The First Love Of Alipang Havens

Chapter Eleven: Daffodil's Dilemma

On the same day as Butterfly Gambino's coerced apology to Cecilia Salisbury's mother, another educational institution also had a visitor of some importance. Up in Boston, the Australian linguist Bert Randall visited the Tolerance House for that city. This was in fact the fourth Tolerance House he had visited since the day of his conversation with Nalani Hahona. Ambassador-At-Large Samantha Ford, whose inseparable companion Ms. Hahona was, had pulled the strings to arrange for Mr. Randall to present lectures on language learning to the children at six or more Tolerance Houses around the Diversity States. Streaming video of his presentations would be studied by diplomatic analysts in Washington, to help form a more detailed impression of the Australian's personality--since he was involved in the Pacific Federation's efforts to gain Diversity States approval for Hawaii to join the Federation.

Only today was he coming to the particular Tolerance House where Ambassador Ford's teenage son Daffodil resided in the position of being halfway a student and halfway a faculty member.

Bert's first presentation did not bring him into contact with Daffodil, since it was for students younger than those with whom Daffodil spent most of his time. But the content of the first lecture was not very much different from what the older students would be hearing next.

"Can anyone here tell me what binary numbers are?"

Every hand shot up at the same time, and all of the children answered their visitor by rote in exact unison: "The binary number system is built entirely on ones and zeroes, so that each number place means a power of two. One-zero is two, one-zero-zero is four, one-zero-zero-zero is eight, and so on. Binary numbers made electronic data processing possible, because the ones and zeroes would match the On and Off states of transistors, enabling desired computer functions and the data being processed to be expressed mathematically. Data bits are the same as binary number places, and bytes are groups of bits. The octal and hexadecimal number systems are condensed expressions of binary numbers, allowing more bits to be expressed in a printout of code."

This little reverse lecture, whose equivalent he had heard at the other Tolerance Houses, went on long enough that Bert was able to take in the way the teacher was watching the children. She was glancing from one to another in a way he had noticed from teachers at the other locations; he gathered that she was checking in case any child might fail to stay with the others perfectly in the recitation. And Bert himself determined, before the second sentence was done being parrotted, which student was most likely to falter: the youngest girl present, not older than six years, a shy-looking child.

Sure enough, near the end, she made a mistake, nervously mispronouncing "hexidecimal" as "dexihecimal." Providentially, the teacher's attention was on other children at that crucial moment, and the other children were too intent on reciting correctly themselves to notice the girl's error. So, cursing this whole establishment in his mind, Bert smoothly stepped up to the little one, to focus attention on her in a different way before the teacher's mind could register that a slight difference in sound had occurred.

Hunkering down to be on eye level with the timid little girl, Bert wanted to hug her tenderly and tell her that everything would be all right; but all he could do was try to MAKE things a little more all right for her. "Young citizen, since everyone's the same, I'm sure you can speak for all the students just as well as if all of them were speaking. Please tell me: which is a bigger number, one-zero-zero-one-one or one-one-zero-zero-zero?" He said it slowly, to let her think as he spoke...then held his breath. If she could just get this right, he hoped that the teacher would forget about inquiring into whether she had made a mistake in the parrot-routine. (She might not be punished for the mistake; what might happen instead would be that all the other students would be made somehow to come DOWN to her achievement level--but even this could cause discomfort for the girl.)

He resumed breathing when she replied confidently, "One-one-zero-zero-zero is bigger."

"Even though the other number had more ones in it?"

"Yes, because not counting the highest one in each number, the number I just said has a higher-placed one than the other one has."

Bert's eyes did the best they could to transmit to the child the hug that was in his mind for her. "That's right, young citizen. And you just proved that the whole collective understands binaries. Now I can tell you why I began with computer language to get into a talk about human language." He faded back to the front of the classroom before continuing:

"Binary states, On and Off, are a good clear way to see that you can't have ANY language if you can't tell one thing apart from another thing. If every bit was always in the On state, or always in the Off state, or if no one knew the difference between On and Off, then data could never be processed at all. It's the same way in speaking: for anyone to know what you're saying, you have to say things which tell one thing apart from another thing...."

From there, Bert went on to say various things about how grammar and syntax worked in English, Spanish and Chinese; but he had already scored his victory at the start. This idiotic school system could not shoot itself in the foot by denying that computer science depended absolutely on either-or categories. But having of necessity conceded this point, they could not (short of bodily violence) prevent him from showing that the same was true of human communication, and therefore also true of logic itself. He was thus tweaking the nose of their official everything's-the-same philosophy.

And for Bert Randall, this bit of benign sabotage was as important as anything else he was doing in America.
 
