Spirit, Forta, and I got into the car. Its doors closed and it started up. We watched, intrigued, as it drove itself through the city and to the nearest access to the Continental Highway. There were no stoplights of the type that history texts describe; cars shot through the intersections, programmed to avoid collisions, at a velocity that would have been disastrous for human piloting. We winced as cars passed at right angles just before and just after ours; only the master traffic controller could guarantee their courses. We were relieved when the car peeled off into the access; now we were free of the cross-traffic.
Our vehicle picked up speed and soon was traveling at better than a hundred miles an hour, in the local measurement. It climbed to the elevated ramp, and we looked out across the checkered terrain of this local continent. How green it was!
After an hour, our necks were sore from our constant turning and gazing at the wonders of the world. Now we were heading into a darkling cloud, in fact a thundercloud, and soon rain was spattering on the transparent dome. What an experience! Actual, natural rain! A jag of lightning showed ahead of us for an instant. "Oh, lovely!" Spirit breathed.
"I wonder why man ever left Earth," I inquired rhetorically. Indeed, it seemed a foolish thing, at this moment.
We came to an intersection, and the car curved west. "That's odd," Forta said. "I thought we were programmed for Florida."
"We are," Spirit said.
"Then why did we just take the turnoff to Kentucky?"
"It must be on the way," I suggested.
"It isn't."
"Verify our programmed destination," Spirit said.
Forta touched buttons. The car's little screen came to life. DATA INSUFFICIENT, it said.
"I smell a rat," I muttered.
"Stop the car," Spirit said.
Forta sat in the driver's seat and touched the MANUAL OVERRIDE button. But the car did not turn over the control. Instead the screen showed UNAUTHORIZED INPUT.
"We're captive of the vehicle," Forta said. "I hate to say this, but—"
"Nomenklatura," Spirit and I said together.
"Must have had a mole in Earth's vehicle-programming department, who slipped in a false routing," Forta agreed.
"Which means we are headed for their destination, not ours," Spirit said. "It could be a hideout to hold hostages—"
"Or a stone wall at a hundred miles an hour," I concluded. "Arranged to resemble an accident. An accident of vehicle programming."
"Which accident we blithely walked into," Spirit said grimly.
"And which we had better walk out of," I said.
We pondered ways and means, and experimented. The car remained unresponsive to our directives; we could not guide it. It was moving at a hundred miles an hour, which made any attempt to leave it suicidal. It had a radio contact with the traffic satellite for this region, so as to coordinate it with the programs of the other cars on the highway, but it refused us access to that radio.
"We could start smashing the wiring from inside," Forta suggested.
"And careen out of control and into a collision with another vehicle," Spirit said. "That may be what they want."
"They want us dead, any which way," I said.
"Perhaps we could open a panel and short out the remote control," Forta suggested. "Then we could contact the satellite, and get a corrected program."
We tried it. But as soon as we pried at the panel, a warner blazed on the screen: UNAUTHORIZED INPUT—SELF-DESTRUCT IF PARAMETER BREACHED.
"Which means we wreck if we get in," Spirit said dryly. "They aren't novices."
"They probably hired a crack unit," I said. "The equivalent of Spetsnaz. Professionals."
"We need to think of something they haven't anticipated," she said.
"If this were in space, I'd signal SOS to another ship," I said.
Spirit laughed dryly. "I am getting homesick for space."
"But maybe—" Forta said.
We looked at her. "You want to signal a ship?" I asked.
"Not a ship. A car. If there are any military vets here, or merchant marine retirees—"
"I think you just earned your day's pay," I said.
Spirit took the rear, I the front. We took down the archaic rearview mirrors that were useless for a programmed vehicle but still required by archaic regulations, and used them to flash in the sunlight that had returned after the storm passed. The domes of the other cars were transparent, like ours, or translucent, depending on the occupants' desire for privacy. That desire did not seem to be strong; we had seen a woman doing up her hair in one car, and children playing in another, and a couple making love in a third. No one seemed to care what went on in neighboring vehicles; it was the privacy of indifference. With reasonable luck, we could penetrate that isolation.
