Shelia had to have good reason to give this one to me. I accepted it, and on the next occasion when I had private time, I relaxed in an easy chair and donned a holo helmet. This came down to about the level of my eyes and ears. When I set in the chip and turned it on, the helmet sent its field through my brain, stimulating my visual, auditory, and tactile centers. This, in effect, put me right into the picture.
I found myself in a nondescript chamber, not ordinary so much as never properly visualized for the projection. This was evidently an amateur effort. Feelies come in two kinds: the professional, which are carefully staged and formed, and the amateur, which tend to be fuzzy. In order to make a feelie sequence, it is necessary to don a recording helmet such as this one and formulate the desired images. The helmet's magnetic fluxes pick up the patterns of impulses and preserve them, much the way a holo recorder does with direct physical things. When these impulses are played back, the imagined scene is recreated in whatever detail was originally provided. Some minds have better conceptualization (by that I mean the full gamut of sight, hearing, and touch) than others, which is what makes those with such minds professionals. They also enhance imagination by contemplating relevant physical objects. Thus a pro would not necessarily imagine a chair; he would fix his gaze directly on it, and the helmet would record the precise impressions, including the unconscious ones. That makes for a relatively sharp and realistic picture. An amateur is more apt to imagine the chair from whole cloth, as it were, and that chair could be lopsided and malproportioned.
Yet there can be a certain appeal to amateur efforts. The fuzziness of detail lends a dreamlike quality, which is often the desired effect. Some psychologists employ feelies as therapy; they encourage the patients to make any rendering that satisfies them and then analyze the distortions that appear in the images. Apparently there are definite neurotic and psychotic patterns, and these become more normal when the designated condition is treated. The doctors can verify the effect of treatment through the subsequent recordings. Some employers require feelalysis of prospective employees. However, a competent mind can distort the results by emulating either the normal or an abnormal pattern, and there have been some real embarrassments there. So, mainly, the feelies remain a popular entertainment device, with millions of people tuning in on published chipisodes. There is, of course, a sizable business in pornographic chips; I had encountered these in the Navy.
Now I let myself experience the scene. It was of a figure, a man in some sort of cape, a deified man, for he glowed, literally, as if imbued with some inherent phosphorescence. He walked, he turned, flinging his cape about.
Then I saw his face—and recognized it as a version of my own. Well, of course; Shelia had said this was from a female admirer. I had anticipated some sort of stripping scene, a woman tempting me with her body, but this was nothing of that kind. It seemed to be the way my admirer perceived me, glow and all. Flattering in its fashion but hardly realistic.
The me-figure strode on—and came into the neighborhood of a veiled woman. This was evidently the admirer. In imagination, a person can, of course, be anything; the dumpiest of women may become the loveliest of damsels. Yet this one was neither beautiful nor seductive; she was concealed from head to toe by an all-encompassing shawl or poncho. She was merely there, standing silently.
The me-figure paused, orienting on this woman. Her chin lifted, the motion evident under the veil. And there it ended.
I turned off the projection and sat pondering. This was a love missive? Where was the incitement, the come-on?
And why had Shelia given it directly to me? There had to be more to this than was immediately apparent.
I played the scene again but perceived no further clues. This was simply a vision of admiration from afar, with no solicitation. Merely the me-figure becoming aware of the veiled woman. No erotic import at all.
I found myself intrigued by the very simplicity and brevity of it. It was like a fragment of a dream. I have a certain penchant for dreams or visions.
At last, privately cursing myself for my foolishness, I decided to answer it. There was plenty of room remaining on the chip; those things are good for up to an hour's recording. Some professional entertainments run to two or three or more chips. I simply invoked the recording feature of my helmet and picked up where the original scene left off.
The me-figure's glow reduced, for I did not see myself as supernatural. He contemplated the veiled woman for another moment, then stepped toward her. He extended his arms and embraced her.
I stopped it there. There was no point in pushing this too far; it was only a gesture. Even so, I realized that I probably shouldn't be doing it. The chip had simply intrigued me, so I hoped to intrigue it back; that was all.
I removed the updated chip and took it to Shelia. "Return to sender," I told her.
"You are rejecting it?"
"No, I am responding to it. Play it if you wish."
"With your permission, sir." She brought out a helmet, set it on her head, and inserted the chip.
I watched her face as she experienced the feelie but might as well not have bothered. The top half of her face was concealed, and her mouth was set in Standard Neutral. Shelia had been my secretary for a long time, and knew me well, both as employer and lover; she gave away nothing unless she chose to.
There are those who suppose that a cripple is inadequate in more than the physical way, as I may have remarked before; Shelia was deceptive, because she acted with quiet caution, but, in fact, her mind was brilliant and her will was immovable. At first I had thought she could make a good executive secretary despite her handicap; very soon I knew that she was just about the best I could have chosen, on an absolute basis. Her physical handicap had prevented biased employers from considering her, so she had been available for me. That was my great fortune.
