Beatnik Bayou

THE PREGNANT WOMAN HAD been following us for over an hour when Cathay did the

unspeakable thing.

At first it had been fun. Me and Denver didn't know what it was about, just that

she had some sort of beef with Cathay. She and Cathay had gone off together and

talked. The woman started yelling, and it was not too long before Cathay was

yelling, too. Finally Cathay said something I couldn't hear and came back to

join the class. That was me, Denver, Trigger, and Cathay, the last two being the

teachers, me and Denver being the students. I know, you're not supposed to be

able to tell which is which, but believe me, you usually know.

That's when the chase started. This woman wouldn't take no for an answer, and

she followed us wherever we went. She was about as awkward an animal as you

could imagine, and I certainly wasn't feeling sorry for her after the way she

had talked to Cathay, who is my friend. Every time she slipped and landed on her

behind, we all had a good laugh.

For a while. After an hour, she started to seem a little frightening. I had

never seen anyone so determined.

The reason she kept slipping was that she was chasing us through Beatnik Bayou,

which is Trigger's home. Trigger herself describes it as "twelve acres of mud,

mosquitoes, and moonshine." Some of her visitors had been less poetic but more

colorful. I don't know what an acre is, but the bayou is fairly large. Trigger

makes the moonshine in a copper and aluminum still in the middle of a canebrake.

The mosquitoes don't bite, but they buzz a lot. The mud is just plain old

mississippi mud, suitable for beating your feet. Most people see the place and

hate it instantly, but it suits me fine.

Pretty soon the woman was covered in mud. She had three things working against

her. One was her ankle-length maternity gown, which covered all of her except

for face, feet, and bulging belly and breasts. She kept stepping on the long

skirt and going down. After a while, I winced every time she did that.

Another handicap was her tummy, which made her walk with her weight back on her

heels. That's not the best way to go through mud, and every so often she sat

down real hard, proving it.

Her third problem was the Birthgirdle pelvic bone, which must have just been

installed. It was one of those which sets the legs far apart and is hinged in

the middle so when the baby comes it opens out and gives more room. She needed

it, because she was tall and thin, the sort of build that might have died in

childbirth back when such things were a problem. But it made her waddle like a

duck.

"Quack, quack," Denver said, with an attempt at a smile. We both looked back at

the woman, still following, still waddling. She went down, and struggled to her

feet. Denver wasn't smiling when she met my eyes. She muttered something.

"What's that?" I said.

"She's unnerving," Denver repeated. "I wonder what the hell she wants?"

"Something pretty powerful."

Cathay and Trigger were a few paces ahead of us, and I saw Trigger glance back.

She spoke to Cathay. I don't think I was supposed to hear it, but I did. I've

got good ears.

"This is starting to upset the kids."

"I know," he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. All four of us

watched her as she toiled her way up the far side of the last rise. Only her

head and shoulders were visible.

"Damn. I thought she'd give up pretty soon." He groaned, but then his face

became expressionless. "There's no help for it. We'll have to have a

confrontation."

"I thought you already did," Trigger said, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Well, it wasn't enough, apparently. Come on, people. This is part of your

lives, too." He meant me and Denver, and when he said that we knew this was

supposed to be a "learning experience." Cathay can turn the strangest things

into learning experiences. He started back toward the shallow stream we had just

waded across, and the three of us followed him.

If I sounded hard on Cathay, I really shouldn't have been. Actually, he was one

damn fine teacher. He was able to take those old saws about learning by doing,

seeing is believing, one-on-one instruction, integration of life experiences—all

the conventional wisdom of the educational establishment—and make it work better

than any teacher I'd ever seen. I knew he was a counterfeit child. I had known

that since I first met him, when I was seven, but it hadn't started to matter

until lately. And that was just the natural cynicism of my age-group, as Trigger

kept pointing out in that smug way of hers.

Okay, so he was really forty-eight years old. Physically he was just my age,

which was almost thirteen: a short, slightly chubby kid with curly blond hair

and an androgynous face, just starting to grow a little fuzz around his balls.

When he turned to face that huge, threatening woman and stood facing her calmly,

I was moved.

I was also fascinated. Mentally, I settled back on my haunches to watch and wait

and observe. I was sure I'd be learning something about "life" real soon now.

Class was in session.

When she saw us coming back, the woman hesitated. She picked her footing

carefully as she came down the slight rise to stand at the edge of the water,

then waited for a moment to see if Cathay was going to join her. He wasn't. She

made an awful face, lifted her skirt up around her waist, and waded in.

The water lapped around her thighs. She nearly fell over when she tried to dodge

some dangling Spanish moss. Her lace dress was festooned with twigs and leaves

and smeared with mud.

"Why don't you turn around?" Trigger yelled, standing beside me and Denver and

shaking her fist. "It's not going to do you any good."

"I'll be the judge of that," she yelled back. Her voice was harsh and ugly and

what had probably been a sweet face was now set in a scowl. An alligator was

swimming up to look her over. She swung at it with her fist, nearly losing her

balance. "Get out of here, you slimy lizard!" she screamed. The reptile recalled

urgent business on the other side of the swamp, and hurried out of her way.

She clambered ashore and stood ankle-deep in ooze, breathing hard. She was a

mess, and beneath her anger I could now see fear. Her lips trembled for a

moment. I wished she would sit down; just looking at her exhausted me.

"You've got to help me," she said, simply.

"Believe me, if I could, I would," Cathay said.

"Then tell me somebody who can."

"I told you, if the Educational Exchange can't help you, I certainly can't.

Those few people I know who are available for a contract are listed on the

exchange."

"But none of them are available any sooner than three years."

"I know. It's the shortage."

"Then help me," she said, miserably. "Help me."

Cathay slowly rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, then squared his

shoulders and put his hands on his hips.

"I'll go over it once more. Somebody gave you my name and said I was available

for a primary stage teaching contract. I—"

"He did! He said you'd—"

"I never heard of this person," Cathay said, raising his voice. "Judging from

what you're putting me through, he gave you my name from the Teacher's

Association listings just to get you off his back. I guess I could do something

like that, but frankly, I don't think I have the right to subject another

teacher to the sort of abuse you've heaped on me." He paused, and for once she

didn't say anything.

"Right," he said, finally. "I'm truly sorry that the man you contracted with for

your child's education went to Pluto instead. From what you told me, what he did

was legal, which is not to say ethical." He grimaced at the thought of a teacher

who would run out on an ethical obligation. "All I can say is you should have

had the contract analyzed, you should have had a standby contract drawn up three

years ago... oh, hell. What's the use? That doesn't do you any good. You have my

sympathy, I hope you believe that."

"Then help me," she whispered, and the last word turned into a sob. She began to

cry quietly. Her shoulders shook and tears leaked from her eyes, but she never

looked away from Cathay.

"There's nothing I can do."

"You have to."

"Once more. I have obligations of my own. In another month, when I've fulfilled

my contract with Argus' mother," he gestured toward me, "I'll be regressing to

seven again. Don't you understand? I've already got an intermediate contract.

The child will be seven in a few months. I contracted for her education four

years ago. There's no way I can back out of that, legally or morally."

Her face was twisting again, filling with hate.

"Why not?" she rasped. "Why the hell not? He ran out on my contract. Why the

hell should I be the only one to suffer? Why me, huh? Listen to me, you

shitsucking little son of a blowout. You're all I've got left. After you,

there's nothing but the public educator. Or trying to raise him all by myself,

all alone, with no guidance. You want to be responsible for that? What the hell

kind of start in life does that give him?"

