Contrary to popular opinion, Los Angeles does have seasons. Not that the City of the Angels will ever equal the seasonal variations that mark the Midwest or the Northeast. No cornucopia of riotous reds and yellows trumpets fall’s arrival. No mantle of white shapes winter life into picturesque scenes reminiscent of Currier-and-Ives prints. Still, each season tends to have its own special, if subtle, characteristics.
This early November Friday, for example, was typical of the year’s autumn: crisp, clean, bright and, for Los Angeles, cool. As usual, the summer had been warm, but there were only two especially hot spells, one in July and the other in early September. October was a transitional month, with some days clinging to summer like a frightened child to its mother, while other days rushed headlong into the new season.
Maybe that’s why no one ever thinks we have seasons here, Rayna reflected as she crossed the campus quadrangle en route from her classroom to the school office, enjoying the fresh scent in the air. The changes here kind of sneak up on you without any fanfare.
Bob Carlson, the school’s principal, was working at a terminal in the office as she entered the modest-sized room, which was dominated by computer equipment and library cases of data disks.
“Rayna,” he said, rising from his chair as she entered, “I’m glad you stopped by before you left. Are you still planning that field trip for your students? The one to the Los Angeles debate between Althea Milgrom and Ethan Rensselaer?”
“Yes,” Rayna said, surprised at the question. “Is there some problem?”
Carlson hesitated before answering. “I’ve been getting phone calls.”
“What kind of calls?”
“Hostile ones.” He drew himself to his full height, which was little more than her own, although he always seemed much taller. “Some of the parents feel Althea Milgrom is a traitor,” he told Rayna. “They don’t think the school should sanction a field trip that exposes the children to her ideas about cooperating with the colonies.”
Rayna’s face grew hot. “So it’s finally started,” she protested. “I was wondering when those self-serving Earth-Firsters would get around to attacking free academic inquiry, not to mention the democratic process!” She pressed her lips together and reminded herself that Bob Carlson wasn’t the enemy. “Damn it, Bob,” she said, this debate is a part of an open examination of a public policy issue. It’s the kind of discussion that’s essential to a free society. Besides, Milgrom and Rensselaer are probably going to wind up as their parties’ candidates for the United States Senate.”
“That’s probably true, but—”
“The greater the controversy, the more value there is in having my students see the two of them go head to head. I’ve been taking my classes to debates like this for years, and I have no intention of stopping now, just because some narrow-minded little—”
“It’s all right, Rayna,” Carlson soothed. “I managed to put them off for the time being. After all, if those parents don’t want their kids to go, they can just refuse to grant permission.”
Rayna grunted. “That’s true. Unfortunately. It’s the students with parents like that who need this kind of field trip the most.”
“Be that as it may,” said Carlson, “we can only do so much. This Nitinol thing has people very upset. The President still hasn’t come up with a coherent policy to follow. How can we expect the average person to react with any real understanding? Everyone’s frightened.”
“They should be,” Rayna agreed, “but not of the colonies or the loss of the Nitinol. Look at what’s happening to us! We’re becoming a world of intolerant, selfish children, ready to attack one another at the slightest provocation.”
Carlson rumbled as he cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t call holding the world’s Nitinol supply for ransom a ‘slight provocation.’”
“Maybe not, but Althea Milgrom didn’t steal the Nitinol, and the news reports say she’s had four death threats since her speech last month urging the Secretary-General to contact the colonies again.” Rayna looked away briefly, then fixed Carlson with an earnest gaze. “Let’s face it, Bob: Reason seems to be out of fashion these days. People are letting their fear and anger drive them into doing things they’d never have tolerated six months ago. They’re desperate for an easy answer; so if a scapegoat is handy....”