She removed the chip and the helmet. "It will do, sir," she said.
I smiled, dismissing the matter. The rush of other concerns caught us up again.
"I have worked out a basic program," Senator Stonebridge advised me. "I have cleared it with the other cabinet officers, including your daughter, who requires a great deal more funding for education. But the measures I propose will have such an impact on the planet—" He shrugged.
"If the others have cleared it, I should have no objection," I said. "But perhaps you should summarize it for me, so that I'm not caught ignorant when the public reaction strikes."
"By all means. The program, in broadest outline, is to balance the budget by economizing on existing programs and by bringing in new revenues—about half of each. The cuts come largely from the projected military allocations, in reductions of the generous military and civil servant retirement programs, and virtual elimination of the government bureaucracy. There are presently more than two million government employees, with five major layers of authority, and the inefficiency and waste—" He shook his head. "Appalling. But there will be repercussions."
"Against cutting waste?" I asked.
"The typical Navy careerist retires at age forty, with sextuple the benefits accruing to a civilian with commensurate service. He feels this is his right. The typical civil servant retires with triple the private-sector benefits. Retired presidents have extremely generous settlements and perks."
"They'll all be screaming," I agreed. "But my own Navy retirement benefits will be cut too."
"They are not your primary source of sustenance," he pointed out.
"True. But Faith will see that no one is reduced to poverty."
"Sir, I'm not sure you grasp the potential reaction against such reductions. When the average person is hit in the pocketbook, he becomes—"
"I'll handle it," I said, unconcerned. "It is the job of the Tyrant to take the heat. You just do what you have to do."
"Now, the revenue enhancement aspect is similarly difficult," he said.
"Tax increase, you mean."
"Not precisely. The present system is patently inequitab
le and is to be reformed and simplified. Naturally we shall be closing the loopholes, and this will cause a certain backlash—"
"To hell with the backlash!" I exclaimed. "It's high time we had fair taxation!"
"Every person's definition of 'fair' differs," he said, "and tends to be somewhat self-serving. For example, the elimination of the mortgage interest deduction—"
"Which means that the poor will pay more taxes," I said, seeing it. "What does Faith have to say about that?"
"We, ah, bargained," he said. "Your sister is an attractive and dedicated woman." I realized with a start that Faith's initial considerable appeal for men had not entirely abated; Stonebridge had felt the impact. There was nothing serious in this, of course; this man was not about to dally with any Hispanic woman of any age. But evidently he had been satisfied to work things out with her, economically. "She realizes that some sacrifices have to be made, in the interest of the greater good. Since one of the objectives we share is that of full employment at fair recompense—"
"Gotcha," I said. "She has to worry first about the people who have no homes to mortgage because they have no jobs. They will be glad to pay taxes on the interest they pay on mortgages, as long as their overall lot is improved."
"Precisely. Now the actual mechanism for broadening the tax base includes a flat twenty-percent rate on earned income, interest income excluded—"
"But didn't you just say that interest would be taxed?"
"If it is taxed when paid, it would be unfair to tax it again when received," he explained. "We propose to encourage savings and investment by eliminating all tax on interest earned. This will, of course, reduce one source of income for the government, but the resulting incentive to business—"
"Aren't you taking it from the poor and giving it to the rich?" I demanded.
He smiled with a trace of misgiving. "Your sister also broached that question. In that sense, in that particular case, it might be possible to interpret it that way, as it is true that the rich do have more money to invest than do the poor. However, the importance of encouraging investment, in the interest of expanding business and generating jobs for everyone—"
"Faith doesn't mind if the rich get richer, so long as the poor get richer too," I agreed.
"Actually the rich are not benefiting that much. We are implementing a currency change to eliminate the underground economy, and that will bring an enormous new segment of the economy into the tax base. Since many of the sheltered income and tax havens relate, this will result in considerably increased costs to the wealthy. I suspect the earliest protests we have will be from that quarter."
"But how does changing the currency eliminate tax havens?"
He smiled. "The new currency will be coded, so that its origin and location can be traced. When large amounts collect in one place and the tax for the transaction is not paid, our agents will, ah, pounce. I worked this out at Ms. Phist's suggestion—"
"Roulette," I said. "Rue to her friends. She's a remarkable woman."
"A remarkable woman," he agreed. I was not certain whether he was thinking of her physical or her intellectual endowments. "Her interest is in tracking the illicit sums involved in drugs and gambling, but we realized that this would also track other types of activity. I suspect that, for perhaps the first time in the history of Jupiter as a nation, the appropriate tax will be paid on virtually all earned income. On that basis the flat twenty-percent rate should bring in substantially more revenue than the prior graduated tax system did, though that went up to a fifty-percent rate. This, coupled with the five-percent VAT—"
"The five-percent what?"
"VAT. Value Added Tax. It has been used successfully for centuries on Uranus but not here on Jupiter. It is essentially a planetary sales tax, collected at every stage in segments, so that—"
"So, between the two, it will be a twenty-five-percent tax rate," I said.
