“Put the paperweight back on the desk.”

  He did. He sat.

  “But you can’t simply be crazy,” Havelmann continued. “There’s no reason why you should take me away from my home and subject me to this. This is some kind of plot. The government. The CIA.”

  “And you’re thirty-five years old?”

  Havelmann examined his hands again. “You’ve done something to me.”

  “And the camps? Administrative Order 31?”

  “If I’m the president, then why are you quizzing me here? Why can’t I remember a thing about it?”

  “Stop it. Stop it right now,” Evans said slowly. She heard her voice for the first time. It sounded more like that of an old man than Havelmann’s. “I can’t take any more lies. I swear that I’ll kill you. First it was the commander-in-chief routine, calisthenics, stiff upper lips and discipline. Then the big brother, let’s have a whiskey and talk it over, son. Yessir, Mr. President.” Havelmann stared at her. He was going to make her kill him, and she knew she wouldn’t be strong enough not to.

  “Now you can’t remember anything,” she said. “Your boys are confused, they’re fed up. I’m fed up, too.”

  “If this is true, you’ve got to help me!”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about helping you!” Evans shouted. “I’m interested in making you tell the truth. Don’t you realize that we’re dead? I don’t care about your feeble sense of what’s right and wrong; just tell me what’s keeping you going. Who do you think you’re going to impress? You think you’ve got an election to win? A place in history to protect? There isn’t going to be any more history! History ended last August!

  “So spare me the fantasy about the hospital and the nonexistent nurses’ station. Someone with Korsakov’s wouldn’t make up that story. He would recognize the difference between a window and a projection screen. A dozen other slips. You’re not a good enough actor.”

  Her hand trembled. The gun was heavy. Her voice trembled, too, and she despised herself for it. “Sometimes I think the only thing that’s kept me alive is knowing I had half a pack of cigarettes left. That and the desire to make you crawl.”

  The old man sat looking at the gun in her hand. “I was the president?”

  “No,” said Evans bitterly, “I made it all up.”

  His eyes seemed to sink farther back in the network of lines surrounding them.

  “I started a war?”

  Evans felt her heart race. “Stop lying! You sent the strike force; you ordered the pre-emptive launch.”

  “I’m old. How old am I?”

  “You know damn well how—” She stopped. She could hardly catch her breath. She felt a sharp pain in her breast. “You’re sixty-one.”

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

  The old man stared hollowly, then slowly, so slowly that at first it was not apparent what he was doing, he lowered his head into his hands and began to cry. His sobs were almost inaudible over the hissing of the radiation detector. Dr. Evans watched him intently. She rested her elbows on the desk, steadying the gun with both hands. Havelmann’s head shook in front of her. Despite his age, his gray hair was thick.

  After a moment Evans reached over and switched off the loudspeaker. The hissing stopped.

  Eventually Havelmann stopped crying. He raised his head. He looked dazed. His expression became unreadable. He looked at the doctor and the gun.

  “My name is Robert Havelmann,” he said. “Why are you pointing that gun at me?”

  “Please don’t,” said Evans.

  “Don’t what? Who are you?”

  Evans watched his face blur. Through her tears he looked like a much younger man. The gun drooped. She tried to lift it, but it was as if she were made of smoke—there was no substance to her, and it was all she could do to keep from dissipating, let alone kill anyone as clean and innocent as Robert Havelmann. He took the gun from her hand. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  DR. EVANS SAT in her office, hoping that it wasn’t going to be a bad day. The pain in her breast had not come that day, but she was out of cigarettes. She searched the desk on the odd chance that she might have missed a pack, even a single butt, in the corner of one of the drawers. No luck.

  She gave up and turned to face the window. The blinds were open, revealing the snow-covered field. She watched the clouds roll before the wind. It was dark. Winter. Nothing was alive.

  “It’s cold outside,” she whispered.

