by Damon Knight
She nodded. “You were right about the pills, Maris. They make me sick. I got tired, I kept taking them . . Her hands rattled on the counter.
“And that was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?” He poured her a glass of water, watched her trying to drink, pushed a button under the counter. “Listen, I just called you a ride—when it comes, I want you to go to my place and go to bed.”
“But—”
“I won’t be home for hours. Catch some sleep and then you’ll be all right, right? This is my door lock.” He printed large numbers on a napkin. “Don’t lose this.”
She nodded, drank, stuffed the napkin up her sleeve. Drank some more, spilling it. “My mouth is numb.” An abrupt chirp of laughter escaped; she put up a shaky hand. “I—won’t lose it.”
Deep gold leaped beyond the doorway, sunlight on metal. “Your ride’s here.”
“Thank you, Maris.” The smile was crooked but very fond. She tacked toward the doorway.
She was still there when he came home, snoring gently in the bedroom in a knot of unmade blankets. He went silently out of the room, afraid to touch her, and sank into a leather-slung chair. Filled with rare and uneasy peace he dozed, while the starlit mist of the Pleiades’ nebulosity passed across the darkened sky toward morning.
“Maris, why didn’t you wake me up? You didn’t have to sleep in a chair all night.” Brandy stood before him wrestling with a towel, eyes puffy with sleep and hair flopping in sodden plumb-bobs from the shower. Her feet made small puddles on the braided rug.
“I didn’t mind. I don’t need much sleep.”
“That’s what I told you.”
“But I meant it. I never sleep more than three hours. You needed the rest, anyway.”
“I know . . . damn—” She gave up and wrapped the towel around her head. “You’re a fine guy, Maris.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
She blushed. “Glad you approve. Ugh, your rug—I got it all wet.” She disappeared into the bedroom.
Maris stretched unwillingly, stared up into ceiling beams bronzed with early sunlight. He sighed faintly. “You want some breakfast?”
“Sure, I’m starving! Oh, wait—” A wet head reappeared. “Let me make you breakfast? Wait for me.”
He sat watching as the apparition in silver-blue flightsuit ransacked his cupboards. “You’re kind of low on raw materials.”
“I know.” He brushed crumbs off the table. “I eat instant breakfasts and frozen dinners; I hate to cook.”
She made a face.
“Yeah, it gets pretty old after half a century . . . they’ve only had them on Oro for half a century. They don’t get any better, either.”
She stuck something into the oven. “I’m sorry I was so stupid about it.”
“About what?”
“About … a hundred years. I guess it scared me. I acted like a bitch.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did! I know I did.” She frowned.
“Okay, you did … I forgive you. When do we eat?”
They ate, sitting side by side.
“Cooking seems like an odd spacer’s hobby.” Maris scraped his plate appreciatively. “When can you cook on a ship?”
“Never. It’s all prepared and processed. So we can’t overeat. That’s why we love to eat and drink when we’re in port. But I can’t cook now either—no place. So it’s not really a hobby, I guess, any more. I learned how from my father, he loved to cook . . .” She inhaled, eyes closed.
“Is your mother dead?”
“No—” She looked startled. “She just doesn’t like to cook.”
“She wouldn’t have liked Glatte, either.” He scratched his crooked nose.
“Calicho—that’s my home, it’s seven light years up the cube from this corner of the Quadrangle—it’s … a pretty nice place. I guess Ntaka would call it ‘healthy,’ even . . . there’s lots of room, like space; that helps. Cold and not very rich, but they get along. My mother and father always shared their work . . . they have a farm.” She broke off more bread.
“What did they think about your becoming a spacer?”
“They never tried to stop me; but I don’t think they wanted me to. I guess when you’re so tied to the land it’s hard to imagine wanting to be so free. … It made them sad to lose me—it made me sad to lose them; but, I had to go. . . .”
Her mouth began to quiver suddenly. “You know, I’ll never get to see them again, I’ll never have time, our trips take so long, they’ll grow old and die. . . .” Tears dripped onto her plate. “And I miss my h-home—” Words dissolved into sobs, she clung to him in terror.
