The Fresco (46 page)

“Of course,” and she actually laughed, “they have never seen human art. Our sisters who visited you on Earth have seen it. They have told us all about the remarkable talents of humans. It was amusing to see the Chapter members teetering on their ethical slide, deciding whether to inquire about or even mention the artistry of Earthians. Several of them finally got up the courage to ask me if I had seen Earthian art. Of course, I had to be honest. I told them, no, I had not.”

Then she turned to the president and asked softly, “Have the Pistach really done so much for your people?”

“They really have,” he murmured. “A lot of things they speak of doing are things many humans have wanted to do but have never been able to muster a mandate to get them done. Things like legalizing drugs to take out the profit motive. Or paying teachers the way we do athletes, depending
on how effective they are. Or getting rid of weapons whose only purpose is to kill people.”

“Is a mandate necessary?”

“If you're going to overcome an economic incentive, yes.”

“Logic has no part?”

“No part at all. People can see the problem, they're not stupid, but they can't influence the legislators the way money can. Even when bad situations go on and on until the people are desperate for a correction, even when they threaten legislators with voting them out, the money still prevails.”

“It is hard for me to see how this could happen.”

Chad said, “The legislators react to a problem by writing a law, let's say to put repeat drunk drivers in jail. The liquor industry objects, because they don't like a lot of discussion about drunkenness, it hurts their image. The legislators react by amending the law to create a commission to study how best to jail drunk drivers. Then, when the budget bills come along, they fund only the commission. The appointees to the commission include representatives of the liquor industry.

“This allows the legislators to claim success, because the law got voted in. The liquor industry also claims success, because they made sure the law won't work.

“The next step is to hire a lot people to work for the commission, many of whom are also liquor industry supporters, and the commission begins to issue long, complicated, vaguely pointless reports. Now, however, there are jobs involved, and legislators can't get rid of jobs, even useless ones.

“Then, repeatedly, the lawmakers amend the law further, tweaking this and changing that, but always adding more jobs—until we have a bureaucratic monstrosity that's in the business of helping the liquor industry prevent legislation against drunk drivers. That's the way our Forestry Service got to be owned by the lumbermen, and our DEA got to be owned by the drug cartels, welfare got to be owned by a social work hierarchy, and schools got to be owned by professional educationalists. None of them work, because that's not what they're designed to do.”

The Inkleozese nodded. “I see. The Pistach wouldn't accept that, of course. It's ineffectual.”

The president nodded. “The Pistach don't have opposing political parties shooting one another out of the sky just for the fun of it, or legislators who sell their votes. The Pistach are way ahead of us technologically, and they're blessed pragmatists, and we need them. We really, really do.”

“And you think you'll achieve Tassifoduma?” She cocked her head at him.

Benita, watching, saw something of the praying mantis in her stance and realized with a shock that if they didn't achieve Tassifoduma, all the men on Earth would be useable as brooders by the Inkleozese. The Assessor Emeritus turned her slightly mocking gaze on Benita, who flushed and looked at her feet.

The president murmured, “Nothing is ever sure in the world…in the galaxy, but we'll certainly come closer with the Pistach than we would without.”

Benita and Chad went with the Inkleozese as she left the room.

“And how do you rationalize this little…joke you played on the Pistach?” the Inkleozese asked, staring at Benita and Chad.

Benita looked at Chad, and then at the ceiling.

He said, “I've heard Benita quote her grandfather about civilized people trying to cope with the problems caused by belief in savage gods left over from barbaric yesterdays. It seemed to us that since Chiddy and Vess have been helping us with that problem, it's only right we should help them with similar problems in our turn. They don't tell us everything while they're helping us—Chiddy's journal made that clear—so it would be quid pro quo if we didn't tell them everything while we're helping them.”

The Assessor Emeritus was dropped off on Inkleoza, still laughing every time she looked at the president, and after that, the humans went on home.

