The Best of Bova

by Ben Bova

  “So you say,” she replied.

  “The tests are for your own protection,” he repeated, weakly.

  “Yes. Of course.” She had been through the whole grueling routine for more than a week now. “I have passed all the tests. I can handle the gravity. The difference in air pressure. I am not carrying any diseases. There is no physical reason to keep me from returning.”

  “But you’ve been away nearly ten years. The cultural shock, the readjustment—the psychological problems often outweigh the physical ones. It’s not simply a matter of buying a return ticket and boarding a shuttle.”

  “I know. I have been told time and again that it is a privilege, not a right.”

  The interviewer lifted his eyes from his display screen and looked directly at her for the first time. “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this?” he asked. “After ten years—are you willing to give up your whole life, your friends and all, just to come back?”

  Dolores glanced at the nameplate on his desk. “Yes, Mr. Briem,” she said icily. “That is precisely what I want to do.”

  “But why?”

  Dolores Anna Maria Alvarez de Montoya leaned back in the spindly plastic chair. It creaked in complaint. She was a solidly built woman in her early forties, with a strong-boned deeply tanned face. Her dark straight hair, graying prematurely, was tied back in a single long braid. To the interviewer she looked exactly like what the computer files said she was: a journeyman construction worker with a questionable political background. A problem.

  “I want to be able to breathe freely again,” Dolores answered slowly. “I’ve lived like an ant in a hive long enough. Hemmed in by their laws and regulations. People weren’t meant to live like that. I want to come back home.”

  For a long moment the interviewer stared at Dolores, his Nordic blue eyes locked on her deep onyx pools. Then he turned back toward the display screen on his desk as if he could see more of her through her records than by watching the woman herself.

  “You say ‘home.’ You’ve been away nearly ten years.”

  “It is still my home,” Dolores said firmly. “I was born there. My roots are there.”

  “Your son is there.”

  She had expected that. Yet she still drew in her breath at the pain. “Yes,” she conceded. “My son is there.”

  “You left of your own volition. You declared that you never wanted to come back. You renounced your citizenship.”

  “That was ten years ago.”

  “You’ve changed your mind—after ten years.”

  “I was very foolish then. I was under great emotional stress. A divorce . . .” She let her voice trail off. She did not mention the fierce political passions that had burned within her back in those days.

  “Yes,” said the interviewer. “Very foolish.”

  C. Briem: that was all his nameplate said. He did not seem to Dolores to be a really nasty man. Not very sympathetic, naturally. But not the totally cold inhuman kind of bureaucrat she had seen so often over the years. He was quite young, she thought, for a position of such power. Young and rather attractive, with hair the color of afternoon sunshine cropped short and neat. And good shoulders beneath his severely tailored one-piece suit. It was spotless white, of course. Dolores wore her one and only business suit, gray and shabby after all the years of hanging in closets or being folded in a tight travel bag. She had worn it only at the rallies and late-night meetings she had attended; fewer and fewer, as the years passed by.

  Over the past week Dolores had gone through a dozen interviews like this one. And the complete battery of physical tests. This man behind the desk had the power to recommend that she be allowed to return to her home, or to keep her locked out and exiled from her roots, her memories, her only son.

  “How old is your boy now?” he suddenly asked.

  Startled, Dolores answered, “Eleven—no, he’ll be twelve years old next month. I was hoping to get back in time to see him on his birthday.”

  “We really don’t want any more immigrant laborers,” he said, trying to make his voice hard but not quite able to do so.

  “I am not an immigrant,” Dolores replied firmly. “I am a native. And I am not a laborer. I am a fluid systems technician.”

  “A plumber.”

  She smiled tolerantly. “A plumber who works on fusion-power plants. They require excellent piping and welding. I run the machines that do such work. It is all in the dossier on your screen, I’m sure.”

  He conceded his point with a dip of his chin. “You’ve worked on fusion plants for all the ten years you were out there?”

  “Most of the time. I did some work on solar power systems as well. They also require excellent plumbing.”

  For long moments the interviewer said nothing, staring at the screen as if it would tell him what to do, which decision to make.

  Finally he returned his gaze to Dolores. “I will have to consult the immigration board, Ms. Alvarez. You will have to wait for their decision.”

  “How long will that take?”

  He blinked his blue eyes once, twice. “A day or so. Perhaps longer.”

  “Then I must remain aboard this station until they decide?”

  “Of course. Your expenses will be paid by the government on its regular per them allowance.”

  Dolores felt her nostrils flare. Government per them allowances did not come anywhere near the prices charged by the station’s restaurants or the hotel. And it usually took months for any government to honor the expense reports that per them people sent in.

  She got to her feet. “I hope it will be a quick decision, then.”

  The interviewer remained seated, but seemed to thaw just a bit. “No, Ms. Alvarez. Hope for a slow decision. The more time they take to make up their minds, the better your chances.”

  Dolores murmured, “Like a jury deciding a person’s life or death.”

