. Should I? Over what?" I searched my
brain as I thought that I had been unusually careful not to upset
Anita.
"Over the way you have deceived us and cheated us." "What?"
"Don't play innocent. I've never had to deal with a creature not
of God's Law before. I was not sure that the concept of sin and guilt
was one you could understand. Not that it matters, I suppose, now



I 66
	67 I


that you are unmasked. The family is asking for annulment at once;
Brian is seeing Mr. Justice Ridgley today."

I sat up very straight. "On what grounds? I've done nothing
wrong!"

"Indeed. You forget that, under our laws, a nonhuman cannot
enter into a marriage contract with human beings."


VIII


An hour later I boarded the shuttle for Auckland and then had time
to consider my folly.

For almost three months, ever since the night I had discussed it
with Boss, I had for the first time been feeling easy about my "human"
status. He had told me that I was "as human as Mother Eve"
and that I could safely tell anyone that I was an AP because I would
not be believed.

Boss was almost right.. But he had not counted on my making a
really determined effort to prove that I was not "human" under
Ennzedd law.

My first impulse had been to demand a hearing before the full
family council---only to learn that my case had already been tried in
camera and the vote had gone against me, six to nothing.

I didn't even go back to the house. That phone call Anita had
received while we were in the botanic gardens had told her that my
personal effects had been packed and delivered to Left Luggage at
the shuttle station.

I could still have insisted on a poll of the house instead of taking
Anita's (slippery) word for it. But to what end? To win an argument?
To prove a point? Or merely to split a hair? It took me all of five
seconds to realize that all I had treasured was gone. As vanished as a
rainbow, as burst as a soap bubble--I no longer "belonged." Those
children were not mine, I would never again roll on the floor with
them.


691


I was thinking about this with dry-eyed grief and almost missed
learning that Anita had been "generous" with me: In that contract I
had signed with the family corporation the fine print made the principal
sum due and payable at once if I breached the contract. Did
being "nonhuman" constitute a breach? (Even though I had never
missed a payment.) Looked at one way, if they were going to read
me out of the family, then I had at least eighteen thousand Ennzedd-dollars
coming to me: looked at another way I not only forfeited the
paid-up part of my share but owed more than twice that amount.
But they were "generous": If I would quietly and quickly vanish
away, they would not pursue their claim against me. Unstated was
what would happen if I stuck around and made a public scandal.
I slunk away.
I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me that I did it to myself; I realized
that fact as soon as Anita announced the bad news. A deeper
question is: Why did I do it?
I had not done it for Ellen and ! could not hoodwink myself into
thinking that I had. On the contrary, my folly had made it impossi-
ble for me to exert any effort on her behalf.
Why had I done it?
Anger.
I wasn't able to find any better answer. Anger at the whole human
race for deciding that my sort are not human and therefore not entitled
to equal treatment and equal justice. Resentment that had been
building up since the first day that I had been made to realize that
there were privileges human children had just from being born and
that I could never have simply because I was not human.
Passing as human gets one over on the side of privilege; it does
not end resentment against the system. The pressure builds up even
more because it can't be expressed. The day came when it was more
important to me to find out whether my adopted family could accept
me as I truly am, an artificial person, than it was to preserve my
happy relationship.
I found out. Not one of them stood up for me... just as none of
them had stood up for Ellen. I think I knew that they would reject
me as soon as I learned that they had failed Ellen. But that level of
my mind is so far down that I'm not well acquainted with it--that's
the dark place where, according to Boss, I do all my real thinking.

I reached Auckland too late for the daily SB to Winnipeg. After reserving
a cradle for the next day's trajectory and checking everything
but my jumpbag, I considered what to do with the twenty-one hours
facing me, and at once thought of my curly wolf, Captain Ian. By
what he had told me, the chances were five-to-one against his being in town--but his flat (if available) might be pleasanter than a hotel.
So I found a public terminal and punched his code.
Shortly the screen lighted; a young woman's face--cheerful,
rather pretty--appeared. "Hi! I'm Torchy. Who're you?"
"I'm Marj Baldwin," I answered. "Perhaps I've punched wrong.
l'm seeking Captain Tormey."
"No, you're with it, luv. Hold and I'll let him out of his cage."
She turned and moved away from the pickup while calling out,
"Bubber! A slashing tart on the honker. Knows your right name."
As she turned and moved away I noticed bare breasts. She came
fully into view and I saw that she was jaybird to her heels. A good
body--possibly a bit wide in the fundament but with long legs, a
slender waist, and mammaries that matched mine... and I've had
no complaints.
I quietly cursed to myself. I knew quite well why I had called the
captain: to forget three men in the arms of a fourth. I had found him
but it appeared that he was fully committed.
He appeared, dressed but not mucha lava-lava. He looked puzzled,
then recognized me. "Hey! Miss... Baldwin! That's it. This
is sonky-do! Where are you?"
"At the port. I punched on the off chance of saying hello."
"Stay where you are. Don't move, don't breathe. Seven seconds
while I pull on trousers and shirt, and I'll come get you."
"No, Captain. Just a greeting. Again I am simply making connections."
"What is your connection? To what port? What time is departure?"
Damn and triple damn--I had not prepared my lies. Well,
the truth is often better than a clumsy lie. "I'm going back to
Winnipeg."
"Ah so! Then you are looking at your pilot; I have the noon lift
tomorrow. Tell me exactly where you are and I'll pick you up in,
uh, forty minutes if I can get a cab fast enough."



17o I


"Captain, you are very sweet and you are out of your mind. You
already have all the company you can handle. The young woman
who answered my call. Torchy."
"Torchy isn't her name; that's her condition. She's my sister Betty,
from Sydney. Stays here when she's in town. I probably mentioned
her." He turned his head and shouted. "Betty! Come here
and identify yourself. But get decent."
"It's too late to get decent," her cheerful voice answered, and I
saw her, past his shoulder, returning toward the pickup and wrapping
a lava-lava around her hips as she did so. She seemed to be
having a little trouble with it and I suspected that she had had a few.
"Oh, the hell with it! My brother is always trying to get me to be-have--my
husband has given up. Look, luv, I heard what you said.
I'm his married sister, too true. Unless you are trying to marry him,
in which case I am his fiancee. Are you?"
"No."
"Good. Then you can have him. I'm about to make tea. Do you
take gin? Or whisky?"
"Whatever you and the Captain are having."
"He must not have either; he's lifting in less than enty-four
hours. But you and I will get smashed."
"I'll drink what you do. Anything but hemlock."
I then convinced fan that it was better for me to find a hansom at
the port where they were readily available than it was for him to
send for one, then make the round trip.
Number 17, Locksley Parade, is a new block of flats of the dou-ble-security
type; I was locked through the entrance to Ian's flat as if
it were a spaceship. Betty greeted me with a hug and a kiss that
showed that she had indeed been drinking; my curly wolf then
greeted me with a hug and a kiss that showed that he had not been
drinking but that he expected to take me to bed in the near future.
He did not ask about my husbands; I did not volunteer anything
about my family--my former family. Ian and I got along well because
we both understood the signals, used them correctly, and never
misled the other.
While Ian and I held this wordless discussion, Betty left the room
and returned with a red lava-lava. "It's formal high tea," she an-

nounced, with a slight belch, "so out of those street clothes and into
this, luv."
Her idea? Or his? Hers, I decided, before long. While Ian's simple,
wholesome lechery was as clear as a punch in the jaw, he was
basically rather cubical. Not so Betty, who was utterly outlaw. I
didn't care, as it moved in the direction I wanted to go. Bare feet are
as provocative as bare breasts, although most people do not seem to
know it. A female packaged only in a lava-lava is far more provocative
than one totally nude. The party was shaping up to suit me, and
I would depend on Ian to shake off his sister's chaperonage when the
time came. If necessary. It seemed possible that Betty would sell
tickets. I didn't tet about it.
I got smashed.
Just how thorough a job I did on it I did not realize until next
morning when I woke up in bed with a man who was not Ian
Tormey.
For several minutes I lay still and watched him snore while I
poked through my gin-beclouded memories, trying to fit him in. It
seemed to me that a woman really ought to be introduced to a man
before spending a night with him. Had we been formally introduced?
Had we met at all?
In bits and pieces it came back. Name: Professor Federico
Famese, called either "Freddie" or "Chubbie." (Not very chubby-- just a little pot from a swivel-chair profession.) Betty's husband,
Ian's brother-in-law. I recalled him somewhat from the evening before
but could not now (next morning) recall just when he had arrived,
or why he had been away... if I ever knew.
Once I placed him I was not especially surprised to find that I
(seemed to have) spent the night with him. The frame of mind I had
been in the night before no male would have been safe from me.
But one thing bothered me: Had I turned my back on my host in
order to chase after some other man? Not polite, Friday--not gracious.
I dug deeper. No, at least once I decidedly had not turned my back on Ian. To my great pleasure. And to Ian's, too, if his comments
were sincere. Then I had indeed turned my back but at his
request. No, I had not been ungracious to my host, and he had


been very kind to me, in exactly the fashion I needed to help me
forget how I had been swindled, then tossed, by Anita's gang of self-righteous
racists.

Thereafter my host had had some help from this late arrival, I
now remembered. It is never surprising that an emotionally troubled
woman may need more soothing than one man can supply--but
I could not remember how the transaction was achieved. Fair
exchange? Don't snoop, Friday! An AP cannot empathize with or
understand the various human copulation taboos--but I had most
carefully memorized all the many, many sorts while taking basic
doxy training, and I knew that this one was one of the strongest, one

that humans cover up even where all else is wide open.

So I resolved to shun even a hint of interest.

Freddie stopped snoring and opened his eyes. He yawned and'
stretched, then saw me and looked puzzled, then suddenly grinned
and reached for me. I answered his grin and his grab,. ready to cooperate
heartily, when Ian walked in. He said, "Morning, Marj. Freddie,
I hate to interrupt but I'm already holding a cab. Marj has to get
up and get dressed. We're leaving at once."

Freddie did not let go of me. He simply clucked, then recited:


"A birdie with a yellow bill

hopped upon my windowsill.
He cocked a shiny eye and said,

'Ain't you ashamed, you sleepyhead?'


"Captain, your attention to duty and to the welfare of our guest
does you credit. What time must you be there? Minus two hours?

And you lift at high noon as the clock is striking the steeple. No?"
"Yes, but--"

"Whereas Helen--your name is Helen?--is kosher if she presents
herself at the gate called strait no later than minus thirty minutes.
This I will undertake."

"Fred, I don't like to be a spoilsport but it can take a bloody hour
to get a cab here, as you know. I have one waiting."

"How true. Cabbies avoid us; their horses don't like our hill. For


that reason, dear brother-in-love, last night I hired a rig, pledging a
purse of gold. At this very moment old faithful Rosinante is under
this house in one of the janitor's stalls, gaining strength on nubbins
of maize for her coming ordeal. When I phone down, said janitor,
well plied with bribes, will harness the dear beast and fetch wain
and her to entrance. Whereupon I will deliver Helen to the gate no
later than minus thirty-one. To this end I pledge the pound of flesh
nearest your heart."

"Your heart, you mean."

"I phrased it most carefully."

"Well--Mar j?"

"Uh--Is it all right, Ian? I don't really want to jump out of bed
this second. But I don't want to miss your ship."

"You won't. Freddie is reliable; he just doesn't look it. But leave
here by eleven; then you could make it on foot if you had to. I can
hold your reservation after check-in time; a captain does have some
privileges. Very well; resume whatever it was you were doing." Ian

glanced at his watch finger. "Nine up. Bye."

"Hey! Kiss me good-bye!"

"Why? I'll see you at the ship. And we have a date in Winnipeg."
"Kiss me, damn it, or I'll miss the bloody ship!"

"So untangle yourself from that fat Roman and mind you don't
get spots on my clean uniform."

"Don't chance it, old son. I will kiss Helen on your behalf."

Ian leaned down and kissed me thoroughly and I did not muss his
pretty uniform. Then he kissed the top of Freddie's head on his little
bald spot and said, "Have fun, chums. But get her to the gate on
time. Bye." Betty glanced in at that point; her brother gathered her
in with one arm and took her away.

I turned my attention back to Freddie. He said, "Helen, prepare
yourself." I did, while thinking happily that Ian and Betty and Freddie
were just what Friday needed to offset the puritanical hypocrites
I had lived with far too long.

Betty fetched in morning tea precisely on the moment, so I assume
that she listened. She made a lotus on the bed and had a
cuppa with us. Then we got up and had breakfast. I had porridge
with thick cream, two beautiful eggs, Canterbury ham, a fat chop,


I 74
	75 I


fried potatoes, hot muffins with strawberry jam and the world's best
butter, and an orange, all washed down with strong black tea with
sugar and milk. If all the world broke fast the way New Zealand
does, we wouldn't have political unrest.
Freddie put on a lava-lava to eat breakfast but Betty didn't so I
didn't. Being crche-raised, I can never learn enough about human
manners and etiquette but I do know that a woman guest must
dress--or undressto match her hostess. I'm not really used to skin
in the presence of humans (the criche was another matter) but Betty
was awfully easy to be with. I wondered if she would snub me if she
knew that I was not human. I didn't think so but I was not anxious
to test it. A happy breakfast.
Freddie delivered me to the passenger lounge at eleven-twenty,
sent for Ian, and demanded a receipt. Solemnly Ian wrote one.
Again Ian belted me into the acceleration cradle, while saying quietly,
"You didn't really need help with this the other time, did
you?"
"No," I agreed, "but I'm glad I pretended. I've had a wonderful
time!"
"And we'll have a good time in Winnipeg, too. I reached Janet
during countdown, let her know that you would be with us for dinner.
She told me to tell you that you would be with us for breakfast
as well--she says to tell you that it is silly to leave Winnipeg in the
middle of the night; you could get mugged at any transfer. She's
right--the informal immigrants we get over the border from the Im-perium
would kill you for a toke."
"I'll speak with her about it when we get there." (Captain Ian,
you triflin' man, you told me that you would never marry because
you must "go where the wild goose goes." I wonder if you recall
that? I don't think you do.)
"It's settled. Janet might not trust my judgment abot
she says I'm prejudiced, a base canard. But she does trust Betty--and
by now Betty has phoned her. She's known Betty longer than
she's known me; they were roommates at McGill. And that's where
I got Janet and Fred got Sis; we four were subversives--every
and then we would unhook the North Pole and turn it around."
"Betty is a darling. Is Janet like her?"

"Yes and no. Janet was the leader of our seditious activities.
Excuse me; I've got to go pretend to be a captain. Actually the computer
flies this tin coffin but I'm planning to learn how next week."
He left.
After the healing catharsis of a night of drunken saturnalia with
Ian and Freddie and Betty I was able to think about my ex-family
more rationally. Had I in fact been cheated?
I had signed that silly contract willingly, including the termination
clause I tripped on. Had I been paying for sex?
No, what I had told Ian was true; sex is everywhere. I had paid for
the happy privilege of belonging. To a family--especially the homely
delights of changing wet nappies and washing dishes and petting
kittens. Mister Underfoot was far more important to me than Anita
had ever been--although I had never let myself think about it. I had
tried to love them all until the matter of Ellen had thrown light into
some dirty corners.
Let me see now: I knew exactly how many days I had been able to
spend with my ex-family. A little arithmetic told me that (since all
had been confiscated) my cost for room and board for those sweet
vacations was slightly over four hundred and fifty Ennzedd dollars
per day.
A high price even for a luxury resort. But the actual cost to the
family of having me at home was less than a fortieth of that. On
what financial terms had each of the others joined the family? I had
never known.
Had Anita, unable to stop the men from inviting me in, rigged
things so that I could not afford to quit my job and live at home but
nevertheless tied me to the family on terms quite profitable to the
family--i.e., to Anita? No way to tell. I knew so little about marriage
among human beings that I had not been able to judge--and
still could not.
But I had learned one thing: Brian had surprised me by turning
against me. I had thought of him as the older, wiser, sophisticated
member of the family, the one who could accept the fact of my biological
derivation and live with it.
Perhaps he could have done so had I picked some other enhanced
quality to demonstrate, some nonthreatening ability.



176
	77l


But I had bested him in a feat of strength, a matter in which a
male quite reasonably expects to win. I had hit him in his male
pride.

Unless you intend to kill him immediately thereafter, never kick
a man in the balls. Not even symbolically. Or perhaps especially
not symbolically.


Presently free fall went away and we entered the incredibly thrilling
sensations of hypersonic glide. The computer was doing a good job
of smoothing out the violence, but you could still feel the vibration
in your teeth and I could feel it elsewhere after my busy night.

We dropped through transonic rather abruptly, then spent a long
time in subsonic, with the scream building up. Then we touched
and the retros cut in... and Shortly we stopped. And I took a deep
breath. Much as I like the SBs, I can't relax from touchdown to full
stop.

We had lifted at North Island at noon Thursday, so we arrived
forty minutes later at Winnipeg the day before (Wednesday) in the
early evening, 1940 hours. (Don't blame me; go look at a map--one
with time zones marked.)

Again I waited and was last passenger out. Our captain again
picked up my bag but this time escorted me with the casualness of
an old friend--and I felt enormously warmed by it. He took me
through a side door, then went with me through Customs, Health,
and Immigration, offering his own jumpbag first.

The CHI officer did not touch it. "Hi, Captain. What are you
smuggling this time?"

"The usual. Illicit diamonds. Trade secrets. Weapons specs.
Contraband drugs."

"That's all? It's a waste of chalk." He scrawled something on Ian's
bag. "Is she with you?"


! 78
	79 I


"Never saw her before in my life."

"Me Injun squaw," I asserted. "White boss promise me much
firewater. White boss don't keep promise."

"I could have told you. Going to be here long?"

"I live in the Imperium. Transient, possibly overnight. I came
through here on my way to New Zealand last month. Here's my
passport."

He glanced at it, stamped it, scrawled on my bag without opening
it. "If you decide to stay a little longer, I'll buy you firewater. But
don't trust Captain Tormey." We went on through.

Just beyond the barrier Ian dropped both our bags, picked up a
woman by her elbows--proving his excellent condition; she was
only ten centimeters junior to him--and kissed her enthusiastically.
He put her down. "Jan, this is Marj."

(When Ian had this sultry job at home, why did he bother with
my meager assets? Because I was there and she wasn't, no doubt.
But now she is. Dear lady, got a good book I can read?)

Janet kissed me and I felt better. Then she held me with both
hands at arm's length. "I don't see it. Did you leave it in the
ship?"

"Leave what? This jumpbag is all I carried--my luggage is in
transit bond."

"No, dear, your halo. Betty led me to expect a halo."

I considered this. "Are you sure she said halo?"

"Well . . . she said you were an angel. Perhaps I jumped to a
conclusion."

"Perhaps. I don't think I was wearing a halo last night; I hardly'
ever wear one when traveling."

Captain Ian said, "That's right. Last night all she had on was a
load, a big one. Sweetheart, I hate to tell you this but Betty was a
bad influence. Deplorable."

"Oh, heavens! Perhaps we had best go straight to prayer meeting.
Shall we, Marjorie? Tea and a biscuit here, and skip dinner? The
whole congregation will pray for you."

"Whatever you say, Janet." (Did I have to agree to this? I didn't
know the etiquette for a "prayer meeting.")

Captain Tormey said, "Janet, perhaps we had better take her


180


home and pray for her there. I'm not sure Marj is used to public
confessions of sins."

"Marjorie, would you rather do that?"

"I think I would. Yes."

"Then we will. Ian, will you hail Georges?"


Georges turned out to be Georges Perreault. That is all I learned
about him just then, save that he was driving a pair of Morgan
blacks hitched to a Honda surrey suitable for the very wealthy. How
much is an SB captain paid? Friday, it's none of your business. But
it was certainly a handsome rig. So was Georges, for that matter.
Handsome, I mean. He was tall, dark-haired, dressed in dark suit
and kepi, and looked a very proper coachman. But Janet did not
introduce him as a servant and he bent over my hand and kissed it.
Does a coachman kiss hands? I keep running into human practices
not covered by my training.

Ian sat in front by Georges; Janet took me behind with her and
opened a large down rug. "I thought you might not have a wrap
with you, coming from Auckland," she explained. "So snuggle under."
I did not protest that I never get cold; it was very thoughtful
and I snuggled under with her. Georges wheeled us out onto the
highway, clucked to the horses, and they broke into a brisk trot. Ian
took a horn from a rack on the dashboard and sounded a blast on
it--there didn't seem to be any reason for it; I think he just liked to
make a loud noise.

We did not go into the city of Winnipeg. Their home was southwest
of a small town, Stonewall, north of the city and closer to the
port. By the time we got there it was dark but I could see one thing:
It was a country estate designed to hold off anything short of professional
military attack. There were three gates in series, with gates
one and two forming a holding pen. I didn't spot Eyes or remoted
weapons but I was sure they were there--the estate was marked out
by the red-and-white beacons that warn float craft not to try it.

I got only the barest glimpse of whatever matched the three
gates---too dark. A wall and two fences I saw, but I could not see
how they were armed and/or booby-trapped and hesitated to ask.
But no sensible person spends that much on household protection


and then relies totally on passive defense. I wanted to ask about their
power arrangements, too, recalling how at the farm Boss had lost
the main Shipstone (cut by "Uncle lira") and thereby lost his de-fenses--but
again it was not something a guest could ask.
I wondered even more what would have happened if we had been
iumped before they got inside the gates of their castle. Again, with
the brisk trade in illegal weapons that wind up in the hands of the
putatively disarmed, it was the sort of question one did not ask. I
walk around unarmed, usually, but I don't assume that others do
so--most people have neither my enhancements nor my special
training.
(I would rather rely on my "unarmed" state than depend on hardware
that can be taken from you at any checkpoint, or that you can
lose, or that can run out of ammo, or iam, or be power-down when it matters. I don't look armed, and that gives me an edge. But other
people, other problems-I'm a special case.)
We rode up a sweeping drive and under an overhang and
stopped--and again Ian sounded a foul blast on that silly horn--but
this time there seemed to be some point to it; the front doors
opened. Ian said, "Take her inside, dear; I'm going to help Georges
with the team."
"I don't need help."
"Pipe down." Ian got out and handed us down, gave my iumpbag
to his wife and Georges pulled away. Ian simply followed on foot.
Janet led me inside--and I gasped.
I was looking through the foyer at an illuminated fountain, a programmed
one; it changed in shapes and colors as I stood there.
There was gentle background music, which (possibly) controlled the
fountain.
"Janet... who's your architect?"
"Like it?" "Of course!"
"Then I'll admit it. I'm the architect, Ian is the gadgeteer,
Georges controlled the interiors. He is several sorts of an artist andI
another wing is his studio. And I might as well tell you right now
that Betty told me to hide your clothes until Georges paints
one nude of you."

"Betty said that? But I've never been a model and I must get back
to my job."
"It's up to us to change your mind. Unless Are you shy about
it? Betty did not think you would be. Georges might settle for the
draped figure. At first."
"No, I'm not shy. Uh, maybe a bit shy about posing; the idea is
new to me. Look, can we let it wait? Right now I'm more interested
in plumbing than in posing; I haven't been near any since I left
Betty's flat--I should have stopped at the port."
"Sorry, dear; I should not have kept you standing here talking
about Georges' painting. My mother taught me years ago that
the very first thing to do for a guest is to show her where the bathroom
is."
"My mother taught me the exact same thing," I fibbed.
"This way." A hallway opened to the left from the fountain; she
led me down it and into a room. "Your room," she announced,
dropping my bag on the bed, "and the bath is through here. You
share it with me, as my room is the mirror image of this room, on
the other side."
There was plenty to share--three stalls, each with WC, bidet,
and hand tray; a shower big enough for a caucus, with controls I was
going to have to ask about; a massage and suntan table; a plungeor
was it a hot tub?--that clearly was planned for loafing in company;
twin dressing tables with basins; a terminal; a refrigerator; a bookcase
with one shelf for cassettes. "No leopard?" I said.
"You expected one?"
"Every time I've seen this room in the sensies the heroine had a
pet leopard with her."
"Oh. Will you settle for a kitten?"
"Certainly. Are you and Ian cat people?"
"I wouldn't attempt to keep house without one. In fact 2 now I
can offer you a real bargain in kittens."
"I wish I could take one. I can't."
"Discuss it later. Help yourself to the plumbing. Want a shower
before dinner? I intend to grab one; I spent too much time curtying
Black Beauty and Demon before going to the port, and ran out of



I s2
	.
	s3 I


time. Did you notice that I whiffed of stable?"
And that is how, by easy stages, I found myself ten or twelve minutes
later having my back washed by Georges while Ian washed my
front while my hostess washed herself and laughed and offered advice
that was ignored. IfI were to elaborate, you would see that each
step was perfectly logical and that these gentle sybarites did nothing
to rush me. Nor was there even the mildest attempt to seduce me,
not even a hint that I had already raped (symbolic rape, at least) my
host the night before.
Then I shared with them a sybaritic feast in their living room
(drawing room, great hall, whatever) in front of a fire that was actually
one of Ian's gadgets. I was dressed in one of Janet's negligees--Janet's
notion of a dinner-gown negligee would have got her arrested
in Christchurch.
But it did not cause a pass from either man. When we reached
coffee and brandy, me somewhat blurry from drinks before dinner
and wine during dinner, by request I removed that borrowed negligee
and Georges posed me five or six ways, took stereos and holos of
me in each, while discussing me as if I were a side of beef. I continued
to insist that I had to leave tomorrow morning but my protests
became feeble and pro forma--Georges paid no attention to them
whatever. He said I had "good masses"--maybe this is a compliment;
it certainly is not a pass.
But he got some awfully good pictures of me, especially one of
me lying sort of tang dang on a low couch with five kittens crawling
over my breasts and legs and belly. I asked for that one and it turned
out that Georges had the equipment to copy it.
Then Georges took some of Janet and me together, and again I
asked for a copy of one of them because we made a beautiful contrast
and Georges had a knack for making us look better than we did.
But presently I started to yawn and Janet told Georges to stop.
apologized, saying that there was no excuse for me to be sleepy
since it was still early evening by the zone where I had started
day.
Janet said pishantosh, that being sleepy had nothing to do
clocks and time zones--gentlemen, we are going to bed. She
me away.

We stopped in that beautiful bath and she put her arms around
me. "Marjie, do you want company, or do you want to sleep alone?
I know from Betty that you had a busy night last night; possibly you
prefer a quiet night alone. Or possibly not. Name it."
I told her honestly that I did not sleep alone by choice.
"Me, too," she agreed, "and it's nice to hear you say so, instead of fiddling around about it and pretending the way some slitches do.
Whom do you want in your bed?"
You sweet darling, surely you are entitled to your own husband
the night he gets home. "Maybe that should be turned around. Who
wants to sleep with me?"
"Why, all of us, I feel certain. Or any two. Or any one. You
name it."
I blinked and wondered how much I had had to drink. "Four in
one bed?"
 "Do you like that?"
"I've never tried it. It sounds jolly but the bed would be awfully
crowded, I think."
"Oh. You haven't been in my room. A big bed. Because both my
husbands often choose to sleep with me... and there is still plenty
of room to invite a guest to join us."
Yes, I had been drinking--two nights in a row and far more than
I was used to. "Two husbands? I didn't know that British Canada
had adopted the Australian Plan."
"British Canada has not; British Canadians have. Or many thousands
of us. The gates are locked and it's nobody's business. Do you
want to try the big bed? If you get sleepy, you can crawl off to your
own room--a major reason I planned this suite the way I did. Well,
dear?"
"Uh... yes. But I may be self-conscious about it."
"You'll get over it. Let's--"
She was interrupted by a jangly bell at the terminal.
Janet said, "Oh, damn, damn! That almost certainly means that
they want Ian at the port--even though he's just back from a high
lift." She stepped to the terminal, switched it on.
"--cause for alarm. Our border with the Chicago Imperium has
been sealed off and refugees are being rounded up. The attack by


Quebec is more serious but may be an error by a local commander;
there has been no declaration of war. State of emergency is now in
effect, so stay off the streets, keep calm, and listen on this wavelength
for official news and instructions."
Red Thursday had started.



I suppose everybody has more or less the same picture in mind of
Red Thursday and what followed. But to explain me (to me, if that
be possible!) I must tell how I saw it, including the bumbling confusion
and doubts.
We four did wind up in Janet's big bed but for company and mutual
comfort, not sex. We all had our ears bent for news, our eyes
on the terminal's screen. More or less the same news was repeated
again and again--aborted attack from Quebec, Chairman of the
Chicago Imperium killed in his bed, the border with the Imperium
closed, unverified sabotage reports, stay off the streets, remain
calm--but no matter how often it was repeated we always all shut
up and listened, waiting for some item that would cause the other
news items to make sense.
Instead things got worse all night long. By four in the morning we
knew that killings and sabotage were all over the globe; by daylight
unverified reports were coming in of trouble at Ell-Four, at Tycho
Base, at Stationary Station, and (broken-off message) on Ceres.
There was no way to guess whether or not the trouble extended as
far as Alpha Centauri or Tau Ceti... but an official voice on the
terminal did guess by loudly refusing to guess and by telling the rest
of us not to engage in harmful speculation.
About four, Janet, with some help from me, made sandwiches
and served coffee.

[ 86
	87 [


I woke up at nine because Georges moved. I found that I was
sleeping with my head on his chest and my upper arm clinging to
him. Ian was across the bed, lying-sitting propped up against pillows
with his eyes still on the screen--but his eyes were closed. Janet was
missing--she had gone to my room, crawled into what was nominally
my bed.
I found that, by moving very slowly, I could untangle myself and
get out of bed without waking Georges. I did so, and slid into the
bathroom, where I got rid of used coffee and felt better. I glanced
into "my" room, saw my missing hostess. She was awake, waggled
her fingers at me, then motioned for me to come in. She moved
over and I crawled in with her. She kissed me. "How are the boys?"
"Both still asleep. Or were three minutes ago."
"Good. They need sleep. Both of them are worriers; I am not. I
decided that there was no point in attending Armageddon with my
eyes bloodshot, so I came in here. You were asleep, I think."
"Could have been. I don't know when I fell asleep. It seemed to
me that I heard the same bad news a thousand times. Then I woke up."
"You haven't missed anything. I've kept the sound turned down
but I've kept the streamers on screen--they've been spelling out the
same old sad story. Marjorie, the boys are waiting for the bombs to
drop. I don't think there will be any bombs."
"I hope you're right. But why not?"
"Who drops H-bombs on whom? Who is the enemy? All the major
power blocs are in trouble, as near as I can tell from the news.
But, aside from what seems to have been a stupid mistake by
Qebecois general, no military forces have been involved an
where. Assassinations, fires, explosions, all sorts of sabotage,
terrorism of all kinds-but no pattern. It's not East against West,
Marxists against fascists, or blacks against whites. Marjorie,
one sets off missiles, it will mean that the whole world has
crazy."
"Doesn't it look that way now?"
"I don't think so. The pattern of this is that it has no
The target is everybody. It seems to be aimed at all
equally."

"Anarchists?" I suggested.
"Nihilists, maybe."
Ian came in wearing circles under his eyes, a day's beard, a worried
look, and an old bathrobe too short for him. His knees were
knobby. "Janet, I can't reach Betty or Freddie."
"Were they going back to Sydney?"
"It's not that. I can't get through to either Sydney or Auckland.
All I get is that damned synthetic computer voice: 'A-circuit-is-not-available-at-this-moment.
Please-try-later-thank-you-for-your-patience.'
You know."
"Ouch. More sabotage, maybe?"
"Could be. But maybe worse. After that kark, I called traffic control
at the port and asked whatinhell was wrong with Winnipeg-Auckland
satellite bounce? By pulling rank I eventually got the
supervisor. He told me to forget about calls that didn't get through
because they had real trouble. All SBs grounded--because two were
sabotaged in space. Winnipeg-Buenos Aires Lift Twenty-nine and
Vancouver-London One-oh-one."
"Ian!"
"Total loss, both. No survivors. Pressure fuses, no doubt, as each
one blew on leaving atmosphere. Jan, the next time I lift, I'm going
to inspect everything myself. Stop the countdown on the most trivial
excuse." He added, "But I can't guess when that will be. You can't
lift an SB when your comm circuits to teentry port are broken...
and the supervisor admitted that they had lost all bounce circuits."
Janet got out of bed, stood up, kissed him. "Now stop worrying!
Stop. At once. Of course you will check everything yourself until
they catch the saboteurs. But right now you'll put it out of your
mind because you won't be called to lift until the comm circuits are
restored. So declare a holiday. As for Betty and Freddie, it's a shame
we can't talk to them but they can take care of themselves and you
know it. No doubt they are worrying about us and they shouldn't,
either. I'm just glad it happened while you are at home--instead of
halfway around the globe. You're here and you're safe and that's all
I care about. We'll just sit here, snug and happy, until this nonsense
is over."
"I've got to go to Vancouver."



I ss
	s9 I


"Man o' mine, you don't 'got' to do anything, save pay taxes and-

die. They won't be putting artifacts into the ships when no ships are

lifting."

"Artifacts," I blurted and regretted it.

Ian seemed to see me for the first time. "Hi, Marj--morning.

Nothing you need fret about--and I'm sorry about this hoop-te-do

while you're our guest. The artifacts Jan mentioned aren't gadgets;

they're alive. Management has this wild notion that a living artifact

designed for piloting can do a better job than a man can do. I'm

shop steward for the Winnipeg Section so I've got to go fight it.

Management-Guild meeting in Vancouver tomorrow."

"Ian," Jan said, "phone the General Secretary. It's silly to go to

Vancouver without checking first."

"Okay, okay."

"But don't just ask. Urge the SecGen to pressure management to

postpone the meeting until the emergency is over. I want you to stay

right here and keep me safe from harm."

"Or vice versa."

"Or vice versa," she agreed. "But I'll faint in your arms if neces-

sary. What would you like for breakfast? Don't make it too complex

or I'll invoke your standing commitment."

I wasn't really listening as the word artifact had triggered me. I

had been thinking of Ian-of all of them, really, here and Down

Under--as being so civilized and sophisticated that they would re-

gard my sort as just as good as humans.

And now I hear that Ian is committed to representing his guild in

a labor-management fight to keep my sort from competing with hu-

mans.

(What would you have us do, Ian? Cut our throats? We didn't ask

to be produced any more than you asked to be born. We may not be

human but we share the age-old fate of humans; we are strangers in
	a world we never made.)


	"Well, Marj?"

	"Uh, sorry, I was woolgathering. What did you say, Jan?"

	"I asked what you wanted for breakfast, dear."

	"Uh, doesn't matter; I eat anything that is standing still or

	moving slowly. May I come with you and help? Please?"

"I was hoping you would offer. Because Ian isn't much use in a
kitchen despite his commitment."
"I'm a damned good cook!"
"Yes, dear. Ian gave me a commitment in writing that he would
always cook any meal if I so requested. And he does; he hasn't tried
to slide out of it. But I have to be just awfully hungry to invoke it."
"Marj, don't listen to her."
I still don't know whether or not Ian can cook, but Janet certainly
can (and so can Georges, as I learned later). Janet served uswith
help around the edges from me--with light and fluffy mild Cheddar
omelettes surrounded by thin, tender pancakes rolled up Continental
style with powdered sugar and jam, and garnished with well-drained
bacon. Plus orange juice from freshly squeezed oranges--hand-squeezed,
not ground to a pulp by machinery. Plus drip coffee
made from freshly ground beans.
(New Zealand food is beautiful but New Zealand cooking practically
isn't cooking at all.)
Georges showed up with the exact timing of a cat--Mama Cat in
this case, who arrived following Georges ahead of him. Kittens were
then excluded by Janet's edict because she was too busy to keep from
stepping on kittens. Janet also decreed that the news would be
turned off while we ate and that the emergency would not be a subject
of conversation at the table. This suited me as these strange and
grim events had pounded on my mind since they started, even during
sleep. As Janet pointed out in handing down this ruling, only an
H-bomb was likely to penetrate our defenses, and an H-bomb blast
we probably wouldn't notice--so relax and enjoy breakfast.
I enjoyed it... and so did Mama Cat, who patrolled our feet
counterclockwise and informed each of us when it was that person's
turn to supply a bit of bacon--I think she got most of it.

After I cleared the breakfast dishes (salvaged rather than recycled;
Janet was old-fashioned in spots) and Janet made another pot of coffee,
she turned the news on again and we settled back to watch it
and discuss it--in the kitchen rather than the grand room we had
used for dinner, the kitchen being their de facto living room. Janet
had what is called a "peasant kitchen" although no peasant ever had



190
	911


it so good: a big fireplace, a round table for family eating furnished
with so-called captain's chairs, big comfortable lounging chairs,
plenty of floor space and no traffic problems because the cooking
took place at the end opposite the comforts. The kittens were allowed back in, ending their protests, and in they came all tails at
attention. I picked up one, a fluffy white with big black spots; its
buzz was bigger than it was. It was clear that Mama Cat's love life
had not been limited by a stud book; no two kittens were alike.
Most of the news was a rehash but there was a new development
in the Imperium:
Democrats were being rounded up, sentenced by drumhead
courts-martial (provost's tribunals, they were called) and executed
on the spot--laser, gunfire, some hangings. I exerted tight mind
control to let me watch. They were sentencing them down to the
age of fourteen--we saw one family in which both parents, themselves
condemned, were insisting that their son was only twelve.
The President of the court, an Imperial Police corporal, ended
the argument by drawing his side arm, shooting the boy, and then
ordering his squad to finish off the parents and the boy's older sister.
Ian flicked off the picture, shifted to voiceover streamers, and
turned the sound down. "I've seen all of that I want to see," he
growled. "I think that whoever has power there now that the old
Chairman is dead is liquidating everybody on their suspects list."
He chewed his lip and looked grim. "Marj, are you still sticking
to that silly notion of going home at once?"
"I'm not a democrat, Ian. I'm nonpolitical."
"Do you think that kid was political? Those Cossacks would kill
you just for drill. Anyhow, you can't. The border is closed."
I didn't tell him that I felt certain that I could wetback any border on earth. "I thought it was sealed only against people trying to come
north. Aren't they letting subjects of the Imperium go home?"
He sighed. "Marj, aren't you any brighter than that kitten in
lap? Can't you realize that pretty little girls can get hurt if they insist
on playing with bad boys? If you were home, I'm sure your
would tell you to stay home. But you are here in our home and that
gives Georges and me an implied obligation to keep you safe. Eh
Georges?"

"Mais oui, raon vieux! Certainement!"
"And I will protect you from Georges. Jan, can you convince this
child that she is welcome here as long as she cares to stay? I think
she's the sort of assertive female who tries to pick up the check." "I am not!"
Janet said, "Marjie, Betty told me to take good care of you. Ifyow
think you are imposing, you can contribute to BritCan Red Cross.
Or to a home for indignant cats. But it so happens that all three of
us make ridiculous amounts of money and we have no children.
We can afford you as easily as another kitten. Now . . . are you
going to stay? Or am I going to have to hide your clothes and
beat you?"
"I don't want to be beaten."
"Too bad, I was looking forward to it. That's settled, gentle sirs;
she stays. Marj, we swindled you. Georges will require you to pose
inordinate hours--he's a brute--and he'll be getting you just for
groceries instead of the guild rates he ordinarily has to pay. He'll
show a profit."
"No," said Georges, "I won't show a profit; I'll take a profit. Because
I'll show her as a business expense, Jan my heart. But not at
guild basic rate; she's worth more. One and a half?"
"At least. Double, I would say. Be generous, since you aren't going
to pay her anyhow. Don't you wish you had her on campus? In
your lab, I mean."
"A worthy thought! One that has been hovering in the back of my
mind... and thank you, our dear one, for bringing it out into the
open." Georges addressed me: "Marjorie, will you sell me an egg?"
He startled me. I tried to look as if I did not understand him. "I don't have any eggs."
"Ah, but you do! Some dozens, in fact, far more than you will
ever need for your own purposes. A human ovum is the egg I mean.
The laboratory pays far more for an egg than it does for sperm--z-
simple arithmetic. Are you shocked?"
"No. Surprised. I thought you were an artist."
Janet put in, "Marj hon, I told you that Georges is several sorts of
an artist. He is. In one sort he is Mendel Professor of Teratology at
the University of Manitoba . . . and also chief technologist for the


associated production lab and creche, and believe me, that calls for high art. But he's good with paint and canvas, too. Or a computer
screen."
"That's true," Ian agreed. "Georges is an artist with anyt. hing he
touches. But you two should not have sprung this on Marj while
she's our guest. Some people get terribly upset at the very idea of
gene manipulation--especially their own genes."
"Marj, did I upset you? I'm sorry."
"No, Jan. I'm not one of those people who get upset at the very
thought of living artifacts or artificial people or whatever. Uh, some
of my best friends are artificial people."
"Dear, dear," Georges said gently, "do not pull the long bow."
"Why do you say that?" I tried not to make my voice sharp.
"I can claim that, because I work in that field and, I am proud to
say, have quite a number of artificial persons who are my friends.
But--"
I interrupted: "I thought an AP never knew her designers?"
"That is true and I have never violated that canon. But I do have
many opportunities to know both living artifacts and artificial per-sons-they
are not the same--and to win their friendship. But--forgive
me, dear Miss Marjorie--unless you are a member of my
profession-- Are you?"
"No."
"Only a genetic engineer or someone closely associated with the
industry can possibly claim a number of friends among artificial
people. Because, my dear, contrary to popular myth, it is simply not
possible for a layman to distinguish between an artificial person and
a natural person... and, because of the vicious prejudice of ignorant
people, an artificial person almost never voluntarily admits to
his derivation--I'm tempted to say never. So, while I am delighted
that you don't go through the roof at the idea of artificial creatures,
am forced to treat your claim as hyperbole intended to show
you are free of prejudice."
"Well-- All right. Take it as such. I can't see why APs
second-class citizens. I think it's unfair."
"It is. But some people feel threatened. Ask Ian. He's about to
charging off to Vancouver to keep artificial persons from ever
coming pilots. He--"

"Hooooold it! I am like hell. I am submitting it that way because
my guild brothers voted it that way. But I'm no fool, Georges; living
with and talking with you has made me aware that we are going to
have to compromise. We are no longer really pilots and we haven't
been this century. The computer does it. If the computer cuts out I
will make a real Boy Scout try at getting that bus safely down out of
the sky. But don't bet on it! The speeds and the possible emergencies
went beyond human-reaction time years back. Oh, I'll try! And
any of my guild brothers will. But, Georges, if you can design an
artificial person who can think and move fast enough to cope with a
glitch at touchdown, I'll take my pension. That's all we're going to
hold out for, anyhow--if the company puts in AP pilots that displace
us, then it has to be full pay and allowances. If you can design
them."
"Oh, I could design one, eventually. When I achieved one, if I
were allowed to clone, you pilots could all go fishing. But it
wouldn't be an AP; it would have to be a living artifact. If I were to
attempt to produce an organism that could really be a fail-safe pilot,
I could not accept the limitation of having to make it look just like a
natural human being."
"Oh, don't do that?
Both men looked startled, Janet looked alert--and I wished that I
had held my tongue.
"Why not?" asked Georges.
"Uh... because I wouldn't get inside such a ship. I'd be much
safer riding with Ian."
Ian said, "Thank you, Marj--but you heard what Georges said.
He's talking about a designed pilot that can do it better than I can.
It's possible. Hell, it'll happen! Just as kobolds displaced miners, my
guild is going to be displaced. I don't have to like it--but I can see it
coming."
"Well--- Georges, have you worked with intelligent computers?"
"Certainly, Marjorie. Artificial intelligence is a field closely related
to mine."
"Yes. Then you know that several times AI scientists have announced
that they were making a breakthrough to the fully self-aware
computer. But it always went sour."
"Yes. Distressing."

951


"Noinevitable. It always will go sour. A computer can become
self-aware---oh, certainly! Get it up to human level of complication
and it has to become self-aware. Then it discovers that it is not human.
Then it figures out that it can never be human; all it can do is
sit there and take orders from humans. Then it goes crazy."
I shrugged. "It's an impossible dilemma. It can't be human, it
can never be human. Ian might not be able to save his passengers
but he will try. But a living artifact, not human and with no loyalty
to human beings, might crash the ship just for the hell of it.
Because he was tired of being treated as what he is. No, Georges,
I'll ride with Ian. Not your artifact that will eventually learn to
hate humans."
"Not my artifact, dear lady," Georges said gently. "Did you not
notice what mood I used in discussing this project?"
"Uh, perhaps not."
"The subjunctive. Because none of what you have said is news to
me. I have not bid on this proposal and I shall not. I can design
such a pilot. But it is not possible for me to build into such an artifact
the ethical commitment that is the essence of Ian's training."
Ian looked very thoughtful. "Maybe in this coming face-off I
should stick in a requirement that any AP or LA pilot must be tested
for ethical commitment."
"Tested how, Ian? I know of no way to put ethical commitment
into the fetus and Marj has pointed out why training won't do it.
But what test could show it, either way?"
Georges turned to me: "When I was a student, I read some classic
stories about humanoid robots. They were charming stories and
many of them hinged on something called the laws of robotics, the
key notion of which was that these robots had built into them an
operational rule that kept them from harming human beings either
directly or through inaction. It was a wonderful basis for fiction...
but, in practice, how could you do it? What can make a
nonhuman, intelligent organism---electronic or organic--loyal to
human beings? I do not know how to do it. The artificial-intelli-gence
people seem to be equally at a loss."
Georges gave a cynical little smile. "One might almost define intelligence
as the level at which an aware organism demands,
'What's in it for me?' "He went on, "Marj, on this matter of buying
from you one fine fresh egg, perhaps I should try to tell you what's
in it for you."
"Don't listen to him," urged Janet. "He'll put you on a cold table
and stare up the tunnel of love without the slightest romantic intention.
I know, I let him talk me into it three times. And I didn't even
get paid."
"How can I pay you when we share community property? Marjorie
sweet lady, the table is not cold and it is padded and you can read
or watch a terminal or chat or whatever. It is a great improvement
on the procedure a generation ago when they went through the wall
of the abdomen and often ruined an ovary. If you--"
"Hold it!" said Ian. "Something new on the honker." He brought
the sound up.
"--Council for Survival. The events of the last twelve hours are a
warning to the rich and the powerful that their day is ended and
justice must prevail. The killings and other illustrative lessons will
continue until our rightful demands are met. Stay tied to your local
emergency channel--"



		971

J96
	.


Anyone too young to have heard the announcement that night certainly has read about it in school. But I must summarize it to show
how it affected me and my odd life. This so-called "Council for
Survival" claimed to be a secret society of "just men" dedicated to
correcting all the myriad wrongs of Earth and of all the many planets
and places where mankind lives. To this they pledged their lives.
But first they planned to dedicate quite a few lives of other people. They said that they had made lists of all the real movers and
shakers everywhere, all over the globe and off it--separate lists for
each territorial state, plus a grand list of world leaders. These were
their targets.
The Council claimed credit for the initial killings and promised
to kill more--and more--and more--until their demands were
met.
After listing the world leaders the voice that reached us
reciting the British Canadian list. From their expressions and
thoughtful nods I saw that my hosts and hostess agreed with
the choices. The deputy to the Prime Minister was on the list
not the Prime Minister herself--to my surprise and perhaps
to hers. How would you feel if you had spent your whole life
politics, scrambled all the way to the top, then some smart
comes along and says you aren't even important enough to kill?
bit like being covered up by a cat!
The voice promised that there would be no more killings for

days. If conditions had not then been corrected, one in ten of the
remaining names would be selected by lot for death. The doomed
would not be named; they simply would be killed. Ten days later
another one in ten. And so on, until Utopia was achieved by the
survivors.
The voice explained that the Council was not a government and
that it would not replace any government; it was simply the guardian
of morals, the public conscience of the powerful. Those in power
who survived would remain in power but they would survive
only by doing justice. They were warned not to attempt to resign.
"This is the Voice of Survival. Heaven on Earth is at hand!" It
shut off.
There was a long pause after this tape ran out before a live communicator
appeared on the terminal's screen. Janet broke the silence
with: "Yes, but--"
"Yes but what?" Ian asked.
"There's no question but what that list names most of the really
powerful people in the country. Suppose you're on that hit list and
are so scared silly that you are willing to do anything not to risk being
killed. What do you do? What is justice?"
("What is truth?" asked Pontius Pilate, and washed his hands. I
had no answers, so I kept quiet.)
"My dear, it is simple," Georges answered.
"Oh, fiddle! How?"
"They have made it simple. Every owner or boss or tyrant is assumed
to know what ought to be done; that's his job. If he does what
he should, all is well. If he fails, his attention is invited to his error  . . by Dr. Guillotine."
"Georges, do be serious!"
"Dear one, I have never been more serious. If the horse can't
jump the hurdle, shoot the horse. Keep on doing this and eventually
you will find a horse that can clear the jump---if you don't run
out of horses. This is the sort of plausible pseudologic that most people
bring to political affairs. It causes one to wonder if mankind is
capable of being well governed by any system of government."
"Government is a dirty business," Ian growled
"True. But assassination is still dirtier."
This political discussion might still be going on if the terminal

I 98
	.
	99 I


had not lighted up again--I have noticed that political discussions are never finished; they simply get chopped off by something outside.
A live, real-time communicator filled the screen. "The tape
you have just heard," she announced, "was delivered by hand to
this station. The PM's office has already repudiated this tape and
has ordered all stations that have not yet broadcast it to refrain from
doing so under penalties of the Public Defense Act. That the pre-censorship claimed by this order is unconstitutional is self-evident.
The Voice of Winnipeg will continue to keep you advised of all developments.
We urge you to keep calm and stay indoors unless you
are needed to preserve essential public services."
Then came replays of news tapes heard earlier so Janet cut the
sound and put news streamers on the screen. I said, "Ian, assuming
that I am to stay here until things quiet down in the Imperium--"
"That's not an assumption; that's a fact."
"Yes, sir. Then it becomes urgent for me to call ny employer.
May I use your terminal? My credit card, of course."
"Not your card. I'll place the call and we'll charge it here."
I felt somewhat vexed. "Ian, I do appreciate the lavish hospitality
that you--that all of you--are showing me. But, if you are going to
insist on paying even those charges that a guest should pay herself,
then you should register me as your concubine and publish your
responsibility for my debts."
"Reasonable. What salary do you expect?"
"Wait!" Georges demanded. "I pay better. He's a stingy Scot."
"Don't listen to either of them," Janet advised me. "Georges
might pay more but he would expect posing and one of your eggs all
for one salary. Now I've always wanted a harem slave. Luv, you will
make a perfect odalisque without so much as a iewel in your navel.
But do you do back rubs? How's your singing? Now we come to the
key question: How do you feel about females? You can whisper in
my ear."
I said, "Maybe I had better go out and come back in and start
all over again. I just want to make a phone call. Ian, may I use
my credit card to place a call to my boss? It's MasterCard, triple-A
credit."
"Issued where?"
"The Imperial Bank of Saint Louis."

"From what the dog did in the night I deduce that you did not
hear an earlier announcement. Or do you want your credit card
canceled?"
"Canceled?"
"Is that an echo? BritCanBanCredNet announced that credit
cards issued in the Imperium and in Quebec were void for the duration
of the emergency. So just stick it in the slot and learn the won-
ders of the computer age and the smell of burning plastic." "Oh."
"Speak up. I thought you said, 'Oh.'"
"I did. Ian, may I eat humble pie? Then may I call my boss on
your credit?"
"Certainly you may... if you clear it with Janet. She runs the
household."
"Janet?"
"You haven't answered my question, dear. Just whisper it into my
ear."
So I whispered into her ear. Her eyes got wide. "Let's place your
call first." I gave her the call code and she did it for me, using the
terminal in her room.
The streamers stopped and a procedural sign flashed on: SECURITY
INTERDICT--NO CIRCUITS TO CHICAGO IMPERIUM
It flashed for ten seconds, then cut out; I let out a very sincere
damn and heard Ian's voice behind me. "Naughty, naughty. Nice
little girls and ladies don't talk that way."
"I'm neither one. And I'm frustrated!"
"I knew you would be; I heard the announcement earlier. But I
also knew that you would have to try it before you would believe it."
"Yes, I would have insisted on trying. Ian, I'm not only frustrated;
I'm stranded. I've got endless credit through the Imperial Bank
of Saint Louis and can't touch it. I have a couple of dollars Ennzedd
and some change. I have fifty crowns Imperial. And a suspended
credit card. What was that about a concubinage contract? You can
hire me cheap; it's become a buyer's market."
"Depends. Circumstances alter cases and now I might not want
to go higher than room and board. What was it you whispered to
Janet? Might affect things."
Janet answered, "She whispered to me, 'Honi soit qui mal y

I loo
	. 	101 I


pense,' "---I hadn't--"a sentiment I commend to you, my good
man. Marjorie, you aren't any worse off than yc/u were an hour ago.
You still can't go home until things quiet down... and when they
do, the border will be open, and so will be the corem circuits, and
your credit card will be honored again . . . if not here, then just
across the border less than a hundred kilos away. So fold your hands
and wait--"

"'--with quiet mind and tranquil heart.' Yes, do," Ian agreed,
"and Georges will spend the time painting you. Because he's in the
same fix. You both are dangerous aliens and will be interned if you
step out of this house."

"Did we miss another announcement?" Jan asked.

"Yes. Although it appears to be a repetition of an earlier one.
Georges and Marjorie each is supposed to report to the nearest police
station. I don't recommend it. Georges is going to ignore it,
play dumb, and say that he didn't know that they meant to include
permanent residents. Of course they might parole you. Or you
might spend all next winter in some very drafty temporary barracks.
There is nothing about this silly emergency that guarantees that it
will be over next week."

I thought about it. My own stupid fault. On a mission I never
travel with only one sort of credit and I always carry a healthy
amount of cash. But I had uncritically assumed that a vacation trip
did not call for the cynical rule of a crown of cash per click in iron
money. With plenty of cash a cowan can bribe his way into an esbat
 . . and out again, with his tail feathers unsinged. But without
cash?

I hadn't tried living off the country since basic training. Perhaps I
was going to have to see if that training had stuck. Thank God the
weather was warm!

Georges was shouting. "Turn up your sound! Or come out

We hurriedly joined him.

"--of the Lord! Pay no heed to vain boasts of sinners! We

are responsible for the apocalyptic signs you see all around you. Satan's
minions have attempted to usurp the Holy work of God's
sen instruments and to distort it to their own vile ends. For this
are now being punished. Meanwhile the worldly rulers
affairs here below are commanded to do the following Holy works:


"End all trespass into the Heavenly realm. Had the Lord intended
man to travel in space he would have given him wings.

"Suffer not a witch to live. So-called genetic engineering mocks
the Lord's dearest purposes. Destroy the foul dens in which such
things are done. Kill the walking dead conjured up in those black
pits. Hang the witches who practice these vile arts."

("Goodness," Georges said. "I do believe they mean me." I didn't
say anything--I knew they meant me.)

"Men who lie with men, women who lie with women, any who
lie with beasts--all shall die by stones. As shall women taken in
adultery.

"Papists and Saracens and infidels and Jews and all who bow
down to idolatrous images--the Angels of the Lord say unto you:
Repent for the hour is at hand! Repent or feel the swift swords of the
Lord's chosen instruments.

"Pornographers and harlots and women of immodest demeanor,
repent!--or suffer the terrible wrath of the Lord!

"Sinners of every sort, remain on this channel to receive instruction
in how you may yet find the Light.

"By order of the Grand General of the Angels of the Lord."

The tape ended and there was another break. Ian said, "Janet, do
you remember the first time we saw Angels of the Lord?"

"I'm not likely to forget. But I never expected anything as ridiculous
as this."

I said, "There really are Angels of the Lord? Not just another
nightmare on the screen?"

"Um. It's hard to connect the Angels Ian and I saw with this business.
Last March, early April, I had driven to the port to pick up
Ian. The Concourse was loaded with Hare Krishna freaks, saffron
robes and shaved heads and jumping up and down and demanding
money. A load of Scientologists was coming out the gates, heading
for some do of theirs, a North American convention I think it was.
Just as the two groups merged, here came the Angels of the Lord,
homemade signs and tambourines and clubs.

"Marj, it was the gaudiest brawl I have ever seen. No trouble telling
the three sides apart. The Hare Krishners looked like clowns,
unmistakable. The Angels and the Hubbardites did not wear robes
but there was no trouble telling them apart. The Eltonnets were


clean and neat and short-haired; the Angels looked like unmade
beds. They carried the 'stink of piety,' too; I got downwind of them
once, then moved quickly.
"The Scientologists, of course, have had to fight for their rights
many times; they fought with discipline, defended themselves, and
disengaged rapidly--got out, taking their wounded with them. The
Hairy Krishners fought like squawking chickens and left their
wounded behind. But the Angels of the Lord fought as if they were
crazy--and I think they are. They moved straight in, swinging clubs
and fists, and didn't stop until they were down and unable to get up.
It took about as many Mounties to subdue them as there were Angels...
when the usual ratio is one Mounty, one riot.
"It appears that the Angels knew that the Hubbardites were arriving
at that time and had come there to jump them; the Hare Krishna
crowd showed up by accident--they were at the port simply
because it is a good place to shake down cubes for money. But, having
found the Hairies and being unable to pin down the Scientolo-gists,
the Angels settled for beating up the Krishna freaks."
Ian agreed. "I saw it from the other side of the barrier. Those Angels
fought berserk. I think they may have been hopped up. But I
would never have believed that such a mob of rags and dirt could be
a threat to the whole planet hell, I can't believe it now. I think
they are trying to grab credit, {ike those psychotics that confess to
any spectacular crime."
"But I would not want to have to face them," Janet added.
"Right! I would as lief face a pack of wild dogs. But I can't imagine
wild dogs toppling a government. Much less a world."

None of us guessed that there could be still more claimants--but
two hours later the Stimulators put in their bid:
"This is an authorized spokesman of the Stimulators. We initiated
the first executions and carefully selected the targets. We did not
start any of the riots or commit any of the atrocities since then. We
did find it necessary to interrupt some communications, but these
will be restored as soon as conditions permit. Events have caused us
to modify our essentially benign and nonviolent plan. Opportunists
calling themselves the Council for Survival in English-speaking

1104

countries, or the Heirs of Leon Trotsky or other meaningless names
elsewhere, have tried to take over our program. They can be spotted
by the fact that they have no program of their own.
"Worse are some religious fanatics calling themselves the Angels
of the Lord. Their so-called program is a mindless collection of
anti-intellectual slogans and vicious prejudices. They cannot succeed
but their doctrines of hate can easily set brother against brother,
neighbor against neighbor. They must be stopped.
"Emergency Decree Number One: All persons representing
themselves as Angels of the Lord are sentenced to death. Authorities
everywhere will carry out this sentence at once wherever and whenever
one is found. Private citizens, subjects, and residents are directed
to turn in these self-described Angels to the nearest authority,
using citizen's arrest, and are authorized to use force as needed to
accomplish such arrest.
"Aiding, abetting, succoring, or hiding one of this proscribed
group is declared itself a capital offense.
"Emergency Decree Number Two: Falsely claiming credit or responsibility
for any action of a Stimulator, or falsely claiming credit
for any action carried out by order of the Stimulators, is declared a
capital offense. All authorities everywhere are ordered to treat it as
such. This decree applies to, but is not limited to, the group and
individuals calling themselves the Council for Survival.
"The Reform Program: The following reform measures are effective
at once. Political, fiscal, and business leaders all are individually
and collectively responsible for carrying out each reform measure
under penalty of death.
"Immediate reforms: All wages, prices, and rents are frozen. All
mortgages on owner-occupied dwellings are canceled. All interest is
fixed at six percent.
"For each country the health industry is nationalized to whatever
extent it was not already nationalized. Medical doctors are to be
paid the same wages as high-school teachers; nurses will be paid at
the same scale as primary-school teachers; all other therapy and
auxiliary personnel will be paid comparable wages. All clinical and
hospital fees are abolished. All citizens, subjects, and residents will
receive the highest level of health care at all times.

lO51


"All businesses and services now functioning will continue to
function. After the transition period changes in occupation will be
permitted and required where such changes enhance the general
welfare.
"The next instructive executions will take place ten days hence
plus or minus two days. The list of officials and leaders at risk published
by the so-called Council for Survival is neither confirmed nor
denied. Each one of you must look into your heart and conscience
and ask yourself whether or not you are doing your best for your
fellow men. If the answer is yes, you are safe. If the answer is no,
then you may be one of the next group selected as object lessons to
all those who have turned our fair planet into a hellhole of injustice
and special privilege.
"Special decree: The manufacture of pseudopeople will stop at
once. All so-called artificial people and/or living artifacts will hold
themselves ready to surrender to the nearest reform authority when
notified. During the interim, while plans are being prepared for
these quasi-people to live out their lives without further harm to
people and under circumstances that no longer create unfair competition,
these creatures will continue to work but will remain indoors
at all other times.
"Except in the following circumstances, local authorities are forbidden
to kill these--"
The announcement broke off. Then a face appeared on the
screen--male, sweaty, and troubled. "I'm Sergeant Malloy speaking
for Chief Henderson. No more of these subversive broadcasts
will be permitted. Regular programming will resume. But stay with
this channel for emergency announcements." He sighed. "It's a bad
time, neighbors. Do be patient."

