ROBERT REED

FIRST TUESDAY

It seems as if the 1992 elections just ended, and yet this magazine arrives in
your mailbox at the beginning of primary season. So, with politics on our minds,
we searched for some appropriate stories.

Political science fiction is often about the ramifications of social change.
Rarely does the political sf story (these days) begin with a point of
technological change. In "First Tuesday," Robert Reed uses a change in
technology to examine the future of Presidential-Constituents relations.

AFTER A LOT OF PESTERING, More told Stefan, "Fine, you can pick the view." Only
it wasn't an easy job, and Stefan enjoyed it even more than he'd hoped. Standing
on the foam-rock patio, he spoke to the house computer, asking for the Grand
Canyon, then Hawaii's coast, then Denali. He saw each from many vantage points,
never satisfied and never sure why not. Then he tried Mount Rushmore, which was
better. Except Yancy saw the six stone heads, and he stuck his head out long
enough to say, "Change it. Now." No debate; no place for compromise. Stefan
settled on the Grand Canyon, on a popular view from the North Rim, telling
himself that 'it was lovely and appropriate, and he hoped their guest would
approve, and how soon would he be here . . . ? In another couple seconds, Stefan
realized. Jesus, now . . . !

A figure appeared on the little lawn. He was tall, wearing a fancy suit, that
famous face smiling straight at Stefan. And the boy jumped into the house,
shouting with glee:

"The President's here!"

His stepfather muttered something.

Mom whined, "Oh, but I'm not ready."

Stefan was ready. He ran across the patio, leaping where it ended. His habit was
to roll down the worn grassy slope. But he was wearing good clothes, and this
evening was full of civic responsibilities. Landing with both feet solidly under
him, he tried very hard to look like the most perfect citizen possible.

The President appeared solid. Not real, but nearly so.

The face was a mixture of Latin and African genes. The dreadlocks were long
enough to kiss his broad shoulders. Halfway through his second term, President
Perez was the only president that Stefan could remember, and even though this
was just a projection, an interactive holo generated by machines . . . it was
still an honor to have him here, and Stefan felt special, and for more reasons
than he could count, he was nervous. In good ways, and in bad ways too.

"Hello?" chirped the eleven-year-old boy. "Mr. President?"

The projection hadn't moved. The house computer was wrestling with its
instructions, fashioning a personality within its finite capacity. There was a
sound, a sudden "Sssss" generated by speakers hidden in the squidskin fence and
sky. The projection opened its mouth; a friendly, reedy voice managed,
"Sssstefan." Then the President moved, offering both hands while saying, "Hello,
young man. I'm so very glad to meet you."

Of course he knew Stefan's name. The personality could read the boy's public
files. Yet the simple trick impressed him, and in response he shouted, "I'm glad
to meet you, Mr. President."

The brown hands had no substance, yet they couldn't have acted more real.
Gripping Stefan's pale little hand, they matched every motion, the warmth
carried by the bright eyes and his words. "This is an historic moment, Stefan.
But then you already know that, I'm sure."

The first nationwide press conference, yes. Democracy and science joined in a
perfect marriage. President Perez was invited here for a symbolic dinner, and he
was everywhere else at the same time. It was a wondrous evening . . . magical .
. . !

"A lovely yard," said the President. The eyes were blind, but the personality
had access to the security cameras, building appropriate images as the face
moved. With a faraway gaze, he announced, "I do like your choice of view."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Very nice indeed . . . !"

Holo projectors and squidskin fabrics created the illusion of blue skies and
rugged geology. Although nothing was quite as bright as it would appear in the
real outdoors, of course. And the squidskin rocks and the occasional bird had a
vagueness, a dreamy imprecision, that was the mark of a less-than-good system.
Sometimes, like now, the antinoise generators failed to hide unwanted sounds.
Somewhere beyond the President, neighbors were applauding and cheering making it
seem as if ghosts inhabited the ghostly canyon.

