Now, she spoke to the kids who would never see this overcivilized room. The faces that she saw only in her imagination-the blackened eyes and bloodied mouths-seemed to relax as she spoke, then fade as if they were ghosts she had assuaged. Then, to faces leached by unaccustomed fear of their confidence, she spoke of the students they would never meet.
"They were dispossessed, you see, being weak; being only Citizens. You say that you are safe, being Taxpayers? Taxpayers you are; Taxpayers we are; and yet I tell you, when a government like that of Athens turns first upon its principles and then upon the people who still espouse them-as if ashamed before them-anyone can become the weak. And in that situation, one may only hope one has the strength to endure. If you take one thing from today's class, I suggest it be this: the Gedankenexperiment . . . Einstein's term, which translates as thought experiment . . . . Assume that you have become 'the weak.' What will you do now?"
Pause to draw a long, much-needed breath and meet the eyes that challenged hers.
"You're quite right, of course. The question cuts both ways. What would I do?"
She looked down into those faces and nodded, a minute bow of conclusion.
"I should hope to be equal to the ordeal."
For a moment, she stood, catching her breath, assembling her papers and stowing them in her bookbag. To her astonishment, the students cheered her as if she were Lilith. Their red, opened mouths reminded her of students in the first riot she had seen and how their mouths bled as they fell.
She forced a smile and a rueful, modest headshake. Then, with a last look around the wooden vaults of the old theater, she slipped out a side door. Memories died as quickly as the echoes of old applause. She wondered who would forget first: her students or the kids from the Welfare Districts.
It took all the strength she had to leave Mem Hall and begin her usual leisurely stroll toward the Yard and her study in Widener Library.
"Professor Baker?" Outsiders, then, not to use a social title. They didn't call her "doctor" either: that would be reserved for medical types. So it was the rest home, was it? And so soon! She turned and eyed the two men and one woman as she might size up freshmen. Their tailoring was good enough to let them pass for Taxpayers, yet loose enough to let them move freely. She wondered if she could outrun them; she was certain it wasn't worth trying.
She inclined her head, then continued on her way.
"Could we talk with you?"
"I have office hours in the Library."
"We would prefer someplace more private."
She kept on walking. Quick steps sounded behind her and someone laid a hand on her arm. Wyn spun around, the arm holding her bookbag coming up in pathetic defense.
Two students strolled past. More emerged from the iron and brick gates that opened into the yard. Could she appeal to them?
The woman in the group had a hand in her breast pocket. Wyn wondered if she would produce sedatives or a weapon.
"Not here," she said. "And not in front of them." She gestured with her chin at her students.
They nodded, relaxing visibly that she was proving reasonable. That should be in her favor at a sanity hearing.
"This way," said the man in the lead. His voice held the deliberately soothing tones of a psychiatrist, though Wyn had never met a shrink who moved as if he did katas every morning. He took her arm-just a friendly meeting, wasn't this; and smile for the innocent kids, why don't you?
Past the Science Center. Past Mem Hall again. Past the dreadful ersatz Georgian of the Fire Station and onto the street. A white van, bare of logo, idled. Psicops indeed, Wyn thought. As well announce in the Freshman Union that she had run mad. The door was opened for her.
"I suppose," she said cautiously, "there is no point in talking you out of this?"
"Please get in."
No students were on the street. Wyn spun on her heel, preparing to run into the street, to shout; but the hand was on her arm again, urging her toward the car. And a lifetime of civility, of restraint blunted her willingness to make the scene that might have saved her. We are the weak.
The door whined shut. There was no release mechanism on her side of the vehicle. The car rose on its hoverpads and sped down Cambridge Street, out of the city, beyond Boston into the manicured exurbs where only the wealthiest Taxpayers lived. No one spoke to her.
"Damn!" the exclamation forced a grunt of surprise from the man who sat beside her as lights and sirens erupted behind them.
"Why dint y'stay inna the speed limit?" he slurred as he hit his chin on the plexiglass dividing driver from passengers.
"I did!" protested the driver.
"Keep on going."
"You keep going, Taxpayer," the driver snapped. "It's not your license they'll lift; and then what do I have? A quick trip to a Welfare District?" He pulled over.
A prowl car pulled up. "You have custody of Professor Winthrop Baker? This warrant authorizes us to demand her release."
A flood of warmth, of gratitude, washed over her. Bless her lawyer and his timing!
"That's not a good idea," replied the psychiatrist. "She needs medical intervention . . ." His voice, so assured when dealing with Wyn, trailed off as he saw the sonic shockers that the newcomers held. Now he was "the weak." She wondered what punishment he would face.
He took the papers, leafed through them, and exclaimed before he could control himself. "But we . . ."
"Apparently, someone had second thoughts about security."
The psychiatrist eyed Wyn. "For her?"
Both men shrugged. "Whatever else you can say, he's thorough."
The man from the prowl car gestured at Wyn. "Out." The door opened. Wyn slid out. Her bookbag lay on the seat. When she bent to retrieve it, someone waved a shocker at her.
"Let her have it." Wyn seized its strap before anyone could countermand that.
"Whatever she's got in there, she'll need it where she's going."
The prowl car pulled round. Now Wyn could see the panel on its door. Bureau of Relocation.
She had been outplotted and outfoxed. Her fingers rose to her throat, tightening convulsively on her poli code that would call out to a force of her own choosing.
"Cancelled. Get in." The absence of even a pretense of civility chilled her. Dispossessed and disenfranchised like her students. And now she would learn what they had endured. She heard an appalled whimper, flushed with fear and shame, and began desperately to run . . . .
A wave of sound rolled after her and struck her down.
Antiseptic and old pain were in the air. Wyn turned her head on what felt like a paper sheet on a too-worn mattress. I am not going to ask "where am I?" she vowed. She knew she was someplace medical: had to be, seeing that her last memory was of taking a sonic shock.
You have been to the wars, haven't you? she asked herself, astonished.
She determined to sit up and was astonished at how weak she felt. What felt like the grandmother of all migraines glittered and stabbed in her eyes.
"Coming around?" asked a man in a white coat so worn that even the red staff and crossed serpents of his profession were frayed. RYAN said the badge on the coat. His eyes were blue, and his hair was graying. His face bore the reddish patches of skin cancers, cost-effectively (if not aesthetically) removed. To her surprise, Wyn heard a South Boston accent. A contract physician? He was a long way from home. The tones were efficiently kind and blessedly familiar. She felt her eyes fill as he propped her up and handed her a disposable cup.
"As soon as you can think straight, I have to talk to you. There's not much time."