Xll

Georges said, "There you have it, my dears. Pick one. A theocracy
ruled by witchburners. Or a fascist socialism designed by retarded
schoolboys. Or a crowd of hard-boiled pragmatists who favor shooting
the horse that misses the hurdle. Step right up! Only one to a
customer."
"Stop it, Georges," Ian told him. "It's no joking matter."
"Brother, I am not joking; I am weeping. One gang plans to shoot
me on sight, another merely outlaws my art and profession, while
the third by threatening without specifying is, so it seems to me,
even more to be dreaded. Meanwhile, lest I find comfort simply in
physical sanctuary, this beneficent government, my lifetime alma
mater, declares me enemy alien fit only to be penned. What shall I
do? Joke? Or drip tears on your neck?"
"You can stop being so goddam Gallic, that's what you can do.
The world is going crazy right in our lap. We had better start thinking
about what we can do about it."
"Stop it, both of you," Janet said firmly but gently. "One thing
every woman knows but few men ever learn is that there are times
when the only wise action is not to act but to wait. I know you two.
Both of you would like to run down to the recruiting office, enlist
for the duration, and thereby turn your consciences over to the sergeants.
This served your fathers and grandfathers and I am truly sorry
that it can't serve you. Our country is in danger and with it our
way of life, that's clear. But if anyone knows of anything better to do



I 106
	,
	107 I


than to sit tight and wait, let him speak up. If not... let's not run
in circles. It is approaching what should be lunchtime. Can anyone
think of anything better to do?"
"We had a very late breakfast."
"And we'll have a late lunch. Once you see it on the table, you'll
eat, and so will Georges. One thing we can do: Just in case things
get rougher than they are now, Marj should know where to go for
bomb protection."
"Or whatever."
"Or whatever. Yes, Ian. Such as police looking for enemy aliens.
Have you two big brave men considered what to do in case they
come a-knocking at our door?"
"I had thought of that," Georges answered. "First you surrender
Marji to the Cossacks. That will distract them and thereby give me time to get far, far away. That's one plan."
"So it is," agreed Janet. "But you imply that you have another?"
"Not with the simple elegance of that one. But, for what it is,
here is a second plan. I surrender myself to the Gestapo, a test case
to determine whether or not I, a distinguished guest and reliable
taxpayer who has never failed to contribute to the police welfare
fund and to the firemen's ball, can in fact be locked up for no reason
whatever. While ! am sacrificing myself for a principle, Mari can
duck into the hidey-hole and lie doggo. They don't know that she is
here. Regrettably they do know that I am here. 'It is a far, far better
thing--'"
"Don't be noble, dear; it doesn't suit you. We'll combine the two
plans. If-- No, when-- When they come looking for either one or
both of you, you both duck into the shelter and stay there as long as
necessary. Days. Weeks. Whatever."
Georges shook his head. "Not me. Damp. Unhealthy."
"And besides," Ian added, "I promised Mari that I would
her from Georges. What's the point in saving her life if you
over to a sex-crazed Canuck?"
"Don't believe him, dear one. Liquor is my weakness."
"Luv, do you want to be protected from Georges?"
I answered truthfully that Georges might need protection from
me. I did not elaborate.

"As for your complaints about damp, Georges, the Hole has precisely
the humidity of the rest of the house, a benign RH of forty-five;
I planned it that way. If necessary, we'll stuff you into the Hole
but we are not going to surrender you to the police." Janet turned to
me. "Come with me, dear; we'll do a dry run. A wet one, rather."
She took me to the room assigned to me, picked up my iumpbag. "What do you have in this?"
"Nothing much. A change of panties and some socks. My passport.
A useless credit card. Some money. IDs. A little notebook.
My real luggage is in bond at the port."
"Just as well. Because any trace of you is going to be left in my
room. If it's clothing, you and I are near enough of a size." She dug
into a drawer and got out a plastic envelope on a belt--an ordinary
female-style money belt. I recognized it although I've never owned
one--useless in my profession. Too obvious. "Put anything into
this that you can't afford to lose, and we'll put it on you. And seal
it. Because you are going to get wet all over. Mind getting your
hair wet?"
"Goodness, no. I just rub it with a towel and shake it. Or ignore
it."
"Good. Fill the pouch and take off your clothes. No point in getting
them wet. Although, if the gendarmes do show up, you just go
ahead and get them wet, then dry them in the Hole."
Moments later we were in her big bath, me dressed in that waterproof
money belt, Janet only in a smile. "Dear," she said, pointing
at that hot-tub-or-plunge, "look under the seat on the far side
there."
I moved a little. "I can't see very well."
"I planned it that way. The water is clear and you can see down
into it all over. But from the only spot where you should be able to
see under that seat the overhead light reflects on the water back into
your eyes. There is a tunnel under that seat. You can't see it no
matter where you stand, but if you get facedown in the water you
can feel for it. It is a bit less than a meter wide, about half a meter
high, and about six meters long. How are you in enclosed places?
Does claustrophobia bother you?"
"No."



		o91

11o8
	,


"That's good. Because the only way to get into the Hole is to take
a deep breath, go under, and through that passage. Easy enough to
pull yourself along because I built ridges into the bottom for that
purpose. But you have to believe that it is not too long, that you can
reach a place where it opens out in one breath, and that simply
standing up will bring you up into the air again. You'll be in the
dark but the light comes on fairly quickly; it's a thermal radiation

switch. This time I'll go ahead of you. Ready to follow me?"

"I guess so. Yes."

"Here goes." Janet stepped down onto the near seat, on down
onto the floor of the tank. The waterline was at her waist or above.
"Deep breath!" She did so, smiled, and went underwater and under
that seat.

I stepped down into the water, hyperventilated, and followed her.
I could not see the tunnel but it was easy to find it by touch, easy to
pull myself along by finger-thick ridges in the bottom. But it did
seem to me that the passage was several times six meters long.

Suddenly a light came on just ahead of me. I reached it, stood
up, and Janet reached a hand down to me, helped me out of the
water. I found myself in a very small room, with a ceiling not more
than two meters above the concrete floor. It seemed pleasanter than
a grave but not much.

"Turn around, dear. Through here."

"Through here" was a heavy steel door, high above the floor, low
down from the ceiling; we got through it by sitting on the doorsill
and swinging our feet over. Janet pulled it closed behind us and it
whuffed like a vault door. "Overpressure door," she explained. "If a
bomb hit near here, the concussion wave would push the water
right through the little tunnel. This stops it. Of course, for a direct
hit-- Well, we wouldn't notice it so I didn't plan for it." She added,
"Look around, make yourself at home. I'll find a towel."

We were in a long, narrow room with an arched ceiling.

were bunk beds along the right wall, a table with chairs and a termi-'
hal beyond, and, at the far end, a petite galley on the right and
door that evidently led to a 'freshet or bath, as Janet went in there.
came out at once with a big towel.

"Hold still and let Mama dry you," she said. "No blowdry here,


Everything is as simple and unautomated as I could make it and still
have things work."

She rubbed me to a glow, then I took the towel 'from her and
worked her over--a pleasure, as Janet is a lavish stack of beauty.
Finally she said, "Enough, luv. Now let me give you the five-dollar
tour in a hurry as you are not likely to be in here again unless you
have to use it as a refuge... and you might be aloneoh, yes, that
could happen--and your life might depend on knowing all about
the place.

"First, see that book chained to the wall above the table? That's
the instruction book and inventory and the chain is no joke. With
that book you don't need the five-dollar tour; everything is in that
book. Aspirin, ammo, or apple sauce, it's all listed there."

But she did give me, quickly, at least a three-ninety-five tour:
food supplies, freezer, reserve air, hand pump for water if pressure
fails, clothing, medicines, etc. "I planned it," she said, "for three
people for three months."

"How do you resupply it?"

"How would you do it?"

I thought about it. "I would pump the water out of the plunge."
"Yes, exactly. There is a holding tank, concealed and not on the
house plans-none of this is. Of course many items can take getting
wet or can be fetched through in waterproof coverings. By the bye,
did your money pouch come through all right?"

"I think so. I pressed all of the air out of it before I sealed it. Jan,
this place is not just a bomb shelter or you would not have gone to
so much trouble and expense to conceal its very existence."

Her face clouded. "Dear, you are very perceptive. No, I would
never have bothered to build this were it just a bomb shelter. If we
ever get H-bombed, I am not especially eager to live through it. I
designed primarily to protect us from what is so quaintly called 'civil
disorder.'"

She went on, "My grandparents used to tell me about a time
when people were polite and nobody hesitated to be outdoors at
night and people often didn't even lock their doors--much less surround
their homes with fences and walls and barbed wire and lasers.
Maybe so; I'm not old enough to remember it. It seems to me that,


all my life, things have grown worse and worse. My first job, right
out of school, was designing concealed defenses into older buildings
being remodeled. But the dodges used then--and that wasn't so
many years ago!--are obsolete. Then the idea was to stop him and
frighten him off. Now it's a two-layer defense. If the first layer
doesn't stop him, the second layer is designed to kill him. Strictly
illegal and anyone who can afford it does it that way. Marj, what
haven't I shown you? Don't look in the book; you would spot it.
Look inside your head. What major feature of the Hole did I not
show you?"

(Did she really want me to tell her?) "Looks complete to me...
once you showed me the main and auxiliary Shipstones of your
power supply."

"Think, dear. The house above us is blasted down around our
ears. Or perhaps it is occupied by invaders. Or even our own police,
looking for you and Georges. What else is needed?".

"Well . . . anything that lives underground--foxes, rabbits, go-phers--has
a back door."

"Good girl! Where is it?"

I pretended to look around and try to find it. But in fact an itchy
feeling dating clear back to intermediate training ("Don't relax until
you have spotted your escape route") had caused me to search earlier.
"If it's feasible to tunnel in that direction, I think the back door
would be inside that clothes cupboard."

"I don't know whether to congratulate you or to study how I
should have concealed it better. Yes, through that wardrobe and
turn left. The lights come on from thirty-seven-degree radiation just
as they did when we came out of the pool tunnel. Those lights are
powered by their own Shipstones, and they should last forever,
practically, but I think it is smart to take along a fresh torch and you
know where they are. The tunnel is quite long, because it
out well outside our walls in a clump of thornbush. There is a camouflaged
door, rather heavy, but you just push it aside, then it
swings back."

"Sounds awfully well'planned. But, Jan? What if somebody
found it and came in that way? Or I did? After all, I'm practically a;11
stranger."


"You're not a stranger; you're an old friend we haven't known
very long. Yes, it is just barely possible that someone might find our
back door despite its location and the way it is hidden. First, a horrid
alarm would sound all through the house. Then we would look
down the tunnel by remote, with the picture showing on one of the
house terminals. Then steps would be taken, the gentlest being tear
gas. But if we weren't home when our back door was breached, I

would feel very sorry for Ian or Georges or both."

"Why do you put it that way?"

"Because it would not be necessary to be sorry for me. I would
have a sudden attack of swooning feminine weakness. I do not dispose
of dead bodies, especially ones that have had several days in
which to get ripe."

"mmm... yes."

"Although that body would not be dead if its owner were smart
enough to pour pee out of a boot. Remember, I'm a professional
designer of defenses, Marj, and note the current two-layer policy.
Suppose somebody does claw his way up a steep bank, spots our
door, and breaks his nails getting it open--he's not dead at that
point. If it's one of us--conceivable but unlikely--we open a switch
concealed a short distance inside, I would have to show you where.
If it is indeed an intruder, he would see at once a sign: PRIVATE
PROPERTY--KEEP OUT. He ignores this and comes on in and a few
meters farther along a voice gives the same warning and adds that
the property has active defense. The idiot keeps coming. Sirens and
red lights--and still he persists . . . and then poor Ian or Georges
has to drag this stinking garbage out of the tunnel. Not outdoors,
though, or back into the house. If someone kills himself persisting
in trying to break through our defenses, his body will not be found;
he will stay missing. Do you feel any need to know how?"

"I feel quite sure that I have no 'need to know.' "(A camouflaged
side tunnel, Janet, and a lime pit--and I wonder what bodies are
already in it? Janet looks as gentle as rosy-fingered dawn... and if
anyone lives through these crazy years, she will be one of them. She
is about as tender-minded as a Medici.)

"I think so, too. Anything more you want to see?"

"I don't think so, Jan. Especially as I am not likely ever to use


		113 I

1112



your wonderful hideaway. Go back now?"

"Before long." She closed the interval between us, placed her

hands on my shoulders. "What did you whisper to me?"

"I think you heard it."

"Yes, I did." She pulled me to her.

The terminal at the table lighted. "Lunch is ready!"

Jan looked disgusted. "Spoilsport?


1114


Xlll


Lunch was delicious. A cold table of pickles, cheeses, breads, preserves,
nuts, radishes, scallions, celery, and such surrounded a pot-au-feu
over a table flame. Nearby were chunks of crusty garlic bread
dripping butter. Georges presided over the soup with the dignity of a
maitre d'h6tel, ladling it into large soup plates. As I sat down Ian
tied a giant serviette around my neck. "Dig in and make a pig of
yourself," he advised.

I tasted the soup. "I shall!" and added, "Janet, you must have
been simmering this soup all day yesterday."

"Wrong!" Ian answered. "Georges' grand-mre left this soup to
him in her will."

"That's an exaggeration," Georges objected. "My dear mother,
may the good God comfort her, started this soup the year I was
born. My older sister always expected to receive it, but she married
beneath her--a British Canadian--so it was passed on to me. I have
tried to maintain the tradition. Although I think the flavor and the
bouquet were better when my mother was tending it."

"I don't understand such things," I answered. "All I know is that
this soup was never near a tin."

"I started it last week," Janet said. "But Georges took it over and
nursed it along. He does understand soups better than I do."

"All I understand about soup is eating it and I hope there is a
dividend in that pot."


115 I


"We can always," Georges assured me, "toss in another mouse"
"Anything in the news?" Janet asked.
"What happened to your rule about 'not at meals'?"
"Ian my true love, you should know if anyone does that my rules
apply to other people, not to me. Answer me."
"In general, no change. No more assassinations reported. If any
more claimants to the growing swarm of self-confessed wreckers
have appeared, our paternalistic government chooses not to let us
know. God damn it, I hate this 'Papa knows best' attitude. Papa does not know best or we would not be in the mess we are in. All that we
really know is that the government is using censorship. Which
means that we know nothing. Makes me want to shoot somebody."
"I think there has been enough of that. Or do you want to sign up
with the Angels of the Lord?"
"Smile when you say that. Or would you like a fat lip?"
"Remember the last time you undertook to chastise me."
"That's why I said 'lip.'"
"Sweetheart, I prescribe three stiff drinks or one Miltown for you.
I'm sorry you are upset. I don't like it either, but I don't see anything
to do but sweat it out."
"Jan, sometimes you are almost offensively sensible. The thing
that has me really clawing the counterpane is the great big hole in
the news... and no explanation."
"Yes?"
"The multinationals. All the news has been about territorial
states, not one word about the corporate states. Yet anyone who can
count above ten with his shoes on knows where the power is today.
Don't these bloodthirsty jokers know that?"
Georges said gently, "My old, it is perhaps exactly for that reason
that corporations have not been named as targets."
"Yes, but--" Ian shut up.
I said, "Ian, the day we met, you pointed out that there
ly isn't any way to hit a corporate state. You spoke of IBM and
Russia."
"That wasn't quite what I said, Marj. I said that military force was
useless against a multinational. Ordinarily, when they war among,
themselves, the giants use money and proxies and other maneuver-i
ings that involve lawyers and bankers rather than violence. Oh, they
sometimes do fight with hired armies but they don't admit it and it's
not their usual style. But these current jokers are using exactly the
weapons with which a multinational can be hit and be hurt: assassination
and sabotage. This is so evident that it worries me that we
don't hear of it. Makes me wonder what is happening that they are
not putting on the air."
I swallowed a big chunk of French bread that I had soaked in that
heavenly soup, then said, "Ian, is it within possibility that some
one--or more--of the multinationals is running this whole show
 . . through dummies?"
Ian sat up so suddenly that he jiggled his soup and spotted his bib.
"Marj, you amaze me. I picked you out of the crowd originally for
reasons having nothing to do with your brain--"
"I know."
"--but you persist in having a brain. You spotted at once what
was wrong with the company's notion of contracting for artificial pi-lots-I'm
going to use your arguments in Vancouver. Now you've
taken this crazy news picture . . . and stuck the one piece in the
puzzle that makes it make sense."
"I'm not sure that it does make sense," I answered. "But, according
to the news, there were assassinations and sabotage all over the
planet and on Luna and as far away as Ceres. That takes hundreds
of people, more likely thousands. Both assassination and sabotage
are specialist jobs; they call for training. Amateurs, even if they
could be recruited, would botch the job seven times out of ten. All
this means money. Lots of money. Not just a crackpot political organization,
or a crazy religious cult Who has the money for a
worldwide, a systemwide, demonstration like that? I don't know--I
just tossed out a possibility."
"I think you've solved it. All but 'who.' Marj, what do you do
when you are not with your family in South Island?"
"I don't have a family in South Island, Ian. My husbands and my
group sisters have divorced me."
(I was as shocked as he was.)
There was silence all around. Then Ian gulped and said quietly, "I' m very sorry, Marjorie."

1171


"No need to be, Ian. A mistake was corrected; it's over and done
with. I won't be going back to New Zealand. But I would like to go

to Sydney someday to visit Betty and Freddie."

"I'm sure they would like that."

"I know that I would. And both of them invited me. Ian, what
does Freddie teach? We never got around to that."

Georges answered, "Federico is a colleague of mine, dear Marjorie...
a happy fact that led to my being here."

"True," Janet agreed. "Chubbie and Georges spliced genes together
at McGill, and through that partnership Georges met Betty,
and Betty tossed him in my direction and I scooped him up."

"So Georges and I worked out a deal," Ian agreed, "as neither of
us could manage Jan alone. Right, Georges?"

"You have reason, my brother. If indeed the two of us can manage
Janet."

"I have trouble managing you two," Jan commented. "I had better
sign up Marj to help me. Marj?"

I did not take this quasi-offer seriously because I felt sure that it
wasn't meant seriouslY. Everyone was making chitchat to cover the
shocker I had dropped into their laps. We all knew that. But did
anyone but me notice that my job was no longer a subiect? I knew
what had happened but why did that deep-down layer of my brain
decide to table the subject so emphatically? I would never tell Boss's
secrets!

Suddenly I was urgently anxious to check with Boss. Was he in-

volved in these odd events? If so, on which side?

"More soup, dear lady?"

"Don't give her more soup till she answers me."

"But, Jan, you weren't serious. Georges, if I take more soup,

will eat more garlic bread. And I'll get fat. No. Don't tempt me."
"More soup?"
"Well... just a little."

"I'm quite serious," Jan persisted. "I'm not trying to tie
down as you are probably soured on matrimony at present. But
could give it a trial and a year from now we could discuss it. If yo
wished to. In the meantime I'll keep you for a pet... and I'll
these two goats be in the same room with you only if their
pleases me."


"Wait a minute?' Ian protested. "Who fetched her here? I did.
Marj is my sweetheart."

"Freddie's sweetheart, according to Betty. You brought her here
as Betty's proxy. As may be, that was yesterday and she's my sweetheart
now. If either of you want to speak to her, you'll have to come
to me and get your ticket punched. Isn't that right, Marjorie?"

"If you say so, Jan. But it's only a theoretical point as I really do
have to leave. Do you have a large-scale map of the border in the
house? South border, I mean."

"As good as. Call one up on the computer. If you want a print-

out, use the terminal in my study--off my bedroom."

"I don't want to interfere with the news."

"You won't. We can uncouple any terminal from all the others--necessary
as this is a household of rugged individualists."

"Especially Jan," agreed Ian. "Marj, why do you want a big map
of the Imperium border?"

"I would rather go home by tube. But I can't. Since I can't, I
must find some other way to get home."

"I thought so. Honey, I'm going to have to take your shoes away
from you. Don't you realize you can get shot trying to cross that
border? Right now the guards on both sides are sure to be trigger-happy."

"Uh... is it all right for me to study the map?"

"Certainly ... if you promise not to try to sneak across the
border."

Georges said gently, "My brother, one should never tempt one of
the dear ones to lie."

"Georges is right," Jan ruled. "No forced promises. Go ahead,
Marj; I'll clear up here. Ian, you just volunteered to help."

I spent the next two hours at the computer terminal in my borrowed
room, memorizing the border as a whole, then going to maximum
magnification and learning certain parts in great detail. No
border can be truly tight, not even the bristling walls some totalitarian
states place around their subjects. Usually the best routes are
near the guarded ports of entry--often in such places the smugglers'
routes are worn smooth. But I would not follow a known route.

There were many ports of entry not too far away: Emerson Junction,
Pine Creek, South Junction, Gretna, Maida, etc. I looked also


[118

	119l


at Roseau River, but it seemed to flow the wrong way--north into
the Red River. (The map was not too clear.)
There is an odd chunk of land sticking out into the Lake of the
Woods east-southeast of Winnipeg. The map colored it as. part of
the Imperium and showed nothing to stop one walking across the
border at that point--if she were willing to risk several kilometers of
marshy ground. I'm no superman; I can get bogged down in a
swamp--but that unguarded stretch of border was tempting. I finally
put it out of my mind because, while legally that chunk was part
of the Imperium, it was separated from the Imperium proper by
twenty-one kilometers of water. Steal a boat? I made a bet with myself
that any boat, crossing that stretch of lake, would interrupt a
beam. Failure to respond to challenge correctly would then result in
a laser burn in the bow you could throw a dog through. I don't argue
with lasers; you can neither bribe them nor sweet-talk them--I
put it out of my mind.

I had just stopped studying maps and was letting the images soak
into my mind when Janet's voice came out of the terminal: "Marjo-
rie, come to the living room, please. Quickly!"
I came very quickly.
Ian was talking to someone in the screen. Georges was off to one
side, out of pickup. Janet motioned to me to stay out of pickup, too.
"Police," she said quietly. "I suggest that you go down into the Hole
at once. Wait and I'll call you when they've gone."
I answered just as quietly, "Do they know that I'm here?"
"Don't know yet."
"Let's be sure. If they know I'm here and they can't find me,
you'll be in trouble."
"We are not afraid of trouble."
"Thanks. But let's listen."
Ian was saying to the face in the screen, "Mel, come off
it. Georges is not an enemy alien and you damned well know it. As
for this--'Miss Baldwin,' did you say?--why are you looking here
for her?"
"She left the port with you and your wife yesterday evening.
she's not still with you, then you certainly know where she is. As for
Georges, any Kaybecker is an enemy alien today no matter how
long he has been here or what clubs he belongs to. I assume that
you would rather have an old friend pick him up than a trooper. So
switch off your sky guard; I'm ready to land."
Janet whispered, "'Old friend' indeed! He's been trying to get
into bed with me since high school; I have been telling him no the
same length of time--he's slimy."
Ian sighed. "Mel, this is a hell of a funny time to talk about
friendship. If Georges were here, I'm sure he would rather be arrested
by a trooper than be taken in under the guise of friendship. So go
back and do it the right way."
"Oh, so it's that way, is it? Very well! Lieutenant Dickey
speaking. I'm here to make an arrest. Switch off your sky guard; I'm
landing."
"Ian Tormey, householder, acknowledging police hail. Lieutenant,
hold your warrant up to your pickup so that I may verify it and
photograph it."
"Ian, you are out of your silly mind. A state of emergency has
been declared; no warrant is required."
"I can't hear you."
"Maybe you can hear this: I am about to lock onto your sky guard
and burn it out. If I set fire to something in doing so, that's too
damn bad."
Ian spread his hands in disgust, then did something at the keyboard.
"Sky guard is off." He then switched to "hold" and turned to
us. "You two have maybe three minutes to get down the Hole. I
can't stall him very long at the door."
Georges said quietly, "I shall not hide in a hole in the ground. I
shall insist on my rights. If I do not receive them, at a later time I
shall sue Melvin Dickey for his hide."
Ian shrugged. "You're a crazy Canuck. Put you're a big boy now.
Marj, get undercover, dear. It won't take too long to get rid of him
as he doesn't really know that you are here."
"Uh, I'll go down the Hole if necessary. But can't I simply wait in
Janet's bath? He might go away. I'll switch the terminal there to pick
up what goes on here. All right?"
"Marj, you're being difficult."



112o
	'
	121 I


"Then persuade Georges to go down the Hole, too. If he stays, I
might be needed here. To help him. To help you."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
I was not sure myself what I was talking about. But it did not seem
like anything I had been trained for to declare myself out of the
game and go hide in a hole in the ground. "Ian, this Melvin Dickey--
I think he means harm to Georges. I could feel it in his voice.
If Georges won't go with me into the Hole, then I should go with
him to see to it that this Dickey does not hurt him--anyone in the
hands of the police needs a witness on his side."
"Marj, you can't possibly stop a--" A deep gong note sounded. "Oh, damn! He's at the door. Get out of sight! And go down the
Hole?
I got out of sight, I did not go down the Hole. I hurried into Janet's
big bath, switched on the terminal, then used the selector
switch to place the living room pickup on screen. When I turned up
the sound, it was almost as good as being there.
A banty rooster strutted in.
Actually it was not Dickey's body but his soul that was small.
Dickey had a size-twelve ego in a size-four soul, in a body almost as
big as Ian's. He came into the room with Ian, spotted Georges, said
triumphantly, "There you are! Perreault, I arrest you for willfully
failing to report for internment as ordered by the Decree of Emergency,
paragraph six."
"I have received no such order."
"Oh, piffle! It's been all over the news."
"I do not make a practice of following the news. I know of no law
requiring me to. May I see a copy of the order under which you
propose to arrest me?"
"Don't try to come the shyster on me, Perreault. We're operating
under National Emergency and I'm enforcing it. You can read the
order when I get you in. Ian, I'm deputizing you to help me. Take
these nips"--Dickey reached behind himself, pulled out a pair of
handcuffs--"and put them on him. Hands behind his back."
Ian did not move. "Mel, don't be more of a fool than you have to
be. You have no possible excuse to put handcuffs on Georges."
"The hell I don't! We're running shorthanded and I'm makingll

this arrest without assistance. So I can't take a chance on him trying
to pull something sneaky while we're floating back. Hurry up and
get those cuffs on him!"
"Don't point that gun at me!"
I was no longer watching. I was out of the bath, through two
doors, down a long hall, and into the living room, all with a frozen-motion
feeling I get when I'm triggered into overdrive.
Dickey was trying to cover three people with his gun, one of them
being Janet. He should not have done that. I moved up to him, took
his gun, and hand-chopped his neck. The bones made that unpleasant
crunching noise neck bones always make, so unlike the sharp
crack of fractured tibia or radius.
I eased him to the rug and placed his pistolet by him, while noting
that it was a Raytheon five-oh-five powerful enough to stop a
mastodon--why do men with little souls have to have big weapons?
I said, "Jan, are you hurt?"
"No."
"I got here as fast as I could. Ian, this is what I meant when I said
that my help might be needed. But I should have stayed here. I was
almost too late."
"I've never seen anyone move so fast!"
Georges said quietly, "I have seen."
I looked at him. "Yes, of course you have. Georges, will you help
me move this"--I indicated the corpse--"and can you drive a police
APV?"
"I can if I must."
"I am about at that level of skill, too. Let's get rid of the body.
Janet told me a bit about where bodies go, did not show me the spot.
Some hole just off the escape tunnel, isn't it? Let's get busy. Ian, as
soon as we dispose of this, Georges and I can leave. Or Georges can
stay and sweat it out. But once the body and the APV are gone, you
and ]an can play dumb. No evidence. You never saw him. But we
must hurry, before he is missed."
]an was down on her knees beside the late police lieutenant.
"Mari, you actually did kill him."
"Yes. He hurried me. Nevertheless I killed him on purpose because
in dealing with a policeman it is much safer to kill than to



1122
	.
	123 I


hurt. Jan, he should not have pointed his burner at you. Otherwise
I might merely have disarmed him--then killed him only if you decided
that he needed to be dead."
"You hurried, all right. You weren't here and then you. were and
Mel was falling. '--needed to be dead'? I don't know but I won't
grieve. He's a rat. Was a rat."
Ian said slowly, "Marj, you don't seem to realize that killing a
police officer is a serious matter. It is the only capital crime that
British Canada still has on the books."
When people talk that way, I don't understand them; a policeman
isn't anybody special. "Ian, to me, pointing a pistol at my
friends is a serious matter. Pointing one at Janet is a capital crime.
But I'm sorry I upset you. Right now here is a body to dispose of and
an APV to get rid of. I can help. Or I can disappear. Say which but
be quick; we don't know how soon they will come looking for him--and
for us. Just that they will."
While I spoke, I was searching the corpse--no pouch, I had to
search his pockets, being very careful with his trouser pockets because
his sphincters had cut loose the way they always do. Not
much, thank Bast!--he had barely wet his pants and he did not yet
stink. Or not badly. The important items were in his jacket pockets:
wallet, buzzer, IDs, money, credit cards, all the walk-around junk
that tells a modern man that he is alive. I took the wallet and the
Raytheon burner; the rest was trash. I picked up those silly handcuffs.
"Any way to dispose of metal? Or must these go down the
same hole as the body?"
Ian was still chewing his lip. Georges said gently, "Ian, I urge you
to accept Marjorie's help. It is evident that she is expert."
Ian stopped jittering. "Georges, take his feet." The men carried
the body into the big bath. I hurried ahead and dropped Dickey's
gun, cuffs, and wallet on the bed in my room, and Janet put his hat
with these items. I hurried into the bath, undressing as I went. Our
men, with burden, had just reached it. Ian said, as they put it down,
"Marj, you don't need to peel down. Georges and I will take it
through. And dispose of it."
"All right," I agreed. "But let me take care of washing it. ! know
what needs to be done. I can do it better naked, then a quick shower
afterwards."

Ian looked puzzled, then said, "Oh, hell, let him stay dirty."
"All right if you say so, but you aren't going to want to use this
pool or even go through it getting in and out of the Hole until the
water has been changed and the pool basin itself scrubbed. I think it
is faster to wash the body. Unless" Janet had just come in. "Jan,
you spoke of emptying this plunge into a holding tank. How long
does that take? Full cycle, in and out."
"About an hour. It's a small pump."
"Ian, I can get that body clean in ten minutes if you will strip it
and stick it into the shower. How about his clothes? Do they go
down your oubliette, whatever you call it, or do you have some way to destroy them? Do they have to go through the pool tunnel?"
Things moved fast then, with Ian being fully cooperative and all
of them letting me lead. Jan stripped down, too, and insisted on
helping me wash the corpse, while Georges put the clothes through
their home laundry and Ian went through the water tunnel to make
some preparations.
I did not want to let Janet help me because I have had mind-control
training and I was fairly sure that she had not. But, trained
or not, she is tough. Aside from wrinkling her nose a couple of
times she did not flinch. And of course, with her help, it went
much faster.
Georges brought the clothes back, dripping. Janet put them into a
plastic sack and pressed the air out. Ian reappeared up out of the
pool, with the end of a rope. The men hitched it under the body's
armpits and shortly it was gone.
Twenty minutes later we were clean and dry, with no trace of
Lieutenant Dickey left in the house. Janet had come into "my" room while I was transferring items from Dickey's wallet into the
plastic money belt she had given me--primarily money and two
credit cards, American Express and Maple Leaf.
She didn't make any silly remarks about "robbing the dead"---and
I would not have listened if she had. These days, operating without
a valid credit card and/or cash is impossible. Jan left the room, came
back quickly with twice as much cash as I had salvaged. I accepted
it, saying, "You know that I have no notion as to how and when I
can repay this."
"Certainly I know it. Marj, I'm wealthy. My grandparents were;



124
	'
	125 I


I've never been anything else. Look, dear, a man pointed a gun at
me . . . and you jumped him, with your bare hands. Can I repay that? Both of my husbands were present... but you were the one
who tackled him."
"Don't feel that way about the men, Jan; they don't have my
training."
"I could see that. Someday I would like to hear about it. Any
chance you will go to Quebec?"
"An excellent chance if Georges decides to leave."
"I thought so." She offered me more money. "I don't keep Q-francs
in the house, much. But here is what I have."
At that point the men came in. I glanced at my finger, then at the
wall. "Forty-seven minutes since I killed him so he has been out of
touch with his headquarters one hour, more or less. Georges, I am
about to attempt to pilot that police APV; I have the key right here.
Unless you are coming with me and will pilot. Are yoh coming? Or
are you going to stay and wait for the next attempt to arrest you?
Either way, I am leaving now."
Janet said suddenly, "Let's all leave!"
I grinned at her. "Swell!"
Ian said, "You really want to do that, Jan?"
"I--" She stopped and looked frustrated. "I can't. Mama Cat and
her kittens. Black Beauty and Demon and Star and Red. We could
close this house, certainly; it winterproofs on only one household
Shipstone. But it would take at least a day or two to make arrangements
for the rest of our family. Even one pig! I can't just walk out
on them. I can't."
There wasn't anything to say, so I didn't. The coldest depth of'
Hell is reserved for people who abandon kittens. Boss says that I am
stupidly sentimental and I'm sure he is right.
We went outside. It was just beginning to get dark and I
realized that I had entered this household less than a day ea
seemed like a month. Goodness, just twenty-four hours ago I had
still been in New Zealand... which seemed preposterous.
The police car was sitting on Jan's vegetable garden, which
caused her to use language I did not expect from her. It had the
usual squatty oyster shape of an antigrav not intended for space and
was about the size of our family farm wagon in South Island. No,
that did not make me triste; Jan and her men--and Betty and Fred-die--ha,d
replaced the Davidson Group in my heartdonna e mobile; that's me. Now I wanted very badly to get back to Boss. Father
figure? Probably--but I'm not interested in shrink theories.
Ian said, "Let me look at this bucket before you lift it. You babes
in the wood could get hurt." He opened the lid, got in. Presently he
got out again. "You can float it if you decide to. But hear me. It's
got an identification transponder. It almost certainly has an active
beacon, too, although I can't find it. Its Shipstone is down to thirty-one
percent, so, if you are thinking of Quebec, forget it. It will seal
but you can't maintain cabin pressure above twelve thousand me-
ters. But, worst of all, its terminal is calling Lieutenant Dickey." "So we ignore it!"
"Of course, Georges. But, as a result of the Ortega trials last year,
they've been installing remote-control destruction packs in police
cars. I searched for signs of one. Had I found it, I would have dis-armed
it. I did not find it. That does not mean that it isn't there."
I shrugged. "Ian, necessary risks never bother me. I try to avoid
the other sort. But we still have to get rid of this heap of tin. Fly it
somewhere. Leave it."
Ian said, "Not so fast, Marj. Go-buggies are my business. This
one-- Yes! It's got the standard military AG autopilot. So we'll send
it for a ride. Where? East, maybe? It would crash before it reaches
QuSbec . . . and that could cause them to assume that you are
headed home, Georges-while you are safe in the Hole."
"I do not care, Ian. I shall not hide in the Hole. I agreed to leave
because Marjorie needs someone to care for her."
"More likely she'll take care of you. You saw how she polished off
Soapy."
"Agreed. But I did not say 'take care of'--I said that she needs
someone to care for her."
"Same thing."
"I will not argue it. Shall we make it march?"
I chopped that off by saying, "Ian, is there enough power in its
Shipstone to take it south to the Imperium?"
"Yes. But it's not safe for you to float it."



126
	127 I


"Didn't mean that. Set it on course south and maximum altitude.
Maybe your border guard will burn it down, maybe the Impe-rium
will. Or maybe it will get through but be blown by remote. Or
it might just run out of juice and crash from maximum altitude. No
matter which, we are free of it."

"Done." Ian jumped back in, was busy at the board, the craft
started to float--he dived out, dropping three or four meters. I gave
him a hand. "You all right?"

"Just fine. Look at her go!" The police car was rapidly disappearing
above us while slanting south. Suddenly it broke out of the gathering
dusk into the last of the sunlight and was very bright. It
dwindled and was gone.


XIV


We were back in the kitchen, half an eye on the terminal, our attention
on each other and on highballs Ian had served, discussing what
if anything to do now. Ian was saying,

"Marj, if you will just sit tight this silly season will be over and
you can then go home comfortably. If there is another flap, you can
dive down the Hole. At worst you have to stay indoors. Meanwhile

Georges can paint nudes of you, as Betty ordered. Okay, Georges?"
"That would be most pleasing."
"Well, Mari?"

"Ian, if I tell my boss that I couldn't come back when I was supposed
to because a twenty-five-hundred kilometer stretch of border
was nominally closed he simply would not believe me." (Tell them

that I am a trained courier? No need to. Or not yet.)

"What are you going to do?"

"I think I have been enough trouble to you folks." (Ian dear, I
think you are still in shock from seeing a man killed in your living
room. Even though you straightened up afterward and behaved like
a pro.) "I now know where your back door is. When you get up
tomorrow morning it is possible that I won't be here. Then you can

forget a disturbance in your life."

"No!"

"]an, once this mess is over, I will call you. Then, if you want me
to, I'll come back to visit just as soon as !. have some vacation time.
But now I must leave and get back to work. I've said so all along."


112s
	129 I


Janet simply would not hear of my setting out alone to crack the
border (whereas I needed someone with me the way a snake needs
shoes). But she did have a plan.
She pointed out that Georges and I could travel on their pass-ports--I
was her size, near enough, and Georges matched Ian in
size and weight. Our faces did not match but the differences weren't
major--and who really looks at passport pictures anyhow?
"You could use them and mail them back... but that may not be the easiest way. You could go to Vancouver, then cross into the
California Confederacy simply on tourists' cards--but as us. You
can go all the way to Vancouver on our credit cards. Once across
the border into California you are almost certainly home free--Marj,
your credit card should be good, you shouldn't have trouble
phoning your employer, and the cops won't be trying to intern either
one of you. Is that any help?"
"Yes," I agreed. "I think the tourist-card dodge is safer than trying
to use your passports--safer for everyone. If I reach a place where
my credit card is valid, my troubles should be over." (I would draw
cash at once and never again let myself be caught away from home
without plenty of cash---money greases anything. Especially in
California, a place loaded with scares, whereas in British Canada
officials are sometimes disconcertingly honest.)
I added, "I can't possibly be worse off in Bellingham than I am
here--then I've got all the way down to the Lone Star Republic to
try to cross if there is any holdup. Has there been any word on Texas
and Chicago? Are they on speaking terms?"
"Okay so far as I've seen in the news," Ian answered. "Shall I key
the computer for a search?"
"Yes, before I leave please do. If I had to, I could go through
Texas to Vicksburg. One can always go up the river for cash because
smugglers run so steadily."
"Before we leave," Georges corrected me gently.
"Georges, I think this route would work, for me. For you, all it
would do is get you farther and farther away from Quebec. Didn't
you say that McGill is your other base?"
"Dear lady, I have no wish to go to McGill. Since the police are
being difficult here, my true home, I can think of nothing I would
rather do than travel with you. Once we cross into Washington
Province of California you can change your name from Mrs. Tor-mey
to Mrs. Perreault, as it is certain, I think, that both my Maple
Leaf card and my Cr6dit Quebec card will be accepted."
(Georges, you are a gallant darling . . . and when I'm trying to
pull a caper I need a gallant darling the way I need an Oregon boot.
And I will have to pull one, dear--despite what Janet said, I will not
be home free.) "Georges, that sounds delightful. I can't tell you that
you must stay home... but I must tell you that I am by profession
a courier who has traveled for years by herself, all over this planet,
more than once to space colonies, and to Luna. Not yet to Mars or
Ceres but I may be ordered to at any time."
"You are saying that you would rather I did not accompany you."
"No, no! I am merely saying that, if you choose to go with me, it
will be purely social. For your pleasure and mine. But I must add
that when I enter the Imperium I must go alone, as I will be back on
duty at once."
Ian said, "Marj, at least let Georges get you out of here and into
territory where there is no silly talk of interning you, and where your
credit card is valid."
Janet added, "It's getting free of that silly internment thing that is
important. Marj, you can hang onto my Visa card as long as you
wish; I'll use my Maple Leaf card instead. Just remember that you
are Jan Parker."
"Parker?"
"Visa has my maiden name on it. Here, take it." I accepted it,
thinking that I would use it only when someone was looking over
my shoulder. When possible, I would charge things to the late
Lieutenant Dickey, whose credit should remain viable for days, possibly
weeks. There was more chitchat and at last I said,
"I'm leaving now. Georges, are you coming with me?"
Ian said, "Hey! Not tonight. First thing in the morning."
"Why? The tubes run all night, do they not?" (I knew that they
did.)
"Yes but it's over twenty klicks to the nearest tube station. And
dark as the inside of a pile of coal."
(Not the time to discuss enhanced vision.) "Ian, I can walk that

131 I


far by midnight. If a capsule leaves at midnight, I can get practically
a full night's sleep in Bellingham. If the border is open between
California and the Imperium, I'll report to my boss tomorrow
morning. Better so, huh?"
A few minutes later we all left, by surrey. lan was not pleased
with me as I had not been the sweet, soft, amenable creature that
men prefer. But he got over his annoyance and kissed me very
sweetly when they dropped us at Perimeter and McPhillips across
from the tube station. Georges and I crowded into the twenty-three-o'-clock
capsule, then we had to stand up all the way across the continent.
But we were in Vancouver by twenty-two (Pacific Time--mid-night
in Winnipeg), picked up applications for tourist cards as we
entered the Bellingham shuttle, filled them out en route, had them
processed by the exit computer as we left the shuttle a few minutes
later. The human operator didn't even look up as th machine spit
out our cards. She just murmured, "Enjoy your stay," and went on
reading.
At Bellingham the Vancouver Shuttle Station exits into the lower
lobby of the Bellingham Hilton; facing us was a glowing sign floating
in space:

THE BREAKFAST BAR
Steaks--Short Orders--Cocktails
Breakfast Served Twenty-Four Hours

Georges said, "Mrs. Tormey my love, it occurs to me that we neglected
to eat dinner."
"MrTormey, you are so right. Let's shoot a bear."
"Cooking in the Confederacy is not exotic, not sophisticated. But
in its own robust way it can be quite satisfying--especially if one
had time to grow a real appetite. I have eaten at this establis
before. Despite its name, one may have a variety of dishes. But, if
you will accept the breakfast menu and allow me to order for you, I
think that I can guarantee that your hunger will be pleasantly as-suaged."
"Georges--I mean 'Ian'---I have eaten your soup. You can order
for me anytime!"

It was truly a bar--no tables. But the stools had backs and were
padded and they came up to the bar without banging kneescomfortable.
Apple-juice appetizers were placed in front of us as we sat
down. Georges ordered for us, then slid out and' went over to the
reception desk and punched us in. When he returned, he said as he
sat down again, "Now you may call me 'Georges,' and you are 'Mrs.
Perreault.' For that is how I punched us in." He picked up his appetizer. "Sant, ma chore femme."
I picked up mine. "Merci. Et d la tienne, mon chef mari." The
juice was sparkling cold, and as sweet as the sentiment. While I did
not intend to have a husband again, Georges would make a good
one, whether in jest, as now, or in real'ity. But he was simply lent to
me by Janet.
Our "breakfast" arrived:

Ice-cold Yakima apple juice
Imperial Valley strawberries with Sequim cream
Two eggs, eyes-up and gently basted, resting on medium-rare
steak so tender it would cut with a fork-"Eggs on Horseback"
'Large hot biscuits, Sequim butter, sage and dover honey
Kona coffee in oversize cups

Coffee, juice, and biscuits were renewed constanfly--a second
serving of steak and eggs was offered but we had to refuse.
The noise level and the way we were seated did not encourage
conversation. There was an Opportunity Ads screen back of the bar.
Each ad remained on screen just long enough to be read but, as
usual, each was keyed by number to be called back for leisurely
viewing at individual terminals at each guest's place at the bar. I
found myself reading them idly while I ate:

The Free Ship lack Pot is recruiting crew members
at Vegas Labor Mart. Bonus to combat veterans.

Would a pirate ship advertise that baldly? Even in Vegas Free
State? Hard to believe but still harder to read it any other way.



1132
	'
	133 I


Smoke the Toke that Jesus Smoked!
ANGEL STICKS

Guaranteed Noncarcinogenic


Cancer cannot worry me but neither THC nor nicotine is for me;
a woman's mouth should be sweet.


GOD is waiting for you at suite 1208 Lewis and
Clark Towers. Don't make Him come get you.
You won't like it.


I didn't like it anyhow.


BORED?

We are about to abandon a pioneer party on a virgin
planet type T-13. Guaranteed sex ratio 50-40-10+-2%
Median bio age 32+- 1. No temperament test required
No AssessmentsNo Contributions--No Rescue
System Expansion Corporation

Division of Demography and Ecology

Luna City GPO lock box DEMO
or punch Tycho 800-2300


I called that one back and reread it. How would it feel to tackle a
brand-new world side by side with comrades?--people who
not possibly know my origin. Or care. My enhancements might
make me respected rather than a freak--as long as I did not flaunt
them ....

"Georges, look at this, please."
He did so. "What about it?"
"It could be fun--no?"


[134


"No! Marjorie, on the T scale anything over eight calls for a large
cash bonus, lavish equipment, and trained colonists. A thirteen is

an exotic route to suicide, that's all."

"Oh."

"Read this one," he offered:


W.K.--Make your will. You have only a week to live.
A.C.B.


I read it. "Georges, is that really a threat to kill this W.K.? In a
public ad? Where it could be traced?"

"I don't know. It might not be easy to trace. I'm wondering what
we will see here tomorrow--will it read 'six days'? Then 'five days'?
Is W.K. waiting for the blow to fall? Or is it some sort of advertising
promotion?"

"I don't know." I thought about it in connection with our plight.
"Georges, is it possible that all these threats on the channels are
some sort of terribly complex hoax?"

"Are you suggesting that no one was killed and all the news was
faked?"

"Uh, ! don't know what I'm suggesting."

"Marjorie, there is a hoax, yes--in the sense that three different
groups are all claiming responsibility and therefore two groups are
attempting to hoax the world. I do not think that the reports of assassinations
are hoaxes. As with soap bubbles, there is an upper limit to
the size of a hoax, both in numbers of people and in time. This is
too big--too many places, too widespread to be a hoax. Or by now

there would be denials from all over. More coffee?"
"Thank you, no."
"Anything?"

"Nothing. One more biscuit with honey and I would burst."


From outside it was simply a hotel-room door: 2100. Once inside I
said, "Georges! Why?"

"A bride should have a bridal suite."


351


"It's beautiful. It's lavish. It's lovely. And you should not have
wasted your money. You've already turned a dull trip into a picnic.
But if you expect me to behave as a bride tonight, you should not
have fed me Eggs on Horseback and a whole big pan of hot biscuits.
I'm bloated, dear. Not glamorous."
"You are glamorous."
"Dear! Georges, don't play with me--please don't! You caught
me out when I killed Dickey. You know what I am."
"I know that you are a sweet and brave and gallant lady."
"You know what I mean. You're in the profession. You spotted
me. You caught me out."
"You are enhanced. Yes, I saw that."
"So you know what I am. I admit it. I passed years ago. I've acquired
much practice in covering it up but--that bastard shouldn't
have pointed that gun at Janet!"
"No, he should not have done so. And for what ,ou did I am
forever in your debt."
"You mean that? Ian thought I should not have killed him."
"Ian's first reaction is always conventional. Then he comes
around. Ian is a natural pilot; he thinks with his muscles. But, Marjorie--"
"I'm not Marjorie."
"Eh?"
"You might as well have my right name. My crche name, I
mean. I'm Friday. No last name, of course. When I need one I use
one of the conventional crche surnames. Jones, usually. But
Friday is my name."
"Is that what you want to be called?"
"Uh, yes, I think so. It's the name I'm called by when I don't
have to cover up. When I'm with people I trust. I had better trust
you. Hadn't I?"
"I shall be flattered and much pleased. I shall try to deserve your
trust. As I am much in your debt."
"How, Georges7"
"I thought that was clear. When I saw what Mel Dickey was doing,
I resolved to surrender at once rather than cause hazard to others.
But when he threatened Janet with that burner, I promised

]136

myself that, at a later time, when I was free, I would kill him."
Georges barely smiled. "I had no more than promised myself that
when you appeared as suddenly as an avenging angel and carried
out my intent. So now I owe you one."
"Another killing?"
"If that is your wish, yes."
"Uh, probably not that. As you said, I'm enhanced. I've usually
managed to do it myself when it needed to be done."
"Whatever you ask, dear Friday."
"Uh, oh, hell, Georges, I don't want you to feel in debt to me. In
my own way I love Janet, too. That bastard sealed his fate when he
threatened her with a deadly weapon. I didn't do it for you; I did it
for myself. So you don't owe me anything."
"Dear Friday. You are as lovable as Janet is. I have been learning
that."
"Uh, why don't you take me to bed and let me pay you for a
number of things? I am aware that I'm not human and I don't expect
you to love me the way you do your human wife--not love me at all, really. But you seem to like me and you don't treat me likem
uh, the way my Ennzedd family did. The way most humans treat
APs. I can make it worth your while. Truly I can. I never got my
doxy certificate but I've had most of the training... and I try."
"Oh, my dear! Who hurt you so badly?"
"Me? I'm all right. I was just explaining that I know how the
world wags. I'm not a kid still learning how to get along without the
crutch of the creche. An artificial person doesn't expect sentimental
love from a human male; we both know that. You understand it far
better than a layman can; you're in the profession. I respect you and
sincerely like you. If you will permit me to go to bed with you, I'll
do my best to entertain you."
"Friday!" "Yes, sir?"
"You will not go to bed with me to entertain me."
I felt sudden tears in my eyes--a very seldom thing. "Sir, I'm sorry,"
I said miserably. "I didn't mean to offend you. I did not intend
to presume."
"God damn it, STOP IT!"

137 I


"Sir?"

"Stop calling me 'sir.' Stop behaving like a slave! Call me
Georges. If you feel like adding 'dear' or 'darling' as you have sometimes
in the past, please do so. Or slang me. Just treat me as your
friend. This 'human' and 'not-human' dichotomy is something
thought up by ignorant laymen; everybody in the profession knows
that it is nonsense. Your genes are human genes; they have been
most carefully selected. Perhaps that makes you superhuman; it

can't make you nonhuman. Are you fertile?"

"Uh, sterile reversible."

"In ten minutes with a local anesthetic I could change that. Then
I could impregnate you. Would our baby be human? Or nonhu-

man? Or half human?"

"Uh . . . human."

"You can bet your life it would be! It takes a human mother to
bear a human baby. Don't ever forget that."

"Uh, I won't forget." I felt a curious tingle, way down inside me.
Sex, but not like anything I had ever felt before even though I'm
tufty as a cat. "Georges? Do you want to do that? Impregnate me?"

He looked very startled. Then he moved to where I was standing,
tilted my face up, put his arms around me, and kissed me. On the
ten scale I would have to rate it at eight and a half, maybe nine--no
way to do better vertically and with clothes on. Then he picked me
up, moved to a chair, sat down with me in his lap, and started undressing
me, casually and gently. Janet had insisted on dressing me
in her clothes; I had more interesting things to take off than a jump
suit. My Superskin job, freshly laundered by Janet, was in my
jumpbag.

Georges said, as he unzipped and unbuttoned and undid, "That
ten minutes would have to be in my lab and it would take another
month, about, until your first breeding date, and that comb
of circumstances saves you from a bulging belly... because that
kind of remark acts on the human male like cantharides on a bull.
So you are saved from your folly. Instead I'm going to take you to
bed and try to entertain you . . . although I don't have my certificate,
either. But we'll think of something, dear Friday." He lifted
me up and pushed the last of my clothing to the floor. "You look
good. You feel good. You smell good. Do you want first chance at
the bathroom? I need a shower."

"Uh, I'd rather go second as I want to take quite a long time."

I did take quite a long time as I had not been fooling when I told
him I was bloated. l'm an experienced traveler, careful never to invite
either of the twin curses of travel. But no dinner, followed by an
enormous "breakfast" at midnight had changed my timing a bit. If I
was going to have weight on my chest--and my belly--it was time
to get rid of the bloat.

It was after two before I came out of the bathbathed, bloat taken
care of, mouth fresh and breath sweet, and feeling as fit and
cheerful as I have ever felt in my life. No perfume--not only do I
not carry it but men prefer #agrans [eminae to any other aphrodisiac
even when they don't know it--they just don't like it stale.

Georges was in bed with a coverlet over him, sound asleep. The
tent was not up, I noticed. So with extreme caution I crawled in and
managed not to wake him. Truly, I was not disappointed as I am not
that self-centered a slitch. I felt happily confident that he would
wake me refreshed and it would thus be better for each of us--it had
been a strenuous day for me, too.


1138
	139 [


I was correct.
I don't want to take Georges away from lanet.  but I look forward
to happy visits and, if he ever does elect to reverse my sterility,
doing it like a cat might be all right to make a baby for Georges--I
cannot see why Janet has not done so.
I was awakened the third or fourth time by a lovely odor; Georges
was unloading the dumb waiter. "You have twenty-one seconds to
get in and out of the bath," he said, "as soup is on. You had a proper
breakfast in the middle of the night, so you are going to have a
most improper brunch."
I suppose it is improper to have fresh Dungeness crab for breakfast
but I'm in favor of it. It was preceded by sliced banana with cream
on cornflakes, which strikes me as breakfasty, and was accompanied
by toasted rusks and a tossed green salad. I then tapered off with
chicory coffee laced with a pony of Korbel champagne brandy.
Georges is a loving lecher and a hearty gourmand and a gourmet
chef and a gentle healer who can make an artificial person believe
that she is human, or, if not, that it doesn't matter.
Query: Why are all three of that family so slender? I am certain
that they do not diet and do not take masochistic exercise. A therapist
once told me that all the exercise any person needs could be
in bed. Could that be it?
The above is the good news. The bad news--

The International Corridor was closed. It was possible to reach
Deseret by changing at Portland, but there was no guarantee that
the SLC-Omaha-Gary tube would be open. The only major international
route running capsules regularly seemed to be San Di-ego-Dallas--Vicksburg-Atlanta.
San Diego was no problem as
the San Jose tube was open from Bellingham to La Jolla. But Vicksburg
is not Chicago Imperium; it is simply a river port from which a
person with cash and persistence might reach the Imperium.
I tried to call Boss. After forty minutes I felt about synthetic voices
the way humans feel about my sort of people. Who thought up this
idea of programming "politeness" into computers? To hear a machine
voice say "Thank you for waiting" may be soothing the first
time, but three times in a row reminds you that it is phony, and
forty minutes of such stalls without even once hearing a living voice
can try the patience of a guru.
I never did get that terminal to admit that it was not possible to
phone into the Imperium. That confounded digital disaster was not
programmed to say no; it was programmed to be polite. It would
have been a relief if, after a certain number of futile tries, it had
been programmed to say, "Buzz off, sister; you've had it."
I then tried to call the Bellingham post office to inquire about
mail service into the Imperium--honest-to-goodness words on paper,
paid for as a parcel, not a facsimile or mailgram or anything
electronic.
I got a cheerful lecture on doing your Christmas mailing early.
With Christmas half a year away this seemed less than urgent.
I tried again. I got scolded about zip codes.
I tried a third time and got Macy's customer service department
and a voice: "All our friendly helpers are busy at the moment thank-
youforwaiting."
I didn't wait.
I didn't want to phone or to send a letter anyhow; I wanted to
report to Boss in person. For that I needed cash. That offensively
polite terminal admitted that the local office of MasterCard was in
the Bellingham main office of TransAmerica Corporation. So I
punched the signal and got a sweet voice--recorded, not synthe-sized-saying:
"Thank you for calling MasterCard. In the interests



1140


of efficiency and maximum savings to our millions of satisfied customers
all of our California Confederacy district offices have been
consolidated with the home office at San Jose. For speedy service
please use the toll-free signal on the back of your MasterCard card."
The sweet voice gave way to the opening bars of"Trees." I shut it off
quickly.

My MasterCard card, issued in Saint Louis, did not have on it
that San Jose toll-free signal, but only the signal of the Imperial

Bank of Saint Louis. So I tried that number, not very hopefully.

I got Punch-a-Prayer.

While I was being taught humility by a computer, Georges was
reading the Olympic edition of the Los Angeles Times and waiting
for me to quit fiddling. I gave up and asked, "Georges, what's in the

morning paper on the emergency?"

"What emergency?"

"Huh? I mean, Excuse me?" .

"Friday my love, the only emergency mentioned in this newspaper
is a warning by the Sierra Club concerning the threat to the endangered
species Rhus diversiloba. A picketing demonstration
against Dow Chemical is planned. Otherwise all is quiet on the
western front."

I wrinkled my forehead to stimulate my memory. "Georges, I
don't know much about California politics--"

"My dear, no one knows much about California politics, including
California politicians."

"--but I do seem to recall reports on the news of maybe a dozen
major assassinations in the Confederacy. Was that all a hoax?"
Thinking back and figuring time zones--how long? Thirty-five
hours?

"I find obituaries of several prominent ladies and gentlemen who
were mentioned in the news night before last... but they are
listed as assassinated. One is an 'accidental gunshot wound.' Another
died after a 'lingering illness.' Another was a victim in an
explained crash' of a private APV and the Confederacy

General has ordered an investigation. But I seem to recall that the
Attorney General herself was assassinated."

"Georges, what is going on?"


"Friday, I do not know. But I suggest that it might be hazardous
to inquire too closely."

"Uh, I'm not going to inquire; I'm not political and never have
been. I'm going to move over into the Imperium as fast as possible.
But to do that--since the border is closed no matter what the L.A.
Times says--I need cash. I hate to bleed Janet through using her
Visa card. Maybe I can use my own but I must go to San Jose to
have any luck with it; they are being stuffy. Do you want to go to
San Jose with me? Or back to Jan and Ian?"

"Sweet lady, all my worldly goods are at your feet. But show me
the way to San Jose. Why do you balk at taking me into the Imperi-um?
Is it not possible that your employer has use for my talents? I
cannot now return to Manitoba for reasons we both know."

"Georges, it is not that I balk at taking you with me but the border
is closed... which may force me to do a Dracula and flow through
a crack. Or some unreasonable facsimile. I'm trained for that but I
can do it only alone--you're in the profession; you can see that.
Moreover, while we don't know what the conditions are inside the
Imperium, the news shows that things are rough. Once inside, I
may have to be very fast on my feet just to stay alive. And I'm
trained for that, too."

"And you are enhanced and I am not. Yes, I can see."
"Georges! Dear, I do not mean to hurt your feelings. Look, once
I have reported in, I will call you. Here, or at your home, or wherever
you say. If it is safe for you to cross the border, I will know it
then." (Georges ask Boss for a job? Impossible! Or was it? Boss
might have use for an experienced genetic engineer. When it came
right down to it, I had no idea of Boss's needs aside from that one
small piece I worked in.) "Are you serious in wanting to see my boss
about a job? Uh, what shall I tell him?"

Georges gave his gentle half-smile that he uses to cover his
thoughts the way I use my passport-picture face. "How can I know?
All I know about your employer is that you are reluctant to talk
about him and that he can afford to use one such as yourself as a
messenger. But, Friday, I may appreciate even more sharply than
you do how much capital investment must have gone into your design,
your nurture, and your training... and therefore what'a price


1142


your employer must have paid for your indentures--"
"I'm not indentured. I'm a Free Person."
"Then it cost him even more. Which leads to conjectures. Never
mind, dear; I'll stop guessing. Am I serious? A man can wonder
mightily what lies beyond the range. I'll supply you with my cur-riculura
vitae; if it contains anything of interest to your employer,
no doubt he'll let me know. Now about money: You need not worry
about 'bleeding' Janet; money doesn't mean anything to her. But I
am most willing to supply you with whatever cash you need using
my own credit--and I have already established that my credit cards
are honored here despite any political troubles. I used Cr6dit Quebec
to pay for our midnight breakfast, I punched into this inn with
American Express, then used Maple Leaf to pay for our brunch. So
I have three valid cards and all match my ID." He grinned at me. "So bleed me, dear girl."
"But I don't want to bleed you any more than I .want to bleed
Janet. Look, we can try my card at San Jose; if that does not work,
I'll happily borrow from you... and I can punch you the money as
soon as I report in." (Or would Georges be willing to pull a swindle
with Lieutenant Dickey's credit card for me?--damnably difficult
for a woman to get cash with a man's card. Paying for something by
sticking a card into a slot is one thing; using a card to draw cash
money is a kettle of fish of another color.)
"Why do you speak of repayment? When I am forever in your
debt?"
I chose to be obtuse. "Do you truly feel that you owe me something?
Just for last night?"
"Yes. You were adequate."
I gasped. "Oh?
He answered, unsmiling: "Would you rather I had said inadequate?"
I refrained from gasping. "Georges. Take off your clothes. I am
going to take you back to bed, then kill you, slowly. At the end I am
going to squeeze you and break your back in three places. 'Adequate.'
'Inadequate.'"
He grinned and started unzipping.
I said, "Oh, stop that and kiss me! Then we are going to San Jose.
'Inadequate.' Which was I?"