  “Yes,” he said sadly. “Very much like that.”

  Dolores drifted through the rest of the day, walking through the long sloping passageways of the circular station, heading away from the administrative offices with their impersonal interviewers and computerized records of a woman’s entire life.

  Do they know? she asked himself silently. Do they suspect why I want to return? Of course they must have records of my old political activities, but do they know what I am trying to accomplish now?

  Even when the three lunar colonies had united in declaring their independence from the World Government the separation between the peoples of Earth and those living in space had never been total. Governments might rage and threaten, corporations might cut off entire colonies from desperately needed trade, but still a trickle of people made it from space back to Mother Earth. And vice versa. The journey was often painful and always mired in red tape, but as far as Dolores knew no one had ever been flatly denied permission to go home again.

  Until now.

  The other people striding along the wide passageways were mostly administrative staff personnel who wore one-piece jumpsuits, as had the handsome young Mr. Briem. White, sky-blue, fire-engine red, grassy green, their colors denoted the wearers’ jobs. But as Dolores neared the area where the tourist shops and restaurants were located, the people around her changed.

  The tourists dressed with far more variety: men in brilliantly colored running suits or conservative business outfits such as Dolores herself wore; the younger women showing bare midriffs, long shapely legs glossy with the sheen of hosiery, startling makeup and hairdos.

  The space station was huge, massive, like a small city in orbit. As she strolled aimlessly along its passageways Dolores realized that the station had grown in the ten years since she had last seen it. It was like Samarkand or Damascus or any of those other ancient cities along the old caravan trails: a center of commerce and trade, even tourism. Surely the restrictions against returning home were easier now than they had been ten years before.

  Then she realized that these tourists were aboard a
space station that orbited a mere five hundred kilometers above Earth’s surface. They would not be allowed to go to the Moon or to one of the O’Neil habitats. They were flatlanders on vacation. And there were almost no lunar citizens or residents of O’Neil communities here in this station. At least, none that she could identify.

  She caught a glance of the Earth hanging outside one of the rare windows along the passageway, huge and blue and glowing with beauty. Five hundred kilometers away. Only five hundred kilometers.

  As the station swung in its stately rotation the view of Earth passed out of sight. Dolores saw the distant Moon hanging against the black background of deep space. Then even that passed, and there was nothing to see but the infinite emptiness.

  Will they find out? Dolores wondered. Is there something in my record, something I might have said during the interviews, some tiny hint, that will betray me?

  She stopped in mid-stride, almost stumbled as a sudden bolt of electrical surprise flashed through her. Hector Luis! Her son!

  But then she saw that it was merely a curly-haired boy of ten or twelve, a stranger walking with his trusting hand firmly in the grasp of a man who must have been his father. Dolores watched them pass by without so much as a flicker of a glance at her. As if she were not there in the corridor with them. As if she did not exist.

  The last hologram she had seen of her son had been more than a year ago. The boy walking past looked nothing like Hector Luis, really. The same height maybe. Not even a similar build.

  You are becoming maudlin, she chided herself.

  She realized that she was in the midst of the shopping area. Store windows stretched on both sides of the passageway, merchandise of all sorts glittered brightly in the attractive displays. Maybe I can find something for Hector Luis, she thought. Maybe if I buy a gift for him it will impress the immigration board. She had no doubt that they were watching her. Yet she felt slightly ashamed of her thought, using her son as a tool to pry open the board members’ hearts.

  She window-shopped until she lost tack of the time. The more she gazed at the lush variety of merchandise the more confused she became. What would a twelve-year-old boy like? What does her son like? She had no idea.

  Finally her stomach told her that she had missed lunch and it was almost time for supper. There were restaurants further up the corridor. Dolores frowned inwardly: the government’s munificent per them allowance might just cover the price of a beer.

  With a shrug she moved through the meandering tourists and headed for a meal she could barely afford. She studied the menus displayed on the electronic screens outside each of the four restaurants, then entered the least expensive.

  She hardly felt any surprise at all when she saw that Mr. Briem was already seated at a table by the window, alone. Yes, they are certainly watching me.

  He saw Dolores as she approached his table.

  “Buenas tar des Mr. Briem,” she said, with a gracious nod of her head.

  “Ms. Alvarez!” He scrambled to his feet and pretended to be surprised. “Would you care to join me? I just came in here a few moments ago.”

  “I would be very happy to. It is very lonely to eat by one’s self.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  Dolores sat across the little square table from him, and they studied the menu screen for a few moments. She grimaced at the prices, but Briem did not seem to notice.

  They tapped out their orders on the keyboard. Then Dolores asked politely, “Do you come here often?”

  He made a small shrug. “When I get tired of my own cooking. Often enough.”

  A young woman walked up to the table, petite, oriental-looking. “Hi, Cal. A little early for you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m going to the concert tonight,” he answered quickly.

  “Oh so?” The woman glanced at Dolores, then turned her eyes back to him. “Me too.”

  “I’ll see you there, then.”

