Dark Benediction

by Walter Michael Miller

  Giselle giggled. “I think it’s cute.”

  He went into the kitchenette and turned on all the burners of the electric range to help warm the place. “Come stand next to the oven,” he called, “until I see if the heat pumps are working.” He opened the oven door. A libidinous purr came from within.

  “Dah-ling, now why bother with breakfast when you can have meee?”

  He glanced up at Giselle.

  “I didn’t say it,” she giggled, but posed invitingly. Relke grinned and accepted the invitation.

  “You’re not crying now,” she purred as he released her.

  He felt a surge of unaccountable fury, grunted, “Excuse me,” and stalked out to the transformer vault. He looked around for the heat pumps, failed to find them, and went to lean on the handrail overlooking the pit. He stood there with his fists in his pockets, vaguely anguished and enraged, for no reason he understood. For a moment he had been too close to feeling at home, and that brought up the wrath somehow. After a couple of minutes he shook it off and went back inside.

  “Hey, I wasn’t teasing you,” Giselle told him.

  “What?”

  “About crying.”

  “Listen,” he said irritably, “did you ever see a looney or a spacer without leaky eyes? It’s the glare, that’s all.”

  “Is that it? Huh—want to know something? I can’t cry. That’s funny. You’re a man and you can cry, but I can’t.”

  Relke watched her grumpily while she warmed her behind at the oven. She’s not more than fifteen, he decided suddenly. It made him a little queasy. Come on, Joe, hurry.

  “You know,” she went on absently, “when I was a little girl, I got mad at… at somebody, and I decided I was never going to cry anymore. I never did, either. And you know what?—now I can’t. Sometimes I try and I try, but I just can’t.” She spread her hands to the oven, tilted them back and forth, and watched the way the tendons worked as she stiffened her fingers. She seemed to be talking to her hands. “Once I used an onion. To cry, I mean. I cut an onion and rubbed some of it on a handkerchief and laid the handkerchief over my eyes. I cried that time, all right. That time I couldn’t stop crying, and nobody could make me stop. They were petting me and scolding me and shaking me and trying to give me smelling salts, but I just couldn’t quit. I blubbered for two days. Finally Mother Bernarde had to call the doctor to give me a sedative. Some of the sisters were taking cold towels and—”

  “Sisters?” Relke grunted.

  Giselle clapped a hand to her mouth and shook her head five or six times, very rapidly. She looked around at him. He shrugged.

  “So you were in a convent.”

  She shook her head again.

  “So what if you were?” He sat down with his back to her and pretended to ignore her. She was dangerously close to that state of mind which precedes the telling of a life history. He didn’t want to hear it; he already knew it. So she was in a nunnery; Relke was not surprised. Some people had to polarize themselves. If they broke free from one pole, they had to seek its opposite. People with no middle ground. Black, or if not black, then white, never gray. Law, or criminality. God, or Satan. The cloister, or a whorehouse. Eternally a choice of all or nothing-at-all, and they couldn’t see that they made things that way for themselves. They set fire to every bridge they ever crossed—so that even a cow creek became a Rubicon, and every crossing was on a tightrope.

  You understand that too well, don’t you, Relke? he asked himself bitterly. There was Fran and the baby, and there wasn’t enough money, and so you had to go and burn a bridge—a 240,000-mile bridge, with Fran on the other side. And so, after six years on Luna, there would be enough money; but there wouldn’t be Fran and the baby. And so, he had signed another extended contract, and the moon was going to be home for a long long time. Yeh, you know about burned bridges, all right, Relke.

  He glanced at Giselle. She was glaring at him.

  “If you’re waiting for me to say something,” she snapped, “you can stop waiting. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “I didn’t ask you anything.”

  “I was just a novice. I didn’t take permanent vows.”

  “All right.”

  “They wouldn’t let me. They said I was—unstable. They didn’t think I had a calling.”

  “Well, you’ve got one now. Stop crawling all over me like I said anything. I didn’t ask you any questions.”

  “You gave me that pious look.”