The hectic several years since the D.S.A. had been established on the ruins of the U.S.A. had been the same years in which Samantha Ford's career had blossomed...and the years in which her professional and personal closeness with female aides, most recently Nalani Hahona, had almost completely crowded her own son out of the sphere of her attention. But not absolutely crowded out. There had continued to be occasional visits when Samantha found the time to talk with Daffodil about her line of work. On this Monday, Daffodil was recalling a time when his mother had described an internal controversy which had occurred in the Diplomatic Service, over whether to address foreign nationals in the same way as Diversity States citizens were addressed.

One side had argued that the spirit of oneness demanded an attitude that ALL people were simply citizens of the world, not to be divided from each other. The other side had argued that the Diversity States had achieved such a moral superiority by denying its own moral superiority, and was entitled to such national pride for having no national pride, that outsiders (welcome as they were) should not be referred to as precisely citizens. The first of these views had prevailed, because of which the visiting lecturer was spoken to as "Citizen Randall," not "Mister Randall."

But watching Bert Randall as he walked along the corridors, and then as he lectured the older students in the third period, Daffodil began to feel that a distinction in terms of address would have been appropriate after all. For the hardy Australian was NOT like men in the Diversity States.

Daffodil was an intelligent youth, but it took some while for him to figure out what set Citizen Randall apart, besides the trivial detail of his accent. At last it became clear. When Bert Randall came face to face with women, he was courteous to them....but not meek and subservient. Although even the D.S.A.'s refinement of political correctness did not extend so far as to demand male humiliation everyplace, places like the Tolerance Houses and university classrooms required that any man meeting a woman who was not definitely beneath him in rank should behave deferentially.

But here was Bert Randall, brazenly looking the Director and other women in the eye, positively radiating a self-assurance....which Daffodil did not possess. Daffodil had been dominated by women for all his life, since well before the D.S.A. was founded, and simultaneously had been hearing his mother and all the women who kept company with her complaining about what brutes and savages men were. They had lamented how much trouble men made, while not allowing Daffodil to enjoy even a little dignity--unless it were when he conformed well to their expectations. Therefore, Daffodil HAD conformed, and conformed, and made other boys conform, in order to please the only one of his parents whose identity he even knew.

But Bert Randall manifestly didn't care what the women running the Tolerance House thought of him. It was said that he knew BOTH of his biological parents; and be that as it may, he certainly did not regard himself as inferior to females. The man's confidence was unnerving; Daffodil resolved to try not to talk with him.
 
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In fourth period, the young teaching assistant had to run a class himself: history for the six- and seven-year-olds. He decided he needed an extra swallow of Joy Nectar from his flask, besides what he would share with all the children at the start of the hour. A little of the non-toxic, non-addictive beverage had been found to increase the tendency of children to believe whatever they were told.

Today, the curriculum called for a review of what had been taught about women's history for the past five weeks. Daffodil knew that the cameras were following his every word and action. With them hovering over him, and a sort of ghost of Bert Randall _also_ hovering over him, he needed yet another swig of his Joy Nectar to keep calm enough.

He was grateful to his mother for teaching him the skills of self-contradiction; the memory of her lessons came to his aid now. Smoothly and insistently, he told the children:

-- That for all of history, women had really been running everything, achieving all progress and creating all civilization, without any help or input ever from the stumbling, clueless males who always needed brilliant women to rescue them from their stupidity; AND

-- That for all of history prior to the founding of the Diversity States, women had been helpless captives and slaves, abused and oppressed by the evil patriarchal men who ran everything, so that women were never given any opportunity to realize their potential.

When the class was over, Daffodil felt he had done well enough, and was glad to go to lunch. It was simpler, more his element, to help maintain cafeteria discipline. It was like coaching Equalityball.

All the students' eyes were upon him as he took up his spoon. Everyone at the tables, from Daffodil down to the youngest child in the room, was having the same tofu-spinach-mushroom-artichoke mixture for lunch; and they all had the same _amount_ of food, regardless of their age and body weight. It was a quantity based on the appetite of a statistically average ten-year-old girl.

Moving slowly, as he always did so that everyone could match his actions, Daffodil dipped his spoon into his dish...raised it to his mouth...chewed his mouthful with exactly fifteen clampings of his teeth...swallowed...ate another mouthful the same way...used his free hand to take a drink of his vitamin-enriched nerve tonic made with distilled water...and so on. Cafeteria monitors (who had already eaten _their_ lunch, with no one commanding how _they_ ate it) prowled up and down, making sure that every child was making every move exactly simultaneously.

When one little boy clumsily spilled his nerve tonic, everyone had to freeze while a monitor cleaned up the mess and provided a refill; then the choreographed lunch resumed where it had left off.

