“Acceding to this kind of physical, emotional, and moral subjugation may be appealing to men for whom society’s approval and the sentimental contemplation of cultural stereotypes is appealing. But I am not one of those. And so I will terminate this pregnancy and retain my human freedom.”
Nathan A. Banden took this all in with an outwardly stoic calm. Finally he said, “Then where will you have this procedure done? May I accompany you to it, at least?”
“No,” she said. “You may not.”
“Oh, Dragnie, Dragnie, Dr—“
“You may not because there is only one physician I trust with this kind of procedure, and he practices in a place where you may not go.”
Banden did not chuckle. He did not chuckle because he laughed. It was the laugh of an anxious man uncertain of what another human being had said to him but fearing its content would reveal itself to be objectionable. “Where does he work? In a prison?”
“In Glatt’s Gorge.”
The young man, unafraid to reveal the limitations of his education and disclose his inability to understand what had just been said to him, replied, “Huh?”
“You’ve never heard of Glatt’s Gorge?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. But I thought it was a… you know, a mythical place. Like the Garden of Eden or Shangri La.”
Dragnie permitted herself a slight smile. Then she withdrew the permission and the smile vanished. “It is quite real. I have been there. And that is where Doc Hastings still resides. I would not trust anyone else with this matter.”
“But why can’t I go with you?”
“Because,” Dragnie said in a tone of wistful nostalgia. “No one except a very privileged few is allowed there. It was the perfect society. There you would find wealthy people, and the people who love them or work for them, creating a self-sufficient community of gentlemen farmers, hobbyist craftsmen, amateur civil engineers, and artists-in-residence. There you would find a world-renowned philosopher running a chicken-and-waffle diner while expatiating on ‘truth,’ or a brilliant composer writing an opera about Marcus Aurelius for a full orchestra and a cast of thirty, to be performed by three people playing ukeleles. There you would discover a society in which everything, from obtaining electrical power to asking someone what time it is, was mediated by money, which was minted right there in the Gorge by an internationally-acknowledged metaphysician whose hobby was the minting of money. It was a place where a lecture on the irreducible value of currency and of its unregulated use in the valuation and conduct of all human affairs could be attended for a token fee of twenty-five cents. It was an entirely self-sufficient place because it was a place entirely underwritten by private wealth. In short, it was Paradise.”
“You keep saying ‘was.’ What is it now?”
“Exactly the way it was ten years ago.”
“It sounds wonderful, darling,” Banden sighed. “But can’t you vouch for me and get me in?”
She shook her head regretfully, because it was her head, and it was full of regret. “It’s just not possible.”
The change in Banden was sudden and volcanic. Whatever effort he had made at a sympathetic hearing of Dragnie’s explanations and a courteous response to them were now invalid. Anger rose within him like a fever; his normally pale white skin grew pink with agitation and ire. “Oh really?” he cried. “Then what you’re telling me is, you refuse to have my baby, and you refuse to even allow me to be present at its termination. And why? Because I’m not a millionaire?”
“No,” Dragnie said rationally. “It’s because—“
“Never mind,” he cried. “I can see now what I’ve meant to you this past month—not a boyfriend, not even a lover, but a plaything, to amuse you for the few weeks you’d be away from home and your world-famous, other, long-term, ‘steady,’ boyfriend.”
“Nathan, don’t be silly—“
“And now I’m ‘silly.’ Very well.” He made a visible effort to regain his composure, drawing himself up to his full height and extending himself out to his complete width. “I thought we had something special, Dragnie. I see now I was wrong. I won’t trouble you with my presence any further. If you change your mind, and wish me to accompany you to your tycoon’s paradise, I shall be at home, living with my parents.”
He turned and strode from the room.
Chapter 2
A Chair is Not a House
Dragnie checked her co-ordinates and glanced out the window of the small plane that responded to her will as with unerring precision she flew it through the air of the atmosphere. A faint smile played about her lips. Visible below her was precisely the forbidding series of mountain crags she expected to see, identical to those she had seen ten years previous when, in pursuit of another plane, she had unknowingly penetrated the optical illusion shielding this valley from the eyes of the world and had crash-landed in Glatt’s Gorge. With a clean turn of the rudder and a firm, clean adjustment of the flaps, she began her descent toward the small airstrip that she knew, in her mind, would reveal itself as she began her skillful, controlled, clean descent.
A car was waiting for her when she got out of the plane. It was an old Humpmaster, one of the costliest models of its year, now scrupulously maintained in accordance with the modern-day object and purpose of Glatt’s Gorge. Standing beside it, grinning happily, was a young man. “Miss Tagbord? It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m ‘Dirk Biceps.’” He smiled. “Not really, of course. My real name is Claude Bawlz. But as far as you’re concerned I’m Dirk Biceps. The pet food magnate.”
Dragnie extended her hand and grasped his in a firm, clean handshake of hands. “The pleasure is mine, ‘Dirk.’”
“They’re waiting for you in town. Shall we go?”
He put Dragnie’s suitcase in the car’s trunk and they set off down the unpaved mountain road. Dragnie gazed at the foothills to either side, and at the undisturbed meadow over which the road ran, and decided that none of this had changed in ten years, exactly as she knew it would and, more importantly, wouldn’t.
“How long have you been here, ‘Dirk’?” she asked the driver in order to obtain information.
“About six months,” he said with casual accuracy. “Mr. Glatt came and visited me in my office in February, and by mid-April I had shut down the factory, dissolved the corporation, dynamited the warehouse, murdered my wife and children, cancelled my subscriptions to Dog Food Age and Modern Gerbil, and ended up here.”