All right, so a few million people are willing to keep you alive so they can hear your verses. Does that mean you're good?
He tried to throw off the mood—it meant he was good enough, he thought as he stepped into the glorified closet that the cabaret laughingly called a "green room." Well, at least it had someplace for the entertainers to relax between sets—more than a lot of clubs had.
He looked around, frowning. Where was that wine Hilda had promised him? Promised to have it waiting, too.
Ah, there she came, diving through the door, sailing in Triton's low gravity, out of breath. "Sorry, Whitey. There was a hold-up."
"Don't give them anything—it's a water pistol." Whitey reached out and plucked the glass from her as she braked against the other chair. "What was his name?"
"Terran Post Express." Hilda took an envelope from her bodice and handed it to him. "For Mr. Tod Tambourin."
Whitey winced at the sound of his real name. "Official, huh?"
"I'll say. Who knew you were here?"
"My producer." Whitey grinned, stroking the letter lasciviously as he eyed her.
"Don't give me that—if you meant it, you'd be trying to pet me, not the letter. What is it?"
"Probably money." Whitey slit the envelope.
She could almost hear his face hit the ground. "Who… who is it?"
"Lawyers," he told her. "My son's."
Not that he had ever known the boy that well, Whitey reflected, as he webbed himself into the seat on the passenger liner. Hard to get to know your son when you're hardly ever home. And Henrietta hadn't wanted him to be, after she realized her mistake—at least, that's what she had called it when she had figured out he wasn't going to settle down and become a nice safe asteroid miner, like a sensible man. She didn't approve of the way he made his living, either—selling exotic pharmaceuticals at an amazing discount, on planets where they were highly taxed. Totally illegal, and his first big regret—but she'd been plenty willing to take the money he'd sent back, oh yes—until that horrible trip when he'd landed on a tariff-free planet, and couldn't even make enough profit to ship out, and had found out, the hard way, what his stock-in-trade could do to his clients.
So no more drugs, for him or his customers—only wine, and beer at the most. He hadn't needed to smuggle any more, anyway—he had enough invested, he could live on the interest. Or his wife and boy could, while he eked out a living wandering from bar to bar, singing for shekels. The accommodations weren't too great, but other than that, it wasn't so different. He'd missed his son's early years though, and was beginning to think of going back to Ceres and getting to know him. Henrietta couldn't be all that bad.
Then he'd had the letter from the lawyer, and decided maybe she could. He'd had to live on his singing after that, because the court had given Henrietta all the stocks and bonds, and the kid. Whitey didn't have a leg to stand on—so he'd missed the lad's middle years, and teen years, too, because Henrietta had taken the money and the boy and emigrated to Falstaff, where Whitey couldn't follow—he didn't have the money for a ticket any more.
Not that he was about to try. In fact, he was ashamed for even thinking about it.
Of course, there was the chance that the kid might have wanted to meet him, when he grew up—so Whitey had written him a letter, when he found out that the kid had come back to Ceres. But the boy sent him a pointed note, one, and very pointed—"Stay out of my life." Not much arguing with that—and not much of a surprise, considering all the things Henrietta had told him about his father, some of which were actually true. So Whitey had lived with his second big regret, and gone on singing.
Ceres! Why did the kid have to go back there?
Because it was where he'd spent his boyhood, of course—nice to know it must have been halfway happy.
So Whitey had subscribed to Ceres News Service, and kept track of the main events in the boy's life—his marriage, his daughter's birth, his family's plunging into the new commuter colony on that large asteroid called Homestead, with the brand new idea in domes—overlapping force-field generators that completely englobed the rock.
And the dome had collapsed, and the boy and his wife were dead.
But the baby was alive.
The baby was alive, and her father hadn't left a will, and her mother's parents had followed Henrietta's lead and opted for cold sleep while their assets increased—
And Whitey was next of kin.
