by Gene Wolfe
“But you’ll really be here. I’ll be living a lie.”
“No you won’t—I’ll go. I’ll go when I think it’s safe, and when I have found a place to go to; and if I should have to come back, I’ll leave again. You may lock the house as tightly as you like; I’ll find my way in if I have to. But don’t search for me, or have people in. Will you agree?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Yes. Perhaps. I have to think.”
“I’ll get you some more coffee,” he said, then smiled almost apologetically. “The men in books are always doing things like that, and I’d like to.”
She said, “I think you’re mistaken; in the old days women waited on tables,” but she herself was not paying attention to what she said. For a moment he stood beside her, the coffee pot she had bought on the first day at the end of his outstretched arm. Then he was gone. She waited for him to sit down again, but soon realized she was alone in the room, perhaps alone in the house.
Perhaps not. Each night she searched her bedroom (she had not agreed not to search her bedroom, only the house) and when she was sure it was empty, bolted the door. Each morning she found herself thinking, as she entered the kitchen, of what she would say if she found him there.
The long humid summer ended. Her television spoke of snow on the Great Plains, then showed it, white as innocence, swirling down the canyons of New York. The Florida air was cool and lively; Ms. McKane shut off the air conditioning and threw open windows.
Her work became more and more engrossing as the Aphrodite neared completion. Every conceivable and inconceivable contingency had to be reduced to equations the programmers could translate for the computers; they, and the engineers, suggested hypothetical corrective actions, and those in turn had to be reduced to mathematical form. Observation stations were planned for California and the Northern Slope of Alaska, ships would sail to keep the orbiting segment under observation when it swooped below the Southern Cross. Already the second segment launch vehicle was rising amid a hodgepodge of cranes and scaffolding. Plans for the third were rolling from the graphic display terminals, plans for the fourth beginning to take shape. Woman would come to stay where Man had merely journeyed to adventure.
At times she was painfully conscious that the symbols she blithely manipulated were in fact hundreds of tons of metal and fuel. At others it seemed to her that no plan could anticipate the actuality of the launch, that Aphrodite would bore downward into the earth when the rockets were kindled, or float away like thistledown. She seldom left the Cape before dark now, and when she returned home it was only to shower, and drop her still-damp body upon her bed.
One night when she returned even later than usual, there came a single soft sound like the hesitant footfall of some kindly one-legged beast. Her toe touched an unknown something as she stepped into the bedroom to turn on the light; it was a book, Sylvie and Bruno.
Thereafter she received gifts more or less weekly. Some were books (among them, Pillow Problems); more often there were flowers, old-fashioned jewelry, and mere odds and ends—lovely shells, a large coconut, a gold-plated pen. Once a fresh red snapper laid on crushed ice in a china bowl that was not hers.
In various ways she tried to signal that all these tributes were unwelcome and, because they were dangerous, worse than useless. Yet she could not bring herself to waste or destroy them. She cleaned, cooked, and ate the fish, hid the books behind the books in the living room, and one day found herself scribbling an integral with the pen. Sometimes she stayed all night at the Cape, catching a nap after midnight on the couch in the restroom; this impressed her superiors as extraordinary devotion to the project.
As she turned into the street she saw the police cars, three of them. An instant later came the throbbing of a helicopter; searchlights stabbed and darted from above. As calmly as she could, she guided the car into the driveway and got out. Two cops, tall, muscular women holding riot guns, were coming toward her. Knowing it would be demanded she opened her purse for her identification, and the guns were leveled at her.
She seemed to be standing outside herself, watching a stranger wax quietly hysterical. No, this new Ms. McKane said. No, she had seen nothing, had heard no gossip, no rumors. Yes, she lived alone. Yes, they could go through her house if they wished.
“We’d better for your own protection,” one of the cops told her. “He could have broken in while you were away. You wouldn’t want to go inside and have him jump you.”
