Young Rissa (5 page)

She thought. “Yes, that's reasonable — if the clothes are. I mean, nothing fancy or expensive-looking.”
 

“Not likely — the stores aren't open yet. Gerda's rounding up some things in your size, from some of the live-in staff.”
 

“Yes. Will she be here soon? And when do the newspeople arrive?”
 

“Shouldn't be long now. Half an hour, maybe, until your interview.” He looked at her. “Rissa? You're one of the best girls I've had here. Would you — ?”
 

She knew his intent and answered it. “No. Because never before — not even once — did you
ask
me. You always just told me.”
 

A knock cut off whatever he might have said. Blonde Gerda entered, carrying clothing and a curly reddish wig. “Here you are, Gerard — and you, you lucky darling! Here — let me fix you up all pretty for the camera.”
 

Rissa shook her head. Gerard said, “Forget about pretty — she won't wear the wig and knows nothing of makeup. Just get a dress on her — and for God's sake, hurry!”
 

The red dress fit poorly, but Rissa would wear no other. Unfamiliar with underclothing, she refused it. Gerard sent Gerda for a suitcase; when she returned, she packed the rest of the clothes and the wig.
 

“Here you are, kid; it's all yours.” The woman left momentarily; a few seconds later, she opened the door again. “The press is here. Tell it like you believe it.”
 

 

To Rissa's surprise, Gerard carried the suitcase. In the auditorium the Tri-V was turned off, and instead of jump-suited girls the chairs were filled with outsiders — the press, waiting to interview the winner of one of the largest lottery prizes ever won.
 

Standing beside the darkened Tri-V, facing the cameras, she waited while Gerard introduced her — name, age, parentage and provenance. Then the questioning began.
 

“What's your reaction to winning the big prize?”
 

“Naturally, I'm delighted.”
 

“How does it feel to grow up in a Welfare Center?”
 

“I can't answer that; I've never grown up anywhere else. How does it feel to grow up outside?” Laughter.
 

“The last big winner called it an utter miracle. Do you agree?”
 

“No.” She shrugged. “Why should I? Every month, as long as I can remember, it happens — with the winners announced on Tri-V. This time it's me, is all.”
 

A moment's silence. “Who will you vote for in the next election?”
 

“I don't understand.”
 

“Which bidding conglomerate has your support?”
 

“I can't say — I don't know enough about any of them.”
 

“Does that mean you don't favor the present Committee?”
 

She bit her lip. “It doesn't mean
anything,
yet. Give me time to learn.”
 

From the rear, a harsh voice. “You better learn fast, kid.”
 

A gray-haired woman spoke. “What do you intend to do with the money you've won? And with your life, from now on?”
 

Rissa thought. “Buy my brother out of Welfare — my uncle Voris, too, if he's still alive — and share with them. That's the money.” She smiled. “My life? Well, I'm going off Earth and I'm going to grow my hair down to my butt — and the rest of it's my own business.”
 

Gasps, then the same woman asked, “You resent your present hairstyle?”
 

“What's to resent? A few sets of clippers are a lot cheaper than combs and brushes always getting lost and wearing out; anybody can see that. I don't have to like it, though, and I never did.”
 

“What are you going to do, off Earth?”
 

“I don't know yet. What are
you
going to do,
on
Earth?”
 

 

As the newspersons packed their equipment and began to leave, Gerard said, “Come with me. There's a pogiecopter waiting on the roof pad.” This time she carried her own suitcase.
 

On the roof, besides the copter and its pilot they found the gray-haired newswoman. She said, “If I may, Rissa, I'd like to ride with you. Where are you going?”
 

“She's booked into the Sigma-Hilton,” said Gerard, “until she arranges for permanent quarters. But you had your interview with the rest — isn't this a tittle unethical?”
 

“I'm not here as a reporter; I'm a friend of the family.” She turned to Rissa. “I doubt you'll remember me; you were very young. I'm Camilla Altworth.”
 

Rissa thought, then smiled. “Yes — my father bringing in the mail — he'd say ‘We have a letter from Camilla.' They'd read it, and laugh and talk — and my mother would write to you the very same day. No, I don't remember actually seeing you, but — yes, do come with me. You can tell me about David and Selene — things I've forgotten, or never knew.”
 

Gerard cleared his throat. “Well, I guess it's all right. You'd better get aboard; you're keeping the pilot waiting.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Rissa.”
 

She looked at the hand, then nodded and took it.
After all, he could have been worse
. “Good-bye, Gerard.” “Til we meet again.” “We won't.” She climbed inside; Camilla Altworth followed.
 

 

The lazy pogiecopter took them to the roof pad atop the Sigma-Hilton. Below, at the desk, Camilla Altworth took charge, but when she gave Rissa's name, the man smiled and said, “It's all arranged. Will you be staying also, as Ms. Kerguelen's guest?”
 

The woman looked at Rissa. Rissa said, “Maybe; we'll see.”
 

A bellman took them to a three-room suite. Impressed by the lush decor, Rissa waited until he left, to say, “Camilla, isn't it beautiful?”
 

“For its time, yes. About thirty years out of date, though.” Then, “Oh, hell — I've hurt your feelings. Of
course
there's no way you'd know about modern design. And it's foolish of me to evaluate everything by current fads. Yes, Rissa — it
is
beautiful. Trust your own taste, dear. You won't go wrong.”
 

Rissa laughed. “I'll have to learn a lot, won't I? But I have lots of time now. So let's sit down. Tell me about my parents.”
 

