Chapter 7 — HELMET LOVE

The next two years were filled with activity of every sort. Again I don't want to slight the very serious business of government, but the truth is that Spirit handled most of the scutwork, so I merely had to make my appearances and statements as directed, make basic decisions of policy, and sign documents where indicated. As I have made clear, Spirit really ran the Tyrancy. Had others realized this, she would have had less freedom, and I more. I realize that seems backward. I had more time to myself than she did, but I was also the subject of increasingly determined attempts at assassination, so I had to restrict my life for the sake of safety. Spirit was always busy, and I would not even see her for weeks at a time, but because she was not known as the Mistress of Empire, she was not such a target. She could go fairly freely around the globe, negotiating in my name, and others believed that if anything happened to her, it would only evoke the fury of the Tyrant (true) and bring a similar replacement for her office (false).

I gave Ebony her turn with me. I find myself being slightly defensive here but can only repeat that my way with women is the way that seems correct to me. Ebony was part of my staff-family, and she deserved her share. That does not mean that I loved her or necessarily found her physically attractive. But I had known her many years and respected her as a person. She had never made any pretense at being beautiful or brilliant; she was good at running errands and absolutely conscientious in that. When any of us gave her a thing to do, we had no further concern; it would be done properly and on schedule. She had been especially useful to Shelia, who could not get around freely in her wheelchair. Of course, I paid all my staff members a decent wage—well, Spirit did; I don't even know what the figure was but knew it was fair. They served me with a devotion that deserved a greater recompense, and now was the time of payment.

Thus it was that I found myself in bed with Ebony, though I confess I would have preferred Coral. I admit that this period following the Navy and my marriage left me somewhat out of sorts sexually. Some prefer to believe that folk in their fifties have little remaining interest in sexual expression. This is not the case in my experience. My interest remained as strong as ever, though my performance had slowed somewhat. Thus an act that might have been completed in two minutes when I was twenty was more comfortable in half an hour at fifty, not because my body had slowed to that degree but because my urgency had. The young tend not to understand about timing and savoring.

Ebony introduced me to an oral technique she called "Around the Planet." She began at my navel and proceeded in a kind of tightening spiral, her tongue covering every part of me. I had not imagined how stimulating this could be when properly performed. She moved me around as suited her, closing in on my center of gravity, and the effect became so strong that I felt compelled to warn her: "Pilot, that ship is about to take off without you!"

"Ships don't make single flights," she said, and proceeded unabated.

Maybe not, but this one fired its drive very soon thereafter, unattended. She proceeded as if it hadn't happened, and in an amazingly brief interval, the drive was ready to fire again. She continued to use her tongue and her mouth, and presently the urgency overcame me a second time, this time attended by her lips.

I thought it was over, but I was mistaken. Still she continued, the detumescence that should have occurred was halted, and the ship was fueled for a third takeoff. When she deemed the occasion appropriate, she mounted me in the normal manner and moved in such a way that I did indeed come to a final culmination. She had not had pleasure in her own body before, but now she joined me in a pulsing climax.

"Did Q match that?" she inquired as we subsided.

"Once," I said. Indeed, I was not sure I had ever before had a triple conclusion. I had not known that men were capable of multiple performances, especially at this age, but it seems that they are, when suitably managed.

She relaxed, satisfied. She had evidently proved her point.

Thereafter I felt no disappointment when it was Ebony's turn; she had her own expertise. And for a year or so I had, if it is fair to phrase it that way, three mistresses, who scheduled me somewhat in the manner that the multiple wives of ancient sultans had, seeing that I had no sexual frustrations. Perhaps one would look askance that I include Shelia in this number, but though she could not move her legs, she was worthy in other respects, and I always felt comfortable with her. I should clarify that our time together at night was not always physically sexual; the companionship of these three women was just as important to me.

Yet, gradually, a dissatisfaction came upon me. That may seem ungracious in the extreme, and certainly I did not voice it to the three, but in retrospect I must say it was so. I think it was the fact that these were working personnel. They had been chosen for reasons other than sexual, and while I deeply respected them all, I did not love them. They were too close; I knew them too well. They were not my mistresses; they were the members of my personal staff, who served me to the best of their ability in all things. Their sexual accommodation had to be a secondary thing, temporary, until I found a woman who was not a respected associate. I did not view it that way at the time; I view it that way now, in my effort to understand the subsequent events. I believe that I desired some new romance, with some less knowledgeable woman, so that I could take the initiative and feel more like a man than a pampered creature.

 

I called my first formal cabinet meeting, on Spirit's advice. It was in the hallowed Oval Office, and the media were excluded, with one exception.

"As Tyrant, I have no need of conventional organization," I informed the group. "This may be the only cabinet meeting held. But I felt I should introduce you formally to each other, so that there is no confusion about the offices you hold or the rationale for them. All of you will report directly to me, or, in my absence or unavailability, to my sister Spirit, or to Shelia, who will see that I am kept current." I put my hand on Shelia's shoulder, for her wheelchair was beside me. "She has my complete confidence, and she will respect yours; if she tells you something, you may rely on it. If it sometimes seems that she is running the planet, that is probably the case." I smiled, and the others smiled with me, but we all knew there was a fair amount of truth in the statement. If Shelia made a commitment in my name, and it turned out to be in error, I would do my best to honor it, anyway, to avoid mutual embarrassment.

