Chapter 8 — HELMET SEX

"Yes, I have answers," Phist said. Evidently his wife had already advised him of my misgivings about the elimination of criminals. "Where feasible, there must be restitution; where not, elimination."

"How can there be restitution for murder?" I demanded.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life; it can be done literally. We can continue to execute murderers."

"How can killing ever be justified?" I asked, troubled. "To execute a murderer—that doesn't bring the victim back, it just makes two people dead. That's no good!"

"There was a time when you seemed to feel otherwise," he reminded me gently.

"I killed," I said. "I never liked it."

"A decade or two with a gentle woman has nevertheless had its effect on you."

"And has two decades with a violent woman affected you?" I returned.

He smiled. "Perhaps. But to address the present problem: there is use, within industry, even for murderers. Inclement assignments. I suspect we can absorb all the murderers you can provide, and a number of lesser criminals."

I knew he wasn't bluffing. "Tell me how."

"In deep space there are posts that few accept voluntarily. Guard duty on remote planetoids of the Belt, the Charon tour, close Solar duty, that sort of thing. Men don't like being sterilized by the radiation of their working environment, or being exposed to a fifty-percent risk of death, or being left alone for months at a time. A criminal would not like it, either, but would not be in a position to protest this as punishment. He either performs appropriately or he spends the rest of his life in deep space, isolated from all other human contact."

Now I remembered: Roulette had mentioned this alternative, and I approved it. In the rush and stress of events, it had entirely slipped my mind.

I pondered. I thought of being confined alone in space myself, and knew I would shortly go mad. Only the promise of restoration of human company would sustain me. Even the least social of criminals would feel that lack to some extent. Yes, the criminal would perform!

"Maybe so," I agreed. "It does avoid the brutal alternatives of killing or letting criminals back into society, and it does seem to be a way to get personnel for inclement assignments. I'm glad these intra-cabinet consultations are working out so well."

"They are working," Phist agreed. "But these are the halcyon days of creation; implementation may be another matter. There is apt to be a massive reckoning when the tide touches the public."

"I assumed this post to do a job, and I mean to do it," I said. "The people should understand, when the new order emerges. It is for their own good."

He smiled warily. "Do you remember my fortune in the Navy?"

I realized he was not referring to his recent rise to the heights. "As—a whistleblower?"

"The same. It was my job to procure equipment for the Navy as economically as possible, for a given standard of performance and quality. I discovered that we had been paying a hundred thousand dollars for a hundred and ten dollars worth of spare parts. We were being charged $9,606 for wrenches that could be had for twelve cents on the civilian market. Antenna motor pins worth about two and a half cents were going for over two thousand dollars. Thirteen-cent nuts for two thousand dollars; sixty-seven-cent bolts for one thousand—"

"Now wait!" I protested. "How can a thirteen-cent nut go for twice as much as a sixty-seven-cent bolt? I mean—"

"I refer you to the ancient saying: The Navy moves in mysterious ways, its blunders to perform."

I smiled. "I remember."

"Naturally I put a stop to such purchases and instituted an investigation. And—"

"You were fired," I finished. "Or put on Navy hold. Same thing. That was why I, as an upstart young officer, was able to leapfrog you on promotion and eventually add you to my command."

"Where you gave my talent for effective procurement free rein and protected me from the backlash and did my career more good than ever would have been the case otherwise," he said warmly. "All this in addition to your sister."

"You were worthy of Spirit," I said honestly. "She would gladly have stayed with you, if that had been possible. Just as I would have stayed with Rue."

We were silent for a moment, remembering our past loves.

"My point," Phist resumed in due course, "is that virtue is not always rewarded. You may install the best of all possible governments, but you will not necessarily be hailed for your achievement."

"I am already in the process of discovering that," I said, emulating one of Thorley's rueful smiles. "Still, it will be worth doing. I swore when I was fifteen to extirpate piracy from the face of the System. I found as I proceeded that there was always a higher source of the corruption. Now I am in a position to complete my vow—and to fulfill the other one I took: to put Jupiter's financial base in order. Success will be its own reward."

"If success comes," he agreed with the caution of experience, "I have a rather challenging program."

"Implement it," I told him.

"Don't authorize it until you know its nature," he warned. "I feel it may well be an exercise in futility to attempt to regulate anything as massive and fragmented as Jupiter industry. Over the centuries the government has not been able to get an accurate accounting from any of the large iron companies, let alone effectively police their operations, and I see only one way to achieve any of that now."