  “Oh, garbage!” He rolled out of the chair and loped off to the room. The stationman’s quarters boasted its own music system and television (permanently tuned to the single channel that broadcast a fairly narrow beam aimed at the lunar stations). He tried the television first, but solar interference was heavy.

  “Maybe it’ll tell us when it’s going to be Monday,” she said, coming to watch him from the doorway.

  He gave her a sharp look, then softened it. The stove had warmed the kitchen, and she had stepped out of the baggy coveralls. She was still wearing the yellow dress, and she had taken a moment to comb her hair. She leaned against the side of the doorway, looking very young but excessively female. She had that lost pixie look and a tropical climate tan too.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked. “Is this all we’re going to do? I mean, just wait around until somebody comes? Can’t we dance or something?” She did a couple of skippity steps away from the door jamb and rolled her hips experimentally. One hip was made of India rubber. “Say! Dancing ought to be fun in this crazy gravity.” She smirked at him and posed alluringly.

  Relke swallowed, reddened, and turned to open the selector cabinet. She’s only a kid, Relke. He paused, then dialed three selections suitable for dancing. She’s only a kid, damn it! He paused again, then dialed a violin concerto. A kid—back home they’d call her “jail bait.” He dialed ten minutes’ worth of torrid Spanish guitar. You’ll hate yourself for it, Relke. He shuddered involuntarily, dialed one called The Satyricon of Lily Brown, an orgy in New African Jazz (for adults only).

  He glanced up guiltily. She was already whirling around the room with an imaginary partner, dancing to the first selection.

  Relke dialed a tape of Palestrina and some plainchant, but left it for last. Maybe it would neutralize the rest.

  She snuggled close and they tried to keep time to the music—not an easy task, with the slow motion imposed by low gravity mismatched to the livelier rhythms of dancing on Earth. Two attempts were enough. Giselle flopped down on the bunk.

  “What’s that playing now, Bill?”

  “Sibelius. Concerto for Something and Violin. I dunno.”

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did I make you mad or something?”

  “No, but I don’t think—” He turned to look at her and stopped talking. She was lying on her back with her hands behind her head and her legs cocked up, balancing her calf on her other knee and watching her foot wiggle. She was lithe and brown and… ripe.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “Bill?”

  “Uh?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him and smiled. “Don’t you even know what you wanted to come over here for?”

  Relke got up slowly and walked to the light switch. He snapped it.

  “Oh, dahling!” said a new voice in the darkness. “What if my husband comes home!”

  After Sibelius came the Spanish guitar. The African jazz was wasted.

  Relke sat erect with a start. Giselle still slept, but noises came from the other room. There were voices, and a door slammed closed. Shuffling footsteps, a muffled curse. “Who’s there?” he yelled. “Joe?”

  The noises stopped, but he heard the hiss of someone whispering. He nudged the girl awake with one elbow. The record changer clicked, and the soft chant of an Agnus Dei came from the music system.

  “Oh, God! It’s Monday!” Giselle muttered sleepily.

  “A dame,” grunted a voice in the next room.<
br />
  “Who’s there?” Relke called again.

  “We brought you some company.” The voice sounded familiar. A light went on in the other room. “Set him down over here, Harv.”

  Relke heard rattling sounds and a chair scraped back. They dumped something into the chair. Then the bulky silhouette of a man filled the doorway. “Who’s in here, anyhow?” He switched on the lights. The man was Larkin. Giselle pulled a blanket around herself and blinked sleepily.

  “Is it Monday?” she asked.

  A slow grin spread across Larkin’s face. “Hey Harv!” he called over his shoulder. “Look what we pulled out of the grab bag! Come look at lover boy…. Now, Harv—is that sweet? Is that romantic?”

  Kunz looked over Larkin’s shoulder. “Yuh. Real homey, ain’t it. Hiyah, Rat. Lookit that cheese he’s got with him. Some cheese. Round like a provolone, huh? Hiyah, cheesecake, know you’re in bed with a rat?”

  Giselle glanced questioningly at Relke. Relke was surveying the tactical situation. It looked unpromising. Larkin laughed.

