“It’s about time,” she said as he skidded to a stop before her. She reached out, put a hand around the back of his neck, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him long and hard.
Victoria Dickinson was self-centered, demanding, stubborn, occasionally rude, always spoiled, and smarter than most of her classmates.
Part of that she’d inherited from her father. He was the ambitious, self-made entrepreneur who had amassed a fortune by importing as much Rik technology as the government would allow—the think-man, rik-sacks, rik-suits, and new things that no one even knew about yet.
Another part of it was her age. like Harry, she was older than most of her classmates. She’d spent a year at Wellesley before tiring of it and taking off on a tour of the world—at her father’s expense, of course. Four years later, she’d returned. Wellesley wouldn’t take her back, but by then she was able to attract the attention of the admissions office at Harvard.
Their relationship was one of cold passion. She wanted sex. In fact, she demanded sex. But she offered little love in return. And no romance. Mostly she offered a casually domineering manner that she had either learned or inherited from Daddy.
Harry put up with it. He told himself that he could walk away any time he wanted. Most of the time he believed that. He had found a place inside himself that was unaffected by her demands and unbothered by her psychological battering. And in return he had a rare opportunity to observe an example of extreme human character close up.
It wasn’t as if he could see some spark of girlish innocence in her, some sensitive bit of unprotected humanity. There was none of that.
It was more the ghastly fascination felt by a bystander at some horrible accident. He didn’t necessarily want to look, but he couldn’t turn away.
And there was always another surprise waiting around the corner.
But he knew that sooner or later they would come to a parting of the ways—before he allowed her to consume him like a black widow spider or a praying mantis.
Victoria released him and drew back.
“You taste awful. What have you been doing?”
He began to answer her, but she interrupted.
“Never mind. Hurry up and come with me. I have to get to class and there’s something you have to do.” She handed him her rik-sack—which was not larger inside than out, as some confusing ads said when it came on the market, but lighter full than empty—and took off down the ramp, her boot heels flopping against the concrete floor.
They stepped back into a February chill leavened only slightly by a bright midday Sun. Winter in New England was cold again, now that the greenhouse effect had been reversed. Harry looked up at the sky, unconsciously tuning in to a weather report.
“The temperature is 22 degrees Fahrenheit,” whispered the voice in his ear. “The wind chill is 5 below zero. Forecast for this afternoon is sunny and continued cold and windy. Tonight’s temperatures will be in the single digits.”
The wind plucked at homemade banners strewn across the ivy-covered bricks of the Harvard dorms. “Freshman Social Feb. 23,” proclaimed one. “Rik Student Society looking for you!” said another, with an ominous ambiguity.
A cleanup team was working its way across the snow-covered common, collecting litter, sweeping the snow from the walk, smiling at the passersby. Even Harvard had become infested with the self-appointed groups of civic-minded youth that seemed to pop up simultaneously all over the place. Harry thought they were a poor substitute for the work crews he’d been on when he was doing his PS. Besides, the university paid people to do that kind of thing. These kids would be of more use if they joined the Democratic Activist League.
A small handbill stuck to a lamppost caught Victoria’s attention. She stopped abruptly, stepped over to the lamppost, ripped the flyer down, came back, and stuffed it in Harry’s hand.
It said simply: “WE’LL PAY YOU TO TRAVEL.”
“This is where I want you to go.”
“Is this a subtle way of telling me to get lost?”
“That’s not funny,” she said, frowning as she continued down the walk. “This is serious. I want you to go there today—before lunch. Sign up for the tour of Naverly Tol. There’s only one a day and they still have a seat open.”
He read the small print at the bottom of the sheet. The offer of cash for travel was made by Getaway Tour Guides. Harry fingered his virtual mouse, flipping through menus until he found a directory of campus organizations. He rolled up to “Getaway” and squeezed hard.
“Getaway Tour Guides is a travel guide publisher started several years ago by Harvard students and continued by them after graduation. They pay students to travel to exotic locations in return for written reports on travel arrangements and tour highlights. The reports are used in travel guides, both hardcopy and on-line. Offices are located in the Brattle Building, Harvard Square, Suite 211. For on-line link, return to menu.”
“Naverly Tol? Where is that?”
“Somewhere on the other side of the Galaxy, I suppose,” Victoria said. “It hasn’t been discovered yet by the tourist crowd.”
“And you want me to go there?”
“It’s important,” she said. “I’m doing it as a favor to Daddy. You only have to be gone overnight.”
“Are you going to tell me why?”
“Later, darling. After class, I’ll tell you all you need to know” Their walking had carried them up to the doors of Emerson Hall.
Emerson—like many of Harvard’s aging structures—had always reminded Harry of a theme-park for historians and scholars. It was centuries old on the outside, but sparkling new on the inside, just like something built by Disney, complete with electronic blackboards and think-man jacks at every desk.
“Now kiss me quick and get going. If you hurry, you can walk me to the library when class is over.”
He obliged her and then stepped back. She didn’t even look up, but turned quickly and rushed through the doors.
Harry sighed, then headed for Harvard Square.
Harry Elkins Widener was a Harvard graduate who’d had the grave misfortune, at the age of twenty-seven, to purchase a ticket on the maiden voyage of the White Star liner Titanic. He was not one of the lucky ones who survived.
In his will, Harry had left his not inconsiderable private collection of books to his alma mater, to be held by the executor of his estate, his mother, until a suitable place could be found for them. She had taken care of that duty, and now the more than three thousand volumes of his collection filled the shelves of a small, wood-paneled study with a fireplace at the far end, furnished with a few antique sofas and easy chairs and a mahogany desk.
The room was surrounded by a larger library, also provided by Harry’s mother, which was smaller than the Titanic, but not by much.
Mrs. Widener had also required that every student at Harvard be taught to swim before being allowed to graduate.
Victoria thought the smaller library was a perfect place for a confidential conversation.
“Did you take care of everything?” she asked.
“Every last detail,” Harry said, displaying his copy of the transit ticket and a thick book on Naverly Tol that he had picked up at the Globe Map Shop.
“What’s that?” she asked when she saw the book. “Never mind. You won’t need it.”
“What about the Getaway tour guide?” Harry asked, scrambling to avoid having his feelings bruised by her automatic rejection of his preparations.
“What about it? You don’t think you’re going there just so you can write some silly guide for bored tourists, do you?”
“I guess I don’t. Exactly why are you sending me to the other end of the Galaxy?”
“When you get to this place—”