I knew about the iron companies. They had grown rich and powerful in fair times and foul, because they controlled the single most vital substance in the System: the magnetic-power metal, iron. Without it our mechanized civilization would grind to a halt. The metal was intrinsically inexpensive, but somehow its value magnified by the time it reached the black-hole labs for conversion to contra-terrene iron. The same magnets could handle CT iron, moving it without physical contact with any terrene matter, until the time came for its merging with normal iron and total conversion to energy. There was our literal power base: iron. Of course, the key was in its conversion to CT, which was accomplished by the enormous concentration of gravitrons by very special gee-shields. Those artificial black holes could convert any matter to antimatter—this was a fairly straightforward operation, so long as the change was to the same type of substance, which is to say tin to tin or iron to iron—but not just any matter could be handled magnetically. So far, all things considered, nothing better had been found than iron. "So how do you propose to make the iron companies behave?"

"Nationalization," he said seriously.

I sighed. "Saturn nationalized everything, and look what they have: the System's most monstrously inefficient industry! With the most massive farm bubbles extant, they still can't feed their own population and have to purchase grain from us. Apart from their military machine, they are a second-rate industrial power. I can't see any particular promise in that route."

"It is not nationalization that is at fault but deprivation of individual incentive," he reminded me. "I mean to keep incentive. What I propose to do is nationalize at least one major company in each key aspect of industry and revitalize that company so that it can become truly competitive. This will accomplish two things: first, it will give the government, for the first time, an avenue to ascertaining the true nature of the businesses, from which we can extrapolate an honest tax base for Senator Stonebridge to implement; second, it will enable us to enter the market competitively, forcing restraint in pricing by example."

"How can we control prices by example?" I asked. "We can control the prices of the companies we operate but not those of the ones we don't."

"If the others raise their prices in an unjustified manner, ours will gain a larger share of the market," he explained. "For centuries the Big Iron has colluded to increase the price of crude ore, overcharging clients and cheating the government unmercifully; but our iron company would not cooperate. It will represent a gap in the dyke. No consumer company is going to pay more than it needs to for iron, and we shall offer a fair price—and the lowest price, if need be. This is the essence of free enterprise; we shall bring it to iron at last—without any direct governmental coercion. Prices will drop across the board, I am certain." He actually rubbed his hands together.

I liked the notion. "Which companies do you have in mind for nationalization?"

"The Planetary Iron Company," he said.

"Planico? I thought that was the one large iron company in trouble!"

"True. With annual revenues in the billions, they managed their affairs so disastrously that they were the subject of an attempted takeover by a competitor. Their reserves are as good as any, but their present management is so wrongheaded as to be laughable."

"Surely it would be better to take over a sound company!"

"No. Two reasons. First, we can acquire Planico relatively cheaply, merely by buying up a bare majority of their stock at the present devalued rate; no one will even realize we're doing it, until it is done, if we handle it correctly. It really will be best not to disturb the economy by drastic overt takeovers; the senator satisfied me on that score. Second, we can make our point better by turning an ailing company into a healthy one than by keeping a healthy one healthy. If our management is good, we'll wind up with the best-run company on the planet, regardless."

The notion appealed as it came clear to me. "Selective nationalization," I repeated. "Of ailing companies in various sectors of the economy. I wonder if this will help provide jobs for the unemployed."

"No. We'll be firing inefficient employees. There will have to be a planetary work program for Employment of Last Resort. That will be expensive."

"But if the work program trained people to fill the jobs in the nationalized companies?"

"Then we could hire them. Of course, if they're really qualified, they could be hired by the private companies too."

"Maybe there could be training branches of the nationalized companies, so that we could slowly convert the unemployed to employable—"

"That could do," he agreed.

 

If the poor had protested the seeming raising of taxes, while the rich had been silent, the nationalization of key companies reversed that reaction. The billionaire scions of industry were virtually unanimous in their outrage, while the unemployed folk flocked eagerly to apply for jobs in the nationalized companies. Evidently they regarded this as much preferable to the make-work employment the government would otherwise provide. A lot of hiring was done, but this saved the government no money. It merely changed the pocket from which the money leaked.

The hiring of the poor was counterbalanced by the flight of the highly trained technical personnel. The majority of them seemed to regard working for a government-owned company as anathema. Perhaps the standardized wage scales had something to do with it. Our scales were not actually inferior to those of private enterprise, but there were no perks—no unofficial benefits that avoided the tax rolls. Also, though private industry was by law equal opportunity for all races and ages and both sexes, somehow that did not manifest perfectly in practice, while the government companies truly did operate by merit alone. That seemed to upset many qualified workers.

