Young Rissa

by F. M. Busby

  There was one disadvantage. In the Center her afternoons were free. Outside work occupied the entire day.

  She did not go every day. Employers’ demands varied, and when fewer workers were needed they were chosen at random or — sometimes — allowed to volunteer. Rissa’s choice, when given it, depended on how recently she had had a free afternoon. But the occasional change of routine helped relieve monotony.

  One morning Gerard summoned her. “I need more singles.” Not understanding, Rissa said nothing. “Girls to go work by themselves, not in groups.” She nodded. “I hear you’re a good worker — no trouble. The problem is, we give you a pass on public transit, but how much of the city do you know? How much information do you need, to be able to find an address?”

  “If you could show me on a map . . .”

  “That’s no good. We’d have to teach you to read first.”

  She shook her head. “No. I can read.”

  “Oh, a few words, I suppose — off the Tri-V. But really read? There’s no way you could have learned that.”

  “I always could. From before I was here, I mean.”

  He leafed through some papers, chose one and handed it to her. “Here. Read that to me.” Stumbling over a few unfamiliar words, she did so. He took the paper back.

  “You should have told someone — you could be doing more valuable work. Come with me; we’ll have to test you.”

  She followed him down two levels to a small, brightly colored office. There a short Oriental man heard Gerard’s instructions. “Test the reading level and general intelligence. She can’t know any math, but she might have the aptitude. We’re too short of help to waste brains with any kind of head start.” The man nodded and Gerard left.

  “Sit down, please. I’m Doctor Otaka. And you are . . .?”

  “Rissa Kerguelen.”

  “Age? And how long have you been in Welfare?” She told him; he began to ask another question, then said, “No, never mind — that’s all in your file. Gerard forgot to bring it, but I can check later.” He smiled — a real smile — Rissa remembered Natalie Kimbrough. He said, “Reading level, eh? A rare request these days. What else can you do? Anything with numbers?”

  “I can — I can add and subtract. I used to know how to multiply, but I forgot. I was just starting to learn division when they came and took me — took me and Ivan . . .”

  “Ivan?”

  “My brother. They’ve never let me see him. Could you — ”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance. Last year, maybe. But the new chief in Division, Male, is a real pile — with barnacles!

  “Now, then.” He shoved papers at her, and a pencil. “Can you read the directions all right?” She looked. “Yes.” “Then go ahead. Starting — now.”

  Not quite understanding the purpose but willing to oblige, she read, wrote, read and wrote again. When she was done, Otaka said, “You’re fast. Finished with three minutes to spare. Now, then — do you know what an intelligence test is?”

  She thought. “When I was four — matching patterns, putting pegs in holes.”

  “Well, this one is a little different.”

  And it was. Written questions, each with five answers from which to choose. Some she did not understand at all; some she comprehended vaguely; many were clear to her. At last she said, “I don’t think I can answer any more of it. Was I fast again?”

  He smiled. “Yes, somewhat. And now it’s time for lunch.”

  “All right. I can find my way there. Should I come back? Is there any more you want me to do?”

  He looked at his watch. “Actually, it’s past time to eat at your dining room.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve missed lunch before — I’m not very hungry.”

  “No, no! We’ll have no work on empty stomachs. I intended, anyway — you’ll lunch with me in the staff dining room.”

  Dubiously, “I don’t think they’ll like that.”

  “I’m conducting tests and you’re my subject — enough said. Come along.”

  She did, and although uneasy in the strange circumstance, enjoyed the food, the unfamiliar variety and flavors. The meat and some vegetables were quite new to her, but she asked no questions.

  Afterward, again in Otaka’s office, he said, “Would you mind doing a few more series? I’d like to establish a psychological profile.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but all right.”

  “Well, I’m studying the effects of the Welfare environment, especially on children.” He smiled again. “That’s not much better, is it? Let’s just say I’m trying to learn about people and I’d like you to help me. But you don’t have to — this is my own idea, not Gerard’s orders.”