I turned to the man on my right. "Senator Stonebridge is in charge of economics," I said. "He will take what measures are necessary to balance the planetary budget and thereafter to reduce or eliminate the planetary debt. This has not been accomplished in centuries, but it is my mandate and I mean to honor it. The United States of North Jupiter at this point is on the verge of becoming a net debtor nation; we shall restore it to creditor status."

I turned next to Gerald Phist, seated next right. "Admiral Phist is in charge of industry. This includes farming, food procurement, and the preservation of the environment, which has, at times in the past, been degraded by the excesses of industry. He will restore Jupiter to a position of leadership in technology and production and efficiency, and will eliminate such waste and fraud as has existed in the past." I spoke as though this would be easy to do, but we all knew that Phist's job would be as difficult as Stonebridge's.

Roulette, Phist's wife, was next. "Rue Phist is not a citizen of Jupiter," I said. "As Tyrant, I have abolished that requirement for service. She is in charge of crime, and she will eliminate it as a factor in Jupiter's economy. This includes all types, violent and monetary and sexual." Roulette nodded and smiled and leaned forward, and Stonebridge's eyes nearly popped as her deep cleavage flexed. I knew he would be meeting with her individually, as economics and crime interacted; he would discover that she had a competent head above that competent bosom. I had selected mostly from my own closest circle, because I understood these people best, but I had not ignored competence.

Spirit was next. "My younger sister, Spirit Hubris," I said, "is in charge of interplanetary relations and implementation of policy. She is my second in command and will govern in my absence. This has been so throughout our relationship." And I suffered a flash memory of Spirit as a child, with her finger whip, using it in my defense. She no longer had the whip, but nothing had changed between us. At forty-seven she remained a fine figure of a woman too.

Ebony was next, looking somewhat out of sorts in this company. "Ebony did not ask for the post of population," I said. "I thrust it on her. She will find means to bring our burgeoning population under control, so that it will not devastate us. She will consult with the others to see that such measures as she implements will not interfere with their projects."

"Tyrant, if I may..." Stonebridge said cautiously. I nodded and he continued: "A significant portion of our population problem originates beyond the territorial boundaries of North Jupiter. I doubt that the domestic problem can be solved without reference to the external problem. Immigration—"

"Illegal aliens cost us twenty-five billion dollars a year," Ebony said. "But if we try to wall them out—"

"Jupiter industry would suffer," Phist said.

"So we must solve the international and interplanetary problem first," Roulette said. "Illegal aliens are my concern too. We shall have to have an early meeting, Senator—those of us whose concerns overlap, as in this case." She flexed her cleavage at him again.

"By all means," Stonebridge agreed immediately, as any man would.

I was privately pleased. Ebony was no intellectual giant and made no such pretension, but she did do her homework. She had, by this interchange, achieved a measure of acceptance in this group, in Stonebridge's eyes and in her own. They would get the job done.

Next was Faith. "My older sister, Faith Hubris," I said. "She is in charge of poverty. She will abolish it—again, consulting with others of you to be sure that her programs do not conflict with your own." I glanced around the group. "I expect there to be constant interaction among you. When you come to me with a program, be sure you have already cleared it with whoever overlaps. If you cannot agree on policy, then I will arbitrate. Shelia will coordinate any required meetings."

I came to Hopie. "My daughter is in charge of education. She will arrange for it to become competent and relevant. Whether this includes job training or retraining you will work out among those who overlap. I suspect that means most of you."

Then Mondy: "Admiral Mondy is in charge of intelligence. He will probably not be interacting often with the rest of you, but Shelia will show him all of your reports, and he will inform you of what he deems relevant to your interests."

I completed the circle with Thorley. "As you know, I agreed never to infringe on freedom of the press," I said. "Though Thorley's political philosophy differs from mine, and he opposes the Tyrancy on principle, he is enough of a realist to accept the situation, and I do not keep secrets from him." I paused, remembering how the man had stepped into a laser beam intended for Megan and won my lasting gratitude—and hers. I might differ from Thorley on every other matter, but I respected his courage, integrity, intelligence, and dedication to principle, as he respected mine. I was about to surprise him.

"Sir, I know you want no part of this administration," I told him directly. "You came here in your capacity as a commentator, and you are free to publish what you will. This is to be an open administration in every matter other than immediate planetary security or private scandal, and of these you will also be advised. I believe you now know the actual nature of the Jupiter invasion of Ganymede." He nodded, with that wry quirk of a smile. "I am now asking you to participate in this administration, in a capacity I doubt you can refuse."

"I do refuse!" Thorley said, startled. "I do not care to lend any portion of my reputation to the Tyrancy."

"The position of censor," I said.

Thorley actually spluttered, and there was a ripple of laughter around the circle. "The only censorship I would approve is no censorship!" he exclaimed. "I would consider any such institution a clear and present breach of—"

He paused, for I was nodding affirmatively. He smiled ruefully. "You wish me to enforce the absence of censorship."

"I can think of no one better qualified for that post," I agreed. "It is necessary that the person in charge have the discretion to distinguish between legitimate privacy of individual interests and the right of the public to be informed about the nature of its government. The integrity to abuse neither."

"And if I should decline, I would be by implication condoning what I abhor."

"You know that even the best intentions can be corrupted by time and circumstance," I said. "Today I support total freedom of the media, but how will it be after I have wrestled with error and inadequacy? It is better to have a censor who is not otherwise committed to the policies of the Tyrancy."

Thorley raised his hands. "Sir, you have mouse-trapped me. I am left with no choice."

"That is the nature of tyranny," Spirit said, smiling. But she knew, as I did, and as Thorley did, that this appointment signaled more emphatically than any other my intent to honor the commitments that had brought me to the Tyrancy. I did not intend to be corrupted by power.

