Robyn's Egg (22 page)

He sat beside Robyn and tugged her tight to his side. Robyn buried her face in his chest and clung on. Her sobs shook him. Her cries were smothered by his shirt. Inside, Moyer was conflicted. The specter of becoming a father had been lifted off him. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready. But instead of feeling relieved, he felt guilty. What seemed like good news for him crushed Robyn. Her biggest desire had been ripped from her. “What happened?” he asked.

She said something he couldn’t make out. He pressed her away from him. She refused to make eye contact. Through the hics of her sobs, she managed to get out, “I flunked my psych eval. Someone else is getting our baby.”

“What?”

“The doctor said I’d need at least twenty weeks of counseling. By then it will be too late. It’s all my fault.”

Moyer stroked her hair and let her cry. Half an hour later she was spent and asleep against Moyer’s chest. Moyer lifted her off the sofa and carried her to bed. While part of him was relieved, of not having to worry whether he would become as feckless a parent as his father, he couldn’t bear watching Robyn have her dreams crushed.

Saturday, 24 March

Robyn picked at her granola, her eyes and nose still pink from the night before. Moyer headed for the door with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. “Where are you going so early?” she asked.

“I thought I’d sell off some of my old books. I’ve read them all.”

Robyn crinkled her nose in concern. “Are you going to make it to church?”

Moyer slumped and let out a sigh trying to sell Robyn on his disappointment. “Not this time. Please make my apologies to your parents.”

“My father isn’t going to be happy.”

“Is he ever?” Moyer said. Inwardly he was overjoyed at the prospect of escaping Jack’s scrutiny and backhanded remarks. It was as if 500 kilos of dread had been lifted off his chest.

“Is this going to be dangerous? I don’t know if my father’s connections run deep enough to get you out if you are caught with contraband or selling on the black market. And you know he’d never let you live it down.”

“I know someone who will pay top price and there won’t be any trouble. I promise. I’ve worked with him before.”

Robyn didn’t look convinced. Her final words were, “Be careful and don’t get caught.”

Robyn’s paranoia infected Moyer. He’d traded books before and never worried much about it. Now he imagined the eyes of strangers fixed on him and the sack slung over his shoulder as he trudged to the tube. The sack set him apart and attracted attention — perhaps too much attention.

As he approached the station entrance, he had second thoughts. Thousands would be riding the tube, dozens in his car. Most would be hooked into the net and oblivious, but all it took was one curious rider to land Moyer in prison. And then there was the added scrutiny associated with working on the Worm. Petro and Berman had both hinted that he was being watched.

He turned away and tried to come to grips with the walk ahead of him if he didn’t ride the tube. It was ten kilometers to Dubay Station, a few minutes on the tube, over two hours on foot. At least it was daylight, and a sunny, unseasonably warm spring day. And his route was through a good part of town.

Tyler Higsby had always been fair with Moyer. The man loved books. He treasured the written word and the engagement of imagination, the heft of them, and the aroma. It wasn’t uncommon for Moyer and Higsby to spend hours discussing favorite books after their transactions were done. It was more than sales to Higsby. The man would swoon when he saw what Moyer had in his sack.

Moyer had barely started and already the book-laden sack was cutting a groove into his shoulder. Traffic on surface streets was sparse. Not many people walked outside anymore, even in professional housing, safe as it was. This was good news to Moyer. It meant he was less likely to bump into someone, less likely someone might think his presence was suspicious. Though the more he thought on it, the more it seemed that with no one on the streets, the more curious his trek might appear. Would someone become concerned and put in a call to Security Services? Perhaps avoiding the tube was a mistake.

He remembered when his father once took him to the Independence Day fireworks display. He towed Moyer through the crowd by the hand, through side streets crowded with middle class families hoping for a view, and led him toward the grandstands in Freedom Circle reserved for politicians, officials, corporate executives, and the influential. “Act as if you belong and no one will question us,” he’d said.

