Home Fires

by Gene Wolfe

  “I want to give you as much time as you want to take,” Skip said.

  “I know. I appreciate it and I don’t want to abuse it, but what I’m trying to say is pretty tough to get out. I cheated on you with Jerry.”

  Skip shrugged.

  “You know about that. Right back there, in the same bed you and I sleep in.”

  “Correct.”

  “You also know that he gave me a card for his cabin on the signal deck. You probably think I went up there and we did it again there, only I didn’t. The only time I’ve been in that cabin was when Rick and what’s-her-name…”

  “Susan.”

  “Right. When they took me there.” Chelle’s hand found Skip’s and held it tightly while she stared out to sea for a minute and more. “I’ve cheated on you with somebody else, too.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “You do?”

  He nodded.

  “You know who?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If you want to talk about it, we can. If you don’t, we don’t have to.”

  “I’m sorry. You—you were in a coma, and it just happened.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Then I wanted to tell him we were finished and there would be no more. Only it happened again.” For a moment she was quiet. “I know how that must sound. Why aren’t you mad?”

  It was a good question, and he tried to think of a good answer. “Because I love you so much. I’m angry at Mick, but I owe him a great deal.” Skip paused. “I would have said I’d never be able to repay him, but maybe I have. If I act as if I don’t know and let him go on thinking that I don’t know, maybe it will be paying what I owe.”

  “I’m money? A kind of money?”

  He shook his head.

  “Would you have asked me to do it? Because he wanted me, as a way to pay him back?”

  “Of course not.” Skip sighed. “I’m creating this after the fact. You don’t have to tell me that. I could pull the rug out from under him. Destroy his career. I don’t want to do it. I could void our contract and get a couple of clients to break your legs. I don’t want to do that either.”

  “But you’ve thought of it.”

  He nodded.

  “Didn’t it ever strike you that I might kill your clients?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m offering to get your gun ashore for you. So that you can kill anybody who tried to do it, whether I sent them or not.”

  “You’re serious.”

  He nodded. “I love you so much that I might do just about anything. I’m not saying that’s good or noble or divine. It isn’t. It’s just how I feel.”

  When Chelle did not speak, he added, “I can’t trust myself.”

  “Or me.”

  He shrugged.

  “My gun’s going to get smuggled in, only I’ll do it, not you. If you were doing it, you might be caught. You’d be disbarred.”

  “I won’t be caught.”

  “Right. If I’m caught, I’ll have you outside trying to keep me out of jail—and trying to get me released if I’m convicted.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Would you rather I dropped it over the side?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Then I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll do it. If Charlie’s spying for the Os, why’d he shoot Rick?”

  “To save your life. You’re his daughter, whether you’ve divorced him or not. Rick wanted to kill you and had a pretty good reason for it.”

  “Think of another reason.”

  Skip shrugged. “Why should I? I’ve given you my explanation, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “There’s a bunch wrong with it. I heard Charlie arguing, and he said that if they killed me somebody might hear the shot, and even if nobody did, they’d have to get rid of my body somehow, throw it over the side or whatever. Even if they got away with that, people would start looking for me.”

  “We were looking for you already.”

  “I know. The thing is, it would be the same thing if he killed Rick. Somebody would hear, they’d find the body, and if they didn’t somebody would come looking for him.”

  “Ipso facto, you’re wrong. By your reasoning Charlie should be locked up right now. He’s not.”

  “Wrong!” Chelle’s smile was triumphant. “Rick was a spy. Why lock up Charlie for shooting a spy?”

  “Was he? Prove it.”

  “They must have found something showing that he was.”

  Skip nodded. “Photo ID issued by the Os. That could be it. Or a code book, maybe. Do they speak English?”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “No, indeed. I’m making fun of your suggestion.”

  “I could’ve told them he was a spy.” Chelle sounded stubborn.

  “And I’m sure they would have believed you. Did you?”

  “All right,” Chelle said, “you explain. Why’s Charlie still loose?”

  “After Rick blew up, you and I took that big woman—”

  “Trinity. She’s a masseuse.”

  “Thank you. Gary Oberdorf and young Jerry went with us. Charlie and Virginia stayed behind.”

  “You said that he told her something that made her wait. This was back before dinner. It was probably just who he was. That would have stopped her dead.”

  “After which,” Skip said, “they probably went down to the first-class bar for a friendly drink.”

  “Stop trying to be funny.”

  “All right, I will. Rick blew up on the signal deck. Those staterooms belong to the ship’s officers, and the bridge is at the end of the corridor. The explosion sounded loud to us because we were in the same room, but it would have been muffled by walls and distance for the officers on the bridge. Even so, the captain would have sent someone to investigate as soon as someone could be spared. Where you there when he arrived?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “That someone would probably have found them there; she would certainly have had a few questions for him, and he would have had a few more for her. The officer would have asked them what happened. You know them both a great deal better than I do. What would they have said?”

  Chelle looked thoughtful.