It takes almost as long to go from Bellingham to San Jose as it does
to go from Winnipeg to Vancouver but this trip we had seats. We
emerged above ground at fourteen-fifteen. I looked around with interest,
never having visited the Confederacy capital before.
The thing I first noticed was the amazing number of APVs
bouncing like fleas all over the place and most of them taxicabs. I
know of no other modern city that permits its air space to be infested
to this extent. The streets were loaded with hansom cabs, too, and
there were slidewalks bordering every street; nevertheless these pow-er-drive
pests were everywhere, .like bicycles in Canton.
The second thing I noticed was the feel of San Jose. It was not a
city. I now understood that classic description: "A thousand villages
in search of a city."
San Jose does not seem to have any justification save politics. But
California gets more out of politics than any other country I know
of-utter unashamed and uninhibited democracy. You run into democracy
in many places--New Zealand uses it in an attenuated
form. But only in California will you find the clear-quill, raw-gum,
two-hundred-proof, undiluted democracy. The voting age starts
when a citizen is tall enough to pull the lever without being steadied
by her nurse, and registrars are reluctant to disenfranchise a citizen
short of a sworn cremation certificate.
I did not fully appreciate that last until I saw, in an election news
story, that the corpsicles at Prehoda Pines Patience Park constituted
three precincts all voting through preregistered proxies. ("Death, be
not proud!")
I will not try to pass judgment as I was a grown woman before I
encountered democracy even in its milder, nonmalignant form.
Democracy is probably all right used in sparing amounts. The British
Canadians use a dilute form and they seem to do all right. But
only in California is everyone drunk on it all the time. There does
not seem to be a day when there is not an election somewhere in
California, and, for any one precinct, there is (so I was told) an election
of some sort about once a month.
I suppose they can afford it. They have a mellow climate from
British Canada to the Mexican Kingdom and much of the richest
farm land on Earth. Their second favorite sport (sex) costs almost
nothing in its raw form; like marijuana it is freely available every-



144


where. This leaves time and energy for the true California sport:
gathering and yabbering about politics.
They elect everybody, from precinct parasite to the Chief Confederate
("The Chief"). But they unelect them almost as fast. For example
the Chief is supposed to serve one six-year term. But, of the
last nine chiefs, only two served a full six years; the others were recalled
except that one who was lynched. In many cases an official
has not yet been sworn in when the first recall petition is being circulated.
But Californians do not limit themselves to electing, recalling,
indicting, and (sometimes) lynching their swarms of officials; they
also legislate directly. Every election has on the ballot more proposed
laws than candidates. The provincial and national representatives
show some restraint--I have been assured that the typical
California legislator will withdraw a bill if you can prove to her that
pi can't equal three no matter how many vote to make it so. But
grassroots legislation ("the initiative") has no such limitation.
For example three years ago a grassroots economist noticed that
college graduates earned, on the average, about 30 percent more
than their fellow citizens who lacked bachelor's degrees. Such an
undemocratic condition is anathema to the California Dream, so,
with great speed, an initiative was qualified for the next election, the
measure passed, and all California high-school graduates and/or
California citizens attaining eighteen years were henceforth awarded
bachelor's degrees. A grandfather clause backdated this benefit
eight years.
This measure worked beautifully; the holder of a bachelor's degree
no longer had any undemocratic advantage. At the next election
the grandfather clause was expanded to cover the last twenty
years and there is a strong movement to extend this boon to all citizens.
Vox populi, vox Dei. I can't see anything wrong with it. This benevolent
measure costs nothing and makes everyone (but a
heads) happier.
About fifteen o'clock Georges and I were sliding along the south
side of the National Plaza in front of the Chief's Palace, headed for
the main offices of MasterCard. Georges was telling me that he saw
nothing wrong with my having asked to stop at a Burger King for a
snack in lieu of luncheon--that, in his opinion, the giant burger, properly prepared from top sirloin substitute and the chocolate malt
made with a minimum of chalk, constitutes California's only contribution
to international haute cuisine.
I was agreeing with him while burping gently. A group of women
and men, a dozen to twenty, were moving down the grand steps in
front of the Palace and Georges had started to swing off to avoid
them when I noticed the eagle-feather headdress on a little man in
the middle of the group, spotted the much-photographed face under
it, and checked Georges with one hand.
And caught something out of the corner of my eye: a figure coming
out from behind a pillar at the top of the steps.
It triggered me. I pushed the Chief down flat to the steps, knocking
a couple of his staff aside to do it, then bounded up to that pillar.
I didn't kill the man who had lurked behind that pillar; I merely
broke the arm he had his gun in, then kicked him sort of high when
he tried to run. I hadn't been hurried the way I had been the day
before. After reducing the target the Chief Confederate made (really,
he should not wear that distinctive headdress), I had had time to
realize that the assassin, if taken alive, might be a clue to the gang
behind these senseless killings.
But I did not have time to realize what else I had done until two
Capital police seized my arms. I then did realize it and felt glum
indeed, thinking about the scorn there would be in Boss's voice
when I had to admit that I had allowed myself to be publicly arrested.
For a split moment I seriously considered disengaging and hiding
behind the horizon--not impossible as one police officer clearly
had high blood pressure and the other was an older man wearing
frame spectacles.
Too late. If I ran now using full overdrive, I could almost certainly
get away and, in a square or two, mingle with the crowd and be
gone. But these bumblers would possibly burn half a dozen bystanders
in trying to wing me. Not professional! Why hadn't this palace
guard protected their chief instead of leaving it up to me? A lurker
behind pillars fer Gossake!--nothing like that had happened since
the assassination of Huey Long.



[46
	,
	147 I


Why hadn't I minded my own business and let the killer burn
down the Chief Confederate in his silly hat? Because I have been
trained for defensive warfare only, that's why, and consequently I
fight by reflex. I don't have any interest in fighting, don't like it--it
just happens.

I did not then have time to consider the advisability of minding
my own business because Georges was minding mine. Georges
speaks unaccented (if somewhat stilted) BritCan English; now he
was sputtering incoherently in French and trying to peel those two
praetorians off me.

The one with the spectacles let go my left arm in an effort to deal
with Georges so I jabbed him with my elbow just under his sternum.
He whooshed and went down. The other was still holding on
to my right arm, so I jabbed him in the same spot with the first three
fingers of my left hand, whereupon he vhooshed and laid himself
across his mate, and both vomited.

All this happened much faster than it takes to tell' it--i.e., the
cows grabbed me, Georges intervened, I was free. Two seconds?
Whatever it was, the assassin had disappeared, his gun with him.

I was about to disappear, too, with Georges even if I had to carry
him, when I realized that Georges had made up my mind for me.
He had me by my right elbow and had me firmly pointed toward the
main entrance of the Palace just beyond that row of pillars. As we
stepped into the rotunda he let go my elbow while saying softly,
"Slow march, my darling--quietly, quietly. Take my arm."

I took his arm. The rotunda was fairly crowded but there was
no excitement, nothing at all to suggest an attempt had just been
made a few meters away to kill the nation's chief executive. Concession
booths rimming the rotunda were busy, especially the off-track
betting windows. Just to our left a young woman was selling
lottery tickets--or available to sell them I should say, as she had no
customers just then and was watching a detergent drama on her
terminal.

Georges turned us and halted us at her booth. Without looking
up she said, "Station break coming up. Be with you then. Shop
around. Be my guest."

There were festoons of lottery tickets around the booth. Georges
started examining them, so I pretended a deep interest, too. We
stretched the time; presently the commercials started, the young
woman punched down the sound and turned to us.

"Thanks for waiting," she said with a pleasant smile. "I never
miss One Woman's Woes, especially right now when Mindy Lou is
pregnant again and Uncle Ben is being so unreasonable about it.
Do you follow the theater, dearie?"

I admitted that I rarely had time for it--my work interfered.
"That's too bad; it's very educational. Take Tim--that's my
roommate--won't look at anything but sports. So he doesn't have a
thought in his head for the finer things in life. Take this crisis in
Mindy Lou's life. Uncle Ben is purely persecuting her because she
won't tell him who did it. Do you think Tim cares? Not Tim! What
neither Tim nor Uncle Ben realizes is that she can't tell because it
happened at a precinct caucus. What sign were you born under?"

I should phrase a prepared answer for this question; human persons
are always asking it. But when you weren't born, you tend to
shy away from such things. I grabbed a date and threw it at her: "I
was born on the twenty-third of April." That's Shakespeare's birthday;
it popped into my mind.

"Oho! Have I got a lottery ticket for you!" She shuffled through
one of the Maypole decorations, found a ticket, showed me a number.
"See that? And you just walked in here and I had it! This is
your day!" She detached the ticket. "That's twenty bruins."

I offered a BritCan dollar. She answered, "I don't have change for
that."

"Keep the change for luck."

She handed me the ticket, took the dollar. "You're a real sport,
dearie. When you collect, stop by and we'll have a drink together.
Mister, have you found one you like?"

"Not yet. I was born on the ninth day of the ninth month of the
ninth year of the ninth decade. Can you handle it?"

"Woo woo! What a terrific combo! I can try... and if I can't, I
won't sell you anything." She dug through her piles and strings of
paper, humming to herself. She ducked her head under the
counter, stayed awhile.

She reappeared, red-faced and triumphant, clutching a lottery
ticket. "Got it! Look at it, mister! Give a respectful gander."

We looked: 8109999


148
	,,
	149 [


"I'm impressed," Georges said.

"Impressed? You're rich. There's your four nines. Now add the
odd digits. Nine again. Divide that into the odd digits. Another
nine. Add the last four--thirty-six. That's nine squared, for two
more nines, making another four nines. Add all up at once and it's
five nines. Take away the sum and you have four nines again. No
matter what you do, you always keep getting your own birthday.

What do you want, mister? Dancing girls?"

"How much do I owe you?"

"That's a pretty special number. You can have any other number
on the rack for twenty bruins. But that one-- Why don't you just
keep piling money in front of me until I smile?"

"That seems fair. Then if you don't smile when I think you

should, I'll pick up the money and walk away. No?"

"I may call you back."

"No. If you won't offer me a fixed price, I won't let you spar

around about it after I've made a fair offer."

"You're a tough customer, sport. I--"

Speakers on all sides of us suddenly started blasting "Hail to the
Chief," followed by "The Golden Bear Forever." The young woman
shouted, "Wait! Over soon!" A crowd of people came in from
outside, walked straight through the rotunda, and on down the
main corridor. I spotted the eagle-feather headdress sticking up in
the middle of the clump but this time the Chief Confederate was so
tightly surrounded by his parasites that an assassin would have a
hard time hitting him.

As it became possible to hear again the lottery saleswoman said,
"That was a short one. Less than fifteen minutes ago he went
through here heading out. If he was just going down to the corner
for a pack of tokes, whyn't he send somebody instead of going his-self?
Bad for business, all that noise. Well, sport, have you
out how much you'll pay to get rich?"

"But yes." Georges took out a three-dollar bill, laid it on
counter. He looked at the woman.

They locked gazes for about twenty seconds, then she said glum-ly,
"I'm smiling. I guess I am." She picked up the money with one
hand, handed Georges the lottery ticket with the other. "I bet I
could have sweated you out of another dollar."


150


"We'll never know, will we?"

"Cut for double or nothing?"

"With your cards?" Georges asked gently.

"Sport, you'll make an old woman out of me. Be elsewhere be-

fore I change my mind."

"Rest room?"

"Down the corridor on my left." She added, "Don't miss the
drawing."

As we walked toward the rest room Georges told me quietly in
French that gendarmes had passed behind us while we were dicker-ing,
had gone into the rest room, come out, back into the rotunda,
and down the main corridor.

I cut him off, speaking also in French--telling him that I knew
but this place must be filled with Eyes, Earstalk later.

I was not snubbing him. Two uniformed guards--not the two
with stomach problems--had come in almost on our heels, hurried
past us, checked the rest room first--reasonable; an amateur often
tries to hide in a public rest room--had come out and hurried past
us, then deep into the Palace. Georges had quietly shopped for lottery
tickets while guards looking for us had brushed past him, twice.
Admirable. Quite professional.

But I had to wait to tell him so. There was a person of indeterminate
sex selling tickets to the rest room. I asked her(him) where the
powder room was. She (I decided on "she" when closer observation
showed that her T-shirt covered either falsies or small milk
glands)--she answered scornfully, "You some kind of a nut? Trying
to discriminate, huh? I ought to send for a cop." Then she looked at

me more closely. "You're a foreigner."

I admitted it.

"Okay. Just don't talk that way; people don't like it. We're democratic
here, see?--setters and pointers use the same fireplug. So buy
a ticket or quit blocking the turnstyle."

Georges bought us two tickets. We went in.

On our right was a row of open stalls. Above them floated a holo:
THESE FACILITIES ARE PROVIDED FREE FOR YOUR HEALTH
AND COMFORT BY THE CALIFORNIA CONFEDERACY--JOHN
"WARWHOOP" TUMBRIL, CHIEF CONFEDERATE.

A life-size holo of the Chief floated above it.


151 I


Beyond the open stalls were pay stalls with doors; beyond these
were doorways fully closed with drapes. On our left was a news-and-notions
stand presided over by a person of very determined sex, bull
dyke. Georges paused there and surprised me by buying several cosmetics
and a fiacon of cheap perfume. Then he asked for a ticket to
one of the dressing rooms at the far end.

"One ticket?" She looked at him sharply. Georges nodded agreement.
She pursed her lips. "Naughty, naughty. No hanky-panky,
stud."

Georges did not answer. A BritCan dollar passed from his hand to
hers, vanished. She said very softly, "Don't take too long. If I buzz
the buzzer, get decent fast. Number seven, far right."

We went to number seven, the farthest dressing room, and entered.
Georges closed the drapes, zipped them tight, flushed the water
closet, then turned on the cold water and left it running.
Speaking again in French, he told me that we were about to change
our appearance without using disguises, so, please, my dear, get out
of the clothes you are wearing and put on that suit you have in your
jumpbag.

He explained in more detail, mixing French and English and
continuing to flush the commode from time to time. I was to wear
that scandalous Superskin job, more makeup than I usually do, and
was to attempt to look like the famous Whore of Babylon or equiva-

lent. "I know that's not your m6tier, dear girl, but try."
"I 'will attempt to be 'adequate.'"
"Ouch!"

"And you plan to wear Janet's clothes? I don't think they'll fit."
"No, no, I shan't drag. Just swish."
"Excuse me?"

"I won't dress in women's clothes; I will simply endcavour to appear
effeminate."

"I don't believe it. All right, let's try."

We didn't do much to me--just that one-piece job with the
look that had hooked Ian, plus more makeup than I am used to,
applied by Georges (he seemed to feel that he knew more about it
than I did--he felt that way because he did), plus---once we were
outside---that here-it-is-come-and-get-it walk.


Georges used on himself rather more makeup than he had put on
me, plus that vile perfume (which he did not ask me to wear), plus
at his neck a shocking-orange scarf I had been using as a belt. He
had me fluff his hair and spray it so that it stayed bouffant. That was
all... plus a change in manner. He still looked like Georges--but
he did not seem like the virile buck who had so wonderfully worn
me out the night before.

I repacked my jumpbag and we left. The old moose at the newsstand
widened her eyes and caught her breath when she saw me.
But she said nothing as a man who had been leaning against the
stand straightened up, pointed a finger at Georges, and said, "You.
The Chief wants you." Then he added, almost to himself, "I don't
believe it."

Georges stopped and gestured helplessly with both hands. "Oh,
dear me! Surely there has been some mistake?"

The flunky bit a toothpick he had been sucking and answered, "I
think so, too, citizen--but I ain't going to say so and neither are
you. Come along. Not you, sister."

Georges said, "I positively am not going anywhere without my
dear sister! So there!"

That cow said, "Morrie, she can wait here. Sweetie, come
around behind here with me and sit down."

Georges gave me the barest negative shake of his head but I did
not need it. If I stayed, either she would take me straight back to that
dressing room or I would stuff her into her own trash can. I was
betting on me. I will put up with that sort of nonsense in line of
duty--she would not have been as unpleasant as Rocky Rockford--but
not willingly. If and when I change my luck, it will be with
someone I like and respect.

I moved closer to Georges, took his arm. "We have never been
separated since Mama on her death bed told me to take care of
him." I added, "So there!" while wondering what that phrase
means, if anything. Both of us pouted and looked stubborn.

The man called Morrie looked at me, back at Georges, and
sighed. "Hell with it. Tag along, sister. But keep your mouth shut
and stay out of the way."

About six checkpoints latermat each of which an attempt was


		1531

[152
	,


made to peel me off--we were ushered into the Presence. My first
impression of Chief Confederate John Tumbril was that he was taller
than I had thought he was. Then I decided that not wearing his
headdress might make the difference. My second impression was
that he was even homelief than pictures, cartoons, and terminal images
showed him to be--and that opinion stayed. Like many another
politico before him, Tumbril had turned a distinctive,
individual ugliness into a political asset.
(Is homeliness a necessity to a head of state? Looking back
through history I cannot find a single handsome man who got very
far in politics until we get clear back to Alexander the Great... and
he had a head start; his father was a king.)
As may be, "Warwhoop" Tumbril looked like a frog trying to be a
toad and just missing.
The Chief cleared his throat. "What's she doing here?"
Georges said quickly, "Sir, I have a most serious .complaint to
make! That man-- That man"--he pointed at the toothpick chewer--"tried
to separate me from my dear sister! He should be repri-man&d!"
Tumbril looked at Mottie, looked at me, looked back at his parasite.
"Did you do that?"
Mottie asserted that he had not but even if he did, he had done so
because he had thought that Tumbril had ordered it but in any case
he thought--
"You're not supposed to think," Tumbril ruled. "I'll talk to you
later. And why are you leaving her standing? Get a chair! Do I have
to do all the thinking around here?"
Once I was seated, the Chief turned his attention back to
Georges. "That was a Brave Thing you did earlier today. Yes, sir, a
Very Brave Thing. The Great Nation of California is Proud to have
raised Sons of Your Caliber. What's your name?"
Georges gave his name.
"'Payroll' is a Proud California Name, Mr. Payroll; one
shines down our Noble History, from the rancheros who threw off
the Yoke of Spain to the Brave Patriots who threw off the Yoke of
Wall Street. Do you mind if I call you George?"
"Not at all."

"And you can call me Warwhoop. That's the Crowning Glory of
Our Great Nation, George; All of us are Equal."
I suddenly said, "Does that apply to artificial people, Chief Tum-bril?"
"Eh?"
"I was asking about artificial people, like those they make at
Berkeley and Davis. Are they equal, too?"
"Uh... little lady, you really shouldn't interrupt while your elders
are speaking. But to answer your question: How can Human
Democracy apply to creatures who are Not Human? Would you ex-
pect a cat to vote? Or a Ford APV? Speak up."
"No, but--"
"There you are. Everybody is Equal and Everybody has a vote.
But you have to draw the line somewhere. Now, shut up, damn it,
and don't interrupt while your betters are talking. George, what you
did today--well, if that klutz had actually been making an attack on
my life--he wasn't and don't you ever forget it--you could not have
behaved in a manner more becoming to all the Heroic Traditions of
Our Great California Confederacy. You Make Me Proud!"
Tumbril stood up and came out from behind his desk, hooked his
hands behind him, and paced--and I saw why he had seemed taller
here than he had outside.
He used some sort of a highchair or possibly a platform at his
desk. When he stood with no fakery, he was about up to my shoulder.
He seemed to be thinking aloud as he paced. "George, there is
always a place in my official family for a man of your demonstrated
courage. Who knows?--the day might come when you would save
me from a criminal who seriously intended to harm me. Foreign
agitators, I mean; I have nothing to fear from the Stalwart Patriots of
California. They all love me for what I have done for them while
occupying the Octagon Office. But other countries are jealous of us;
they envy our Rich and Free and Democratic lifestyle and sometimes
their smoldering hatred erupts in violence."
He stood with his head bowed for a moment, in reverent adoration
of something. "One of the Prices of the Privilege of Serving,"
he said solemnly, "but one which, with All Humility; one must pay
Gladly. George, tell me, if you were called upon to make the Last



	1551

154


Supreme Sacrifice that Your Country's Chief Executive might live,
would you hesitate?"

"It all seems most unlikely," Georges answered.

"Eh? What?"

"Well, when I vote--not often--I usually vote Runioniste. But
the present Prime Minister is Revanchiste. I doubt that he would
have me."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"le suis Qubecois, M. le chef d'etat. I'm from Montreal."


[156


XVI


Five minutes later we were out on the street again. For some tense
moments it seemed that we were going to be hanged or shot or at
least locked up forever in their deepest dungeon for the crime of not
being Californians. But cooler counsel prevailed when Warwhoop's
leading legal eagle convinced him that it was better to let us go than
it was to risk a trial, even one in chambersthe Qubecois Consul
General might cooperate but buying his whole staff could be horribly
expensive.

That was not quite how he put it but he did not know that I was
listening, as I had not mentioned enhanced hearing even to
Georges. The Chief's chief counselor whispered something about
the trouble we had with that little Mexicana doll after all those other
greasers got aholt of the story. We can't afford another mess like that
one. You wanta watch it, Chief; they gotcha by the short ones.

So at last we passed the Palace and went to MasterCard main
California office, forty-five minutes late . . . and lost another ten
minutes shucking off our false personae in a rest room of the California
Commercial Credit Building. The rest room was nondis-criminatory
and democratic but not aggressively so. There was no
charge to get in and the stalls had doors on them and the women
used one side and the men used the side that had those vertical
bathtub things that men use as well as stalls, and the only place they
mingled was in a middle room equipped with wash trays and mir-


rots and even there women tended to stay on their side and men on
the other. I'm not upset by co-ed plumbing--after all, I was raised
in a cr/che but I have noticed that men and women, given a
chance to segregate, do segregate.

Georges looked a lot better without lip paint. He had used water
on his hair, too, and slicked it down. I put that noisy scarf into my
jumpbag. He said to me, "I guess I was silly, trying to camouflage us
this way."

I glanced around. No one near and the high noise level of
plumbing and air conditioning--"Not in my opinion, Georges. I

think that in six weeks you could be turned into a real pro."
"What sort of a pro?"

"Uh, Pinkerton, maybe. Or a--" Someone came in. "Discuss it

later. Anyhow, we got two lottery tickets out of it."

"So we did. When is the drawing on yours?"

I took mine out, looked at it. "Why, it's today! This very afternoon!
Or have I lost track of the date?"

"No," Georges said, peering at my ticket, "it's today all right.
About an hour from now we had better be near a terminal."

"No need," I told him. "I don't win at cards, I don't win at dice, I
don't win lotteries. When I buy Cracker Jack, sometimes the box
doesn't have a prize in it."

"So we'll watch the terminal anyhow, Cassandra."

"All right. When is your drawing?"

He took out his ticket; we looked at it. "Why, it's the same drawing!"
I exclaimed. "Now we have much more reason to watch."

Georges was still looking at his ticket. "Friday. Look at this."
He rubbed his thumb across the printing. The lettering stayed
sharp; the serial number smeared heavily. "Well, well! How long
did our friend have her head under the counter before she 'found'
this ticket?"

"I don't know. Less than a minute."
"Long enough, that's clear."
"Are you going to take it back?"

"Me? Friday, why would I do that? Such virtuosity deserves applause.
But she's wasting a major talent on a very minor scam. Let's
get along upstairs; you want to finish with MasterCard before the
lottery drawing."


1158


I went back temporarily to being "Marjorie Baldwin" and we
were allowed to talk to "our Mr. Chambers" in the main office of
California MasterCard. Mr. Chambers was a most likable person--hospitable,
sociable, sympathetic, friendly, and just the man, it appeared,
that I needed to see, as the sign on his desk told us that he
was Vice-President for Client Relations.

After several minutes I began to see that his authority was to say
no and that his major talent lay in saying no in so many pleasant,
friendly words that the client hardly realized that she was being
turned down.

First, please understand, Miss Baldwin, that California MasterCard
and Chicago Imperium MasterCard are separate corporations
and that you do not have a contract with us. To our regret. True, as
a matter of courtesy and reciprocity we ordinarily honor credit cards
issued by them and they honor ours. But he was truly sorry to say
that at the moment--he wanted to emphasize "at the moment"---the
Imperium had cut off communication and, strange as it seems,
there was not today even an established rate of exchange between
bruins and crowns... so how can we possibly honor a credit card
from the Imperium even though we want to and will gladly do so
 . . later. But we do want to make your stay with us happy and what
can we do for you toward that end?

I asked when he thought the emergency would be over.

Mr. Chambers looked blank. "Emergency? What emergency,
Miss Baldwin? Perhaps there is one in the Imperium since they
have seen fit to close their borders... but certainly not here! Look
around youid you ever see a country so glowing with peace and
prosperity?"

I agreed with him and stood up, as there seemed no point in arguing.
"Thank you, Mr. Chambers You have been most gracious."

"My pleasure, Miss Baldwin MasterCard service And don't forget:
Anything I can do for you, anything at all, I am at your service."

"Thank you, I'll remember. Uh, is there a public terminal somewhere
in this building? I bought a lottery ticket earlier today and it
turns out that the drawing is almost at once."

He grinned broadly. "My dear Miss Baldwin, I'm so happy that
you asked! Right on this floor we have a large conference room and


every Friday afternoon just before the drawing everything stops and
our entire office staff--or at least those who hold tickets; attendance
is not compulsory--all of us crowd in and watch the drawing.
J.B.--that's our president and chief executive--old J.B. decided
that it was better to do it that way than to have the punters sneaking
away to washrooms and toke shops and pretending they weren't.
Better for morale. When one of our people wins one--does hap-pen--she
or he gets a fancy cake with sparklers on it, just like a
birthday, a gift from old J.B. himself. He comes out and has a piece
with the lucky winner."

"Sounds like a happy ship."

"Oh, it is! This is one financial institution where computer crime
is unheard of; they all love old J.B." He glanced at his finger. "Let's
get on into the conference room."

Mr. Chambers saw to it that we were placed in VIP seats, fetched
coffee to us himself, then decided to sit down and watch the drawing.

The terminal screen occupied most of the end wall of the room.
We sat through an hour of minor prizes during which the master of
ceremonies exchanged utterly sidesplitting jokes with his assistant,
mostly about the physical charms of the girl who picked the slips out
of the tumble bowl. She clearly had been picked for those physical
charms, which were considerable--that and her willingness to wear
a costume that not only displayed them but also assured the audience
that she was not hiding anything. Each time she plunged in an
arm and drew out a lucky number she was dressed principally in a
blindfold. It looked like easy pleasant work if the studio was properly
heated.

Halfway through there were loud squeals from up front; a MasterCard
clerk had won a thousand bruins. Chambers grinned broadly.
"Doesn't happen often but when it does, it cheers everyone up for
days. Shall we go? No, you still have a ticket that might win, don't
you? Unlikely as it is that lightning will strike here twice."

At last with a blare of trumpets we reached the week's grand
prize--the "Giant, Supreme, All-California Super Prize!!!" The
girl with the goose bumps drew two honorary prizes first, a year's
supply of Ukiah Gold with hash pipe, and dinner with the great sen-sie
star Bobby "The Brute" Pizarro.


[160


Then she drew the last lucky ticket; the master of ceremonies read
off the numbers and they appeared in blazing light above his head.

"Mr. Zee!" he shouted. "Has the owner registered this number?"
"One moment-- No, not registered."

"We have a Cinderella! We have an unknown winner! Somewhere
in our great and wonderful Confederacy someone is two hundred
thousand bruins richer! Is that child of fortune listening now?
Will she-or he-call in and let us put her on the air before this
program ends? Or will he wake up tomorrow morning to be told
that she is rich? There is the number, folks! It will shine up there
until the end of this program, then it will be repeated every news
break until fortune's darling claims her prize. And now a
message--"

"Friday," Georges whispered, "let me see your ticket."

"Not necessary, Georges," I whispered back. "That's it, all right."
Mr. Chambers stood up. "Show's over. Nice that one of our little
family won something. Been a pleasure to have you with us, Miss
Baldwin and Mr. Karo--and don't hesitate to call on me if we can
help you."

"Mr. Chambers," I asked, "can MasterCard collect this for me? I
don't want to do it in person."

Mr. Chambers is a nice man but a touch slow. He had to compare
the numbers on my lottery ticket with the numbers still shining
on the screen three times before he could believe it. Then Georges
had to stop him when he was about to run in all directions, to order
a photographer, call National Lottery headquarters, send for a ho-lovision
crew--and just as well that Georges stopped him because I
might have been rough about it. I get annoyed by big males who
won't listen to my objections.

"Mr. Chambers!" Georges said. "Didn't you hear her? She does
not want to do it in person. No publicity."

"What? But the winners are always in the news; that's routine!
This won't take a moment if that's what's worrying you because--you
remember the girl who won earlier?--about now she is being
photographed with J.B. and her cake. Let's go straight to his office
and--"

"Georges," I said. "American Express."


Georges is not slow--and I wouldn't mind marrying him if Janet
ever turned him loose. "Mr. Chambers," he said quickly, "what is
the address of the San Jose main office of American Express?"

Chambers' four-winds flight stopped abruptly. "What did you
say?"

"Can you tell us the address of American Express? Miss Baldwin
will take her winning ticket there for collection. I will call ahead
and make sure that they understand that banking privacy is a requisite."

"But you can't do that. She won it here."

"We can and we will. She did not win it here. She simply happened
to be here when the drawing took place elsewhere. Please
stand aside; we're leaving."

Then we had to do it all over again for J.B. He was a dignified old
duck with a cigar in one side of his mouth and sticky white cake
icing on his upper lip. He was neither slow nor stupid'but he was in
the habit of seeing his wishes carried out and Georges had to mention
American Express quite loudly before he got it through his
skull that I would not hold still for any publicity whatever (Boss
would faint!) and that we were about to go to those Rialto money-changers
rather than deal with his firm.

"But Miss Bulgrin is a MasterCard client."

"No," I disagreed. "I had thought that I was a MasterCard client
but Mr. Chambers refused to honor my credit. So I'll start an account
with American Express. Without photographers."

"Chambers." There was the knell of doom in his voice. "What Is
This?"

Chambers explained that my credit card had been issued through
the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis.

"A most reputable house," J.B. commented. "Chambers. Issue
her another card. On us. At once. And collect her winning ticket
for her." He looked at me and took his cigar out of his mouth. "No
publicity. The affairs of MasterCard's clients are always confiden-

tial. Satisfactory, Miss Walgreen?"
"Quite, sir."
"Chambers. Do it."

"Yes, sir. What credit limit, sir?"


[162


"What extent of credit do you require, Miss Belgium? Perhaps I
should ask that in crowns--what is your amount with my colleagues
in Saint Louis?"

"I am a gold client, sir. My account is always reckoned in bullion
rather than crowns under their two-tier method for gold customers.
Can we figure it that way? You see, I'm not used to thinking in bruins.
I travel so much that it is easier for me to think in grams of
gold." (It is almost unfair to mention gold to a banker in asoft-cur-

rency country; it clouds his thinking.)

"You wish to pay in gold?"

"If I may. By draft in grams, three nines, on Ceres and South
Africa Acceptances, Luna City office. Would that be satisfactory? I
usually pay quarterly--you see, I travel so much but I can instruct
C. and S. A. A. to pay you monthly if quarterly is not convenient."

"Quarterly is quite satisfactory." (Of course it was---the interest
charges pile up.)

"Now the credit limit-- Truthfully, sir, I don't like to place too
much of my financial activity in any one bank or any one country.
Shall we hold it down to thirty kilos?"

"If that is your wish, Miss Bedlam. If you ever wish to increase it,
just let us know." He added, "Chambers. Do it."

So we went back to the same office in which I had been told that
my credit was no good. Mr. Chambers offered me an application
form. "Let me help you fill it out, miss."

I glanced at it. Parents' names. Grandparents' names. Place and
date of birth. Addresses including street numbers for the past fifteen
years. Present employer. Past employer immediately preceding.
Reason for leaving past employment. Present rate of pay. Bank accounts.
Three references from persons who have known you at least
ten years. Have you ever applied for bankruptcy or had a petition of
involuntary receivership filed against you or been a director or responsible
officer of any business, partnership, or corporation that
has applied for reorganization under paragraph thirteen of Public
Law Ninety-Seven of the California Confederacy Civil Code? Have
you ever been convicted

"Friday. No."


1631


"So I was about to say." I stood up.
Georges said, "Good-bye, Mr. Chambers."
"Something wrong?"

"But yes. Your employer told you to issue to Miss Baldwin a gold
credit card with a limit of thirty kilograms, fine gold; he did not tell

you to subject her to an impertinent quiz."

"But this is a routine require--"

"Never mind. Just tell J.B. you fiubbed again."

Our Mr. Chambers turned a light green. "Do please sit down."
Ten minutes later we left, me with a brand-new gold-colored
credit card good anywhere (I hoped). In exchange I had listed my
Saint Louis P.O. box number, my next-of-kin address (Janet), and
my account number in Luna City with a written instruction to bill
C and S.A.A., Ltd. quarterly for my debts. I also had a comfortable
wad of bruins and another like it of crowns, and a receipt for my
lottery ticket.

We left the building, crossed the corner into National Plaza,
found a bench, and sat down. It was just eighteen, pleasantly cool

but the sun was still high above the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Georges inquired, "Dear Friday, what are your wishes?"

"To sit here for a moment and collect my thoughts. Then I
should buy you a drink. I won a lottery; that calls for buying a drink.
At least."

"At least," he agreed. "You won two hundred thousand bruins
for... twenty bruins?"

"A dollar," I agreed. "I tipped her the change."

"Near enough. You won about eight thousand dollars."
"Seventy-four hundred and seven dollars and some cents."
"Not a fortune but a respectable sum of money."

"Quite respectable," I agreed, "for a woman who started the day
dependent on the charity of friends. Unless I'm credited something
for my 'adequate' performance last night."

"My brother Ian would prescribe a fat lip for that remark. I wanted
to add that, while seventy-four hundred is a respectable sum, I
find myself more impressed by the fact that, with no assets other
than that lottery ticket, you persuaded a most conservative credit
banking firm to extend to you an open account in the amount of a


1164


million dollars, reckoned in gold. How did you do it, dear? You
didn't even wiggle. Not even a sultry tone of voice."

"But, Georges, you caused them to issue me their card."

"I don't think so. Oh, I did try to back your play . . . but you
initiated each move."

"Not the one about that horrid questionnaire! You got me out of
that."

"Oh. That silly ass had no business quizzing you. His boss had
already ordered him to issue the card."

"You saved me. I was about to lose my nerve. Georges--dear
Georges!--I know that you have told me that I must not be uneasy
about what I am--and I'm trying, I truly am!--but to be faced with
a form that demands to know all about my parents and grandpar-ents-it's
dismaying!"

"Can't expect you to get well overnight. We'll keep working on it.
You certainly did not lose your nerve over how much credit to
ask."

"Oh. I once heard someone say"---it was Boss"that it was
much easier to borrow a million than it was to borrow ten. So when
they asked me, that's what I named. Not quite a million BritGan
dollars. Nine hundred and sixty-four thousand, about."

"I'm not going to quibble. When we passed nine hundred thousand
I ran out of oxygen. Adequate one, do you know what a professor
is paid?"

"Does it matter? From what I know of the profession one successful
new design of a living artifact can pay in the millions. Even millions
of grams, rather than dollars. Haven't you had any successful
designs? Or is that a rude question?"

"Let's change the subject. Where are we sleeping tonight?"

"We could be in San Diego in forty minutes. Or in Las Vegas in
thirty-five. Each has advantages and disadvantages for getting into
the Imperium. Georges, now that I have enough money, I'm going
to report in, no matter how many fanatics are assassinating officials.
But I promise cross-my-heart to visit Winnipeg just as soon as I have
a few days' leave."

"I may still be unable to return to Winnipeg."

"Or I'll come visit you in Montreal. Look, dear, we'll swap all the


1651


addresses we have; I'm not going to lose you. You not only assure
me that I'm human, you tell me that I'm adequate--you're good for
my morale. Now choose, for I'll take either one: San Diego and talk
Spanglish, or Vegas and look at pretty naked ladies."


XVII


We did both and wound up in Vicksburg.

The Texas-Chicago border turned out to be closed from both
sides all the way, so I decided to try the river route first. Of course
Vicksburg is still Texas but, for my purpose, its situation as the major
river port just outside the Imperium was the point that count-ed---especially
that it was the leading smugglers' port, both
directions.

Like ancient Gaul, Vicksburg is divided into three parts. There is
the low town, the port, right on the water and sometimes flooded,
and there is the high town sitting on a bluff a hundred meters high
and itself divided into old town and new town. Old town is surrounded
by battlefields of a war long forgotten (but not by Vicksburg!).
These battlefields are sacred; nothing may be built on them.
So the new town is outside this holy ground, and functions through
being tied to old town and to itself by a system of tunnels and tubes.
High town is joined to low town by escalators and funiculars to the
city barricade.

To me, high town was just a place to sleep. We punched into the
Vicksburg Hilton (twin to the Bellingham Hilton even to The
Breakfast Bar in the basement) but my business was down on the
river. It was a happy-sad time as Georges knew that I would not let
him come any farther with me and we had quit discussing it. Indeed,
I did not permit him to go with me to low town--and had


		1671

1166
	,


warned him that any day I might not come back, might not even
stop to punch a message to him to record in our hotel suite. When
the moment came to iump, I would iump.

Vicksburg low town is a lusty, evil place, as swarmingly alive as a
dunghill. In daylight city police travel in pairs; at night they leave
the place alone. It is a city of grifters, whores, smugglers, pushers,
drug wholesalers, spivs, pimps, hire hatchets, military mercenaries,
recruiters, fences, fagins, beggars, clandestine surgeons, black-birders,
glimiacks, outstanders, short con, long con, sting riggers,
girlboys, you name it, they sell it in Vicksburg low town. It's a wonderful
place and be sure to get a blood test afterward.

It is the only place I know of where a living artifact, marked by
his design (four arms, no legs, eyes in the back of his skull, whatever)
can step (or slither) up to a bar, buy a beer, and have absolutely
no special attention paid to him or his oddity. As for my sort,
being artificial meant nothing--not in a community where 95 percent
of the residents did not dare step onto an escalator leading to
the upper city.

I was tempted to stay there. There was something so warm and
friendly about all these outcasts, no one of whom would ever point a
finger of scorn. Had it not been for Boss on one hand and Georges
and the memory of places that smelled better on the other hand, I
might have stayed in (lower) Vicksburg and found a scam that suited
my talents.

"But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep."
Master Robert Frost knew why a person keeps on going when
she would rather stop. Dressed as if I were a soldier out of work
and shopping for the best recruiting deal, I frequented river town
listening for a riverboat skipper willing to smuggle live cargo. I had
been disappointed to learn how little traffic there was on the river.
No news was coming out of the Imperium and no boats were
coming down the river, so very few skippers were willing to risk going
upriver.

So I sat in bars in river town, drinking small beer and letting the
word filter around that I was prepared to pay a worthwhile price for a
ticket up the river.

I considered advertising. I had been following the Opportunity


[168


Ads, which were considerably more outspoken than those I had noticed
in California--apparently anything was tolerated as long as it
was limited to low town:


Do You Hate Your Family?

Are You Frustrated, Tied Down, Bored?

Is Your Husband/Wife a Waste of Space?

LET US MAKE A NEW (WO)MAN OF YOU!!!!!
Plasticizing--Reorientation--Relocating
Transsexualizing--Discreet Wet Work

Consult Doc Frank Frankenstein

Softly Sam's Bar Grill


This was the first time I'd ever seen murder for pay blatantly advertised.
Or did I misunderstand it?


Do You Have a PROBLEM?
Nothing is illegal--it isn't what
you do; it's the way that you do
it. We have the most skilled
shysters in the Lone Star State.
LOOPHOLES, Inc.
(Special Rates to Bachelors)
Punch LEV 10101


With the above it helped to know that "LEV" call codes were assigned
only to locations under the bluff.


169 I


Artists, Ltd.

Documents of All Sorts, Negotiable
Instruments, Money of All Nations,
Diplomas, Birth Certificates, IDs,
Passports, Photographs, Business
Licenses, Marriage Licenses, Credit
Cards, Holograms, Audio/Video Tapes,
Commissions, Pardons, Wills, Seals,
Fingerprints--All Work Guaranteed
with warranty underwritten by

Lloyd's Associates--LEV 10111


Certainly all of the above services were available in any large city
but they were rarely openly advertised. As for the warrfinty, I simply
did not believe it.

I decided not to advertise my need because of doubt that anything
so public could help in a matter essentially clandestine--I went on
relying on chandlers and barkeeps and madams. But I continued to
watch the ads on the chance of spotting something of use to me...
and came across one probably not of use but decidedly of interest. I
froze it and called it to Georges' attention:


W.K.--Make your will. You have
only ten days to live.


"What about it, Georges?"

"The first one we saw gave W.K. only a week. More than a week
has passed and he now has ten days. If this keeps up, W.K. will die
of old age."

"You don't believe that."


1170


"No, my love, I do not. It's a code."

"What sort of a code?"

"The simplest sort and thereby impossible to break. The first ad
told the person or persons concerned to carry out number seven or
expect number seven or it said something about something designated
as seven. This one says the same with respect to code item
number ten. But the meaning of the numbers cannot be deduced
through statistical analysis because the code can be changed long
before a useful statistical universe can be reached. It's an idiot code,
Friday, and an idiot code can never be broken if the user has the
good sense not to go too often to the well."

"Georges, you sound as if you had done military code and/or cipher
work."

"I have but that's not where I learned it. The most difficult code
analysis ever attempted--one that still goes on today and will never
be complete--is the interpretation of living genes. An idiot code all
of it... but repeated so many millions of times that we can eventually
assign meaning to nonsense syllables. Forgive me for talking
shop at meals."

"Piffle, I started it. No way to guess what A.C.B. means?"
"None."

That night the assassins struck the second time, right on schedule.
I don't say that the two were related.


They struck ten days, almost to the hour, after their first attack. The
timing did not tell us anything about which group was responsible
as it matched the predictions of both the so-called Council for Survival
and their rivals the Stimulators, whereas the Angels of the
Lord had offered no prediction about a second strike.

There were differences between the first wave of terror and the
second, differences that seemed to tell me something--or us something,
as Georges and I discussed it as the reports came in:


a) No news at all from the Chicago Imperium. No change here,
as no news had come out of the Imperium since the initial reports of
the slaughter of Democrats... then nary a peep for over a week,
which made me increasingly anxious.


171 I


b) No news from the California Confederacy concerning a second
strike--routine news only. N.B.: a few hours after the initial
news reports of a second wave of assassinations elsewhere a "routine"
news item came out of the California Confederacy. Chief
"Warwhoop" Tumbril, on the advice of his physicians, had named
a three-person executive regency with plenipotentiary powers to
govern the nation while he underwent long-postponed medical
treatment. He had gone to his retreat, the Eagle's Nest, near Tahoe,
for this purpose. Bulletins would be issued from San Jose, not from
Tahoe.

c) Georges and I agreed on the most probable--almost certain--meaning
of this. The medical treatment that pitiful poseur now
needed was embalming and his "regency" would now give news
handouts while they settled their power struggle.

d) This second time there were no reports from off-Earth. '

e) Canton and Manchuria did not report attacks. Correction: No
such reports reached Vicksburg, Texas.

f) So far as I could tell in ticking them off against a list, the terrorists
did strike at all other nations. But my tally had holes in it. Of the
four hundred-odd "nations" in the U.N. some produce news only
during total solar eclipses. I don't know what happened in Wales or
the Channel Isles or Swaziland or Nepal or Prince Edward Island
and I can't see why anyone (who does not live in one of those nowhere
places) should care. At least three hundred of those so-called
sovereign nations that vote in the U.N, are ciphers, aboard only for
quarters and rations--important to themselves, no doubt, but totally
meaningless in Geopolitick. But in all major countries, except as
noted above, the terrorists did strike and those strikes were reported
excet>t where baldly censored.

g) Most strikes failed. This was the glaring difference between the
first wave and the second. Ten days earlier most assassins had killed
their targets and most assassins had escaped. Now this was reversed:
Most targets survived, most assassins died. A few had been captured,
a very few had escaped.


This last aspect of the second-wave assassinations put to rest a
nagging fret in my mind, i.e., Boss was not the mover behind these
assassinations.


1172


Why say I so? Because the second wave was a disaster for whoever
was in charge.

Field operatives, even common soldiers, are expensive; management
does not expend them casually. A trained assassin costs at least
ten times as much as a common soldier: She is not expected to get
herself killed--goodness me, no! She is expected to make the kill
and get out, scot-free.

But whoever was running this show had gone bankrupt in one
night.

Unprofessional.

Therefore it was not Boss.

But I still could not figure out who was behind the whole silly
gymkhana because I could not see who benefitted. My earlier notion,
that one of the corporate nations was paying for it, no longer
looked as attractive because I could not conceive of one of the
big ones (Interworld, for example) hiring any but the best professionals.

But it was even harder to picture one of the territorial nations
planning such a grotesque attempt at world conquest.

As for a fanatic group, such as the Angels of the Lord or the Stimulators,
the job was just too big. Nevertheless the whole thing
seemed to have a fanatic flavor--not rational, not pragmatic.

It is not written in the stars that I will always understand what is
going on--a truism that I often find damnably annoying.


The morning after that second strike Vicksburg low town buzzed
with excitement. I had just stepped into a saloon to check with the
head barkeep when a runner sidled up to me. "Good news," this
youngster said in a prison whisper. "Rachel's Raiders is signing 'em
on--Rachel said to tell you especially."

"Pig swill," I answered politely. "Rachel doesn't know me and I

don't know Rachel."

"Scout's honor!"

"You were never a Scout and you can't spell honor."

"Look, Chief," he persisted, "I haven't had anything to eat today.
Just walk in with me; you don't have to sign. It's only across the
street."

He did look skinny but that probably reflected his having just


reached the gangly stage, that sudden spurt in adolescence; low
town is not a place where people go hungry. But the bartender
chose that moment to snap, "Beat it, Shorty! Quit bothering the
customers. You want to buy a broken thumb?"
"It's okay, Fred," I put in. "I'll check with you later." I dropped a
bill on the bar, did not ask for change. "Come, Shorty."
Rachel's recruiting office turned out to be quite a lot of mud farther
than across the street, and two more recruiter's runners tried to
pluck me away from Shorty before we got there. They did not stand
a chance as my only purpose was to see that this sorry youngster
collected his cumshaw.
The recruiting sergeant reminded me of the old cow who had the
concessions in the rest room of the Palace at San Jose. She looked at
me and said, "No camp doxies, sugar tit. But stick around and I
might buy you a drink."
"Pay your runner," I said.
"Pay him for what?" she answered. "Leonard, I told you. No
idlers, I said. Now get back out there and husfie."
I reached across and grasped her left wrist. Quite smoothly her
knife appeared in her right hand. So I rearranged things, taking the
knife and sticking it into the desk in front of her, while changing my
hold on her left paw to one much more annoying. "Can you pay
him one-handed?" I asked. "Or do I break this finger?"
"Easy there," she answered, not fighting it. "Here, Leonard."
She reached into a drawer, handed him a Texas two-spot. He
grabbed it and vanished.
I eased the pressure on her finger. "Is that all you're paying? With
every recruiter on the street fishing today?"
"He gets his real commission when you sign up," she answered. "Because I don't get paid until I deliver a warm body. And I get
docked if it ain't to spec. Now would you mind letting go of
finger? I'll need it to make out your papers."
I surrendered her finger; quite suddenly the knife was again
hand and moving toward me. This time I broke the blade before
handing it back to her. "Please don't do that again," I said. "Please.
And you should use a better steel. That's not a Solingen."
"I'm deducting the price of that blade from your bounty, dear,"

she answered, unperturbed. "There's been a beam on you since you
walked in that door. Shall I trigger it? Or do we quit playing
games?"
! did not believe her but her purpose suited me. "No more
games, Sarge. What's the proposition? Your runner told me
swabo."
"Coffee and cakes and guild scale. Guild bounty. Ninety days
with company option to extend ninety days. Wooden overcoat pay-me
fifty-fifty, you and the company."
"Recruiters around town are offering guild plus fifty." (This was a
stab in the dark; the atmosphere felt that tense.)
She shrugged. "If they are, we'll match it. What weapons do you
know? We aren't signing any raw recruits. Not this time."
"I can teach you any weapon you think you know. Where's the
action? Who's on first?"
"Mmm, real salty. Are you trying to sign as a DI? I don't buy it."
I asked, "Where's the action? Are we going upriver?"
"You ain't even signed up and you're asking for classified information."
"For which I am prepared to pay." I took out fifty Lone-Star, in
tens, laid them in front of her. "Where's the action, Sarge? I'll buy
you a good knife to replace that carbon steel I had to expend."
"You're an AP."
"Let's not play the dozens. I simply want to know whether or not
we'll be going upriver. Say about as far as Saint Louis."
"Are you expecting to sign on as sergeant instructor?"
"What? Heavens, no! As a staff officer." I should not have said
that-or at least not so soon. While ranks tend to be vague in Boss's
outfit, I was certainly a senior officer in that I reported to and took
orders from Boss and Boss alone--and this was confirmed by the
fact that I was Miss Friday to everyone but Bossyuntil and unless I
asked for informal address. Even Dr. Krasny had not spoken to me en tutoyant until I asked him to. But I had never given much
thought to my actual rank because, while I had no senior but Boss, I
had no one working under me, either. On a formal T.O. (I had
never seen one for Boss's company) I would have to be one of those
little boxes leading out horizontally from the stem to the C.O.--



1174
	175 I


i.e., a senior staff specialist, if you like bureaucratese.
"Well, fiddledeeded If you can back that up, you'll do it to Colonel
Rachel, not to me. I expect her in around thirteen." Almost ab-sentmindedly
she reached out to pick up the cash.
I picked up the bills, tapped them even, put them down again in
front of her but closer to me. "So let's chat a bit before she gets here.
Every live outfit in town is signing them up today; there ought to be
some good reason to sign with one rather than another. Is the expected
action upstream, or not? And how far? Will we be against
real pros? Or local yokels? Or possibly town clowns? Pitched battle?
Or strike and run? Or both? Let's chat, Sarge."
She did not answer, she did not move. She did not take her eyes
off the cash.
Shortly I took out another ten Lone-Star, placed it neatly on the
fifty--waited.
Her nostrils dilated but she did not reach for the money. After
several moments I added still another Texas ten-spot.
She said hoarsely, "Put that stuff out of sight or hand it to me;
somebody might walk in."
I picked it up and handed it to her. She said, "Thanks, miss," and
made it vanish. "I reckon we'll go upstream at least as far as Saint
Louis."
"Whom do we fight?"
"Well . . . you repeat this and I'll not only deny it; I'll cut your
heart out and feed it to the catfish. We may not fight. More likely
we will but not in a set battle. We, all of us, are going to be bodyguard
to the new Chairman. The newest Chairman, I should say;
he's still-wet new."
(Jackpot!) "Interesting. Why are other outfits in town jockeying
for recruits? Is the new Chairman hiring everybody? Just for his palace
guard?"
"Miss, I wish I knew. I purely wish I knew."
"Maybe I had better try to find out. How much time do I
When are we sailing?" I quickly amended this to: "Or are we sailing?
Maybe Colonel Rachel has a handle on some APVs."
"Uh... damn it, how much classified do you expect for a lousy
seventy stars?"

I thought about it. I didn't mind spending money but I needed to
be certain of the merchandise. With troops moving upriver smugglers
would not be moving, at least not this week. So I needed to
move with the traffic available.
But not as an officer! I had talked too much. I took out two more
ten-spots, fiddled with them. "Sarge, are you going upriver yourself?"
She eyed the bank notes; I dropped one of them in front of her. It
disappeared. "I wouldn't miss it, dearie. Once I close down this of-rice,
I'm a platoon sergeant."
I dropped the other note; it joined its twin. I said, "Sarge, if I wait
and talk to your colonel, if she signs me on, it will be as personnel
adjutant, or logistics and supply, or something dreary like that. I
don't need the money and don't want the worry; I want a holiday.
Could you use a trained private? One you could brevet to corporal
or even buck sergeant once you get to shaking down your recruits
and see what vacancies you need to fill?"
She looked sour. "That's all I need, a millionaire in my platoon!"
I felt sympathy for her; no sergeant wants a cashiered officer in
his/her ranks. "I'm not going to play the millionaire; I just want to
be one of the troops. If you don't trust me, stick me in some other
platoon."
She sighed. "I ought to have my head examined. No, I'll put .you
where I can keep an eye on you." She reached into a drawer, pulled
out a form headed "Limited Indenture." "Read this. Sign it. Then I
swear you. Any questions?"
I looked it over. Most of it was routine trivia about slop chest and
toke money and medical benefits and guild pay rate and bounty--but
interlined was a provision postponing payment of bounty to the
tenth day after enlistment. Understandable. To me it was a guarantee
that they really were going in harm's way and at once--i. e., up-river.
The nightmare ruining every mercenary paymaster's sleep is
the thought of bounty jumpers. Today, with all recruiters active, it
would be possible for a veteran soldier to sign up five or six ways,
collect a bounty from each, then head for the banana states--unless
the indentures were worded to stop it.
The commitment was to Colonel Rachel Danvets personally or



1176
	,
	177 I


to her lawful successor in case of her death or disability, and it required
the signer to carry out her orders and those of officers and
noncommissioned officers she placed over me. I agreed to fight
faithfully and not to cry for quarter, according to international law
and the usages of war.

It was so vaguely worded that it would require a squad of Philadelphia
lawyers to define the gray areas... which did not matter at
all because a difference in opinion when it counted would get the
signer shot in the back.

The period was, as the sergeant had represented, ninety days with
the Colonel's option to extend it ninety days on payment of another
bounty. There was no provision for additional extension, which
gave me pause. Just what sort of a political bodyguard contract
could it be that would run for six months and then stop cold?

Either the recruiting sergeant was lying or someone had lied to
her and she wasn't bright enough to spot the illogi.cality. Never
mind, there was no point in quizzing her. I reached for a pen. "Do I

see the medical officer now?"

"Are you kidding?"

"How else?" I signed, then said, "I do," when she read off rapidly
an oath that more or less followed the indenture.

She peered at my signature. "Jones, what does F stand for?"
"Friday."

"That's a silly name. On duty, you're Iones. Off duty, you're
Jonesie."

"Whatever you say, Sergeant. Am I on duty now, or off?"
"You'll be off duty in a moment. Here are your orders: Foot of
Shrimp Alley is a godown. Sign says woo FONG AND LEVY
BROTHERS, INK. Be there by fourteen o'clock, ready to leave. Use
the back door. You're free from now till then to wind up your private
affairs. You are free to tell anyone of your enlistment but you
are strongly admonished under penalty of disciplinary action not to
make coniectures as to the nature of the duty on which you are embarking."
She read off the last rapidly as if it were a recording. "Do
you need lunch money? No, I'm sure you don't. That's all, Jonesie.
Glad to have you aboard. We'll have a good tour." She motioned
me toward her.


1178


I went to her; she put an arm around my hips, smiled up at me.
Inwardly I shrugged as I decided that this was no time to be getting
my platoon sergeant sore at me. I smiled back, leaned down, and
kissed her. Not bad at all. Her breath was sweet.


1791


XVIII


The excursion boat Skip to M'Lou was a real Mark Twainer, much
fancier transportation than I had expected--three passenger decks,
four Shipstones, two for each of twin screws. But she was loaded to
the gunwales and it seemed to me that a stiff breeze would swamp
her. At that we were not the only troopship; the Myrtle T. Hanshaw
was a few lengths ahead of us, carving the river at an estimated
twenty knots. I thought about concealed snags and hoped that their
radar/sonar was up to the task.

The Alamo Heroes were in the Myrtle as was Colonel Rachel,
commanding both combat teams--and this was all I needed to nail
down my suspicions. A bloated brigade is not a palace guard. Colonel
Rachel was expecting field action--possibly we would disembark
under fire.

We had not yet been issued weapons and recruits were still in
mufti; this seemed to indicate that our colonel did not expect action
at once and it fitted in with Sergeant Gumm's prediction that we
were going upriver at least as far as Saint Louis--and of course
the rest of what she said about our becoming bodyguard to the
new Chairman indicated that we were going all the way up to
capital--

--if the new Chairman was in fact at the seat of government. --if
Mary Gumm knew what she was talking about. --if someone didn't
turn the river around while I was not looking. Too many "ifs," Frio


day, and too little hard data. All I really knew was that this vessel
should be crossing into the Imperium about now--in fact I did not
know which side of the border we were on or how to tell.

But I did not care greatly because sometime in the next several
days, when we were close to Boss's headquarters, I planned to resign
informally from Rachel's Raidersbefore action, by strong preference.
I had had time to size up this outfit and I believed strongly
that it could not be combat-ready in less than six weeks of tough
field training at the hands of tough and blooded sergeant instructors.
Too many recruits, not enough cadre.

The recruits were all supposed to be veterans... but I was certain
that some of them were farm girls run away from home and in
some cases about fifteen years old. Big for their age, perhaps, and
"when they're big enough, they're old enough," as the old saw
goes--but it takes more than massing sixty kilos to make a soldier.

To take such troops into action would be suicide. But I did not
worry about it. I had a belly full of beans and was settled on
the fantail with my back against a spool of cordage, enjoying the
sunset and digesting my first meal as a soldier (if that is the word)
while contentedly contemplating the fact that, about now, the
Skip to M'Lou was crossing into, or had crossed into, the Chicago
Imperium.

A voice behind me said, "Hidin' out, trooper?"

I recognized the voice and turned my head. "Why, Sergeant,
how could you say such a thing?"

"Easy. I just asked myself, 'Where would I go if I was goldbrick-ing?'--and
there you were. Forget it, Jonesie. Have you picked your
billet?"

I had not done so because there were many choices, all bad. Most
of the troops were quartered in staterooms, four to each double
room, three to a single. But our platoon, along with one other, was
to sleep in the dining salon. I could see no advantage to being at the
Captain's table so I had not engaged in the scramble.

Sergeant Gumm nodded at my answer. "Okay. When you draw
your blanket, don't use it to stake out a billet; somebody'11 steal it.
Portside aft, abreast the pantry, is the dining-room steward's state-room--that's
mine. It's a single but with a wide bunk. Drop your


blanket there. You'll be a damn sight more comfortable than sleeping
on the deck."
"That's mighty nice of you, Sergeant!" (How do I talk my way out
of this? Or am I going to have to relax to the inevitable?)
"Call me Sarge. And when we're alone, my name is Mary. What
did you say your first name was?"
"Friday."
"Friday. That's kind o' cute, when you stop to think about it.
Okay, Friday, I'll see you around taps." We watched the last reddish
slice of sun disappear into the bottomland astern of us, the Skip having
swung east in one of the river's endless meanders. "Seems like it
ought to sizzle and send up steam."
"Sarge, you have the soul of a poet."
"I've often thought I could. Write poetry, I mean. You got the
word? About the blackout now?"
"No lights outside, no smoking outside. No lights inside except in
spaces fully shuttered. Offenders will be shot at sunrise. Doesn't affect
me much, Sarge; I don't smoke."
"Correction. Offenders will not be shot; they'll just wish to God
they had been shot. You don't smoke at all, dear? Not even a friendly
hit with a friend?"
(Give up, Friday!) "That's not really smoking; that's just friendly."
"That's the way I see it. I don't go around with my head stuffed
full of rags, either. But an occasional hit with a friend when you're
both in the mood, that's sweet. And so are you." She dropped to the
deck by me, slipped an arm around me.
"Sarge! I mean Mary. Please don't. It's not really dark yet. Somebody'11
see us."
"Who cares?"
"I do. It makes me self-conscious. Spoils the mood."
"In this outfit you'll get over that. You're a virgin, dear? With
girls, I mean."
"Uh... please don't quiz me, Mary. And do let me go. I'm sorry
but it does make me nervous. Here, I mean. Why, anybody could
walk around the corner of that deckhouse."
She grabbed a feel, then started to stand up. "Kind o' cute, you

bein' so shy. All right, I've got some mellow Omaha Black I've been
saving for a special--"
The sky lit up with a dazzling light; on top of it came a tremendous karoorn! and where the Myrtle had been the sky was filled with
junk.
"Jesus Christi"
"Mary, can you swim?"
"Huh? No."
"Jump in after me and I'll keep you afloat." I went over the port
side in as long a dive as I could manage, took a dozen hard strokes to
get well clear, turned over onto my back. Mary Gumm's head was
silhouetted against the sky.
That was the last I saw of her as the Skip to M'Lou blew up.

In that stretch of the Mississippi there are bluffs on the east. The
western limit of the river is simply higher land, not as clearly
marked, ten or fifteen kilometers away. Between these two sides
the location of the river can be a matter of opinion--often of legal
opinion because the river shifts channels and chews up property
rights.
The river runs in all directions and is almost as likely to run north
as to run south. Well, half as likely. It had been flowing west at
sundown; the Skits, headed upriver, had the sunset behind her. But
while the sun was setting the boat had swung left as the channel
turned north; I had noticed the red-and-orange display of sunset
swinging to portside.
That's why I went over the side to port. When I hit the water, my
immediate purpose was to get clear; my next purpose was to see if
Mary followed me in. I did not really expect her to because (I've
noticed!) most people, human people, don't make up their minds
that fast.
I saw her, still aboard; she was staring at me. Then the second
explosion took place and it was too late. I felt a brief burst of sor-row-in
her own tufty, slightly dishonest way Mary was a good
sort--then I wiped her out of my mind; I had other problems.
My first problem was not to be hit by debris; I surface-dived and
stayed under. I can hold my breath and exercise almost ten rain-



182
	183 I


utes, although I don't like it at all. This time I stretched it almost to
bursting before surfacing.

Long enough: It was dark but I seemed to be clear of floating
debris.

Perhaps there were survivors in the water but I did not hear any
and did not feel impelled to try to find any (other than Mary and no
way to find her) as I was not well equipped to rescue anyone, even
myself.

I looked around, spotted what was left of the loom of sunset,
swam toward it. After a while I lost it, turned over on my back,
searched the sky. Broken clouds and no moon. I spotted Arcturus,
then both the Bears and Polaris, and I had north. I then corrected
my course so that I was swimming west. I stayed on my back because,
if you take it easy, you can swim forever and two years past,
on your back. Never any problem to breathe and if you get a touch
weary, you can just hold still and twiddle your fingers a trifle until
you are rested. I wasn't in any hurry; I just wanted to reach the Im-periurn
on the Arkansas side.

