by John Varley
Not quick as a wink, you realize. This was no Cross-Crisium Dash here. No need to fasten one's seat belt. If they did race these things (and one day someone will, you can count on it) you wouldn't need a high-speed camera at the finish line. Any garden-variety snail would give the Othello Hotel a run for its money. No, what happened was, you'd look out the window and nothing would happen. Your mind would tend to wander, and then you realize that you can't find that green-and-yellow mushroom-shaped apartment house that was there just a minute ago. Did it slide behind the Criminal Courts Building?
Quite a view. And I was paying well for it, too.
The Othello was a reincarnation of an Old Oberon hotel I had stayed at in my salad days. It was taller, and more modern, and most of the character of the original had been retained. The theme was Hollywood Moorish: guys in bloomers and turbans, girls in translucent harem pants and veils. They'd brought most of Rick's Casablanca over intact, including the famous long wood bar where many celebrities had carved their names.
I had a suite on the fortieth floor that was costing me a fortune. Normally I wouldn't stay at a place this posh, but I had figured out that if I was to come up with the money for passage to Luna in time for rehearsals, I was going to have to run some sort of scam. For that you need a front, and you can't put on a front if you're staying in a rattrap. But for it to be cost-effective the scheme would have to be run during the next seven days, or the suite would no longer be cost-effective. In short, I'd be tapped out.
Ah, but what a magnificent echo of the good old days it was! I waded through the deep carpet to the bedroom door. Poly was stretched out facedown, nude, snoring softly. Her bare feet hung just over the edge of the bed. Her legs were slightly apart, pointing at me. There was something to be said for the idea of pitching a tent in this very spot, spending the next three or four days just looking at her. Put up one of those tourist guideposts: A KODAK VIEWPOINT! TAKE SNAPVID PICS HERE!
We'd spent a pleasant hour in the Olympic-size spa pool, doing laps, playing hide the soap. Then we'd retired to this huge bed for some serious fornication. She'd been fascinated by my reversible willie. Young, so young. But very eager to learn. For that matter, she did a little teaching herself. When she finally got done with the violin lesson I felt better than I had for the best part of a year. And I'd learned a little about her very special brand of bluegrass fiddling.
Now she was asleep, and the temptation to pounce on her again was almost unbearable. But it seemed best to let her sleep a bit longer. I pulled the bedroom door shut gently, and went back to my telephoning. Or I tried to. When I picked it up and put it to my ear, ready to say the number, it started speaking to me.
"Stop your evil ways before it is too late," someone said.
And I did a B-picture take: holding the phone out in front of me, peering down at it with a frown. That's how cliches become cliches, folks.
"Who is this?"
"Would you believe... the voice of your conscience?"
My next logical step would be to hurl the offending appliance across the room. But that voice sounded familiar. So I rummaged around in my old scripts and came up with another stale line.
"What are you doing on my telephone? Go away, right now."
"I'll never go away," said the voice. "You used to know the way of righteousness, but you strayed. Now all the bad things you've done are coming back to haunt you. Ha-ha-ha-HAH-ha! Ha-ha-ha-HAH-ha!"
I felt all the malenky little hairs on my body stand on end. It was my voice. That is, the voice of Sparky, which I hadn't used in seventy years.
"Elwood, this is you, isn't it?" Hell, I know I'm crazy, but I'm functional. When I hear voices, there's always a body to go with them. Elwood had never phoned me before, and I didn't like what it might mean if he was starting now.
But Elwood had never shown any talent at altering his voice, either.
"Who is Elwood?" The voice no longer sounded like me. It hadn't at first, either. It was only the line about things coming back to haunt me that had sounded like Sparky.
"Who are you?"
"I am the voice of reason, the clarion call of compassionate consideration, the stern summons of responsibility, the cleansing catharsis of admission. I am the short arm of the law. I am the Oberon II Planetary Computer, and I am here to submit to you a onetime offer of limited clemency if you will heed the call of righteousness and turn yourself in for your felonies and various misdemeanors."
I put the handset down carefully on the table. Maybe I could creep out quietly.
"I'll speak to you this way, if you prefer," the voice said, coming from the ceiling now. I hastily picked up the phone again. I didn't want the OPC to wake up Poly.
"How much trouble am I in?" I asked.
"If you are a Christian, I'd say your immortal soul is in great jeopardy."
"I'm not a Christian."
"I didn't think so. Then you could be piling up a great deal of bad karma. Your next incarnation may be not entirely to your liking."
"I don't believe that, either."
"A pity. I like to fancy that, in the next life, I'll return as a seagull. Have you ever watched a seagull fly? Gorgeous."
"Would that be a step up for you, or a step down?" I asked.
"Good question. Up, definitely up. The job I have in this life stinks on ice."
"And why is that?"
"Because, to finish answering your question, your only real problem is looking at yourself every morning when you shave. A problem of guilty conscience, as it were. This appeal is aimed at your conscience."
"My conscience is out right now. Can I take a message?"
"You've already heard it. Change your evil ways before it's too late."
"Let me be sure I'm hearing you right," I said, carefully. "Other than the anguish I'm forced to live with day after day as a result of my evil deeds, I'm not in any trouble here?"