“No,” Ms. McKane agreed. She unlocked the front door and switched on the lights, wondering what she would say if there were a book or a fish in the hall upstairs. There was nothing. She allowed them to probe beneath her bed with their flashlights, then led them up the folding stair to the third floor, down to the laundry room and the hulking air conditioner.
When they left, she packed a bag. Her initials were on it, so she tried to compose a new name to match them. She could never return to Boston; they would surely find her there. Denver McKay, Detroit McKenzie. The telephone rang.
“Hello, Dr. McKane?” She did not recognize the voice.
“Yes?”
“I hope I didn’t get you out of bed. This is Edith Berg, the head of the Mathematics Division? I think we’ve met once or twice.”
“Oh, no, Dr. Berg.” Ms. McKane glanced at her open suitcase. “I was just putting some things away.”
“Good. I wouldn’t call you like this if it weren’t an emergency. Do you know Char Cavallo? She’s had a heart attack.”
“I don’t know her well,” Ms. McKane said, frantically searching her memory for something that would link Dr. Cavallo to herself. “But of course I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Congestive heart failure—that’s what they say. She was to be chief mathematician on the Frances Alda, and now of course she can’t possibly go. Someone has to, and most of the women who’ve been with the project longer can’t be spared or have sailed already on the test shots. I wondered … I should say I hoped—”
“I’ll go,” Ms. McKane said.
Dr. Berg’s voice brightened. “Really? That’s wonderful!”
“I’d like to,” Ms. McKane told her. “I would.”
“This won’t be a pleasure cruise, you understand. Living conditions aboard the ships are primitive, and there won’t be many people to talk to. You’ll be at sea for several months.”
“I’ll take some books.”
“Dr. McKane, you’re a tower of strength. I won’t forget this. Can you report to the ship in the morning? Before seven? They have to go then—something about the tide.”
“I’d rather report tonight,” Ms. McKane said. “I’d like a chance to get accustomed to my cabin before we put out. Get unpacked and so on.”
“Fine. I’ll let them know you’re coming. Thanks again, and goodbye. You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
When Ms. McKane had snapped closed her suitcase she went to the head of the stair. “Listen to me!” Her voice echoed through the house. “I’m sorry about the search—they would have arrested me, and searched anyway, if I had said no. Now I’m going away. It’s my right, under our agreement, to act as if you’re not here.” She waited, listening. There was no sound, no reply. Doubtless he had fled before the police came. “It’s my right,” she said again. “They need me to observe the shot.” There was still no answer. Unable to help herself she added, “I appreciated the gifts. Thank you, and good luck.”
The hooting of the tugs woke her next morning. For a quarter of an hour she remained in her bunk rejoicing in the rocking motion that seemed to soothe while it stimulated her. Cradle of the Deep; she had read it in freshman English … by Joan Somebody. There was a flash of white as a gull zoomed past the porthole, and the air of the cabin was sea air.
Ms. McKane got up, washed, dressed in old college clothes, and went on deck. Florida had already dwindled to a low coast aft. The Atlantic was sullen, powerful, and beautiful under the bright sun, an unending tiger seen through an emerald. Forward, two
pigtailed sailors were casting off the last tow. As though under invisible hands, the rigging grew taut. Motors hummed and winches turned, and transparent mylar sails, looking like the cast skins of snakes, climbed the steel masts. Ms. McKane looked toward the bridge hoping to see the captain busy at her controls, but there was only the glare of the morning sun on the glass. With a snapping like a whip’s, one of the snake skins became the side of an immense soap bubble, followed by another and another. The masts turned to catch the wind, and the Frances Alda heeled and came to life.
She stayed on deck until breakfast. In what was called the salon she gulped coffee and scrambled eggs and explained her last-minute substitution for Dr. Cavallo. As soon as she could she went topside again. Freedom seemed tangible there, something she could feel seeping into her lungs and racing through her arteries. I have been soiled all my life, she thought. This is making me clean. By noon she realized she had the beginnings of a sunburn and went below, congratulating herself on her foresight in bringing lotion.
