by F. M. Busby
“For its time, yes. About thirty years out of date, though.” Then, “Oh, hell — I’ve hurt your feelings. Of course there’s no way you’d know about modern design. And it’s foolish of me to evaluate everything by current fads. Yes, Rissa — it is beautiful. Trust your own taste, dear. You won’t go wrong.”
Rissa laughed. “I’ll have to learn a lot, won’t I? But I have lots of time now. So let’s sit down. Tell me about my parents.”
They sat, but Camilla said, “Lots of time is what you don’t have. Look, Rissa — you’re on a short fuse. You have to get out, and fast. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand. I trust you, but I don’t understand.”
“Now, look, girl — what do you think the State gets for its money, giving you umpty million Weltmarks?”
“I don’t know. Oh, sure — I figured out that the one chance in a million helps keep the rest of the million quiet, but — ”
“Figure a little further. You’re good for about two months’ free publicity to make everybody feel happy. Then what happens?”
“I don’t know — how could I? What does happen?”
“The way it usually works — well, we have so many laws nobody can keep track — the Committee passes new ones all the time. And you’re starting from scratch. So every now and then you’d break one.”
“And they’d punish me? Fines? Jails?”
“They’d let them pile up until they had enough to look good in the records. Then — without publicity — they’d pick you up, declare your assets forfeit, and put you back in Welfare.”
“No!” Rissa’s hands clawed at her face; her body shook. Gently the older woman took her hands, then embraced her.
“It doesn’t have to happen to you. There’s a place to go — I’ve helped others — you’ll be safe there. Now just listen a minute, will you?”
Still shuddering, Rissa nodded. She listened, and at the end of it she asked, “What about Ivan, my brother? And Uncle Voris?”
“There’s not time to do it from here. The procedures would take too long — they’d stall, you see. And then they’d have you.”
“But — to manage it from there? So far?”
“Not only safer, but easier. The Establishment where you’re going — can pull strings I couldn’t begin to reach.” “Very well.” And then they talked of David Marchant and Selene
Kerguelen.
Once Camilla said, “Do you know about your parents’ deaths?”
“Uncle Voris told me, when I was first in Welfare. Colonel Osbert Newhausen. Every night, to remember, I repeat that name.” “He’s a general these days. But you may as well forget him; you can’t do anything.” “Then somewhere I will find someone who can.”
Rissa's net proceeds from the lottery came close to 23,000,000 Weltmarks; the gross, announced publicly, was 100,000,000. One Weltmark was roughly a day’s wage for freepersons in unskilled labor; as a Welfare Client, Rissa had been “paid” a tenth of that — but had never had use of a centum of it. She had no way to gauge the magnitude of her new fortune; she only knew she was rich, legally adult and — for so long as she could manage it — free.
In Rissa’s name, but by Camilla’s instructions, the money began to move toward Rissa’s destination. She did not entirely understand the necessary ruses. “R. Kerguelen” invested in conglomerates with vast overseas holdings. A few days later the spelling changed to “R. Karguelen.” Camilla laughed and said, “Even with the computer tech on our side, it cost a pretty bribe to throw UET’s fund-flow monitors off the track.”
“R. Karguelen’s” assets, in short order, siphoned themselves southward — outside the jurisdiction of the Committee and of its masters, United Energy and Transport. Camilla said, “UET’s safeguards, its controls, are so complex and interconnected that we can bollix one, and it sets the others against it, long enough to get you out.”
And one evening Camilla came in and said, “You go tonight. Now’s when you wear that wig. I have your tickets, and all — enough money for the trip. The passport’s not as good as I’d like, but it should work.”
Rissa looked at the picture. The wig was the same and the face could have been Rissa — or any one of a thousand others. The name was Antonia Duval; Rissa memorized it.
“Now here’s the accounting,” said Camilla. “Briefly, it’s cost you a million, nearly — including my commission. Altruists have to live, too, you know. The rest is yours, and safe.”