  “Look at him, Harv—wondering where he left his shiv. What’s the matter, Relke? We make you nervous?” He stepped inside, Kunz followed.

  Relke stood up in bed and backed against the wall. “Get out of the way,” he grunted at Giselle.

  “Look at him!” Larkin gloated. “Getting ready to kick. You planning to kick somebody, sonny?”

  “Stay back!” he snapped. “Get out of here, Giselle!”

  “A l’abri? Oui—” She slid off the bed and darted for the door. Kunz grabbed at her, but she slipped past. She stopped in the doorway and backed up a step. She stared into the next room. She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Oh!” she yelped. Larkin and Kunz glanced back at her. Relke lunged off the bed. He smashed against Larkin, sent him sprawling into Kunz. He dodged Giselle and sprinted for the kitchen and the cutlery rack. He made it a few steps past the door before he saw what Giselle had seen. Something was sitting at the table, facing the door. Relke stopped in his tracks and began backing away. The something at the table was a blistered caricature of a man, an icy frost-figure in a deflated pressure suit. Its mouth was open, and the stomach had been forced up through… He closed his eyes. Relke had seen men blown out, but it hadn’t gotten any pleasanter to look at since the last time.

  “Get him, Harv!”

  They pinned his arms from behind. “Heading for a butcher knife, Relke?” He heard a dull crack and felt his head explode. The room went pink and hazy.

  “That’s for grabbing glass on us the other day, Sonny.”

  “Don’t mess him up too much, Lark. The dame’s here.”

  “I won’t mess him up. I’ll be real clean about it.”

  The crack came again, and the pink haze quivered with black flashes.

  “That’s for ratting on the Party, Relke.”

  Dimly he heard Giselle screaming at them to stop it.

  “Take that little bitch in the other room and play house with her, Harv. I’ll work on Sonny awhile, and then we’ll trade around. Don’t wear her out.”

  “Let go,” she yelled. “Take your hands off—listen, I’ll go in there with you if you’ll quit beating him. Now stop—”

  Another crack. The pink haze flew apart, and blackness engulfed him. Time moved ahead in jerks for awhile. First he was sitting at the table across from the corpse. Larkin was there too, dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Loud popular music blared from the music system, but he could hear Kunz laughing in the next room. Once Giselle’s voice cried out in protest. Relke moved and groaned. Larkin looked his way.

  “Hey, Harv—he’s awake. It’s your turn.”

  “I’m busy,” Kunz yelled.

  “Well, hurry up. Brodanovitch is beginning to thaw.”

  Relke blinked at the dead man. “Who? Him? Brodan—” His lips were swollen, and it was painful to talk.

  “Yeah, that’s Suds. Pretty, isn’t he? You’re going to look like that one of these days, kid.”

  “You—killed—Suds?”

  Larkin threw back his head and laughed. “Hey, Harv, hear that? He thinks we killed Suds.”

  “What happened to him, then?”

  Larkin shrugged. “He walked into an airlock with a bottle of champagne. The pressure went down quick, the booze blew up in his face, and there sits Suds. A victim of imprudence, like you. Sad looking schlemazel, isn’t he?”

  “Wha’d you bring him here for?”

  “You know the rules, Sonny. A man gets blown out, they got to look him over inch by inch, make sure it wasn’t murder.”

  Giselle cried out again in protest. Relke started to his feet, staggering dizzily. Larkin grabbed him and pushed him down.

  “Hey, Harv! He’s getting frisky. Come take over. The gang’ll be rolling in pretty quick.”

  Kunz came out of the bunkroom. Larkin sprinted for the door as Giselle tried to make a run for it. He caught her and dragged her back. He pushed her into the bunkroom, went in after her, and closed the door. Relke lunged at Kunz, but a judo cut knocked numbness into the side of his neck and sent him crashing against the wall.

  “Relke, get wise,” Hary growled. “This’ll happen every now and then if you don’t join up.”

  The lineman started to his feet. Kunz kicked him disinterestedly. Relke groaned and grabbed his side.