President Perez seemed oblivious to the imperfections. Gesturing at their
garden, he said, "Oh, I see you're doing your part. How close are you to
self-sufficiency?"

Not close at all, really.

"Beautiful eggplants," said the guest, not waiting for a response. "And a fish
pond too!"

Without fish. A problem with the filter, but the boy said nothing, hoping
nothing would be noticed.

The President was turning in a circle, hunting for something else to compliment.
For some reason, the house wasn't wearing its usual coat of projected paints and
architectural flourishes. Their guest was too complicated, no doubt. Too many
calculations, plus the computer had to show the Grand Canyon . . . and the real
house lay exposed in all its drabness. Glass foams and cardboard looked gray and
simple, and insubstantial, three walls inside the yard and the fourth wall
pointed toward the outdoors, the brown stains on the sky showing where rainwater
had damaged the squidskin.

To break the silence, Stefan blurted out a question. "Mr. President, where do
you stand on the economy?"

That's how reporters asked questions.

But the great man didn't respond in the expected way. His smile changed,
remaining a smile but encompassing some new, subtly different flavor of light.
"I'll stand on the economy's head," he replied. "With my feet apart, ready for
anything."

Was that a genuine answer?

Stefan wasn't sure.

Then the President knelt, putting his head below the boy's, saying with a happy,
self-assured voice, "Thank you for the question. And remember, what happens
tonight goes both ways. You can learn what I'm thinking, and in a different way
I'll learn what's on your mind."

Stefan nodded, well aware of the principles.

"When I wake," said the handsome brown face, "I'll read that this many people
asked about the economy, and how they asked it, and what they think we should be
doing. All that in an abbreviated form, of course. A person in my position needs
a lot of abbreviations, I'm afraid."

"Yes, sir." Stefan waited for a moment, then blurted, "I think you're doing a
good job with the economy, sir. I really do."

"Well," said the guest, "I'm very, very glad to hear it. I am."

At that moment, the genuine President Perez was inside a government hospital, in
a fetal position, suspended within a gelatin bath. Masses of bright new optical
cable were attached to his brain and fingers, mouth and anus, linking him
directly with the Net. Everything that he knew and believed was being blended
with his physical self, all elements reduced to a series of numbers, then
enlarged into a nationwide presence. Every household with an adequate projection
system and memory was being visited, as were public buildings and parks,
stadiums and VA facilities. If it was a success, press conferences would become
a monthly event. Political opponents were upset, complaining that this was like
one enormous commercial for Perez; but this was the President's last term, and
it was an experiment, and even Stefan understood that these tricks were becoming
cheaper and more widespread every day.

In the future, perhaps by the next election, each political party would be able
to send its candidates to the voters' homes.

What could be more fair? thought the boy.

Stefan's stepfather had just stepped from the drab house, carrying a plate full
of raw pink burgers.

In an instant, the air seemed close and thick.

"Mr. Thatcher," said the projection, "thank you for inviting me. I hope you're
having a pleasant evening . . . !"

"Hey, I hope you like meat," Yancy called out. "In this family, we're
carnivores!"

Stefan felt a sudden and precise terror.

But the President didn't hesitate, gesturing at the buffalo-augmented soy
patties. Saying, "I hope you saved one for me."

"Sure, Mr. President. Sure."

For as long as Stefan could remember, his stepfather had never missed a chance
to say something ugly about President Perez. But Morn had made him promise to be
on his best behavior. Not once, but on several occasions. "I don't want to be
embarrassed," she had told him, using the same tone she'd use when trying to
make Stefan behave. "I want him to enjoy himself, at least this once. Will you
please just help me?"

Yancy Thatcher was even paler than his stepson. Blonde hair worn in a short,
manly ponytail; a round face wearing a perpetually sour expression. He wasn't
large, but he acted large. He spoke with a deep, booming voice, and he carried
himself as if endowed with a dangerous strength. Like now. Coming down the
slope, he was walking straight toward their guest. The President was offering
both hands, in his trademark fashion. But no hand was offered to him, and the
projection retreated, saying, "Excuse me," while deftly stepping out of the way.