Since Daffodil and the ten or so largest regular students were physically bigger than the rest, they naturally took larger mouthfuls. Thus, given the same starting quantity of food and an exact uniformity of spoon action and chewing action, it was always one of these persons who was the first to finish eating. Today as always, when that point was reached, a monitor called, "Pause!" Then, based on how exactly all the students had synchronized their eating and drinking up to that moment, it was decided how to conclude the lunch drill. Sometimes the uneaten food still in front of the smaller children was taken away to be recycled into garden mulch; sometimes it was given to the older students, as a concession to them actually having larger bodies to feed; but most often, after assessing the degree of sameness achieved by the children, the monitors allowed the smaller children to finish the rest of their food without a need of synchronizing their motions, and allowed the larger children to have seconds.

Today, agreeing that the drill had gone well overall, the monitors went with the last and most generous option. Even the boy who had spilled his beverage was allowed to eat the rest of his food, though Daffodil was called over to sit with him and give him a little more practice in copying a leader's movements.

When lunchtime was over, everyone stood up simultaneously, to go to fifth period. Feeling better now that he had led another satisfactory eating drill, Daffodil headed for the calculus class in which he could be simply a student...

But in the corridor, he found himself suddenly facing Bert Randall, who put out a hand and cheerfully said, "G'day--Daffy Ford, isn't it?"
 
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Trapped, the teen shook hands with the unintentionally-intimidating man, feeling the iron strength of the man's grip. "Yes, Citizen Randall, I am the bioproduct of Ambassador Ford, who is also my official caregiver."

"An intelligent woman. You understand that she made this lecturing visit possible for me, right? And she tells me that you do an outstanding job of guiding the youngsters at Equalityball."

The realization that his mother spoke well of him AS AN INDIVIDUAL to other persons, combined with Randall seeming to be favorably impressed by what he had heard, stirred up in Daffodil's mind something he could not easily have defined. It was something like hope, even if he could not have said what it made him hope for. But something he did know was that he still was inside a Tolerance House, where-- "The collective is all, Citizen Randall. I'm sure that my mother actually said to you that ALL of us in the Isosceles Triangles did a proper job of performing exactly the same as other teams."

"Of course she did." Something in the man's eyes told the boy--or the boy wanted to believe that the man's eyes were saying--that the boy's mother, and this man, still regarded the boy as having value IN HIMSELF. "Well, I won't hold you up, young man, but I'm glad to have met you."

Daffodil arrived at his Calculus class in an agitated state. He knew that even the most advanced Overseer technology could not literally read his mind thought by thought; but he felt as if he were in danger of being reprimanded for the new thoughts trying to take shape in his brain. He had met a man who was not ashamed of being a man; one who could be perfectly cordial and friendly with women and collectives, yet was not RULED by either.

Thoughtcrime of thoughtcrimes, Daffodil was beginning to wish he could be LIKE Bert Randall.

The youth glanced to his left, at where Thundercrash Bellingham sat, an attractive red-haired girl only a few months younger than himself. She had not played on the Equalityball team during the one term she had been here so far; but he knew that she was going to be participating in the summer season of Aquatic Oneness.

If I were like Bert Randall, Daffodil thought, I wouldn't be afraid to tell Thundercrash that I'm attracted to her. I'd be able to get closer to her without giving offense; I'd be so skillful socially that I could impress her without being condemned by the collective as a patriarchalist caveman.

Finding that his hands were trembling, he forced his concentration back onto Calculus. If he had believed in a God, he would have been grateful now for the fact that he was doing well in the subject generally, for today's lesson was feeling like lost time.

And he forced himself to wait until the class ended before he took another drink of Joy Nectar.
 
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That evening, Daffodil phoned his mother, who was in Hawaii with Nalani on a fact-finding mission concerning whether Hawaiians were interested in joining the Pacific Federation as Bert Randall had suggested. It was still day in Hawaii at the time the boy made his call.

"Is that you, Daffy?" came Nalani's answering voice. In the background were such sounds as might be heard at a recreational beach, including several female voices that sounded as if they were having fun, possibly playing volleyball.

"Yes, Nalani. I'd like to talk to Caregiver about Citizen Randall's visit to the house today." Daffodil knew that Nalani considered him an encumbrance, but she would not actually dare to cut him off and pretend he had never called. A moment later, therefore, he was being greeted offhandedly by his mother.

"Good afternoon, Daffy. Well, it is here."

"Have you made progress at surveying public opinion there?" Daffodil asked. He had not finished the sentence before he heard his mother suddenly laugh at something unknown. She never allowed him to make video calls; she claimed that this was for reasons of diplomatic confidentiality. Nonetheless, she answered him with almost no delay:

"Plenty of progress. Right now, the Hawaiian people are about sixty percent in favor of staying independent, forty percent in favor of joining the Federation. Tourist revenues over the rest of this year will probably decide whether those numbers change."

