Copyright 1996
Revised 11/99

			   PRISONERS OF TIRESIAS

			   by Christopher Leeson


	"We are the children of chaos and decay.  At our society's root
there is only corruption and systematic decrepitude.  Gone is purpose from
our lives; all that is left is direction -- or, rather, misdirection
imposed from above."

					Geoffrey Kroski, 2007,
					"Socialism for the 21st Century."


				 Chapter 1

	I could see the white-coated technicians working on the other side
of the gold-tinted glass shielding, their expressions intense, their
movements economical.  I could sense their excitement, still palpable
though they must have done this operation many times before.  It -- the big
It -- would happen soon.

	Very soon.

	My breath shaky, I glanced down at the grating -- the
high-conductivity mesh that any second now would carry a modulated burst of
electromagnetic energy through our bodies.  That burst would re-calibrate
the vibratory rate of our molecular building blocks and send us out of this
world and into another.  Though intellectually prepared, I shuddered in
anticipation, wondering how I had gotten involved in this ludicrous
project.  A mutter to one side caused me to glance toward my
equally-nervous neighbors.

	Most of them were locked in manacles and leg irons, as befitted
convicts in transit -- mostly street-gang members convicted of serious
crimes.  These were the bad ones, the violent two-legged sharks, the
vicious fatherless sons of urban America, the rabid predators of America's
crime-blasted inner cities.  They were the random marauders that would kill
a fourteen-year-old for a pair of Nike shoes or a sharkskin jacket, the
gang-warriors who fought bloody battles over drug territory.  They were the
hijackers and burglars and stickup men who killed without remorse, they
were the murderous pimps who knifed their own girls or cut the faces of
streetwalkers who worked for rival hustlers.

	I drew a ragged breath of disdain.  One didn't get sent to Tiresias
for minor crimes -- crimes like grand theft auto, or assault and battery,
crimes that the police no longer made arrests for, unless they were
perpetrated right under their noses.  The prison on Tiresias was reserved
for a much more depraved sort of human debris.

	Even in their teens and twenties most of these convicts would have
had long records of unpunished crime.  The authorities couldn't be bothered
with their like -- federal resources couldn't be diverted from ramming a
long-running social revolution down American throats.  Street crime didn't
much daunt the thinkers and planners; the well-to-do elites of university
and bureaucracy living safe in high-security facilities were rarely touched
by it.  Actually, to the worst among them, crime was only a crude sort of
income redistribution.  Regardless, no crime was considered serious unless
it upset those who held power, and not much upset them except ideological
opposition.  In the prevailing climate the crime of a farmer that plowed
over a protected kangaroo mouse nest trumped any drive-by shooting of a
taxpayer.  It was all a matter of priorities.

	But when public chaos grew too extreme it threatened the status
quo, and America's harsh taskmasters had to take measures lest the
resulting discontent threaten their own power.  The young men in the
transfer chamber had been scooped up in the latest dragnet, the latest
promise of another hundred-thousand cops on the street.  They had just been
unlucky; law-enforcement grandstanding never went on for long, but I
wouldn't have wasted any sympathy on their like -- even older criminals
were afraid of this upcoming generation of kids.  Life meant nothing to the
fifteen-to-twenty- year-olds -- not even their own; put their sort into a
traditional prison and they'd only line themselves up into new gangs and
start wasting other prisoners just to lord it over a few miserable acres of
exercise ground.

	To control prisoners never taught self-control in the
government-run "village" that had reared them, the facility on Tiresias had
been established.  It was not that internment there was excessively brutal
-- but it surely was strange and shocking, something calculated to "scare
straight" kids who were still at home or who hadn't yet sunk to the lowest
level on the street -- especially young males with the exaggerated but
brittle machismo of the gutter.

	Was the policy succeeding?  High-salaried people with initials
behind their names assured the Congress that their policies were
overwhelmingly successful.  A cynic -- and there were no cynics in the
courtier press -- would have observed that the policy had been so
successful that every year seemed to produce a bumper crop of new criminals
even worse than the last.

	I was still looking with consternation at the prisoners' youthful
faces -- some savage, some just stupidly brutal, some dangerously cunning.
They deserved their fate, I thought -- in fact, I couldn't think of a
sweeter bunch of guys to turn into women.

	Turn into women!  Incredible.  -- Twenty years ago the idea would
have sounded like a demented fantasy; today it was not only scientific
reality but judicial policy.

	To think that the once-secret Philadelphia Experiment had come to
this -- inter-dimensional transfer!  The World War II files, locked up for
sixty years, had been exhumed under the Gore administration.  The
technological advances in the course of six decades had allowed physicists
to solve the baffling problems that had foiled government scientists in
1940's -- and had been so injurious to the U.S. servicemen they had
experimented upon.

	In the years since, the basic theory had been widely written-up,
not only in scientific journals, but also in the popular press.  It had
always been difficult for me to grasp that different universes occupied the
same space and time.  Tiresias was one of the "alternate dimensions," or
"parallel worlds," of a type that fantasy literature had long speculated
upon.  But most of the science-fiction writers had gotten things wrong;
going to a parallel world was not like going to another planet.  In
interplanetary travel the ground rules at least remained the same;
inter-dimensional transference was another matter altogether.  Each world
had its own logic, and it accepted intruders only on its own unique terms.
Some undefinable "world mind" seemed to operate in each universe -- and
these did very, very strange things to visitors originating in a different
"reality."

	On Acteon, for example, human beings were transformed into
antelope-like creatures suitable for feeding on grass and breeding in great
numbers, but not much else.  That made Acteon almost useless for any
purpose of colonization or exploitation.  With hooves instead of hands one
couldn't even mine its mineral deposits.  (Interestingly, some
law-and-order types on the extreme Left suggested making it into another
prison world for lifers without parole -- just turn them out to pasture for
a bland existence of eating, sleeping, screwing, and butting heads).

	On the other hand, people on Triton became a rather repulsive
species of bipedal amphibian, suitable to the ecosystem of that watery
world.  On Nessus, Earthers remained human-looking, but gained a couple
more bodily organs which helped them filter out environmental toxins that
would have swiftly killed a normal person.

	Likewise, native "people" taken from the parallel worlds to Earth
changed into ordinary human beings -- ordinary for our world, that is.  I
saw on a television documentary how one of the intelligent antelopes born
on Acteon had transformed into a pleasant-looking woman when abducted to
Earth -- much to her shock.

	Tiresias had its quirks, too, but those made even less sense than
Acteon's.  On Tiresias, Earth men became women, and vice versa.  It was as
simple as it was astonishing to contemplate.  What purpose could this
possibly serve in the Tiresian universe which couldn't be as equally
well-served by leaving things as they were?  Well, it was just one of those
things that you had to accept as given; if one couldn't, he should stay
home.

	Alas, when government gets interested in anything, free will goes
out the window.  Some scientists and researchers would have come to
Tiresias willingly, as would the small number of people who actually
desired sex-changes.  But others were sent if they wanted to or not --
mostly soldiers guarding small, scattered research facilities, and the
guards, administration, and inmates of Tiresias Federal Penitentiary.

	I was accompanying the newest batch, all of them looking
apprehensive regarding their impending fate; it showed in the way they
looked at one another, or refused to look at anything at all, except their
own feet.  For most of them courage had always been false bravado anyway --
the daring deeds of the street thug amounting to little more than the
attacks of the strong on the weak, or of the many upon the few.  The gang
warrior was no real man, after all; only a man can make a boy into another
man, and these "village-raised" street kids had grown up without male
supervision.  How good could they turn out with no one to model themselves
upon except the older pimps, pushers, and gunmen?  When you got right down
to it, the young career criminal was just a messed-up child playing outlaw.
Unfortunately, he played for keeps.  Most older career criminals alive
today had come from their scruffy ranks, of course, but there weren't a
great many older criminals; the death rate in these urban wolf packs ran
high.

	There were practical reasons for using Tiresias as a prison for
violent offenders.  Besides the demoralizing aspects of a radical physical
transformation, there was the accompanying loss of size, weight, and
upper-body musculature, all of which made a prisoner a little less
dangerous to his guards -- and the loss of which sapped him of his
confidence.  Also, studies had demonstrated that the Tiresian
transformation brought with it a psychological change.  Just as women
changed to men grew more aggressive on Tiresias, males changed to women
became more passive.  This fact was not very PC, but it represented the
reality of sexual psychology and, fortunately, in a male institution it
made for more docile prisoners.

	So far, so good.  But the trouble was this: Us correctional
officers were needed to keep the rubbish in line, and consequently we were
going to be transformed right along with the rest!

	I regarded the other three custodians who were being "sent over"
with me; two males, one female.  The female, Rother, was big-boned and
horse-faced; she seemed steely-nerved though, considering the incredible
thing which was about to happen to her.  I guessed that she was a
volunteer; decades of feminist propagandizing had kept male-envy gnawing at
the hearts of millions of women.  On the other hand, despite political,
social, and economic discrimination, upwards of 95% of American men still
preferred to have women -- not *be* women.

	So it was no wonder that my two male colleagues seemed much more
dubious about our journey than did Ms. Rother.  Very few men volunteered
for a tour on Tiresias, and those sent over unwillingly were mostly the
screw-ups working off charges; their Tiresian tour was looked upon as
either discipline or atonement.  Some few men did volunteer for Tiresias,
naturally, but these were mostly gays, TV's, and TS's.  But, when all was
said and done, the Service did not have nearly enough willing men to staff
Tiresias year after year, despite all sorts of recruitment inducements.
Hence the arm-twisting.

	I couldn't help but try to imagine what my brother officers would
look like as women.  I wagered that Brady, the smaller man, might translate
into the average housewife type -- not much to look at, but I understood
that it should at least cure his baldness.  The other, Volsted, was a big
Scandinavian-looking guy who must have lifted weights.  Whatever he became,
I was quite sure that he wouldn't be the sort I'd ever want to take to bed
-- but of course that wouldn't be my option.

	Just then the space around us hummed; I felt a low-voltage current
coursing through my body, the fillings in my teeth hurt, and I suddenly
felt hollow inside.

	*Holy shit, it's starting!*

	The power throbbed along the floor grid, vibrated through my
skeleton and something tasted strange in my mouth.  I cried out as every
nerve in my body charged like a live wire, but the pain lasted only a few
seconds before everything went white.

		*No wonder you had to pass a physical!  Too bad I'm as
healthy as a horse.*

	My vision blurred, but I heard an intense ringing in my ears as I
stood reeling, only dimly aware that the throbbing under my feet had
already faded away.  The room was coming back into view and only slowly did
I realize that it wasn't the same room; it was a transfer chamber of about
the same size as the first, but the walls were painted apple green instead
of steely gray, and the fixtures were different -- or at least they were
installed in different places.

	*Oh, my God!  We're there!*

	#

	There was an obscene mutter around me and as my senses cleared, I
realized that I was standing behind a crowd of a dozen women, most of them
cuffed and ankle-chained, and just one guy -- a big, ugly-looking palooka
in clothes much too tight for him; it was a good thing that Rother had been
warned to loosen her tie and buttons before entering the chamber.

	I thought I smelled something different hiding under the prevailing
odor of ozone -- it wasn't bad, just different.  I realized soon enough
that it must be the air of Tiresias; we had reached another planet, or at
least a parallel world of Earth!  But whatever we were, the reality of
leaving old Earth behind came as one hell of a shock.

	Shifting slightly, I noted the looseness of my clothes.  It had
happened!  I'd lost stature.  I wrestled with the urge to look at myself,
to see what I had become, successfully fighting off the impulse, just as a
disfigured person will oftentimes refuse to look into a mirror.  I didn't
want to touch myself either, and so let my arms hang slackly at my sides.
Even in that position I felt a kind of over-stuffing in my duty jacket,
despite its large size and loose fit.

	Oh, Lord, was it true?  Did I have breasts?  Sure I did!
Intellectually I knew that I did; I only hoped that they would do no more
than fill an A-cup.  They felt heavy anyway; I suddenly remembered Aunt
Millie and hoped that I hadn't inherited my female figure from her side of
the family.

	I glanced at my colleagues again.  Brady had become a small woman,
just as he had been a smallish man -- a Plain Jane really, but one who
looked like she had been a woman from the day of her birth -- and that was
the amazing part.  She was still bald, but based on what I'd read I would
have bet dollars to donuts that her hair follicles had been restored and
would grow out; that was the way things usually worked on Tiresias.

	Volsted, as it happened, was still a big person, but not so tall or
broad-shouldered.  "Miss" Volsted looked like a strong working class girl,
or one of that small class of female body-builders. -- And damn!  Was that
a pair of muskmelons tucked into her jacket?  Her face wasn't bad,
actually; if she had been a little more fine-boned, I might have --

	Volsted was returning my look of amazement --

	*Christ, what do I look like to her?*

	I could have laughed, if it all hadn't been so horrifying.  The
gorge rising to my throat burned like acid, but the worst thing was I
didn't dare yell, rant, and rave to let my emotions out.  I had to appear
steady and unflappable, if I didn't want my job-performance rating to get
worse.

	Just then the doors slid open with a hiss.  A man in a bleached lab
coat stepped inside our chamber, regarding us with interest and, probably,
with mild amusement.  "Ladies, gentleman, welcome to the United States
Federal Penitentiary, Tiresias," he greeted us.  "Some of you are
correctional officers, some of you are -- inmates.  Don't be nervous.  The
type of transformation we undergo usually doesn't have any bad side
effects.  We haven't lost anyone in a long while.

	"Prisoners will be taken to holding cells," he went on, "to begin
orientation.  And you new staff members shall be conducted to the infirmary
and checked out for transfer-related stress.  You won't be assigned to any
regular duties until you have attended introductory classes and have made
the basic adjustments.  From long experience, we don't expect any serious
problems."

	He raised a hand and several guards, both male and female, came in
prodding, and in some cases helping, the transformed prisoners from the
chamber.  As far as the inmates went, I spotted a couple of fantastically
ugly cows among them, but two or three svelte foxes as well.  I
particularly noted a Latina girl of about twenty with curly black hair.
Prisoner pants were tailored tight these days, but on this one they looked
intriguing.  I grinned sardonically as I watched her sashay away -- a
pretty little senorita for sure!

	Then I shook myself.  Don't worry about that bum, guy; worry about
yourself.  What did I look like?  I felt a little dizzy just then and
looked around for something to hold onto -- until the white-coated man
steadied me with a cradling arm.  He towered over me like he was seven feet
tall.  Only then did I realize that I must have lost some inches.  then I
noticed that he was behaving a little too solicitously to suit me, while
almost ignoring Brady and Volsted.  I grimaced with annoyance, not liking
to be singled out as some kind of weak sister in need of special help.

	"It's a little shocking at first, I know," the man reassured me,
"but don't worry.  You've made a fine transformation, Mr. -- " he read my
name tag "-- Carter -- Miss Carter, I should say.  It takes a little
getting used to, but you'll be fine."

	*What in hell does he think is so fine about my transformation?*

	#

	Dr. Trent was a good-looking female of thirty-something -- light
brown of hair with eyes that, depending on the light, sometimes seemed
yellow-brown and sometimes green.  Anyway they were keen, intelligent, and
striking in some way.  An even more outstanding particular about Dr. Trent
was the fact that she was pregnant.  Very, very pregnant.

	That bowled me over, seeing as she must have been a man just a few
months before -- about eight months before, I guessed.  Normally, people's
tours were one year long; to have bloomed that much suggested that she'd
gotten knocked up "just off the boat."  I couldn't understand why anyone
would let a condition like that go, especially since she was a doctor.  She
smiled, no doubt realizing that I was trying hard not to stare at her
waistline, but otherwise didn't react while examining me.

	Trent's condition shouldn't have thrown me so much; I'd read that
pregnancy was possible on Tiresias and, in fact, it was one of those
sensational aspects that had caught the imagination of the supermarket
tabloids.  But to be confronted with it this early. . . .

	Finally, Trent touched her gravid belly and said wryly: "Don't
worry, Mr. Carter; it won't happen to you -- unless you happen to get
careless."

	"Were -- were you careless?" I asked with a stumble -- and, I now
realize, with a voice that had been raised an octave.

	"Only in my choice of wives," she replied with a shrug.

	"Your wife?"  Despite all I knew, I was pre-programmed to suppose
she meant the conventional lesbian marriage, but it took me only seconds to
grasp that she really did mean wife, as in "man and wife."

	"It's a long story," Trent grimaced, as if she had led the
conversation out into a field where she didn't want to pick the
daisies. "Maybe we'll have a chance to talk later over a glass of prune
juice."

	"Prune juice?" I scowled.  "Is that what people drink here?"

	"No," she brightened, "it's just me; I've had a craving for prune
juice lately.  -- It's crazy what pregnancy does to a person, but it's
wonderful."

	Wonderful?  I couldn't believe she'd said that; the subject had
been on my short list of worst-case disasters from the minute I'd gotten my
transfer orders to Tiresias.  I was glad when the doctor abandoned the
subject to turn her attention to the settings of her diagnostic scanner.

	"Don't move," Trent told me as the device's lights went on and the
scanning bar advanced on a track over the length of my body -- a strange
woman's body currently draped in a simple examination pullover.  I still
hadn't had the stomach to gaze into a mirror and couldn't help but shudder
when I'd had to take my clothes off.  But even a brief, loathing glance had
confirmed that I had sizable mammae -- and all the specific plumbing that
went with the sex.  As distraught as I was, I wondered how the physician
expected to get a valid blood pressure reading or heart sounding.

	While the examination progressed Dr. Trent didn't discourage me
from talking.

	"Is your -- wife -- happy about the baby?" I asked carefully.

	She shook her head.  "She doesn't give a damn.  I'm divorced."

	I almost asked "Then who did it?" but the question seemed a bit too
personal.

	Over all, though, the doctor spoke frankly, probably in an effort
to reassure and encourage her patients.  "What did you do to get here?" she
asked me suddenly.

	That subject brought back a lot of grief and indignation, so I just
shrugged.  "Maybe I volunteered."

	Trent chuckled.  "We don't get many male volunteers and, anyway,
volunteers never look quite so hangdog.  You must have screwed up pretty
badly, young lady, to get posted to Tiresias."

	"I'm not a young lady!" I flared.

	"You're under thirty.  And I'm willing to assume that you're a lady
until you prove otherwise."

	I glanced annoyedly into her handsome face, but the doctor's
evident good nature disarmed me.  "Okay," I said, cooling it, "I was on
report for -- sexual harassment."

	She whistled sympathetically.  "Nasty; the feds consider that only
one step short of murder."

	"Tell me about it!"

	"Did you have a female EEOC officer?"

	"How did you guess?" I asked sarcastically.

	"I've got an idea how things operate in the federal loony bin."

	"It was a bum rap!' I protested.  "Is asking the same woman for a
date twice harassment?"

	"Of course it is, if she decides to make it so.  If the Founding
Fathers wanted a free country, they'd never have come up with the Commerce
Clause."

	I decided I liked Dr. Trent; after all; it wasn't every university
graduate who had heard of the Commerce Clause.

	********



	"Let us make no mistake; the vices which will disintegrate any
group -- be it military, political or social -- do not change.  Nations
fall because of (1) Bad leadership; (2) Lack of team spirit; (3) A lack of
virtue; (4) Lack of initiative and drive; and (5) Lack of self-discipline.
Given time, as little as a generation, any one of these can lay
civilization itself in the dust.  Modern America is afflicted with all
five."

							Norman Corveland,
2017
							"When
Civlilizations Implode"



					Chapter 2

	So I sized up the doctor anew.  Did she feel like I did?  There
were times when I churned with so much rage that I wanted to blow up -- but
though I usually got through such moments by unburdening my grief to a
sympathetic ear, I didn't dare say much to a stranger.  Trent could be a
provocateur who would report me -- and that could mean reprisals.  I could
end up doing an extended tour as a female officer, or worse, I could be
fired and packed home as an unemployable.

	Uncle Sam needed unemployables; spreading destitution made the
powerful more secure; that was why the Third World had so long managed to
slouch along as a crazy quilt of tyrannies.

	Anyway, even if the doctor wasn't an informer how could I trust
her?  There had to be something wrong with a man who would come to
Tiresias, get instantly pregnant, and then think it was wonderful.

	At that moment Dr. Trent pivoted the scanner away.  "Get up, Miss
Carter, and get dressed.  You're as fit as a Missouri mule."

	I'd rather be called a mule than a "miss," but I supposed that noun
gender was only one of the indignities that I would have to get used to.
Resigned, I sat up and rubbed my thighs, but the slimness and smoothness I
felt under the thin skirt of my gown took me aback.

	"What happens next, Doctor?"

	"Oh, you'll be taken to your quarters to rest.  Relaxing is a good
way to start your period of adjustment.  You'll be meeting your roommate
before long."

	"Roommate?"  The thought made me queasy.  The very thought of being
penned in with a weird Tiresias misfit --

	"She'll be more of a counselor, actually," Dr. Trent continued.
"She'll help you to get oriented."  The physician then gave me an ironic
grin.  "She'll even help you to get ready for your ingenue party."

	"My what?"

	"Your initiation.  All the new Sallys and Charlies get an ingenue
party.  It's hardest on the Charlies."

	She mistook my "I don't want to believe it" look for a
misunderstanding of her terms, which was not the case at all.  I had done
enough preparatory reading to pick up on the slang.

	"Charlie and Sally were characters in a couple of classic movies
who suddenly got sex-changed against their will," Dr. Trent explained.  "If
you don't want to lose your mind on Tiresias, don't lose your sense of
humor."

	"What's this initiation like?"

	"Sometimes it gets pretty heavy, like the Equator-crossing
ceremonies back home.  You'll have to wear a party dress, dance with all
the men who want to dance with you, receive a welcoming gift calculated to
embarrass you all to hell, and then you'll get to watch a porn movie or
two."

	"That sounds humiliating!  Does the whole staff come to gawk?"

	"No, it's mostly just the rats who want to give the new people a
hard time."

	"Shit!  Do I have to go through with this?"

	"I'd advise that you do, Miss Carter.  We have a lot of bad asses
on the staff, especially among our `men.'  If you come off as a good sport
your tour probably won't be a bad one.  But if some of the bad ones get the
idea that you're a jerk or just a scared little rabbit, the hazing could go
on for months."

	"Hazing?  I thought the feds were going to protect me from that now
that I'm a -- a -- " I couldn't say the word.

	"You were a second class citizen at home, my dear, and you're a
second class citizen here.  That's the federal system."

	There it was again -- the sense of anger beneath a surface
geniality.  I looked squarely into the doctor's eyes and somehow I
recognized that I had just made a friend.

	#

	After my examination, I was escorted to the dormitory by a
uniformed woman -- a "Charlie" in the local vernacular -- who didn't bother
to give her name, and her morose attitude suggested that life here would
was going to be pretty bad.

	I was shuffling along in my now over-sized shoes -- which added to
the awkwardness that would have been bad enough due to my unaccustomed new
size and weight.  Arriving at the room, my silent usher left me with
nothing but a nod, and I noted that my assigned quarters were simple but
comfortable enough -- including two queen-sized beds that reminded me that
I would have a roommate.  There was a phone on one of the two dressers, and
a TV/audio unit on the other.  Obviously they could provide only local
service; we were on a different planet after all.

	I peered into the closet, which contained very little except linens
and my luggage, which some porter had delivered beforehand and had neatly
arranged upon on the floor.  My roommate, whoever she was, apparently
hadn't moved in yet either.  I certainly didn't want company in my misery,
and so I wasn't all that eager to meet her, whoever she was -- all the more
so because anyone in a place like this had to be a mental case, as
Dr. Trent seemed to be, despite the good impression she'd left overall.

	Standing there contemplating a year spent in bedlam, I glimpsed my
hand on the doorframe -- a woman's hand, naturally, and a stranger's hand.
Maybe my original numbness was wearing off, because the sight of my new
hand shook me up considerably; I bit my lip and steadied myself.

	A woman!  I still couldn't believe it.  Changing sex is not like
changing clothes; not until one has lost his identity so completely as I
had can he understand how devastating it can be. Even so, it wouldn't do to
go to pieces the first day.  Therefore, forcing myself to behave like
nothing was wrong, I turned around -- only to come face to face with a wall
mirror.

	I quickly glanced away.  I wished that I were invisible; I wanted
to blend into the background and go unnoticed for the entire year of my
tour.

	How could I get through one day of this, much less an entire year?
But I wouldn't let it beat me.  Changing would be a kind of a defeat; I
didn't want to become anything different than I was.  While I couldn't do a
thing about the physical change, my mind was my own, wasn't it?  I tried to
focus as I stood there, to mentally steel myself, to emotionally dig in.
What I had to do was set my persona in concrete, to prepare myself to
resist anything that would threaten my inner man.  I promised myself that I
would leave Tiresias thinking, acting, and feeling exactly like the same
person I'd been when I arrived.

	Grimly resolved, I took a deep breath and slipped off my jacket,
tossing it at the hook on the closet door, which I missed because my hand
was shaking, then flopped down on the bed, dead tired.  -- DCE,
Dimension-Crossing-Enervation, the books called it.  It would pass, or so
Dr. Trent had assured me, but it as sure as hell had left me as weak as a
kitten just then.

	I think I napped for a while, don't ask me how, but at last a
rattling sound woke me up.  A young woman was backing through the door
loaded down with suitcases; when she saw me blinking at her she smiled over
her shoulder.  I smiled back mechanically, assuming this chick had to be my
new roommate.

	*Not too shabby.*

	She set her gear down and gave a hard exhale of relief.  I
estimated that the newcomer was in her mid-twenties.  Her longish amber
hair as tied back with an elastic band and she was wearing the standard
duty uniform -- jet slacks and a short-sleeve gray shirt with black piping
and simple cloth epaulets.  Her insignia told me that we were of equal
rank, U.S.C.S.O. First Class.

	The girl sat down upon her mattress and took my measure, her eyes,
I noted, were widely-set, and richly blue.  She had a pretty mouth and its
smile brightened her whole face.

	"Hi," she said.  "You've got to be Officer Carter, right?"

	I nodded.

	"My name is Milholland -- Alice.  That comes from Alex --
Alexander.  Most people call me Allie."  She stretched out her hand and
waited for me to take it.

	Struggling up to a sitting position, I grasped it briefly and let
it go.  "I'm Aaron," I said.  "-- Christ, will I have to use a girl's name
around here, too?"

	"It's the custom," she grinned.  "Don't worry.  You won't have to
think of one yourself; they'll lay one on you one Friday night, at your
ingenue party."

	"Somebody else names us?" I asked, not liking the idea.

	She nodded.  "That's the privilege of the Sally with the longest
service on Tiresias, and that'll be Mort Jamshidian these days.  He's not
so bad; he won't call you anything raunchy -- unless he hears you making
fun of his name.  Maybe he'll think up some feminine version of Aaron, or
maybe just pick one out of thin air, like Melanie, or Laura.  -- I think
you'd make a good Laura," she added, looking at me with one cocked eye.

	I fell back upon the mattress to stare dismally at the ceiling.  "I
don't need this.  Take me out of here, Lord!  Take me out of here and I'll
become a missionary bound for New Guinea!"

	Allie pushed herself up and stood over me.  "Aaron, you can't let
this stuff get to you.  You'll make it; I was in worse shape than you eight
months ago."

	I covered my eyes with my hands.  "I don't want to be a girl!  I
don't want to be a girl!  I don't want to be a girl!"

	Allie sat beside me and rested her hand on my forearm.  "It's hard,
Aaron, I know; that's why I'm here, to help you.  I hope we can be friends;
I just lost my best bud, Jodie, a few days ago when she went back to Earth.
I hope you aren't missing anybody back home too much.  That's always
tough."

	"No," I answered sourly.  "I don't have anybody; I don't have
anything.  I'm nothing!  Nobody will miss me.  So turn me into a girl.
Abuse me!  Humiliate me!  I don't care!"

	She only laughed at my tirade and I discovered I liked the tinkling
sound, despite my determination to be miserable.  I looked her way again
and saw that her features had grown convincingly sympathetic.  Also, a
second glance reminded me that she wasn't at all hard to look at.

	"That's better," Allie said with a nod.  "I think you're going to
be all right.  If it gets too rough, if you really need to get your head
adjusted, we have a couple psychs on the medical staff who specialize in
identity problems.  Most new Charlies don't need them, actually; it's
usually the new Sallys who get the worst reaction."

	I got up on one elbow.  "Why's that?"

	"I don't know," she shrugged.  "Maybe so many of them actually want
to be men, and so when it actually happens it's a letdown.  Us Charlies set
our expectations kind of low.  -- Or maybe girls just have more fun!"

	"Now I know I'm not a girl," I exclaimed, "because I'm not having
any fun!"

	"That's what they all say," she grinned, her hand remaining in
place upon my arm.  I wondered just briefly whether Allie might actually be
as weird as I had feared and that her gesture amounted to a sexual come-on,
but the good-natured glitter in her eyes struck me as innocent.  Normally
I'd have welcomed a pass from any girl as attractive as Allie, but not
here!

	"Aaron, it's all a matter of attitude," the amber-haired officer
coaxed.  "Believe me; I've been through it."

	I rolled away.

	Allie stood up with a sigh.  "You could resign and go back right
away," she admonished, "but you'll probably never get a decent job again.
It's like a punishment to be sent here, I know, but it's also an experience
that can have a lot of value later on."

	"Like what?" I grumbled, my face still averted.

	"Like, I think I'm going to be a lot smarter about getting into a
woman's pants after being one myself for a year.  I mean being a woman, not
a pair of women's pants," she clarified herself.

	I almost cracked up; apparently this Allie didn't have a
philosophical bone in her body.  I looked her way and fired back: "I'd
think you'd have had enough of women's pants after a year!"

	Allie laughed again.  "That's good!  I think I like you already,
Aaron."

	I thought I could like her, too -- if only she didn't turn weird on
me.

	Allie sidled toward her luggage, scooped up a suitcase, flung it on
her bed, and started unpacking.  "Whenever any new people come, a lot of us
get juggled around.  My old roommate was Dori; I can't wait to introduce
the two of you.  She does tricks."

	"She does what?!" I exclaimed, raising my head in consternation.