I was dangerously naïve, of course.

 

We brought in linguistic experts, folk who practiced many languages, and explored Amber's potential. She was indeed not limited to Spanish, English, and French. She knew Russian, Arabic, German, more than one dialect of Chinese, and sundry others, though she spoke in none but Spanish.

The specialists explained it to me in terms I could understand. Amber had not been mem-washed or otherwise abused. She was a member of the class sometimes called idiot savants. Her brain was in effect miswired. The material was there but could not be properly applied to the ordinary concerns of normal folk. Her intelligence, in Spanish, was low-normal; in other languages, she was technically a moron. But she could remember a certain amount of what she heard.

Khukov's specialists had evidently found a way to utilize her severely compartmentalized brain. They had programmed each segment to a different language. Had they all been programmed in Spanish, Amber would have understood Spanish in any mode but have spoken it only in one. In short, she would have had no advantage, because her brain operated only, as it were, in parallel, not in series. But this way, she had an enormous array of languages to draw on, without sacrificing the one complete one. She was indeed like a computer—one with a number of memory banks, each bank set up in a specific language, which could be hooked in at will. But only Spanish could print.

One might wonder of what use such a child might be to a political tyrant. But it did not take me long to fathom that. I did not know all the languages of the System, but it seemed that Amber did. My secret knowledge of Russian had on occasion served me well, when Saturnians spoke among themselves in my presence, supposing their consultation to be private. With Amber I could spy similarly on any other language. All that I needed to do was bring her with me, letting it be known that she had been given into my care, was of substandard intellect, and would not cause any mischief. Indeed it was so—up to a point.

When the iron magnates of Mars dickered with me on prices and policies, Amber was there. She sat in her chair, staring at her hands, her fingers twitching erratically. What the magnates did not realize was that the solitary child, tuned in to Arabic, had been instructed to make certain simple gestures if certain things were said. Amber did not understand the significance of those things, but she dutifully made the gestures with her fingers, and I noted these. It was a simplistic task, but, coupled with my own talent in judging people, it gave me invaluable information. I became aware of the limits to which the magnates were prepared to go, muttered among themselves, and that greatly facilitated my bargaining.

The same was true when I dealt with executives from the various nations of Uranus, who spoke French, German, Italian, or other tongues. I became a far more prescient negotiator than those others took me for. After the sessions I would return Amber to Spanish and question her in detail, gathering yet more information. She was normal, in memory; I had to catch her early, or she would forget most of the detail in a few days. That was all right; in a few days the information became passé.

Somewhere along about here—I regret I can no longer keep the chronology straight, but it really doesn't matter—I received an interesting message. It was in the form of a feelie chip. Shelia gave it to me with a wry expression. "I think you had better read this one yourself, sir."

"You can't give me a digest?" I asked, mildly perplexed.

"The effect would be diminished."

"I don't need effects!" I said, mildly exasperated. "I need efficient information. That's why I keep you."

"It's from an admirer," she clarified. "Female."

Oh. My position did lead to some communications of this kind. Men are mostly attracted to physical beauty, women to power. As Tyrant I attracted more than my share of offers. In the earliest days some voluptuous women would strip part or all of their clothing as I passed, showing their wares much as shopkeepers might. And you know, I did find it appealing, not merely for the elegance of the flesh but also for the fact that it was being offered to me, a physical nonentity. Vanity may be as much a male trait as a female one, and flattery has power even over those who know better. Sometimes I dreamed about those proffered bodies that I had to pass up.

Shelia filtered most of them out, not through any jealousy but because a power-seeking woman really has little to offer me but mischief. Also, she knew my bias for known elements; I prefer to know a woman well before I get intimate with her, and it was difficult to know any ordinary woman when I could not go out without my security guards. Finally there was my marriage: it existed in name, no longer in substance, but for Megan's sake I did not want to sully that name openly. As far as the public knew, I had become celibate. (I use that term in its popular sense, rather than in its dictionary sense. In centuries dictionaries have not caught up to the fact that celibacy refers to a person's state of sexual inactivity, rather than to his state of unmarriage.) All my women protected me in that respect. There were surely suspicions and insinuations about our night life; in fact, some uncomfortably accurate conjectures were published (and some I rather wish had occurred), but Coral, Shelia, and Ebony invariably turned blank stares on questioners, as if soiled by the very notion. Women tend to be better at such deception than are men.

Shelia had to have good reason to give this one to me. I accepted it, and on the next occasion when I had private time, I relaxed in an easy chair and donned a holo helmet. This came down to about the level of my eyes and ears. When I set in the chip and turned it on, the helmet sent its field through my brain, stimulating my visual, auditory, and tactile centers. This, in effect, put me right into the picture.

I found myself in a nondescript chamber, not ordinary so much as never properly visualized for the projection. This was evidently an amateur effort. Feelies come in two kinds: the professional, which are carefully staged and formed, and the amateur, which tend to be fuzzy. In order to make a feelie sequence, it is necessary to don a recording helmet such as this one and formulate the desired images. The helmet's magnetic fluxes pick up the patterns of impulses and preserve them, much the way a holo recorder does with direct physical things. When these impulses are played back, the imagined scene is recreated in whatever detail was originally provided. Some minds have better conceptualization (by that I mean the full gamut of sight, hearing, and touch) than others, which is what makes those with such minds professionals. They also enhance imagination by contemplating relevant physical objects. Thus a pro would not necessarily imagine a chair; he would fix his gaze directly on it, and the helmet would record the precise impressions, including the unconscious ones. That makes for a relatively sharp and realistic picture. An amateur is more apt to imagine the chair from whole cloth, as it were, and that chair could be lopsided and malproportioned.

