Venus of Dreams

by Pamela Sargent

  “This isn’t Bart,” Sheryl muttered. “It’s another Counselor — a Linker — and she asked to see you.”

  Iris swallowed hard, imagining how angry Angharad must already be with her. What could she have done? Sheryl was striding briskly now, glaring at the ground, as Iris struggled to keep up with her. She tugged at the woman’s shirt. “How did the Linker get here?” she asked. Another floater was not due until next Tuesday, but occasionally one made an unscheduled stop. She looked south, toward the cradle, but knew that she would not see a dirigible hovering there; she would have noticed a floater approaching from the field.

  “She has her own hovercar.”

  Iris’s eyes widened. A Linker, in a private vehicle — her visit had to be important, then, and it probably meant grave news. What could her commune have done to bring about such a visit? Why did the Linker want to see her? Why hadn’t she simply used the screen?

  People were walking about in the square, while others stood in front of wide shop windows that displayed goods; several women eyed Iris and Sheryl as they passed, but did not offer the customary greetings. Sheryl quickened her pace. “Mother of God,” she said; she crossed herself and then made a curving motion over her belly with one cupped hand as they passed the church. “A Counselor unbidden means ill fortune unsought.” The woman said the old proverb as if it were an irrefutable truth. “And that goes double if she’s a Linker as well.”

  Neighbors were lurking in the road, staring at the small, domed craft parked in front of Iris’s house; Sheryl glared at them as she and Iris entered. The woman paused in the hallway for a moment, smoothed back Iris’s hair with one hand, then ushered the girl into the common room.

  The entire household had gathered, except for Mira, who was taking her nap. Tyree, sitting on the floor, fidgeted at LaDonna’s feet; Eric, looking vacant, sat next to Constance on the sofa. Iris glanced at her mother, who was sitting near the large window that faced the road. Angharad’s lips were drawn back from her teeth in a tense smile.

  “So this is Iris,” the Linker said. “Now I’ve met all of you.”

  Iris turned toward the visitor. The woman had the brightest blue eyes Iris had ever seen, and her short hair was nearly white. A glass of beer, untouched, sat on a table near the Linker.

  “My name is Celia Evanstown.” The woman’s lips curved in a slight smile. “You see, child, where I grew up, it was the custom to take the town’s name for one’s own. There are a lot of Evanstowns.” She smiled still more, as if making a joke; Iris heard a few nervous laughs. “Please sit down, Iris. I’ve been trying to reassure everyone here about the purpose of my visit. Do put yourselves at ease. I know what some say about such visits.”

  Sheryl coughed, looking a bit paler as she seated herself near LaDonna. Iris went to the ottoman and sat down, folding her hands. “Can I get you anything else?” Elisabeth asked in a high, trembling voice. “I mean, if you’d prefer whiskey, or a glass of wine —” Angharad shot her cousin a glance; Elisabeth lowered her brown eyes.

  “Please don’t bother. Actually, I came here to speak of matters concerning young Iris. I must apologize again for not having warned you — you see, I was passing this way anyway, and thought it might be simpler to drop in now. You’ll all be even busier later in the season.”

  Iris stared at the gem on the woman’s forehead, unable to meet her eyes.

  “Yes, Iris,” Celia continued. “You were born in 522, so you’d be nine now, wouldn’t you?” Iris nodded, wondering why the Linker was asking that when she must already know. “It seems you’ve been taking the preparatory lessons for schooling. Isn’t that so?”

  Iris nodded again. Angharad’s mouth tightened; Constance’s hazel eyes widened with fear. Iris could imagine what they were thinking. She had attracted a Linker’s attention. Her brief conversation with Jawaharlal could be forgiven, but not this visit. Angharad had always fulfilled her duties as a citizen; now, through no fault of hers, her privacy and that of the commune had been lost. The record of their lives would be open to the Linker, who could call up any information about their farm, their assets, what their credit had been spent on, their recreation and past histories. Celia had probably already called up such information through her Link during her journey to Lincoln. Such information gave her, and all Linkers, power over everyone else. One could never know what such powerful people might do; it was better to live decently, in some obscurity, with only a regional Counselor poking into one’s affairs.