	My roommate at once grasped her ill choice of words.  "It's not
like that -- Oh, you'll see."

	I let the matter of tricky Dori rest, but still didn't feel like
unpacking, so instead I just lay there and watched my new roommate fill the
closet and the dresser drawers with her things.  The sight of feminine
apparel in the luggage of such a fetching girl would have seemed very
normal back on Earth, but in the context of Tiresias it disturbed me no
little bit.

	How much of a man was Allie?  She had a light, free-wheeling
stride, not like a man at all; had she troubled to learn to sashay that
way, or did it come natural here?  I closed my eyes.  "If it looks like at
duck, talks like a duck, and walks like a duck, it still might not be a
duck," I told myself.

	*I'm sure not a duck!*

	After a while, Allie paused in her work and mopped her beaded brow
with the back of her hand.  "Like I said, Aaron," she said, "getting along
is all a matter of attitude.  You're going to be a woman for a year -- just
accept it and don't let it get you down.  After all, it's been the
experience of half the human race since the Garden of Eden, so it can't be
so hard -- and it isn't.  Treating the whole business like a joke is a good
way to handle it at first."

	"I've never felt less like laughing."

	She whirled my way impetuously.  "But you can have loads of fun
with the idea, Aaron!  Play act.  Enjoy yourself!  Be the sexiest thing on
two legs!

	"Is that what you are?" I asked with just a little more sarcasm
than I had wanted to inject into this exchange.

	"When I came here I was bummed out like you wouldn't believe,"
Allie declared undimmed, "but being a girl hasn't killed me and it's not
going to kill you either.  We have some assholes on staff, but there's a
lot of good people here, too, and I bet you'll come away with friendships
that'll last a lifetime."

	"I'm all for friends," I murmured without much spirit, but her
comment called something to mind.  "Allie," I asked, "is Dr. Trent all what
she seems?"

	The blonde shot me a wry glance.  "Pregnant?  Of course she is!"

	"I don't mean that.  It's just that she was kind of outspoken;
she's not a shill for the warden, is she?"

	"Oh, no.  Dr. Trent's great!  Nobody ever got into trouble by
confiding in Dr. Trent."

	I looked at her, really hoping I could take Allie herself at face
value.  I expected to have a hard time on Tiresias and getting through the
next twelve, hard months could be made much easier if I had a real friend,
and not just an impersonal counselor, or a company spy.

	"Why is she pregnant?" I pressed.  "What sort of man would do that
to himself?"

	Allie leaned back against the dresser, her moue suddenly serious.
"Well, that's her personal business, Aaron.  I just don't like to gossip
about people I like; she'll explain everything once she takes to you.  It's
sort of -- " Allie checked herself and the set of her lips suggested to me
that Trent's story couldn't have been all fun and games.

	I changed the subject.  "Allie, sometimes I get confused about how
people use nouns and pronouns around here.  Sometimes I'm not sure who's
meant when I hear the words 'girls' and 'guys' and 'he' and 'she.'"

	Allie grinned again.  "Tiresias is a crazy place, all right!  Well,
we always look at things from the Tiresian perspective.  You and I are
girls, or women, hers and shes.  The people with the cocks and balls are
always the guys, or men, the hims and hes.  Keep that in mind and everybody
will understand you."

	"For Pete's sake, I'm a 'she,'" I moaned, sinking into my pillow,
closing my eyes, and trying to shut out the whole cruel world.

					  #

	After Allie had unpacked, she left me alone to continue resting.
From Allie's exuberance I had managed to draw at least a slim hope that a
person could learn to handle this sex-change business.  Anyway, whatever
her experiences, she didn't seem to have been hurt too badly by them.

	I slowly gathered enough willpower to roll out of bed and walked to
the full-length mirror, this time confronting my reflection with grim
determination.

	*Holy shit!*

	If I had had a sister, that would have been her looking back at me.
All I recognized was my hair, which never could decide whether it wanted to
be light brown or dark blond; then I noticed that I had a nose like my
mother's -- like I always had -- but the rest of my body was strictly from
fantasy land!

	I blenched away for a moment, sorting out a grab bag of feelings --
which ran the gamut from deadly shock to sheer panic.  All at once I had a
terrible thought.

	*People will think that I'm a woman!*

	*Well, duh!  Of course they will, idiot!  Get used to it!*

	I had recovered my equanimity enough to face up to the glass a
second time.  I had been sporting my hair longish, in the current male
fashion, and now its length added to the reflection's general impression of
femininity.  I'd always had a rather full lower lip, but it now looked
positively bee-stung and pouty -- in fact, it was just about the sexiest
mouth I had ever seen on a girl!  I just couldn't believe it.  Some guy
might even look at me twice.  Thrice.  Damn it, the babe in the mirror
would have to beat the studs off with a hammer!

	*All right, all right, chin up.  You're a tougher bastard than
that, Aaron Carter.*

	I steadied myself and subjected myself to a third look, unable to
tell much about my build with my oversized shirt and pants on.  I pulled up
a sleeve and bared a slender arm, noting that the muscles that I had
carefully built up through many a game of tennis were still there, but
reduced to their feminine equivalents.  I touched my rib cage.  Bony.  I
probed lower.  My waist was small -- but my hips weren't.  I had already
caught a couple horrified glimpses of my breasts when changing clothes at
the medical department; I didn't know their size, but they looked like
whoppers.  Would I have to start wearing a bra?  I remembered then that
Allie had unpacked several examples of the garment.

	Speak of the devil!  A key clicked in the lock and I jolted as if
surprised in a naughty act.  My roommate came in carrying a brown paper bag
with handles.

	"Oh, good, you're up and around," said the young officer cheerily.
"It's time we took you to Supply and get you some new clothes.  Here's
something to keep you from looking like an unmade bed until then."  She
pressed the bag into my hands; it contained a pair of unisex coveralls and
sandals.

	"Thanks," I said.  "Better this than a bikini."

	"Don't be so sour, Aaron.  Pretty soon you'll be wanting to have a
bikini of your own so you can strut your stuff."

	"That'll be the day!"

	*That'll be the day that I die!*

	#

	So, we went to Supply and got my basic measurements taken.  Uncle
Sam (or was he Aunt Samantha here on Tiresias?) paid for two uniforms, a
pair of shoes, some underpants (which were only sort-of sexy), a couple
bras (that answered one question), a pair of off-duty slacks, and two print
shirts for lounging.  I was also issued a pack of three women's tank-top
t-shirts, three pairs of socks, and a grooming kit containing a comb, some
hair pins, soap, lotions, and hair-care products.  I understood that
everything else I thought I needed would be paid for out of my pocket for
the rest of the quarter.  In the interest of economy I decided to put off
any additional purchases until I saw a distinct need, though I already knew
I'd soon need another pair of leisure pants, a couple more shirts, and some
sneakers for knocking around in.  I didn't notice any lingerie or skirts on
the shelves -- which came as a relief.

	"Do we get all our things here?" I asked Allie.

	She shook her head.  "No, just official issue and the settling-in
stuff.  There's a store for us staff, and even the prisoners can order from
it --- of course, everything is expensive and the inmates earn next to
nothing."

	I donned my uniform in the changing room, only to be startled at
the sight of the sharp-looking female officer in the mirror.  Afterwards,
Allie and I made a brief stop at Administration to get my new badge (with a
new photo ID, snapped and assembled in five minutes), a key-card, and
insignias.  Then Allie showed me to the cafeteria, though I still didn't
have much appetite.  I immediately figured out that they were serving the
same junk that every staff cafeteria had been dishing out since time began
-- only it tasted even more preserved than usual.

	*I crossed the dimensional barriers just to dine on Spam?!*

	"Over at the salad bar they have some fresh fruit and vegetables,"
suggested Allie.  I nodded absently and we went with her to load up.

	"We grow some stuff here," my roommate remarked casually.  "Tending
the garden is one of the things that we have the prisoners do."

	"I hope it's washed thoroughly," I remarked, imagining the
scatological vengeance the prisoners were apt to take upon the guards'
food.

	"We also buy produce from the barbarians," Allie put in.  "It's
tricky doing that, though; only specially-trained people like Dr. Donnalyn
are allowed any direct contact with natives.  It's what they call the
'Prime Directive,' after that old Star Trek series.  We're told that we
have to do everything we can to avoid contaminating their indigenous
culture.  The Tiresians must know practically nothing about us and I heard
that some of them think that we're gods."

	"What do you know about the native cultures here, Goddess?"

	"You probably know more than I do, if you've done any reading," she
shrugged.  "I was having a bad time of it and was kind of out of things
when they told me I had to come here, and so I didn't do any reading before
I arrived."

	"Isn't there anything in the prison library?"

	"Well, sure," she said, "but I never seem to find time, with one
thing or another.  Anyway, the people are human, just like us; we can even
breed together."

	"Breed?  What poor Charlie had to get knocked up to find that out?"

	"I don't know how the experiments were conducted," she responded
wryly, "but it probably would make a good docu-drama."

	Eating both strengthened me physically and improved my morale.
Looking around the cafeteria I could, if only for a moment, imagine that
the people I saw were just ordinary folks.  There seemed to be more women
than men, though -- which was reasonable, considering that this was a
women's prison -- in at least one sense.  Anyway, there were many more men
in the Correctional Service than women back home; the discrepancy would
likely have been worse except that, as Allie informed me, Sallys were more
likely to volunteer for multiple tours.

	My roommate kept up a cheery conversation the whole time.  It
turned out that we had practically been neighbors while growing up in the
Midwest; she was from around Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and I was from Sioux
Falls, South Dakota.

	On Tiresias she worked in the Properties office.  In fact, she
practically ran it, her supervisor being a goof-off who had first come to
the U.S. illegally, which for some reason guaranteed an Ivy League
education at public expense and afterwards preference hiring as being a
certified victim.  (How could an illegal alien be anything but a victim?)
He spent most of his time drinking coffee with his Sally friends.

	Fortunately, there wasn't much to do at Properties since the
prisoners had been allowed to bring very little with them.  Also, the
expense of inter-dimensional transport precluded that many gifts and
parcels would be sent from home -- that is assuming that anyone there even
cared about any of the bums we had caged.

	In her down time, Allie did a lot of odd jobs around the prison,
such as relieving the medical staff by watching sick prisoners, or
preventing one or more Sallys from being left alone with an inmate.
Without the latter precaution it was so easy for a prisoner to get a
contingency-fee lawyer to launch a false complaint against the prison and
make hay out of the taxpayers' tab with the most outrageous charges.

	The better I got to know Allie, the better I liked her.  If my
roommate turned out to be a company rat underneath all the camaraderie, I
was going to be very disappointed.

	******





	"Laws are like cobwebs which may catch small flies, but let wasps
and hornets break through."

						Johnathan Swift, 1734



					Chapter 3

	 A dark-haired man in a guard uniform approached while my companion
and I were chomping down our greens.  "Hello, Allie," he said.  "I don't
think I know your friend."

	The blonde nodded pleasantly to the newcomer, saying, "This is
Aaron Carter.  She's my new roommie.  Aaron, this is Bob."

	It was the first time I had been referred to as a "she" in public,
and I didn't much care for it.

	The man extended his hand.  "Hello, Aaron.  I'd heard that a foxy
new Charlie had just come across, but rumor didn't do you justice."

	"Foxy?  Me?" I echoed incredulously.

	"Haven't you looked in a mirror yet?"

	"Oh, I have.  I nearly lost my cookies!"

	"Well, take it from me, you're a -- "

	"Nice piece?" I suggested poisonously.

	"Well, let's just say that I wouldn't miss your ingenue party for
anything!"

	"Lucky me.  See you there, Bob."

	He grinned cockily and left; I looked to Allie.  "What should I
make of that?"

	She shrugged.  "Bob's sort of okay.  He's not as bad as Jake or
Hank, but -- "

	"But what?"

	"You know, Aaron, it's probably too early to bring it up, but I
should anyway -- just to be on the safe side."

	I studied her -- intense, serious, and a little sheepish.  "What
exactly are you driving at?"

	She swallowed hard.  "Aaron, almost every girl here -- well, I
mean, a girl sort of likes to experiment a little before she goes home.
That's to be expected, I suppose."

	I regarded her suspiciously.  "Where's this thread leading,
Alexander?"

	"I'm just saying that if you ever begin to get curious about trying
out -- the equipment -- you should first buy some birth-control pills at
the medical office."

	I sank back in my chair, saying, in a chilly tone, "Thanks for the
advice."

	"I mean it!  Things are different now.  We're not just men in
women's bodies; we really are women!"

	"I don't feel like a woman," I informed her archly.  "Hell, I don't
even know what it means to be a woman."

	"It's not something that rings in your head like a bell, Aaron;
it's much more subtle.  You're going to be feeling more good and bad
emotions than you ever have before, and it's going to be harder for you to
keep from showing them.  That's not so bad, actually.  You'll be surprised
how good you feel after letting it all out.  The men have it worse; they're
always complaining to the psychs that their emotions feel locked up."

	"Okay, so I'll have crying jags and laughing jags and love it, but
what about -- "

	"I'm just saying that you might be very vulnerable for a while.
Don't let yourself get emotionally involved with any of the guys -- not
until you can handle yourself -- and a year is hardly long enough to learn
to do that."

	"Handle myself?  Do you mean I'm going to be tempted to paw those
gorillas?"

	"No, but you might start feeling an attraction for somebody, and he
might not feel the same way about you.  Real women are taught how to hold
back, but us guys are used to following our feelings.  If you like a person
more than he likes you, you could be taken advantage of."

	"Check, no love affairs."  My tone was absolutely condescending.

	"This is serious, Aaron!" Allie pressed.  "A lot of the Sallys come
here with some really bad ideas about men.  Some of them think that when
they do us in, they're getting back at Men with a capital M.  They don't
realize that they're only hurting their friends and co-workers.  So watch
yourself."

	"How do they hurt us?"

	Allie leaned over the table, her tone lowered: "There are people
who'll take you up, then let you down -- hard -- just for spite.  There's
even the kind of sleaze who'll sabotage his condom and try to get you
pregnant.  That's why contraceptives are so important."

	*Jeez!  Can't I go ten minutes anymore without the subject of
pregnancy coming up?!*

	"What happens when you get knocked up?" I asked tersely.

	Allie blinked.  "What do you think?  You either have a baby or you
have an abortion!  -- And don't think that there's any easy answer, Aaron.
I knew a Charlie who got in a fix, got scared, and terminated.  Afterwards
she was sorry that she didn't have the baby instead and fretting about it
just broke her.  They sent her home on a medical order."

	"I understand basic biology," I explained stiffly.  "I was just
asking about the official rules and responsibilities of everyone involved."

	Allie frowned.  "Listen --- it's just like back home where a woman
can cut off your dick when you're asleep and then charge you with being
abusive!  The Sallys get away with pretty much whatever they want and it's
always your fault.  So, I'm warning you: don't trust the wrong person."

	Her voice had begun to waver and she drew back a little.  I
realized then that Allie must have had some personal experience in the way
of trusting the "wrong person."  She suddenly seemed so forlorn that I lay
my left hand on hers and pressed it encouragingly.  She looked up and
smiled; if we hadn't been best buds before, we were from that point on.

	Allie and I discovered that we both liked checkers, so we signed
out a set at the dormitory recreation desk and as my bombshell roommate
studied the red-and-black board, I studied her.

	I had to keep reminding myself that this personable young woman
used to be a man -- and would be a man again in just a few months.  She did
seem a pretty usual girl though, in her movements, expressions, and even in
her patterns of speech.  Yet nothing she said suggested that she had
started out effeminate before she reached Tiresias.  If the planet had done
this to Allie I wondered what sort of person I'd be by the time I'd
finished my own tour.  And if I did start thinking and behaving like a
woman, what would the experience mean for the rest of my life?

	"Have you ever had sex -- with a man?" I asked suddenly.

	The blonde looked up, more uneasy than startled, I thought.  "Yeah.
That was a no-brainer," she admitted after a just moment's reluctance.  "I
guess I really learned what it feels like to be a woman the hard way."

	"How so?"

	"I'll tell you about it sometime."

	"Okay, I didn't mean to pry.  We just met, I know."

	Allie forced a smile.  "Hey, come on, Aaron!  In a few days we'll
be chatting together like old school chums!  There's just so many better
things to talk about than my boneheaded mistakes."

	#

	The rest of my week was filled with orientation classes and tours
around the facility.  The classes focused not only on staff procedures, but
also on topics that were intended to help us fit in on Tiresias.  The most
insufferable subject to come up was feminine hygiene; the body which I now
occupied seemed to require a lot more maintenance than I was used to.  The
worst of it all was menstruation -- which we were assured would come
tapping on the chamber door in some three or four weeks' time.

	The classes were small -- just us new Charlies -- Brady, Volsted,
and me -- sometimes with our roommates sitting in.  Allie almost always
found time to monitor my classes, and she probably did so only because we
had hit it off so well.  Had my roommate actually been the young woman that
she appeared to be, her presence would have registered as a distinct
embarrassment, considering the subject matter, but I knew that Allie had
occupied the hot seat before me -- a fact that created an additional bond
of shared experience.

	#

	I passed the greater part of my first day off surveying the grounds
beyond the prison walls by means of a telescope mounted upon a high
terrace.  The facility occupied a river island overlooking an emerald
countryside, which I thought resembled rural Kentucky with its succession
of rolling hills and patchy forests as far as the eye could see.  It
occurred to me how hard it must have been to build the prison complex with
all the material and construction equipment needing to be phase-shifted
from Earth.  Even with prefabrication and local gravel for concrete,
construction must have amounted to a Herculean feat.

	I wondered whether the transformed construction men whistled at one
another while they worked?  Possibly.  They would only have risked a fist
in the jaw from the offended co-worker.  Back home, a construction man's
wolf whistle at a passing woman would almost certainly result in his
summary unemployment.  (It wasn't really the dreaded "lookism;" was it
"whistle-ism?")  This was attempted mind-control, of course.  A small
number of big-shot lawyers turned politicians and bureaucrats believed in
individual license, of course, because unbridled self-indulgence usually
made people dependent, and more people who depended on them sided with them
against the people who actually did, earned, and made things.

	When I finally came home Friday night I found Allie waiting for me.
"I'm glad you're back," she piped excitedly.  "I started to get worried."

	"That I committed suicide?"

	"That you'd be late for your ingenue party!"

	Damn!  I almost had forgotten that subject -- or at least had
forced the ordeal out of my consciousness.

	Allie bustled to my bed and picked up the frock that she had lain
out previously.  "How do you like it?" the blonde asked, holding it up with
a crooked grin.

	"Fuck!" I adjudged with deadly seriousness.  "I'd have thought it
was a large handkerchief."

	"I guarantee it fits!" Allie assured me.  "I took your measurements
when we first went to Supply.  I didn't pick out the style, though."

	I was glad to hear that; otherwise I would have had to murder my
best friend!  What was she thinking?  I really must have fallen down the
rabbit hole if anyone in Never Never Land expected me to get decked out in
a rig like that -- a little white party dress with bare-shoulders, low cut,
and spaghetti-straps.  The thing didn't look large enough to clothe a woman
half my size.

	"No way, Jose!"

	"All the girls are going to be dressed up," Allie coaxed.  "You
can't go to an ingenue party in your uniform!  It's just not done!"

	"Then I won't go!"

	"Be a good sport, Aaron!  I'm going to go in my ingenue frock.  Are
you saying that I've got more nerve?"

	"You can display yourself half-naked if you want!  -- I'm just
saying that not all the browbeating in the world is ever going to get me
into that bimbo outfit!"

	Just fifteen minutes later my breathless lungs were straining
against the anaconda hug of implacable Spandex while Allie stood behind my
chair fixing my coiffeur.

	"You've got wonderful hair, Aaron; you shouldn't keep on combing as
if you were still a guy.  I hope you'll let it grow out as much as you
can."

	"I think I'll shave it off!"

	"Don't be so cranky!  All of us girls had parties and we lived
through them.  Are you a wimp?!"

	"We're not girls!"

	"Sure we are," she asserted, "at least until our year is up.
Remember what I said about attitude?"  She started to sing: "I'm a girl and
by me that's only great!  I am proud that my silhouette is curvy -- that I
walk with a sweet and girlish gait, with my hips kind of swively and swervy
-- "

	I frowned back over my shoulder.  "Alexander, are you trying to be
funny, or are you seriously sick?"  She pulled my hair playfully.  "Ow!" I
yelled.  "Do you actually know what you're doing?"

	"Trust me.  I found out that I have a knack for this.  If I ever
get thrown out of the correctional service, I can fall back on cosmetology.
Come to think of it, that would be a great way to meet more women."

	"No you can't," I told her bluntly.  "I've read that the government
job-training programs produce more than twice the number of new
cosmologists than the market can employ in a year."

	Allie sighed.  "I guess I heard that, too.  -- Say, do you want me
to do your makeup, while we're at it?  And a little perfume will make it
perfect!"

	"Perfect for what?" I groused.

	"If you got it, flaunt it!" she advised me cheerfully.

	Rather than plumb the mental illness of my roommate, I merely
asked, "Why did you come here, Alex?  You don't seem like the sort of
congenital screw-up who has to be disciplined."

	I heard her swallow.  "I guess I was one.  I was AWOL a lot," she
whispered.

	"Why?"

	She hesitated for a few seconds, then decided to answer straight.
"My sister had cancer.  We didn't have any money and there was no one else
to take care of her."

	I hadn't expected anything like that -- at least nothing so
horrible.  "I'm sorry."

	"She needed an expensive treatment," my friend went on, "but the
family farm was estate-taxed to death when our parents were killed by
housebreakers.  We had to sell it off to pay the assessment; there wasn't
much left."

	I felt a knot in my stomach.  "Did -- did they catch the --
killers?"

 "Yeah," she sighed, "they were caught robbing another house, but you know
how it goes -- they plead guilty on one count of burglary to get off on the
murder charge.  They were in jail for six months -- with work release after
the first two months."

	I didn't question that; I knew that was how things were done.

	Allie continued, her tone more bitter than I had ever head it
before.  "When people like you or me do the least little thing wrong, we're
always caught and they throw the book at us.  But if some strangers walk
into your home, rob it, turn it into a slaughterhouse, there's always a
plea bargain."

	I'd gotten in deep with my simple question; now my eyes were
burning sympathy and I was trying to keep from shuddering.  The government
only cared about troublemakers; ordinary people like Alexander and his
sister were routinely taxed into poverty and then left in the lurch when
they got into trouble.  Although National Health Care still supported
thousands of wage-drawing bureaucrats, it had effectively gone bankrupt
years earlier and now existed only in name.

	I reached back and touched Allie's hand.  "I'm so sorry," I said.
"Did your sister -- "

	"Yeah." she nodded, her voice beginning to break.  "I stayed with
her as much as I could those last months, but I couldn't get any family
leave from the U.S.C.S. though I filled out about a thousand forms applying
for it.  I almost lost my job, but the union arbitrated to get the offense
reduced.  After my sister -- passed on -- and I was able to go back to
work, they cut a deal that I had to accept a year on Tiresias.  It didn't
matter at that point.  I didn't have anything left back home anyhow. . . ."

	"Allie," I whispered, "if this is too hard to talk about. . . ."
But she went on, now with forced jollity:

	"You'd have liked my sister Gladys, Aaron.  She looked a lot like I
do now.  Sometimes it makes it hard to look into the mirror. . . ."
Suddenly Allie withdrew to her bed, her breathing ragged.

	Now all my grumbling about clothes and some ridiculous initiation
party seemed peevish and trivial.  I left my chair with a lump in my throat
and sat down beside a person whom I hadn't even known existed a week
before, but who had since become my best and only friend in a strange new
world.  And whether her name was Alice or Alexander, it didn't seem wrong
to wrap my arms around her, holding her close until her breathing lost its
shakiness.  Then I kissed her on the cheek and tasted the salt of her
tears.

	"Can you help me finish putting myself together?" I asked
cajolingly.  "I'll look a sight tonight without you."

	She returned a woebegone smile and nodded.

	#

	The administration building had a pair of large connecting rooms
sometimes used for social gatherings; all the better, it opened onto a wide
balcony terrace.  A night breeze wafting in from a pair of open doors
reminded me of the sparing way in which I was dressed; despite myself I
flashed back to that bad dream I'd occasionally had of coming to a party
naked.  My dress was so short that I thanked God for pantyhose; worse, it
was so low-cut that I couldn't help looking down at myself every ten
seconds, just to make sure that my jugs hadn't made a break for it.

	We found a bar and a large table set with appetizers, sandwiches,
nectar, and snacks.  The Sallys were all in dapper suits, while the
Charlies wore a variety of party dresses -- some as daring as mine.

	"You'll be able to keep the outfit, Aaron," Allie had said.  "It's
a kind of welcoming gift from the management.  If you pay half, they'll
pick up the rest of the tab."

	"Pay good money for something that wouldn't make a decent-sized
scarf?!" I exclaimed.  "Who picked it out anyway?"

    "The recreation committee chairman, Mort Jamshidian."

	Mort.  I'd heard that name before -- he was the one who gave people
their nicknames.  I thought I could develop a real grudge against the randy
old bastard!

	Allie accompanied me into the party room wearing a
tangerine-colored slitted sheath, and balancing upon three-inch heels.  She
had mentioned earlier that only one girl on the present staff, Billie
Walters, had learned to walk with ease on four-inch spikes.  My two-inchers
were already putting enough pressure on the ball of my foot to become a
fun-killer and I dreaded dancing in them.  When I asked Allie why the
Tiresias females insisted on torturing themselves just like the women did
back home, the amber-haired correctional officer suggested that it was just
the challenge of the thing -- like climbing Mount Everest, or swimming the
English Channel.  "And, besides," she said, "high heels make our legs look
great!"

	Sometimes I didn't know whether Allie wasn't just hamming it up or
if there was a genetic coding that compelled women to go around
half-dressed and walking on their toes.  Every day and in every way I
wanted to be a man again!

	A look-around told me that Brady and Volsted were already there,
both wearing party frocks, but neither of them as outrageous as the dress
that Mort had foisted upon me.  I guessed that I had been singled out
because of the way I look.  Anyway, both of my erstwhile traveling
companions looked rather doubtful of the proceedings, but seemed as
determined as I to get through them without embarrassing themselves.  I
also saw the fourth member of our quartet, Officer Rother, natty in a
double-breasted suit and a bow tie.  I hadn't liked his face as a woman,
and still less as a male.  When Rother turned my way I could tell from his
delayed double-take that he had only belatedly recognized me as third man
at the transference center.

	At that moment Allie drew me over to the side where a group of
chattering Charlies were congregating and introduced me to four girls whom,
I gathered, were part of her own gang.  Each seemed to be atypically pretty
-- which caused me to wonder whether most of the foxiest Charlies had
clustered into some sort of clique.  Come to think of it, the flashiest
femlins in high school always seemed to flock together -- but I had always
supposed that they'd gotten to know each other group-dating the school's
thick-as-thieves sports heroes.

	"This is Aaron," Allie addressed the women in way of an
introduction.

	"She won't be Aaron for long," chimed a bosomy black girl sporting
green eye shadow and ruby lipstick.  "Put it there, guy," she said,
extending her hand.  "I'm Andrea -- Sergeant Leonard, C-Block.  I was
Andrew before," she added.  "I wonder what handle Mort'll come up with for
you."

	"She looks like a Jennifer to me," suggested the brunette who was
named Dori Gurtz, Allie's former roommate.

	"No, I'd say she's a Penny," offered Jordana McNallen, an
ash-blonde with lively gray eyes.  She turned out to be an accountant from
Colorado, one who played the guitar and had a penchant for writing songs in
the bluegrass folk tradition.  Men seemed to have all the really
interesting hobbies.

	Allie stood back a little after the introductions and let me chat
with my new acquaintances.  Dori, I soon learned, was an administrative
clerk and the father of two back in Ohio.  And she really did do tricks --
sleight of hand being her special hobby.  Before the night was over I'd
found out that she'd -- he'd -- even performed sometimes in community
theater back home.  Dori couldn't help showing me some impromptu
prestidigitation with napkins and wrapped caramels.  As she performed, I
couldn't help but visualize her not as a magician in top hat and frock
coat, but as such a man's sexy assistant in tight shorts, fishnet hose, and
high-heeled pumps.

	As with Allie, I found it very hard to remember that all of these
young women used to be males.  -- And I guess I actually did forget on some
level as we chatted, because they started exchanging glances and smothering
laughter.  I wasn't used to receiving that sort of reaction from women whom
I was trying to charm, but then I realized that that attitude was all
wrong.  I was using the body language and voice tones of a man on the make
-- and under the circumstances there was no surer way to make myself look
ridiculous.

	I instantly tried to cool it, only to find myself at a complete
loss as to how I should act, smile, or even gesticulate.  Some definite
mode of behavior was expected of me, I now fathomed, but no one had
bothered to cue me in as to exactly what it was.  I began to feel awkward,
uncomfortable, and generally out of my element.  I looked yearningly at the
clock on the wall, only to discover that just fifteen minutes had passed
since I had entered the room.  How was I going to tough out this fiasco for
three hours more?

				    *******





	"Any perception of the world which is based on race, gender, and
genetically-motivated behavior, is not conducive to morality, ethics, or
social peace."

						Arnold Butler, 2222
						Washington Times



				    Chapter 4


	One of Mort's friends brought over a camera and we four new people
had our pictures taken.  It was hard for me to smile, uneasy with the
prospect of a picture of me "in drag" getting back home and circulating
among people I knew.

	Just then the dance music started, ending the photo session; the
crowd started clearing the dance floor and pairing up.  Two couples
demonstrated some dance steps for the benefit of us newcomers, emphasizing
the art of leading and following -- and who should be doing what.
Tiresias, it seems, rarely missed an opportunity to twist the knife.  After
their exhibition was done, people started dancing for the fun of it.

	Us new "girls" were the first ones asked to the floor.  There were
both classic ballroom dances offered, as well as more current ones; as a
woman I found the tango a very strange experience.  Over all, I preferred
the contemporary numbers, where the music was hot instead of cloyingly
romantic and the sex roles were not in your face.  I guess I did all right
hoofing it, but be that as it may, my partners changed rapidly and I didn't
have a chance to get acquainted with any of them -- not that I really
wanted to.