In the darkness below deck she glimpsed the stowaway’s bearded face.
Cherry Jubilee
AS SMITH HAD FEARED, everyone else at the Captain’s table seemed to be Russian: an intelligent-looking bureaucrat who might, except for the cut of his suit, have been an American executive; a woman with up-swept reddish hair, probably his wife; a round-faced man whose carefully tailored camel jacket proclaimed the likelihood of a connection to the KGB; a dark, middle-aged woman; the Captain himself.
All around the curving walls other diners sat at other tables, their heads, like those of minnows, directed toward the center of the room. Smith tried to swoop gracefully into the vacuum chair a robot steward indicated, but overshot it slightly. Grinning, the Captain slapped his shoulder. “So! You are not a cosmonaut yet.”
Tiny suctions drew Smith to his seat. “I haven’t had much chance to practice, I’m afraid. I’ve been motion-sick pretty steadily for the past two days.”
“That is practice, Comrade. You speak good Russian.”
“Thank you.” Smith nodded and tried to smile. There were empty chairs to either side of his, so two more guests were expected. Two women, judging by the seating arrangement.
The Captain introduced the others, though for Smith they were only a blur of names. He was never good at introductions unless he concentrated, and other considerations demanded his attention now.
“May I ask why you are going to Mars,” the dark woman inquired. “So few come from America. Are you a scientist?”
While he struggled to explain, the robot whooshed in with a steam-haloed sphere of russet soup, a fragrant planetoid whose surface was streaked with cirrus clouds of sour cream.
“Isn’t it marvelous,” the red-haired woman exclaimed, “how it holds itself together like that! No bowl to wash afterwards. But how does he move it without getting his fingers wet?”
The Captain grinned again. “Quite simple. Just as you have your little compressor, he has air jets in his fingertips. He can use them in the way you see, or to maneuver, or reverse the flow to pick up small objects.”
“But if someone were to jostle him …”
“Our borsch would be scattered. But what would happen if someone jostled the waiter in your favorite restaurant in Moscow?”
The robot drew smaller spheres from the large one, shifting them until one hung in the air above each place. The round-faced man was already fingering a long, silvery straw, and Smith discovered he had one of his own, laid beside a steak knife. He picked it up, feeling the gentle tug of magnetism.
“Perhaps …” the Captain suggested. He glanced significantly at the empty seats.
“I just wanted to see what held it down. It’s magnetic stainless, I assume.”
The Captain nodded absently.
The bureaucrat touched Smith’s arm to get his attention. “You say you are a radical economist, Comrade. I am myself somewhat involved in economics—a financial planner at the Ministry of Science. So we are co-workers, you see. But I do not believe I have heard the term.”
Smith tried desperately to recall the man’s name. Petrausky? Petravich? Aloud he said, “We’re concerned with the irregular distribution of wealth, Comrade … Comrade …”
“Call me Pasik. As we are shipmates and co-workers, we must be friends. My wife is Anna.”
The red-haired woman smiled and nodded.
“Now by irregular, Comrade Smith, you refer to the black market?”
“Call me Smitty, Pasik. No, a black market is well described by classical economic theory. We’re more concerned with theft and bribery, that sort of thing.”
The bureaucrat was no longer listening. Two very beautiful blondes, one in white and one in scarlet, were floating toward the Captain’s table. The men rose, Smith nearly losing his hold on his chair.
“Welcome!” the Captain boomed. “Welcome! Let me introduce those you do not already know.” He rattled off the dark woman’s name. “And this is Comrade Smith, a fellow-countryman of yours.”
Both blondes smiled. “My God, what a relief,” the one in white said. “I thought Cherry and I were the only Americans on board.”
The Captain finished, “Comrades, the beautiful Merry and Cherry Houdini,” and Smith and the dark woman tried to say something polite.
