Identity Matrix (1982) (25 page)

"O.K.," I responded, hung up, and told Stuart the news. Then I sat down on the bed and found myself suddenly trembling, unable to stop.

Stuart came and sat beside me and put his arm around me. "Poor Misty," he said as gently as possible, "you are not equivipped for this sort of thing. Vell, neither am I. But ve do vat ve must, yes?"

I nodded and squeezed his hand very hard. He held me tightly, and I needed to be held, and made me feel at least a tiny bit secure.

Dory was almost on schedule, still dressed as before but with a large motel towel wrapped turban-like around her hair. "They didn't have much time to grab anything of mine when they snatched me," she explained. "No loss, though."

Something in my manner seemed to betray my recent attack of nerves, and she came over and squeezed my hand, then looked at me face to face. "Huh. I'm almost as tall as you when you're in sandals." She grinned. "I don't think I'm ever gonna make five feet, though, so you got me by three inches."

It broke the tension a bit and I relaxed a little more, laughing at her. I began to have even more respect for her now, knowing she realized how tightly wound I was and diverting me with trivialities.

Finally she sighed and looked at the two of us. "Look, I don't know about you but I'm really dead tired. I haven't been to sleep in almost two days and that shower was the last straw. Would you mind?"

"Of course not," I said. "Pick a bed."

She stripped without hesitancy, noting that her clothes had to last her a while yet, and climbed into bed. Stuart idly started looking through the Las Vegas promotional literature, and I finally relaxed enough to get undressed myself. I flexed my back muscles, which were really starting to ache, and Stuart, seeing this, came over and started giving me what felt like the most orgasmic backrub I could imagine.

"It is the breasts," he explained, although I'd already figured that out. "A lot of veight pulling you forward, a bit more than your genes designed your back muscles for. Unless you get reduction surgery it's something you'll .have to live vith."

I nodded. "I know. Maybe someday I'll be settled down, not need 'em so much any more, or the back will finally get to me and I'll do something." I lifted them up with my hands and looked down at them. "Good Lord, Stuart—was there ever a woman born naturally who grew a pair like these? Sometimes I feel like a cow."

He chuckled. "Thousands, probably. But few in such delightful combination."

He sighed. "Ah, if I were only thirty years younger!"

I looked over at Dory in the other bed. She was out like a light, mouth open slightly, totally oblivious to the world.

"But, Stuart," I whispered, "you
are
thirty years younger."

He started a moment, then looked thoughtful. "So I am," he said, wondering, then undressed himself. God! I needed him!

I was tired, and he was tired, but we lay there in the darkness after, neither of us really able to sleep, think-ing about things that the past few minutes, at least, had helped us forget.

I stirred a bit. "Why do I always get the wet spot on my side?" I whispered.

"It's a male plot. Ve're trained to work it out that vay," he responded lightly, and we both chuckled softly and were silent for a moment.

"Still vorried?" he asked.

"A little," I admitted. "About a lot of things. Not just tonight, although that's bad enough, Lord knows." "Vant to tell your doctor about it?"

I smiled in the darkness. "It's me, Stuart. Since I—came back—today, I've been struggling with myself, with who I am."

"Ve yarned you about that."

"No, no, it's more than that. In the car this afternoon—I
knew
that I had undergone a profound change. Victor Gonser is dead. Gone. And not just physically. There is only me, and I'm Misty Carpenter."

He thought for a moment. "No, I think you have the right solution but the problem it is backyards."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"The solution, the
only
solution for you, is to be Misty Carpenter, now and forever. It is not only a person you like but one you
must
be, for you will be Misty Carpen-ter to the vorld no matter vat. The problem you have is that this Victor fellow, he is not as dead as he should be. You are looking at yourself through his mind, his moral-ity, and you think, yell, it is wrong that I like being a voman, like being Misty Carpenter, like the heads turn-ing, doors opening, the sex, the exhibitionism. Because he is not dead, this Victor, he makes you feel guilty, doubt yourself. Look—this Victor fellow ve both knew. Did you like him?"

