Leo Frankowski

people crowding around them were wearing conventional
“store-bought” clothes.
    “I wish they
wouldn’t stare at us,” Patricia said.
    “Think of it as
a compliment, Patty. It’s part of a reeducation process for them. They don’t
understand what individual freedom really means yet.”
    “Well, couldn’t
we just print up pamphlets or something?”
    “We don’t have
the printing facilities, and anyway, it wouldn’t work. You have to sort of
absorb a life style through your skin.”
    “Well, first
chance I get, I’m going to cover a lot of mine up.”
    “Don’t you
dare!” Mona laughed. “We had a beautiful culture growing here, and
it’s in serious danger of being diluted. All of the long-time residents are
working hard to preserve it, and we need your help.”
    “What do you
mean, ‘all’? That bunch of individualists wouldn’t all agree on
anything.”
    “But they did.
They took a vote on it when we were on the road,” Mona said.
    “Vote?
How?”
    “The telephone,
of course.”
    Mama Guilespe’s cafe
had quadrupled in size, pouring out into the park. There was something of a
waiting line. After some
determined wheedling, Mona finally got close
enough to Mama Guilespe to attract her attention.
    “Eh! Mona! You
don’t come for two months.” Mama Guilespe bustled over to them wearing her
usual Italian peasant costume, an oversize coffeepot in her chubby fist. “Come on,
I got a table saved for you two.”
    “But all these
other people were ahead of us,” Patricia protested as Mama Guilespe pulled her
by the elbow through the crowd.
    “People,
schmeeple!” The girls were pushed bodily to an empty table. “We got so many
people I had to hire five of my countrywomen to help out.”
    “Hire?”
Patricia asked as steaming mugs of coffee appeared before them. “How?”
    “But these I
made myself for you.” Mama Guilespe was already heaping pastry in front of
them. “You still got a boyfriend, Patty?”
    “No,
but…”
    “Good. Such a nice boy I want you
should meet. Don’t go away.” Mama
Guilespe bustled off.
    “About this
individual-freedom thing you were talking about,” Patricia said.
    “Of
course!” Mona laughed. “You’re perfectly free to argue with Mama
Guilespe all you want.”
    “How, for God’s
sake?”
    “Well, if you’re
incapable of holding up your side of a conversation—”
    “Go to hell,
Mona. The last thing I need right now is another brainless muscle boy.”
    “Then you better
get your track shoes on. Here she comes again.”
    Patricia cringed as
Mama Guilespe hauled over a mildly protesting man.
    “Such a pretty
girl I find for you!” Mama Guilespe set a third cup of coffee on the table.
    “I’m… sorry if
I’ve caused you an inconvenience,” he said haltingly. He was tall, perhaps six one, with black hair graying at the temples.
    “What
inconvenience?” Mama Guilespe forced him into a chair. “Now you talk
nice to these girls.” She bustled away.
    “I’m afraid
it’s a little difficult to make such headway against Mama Guilespe.” He had a
neat mustache and incredibly clear blue eyes.
    “I know what
you mean,” Patricia said. It was nice to find someone who felt as awkward as
she did. “It’s sometimes difficult to demonstrate one’s
individuality.”
    “You’re so
right, especially around Mama Guilespe.” He wore a tan T-shirt and slacks that
showed off a remarkably well developed body.
    “You know,”
Patricia said, “I’m sure we’ve never met. I would have remembered—but I get the
darndest feeling
of deja vu about you.”
    “That was going
to be my next line.” He laughed.
    “You weren’t
one of the people we brought in on Winnie? Or one of the people we saw on the
road?”
    “Afraid
not,” he said. “I just came in from the west.”
    “Oh. We’ve been
mostly working east of here,” Patricia said.
    “Lady
Mona,” said the I/O unit next to the sugar bowl on the table,
“Nancy Spencer is scaling up her cloth factory and wants your advice on a few
things.”
    “Tell her I’ll be right over,”
Mona said. “It’s only a few doors from
here, Patty. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    When Mona left,
Patricia said, “I’m beginning to get the feeling that this is a
setup.”
    “It is. You
haven’t asked my name yet.”
    “Oh. I’m
Patricia Cambridge.”
    “I know. I’m
Martin Guibedo.”
    Patricia’s mouth hung
open, so Guibedo just talked on to give her a chance to recover.
“Heiny, he