They sat, but Camilla said, “Lots of time is what you
don't
have. Look, Rissa — you're on a short fuse. You have to get out, and fast. That's why I'm here.”
 

“I don't understand. I trust you, but I don't understand.”
 

“Now, look, girl — what do you think the State gets for its money, giving you umpty million Weltmarks?”
 

“I don't know. Oh, sure — I figured out that the one chance in a million helps keep the rest of the million quiet, but — ”
 

“Figure a little further. You're good for about two months' free publicity to make everybody feel happy. Then what happens?”
 

“I don't know — how could I? What
does
happen?”
 

“The way it usually works — well, we have so many laws
nobody
can keep track — the Committee passes new ones all the time. And you're starting from scratch. So every now and then you'd break one.”
 

“And they'd punish me? Fines? Jails?”
 

“They'd let them pile up until they had enough to look good in the records. Then —
without
publicity — they'd pick you up, declare your assets forfeit, and put you back in Welfare.”
 

“
No!
” Rissa's hands clawed at her face; her body shook. Gently the older woman took her hands, then embraced her.
 

“It doesn't have to happen to
you
. There's a place to go — I've helped others — you'll be safe there. Now just listen a minute, will you?”
 

Still shuddering, Rissa nodded. She listened, and at the end of it she asked, “What about Ivan, my brother? And Uncle Voris?”
 

“There's not time to do it from here. The procedures would take too long — they'd stall, you see. And then they'd have you.”
 

“But — to manage it from there? So
far?
”
 

“Not only safer, but easier. The Establishment where you're going — can pull strings I couldn't begin to reach.” “Very well.” And then they talked of David Marchant and Selene
 

Kerguelen.
 

Once Camilla said, “Do you know about your parents' deaths?”
 

“Uncle Voris told me, when I was first in Welfare. Colonel Osbert Newhausen. Every night, to remember, I repeat that name.” “He's a general these days. But you may as well forget him; you can't do anything.” “Then somewhere I will find someone who can.”
 

 

Rissa's net proceeds from the lottery came close to 23,000,000 Weltmarks; the gross, announced publicly, was 100,000,000. One Weltmark was roughly a day's wage for freepersons in unskilled labor; as a Welfare Client, Rissa had been “paid” a tenth of that — but had never had use of a centum of it. She had no way to gauge the magnitude of her new fortune; she only knew she was rich, legally adult and — for so long as she could manage it — free.
 

In Rissa's name, but by Camilla's instructions, the money began to move toward Rissa's destination. She did not entirely understand the necessary ruses. “R. Kerguelen” invested in conglomerates with vast overseas holdings. A few days later the spelling changed to “R. Karguelen.” Camilla laughed and said, “Even with the computer tech on our side, it cost a pretty bribe to throw UET's fund-flow monitors off the track.”
 

“R. Karguelen's” assets, in short order, siphoned themselves southward — outside the jurisdiction of the Committee and of its masters, United Energy and Transport. Camilla said, “UET's safeguards, its controls, are so complex and interconnected that we can bollix one, and it sets the others against it, long enough to get you out.”
 

And one evening Camilla came in and said, “You go tonight. Now's when you wear that wig. I have your tickets, and all — enough money for the trip. The passport's not as good as I'd like, but it should work.”
 

Rissa looked at the picture. The wig was the same and the face could have been Rissa — or any one of a thousand others. The name was Antonia Duval; Rissa memorized it.
 

“Now here's the accounting,” said Camilla. “Briefly, it's cost you a million, nearly — including my commission. Altruists have to live, too, you know. The rest is yours, and safe.”
 

“I don't begrudge you, Camilla. Take more, if you wish.”
 

“No need. I've got nearly enough now to do a bunk myself if I have to. But there's another job I must do first, anyway — and that one will put me over the top.”
 

“As you say, then. Do I go soon? A copter again?”
 

“No — a groundcar this time — from the sub-basement, at the rear. In — let's see — about an hour.” For a moment, silent and unsmiling, she looked at Rissa. “This is always the hard part — waiting to see if you make it. If you're caught, I'm dead or Welfared. And the driver — he's Underground, too. So be careful — Antonia.”
 

“I will — oh, I will!”
 

When the time came, Rissa was prepared. The mirror and her passport showed a fair match. Camilla said, “Write to me — but not directly. At the Establishment they'll teach you the codings.”
 

Rissa embraced her. “I'll write. And I'll never forget you.”
 

 

The sub-basement loomed in dimness; pillars divided her view. Near the rear entrance a light blinked; through the vast empty space she scuttled to a groundcar. Face unseen, the driver said, “Duval?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“Get in.” She did; the car crawled up a ramp and entered sparse street traffic. She did not know the destination and made no effort to orient herself, nor did she speak. At the airport the car stopped near the Air Latinas sign. The driver pointed.
 

“In there. And good luck . . . Duval. You know what to do.”
 

“Thank you. Yes — I will not test the passport until you are away from here.” He nodded; she got out, closed the door and entered the terminal. For ten minutes she stood, then approached the check-in counter. Under her breath she repeated Camilla's quick briefing.
 

 

She had no trouble; the passport worked. Her tickets, she found, put her aboard a low-level SST — not suborbital, due to an intermediate stop — in the Deluxe Tourist Coach section, Area B. Beyond, she saw
 

Area A, and could find no distinction between the two. Shortly after takeoff, she slept.
 

The plane flew, landed, waited, took off, flew and landed again. At the terminal a man and woman met her. “Antonia Duval?”
 

“Yes.” They waited, silent. She showed her passport.