	I'd been dancing enough to make my feet sore when the music stopped
and Mort stepped out to bestow our new Charlie and Sally names.  Mortimer
was a gray-haired senior administrator whose broad, smirky smile tended to
deepen the creases of his face into crevasses.  He brought each of us new
people forward in turn and poured a dribble of tap water upon our heads to
christen us -- liquor being too expensive on Tiresias to waste.  Volsted
became "Olga," Rother "Chester," and Brady "Dotty."  Then it was my turn.

	"The best for last," announced Mort with gusto.  "This young lady
has to have a name just as lovely as she is."

	I cringed a little at the idea of getting any more "special
treatment," Tiresian style and couldn't help but tug nervously at the hem
of my dress, which was riding too high.  I stopped when I realized that I
was only calling attention to my nylon-sheathed legs -- the last thing in
the world I wanted to do.

	As I felt Mort's cold libation sinking through my hair to my scalp,
I clenched my teeth, wondering what "Mort"-tifying moniker the duffer would
saddle me with.

	"I christen you Erin!" he proclaimed and the crowd seemed to like
his choice, since it was greeted with applause and appreciative laughter.

	Erin?  That wasn't too bad, actually.  It sounded so much like
"Aaron" that I really couldn't tell the difference unless I listened very
carefully.

	"Now speeches," trumpeted Mort.  "Tell the people something about
yourselves."

	Wanting to be good sports despite our misgivings, each of us spoke
for about five minutes.  The crowd was already getting a little loose and
it wouldn't have held still for any longer oration.  When my turn came, I
mostly talked about where I had been posted, my hobbies, and other
impersonal subjects.

	"Why were you sent here?!" a Sally yelled.

	"Maybe someone didn't like my face!" I answered with a forced grin.

	"He'd sure like it now!"

	"Presents!  Presents!" bellowed Mort over the noise.  The presents
were swiftly conveyed from the closet and we ingenues were given
gift-wrapped boxes as strange men and women crowded around us.  I had been
warned that our "gifts" would be a test of our intestinal fortitude and so
I braced myself for the worst.  Olga received a latex dildo; I patted her
big shoulder commiseratively.  "Mine must be even longer," I told her.  "My
box is bigger anyway."

	Rother got a bundle of cigars, and Brady a home-pregnancy test that
evoked her heavy sigh.  I opened my parcel last of all -- to discover that
somebody's fantasies must have been running wild since I'd made planet
fall.  It contained a skimpy, mint-green sleeping tunic, along with a
matching hair ribbon.  There was also a tiny bottle of perfume, "Passion in
the Dark."

	"Thanks, guys," I said with a tolerant smile, "but I'll have a gray
beard a foot long before any of you degenerates get to see me wearing any
of this crap!"

	They laughed, and I laughed along with them.

	Then the tone of the party relaxed somewhat and became more
freeform.  The last scheduled event would be a vid and we were told that we
new "girls" would be expected to watch the movie sitting on the lap of a
gentleman of our choice.  Chester Rother, for his part, would have his pick
of any Charlie present.  I anticipated my fate grimly and again glanced up
at the clock; the hour it registered didn't give me much comfort.

	There was more dancing then and I tried to be gracious whenever I
was asked to the floor.  I also kept a lookout for any male congenial
enough to serve as a comfortable chair, but without much luck.

	By far the most agreeable part of the evening was getting to know
Allie's friends, but a lot of other Charlies introduced themselves, too,
and offered their handshake.  The staff seemed to like welcoming new people
into their little world of exile and I was asked repeatedly about current
affairs from home.  Political news through official channels all came from
the Beltway press and thus was heavily sanitized and heavily slanted in
favor of the Administration.

	It turned out that they had heard nothing about the latest jailing
of dissidents or the South American drug-smuggling operation that was
charged against the current White House staff.  In fact, I had only heard
of this stuff myself through the Internet.

	Besides a hunger for news, I sensed a good deal of friendliness
from the Charlies.  It was hard to put aside my reserve, though, since
their weird society was one that I hardly wanted to identify with.

	Dr. Trent came along to pay her courtesies and I would have liked
to have talked longer to the physician, but she found it hard to stand
around and we were continually interrupted by third parties greeting the
new Charlie as well as the popular young doctor.  In fact, the whole staff
was extremely polite to Dr. Trent, even to the point of reverence.  Very
few children were born to Earth people on Tiresias, I gathered, and the
arrival of the medic's baby seemed to be awaited with excitement and good
will.

	"What are you drinking, Doctor?" I asked when I managed to briefly
break away from the others.  "Can I freshen it for you?"

	"Gabrielle," she corrected me.  "-- From Gabriel, of course.  It's
just mineral water.  I'm not about to put anything down my throat that I
wouldn't put into a baby bottle."

	I nodded.  She was certainly being conscientious about this
pregnancy, that was for sure.  I wondered if she intended to write a
pedology like no man had ever been prepared to write before.  There were
plenty of questions I would have asked her, but they seemed so personal
that I hesitated.

	Andrea arrived just then to make another introduction, this time to
one Billie Walters, a twenty-something in a blue sequined minidress and the
face and figure of a Playboy model.  Billie impressed me as nice, funny,
and enthusiastic person, but I nonetheless regretted losing my opportunity
to talk longer with Dr. Trent.

	Then Mickie Olson, a girl I'd met earlier, came up again and
engaged me in a chat about personal computers.  I learned that "she" lived
in Pennsylvania and had a wife there.

	As it turned out, promotion came slowly in her company, which
provided computer maintenance service for the U.S.C.S.  The Tiresian slots
were hard to fill and so Mike had decided that accepting the assignment
would look good in his file.  Mickie's main regret seemed to be that there
was no hookup to the Internet on the planet.  Once I understood that
communications technology was her obsession, it came as no surprise to
learn that "she" and her wife didn't have any kids.

	When Mickie got to talking technically about her equipment --
computer equipment that is -- I tried hard to keep my eyes from glazing
over.  Obviously used to this reaction, she nimbly changed the subject,
asking me if I was married.  When I had to admit that I wasn't, the redhead
expressed a mild condolence.  I gathered that her own marriage was a good
one -- which much have been a rarity in this day and age.

	I didn't care to go into it just then, but I actually had proposed
to a woman once.  Bedelia had been a rising star in a food wholesaling
firm, earning a good deal more than I was.  Naturally her parents started
looking daggers at me once my aspirations were guessed at.  I could sleep
with their daughter all I wanted, but they'd let her marry a
"fortune-hunter" over their dead bodies.  It was all inferred very
politely, of course, over white wine and Brie.

	In the end, the love of my life yielded to the imperative which
states, "Woman must marry up."  She left me and soon conjoined with a
senior executive of her company -- a man twice her age and a driven
workaholic, or so people said.  It always seemed that women were only
attracted to males so preoccupied they had no time for them, and no energy
to spare.  There are plenty of men like that, I imagine, but when the
female population suddenly decides that it wants to bear only the children
of poets, you can bet we'll soon be up to our kazoo in poets.

	As Mickie and I were chatting, I became sensible of some harsh male
laughter and a simultaneous agitation among the Charlies.  I looked around,
wondering about the excitement, and I saw a distraught Allie holding
something in a shaking hand.  Mickie noticed it, too, and we both started
toward her.

But my roommie saw us coming and dodged out onto the terrace balcony.  Just
then Jordana intercepted Mickie and me, asking excitedly, "Did you hear yet
what Jake and his gang did?"

	Mickie frowned.  "No, what now?"

	"They got some pornographic pictures made of Andrea and some other
girls."

	I felt a clutch in the pit of my stomach.  "Allie, too?"

	"I don't know," she said, surprised by my mention of Allie, "but
Andrea's going off the deep end!"

	"Try to help her, you two," I said.  "I have to see if Allie's all
right."

	I hurried out onto the dark terrace and I saw my roommate sitting
huddled against the parapet, half-hidden behind a potted tree.  I padded
over to her, as if approaching a wild bird so as to not frighten it into
wild flight.

	"Are you upset about Andrea?" I asked softly.

	"Andrea?  I'm sorry for her, sure, but -- oh, God, Aaron!"

	"Allie -- Alex -- did Jake have pictures of you, too?"

	She bit her lip and her tortured stare told all.

	"But they're just fakes, right?" I asked hopefully.

	"If they weren't," she sobbed, "would you hate me?"

	"Hate you?  For what?"

	"Maybe you wouldn't want to room with a pervert!"

	I knelt beside her and took her hands in mine.  "Allie, you're not
making sense.  I don't know what's going on!"

	She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.  "I hate dresses -- no
place for a handkerchief."

	I didn't have one either, but I plucked a paper napkin from the
all-weather table next to us and handed it to her.  She blew her nose,
then, shaking with sobs, told me the ghastly story.

	After being on Tiresias for a few months, Allie had gotten friendly
with one of Jake's friends, Buck Channey.  His gang had a bad reputation,
but she and Buck seemed to get on pretty well.  The trouble was that Buck
kept nagging her about having sex, and since Allie had actually been
getting curious about that subject, she let herself be persuaded.  But the
next day Allie learned that Buck had had a hidden camera working during
their lovemaking and he had printed out some very explicit images.  Now
Allie realized how much she had been played for a fool.  Buck told her that
some of his friends were interested in her, too, and that if she'd treat
them right, no one would ever have to see the pictures.

	I don't know how many real women could have been blackmailed that
way, but Allie had been a guy and the cruel trick had left her feeling
guilty and humiliated.  She went along with Buck's demand, but never
guessed the lengths that Jake's gang was willing to go to.  She found
herself being passed back and forth between four different guys -- Buck,
Jake, Hank, and Rock -- a bad bunch all around, power-trippers who liked to
bully women, all of them on their second or third Tiresian tours.  Back
home they'd all been militant feminists, hated men, and had done dirt to a
quite a few of the Charlies before Allie's turn came.

	"The more I did, the more pictures they took," said the blonde
miserably, "then I was really hooked.  They would always talk down to me,
like I was -- well, you can guess.  I had to do all sorts of disgusting
things that I never would have wanted to do with men, especially not with
men I hated so much.  They even made me take a little money from them now
and then, just to rub it in.  I guess they were pulling the same thing to
some of the other girls, too.  We could have stopped them if only we
weren't too ashamed to talk.

	"After about a month," she went on, "they just let me go.  I
suppose they got tired of the game, there was such hate in their voices
when they threw me out."  She looked up at me appealingly.  "But I never
treated any woman like that, so what was the deal?  What, Aaron?"  Large
tears were rolling down her face.

	"I don't know," I answered, stroking my roommate's shampoo-scented
hair and drawing her in close.

	Allie finished her story then; she seemed to be off the hook, but
was always afraid that the gang would start blackmailing her again
sometime; they didn't, but tonight the other shoe had dropped.  They had
made up this set of pornographic "trading cards" with "Collectable Hookers"
printed on the back and the names of the girls whom they had abused
captioned in scarlet letters.  The men had blacked-out faces, which made
the pictures look as impersonal and vulgar as possible to imagine.

	I simply couldn't believe what I had been told -- or I should say
that I believed it, but couldn't understand how people could sink so low.
An innocent person had been blackmailed and passed around like a domestic
animal, and if that wasn't enough, they let her think the worst was over
before finally humiliating her in front of all her friends and coworkers.
And Allie was just one of several!

	"They'll all get fired!  Maybe even indicted for -- for whatever!"
I tried to reassure her.

	"No they won't," choked Allie.  "Warden Gershom likes them.  It'll
be covered up, and maybe us girls will even be charged with being
prostitutes or something.  All the Sallys here have an old-girl network,
but we'd get fired if we started discriminating like they do.  We've just
got to take it.  Oh, Aaron, I wish I could die!"

	My cheeks were wet, too.  I didn't know what to do, except to hold
Allie and whisper stupid things in her ear -- like that it wasn't so bad,
that people would understand, and that no one would blame her for making
one little mistake, that it would blow over.

	Then Mickie found us.  "Andrea went back to her room" she jabbered
excitedly.  "Those rats got Frankie and Jean mixed up in their dirty
business, too."  The redhead bent her head.  "Frankie's a little wild, I
know, but Jean's an angel -- "

	"Don't blame Frankie," I cut her off angrily, "and don't blame any
of the others, either!"  I'd spoken harshly, but my anger wasn't really
directed at Mickie.  "Watch after Allie for me; I've got to do something."

	*So what are you going to do?*

	*I'll decide that when I catch up with Jake!*

	#

	I found the smug bastards who were responsible in the second party
room where most of the men had congregated.  Jake was a big guy with a
narrow beard and large ears whom I knew was a senior sergeant in Cell Block
D, where he was reputedly a tough customer.

	I stomped up in front of the creep and stared venom up into his
face, demanding, "They say you made those pornographic pictures, Jake.  Do
you deny it?"

	"What if I did?" he leered with amusement.  "What's a pussy like
you doing to do about it?"

	"Listen, shit head, I don't know the other girls very well, but I
know Alexander Milholland and he'd never do anything to deserve the way you
treated him!  -- And I just bet it's the same for all the other guys, too!"

	He grinned and shook his close-cropped head.  "You women really
stick together."  At that point he reached out to touch my face and I
slapped his hand away.  "Your mascara's running, Sweet Cheeks.  Been
bawling?"

	I clenched my fists, wanting to punch him out, but I thought that
force wasn't the way to handle the situation when he had about eighty
pounds on me.  But if not force, what?

	"You're beautiful when you're angry," Jake teased, giving a broad
leer to his cronies who were gathering around us -- the guards Hank, Buck,
and Rocky.

	"Don't mind her, Jake," laughed Rocky.  "It's PMS.  You know what
that does to a woman!"

	I had a temper all right, and it was getting hotter by the second.
If any man back home ever made a PMS joke in front of witnesses he was dead
meat as far as his job was concerned.  But there was no versa in the vice
on Tiresias, no symmetry in the system, no fairness, no peaceable recourse.
I was on my own -- and so was every other Earth female on the planet.

	I jabbed my index finger into Jake's rock-hard chest.  "You
bottom-crawling scum-sucking piece of slime!" I growled.  "You've got no
sane grudge against anyone on this planet, but you still lay awake at night
thinking of ways to make other peoples' lives a living hell!"

	There was laughter behind me.  "I think we've got an angry white
male, here," Hank taunted, "only she doesn't seem so male anymore.  -- Hey,
Love Lips, you act like you still have balls there under that little white
dress?  Check it out, babe; you've been castrated."

	I couldn't let that kind of oral diarrhea get to me; it was hard
enough trying to talk tough dressed the way I was, standing on my tip-toes
to look my enemy in the eye, with all the outward symbols of power and
virility on his side.  I ignored Hank for the pet dog that he was and
concentrated my ire on the ring leader:

	"You haven't got the guts to tell a person you hate him so you
defame, you demonize and dehumanize!  You use the system like a lynch mob
-- and that's about all there is to that sickness you call feminism!"

	That got a rise.  "You can call me anything you want, Toots, but
watch what you say about feminism!"

	"Don't call me Toots, Fuck-Face!!" I gnashed back.

	I was blistering his ego, and he reached for me; I stepped back but
Rocky and Hank were Johnny on the spot, like a pair of backstops keeping me
penned in.  No one else in the room was saying "boo," so Jake figured he
had the advantage and touched my cheeks impudently, and brought the back of
his hand across my nose and lips.

	"I like your skin, Baby, and that sexy mouth.  Everything about you
gives me a hard-on and I keep thinking about what those lips would feel
like tugging on my sausage."  He moved his hand lower to stoke my cleavage.

	"If you keep touching me, I'm going to get really mad," I warned.

	"And what does a little piece do when she gets really mad?" he
asked with a dirty chuckle, beginning to fondle my breasts in earnest.

	I lifted my hands, as if to remove his, but at the last instant I
made them into fists and snarled: "This!"

	I swung my balled fists down, hitting Hank and Rocky, who stood
behind me, each precisely in the nuts.  They crumpled like men made of
Reynolds Wrap, and while Jake was still gaping, I took a half step back and
kicked him in the crotch with all my strength.

	He didn't curse, he didn't yell.  He just went down, grasping
himself and wheezing like an asthmatic.

	"You dames wanted to have cajones," I trumpeted above their
sprawling forms, "so now enjoy them."

	Just then I spotted Buck out of the corner of my eye and swung
around, just in case he was coming to blind side me; my face must have been
positively witch-like.  The pseudo-man returned my stare for just a couple
seconds, then walked briskly away, not having lifted a finger to avenge his
stricken cronies.

	In the face of such cowardice I just threw up my hands and stormed
disgustedly back to the balcony.  I wanted to see how Allie was coming, but
the terrace was empty when I got there, and so I stood wondering where
Mickie had taken my despairing roommate.

	Suddenly somebody stepped up behind me, blocking the light.  I
wheeled and found myself squared off against a man's broad-shouldered
silhouette.

	Did Jake have another friend with a taste for vengeance, one with
more spine than the pathetic Buck Channey?

	I gritted my teeth, ready for the worst.

	*****





	"The fanatic finds it easy to present his dark passion as a
morality superior to the wisdom of ages; the reasoning man trying to see
both sides fairly inevitably appears devious and calculating.

						Dr. Benjamin Evers
						"The Psychology of
Extremism," 2019



				    Chapter 5

	"Take it easy, Erin; I just want to talk."

	When I didn't answer, the man stepped closer and in the moonlight I
could see that he was about my age, tall, dark-haired.  And I recognized
him, too; he was one of my dance partners.  In fact, he had been the only
person to dance with me twice -- once before we opened the presents, and
once after.

	"Talk about what?" I asked brusquely.  "I said what I wanted to say
inside."

	"I heard.  I was wondering if you were all right."

	"You mean all right in the head?"

	"No; you made perfect sense."

	He strode closer then, inducing me to step back in the interest of
maintaining a comfortable --- and safe -- distance.  "Just what is it you
want?"

	"I'd only like to say that I thought Jake and the others had it
coming."

	"Okay, so now you've said it!"

	"You might not believe this, but what those idiots did made me just
as angry as it made you."

	I tossed him a bitter grin.  "Oh, so you're Sir Galahad?  I didn't
see you or anyone else standing there when I had to bust their balls.  You
did squat!"

	"Touche!" he conceded amiably, "I haven't been a man long enough to
get used to this coming-to-the-rescue duty."  He then extended his hand.
"My name's Rod.  It used to be 'Rhoda Ganners.'  In a couple months, I
guess it'll be Rhoda again."

	"Unless you've got a yearning to homestead in a prison colony."  I
replied sourly, regarding the man carefully.  He was a good-looking male,
and must have been an attractive woman -- of an athletic type.  "Despite
your muscles, something tells me you're not a guard.  Maybe it's because
you use two-syllable words.  Are you in administration?"

	"No.  I'm a journalist."

	"A journalist?  Here?"

	He stepped around me and rested his arm upon the parapet.  "People
are interested in all these parallel worlds," he said, "but most of all in
Tiresias."

	"Figures.  People are hooked on anything that has to do with sex,
especially the kinky kind.  So what are you writing about -- the prisoners,
the system -- ?"

	"This sex-change business mostly, and how people cope.  I thought
that coming over here to interview first-hand sources would be the best
approach.  I'm glad that I did.  Nobody could understand this experience
until he's lived it himself."

	"Why is it always the women who come voluntarily?"

	"Tell me why you think that is, Erin."

	I was still regarding him warily; since his body language wasn't
threatening or mocking in any way, I decided to give him a straight answer.

	"I think its because a woman defines herself by the simple fact
that she can make a baby -- she can do this, so she's that.  A man's
identity is only a set of ideas, hard to string together, even harder to
keep straight.  A man doesn't want to tamper with it, because if he lets it
blow away, he's not a man anymore.  He's not a woman.  A man without
manhood is nothing at all, except pathetic"

	"I think I understand you."

	"Is that all that brought you here, Miss Ganners?  The story?"

	He looked back into the big lighted room.  "Not quite.  I've always
had trouble trusting men.  Besides winning a Pulitzer Prize, I hoped I
could finally catch on to where men are coming from.  It should help a
writer knowing where people of all kinds are coming from.  Maybe what I'm
finding out can improve my social life."

	I laughed.

	"What?" he asked.

	"Allie and me were just talking about that."

	"But that's not the reason you came here, obviously."

	"We came here because we had to.  If we get to understand women
along the way, it's all gravy."

	"Are you beginning to understand anything?"

	"What's there to understand?"

	I was glib enough, but he wasn't buying my ingenuousness.  "I think
you've got better insights than that, Erin.  I wish you'd open up; what my
book needs is the point of view of someone other than myself.  I can do
pretty well with the woman-as-man perspective, especially after
interviewing so many Sallys, but I need to get into the head of an
intelligent man looking at a woman's life for the first time.  -- You, for
example."

	"You want me to help you with your book?"

	"You might as well; you're going to be in it regardless, after what
you did tonight."

	"Don't I get a choice?"

	"I can report what anyone does in a public place.  But why do you
ask?  Have you a problem with giving me a hand?"

	"Why me?  Why not one of the guys that have been here longer?"

	"It's because you're new that you're a good source.  I'd like to
follow your experiences the whole rest of the time I'm here.  I want to see
you react from day to day, to learn, and to change."

	"I don't plan to change."

	He shrugged.  "And maybe there's another reason, too."

	"What?"

	"You're so damned pretty.  --- Maybe I shouldn't have said that.  I
don't want to scare you off."

	"What gives you the idea that I scare easy?"

	"Nothing.  What do you say?"

	I gave him a searching glance.  "Thanks for warning me that I turn
you on.  I suppose that while we work on your book, we'll be seeing a lot
of each other -- lots of private interviews, lots of time to win my trust,
to get my guard down.  Maybe what you really want is a story about a
Charlie who gets fucked and then dumped.  Or would it be the one about how
a man reacts to choosing between abortion or motherhood?  That would be
good copy -- a grown man going through hell, trying to decide whether he
should hold on to a shred of his own identity, or save the life of his
child -- just the sort of thing to give your readers a laugh!  They think
Charlies are just a dirty joke anyway!"

	Maybe I was getting a little shrill, but how could I be entirely
civil to any Sally after what happened to Allie and the others?

	"So, you're one of those women who think that men are only after
one thing?"  His lively eyes were challenging me with irony.

	"Don't make me sound like some stereotyped female!  I'm being
logical."

	"Don't you think that those stereotyped females can sometimes be
logical, too?"

	"No, not as long as they let dykes in university chairs do their
thinking for them.  The world they're always whining about doesn't exist
anymore -- and I read history, and I don't think it ever did."

	"Look, Erin, I just want to understand your experiences.  I
certainly don't want to seduce you.  In fact, I'd advise you against trying
sex for a long time yet.  It's a brew too strong for kids."

	"I'm twenty-seven.  Don't I look it?"

	"You look about twenty-two," he smiled.  "But from what I've heard,
you were born just a few days ago; you've got a lot of growing up to do,
young lady.  And, to your credit, you've done a lot of that tonight."

	I looked at him hard, not quite sure what to think.

	He extended his hand.  "Friends and collaborators?"

	I hesitated.  I knew how low a Sally could sink -- but I also
didn't want to condemn half the human race just because of Jake and his
buddies.  After a moment's reflection, I took the proffered hand.  "I don't
trust you," I warned him, "but until you doublecross me, or I hear that
you've hurt somebody innocent, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt.
But I'm going to be watching you every second."

	"I'm going to be watching you, too, Erin -- and I bet I'll have a
lot more fun than you will."

	I tossed my head.  "That's lookism!  It's a federal rap."

	"Not on Tiresias."

					  #

	A charming bastard, I thought, but bad things had happened to Allie
and Andrea because they trusted liars and I wasn't about to suffer the same
fate.

	"Can I take your picture?" he asked with a suddenness that made me
blink.  "-- For my book."

	I eyed him suspiciously.  "Maybe for your wall, too?"

	"What of it?  You're decent."

	"Just barely."

	"Please, I'd really like to."

	I wondered if I should go along.  I'd already been photographed in
my party getup and, anyway, no one could blackmail me just for wearing my
ingenue dress.  -- What I had to do was avoid was getting myself seriously
compromised like Allie had.

	"All right, shoot!" I decided.

	"Thank you, Erin.  Could you stand over by the parapet?  I'd like
the light on the river for a backdrop."  I did as asked.  "Rest your arm on
top of it.  That's pretty good, except don't look so angry; when people
read about you, I want their sympathy to be on your side."

	"You're running a big risk," I cautioned.  "It's not smart to hang
around with a ball-buster."

	He looked up from his view-finder.  "I don't think that you want to
bust anybody's balls.  Maybe you just get worked up when you see innocent
people being pushed around."

	"You could be wrong."

	"I'll wear a box until I'm sure I'm not."

	I laughed -- damn, but this guy's manner was disarming.

	"I like that grin," he nodded.  "Keep it steady, one-two-three!"

	He snapped the picture and then, the ice broken, directed me in
posing for several more.  Before realizing it, I was practically doing
cheesecake!

	*"Just a little more leg!  Drop a strap over your shoulder!  Great!
Lean forward -- gorgeous!"*

	That told me I had to be careful about this character; he could
"handle" me much too easily.

	Just then I noticed that the light from the balcony doorway had
been blocked.  In fact, the exit was crowded with women -- Allie, her
friends, and some others.  Seeing that I was talking to someone, they held
off and waited.  Rod, reading their intention to speak to me, backed away
saying, "I'll look you up later.  -- You can count on that."

	The journalist went back indoors and the Charlies came forward en
masse.

	"You were incredible!" chimed Dori.

	"Did you see Buck run?" laughed Mickie.  "Those scum-suckers are
cowards!  What have we been afraid of all this time?"

	Allie stepped up front and put her arms around my neck.  "Thanks,"
she said, "you're the best friend a guy ever had."  When she finally let
go, Mickie hugged me, then passed me to Jordana.

	"Hey, come on, people, don't get mushy on me!"

	"You've given us a new motto, Erin," suggested a grinning Billie:
"If thy guy offends thee, kick him in the nuts!"

	"They might kick back," I warned.

	"Not if we kick first!" someone declared.

	Then all the others pressed in, squeezing me or shaking my hand.

	"Thanks, Erin," Jordana said solemnly.  "Tonight you taught a few
of those bums that some of us can't be pushed around, but I'm afraid that
tomorrow it'll all go back to the way it was before."

	Now I turned serious myself.  "Look, we've got to stop being so
blasted passive about this rotten stuff.  It's easy to play the ostrich and
hope that the lion will eat somebody else but, sooner or later, he's going
to be chomping on your tail feathers."

	"We know that," said a woman.  "But what do we do about it?"

	"What we have to do is do what the women back home did fifty years
ago -- raise hell until the people running things give us what we want."

	"Women had it easy last century; they had plenty of money to get
their candidates elected, and their men didn't fight back because they
really cared about them.  Nobody cares about us."

	"We still must have some kind of leverage," I suggested.  "Some of
these Sallys act as horny as wart hogs; why don't we try cutting off their
sex until they shape up?"

	"Cut off their dicks?!  Gross!" exclaimed a girl who I later
learned was named Davida.  I suspected she had had too much to drink.

	"No," I explained patiently, "we just won't sleep with them.  That
old stunt's been paying women good dividends for a million years."

	"I can't help you there," apologized Davida, "I've never slept with
a man."

	"Then start sleeping with somebody -- and then push him out of bed
the second he steps out of line!" suggested someone.

	They all laughed.  I lifted my hands to quiet them, saying, "We've
got to do some serious thinking about our situation, girls -- uh, people."

	"No justice, no piece!" suggested a woman in the back.

	I got the joke, which certainly held more wit than the original
pseudo-revolutionary claptrap.  It's easy to be a rebel if you're just
doing the bidding of the powers that be.

	"Well said!" I said with a nod.  "If we can just hold on to our
sense of humor, we've got the battle half-won already.  But the bottom line
is that we're decent people who deserve respect.  --- Unfortunately, I'm
not sure how to go about getting it; we can't beat up all those guys
because they're bigger than us.  We can't sue them because the courts are
on their side.  We need ideas.  Get together, talk things over, try to pin
down what might work here and now.  Once our ideas are formed up, we'll be
able to draw up a plan of action!"

	The Charlies seemed to like my idea because I got some more kisses
and hugs.  "Cut it out, guys; you're acting like a lot of women!"  It was
then that I realized that my emotional distance from these officers had
evaporated during the crisis of the night and the camaraderie of the
moment.  These people had become my tribe, my comrades.  It was suddenly
the most important thing in the world not to let them down.

	#

	Back inside, the excitement had already died away.  Mort, passing
along the word that the movie was about to begin, stepped up to me and
said, "If you haven't picked out anyone for the evening yet, Erin, don't
sweat it.  I'm not so old that I can't hold a little thing like you on my
knee."

	I had decided that the codger was harmless, and so I just smiled
and shook my finger at him.  But tradition was tradition, and so I weighed
my options; Bob hadn't offended me since I'd arrived, but I didn't like him
so much that I wanted to sit on him.  I had danced with a good many Sallys,
but they had all come off as anonymous pressed suits, if not slightly
obnoxious.  So far there had been only one man who had treated me with the
least little respect.

	I looked up Rod and I took hold of his sleeve.  "Come on, guy,
you're the lesser of fifty evils."

	"I'm flattered."

	"Just don't try anything clever in the dark -- you don't have your
box on yet!"

	Dotty and Olga had found their seats, too.  Olga's was a small man
and the Scandinavian looked heavy enough to break his thigh bones.  There
might have been a story there, but I never inquired.  Chester, logically
enough, chose pretty Billie Walters to join him for the showing.

	Us new "girls" were granted seats of honor up front; Rod and I laid
claim to a comfortable settee.  Once we'd settled down his hands climbed up
to my waist.

'"Hey, what are you -- some kind of octopus?" I chided, pushing his mitts
away.  Then I leaned back against his sturdy shoulder and made myself
comfortable, noticing for the first time that he was wearing a spicy
cologne.