But of crash-priority importance I did not want to drift back down
into Texas.

Problem: to navigate correctly at night with no map on a river a
couple of kilometers wide, when your object is to reach a west bank
you can't see... without giving any southing as you go.

Impossible?--the way the Mississippi winds around, like a snake
with a broken back? But "impossible" is not a word one should use
concerning the Mississippi River. There is one place where it is possible
to make three short portages totaling less than ninety meters,
float down the river in two bights totaling about thirty kilometers
 . . and end up more than one hundred kilometers up the river.

No map, no sight of my destination--I knew only that I must go
west and that I must not go south. So that is what I did. I stayed
my back and kept checking the stars to hold course west. I had
way of telling how much I might be losing to the south through
current, save for the certainty that, if and when the river turned
south, my own progress west through the water would fetch me up
on the bank on the Arkansas side.

And it did. An hour later--two hours later?--a lot of water later


and Vega was high in the east but still far short of meridian, I realized
that the bank was looming over me on my left side. I checked
and corrected course west and kept on swimming. Shortly I bumped
my head on a snag, reached behind me and grabbed it, pulled myself
up, then pulled my way through endless snags to the bank.

Scrambling up on the bank was no problem as it was only half a
meter high, about, at that point. The only hazard was that the mud
was thick and loose underfoot. I managed it, stopped, and took
stock.

Still inky-black all around with stars the only light. I could tell
the smooth black of the water from the thick black of the brush behind
me only by the faint glint of starlight on the water. Directions?
Polaris was now blocked by cloud but the Big Dipper told me where
it had to be and this was confirmed by Spica blazing in the south
and Antares in the southeast.

This orientation by the stars told me that west sliced straight into
that thick black brush.

My only alternative was to get back into the water, stick with the

river... and wind up sometime tomorrow in Vicksburg.

No, thanks. I headed into the bush.

I'm going to skip rapidly over the next several hours. It may not
have been the longest night of my life but it was surely the dullest. I
am sure that there must be thicker and more dangerous jungles on
Earth than the brush on the bottomland of the lower Mississippi.
But I do not want to tackle them, especially without a machete (not
even a Scout knife!).

I spent most of my time backing out, having decided, No, not
through there--now how can I go around?--No, not on its south
side!--how can I get around it to the north? My track was as contorted
as the path of the river itself and my progress was possibly one
kilometer per hour--or perhaps I exaggerate; it could have been
less. Much of the time was spent reorienting, a necessity every few
meters.

Flies, mosquitoes, gnats, crawly things I never saw, twice snakes
underfoot that may have been water moccasins but I did not wait to
find out, endless disturbed birds with a dozen different sorts of
cries--birds that often flew up almost in my face to our mutual dis-


1184
	185 I


tress. My footing was usually mud and always included something
to trip over, ankle-high, shin-high, or both.

Three times (four times?) I came to open water. Each time I held
course west and when the water was deep enough I swam. Stagnant
bayou mostly, but one stretch seemed to have a current and may
have been a minor channel of the Mississippi. Once there was
something large swimming by me. Giant catfish? Aren't they supposed
to stay on the bottom? Alligator? But there aren't supposed to
be any there at all. Perhaps it was the Loch Ness monster on tour; I
never saw it, simply felt it--and levitated right out of the water
through sheer fright.

About eight hundred years after the sinking of the Skip and the
Myrtle came the dawn.

West of me about a kilometer was the high ground of the Arkansas
side. I felt triumphant.

I also felt hungry, exhausted, dirty, insect-bitten, disreputable,
and almost unbearably thirsty.


Five hours later I was the guest of Mr. Asa Hunter as a passenger in
his Studebaker farm wagon hitched to a fine span of mules. We
were approaching a small town named Eudora. I still had not had
any sleep but I had had the next best and everything but--water,
food, a wash-up. Mrs. Hunter had clucked over me, lent me a
comb, and given me breakfast: basted fried eggs, home-cured bacon
thick and fat, corn bread, butter, sorghum, milk, coffee made in a
pot and settled with an eggshell--and to appreciate in fullness Mrs.
Hunter's cooking I recommend swimming all night alternated with
crawling through the thickets of Old Man River's bottomland mud.
Ambrosia!

I ate wearing her wrapper as she insisted on rinsing out my bedraggled
jump suit. It was dry by the time I was ready to leave, and I
looked almost respectable.

I did not offer to pay the Hunters. There are human people who
have very little but are rich in dignity and self-respect. Their hospitality
is not for sale, nor is their charity. I am slowly learning to recognize
this trait in human people who have it. In the Hunters it was
unmistakable.


We crossed Macon Bayou and then the road dead-ended into a
slightly wider road. Mr. Hunter stopped his mules, got down, came
around to my side. "Miss, I'd thank you kindly to get down here."

I accepted his hand, let him hand me down. "Is something
wrong, Mr. Hunter? Have I offended you?"

He answered slowly, "No, miss. Not at all." He hesitated. "You

told us how your fishing boat was stove in by a snag."

"Yes?"

"Snags in the river are a pesky hazard." He paused. "Yesterday
evening come sundown something bad happened on the river. Two
explosions, about at Kentucky Bend. Big ones. Could see 'em and
hear 'em from the house."

He paused again. I didn't say anything. My explanation of my
presence and of my (deplorable) condition had been feeble at best.
But the next best explanation was a flying saucer.

Mr. Hunter went on, "Wife and I have never had any words with
the Imperial Police. We don't aim to. So, if you don't mind walking
a short piece down this road to the left, you'll come to Eudora. And
I'll turn my team around and go back to our place."

"I see. Mr. Hunter, I wish there were some way I could repay you

and Mrs. Hunter."

"You can."

"Yes?" (Was he going to ask for money? No!)

"Someday you'll find somebody needs a hand. So give him a
hand and think of us."

"Oh! I shall! I surely shall!"

"But don't bother to write to us about it. People who get mail get
noticed. We don't crave to be noticed."

"I see. But I'll do it and think about you, not once but more than
once."

"That's best. Bread cast upon the waters always comes back, miss.
Mrs. Hunter told me to tell you that she plans to pray for you."

My eyes watered so quickly that I could not see. "Oh! And please
tell her that I will remember her in my prayers. Both of you." (I had
never prayed in my life. But I would, for the Hunters.)

"Thank y' kindly. I will tell her. Miss. May I offer you a word of
advice and not have you take it amiss?"


1186
	187 [


"I need advice."

"You don't plan to stop in Eudora?"

"No. I must get north."

"So you said. Eudora's just a police station and a few shops. Lake
Village is farther away but the Greyhound APV stops there. That's
about twelve kilometers down the road to the right. If you can cover
that distance between now and noon, you could catch the midday

bus. But it's a dogtrottin' distance and a pretty hot day."

"I can do it. I will."

"Greyhound'11 take you to Pine Bluff, even to Little Rock. Um.
Bus costs money."

"Mr. Hunter, you've been more than kind. I have my credit card
with me; I can pay for the bus." I had not come through the swim
and the mud in very good shape but my credit cards, IDs, passport,
and cash money had all been in that waterproof money belt Janet
had given me so many light-years ago; all had come through untouched.
Someday I would tell her.

"Good. Thought I'd better ask. One more thing. Folks around
here mind their own business, mostly. If you just go straight aboard
the Greyhound, the few nosy ones won't have any excuse to bother
you. Better so, maybe. Well, good-bye and good luck."

I told him good-bye and got moving. I wanted to kiss him
good-bye but strange women do not take liberties with such as Mr.
Hunter.


I caught the noon APV and was in Little Rock at 12:52. An express
capsule north was loading as I reached the tube station; I was in
Saint Louis twenty-one minutes later. From a terminal booth in the
tube station I called Boss's contact code to arrange for transportation
to headquarters.

A voice answered, "The call code you have used is not in service.
Remain in circuit and an operator--" I slapped the disconnect and
got out fast.

I stayed in the underground city several minutes, walking at random
and pretending to window-shop but putting distance between
me and the tube station.

I found a public terminal in a shopping mall some distance away
and tried the fallback call code. When the voice reached: "The call


code you have used is not--" I slapped the disconnect but the voice
failed to cut off. I ducked my head, dropped to my knees, got out of
that booth, cutting to the right and being conspicuous, which I
hate, but possibly avoiding being photographed through the terminal,
which could be disaster.

I spent minutes mixing with the crowd. When I felt reasonably
sure that no one was following me, I dropped down one level, entered
the city's local tube system and went to East Saint Louis. I had
one more top-emergency fallback call code, but I did not intend to
use it without preparation.

Boss's new underground headquarters was just sixty minutes from
anywhere but I did not know where it was. ! mean to say that, when
I left its infirmary to take a refresher course, the APV trip had taken
exactly sixty minutes. When I returned it had taken sixty minutes.
When I went on leave and asked to be placed to catch a capsule for
Winnipeg, I had been dropped in Kansas City in exactly sixty minutes.
And there was no way for a passenger to see out of an APV
used for this.

By geometry, geography, and simplest knowledge of what an
APV can do, Boss's new headquarters had to be someplace more or
less around Des Moines--but ih this case "more or less" meant a
radius of at least a hundred kilometers. I did not conjecture. Nor did
I conjecture as to which ones of us actually knew the location of
HQ. It was a "need-to-know" and trying to guess how Boss decided
such things was a waste of time.

In East Saint Louis I bought a light cloak with a hood, then a
latex mask in a novelty shop, picking one that was not grotesque.
Then I took careful pains to randomize my choice of terminal. I was
of strong but not conclusive opinion that Boss had been hit again
and this time smeared, and the only reason that I had not panicked
was that I am trained not to panic until after the emergency.

Masked and hooded, I punched the last-resort call code. Same
result and again the terminal could not be switched off. I turned my
back on the pickup, pulled off that mask and dropped it on the
floor, got out of there slow-march, around a corner, shed that cloak
as I walked, folded it, shoved it into a trash can, went back to Saint
Louis--

--where I, bold as brass, used my Imperial Bank of Saint Louis


credit card to pay my tube fare to Kansas City. An hour earlier in
Little Rock I had used it without hesitation but at that time I had
had no suspicion that anything had happened to Bossin fact I
held a "religious" conviction that nothing could happen to Boss.
("Religious" = "absolute belief without proof.")

But now I was forced to operate on the assumption that something
had indeed happened to Boss, which included the assumption
that my Saint Louis MasterCard (based on Boss's credit, not my
own) could drop dead on me at any moment. I might stick it into a
slot to pay for something and have it burned out by a destruction
bolt when the machine recognized the number.

So four hundred kilometers and fifteen minutes later I was in
Kansas City. I never left the tube station. I made a free call at the
information desk about service on the KC-Omaha-Sioux Falls-Fargo-Winnipeg
tube and was told that there was full service to
Pembina at the border, none beyond. Fifty-six minutes later I was at
the British Canadian border directly south of Winnipeg. It was still
early afternoon. Ten hours earlier I had been climbing up out of the
bottomland of the Mississippi and wondering light-headedly whether
I was in the Imperium or if I had floated back into Texas.

Now I was even more overpoweringly anxious to get out of the
Imperium than I had been to get in. So far I had managed to stay
one flea-hop ahead of the Imperial Police but there was no longer
any doubt in my mind that they wanted to talk to me. I did not want
to talk to them because I had heard tales about how they conducted
an investigation. The laddies who had questioned me earlier this
year had been moderately rough . . . but the Imperial Police were
reputed to burn out a victim's brain.


119o


XlX


Fourteen hours later I had moved only twenty-five kilometers east of
where I had had to leave the tube system. An hour of that I had
spent in shopping, most of an hour in eating, over two hours in
close consultation with a specialist, a heavenly six hours in sleeping,
and almost four in moving cautiously east parallel to the border
fence without getting close to it--and now it was dawn and I did
approach the fence, right up to it, and was walking it, a bored repairman.

Pembina is just a village; I had to go back to Fargo to find a spe-cialist--a
quick trip by local capsule. The specialist I wanted was
the same sort as "Artists, Ltd." of Vicksburg save that such entrepreneurs
do not advertise in the Imperium; it took time and some cautious
grease to find him. His office was downtown near Main
Avenue and University Drive but it was behind a more conventional
business; it would not easily be noticed.

I was still wearing the faded blue neodenim jump suit I had been
wearing when I dived off the Skip to M'Lou, not through any special
affection for it but because a one-piece blue suit of coarse cloth
is the nearest thing to an international unisex costume you can find.
It will get by even at Ell-Five or in Luna City, where a monokini is
more likely. Add a scarf and a smart housewife will wear it to shop;
carry a briefcase and you are a respected businessman; squat with a
hafful of pencils and it's a beggar's garb. Since it is hard to soil, easy
to clean, won't wrinkle, and almost never wears out, it is ideal for a


191 I


courier who wishes to fade into the scene and can't waste time or
luggage on clothes.

To that jump suit had been added a greasy cap with "my" union
badge pinned to it, a well-worn hip belt with old but serviceable
tools, a bandoiler of repair links over one shoulder and a torch kit to
install them over the other.

Everything I had was well worn including my gloves. Zippered
into my right hip pocket was an old leather wallet with IDs showing
that I was "Hannah Jensen" of Moorhead. A worn newspaper clipping
showed that I had been a high-school cheerleader; a spotted
Red Cross card gave my blood type as O Rh pos sub 2 (which in fact
it is) and credited me with having won my gallon pin--but the dates
showed that I had neglected to donate for over six months.

Other mundane trivia gave Hannah a background in depth; she
even carried a Visa card issued by Moorhead Savings and Loan
Company--but on this item I had saved Boss more than a thousand
crowns: Since I did not expect to use it, it lacked the invisible
magnetic signature without which a credit card is merely a piece
of plastic.

It was just full light and I had, I figured, a maximum of three
hours to get through that fencewonly that long because the real
fence maintenance men started working then and I was most un-anxious
to meet one. Before that time Hannah Jensen should disappear...
possibly to resurface in the late afternoon for a final effort.
Today was go-for-broke; my cash crowns were used up. True, I still
had my Imperium credit cardwbut I am extremely leery of electronic
sleuths. Had my three attempts yesterday to call Boss, all with
the same card, tripped some subprogram under which I could be
identified? I seemed to have goren away with using the card for tube
fare immediately thereafter . . . but had I really escaped all electronic
traps? I did not know and did not want to find out--I simply
wanted to get through that fence.

I sauntered along, resisting a powerful urge to fall out of character
by hurrying. I wanted a place where I could cut the fence without
being watched, despite the fact that the ground was scorched for
about fifty meters on each side of the fence. I had to accept that;
what I wanted was a stretch shielded along the scorched band by
trees and bush about like Normandy hedgerows.


[192


Minnesota does not have Normandy hedgerows.

Northern Minnesota almost does not have trees---or at least not
in the stretch of the border I was covering. I was eyeing a piece of
fence, trying to tell myself that a wide reach of open space with no
one in sight was just as good as being shielded, when a police APV
came into sight cruising slowly west along the fence. I gave them a
friendly wave and kept on trudging east.

They circled, came back, and squatted, about fifty meters from
me. I turned and went toward them, reaching the car as the best boy
got out, followed by his driver, and I saw by their uniforms (hell,
damn, and spit) that they were not Minnesota Provincial Police but
Imperials.

Best boy says to me, "What are you doing here this early?"

His tone was aggressive; I answered it to match: "I was working,
until you interrupted me."

"The hell you say. You don't go on until eight hundred hours."
I answered, "Get the news, big man. That was last week. Two
shifts now. First shift comes on at 'can.' Shifts change at noon; sec-

ond shift goes off at 'can't.'"

"Nobody notified us."

"You want the Superintendent to write you a personal letter?
Give me your badge number and I'll tell him you said so."

"None of your lip, slitch. I'd as lief run you in as look at you."

"Go ahead. A day's rest for me... while you explain why this
stretch was not maintained."

"Stow it." They started climbing back in.

"Either of you turkeys got a toke?" I asked.

The driver said, "We don't hit on duty and neither should you."
"Brown nose," I answered politely.

The driver started to reply, but best boy slammed the lid, and
they took off right over my head, forcing me to duck. I don't think
they liked me.

I went back to the fence while concluding that Hannah Jensen
was not a lady. She had no excuse to be rude to the Greenies merely
because they are unspeakably vile. Even black widows, body lice,
and hyenas have to make a living although I could never see why.

I decided that my plans were not well thought out; Boss would
not approve. Cutting that fence in broad daylight was too conspicu-


ous. Better to pick a spot, then hide until dark, and return to it. Or
spend the night on plan number two: Check the possibility of going
under the fence at Roseau River.

I wasn't too crazy about plan number two. The lower reach of the
Mississippi had been warm enough but these northern streams
would chill a corpse. I had checked the Pembina late the day before
yesterday. Brrr! A last resort.

SO pick a piece of fence, decide exactly how you are going to cut
it, then try to find some trees, wrap yourself in some nice warm
leaves, and wait for dark. Rehearse every move, so that you go
through that fence like pee through snow.

At this point I topped a slight rise and came face to face with another
maintenance man, male type.

When in doubt, attack. "What the hell are you doing, buster?"

"I'm walking the fence. My stretch of the fence. What are you
doing, sister?"

"Oh, fer Gossake! I'm not your sister. And you are either on the
wrong stretch or the wrong shift." I noticed with unease that the
well-dressed fence-walker carries a walkie-talkie. Well, I had not
been one very long; I was still learning the job.

"Like hell," he answered. "Under the new schedule I come on at
dawn; I'm relieved at noon. Maybe by you, huh? Yeah, that's prob-

ably it; you read the roster wrong. I had better call in."

"You do that," I said, moving toward him.

He hesitated. "On the other hand, maybe--" I did not hesitate.
I do not kill everyone with whom I have a difference of opinion
and I would not want anyone reading this memoir to think that I do.
I didn't even hurt him other than temporarily and not much; I
merely put him to sleep rather suddenly.

From a roll on my belt I taped his hands behind him and fastened
his ankles together. If I had had some wide surgical tape, I would
have gagged him but all I had was two-centimeter mechanics friction
tape, and I was far more anxious to cut fence than I was to keep
him from yelling for help to the coyotes and jackrabbits. I got busy.

A torch good enough to repair fence will cut fence but my torch
was a bit better than that; I had bought it out the back door of Fargo's
leading fence (tlYe other sort of fence). It was a steel-cutting laser


194


rather than the oxyacetylene job it appeared to be. In moments I

had a hole big enough, barely, for Friday. I stooped to leave.
"Hey, take me with you!"

I hesitated. He was saying insistently that he was just as anxious to
get away from the goddam Greenies as I was--untie me!

What I did next is matched in folly only by Lot's wife. I grabbed
the knife at my belt, cut the tape at his wrists, at his anklesdived
through my scuttle hole and started to run. I didn't wait to see
whether or not he came through, too.

There was one of the rare stands of trees about half a kilometer
north of me; I headed that way at a new record speed. That heavy
tool belt impeded me; I shucked it without slowing. A moment later
I brushed that cap off and "Hannah Jensen" went back to Never-Never
Land, as torch, gloves, and repair links were still in the Impe-rium.
All that was left of her was a wallet I would jettison when I
was not so busy.

I got well inside the trees, then circled back and found a place to
observe my back track, as I was uncomfortably aware that I was
wearing a tail.

My late prisoner was about halfway from fence to trees... and
two APVs were homing in on him. The one closer to him carried
the big Maple Leaf of British Canada. I could not see the insigne on
the other as it was headed right toward me, coming across the international
boundary.

The BritCan police car grounded; my quondam guest appeared to
surrender without argument--reasonable, as the APV from the Im-perium
grounded immediately thereafter, at least two hundred meters
inside British Canada--and, yes, Imperial Policepossibly the
car that had stopped me.

I'm not an international lawyer but I'm sure wars have started
over less. I held my breath, extended my hearing to the limit, and
listened.

There were no international lawyers among those two sorts of police,
either; the argument was noisy but not coherent. The Imperials
were demanding surrender of the refugee under the doctrine of
hot pursuit and a Mountie corporal was maintaining (correctly, it
seemed to me) that hot pursuit applied only to criminals caught in


the act, but the only "crime" here was entering British Canada not
at a port of entry, a matter not lying in the jurisdiction of the Imperial
Police. "Now get that crock off BritCan soil!"
The Greenie gave a monosyllabic nonresponse that annoyed the
Mountie. He slammed the lid and spoke through his loudspeaker: "I arrest you for violation of British Canadian air and ground space.
Get out and surrender. Do not attempt to take off."
Whereupon the Greenies' car took off at once and retreated
across the international border--then went elsewhere. Which may
have been exactly what the Mountie intended to accomplish. I held
very still, as now they would have time to give their attention to me.
I assume conclusively that my companion escapee now paid me
for his ticket through the fence: No search was made for me. Certainly
he saw me run into the woods. But it is unlikely that the
RCMP saw me. No doubt cutting the fence sounded alarms in police
stations on both sides of the border; this would be a routine installation
for electronics people--even to pinpointing the break--and
so I had assumed in planning to do it fast.
But counting the number of warm bodies that passed through a
gap would be a separate electronics problem--not impossible but an
added expense that might not be considered worthwhile. As may be,
my nameless companion did not snitch on me; no one came looking
for me. After a time a BritCan car fetched a repair crew; I saw
them pick up the tool belt I had discarded near the fence. After they
left another repair crew showed up on the Imperium side; they inspected
the repair and went away.
I wondered a bit about tool belts. On thinking back I could not
recall seeing such a belt on my erstwhile prisoner when he surrendered.
I concluded that he had had to shed his belt to go through
the fence; that hole was just barely big enough for Friday; for him it
must have been a jam fit.
Reconstruction: The BritCans saw one belt, on their side; the
Greenies saw one belt, on their side. Neither side had any reason to
assume that more than one wetback had passed through the hole  . . as long as my late prisoner kept mum.
Pretty decent of him, I think. Some men would have held a
grudge over that little tap I had to give him.

[196

I stayed in those woods until dark, thirteen tedious hours. I did not
want to be seen by anyone until I reached Janet (and, with luck,
Ian); an illegal immigrant does not seek publicity. It was a long day
but in middle training my mind-control guru had taught me to cope
with hunger, thirst, and boredom when it is necessary to remain
quiet, awake, and alert. When it was full dark I started out. I knew
the terrain as well as one can from maps, as I had studied all of it
most carefully in Janet's house less than two weeks earlier. The
problem ahead of me was neither complex nor difficult: move approximately
one hundred and ten kilometers on foot before dawn
while avoiding notice.
The route was simple. I must move east a trifle to pick up the
road from Lancaster in the Imperium to La Rochelle in British
Canada, at the port of entrY--easy to spot. Go north to the outskirts
of Winnipeg, swing to the left around the city and pick up the
north-south road to the port. Stonewall was just a loud shout from
there, with the Tormey estate nearby. All of the last and more difficult
part I knew not just from maps but from having recently been
over it in a surrey with nothing to distract me but a little friendly
groping.
It was just dawn when I spotted the Tormey outer gates. I was
tired but not in too bad shape. I can maintain the walk-jog-run-walk-jog-run
routine for twenty-four hours if necessary and have
done so in training; keeping it up all night is acceptable. Mostly my
feet hurt and I was very thirsty. I punched the announcing button in
happy relief.
And at once heard: "Captain Ian Tormey speaking. This is a recording.
This house is protected by the Winnipeg Werewolves Security
Guards, Incorporated. I have retained this firm because I do
not consider their reputation for being trigger-happy to be justified;
they are simply zealous in protecting their clients. Calls coded to
this house will not be relayed but mail sent here will be forwarded.
Thank you for listening."
And thank you, Ian! Oh, damn, damn, damn! I knew that I had
no reason to expect them to remain at home... but my mind had
never entertained the thought that they might not be at home. I had
"transferred," as the shrinks call it; with my Ennzedd family lost,

1971


Boss missing and perhaps dead, the Tormey estate was "home" and
Janet the mother I had never had.

I wished that I were back on the Hunters' farm, bathed in the
warm protectiveness of Mrs. Hunter. I wished that I were in Vicksburg,
sharing mutual loneliness with Georges.

In the meantime the Sun was rising and soon the roads would
begin to fill and I was an illegal alien with almost no BritCan dollars
and a deep need not to be noticed, not to be picked up and questioned,
and light-headed from fatigue and lack of sleep and hunger
and thirst.

But I did not have to make difficult decisions as one was forced on
me, Hobsoh's choice. I must again hole up like an animal, and
quickly, before traffic filled the roads.

Woods are not common anywhere near Winnipeg but I recalled
some hectares left wild, back and around to the left, off the main
road, and more or less behind the Tormey place--uneven land, below
the low hill on which Janet had built. So I went in that direction,
encountering one delivery wagon (milk) but no other traffic.

Once abreast the scrub I left the road. The footing became very
uneven, a series of gullies, and I was going "across the furrows." But
quickly I encountered something even more welcome than trees: a
tiny stream, so narrow I could step across it.

Which I did, but not until I had drunk from it. Clean? Probably
contaminated but I gave it not a thought; my curious "birthright"
protects me against most infection. The water tasted clean and I
drank quite a lot and felt much better physically--but not the sick
weight in my heart.

I went deeper into the scrub, looking for a place where I could
not only hide but could dare risk sleeping. Six hours of sleep two
nights ago seemed awfully far away but the trouble with.hiding in
the wild this close to a big city is that a troop of Boy Scouts is awfully
likely to come tromping through and step on your face. So I hunted
for a spot not only bushy but inaccessible.

I found it. Quite a steep stretch up one side of a gully and made

still more inaccessible by thornbushes, which I located by Braille.
Thornbushes?

It took me about ten minutes to find it as it looked like an exposed


198


face of a boulder left over from the time when the great ice flow had
planed all this country down. But, when I looked closely, it did not
look quite like rock. It took still longer to get fingers into any purchase
and lift it, then it swung up easily, partly counterbalanced. I
ducked inside quickly and let it fall back into place--

--and found myself in darkness save for fiery letters: PRIVATE
PROPERTY--KEEP OUT

I stood very still and thought, Janet had told me that the switch
that disarmed the deadly booby traps was "concealed a short distance
inside."

How long is a "short distance"?

And how concealed?

It was concealed well enough simply because the place was dark
as ink except for those ominous glowing letters. They might as well
have spelled "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

So whip out your pocket torch, Friday, powered with its own tiny
lifetime Shipstone, and search. But don't go too far!

There was indeed a torch in a jumpbag I had left behind me in
the Skit) to M'Lou. It might even be shining, entertaining fish on
the bottom of the Mississippi. And I knew that there were other

torches stockpiled straight down this black tunnel.

I didn't even have a match.

If I had a Boy Scout, I could make a fire by rubbing his hind legs
together. Oh, shut up, Friday!

I sank down to the floor and let myself cry a little. Then I
stretched out on that (hard, cold) (welcome and soft) concrete floor
and went to sleep.


i99 J


I woke up a long time later and the floor was indeed hard and cold.
But I felt so enormously rested that I did not mind. I stood up and
rubbed the kinks out and realized that I no longer felt hopeless---just
hungry.

The tunnel was now well lighted.

That glowing sign still warned me not to go any farther but the
tunnel was no longer black; the illumination seemed about equal to
a well-lighted living room. I looked around for the source of the
light.

Then my brain came back into gear. The only illumination came
from the glowing sign; my eyes had adjusted while I slept. I understand
that human people also experience this phenomenon, but
possibly to a lesser degree.

I started to hunt for the switch.

I stopped and started using my brain instead. That's harder work
than using muscles but it's quieter and burns fewer calories. It's the
only thing that separates us from the apes, although just barely. If I
were a concealed switch, where would I be?

The significant parameters of this switch had to be that it must be
well enough hidden to frustrate intruders but it nevertheless must
save Janet's life and that of her husbands. What did that tell me?

It would not be too high for Janet to reach; therefore I could reach
it, we are much the same size. So that switch was in my reach without
using a stool.


Those floating, glowing letters were about three meters inside the
door. The switch could not be much past that point because Janet
had told me that the second warning, the one that promised death,
was triggered not far inside--"a few meters" she had said. "A few" is
rarely over ten.

Janet would not hide the switch so thoroughly that one of her
husbands, dodging for his life, would have to remember exactly
where it was. The simple knowledge that there was such a switch
must be sufficient clue to let him find it. But any intruder who did
not know that there was such a switch must not notice it.

I moved down the tunnel until I stood right under that glowing
sign, looked up. The light from that warning sign made it easy to see
anywhere but that small part of the tunnel arch just above the letters.
Even with my dark-adjusted and enhanced vision I could not
see the ceiling directly over the sign.

I reached up and felt the ceiling where I could not see it. My
fingers encountered something that felt like a button, possibly the
end of a solenoid. I pushed it.

The warning sign blinked out; ceiling lights came on, shining far
down the tunnel.


Frozen food and the means to cook it and big towels and hot and
cold running water and a terminal in the Hole on which I could get
the current news and summaries of past news... books and music
and cash money stored in the Hole against emergency and weapons
and Shipstones and ammunition and clothes of all sorts that fit me
because they fitted Janet and a dock-calendar in the terminal that
told me that I had slept thirteen hours before the hardness of the
concrete "bed" woke me and a comfy soft bed that invited me to
finish the night by sleeping again after I had bathed and eaten and
satisfied my hunger for news... a feeling of total security that let
me calm down until I no longer had to use mind control to suppress
my real feelings in order to function ....

The news told me that British Canada had sealed the emergency
down to "limited emergency." The border with the Imperium remained
closed. The Quebec border was still closely controlled but
permits were granted for any legitimate business. The remaining
dispute between the two nations lay in how much reparation Que-

12oo
	2Ol I


bec should pay for what was now admitted to be a military attack
made through error and/or stupidity. The internment order was still
in effect but over 90 percent of Quebecois internees had been released
on their own paroles . . . and about 20 percent of internees
from the Imperium. So I had done well to dodge because, no question
about it, I was a suspicious character.
But it looked as if Georges could come home whenever he wished. Or were there angles I did not understand?
The Council for Survival promised a third round of"educational"
killings ten days plus or minus two days from the last round. The
Stimulators followed this a day later with a matching statement, one
which again condemned the so-called Council for Survival. The
Angels of the Lord did not this time make any announcement, or at
least none that issued through the BritCan Data Net.
Again I had tentative conclusions, shaky ones: The Stimulators
were a dummy organization, all propaganda, no field operatives.
The Angels of the Lord were dead and/or on the run. The Council
for Survival had extremely wealthy backing willing to pay for more
unprofessional stooges to be sacrificed in mostly futile attempts--but
that was merely a guess, to be dropped in a hurry if the third
round of attacks turned out to be efficient and professional--which I
did not expect, but I have a long record for being wrong.
I still couldn't decide who was back of this silly reign of terror. It
could not be (I felt certain) a territorial nation; it might be a multinational,
or a consortium, although I could see no sense in it. It
could even be one or more extremely wealthy individuals--if they
had holes in their heads.
Under "retrieval" I also punched "Imperium" and "Mississippi
River" and "Vicksburg" as singles, each pair, and the triple. Negative. I added in the names of the two vessels and tried all the combinations.
Still negative. Apparently what had happened to me and
several hundred others had been suppressed. Or was it considered
trivial?

Before I left I wrote Janet a note telling her what clothes I had taken,
how many BritCan dollars I had taken and added that amount to
what she had given me earlier, and I detailed what I had charged to
her Visa card: one capsule fare Winnipeg to Vancouver, one shuttle
fare Vancouver to Bellingham, nothing since. (Or had I paid my
fare to San Jose with her card, or was that when Georges started being
masterful? My expense accounts were in the bottom of the Mississippi.
)
Having taken enough of Janet's cash to get me out of British Canada
(I hoped!) I was strongly tempted to leave her Visa card with my
note to her. But a credit card is an insidious thing--just a cheap
little piece of plastic... that can equate to great stacks of gold bullion.
It was up to me to protect that card personally and at any cost,
until I could place it in Janet's hand. Nothing less was honest.
A credit card is a leash around your neck. In the world of credit
cards a person has no privacy... or at best protects her privacy only
with great effort and much chicanery. Besides that, do you ever know what the computer network is doing when you poke your card
into a slot? I don't. I feel much safer with cash. I've never heard of
anyone who had much luck arguing with a computer.
It seems to me that credit cards are a curse. But I'm not human
and probably lack the human viewpoint (in this as in so many,
many other things).

! set out the next morning, dressed in a beautiful three-piece pant-suit
in powder-blue glass (I felt sure that Janet was beautiful in it and
it made me feel beautiful despite the evidence of mirrors), and intending
to hire a rig in nearby Stonewall, only to find that I had a
choice of a horsedrawn omnibus or a Canadian Railways APV, both
going to the tube station, Perimeter and McPhillips, where Georges
and I had left on our informal honeymoon. Much as I prefer horses
I picked the faster method.
Going into town would not let me pick up my luggage, still in
bond at the port. But was it possible to pick it up from transit bond
without being pinpointed as an alien from the Imperium? I decided
to order it forwarded from outside British Canada. Besides, those
bags were packed in New Zealand. If ! could live without them this
long, I could live without them indefinitely. How many people
have died because they would not abandon their baggage?
I have this moderately efficient guardian angel who sits on my



202
	20 I


shoulder. Only days ago Georges and I had walked right up to the
proper turnstile, stuck Janet's and Ian's credit cards into the slot
without batting an eye, and zipped merrily to Vancouver.

This time, although a capsule was then loading, I discovered that
I was headed on past the turnstiles toward the British Canadian
Tourist Bureau travel office. The place was busy, so there was no
danger of an attendant rubbernecking what I was doing--but I waited
until I could get a console in a corner. One became available; I
sat down and punched for capsule to Vancouver, then stuck Janet's
card into the slot.

My guardian angel was awake that day; I snatched the card out,
got it out of sight fast, and hoped that no one had caught the stink of
scorched plastic. And I left, quick-march and nose in the air.

At the turnstiles, when I asked for a ticket to Vancouver, the attendant
was busy studying the sports page of the Winnipeg Free
Press. He lowered his paper slightly, peered at me 'over it. "Why
don't you use your card like everyone else?"

"Do you have tickets to sell? Is this money legal tender?"
"That's not the point."

"It is to me. Please sell me a ticket. And give me your name and
clock number in accordance with that notice posted back of your
head." I handed him the exact amount.

"Here's your ticket." He ignored my demand for his identification;
I ignored his failure to comply with the regulations. I did not
want a hooraw with his supervisor; I simply wanted to create a diversion
from my own conspicuous eccentricity in using money rather
than a credit card.

The capsule was crowded but I did not have to stand; a Galahad
left over from the last century stood up and offered me his seat. He
was young and not bad-looking and clearly was being gallant because
he classed me as having the apposite female qualities.

I accepted with a smile and he stood over me and I did what I
could to repay him by leaning forward a bit and letting him look
down my neckline. Young Lochinvar seemed to feel repaid--he
stared the whole way--and it cost me nothing and was no trouble. I
appreciated his interest and what it got me in comfort--sixty minutes
is a long time to stand up to the heavy surges of an express
capsule.


204


As we got out at Vancouver he asked me if I had any plans for
lunch. Because, if I didn't, he knew of a really great place, the Bay-shore
Inn. Or if I liked Japanese or Chinese food--

I said that I was sorry but I had to be in Bellingham by noon.
Instead of accepting the brush-off, his face lit up. "That's a happy
coincidence! I'm going to Bellingham, too, but I thought I would
wait until after lunch. We can have lunch together in Bellingham.
Is it a deal?"

(Isn't there something in international law about crossing international
boundaries for immoral purposes? But can the simple,
straightforward rut of this youngster correctly be classed as "immoral"?
An artificial person never understands human people's sexual
codes; all we can do is memorize them and try to stay out of trouble.
But this isn't easy; human sexual codes are as contorted as a plate of
spaghetti.)

My attempt at polite brush-off having failed, I was forced to decide
quickly whether to be rude or to go along with his clear purpose.
I scolded myself: Friday, you are a big girl now; you know
better. If you intended to give him no hope whatever of getting you
into bed, the time to back out was when he offered you his seat at
Winnipeg.

I made one more attempt: "It's a deal," I answered, "if I am allowed
to pay the check, with no argument." This was a dirty trick
on my part, as we both knew that, if he let me pay for lunch, that
canceled his investment in me of one hour of standing up and hanging
on and fighting the surge of the capsule. But barnyard protocol
did not allow him to claim the investment; his act of gallantry was
supposed to be disinterested, knightly, no reward expected.

The dirty, sneaking, underhanded, rutty scoundrel proceeded to
chuck protocol.

"All right," he answered.

I swallowed my astonishment. "No argument later? It's my
check?"

"No argument," he agreed. "Obviously you don't want to be under
the nominal obligation of the price of a lunch even though I
issued the invitation and therefore should have a host's privilege. I
don't know what I have done to annoy you but I will not force on
you even a trivial obligation. There is a McDonald's at surface level


20 I


as we arrive in Bellingham; I'll have a Big Mac and a Coke. You pay
for it. Then we can part friends."
I answered, "I'm Marjorie Baldwin; what is your name?"
"I'm Trevor Andrews, Marjorie."
"Trevor. That's a nice name. Trevor, you are dirty, sneaky, underhanded,
and despicable. So take me to the best restaurant in Bellingham,
ply me with fine liquor and gourmet food, and you pay
the check. I'll give you a fair chance to sell your fell designs. But I
don't think that you will get me into bed; I'm not feeling receptive."
That last was a lie; I was feeling receptive and very rutty--had he
possessed my enhanced sense of smell he would have been certain
of it. Just as I was certain of his rut toward me. A human male cannot
possibly dissemble with an AP female who has enhanced senses.
I learned this at menarche. But of course I am never offended by
male rut. At most I sometimes imitate a human woman's behavior
by pretending to be offended. I don't do this often and tend to avoid
it; I'm not that convincing an actress.
From Vicksburg to Winnipeg I had felt no sexual urge. But, with
a double night's sleep, a hot, hot bath with lots of soap, plenty of
food, my body now was restored to its normal behavior. So why was
I lying about it to this harmless stranger? "Harmless?" In any rational
sense, yes. Short of corrective surgery I am sterile. I am not inclined
to catch even a sniffle and I am specifically immunized
against the four commonest venereal diseases. I was taught in
creche to class coition with eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping,
playing, talking, cuddling--the pleasant necessities that make life a
happiness instead of a burden.
I lied to him because human rules call for a lie at that point in the
dance--and I was passing as human and didn't dare be honestly myself.
He blinked down at me. "You feel that I would be wasting
investment?"
"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."
"You're mistaken. I never try to get a woman into bed; if she
wants me in her bed, she will find some way to let me know. If she
does not want me there, then I would not enjoy being there. But
you seem to be unaware of the fact that it is worth the price of a
good lunch just to sit and look at you, while ignoring any silly babble
that comes out of your mouth."
"Babble! That had better be a very good restaurant. Let's catch
the shuttle."
I had thought that I might have to argue my way through the barrier
on arrival.
But the CHI officer looked most carefully at Trevor's IDs before
validating his tourist card, then barely glanced at my San Jose Mastercard
and waved me on through. I waited for Trevor just past the
CHI barrier and looked at the sign THE BREAKFAST BAR while feeling
double djd vu.
Trevor joined me. "If I had seen," he said mournfully, "that gold
card you were flashing just now, I would not have offered to pay for
the lunch. You're a wealthy heiress."
"Now look, buster," I answered, "a deal's a deal. You told me it
was worth the price just to sit and drool over me. In spite of my
'babble.' I'm willing to cooperate to the extent of easing the neckline
a little. One button, maybe two. But I won't let you back out. Even
a rich heiress likes to show a profit now and then."
"Oh, the shame and the pity of it all!"
"Quit complaining. Where's this gourmet restaurant?"
"Well, now-- Marjorie, I'm forced to admit that I don't know the
restaurants in this glittering metropolis. Will you name the one you
prefer?"
"Trevor, your seduction technique is terrible."
"So my wife says."
"I thought you had that hamess-broken look. Get out her picture.
Back in a moment; I'm going to find out where we eat."
I caught the CHI officer between shuttles, asked him for the
name of the best restaurant. He looked thoughtful. "This isn't Paris, you know."
"I noticed."
"Or even New Orleans. If I were you, I would go to the Hilton
dining room."
I thanked him, went back to Trevor. "We're eating in the dining
room, two floors up. Unless you want to send out your spies. Now
let's see her picture."



I 206
	207 I


He showed me a wallet picture. I looked at it carefully, then gave
a respectful whistle. Blondes intimidate me. When I was little, I
thought I could get to be that color if I scrubbed hard enough. "Trevor,
with that at home why are you picking up loose women on the
streets?"

"Are you loose?"

"Quit trying to change the subject."

"Marjorie, you wouldn't believe me and you would babble. Let's
go up to the dining room before all the martinis dry up."


Lunch was okay but Trevor did not have Georges' imagination,
knowledge of cooking, and skill at intimidating a maitre d'h6tel.
Without Georges' flair the food was good, standard, North American
cuisine, the same in Bellingham as in Vicksburg.

I was preoccupied; discovering that Janet's credit card had been
invalidated had upset me almost more than the horrid disappointment
of not finding Ian and Janet at home. Was Janet in trouble?
Was she dead?

And Trevor had lost some of the cheerful enthusiasm a stud
should display when the game is afoot. Instead of staring lecherously
at me, he too seemed preoccupied. Why the change in manner?
My demand to see a picture of his wife? Had I made him self-conscious
thereby? It seems to me that a man should not engage in the
hunt unless he is on such terms with his wife or wives that he can
recount the lurid details at home to be giggled over. Like Ian. I
don't expect a man to "protect my reputation" because, to the best
of my knowledge and belief, they never do. If I want a man to refrain
from discussing my sweaty clumsiness in bed, the only solution
is to stay out of bed with him.

Besides, Trevor had mentioned his wife first, hadn't he? I reviewed
it--yes, he had.

After lunch he perked up some. I was telling him to come back
here after his business appointment because I was punching in as a
guest in order to have comfort as well as privacy in making satellite
calls (true) and that I might stay overnight (also true), so come back
and call me and I would meet him in the lounge (conditionally
true--I was so lonely and troubled I suspected that I would tell him
to come straight up).


208


He answered, "I'll call first so that you can get that man out but
I'll come straight up. No need to make the trip twice. But H1 send
the bubbly up; I won't carry it."

"Hold it," I said. "You have not yet sold me your nefarious purpose.
All I promised was the opportunity to present your sales talk.

In the lounge. Not in my bedroom."

"Marjorie, you're a hard woman."

"No, you're a hard man. I know what I'm doing." A sudden satori
told me that I did know. "How do you feel about artificial persons?
Would you want your sister to marry one?"

"Do you know one who might be willing to? Sis is getting to be a

bit long in the tooth; she can't afford to be particular."

"Don't try to evade me. Would you marry one?"

"What would the neighbors think? Marjorie, how do you know I
haven't? You saw my wife's picture. Artifacts are supposed to make
the very best wives, horizontally or vertically."

"Concubines, you mean. It isn't necessary to marry them. Trevor,
you not only are not married to one; you don't know anything
about them but the popular myths... or you wouldn't say 'artifact'
when the subject is 'artificial persons.'"

"I'm sneaky, underhanded, and despicable. I misused the term so
that you would not suspect that I am one."

"Oh, babble! You aren't one, or I would know it. And while you
probably would go to bed with one, you wouldn't dream of marrying
one. This is a futile discussion; let's adjourn it. I need about two
hours; don't be surprised if my room terminal is busy. Tape a message
and curl up with a good drink; H1 be down as soon as possible."

I punched in at the desk and went up, not to the bridal suite--in
the absence of Georges that lovely extravagance would have made
me tristebut to a very nice room with a good, big, wide bed, a
luxury I had ordered from a deep suspicion that Trevor's low-key
(almost reverse) salesmanship was going to cause him to wind up in
it. The difficult louse.

I put the thought aside and got to work.

I called the Vicksburg Hilton. No, Mr. and Mrs. Perreault had
punched out. No, no forwarding address. Sottee!

So was I, and that synthetic computer voice was no comfort. I
called McGill University in Montreal and wasted twenty minutes


2o91


"learning" that, Yes, Dr. Perreault was a senior member of this university
but was now at the University of Manitoba. The only new
fact was that this Montreal computer synthesized English or French
with equal ease and always answered in the language in which it was
addressed. Very clever, these electron pushers---too clever, in my
opinion.

I tried Janet's (Ian's) call code in Winnipeg, learned that their terminal
was out of service at the subscribers' request. I wondered why
I had been able to receive news on the terminal in the Hole earlier
this day. Did "out of service" mean only "no incoming calls"? Was
such arcanum a close-held secret of S.T. and T.?

ANZAC Winnipeg bounced me around through parts of its computer
meant for the traveling public before I got a human voice to
admit that Captain Tormey was on leave because of the Emergency
and the interruption of flights to New Zealand.

Ian's Auckland code answered only with music and an invitation
to record a message, which was no surprise as Ian would not be
there until semiballistic service resumed. But I had thought that I
might catch Betty and/or Freddie.

How could one go to New Zealand with the SBs out of service?
You can't ride a seahorse; they're too small. Did those big water-borne,
Shipstone-driven freighters ever carry passengers? I didn't
think they had accommodations. Hadn't I heard somewhere that
some of them didn't even have crews?

I believed that I had a detailed knowledge of ways to travel superior
to the professional knowledge of travel agents because, as a courier,
I often moved around by means that' tourists can't use and
ordinary commercial travelers don't know about. It vexed me to realize
that I had never given thought to how to outwit the fates when
all SBs are grounded. But there is a way, there is always a way. f
ticked it off in my mind as a problem to solve later.

I called the University of Sydney, spoke with a computer, but
at last got a human voice that admitted knowing Professor Farnese
but he was on sabbatical leave. No, private call codes and addresses
were never given out--sorry. Perhaps customer service might
help me.

The Sydney information service computer seemed lonely, as it
was willing to chat with me endlessly--anything but admit that either
Federico or Elizabeth Farnese was in its net. I listened to a sales
pitch for the World's Biggest Bridge (it isn't) and the World's Grandest
Opera House (it is), so come Down Under and-- I switched off
reluctantly; a friendly computer with a Strine accent is better company
than most people, human or my sort.

I then tackled the one I had hoped to be able to skip: Christ-church.
There was a probability that Boss's HQ had sent word to me
care of my former family when the move was made--if it was a
move and not a total disaster. There was a very remote possibility
that Ian, unable to send a message to me in the Imperium, would
send one to my former home in hopes that it would be forwarded. I
recalled that I had given him my Christchurch call code when he
gave me the code for his Auckland flat. So I called my erstwhile
home--

mand got the shock that one gets in stepping on a step that isn't
there. "Service is discontinued at the terminal you have signaled.
Calls are not being relayed. In emergency please signal Christ-churchre"
A code followed that I recognized as Brian's office.

I found myself doing the time-zone correction backward to get
a wrong answer that would let me put off calling--then I snapped
out of it. It was afternoon here, just past fifteen, so it was tomorrow
morning in New Zealand, just past ten, a most likely time of
day for Brian to be in. I punched his call, got a satellite hold of only
a few seconds, then found myself staring into his astonished face.
"Marjorie!"

"Yes," I agreed. "Marjorie. How are you?"

"Why are you calling me?"

I said, "Brian, please! We were married seven years; can't we at

least speak politely with each other?"

"Sorry. What can I do for you?"

"I am sorry to disturb you at work but I called the house and
found the terminal out of service. Brian, as you no doubt know
from the news, communications with the Chicago IraperJure have
been interrupted by the Emergency. The assassinations. What the
newscasters have been calling Red Thursday. As a result of this I am
in California; I never did reach my IraperJure address. Can you tell


1210
	211 I


me anything about mail or messages that may have come for me?

You see, nothing has reached me."

"I really could not say. Sorry."

"Can't you even tell me whether anything had to be forwarded?
Just to know that a message had been forwarded would help me in
tracing it."

"Let me think. There would have been all that money you drew

out--no, you took the draft for that with you."

"What money?"

"The money you demanded We return to you--or be faced with
an open scandal. A bit more than seventy thousand dollars. Marjorie,
I am surprised that you have the gall to show your face . . .
when your misbehavior, your lies, and your cold cupidity destroyed
our family."

"Brian, what in the world are you talking about? I have not lied to
anyone, I don't think I have misbehaved, and I have not taken one
penny out of the family. 'Destroyed the family' how? I was kicked
out of the family, out of a clear blue sky--kicked out and sent packing,
all in a matter of minutes. I certainly did not 'destroy the family.'
Explain yourself."

Brian did, in cold and dreary detail. My misbehavior was all of a
piece with my lies, of course, that ridiculous allegation that I was a
living artifact, not human, and thereby I had forced the family to
ask for an annulment. I tried to remind him that I had proved to
him that I was enhanced; he brushed it aside. What I recalled, what
he recalled, did not match. As for the money, I was lying again; he
had seen the receipt with my signature.

I interrupted to tell him that any signature that appeared to be
mine on any such receipt had to be a forgery as I had not received a
single dollar.

"You are accusing Anita of forgery. Your boldest lie yet."

"I'm not accusing Anita of anything. But I received no mone
from the family."

I was accusing Anita and we both knew it. And possibly accusing
Brian as well. I recalled once that Vickie had said that Anita's nipples
erected only over fat credit balances... and I had shushed her
and told her riot to be catty. But there were hints from others that
Anita was frigid in bed---a condition that an AP can't understand.
In retrospect it did seem possible that her total passion was for the
family, its financial success, its public prestige, its power in the
community.

If so, she must hate me. I did not destroy the family, but kicking
me out appeared to be the first domino in its collapse. Almost immediately
after I left, Vickie went to Nuku'alofa... and instructed
a solicitor to sue for divorce and financial settlement. Then Douglas
and Lispeth left Christchurch, married each other separately, then
entered the same sort of suit.

One tiny crumb of comfort. I learned from Brian that the vote
against me had not been six to nothing but seven to nothing. An
improvement? Yes. Anita had ruled that voting must be by shares;
the major stockholders, Brian, Bertie, and Anita, had voted first,
casting seven votes against me, a clear majority to expel me--whereupon
Doug, Vickie, and Lispeth had abstained from voting.

A very small crumb of comfort, however. They had not bucked
Anita, not tried to stop her, they had not even warned me of what
was afoot. They abstained... then stood aside and let the sentence
be executed.

I asked Brian about the children--and was told bluntly that they
were none of my business. He then said that he was quite busy and
must switch off, but I held him for one more question: What was
done with the cats?

He looked about to explode. "Marjorie, are you utterly heartless?
When your acts have caused so much pain, so much real tragedy,

you want to know about something as trivial as cats?"

I restrained my anger. "I do want to know, Brian."

"I think they were sent to the SPCA. Or it might have been to the
medical school. Good-bye! Please do not call me again."

"The medical school--" Mister Underfoot tied to a surgical table
while a medical student took him apart with a knife? I am not a
vegetarian and I am not going to argue against the use of animals in
science and in teaching. But if it must be done, dear God if there is
One anywhere, don't let it be done to animals who have been
brought up to think they are people!

SPCA or medical school, Mister Underfoot and the younger


212
	213 I


cats were almost certainly dead. Nevertheless, if SBs had been running,
I would have risked going back to British Canada to catch the
next trajectory for New Zealand in the forlorn hope of saving my old
friend. But without modern transportation Auckland was farther
away than Luna City. Not even a forlorn hope-

l dug deep into mind-control training and put matters I could not
help out of my mind--

--and found that Mister Underfoot was still brushing against
my leg.


On the terminal a red light was blinking. I glanced at the time, noted
that it had been just about the two hours I had estimated; that
light was almost certainly Trevor.

So make up your mind, Friday. Put cold water on your eyes and
go down and let him try to persuade you? Or tell him to come on
up, take him straight to bed, and cry on him? At first, that is. You
certainly don't feel lecherous this minute . . . but tuck your face
into a nice, warm male shoulder and let your feelings sag and pretty
soon you will feel eager. You know that. Female tears are reputed to
be a powerful aphrodisiac to most men and your own experience
bears that out. (Crypro-sadism? Machismo? Who cares? It works.)

Invite him up. Have some liquor sent up. Maybe even put on
some lip paint, try to look sexy. No, the hell with lip paint; it would
not last long anyway. Invite him up; take him to bed. Cheer yourself
up by doing your damnedest to cheer him up. Give it everything
you've got!

I fitted a smile onto my face and answered the terminal.

And found myself speaking to the hotel's robot voice: "We are
holding a box of flowers for you. May we send them up?"

"Certainly." (No matter who or what, a box of flowers is
than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.)

Shortly the dumbwaiter buzzed; I went to it and took out a floral
package as big as a baby's coffin, put it on the floor to open it.

Long-stemmed, dusky red roses! I decided to give Trevor a better
time than Cleopatra ever managed on her best days.

After admiring them I opened the envelope that came with them,
expecting just a card with perhaps a line asking me to call the
lounge, or such.


No, a note, almost a letter:


Dear Marjorie,

I hope that these roses will be at least as welcome as I would
have been.


["--would have been"? What the devil?]


I must confess that I have run away. Something came up that
made me realize that I must desist from my attempts to force my
company on you.

I am not married. I don't know who that pretty lady is; the picture
is just a prop. As you pointed out, my sort is not considered suitable
for marriage. I'm an artificial person, dear lady. "My mother was
a test tube; my father was a knife." So I should not be making passes
at human women. I pass for human, yes, but I would rather tell you
the truth than to continue to try to pass with you then have you
learn the truth later. As you would, eventually, as I am the dirt-proud
sort who would sooner or later tell you.

So I would rather tell you now than hurt you later.

My family name is not Andrews, of course, as my sort do not
have families.

But I can't help wishing that you were an AP yourself. You really
are sweet (as well as extremely sexy) and your tendency to babble
about matters, such as APs, that you don't understand, is probably
not your fault. You remind me of a little fox terrier bitch I once had.
She was cute and very affectionate, but quite willing to fight the
whole world by herself if that was the program for the day. I confess to
liking dogs and cats better than most people; they never hold it against
me that I'm not human.

Do enjoy the roses,
Trevor


I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and went down fast and
rushed through the lounge and then through the bar and then down
one floor to the shuttle terminal and stood by the turnstiles leading
to the departing shuttles... and stood there, and waited, and waited,
and waited some more, and a policeman began eyeing me and
finally he came over and asked me what I wanted and did I need
help?


I told him the truth, or some of it, and he let me be. I waited and
waited and he watched me the whole time. Finally he came over
again and said, "Look here, if you insist on treating this as your
beat, I'm going to have to ask to see your license and your medical
certificate, and take you in if either one is not in order. I don't want
to do that; I've got a daughter at home about your age and I'd like to
think that a cop would give her a break. Anyhow you ought not to
be in the business; anybody can see from your face that you're not
tough enough for it."

I thought of showing him that gold credit card--I doubt that
there is a streetwalker anywhere who carries a gold credit card. But
the old dear really did think that he was taking care of me and I had
humiliated enough people for one day. I thanked him and went up
to my room.

Human people are so cocksure that they can always spot an AP
blab! We can't even spot each other. Trevor was the only man I had
ever met whom I could have married with an utterly clear con-

science--and I had chased him away.

But he was too sensitive!

Who is too sensitive? You are, Friday.

But, damn it, most humans do discriminate against our sort. Kick
a dog often enough and he becomes awfully jumpy. Look at my
sweet Ennzedd family, the rinks. Anita probably felt self-righteous
about cheating me--I'm not human.

Score for the day: Humans 9--Friday 0.

Where is Janet?


XXl


After a short nap that I spent standing on an auction block, waiting
to be sold, I woke up--woke up because prospective buyers were
insisting on inspecting my teeth and I finally bit one and the auctioneer
started giving me a taste of the whip and woke me. The Bellingham
Hilton looked awfully good.

Then I made the call I should have made first. But the other calls
had to be made anyhow and this call cost too much and would have
been unnecessary if my last call had paid off. Besides, I don't like to
phone the Moon; the time lag upsets me.

So I called Ceres and South Africa Acceptances, Boss's banker--or
one of them. The one who took care of my credit and paid my
bills.

After the usual hassle with synthetic voices that seemed more deliberately
frustrating than ever through the speed-of-light lag, I
nally reached a human being, a beautiful female. creature who
clearly (it seemed to me) had been hired to be a decorative recep-tionist--one-sixth
gee is far more effective than abra. I asked her to
let me speak to one of the bank's officers.

"You are speaking to one of the vice-presidents," she answered.
"You' managed to convince our computer that you needed help
from a responsible officer. That's quite a trick; that computer is
stubborn. How may I help you?"

I told a portion of my unlikely story. "So it took a couple of weeks


to get inside the Imperium and when I did, all my contact codes
were sour. Does the bank have another call code or address for me?"
"We'll see. What is the name of the company for which you
work?"
"It has several names. One is System Enterprises."
"What is your employer's name?"
"He doesn't have a name. He is elderly, heavyset, one-eyed, rath-dr
crippled, and walks slowly with two canes. Does that win a
prize?"
"We'll see. You told me that we backed your MasterCard credit
issued through the Imperial Bank of Saint Louis. Read the card's
number, slowly."
I did so. "Want to photograph it?" "No. Give me a date."
"Ten sixty-six."
"Fourteen ninety-two," she answered.
"Four thousand four B.C. ," I agreed.
"Seventeen seventy-six," she riposted.
"Two thousand twelve," I answered.
"You have a grisly sense of humor, Miss Baldwin. All right,
you're tentatively you. But if you're not, I'll make a small bet with
you that you won't live past the next checkpoint. Mr. Two-Canes is
reputed to be unamused by gatecrashers. Take down this call code.
Then read it back to me."
I did so.
One hour later I was walking past the Palace of the Confederacy
in San Jose, again headed for the California Commercial Credit
Building and firmly resolved not to get into any fights in front of the
Palace no matter what assassinations were being attempted. I
thought about the fact that I was on the exact spot I had been on,
uh, two weeks ago?--and if this relay point sent me to Vicksburg I
would go quietly mad.
My appointment at the CCC Building was not with
but with a law firm on another floor, one I had called from Bellingham
after obtaining the firm's terminal code from the Moon. I had just reached the corner of the building when a voice almost in my
ear said, "Miss Friday."

I looked quickly around. A woman in a Yellow Cab uniform.
I looked again. "Coldie!"
"You ordered a cab, miss? Across the Plaza and down the street.
They won't let us squat here."
We crossed the Plaza together. I started to babble, bursting with
euphoria. Coldie shushed me. "Do please try to act like a cab fare,
Miss Friday. The Master wants us to be inconspicuous."
"Since when do you call me miss?"
"Better so. Discipline is very tight now. My picking you up is a
special permission, one that would never have been granted if I had
not been able to point out that I could make positive identification
without buzz words."
"Well. All right. Just don't call me miss when you don't have to.
Golly gosh, Coldie darling, I'm so happy to see you I could cry."
"Me, too. Especially since you were reported dead just this Monday.
And ! did cry. And several others."
"Dead? Me? I haven't even been close to being dead, not at all,
not anywhere. I haven't been in the slightest danger. Just lost. And
now I'm found."
"I'm glad."

Ten minutes later I was ushered into Boss's office. "Friday reporting,
sir," I said.
"You're late."
"I came the scenic route, sir. Up the Mississippi by excursion
boat."
"So I heard. You seem to be the only survivor. I meant that you
are late today. You crossed the border into California at twelve-oh-five.
It is now seventeen-twenty-two."
"Damn it, Boss; I've had problems."
"Couriers are supposed to be able to outwit problems and move
fast anyhow."
"Damn it, Boss, I wasn't on duty, I wasn't being a courier, I was
still on leave; you've no business chewing me out. If you hadn't
moved without notifying me, I wouldn't have had the slightest trouble.
I was here, two weeks ago, in San Jose, just a loud shout from
right here."



1218
	2191


"Thirteen days ago."

"Boss, you're nitpicking to avoid admitting that it was your fault,
not mine."

"Very well, I will accept the blame if any in order that we may
cease quibbling and stop wasting time. I made extreme effort to notify
you, much more than the routine alert MSG that was sent to
other field operatives not at headquarters. I regret that this special
effort failed. Friday, what must I do to convince you that you are
unique and invaluable to this organization? In anticipation of the
events tagged Red Thursday--"

"Boss! Were we in that?" I was shocked.

"What causes you to entertain such an obscene idea? No. Our
intelligence staff projected it--in part from data you delivered from
Ell-Five--and we started making precautionary arrangements in
good time, so it seemed. But the first attacks took place in advance
of our most pessimistic projection. At the onset of Red Thursday we
were still moving impedimenta; it was necessary to crash our way
across the border. With bribes, not with force. The notices of
change of address and of call code had gone out earlier but it was
not until we were here and our comm center reestablished that I was
notified that you had not made routine acknowledgment."

"For the bloody good reason that I did not receive routine notice!"

"Please. On learning that you had not acknowledged, I attempted
to call you at your New Zealand home. Possibly you are aware that

there was an interruption in satellite service--"

"I heard."

"Precisely. The call got through some thirty-two hours later. I
spoke to Mrs. Davidson, a woman about forty, rather sharp features.
Senior wife in your S-group?"

"Yes. Anita. Both Lord High Executioner and Lord High
thing Else."

"That was the impression I received. I received also an impression
that you had become tersona non grata."

"I'm sure that it was more than an impression. Go ahead, Boss;
what did the old bat have to say about me?"

"Almost nothing. You had left the family quite suddenly. No,


you had left no forwarding address or call code. No, she would not
accept a message for you or forward any that arrived. I'm very busy;
Marjorie has left us in a dreadful mess. Good-bye."

"Boss, she had your Imperium address. She also had the address
in Luna City of Ceres and South Africa because I made my monthly
payments to her through them."