He was right. They found a pair of open seats right at the front and viewed the entire show unobstructed, and no one stopped them or said a thing. It was magic. For a day he’d been one of the elite. Perhaps that was the key, not giving off the cues that made people question. In his father’s words,
act as if you belong
.

A few kilometers further along, as sweat rolled down Moyer’s back, being caught no longer seemed important. He’d drifted into a dull stupor, the rhythm of his marching fell in unison with his breathing, the pain in his shoulder and arm from the weight of the books crested in regular intervals begging for a shift of sides. He kept his thoughts positive, imagining Robyn’s surprise at the gift he planned for her and trudged on.

By the time he reached the GunningBuilding, both shoulders ached and his arms were rubbery and sapped of strength. He rested the sack next to the door and pressed the button to Higsby’s apartment and waited. When no one answered, Moyer wondered if he was home. Perhaps like Robyn, he’d gone to church, though Higsby struck Moyer as a Speed-Pass man. Still, he hadn’t considered when he’d left home that Higsby might be out.

He looked at the sack and tried to decide whether he’d bother to carry them back. A part of him refused to leave something so valuable behind, though the throbbing pain in his shoulders signaled he might not have a choice.

A voice barked from the speaker and startled him. “Who is it?”

Moyer huffed a sigh of relief and wrapped the end of the sack around his hand. “Moyer Winfield bearing gifts.” The door buzzed and the latch clunked open. Moyer dragged the sack to the elevator and pressed seven.

From the entrance, Tyler Higsby’s apartment appeared as regular as any other. The furnishings were unremarkable and sterile. No real personal touches had been added as if Higsby didn’t care, couldn’t afford them, or wasn’t home enough for them to matter. He was neat for a bachelor. It wasn’t until someone happened into his spare bedroom that his passion became apparent. Floor to ceiling book shelves lined all four walls, the shelves filled to sagging. Piles of books covered every horizontal surface. The room was redolent with the mildewy aroma of history and preserved imagination.

Higsby was a slight man with a shock of unruly white hair and wide-set eyes that seemed incapable of focusing on anything. He sat on the arm of a wingback chair amid the book stacks and nodded toward the bag hanging from Moyer’s arm. “What have you got for me?”

Moyer slid the load from his shoulder and set it on the floor. He pulled a title from the bag and handed it to Higsby with a grin. Higsby stared at the cover. “
East of Eden
, very nice, but I have one.”

“Not a first edition and not in this condition,” Moyer said. Higsby turned the book in his hands and inspected the spine. He opened the cover and then performed a glissando through the pages. “A collector would pay top price,” Moyer said.

Higsby nodded. “Are you here to trade or sell?”

“Sell,” Moyer said. Higsby’s brows rose though his eyes never left the book. It marked the first time Moyer had ever opted to sell. From Higsby’s fascination, Moyer knew the book was destined for Higsby’s personal collection. This gave him a leg up in the negotiation.

“How much do you want for it?”

“I’ve done some research. In this condition, it should fetch 2,000 credits.”

Higsby frowned. “Yes but you need to leave a little meat on the bone so I can make a profit as well. And I bear all the risk. Seven hundred.”

“We both know this isn’t going to be sold. You have been fair with me in the past,” Moyer said, “1,300, firm.”

Higsby grimaced and held the book at arm’s length as if it reeked. He looked it over again and opened it to the first page. His eyes scanned the first lines. “I don’t know if I like doing business with you, Moyer. You know me too well. It’s a deal.” He set the book down and settled his eyes on Moyer’s sack. “What else do you have?”

Moyer slid a slender book from his pillowcase. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. It was a shame he was only able to read it once. He handed the book to Higsby with the cover turned down to see his reaction when he turned it over and realized what he had.

Higsby’s eyes widened when he saw the title. His mouth dropped open. The book quivered in his hands. For a moment he couldn’t speak.

“This is banned!” he sputtered.

Moyer’s hopes sank. He had planned to buy Robyn a gift, and those hopes rested on the sale of this book and one other. He hadn’t anticipated Higsby’s reaction, hadn’t thought Higsby would shy away from any book let alone one so rare. Yet the man was clearly afraid and practically in shock.

