Amy said, “They’re silly.”
“Most would say so.”
Amy frowned. She knew about those people; they occasionally went Outside to play at being farmers or some such thing. She could not imagine how they stood it, or what good it did them. A City detective named Elijah Baley was the tiny band’s leader; maybe he thought the Spacers would help him. He had recently returned from one of their worlds, where they had asked him to help them solve a crime; maybe he thought Spacers could be his friends.
Amy knew better. The Spacers had only used him. She thought of the Spacer characters she had seen in hyperwave and book-film adventures. They were all tall, handsome, tanned, bronze-haired people with eyes as cold as those of the legions of robots that served them. In the dramas, they might be friendly to or even love some Earthpeople, but in reality they despised the people of the Cities. They would never allow Earthfolk to contaminate their worlds or the others in this galaxy. They might use an Earthman such as Baley, but would only discard him afterward.
“What I’m trying to say,” Alysha said softly, “is that change may come. Whatever disruptions it brings, it may also present opportunities, but only to people who are ready to seize them.” Amy tensed a little; this was the most antisocial statement she had ever heard from her mother. “It would be better if you were prepared for that and developed whatever talents might be useful. When I worked for the Department, I knew what the statistics were implying—it’s impossible for even the most determined bureaucrat to hide the whole truth. I could see—but I’ve said enough.”
“Mother—” Amy swallowed. “Are you going to tell Father what Mr. Liang said?”
Alysha plucked at her long, dark hair, looking distressed. “I really should. I’ll have to if I’m called in for a conference, and then Rick will wonder why I didn’t mention it earlier. I won’t if you promise you’ll work harder.”
Amy sighed with relief. “I promise.” She hoped she could keep that vow.
“Then I’ll leave you to your studying. You have a little time before Rick gets home.”
The door closed behind Alysha. Amy reached for her viewer and stretched out. Nothing would change, no matter what her mother said. Whatever Amy did, sooner or later she would, as her friend Debora Lister put it, wind up at the end of the line. She would be pushed to the end of the line when her teachers began to hint that certain studies would be more useful for a girl. She would be forced back again when college advisers pointed out that it was selfish to take a place in certain classes, since she would not use such specialized training for a lifetime, as a boy would. If she moved up the line then, she would only be pushed back later, when she married and had her own children.
She could, of course, choose not to marry, but such a life would be a lonely one. No matter what such women achieved, people muttered about how antisocial they were and pitied them, which was probably preferable to outright resentment. She would have to live in one of the alcoves allotted to single people unless she was lucky enough to find a congenial companion and get permission for both of them to share a room.
Alysha had wound up at the end of the line long ago, although later than most, and she had a loving husband to console her, which was a good thing. Even couples who hated each other would not willingly separate, lose status, and be forced into smaller quarters. Of course Alysha would hope that Amy might move up the line; she had nothing else in life except her husband and daughter.
A fair number of women were like Alysha. Sublimated antisocial individualism—that was what a textbook-film Amy had scanned in the school library called it. Many women lived through their children, then their grandchildren, hoping they would rise yet knowing that there were limits on their ambitions. Their transferred hopes would keep them going, but they would also be aware that too much individual glory would only create hard feelings in others. That was one reason her parents refused to flaunt the privileges they had earned and used them reluctantly, with a faintly apologetic air.
Men had different problems, which probably seemed just as troublesome to them. Some men cracked under the strain of having a family’s status resting entirely on them. The psychologists had terms for that syndrome, too.
Amy saw what lay ahead only too clearly. Perhaps she shouldn’t have viewed those book-films on psychology and sociology, which were meant for adult specialists. Her parents would eventually have the second child they were allowed; except for tending to Amy and her father, and being sociable in ways that eased relations with neighbors and her husband’s colleagues, there was little else for Alysha to do. Small wonder many women even had children to whom they weren’t entitled. When Amy was grown, her mother would be waiting for the inevitable grandchildren, and transfer her hopes to them. What a delusion it all was, pretending that your children wouldn’t be swallowed by the hives of the City while knowing that this was the way it had to be.
Happy families, as the saying went, made for a better City; mothers and wives could go about their business feeling they were performing their civic duty. Amy’s mother would cling to her, and then to her children, and—
If this was how knowing a lot made people feel, maybe it was better to be ignorant, to settle for what couldn’t be changed.
She folded her arms over her chest. She still had one accomplishment, and no one could take it from her; she was the best strip-runner in the City. She wouldn’t give that up, not until she was too old and too slow to race, and maybe that day would never come. If she made a mistake and died during a run, at least she’d be gone before she came to the end of the line. Her parents could have another child, maybe two, and the loss of one life would make no difference in a steel hive that held so many. She could even tell herself that she was making room for someone who would not mind being lost in the swarm.
The psychology texts had terms for such notions, all of which made her feelings sound like a disease. Perhaps they were, but that was yet another reason not to care about what happened to her on the strips.
* * * *
“Amy Barone-Stein,” the hall monitor said, “a person is looking for you.”
Amy glared up at the grayish robotic face, a parody of a human being’s. She did not care for robots, and this one, with its flat eyes and weirdly moving mouth, looked more idiotic than most. “What is it?” she asked.
