«Yes,» said the interviewer. «Very foolish.»
C. Briem: that was all his nameplate said. He did not seem to Dolores to be a really nasty man. Not very sympathetic, naturally. But not the totally cold inhuman kind of bureaucrat she had seen so often over the years. He was quite young, she thought, for a position of such power. Young and rather attractive, with hair the color of afternoon sunshine cropped short and neat. And good shoulders beneath his severely tailored one-piece suit. It was spotless white, of course. Dolores wore her one and only business suit, gray and shabby after all the years of hanging in closets or being folded in a tight travel bag. She had worn it only at the rallies and late-night meetings she had attended; fewer and fewer, as the years passed by.
Over the past week Dolores had gone through a dozen interviews like this one. And the complete battery of physical tests. This man behind the desk had the power to recommend that she be allowed to return to her home, or to keep her locked out and exiled from her roots, her memories, her only son.
«How old is your boy now?» he suddenly asked.
Startled, Dolores answered, «Eleven—no, he’ll be twelve years old next month. I was hoping to get back in time to see him on his birthday.»
«We really don’t want any more immigrant laborers,» he said, trying to make his voice hard but not quite able to do so.
«I am not an immigrant,» Dolores replied firmly. «I am a native. And I am not a laborer. I am a fluid systems technician.»
«A plumber.»
She smiled tolerantly. «A plumber who works on fusion-power plants. They require excellent piping and welding. I run the machines that do such work. It is all in the dossier on your screen, I’m sure.»
He conceded his point with a dip of his chin. «You’ve worked on fusion plants for all the ten years you were out there?»
«Most of the time. I did some work on solar power systems as well. They also require excellent plumbing.»
For long moments the interviewer said nothing, staring at the screen as if it would tell him what to do, which decision to make.
Finally he returned his gaze to Dolores. «I will have to consult the immigration board, Ms. Alvarez. You will have to wait for their decision.»
«How long will that take?»
He blinked his blue eyes once, twice. «A day or so. Perhaps longer.»
«Then I must remain aboard this station until they decide?»
«Of course. Your expenses will be paid by the government on its regular per them allowance.»
Dolores felt her nostrils flare. Government per them allowances did not come anywhere near the prices charged by the station’s restaurants or the hotel. And it usually took months for any government to honor the expense reports that per them people sent in.
She got to her feet. «I hope it will be a quick decision, then.»
The interviewer remained seated, but seemed to thaw just a bit. «No, Ms. Alvarez. Hope for a slow decision. The more time they take to make up their minds, the better your chances.»
Dolores murmured, «Like a jury deciding a person’s life or death.»
«Yes,» he said sadly. «Very much like that.»
Dolores drifted through the rest of the day, walking through the long sloping passageways of the circular station, heading away from the administrative offices with their impersonal interviewers and computerized records of a woman’s entire life.
Do they know? she asked herself silently. Do they suspect why I want to return? Of course they must have records of my old political activities, but do they know what I am trying to accomplish now?
Even when the three lunar colonies had united in declaring their independence from the World Government the separation between the peoples of Earth and those living in space had never been total. Governments might rage and threaten, corporations might cut off entire colonies from desperately needed trade, but still a trickle of people made it from space back to Mother Earth. And vice versa. The journey was often painful and always mired in red tape, but as far as Dolores knew no one had ever been flatly denied permission to go home again.
Until now.
The other people striding along the wide passageways were mostly administrative staff personnel who wore one-piece jumpsuits, as had the handsome young Mr. Briem. White, sky-blue, fire-engine red, grassy green, their colors denoted the wearers’ jobs. But as Dolores neared the area where the tourist shops and restaurants were located, the people around her changed.
The tourists dressed with far more variety: men in brilliantly colored running suits or conservative business outfits such as Dolores herself wore; the younger women showing bare midriffs, long shapely legs glossy with the sheen of hosiery, startling makeup and hairdos.
The space station was huge, massive, like a small city in orbit. As she strolled aimlessly along its passageways Dolores realized that the station had grown in the ten years since she had last seen it. It was like Samarkand or Damascus or any of those other ancient cities along the old caravan trails: a center of commerce and trade, even tourism. Surely the restrictions against returning home were easier now than they had been ten years before.
Then she realized that these tourists were aboard a space station that orbited a mere five hundred kilometers above Earth’s surface. They would not be allowed to go to the Moon or to one of the O’Neil habitats. They were flatlanders on vacation. And there were almost no lunar citizens or residents of O’Neil communities here in this station. At least, none that she could identify.
She caught a glance of the Earth hanging outside one of the rare windows along the passageway, huge and blue and glowing with beauty. Five hundred kilometers away. Only five hundred kilometers.
As the station swung in its stately rotation the view of Earth passed out of sight. Dolores saw the distant Moon hanging against the black background of deep space. Then even that passed, and there was nothing to see but the infinite emptiness.
Will they find out? Dolores wondered. Is there something in my record, something I might have said during the interviews, some tiny hint, that will betray me?
She stopped in mid-stride, almost stumbled as a sudden bolt of electrical surprise flashed through her. Hector Luis! Her son!
But then she saw that it was merely a curly-haired boy of ten or twelve, a stranger walking with his trusting hand firmly in the grasp of a man who must have been his father. Dolores watched them pass by without so much as a flicker of a glance at her. As if she were not there in the corridor with them. As if she did not exist.
The last hologram she had seen of her son had been more than a year ago. The boy walking past looked nothing like Hector Luis, really. The same height maybe. Not even a similar build.
You are becoming maudlin, she chided herself.
She realized that she was in the midst of the shopping area. Store windows stretched on both sides of the passageway, merchandise of all sorts glittered brightly in the attractive displays. Maybe I can find something for Hector Luis, she thought. Maybe if I buy a gift for him it will impress the immigration board. She had no doubt that they were watching her. Yet she felt slightly ashamed of her thought, using her son as a tool to pry open the board members’ hearts.
She window-shopped until she lost tack of the time. The more she gazed at the lush variety of merchandise the more confused she became. What would a twelve-year-old boy like? What does her son like? She had no idea.
Finally her stomach told her that she had missed lunch and it was almost time for supper. There were restaurants further up the corridor. Dolores frowned inwardly: the government’s munificent per them allowance might just cover the price of a beer.