And so went Marla's introduction to the fascinating world of data input. The group shared an afternoon break and at 1700 exactly—quitting time—shuffled to the lockers, changed back into street clothes, and retreated down the ladder.

Meko followed Marla out.

"So how did you do?" Meko asked.

"Okay, I guess," Marla answered. "I passed the test and went from there."

"Good. Do you think you'll like it?"

"Like it? It doesn't seem to be the type of work one likes or dislikes. I'll stick with it if that's what you mean."

"It doesn't really matter to me one way or another. I'm just making conversation. Anyway, you got your receipt, right?"

"That slip that printed out of the table?"

"Yes. Make sure you get that everyday."

"Yeah, I read the instructions. I just need to find the paymaster now."

"Just follow everybody else. We're all going to the same place."

In spite of Meko's insistence on impartiality, Marla felt a sort of mothering in her actions. Like Meko hoped Marla'd stick this one out and get her life together for a change. Sad, really; how could Marla support a friendship? Besides her new-found resolve, she'd deserted Saddle, murdered Charney, and accepted gifts from enemies. She was untrustworthy, shameful, and in turn felt the same way about the world and its inhabitants.

Meko descended the ladder first, using a unique click and stick rhythm to nimbly lower herself using mostly her arms since she only had the one leg. Once she'd landed on the floor, Marla descended and the two crossed the floor together to the ticket booth at the opposite end. An old man wearing a visor on his head and sleeve garters on his biceps dispensed cash at the window in exchange for the women's receipts. Meko and Marla joined the end of the line. Meko turned to Marla as they waited.

"So where are you from, exactly?" she asked.

"The Textile Planet."

"Ah, far, far away."

"And you?"

"Buxton."

Marla stared at Meko.

"Next," the paymaster called. Meko turned and handed him her receipt. Marla said, "Really?"

As Meko retreated from the booth, cash in hand, Marla stepped up with her receipt. Still flustered over Meko's answer, she forgot to count her cash and rushed off to catch up to her exiting boss. (Later that evening when she was in her room and counted up her money, she was astonished at the amount.)

"And what is Buxton like?" Marla called after Meko.

Meko stopped and turned. "It's clean, safe. Everyone is quite healthy and very well off. The air is breathable, the people charming and tactful. Education is free. It's a little crowded but food is in abundance."

Marla at her side now said, "Sounds perfect. Why'd you leave?"

"Well, I said the food was in abundance; I didn't say it was great."

"Ah." She pondered the inscrutable answer as they walked out of the building.

Meko hailed a passing donkey cart. "Catch a lift?" she said.

"No, I, uh..." Marla hesitated. "Walk. It's not far from here."

"Suit yourself. Will you be in tomorrow?"

"Why not?" Marla called. It felt strange that such a highly structured job situation like the one in the Library operated on the same day-by-day principle as the rest of Ansonia where no one knew who was on board that day until the morning bell rang. But it was Ansonia after all, and nothing here came as a surprise.

Marla trudged home pondering the oddball group she'd fallen in with. As she heated a can of Luxa¨ on her hot plate, she counted up the roll of money comprising her day's pay. Estimating the amount she'd have saved after a year, she added the number to her stash on hold by Ricketts & Co. It was a handsome sum. And now she knew someone from Buxton, an insider. Everything fell into place in one day. For the first time since Charney's murder slammed her in the face three months ago, Marla allowed a glimmer of optimism to enter her dank thoughts.

#

Library life moved smoothly, with Marla easily assimilating herself into the data group. Within a few days she knew everyone solidly and she could even tell the difference between Pit and Squee. She pretended the group members were her allies—bosom buddies in on her plans for the rest of her life. And not actually being actual bosom buddies, they'd never invade her privacy, or spy on her, or report on her, or somehow wreck things in any way. They didn't know her plans. They were her co-workers, all that and nothing more for the time being. She spent her time away from work alone on the banks of the moody river by her room. The ever present tent groups there beckoned but she had no deep desire to mingle deeply with anyone there anymore than she did with her intellectual friends in the Library.