"Tell me if you can, Mom--doesn't it ever bother you that eight states of the former U.S.A. have left us, along with Puerto Rico?"

"Far from bothering me, dear, it delights me; it means that the old predatory male-chauvinist American empire won't be coming back to oppress women." From these words, Daffodil inferred that this was not a good day to renew his long-sublimated curiosity about who and where his father was. But he could go ahead and ask about the man he already half-wished WERE his father.

"Another question, Mom: of all the ways that you could have developed a more complete profile of Bert Randall, is there a reason why you particularly drew him into giving language lectures?"

"Yes, there is, dear, and I'm free to state it on a non-secure line. Citizen Randall acquired much, even most of his foreign-language knowledge by ancient means; hardly any modern technology involved. Since the government is always interested in conserving energy, they're interested in whether old-fashioned language-teaching methods could be made efficient enough that they would save us the electricity consumed by millions of computers, without a loss of effectiveness that would cancel out the advantage. Being able to study Citizen Randall's achievement level in this connection is a side benefit of our dealings with him on the Hawaii issue."

That sentence was hardly out of Samantha Ford's mouth before Nalani's voice was audible, saying something in Hawaiian--a language which Daffodil had never been taught, and in which the two women sometimes talked to each other even in his physical presence.

"Sorry, dear, I have to go now. Nalani has reminded me of a meeting we have to attend. I love you, I'll probably call you the day after tomorrow;" and she hung up without waiting for her son's own goodbye.

Daffodil took one more drink of Joy Nectar, and resumed his studies on the same terminal from which he had called his mother. A tiny corner of his mind conceived the rebellious thought: Did my father leave her because she treated him this way?
 
I like Bert Randell.

Copperfox said:
-- That for all of history, women had really been running everything, achieving all progress and creating all civilization, without any help or input ever from the stumbling, clueless males who always needed brilliant women to rescue them from their stupidity; AND

-- That for all of history prior to the founding of the Diversity States, women had been helpless captives and slaves, abused and oppressed by the evil patriarchal men who ran everything, so that women were never given any opportunity to realize their potential.
Click to expand...

It's amazing that intelligent people can actually believe that.

Poor Daffodil.
 
That is _exactly_ what they want to do. The next time you see video of a public celebration in a country ruled by a dictatorship, and you see large numbers of young people dancing with flags or whatever, pretending to be happy because they were ordered to act that way....think of the Tolerance House.
 
Chapter Twelve: Journalism Inside The Fence


A large wagon, drawn by two horses, had only a little farther to go east before it would reach the town of Sussex. The descending summer sun warmed the back of the driver, sixteen-year-old Lydia Reinhart, daughter of Lois and Hezekiah Reinhart and niece of the still-convalescing Ulrich Reinhart. Six more Amish girls rode behind her in the wagon, one being Lydia's cousin Esther, along with a very small amount of luggage and some canned vegetables. The canned goods were a remnant of the inventory of grocery stores which had come within Enclave territory when the Enclave was first outlined, and whose owners had been removed outside the enclosed region, leaving the food to be distributed by the government to the earliest exiles, as part of the accommodation for keeping them alive until they were more self-sufficient. Amish farmers being among the quickest to become self-sufficient, many of their families had not even needed all of what was thus doled out to them.

What was in Hezekiah's wagon that Hezekiah's daughter was driving would help to feed these girls while they were guests of the dentist's family in Sussex. It was still unusual, even in these times, for Amish girls without their parents to stay overnight, let alone two nights as was now planned, in a non-Amish home; but since Alipang Havens had played a role in saving the life of Lydia's Uncle Ulrich, neither Ulrich nor Hezekiah could find fault with this trip. The more so since the girls had a female escort in transit.

"How long do you think it will take for one of you girls to finish copying one article by hand?" asked Overseer Third Class Dana Pickering, looking at Esther Reinhart and walking her electric motorcycle along, since at present the wagon was going so slowly that the motorcycle would be in danger of toppling over on the deteriorating highway pavement if Dana tried to ride it that slowly.

"Once each of us has her own copy to copy again from, I'm sure that even the youngest of us will be able to turn out another one in less than an hour and a half," replied Esther. "That's on what you English used to call legal-size paper, which is what Mrs. De Soto is bringing up from Casper for us to use." The girl was referring to Tilly De Soto, the wife of Miguel De Soto, the former patriotic blogger who had founded the Wyoming Observer.

