Executive (17 page)

Khukov's specialists had evidently found a way to utilize her severely compartmentalized brain. They had programmed each segment to a different language. Had they all been programmed in Spanish, Amber would have understood Spanish in any mode but have spoken it only in one. In short, she would have had no advantage, because her brain operated only, as it were, in parallel, not in series. But this way, she had an enormous array of languages to draw on, without sacrificing the one complete one. She was indeed like a computer—one with a number of memory banks, each bank set up in a specific language, which could be hooked in at will. But only Spanish could print.

One might wonder of what use such a child might be to a political tyrant. But it did not take me long to fathom that. I did not know all the languages of the System, but it seemed that Amber did. My secret knowledge of Russian had on occasion served me well, when Saturnians spoke among themselves in my presence, supposing their consultation to be private. With Amber I could spy similarly on any other language. All that I needed to do was bring her with me, letting it be known that she had been given into my care, was of substandard intellect, and would not cause any mischief. Indeed it was so—up to a point.

When the iron magnates of Mars dickered with me on prices and policies, Amber was there. She sat in her chair, staring at her hands, her fingers twitching erratically. What the magnates did not realize was that the solitary child, tuned in to Arabic, had been instructed to make certain simple gestures if certain things were said. Amber did not understand the significance of those things, but she dutifully made the gestures with her fingers, and I noted these. It was a simplistic task, but, coupled with my own talent in judging people, it gave me invaluable information. I became aware of the limits to which the magnates were prepared to go, muttered among themselves, and that greatly facilitated my bargaining.

The same was true when I dealt with executives from the various nations of Uranus, who spoke French, German, Italian, or other tongues. I became a far more prescient negotiator than those others took me for. After the sessions I would return Amber to Spanish and question her in detail, gathering yet more information. She was normal, in memory; I had to catch her early, or she would forget most of the detail in a few days. That was all right; in a few days the information became passé.

Somewhere along about here—I regret I can no longer keep the chronology straight, but it really doesn't matter—I received an interesting message. It was in the form of a feelie chip. Shelia gave it to me with a wry expression. “I think you had better read this one yourself, sir.”

“You can't give me a digest?” I asked, mildly perplexed.

“The effect would be diminished.”

“I don't need effects!” I said, mildly exasperated. “I need efficient information. That's why I keep you.”

“It's from an admirer,” she clarified. “Female.”

Oh. My position did lead to some communications of this kind. Men are mostly attracted to physical beauty, women to power. As Tyrant I attracted more than my share of offers. In the earliest days some voluptuous women would strip part or all of their clothing as I passed, showing their wares much as shopkeepers might. And you know, I did find it appealing, not merely for the elegance of the flesh but also for the fact that it was being offered to me, a physical nonentity. Vanity may be as much a male trait as a female one, and flattery has power even over those who know better. Sometimes I dreamed about those proffered bodies that I had to pass up.

Shelia filtered most of them out, not through any jealousy but because a power-seeking woman really has little to offer me but mischief. Also, she knew my bias for known elements; I prefer to know a woman well before I get intimate with her, and it was difficult to know any ordinary woman when I could not go out without my security guards. Finally there was my marriage: it existed in name, no longer in substance, but for Megan's sake I did not want to sully that name openly. As far as the public knew, I had become celibate. (I use that term in its popular sense, rather than in its dictionary sense. In centuries dictionaries have not caught up to the fact that celibacy refers to a person's state of sexual inactivity, rather than to his state of unmarriage.) All my women protected me in that respect. There were surely suspicions and insinuations about our night life; in fact, some uncomfortably accurate conjectures were published (and some I rather wish had occurred), but Coral, Shelia, and Ebony invariably turned blank stares on questioners, as if soiled by the very notion. Women tend to be better at such deception than are men.

Shelia had to have good reason to give this one to me. I accepted it, and on the next occasion when I had private time, I relaxed in an easy chair and donned a holo helmet. This came down to about the level of my eyes and ears. When I set in the chip and turned it on, the helmet sent its field through my brain, stimulating my visual, auditory, and tactile centers. This, in effect, put me right into the picture.

I found myself in a nondescript chamber, not ordinary so much as never properly visualized for the projection. This was evidently an amateur effort. Feelies come in two kinds: the professional, which are carefully staged and formed, and the amateur, which tend to be fuzzy. In order to make a feelie sequence, it is necessary to don a recording helmet such as this one and formulate the desired images.

The helmet's magnetic fluxes pick up the patterns of impulses and preserve them, much the way a holo recorder does with direct physical things. When these impulses are played back, the imagined scene is recreated in whatever detail was originally provided. Some minds have better conceptualization (by that I mean the full gamut of sight, hearing, and touch) than others, which is what makes those with such minds professionals. They also enhance imagination by contemplating relevant physical objects. Thus a pro would not necessarily imagine a chair; he would fix his gaze directly on it, and the helmet would record the precise impressions, including the unconscious ones. That makes for a relatively sharp and realistic picture. An amateur is more apt to imagine the chair from whole cloth, as it were, and that chair could be lopsided and malproportioned.

Yet there can be a certain appeal to amateur efforts. The fuzziness of detail lends a dreamlike quality, which is often the desired effect. Some psychologists employ feelies as therapy; they encourage the patients to make any rendering that satisfies them and then analyze the distortions that appear in the images. Apparently there are definite neurotic and psychotic patterns, and these become more normal when the designated condition is treated. The doctors can verify the effect of treatment through the subsequent recordings. Some employers require feelalysis of prospective employees. However, a competent mind can distort the results by emulating either the normal or an abnormal pattern, and there have been some real embarrassments there. So, mainly, the feelies remain a popular entertainment device, with millions of people tuning in on published chipisodes. There is, of course, a sizable business in pornographic chips; I had encountered these in the Navy.

