(And I'm not about to!) After evading her and then telling her 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 gold? 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 terminal. "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, Luna City. But it can be paid in New Zealand money, right here, by 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 married me, all legal and proper, in a side chapel of the cathedral, with me in white, fer Gossake.

            The following week I went back to work, both sad and warmly 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 child-eleven 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

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, Bertie? Why shouldn't Ellen marry anyone she wishes to marry? She is old 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, Bertie?"

            "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 Christchurch?"

            "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 political 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 Bertie 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 'uns 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 Bertie 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. After 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."

            "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'll 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 that means an overseas call. We'll slide over to the G.P.O. and make the call there. Pay cash. Or, easier yet, we'll use my 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 herself!' All I've been told is that he's a Tongan. Tongans 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. Intermarriage 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 world 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."

            "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 because it 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, why must you do this? Things are bad enough now."

            "Maybe. But it's possible that some of you have just been waiting for someone else to take the lead in bucking Anita's tyranny. At least I'll find out how the vote goes. Vick, under the contract I signed I have paid more than seventy thousand Ennzedd dollars into the family and I was told that the reason I had to buy my way into a marriage was that each of our many children were to be paid a full

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."

            "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 yourself! 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 crèche. (Correction: Life in the crèche that raised me; other production crèches may be different.)

            I gave her a summary of my life after I left the crèche-mostly lies, as I could not compromise Boss's secrets; I simply repeated what I had long since told the family, that I was a confidential com

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 pediatrician. 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 masquerading 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 her, 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 prejudgment 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 truth 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 degree 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

am an artificial person. How could a man in bed with me-as you were last night and many other nights-tell that I was artificial?"

            "Marjie, please drop it. It's not funny."

            (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 crèche 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

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.

            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 arid 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 I could not hoodwink myself into thinking that I had. On the contrary, my folly had made it impossible 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. I'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 much-a 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."

            "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 behave-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 fiancée. Are you?"

            "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 twenty-four hours. But you and I will get smashed."

            "I'll drink what you do. Anything but hemlock."

            I then convinced Ian 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 double-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 fret 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 Farnese, 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 commerits 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 selfrighteous 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-Marj?"

            "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, 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 crèche-raised, I can never learn enough about human manners and etiquette but I do know that a woman guest must dress-or undress-to match her hostess. I'm not really used to skin in the presence of humans (the crèche 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 Imperium 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 about women- 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 now 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.

            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.

IX

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?"

            "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

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 Jim") and thereby lost his defenses-but again it was not something a guest could ask.

            I wondered even more what would have happened if we had been jumped 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 jam, 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 jumpbag 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 and 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 at least 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 plunge-or 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 just 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 currying Black Beauty and Demon before going to the port, and ran out of

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. If I 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 flang 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. I 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 the day.

            Janet said pishantosh, that being sleepy had nothing to do with clocks and time zones-gentlemen, we are going to bed. She led 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?"

            "Ub . . . 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

Québec 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.

X

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 Québec, 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.

            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 some Québecois general, no military forces have been involved anywhere. Assassinations, fires, explosions, all sorts of sabotage, riots, terrorism of all kinds-but no pattern. It's not East against West, or Marxists against fascists, or blacks against whites. Marjorie, if anyone sets off missiles, it will mean that the whole world has gone crazy."

            "Doesn't it look that way now?"

            "I don't think so. The pattern of this is that it has no pattern. The target is everybody. It seems to be aimed at all governments 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-notavailable-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 WinnipegAuckland 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 reentry 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."

            "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 necessary. 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 regard 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 humans.

            (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.)

            "Hungry, 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 even 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 us-with 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 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, sonic, 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 your lap? Can't you realize that pretty little girls can get hurt if they insist on playing with had boys? If you were home, I'm sure your father 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, mon 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. If you 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- 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 crèche, 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 anything 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 persons-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, I am forced to treat your claim as hyperbole intended to show that you are free of prejudice."

            "Well- All right. Take it as such. I can't see why APs have to be second-class citizens. I think it's unfair."

            "It is. But some people feel threatened. Ask Ian. He's about to go charging off to Vancouver to keep artificial persons from ever becoming 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."