  “Basically, they would have had four choices. First, they could have said they didn’t know, that they had heard the explosion and come to investigate.”

  Chelle nodded. “That sounds good.”

  “It could sound better. Charles Blue is a first-class passenger, so his stateroom must be on A Deck, B Deck, or C Deck. The elevators won’t run if the distance is less than four floors. Would he, an elderly man, be one of the first to arrive?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Virginia’s even worse. Her cabin’s on J Deck. If she were there, she wouldn’t have heard the explosion, or would have heard a sound so faint that it could’ve been anything. So she just happened to be on A Deck talking to Charlie when they heard the explosion and ran up the stairs to check it out together. They could tell that story and stick to it, but they’d certainly come under suspicion.”

  “And there’s what’s-her-name.”

  “Susan. Correct.”

  “Second choice. Admit that they had been present but say the shot had been fired by someone else. That someone would almost certainly be Susan.”

  “We saw it. You and I both did. So did Trinity.”

  “And Jerry, and Gary Oberdorf. It couldn’t possibly have worked, in other words. Too many witnesses.”

  Chelle nodded. “What’s the third choice?”

  “Say nothing at all. Stand mute. If they had done that, you would have been questioned. Were you?”

  Chelle nodded.

  “Did you say Charlie did it?”

  “Hell, no. I didn’t know who he was. I told them this nice old guy had been trying to save my life, and he’d shot the guy who kidnapped me.”

  “At which point the nice old guy would have been locked up until we made port a
nd the whole mess could be turned over to the police.”

  “Which didn’t happen.”

  “Correct.”

  “But if he said he did it, wouldn’t they lock him up anyway?”

  “Not if he had a get-out-of-jail card. Kiss me, and I’ll explain.”

  It was a lengthy kiss, during which his hand slipped into her robe.

  Followed by more kisses.

  REFLECTION 18: What Happened—and Might Happen

  I have not yet explained it to Chelle, but it seems to me that there is only one explanation and that it is a fairly obvious one. Charles Blue is a double agent. He could not simply have told Captain Kain he was, he had to be the real thing. Captain Kain would then radio South Boswash, trying to be circumspect. (Or so one hopes.)

  God only knows who he talked to there, but he was clearly told to keep hands off and mind his own business; and that is what he did.

  Was Charles Blue armed? Yes, certainly. Susan saw his gun, or at least saw a telltale bulge in his clothes. By taking her gun and shooting Rick, he wiped out his more dangerous opponent and disarmed the less dangerous one. Furthermore he positioned himself to blame Susan, should that become necessary. He may well tell the Os that she killed Rick.

  If he does not, how will he explain his actions? He may find it difficult—but he may not. Rick refused his orders, and that alone could be enough. If it is not, he will point out that Rick was anxious to kill Chelle; with Chelle dead, all chance of resurrecting the knowledge Jane Sims took to the grave would be lost. Better to lose Rick, who had botched his assignment, than Chelle, who may still harbor information of great value. I don’t think Charles Blue will have much trouble with the Os; he may well be commended.

  Note that all this assumes that Rick did not get that information—that he was so eager to kill Chelle that he was willing to lie about it, to me at least. That was almost certainly the case; he had clearly continued to question her after Charles Blue arrived, which he would not have done if he had what he needed already. He would, in fact, have killed her as soon as he had it.

  If Rick believed that Charles Blue was a fellow agent—as he unquestionably did—would Rick not have feared Charles Blue’s report? Charles Blue would report that he had tried to preserve the life of the woman who carried the information they sought (information that could surely be obtained by a brain scan), but that Rick had panicked, defied his order, and killed her. Rick must have foreseen that difficulty before I regained consciousness. Once he had foreseen it, his course would have been plain: kill Charles Blue and report that Charles Blue had killed Chelle. He would have one more body to dispose of—six bodies instead five would be no great increase.

  What about the authorities here, Charles Blue’s human employers? Chelle cannot know anything that they do not already know. They financed the research, and Jane Sims willingly became an Army officer; so they have it. Even if they didn’t have it before debriefing Chelle (but they did) they certainly learned anything she may have known at that time. After learning it they would certainly have wiped it.

  Their reasons for classifying her as mentally and emotionally unstable are quite plain; she shelters a secondary personality. Since its cause is organic, mere psychiatric treatment will not benefit her. Surgery might cure her—but it might kill her, too, and it would be fiendishly expensive. Better to let her go, which is what they did.

  Would it have been better to take Rick alive? Almost certainly not. Who knows what may be learned from his wreckage? If he had been captured, he would very likely have killed himself in way that would have destroyed all the information of interest. Provision for that would be an elementary precaution. As things stand, the NAU still has Chelle for bait. If another Os agent bites, so much the better. She will be in danger, clearly. But her father and his NAU employers will do their level best to keep her alive and sane. The fishermen have found a fine lure. They will want to keep it.

  But do I?

  19. BACK TO BOSWASH

  The building manager met Skip and Chelle in the little lobby beyond the dedicated elevator. “I hope you’ll like it, sir,” he said. “We didn’t have a lot of time.”