  There was a knock at the door. Dear God, leave me alone, she thought. Please leave me alone.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The door opened and an old man in a rumpled suit entered. “Dr. Evans? I’m Robert Havelmann. What did you want to talk about?”

  LISA GOLDSTEIN

  Tourists

  Lisa Goldstein’s fiction features motifs common to science fiction, including time travel, visits to exotic alien worlds, and future dystopia. In Goldstein’s hands, however, these elements are usually means to literary ends that are more properly categorized as magic realism, mythopoeic fiction, and contemporary fairy tales. She achieved instant recognition in 1982, when her first novel, The Red Magician, an allegorical treatment of the rise of Naziism and the holocaust, won the American Book Award. Her next two novels are her most conventional excursions into science fiction. The Dream Years forges a link between the surrealist art movement of the 1920s and the French countercultural movement in 1968, through the adventures of a time-traveling novelist who finds the two eras more similar than not. A Mask for the General is set in a future America under the rule of a dictatorial soldier and explores ideological and social differences that have shaped different factions in the revolutionary subculture. Tourists, expanded from the novella of the same name, gradually eases its characters into Amaz, an uncharted third world country that serves as the setting for some of Goldstein’s short fiction and runs on its own peculiar rules of logic. Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon presents the historical era just prior to the Enlightenment as one where fantasy and mythology are still accepted and thus regularly permeate daily life. Summer King, Winter Fool, set in a world where gods and mortals interact, is Goldstein’s most overt detour into high fantasy. Walking the Labyrinth, in which a young woman comes into her heritage as the descendant of stage magicians who practiced real magic, and Dark Cities Underground, which deploys the familiar theme of the breakdown between reality and the world of a literary fantasy, are both examples of Goldstein’s talent for conveying a sense of magic potential in the everyday through a slight, often imperceptible twist of ordinary events. Her short fiction has been collected in Daily Voices and Travellers in Magic.

  HE AWOKE FEELING cold. He had kicked the blankets off, and the air conditioning was on too high. Debbie—Where was she? It was still dark out.

  Confused, he pulled the blankets back and tried to go to sleep. Something was wrong. Debbie was gone, probably in the bathroom or downstairs getting a cup of coffee. And he was—he was on vacation, but where? Fully awake now, he sat up and tried to laugh. It was ridiculous. Imagine paying thousands of dollars for a vacation and then forgetting where you were. Greece? No, Greece was last year.

  He got up and opened the curtains. The ocean ten stories below was black as sleep, paling a little to the east—it had to be east—where the sun was coming up. He turned down the air conditioning—the soft hum stopped abruptly—and headed for the bathroom. “Debbie?” he said, tentatively. He was a little annoyed. “Debbie?”

  She was still missing after he had showered and shaved and dressed. “All right then,” he said aloud, mostly to hear the sound of his voice. “If you’re not coming I’ll go to breakfast without you.” She was probably out somewhere talking to the natives, laughing when she got a word wrong, though she had told him before they left that she had never studied a foreign language. She was good at languages, then—some people were. He remembered her saying in her soft Southern accent, “For goodness’ sake, Charles, why do you think people will understand you if you just talk to them louder? These people just don’t speak English.” And then she had taken over, pointing and laughing and looking through a phrasebook she had gotten somewhere. And they would get the best room, the choicest steak, the blanket the craftswoman had woven for her own family. Charles’s stock rose when he was with her, and he knew it. He hoped she would show up soon.

  Soft Muzak played in the corridor and followed him into the elevator as he went down to the coffee shop. He liked the coffee shop in the hotel, liked the fact that the waiters spoke English and knew what an omelet was. The past few days he had been keeping to the hotel more and more, lying out by the beach and finally just sitting by the hotel pool drinking margaritas. The people back at the office would judge the success of the vacation by what kind of tan he got. Debbie had fretted a little and then had told him she was taking the bus in to see the ruins. She had come back darker than he was, the blond hairs on her arm bleached almost white against her brown skin, full of stories about women on the bus carrying chickens and temples crumbling in the desert. She was wearing a silver bracelet inlaid with blue and green stones.