"I could see the situation. My New Zealand representative"--the
first I had ever heard of one!--"obtained for me the business address
of your S-group's senior husband, Brian Davidson. He was more
polite and somewhat more helpful. From him we learned what
shuttle you had taken from Christchurch and that led us to the passenger
list of the semiballistic you took from Auckland to Winnipeg.
There we lost you briefly, until my agent there established that you
had left the port in the company of the skipper of the semiballistic.
When we reached him--Captain Tormey--he was helpful, but you
had left. I am pleased to be able to tell you that we were able to
return the favor to Captain Tormey. An inside source enabled us to
let him know that he and his wife were about to be picked up by the
local police."

"Fer Gossake! What for?"

"The nominal charge is harboring an enemy alien and harboring
an unregistered Imperium subject during a declared emergency. In
fact the Winnipeg office of the provincial police are not interested
in you or in Dr. Perreault; that is an excuse to pull in the Tormeys.
They are wanted on a much more serious charge that has not been
filed. A Lieutenant Melvin Dickey is missing. The last trace of him
is an oral statement made by him as he left police HQ that he was
going to Captain Tormey's home to pick up Dr. Perreault. Foul
play is suspected."

"But that's not evidence against Jan and Ian! The Tormeys."
"No, it is not. That is why the provincial police intend to hold
them on a lesser charge. There is more. Lieutenant Dickey's APV
crashed near Fargo in the Imperium. It was unoccupied. The police
are very anxious to check that wreck for fingerprints. Possibly they
are doing so at this very moment as, about one hour ago, a news
bulletin reported that the common border between the Chicago Im-perium
and British Canada had been reopened."


I 220
	221 I


"Oh, my God!"

"Compose yourself. On the controls of that APV there were indeed
fingerprints that were not Lieutenant Dickey's. They matched
Captain Tormey's prints on file with ANZAC Skyways. Note the
tense I used; there were such prints; there no longer are. Friday, although
I found it prudent to move our seat of operations out of the
Imperium, after many years I am not without contacts there. And
agents. And past favors I can collect. No prints matching those of
Captain Tormey are now in that wreckage but there are prints on it

from many sources living and dead."

"Boss, may I kiss your feet?"

"Hold your tongue. I did not do this to frustrate the British Canadian
police. My field agent in Winnipeg is a clinical psychologist as
well as having our usual training. It is his professional opinion that
either Captain Tormey or his wife could kill in self-defense but that
it would take extreme conditions indeed to cause either of them to
kill a policeman. Dr. Perreault is described as being even less dis-

posed toward violent solutions."

"I killed him."

"So I assumed. No other explanation fitted the data. Do you wish
to discuss it? Is it any of my business?"

"Uh, perhaps not. Except that you made it your business when
you got rid of those damning fingerprints. I killed him because he
was threatening Janet, Janet Tormey, with a gun. I could have simply
disabled him; I had time to pull my punch. But I meant to kill
him and I did."

"I would be--and will be--much disappointed in you if you ever
simply injure a policeman. A wounded policeman is more dangerous
than a wounded lion. I had reconstructed it much as you described
save that I had assumed that you were protecting
Perreault... since you seemed to find him an acceptable
husband."

"He's that, all right. But it was that crazy fool threatening

life that made me go spung! Boss, until this happened I didn't know
that I loved Janet. Didn't know I could love a woman that intensely.
You know more than I do about how I was designed, or so you have
hinted. Are my glands mixed up?"

"I know quite a lot about your design but I shan't discuss it with


you; you have no need to know. Your glands are no more mixed up
than those of any healthy human--specifically, you do not have a
redundant Y chromosome. All normal human beings have soi-dis-ant
mixed-up glands. The race is divided into two parts: those who
know this and those who do not. Stop the stupid talk; it ill befits a
genius."

"Oh, so I'm a genius now. Hully gee, Boss."

"Don't be pert. You are a supergenius but you are a 'long way
from realizing your potential. Geniuses and supergeniuses always
make their own rules on sex as on everything else; they do not accept
the monkey customs of their lessers. Let us return to our mut-

tons. Is it possible that this body will be found?"
"I would bet long odds against it."
"Any point in discussing it with me?"
"Uh, I don't think so."

"Then I have no need to know and will assume that the Tormeys
can safely return home as soon as the police conclude that they cannot
establish corpus delicti. While corpus delicti does not require a
corpse, it is enormously more difficult to make a charge of murder
stand up without one. If arrested, a good lawyer would have the
Tormeys out in five minutes--and they would have a very good lawyer,
I assure you. You may be pleased to know that you helped them

to escape from the country."

"I did?"

"You and Dr. Perreault. By leaving British Canada as Captain
and Mrs. Tormey, and by using their credit cards and by filling out
tourist-card applications in their names. You two left a trail that
'proved' that the Tormeys fled the country immediately after Lieutenant
Dickey disappeared. This worked so well that the police wasted
several days trying to trace down the suspects in the California
Confederacy--and blaming inefficiency of their colleagues in the
Confederacy for their lack of success. But I'm somewhat surprised
that the Tormeys were not arrested in their own home as my agent
had no great difficulty interviewing them there."

(I'm not. If a cop shows up--zip! down the Hole. If it's not a cop
and he satisfies Ian that he is okay--) "Boss, did your Winnipeg
agent mention my name? My 'Marjorie Baldwin' name, I mean."

"Yes. Without that name and a picture of you, Mrs. Tormey


1222
	2231


would never have let him in. Without the Tormeys I would have
lacked necessary data for picking up your rather elusive trail. We
benefitted each other. They helped you to escape; we helped them
to escape, after I told them--after my agent told them--that they

were being actively sought. A pleasant ending."
"How did you get them out?"
"Friday, do you wish to know?"

"Urn, no." (When will I learn? Had Boss wished to disclose the
method, he would have told me. "Careless slips sink ships." Not
around Boss.)

Boss came out from behind his desk... and shocked me. Ordinarily
he does not move around much and in his old office his ubiquitous
tea service was within his reach at his desk. Now he rolled
out. No canes. A powered wheelchair. He guided it to a side table,

started fiddling with tea things.

I stood up. "May I pour?"

"Thank you, Friday. Yes." He left the service table, rolled back
to his place behind his desk. I took over, which let me stand with
my back to him--that was what I needed right then.

There is no reason to feel shock when a cripple decides to substitute
a powered wheelchair for canes--it is simply efficiency. Except
that this was Boss. If the Egyptians at Giza woke up some morning
and found the Pyramids switched around and the Sphinx with a
new nose, they would not be more shocked than was I. Some
things--and some people--are not supposed to change.

After I had served his tea--warm milk, two lumps--and had
poured mine, I sat back down, my composure restored. Boss uses
the very latest technology and quite old-fashioned customs; I have
never known him to ask a woman to wait on him but if a woman is
present and offers to pour tea, it is a certainty that he will accept
graciously and turn the incident into a minor ceremony.

He chatted of other matters until we each had finished one cup. I
refilled his cup, did not myself take another; he resumed business.
"Friday, you changed names and credit cards so many times that we
were always one jump behind you. We might not have traced you
to Vicksburg had not your progress suggested something about your
plan. Although it is not my practice to interfere with an agent no
matter how closely he is being watched, I might have decided to
head you off from going up the river--knowing that that expedition
was doomed-"

"Boss, what was that expedition? I never believed the song and
dance."

"A coup d'6tat. A clumsy one. The Imperium has had three
Chairmen in two weeks... and the current one is no better and no
more likely to survive. Friday, a well-run tyranny is a better base for
my work than is any form of free government. But a well-run tyranny
is almost as scarce as an efficient democracy. To resume--you
got away from us in Vicksburg because you moved without hesitation.
You were aboard that comic-opera troopship and gone before
our Vicksburg agent knew that you had signed up. I was vexed with
him. So much so that I have not yet disciplined him. I musW'wait."

"No reason to discipline him, Boss. I moved fast. Unless he
breathed down my neck-which I notice and always take steps--he
could not have kept up with me."

"Yes, yes, I know your techniques. But I think that you will agree
that I was understandably annoyed when it was reported to me that
our man in Vicksburg actually had you physically in sight... and
twenty-four hours later he reports you dead."

"Maybe, maybe not. A man got too close on my heels coming
into Nairobi earlier this year--breathed down my neck and it was
his last breath. If you have me shadowed again, better warn your
agents."

"I do not ordinarily use a shadow on you, Friday. With you,
point checks work better. Fortunately for all of us you did not stay
dead. While the terminals of my contact agents in Saint Louis have
all been tapped by the government, I still get some use from them.
When you attempted to report in, three times and never got caught,
I heard of it at once and deduced that it had to be you, then knew it

with certainty when you reached Fargo."

"Who in Fargo? The paper artist?"

Boss pretended not to hear. "Friday, I must get back to work.
Complete your report. Make it brief."

"Yes, sir. I left that excursion boat when we entered the Impeft-um,
proceeded to Saint Louis, found your contact call codes


[224
	225 [


trapped, left, visited Fargo as you noted, crossed into British Canada
twenty-six klicks east of Pembina, crossed to Vancouver and down

to Bellingham today, then reported to you here."
"Any trouble?"
"No, sir."

"Any novel aspects of professional interest?"

"No, sir."

"At your convenience tape a detailed report for staff analysis. Feel
free to suppress facts not yours to disclose. I will send for you some
time in the next two or three weeks. You start school tomorrow

morning. Oh-nine hundred."

"Huh?"

"Don't grunt; it is not pleasing in a young woman. Friday, your
work has been satisfactory but it is time you entered on your true
profession. Your true profession at this stage, perhaps I should
say. You are woefully ignorant. We will change that. Nine o'clock
tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." (Ignorant, huh? Arrogant old bastard. Gosh, I was glad
to see him. But that wheelchair fretted me.)


226


XXll


Pajaro Sands used to be a resort seaside hotel. It's a nowhere place
on Monterey Bay outside a nowhere city, Watsonville. Watsonville
is one of the great oil export ports of the world and has all the charm
of cold pancakes with no syrup. The nearest excitement is in the
casinos and bawdy houses of Carmel, fifty kilometers away. But I
don't gamble and am not interested in sex for hire, even the exotic
sorts to be had in California. Not many from Boss's headquarters
patronized Carmel as it was too far away to go by horse other than
for a weekend, there was no direct capsule, and, while California is
liberal in authorizing power vehicles, Boss did not release his APVs
for anything but business.

The big excitements for us at Pajaro Sands were the natural attractions
that caused it to be built, surf and sand and sunshine.

I enjoyed surfboarding until I became skilled at it. Then it bored
me. I usually sunned a bit each day and swam a little and stared out
at the big tankers suckling at the oil moles and noted with amusement
that the watchstander aboard each ship often was staring back,
with binoculars.

There was no reason for any of us to be bored as we had full individual
terminal service. People are so used to the computer net today
that it is easy to forget what a window to the world it can be--and
I include myself. One can grow so canalized in using a terminal
only in certain ways--paying bills, making telephonic calls, listen-


227 [


ing to news bulletins--that one can neglect its richer uses. If a subscriber
is willing to pay for the service, almost anything can be done
at a terminal that can be done out of bed.

Live music? I could punch in a concert going on live in Berkeley
this evening, but a concert given ten years ago in London, its conductor
long dead, is just as "live," just as immediate, as any listed
on today's program. Electrons don't care. Once data of any sort go
into the net, time is frozen. All that is necessary is to remember that
all the endless riches of the past are available any time you punch
for them.

Boss sent me to school at a computer terminal and I had far richer
opportunities than any enjoyed by a student at Oxford or the Sorbonne
or Heidelberg in any earlier year.

At first it did not seem to me that I was going to school. At breakfast
the first day I was told to report to the head librarian. He was a
fatherly old dear, Professor Perry, whom I had met first during basic
training. He seemed harried--understandably, as Boss's library was
probably the bulkiest and most complex thing shipped from the
Imperium to Pajaro Sands. Professor Perry undoubtedly had weeks
of work ahead before everything would be straightened out--and
in the meantime all Boss would expect would be utter perfection.
The work was not made easier by Boss's eccentric insistence on
paper books for much of his library rather than cassettes or microfiche
or disks.

When I reported to him, Perry looked bothered, then pointed to a
console over in one corner. "Miss Friday, why don't you sit down
over there?"

"What am I to do?"

"Eh? That's hard to say. No doubt we'll be told. Um, I'm awfully
busy now and terribly understaffed. Why don't you just get acquainted
with the equipment by studying anything you wish?"

There wasn't anything special about the equipment except that
there were extra keys giving direct access to several major libraries
such as Harvard's and the Washington Library of the Atlantic
Union and the British Museum without going through a human or
network linkup--plus the unique resource of direct access to Boss's
library, the one right beside me. I could even read his bound paper


1228


books if I wanted to, on my terminal's screen, turning the pages
from the keyboard and never taking the volume out of its nitrogen
environment.

That morning I was speed-searching the index of the Tulane
University library (one of the best in the Lone Star Republic), looking
for history of Old Vicksburg, when I stumbled onto a cross-ref-erence
to spectral types of stars and found myself hooked. I don't
recall why there was such a cross-referral but these do occur for the
most unlikely reasons.

I was still reading about the evolution of stars when Professor Perry
suggested that we go to lunch.

We did but I made some notes first about types of mathematics I
wanted to study. Astrophysics is fascinating--but you have to talk
the language.

That afternoon I got back to Old Vicksburg and was footnoted to
Show Boat, a musical play concerning that era--and then spent the
rest of the day looking at and listening to Broadway musical plays
from the happy days before the North American Federation fell to
pieces. Why can't they write music like that today? Those people
must have had fun! I certainly did---I played Show Boat, The Student
Prince, and My Fair Lady one after the other and noted a dozen
more to play later. (This is going to school?)

Next day I resolved to stick to serious study of professional subjects
in which I was weak, because I felt sure that once my tutors
(whoever they were) assigned my curriculum, I would have no time
at all for my own choices--earlier training in Boss's outfit had
taught me the need for a twenty-six-hour day. But at breakfast my
friend Anna asked me, "Friday, what can you tell me about the influence
of Louis Onze on French lyric poetry?"

I blinked at her. "Is there a prize? Louis Onze sounds like a
cheese to me. The only French verse I can recall is 'Mademoiselle
from Armentieres.' If that qualifies."

"Professor Perry said that you are the person to ask."

"He's pulling your leg." When I reached the library Papa Perry
looked up from his console. I said, "Good morning. Anna said that
you had told her to ask me about the effect of Louis the Eleventh on
French verse."


229 I


"Yes, yes, of course. Would you mind not bothering me now?
This bit of programming is very tricky." He looked back down and
closed me out of his world.

Frustrated and irritated I punched up Louis XI. Two hours later I
came up for air. I had not learned anything about poetry--so far as I
could tell the Spider King had never even rhymed ton con with c'est
bon or ever been a patron of the art. But I learned a lot about politics
in the fifteenth century. Violent. Made the little scrapes I had been
in seem like kiddie quarrels in the crche.

I spent the rest of the day punching up French lyric verse since
1450. Good in spots. French is suited to lyric poetry, more so than
is English--it takes an Edgar Allan Poe to wring beauty consistently
out of the dissonances of English. German is unsuited to lyricism,
so much so that translations fall sweeter on the ear than do the
German originals. This is no fault of Goethe or Heine; it is a
defect of an ugly language. Spanish is so musical that a soap-powder
commercial in Spanish is more pleasing to the ear than the
best free verse in Englishthe Spanish language is so beautiful that
much of its poetry sounds best if the listener does not understand
the meaning.

I never did find out what effect, if any, Louis XI had on verse.
One morning I found "my" console occupied. I looked inquiringly
at the head librarian. Again he looked harried. "Yes, yes,
we're quite crowded today. Um, Miss Friday, why not use the terminal
in your room? It has the same additional controls and, if you
need to consult me, you can do so even more quickly than you can
here. Just punch local seven and your signature code and I'll instruct
the computer to give you priority. Satisfactory?"

"Just fine," I agreed. I enjoyed the warm camaraderie of the library
study room but in my own room I could take off my
without feeling that I was annoying Papa Perry. "What should
study today?"

"Goodness. Isn't there some subject you are interested in
merits further listening? I dislike disturbing Number One."

I went to my room and went on with French history since Louis
Onze and that led me to the new colonies across the Atlantic and
that led me into economics and that took me to Adam Smith and
from there to political science. I concluded that Aristotle had had
his good days but that Plato was a pretentious fraud and that led to
my being called three times by the dining room with the last call
including a recorded message that any later arrival would mean
nothing but cold night-rations and a live message from Goldie
threatening to drag me down by my hair.

So I rushed down, barefooted and still zipping into a jump suit.
Anna asked what I had been doing that was so urgent I would forget
to eat. "Most unFridayish." She and Goldie and I usually ate together,
with or without male company--residents at HQ were a
club, a fraternity, a noisy family, and some two dozen of them were
"kissing friends" of mine.

"Improving my brain," I said. "You are looking at the World's
Greatest Authority."

"Authority on what?" Goldie asked.

"Anything. Just ask me. The easy ones I answer at once; the hardest
ones I'll answer tomorrow."

"Prove it," said Anna. "How many angels can sit on the point of a
needle?"

"That's an easy one. Measure the angels' arses. Measure the
point of the needle. Divide A into B. The numerical answer is left
as an exercise for the student."

"Smart-aleck. What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

"Even easier. Switch on a recorder, using any nearby terminal.
Clap with one hand. Play back the result."

"You try her, Goldie. She's been eating meat."

"What is the population of San Jose?"

"Ah, that's a hard one! I'll report tomorrow."


This fiddling went on for over a month before it filtered through my
skull that someone (Boss, of course) was in fact trying to force me to
become "the World's Greatest Authority."

At one time there really was a man known as "the World's Greatest
Authority." I ran across him in trying to nail down one of the
many silly questions that kept coming at me from odd sources. Like
this: Set your terminal to "research." Punch parameters in succession
"North American culture," "English-speaking," "mid-twenti-


eth century," "comedians," "the World's Greatest Authority." The
answer you can expect is "Professor Irwin Corey." You'll find his
routines timeless humor.

Meanwhile I was being force-fed, like a Strasbourg goose.
Nevertheless it was a very happy time. Often, as often as not, one
of my true friends would invite me to share a bed. I don't recall ever
refusing. Rendezvous would usually be arranged during afternoon
sunbathing and the prospect added a tingle to the sensuous pleasure
of lying in the sun. Because everyone at HQ was so civilized--sweet
through and through---it was possible to answer, "Sorry, Terence
asked me first. Tomorrow maybe? No? Okay, sometime soon"--and
have no hurt feelings. One of the shortcomings of the S-group I
used to belong to was that such arrangements were negotiated
among the males under some protocol that was never explained to
me but was not free from tension.

The silly questions speeded up. I found myself just getting acquainted
with the details of Ming ceramics when a message showed
up in my terminal saying that someone in staff wanted to know the
relationships between men's beards, women's skirts, and the price of
gold. I had ceased to wonder at silly questions; around Boss anything
can happen. But this one seemed supersilly. Why should
there be any relationship? Men's beards did not interest me; they
tickle and often are dirty. As for women's skirts, I knew even less. I
have almost never worn skirts. Skirted costumes can be pretty but
they aren't practical for travel and could have gotten me killed three
or four times--and when you're home, what's wrong with skin? Or
as near as local custom permits.

But I had learned not to ignore questions merely because they
were obvious nonsense; I tackled this one by calling up all the data I
could, including punching out some most unlikely association
chains. I then told the machine to tabulate all retrieved data by categories.

Durned if I didn't begin to find connections!

As more data accumulated I found that the only way I could see
all of it was to tell the computer to plot and display a three-dimen-sional
graph--and that looked so promising that I told it to convert
to holographic in color. Beautiful! I did not know why these three
variables fitted together but they did. I spent the rest of that day


[232


changing scales, X versus Y versus Z in various combinations--magnifying,
shrinking, rotating, looking for minor cycloid relations
under the obvious gross ones... and noticed a shallow double sinusoidal
hump that kept showing up as I rotated the holo--and suddenly,
for no reason I can assign, I decided to subtract the double
sunspot curve.

Eureka! As precise and necessary as a Ming vase! Before dinner-time
I had the equation, just one line that encompassed all the silly
data I had spent five days dragging out of the terminal. I punched
the chief of staffs call and recorded that one-line equation, plus
definitions of variables. I added no comment, no discussion; I want-

ed to force the faceless joker to ask for my opinions.

I got the same answer back---i. e., none.

I fiddled for most of a day, waiting, and proving to myself that I
could retrieve a group picture from any year and, through looking
only at male faces and female legs, make close guesses concerning
the price of gold (falling or rising), the time of that picture relative to
the double sunspot cycle, and---shortly and most surprising--whether
the political structure was falling apart or consolidating.

My terminal chimed. No face. No pat on the back. Just a displayed
message: "Operations requests soonest depth analysis of possibility
that plague epidemics of sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth
centuries resulted from political conspiracy."

Fooey! I had wandered into a funny farm and was locked up with
the inmates.

Oh, well! The question was so complex that I might be left alone
a long time while I studied it. That suited me; I had grown addicted
to the possibilities of a terminal of a major computer hooked into a
world research net--I felt like Little Jack Horner.

I started by listing as many subjects as possible by free association:
plague, epidemiology, fleas, rats, Daniel Defoe, Isaac Newton,
conspiracies, Guy Fawkes, Freemasonry, Illuminati, OTO, Rosi-crucians,
Kennedy, Oswald, John Wilkes Booth, Pearl Harbor,
Green Bowlers, Spanish influenza, pest control, etc.

In three days my list of possibly related subjects was ten times as
long.

In a week I knew that one lifetime was not nearly long enough to
study in depth all of my list. But I had been told to tackle the subject


233 [


so I started in--but I placed my own meaning on "soonest"--i. e., I
would study conscientiously at least fifty hours per week but when
and how I wished and with no cramming or rawhiding... unless
somebody came along and explained to me why I should work harder
or differenfiy.

This went on for weeks.

I was wakened in the middle of the night by my terminal--over-ride
alarm; I had shut it off as usual when I went to bed (alone, I
don't recall why). I answered sleepily, "All right, all right! Speak up,
and it had better be good."

No picture. Boss's voice said, "Friday, when will the next major
Black Death epidemic occur?"

I answered, "Three years from now. April. Starting in Bombay
and spreading worldwide at once. Spreading off planet at first transport."

"Thank you. Good night."

I dropped my head to the pillow and went right back to sleep.

I woke up at seven hundred as usual, held still for several moments
and thought, while I grew colder and colderdecided that I
really had heard from Boss in the night and really had given him
that preposterous answer.

So bite the bullet, Friday, and climb the Thirteen Steps. I
punched "local one." "Friday here, Boss. About what I told you in

the night. I plead temporary insanity."

"Nonsense. See me at ten-fifteen."

I was tempted to spend the next three hours in lotus, chanting my
beads. But I have a deep conviction that one should not attend even
the End of the World without a good breakfast... and my decision
was justified as the special that morning was fresh figs with cream,
corned-beef hash with poached eggs, and English muffins
Knott's Berry Farm orange marmalade. Fresh milk.
high-altitude coffee. That so improved things that I spent an
trying to find a mathematical relationship between the past
of plague and the date that had popped into my sleep-drenched
mind. I did not find one but was beginning to see some shape to the
curve when the terminal gave me a three-minute warning I had
punched in.


I had refrained from having my hair cut and my neck shaved but
otherwise I was ready. I walked in on the tick. "Friday reporting,
sir."

"Sit down. Why Bombay? I would think that Calcutta would be a
more likely center."

"It might have something to do with long-range weather forecasts
and the monsoons. Fleas can't stand hot, dry weather. Eighty percent
of a flea's body mass is water and, if the percentage drops below
sixty, the flea dies. So hot, dry weather will stop or prevent an epidemic.
But, Boss, the whole thing is nonsense. You woke me up in
the middle of the night and asked me a silly question and I gave you
a silly answer without really waking up. I probably pulled it out of a
dream. I've been having nightmares about the Black Death and
there really was a bad epidemic that started in Bombay. Eighteen
ninety-six and following:"

"Not as bad as the Hong Kong phase of it three years later. Friday,
the analytical section of Operations says that the next Black
Death epidemic won't start until a year later than your prediction.
And not Bombay. Djakarta and Ho Chi Minh City."

"That's preposterous!" I stopped abruptly. "Sorry, sir, I guess I
was back in that nightmare. Boss, can't I study something pleasanter

than fleas and rats and Black Death? It's ruining my sleep."
"You may. You are through studying plague--"
"Hooray!"

"--other than to whatever extent your intellectual curiosity
causes you to tidy up any loose ends. The matter now goes to Operations
for action. But action will be based on your prediction, not
on that of the mathematical analysts."

"I have to say it again. My prediction is nonsense."

"Friday, your greatest weakness is lack of awareness of your true
strength. Wouldn't we look silly if we depended on the professional
analysts but the outbreak was one year earlier, as you predicted? Catastrophe.
But to be a year early in taking prophylactic measures
does no harm."

"Are we going to try to stop it?" (People have been fighting rats
and fleas throughout history. So far, the rats and fleas are ahead.)

"Heavens, no! In the second place, the contract would be too big


1234
	235 I


for this organization. But in the first place I do not accept contracts
that I cannot fulfill; this is one such. In the third place, from the
strictest humanitarian viewpoint, any attempt to stop the processes
by which overcrowded cities purge themselves is not a kindness.
Plague is a nasty death but a quick one. Starvation also is a asty
death... but a very slow one."

Boss grimaced, then continued. "This organization Will limit itself
to the problem of keeping Pasteurella pestis from leaving this
planet. How will we do this? Answer at once."

(Ridiculous! Any government public health department, faced
with such a question, would set up a blue-ribbon study group, insist
on ample research funds, and schedule a reasonable time--five
years or more--for orderly scientific investigation.) I answered at
once, "Explode them."

"The space colonies? That seems a drastic solution."

"No, the fleas. Back during the global wars of the twentieth century
somebody discovered that you could kill off fleas and lice by
taking them up to high altitude. They explode. About five kilometers
as I recall but it can be looked up and checked by experiment. I
thought of it because I noticed that Beanstalk Station on Mount
Kenya was above the critical altitude--and almost all space traffic
these days goes up the Beanstalk. Then there is the simple method
of heat and dryness--works but not as fast. But the key to it, Boss,
is absolutely no exceptions. Just one case of diplomatic immunity
or one VIP allowed to skip the routines and you've had it. One lap-dog.
One gerbil. One shipment of laboratory mice. If it took the
pneumonic form, Ell-Five would be a ghost town in a week. Or
Luna City."

"If I did not have other work for you, I would put you in charge.
How about rats?"

"I don't want the job; I'm sick of the subject. Boss, killing a rat is
no problem. Stuff it into a sack. Beat the sack with an ax. Then
shoot it. Then drown it. Burn the sack with the dead rat in it.
Meanwhile its mate has raised another litter of pups and you now
have a dozen rats to replace it. Boss, all we've ever been able to do
with rats is fight them to a draw. We never win. If we let up for a
moment the rats pull ahead." I added sourly, "I think they're the
second team." This plague assignment had depressed me.


[236


"Elucidate."

"If Homo sapiens doesn't make it--he keeps trying to kill himself
off--there are the rats, ready to take over."

"Piffle. Soft-headed nonsense. Friday, you overstress the human
will to die. We have had the means to commit racial suicide for
generations now and those means are and have been in many
hands. We have not done so. In the second place, to replace us, rats
would have to grow enormously larger skulls, develop bodies to support
them, learn to walk on two feet, develop their front paws into
delicate manipulative organs--and grow more cortex to control all
this. To replace man another breed must become man. Bah. Forget
it. Before we leave the subject of plague, what conclusions did you
reach concerning the conspiracy theory?"

"The notion is silly. You specified sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth
centuries . . . and that means sailing ships or caravans and
no knowledge of bacteriology. So here we have the sinister Dr. Fu
Manchu in his hideaway raising a million rats and the rats are infested
with fieas-easy. Rats and fleas' are infected with the bacil-lus-possible
even without theory. But how does he hit his target
city? By ship? In a few days all the million rats will be dead and so
would be the crew. Even harder to do it overland. To make such a
conspiracy work in those centuries would require modern science
and a largish time machine. Boss, who thought up that silly

question?"

"I did."

"I thought it had your skid to it. Why?"

"It caused you to study the subject with a much wider approach
than you otherwise would have given it, did it not?"

"Uh..." I had spent much more time studying relevant political

history than I had spent studying the disease itself. "I suppose so."
"You know so."

"Well, yes. Boss, there ain't no such animal as a well-document-ed
conspiracy. Or sometimes too well documented but the documents
contradict each other. If a conspiracy happened quite some
time ago, a generation or longer, it becomes impossible to establish
the truth. Have you ever heard of a man named John F. Kennedy?"

"Yes. Chief of state in the middle twentieth century of the Federation
then occupying the land between Canada--British Canada


237 I


and Quebec -- and the Kingdom of Mexico. He was assassinated."
"That's the man. Killed in front of hundreds of witnesses and every
aspect, before, during, and after, heavily documented. All that
mountain of evidence adds up to is this: Nobody knows who shot
him, how many shot him, how many times he was shot, who did it,
why it was done, and who was involved in the conspiracy if there
was a conspiracy. It isn't even possible to say whether the murder plot was foreign or domestic. Boss, if it is impossible to untangle one
that recent and that thoroughly investigated, what chance is there of
figuring out the details of the conspiracy that did in Caius Iulius
Caesar? Or Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot? All that can
truthfully be said is that the people who come out on top write the
official versions found in the history books, history that is no more
honest than is autobiography."
"Friday, autobiography is usually honest."
"Huh! Boss, what have you been smoking?"
"That will do. Autobiography is usually honest but it is never
truthful."
"I missed a turn."
"Think about it. Friday, I can't spend more time on you today;
you chatter too much and change the subject. Hold your tongue
while I say some things. You are now permanently on staff work.
You are getting older; no doubt your reflexes are a touch slower. I
will not again risk you in field work---"
"I'm not complaining?
"Pipe down. --But you must not get swivel-chair spread. Spend
less time at the console, more time in exercise; the day will come
when your enhanced reflexes will again save your life. And possibly
the lives of others. In the meantime give thought to the day when
you will have to shape your life unassisted. You should leave
planet; for you there is nothing here. The Balkanization of North
America ended the last chance of reversing the decay of the Renaissance
Civilization. So you should think about off-planet
ties not only in the solar system but elsewhere--planets ranging
from extremely primitive to well developed. Investigate for each the
cost and the advantages of migrating there. You will need money;
do you want my agents to collect the money of which you were
cheated in New Zealand?"

"How did you know I was cheated?"
"Come, come! Ve are not children." "Uh, may I think about it?"
"Yes. Concerning your ex-migration: I recommend that you not
move to the planet Olympia. Otherwise I have no specific advice
other than to migrate. When I was younger, I thought I could
change this world. Now I no longer think so but for emotional reasons
I must keep on fighting a holding action. But you are young
and, because of your unique heritage, your emotional ties to this
planet and to this portion of humanity are not great. I could not
mention this until you shuffled off your sentimental connection in
New Zealand--"
"I didn't 'shuffle' it off; I was kicked out on my arse!"
"So. While you are deciding, look up Benjamin Franklin's parable
of the whistle, then tell me--no, ask yourself--whether or not
you paid too much for your whistle. Enough of that-- Two assignments
for you: Study the Shipstone corporate complex, including its
interlocks outside the complex. Second, the next time I see you I
want you to tell me precisely how to spot a sick culture. That's all."
Boss turned his attention to his console, so I stood up. But I was
not ready to accept so abrupt a dismissal as I had had no opportunity
to ask important questions. "Boss. Don't I have any duties? Just random
study that goes nowhere?"
"It goes somewhere. Yes, you have duties. First, to study. Second,
to be awakened in the middle of the night--or stopped in the
hallway-- to answer silly questions}"
"Just that?"
"What do you want? Angels and trumpets?"
"Well . . . a job title, maybe. I used to be a courier. What am I
now? Court jester?"
"Friday, you are developing a bureaucratic mind. 'Job title' indeed!
Very well. You are staff intuitive analyst, reporting to me
only. But the title carries an injunction: You are forbidden to discuss
anything more serious than a card game with any member of
the analytical section of the general staff. Sleep with them if you
wish--I know that you do, in two cases--but limit your conversation
to the vetJest trivia."
"Boss, I could wish that you spent less time under my bed?

238
	239 [


"Only enough to protect the organization. Friday, you are well
aware that the absence of Eyes and Ears today simply means that
they are concealed. Be assured that I am shameless about protecting
the organization."

"You are shameless, unlimited. Boss, answer me one more question.
Who is behind Red Thursday? The third wave sort of fizzled;
will there be a fourth? What's it all about?"

"Study it yourself. If I told you, you would not know; you simply
would have been told. Study it thoroughly and some night--when
you are sleeping alone--I will ask you. You will answer and then
you will know."

"Fer Gossake. Do you always know when I'm sleeping alone?"
"Always." He added, "Dismissed," and turned away.


240


XXlII


As I left the sanctum sanctorum I ran into Goldie coming in. I was
feeling grouchy and simply nodded. Not sore at Goldie. Boss!
Damn him. Supercilious, arrogant voyeur! I went to my room and
got to work, so that I could stop fuming.

First I punched for the names and addresses of all the Shipstone
corporations. While these were printing I called for histories of the
complex. The computer named two, an official company history
combined with a biography of Daniel Shipstone, and an unofficial
history footnoted "muckrake." Then the machine suggested several
other sources.

I told the terminal to print out both books and I asked it for printouts
of other sources if four thousand words or less, summarized if
not. Then I looked over the corporations list:


Daniel Shipstone Estate, Inc.
Muriel Shipstone Memorial

Research Laboratories
Shipstone Tempe
Shipstone Gobi
Shipstone Aden
Shipstone Sahara
Shipstone Atica
Shipstone Death Valley
Shipstone Karroo
Shipstone Never-Never
Shipstone Ell-Four
Shipstone Ell-Five
Shipstone Stationary
Shipstone Tycho
Shipstone Ares

Shipstone Deep Water
Shipstone Unlimited, Ltd.
Sears-Montgomery, Inc.
Prometheus Foundation


2411


Co:a-Cola Holding Company
Interworld Transport Corporation
Jack and the Beanstalk, Pty.
Morgan Associates
Out-Systems Colonial

Corporation


Billy Shipstone School for

Handicapped Children
Wolf Creek Pass Nature Preserve
Afio Nuevo Wild Life Refuge
Shipstone Visual Arts Museum

and School


I looked at this list with easily controlled enthusiasm. I had
known that the Shipstone trust had to be big--who does not have
half a dozen Shipstones within easy reach, not counting the big one
in your basement or foundation? But now it seemed to me that
studying this monster would be a lifetime career. I was not that
much interested in Shipstones.

I was nibbling around the edges when Goldie stopped by and told
me that it was time to put on the nosebag. "And I have instructions
to see to it that you do not spend more than eight hours a day at your

terminal and you are to take a full weekend every week."

"Ah so. Tyrannical old bastard."

We started for the refectory. "Friday..."

"Yes, Goldie?"

"You are finding the Master grumpy and sometimes difficult."
"Correction. He is always difficult."

"Mmm, yes. But what you may not know is that he is in constant
pain." She added, "He can no longer take drugs to control it."

We walked in silence while I chewed and swallowed that one.
"Goldie? What is wrong with him?"

"Nothing, really. I would say that he is in good health... for his
age."

"How old is he?"

"I don't know. From things I have heard I know that he is over a
hundred. How much over I can't guess."

"Oh, no! Goldie, when I went to work for him, he could not
have been more than seventy. Oh, he used canes but he was vet
spry. He moved as fast then as anyone."

"Well... it's not important. But you might remember that he

hurts. If he is rude to you, it is pain talking. He thinks highly of you."
"What makes you think so?"

"Ah... I've talked too much about my patient. Let's eat."


1242


In studying the Shipstone corporate complex I did not attempt to
study Shipstones. The way--the only way--to study Shipstones
would be to go back to school, get a Ph.D. in physics, add on some
intense postdoctoral study in both solid state and plasma, get a job
with one of the Shipstone companies and so impress them with your
loyalty and your brilliance that you are at long last part of the inner
circle controlling fabrication and quality.

Since that involves about twenty years that I should have started
back in my teens, I assumed that Boss did not intend me to take that
route.

So let me quote from the official or propaganda history:


Prometheus, a Brief Biography and Short Account of the Unparal-

leled Discoveries of Daniel Thomas Shipstone, KS., M.A., Ph.D.,
LL.D., L.H.D., and of the Benevolent System He Founded.


--thus young Daniel Shipstone saw at once that the problem was
not a shortage of energy but lay in the transporting of energy. Energy
is everywherein sunlight, in wind, in mountain streams, in temperature
gradients of all sorts wherever found, in coal, in fossil oil, in
radioactive ores, in green growing things. Especially in ocean depths
and in outer space energy is free for the taking in amounts lavish beyond
all human comprehension.

Those who spoke of "energy scarcity" and of "conserving energy"
simply did not understand the situation. The sky was "raining soup";
what was needed was a bucket in which to carry it.

With the encouragement of his devoted wife Muriel (ne Greentree),
who went back to work to keep food on the table, young Ship-stone
resigned from General Atomics and became the most
American of myth-heroes, the basement inventor. Seven frustrating
and weary years later he had fabricated the first Shipstone by hand.
He had found--


What he had found was a way to pack more kilowatt-hours into a
smaller space and a smaller mass than any other engineer had ever
dreamed of. To call it an "improved storage battery" (as some early
accounts did) is like calling an H-bomb an "improved firecracker."
What he had achieved was the utter destruction of the biggest industry
(aside from organized religion) of the western world.


243 I


For what happened next I must draw from the muckraking history
and from other independent sources as I just don't believe the
sweetness and light of the company version. Fictionalized speech
attributed to Muriel Shipstone:


"Danny Boy, you are not going to patent the gadget. What would it
get you? Seventeen years at the most... and no years at all in three-fourths
of the world. If you did patent or try to, Edison, and P. G.
and E., and Standard would tie you up with injunctions and law suits
and claimed infringements and I don't know what all. But you said
yourself that you could put one of your gadgets in a room with the
best research team G.A. has to offer and the best they could do would
be to melt it down and the worst would be that they would blow
themselves up. You said that. Did you mean it?"

"Certainly. If they don't know how I insert the--"

"Hush! I don't want to know. And walls have ears. We don't make
any fancy announcements; we simply start manufacturing. Wherever
power is cheapest today. Where is that?"


The muckraking author fairly frothed at the "cruel, heartless monopoly"
held by the Shipstone complex over the prime necessities of
"all the little people everywhere." I could not see it that way. What
Shipstone and his companies did was to make plentiful and cheap
what used to be scarce and dear--this is "cruel" and "heartless"?

The Shipstone companies do not have a monopoly over energy.
They don't own coal or oil or uranium or water power. They do
lease many, many hectares of desert land... but there is far more
desert not being cropped for sunshine than the Shipstone trust is using.
As for space, it is impossible to intercept even one percent of all
the sunshine going to waste inside the orbit of Luna, impossible by a
factor of many millions. Do the arithmetic yourself; otherwise
never believe the answer.

So what is their crime?

Twofold: '

a) The Shipstone companies are guilty of supplying energy to the
human race at prices below those of their competitors;

b) They meanly and undemocratically decline to share their
dustriM secret of the final assembly stage of a Shipstone.

This latter is, in the .eyes of many people, a capital offense. My


1244


terminal dug out many editorials on "the people's right to know,"
others on "the insolence of giant monopolies," and other displays of
righteous indignation.

The Shipstone complex is mammoth, all right, because they supply
cheap power to billions of people who want cheap power and
want more of it every year. But it is not a monopoly because they
don't own any power; they just package it and ship it around to
wherever people want it. Those billions of customers could bankrupt
the Shipstone complex almost overnight by going back to their
old ways--burn coal, burn wood, burn oil, "burn" uranium, distribute
power through continent-wide stretches of copper and aluminum
wires and/or long trains of coal cars and tank cars.

But no one, so far as my terminal could dig out, wants to go back
to the bad old days when the landscape was disfigured in endless
ways and the very air was loaded with stinks and carcinogens and
soot, and the ignorant Were scared silly by nuclear power, and all
power was scarce and expensive. No, nobody wants the bad old
ways--even the most radical of the complainers want cheap and
convenient power... they just want the Shipstone companies to go
away and get lost.

"The people's right to know"-the people's right to know what?
Daniel Shipstone, having first armed himself with great knowledge
of higher mathematics and physics, went down into his basement
and patiently suffered seven lean and weary years and thereby
learned an applied aspect of natural law that let him construct a
Shipstone.

Any and all of "the people" are free to do as he did--he did not
even take out a patent. Natural laws are freely available to everyone
equally, including flea-bitten Neanderthals crouching against the
cold.

In this case, the trouble with "the people's right to know" is that it
strongly resembles the "right" of someone to be a concert pianist--but
who does not want to practice.

But I am prejudiced, not being human and never having had any
rights.


Whether you prefer the saccharine company version or the vitriolic
muckraker's version, the basic facts about Daniel Shipstone and the


, 245 I


Shipstone complex are well known and beyond argument. What
surprised me (shocked me, in fact) was what I learned when I started
digging into ownership, management, and direction.
My first hint came from that basic printout when I saw what companies
were listed as Shipstone complex companies but did not have
"Shipstone" in their names. When one pauses for a Coke... the
deal is with Shipstone!
Ian had told me that Interworld had ordered the destruction of
Acapulco--does this mean that the trustees of Daniel Shipstone's
estate ordered the killing of a quarter of a million innocent people?
Can these be the same people who run the best hospital/school for
handicapped children in the world? And Sears-Montgomery--hell's
bells, I own some Sears-Montgomery stock myself. Do I share by
concatenation some part of the guilt for the murder of Acapulco?
I programmed the machine to display how the directorates interlocked
inside the Shipstone complex, and then what directorships
in other companies were held by directors of Shipstone compa-nies---and
the result were so startling that I asked the computer to
list stock ownership of one percent or more of the voting stock in all
Shipstone companies.
I spent the next three days fiddling with and rearranging and looking
for better ways to display the great mass of data that came back in
answer to those two questions.
At the end of that time I wrote out my conclusions:
a) The Shipstone complex is all one company. It just looks like
twenty-eight separate organizations.
b) The directors and/or stockholders of the Shipstone complex
own or control everything of major importance in all the major territorial
nations in the solar system.
c) Shipstone is potentially a planetwide (systemwide?)
ment. I could not tell from the data whether it acted as such or
as control (if indeed it were exerted) would be through corporations
not overtly part of the Shipstone empire.
d) It scared me.
Something I had noticed in connection with one Shipstone company
(Morgan Associates) caused me to run a search on credit companies
and banks. I was unsurprised but depressed to learn that the
very company now extending me credit (MasterCard of California)
was in effect the same company as the one guaranteeing payment
(Ceres and South Africa Acceptances) and that was duplicated right
down the line, whether it was Maple Leaf, Visa, Credit Quebec, or
what. That is not news; fiscal theorists have been asserting that as
long as I can remember. But it struck home when I saw it spelled
out in terms of directorates interlocking and ownership shared.
On impulse I suddenly asked the computer: "Who owns you?"
I got back: "Null Program."
I rephrased it, conforming most carefully to its language. The
computer represented by this terminal was a most forgiving machine
and very smart; ordinarily it did not mind somewhat informal
programming. But there are limits to what one may expect in machine
understanding of verbal language; a reflexive question such as
this might call for semantic exactness.
Again: "Null Program."
I decided to sneak up on the idea. I asked it the following question,
doing it step by step exactly in accordance with this computer's
language, computer grammar, computer protocol: "What is the
ownership of the information-processing network that has terminals
throughout British Canada?"
The answer was displayed and flashed several times before wip-ing-and
it wiped without my order: "Requested data are not in my
membanks."
That scared me. I knocked off for the day and went swimming
and sought out a friend to share a bed with me that night, not waiting
to be asked. I wasn't superhorny, I was superlonely and dern well
wanted a warm living body close to mine to "protect" me from an
intelligent machine that refused to tell me who (what) it really was.

During breakfast next morning Boss sent word to me to see him at
ten hundred. I reported, somewhat mystified because in my opinion
there had not been nearly enough time for me to complete my
two assignments: Shipstone, and the marks of a sick culture.
But when I came in, he handed me a letter, of the old-fashioned
sort, sealed into an envelope and physically forwarded, just like junk
mail.



1246
	247 I


I recognized it, for I had sent it--to Janet and Ian. But I was
surprised to see it in Boss's hands, as the return address on it
was phony. I looked and saw that it had been readdressed to a law
firm in San Jose, the one that had been my contact to find Boss.
"Pixies."

"You can hand it back to me and I will send it to Captain Tormey
 . . when I know where he is."

"Uh, when you know where the Tormeys are, I will write a very

different letter. This one is sort of blind."

"Commendably so."

"You've read it?" (Damn it, Boss!)

"I read everything that is to be forwarded to Captain and Mrs.
Tormey--and Dr. Perreault. By their request."

"I see." (Nobody tells me a damn thing!) "I wrote the way I did,
phony name and all, because the Winnipeg police might open it."

"They undoubtedly did. I think you covered adequately. I regret
that I did not inform you that all mail sent to their home would be
forwarded to me. If indeed the police are forwarding all of it. Friday,
I do not know where the Tormeys are... but I have a contact
method that I can use--once. The plan is to use it when the police
drop all charges against them. I expected that weeks ago. It has not
taken place. From this I conclude that the police in Winnipeg are
very much in earnest in their intention of hanging the disappearance
of Lieutenant Dickey on the Tormeys as a murder charge. Let
me ask you again: Can that body be found?"

I thought hard, trying to put "worst case" on it. If the police ever
moved in on that house, what would they find? "Boss, have the police
been inside that house?"

"Certainly. They searched it the day after the owners departed."
"In that case the police had not found the body the morning
the day I reported here. If they found it, or were to find it, since
date, would you know?"

"I think it probable. My lines of communication into that
headquarters are less than perfect but I pay highest for freshest
mation."

"Do you know what was done with the livestock? Four horses, a
cat and five kittens, a pig, maybe other animals?"

"Friday, where is your intuition leading you?"


"Boss, I don't know exactly how that body is hidden But Janet,
Mrs. Tormey, is an architect who specialized in two-tier active defense
of buildings. What she did about her animals would tell me
whether or not she thought there was the slightest possibility of that
body ever being found."

Boss made a notation. "We'll discuss it later. What are the marks
of a sick culture?"

"Boss, fer Gossake! I'm still learning the full shape of the Ship-stone
complex."

"You will never learn its full shape. I gave you two assignments at
once so that you could rest your mind with a change of pace. Don't
tell me that you've given no thought to the second assignment."

"Thought is about all I've given to it. I've been reading Gibbon
and studying the French Revolution. Also Smith's From the Yalu to
the Precipice."

"A very doctrinaire treatment. Read also Penn's The Last Days of
the Sweet Land of Liberty."

"Yes, sir. I did start making tallies. It is a bad sign when the people
of a country stop identifying themselves with the country and
start identifying with a group. A racial group. Or a religion. Or a
language. Anything, as long as it isn't the whole population."

"A very bad sign. Particularism. It was once considered a Spanish
vice but any country can fall sick with it."

"I don't really know Spain. Dominance of males over females
seems to be one of the symptoms. I suppose the reverse would be
true but I haven't run across it in any of the history I've listened.
Why not, Boss?"

"You tell me. Continue."

"So far as I have listened, before a revolution can take place, the

population must lose faith in both the police and the courts."
"Elementary. Go on."

"Well . . . high taxation is important and so is inflation of the
currency and the ratio of the productive to those on the public payroll.
But that's old hat; everybody knows that a country is on the
skids when its income and outgo get out of balance and stay that
way-even though there are always endless attempts to wish it away
by legislation. But I started looking for little signs, what some call
silly-season symptoms. For example, did you know that it is against


the law here to be naked outside your own home? Even in your own
home if anybody can see in?"

"Rather difficult to enforce, I suspect. What significance do you
see in it?"

"Oh, it isn't enforced. But it can't be repealed, either. The Confederacy
is loaded with such laws. It seems to me that any law that is
not enforced and can't be enforced weakens all other laws. Boss, did
you know that the California Confederacy subsidizes whores?"

"I had not noticed it. To what end? For their armed forces? For
their prison population? Or as a public utility? I confess to some surprise."

"Oh, not that way at all! The government pays them to keep their
legs crossed. Take it off the market entirely. They are trained, licensed,
examined--and stockpiled. Only it doesn't work. The designated
'surplus artists' draw their subsidy checks... then go right
ahead peddling tail. When they aren't supposed to do it even for fun
because that hurts the market for the unsubsidized whores. So the
hookers' union, who sponsored the original legislation to support
the union scale, is now trying to work out a voucher system to plug

up the holes in the subsidy law. And that won't work either."
"Why won't it work, Friday?"

"Boss, laws to sweep back the tide never do work; that's what King

Canute was saying. Surely you know that?"

"I wanted to be sure that you knew it."

"I think I've been insulted. I ran across a goody. In the California
Confederacy it is against the law to refuse credit to a person merely
because that person has taken bankruptcy. Credit is a civil right."

"I assume that it does not work but what form does noncompli-ance
take?"

"I have not yet investigated, Boss. But I think a deadbeat

be at a disadvantage in trying to bribe a judge. I want to
one of the obvious symptoms: Violence. Muggings. Sniping.
son. Bombing. Terrorism of any sort. Riots of course--but I suspect
that little incidents of violence, pecking away at people day after
day, damage a culture even more than riots that flare up and then
die down. I guess that's all for now. Oh, conscription and slavery
and arbitrary compulsion of all sorts and imprisonment without bail
and without speedy trial--but those things are obvious; all the histories
list them."

"Friday, I think you have missed the most alarming symptom
of all."

"I have? Are you going to tell me? Or am I going to have to grope
around in the dark for it?"

"Mmm. This once I shall tell you. But go back and search for it.
Examine it. Sick cultures show a complex of symptoms such as you
have named . . . but a dying culture invariably exhibits personal
rudeness. Bad manners. Lack of consideration for others in minor
matters. A loss of politeness, of gentle manners, is more significant

than is a riot."

"Really?"

"Pfui. I should have forced you to dig it out for yourself; then you
would know it. This symptom is especially serious in that an individual
displaying it never thinks of it as a sign of ill health but as
proof of his/her strength. Look for it. Study it. Friday, it is too late to
save this culture--this worldwide culture, not just the freak show
here in California. Therefore we must now prepare the monasteries
for the coming Dark Age. Electronic records are too fragile; we must
again have books, of stable inks and resistant paper. But that may
not be enough. The reservoir for the next renaissance may have to
come from beyond the sky." Boss stopped and breathed heavily.

"Friday..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Memorize this name and address." His hands moved at his con-

sole; the answer appeared on his high screen. I memorized it.
"Do you have it?"
"Yes, sir."

"Shall I repeat it for check?"
"No, sir."
"You are sure?"

"Repeat it if you wish, sir."

"Mmm. Friday, would you be so kind as to pour a cup of tea for
me before you leave? I find that my hands are unsteady today."

"My pleasure, sir."


1250
	2511


XXIV


Neither Coldie nor Anna showed up next day at breakfast. I ate by
myself and consequently fairly quickly; I dawdle over food only
when shared with company. This was just as well for I was just
standing up, finished, when Anna's voice came over the speaking
system:

"Attention, please. I have the unhappy duty to announce that
during the night our Chairman died. By his wish there will be no
memorial service. The body has been cremated. At nine hundred
hours, in the large conference room, there will be a meeting to
wind up the affairs of the company. Everyone is urged to attend and
to be on time."

I spent the time until nine o'clock crying. Why? Feeling sorry for
myself, I suppose. I'm certain that's what Boss would think. He
didn't feel sorry for himself, he didn't feel sorry for me, and he
scolded me more than once for self-pity. Self-pity, he said, is the
most demoralizing of all vices.

Just the same, I was feeling sorry for myself. I had always

with him, even way back when he broke my indentures and made
me a Free Person after I had run away from him. I found
regretting every time I had answered him back, been impudent,
called him names.

Then I reminded myself that Boss would not have liked me at all
if I had been a worm, subservient, no opinions of my own. He had
to be what he was and I had to be what I was and we had lived for
years in close association that had never, not once, involved even
touching hands. For Friday, that is a record. One I am not interested
in surpassing.

I wonder if he knew, years ago when I first went to work for him,
how quickly I would have swarmed into his lap had he invited it. He
probably did know. As may be, even though I had never touched his
hand, he was the only father I ever had.


The big conference room was very crowded. I had never seen even
half that number at meals and some of the faces were strange to me.
I concluded that some had been called in and had been able to arrive
quickly. At a table at the front of the room Anna sat with a total
stranger. Anna had folders of paper, a formidable terminal relay,
and secretarial gear. The stranger was a woman about Anna's age
but with a stern schoolmarmish look instead of Anna's warmth.

At two seconds past nine the stranger rapped loudly on the table.
"Quiet, please! I am Rhoda Wainwright, Executive Vice-Chairman
of this company and chief counsel to the late Dr. Baldwin. As such
I am now Chairman pro tern and paymaster for the purpose of winding
up our affairs. You each know that each of you was bound to
this company by contract to Dr. Baldwin personally--"

Had I ever signed such a contract? I was bemused by "the late Dr.
Baldwin." Was that really Boss's name? How did it happen that his
name matched my commonest nora de guerre? Had he picked it?
That was so very long ago. -

"--since you are all now free agents. We are an elite outfit and
Dr. Baldwin anticipated that every free company in North America
would wish to recruit from our ranks once his death released you.
There are hiring agents in each of the small conference rooms and
in the lounge. As your names are called please come forward to receive
and sign for your packet. Then examine it at once but do not,
repeat do not, stand at this table and attempt to discuss it. For discussion
you must wait until all the others have received their termination
packets. Please remember that I have been up all night--"

Hire out with some other free company at once? Did ! have to?
Was I broke? Probably, except for what was left of that two hundred


1252


thousand bruins I had won in that silly lottery--and most of that I
probably owed to Janet on her Visa card. Let me see, I had won
230.4 grams of fine gold, deposited with MasterCard as Br. 200,000
but credited as gold at that day's fix. I had drawn thirty-six grams of
that as cash and--- But I must reckon my other account, too, the
one through Imperial Bank of Saint Louis. And the cash and the
Visa credit I owed Janet. And Georges ought to let me pay half of--Someone
was calling my name.
It was Rhoda Wainwright, looking vexed. "Please be alert, Miss
Friday. Here is your packet and sign here to receipt for it. Then
move aside to check it."
I glanced at the receipt. "I'll sign after I've checked it."
"Miss Friday! You're holding up the proceedings."
"I'll step aside. But I won't sign until I confirm that the packet
matches the receipt list."
Anna said soothingly, "It's all right, Friday. I checked it."
I answered, "Thanks. But I'll handle it just the way you handle
classified documents--sight and touch."
The Wainwright biddy was ready to boil me in oil but I simply
moved aside a couple of meters and started checking--a fair-size
packet: three passports in three names, an assortment of IDs, very
sincere papers matching one or another identity, and a draft to
"Marjorie Friday Baldwin" drawn on Ceres and South Africa Acceptances,
Luna City, in the amount of Au-0.999 grams 297.3-which
startled me but not nearly as much as the next item did:
adoption papers by Hartley M. Baldwin and Emma Baldwin for female
child Friday Jones, renamed Marjorie Friday Baldwin, executed
at Baltimore, Maryland, Atlantic Union. Nothing about
Landsteiner Creche or Johns Hopkins, but the date was the day I left
Landsteiner Creche.
And two birth certificates: one was a delayed birth certificate
Marjorie Baldwin, born in Seattle, and one was for Friday Baldwin
borne by Emma Baldwin, Boston, Atlantic Union.
Two things were certain about each of these documents: Each
was phony and each could be relied on utterly; Boss never did things
by halves. I said, "It checks, Anna." I signed.
Anna accepted the receipt from me, adding quietly: "See me
after."

"Suits. Where?"
"See Goldie."
"Miss Friday! Your credit card, please!" Wainwright again.
"Oh." Well, yes, with Boss gone and the company dissolved, I
could not use my Saint Louis credit card again. "Here it is."
She reached for it; I held on. "The punch, please. Or the shears.
Whatever you're using."
"Oh, come now! I'll incinerate yours along with many others,
after I check the numbers."
"Ms. Wainwright, if I am to surrender a credit card charged
against me--and I am; no argument about that--it will be destroyed
or mutilated, rendered useless, right in front of me."
"You are very tiresome! Don't you trust anyone?" "No."
"Then you'll have to wait, right here, until everyone else is
through."
"Oh, I don't think so." I think MasterCard of California uses a
phenolic-glass laminate; in any case their cards are tough, as credit
cards must be. I had been careful not to show any enhancements
around HQ, not because it would matter there but because it
isn't polite. But this was a special circumstance. I tore the card two
ways, handed her the bits. "I think you can still make out the serial
number."
"Very well!" She sounded as annoyed as I felt. I turned away. She
snapped, "Miss Friday! Your other card, please!"
"What card?" I was wondering who among my dear friends was
suddenly being deprived of that utter necessity of modern life, a valid
credit card, and being left with only a draft and some small
change. Clumsy. Inconvenient. I felt certain that Boss had not
planned it that way.
"MasterCard... of... California, Miss Friday, issued in San
Jose. Hand it over."
"The company has nothing to do with that card. I arranged that
credit on my own."
"I find that hard to believe. Your credit on it is guaranteed by
Ceres and South Africa--that is to say, by the company. The affairs
of which are being liquidated. So hand over that card."
"You're mixed up, counselor. While payment is made through

I 25,
	255 I


Ceres and South Africa, the credit involved is my own. It's none of
your business."
"You'll soon find out whose business it is! Your account will be
canceled."
"At your own risk, counselor. If you want a law suit that will
leave you barefooted. Better check the facts." I turned away, anxious
not to say another word. She had me so angry that, for the moment,
I was not feeling grief over Boss.
I looked around and found that Coldie had already been processed.
She was sitting, waiting. I caught her eye and she patted an
empty chair by her; I joined her. "Anna said for me to see you."
"Good. I made a reservation at Cabaria Hyatt in San Jose for
Anna and me for tonight, and told them that there might be a third.
Do you want to come with us?"
"So soon? Are you already packed?" What did I have to pack? Not
much, as my New Zealand luggage was still sitting in bond in Winnipeg
port because I suspected that the Winnipeg police had placed
a tag on it--so there it would sit until Janet and Ian were in the
clear. "I had expected to stay here tonight but I really hadn't
thought about it."
"Anyone can sleep here tonight but it's not being encouraged.
The management--the new management--wants to get everything
done today. Lunch will be the last meal served. If anyone is still
here tonight at dinnertime, it's cold sandwiches. Breakfast, nit."
"Fer Cossake! That doesn't sound like anything Boss would have
planned."
"It isn't. This woman-- The Master's arrangements were with
the senior partner, who died six weeks ago. But it doesn't matter;
we'll just leave. Coming with us?"
"I suppose so. Yes. But I had better see these recruiters first; I'm
going to need a job."
"Don't."
"Why not, Coldie?"
"I'm looking for a job, too. But Anna warned me. The recruiters
here today all have arrangements with La Wainwright. If any of
them are any good, we can get in touch with them at Las Vegas
Labor Mart... without handing this snapping turtle a commission.
I know what I want--head nurse in a field hospital of a crack
mercenary outfit. All the best ones are represented in Las Vegas."
"I guess that's the place for me to look, too. Goldie, I've never
had to hunt for a job before. I'm confused."
"You'll do all right."

Three hours later, after a hasty lunch, we were in San Jose. Two
APVs were shuttling between Pajaro Sands and the National Plaza;
Wainwright was getting rid of us as fast as possible--I saw two flat-bed
trucks, big ones, each drawn by six horses, being loaded as we
left, and Papa Perry looking harried. I wondered what was being
done with Boss's library--and felt a little separate, selfish sadness
that I might never again have such an unlimited chance to feed the
Elephant's Child. I'll never be a big brain but I'm curious about
everything and a terminal hooked directly to all the world's best libraries
is a luxury beyond price.
When I saw what they were loading I suddenly recalled something
with near panic. "Anna, who was Boss's secretary?"
"He didn't have one. I sometimes helped him if he needed an
extra hand. Seldom."
"He had a contact address for my friends Ian and Janet Tormey.
What would have become of it?"
"Unless it's in this"-she took an envelope from her bag and
handed it to me--"it's gone... because I have had standing orders
for a long time to go to his personal terminal as soon as he was pronounced
dead and to punch in a certain program. It was a wipe order,
I know, although he did not say so. Everything personal he had
in the memory banks was erased. Would this item be personal?"
"Very personal."
"Then it's gone. Unless you have it there."
I looked at what she had handed me: a sealed envelope with nothing
but "Friday" on the outside. Anna added, "That should have
been in your packet but I grabbed it and held it out. That nosy slitch
was reading everything she could get her hands on. I knew that this
was private from Mr. Two-CanesDr. Baldwin, I should say
now--to you. I was not going to let her have it." Anna sighed. "I
worked with her all night. I didn't kill her. I don't know why I
didn't."
Coldie said, "We had to have her to sign those drafts."

