This Perfect Day

"Don't worry," the young yellow-haired man said, smiling down at them with normal teeth as he screwed the container onto a flask, "one sip won't rot your brain." He was about twenty-five, with a short beard that was yellow too, and normal eyes and skin. A brown belt at his hips held a gun in a brown pocket; he wore a white cloth shirt without sleeves and tan cloth trousers patched with blue that ended at his knees. Putting the flask on a seat, he unfastened the front of his belt. "I'll get your coveralls," he said. "Catch your breath." He put the gun-belt with the flask and climbed over the side of the boat. A splash sounded and the boat swayed.

"At least they're not all like that other one," Chip said.

"He has a gun," Lilac said.

"But he left it here," Chip said. "If he were—sick, he would have been afraid to."

They lay silently hand in hand under the scratchy blankets, breathing deeply, looking at the clear blue sky.

The boat tilted and the young man climbed back aboard with their dripping coveralls. His hair, which hadn't been clipped in a long time, clung to his head in wet rings. "Feeling better?" he asked, smiling at them.

"Yes," they both said.

He shook the coveralls over the side of the boat. "I'm sorry I wasn't here in time to keep that lunky away from you," he said. "Most immigrants come from Eur, so I generally stay to the north. What we need are two boats, not one. Or a longer-range spotter."

"Are you a—policeman?" Chip asked.

"Me?" The young man smiled. "No," he said, "I'm with Immigrants' Assistance. That's an agency we've been generously allowed to set up, to help new immigrants get oriented. And get ashore without being drowned." He hung the coveralls over the boat's railing and pulled apart their clinging folds.

Chip raised himself on his elbows. "Does this happen often?" he asked.

"Stealing immigrants' boats is a popular local pastime," the young man said. "There are others that are even more fun."

Chip sat up, and Lilac sat up beside him. The young man faced them, pink sunlight gleaming on his side.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but you haven't come to any paradise. Four fifths of the island's population is descended from the families who were here before the Unification or who came here right after; they're inbred, ignorant, mean, self-satisfied—and they despise immigrants. 'Steelies,' they call us. Because of the bracelets. Even after we take them off."

He took his gun-belt from the seat and put it around his hips. "We call them 'lunkies,'" he said, fastening the belt's buckle. "Only don't ever say it out loud or you'll find five or six of them stamping on your ribs. That's another of their pastimes."

He looked at them again. "The island is run by a General Costanza," he said, "with the—"

"That's who took the boat!" they said. "Darren Costanza!"

"I doubt it," the young man said, smiling. "The General doesn't get up this early. Your lunky must have been pulling your leg."

Chip said, "The brother-hater!"

"General Costanza," the young man said, "has the Church and the Army behind him. There's very little freedom even for lunkies, and for us there's virtually none. We have to live in specified areas, 'Steelytowns,' and we can't step outside them without a good reason. We have to show identity cards to every lunky cop, and the only jobs we can get are the lowest, most back-breaking ones." He took up the flask. "Do you want some more of this?" he asked. "It's called 'whiskey.'"

Chip and Lilac shook their heads.

The young man unscrewed the container and poured amber liquid into it. "Let's see, what have I left out?" he said.

"We're not allowed to own land or weapons. I turn in my gun when I set foot on shore." He raised the container and looked at them. "Welcome to Liberty," he said, and drank.

They looked disheartenedly at each other, and at the young man.

"That's what they call it," he said. "Liberty."

"We thought they would welcome newcomers," Chip said. "To help keep the Family away."

The young man, screwing the container back onto the flask, said, "Nobody comes here except two or three immigrants a month. The last time the Family tried to treat the lunkies was back when there were five computers. Since Uni went into operation not one attempt has been made."

"Why not?" Lilac asked.

The young man looked at them. "Nobody knows," he said. "There are different theories. The lunkies think that either 'God' is protecting them or the Family is afraid of the Army, a bunch of drunken incapable louts. Immigrants think— well, some of them think that the island is so depleted that treating everyone on it simply isn't worth Uni's while."

"And others think—" Chip said.

The young man turned away and put the flask on a shelf below the boat's controls. He sat down on the seat and turned to face them. "Others," he said, "and I'm one of them, think that Uni is using the island, and the lunkies, and all the hidden islands all over the world."

"Using them?" Chip said, and Lilac said, "How?"

"As prisons for us," the young man said.