I flashed at the car directly ahead, shining my beam into its canopy. I used my hand to interrupt it. FLASH... FLASH... FLASH FLASH-FLASH-FLASH FLASH... FLASH... FLASH, in the ancient SOS pattern. I attracted the attention of a child, who faced back and stuck his tongue out at me. I switched to the next car over, as this was a multilane highway, and tried again. This one simply rendered its canopy opaque to shut out the intrusion. I tried a third, but its occupant was asleep. Those were all I could reach at the moment; I would have to wait for the pattern to shift, introducing a new car into my range.
"Got a nibble," Spirit murmured. "Teenager, maybe up on code."
I turned around and watched. The kid jogged his mother, who evidently was not amused; the canopy went opaque. Another down. This was not as easy as we had thought it would be.
How much time did we have before our guidance program brought us to its mischief? It might be hours yet—or minutes. We could not afford to assume the former.
Then a car drew up beside us, and a man peered through. Evidently he had heard about the way we were harassing other cars. I wished I had a poster to write on, so that I could display a message, but I did not. So I used hand signals. SHIP OUT OF CONTROL, I signaled.
The man looked blank. But I saw him using his radio. Even if he thought we were pranksters, that could help; if a police car came to investigate—
Another car approached, drawing up behind the other. This one had a woman in uniform.
"Navy!" Spirit breathed. "Earth coast guard by the look; she'll know signals." And she began hand signals of her own.
The woman returned the signals. She did know them! Soon Spirit conveyed to her the essence of our problem. The woman went to her radio, then returned with this news: The program for our car was classified, and could not be touched. The station would not revise our route.
"Because we are VIP visitors," I groaned. "They are protecting our secrecy."
But Spirit was already following up. She signaled that we were in trouble, and had to be rescued, regardless of what the satellite said.
The woman was doubtful. "How can I be sure this is not a prank?" she asked, approximately, in signals.
"We'll have to tell her," I said.
Spirit made the signals for top man and for Jupiter, and pointed to me. I faced the other vehicle as squarely as possible, and assumed my most Tyrantish expression.
The woman stared, recognizing me, but disbelieving. What was the Tyrant of Jupiter doing in a car on Earth? Evidently she had not been paying attention to recent news.
I focused on her, tuning in as well as I could through the two domes and the intervening space. As her doubt strengthened I shook my head no; as her belief returned I nodded yes. She knew the Tyrant could read people, and she realized that I was accurately reading her. It was enough.
She got on her radio and summoned help. Now at last a police car arrived. The officer evidently had a picture of the Tyrant on his screen; he peered closely at me, verifying it. He spoke into his radio, and the woman answered. Then she signaled us: "You're really in trouble?"
"Programmed for wrong destination," we agreed. "Possible assassination attempt."
She relayed that to the officer, who evidently di
d not understand signals. He considered, then made his decision.
"He will lose his job if this is a ruse," the woman signaled. "But he will take you out manually." I repeat, this is only approximate; signals lack the grammar of spoken language.
"No ruse!" we signaled back.
Another police car arrived. The first one drew in front of us and slowed. Our car slowed automatically to avoid contact; that was a built-in feature. But the second police car closed from the rear, preventing escape. This was no doubt the way they took out illicit drivers who refused to honor police signals. The two cars sandwiched us, and though our car tried to escape, it could not; magnetic clamps were now attached, and it was captive.
They brought us to the side, and then to a substation, where we stopped. The woman who had helped us pulled in behind. We were released. Now direct verbal communication was possible. We identified ourselves, and the screen verified us. In a moment the local chief of police came on the screen. "Tyrant, your vehicle malfunctioned, and you summoned assistance by means of hand signals to this woman?" he asked.