He touched the letter in his breast pocket, not needing to open it, still able to see the print when he closed his eyes. Next of kin, so little Lona was his responsibility, his second chance to raise a child. He watched Triton dwindling astern with Neptune's huge orb behind it, and felt a strange excitement welling up under the sorrow, vowing that, this time, he wasn't going to make a mess of it, no matter how tough it got.
It got tough.
It got really tough really fast, because it was a hospital the lawyer took him to, not an orphanage or a foster home—a hospital, and she was sitting in the dayroom, a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, six-year-old little girl, watching a 3DT program. Just watching.
Not talking, not fidgeting, not throwing spitballs—nothing.
"Lona, this is your grandfather," Dr. Ross said.
She looked up without the slightest sign of recognition—of course. They'd never met, she probably hadn't even known about him. "Are you my mommy's daddy?"
Whitey's smile slipped. Hadn't she met the other grandfather, either? Before he chilled out, of course. "No, I'm the other one."
"My daddy's daddy?"
"Yes."
"What was he like?"
The doctor explained it to him, after he had recovered, in her office. "It was a huge trauma, and she didn't have any defenses against it—after all, she's only six. It's not surprising that she has repressed all memory of it—and any memory that had anything to do with it, too."
"No surprise at all." He forced a smile. "She didn't have that much to remember yet."
Dr. Ross nodded. "We'll have to be very careful, very patient in working around the amnesia. She'll have to learn everything, all over again—but you have to tread very lightly. Don't mention Homestead, or her parents, or anything about her past for a while. There's no way of knowing what will trigger a memory painful enough to set her back."
Whitey nodded. "And she'll have to have psychiatric care?"
"Yes, that's vital."
"I see… Do you take private patients, Doctor?"
"Yes, a few," Dr. Ross said instantly, "and I can make room for Lona."
So he had to settle down, after all—find an apartment to buy, arrange the financing, have the furniture cast and delivered. Then, finally, he was able to lead her out of the hospital and out into the corridor, her little hand in his, already trusting, on her way home.
She was very good.
Too good—Whitey found himself wishing for a little naughtiness. But she was totally obedient, did exactly what she was told—
And not one thing more.
When he didn't have something for her to do, she just sat watching the 3DT, hands in her lap, back straight (as he had commanded, hoping to get a rise out of her). Everything he taught her, she learned on the first try, then did whenever he told her to do it. She made her bed every morning, washed her dishes, studied her alphabet—
Like a robot.
"She could simply be naturally good," Dr. Ross said carefully. "Some children are."
"Some children may be, but it's not natural. Come on, Doctor—just a little disobedience? A little backtalk? Why not?"
"Guilt," the doctor said slowly.
Whitey stared. "What could she have to feel guilty about?"
"The explosion," the doctor sighed. "Children seem to feel that if something goes wrong, it must be their fault, must be the result of something they did."
Whitey frowned. "I can see that making her sad, all right—but absolutely perfectly behaved? And why would that keep her from dreaming?"
&n
bsp; "Everyone dreams, Mr. Tambourin."
"Whitey." he squeezed his eyes shut; his real name had unpleasant associations with his past. "Just 'Whitey.' "
" 'Whitey,' " the doctor said reluctantly. "And we know Lona dreams—that's why I gave her the REM test."
"Then how come she says she doesn't?"
"She doesn't remember. She's repressing that, too."
"But they're happening now! And the accident was months ago!"
"Yes," the doctor said, musing, "but she may feel that it's wrong to dream."
"In Heaven's name, why?"
"She may have been angry at her parents," Dr. Ross explained. "Children frequently are, any time they're told No or punished. They want to strike back at their parents, want to hurt them, tell them to drop dead—and, if she'd gone to bed in that frame of mind…"
"She might have dreamed she was killing them?"
"Something like that. Then she woke up, and found they really were dead—so she repressed the traumatic event, and repressed all memory of her parents, since that reminded her of her guilt."
