Chapter 19 MIDDLE KINGDOM

 

 

It was hours, but it seemed like a moment, and Forta and Spirit and Hopie were with me. I hugged each in turn, then reverted to immediacies. “Why didn’t you tell me about Roulette?” I demanded.

“You were asleep,” Spirit said simply.

I looked at Rue. “They thought you would tell me,” I accused her.

“Well, I meant to,” she confessed. “But then I thought it would be more fun the other way.”

Forta raised a scarred brow. “He thought you were me?”

“For a time,” Rue agreed.

“But the figure-“

“She connived,” I said.

Hopie caught on. “Forta emulates your former wives?”

“Something like that,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“Only the crisis came before I could return,” Spirit said. “And evidently as a surprise to you.”

Because of Rue’s bare bosom. “I didn’t want anyone disconnecting early,” Rue said.

“Nobody on the planet disconnected!” Spirit agreed. Then she got on to business. “I’ll have to remain here and organize for the production of self-receiver units; only Jupiter can do the job in time to match the production already in progress elsewhere.” She turned to me. “You’ll have to go get Saturn settled.”

“There shouldn’t be any problem,” I said. “They know I’m doing what’s right.”

“That was an act of genius, taking over Saturn too,” my daughter said. “Now there can’t be war between the major planets.”

I glanced at Rue. “Well, actually it wasn’t-“

“Of course it was,” Rue said quickly. “It showed that the Tyrant is still the leader he used to be.”

So she wanted me to take credit for her idea. Well, maybe that was best, politically. But I couldn’t help wondering whether I would have done it if Forta had been with me instead of Roulette. This impersonation could have benefited me far more than just romantically. Rue had worked me over, her way, but she had paid her way.

“I’ll join you when I can,” Spirit said.

She did. The consolidation of Jupiter and North Saturn took about a year, and the production of the self-receiving units another two years. I went to Saturn with Forta, but first we dropped Doppie off at Earth. Freed from her need to impersonate my sister, Doppie became herself, and then she really didn’t resemble Spirit much; her hair, clothing, and attitude differed. Before we parted, I took her out for a social evening on Earth, and made it publicly clear that it was the Tyrant who was escorting her. Actually it wasn’t sex she wanted, just appreciation, so I kissed her and let it be understood that she was my woman of the moment, providing her a notoriety that would carry through the rest of her life. I felt I owed it to her, and it really was no chore. I was grateful to her for the service she had done us, and I respected her as a person, and that really was enough. Partial as I have always been to youth and beauty in women, I nevertheless respect personality more. Doppie understood that, and was satisfied.

We ran down the assassination plot. As suspected, it was a collaboration between Tocsin and the nomenklatura of Saturn. Tocsin we could not touch; he was in South Saturn, where they still respected him. But the nomenklatura we routed out and tried and executed. It was the justice of the Tyrant, reminiscent of the destruction of Big Iron on Jupiter some years before, and the people of the USR reveled in it. There were indeed hangings and beheadings, done not because of any madness of mine but because it was politically necessary for the Tyrant to keep his word, and to make an example. I suspect the judgment of historians will not be kind to me on this score, but historians do not face the realities of the moment, when blood is a sacrifice required for legitimacy. I, as Tyrant, assumed responsibility for the savage justice the people required.

But there was some vengeance in it, because Khukov had played straight with me, and had given me power and the Dream. I had really done what he would have done, had he been in charge.

I had thought to turn over the reins to native officials, but discovered again that power can be as difficult to yield as to achieve. I was of course a figurehead, freely delegating the governing duties to those who were competent and trustworthy, but it seemed that they valued that figurehead. I was the symbol about which the governments supporting the Triton Project rallied, and as long as I did not interfere unduly with the details of administration, that was the way they liked it. The people supported me, and assumed that executive orders were mine; that made them more palatable. Since I had arranged to have top-quality personnel throughout, the administration tended to be excellent.

It was similar elsewhere in the System. Thus, while my actual power was nominal, my reputed power was greater than ever before. I was hailed as the Tyrant of Space, governing the entire System. Illusion, of course, but if that’s the way the histories choose to record it, I suppose I won’t be in a position to object.

In this period, conscious of the slow approach of my own demise, I wrote this record of my activities, and sent it to QYV of Jupiter. I will of course be updating these notes as convenient, keeping them current, as I cannot be certain when the final entry will come. My daughter will inherit all my records at my death, though she does not, at this writing, know it. I trust they will prove to be interesting reading. Hopie does not necessarily approve of all my activities, but she is of my blood and surely understands. Sometimes I think I can share her mind, seeing through her eyes, though she is on another planet. I get the feeling that I could communicate directly with her, without even any lapse of time for the traveling of the mind-waves, if I really tried; that in a sense I am her, our identities merging. Then I laugh and tell myself, “Not in this life!” Sometimes it becomes difficult to separate the sense from the nonsense, as I undergo dialysis and let my thoughts wander. But it is comforting to feel my daughter’s presence on such occasions, in whatever manner that may be.

