The woman shrugged. As always, she could only develop some kind of vague, abstract notion from his words. She nodded.
"Well, when I heard about the new homesteader colonies on Triton, I thought I had the answer. To begin totally from scratch. To build close relationships, free of this crap. But when it came time to select a crew I knew I was up against the same old problem. Selection implies judgment, after all. I talked to so many people . . . and they all seemed OK. Tem and Jana have needed skills ... I wanted you because of your expertise, too. When you said you could provide me with bootlegged DR software, that clinched it. But somehow Brendan, Vana, Harmon, and Demogorgon came all jumbled up together with you. Really, the only nonjudgmental choice I made was Aksinia!"
Ariane sighed. "Look, it's not like we seek out our friends on purpose. Vana was my next-door neighbor in Montevideo. I picked Brendan up at a boxing match!" She grinned wryly. "I took him for a slab of meat . . . and when I found out what was packed inside that ugly head I kept him, much to everyone's dismay. Vana met Harmon at a party, I think. . . . Demogorgon originally sought out Brendan for some technical assistance with his Illimitor art. If that's not random, nothing is!"
"Hell, I know all this. If you're just considering the people, the choice between them makes no difference. You brought with you the very thing I was trying to get away from: your neurotic relationships!"
Ariane restrained her anger. "Right. And you brought Beth along because she just happened to be around. . . . What you're saying is hypocritical."
"Beth and I ... well, I was wrong. I thought we wouldevolve into a model relationship. Instead, she can't get over her fear of intimacy."
"By 'intimacy' you mean submitting herself to your will?"
"Come on! What I wanted to say is that you're the crux of this whole thing. The love relationships focus on you."
"You're wrong. Brendan's the focus."
"But Brendan came because of you! If you can believe anything he says."
"I think you're judging poor Brendan entirely too harshly." John laughed. "'Poor Brendan . . .' indeed. Dammit . . . we have to survive. If he goes lunging madly around, this colony is going to fail. We could all die. . . ."
There was a short silence. "I know," said Ariane. "Maybe you won't understand this, but . . . I've thought about it. A lot. He seems like a dangerous animal, doesn't he? Like some kind of awful monster that ought to be locked up." She straightened up, looking into his face. "But there's something in there, somewhere . . .
"I didn't really come out here for myself, you know. Oh, I remember what I said, about all my mystical feeling toward space travel and the future of humanity. Sure. Those things are true enough. . . . But I didn't have to leave Earth for that. I was comfortable. Most of the time, I was even happy! How many people can say that?" She grinned at him. "Maybe I came out here to save Brendan. He deserves a right to fight off his demons, to live out his dreams in some fashion. Maybe he's the only person I ever met who did deserve a second chance. He was dying back there among the masses, living to gratify the things that kept him unchanging. . . . Out here, maybe he can at least fight his way free of that." Her eyes seemed bright, wistful.
"You're right. I don't understand."
"Maybe I don't either. Maybe I came out here so I could understand. . . ." She laughed, odd and hollow-sounding.
"More than anything else," John said, "Brendan seems to be willfully blocking any attempts we might make to reconcile ourselves. We've got to help these people live with one another." Ariane said, "I guess I agree with you."
"It's not just our personal survival at stake. This colony is supposed to last, even if no one ever comes to join us. I've put off bringing the first foeti out of the deep freeze; this is just the beginning. . . ."
"And it all doesn't seem very likely, does it?"
As he half listened to Ariane and John talk, Demogorgon disengaged himself from Shipnet entirely. He thought of losing himself once again in the Illimitor World, but the idea was unappealing. Most of all, he wanted Brendan—and Brendan wasn't in there. He'd tried once to make a version of him in Arhos , but it hadn't worked. The body was the same, yes, and equally thrilling, but its behavior, subtle as it was, somehow gave it away as a mere simulacrum, and a pale one at that. You could make him coarse and abusive and that is what he would be. Make him sensitive, and that aspect of Brendan would dutifully display itself. . . . The only one who could've put a real Brendan in the Illimitor World was Sealock himself, and he just laughed at the suggestion, never responding.