The high conversations at break time, however, entertained her to no end. She'd never before enjoyed stimulation of this variety. Often the conversation was light, about the foibles of the workers' children—those that had them: Too Kay, Tiny, and Squee. Meko had a son, but she'd left him on Buxton with her parents so she could go and find fulfillment on Ansonia. Once every third or fourth workday, though, a hair got up somebody's butt. Squee or Pit or The Doc or Janto stewed to themselves about it for a while, building a volcanic situation. Come noontime the volcano would erupt and release its magma in full metamorphic glory—an astounding proclamation, controversial and a bit hard to digest. For the remainder of the break or day or even week in some illustrious cases, the statement would be tossed about in the air, batted back and forth between the inhabitants. Every aspect of the theory would be looked at and argued upon. Sometimes a consensus would be attained; often the arguments petered out from sheer exhaustion of the subject with no clear truths brought about.

These periodic eruptions served Marla well in her long exile. Ever since her accident, her mind remained unsettled. Regardless of the fact that she had regained her memory, she had not regained total mental health. Her disconnect concerned what she perceived to be her reactions to the pressures of the Mill. She had reacted incorrectly, following overly strong-willed instincts. Most people at some point in their lives accept that free will is a bit of a mirage. We are basically all the same—save psychopaths and wealthy people—and will react in the same way to like circumstances and stimuli. Free will is moot. We accept that in our more mature moments and in the contented state known as "being grown up."

Marla, however, discovered in her twisted way that free will was not moot at all. It was in fact a tool used against herself and others. Marla's free will was a flaw, a bad mark, a handicap. It was a dangerous weapon.

These ideas about free will had hit Marla hard as she lay in the hospital all those months ago. She had been so convinced that her work at the Mill was not only good but great because it was she who had done it. It was her drive and energy, her being that facilitated the work and brought the positive conclusions. What a blow to find out the truth. That the work was perhaps not good. That good was relative, and certainly not her alone doing it. Her free will had been used for evil ends by evil people. They knew her and knew how far she'd go, which was too far over the top. Sure she paid the price, but so did others. Ten million shots to the gut could never redress the pain suffered by the others. These things irked her and forced her into an internal downward spiral to a great nothingness called clinical self-loathing.

The discussions in the Library somehow helped her back to normalcy on at least one level. The conversations, highly theoretical, yet at the same time based in the everyday experience of her coworkers, opened a window to Marla's imprisoned thinking. Free will, she determined, was neither an asset nor a drawback. It simply was, moot or otherwise. Neither here nor there, human nature was not to be overcome or abandoned, praised or abhorred; it was just there.

One particular long-running discussion more than others brought about this conclusion. She often looked back with pleasure in the years that followed her release on this particular discourse. It opened Marla's eyes to causes and effects. She found it especially applicable to her. Where others find their higher plane through enlightenment, forgiveness of sin, or snuff movies, Marla discovered it through the winding conversation of this day.

It started thusly:

"The thing about men is, they're just so self-promoting," Squee said.

"Who are you talking about, specifically?" Pit asked.

"I'm not speaking specifically; I'm speaking generally. All of them, any one of them. Even the so called sensitive ones. They always speak of themselves first. No matter what you say to them or what story you tell, they put it in context of themselves first."

Janto jumped in. "You mean like with their stories? Like how they always top yours. If it's your birthday, it's their jubilee."

"Some women are that way, too," Tiny said.

"Not like men," Janto answered. "Check it out, next party."

"There are no parties on Ansonia."

"Okay, if say you go to one of those riverbank what you callem's soirees, then. Just stop in and listen a minute. Say a woman comes up to the group and says, 'Hi, how are you?' She won't even say her name. Not a man. Here he comes: 'Hey, how ya doin'? Gregor's the name.' And it's downhill from there. Ten minutes the whole group knows all about Gregor, why he's here, how great a worker he is, how he's gonna be gone in six months. He makes top dollar and 'won't be long and he'll be gone.' Meanwhile Ms. Forgotten what's her name is over there smiling and oohing at Gregor on cue. She could be the Dalai Lama and no one'd ever know."

"Well," Tiny said. "If she was the Dalai Lama, it would be fitting that no one knew it."

Everyone laughed except Marla who had no idea what the Dalai Lama was.

"It's called the Peacock Syndrome," The Doc said. Everyone stopped and looked at her.

"The what?" Too Kay said.

Tiny nodded slowly in a rocking sort of manner either in recognition of the affliction or with intense interest in what was to follow.

Lilya scratched at her outer left nostril with the nail of her pinky, disinterested and interested at the same time.