I should mention also the manner in which my relationship with Forta matured. After the excitement of the rescue of my daughter and the incorporation of Jupiter subsided, and I found myself alone with Forta, I felt awkward. You see, despite the number of women I have known, it is not my practice to relate to them promiscuously. After I had come to terms with Forta on Venus, I had had no intention of dallying with any other, apart from the single episode with Doppie. Roulette had been out of turn, and now it bothered me.

Forte quickly enough fathomed my concern. “But you thought she was me,” she said.

“I should have realized,” I mumbled, the guilt intensifying.

“My emulations are that transparent?”

I smiled, for the ploy was obvious. “I delight in your emulations, but it is important to me now to know that that is what they are. Then I can enjoy the forms of others without separating from you. That is the best of worlds.”

“Would it help if I confessed that I knew she would attempt to carry through the masquerade?”

It was phrased as a question, but it was a statement; I read her clearly enough. “But did you know it would deceive me?”

“Only if you wanted to be deceived.”

I pounded one fist into my other hand. “There’s the key! I should have known, would have known, had I not desired Rue herself! And in that I wronged you.”

“Did you, Hope?”

“I should have recognized her, and kept my hands off her. And would have, had I not deceived myself. I did desire her, and I yielded to that desire, and that is the apology I must make to you.”

“Give me a moment,” she said. She went to her bedroom, while I returned to the writing of this manuscript, as mentioned.

In due course she emerged. I looked up-and there was Roulette, exactly as she had been so recently. Her body, her signals-

I got up. “May I?” I asked.

She spread her hands, accepting. I opened her blouse, unfastened her halter, and ran my fingers around her heavy breasts. This was a clinical examination, but my body reacted as I touched those wonders. There was the powder, coming off on my fingers. There were the tiny ridges, marking the juncture of real and pseudoflesh. I caught at a ridge and pulled-and the ridge came off, leaving the breast, as before.

“Damn it!” I swore. “I’m not going this route again!”

She lifted her hands and removed her mask. “But it is me, Hope,” she said.

Indeed, it was Forta. I embraced her and kissed her ardently. “You could have fooled me,” I said after a moment, realizing that the cement that held on the pseudo-flesh adhered to her entire breast, and needed no ridges; those had been, as it were, decorations. Probably that flesh would not come off unless a neutralizer was applied and allowed to work its way through. Forta had played a little trick on me.

“And she did fool you,” she agreed. “You might have fathomed it, had you any further reason to suspect. You were guilty of carelessness, not ill intent.” She restored the mask. “And what are you going to do about it, Tyrant?” she said in Rue’s voice.

I did not reply in words. I took her into my bedroom, where Smilo snoozed, and stripped her clothing but not her emulation, and I made love to her in the guise of Roulette, and it was as good as it had been with the real Roulette.

“Which do you prefer,” she asked as we relaxed, “her emulating me, or me emulating her?”

I considered, and remembered how the real Rue had insisted on violence. Forta had not. “You emulating her,” I said.

“Then make no apology,” she said.

And I realized that I had indeed paid her the ultimate compliment. Roulette had been the most striking (forget the pun!) woman I had known, and I really did prefer Forta now. I also appreciated the compliment Roulette had paid me, seeking me so ardently after all these years.

I lifted myself and removed her mask. “You are the first ugly woman I have loved,” I said. Then I kissed her on her scarred cheek, and ran my tongue across it, savoring her as she was.

“And you are the first philandering man I have loved,” she said.

We started laughing, together, and it was some time before we stopped. We understood each other, and that is a joy of its own type.

Of course she knew that when I used the word “love” I did not mean exactly what she did by it. What I felt for my various women might better be described as crushes. But it was also true that I had developed as solid a respect for Forta as for any woman, and not merely for her ability to emulate others.

Forta had never attempted to proselytize; she had accepted me as I was, and cooperated with me in all things. She had also saved the life of my daughter, a debt I could never adequately repay. But as I came to respect her, I sought to do that which I knew would please her. She wanted no jewelry or clothing or even compliments, so I did not offer these. She wanted to alleviate suffering wherever it existed. As a member and beneficiary of Amnesty Interplanetary she was concerned with man’s inhumanity to man, and she knew a great deal about this, and answered when I queried about it. Thus, as the Tyrant came to have power over various planets, a persistent investigation and alleviation of human-rights abuses of those planets followed. Wherever we went, the life of the common man improved, and the abusers suffered. Because of Forta. In fact, the only period of real strain between us was during the bloodletting of the liquidation of the nomenklatura; she elected to visit Jupiter at that time, and did not return until the killing was done. She never spoke to me about the matter, but I got the message.

“Is this why you came to me?” I asked her once. “Because you knew that through me you could do more good for your cause than you could otherwise?”

