“Who couldn’t launch a sputnik.”
“But it works both ways,” the man said. “What happens to all the high-tech countries’ economies? They need our energy and materials.”
“Maybe not so much as we’d like to believe,” Claire said. “At any rate, they have plenty of food and water.”
For once, all of the Worlds Club waited for Jules Hammond’s newscast with anticipation.
Both Coordinators were guests on the program, and they outlined a course of action (nobody considered seriously the possibility that U.S. Steel’s referendum would fail). They were going to offer a horse trade: rather than a mutually absolute embargo, New New and Devon’s World would continue to export electricity—not a small thing, since the satellites supplied about ten percent of the Eastern Seaboard’s power—if the Lobbies would agree to supply the Worlds with enough hydrogen to offset normal daily loss, which would be about one shuttle flight per week.
It was an interesting move, especially so for having been done in public, prior to the referendum. A half billion cube-staring groundhogs knew that, if the Worlds did embargo energy, that missing ten percent was going to come off the top: their own comfort and leisure. Just for hydrogen enough to make a swimming pool’s worth of water.
Various things weren’t said. For instance, the amount of ‘hydrogen requested was the amount lost in a normal week, but most of that loss was due to industrial processes that would largely stay dormant during a boycott. So the Worlds would actually be storing a surplus of water, in case of siege.
Leaving the solar power stations on would not be particularly altruistic, either; they are totally automated and require only sunlight as a raw material. It would be more trouble to turn them off than to leave them running.
One thing that would not be broadcast for a while was that a hastily gathered committee of experts in nutrition and agriculture had been able to assure the Coordinators that there would be no. starvation, so long as there was an excess of water. People would have to revise their diets. But if it came down to fish sauce and rice, New New alone could feed practically everybody in the Worlds.
The Club stayed on until closing time, arguing, wondering, worrying. When O’Hara got back to the dormitory, there was a message light blinking for her. Daniel had called six hours before, urgent, and left a prepaid return guarantee. She punched up his number and eventually heard his sleepy voice.
“Anderson here, no vision.”
“Daniel, it’s me!”
The screen lit up to show Dan in his absurd pajamas. “Jesus, sweetheart, where have you been? I called till mid-night.”
“Worlds Club meeting; lots to talk about.”
“Shit. I should have called you at the restaurant Look, I’ve got to make a decision fast.”
She nodded at his image. Four dollars a second, he nodded back at her. As often happens because of the time lag in transmission, they both spoke simultaneously: “Well—” and “Well?” That was good for an eight-dollar chuckle.
“Cyanamid has closed up shop here completely; they’re calling all of us back, tomorrow. Today.”
Her voice broke with excitement. “Then you’ll be home in… a week or so?”
“That’s the decision.” Another expensive pause. “I may be home right now.”
She frowned slightly. “You mean—”
“John says he can get me citizenship in five minutes. I, I want to do it. But … I also want you, and now.”
“So come on down with Cyanamid and then go back to New New next year, with me. I’m sure they’ll pay your way; even if they didn’t—”
“That’s just it, Marianne! I’m the only specialist in oil-shale chemistry here. They need me now more than ever. And with the embargo they won’t be able to get anyone to replace me. You’ve always told me how important this work was; now I feel it, too, maybe even stronger than you can.”
“Wait… what are you saying? You want me to help you make this decision? Or just approve of a decision you’ve already made?”
He looked almost ill. “I don’t know.”
“Not fair.” She was thinking furiously. “Look. The embargo can’t go on that long….”
“Don’t bet on it. From here it looks like it may be years—” Dan’s image disappeared in a swirl of rainbow static. It coalesced into that of a man wearing a Bellcom operator’s uniform.
“I’m sorry; we’re having some transmission difficulty, apparently because of solar activity. Please try again later. Your money will be refunded.”
“That was a collect call.”
“Then your caller will have his money refunded.”
“How do you know it was a man?” she said sweetly, and thumbed it off. Then, on impulse, she punched up ten digits.
A bald woman in a Bellcom uniform appeared on the screen. “Directory assistance, Devon’s World. May I help you?”
“Sorry. Wrong number.” Solar activity, in a pig’s ass.
Daniel dear—
I’m sorry I was such a bitch on the phone last night. It was a confusing, difficult day and I was bone-tired.
You are obviously right. Doubly right, in view of the political situation. But even without the current troubles, it would be ultimately best for us for you to stay in New New and become a citizen. It’s where we both belong.
In fencing, they keep telling us “Fence with your head, not with your heart.” I should apply that more generally.
Love,
Marianne
19. A Few Words from Benny
This is the 15th of October. No entries for the past several weeks, old Journal, because I’ve been trying to sort out my feelings toward Marianne O’Hara; trying to divine her feelings toward me.
The second part, I fear, is easier. She sees me as a friend whom she can help. Little more. (Surprising how difficult this is to write!) She is accustomed to being casual about sex and, I suspect, enjoys showing off her expertise.
All of which confounds and delights me. To discover passion so late, and through such a bizarre vehicle. I am obsessed with her. But I dare not put the name “love” to it. Even if the first sight of her in the morning makes my heart stammer.
It’s strangely appropriate that she isn’t beautiful. She has a more rare quality, concentrated in her expression: striking, magnetic, charismatic. The first time I met her I found it difficult to keep from staring; I’ve seen that struggle a thousand times since, with friends and strangers. She is aware of this quality, of course, but will not discuss it. For me it seems most intense when she is off guard, reading or watching something distant. Her face then takes on (bad pun) an otherworldly calm, which I only yesterday identified with a painting: Botticelli’s Venus. And she Benny’s Aphrodite.
She was attacked, and badly injured, three weeks ago. I visited her several times in the hospital. The first time she was brusque, almost rude; later she said she was trying to get rid of me so I wouldn’t see her crying. I would give a great deal to see her cry. Or do anything that showed a break in control. She has the soul of a compassionate machine. Bitter Benny. You know she isn’t like that with everyone. I wonder what she is to Daniel, the man she left up in New New York? Or to that Devonite she says she loved so terribly. I don’t even know what she is to me, not honestly. All I know is that I haven’t written a poem in weeks that I didn’t tear up immediately.There once was a harlot from spaceWith a very remarkable face,Whose nethermore partCould break a man’s heartWith a taste of its tiny embrace.