(Georges, you are a gallant darling . . . and when I’m trying to pull a caper I need a gallant darling the way I need an Oregon boot. And I will have to pull one, dear-despite what Janet said, I will not be home free.) “Georges, that sounds delightful. I can’t tell you that you must stay home. . . but I must tell you that I am by profession a courier who has traveled for years by herself, all over this planet, more than once to space colonies, and to Luna. Not yet to Mars or Ceres but I may be ordered to at any time.”
“You are saying that you would rather I did not accompany you.”
“No, no! I am merely saying that, if you choose to go with me, it will be purely social. For your pleasure and mine. But I must add that when I enter the Imperium I must go alone, as I will be back on duty at once.”
Ian said, “Marj, at least let Georges get you out of here and into territory where there is no silly talk of interning you, and where your credit card is valid.”
Janet added, “It’s getting free of that silly internment thing that is important. Marj, you can hang onto my Visa card as long as you wish; I’ll use my Maple Leaf card instead. Just remember that you are Jan Parker.”
“Parker?”
“Visa has my maiden name on it. Here, take it.” I accepted it, thinking that I would use it only when someone was looking over my shoulder. When possible, I would charge things to the late Lieutenant Dickey, whose credit should remain viable for days, possibly weeks. There was more chitchat and at last I said,
“I’m leaving now. Georges, are you coming with me?”
Ian said, “Hey! Not tonight. First thing in the morning.”
“Why? The tubes run all night, do they not?” (I knew that they did.)
“Yes but it’s over twenty klicks to the nearest tube station. And dark as the inside of a pile of coal.”
(Not the time to discuss enhanced vision.) “Ian, I can walk that
far by midnight. If a capsule leaves at midnight, I can get practically a full night’s sleep in Bellingham. If the border is open between California and the Imperium, I’ll report to my boss tomorrow morning. Better so, huh?”
A few minutes later we all left, by surrey. Ian was not pleased with me as I had not been the sweet, soft, amenable creature that men prefer. But he got over his annoyance and kissed me very sweetly when they dropped us at Perimeter and McPhillips across from the tube station. Georges and I crowded into the twenty-threeo’-clock capsule, then we had to stand up all the way across the continent.
But we were in Vancouver by twenty-two (Pacific Time-midnight in Winnipeg), picked up applications for tourist cards as we entered the Bellingham shuttle, filled them out en route, had them processed by the exit computer as we left the shuttle a few minutes later. The human operator didn’t even look up as the machine spit out our cards. She just murmured, “Enjoy your stay,” and went on reading.
At Bellingham the Vancouver Shuttle Station exits into the lower lobby of the Bellingham Hilton; facing us was a glowing sign floating in space:
THE BREAKFAST BAR
Steaks-Short Orders-Cocktails
Breakfast Served Twenty-Four Hours
Georges said, “Mrs. Tormey my love, it occurs to me that we neglected to eat dinner.”
“Mr. Tormey, you are so right. Let’s shoot a bear.”
“Cooking in the Confederacy is not exotic, not sophisticated. But in its own robust way it can be quite satisfying-especially if one has had time to grow a real appetite. I have eaten at this establishment before. Despite its name, one may have a variety of dishes. But, if you will accept the breakfast menu and allow me to order for you, I think that I can guarantee that your hunger will be pleasantly assuaged.”
“Georges-I mean ‘Ian’-I have eaten your soup. You can order for me anytime!”
It was truly a bar-no tables. But the stools had backs and were padded and they came up to the bar without banging knees-comfortable. Apple-juice appetizers were placed in front of us as we sat down. Georges ordered for us, then slid out and went over to the reception desk and punched us in. When he returned, he said as he sat down again, “Now you may call me ‘Georges,’ and you are ‘Mrs. Perreault.’ For that is how I punched us in.” He picked up his appetizer. “Sante, ma chère femme.”