 

The next time Shelia handed me the chip, she pursed her lips in a silent whistle. Evidently she was enjoying this in a certain voyeuristic way. Well, she had a right to.

My instruction had had dramatic effect. Now all three major channels were in use, and the detail was much improved. The action was unchanged up to the point of the kiss.

I took her in my arms, as before, and brought my lips to hers. This time she did kiss back, passionately, her lips parting for my tongue. Her body pressed in close to mine, and I felt her breasts nudging me. When my hand slipped down to her buttock, her buttock twitched in acknowledgment.

Well, now. Obviously she had understood my words and taken pains to master the helmet. The seduction that had been lacking before was now present; she evidently wanted my hands on her body.

I experimented. After the kiss I looked at her Helse-face—and that face still stirred me deeply, though I knew it wasn't her—and asked in English, "Will you remove your cloak?"

She had anticipated this. She shimmered, and the cloak was gone. Evidently she liked the magical effect I had demonstrated with the appearing and disappearing helmet. Feelies are fantasy worlds; anything can happen in them. That is much of their appeal.

Underneath she wore only a red bra and panties. Her hair descended to her shoulders in the manner that Helse's had at the end. Her body was voluptuous; it had evidently been crafted from the contemplation of holos of lush starlets. There were nuances about it that satisfied me that it was not her own; the natural body signals were absent. Still, my curiosity led me to experiment further.

I reached out and touched her full bra. She did not shrink away. Instead the bra dissolved, leaving her bosom bare. But her breasts did not sag, as masses of that magnitude should; they remained supported. I had suspected as much.

I touched her panties. They, too, dissolved, showing her genital region—quite innocent of pubic hair, in the manner of holo starlets but not of real women.

I paused again. It was evident that this woman was willing to go as far as I might wish, in the holo. Indeed, I understand that in some circles this is the preferred mode of lovemaking, as the protagonists remain technically uninvolved, true to their spouses or whatever. A spouse who might be quite jealous of his partner's physical affair with another individual might accept the holo version with equanimity and even participate in it, Physical purity was evidently more important than emotional purity. Perhaps it was ever thus; what man was ever really certain of what passed through the mind of his woman? The feelies merely made it more evident.

However, this was not the real woman. Her face was that of Helse, her body that of some holo representation. Even in imagination I preferred more reality than this.

So I stood back. "We must talk," I said.

"Talk," she said hesitantly.

So she had anticipated this too. Good enough. "What we do here in the helmets, on this chip, has no legal force in the real world. It is only a shared fantasy. But even so, I prefer greater realism than we have here. I'll let you keep that face, for I understand your desire for anonymity, even though I myself am not anonymous. But the body—that isn't natural. Is there anything wrong with your own body?"

"My body... is not... this good," she said hesitantly. Her voice had a peculiar quality, as if she were having trouble registering it for the recording. All she needed to do was to speak aloud and the helmet would pick up the essential impulses; evidently she was trying to do it entirely by imagination, and that's tricky.

"Well, enhance it a little," I said. "But start with your own, as it is, so that your flesh responds naturally when you move it."

She did not respond; she had not anticipated this answer, so had not programmed for it. Still, we had made considerable progress.

 

"Hitherto," Mondy said, "certain insiders have had their hands on the levers of economic power. We must now assume control of those levers."

"Isn't that paranoid?" I asked. "Blaming the problems of society on mysterious, anonymous culprits?"

"It is paranoid," he agreed. "But also true. These few people have always played the economy like a game, constantly milking it for their own benefit. The only barriers to their complete success are the unpredictable vagaries of chance and their inability to unite for their common advantage."

"Just what do you propose to do with these people? If they aren't criminals—"

"Recruit them," he said. "They will in the future work for us instead of for themselves. This will have an enormous impact on the economy."

"But surely they won't simply cooperate!" I protested.

"They will if they understand that the alternative is extinction."

"But—"

"Tyrant, what kind of a game do you think we're in? These are not marbles we're playing with, and these people are not schoolchildren. We need them, and we won't get them unless we talk their language. They are sensible; when they see that we have the will and the power to eliminate them, they will elect to cooperate. We simply have to do what is necessary, at the outset. Otherwise the Tyrancy will be a joke."

He had spoken magic words. Reluctantly I gave him the go-ahead.

"The key is Machiavelli," he concluded. "The infamous Italian schemer. It is safer to be feared than loved."

"I'd rather be loved," I said, and it was not really a joke.