She went on like that for a good ten minutes, getting more illogical and abusive

with every sentence. I'd vacillated between a sort of queasy sympathy for

her—she was in a hell of a mess, even though she had no one to blame but

herself—and outright hostility. Just then she scared me. I couldn't look into

those tortured eyes without cringing. My gaze wandered down to her fat belly,

and the glass eye of the wombscope set into her navel. I didn't need to look

into it to know she was due, and overdue. She'd been having the labor postponed

while she tried to line up a teacher. Not that it made much sense; the kid's

education didn't start until his sixth month. But it was a measure of her

desperation, and of her illogical thinking under stress.

Cathay stood there and took it until she broke into tears again. I saw her

differently this time, maybe a little more like Cathay was seeing her. I was

sorry for her, but the tears failed to move me. I saw that she could devour us

all if we didn't harden ourselves to her. When it came right down to it, she was

the one who had to pay for her carelessness. She was trying her best to get

someone else to shoulder the blame, but Cathay wasn't going to do it.

"I didn't want to do this," Cathay said. He looked back at us. "Trigger?"

Trigger stepped forward and folded her arms across her chest.

"Okay," she said. "Listen, I didn't get your name, and I don't really want to

know it. But whoever you are, you're on my property, in my house. I'm ordering

you to leave here, and I further enjoin you never to come back."

"I won't go," she said, stubbornly, looking down at her feet. "I'm not leaving

till he promises to help me."

"My next step is to call the police," Trigger reminded her.

"I'm not leaving."

Trigger looked at Cathay and shrugged helplessly. I think they were both

realizing that this particular life experience was getting a little too raw.

Cathay thought it over for a moment, eye to eye with the pregnant woman. Then he

reached down and scooped up a handful of mud. He looked at it, hefting it

experimentally, then threw it at her. It struck her on the left shoulder with a

wet plop, and began to ooze down.

"Go," he said. "Get out of here."

"I'm not leaving," she said.

He threw another handful. It hit her face, and she gasped and sputtered.

"Go," he said, reaching for more mud. This time he hit her on the leg, but by

now Trigger had joined him, and the woman was being pelted.

Before I quite knew what was happening, I was scooping mud from the ground and

throwing it. Denver was, too. I was breathing hard, and I wasn't sure why.

When she finally turned and fled from us, I noticed that my jaw muscles were

tight as steel. It took me a long time to relax them, and when I did, my front

teeth were sore.

There are two structures on Beatnik Bayou. One is an old, rotting bait shop and

lunch counter called the Sugar Shack, complete with a rusty gas pump out front,

a battered Grapette machine on the porch, and a sign advertising Rainbow Bread

on the screen door. There's a gray Dodge pickup sitting on concrete blocks to

one side of the building, near a pile of rusted auto parts overgrown with weeds.

The truck has no wheels. Beside it is a Toyota sedan with no windows or engine.

A dirt road runs in front of the shack, going down to the dock. In the other

direction the road curves around a cypress tree laden with moss—

—and runs into the wall. A bit of a jolt. But though twelve acres is large for a

privately owned disneyland, it's not big enough to sustain the illusion of

really being there. "There," in this case, is supposed to be Louisiana in 1951,

old style. Trigger is fascinated by the twentieth century, which she defines as

1903 to 1987.

But most of the time it works. You can seldom see the walls because trees are in

the way. Anyhow, I soak up the atmosphere of the place not so much with my eyes

but with my nose and ears and skin. Like the smell of rotting wood, the sound of

a frog hitting the water or the hum of the compressor in the soft drink machine,

the silver wiggle of a dozen minnows as I scoop them from the metal tanks in

back of the shack, the feel of sun-heated wood as I sit on the pier fishing for

alligator gar.

It takes a lot of power to operate the "sun," so we get a lot of foggy days, and

long nights. That helps the illusion, too. I would challenge anyone to go for a

walk in the bayou night with the crickets chirping and the bullfrogs booming and

not think they were back on Old Earth. Except for the Lunar gravity, of course.

Trigger inherited money. Even with that and a teacher's salary, the bayou is an

expensive place to maintain. It used to be a more conventional environment, but

she discovered early that the swamp took less upkeep, and she likes the sleazy

atmosphere, anyway. She put in the bait shop, bought the automotive mockups from

artists, and got it listed with the Lunar Tourist Bureau as an authentic period

reconstruction. They'd die if they knew the truth about the Toyota, but I

certainly won't tell them.

The only other structure is definitely not from Louisiana of any year. It's a

teepee sitting on a slight rise, just out of sight of the Sugar Shack. Cheyenne,

I think. We spend most of our time there when we're on the bayou.

That's where we went after the episode with the pregnant woman. The floor is

hard-packed clay and there's a fire always burning in the center. There's lots

of pillows scattered around, and two big waterbeds.

We tried to talk about the incident. I think Denver was more upset than the rest

of us, but from the tense way Cathay sat while Trigger massaged his back I knew

he was bothered, too. His voice was troubled.

I admitted I had been scared, but there was more to it than that, and I was far

from ready to talk about it. Trigger and Cathay sensed it, and let it go for the

time being. Trigger got the pipe and stuffed it with dexeplant leaves.

It's a long-stemmed pipe. She got it lit, then leaned back with the stem in her

teeth and the bowl held between her toes. She exhaled sweet, honey-colored

smoke. As the day ended outside, she passed the pipe around. It tasted good, and

calmed me wonderfully. It made it easy to fall asleep.

But I didn't sleep. Not quite. Maybe I was too far into puberty for the drug in

the plant to act as a tranquilizer anymore. Or maybe I was too emotionally

stimulated. Denver fell asleep quickly enough.

Cathay and Trigger didn't. They made love on the other side of the teepee, did

it in such a slow, dreamy way that I knew the drug was affecting them. Though

Cathay is in his forties and Trigger is over a hundred, both have the bodies of

thirteen-year-olds, and the metabolism that goes with the territory.

They didn't actually finish making love; they sort of tapered off, like we used

to do before orgasms became a factor. I found that made me happy, lying on my

side and watching them through slitted eyes.

They talked for a while. The harder I strained to hear them, the sleepier I got.

Somewhere in there I lost the battle to stay awake.

I became aware of a warm body close to me. It was still dark, the only light

coming from the embers of the fire.

"Sorry, Argus," Cathay said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Put your arms around me?" He did, and I squirmed until my back fit

snugly against him. For a long time I just enjoyed it. I didn't think about

anything, unless it was his warm breath on my neck, or his penis slowly

hardening against my back. If you can call that thinking.

How many nights had we slept like this in the last seven years? Too many to

count. We knew each other every way possible. A year ago he had been female, and

before that both of us had been. Now we were both male, and that was nice, too.

One part of me thought it didn't really matter which sex we were, but another

part was wondering what it would be like to be female and know Cathay as a male.

We hadn't tried that yet.

The thought of it made me shiver with anticipation. It had been too long since

I'd had a vagina. I wanted Cathay between my legs, like Trigger had had him a

short while before.

"I love you," I mumbled.

He kissed my ear. "I love you, too, silly. But how much do you love me?"

. "What do you mean?"

I felt him shift around to prop his head up on one hand. His fingers unwound a

tight curl in my hair.

"I mean, will you still love me when I'm no taller than your knee?"

I shook my head, suddenly feeling cold. "I don't want to talk about that."

"I know that very well," he said. "But I can't let you forget it. It's not

something that'll go away."

I turned onto my back and looked up at him. There was a faint smile on his face

as he toyed with my lips and hair with his gentle fingertips, but his eyes were

concerned. Cathay can't hide much from me anymore.

"It has to happen," he emphasized, showing no mercy. "For the reasons you heard

me tell the woman. I'm committed to going back to age seven. There's another

child waiting for me. She's a lot like you."

"Don't do it," I said, feeling miserable. I felt a tear in the corner of my eye,

and Cathay brushed it away.

I was thankful that he didn't point out how unfair I was being. We both knew it;

he accepted that, and went on as best he could.

"You remember our talk about sex? About two years ago, I think it was. Not too

long after you first told me you love me."