“Do you know what would happen to me if this was found in my possession? Do you have any idea?” Moyer reached to take the book back and Higsby jerked it away. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it.” He cracked it open and read the first line aloud. He glanced at Moyer, his eyes wide with excitement. “
1984
! My God, I’ve never seen one of these. I was beginning to think I never would. Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.”

“From who?”

“I don’t think it would be prudent to bring names into this. Let’s just say it was a friend.”

“You have very generous friends.”

“Are you interested?” Moyer asked.

“Yes, yes. How much were you thinking?”

“It is very rare.”

“And banned,” Higsby reminded. “That will shrink the pool of buyers. Not many of my customers will take on that kind of risk.”

“What about 25,000 then,” Moyer said.

“Done!”

Moyer was surprised by the lack of dickering. He wondered how high the price might have gone if he’d started much higher. He pulled another book from his bag, the last of his big hitters,
The Winter of Our Discontent
.

Higsby eagerly took it from Moyer’s hands and thumbed through the pages. A smile spread across his face. It was rare, and it was pristine. “Your generous friend again?”

Moyer nodded. He decided on different tack this time. “How much will you give me for it?”

“Fifteen hundred,” Higsby offered.

It was five hundred more than Moyer would have asked. “Seventeen,” he countered.

Higsby kept reading and nodded agreement. Moyer smiled. He had more than he needed. The extra money would go into savings. For a moment he thought of keeping the rest of his books. Then he pictured the ten kilometer walk carrying them home and let the lot of them go for two thousand more.

Moyer left Higsby’s apartment overjoyed. He’d never seen Higsby happier, either. He started for the tube at Dubay Station, and blanked his mind. He didn’t need anyone who might infiltrate his net-chip picking up on the fact that he had come into a great deal of money. He had one more destination in mind, into Labor Housing to visit someone who worked at the Department of County Records. With any luck, if Robyn and her folks were chatty, and no one mugged him in Labor Housing, he would be home before Robyn with her surprise in hand.

Robyn arrived home mid-afternoon in a sunny mood. The time with her parents had been pleasant absent the specter of mediating tensions between her father and Moyer.

The apartment was silent when she entered and she started worrying about Moyer until she spotted the pillowcase he’d used as a sack sitting on the table. She called out his name. He emerged from the kitchen wearing a tentative expression he often greeted her with, as if divining her mood before making a misstep. It drove her mad.

His lips slowly lifted into a grin as he moved to the table. “I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Her eyes shifted to the sack. The outline of something thin and rectangular showed through the fabric. He had to know by now she didn’t care for books, and detested the additional risk of having them in the house. Few of Moyer’s books were banned and he took precautions to conceal those that were; however, Security Services considered anyone who possessed books suspicious.

Though not all readers were dissidents, it was well known that most dissidents read, and in fact, revered books. Owning them was enough cause to be watch-listed. And being listed brought with it additional scrutiny and net monitoring. Her good mood soured. She didn’t appreciate Moyer’s brand of surprises.

He pulled the book from the sack. His eyes gleamed with expectation, expectation Robyn resented because she could not feel the joy over a book that Moyer hoped for. Only it wasn’t a book. It was a picture frame with the manufacturer’s packaging displayed inside.

Moyer handed it to her, his excitement palpable. The frame was plain and black, the type of thing people used to display college diplomas. In fact, the manufacturer’s packaging had the appearance of a formal certificate, a product suggestion to show customers it was properly sized for such use.

“Read it,” Moyer said, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Was she missing something? There was no reason to be so excited over a stupid picture frame. She examined the stiles and the packaging. The first thing that struck her was her name printed in large letters across the sheet inside the frame.
What was it?
Her eyes drifted up to the words above her name. At first she thought she’d misread it. When she read it again, her jaw fell slack from the shock. Tears welled up in her eyes. Phlegm filled her throat.

Then it struck her that the document was a fraud and her elation crashed to the ground. “It’s not real,” she choked out. “It’s a trick, a dirty, mean trick. How could you play with my hopes that way, Moyer?”