Outside, leaning into the wind as we hurried toward the subway, he explained: “If I do have to drop out of sight, I’ll need money. Can’t just buy a ticket to South Carolina and expect not to be followed. I can endure a certain amount of humiliation, to save my skin.”
“You have a plan?”
“Several. Most likely, I’ll leave all of my things here, just take a book bag, go down to Penn and step on the tube to Los Angeles. Then go to Las Vegas by way of Denver. If I time it right, the whole thing will be less than two hours. In Vegas I can get a laundered identity for ten or twelve thousand bucks. Birth records, school, past employment; everything already inserted in some state’s computers.” I’d heard of that “service.” There were thousands of nonexistent people in the United States, waiting for Nevada to supply them with bodies.
“The fingerprints won’t match, of course, but I don’t plan on getting in trouble with the law. And I won’t have any credit identity, or any relatives. But that won’t make much difference, where I’m going.”
“You sound pretty sure you will be going.”
“Seems likely.” He put his arm around me. “Though I hate… well, I’ll be enrolling in the next quarter, but that’s just to avert suspicion. Probably leave in a month or so.”
“Leaving all your books?”
He nodded. “Everything. The rare books, I’ll be mailing to my friend, two or three a week. I don’t dare do anything that looks or sounds like packing.”
“So you’ll be gone by the time I get back?”
“Probably.” We huddled together at the subway entrance. “Don’t try to call or write. But if you can come, my friend’s farm is on Route Five, Lancaster Mills. About ten kilometers outside of town. Perkins. But make sure you aren’t followed; they’ll be missing me by then.”
“Route Five, Lancaster Mills, Perkins. I’ll get there… one of my field trips is to New Orleans; I can sneak away at the Atlanta interchange, on my way back.”
“Good. Now, shall we try the museum?”
“Just tourists.”
We went to the Museum of Modern Art, where there was an exhibit of contemporary American drawings. Benny appreciated them, but most of them left me behind. Scrawls, thumbprints, inkblots, childish doodles. I guess my taste in art is like my taste in music. Wrong century.
When I got home, there was a disturbing letter from Danieclass="underline"
Dear Marianne,
Although it would seem self-serving, I’m on the verge of asking you to cut short your year and head for the Cape while you can still get home. A very vocal minority is urging the Coordinators to pull up stakes, stop all shuttle service until the groundhogs come to their senses.
It’s a complex situation. We do get a balance-of-payments benefit from allowing Earth tourism, but it isn’t nearly as much as normal times, since we can’t bring them up and back on top of the regular cargo.
There’s no arguing the point that groundhogs who can afford vacations in orbit are the most powerful and influential Earth citizens. The argument is over what would happen if we did pull out—would the wealthy people tend to pressure the government into offering us a better deal? Or would the reaction be anger, “Let them stew in their own juices.” The latter, I think, and I probably know groundhogs better than most.
One factor that influences the Coordinators toward moderation is the fact that you and a thousand other Worlds citizens would be stranded on Earth. (I think the actual total is about 800.) People are talking about boycotting for as long as five or even twenty years—withdrawing satellite power as well as transportation. The water situation is uncertain, but five years without imports wouldn’t pose any great danger.
At any rate, the issue comes up for referendum next Sunday. I’m almost certain it will fail. (There’s also the side issue of New New imposing its will on the other Worlds, implicitly, since most tourist traffic does go through here first. Devon’s World would probably declare war—and come kill us with kindness.) Even if the issue were only political, I’d vote in favor of continuing negotiation. And the thought of you stuck there and me stuck here is just insupportable.
Years ago I read a story about a Swiss married couple. The husband had some medical problem, asthma or something, that required them to move into the mountains. Turned out the wife’s heart wouldn’t take the altitude. So she moved back into the valley and they spent the rest of their lives looking at each other through telescopes, waving. What a horrible thought.
John sends his love. We both talk about you all the time and look forward very much to your letters. I miss you terribly.
Love,
Dan
I did feel a rather strong pull orbitwards. Mainly because Benny was no replacement for Daniel (and John, for that matter). Second because I heartily wished I had never got mixed up with James’s cabal, and would rather be forty thousand kilometers away than simply on the other side of the world. The possibility that shuttle service might be cut off ran a distant third.
I took news of the argument to Worlds Club after dinner, and for once I was the first one who had heard of it. Not the first one on Earth, though. Barry Rhodes called up the New New York Corporation at the Cape and found that only standby spaces were available from now until next Sunday.
“I’m tempted to go down there and wait,” Claire Oswald said. “I don’t fancy being a hostage here.”
Some people mumbled agreement. The club chairman, Ian Carlson, shook his head and pronounced: “The thing to do is make a reservation for the week after. Then cancel it and make another, a week later. The referendum won’t pass, this time.” He lowered his voice. “But withdrawal is our only weapon against them. Next month, next year… it may become more and more likely.”
I got an uncomfortable déjà vu feeling from that “our/ them.” Left one cabal to slip into another? Anti-Earth sentiment always ran high at Worlds Club meetings, but with an element of banter and self-effacement Now, I could feel solidarity thickening around me. Us against them.
“I almost hate to bring it up,” Sheryl Devon said, “but we’re only looking at one side of the question. What do you think the United States is going to do when they find out about the referendum? Applaud?”
“They wouldn’t dare close the Cape,” I said. “That’s not U.S. soil. It would be an act of war.”
“They wouldn’t have to close it to cut off access,” Ian said. “Just pass a law forbidding tourism to the Worlds.”
“Turn our own weapon against us,” Claire said. “Take the choice away while most Worlds people are still against withdrawal.”
“It’s against the New Bill of Rights,” someone protested. “Article Six, Freedom of Travel.”
I knew he was wrong on that. “No, the language of the article says ‘state or foreign country.’ New New York is neither, or at least they could so claim.” That point had come up in Lobbies class. Nobody had ever tested the distinction in court, of course, since nobody had ever been forbidden access to the Worlds. “It wouldn’t look good, though. The U.S. has made a lot of self-righteous noise about the restrictions other countries put on their citizens’ traveling into orbit—”
Claire stood up, pale. “But they could call it coercion. Say we forced them into it.”
“Say it was a temporary measure, until we came to our senses,” Ian added.
There was a quiet chuckle and Dr. Wu, a white-haired professor from Uchūden, primly hid a smile behind his hand. “Excuse me. You are not being realistic; you are not being sufficiently Machiavellian.
“You must realize that this conversation took place weeks or months ago? In the Privy Council of New New York? Decisions, that is to say, alternatives, are not put to referenda simply because of minority pressure. What your friend has written you, O’Hara, is the first visible move of a game that is more than half played. As the Lobbies must well know.”