"I remember. I remember it all."

He kissed me. "Still, I have to bring it up. Maybe it'll help. You know we

agreed that it didn't matter what sex either of us was. Then I pointed out that

you'd be growing up, while I'd become a child again. That we'd grow further

apart sexually."

I nodded, knowing that if I spoke I'd start to sob.

"And we agreed that our love was deeper than that. That we didn't need sex to

make it work. It can work."

This was true. Cathay was close to all his former students. They were adults

now, and came to see him often. It was just to be close, to talk and hug. Lately

sex had entered it again, but they all understood that would be over soon.

"I don't think I have that perspective," I said, carefully. "They know in a few

years you'll mature again. I know it too, but it still feels like..."

"Like what?"

"Like you're abandoning me. I'm sorry, that's just how it feels."

He sighed, and pulled me close to him. He hugged me fiercely for a while, and it

felt so good.

"Listen," he said, finally. "I guess there's no avoiding this. I could tell you

that you'll get over it—you will—but it won't do any good. I had this same

problem with every child I've taught."

"You did?" I hadn't known that, and it made me feel a little better.

"I did. I don't blame you for it. I feel it myself. I feel a pull to stay with

you. But it wouldn't work, Argus. I love my work, or I wouldn't be doing it.

There are hard times, like right now. But after a few months you'll feel

better."

"Maybe I will." I was far from sure of it, but it seemed important to agree with

him and get the conversation ended.

"In the meantime," he said, "we still have a few weeks together. I think we

should make the most of them." And he did, his hands roaming over my body. He

did all the work, letting me relax and try to get myself straightened out.

So I folded my arms under my head and reclined, trying to think of nothing but

the warm circle of his mouth.

But eventually I began to feel I should be doing something for him, and knew

what was wrong. He thought he was giving me what I wanted by making love to me

in the way we had done since we grew older together. But there was another way,

and I realized I didn't so much want him to stay thirteen. What I really wanted

was to go back with him, to be seven again.

I touched his head and he looked up, then we embraced again face to face. We

began to move against each other as we had done since we first met, the

mindless, innocent friction from a time when it had less to do with sex than

with simply feeling good.

But the body is insistent, and can't be fooled. Soon our movements were frantic,

and then a feeling of wetness between us told me as surely as entropy that we

could never go back.

On my way home the signs of change were all around me.

You grow a little, let out the arms and legs of your pressure suit until you

finally have to get a new one. People stop thinking of you as a cute little kid

and start talking about you being a fine young person. Always with that smile,

like it's a joke that you're not supposed to get.

People treat you differently as you grow up. At first you hardly interact at all

with adults, except your own mother and the mothers of your friends. You live in

a kid's world, and adults are hardly even obstacles because they get out of your

way when you run down the corridors. You go all sorts of places for free; people

want you around to make them happy because there are so few kids and just about

everybody would like to have more than just the one. You hardly even notice the

people smiling at you all the time.

But it's not like that at all when you're thirteen. Now there was the

hesitation, just a fraction of a second before they gave me a child's

privileges. Not that I blamed anybody. I was nearly as tall as a lot of the

adults I met.

But now I had begun to notice the adults, to watch them. Especially when they

didn't know they were being watched. I saw that a lot of them spent a lot of

time frowning. Occasionally, I would see real pain on a face. Then he or she

would look at me, and smile. I could see that wouldn't be happening forever.

Sooner or later I'd cross some invisible line, and the pain would stay in those

faces, and I'd have to try to understand it. I'd be an adult, and I wasn't sure

I wanted to be.

It was because of this new preoccupation with faces that I noticed the woman

sitting across from me on the Archimedes train. I planned to be a writer, so I

tended to see everything in terms of stories and characters. I watched her and

tried to make a story about her.

She was attractive: physically mid-twenties, straight black hair and brownish

skin, round face without elaborate surgery or startling features except her dark

brown eyes. She wore a simple thigh-length robe of thin white material that

flowed like water when she moved. She had one elbow on the back of her seat,

absently chewing a knuckle as she looked out the window.

There didn't seem to be a story in her face. She was in an unguarded moment, but

I saw no pain, no big concerns or fears. It's possible I just missed it. I was

new at the game and I didn't know much about what was important to adults. But I

kept trying.

Then she turned to look at me, and she didn't smile.

I mean, she smiled, but it didn't say isn't-he-cute. It was the sort of smile

that made me wish I'd worn some clothes. Since I'd learned what erections are

for, I no longer wished to have them in public places.

I crossed my legs. She moved to sit beside me. She held up her palm and I

touched it. She was facing me with one leg drawn up under her and her arm

resting on the seat behind me.

"I'm Trilby," she said.

"Hi. I'm Argus." I found myself trying to lower my voice.

"I was sitting over there watching you watch me."

"You were?"

"In the glass," she explained.

"Oh." I looked, and sure enough, from where she had been sitting she could

appear to be looking at the landscape while actually studying my reflection. "I

didn't mean to be rude."

She laughed and put her hand on my shoulder, then moved it. "What about me?" she

said. "I was being sneaky about it; you weren't. Anyhow, don't fret. I don't

mind." I shifted again, and she glanced down. "And don't worry about that,

either. It happens."

I still felt nervous but she was able to put me at ease. We talked for the rest

of the ride, and I have no memory of what we talked about. The range of subjects

must have been quite narrow, as I'm sure she never made reference to my age, my

schooling, her profession—or just why she had started a conversation with a

thirteen-year-old on a public train.

None of that mattered. I was willing to talk about anything. If I wondered about

her reasons, I assumed she actually was in her twenties, and not that far from

her own childhood.

"Are you in a hurry?" she asked at one point, giving her head a little toss.

"Me? No. I'm on my way to see—" No, no, not your mother. "—a friend. She can

wait. She expects me when I get there." That sounded better.

"Can I buy you a drink?" One eyebrow raised, a small motion with the hand. Her

gestures were economical, but seemed to say more than her words. I mentally

revised her age upward a few years. Maybe quite a few.

This was timed to the train arriving at Archimedes; we got up and I quickly

accepted.

"Good. I know a nice place."

The bartender gave me that smile and was about to give me the customary free one

on the house toward my legal limit of two. But Trilby changed all that.

"Two Irish whiskeys, please. On the rocks." She said it firmly, raising her

voice a little, and a complex thing happened between her and the bartender. She

gave him a look, his eyebrow twitched and he glanced at me, seemed to understand

something. His whole attitude toward me changed.

I had the feeling something had gone over my head, but didn't have time to worry

about it. I never had time to worry when Trilby was around. The drinks arrived,

and we sipped them.

"I wonder why they still call it Irish?" she said.

We launched into a discussion of the Invaders, or Ireland, or Occupied Earth.

I'm not sure. It was inconsequential, and the real conversation was going on eye

to eye. Mostly it was her saying wordless things to me, and me nodding agreement

with my tongue hanging out.

We ended up at the public baths down the corridor. Her nipples were shaped like

pink valentine hearts. Other than that, her body was unremarkable, though

wonderfully firm beneath the softness. She was so unlike Trigger and Denver and

Cathay. So unlike me. I catalogued the differences as I sat behind her in the

big pool and massaged her soapy shoulders.

On the way to the tanning room she stopped beside one of the private alcoves and

just stood there, waiting, looking at me. My legs walked me into the room and

she followed me. My hands pressed against her back and my mouth opened when she

kissed me. She lowered me to the soft floor and took me.

What was so different about it?

I pondered that during the long walk from the slide terminus to my home. Trilby

and I had made love for the better part of an hour. It was nothing fancy,

nothing I had not already tried with Trigger and Denver. I had thought she would

have some fantastic new tricks to show me, but that had not been the case.

Yet she had not been like Trigger or Denver. Her body responded in a different

way, moved in directions I was not used to. I did my best. When I left her, I

knew she was happy, and yet felt she expected more.