"True," I agreed. "Without the assistance of this woman, we would have remained captive of our program. I would appreciate it if you could ascertain what that program had in mind for us."
The chief had obtained the authority to override the classification of our program. He glanced at the readout, and whistled. "Tyrant, that program would have had you driving into a deep lake, your vehicle sealed. Then it was set to self-erase. You would have suffocated before we managed to find you, and it would have been an inexplicable accident."
"Then I think we owe this woman our lives," I said. "Can she be rewarded?"
"I did not seek reward!" the woman protested. "I didn't even know for sure that it was genuine!"
"Perhaps a paid vacation to the planet of her choice, with her family?" I asked the chief.
"If you request it, Tyrant—" the chief said.
"Put it through," I said. "I'm no longer young, but I still value my life." And I turned and gravely saluted the woman.
She almost fainted. Then, confused, she returned my salute, though this was of course backwards; in any military system, I ranked her enormously. Realizing this, she looked flustered, so I stepped up and kissed her. "Farewell, good woman," I said. She would have a story to tell her grandchildren.
Reports of this episode of the malprogrammed car were of course exaggerated. News spread about that a bomb had been aboard, and that I had broken open a window and climbed to the roof and leaped to another car, appropriating it for rescue purpose. I confess I rather liked that story, but it was of course ludicrous; I simply was in no physical condition to do such a thing. The truth, as usual, was relatively tame; I record it here merely so that the final record can be accurate.
The State of America arranged alternate transportation for us, and we arrived in Florida in good order. We stopped by the zoo to see Smilo; he was glad to see me, but it seemed he had not completed his business with the tigress, who was coming into heat, so we left him for a few more days. We spent a couple of days touring the origins of our Sunshine experience on Jupiter; it was fascinating. We even took a hop to the island of Hispaniola, which to me was Callisto, and to Haiti, where Spirit and I had figuratively been born, knowing it as Halfcal. What a strange returning! I spoke there, and the people welcomed me screamingly, knowing the affinity. I might have been born on a moon of Jupiter, but I was indeed of Haitian stock, and they knew it. I felt as though my life could end at this moment, and it would be complete.
But of course this was not the end. I had one final thing to accomplish, and that was to unify the System behind the Triton Project and enable man to colonize the galaxy.
I had another dialysis treatment, and Dorian Gray, who was in this reality of Earth a Cuban, joined me again. "Do you want to visit Cuba?" I inquired.
She shrugged, and I realized that she couldn't really answer. The original Dorian Gray was Cuban, but Forta Foundling was not; what point in visiting a homeland that in no sense had been hers?
"Visitor," Spirit said.
"Here?" I asked. I was at low ebb after the dialysis, but I knew we were being protected from random intrusions. What person would the authorities allow through?
"From Jupiter," she said.
"Jupiter isn't speaking to me," I reminded her. "Make sure it isn't an assassin."
"No assassin," she said with a smile. Then, to the screen: "Send him in."
"Now?" I asked, appalled. I was in pajamas, ready for bed, and Dorian Gray was in a flimsy nightie. She jumped up, about to scurry into her room to change clothing and identities.
"As you were," Spirit said. "Robert won't tell."
"Who the hell is Robert?" I demanded querously.
There was a knock. Spirit went to the door—here on Earth they used actual, literal doors, not ports or locks—and opened it. "My, how you've grown!" she said, stepping out to embrace the visitor.
I exchanged a glance with Dorian Gray. What was my sister up to?
Spirit brought him in. He was a solid, muscular youth in his teens, Hispanic, smiling somewhat foolishly. "Hi, Dad," he said.
I performed a double take. "Robertico!" I exclaimed.
Dorian Gray dissolved into astonishment and dismay. She sought again to leave, but I grabbed her wrist. Suddenly I was enjoying this, though surely my postdialysis depression distorted my judgment.