Now I let myself experience the scene. It was of a figure, a man in some sort of cape, a deified man, for he glowed, literally, as if imbued with some inherent phosphorescence. He walked, he turned, flinging his cape about.

Then I saw his face—and recognized it as a version of my own. Well, of course; Shelia had said this was from a female admirer. I had anticipated some sort of stripping scene, a woman tempting me with her body, but this was nothing of that kind. It seemed to be the way my admirer perceived me, glow and all.

Flattering in its fashion but hardly realistic.

The me-figure strode on—and came into the neighborhood of a veiled woman. This was evidently the admirer. In imagination, a person can, of course, be anything; the dumpiest of women may become the loveliest of damsels. Yet this one was neither beautiful nor seductive; she was concealed from head to toe by an all-encompassing shawl or poncho. She was merely there, standing silently.

The me-figure paused, orienting on this woman. Her chin lifted, the motion evident under the veil. And there it ended.

I turned off the projection and sat pondering. This was a love missive? Where was the incitement, the come-on?

And why had Shelia given it directly to me? There had to be more to this than was immediately apparent.

I played the scene again but perceived no further clues. This was simply a vision of admiration from afar, with no solicitation. Merely the me-figure becoming aware of the veiled woman. No erotic import at all.

I found myself intrigued by the very simplicity and brevity of it. It was like a fragment of a dream. I have a certain penchant for dreams or visions.

At last, privately cursing myself for my foolishness, I decided to answer it. There was plenty of room remaining on the chip; those things are good for up to an hour's recording. Some professional entertainments run to two or three or more chips. I simply invoked the recording feature of my helmet and picked up where the original scene left off.

The me-figure's glow reduced, for I did not see myself as supernatural. He contemplated the veiled woman for another moment, then stepped toward her. He extended his arms and embraced her.

I stopped it there. There was no point in pushing this too far; it was only a gesture. Even so, I realized that I probably shouldn't be doing it. The chip had simply intrigued me, so I hoped to intrigue it back; that was all.

I removed the updated chip and took it to Shelia. “Return to sender,” I told her.

“You are rejecting it?”

“No, I am responding to it. Play it if you wish.”

“With your permission, sir.” She brought out a helmet, set it on her head, and inserted the chip.

I watched her face as she experienced the feelie but might as well not have bothered. The top half of her face was concealed, and her mouth was set in Standard Neutral. Shelia had been my secretary for a long time, and knew me well, both as employer and lover; she gave away nothing unless she chose to.

There are those who suppose that a cripple is inadequate in more than the physical way, as I may have remarked before; Shelia was deceptive, because she acted with quiet caution, but, in fact, her mind was brilliant and her will was immovable. At first I had thought she could make a good executive secretary despite her handicap; very soon I knew that she was just about the best I could have chosen, on an absolute basis. Her physical handicap had prevented biased employers from considering her, so she had been available for me. That was my great fortune.

She removed the chip and the helmet. “It will do, sir,” she said.

I smiled, dismissing the matter. The rush of other concerns caught us up again.

“I have worked out a basic program,” Senator Stonebridge advised me. “I have cleared it with the other cabinet officers, including your daughter, who requires a great deal more funding for education. But the measures I propose will have such an impact on the planet—” He shrugged.

“If the others have cleared it, I should have no objection,” I said. “But perhaps you should summarize it for me, so that I'm not caught ignorant when the public reaction strikes.”

“By all means. The program, in broadest outline, is to balance the budget by economizing on existing programs and by bringing in new revenues—about half of each. The cuts come largely from the projected military allocations, in reductions of the generous military and civil servant retirement programs, and virtual elimination of the government bureaucracy. There are presently more than two million government employees, with five major layers of authority, and the inefficiency and waste—” He shook his head.

“Appalling. But there will be repercussions.”

“Against cutting waste?” I asked.

“The typical Navy careerist retires at age forty, with sextuple the benefits accruing to a civilian with commensurate service. He feels this is his right. The typical civil servant retires with triple the private-sector benefits. Retired presidents have extremely generous settlements and perks.”

“They'll all be screaming,” I agreed. “But my own Navy retirement benefits will be cut too.”

“They are not your primary source of sustenance,” he pointed out.

“True. But Faith will see that no one is reduced to poverty.”

“Sir, I'm not sure you grasp the potential reaction against such reductions. When the average person is hit in the pocketbook, he becomes—”

“I'll handle it,” I said, unconcerned. “It is the job of the Tyrant to take the heat. You just do what you have to do.”

“Now, the revenue enhancement aspect is similarly difficult,” he said.

“Tax increase, you mean.”

“Not precisely. The present system is patently inequitable and is to be reformed and simplified. Naturally we shall be closing the loopholes, and this will cause a certain backlash—”

“To hell with the backlash!” I exclaimed. “It's high time we had fair taxation!”

“Every person's definition of 'fair' differs,” he said, “and tends to be somewhat self-serving. For example, the elimination of the mortgage interest deduction—”

“Which means that the poor will pay more taxes,” I said, seeing it. “What does Faith have to say about that?”

“We, ah, bargained,” he said. “Your sister is an attractive and dedicated woman.” I realized with a start that Faith's initial considerable appeal for men had not entirely abated; Stonebridge had felt the impact.

There was nothing serious in this, of course; this man was not about to dally with any Hispanic woman of any age. But evidently he had been satisfied to work things out with her, economically. “She realizes that some sacrifices have to be made, in the interest of the greater good. Since one of the objectives we share is that of full employment at fair recompense—”

“Gotcha,” I said. “She has to worry first about the people who have no homes to mortgage because they have no jobs. They will be glad to pay taxes on the interest they pay on mortgages, as long as their overall lot is improved.”