"But it really makes you more of a prisoner than—" she cried, breaking off unfinished.
In more ways than one, sister! "Nevada, it would be convenient if there were some way to determine for certain what you are," Leo said. "Even an inconvenient way. But there isn't, since I don't have a lab here. So we'll just have to make do—unless you want to leave now."
"I guess I should." she said. "But I'd die, and my willpower is not that good. Isn't there any way to—" Her eyes brightened suddenly. "You say the ship isn't coming for over a year?"
Leo nodded. "Barring a blowup."
"And I'll just have to stay here until they can identify me for sure? And if I'm human it's all right, but if I'm alien, trying to sneak into Earth's defenses, they'll kill me?"
"Close enough. I explained all that before. You aren't going to accomplish anything if you're a spy, so you might as well quit. If you go now, you can save your life and my reputation." But he was bluffing.
"So it really doesn't make any difference what happens until the ship comes," she said excitedly. "Except that it would be a lot nicer if I could prove to you I'm human." She was smoothing herself out now with motions more suggestive than practical.
"Yes. But if you're thinking of the classic 'proof,' it's no good. A Dep can make sex too. Better than a real woman, they say. That changes nothing."
"You're wrong," she said with new confidence. "Give me a few days to—to get to know you. Then I—I'll prove it. Really prove it. It'll be rough, but you'll see."
The reliefship captain was shocked. "You admitted an intruder? Here near the Dep frontier? Do you realize what this means?"
"I realize," Leo said. "It was a chance, but I'll gladly stand court-martial for what I did. But I intend to introduce in my own defense evidence that I kept good watch and even repelled an alien probe that might ordinarily have overcome the station and made this entire system hostile to Man. They were going to radiation-bomb it, you see, so we couldn't develop it for centuries. I think they're getting desperate, to try that. That should count for something."
"Repelled a probe?" The captain seemed to have been left behind.
"A Dep fleet that meant business. Less than a month ago. They fired saturation missiles, trying to knock out this station first. Must have cost them a fortune. I would never have nullified them all if Nevada hadn't acted as an additional spotter. She called them off by coordinates, so I was able to devote my full attention to gunning them down. Quadrupled my efficiency. Good thing, too; it's tricky trying to intercept meteor-shower type shells. The Deps hadn't expected a coordinated defense to their surprise attack."
"Of course not," the captain said. "That's an overt act of war—unless they managed to cover it up somehow. It changes the whole picture. But why should a Dep spy help you to—why, obviously she had been sent to incapacitate you in advance."
Leo grinned. "I could say my charm converted her to my side, but it wouldn't stick. She's human. I verified that. I knew I could trust her, and we had a lot to fight for."
"Mr. MacHenry, there is no way you could have been sure of that. You have no laboratory. The Deps are unexcelled at disguise and indirection."
"On the contrary. We have the very best laboratory. The one no alien can fool. All it takes is—"
He was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying.
The captain didn't make the connection immediately. "I tell you the Deps are too good at—" Then he paused, mouth open.
"Not that good, Captain. They can't hide the whole truth," Leo said, smiling with something more than victory. "Which reminds me. It will be your privilege to perform the ceremony for Nevada and me, now that the job is done. I want little Nev to have a proper name, and naturally my wife will be entitled to remain with me on Earth."
THE BRIDGE
These stories are presented here approximately in the order I wrote them. It can be difficult to ascertain the precise dates, as the prior story illustrates: was it when I dreamed it up, or when I summarized it for others, or when I wrote it? I normally do three drafts of my fiction, and sometimes set a draft aside while I write other fiction that may be submitted to market first. What date counts? "University" sat a full year between its first and second drafts, while I worked on novels on deadlines. "Bridge" was sent to Nova a month before "Whole Truth" was, yet I think it is a more recent story in total history, so that is its order here. If you disagree, simply tear out these pages and insert them in your copy before "Whole Truth." (I try to please everyone.)
You may have noticed that the stories in this volume have been getting more provocative, here in the mid-anatomy of the volume. The change was not in me but in the market; at this time, thanks perhaps to the impact of Dang Vis, it was loosening up. Editors were considering material they might have burned before. Still, after Nova this story bounced at Playboy, Cavalier. F&SF, Knight and Evergreen Review. I had supposed that the sexy male mags would appreciate truly fantastic sex. I was wrong.
Meanwhile, changes were occurring in the SF magazine circuit. Galaxy Publications had been bought out, Pohl was gone, and the new editor was Ejler Jakobsson. Judy-Lynn remained, contrary to my prior memory; don't worry, I assure you she will get to Ballantine Books in due course, after she finishes teaching Ejler the ropes. Ejler came to a writers' conference in my area, and I dropped in and met him on June 12, 1969. He wanted material. I was then mostly into novels, but I did have a couple of last year's provocative pieces still bouncing around. One was "Minnie's Crew." Somewhat warily I mentioned it. After all, new editor or not, Galaxy Publications was not your avant-garde publisher. Ejler wanted to see it. Okay, he had asked for it. I sent it. Within a week he phoned me, accepting it. A regular SF outfit was buying the story that had scared off the horny male mags! A special kind of history was in the making here. He retitled it, of course, as "The Bridge" and published it in Worlds of Tomorrow as the cover story. Yes, this time I even got my name on the cover, printed right under Minnie's pert breasts. No, I can't really argue with the new title, for once; my "Mini-screw" was a bit too cute.
Reader, be advised: this just may be the wildest sex ever to see print in a conventional genre magazine. If you blanched at "Barn" or shied from "Schist," you had better balk at "Bridge." If you prefer to call my bluff, then read on. Henceforth maybe you will have more respect for my warnings.
"Please." The voice was small but distinctly feminine and seemed to emanate inches from his ear. "Please, Mr. Fowler, please wake up."
"Burg to my friends," he muttered sleepily. He was one of those bachelors the men's magazines declined to acknowledge—the kind that works for a living and sleeps alone. On weekends such as this he liked to sleep late in spite of an early bedtime. This was partly to get back at the alarm clock and partly because it made the day shorter. At the moment he was in that transitional state he sometimes achieved upon such lazy awakening—in it he could hear and to a certain extent control intriguing dream dialogue.
"Please, Mr. Fowler, We only have an hour. Please look at me."
"Sure, honey," he murmured, eyes closed. The voice was absolutely lovely and remarkably convincing, as though a beautiful woman lay beside him. He had never before indulged in such a pleasant trance. But he knew that it would dissipate the moment he opened his eyes. All that shared his bedroom by daylight were dirty socks, clean shirts, a portable radio afflicted with intermittent static and last night's cold-slopped coffee. And, of course, the book he had read himself to sleep on. What was it? He couldn't remember.