Chiddy and Vess joined Benita as she was leaving the ship, the last human to do so but Carlos. Before the Pistach took the large ship back to Inkleoza, Carlos was getting a
lift to California so he could make his apologies to the foundation.

“We'll be back in a few days,” said Chiddy, rather formally. “You can take a few days to figure out what you're going to tell me,” he said. “About what happened.”

She gave him a long, level look. “I don't need a few days, Chiddy. Do you respect the Inkleozese?”

“You know we do.”

“If the Inkleozese approve of what happened, why would you expect me to tell you anything?”

“I don't know,” he said, making his peculiar, not-human shrug.

“You and Vess were very selective about what you told us, but I don't hold it against you.”

“Um,” he said, giving her a strange look.

When he returned in a much smaller ship, several days later, she asked, “How are things back on Pistach-home?”

He said thoughtfully, “Very…settled. They've decided to take images of the Fresco. And every planet is going to have a set of the images on the walls of its Fresco House. That way, no evil-doer can corrupt us just by repainting one set. And they'll put them behind glass and clean them every season, so everyone can see them, and there won't be any doubt that we're good people…”

“I never had any doubt,” she said, adding, not quite truthfully, “Neither did the president.”

SOMETIME

Senator Byron Morse, together with the members of his cabal, plus several hundred other pregnant men, spent the last months of their confinement in idle luxury at a rest home, high in the hills of a lovely forested area on Inkleoza. Fed and massaged and petted, they awaited deliverance, which, when it came, was far worse than anything they had ever experienced. Far, far worse, though it was over in a few hours, more or less, except for the few who didn't survive, Briess among them. When the chewing started, Briess had committed suicide, something the Inkleozese had never thought to guard against.

Afterward, temporarily tranquilized and permanently traumatized, they spent a brief convalescence in somewhat modified luxury before being returned home, along with Bert Shipton, who had been fed and housed in much less luxury during his stay on the planet.

Senator Byron Morse, Dink Dinklemier, and Prentice Arthur were dropped off on Morse's doorstep shortly after Christmas, a little over a year after they left home. They entered to find the house empty and dusty. A note on the coffee table was dated a full year before:

“By…don't know when you're getting back. The Pistach say when you've had a baby. I thought we covered that in prenup! Funny, huh? The governor appointed a replacement for you in the Senate since you had less than two years and were going to be gone over a year of it. She's a Democrat, wouldn't that frost you? When those Inkleo-whatsits said they'd be using you and the other pro-life people as brooders whenever they needed to, most states chose pro-choice or women candidates instead. Like you always used to say, motherhood and careers don't mix!

“Still, it's not the end of the world. Your old law partner called. He's wanting you to come back to work, filing class actions against the Pistach. Guns have taken to shooting the shooter instead of the shootee—usually some guy trying to rob a liquor store, though the other day it was some high school kid trying to knock off his teachers—and some munitions people are claiming interference with trade. I'm going down to Mexico for the holidays, with Mama. Acapulco, maybe. Get a little sun, a little relaxation. I'll go on back to Baltimore with her. No point my staying here all alone in this house. When you come in, call me. Let me know how you are. Love, Lupé.”

He poured himself a scotch, and invited the others to partake while he went back to the kitchen to call Janet and ask about the boys.

“I just got back,” he said.

“I figured it would be any time now,” she said in a dry voice, totally unlike herself. “It must have been a terrible experience for you.”

“I don't remember anything about it,” he lied.

“Lucky you,” she remarked. “I remember all about my pregnancies, one right after the other. I had no rest between times at all, even though you hated it when I was pregnant! It really surprised me when you let that ET get to you.”

“I didn't let her. That's not true! I was raped,” he cried.

“Oh, come on, By. Raped? Did you call for help? Did you fight?”

He snarled, “I was in no condition to do either. You think
I'd have done this willingly? My life has been completely disrupted.”

She chuckled, a totally unfamiliar sound. “Well, so was mine, over and over.”

“No, Janet, it's not the same thing, that was your duty, but I've been robbed of my life. I've been forced to continue a pregnancy I didn't want.”