Yet there can be a certain appeal to amateur efforts. The fuzziness of detail lends a dreamlike quality, which is often the desired effect. Some psychologists employ feelies as therapy; they encourage the patients to make any rendering that satisfies them and then analyze the distortions that appear in the images. Apparently there are definite neurotic and psychotic patterns, and these become more normal when the designated condition is treated. The doctors can verify the effect of treatment through the subsequent recordings. Some employers require feelalysis of prospective employees. However, a competent mind can distort the results by emulating either the normal or an abnormal pattern, and there have been some real embarrassments there. So, mainly, the feelies remain a popular entertainment device, with millions of people tuning in on published chipisodes. There is, of course, a sizable business in pornographic chips; I had encountered these in the Navy.

Now I let myself experience the scene. It was of a figure, a man in some sort of cape, a deified man, for he glowed, literally, as if imbued with some inherent phosphorescence. He walked, he turned, flinging his cape about.

Then I saw his face—and recognized it as a version of my own. Well, of course; Shelia had said this was from a female admirer. I had anticipated some sort of stripping scene, a woman tempting me with her body, but this was nothing of that kind. It seemed to be the way my admirer perceived me, glow and all. Flattering in its fashion but hardly realistic.

The me-figure strode on—and came into the neighborhood of a veiled woman. This was evidently the admirer. In imagination, a person can, of course, be anything; the dumpiest of women may become the loveliest of damsels. Yet this one was neither beautiful nor seductive; she was concealed from head to toe by an all-encompassing shawl or poncho. She was merely there, standing silently.

The me-figure paused, orienting on this woman. Her chin lifted, the motion evident under the veil. And there it ended.

I turned off the projection and sat pondering. This was a love missive? Where was the incitement, the come-on?

And why had Shelia given it directly to me? There had to be more to this than was immediately apparent.

I played the scene again but perceived no further clues. This was simply a vision of admiration from afar, with no solicitation. Merely the me-figure becoming aware of the veiled woman. No erotic import at all.

I found myself intrigued by the very simplicity and brevity of it. It was like a fragment of a dream. I have a certain penchant for dreams or visions.

At last, privately cursing myself for my foolishness, I decided to answer it. There was plenty of room remaining on the chip; those things are good for up to an hour's recording. Some professional entertainments run to two or three or more chips. I simply invoked the recording feature of my helmet and picked up where the original scene left off.

The me-figure's glow reduced, for I did not see myself as supernatural. He contemplated the veiled woman for another moment, then stepped toward her. He extended his arms and embraced her.

I stopped it there. There was no point in pushing this too far; it was only a gesture. Even so, I realized that I probably shouldn't be doing it. The chip had simply intrigued me, so I hoped to intrigue it back; that was all.

I removed the updated chip and took it to Shelia. "Return to sender," I told her.

"You are rejecting it?"

"No, I am responding to it. Play it if you wish."

"With your permission, sir." She brought out a helmet, set it on her head, and inserted the chip.

I watched her face as she experienced the feelie but might as well not have bothered. The top half of her face was concealed, and her mouth was set in Standard Neutral. Shelia had been my secretary for a long time, and knew me well, both as employer and lover; she gave away nothing unless she chose to.

There are those who suppose that a cripple is inadequate in more than the physical way, as I may have remarked before; Shelia was deceptive, because she acted with quiet caution, but, in fact, her mind was brilliant and her will was immovable. At first I had thought she could make a good executive secretary despite her handicap; very soon I knew that she was just about the best I could have chosen, on an absolute basis. Her physical handicap had prevented biased employers from considering her, so she had been available for me. That was my great fortune.

She removed the chip and the helmet. "It will do, sir," she said.

I smiled, dismissing the matter. The rush of other concerns caught us up again.

 

"I have worked out a basic program," Senator Stonebridge advised me. "I have cleared it with the other cabinet officers, including your daughter, who requires a great deal more funding for education. But the measures I propose will have such an impact on the planet—" He shrugged.

"If the others have cleared it, I should have no objection," I said. "But perhaps you should summarize it for me, so that I'm not caught ignorant when the public reaction strikes."

"By all means. The program, in broadest outline, is to balance the budget by economizing on existing programs and by bringing in new revenues—about half of each. The cuts come largely from the projected military allocations, in reductions of the generous military and civil servant retirement programs, and virtual elimination of the government bureaucracy. There are presently more than two million government employees, with five major layers of authority, and the inefficiency and waste—" He shook his head. "Appalling. But there will be repercussions."

"Against cutting waste?" I asked.

"The typical Navy careerist retires at age forty, with sextuple the benefits accruing to a civilian with commensurate service. He feels this is his right. The typical civil servant retires with triple the private-sector benefits. Retired presidents have extremely generous settlements and perks."

"They'll all be screaming," I agreed. "But my own Navy retirement benefits will be cut too."

"They are not your primary source of sustenance," he pointed out.

"True. But Faith will see that no one is reduced to poverty."

"Sir, I'm not sure you grasp the potential reaction against such reductions. When the average person is hit in the pocketbook, he becomes—"

"I'll handle it," I said, unconcerned. "It is the job of the Tyrant to take the heat. You just do what you have to do."

