had any choice, any other choice at all?”
“Why not leave it alone, son?” My father’s voice, as ever, was gentle.
“I can’t, Dad.” My voice shook, embarrassing me. “I wish I could. But this group that Rick has formed could be dangerous. I had hoped you would see that and support my side of this. But regardless of what you think, I have to do what I believe is best.”
“Even if it destroys Rick?” my mother asked.
“Even if it destroys him.”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them a moment later I saw tears glistening against the gold. “I love you, Julian. But if you hurt Rick, don’t come back here.”
“Melanie!” my father cried.
“Mom, you don’t mean that—”
“I do. I’m sorry, Julian. I hope you’ll fail.”
“And I hope that you’ll change your mind.” I grabbed up my jacket and started toward the door.
My father caught me outside as I got into my rental skimmer. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Give her some time to get accustomed to what’s happening.”
I hugged him fiercely, feeling gratitude and love. “Dad, I hope so.”
“You can reach me at the symphony during the day,” he said. “Or leave a message on e-mail at ni C e- Right.” He smiled a sad smile, the mender, the bridge-builder. “Stay in touch, no matter what.”
Boston was a welcome sight, even with its snow and chronic garbage strikes. I settled back into my counseling practice and allowed the gentle friction of regular routine, hospital rounds, and familiar faces to abrade my memories of family strife. Time passed, weeks, then months, and my clients made the expected degree of progress and regression, that endless therapeutic two-step.
It was a morning early in April, with the first hint of spring in the air and swelling purple buds dotting slender tree limbs. Boston, in April, seems to take a deep breath and come back to life, casting off its winter somnolence. The hiss and mutter of skimmers cutting through slush is exchanged for the sound of wheels against dry pavement, birds twittering in the morning sunlight, and children shouting their high-pitched exultation that spring has come once again.
I began dreaming of blue skies and water dotted by sailboats, of walks along the Charles in purple twilight, and red tulips waving from window boxes.
I was in the midst of a particularly busy day, reviewing a complex case on which I was consulting when Joachim Metzger came to see me at my office. He arrived sans retinue, in a plain blue stretch suit. He could have been a traveling rep for a drug supply house.
“Just the two of us?” I asked.
“I thought perhaps it would be easier if we met alone,” he said. “One on one.”
Metzger had a reputation as an ambitious man who favored the company of politicians, mutant and non. I could see why: he looked like a politician with that thick head of white hair and regal stature. He smiled broadly but I knew well enough that an engaging per sona often hid implacable determination. Rumor had it that Metzger planned a career in politics. I had never before met a mutant who had entertained post-Book Keeper ambitions.
I invited him into my sanctum sanctorum. “Please, sit down,” I said, indicating the plushly upholstered sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee, thanks. Black.”
I opened a small brown cabinet beside my desk. The coffeemech extruded a quikform mug and filled it, and I passed it to the Book Keeper. “If you had called first,” I said, “I might have had donuts as well.”
Metzger chuckled, but his smile faded as he got down to business. “About Rick—”
So that was why he had come. Of course. “I can’t believe that you couldn’t muster a vote to censure Better World,” I said.
Metzger looked distressed. “Yes, I know. But I have to be very careful. I’m supposed to be an unbiased facilitator, not a dictator, Julian.” He spread his hands upon the table. “Try to understand. I represent the
“Why not leave it alone, son?” My father’s voice, as ever, was gentle.
“I can’t, Dad.” My voice shook, embarrassing me. “I wish I could. But this group that Rick has formed could be dangerous. I had hoped you would see that and support my side of this. But regardless of what you think, I have to do what I believe is best.”
“Even if it destroys Rick?” my mother asked.
“Even if it destroys him.”
She closed her eyes. When she opened them a moment later I saw tears glistening against the gold. “I love you, Julian. But if you hurt Rick, don’t come back here.”
“Melanie!” my father cried.
“Mom, you don’t mean that—”
“I do. I’m sorry, Julian. I hope you’ll fail.”
“And I hope that you’ll change your mind.” I grabbed up my jacket and started toward the door.
My father caught me outside as I got into my rental skimmer. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Give her some time to get accustomed to what’s happening.”
I hugged him fiercely, feeling gratitude and love. “Dad, I hope so.”
“You can reach me at the symphony during the day,” he said. “Or leave a message on e-mail at ni C e- Right.” He smiled a sad smile, the mender, the bridge-builder. “Stay in touch, no matter what.”
Boston was a welcome sight, even with its snow and chronic garbage strikes. I settled back into my counseling practice and allowed the gentle friction of regular routine, hospital rounds, and familiar faces to abrade my memories of family strife. Time passed, weeks, then months, and my clients made the expected degree of progress and regression, that endless therapeutic two-step.
It was a morning early in April, with the first hint of spring in the air and swelling purple buds dotting slender tree limbs. Boston, in April, seems to take a deep breath and come back to life, casting off its winter somnolence. The hiss and mutter of skimmers cutting through slush is exchanged for the sound of wheels against dry pavement, birds twittering in the morning sunlight, and children shouting their high-pitched exultation that spring has come once again.
I began dreaming of blue skies and water dotted by sailboats, of walks along the Charles in purple twilight, and red tulips waving from window boxes.
I was in the midst of a particularly busy day, reviewing a complex case on which I was consulting when Joachim Metzger came to see me at my office. He arrived sans retinue, in a plain blue stretch suit. He could have been a traveling rep for a drug supply house.
“Just the two of us?” I asked.
“I thought perhaps it would be easier if we met alone,” he said. “One on one.”
Metzger had a reputation as an ambitious man who favored the company of politicians, mutant and non. I could see why: he looked like a politician with that thick head of white hair and regal stature. He smiled broadly but I knew well enough that an engaging per sona often hid implacable determination. Rumor had it that Metzger planned a career in politics. I had never before met a mutant who had entertained post-Book Keeper ambitions.
I invited him into my sanctum sanctorum. “Please, sit down,” I said, indicating the plushly upholstered sofa. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee, thanks. Black.”
I opened a small brown cabinet beside my desk. The coffeemech extruded a quikform mug and filled it, and I passed it to the Book Keeper. “If you had called first,” I said, “I might have had donuts as well.”
Metzger chuckled, but his smile faded as he got down to business. “About Rick—”
So that was why he had come. Of course. “I can’t believe that you couldn’t muster a vote to censure Better World,” I said.
Metzger looked distressed. “Yes, I know. But I have to be very careful. I’m supposed to be an unbiased facilitator, not a dictator, Julian.” He spread his hands upon the table. “Try to understand. I represent the
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