  “Good. Maybe we can have dessert or coffee together afterward.”

  Briem nodded and smiled. It was an innocent smile, Dolores thought. It almost made her believe that he truly was in this restaurant because he was going to a concert later in the evening and the young oriental was not an agent of the immigration department or a bodyguard assigned to watch over him while he dealt with this would-be infiltrator.

  “Your first name is Calvin?” Dolores asked.

  “Calvert,” he replied. “I prefer Cal. It sounds less like an old British mystery story.”

  “I am called Dolores. My especial friends call me Dee.”

  His smile came back, warmer this time. The robot rolled up to their table with their trays of dinner on its flat top. They started to eat.

  “I was thinking of buying my son a present,” Dolores said, “but I don’t know what to get him. What are twelve-year-old boys interested in these days?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “There is so much in the store windows! It’s rather overwhelming.”

  “You haven’t gone shopping for a while?”

  “Not for a long time. Where I was, there were no stores. Not gift stores. I suppose I have missed a lot of things in the past ten years.”

  They fell silent for a few moments. Dolores turned her attention to her broth. It was thin and delicately flavored, not like the rich heavy soups she was accustomed to.

  “Ms. Alvarez—”

  “Dolores.”

  “Dolores, then.” Cal Briem looked troubled. “I suppose I shouldn’t bring up the subject. It’s none of my affair, really . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Your political activities.”

  “Ah.” She had known it would come up sooner or later. At least he was bringing it out into the open.

  “You were quite an activist in your younger days. But over the past few years you seem to have stopped.”

  “I have grown older.”

  He looked at her, really looked at her, for a long silent moment.

  “I can’t accept the idea that you’ve given up your beliefs,” he said at last.

  “I was never a radical. I never advocated violence. During the times of the great labor unrest I served as a mediator more than once.”

  “We know. It’s in your record.”

  She put down her spoon, tired of the whole charade. “Then my political beliefs are going to be counted against me, aren’t they?”

  “They don’t help,” he said softly.

  “You are going to prevent me from returning home because my political position is not acceptable to you.”

  “Did you marry again?” He changed the subject. “We have no record of it if you did.”

  “No. I did not marry again.”

  “For ten years you’ve remained unmarried?”

  She recognized the unvoiced question. “After the terrible mess of my first marriage, I never allowed myself to become so attached to someone that he could cause me pain.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Besides,” Dolores added, “where I was, out on the construction jobs, there were not that many men who were both eligible and attractive.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” she said fervently.

  “Your political activities broke up your marriage, didn’t they?”

  She fought an urge to laugh. Raoul’s father owned half of the solar system’s largest construction firm. “They did not help to cement us together, no,” she said.

  “Have you given up your political activities altogether?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

  Dolores spooned up another sip of broth before answering. “Yes,” she half lied. “But I still have my beliefs.”

  “Of course.”

  They finished the brief meal in virtual silence. When their bills appeared on the table’s display screen Briem gently pushed Dolores’s hand aside and tapped his own number on the keyboard.

  “Let the immigration board pay for this,” he s
aid, smiling shyly. “They can afford it better than you.”

  “Much as gracias,” said Dolores. But inwardly she asked herself, Why is he doing this? What advantage does he expect to gain?”

  “Would you like to go to the concert?” he asked as they got up from the table.

  Dolores thought a moment. Then, “No, I think not. Thank you anyway. I appreciate your kindness.”

  As they walked out into the broad passageway again, Briem said, “Your son’s been living all this time with his father, hasn’t he?”

  Again she felt the stab of pain. And anger. What is he trying to do to me? Dolores raged inwardly. “I don’t think you have any right to probe into my personal affairs,” she snapped.

  His face went red. “Oh, I didn’t mean—I was only trying to be helpful. You had asked about what the boy might be interested in . . .”

  The anger drained out of her as quickly as it had risen. “I’m sorry. I have always been too quick to lose my temper.”

  “It’s understandable,” Briem said.

  “One would think that at my age I would have learned better self-control.”

  “De nada,” he said, with an atrocious accent.

  But she smiled at his attempt to defuse the situation. Then she caught a view of Earth again in the window across the passageway. Dolores headed toward it like a woman lured by a lover, like a sliver of iron pulled by a magnet.

  Briem walked beside her. “I really should be getting to the auditorium. The concert.”

  “Yes,” Dolores muttered, staring at the glowing blue-and-white panorama parading before her eyes. “Of course.”

  He grasped her sleeve, forcing her to tear her eyes away and look at him.

  “Tell me what you learned in the ten years you were away,” he said, suddenly urgent. “Tell me the most important thing you’ve learned.”

  She blinked at the fervor in his voice, the intensity of his expression. “The most important?”

  “I know you still have a political agenda. You haven’t given up all your hopes, your ideals. But what did the past ten years teach you?”

  Dolores put aside all pretense. She knew she was ending all her hopes for returning home, killing her only chance to see her son once again. But she told him anyway, without evasion, without pretense.