Rama 2 by Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee

The crew and Elaine gathered around the robot and the wine. David ex­cused himself and walked out of the living room into the long hall that connected the back of the house, where all the bedrooms were, with the living quarters in the front. Francesca followed him.

“Excuse me, David,” she said. He turned around, his impatience clear. “Don’t forget that we still have some unfinished business. I promised an answer to Schmidt and Hagenest upon my return to Europe. They are anx­ious to proceed with the project.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he replied. “I just want to make certain first that your friend Reggie is finished interviewing my children.” He heaved a sigh. “There are times when I wish I was a total unknown in the world.”

Francesca walked up close to him. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “You’re just nervous today because you can’t control what your wife and children are saying to Reggie and me. And nothing is more important to you than control.”

Dr. Brown started to reply but was interrupted by a shriek of “Mommeee” reverberating down the hall from its origin in a distant bedroom. Within seconds a small boy, six or seven years old, swept past David and Francesca and raced pell-mell into the arms of his mother, who was now standing in the doorway connecting the hall and the living room. Some of Elaine’s wine sloshed out of her glass from the force of the collision with her son; she unconsciously licked it off her hand as she sought to comfort the little boy.

“What is it, Justin?” she asked.

“That black man broke my dog,” Justin whined between sobs. “He kicked it in the butt and now I can’t make it work.”

The little boy pointed back down the hall. Reggie Wilson and a teenage girl—tall, thin, very serious—were walking toward the rest of the group. “Dad,” said the girl, her eyes imploring David for help, “Mr. Wilson was talking to me about my pin collection when that damned robot dog came in and bit him on the leg. After peeing on him first. Justin had programmed him to make mischief—”

“She’s lying,” the crying little boy interrupted her with a shout. “She doesn’t like Wally. She’s never liked Wally.”

Elaine had one hand on the back of her nearly hysterical son and the other firmly around the stem of her wineglass. She would have been unsettled by the scene even if she hadn’t noticed the disapproval she was receiving from her husband. She quaffed the wine and put the glass on a nearby bookshelf. “There, there, Justin,” she said, looking embarrassed, “calm down and tell Mom what happened.”

“That black man doesn’t like me. And I don’t like him. Wally knew it, so he bit him. Wally always protects me.”

The girl, Angela, became more agitated. “I knew something like this would happen. When Mr. Wilson was talking to me, Justin kept coming into my room and interrupting us, showing Mr. Wilson his games, his pets, his trophies, and even his clothes, Eventually Mr. Wilson had to speak sharply to him. Next thing we know Wally is running wild and Mr. Wilson has to defend himself.”

“She’s a liar, Mom. A big liar. Tell her to stop—”

Dr. David Brown had had enough of this commotion. “Elaine,” he shouted angrily above the din, “get . . . him . . . out of here.” He turned to his daughter as his wife pulled the weeping little boy through the door into the living room. “Angela/7 he said, his anger now raw and unconcealed, “I thought I told you not to fight with Justin today under any circum­stances.”

The girl recoiled from her father’s attack. Tears welled up in her eyes. She started to say something but Reggie Wilson walked between her and her father. “Excuse me7 Dr. Brown,” he interceded, “Angela really didn’t do anything. Her story is basically correct. She—”

“Look, Wilson,” David Brown said sharply, “if you don’t mind, I can handle my own family.” He paused a moment to calm his anger. “I’m terribly sorry for all this confusion,” he continued in a subdued tone, “but it will all be finished in another minute or so.” The look he gave his daughter was cold and unkind. “Go back to your room, Angela. I’ll talk to you later. Call your mother and tell her that I want her to pick you up before dinner.”

Francesca Sabatini watched with great interest as the entire scene un­folded. She saw David Brown’s frustration, Elaine’s lack of self-confidence. This is perfect, Francesca thought, even better than I might have hoped. He will be very easy.

The sleek silver train cruised the North Texas countryside at two hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. Within minutes the lights from the Dallas Transportation Complex appeared on the horizon. The DTC covered a mammoth area, almost twenty-five square kilometers. It was part airport, part train station, part small city. Originally constructed in 2185 both to handle the burgeoning long-distance air traffic and to provide an easy nexus for transferring passengers to the high-speed train system, it had grown, like other similar transportation centers around the world, into an entire commu­nity. More than a thousand people, most of whom worked at the DTC and found life easier when there was no commute, lived in the apartments that formed a semicircle around the shopping center south of the main terminal. The terminal itself housed four major hotels, seventeen restaurants, and over a hundred different shops, including a branch of the chic Donatelli fashion chain.

“I was nineteen at the time,” the young man was saying to Francesca as the train approached the station, “and had had a very sheltered upbringing. I learned more about love and sex in that ten weeks, watching your series on television, than I had learned in my whole life before. I just wanted to thank you for that program.”

Francesca accepted the compliments gracefully. She was accustomed to being recognized when she was in public. Wlien the train stopped and she descended onto the platform, Francesca smiled again at the young man and his date. Reggie Wilson offered to carry her camera equipment as they walked toward the people mover that would take them to the hotel. “Does it ever bother you?” he asked. She looked at him quizzically. “All the atten­tion, being a public figure?” he added in explanation.

“No,” she answered, “of course not.” She smiled to herself. Even after six months this man does not understand me. Maybe he’s too engrossed with himself to figure out that some women are as ambitious as men.

“I knew that your two television series had been popular,” Reggie was saying, “before I met you during the personnel screening exercises. But I had no idea that it would be impossible to go out to a restaurant or to be seen in a public place without running into one of your fans.”

Reggie continued to chat as the people mover eased out of the train station and into the shopping center. Near the track at one end of the enclosed mall a large group of people were milling around outside a theater. The marquee proclaimed that the production inside was In Any Weather, by the American playwright Linzey Olsen.

“Did you ever see that play?” Reggie idly asked Francesca. “1 saw the movie when it first came out,” he continued without waiting for her to answer, “about five years ago. Helen Caudill and Jeremy Temple. Before she was really big. It was a strange story, about two people who had to share a hotel room during a snowstorm in Chicago. They’re both married. They fall in love while talking about their failed expectations. As I said, it was a weird play.”

Francesca was not listening. A boy who reminded her of her cousin Roberto had climbed into the car just in front of them at the first stop in the shopping center. His skin and hair were dark, his facial features handsomely chiseled. How long has it been since I have seen Roberto? she wondered. Must be three years now. It was down in Positano with his wife, Maria. Francesca sighed and remembered earlier days, from long ago. She could see herself laughing and running on the streets of Orvieto. She was nine or ten, still innocent and unspoiled. Roberto was fourteen. They were playing with a soccer ball in the piazza in front of II Duomo. She had loved to tease her cousin, He was so gentle, so unaffected. Roberto was the only good thing from her childhood.

The people mover stopped outside the hotel. Reggie was looking at her with a fixed stare. Francesca realized that he had just asked her a question. “Well?” he said, as they descended from their car.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she answered. “I was daydreaming again. What did you ask?”

“I didn’t know I was that boring,” Reggie said without humor. He turned dramatically to ensure that she was paying attention. “What choice did you make for dinner tonight? I had narrowed it down to Chinese or Cajun,”