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were the most dangerous.
The ladies seemed to prefer Regency Balls, French Courts, and seraglio
situations.
A search for uniqueness combined with the need for belonging had driven
people to probe the remotest corners of Earth s history.
During his flight he had watched a live newscast of a raid on Mexico s Aztec
Revivatist Cult. The police attackers had battled their way into the temple
too late to save the sacrifices.
Perchevski s mother returned. She wore an outfit that looked ridiculous on a
woman her age. The blouse was see-through. The skirt fell only to mid-thigh.
He concealed his consternation. No doubt this was her best.
I don t get into that kind of thing. Not my line. I do know a few guys who
make a hobby of trying to save this dump from itself.
She did not like his attitude. What are you calling yourself this time?
Perchevski. Cornelius Perchevski. He stared at her, and saw Greta forty
years from now. Unless . . . If the kid enlisted, he would feel his own
life-choice was justified. He would have rescued someone from becoming
this . . .
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What are you into? he asked. I don t recognize the period.
Beatles and Twiggy.
Eh?
Twentieth century. Seventh decade. Anglo-American, with the beginning in
England. One of the light periods.
Youth and no philosophy? I gathered that much, though I m not familiar with
it.
It s all the rage now. It s so very outré. So clish-clash with itself. So
schizophrenic. You speak English, don t you?
We have to learn. Most of the First Expansion worlds have some memory of
it.
Why don t you stop all that foolishness? All those ugly Outsiders . . . You
could do well teaching English here. Everybody wants to learn.
Here we go, he thought.She s picking up where she left off eight years ago.
It ll only get worse. Why did I come here? To punish myself for getting out of
this hell-hole?
She recognized the look on his face. It s news time. Let s see what s
happening. She whistled a few bars of a tune he did not recognize.
The editing was unbelievable. This Archaicist group had done this. That one
had done that. The Bay Bombers had beaten the Rat Pack 21-19. There wasn t a
word about von Drachau, or anything else offworld, except mention of a Russian
basketball team trouncing the touring team from Novgorod.
Big deal, he muttered. Novgorod s gravity is seventy-three percent of
Earth normal. They d have to play midgets for it to be fair.
His mother flared up. She hated foreigners almost as much as she hated
Outworlders, but the Russians were, at least, good Old Earthers who had had
the sense to stay on the mother-world . . .
He tuned her out, again wondering if he had a masochistic streak.
Would she try to understand if he explained how much in the middle he was?
That Outworlders disliked Old Earthers just as much as she loathed them? That
he had to reconcile those attitudes both within himself and with everyone he
met?
He did not think she would help. He knew her cure. Give it up. Come back
home. To squalor and hopelessness . . .
Mother, I am what I am. I won t change. You re wasting your time when you
try. Why don t we go out somewhere? This place is depressing.
What s wrong with it? Yes. All right. It s a little old. And I have the
extra credit over S.I. basic to move. But it s so big . . . I like having all
this room to knock around in. I wouldn t have that in a new place.
Perchevski groaned to himself. Now came the Mama Marx self-criticism session
during which she would confess all her failings as a Social Insuree. Then she
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would segue into her shortcoming as a mother, ultimately taking upon herself
all responsibility for his having gone wrong.
He shook his head sadly. In eight years she should have found a new song.
Come on, Mother. We did this last time. Let s go somewhere. Let s see
something. Let s do something.
She dithered. She fussed. It was getting dark out. Only rich Old Earthers,
who could afford the armor, went out after the sun went down.
Here, he said, opening his bag. I ve got my own house now. I brought some
holos to show you.
The pictures finally penetrated her façade.
Tommy! It s beautiful! Magnificent. You really are doing all right, aren t
you?
Good enough.
But you re not happy. A mother can tell.
Holy shit, he thought. I m grown up twice over. I don t need that. You could
live there if you wanted.
She became suspicious immediately. It s not in some foreign place, is it?
Those mountains don t look like the Rockies or Sierras.
It s on a world called Refuge.
Omigod! Don t do that! Don t talk that way. My heart . . . Did I tell you
that the medics say I have a weak heart?
Every time you ve ever needed an excuse for . . . He stopped himself. He
refused to start the fight.
Let s don t fight, Tommy. We should be friends. Oh. Speaking of friends.
Patrick was killed just last week. He went out after dark. It was so sad.
Nobody can figure out what made him do it.
Patrick?
That red-haired boy you were friends with the year before you . . . You
enlisted. I think his last name was Medich. He was living with his mother.
He didn t remember a Patrick, red-haired, Medich, or otherwise.
He did not belong here. Even the memories were gone. He had changed. The kid
who had lived with this woman was dead. He was an impostor pretending to be
her son.
She was bravely playing the game, trying to be his mother. He was sure there
were other things she would rather be doing. Hadn t she been expecting a
Harold?
Maybe that was why they tried to keep people from going. They became somebody
else while they were gone.
Mother . . . His throat clamped down on the word.
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Yes?
I . . . I think I d better go. I don t know what I came looking for. It s
not here. It s not you. It s probably something that doesn t exist. The words
came rumbling out, one trampling the heels of the next. I m not making you
happy being here. So I d better just go back.
He tried to read her face. Disappointment fought relief there, he thought.
I m an Old Earther when I m out there, Mother. But I m not when I come back
here. I can see that when I m here. I guess I should just stop remembering
this place as home.
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