Venus of Dreams

by Pamela Sargent

  He longed for more wine, but restrained himself. She was leading him into dangerous conversational currents, and he needed a clear head.

  “That’s why I’ve brought you here. We need your help, and the aid of a few others like you. We’ve developed a new device to protect Counselors on their visits. It’s really quite simple. A small alteration in the scanner of a door can allow us to detect any weapons concealed by someone entering the room. The Counselor would then see a light on his desk; by pressing a button, the Counselor would then set up a sensing shield around himself.” Nancy took a breath. “If the visitor reaches for a weapon and makes a violent move toward the Counselor, a beam from the scanner will disrupt the cranial blood vessels of the visitor. The intruder then dies instantly, the Counselor removes the weapon from the body, and the town finds out that one of its people is tragically dead of a stroke.”

  Chen’s mouth was dry; his shoulders ached with tension. “A stroke?” he asked.

  “I know — it’s an unusual way to die, but it still happens sometimes.”

  “But Counselors know the people in those towns, and they’re trained to care about them. Some of them come from towns like that themselves. How can you get them to go along?”

  “They know they must protect themselves. Anyway, the Counselor won’t be responsible for what an assassin brings upon himself by triggering the scanner.”

  “What if someone enters with a weapon,” Chen said, “and then changes his mind?”

  “His meeting with the Counselor goes on. The screen won’t block sounds, and the program is very specific about the presence of a weapon and violent emotions. The assailant could speak to the Counselor without ever knowing that the screen is there. The Counselor would probably recommend a specialist and treatment at that point. If it isn’t accepted, of course, the visitor is unlikely to leave the room alive.”

  Chen set his glass on the cart. His hand trembled a little. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because we need workers like you to go to these towns and install the equipment. You’ll be trained while you’re here. It shouldn’t take long. You’re already familiar with the installation of scanners.”

  “Why me?” Chen asked. “You could send in your own people.”

  “That might cause talk. We can’t risk it. People would wonder what Linkers were doing in their towns.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Surely you could disguise yourselves.”

  “That’s not so easy as you might think. We train for years, you know. It’s difficult to fit in with those who are — with those we serve. Our training changes us. A careless gesture could give one of us away. And most of us aren’t skilled in such work.” She pressed her fingertips together. “And we can’t send in workers who are Plainsfolk themselves. They might become divided in their loyalties.” She grimaced, showing her teeth, then picked up her glass again, gulping the wine.

  “There are Guardians,” he said. “It sounds like work for them.”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. “Never. We don’t want Guardians —” A veiled look came over her face as she gazed past him. “Your presence won’t be noticed. You’ll have other work to do as well, and will be expected by the townfolk in the places you visit. You see the point. We can’t arouse suspicion — that would do more damage than a wave of assassinations. We can’t destroy the trust people have in their Counselors.”

  Chen felt sick. The same thing might be happening in other places; he imagined a Plains worker installing similar devices in a Chinese town. He recoiled from the task, wondering why he felt so revulsed. He would be protecting lives, and a quick death for an assassin was merciful compared to some punishments he could imagine. But what was going on?

  He had always thought of Counselors as the kindest members of the Nomarchies’ administration, the ones who sympathized even when their recommendations and advice were painful. Even his encounter with Ari Isaacson on the Islands had not completely robbed him of that attitude; Ari had probably been given little choice in the matter. Now he was seeing the crafty ruthlessness that the smiling faces of Counselors masked.

  Something could go wrong with such a device; nothing human beings made was infallible. Worse still, a Counselor might find it very convenient to get rid of troublesome people for his own reasons. Did Nancy believe that a Counselor’s training and empathy with others would always restrain him? If so, she was a fool; she would only corrupt those she was trying to protect.

  If I had any courage, he thought, I’d refuse. Even an assassin supposedly had the right of a hearing and an appeal. He imagined a beam striking his own skull, putting an end to such a pointless stand. He could be sent someplace where it wouldn’t matter what he knew or to whom he told his story. Nancy Fassi had undoubtedly studied his records and had known that he would agree, or she wouldn’t have brought him here in the first place. She would know that his fear of losing his dream forever would be enough to keep him in line.

  “Maybe we should have taken steps earlier,” Nancy murmured. “I don’t know. It didn’t seem necessary, and there were technical problems. As it is, it’s going to cost us, divert some of our resources.”

  He poured more wine for her, keeping his eyes averted from her face, then refilled his own glass. His hand shook a bit as he lifted the glass to his lips.

  “I wish it hadn’t come to this,” she went on, and he was surprised by the pain in her voice. “I don’t like this sort of thing any more than you do. I hope that it’s only a few isolated, unhappy individuals who are moved to such actions, that we can stop it and keep it from spreading beyond them. If it isn’t, if it’s growing, then even this plan won’t work for long. People will start to wonder why presumably healthy people are dying during visits to Counselors, and if the dead ones have co-conspirators —” Nancy clutched her wineglass tightly. “I pray that this puts an end to it, that it’s all we have to do. We’ve devoted our lives to serving Earth. It took so long for us to crawl up to where Earth is now, to overcome the wretchedness and conflicts that set back our civilization and nearly destroyed us centuries ago. You and others like you have your problems, but you have enough to eat, a place to live, clothes to wear, a choice of recreation. You aren’t given weapons and told to make war on others. Unifying the Nomarchies saved Earth. Without that, there’d be nothing to hold us together. If you do your part to ensure that we keep what we have, you’ll be rewarded for it.”