“Someone outside wishes to speak to you,” the robot said, “and has asked me to bring you there.”
“Well, who is it?”
“She told me to give you her name if I were asked, or if you told me that you did not want to meet her. It is Shakira Lewes.”
Amy’s mouth dropped open. Debora Lister moved closer to her and nudged her in the ribs. Shakira Lewes had not run the strips in years, but Amy had heard of her. Kiyoshi Harris claimed she was the best female runner he had ever seen, and her last run, when she had led three gangs from Brooklyn to Yonkers and lost them all, was still legendary.
She was the best, Amy told herself; I’m the best now.
“Oh, Amy,” Debora said “Are you going to talk to her?”
“Might as well.”
“You’ll miss the Chess Club meeting,” the blond girl said.
“Then I’ll miss it.”
“I’m coming with you,” Debora said. “I’ve got to see this.”
“Miss Lewes requested the presence of Amy Barone-Stein,” the robot said. “She did not say—”
“Oh, stuff it,” Amy said. The robot’s eyes widened a little in what might have been bewilderment. “She didn’t say I couldn’t bring a friend, did she?”
“No, she did not.”
“Then lead us to her.”
The robot turned, leading them past a line in front of a Personal, then through the throngs of students crowding the hall. Amy wondered how Shakira Lewes had made the robot do her bidding. Technically, the hall monitors weren’t supposed to fetch students
from the school levels except for an emergency, but this robot was probably too stupid to tell that it was being deceived. The robot’s back was erect as it marched along on its stiff legs. Damned robots, she thought, taking jobs from people. The hall monitors had once been human beings.
By the time she and Debora reached the elevator banks, a small crowd of boys and girls was following them. They all clambered aboard after the robot and dropped toward the street level. When they emerged from the school, Amy saw more boys clustered around a tall, dark-skinned woman with short black hair.
“Ooh,” Debora whispered. “Maybe she wants to challenge you.” Amy shook her head and motioned at the robot’s back. A robot could not harm a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm; to this creature’s simple positronic brain, possible harm would certainly include strip-racing.
“Amy Barone-Stein,” the robot said in its toneless voice. “This is Shakira Lewes.”
The boys stepped back as Amy approached. The woman was slender enough for a runner, if a bit too tall; most runners, like Amy, were short and slight, able to squeeze into even the smallest gaps between passengers during a run. Shakira Lewes had a perfect, fine-boned face; she looked a lot like an actress in a historical drama about Africa Amy had recently viewed. She wore a red shirt and black pants that made her long legs seem even longer. The boys were staring intently at her. None of them had ever looked at Amy that way, not even after hearing about her run against Bradley Ohaer’s gang.
‘’You may leave us,” Shakira said to the robot. The hall monitor turned and went back inside. The woman sounded as arrogant as a Spacer; Amy looked up at her, filled with admiration and hatred. “I’ve heard about you,” Shakira continued. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Amy stuck out her chin. “What about?”
“Alone, if we could.” Alone meant walking among the crowds, standing on a strip or localway to talk, or, if one was lucky, finding an unoccupied chair or bench somewhere.
Amy said, “If you’ve got something to tell me, say it here.”
“She’s going to challenge,” someone said behind Amy; she looked around. Luis Horton was with the group; he’d been mad at her ever since she beat him on a long run up to the Yonkers Sector. “She’s going to challenge,” Luis repeated. “Maybe Amy can’t take her.”
Amy said, “I can take any runner in New York.”
Shakira frowned. “I said I wanted to talk. I didn’t say anything about running.”
“Afraid?” another boy asked.
Shakira’s face grew grimmer. Amy saw where this was leading; the others expected a challenge. Normally, she would have demanded one herself, but something felt wrong. It didn’t make sense for this woman, who surely had better things to do, to come looking for a run against Amy, whatever her fame. Shakira had to be out of practice, and would risk much graver consequences as an adult offender if she were caught by the police. Yet what else could she want Amy for? Perhaps something illegal—some illicit enterprise where a boy or girl who could easily shake off a police pursuit might be useful.
Amy shrugged. “Come on, guys. Anybody can see she’s too old to run the strips now.”
“I’m old, all right,” Shakira said. “I’m nearly twenty-one.”
“Lewes isn’t scared,” Luis muttered then. “Amy is.”
Amy’s cheeks burned. They were all watching her now; she even imagined that the crowds passing by were looking at her, witnesses to her shame. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said. “Make your run, Shakira Lewes—you won’t lose me. From here to the Sheepshead Bay localway intersection—unless you’re too old to make that long a run.”
Shakira was silent.
“Now! Or are you just too old and tired to try?”
The woman’s large dark eyes glittered. “You’re on. I’ll do it!”
A boy hooted. Even Debora, who would never run the strips herself, was flushed with anticipation. Amy was suddenly furious with them all. She wasn’t ready for this run; she realized now that she had been hoping Shakira would back down. If the woman actually beat her, she would never live it down, while if Amy won, the others would simply assume Shakira was past her prime. She had risked too much on this challenge, and still didn’t know what Shakira wanted with her.