  “Sure. Sure — I’ll help you.” And it was a long three hours before Rissa was done with the succession of tests. When she left, what most surprised her was the doctor’s handshake as he said good-bye.

  When Gerard next called her he said only, “You’re too smart for scut-work. You’re going to save me some money.” He turned to the woman at a smaller desk, a woman whose hair was undipped and who wore a bright dress. “Rissa, this is Elva Sommrech, my aide. Elva, as soon as you teach Rissa enough to handle your desk, you’re free to take that promotion over in Prepube.”

  Sommrech’s high-arched eyebrows disappeared under heavy brown bangs. “A little for me, a lot for you? Oh, no, Emil — I want a percentage! How about a third?”

  Gerard frowned. “In private, Elma!”

  “What’s the difference? She’ll have access to the records — and see you have her coded as paid staff, not as a Client.” She shook a finger at him. “I want my cut.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t pay blackmail. If the promotion isn’t enough for you, we’ll drop the whole thing.”

  After a frowning pause, Sommrech grinned. “What the hell — it was worth a try. Excuse me a minute, then I’ll start the girl’s training.”

  When she was gone, Gerard said, “And if you get any fancy ideas, it’s back to scrubbing floors.” He glared at Rissa. “Do you?”

  She shook her head. He was cheating her but she could not protest. His cheating of the State did not concern her. But — access to the records!

  In the next weeks, Elva Sommrech taught her the uses of keypunch and readout machines, the Center’s coding system and the access codes to other Sections’ data banks. Rissa learned procedures for entering new Juvenile Clients, routines for keeping their daily records, and how to transfer them at sixteen to Section Female, Adult. Some menial chores she still performed; now each morning she went early to tidy and dust the office. When both her superiors arrived, she was allowed thirty minutes to go to breakfast. Then her training continued.

  One morning Sommrech did not appear. Gerard told Rissa, “The job’s all yours now.” He locked the office door. “There’s one part Elva couldn’t teach you. Take off your jumpsuit and bend over the desk.”

  At first she felt some pain, then only discomfort, and at the end a brief flash of unsatisfied excitement. Then he withdrew and said, “Wipe yourself off and go get your breakfast.”

  Slowly she dried herself and got into her jumpsuit. “Do I have to do that every day?”

  “Yes. And you’re not to tell anyone. Understand?”

  She nodded and left. On her way to breakfast she thought, He’s not supposed to do that. But it’s better than scrubbing floors. And now she knew why he had wanted her out of the office for a half hour each morning.

  In her work she learned much. Accustomed to the idea that Authority got what it wanted, rules or no rules, she was not surprised to discover the ways Gerard used to divert Center and Client moneys to his own use. She despised the dishonesty; her early training recoiled against it. But, scrubbing floors again? She decided she could only lose by any protest. To Gerard, of course, she pretended ignorance.

  Her computer terminal, she knew, recorded the placement — but not the content — of any request for data outside her own S
ection. So despite her anxiety, she waited.

  Then came a request from Doctor Otaka, for correlative data from Section Male, Juvenile, Postpubertal and Section Male, Adult — and at last she could punch inquiry on Ivan Marchant! He’d be seventeen, she thought — Male, Adult. Frowning, she punched the codes.

  Of the readout, she understood little. “Standard measures against recalcitrance” was a frequent entry and recently increasing. She tried to think of a way to see her brother, but could not; “visiting regulations” were a system of prohibitions, not permissions. So she memorized his individual code number — which would give access to his file without recording her call — noted his location, and destroyed the telltale readout segments. She would have to wait.

  Otherwise, Rissa did not brood on her way of life. She worked, ate, slept, ran before dinner in the gymnasium, and operated her various office machines. She considered Gerard to be one of them; his morning demands no more unpleasant than cleaning the photocopier. Except that on the days she bled, the hard floor hurt her knees.

  Evenings, sometimes, she still watched the Tri-V — but saw it as fantasy, for the lives it showed were quite unlike her own. Vaguely she recalled having looked and dressed like the children the screen showed, but came to think the memories must be false or derived from prior viewing.