“I don’t like what’s going on, either, Rayna. Did you hear about Frank Brannigan and Esther Mayall?” Rayna shook her head. “Fired,” said Carlson. “Just like that. The board found out that they have close relatives living in the colonies. Of course, the board didn’t want to be accused of giving traitors a forum for subverting the young, and —”
“Hmmph! You mean the noble members of the Board of Education were afraid the Earth-Firsters would make good on their promise to destroy any elected official who’s ‘weak’ on colonial policy. That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it, Bob?”
The principal bowed his head and looked up at Rayna from under bushy gray eyebrows. “I’m afraid you’re right. That’s why I want you to think very carefully about this field trip thing. If anything goes wrong, it could mean your job, and you’re just too valuable a teacher to lose.”
Rayna patted Carlson’s hand. “You’re a good man, Bob. I appreciate the warning. But if I back down under this kind of pressure, then I’m not such a good teacher after all. Unless you order me otherwise, the field trip is on. And, Bob, I have to tell you: If you order me to cancel the trip, I’ll quit.”
Carlson nodded, his mouth stretched into a taut smile. “That’s just what I thought you’d say. I’m not sure I’d have your courage, Rayna, but I won’t stop you.”
“Thanks, Bob,” she said, turning to check the message terminal near the office door. Finding nothing designated for her, she walked to the faculty Trans-Mat pod. “I’ll see you on Monday, then,” she said with a wave just before activating the mechanism.
Back in her apartment, Rayna continued to think about the exchange with Bob Carlson and the news about her fellow teachers. Frank and Esther were no more subversive than she was. Why would people send their children to a full-service school like the Brandemar Learning Center if all they wanted was programmed material that they could get from the CDN and educational software on their home terminals?
She knew what all the studies had concluded for the last 30 years: Most people learn best in an atmosphere that blends social interaction, instruction and ample opportunities for development of critical thinking skills. Now a few small-minded simpletons were trying to deny those opportunities to others. Or was it only a few? Rayna didn’t really want to know the figures. The number sympathetic to the extremist Earth-Firsters may still be small, but she feared it was growing.
An overwhelming sadness enveloped her. Maybe it would be better if everyone just learned at home after all, she thought bitterly. No! she quickly admonished herself. She knew better. She’d known better for a long time.
It was Al Frederick who first showed her the advantages of learning centers. She was very young then maybe 5 or 6. A quick, independent student, she had suffered from a painful shyness, and she had objected strenuously to attending classes with other children.
“Why can’t I just use our terminal here at home?” she remembered asking her mother. “I’ll be real good. I’ll do all the work. You’ll see, Mommy. I don’t hafta go to the learning center, do I?”
She appealed to Al, too, but he refused to intervene on her behalf. Instead, he listened politely as she recited her objections, then took her to the local center so that she could meet some of the teachers and see the facilities for herself. He patiently explained that learning about people was as important as learning about the arts and sciences. At last, reluctantly, she accepted the inevitable. By the time she had completed high school and then earned her university degree, she had grown as much socially as intellectually, and, in the end, it was her skills with people, not just her keen intellect, that marked her as an outstanding teacher.
Rayna choked back a tear. It was Al who had made the secret arrangements for her adoption. Arthur Judson’s investigation finally revealed Frederick’s name on some key documents. “Aunt” Vickie wasn’t involved and probably never knew the truth herself. Maybe Al felt guilty over what happened to Ariana (my mother!, Rayna thought with a pang). Apparently, he wanted to ensure that no such tragedy befell his granddaughter. Fate took a hand in the matter when Vickie’s brother and sister-in-law encountered problems trying to adopt a baby. Al was able to arrange for the Kingmans to adopt Rayna, while hiding his own involvement in an intricate web of paperwork.
It must have been Al who sent those letters to Mother and Dad warning them not to tell me I was adopted.... Damn it! Somebody should have told me! I had the right to know!