	The movie began with a dance number under title credits reading THE
LOVE-SLAVE OF THE WARLORD.  Because the actresses were wearing skimpy
Hollywood-style barbarian slave girl outfits, I expected that the movie
would be erotic.  The title didn't jive with the opening scenes, though,
which were set in modern America.  I quickly grasped what was going on.  It
was a movie about an archaeologist on his way to Tiresias.  I had seen a
couple films set on Tiresias over the last few years (including one
starring supermodel-turned-actress Kathleen Randall as Capt. Lester
Pierson!), but there were several more which I had never bothered with --
mainly low-budget sexploitation films.

	Long before the scene changed to Tiresias, I picked out which
character was going to be the "love-slave" of the "warlord."  He was a
swaggering chauvinist who apparently spent the greater part of every day
doing things that would have gotten him instantly kicked out of any
real-world university.  He was a coarse stereotype of a man -- nothing but
brag and bad manners -- Hollywood up to its old stereotyping habits again.

	Just as I expected, the hero went to Tiresias, turned into a
knockout girl (played by a popular porn actress, Tina Rae), and then, on
"her" first night out with her party of scientists disguised as native
travelers, catches the eye of a barbarian chief.  The sly rogue steals to
her tent that night, binds her hand and foot, gags her, cuts off her
pajamas with a hunting knife, then takes her away to his village.  All the
rest was unimaginative porn.

	The movie fascinated me with all the things wrong with it.  The
"warlord" seemed more like the lazy and voluptuous chief of a second-rate
village, but he was hung like a gorilla.  The big pie-faced actor who had
played the archeologist as a male could never have morphed into a
fine-boned beauty like Tina Rae.  -- And while the story might have been
interesting if done well, all plot development stopped twenty minutes into
it.  It took only about thirty seconds for the warlord to spank the
rebellion out of his new slave girl, reducing her to a model of boring
passivity for the rest of the movie with hardly a line of dialogue to
reveal her thoughts or emotions -- probably because the character possessed
neither.  After an initial banging by the warlord, the "slave" had to
engage in a threesome with the warlord's "blood brothers."  The dauntless
duo ordered her to begin their "pleasuring" by sucking both of them off at
the same time.  Merchant traders next show up at the village right
afterwards, and the hospitable warlord loaned them his love-slave.  The
archaeologist-turned-sex-bomb had to dance nude to the beating of the drums
(at least Tina Rae was a competent erotic dancer) and then she was
gang-banged by the traders, which, for all I could tell, she didn't seem to
mind.

	After such a busy day, the archaeologist still had enough energy to
initiate a lesbian scene with one of the warlord's kept women at bedtime.
Through it all, the heroine never formed a relationship with any of the
other characters.

	Why had the committee picked this particular vid for us ingenues to
see?  I supposed that the joke was to remind us about the dangers of this
planet, but if so it didn't give me an anxiety attack.  The story had been
just too unreal, the characters too unlifelike.

	At the end of the film the girl gets rescued and taken home, where
she becomes a guy again.  But his strange experience has wiped out his
self-confidence and he becomes a wimp who can't work up the courage even to
ask an ugly girl out for a date.  With the dull, inappropriate ending, the
script writer proved himself every bit as inept in character psychology as
he was in plot development.  Pretty weak stuff.

	While the vid progressed, Rod's hands were like a pair of swallows
coming back to Capistrano.  The third time his birds roosted at their
favorite perch I ceased to shoo them away.  Part of the reason was that Rod
was as much a "kid" as I was --- and I remembered being sixteen on my first
date.  Also, one of the Charlies had been assiduously serving drinks to us
movie-watchers all along, and I'd over-estimated how much my current body
weight could absorb and had gotten drunk enough to become sleepy and
tolerant as I nestled down cozily against Rod.  I barely noticed at that
point that one of his hands had slipped down to my thigh.

		*Boys will be boys.*

	After the vid ended, people started leaving the party.  Allie had
not even stayed for the vid and I wanted to get back quick to our room and
check on her.  I picked up my gifts, said goodnight to such new friends as
were still hanging around and then, a little unsteady on my sore feet, made
my goodbyes to Rod.  When he offered to escort me to my quarters I didn't
see any harm; I could use someone to lean on just then.

				    *******






	"If the people are going to act like sheep, we'd only do them a
disservice if we didn't shear them."


							Robert O'Neal, 2221
							Address to the
D.N.C.



					Chapter 6

	 Things moved rapidly on Sunday with some of us from the party
getting together and organizing ourselves as charter members of something
we called the "Tiresian Women's Rights Association."  Before I knew it, I
was elected chairperson.

	"Why me?  I just got here!" I complained.

	"Because you've got the balls for it, Erin," explained Andrea.

	"I only wish I did!"

	"Listen, Erin," said Mickie, "the rest of us can gripe all we want
to, but the Sallys just shrug it off.  But the way you stood up at the
party has given you special credibility.  You faced off with four goons and
when the smoked cleared you were the only one left standing."

	"There's got to be more to leadership than kicking an asshole like
Jake in the nuts!"

	"Like what?" asked Dori.  "-- Anyway, this is just for now.  Once
we get rolling, all the officers will be up for election by the full
membership -- and I bet everybody will want to join."

	Being stuck as chairperson, I decided the first order of business
had to be appointing a temporary committee of officers.  I asked Jordana to
be treasurer, which would be a snap for her since we didn't have any money.
I also invited Billie to be secretary.

	"Do I have to take the minutes?" she asked.

	"Sure."

	"I can't do that."

	"Why not?" I asked.  Instead of answering she only sat there
roiling in anguish for a minute, then got up and left.

	I looked bemusedly to the others.  "What did I say?"

	"Billie can't read or write and she's sensitive about it,"
explained Jordana, looking down as if embarrassed for her friend.

	"You mean -- ?"

	Andrea nodded.  "Our fucking public education system with its
double-fucking teachers' union!  I can hardly read myself thanks to them!
Do you think I'd still be herding cows down in the exercise yard if I was
good for anything else?"

	The subject cast a pall over what had been an upbeat get-together.
The system had been damaging innocent young lives for over thirty years,
but whenever a candidate promised to be an "education president," it only
meant that he was in the pocket of the central office of the American
Education Association.  The United States, which for a time had been
placing behind civil-war- torn Indonesia in student performance, lately had
fallen behind Congo where famine and tribal genocide prevailed.  There had
been a twenty-year brain drain toward America to make up for the scientists
and technicians that our own schools were not training.  I'd heard that
this flow was only now slackening because U.S. companies were becoming
unable to compete with the high wages paid in healthier economies with more
open societies, such as Thailand's, or the Philippines'.  America's
students were taught mostly about sex and victim-group grievances.

	Getting back to the business at hand, I asked Allie to take the job
that Billie had turned down.

	"Okay," she laughed, "if you don't try to make me sit on your lap."

	"Please, I don't swing that way," I demurred.

	"What about a vice-president?" Mickie asked.

	I almost offered Billie's name for that, but instead of lapsing
into tasteless whimsy I persuaded the others to leave the job open until
the official election.

	#

	The "hooker trading card" incident never developed into the
terrible ordeal that its victims had expected.  Maybe that followed from
the fact that Jake and his gang had ended up with egg on their face and the
rest of the Sallys seemed more embarrassed than amused by the trick.

	That was all to the good, but the offense had been a serious one
and it couldn't be allowed to lie forgotten.  Because Jake's clique hadn't
been called to account by the warden or even by the Guards supervisor, we
submitted a written complaint to Gershom's office, demanding disciplinary
action against the four men.  When he stalled -- as we expected he would --
we did the paperwork and appealed directly to the Director of Prisons on
Earth, and to the Washington office of the EEOC, alleging sexual
harassment.  Finally, we filed a formal grievance with the officers union.

	We were not very optimistic about being heard sympathetically in
any of these official snake pits, the agencies all being part of the
system, and therefore part of the problem.  Although the law protected all
people equally in theory, there was no mechanism to force equitable
compliance.  As long as illegal foreign money and contributions from the
drug syndicates could buy presidential and Congressional elections, the
overwhelming number of offices and judgeships were held by
university-trained social radicals.  And radicalism, whatever its
publically-professed goals, was always the bullying of the many by the few.

	Fortunately, we knew how the system worked and so while doing all
we could through channels, we also understood that any real progress would
have to be made through group action on the ground.  The first big step was
the holding of a general meeting of Tiresian women.

	Toward the end of the week we met with most of the staff on the
lawn outside the dormitory and the turnout was huge -- which was to be
expected since staff females decisively outnumbered the men.  The assembly
(alas) confirmed me and all of the temporary officers I'd appointed for
one-year terms, and Mickie was elected vice-president (which served her
right for opening her mouth).  Then we settled down to discuss business and
grievances.

	For whatever reason, the group initially had trouble getting at the
meat of our predicament and the first complaints seemed distressingly
trivial.  For example, somebody thought the nickname "Charlie" was
demeaning and we should demonstrate to ban it.

	"Listen, people," I said after a lot of pointless discussion,
"these aren't important issues.  Public education tells us that we should
concern ourselves with semantics and let serious problems take care of
themselves, but such silliness isn't for people like us -- its for --
pardon the insult -- intellectuals."

	There came a lot of laughter and booing of the term
"intellectuals," but even so my plea wasn't entirely understood because the
discussion next careered into the subject of ingenue parties.  Some people
thought that initiations should be prohibited, while some thought they were
a lot of fun.  Finally a woman named Georgette threw the question directly
onto my plate:

	"Erin, you just had your own party, and it was one of the worst
that I've ever seen.  What did you think about the subject?"

	I leaned back on my bench surrounded by my associated officers.
"Oh, that's a hard question!" I finally sighed.  "I didn't want to go,
that's for sure.  But the fact is, all I was really willing to do was to
crawl into a hole and hide for the next year.  I hadn't met anyone except
Allie up till then and didn't want to.  I felt like a freak -- and, well, I
guess that's what I thought the rest of you were, too.  When I look back at
it now, I can see that wasn't a good attitude.

	"I think that having an ingenue party is like being a fledgling
pushed out of the nest," I pressed on.  "You've got to fly or you've got to
die -- that's just the way it is.  My party wasn't a total disaster by any
means; I met a lot of you people there -- and I even met a decent Sally.  I
think the experience did a lot for my self-confidence and it also helped me
to fit in a lot faster than I would have otherwise.

	"-- And," I added with a sour grin, "after wearing that goddamned
dress, I know that nothing else could ever scare me!"

	There was some laughter and we were finally able to get on to the
more important matters -- like fair job assignments, promotions -- and
equal protection under the law.

	#

	The next day I was introduced to my duties as a personnel clerk.
It was the sort of work I was used to, having bid out of my entry-level
jailor's job more than a year before.  The dismal state of reading,
writing, and arithmetic among the usual job recruits had made me a good
candidate for office work and, anyway, guarding prisoners had always made
me feel like a lion tamer -- all by my lonesome and surrounded by
bloodthirsty predators.  I can't emphasize how much I disliked the shadowy
cell block corridors with their slamming doors, the echo of surly voices
and wary footsteps, the feral hatred in the prisoners' eyes.  My job was
not where the real me was at; I had become a correctional officer only
because I didn't place in the U.S. Labor Office quota lists for the better
jobs.

	Rod was after me every day to give him an interview.  I had mixed
feelings about seeing the Sally again, still not trusting him very deeply.
I was getting used to the Charlies, but the Sallys still made me uneasy.
Rod looked like a man, and outwardly acted like a man, but deep down I knew
that he wasn't a man.  Worst of all, he was a journalist.

	To me journalism suggested cynical propaganda for the status quo
and -- worst of all -- it made him one of the chattering class, which
included not only reporters, but also academics, think-tanks, blue-ribbon
committees, and special-interest pleaders.  One could not underestimate the
damage that such people had caused America.  Without journalists especially
to sugarcoat the poison pill, to attack people in the opposition while
ignoring treason, rape, and drug-running among their favorites, the
Establishment never would have become the Establishment.

	But despite all these misgivings, I made an appointment to
interview with Rod on my next day off.

	We met up on the parapet, where he was waiting for me with a
pitcher of lemonade, and I passed the next couple hours answering a series
of probing questions.  In particular I had to fill him in on my first days
upon Tiresias and the impressions drawn from them.  He was especially
interested in our "rights association" and encouraged me to talk about it
at great length.  I did so, until my voice grew hoarse.

	"We've got a lot of stuff down on CD," he said at last, clicking
off the recorder and refilling my paper cup with lemonade.  "Maybe we
should knock it off for now.  -- Just the interview I mean; I'd like to
take you to lunch."

	"You mean chow down on the cafeteria's barf?"

	"For today.  Maybe we can do something special later on.  I'm not a
bad cook."

	"I'm not either."

	"We'll have to trade recipes," he suggested.  Suddenly he fired me
an amused glance.

	"What?" I said.

	"You do look like a boy slouching in that chair that way," Rod
explained.

	"I am a boy -- a man, I mean!"

	He changed the subject tactfully: "You said you were home-schooled.
Didn't you ever get lonely lacking kids your own age?"

	"I thought the interview was over."

	"It's just a friendly question; I'd like to know more about you."

	"No," I reminisced, settling back into my slouch.  "I wasn't
lonely; my folks pushed me into all sorts of community and church
activities.  Did I ever tell you that I was a Boy Scout?  -- I went the
distance to Eagle Scout!  Anyway, I did go to a public high school.  --
What a waste that was!"

	"You're a Boy Scout!  I should have known!"

	"Would you recognize a Boy Scout if you met one?  There can't have
been many in journalism school."

	He ignored my jibe, asking, "You've never been married?"

	I shook my head and slurped more lemonade

	"Why not?  You're such a beautiful woman; you must have been a
handsome man."

	"Looks don't cut it with women; it's never enough.  You know what I
mean."

	"Suppose you tell me."

	"Women select rich killer-males.  What first class woman is going
to marry a one-pay-check-from-homeless-downwardly-mobile prison officer?"

	"You don't sound like you have much self-esteem."

	"After all I've told you, can you blame me?"

	"No, probably not."

	"At least you're open-minded."

	"I'm a journalist."

	I laughed.  "Remember that movie where the villain says, 'I'm a
lawyer; you can trust me'?"

	"I guess you think that everyone in the press corps is out to
change the world."

	"Don't flatter yourself.  You guys did your bit to ruin the world
and now you want to keep it exactly the way you and your buddies made it.
Massa's running the plantation and all you chatterers are his happy little
house servants in blackface."

	To my surprise, Rod didn't toss back a zinger; instead he became
thoughtful and reflective: "A lot of us were like that when we started out.
Direct action was the solution to every problem, ergo government was the
solution.  You see people getting hurt, but they're not really getting
hurt, because you're doing Good.  But Tiresias doesn't just change bodies;
it changes minds if you're on it long enough."

	"How so?"

	"Lots of little things sneak up on a person.  Do you know how an
artist sometimes looks at his work in the mirror so he can pick out the
hidden flaws from a new perspective?"

	"Sure; I tried that when I was a teenager and thought I could be an
artist.  It's unbelievable what you can miss if you always look at the same
thing the same old way."

	Rod nodded.  "Tiresias is like that; I'm seeing the little
meanness, all little injustices.  To cut to the chase, I don't see anything
wrong with what you and your friends say you want."

	"Well, thanks.  But don't be so sure that there's anything 'little'
about the meanness or injustice around here."

	His expression was still thoughtful.  "Maybe not."
	#

	A couple days after our first big association meeting, the "ship"
hit the "sand" as Allie sometimes said with her accustomed coyness.  A
Sally, Jesse, had beaten his Charlie lover, Christy, to a pulp.

	I guess the two of them were a disaster waiting to happen.  They'd
been into some weird stuff -- including a wacky French-maid bondage fetish.
But, as we understood, Christy had been getting more and more unhappy about
the nature of their arrangement and finally decided to call it quits after
attending our first big meeting.  Unfortunately, power-tripping Jesse liked
things just the way they were and before their argument was over, Christy
had been sent to the medical division with severe bruises and multiple cuts
and abrasions.

	I was with Rod when word came about the domestic-abuse case.  I
realized at once that I had to get on the stick and call an emergency
meeting of the association; Rod asked me to let him monitor and I told him
that it would be all right.  Down deep I think I saw the crisis as a test
case to see where Rod's loyalties and conscience really lay.

	As the women gathered on the lawn ground, I could see that the news
about Christy had come as a terrible shock; our association was little more
than a week old and already we felt ourselves at the moment of truth.  --
And none of us were particularly proud that Christy might have gotten hurt
because she had acted on our rhetoric where we had been merely talking.

	It wasn't easy to get the discussion rolling.  People were too
upset even to be angry, and Rod's presence only added to peoples' unease.
While bringing the meeting to order I wondered whether I had done the right
thing by letting him attend.

	"Friends, I guess we all know about Christy," I began slowly.  "The
committee officers and I are going to go see her at the infirmary as soon
as we finish here."

	"Maybe we're finished already," suggested a Charlie whom I had only
lately met -- Donna.

	"No, we can't look at it that way!" I said firmly.  "Maybe we
thought that this was going to be a breeze, or a feel-good club.  It's not.
There may be more of us who'll get hurt -- we have to accept that because
we're fighting a kind of war.  But I will tell you that if it comes down to
beating after beating after beating, we can't win because in an open fight
they've got everything -- the muscles, the system, the rules that they
wrote themselves.  All we've got is justice, and it's been a long time
since American justice has represented anything more than a statue wearing
a blindfold."

	 "So what do we have?" asked a woman.

	"We have a lot of disadvantages," I said.  "If we can win at all,
it's because our opponents -- most of them anyway -- are decent people.
Decent people will let other decent people win; sometimes they even let
people who don't deserve to win win, too, if you appeal to their emotions
to flimflam their heads.  Sometimes I think that that's how our society got
so fucked up in the first place.

	"But anyway, even if we lose we can expect just more of what we've
already gotten used to; if we win, it should make things better for us, and
especially for our kids.  But when we get what we know we need today, then
we've got to kill the insurgency dead --- stone cold dead.  We all know
what its like to live under a permanent revolution, like the one that
started in the 1960's; nothing gets done; progress can't be made, the
infrastructure rots.  Men and women should be on the same side -- against
people who are playing them against one another for ideological ends."

	"Maybe we shouldn't be talking with a Sally listening," suggested
another Charlie.

	"What difference does it make?" I asked resignedly.  "You can bet
Gershom's got an electronic ear aimed at us, or a hidden mike under one of
these bleachers.  If you're worried about Rod, I'll tell you right now that
he's my friend and I'm ready to vouch for him.  If he's willing, maybe he
can help us by writing about what's going on here."

	Rod stood up.  "Can I say something on my own behalf, Madame
Chairman?"

	Suppressing a grin at his form of address despite the seriousness
of the moment, I replied with likewise: "The chair recognizes Rod Ganners,"

	"I'm not here to spy on you folks, or to put anybody on the spot;
it's just that I think that something important is happening and I want to
understand it.  -- As for Christy, the very idea of what happened to her
makes me sick.

	No one spoke up, but it was the kind of silence that encouraged Rod
to say his piece.

	"Listen," he went on, "you may think that the way you're treated is
demeaning, but you don't realize how degrading it is for someone like me.
Am I supposed to be grateful to a system that holds people back in the
unspoken belief that I don't have what it takes to compete with groups I
don't belong to?  I'm good at what I do -- and I'd still be the best there
is under any system that recognized freedom.  I'm certainly not grateful
for hiring quotas because they're an insult; I could beat any man or woman
trying to do my job and I'm not scared to try -- so why are a lot of
regulatory bureaucrats in Washington so worried about me?

	"The answer is they're worried about themselves!  They're scared to
lose power.  They sold the people some feel-good snake oil a couple
generations back, talking the language of care and compassion freedom while
turning Americans into dependent, ill-educated peons."

	I was surprised by the vehemence of his vision -- talk about deep
waters!  At that point he drew a deep breath and concluded with: "I guess
all I have left to say is that Erin doesn't have to worry about my wanting
to help."

	"Rod," I spoke up soberly, "the best way you can help us is just by
doing your job the old fashioned way -- telling the truth.  Truth lets
everything else take care of itself."

	He only nodded my way, apparently talked-out.  The Charlies, too,
were quiet for a moment, but then Dori stood up: "We sure can use all the
help we can get -- but how do we keep more people from being beaten up like
Christy?"

	That put me back into the hot seat.  "We have two choices," I
observed, "We can be nice, tame little girls here, and then be nice tame,
emasculated men back home. . . ."

	"Those aren't much for choices," put in Davida suddenly.

	"Davida, that was only the first choice!" I explained patiently.
"The second choice is that we refuse to let Christy sacrifice in vain.
She's our first fallen soldier and what's happened to her should mean
something."

	"So what does it mean?" asked Mickie.

	"I want to get some pictures of Christy, bruised and cut as she is
now, and make up some posters.  We've got to put the mirror up to the ugly
face of limousine-socialism.  We have to show the Sallys exactly what
they're defending and what they've become if they defend it.

	"-- In fact, I'd like to have Christy photographed in that maid cap
of hers; it would speak volumes on what the status quo is all about.
Unfortunately, I don't know how to get the cap; it's probably still in
Jesse's quarters."

	"I've got one you can use," volunteered Billie.

	"You have a maid's cap?" I asked incredulously.

	"Shucks," Billie said abashedly, "I've got the whole outfit!"

	"William. . . " I sighed.

	*****




		"Shame on you! you who call evil good and good evil,
	Who turn darkness into light and light into darkness,
	Who make bitter sweet and sweet bitter.
	Shame on you! you who are wise in your own eyes
	And prudent in your own esteem."

							Isaiah, 5:20



					Chapter 7

	  Immediately after the meeting, I followed Billie back to her room
for the loan of her maid's cap.

	It was true; in Billie Walters' closet there hung the complete
outfit of a French maid, down to the feather duster.  Never having
understood the excitement surrounding the French maid (except that I could
always appreciate a good set of legs in fishnet hose), I now found myself
wondering where the fetish could have come from.  French bawdy houses?  I
couldn't imagine that any well-to-to 19th or early 20th Century French
household would have accepted a servant costume that looked like a cross
between a miniskirt and a ballerina's tutu.

	Had Billie lived a strange lifestyle back home? If not, how else
could she have come by the risque ensemble?  I asked her.

	"The Sally's had an all-guy party a few months ago," Billie
explained cheerfully, "and they needed someone to play the maid and serve
drinks.  It seemed like it'd be fun, so I helped them out and they all
chipped in to get me this uniform.  When I go home I'll have to pass it on
to one of the other girls here, but I'll be taking back some wild pictures
of me wearing it when I do.  Do you want to see them?"

	*Does the Pope want to hold Mass?*

	"Billie," I began uncomfortably, "I'm sorry that I embarrassed you
the other day."

	She looked me in the eye and grimaced.  "That's all right, Erin.
You didn't know; I suppose I'll have to face that I'm stupid.  I never
learned much in school no matter how hard I tried.  All I can remember
being taught about is sex.  I figured out that the teachers considered you
well educated if you're willing to do it all the time and with anybody who
wants to do it with you."  She shrugged, "Well, to be fair, I guess I also
learned that teachers aren't paid nearly enough."

	I put my hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.  "You're not
stupid!  I'd be in the same boat as you, except that I was home-schooled.
--- And not many people by the year 2000 could do what my folks did, but
Dad had gone to a private school and Mother attended a parochial one, which
gave them all the basics to pass on to me.  They gave up a lot of quality
time so that I could have the same chance that they'd had."

	"You're lucky," Billie said wistfully.  "How are your folks doing
now?"

	I looked away uncomfortably.  "They're dead.  A boating accident."
Then I changed the subject: "Say!  I could teach you to read and write, if
you'd like me to."

	The blonde stared with disbelief.  "Honest?  If you could do that
-- I mean, I've felt like half a person all my life.  But -- but it's too
much to ask from a friend."

	"What are friends for?  I like to keep busy and what else is there
to do at night?  Go out and get laid?"

	"Maybe," Billie suggested teasingly.  "You seem to be getting
awfully chummy with that Rod Ganners guy.  Everybody's talking."

	For crying out loud!  I felt like I was living in a fish bowl.
"We're just good friends," I assured her.

	Billie smiled wisely.  "I know that -- but if you ever want to
borrow my maid outfit -- "

	"Stuff it, Billie!"

	#

	Rod, Jordana, Allie, and I met Christy at her infirmary bed.  She
was a terrible sight to see -- eyes blackened, lips broken, bruises all
over her face and, where there were no bandages, dark cuts were scabbing
over.

	The patient seemed to withdraw into herself the instant we came in,
which wasn't unexpected since she didn't know any of us very well.  Beating
victims, I'd read, often felt humiliated and blame themselves somehow.  --
But we did our best to reassure the convalescent and we soon had her
talking.

	"Maybe it was my fault," Christy suddenly said.

	"Your fault?  How can that be?" asked Jordana, who was just a
little better acquainted with the officer than the rest of us.

	"I was doing some bad things; what else can you expect when you do
that except something bad?"

	"Why did you do those things, Christian?" I asked softy.  I had
used her real name without thinking.  For some reason, whenever one Charlie
tried to express a serious or intimate thought to another, it always seemed
more sincere to use her male name.

	She shrugged to reposition her bruised shoulders, registering
discomfort at the corners of her swollen lips.  "I didn't feel very good
about myself, I suppose, and I had trouble making friends.  Then Jesse came
along and, well, one thing just led to another."

	"Well, we want to help you now, Christy, so you won't have to
depend on people like Jesse for company," Jordana promised.

	*Was Jordana right?  Or did we just want to use Christy's tragedy
for our own ends?*

	"But we need your help, too," continued the Association treasurer,
"so that nobody else will ever have to go through what you just did."

	"How can I help?" the battered girl asked dubiously.

	"We're going to start a "Violence Against Women" action against
Jesse," explained the ash blonde.  After that, when you're up and around,
we want to get to know you a lot better.  I suppose that it's always the
shy people who are overlooked; we're all sorry for not paying more
attention to you."

	While Jordana comforted Christy, I was thinking hard about what we
could do.  There was no Men's Protection commission, of course, no People's
Protection commission even, and despite the broad language used in writing
the VAWA, there wasn't even any Lower-Class Women's Commission.  Women had
been assaulted in the corridors and offices of the White House, and back in
the '90's government reached a nadir which it never recovered from when a
sitting president was himself the perpetrator -- a man with a lewd history
of cocaine use and violent rape as an office holder back in his home state.

	"How can anyone help me?" the young guard asked glumly.

	"If you only want somebody to mistreat you," replied Allie evenly,
"there's nothing we can do.  -- But we want to start a support group for
people who have special problems that even the psychs just don't
understand."

	She shook her sore head.  "I don't want a support group; I don't
want anyone feeling sorry for me.  I just want to fit in."  I thought that
saying that had taken a lot of courage.

	We talked for a little while longer and the battered girl finally
consented to let us take some pictures.  Rod had said nothing all this
while, but I think he was affected by the victim's plight as much or more
than the rest of us.  Maybe he was feeling guilty just because he was a
Sally and it was a Sally who had hurt the girl.

	The victim-group spokesmen aimed at instilling this kind of guilt
in society, but I didn't care for it.  Good people should never feel
responsible for what scoundrels have done, not even if they're the
genetically-linked descendants of scoundrels -- unless, of course, they had
been one of the idiots who had voted the said scoundrel into office.  Guilt
for what others have done just leaves the door open for new rascals to take
advantage of it and them.  Whole societies can be twisted out of shape by a
cunning pressure group practiced at playing the blame game.

	Rod took the photos and Jordana promised to visit Christy again the
next day.  As we were leaving, Dr. Trent intercepted me in the corridor.

	"Erin," she said, slightly agitated, "I'm sorry that we haven't had
a real chance to talk since you arrived.  Are you doing anything for dinner
tonight?"

	"No, Doctor.  What did you have in mind?"

	"Gabrielle.  My place.  Eightish?"

	"I'll be there.  Thanks -- Gabrielle."

	#

	Being a senior staff physician had its advantages.  Gabrielle had a
private two-room apartment and a private kitchen whose warm air was sweet
with cooking aroma.  Our main course was Tiresian "duck" (it looked more
like a loon, actually) bartered from barbarian bird-catchers.  I could
appreciate a skilled chef because I was an amateur gourmet cook myself.  We
talked pleasantly, about cuisine mostly, until my hostess maneuvered us out
to the sofa, when our conversation grew more serious.

	"Was there any particular reason that you asked me over tonight,
Gabrielle?"

	She nodded gravely and touched her gravid belly, as if my question
had unwittingly involved her unborn child.  "I've regretted not attending
your meetings," the physician began, "but there's so much on my mind these
days.  Even so, I've been very impressed by what you're doing," she went
on, "-- organizing the women, I mean."

	"I don't deserve the credit," I shrugged, "It was more their idea
than mine."

	"You've taken a load of guilt off my shoulders, Erin.  No one knows
more than I do as ranking -- Charlie -- that I should have been doing more
to help our people."

	I smiled sympathetically.  "Don't feel bad, Doctor.  For all its
jawboning, our group hasn't really accomplished anything yet."

	"I think you've done quite a bit for morale.  Men -- Earth men --
have lost the art of standing up and bitching.  Back home it's all around
us and we can't see how low we've really sunk -- but once you get to
Tiresias, the blinders come off and the truth slams you in the face."

	"Christy got slammed in the face, I know."

	"We're all at risk -- so be careful," Dr. Trent warned.  "The
ascendant power doesn't like anyone rocking the boat.  Remember that
policeman in California who tried to start a white male officers' advocacy
group?"

	I remembered he was labeled a racist and a sexist and fired.  Free
association was always discouraged; even Senegalese illegals had their own
advocacy groups, but the California officer, despite a sterling record, had
been suspended, harassed, and finally driven from the force.

	I slumped back into the sofa; the future for a rebel under tyranny
was never bright.  The 1960's hell-raisers never suffered societal
reprisals because their revolution was, at its heart, a sham.  They had
really been a tool of people who already had power to take even more power,
much like the Red Guards who served the Party Chairman in China at the same
time.  What kind of revolution is ordered by the prehistoric fossils
teetering at the top?

	"A man has to do what a man has to do," I finally said.

	"Yes, we do, don't we," my hostess nodded.  "What's next?"

	I sighed.  "We're following the official channels as far as we can
-- and we'll be putting up those posters.  If the Sallys are going to
defend their position, we have to show them exactly what kind of sleaze
they're defending."