"Be loved by the common, ignorant people. Appearance is more important to them than substance. You must seem to possess the classic virtues of mercy, faith, integrity, humanity, and religion. Then they will be satisfied."

"I do have these things!" I exclaimed.

"Of course, Tyrant. Just don't take them too seriously."

I left him, disquieted. I trusted his judgment but not his cynicism.

 

Ebony shook her head. "It's not just Jupiter," she said. "Overpopulation is threatening to overwhelm the whole System. Earth itself has more people now than it did before the diaspora to the System. We don't have to worry about System War Three; our own numbers will do us in in another generation regardless."

"But we can't do anything about the population of other planets," I said.

"Tyrant, we have to! Every day thousands more cross over from RedSpot and from Callisto—"

"I'm an immigrant from Callisto," I reminded her.

"And if they had proper government there, you wouldn't have had to do it," she retorted, unfazed. "Your folks would have been okay and you'd have been happy. It all starts with population control, so nobody gets squeezed out."

"Could be," I agreed, impressed. It was not exactly the way I saw it, but she did have a case that could be argued.

"But how do you propose to solve the population problems of other planets?"

"Same way as here. Start with contraception—put your Navy medicine in the civilian water, or the food, or the air, so no more children for a couple years. Then ease up selectively; give the neutralizer to only those families who are good prospects for good, healthy children."

"But no one would agree to that," I cried, half appalled, half intrigued.

"Who said they had to? Just do it. You're the Tyrant."

"There'd be a revolution!"

"Not while you control the Navy. They'd settle down soon enough."

"I never realized you were so cynical, Ebony."

"I wasn't—till I studied the problem. Then I saw what had to be done. We've got to control our population or it will destroy us; it's that simple."

"But other planets—"

"The countries of Latin Jupiter will do it if you make them a bargain. Carrot and stick—give them money, give them food—tell 'em why. They'll do it, and it won't take much pushing. They're hurting a lot worse than we are."

"I don't know," I said. "It's such an ugly policy."

"Would you rather line 'em up and laser 'em down? We can pass out euthanasia pills—effective, painless, work in a few hours if no antidote taken—but we really need to get it at the other end, the birthrate. We can impose the death penalty for every little crime, but it's better if the criminal is never born."

"But it's a fundamental right to reproduce!"

"Is it? Does every individual have the unlimited right to make babies, whether or not he can care for them? If he can't take care of them, does the government have to do it for him? Or should they just be allowed to starve? In some places they have forcible abortion, sterilization, and they kill girl babies. They also murder the old folk and the ill folk. You want that?"

"No!" I said. "But we need to take time to consider—"

"Tyrant, we're out of time. The problem is now. We can't wait for the people to get around to doing something about it; they never will. If we don't act now, population will wipe us out all too soon." She stared into my face. "Tyrant, we've got to act now, while it can still be halfway gentle. You know that."

"I don't know that!" I protested. But inside, I did.

 

There was a longer interval before the next chip returned. I wondered whether my anonymous woman had had second thoughts, being too shy to present her own body to me, even if enhanced. Well, it had been a nice diversion. Certainly I did not need to expend time on foolishness of this nature.

When it showed up, I knew by my own reaction that my interest was greater than I had let myself believe. There was something about this woman, perhaps her quality of naïveté, that intrigued me. Also, I realized that I did, after all, need this type of diversion. My tenure as Tyrant was becoming increasingly restrictive, both physically and intellectually; I could neither go freely out in public, lest I get assassinated, nor readily solve the problems of the society. Everywhere I turned, the barriers were formidable and complex, not admitting any simplistic answers. So I needed simplistic relief and distraction, much as a child needs candy or fairy tales as a counterpoint to grim reality. This exploration of love and sex with the anonymous woman, an enjoyable challenge that had no substance, risk-free—this was helping me to cope with the rest of my situation. Pleasure without responsibility—what a treasure that can be!

I played the scene. It went through the kiss. Then she removed her cloak and stood before me, much less fully endowed but also far more natural. When I touched her undergarments, they dissolved, as before, but now her breasts had human nipples and human heft, and her cleft had down.

I paused. This was only a feelie, not real, yet on a certain level it was real enough. Did I really want to do this? Did she? I had possessed many women in my day, but she had evidently possessed no men.

I asked her. "You have offered your body to me. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes," she said. I realized that this simple answer could have been keyed to any number of potential suggestions. Still, it did seem to be what she wanted: to make love to the Tyrant. After that act was completed on the chip, I might never hear from her again; if so, that was the way it had to be.