  “It seems you’ve done well.” Celia took a small sip of her beer. “Almost three years’ worth of lessons in little more than a year, and some supplementary studies too.” Her blue eyes went blank for a moment as her Link glittered. “What drew you to studying, Iris? You won’t need to know all of that to be a farmer.”

  Iris struggled to keep her hands still. “I was just curious. I didn’t mean —” She paused, remembering her father. Tad had told her to stick up for herself; nothing she would say could possibly make matters any worse. She lifted her head, forcing herself to gaze directly at Celia. “First, I wanted to find out more about the places I saw in mind-tours, and then I started wondering how they became how they are now and how Earth had changed.”

  Celia tilted her head. “There are history mind-tours for that.”

  “But they didn’t tell me what I wanted to know — they were more like adventures. Finally, Bari — the teaching image — told me that if I learned how to do certain things, like reading, I could find out more.”

  Celia nodded. “And exactly what do you intend to do with this knowledge?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I know I’ll be a farmer, like Mother, but I thought that learning some lessons might help me be a better one, I guess.”

  “But you’re not just learning about farming. You’re preparing for a school, and there is no school here.”

  Iris took a breath. How could she explain herself? “I just want to learn,” she said, twisting her hands together. “When I figure out something that’s hard, and learn how to do it, it makes me happy.” She scratched her head. “I can see a kind of pattern instead of just something all by itself, how things go together and what made them that way and how people might change them.” She paused; she had almost mentioned Venus, and her secret desire to go there. “It doesn’t matter if I go to a school or not.”

  “And how long do you plan to continue with these studies?”

  She sat up straight. “As long as I can. As long as there’s something I want to find out and don’t know.”

  Celia chuckled. “You have a lifetime of work ahead of you, then. Well. There is no school to send you to, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t go on with your studies.”

  Iris nearly sighed with relief. “There’s a school in Omaha,” she burst out, surprised at her own boldness.

  “Hush your mouth,” Angharad said quickly. “That’s not for the likes of us.”

  “There are children Iris’s age in that school,” Julia said; Angharad motioned to her mother to be quiet.

  Celia glanced at Julia pensively. “You’ve been paying for many of the lessons, haven’t you?” the Linker asked.

  Julia stared back. “There’s no harm in that.”

  “Even if schools demanded payment, which they don’t, and you could afford the credit, there would be no place for the child.”

  “Because the children of Linkers and Counselors and such get preference,” Julia replied.

  “My mother is one who speaks her mind,” Angharad said in nervous tones. “Forgive her talk.”

  “She’s right,” Celia said: “But there are reasons for that. We have to allocate our resources carefully. Educated people are a resource we need, but schooling can be wasted on some. We need at least some assurance that the training will be put to some use, and the children of Mukhtars and Linkers and Counselors are more likely to use it. Their parents guide them in that direction. That doesn’t mean we neglect others.” She turned toward Julia. “You’ve
encouraged the girl when she needed that, but there’s no need for you to spend more of your credit on this. The Nomarchies will cover the cost of her lessons from now on, provided she wishes to continue with them.”

  “Oh, I do,” Iris said, overwhelmed by such good fortune.

  “Even if nothing comes of it except the learning itself?”

  “Oh, yes. I can learn just as much here — I don’t care about not going to a school.” Iris shifted a little on the ottoman, certain that Celia had caught the dishonesty in that statement. She wanted to tell the Linker of her wish to work on the Venus Project, but could not do so in front of the others. Angharad would find a way to keep her from reaching that goal if she learned of Iris’s wish; Iris knew she would have to keep her dream a secret until Angharad was powerless to interfere. That thought pained her; to reach her goal, she would have to deceive those she loved most.