I considered the question. "No. Well, not exactly. I didn't mind
him
so
much as the way he was forced to live."

"He vas an egomaniac and an insufferable bore," Stuart responded. "A man who lived in his own private little hell, vich he built himself, and preferred self-pity, vallowed in it, even kind of enjoyed it. So—you start! Vy should you care? You are not he, you are Misty Carpen-ter!"

I tried to respond to that, but I was all confused inside now. It had seemed so
simple.

"You
see? Now
vy
vas he such a bore, a stick-in-the-mud? He never could join. He was dark, not very good-looking, bald, and had a pot belly. No girls paid him any mind. He had built such a mountain of defenses against a lonely childhood and a possessive Mama that he could not break them."

Tears came unbidden into my eyes as his comments brought back a lifetime of anguish and bitter loneliness.

"So now he is gone,
pfft!
And in his place is Misty Carpenter. She, too, has her problems, but they are not Victor's problems. Heads turn ven she valks into the room. Men fall over themselves to gain her favor. Misty can never be lonely.

A dancer? Look at those big, beauti-ful eyes! Everyvun vants her. Everyvun loves her. Money? Vatever she vants she gets. Inhibitions? No. She loves the crowd and they love her—she valks naked in their midst if she vants. Is she used? Exploited? No, not really, for she loves vat she does and does it by choice, yes?"

"You make it sound so trite," I said bitterly.

He hugged me. "And so it is! But that is
all
it is. You have a golden opportunity here. Vat have you done so far? You have taught. You have done brilliant research, written many books that have caused young people to think—a very rare thing these days. That alone is more than most human beings
ever
accomplish. Far more. Now, you are born again, yes? You experience anew, are able to give anew, learn and grow in new and impossi-ble vays, vithout losing any that you have already ac-complished. This is not bad—it is vunderful. The only hard part to understand is vy you feel guilty about it. You should be
proud,

not ashamed! Trite? Perhaps, per-haps not. But if they are trite they are the trivial things as veil, yes? They are not the main things in life. But joy is important, love is important,
caring
is
important. Yes—become Misty Carpenter, body and soul. You must. For only then can you live and love and give and get."

I sat there quietly for a while, digesting what he said, and he left me alone to do it. He was right, of course. I was Misty Carpenter because I wanted desperately to be Misty, who was always adored and never alone.

Stuart was right, though. Victor was not dead. Victor was transformed, raised up. A part of me would always be Victor and should always remember him, understand him in order to know and help all the Victors of this world. But I was not Victor. I was
me.

I kissed him with feeling, then turned and my hand touched the little plastic alarm clock on the nightstand. I took it, suddenly, and looked at it. "Stuart—it's almost one-thirty."

"So?"

"Dan's not back yet."

"That has been on my mind, but I haven't let it get to me. He vas tough enough to trap on your boat, yes? He vould be almost impregnable in a big city.

I think he is spying for us."

"But—suppose he doesn't come back? Suppose he just takes off?"

"If he'd vanted to he could have done it any time, yes? If he has, then ve have lost, of course. But I think not. He vill come back."

"I almost hope he doesn't," I said. "Then we would be out of this."

"For a vile, yes; for a very short vile. But then the campaign begins. And ve—you, me, Dory, all of us—vill be its wictims. No—he
must
return. He
vill!

And you must hope so, too, deep down. No matter who or vat you are you have a responsibility."

"I didn't ask for it."

"No, but few of us
do
ask such things. Fools, perhaps. You studied history.

It is not extraordinary men doing great things. It is, mostly, ordinary men propelled by events, by circumstance, into extraordinary positions."

I could almost hate Stuart then. He was too insuffer-ably
right
all the time.

Finally I said, "Stuart—when he does come back, what then? If the alarm's out and they know I've been to the Sahara, have the car, then the bank is out. I have less than twenty dollars left in cash. Dory has almost noth-ing. And you've got—what?"

"Tvelve dollars and sixteen cents," he admitted.

I nodded. "And we have no car now. They'll be look-ing for us anyway. We need money and a way out. I don't know about the way out, but I
can
get us some money. More than we got, anyway."

