y possessive, and she  winked  at  me.
Don't spend it all in one place, Brenda.
     During  the  next  hand  the talk turned, as it eventually
does at these things, to the affairs of  the  world.  I  didn't
contribute;  I'd  found early on that if people noticed me they
tended to clam up about the Big Glitch. This was a  group  that
kept  few secrets. Everyone there knew about Mario, and many of
them knew of my troubles with the CC. Some probably knew of  my
suicides.  It  made  them  cautious,  as most probably couldn't
imagine what it must be like to  lose  a  child  like  that.  I
wanted  to  tell them it was all right, I was okay, but it's no
use, so I just sat back and listened.
     First there was the CC, and should we bring him back.  The
consensus  was  that we shouldn't, but we would. Having him the
way he was was just so damn handy. Sure, he screwed up there at
the end, but the Big Brains can  handle  that,  can't  they?  I
mean, if they can put a man on Pluto a week after he left Luna,
why  don't  they spend some of that money to make things easier
and more convenient to the taxpaying citizens? I  think  that's
what  will  happen.  We're a democracy--especially now that the
CC's no longer around  to  meddle--and  if  we  vote  for  damn
foolishness,  damn  foolishness  is what we'll get. I just hope
they make provision this time around for somebody to  give  the
New  CC  hugs  on  a  regular basis. Otherwise, he's apt to get
pettish again.
     There was no consensus on the other big topic of the  day.
It  was  a  question  that cut deeply and would certainly cause
many more shouting matches before it was resolved. What do  you
do  with  the  new  things  the  CC discovered during his rogue
years?  In  particular,  how  about  this  memoryrecording  and
cloning business, eh?
     The Hitler analogy was brought up and bandied about. Under
Hitler's    reign    a    Dr.   Mengele   performed   unethical
experiments--sheer torture, mainly--on human subjects. I  don't
know if anything useful was learned, but suppose there was. Was
it  ethical  to  use  that knowledge, to benefit from that much
evil? It seems to me your answer depends a lot  on  your  world
view. Myself, I'm not sure if it's ethical (which probably says
a lot about my world view), but I don't think it's wrong, and I
have  a  personal  involvement  in the question. Right or wrong
though, I do think it will be  used,  and  so  did  just  about
everybody  else  in the room, reporters being the way they are.
People  were  going  through  the   records   the   CC   didn't
destroy--I'm  one  of  those  records  in a way, but not a very
forthcoming one--looking for new knowledge, and  if  it  has  a
practical  use,  it  will  be  used. Cry over that if you're so
inclined. Myself, I guess in the end I feel  knowledge  has  no
right  or  wrong.  It's  just knowledge. It's not like the law,
where some knowledge is admissible  and  some  tainted  by  the
method of its discovery.
     Minamata was only one of the CC's horror chambers, and not
the worst.  Some of those stories have come out, some are still
being suppressed. Most of them you'd really  rather  not  know,
trust me.
     But  what  about  the problem whose penultimate answer had
been a being who thought he  was  Andrew  MacDonald  minus  all
human  feelings,  and  whose  final solution were the troops of
mindlessly loyal soldiers that gave me so much trouble  on  the
first  day  of  the Glitch? Because they weren't really the end
product. The CC had felt the technique was perfectible,  and  I
have  no  reason  to  doubt it. That was the one the public was
clamoring to know more about: immortality.
     Yeah, but it wasn't really immortality, somebody said. All
it meant was that  somebody  else  very  like  you,  with  your
memories,  would  live.  You,  the  person sitting here at this
table holding the most terrible cards you ever  saw,  would  be
just  as  dead  as ever. Once the public understood that they'd
realize it wasn't worth the trouble.
     Don't you believe it, somebody else said. My cards  aren't
all  that  bad,  and  it's the only hand I've got, so I'll play
'em. Up to now people's only shot at living forever has been to
produce something that will live after us. Artists do  it  with
their  art,  most  of the rest of us produce children. It's our
way of living on. I think this would appeal to the  same  urge.
It'd be like a child, only it'd be you, too.
     At  that  point  somebody  nudged  somebody  else  and the
thought went around the table, silently, that we oughtn't to be
talking about children . . . you know . . . with Hildy  around.
At least I think that's what happened, maybe I'm too sensitive.
For  whatever  reason  the  conversation  died,  with  only  an
unexpected apostrophe at the  end,  in  the  form  of  Brenda's
little  gumdrop  looking  around with innocent eyes and piping,
"What's wrong with it? It sounds like a great idea to  me."  It
was  her  only comment of the evening, but it put the kibosh on
my own theory, which was that  it  was  a  useless  idea,  that
people    would    rather    have   children   than   duplicate
themselves--essentially, not to put all your  spare  cash  into
memory-cloning  stocks.  Suddenly,  looking  into that innocent
face of youth, I wasn't so sure. Time will tell.
     #
     Two years of my life. Probably the most eventful, but time
will tell about that, too.
     I am sitting in the  parlor  car  of  the  Prairie  Chief,
destination  Johnstown,  Pennsylvania. I decided since I'm part
owner of the SRG&C it was high time  I  took  a  ride.  It's  a
school  holiday  so  for  once I have the time. I'm writing, in
longhand, with a fountain pen,  on  foolscap  SRG&C  stationery
resting  on a mother-of-pearl inlaid mahogany table set with an
inkwell and a crystal vase full of fresh  bluebonnets.  Nothing
but  the  best  for  the  passengers  on the Prairie Chief. The
waiter has just brought me a steaming cup of tea,  with  lemon.
Ahead I can hear the chugging of the engine, No. 439, and I can
smell  a  hint  of its smoke. Behind me the porter will soon be
turning down my  Pullman  bunk,  making  it  with  crisp  white
sheets,  leaving  a  mint  and a complimentary bottle of toilet
water on the  pillow.  Also  in  that  direction  the  cook  is
selecting  a  cut of prime Kansas City beef, to be cooked rare,
suitable for the owner's dinner.