She closed her eyes and swiveled her head clockwise and counterclockwise, back and forth, trying to ease the tension in her neck and shoulders. She was furious with Al for hiding her identity from her, all the more so because he was dead, and she couldn’t confront him, couldn’t tell him how he had hurt her or how much he had meant to her. For Al had been there when she needed him here with a new idea, a comforting touch, an encouraging word. Despite the deception, their relationship had been unusually close. But, oh, how she wished she could have told him, just once, “Grandfather, I love you!”
Drawing a mental curtain to shield herself from such painful thoughts, she began preparing for an evening with Keith. She had seen him much less frequently since he began what he liked to call his “espionage escapade,” but the plan seemed to be working. Tauber had come to regard Keith as something of a confidant. Even so, however, the former Merchant Fleet officer had revealed little of his overall plans.
“Safer that way,” he had told Keith.
In her bedroom, Rayna removed her work clothes and deposited them in a closetron bin. Moments later, she opened the bin’s lid to verify that the mechanism had done its job. The bin was empty, of course. She had no reason to doubt the closetron’s efficiency. As usual, it had broken the discarded clothing into its component elements, which it then stored for future use. Whenever you wanted something to wear, you’d pick something from the memory banks, and the closetron would construct it for you clean and ready to wear. And, of course, since you stored your measurements in the data banks, everything always fit perfectly. In all the years she’d been using closetrons, they had never failed, yet she habitually checked the bin each time. Maybe it was her old childhood fantasy that drove her. Maybe she was still hoping to catch a glimpse of myriad tiny elves making off with microscopic components of her old clothes and hiding them from the prying eyes of more trusting folk.
Calculating that she had time for a shower, she headed for the bathroom. Like Keith, she much preferred a true shower over the newest technological marvel, a body cleanser that operated on static electricity. Fortunately, her building, like Keith’s, was equipped with water recirculators. Otherwise, they would have no choice in the matter, in view of the ongoing need for water conservation in Southern California.
Quickly, she showered, dried herself, and selected her outfit for the evening: a bright blue jumpdress made of a soft, silky material. The garment had a flowing, ankle-length skirt and long, puffy sleeves secured at the wrist by tight-fitting cuffs.
Rayna examined herself in the full-length glass in her bedroom. Much too dressy for tonight, she thought. Better switch to pants mode.
She pressed a button-sized control device set into her left cuff. Released from its molecular prison by the activation of a pre-programmed valence shifter, the fabric of the skirt separated along the center front and back, from crotch to hem. Rayna rotated the controller a quarter turn and pressed again. The raw edges of the fabric, seeking a new molecular equilibrium, formed the lower half of the garment into fashionable trouser-legs and sealed themselves into a new molecular bond.
Rayna’s door alarm interrupted her self-evaluation to announce Keith’s arrival.
“I brought back Frederick’s tapes and papers,” he said, brushing past her to set the permastore container on the floor against the wall. “I have a lot to tell you. Tauber really has some—” He stopped in mid-sentence as Rayna finally caught his eye. “Wow!” he said appreciatively. “I like!”
“Well, thank you, sir,” Rayna replied with an exaggerated curtsy. “I thought the dress mode might be a little too much for an art exhibit, even for the opening of Rafe’s one-man show. What do you think?”
She executed a slow turn, enjoying Keith’s attentions.
He rubbed his chin and considered the question with much more seriousness than it had been posed.
“You look fine to me just the way you are.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Come on. We’d better get going.”
***
The exhibition was an ordeal for Keith. He managed to cope with the space settings. He knew that, like the one Rafe had given Aurora for use in the dining room at Eduardo’s, such scenes were securely anchored to reality. As the exhibition brochure pointed out, Rafe had been a navigator in the Merchant Fleet before taking retraining to become an artist. Somehow, Keith told Rayna, that knowledge helped him keep his bearings.
The abstract environments were an entirely different matter.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered desperately after they’d made their way through one particularly vivid abstract, a geometric treatment featuring overlapping, multicolored, solid-looking shapes among and through which Keith and Rayna were expected to walk. The cubes, spheres and other holographic constructs of the work were supposed to lift observers into a surreal plane of consciousness, but all Rafe’s creation did for Keith was induce acute disorientation and budding nausea. A short time later, they said their farewells to Rafe and Aurora.