"Then I will show you my body," I said. I disrobed, carefully, so that she could protest if she wished to. She merely stood there and watched.

When I was naked, my member expanded and became erect, ready for the act. Then, yet again, I paused. There had not been sufficient reaction on her part; this could be beyond what she had programmed for. "Do you know what this is?" I asked.

"I have not seen..." she said hesitantly.

Never seen a man naked? An erect organ? This was too risky. I decided to postpone the act. "Consider and prepare," I told her. "If you still wish to do it, we shall do it next time."

Then I prepared some alternatives for her to explore at her leisure: the feel of a firm member pushing into her orifice, of a male body pressing her down, of a mouth at her breast. Increasingly I suspected that she had not engaged in any kind of sexual act before, not even hugging or kissing, and I did not want to overwhelm her. I did make an attempt to complete the act with her and found that while she lay down on her back at my command, she did not otherwise cooperate; she really didn't know what came next. So I erased that sequence; it was indeed too soon for it.

 

The population control measure stirred up literal riots. The Navy had to move in to restore order in a dozen cities, and quite a number of people were shipped out to space. When we announced that anyone caught committing vandalism against property in the name of reproduction would be permanently barred from restoration of such rights, the violence abated, but it was evident that much bad feeling remained. It seemed that the people wanted me to solve the problems of society but did not want to be personally touched by the necessary measures. My sympathy for the common man was diminishing in the face of this hypocrisy. Had they really expected to breed without limit, while the government covered all costs of child care and good employment for all the offspring?

Actually they could enjoy children via the helmet too. There were chips available that covered all the details of child rearing, so the population could be controlled without depriving families of the experience of having children—just the reality. But, of course, that wasn't enough.

 

The next tape showed how correctly I had judged her. She knew almost nothing of actual sexual expression, not even what was available on the more graphic holos. She had led a sheltered life. She was willing and eager but ignorant. I would have to take her through it step by step.

First I did what I should have done earlier: I explained it to her verbally. I described how a man and a woman came together, how she spread her legs and he set his organ carefully in her. Then I set out to demonstrate.

I had her lie on the bed that appeared in the scene, naked, while I approached with my erect member and ran my hands over her body. She had improved that body greatly; now the flesh felt as it should. But when I mounted her from above, she did not respond properly; her legs remained closed. I realized that she still did not realize the extent to which her cooperation was necessary. I ran my hands along her thighs and tried to separate them, but there was no response.

Again I paused to consider. I had grown accustomed to experienced women and took certain things for granted. This woman had no sexual experience. Perhaps that was why she had come to me, via the helmet: She wanted to learn at the hands of a public figure she respected, one who was reputed to be very good with women. Then she could apply that knowledge to real life and suffer few, if any, of the false starts and errors that inexperience brought. It did make sense.

I remembered Juana, my first roommate in the Navy, some thirty-five years before. A lovely girl who was terrified of sex because she had been raped, yet who had to get through it because of inflexible Navy policy. How had I handled that?

"Let me show you a different way," I told my helmet woman. "One that requires less of you. I will describe it to you now, and next time we can do it."

I told her to lie on her right side and draw up her legs. "I will embrace you from behind and enter you in the normal manner. You will feel my legs against the backs of yours, and my left arm will circle your body so that my hand can caress your breasts. I will go into you slowly; there will be no discomfort. Do not be concerned about being a virgin; here in the helmet there need be no complications."

I continued to describe the expectations, so that she would have no surprises, and would be able to accommodate me in anything I might do that she chose to accept. This is easier to do when limited to a single position. I tried to describe what her feeling of me inside her should be, but, of course, this was difficult. I couldn't act it out, because I lacked the feminine anatomy. Finally I drew on my long-ago memory of one of the reverse-role feelie chips, in which a male could experience the sensations of the female during the act and projected that memory as clearly as I could.

I returned the chip to Shelia. What she would think of the content I could not say. But she did know me well enough to accept it.

 

My memory suggests that only a few days later the chip returned, but either it was longer or there were intermediate missives that my recollection has compressed into a single episode. Again it hardly matters; the essence is accurate. I was eager to don the helmet; my secret romance with this anonymous woman had quite taken my fancy. Perhaps it was the novelty of introducing her to sex, which is a special type of pleasure for a man. The nervous excitement of her learning process fed back to me, making the familiar become new.

