"But suppose one of your friends is using it, Ian"-he had asked me to drop calling him Captain-"or yourself."
"Unlikely but, if so, the computer will know and tell you. If I'm in town or about to be in town, it will tell you that, too-and I certainly would not want to miss you."
The pass direct, but in the politest terms. So I answered it by telling him, through giving him our Christchurch number, that he was welcome to try to get my pants off... if he had the guts to face my husbands, my co-wives, and a passel of noisy kids. I thought it most unlikely that he would call. Tall, handsome bachelors in glamorous, high-paying jobs don't have to carry the anvil that far.
About then the loudspeaker that mumbles the arrivals and departures interrupted itself with: "It is with deep sorrow that we pause to announce the total destruction of Acapulco. This flash comes to you courtesy of Interworld Transport, Proprietary, the Triple-S Lines: Speed-Safety-Service."
I gasped. Captain Ian said, "Oh, those idiots!"
"Which idiots?"
"The whole Mexican Revolutionary Kingdom. When are the territorial states going to learn that they cannot possibly win against corporate states? That's why I said they were idiots. And they are!"
"Why do you say that, Captain?-Ian?"
"Obvious. Any territorial state, even if it's Ell-Four or an asteroid, is a sitting duck. But fighting a multinational is like trying to slice a fog. Where's your target? You want to fight IBM? Where is IBM? Its registered home office is a P.O. box number in Delaware Free State. That's no target. IBM's offices and people and plants are scattered through four hundred-odd territorial states groundside and more in space; you can't hit any part of IBM without hurting somebody else as much or more. But can IBM defeat, say, Great Russia?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "The Prussians weren't able to."
"It would just depend on whether or not IBM could see a profit in
it. So far as I know, IBM doesn't own any guerrillas; she may not even have agents saboteurs. She might have to buy the bombs and missiles. But she could shop around and take her own sweet time getting set because Russia isn't going anywhere. It will still be there, a big fat target, a week from now or a year. But Interworld Transport just showed what the outcome would be. This war is all over. Mexico bet that Interworld wouldn't risk public condemnation by destroying a Mexican city. But those old-style politicians forgot that corporate nations aren't nearly as interested in public opinion as territorial nations have to be. The war's over."
"Oh, I hope so! Acapulco is-was-a beautiful place."
"Yes, and it would still be a beautiful place if the Montezuma's
Revolutionary Council wasn't rooted somewhere back in the twentieth century. But now there will be face-saving. Interworld will apologize and pay an indemnity, then, with no fanfare, the Montezuma will cede the land and the extraterritoriality for the new spaceport to a new corporation with a Mexicano name and a DF home office... and the public won't be told that the new corporation is owned sixty percent by Interworld and forty percent by the very politicians who stalled just a little too long and let Acapulco be destroyed." Captain Tormey looked sour and I suddenly saw that he was older than I had first guessed.
I said, "Ian, isn't ANZAC a subsidiary of Interworld?"
"Perhaps that's why I sound so cynical." He stood up. "Your shuttle is locking into the gate. Let me have your bag."
VI
Christchurch is the loveliest city on this globe.
Make that "anywhere," as there is not yet a truly lovely city off Earth. Luna City is underground, Eli-Five looks like a junkyard from outside and has only one arc that looks good from inside. Martian cities are mere hives and most Earthside cities suffer from a misguided attempt to look like Los Angeles.
Christchurch does not have the magnificence of Paris or the setting of San Francisco or the harbor of Rio. Instead it has things that make a city lovable rather than stunning: The gentle Avon winding through our downtown streets. The mellow beauty of Cathedral Square. The Ferrier fountain in front of Town Hall. The lush beauty of our world-famous botanic gardens smack in the middle of downtown.
"The Greeks praise Athens." But I am not a native of Christchurch (if "native" could mean anything for my sort). I am not even an Ennzedd. I met Douglas in Ecuador (this was before the Quito Skyhook catastrophe), was delighted by a frantic love affair compounded of equal parts of pisco sours and sweaty sheets, then was frightened by his proposal, calmed down when he made me understand that he was not then proposing vows in front of some official but a trial visit to his S-group-find out if they liked me, find out if I liked them.
That was different. I zipped back to the Imperium and reported, and told Boss that I was taking some accumulated leave-or would
he rather have my resignation? He growled something about go ahead and get my gonads cooled off, then report in when I was fit to work. So I rushed back to Quito and Douglas was still in bed.
At that time there really wasn't any way to get from Ecuador to New Zealand... so we tubed to Lima and took an SB right over the South Pole to West Australia Port at Perth (with the oddest 5shaped track because of Coriolis)-tube to Sydney, bounce to Auckland, float to Christchurch, taking nearly twenty-four hours and the wildest of tracks just to cross the Pacific. Winnipeg and Quito are almost the same distance from Auckland-don't be fooled by a flat map; ask your computer-Winnipeg is only one-eighth farther.
Forty minutes versus twenty-four hours. But I had not minded the longer trip; I was with Douglas and dizzy in love.
In another twenty-four hours I was dizzy in love with his family.
I hadn't expected that. I had looked forward to a lovely vacation with Douglas and he had promised me some skiing as well as sex- not that I insisted on skiing. I knew that I had an implied obligation to go to bed with his group brothers if asked. But that didn't worry me because an artificial person simply can't take copulation as seriously as most humans seem to take it. Most of the females of my crèche class had been trained as doxies from menarche on and then were signed up as company women with one or another of the construction multinationals. I myself had received basic doxy training before Boss showed up, bought my contract, and changed my track. (And I jumped the contract and was missing for several months- but that's another story.)
But I wouldn't have been jumpy about friendly sex even if I had received no doxy training at all; such nonsense isn't tolerated in APs; we never learn it.
But we never learn anything about being in a family. The very first day I was there I made us all late for tea by rolling on the floor with seven youngsters ranging from eleven down to a nappy-wetter
plus two or three dogs and a young tomcat who had earned the name Mister Underfoot through his unusual talent for occupying all of a large floor.
I had never experienced anything like that in all my life. I didn't want to stop.
Brian, not Douglas, took me skiing. The ski lodges at Mount
Hutt are lovely but the bedrooms aren't heated after twenty-two and you have to snuggle up close to keep warm. Then Vickie took me out to see the family's sheep and I met socially an enhanced dog who could talk, a big collie called Lord Nelson. Lord had a low opinion of the good sense of sheep, in which he was, I think, fully justified.
Bertie took me to Milford Sound via shuttle to Dunedin (the "Edinburgh of the South") and overnight there-Dunedin is swell but it's not Christchurch. We took a flubsy little steamer there around to the fjord country, one with tiny little cabins big enough for two only because it's cold down at the south end of the island and again I snuggled up close.