“Yes.” She made no attempt to avoid the issue. She was not the type.

“And my wife sent you for the same reason?” I always meant Megan when I referred to my wife, though I had been married several times.

“Yes.”

“May I never disappoint either of you.”

“You have not so far.”

“But you expect me to in the future?”

“When you die.”

Oh. And of course my end was approaching, for the exhaustion of my access sites for dialysis was accelerating as I had increasing trouble with clotting. We had moved from my legs to my arms, no longer needing to conceal the scars. I was at this point sixty-eight years old, and considering it realistically I judged that two more years was all I could expect of mobile, functional existence. Thereafter I would be bedridden, and deprived of the various pleasures of independent existence, sex among them.

I think it was at that point that I decided to die in my own fashion, not waiting for the inevitable degradation to have its way with me. I did not fear death; I feared a helpless, meaningless life.

“What unfinished business do I have?” I asked her.

She ticked items off on her fingers. “Completion of the Triton Project. Incorporation of the Middle Kingdom. Designation of a successor to the Tyrancy.”

“And only a year to do it,” I muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Let’s get on it.” But of course she had heard me the first time.

We took the tube to Triton. By this time there were many projection tubes, serving all the planets, and the self-receiving projection units were coming off the Jupiter lines. These actually amounted to the preset conversion of light beams in photon computers, the beams calibrated so accurately that the mergence of the key beams did not occur until the set distance had been traveled. The farther the distance, the more precise the settings had to be. We had used a very crude version to travel from Mercury to Jupiter; the difference between a span of a light-hour or so and that of a thousand light-years or so is manifest. But with the perfection of that technology, we were ready to send colony ships virtually any distance into the galaxy. It was time to officially inaugurate that program, and Forta was right: it had to be done by the Tyrant, the unifying figure for this effort. If I didn’t see it started in my lifetime, it might very well dissolve thereafter into factional fragmentation, and the chance to do it peacefully would be lost.

For though the Triton Project represented the gateway to man’s future, a channel for man’s aggressive energies in lieu of internecine warfare, it also represented danger. In the wrong hands, that technology could be turned to the projection of bombs, and against these there was no reasonable prospect for defense. Mankind had to colonize-or risk destruction. Once the colony ships reached their locations, there would be no incentive for war. The challenges of the local systems would be enough to absorb the full attentions of the expeditions, and what point would there be in projecting a bomb to another system, that would not arrive for many years or decades even at light velocity? In fact, since the colonists would be traveling to widely differing regions of space, one colony would be setting up at a nearby system while others were still on their way, perhaps not materializing for another twenty years. Though transit would seem instant for those aboard each ship, it was not. Never again would man be cramped within a single system, able to attack his neighbors within a span of hours. As I saw it, interplanetary warfare would be over-and that was the Dream. Chairman Khukov had conceived it, and not lived to see its completion, but I was seeing it through.

That reminded me of Lieutenant Commander Repro, the officer of the Jupiter Navy who had conceived the dream of the perfect unit, and had implemented it through me. He had died when it seemed that unit was finished, but it had survived, and with its assistance I had become the Tyrant. Now I was doing the same for Khukov’s Dream. Khukov himself had been a tough, unscrupulous man, who had used his talent, which was similar to mine, to win his way to his planet’s highest office and position of power, but his Dream had been a great one. Perhaps there is good in the most evil of men, and while Khukov had not been truly evil, his Dream was truly good. Forta was right: I had to see it through while I lived. The fate of my species might well depend on it.

Of course I was nominally in charge of the Triton Project. But once I got it organized, I had hardly been there. So this was an inspection trip. Spirit joined us for it; she was more conversant with the details.

As our ship approached Triton I was amazed. The project had started as a single dome on the planet. Now it was a monstrous complex spreading from crater to crater. Projection tubes orbited it, not one or two, but hundreds. As we drew near, I discovered the size of them: each greater in diameter than any ship I had known in the Navy. What monstrous vessels were they designed to accommodate?

Then, in closer orbit, we spied those vessels: colony ships of a scale hardly imagined before. Even after allowing for necessary supplies for a decade or so, including construction equipment for planetary sites, each ship looked big enough to handle tens of thousands of colonists. Yet these, I knew, were not the major vessels; the big ones were bubbles, to be projected entire, with up to a million residents each. Those were being outfitted in the atmosphere of Neptune. No wonder this project was expensive!

It had been happening all along, and I knew that Spirit had been running it and Forta had been receiving bulletins on progress throughout; I simply had not been paying attention. I plead age and illness; I had been more interested in dialysis and distaff anatomy than in the business of the Solar System. Though my physical powers were waning, my interest in performance had not; consequently my romantic life had taken more attention, not less. Perhaps this would not have been the case, had Forta been less versatile. She had provided me, in her fashion, with every type of woman from Helen of Troy to the barely nubile. She had given me another affair with my teenage lover Amber, who in real life was now in her late twenties. But I really should have kept up on what was happening around Triton!