I found that I was very interested in giving her more.

I was in love again.

With my hand on the doorplate, I suddenly knew that she had already forgotten

me. It was silly to assume anything else. I had been a pleasant diversion, an

interesting novelty.

I hadn't asked for her name, her address or call number. Why not? Maybe I

already knew she would not care to hear from me again.

I hit the plate with the heel of my hand and brooded during the elevator ride to

the surface.

My home is unusual. Of course, it belongs to Darcy, my mother. She was there

now, putting the finishing touches on a diorama. She glanced up at me, smiled,

and offered her cheek for a kiss.

"I'll be through in a moment," she said. "I want to finish this before the light

fails."

We live in a large bubble on the surface. Part of it is partitioned into rooms

without ceilings, but the bulk forms Darcy's studio. The bubble is transparent.

It screens out the ultraviolet light so we don't get burned.

It's an uncommon way to live, but it suits us. From our vantage point at the

south side of a small valley only three similar bubbles can be seen. It would be

impossible for an outsider to guess that a city teemed just below the surface.

Growing up, I never gave a thought to agoraphobia, but it's common among

Lunarians. I felt sorry for those not fortunate enough to grow up with a view.

Darcy likes it for the light. She's an artist, and particular about light. She

works two weeks on and two off, resting during the night. I grew up to that

schedule, leaving her alone while she put in marathon sessions with her

airbrushes, coming home to spend two weeks with her when the sun didn't shine.

That had changed a bit when I reached my tenth birthday. We had lived alone

before then, Darcy cutting her work schedule drastically until I was four,

gradually picking it up as I attained more independence. She did it so she could

devote all her time to me. Then one day she sat me down and told me two men were

moving in. It was only later that I realized how Darcy had altered her lifestyle

to raise me properly. She is a serial polyandrist, especially attracted to

fierce-faced, uncompromising, maverick male artists whose work doesn't sell and

who are usually a little hungry. She likes the hunger, and the determination

they all have not to pander to public tastes. She usually keeps three or four of

them around, feeding them and giving them a place to work. She demands little of

them other than that they clean up after themselves.

I had to step around the latest of these household pets to get to the kitchen.

He was sound asleep, snoring loudly, his hands stained yellow and red and green.

I'd never seen him before.

Darcy came up behind me while I was making a snack, hugged me, then pulled up a

chair and sat down. The sun would be out another half hour or so, but there

wasn't time to start another painting.

"How have you been? You didn't call for three days."

"Didn't I? I'm sorry. We've been staying on the bayou."

She wrinkled her nose. Darcy had seen the bayou. Once.

"That place. I wish I knew why—"

"Darcy. Let's not get into that again. Okay?"

"Done." She spread her paint-stained hands and waved them in a circle, as if

erasing something, and that was it. Darcy is good that way. "I've got a new

roommate."

"I nearly stumbled over him."

She ran one hand through her hair and gave me a lopsided grin. "He'll shape up.

His name's Thogra."

"Thogra," I said, making a face. "Listen, if he's housebroken, and stays out of

my way, we'll—" But I couldn't go on. We were both laughing and I was about to

choke on a bite that went down wrong. Darcy knows what I think of her choice in

bedmates.

"What about... what's-his-name? The armpit man. The guy who kept getting

arrested for body odor."

She stuck her tongue out at me.

"You know he cleaned up months ago."

"Hah! It's those months before he discovered water that I remember. All my

friends wondering where we were raising sheep, the flowers losing petals when he

walked by, the—"

"Abil didn't come back," Darcy said, quietly.

I stopped laughing. I'd known he'd been away a few weeks, but that happens. I

raised one eyebrow.

"Yeah. Well, you know he sold a few things. And he had some offers. But I keep

expecting him to at least stop by to pick up his bedroll."

I didn't say anything. Darcy's loves follow a pattern that she is quite aware

of, but it's still tough when one breaks up. Her men would often speak with

contempt of the sort of commercial art that kept me and Darcy eating and paying

the oxygen bills. Then one of three things would happen. They would get nowhere,

and leave as poor as they had arrived, contempt intact. A few made it on their

own terms, forcing the art world to accept their peculiar visions. Often Darcy

was able to stay on good terms with these; she was on a drop-in-and-make-love

basis with half the artists in Luna.

But the most common departure was when the artist decided he was tired of

poverty. With just a slight lowering of standards they were all quite capable of

making a living. Then it became intolerable to live with the woman they had

ridiculed. Darcy usually kicked them out quickly, with a minimum of pain. They

were no longer hungry, no longer fierce enough to suit her. But it always hurt.

Darcy changed the subject.

"I made an appointment at the medico for your Change," she said. "You're to be

there next Monday, in the morning."

A series of quick, vivid impressions raced through my mind. Trilby. Breasts

tipped with hearts. The way it had felt when my penis entered her, and the warm

exhaustion after the semen had left my body.

"I've changed my mind about that," I said, crossing my legs. "I'm not ready for

another Change. Maybe in a few months."

She just sat there with her mouth open.

"Changed your mind? Last time I talked to you, you were all set to change your

sex. In fact, you had to talk me into giving permission."

"I remember," I said, feeling uneasy about it. "I just changed my mind, that's

all."

"But Argus. This just isn't fair. I sat up two nights convincing myself how nice

it would be to have my daughter back again. It's been a long time. Don't you

think you—"

"It's really not your decision, Mother."

She looked like she was going to get angry, then her eyes narrowed. "There must

be a reason. You've met somebody. Right?"

But I didn't want to talk about that. I had told her the first time I made love,

and about every new person I'd gone to bed with since. But I didn't want to

share this with her.

So I told her about the incident earlier that day on the bayou. I told her about

the pregnant woman, and about the thing Cathay had done.

Darcy frowned more and more. When I got to the part about the mud, there were

ridges all over her forehead.

"I don't like that," she said.

"I don't really like it, either. But I didn't see what else we could do."

"I just don't think it was handled well. I think I should call Cathay and talk

to him about it."

"I wish you wouldn't." I didn't say anything more, and she studied my face for a

long, uncomfortable time. She and Cathay had differed before about how I should

be raised.

"This shouldn't be ignored."

"Please, Darcy. He'll only be my teacher for another month. Let it go, okay?"

After a while she nodded, and looked away from me.

"You're growing more every day," she said, sadly. I didn't know why she said

that, but was glad she was dropping the subject. To tell the truth, I didn't

want to think about the woman anymore. But I was going to have to think about

her, and very soon.

I had intended to spend the week at home, but Trigger called the next morning to

say that Mardi Gras '56 was being presented again, and it was starting in a few

hours. She'd made reservations for the four of us.

Trigger had seen the presentation before, but I hadn't, and neither had Denver.

I told her I'd come, went in to tell Darcy, found her still asleep. She often

slept for two days after a Lunar Day of working. I left her a note and hurried

to catch the train.

It's called the Cultural Heritage Museum, and though they pay for it with their

taxes, most Lunarians never go there. They find the exhibits disturbing. I

understand that lately, however, with the rise of the Free Earth Party, it's

become more popular with people searching for their roots.

Once they presented London Town 1903, and I got to see what Earth museums had

been like by touring the replica British Museum. The CHM isn't like that at all.

Only a very few art treasures, artifacts, and historical curiosities were

brought to Luna in the days before the Invasion. As a result, all the tangible

relics of Earth's past were destroyed.

On the other hand, the Lunar computer system had a capacity that was virtually

limitless even then; everything was recorded and stored. Every book, painting,

tax receipt, statistic, photograph, government report, corporate record, film,

and tape existed in the memory banks. Just as the disneylands are populated with

animals cloned from cells stored in the Genetic Library, the CHM is filled with

cunning copies made from the old records of the way things were.