  “It’s whether Chelle will like it.” Skip glanced at her; she smiled but did not speak.

  “Everything’s on approval, you understand—all the furniture as well as the pictures. Ms. Moretti charges a base fee for her work, but the furniture and pictures can be returned for full credit. That’s individual pieces or everything. It’s strictly up to you.”

  Chelle said, “I’m sure I’ll like it.”

  And Skip, “Let’s see it.”

  “It’s terribly—ah—plain.” The building manager looked apprehensive. “Simple, you know. Made by Navajos, mostly. The same sort of furniture they built for the first missionaries hundreds of years ago. Functional and sturdy.”

  “I like that chair.” Chelle pointed. “And the settle with the serape over it. Isn’t that what you call it? A settle?”

  Skip shrugged.

  The building manager said, “I’m sure you’re right, contracta.”

  Skip held out his hand for their cards, received two, and opened the door.

  Chelle followed him in, shutting it behind her. “This is the penthouse? You said that. Very posh!”

  “I hope you’ll enjoy it.” Skip was looking at the snow-covered roof garden through a Changeglass window that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  She joined him. “You know, you tell me a lot, but you don’t tell me everything.”

  “It would bore you to tears. It would bore me just reciting it all, for that matter. I answer your questions as honestly as I can, whenever I can.”

  “There was no tele on Johanna, maybe I told you.” She sounded thoughtful, and almost dreamy. “No tele, but we got to watch telefilms now and then. Long shows made for tele, that had run for an hour every night for a week back on Earth.”

  “I know what they are.”

  “After six weeks on line, you went back to a rest camp for a week. You could shower every day if you wanted to, and sleep and sleep with nobody to wake you up. Most of us slept ’til lunch.”

  Waiting, he nodded.

  “There’d be a telefilm as soon as it got dark. Hot dogs and nachos and all that, just like at home. Popcorn. Everybody missed junk food. You didn’t have to go, but everybody did.”

  “Comedies?”

  “Sometimes, only we laughed more at the war stuff, the propaganda ones.” Chelle fell silent, remembering, pensive and beautiful.

  “Go on.”

  “Only twice they had … I don’t know what you would call them. They were really lovely and terribly ugly, and the people in them were interesting. Only nothing was ever settled. Nothing in them really made sense.”

  “Art shows,” Skip said.

  “I guess. Only after the second one, it came to me. They were real life—it was what our lives are like. It sure as hell was what mine had been like.”

  The lights flickered.

  “I’d left the place where everybody tried to dominate me to come to a place where the Os were doing their level fucking best to kill me, and if I could fight way out here and live, why couldn’t I fight back there? Why go so many light-years away?”

  “You’re back now.” He handed her one of the cards.

  “Right. They made me go back.” Chelle dropped into a comfortable-looking, rather mannish chair, laying the card he had given her on its broad, flat arm. “When I saw that kind, I wanted to shove the director into a corner and swear to God I’d kill him unless he explained everything. I’ll shoot you in the fuckin’ head—that’s what I’d say.”

  “I’ve been shot in the head already,” Skip pointed out.

  “Yeah.” Chelle looked disgusted. “You’re way out in front as usual. But you’re the director.”

  “Far from it. I don’t even know who runs the show.”

  “Just for now you are. I just appointed you. When we were living in your place down on
whatever floor it is—I mean before we got on that cruise boat—you called this building your building. When you said it, I thought you meant you lived here.”

  He grinned. “I do.”

  “Sure. Only it really is your building. You own it, right?”

  “There are legal complications, incorporation and so on, but yes. I do.”

  “There was somebody else living here then?”

  Skip nodded.

  “Only you kicked him out. That’s what you told me you were going to do on the boat.”

  “I did not. We bought out his lease, that’s all. It had less than a year to run, and we were negotiating a new one. We dropped the negotiations and offered him a profit on his remaining time. He took it.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “The man you just met. He manages the building for me. I told him what I wanted, and he called me when he had a deal. I told him to take it, clean and fix everything, and line up a decent decorator, meaning not one of the crazy ones, to pick out furniture.”

  “Your decorator will have gotten a kickback from the guy who sold him the furniture.”

  “Her. Of course she will. What would you have done?”

  “Picked it out myself while we lived in your old place, I guess.”

  “I see. Do you know a lot about furniture?”

  Chelle shook her head. “I like this. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. She did. Am I finished as director?”

  “Hell, no! You’ve hardly started. You said Charlie was a double agent.”

  “I didn’t.” Skip sighed and leaned against a small but sturdy table, suddenly weary. “I said he had a get-out-of-jail card of some kind. That if he hadn’t had one Captain Kain would have locked him up, that he must have told the captain to contact the Civil Intelligence Bureau or some such place. That Captain Kain had, and had been told to release him. You wanted to know how he could have gotten such a thing, and I said that he might be a double agent. That was one possibility and it seemed the most likely.”