Listening to the others talk about Brendan made him want to laugh. Monster, monster in the sky . . . He suppressed a giggle, then sobered quickly. Their perceptions seemed confused. Cornwell was mostly interested in the content of his own ideas, and ideological egocentrism was always a good excuse, but why were Ariane's notions so different from his own?
His attention drifted away from them, thinking about his recent exchange with Sealock. Some sort of change will have to come over me, and soon. He noticed the first sensations of a developing erection and his lips twisted into a derisive smile. Some deep-thinking artist I am! What should I do, sit here and jerk off at the ceiling? He wanted to feel amused, but the thought made him angry, bringing unreasoning tears to his eyes.
Out of nowhere, Beth's hand was resting gently on his collarbone. She was looking at him with a kind of concern. "What's the matter?"
"It's . . . nothing."
She touched his face lightly and her fingers came away wet. "This doesn't look like nothing to me." He looked away from her, out the window, then said, "What's always the matter, then?" She sat down beside him on the edge of the chair. "I know. It's tough. You and Brendan. Harmon and Vana. Me and John. Even . . . even Brendan and Ariane. We always want what's out of reach, don't we?" Suddenly she reached down and, splitting the material of his garment, seized his penis, holding it in a pressure grip that trapped the blood inside. It swelled rapidly, involuntarily.
"What are you doing?" he asked, incredulous, feeling paralyzed.
"Nothing." She lowered her head downward and took him in her mouth. As he watched her head bobbing slowly, ridiculously, up and down, he thought, But I didn't want this!
Still, he watched, fascinated by the sight and realizing that, for now, he was occupying Brendan's psychological niche. Is that what I look like? He found himself imagining that he was Brendan, and suddenly his perception shifted. He put his hand on the back of the woman's head and began pushing her down further, something that Brendan often did to him. She started to gag but didn't stop moving. He wanted to giggle.
In the background John and Ariane had fallen silent, watching them.
Suddenly Vana appeared from her compartment, naked, a broad smile on her face. She announced,
"Da-daaa!" and the PC hatches sprang open. "It's orgy time!" They all gathered in the center of the room, on a ridge surrounding the exit hatch, coming to cluster together by ones and twos, forming a ragged circle.
Harmon was trying to grin, but his pale skin was suffused by a succession of easy blushes. "This isn't exactly spontaneous, is it?"
Vana laughed. "Whoever said it needed to be? Come on!" She started to peel him out of his clothes, and the othersslowly followed suit. They stood there naked, appraising each other, at a loss. Sealock looked them over with amusement, then his eyes fell on Demogorgon, still paired with Beth, and on his moist, still erect penis. "Well, well," he said, "very nice. I told you you'd like it, kiddo!" His peal of laughter was absorbed by the soft walls.
The Arab looked away, starting to feel angry, then he suddenly felt his mood fall in line with the spirit of the occasion. "Yes, you did." He glanced at the others. "Big brave heteros . . . I'll show you how it's done!" He stalked over to Brendan and kneeled.
Vana said, "No sense letting them have all the fun." She turned and kissed Harmon, then reached for Ariane, and the three of them moved in on the scene together. Tem put his arm around Jana, who looked at him suspi
ciously, then glanced at John and, as if giving in to the social pressure, went with the inevitable. Not waiting any longer, Axie joined them all.
John watched for a moment, then felt a body pressing against his and turned to see Beth, who was smiling. As she reached for him he thought, What's happening here? Is this wrong? Aren't we still in the same little groups, closing each other out?
Asterology was a new science, relatively speaking. In the past, when the study of space had been limited to the narrow confines of Earth, looking up through an ever shifting miasma at dancing, mercurial points of light, men had been correct to separate astronomy from the growing jumble of -ologies that denned the universe. Star-naming, it was called, and that humble name was not far wrong for the study of such remote, unapproachable objects. But then came the Mariners and the Veneras and the Voyagers, expanding the faintest of photographic specks into huge variegated worlds with their own histories and morphologies. Astronomy ceased to hold sway over these new objects, and geology, in its guise of comparative planetology, took over. There were, however, other things in heaven and earth than the planets. Therewere electromagnetic fields, there were planetary rings in all their glory, and, most important of all, there were stars. Eventually the study of the structure of the universe became known as asterology, despite all the confusion that name produced.