He knew what I meant. It didn't really bother me, of course, but I couldn't help thinking of Dory.

Stuart understood. "Look, you forget—you who should of all people not forget—that she is a twenty-three-year--old voman, yes? A modern voman. You are not—you are vat you vant to be, a concept of a voman, but not of her background. She is not naive, nor stupid. She was raised on the tradition that vomen can do anything, be anything. You are in some vays the old model, she the new. You have decided vat is the right sort of vomen you vant to be—you can not change that, nor can you act on vat is right for her. That is her choice."

"But—I—we—damn! It's kind of weird, but, Stuart, I'm in love with her! I have been in love with her ever since I first met her. I don't want to hurt her!"

"So? Vat is so veird? She loves you, you love her. You two of all people are the best sort of lovers. You know it's vat's
inside
that counts, not the body you year."

"But I like—men."

"So again? Sex is love, maybe? Since ven? Sex can be vith love or vithout it.

You should know. But vun is not necessarily the other." He sighed. "Still, if you must do it for us, you must, even if she vould have some hurt- vich I'm not too sure about. Our responsibility is to those people who can not know vat is going on. They have no choice, and so neither do ve, if they are not to become wictims, yes? First ve do vat ve must. Then ve decide our own lives. So vat is the alternative? Ve all shack up vile you get a dance job and the rest of us sveep floors, yes? Or?"

"What would I have done without you, Stuart?"

"The same thing—only more slowly, and vith more pain."

I hoped that he was right, not so much for his sake hut for mine.

The night wore on towards morning, and, in spite of ourselves, we finally fell asleep.

A gentle knock on the door awakened me. I glanced at the clock—a little after five. Not even light yet. I began to think I'd dreamed it when the knock came again, a little more insistently. I got up as quietly as I could and went to the door, checking to see that the chain was on.

I opened it a crack and whispered, "Who is it?"

"Dan," came a hissed reply. "Let me in—quick."

I undid the chain and he slipped in, then I closed it and chained it again. I stared at the shape in the dark, which looked smaller, different, somehow. "

Dan—is that really you?"

"Yes," he responded. "I—had to switch, Misty. It was a
close call. Turn on the light and get ready for a shock. We better wake the others, too."

I reached over and flipped the lights on and gasped, The figure in the room was a tiny one, wearing a brown monklike robe with hood and sandals.

Dory and Stuart stirred with the light, woke up, and looked blearily in our direction. Both saw the new Pauley and gasped.

"Relax—it's Dan," I told them, and I really hoped it was.

He reached up and pulled back his hood. The head was totally shaved, even the eyebrows, and the face, which once might have held some human attraction, looked bony and emaciated.

"Are you—male or female?" Dory asked, staring in wonder.

"Female," he responded, "although sexless is more naturally true." Speaking aloud his voice did have a feminine tone to it, but the inflection, the manner, was all Pauley's.

"Who or what was
that?
"
I wanted to know.

Pauley sighed and collapsed tiredly into a chair. "Look, I'll tell you the whole thing from the beginning. I ditched the car on the north side, in a motel parking lot, then started walking back towards downtown. Thank God they have busses all night here, and one came along and I grabbed it, heading back for the Sahara area. I
had
to know what they were doing. I tried to be as inconspicu-ous as possible, but I no sooner entered the casino when I spotted a very familiar figure across the way talking to a couple of security men. It was Harry Parch."

"Parch!" Dory gasped, then turned to Stuart. "I thought you said he wouldn't be back until late today."

"Something must have tipped earlier than planned," the scientist responded. "

They got him back here on the next plane."

"Well, anyway, there I was in a known body, target number one, fifty feet from my worst enemy. I turned to walk out the door and as soon as I hit the street this girl in this long robe, here, comes up to me and starts a pitch to sell me flowers. I tried to put her off, but a glance back showed Parch and the security men heading my way, so I eased her down towards the parking lot. I couldn't help noticing how nice, how
trusting
she was, smile always on her face.