Robertico had grown monstrously in the four years since I had last seen him. He had been eleven; now he was fifteen, and that seemed to have added most of a foot to his height and fifty pounds to his mass. I had never formally adopted him, but he had become part of my family. My daughter Hopie had been first his baby-sitter, then his older sister, taking excellent care of him. Of course he was a welcome visitor!
"I come with a message," Robertico said. Then he faltered, staring at Dorian Gray.
I smiled. "Dorian Gray, meet my ward Robertico. Robertico, meet your mother."
For he had been the infant son of that woman. A promise is a promise, and the death of one of the parties does not abate the commitment. After I am dead, my commitments must be maintained. Now Dorian Gray had returned to me, in the only way she could, and so I was bringing her son to her.
Of course she was young, in this incarnation, only a few years older than Robertico himself. But that seemed not to matter. She stared at him, knowing what this meant, and he stared at her, seeing his mother for the first time. Then he stepped forward, and she stood, and they flung themselves into each other's arms and wept together.
Perhaps others would see this as a ludicrous scene. I did not. Dorian Gray was as close to the original as it was possible to be, and Robertico was of her flesh. If ever a man could go back in time and meet his mother as a young woman, this was the occasion. This was the only way this man could meet his mother. If this scene was wrong, then the universe is wrong.
In due course we got to Robertico's message. "It is this," he said. " 'Stay clear of Jupiter.' They do not want you there, and they will execute you if you violate your exile."
I had to laugh. I was feeling better, regardless of the dialysis. Dorian Gray was sitting beside Robertico, holding his hand, and I had no jealously of this. "Jupiter needs no messenger to inform me of this!" I exclaimed. "I'm surprised they let you out to come to me!"
"Hopie sent me," he said. "And they let me go, because they knew you would see me. It isn't the same there, now. They mean it; you can't go there."
I remembered what the Prime Minister of Earth had said. Robertico of course would not know who was running the new political machine of Jupiter, which was another reason they had let him come here. Hopie would know, so she was kept there, surely as hostage. They knew I would do nothing to bring harm to my daughter.
"But the Triton Project needs the support of Jupiter," I said. "It is for the benefit of all mankind."
"They don't care about that," he said. "They just don't want you back."
"I wonder why?" I
asked, as if ignorant.
"My sister told me," he said. "It's because the people would support you. Things were better when you were Tyrant."
"Things always seem better in the past," I said.
"No, Dad, it's true!" he insisted. "There are shortages all the time now, and a lot of police, and anybody who criticizes the government gets arrested and maybe disappears. It's bad!"
"Freedoms are being denied?" I asked. "What does the press have to say about this?"
"The news media are being shut down. They don't dare say anything."
"What about Thorley? Nobody could shut him up."
"He was arrested last year."
"What?" This time I was shocked.
"Well, first it was just house arrest, but when he wouldn't shut up, they came and took him away last month. My sister said you'd want to know about that, even if he did criticize you a lot."
"Right," I said grimly. Thorley had been my most eloquent critic throughout, but despite the public impression we had close ties. At this moment I knew I had to do something about Jupiter. I didn't even need to catch Spirit's eye to know she concurred. This had been my daughter's real message: that the situation was serious. The first thing a truly repressive regime does is muzzle free speech, particularly as represented by the press. As Tyrant, I had never done this, though often excoriated by the media. That had been my promise to Thorley, when he saved my wife's life, and, as I said, I keep my promises.
We kept it polite, as though I hadn't really reacted to the message. Robertico was here on a limited visa, and had to return promptly. "Tell them I got the message," I said as he left.
"Yeah," he agreed darkly. "I'm sorry you can't stop by there. Hopie really wanted to see you."
"Tell her I'll do what I have to do, as I always have."
"And take care of yourself, dear," Dorian Gray said to him, exactly like a mother.
He left. Dorian Gray retired immediately to her room. What effect this had had on her I could not be sure. I had thrown her unexpectedly into a completely different aspect of her role, and I knew it had shaken her. She had, for a time, been a mother, and that was no light thing.