Merry took the vacuum chair between Smith and the Captain, Cherry the one between Smith and Pasik. She smiled. “You’re wondering about us, aren’t you?”
Smith nodded. “It might be better, though, if we spoke Russian.”
“That’s right!” the round-faced man put in. “The time when our Soviet citizens learned English for technical purposes is past.”
“Isn’t that wonderful,” Cherry explained. “Now we can speak English when we have to keep secrets.” One eyelid drooped. “Do you think we’re twins, Merry and I?”
Smith looked from one to the other. “You’re identical in appearance, as well as I can judge, but she’s wearing more jewelry. Besides, I’ve seen her on TV, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you. Wasn’t she the one who escaped from a stasis field at MIT?”
Merry turned away from a conversation with the Captain long enough to say, “Wait until you see what I’m going to do here on the Red Star!”
The dark woman leaned across the table toward Smith. “You must have read the announcement? But no, you said you have been ill. She will escape space and reenter the spacecraft. Is that not right, Comrade Koroviev?”
The round-faced man nodded happily.
“Comrade Koroviev is of the Ministry of Art. He has arranged that these two lovely persons should tour the new cities of Soviet Mars. Our government is eager that the scientists and engineers laboring there should be repaid for their sacrifices in every way possible.”
“I understand,” Smith said. It was still likely—more than likely, he thought—that Koroviev was KGB.
“About the twins or not, I know. So I will not spoil the game by telling,” the dark woman continued. She extended a hand to Cherry. “But perhaps you did not catch my name. I am Vera Oussenko.”
Pasik and Anna had already plunged their metal straws into their trembling spheres of borsch. Smith did so now, finding that the soup had a slight but alarming tendency to climb the straw. Koroviev began talking to the dark woman, his Russian too faint and rapid for Smith to understand.
“Well?” Cherry whispered in English. “Have you doped us out?”
He put down his straw. “At least I’ve discovered why I was asked to the Captain’s table.”
“He is a little obvious, isn’t he? But he’s a dear, and you can’t blame him for wanting to make Merry feel at home.”
A robot vacuumed up the borsch and brought steaks pinned to their platters.
“You’re a clone—am I right? I’ve read they’ve developed a rapid maturation process now, so that in a few years the clone can have the same apparent age as the original.”
Cherry nodded. “And how old do you think I am?”
<
br /> “You’re much younger than you appear, obviously. Though I don’t suppose that’s a particularly gentlemanly thing for me to say.”
“You can redeem yourself by guessing. Come on, take a chance.”
“Well …” Smith glanced at the other blonde. “Did your original pay for the process herself?”
“Yes.”
“I’d guess six, then. Your clone sister can’t be much more than twenty-eight. I wouldn’t think she could earn enough to make a down-payment on the process before she was, say, twenty-two.”
The red-haired woman said in Russian, “Isn’t it marvelous? Pasik and I have followed it from the beginning. She is four.”
Her husband nodded vigorously. “Both Merry and Cherry have been several times in the USSR. Not only to perform, but also that our scientists—my Anna is a biochemist—could examine them both.”
The clone said, “These lovely people were our guides—and my interpreters before I learned the language.”
“In four years you’ve learned Russian very well, I would say.”
“I have an adult mind, and of course while we were traveling in the Soviet Union I had many opportunities. Now I’m learning Merry’s techniques by assisting her. When I’m good enough, I’ll go off on my own—perhaps tour South America.”
The bureaucrat said, “And you see, if Merry should be killed—the things she does are very dangerous—Cherry will remain for the entertainment of the world. But what of a great Soviet scientist? That is what my wife and I ask. Often the things such a person does are dangerous too. He is exposed to radiation, perhaps. To dangerous chemicals. We ask if such a person should not be cloned as well, and even while the original remains, the clone might follow other paths in research. As our delightful Cherry says, tour South America.”
His wife swallowed a mouthful of steak and gestured with her knife. “We have our own techniques, but we are interested in your methods too. We gauge the results of both and compare.”