"I don't understand why a portion of the newspaper would need to be written out by hand," admitted the Overseer--who had ostensibly lent her assistance to this expedition as part of promoting friendliness with exiles, but actually was using it as an excuse to see one _particular_ exile again.

"There's no disgrace in it," said Lydia from the driver's seat. "The Scriptures themselves were copied by hand before printing presses were invented; and people in the Enclave have proven happy enough to see _any_ kind of newspaper, that they won't be picky."

"But you Amish regard printing presses as permissible technology, you did even before you were, before you were resettled; and typewriters plus copying machines amount to the same thing. I know that you used to have an Amish newspaper in Pennsylvania."

"That's true, Overseer--"

"Lydia, please, I've asked you to call me Dana."

"I don't wish to be disrespectful to an adult."

"It isn't disrespectful if I ask you to do it."

"Very well, I'll call you _Miss_ Dana. Yes, it's true, our newspaper was called The Budget. And we _don't_ feel any religious need to return to a time before any kind of publishing existed. What we're doing is for a practical reason."

Esther at this point recaptured the Amish side of the conversation, following her cousin's lead in terms of address. "Miss Dana, you were so busy looking over what Uncle Hezekiah said in the article he wrote, and asking him questions about why he wrote it, that you never asked about how things were with Mr. De Soto's _ability_ to continue putting out the Observer at all. We know from our Grange friends that although the government isn't stopping him from publishing his paper, so far they aren't providing him new supplies, either."

"He doesn't have any new ribbons for his impact typewriters," put in Lydia, "and the toner is running short for the photocopy machines he has access to."

"So if he doesn't get more somehow in the next week," said Esther, "He'll type and photocopy only _one_ sheet of paper's worth of up-to-date news; then he'll attach one of our copies of my Papa's article to each copy of his typed page, and that will be the last edition of the Observer that will be _able_ to go out until he has more resources."

Dana had seen the latest edition of the Observer, which had gone out five days ago; one of its articles, without blaming or accusing anyone, had reported on shortages of assorted useful items in the towns of the Western Enclave. As Mr. De Soto had correctly stated, the new mail-order catalogues issued by the Federal Consumer Merchandising Service were helping with respect to some goods, but there were other needs which the catalogues didn't seem to cover. "Circulation for the last edition of the paper was up to nearly two hundred copies, of which some went as far as the far end of the Nebraska section. Can you girls make _that_ many handwritten copies of this 'Amish Memories' article before your hands give out?"

"Our hands do plenty of hard work, starting in childhood," Lydia reminded the Overseer.

"The seven of us will be able to make at _least_ ten copies each before this visit ends," Esther told her. "And the Amish boys have a copy to copy from, too; Uncle Hezekiah saw to that before he sent us off with the copy we'll be working from. In all, we'll almost certainly turn out enough to go with the number of copies Mr. De Soto will be able to make of his single typed sheet before his toner is gone."

Conversation in this vein continued for awhile. Since Hezekiah Reinhart's article was more like a magazine article than a newspaper article, the handwritten copies of it could be used at a later time, even if they were not needed after all to fill out the very next edition...

The town of Sussex came into sight. Dana remounted her motorcycle.

"You girls are as good as safely inside Dr. Havens' house now. I'm going to ride around the perimeter of town, looking over things on general principles. By the time I finish, you'll be at your destination. I'll come see you briefly there, before I say goodbye for now."

It was true that Dana needed to be able to say she had done _some_ regular patrolling, besides escorting the Amish girls; but it was even more true that she wanted to call the base and ask about the possibility of gaining goodwill through such a simple measure as expediting the replenishment of toner for copiers and ribbon-spools for typewriters in the city of Casper.
 
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Arrangements had been made to tie up and feed the animals right on the Havens property, though a little apart from the saddle horses. Wilson Havens and Ransom Kramer were both away working at another farm outside of town when the Reinhart wagon pulled up in front of Alipang's house. Alipang was busy seeing patients. But three grown women, besides the younger Havens children, came forth to greet the Amish girls. Besides Kim and Lorraine, who were quick to start unhitching, watering and rubbing down the two draft horses, there was Tilly De Soto, a fair-complected, gray-haired woman perhaps ten years older than Alipang's mother. She also would be staying over the two coming nights; Alipang and his son Brendan, with Wilson and Ransom when they got back, would camp out in the dental clinic for those nights, the better to put all these Amish girls at ease.

Introducing herself to the new arrivals one by one, the publisher's wife then asked to see Hezekiah Reinhart's article. Looking at the first paragraph, she softly spoke out the words:

" 'For all the centuries before it became possible for mankind to fly away from the Earth and visit the Moon, the impossibility of reaching the Moon did not prevent the more dream-inclined souls from speculating about what the Moon was like. In recent times, though everyone in North America has given up all interest in visiting Mars, this does not mean that people cannot imagine what a life on Mars would be like, if they have the leisure for such imaginings. And by the same token, we who anticipate living out our mortal lives in this pleasant and fertile western land may still think of the other pleasant lands from which we came, and remember the culture we brought with us from those other lands.' " She looked at Lydia. "This is really good! Your father sets up a sort of justification for his nostalgia, without striking any note of resentment."