I played through the routine opening sequence, then got her on the bed. She assumed the position I had described, and I got on the bed behind her and brought my member into play. Her flesh was ready, responsive, and wet where I positioned myself for entry. I advanced slowly, and she had keyed in the crossover tactiles so that the distinction between this and reality was not great. I moved into her all the way, and my hand took hold of her left breast and squeezed it gently. Oh, yes, this was good!

Then her vaginal muscles clenched. Surprised, I thrust, and suddenly we were in the culmination, moving almost together, thrust and clench and squeeze. Very soon I jetted into her... and then the scene ended, and I realized I had soiled my trousers. This is a consequence of careless use of the helmet; I should have taken a precaution.

I removed the helmet, took a shower, and changed my clothing. Then I returned to the helmet and played through the alternatives. She had indeed learned well; we completed the act in several slight variances.

But though she had reacted well, she had not actually climaxed; careful study satisfied me on that. So I explained what I contemplated for the next occasion and told her how to accommodate it, so that she, too, could experience the thrill of culmination. I complimented her on what she had done so far and invited her to play through my personal channel to verify the joy she had brought to me. There are ways in which feelie sex is better than the reality, and this is one of them: The partners can actually feel each other's pleasure. I had recorded a formidable dose of it this time, and it only excited me further to realize that her first experience of orgasm might be mine. Later I would have the special pleasure of feeling hers.

 

Faith was now fifty-three, but her recent years of service to the community had revitalized her, and she was indeed a beautiful woman again.

"Full employment is easier said than done," she said earnestly. "Many who are called unemployed are actually migrant laborers—"

"We want to take proper care of them," I said firmly. "I spent a year as one myself; I know their lot."

"Fair wages and fair working conditions will do them the most good. Another group of the poor is the homeless; people who used to exist comfortably enough until rising rents forced them into the halls to become drifters, shopping-bag ladies, and such. Give them decent housing and they can become productive again."

"Housing for all," I agreed.

"And the women with children," she continued. "They can't work because they have to stay home with the children, but they want to work, and would work, if they had proper day care for those children."

"Day care, definitely," I agreed.

"And the ill—physically and mentally. If the handicapped are hired for suitable positions, they can be self-supporting, and the mental cases can be gotten out of the passages—"

I thought of Shelia. Certainly the handicapped could be effective workers! "Why aren't the mentally ill in institutions?" I asked.

"They were, but it was too expensive to maintain them, so as an act of generosity, they were returned to society. That means they wander the halls, panhandling, and they sleep in the crannies of storage chambers. Most are harmless, but shopkeepers don't like them because of the thefts—"

"But they can work productively?"

"If the right jobs are provided. Many are of low intelligence, but for them, routine jobs that would bore normal people to distraction could be fine. Some would need to work in confinement, but they could still operate computers. Some of them have minds that resemble computers, actually."

"Like Amber," I murmured.

"The child who translates for you? Yes. If we make a diligent effort, we can put many of these people to useful work, and they will be better off for it." She glanced at her notes. "We'll have to do something about racism."

"Racism causes poverty?"

"Indirectly. It tends to isolate minorities and reduce their employment opportunities. Blacks and Hispanics can become ghettoized, and their rates of unemployment—"

"Deal with racism," I agreed. "But I'm not quite sure how."

"Education," she said firmly.

"Hopie's department," I said. "I hope that doesn't overwhelm her."

"She's a bright girl; she'll think of something. Now another class of poverty is the prostitutes—"

"The what?"

"Most of them are only in for economic reasons; if they had any better way to earn a living, they'd take it." She smiled. "I happen to know the route. Roulette agrees. She means to decriminalize sex. Provide decent jobs for those women, so they don't have to look for money that way. The minority who really do like that sort of work can gets jobs at what she calls the civilian Tail. No more hallwalking."

"That should do it," I agreed. "But I don't know how we can stop some from hallwalking if they decide to pick up some extra income."

"No need. They can do what they want. But they won't be forced to for economic reasons, and the men will know that they can get it at a set price in the Tail, so there won't be much demand. No hundred-dollars-a-night stuff, unless the girl is something special. Now we come to the problem—"

"The problem," I repeated, dreading what it might be.

"The major problem of poverty is health. Either health care is so expensive that it impoverishes ordinary people, or the poor are dying because they can't afford it. Now, we could provide free health care for all..."

"The Senator has already braced me on that," I said. "Health care now costs ten percent of the gross planetary product, and it is rising toward fifteen percent."

"And it's not really helping," she agreed. "Free care is not making folks healthier; they continue with their unhealthy habits and let the state pick up the tab for the consequence. Stonebridge tells me that half of all the medical costs of the average person's life occur in the final year. Now, if we could just cut off that year—"

"How can we know when a person's final year is starting?"

