Hopie found the riddle of Amber as intriguing as Spirit and I did. She talked with the girl, or rather to her, for Amber never responded in words. Hopie soon became a kind of translator for Amber, ascertaining her preferences and informing us of them. Amber liked Hispanic food and didn’t care for sonic showers; she preferred to wash up with a damp cloth. She always wore the amber ring; the only time she became truly distressed was when the medics tried to remove it for examination. They had finally compromised by examining it on her hand, the radiation showing up her finger bones as well as the interior of the ring, and she had no objection. Hopie wanted to teach her to read, for she seemed not to know how, but Amber just stared blankly at the printed words. She was unable to relate to anything more technical than pictures.
Meanwhile, the crisis of Saturn abated. In accordance with the truce we pulled back our ships, which were oriented on Saturn, and they pulled back theirs, which were oriented on Jupiter. The fighting on Ganymede halted in place. Admiral Khukov returned to Saturn and worked his magic there, and in a fortnight he was formally announced as the new Chairman of the Council of Ministers, along with assorted other titles appropriate to the power base. Our Navy cooperated by showing evident respect for his prowess as a leader, retreating somewhat when he challenged and failing to do so when others did. Gradually the citizens of both planets resumed their breathing.
The formal arrangements were to spread out over some months, but the informal ones proceeded immediately. We dismantled our mock invasion of Ganymede, quietly returning our troops to their bases. The official death toll remained at just about twenty thousand gringos, but no list was published, “for reasons of security.” The families of the men were satisfied to know that their particular loved ones were not on the list and did not inquire about the others. That was just as well, for, of course, there were no dead on either side.
Saturn abandoned its effort to corrupt Tanamo Base, and the premier of Ganymede retained his power. Trade, originally limited to sugar, gradually broadened; it again became possible and even acceptable to smoke Gany cigars. Of course, that market was small; the ancient habit of inhaling from burning tubes of tobacco had been banished for health reasons centuries before, and with the addictive compulsion gone, few bothered to draw on cigars merely for the taste. But symbolically it was important to Gany, and it was true that they had always made the best taste-only cigars.
The ongoing business of government socked back in the moment the crisis abated. First to reach me was Senator Stonebridge. He came armed with statistics and graphs, a bewildering array, but the essence was this: “Tyrant, the budget cannot possibly be balanced without a substantial reduction in spending,” he informed me forcefully.
“What does the government of Jupiter spend most on?” I inquired with assumed naïveté.
“Well, that depends on your orientation. The social services—”
“I’ll have to consult with my sister Faith before I approve any reduction there.”
“Sir, your sister has grandiose aspirations for the eradication of poverty at the government’s expense!”
“So I gather. What other categories?”
“The military. But, of course, no chances can be taken with planetary defense—”
“Suppose we were to put a freeze on all military spending?”
“You mean to hold the level at the current—”
“No. To stop spending for arms entirely.”
He tried to laugh, but it didn’t work. “Sir, in the face of the present System situation—”
“How much would it assist in the balancing of the budget?”
“But it is pointless to—under no circumstances could—”
“I have never before seen you at a loss for figures, Senator.”
He coughed. “Assuming that other income and outlays remain constant, such a step would, on paper, achieve the objective. But—”
“Assume that Saturn is no further threat to Jupiter,” I said. “What would interfere with a zero military budget?”
He came to grips with this problem. “Sir, there are existing contractual commitments that—”
“What commitments?”
“Orders for new weapons systems, research and development costs, maintenance—”
“Who made those commitments?”
“The government, of course! It—”
“The former government,” I said firmly. “Today there is the Tyrancy. I have made no commitments for new weapons.”
“But, sir, you cannot renege on it. It would devastate the credibility of—”
“I expect to make my own credibility. What would be the immediate consequence of a cancellation of all military commitments?”
He got canny. “Well, sir, a substantial portion relates to pensions and care for those disabled in action.”
Ouch! I couldn’t cut off payments to the wounded and retired! “Keep that portion,” I said.
“And if the contracts with private enterprise are canceled, quite a substantial portion of Jupiter industry would be bankrupted. Those companies have made heavy investments—”
And the last thing I wanted was wholesale bankruptcy in our major industries. That would throw millions of people out of work and make twice the problem for Faith, as well as being a poor reflection on the Tyrant’s ability to manage the economy. “Point made,” I said. “It is not feasible at this moment to balance the budget by cutting off all military expense. But I do plan to cancel all new military projects, and that should result in a substantial and increasing savings over the years.”
“But Saturn—”
“Let Admiral Khukov worry about his own planet. Meanwhile I will see what I can do to cut expenses elsewhere. My job is not done until I balance that budget.”
He shook his head. “Even with the best of intentions and the most favorable developments, sir, it remains a Herculean task.”
“Name another major expense.”
“Well, there is the interest on the planetary debt, itself is now contributing significantly to the deficit. If present trends continue—”
“Suppose we simply abolish the planetary debt?”
“Sir, you can’t be serious!”
“Insane, perhaps, but serious. If thy debt offends thee, why not cut it off?”