	"It's a good start," Gabrielle affirmed.  "We have to change
things, but we can't stop with just Tiresias.  We have to set matters right
back home, too, or there's going to be a bloody revolution -- and we all
know what revolutionaries are."

	She suddenly grimaced self-deprecatingly.  "Big talk from a
do-nothing, I know.  It's easy to spin one's wheels, easy to be bought off.
I didn't live badly before; a cardiovascular surgeon of either sex can get
along, even as a second class citizen.  Maybe I don't deserve any better --
I don't know."  Gabrielle then touched her stomach thoughtfully.  "But what
I've had isn't good enough for my son.  My son can't be second class to
anyone!"

	The eternal parental vow, but I knew that her boy would be exactly
that, unless some important changes were made, and quickly.

	"It's going to be a boy, then?" I asked, skirting a subject too big
for me.

	"It's going to be a girl here on Tiresias, but he'll be my son back
on Earth."

	I could tell by the gleam in her eyes that that was exactly the way
she wanted it.  "I'm very happy for you."

	"Thanks.  The baby should arrive in a couple weeks.  "I'll be a
father a couple weeks from now; it's incredible if you think about it."

	"You don't think of yourself as a mother?"  It was that lapse which
seemed slightly incredible to me.

	"Biologically, I'm the baby's father.  I couldn't bring viable
semen for artificial insemination across from Earth, so I found a willing
egg-donor and had as many of her eggs as I could fertilized in vitriol with
my sperm.  She was a concert pianist with a 160 IQ and a family of good
physical and mental health.

	"The sex of the eggs changed when I brought them over, of course,
but their viability remained.  I had to have three eggs implanted before
one took.  That wasn't bad odds, all in all; I guess it was fated."

	"What would you have done if all the implants had failed?"

	Trent frowned.  "Then I would have found a Sally willing to do the
job for me.  I wouldn't have liked the randomness of it, naturally, but any
port in a storm."

	I nodded but her determination amazed me.  Why such a seemingly
normal and intelligent person like Dr. Trent would go to such lengths to
bear a child herself.  Despite the delicacy of the subject, I put the
question to her.

	"That's what they all want to know," the doctor smiled wanly.  "The
truth is, I had a bad experience in marriage -- one of the worst a man
could have.  I swore that I'd never again trust a woman with a child of
mine."

	"Those are strong words.  It must have been a terrible experience."

	"It was," she sighed, then explained how she had been a staff
surgeon servicing cases referred over from the Mayo Clinic.  "When I got
married I wanted children very badly," she went on, "and when we were
courting my wife had assured me that she wanted the same.  But I guess she
only wanted a surgeon's income because after we were married she kept
putting off starting a family for the sake of her career.  She was an
English professor -- quite a mediocre one, if you ask me, but she had
connections with several Women's groups and could work the University quota
system for all it was worth."

	Gabrielle, lowered her gaze.  "I'm sorry.  That's my bitterness
talking."

	"No problem.  I'm still mad as hell about what my fiancee pulled on
me."

	"Well, anyway, you can imagine that my wife's attitude was driving
me up the wall.  By the time she'd gotten pregnant, because of
contraceptive or condom failure, things weren't at all good between us.  I
thought that the child could be a new beginning for us, but she was very
ambivalent about bringing it to term.  I did everything I could to
encourage her, but toward the end she decided that it just wouldn't fit in
with her career plans.

	"To get me off her back, she got a restraining order and put me out
of our house.  She had no problem there; it's easier to get a court order
against a husband than it is to get a fishing license."

	*Right you are, Doc -- carp, not husbands, are a protected
species.*

	"But even on her own she kept vacillating, giving me hope, then
taking it away, until the baby was almost due.  Then she opted for one of
those partial-birth abortions.  -- You how that goes -- it's infanticide in
everything but name."

	Trent rested back in the sofa, her face uncharacteristically gaunt.
"I loved my son, even unborn; I would have been glad to rear him alone, if
that's how it had to be, but I couldn't do anything because the whole
system is against the child and the father."

	Her mouth turned down with seething inner anger and I thought it
best just to listen quietly while she went on.  "I knew where my son was
going to die; I knew when he was going to die.  I knew who was going to
kill him -- but I couldn't stop it.  The man is supposed to protect and
preserve his family, isn't he?  Well, I failed miserably and after you've
washed out that badly you stop being a real man.  Tiresias is as good a
place as any for me."

	*No, Dr. Trent's story was not fun and games at all.*

	When agony like Gabrielle's comes out -- especially out of a person
whom his listener doesn't know well -- his company can only sit in stunned
silence; that's the way it was with me.  I didn't know what to say, I
didn't even know what to do with my hands and feet.  When to blink or
swallow became a major decision.  Even so, when Dr. Trent at last fell
silent I reached over and laid my hand upon her forearm.

	 She looked up gratefully and said, "Sorry to get so emotional,
Erin, but you did ask.  That's all there is to it.  -- I have to do this;
at least this way there's nobody in the universe who'll be able to say that
I don't have any rights to my own child as a parent!"

	With the air cleared, the rest of the evening was light and
convivial.  By the time I left the apartment I had become pretty solid with
Dr. Trent, and what she had said had given me a great deal to think about.

	#

	By now life on Tiresias had started to fall into some kind of
routine.  I met with Rod almost every day and filled him in on everything
that was happening, but he would never let it go until I had also told him
exactly what I felt about it also.  In a way, the journalist had turned
into my confessor; I could talk to Allie and some of the others, but the
greatest relief of all was to talk to Rod.  Maybe it was because Rod could
be considered one of "the enemy camp" and I felt a special need to express
myself to him, to justify myself regarding the life I was living, and how I
was living it.

	"I'm going to have to remember that my book is about everybody on
Tiresias, not just you," Rod remarked one day.  "I want to write about you
so much -- I mean, the material that I'm getting from you is so good that
it's making the whole work top-heavy.  Erin-heavy."

	"You can't let that happen; I'm nobody special," I cautioned him
over a glass of lemonade.

	"It's tough being objective when I'm so involved."

	"Do you think John Reed was objective?"

	"He could be more objective than I can be."

	I wondered what exactly he meant by that.

	Usually, after the formal interview, we'd pass some time in
friendly banter.  At such a time Rod once asked me: "Do you girls teach one
another how to walk that way?"

	"What way?"

	"That sexy way."

	"Do you mean I still walk like a guy?" I asked, glad to hear it.

	"No, I mean you walk like a sexy girl."

	I started, not at all glad to hear that.  "I do not!"

	"You do so!"

	"I do not!"

	We seemed to end a lot of conversations like that and I usually got
in the last "I do not!"  Ever since I'd been a woman I'd found that being
tenacious and unbending in an argument came easier.  Maybe pig-headedness
is a sex-linked trait.

	On that subject, even though I didn't actually think of myself as a
real woman, Rod believed that I should be full of new insights into
male-female relationships.  If anything, life on Tiresias had only
reaffirmed what I'd known intuitively for years.  It was part of my new
argumentiveness -- my new confidence in my analysis of events had given me
the courage I needed to articulate and defend my core beliefs.

	"Why do men fear commitment so much?" Rod once asked.

	 I replied without batting an eye.  "A man values his relationships
and he doesn't want to threaten the intimacy of the alliance by completely
changing the nature of the partnership."

	He seemed genuinely astonished.  "You're joking!"

	I grinned.  "For crying out loud, Rod, "it's as plain as that
Grecian nose in the middle of your face!"

	"Explain."

	"Commitment, the way women define it, is a swell racket only if
you're a woman.  When she commits, she only gains by it; she's taken care
of financially, and marriage sets her free to work full-time, work
part-time, or not work outside the home at all.  She can putter at
cottage-industry hobbies or low-paying jobs that carry personal rewards --
such as doing volunteer work.  If she's particularly stupid and
self-righteous, marriage even allows her the luxury of feeling morally
superior to the man who's daily grind at a job he usually hates is giving
her all these options.

	"Her poor husband's part in the commitment game gains him nothing
but more of the same dull grind, except that he's burdened by supporting
two people where he only supported himself before.  Even if his wife had
stayed at a worthwhile job at first, she might give it up when kids come.
It couldn't be the other way around, not a woman in a thousand would stand
for that.  The man's burden gets heavier, the hours of work get longer and
he has to opt for that overtime that he hates like poison.  He has no time
for romance and can only be a part-time parent.  -- And because keeping
that miserable job is so important he has to kiss up to people he despises
to get the extra income of a promotion that he deep down doesn't really
want.  Finally he reaps the real payoff for having "committed" to a woman
-- his family hates him for neglecting them."

	"But hasn't the economic success of women changed things?" Rod
asked.

	"Where have you been?!" I asked with a shake of my head.  "Does a
millionaire woman ever feel secure enough to marry a penniless, but amiable
guy who'd has all the time in the world to be there for her?  -- Not on
your life!

	"If she has money, she'll insist on chasing after men who have even
more.  A growing boy soon figures out that looks and personality don't cut
it in the mating game; he's not a woman and he can't operate like she does.
If he wants the woman of his choice he has to be an economic success -- and
he has to be more successful each year or he'll risk losing her.

	"A man is always being judged by his investments, or by the power
he wields in the work place; he never gets any credit just for being a good
person, or being there for his family.  Nothing counts except
bread-winning.

	"Sociologists who pretend men and women are the same are nuts;
they're different and complementary.  Men want sex and beauty; women want
material security.  Women don't want to be looked at like sugar-candy, but
that doesn't stop them from sizing up every man as a sugar-daddy.  The two
views are just the male and female version of the same thing, but the one
is accepted as normal and the other is treated as some kind of degeneracy."

	What I liked was that Rod usually didn't get contentious when I
graced him with my wisdom.  In this he way encouraged me to be frank and
open whenever he asked me a question.

	"Why do you suppose that women always want their husbands to change
while men always want their wives to stay just the same?" he asked at some
early point in our association.

	I was game.  "Because men marry for love and women for money."

	"There you go again!" Rod moaned.

	"Open your eyes, beautiful!  If you like somebody because of the
person she is you don't want her to change.  But women never marry a man.
They marry a wallet which only happens to have a man attached.  Only after
a woman has her hands on the loot, does she remember to take a hard look at
the man whose community property she's sunk her claws into.  She's probably
never even thought about his looks before, or his personality, or whether
she could tolerate his human habits.  A husband might as well be something
that a woman pulls out of a grab bag for all the study she's put into him
beforehand.

	"Her thinking is, 'What do you do with this booby prize?'  Well,
you try to find a use for it -- usually something that was never intended
by the manufacturer.  The day that a man can't serve the function that his
wife has created for him without his consultation, he goes out with the
trash while his house and money stays with her."

	Another good Rod-type question was: "Why are men such jerks about
sex?"

	I threw up my hands; the man could be so dense!  "You'd be a jerk,
too," I said, "if it was left to you to do all the work that goes into
initiating and building a relationship from the ground up!  If you're a
woman you only have to sit back and rate your suitor's performance; if a
man makes one misstep, or tries to angle a little pleasure exchange for all
the bankrolling and ego-stroking that's expected of him, he's suddenly
considered a jerk."

	"Am I a jerk?" Rod asked all of a sudden.

	I regarded him with surprise, but after a second I couldn't help
but smile.  "You've got your good points," I assured him.

	******




	"Hypersensitivity and political correctness are signs of a society
in which too many people have nothing serious to do.  It makes a bland and
sour society, full of rancor but devoid of spirit."
							M.B. Watson, 2006
							Los Angeles Times



					Chapter 8

	But understanding the deplorable state of male-female relations was
a far cry from being able to do anything about them.  I didn't even try,
there was so much else going on.

	The association members made up some great posters for our
shame-campaign against the Sallys.  The most effective one that we
concocted was a picture of the doe-eye girl smiling shyly at the camera at
her ingenue party juxtaposed against a close-up of the battered woman.

	"This is the Progress you stand for!" the sign said.  It was
crucial at this stage that we tar the status quo with the stigma of both
physical and psychological brutality.  This wasn't a new strategy, and we
surely hadn't invented it, but history had proven it an effective means of
propaganda.

	If the truth be told, I could be detached, even cynical about
launching what was essentially a campaign of half-truths.  That was one way
you moved society; that was the way that a long campaign of lies beginning
in the 60's had convinced average Americans that their country was a
monstrosity that could only be reformed by putting into power people who
hated both it and them.  What we Tiresians were confronting was an
entrenched set of assumptions born of an anti-Western, anti-religious
social revolution.

	By means of media propaganda, politicized public education, and
block-vote manipulation, a faddish political and social doctrine had been
enshrined into everyday life.  Constitutional law, which should have
protected society against centralized rule, had been rendered impotent
through spurious and fatuous interpretation.  America's authoritarian
masters usually operated subtlely, only occasionally demonstrating who was
boss by means of police-terror -- such as the notorious attacks against
Christian communities and gun owners beginning in the 'Nineties.  The PC
masters reserved the right to call anyone they didn't like a "cultist" or a
"fascist" and when that happened the tanks and incendiary bombs were never
far behind.

	The radicals had won the high ground of moral superiority by
treating complex social issues as stark White Hat-Black Hat affairs.  It
has nothing to do with truth, but in the war of persuasion it is a good
route to go.  In effect, we had to offer the repellent Jesse as the
defining face of the whole establishment.  Hopefully the unique conditions
of Tiresias would render the keepers of the faith so disoriented that we
could arm-twist them into some change for the better.

	Knowing what we were about, we of the association steeled our
stomachs.  After all, no revolution can get off the ground if it lets
itself be embarrassed by its own tactics, and it was them, not us, who had
for so long operated on the principle of the end justifying the means.
Still, aware of the dangers in stirring up heated passions, I tried to
impress moderation upon some of the more excitable association women, such
as Andrea.  No matter what we said for public consumption, we had to keep
ourselves grounded in reality.

	To my mind, taking an extreme stance prior to sitting down to
negotiate is a necessary evil, though one runs the risk of starting to
believe one's own rhetoric, as happened in the various civil rights
movements of the last century.  An immoderate starting position can easily
decay into an uncompromising doctrine, especially if it doesn't meet with a
revolution's best friend -- namely heavy and effective opposition -- so
that real compromise is forced upon revolutionary leaders, who in turned
are kept from acquiring overweening pride.  American society had opted to
understand instead of fight its radicals, so it was rolled by a small elite
of chest-beaters who never had the support to win in a real fight.

	Bad things happen when any movement's leaders get too full of
themselves.  If such gain power, the revolution takes on the trappings of
permanence, though it already has become an empty shell to be co-opted by
infiltrators from the System.  That's how the party of the Ku Klux Klan
overnight became the party of civil rights without changing its
discriminatory outlook or coercive tactics.

	We Tiresians were a long way from being coopted, though, so I
didn't immediately fear becoming a limousine revolutionary overseeing a
government program with a cellular phone in my taxpayer-provided car.  (And
may I be dead before that day comes!)

	Besides my work with the association, I occupied myself teaching
Billie to read and write.  I enjoyed these sessions owing to the
Virginian's convivial charm.  The girl was no airhead either, I found out,
though she tended to be reticent about broadcasting those things which she
could do well.  I found it hard to imagine the mild and agreeable Billie as
a prison guard but, in fact, she worked closely with Andrea in Cell Block
C.

	Besides a knack for entertaining, Billie had a surprising aptitude
for language; she had picked up a good command of Spanish and even some
passable Chinese just by growing up on the edge of poor immigrant
neighborhoods.  Gregarious to a fault, Billie had mingled with foreign-born
neighbors and had often helped them to get along.  The boy's interpreting
skills had been especially helpful when his immigrant friends had to deal
with the brusque personnel of government agencies -- reptilian men and
women suspicious of all who came before them and who spoke only a thick
dialect of bureaucratese -- and that only between the hours of nine and
five-thirty.

	Billie's noteworthy antics on Tiresias had surely been the actions
of a person with a low sense of self-worth trying to get her fair share of
attention in spite of many handicaps.  She instinctively employed every
asset she could muster, especially her easy charm and good looks.

	The golden-maned girl was learning to read and write at a pace that
I would not have predicted at the outset.  It was a terrible indictment of
our educational system (and the over-paid posers who benefited from it)
that it had so utterly failed to educate one as bright and eager to learn
as William Walters.

	About that time, and much to my dismay, Jordana composed a humorous
fight-song that made me look like some kind of hero.  This was no cross I
wanted to bear; maybe Stonewall Jackson could go all the way to the grave
and never let his friends down, but I was just simple Aaron Carter -- and
sooner or later I was going to fall on my face.  A hero falls heavily, and
hurts more people when he does.

	Even so, Jordana was a good chum and I never doubted that her
intentions were among the best.

	Her song went:

		Come all you proud women and open your ears,
	Of Jake and his bullies you quickly shall hear.
	They went to a party, but came not to dine,
	They came to bash Charlie and keep her in line!

		All rowdy, all shouting, and giving the yell,
	Like so many demons just burst out of hell,
	The gang was all drunken on power and wine,
	They came to bash Charlie and keep her in line!

		They came to bash Charlie, they came not to pay,
	But bold Erin Carter stepped into their way;
	Their faces turned purple, their blue tongues stuck out;
	They discovered in time just what Charlie's about.

		All rowdy, all shouting and giving the yell,
	Like so many demons just burst out of hell,
	The gang was all drunken on power and wine,
	They came to bash Charlie and keep her in line!

		They came to bash Charlie, but dared not to stay,
	Buck Channey learned Erin was heading his way,
	He saw her eyes flashing and took such a fright;
	He ducked in the toilet to get out of sight!

		Oh, Carter's a fighter and everyone's friend,
	Yet woe to the Sally who tries to offend;
	She takes what they dish out and serves them back more,
	But for good folks there's never a bolt on her door!

					#

	Whenever any Tiresian officers went back to Earth at the end of
their tours, new personnel were sent over for the first time.  -- That had
always been the case, but now there was a difference: the rights
association was providing an unofficial welcoming committee for new
Charlies.  I went along with the first delegation myself, to find out
whether the new committee would turn out to be as good an idea in practice
as it sounded in theory.

	Remembering my own strange state of mind that first day, I knew it
would not do to put any additional strain upon newcomers.  I knew, too,
that we shouldn't come off as seeming excessively political, nor make the
association sound like a coercive outfit that expected everyone to join.

	So, we delegates agreed to keep the meetings short, friendly, and
to avoid specifics except to answer questions which might occur
spontaneously to a new arrival.  After all, there was much that should
rightly be left to a person's roommate/counselor.  Allie had done a pretty
good job with me.

	My spiel to each new Charlie went like this: "Turning into a woman
isn't easy to adjust to, but we've all been through it and it's really not
an all-negative experience.  We've found that the main problem on Tiresias
is that sometimes the system doesn't treat us very well and we're doing all
we can to peacefully change that.  There are times that you're going to
feel alone, but you don't have to; company and advice are only a phone call
away.  -- And we're starting some hobby groups and sports clubs for people
who like that sort of thing.  On the other hand, if you want privacy, you
can have privacy."

	That was about it.  We ended each session by passing along some
phone numbers.

	One of the new Charlies was not a correctional officer at all, but
an anthropologist named Lyle Rudensky.  The prison required a team of
trained ethnological scientists for dealing with the aborigines, but few
officers had direct contact with such people.  Dr. Steven Donnalyn had for
the last couple years headed the detail, normally aided by two or three
assistants.  But one by one these associates had been reassigned back to
Earth, there to assist the human studies department of Duke University,
which was preparing a major expedition to Tiresias.  To replace Donnalyn's
staffer in the interim, the correctional office had recruited a promising
graduate student, Lyle, who was then working on his doctorate in the
Shantee language, the tongue spoken by natives living in the vicinity of
the penitentiary.

	Normally, Lyle would have been oriented by a Charlie from her own
special detail, but Dr. Donnalyn, now running the office alone, was a
self-involved prig who couldn't bother himself with "little people."  So
Billie Walters had been asked to become Lyle's roommate/counselor.

	I thought it amusing that a staid young academic had to be paired
up with a fun-loving eccentric who, through no fault of her own, was so
ill-educated; yet, as it developed, the two of them got along fine.  In
fact, because Lyle was lacking in social graces the outgoing Billie was
exactly what she needed to acclimate herself into our peculiar little
community.  And given Billie's interest in learning new languages, the
match was an inspired one.  No chance that anyone on high had planned it,
though, unless we include God.  If the bureaucracy had brought it about, it
had to have been pure dumb luck.

	About twenty-five years old, Lyle was tall for a girl and thin with
pale, translucent skin.  I suspected that she would respond to a makeover
very well, but her self-conscious movements, and her too-large,
precariously-balanced, male-style glasses gave the impression of
ungainliness.  According to Hollywood, any nerdy girl in unbecoming clothes
and a frumpish hairstyle will always turn into a raving beauty with the
doffing of her glasses and the unbinding of her do.  I didn't believe it,
but did think that Lyle had potential.  When the next ingenue party came
along I would be watching to see what Lyle Rudensky looked like once Billie
had worked a little cosmetological magic upon her.

	#

	I began my first menstrual period the same night I met Lyle.
Allie, coming home and finding me in a funk and reading the instructions on
the back of a box of tampons took charge and did her best to talk me
through my immediate task as well the terrible days which followed.  She
even made an effort not to enjoy my suffering too much.

	Fortunately I was myself again when the expected party took place.
I arrived wearing my white dress again -- having taken the government up on
its half-price offer.  A month ago it would have been hard to believe I
could see putting a hard-earned nickel into it, but I was no stay-at-home
and a person needed something to wear for those special occasions.  What's
more, as chairman -- chairperson -- of the Rights Association, I had to
maintain a confident public profile.  -- And you've got to be confident to
wear that little number.

	Jake and his boys were on hand, too, but this time seemed a little
subdued -- which was all to the good.  Jesse, I noted, didn't show up at
all, though Christy attended accompanied by Jordana, whom had taken her
under her wing.  The poor girl still had on some bandages and many scabs
and off-color bruises showed.

	Christy's appearance was calculated to send out a message, telling
everyone that physical coercion would not break the spirit of the Tiresian
women, not even the meekest of us.  When the swaggering Sally-types saw the
marks of the girl's beating I hoped that they'd start asking themselves,
"Is what we get from the system so wonderful that what happens to people
like Christy Giustini doesn't matter?

	I danced with Rod often that night, most of the Sallys having
become polite but standoffish toward me.  Maybe I really had earned the
reputation of being a ball-buster!  That was regrettable, but the party was
meant for the new people, not us old-timers and so I tried to introduce the
ingenues to as many genial people as I could.

	Mort had christened Lyle Rudensky as "Lila" and Billie had
introduced her to several of her Sally friends, one which she eventually
asked to join her for the vid showing.  In her short, misty-blue party
dress, I was amazed to see how much the tall, slim Lila looked like a
Parisian fashion model.  She even had the small breasts common to the
denizens of haute culture.

	When I had first come to Tiresias, I had envied the Charlies with
flat chests, but by now I actually felt sorry for girls who had been
"shorted" by Nature.  My own thoughts surprised me and I thought that I
must have been getting vain, since I knew of no practical use that my more
womanly figure might serve, either for me or for anyone else.

	The movie that wound down the night was porn just like the last
one, but it had nothing to do with Tiresias; "Bad Babes" it was called.
One of the ingenue Sallys asked me to adorn his lap during the showing.  I
hadn't expected this, and I didn't really want to be torn away from the
deep conversation that I was having with Rod, but I couldn't hurt an
innocent man's feeling nor break the community tradition by refusing.

	*Anyway, the guy must have thought I was pretty.*

	#

	The next day brought news of community-wide importance.  Dr. Trent
had gone into labor.

	All the gossip for the rest of the day was about Dr. Trent; then in
the late afternoon the word came that Gabrielle had given birth to a
strong, healthy baby daughter and that the mother was alert and doing well.
A cheer went up all over the office.

	I reflected on the event; it was an astonishing thing, really.
Less than a year ago Dr. Trent had been a man who was hoping to be a
father.  Tonight he -- she -- had given a new human life into the world --
and from out of her own being.  There was an awesomeness to it that gave me
pause.

	Amazing to tell, Gabrielle was already back in her apartment by
noon of the next day.  Rod, Dori, and I went over to pay our respects and
to see the baby.  Even if it were only for the benefit of his book and not
for the fact that he and the doctor were already friends, this was one call
that Rod could hardly have failed to make.

	Gabrielle's small apartment was full of baby things now -- most of
them still not removed from their storage boxes.  The greater part of her
tour was already over, but a year's extension had been approved and I
understood that the doctor would have six months unpaid maternity leave and
then function in a part-time and advisory capacity at reduced pay until the
end of her second tour.  It seemed that the surgeon had sufficient private
resources to make this arrangement palatable.

	"A baby does best if he has a mother's attention for as long as
possible," Gabrielle explained.  "It was good of Warden Gershom to approve
my extension, especially since I'm not going to be able to give my job
anything like my full attention anymore."  That the warden had done right
by Dr. Trent was something in his favor, I granted, but otherwise the
Sally's acts, both of omission and commission, had usually been hard on the
Charlies' morale.

	"Who's going to baby sit?" asked Dori.

	Gabrielle blinked bemusedly.  "It's strange," she replied, "I
bought nearly every baby thing I could find in the catalog before I left
Earth, but neither then nor anytime afterwards did I give a single thought
to who I'd find to take some of the burden off me.  Maybe it never occurred
to me that a baby who's really wanted might be a burden."

	"Don't worry, Doc; I've got two kids," offered Dori.  "I think I
can take care of your little girl when you need a breather without breaking
her."

	"If only you could!" the new mother replied gratefully.

	I was elated to hear that Dr. Trent would remain part of our little
community during the whole of my exile upon Tiresias.  I liked her and
realized that in the weeks and months to follow my other Charlie friends
would be leaving one by one.

	But it was not easy to think of Dr. Trent as merely a Charlie now;
it was as if she had undergone some arcane rite of passage and had emerged
ennobled in some way -- that she had become a real woman amid the flock of
us sorry make-believes.

	"What are you going to name her, Gabrielle?" I asked.

	"Eva.  That's her mother's name.  I'm going to call him Evan when
he's a boy."

	It was disconcerting to be reminded that Dr. Trent was,
biologically speaking, the father of the infant.  I also found it
disconcerting that she instinctively thought of the tiny girl as her son,
not her daughter.

	*Boy or girl, she's lucky to have a parent like Dr. Trent.*

	Rod stepped closer.  "May I hold her, Gabrielle?"  Consenting
without words, the woman carefully passed her blanket-wrapped bundle to the
journalist's arms.  Rod held Eva like, I noted, a woman would.

	"I'm glad I was on Tiresias at the right time to see this," he
remarked, rocking the infant.  Then he looked across to me.  "Erin?  Would
you like to hold her?"  We both glanced to the mother for permission and
Trent nodded.

	I took the child with the same care I would have afforded a loaded
and cocked .45.  I couldn't manage to cradle her exactly like Rod had, but
without starting Eva crying, I successfully clutched her.  Gazing down into
that miniature face many stark impressions whirled dizzily through my mind
-- like the birds on the turning mobile that Gabrielle had already erected
above the baby's crib.

	The newborn was surely no beauty, except for those striking eyes
that were so much like her "father's."  Otherwise Eva looked wrinkly,
flushed, and pinched -- just as, I suppose, all day-old babies do.  The
tyke yawned as I held her, an action that reminded me of a monkey in a zoo.

	But to feel the weight of her (and she was heavier than I
expected), to experience the reality of her, was something to give one
moment.  Getting pregnant was not for me, but knowing and respecting
Dr. Trent the way I did my thoughts on the subject were no longer simple.
This child, in a strange way, represented the incredible new world of
possibilities of which I was now part -- whether I liked it or not.

	I looked to Dr. Trent, who had never taken her eyes off her child.
How different her life would be from here on because of this birth, I
realized.

	 -- And the incredible possibilities!  If this child lived and had
children of her own, and then they had children, too -- ad infinitum -- the
issue of Dr. Trent would, in the course of generations, number in the many
thousands.  Each of them would be a person who never would have lived
without a strange and courageous act on the part of a man named Trent.
They would take the place of people who would have been born otherwise and
by their numbers the world itself would be transformed, made-over into
something that it could not have been had Gabriel Trent never lived.

	I glanced across at the physician in a new light.  Dr. Trent was
making himself forever part of the future by the simple act of parenting,
and would continue to do so perhaps to the very end of the human race.
This was true of every fortunate parent, naturally, but how much more
starkly the cosmic significance of it registered upon one's mind when he
was allowed to think in terms of archetypes.  I remembered all those
Madonna-and-Child stamps the post office puts out in the Christmas season
and grasped for the first time what a powerful and universal symbol they
represented.

	I soon passed the child back to Gabrielle and she regarded her
baby's face as if seeing it for the first time -- though I doubted she had
ever taken her eyes off it for more than a few minutes since leaving the
infirmary.

	"This planet made a miracle," Dr. Trent whispered as tears -- of
humility and awe, I think -- rolled down her cheeks and she pressed the
cooing infant to her breast.  "I love this world," she murmured, but I
couldn't tell whether she was speaking to us visitors, or to some entity
much greater than any of us will ever be.

	*****

	"The ruling class of America, that mix of political, medial,
academic, and financial people who occupy the 7000 significant positions of
power, holds a number of false beliefs.  Unless these beliefs are
corrected, or the ruling class is refreshed by a revolt from below, the
United States is finished."

							Karen Pinkerton,
2014
							"The Ruling Class."



					Chapter 9

	I was taking dinner with Mickie and Jordana when Billie and Lila
came into the cafeteria a week later.  Billie, being Billie, had on a
low-cut white blouse, a mini-skirt, and high heels.  Lila had clearly
chosen her own clothes, since she was wearing a wine-colored pants suit
which she had had the foresight to bring from home.

	The young scholar was squinting right and left as she crossed the
dining room, the fashion-conscious Billie having advised her to keep the
unflattering eyewear out of sight even though her new spectacles were not
yet ready.  In fact, I understood that Lila was expected to return to Earth
for laser surgery to cure her hyperopia; she had a phobia against contact
lenses and wearing glasses on Tiresias would make her a curiosity to the
tribesmen she intended to go among.