"I hashed this out with Stonebridge," she said. "We agreed that some people are better risks than others. If we consider age, general health, and lifestyle, we can get a pretty good notion when expenses are going to mount. Or we could simply set a cap: When any person uses up the allowance for free care, that's it, and he's on his own. That seems fair."

"That seems callous," I said. "I expected you to argue the other side."

"I did argue the other side, but Stonebridge showed me that we could do a lot more good for many more poor people if we put a cap on calamitous medical expense and used the money to help those who could benefit most by small amounts. If we use Ebony's euthanasia pills for the terminal cases..." She shrugged. "I must confess, things do look different when you're trying to solve the whole problem instead of pushing one particular view. The greatest good for the greatest number—it does make sense."

"If we have a set limit," I pointed out, "some bright young man might have an accident and go over, and have to die, when just a little more money would have paid to make him fit for forty more years of productive service, while an idle old man who has been lucky might be saved."

"A limit to state care," she said. "If an employer wanted to pay for extra care for a good employee, that would be satisfactory."

"Could be," I agreed, not entirely satisfied. We were coming to difficult decisions.

 

The helmet affair continued thereafter with increasing sophistication. Every few days the chip would arrive, and it always meant a new position or a new variation, wonderfully detailed. My anonymous woman had become a very fine lover, always eager to please me and herself. She learned to use her hands to excellent advantage, and her mouth, and to accommodate my hands and mouth in phenomenal ways.

We mastered all the positions I could think of, and many variations. Sometimes we did it fast, sometimes slow; we filled up a second chip, and a third, saving all the versions. That's another thing about a feelie: Long after the initial episode, you can play it again and again. After a while the familiarity dulls it, but still, it is much better than nothing. I understand that some men—and women—have saved their early feelie recordings for decades and played them back in sequence when old and unable to perform similarly. Via the feelie, a luscious young wife can remain that way forever. Naturally all this was available on the porno market, but there is a special quality to the scene of your own loved one, and of one you have actually experienced.

I tried to talk with her on occasion. "You have never given me a name," I complained. She only smiled, preferring to retain anonymity. She would not talk politics or anything of substance; she merely expressed her love of, and joy in, me. She thought I was a wonderful person and a wonderful lover. I found this easy enough to take; I was now in my fifties and knew she was young, perhaps twenty, and her continuing interest was very flattering.

"But you must go to your real life," I cautioned her. "You have now mastered sex and are ready for marriage or whatever relationship you choose."

"I am satisfied with you," she responded. "I want only you." Actually this did not occur all in one sequence; it developed over the course of several episodes, just as our sexual events did. But it would be tedious to render it in fragmented form.

"You know I am married," I said. "I am separated, so I can and do indulge privately with other women, but I cannot marry any of them. Even if I were not the Tyrant, I could not take up another formal relationship."

"There is only one thing that would bring me greater joy than the helmet has with you," she said.

"And what is that?" I asked, for she seldom volunteered information; she had to be asked. By that token I knew she was not any of the women I knew. Even had Coral or Ebony or one of my old Navy mistresses chosen to communicate with me in this manner, they would not have had the diffident mannerisms of this anonymous woman. I rather liked this quality in her. She was not pushy; apart from her devotion to me, she made no demands.

"To be with you physically," she said.

I smiled. "That would ruin your anonymity," I pointed out. "I think that I would be interested in being with you physically, though I know you would not look the way you do here, for you have accommodated my tastes as well as any woman has. But it would be both awkward and dangerous for you, for I am a target for assassins. I would not care to expose you to that."

"I would gladly die for you," she said.

"But I would not gladly have you die for me!" I responded. "If there were some way we could be together, without generating danger for you, I would do it. But there is not."

"There is," she said.

"Oh? How?"

But that she would not answer. When I pressed her, she would only say that I would have to fathom it for myself.

"But I don't even know who you are!" I protested. "How can I find a way to be with you physically when I have no knowledge of you physically?"

"If you knew me physically, you might not like me," she said. "I would rather keep you with the helmet."

"Are you physically ugly?" I asked. "Are you afraid I would be revolted by your appearance?"

"I am very much as you see me here," she said, spreading her hands. At this moment she was standing naked before me, and her proportions were modest; she had gradually diminished them as she discovered that I did not mind. If fact, she was now virtually nascent in development; her breasts were developed but not full, and her hips were almost boyishly slender. No, it truly didn't matter; I had loved slender women as well as voluptuous ones, and this one had mastered the techniques that made actual flesh superfluous. When a man is in a woman, the flesh on her outside matters less. Flesh is mostly an attractant, bearing much the same relation to her performance as smell does to taste. Not to be ignored, but not the full story, either.

