NOTHING had changed much in the house. Cartons of empties and bags of trash waiting to be put out were still piled behind the kitchen door. The tacky, coming-apart couch had been replaced by a just-as-tacky couch that looked as if it wouldn't be long coming apart. There was a new wall-size TV with VR console, probably not a button on it yet paid for.
Linc's father looked paler than he remembered, the flesh, under his eyes more saggy. Although it was afternoon, he was still in a coffee-stain undershirt and hadn't shaved. Linc's mother, in a robe and smoking a cigarette, was puffy-faced and hungover, half spaced on something that was supposed to take care of it—probably other things as well. She had shown no more reaction to Linc's appearance than if he had returned from going to the grocery store along the street half an hour ago. Linc had given up attempting to explain the Outzone and what it meant. Their perceptions had been shaped by media depictions, which Linc now had no doubt were contrived deliberately to mislead and misinform. Linc's father was relieved that Linc seemed to be straightening out, but couldn't get it out of his head that what Linc would be going back to was a correctional program run by the government. "I didn't know they had places out there that they sent people to," was the only comment Linc had been able to evince.
"Did you ever hear from Sadie?" Linc asked them. His father had offered him a beer, but he'd preferred coffee. They were out of it, but his mother had found some instant in an old jar at the back of a shelf, and he had made himself one in a plastic mug and brought it back out. It was bitter, watery, but drinkable.
"We get E-mails every now and again," his mother said. She looked across at Linc's father. "Where was she last time? . . ."
"I'm not sure. Someplace in California, wasn't it?"
"Oh, you don't know anything. What was she doing there?"
"She met up with some guy who breaks up cars and deals in parts," Linc's father answered. "Somewhere around Sacramento, I think she said."
"What happened to that guy she took off from here with?" Linc asked. "The big wheeler-dealer with the used Honda, who was gonna buy her the world."
"Honda? . . . I don't remember him," Linc's mother said. "Who's Honda? Do we have a drink anywhere around here?"
"Let's save it for a while huh? Linc's only just back."
"Damn it, I want a drink."
"I heard Marcella was around last week," Linc said.
His father nodded. "Yes, she's back staying here for a while—using your old room . . . Is that okay? It seemed a shame not to, when it was there empty. And she had all this stuff—"
Linc held up a hand. "It doesn't matter. Sure, it's okay."
His father nodded but went on anyway, "It's just that there was this big fight with that guy she went with—you know, the one you went over and beat up once—and she didn't want to be out there on her own. He turned out to be really strange, you know—like anything could happen. It seems you were right about him."
"So long as she's okay now," Linc said. "So what's she doing? Has she got herself some kind of job?"
His father shook his head. "I don't ask. She helps out big with the rent and the bills. That's good enough."
"Wasn't Honda the one who said he knew people in movies?" Linc's mother said suddenly, coming back briefly from wherever her reveries had taken her. Linc and his father waited a few moments.
"Who told you Marcella was around?" Linc's father asked.
"Oh, I talked to some of the guys already."
"Nobody's listening. I'll get it myself." His mother got up and went back through to the kitchen. The sounds came back of a closet door banging and ice falling into a glass.
"She'll be back later tonight. You'll be able to see her then," Linc's father said.
Linc shook his head. "Sorry, but I won't be staying. I have some friends waiting across town that I have to meet. We're shipping back up in three days. I just wanted to stop by. But tell her I was asking, that I'm doing just fine, and to take care, okay?"
"Oh . . . . You won't be able to stay even that long, huh? That's too bad. I was hoping maybe . . ." Linc's father frowned, and the words ran out. He didn't seem too sure of just what he'd been hoping. "Well, I guess if you have to get back, you have to get back. Kinda like a parole is it? You have to be back when they say or it messes up your record." Linc sighed and said nothing.
His mother shuffled back in with her drink, sat down again, and lit another cigarette. "Isn't The Celia Show supposed to be on now?" she said.
"Linc's only just back. He'll be going again soon."
Linc looked at them. There were a hundred other things that he could have talked about. But what would be the point of even trying? He finished his coffee, put down the plastic mug, and stood up.
"Oh, you're leaving now?" His father stood up and hovered anxiously.
"You know how it is." Linc looked at them again and thought for a moment. "There are a couple of things in my room I need to check. It won't take a second."
"Sure—go ahead. We didn't move any of your things out. Everything's all there . . . . We will be hearing from you again, won't we?"
"Yes, but I'm not sure when. It might be a while," Linc said as he left the room.
"He's going already?" his mother's voice said behind him. "We can put the show on then."
Marcella had draped a lot of frilly things and lacy things around the room, and strewn fluffy cushions on the bed. The chest of drawers had been pushed back into a corner to make room for a vanity, which was covered with makeup bottles and jars. Movie-star pictures had been added to the walls, along with a couple of airline posters, one showing Norway, the other, Argentina; also, interestingly, set on its own as if in a place of special honor, there was a framed photo of Linc.
He moved over to the closet and opened it to reveal a colorful selection of dresses, skirts, coats, slacks, and jeans, with belts and purses hanging inside the door and a jumble of shoes on the floor. His own clothes were still there, pushed back to the far end of the rail. He ruffled through them curiously. They reminded him of Chips—loud and flashy; a kid's attempt at copying something he didn't understand. Funny how Chips was two years older and couldn't yet see what was now so plain to Linc . . . . But then, no. It wasn't funny at all. Chips never would see it.
Linc went down on one knee and lifted aside his own shoes at the rear. He took a quarter from his pocket and used it to pry away the section of the baseboard covering a recess at the bottom of the wall he had cut long ago. He felt inside and drew out a large, brown envelope, folded in half and bound with rubber bands. He opened it and pulled out the wads of fifties and hundreds from inside.
Almost nine thousand dollars. That was to have been the down payment for the car he was going to have like Kyle's when he reached driving age, along with the suit and other accessories to pull the broad to go with it. It was all there, untouched. He counted off a few and pocketed them to take care of the next couple of days, then put the rest back in the envelope and replaced the cover on the recess. Then he straightened up and went back through to the living room.
His father took the package unresistingly when Linc pressed it into his hand. "This is for you . . . for everything. It should help out with a lot of things," Linc said. "I have to go. Tell Marcella I'm sorry I couldn't stay. The room looks really nice. I'll be in touch from time to time to make sure everything's okay."
Linc left the house and used his pocket phone to call a cab. One appeared, coming along by the river, just as he reached the end of the street.
Julie was with Arvin and Marlene in the hotel coffee shop and bar where they had arranged to meet on the other side of town. Going back home and to his old haunts had been something Linc wanted to do alone.
Another advantage in having Arvin along had been not having to leave the two girls on their own. Arvin had chosen to wear his uniform, which being unusual had attracted some attention, and by the time Linc arrived his three companions had become the center of quite a party of interested people.
Arvin had obviously told the story of the accident at Grayling. "This is the guy!" he exclaimed when Linc walked in through the door from the street. "He's the one. If he hadn't done what he did, I wouldn't be here talking to you now."
An enemy had become a friend that Linc would keep for life. And in realizing that, Linc finally grasped what his education had been about. By the values that held in the Outzone, he was already rich. Now, at last, he understood the form of wealth the new civilization would be built on.
They had dinner, and Linc treated them all to a show. The next day Rocky and Liz joined them. Two days of relaxation followed. Then came the flight back to Yucatan and the routine of being checked once more onto one of the outbound shuttles. The daylong lift up and around the Moon was exciting but uneventful. When they docked at Grayling Station, the Neil A. Armstrong was already in orbit standing twelve miles off and had begun preparations for departure.