"You're excused," Yancy replied, laughing in a low, unamused fashion. Never
breaking stride.

Mom wasn't watching; that's why he was acting this way.

Things worsened when Yancy looked over his shoulder, announcing, "I didn't want
you coming tonight, frankly. But the kid's supposed to do an assignment for
school, and besides, I figured this was my chance to show you my mind. If you
know what I mean. . . . "

President Perez nodded, dreadlocks bouncing. "Feedback is the idea. As I was
just telling Stefan --"

"I'm an old-fashioned white man, Mr. President."

The boy looked at the drab house, willing Morn to appear.

But she didn't, and Yancy flung open the grill and let the biogas run too long
before he made a spark, a soft blue explosion causing Stefan to back away.
Nobody spoke. Every eye, seeing or blind, watched the patties hit the warming
rack, sizzling quietly but with anger, Yancy mashing them flat with the grimy
spatula that he'd gotten for Christmas last year.

Then the President spoke, ignoring that last comment.

"It's a shame this technology won't let me help you," he declared, with a ring
of honesty.

Yancy grimaced.

The patties grew louder, the flames turning yellow.

Obstinately ignoring the tensions, the President looked at his own hands. "A
poverty of physicality," he declared, laughing to himself.

That was it. Something snapped, and Yancy barked, "Know what I like, Mr.
President? About tonight, I mean."

"What do you like?"

"Thinking that the real you is buried in goo, a big fat glass rope stuck up your
ass."

Stefan prayed for a systems failure, or better, a war. Anything that would stop
events here. His fear of fears was that the President would awaken to learn that
Yancy Thatcher of Fort Wayne, Indiana had insulted him. Because the boy couldn't
imagine anyone else in the country having the stupid courage to say such an
awful thing.

Yet their guest wasn't visibly angry. He actually laughed, quietly and calmly.
And all he said was, "Thank you for your honesty, sir."

Yancy flipped burgers, then looked at Stefan. "Tell your more it'll be a few
minutes. And take him with you."

It was such a strange, wondrous moment.

The boy looked at his President, at his smile, hearing the conjured voice saying
"Yes. That's a fine idea." Built of light and thought, he seemed invulnerable to
every slight, every unkind word.

Stefan had never envied anyone so much in his life.

Mom was a blizzard of activity, hands blurring as they tried to assemble a fancy
salad from ingredients grown in the garden, then cleaned and cut into delicate,
artful shapes. She loved salads, planning each with an artist's sensibilities,
which to Morn meant that she could never predict preparation times, always
something to be done too fast at the end. When she saw Stefan inside, she
whined, "I'm still not ready." When she saw President Perez fluttering for that
instant when he passed from the outside to the kitchen projectors, she gave a
little squeal and threw spinach in every direction. Then she spoke, not leaving
enough time to think of proper words. "You've lost weight," she blurted. "Since
the election, haven't you. . . . ?"

Embarrassed again, Stefan said, "The President of the United States," with a
stem voice. In warning. Didn't Morn remember how to address him?

But the President seemed amused, if anything. "I've lost a couple kilos, yes.
Job pressures. And the First Lady's anti-equatorial campaign, too."

The joke puzzled Stefan until he stopped thinking about it.

"A drink, Mr. President? I'm having a drop for myself. . ."

"Wine, please. If that's not too much trouble."

Both adults giggled. Touching a control, More ordered an elegant glass to appear
on the countertop, already filled with sparkling white wine, and their guest
went through the motions of sipping it, his personality given every flavor along
with an ethanol kick. "Lovely," he declared. "Thanks."

"And how is the First Lady?"

It was a trivial question, Stefan within his rights to groan.

Mom glared at him, in warning. "Go find Candace, why don't you?" Then she turned
back to their guest, again inquiring about his dear wife.

"Quite well, thank you. But tired of Washington."