	As I waved Billie and her roommate over, I noticed that Lyle had
misjudged her size as a woman and her overly-long pantslegs were slipping
under her heels.  Before I could warn her she stumbled against a man
standing in the lunch line.

	Lila, as I've mentioned, was far from the most coordinated person
on the planet.  When the pair had gotten their dinner and joined us, Lila
bumped her chair against the leg of our table, which scrambled what was
left of our meal.  A moment later, being introduced to Mickie and extending
a handshake, she knocked over a paper cup of soft drink with her too-long
sleeve.

	The disruption notwithstanding, we wished to welcome Lila into our
odd little community as warmly as possible.  She was, as we'd suspected,
rather isolated in her own department with no one but the self-absorbed
Dr. Donnalyn for company.  The disorientation and strangeness of life on
Tiresias could be a deadly thing at times; loneliness had lured Christy
into a bad mistake and none of us wanted the same thing to happen to any
other Charlie.

	The young linguist seemed ill at ease as, indeed, she always had
during our earlier meetings.  Very probably us working stiffs were not Lyle
Rudensky's accustomed company.  Lyle had bought into the social system
without apparently noticing how much it disadvantaged him.  As with most
egalitarians, class distinction was the be all and end all.

	Fortunately, like most intellectuals Lila craved an audience and we
found that playing to that trait was the best way to help her to relax.
Whenever we got the slim brunette talking about any of her favorite
subjects she became lively and animated.  -- And, in fact, what she had to
tell us was seldom uninteresting.

	"I've wondered why we don't have a company of marines here,"
remarked Mickie.  "We're just a little island of civilization in a sea of
warlike barbarians."

	"Attack is always a possibility," the linguist was saying, "but a
remote one.  Your guards are drilled in using military weaponry, should the
need arise.  That makes each of you worth twenty to a hundred barbarian
warriors.  Anyway, troops could be sent across from Earth at short notice."

	What kind of planning was that?  I wondered.  I couldn't imagine a
company of marines jumping into womanhood on the run and getting into the
breech.  In fact, they'd probably strain their backs trying to lift their
basic equipment, much less move at more than a stumble in over-sized boots.
Any scheme so idiotic could only come out of government.

	"I remember the training I got when I first arrived," put in Billie
uncertainly.  "It's like a fire drill; they make you do it once and by the
time there's a fire you can't remember the way out anymore.  Anyway, my
trainer said that I was good with an M76!"

	So, the vivacious blonde had another talent that I hadn't suspected
-- weapons proficiency.  I felt a bit envious; the clerical staff hadn't
received any such training.

	"I've never been trained," I said.

	Billie shrugged.  "Budget cuts."

	"The prison is built in a backward, low-population area," Lila
assured us.  "Primitive people are usually friendly to strangers, provided
they're shown strength but not aggressiveness.  Mountain men used to travel
among the Indians all their lives -- and Jim Bridger lived to be
seventy-seven.

	"What the Indian traders did in the American West, we're trying to
do here -- a non-judgmental appreciation of aboriginal cultures: learn the
local languages, treat the people with respect, and provide a market for
their trade goods.  In fact, trading helps to defray some of our expenses;
museums still pay well for Tiresian artifacts."

	I silently chuckled at the very idea of old Jim Bridger filling in
some band of craggy frontiersmen about his "non-judgmental appreciation of
the Shoshones' aboriginal culture."

	"But there are cities on this world, too," I reminded her.

	"Oh, yes.  They're on the level of the Bronze Age of Earth and are
actually quite impressive.  I'd give anything to visit one of them; it
would be like stepping into ancient Antioch or Mycenae.  We're making
aerial surveys of the closest of these city states from Base Gephardt."

	"I wonder what the natives think when they see a helicopter,"
grinned Jordana.

	I had read about Base Gephardt -- another major "punch" site for
two-way traffic between Earth and Tiresias.  Unlike the penitentiary, Base
Gephardt was strictly scientific in its purpose.  There also were
nonspecific reports of other, smaller "crossing points" around the planet.
Some good work was being done by foreign institutions, too.

	"Gephardt?  That's a new word," murmured Billie.  "What does it
mean?"

	"It's the Tiresian god of greed and destruction," I quipped.

	Lila, somewhat short in the humor department, gave me an annoyed
glance and cleared up the matter factually: "Speaker of the House Gephardt
led the fight to get funding for the exploration base; he put a tax on RV's
to support it.  Duke University honored his patronage by naming it after
him."

	Ugly names and crass political patronage aside, Tiresias was a
fascinating place for many reasons.

	The planet's fauna was exceedingly rich, and a large portion of its
animal species appeared to be the same as, or merely minor departures from,
Pliocene mammals of prehistoric Earth.  It was as if the biology of the two
worlds had run in close parallel until recent geological history, after
which the worlds for some reason went their own different ways.  In fact,
the shapes of the continents were so close that it took a minute
examination to see basic discrepancies.

	The reasons why some beasts became extinct on Earth while they
survived on Tiresias were not at all apparent, except that Tiresias seemed
not to have had any Pleistocene glaciation.  Perhaps the Ice Age had forced
evolutionary changes in wildlife that only had proven to be a detriment to
them after warm weather had returned.

	But the survival of ancient mammals on a neighboring world excited
the world's zoological gardens, which were bidding competitively for
specimens.  Zoo teams had come across, too, but care had to be taken when
transferring animal life back and forth between planes of reality.  Who
could say that dangerous microbes might not be transferred with them which
would devastate Earth animal populations, or even people?

	So far, though, no new diseases had been spread via
transdimensional exchange, which was very strange.  Some studies seemed to
indicate that virulent new cultures often translated into commonplace ones
during the transfer process.  Even so, extreme care continued to be taken
lest a Tiresian plague sweep unchecked across the Earth, or vice versa.
Like so many other bureaucracies, the United States Center for Disease
Control had its thumb in the Tiresian pie, but actually, if they knew their
stuff, which was questionable, the USCDC's contribution could potentially
be the most useful.

	The entire subject of xeno-exploration was extremely exciting.  If
only I could be one of those few who "boldly go where no man has gone
before, to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new
civilizations."  How I envied what shy, clumsy Lila Rudensky was about to
do.  But where was my opportunity?  I had been born in a country too
wracked with social and economical ills for all but a few to realize their
career ambitions.

	Despite our talk about interdimensional diseases, Lila seemed more
interested in another kind of contamination -- repeatedly calling to mind
the lengths to which official policy went to avoid passing on
Earth-specific knowledge, and particularly American traditions, to the
natives of Tiresias.  Clearly she was parroting the accepted cant, never
having been trained to thinking deeply in any independent fashion.

	I could guess the attitude of her instructors.  Everything about a
new culture was wonderful and exciting, while everything about Western
Civilization was decadent and corrupting.  I recalled a line from "The
Mikado": -- "the idiot to praises with enthusiastic tone, every century but
this, and every country but his own."

	But it was just as well that government policy was what it was.
Even if their intention was to protect aboriginal innocence from Voltaire
and Charles Dickens, in doing so, they were also protecting the Tiresians
from their own civilization-killing ethos.  That would change, though, as
soon as somebody in power found a way to profit by Tiresias'
"deconstruction."

	Next thing I knew Lila was describing a captive woman chaining and
tattooing ritual.

	"It really sounds like they treat women rough on this planet!"
Billie observed when Lila described how the proudest act of Tiresian
manhood was to kidnap an enemy's woman, tame her with the whip, and then,
marked as property, chained, and collared, they were trained to cook,
clean, make love, and dance.

	"It's a paternalistic culture," Lila replied matter-of-factly, even
though it would send any of her teachers into paroxysms if any of the same
barbarian customs were practiced in the United States in the Old South, or
even the more abhorred 1950's.  But all was peachy as far as the
morally-exalted were concerned.  I didn't blame Lila, though; she was an
intellectual and so didn't know better.

	"Woman-stealing makes sense among primitive people," the young
anthropologist was saying.  "It keeps the gene pool stirred.  -- But you're
right, Billie, you shouldn't go outside these walls under any
circumstances.  You'd probably be considered by the locals what they call
'na sheri tigi' -- 'prime slave meat.'"

	"I'm not the one who's going out there," Billie reminded her
pointedly.  "You are."

	Perhaps the scholar hadn't thought about her upcoming adventure in
those terms; anyway, she fell silent.  Work on Tiresias might be a wise
career move -- but only if a man wanted to end his days as a barbarian
dancing girl.

	#

	On Friday night my roommate popped in carrying Rod's camera and a
brown paper bag -- but what struck me at once was the mischief in her blue
eyes.

	"What's the camera for?" I asked, looking up from my library book.

	"I want to take some pictures of myself!" Allie chirped.  "Will you
help me out?"

	"Sure."  I sat up, pitched the book aside and reached for the
camera.

	"Not yet!  Let me put on something sexy."

	"What kind of pictures are they going to be?" I asked suspiciously.

	"Lingerie, bikini shots.  My tour is up in less than three months
and I want to have something to remember this planet by."

	"Allie, I thought you'd be the last person who'd ever want to be
photographed again."

	"Oh, Erin, those trading cards were dirty-minded and sick!  This is
going to be fun.'

	"Different strokes for different folks."

	"You know," she went on, "I was thinking that maybe I'll become my
own favorite pin-up girl!  'Who's that hot chick on your desk, Alex?' she
said, mimicking a man's voice.  'She's a real turn-on!  Where can I find a
babe that hot?!'"

	"All right, I'll photograph you, if that's what you really want,
but isn't the backdrop here pretty grungy?"

	"That doesn't matter!  A good paint program'll plug in any sort of
background you click on -- a beach, a boudoir, a Wild West saloon --
anything.  Say, do you think I could make a convincing saloon girl?"  She
held up a modern version of a sassy Victorian bustier.

	"Is that what you have in the bag?  Costumes?"

	"Yeah!  I don't have a lot of lingerie of my own, so I borrowed
what I could from the other girls.  Billie has a pile of stuff; guys give
her a lot."

	"That's our darling Billie.  Did she loan you the French maid
costume, too?"

	"Oh, jeez!  I forgot to ask!"

	"You're getting weird, Allie."

	"Oh, well, I've got plenty of other things.  Maybe later."

	For the next couple hours I was able to live out a personal fantasy
of mine -- being the man behind the camera of a girly magazine.
Unfortunately, the girl in front of the camera wasn't a real girl, and the
man behind the camera wasn't really a man.

	But Allie did after all look like a girl of a very superior issue.
I snapped her in baby dolls and then in garter belts, bustiers, and camis,
in teddies and briefers, in bras, panties, and bikinis.  She started
getting carried away and before long she had me photographing her with her
bra almost off, then completely off, her panties gradually rolled down to
the last modicum of modesty, then shed entirely.  My roommie sure looked
cute nude in pigtails and hugging that borrowed teddy bear.

	If the shots turned out well enough she might even make some money
by selling them to a magazine.  Sometimes serials like RUBY or GENTLEMAN'S
AGREEMENT ran photo features of gorgeous Charlies along with their regular
fare of all-girl models.  In fact, I had seen one pictorial entitled "The
Girls of Tiresias" that had come out almost a year before my planet fall,
and so none of my current friends had appeared in it.  I wondered, though,
whether Allie might show up in some future issue; a man has to earn what he
can, wherever he can, considering the economy.

	Allie then fell back on the bed, tired out.  "I guess that's enough
for me," she panted.  "I wonder what my grandchildren will think when I
show them those pictures someday."

	"I just hope you wait until they're over eighteen!"

	She released a rippling laugh that hardly sounded grandfatherly.
"Say, Erin, why don't you let me take your picture, too, now that we've got
all this stuff here?"

	"Me?  I don't think so."

	"Come on, A.C, be a sport.  You'll probably want to do it before
you leave anyway.  When will you have a better chance?"

	"No way!"

	About fifteen minutes later I was wearing a purple bikini, holding
a beach ball, and pretending that I was happily frolicking under the
broiling sun of Acapulco.  Allie had always had a knack for talking me into
the silliest things!

	Once I'd overcome my initial reluctance, I actually had fun.  With
Allie's help I went through many changes of hairstyle and makeup, trying on
garments which I would have loved to have ogled on the body of any
well-endowed lingerie model back home, but which I'd hardly have considered
wearing myself.

	Nonetheless, Allie's mania proved infectious and, just to show that
I didn't have less nerve, I posed for my own series of shots.  My Svengali
roommate even coaxed me to going to the limit -- hugging the teddy bear in
the buff while trying to look as cute as candy.

	Then, inspired, I went to the drawer and brought out my one and
only real piece of lingerie -- the green tunic that Mort's gang had given
me.  I slipped the wisp of Lycra over my head and Allie helped me tie the
hair ribbon.  When I was ready she clicked away.  How would I ever believe
these pictures once I had my natural form restored?

	Eventually, just as worn out as Allie had been, I collapsed into
bed and my roommie fell in beside me wearing only panties and a
flower-printed cami.  She looked so delectable that I couldn't help
thinking, "If only I were a man and she wasn't."

	"You're incredible!" Allie exclaimed.

	I closed my eyes and stretched out long like a cat, practically
yawning, "If I have to be a woman, I prefer to be a gorgeous one -- not
that I wasn't gorgeous as a male."

	She laid her hand on my bare thigh, stroking it in a way so unlike
her that I looked up askance.  Her smile began to fade, like a dark cloud
rolling over a sunlit field.

	"Erin, I -- " she began haltingly, "I've been wanting to ask you
something, but -- but no matter what it is, you have to promise me that we
won't stop being friends."

	"You sound serious," I responded slowly, losing my own smile.  "--
Well, sure, I promise.  I'd never want any silly little thing to come
between us."

	"That's good," Allie grinned, but in a way to suggest that she was
not wholly reassured.  "I -- "

	Her question was sticking in her throat, and I found myself hoping
that the question would not be asked.  Despite my misgivings, I reached out
and took her hand.  "What is it, Alexander?"

	Calling her Alexander actually encouraged her to swim out into what
I sensed was dangerous waters.  "I don't know how to say this, Erin," she
struggled to say, "but -- but sometimes I get the strongest feelings --
about, well -- like asking you to -- "

	I studied her expression carefully; I didn't want to ask, but I had
to: "What, Allie?"

	"-- to let me make love to you."

	I sucked in a long breath.

	Now she had said it; her face, though forcing a smile, was braced
as if expecting pain.  I don't think my own expression had changed, but I
felt my discomfort keenly and my mind raced to respond.

	*Oh, Alexander, why did you have to ask me that?*

	I knew what my reply had to be, but how could I express it and
still give no hurt?  Allie, my best friend, had asked me something very
personal, very difficult, and had rendered herself very vulnerable.

	I stared at her, suddenly distracted by the fluorescent light on
her amber hair.  A feeling of crisis squirmed within me; it was like my
best friend had just dropped the bomb that she was gay and wanted to be my
lover.

	But this wasn't homosexuality, not really.  What was happening to
Allie, I realized, was succumbing to her male persona and was seeing me,
and not herself, as an attractive woman -- a woman whom she could love.
What a strange thought!

	"Erin?" she asked in a ragged whisper.

	I was taking a long time answering, but it was because I didn't
know how to frame that answer.  One wrong word and our friendship would be
scorched, scarred forever.  We might still smile and have comradely moments
afterwards, but it would never be the same.  Allie was opening her heart to
me, baring her soul; if I couldn't reply in a similar spirit something very
precious to both of us would be lost forever.

	At last I gazed directly into her eyes, as if piloting a ship
through a minefield and said, "Allie, I won't be able to take very much
away with me from Tiresias -- some souvenirs, some clothing, some sexy
pictures, but that's about it.  Except for one other thing -- something
that's more important than any of that stuff.  It's something so important
that I don't want to leave it behind, no matter what."

	"W-What do you mean, Erin?"

	"Our friendship, Allie.  I came here expecting a bad time and some
hard knocks, but I found a best friend instead.  I want to see you again
when we're both back home; I want to see a lot of you.  I want to be best
buddies for a lifetime."

	"That's what I want, too."

	I squeezed her hand.  "I know.  But we've got to be careful or it
just won't happen."

	"You're mad at me!"

	I winced, as if an exploding torpedo had just torn the bottom out
of that ship of mine.

	"No, Allie," I insisted, "I love you.  I love you in almost every
way that a -- human being -- can possibly love another, but we don't dare
love each other -- that way."

	"Why not?  I love you, too!"

	"Because we're living an illusion!  It won't last.  What we do
today will be gone tomorrow, no matter how hard we try to hold on to it.
But if we're not careful, it's an illusion that'll ruin things for the rest
of our lives."

	She didn't reply, so I hurried on.

	"Allie, I could very easily make love to you; I could have a
wonderful time being a lesbian, I'm sure.  In fact, that's probably what I
am."

	"Don't make it sound that way, Erin."

	"I only mean that there's no one I'd rather go to bed with than
you.  I know I could be gay as a girl, but -- but I could never be a gay
guy.  Could you?"

	"No!  Of course not!  But it's not about being gay."

	I stroked the back of her hand.  "Back home we're going to be two
guys again.  -- That's great, but if we have sex together now, how could we
ever look one another in the eye later on?  All we'd feel is embarrassment.
It would drive us apart.  Don't you see?"

	Allie bent her head and I studied her expression anxiously, afraid
that I had hurt her despite my best efforts.

	"Damn it, Aaron!" she said.

	She had used my male name; what that meant I wasn't sure.  I waited
with baited breath for the other shoe to fall.

	"Damn it, Aaron -- you're right!" she exclaimed.

	#

	She dropped back to the spare pillow and her azure irises rolled up
toward the ceiling in self-censure.

	"What was I thinking?!"

	I sat up and looked down into her grimacing face.  "You were only
expressing what I've thought about doing a hundred times, Allie.  You just
had more nerve than I did."

	"But less brains!"

	I felt a surge of relief; even though I had sexually rejected her,
I really dared to believe that I had saved our friendship!

	I stroked her pale gold hair.  "I've had sex before, Allie, but
I've never had a friend like you.  I'd never want to do anything to spoil
what we have; I only wish that we could be the opposite sex when this is
all over."

	"Me, too."

	"Of course," I added, "I'd want to be the man."

	She perked her head in surprise.  "Hey, why should it be you?  I
want to be the man!  You make a better woman than me."

	I looked at her incredulously; what she was saying was so patently
ridiculous that I snatched up my pillow and hit her with it.  "What do you
mean I make a better woman?!  You've got woman written all over you!"

	She took her own pillow and replied in kind.  "I do not!"

	"You do so!"  And I hit her again.

	"You're the hottest chick on the whole planet!" she laughed,
smacking me in the face.  "I bet you're great in bed!"

	"I am not!" I yelled and the pillow fight went wild.  Once we had
pummeled one another for all we were worth, we fell down together, laughing
hysterically, our arms wrapped around one another -- in care, in trust, and
comradeship.

	*****



	"Corruption is like a ball of snow; once it's set rolling it's
bound to increase."

							Gloria La Farge,
2011
							"From Arkansas to
Washington"



					Chapter 10

	There really could be an upside to being a woman, (which didn't
include menstruation, of course) and, on the other hand, some of the Sallys
were finding out there could be a downside to being a man.  Men needed more
sex than women -- or, rather, women could sublimate their erotic drive so
much easier than men; maybe it was that which had been behind my and
Allie's photo session and pillow fight.

	It didn't help the Sallys that so many of us Tiresian females were
holding off from sex, or while not shunning it entirely were cutting back
to punish piggish boyfriends -- as I had recommended the night of my
ingenue party.  The tension of the situation mounted but, interestingly,
some of the most gonadal types like Jake and his randy pals, seemed to
remain their usual steady, obnoxious selves as if nothing was happening.
Go figure.

	After a couple quiet weeks passed, the news came down that Jesse
was being recalled to Earth to be charged with a criminal assault against a
co-worker; he would be confined to quarters until then.

	He should have been tried under the draconian Violence Against
Women Act, which, like tax law, assumed the accused's guilt and required
him to prove his innocence.  The much more mild assault charges were
therefore just a token gesture -- but tokenism usually went in the vanguard
of real concessions, and it could have meant that our movement as a whole
was making progress.

	#

	On Thursday night Dori and Andrea invited me to go watch a taped
Falcons vs. Jets football game in the monitor room.  The event came as a
courtesy from the prison recreation committee and was intended for the
entertainment of the staff and, after them, the prisoners.  I really
preferred baseball, though, and the pigskin action soon had my mind
wandering.

	Why would a man make a career out of the physical danger and
punishment of professional football?  The money?  The cheerleaders?  The
popularity?  I suddenly realized that I wasn't looking at strong men
exercising a power, but desperate males trying to escape the consequences
of powerlessness.

	It seemed to me that to win the esteem of his parents, his
community, the more attractive girls, and even of his peers, almost every
boy wanted to become a pro athlete if he could.  The majority of us who
couldn't begin to cut it lived vicariously through the sports hero's life;
everything that a young boy could do outside the realm of major league
sports was considered second best.

	If he performed well in school, he was just a nerd; if he excelled
at the arts, he was a sissy.  The lad who made the field goal was
automatically a champion, while the boys who couldn't perform for the crowd
were ignored.

	Did such denigrated youths find power in the mere fact that they
were male?  Hardly.  Theirs was a whole different "ball game" from their
sisters'.  To win esteem, a woman simply had to be what she was born, her
challenge to the world being, "Take me as I am."

	In contrast, a man was considered incomplete in his own being; he
had to make something out of himself -- no matter what the cost to his
health and soul.

	To me, the professional athlete could scarcely be envied.  Where
was the cheerleader who would tell Rocky Rhodes, a has-been at thirty-five
with the knees of a geriatric: "I don't care that you'll never walk again
without a cane, Rocky; any woman you marry would love to work to support
you at home.  You've got a cute face and I love your personality."

	Fat chance.

	The whole history of the male in society was one of his trying to
get around the inescapable fact of his powerlessness.  This powerlessness
came ultimately from his primitive role of defender of the group.  An
Achilles or Hector might be admired, but their very role of first-rank
defender implied expendability.  People around them could make their plans
fairly certain that A and H wouldn't be around for long.

	It was the male who died young in war, or came back crippled or
blind.  It was the male who wore the false limbs and back-braces acquired
in the course of dangerous civilian work that women could disdain without
approbation; it was the male who had to endure the lonely sea voyages, the
treks into the mountains to trade furs with cruel savages.

	There were plenty of bad men, such as the prisoners of Tiresias --
twisted products of a twisted culture, but the brute male of modern
sociological fantasy, the gorilla in human mask burning and raping his way
across history, had to yield to the sad reality -- that of a very
vulnerable being whose capacity for self-denial and self-sacrifice bordered
on the heroic.  Or was it only a dysfunction -- a craving for outside
approval at any price?

	#

	On Friday, as I did almost every day, I got together with Rod to
have a few sets of love -- tennis, I mean -- while talking about his book.
Neither of us owned a real tennis outfit and so we wore just T-shirts and
workout shorts; it made no sense to buy expensive clothes for Tiresias that
wouldn't fit us back home.

	Because the employees had no special tennis court for themselves,
we had to use the prisoners' during those hours when it was closed to them.
Surrounded by a high wire-mesh and with plenty of tough Sally guards
patrolling the vicinity, we felt safe enough, though the court abutted the
recreation grounds and the prisoners were able to press up close to the
wire and gawk at us.  We soon learned to ignore them as we played.

	Rod and I had earlier discussed the Jesse business, with Rod
agreeing that the Service's decision was just a sop to the Charlies -- one
which would frustrate more than satisfy.  What was more galling, we
couldn't forget that Jake and the others hadn't received any discipline at
all so far.  -- But because rehashing so disagreeable a subject was lousing
up our game, we concentrated upon the sport for the next half hour.

	Once, when Rod was chasing after the ball, my attention wandered to
the prisoners.  Some of the inmates were pretty good-looking chicks --
especially one wearing cotton-Spandex shorts with high-cut tulip legs and a
tank-top that advertised 36 or 37 inches of jiggle.  A fetching Hispanic,
her black hair bounced thickly in large ringlets while her simple-but-sexy
outfit emphasized her physical femaleness -- as it was intended to.

	Transforming a prisoner's self-image was part of the psychological
conditioning; the more our killers and thieves thought of themselves as
women, the less dangerous they tended to be.  Much more could have been
done in this regard, but the policy couldn't be carried too far; this was
federal prison, after all, not some transvestite humiliation fantasy.

	But I thought that I recognized the girl.  That fact nagged at me
until I remembered that she was the same hot tamale whose lovely butt I had
seen exiting the transference chamber when I crossed over from Earth.  Her
Latin lips and dark liquid eyes could send shivers down a man's spine.  --
I knew because despite my transformation, I wasn't totally immune to a
woman's beauty.  But, I reminded myself, it was foolish to think of her in
that way.  The femlin wouldn't have been behind the wire at all if she
didn't possess the mind of a violent criminal.

	#

	When Rod and I called it a day as far as tennis was concerned, he
continued unusually quiet and coaxed me to a spot out of sight of both
guards and prisoners.  This aroused my suspicions, because he'd seemed
uncharacteristically preoccupied over the last few days.  I'd already
questioned him about it, but he'd only told me it was personal business and
then, with obvious effort, he'd always act cheered up.  But now that vexed
look had come back in force.

	"Did you want to tell me something?" I asked.  Then, thinking I was
being too solemn, I tried to make light of it: "It can't be another
presidential scandal; you could broadcast those on Radio Free America and
no one would care."

	He set his face in a tight smile and shook his head.  "I don't know
if I should tell you what I've been researching, but you're going to be
here long after I'm gone and I don't want you stumbling into trouble you
could avoid.  I'll be risking enough of that when I go back home and write
up my "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" story for my paper.

	I already knew that Rod intended to write a feature article about
Tiresias prior to compiling his book, but up to now he'd never suggested it
was going to be anything more than a light fluff piece for a Sunday
edition.

	"What kind of trouble?"

	"Corruption."

	"What a relief!  I'd thought it might be something serious."  My
levity, however well-intended, was not playing well and my companion's face
remained grave.  "Why the gloom, Rod?  Nobody cares about corruption
anymore.  Nothing is corrupt if you have the Washington Post and New York
Times on your side."

	"Maybe not."

	He grew so silent that I feared he was going to chicken out of
telling me after all.  "Hey, come on, guy; don't be so mysterious!"

	He shrugged.  "I guess you already know that I talk to everybody
about everything."

	"Yeah -- and I'm as jealous as hell!"

	He looked at me and I cursed myself.  What made me say a thing so
stupid?  "Trash that last statement!" I said hurriedly.  "I was only
kidding!"

	"I know," sighed Rod, letting me off the hook much too easily,
consider the pleasure he took in teasing.  That told me that something
momentous was troubling him and so I waited quietly and attentively.

	"You mentioned a while back that Jake and his boys are shrugging
off your association's sexual boycott as if they didn't care."

	"Yeah," I nodded.  "I've figured they were beating the meat, or
maybe each other."

	"It's not that simple."

	This sounded interesting, if a little gross.  "So what are they
doing?"

	"Prostitution; it started up since about the time you came three
months ago."

	"Hey -- I don't like the way you're putting that!"

	He took my arm.  "I'm not much of a writer if I can't say what I
mean better than that."

	"Well say it better, then; I'm no madame, God damn it!"

	"I'm serious, Erin; quit clowning!"

	I realized that my continuing facetiousness was going distinctly
against the grain, so I put on an attentive face.

	"I've got good reason to think that one of the prisoners who came
across at the same time as you has put it into operation.  He -- she --
picks out the vulnerable, good-looking prisoners and beats them into
compliance, or bribes them into performing for any Sally who wants to get
his rocks off."

	"The guards?  The administrators?"

	He nodded.

	This was gross!  -- But it begged another question: "Bribes them
with what?  Biscuits purloined from mess?"

	"Drugs.  Mostly blizzard."

	I frowned; 'blizzard' was an almost-untraceable synthetic drug
popular with addicts back home.  "That's rotten stuff," I said.

	"Yeah.  They're covering its trafficking the way prison drug-use
has always been covered up -- guards and administrators on the take,
bad-reaction cases are turned over to collaborating physicians. . . ."

	"Not Dr. Trent?"

	He shook his head.  "No.  In fact, Trent got suspicious first --
about the way that some prisoners were coming in already assigned to other
medics, even though she's head of the department and should have final say
on any such subject.  Gabrielle put me on to this better than a month ago.
-- She's as worried as hell."

	"She never let on to me."

	"I asked her not to tell anyone else until after she went back to
Earth.  It's for her own good; who can be trusted here?  Even Warden
Gershom has to be a suspect -- in fact, he's so fond of Jake and Company
that it's hard to believe that he isn't involved.  Some higher-ups have to
be, the junk couldn't be phase-shifted from Earth -- if that's really the
way they're bringing it in."

	"Is there another way?"

	"Yes," he grimaced.  "We're set up here to be much more
self-sufficient than most penitentiaries -- because we're so isolated.
We've got a good chemical synthesis lab and, therefore, if some
harmless-seeming chemical components are ordered in, it would only take a
couple corrupt techs working nights to synthesize blizzard locally."

	"The bastards!" I exclaimed.  "-- Say, do you suppose that Gershom
came across with maternity leave for Dr. Trent because he wanted to put his
own department head in her place?"

	Rod nodded.  "I've thought about that.  -- If the warden's involved
you can bet he'd like to hand-pick some crony to cover up on the medical
end.  In fact, doing it the way it's being done is a lot smarter than
simply getting rid of Trent by refusing her a second tour.  If she up and
left, the U.S.C.S. would pick a replacement from outside -- one who might
turn out to be just as incorruptible.  As is, there's much less scrutiny if
Gershom is allowed to pick an acting head."

	I was rapt.

	"-- Well," he said mournfully, "I don't know a whole lot more than
that.  I'm still probing, but I don't want to get my informants into
trouble by tipping off the culprits to my investigation.  A lot of
accidents can happen to inconvenient people way out here -- and every
bureaucracy knows how to survive by cover-up."

	"I also know that drug gangs can be damned mean," I muttered,
suddenly concerned for my friends working down in the blocks.  If one of
them should find out something -- and then someone should find out that
they'd found out. . . .