  When he paid the check he realized that he still didn’t know what country he was in. The first bill he took out of his wallet had a 5 on each corner and a picture of some kind of spiky flower. The ten had a view of the ocean, and the one, somewhat disturbingly, showed a fat coiled snake. There was what looked like an official seal on the back of all of them, but no writing. Illiterates, he thought. But he would remember soon enough, or Debbie would come back.

  Back in his room, changing into his swim trunks, he thought of his passport. Feeling like a detective who has just cracked the case he got his money belt out from under the mattress and unzipped it. His passport wasn’t there. His passport and his plane ticket were missing. The traveller’s checks were still there, useless to him without the passport as identification. Cold washed over him. He sat on the bed, his heart pounding.

  Think, he told himself. They’re somewhere else. They’ve got to be—who would steal the passport and not the traveller’s checks? Unless someone needed the passport to leave the country. But who knew where he had hidden it? No one but Debbie, who had laughed at him for his precautions, and the idea of Debbie stealing the passport was absurd. But where was she?

  All right, he thought. I’ve got to find the American consulate, work something out. . . . Luckily I just cashed a traveller’s check yesterday. I’ve been robbed, and Americans get robbed all the time. It’s no big thing. I have time. I’m paid up at the hotel till—till when?

  Annoyed, he realized he had forgotten that too. For the first time he wondered if there might be something wrong with him. Overwork, maybe. He would have to see someone about it when he got back to the States.

  He lifted the receiver and called downstairs. “Yes, sor?” the man at the desk said.

  “This is Room 1012,” Charles said. “I’ve forgotten—I was calling to check—How long is my reservation here?”

  There was a silence at the other end, a disapproving silence, Charles felt. Most of the guests had better manners than to forget the length of their stay. He wondered what the man’s reaction would be if he had asked what country he was in and felt something like hysteria rise within him. He fought it down.

  The man when he came back was carefully neutral. “You are booked through tonight, sor,” he said. “Do you wish to extend your stay?”

  “Uh—no,” Charles said. “Could you tell me—Where is the American consulate?”

  “We have no relations with your country, sor,” the man at the desk said.

  For a moment Charles did not understand what he meant. Then he asked, “Well, what about—the British consulate?”

  The man at the desk laughed and said nothing. Apparently he felt no need to clarify. As Charles tried to think of another question—Australian consulate? Canadian?—the man hung up.

  Charles stood up carefully. “All right,” he said to the empty room. “First things first.” He got his two suitcases out of the closet and went through them methodically. Debbie’s carrying case was still there and he went through that too. He checked under both mattresses, in the nightstand, in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Nothing. All right then. Debbie had stolen it, had to have. But why? And why didn’t she take her carrying case with her when she went?

  He wondered if she would show up back at the office. She had worked down the hall from him, one of the partners’ secretaries. He had asked her along for companionship, making it clear that there were no strings attached, that he was simply interested in not travelling alone. Sometimes this kind of relationship turned sexual and sometimes it didn’t. Last year, with Katya from accounting, it had. This year it hadn’t.

  There was still nothing to worry about, Charles thought, snapping the locks on the suitcases. Things like this probably happened all the time. He would get to the airport, where they would no doubt have records, a listing of his flight, and he would explain everything to them there. He checked his wallet for credit cards and found that they were still there. Good, he thought. Now we get to see if the advertisements are true. Accepted all over the world.

  He felt so confident that he decided to stay the extra day at the hotel. After all, he thought, I’ve paid for it. And maybe Debbie will come back. He threw his towel over his shoulder and went downstairs.

  The usual people were sitting out by the pool. Millie and Jean, the older women from Miami. The two newlyweds who had kept pretty much to themselves. The hitchhiker who was just passing through and who had been so entertaining that no one had had the heart to report him to the hotel management. Charles nodded to them and ordered his margarita from the bar before sitting down.