“Because that debt is owed, ultimately, to our own citizens! The life savings of retirees are invested in planetary bonds—”
And to wipe out those life savings would make instant paupers of a major class of citizens and have Faith on my neck immediately. Also, there was the matter of keeping faith—no pun; Jupiter could not become known as a defaulter. So scratch one simplistic solution. “What are your suggestions?”
“Well, first there should be currency and tax reform. I believe that to abate inflation it would be wise to consider what is termed the gold standard.”
“Which is?”
“To back all Jupiter currency with metal of value. Of course, that does not mean literal gold; there is not enough of that, and too much of it is in the possession of marginal or even hostile powers. But a so-called basket of metals, including especially iron—”
“But we need iron for fuel!” I protested.
“That, sir, is why its value is assured. Any currency pegged to iron will endure. It would become difficult or impossible to inflate the currency without backing, if all of it could be redeemed for specified metals of verified value. Historically the most stable periods have been when—”
“The gold standard,” I agreed. “Set about it, Senator.”
He was gratified; he was a hard money man, as the truest conservatives tended to be. “Now, about tax reform—”
“The flat tax,” I said.
“Well, that would be too extreme. I was thinking of a modified—”
“Why?”
“The flat tax? Sir, the first consequence would be to reduce revenues at a time when—”
“But the level can be set anywhere, can’t it? One rate
for all, no exceptions, exclusions, or loopholes. Set at the point that would bring in the same revenue as now.”
He took a breath. “Sir, I am not at all certain you would endorse some of the complications. For example, the people at the lowest end of the earnings spectrum would pay a proportionally greater portion of their income than they do today, while those at the top would save substantially. Since you tend to sympathize with the lower range—”
“What about a minimum wage that prevents them from suffering? So they actually receive the same amount, after tax, as now?”
“That would be effective in that instance, sir. But it would drastically increase the labor cost of industry, which would in effect be paying the added burden. Prices would have to rise, sometimes considerably.”
I sighed. “There are no easy solutions, are there, Senator?”
“No easy solutions, sir,” he agreed, smiling. I might be the Tyrant, but he was establishing his authority in his bailiwick. We would be balancing the budget his way. Actually, much of my experience as Tyrant was the process of discovering my formidable limitations; I could not simply say “Do this! Do that!” and have things happen magically. Every action had a consequence, and these consequences hemmed me in, so that my absolute power was far more apparent than real.
I went to Nyork to address an audience personally, as I am, of course, a politician and can’t make as much of an impact when distanced from those I talk to. I knew that there was substantial concern about the nature of the newly installed Tyrancy and the recent Saturn crisis, and I simply wanted to reassure them with my human presence. Coral opposed it as a safety hazard, and so did the Secret Service guards, but I had always been a man of the people and needed this contact. After all, every member of that audience would be checked for weapons, and no known troublemakers would be admitted. I should be safe enough.
I was mistaken. From one of the floodlights a laser beam speared down. It scorched into the lectern where I was supposed to be standing. It had evidently been set long in advance and timed for the moment I took the floor. But I had been delayed a few seconds by a trifle—a child had begged for the touch of my hand, and like the vain creature I was, I had obliged—so I had approached the lectern late. The very precision of the trap’s timing defeated it. Had it functioned late, it would have caught me. As it was, I felt the heat as the lectern scintillated in the beam and began to melt.
Then Coral’s own laser caught the floodlight. It exploded, and the laser stopped.
I proceeded to my address as though nothing had happened, but I was shaken. Not so much by the attempt or its near success; I had faced death many times before and was somewhat fatalistic about it. But the seeming ease with which the assassin had bypassed all the efforts of my safety squad—that showed me how vulnerable I was. It was indeed dangerous for me to appear in public, even a friendly public.
My talk was a rousing success. Perhaps Spirit had arranged to pack the hall with my supporters; I didn’t think to ask. But certainly they were with me and were reassured by my explanation of the Saturn crisis, now over, and my plans to balance the budget and improve the lot of every citizen of Jupiter.
But I realized that even if this audience were representative of the majority of citizens, I could not often risk such appearances.
The majority would not assassinate me; the deadly minority would. This was the point at which it really came home to me that my old open ways were over; I would have to accept the increasing isolation that my bodyguards urged on me. They could not protect me from every devious threat that some fanatic with endless time and cunning devised. That floodlight, as it turned out, had been in place for a year; its original bulb had at some point been replaced by one containing the laser mechanism and timer. In the future the experts would check all bulbs, but there would be some other mechanism. I simply was not safe in public.
I had condemned President Tocsin, in part, because of his isolation from the public. I still condemned him, but now I had a trace more understanding. Isolation is not necessarily self-chosen.
Yet I hated to give up my public contact. My strength was in relating to people, and I felt deprived when I could not exercise it. I understood the pitfall of allowing myself to be surrounded by those I knew well; that was the true isolation. I had to be freshened by my constant input from the real planet.