  With mixed feelings she awaited her sixteenth birthday and transfer to Section Female, Adult. Rumors gave her a dull dread. But despite herself she could not suppress a wild, reasonless spark of hope.

  During her last weeks before transfer a blonde woman — Gerda Lindner, staff, not Client — worked with Rissa, training to take over the work. Rissa wondered whether the other would also have to bend over the desk each morning, and if so, whether she knew it yet.

  The morning she reported not for work but for transfer, she found Gerard alone. Tight-lipped, pale, he paced the floor.

  “Now listen fast,” he said. “You’re going out of Welfare, I suppose, and I have to make you understand that you can’t talk about the Center, outside. You see — ”

  “Out of Welfare?” Never had she interrupted Gerard. “How?”

  “The lottery, how else? Just a few minutes ago, it was announced on Tri-V. The top prize — awarded six months in a row to ineligibles, unclaimed and piling up — and the damned ticket’s in your name. You — ”

  She stopped hearing him. She knew that Gerard bought lottery tickets with Juvenile Clients’ work-credits. Losses cost him nothing. Winnings, payable to the Client at transfer time, were Gerard’s meanwhile, to invest for his own profit.

  But one of “her” tickets had won, and it was transfer time. So, with the media watching, she would buy out of Welfare!

  Dazed, she asked, “The big one?” Then; “How much?”

  “The newsies weren’t sure. Even after taxes, though — millions of Weltmarks.”

  “Taxes? On State money, awarded by the State?”

  “Of course. All income is taxable.”

  In Gerard’s presence, until now, she had not laughed. “I see. They take money out of one pocket and put it in the other, so they can say the prize is bigger than it really is.” She shook her head. “Never mind — so long as it buys me out of here.” She looked at him, wondering if she had said too much. “What happens now?”

  Gerard cleared his throat; when he spoke, his voice showed strain. “The press is coming. To talk to you before you leave. You mustn’t — just say you’re very happy, and grateful to the State, and you wish everyone could be as lucky as you are. Or else — ”

  “Or else . . . trouble?” Suppressing what she felt, again she shook her head. “I will speak nicely to the press about my life here.”

  His smiled showed relief. “Good. I’ve ordered up some clothes and a wig, so you’ll look better on Tri-V for the home folks.”

  Before she could stop herself; “The hell with the home folks!” Then, quickly, “Wait a minute — I said I wouldn’t say anything. But I won’t look a lie, Gerard.” For the first time she called him by name. She felt surges of life, energy, power, but she was not yet free of this place. She fought them down and smiled. “I’m sure the public knows a Welfare haircut when it sees one. There’s no point in pretending lottery winners get that much advance notice. That’s all I meant.”

  With clenched fists he thumped the desk. “All right, all right — forget the wig. But wear the clothes, won’t you? I mean, you are buying out of Welfare. Why give the appearance that you’re not?”

  She thought. “Yes, that’s reasonable — if the clothes are. I mean, nothing fancy or expensive-looking.”

  “Not likely — the stores aren’t open yet. Gerda’s rounding up some things in your size, from some of the live-in staff.”

  “Yes. Will she be here soon? And when do the newspeople arrive?”

  “Shouldn’t be long now. Half an hour, maybe, until your interview.” He looked at her. “Rissa? You’re one of the best girls I’ve had here. Would you — ?”

  She knew his intent and answered it. “No. Because never before — not even once — did you ask me. You always just told me.”

  A knock cut off whatever he might have said. Blonde Gerda entered, carrying clothing and a curly reddish wig. “Here you are, Gerard — and you, you lucky darling! Here — let me fix you up all pretty for the camera.”

  Rissa shook her head. Gerard said, “Forget about pretty — she won’t wear the wig and knows nothing of makeup. Just get a dress on her — and for God’s sake, hurry!”