"Now, the revenue enhancement aspect is similarly difficult," he said.

"Tax increase, you mean."

"Not precisely. The present system is patently inequitable and is to be reformed and simplified. Naturally we shall be closing the loopholes, and this will cause a certain backlash—"

"To hell with the backlash!" I exclaimed. "It's high time we had fair taxation!"

"Every person's definition of 'fair' differs," he said, "and tends to be somewhat self-serving. For example, the elimination of the mortgage interest deduction—"

"Which means that the poor will pay more taxes," I said, seeing it. "What does Faith have to say about that?"

"We, ah, bargained," he said. "Your sister is an attractive and dedicated woman." I realized with a start that Faith's initial considerable appeal for men had not entirely abated; Stonebridge had felt the impact. There was nothing serious in this, of course; this man was not about to dally with any Hispanic woman of any age. But evidently he had been satisfied to work things out with her, economically. "She realizes that some sacrifices have to be made, in the interest of the greater good. Since one of the objectives we share is that of full employment at fair recompense—"

"Gotcha," I said. "She has to worry first about the people who have no homes to mortgage because they have no jobs. They will be glad to pay taxes on the interest they pay on mortgages, as long as their overall lot is improved."

"Precisely. Now the actual mechanism for broadening the tax base includes a flat twenty-percent rate on earned income, interest income excluded—"

"But didn't you just say that interest would be taxed?"

"If it is taxed when paid, it would be unfair to tax it again when received," he explained. "We propose to encourage savings and investment by eliminating all tax on interest earned. This will, of course, reduce one source of income for the government, but the resulting incentive to business—"

"Aren't you taking it from the poor and giving it to the rich?" I demanded.

He smiled with a trace of misgiving. "Your sister also broached that question. In that sense, in that particular case, it might be possible to interpret it that way, as it is true that the rich do have more money to invest than do the poor. However, the importance of encouraging investment, in the interest of expanding business and generating jobs for everyone—"

"Faith doesn't mind if the rich get richer, so long as the poor get richer too," I agreed.

"Actually the rich are not benefiting that much. We are implementing a currency change to eliminate the underground economy, and that will bring an enormous new segment of the economy into the tax base. Since many of the sheltered income and tax havens relate, this will result in considerably increased costs to the wealthy. I suspect the earliest protests we have will be from that quarter."

"But how does changing the currency eliminate tax havens?"

He smiled. "The new currency will be coded, so that its origin and location can be traced. When large amounts collect in one place and the tax for the transaction is not paid, our agents will, ah, pounce. I worked this out at Ms. Phist's suggestion—"

"Roulette," I said. "Rue to her friends. She's a remarkable woman."

"A remarkable woman," he agreed. I was not certain whether he was thinking of her physical or her intellectual endowments. "Her interest is in tracking the illicit sums involved in drugs and gambling, but we realized that this would also track other types of activity. I suspect that, for perhaps the first time in the history of Jupiter as a nation, the appropriate tax will be paid on virtually all earned income. On that basis the flat twenty-percent rate should bring in substantially more revenue than the prior graduated tax system did, though that went up to a fifty-percent rate. This, coupled with the five-percent VAT—"

"The five-percent what?"

"VAT. Value Added Tax. It has been used successfully for centuries on Uranus but not here on Jupiter. It is essentially a planetary sales tax, collected at every stage in segments, so that—"

"So, between the two, it will be a twenty-five-percent tax rate," I said.

"Not precisely, because income and sales are not identical. The dynamics—"

"And this will eliminate the deficit and balance the budget?"

"Well, not at first. As with any venture, there are initial costs and qualifications. But once the system is in place, this is the objective."

I wasn't satisfied. "I told you I wanted the budget balanced! What's this about initial costs and qualifications?"

"Full employment is not achieved in a day. Not via the private sector. Admiral Phist estimates that it will take at least two years before the industrial base expands enough to accommodate the entire labor force. Until that time the government must be the Employer of Last Resort, and that means—"

"One hell of an expense for the unemployed," I finished. "Faith is really making you pay for that mortgage deduction!"

"Initially, yes. But the long-term trend is definitely healthy."

I nodded. He knew what he was doing; my passion for the instant fix was misplaced. "How does the gold standard relate?"

"Nothing permanent can be accomplished without a stable currency. We expect to eliminate automatic raises, because we expect to eliminate inflation. The only sure way to do that is to back all of our currency with value, and that means metals and goods. A value-backed currency does not erode. With that certainty we can perhaps work marvels."

I smiled. "You're enjoying this, Senator!"

"I'm afraid I am, Tyrant," he confessed. "I have always wanted to see what could be accomplished with a genuinely competent administration."

"Me too." So far, it looked good.

"Sir." Shelia had a call for me. "Tocsin."

Now it started. "On," I said shortly.

Tocsin's homely face appeared on the main screen. "Tyrant, what the hell is this nonsense about cutting the allotments? Those were set up by Congress; they can't be touched!"

"I abolished Congress," I reminded him. "I am a dictator; I am bound by no prior governmental commitments."

"Listen, we made a deal. You pardoned me. You can't start going after me now!"

"I'm not. These reductions apply to all civil service and military retirees at all levels. No one is exempted; there is now a single standard of retirement. Your predecessor has the same limit."

"Kenson? He's getting no more than I do?" he asked, brightening.

"Slightly more, because he was in office longer. But no more than a retiree of similar level in the civilian sector."

He became crafty. "What happens when you retire, Hubris?"

"There is no provision for my retirement. I don't expect to collect any benefits."