I met the others at the Sugar Shack, where Denver was trying to talk Trigger

into taking Tuesday along with us. Tuesday is the hippopotamus that lives on the

bayou, in cheerful defiance of any sense of authenticity. Denver had her on a

chain and she stood placidly watching us, blinking her piggy little eyes.

Denver was tickled at the idea of going to Mardi Gras with a hippo named

Tuesday, but Trigger pointed out that the museum officials would never let us

into New Orleans with the beast. Denver finally conceded, and shooed her back

into the swamp. The four of us went down the road and out of the bayou, boarded

the central slidewalk, and soon arrived in the city center.

There are twenty-five theaters in the CHM. Usually about half of them are

operating while the others are being prepared for a showing. Mardi Gras '56 is a

ten-year-old show, and generally opens twice a year for a two week run. It's one

of the more popular environments.

We went to the orientation room and listened to the lecture on how to behave,

then were given our costumes. That's the part I like the least. Up until about

the beginning of the twenty-first century, clothing was designed with two main

purposes in mind: modesty, and torture. If it didn't hurt, it needed

redesigning. It's no wonder they killed each other all the time. Anybody would,

with high gravity and hard shoes mutilating their feet.

"We'll be beatniks," Trigger said, looking over the racks of period clothing.

"They were more informal, and it's accurate enough to get by. There were

beatniks in the French Quarter."

Informality was fine with us. The girls didn't need bras, and we could choose

between leather sandals or canvas sneakers for our feet. I can't say I cared

much for something called Levis, though. They were scratchy, and pinched my

balls. But after visiting Victorian England—I had been female at the time, and

what those people made girls wear would shock most Lunarians silly—anything was

an improvement.

Entry to the holotorium was through the restrooms at the back of a nightclub

that fronted on Bourbon Street. Boys to the left, girls to the right. I think

they did that to impress you right away that you were going back into the past,

when people did things in strange ways. There was a third restroom, actually,

but it was only a false door with the word "colored" on it. It was impossible to

sort that out anymore.

I like the music of 1956 New Orleans. There are many varieties, all sounding

similar for modern ears with their simple rhythms and blends of wind, string,

and percussion. The generic term is jazz, and the particular kind of jazz that

afternoon in the tiny, smoke-filled basement was called dixieland. It's

dominated by two instruments called a clarinet and a trumpet, each improvising a

simple melody while the rest of the band makes as much racket as it can.

We had a brief difference of opinion. Cathay and Trigger wanted me and Denver to

stay with them, presumably so they could use any opportunity to show off their

superior knowledge— translation: "educate" us. After all, they were teachers.

Denver didn't seem to mind, but I wanted to be alone.

I solved the problem by walking out onto the street, reasoning that they could

follow me if they wished. They didn't, and I was free to explore on my own.

Going to a holotorium show isn't like the sensies, where you sit in a chair and

the action comes to you. And it's not like a disneyland, where everything is

real and you just poke around. You have to be careful not to ruin the illusion.

The majority of the set, most of the props, and all of the actors are holograms.

Any real people you meet are costumed visitors, like yourself. What they did in

the case of New Orleans was to lay out a grid of streets and surface them as

they had actually been. Then they put up two-meter walls where the buildings

would be, and concealed them behind holos of old buildings. A few of the doors

in these buildings were real, and if you went in you would find the interiors

authentic down to the last detail. Most just concealed empty blocks.

You don't go there to play childish tricks with holos, that's contrary to the

whole spirit of the place. You find yourself being careful not to shatter the

illusion. You don't talk to people unless you're sure they're real, and you

don't touch things until you've studied them carefully. No holo can stand up to

a close scrutiny, so you can separate the real from the illusion if you try.

The stage was a large one. They had reproduced the French Quarter—or Vieux

Carre—from the Mississippi River to Rampart Street, and from Canal Street to a

point about six blocks east. Standing on Canal and looking across, the city

seemed to teem with life for many kilometers in the distance, though I knew

there was a wall right down the yellow line in the middle.

New Orleans '56 begins at noon on Shrove Tuesday and carries on far into the

night. We had arrived in late afternoon, with the sun starting to cast long

shadows over the endless parades. I wanted to see the place before it got dark.

I went down Canal for a few blocks, looking into the "windows." There was an old

flat movie theater with a marquee announcing From Here to Eternity, winner of

something called an Oscar. I saw that it was a real place and thought about

going in, but I'm afraid those old 2-D movies leave me flat, no matter how good

Trigger says they are.

So instead I walked the streets, observing, thinking about writing a story set

in old New Orleans.

That's why I hadn't wanted to stay and listen to the music with the others.

Music is not something you can really put into a story, beyond a bare

description of what it sounds like, who is playing it, and where it is being

heard. In the same way, going to the flat movie would not have been very

productive.

But the streets, the streets! There was something to study.

The pattern was the same as old London, but all the details had changed. The

roads were filled with horseless carriages, great square metal boxes that must

have been the most inefficient means of transport ever devised. Nothing was

truly straight, nor very clean. To walk the streets was to risk broken toes or

cuts on the soles of the feet. No wonder they wore thick shoes.

I knew what the red and green lights were for, and the lines painted on the

road. But what about the rows of timing devices on each side of the street? What

was the red metal object that a dog was urinating on? What did the honking of

the car horns signify? Why were wires suspended overhead on wooden poles? I

ignored the Mardi Gras festivities and spent a pleasant hour looking for the

answers to these and many other questions.

What a challenge to write of this time, to make the story a slice of life, where

these outlandish things seemed normal and reasonable. I visualized one of the

inhabitants of New Orleans transplanted to Archimedes, and tried to picture her

confusion.

Then I saw Trilby, and forgot about New Orleans.

She was behind the wheel of a 1955 Ford station wagon. I know this because when

she motioned for me to join her, slid over on the seat, and let me drive, there

was a gold plaque on the bulkhead just below the forward viewport.

"How do you run this thing?" I asked, flustered and trying not to show it.

Something was wrong. Maybe I'd known it all along, and was only now admitting

it.

"You press that pedal to go, and that one to stop. But mostly it controls

itself." The car proved her right by accelerating into the stream of holographic

traffic. I put my hands on the wheel, found that I could guide the car within

limits. As long as I wasn't going to hit anything it let me be the boss.

"What brings you here?" I asked, trying for a light voice.

"I went by your home," she said. "Your mother told me where you were."

"I don't recall telling you where I live."

She shrugged, not seeming too happy. "It's not hard to find out."

"I... I mean, you didn't..." I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it, but decided

I'd better go on. "We didn't meet by accident, did we?"

"No."

"And you're my new teacher."

She sighed. "That's an oversimplification. I want to be one of your new

teachers. Cathay recommended me to your mother, and when I talked to her, she

was interested. I was just going to get a look at you on the train, but when I

saw you looking at me... well, I thought I'd give you something to remember me

by."

"Thanks."

She looked away. "Darcy told me today that it might have been a mistake. I guess

I judged you wrong."

"It's nice to hear that you can make a mistake."

"I guess I don't understand."

"I don't like to feel predictable. I don't like to be toyed with. Maybe it hurts

my dignity. Maybe I get enough of that from Trigger and Cathay. All the

lessons."

"I see it now," she sighed. "It's a common enough reaction, in bright children,

they—"

"Don't say that."

"I'm sorry, but I must. There's no use hiding from you that my business is to

know people, and especially children. That means the phases they go through,

including the phase when they like to imagine they don't go through phases. I

didn't recognize it in you, so I made a mistake."

I sighed. "What does it matter, anyway? Darcy likes you. That means you'll be my

new teacher, doesn't it?"

"It does not. Not with me, anyway. I'm one of the first big choices you get to

make with no adult interference."

"I don't get it."