  Celia looked around at the others in the room. Wenda’s face was stern; Iris could not tell what the old woman was thinking. Eric glared at Iris resentfully with his dark eyes. He wanted, she knew, to be a shopkeeper someday, but there was little chance of his becoming one. Eric was bound to make the rest of the day miserable for her, but Iris didn’t care. The Nomarchies cared about her lessons; even Angharad could not stand up to a Linker. Celia had to feel that Iris might accomplish something with the lessons being given to her.

  “It would help,” the Linker said softly, “if Iris were able to set aside two or three hours a day for her studies in the morning. She’d be fresher then, and would get more sleep at night. Of course, this is only a suggestion. She should be able to carry out all her other obligations without difficulty.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Angharad responded. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “We’ll see what crop these seeds yield in the future.” Celia rose. “I’m glad I stopped by, but I’ve taken enough of your time. I did so enjoy meeting all of you — it’s nice to know that Iris has such a good home.”

  Everyone stood up; Angharad showed her teeth in a relieved smile. Celia murmured a few words to Eric as she passed the boy, who beamed; the Linker then patted Tyree gently on the head as Sheryl hurried to press the door open for the departing visitor. Lilia blushed as Celia complimented her on her blue dress, which Lilia had sewn herself; the other children, Iris saw, would not feel left out.

  The women began to murmur to one another as soon as Celia was outside. Iris went to the window and watched as the Linker’s hovercar moved down the road on its cushion of air, raising small dust clouds as it floated west. Constance and Sheryl had crossed the road, where they were now telling the neighbors the news. Iris clasped her hands together. A Linker had traveled here to praise her, and thought enough of her to have her lessons paid for by the Nomarchies. She shivered, almost afraid to show her joy.

  Angharad moved closer to her. “She didn’t make a special trip just for you,” she said to Iris. “She just happened to be passing by — she said so. I suppose it amuses her to throw a little something your way just to keep you from being troublesome or unhappy. Well, I’m pleased for you, but don’t let it go to your head.”

  Iris averted her eyes from her mother. She continued to gaze out the window; the women across the road were pointing at her and shaking their heads.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up at Wenda’s wrinkled face. “You will learn much,” Wenda said in the low but forceful tone she usually reserved for pronouncements and predictions. “But your learning will only bring you into conflict with yourself.”

  Iris pulled away, afraid that the old woman had seen too deeply into her soul.

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  Four

  An armada of floaters arrived in Lincoln in the fall. These airships were freighters; their elongated shadows floated over rooftops and darkened the streets as they moved toward the town silos at the edge of the fields. The silos were emptied; the winnowed and harvested wheat was carried to the granaries in Winnipeg, Omaha, and Kansas City. There had not been as much of a surplus that year, but the weather in other parts of the world had been favorable; the Nomarchies would be able to feed all of Earth’s citizens.

  The people of the town had prepared a celebration. Tables had been carried to the town hall; special dishes and delicacies had been cooked, and Lincoln would feast until dawn.

  Iris was helping Eric load their household’s contributions to the festival into a cart. Constance had prepared a stew; Sheryl and Wenda had baked a ham. They did not usually eat so much meat, but this was their most important feast, and Iris knew that even the Muslim citizens would surreptitiously sample Sheryl’s renowned ham. There were loaves of Angharad’s bread and bowls of LaDonna’s bean casserole and a salad Elisabeth had prepared. The women had been cooking for days.

  “You’re going to be late,” Iris said to Eric as Tyree climbed into the cart. Lincoln’s few adult male residents, most of the older boys, and any men who were visiting would already be at the town hall setting the tables and keeping the food warm until the women returned from the fields.

  Eric shrugged. “Can’t eat until later anyway.” Tyree stretched one chubby arm toward a covered dish; Eric pulled the younger boy’s hand away. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’ll come over soon.” She searched her mind for an excuse. “I promised Angharad I’d make sure the common room was clean for when people come over later, and I forgot to do it.”

