Free Venus of Dreams by Pamela Sargent Page B

there was a slight delay between her words and the woman's response; that meant Miriam had to be calling from space.
    "I was going to send just a message, but I couldn't do that—it didn't seem enough. You'd better sit down, Iris."
    Iris took a few steps backward and settled in one of the chairs, terrified of what she was going to hear.
    "I don't know how to tell you this." Tears were trickling from Miriam's brown eyes. "Your father's dead. I don't know if anyone's sent you a notice yet—he only died twelve hours ago."
    Iris was numb. She covered her mouth, unable to speak. As the full meaning of the words struck her, she nearly doubled over, feeling as though she had been hit in the chest.
    "Oh, Iris, I'm so sorry. I know you never knew him well, but I saw your three letters to him here, and I know he meant something to you. He'd ask me to read the letters to him once in a while. He was going to send you a long one soon—he'd asked me to—to—" Miriam shook her head. "He was so proud of you. He used to brag about you to the crew here, how you could read, all the things you were learning. He used to say it showed he must be clever, to have a child like that."
    "How?" Iris managed to ask.
    Miriam had started to weep during the delay; she lifted her head and wiped at her eyes with a small handkerchief. "Micrometeorites. You probably know about them. He was outside, working on one of the solar panels. One went right through his helmet, like a bullet. He never knew." Miriam coughed, then cleared her throat; her eyes were narrow with rage. "Damn the Nomarchies. They kept saying they'd get our systems repaired. If they had, we would have been warned. Tad should never have been outside."
    Iris stared at the screen mutely.
    ". . . fucking pile of junk," Miriam was saying. "Calculate the cost and figure the odds. It'd cost more to repair the system right away than to risk the small chance of losing a worker or two. That's how Linkers think. They might as well be cyberminds themselves. It's enough to make you want to escape to the Habs. I don't care what they say about them—at least Habbers look after their people." Miriam coughed again; her eyes seemed glazed. "Well, I guess they'd have to, wouldn't they? Habbers all have Links, so they're all equal. Habbers wouldn't let anyone get away with this shit."
    Iris swallowed hard. "What—" She paused, not knowing how to ask the question.
    "I don't think Tad wanted his body sent back to Earth, and he probably couldn't have afforded it anyway." Miriam had apparently guessed what Iris wanted to ask. "His friends and I said a few words for him before he—before he was put into the recycler. Of course, he'll get his plaque on our memorial wall."
    The woman was crying again. Iris sat very still. A lump in her throat was making it hard to swallow, but her eyes were dry. It was all a mistake; Miriam would look up and tell her it was all a mistake. She would wake up and know that her father was still alive.
    "Iris, I loved him very much. We had just started sharing a room. I'm going to miss him dreadfully."
    "Mother would be glad to know you were with him," Iris forced herself to say. "She'll be happy to know he had a woman there, to say some words for him."
    Miriam wiped her nose, then shook back her long black hair. Her tangled curls had hidden the small symbol on her collar; Iris gazed at it now with some surprise. The woman wore a tiny gold protractor, the sign of an engineer; she must have loved Tad deeply to ally herself with a simple laborer. Tad must have been more than even Iris had suspected. She would never know the part of her father that had attracted this woman; she could not bear the thought.
    "I should speak to your mother too," Miriam said.
    "It's all right," Iris replied. "She'll see your call. It must be hard for you—you don't have to make another one. You could send her a letter, if that would be easier. You don't have to program a voice—I can read it to her."
    "That