"Thank you on his behalf, Mrs. De Soto. Papa is fond of saying, 'We're Amish, not stupid.' He used the word 'culture' in there on purpose; he says that the Campaign Against Hate thinks it's a sacred word."

"He's right about that, honey."

An Amish girl named Patience, the eldest of the group after Lydia and Esther, added, "If the readers like this article, we can provide others like it to your husband."

Tilly smiled at Patience. "I'm sure they will like it. Magazine-style articles can be used anytime, especially when current events are quiet...or if they ever become too lively for the Overseers to allow us to report. In fact, you've already got Dr. Havens itching to write and offer to Miguel an article about his memories of the Philippines. As Mr. Reinhart says, there's no reason why we can't at least think about places we'll never see again in mortal life."

"Can I copy the writing too?" asked Esperanza Havens. "I've got pencils! My Aunt Melody and Uncle Emilio sent them to us from Texas!"

"Yes, you can make some copies too," Tilly assured the child.
 
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Dana Pickering did pay her call on the Havens house as promised, speaking vaguely to those present about how hopeful she felt for the Wyoming Observer's continuation and success. When she took her leave, though, her hopes had nothing to do with the newspaper; she was only hoping that she had not been absurdly obvious about wishing Alipang had been free of dental patients and would have spoken with her.

Esperanza ended up making two complete copies of Mr. Reinhart's article, with hardly any need to erase and correct, before she lost interest. Lorraine wrote out three copies as well. By the time the visit was over, eighty-two copies of "Amish Memories" (Part One, Tilly added optimistically) had been created at the Havens house. Tilly would carry these with her when she made the train ride back to Casper. However many additional copies were produced by the male scribes west of here, Grange volunteers would see to it that these copies were carried directly from the Amish community to Miguel De Soto.

On the second night of the Amish girls' visit, the four males lay in their bedrolls wherever they could fit on the floor of the dental clinic. Brendan, the youngest, was able to fall asleep soon and comfortably by being cradled in his father's powerful arms, whereas his father and the other two stayed awake for a long time, conversing quietly.

"Alipang?" Ransom whispered. "Tell me, what good do you think the newspaper can do, when it can't print anything the Overseers don't approve of?"

"It's like my keeping in physical shape as well as I can," replied Alipang. "Even though my breaking an Overseer's shiny neck would only bring reprisals without doing us any good, the fitness is a good thing in itself. And we never know whether God might call on me to do _something_ for which having my strength would be useful. In the same way, it's an inherently good thing to keep our fellow exiles mentally stimulated, and as educated as is possible in our circumstances. And keeping up the quality of our minds might yet serve some purpose beyond the emotional satisfaction of having knowledge."

"Knowledge," Wilson sighed. "I wonder how much knowledge is being kept from us by the folks on the outside. I don't just mean about our loved ones who are still out there; I don't even only mean current social trends and political events. I mean, what advancements in science are happening outside the fence, that we're not even hearing about?"

"At least we sometimes pick up outside news from new exiles," Ransom reminded his surrogate brother. "I suppose bits of that could go in the newspaper--if the glorious and heroic Overseers permit it."

Alipang was not going to encourage Ransom to dwell on a powerless grudge against the enforcers of tyranny, but neither was he going to rebuke the youth for feeling that way. Instead, he remarked, "If any scientific advancements are being made now, they're happening farther away than just outside our containment. The United States quit being inventive and innovative--in any way that mattered--even before it quit _being_ the United States."

Wilson sighed again. "Dad, do you ever wonder what it's like to live in the Chinese Moon colony?"

"Sure, I've thought about it a time or three. It's important that we don't lose our ability to think outside of our own routine experiences. And the Observer may help some of us to keep that ability."
 
Miguel De Soto, a dark-skinned and white-haired Cuban-American, had had a secret reason for sending his wife Tilly up to Sussex to collect the hand-copied Amish article to add to the newspaper. Weeks earlier, when away from home himself on a reporting excursion, he had covertly met with one of the Wyoming physicians, Reuben Torvill, to have a sample of his pleural fluid drawn. Doctor Torvill had carried the sample to Rapid City, the only place in the Western Enclave where exile physicians could obtain even the most primitive version of the kind of laboratory work that was needed in Miguel's case. Miguel had reckoned the timing of Tilly's trip so that Doctor Torvill could return with results while she was gone.