I mentioned this to Spirit. “I am being channeled into the trap of inadequate feedback from the people,” I said. “Yet, if I don’t isolate myself, sooner or later an assassin will catch me. What can I do?”
“I face the same problem myself,” she said. “I am now too public a figure to employ my male disguise. There have been more attempts on our lives than I have bothered you with; we are all hostage to our position.”
So she—and my staff—had been shielding me from this ugly reality. Spirit had always been my strength in adversity. “There has to be an answer,” I said.
She quirked a smile. “Go to Q.”
To Q. She meant QYV, the secret organization that had first bedeviled, then assisted me. To Reba, the woman who was my sole contact with it. She had accepted my manuscript, sent the information about the sub, and let me know that my next contact should be personal.
I sighed. Like most women, Reba was smitten with me. Now that my marriage had fractured, they considered me to be fair game. Most women did not have access to me, but Reba was one I needed. It was time to make that call.
“We shall hold the fort for a couple of hours,” Spirit said, smiling knowingly.
“Here is the address, sir,” Shelia said, handing me a slip of paper. The same smile tugged at her lips.
“I’d rather be with you,” I murmured to her. The smile disappeared, replaced by a flush. Suddenly I felt guilty; that was not the kind of teasing to do.
Spirit summoned a Secret Service man who was about my size and complexion. “Take his suit,” she told me. “Our makeup man will render you into his likeness. That will do for this.”
The makeup man was good. He applied firming paste to my cheeks and color to my brows and did this and that to the rest of me, and when I stood beside the SS man before the mirror, we looked like twins. I practiced walking the way he did, and left, alone, to seek the address on the paper. Neither Coral nor the SS complement were happy about my exposure, but they had to allow it; I was, after all, the Tyrant.
I left the White Bubble in the SS shuttle. Theoretically I was either going off duty or was on some errand for the Tyrant, so no one paid attention. I debarked at a private access in New Wash Bubble and went my way. Of course, I was being tracked by other Secret Service men, so that I could be rescued if anything threatened, but I seemed to be alone. It was a good feeling; the tension of my office drained out of me, and I felt like an ordinary working man. It was wonderful.
I took a taxi to the address, for off-duty Secret Service men did not rate limo service. The cabbie zoomed expertly along the vehicle route, seeming at every moment to be about to collide with a wall or some other vehicle. I had almost forgotten the experience. Probably this was one of the lesser things that I was only now recalling, that had been deleted from my memory by my recent mem-wash. I loved it. Cabbies were like Navy drone pilots, in their fashion, careening around the system with hazardous expertise. I tipped him well, but not so well that he would remember me long, and approached the indicated door. It slid open at my approach, revealing a gloomy interior served by a moving belt. I stepped on, and the panel slid closed behind me.
The light went out, putting me in total darkness. The belt carried me into a chamber—I could tell by the sound and the feel of the air that it was of fair size—and deposited me in the center. Then I was seized by a field I remembered from thirty-five years before: pacifier. It did not hurt me, but it slowed me and robbed me of volition.
Hands came, catching my suit, drawing me forward. I moved as urged, as I had to when under pacifier influence. I wasn’t pleased to be subjected to this, as I had come voluntaril
y to do this woman’s limited bidding, but could not protest. It reminded me of the time when I was fifteen and pirates had used a pacifier on our refugee group and slain my father while I watched helplessly. But this was not that, I reminded myself. I knew by the touch that this was Reba, the woman I had come to see. She brought me to the end of a couch or bed and stopped me there. Still I could not see; the darkness was impenetrable.
Then she worked on my clothing. I did not resist. She drew off my jacket and shirt, and I moved my arms to assist, following the implied directives. She took down my trousers, and I lifted one foot and then the other, cooperating. In due course she had me naked, still standing. What did she have in mind? Evidently not ordinary sex.
Now her hands slid lightly across the skin of my body, my arms and chest and back. There are ways and ways to touch; this was expertly caressing. The fingers were slippery smooth, perhaps gloved in plastic, and slightly cool.
They moved on down my torso, brushing my belly and spine, down to cup my buttocks, down the backs of my legs to my feet, then up inside. They climbed to my private region and explored it, becoming ticklish.
My body reacted, melding from flaccid to rigid, but I remained otherwise unmoving.
The hands returned to my upper structure, and their force increased. Now the fingers kneaded my flesh, squeezing the muscle of the arms, moving up to massage my shoulders. At this, too, they were expert; it felt very good. They worked over my neck, causing unsuspected tensions to ease. They traveled down my backbone, bearing relief of tightness. They kneaded my buttocks and my thigh muscles and my calves. They returned to work on my member, causing it, ironically, to harden further rather than soften.
Then the hands went to my shoulders, turned me around, and pushed abruptly. I fell backward, my legs catching on the edge of the bed, so that I landed bouncingly on my back, my feet remaining on the floor.
She took hold of one foot, moving it outward. Then the other, out, so that my knees were widely spread. Then the hands hauled on both legs, so that I had to slide down until my posterior almost overhung the edge. What did she have in mind? So far she had not spoken, and I had been able to see nothing; touch was the only communication.
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