"Not precisely, because income and sales are not identical. The dynamics—"
"And this will eliminate the deficit and balance the budget?"
"Well, not at first. As with any venture, there are initial costs and qualifications. But once the system is in place, this is the objective."
I wasn't satisfied. "I told you I wanted the budget balanced! What's this about initial costs and qualifications?"
"Full employment is not achieved in a day. Not via the private sector. Admiral Phist estimates that it will take at least two years before the industrial base expands enough to accommodate the entire labor force. Until that time the government must be the Employer of Last Resort, and that means—"
"One hell of an expense for the unemployed," I finished. "Faith is really making you pay for that mortgage deduction!"
"Initially, yes. But the long-term trend is definitely healthy."
I nodded. He knew what he was doing; my passion for the instant fix was misplaced. "How does the gold standard relate?"
"Nothing permanent can be accomplished without a stable currency. We expect to eliminate automatic raises, because we expect to eliminate inflation. The only sure way to do that is to back all of our currency with value, and that means metals and goods. A value-backed currency does not erode. With that certainty we can perhaps work marvels."
I smiled. "You're enjoying this, Senator!"
"I'm afraid I am, Tyrant," he confessed. "I have always wanted to see what could be accomplished with a genuinely competent administration."
"Me too." So far, it looked good.
"Sir." Shelia had a call for me. "Tocsin."
Now it started. "On," I said shortly.
Tocsin's homely face appeared on the main screen. "Tyrant, what the hell is this nonsense about cutting the allotments? Those were set up by Congress; they can't be touched!"
"I abolished Congress," I reminded him. "I am a dictator; I am bound by no prior governmental commitments."
"Listen, we made a deal. You pardoned me. You can't start going after me now!"
"I'm not. These reductions apply to all civil service and military retirees at all levels. No one is exempted; there is now a single standard of retirement. Your predecessor has the same limit."
"Kenson? He's getting no more than I do?" he asked, brightening.
"Slightly more, because he was in office longer. But no more than a retiree of similar level in the civilian sector."
He became crafty. "What happens when you retire, Hubris?"
"There is no provision for my retirement. I don't expect to collect any benefits."
"You mean you plan to stay in power forever?" he demanded.
"No. I expect to be assassinated in due course."
He started to laugh, then cut it off, staring at me, realizing that I was serious. He faded out.
Shelia caught my eye. She held up a chip.
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
"Remember your anonymous girlfriend? The veiled woman?"
"Oh," I said, feeling inane. It had been a month or more—again, my memory is imprecise, for at that time I did not realize the significance of this correspondence, and the matter had faded from my awareness. Now memory brought another concern. "This—something like this could be used to embarrass me. Maybe I shouldn't—"
She shook her head. "This one can be trusted, sir."
If Shelia said so, it was so. I put aside my concern.
I took the chip, and later, when I had a suitable break, I donned the helmet and turned on the scene.
I was back in the blurry chamber, watching the glowing me-figure. Though feelies like this are generated in the mind, they generally do show scenes from an anonymous third-party view, as if a camera were there. I think this derives from conventional holo technique, which portrays a person as being alone, though obviously someone is tracking him with a camera; we learn to suspend our logic for the sake of the story, and we imitate that technique in our fancy. It isn't necessary, just convenient.
The me-man spied the her-woman, strode across, and took her in his arms. T
hat was where I had left it; this replay refreshed my memory completely. What was her response?
The me-man bent his head to kiss her, and she tilted up her head to receive it, but the heavy veil was in the way. She drew back a little, raised her hand, and drew aside the veil so as to bare her face.
The me-man looked—and now the picture jumped, holo-style, to a close-up of her head.
Her face was blank. It was nothing more than a pink-white curvature of flesh without eyes, nose, or mouth. It resembled a dressmaker's dummy, the head a mere shape, because one did not, after all, measure a dress on a person's face.
There the scene ended. Jolted, I considered. Was this person trying to tease me? Somehow I doubted it; nothing in the sequence suggested humor. This is one thing about amateur scenes: they lack the cleverness of professional efforts so are more believable. Also, I was able to use my talent to read the woman a little. This may seem odd, but it is true. I read the minute physical reactions of people, normally unnoticed and uncontrolled, a constant signaling of their state of mind. Because they originate in the mind, these signals are transmitted to imaginary figures, and the body of this woman had them. Not lucidly but still suggestive of a most serious intent. She had, it seemed, a genuine passion for me. She was amateur, but she was not jesting.
Why, then, was her face blank? Not as a joke. It was more like an appeal. A blank to be filled in.
There it was. In life she might be a homely woman; certainly passion is not limited to the beautiful. She was afraid that her true face would turn me off, but she had no other. But in a feelie a person can be anything, and they generally do prefer to take advantage of that. Making a scene, as it is termed, is a dream-fulfilling business, where people can portray themselves as they would like to be, to the extent their imagination permits.
Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 4 - Executive Page 16
