Young Rissa by F.M. Busby Read Free Book Online

a moment, silent and unsmiling, she looked at Rissa. “This is always the hard part — waiting to see if you make it. If you’re caught, I’m dead or Welfared. And the driver — he’s Underground, too. So be careful — Antonia.”  
    â€œI will — oh, I will!”  
    When the time came, Rissa was prepared. The mirror and her passport showed a fair match. Camilla said, “Write to me — but not directly. At the Establishment they’ll teach you the codings.”  
    Rissa embraced her. “I’ll write. And I’ll never forget you.”  
    Â 
    The sub-basement loomed in dimness; pillars divided her view. Near the rear entrance a light blinked; through the vast empty space she scuttled to a groundcar. Face unseen, the driver said, “Duval?”  
    â€œYes.”  
    â€œGet in.” She did; the car crawled up a ramp and entered sparse street traffic. She did not know the destination and made no effort to orient herself, nor did she speak. At the airport the car stopped near the Air Latinas sign. The driver pointed.  
    â€œIn there. And good luck . . . Duval. You know what to do.”  
    â€œThank you. Yes — I will not test the passport until you are away from here.” He nodded; she got out, closed the door and entered the terminal. For ten minutes she stood, then approached the check-in counter. Under her breath she repeated Camilla’s quick briefing.  
    Â 
    She had no trouble; the passport worked. Her tickets, she found, put her aboard a low-level SST — not suborbital, due to an intermediate stop — in the Deluxe Tourist Coach section, Area B. Beyond, she saw  
    Area A, and could find no distinction between the two. Shortly after takeoff, she slept.  
    The plane flew, landed, waited, took off, flew and landed again. At the terminal a man and woman met her. “Antonia Duval?”  
    â€œYes.” They waited, silent. She showed her passport.  
    The woman nodded. “All right. Come on.” She followed them.  
    Once in the car and clear of the airport the man said, “So you made it. Welcome, Rissa Kerguelen. You’re free now.”  
    Â 
    The country was Argentina. The Establishment was a half-day’s drive from Buenos Aires, and its proprietress was Erika Hulzein. At midmorning, refreshed after sleeping in the car, bathed, and freshly clothed, Rissa met her.  
    Except for the white hair, worn loose around her face and cut at chin length, Madame Hulzein did not look her seventy years. Her body was trim; she moved smoothly. Seeing her face’s youthful contours, Rissa deduced cosmetic surgery, but saw no telltale marks. Then she was caught by the gaze of deep-set blue eyes above the thin, hawklike nose, and the woman smiled.  
    â€œYes, it takes money to hold your looks at my age. Luckily, I’ve got it. Now, then, girl — sit down and tell me your story. All of it; Camilla gave me only the outline. We have the rest of the morning; I’ve cleared my other appointments.”  
    â€œBut why — ?”  
    â€œBecause we have a lot of work to do, you and I — and I need to know exactly what we’re starting with. So go ahead.”  
    Rissa thought a moment, then began with her parents and early life. For a time she was afraid she was taking too long at it, but when she paused, Erika Hulzein smiled faintly and nodded for her to continue.  
    She came to that terrible day — her parents dead, the unfeeling Welfare agent — and found herself telling of her uncle giving her Selene. “But that’s silly — a child’s pretending — it’s not important. What happened next was — ”  
    â€œIt is important — because it was important. Tell me . . .”  
    So Rissa forgot about time and described, as well as she could remember, all that had happened to her. She edited, of course,