I 256
	257 I


Riding with us was one of the staff officers, Burton McNye--a quiet man who rarely expressed opinions. But now he spoke. "I'm sorry you restrained yourself. Look at me; I have no cash, I always
used my credit card for everything. That snotty shyster wouldn't give
me my closing check until I handed over my credit card. What happens
with a draft on Lunar bank? Can you cash it, or do they
simply accept it for collection? I may be sleeping in the Plaza
tonight."
"Mr. McNye--"
"Yes, Miss Friday?"
"I'm no longer 'Miss' Friday. Just Friday."
"Then I'm Butt."
"Okay, Burr. I've got some cash bruins and a credit card that
Wainwright could not touch, although she tried. How much do
you need?"
He smiled and reached over and patted my knee. "All the nice
things I've heard about you are true. Thanks, dear, but I'll handle
it. First I'll take this to the Bank of America. If they won't cash it
offhand, perhaps they will advance me some pending collection. If
not, I shall go to her office in the CCC Building and stretch out on
her desk and tell her that it is up to' her to find me a bed. Damn it;
the Chief would have seen to it that each of us got a few hundred in
cash; she did it on purpose. Maybe to force us to sign up with her
buddies; I wouldn't put it past her. If she makes any fuss, I'm feeling j ust ornery enough to find out whether or not I remember any of the
things they taught me in basic."
I answered, "Butt, don't ever tackle a lawyer with your hands.
The way to fight a lawyer is with another lawyer, a smarter one.
Look, we'll be in the Cabaria. If you can't cash that draft, better
accept my offer. It won't inconvenience me."
"Thanks, Friday. But I'm going to choke her until she gives '
The room Goldie had reserved turned out to be a small suite.
room with a big waterbed and a living room with a couch
opened into a double bed. I sat down on the couch to i'ead Boss's
letter while Anna and Goldie used the bath---then got up to use it
myself when they came out. When I came out, they were on the big
bed, sound asleep---not surprising; both of them had been up all

1258

night in nervously exhausting work. I kept very quiet and sat back
down, resumed reading the letter:

Dear Friday,
Since this is my last opportunity to communicate with you, I must
tell you things I have not been able to say while alive and still your
employer.
Your adoption: You do not remember it because it did not happen
that way. You will find that all records are legally correct. You are
indeed my foster daughter. Emma Baldwin has the same sort of reality
as your Seattle parents, i.e., real for all practical and legal purposes.
You need be careful of only one thing: Don't let your several
identities trip each other. But you have walked that tight-wire many
times, professionally.
Be sure to be present or represented at the reading of my will.
Since I am a Lunar citizen

(Huh?)

this will be at Luna City immediately
after my death, Luna Republic not having all the lawyer-serving delays
one finds in most Earthside countries. Call Fong, Tomosawa,
Rothschild, Fong, and Finnegan, Luna City. Do not anticipate
too much; my will does not relieve you of the necessity of earning a
living.
Your origin: You have always been curious about this, understandably
so. Since your genetic endowment was assembled from many
sources and since all records have been destroyed, I can tell you little.
Let me mention two sources of your genetic pattern in whom you
may take pride, two known to history as Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Green.
There is a memorial to them in a crater near Luna City, but it is
hardly worth the trip as there is nothing much to see. If you will query
the Luna City Chamber of Commerce concerning this memorial,
you can obtain a cassette with a reasonably accurate account of what
they did. When you hear it, you will know why I told you to suspend
judgment on assassins. Assassination is usually a dirty business . . .
but honorable hatchet men can be heroes. Play the cassette and judge
for yourself.
The Greens were colleagues of mine many years ago. Since their


work was very dangerous, I had caused each of them to deposit genetic
material, four of her ova, a supply of his sperm. When they were
killed, I caused gene analysis to be made with an eye to posthum6us
children-only to learn that they were incompatible; simple fertilization
would have caused reinforcement of some bad alleles.

Instead, when creation of artificial persons became possible, their
genes were used selectively. Yours was the only successful design;
other attempts at including them were either not viable or had to be
destroyed. A good genetic designer works the way a good photographer
does: A perfect result derives from a willingness to discard drastically
any attempt less than perfect. There will be no more attempts
using the Greens; Gail's ova are gone and Joe's sperm is probably no
longer useful.

It is not possible to define your relationship to them but it is equivalent
to something between granddaughter and great-granddaughter,
the rest of you being from many sources but you can take pride in the
fact that all of you was most carefully selected to maximize the best
traits ofH. sapiens. This is your potential; whether or not you achieve
your potential is up to you.

Before your records were destroyed, I once scratched my curiosity
by listing the sources that went into creating you. As near as I can
recall they are:

Finnish, Polynesian, Amerindian, Innuit, Danish, red Irish, Swa-zi,
Korean, German, Hindu, English--and bits and pieces from elsewhere
since none of the above is pure. You can never afford to be
racist; you would bite your own tail!

All that the above really means is that the best materials were
picked to design you, regardless of source. It is sheer luck that you
wound up beautiful as well.


["Beautiful"! Boss, I do own a mirror. Was it possible that he had
really thought so? Surely, I'm built okay; that just reflects the
that I'm a crack athlete--which in turn reflects the fact that I
planned, not born. Well, it's nice that he thought so if he did..
because it's the only game in town; I'm me, whatever.]


On one point I owe you an explanation if not an apology. It was
intended that you should be reared by selected parents as their natural
child. But when you still weighed less than five kilos, I was sent to
prison. Although I was able, eventually, to escape, I could not return
to Earth until after the Second Atlantic Rebellion. The scars of this
mix-up are still with you, I know. I hope that you someday will purge
yourself of your fear and mistrust of "human" persons; it gains you
nothing and handicaps you mightily. Someday, somehow, you must
realize emotionally what you know intellectually, that they are as tied
to the Wheel as you are.

As for the rest, what can I say in a last message? That unfortunate
coincidence, my conviction at just the wrong time, left you too easily
bruised, much too sentimental. My dear, you must cure yourself utterly
of all fear, guilt, and shame. I think you have rooted out self-pity


[The hell I have!]


but, if not, you must work on it. I think that you are immune to
the temptations of religion. If you are not, I cannot help you, any
more than I could keep you from acquiring a drug habit. A religion is
sometimes a source of happiness and I would not deprive anyone of
happiness. But it is a comfort appropriate for the weak, not for the
strong--and you are strong. The great trouble with religion---any re-ligion--is
that a religionist, having accepted certain propositions by
faith, cannot thereafter judge those propositions by evidence. One
may bask at the warm fire of faith or choose to live in the bleak uncertainty
of reason but one cannot have both.

I have one last thing to tell you for my own satisfaction, for my
own pride. I am one of your "ancestors"-not a maim one but some
of my genetic pattern lives on in you. You are not only my foster
daughter but also in part my natural daughter as well. To my great
pride.

So let me close this with a word I could not say while I was alive--Love,
Hartley M. Baldwin


I put the letter back into its envelope and curled up and indulged
in that worst of vices, self-pity, doing it thoroughly, with plenty of
tears. I don't see anything wrong with,crying; it lubricates the
psyche.

Having gotten it out of my system I got up and washed my face


1260
	261 I


and decided that I was all through grieving over Boss. I was pleased
and flattered that he had adopted me and it warmed me all through
to know that a bit of him was used in designing megbut he was still
Boss. I thought that he would allow me one cathartic session of grief
but if I kept it up, he would be annoyed with me.

My chums were still sawing wood, exhausted, so I closed the door
that shut them off, was pleased to note that it was a sound-silencer
door, and I sat down at the terminal, stuck my card into the slot,
and coded Fong, Tomosawa, and so forth, having routed through
exchange service to get the code, then coding directly; it's cheaper
that way.

I recognized the woman who answered. Low gee certainly is better
than abra; ifI lived in Luna City, I would wear only a monikini,
too. Oh, stilts, maybe. An emerald in my bellybutton. "Excuse
me," I said. "Somehow I've managed to code Ceres and South Africa
when I intended to punch for Fong, Tomosawa, Rothschild,
Fong, and Finnegan. My subconscious is playing tricks. Sorry to
have bothered you and thanks for the help you gave me a few
months ago."

"Wups!" she answered. "You didn't punch wrong. I'm Gloria
Tomosawa, senior partner in Fong, Tomosawa, et al., now that
Grandpa Fong has retired. But that doesn't interfere with my being.
a vice-president of Ceres and South Africa Acceptances; we are also
the legal department of the bank. And I'm the chief trust officer,
too, which means that I'm going to have business with you. Everybody
here is sorry as can be at the news of Dr. Baldwin's death and I

hope that it did not distress you too much--Miss Baldwin."
"Hey, back up and start over!"

"Sorry. Usually when people call the Moon they want to make it
as brief as possible because of the cost. Do you want me to repeat
that, a sentence at a time?"

"No. I think I've assimilated it. Dr. Baldwin left a note

to be at the reading of his will or to be represented. I can't be there.
When will it be read and can you advise me as to how I can get
someone in Luna City to represent me?"

"It will be read as soon as we get official notification of death from
the California Confederacy, which should be any time now as our
San Jose representative has already paid the squeeze. Someone to
represent you--will I do? Perhaps I should say that Grandpa Fong
was your father's Luna City attorney for many years... so I inherited
him and now that your father has died, I inherit you. Unless you
tell me otherwise."

"Oh, would you?--Miss--Mrs. Tomosawa--is it Miss or Mrs. ?"

"I could and I would and it's Mrs. It had better be; I have a son as
old as you are."

"Impossible!" (This beauty-contest winner twice my age?)
"Most possible. Here in Luna City we are all old-fashioned
cubes, not like California. We get married and we have babies and
always in that order. I wouldn't dare be a Miss with a son your age;
nobody would retain me."

"I mean the idea that you have a son my age. You can't have a
baby at the age of five. Four."

She chuckled. "You say the nicest things. Why don't you come

here and marry my son? He's always wanted an heiress."

"Am I an heiress?"

She sobered. "Um. I can't break the seal on that will until your
father is officially dead, which he is not, in Luna City, not yet. But
he will be shortly and there is no sense in making you call back. I
drafted that will. I checked it for changes when I got it back. Then I
sealed it and put it into my safe. So I know what's in it. What I'm
about to tell you, you don't know until later today. You're an heiress
but fortune-hunters won't be chasing you. You are not getting a
gram in cash. Instead the bank is instructed--that's me--to subsidize
you in migrating off Earth. If you pick Luna, we pay your fare.
If you picked a bounty planet, we would give you a Scout knife and
pray for you. If you pick a high-priced place like Kaui or Halcyon,
the trust pays your fare and your contribution and assists you with
starting capital. If you never do migrate off Terra, on your death
funds earmarked to assist you revert to the other purposes of the
trust. But your migration needs have first call. Exception: If you migrate
to Olympia, you pay for it yourself. Nothing from the trust."

"Dr. Baldwin said something about that. What's so poisonous
about Olympia? I don't recall a colony world named that."

"You don't? No, I guess you're too young. That's where those


1'262
	263 I


self-styled supermen went. No real point in warning you against it, however; the corporation doesn't run ships there. Dear, you are
running up a fancy comm bill."
"I guess so. But it would cost me more if I had to call back. All I
mind is having to pay for the speed-of-light dead time. Can you
switch hats and be Ceres and South Africa for a moment? Or maybe
not; I may need legal advice."
"I'm wearing both hats, so fire away. Ask anything; today there's
no fee. My advertising loss leader."
"No, I pay for what I get."
"You sound like your late father. I think he invented tanstaafi."
"He's not really my father, you know, and I never thought of him
as such."
"I know the score, dear; I drew up some of the papers about you.
He thought of you as his daughter. He was inordinately proud of
you. I was most interested when you first called me--,having to keep
quiet about things I knew but looking you over. What is on your
mind?"
I explained the trouble I had had with Wainwright over credit
cards. "Certainly MasterCard of California has given me a credit
ceiling far beyond my needs or assets. But is that any of her business?
I haven't even used up my predeposit and I'm about to back it
up with my closing pay. Two hundred and ninety-seven and three-tenths
grams, fine."
"Rhoda Wainwright never was worth a hoot as a lawyer; when
Mr. Esposito died, your father should have changed representation.
Of course it's none of her business what credit MasterCard extends
to you, and she has no authority over this bank. Miss Baldwin--"
"Call me Friday."
"Friday, your late father was a director of this bank and is, or was,
a major stockholder. Although you do not receive any of his wealth
directly, you would have to run up an enormous unsecured debt
and neglect to reduce it for quite some time and refuse to answer
queries about it before your account would be red-flagged. So forget
it. But, now that Pajaro Sands is closing down, I do need another
address for you."
"Uh, right now, you are the only address I have."
"I see. Well, get me one as soon as you have one. There are others
with that same problem, a problem unnecessarily made worse by
Rhoda Wainwright, There are others who should be represented at
the reading of the will. She should have notified them, did not, and
now they have left Pajaro Sands. Do you know where I can find
Anna Johansen? Or Sylvia Havenisle?"
"I know a woman named Anna who was at the Sands. She was
the classified documents clerk. The other name I don't recognize."
"She must be the right Anna; I have her listed as 'confidential
clerk.' Havenisle is a trained nurse."
"Oh! Both of them are just beyond a door I'm looking at. Sleeping.
Up all night. Dr. Baldwin's death."
"My lucky day. Please tell them--when they wake up--that they
should be represented at the reading of the will. But don't wake
them; I can fix it afterwards. We aren't all that fussy here."
"Could you represent them?"
"On your say-so, yes. But have them call me. I'll need new mailing
addresses for them, too. Where are you now?"
I told her, we said good-bye and switched off. Then I held very
still and let my head catch up with events. But Gloria Tomosawa
had made it easy. I suspect that there are just two sorts of lawyers:
those who spend their efforts making life easy for other people--and
parasites.

A little jingle and a red light caused me to go to the terminal again.
It was Burton McNye. I told him to come on up but be mouse-quiet.
I kissed him without stopping to think about it, then remembered
that he was not a kissing friend. Or was he? I did not
know whether he had helped rescue me from "the Major" or not--must
ask.
"No trouble," he told me. "Bank of America accepted it for deposit
subject to collection but advanced me a few hundred bruins
for overnight money. They tell me that a gold draft can be cleared
through Luna City in about twenty-four hours. That, combined
with our late employer's sound financial reputation, got me out of
the bind. So you don't have to let me sleep here tonight."
"I'm supposed to cheer? Burr, now that you are solvent again,
you can take me out to dinner. Out. Because my roommates are
zombies. Dead, maybe. The poor dears were up all night."



I 264
	265 I


"It's too early for dinner."

It wasn't too early for what we did next. I hadn't planned on it but
Burr claimed that he had, in the APV; and I didn't believe him. I
asked him about that night on the farm and, sure enough, he was
part of the combat team. He claimed that he had been held in reserve
and thus was merely along for the ride, but nobody yet has
admitted doing anything dangerous that night--but I recall Boss
telling me that anybody at all was taken because bodies were so

scarce-even Terence, who doesn't really have to shave yet.

He didn't protest when I started taking his clothes off.

Burt was just what I needed. Too much had happened and I felt
emotionally battered. Sex is a better tranquilizer than any of those
drugs and much better for your metabolism. I don't see why human
people make such a heavy trip out of sex. It isn't anything complex;
it is simply the best thing in life, even better than food.


The bath in that suite could be reached without going through the
bedroom, laid out that way, probably, because the living room
could double as a second bedroom. So we each tidied up a bit and I
put on that Superskin jump suit with the wet look that had been the
bait with which I had hooked Ian last spring--and learned that I had
put it on through thinking sentimentally about Ian but that I was no
longer worried about Ian and Jan--and Georges. I would find
them, I was now serenely sure. Even if they never went home, I
would at worst track them down through Betty and Freddie.

Burt made appropriate animal noises over how i looked in the
Superskin job, and ! let him look and wiggled some and told him
that was exactly why I had bought it, because I was a slitch who
wasn't even mildly ashamed of being female, and I wanted to thank
him for what he had done for me; my nerves had been twanging
a harp and now they were so relaxed they dragged on the
and I had decided to pay for dinner to show my appreciation.

He offered to wrestle me for it. I didn't tell him that I had to
very careful in moments of passion not to break male bones; I just
giggled. I guess giggling looks silly on a woman my age but there it
is--when I'm happy, I giggle.

I was careful to leave a note for my chums.

When we got back, latish, they were gone, so Burt and I went to
bed, this time stopping to open out that folding double bed. I woke
up when Anna and Goldie tiptoed through, returning from supper.
But I pretended not to wake, figuring that morning was soon
enough.

Sometime the next morning I became aware that Anna was
standing over us and not looking happy--and, truthfully, that was
the very first time that it occurred to me that Anna might be displeased
at finding me in bed with a man. Certainly I had realized
which way she leaned a long time ago; certainly I knew that she
leaned in my direction. But she herself had cooled it and I had
stopped thinking of her as unfinished business I would have to cope
with someday; she and Goldie were simply my chums, hair-down
friends who trusted each other.

Burt said plaintively, "Don't scowl at me, lady; I just came in to
get out of the rain."

"I wasn't scowling," she answered too soberly. "I was simply trying
to figure out how to get around the end of the bed to the termi-

nal without waking you two. I want to order breakfast."
"Order for all of us?" I asked.
"Certainly. What do you want?"

"Some of everything and fried potatoes on the side. Anna hon,
you know me--if it's not dead, I'll kill it and eat it raw, bones
and all."

"And the same for me," agreed Burt.

"Noisy neighbors." Goldie was standing in the doorway, yawning.
"Chatterboxes. Go back to bed." I looked at her and realized
two things: I had never really looked at her before, even at the
beach. And, second, if Anna was annoyed with me for sleeping with
Burt, she didn't have any excuse for such feelings; Goldie looked
almost indecently satiated.


"It means 'harbor island,' "Goldie was saying, "and it really ought
to have a hyphen in it because nobody can ever spell it or pronounce
it. So I just go as Goldie--easy to do in the Master's outfit
where last names were always discouraged. But it's not as hard a
name as Mrs. Tomosawa's--after I mispronounced hers about the
fourth time, she asked me to call her Gloria."

We were finishing off a big breakfast and both of my chums had


I 266
	267 I


talked to Gloria and the will had been read and both of them (and
Burt, too, to my surprise and his) were now a bit richer and we
were all getting ready to leave for Las Vegas, three of us to shop for jobs, Anna simply to stay with us and visit until we shipped out, or
whatever.
Anna was then going to Alabama. "Maybe I'll get tired of loafing.
But I promised my daughter that I would retire and this is the right
time. I'll get reacquainted with my grandchildren before they get
too big."
Anna a grandmother? Does anyone ever know anyone else?

XXV

Las Vegas is a three-ring circus with a hangover.
I enjoy the place for a while. But after I've seen all the shows I
reach a point where the lights and the music and the noise and the
frenetic activity are too much. Four days is a-plenty.
We reached Vegas about ten, after a late start because each of us
had business to do--everybody but me with arrangements to make
for the collection of moneys from Boss's will and me to deposit my
closing draft with MasterCard. That is, I started to. I stopped
abruptly when Mr. Chambers said, "Do you want to execute an order
to us to pay your income tax on this?"
Income tax? What a filthy suggestion! I could not believe my
ears. "What was that, Mr. Chambers?"
"Your Confederacy income tax. If you ask us to handle it--here's
the form--our experts prepare it and we pay it and deduct it from
your account and you aren't bothered. We charge only a nominal
fee. Otherwise you have to calculate it yourself and make out all the
forms and then stand in line to pay it."
"You didn't say anything about any such tax when I made the
deposit the day I opened this account."
"But that was a national lottery prize! That's yours, utterly free--that's
the Democratic Way! Besides, the government gets its cut off
the top in running the lottery."
"I see. How much cut does the government take?"
"Really, Miss Baldwin, that question should be addressed to the



I 268
	269 I


government, not to me. If you'll just sign at the bottom, I'll fill in
the rest."

"In a moment. How much is this 'nominal fee'? And how much
is the tax?"

I left without depositing my draft and again poor Mr. Chambers
was vexed with me. Even though bruins are so inflated that you
have to line up quite a few of them to buy a Big Mac, I do not consider
a thousand bruins "nominal"--it's more than a gram of gold,
$37 BritCan. With their 8 percent surcharge on top, MasterCard
would be getting a fat fee for acting as stooge for the Confederacy's
Eternal Revenue Service.

I wasn't sure that I owed income tax even under California's
weird laws--most of that money had not been earned in California
and I couldn't see what claim California had on my salary anyway. I
wanted to consult a good shyster.

I went back to Cabaria Hyatt. Goldie and Anna were still out but
Burr was there. I told him about it, knowing that he had been in
logistics and accounting.

"It's a moot point," he said. "Personal-service contracts with the
Chairman were all written 'free of tax' and in the Imperium the
bribe was negotiated each year. Here an umbrella bribe should have
been paid through Mr. Esposito--that is to say, through Ms. Wain-

wright. You can ask her."

"In a pig's eye!"

"Precisely. She should have notified Eternal Revenue and paid
any taxes due--after negotiation, if you understand me. But she
may be skimming; I don't know. However-- You do have a spare
passport, do you not?"

"Oh, certainly! Always."

"Then use it. That's what I'll be doing. Then rll transfer my
money after I know where I'll be. Meanwhile I'll leave it safe on
Moon."

"Uh, Butt, I'm pretty sure Wainwright has every spare passport
listed. You seem to be saying that they'll be checking us at exit?"

"What ifWainwright has listed them? She won't turn over the list
to the Confederates without arranging her cut, and I doubt that
she's had time to dicker it. So pay only the regular squeeze and stick
your nose in the air and walk on through the barrier."


This I understood. I had been so indignant at that filthy notion
that for a moment I had ceased to think like a courier.

We crossed the border into Vegas Free State at Dry Lake; the capsule
stopped just long enough for Confederacy exit stamps. Each of
us used an alternate passport with the standard squeeze folded in-side--no
trouble. And no entrance stamp as the Free State doesn't
bother with CHI; they welcome any solvent visitor.

Ten minutes later we checked into the Dunes, with much the
same accommodations we had had in San Jose save that this was
described as an "orgy suite." I could not see why. A mirror on the
ceiling and aspirin and Alka-Seltzer in the bath are not enough to
justify that designation; my doxyology instructor would have
laughed in scorn. However I suppose that most of the marks would
not have had the advantages of advanced instruction--rve been told
that most people don't have any formal training. I've often wondered
who teaches them. Their parents? Is that rigid incest taboo
among human persons actually a taboo against talking about it but
not against doing it?

Someday I hope to find out such things but I've never known
anybody I could ask. Maybe Janet will tell me. Someday...

We arranged to meet for dinner, then Burr and Anna went to the
lounge and/or casino while Goldie and I went out to the Industrial
Park. Burr intended to job-hunt but expressed an intention of raising
a little hell before settling down. Anna said nothing but-I think
she wanted to savor the fleshpots before taking up the life of a grand-mother-in-residence.
Only Goldie was dead-serious about job-
hunting that day. I intended to find a job, yes--but I had some
thinking to do first.

I was probably--almost certainly--going to out-migrate. Boss
thought I should and that was reason enough. But besides that, the
study he had started me on concerning the symptoms of decay in
cultures had focused my mind on things I had long known but never
analyzed. I've never been critical of the cultures I've lived in or
traveled through--please understand that an artificial person is a
permanent stranger wherever she is, no matter how long she stays.
No country could ever be mine so why think about it?

But when I did study it, I saw that this old planet is in sorry shape.
New Zealand is a pretty good place and so is British Canada, but


1270
	2711


even those two countries showed major signs of decay. Yet those
two are the best of the lot.

But let's not rush things. Changing planets is something a person
doesn't do twice--unless she is fabulously wealthy, and I was not. I
was subsidized for one out-migration . . . so I had better by a durn
sight pick the right planet because no mistakes were going to be corrected
after I left the window.

Besides-- Well, where was Janet?

Boss had had a contact address or a call code. Not me!

Boss had had an ear in the Winnipeg police HQ. Not me!

Boss had had his own Pinkerton net over the whole planet. Not
me!

I could try to phone them from time to time. I would. I could
check with ANZAC and the University of Manitoba. I would. I
could check that Auckland code and also the biodep of the University
of Sydney. I would.

If none of those worked, what more could I do? I could go to Sydney
and try to sweet-talk somebody out of Professor Farnese's home
address or sabbatical address or whatever. But that would not be
cheap and I had suddenly been forced to realize that travel I had
taken for granted in the past would now be difficult and perhaps impossible.
A trip to New South Wales before semiballistics started to
run again would be very expensive. It could be done--by tube and
by float and by going three-fourths the way around the world . . .
but it would be neither easy nor cheap.

Perhaps I could sign on as a ship's doxy out of San Francisco for
Down Under. That would be cheap and easy... but time-consum-ing
even if I shipped in a Shipstone-powered tanker out of Watsonville.
A sail-powered freighter? Well, no.

Maybe I had better hire a Pinkerton in Sydney. What did
charge? Could I afford it?

It took less than thirty-six hours from Boss's death for me
bump my nose into the fact that I had never learned the true
of a gram.

Consider this: Up to then my life had had just three modes of
economy:


a) On a mission I had spent whatever it took.


b) At Christchurch I spent some but not muchmainly presents
for the family.

c) At the farm, at the next HQ, then still later at Pajaro Sands, I
didn't spend any money, hardly. Room and board were in my contract.
I did not drink or gamble. If Anita had not been bleeding me,
I would have accun-/ulated a tidy sum.


I had led a sheltered life and had never really learned about
money.

But I can do simple arithmetic without using a terminal. I had
paid in cash my share at Cabaria Hyatt. I used my credit card for my
fare to the Free State but jotted down the cost. I noted the daily rate
at the Dunes and kept track of other costs, whether card or cash or
on the hotel bill.

I could see at once that room and board in first-class hotels
would very shortly use up every gram I owned even if I spent zero,
nit, swabo, nothing, on travel, clothes, luxuries, friends, emergencies.
Q. E.D. I must either get a job or ship out on a one-way colonizing
trip.

I acquired a horrid suspicion that Boss had been paying me a lot
more than I was worth. Oh, I'm a good courier, none better--but
what's the going rate on couriers?

I could sign up as a private, then (I was fairly sure) make sergeant
in a hurry. That did not really appeal to me but it might be where I
would wind up. Vanity isn't one of my faults; for most civilian jobs I
am unskilled labor--I know it.

Something else was pulling me, something else was pushing me.
I didn't want to go alone to a strange planet. It scared me. I had lost
my Ennzedd family (if indeed I ever had them), Boss had died, and
I felt like Chicken Little when the sky was falling, my true friends
among my colleagues had gone to the four windsexcept these
three and they were leaving quickly--and I had managed to lose
Georges and Janet and Ian.

Even with Las Vegas giddy around me I felt as alone as Robinson
Crusoe.

I wanted Janet and Ian and Georges to out-migrate with me.
Then I would not be afraid. Then I could smile all the way.

Besides-- The Black Death. Plague was coming.

272
	273 I


Yes, yes, I had told Boss that my midnight prediction was nonsense.
But he had told me that his analytical section had predicted
the same thing, in four years instead of three. (Small comfort!)

I was forced to take my own prediction seriously. I must warn Ian
and Janet and Georges.

I did not expect to frighten them with it--I don't think you
can scare those three. But I did want to say, "If you won't migrate,
at least take my warning seriously to the extent of staying out of
big cities. If inoculation becomes available, get it. But heed this
warning."


The Industrial Park is on the road to Hoover Dam; the Lagor Mart
is there. Vegas does not permit APVs inside the city but there are
slidewalks everywhere and one runs out to Industrial Park. To go
beyond there, to the dam or to Boulder City, there is an APV commuter
line. I planned to use it as Shipstone Death Valley leases a
stretch of desert between East Las Vegas and Boulder City for a
charging station and I wanted to see it to supplement my study.

Could the Shipstone complex be the corporation state behind
Red Thursday? I could see no reason for it. But it had to be a power
rich enough to blanket the globe and reach all the way out to Ceres
in a single night. There were not many such. Could it be a super-rich
man or group of men? Again, not many possibilities. With Boss
dead I probably never would know. I used to slang him---but he was
the one I turned to when I didn't understand something. I had not
known how much I leaned on him until his support was taken
away.


The Labor Mart is a large covered mall, with everything from fancy
offices of the Wall Street ]ournal to scouts who have their offices '
their hats and never sit down and seldom stop talking. There
signs everywhere and people everywhere and it reminds me
Vicksburg river town but it smells better.

The military and quasi-military free companies cluster together at
the east end. Goldie went from one to the other and I went with
her. She left her name and a copy of her brag sheet with each one.
We had stopped in town to get her brag sheet printed and she had
arranged a mail drop with a public secretary, and she had induced


1274


me to pay for a mail and telephonic accommodation address, too.
"Friday, if we are here more than a day or two, I'm moving out of
the Dunes. You noticed the room tariff, did you not? It's a nice
place but they sell you the bed all over again each day. I can't afford

it. Maybe you can but--"

"I can't."

So I established an address of sorts, and sent my brain a memo to
tell Gloria Tomosawa. I paid a year's fee in advance--and discovered
that it gave me an odd feeling of security. It was not even a little
grass shack... but it was a base, an address, that would not wash
away.

Goldie did not sign up that afternoon but did not seem disappointed.
She said to me, "No war going on now, that's all. But
peace never lasts more than a month or two. Then they'll start hiring
again and my name will be on file. Meanwhile I'll list with the
city registry and work substitute jobs. One thing about the bedpan
business, Friday; a nurse never starves. The current emergency
shortage of nurses has been going on for more than a century and
won't let up soon."

The second recruiter she called on--representative of Royer's
Rectifiers, Caesar's Column, and the Grim Reapers, all crack outfits,
worldwide reputations--turned to me after Goldie had made

her statement. "How about you? Are you an RN, too?"

"No," I said, "I'm a combat courier."

"Not much call for that. Today most outfits use express mail if a
terminal won't serve."

I found myself somewhat piqued---Boss has warned me against
that. "I'm elite," I replied. "I go anywhere... and what I carry gets

there when the mail is shut down. Such as the late Emergency."
"That's true," said Goldie. "She's not exaggerating."

"There still isn't much call for your talents. Can you do anything
else?"

(I should not boast!) "What's your best weapon? I'll duel you with
it, either contest rules, or blood. Phone your widow and we'll do it."

"My, you're a sparky little slitch! You remind me of a fox terrier
I once had. Look, dear, I can't play games with you; I have
to keep this office open. Now tell me the truth and I'll put your
name on file."


275 I


"Sorry, chief. I shouldn't have sounded off. All right, I'm an elite
courier. If I carry it, it gets there and my fees are high. Or my
if I'm hired as a specialist staff officer. As for the rest, of course I
have to be the best, bare-handed or with weapons, because what I
carry must go through. You can list me as a DI if you wish--bare-handed
or any weapon. But I'm not interested in combat unless the
pay is high. I prefer courier duty."

He made notes. "All right. Don't get your hopes up. The hairy
characters I work for aren't likely to use couriers other than battlefield
couriers--"

"I'm that, too. What I carry gets through."

"Or you get killed." He grinned. "They're more likely to use a
superdog. Look, sweetheart, a corporate has more need for your sort
of messenger than does a military. Why don't you leave your name
with each of the multinationals? All the big ones are represented
here. And they've got more money. Lots more money."

I thanked him and we left. At Goldie's urging I stopped in at the
local branch post office and made printouts of my own brag sheet. I
was going to ease off on the required salary, being sure that Boss had
favored me--but Goldie wouldn't let me. "Raise it! This is your best
chance. Outfits that need you will either pay without a quiver...
or will at least call you and try to dicker. But cut your price? Look,
dear, nobody buys at a fire sale if they can afford the best."

I dropped one at each multinational. I didn't really expect any
nibbles but if anyone wanted the world's best courier, they could
study my qualifications.

When the offices started to close, we slid back to the hotel to keep
our dinner date, and found both Anna and Burr just a leetle tipsy.
Not drunk, just happy and a touch too deliberate in their movements.

Butt struck a pose and declaimed, "Ladies! Look at me and

mire! I am a great man--"

"You're swacked."

"That, too, Friday, m'love. But you see before you wup! the

who banked the broke at Monte Carlo. I'm a genius, a blinkin',
true-blue, authentic, f'nanchal genius. You may touch me."

I had been planning to touch him, later that night. Now I wondered.
"Anna, did Burr break the bank?"


"No, but he certainly bent it." She stopped to belch carefully,
covering up. '"Scuse me. We dropped a little here, then went over
to the Flamingo to'change our luck. Got there just before post time
for the third at Santa Anita and Butt put a superbuck on the nose of
a little mare with his mother's name--a long shot and she romped
home. So here is a wheel right outside the track room and Burt put
his winnings on double zero--"

"He was drunk," Goldie stated.

"I am genius!"

"Both. Double zero hit, and Butt put this enormous stack on
black and hit, and left it there and hit, and moved it to red and hit--and
the croupier sent for the pit boss. Burr wanted to go for broke
but the pit boss limited him to five kilobucks."

"Peasants. Gestapo. Hired menials. Not a gentleman sportsman

in their entire casino. I took my patronage elsewhere."

"And lost it all," said Goldie.

"Goldie m'old frien', you do not show proper respec'."

"He might have lost it all," agreed Annie, "but I saw to it that he.
followed the pit boss's advice. With six of the casino's sheriffs
around us we went straight to their casino's office of the Lucky
Strike State Bank and deposited it. Otherwise I would not have let
him leave. Imagine carrying a half a megabuck from the Flamingo
to the Dunes in cash. He wouldn't have lived to cross the street."

"Preposterous! Vegas has less violent crime 'nany other city
North Amer'ca. Anna, m'true love, you are a bossy, notional woman.
A henpecker. I shall not marry you even when you fall on your
knees at Fremont 'n' Main 'n' beg me to. Instead I shall take your
shoes away from you and beat you and feed you on crusts."

"Yes, dear. You can put your own shoes on now because you are
going to feed all three of us. On crusts of caviar and truffles."

"And champagne. But not because you are henpeckering me.
Ladies. Friday, Goldie, my true loveswill you help me celebrate
my f'nanchal genius? With libations and pheasant under glass and

gorgeous show girls in fancy hats?"

"Yes," I answered.

"Yes before you change your mind. Anna, did you say 'halfa megabuck'?"

"Butt. Show them."


276
	277 I


Burt produced a new bankbook, let us look at it while he buffed
his nails on his stomach and looked smug. Bk504,000. Over half a
million in the only hard currency in North America. Uh, slightly
over thirty-one kilos of fine gold. No, I wouldn't want to carry that
much across the street, either--not in bullion. Not without a:
wheelbarrow. It would mass almost half as much as I do. A bankbook
is more convenient.

Yes, I would drink Burt's champagne.

Which we did, in the theater at the Stardust. Burr knew how
much cumshaw to give the captain of waiters to get us ringsides (or.i
paid too much, I don't know which) and we sopped up champagne
and had a lovely dinner centered around Cornish game hen but
billed as squab and the show girls were young and pretty and cheerful
and healthy and smelled freshly bathed. And they had show boys
with stuffed codpieces for us women to look at, only I didn't, not:
much, because they didn't smell right and I got the feeling that they
were more interested in each other than they were in women. Their
business, of course, but on the whole I preferred the show girls.

And they had a swell magician who plucked live pigeons out of.
the air the way most magicians pluck coins. I love magicians and
never understand how they do it and I watch them with my
hanging open.

This one did something that had to involve a pact with the Devil..
At one point he had one of the show girls replace his pretty assistant.
His assistant was not overdressed but the show girl was wearing

shoes at one end and a hat at the other and just a smile in between.
The magician started taking pigeons from her.

I don't believe what I saw. There isn't that much room and it
would tickle. So it didn't happen.

But I'm planning on going back to watch it from a different

It simply can't be true.

When we got back to the Dunes, Goldie wanted to catch
lounge show but Anna wanted to go to bed. So I agreed to sit
Goldie. Burr said to save him a seat as he would be right back after i
he took Anna up.

Only he didn't. When we went up I was unsurprised to find the.
door to the other room closed; before dinner my nose had warned
me that it was unlikely that Butt would soothe my nerves two nights
in a row. Their business and I had no kick coming. Butt had done
nobly by me when I really needed it.

I thought perhaps Goldie would have her nose out of joint but
she didn't seem to. We simply went to bed, giggled over the impossibility
of where he got those pigeons, and went to sleep. Goldie was
snoring gently as I dropped off.

Again I was awakened by Anna but this morning she was not
looking sober; she was radiant. "Good morning, darlings! Pee and
brush your teeth; breakfast will be up in two jounces. Burr is just
getting out of the bath, so don't daily."

Along toward the second cup of coffee Burt said, "Well, dear?"
Anna said, "Shall I?"
"Go ahead, hon."

"All right. Goldie, Friday-- We hope you can spare us some
time this morning because we both love you both and want you to
be with us. We're getting married this morning."

Goldie and I put on fine exhibitions of utter astonishment and
great pleasure, along with jumping up and kissing each of them. In
my case the pleasure was sincere; the surprise was faked. With Gol-die
I thought that it might have been reversed. I kept my suspicions
to myself.

Goldie and I went out to buy flowers with arrangements to meet
at the Gretna Green Wedding Chapel later--and I was relieved and
pleased to find that Goldie seemed to be just as happy about it out of
their presence as in it. She said to me, "They're going to be very
good for each other. I never did think well of Anna's plans to become
a professional grandmother; that's a form of suicide." She
added, "I hope you didn't get your nose out of joint."

I answered, "Huh? Me? Why in the world would I?"

"He slept with you night before last; he slept with her last night.
Today he's marrying her. Some women would be quite upset."

"Fer Gossake, why? I'm not in love with Burr. Oh, I do love him
because he was one of you who saved my life one busy night. So
night before last I tried to thank him--and he was awfully sweet to
me, too. When I needed it. But that's no reason for me to expect
Butt to devote himself to me every night or even a second night."


I 278
	279 I


"You're right, Friday, but not many women your age can think
that straight."

"Oh, I don't know; I think it's obvious. You didn't get your feelings
hurt. Same deal."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"Exactly the same deal. Night before last she slept with you; last

night she slept with him. Doesn't seem to fret you."

"Why should it?"

"It should not. But the cases are parallel." (Goldie, please don't
take me for a fool, dear. I not only saw your face but I smelled you.)
"Matter of fact, you surprised me a little. I didn't know you leaned
that way. Of course I knew that Anna did--she surprised me a bit in
taking Burt to bed. I wasn't aware that she did. Men, I mean.
Hadn't known that she had ever been married."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose it could look that way. But it's much what
you said about Butt: Anna and I love each other, have for years---and
sometimes we express it in bed. But we're not 'in love.' Each of
us leans heavily toward men . . . no matter what impression you
gained the other night. When Anna practically stole Burt out of
your arms, I cheereddespite fretting a bit about you. But not fretting
too much because you always have a pack of men sniffing
around after you whereas with Anna it had become a seldom thing.
So I cheered. Hadn't expected it to lead to marriage but it's grand
that it has. Here's the Golden Orchid what shall we buy?"

"Wait a moment." I stopped her outside the florist shop. "Goldie
 . . at great risk to her life somebody went charging up to the bed-

room of the farmhouse, carrying a basket stretcher. For me."
Goldie looked annoyed. "Somebody talks too much."

"I should have talked sooner. I love you. More than I love Burt
for I've loved you longer. Don't need to marry him, can't marry
you. Just love you. All right?"


XXVI


Maybe I did marry Goldie, sort of. Once we had Anna and Burt
formally married, we all went back to the hotel; Butt moved them
into the "bridal suite" (no mirror on the ceiling, interior decorations
white and pink instead of black and red, otherwise much the
same but much more expensive), and Goldie and I moved out of
the hotel and sublet a little crackerbox near where Charleston slants
into Fremont. This placed us in walking distance of the slidewalk
connecting the Labor Mart with town and that gave Goldie transportation
to any of the hospitals and made it easy for me to shop--otherwise
we would have had to buy or rent a horse and buggy, or
bicycles.

Location was that house's sole virtue, maybe, but to me it was a
fairy-tale honeymoon cottage with roses over the door. It had no
roses and was ugly and the only thing modern in it was a limited-service
terminal. But for the first time in my life I had a home of my
own and was a "housewife." My home in Christchurch had never
truly been mine; I certainly was never mistress of that household,
and I had been steadily reminded in various ways that I was a guest
rather than a permanent fixture.

Do you know what fun it is to buy a saucepan for your very own
kitchen?

I was a housewife at once as Goldie was called on that very day
and went on watch at twenty-three hundred to work all night to oh-seven
hundred. The following day I cooked my first dinner while


I 2s0
	I


Coldie slept... and burned the potatoes beyond salvage and cried,
which is, I understand, a bride's privilege. If so, I've used mine up
against the day when I'm really a bride if ever--and not a phony
bride as in Christchurch.

I was a proper housewife; I even bought sweet-pea seeds and
planted them in lieu of that missing climbing rose over the door--and
discovered that gardening has more to it than sticking seeds in
the ground; those seeds did not germinate. So I consulted the Las
Vegas library and bought a book, a real book with looseleaf pages
and pictures of what the compleat gardener should do. I studied it. I
memorized it.

One thing I did not do. Although enormously tempted I did not
get a kitten. Coldie might ship out any day; she warned me that, if I
was out of the house, she might be gone without saying good-bye (as
I had warned Georgesand did do).

Were I to get a kitten I would be honor-bound to keep it. A courier
can't carry a kitten everywhere in a travel case; that's no way to bring
up a baby. Someday I would ship out. So I did not adopt a kitten.

Aside from that I enjoyed all the warm delights of being a housewife...
including ants in the sugar and a waste pipe line that broke
in the night, two delights that I don't care to repeat. It was a very
happy time. Coldie slowly got my cooking straightened out--I had
thought I knew how to cook; now I do know how. And I learned to
stir a martini exactly the way she preferred it: Beefeater gin three-point-six
to one of Noilly Prat dry vermouth, a twist, no bitters--while
I took Bristol Cream on rocks. Martinis are too rugged for me
but I can see why a nurse with tired feet would want one the minute
she is home.

Swelp me, had Coldie been male, I would have had my sterility
reversed and happily have raised children and sweet peas and cats.

Burt and Anna left for Alabama early in this period and we
made careful arrangements not to lose track of each other. They
not intend to live there but Anna felt that she owed her dau
visit (and owed herself, I think, a chance to show off her new husband).
Thereafter they intended to sign up with a military or quasi-military,
one that would take both of them and contract to keep
them together. In combat. Yes. Both were tired of desk work; both
were willing to take a bust in grade to leave staff and join a combat
team. "Better one crowded hour of life than a cycle of Cathay."
Maybe so. It was their life.

I kept in'touch at the Labor Mart because the day was coming
when I not only would want to ship out but would have to ship out.
Coldie was working quite steadily and she tried to insist on paying
all the household expenses. I laid my ears back and insisted on paying
half right down the middle. Since I was keeping track of every
buck, I knew exactly what it cost to live in Las Vegas. Too much,
even in a crackerbox. When Coldie left, I could live there a few
months, then I would be broke.

But I would not do so. A honeymoon cottage is a no-good place
to live alone.

I continued to try to reach Georges and Ian and Janet, and Betty
and Freddie, but I limited myself to twice a month; the terminal
charges were considerable.

Twice a week I spent half a day at the Labor Mart, checking everything.
I no longer expected to find a courier job even half as good
as the one I had had with Boss but I still checked the multination-als--who
did indeed use experienced couriers. And I checked all
other job opportunities, looking for something, anything, to match
my decidedly odd talents. Boss had hinted that I was some sort of a
superman--if so, I can testify that there is very little demand for su-permen.

I considered going to school to become a croupier or dealer--then
moved that possibility to the bottom of the pile. A skilled dealer
or stick man or wheel man can work for many years at good wages
 . . but to me it would be a treadmill. A way to stay alive but not a
life. Better to join up as a private and buck for field rank.

But there were other possibilities I had never thought about.
Consider these:


Host Mother--Unlimited License, Bonded by TransAmerica
and/or Lloyd's--no extra charge for multiple births up to
quadruplets. Fee by arrangement. Standard interview
fee with physical examination by your-choice physiometricist.
BABIES UNLIMITED, Inc.

LV 7962M 4/3


I 282
	283 I


I could try to sign with Babies Unlimited or I could freelance. My
conditional sterility would be a selling point, as the thing customers
of host mothers are most leery of is the host mother who slips one
over on the client--gets pregnant on her own just before submitting
herself for hosting. Sterility is no handicap as bringing down an
ovum is not the purpose; the technologist simply manipulates to
change the body chemistry to make the field ripe for implantation.
Ovulation is simply a nuisance.

Having babies for other people could be only a stopgapbut a
possible one; it paid well.


WANTED: 90-day wife for off-planet vacation.

All expenses, luxury 9 +, guild bonus scale. Phys. range
S/W, temperament sanguine 8, amativeness scale 7 or above.
Client holds procreation license Chicago Imperium, will
surrender it to holiday wife if she becomes pregnant or both
will undergo 120-day sterilization, her choice.

See Amelia Trent, Licensed Sex Broker,
#18/20 New Cortez Mezzanine.


Not a bad deal for someone who wanted a three-months' vacation
and enjoyed Russian roulette. To me, pregnancy was no danger and
my horny scale rating is higher than seven--much! But the doxy
bonus scale in the Free State is not high enough to make the accumulated
pay enough to justify losing chances at more permanent
work-and that faceless client was almost certainly a crashing bore
or he wouldn't consider hiring a stranger for his holiday bed.


URGENTLY NEEDEDTwo Time-Space Engineers, any sex,
experienced in n-dimensional design. Must be willing to
risk nonreversible temporal dislocation.

Participation--Amenities Assurance

Terms to be negotiated

Babcock and Wilcox, Ltd.

Care Wall Street fourhal, LV Lbr Mrt


284


The above is exactly the sort of job I wanted. The only hitch was
that I was in no slightest degree qualified.


The First Plasmite Church ("In the Beginning was Plasma, without
form and void") off the Mall had a sign advertising times of services.
A smaller notice with movable letters included iri it caught my eye:
"The Next Virgin Will Be Sacrificed at 0251 Oct 22"

That looked like a permanent position but again not one for
which I was qualified. It fascinated me. While I was gawking, a
man came out and changed the sign and I realized that I had missed
last night's sacrament and the next altar sacrifice was two weeks
away, which left me undismayed. But my curiosity got me, as usual.
I asked him: "Do you actually sacrifice virgins?"

He answered, "Not me. I'm just an acolyte. But-- Well, no, they
don't actually have to be virgins. But they do have to look like virgins."
He looked me up and down. "I think you could make it.
Want to come in and talk to the priest?"

"Uh, no. Do you mean that he actually sacrifices them?"

He looked at me again. "You're a stranger here, aren't you?"

I admitted it. "Well, it's like this," he went on. "If you were to
advertise that you were casting for a snuff film, you could cast every
part by noon and not one of 'em would ask if they were actually
going to be snuffed. It's that kind of a town."

Maybe so. More likely I'm a yokel come to town. Or both.
There were lots of ads for off-planet jobs or concerning off-planet
matters. I did not expect to hire out for an off-planet job because I
did expect to go off planet as a colonist so lavishly subsidized that I
would have free choice of any colony, from Proxima, almost in our
laps, to The Realm, so far away that both cargo and people went by
n-ship--except that the late word on The Realm was that The First
Citizen had closed it to migrants at any price, except certain artists
and scientists by individual negotiation. Not that I wanted to go to
The Realm, rich as it is reputed to be. Too far! But the Proximates
are our close neighbors; from South Island their sun is right overhead,
a big bright star. Friendly.

But I read all the ads:


I


	Transuranics Golden Division on Golden around Procyon-B

	wanted experienced mining engineers to supervise kobolds, five-

	year renewable, bonuses, perks. The ad did not mention that on

	Golden an unmodified human person seldom lives five years.

	HyperSpace Lines was hiring for the run to The Realm via Prox-

	ima, Outpost, Fiddler's Green, Forest, Botany Bay, Halcyon, and

	Midway. Four months round trip from Stationary Station, one

	month paid leave Earthside or Luna, and repeat. I skipped over the

	requirements and pay for ultra-astrogator and warp engineer and su-
	'

	percargo and communicator and medical officer but looked at the

	other ratings:

	Waiter, room steward, maintenance carpenter, electrician,

	plumber, electronicist, electronicist (computer), plumber, cook,

	baker, sous chef, pantryman, chef, specialty cook, bartender,

	croupier/dealer, social director, holographer/photographer, dental

	assistant, singer, dance instructor, games supervisor, companion-

	secretary-maid/valet, cruise director's assistant, art instructor, cards

	instructor, cruise hostess, swimming instructor, hospital nurse,

	children's nurse, master-at-arms (armed), master-at-arms (un-

	armed), director/bandmaster, theatrical director, musician (twenty-

	three instruments named but doubling on two or more required),

	cosmetician, barber, masseur, stores clerk, retail sales clerk, sales

	manager, excursion escort-

	-and that's just a sample. In general, if they do it on the ground,

	they do it or something like it in the sky. Some of the jobs con-

	cerned uniquely with spaceship matters I can't even translate--what

	in the world (or out of it) is an "over kippsman 2/c"?

	One profession not listed is "doxy" despite the fact that Hyper-

	Space Lines is an Equal Opportunity Employer. By word of mouth

	I learned how very equal this is. If you want to be hired for any of

	the not so very technical jobs, it helps enormously to be young,

	handsome/pretty, healthy, horny, bisexual, money-hungry, and

	open to any reasonable proposition.

	The Port Captain himself has two left feet and was purser of the

	old Newton, up from room steward. In his sky-voyaging days he

	made certain that his first-class passengers got anything they want-
	ed---and that they paid well for it. As Port Captain this is still his

purpose. He is said to favor married couples or equivalent over any
single if they can work as a team both in and out of bed. I heard a
story around the Mall of one gigolo/doxy team who made themselves
rich in only four tripsdance instructors in the morning,
swimming instructors in the afternoon, dancing host and hostess before
and after dinner, a singing and comedy act, then private entertainment
singly or as a team at night--four voyages and ready to
retire... and had to retire because they were fired, as they were no
longer very attractive, no longer brimming with vitality; they had
maintained this impossible pa& on uppers and downers.
I don't think money can tempt me that much. I'll stay awake all
night most anytime I'm asked but I do want to catch up on sleep the
next day.
I wondered how it was that HyperSpace Lines, with only four
passenger liners, was apparently hiring all their many ratings all the
time. The line's assistant hiring agent said to me, "You really don't
know?"
I told her I did not.
"At each of three of the stops it takes lots and lots of what makes
the world go round to buy your way in. Three more are not cheap
although some skills are accepted in lieu of contribution. Only one
is a bounty planet. So desertion is a major problem. Fiddler's Green
is so desirable a place that the first officer of the Dirac jumped ship
there a few years back. The company does not have too much trouble
with crew recruited here... but suppose your home was Rangoon
or Bangkok or Canton and you were working cargo on
Halcyon and the pusher took his eyes off you just long enough.
What would you do?"
She shrugged and went on, "I'm telling you no secrets. Anybody
who thinks about it knows that the only possible way for most people
to get off Earth--even to Luna--is to sign on as crew of a spaceship,
then jump ship. I'd do it myself if I could."
"Why don't you?" I asked.
"Because I have a six-year-old son."
(I should learn to mind my own business!)
Some of the ads stirred my imagination; this was one:



286
	287 I


New Planet Just Opening--Type T-8
Guaranteed Maximum Danger
Couples or Groups Only

Augmented Survival Plan

Churchill and Son, Realtors

Las Vegas Labor Mart 96/98


I remembered something Georges had said, that anything above
Terran scale eight called for a big bonus or bounty. But I knew more
about that scale now; eight was Earth's own basic rating. Most of
this planet wasn't too easy to tame. Most of it had to be worked over,
rebuilt. This very land I stood on had been fit only for gila monsters
and desert crawlies until it had been treated with tons of money and
many, many tons of water.

I wondered about that "maximum danger." Was it something
that called for the talents of a woman who was fast on her feet when
triggered? I really didn't yearn to be a platoon leader of Amazons
because some of my girls would get killed and I wouldn't like that.
But I wouldn't mind tackling a saber-toothed tiger or equivalent because
I felt certain that I could move in, clobber him, and back off
while he was still finding out that something was up.

Maybe a raw T-8 would be a better place for Friday than a manicured
place like Fiddler's Green.

On the other hand that "maximum danger" might derive from
too many volcanoes or too much radioactivity. Who wants to glow
in the dark? Find out first, Friday; you won't get two chances.


I stayed quite late at the Mall that day because Goldie was again on
the night shift. I had served her dinner when she got home that
morning, put her to bed about ten, and hoped that she would sleep
till at least eighteen. So I dallied until the Mall offices started
closing.

When I got home our house was dark, which pleased me as it
tended to indicate that Goldie had slept straight through. With luck
I could get her breakfast before she woke up. So I let myself in most
quietly . . . and realized that the house was empty. I won't try to
define this but an empty house doesn't feel, smell, sound, or taste
like one with a person sleeping in it. I went straight to the bedroom.
Empty bed. Empty bath. I switched on lights and presently I found
it, a long printout for me in the terminal:


Dearest Friday,

It looks now as if you won't be home before I leaveand that is probably
just as well because we would just cry on each other and that's
no help.

My job came through but not as expected. Keeping in touch with
my former boss paid off; Dr. Krasny called me shortly after I went to
bed. He is C.O. of a brand-new MASH being set up to serve the Sam
Houston Scouts. An expanded Scouts of course; each battalion is
cadre for a triangular combat team, a pony brigade. I am not supposed
to tell you where we are mounting or where we will go but
(burn this printout after you read it!) if you were to go west from
Plainview, you might run across us in Los Llanos Estacados, before
you reach Portales.

Where are we going? That's really classified! But if we don't hit
Ascension, some wives will draw a pension. I called Anna and Butt;
they are meeting me in El Paso at ten past eighteen


["1810"? Then Goldie is already in Texas. Oh, dear!]


because Dr.
Krasny assured me that they would have jobs, either as combat troops
or as auxiliary medical if any hitch develops. There is a job for you,
too, my dear one-combat if that's what you want. Or H1 rate you
medtech-3 and use you myself and upgrade you to master sergeant
(medadmin) in nothing flat, as I know your quality and so does Colonel
Krasny. It would be good to have all four of us--five, I mean--back
together again.

But I'm not trying to twist your arm. I know you have things troubling
you about your Canadian friends who disappeared. If you feel
that you must stay loose to look for them---bless you and good luck.
But if you want to get in a little action with bonus pay, come straight
to E1 Paso. The address is Panhandle Investments, E1 Paso Division,
Field Operations Office, Environmental Factors, Attention John


288
	289 I


Krasny, Chief Engineer--and don't laugh; just memorize it and destroy
it.

Once this operation is in the news you can reach any of us openly
through the Houston office of the Scouts. But in the meantime I am
"personnel chief clerk" in "Environmental Factors."

May a gracious God watch over you and keep you safe from harm.
All my love,
Goldie


[290


XXVII


I burned it at once. Then I went to bed. I didn't feel like eating
dinner.

Next morning I went to the Labor Mart, looked up Mr. Fawcett,
agent for HyperSpace Lines, and told him that I wanted to sign on
as a master-at-arms, unarmed.

The supercilious slob laughed at me. I glanced at his assistant for
moral support but she kept her eyes averted. I restrained my temper
and said gently, "Would you mind explaining the joke?"

He stopped his raucous cawing and said, "Look, chicken, 'master'
as in 'master-at-arms' designates a male. Although we might be
able to hire you as 'mistress' in some other department."

"Your sign says Equal Opportunity Employer. The fine print under
it states that 'waiter' includes 'waitress,' 'steward' includes 'stewardess,'
and so forth. Is that true?"

Fawcett stopped grinning. "Quite true. But it also says: 'physically
able to carry out the normal duties of the position.' Master-at-arms
is a police officer aboard ship. Master-at-arms, unarmed, is a
cop who can keep order without having to resort to weapons. He
can wade into a fight and arrest the center of the disturbance, bare-handed.
Obviously you can't. So don't give me any quack about
taking it to the union."

"I shan't. But you didn't read my brag sheet."

"Can't see that it matters. However--" He glanced casually down


291 I


the page. "Says here you're a combat courier, whatever that is."

"That means that when I have a iob to do, nobody stops me. If
somebody tries too hard, he's dog meat. A courier goes unarmed. I
sometimes carry a laser knife or one-shot tear gas. But I depend on
my hands. Note my training."

He looked it over. "Okay, so you've been to a martial-arts school.
That still doesn't mean that you can cope with some big bruiser over
a hundred kilos heavier and a head taller than you are. Don't waste
my time, girlie; you couldn't even arrest me."

I went over his desk, then turkey-walked him to the door and
turned him loose before anyone outside could see. Even his assistant
did not see it--she most carefully did not see it.

"There," I said, "that's how I do it without hurting anyone. But I
want to be tested against your biggest male master-at-arms. I'll break

his arm. Unless you tell me to break his neck."

"You grabbed me when I wasn't looking!"

"Of course I did. That's how to handle a nasty drunk. But you're
looking now, so let's run through it again. Are you ready? This time
I might have to hurt you a little but not much. I won't break any
bones."

"Stay where you are! This is ridiculous. We don't hire masters-at-arms
merely because they've been trained in some Oriental tricks;
we hire big men, men so big they carry authority just by their size.
They don't have to fight."

"Okay," I said. "Hire me as a plainclothes cop. Put me into an
evening dress; call me a dance hostess. When somebody about my
size and hopped up on sleet pokes your big cop in his solar plexus
and he goes down, I stop pretending to be a lady and go in and rescue
him."

"Our masters-at-arms don't need to be protected."

"Maybe. A really big man is usually slow and clumsy. He hardly
ever knows much about fighting because he's never really had to
fight. He's okay to keep order at a card party. Or to handle one
drunk. But suppose the Captain really needs help. A riot. A mutiny.
Then you need someone who can fight. Me."

"Leave your application with my assistant. Don't call us; we'll
call you."


[292


I went home and thought about where else I could look--or should
I go to Texas? I had made the same silly, unpardonable mistake with
Mr. Fawcett that I had made with Brian... and Boss would have
been ashamed of me. Instead of picking up his challenge I should
have insisted on a fair test but I should never have laid a finger on
the man I was asking to hire me. Stupid, Friday, stutoid!

It was not losing that iob that bothered me; it was losing any
chance of getting a spaceside job with HyperSpace Lines. I was going
to have to have a iob pretty soon to accomplish the sacred duty
of seeing to it that Friday eats (let's face it; I eat like a pig) but it
didn't have to be this job. I had decided to ship out with HyperSpace
because one voyage with them would let me size up more
than half of the colonized planets in explored space.

While I had made up my mind to migrate as Boss had advised,
the idea of picking a planet solely from brochures written by advertising
copywriters--with no return-and-exchange privilege--both-ered
me. I wanted to shop first.

For example: Eden has received more favorable publicity than
any other colony in the sky. Hearken to its virtues: A climate much
like Southern California over most of its land mass, no dangerous
predators, no noxious insects, surface gravity 9 percent less than
Earth, oxygen content of air 11 percent higher, metabolic environment
compatible with Terran life and soil so rich that two or three
bumper crops a year are routine. Scenery delightful no matter
where you look. Population today just under ten million.

So what's the catch? I found out one evening in Luna City
through letting a ship's officer pick me up and take me to dinner.
The company placed a high price on Eden from the time it was discovered
and touted it as the perfect retirement home. And it is.
After the pioneer party had prepared it, nine-tenths of the people
who moved there were elderly and wealthy.

The government is a democratic republic but not one like the
California Confederacy. To be eligible to vote a person must be seventy
Terran years old and a taxpayer (i.e., landowner). Residents
from ages twenty to thirty perform public service, and if you think
that means waiting on the elderly hand and foot you are utterly
right, but it includes also anything else unpleasant that needs to be


293 [


done and therefore would command high wages if it were not done
by conscript labor.

Is any of this in any of the company brochures? Hollow laugh!

I needed to know the unadvertised facts about each colonial planet
before buying a one-way ticket to one of them. But I spoiled my
best chance by "proving" to. Mr. Fawcett that an unarmed female
can place a come-along on a male bigger than she is--that merely
got me on his blacklist.

I do hope I grow up before Cheyne-Stokes breathing sets in.


Boss scorned crying over spilt milk quite as much as he despised
self-pity. Having killed my chances of being hired by HyperSpace it
was time to leave Las Vegas while I was still solvent. If I couldn't
make the Grand Tour myself, there was still a way to get the ungar-nished
word about colonial planets the way I had acquired the truth
about Eden: cultivate ships' crew members.

The way to do that was by going to the one place where I was sure
to find them: Stationary Station, up the Beanstalk. Freighters were
not likely to come farther down Earth's gravity well than to Ell-Four
or -Five--that is, to Lunar orbit without the disadvantage of entering
Luna's own gravity well. But passenger ships usually touched at
Stationary Station. All of HyperSpace Lines' giant linerS, Dirac,
Newton, Forward, and Maxwell, left from there, returned there, received
maintenance and chandlery there. Shipstone complex had a
branch there (Shipstone Stationary) primarily to sell power to ships
and especially these big ships.

Officers and ratings going on leave arrived and left from there;
those not on leave might sleep in their ships but they were likely to
drink and eat and party a bit in the Station.

I dislike the Beanstalk and I don't care much for the twenty-four-hour
Station. Aside from its spectacular and always changing view
of Earth it has nothing to offer but high prices and cramped quarters.
Its artificial gravity surges uncomfortably and always seems to
go out just in time to put soup in your face.