	"It could be bad.  But there's just one more thing: I do have a
pretty good idea about which inmate started the balling rolling."

	I wanted to know everything, but as for the prisoners, I had no
direct contact with them -- and hardly any motivation to dig into their
sordid rap sheets before this.

	"You've seen her," he stated.

	"Who?"

	"That Latin girl, the one watching us play tennis today."

	"The banana bombshell?"

	"Yes, her."

	"Hell, she'd make a better whore herself than a pimp."

	"She doesn't have to do a thing if she can organize other people to
earn her profit.  I've talked to my prisoner contacts, but all I know is
that her name is Luis Robles and she's Columbian.  The gossip says that
she's an illegal whose mother sneaked into the country already pregnant to
give her baby citizenship.  I also gather that Luis grew up to be a pimp
back in L.A. -- and got into a lot more bad shit than anyone his age should
have had time to do."

	"I could get the details from the prisoner files," I offered.

	"No!" Rod said with surprising sharpness.  "That's the last thing I
want you to do."

	"Why?  What kind of reporter doesn't want to know?"

	"I'm a reporter second and your friend first!  Don't touch any
sensitive files; the personnel records of every prisoner, guard,
administrator, tech, and medic involved in this scam could have been
red-flagged -- and your password would point them your way."

	I wasn't going to be daunted so easily.  "I think Mickie could find
away around that; she's a wiz with computer systems.  We might find
something to get the goods on the gang.  In fact, if there was red-flagging
it could work against them -- anyone who was marked would stand out as a
suspect!"

	"No!  Absolutely not!  Don't get Mickie or anyone else involved!
-- I'm only telling you as much as I am to keep you out of trouble -- and
to keep any of the other girls out of trouble, too, if they learn something
dangerous on their own and come to you for advice.  I can't help putting
myself into risk, but I don't want to be responsible for endangering anyone
else."

	I looked at him, admiring the way he was coming off like a
courageous, commanding loner -- really adventure-movie stuff.  "I think
you're becoming a man, Rod," I observed with a wry smile.

	He smiled right back.  "Thanks.  -- And may I say I've been
watching you turn into a woman one inch at a time -- and I kind of like
what you're becoming."

	"Hey -- don't start talking dirty!  I'm the same old lovable Joe
Zilch I ever was!"

	#

	After talking to Rod the sky seemed to grow dark; it was like a
cloud had been hung over the prison to stay.  Sure, I'd known that most of
my superiors were S.O.B.'s, but it was much worse to find out that among
them were actual criminals who could be counted on do almost anything to
protect themselves against discovery.  I wished I could talk about the
problem with confidants, but I didn't dare involve anyone else, not even
Allie.

	Life on Tiresias had never been something to recommend, but this
news had made it worse.  And to think that just one greedy, black-haired
tart had started it all!  -- No, I was wrong.  Luis Robles was a nobody who
was simply pulling the right levers to harvest power and influence in a
system already poisoned.  In fact, I could almost admire the way she had
defied her lowly status to become the linchpin of a conspiracy involving
many other people -- all of them better off and better educated than she,
and nearly every one of them with much more to lose.

	Even so, my indignation centered on Luis.  I couldn't help
fantasizing about the senorita being thrown over the shoulder of a Tiresian
barbarian, carried off into the wild, and turned into the cowed slave girl
'Luisa'.  I imagined I could see her put into a collar and given a couple
silk scraps and some sexy bangles to wear as her only garment before being
dragged off to some great hulking warrior's hut and there subjected to
everything that her gang was putting her fellow prisoners through.

	 -- As for Jake, I didn't have any fantasies about him -- except
the one where he does a dance at the end of a rope.

	Fantasies aside, I didn't like the idea of Rod facing trouble
alone, but drug gangs played for keeps and only ignorance could protect a
person.  If I were some plucky heroine in an adventure novel I suppose I'd
snoop and pry, no matter what my guy had said, until I got caught by the
bad guys and Rod would have to rescue me.  -- And there'd be shooting and
-- oh, hell!

*Who needs shooting, kid?  Keep your mouth shut.  -- That's how people
survive*

	#

	After having warned me, Rod didn't volunteer any more information
and he resisted my attempts to revisit the subject.  His attitude was
frustrating, but our talk seemed to have relieved his anxiety and after a
couple days he was acting more like his old self.

	"Allie invited me to Andrea's bikini party," Rod commented a week
after our serious talk.

	I nodded, knowing that it was the custom for a person to get a
going-away party at the end of his or her tour.  The most popular variety
was the "bikini party," a last chance for the Charlie to "strut her stuff"
and to get some mind-blowing photos of herself and her best buddies.

	"I didn't know that you and Allie were such good friends," I
remarked with a hint of stiffness.  "Are you escorting her?"

	"No.  She said you were unsure about going and thought you'd be
more likely to go if I escorted you."

	"I wasn't unsure.  -- I told her flat out that I wasn't going!"

	"Why not?"

	"Because she said I couldn't go if I didn't wear a bikini.  Well, I
don't own a bikini -- I don't have any real swimsuit of any kind!  They
cost too much here."

	"You can borrow one."

	"Where I come from you don't borrow intimate things," I fibbed.
The real reason was that wearing swimsuits and lingerie in front of Allie
in the privacy of my own room was one thing, but wearing a bikini outdoors
for all to see was another.  For Christ's sake -- under all this deceptive
flesh I was still a man and I had to live with myself when this was all
over.

	"I'm sorry you feel that way, Erin.  Maybe you'll change your
mind."

	"Don't count on it!"

	#

	I was surprised and a little disappointed when Rod failed to make a
date for Friday night after our Thursday get-together.  Resigned to pass a
quiet Friday night alone, I was reading "Riders of the Purple Sage" when
the phone rang and Allie practically broad-jumped across the room to answer
it.

	"Yes," she replied excitedly into the receiver, "Send him up."

	"You're expecting a guest?" I asked.  "Are you taking a date to
Andrea's party?"  I knew Allie wasn't the dating type, probably because of
the way that Buck had double-crossed her.

	"Not exactly," she hedged.

	My friend clearly wanted to play it coy, so I decided to wait her
out; the mysterious Sally would arrive any second and then I could see who
he was.  To my surprise, Rod showed.  "Look who's here!" Allie piped.

	I saw them exchange knowing glances and wondered if there was
something going on between the two of them.  Come to think of it, Allie and
Rod had been getting very chummy of late, like when she had gone to him to
borrow a camera even though some of the other girls had cameras, too.
Maybe Rod had offered to escort her to the party after I had refused him.
-- All right, that's fair.  But why hadn't Allie mentioned it?  Was she
feeling guilty and thought she should conceal it?  But why would she feel
guilty?  She wouldn't -- unless she had something to feel guilty about!

	"Are you here to see Allie or me?" I asked and immediately felt
stupid asking two friends such a question.

	"To see Allie?" Rod echoed incredulously.  "No, I came because I've
got a gift for you."

	"For me?" I blinked, profoundly relieved.

	He held out a little carton about the size of a candy box.  When I
took it I instantly realized that it was much too light for candy.

	"It's not my birthday.  It's not any holiday at all; what's the
occasion?"

	"It's Andrea's last night on Tiresias."

	"What's that got to do with me?"  As I fumbled the box open I had
my answer -- it contained a leopard-spot bikini with a wrap -- one of those
high-cut items with a sparing halter and practically nothing for bottoms --
a thong!

	"What's this for?" I asked sourly.

	"It's your outfit for the party," Rod said.  "You said you didn't
have a bikini of your own, so I bought you one."

	I scowled.  "You were in this together!  What is it about seeing me
naked that turns you two on so?"

	"Nobody at the party is going to be naked," grinned Allie.
"Anyway, wearing a bikini isn't the same as being naked.  If it really
bothers you, you've got a cover-up!"

	"You picked it out, didn't you?" I accused my roommate.

	"She didn't have to," Rod broke in.  "I know my way around bikinis.
I used to look pretty good in one myself, if I do say so."

	I threw the suit at his smirking face.  "Fine, you wear it!"

	"Erin, be fair," pleaded Allie.  "You never told Rod you were
against wearing a bikini on principle; you just said you couldn't afford
one and wouldn't stoop to borrowing.  So he got one for you and it cost him
a lot.  You're being unreasonable."

	"You could have told him the facts!" I snapped.

	"I don't tell personal things about my friends!" she explained
ingenuously.  "Come on, be a sport; you don't want to hurt Andrea's
feelings.  When I told her that you were getting a bikini, she took it for
granted that you'd come to the party!"

	"Every time somebody tells me I have to be a sport, I end up having
to do something dumber and more humiliating than the last time."

	"What's the big deal, Erin?  We're all going to be in bikinis."

	"Except me," put in Rod.

	#

	Most of the girls were already at the pool when we arrived.  Allie
ran ahead of Rod and me, laughing, "Okay, everybody, 'Two, three, four.
Tell the people what she wore!'"

	They all began to sing:

"It was an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, wild leopard spot bikini,

"That she wore for the first time today!

"An itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny wild leopard spot bikini!

"So in the locker she wanted to stay!"

	I wrapped my cover-up around myself and spun on my heels,
declaring, "I'm out of here!"  But Rod took hold of my shoulders and I
could have more easily dragged a mountain.  The other girls, all wearing
two-piece swim wear, surrounded me.

	"It was just a joke, Erin," pleaded Dori.  The others offered their
own blandishments to convince me to stay.  I even got a couple kisses.

	"Hey, cut it out!" I rumbled.  "I can't stand being kissed by men!"

	"I don't know about you, baby," said Andrea, "but I'm not going to
be a man until tomorrow.  -- Come to think of it, that's no reason to stop
kissing sharp little pieces like you!"

	"Chill out!" Jordana told everybody.  "Erin's a good sport and
we've picked on her enough."

	"What am I supposed to do with you guys?" I sighed.  "Thank Heaven
you only want to humiliate me, not sell me into white slavery."

	"The white slavery doesn't come until midnight, buttercup," Andrea
teased.

	They led me back to the pool chairs and, still disgruntled, I
plopped down into one.  Allie sat at my left side, and Rod took the chair
to my right.  I adjusted my wrap to cover as much of my thighs as possible.

	"Bullshit aside," grinned Andrea, "I'm awfully glad you came,
Erin."

	"We all are," seconded Dori.

	"You shouldn't be ashamed of your body, Erin," urged Billie.
"You're beautiful."

	"Don't make a federal case out of it.  I'll be all right!" I said
grumpily.

	"Everything is a federal case these days," corrected Rod.

	"You're beginning to sound a lot like me.  It's a big improvement."

	"You become what you love, they say."

	I suddenly broke eye contact.  What had he meant by that?

	#

	Mickie had shown up just a little after Rod and I did.  After
having quickly taken stock of things she had started filling paper cups
with Cool-Aid and passing them out.  I could have used a stiffer drink than
grape Cool-Aid.

	"I guess you're excited about going home," said Jordana to Andrea.

	"I suppose I am.  But I'm gonna to miss all of you."

	"In less than a year you won't know anybody here," said Mickie.

	"Jake'll still be here, I bet," Billie quipped.

	The black girl laughed bitterly.  "Earth doesn't have much to
recommend it, but it's gotta be a better place with him/her/it over here!"

	"You've got people at home?" I asked.

	"I sure do, if any of them have survived the last year."

	"What do you mean?" Allie asked.

	I mean their neighborhoods are like war zones!  Jobs go begging,
but my people can't accept any of them or the government will take the
welfare away and slap them with taxes.  And nobody dares go out after 9:00
a.m. because that's when the street gangs crawl out of bed."

	"They ought to be in school!" Mickie said sternly.

	"School?  The only people who can't carry guns at school are the
security guards.  Those kids never learn to read but, man, can they push
drugs!"

	Her mood turned darker still.  "I've got a cousin who worked hard
in school and got good marks despite everything.  But when it came time for
financial aids for college, she didn't qualify because her grades and
discipline record showed that she wasn't "at risk."  The last I knew she
was frying hamburgers at a Burger King."

	"Who sets up these programs?" Billie wondered out loud.

	"I don't know, but I'd sure like him to get a bullet in the back of
his head.  I get madder every time I think about what those bastards in
Washington are doing to us.  If a revolution ever comes, I'm gonna get me a
gun an' start running up the body count -- either that or I'm movin' to
some free country, like Uganda or Singapore.  Hell, maybe I should take a
page from your book, Erin, and start a revolution myself."

	I shifted uneasily.  "Body counts aren't part of my book, Andrea.
The trouble with revolution is that the people who get killed first will
just be the honest fools doing their duty.  The people with the power are
going to hide in their bunkers until the last."

	"They won't be able to burrow deep enough!" Andrea predicted.
"Remember the guillotine?  Man, if I could just get my hands around the
throat of some fat federal judge, or some Fancy-Dan commission chairman, or
some so-called Black leader --" She made a pantomime of strangling an
invisible throat in the air.

	"Hey, all this talk is getting heavy!" laughed Billie nervously.
"Anybody want to join me in the pool?"

	"I will," volunteered Rod.

	Billie plummeted into the water like a playful teenager and Rod
leaped after her.  The driblets from his mighty dive rained down on my bare
legs.

	As I watched the two of them plashing around the pool my brows
knitted.  What was my escort doing swimming with the most beautiful girl on
Tiresias?  More reacting than acting, I pushed up to my feet and paced
hesitantly to the diving board.

	"Take your cover off and come on in!" called Rod.

	"I'm not taking anything off," I yelled back as I leaped into the
water, knifing down, feet-first, between the swimming twosome.

	"Oh, Erin, you're so silly!" the dunked blonde admonished me.

	"Will you stop making a big deal about my clothes?" I complained as
I leveled off and began to float.

	"It's not fair that you get to see all of us in our swimsuits and
we can't see you."

	"Just drop it!  It's not normal to want to see me in a bathing
suit" I told her sharply as Rod glided around behind me.

	Suddenly my treacherous boy friend grabbed my arms, crying, "I'll
hold her, Billie.  You undress her!"

	"You voyeuristic bastards!" I yowled as the traitorous Billie undid
the ties of my wrap.  Then Rod stripped the cover-up off my back and
splashed out of reach as I tried to pummel him.  Billie also dog-paddled
away, afraid that I was going to punch her out.

	Rod quickly climbed up to the tiles, holding my cover-up for all to
see, like the token of a panty raid!

	"Come on out, Erin.  Let's see what you look like!" Jordana called.

	"Not on your life, you degenerates!  I'll stay in the water until
it's dark!"

	They all laughed until Allie scurried to the edge of the pool and
yelled, "Better come out, Erin, or we'll all sing 'Wild Leopard Spot
Bikini' until you do!"

	"Go to hell!"

	She was as good as her threat:

"Two, three, four, stick around we'll tell you more!

"Now she's afraid to come out of the water.

"I wonder what she's going to do.

"Now she's afraid to come out of the water,

"And the poor little girl's turning blue!

	"Everybody sing!"

	"No!  No more!" I pleaded.  "I'd rather be tortured in the cellars
of the National Organization of Women than hear another word!"

	I swam over to the ladder and emerged dripping wet.  "All right,
laugh if you want to," I growled.  "That's what all this is about anyway!"

	"Photographs!" shouted Mickie and there was a click-click-clicking
all around me; every hand seemed to have a camera in it.

	Given my mood, it was a wonder that the water beading me didn't
steam.  Then Rod sidled over and put his arms about my waist, laughing,
"Simmer down, Erin.  It's just because you're always making such a big deal
about women's clothes that you invite a lot of joking around."

	"Yeah, sure.  What's next?  Anyone want me to drop my top?"

	"Do your own thing, baby.  We're all grown-ups here!" yelled
Andrea.

	I sat down, teeth gritted, but my pride prevented me from
retreating back into my soaking-wet cover-up.

	You look really wild in those leopard spots," observed Andrea.
"Don't let the barbarians see you in that getup -- or one of them is just
apt to throw Erin the Jungle Girl over his shoulder and take her off to the
woods for some major whoopee!"

	"Remember what Lila said about tattoos, collars, and slave dances,"
put in Mickie.

	"You broads have been watching too many porno flicks," I grumbled.
"Will you stop making me the center of attention?"

	"She's right," agreed Allie.  "We've had enough fun with poor Erin.
Let's get off her back."  Turning my way she said: "Would you like to take
some picture of us for revenge now, roommie?"

	I accepted her proffered camera.  "I guess so; I can always make
trading cards out of them."

	"That was low," blenched Andrea, and even Allie looked pained.

	******




	"Love demands infinitely less than friendship."

						Willam Pratt, 2003
						"Adventures in Contentment"



					Chapter 11


	Things settled down after that; we all chatted, swam together, and
then played some volleyball.  Subsequent to another quick dip to cool off,
we repaired to the chairs and the topic of Rod's book came up.

	"When's your research going to be done?" asked Jordana.

	"It's really done already," Rod said.  "I mean, I'm always learning
new details, but I have what I need to discuss the proposition
intelligently and, anyway, my leave is almost up.  I won't have a job to go
home to if I stall any longer."

	"Have you been stalling?" wondered Billie.

	"A little," he admitted.

	I hadn't realized that Rod was so close to leaving.  I had nine
months to go on Tiresias myself and suddenly felt very much alone.

	"W-When do you go?" I asked, appalled by my telltale stumble.

	"At the next big transfer.  It's not scheduled yet, but will
certainly be in less than a week.  They have to send Jesse back and
Andrea's tour is up, but they still want a few other things to come
together before they pull the switch.  Operating a transfer isn't cheap."

	"Are -- Are you going to miss this place?" I asked haltingly.

	He cast a meaningful glance my way.  "Some things I'll miss very
much."

	"When I get back to Earth I'll want to look you up," I said
carefully.  "That'll be all right, won't it?"

	"I'd be very sorry if you didn't."

	I thought I should say something more, but no words came.  Suddenly
I wished that I could leave the party gracefully and go off by myself to
have a proper funk.

	"It's strange, but I almost regret the inevitability of becoming a
woman again," the journalist remarked.

	"You wouldn't regret anything if you had to put up with what we do
back home," advised Dori seriously.

	Rod shrugged.  "I suppose that's true."

	"You know," Andrea interjected, "this place has changed my head.
I've seen the system with its pants down and from now on all I care about
is what's good for me, my friends, and my family.  If anybody says 'boo' to
that, the fuckers better duck for cover!"

	"You're turning into quite a revolutionary, Andrea," Dori observed.

	"Damned straight!" the black girl snorted.

	It was getting dark and the insects bothersome, so we started
wrapping things up.  I had had a good time, over all, up to the point where
Rod reminded us that he'd soon be going home.  That prospect bothered me
more than I had ever thought possible.

	#

	  Rod and I spent much of the weekend together without directly
addressing the subject of his imminent departure or the big story he
intended to break once he got there, but it finally couldn't be put off any
longer.

	"Erin," he suddenly said when we met in the dormitory lounge, "the
word's been given.  I'm leaving on Wednesday morning."

	I felt a huge emptiness.  I had expected at least a couple more
days than that.  "That's not very long," I said, trying to hold my voice
steady.  "You never mentioned how little time you had left until the party.
Why?"

	"You never asked."

	I looked away.

	"No, that's not what I wanted to say.  What I mean is, I wasn't
looking forward to leaving, not after I met you.  I was trying not to think
about it and I certainly didn't want to bring it up and rain on our parade.

	"Yeah, we make a good team."

	"And there was one other reason."

	"What?"

	"-- I didn't want to mention it and then find out that you didn't
think that it was any big deal."

	"Rod!  We're better friends than that.  We --" I was groping.  "--
We could have given you a party."

	He laughed, amazed.  "I don't need a party."

	"I think you should have one."

	He squeezed my upper arms.  "Erin, listen.  I just want to spend as
much time with you as possible before I go.  That'll be my party."

	I kept my chin up.  "Sounds good.  Are you free Tuesday night?"

	"I didn't make any special plans.  What did you have in mind?"

	"I'd like to cook you a last supper."

	"A last supper?  Erin, that's sweet, but I'm not being executed!"

	I scowled.  He laughed gently.

	"I'd love to taste your cooking, but you really don't have to make
it sound so final."

	"It won't be.  I'll be seeing you once I get back to Earth.  I
promise."  For some reason, my mind flashed back to our first meeting.
"You know, I was positive that you were out to seduce me that night we
met."  I didn't add that I was a little disappointed that he'd never even
tried.  It was just like all the guys said; when a girl says "no" she
really means, "maybe."

	"I didn't want it that way, Erin.  Making love to you would have
been wrong."

	"Why?"

	"Because there's never been a time when it would have felt right.
Maybe things would have developed that way if we only had more time; I
don't know.  I just hope that we'll be given another chance later."

	"We never did have a chance, did we?" I said, almost indicting
Fate.

	"Of course we did, but we both had too much past baggage to
overcome first."

	I turned away again.  "Why am I feeling so wasted?  It's not like
we ever had a lot going.  We've never even kissed!"

	His drew me close up against himself, forced me to face around.
"We could change that, if we really wanted to."

	"I suppose we could."

	"When?"

	"We're running out of time, so we'd better shake a leg."

	"That's what I was thinking."

	He drew me up against his chest; it felt strange to be engulfed by
such mighty strength, but I stayed steady as he lowered his lips and I
tentatively raised mine.  Our mouths pressed together and for the first
time his five o'clock shadow prickled my face.  It felt, well, if not
wrong, new, and I had a sense that an unexplored door was opening, while
another was closing behind my back.

	But for all its strangeness, being held in Rod's strong, commanding
arms felt surprisingly right and natural.

	It could be -- habit-forming.

	#

	Rod's impending departure and our first kiss preoccupied me
afterwards and all I could think about was seeing him again.  In fact, we
had a date to go bowling with Jordana and a friend of hers, Mark.

	Rod and I had arrived at a watershed; we no longer needed to
pretend that we were meeting just to interview but could admit to one
another that we simply wanted to be together.  How I regretted that our
relationship had moved at the pace of a glacier and that we had wasted so
much valuable time.  But now I didn't know whether I should go bury my head
in shame or start dashing in slow motion across a field of poppies.

	I made plenty of blunders at work the day following our kiss, so I
wasn't too surprised when the warden called me in.  But when I got close to
the door, I began to wonder whether Gershom was about to lower the boom on
me for creating the Tiresian Women's Rights Association.  Or had he found
out that I knew something about Jake's dirty, underhanded dealings?  It was
possible, if he had planted bugs in all the so-called "private places."  I
had a premonition that things would never be the same again once I got out
of that office.

	Warden Gershom was an overweight Sally pushing sixty.  "He" had
been active in the women's movement in the 'eighties and 'nineties and then
moved into a cushy job in the federal bureaucracy.  Affirmative action
moved her up fast.

	But it was hard not to show the jumpiness I felt.  This -- person
-- might have been a criminal -- one able to engine an unfortunate
"accident" if I needed one.  Behind that mild face could hide a depraved
brain which should land him behind bars himself, if there were any justice
in the world.  Now I knew what it felt like to be a White House employee
called into the Oval Office.

	"Please, sit down, Mr. Carter," he said with a pleasantness that
threw me.

	"Mister Carter?" I murmured.

	"Yes, mister.  I have very good news for you; that little matter of
discipline which led to your Tiresian transfer has been resolved entirely
in your favor.  Leda Cavendish's complaint has been set aside as being
utterly without merit."

	I couldn't believe it -- and to tell the truth, I wasn't in a state
which could bear many shocks.

	"That's good," I muttered, somewhat dazed.  -- And it was good
news, no denying.  Trashing that nonsensical charge would take the single
black mark off my otherwise blemishless record of service.

	Gershom seemed to want to say something more than he had but was
taking his dear time about it.

	"Do these happy circumstances have any further ramifications?" I
asked.

	"Indeed they do, Officer Carter.  The main office agrees that it's
not at all proper that you be asked to fulfill your tour of duty at this
installation -- unless you absolutely want to.  That means you can return
to Earth immediately and you'll have a new assignment waiting when you get
there.  In fact, the next transfer is scheduled for Wednesday morning.  You
may have Tuesday off with pay to get ready, if you wish."

	I was stunned.  I could come away from Tiresias with a clean record
and, better still, go back arm in arm with Rod!  I was already starting to
think of him as "Rhoda;" we'd finally be ourselves again -- and together.
We could find out whether what we had as a woman and a man could survive a
life lived as a man and a woman.  I almost shouted, "Yes, sir, thank you, I
will!"

	But I was suddenly struck by a vague skepticism.  As hard as I had
fought to defend my good name, I had been railroaded into an ignominious
exile.  Why would the EEOC division of the USCS have bothered to keep my
case open once I was safely out of sight and out of mind?

	They probably hadn't; Gershom probably had had friends back home
put pressure on both agencies to reverse judgment.  For whatever reason,
this "clearance" of my record was calculated to help the Service, not me.

	"Shall we plan on your departure Wednesday, Officer?" Gershom
pressed.  He seemed as overly anxious to see the last of Aaron Carter as a
kid was for Christmas to arrive.  Why?

	"I'd like some time to think about this, Warden, sir.  -- I've made
a lot of friends here and I really don't have a lot of things going back
home," I ended lamely.

	"Of course, Mr. Carter, if you need time. . . ."  Gershom seemed
bemused; I suppose that he'd expected me to leap out of the water into the
bait pail.

	"I think I can give you an answer by tomorrow," I suggested.

	I did, but as yet I had no idea what that answer would be.

	#

	I wanted to talk my momentous choices over with Allie, but I didn't
get the chance before Jordana called me down to the lounge to meet Mark and
Rod.  We all went bowling and, because Rod and I both had so much on our
minds, Jordana and Mark slaughtered us in all three games.  If there had
been only Jordana I probably would have brought up the subject of my
meeting with Gershom, but I kept mum because I didn't know Mark Norwich at
all well.

	After we all left the recreational area, Jordana and Mark split off
while Rod and I went up to the big lounge between the men and women's
dormitories.  Rod had been picking up my unspoken signals that something
big was on my mind and that I was anxious to talk about it.

	I told him what had happened and he gave me a hug.  "That's great!"

	"Is it?  I don't know."

	His elation became bemusement.  "Why?  Are you having second
thoughts -- about us?"

	"Oh, yeah, sure I'm worried about us.  But that's not what's
bothering me."

	"Well, then?"

	"Rod, this smells bad.  I've been thinking about what's behind it."

	"What have you decided?"

	"I'm betting that they think they can catch more flies with honey
than with vinegar."

	"How do you mean?"

	"I think they're worried about the Rights Association.  They're
thinking that if they can get rid of its leaders it'll die off of its own
accord."

	"Will it?"

	"I don't know, but if they're manipulating me I don't want any part
of it."

	"So what are you going to do?"

	"I don't know.  I want to go home with you, but I keep thinking
about Gabrielle's baby."

	"What's the baby got to do with you and me?"

	"Gabrielle is a role model.  She had to go through a lot to create
something wonderful."

	"Yes?"

	"And, well, since I've been here I've created something, too.
Doc's staying on Tiresias to suckle her baby; maybe my baby needs suckling
just as much."

	Rod looked grim, but I think he understood.

	"I've gotten people's hopes up and I'd feel like a rat leaving them
in the lurch," I clarified.

	"What more can you do?"

	"I don't know.  I don't want to think that I'm indispensable.
Maybe one of the other girls could do the job better than I could, but even
if that's so, they'd just go after her next."

	"It's not fair to take all this on yourself, Erin -- but it's just
like you."

	I looked up at him.  Had I made him angry?

	"It's why I love you so much."

	"You love me?" I echoed with a quaver.  But that begged another
question: "Like, ah, what do you mean?  What kind of love are you talking
about?"

	He was struggling to answer truly.  "The best kind of love," he
said finally.  "The boy and girl kind of love."

	That was mind blowing: "Is - is that right?" I stammered.  "Who's
the boy and who's the girl?"

	"Maybe we should flip a coin."

	The crazy guy!  I felt like kissing him.  So I did.

*Oh, baby, you've come a long way.*

	#

	On Tuesday morning I put in for the whole afternoon off, then went
in to see Warden Gershom.  There was no trouble in getting an interview.
-- No trouble at all.

	The old Sally listened patiently, but without a smile as I told him
that Tiresias had so far been a good experience for me and I'd decided to
stay for my whole tour.  He seemed decidedly unenthusiastic about my
enthusiasm and told me he'd keep the offer open, should I change my mind.

	Rod had warned me the night before that if the Service couldn't get
rid of me by playing nice-nice, they'd start riding me to force me out
early.  Maybe they would, but I was determined to make myself a tough burr
to get rid of.

	After work I went to the provisions department and picked up the
food that I had ordered that morning.  It cost me a lot and it exhausted my
monthly allotment of special purchases, but the occasion was one that
warranted a little splurging.

	I carried my stuff back to the dormitory, where I bypassed my own
room and went directly up to Dr. Trent's.  I'd talked to her the night
before and she'd given me permission to use her kitchen.  I left the bags
on her counter and then went to ask Allie a big favor.

	"You want what?!" my friend exclaimed, her blue eyes starting.

	"You heard me, damn it!  Do I have to shout it down the hall?"

	"Erin, are you sure?  You've hardly been here three months.  This
is moving pretty fast.  You won't be setting the record, I grant, but it's
still pretty fast.  You're the last person I'd have thought -- "

	"All right, so I'm human after all.  Are you going to let me have
one?!  I can pay for it."  My abruptness was born out of pure
embarrassment.

	"Of course I'll share; I don't expect I'll have any use for them
the rest of the time I'm here."  Without further argument we went to her
drawer and located the bottle under discussion.  After explaining how I
should use it she startled me with a big hug.  "Go to it, gal," she
whispered.

	Once I had my best friend's blessing I felt worlds better.  There
was so much to do that I was sorry that I hadn't asked for the whole day
off; we began by dismantling Allie's bed, which a housefellow on duty let
us temporarily store in an equipment room.  Allie promised to sign me out a
small dining table while I hurried back to Dr. Trent's place.