The physician, having been needed for two successive childbirths at farms along his route to Casper, had only barely made it. This was the morning when Tilly said goodbye to the Havens family and the Amish girls, and boarded the train for home. The doctor met with Miguel only an hour before he would have to head for the station to meet her; but there was time to say what he wished he didn't have to say. In fact, Reuben Torvill appeared close to weeping, and he was a physician who had seen everything.

"Miguel, if you're prepared to think again about coming to Jesus, this would be a good time. You do have Adenoid-Cystic Carcinoma. We already know that you're allergic to taxane chemotherapy; and the newer methods of cancer elimination are not made available to us here. I'm sorrier than I can say, my friend, but you're going to die, and you probably have less than eight months."

The newspaper editor-publisher showed no emotion. After a space of silence, he rumbled hoarsely, "Reuben, did you ever stand outdoors on a clear night, and point a flashlight straight up at the stars?"

"Once, at age nine." Doctor Torvill not only remembered this childhood moment; he also remembered a recent adult moment, before the cancer threat had been recognized--a moment when, talking about the Wyoming Observer and what it meant to him, the older man had remarked, "There's no light but the light we make; and we have to make light, even if the dark sky swallows it." Knowing that Miguel was thinking along those lines now, the doctor softly told him, "The sky isn't empty, my friend. What we do, and what we are, is not unnoticed or forgotten."

Miguel straightened his spine. "I expect I'll weaken enough soon to let you tell me more about your God; but right now, please allow me to shine my flashlight in the direction I think best. Please wait, let's see, wait until August before you tell Tilly what you found out. I want to see my newspaper succeeding before I make plans to relinquish it into other hands. Until then, I don't want anyone to know. Except one man."

"What man is that?"

"Right here in town, Eric Havens. Yes, he's a Jesus-follower like you, but I also know him to be a very smart man like you. I might ask him to help keep the Observer going after I die."
 
Don't rate her more highly than she deserves. To spell it out blatantly, she has a major crush on a married man, and is trying to cause HIM to have a good opinion of her.
 
Of course, there is something truer and better that Alipang could in clear conscience give to Dana ("Silver and gold have I none, but--"); but she does not yet understand spiritual things. Which puts Alipang in the same position as many Christian ministers in real life: needing to be _constantly_ on guard against encouraging inappropriate emotional responses to them on the part of women.
 
Chapter 13: Fenced Into The Journalism


The Fourth of July was not far off. The exiles were not allowed to attempt any major celebrations of this date, but minor gestures would be allowed, such as a few recitations by children of historic speeches or poems.

Alipang Havens was enjoying making modest holiday plans with Kim and the children, but he would not be present with them on the actual holiday; he had unenthusiastically agreed, because he was needed, to go out on Grange duty that day and the day after. At present, he was busy being needed in his dental capacity, extracting a tooth from an Arapahoe man whom John Wisebadger had sent his way. The patient was a technician at one of the gas refineries; his department was separating propane and butane from the methane. Alipang didn't have Kim's help on this extraction, because she was giving acupunctural treatment to a neighbor.

The decayed premolar was almost out, when Alipang became aware of someone approaching him from behind. Since no fellow exile would rudely barge in on his dental office without knocking or speaking, Alipang didn't need to look behind him to be able to say--

"Hello, Overseer Faraday." Dana Pickering, a woman, would have a lighter tread than the sturdy man who was the only other Overseer to visit Sussex routinely now. (Tuck Faraday had already been on the beat when Kasim Rasulala had been here.) "Unless you plan to arrest me for discrimination between healthy teeth and rotten ones, I'll have this tooth out in just another moment; then I have to clean and pack the socket."

"I can wait that long," replied Faraday. Sitting in the nearest available chair, he glanced through the edition of the Wyoming Observer featuring the Amish article.

When the dental procedure was finished, the patient heartily thanked Alipang, and presented payment in the form of two homemade fringed buckskin jackets sized for Esperanza and Brendan. Once he was gone, Alipang asked Overseer Faraday, "What can I do for you?"

Faraday stood again. "First of all, I've brought you good news. Captain Butello obtained approval for your friend Miguel De Soto to be provided not only with more toner and paper for copying, but also a new--that is, relatively new--impact typewriter, with several replacement ribbons. He'll have the items in his possession before two more days have passed."

"That's mighty generous, Overseer. I know that Miguel never asked to be given those things for free, only to have a chance to buy them. You know he earns money as a schoolteacher."

"Yes, but the government can afford this much for him--a stimulus, you know. Later, Mr. De Soto likely will be expected to pay for supplies, but right now he still is only getting started. And his newspaper's content will be no more limited and restricted than it would have been anyway. With a little luck, the Observer will be up to a circulation of over six hundred copies per issue before autumnal equinox."