"That's because you've never been interested enough to find out what's ahead of

you in your education. At the risk of offending you again, I'll say it's a

common response in people your age. You're only a month from graduating away

from Cathay, ready to start more goal-oriented aspects of learning, and you

haven't bothered to find what that will entail. Did you ever stop to think

what's between you and becoming a writer?"

"I'm a writer, already," I said, getting angry for the first time. Before that,

I'd been feeling hurt more than anything. "I can use the language, and I watch

people. Maybe I don't have much experience yet, but I'll get it with or without

you. I don't even have to have teachers at all anymore. At least I know that

much."

"You're right, of course. But you've known your mother intended to pay for your

advanced education. Didn't you ever wonder what it would be like?"

"Why should I? Did you ever think that I'm not interested because it just

doesn't seem important? I mean, who's asked me what I felt about any of this up

to now? What kind of stake do I have in it? Everyone seems to know what's best

for me. Why should I be consulted?"

"Because you're nearly an adult now. My job, if you hire me, will be to ease the

transition. When you've made it, you'll know, and you won't need me anymore.

This isn't primary phase. Your teacher's job back then was to work with your

mother to teach you the basic ways of getting along with people and society, and

to cram your little head with all the skills a seven-year-old can learn. They

taught you language, dexterity, reasoning, responsibility, hygiene, and not to

go in an airlock without your suit. They took an ego-centered infant and turned

him into a moral being. It's a tough job; so little, and you could have been a

sociopath.

"Then they handed you to Cathay. You didn't mind. He showed up one day, just

another playmate your own age. You were happy and trusting. He guided you very

gently, letting your natural curiosity do most of the work. He discovered your

creative abilities before you had any inkling of them, and he saw to it that you

had interesting things to think about, to react to, to experience.

"But lately you've been a problem for him. Not your fault, nor his, but you no

longer want anyone to guide you. You want to do it on your own. You have vague

feelings of being manipulated."

"Which is not surprising," I put in. "I am being manipulated."

"That's true, so far as it goes. But what would you have Cathay do? Leave

everything to chance?"

"That's beside the point. We're talking about my feelings now, and what I feel

is you were dishonest with me. You made me feel like a fool. I thought what

happened was... was spontaneous, you know? Like a fairy tale."

She gave me a funny smile. "What an odd way to put it. What I intended to do was

allow you to live out a wet dream."

I guess the easy way she admitted that threw me off my stride. I should have

told her there was no real difference. Both fairy tales and wet dreams were

visions of impossibly convenient worlds, worlds where things go the way you want

them to go. But I didn't say anything.

"I realize now that it was the wrong way to approach you. Frankly, I thought

you'd enjoy it. Wait, let me change that. I thought you'd enjoy it even after

you knew. I submit that you did enjoy it while it was happening."

I once again said nothing, because it was the simple truth. But it wasn't the

point.

She waited, watching me as I steered the old car through traffic. Then she

sighed, and looked out the viewport again.

"Well, it's up to you. As I said, things won't be planned for you anymore.

You'll have to decide if you want me to be your teacher."

"Just what is it you teach?" I asked.

"Sex is part of it."

I started to say something, but was stopped by the novel idea that someone

thought she could—or needed to—teach me about sex. I mean, what was there to

learn?

I hardly noticed it when the car stopped on its own, was shaken out of my

musings only when a man in blue stuck his head in the window beside me. There

was a woman behind him, dressed the same way. I realized they were wearing 1956

police uniforms.

"Are you Argus-Darcy-Meric?" the man asked.

"Yeah. Who are you?"

"My name is Jordan. I'm sorry, but you'll have to come with me. A complaint has

been filed against you. You are under arrest."

Arrest. To take into custody by legal authority. Or, to stop suddenly.

Being arrested contains both meanings, it seems to me. You're in custody, and

your life comes to a temporary halt. Whatever you were doing is interrupted, and

suddenly only one thing is important.

I wasn't too worried until I realized what that one thing must be. After all,

everyone gets arrested. You can't avoid it in a society of laws. Filing a

complaint against someone is the best way of keeping a situation from turning

violent. I had been arrested three times before, been found guilty twice. Once I

had filed a complaint myself, and had it sustained.

But this time promised to be different. I doubted I was being hauled in for some

petty violation I had not even been aware of. No, this had to be the pregnant

woman, and the mud. I had a while to think about that as I sat in the

bare-walled holding cell, time to get really worried. We had physically attacked

her, there was no doubt about that.

I was finally summoned to the examination chamber. It was larger than the ones I

had been in before. Those occasions had involved just two people. This room had

five wedge-shaped glass booths, each with a chair inside, arranged so that we

faced each other in a circle. I was shown into the only empty one and I looked

around at Denver, Cathay, Trigger... and the woman.

It's quiet in the booths. You are very much alone.

I saw Denver's mother come in and sit behind her daughter, outside the booth.

Turning around, I saw Darcy. To my surprise, Trilby was with her.

"Hello, Argus." The Central Computer's voice filled the tiny booth, mellow as

usual but without the reassuring resonance.

"Hello, CC," I tried to keep it light, but of course the CC was not fooled.

"I'm sorry to see you in so much trouble."

"Is it real bad?"

"The charge certainly is, there's no sense denying that. I can't comment on the

testimony, or on your chances. But you know you're facing a possible mandatory

death penalty, with automatic reprieve."

I was aware of it. I also knew it was rarely enforced against someone my age.

But what about Cathay and Trigger?

I've never cared for that term "reprieve." It somehow sounds like they aren't

going to kill you, but they are. Very, very dead. The catch is that they then

grow a clone from a cell of your body, force it quickly to maturity, and play

your recorded memories back into it. So someone very like you will go on, but

you will be dead. In my case, the last recording had been taken three years ago.

I was facing the loss of almost a quarter of my life. If it was found necessary

to kill me, the new Argus—not me, but someone with my memories and my name—would

start over at age ten. He would be watched closely, be given special guidance to

insure he didn't grow into the sociopath I had become.

The CC launched into the legally required explanation of what was going on: my

rights, the procedures, the charges, the possible penalties, what would happen

if a determination led the CC to believe the offense might be a capital one.

"Whew!" the CC breathed, lapsing back into the informal speech it knew I

preferred. "Now that we have that out of the way, I can tell you that, from the

preliminary reports, I think you're going to be okay."

"You're not just saying that?" I was sincerely frightened. The enormity of it

had now had time to sink in.

"You know me better than that."

The testimony began. The complainant went first, and I learned her name was

Tiona. The first round was free-form; we could say anything we wanted to, and

she had some pretty nasty things to say about all four of us.

The CC went around the circle asking each of us what had happened. I thought

Cathay told it most accurately, except for myself. During the course of the

statements both Cathay and Trigger filed counter-complaints. The CC noted them.

They would be tried simultaneously.

There was a short pause, then the CC spoke in its "official" voice.

"In the matters of Argus and Denver: testimony fails to establish premeditation,

but neither deny the physical description of the incident, and a finding of

Assault is returned. Mitigating factors of age and consequent inability to

combat the mob aspect of the situation are entered, with the following result:

the charge is reduced to Willful Deprivation of Dignity.

"In the case of Tiona versus Argus: guilty.

"In the case of Tiona versus Denver: guilty.

"Do either of you have anything to say before sentence is entered?"

I thought about it. "I'm sorry," I said. "It upset me quite a bit, what

happened. I won't do it again."

"I'm not sorry," Denver said. "She asked for it. I'm sorry for her, but I'm not

sorry for what I did."

"Comments are noted," the CC said. "You are each fined the sum of three hundred

Marks, collection deferred until you reach employable age, sum to be taken at

the rate of ten percent of your earnings until paid, half going to Tiona, half

to the State. Final entry of sentence shall be delayed until a further

determination of matters still before the court is made."

"You got off easy," the CC said, speaking only to me. "But stick around. Things

could still change, and you might not have to pay the fine after all."