Mom's drink was large and colorful, projected swirls of red and green never
mixing together. "I wish she could have come. I adore her. And oh, I love what
she's done with your house."

The President glanced at his surroundings. "And I'm sure she'd approve of your
tastes, Mrs. Thatcher."

"Helen."

"Helen, then."

The kitchen walls and ceiling were covered with an indoor squidskin, and they
built the illusion of a tall room . . . except that voices and any sharp sound
echoed off the genuine ceiling, flat and close, unadorned by the arching oak
beams that only appeared to be high overhead.

Mom absorbed the compliment and the sound of her own name, then noticed Stefan
still standing nearby. "Where's Candace? Will you please go find your sister,
darling?"

Candace's room was in the basement. It seemed like a long run to a boy who would
rather be elsewhere, and worse, her door was locked. Stefan shook the knob,
feeling the throb of music that seeped past the noise barriers. "He's here! Come
on!" Kicking the door down low, he managed to punch a new hole that joined half
a dozen earlier kickholes. "Aren't you coming up to meet him -- ?"

"Open," his sister shouted.

The knob turned itself. Candace was standing before a mirrored portion of
squidskin, examining her reflection. Every other surface showed a fantastic
woodland, lush red trees interspersed with a thousand Candaces who danced with
unicorns, played saxophones, and rode bareback on leaping black tigers. The
images were designed to jar nerves and exhaust eyes. But what Stefan noticed was
the way his sister was dressed, her outfit too small and tight, her boobs twice
their normal size. She was ready for a date, and he warned her, "They won't let
you go. It's only Tuesday."

Candace gave her little brother a cutting worldly look. "Go lose yourself."

Stefan began to retreat, gladly.

"Wait. What do you think of these shoes?"

"They're fine."

She kicked them off, without a word, then opened the door behind the mirror,
mining her closet for a better pair.

Stefan shot upstairs.

Their honored guest and Mom remained in the kitchen. She was freshening her
drink, and talking.

"I mean I really don't care," she told him. "I know I deserve the promotion,
that's what matters." She gave her son a quick, troubled glance. "But Yankee
says I should quit if they don't give it to me --"

"Yankee ?"

"Yancy, I mean. I'm sorry, it's my husband's nickname."

The President was sitting on a projected stool, watching Mom sip her swirling
drink once, then again.

"What do you think I should do? Quit, or stay."

"Wait and see," was the President's advice. "Perhaps you'll get what you
deserve."

Mom offered a thin, dissatisfied smile.

Stefan thought of his comppad and his list of important questions. Where was it?
He wheeled and ran to his room, finding the pad on his unmade bed, its patient
voice repeating the same math problem over and over again. Changing functions,
he returned to the kitchen. There'd been enough noise about decorating and Mom's
job, he felt. "Mr. President? Are we doing enough about the space program?"

"Never," was the reply. "I wish we could do more."

Was the comppad recording? Stefan fiddled with the controls, feeling a sudden
dull worry.

"In my tenure," the voice continued, "I've been able to double our Martian
budget. Spaceborn industries have increased twelve percent. We're building two
new observatories on the moon. And we just found life on Triton --"

"Titan," the boy corrected, by reflex.

"Don't talk to him that way!" Mom glowered, thoroughly outraged.

"Oh, but the fellow's right, Helen. I misspoke."

The amiable laugh washed over Stefan, leaving him warm and confident. This
wasn't just an assignment for school, it was a mission, and he quickly scrolled
to the next question. "What about the oceans, Mr. President?"

A momentary pause, then their guest asked, "What do you mean.?"

Stefan wasn't sure.

"There are many issues," said the President. "Mineral rights. Power production.
Fishing and farming. And the floating cities --"

"The cities."

"Fine. What do you think, Stefan? Do they belong to us, or are they free
political entities?"

Stefan wasn't sure. He glanced at his pad, thinking of the islands, manmade and
covered with trim, modem communities. They grew their own food in the ocean,
moved where they wanted, and seemed like wonderful places to live. "They should
be free."