“It was only an inconvenience, By.” She laughed. “You wouldn't let me have that excuse.”

“Janet, damn it, stop laughing! I want to talk to the boys.”

“Stop laughing? By, when I heard you were pregnant, the load seemed to drop from my shoulders. You know, I giggled for two solid days, and I haven't been hungry since. I've dropped fifty pounds, I've got a good job, and the boys tell me I look great. I'll ask the boys to call you, By, but they were so embarrassed, your being pregnant by an ET, I'm not sure they'll do it anytime soon. I sent you a letter. Lupé said she put it on your bedside table.”

Before he could bellow, she had hung up on him. He went upstairs, found the dusty letter and opened it: just a line of text and a photograph. He stared at it.

Dink called from the foot of the stairs. “By? You all right?”

“Get out,” the senator yelled. “You and Arthur get out of here. I want to be by myself!”

He heard the door shut behind them. Janet looked marvelous in the picture. God, he didn't remember she'd ever looked like that. And the boys…the two boys. They looked so much like her. They didn't look anything like him. Why hadn't he seen that? They didn't look anything like him at all! And that horrible squirming thing on Inkleoza hadn't looked like him either!

 

Bert Shipton was dropped off at his home in Albuquerque. He had forgotten it was being repossessed, a fact of which he was forcefully apprised by the new owners when they found him ransacking the kitchen for beer. He'd been keeping himself sane by anticipating the beer he would drink when he got back to Earth, and now here he was, and there wasn't any. At loose ends, he wandered down the street,
thinking he'd stop in to see Larry Cinch. Larry was out in the alley, fixing his car.

“Well, stranger,” said Larry, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Haven't seen you in a year or better. Thought you'd died. Say, isn't that a kick about Benita?”

“What about her?” Bert wanted to know.

“She's some high mucky-muck in Washington. Special attaché for something or other to the U.N. Sorry about the dee-vorce, but you're prolly better off.”

“What dee-vorce?”

“She married somebody else. Since nobody could find you, and the ETs said you'd prolly been eaten, the president got you declared dead by special act of Congress. Part of a compensation package for the intermediary.”

“Hell, I'm not dead. Never was dead!”

“I'll bet nobody knows you're alive! If that don't frost the cake. Here, have a beer. Any man just recent dead deserves a beer.”

Bert took it in hand and drank deeply. His face turned red, he choked, then spewed the contents across the fence with a cough that reached down into his thighs. He felt as though his insides were coming out. Another sip brought the same reaction.

“You're one, huh,” said Larry, with a sympathetic shake of the head. “That's too bad.”

“I'm one what?” gasped Bert.

“One of those that shouldn't drink. The ETs, they've put some stuff in the air. It's to keep people from endangering other people. People who get nasty when they drink can't drink. They heave it up. People who don't drive safely can't drive. They forget how. Simple, huh? Nobody can smoke until they're eighty-five, and people who plan to shoot other people go into screaming fits if they touch a gun. Either that or the gun shoots them. Gun sales are down over eighty percent.

“Funny how we didn't know that most people who bought guns were really thinking about killing people? Turns out they were, though. Even me. I have this kind of fantasy about killin' my wife an' her mother. Didn't ever take
it serious, but got to admit, I'd thought about it. So, I can't buy a gun, but I can drink, so long as it's no more than one beer an hour, no more than five in any one day.”

After a few minutes of watching Larry enjoying his beer, Bert decided to go see if he could find somebody else to talk to. He wandered down to the police station. Though he'd spent some time locked up, he also had friends there. Sergeant Wilkes and Joe Keene and…lots of people.

The place was like a graveyard.

“Hey,” he yelled. “Gimme a little service here.”

Wilkes came out of the office and stared at him in astonishment. “Bert? I thought you was dead.”

“I'm not dead, Jim,” Bert replied testily, repeating: “Never was dead.”

“Well, I be damned,” said the sergeant. “Hey, you hear about Benita?”