"You mean you plan to stay in power forever?" he demanded.

"No. I expect to be assassinated in due course."

He started to laugh, then cut it off, staring at me, realizing that I was serious. He faded out.

 

Shelia caught my eye. She held up a chip.

"What?" I asked, perplexed.

"Remember your anonymous girlfriend? The veiled woman?"

"Oh," I said, feeling inane. It had been a month or more—again, my memory is imprecise, for at that time I did not realize the significance of this correspondence, and the matter had faded from my awareness. Now memory brought another concern. "This—something like this could be used to embarrass me. Maybe I shouldn't—"

She shook her head. "This one can be trusted, sir."

If Shelia said so, it was so. I put aside my concern.

I took the chip, and later, when I had a suitable break, I donned the helmet and turned on the scene.

I was back in the blurry chamber, watching the glowing me-figure. Though feelies like this are generated in the mind, they generally do show scenes from an anonymous third-party view, as if a camera were there. I think this derives from conventional holo technique, which portrays a person as being alone, though obviously someone is tracking him with a camera; we learn to suspend our logic for the sake of the story, and we imitate that technique in our fancy. It isn't necessary, just convenient.

The me-man spied the her-woman, strode across, and took her in his arms. That was where I had left it; this replay refreshed my memory completely. What was her response?

The me-man bent his head to kiss her, and she tilted up her head to receive it, but the heavy veil was in the way. She drew back a little, raised her hand, and drew aside the veil so as to bare her face.

The me-man looked—and now the picture jumped, holo-style, to a close-up of her head.

Her face was blank. It was nothing more than a pink-white curvature of flesh without eyes, nose, or mouth. It resembled a dressmaker's dummy, the head a mere shape, because one did not, after all, measure a dress on a person's face.

There the scene ended. Jolted, I considered. Was this person trying to tease me? Somehow I doubted it; nothing in the sequence suggested humor. This is one thing about amateur scenes: they lack the cleverness of professional efforts so are more believable. Also, I was able to use my talent to read the woman a little. This may seem odd, but it is true. I read the minute physical reactions of people, normally unnoticed and uncontrolled, a constant signaling of their state of mind. Because they originate in the mind, these signals are transmitted to imaginary figures, and the body of this woman had them. Not lucidly but still suggestive of a most serious intent. She had, it seemed, a genuine passion for me. She was amateur, but she was not jesting.

Why, then, was her face blank? Not as a joke. It was more like an appeal. A blank to be filled in.

There it was. In life she might be a homely woman; certainly passion is not limited to the beautiful. She was afraid that her true face would turn me off, but she had no other. But in a feelie a person can be anything, and they generally do prefer to take advantage of that. Making a scene, as it is termed, is a dream-fulfilling business, where people can portray themselves as they would like to be, to the extent their imagination permits.

She wanted to be beautiful, obviously—but not in just any way. She wanted to be the way I wanted her to be. Her dream was to be the realization of my dream.

This was a game I could play, except for one thing. There were only two faces I really desired. One was Megan's, which I would not tolerate on any other woman; the other was Helse's.

Well, Helse had assumed the bodies of other women on occasion, to please me, as she could no longer do so with her own body. She could certainly assume this body.

Would it be right to do this? This was no purely personal vision of mine when my reality changed; this was an interactive vision, shared with an anonymous admirer. Well, if I were willing, and Helse were willing, and the woman wanted it, why not? It was, after all, limited to the helmet. It was only a kind of game.

Or was it?

I nudged that caution aside, intrigued by the possibilities. To have a living woman playing my lost love in the privacy of the helmet. What might come of that?

I gazed at the blank face and let my longing manifest. The face blurred and changed, and there was Helse's face. Helse, as she was at sixteen, when I had known her in life and loved her. As I still loved her.

Then I moved to kiss those precious lips. But I stopped just before the contact, for I wanted her to do it, to kiss me actively. Kissing a construct of imagination is like masturbation; it is better if there is truly another person, even if her appearance has been changed.

 

Roulette, for a change, was in an outfit that showed no cleavage. She wore a light green sweater and plaid skirt, like a college girl, and even had a green ribbon in her red hair. I discovered to my chagrin that she was every bit as sexy that way as she had been with the cleavage.

"The place to start," she said briskly, "is to legalize everything possible. There's no point in wasting effort suppressing victimless crimes."

"Like what?" I asked, trying not to look as she crossed her legs so that the skirt slid across her thighs.

"Gambling, drugs, sex, pornography."

Indeed, such concepts came readily to my mind as I fought to bring my errant gaze under control. Those thighs! "Porno is Thorley's problem; he's in charge of censorship."

She laughed. That sweater! "He's a rock-ribbed conservative! He hates porno almost as bad as he hates censorship. I'd like to watch him reviewing sex."

"He'll simply ignore it," I said. Would that I could do the same! "But about the others—I know you have no case against gambling, but what of the casinos run by organized crime, which fleeces the clients and pays off the authorities?"

"Organized crime I mean to abolish. When it takes over gambling, then there's trouble, but the evil is in the crime, not the gambling. Keep it honest, it'll be all right."

"But the compulsive gamblers who can't stop, who run themselves into monstrous debts—"

"Strictly cash," she said. "No credit, no IOUs. That keeps them to what they can afford. The truly sick ones can put up segments of their lives for rehabilitative treatment; they lose, they go in. Truly compulsive gambling is a disease; it can be treated, but the client has to be willing."