He rubbed her back helplessly, wordlessly, left unequipped to deal with loneliness by a hundred years alone.
“M-Maris, can I come and see you always, will you always, always be here when I need you, and be my friend?”
“Always . . .” He rocked her gently. “Come when you want, stay as long as you want, cook dinner if you want, I’ll always be here. . . .”
★
. . . Until the night, twenty-five years later, when they were suddenly clustered around him at the bar, hugging, badgering, laughing, the crew of the Who Got Her-709.
“Hi, Soldier!”
“Soldier, have we—”
“Look at this, Soldier—”
“What happened to—”
“Brandy?” he said stupidly. “Where’s Brandy?”
“Honestly, Soldier, you really never do forget a face, do you?”
“Ah-ha, I bet it’s not her face he remembers!”
“She was right with us.” Harkane peered easily over the heads around her. “Maybe she stopped off somewhere.”
“Maybe she’s caught a Tail already?”
Nilgiri was impressed. “She could if anybody could, the little rascal.”
Wynmet rolled her eyes.
“Oh, just send us the usual, Soldier. She’ll be along eventually. Come sit with us when she does.” Harkane waved a rainbow-tipped hand. “Come, sisters, gossip is not tasteful before we’ve had a drink.”
“That little rascal.”
Soldier began to pour drinks with singleminded precision, until he noticed that he had the wrong bottle. Cursing, he drank them himself, one by one.
“Hi, Maris.”
He pushed the tray away.
“Hi, Maris.” Fingers appeared in front of his face; he started. “Hey.”
“Brandy!”
Patrons along the bar turned to stare, turned away again.
“Brandy—”
“Well, sure; weren’t you expecting me? Everybody else is already here.”
“I know. I thought—I mean, they said . . . maybe you were out with somebody already,” trying to keep it light, “and—”
“Well, really, Maris, what do you take me for?” She was insulted. “I just wanted to wait till everybody else got settled, so I could have you to myself. Did you think I’d forget you? Unkind.” She hefted a bright mottled sack onto the bar. “Look, I brought you a present!” Pulling it open, she dumped heaping confusion onto the counter. “Books, tapes, buttons, all kinds of things to look at. You said you’d read out the library five times; so I collected everywhere, some of them should be new . . . Don’t you like them?”
“I . . .” he coughed, “I’m crazy about them! I’m—overwhelmed. Nobody ever brought me anything before. Thank you. Thanks very much. And welcome back to New Piraeus!”
“Glad to be back!” She stretched across the bar, hugged him, kissed his nose. She wore a new belt of metal inlaid with stones. “You’re just like I remembered.”
“You’re more beautiful.”
“Flatterer.” She beamed. Ashen hair fell to her breasts; angles had deepened on her face. The quicksilver eyes took all things in now without amazement. “I’m twenty-one today, you know.”
“No kidding? That calls for a celebration. Will you have brandy?”
“Do you still have some?” The eyes widened s
lightly. “Oh, yes! We should make it a tradition, as long as it lasts.”
He smiled contentedly. They drank to birthdays, and to stars. “Not very crowded tonight, is it?” Brandy glanced into the room, tying small knots in her hair. “Not like last time.”
“It comes and it goes. I’ve always got some fisherfolk, they’re heavy on tradition. … I gave up keeping track of ship schedules.”
“We don’t even believe our own; they never quite fit. We’re a month late here.”
“I know—happened to notice it. . . .” He closed a bent cover, laid the book flat. “So anyway, how did you like your first Quadrangle?”
“Beautiful—oh, Maris, if I start I’ll never finish, the City in the Clouds on Patris, the Freeport on Sanalareta . . . and the Pleiades . . . and the depths of night, ice and fire.” Her eyes burned through him toward infinity. “You can’t imagine—”
“So they tell me.”
She searched his face for bitterness, found none. He shook his head. “I’m a man and a cyborg; that’s two League rules against me that I can’t change—so why resent it? I enjoy the stories.” His mouth twitched up.