“I don’t begrudge you, Camilla. Take more, if you wish.”
“No need. I’ve got nearly enough now to do a bunk myself if I have to. But there’s another job I must do first, anyway — and that one will put me over the top.”
“As you say, then. Do I go soon? A copter again?”
“No — a groundcar this time — from the sub-basement, at the rear. In — let’s see — about an hour.” For a moment, silent and unsmiling, she looked at Rissa. “This is always the hard part — waiting to see if you make it. If you’re caught, I’m dead or Welfared. And the driver — he’s Underground, too. So be careful — Antonia.”
“I will — oh, I will!”
When the time came, Rissa was prepared. The mirror and her passport showed a fair match. Camilla said, “Write to me — but not directly. At the Establishment they’ll teach you the codings.”
Rissa embraced her. “I’ll write. And I’ll never forget you.”
The sub-basement loomed in dimness; pillars divided her view. Near the rear entrance a light blinked; through the vast empty space she scuttled to a groundcar. Face unseen, the driver said, “Duval?”
“Yes.”
“Get in.” She did; the car crawled up a ramp and entered sparse street traffic. She did not know the destination and made no effort to orient herself, nor did she speak. At the airport the car stopped near the Air Latinas sign. The driver pointed.
“In there. And good luck . . . Duval. You know what to do.”
“Thank you. Yes — I will not test the passport until you are away from here.” He nodded; she got out, closed the door and entered the terminal. For ten minutes she stood, then approached the check-in counter. Under her breath she repeated Camilla’s quick briefing.
She had no trouble; the passport worked. Her tickets, she found, put her aboard a low-level SST — not suborbital, due to an intermediate stop — in the Deluxe Tourist Coach section, Area B. Beyond, she saw
Area A, and could find no distinction between the two. Shortly after takeoff, she slept.
The plane flew, landed, waited, took off, flew and landed again. At the terminal a man and woman met her. “Antonia Duval?”
“Yes.” They waited, silent. She showed her passport.
The woman nodded. “All right. Come on.” She followed them.
Once in the car and clear of the airport the man said, “So you made it. Welcome, Rissa Kerguelen. You’re free now.”
The country was Argentina. The Establishment was a half-day’s drive from Buenos Aires, and its proprietress was Erika Hulzein. At midmorning, refreshed after sleeping in the car, bathed, and freshly clothed, Rissa met her.
Except for the white hair, worn loose around her face and cut at chin length, Madame Hulzein did not look her seventy years. Her body was trim; she moved smoothly. Seeing her face’s youthful contours, Rissa deduced cosmetic surgery, but saw no telltale marks. Then she was caught by the gaze of deep-set blue eyes above the thin, hawklike nose, and the woman smiled.
“Yes, it takes money to hold your looks at my age. Luckily, I’ve got it. Now, then, girl — sit down and tell me your story. All of it; Camilla gave me only the outline. We have the rest of the morning; I’ve cleared my other appointments.”
“But why — ?”
“Because we have a lot of work to do, you and I — and I need to know exactly what we’re starting with. So go ahead.”
Rissa thought a moment, then began with her parents and early life. For a time she was afraid she was taking too lon
g at it, but when she paused, Erika Hulzein smiled faintly and nodded for her to continue.
She came to that terrible day — her parents dead, the unfeeling Welfare agent — and found herself telling of her uncle giving her Selene. “But that’s silly — a child’s pretending — it’s not important. What happened next was — ”
“It is important — because it was important. Tell me . . .”
So Rissa forgot about time and described, as well as she could remember, all that had happened to her. She edited, of course, relating only the first or most memorable among similar events. She hardly noticed when a young woman brought a tray with coffee and thin slices of dark, pungent bread — but all the same, talking between bites, she ate and drank.
When she reached the point of her transfer to Postpube, and the surgery, Erika said, “Pause a moment. They said things you didn’t understand? Can you remember any of it?”