“Let’s go,” Amy said.
“Just a minute.” The woman raised an arm. “This is one on one, between you and me—and I still want to talk to you later.”
“Talk to me after I beat you,” Amy said without much conviction, then followed Shakira toward the nearest strip.
* * * *
Shakira strode along the gray bands, moving to the faster strips at a speed only a little more rapid than usual. Amy kept close. Most of the boys and girls had already headed for the expressway; they would greet the victor at the Sheepshead Bay destination. Luis and two of his friends were following to study a little of Shakira’s skill before joining the others. There were still some gaps between passengers, but the strips were already getting more crowded.
Shakira showed her moves, increasing the pace. She did a side shuffle, striding steadily, then moving to an adjacent strip without breaking her pace; Amy followed. She did a Popovich, named after the runner who had perfected it, leaping from side to side between two strips before bounding from the second one to a third. She even managed to pull off a dervish. Turning to face Amy, she leaped into the air and made a complete turn before landing gracefully on a slower strip; a dervish was dangerous even on slow strips.
She was good, but Amy knew the moves. Show-off, she thought; the woman was only trying to intimidate her. Flashy moves were more likely to draw attention, as well as wearing out a runner too soon. She followed Shakira onto a localway, then swung off after her, leaving the boys behind. She had caught Shakira’s rhythm, but remained wary and alert; some runners could lull a follower into their pace before doing the unexpected.
They danced across the strips toward an expressway. The crowds were thick on the strip next to the expressway platform. Shakira reached for a pole and swung herself up; Amy grabbed the next pole. The woman’s long legs swung around, never touching the floor and barely missing a passenger, and then she was back on the strip, her back to the wind as she grinned up at Amy.
Amy gripped her pole, about to follow when a few people suddenly stepped to the strip just below her. She caught a glimpse of startled faces as her legs swung toward them; there was just enough space for a landing. A woman swayed on the strip; a man grabbed her by the arm. Amy knew in an instant that she could not risk a leap. Shakira turned, ran past more commuters, stepped to her left, and was gone.
Amy hung on to the pole; the wind tore at her legs. She hauled herself aboard, numbed by the abruptness of her defeat. She had lost before they even reached lower Manhattan; tears stung her eyes.
Someone shoved her; passengers surrounded her. “Damn runners!” a man shouted. Other riders crowded around her; a fist knocked her to the floor. “Get the police!” a woman cried. Fingers grabbed Amy by the hair; a foot kicked her in the knee. She covered her head with her arms, no longer caring what happened to her; she had lost.
* * * *
A plainclothesman, a C-6 with seat privileges on the expressway’s upper level, got Amy away from the crowd before she was beaten too badly and took her to City Hall. Police headquarters were in the higher levels of the structure; Amy supposed that she would be turned over to an officer and booked. Instead, the detective led her through a large common room filled with people and desks to a corner desk with a railing around it.
She sat at the desk, feeling miserable and alone, as the plainclothesman took her name, entered it in the desk computer, called up more information, then placed a call to her father on the communo. “You’re in luck,” the man said when he had finished his call. “Your father hasn’t left work yet, so he’ll just come over here from his level
and take you home.”
She peered up at him. “You mean you aren’t going to keep me here?”
The detective glowered at her. He was a big man, with a bald head, thick mustache, and brown skin nearly as dark as Shakira’s. “Don’t think I haven’t considered detaining you. I shouldn’t even be wasting my time with you—I have a very low tolerance for reckless kids who don’t care about anyone else’s safety. You could have started a riot on that expressway—maybe I should have left you to the tender mercies of that mob. Do you know what can happen to you now, girl?”
“No,” she mumbled, although she could guess.
“For starters, a hearing in juvenile court. You could get a few months in Youth Offenders’ Level, or you might get lucky and be sentenced to help out in a hospital a few days a week. You’d get lots of chances to see accident victims there.” He pulled at his mustache. “That might do you some good. Maybe you’ll be there when they bring in some dead strip-runner who wasn’t quick enough. You can watch his parents cry when the hospital makes the Ritual of Request before they take any usable organs from the corpse. And you’ll have deep trouble if you ever misbehave again.”
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. “Stay here,” the man said, even though she hardly had a choice, with the common room so filled with police. She sat there alone, wallowing in her despair until the detective returned with a cup of tea; he did not offer anything to her.
He sat down behind the desk. “Will you give me the names of any runners with you?”
She shook her head violently. Much as she hated Shakira, she would not sink that low.
“I didn’t think you would. You’re not doing them any favor, you know. If they meet with accidents or end up hurting somebody else, I hope you can live with yourself.”
The detective worked at his desk computer in silence until Amy’s father arrived. She glanced at his pale, grim face and looked away quickly. The formality of an introduction took only a moment before the plainclothesman began to lecture Ricardo Stein on his daughter’s offense, peppering his tirade with statistics on accidents caused by strip-runners and the number of deaths the game had resulted in this year. “If I hadn’t been on that expressway,” the man concluded, “the girl might have been badly roughed up—not that she didn’t deserve it.”
Puss in D.C. and Other Stories Page 13
