Then and Now (ss)

by Raymond Z. Gallun

  "She was easier on me, but tough too, and just as busy. With hydroponics, and other biological stuff. But do you know, in our little apartment, like all the others—neat and compact, with fold-away tables and bunks, even a recessed electric stove, so we didn't always have to eat in the mess hall. She'd usually have a flower or two in a vase, from a small, special tank she kept in the hydroponics area. Petunias, violets, irises. Once even a rose!... And sometimes, on special occasions, out of scant free time, she'd scrounge up scarce or make-do ingredients, and contrive a cake, or other unusual treat...

  "Well—I got to enjoy being on the Moon. I felt competent and confident in all the fascinating strangeness. I liked doing chores around the garden chambers. There was a one-master, one-mistress school for us few children. Folks were rugged and friendly. Rules and discipline were firm, but cooperation and interdependence were like a solid thing to grab hold... Armored, I got outdoors quite often. I'd look at the black sky, and those mountains, the Apennines—same contours as now, but bare-gray to their tops, and vacuum-clear under the raw sunglare. And I'd think of all that absolute, dusty desolation as some monster to kill. Yet I'd admit, too, that it had a hard, thrilling beauty, all natural... I'd almost hope that the change we all wanted and talked about would never happen... Hey—one place I'm going to have to show you people is the burrow where I lived, then. Right near my present home."

  Horton drew breath, smirked in a private way, and went on:

  "But that year ended. I had to return to Earth, to advance my education. Boarding school, then university. Always hurrying. Letters, I hardly had time to answer. When I finally got back here, everybody I had known best had moved on. Sure—loss. But who sweats such things, when he's twenty, and has his own purposes, and new, personal attachments?... On to Mars briefly, that time..."

  Enough. Horton stopped talking. But for seconds more, the girl's expression remained gently, humorously pleased, bemused still, as from secret listening.

  "Thanks for that much, Chet," she said.

  The boy, Arnold, gave a faint, dry snort. Derision, yet tolerance, for bubble-headed nonsense? Or something more?...

  "We'll be getting close," he asserted, all apparent diffidence gone. "Is that white speck on the slope your house, Chester? Look—I'd like to bring us in, from here—manually. To see how it works in this atmosphere."

  "Of course. So take us, Arnie go in..."

  They flew on. Until, under light-fingered manipulation, the heli slanted in, to a light rest, on Horton's landing-stage.

  A housekeeping device rolled forward on elastic wheels, and gathered the rucksacks. Quickly, then, Arnold extended his lean length in a deck-chair on the flagged terrace by the swimming pool.

  The dense foliage on the surrounding mountain slope rustled in the breeze. A North American robin's scolding from a thicket was attenuated slightly from what it would have been in the denser air of the bird's native habitat. But who, here, could recall, or notice?

  Arnold sighed, closing his eyes.

  "Go away, everybody," he grumbled. "I'm not wasting precious time, Loey—I'm using it best... Soaking the cold out of my guts... If I ever can... Having second thoughts. I've felt chill enough. Who needs the deep-freeze?"

  Alerted, Horton looked down at him, seeing first how one large hand clutched the flower-cluster on his garment, muffing its monitor-sensors. How much of what had just been spoken was mere, playful grousing, and how much was serious? Was this the first plain indication of the problem he had nearly anticipated? Horton felt a slight chill, for here he remained divided: Love and law opposed in him. How would he handle the dilemma—if actually so confronted? He felt prompted to ask plain questions. To get a clearer idea of what was going to happen, at least.

  But she—Lois—touched his arm, then her puckered lips with a vertical forefinger, in the common, elfin sign for silence, that reached some lost part of himself, pleasantly.

  "Let Arnie be, Chet," she said, her voice low. "He'll be all right—I think. So come—show me your house."