I had already decided to complete my business in life expeditiously, but this was a forceful reminder. The project I was nominally running had outstripped my awareness while I dallied; I was allowing age to narrow my compass, and I regretted it. Yet I also felt pride, for, however circuitously, I had wrought this thing. I had only to see the first great colony ship projected, and then I would know that even if I died that instant, mankind was on its way to the stars at the velocity of light, and my work in life was done.

Spirit squeezed my scarred arm, signaling her understanding. Her life, too, was merged in this project. She had done the actual organizational work to make it come to pass. It was really hers more than mine.

I glanced at her. She had been apart from me much of the time in recent years, traveling to Jupiter and the inner planets, handling the myriad executive details of the organization of man’s effort of colonization. She was sixty-five now, and looked it. She had not bothered with the treatments and cosmetics that retarded the semblance of aging, and the faint pattern of scars on her face had become more pronounced. The scars of the burns received when she handled a drive-rocket with her bare hands, saving our lives. She had been twelve then. Now her face changed, in my view, and I saw again that sweet, tough child who had supported me so well. From that time until this, Spirit had been my true strength.

I found myself kissing her. I had not known I was going to do it, or that I was doing it; it was as if my consciousness formed in the middle. She was kissing back. Then I drew away, and looked away, and she neither moved nor spoke. On the one side I wondered why a man should feel apologetic for kissing his sister; on the other, I knew why. But this could not be spoken.

Forta was gazing ahead, looking at Triton and the massive complex of the project on its surface. “You left your kidneys here,” she murmured.

And there was another thing to ponder. The beginning of the ending of my life had been here, too, as well as the beginning of the completion of it. Coincidence or design of fate-which was the more accurate description? I wasn’t sure I cared to know.

We landed and were ushered into the complex. The personnel were ready to answer any questions and had enormous stores of ready data, but I was tired already, and very soon Forta put me to bed and held my hand while I drifted like a disabled ship into the orbit of slumber.

I dreamed of flying, only I was not the flier, I was being carried, borne by a great fantasy creature, an ifrit. He brought me to a castle, and into a high tower of that castle, and laid me on a bed beside a truly lovely young woman. She was garbed in the robe of a princess, and a circlet of precious stones bound down her flowing hair. Then the ifrit changed into a bedbug and bit me on the rear, and I woke, startled, for the first time becoming aware of the damsel. In my dream this made sense, as it would not have in life; I had more than one level of awareness.

I gazed upon the damsel, and lo, she was the fairest creature I had ever seen, the image of my first love Helse, and I said to myself “Oh, if this be the princess my father wishes me to marry, I have been a fool to resist his wish!” Then I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder and tried to awaken her, but she slumbered on soundly. I stroked her body, moved to desire by the perfect rondure of her breast and the firmness of her thigh, but she would not wake and I would not rape her. So I lay back down beside, resolved to tell my father in the morning that I agreed after all to marry the one he had selected.

When I slept, the ifrit spoke to the ifritah, the female of his species. “Now do you wake your charge, and we shall see how she reacts to him.” And she became another bedbug and bit the princess on her plush behind, and she woke, slapping at the place, then spied me sleeping beside her. “Oh, what a charming prince!” she murmured, and it was true; I was as young and attractive for a male as she was for a female, and set onto my head was a thin crown of gold, and my robe too was encrusted with gems. But I remained asleep.

She put her hand on me, and shook me by the shoulder, as I had with her. “Oh, wake, Prince!” she whispered, but I did not.

“If this be the man my father wishes to betroth me to, surely I have been willful to deny him!” she exclaimed. Then she stroked my handsome face, and when I still did not wake, my arms and chest. She opened my robe and ran her hands down inside, and caressed my belly and my thighs and my member, but I slept on. She lay across me and kissed me, and finally returned to sleep, embracing me.

Then I woke-but the princess was gone, and I was myself again, old and frail and unhandsome. Ever has it been thus, in reality! I pondered the dream, and recognized it: It was from the depths of my childhood memory, a tale of sorcery, in which ifrits had had a beauty contest, each believing that the person he or she had discovered was the most beautiful in all the world. So they had brought the two together, and awakened them by turns, letting the young folk judge by their reactions which of them was the most attractive. The ifrit favoring the man had because the woman reacted more to the man than the man had to the woman. Then the ifrits had returned the two human folk, sleeping, to their own residences and thought no more of the matter, leaving each longing with futility for the unknown other. A good, and frustrating, story.

Why had I remembered it now? Why had I dreamed it, as if I were a figure in it? I did not know.

“Forta,” I said.

She was there immediately. “Yes, Hope?”

And what did I want of her? That she be young and beautiful, like a princess, and I like a prince? Ludicrous! She would do it, I knew, if I asked her-but why should I put her to this trouble, just because of a foolish dream?