She seemed to have her answers! But, of course, she was the daughter of a professional (and honest) gambler; this was her home turf. "Drugs, then," I said. "Some of them devastate the human system. If we legalize them—"

"Make the drugs legal, the abuse illegal," she said firmly. "Most drugs are good and necessary for human health. A lot of the harm in drugs is because they are illegal. Drug addiction is the single greatest cause of chronic crime against property: addicts have to steal to get money for their habit. With government clinics like those you had in Sunshine when you were governor, the money motive is gone and the crime stops. The rest is education: teach the people the truth about drugs, all drugs, what they do and what their abuse costs in health and independence. Most people will stay clear or at least stick to the relatively harmless ones. But any dangerous or addictive drug has to be given at the clinic; nobody doses himself or anyone else. There'll be some new addictions, sure, but there'll also be some who learn better at the clinic and never get addicted, when they would have otherwise. Because they'll see the true addicts, coming in for theirs, and that will open eyes."

"I don't know," I said. "Everyone knows the perils of alcohol addiction, but it progresses, anyway."

"Because they have unlimited access. They get soused, drive their bubble-cars, crack up, kill people—" Her face hardened. "We're going to get those drunk drivers out of the channels! Man kills another man, I don't care if he's drunk or crazy, I want him gone. Get all killers out of circulation, same as the hardened criminals."

"We'd have to spend billions on new prisons!" I protested.

She frowned. "Somehow I just knew you weren't going to want to put 'em out the space lock suitless," she said. "All right, you don't have to. Just guarantee that no killer will ever be free in the society again and I'll be satisfied; I don't care how you do it."

"But—"

"Ask Gerald; he can work anything out. Just so long as we eliminate the repeat criminals of any type."

I sighed, partly for the situation and partly for those supremely fleshed legs. "I expected you to solve my problems, not complicate them!"

"After more than twenty years you retain that delusion?" she inquired sweetly, spreading her legs. Damn her! She knew what she was doing to me!

"Which reminds me," I said doggedly. "Sex. It may be natural, but not when it's forced. You don't propose to legalize rape, do you?"

She laughed enthusiastically, causing her sweater to ripple. "He remembers that day! And I thought he'd forgotten! Who says romance is dead?"

I had walked into that one. I had for the moment lost awareness of the fact that I had raped her according to the pirate ritual. I found myself blushing.

She shook her head. "You're hopeless, Hope. God, I'd like to reenact that occasion!" She made as if to remove the sweater, and suddenly I knew that she wore no undergarment. No wonder it rippled! "But I do know what you mean. Your typical humdrum civilized Jupiter woman doesn't care to get raped. For her I'd say voluntary sex is fine, but involuntary is a violation of her civil rights, and those who violate the civil rights of others should be taken promptly out of circulation."

"More prisons!" I moaned. "But you sound as though you think any voluntary sex is all right. What about children?"

She considered. "Yes, there had better be an age of consent. But you know, some children like it. They—"

"No!" I snapped.

She sighed. "You conservatives! Well, let's establish a realistic age of consent, say twelve or thirteen, that can be modified by a magistrate when warranted. When a girl grows woman's equipment, she's at the age of consent; that's easy enough to verify. Below that, there has to be legal approval."

"And I thought I was a liberal," I muttered.

"You're a bleeding heart," she said. "There's a difference."

"Live and learn."

"But you miss the point on rape," she continued. "You debate whether it is a crime of sex or a crime of violence, when, in fact, it is a crime of opportunity. If you jailed every man who would rape if he had a safe opportunity, and every woman who would do the same if she had opportunity and ability, seventy percent of the men and thirty percent of the women would wind up behind bars. The only way to eliminate it is to restrict opportunity."

"But we can't segregate all the men from all the women!" I protested.

"You assume that rape is strictly heterosexual. No, you can't eliminate it entirely, but you can liberalize society's attitude. After all, what is rape but a difference of opinion? The same act, consenting, is victimless; nonconsenting, it is rape. If we make more women consenting, we'll have less rape."

"That's preposterous!"

"That's practical," she corrected me. "Do you really want to solve the problems of Jupiter society or merely impose your moralism on it?" She drew up her sweater, showing her bare right breast. What a wonder! She was correct: if I were not constrained by social awareness, I would fling myself at her and rape her, as I had more than two decades before, knowing that she would welcome it. She was deliberately taunting me with her body, and it would be her victory if I succumbed.

I shook my head, bemused, my gaze locked exactly where she wanted it. "Work out your program, but consult with me before you implement it."

She rose, inhaling. "Anytime, Tyrant."

 

There was another swell of outrage as the crime reforms were announced. Newsfaxes editorialized, condemning me roundly for encouraging promiscuity, child abuse, and drug addiction. One planetarily syndicated cartoon showed me naked, with erection and a hypodermic, pursuing a child. That stung, but I had to smile; the Tyrancy had legalized pornography, so such pictures were now quite legal.

The last laugh, though, was mine, for the statistics on crime showed a sharp drop. Part of this was, as my critics claimed, because many acts had been decriminalized, so no longer counted as crimes. But more of it was because we were systematically getting the habitual criminals out of society, and the drug addicts had no further incentive to commit crimes. We were, indeed, making the halls safe for the common folk.

 

It was only two weeks before the chip came back, and this time I remembered it immediately. Shelia held it up with a wry expression; naturally she had played it through, as it was her job to do, insuring that nothing directly harmful to me was in it. It was, of course, quite clear to her where the progression was leading, but she was understanding and tolerant, knowing that she herself had gone farther with me than this anonymous woman was ever likely to.