  Horton didn't really show her; he only followed, as her feminine urges led her on. Her rough boots contacted his rich rugs. It was like some eternal vagabond-urchin's tiptoed intrusion into elegance, though there was no timidity in her. Smirking slyly, Horton relished to watch, knowing, inside his silent head, what much of all this might mean—a convoluted thing, part humor, part pain to him. Her eyes wandered; she hungered perhaps to be mistress of such a habitation, which she had never had, herself, and, except for the few days here, probably never would... Though Horton thought much deeper than this...

  In the library, late sunlight gleamed back from the shelves of old books. His collection. Classics, and other past-dated literature—even imaginings of what was supposed to be the present. Briefly, her groping, meditative gaze scanned titles, but her small chucklings went unexplained. Nowadays, most books existed only as miniscule audiovisual recordings.

  Once she said, almost reverently, "A lovely house, Chet. You've done well in things. I'm glad..." Her tone mused; her brown eyes still wandered, in wonder. Yet her slight shoulders moved. A shrug of wistfulness? Or of rejection for what was better?...

  Then she paused before a tiny console.

  "May I, Chet? Music we did have, on Titan."

  "Why even ask?"

  She touched a control-sensor marked Mood. Quiet notes stirred and rippled, as she rambled on, exploring other rooms and their fine fittings. In a tiny courtyard, she bent to smell a rose, while humming to herself. Suddenly she inquired:

  "Dear Chester—just how is it, to be old?"

  "Ho!" he chuckled, startled. "But—well—old hasn't been bad—to me. A contemplative interlude. Some good friends—all ages. Enough work—not much, and no strain—still an environmental engineering consultant. Yet,"—here Horton became remarkably confessive—"a few wrenching thoughts that didn't bother me much when I had strong purposes. People I lost, or who lost me. Relatives, loves. Dead. Or scattered... Shall I name names?... And when I learned that you and he were coming from Titan... From lots farther—in a way—even..."

  "Shhh! We vowed, Chet..." Her smile twinkled, then saddened. A rich, incomprehensible essence of shared, hidden knowing seemed to flow between Horton and this girl, while benign ghosts, not quite matching, stood by, taking part. "As for names," she continued, "let them be—when they're gone..."

  From somewhere, an antique clock ticked slowly, inexorably counting time. It had inset magnets to compensate for the weak, lunar pull on its pendulum, thus to increase the swing-rate to Earth-norm. But its hand-movement ignored the four extra hours of the lunar day.

  "Anyhow, I'm glad I'm young," she stated.

  "Even though—?"

  "I'll say it, if you're scared to, Chet. Personal Ice Age awfully near—for Arnie and me. Complete shutdown—our long blinking-out. Fifteen chances in a hundred of not coming through at all. Even then, otherwise, into just what? Frightened I am. So is he... But going it like the way we are. Besides, it has got to be... Though now—we'd like to stay here longer—I think... Such a fine world! We didn't realize... But the laws are right—I suppose..."

  Horton wanted to insist that it was their world, more than for most—surely! But she stepped lightly on, through his male-oriented habitation, still humming a nameless tune, and diverted to other fittings and objects. Fireplace... Chinese ceramics... Then, gleaming, automated kitchen... Horton considered:

  All the mismatched pieces I know—and now see—that this person is. The confusion, part of the charm... Courage... Philosophy... And alive to everything... Young-old. Admirable... Does youth always have an ancient wisdom?... This oblique thing... And what amounts to death... Though more... Their true wishes? What should they get?...

  Still following the girl, Horton re-emerged on the terrace.

  Arnold, hair seal-slick with wet, thrust his head up from the pool, spat a spray of water playfully toward them, roared out in wordless pleasure; ducked again, gurgling. Horton knew tha
t, on Titan, these two would have had only a communal tank, warmed, and buried far under the super-cold, for such recreation. He could appreciate the boy's pleasure at the difference, here.

  With soft thumps of dropped boots and a swish of cloth—it seemed all completed in a burst of impulsive motion—Lois joined her mate, the splash of her dive slow and huge. Fleetingly, Horton remembered that, in Earth-gravity, even wavelets were tighter, smaller, quicker in their rhythm.

