She seemed interested in the auto, which she called in the local fashion — as I had done — a car. “You took a chance,” she said, “driving alone all the way from Ni.”
“I was armed,” I said.
“But what if the car had broken down?”
“I would have been in trouble.”
“Yes, indeed. Most people don’t own cars here at all, and that’s why. It’s much safer to fly.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to go about buying a car,” she said.
I shrugged. “Buying and selling are about the same anywhere.”
“Did it cost much?”
“Not much. Excuse me, I need another glass of water.”
She made a joking comment on the amount of water I was consuming, and I replied in kind. When I came back with the fresh glass we talked about other things, and neither of us mentioned the auto again.
Finishing the meal, she pushed her chair back and said, “It’s getting late. We both need our sleep.”
I said, “Will you stay here?”
She pretended to misunderstand me. “I’d love to talk some more, Rolf, but it’s after two now.”
I said, “I meant, stay here.”
She studied me in silence for nearly a minute, and I read her every thought on her face. I knew when her curiosity about me was uppermost in her mind, and I knew when her dislike of being taken so bluntly for granted was strongest, and I knew when she was considering the possibility of using me to avenge her pique against the Colonel, and I knew when she decided that if she had the name she might as well have the game. I also knew when she was deciding not to answer me too quickly, in order not to appear eager or easy, and in my mind I counted to ten with her, missing by one beat, so that I had just finished thinking nine when she smiled with sex in it and said, “You’re not very subtle, are you, Rolf?”
“I hoped you would think the invitation a compliment,” I said, but didn’t add that I was incapable at the moment of any greater subtlety. My mouth was dry again, but the glass was empty.
“I do think it a compliment,” she said, her voice husky, “but I’m afraid I’m an incurable romantic. I like my compliments… sweeter.”
I got to my feet, and went to her, and took her in my hands.
She spoke only twice more, the first time to whisper, “Turn out the light,” which I did, though I would have preferred it on. The second time, just before I fell asleep, she ran her nails lightly over my chest, and laughed against my throat, and murmured pleasurably, “You act like a man just out of prison.” I laughed too, and folded my arms around her, and fell asleep.
X
She was gone in the morning, when I was awakened by a knocking at the door. I was fully conscious at once, though baffled by where I was and by a sense that someone should be with me, though for a second I couldn’t think who or why. But then the knock was repeated. I got out of bed, put on my trousers, and found at the door a short and sullen girl with greasy long hair, who wore a guard uniform exactly like those worn by the men outside the main door. She handed me a small package and said, “I’m supposed to show you to the diner. After you eat, I’m supposed to take you to see Miss Guild.”
“Good,” I said. “Wait there.” I shut the door, leaving her outside.
The package contained a watch, which read eight-thirty. I washed and dressed, took the elevator with my sullen guide, and entered the diner at ten minutes to nine. The normal day had begun much earlier here, I saw, since all the tables in the diner — a room very similar to what we called the mess in prison — were empty. A sullen employee paced me along the serving line, filling my tray with a stock breakfast, and as I ate at a table near the door I reflected on the reason for Jenna Guild’s consideration in letting me sleep late, and I found a smile coming unbidden to my lips. How odd it felt. But then my memory stretched to include my reason for being here in the first place, and the smile dissolved, and I hurried through the rest of the meal.
At nine twenty-five my guide left me at the entrance to Jenna’s office. I stepped in, wondering how I was going to behave on first seeing her, and she decided it for me, greeting me briskly with, “There you are. Had a good sleep? Does the watch fit?” She remained seated behind her desk.
Business hours, in other words, were exclusively for business. I said, “Yes to both questions. Now I get started.”
“Certainly.” Brisk, impersonal, friendly in the machined way she’d been when I’d first seen her by the elevator. “To begin with,” she said, “I thought you might be interested in seeing your brother’s file.” She extended a folder across her desk toward me. “You could sit at that table over there while you look at it, if you like.”
“Thank you.”
The folder contained documents, and the documents reduced Gar to a blueprint. His height, his weight, his date of birth, the color of his hair and eyes and skin, the place of his birth, the names and current address of his parents, the GD address for me that hid my life in prison, his scholastic records, his work history; all things I already knew, and all seeming false and out of focus and somehow incorrect when placed on paper within this folder.
There were other facts, too, which I hadn’t known. His salary, which was large. His job title, which was Developmental Surveyor. His home address here at the tower of Ice, which was Suite 87. His last job assignment, which was Special Projects Department, working under SP Supervisor L. L. Goss.
And finally, there were job evaluations, six of them, the final one from the same L.L. Goss, the first three from V. Topher, four and five from G. D. zi Quinn. All six evaluations were full of praise; his supervisors had found Gar an excellent worker, imaginative, self-reliant, capable of taking criticism, very productive, cooperative, no trouble with co-workers, and so on and so on.
But those weren’t the final papers. There was one more: the copy of a letter from Gar to Supervisor Goss recommending me for the job as his Field Assistant. The description was not me. Reading it, I saw that it too was a blueprint, like this folder, except that this was a blueprint for Rolf Malone. A revised blueprint. A loving description of who I might have been, if I hadn’t been who I am. Here and there in the revision glimpses of the original could faintly be made out.
I closed the folder. I closed my eyes. I breathed as little as possible, because breathing hurt my throat. After a while Jenna came over and said, “What’s wrong? Rolf? Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said, I opened my eyes and handed her the folder. “Thank you.”
“You’re pale,” she said.
“I want to see where he lived.”
“Where he lived?” As though she had no idea what I meant.
I pointed at the folder. “Suite 87. Gar.”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “That’s all changed now,” she said.
“I want to see it.”
“But someone else lives there now. All your brother’s personal property was sent home to his parents. If we’d known you were coming, if you’d wanted us to keep them and give them to you here…” She trailed off.
“I just want to see the rooms,” I said.
“I don’t—” She stopped, and looked at the folder, and shook her head. “I don’t know. Let me see if I can get the key.”