Squee and Pit waited quietly for an explanation with which to disagree.

Meko said, "Makes sense. They're so vain."

"There's a more complete explanation," The Doc said. There's a more complete explanation," The Doc said. She sat back comfortably into her lunch seat and launched a simple yet profound theory intertwining Darwinian theory with modern gender politics that kept the group bickering for the remainder of the break.

"That sounds like bullshit to me, The Doc," Squee said.

"It may very well be, and I'm not an anthropologist, but you must admit the evidence is compelling."

"It definitely sounds right to me," Pit said. "My husband never hesitates to brag about the slightest accomplishment. 'Honey, I finished the laundry, and Baby, does it shine.' Or, 'Dear, I finished the crossword—every single letter.' Meanwhile I go out, earn the bacon, fry it up in the pan, never let him forget he's a man, and I never say a thing."

"How about my guy, proud of every pustule on his body. I have to inspect every new pimple and admire it or he won't get to sleep at night." Janto said.

"My husband used to announce his morning turd every day. 'Man, that's art,' he'd say." Too Kay added.

All except Lilya laughed.

Meko said, "You are such male bashers. I don't know if all that's true, but I feel I must say something positive for the other half. Take my baby's father. He consistently scored the best pot around back in the day."

Everyone turned to her to see if she was signaling the end of the conversation with such an off-topic remark.

She did not rise in her seat, though—the usual signal ending the break. Instead a sly smile played about the mole on her face. She looked from one to the next to make sure everyone was following her and then she said, "I know it was the best, because I always heard about it through the entire first jay."

The place broke up and soon each person was jumping in to testify to the fact that men bragged too much. Only Lilya remained silent. She stood and began packing up her lunch accoutrements. The hilarity continued without her for a while until it was in fact time to return to work and the data machinery.

But Lilya didn't let the subject drop. Several lunchtimes and changes of conversation later, she brought the question up again.

"I'm not sure I agree with the initial premise, The Doc," she said.

A wedge of aged carlot and a glass of red wine sat on the table before The Doc. She was just about to cut a bit of cheese when she heard Lilya's statement. She held the knife in midair to respond.

"Premise?" The Doc said.

"That men boast because they're hardwired to draw attention to themselves. I'm not sure men boast more than women."

"Well, of course, that makes the argument somewhat unwinable, but it's a known fact..."

"You just think men are infallible," Pit interrupted.

"No, she's on a different plane," Squee said. "She thinks they have a right to boast, because women are inherently inferior."

"I absolutely do not think that!" Lilya turned to Squee. "I just haven't observed men bragging more than women."

"Well, I have," Janto stirred. "They consistently jump on lines, especially if the speaker is a woman. They..."

"Women do that, too," Lilya said. "Look to ourselves, here. Who can even ever fin..."

"Not like men," Meko affirmed. "Look at father and mother, brother and sister. Don't just look at husbands and pals."

"Yes," Tiny said. "Look at the whole picture. Not just your own life. It's not a statistically large enough sample, and you yourself have a certain personality that attracts or repels specific types. If you always see loudmouths, maybe that's because you are short of tongue."

"Or dim of wit," answered Lilya, staring at Janto. "Maybe women are too stupid to speak up."

"Maybe," The Doc said. "Perhaps women are inferior and have nothing with which to top men."

"Yes, and the passers of tests are the ones who define intelligence. Everything is relative," Pit said.

"Including a boast?" Lilya asked.

"Self-promotion is self-evident. You know it when you see it."

"Like pornography?"

"It's in the eye of the beholder."

"Yes, but the results are incontrovertible."

"What results?"

"Look at the boards of all the biggest firms in the system. Or the upper management. Mostly men."

"At this late date."

"That has to do with money."

"And self-promotion."

"And inheritance."

"Good point. If you're born into a wealthy family, you learn confidence early on. A serious support system goes a long way to developing a boastful demeanor."

"What about all those bootstrap stories?"

"Always men, aggressive, ruthless men."

"That's different than boastful."

"Bragging is just a benign form of ruthlessness."

"So how do we prove that men are peacocks by nature? We can't even determine if they're peacocks at all."

"Data Girl, you haven't weighed in on this yet. What do you think?"

Marla sat up; she'd just finished her bowl of strip soup and was slumped back in her chair listening, her head moving back and forth as each person tossed an idea in. She cleared her throat. "Me?"