“Larry tole me.”

“That was somethin, wasn't it? Remember how she used to go down to the shelter to hide out when you was on a rampage? Boy, you two used to get into it. You used to whack her a good one, ever now and then.” He shook his head sadly. “None of that stuff happens anymore.”

“Whatta you mean, none of that stuff? Wives don't drive men crazy anymore? That'd be the day.”

The sergeant shook his head. “Hardly ever. It just don't happen like it used to. I think it's something in the air, you know. Like the antidrunk dust.” He rearranged some papers on the desk, raising a cloud of ordinary dust in the process. “Heard your house got sold.”

“Damn Benita! She didn't pay the mortgage.”

“You know, if you need a job or a place to sleep, you should go down to that shelter where she used to go. It's not for women anymore. They call it a Glusi Center now. Like a homeless shelter. Got some real good programs for people sort of…at loose ends, you might say.”

Bert figured he was at loose ends. Until he could get hold of Benita. Make her pay him some alimony or something. He'd have to think about that.

His feet remembered the way to the shelter, even if his
brain didn't. It was still right where it had been, in back of the old Methodist church, but it had a new sign.

 

Glusi Center
Life Plans for the Needy

 

Inside, a pleasant young woman helped him fill out a questionnaire, had him hold his ideogram in front of a machine, then gave him a card that told him where to get his clothes washed, where to get dinner that night, and a bed to sleep in, where to breakfast tomorrow, and where to go to work the next morning. “Free.” She smiled. “All the services are free. And when you go to work tomorrow, you'll get another card with the next day's schedule on it, and on weekends, you get weekend cards for recreation activities, movies, or sports. All free.”

“Wha'f I don't feel like working?” he asked, summoning truculence.

“That's fine. You do what you like. If you'd rather lie around all day, you can do that, but it gets pretty boring, you know, when you can't drink or smoke and there's no TV until evening and you can't loiter.”

“Whadda you mean, can't loiter?”

“Loitering isn't allowed. Streets are for transit. Everyone is happier if he's going somewhere and doing something. If one isn't working, one should be enjoying life, meditating, recreating, relaxing in some appropriate place. If you'd rather meditate or relax than work, that's fine, here's a list of meditation and relaxation centers.”

“And if I don't want to meditate?” he cried, outraged.

“That's fine,” she said. “That's perfectly fine. We'll find something else for you to do.”

Bert wandered out, feeling aimless. He should, he felt, be really angry about moocow, but somehow, it was all too much effort. The streets were empty except for people obviously going somewhere. And he couldn't drink beer, or anything alcoholic. And he couldn't smoke, he wasn't even fifty yet.

The address sheet said there was a meditation center a
block away. He turned left and found the entrance, a plain door with a symbol on the doorway that looked like a head with rays coming out of it. He remembered the building first as a warehouse and then later as a place where Larry's friend used to store bales of marijuana. Now, however, rows of pillows were lined up on the floor, a few of them occupied by quiet people. Bert sat down.

A voice spoke to him, very softly. “Let's think about things,” it said. “Let's decide what we can do today that will be useful….”

Bert tried to get up, but his legs wouldn't work, and the voice in his head said, “That's fine, we can go when we've finished, but we don't want to go just yet, do we? No. We want to think about being useful…” And the voice went on, and on, and on, until it was time for lunch.

“That's fine,” said the smiling lady at the lunch counter when he complained about too much salad. “Tomorrow, you choose something else.”

“That's fine,” said the man at the shelter that night. “Here's your card for tomorrow and a list of other shelters.”

“That's fine,” said the boss the next morning, when Bert reported and said he didn't want to work. “You can go to the meditation center.”

“That's fine,” said Bert a week or so later, looking at himself in the mirror of the room that had his name on it, room 502 at Glusi Housing Center #10. His boss on the painting crew had told him he was doing really well. The food at the center tasted better all the time. “That's just fine,” he said, trying to identify the strange feeling he had. Really weird. After a while, he decided he felt contented.