Free Pallas by L. Neil Smith Page B

entirely trusted the circumstances which had brought it about, the Cold War had ended. Sometimes, however, it seemed as if everyone was waiting around nervously to see what would replace it. Preoccupied with what they perceived as dangerous worldwide instability, and in the continuing a b sence of any sort of open declaration by the states west of the Webb Line, the ruling coalition, at least for the moment—which had so far lasted more than a decade—refrained from acting against the West.
    Meanwhile, in what people and the media everywhere were now calling “West America”—and in “East America,” as well—a series of everyday economic and social realignments with the Canadian provinces, which had long suffered many of the same regional divisions manifested to the south, had, for all practical purposes, rotated the international border ninety degrees.
    But Dodd was going on. “One more thing. I understand that little bitch Martie Mough is headed out your way and plans to drop by the Project for an interview. She came along a little after your time, Gibbie, so you may not know much about her. The story I get from my media people is that she used to pay lip service to Lyle Latheman over at LiteLink, where she started in the secretarial pool, then switched to GIGO last year for a cool fifty million NADs. Watch her, Gibbie my boy. She’ll flap those ey e lashes at you and waggle her cute little ass, then fuck you the first chance she gets. And not in a nice way.”
    Altman chuckled, but wondered what the penalty was for not su c cumbing to the charms of Martie Mough.
    “That’s all for now, Mr. Chief Administrator. I know you’re doing God’s work out there, and doing it damned well. Let me hear from you soon. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
    The screen blanked.
    Altman sighed wearily, thought about the unfinished work still lying on his desk in the next room, then sighed again and began composing a reply to his old friend back on Earth.
    “Elwood!”
    Dodd hated being called by his first name.

The Wells Fargo Wagon
Individuals obtained recognition of their freedom by fighting and bargaining, or—failing in this—they could run away. This running away was possible because they had somewhere to go.
—Walter Prescott Webb, The Great Frontier
     
    L ooking out the window and seeing dust on the horizon made Gwen think of the historian Walter Prescott Webb again, and of the women of the Great Plains who knew in the morning, because the prairie was so flat, that they’d have guests to feed before sundown.
    Finally satisfied, more or less, with the state of what was unfortunately and undeniably a rather well-worn carpet, she pulled the vacuum hose from its outlet in the wall, rolled it up, and tucked it behind some boxes on a top shelf of the closet.
    She was nervous about meeting Sarah Murdoch.
    It wasn’t just because the aging actress had once been the brightest star of Hollywood and Broadway. Gwen admired her for many more things than that. It was true she’d started in the chorus line and gone from there to musicals and comedies to become the most celebrated singer, dancer, and comedienne in show business. But Sarah Murdoch hadn’t been co n tent merely to remain pretty—although it was wonderful what plastic surgeons could do these days to stave off old age—she’d kept in physical shape, as well. At fifty, she’d been pictured on the cover of a national magazine kicking an exceptionally well-turned leg higher than her head, rehearsing for a revival of one of her most successful shows.
    Gwen shut the closet door—with considerable difficulty, as it stood open most of the time—glanced out at the horizon again, then turned her attention to the toys and stuffed animals she’d tossed onto the unmade bed to get them out from underfoot. The toy population had long since outgrown the toy box. She’d anticipated that and brought a large carton from the kitchen, filling it and hiding it in the