  Talk flowed around him. “Have you been to Djuzban yet?” Jean was saying to the retired couple who had just joined them at the pool. “We took the hotel tour yesterday. The marketplace is just fabulous. I bought this ring there—see it?” And she flashed silver and stones.

  “I hear the ruins are pretty good out in Djuzban,” the retired man said.

  “Oh, Harold,” his wife said. “Harold wants to climb every tower in the country.”

  “No, man, for ruins you gotta go to Zabla,” the hitchhiker said. “But the buses don’t go there—you gotta rent a car. It’s way the hell out in the desert, unspoiled, untouched. If your car breaks down you’re dead—ain’t nobody passing through that way for days.”

  Harold’s wife shuddered in the heat. “I just want to do some shopping before we go home,” she said. “I heard you can pick up bargains in leather in Qarnatl.”

  “All we saw in Qarnatl were natives trying to sell us decks of cards,” Jean said. She turned to Millie. “Remember? I don’t know why they thought Americans would be interested in their playing cards. They weren’t even the same as ours.”

  Charles sipped his margarita, listening to the exotic names flow around him. What if he told them the names meant nothing to him, nothing at all? But he was too embarrassed. There were appearances to keep up after all, the appearance of being a seasoned traveller, of knowing the ropes. He would find out soon enough, anyway.

  The day wore on. Charles had a margarita, then another. When the group around the pool broke up it seemed the most natural thing in the world to follow them into the hotel restaurant and order a steak, medium-rare. He was running low on cash, he noticed—he’d have to cash another traveller’s check in the morning.

  But in the morning when he awoke, cold sober, he knew immediately what he’d done. He reached for his wallet on the nightstand, fingers trembling a little. There was only a five with its bleak little picture of a shrub left. Well, he thought, feeling a little shaky. Maybe someone’s going to the airport today. Probably. The guys in the office aren’t going to believe this one.

  He packed up his two suitcases, leaving Debbie’s overnight bag for her in case she came back. Downstairs he headed automatically for the coffee shop before he remembered. Abruptly he felt his hunger grow worse. “Excuse me,” he said to the man at the desk. “How much—Do you know how much the taxi to the airport is?”

  “No speak English, sor,” the man said. He was small and dark, like most of the natives. His teeth were stained red.

  “You don’t—” Charles said, disgusted. “Why in God’s name would they hire someone who doesn’t speak English? How much,” he said slowly. “Taxi. Airport.” He heard his voice grow louder; apparently Debbie was right.

  The man shrugged. Another man joined them. Charles turned on him with relief. “How much is the taxi to the airport?”

  “Oh, taxi,” the man said, as though the matter were not very important. “Not so much, sor. Eight, nine. Maybe fifteen.”

  “Fifteen?” Charles said. He tried to remember the airport, remember how he’d gotten here. “Not five?” He held up five fingers.

  The second man laughed. “Oh no, sor,” he said. “Fifteen. Twenty.” He shrugged.

  Charles looked around in desperation. Hotel Tours, said the sign behind the front desk. Ruins. Free. “The ruins,” he said, pointing to the sign, wondering if either of the men could read. “Are they near the airport?” He could go to the ruins, maybe get a ride. . . .

  “Near?” the second man said. He shrugged again. “Maybe. Yes, I think so.”

  “How near?” Charles said.

  “Near,” the second man said. “Yes. Near enough.”

  Charles picked up the two suitcases and followed the line of tourists to the bus stop. See, he thought. Nothing to worry about, and you’re even getting a free ride to the airport. Those taxi drivers are thieves anyway.

  It was awkward maneuvering the suitcases up the stairs of the bus. “I’m going on to the airport,” Charles said to the driver, feeling the need to explain.

  “Of course, sor,” the driver said, shrugging as if to say that an American’s suitcases were no business of his. He added a word that Charles didn’t catch. Perhaps it was in another language.