"I'm purely pleased to hear it, sir; but is there a special reason for telling me in particular?"

"Yes. There is only one condition attached to this modest grant for Mr. De Soto: YOU must write at least one article for the paper yourself before summer's over."

"Why me? The viewpoint of a dentist? But my Dad has already signed on as a contributing editor."

"The higher-ups want you to write something, not because you're a dentist, but because you're Asian. You know, diversity, a different perspective. An article by you about your native land, similar in mood to that Amish feature, would help to make the Observer more multicultural....and so make the higher-ups more willing to let it continue."

"Well, all right, I can write about Luzon easily enough."

"Wait a minute, I thought you were from the Philippines."

"Overseer, Luzon is PART OF the Philippines."
 
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The Arapahoe patient, whose name was Kuruk Niteesh, had not gone far off. He returned after Faraday departed, to ask Alipang, "Are you in some trouble, Doc?"

Alipang smiled; of course, with dentists as rare as they were in the Enclave, people would hate to lose the ones they had. "No trouble at all, Mr. Niteesh, thank you for your concern. The Overseer simply was telling me that I'm invited to contribute to the Wyoming Observer."

"The what?"

Alipang pointed to the used copy which Faraday had perused. "The Enclave's first indigenous newspaper. I'm not surprised that you haven't heard of it yet; it's on what used to be called a shoestring budget."

Kuruk picked it up and glanced at the few articles it contained. "No offense, but there isn't much to it."

"Refer to my previous statement; Miguel De Soto doesn't have the resources to make it larger and more professional. But it's OUR newspaper. And it can become better with time, as more exiles contribute to it. In fact, you could be a contributor. You work at the natural gas wells, don't you?"

"Yes, I do; so I would have been able to pay you in cash easily, if John hadn't let me know that you were interested in Arapahoe jackets for your children."

"A lot of our people, I mean exiles generally, are less aware of the natural gas operation than of the mining, because the coal and uranium are used for power plants inside the Enclave, while the gas is just piped out for direct use by the whole country."

Kuruk nodded. "Yes, I realize that natural gas bears less of a stigma in the eyes of Gaia-worshippers than the other fuels have--though in reality, the gas wells also had their effect on wildlife that had to be addressed."

"Mr. Niteesh, you're proving me right in my thoughts. I suggested you contributing to the Observer; why don't you? There's bound to be information about the gas wells and the pipelines which you would be permitted to write for the public. We can clear it with your management, and with the Overseers, and you can join in educating the exile population."

Kuruk smiled grimly. "We're already more educated in things that matter than the people outside are; that's WHY we're confined. Is there more to this than you're telling me?"

"I don't know if there is or not. I don't know if God plans to bring about some great purpose by means of our local newspaper. But knowledge is always good to obtain; I've always had a habit of getting to know my surroundings better."
 
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Alipang wrote an outline for an article about his childhood in the Philippines before he left for his turn at Grange service. He and Kim would have to pray about whether he should specify that the Americans who ended up adopting him had been in the Philippines for NO other reason than their service to Christ on the mission field. "They allow us to honor our Savior verbally here," Kim told him, "but I don't know if they'll permit our witness to be published in a newspaper which _might_ find its way outside the Enclave."

When Sammy the palomino brought him to the Grange hall, Alipang found Henry Spafford waiting for him. "John says no bear sign lately in our area, so he thinks we can do without him this afternoon and tomorrow."

"What's he doing?"

"He's got the newspaper bug too, caught it from Lynne. He's going to try writing an article about the things the Boy Scouts used to do in Wyoming before the Campaign Against Hate abolished them in favor of the Diversity Pioneers."

"Great, another topic the Overseers will want to censor. Does John even own a typewriter?"

"I think a neighbor of his does."

Alipang and Henry had a mostly uneventful safety patrol, though they did help to put out a barn fire on one farm. Near the end of their tour, they paid a visit to Ulrich Reinhart's farm. Ulrich himself met them at the door, though he still was moving slowly and uncertainly.

"Doctor Stepanova came by here four days ago," Ulrich told his Grange friends. "She says that if my recovery keeps on as it has been, I should be able to work normally again before July is past."

"She said _almost_ normally," Greta corrected her husband.

The Reinharts insisted that Alipang and Henry stay for supper--which was not imposing terribly on the Amish family's larder, since noon dinner was the big meal for traditional farmers (a custom the Havens family had also followed since being transplanted to Wyoming). Alipang used the time at the table as an occasion to tell Esther Reinhart and the others how many favorable reactions he had heard to Hezekiah's "Amish Memories" article.
 
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