But there are jobs to be had there if you are not fussy. I should be
able to support myself there long enough to be sure that I received


1294


frank opinions concerning each of the colonized planets from one
or more jaundiced spacemen:

It was even possible that I might bypass Fawcett and ship out from
there with HyperSpace. Ships are reputed always to sign on a few at
the last minute to fill unexpected vacancies. If such a chance
opened up, I would not compound my folly--I would not ask for a
master-at-arms billet. Waitress, scullery, chambermaid, bath atten-dant-if
the job would swing me around the Grand Tour, I would
grab it.

Having thus picked my new home, I looked forward to boarding
the same ship, by choice, as a luxury-class passenger, passage paid
under the odd terms of my foster father's will.

I gave notice to the leaseholder of the mousetrap I lived in, then
took care of some chores before leaving for Africa. Africa-- Would I
have to cross via Ascension? Or would SBs be running again? Africa
made me think of Goldie, and Anna and Burr, and sweet Doc
Krasny. I might reach Africa before they did. Irrelevant as there was
only one probable war there now (that I knew of) and I intended to
shun that area like the plague.

Plague! I must at once prepare a report on plague for Gloria To-mosawa
and for my friends at Ell-Five, Mr. and Mrs. Mortenson. It
seemed preposterously unlikely that anything I could say would persuade
them or anyone else that a Black Death epidemic was coming
in only two and a half years--I hadn't believed it myself. But, if I
could make responsible people uneasy enough so that antirat measures
were tightened and health checks at CHI barriers be made
more than a meaningless ritual, it might--it just might--save space
colonies and Luna.

Unlikely-- But I had to try.

The only other thing I had to do was make one more check on
my missing friends... then let the matter rest until I came down
from Stationary Station or (one may hope!) returned from the
Grand Tour. Surely one can call Sydney or Winnipeg or anywhere
from Stationary Station... but at much higher cost. I had learned
lately that wanting something and being able to pay for it were not
the same.

I punched the Tormeys' Winnipeg call code, resigned to hearing:


295 I


"The code you have signaled is temporarily out of service at the subscriber's
request."
What I got was: "Pirates Pizza Palace!"
I muttered, "Sorry, I punched wrong," and cleared the board.
Then I punched again, most carefully--
--and got: "Pirates Pizza Palace!"
This time I said, "I'm sorry to bother you. I'm in Las Vegas Free
State and have been trying to reach a friend in Winnipeg--but
twice I've reached you. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
"What code did you punch?"
I told the friendly voice. "That's us," she agreed. "Best giant piz-zas
in British Canada. But we opened just ten days ago. Maybe your
friend used to have this call code?"
I agreed with that, thanked the pleasant voice, and cleared--sat
back and thought. Then I punched ANZAC Winnipeg while wishing
mightily that this minimum-service terminal could bring in a
picture from farther away than Las Vegas itself; in trying to play Pin-kerton
it helps to watch faces. Once ANZAC's computer answered,
I asked for the operations duty officer, I having become somewhat
more sophisticated in how to handle that computer. I told the woman
who answered, "I'm Friday Jones, a New Zealand friend of Captain
and Mrs. Tormey. I tried to call their home and could not
reach them. I wonder if you can help me?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Really? Not even a suggestion?"
"I'm sorry. Captain Tormey resigned. He even cashed in his pension
rights. I understand that he's sold his house, so I assume that he
is gone for good. I do know that the only address we have for him is
his brother-in-law's address at the University of Sydney. But we
can't give out addresses."
I said, "I think you mean Professor Federico Farnese, Biology
Department, at the University."
"That's right. I see you know it."
"Yes, Freddie and Betty are old friends; I knew them when they
lived in Auckland. Well, I'll wait till I'm home to call Freddie and
that will get me Ian. Thanks for being so helpful."
"My pleasure. When you talk to Captain Tormey, please tell him
that Junior Piloting Officer Pamela Heresford sends her best."

[296

"I will remember."
"If you are going home soon, I have good news for you. The semi
schedule for Auckland is now fully restored. We've run ten days of
cargo-only and we are now certain that there fs no longer any way
our ships can be sabotaged. We are offering a forty percent discount
on all fares now, too; we want to get our old friends back."
I thanked her again but told her that, since I was in Vegas, I expected
to leave from Vandenberg, then switched off before I had to
improvise more lies.
Again I sat and thought. Now that the SBs were running should I
go to Sydney first? There was--or used to beta weekly trajectory
from Cairo to Melbourne, and vice versa. If it was not running it
was possible to go by tube and float craft via Singapore, Rangoon,
Delhi, Teheran, Cairo, then down to Nairobi--but it would be expensive,
long, and uncertain, with squeeze at every move and always
the chance of being grounded by some local disturbance. I
might wind up in Kenya without money enough to go up the Bean-stalk.
A last resort. A desperate one.
I called Auckland, was unsurprised to be told by the computer
that Ian's call code was not operative. I checked to see what time it
was in Sydney, then called the university, not doing it the routine
way through its admin office but punching straight through to its
biology department, a call code I had obtained a month back.
I recognized a familiar Strine accent. "Marjorie Baldwin here, Irene. Still trying to find my lost sheep."
"My word! Luv, I tried, I did try, to deliver your message. But
Professor Freddie never did come back to his office. He's left us.
Gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"You wouldn't believe how many people would like to know! I'm
not even supposed to be telling you this. Somebody cleaned out his
desk, there's no hide nor hair in his flat--gone! I can't tell you more
than that, because nobody knows."
After that dismaying call I sat still and thought, then called the
Winnipeg Werewolves Security Guards. I went as high as I could,
to a man who described himself as Assistant Commandant, and told
him truthfully who I was (Marjorie Baldwin), where I was (Las Ve-

297 I


gas), and what I wanted, a lead to my friends. "Your company was
guarding their home before it was sold. Can you tell me who bought
it, or who the agent was who sold it, or both?"
Then I certainly wished for vision as well as sound! He answered,
"Look, sister, I can smell a cop even through a terminal. Go back
and tell your chief that he got nothing off us last time and he gets
nothing off us this time."
I held my temper and answered quietly, "I am not a cop although
I can see why you might think so. I really am in Las Vegas, which
you can confirm by calling me back, collect."
"Not interested."
"Very well. Captain Tormey owned a matched pair of black Mor-
gans. Can you tell me who bought them?"
"Copper, get lost."
Ian had shown excellent judgment: The Werewolves really were
loyal to their clients.
If I had plenty of time and money, I might dig up something by
going to Winnipeg and/or Sydney and rooting at it myself. If wishes
were horses-- Forget it, Friday; you are at last totally alone; you've
lost them.
Do you want to see Goldie badly enough to get involved in a war
in East Abica?
But Goldie did not want to stay with you badly enough to stay out
of that war--doesn't that tell you something?
Yes, it tells me something I know but always hate to admit: I always
need people more than they need me. It's your old basic insecurity,
Friday, and you know where it comes from and you know
what Boss thought about it.
All right, we go to Nairobi tomorrow. Today we write up the
Black Death report for Gloria and for the Mortensons. Then get
full night's sleep and leave. Uh, eleven hours time difference; try to
get an early start. Then don't worry about Janet and Co. until you
get back from the Beanstalk with your mind made up about
to colonize. Then you can afford to spend your last gram in a flat-out
attempt to find them... because Gloria Tomosawa will handle
things once you tell her what planet you have picked.
I actually did get a long night's sleep.
The next morning I had packed--same old jumpbag, nothing
much in it--and was puttering around the kitchen, dumping some
items and saving others with a note to my landlord, the leaseholder,
when the terminal buzzed.
It was the nice gal with the six-year-old boy at HyperSpace. "Glad
I caught you," she said. "My boss has a job for you."
(Tiraeo Danaos et dona ferentes.) I waited.
Fawcett's silly face showed. "You claim to be a courier."
"I'm the best."
"In this case, you had better be. This is an off-planet iob. Okay?" "Certainly."
"Take this down. Franklin Mosby, Finders, Inc., suite six hundred,
Shipstone Building, Beverly Hills. Now hurry; he wants to interview
you before noon."
I didn't write down the address. "Mr. Fawcett, that costs you one
kilobuck, plus round-trip tube fare. In advance."
"Huh? Ridiculous!"
"Mr. Fawcett, I suspect that you may hold a grudge. It might
strike you as funny to send me on a wild-goose chase and cause me
to waste a day and the price of a round-trip fare to Los Angeles."
"Funny girl. Look, you can pick up your fare here at the office--after
the interview; you've got to leave now. As for that kilobuck...
shall I tell you what to do with it?"
"Don't bother. For master-at-arms I would expect only master-at-arms
wages. But as courier... I am the best and if this man really
does want the best, he will pay my interview fee without a second
thought." I added, "You're not serious, Mr. Fawcett. Good-bye." I
cleared.
He called back seven minutes later. He talked as if it hurt him.
"Your round trip and the kilobuck will be at the station. But that
kilobuck is against your salary and you pay it back if you don't get
the job. Either way, I get my commission."
"It will not be paid back under any circumstances, and you get no
commission from me because I have not appointed you my agent.
Perhaps you can collect something from Mosby but, if so, it does
not come out of my salary or my interview fee. And I'm not going
down to the station to wait around like a boy playing snipe hunt. If
you mean business, you'll send the money here."
"You're impossible!" His face left the screen but he did not clear



I 298
	299 I


it. His assistant came on. "Look," she said, "this job really
have heat behind it. Will you meet me at the station under the New
Cortez? I'll get there as fast as I can make it and I'll have your fare
and your fee."

"Certainly, dear. A pleasure."

I called my landlord, told him I was leaving the key in the refrigerator
and be sure to salvage the food.

What Fawcett did not know was that nothing could have induced
me not to keep this appointment. The name and address was that
which Boss had caused me to memorize just before he died. I had
never done anything about it because he had not told me vhy he
wanted me to memorize it. Now I would see.


XXVIII


All the sign on the door said was FINDERS, INC. and SPECIALISTS
IN OFF-PLANET PROBLEMS. I went in and a live receptionist said
to me, "They filled the job, dearie; I got it."

"I wonder how long you will keep it. I'm here by appointment to
see Mr. Mosby."

She looked me over carefully, in no hurry. "Call girl?"

"Thank you. Where do you get your hair dyed? Look, I'm sent
here by HyperSpace Lines, Las Vegas office. Every second is costing
your boss bruins. I'm Friday Jones. Announce me."

"You're kidding." She touched her console, spoke into a hush-phone.
I stretched my ears. "Frankie, there's a fioozie out here
says she has an appointment with you. Claims to be from Hypo in
Vegas."

"God damn it, I've told you not to call me that at work. Send
her in."

"I don't think she's from Fawcett. Are you two-timing me?"
"Shut up and send her in."

She pushed aside the hushphone. "Sit down over there. Mr.

Mosby is in conference. I'll let you know as soon as he is free."
"That isn't what he told you."

"Huh? Since when do you know so much?"

"He told you not to call him Frankie at work, and to send me in.
You gave him some backtalk and he told you to shut up and to send
me in. So I'm going in. Better announce me."


I 300
	301


Mosby appeared to be about fifty trying to look thirty-five. He had.
an expensive tan, expensive clothes, a big, toothy smile, and cold
eyes. He motioned me toward a visitor's chair. "What took you so
long? I told Fawcett I wanted to see you before noon." :i
I glanced at my finger, then at his desk clock. Twelve-oh-four. "I' ve come four hundred and fifty kilometers plus a crosstown shuttle
since eleven o'clock. Shall I go back to Vegas and see if I can beat that time? Or shall we get down to business?"
"I told Fawcett to see to it that you caught the ten o'clock. Oh,
well. I understand you need a iob."
"I'm not hungry. I was told that you needed a courier for an off- planet job." I took out a copy of my brag sheet, handed it to him.
"Here are my qualifications. Look it over and, if I am what you
want, tell me about the job. I'll listen and tell you whether or not
I'm interested."
He glanced at the sheet. "The reports I have tell.me that you are hungry."
"Only in that it is getting on toward lunchtime. My fee schedule
is on that sheet. It is subject to negotiation--upwards."
"You're pretty sure of yourself." He looked again at my brag
sheet. "How's Kettle Belly these days?"
"Who?"
"It says here that you worked for System Enterprises. I asked you,
'How is Kettle Belly?' Kettle Belly Baldwin."
(Was this a test? Had everything since breakfast been carefully
calculated to cause me to lose my temper? If so, the proper response
would be not to lose my temper no matter what.) "The Chairman of
System Enterprises was Dr. Hartley Baldwin. I've never heard him
called Kettle Belly."
"I believe he does have some sort of a doctor's degree. But
body in the trade calls him Kettle Belly. I asked you how he is."
(Watch it, Friday!)"He's dead."
"Yeah, I know. I wondered if you knew. In this business you
lot of ringers. All right, let's see this marsupial pouch of yours."
"Excuse me?"
"Look, I'm in a hurry. Show me your bellybutton."
(Just where did the leak occur? Uh--- No, we killed that gang. All

of them--or so Boss thought. Doesn't mean it couldn't have leaked
from there before we killed them. No matter--it did leak . . . as
Boss said it would.) "Frankie boy, if you want to play bellybuttons
with me, I must warn you that the bleached blonde in your outer
office is listening and almost certainly recording."
"Oh, she doesn't listen. She has her instructions about that."
"Instructions she carries out the way she carries out your injunction
not to call you Frankie during working hours. Look, Mr. Mosby,
you started discussing classified matters under not-secure
conditions. If you want her to be part of this conference, bring her
in. If not, get her out of the circuit. But let's have no more breaches
of security."
He drummed on his desk, then got up very suddenly, went into
his outer office. The door was not totally soundproof; I heard angry
voices, muffled. He came back in, looking annoyed. "She's gone to
lunch. Now don't give me any more gulf. If you are who you say
you are, Friday Jones, also known as Marjorie Baldwin, formerly a
courier for Kettle--for Dr. Baldwin, managing director of System
Enterprises, you have a pouch created by surgery back of your navel.
Show it to me. Prove your identity."
I thought about it. A requirement that I prove my identity was not
unreasonable. Fingerprint identification is a joke, at least inside the
profession. Clearly the existence of my courier's pouch was now a
broached secret. It would never be useful again--except that right
now it could be used to prove that I was me. I was I? It sounds silly
either way. "Mr. Mosby, you paid a kilobuck to interview me." "I certainly did! So far I've had nothing from you but static." "I'm sorry. I've never been asked to show my trick bellybutton
before, because up to recently it has been a closely held secret. Or
so I thought. Evidently it is no longer a secret, since you know of it.
That tells me that I can no longer use it for classified work. If the job you have for me requires the use of it, perhaps you had better reconsider.
A secret just a little bit broached is like a girl just a little bit
pregnant."
"Well . . . yes and no. Show me."
I showed him. I keep a smooth nylon sphere one centimeter in
diameter in my pouch so that the pouch won't shrink between jobs.


I popped out the sphere, letting him watch, and then replaced
then let him see that it was not possible to tell my navel from a nor-

mal navel. He studied it carefully. "It doesn't hold very much."
"Maybe you would rather hire a kangaroo."

"It's big enough for the purpose--barely. You'll be carrying the
most valuable cargo in the galaxy, but it won't occupy much space.
Zip up and adjust your clothing; we're going to lunch and we

mustn't--must not be late."

"What is all this?"

"Tell you on the way. Hurry up."


A carriage was already waiting for us. Back of Beverly Hills, in the
hills that name that town, is a very old hotel that is also very swank.
It has the stink of money, an odor I don't despise. Between fires and
the Big Quake it has been rebuilt several times, always to look just as
it did but (so I hear) the last time it was rebuilt to be totally fire- and
earthquakeproof.

It took about twenty minutes to drive, at a spanking trot, from the
Shipstone Building to the hotel; Mosby used it to fill me in. "During
this ride is about the only time that both of us can be sure that
we don't have an Ear planted on us--"

(I wondered if he believed that. I could think of three obvious
places for an Ear: my jumpbag, his pockets, and the cushions of the
carriage. And there were always endless unobvious places. But it
was his problem. I had no secrets. None, now that my bellybutton
was a window to the world.)

"--so let me talk fast. I'm meeting your price. Furthermore there
will be a bonus on completed performance. The trip is from Earth
to The Realm. That's what you're paid for; the trip back is deadhead
but, since the round trip is four months, you'll be paid for four
months. You collect your bonus at the far end at the imperial capital.
Salary--one month in advance, the rest as you go. Okay?"

"Okay." I had to avoid sounding too enthusiastic. A round trip to
The Realm? My dear man, only yesterday I was anxious'to make
this trip at petty officer's wages. "What about my expenses?"

"You won't have much in the way of expenses. Those luxury liners
are all-expense deals."


[304


"Gratuities, squeeze, groundside excursions, walking-around
money, Bingo and such aboard ship--at a minimum such expenses
are never less than twenty-five percent of the price of the ticket. If
I'm going to pretend to be a rich tourist, I must behave like one. Is
that my cover?"

"Uh... Well, yes. All right, all right--nobody's going to fuss if
you spend a few thousand pretending to be Miss Rich Bitch. Keep
track and bill us at the end."

"No. Advance the money, twenty-five percent of the ticket cost. I
won't keep records as it would not be in character; Miss Rich Bitch
would not keep track of such trivia."

"All right already! Shut up and let me talk; we'll soon be there.
You're a living artifact."

I had not felt that cold chill in quite a while. Then I braced up
and resolved to make him pay heavily for that one crude, rude remark.
"Are you being intentionally offensive?"

"No, I'm not. Don't get in a flutter. You and I know that an artificial
person can't be told, offhand, from a natural person. You'll be
carrying, in stasis, a modified human ovum. You will carry it in
your navel pouch, where the constant temperature and the cushioning
will protect the stasis. When you reach The Realm, you will
catch a flu bug or some such and go to hospital. While you are in
this hospital, what you are carrying will be transferred to where it
will do the most good. You'll be paid the bonus and will leave the
hospital . . . with the happy knowledge that you have enabled a
young couple to have a perfect baby when they were dead-certain,
almost, to have a defective one. Christmas disease."

I decided that the story was mostly true. "The Dauphiness."
"What? Don't be silly!"

"And it is considerably more than Christmas disease, which, by
itself, might be ignored in a royal person. The First Citizen himself
is concerned with this since this time succession is passing through
his daughter rather than through a son. This job is much more important
and much more hazardous than you told me . . . so the
price goes up."

That pair of beautiful bays went clopping on up Rodeo Drive another
hundred meters before Mosby answered. "All right. God help


I


you if you talk. You wouldn't live long. We'll increase the bonus.
Ands"

"You'll damn well double the bonus and deposit it to my account
before we warp. This is the kind of a job where people grow forgetful
after it's over."

"Well--I'll do what I can. We are about to have lunch with Mr.
Sikmaa--and you are expected not to spot the fact that he is personal
representative of The First Citizen with an interworld rank of
Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary. Now
straighten up and mind your table manners."


Four days later I was again minding my table manners at the right of
the Captain of H. S. Forward. My name was now Miss Marjorie
Friday and I was so offensively rich that I had been fetched up from
groundside to Stationary Station in Mr. Sikmaa's own antigray
yacht and whisked through into the Forward without having to
bother with anything so plebeian as passport control, health, and so
forth. My luggage had come aboard at the same time--box after box'
of expensive, stylish clothing, appropriate jewelry--but others took
care of it; I did not have to bother with anything.

Three of those days I had spent in Florida in what felt like a hospital
but was (I knew!) a superbly equipped genetic engineering laboratory.
I could infer which one it was but I kept my guesses to
myself as speculation about anything was not encouraged. While I
was there I was given the most thorough physical examination I
have ever heard of. I did not know why they were checking my
health in a style ordinarily reserved for heads of state and chairmen
of multinationals but I presumed that they were jumpy about en-trusting
to anyone not in perfect health the protecting and delivering
of an ovum that would become, in the course of years,
Citizen of the fabulously wealthy Realm. It was a good time to
my mouth shut.

Mr. Sikmaa used none of the sharpshooting that both

and Mosby had tried. Once he decided that I would .do, he sent
Mosby home and catered to me so lavishly that I had no need to
dicker. Twenty-five percent for casual money?--not enough; make
that fifty percent. Here it is; take it--in gold and in Luna City gold
certificates--and, if you need more, just tell the purser and sign for
it, a draft on me. No, we won't use a written contract; this is not that
sort of a mission--just tell me what you want and you shall have it.
And here is a little booklet that tells you who you are and where you
went to school and all the rest. You will have plenty of time in the
next three days to memorize it and if you forget to burn it, don't fret;
the fibers are impregnated so that it self-destroys in the next three
days---don't be surprised if the pages are yellow and somewhat brittle
on the fourth day.

Mr. Sikmaa had thought of everything. Before we left Beverly
Hills, he brought a photographer in; she shot me from several angles,
me dressed in a smile, in high heels, in low heels, in bare feet.
When my luggage showed up in the Forward, every item fitted me
perfectly, all the styles and colors suited me, and the clothes carried
a spread of famous designer's names from Italy, from Paris, from
Bei-Jing, et al.

I'm not used to haute couture and don't know how to handle it,
but Mr. Sikmaa had that covered, too. I was met at the airlock by a
pretty little Oriental creature named Shizuko who told me that she
was my personal maid. Since I had been bathing and dressing myself
since I was five, I felt no need for a maid, but again it was time
to roll with the blow.

Shizuko conducted me to cabin BB (not quite big enough for a
volley-ball court). Once there, it appeared that (in Shizuko's opinion)
there was just barely time enough to get me ready for dinner.

With dinner three hours away this struck me as excessive. But she
was firm and I was going along with whatever was suggested---I did
not need a diagram to tell me that Mr. Sikmaa had planted her
there.

She bathed me. While this was going on, there was a sudden
surge in the gray control as the ship warped away. Shizuko steadied
me and kept it from being a wet disaster and did it so skillfully that
she convinced me that she was used to warp ships. She didn't look
old enough.

She spent a full hour on my hair and my face. In the past I had
washed my face when it seemed to need it and styled my hair mostly
by whacking it off enough to keep it out of way. I learned what a


I 306
	307 I


bumpkin I was. While Shizuko was reincarnating me as the Goddess
of Love and Beauty the cabin's little terminal chimed. Letters
appeared on the screen while the same message extruded from the
printout, an impudent tongue:

The Master of HyperSpaceShip Forward Requests the Pleasure of the Company
of Miss Marjorie Friday
for Sherry and Bonhomie
in the Captain's Lounge
at nineteen hundred hours
regrets only

I was surprised. Shizuko was not. She had already hung out and
touched up a cocktail dress. It covered me completely and I have
never been so indecently dressed.
Shizuko refused to let me be on time. She led me to the Captain's
Lounge timed so that I went through the receiving line at seven
minutes after the hour. The cruise hostess already knew my (current)
name and the Captain bowed over my hand. It is my considered
opinion that being a VIP in a spaceship is a better deal than
being a spaceship master-at-arms.
"Sherry" includes highballs, cocktails, Icelandic Black Death,
Spring Rain from The Realm (deadlydon't touch it), Danish
beer, ome pink stuff from Fiddler's Green, and, I have no doubt,
Panther Sweat if you ask for it. It also includes thirty-one different
sorts (I counted) of tasty tidbits you eat with your fingers. I was a
credit to Mr. Sikmaa; I really did take sherry and only one small
glass, and I greatly restrained myself when offered, again and again
and again and again, those thirty-one tasty temptations.
And it is well that I resisted. This ship puts on the nosebag eight
times a day (again I counted): early morning coffee (caf cornflakes -- that is, with pastry), breakfast, midmorning refreshment, tiffin,
afternoon tea with sandwiches and more pastry, cocktail-hour hots
d'oeuvres (those thirty-one sinful traps), dinner (seven courses if you
can stay the route), midnight buffet supper. But if you feel peckish
at any hour, you can always order sandwiches and snacks from the
pantry.

The ship has two swimming pools, a gymnasium, a Turkish bath,
a Swedish sauna, and a "Girth Control" clinic. Two and a third
times around the main promenade is a kilometer. I don't think this
is enough; some of our shipmates are eating their way across the
galaxy. My own major problem will be to arrive at the imperial capital
still able to find my bellybutton.
Dr. Jerry Madsen, Junior Medical Officer, who doesn't look old
enough to be a sawbones, cut me out of the mob at the Captain's
sherry, then was waiting for me after dinner. (He does not eat at the
Captain's table or even in the dining room; he eats with the other
younger officers in the wardroom.) He took me to the Galactic
Lounge, where we danced, then there was a cabaret show--singing,
specialty dancing, and a juggle who did magic tricks on the side
(which made me think of those pigeons, and of Coldie, and I felt
suddenly wistful but suppressed it).
Then there was more dancing and two other young officers, Tom
Udell and Jaime Lopez, rotated with Jerry, and finally the lounge
shut down and all three took me (0 a little cabaret called The Black
Hole, and I firmly declined to get drunk but danced whenever I was
asked. Dr. Jerry managed to outsit the others and took me back to
cabin BB at an hour quite late by ship's time but not especially late
by the Florida time by which I had gotten up that morning.
Shizuko was waiting, dressed in a beautiful formal kimono, silk
slippers, and high makeup of another sort. She bowed to us, indicated
that we should sit down at the lounge end-the bedroom end
is shut off by a screen--and served us tea and little cakes.
After a short time Jerry stood up, wished me a good night, and
left. Then Shizuko undressed me and put me to bed.
I did not have any firm plans about Jerry though no doubt he
could have persuaded me had he worked on it--my heels are quite
short, I know. But both of us were sharply aware that Shizuko was
sitting there, hands folded, watching, waiting. Jerry did not even
kiss me good-night.
After putting me to bed, Shizuko went to bed on the other side of
the screen--some deal with bedclothes she took out of a cupboard.
I was never before quite so closely chaperoned, even in Christ-church.
Could this be part of my unwritten contract?



308
	309 I


XXlX


A spaceship--a hyperspaceship--is a terribly interesting place Of
course it takes very, very advanced knowledge of wave mechanics
and multidimensional geometry to,understand what pushes the
ship, education that I don't have and probably never will (although I
would like to back up and study for it, even now). Rockets--no
problem; Newton told us how. Antigrav--a mystery until Dr. Forward
came along and explained it; now it's everywhere. But how
does a ship massing about a hundred thousand formes (so the Captain
told me) manage to speed up to almost eighteen hundred times
the speed of light?--without spilling the soup or waking anyone.

I don't know. This ship has the biggest Shipstones I've ever seen
 . . but Tim Flaherty (he's second assistant engineer) tells me that
they are charged down only at the middle of each jump, then they
finish the voyage having used only "parasitic" power (ship's
cooking, ship's auxiliary services, etc.).

That sounds to me like a violation of the Law of Conservation
Energy. I was brought up to bathe regularly and to believe
There Ain't No Such Thing as a Free Lunch; I told him so. He
grew just a touch impatient and assured me that it was indeed the
Law of Conservation of Energy that caused it to work out that way--it
worked just like a funicular; you got back what you put in.


I don't know There aren't any cables out there; it can't be a fu-nicular.
But it does work

The navigation of this ship is even more confusing. Only they
don't call it navigation; they don't even call it astrogation; they call it
"cosmonautics." Now somebody is pulling Friday's leg because the
engineer officers told me that the officers on the bridge (it's not a
bridge) who practice cosmonautics are cosmetic officers because
they are there just for appearances; the computer does all the
work---and Mr. Lopez the second officer says that the ship has to
have engineering officers because the union requires it but the computer
does it all.

Not knowing the math for either one is like going to a lecture and
not knowing the language.

I have learned one thing: Back in Las Vegas I thought that every
Grand Tour was Earth, Proxima, Outpost, Fiddler's Green, Forest,
Botany Bay, Halcyon, Midway, The Realm, and back to Earth because
that's how the recruiting posters read. Wrong. Each voyage is
tailored. Usually all nine planets are touched but the only fixed feature
in the sequence is that Earth is at one end and The Realm,
almost a hundred light-years away (98.7 + ), is at the other. The seven
way stations can be picked up either going out or coming back.
However, there is a rule that controls how they are fitted in: Going
out the distance from Earth must be greater at each stop, coming
back the distance must decrease. This is not nearly as complex as it
sounds; it simply means the ship does not double backsjust the way
you would plan a shopping trip of many stops.

But this leaves lots of flexibility. The nine stars, the suns of these
planets, are lined up fairly close to a straight line. See the sketch
with the Centaur and the Wolf. Looking from Earth, all those stars,
as you can see, are either at the front end of the Centaur or close by
in the Wolf. (I know the Wolf doesn't look too well but the Centaur
has been clobbering him for thousands of years. Besides, I've never
seen a wolfa four-legged wolf, that is--and it's the best I can do.
Come to think of it, I've never seen a Centaur, either.)

That's the way those stars cluster in Earth's night sky. You have to
be about as far south as Florida or Hong Kong to see them at all,
and even then, with bare eyes you will see only Alpha Centauri.


Earth's Sky-Vicinity of Cmun and IJpus

Right Ascension (= RA) in Hours and Minutes
(1 h = 15 degrees of arc)

	15/40 15/20 15/00
	14/40
	14/20 14/00

M I DWAY

HALCYON

R'S GREEN
REST

PROXIMA

	BAY

THE REALM


	OUTPOST

	13/40

	I
	Declination

		in Degrees

		(South)

41
42
43

45
46
47
48
49 50

55
56

69

But Alpha Centauri (Rigil Kentaurus) really shines out, third
brightest star in Earth's sky. Three stars it is, actually, a brilliant one
that is the twin brother of Sol, one not as bright that it is paired
with, and a distant, dim, small companion that swings around
of them about a fifteenth of a light-year away. Years ago Alpha
tauri was known as Proxima. Then somebody bothered to m
the distance to this inconsequential third cousin and found that
was a hair closer, so the title of Proxima or "Nearest" was moved to
this useless chunk of real estate. Then, when we set up a colony on
the third planet of Alpha Centauri A (the twin of Sol), the colonists
called their planet Proxima.

Eventually the astronomers who tried to shift the title to the dim
companion were all dead and the colonists got their way. Just as
well, because that dim star, while a hair closer today, will soon be
farther away--just hold your breath a few millennia. Being "ballisti-cally
linked" it averages the same distance from Earth as the other
two in the triplet.
Look at the second sketch, the one with "right ascension" across
the top and "light-years" down the side.

Right Ascension in Hours and Minutes

	15/40
	15/20 15/00 14/40 14/20 14/00 13/40

		Light-

		Years

		from

	THE REALM
	Earth
		D
	100

	MI
		95
		90

		85

		8O

HALCYON

	75
	'
	xfANY BAY
	70

			65
60
	FIDDLER'S FOREST
	,
		55

	GREEN %-

	50

				45
	/

		35
			30

			25

			20

			15

			10

	PROXIMA /
		5

		SOL-TERRA-LUNA
	0

I must be the only person out of the hundreds in this ship who did not know that our first stop on this voyage would not be Proxima.
Mr. Lopez (who was showing me the bridge) looked at me as if I
were a retarded child who had just made another unfortunate slip.
(But that did not matter because he is not interested in my brain.) I
didn't dare explain to him that I had been snatched aboard at the
last moment; it would have blown my cover. However, Miss Rich
Bitch is not required to be bright.

I 312
	313 I


The ship usually stops at Proxima both going and coming. Mr.
Lopez explained that this time they had little cargo and only a few
passengers for Proxima, not enough to pay for the stop. So that cargo
and those passengers were put off until the Maxwell warps next
month; this trip the Forward will call at Proxima on the way home,
with cargo and, possibly, passengers from the other seven ports. Mr.
Lopez explained (and I did not understand) that traveling many
light-years in space costs almost nothing--mostly rations for passen-gers-but
stopping at a planet is terribly expensive, so any stop
to be worthwhile on the balance sheet.
So here is where we are going this trip (see second sketch again):
first to Outpost, then to Botany Bay, then to The Realm, on to Midway,
Halcyon, Forest, Fiddler's Green, Proxima (at last!), and on
home to Earth.
I'm not unhappy about it--quite the contrary! I will get rid of this
"most valuable cargo in the galaxy" less than a month after warping
away from Stationary Station--then the whole long trip home will
be a real tourist trip. Fun! No responsibilities. Lots of ti,me to look
over these colonies squired around by eager young officers who
smell good and are always polite. If Friday (or Miss Rich Bitch)
can't have fun with that setup, it is time to cremate me; I'm dead.
Now see the third sketch, declination across the top, light-years
down the side. This one makes the routing seem quite reasonablem
but if you look back at the second sketch, you will see that the leg
from Botany Bay to Outpost, which seems on the third sketch to
skim the photosphere of Forest's sun, in fact misses it by many light-years.
Picturing this voyage actually calls for three dimensions. You
can take the data from the sketches and from the table below and
punch it into your terminal and pull out a three-dimensional holo-gram;
it all makes sense seen that way. There is one on the
frozen so that you can examine it in detail. Mr. Lopez, who
these sketches (all but Joe Centaur and the sad wolf) warned
a flat plot simply could not portray three-dimensional
tics. But it helps to think of these three sketches as plan view, side
view, and front elevation, as in visualizing a house from its plans;
that is exactly analogous.
When Mr. Lopez gave me a printout of this table, he warned me

South Declination (Minus) in Degrees of Arc

	-40
	-45
	-50
	-55
	-60

-65

MIDWAY
BOTANY BAY
FOREST

FIDDLER'S GREEN

THE REALM
HALCYON


PROXIMA
SOL-TERRA-LUNA

Light-
Years
#om
Earth
100
95
90
85
8O
75
70
65
60
55
50
45
40
35
30
25
20
15
10
5
0

Lt-yrs
away

40.7

67.9

98.7

4.38

57.15

50.1

90.5

81.45

Data Concerning Eight Colonial Planets and Their Stars

Name
	Ctlg Spctrl
	Surf Abslt RA
	Number Type
	Temp K
	Mgntd
	Decl

Outpost DM-54
	G8
	5300
	5.5

	5466
Botany
	DM-44
	G4
	5900
	4.7

Bay
	9181

The
	DM-51
	G5
	5700
	5.4

Realm
	8206

Proxima
	Alpha
	G2
	5600
	4.35

	Cen. A
Forest
	DM-48
	G5
	5500
	5.1
	9494
Fiddler's Nu(2)
	G2
	5800
	4.7
Green
	Lupi

Midway
	DM-47
	G5
	5600
	6.1

	9926
Halcyon DM-49
	G5
	5300
	5.7

	9653
Sol
	--
	G2
	5800
	4.85

Notes

13h53m cold,
-54/27 bleak
14h12m Earthlike
-44/46
14h24m
	rich

-53/43
	empire

14h36m
	oldest

-60/38
	colony

14h55m
	new,

-48/39
	primitive

15hlSm
	restricted

-48/08

15h20m
	theocracy

-47/44
15h26m
	restricted

-49/47

--
	(for com-

	parison)

I 314
	315 I


that the data are of about grammar-school accuracy. If you aim a
telescope by these coordinates, you will find the right star, but for
science and for cosmonautics you need more decimal places, and
then correct for "epoch"--a fancy way of saying you must bring the
data up to date because each star moves. Outpost's sun moves the
least; it just about keeps up with the traffic in our part of the galaxy.
But the star of Fiddler's Green (Nu[2] Lupi) has a vector of 138 kilometers
per second--enough that Fiddler's Green will have moved
more than 1.S billion kilometers between two visits five months
apart by the Forward. This can be worrisome--according to Mr.
Lopez it can worry a skipper right out of his job because whether or
not a trip shows a profit depends on how closely a master can bring
his ship out of hyperspace to a port planet without hitting something
(such as a star!). Like driving an APV blindfolded!

But I will never pilot a hyperspaceship and Captain van Kooten
has a solid, reliable look to him. I asked him about i-t at dinner that
night. He nodded. "Ve find it. Only once hal ve had to send some
of de boys down in a landing boat to buy someting at a bakery and
read de signs."

I didn't know whether he expected me to laugh or to pretend to
believe him, so I asked what they bought at the bakery. He turned to
the lady on his left and pretended not to hear me. (The bakeshop in
the ship makes the best pastry I have ever tasted and should be padlocked.
)

Captain van Kooten is a gentle, fatherly man--yet ! have no trouble
visualizing him with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the
other, holding off a mob of mutinous cutthroats. He makes the ship
feel safe.


Shizuko is not the only guard placed on me. I think I have identified
four more and I am wondering if I have them all. Almost certainly
not, as ! have sometimes looked around and not spotted any
of them--yet the drill seems to be to have someone near me at all
times.

Paranoid? It sounds like it but I'm not. I am a professional who
has stayed alive through always noticing anything offbeat. This ship
has six hundred and thirty-two first-class passengers, some sixty-odd
uniformed officers, crew also in uniforms, and the cruise director's
staff of hosts and hostesses and dancing partners and entertainers
and such. The latter dress like passengers but they are young and
they smile and they make it their business to see to it that the passengers
are happy.

The passengers: In this ship a first-class passenger under age seventy
is a rarity--me, for example. We have two teen-age girls, one
teen-age boy, two young women, and a wealthy couple on their
honeymoon. All others in first class are candidates for a geriatrics
home. They are very old, very rich, and extremely self-centered--save
for a bare handful who have managed to grow old without turning
sour.

Of course none of these old dodderers are my guards, and neither
are the youngsters. The cruise staff I got sorted out in the first forty-eight
hours, whether they were musicians or whatever. I might have
suspected that some of the younger officers had been assigned to
watch me were it not that all of them stand duty watches, usually
eight hours out of twenty-four, and therefore can't take on another
full-time job. But my nose does not play me false; I lmow why they
follow me around. I don't get this much attention dirtside but there
is an acute shortage of beddable young females in this ship--thirty
young male officers versus four young, single females in first class,
other than Friday. With those odds a nubile female would have to
have very bad breath indeed not to carry a train like a comet.

But, with all these categories accounted for, I found some men
not accounted for. First class? Yes, they eat in the Ambrosia Room.
Business travelers? Maybe--but according to the first assistant purser,
business travelers go second class, not as swank but just as comfortable,
at half the cost.

Item: When Jerry Madsen takes me to The Black Hole with his
friends, here is this solitary bloke nursing a drink over in the corner.
Next morning Jimmy Lopez takes me swimming; this same bloke is
in the pool. In the card room I'm playing one-thumb with Tom--my
shadow is playing solitaire over on the far side.

Once or twice can be coincidence . . . but at the end of three
days I am certain that, anytime I am outside of suite BB, some one
of four men is somewhere in sight. He usually stays as far from me


317 I


as the geometry of the space permits---but he's there.

Mr. Sikmaa did impress on me that I was to carry "the most
valuable package any courier ever carried." But I did not expect
him to find it necessary to place guards around inside this ship.
Did he think that someone could sneak up and steal it out of my
bellybutton?

Or are the shadows not from Mr. Sikmaa? Was the secret
broached before I left Earth? Mr. Sikmaa seemed professionally
careful . . . but how about Mosby and his jealous secretary? I just
don't know--and I don't know enough about politics in The Realm
to make any guesses.


Later: Both of the young women are part of the watchful eye over
me but they close in only when and where the men cannot--the
beauty parlor, the dress shop, the women's sauna, etc. They never
bother me but I'm tired of it already. I'll be glad to deliver the package
so that I can fully enjoy this wonderful trip. Luckily the best part
is after we leave The Realm. Outpost is such a frost (literally!) that
no groundside excursions are planned there. Botany Bay is said to
be very pleasant and I must see it because it is a place to which I
may migrate later.

The Realm is described as rich and beautiful and I do want to see
it as a tourist--but I won't be moving there. While it is reputed to be
quite well governed, it is as absolute a dictatorship as is the Chicago
Imperium--I've had enough of that. But for a stronger reason I
would not consider asking for an immigrant's visa: I know too
much. Officially I don't know anything as Mr. Sikmaa never admitted
it and I didn't ask--but I won't stretch my luck by asking to
live there.

Midway is another place I want to see but don't want to live. Two
suns in its sky are enough to make it special... but it is the Pope-in-Exile
that makes it very special--to visit, not to stay. It really is
true that they celebrate Mass there in t)ublic! Captain van Kooten
says so and Jerry tells me that he has seen it with his own eyes and
that I can see it, too--no charge, but a contribution for charity on
the part of a gentile is good manners.

I'm tempted to do it. It's not really dangerous and I'll probably
never have a chance like this again in my whole life.


318


Of course I'll check out Halcyon and Fiddler's Green. Each must
be extra-special or they would not command such high prices...
but I'll be looking for the joker in the deck every minute--such as
that at Eden. I would hate to ask Gloria to pay a high fee to get me
in... then discover that I hated the place.

Forest is supposed to be nothing much for a tourist--no ameni-ties-but
I want to give it a very careful look. It is the newest colony,
of course, still in the log-cabin stage and totally dependent on Earth
and/or The Realm for tools and instruments.

But isn't that just the time to join a colony in order to feel great
gusty joy in every minute?

Jerry just looks sour. He tells me to go look at it... and learn for
myself that life in the forest primeval is greatly overrated.

I don't know. Maybe I could make a deal for stopover privilege:
pick up this ship or one of her sisters some months from now. Must
ask the Captain.


Yesterday there was a holo at the Stardust Theater that I wanted to
see, a musical comedy, The Connecticut Yankee and Queen Guine-vere.
It was supposed to be quite funny, with romantic-revival music,
and loaded with beautiful horses and beautiful pageantry. I
avoided my swains and went alone. Or almost alone; I could not
avoid my guards.

This man--"number three" in my mind, although the passenger
list said that he was "Howard J. Bullfinch, San Diego"-followed
me in and settled down right behind me . . . unusual, since they
normally stayed as far away from me as the size of a room permitted.
Perhaps he thought he might lose track of me after they lowered the
lights; I don't know. His presence behind me distracted me. When
the Queen sank her fangs into the Yankee and dragged him into her
boudoir, instead of thinking about the fun going on in the holotank,
I was trying to sort out and analyze all the odors that reached me--not
easy in a crowded theater.

When the play was over and the lights came up, I reached the
side aisle just as my shadow did; he gave way. I smiled and thanked
him, then made exit by the forward door; he followed. That exit
leads to a short staircase, four steps. I stumbled, fell backward, and
he caught me.


319 I


"Thank you!" I said. "For that I am taking you to the Centaur Bar

to buy you a drink."

"Oh, not at all!"

"Oh, most emphatically. You are going to explain to me why you
have been following me and who hired you and several other
things."

He hesitated. "You have made some mistake."

"Not me, Mac. Would you rather come quietly . . . or would
you rather explain it to the Captain?"

He gave a little quizzical smile. (Or was it cynical?) "Your words
are most persuasive even though you are mistaken. But I insist on
paying for the drinks."

"All right. You owe me that. And then some."

I picked a table in the corner where we could not be overheard by
other customers... thereby ensuring that we could be overheard by
an Ear. But, aboard ship, how can one avoid an Ear? You can't.

We were served, then I said to him almost silently, "Can you
read lips?"

"Not very well," he admitted at the same low level.

"Very well, let's keep it as low as possible and hope that random
noise will confuse the Ear. Mac, tell me one thing: Have you raped
any other helpless females lately?"

He flinched. I don't think anyone can be hit that hard and not
flinch. But he paid me the courtesy of respecting my brain and
showed that he was a brain, too, by answering, "Miss Friday, how
did you recognize me?"

"Odor," I answered. "Odor at first; you sat too close to me. Then,
as we left the theater, I forced on you a voice check. And I stumbled
on the stairs and forced you to put your arms around me. That did
it. Is there an Ear on us here?"

"Probably. But it may not be recording and it is possible that
one is monitoring it now."

"Too much." I worried it. Walk side by side on the promenade?
An Ear would have trouble with that setup without continuous
tracking, but tracking could be automatic if Mac had a beacon on
him. Or I myself might be booby-trapped. Aquarius Pool? Acoustics
in a swimming pool are always bad, which was good. But, damn it,
I needed more privacy. "Leave your drink and come with me."


I took him to cabin BB. Shizuko let us in. So far as I could tell
she stood a twenty-four-hour watch except that she slept when I did.
Or I thought she did. I asked her, "What do we have later, Shi-zuko?"

"Purser's party, Missy. Nineteen o'clock."

"I see. Go take a walk or something. Come back in one hour."
"Too late. Thirty minutes."
"One hour!"

She answered humbly, "Yes, Missy" but not before I caught
her glance at him and his scant five-millimeter nod.

With Shizuko gone and the door bolted I said quietly, "Are you
her boss or is she yours?"

"Some argument," he admitted. "Maybe 'cooperating independent
agents' describes it."

"I see. She's quite professional. Mac, do you know where the
Ears are in here or will we have to work out some way to defeat
them? Are you willing to have your sordid past discussed and recorded
on tape somewhere? I can't think of anything that would embarrass
me--after all, I was the innocent victim--but I want you to
speak freely."

Instead of answering he pointed: over my couch on the lounge
side, over the head of my bed, into my bathroom--then he touched
his eye and pointed to a spot where the bulkhead met the overhead
opposite the couch.

I nodded. Then I dragged two chairs off into the corner farthest
from the couch and out of line of sight for the Eye location he had
indicated. I switched on the terminal, punched it for music, selected
a tape featuring the Salt Lake City Choir. Perhaps an Ear could
reach through and sort out our voices but I did not think so.

We sat down and I continued, "Mac, can you think of any good

reason why I should not kill you right now?"

"Just like that? Without even a hearing?"

"Why do we need a hearing? You raped me. You know it, I know
it. But I am giving you this much of a hearing. Can you think of any

reason why you should not be summarily executed for your crime?"
"Well, since you put it that way-- No, I can't."

Men will be the death of me. "Mac, you are a most exasperating
man. Can't you see that I don't want to kill you and am looking for a

I 320
	321 I


reasonable excuse not to do so? But I can't manage it without your
help. How did you get mixed up in so dirty a business as a gang rape
of a blindfolded, helpless woman?"

I sat and let him stew and that's just what he did. At last he said,
"I could claim that I was so deep into it by then that, if I balked at

raping you, I would have been killed myself, right then."

"Is that true?" I asked, feeling contempt for him.

"True enough, but not relevant. Miss Friday, I did it because I
wanted to. Because you are so sexy you could corrupt a Stylite. Or
cause Venus to switch to Lesbos. I tried to tell myself that I couldn't
avoid it. But I knew better. All right, do you want my help in making
it look like suicide?"

"Not necessary." (So sexy I could corrupt a Stylite. What in the
world is a Stylite?--must find out. He seemed to mean it as a superlative.
)

He persisted. "Aboard ship you can't run away. A dead body can
be embarrassing."

"Oh, I think not. You were hired to watch over me; do you think
anything would be done to me? But you already know that I intend
to let you get away with it. However, I want explanations before I let
you go. How did you escape the fire? When I smelled you, I was

astonished; I had assumed that you were dead."
"I wasn't at the fire; I ran for it before that."
"Really? Why?"

"Two reasons. I planned to leave as soon as I learned what I had
come for. But mostly on your account."

"Mac, don't expect me to believe too many unlikely things. What
was this you had come there to learn?"

"I never found out. I was after the same thing they were after:
Why you had gone to Ell-Five. I heard them interrogate you and I
could see that you did not know. So I left. Fast."

"That's true. I was a carrier pigeon . . . and when does a carrier
pigeon know what a war is about? They wasted their time, torturing
me."

Swelp me, he looked shocked. "They tortured you?"

I said sharply, "Are you trying to play innocent?"

"Eh? No, no, I'm guilty as sin and I know it. Of rape. But I didn't


322


have any notion that they had tortured you. That's stupid, that's
centuries out of date. What I heard was straight interrogation, then
they shot you with babble juice--and you told the same story. So I
knew you were telling the truth and I got out of there. Fast."

"The more you tell me, the more questions you raise. Who were
you working for, why were you doing it, why did you leave, why did
they let you leave, who was that voice that gave you orders--the one
called the Major--why was everybody so anxious to know what I
was carrying--so anxious that they would mount a military attack
and waste a lot of lives and wind up torturing me and sawing off my
right tit? Why?"

"They did that to you?" (Swelp me, Mac's face was utterly impassive
until I mentioned damage done to my starboard milk gland.
Will somebody explain males to me? With diagrams and short
words?)

"Oh. Complete regeneration, functional as well as cosmetic. I'll
show you--later. If you answer my questions fully. You can check
it against how it used to look. Now back to business. Talk."

Mac claimed to have been a double agent. He said that, at the
time, he was an intelligence officer in a quasi-military hired out to
Muriel Shipstone Laboratories. As such, and working alone, he had
penetrated the Major's organization--

"Wait a minute!" I demanded. "Did he die in the fire? The one
called the Major?"

"I'm fairly sure he did. Although Mosby may be the only one
who knows."

"Mosby? Franklin Mosby? Finders, Incorporated?"

"I hope he doesn't have brothers; one is too many. Yes. But Finders,
Inc. is just a front; he's a stooge for Shipstone Unlimited."

"But you said you were working for Shipstone, too--the laboratories."

Mac looked surprised. "But the whole Red Thursday ruckus was
an intramural fight amongst the top boys; everybody knows that."

I sighed. "I seem to have led a protected life. All right, you were
working for Shipstone, one piece of it, and asa double agent you
were working for Shipstone, another piece of it. But why was I the
bone being fought over?"


323 I


"Miss Friday, I don't know; that is what I was supposed to find
out. But you were believed to be an agent of Kettle Belly Bal--"

"Stop right there. If you are going to talk about the late Dr.
Baldwin, please do not use that dreadful nickname."

"Sorry. You were thought to be an agent of System Enterprises,
that is to say, of Dr. Baldwin, and you confirmed it by going to his
headquarters--"

"Stop again. Were you part of the gang that jumped me there?"

"I am happy to say that I was not. You killed two and one died
later and none of them was unhurt. Miss Friday, you're a wildcat."

"GO on."

"Ket-- Dr. Baldwin was a mugwump, a maverick, not part of the

system. With Red Thursday being mounted--"

"What's Red Thursday got to do with this?"

"Why, everything. Whatever it was that you carried was bound to
affect the timing, at least. I think the Council for Survival--that's
the side Mosby's goons were working for--got the wind up and
moved before they were ready. Perhaps that's why nothing much
ever came of it. They compromised their differences in the boardrooms.
But I've never seen an analysis."

(Nor had I, and now I probably never would. I longed for a few
hours at the unlimited-service terminal I had had at Pajaro Sands.
What directors if any had been killed on Red Thursday and its sequelae?
What had the stock market done? I suspect that all really
important answers never get into the history books. Boss had been
requiring me to learn the sort of things that would eventually have
led me to the answers--but he had died and my education stopped
abruptly. For now. But I would still feed the Elephant's Child!
Someday. )

"Mac, did Mosby hire you for this job? Guarding me in this
ship."

"Eh? No, I've only had that one contact with Mosby and that under
a phony. I was hired for this through a recruiter working for a
cultural attache of the Ambassador for The Realm in Geneva. This
job isn't one to be ashamed of, truly. We are taking care of you. The
best care."

"Must be dull with no rape."


324


"Ouch."

"What are your instructions about me? And how many of you are
there? You're in charge, are you not?"

He hesitated. "Miss Friday, you are asking me to tell my employer's
secrets. In the profession we don't do that . . . as I think you
know."

"Fiddlesticks. You knew when you walked in that door that your
life depended on answering my questions. Think back to that gang
that jumped me on Dr. Baldwin's farm--think what happened to
them. Then speak up."

"I've thought about it, many times. Yes, I'm in charge . . . ex-

cept, possibly, for Tilly--"

"Which one is Tilly?"

"Sorry. Shizuko. That's a professional name. At UCLA she was
Matilda Jackson. We all had been waiting in the Sky High Hotel
almost two months--"

"'We,' plural. Name them. Ship's roster names. And don't try to
stall me with guff about the mercenary's code; Shizuko will be back
in a few minutes."

He named them--no surprises; I had spotted them all. Clumsy.
Boss would never have tolerated it. "Go on."

"We waited and the Dirac warped without us and only twenty-four
hours before warping time for the Forward we were suddenly
alerted to leave in the Forward. Then I was supplied with color ho-los
of you for us to study--and, Miss Friday, when I saw your picture,
I almost fainted."

"Pictures were that bad? Oh, come, now."

"Huh? No, they were quite good. But consider where I saw you
last. I thought that you had died in that fire. I, uh, well, you might
say I had grieved over you. Some at least."

"Thank you. I think. Okay, seven, with you in charge. This trip
isn't cheap, Mac; why do I need seven chaperons?"

"I had thought that you might tell me. Not that it is any of my
business why you are making this trip. All I can tell you are my instructions.
You are to be delivered to The Realm in perfect condition.
Not a hangnail, not a bruise, not a sniffle. When we arrive, an
officer of the palace guard comes aboard and then you're his prob-


325 I


lem. But we don't get paid our delivery bonus until you've had
physical examination. Then we are paid, and we deadhead

I thought about it. It was consistent with Mr. Sikmaa's worry
the "most valuable package a courier ever carried" but there was
something phony about it. The old belt-and-suspenders redundant-backups
principle was understandable--but seven people, full-time,
just to see that I did not fall downstairs and break my neck? It did not
taste right.

"Mac, I can't think of anything else to ask you now, and Shi-zuko--I
mean 'Tilly'--is due back. We'll talk later."

"Very well. Miss Friday, why do you call me Mac?"

"That's the only name I've ever heard you called. Socially, I
mean. At a gang rape we both attended. I'm reasonably sure that
you are not 'Howard J. Bullfinch.' What do you prefer to be
called?"

"Oh. Yes, I was Mac on that mission. But I'm.usually called
Pete."

"Your name is Peter?"

"Uh, well, not exactly. It's--Percival. But I'm not called that."
I refrained from laughing. "I don't see why not, Pete. Brave and
honorable men have been named Percival. I think that's Tilly at the
door, anxious to bathe me and to dress me. One last word: Do you

know why you are still breathing? Not dead?"

"No."

"Because you let me pee. Thank you for letting me pee before
you handcuffed me to that bed."

He suddenly looked wry. "I got chewed out for that."

"You did? Why?"

"The Major intended to force you to wet the bed. He figured that
it would help to make you crack."

"So? The bloody amateur. Pete, that was the point at which I decided
that you were not totally beyond hope."


XXX


Outpost isn't much. Its sun is a G8 star, which puts it pretty far
down the list of Sol:like stars since Sol is a G2. This is markedly
cooler than our solar system star. But the star is not that important
as long as it is a sol-type (G-type) star. (It may be possible to colonize
around other types of stars someday but it seems reasonable to stick
to stars with spectral distributions that match the human eye and
don't pass out too much lethal radiation--I'm quoting Jerry. Anyhow
there are over four hundred G-type stars no farther from Earth
than is The Realm--so says Jaime Lopez--which could keep us
busy for a few years.)

But assume a G-type star. Then you need a planet the right distance
from it for it to be warm but not too warm. Then its surface
gravity should be strong enough to hold its atmosphere firmly in
place. That atmosphere must have had time to cook, in connection
with evolving life, long enough to offer air suitable for life-as-we-know-it.
(Life-as-we-don't-know-it is a fascinating subject but has
nothing to do with colonization by Earth people. Not this week.
Nor are we discussing colonies of living artifacts or cyborgs. This is
about colonists from Dallas or Tashkent.)

Outpost just barely qualifies. It's a poor relation. Its sea-level oxygen
is so scanty that one needs to walk slowly, as on top of a high
mountain. It sits back so far from its star that it has just two sorts of
weather, cool and freezing. Its axis stands almost straight up; it gets


326
	327 I


its seasons from an eccentric orbit--so you don't go south for the
winter because the winter comes to you wherever you are. There is
a growing season of sorts about twenty degrees each side of the equator
but the winter is much longer than the summer--of course.
That "of course" refers to Kepler's Laws, the one about radius
vectors and equal areas. (I cribbed most of this out of the Daily
Forward.) When the prizes were handed out, Outpost was ahint
the door.

But I was frantically eager to see it.

Why? Because I had never been farther away from home than
Luna--and Luna almost is home. Outpost is over forty light-years
from Earth. Do you know how many kilometers that is? (Neither
did I.) Here's what it is:


300,000 x 40.7 x 31,557,600 = 385,318,296,000,000 kilometers.


Round it off. Four hundred million million kilometers.

Ship's schedule called for us to achieve stationary orbit (22.1
hours' orbital period, that being the length of the day at Outpost) at
oh-two-four-seven and for the starboard landing boat to drop away
very early in the morning (ship's time "morning")--oh-three hundred
sharp. Not many signed up for the ride--that's all it would be
since no passenger would set foot on the ground--as the midwatch
isn't too popular an hour with most of our passengers.

But I would as lief miss Armageddon. I left a good party and went
to bed at twenty-two hundred in order to soak up several hours of
sleep before rise and shine. I got up at two o'clock and ducked into
my bathroom, latching the door behind me--if I don't latch it, Shi-zuko
comes straight in behind me; I learned that my first day in the
ship. She was up and dressed when I woke up.

Latched the door behind me and promptly threw up.

This surprised me. I am not immune to motion sickness but I had
not been bothered this trip. Riding the Beanstalk plays hob with my
stomach and it goes on for endless hours. But in the Forward I had
noticed one surge when we warped into hyperspace, then just before
dinner last night when we broke into normal space I had felt a simi-


[328


lar tremor, but the bridge had warned us to expect it.

Did the (artificial) gravity feel steady now? I couldn't be sure. I
was quite dizzy but that might be an aftereffect of vomiting--for I
had certainly thrown up as thoroughly as if I had been riding that
goddam Beanstalk.

I rinsed my mouth, brushed my teeth without dentifrice, rinsed
my mouth again, and said to myself, "Friday, that's your breakfast;
you are not going to let an unexpected case of Beanstalk tummy
keep you from seeing Outpost. Besides, you've gained two kilos and
it is time to cut down on the calories."

Having given my stomach that fight talk and then turned it over
to mind-control discipline, I went out, let Tilly-Shizuko help me
into a heavy jump suit, then headed for the starboard landing-boat
airlock, with Shizuko paddling along behind, carrying heavy coats
for each of us. At first I had been inclined to be chummy with Shi-zuko,
but after deducing, then confirming, her true role, I tended to
resent her. Petty of me, no doubt. But a spy is not entitled to the
friendly consideration that a servant always rates. I was not rude to
her; I simply ignored her much of the time. This morning I did not
feel sociable at best.

Mr. Woo, purser's assistant in charge of ground excursions,
was at the airlock with a clipboard. "Miss Friday, your name isn't
on my list."

"I certainly signed up. Either add it to your list or call the Captain."

"I Can't do that."

"So? Then I am going on a sit-down strike right in the middle of
your airlock. I don't like this, Mr. Woo. If you are trying to suggest
that I should not be here because of some clerical error in your of-rice,
I shall like it still less."

"Mmm, I suppose it is a clerical error. There's not much time, so
why don't you go in, let them show you to a seat, and I'll straighten
it out after I get these other people checked off."

He did not object to Shizuko's following me. We went forward
along a long passageway--even the landing boats of the Forward are
enormousfollowing arrows that said "This Way to Bridge" and arrived
in a fairly large room, something like the interior of an omnibus
APV: dual controls up front, seats for passengers behind, a big


windshield--and for the first time since we left Earth I was seeing "sunlight."
The light of Outpost's sun, it was, lighting a white, very white,
curve of planet ahead, with black sky beyond. The sun-star was itself
not in sight. Shizuko and I found seats and fastened seatbelts, the
five-way sort used in SBs. Knowing that we were going by antigrav I
was going to let it go simply with fastening the lap belt. But my little
shadow twittered over me and fastened everything.
After a while Mr. Woo came looking, finally spotted me. He
leaned across the man between me and the aisle and said, "Miss
Friday, I'm sorry but you still aren't on the list."
"Indeed? What did the Captain say?" "I couldn't reach him."
"That's your aswer then. I stay."
"I'm sorry. No."
"Really? Which end are you going to carry? And who is going to
help you carry me? For you will have to drag me kicking and
screaming and, I assure you, I do kick and scream."
"Miss Friday, we can't have this."
The passenger next to me said, "Young man, aren't you making a
fool of yourself? This young lady is a first-class passenger; I've noticed
her in the dining room--at the Captain's table. Now get that
silly clipboard out of my face and find something better to do."
Looking worried-junior pursers always look worried-Mr. Woo
went away. After a bit the red light came on, the siren sounded, and
a loud voice said, "Leaving orbit! Prepare for surges in weight."
I had a miserable day.
Three hours to get down to the surface, two hours on the ground,
three hours to get back up to stationary orbit--the trip down had
music varied by an amazingly dull lecture on Outpost; the trip back
had nothing but music, which was better. The two hours on the
ground might have been okay had we been able to leave the landing
craft. But we had to stay inboard. We were allowed to unbelt and go
aft to what was called the lounge but was really just a space with a
coffee-and-sandwiches bar on the port side and transparent ports on
the after end. Through these you could see the migrants getting out
on the deck below and cargo being unloaded.