  Eric pressed the panel underneath the cart’s visor; the vehicle began to roll toward the square. Iris walked back into the house. Her friends would be at the town hall, playing games and anticipating the feast; a few men would sneak them some tidbits. More men would be there than usual, some of them old friends or lovers, others strangers who had been near enough to Lincoln to travel there for the festival.

  Iris went into the common room and surveyed the polished tabletops. The room needed no more cleaning, as she had known. She now had the house to herself, and relished the silence; even little Mira was at the town hall, left there with the other small children in a crib-filled room.

  The women of the household, and all of the women of Lincoln, had gone to the fields for one of their most important ceremonies, as they did every year. The autumn night was clear, a good sign; a full moon would shine down on the assemblage. All of the young girls who had passed menarche during the past year would be honored in the ceremony, and Elisabeth’s daughter Lilia was among them. Lilia had begun to bleed shortly after last year’s ceremony, and a small party had been held for her then, but she had needed to wait until now before being officially welcomed into the ranks of Lincoln’s women.

  Iris sprawled on the sofa, letting her feet hang over the side. One day, she would be taken to the field and would return to town as a woman. She was already beginning to dread it, and that had to mean that there was something wrong with her; other girls looked forward to the rite. She would lose her child’s allotment and have to earn her credit with labor; the Nomarchies were not likely to continue the payments for her lessons then, for she would be more valuable as a working farmer. Her lessons would become only a pastime. She knew that children at schools postponed puberty with various biological techniques so that they would not be distracted from their studies; they prolonged their childhoods until it was time to work or attend a university for more training.

  She could go to Letty Charlottes, the town physician. Iris sat up, shocked that she would even consider such an action. Letty would have to keep Iris’s request confidential, but others were bound to find out Iris had gone to the doctor for more than the usual complaints if she could not make up a convincing story; illness was rarely kept a secret. Anyway, Iris was sure that Letty would refuse her. The physician had only basic medical training, and no Link; she always called in specialists for difficult cases, or sent such patients to the hospital in Omaha. Letty was not even likely to know the proper techniques for prolonging childhood. Plainswomen took pride in being women; menarche, the signa
l of womanhood, had become a symbol in their minds representing the fertility of their fields. If Angharad even guessed that her daughter had considered postponing maturity, Iris would suffer much more than the loss of her lessons. Wenda would probably say that Iris would put a curse on the farm if she succeeded in prolonging her childhood.

  Iris leaned back. It might have been better if Celia had advised her to give up the studies. The pain of the loss would have faded by now; she would have been at the town hall with her friends, stealing bites of food and looking forward to her own celebration, instead of sitting in an empty house with her dark and irresponsible thoughts. She could still give up the lessons. Celia would not care, the Nomarchies would save that small expenditure, and Angharad would be relieved to see her daughter accept her responsibilities.

  I can’t, Iris thought. I can’t give it up.

  She had a little time; the women would probably not get to the town hall for another hour. She could review some of her work and put the time to use. As she stood up, a chime suddenly began to sound; someone was calling.

  Iris hurried toward the screen console in the corner and pressed a button, wondering who could be calling now; everyone who knew them would be aware of the festival and would have called the town hall instead. She pressed another button, preparing to record the call for the household.

  A woman appeared on the wall screen. Iris approached the image hesitantly; the caller’s light brown face was contorted with grief.

  “I am Miriam Acella,” the lifelike image said, sounding as though the words were strangling her. She was sitting on a small bed that jutted out from a white wall.

  “I’m Iris Angharads,” the girl replied.

  “Of course. Isn’t anyone else there?”

  Iris shook her head. “They’re at our festival.” She had noticed that there was a slight delay between her words and the woman’s response; that meant Miriam had to be calling from space.