This time the initial scene had been modified slightly. The me-figure glow had been diminished, in accordance with my prior tailoring of it, and my appearance was closer to the reality. The veiled woman was also more sharply drawn, as if she had more confidence now that she had a face. When she parted the veil, Helse's face was clear and animated.

My face came down, and our lips touched. But hers were not properly responsive. They were there but quite inexperienced. It was as though she had never kissed before.

No, it was something else. Her lips were there only as my expectation; they had no substance apart from that. Well, substance, but not reaction. It was like kissing a woman who had no knowledge I was there, as if I were a ghost.

I broke the kiss and considered. Well, I had expected expertise and was mistaken. This woman had a passion for me but not experience in seducing men. She was not Helse, regardless of the image.

Again I considered. Feelie helmets were sophisticated devices with properties that unsophisticated users could readily overlook. Obviously this woman did not realize that there were potential multiple tracks and had confined herself to one. That meant that she could craft a scene as perceived by a camera or as viewed by one participant or the other, but could not merge the two. For true interaction such merging was essential. So her kiss was what she thought I should feel but inadequate because she didn't know what I should feel.

I could correct that. All that was required was some simple instruction—in the use of the helmet.

I drew back. "Woman," I said in English, "I must show you something." Then I pictured myself with a feelie helmet on. "This setting is for one viewpoint," I explained, touching the appropriate place on the helmet. "Normally it should be for the third-party impressions. This is the one you have been using. This setting is for a second viewpoint," I touched the next. "Normally you should use it for your own impressions—the way you personally see and feel. You have not been using this. Set it this way"—I had the third-party camera pan in close, so the detail was clear—"and it will continuously record your impressions without your conscious effort. And this setting"—I showed the third—"this is for a third viewpoint. You should leave this one alone. I will use it for my impressions."

I removed the helmet in the scene, and it disappeared. "Now what do we have?" I inquired rhetorically. "We have channel three, recorded by me, for me. We have channel two, recorded by you, for you. And we have channel one, recorded and modified by both of us, so it is a composite camera-eye picture."

I paused, then spoke again. She had never spoken in the scene, which probably meant that she hadn't realized that it was possible. If a person recorded the mental pattern consistent with the effort of formulating certain words, that recording would reproduce as the formulated words. "Now, those three channels are not the whole scene," I continued. "They do not provide proper interaction. For that we need a special modification. When I kiss you, I need to feel not what I expect to feel but what you arrange for me to feel physically. Otherwise I am kissing a ghost. I must feel your reaction to my action or it becomes nothing."

I caused the helmet to reappear. "It works like this. After you have recorded your impressions on your channel, you do some recording on my channel, using this special setting that augments mine without erasing it. You place there the impressions you want me to experience. So when I kiss you, your lips must kiss back. That's there on my channel, so that when I do kiss you, I feel what you have prepared for me to feel. Similarly I will set it up for you on your channel. With the two together"—I spread my hands—"a great deal can be experienced, when a scene is properly crafted. But it requires careful attention and work by both parties."

I caused the helmet to fade out again. It had been a long time since I had really played with one of these devices, and I enjoyed showing off my expertise. "Now, obviously there is a problem here," I said, in a kind of lecture. "How can I provide my reaction to something you haven't yet put in the scene? Well, there are two ways. First, I can react to what you have already put in the scene, and you can replay that section and get a more accurate notion of the total effect. But that can be tedious. Second, I can anticipate what you might do and prepare for that. Of course, that can lead to peculiar effects. Let's say I anticipate that if I kiss you, you will kiss back. But, in fact, you slap my face. Then, when I kiss you, I will instead feel the slap. That would be a funny kiss! Or you might slap me, and I would feel your lips kissing. The viewpoints have to integrate. So here we go into a slightly computerized function built into the helmets. This insures that a given action meets with an appropriate response. So if I kiss you, you either kiss back or slap me but not both—or if both, at least one at a time. If I do something you have not anticipated, so that you have prepared no response, then it becomes dead stick—like your present kiss. That means you have to go back and prepare an appropriate set of responses, so we can go on from there. It is, in its fashion, like a chess game, wherein each player must consider the various possible responses to the move he makes and prepare for them. Of course, he can't go too far; normally he sets up only a single, negative response to an action by the other party that he doesn't want and a number of more positive responses to actions he does want. When two people have a similar course in mind, the scene can go quite far before being returned for more input."

I paused again. I didn't worry that this was too much information for a helmet novice; she could play the scene over and over until she understood. "Now I will prepare several alternatives, which the helmet will automatically key in according to their types; this is a function of this special interactive mode. You may explore them and then prepare your own sets of responses. I suspect that our next exchange of chips will be more interesting."

Then I set up my scenelets. In one, I kissed her, her lips were closed, and it was a long, quiet contact. I planted in her channel the pressure of my hands at her back and my arms encircling her. In another, her lips parted, and I planted the feel of my tongue passing through my own lips to touch hers. In another, she turned a bit, and my left hand slid down to cup her right buttock through the material of her voluminous cloak. In yet another, she resisted, drawing back her head as I approached, and I paused, then let her go and turned away without kissing her. Nothing was forced here; she had to select the alternative in order to experience it, and she could cut if off at any time simply by turning off the helmet. In each of the cases I also prepared the appropriate camera-view sequence. The kissing ones were similar and really didn't need modification, but the turning-away one did.

Satisfied, I returned the chip to Shelia for shipment. I discovered that I had expended two hours; the time had flown!