“Tell me, Hope,” she said.

So I told her. She nodded. “Be right back.”

But by the time she returned, I had fallen asleep again, and her emulation was wasted. Well, perhaps not entirely, for in the morning I found her sleeping beside me, garbed as a princess and resembling Helse. I kissed her on the mask, appreciating her effort; she tried so hard to please me, and I hardly felt worthy of it.

In the day we talked with the officials of the project, and ascertained that they could ship the first colony vessel at any time; it was not necessary to have facilities for the entire System before starting, as the complete process would take years or decades. The logistics of handling five billion living human beings guaranteed that.

But almost a third of the living people of the System were not yet committed to the project. That was because South Saturn-the Middle Kingdom-had not joined. I had invited that huge nation to participate, but a mistake I had made before haunted me. I had allowed my old enemy Tocsin to be exiled there, and, true to his nature, he had poisoned the people against my works. Short of conquest, which would have been ruinously expensive and risky, there had been no way to obtain their commitment, so I had let it go. Now I realized that I had to do something; we could not leave the Middle Kingdom behind. Those many hundreds of millions of people would overrun the remainder of the System unless they had their own quadrant of the galaxy to colonize.

So it was we traveled next to South Saturn. We were treated cordially there; it seemed that the officers had been watching the development of the Triton Project, and had increasingly desired to participate in the conquest of the galaxy, because the need of their nation was greater than that of any other except populous Earth. But it was difficult for them to reverse themselves; there was a matter of face.

Of course they did not state this directly; I read it in their reactions as they spoke, while Forta translated their words for me. They were ready to cast off the malign influence of Tocsin, who it seemed was wearing out his welcome, but they needed a suitable pretext to do so. Well, I was a statesman, which is a polite term for an executive who is out of power; surely I could devise such a pretext. “How goes it with the rings?” I inquired. There was a scowl. “The rings are rightly part of Saturn,” the Premier said. “But we lack the navy to do what should be done.”

“The rings are a far better place from which to launch colony ships than the surface of Saturn itself,” I reminded him. “If it were possible for you to join forces with Wan-“ For that was the name of the Nation of the Rings. The former government of the Middle Kingdom had retreated to the rings when defeated on the planetary surface, and only the presence of the Jupiter Navy had prevented further action there.

“We should be glad to join forces-by reuniting that territory with the planet, as is fitting,” he said grimly.

“Yet you hardly need the rings, other than as a station for departure,” I pointed out. “What use will they be to Saturn-after Saturn has colonized a major segment of the galaxy?”

He nodded. “You are clever, Tyrant,” he said via the translation. “We might settle for conquest in name only, provided there is no public denial, and the shipping facilities of the rings were made available to us.”

“Let me talk to Wan,” I said.

We traveled to the rings. I speak as though this happened in hours; actually I have greatly abridged these proceedings in this narrative. They took months, because we had to talk also with the several major provinces of the Middle Kingdom, a time-consuming process. But this was the essence.

I had never before been actually ire the rings of Saturn, because they were proprietary territory; our ships had gone around them, and I had admired them in passing. Now that changed. For the first time I saw them at truly close range.

From a distance, as we know, the rings are beautiful, a gigantic halo around Saturn, perhaps the most dramatic sight in our System. Up close, it fuzzes somewhat, because it is composed of small separate stones or balls of ice, and they are not artistic individually. We nudged inside, seeking the capital-bubble of Pei, and now the fragments seemed to float all about us. It was like being in a magnified fog, with each droplet of water expanded. It reminded me of a vision I had had, decades before, when I had been with Roulette, using poles to push away floating rocks so our ship could get through. That had been a dream; this was real. Why does so much of my present experience remind me of my past?

We pushed on, moving slowly through the pebbles and rocks and scattered boulders of the ring, noting how the system was not rigid, but liquid on the larger scale, the inner fragments orbiting faster than the outer ones. Perhaps this was not directly visible, but in my fancy it was; I saw the channeled soup of it, this living substance of the ring. I remembered also the time I had emptied the refuse containers of our little space bubble, as we drifted toward Jupiter; the stuff had gone into orbit, and surely remains there now. These rings of Saturn-could they be the refuse of some ancient alien spaceship, whose creatures needed to unload before departing for home? How ironic, that such beauty should come from such an origin! True, scientists had long since sampled and analyzed the substance of the rings, and pronounced it natural-but who can say what alien refuse might resemble?

Thus my experience in passing through the rings was not the average, but it was worthwhile for me. Now I felt I understood the rings. Perhaps this would help me negotiate with the authorities of Wan.

The Generalissimo of Wan was courteous but firm: his nation would join forces with the Middle Kingdom only by conquering it, as it was his firm intention to do. Of course it has been his intention for thirty years, and his chances of success, should the Jupiter Navy even allow him to try, were practically nonexistent, but that was his attitude. It was a matter of face.

