spreads. Legislative fact-finding committees in sani-suits came looking for facts, at least until Congress took away the power of colonies to vote, pressured by taxpayers who, increasingly pressured themselves, resented our dollar-dependent status. And the sociologists came in droves, minicams in hand, ready to record the collapse of the ill-organized and ill colonies into street-gang, dog-eat-dog anarchy.
Later, when this did not happen, different sociologists came in later-model sani-suits to record the reasons why the colonies were not collapsing on schedule. All these groups went away dissatisfied. There was no cure, no cause, no story, no collapse, no reasons.
The sociologists hung on longer than anybody else. Journalists have to be timely and interesting, but sociologists merely have to publish. Besides, everything in their cultural tradition told them that Inside must sooner or later degenerate into war zones: Deprive people of electricity (power became expensive), of municipal police (who refused to go Inside), of freedom to leave, of political clout, of jobs, of freeways and movie theatres and federal judges and state administered elementary school accreditation—and you get unrestrained violence to just survive. Everything in the culture said so. Bombed-out inner cities. Lord of the Flies. The Chicago projects. Western movies. Prison memoirs. The Bronx. East L.A. Thomas Hobbes. The sociologists knew.
Only it didn’t happen.
The sociologists waited. And Inside we learned to grow vegetables and raise chickens who, we learned, will eat anything. Those of us with computer knowledge worked real jobs over modems for a few years—maybes it was as long as a decade—before the equipment became too obsolete and unreplaced. Those who had been teachers organized classes among the children, although the curriculum, I think, must have gotten simpler every year: Rachel and Jennie don’t seem to have much knowledge of history or science. Doctors practiced with medicines donated by corporations for the tax write-offs, and after a decade or so they began to train apprentices. For a while—it might have been a long while—we listened to radios and watched TV. Maybe some people still do, if we have any working ones donated from Outside.
Eventually the sociologists remembered older models of deprivation and discrimination and isolation from the larger culture: Jewish shtetls. French Huguenots. Amish farmers. Self-sufficient models, stagnant but uncollapsed. And while they were remembering, we held goods lotteries, and took on apprentices, and rationed depository food according to who needed it, and replaced our broken-down furniture with other broken-down furniture, and got married and bore children. We paid no taxes, fought no wars, wielded no votes, provided no drama. After a while—a long while—the visitors stopped coming. Even the sociologists.
But here stands this young man, without a sani-suit, smiling from brown eyes under thick dark hair and taking my hand. He doesn’t wince when he touches the ropes of disease. Nor does he appear to be cataloguing the kitchen furniture for later recording: three chairs, one donated imitation Queen Anne and one Inside genuine Joe Kleinschmidt; the table; the wood stove; the sparkling new Oriental lacquered cupboard; plastic sink with hand pump connected to the reservoir pipe from Outside; woodbox with donated wood stamped “Gift of Boise-Cascade”; two eager and intelligent and loving young girls he had better not try to patronize as diseased freaks. It has been a long time, but I remember.
“Hello, Mrs. Pratt. I’m Tom McHabe. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”
I nod. “What are we going to talk about, Mr. McHabe? Are you a journalist?”
“No. I’m a doctor.”
I didn’t expect that. Nor do I expect the sudden strain that flashes across his face before it’s lost in another smile. Although it is natural enough that strain should be there: Having come Inside, of course, he can never leave. I wonder where he picked up the disease. No other new cases have been admitted to our colony for as long as I could remember. Had they been taken, for some Outside political reason, to one of the other colonies instead?
McHabe says, “I don’t have the disease, Mrs. Pratt.”
“Then why on earth—”
“I’m writing a paper on the progress of the disease in long-established colony residents. I have to do that from Inside, of course,” he says, and immediately I know he is lying. Rachel and Jennie, of course, do not. They sit one on each side of him like eager birds, listening.
“And how will you get this paper out once it’s written?” I said.
“Short-wave radio. Colleagues are expecting it,” but he doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“And this paper is worth permanent internment?”
“How rapidly did your case of the disease progress?” he says, not answering my question. He looks at my face and hands and forearms, an objective and professional scrutiny that makes me decide at least one part of his story is true. He is a doctor.
“Any pain in the infected areas?”
“None.”
“Any functional disability or decreased activity as a result of the disease?” Rachel and Jennie look slightly puzzled; he’s testing me to see if I understand the terminology.
“None.”
“Any change in appearance over the last few years in the first skin areas to be affected? Changes in colour or tissue density or size of the thickened ridges?”
“None.”
“Any other kinds of changes I haven’t thought to mention?”
“None.”
He nods and rocks back on his heels. He’s cool, for someone who is going to develop non-dysfunctional ropes of disease himself. I wait to see if he’s going to tell me why he’s really here. The silence lengthens. Finally McHabe says, “You were a CPA,” at the same time that Rachel says, “Anyone want a glass of ’ade?”
McHabe accepts gladly. The two girls, relieved to be in motion, busy themselves pumping cold water, crushing canned peaches, mixing the ’ade in a brown plastic pitcher with a deep wart on one side where it once touched the hot stove.
“Yes,” I say to McHabe, “I was a CPA. What about it?”
“They’re outlawed now.”
“CPAs? Why? Staunch pillars of the establishment,” I say, and realize how long it’s been since I used words like that. They taste metallic, like old tin.
“Not anymore. IRS does all tax computations and sends every household a customized bill. The calculations on how they reach your particular customized figure is classified. To prevent foreign enemies from guessing at revenue available for defense.”
“Ah.”
“My uncle was a CPA.”
“What is he now?”
“Not a CPA,” McHabe says. He doesn’t smile. Jennie hands glasses of ’ade to me and then to McHabe, and then he does smile. Jennie drops her lashes and a little colour steals into her cheeks. Something moves behind McHabe’s eyes. But it’s not like Peter; not at all like Peter.
I glance at Rachel. She doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. She isn’t jealous, or worried, or hurt. I relax a little.
McHabe says to me. “You also published that artical.”
“How do you happen to know that?”
Again he doesn’t answer me. “It’s an unusual combination of abilities, accounting and history writing.”
“I suppose so,” I say, without interest. It was so long ago. Rachel says to McHabe, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Outside, do you have medicines that will cure wood of termites?”
Her face is deadly serious. McHabe doesn’t grin, and I admit—reluctantly—that he is likable. He answers her courteously. “We don’t cure the wood, we do away with the termites. The best way is to build with wood saturated with creosote, a chemical they don’t like, so that they don’t get into the wood in the first place. But there must be chemicals that will kill them after they’re already there. I’ll ask around and try to bring you something on my next trip Inside.”
His next trip Inside. He drops this bombshell as if easy passage In and Out were a given. Rachel’s and