	While I puttered around in her kitchen, little Eva started crying
up a storm, which sent Gabrielle hurrying to her crib.  After checking her
diaper and finding it dry, the doctor next unbuttoned her blouse and
offered the infant a nipple, which didn't meet with her offspring's
satisfaction either.  So, finally, the new mother tried to calm the infant
by singing lullabies and rocking her gently.  Dr. Trent's voice had a
lovely lilt I noticed and while I filled the little apartment with aromatic
cooking odors, I listened to her singing herself breathless with such
ditties as:

"There was an old woman Who lived in Dundee, And in her back garden There
grew a plum tree; The plums they grew rotten Before they grew ripe, But she
sold them quite dearly, Three pennies a pint. . ."

	I smiled grimly; there was a downside to being a mom.  Eva kept up
her crying jag the whole time, with only brief lulls between cranky
outbreaks.

	During one such respite a tired Gabrielle came into the kitchen to
peer over my shoulder.  "Are you finding everything?" she whispered
hoarsely.

	"No problem.  Eva's being tough on you, isn't she, Doc?"

	The physician chuckled sadly.  "Last night it was like
sleep-deprivation torture.  Everything you read about infant care doesn't
add up to one ounce of the reality; it all has to be learned by the seat of
your pants."  She paused briefly, then sighed, "Be very careful about what
you ask for, Erin.  -- You just might get it."

	Her words struck me because I, too, was asking for something, and
the odds were that I would get it, too.  Once I had it, though, what was I
going to do with it?

	"Just to stay sane I'm going to have to find some quiet time,"
Gabrielle remarked wearily, touching her much-reduced belly, "-- especially
some time to work out.  I don't want Eva to be stuck with a dumpy hausfrau
for a mother."  I took a hard look at my companion and realized that once
she'd tightened herself up, Gabrielle would have a fine figure.

	But more than that, I noted that Dr. Trent had unthinkingly
referred to herself as a mother and not a father.

	"The association is thinking of sponsoring an aerobics class," I
told her.  "Dori might lead it; she's reading every exercise book in the
library."

	"I could use it.  By the way, do you need any help in here?"

	"I could use a hand chopping the onions."

	"Sounds fine; I could use a good cry," Dr. Trent jested softly.

	She seemed so tired that I felt sorry for her; Gabrielle was
finding out the hard way how tough it was to be a single parent.  But she
was keeping her sense of humor and I was sure that she'd come through.  All
of us Charlies would feel ennobled if just one of us could prove out to be
a good parent under such circumstance.

	But more than that, I wanted to personally do something to help
Dr. Trent succeed; maybe it was time that I learned how to baby-sit.  But I
couldn't start my second career that night; I had a full and pressing
itinerary.

	 At the dining table, Dr. Trent cut the onions with the precision
of a surgeon, occasionally wiping away a tear on her cuff.  A saying that I
had not heard since childhood suddenly came back to mind for no special
reason.

	To be a surgeon, the saying went, one needed the eye of an eagle --
and Dr. Trent's alert and discerning eyes had impressed me from our very
first meeting.  The surgeon also needed the heart of a lion, and, well, our
good doctor seemed not to lack courage.  -- And, finally, he needed one
more thing, a thing which seemed especially fateful and ironic in our
present circumstances.

	He must have the hands of a woman.

	I squeezed Gabrielle's shoulder in a rush of fondness and
admiration, and she looked back wondering what had suddenly moved me.

	#

	  Once I got back to my room loaded down with Pyrex and Tupperware,
Allie did everything she could to help me get dinner laid out.  While my
best bud set up the service, I took a quick shower to get rid of the
kitchen residue, rubbing myself down with scented soap.  Afterwards, when I
emerged rosy, fragrant, and well-scrubbed, she did my hair and make-up.
Finally, bless her, she made herself scarce.

	"I guess I can clear off a piece of floor in Dori's and Jan's room
for the night."

	"I owe you one, pal."

	"No you don't!  This will be the best piece of gossip we've had in
a long time."  With a wink, my roommie tucked her pillow and blanket under
her arms and vanished.

*Well, Aaron, it's going to be all over the place.  If you're going to have
the name anyway, let's just hope to play a wild game!*

	When everything seemed in order to the last detail I went down to
the main lobby and waited nervously for my guest.  Seeing me dressed up,
everyone felt duty-bound to ask if I was expecting someone.  I muttered
something about dinner, feeling as awkward as a schoolgirl going to her
first prom.

	Then I saw him and sprang from my seat, at once regretting that I
couldn't play this thing out more coolly.

	"Well, look at you!" he said with a broad grin.

	"Well, look at yourself!" I replied archly.

	He had on his natty ingenue party suit, while I was sporting my
little white dress.  I had considered borrowing something which Rod hadn't
seen me in before, but decided against it.  -- Both of the previous two
nights on which I'd worn my outfit had been good ones and if the little
item was good luck I didn't want to tempt fate.

	"Well, come on up," I said nervously, my tense lips almost too
stiff to smile.

	He took my arm.  "I'd love to."

				    *******



	"Love is the is the irresistible desire to be desired
irresistibly."

							Louis Ginsberg,
1968
							Public address


					Chapter 12

	  His fingers weren't cold, but as soon as he touched me I was
covered with goose bumps, which must have looked horrible since I was
showing so much skin.  But Rod didn't seem to notice as he ushered me into
the elevator and up to my door.

	I put Mozart's "Serenade for Winds" into the player and served a
quiet little supper.  The main course was poached salmon fillets and
skillet rice with shrimp.  For dessert we had papaya-buttermilk smoothies.
The wine was Grable's White Label, a California brand which somewhat
embarrassed me despite the fact that I couldn't afford better.  We didn't
talk much at first; knowing we soon would have to part didn't leave much
room for empty chitchat.

	"I wish I could go with you," I finally said.

	"You could!  I'll help you pack tonight."

	"Don't tempt me, Rod.  I just can't.  -- Does that upset you?"

	"No.  I understand, or I wouldn't take no for an answer.  What
worries me is that we're up against something so big that we won't be able
to beat it."

	I looked up from my plate.  Was he finally going to talk about the
sex-for-drugs conspiracy again?  Not a good idea; the president of the
Rights Association was the most likely to have her room bugged.

	"I mean," Rod continued, "we're going to be two completely
different people soon, doing completely different things.  Maybe it won't
be so bad to take the pressure off, to think things over."

	Time enough for thinking later; on impulse I got up and stepped
behind him.  Putting my arms loosely around his neck and leaning forward I
whispered into his ear: "It'll be bad."

	He took my wrists and kissed them each in turn.

	"Rod -- " I muttered throatily, "I've been trying for two days to
think of a way to ask you -- about something -- and -- and I thought of a
lot of different ways to do it.  The trouble is that now that the moment's
here, every way I thought of sounds absolutely amateurish and inept."

	"It's nice to be amateurish about some things," he said, still
holding my arms fondly.

	"For Christ's sake, how can one guy ask another guy to let him make
love to him without sounding gay or something?"

	"What guys are you talking about?" he asked teasingly.

	I pulled my hands free and rapped him on the side of the head.
"I'm talking about you and me, damn it!"

	He chuckled, pushed his chair away from the table, and turned.

	"That would have been my first guess."

	"Maybe you're not as dumb as I thought you were?"

	"What made you think I was dumb?"

	"I'm still a virgin, aren't I?"

	He captured my right arm and swept me into his lap.

	#

	I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead said soberly, "Erin
this is a big step.  I don't think we can ever be the same two people if we
do it.  Are you sure you're ready?"

	"No -- so don't ask me that question again!"

	We sat there quietly for a moment, just looking at one another
thoughtfully, before Rod said, awkwardly, "I didn't bring -- anything."

	My mouth involuntarily pursed.  It frustrated me that he could be
so practical at a time when I was so carried away with emotion.

	"I'd have been awfully disappointed if you did," I managed to
reply.  Obviously, if Rod had brought a condom it would have meant that I
hadn't surprised him.  And if my proposition was no surprise, what kind of
a -- person -- did he think I was?

	"Women!  I'd never be able to make a bit of sense out of that if I
hadn't been where you are a few times myself."

	"A few times?"

	"A couple times.  -- Once!" he clarified.

	 "That's better," I said, giving him a hug.  I'd hate to think that
you were a loose man."

	"You're doing terrible things to my self-control, Erin.  I only
hope you took the pill."

	"I did," I answered, "-- one of Allie's."  My face flushed hotly
when I made my confession, and so that he couldn't see me blush I crushed
my mouth against his.  This time I barely noticed the texture of his face
as our lips met.

	"Have you ever made love to a woman?" I asked.

	"Not on Tiresias."

	"What the hell -- ?!"

	"Take it easy, Erin, I'm only kidding."

	"Okay.  Okay," I murmured uneasily.  "I shouldn't get so uptight."

	He squeezed me again.  "No, you shouldn't."

	"What's up tight is that dress!" Rod observed.  "I don't know how
you can breathe in it -- I don't even remember how I used to breathe in
outfits like that."

	"I almost can't," I sighed.  "What are we going to do about it?"

	He turned me around on his knee and I learned how good a former
woman can be at undoing eye hooks and zippers at record speed!  I let him
have his fun, but pulled in the reins at the last second, not wanting my
program to be spoiled.  "Whoa!" I said.

	"Wait?  For what?"

	"I want to make it perfect."

	"It's a perfect now -- "

	"Spoken like a man," I said, enjoying the chagrined look on his
face.

	"God," he said breathlessly, "it's so powerful.  How do you guys
ever resist it even for a second?"

	"We respect our women."

	"Bull!"

	I pushed away and got up, holding up my unfastened dress so that he
wouldn't get an eyeful.  Now that he was turned on, my unexpected exit into
the bathroom seemed to echo after me in a psychic scream.  Well, he could
chock it up to learning; he'd never understand the basics about being a man
until he understood sexual frustration.

	For whatever reason, it's always the woman who sets the pace and
writes the meter of romance.  I used to think that this was because the man
needed the woman more than she needed him -- that beggars can't be choosers
-- but that could hardly be true with Rod and me.  I think now that it's
just part of the baffling dynamics of psychology that operates
automatically during male and female interaction.

	I returned to the room a few minutes later fragrant with "Passion
in the Dark" and wearing my little green tunic with its matching hair
ribbon.  I was hoping to look glamorous, provocative, sexy, but when I
stepped into the room I felt more like an out-of-sorts plucked chicken.

	*Oh, God, don't let me make a hash of this.*

	"I don't see any foot-long gray beard," Rod teased, his glance
bright and lively.

	"Don't remind me," I muttered, "We all say silly things sometimes.
I'm trying to look like a sexpot; how am I doing?"

	He stepped closer and placed his hands upon my hips.  "You're doing
fine, but I'm not sure I want a sexpot."

	"You don't?  Well, then, I'm a silly goose!"

	"No.  I think you're wonderful.  In fact, I've had fantasies about
you wearing that thing ever since I saw it at the party."

	"Fantasies, huh?  Got any others?"

	Did he!  He kissed me boldly, while running his hands up and down
my back and tracing my curvature through the hardly-there fabric.  I
reeled; rather than let me collapse, Rob scooped me up and carried me to
the bed.

	I felt weightless in his arms -- and the sense of security!  For
the first time, a man's superior strength made me feel protected instead of
intimidated.

	He placed my head over the pillow and eased me down to the sheets.
They weren't satin, but might as well have been.  "Whew!  We really got
here in record time.  -- I'm actually not that kind of girl," I added with
a twist of a grin.

	"Neither am I," whispered Rod as he loosened his tie and had his
shirt off in the blink of an eye.  I felt myself tense up in the face of
his eagerness.  "Relax, Erin," he whispered, perhaps recognizing my
fear-reaction better than I did.  "We can stop anytime you want."

	I looked up at his lightly-furred pecs.  "Oh, yeah?  You'll traipse
off to a cold shower if I say so?"

	"If I have to."

	I reached out and tugged at the dark tufts upon his chest.  "You're
too good to be true."

	"I am.  You're lucky you found me."

	"I only had to go to another planet and get a sex-change."

	"A piece of cake."

	He kissed me once more, and then started fondling my breasts, then
his fingers located the elastic band of my thong panties and I felt a tug.

	*Hey, guy!  I just put that on!*

	I swallowed hard as Rod slipped my briefs down my thighs, across my
knees, along my shins, and over my feet.  Despite my wishes to be pliant
and playful, my body stiffened like a board.

	"Please, Aaron, I love you so much.  Calm down; I'd never do
anything to hurt you."

	I nodded and closed my eyes, turning the process over to him.
Suddenly, he rolled me to my face into a lovemaking position with which I
was not totally unfamiliar, but it worried me a little.  It's not that
sauce for the goose shouldn't be sauce for the gander, but I would have
appreciated a little practice with the missionary position first.

	I needn't have worried, it turned out; Rod simply wanted to massage
my neck and shoulders.

	I needed it -- and how good it felt!  But thinking ahead about my
agenda, I became so anxious that all his efforts to thaw me were undone.

	*Hey, what is this?  Am I frigid?*

	 Get it together, Aaron! I scolded myself.  My virginity?  What was
that?  -- I'd lost it when I was seventeen and never looked back.  But now,
suddenly, in a strange way, both Rod and I had become virgins again.  That
was the miracle of this planet; what was lost was found again.  Good old
Tiresias!

	I savored the massage -- a respite from tension was exactly what I
needed.  I had tried to go too far too quickly, only to discover that I
wasn't as ready as I had supposed.  I hoped that my boyfriend wouldn't
think that I was some kind of a jerk.

	But then I relaxed; no need to fear.  Women are never jerks, no
matter how inept they may be when making love, no matter how
catastrophically they may fail, no matter how close they get to the payoff
before they chicken out.

	I tried to remember exactly what I would have wanted a nervous
virgin to do back when I had been a man and decided that the best thing was
to let Rod take charge, to lead me through this jungle of passion at his
own speed.  In fact, his massage had made me feel so buttery that he could
have done just about anything he wished at that moment and would have
gotten no complaint.

	What he did was turn me over and draw my tunic down to my elbows,
then pressed his face into my breasts to lip-nibble them.  When I felt the
tickle and the moist warmth I thanked my lucky stars that Rod wasn't all
knotted up with jitters.

*Make a note: confident guys are fun!*

	I heard someone moaning and didn't immediately realize that it was
me.  Rod gave a soft laugh and I tensed again, afraid that I had done
something silly, but when I peered up at him I saw that his face remained
mild and reassuring.  My nervous grin conveyed to him all the permission he
needed to carry on and he smoothly undressed me, pushing my tunic down to
my waist.  My arms were free now, but I didn't know what to do with them,
so kept them close to my sides.

	He pushed back a little and drew his fingers along my thighs,
across my stomach, and up to my breasts which he seemed to like so much.  I
shivered from my scalp to my toes.

	*What is this?  I'm so passive!  I'm letting this guy play me like
a violin!*

	He now noticed how much my nipples had hardened.  In fact, they
were standing up like they do on those porn-novel covers and tears suddenly
burned my eyes as I realized that the crazy reactions of my "slut" body
were making me seem "easy"-- and hence not worthy of respect.

	But Rod never let on if he was thinking that.  He kissed my lips
while his hands continued exploring my breasts and belly.  Finally he
peeled my tunic away completely; the loss of contact with the fabric sent
another thrill of panic through me, though it had been absolutely
inadequate as a cover-up.

	He clutched me to him then, but something else intruded to change
the equation utterly.  His maleness had grown enormously, the head of it
had kissed my thigh through his trousers, even while his soft lips played
suction cup with mine.

	I could hardly breathe, and it wasn't just because Rod's face was
covering my mouth and nose.  My heart was racing like some small animal
trapped inside my rib cage; if I had had a coronary condition it would have
been curtains for me right there.  Rod drew back, but only to pry off his
shoes, kick his trousers down and away, then remove his socks.

	"I always hated when a man didn't undress completely," he
explained.

	"M-Me, too," I stuttered.  "I mean -- "

	"I know what you mean."

	He began to ease the weight of his upper body upon me and he felt
heavy, out-weighing me by at least fifty pounds.  I hadn't realized it
before, but my ankles were pressed close together as if tied.  This didn't
suit Rod, so he slipped his fingers between my thighs, teasing them apart
with a light burrowing motion.  I tried to cooperate, but my pegs had a
mind of their own and before I could relax them Rod had brought in the
heavy equipment, working one of his knees in to separate them.

	I swallowed a painful gulp; the moment of no-return was barreling
down on me and I was as jumpy as a colt.  Hadn't intended to be so inept
about this, but --

	*Erin, as a sex-kitten you're a washout!*

	He kissed me again, but this time pushed the tip of his tongue
inside my mouth.  It would have surprised me more, except that this wasn't
the first time the big lug had tried that.  I pried my teeth apart and our
mouths began to play together like two wet, warm oysters making love.

	I understood that he was bringing me along slowly and carefully,
like a doughboy guiding a blind buddy through no-man's land.  But I was
still afraid -- afraid that I wasn't very good in the sack and that I'd let
him down.

	Rod was nuzzling my neck as his right hand continued to swivel over
my body, finally arriving at its goal.  I shuddered as he stroked my
vaginal lips, when his fingers edged close to my clitoris.  The next thing
I knew, one of them was working its way deeper, deeper.  Gasping, I
instinctively clutched his sides, my nails biting into his taut flesh.

	By now Rod was moving his finger up and down, calling forth my
lubricants and slowly overwhelming my anxiety with arousal.

	"You have a maidenhead," he remarked softly.

	"Inconvenient," I chuckled with hysteria.  But I recognized that
what he had found was my FDA seal of freshness.  The thing proclaimed my
purity and once it was broken it would not be coming back; everyone after
Rod would know that I was used goods.

	Everyone else?  Was I suddenly fantasizing myself with a slew of
lovers after Rob?  Some kind of Messalina welcoming all comers?  No, that's
not what I wanted!

	He withdrew his single finger only to replace it with two.  I
sucked in a sharp breath and my hips raised of their own accord, as if
seeking additional penetration.  He withdrew his delving digits a minute
later and changed position, his penis inadvertently dragging across my
flesh, communicating its size and hardness.

	*He's going to do it!  But I can't let him go all the way!  I can't
-- I -- *

	My skin prickled; he was about to take something from me that I
could never get back again!  Yet I forced myself calm; I was going to do
the same thing to him, of course; we weren't misusing one another -- we
were sharing something.  But if only the feeling of subjecting myself to a
permanent, unrecoverable change didn't daunt me so.

	I put my hands under Rod's arms, preparing myself for the
inevitable, unable to keep my eyes from closing.

	*Can I let him do this?  Do I dare?  What if the pill didn't work?*

	I sensed him guiding the head of his penis to my loins and I
stiffened.  What was wrong with me?  Why the dread?  Hadn't I started this
myself?  Hadn't I wanted it to happen?!  I tried to find comfort in the
memory of the girls I had held in my own arms, trying to project the soft
feelings I had felt to them into Rod's heart.

	Meanwhile, bracing my heels against the sheets, my body prepared
itself to succumb to the breakthrough at Normandy.  It must have been
Freudian to imagine myself in the role of the loser.  The charge, when it
came, required little of General Ganners -- except for a slight
back-and-forth jarring.

	I felt something letting go with a twinge of pain that was more
shocking than hurtful.  He was filling me -- perhaps by only an inch at a
time, but it felt like mile upon mile.  Rod persisted -- what guy wouldn't;
his weight was full on me now, his maleness triumphant -- and the total
effect was overwhelming.  It felt like being inside a woman as a man, only
completely different.

	"Erin," Rod whispered, "I love you more than my own life."

	I blinked, peered up into his eyes, and saw my own reflection in
them.  His words soothed me like a balm upon raw flesh, made me feel like a
person again, not a piece of meat dangling above the grinder.  I relaxed
just a little, then lurched as he pressed deeper.

	"Shhhhh," he whispered just before he started pushing himself into
me.  What was he feeling?  I tried to remember as I pressed my head back
upon the pillow, groaned, endured, and tried to find some way to enjoy it.

	Enjoy it?  At this point I felt like a sausage casing being
filled. Penetration was unlike anything I'd experienced before.  Savor it,
I told myself; the first time never comes twice.  Despite my anxiety, the
sense of intimacy was, in fact, incredible.  It was like we were merging
into one physical being.

	Rod didn't pump me at first; instead he lightly kissed my eyelids,
my temples, my cheeks, and my neck.  When he got serious I sensed that he
was still trying hard to keep his passion under leash and encourage me to
remain calm.

	A futile task; his lovemaking was like a fire-stick and my edgy
desire provided all the starting fluid he required.  I moaned in both
misgiving and pleasure -- and that I could feel pleasure amid such a rush
of emotion astonished me.

	Rod's action caused my breath to quicken and my heart to beat in
wild staccato.  I felt as though his penis was growing longer and thicker,
filling me to capacity.  My nipples were so blood-charged that they hurt
when his chest bounced lightly against them.

	While Rod "took" me he was also caressing my haunches, sending
ripples up my spine as if it were a high-conductivity cable.  By putting
his hands under me, he raised my hips slightly, and I unconsciously shifted
my knees, allowing him better access into the steam-hot recesses of my
body.  His thighs slapped rhythmically against mine as they worked me over
and when I detached myself enough to think about it, I simply couldn't
believe what was happening.

	*How did you get from there to here, Aaron, my boy?*

	Rod's thrusts grew stronger as his primordial male drive crowded
out his genuine desire to be gentle.  My passion kept building and
building, wringing tears from my eyes and forcing me to cry out, even
though I hated "screamers."  It was like I feared that what was happening
to me would never happen again and that this one experience would have to
last a lifetime.  In that state of mind, I wanted nothing to be left to the
imagination, to have it, and know it, all.

	 My skin beaded with perspiration as the procedure continued.  It
seemed that Rod was purposely not climaxing, despite his inexperience, but
was trying instead to usher me into ever-higher states of excitement.  If
only this didn't have to be the only time. . . .

	As I lay there under him my body seemed to cast off all conscious
control, making me just a passenger in a runaway coach.  Then suddenly I
hit the exit-trough of a water-ride -- an incredible rush in which waves of
pleasure swept thorough me, their sharpness increasing with each repeated
surge, until I thought I was going to lose my mind.

	My legs reared up and locked around Rod's waist, my arms clenched
his neck; my breasts were flattened by the pressure of my body against him.
My skin had gone all prickly, and my insides seemed to blaze -- hot and
soft and oozy -- as though I were melting.  It was like I was not in bed,
but in another dimension of space and time, though I felt my nails dig into
his back and rake across his skin.  When he grunted I knew it was partly
from pain and partly from the pleasure.

	*Not bad for a couple of virgins.*

	In another instant we were both sharing simultaneous climaxes, a
sensation that charged not just my genitals but every atom of my being.
For the first time I understood what women were describing when they talked
about their orgasms.

	Rod had groaned and buried his face in my hair as his own spasms
overcame him.  Warm fluid gushed into my womb and I clasped his buttocks,
holding him flush lest any of it be spilled and I be less his than I longed
to be.

	Then it was all over, except for the afterglow.  Rod quieted and
became like dead weight upon me for a few seconds before he rolled to the
mattress at my side.  He did not release his hold on my body, though, nor
did I release my grasp on his.  Our ragged, wasted breathing, harsh at
first, gradually softened to light sighs as we lay entwined.  Rod 's breath
sounded sleepy, though his heart was beating wildly near my ear.

	Reluctantly, each of us took our turn in the bathroom, then
returned to bed.  Warmed by his nearness, my tears came in a silent flow as
I reflected on what I had done, what I had undergone.  My spring-like
innocence of the ways of Womanhood had been sacrificed, never to return.
It was summertime now; I was no longer a virgin field upon which the
pioneer only gazes with wistful dreams; I had been fenced, plowed, sewn.
But would I thereafter know a husbandman's kindly attentions for many years
to come, or would it be simply slash, burn, and move away?

	*Foul your nest and move West?*

	Rod fell asleep quickly and the last thing I remember was drawing
up the opposite sides of the bedspread to cover our damp, nude bodies, as
by the folding wings of a butterfly.

	#

	I slept until Rod's movements awakened me in the night.  I let him
think that I remained asleep while he got up and visited the bathroom.  So
much to think about; so many impressions to sort out.  I was suddenly
worried that Rod would hurt me when he came back, should he only realize
that I was awake.

	Not physically hurt me, of course, but I been rendered fragile.
What if Rod didn't really care about me beyond the physical experience?
Was it possible that he had set me up, had brought me along until I had
actually believed that what we had done had been my own idea?  One mocking
word, a single unkind sentiment and I would be burned like a match set to
tissue paper.

	Poor Allie.  How had she survived Buck's betrayal?  Could I be just
as brave and resilient?  Would it next be my turn to find out?  I wiped my
nose with the back of my hand.

	It was like I had felt the Midas touch and had turned into brittle
crystal.  One small act of insensitivity, one deprecating remark, one
suggestion that the experience we had shared had been only a physical thing
with him, and I would shatter into fragments.  But I didn't want silence
from him either.  I wanted -- more than anything else -- some word of
reassurance.  I needed some small expression to prove that Rod still
respected me, that something was still the same even though so much had
changed.

	And how I had been changed!  I had never worried about these sorts
of things before.  They had never been absent from my mind when I had been
a man, of course, but they had always lurked in the background.  They were
right up front now; that and so many things were becoming clearer to me.

	I realized that I hadn't made love because I wanted pleasure for
myself.  Just holding Rod's hand gave me pleasure, his hug was bliss, his
kiss sent me to Heaven.  What I had wanted was to impart to him some small
parting gift.  I had wanted to send some part of my being home with him.  I
had wanted to say, without the banality of words, that I understood that to
be loved is to be changed, that I trusted him and wasn't afraid to be
changed by him.  I wanted --

	Oh, I don't know what all I had wanted!  I had wanted the world; I
had wanted nothing.  I had wanted to take; I had wanted to give.

	Most of all, I had wanted to forge a bond of understanding which
would not break in the face of the strange alteration of form and role that
must overtake us when we returned to Earth.

	Rod was coming back and so I pretended to sleep.  He paused over
me, somehow knowing that I was playing possum.  He eased himself down
beside by my side and I could feel his moist cheek against mine.  When I
realized that he was going to speak, my breathing stopped.  What would he
say?  I feared that I might misconstrue almost any innocent word in my
foolish agitation and ruin something fine and beautiful.

	"Thank you," he whispered.

	I opened my eyes, saw his mild expression.  He had said 'thank
you.'  Simply 'thank you.'  He hadn't intoned them like "Thank you, I've
got to be going.  Maybe we'll run into each other again someday."  It was
more like, "Thank you for accepting me into your life, into your being.
Thank you for becoming a part of me, and letting me become a part of you."
They were exactly the words that I had most needed to hear.

	I nestled closer, my eyes hot and flowing with emotion.  We
clenched hands, impressing upon me again that his were so much larger and
stronger than mine.  I marveled at the gentleness with which they could
touch me when a man's strength could do such devastating harm.  Rod, still
smiling, was asleep in moments, but I lay awake for just a little longer.

	It was after midnight, I knew, and later today Rod would be gone --
not just from the prison, not just from the continent -- but from the
planet, from the entire universe.  I could search from pole to pole, ocean
to ocean, like Psyche seeking Eros, and never find him.  Rod would, in a
sense, have ceased to exist; not even a grave would be left behind for a
monument.

	I blinked away the dew filling my eyes.  I'd be left alone with my
girl friends, with the Rights Association, with the routine of my job -- if
I could manage to hold onto the latter with the management breathing down
my neck.  Could these little things fill up the vast canyon of emptiness
that Rod's absence would create?

	Did I really love him?

	Yes.

	Did I love him in that special way, that way which would forever
after leave me incomplete in myself?

	Well, maybe -- I didn't know for sure; I thought that only time
could prove what kind of love ours was.

	Did fashioning a lasting bond take a little longer than our brief
springtime on Tiresias had allowed?  Perhaps.  Possibly the seed which we
had planted on an alien world might be transplanted to Earth, but maybe
not.  Was this a kind of shipboard romance?  Could what we had nurtured
here, under a strange, star-lit sky of a bright, new, exotic planet survive
in the bleak, cold, decaying environment of Twenty-First Century America?
I could not say; I could only hope.

	What I did know was that loving Rod had changed me in some
important but indefinable way.  I might again be a man in nine month's
time, but I could never again be exactly the same man that I once had been.
I had become someone else, something else; I had taken the man whom I loved
into my bed and shared with him my entire being.  The old portrait of
myself had been painted over with fresh colors, ingenious new images.  It
might be repainted yet again by future experience, but the buried colors
would always remain an undercoating, unforgotten and unforgettable.

	Some changes are transitory, some are not, I recognized.  Living
transforms us in ways that only death may eradicate completely.

	-- Unless we are truly immortal in spirit, as I was reared to
believe.

	There had been a time when I had thought I could be master of my
emotions, that I could use reason to avoid the painful follies of others;
now I knew that that was impossible.  Likewise, there had been a time when
I had believed that I might stand along the sidelines of life upon
Tiresias, watching, learning, but not experiencing.  That, too, had proven
a dream.

	I was no longer sure of what I was, or what I was capable of being,
but I better appreciated my limitations, my humanity.  I knew I could not
go through life wearing detachment and cynicism for a suit of armor because
there was no iron in me.  My flesh was soft; my spirit compliant; if
injured, my blood would flow as freely as another's.  But worse than any
physical hurt might be the injury that a heart sustains; it was beyond my
power to care and yet not feel.

	I could not tread close to those things which are alluring and
sweet without, sometimes, becoming entrapped by them like the fly who steps
into a drop of honey.  I could not ride the vicissitude of life like some
fearless rodeo star.  No matter how desperate my hold upon the reins,
occasionally Life must throw me off.  And when I crashed to earth I will
lie there injured, blue with bruises

	When my fall comes, I hope that I would be able to struggle to my
feet under my own strength, or, in the absence of such strength, that I
have loving friends to help me rise.

	I had learned a little more about the man -- the person -- that
Aaron Carter was deep down.  -- I had learned that he cannot always be
brave, nor wise, nor always calm, aloof, and rational.  He could not always
be dignified.

	There would be times, I now knew, that I must revert to type, that
I could only be nothing more than I am -- that simple,
multifaceted-but-human-and-very-fallible creature which the inscrutable
gods of Tiresias have, for reasons of their own, decreed that I must be.

	A woman.


THE END?