I broached the same argument I had made to the Premier of the Middle Kingdom: Suppose the conquest were in name only, since the rings would need no use of the mainland once they had their own entire system elsewhere in the galaxy. He, too, appreciated the logic. “But,” he pointed out, “the usurper of the Middle Kingdom would never accede to that.”

All too true. But then my genius of insanity, or vice versa, struck. I remembered my dream, and applied it to reality. “If it is only the name that is in question, not the cooperation for mutual advantage-like a marriage for convenience, not for love or procreation-would it not be fair to put it to the decision of fate?” I inquired. Fate would not be precisely the term used here, but I trusted Forta to render it suitably.

“How do you mean?” he inquired.

“Suppose each nation chose a champion,” I said. “A representative, who would meet the champion of the other nation, and the decision of that encounter would bind the nations, without shame or loss of face?” I did not discuss the source of my notion, which was the dream of the ifrits’ beauty contest, because I did not believe that was relevant. The point was that the decision could be made vicariously, relieving the leaders of the onus of loss of face.

It took a while to persuade him, but persuasion is a thing I am talented at, and in due course he agreed. We then returned to the mainland of Saturn, and I broached the notion there. More time elapsed, but in due course we succeeded in hammering out the agreement. Each nation was to choose a champion; the two champions would then be memory-washed, so that neither knew anything of the broader situation, and placed together in a prison with limited supplies. It would be possible for only one to escape, and whichever nation that one represented would win the right to the name of the joint effort and symbolic conquest of the other. Holo cameras would be built into the prison, so that all that occurred within it would be a matter of continuous public record; there could be no cheating. Of course the two champions, their memories lost, would not know this. It promised to be a considerable vicarious adventure. All of the Middle Kingdom and Wan would be tuning in, surely.

The Middle Kingdom selected a champion martial artist: a husky man in his twenties who could kill swiftly in a hundred different ways, and kill slowly in a thousand more. Of course he would not remember this-but even mem-wash could not entirely eliminate the ingrained routines. In any event, he was extremely strong and agile and strong-willed, and it seemed unlikely that Wan could field a champion his equal.

But Wan was smarter than that. It selected a young woman, the fairest flower of her age, stunningly beautiful, skilled in the creative and performing arts and of an endearing disposition. Any man would welcome her as his bride, and probably would do anything for the mere favor of her smile.

“Foul!” cried the Premier, approximately, in Chinese; Forta would not translate the term he actually used. “There can be no fair combat!”

“Fair,” replied the Generalissimo. “Gender was not specified, only that we select a representative. Let your warrior smash her and take the victory; it is surely within his power to do so.”

The Premier wanted to abort the contest. But his ministers advised him that face could be lost if their side reneged, especially if it seemed that they were afraid to risk their champion against a mere girl. Also, news leaked to the public, together with a holo photo of the girl, and suddenly the imagination of the nation was caught up in the notion of their virile hero having total access to such a creature while they watched. Let him use her, then win the contest by escaping.

So it was set up. They used a honeymoon bubble: an enclosure with supplies for two for one week, rather luxuriously appointed, and a single jet-powered space suit. The two were placed within it unconscious; then the watch began.

It was stupid, I knew, but I found myself riveted to the holo broadcast. Perhaps it was because I knew that my own time was limited, the only question being whether I would accomplish the Dream before I died. It was easy to identify with the situation of the contest. There had to be a decision, and no one could know what it would be. Would the man use his strength to take the suit and escape, or would he defer to the woman and sacrifice himself for her? Would he love her, and would he die for that love? It was his decision to make; he had the power, just as the Middle Kingdom had the power. The question was one of will.

The two woke together, as the equipment of the bubble bathed them in radiation that neutralized the sleep medication. I identified with the man, as I am sure other men did, while the women identified with the woman. I could almost fathom his thoughts, hardly needing my talent to read him.

They had names, and remembered these, though little else. He knew he was from the Middle Kingdom, and she knew she was from Wan, and they knew that these nations were not on friendly terms, but the rest had been taken by the wash. So I will call him King and her Wan, for this narration.

King found himself on a mat on the floor of a tiny bubble. He knew it was a bubble, because he could feel the change in gee as he stood; his head was lighter than his feet. But he could not remember how he had come there.

Quickly he explored. In the next chamber he encountered a beautiful young woman, garbed like a princess, with a jeweled diadem binding back her hair. She looked like Helse. Of course he did not know that; only I knew that. My image of early love is always Helse, just as my image of late love is always Megan. Bear with me; I’m an old man. She stared back at him, startled. “Do I know you?” she asked nervously.

“I don’t remember,” he replied. Her dialect differed from his, but they could understand each other.

“You don’t remember?” She glanced about. “I don’t remember-anything. How did I come here?”

King did a swift appraisal. “I suspect I have been mem-washed. I don’t remember anything since-since my fifth birthday. Is it the same with you?”