"I can accept that," I said, going to her and taking her in my arms and kissing her.

"But if you knew me physically, you might not," she demurred.

"How can I convince you that you are wrong?" I asked.

"When you find me, you will know," she said. "Then—" She shrugged, and I saw that she was genuinely afraid.

 

Hopie was getting her program shaped up. "No required courses, no exams," she said. "No mandatory attendance, but anyone who isn't in school beyond a certain age must enter the work force. If he doesn't know what he needs, he'll get fired soon enough. The kids'll get serious quick enough. Absolutely no hazing—anyone practicing it to be summarily dismissed. Freedom from fear—most kids miss at least one day a month, just because they're afraid they'll get beat up in school. That S-blank-blank-T will come to a screeching halt. No more robberies or attacks."

"But how do you propose to prevent them?" I asked.

"Hall monitors, replays of tapes, undercover agents—we'll catch the perpetrators and get rid of them. Pretty soon it'll be safe enough. Any student who sees anything had better report it, or he's in trouble."

I shook my head. "Hopie, these are police-state methods!"

"So?"

I sighed. "You've been talking to Roulette."

"Well, she's right. What we've got now is a school system largely run by thugs. Better a police state than that! At least until we get the thugs out. You know that most of the crime is committed by kids aged fourteen to twenty-one. Catch 'em then, a lot of your crime problem is solved."

"Perhaps so," I agreed, again with reluctance. How readily people accepted tyrannical methods! "What of the quality of education itself?"

"Oh, sure. Thorley's right. The school system's problems are like those of the Navy: low pay, low standards, irrelevant requirements. Double the pay, so as to attract better people. Train them so they really know how to teach. Revamp the organization, so that things are run efficiently instead of having teachers spend all their time taking attendance and collecting slips of paper. With voluntary attendance that stuff won't be necessary. Make the courses relevant to real life. Give the teachers a real sense of mission, so they know what they're accomplishing and feel good about it. TROMP."

"What?"

"TROMP," she repeated. "Training—Relevance—Organization—Mission—Pay. The formula for fixing education."

"So education has been reduced to a formula?"

She bridled. "Daddy, you're making fun of me!"

"I wouldn't dare," I said hastily. "Do it your way. But how do you expect to handle racism?"

She glanced at me cannily. "Think you got me, don't you! But that's one of the relevant classes. To cover exactly what racism is, and why it's wrong. They'll learn."

"But if you don't require tests, or even attendance, the racists won't take that course," I pointed out. "And without school records the kids can sign up for school, then go out into the halls for mischief, since they won't be in the labor force."

She frowned. "Um. I'll think about that." She moved away.

 

My helmet love was not wasted on Shelia, who monitored every episode, each way. She did not conceal it from me. "Sir..." she would say, and not continue.

I knew it was unfair to subject her to this without recompense. She loved me, as all my women did, and deserved better. "Get us private," I would mutter.

She would, and we would make love. There were ways in which Shelia was similar to the helmet woman, in that she could not initiate the act. After that first occasion her legs had never moved, if indeed they had then. She was Shelia, not Helse, and that left her paralyzed. But apart from that they were good legs, and I gave them proper attention and brought her to her joy.

"I was never jealous of any woman before," she confessed. "I never thought I would be jealous of this one. But those scenes—"

I snapped my fingers with realization. "Shelia, we can do it with the helmet! You can have the same and not be—"

She shook her head. "No, Hope. That is her territory. I must not intrude."

This might seem a strange ethic, but I understood it. All that my helmet woman had was the feelie sequences, while Shelia had my physical body. They were indeed separate territories, and Shelia honored that the way she honored and protected my personal privacy and my liaisons with Coral and Ebony. The truth was, these had largely abated by this time, but the principle remained.

"You know who she is," I said.

"Of course."

"You know whether she is correct about my not wanting her if I learn her identity."

"She is wrong about that."

"But you won't tell me her identity."

"I promised not to."

That was that; Shelia would not break her given word, and I would not ask her to. "But will you talk to her?"

"Sir, this is a thing you must do for yourself."

"I remember when my Navy women used to manage my affairs, for my own good," I grumbled.

"Yes," she agreed.

But it was not to be long thereafter before my ignorance was abated, with serious consequence.