"Isn't this a little farfetched?"
"Very," the doctor admitted. "It's just conjecture, Mr… Whitey."
He sighed. "Mr. Whitey" would do. "We don't have enough information for anything more than a guess, do we?"
"Not yet, no."
"Okay, let's say you're right, Doctor. What do we do about it?"
"Prove to her that wishes don't make things happen, Mr.— Whitey."
Whitey suddenly turned thoughtful. "I suppose that is how it looks to her. But why would that make her so scrupulously obedient?"
"Because if you're naughty," the doctor murmured, "horrible things happen."
"And if you've been that naughty…"
"You want to be punished," the doctor finished for him. "Yes."
"Well." Whitey stood up, with a smile. "She shouldn't have to do it all by herself, should she?"
So he punished her. Tirelessly, relentlessly, ruthlessly, no matter how it made his heart ache. Made her scrub the floor. Do the dishes. Dust the furniture. All by hand, too.
She should have protested that the robot could do it.
She didn't.
He made her comb her own hair, and watched with a beady eye to make sure every tangle was out, trying to ignore the ache in his chest—watched the tears rolling down her cheeks as she pulled and yanked, but never a whimper.
And no games. No playing—not that she did, anyway. No 3DT programs.
He made her do everything. She out-cleaned Cinderella, out-shined the Man in the Moon, and moved in on the labors of Hercules. She was starting in on the Aegean Stables when she finally exploded. "I wish you'd get spaced, Gran'pa!"
Then she froze, shocked, appalled" at herself—but she'd said it.
"No," Whitey said, with his meanest grin, "I won't."
Then he had to deliver on it, of course. If anything happened to him now, she'd probably never come out of it. He got mighty tired of wearing the space suit, day in and day out, but after a week, she saw nothing had happened to him, and began to relax. And, when lightning failed to strike, she began to become a bit more irritable.
"Gran'pa, you're a meanie!"
"I know. But you have to clean your room anyway, Lona."
"Gran'pa, you're horrible!"
"Scrub the floor anyway, Lona."
"Gran'pa, I wish you knew what it feels like!"
"Finish combing your hair, Lona."
It was the hair that finally did it. One night, she yanked at a particularly bad snarl and cried, "Ouch!" And the tears rolled.
"Poor little girl," Whitey said, fairly oozing sympathy. "But crying won't get you out of it."
Her face reddened with real, genuine anger. "Gran'pa, drop dead!"
"But I didn't," Whitey explained.
"Yes, and I'm awful glad! But can't you stop wearing that space suit now, Gran'pa?"
"Sorry, child."
"But the kids next door are making fun of you!"
"Calling names doesn't hurt me."
He could see her registering that, but she went on. "But you look so silly!"
He shook his head. "Sorry. Can't do it."
"Yes you can! All you have to do is take it off!"
"No, I can't," he said, "because if anything happened to me, you'd think it was your fault."
"No, I won't! That's silly! You're not going to get hurt just because I said to!" Then she stopped, eyes wide, hearing her own words.
"That's a very important thing to realize, Lona," Dr. Ross was carefully sitting upwind of Whitey, and as far away as she could.
"Then Gran'pa can take off the suit now?"
"Yes, but not here, please."
"Do you really realize that just wishing won't make something happen?" Whitey demanded.
And he was appalled that Lona was silent.
"Why do you think it does, Lona?" the doctor said kindly.
" 'Cause they said so on the 3DT," Lona mumbled.
Whitey took a deep breath, and the doctor leaned back in her chair. "But those are just stories, Lona—fairy tales."
"No it's not! It was about Mr. Edison!"
Whitey stared.
"Oh, yes, the genius inventor," the doctor said slowly. "But he didn't just 'wish,' and see his invention appear all of a sudden, did he?"
"No." Lona looked at the floor.
"How did he make his wishes real, Lona?"