She considered. “Yes.” She was evidently uncertain whether she could trust him.

“You are of the rings,” he said.

“Yes. And you are of South Saturn. I can tell by your accent.”

“Our nations are not friends,” he said.

“I have no concern with politics,” she replied. “At least, not that I can remember.”

King looked at her again, already smitten by her beauty. “There is no need for us to be enemies,” he said. “It seems that we have both been washed and left here. Perhaps there is a way out.”

She got lithely to her feet. “Then let us be companions, and see what we can learn of our situation.” She remained somewhat in awe of his evident physical power, deciding that it was the safest course to be polite. “Perhaps,” he agreed.

They explored their confinement. It turned out to be a beautifully appointed bubble, with the very best in food and beverage and appointments. King surveyed the supplies with a practiced eye, though he could not remember the practice. “One week,” he said. “For two.”

“How much air?” she asked.

He checked the indicators on the bubble’s master control. “One week. And one week for power.”

“That means that even if we economize on the food and air, we will perish when the power dies,” she said. “We cannot survive in a sealed bubble without heat.”

“True,” he agreed grimly. “It seems we are prisoners, and our execution date has been set.”

“What could we have done to deserve this?” she asked plaintively. “Treason?”

“We are of two different nations,” Wan protested. “Surely what would be treason for one would be patriotism for the other.”

“Not if we had a treasonous liaison.” She turned on him a gaze of innocence and surmise. “Could we have been lovers?”

“I see you are fair,” King said carefully. “Had you been willing, we could have been.”

She lowered her gaze modestly. With the colonization of the System, many of the old ways had passed, but it was still considered a virtue for a woman to be chaste until marriage.

King busied himself with further checking. He discovered that the lock was operative, but that there was only one general-purpose space suit. It would fit either of them, being adjustable in the limbs and torso, and had a competent locomotion jet; with it, a person could travel a fair distance through space. It also had a locator, which meant that it would tune in on the nearest general-access port. The chances were that a person could reach an inhabited bubble, using this suit.

He explained this to Wan. “I’m sure they would not have provided us with this suit if safety were not within range of it,” he said.

“But there is only one,” she reminded him.

“That I do not understand,” he said.

“It means that only one of us can go,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter. That one can fetch help to free the other.”

“Not if we have been condemned for treason.”

“Yet why leave even one suit, then?” he asked.

“To add to the punishment,” she said. “If we were- were lovers, it would hurt either one to leave the other. How would we choose who was to live, and who to die?”

“This is a kind of torture known to my culture,” he said gravely.

“And to mine,” she agreed with a shudder.

“Yet if this is so, why would they allow even one of us to survive?” he asked. “Perhaps there is no refuge within range of the suit.”

“Oh, King, I am afraid!” she said.

He put his arm about her shoulders. “Perhaps we misjudge the situation,” he said reassuringly.

“Then we were not lovers,” she said.

He removed his arm, self-consciously. “Perhaps not.”

She retreated to the sanitary facility. This, at least, was shielded from the holo camera. In due course she emerged. “We were not lovers,” she said.

King paused, assessing her meaning. Obviously she had checked, and discovered herself to be still a virgin. Embarrassed, he turned away.

“I meant no affront,” Wan said quickly. “Only that there must be some other reason for our confinement.”

They completed their exploration of the premises. King was pleased to discover a small but nice collection of weapons on one wall: a long sword, short sword, assorted daggers, and two laser pistols. Wan gazed at these and shuddered; she had no use for such things. However, there was also a nice collection of cloths and threads, and a modern sewing machine. This delighted Wan, who found that she knew exactly how to use it.

Then Wan prepared a very nice meal from the available supplies, and they ate. Then, discovering no holo news input or entertainment features, they retired to their separate chambers and slept.

Which gave the rest of us a chance to return to mundane matters. So far there had been no sign of rivalry or hostility between the contest participants, just the mutual confusion and search for the reality of their situation. Very little, really, had happened. But how riveting the course of that happening! As long as no decision was forthcoming, no one could rest. All in all, it was a very satisfactory contest, though proceeding along a course that had not been anticipated.

In the morning the two woke and performed their toilets and had breakfast, and discussed their situation. “Obviously we were put here, and if we were not lovers, perhaps we are being tested,” King said. “It is our challenge to obtain our freedom within our deadline.”

“Then there must be a way,” Wan said.

“There must be a way,” he repeated.

But though they quested all day, they found no way for both to go. They explored every possible avenue, and all came to nothing. Only one could be sure of escape.

They filled in empty hours in their own fashions, staving off the boredom and the fear of their fate. King practiced with the weapons, finding himself marvelously fluent with them, and Wan did dances, her body discovering familiar patterns of motion. King paused in his activity to watch her, making no comment, but his interest was manifest. He was a warrior, true; but it seemed that he also subscribed to a code of honor that prevented him from taking advantage of one who was definitely not a warrior.