"Yeah, what do you think? Are men boastful?"

"I don't have much experience with men, actually."

"We're not interested in the details of your sex life. Think of other men. You can't get away from them completely. They're everywhere, like roaches in a warm kitchen. What about coworkers?"

"Bosses, teachers, schoolmates?"

"Uh, well," Marla envisioned Charney and the black man. "I'm not sure I even observe any kind of long-term relation..."

"Coworkers, woman, coworkers!"

Then Marla thought of Parker, specifically the scene at the hospital. What was he doing there; they weren't friends.

"Yeah, they gloat when they win. If they don't win they whine. They cheat to get what they want when it's not deserved. Yeah, I guess they self-promote," she answered.

"Still not a statistically large enough sample," Squee said.

"Yeah, but it's a tie breaker here."

"And they lie," Marla added. Everyone stopped shuffling and looked at her.

"That has been proven," Meko said, looking around. "Remember the studies: women lie to keep from hurting others' feelings, men lie to gain something."

"Not quite the same as self-promoting, but maybe a tool in the belt."

"We're not arguing about whether or not men are inferior or evil," The Doc said. "We're arguing about whether or not there is such a thing as a Peacock Factor. Are men born boasting or do they learn it as an artifact of our culture?

"That's still not the question!" Lilya, the lover of men, shouted.

"Lilya, you're like an ostrich, you see what you want to see. Studies upon studies upon studies."

"What is a study? What is a study? They revert previous studies, that's all. We just need one more to disprove the one we don't like right now. Studies prove what the studier wants them to prove."

"Then look around you with an open mind. You prefer to not see the truth."

"Just because I'm outvoted does not make your truth truthful. Absolute truth cannot be determined by democracy."

"How about this:" Janto jumped on it. "If it looks like a rat, sounds like a rat, smells like a rat, it probably..."

"Is a rat," everyone finished the sentence for her.

"Men are not rodents," Lilya said quietly.

"Are you sure?"

"You're just arguing using clichés," Lilya said.

"Well we're certainly not getting anywhere if we can't lay even just one axiom down," The Doc said.

"Why do we need to get anywhere?" Lilya asked. "Why can't we just accept our differences?"

"Because truth sets you free."

"It doesn't seem to have done any of you all any good."

"Ah, are you admitting it is truth then?

"Never."

"Lilya, think of how you've met all your men. Do some simple research yourself. Starting today. Write down every first line every man says to you. If the line is usually a question, mark it with a dit. If it's a statement, mark it with a zed. At the end of a month, count up the dits and zeds and that'll show you whether your average man seeks knowledge or if he simply talks to hear himself talk."

"I'm not doing homework for you."

"We can't move on with this premise until we get an agreed upon axiom."

"I'm not playing your game."

"Then we stagnate and go back to discussing matters of less interest."

"Oh, so now I'm holding you back."

"In a sense, yes."

"We couldn't possibly discuss anything else?"

"I refuse to let it drop and will continue with my own prejudiced opinion unless someone can find a compelling argument to change my mind." The Doc said this. "I will preach one-sided sermons unless you all join in, and I will not enter into any subject other than whether men are peacocks by nature or by nurture.

"We either take steps to get a consensus with the first axiom, or I will not contribute to any lesser arguments, regardless of how interested I am in the subject. I'm that spiteful. Either Lilya conducts research on her own and convinces us she's right, or she believes in the axiom herself." The Doc sat back and folded her arms across her chest.

"Oh, forget it!" Lilya said. "I'm not spying on my boyfriends. Fine, you're right; men are peacocks even though women are more beautiful."

"No, Lilya, you are more beautiful; women in general are not, but that's a different argument, and I'm not budging since you are simply agreeing because you're lazy."

"I'm not lazy, I just prefer to do other things with my men than record their opening lines. It's always something to do with them, I agree. I agreed a long time ago, but that doesn't mean it's a fact."

"We're not looking for a fact here, just an incontrovertible axiom so we can move on with the geometry."

"Fine, you have it."

"I'm not convinced."

"The Doc!!!!" everyone shouted.

"Well, I want everyone to go around the room and tell me why they believe all men are peacocks deep down inside. After that we can move on."

"Next time," Meko said. "Lunch is over now."

Post morten

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