Joe Haldeman - Worlds

“Not if we were married.”

I dropped a little ice cream on my lap. “What? Married?”

“People get married. I love you.”

“Jeff…” I got busy with a napkin. My brain was stuck. “Jeff, you, I thought you understood, I, Daniel and me…”

“I do understand. But you love me too, don’t you? Some?”

“You know I do. But not marriage . After six months, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. There are two solutions. One, we could get a mutual-consent divorce when it comes time for you to leave. ‘Better to have loved and lost than never to have lost at all’”

“I don’t know that I could accept that.” Marriage is sacred, if anything is.

He nodded. “I didn’t think so. But you might consider it from an anthropological perspective. Marriages of convenience are very common here, you know; when you’re among barbarians, it’s safest to temporarily conform to their customs.”

“I’m not much of an anthropologist. What’s the other solution?”

He made a little tent with his fingers and stared down at it. “I could go back to New New York with you. Or join you later, after the shuttle’s on a regular schedule again.”

“You mean you’d give up the FBI?”

“There are police in New New. They could put my talents to use. Wouldn’t they be almost compelled to take me, if I were the spouse of a citizen?”

“In normal times, yes. But, Jeff… you wouldn’t like it there. Not after growing up in New York and living the way you have. It’s too quiet and peaceful. Boring.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. I think I’ve had enough excitement.”

“But—”

“Now you’re going to bring up Daniel.” I was, as a matter of fact He spoke formally; “I would be more than willing to join him in a triune marriage. That you love him is enough of a testimonial.” He looked directly at me. “I’d rather have half of you than all of any woman I’ve ever met before.”

“The men don’t get half,” I said, almost automatically, “the woman gets double.” I covered my face with my hands. “Jeff, Jeffie, you have to give me time to think. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been fighting the idea of joining a triune.”

“But your family wasn’t really—”

“I know. But all the other bastards around me were.” A three-way marriage is fine for adults: stable tripod. Not so great for the children, though. They become manipulative.

“So we could start our own line, you and Daniel and me. And the Boy Scout troop down the block.”

I had to laugh. “You overestimate me. Four or five would be plenty.”

“Seriously, I don’t want to rush it. I know you need time to think. Talk it over with Daniel.”

“That presents a little problem. I haven’t mentioned you to him, at least not our relationship.”

“Do you want me to write to him?”

“No. Not yet.” I stood up and dropped a fifty on the table. “Don’t get up. I have to walk for a while.”

“You shouldn’t go out alone.”

“Just to the dorm. It’s not the Casbah.”

“Still, be careful. Why don’t you take my knife.”

“I’m okay.” I kissed him on the cheek and went out.

It had just started to rain, a steady cold drizzle, no wind. I put up my hood and was comfortable; the weather matched my mood. The cold black and double glare.

Jeff hadn’t mentioned the third alternative, that I marry him and stay here. What would that be like? Marianne O’Hara, groundhog. I couldn’t see it. Not even in this wonderful city. The Earth is closed space; history’s mistakes endlessly repeating. The future belongs to the Worlds.

But could Jeff adjust? I turned the last corner before the dorm entrance.

“Aye there, sweetbuns.” I froze. I’d seen enough cube to recognize gang talk.

Another voice: “So-o-o lonesome, she is. Oll alone t’night.”

Three men stepped out from behind the shrubbery, blocking my path. There was no one else in sight. “Get out of my way,” I said weakly. My hand curled around the spraystick in my coat pocket.

“W’d she knife us?” They were all corpse-white, heads and eyebrows shaved, dressed in tailored denim shirts and kilts.

“She w’dna. She sweet.” The first one who’d spoken stepped forward. “Just a little front-to-front, sweetbuns.” He lifted his kilt at me.

“Front-to-back, I like,” said the pimply one.

“Front-to-top,” said the tall one.

“All right,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “but it’s not for free.”

The front one laughed and turned to say something to his comrades. I pulled the spraystick out of my pocket and fired; the luminous jet spattered him from shoulder to ear. He gasped and then vomited explosively.

The smell was hideous. I held my breath and shifted aim. The pimply one tried to ward it off with his hands, but it didn’t work and he fell to his knees retching.

The tall one very calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. He vomited a split second before he fired, which probably saved me. The bullet sang off the sidewalk and my right ankle stung from the fragments. I turned and ran.

I ran two blocks, to the dormitory’s rear entrance, then rushed down the corridor to the public phone in the foyer. I called the police; they already had a floater headed here, responding to the gunshot. I sat in the lobby (after trying to scrub the rotten-egg smell from my hand) and in a few minutes an armored policeman came in. I told him my story and filled out a complaint form.

“Do you think you’ll catch them?”

He nodded. “Blindfolded. But even if they’d had time to wash the smell away, that luminous paint adheres for days.”

“Will I have to go to court?” That could really throw off my schedule. But worth it.

“Probably not.” He looked rueful. “Not unless they charge you with assault.”

I was dumbstruck. He elaborated. “There’s no law against suggestive talking, nor ‘accidental’ exposure of genitals. If the tall one still has his gun, we can charge him for illegally possessing and discharging it But it’s probably in the sewers by now.”

“They—they could have me arrested?”

“You assaulted them with a deadly weapon. Puke-0 has killed people. The assault could be proven even if you hadn’t admitted to it.”

“But that’s insane!”

“Sister, I couldn’t agree more. But that’s the way it works.” He picked up his helmet. “Don’t worry. They’re probably too citywise to make a formal charge. If they did, it’s true we’d have to hold you in jail for a couple of days—but because of your countercharge, we’d have them in jail, too. We could put them in cells where they’d be sure to have bad accidents.”

Cold justice. “What you’re saying… if they don’t charge me, they aren’t going to jail?”

“No. We’ll pick them up, take them down to the station for fingerprints and retina scans. Ask them some questions. Since they didn’t hurt you, that’s all we can do.”

“They didn’t hurt me?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

I sank back into the cushions. “This is the second time.”

“You shouldn’t be out at this time of night alone, unarmed. This isn’t the nicest part of town.”

I was getting tired of hearing that advice. “Then what the hell are police for?”

“Sometimes I wonder.” He put on his helmet and spoke to me from behind the mirror blankness. “There are eighteen thousand of us and sixteen million of you. We can’t be everywhere. Will you be all right?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” He nodded and walked out.

Before he’d come I’d bought some tea from the lobby machine and used it to take a pill. Now I could feel the pill taking effect. I sipped at the cold tea and looked over the bulletin board for a long time, and then went up to my room.