"Why?"

Who was interviewing whom?

The President seemed to enjoy this reversal in roles. "If taxes pay for their
construction -- your tax money, and mine -- then by what right can they leave
the United States?" A pleasant little laugh, then he added, "Imagine if the
First Lady and I tried to claim the White House as an independent nation. Would
that be right?"

Stefan was at a loss for words.

Then Mom sat up straight, giving a sudden low moan.

Yancy was coming across the patio. Stefan saw him, and an instant later, Morn
jumped to her feet, telling her son and guest, "No more politics. It's
dinnertime."

Yancy entered the kitchen, approaching the projection from behind.

The President couldn't react in time. Flesh-and-bone merged with him; a
distorted brown face lay over Yancy's face, which was funny.

"Why are you laughing?" snapped Yancy.

"No reason," the boy lied.

His stepfather's temper was close to the surface now. He dropped the plate of
cooked burgers on the countertop, took an enormous breath, then said, "Show your
guest to the dining room. Now."

Taking his comppad, Stefan obeyed.

The President flickered twice, changing projectors. His voice flickered too,
telling the boy the story of some unnamed Senator who threw a tantrum whenever
rational discourse failed him. "Which is to say," he added, "I have quite a lot
of practice dealing with difficult souls." And with that he gave a little wink
and grin, trying to bolster the boy's ragged mood.

Stefan barely heard him; he was thinking of floating cities.

It occurred to him that he'd answered, "Yes, they should be free," for no other
reason than that was his stepfather's opinion, voiced many times. The cities
were uncrowded. Some allowed only the best kinds of people. And Stefan had
spoken without thinking, Yancy's ideas worming their way inside him. Embarrassed
and confused, he wondered what he believed that was really his own. And did it
ever truly matter?

Even if Stefan could think what he wanted, how important could his opinions ever
be?

The table was set for five, one place setting built from light. The President
took his seat, and Stefan was across from him, scrolling through the comppad in
search of new questions. Most of these came from his social studies teacher -- a
small, handsome Nigerian woman who didn't know Yancy. Why do we keep our open
border policy? He didn't dare ask it. Instead he coughed, then inquired, "How
are your cats, Mr. President?"

Both of them seemed happy with the new topic. "Fine, thank you." Another wink
and grin. "The jaguars are fat, and the cheetah is going to have triplets."

Miniature breeds. Declawed and conditioned to be pets.

They spoke for a couple minutes about preserving rare species, Stefan mentioning
his hope to someday work in that field. Then More burst into the room with her
completed salad, and Yancy followed with some bean concoction, making a second
trip for the burgers. Somewhere en route he shouted, "Candace!" and she appeared
an instant later, making her entrance with a giggle and a bounce.

If anything, her boobs were even bigger. And the room's holo projectors changed
her skin, making it coffee-colored.

Mom saw the clothes and her color, then gave a shocked little groan. But she
didn't dare say anything with the President here. Yancy entered the little room,
paused and grimaced . . . then almost smiled, glancing at their guest with the
oddest expression.

Why wasn't he saying anything?

The President glanced at Candace, for half a second. Then he looked straight
ahead, eyes locked on Stefan. Big, worried eyes. And his projection reigned a
slow sigh.

With her brown boobs spilling out, Candace sat beside President Perez.

Mom glared at her, then at Yancy. But Yancy just shook his head, as if warning
her to say nothing.

Seven burgers were on the plate. The real ones were juicy; the one built from
light resembled a hard lump of charcoal.

Stefan realized that he was growing accustomed to being ashamed.

Candace took nothing but a small helping of salad, giggling and looking at their
guest with the same goofy flirtatious face that she used on her infinite
boyfriends. "Hey, are you having a good time?"

"Mr. President," Stefan added.

His sister glared at him, snapping, "I know that."

"I'm having a fine time." The apparition never quite looked at her, using his
spoon to build a mound of phantom beans on the phantom plate. "You have a lovely
home."