“Uh — magnetic something — and the Underground making a stink. I — ”
“And your uncle had entered a lawsuit! Ha!” Erika clapped her hands together. “You’re not sterilized, girl — not permanently. Twenty to one, you’re not!”
“But how — ?”
“It’s called a ‘reversible.’ Your Fallopian tubes — do you know what those are?” Rissa nodded. “Well, instead of tying them off in the usual way, a short length of each is replaced by plastic tubing, magnetically polarized. They’re left sealed off, of course, but Welfare — the Committee — what the scheiss, it’s all UET! — they have specially designed magnetic devices. Hold one of those against you at the proper spot, push the right buttons and turn the right dials — those magnetic sections open and close like faucets.” She frowned. “They’re hard to get, those machines — it’s going to cost you — but with patience and bribery you’ll control your own womb again!”
Rissa's story continued. When it came to Gerard — the rape when she was near death, later the compulsory morning services — Erika shook her head. “So that’s how Welfare teaches love. I imagine you don’t care much for sex, do you?”
“No — except what I do by myself. Does any woman?”
Erika laughed, then sobered. “I don’t mean to make fun of your misfortune. But — you’ll learn, Rissa. Here, you’ll learn! And now — go on with it.”
“There’s not much more.” The lottery winning, the press interview, Camilla Altworth, and the escape. She laughed. “And is it my turn to ask?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well — what happens now?”
Like gulls’ wings, Erika’s eyebrows lifted. “Camilla didn’t tell you? Well, it’s up to you, of course. You owe me nothing — Camilla arranged your way this far. So you could take your money — the documents that give you control of it — and go to the city or elsewhere, and build your own life. You’d be safe enough. Whether I actually own this country is open to debate, but I have enough power to keep UET’s hands out of it, and I do just that.”
“But there is something more, isn’t there? What didn’t Camilla tell me?”
“What it is that I’m offering you. It doesn’t come cheaply and it takes time — a million Weltmarks and at least a year.” Erika raised a hand. “Let me finish. That million and that year buys you the best survival training package available on this planet. Here are some of the parts of it. . . .”
When Erika had finished, Rissa said, “If you — your Establishment — can teach me all that, the price seems cheap enough. Especially since it’s quite obvious that if you wanted to, you could take all I have and leave me nothing.”
“Ha! You’re learning already. Shall we have lunch now?”
Next day it began. How it could all be done in one year, Rissa could not imagine. Mastery of several languages including variant speech patterns. Three distinct approaches to the art of political corruption. Proficiency at controlling vehicles on land or water, or in air — not in space, though, for Erika had no starship. Yet, Rissa reminded herself . . .
Polite conversation. Financial manipulation, including the legal aspects. More ways of armed and unarmed combat than she had known to exist. Psychology, with emphasis on the art of bluffing: when, with whom, and how much. Acting — not on stage but in life — and disguise. Drinking and doping without loss of aim, impetus, or clarity of intention. Sex in many fashions. And — she was eager to learn of this — ways to free her mind of old bondages.
The training began slowly, a little at a time. It grew in scope until she did not think her mind, her body, her time could hold it all. But somehow, she managed.
She also learned things outside her curriculum. She shared a room with Maria Faldane, a sultry swarthy girl a year older than Rissa, hailing from some part of Southwestern North America. Maria was several weeks ahead of Rissa in training — and a mine of gossip.
For instance: “Frieda Hulzein? She’s thirty, so Erika was forty at the birth. Oh, parthenogenetic, of course, but gene-replicated — and fertile, with luck.” At Rissa’s inquiring look, Maria explained. “Genereplicated means you get all your chromosomes, not just half like the oldtime haploid parthenoes. It’s secret, how they do it — but what I heard, they get the nucleus of one ovum to fertilize another one. If you get the proper halves together, it works.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then it’s zerch — no result; try again.” Then; “Have you seen much of Frieda?”
Rissa shook her head. “No — just now and then. She doesn’t look as much like Erika as you’d expect, does she?” On Frieda, Erika’s hawklike features were exaggerated — almost coarse, Rissa thought. And she moved less gracefully.