  It was odd to look at the world through the eyes of a Linker. He had thought that they were people who were primarily interested in keeping their own status and privileges, whatever their secondary concerns. In space, he had seen another symbol of their power, the orbiting platforms of ancient beam weapons that the Guardians maintained and the Mukhtars controlled, and which could strike at any place on the planet’s surface, and had thought of them as a threat. But Nancy saw herself serving Earth, and probably believed that the weapons preserved the peace. To Chen, that seemed more fearful than simple venality; a person with such views might excuse any number of cruel actions, believing that they were for the best.

  “Are you with us, then?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Of course,” he said wearily.

  “If you do your job, my recommendation will help you return to Venus. Obviously, once you’ve done what you have to do, we’d rather have you there than here. Of course, you will keep silent. You wouldn’t want your friends there to think less of you.”

  He hated her for saying that; the woman had sullied his dream with her words, shown her contempt for him.

  “Well, that’s settled, then.” She stood up, setting her glass on the cart. “You’ll have some free time while you’re here, and any bills will be covered. I think it would be best to pursue any recreation within the confines of this hotel. You wouldn’t want to run into any curious acquaintances, and this hotel has a fair number of facilities.”

  He nodded passively, trying to look properly grateful.

  “You had to know.
You might have guessed and given it away by accident. You won’t regret this.”

  He got up and helped her on with her coat, longing to be rid of her.

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  Ten

  The wind howled as Chen stepped off the floater: the thick, slate-gray clouds overhead promised an icy rain. A couple of his traveling companions shouted farewells as Chen walked down the ramp; they had assured him that the women here would make him feel right at home. Winter would come early to the Plains this year, and he was likely to spend much of it in this town, with all the tasks assigned to him. He had been to one town already this season, and had been properly discreet; he had concentrated on his work, trying not to think of its purpose. He could change nothing anyway.

  Carts carrying shipments were already rolling toward the road leading into town. Chen shouldered his duffel, picked up his bag of tools, and followed the carts, trailed by another cart that was carrying the rest of his equipment. He saw no one in the road, but glimpsed a few faces through the wide windows of the houses he passed.

  The carts led him into the town square, then rolled on toward various shops. His cart stopped in front of a large building with white columns; Chen had seen images of the town before, and recognized the town hall. He climbed the steps, dropped his bags inside the wide door, then went back down to the cart and began to unload his equipment, carrying it up to the door and depositing it in the hall. It would be safe enough there; only his handprint could open the cartons. As he carried up the last box, the cart spun around and rolled away.

  He lingered in the hall, his hand on the door frame, and watched as a few of the town’s shopkeepers came out to claim their cartons. He had been the only passenger headed for Lincoln; the floater would be leaving soon. Nancy Fassi had not needed to warn him about keeping silent; he was a stranger in towns like this, dependent on the good will of the townspeople. He would have to share their food and shelter; towns this small had no workers’ hostels. He would undoubtedly be expected to share someone’s bed as well, at least part of the time.

  He thought of the woman in the town he had just left. She had been intrigued by his appearance, which to her had seemed exotic and unusual; she had spoken to him about having a child after knowing him for only three weeks. He recalled the puzzled, hurt look on her face when he had explained that he could not give her a child he would rarely see, whom he would scarcely know. He had not told her his other reason — that he did not want a child he might have to leave behind on Earth. He thought of Tonie, missing her again, but his pain had dulled and he could think of her calmly now. She had done her best to make their last days together on the Islands pleasant ones, and had not wept until he left her to board the waiting airship. She had sent him no messages since, and perhaps that was best; he hoped that she had found someone else by now. He could even wish for that without feeling more than a twinge.

  “There you are!” a woman’s voice said behind him. “Come away from that door now before we lose all our heat.” He turned; two women were walking down the hall toward him. The hall was wide, with a high ceiling; chairs stood against the walls near closed doors. “We’ve been waiting for you. I’m Dory Trudes, the mayor here.”

  He stepped forward and bowed as the door closed behind him. The tall woman extended a hand; he shook it. Dory Trudes had a long, thin face; her light brown hair was silver at the temples. “Glad you got to Lincoln before the town hall falls apart,” Dory continued. “Damn homeostat doesn’t work properly — first we swelter and then we freeze. What’s your name, young fellow?”

  “I’m Liang Chen.”

  “Clad to know you, Liang.”

  “It’s Chen. Liang is my family’s name.”

  “Oh, of course.” Dory giggled. “We don’t get people from your parts here as a rule.” She motioned to the shorter, younger woman. “I’d like you to meet Angharad Julias — she’s on the town council and was elected mayor just a couple of weeks ago, so she’ll be taking over at the beginning of the year.”