Mom said, "Thank you."

Candace giggled, like an idiot.

But she wasn't stupid, her brother wanted to say. To shout.

Yancy was preparing two burgers, slipping them into their pouches of bread and
adding pickles, mustard and sugar corn. Then after a first oversized bite, he
grinned, telling the house computer to give them scenery. "Mount Rushmore," he
demanded. "The original."

Squidskin recreated the four-headed landmark. Presidents Barker and Yarbarro
were notably absent.

The current President was staring at his plate. For the first time, he acted
remote. Detached. A bite of his charred burger revealed its raw red interior,
blood flowing as if from an open wound. Aft era long pause, he looked at Stefan
again, and with a certain hopefulness asked, "What's your next question,
please?"

Candace squealed, "Let me ask it!"

She shot to her feet, reaching over the table, her boobs fighting for the
privilege of bursting out of her shirt. Before Stefan could react, she'd stolen
his comppad, reading the first question aloud.

"Why do we keep our open border policy?"

The pause was enormous, silence coming from every direction at once. More stared
at Yancy, pleading with her eyes. Everyone else studied the President, wondering
how he would respond. Except he didn't. It was Yancy who spoke first, in a voice
almost mild. Almost.

"I don't think it matters," he replied. "I think if we want to do some good,
we've got to turn the flow back the other direction. If you know what I mean."

"I think we do," said President Perez.

"Fifty years of inviting strangers into our house. Fifty idiotic years of making
room, making jobs, making allowances . . . and always making due with less and
less. That's what the great Barker gave us. Her and her damned open border
bullshit!"

Stefan felt sick. Chilled.

Mom began, "Now Yancy --"

"My grandfather owned an acreage, Mr. President. He ate meat three times a day,
lived in a big house, and worked hard until he was told to go half-time, some
know-nothing refugee given the other half of his job, and his paycheck . . . !"

"Employment readjustments." Their guest nodded, shrugged. "That's a euphemism, I
know. There were problems. Injustices. But think of the times, Mr. Thatcher. Our
government was under enormous pressures, yet we managed to carry things off --"

"Some know-nothing refugee!" Yancy repeated, his face red as uncooked meat. "And
your party took his home, his land, needing the room for a stack of apartment
buildings."

Stefan tried not to listen. He was building a careful daydream where he had a
different family, and he was sitting with the President, everyone working to
make his visit productive, and fun.

Yancy pointed at the old Rushmore. "A great nation built it --"

"An individual built it," the President interrupted. "Then his grateful nation
embraced it."

"A free nation!"

"And underpopulated, speaking relatively."

Pursing his heavy pink lips, Yancy declared, "We should have let you people
starve. That's what I think." He took a huge breath, held it, then added, "You
weren't our responsibility, and we should have shut our borders. Nothing in. Not
you. Not a rat. Not so much as a goddamn fly . . . that's my opinion . . . !"

President Perez stared at his own clean plate. Eyes narrowed. The contemplative
face showed a tiny grin, then he looked up at Yancy, eyes carved from cold black
stone.

With a razored voice, he said, "First of all, sir, I'm a third-generation U.S.
citizen. And second of all, I believe that you're an extraordinarily frightened
man." A pause, a quiet sigh. "To speak that way, your entire life must be torn
with uncertainty. And probably some deep, deep sense of failure, I would guess."

Stefan sat motionless, in shock.

"As for your opinions on national policy, Mr. Thatcher . . . well, let me just
say this. These are the reasons why I believe you're full of shit."

The rebuke was steady, determined, and very nearly irresistible.