It was a bit of a wrench, getting a sentence, then sympathy from the same

machine. I had to guard against feeling that the CC was on my side. It wasn't,

not really. It's absolutely impartial, so far as I can tell. Yet it is so vast

an intelligence that it makes a different personality for each citizen it deals

with. The part that had just talked to me was really on my side, but was

powerless to affect what the judgmental part of it did.

"I don't get it," I said. "What happens now?"

"Well, I've been rashomoned again. That means you all told your stories from

your own viewpoints. We haven't reached deeply enough into the truth. Now I'm

going to have to wire you all, and take another round."

As it spoke, I saw the probes come up behind everyone's chairs: little golden

snakes with plugs on the end. I felt one behind me search through my hair until

it found the terminal. It plugged in.

There are two levels to wired testimony. Darcy and Trilby and Denver's mother

had to leave the room for the first part, when we all told our stories without

our censors working. The transcript bears me out when I say I didn't tell any

lies in the first round, unlike Tiona, who told a lot of them. But it doesn't

sound like the same story, nevertheless. I told all sorts of things I never

would have said without being wired: fears, selfish, formless desires, infantile

motivations. It's embarrassing, and I'm glad I don't recall any of it. I'm even

happier that only Tiona and I, as interested parties, can see my testimony. I

only wish I was the only one.

The second phase is the disconnection of the subconscious. I told the story a

third time, in terms as bloodless as the stage directions of a holovision

script.

Then the terminals withdrew from us and I suffered a moment of disorientation. I

knew where I was, where I had been, and yet I felt like I had been told about it

rather than lived it. But that passed quickly. I stretched.

"Is everyone ready to go on?" the CC asked, politely. We all said that we were.

"Very well. In the matters of Tiona versus Argus and Denver: the guilty

judgments remain in force in both cases, but both fines are rescinded in view of

provocation, lessened liability due to immaturity, and lack of signs of

continuing sociopathic behavior. In place of the fines, Denver and Argus are to

report weekly for evaluation and education in moral principles until such time

as a determination can be made, duration of such sessions to be no less than

four weeks.

"In the matter of Tiona versus Trigger: Trigger is guilty of an Assault.

Tempering this judgment is her motive, which was the recognition of Cathay's

strategy in dealing with Tiona, and her belief that he was doing the right

thing. This court notes that he was doing the merciful thing; right is another

matter. There can be no doubt that a physical assault occurred. It cannot be

condoned, no matter what the motive. For bad judgment, then, this court fines

Trigger ten percent of her earnings for a period of ten years, all of it to be

paid to the injured party, Tiona."

Tiona did not look smug. She must have known by then that things were not going

her way. I was beginning to understand it, too.

"In the matter of Tiona versus Cathay," the CC went on, "Cathay is guilty of an

Assault. His motive has been determined to be the avoidance of just such a

situation as he now finds himself in, and the knowledge that Tiona would suffer

greatly if he brought her to court. He attempted to bring the confrontation to

an end with a minimum of pain for Tiona, never dreaming that she would show the

bad judgment to bring the matter to court. She did, and now he finds himself

convicted of assault. In view of his motives, mercy will temper this court's

decision. He is ordered to pay the same fine as his colleague, Trigger.

"Now to the central matter, that of Trigger and Cathay versus Tiona." I saw her

sink a little lower in her chair.

"You are found to be guilty by reason of insanity of the following charges:

harassment, trespassing, verbal assault, and four counts of infringement.

"Your offense was in attempting to make others shoulder the blame for your own

misjudgments and misfortunes. The court is sympathetic to your plight, realizes

that the fault for your situation was not entirely your own. This does not

excuse your behavior, however.

"Cathay attempted to do you a favor, supposing that your aberrant state of mind

would not last long enough for the filing of charges, that when you were alone

and thought it over you would realize how badly you had wronged him and that a

court would find in his favor.

"The State holds you responsible for the maintenance of your own mind, does not

care what opinions you hold or what evaluations you make of reality so long as

they do not infringe on the rights of other citizens. You are free to think

Cathay responsible for your troubles, even if this opinion is irrational, but

when you assault him with this opinion the State must take notice and make a

judgment as to the worth of the opinion.

"This court is appointed to make that judgment of right and wrong, and finds no

basis in fact for your contentions.

"This court finds you to be insane.

"Judgment is as follows:

"Subject to the approval of the wronged parties, you are given the choice of

death with reprieve, or submission to a course of treatment to remove your

sociopathic attitudes.

"Argus, do you demand her death?"

"Huh?" That was a big surprise to me, and not one that I liked. But the decision

gave me no trouble.

"No, I don't demand anything. I thought I was out of this, and I feel just

rotten about the whole thing. Would you really have killed her if I asked you

to?"

"I can't answer that, because you didn't. It's not likely that I would have,

mostly because of your age." It went on to ask the other four, and I suspect

that Tiona would have been pushing up daisies if Cathay had wanted it that way,

but he didn't. Neither did Trigger or Denver.

"Very well. How do you choose, Tiona?"

She answered in a very small voice that she would be grateful for the chance to

go on living. Then she thanked each of us. It was excruciatingly painful for me;

my empathy was working overtime, and I was trying to imagine what it would feel

like to have society's appointed representative declare me insane.

The rest of it was clearing up details. Tiona was fined heavily, both in court

costs and taxes, and in funds payable to Cathay and Trigger. Their fines were

absorbed in her larger ones, with the result that she would be paying them for

many years. Her child was in cold storage; the CC ruled that he should stay

there until Tiona was declared sane, as she was now unfit to mother him. It

occurred to me that if she had considered suspending his animation while she

found a new primary teacher, we all could have avoided the trial.

Tiona hurried away when the doors came open behind us. Darcy hugged me while

Trilby stayed in the background, then I went over to join the others, expecting

a celebration.

But Trigger and Cathay were not elated. In fact, you would have thought they'd

just lost the judgment. They congratulated me and Denver, then hurried away. I

looked at Darcy, and she wasn't smiling, either.

"I don't get it," I confessed. "Why is everyone so glum?"

"They still have to face the Teacher's Association," Darcy said.

"I still don't get it. They won."

"It's not just a matter of winning or losing with the TA," Trilby said. "You

forget, they were judged guilty of assault. To make it even worse, in fact as

bad as it can be, you and Denver were there when it happened. They were the

cause of you two joining in the assault. I'm afraid the TA will frown on that."

"But if the CC thought they shouldn't be punished, why should the TA think

otherwise? Isn't the CC smarter than people?"

Trilby grimaced. "I wish I could answer that. I wish I was even sure how I feel

about it."

She found me the next day, shortly after the Teacher's Association announced its

decision. I didn't really want to be found, but the bayou is not so big that one

can really hide there, so I hadn't tried. I was sitting on the grass on the

highest hill in Beatnik Bayou, which was also the driest place.

She beached the canoe and came up the hill slowly, giving me plenty of time to

warn her off if I really wanted to be alone. What the hell. I'd have to talk to

her soon enough.

For a long time she just sat there. She rested her elbows on her knees and

stared down at the quiet waters, just like I'd been doing all afternoon.

"How's he taking it?" I said, at last.

"I don't know. He's back there, if you want to talk to him. He'd probably like

to talk to you."

"At least Trigger got off okay." As soon as I'd said it, it sounded hollow.

"Three years' probation isn't anything to laugh about. She'll have to close this

place down for a while. Put it in mothballs."

"Mothballs." I saw Tuesday the hippo, wallowing in the deep mud across the

water. Tuesday in suspended animation? I thought of Tiona's little baby, waiting

in a bottle until his mother became sane again. I remembered the happy years

slogging around in the bayou mud, and saw the waters frozen, icicles mixed with

Spanish moss in the tree limbs. "I guess it'll cost quite a bit to start it up

again in three years, won't it?" I had only hazy ideas of money. So far, it had

never been important to me.