"He worked at 'em," the little girl answered. "He worked awful hard, and stayed up nights working a lot, until he'd built a new invention."
"Yes," the doctor said softly, "and later in his life, he drew pictures of new machines he'd thought of, and gave them to other men to make. But it all took work, Lona—work with people's hands, not just their minds."
She nodded.
"What wish do you want to make real, Lona?"
"For no one to ever be hurt again from a dome collapsing!" she said instantly.
Now it was the doctor who took the deep breath, though Whitey joined her. "That's very difficult," Dr. Ross warned.
"I don't care! I want to do it anyway!"
"Look, child," Whitey said, "this isn't just pushing your body, like scrubbing the kitchen floor. This means learning mathematics, and physics, and computer programming, and engineering—grindingly hard work."
"I can do it, Gran'pa!"
"I know you can," Whitey said softly, "but not overnight—or next week, or even next year."
"You mean I can't do it?"
"No, you can," Dr. Ross said quickly. "I'm sure you have the intelligence, and we know you have the industry. But it does take a long time, Lona—years and years. It takes high school, and college, and maybe even graduate studies. You won't be able to invent your fail-safe dome till you're in your twenties or thirties."
"I don't care how long it takes! I'm gonna to do it anyway!"
And Whitey and the doctor could both breathe easily again, finally. At least, Whitey thought, we're safe from suicide.
First, of course, she had to find out why the dome on Homestead had blown. It was touchy, but Dr. Ross had said she was ready for it. Still, she trembled when Whitey managed to get her the printout from the asteroid's systems computer. But the trembling stopped when she looked at it. "What's all this mean, Gran'pa?"
"I don't know, child. I never learned enough about computers to be able to make sense of it."
"Can't you hire somebody to tell you?"
Whitey shook his head. "I don't have that much money—and everybody in the Asteroid Belt is too busy trying to earn enough to stay alive."
She stared. "You mean nobody cared?"
"Oh, they cared, all right. There was an investigation, and I read the report—but all it said, really, was that there had been a horrible accident, and the dome field had collapsed."
"They didn't say how or why?"
Whitey shook his head. "Not that I could tell. Of course, I don't understand all the technical stuff."
/> "Can't you learn it?"
"I could," Whitey said slowly, "if I didn't have to worry about earning a living."
"Well, then, I'll learn it!" Lona said, with determination, and turned back to the computer screen.
And she did. But before she could begin to learn programming, she had to learn a little about how computers work—and that meant she had to learn math, and a little physics. But when she came to microcircuits, she had to learn enough chemistry to understand silicon—and that meant more physics, and more physics meant more math. Then she began to become interested in mathematics for its own sake, and Whitey pointed out that she had to learn enough history to understand the way people were thinking when they invented programming, and history turned out to be pretty interesting, too.
Meanwhile, of course, Whitey was filling her head with bedtime stories about the Norse gods, and the fall of Troy, and the travels of Don Quixote.
"Isn't there any more, Gran'pa?"
"Well, yes, child, but there isn't time to tell it all."
So, of course, she had to start reading the books, to find out what Gran'pa had left out—and that was more fun than 3DT. Not that she watched it that much, there wasn't time. Oh, Gran'pa insisted that she take a few hours every afternoon to play with the other children, and now she was so full of life that she made friends in no time.
And that, of course, was probably why the Board of Education came knocking on the door.
Whitey wasn't about to let her be locked into six hours a day listening to material she'd already learned, of course. Not that he would have dreamed of claiming he knew better than the education professionals—for normal children. But Lona was a special case, and even they would have had to admit that.
If he had bothered arguing. But there were four school districts in Ceres City, and a dozen more on the asteroids nearby, all close enough to scoot over on a rocket sled and visit her friends every afternoon, and Dr. Ross once a month, and whatever cabaret Whitey was singing at in the evening. Not that she had much contact with any of what went on in the clubs, of course—she brought her notebook computer along.
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