President Perez spoke calmly about war and famine, a desperate United Nations,
and the obligations of wealthy people. He named treaties, reciting key passages
word-for-word. Then he attacked the very idea of closing the borders, listing
the physical difficulties and the economic costs. "Of course it might have
worked. We could have survived. An enclave of privilege and waste, and
eventually there would have been plagues and a lot of quiet hunger on the
outside. We'd be left with our big strong fences, and beyond them . . . a dead
world, spent and useless to us, and to the dead." A brief pause, then he spoke
with a delicate sorrowful voice, asking, "Are you really the kind of man who
could live lightly with himself, knowing that billions perished . . . in part
because you deserved a larger dining room . . . ?"

Yancy had never looked so tired. Of those at the table, he seemed to be the one
composed of light and illusion.

The President smiled at everyone, then focused on Stefan. "Let's move on, I
think. What's your next question?"

The boy tried to read his comppad, but his brain wouldn't work.

"Perhaps you can ask me, 'What do you think about this hallmark evening?'"

"What do you think?" Stefan muttered.

"It should revolutionize our government, which isn't any surprise. Our
government was born from a string of revolutions." He waited for the boy's eyes,
then continued. "I love this nation. If you want me angry, say otherwise. But
the truth is that we are diverse and too often divided. My hope is that
tonight's revolution will strengthen us. Judging by these events, I'd guess that
it will make us at least more honest."

Yancy gave a low sound. Not an angry sound, not anything.

"Perhaps I should leave." The President rose to his feet. "I know we've got
another half hour scheduled --"

"No, please stay!" Mom blurted.

"Don't go," begged Candace, reaching for his dreadlocks.

Mom turned on her. At last. "Young lady, I want you out of those clothes --!"

"Why?"

"-- and drain those breasts. You're not fooling anyone here!"

Candace did her ritual pout, complete with the mournful groan and the teary run
to the basement.

Mom apologized to their guest, more than once. Then she told Yancy, "You can
help Stefan clear the table, please. I will show our President the rest of my
house."

Stefan worked fast. Scraps went into the recyke system; dishes were loaded in
the sonic washer. Through the kitchen window, he saw the Grand Canyon passing
into night, its blurry, imperfect edges more appropriate in the ruddy
half-light. And it occurred to him that he was happy with this view, even if it
wasn't real. Happier than he'd feel on any ordinary plot of real ground, surely.

His stepfather did no work. He just stood in the middle of the room, his face
impossible to read.

Stefan left him to set the controls. Morn and the President were in the front
room, looking outside. Or at least their eyes were pointed at the lone window.
With a soft, vaguely conspiring tone, the President said, "It's not my place to
give advice. Friends can. Counselors and ministers should. But not someone like
me, I'm sorry."

"I know," his mother whispered. "It's just . . . I don't know . . . I just wish
he would do something awful. To me, of course. Just to make the choice simple."

What choice? And who was she talking about?

"But really, he only sounds heartless." She tried to touch their guest, then
thought better of it. "In five years, Yankee hasn't lifted his hand once in
anger. Not to the kids, or me. And you're right, I think. About him being
scared, I mean. . . . "

Stefan listened to every word.

"When you come next month," More inquired, "will you remember what's happened
here ?"

President Perez shook his head. His face was in profile, like on a coin. "No, I
won't. Your computer has to erase my personality, by law. And you really don't
have room enough to hold me. Sorry."

"I guess not," Mom allowed.

They looked outside, watching an airtaxi riding its cable past the window. The
building across the street mirrored theirs, houses stacked on houses, each one
small and efficient, and lightweight, each house possessing its own yard and the
same solitary window facing the maelstrom that was a city of barely five
million.

Several Presidents were visible.

They waved at each other, laughing with a gentle, comfortable humor.

Then their President turned, spotting the boy at the other end of the little
room, and he smiled at Stefan with all of his original charm and warmth, nothing
else seeming to matter.

Mom turned and shouted, "Are you spying on us?"

"I wasn't," he lied. "No, ma'am."

The President said, "I think he just came looking for us." Then he added,
"Dessert. I feel like a little dessert, if I might be so bold."

Mom wasn't sure what to say, if anything.

"Perhaps something that looks delicious, please. In the kitchen. I very much
liked your kitchen."