Trilby glanced at me, eyes narrowed. She shrugged.

"Most likely, Trigger will have to sell the place. There's a buyer who wants to

expand it and turn it into a golf course."

"Golf course," I echoed, feeling numb. Manicured greens, pretty water hazards,

sand traps, flags whipping in the breeze. Sterile. I suddenly felt like crying,

but for some reason I didn't do it.

"You can't come back here, Argus. Nothing stays the same. Change is something

you have to get used to."

"Cathay will, too." And just how much change should a person be expected to

take? With a shock, I realized that now Cathay would be doing what I had wanted

him to do. He'd be growing up with me, getting older instead of being regressed

to grow up with another child. And it was suddenly just too much. It hadn't been

my fault that this was happening to him, but having wished for it and having it

come true made it feel like it was. The tears came, and they didn't stop for a

long time.

Trilby left me alone, and I was grateful for that.

She was still there when I got myself under control. I didn't care one way or

the other. I felt empty, with a burning in the back of my throat. Nobody had

told me life was going to be like this.

"What... what about the child Cathay contracted to teach?" I asked, finally,

feeling I should say something. "What happens to her?"

"The TA takes responsibility," Trilby said. "They'll find someone. For Trigger's

child, too."

I looked at her. She was stretched out, both elbows behind her to prop her up.

Her valentine nipples crinkled as I watched.

She glanced at me, smiled with one corner of her mouth. I felt a little better.

She was awfully pretty.

"I guess he can... well, can't he still teach older kids?"

"I suppose he can," Trilby said, with a shrug. "I don't know if he'll want to. I

know Cathay. He's not going to take this well."

"Is there anything I could do?"

"Not really. Talk to him. Show sympathy, but not too much. You'll have to figure

it out. See if he wants to be with you."

It was too confusing. How was I supposed to know what he needed? He hadn't come

to see me. But Trilby had.

So there was one uncomplicated thing in my life right then, one thing I could do

where I wouldn't have to think. I rolled over and got on top of Trilby and

started to kiss her. She responded with a lazy eroticism I found irresistible.

She did know some tricks I'd never heard of.

"How was that?" I said, much later.

That smile again. I got the feeling that I constantly amused her, and somehow I

didn't mind it. Maybe it was the fact that she made no bones about her being the

adult and me being the child. That was the way it would be with us. I would have

to grow up to her; she would not go back and imitate me.

"Are you looking for a grade?" she asked. "Like the twentieth century?" She got

to her feet and stretched.

"All right. I'll be honest. You get an A for effort, but any thirteen-year-old

would. You can't help it. In technique, maybe a low C. Not that I expected any

more, for the same reason."

"So you want to teach me to do better? That's your job?"

"Only if you hire me. And sex is such a small part of it. Listen, Argus. I'm not

going to be your mother. Darcy does that okay. I won't be your playmate, either,

like Cathay was. I won't be teaching you moral lessons. You're getting tired of

that, anyway."

It was true. Cathay had never really been my contemporary, though he tried his

best to look it and act it. But the illusion had started to wear thin, and I

guess it had to. I was no longer able to ignore the contradictions, I was too

sophisticated and cynical for him to hide his lessons in everyday activities.

It bothered me in the same way the CC did. The CC could befriend me one minute

and sentence me to death the next. I wanted more than that, and Trilby seemed to

be offering it.

"I won't be teaching you science or skills, either," she was saying. "You'll

have tutors for that, when you decide just what you want to do."

"Just what is it you do, then?"

"You know, I've never been able to find a good way of describing that. I won't

be around all the time, like Cathay was. You'll come to me when you want to,

maybe when you have a problem. I'll be sympathetic and do what I can, but mostly

I'll just point out that you have to make all the hard choices. If you've been

stupid I'll tell you so, but I won't be surprised or disappointed if you go on

being stupid in the same way. You can use me as a role model if you want to, but

I don't insist on it. But I promise I'll always tell you things straight, as I

see them. I won't try to slip things in painlessly. It's time for pain. Think of

Cathay as a professional child. I'm not putting him down. He turned you into a

civilized being, and when he got you you were hardly that. It's because of him

that you're capable of caring about his situation now, that you have loyalties

to feel divided about. And he's good enough at it to know how you'll choose."

"Choose? What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you that." She spread her hands, and grinned. "See how helpful I

can be?"

She was confusing me again. Why can't things be simpler?

"Then if Cathay's a professional child, you're a professional adult?"

"You could think of it like that. It's not really analogous."

"I guess I still don't know what Darcy would be paying you for."

"We'll make love a lot. How's that? Simple enough for you?" She brushed dirt

from her back and frowned at the ground. "But not on dirt anymore. I don't care

for dirt."

I looked around, too. The place was messy. Not pretty at all. I wondered how I

could have liked it so much. Suddenly I wanted to get out, to go to a clean, dry

place.

"Come on," I said, getting up. "I want to try some of those things again."

"Does this mean I have a job?"

"Yeah. I guess it does."

Cathay was sitting on the porch of the Sugar Shack, a line of brown beer bottles

perched along the edge. He smiled at us as we approached him. He was stinking

drunk.

It's strange. We'd been drunk many times together, the four of us. It's great

fun. But when only one person is drunk, it's a little disgusting. Not that I

blamed him. But when you're drinking together all the jokes make sense. When you

drink alone, you just make a sloppy nuisance of yourself.

Trilby and I sat on either side of him. He wanted to sing. He pressed bottles on

both of us, and I sipped mine and tried to get into the spirit of it. But pretty

soon he was crying, and I felt awful. And I admit that it wasn't entirely in

sympathy. I felt helpless because there was so little I could do, and a bit

resentful of some of the promises he had me make. I would have come to see him

anyway. He didn't have to blubber on my shoulder and beg me not to abandon him.

So he cried on me, and on Trilby, then just sat between us looking glum. I tried

to console him.

"Cathay, it's not the end of the world. Trilby says you'll still be able to

teach older kids. My age and up. The TA just said you couldn't handle younger

ones."

He mumbled something.

"It shouldn't be that different," I said, not knowing when to shut up.

"Maybe you're right," he said.

"Sure I am." I was unconsciously falling into that false heartiness people use

to cheer up drunks. He heard it immediately.

"What the hell do you know about it? You think you... damn it, what do you know?

You know what kind of person it takes to do my job? A little bit of a misfit,

that's what. Somebody who doesn't want to grow up any more than you do. We're

both cowards, Argus. You don't know it, but I do. I do. So what the hell am I

going to do? Huh? Why don't you go away? You got what you wanted, didn't you?"

"Take it easy, Cathay," Trilby soothed, hugging him close to her. "Take it

easy."

He was immediately contrite, and began to cry quietly. He said how sorry he was,

over and over, and he was sincere. He said, he hadn't meant it, it just came

out, it was cruel.

And so forth.

I was cold all over.

We put him to bed in the shack, then started down the road.

"We'll have to watch him the next few days," Trilby said. "He'll get over this,

but it'll be rough."

"Right," I said.

I took a look at the shack before we went around the false bend in the road. For

one moment I saw Beatnik Bayou as a perfect illusion, a window through time.

Then we went around the tree and it all fell apart. It had never mattered

before.

But it was such a sloppy place. I'd never realized how ugly the Sugar Shack was.

I never saw it again. Cathay came to live with us for a few months, tried his

hand at art. Darcy told me privately that he was hopeless. He moved out, and I

saw him frequently after that, always saying hello.

But he was depressing to be around, and he knew it. Besides, he admitted that I

represented things he was trying to forget. So we never really talked much.

Sometimes I play golf in the old bayou. It's only two holes, but there's talk of

expanding it.

They did a good job on the renovation.