"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 Al scientists have announced that they were making a breakthrough to the fully self-aware computer. But it always went sour."

            "Yes. Distressing."

            "No-inevitable. 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 self-aware, nonhuman, intelligent organism-electronic or organic-loyal to human beings? I do not know how to do it. The artificial-intelligence 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-"

XI

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 started reciting the British Canadian list. From their expressions and thoughtful nods I saw that my hosts and hostess agreed with most of the choices. The deputy to the Prime Minister was on the list but not the Prime Minister herself-to my surprise and perhaps more so to hers. How would you feel if you had spent your whole life in politics, scrambled all the way to the top, then some smart yabber comes along and says you aren't even important enough to kill? A bit like being covered up by a cat!

            The voice promised that there would be no more killings for ten

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 pseudo-logic 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 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 precensorship 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 my 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 jewel 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 Québec were void for the duration of the emergency. So just stick it in the slot and learn the wonders 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 pense,' "-I hadn't-"a sentiment I commend to you, my good man. Marjorie, you aren't any worse off than you 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 comm 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 here!"

            We hurriedly joined him.

            "-of the Lord! Pay no heed to vain boasts of sinners! We alone are responsible for the apocalyptic signs you see all around you. Satan's minions have attempted to usurp the Holy work of God's chosen instruments and to distort it to their own vile ends. For this they are now being punished. Meanwhile the worldly rulers of mundane 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 Elronners 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 Scientologists, 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, like 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 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.

            "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."

XII

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 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 Marj 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 I am sacrificing myself for a principle, Marj 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 Marj that I would protect her from Georges. What's the point in saving her life if you turn her 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 fortyfive; 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 jumpbag. "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?"

            "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. There were bunk beds along the right wall, a table with chairs and a terminal beyond, and, at the far end, a petite galley on the right and a door that evidently led to a 'fresher 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 alone-oh, 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, gophers-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 comes 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 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

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!"

XIII

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 maître d'hôtel, 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-mere 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."

            "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 really 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-

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 pilots-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 often. 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."

            "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 subject? 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 involved 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, I will eat more garlic bread. And I'll get fat. No. Don't tempt me."

            "More soup?"

            "Nell . . . just a little."

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

            "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

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: "Marjorie, 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. If 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 thana 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."

            "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 making 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 Jan can play dumb. No evidence. You never saw him. But we must hurry, before he is missed."

            Jan was down on her knees beside the late police lieutenant. "Marj, 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 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. I 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;

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 Québec?"

            "An excellent chance if Georges decides to leave."

            "I thought so." She offered me more money. "I don't keep Qfrancs 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 you 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 suddenly realized that I had entered this household less than a day earlier-it 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 Freddie-had replaced the Davidson Group in my heart--donna 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 thirtyone percent, so, if you are thinking of Québec, forget it. It will seal but you can't maintain cabin pressure above twelve thousand meters. 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 disarmed 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 Québec . . . 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."

            "Didn't mean that. Set it on course south and maximum altitude. Maybe your border guard will burn it down, maybe the Imperium 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, Marj?"

            "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!"

            "Jan, 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 I have some vacation time. But now I must leave and get back to work. I've said so all along."

            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 passports-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 scams, 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 Québec. 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. Tormey to Mrs. Perreault, as it is certain, I think, that both my Maple Leaf card and my Credit Québec 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

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. Ian 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-threeo'-clock capsule, then we had to stand up all the way across the continent.

            But we were in Vancouver by twenty-two (Pacific Time-midnight 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 the 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."

            "Mr. Tormey, 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 has had time to grow a real appetite. I have eaten at this establishment 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 assuaged."

            "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 knees-comfortable. 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. "Sante, ma chère femme."

            I picked up mine. "Merci. Et a la tienne, mon cher man." 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 reality. 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 clover honey

            Kona coffee in oversize cups

            Coffee, juice, and biscuits were renewed constantly-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 Jack 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.

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 Assessments-No 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 could 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?"

            "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."

            "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 'N. 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, I 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."

            "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 you 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 crèche name, I mean. I'm Friday. No last name, of course. When I need one I use one of the conventional crèche 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, Georges?"

            "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

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 like- 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 crèche. 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!"

"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 nonhuman? 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 rutty 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 combination 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. I'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 bath-bathed, 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 fragrans feminae 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.

XV

I was correct.

            I don't want to take Georges away from Janet. . . 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 had 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 Diego-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 thankyouforwaiting."

            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 synthesized-saying: "Thank you for calling MasterCard. In the interests 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 not listed as assassinated. One is an 'accidental gunshot wound.' Another died after a 'lingering illness.' Another was a victim in an 'unexplained crash' of a private APV and the Confederacy Attorney 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 Imperiurn? 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 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 curriculum 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 Credit Québec 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 power-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 everywhere. 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 few soreheads) 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.