  Lithe and bare, she came out to dive again, glistening and beautiful. Horton looked once, hard, then turned away. His maleness hadn't died; often there were other attractive visitors in this house. Nude swimming was part of the natural mode to all. But now a prudery, from farther back than his own distant birthdate, twisted him. His cheeks almost burned. Taboo?

  She plunged once more, but the youth's head was thrust up again from the water. His faun-grin was wide, aggressive, comic, knowing—maybe even threatening? No cautious reserve remained. Between generations, there was often an uncertainty of comprehension. How, then to judge the growled, laughing words? A jest, or serious?—

  "Watch your eyes, Old Lad! I saw that! She's my woman!"

  The sandy hair dipped briefly from view; the mocking face reappeared. More words were spoken:

  "Chester—Sir! You and Loey, included me in the game!... Got answers for yourself, haven't you—Big Man? Here, in what they call the Garden World of the Solar System! Being human, don't Loey and I merit Paradise, too? Want us for permanent boarders? Eh?"

  Horton tensed a bit, almost, at first, from insult. But no—it had to be only a tease. But the other portion? Clearly stated, now? A difficult prospect to deal with—guilty both ways... Still not plain, either—more joking easily possible. Horton relaxed. It felt better when any difficulty was in the open—or nearly—there to be talked out. Horton lost no poise. In a moment he tough-teased back in quiet warning:

  "Careful, Fella. I like being legal."

  He glanced toward where the shed garments—together with the monitor devices—were quite neatly stacked; even Lois, in her haste, had managed that, with hers. A sufficient distance. Anyhow, who would be listening or recording? Effective surveillance was not that paranoid!

  Horton walked a step, bent close to the boy in the water, and spoke softly:

  "If you want to, though, let's discuss what you said, sometime soon. You and Lois mean considerable to me."

  The young face had sobered; when the voice came again, it sounded almost stern:

  "I'd hoped we do mean something, Chester. Thanks. So maybe soon. Just now is for play."

  Arnold submerged. His long form became a wavery-limbed caricature, deep down. He surfaced. The levity was back. The girl dived for a third time, and shoved his head under water, muffling his hoarse shout.

  Horton didn't swim then. Instead he fixed himself a drink—in the archaic manner, ignoring the services of the motile-bar. Then he lounged, sipped, and meditated, watching the aquatic pleasures of his guests. Sometimes he muttered cheerful, bewildered, and marveling curses into his close-trimmed whiskers. His emotions kept stumbling in a strange, disarranged territory, where he remained rather happily lost. He liked the whole thing. No, he loved it—and them. Except for the stilled ending...

  After a while, Arnold, clothed again, getting drinks for his mate and himself, came near.

  "Freshen yours up, Chester?" His tone was quietly solicitous now.

  "Thank you. Please..."

  All three lazed in the long chairs, watching the sunset, slightly on their left. Lofty, red, cloud-flecked, shimmering on the sea, which curved close to the slope below, but extended far away. The rosy glow tinted the white structures of villages, along the arc of shore, toward the southwest and the great, green bowl of the crater, Eratosthenes. Roads were pale threads. While to the east, visible by a right-turning of the head, Earth had broached the mountain-tops: A blue-and-white-swirled agate-marble, very large, its shine still muted by the lingering daylight. Whippoorwills began their cadenced calls. Bats circled and swooped, the flight they had learned here, slower than that of their terrestrial ancestors.

  Once the girl murmured, "There aren't any words... I shut my eyes just to listen... So I can look again... Lovely..."

  In this mood of awed monosyllables and quiet, surely nothing was said of the jagged subject almost reached before. But when kitchen fragrances intruded into the dew-damp scent of flowers, Horton spoke up:

  "Thirty minutes till dinner. Time enough to save showing you where I first lived. I'm local historical custodian. Want to look?"