  “We got no hard feelings, Relke….” He chopped his boot down against the back of Relke’s neck. “You can join the Party any time.”

  Time moved ahead in jerks again.

  Once he woke up. Brodanovitch was beginning to melt, and the smell of brandy filled the room. There were voices and chair scrapings and after a while somebody carried Brodanovitch out. Relke lay with his head against the wall and kept his eyes closed. He assumed that if the apartment contained a friend, he would not still be lying here on the floor; so he remained motionless and waited to gather strength.

  “So that’s about the size of it,” Larkin was telling someone. “Those dames are apt to be dynamite if they let them into Crater City. We’ve got enough steam whipped up to pull off the strike, but what if that canful of cat meat walks in on Copernicus about sundown? Who’s going to have their mind on politics?”

  “Hell, Lark,” grunted a strange voice. “Parkeson’ll never let them get in town.”

  “No? Don’t be too damn sure. Parkeson’s no idiot. He knows trouble’s coming. Hell, he could invite them to Crater City, pretend he’s innocent as a lamb, just didn’t know what they are, but take credit for them being there.”

  “Well, what can we do about it?”

  “Cripple that ship.”

  “Wha-a-at?”

  “Cripple the ship. Look, there’s nothing else we can do on our own. We’ve got no orders from the Party. Right before we break camp, at sundown, we cripple the ship. Something they can’t fix without help from the base.”

  “Leave them stuck out here?”

  “Only for a day or two. Till the Party takes over the base. Then we send a few wagons out here after dark and pick up the wenches. Who gets credit for dames showing up? The Party. Besides, it’s the only thing we dare do without orders. We can’t be sure what’d happen if Parkeson walked in with a bunch of Algerian whores about the time the show’s supposed to start. And says, ‘Here, boys, look what Daddy brought.’”

  “Parkeson hasn’t got the guts.”

  “The hell he hasn’t. He’d say that out of one side of his mouth. Out of the other side, he’d be dictating a vigorous protest to the WP for allowing such things to get clearance for blasting off, making it sound like they’re at fault. That’s just a guess. We’ve got to keep those women out of Crater City until, we’re sure, though. And there’s only one way: cripple the ship.”

  There were five or six voices in the discussion, and Relke recognized enough of them to understand dimly that a cell meeting was in progress. His mind refused to function clearly, and at times the voices seemed to be speaking in senseless jargon, although the words were plain en
ough. His head throbbed and he had bitten a piece out of the end of his tongue. He felt as if he were lying stretched out on a bed of jagged rocks, although there was only the smooth floor under his battered person.

  Giselle cried out from the next room and beat angrily on the door.

  Quite mindlessly, and as if his body were being directed by some whimsical puppet master, Relke’s corpse suddenly clambered to its feet and addressed itself to the startled conspirators.

  “Goddam it, gentlemen, can’t you let the lady out to use the trapper?”

  They hit him over the head with a jack handle.

  He woke up again. This time he was in the bunkroom. A faint choking sound made him look up. Giselle sat on the foot of the bed, legs tightly crossed, face screwed up. She was trying to cry.

  “Use an onion,” he told her thickly, and sat up. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Monday now.”

  “Where are they?”

  “They left. We’re locked in.”

  He fell back with a groan. A stitch in his side felt like a broken rib. He turned his face to the wall. “What’s so great about Monday?” he muttered.

  “Today the others are taking their vows.”

  When he woke up again, Novotny was watching him from the foot of the bed. The girl was gone. He sat up and fell back with a groan.

  “Fran,” he said.

  “It wasn’t Fran, it was a hustler,” said Joe. “I had Beasley take her back. Who busted you?”

  “Larkin and Kunz.”

  “It’s a good thing.”

  “What?”

  “They saved me the trouble. You ran off with the jeep.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. Just watch yourself, that’s all.”

  “I wanted to see what it was like, Joe.”

  “What? Playing house with a wench?”

  He nodded.

  “What was it like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You woke up calling her Fran.”

  “I did?”

  “Yah. Before you start feeling that way, you better ask Beasley what they did together on the rug while you were asleep, Romeo.”