            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 whooshed 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 offtrack 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, deane?"

            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, deane. 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

            "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 hisself? Bad for business, all that noise. Well, sport, have you figured out how much you'll pay to get rich?"

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

            They locked gazes for about twenty seconds, then she said glumly, "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."

"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 before 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 dickering, 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, Ears-talk 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.

            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 flacon 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 BnitCan 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 weaning 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 equivalent. "I know that's not your métier, 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 endeavour to appear effeminate."

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

            We didn't do much to me-just that one-piece job with the wet 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, dean 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 dean 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 Mornie 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 later-at each of which an attempt was 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 homelier 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 reprimanded!"

            Tumbnil looked at Mornie, looked at me, looked back at his parasite. "Did you do that?"

Morrie asserted that he had not but even if he did, he had done so because he had thought that Tumbnil had ordered it but in any case he thought- "You're not supposed to think," Tumbnil 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 that 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 Turnbnil?"

            "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 expect 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 even 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

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 Réunioniste. But the present Prime Minister is Revanchiste. I doubt that he would have me."

            "What the devil are you talking about?"

"Je suis Quebecois, M. le chef d'etat. I'm from Montréal."

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 chambers-the Quebecois 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 Califonnia Commercial Credit Building. The rest room was nondiscriminatory 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 mirrors 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 crèche-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."

            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 bnuins 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 you-did 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 happen-she on 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 sensie star Bobby "The Brute" Pizarro.

            "Georges," I said. "American Express."            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 thi~ 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 holovision 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 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 moneychangers 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 confidential. Satisfactory, Miss Walgreen?"

            "Quite, sir."

            "Chambers. Do it."

"Yes, sir. What credit limit, sir?"

            "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-currency 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 of- "Friday. No."

            "So I was about to say." I stood up.

            Georges said, "Good-bye, Mn. 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 flubbed again."

            Our Mn. 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

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 band."

            "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 grandparents-it's dismaying!"

            "Can't expect you to get well overnight. We'll keep working on it. You certainly did not lose your nerve oven 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 BritCan 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. On in Las Vegas in thirty-five. Each has advantages and disadvantages for getting into the Impenium. 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 Montréal. Look, dear, we'll swap all the

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 riven 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 counted-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 Vicksbung Hilton (twin to the Bellingham Hilton even to The Breakfast Ban in the basement) but my business was down on the riven. 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 iow town-and had

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 jump, I would jump.

            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 gnifters, whores, smugglers, pushers, drug wholesalers, spivs, pimps, hire hatchets, military mercenaries, recruiters, fences, fagins, beggars, clandestine surgeons, blackbirders, glimjacks, 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 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, Boned?

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 shystens 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.

Artists, Ltd.

Documents of All Sorts, Negotiable Instruments, Money Of All Nations, Diplomas, Birth Certificates, IDs, Passports, Photognaphs, Business Licenses, Marriage Licenses, Credit

Cands, Holograms, Audio/Video Tapes, Commissions, Pardons, Wills, Seals, Fingerprints-All Work Guananteed with warnanty 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 warranty, 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.

A.C.B.

            "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."

            "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.

            b) No news from the California Confederacy concerning a second strike-routine news only. NB.: 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 horn 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 fan 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 except 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.

            He did look skinny but that probably reflected his having just            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."

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 hustle."

            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 my finger? I'll need it to make out your papers."

            I surrendered her finger; quite suddenly the knife was again in her 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? On do we quit playing

games?"            -

            I 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 payme 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 Boss-until 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.-

i.e., a senior staff specialist, if you like bureaucratese.

            "Well, fiddledeedee! If you can back that up, you'll do it to Colonel Rachel, not to me. I expect her in around thirteen." Almost absentmindedly 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? On 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 have? 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, deane. Once I close down this office, 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 on 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 hen; 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., upriver. 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 Danvers personally or

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 illogicality. 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 Jones. Off duty, you're J onesie."

            "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 conjectures 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.

            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.

XVIII

The excursion boat Skip to M'Lou was a real Mark Twainen, 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 hen. 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 the 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," Friday, 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 Raiders-before 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 goldbricking?'-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'll steal it. Pontside aft, abreast the pantry, is the dining-room steward's stateroom-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 dank yet. Somebody'll 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 karoom! and where the Myrtle had been the sky was filled with junk.

            "Jesus Christ!"

            "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 nun south. Well, half as likely. It had been flowing west at sundown; the Skip, 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 sorrow-in hen own rutty, slightly dishonest way Many 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 mm-

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 Impenium 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 pontages 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 on my back and kept checking the stars to hold course west. I had no way of telling how much I might be losing to the south through the 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. Shoftly 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

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?"