“Huh! Doesn’t quite act like her, either. I tell you, Rissa, she scares me sometimes. You can’t tell how she’s likely to react. Does she scare you?”
Rissa thought. “No. In Welfare I never knew how the staff people would react. When I’m not sure, I don’t say much; that’s all.”
“Yes.” Maria nodded. “Well — that one doesn’t have all her wheels on the ground, let me tell you.”
The conversation shifted, and soon it was time for sleep. But next day Maria was absent from afternoon training. Long after dinner, moving slowly and stiffly, she entered their room. Rissa said, “What’s the matter? What happened? Are you all right?”
Maria shook her head. “I don’t want to talk any more about — about anything.”
In the realm of sex, Rissa learned that Gerard had known nothing of her body’s ways — and very little, she suspected, about his own. Skilled men and women taught her how to give pleasure, and — equally important in some circumstances, perhaps — how to withhold it, to deny another’s response. She discovered many enjoyments, but somehow — despite her new skills and those of her teachers — neither singly with another nor in varied groupings could she find the satisfaction she knew alone, late at night, in the way she had learned as a child. She knew that others had no such handicap but said nothing, feeling that the problem was hers to solve.
One day, resting, she lay beside two friends; even the incomplete fulfillment had been pleasant. She said, “Jorge — Cecily — am I progressing well in these things? How much more is there for me to learn?”
“Very little that’s new to you,” the woman said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jorge?”
“Yes. More practice, I think, on this and that. Oh, not this today. Rissa — in these matters you’re superb. But on Tuesday — remember?” “Yes, I was clumsy. And I forgot, until nearly too late, to — ” “Oh, never mind,” said Cecily. “I don’t think you’ll forget again.
Because I’ve noticed something — you never make the same mistake twice.” She laughed. “You’re doing fine, Rissa — maybe not as rapidly as in combat arts, but quite well.”
Jorge said, “Another month, I’ll bet on it, Rissa — you’ll be up for your turn in Erika’s private circle.”
She shook her head. “Private circle?”
“Didn’t your talkative roommate tell you? Erik
a keeps a rotating stable of concubines — both sexes — and she’s not greedy about it. The system serves two purposes — it’s also your final exams.”
“I — “ Rissa frowned. Remembering Maria’s sudden turnabout, she said, “It may not be . . . wise . . . to discuss
Madame Hulzein’s private life.”
“Oh, Erika doesn’t mind,” said Cecily. “She makes no secret of it — and no apologies for anything she does.”
“She doesn’t have to,” said Jorge. “Customs don’t bind her.”
Rissa said, “Nor laws, I understand.”
“In this country, if a law annoys Erika, she has it changed.”
“Somehow I don’t think you’re joking,” said Rissa. “Or not by much.” Slowly she rose, stretching. “I’m due for a session with Maestro Gomez. Today’s task is to converse, ad lib and on cue, in the voice tones and speech patterns of two assumed identities he assigned me last week.”
The others groaned. “I wish you luck,” said Jorge. “That’s something I’m not good at.”
On the day she could have died, Rissa learned a new thing about herself. She rode with Erika to the city, observed while the older woman visited branch offices; they lunched together. Ready to return, Erika said, “I’m a little tired; would you like to take us back?”
“Of course.” Rissa liked aircars and handled them well. As Erika sat, relaxed, Rissa took the car up. “How about the shortcut, the gap through the foothills?” Eyes closed, Erika nodded.
Past the gap, emerging over a canyon, the motors failed. Abruptly the car dropped — boulders far below, the cliff looming — We’re dead! Only seconds left . . .
But . . . it felt like minutes, as Rissa looked around her — rocks and trees, the cliff — a sloping ledge, and below that —
She steered at the ledge, grazed it broadside. Metal shrieked but did not crumple; the car was slowed. Next — there, the dropoff they had passed — where it curved and —