“Do you like poetry?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then—may I show you mine? I’m writing a cycle of poems about space, maybe someday I’ll have a book. I haven’t shown them to anybody else, but if you’d like—”
“I’d like it.”
“I’ll find them, then. Guess I should be joining the party, really, they’ll think I’m antisocial”—she winced—“and they’ll talk about me! It’s like a small town, we’re as bad as lubbers.”
He laughed. “Don’t—you’ll disillusion me. See you later. Uh . . . listen, do you want arrangements like before? For sleeping.”
“Use your place? Could I? I don’t want to put you out.”
“Hell, no. You’re welcome to it.”
“I’ll cook for you—”
“I bought some eggs.”
“It’s a deal! Enjoy your books.” She wove a path between the tables, nodding to sailor and spacer; he watched her laughing face merge and blur, caught occasional flashes of silver. Stuffing books into the sack, he set it against his shin behind the bar. And some time later, watched her go out with a Tail.
The morning of the thirteenth day he woke to find Brandy sleeping soundly in the pile of hairy cushions by the door. Curious, he glanced out into a water-gray field of fog. It was the first time she had come home before dawn. Home? Carefully he lifted her from the pillows; she sighed, arms found him, in her sleep she began to kiss his neck. He carried her to the bed and put her down softly, bent to . . . No. He turned away, left the room. He had slept with her only once. Twenty-five or three years ago, without words, she had told him they would not be lovers again. She kept the customs; a spacer never had the same man more than once.
In the kitchen he heated a frozen dinner, and ate alone.
“What’s that?” Brandy appeared beside him, mummified in a blanket. She dropped down on the cushions where he sat barefoot, drinking wine and ignoring the TD.
“Three-dimensional propaganda: the Oro Morning Mine Report. You’re up pretty early—it’s hardly noon.”
“I’m not sleepy.” She took a sip of his wine.
“Got in pretty early, too. Anything wrong?”
“No . . . just—nothing happening, you know. Ran out of parties, everybody’s pooped but me.” She cocked her head. “What is this, anyway … an inquisition? ‘Home awfully early, aren’t you—?’” She glared at him and burst into laughter.
“You’re crazy.” He grinned.
“Whatever happened to your couch?” She prodded cushions.
“It fell apart. It’s been twenty-five years, you know.”
“Oh. That’s too bad . . . Maris, may I read you my poems?” Suddenly serious, she produced a small, battered notebook from the folds of her blanket.
“Sure.” He leaned back, watching subtle transformations occur in her face. And felt them begin to occur in himself, growing pride and a tender possessiveness.
. . . Until, lost in darkness, we dance the silken star-song.
It was the final poem. “That’s ‘Genesis.’ It’s about the beginning of a flight . . . and a life.” Her eyes found the world again, found dark eyes quietly regarding her.
“‘Attired with stars we shall forever sit, triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.’” He glanced away, pulling the tassel of a cushion. “No . . . Milton, not Maris—I could never do that.” He looked back, in wonder. “They’re beautiful, you are beautiful. Make a book. Gifts are meant for giving, and you are gifted.”
Pleasure glowed in her cheeks. “You really think someone would want to read them?”
“Yes.” He nodded, searching for the words to tell her. “Nobody’s ever made me—see that way … as though I … go with you. Others would go, if they could. Home to the sky.”
She turned with him to the window; they were silent. After a time she moved closer, smiling. “Do you know what I’d like to do?”
“What?” He let out a long breath.
“See your home.” She set her notebook aside. “Let’s go for a walk in New Piraeus. I’ve never really seen it by day—the real part of it. I want to see its beauty up close, before it’s all gone. Can we go?”
He hesitated. “You sure you want to—?”
“Sure. Come on, lazy.” She gestured him up.
And he wondered again why she had come home early.
So on the last afternoon he took her out through the stone-paved winding streets, where small whitewashed houses pressed for footholds. They climbed narrow steps, panting, tasted the sea wind, bought fruit from a leathery smiling woman with a basket.