  The younger woman held out her hand; she had a firm grip as she shook his. Angharad Julias was short and slightly plump. He gazed down at her wide, pretty face, relieved to find a Plains citizen who was shorter than he was for a change. “Pleased to meet you,” Chen said.

  “Pleased to meetyou ,” Angharad replied; she arched her dark brows and lowered her thick lashes over her brown eyes. “You’ll be staying at my house, if that’s agreeable. Of course, when you get to know people, you’ll be able to stay elsewhere if you like, but I think we’ll make you feel at home.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Chen,” Dory said. “You may be here for the winter. I can’t understand why they sent only one man for all you have to do.”

  He shrugged. “They need most of them in other places.” Even the mayors and town councils did not know the true purpose of his journey, and other workers would not be in the town hall to wonder about the equipment he was installing. He would have to complete his work on the Counselor’s room quickly; he was sure that other men would be coming through Lincoln to visit before winter set in and the floaters stopped arriving as regularly.

  Angharad pulled on the brown jacket she had been carrying over her arm. “Come on — I’d better take you home before it rains. You can leave those cartons there.”

  He picked up his duffel and bag of tools; Angharad took the bag from him, letting her fingers brush against his palm.

  “Nice meeting you, Chen,” Dory said. He nodded at her, then followed Angharad outside. A few people were strolling past the stores around the square; he gazed at the windows displaying pastries, candies, clothes, toys, and liquors. The Plains were prosperous, and he wondered why anyone there would want to attack a Counselor.

  Angharad linked her arm in his as they crossed the square. He wondered if she was expecting him to pay a visit to her room later; she might be offended if he did not. He had adapted to Plains ways, but the memory of his first encounter with a Plainswoman still embarrassed him. He recalled how his ears had burned when he overheard the woman discussing his lovemaking in intimate detail with her friends. Even his shyness hadn’t protected him; that only seemed to make the women bolder, or else caused people to murmur that he must prefer men.

  Angharad was pointing out various shops to him, telling him of the goods they offered; her voice was filled with pride in her town. Plainspeople talked as though there could be no better place to live. “Excuse me,” he heard himself say. “Is there a shop that sells art supplies?”

  Her brown eyes widened. “Art supplies?”

  “Just tools for carving and modeling, pieces of wood, some clay. I have my chisels in my bag, but —”

  “You carve?”

  “It’s just a hobby. I have no training.”

  “Well, you can order anything you like. We’re not artsy here, though a lot of us do handicrafts — sewing or pottery, things like that. We like to make a few things for ourselves. I guess you’d have to order your things directly from my house and pick them up yourself when they arrive. That’s an odd hobby — carving.”

  “I may not have much time for it.”

  “Well, if you do, feel free. I think it’d be simpler to link your account with mine while you’re visiting, let our computer keep track of your expenses. I doubt they’ll come to much, anyway. Oh, I almost forgot.” Angharad turned and pointed to a small, wooden building next to the town hall. “The Spiritists go there during the winter to worship.” She turned back to him as they walked on. “And this is our church — I’m a Marian Catholic.” She waved a hand at a larger structure with a steeple as they passed it, then hooked her arm through his again. “And the mosque is there.” She was leading him down a street where the domed building sat. “I don’t know what faith you follow, but you’d be welcome at any of them.”

  “I have my own gods,” he replied. “I can say my prayers to them by myself.” The three buildings had already told him something about Lincoln. Th
e Spiritists’ temple was much smaller than the church, which had to mean that they were not as prominent here as in other towns he had visited, though if Lincoln was like most Plains towns, many Spiritist customs would be followed even if the religion were not. He knew, for instance, that Lincoln celebrated a fall festival and held a ceremony for its young women then; his traveling companions on the floater had mentioned attending a feast here. The size of the church showed that many of the townsfolk were Catholics. The mosque was the smallest building of all, but the gilded dome and stone facing revealed that its congregation included some of Lincoln’s wealthier citizens.

  The Plains were filled with gods. The Spiritists worshipped nature, the Catholics prayed to a mother, the Muslims identified with the dominant religion of the Nomarchies’ centers of culture. There were still other sects in other towns, so many that he could not name them all. Plainspeople fogged their minds with prayers and strange rituals; even the few skeptical Plainsfolk thought any religion was better than none at all. Chen had learned to keep silent about his own lack of belief, which only encouraged the mote zealous believers to try to convert him. A god who did nothing to help him, he thought, was worse than no god at all.

  Angharad greeted the few people who passed, smiling when a couple of women ogled Chen. At last they stopped in front of one house, a square structure with steps leading to the street.

  “Here we are,” Angharad said. The door opened; a girl was looking down at him. Her shapeless brown shirt and loose trousers hid her short, stocky body; her thick brown hair was pulled back from her face. There was no guile in her face, no seductive lowering of her dark lashes over her large, green eyes, only a distant, curious gaze. She was looking at him almost the way a Linker might.

  “My daughter, Iris,” Angharad muttered as they ascended the steps; he thought he sensed a tone of disapproval in her voice. The girl did not smile.