  The red dress fit poorly, but Rissa would wear no other. Unfamiliar with underclothing, she refused it. Gerard sent Gerda for a suitcase; when she returned, she packed the rest of the clothes and the wig.

  “Here you are, kid; it’s all yours.” The woman left momentarily; a few seconds later, she opened the door again. “The press is here. Tell it like you believe it.”

  To Rissa’s surprise, Gerard carried the suitcase. In the auditorium the Tri-V was turned off, and instead of jump-suited girls the chairs were filled with outsiders — the press, waiting to interview the winner of one of the largest lottery prizes ever won.

  Standing beside the darkened Tri-V, facing the cameras, she waited while Gerard introduced her — name, age, parentage and provenance. Then the questioning began.

  “What’s your reaction to winning the big prize?”

  “Naturally, I’m delighted.”

  “How does it feel to grow up in a Welfare Center?”

  “I can’t answer that; I’ve never grown up anywhere else. How does it feel to grow up outside?” Laughter.

  “The last big winner called it an utter miracle. Do you agree?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “Why should I? Every month, as long as I can remember, it happens — with the winners announced on Tri-V. This time it’s me, is all.”

  A moment’s silence. “Who will you vote for in the next election?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Which bidding conglomerate has your support?”

  “I can’t say — I don’t know enough about any of them.”

  “Does that mean you don’t favor the present Committee?”

  She bit her lip. “It doesn’t mean anything, yet. Give me time to learn.”

  From the rear, a harsh voice. “You better learn fast, kid.”

  A gray-haired woman spoke. “What do you intend to do with the money you’ve won? And with your life, from now on?”

  Rissa thought. “Buy my brother out of Welfare — my uncle Voris, too, if he’s still alive — and share with them. That’s the money.” She smiled. “My life? Well, I’m going off Earth and I’m going to grow my hair down to my butt — and the rest of it’s my own business.”

  Gasps, then the same woman asked, “You resent your present hairstyle?”

  “What’s to resent? A few sets of clippers are a lot cheaper than combs and brushes always getting lost and wearing out; anybody can see that. I don’t have to like it, though, and I never did.”
<
br />   “What are you going to do, off Earth?”

  “I don’t know yet. What are you going to do, on Earth?”

  As the newspersons packed their equipment and began to leave, Gerard said, “Come with me. There’s a pogiecopter waiting on the roof pad.” This time she carried her own suitcase.

  On the roof, besides the copter and its pilot they found the gray-haired newswoman. She said, “If I may, Rissa, I’d like to ride with you. Where are you going?”

  “She’s booked into the Sigma-Hilton,” said Gerard, “until she arranges for permanent quarters. But you had your interview with the rest — isn’t this a tittle unethical?”

  “I’m not here as a reporter; I’m a friend of the family.” She turned to Rissa. “I doubt you’ll remember me; you were very young. I’m Camilla Altworth.”

  Rissa thought, then smiled. “Yes — my father bringing in the mail — he’d say ‘We have a letter from Camilla.’ They’d read it, and laugh and talk — and my mother would write to you the very same day. No, I don’t remember actually seeing you, but — yes, do come with me. You can tell me about David and Selene — things I’ve forgotten, or never knew.”

  Gerard cleared his throat. “Well, I guess it’s all right. You’d better get aboard; you’re keeping the pilot waiting.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Rissa.”

  She looked at the hand, then nodded and took it. After all, he could have been worse. “Good-bye, Gerard.” “Til we meet again.” “We won’t.” She climbed inside; Camilla Altworth followed.

  The lazy pogiecopter took them to the roof pad atop the Sigma-Hilton. Below, at the desk, Camilla Altworth took charge, but when she gave Rissa’s name, the man smiled and said, “It’s all arranged. Will you be staying also, as Ms. Kerguelen’s guest?”

  The woman looked at Rissa. Rissa said, “Maybe; we’ll see.”

  A bellman took them to a three-room suite. Impressed by the lush decor, Rissa waited until he left, to say, “Camilla, isn’t it beautiful?”