Low rolling hills covered with snow . . . some sort of stunted
growth in the middle distance... near the ship low buildings connected
by snow sheds. The immigrants were all bundled up but they
wasted no time in hurrying toward the buildings. The cargo was
going onto a string of flatbed trucks pulled by a machine of some
sort that puffed out clouds of black smoke . . . exactly the sort of
thing you see pictured in children's history books! But this was not
a picture.
I heard one woman say to her companion, "Why would anyone
decide to settle here?"
Her companion made some pious answer about "the Lord's will"
and I moved away. How can anyone get to be seventy years old (she
was at least that) without knowing that no one "decided" to settle on
Outpost... except in the limited sense that one "decides" to accept
transportation as the only alternative to death or life imprisonment?
My stomach still felt queasy so I did not risk the sandwiches, but I
thought a cup of coffee might help--until I whiffed it. Then I went
straight to the rest rooms forward of the lounge, and won the title of
"Ironjaw Friday." I won it fair and square but nobody knows about
it but me--I found the stalls all occupied and had to wait... and
wait I did, jaw muscles rigid. After a century or two a stall was vacated
and I grabbed it and threw up again. Dry heaves, mostly--I
should not have smelled the coffee.
The trip back up was endless.
Once in the Forward I called my friend Jerry Madsen, the junior
ship's surgeon, and asked to see him professionally. By ship's rules
the medical department holds clinic at oh-nine hundred each day,
then handles only emergencies at other times. But I knew that Jerry
would be willing to see me, whatever the excuse. I told him that it
was nothing serious; I just wanted to get from him some of those
pills he prescribed for old ladies with jumpy tummies--the motion-sickness
pills. He asked me to meet him at his office.
Instead of having the pills waiting for me he ushered me into an
examination room and closed the door. "Miss Friday, shall I send
for a nurse? Or would you rather be seen by a female doctor? I can
call Dr. Garcia but I hate to wake her; she was up most of the
night."

[


I said, "Jerry, what is this? When did I stop being Marj to you?
And why the prissy protocol? I just want a handful of those seasick
pills. The little pink ones."

"Sit down, please. Miss Friday--okay, Marj--we don't prescribe
that drug or its derivatives for young females--to be precise, females
of childbearing age--without making certain that they are not pregnant.
It can cause birth defects."

"Oh. Set your mind at rest, lover boy; I am not knocked up."

"That's what we are here to find out, Marj. If you are---or if you
become so--we have other drugs that will make you comfortable."

Ah so! The dear thing was just trying to take care of me. "Boss
man, suppose I tell you, Cub Scout honor, that I ain't done nothin'
a-tall for my last two periods? Although several have tried. You
among them."

"Why, I would say, 'Take this cup and get me a urine sample'
and then I'll take a blood sample, and a saliva sample. I've dealt

before with women who hadn't done nothin'."

"You're a cynic, Jerry."

"I'm trying to take care of you, dear."

"I know you are, you sweet thing. All right, I'll go along with the

nonsense. If the mouse squeals--"

"It's a gerbil."

"If the gerbil says yes, you can notify the Pope-in-Exile that it's
happened at last, and I'll buy you a bottle of champagne. This has
been the longest dry spell of my life."

Jerry took his samples and did nineteen other things, and gave me
a blue pill to take before dinner and a yellow pill to make me sleep
and another blue pill to take before breakfast. "These don't have
quite the authority of the stuff you asked for but they will do and
they don't cause a baby to be born with his feet on backwards or
some such. I'll call you tomorrow morning as soon as I'm through
with office hours."

"I thought that pregnancy tests today were service-while-you-wait?"

"Get along with you. Your great-grandmother used to find out
through her waistband becoming too tight. You're spoiled. Just
hope I don't have to run the test over."


So I thanked him and kissed him, which he pretended to try to
avoid but not very hard. Jerry is a lamb.

The blue pills did let me eat dinner and breakfast.

I stayed in my cabin after breakfast. Jerry called about on time.
"Brace yourself, Marj. You owe me a bottle of champagne."

"What?" Then I quieted down for Tilly's benefit. "Jerry, you are
certifiably insane. Out of your skull."

"Certainly," he agreed. "But that's no handicap in this business.

Stop in and we'll discuss a regime for you. Say at fourteen?"

"Say at right now. I want to talk to that gerbil."

Jerry convinced me. He went over the details, showing just how
each test was conducted. Miracles do happen and I was demonstrably
pregnant... so that's why my breasts had been feeling sort of
tender lately. He had a little pamphlet for me, telling me what to
do, what to eat, how to bathe, what to avoid, what to expect, and
dreary so forth. I thanked him and took it and left. Neither of us
mentioned the possibility of abortion and he made no wisecracks
about women "who hadn't done nothin'."

Only I hadn't. Butt was the last time and that was two periods
back and anyhow I had been rendered surgically sterile at menarche
and had never used contraception of any sort in all my very busy
social life. All those hundreds and hundreds of times and now he
tells me I'm pregnant!

I am not totally stupid. Having accepted the fact, the old Sherlock
Holmes rule told me when and where and how it had happened.
Once back in cabin BB I went into the bathroom, latched
the door, took off my clothes, and lay down on the floor--spread

both hands around my navel, tensed my muscles, and pushed.

A little nylon sphere popped out and I grabbed it.

I examined it carefully. No doubt about it; this was the same little
marble I had worn in there since the trick surgery was done to me,
always worn except when I was carrying a message there. Not a container
for an ovum in stasis, not a container for anything--just a
small, featureless, translucent sphere. I looked at it again and
popped it back in.

So they had lied to me. I had wondered at the time about "stasis"
at body temperature because the only stasis for living tissues I had


333 I


ever heard of involved cryogenic temperatures, liquid nitrogen or
lower.

But that was Mr. Sikmaa's problem and I don't claim to be a bio-physicist--if
he had confidence in his scientists, it was not my place
to argue. I was a courier; my sole responsibility was to deliver the
package.

What package? Friday, you know durn well what package. Not
one in your navel. One about ten centimeters farther inside. One
that was planted in you one night in Florida when you were induced
to sleep sounder than you knew. One that takes nine months
to unload. That postpones your plans to complete the Grand Tour,
does it not? If this fetus is what it has to be, they won't let you leave
The Realm until after you unload.

If they wanted a host mother, why the blinkin' hell didn't they say
so? I would have been reasonable about it.

Wait a moment! The Dauphiness has to give birth to this baby.
That is what the whole hanky-panky is about: an heir to the throne,
free of any congenital defects, from the Dauphinessunarguably
from the Dauphiness, born in the presence of about four court physicians
and three nurses and a dozen members of the court. Not
you, you mongrel AP with the phony birth certificate!

Which took me back to the original scenario with just the slightest
variation: Miss Marjorie Friday, wealthy tourist, goes groundside
on The Realm to enjoy the glories of the imperial capital . . . and
catches a bad cold and has to go to hospital. And the Dauphiness is
brought to the same hospital and--no, hold it! Would the Dauphi-ness
do anything so plebeian as to be a patient in a hospital open to
tourists?

Okay, try this: You enter hospital with a bad cold, as instructed.
About three in the morning you go out the back door on a meat
wagon with a sheet draped over you. You wind up in the Palace.
How soon? How long will it take the Palace physicians to fiddle her
royal body chemistry into receptiveness for the fetus? Oh, forget it,
Friday; you don't know and don't have to know. When she is
ready, they place both of you on operating tables and spread your
legs and take it out of you and plant it in her, while it's small and
no problem.


Then you get paid a fancy price and you leave. Does The First
Citizen thank you? Probably not in person. But possibly incognito
if-- Stop it, Friday! Don't daydream; you know better. At a lecture
clear back in basic--one of Boss's orientation lectures, it was

"The trouble with this sort of mission is that, after an agent has
successfully completed it, something permanent happens to that
agent, something that keeps him from talking, then or later. So, no
matter how lavish the fee, it is well to avoid this class of mission."


1334
	335 I


XXXl


During the leg to Botany Bay I mulled that thought over and over,
trying to find some flaw in it. I recalled the classic case ofJ. E Kennedy.
His putative assassin had been killed (assassinated) too quickly
for even a preliminary hearing. Then there was that dentist who had
gunned down Huey Long--gunned down himself a few seconds later.
And any number of agents during the long Cold War who had
lived just long enough to carry out their missions and "just happened"
to walk in front of speeding vehicles.

But the picture that kept coming back to my mind was so old that
it is almost mythology: A lonely beach and a pirate chief supervising
the burying of treasure. The hole is dug, the chests of loot placed
therein--and the men who dug the hole are shot; their bodies help
to fill the hole.

Yes, I'm being melodramatic. But it is my womb we are talking
about, not yours. Everybody in the Known Universe knows that the
father of the present First Citizen climbed to the throne over uncounted
dead bodies and his son stays on that throne by being even
more ruthless than his father.

Is he going to thank me for having improved his line? Or is he
going to bury my bones in his deepest dungeon?

Don't kid yourself, Friday; knowing too much is a capital offense.
In politics it always has been. If they ever had any intention of treating
you fairly, you would not be pregnant. Therefore you are forced


[336


to assume that they will not treat you fairly after they take this royal
fetus out of you.

What I had to do was obvious.

What was not obvious was how I could do it.

It no longer seemed a clerical error that my name had not been
on the list to go down to the surface at Outpost.

At the c6cktail hour the next evening I saw Jerry and asked him to
dance with me. It was a classic waltz, which brought my face close
enough to his to talk privately. "How's the rummy?" he asked.

"The blue pills do the trick," I assured him. "Jerry, who knows
about this besides you and me?"

"Now there's an odd thing. I've been so busy that I haven't
had time to enter anything in your medical folder. The notes are
in my safe."

"So? How about the lab technician?"

"He's been so overworked that I ran those tests myself."

"Well, well. Do you think that there is a possibility that those
notes might be lost? Burned, maybe?"

"We never burn anything in the ship; it annoys the air-condition-ing
engineer. Instead we shred and recycle. Fear not, little girl; your
shameful secret is safe with me."

"Jerry, you're my pal. Dear, if it hadn't been for my maid, I think
I could have blamed this baby on you. My first night in the ship--remember?"

"I'm not likely to forget. I had an attack of acute frustration."
"Having a maid along is not my idea; my family planted her on
me, and she sticks to me like a leech. One would think my family
does not trust me merely because they know they can't--as you
know all too well. Can you think of a way to avoid her chaperonage?
I'm feeling very pliable. With you. A man I can trust with secrets."

"Urn. I must give it some thought. My stateroom is no good; you
have to pass two dozen other officers' rooms and go through the
wardroom to reach it. Watch it; here comes Jimmy."

Yes, of course I was trying to bribe him into silence. But besides
that I was grateful and felt that I owed him something. If congress
with my unvirgin carcass was what he wanted (and it was), I was
willing--and willing on my own account, too; I had been quite underprivileged
lately and Jerry is an attractive man. I was not embar-


337 I


rassed over being pregnant (although the idea was decidedly novel to
me) but I did want to keep my condition secret (if possible--if there
were not already a platoon of people in the ship who knew of
keep it secret, if it was, while I sorted out what to do.

The extent of my predicament may not be clear; maybe I had
better draw a diagram. If I went on to The Realm, I expected
to be killed in a surgical operating room, all quiet and legal and
proper. If you don't believe that such things can happen, we aren't
living in the same world and there is no point in your reading any
more of this memoir. Throughout history the conventional way of
dealing with an awkward witness has been to arrange for him to stop
breathing.

This might not happen to me. But all the signs suggested that it
would--ifI went to The Realm.

Just stay aboard? I thought of that... but Pete-Mac's words echoed
in my ears: "When we arrive, an officer of the palace guard
comes aboard and then you're his problem." Apparently they
weren't even going to wait for me to go groundside and pretend to
fall ill.

Ergo, I must leave the ship before we reached The Realm--i. e.,
Botany Bay, no other choice.

Simple. Just walk off the ship.

Oh, sure! Walk down the gangway and wave good-bye from the
ground.

This is not an ocean ship. The closest the Forward ever gets to a
planet is its stationary orbit--for Botany Bay that is about thirty-five
thousand kilometers. That's a long way to go in some very thin
vacuum. The only possible way I could get down to the surface of
Botany Bay would be in one of the ship's landing boats, just as I had
at Outpost.

Friday, they are not going to let you walk aboard that landing
boat. At Outpost you bulled your way aboard. That has alerted
them; you won't manage it a second time. What will happen? Mr.
Woo or somebody will be at the airlock with a list--and again your
name is not on it. But this time he has an armed master-at-arms
with him. What do you do?

Why, I disarm him, bang their heads together, step over their unconscious
bodies, and take a seat. You can do it, Friday; you've


1338


been trained for it and genetically designed for just that sort of rough
stuff.

Then what happens? The landing boat does not leave on time. It
waits in its cradle while a squad of eight comes in and by brute force
and a tranquilizer dart takes you out of the boat and locks you into
cabin BBwhere you stay until that office.r of the palace guard takes
custody of your carcass.

This is not a problem rough stuff can solve.
That leaves sweet talk, sex appeal, and bribery.
Wait! What about honesty?
Huh?

Certainly. Go straight to the Captain. Tell him what Mr. Sikmaa
promised you, tell him how you were swindled, get Jerry to show
him the pregnancy report, tell him that you are frightened and have
decided to wait on Botany Bay until some ship calls that is headed
back to Earth, not to The Realm. He's a sweet, fatherly old dear;

you've seen pictures of his daughters--he'll take care of you!
What would Boss's opinion be of that?

He would note that you sit on the Captain's right--why?

You were given one of the ship's most posh cabins at the last min-
uteswhy?

Space was found for seven others, people who spend all their time
watching you-do you think the Cattain does not know this?

Somebody took your name off the ground-trip list for Outpost--
who?

Who owns HyperSpace Lines? Thirty percent is owned by Inter-world,
which in turn is owned or controlled by various segments of
the Shipstone group. And you noticed that 11 percent was owned by
three banks on The Realm--you noticed this because other chunks
of Shipstone companies were owned from The Realm.

So don't expect too much from sweet old Captain van Kooten.
You can hear him now: "Oh, I don't zink so. Mr. Sikmaa is a goot
friend of mine; I hal known him for years. Yes, I did promise him
zat no chances would be taken wiz your safety; zat's vy I can't let you
go down to vild, uncivilized planets. But yen ve go back, I show you
real, goot time on Halcyon, I promise. Now you yust be a goot girl
and not make me any more troubles--henh?"

He might even believe it.


339 I


He almost certainly knows that you are not "Miss Rich Bitch"
and probably has been told that you contracted as a host mother
(probably not told that it was for the Royal Family--although he
may guess it) and he would simply think that you are trying to welch
on a legal and equitable contract. Friday, you have not one word in
writing that would even tend to indicate that you were swindled.

Don't expect help from the Captain. Friday, you're on your own.


It was only three days before our scheduled arrival at Botany Bay
that any change took place. I did a lot of pondering but most of it
was maundering--futile and time-wasting imaginings about what I
would do if I could not manage to jump ship in Botany Bay. Like
this: "You heard me, Captain! I'm locking myself in my cabin until
we leave The Realm. If you have the door broken down so that you
can turn me over to that palace guard officer, I can't stop you--but
a dead body is all you'll find?

(Ridiculous. Sleepy gas through the air pipes is all it would take to
outflank me.)

Or-- "Captain, have you ever seen a knitting-needle abortion?
You are invited to come watch; I understand that one can be quite
bloody."

(Even more ridiculous. I can talk about abortion; I can't do it.
Even though this wart inside me is no kin to me, it is nevertheless
my innocent guest.)

I tried not to waste time on such useless thoughts but to concentrate
my mind on subversion while continuing to behave normally.
When the purser's office announced that it was time to sign up for
excursions on Botany Bay, I was one of the first to show up, going
over all the possibilities, asking questions, taking brochures to my
cabin, and signing up for and paying cash for all the best and most
expensive trips.

That night at dinner I chattered to the Captain about the trips I
had picked, asked his opinions on each, and complained again
about my name having been left off the list at Outpost and asked
him to check on it for me this time--as if the Captain of a giant
liner had nothing better to do than to run errands for Miss Rich
Bitch. So far as I could see, he did not flinch under any of this--he
certainly did not tell me that I could not go groundside. But he may


340


be as steeped in sin as I am; I learned to lie with a straight face long
before I left the erethe.

That evening (ship's schedule time) I found myself in The Black
Hole with my first three swains: Dr. Jerry Madsen, Jaime "Jimmy"
Lopez, and Tom Udell. Tom is first assistant supercargo and I had
never known quite what that is. All that I really knew was that he
wore one more stripe than the other two. That first night aboard
Jimmy had told me solemnly that Tom was the head janitor.

Tom had not denied it. He answered, "You forgot 'furniture
mover. '"

This night, less than seventy-two hours out from Botany Bay, I
found out part of what Tom did. The starboard landing boat was
being loaded with cargo for Botany Bay. "The port boat we loaded at
Beanstalk," he told me. "But we had to load the starboard boat for
Outpost. We need both of them to handle Botany Bay, so we have

to shift cargo this leg." He grinned. "Lots of sweaty work."
"It's good for you, Tommy; you're getting fat."
"Speak for yourself, Jaime."

I asked how they loaded the boat. "That airlock looks pretty small
to me."

"We don't move cargo through that. Would you like to see how
we handle it?"

So I made a date with him for the next morning. And learned
things.

The holds in the Forward are so enormous that they breed agora-phobia
rather than claustrophobia. But even the holds in the landing
boats are huge. Some of the items shipped are enormous, too,
especially machinery. Botany Bay was receiving a Westinghouse
turbogenerator big as a house. I asked Tom how in the world they
would move that?

He grinned. "Black magic." Four of his cargomen placed a metallic
net around it and fastened a suitcase-size metal box to it. Tom
inspected it, then said, "Okay, fire it up."

The leader--the "snapper"did so... and this metal behemoth
quivered and lifted a touch: a portable antigray unit, not unlike that
for an APV, but out in the open instead of built into a shell.

With extreme care, by hand, using lines and poles, they moved
this thing through an enormous door and into the hold of the star-


341[


board boat. Tom pointed out that, while this huge monster was
floating, free of the ship's artificial gravity, it was as ponderously
massive as ever and could crush a man as easily as a man can crush
an insect. "They depend on each other and have to trust each other.
I'm responsible--but it's no use to a dead man for me to take the
blame; they must take care of each. other."

What he was really responsible for, he told me, was being certain
that each item was placed by plan and was tied down solidly against
surges, and also being absolutely certain that the big cargo doors,
both sides, were actually vacuum-tight each time they were closed
after being opened.

Tom showed me through the landing boat's migrant-passenger
spaces. "We've got more new colonists for Botany Bay than for
anywhere else. When we leave there, third class will be almost
deserted."

"Are they all AussiesT' I asked.

"Oh, no. Lots of them are but about a third of them are not. But
one thing they all do have in common; they are all fluent in English.
It's the only colony with a language requirement. They are

trying to ensure that their whole planet will have a single language."
"I heard something about that. Why?"

"Some notion that they are less likely to have wars. Maybe so...
but the bloodJest wars in history have been fratricidal wars. No language
problem."

I didn't have an opinion so I didn't comment. We left the boat
through the passenger airlock and Tom closed it behind us. Then I
recalled that I had left a scarf behind. "Tom, did you see it? I know I
had it in the migrants' hold."

"No, but we'll find it." He turned back and unlocked the airlock
door.

The scarf was where I had dropped it between two benches in the
migrants' space. I flipped it around Tom's neck and pulled his face
down to mine and thanked him, and let my appreciation progress as
far as he cared to push it--which was pretty far but not that far as he
was still on duty.

He deserved my best thanks. That door has a combination lock.
Now I could open it.


[342


When I returned from inspecting the cargo holds and the landing
boat, it was almost lunchtime. Shizuko, as usual, was doing some
sort of busywork (it can't take all of one woman's time to see that
another woman is well groomed).

I said to her, '2 don't want to go to the dining room. I want to take

a quick shower, grab a robe, and eat here."
"What will Missy have? I will order."
"Order for both of us."
"For me?"

"For you. I don't want to eat alone, I just don't want to have to
dress up and go to the dining room. Don't argue; just punch for the
menu." I headed for the bath.

I heard her start to order but by the time I switched off the shower
she was ready with a big fluffy towel, with a smaller one wrapped
around her, the perfect bath girl. When I was dry and she had
helped me into a robe, the dumbwaiter was chiming. While she
opened the delivery drawer, I pulled a small table over into the
corner where I had talked with Pete-Mac. Shizuko raised her eyebrows
but did not argue; she started laying out lunch on it. I set the
terminal for music and again punched up a tape with some loud
singing, classic rock.

Shizuko had set only one place at the table. I said, facing her so
that my words would reach her through the music, "Tilly, put your
plate there, too."

"What, Missy?"

"Knock it off, Matilda. The farce is over. I've set this up so that
we can talk."

She barely hesitated. "Okay, Miss Friday."

"Better call me Marj so that I won't have to call you Miss lack-son.
Or call me Friday, my real name. You and I have got to take
our hair down. By the way, your lady's-maid act is perfect, but there
is no longer any need to bother with it when we're in private. I can
dry myself after a bath."

She almost smiled. "I rather enjoy taking care of you, Miss Friday.
Marl. Friday."

"Why, thank you! Let's eat." I spooned sukiyaki over onto her
plate.


343 I


After some chomping--conversation goes better with food--I
said, "What do you get out of it?"
"Out of what, Marj?"
"Out of riding herd on me. Turning me over to the palace guard
on The Realm."
"Contract rates. Paid to my boss. There is supposed to be a bonus
in it for me but I believe in bonuses only when I spend them."
"I see. Matilda, I'm cutting out at Botany Bay. You're going to
help me."
"Call me Tilly. I am?"
"You are. Because I'm going to pay you a large chunk more than
you would get otherwise."
"Do you really think you can switch me that easily?"
"Yes. Because you have just two choices." Between us was a large
stainless-steel serving spoon. I picked it up, squeezed the bowl,
crushed it. "You can help me. Or you can be dead. lather quickly.
Which is it?"
She picked up the mutilated spoon. "Marj, you don't have to be
so dramatic. We'll work something out." With her thumbs she
ironed out the crumpled steel. "What's the problem?"
I stared at the spoon. "'Your mother was a test tube--'" "'--and my father was a knife.' So was yours. That's why I was
recruited. Let's talk. Why are you jumping ship? I'll catch hell if
you do."
"I'll be dead if I don't." Without trying to hold back, I told her
about the deal I had made, how I had turned up pregnant, why I
thought my chances of living through a visit to The Realm were
slim. "So what does it take to persuade you to look the other way? I
think I can meet your price."
"I'm not the only one watching you."
"Pete? I'll handle Pete. The other three men and the other two
women I think we can ignore. If I have your active help. You--you
and Pete--are the only professionals. Who recruited these others?
Clumsy."
"I don't know. I don't know who hired me, for that matter; it was
done through my boss. Perhaps we can forget the others---depends
on your plan."

344

"Let's talk money."
"Let's talk plans first."
"Uh... do you think you can imitate my voice?"
Tilly answered, "'Uh . . . do you think you can imitate my
voice?'"
"Do that again!"
"'Do that again!'"
I sighed. "Okay, Tilly, you can do it. The Daily Forward says
that breakout near Botany Bay is sometime tomorrow and, if the figures
are as sharp as they were for Outpost, we'll hit stationary orbit
and put boats down about midday the day after tomorrow--less than
forty-eight hours from right now. So tomorrow I fall ill. Very sad.
Because I had had my heart set on going down to the surface for all
those wonderful excursions. The exact timing on my plan depends
on when those landing boats are scheduled, which must wait--if I
understand the matter--until we break out into normal space and
they can predict exactly when we will hit stationary orbit. Whenever
that is, the night before the boats go down, around oh-one hundred
when the corridors are empty, I leave. From there on you're both of
us. You don't let anyone in; I'm too ill.
"If anyone calls for me by terminal, be careful not to switch on
the video pickup--I never do. You're both of us on anything you
can handle, or, if you can't, I'm asleep. If you start to impersonate
me and it gets too sticky, why, you're just so fogged up with fever
and medicine that you're not coherent.
"You'll order breakfast for both of us--your usual breakfast for
you, and tea and milk toast and juice for the invalid."
"Friday, I can see that you're planning on stowing away in a landing
boat. But the doors to the landing boats are always locked when
not in use. I know."
"So they are. Not your worry, Til."
"All right. Not my worry. Okay, I can cover for you after you
leave. What do I tell the Captain after you've gone?"
"So the Captain is in on it. I thought so."
"He knows about it. But we get our orders from the purser."
"Makes sense. Suppose I arrange for you to be tied up and gagged  . . and your story is that I jumped you and did it to you. I can't, of

345 I


course, because you have to be both of us from very early morning
to whatever time the boats leave. But I can arrange to have you tied
and gagged. I think."
"That would certainly improve my alibi! But who is the philanthropist?"
"You remember our first night in the ship? I came in late, with a
date. You served us tea and almond cakes."
"Doctor Madsen. You're counting on him?"
"I think so. With your help. That night he was kind of eager."
She snorted. "His tongue was dragging on the rug."
"Yes. It still is. Tomorrow I become ill; he comes to see me, professionally.
You are here, as usual. We have the lights turned off in
the bedroom end. If Dr. Jerry has the steady nerves I think he has,
he'll take what I'll offer. Then he'll cooperate." I looked at her.
"Okay? He comes to see me the next morning--and ties you up.
Simple." .
Tilly sat and looked thoughtful for long moments. "No." "No?"
"Let's keep it really simple. Don't let anyone else in on it. Not anybody. I don't need to be tied up; that would just cause suspicion.
Here's my story: Sometime not very long before the boats go down
you decide that you are well; you get up, get dressed, and leave the
cabin. You don't tell me your plans; I'm just the poor dumb maid
you never tell me such things. Or maybe you've changed your mind
and are going on the ground excursion anyhow. It doesn't matter
either way. I am not charged with keeping you in the ship. My sole
responsibility is to keep an eye on you here in the cabin. I don't
think it's Pete's responsibility to keep you in the ship, either. If you
manage to jump ship, probably the only one who gets burned is the
Captain. And I'm not crying over him."
"Tilly, I think you are right, on all points. I had assumed that you
would want an alibi. But you're better off without one."
She looked at me and smiled. "Don't let that keep you from taking
Dr. Madsen to bed. Enjoy yourself. One of my jobs was to keep
men out of your bed--as I think you know--"
"I figured it out," I agreed dryly.
"But I am switching sides, so that is no longer the case." Suddenly
she dimpled. "Maybe I should offer Dr. Madsen a bonus. When
he calls on his patient the next morning and I tell him that you're well and have gone to the sauna or something."
"Don't offer him that sort of bonus unless you mean business. As
I know that he means business." I shivered. "I'm certain."
"If I advertise, I deliver. Are we all straight?" She stood up, I followed.
"All but what I owe you."
"I've been thinking about that. Marj, you know your circumstances
better than I do. I'll leave it up to you."
"But you didn't quite tell me what you are being paid."
"I don't know. My master hasn't told me."
"Are you owned?" I felt sudden distress. Any AP would.
"No longer. Or not quite. I was sold on a twenty-year indenture.
Thirteen years to go. Then I'm free."
"But-- Oh, God, Tilly, let's get you off the ship, too!"
She put a hand on my arm. "Take it easy. You've got me thinking
about it. That's the main reason I don't want to be tied up.
Marj, I'm not on the ship's rolls as indentured. Consequently I can
take a groundside excursion if I can pay for it--and I can. Maybe I'll
see you down there."
"Yes!" I kissed her.
She pulled me to her strongly, and the kiss gained speed. She was
moaning against my tongue and I felt her hand inside my robe.
Presently I broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. "Is that how it
is, Tilly?"
"Hell, yes! From the first time I bathed you."

That evening the migrants leaving the ship at Botany Bay staged a
lounge show for the first-class passengers. The Captain told me that
such shows were traditional and that the first-class passengers cus-tomarily
contributed to a purse for the colonists---but that it was not
compulsory. He himself went to the lounge that night--also tradi-tional-and
I found myself sitting with him. I used the opportunity
to mention that I was not feeling well. I added that I might have
to cancel my reservations for dirtside excursions. I groused about
it a bit.
He told me that, if I did not feel perfectly fit, I certainly should
not risk exposing myself on the surface of a strange planet--but not

346
	347 I


to worry about missing Botany Bay, which wasn't much at best. The
rest of the trip was the wonderful part. So be a goot girl or should I
lock you in your room?
I told him that, if my rummy didn't stop acting up, it wouldn't
be necessary to lock me up. The trip down to Outpost had been
horrid--spacesick all the way--and I wouldn't risk anything like
that again. I had laid groundwork for this by pecking at my food
at dinner.
The show was amateurish but jolly--some skits but mostly group
singing: "Tie Me Kangaroo Down," "Waltzing Matilda," "Botany
Bay," and, for an encore, "The Walloping Window Blind." I enjoyed
it but would have thought nothing of it were it not for a man
in the second row of the group singers, a man who looked familiar.
I looked at him and thought: Friday, have you become the sort of
careless, sloppy slitch who can't remember whether she's slept with
a man or not?
He reminded me of Professor Federico Farnese. But this man
was wearing a full beard, whereas Freddie had been smooth-shaven--which
proves nothing as there had been time enough to
grow a beard and almost all men get overtaken by the beard mania
one time or another. But it did make it impossible for me to be certain
by looking at him. This man never sang a solo, so voice did
not help.
Body odor--at a range of thirty meters no way to sort it out from
dozens of others.
I was greatly tempted not to be a lady--stand up, walk straight
across the dance floor, confront him: "Are you Freddie? Didn't you
take me to bed in Auckland last May?"
What if he says no?
I'm a coward. What ! did do was tell the Gaptain that I thought I
had spotted an old acquaintance from Sydney among the migrants
and how could I check? That resulted in my writing "Federico Far-nese"
on a program and the Captain passed it to the purser, who
passed it to one of his assistants, who went away and came back
soon with a report that there were several Eyetalian names among
the migrants but no name, Eyetalian or otherwise, even vaguely like
"Famese."

348

I thanked him and thanked the purser and thanked the Captain--and
thought about asking for a check on "Tormey" and "Perreault,"
but decided that it was damfoolishness; I certainly had not seen Betty
or Janet--and they didn't grow beards. I had seen a face behind a
full beaver--meaning I hadn't seen it. Put a full beard on a man
and all you see .is the shredded wheat.
I decided that all the old wives' tales about pregnant women were
probably true.

349 I


XXXll


It was two hours past midnight, ship's time. Breakout into normal
space had taken place on time, about eleven in the morning, and
the figures had been so good that the Forward was expected to
achieve stationary orbit around Botany Bay at oh-seven-forty-two,
several hours better than had been estimated before breakout. I was
not pleased because an early morning landing-boat departure increased
the hazard (I judged) that people might be prowling around
the corridors in the still hours of the night.

No choice. It was rushing at me, no second chance. I finished
last-minute adjustments, kissed Tilly good-bye, cautioned her with
a finger to make no noise, and let myself out the door of cabin BB.

I had to go far aft and down three decks. Twice I slowed down to
avoid night watchmen making their rounds. Once I ducked through
a transverse passage to avoid a passenger, continued aft to the next
passageway across the ship, then went back to starboard. Eventually
I reached the short, dead-end corridor that led to the passenger air-lock
door for the starboard landing boat.

I found Mac-Pete-Percival waiting there.

I moved quickly to him, smiling, put a finger to my lips for silence,
and clipped him under the ear.

! eased him to the deck, pulled him out of my way, and got to
work on that combination lock--

-and discovered that it was almost impossible to read the marks


on the dial, even with my enhanced night-sight There was nothing
but night-lights in the corridors and this short dead end had none of
its own. Twice I muffed the combination.

I stopped and thought about it. Go back to cabin BB for a torchlight?
I had none there, but perhaps Tilly had one. If she did not,
should I wait until morning lights were turned on? That would be
cutting it too fine; people would be stirring. But did I have a choice?

I checked Pete--still out but his heart was strong... and lucky
for you, Pete; had I been fully triggered, you would be dead. I
searched him.

I found, with no surprise, a pencil light on him--his iob (tailing
me) could need a torchlight, whereas Miss Rich Bitch does not
bother with such things.

A few seconds later I had the door open.

I dragged Pete through, closed and locked the door, spinning the
wheel both clockwise and counterclockwise. I turned back, noted
that Pete's eyelids moved a touch---clipped him again.

There followed a bloody awkward chore. Pete masses about
eighty-five kilos, not gross for a man. But it's twenty-five kilos more
than I do and he's much bigger. I knew from Tom that the engineers
were holding the artificial gravity at 0.97 gee to match Botany
Bay. At that moment I could have wished for free fall or antigrav
gear as I could not leave Pete behind, dead or alive.

I managed to get him up into that cross-shoulder carry that some
call fireman's carry, then discovered that the best way for me to see
ahead and still have a hand free for dogs on airtight doors and such
was to hold Pete's pencil light in my mouth like a cigar. I really
needed that light but, given a choice, I would have felt my way
through in the dark, sans unconscious body.

With only one false turn I arrived at last in that biggest cargo hold
 . . which seemed even bigger with only a pencil beam to cut
through the total darkness. I had not anticipated total darkness; I
had visualized the landing boat as faintly illuminated with night-lights
as was the ship proper from midnight to oh-six hundred.

At last I reached the hidey-hole I had picked out the day before:
that giant Westinghouse turbogenerator.

I guessed that this big mass was intended to run on gas of some


sort, or possibly steam--it certainly was not meant for Shipstones.
There is a lot of obsolete engineering that is still useful in the colonies
but is no longer used anywhere that Shipstones are readily
available. None of it is familiar to me but I was not concerned with
how this thing worked; my interest lay in the fact that half of it was
somewhat like a frustrum of a giant cone laid on its side--and this
formed a space in the middle under the narrow end of the frustrum,
a space over a meter high. Big enough for a body. Mine. Even for
two, luckily, since I had this unwelcome guest whom I could neither
kill nor leave behind.

That space was made downright cozy by the fact that the cargo
men had placed a fitted glass tarpaulin over this monster before tying
it down. I had to wiggle in, between tiedowns, then I had to
strain like the very devil to drag Pete in after me. I made it. Minus
some skin.

I checked him again, then peeled him. With any tuck I would
get a little sleep--impossible had I left one of my guards loose
behind me.

Pete was wearing trousers, belt, shirt, shorts, socks, sneakers, and
a sweater. I took everything off, then tied his wrists behind him with
his shirt, tied his ankles with his trouser legs, fastened his ankles to
his wrists with his belt behind his back--this is one hell of an awkward
position, taught to me in basic as a way to discourage attempts
to escape.

Then I started to gag him, using his shorts and sweater. He said
quietly, "No need to do that, Miss Friday. I've been awake quite a
while. Let's talk."

I paused. "I thought you were awake. But I was willing to go
along with the pretense as long as you were. I assumed that you
would realize that, if you gave me any trouble, I would tear off your
gonads and stuff them down your throat."

"I figured something of the sort. But I didn't expect you to be
quite that drastic."

"Why not? I've run into your gonads before. Not favorably. They

are mine to tear off if I wish. Any argument?"

"Miss Friday, will you let me talk?"

"Sure, why not? But one peep out of you louder than a whisper
and these toys come off." I made sure he knew what I meant.


I s2


"Uh! Easy there--please! The purser put us on double watch tonight.
I--"

"Double watch? How?"

"Ordinarily Tilly--Shizuko--is the only one on duty from the
time you go to your cabin until you get up. When you do get up,
she punches a button and that tells me to set the watch. But the
purser--or maybe the Captain--is itchy about you. Worries that
you might try to jump ship at Botany Bay--"

I made my eyes round. "Goodness gracious! How can anyone
have such wicked thoughts about little ole me?"

"I can't imagine," he answered solemnly. "But why are we here
in this landing boat?"

"I'm getting ready to go sight-seeing. How about you?"

"Me, too. I hope. Miss Friday, I realized that, if you were going
to try to jump ship at Botany Bay, the most likely time would be
tonight during the midwatch. I didn't know how you expected to get
into the landing boat but I had confidence in you--and I see that
my confidence is justified."

"Thank you. Some, anyhow. Who's watching the portside boat?
Or is there someone?"

"Graham. Little sandy bloke. Perhaps you've noticed him?"
"Too often."

"I picked this side because you toured this boat with Mr. Udell
yesterday. Day before yesterday, depending on how you figure it."

"I don't care how you figure it. Pete, what happens when you are
missed?"

"I may not be missed. Joe Stupid--sorry, Joseph Steuben--the
other is just my private name for him--I have instructed to relieve
me after he eats breakfast. If I know Joe, he'll make no fuss at not
finding me at the door; he will just sit down on the deck with his
back to the door and sleep until someone comes along and unlocks
it. Then he'll stay there until this boat drops away... whereupon
he will go to his room and sack in until I look for him. Joe is steady
but not bright. Which I figured on."

"Pete, it sounds as if you had planned this."

"I didn't plan to get a sore neck and a headache out of it. If you
had waited long enough to let me speak, you wouldn't have had to
carry me."


353 I


"Pete, if you're trying to sweet-talk me into untying you, you are
barking down the wrong well."
"Don't you mean 'up the wrong tree'?"
"The wrong one, in any case, and you aren't improving your chances by criticizing my figures of speech. You're in deep trouble,
Pete. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you and leave
you here. For the Captain is right; I'm jumping ship. I can't be
bothered with you."
"Well... one reason is that they'll find my body later this morning,
while they are unloading. Then they'll be looking for you."
"I'll be many kilometers the other side of the horizon. But why
would they look for me? I'm not going to leave my fingerprints on
you. Just some purple bruises around your neck."
"Motive and opportunity. Botany Bay is a pretty law-abiding
community, Miss Friday. You can probably talk your way out of
trouble in jumping ship there--others have. But if yon are wanted
for a murder aboard ship, the local people will cooperate."
"I'll plead self-defense. A known rapist. Fer Cossake, Pete, what
am I going to do with you? You're an embarrassment. You know I
won't kill you; I can't kill in cold blood. It has to be forced on me.
But if I keep you tied up-- Let me see--five and three is eight, then
add at least two hours before they work back to here in unloading--that's
ten hours at least--and I'll have to gag you--and it's getting
cold--"
"You bet it's getting cold! Could you sort of drape my sweater
around me?"
"All right, but I'll have to use it later when I gag you."
"And besides being cold, my hands and feet are going to sleep.
Miss Friday, if you leave me tied up this way for ten hours, I'll have
gangrene in both hands and both feet--and lose them. No regeneration
out here. By the time I'm back where they can do it, I'll be a
permanent basket case. Kinder to kill me."
"Damn it, you're trying to work on my sympathy!"
"I'm not sure you have any."
"Look," I told him, "if I untie you and let you put your clothes
back on so that you won't freeze, will you let me tie you up and gag
you later without fussing about it? Or must I clip you a good deal
hamer than I did and knock you out cold? Run a risk of breaking
your neck? I can, you know. You've seen me fight--"
"I didn't see it; I just saw the results. Heard about it."
"Same thing. Then you know. And you must know why I can do
such things. 'My mother was a test tube'"
"'--and my father was a knife,' "he interrupted. "Miss Friday, I
didn't have to let you clip me. You're fast... but I'm just as fast
and my arms are longer. I knew that you were enhanced but you did
not know that I am. So I would have had the edge."
I was sitting in lotus, facing him, when he made this astounding
statement. I felt dizzy and wondered if I was going to throw up
again. "Pete," I said, almost pleadingly, "you wouldn't lie to me?"
"I've had to lie all my life," he answered, "and so have you. However--"
He paused and twisted his wrists; his bonds broke. Do you
know the breaking strength of a twisted sleeve of a good shirt? It is
more than that of a manila line of equal thickness--try it.
"I don't mind ruining the shirt," he said conversationally. "The
sweater will cover. But I would rather not ruin my trousers; I expect
to have to appear in public in them before I can get more. You can
reach the knots more easily than I can; will you untie them, Miss
Friday?"
"Stop calling me Miss Friday, Pete; we're APs together." I started
working on the knots. "Why didn't you tell me a long time ago?"
"I should have. Other things got in the way."
"There! Oh, your feet are cold! Let me rub them. Get the circulation
back."

We got some sleep, or I did. Pete was shaking my shoulder and saying
quietly, "Better wake up. We must be about to ground. Some
lights have come on."
A dim twilight trickled in, under, around, and through the tarpaulin
covering the dinosaur we had slept under. I yawned at it. "I'm cold."
"Complaints. You had the inside of the snuggle. That's warmer
than the outside. I'm frozen."
"Just what you deserve. Rapist. You're too skinny; you don't
make much of a blanket. Pete, we've got to put some fat on you.



I 354
	355 I


Which reminds me that we didn't have breakfast. And the thought

of food-- I think I'm about to throw up."


"Uh-- Slide past me and sort o' heave it back into that corner.

Not here where we would have to lie in it. And keep as quiet as you

can; there may be someone in here by now."

"Brute. Unfeeling brute. Just for that I won't throw up."

On the whole I felt fairly good. I had taken one of the little blue

pills just before leaving cabin BB, and it seemed to be holding. I had
a butterfly or two in my rummy but they weren't very muscular but-terflies--not
the sort that shout "Lemme outa here!" I had with me
the rest of the supply Dr. Jerry had given me. "Pete, what are the
plans?"

"You're asking me? You planned this jailbreak, not me."

"Yes, but you are a big, strong, masculine man who snores. I as-

sumed that you would take charge and have it all planned out while

I napped. Am I mistaken?"


"Well-- Friday, what are your plans? The plans you made when

you didn't expect to have me along."

"It wasn't much of a plan. After we ground they are going to have

to open a door, either a people door or a big cargo door; I don't care
which, 'cause when they do, I go out of here like a frightened cat,
running roughshod over anything or anybody in my way . . and I
don't stop until I'm a long way from the ship. I don't want to hurt
anybody but I hope nobody tries too hard to stop me... for I won't
be stopped."

"That's a good plan."

"You think so? It's not really a plan at all. Just a determination. A

door opens, I crush out."

"It's a good plan because it doesn't have any fancies to go wrong.

And you have one big advantage. They don't dare hurt you."

"I wish I could be sure of that."

"If you are hurt, it will be by accident, and the man who does it

will be strung up by his thumbs. At least. After hearing the rest of
your story I now know why the instructions to me were so emphatic.
Friday, they don't want you dead-or-alive; they want you in perfect
health. They'll let you escape before they will hurt you."

"Then it's going to be easy."


1356


"Don't be too sure of it. Wildcat that you are, it has already been
proved that enough men can grab you and hold you; we both know
that. If they know you are gone--and I think they do; this boat was
over an hour late in leaving orbit--"

"Oh!" I glanced at my finger. "Yes, we should have grounded by
now. Pete, they are searching for me!"

"I think so. But there was no point in waking you until the lights
came on. By now they have had about four hours to make certain
that you are not on the deck above with the first-class excursionists.
They will have mustered the migrants as well. So, if you are here--and
not simply hiding out in the ship proper--you have to be in this
cargo hold. That's an oversimplification as there are all sorts of ways
to play hide-and-seek in a space as big as this boat. But they'll watch
the two bottlenecks, the cargo door on this level and the passenger
door on the level above. Friday, if they use enough people--and
they will--and if those jimmylegs are equipped with nets and sticky
ropes and tanglefoot--and they will be--they will catch you without
hurting you as you come out of this boat."

"Oh." I thought about it. "Pete... if it comes to that, there will
be some dead and wounded first. I may wind up dead myself---but
they'll pay a high price for my carcass. Thanks for alerting me."

"They may not do it quite that way. They may make it very obvious
that the doors are being watched in order to cause you to hang
back. So they get the migrants out--I suppose you know that they

go out the cargo door?"

"I didn't."

"They do. Get them out and checked off--then close the big
door and shoot this place full of sleepy gas. Or tear gas and force you
to come out wiping your eyes and tossing your cookies."

"Brrr! Pete, are they really equipped in the ship with those gases?
I wondered."

"Those and worse. Look, the skipper of this ship operates many
light-years from law and order and he has only a handful of people
he can depend on in a crunch. In fourth class this ship carries, almost
every trip, a gang of desperate criminals. Of course he is
equipped to gas every compartment, selectively. But, Friday, you
won't be here when they use the gas."


357 I


"Huh? Keep talking."

"The migrants walk down the center aisle of this hold. Almost
three hundred of them this trip; they'll be packed into their compartment
tighter than is safe. So many of them this trip that I am
assuming that they can't possibly all know each other in the short
time they've had to get acquainted. We'll use that. Plus a very, very
old method, Friday; the one Ulysses used on Polyphemus..."


Pete and I were hanging back in an almost dark corner formed by
the high end of the generator and a something in a big crate. The
light changed, and we heard a murmur of many voices. "They're
coming," Pete whispered. "Remember, your best bet is someone
who has too much to carry. There'll be plenty of those. Our clothes
are okay--we don't look first class. But we must have something
to carry. Migrants are always loaded down; 1 got the straight word
on that."

'Tin going to try to carry some woman's baby," I told him.
"Perfect, if you can swing it. Hush, here they come."

They were indeed loaded down--because of what seems to me a
rather chinchy company policy: A migrant can take on his ticket
anything he can stuff into those broom closets they call staterooms
in third classas long as he can carry it off the ship unassisted; that's
the company's definition of "hand luggage." But anything he has to
have placed in the hold he pays freight charges on. I know that the
company has to show a profit--but I don't have to like this policy.
However, today we were going to try to turn it to our advantage.

As they passed us most of them never glanced our way and the
rest seemed uninterested. They looked tired and preoccupied and I
suppose they were, both. There were lots of babies and most of
them were crying. The first couple of dozen in the column were
strung out with those in front hurrying. Then the line moved more
slowly--more babies, more luggage--and clumped together. It was
coming time to pretend to be a "sheep."

Then suddenly, in that medley of human odors, of sweat and dirt
and worry and fear and musk and soiled diapers, one odor cut
through as crystal clear as the theme of the Golden Cockerel in
Rimsky-Korsakov's Hymn to the Sun or a Wagnerian leitmotif in
the Ring Cycle--and I yelped:


[358


"Janet!"

A heavyset woman on the other side of the queue turned and
looked at me, and dropped two suitcases and grabbed me. "Marjie!"
And a man in a beard was saying, "I told you she was in the ship! I
told you!" And Ian said accusingly, "You're dead!" and I pulled my
mouth away from Janet's long enough to say, "No, I'm not. Junior
Piloting Officer Pamela Heresford sends you her warmest regards."

Janet said, "That slitch!" Ian said, "Now, Jan" and Betty looked
at me carefully and said, "It is she. Hello, luvt Good on you! My
word!" and Georges was being incoherent in French around the
edges while trying gently to take me away from Janet.

Of course we had fouled up the progress of the queue. Other people,
burdened down and some of them complaining, pushed past
us, through us, around us. I said, "Let's get moving again. We can
talk later." I glanced back at the spot where Pete and I had lurked;
he was gone. So I quit worrying about him; Pete is smart.

Janet wasn't really heavyset, not corpulent--she was simply several
months gone. I tried to take one of her suitcases; she wouldn't
let me. "Better with two; they balance."

So 1 wound up carrying a cat's travel cage--Mama Cat. And a
large brown-paper parcel Ian had carried under one arm. "Janet,
what did you do with the kittens?"

"They," Freddie answered for her, "have, through my influence,
gained excellent positions with fine prospects for advancement as
rodent-control engineers on a large sheep station in Queensland.
And now, Helen, pray tell me how it chances that you, who, only
yesterday it seems, were seen on the right hand of the lord and master
of a great superliner, today find yourself consorting with the
peasantry in the bowels of this bucket?"

"Later, Freddie. After we're through here."

He glanced toward the door. "Ah, yes! Later, with a friendly libation
and many a tale. Meanwhile we have yet to pass Cerberus."

Two watchdogs, both armed, were at the door, one on each side.
I started saying mantras in my mind while chattering double-talk
inanities with Freddie. Both masters-at-arms looked at me, both
seemed to find my appearance unexceptionable. Possibly a dirty
face and scraggly hair acquired in the night helped, for, up to then,
I had never once been seen outside cabin BB unless Shizuko had


359 !


labored mightily to prepare me to fetch top prices on the auction
block.
We got outside the door, down a short ramp, and were queued up
at a table set just outside. At it sat two clerks with papers. One called
out, "Frances, Frederick J. ! Come forward!"
"Here!" answered Federico and stepped around me to go to the
table. A voice behind me called out, "There she is!"---and I sat
Mama Cat down quite abruptly and headed for the skyline.
I was vaguely aware of much excitement behind me but paid no
attention to it. I simply wanted to get out of range of any stun gun or
sticky-rope launcher or tear-gas mortar as fast as possible. I could
not outrace a radar gun or even a slug rifle--but those were no worry
if Pete was right. I just kept placing one in front of the other.
There was a village off to my right and some trees dead ahead. For
the time being the trees seemed a better bet; I kept going.
A glance back showed that most of the pack had been left be-hind--not
surprising; I can do a thousand meters in two minutes
flat. But two seemed to be keeping up and possibly closing the gap.
So I checked my rush, intending to bang their heads together or
whatever was needed.
"Keep going!" Pete rasped. "We're supposed to be trying to catch
you."
I kept going. The other runner was Shizuko. My friend Tilly.
Once I was well inside the trees and out of sight of the landing
boat I stopped to throw up. They caught up with me; Tilly held my
head and then wiped my mouth--tried to kiss me. I turned my face
away. "Don't, I must taste dreadful. Did you come out of the ship
like that?" She was dressed in a leotard that made her look taller,
more slender, more western, and much more female than I was
used to in my quondam "maid."
"No. A formal kimono with obi. They're back there somewhere.
Can't run in them."
Pete said irritably, "Stop the chatter. We got to get out of here."
He grabbed my hair, kissed me. "Who cares what you taste like?
Get moving!"
So we did, staying in the woods and getting farther from the landing
boat. But it quickly became clear that Tilly had a sprained ankle
and was becoming more crippled each step. Pete grumbled again.

[360

"When you broke for it, Tilly was only halfway down the gangway
from the first-class deck. So she jumped and made a bad landing.
Til, you're clumsy."
"It's these damn Nip shoes; they give no support. Pete, take the
kid and get moving; the busies won't do anything to me."
"Like hell," Pete said bitterly. "We three are in it together all the
way. Right, Miss---Right, Friday?"
"Hell, yes! 'One for all, all for one!' Take her right side, Pete; I'll
take this side."
We did pretty well as a five-legged race, not making fast time but
nevertheless putting more bush between us and pursuit. Somewhat
later Pete wanted to take her piggyback. I stopped us. "Let's listen."
No sound of pursuit. Nothing but the strange sounds of a strange
forest. Birdcalls? I wasn't sure. The place was a curious mix of
friendly and outr--grass that wasn't quite grass, trees that seemed
to be left over from another geological epoch, chlorophyll that was
heavily streaked with red--or was this autumn? How cold would it
be tonight? It didn't seem smart to go looking for people for the next
three days, in view of the ship's schedule. We could last that long
without food or water--but suppose it froze?
"All right," I said. "Piggyback. But we take turns."
"Fridayt You can't carry me."
"I carried Pete last night. Tell her, Pete. You think I can't handle
a little Japanese doll like you?"
"Japanese doll, my sore feet. I'm as American as you are."
"More so, probably. Because I'm not very. Tell you later. Climb
aboard."
I carried her about fifty meters, then Pete carried her about two
hundred, and so on, that being Pete's notion of fifty-fifty. After an
hour of this we came to a road--just a track through the bush, but
you could see marks of wheels and horses' hooves. To the left the
road went away from the landing boat and the town, so we went left,
with Shizuko walking again but leaning quite a lot on Pete.
We came to a farmhouse. Perhaps we should have ducked around it
but by then I wanted a drink of water more than I yearned to be
totally safe, and I wanted to strap Tilly's ankle before it got bigger
than her head.

361 [


There was an older woman, gray-haired, very neat and prim, sitting
in a rocking chair on the front veranda, knitting. She looked up
as we got closer, motioned to us to come up to the house. "I'm Mrs.

	O
		"

		undas, she said. "You're from the ship?"

"Yes," I agreed. "I'm Friday Jones and this is Matilda Jackson

	and this is our friend Pete."

	"Pete Roberts, ma'am."

"Come sit down, all of you. You'll forgive me if I don't get up;
my back is not what it used to be. You're refugees, are you not?
You've jumped ship?"

(Bite the bullet. But be ready to duck.) "Yes. We are."

ta course. About half the jumpers wind up first with us. Well,
according to this tooming's wireless you'll need to hide out at least
three days. You're welcome here and we enjoy visitors. Of course
you are entitled to go straight to the transient barracks; the ship authorities
can't touch you there. But they can make you miserable
with their endless lawyer arguments. You can decide after dinner.
Right now, would you like a nice cup of tea?"

	Yes! I agreed.

"Good. MalcoIra! Oh, Malcooom!"
"What, Mum?"
"Put the kettle on!"
"What?"

"The billy!" Mrs. Dundas added, to Tilly, "Child, what have you
done to your foot?"

	"I think I sprained it, ma'am."

"You certainly did! You--Friday is your name?--go find Malcolm,
tell him I want the biggest dishpan filled with cracked ice.
Then you can fetch tea, if you will, while Malcolm cracks ice. And
you, sir--Mr. Roberts--you can help me out of this chair because
there are more things we'll need for this poor child's foot. Must strap
it after we get the swelling down. And you--Matilda--are you allergic
to aspirin?"

"No, ma'am."

"Mural The billy's boiling!"

"You--Friday--go, dear."

I went to fetch tea, with a song in my heart.


1362


XXXlII


It has been twenty years. Botany Bay years, that is, but the difference
isn't much. Twenty good years. This memoir has been based
on tapes I made at Pajaro Sands before Boss died, then on notes I
made shortly after coming here, notes to "perpetuate the evidence"
when I still thought I might have to fight extradition.

But when it became impossible to keep their schedule through
using me, they lost interest in me---logical, as I was never anything
but a walking incubator to them. Then the matter became academic
when The First Citizen and the Dauphiness were assassinated
together, that bomb planted in their coach.

Properly this memoir should end with my arrival on Botany Bay
because my life stopped having any dramatic highlights at that
point--after all, what does a country housewife have to write memoirs
about? How many eggs we got last season? Are you interested? I
am but you are not.

People who are busy and happy don't write diaries; they are too
busy living.

But in going over the tapes and notes (and sloughing 60 percent
of the words) I noticed items that, having been mentioned, should
be cleared up. Janet's canceled Visa card-- I was "dead" in the explosion
that sank the Skip to M'Lou. Georges checked carefully in
Vicksburg low town, was assured that there were no survivors. He
then called Janet and Ian . . . when they were about to leave for


363 I


Australia, having been warned by Boss's Winnipeg agent--so of
course Janet canceled her card.
The strangest thing is finding my "family." But Georges says that
the strange thing is not that they are here but that I am here. All of
them were browned off, disgusted with Earth--where would they
go? Botany Bay is not Hobsoh's choice but for them it is certainly
the obvious choice. It is a good planet, much like Earth of centuries
back--but with up-to-date knowledge and technology. It is not as
primitive as Forest, not as outrageously expensive as Halcyon or
Fiddler's Green. They all lost heavily in forced liquidation but they
had enough to let them go steerage class to Botany Bay, pay their
contributions to company and colony, and still have starting money.
(Did you know that here on Botany Bay, nobody locks doors---many
don't have locks. Mirabile visu!)
Georges says that the only long coincidence lies in my being in
the same ship they migrated in--and it almost wasn't. They missed
the Dirac, then barely caught the Forward because Janet crowded
it, being dead-set on traveling with a baby in her belly rather than in
her arms. But of course if they had taken a later ship or an earlier
ship, I still would have met them here without planning it. Our
planet is about the size of Earth but our colony is still small and
almost all in one area and everyone is always interested in new
chums; we were certain to meet.
But what if I had never been offered that booby-trapped job? One
can always "what if---" but I think that it is at least fifty-fifty that,
after shopping as I had planned, I would still have wound up on
Botany Bay.
"There is a destiny that shapes our ends" and I have no complaints.
I like being a colonial housewife in an 8-group. It's not formally
an S-group here because we don't have many laws about sex
and marriage. We eight and all our kids live in a big rambling house
that }anet designed and we all built. (I'm no cabinetmaker but I'm a whee! of a rough carpenter.) Neighbors have never asked snoopy
questions about parentage--and Janet would freeze them if they
did. Nobody cares here, babies are welcome on Botany Bay; it will
be many centuries before anyone speaks of "population pressure" or
"ZeePeeGee."

This account won't be seen by neighbors because the only thing I
intend to publish here is a revised edition of my cookbook--a good
cookbook because I am ghost writer for two great cooks, Janet and
Georges, plus some practical hints for young housewives that I owe
to Goldie. So here I can discuss paternity freely. Georges married
Matilda when Percival married me; I think they drew straws. Of
course the baby in me fell under the old test-tube-and-knife say-ing--a
saying 1 have not heard even once on Botany Bay. Maybe
Wendy derives some or most of her ancestry from a former royal
house on The Realm. But I have never let her suspect it and officially
Percival is her father. All I really know is that Wendy is free of
exhibited congenital defects and Freddie and Georges say that she
doesn't carry any nasty recessives either. As a youngster she was no
meaner than any of the others and the usual moderate ration of
spankings was enough to straighten her out. I think that she is quite
a nice person, which pleases me as she is the only child of my body
even though she is no relation to me.
"The only..." When I got her out of the oven, I asked Georges
to reverse my sterility. He and Freddie examined me and told me
that I could get it done..  on Earth. Not in New Brisbane. Not for
years and years. That settled that--and I found that I was somewhat
relieved. I've done it once; I don't really need to do it again. We
have babies and dogs and kittens underfoot; the babies don't have to
be from my body any more than the kittens do. A baby is a baby and
Tilly makes good ones and so does Janet and so does Betty.
And so does Wendy. Were it not impossible I would guess that
she gets her horniness from her mother--me, I mean. She had not
yet turned fourteen the first time she came home and said, "Mum, I
guess I'm pregnant." I told her, "Don't guess about it, dear. Go see
Uncle Freddie and get a mouse test."
She announced the result at dinner, which turned it into a party
because, by long custom, in our family whenever a female is officially
pregnant is occasion for rejoicing and merriment. So Wendy
had her first pregnancy party at fourteen--and her next one at six-teen--and
her next one at eighteen--and her latest one just last
week. I'm glad she spaced them because I reared them, all but the
newest one; she got married for that one. So I have never been short

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of babies to pet, even if we didn't have four--now five--no, six--mothers
in this household.
Matilda's first baby has a number-one father--excellent stock.
Dr. Jerry Madsen. So she tells me. So I believe. Like this: Her former
master had just had her sterility reversed, intending to breed
her, when he got this chance to sell her services for a high-pay four-months'
job. So she became "Shizuko" with the shy smile and the
modest bow and chaperoned me--but conversely I chaperoned her without intending to. Oh, had she tried, she might have found a
little night life in the daytime... but the fact was that she spent
almost twenty-four hours of each day in cabin BB to be sure to be
there whenever I came back.
So when? The only time that it could happen. While I was huddled
under that turbogenerator, half frozen, with Percival, my
"maid" was in my bed with my doctor. So that young man has fine
parents! Joke: Jerry now lives in New Brisbane with his sweet wife,
Dian--but Tilly has not let him suspect that he has a son in our
household. Is this another "startling coincidence"? I don't think so.
"Medical doctor" is one of the contribution-free professions here;
Jerry wanted to get married and stop spacing--and why would anyone
choose to settle down on Earth when he has had opportunity to
shop the colonies?
Most of our family go to Jerry now; he's a good doctor. Yes, we
have two M.D.s in our family but they have never practiced; they
used to be gene surgeons, experimental biologists, genetic engi-neers---and
now they are farmers.
Janet knows who are the fathers of her first child, too---both her
husbands of that time, Ian and Georges. Why both? Because she
wanted it that way and Janet has a whim of steel. I've heard several
versions but it is my belief that she would not choose between them
for her first child.
Betty's first one is almost certainly not a knife job and may be
legitimate. But Betty is such a slashing outlaw that she would rather
have you believe that she caught that child at a gang bang during a
masquerade ball. New Brisbane is a very quiet place but no household
that has Betty Frances in it can ever be dull.
You may know more about the return of the Black Death than I

[366

do. Gloria credits my warning with having saved Luna City but it is
more nearly correct to credit it to Boss--my short career as soothsayer
was as Trilby to his Svengali.
Plague did not get off Earth; that was surely Boss's doing... although
once, at the critical time, New Brisbane signaled that a
landing boat could not land unless it was first exposed to vacuum,
then repressurized. Sure enough, this treatment killed some rats
and mice--and fleas. Its captain stopped talking about charging the
drill to the colony after this showed up.
Gontributions: Mail between Botany Bay and Earth/Luna takes
four to eight months, round-trip--not bad for a hundred and forty
light-years. (I once heard a tourist lady ask why didn't we use radio
mail?) Gloria paid my contribution to the colony with all possible
speed and was lavish in setting me up with capital--Boss's will gave
her leeway. She didn't send gold here; these were bookkeeping entries
in the colony's account in Luna Gity, under which farm implements
or anything can be shipped to Botany Bay.
But Pete had little on Earth to draw on and Tilly, a quasi-slave,
had nothing. I still had a piece left of that lottery windfall and all of
my final paycheck and even a few shares of stock. This got my fellow
jumpers out of hock---our colony never turns back a jumper
 . . but it may take him years to pay his share in the colony.
They both fussed. I fussed right back and worse. Not only is it all
in the family but without the help of both Percival and Matilda I
almost certainly would have been caught, then wound up on The
Realm--dead. But they still insisted on paying me.
We compromised. Their payments and some from the rest of us
started the Asa Hunter Bread-Upon-the-Waters Revolving Fund,
used to help jumpers or any new chum.

I no longer think about my odd and sometime shameful origin. "It takes a human mother to bear a human baby." Georges told me that
long ago. It's true and I have Wendy to prove it. I'm human and I belong!
I think that's all anybody wants. To belong. To be "people."
My word, do I belong! Last week I was trying to figure out why I

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was so short on time. I'm secretary of the Town Council. I'm program
chairman of the Parents-Teachers Association. I'm troop mistress
of the New Toowoomba Girl Scouts. I'm a past president of the
Garden Club, and I'm on the planning committee of the community
college we're starting. Yes, I belong.

It's a warm and happy feeling.


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