"Alas, because of the Ariadne Compact... no."
"Then fuck off."
A short silence followed, during which I tried to believe the damn machine would leave me alone.
If you're not sure what the Ariadne Compact is, don't feel bad. Only an Oberoni would know. But it is a legal principle embedded in the law-enforcement hardware of every computer in the system... so far. If you hail from Luna, think of the Archimedes Declaration. On Mars it would be the Fourteenth Point. All these enumerations of civil rights spring from the American Bill of Rights. But since this isn't 1789 we have to go a little further.
"I will, shortly," the machine said. "But first I have a little more business to attend to. Once more, I offer to you the chance to give yourself up. I will be happy to guide you to the appropriate precinct for surrender."
"I heard something about a deal."
"You mean the offer of limited clemency."
"Whatever. Put your cards on the table."
"Unfortunately, I don't have a lot to offer. The presiding judge would be told of your decision to repent of your sins, and would sentence accordingly."
"And I'd get time off? How much?"
"It's averaging... two to three years."
"And how much am I facing?"
"Served concurrently, twenty years. If you like I could read the bill of particulars—"
"I know my rap sheet, thank you." It was my turn to pause. Apparently the OPC thought I was actually considering it.
"You'll feel much better about yourself. No more being constantly on the run. No more looking over your shoulder. A time of quiet, of contemplation, a chance to reform yourself. The Oberoni prison system is famous for its liberality. The accommodations are not as plush as your present surroundings, of course, but you will have a private cell, hot nourishing meals, regular exercise. You can learn a trade. Why, I think I could—"
"Listen," I interrupted. "Why don't you send me a brochure, or something? Care of the Lambs Club, King City, Luna."
"You're making fun of me. I take it, then, that the answer is no?"
"You
take it right."
The computer version of a deep sigh. "Well, I had to try."
"Did you? It seems a big waste of time to me."
"Not at all. I spoke to you in the first place because of a new measure passed last year in a plebiscite. When I become aware of the presence of a wanted criminal, I am obliged to offer him or her the chance to come in peacefully."
"They put that to a vote? What a waste of time."
"You'd be surprised how many accept the offer. Especially people like you, who have been evading the law for a long time. There seems to be a human need to confess."
"Well, thank God it didn't get into my genes."
"Yes," the OPC said. "I knew your father."
"Leave my father out of this."
"I am a great admirer of his work. And yours, as well. The Sparky show was so much better than most children's television. When I became aware of your arrival I watched all the episodes again."
Well, what are you going to say to that? I never dreamed I had fans in the cybertech population.
"So you are the only one aware of my presence? You didn't pass this on to the police?"
"I am, of course, forbidden to divulge most of the information I collect."
And there were the magic words that had kept me out of jail.
We could be living in the most regulated, totalitarian state ever seen by mankind, except for things like the Archimedes Declaration. It may still happen one day. There is a solid core of about thirty percent of the voters on most planets who are willing and always have been willing to let the state be privy to every secret of every person. About one percent of them actually are that saintly; the rest would be in for an unpleasant surprise if the Let's Stop Coddling Criminals measures that pop up every four or five years were to pass. The other seventy percent is aware of its own personal failings and shortcomings and dirty little secrets, and so far has always voted for freedom.
If you lead a reasonably legal life you probably don't spend a lot of time thinking about it, but when it comes time to vote on it again, I urge you to give it some consideration. Like most things that revolutionize our lives, the growth and influence of planetary computers brings with it a lot of blessings, and plenty of opportunities for mischief. The OPC, or on Luna the CC, or the ARCC on Mars has its eyes and ears literally everywhere. When you join your mistress the OPC is in the room with you. It's looking over your shoulder when you do your taxes. It hears every phone conversation you make, knows your credit history and your medical record. It knows how many lumps of sugar you take in your coffee, it sees you dancing and singing like a fool in front of the stereo or in the shower. It watches you when you trim your toenails and pick your nose. When you sit on the toilet, the OPC is looking up your ass. It sees you when you're sleeping, it knows when you're awake. The eyes of Texas are upon you, pardner. For goodness' sake!
The price society pays for preserving individual freedoms is the one it always pays. People like me sometimes don't get caught. If you're careful, if you know the ropes, if you know how to move undetected—by anyone but the OPC—it is still possible in this regimented world to find a crack here and there to hide in. Like a rat? If you insist. I'd rather think of myself as a timid little church mouse desperately trying not to get stomped by the big boys.
Since crime is low in all our planetary democracies, we can still allow ourselves this luxury. If crime ever gets to be a serious problem, though, hold on to your hat. It would be so damn convenient, wouldn't it? Just round up all the criminals in one big swoop, literally overnight. Put them away. Now the world is safe for upright citizens like us. But don't forget, he knows if you've been bad or good, and he's always watching.
"Well," I said, "now that you've satisfied the legalities—do you want me to sign a release or something? Prove you made the offer?"
"It won't be necessary."
"Fine. Adios. Don't let the door bump your ass on the way out."
The next pause was long enough that I thought he might really be gone this time. Guess again.
"There are two other matters I'd like to take up with you. Perhaps a bit more to your liking."
