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bathroom. If you had a beard you d look a little like Robert E. Lee.
Yeah? Can you do something about this damned sword? How the hell did they
get around without falling on their faces all the time?
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She giggled as she made adjustments. What?
Just wondering how many Jewish generals there were in the Confederate Army.
There re a lot . . . Oh, you mean that Confederation. I don t get it. Why
should that be funny?
You have to know the period.
Well, you ve lost me. I only know it from military history at Academy. I can
tell you why Longstreet did what he didn t do at Gettysburg, but not what
religion he was. Anyway, I m not Jewish. And you know it.
What are you, then? Do you believe in anything, Moyshe?
Poking again. Prying. For her own sake, he guessed. Fisher Security probably
would not care about his religion.
He wanted to make a snappy comeback, but she had struck too close to the core
of his dissatisfaction. At the moment he did not believe in anything, and
himself least of all. And that, he thought, was curious, because he had not
had these kinds of feelings since coming out of the line. Not till this
mission had begun. The Prophet Murphy, he said.
Murphy? I don t get it. Who the hell is Murphy? I expected death and taxes.
The Prophet Murphy. The guy who said, If anything can possibly go wrong, it
will. My life has been a testimonial.
She stepped back, shook her head slowly. I don t know what to make of you,
Moyshe. Yes I do. Maybe. Maybe I ll just make you happy in spite of yourself.
Blood from a turnip, Lady. He had had enough talk. Taking her arm, he
headed for the ball, for the moment forgetting that he did not know where he
was going. Then he saw that she had brought an electric scooter. The Seiners
used them whenever they had to travel any distance. There were places inDanion
that were literally days away by foot.
Red-faced, he settled onto the passenger seat, facing backward.
They did not exchange a word during the trip. Moyshe suffered irrational
surges of anger, alternating with images of the gun. That thing scared the
hell out of him. He was no triggerman. It seemed to have less contact with
reality than did his wanting.
He had become, on a low-key, reflexively suppressed level, convinced that he
was going insane.
Time seemed to telescope. The unwanted thoughts would not go away. His hands
grew cold and clammy. His mood sank . . .
Amy swung to the passage wall, parked, plugged the scooter into a charger
circuit. It became one of a small herd of orange beasts nursing electrical
teats. Good crowd, he said inanely, taking a clumsy poke at the silence.
Uhm. She paused to straighten his collar and sword. Come on. Her face
remained studiedly blank, landside style. It was a bit of home for which he
was ungrateful.
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The ball seemed a repeat of the morning s get-together. The same people were
there. Only a hundred or so were in appropriate costume. Twice as many wore
every get-up from Babylon to tomorrow, and as many again wore everyday
jumpsuits.
Moyshe froze just inside the doorway.
What is it? Amy asked.
I m not sure. I don t have the right, but . . . I feel like something s been
taken away from me. Had all those Vikings and Puritans and Marie Antoinettes
stolen his moment of glory? Had he been bitten by the Archaicist bug?
It s our history, too, remember? Amy countered, misunderstanding. You said
everybody s roots go back to Old Earth.
A hand took Moyshe s left elbow. Mint julep, sir?
BenRabi turned to face Jarl Kindervoort, who wore buckskins and coonskin
cap.Dan l Deathshead, he thought.Scair em injuns right out n Kaintuck .
The damn thing fits you better than it does me, Kindervoort observed.
It s your costume?
Yeah. Let s see what they ve got at the bar, Moyshe.
Amy had disappeared. And Kindervoort s tone implied business. Feeling
put-upon, benRabi allowed himself to be led to the bar.
That was another unpleasantness. The setup was Wild West, with a dozen rowdy
black hat types attached, busy making asses of themselves with brags and mock
gunfights. Acrid gunsmoke floated around in grey-blue streamers.
Of all the period crap that Archaicists bought, Moyshe felt Wild West was the
worst. It was all made-up history, a consensus fantasy with virtually no
foundation in actual history.
His mother s first Archaicist flier had been Wild West. It had come during
his difficulties at Academy, when he had desperately needed an anchor
somewhere. She had not given him what he had needed. She had not had the time.
To top it off, the Sangaree woman was there. She had assumed the guise of The
Lady Who Goes Upstairs.
Appropriate, benRabi muttered. Her awesome sexual appetites had grown since
The Broken Wings.
She was watching him with Jarl. Was she getting a little worried? Wondering
when he would turn her in? He smiled at her. Let her sweat.
There was a stir at the door. Jesus, benRabi said. Will you look at this.
Mouse the attention-grabber and most popular boy in class, with no less than
six beauties attached, had just swept in outfitted as a diminutive Henry VIII.
We re lucky this isn t a democracy, Kindervoort observed. Your friend
would be Captain by the end of the year, riding the female vote.
Moyshe ignored the pun. Sourly, he said, Aren t you? He was getting
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irritated with Mouse s antics. The man was flaunting his successes . . . Envy
was one of benRabi s nastier vices. He tried to control it, but Mouse made
that hard.
He faced the bar, found himself staring at some horrid-looking swill in a
tall glass. Mint julep, Kindervoort explained. We try to drink according to
period at these things. He sipped from a tin cup. The gunfighters were
tossing off straight shots. At bar s end a hairy Viking type waved an axe and
thundered something about honey mead.
Bet it all comes out of the same bottle.
Probably, Kindervoort admitted.
It s your ballpark. What do you want, Jarl?
Kindervoort s eyebrows rose. Moyshe, you re damned hard to get along with,
you know that? Now you frown. I m getting too personal. How do you people
survive, never touching?
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