     All  right,  it's  brontosaurus,  if  you  want   to   get
technical. It might even be from the Double-C Bar.
     We'll  soon be pulling into "Fort Worth," where we'll take
on wood and water. I don't plan to get off, since I'm told it's
just a dreary cowtown full  of  rowdy  and  possibly  dangerous
cowhands,  quite unsuitable for a well-brought-up lady. (That's
what I'm told; I happen to  know,  since  I  watched  it  being
built,  that  it's just a big room with rails and a dirt street
running through it, scattered with wood buildings and backed by
a great holo show.)
     Outside my window dusk is gathering. Not long ago we saw a
herd of buffalo, and not long after that a group  of  wild  red
Indians,  who  reined  their mounts and watched solemnly as the
iron horse huffed by. From Central Casting, and  on  tape,  but
who  cares?  The  parlor  car  is crowded with Texans and a few
returning Pennsylvanians. They all wear their best clothes, not
yet too mussed by the journey. Across from me  a  little  Amish
girl  sits with her parents, watching me write. Next to them is
a group of three young single gentlemen, trying not to  be  too
obvious  about  their  interest  in  the  single  girl  at  the
escritoire. Soon the boldest of them will come over and ask  me
to  dine  with him, and if his line is any better than "Whatcha
writin', cutie?" he will have a companion for dinner.
     But not for bed. It would be  a  pointless  exercise.  The
service  I  lately  required  of Darling Bobby/Crazy Bob was to
render me asexual, like Brenda when I first met her.  This  was
probably  foolish  and  certainly  extreme,  but I found that I
couldn't bear the thought of sex,  and  in  fact  loathed  that
opening  that  had  brought Mario into the world for his short,
perfect time. I had even less interest in being male again.  So
I jumped off the sexual choo-choo train and I'm not sorry I did
it.  I think I'll be ready to board again any day now, but it's
been a relief not to be at the mercy  of  hormones,  of  either
polarity.  I  may  do it every twenty years or so, as sort of a
sabbatical.
     As darkness falls and the train rocks  gently,  I  realize
I'm happier than I've been in a long time.
     #
     Now  we've  spent some time together, and it's almost time
to  leave  you.  You've  met   Hildebrandt,   Hildegarde,   and
Hildething:  railroad  tycoon,  publisher,  teacher, syndicated
columnist, bereaved mother and tireless  crusader  for  pronoun
reform.  There's really only one more thing worth knowing about
him/her/it.
     I'm going to the stars.
     What I have is an invitation  to  make  a  reservation.  I
didn't  mention  this  earlier,  maybe  it slipped my mind, but
about a week after Mario died I sat down for a very  long  time
with  Walter's pistol, a bottle of good tequila, and one round.
I drank, and I loaded and unloaded the gun, and drank some more
and pointed it at things: a tree, the side  of  the  cabin,  my
head.  And  I thought about what the CC had said about a virus,
and what I had concluded about the veracity of that  statement,
and  wondered  if  there was anything I could think of I really
wanted to do? All those other things . . . sure, they bring  me
satisfaction,  particularly  the  teaching,  but  they wouldn't
serve any more as the answer to the question "What do  you  do,
Hildy?"
     I  thought  of  something, thought about it some more, and
hied myself out to the Heinlein, where I asked Smith if I could
go along when he took off, worthless as my skills might  be  to
his  enterprise. And he said sure, Hildy, I meant to ask you if
you  were  interested.  We'll  need  somebody  to  handle   the
publicity,  for  one thing, to establish the right spin-control
when it's time to leave, and most especially when we get  back.
We'll  need  advice  on  how to market our stories with maximum
profit. Hell,  most  of  us  will  probably  need  somebody  to
ghost-write  them,  as well. Scientists, test pilots, technical
types, we all get tongue-tied when it comes to that part;  just
read  the  early  accounts of the space pioneers. Go see Sinbad
over in the publicity department, see  if  you  can't  get  him
straightened out. If you're any good, I expect to make you head
of  the  department in a week. You couldn't be worse at it than
Sinbad.
     So this is in the nature of a  farewell.  All  the  people
I've  mentioned so far . . . not a one of them will go. They're
just not the type. I love them to various  degrees  (yes,  even
you,  Callie),  but  they  are  Luna-bound, to a man and woman.
"Hansel," "Gretel,"  "Libby,"  (who  recovered,  by  the  way),
"Valentine  Michael Smith;" these will be my shipmates, whether
we leave next year, in twenty years, or  in  fifty  years.  The
rest of you are already left behind.
     Teaching,  railroading,  running the Texian, these are all
things I do. But in my endless spare time (Hah!) I  do  what  I
can  to  further  the  aims  of the Heinleiners and their crazy
project. Result: a two percent increase in inquiries during the
last year. Not exactly setting the world on fire, but  give  me
time.  When  I've  done all I can in that regard I hang around.
You got a bottle you want  washed,  a  trash  pail  that  needs
emptying,  a  whoosis  that  needs  polishing?  Give  it to the
Hildething and it will get done. There is no job too menial for
me, mainly because I'm  completely  useless  at  the  important
jobs.  My aim is to become so indispensable to the project that
it would be unthinkable to leave me behind. Go  without  Hildy?
Cripes, who would shine my shoes and rub my feet?
     And  there you have it. I promised you no neat conclusion,
and I think I've delivered on that. I warned you of loose ends,
and I can see a whole tangle of them. What of the Invaders, for
instance? Brother, I don't know. Last time anybody checked they
were still in charge of our fair home planet, and  unlikely  to
be  evicted  soon.  If we ever get around to it, that's another
story.
     What will we find out there? I don't  know  that,  either,
and that's why I'm going along. Alien intelligences? I wouldn't
bet  against  it.  Strange  worlds? I'd say that's a lock. Vast
empty spaces, human tragedy and hope. God. Mario's  soul.  Your
wildest dream and your worst nightmare all could be out there.
     Or  maybe  we'll  find Elvis and Silvio in a flying saucer
singing old-timey rock and roll.
     Think what a story it'll be.