Jana Li Hu had taken her degrees in asterology from the Reflexive Institute in Ulaanbaatar, perhaps the most rigorous and tyrannical school that had ever existed. She knew the literature well, to put it mildly. Her final paper, on Enceladus' Sarandib Planitia, had been a model of its kind and had placed her among the foremost asterologists of her generation. Still, she worked under the stigma of being an asterologist who had not left Earth, something like an Egyptologist who'd never seen the Pyramids. The opportunity to study Triton was a necessity to her career. Now this!
Four new worlds, an entirely new order of cryogenic moon-lets, and Iris herself! The task of preparing the preliminary reconnaissance had fallen on her shoulders as the de facto asterologist on the scene. With essentially homemade equipment being doled out to her at the whim of a madman, she had to be very, very careful to be right. Of course, they would all be looking over her shoulder, monitoring the data, and coming to their own conclusions. . . . But the Science article would be over her name. She felt the weight of the responsibility like lead.
Added to this, she had to continue to understand and interact with the rest of the colonists. They were her lifeline and, if she alienated them, the future would be bleak indeed. She should already have been out there taking samples, looking at the fine detail of the highlands, but first they had to build an instrument carrier and adapt the worksuits for zero flux.
She went back to analyzing the integrated radartop /spectral images of the ocellus periphery. The ship's photorecorder had derived full coverage of the area at a three-centimeter resolution, and there was plenty to think about.
Ocypete was odd. Although the terrains seen on the other two satellites had, at least roughly, corresponded with those on similar objects in the outer Solar System, the moon'sencounter with a radioactive object had profoundly influenced its history, had emplaced terrains totally unlike those seen on any other world. Nowhere else had such an extensive atmosphere frozen out. The sea that had filled the ocellus had extended almost to the center of the worldlet, a conical intrusion into its core, causing massive relaxation of the remaining crust and mantle, and then had refrozen, pushing them back into place. Since the size and density of Ocypete did not allow for anything other than Ice I, even at these temperatures, the equations that defined it were comparatively simple. It should only be a matter of careful, assiduous study to completely define the parameters that had formed Iris III. Suddenly she felt a rush of anxiety. Could she successfully catalog and describe these worlds, with the limitations of her own mind as well as those being imposed by the others? Would she make a fool of myself? She had to get moving! Now!
Driven by a compulsion to camouflage the adrenaline that was creeping up her backbone, she slipped down into the aft compartment. Taking the orange suit from her locker, she put it on and prepared a backpack full of her tools. The feel of the suit hugging her securely seemed to assuage her crawling skin. Impatiently, she sent a command to Shipnet and waited. When the door dilated, she ignored the platform and jumped. She began to tumble outward, and a childish, chaotic joy filled her. Perhaps the discomfort she'd felt had been claustrophobia, pure and simple, after all. In a moment she remembered her gyro, and she swung right side up to get her bearings as the ground implacably rushed to meet her feet. She wondered if they would miss her aboard the ship.
The days followed the slow vault of the stars, and soon the erection of the protocolony was nearly complete. The ship had been unloaded without further mishap and, as a result, had come apart. All that now remained of Deepstar was a fifty-meter tower of broken girders enclosing the solid pillar of the heavy-ion engine. Even the CM had been dismounted and lowered to its prepared base on the ice. What remained of theship would be further dismantled until it became a portable scaffolding for the engine, which, set at very low power, would be used as a powerful drill rig, able to reach far into the depths of their world. Although matter synthesis was not beyond the reach of modern technology, it was still too difficult and complex a process for their ready use. Any metals or nonvolatile minerals would have to be laboriously reclaimed from the silicate-rich ice of 'Os Planitia or mined from the sparse supplies of nonaqueous meteorites that they might locate.