“Mmm—” Brandy licked juice from the crimson pith. “Who was that woman? She called you ‘Sojer,’ but I couldn’t understand the rest … I couldn’t even understand you! Is the dialect that slurred?”
He wiped his chin. “It’s getting worse all the time, with all the newcomers. But you get used to everything in the lower city. . . . An old acquaintance, I met her during the epidemic, she was sick.”
“Epidemic? What epidemic?”
“Oro Mines was importing workers—they started before your last visit, because of the bigger raw material demands. One of the new workers had some disease we didn’t; it killed about a third of New Piraeus.”
“Oh, my God—”
“That was about fifteen years ago . . . Oro’s labs synthesized a vaccine, eventually, and they repopulated the city. But they still don’t know what the disease was.”
“It’s like a trap, to live on a single world.”
“Most of us have to … it has its compensations.”
She finished her fruit, and changed the subject. “You helped take care of them, during the epidemic?”
He nodded. “I seemed to be immune, so—”
She patted his arm. “You are very good.”
He laughed; glanced away. “Very plastic would be more like it.”
“Don’t you ever get sick?”
“Almost never. I can’t even get very drunk. Someday I’ll probably wake up entirely plastic.”
“You’d still be very good.” They began to walk again. “What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Ah, Soldier, you’ve got a lady friend.’ She seemed pleased.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘That’s right.’” Smiling, he didn’t put his arm around her; his fingers kneaded emptiness.
“Well, I’m glad she was pleased … I don’t think most people have been.”
“Don’t look at them. Look out there.” He showed her the sea, muted greens and blues below the ivory jumble of the flat-roofed town. To the north and south mountains like rumpled cloth reached down to the shore.
“Oh, the sea—I’ve always loved the sea; at home we were surrounded by it, on an island. Space is like the sea, boundless, constant, constantly changing . . .”
Brandy blushed, frowned, sought the sea again. “I—think I’m getting tired. I guess I’ve seen enough.”
“Not much on up there but the new, anyway.” He took her hand and they started back down. “It’s just that we’re a rarity up this far.” A heavy man in a heavy caftan pushed past them; in his cold eyes Maris saw an alien wanton and her overaged Tail.
“They either leer, or they censure.” He felt her nails mark his flesh. “What’s their problem?”
“Jealousy . . . mortality. You threaten them, you spacers. Don’t you ever think about it? Free and beautiful immortals—”
“They know we aren’t immortal; we hardly live longer than anybody else.”
“They also know you come here from a voyage of twenty-five years looking hardly older than when you left. Maybe they don’t recognize you, but they know. And they’re twenty-five years older. . . . Why do you think they go around in sacks?”
“To look ugly. They must be dreadfully repressed.” She tossed her head sullenly.
“They are; but that’s not why. It’s because they want to hide the changes. And in their way to mimic you, who always look the same. They’ve done it since I can remember; you’re all they have to envy.”
She sighed. “I’ve heard on Elder they paint patterns on their skin, to hide the change. Ntaka called them ‘youth-fixing,’ didn’t he?” Anger faded, her eyes grew cool like the sea, gray-green. “Yes, I think about it . . . especially when we’re laughing at the lubbers, and their narrow lives. And all the poor panting awestruck Tails, sometimes they think they’re using us, but we’re always using them. . . . Sometimes I think we’re very cruel.”
“Very like a god—Silver Lady of the Moon.”
“You haven’t called me that since—that night … all night.” Her hand tightened painfully; he said nothing. “I guess they envy a cyborg for the same things. . . .”
“At least it’s easier to rationalize—and harder to imitate.” He shrugged. “We leave each other alone, for the most part.”
“And so we must wait for each other, we immortals. It’s still a beautiful town; I don’t care what they think.”
He sat, fingers catching in the twisted metal of his thick bracelet, listening to her voice weave patterns through the hiss of running water. Washing away the dirty looks—Absently he reread the third paragraph on the page for the eighth time; and the singing stopped. “Maris, do you have any—”