It was Wan who, on the third day, caught on. “This is the test!” she exclaimed with dismay. “To see which one of us escapes!”

“To decide some issue between our nations,” he agreed, seeing it.

She lowered her gaze. “I could not prevent you, King.” He paced the chamber, reflecting. “May I speak with candor, Wan?”

She laughed, but did not look at him. “I cannot prevent you,” she repeated.

“You are fair, and I am smitten with you.”

“That is not the way a man of the Middle Kingdom addresses a woman,” she replied, her color intensifying.

“I do not know the appropriate manner to say what I wish, so I will say it outright. Give me your favor, and I will let you take the suit.”

“And perhaps betray your planet?” she asked. “I would not sell my favor thus.”

“Then take the suit anyway. I cannot let you perish here.”

“You are generous,” she murmured.

“You are fair,” he repeated.

“Then I suppose it is decided,” she said. “Help me get into the suit.”

He went to the lock and fetched the suit. He helped her don it, and he adjusted its limbs to fit her properly, and cautioned her about wasting the drive. “We do not know how far you must go,” he said. “If there were any way to avoid this risk, I would not have you take it.”

“But you could take it,” she reminded him.

“I think the worse risk is remaining here.” He meant it; I was reading him.

She donned the helmet and entered the lock. Sealed within it, she touched the air-evacuation control. Then she touched it again, and the dropping pressure rose again.

She returned to the interior of the bubble, and lifted the helmet.

“Something is wrong?” King inquired anxiously.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Then we shall fix it! I thought that suit was in good order!”

“I apologize,” she said. “What?”

“For doubting you. I did not think you would actually let me go.”

“I told you: If I may not have your favor, I can at least save your life.”

She lowered her gaze in the way she had. “You have my favor now.”

He paused, then slowly nodded.

She got out of the suit, and there followed a scene that one seldom has opportunity to witness on holo broadcast. Wan’s favor, once won, was a spectacular thing.

“We are lovers now,” she murmured before they slept.

And Forta came to me in the guise of Wan, a lovely make-believe princess. But I hesitated. “She was never one of my women.” Actually, my hesitation was because of that Helse image; I enjoyed making love to the replicas of my other women, but Helse and Megan were sacred.

“At your age,” she said, “you have to learn to live vicariously.” She brought out a mask and her makeup kit, and she put the mask on my face and secured it, and she worked on my body with pseudoflesh. I let her proceed, for I liked the touch of her hands on my body, and I liked what she was doing.

In due course she brought me before a full-length mirror. I was amazed: my scarred arms and legs had become smooth and powerfully muscled, and my face was that of King. I was the make-believe prince, and she the princess, and we made as fetching a couple as the one we had watched.

“You have my favor now,” she said.

I fear that if it could be objectively viewed, our subsequent performance would hardly have approached that of the originals. But in my fond memory, it was identical. I felt young and strong, and she was ravishingly delicious, and we made love that should not have shamed the model on which it was based.

Ah, Forta! What a joy she was to me in the late stage of my life! She was correct about the joys of vicarious existence, and she rehearsed the loves of all my life, except the major ones. Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to deny her those; if it was right for my lesser loves, how could it be wrong for the major ones?

I had to have my dialysis, and though I tried to watch the ongoing holo, and thought I followed it perfectly, my memory fogs out, and I realize that I must have lost concentration and slept through goodly portions. This I regret, but it is another sign of my advancing weakness. That love scene with Forta’s Wan emulation evidently took much out of me, though it was worth all it cost.

My next clear memory is of crisis: King and Wan had seen themselves coming up on their week’s deadline, and their extraordinary efforts to lose themselves in loveplay had not blinded them to their reality. They had concluded that there was only one satisfactory way out: They would die together. They planned their suicide carefully. He would use the largest sword to decapitate her cleanly, then stab himself through the heart. Their blood would mingle, and they would travel together to the afterlife. “And don’t go without me!” he cautioned her with mock severity. “I will join you in fifteen seconds.”

“My spirit will wait at least that long for you, my love,” she said seriously.

They set it for the final day, when the food ran out and the power had only one hour to go. That was only two days away. In the interim they proposed to love each other to the maximum possible extent.

There was of course a storm of reaction and protest outside. Not only did this totally unanticipated conclusion threaten to bring no victory to either side, the people of both Wan and the Middle Kingdom had in the course of these few days become enraptured by the romance of their representatives, and could not bear to see them die. Delegations marched on the capitals, and the media were filled with a single coalescing sentiment: It hardly mattered by what name the mission operated. What mattered was that the lives of these two noble lovers be saved.

An accord was achieved in record time: The project would proceed under the title King/Wan, and the two of them would be placed in charge of the project, each to represent the interest of his/her nation and that of all its people. The two would be informed of this on the planetary holo, and all other officials would defer absolutely to their decisions. They were, in truth, to be Prince and Princess.