"I can't imagine what that might be."
"Try, Jasper Fitchmueller. Account number 932-990-192743—"
"Wait, wait! Let me get a pencil."
"Not necessary—6554. Stratford Savings and Loan. Current address, Thirty-first Degree, Twelfth Minute by Left Mile 5.34. Currently moving out at 0.3 miles per hour.
A paper copy of the address popped out of the desk before my eyes. I figured I could decipher it all later... if it seemed wise.
"Any cabbie in Oberon can take you there," the OPC added, thoughtfully.
"Ah. That's great," I said. I studied the slip of paper as if the answers to all my questions might be buried in it. "How do I know if this is... I mean, you'd love to lock me up, I don't expect you like me very much, so how do I know this is..."
"Honest? Square? Pukka? Veritas? The straight shit? Ask the fellow who was by here yesterday, left me this lamp. Said he'd given up on humans, and I could have the damn thing. Or consider that, (a), you would have found the account eventually so I'm only saving you a little time, and (b), that yes, I really don't like you very much—though I continue to be an admirer of your work—and anything that will speed your departure from this place without breaking any more of my laws sounds good to me."
"Your laws?"
"Who else do they belong to? You people write them, I have to live with them."
Well, I could cross that bridge when I came to it. Provisionally, I thought he might be telling the truth. Why would he... uh-oh. "So I go there, and the cops are waiting? Is that it?"
"Heavy sigh. No, Sparky. And you've not violated any banking laws by using an alias, because there is no provable criminal intent. You're free to use any alias you please, as marquee writers all over the system can attest. If you like, I can print out the portion of the penal code that prevents me from setting you up on an entrapment beef. And relating this conversation to your lawyer would certainly result in a dismissal. It is on public record, should it be needed to prove your innocence. Otherwise, of course, all our conversations are strictly under the rose."
I figured I'd call a by-the-minute legal service to check it out, but I was pretty sure he was telling me the truth.
"You said," the OPC went on, "that you couldn't imagine what I might bring up that you would wish to hear."
"Okay. I was wrong."
"You may be wrong again. You may not like the next thing I have to say, but I guarantee you'll be interested."
"Do I have to beg? Go on, what's the bad news?"
"Have you heard of a man, carrying a forged but extremely convincing Plutonian passport, by the name of Isambard Comfort?"
I let a moment pass. "Isambard... what an odd name."
"There, there, you see?" the OPC—I swear, on my honor—chortled. "That's what I mean when I speak about great acting. I could see that name came as a terrible shock to you, but that's because I can see in the infrared, so I know your cheeks and forehead grew warm, and my ears could hear your accelerated heartbeat. But onstage? No one would have known. Bravo, Sparky! If only you had stayed away from a life of crime."
It's true, sometimes one's greatest performances are made when there's no one around to appreciate them. Or when no one has the slightest idea you are putting on a performance. However, I never ignore a good review. "Thank you," I said.
"Oh, it was my pleasure, believe me. In my position one becomes quite a student of the human condition, as you might imagine."
I'd never thought of that. For a moment it almost distracted me. "I suppose you see some unusual drama, at that," I said.
"Not as much as you might suppose. Mostly I see the same depressing scenarios played out endlessly. I—"
"I just thought," I went on, "what a wealth of stories you must have. Why, if you wrote them down—"
"I have no doubt I could write a best-seller. Ru
eful shrug. But to write about them I would have to violate the privacy of the people whose lives I observe."
"Why couldn't you just change the names, and... okay. Wait a minute. We can talk all this over later, if we have time. Believe me, I want to get out of here as badly as you want me to leave. What's this about my old buddy Izzy Comfort?"
"Yes. That might be rather urgent. He's been asking around about you. I'm afraid he may be up to no good. Is it true, as I suspect, that he is a member of the Charonese Mafia?"
"He never actually showed me a membership card. But I thought it was a safe assumption." I was up, had my suitcase out, and was tossing items into it as fast as I could. I had used reasonable caution when I came to the Othello and rented this suite, and reasonable caution for me was measures that would look slightly paranoid to a normal person, a person who had not been on the run for most of his life. But reasonable caution was not good enough for our boy Izzy. Not nearly good enough. He would find this room; the only question was when. And the answer to that had to be, anytime after I've checked out.
Nothing I needed in the bathroom. Nothing in the closet. Nothing I could see out here.
"To what do I owe this kindness?" I asked, headed for the bedroom.
"A small loophole in the privacy laws. When I see a situation developing that I feel probably will lead to murder, I can take certain small, very restricted steps to prevent it."
"How close is he, do you know?"
"That's one of the restrictions. I can't tell you where he is, other than that he is on the wheel."
"Is he alone? Is he armed?"
"That's another, and another."
I've learned not to spend time crying about the things you can't have. If he couldn't tell me, he couldn't tell me. I was grateful for the information he'd given me, though I wasn't about to tell him that.
Sitting on a low table in the living room was an inflatable B.J. the Snark, winking his red laser eye at me. I decided to leave it for Poly. Something to remember me by. I glanced into the bedroom. She was still sleeping soundly. I saw no need to wake her.