The basic structure of the early settlement would consist of two bubbleplastic domes, linked by a common interface/airlock. Bubbleplastic, the principal building element of space enclosures, was similar in some respects to the metallic girders that came out of the beambuilder, but it was infinitely malleable, configurable into any color or texture. "Blow It Up/Make It Real" was the manufacturer's motto. Strengthened and stiffened by MHD fields, it was hard enough to withstand most micrometeorite falls and accidental incursions.
The smaller dome, surrounding the CM, would be transparent to visible wavelengths, the very image of some antique "house-on-the-Moon." The larger dome, black and opaque, would house an Earth-environment simulacrum and swimming pool. When the CM dome had been inflated and filled with their possessions and equipment, the work was turned over to the machines. People began to drift apart, focusing on their own projects, devoting their energies to whatever private interests, if any, they had. Harmon Prynne had built a small, segmented dome of bubbleplastic, opaque and no more than five meters across, and in it he was assembling the latest and finest product of his lifelong hobby, the vessel he called 60vet. The thing was a sleek, aerodynamically sound, turquoise and white car, outwardly a somewhat modified copy of a 1960 Chevrolet Corvette. The differences were, of course, largely dictated by an environment radically removed from that of the original machine.
There was no rubber. The world was too cold for organics,and gravity was too low for the car to rely on surface friction for its tractive grip. 60vet would ride across the ice on the wire tires of a Lunar rover, each tire the generator grid for a charge-coupling static field. This ice was not slippery—at these temperatures it would take enormous pressure to generate the film of liquid water that was the soul of a skid—but the car was light. . . . Very little force stood in the way of tire-spinning immobility. Technology had to help.
The hull was made from another bubbleplastic relative, easily disguised as metal, and the transparent parts couldn't be distinguished from ancient glass. Prynne even went to the extent of putting little "safety plate" decals in appropriate corners, but these windows would never break. What should have been the trunk was filled with a small life-support system. At virtual gunpoint, he had been forced by John and Ariane to dedicate the tonneau to an extension of the passenger compartment and a rear seat of sorts. The biggest anomaly lay under the hood. It would have been possible to put an internal combustion engine in the sealed compar
tment and feed a turbocharged carburetor from oxygen tanks, but that would have been a ridiculous extravagance. 60vet's power plant was a two-cylinder Stirling engine, run off the heat from a nuclear-isotope generator. The thing would have been totally silent, even on Earth, and Prynne had idly toyed with the idea of feeding comchip-simulated engine noises into the cabin. As Prynne assembled his car, he was sometimes joined by Vana, who liked to watch him work, seemingly fascinated by the sure way he assembled the mountainous array of tiny parts from memory. It was an antiquarian hobby and rather unusual to see in a world in which few people did any work with their hands. She would give him things that he asked her for, and now she had become familiar enough with the strange, bulky tools that he seldom had to point.
After a while the man stopped to rest and drink a cup of coffee. He had a little table set up beside his workbench and on it was a portable camp kitchen, charged that morning with preprogrammed foods. He sat and stared at the woman, sipping the drink. He'd been under the machine when she camethrough the
'lock, and this was the first chance he'd had to look at her face. He realized with a familiar pang that her lips seemed a little swollen. He looked away, and finally said, "Vana, I don't like it."
"What? Is something wrong with your car?"
He shook his head. "It's . . . well, it's this business about everyone sleeping with everybody else. I just don't like it."
She laughed, an incredulous note in her voice. "Why not? You're getting as much as anyone. Maybe more than you did before ..."
"That's not it. . . ." He stopped. He knew what he wanted to say: that he loved her, not all the others, that he wanted her to love him alone. . . . But he couldn't tell her that. Not again. Not when he knew how angry it could make her, how hard. No. It wouldn't do. But what else could he say? "I guess it's just that it hasn't come about naturally. We don't even all like each other. . . ." He saw that he had her interest and quickly pursued the line of argument. "This hasn't 'just happened,' you know. It was imposed on us by Cornwell."
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