They gathered again, a truce called.

Candace was dressed as if ready for school, looking younger and flatter, and
embarrassed. Yancy had reacquired a portion of his old certainty, but not enough
to offer any opinions. Morn seemed wary, particularly of Stefan. What had he
heard while eavesdropping? Then the President asked for more questions, looking
straight at Yancy, nothing angry or malicious in his dark face.

Crossing his arms, Yancy said nothing.

But Stefan thought of a question. "What about the future?" It wasn't from his
comppad's list; it was an inspiration. "Mr. President? How will the world
change?"

"Ah! You want a prediction!"

Stefan made sure that the comppad was recording.

President Perez took a playful stab at the layered sundae, then spoke casually,
with an easy authority.

"What I'm going to tell you is a secret," he said. "But not a big one, as
secrets go."

Everyone was listening. Even Yancy leaned closer.

"Since the century began, every President has had an advisory council, a team of
gifted thinkers. They know the sciences. They see trends. They're experts in new
technologies, history and human nature. We pay them substantial fees to build
intelligent, coherent visions of tomorrow. And do you know what? In eighty
years, without exception, none of their futures have come true." He shook his
head, laughing quietly. "Predicted inventions usually appear, but never on
schedule. And the more important changes come without warning, ruining every one
of their assessments." A pause, then he added, "My presence here, for instance.
Not one expert predicted today. I know because I checked the records myself. No
one ever thought that a President could sit in half a billion kitchens at once,
eating luscious desserts that will never put a gram on his waist."

Yancy growled, asking "Then why do you pay the bastards?

"Habit?" The President shrugged his shoulders. "Or maybe because nothing they
predict comes true, and I find that instructive. All these possible futures, and
I don't need to worry about any of them."

A long puzzled silence.

"Anyway," said the President, "my point is this: Now that we've got this
technology, every prediction seems to include it. In fact, my experts are
claiming that in fifty years, give or take, all of us will spend our days
floating in warm goo, wired into the swollen Net. Minimal food. No need for
houses or transportation. Maximum efficiency for a world suddenly much less
crowded." He gazed at Stefan, asking "Now does that sound like an appealing
future?"

The boy shook his head. "No, sir."

"It sounds awful," Mom barked.

Candace said, "Ugh."

Then Yancy said, "It'll never happen. No."

"Exactly," said their guest. "It's almost guaranteed not to come true, if the
pattern holds." He took a last little bite of his sundae, then rose. "You asked
for a prediction, son. Well, here it is. Your life will be an unending surprise.
If you're lucky, the surprises will be sweet and come daily, and that's the best
any of us can hope for. I think."

The silence was relaxed. Contemplative.

Then the President gestured at the projected clock high above their stove. "Time
to leave, I'm afraid. Walk me out.?"

He was speaking to Stefan.

Hopping off his stool, the boy hugged himself and nodded. "Sure, Mr. President.
Sure."

The Grand Canyon was dark, the desert sky clear and dry. But the genuine air was
humid, more like Indiana than Arizona. There were always little clues to tell
you where you were. Stefan knew that even the best systems fell short of being
real.

In a low, hopeful voice, he said, "You'll come back in a month. Won't you, sir?"

"Undoubtedly." Another smile. "And thank you very much. You were a wonderful
host."

What else? "I hope you had a good time, sir." A pause, then he said, "It was
perfect. Perfect." Stefan nodded, trying to match that smile.

Then the image gave a faint, "Good-bye," and vanished. He suddenly just wasn't
there.

Stefan stared at the horizon for a long moment, then turned and saw that the
house was whole again. Their computer had enough power to add color and all the
fancy touches. Under the desert sky, it looked tall and noble, and he could see
the people sitting inside, talking now. Just talking. Nobody too angry or too
sad, or anything. And it occurred to Stefan, as he walked up toward them, that
people were just like the house, small inside all their clothes and words and
big thoughts.

People were never what they appeared to be, and it had always been that way. And
always would be.