Moonrise

Killifer thought it over briefly. “What the hell,” he said. “Why not?”

“Then you agree?”

“If you’ll come to di

She seemed to think it over with great care. At last Melissa said, “I’d be happy to have di

“Sure,” he said. “Just di

The North End of Boston had once been an Italian preserve, but over the decades it had evolved into Little Asia. Vietnamese, Malay, Thai, Indian and a dozen varieties of Chinese now occupied the narrow twisting streets where once a patriot had climbed the Old North Church bell tower to signal Paul Revere.

Over spicy Hunan platters Killifer found himself spi

“But why did you spend all those years in Moonbase,” Melissa asked sweetly, chopsticks held gracefully in her long slim fingers, “when you had such a promising career in nanotechnology?”

’Shedid it,” he growled. “Masterson’s widow. Then she married Stavenger. She stuck me in Moonbase.”

“But you could have resigned and come back to Earth, couldn’t you?”

He hadn’t intended to tell her about the nanobugs and Greg Masterson and Paul Stavenger’s murder. He had never intended to speak of that at all. But by the time di

“Greg Masterson murdered his stepfather?”

There was something in the way she said it that brought Killifer up short. Something in her voice.

“You know Greg Masterson?”

She nodded. In the harsh glare of the street lamp her face looked like frozen stone. “I knew him. Long ago.”

They walked in painful silence down to the waterfront, where the streets were emptier. And darker.

“My apartment’s up there.” Killifer pointed to an apartment block across the street from the piers.

“You must have a nice view,” Melissa said absently, sounding as if her thoughts were a quarter-million miles away.

“Come on up and see it,” he suggested, taking her by the arm.

She disengaged effortlessly. “No, Jack,” she said. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Come on,” he wheedled. “Just have a drink with me.”

With a smile that might have been sad, or perhaps pitying, Melissa said, “You don’t understand, Jack. I’m celibate.”

“You’re what?”

“I’ve been celibate since I met General O’Co

“Celibate?”

“It’s part of our creed.”

“You mean everybody I saw in your building…?”

She nodded.

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Believe it, Jack. Celibacy removes one of the great causes of pain in this life.”

“But… but you’re so beautiful! It’s a damned shame. A waste.”

Her eyes flared. “No, it’s not a waste. I know what pain can be caused by the attractions of sex. I was caught in that web, once, years ago. It led to nothing but pain and evil, drugs and self-destruction. I nearly killed myself before General O’Co

“General O’Co

“He, wasn’t the general then; he hadn’t even founded the Urban Corps yet. But he saved my life. He made me dedicate my life to the New Morality and all that it stands for.”

“And you’ve gotta be celibate?”

“It simplifies your life, Jack. It allows you to concentrate your energies on the things that really matter.”

“Still seems like a damned waste to me,” Killifer grumbled.

“No, Jack. It makes life so much easier. Cleaner. Come back to the office tomorrow, Jack. I want you to join us. We need your help.”

Killifer thought, Maybe this celibate crap is just her excuse. After all, we just met this afternoon. Give it time, she’ll pull her pants down sooner or later.

“Okay,” he said lightly. “See you tomorrow morning.”

“Nine sharp,” said Melissa.

“Right.”

He left her at the street corner and went into his apartment building. She didn’t seem to have the slightest fear of being alone on the dark street.

Ji

“Just what I said,” he replied calmly, his teeth clamped on his favorite briar pipe.

“You’ve got to submit your syllabus to a freakin’ committee?”

His studied composure irritated her. “It’s not as if this is the first time,” he said.

“But this committee’s got nothing to do with the university,” she said.

Her husband shrugged. “It’s a local citizens’ group. They call themselves the Moral Watchdogs or something like that.”

“Moral dipshits,” Anson ’muttered.

Her husband gave her a disapproving frown. He was obviously afraid his young daughters might hear her language, even though the door to their bedroom was firmly shut and the kids were down in the rec room watching video on their new wall-to-wall Windowall screen.

Quentin Westlake was a sweet, gentle professor of English literature at the University of Texas. It had taken him ten years to work his way from various outlying campuses in the vast hinterlands of the state to the main campus at Austin. Along the way he had married, fathered two daughters, and divorced when his first wife fell in love with an investment broker from Chicago.

Ji

It was a different kind of romance, with Ji

Their wedding was at the Alamo, as scheduled, with Quentin’s two daughters serving as bridesmaids and Joa

For nearly six months, now Ji

Now, as they were undressing for bed, Quentin told her about the new committee that would be reviewing his work. She knew he was concerned about it, despite his easy-going attitude. He wouldn’t have brought up the subject if it didn’t bother him.

“But what right does a self-appointed gaggle of uptight New Morality people have to pass judgment on your syllabus?” Ji

Quentin smiled wearily and rubbed the forefinger of his right hand against its thumb. “Money talks, sweetheart. Some of those committee members are among the biggest contributors to the university.”

“It’s an invasion of academic freedom!” Ji

“Sure it is,” he agreed amiably. “But what can I do about it? The Jews don’t like “The Merchant of Venice,” the Africans don’t like “Othello.” The Baptists say “Hamlet” is smutty and the feminists complain about “Macbeth,” for lord’s sake! What can I do?”