"Thank you."

The folder contained documents, and the documents reduced Gar to a blueprint. His height, his weight, his date of birth, the color of his hair and eyes and skin, the place of his birth, the names and current address of his parents, the GD

37

address for me that hid my life in prison, his scholastic records, his work history; all things I already knew, and all seeming false and out of focus and somehow incorrect when placed on paper within this folder.

There were other facts, too, which I hadn't known. His salary, which was large. His job title, which was Developmental Surveyor. His home address here at the tower of Ice, which was Suite 87. His last job assignment, which was Special Projects Department, working under SP Supervisor L. L. Goss.

And finally, there were job evaluations, six of them, the final one from the same L. L. Goss, the first three from V. Topher, four and five from G. D. zi Quinn. All six evaluations were full of praise; his supervisors had found Gar an excellent worker, imaginative, self-reliant, capable of taking criticism, very productive, cooperative, no trouble with co-workers, and so on and so on.

But those weren't the final papers. There was one more: the copy of a letter from Gar to Supervisor Goss recommending \ me for the job as his Field Assistant. The description was not me. Reading it, I saw that it too was a blueprint, like this folder, except that this was a blueprint for Rolf Malone. A i revised blueprint. A loving description of who I might have j been, if I hadn't been who I am. Here and there in the re- I vision glimpses of the original could faintly be made out.

I closed the folder. I closed my eyes. I breathed as little as possible, because breathing hurt my throat. After a while Jenna came over and said, "What's wrong? Rolf? Is something wrong?"

"No," I said, I opened my eyes and handed her the folder. < "Thank you."

"You're pale," she said.

"I want to see where he lived."

"Where he lived?" As though she had no idea what I [ meant.

I pointed at the folder. "Suite 87. Gar."

"Oh." She shook her head. "That's all changed now," she said.

"I want to see it."

"But someone else lives there now. All your brother's per- f sonal property was sent home to his parents. If we'd known

38

you were coming, if you'd wanted us to keep them and give them to you here . . ." She trailed off.

"I just want to see the rooms," I said.

"I don't—" She stopped, and looked at the folder, and shook her head. "I don't know. Let me see if I can get the key."

Of course she could get the key. She went away, and came back almost immediately, and led me to Suite 87 herself.

No windows. Not in the halls, not in my room, not in the diner, not in Jenna's office, and not here in Suite 87. Only the Colonel, at the top of the tower, had a window, which told him kindly lies. Windowless, Suite 87 had three rooms, each as small as the one in which I had slept last night. The first was a sitting room done in green and brown, with an entertainment center along one wall. I almost went over to look at the books and tapes, but then I remembered they wouldn't be Gar's, they'd be the new tenant's, and I turned away.

The second room was a dinette, in silver and yellow, the kitchen appliances grouped on one side and the meal area across the way. It was necessary to go through the dinette to get to the third room, a bedroom in yellow and green, continuing the two primary colors from the earlier part of the suite. (Just as there were no windows, there was no red anywhere. The only manmade red I'd seen since arrival was the Colonel's robe.) Finally, off the bedroom was a small silver and white bath.

There was nothing here. I could stand in any of the rooms and look around and know I was looking at the walls and floors and furnishings that Gar had looked at, but artifacts of the new tenant kept intruding, breaking into my communication. Suite 87 was barren.

At last I shook my head and said, "All right, I've had enough."

She looked at me with sympathy, and put her hand on my arm. I don't know why, but that look and that touch made me dislike her for the moment.

Out in the corridor again, I waited while Jenna relocked the door and then I said, "It's time for me to see L. L. Goss."

39

"Special Projects Supervisor. Hell help you, if anybody will."

We had to take the elevator, and came to the first really busy level I'd so far seen. Men and women in work jumpers sat at tables, carried papers from room to room, spoke into tape machines or discussed things together in low intense voices. Jenna led me to a door which took me away from all this activity into a brown room where a girl sat primly in a brown juniper at a brown desk. She was plain of face and very thin, and I saw a quick- expression of something like bitter envy flash by her eyes when she looked up and saw Jenna. But her voice was bright and impersonal as she asked what we wanted.

Jenna answered: "Gar Malone's brother, to see Mr. Goss. He's expected."

"One moment."

When she left the room, going through another door into an inner office, Jenna turned to me and said, "Well, good luck, Rolf."

"You're going?"

"I have work to do. Goodbye."

"Will I see you later on?"

She smiled slightly and shook her head. "I doubt you'll ever see me again, Rolf," she said.

"Why?"

"Because we both have work to do. And it takes us in different directions." Her smile twisted a little, and she said, "Besides, I don't think I like who you think I am."

"I don't even know you."

"What difference does that make?" Then she smiled more freely and said, "In some ways, you remind me of Gar. But in most ways you're very different."

I suddenly had to know. I said, "Did he ask you?"

"Of course not." Smiling, putting sex into it for just a second, she said, "I had to ask him."

It was an exit line, and she'd planned it that way, and she went out on it. Suddenly disliking her more than ever, I took a step toward the door, to follow her and spoil the exit, force her to give Gar and me and herself back our individuality no matter what the pain, but the voice of the plain girl in brown stopped me, saying, "Mr. Goss will see you now."

40

XI

L. L. Goss was a short, stocky, rumpled man standing in the middle of a stuffed, square, rumpled room and trying to decide what expression he should have on his face while greeting the brother of a dead man he used to know. He seemed to be the compulsively friendly type, and a cheerful hail fellow sort of grin struggled on his face with a solemn and mournful funeral parlor wince. Since he'd been Gar's supervisor, a remote official detachment also strove for command of his features, but with little success.

"Mr. Malone," he said, and pumped my hand. "Your brother talked about you a lot. Talked about you a lot."

"Did he?"

"I was looking forward to meeting you," he assured me, talking all in a rush, continuing to hold my hand as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Expected big things from the Malone brothers, big things. Could hardly wait to see you walk in, but not under these conditions. No, not under these conditions."

"I feel the same way," I said.

"Of course you do. Of course you do." Still holding my hand, he led me deeper into the room and told me twice to sit down in one of two facing plastic chairs. When I had done so, and he had released my hand at last and sat facing me, he said, with solemnity now in charge of his face, "It was a really tragic thing, I assure you. Tragic. Gar had a brilliant mind. Yes, and a great future ahead of him. It's hard to believe a man so vibrant is gone, hard to believe."


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