     --Eugene, Oregon
     May 2, 1991

        AUTHOR'S NOTE

     When in  the  course  of  a  writer's  career  it  becomes
necessary   to   break  with  an  established  science  fiction
tradition, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires
that he should declare  the  causes  which  impel  him  to  the
decision.

     This story appears to be part of a future history of mine,
often  called  the  Eight  Worlds.  It  does  share background,
characters, and technology with earlier stories of mine,  which
is  part of the future history tradition. What it doesn't share
is a chronology. The reason for this is simple: the thought  of
going  back,  rereading all those old stories, and putting them
in coherent order filled me with ennui. It got so bad  I  might
as well give up on this story.
     Then I thought, what the heck?
     Consider  this  a  disclaimer,  then.  Steel  Beach is not
really part of the Eight Worlds future history.  Or  the  Eight
Worlds  is  not  really a future history, since that implies an
orderly progression of events. Take your pick. But please don't
write and tell me that the null-suits had to have  been  around
much   earlier   in   the   series,  because  you  said  so  in
such-and-such a story. There are probably a lot of stories like
that in Steel Beech. So what?
     Somebody once consistency is the hobgoblin of small  minds
(I  think  it  was the editor of the National Enquirer). It's a
sentiment I'm sure Hildy would endorse.

     -- John Varley
     December 1, 1991