“Thank God!” Keith groaned as he flopped onto the couch back in Rayna’s apartment. “Finally, there’s something as solid as it looks!”
“How’s the stomach?”
Keith waved a hand in disgust. “I was fine as soon as we left the exhibition. What makes those idiots in the art world go wild over stuff like that?”
Rayna joined him on the sofa and took his hand. “Well, it wasn’t all so bad. Even you liked that portrait of Aurora against the background of stars.”
Keith rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t make up for—”
“Poor darling,” she crooned. “Shall I kiss it and make it all better?” With a gentle touch, she kissed his forehead, then his chin, then his nose.
“That’s not exactly the sort of kissing I need,” he said, pulling her to him and forcefully exploring her mouth with his lips and tongue. Despite her surprise over Keith’s unexpected aggressiveness, Rayna began to respond. Not quickly enough to suit Keith, however. He dragged her down onto the floor, his fingers groping for the garment release at the back of her neck. In rapid succession, he activated the release and yanked the top of the jumpdress down over her breasts to the sound of ripping fabric.
Rayna was appalled and frightened by this stranger who looked like Keith Daniels. Still, the look, the smell, the feel of him told her it was Keith. And, despite her horror at his behavior, a part of her wanted him as much as he wanted her.
But not like this, she realized. Not like this!
Somehow, she succeeded in pushing him off of her. “Stop it!” she shouted, rolling away and gathering the tattered remains of her jumpdress around her. “When did you start getting off on rape!”
Keith’s eyes blazed. “Maybe when you became a whoring tease!”
Rayna stared at him in shock as his reddened face suddenly went white. In the slowly lengthening silence, he shielded his eyes. “Oh jeez, Ray! I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
Without a word, Rayna rose, pulled the remnants of her jumpdress more tightly around her and headed for the bedroom. A moment later, Keith followed.
“I said I’m sorry,” he insisted, grabbing her arm and twisting her around to face him. “You’re hurting me,” she said quietly, gazing deep into his eyes.
With a start, he released her. He stared, shamefaced, at the deep red impressions his fingers had left on her arm.
“My God,” he whispered. He reached slowly toward the marks but then jerked his trembling hand away and looked desperately around the room.
“I need a shower,” he finally said. He was already in the bathroom before Rayna could respond. The steady sound of the water helped relax her as she slipped into a robe, but she couldn’t rid herself of the knot in her stomach.
She wandered back into the living room and placed the returned permastore box on the coffee table. She was shifting the contents about aimlessly, trying not to think too much about what had happened when the rush of the shower spray suddenly fell silent. She pretended not to notice the opening and closing of doors, and she resolutely refused to react when Keith came up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
“I really am sorry for all that, Ray,” he said. “I don’t know why it happened.”
She turned to look at him, examining his face as if it were a treasure map, concealing some hidden clue to a mystery she couldn’t even guess. Seeing no answers, she looked away.
“Ray, I....” He broke off, unsure of what to say next. “I’ll get dressed and go.”
As he turned to retrieve his clothes, Rayna caught his hand, then pulled away as if jolted by a static electric charge. “I don’t understand what’s going on,” she said solemnly. “The world’s changing. Maybe we’re changing, too. I don’t much like it. But the one thing I’m sure about despite what happened is that we have a better chance of dealing with it all if we stick together.”
He smiled and held out his arms, but she shook her head. “Not yet, Keith,” she said. “I’m not ready for you to touch me just yet.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet. “Let me stay the night, Ray. I won’t bother you. I promise. Let me try to make things up to you.”
Rayna drew a deep breath and studied his face once more. “All right,” she finally agreed. “You can stay. Maybe tomorrow we’ll be able to figure out what’s going on.”