  Lois was quickly on her feet. Arnold, with the languor of a conforming spouse, sighed, and arose...

  Horton touched a switch, lighting lamps along a rocky path leading two-hundred meters down the mountain-side, to an antique airlock.

  Arriving before the sealed, magnesium-alloy portal, Horton adopted, for comedy, the manner of a professional guide, as he worked a small lever:

  "Back into the rough past..."

  Beyond the lock, other lamps were made to burn. White-walled corridors extended and fanned out, deep into the lunar Apennines.

  Horton continued to clown, solemnly: "It still smells a little like it used to. Of zero-watered Moon dust. Powdery and burnt..."

  "Truly, Sir? Truly?" the girl asked. "Oh—I want to know and feel just how it was—everything you remember..."

  In her low tone, much seemed mingled: awe, as in some shrine. Yet fun. And a probing of him—Chet Horton. Affectionate and enigmatic. A love, too, of all that she discovered around her. As if she tried to grasp the real-living of ancestors?...

  "Mizz," Horton laughed gruffly, "what you ask would take longer than we can manage. Come along, please..."

  They visited only a fraction of what was here: central chamber of the life-support system, repair shops, laboratory, recreation hall. Mess hall... Everything empty of motion and people. Then the extensive region of tiered, hydroponic tanks, now dry. Only a few of the solar-lamps could still burn. Horton continued his spiel:

  "...I worked in this place myself, when I was a small guy... Just beyond—I'll show you—is where we raised rabbits and chickens for ourselves, feeding them clover we grew, and dried algae-meal... A bit farther on are the living quarters. The folks I stayed with had number seven. In a minute..."

  Horton unlocked the white door. The apartment was still neat, except for crumbled flower petals littering a tabletop, around dead stems in a dry vase.

  This girl—Lois—rummaged with her gaze, and touched lightly with her fingers—the fallen petals, first—as if to bring the lost parent-era of Now—with its domestic sounds, smells and movements—into her young self. From long before this actual flesh of hers had been. Cupboards, foldaway bunks, stove, fridge... Horton watched guardedly, in amusement, relish, yet with some pain, and much wondering. She opened a closet. Three obsolete spacesuits of stepped sizes were still racked there.

  "You were happy here Chet?"

  Horton stopped playing guide:

  "Guess so. Till then, the most I'd been."

  Her wide mouth curved upward more. But Horton noticed wryly that her cheeks had dewed. She chuckled in apology.

  "Haw!" Arnold scoffed in rough humor that surely had occult undertones. "Don't go blubbering over dead junk, Loey! Didn't we have enough borrow-dwelling on Titan? Let's get back to pleasant stuff..."

  Quickly they climbed back to Horton's villa. To a fine dinner, served on the terrace by housekeeping mechanisms: Steak from the diked Procellarum-plains. Red wine from the slopes of Copernicus. These novelties for Lois to exclaim over, and absorb with as much gusto as did Arnold. Then, quietly, came her talk with Horton about mutual concerns:

  "...Lots I never knew, Chet... Hard to make and keep contact—the way our clan got spread around. Far apart, with new friends. I'm a failure at holding on... But now and then I feel rotten, and I try. So does Arnie. Though I usually think—let the unknowns be... But on the way to here, while the liner stopped at Solis L
acus City, on Mars, we looked up George, your younger son. He was attentive, though acting some as if in duty to a riddle. Though there were two little girls—his own son's. Adorable. Very friendly. Wondering who we strangers were. But not seeming much interested when we tried to explain... Still—George mentioned you, Chet. Another obscured shape we'd heard recent reports about, and rather noted... Well—we decided to get in touch. So here we all are, and I'm very glad... Care to fill us in on anything further?"

  Horton smiled thinly, though gently, into the night of lamps and Earth-shine. "There's not much that you don't already know, or won't see. So you met George. He and I exchange greeting messages maybe four times a year. With Ben, my elder boy—on Ganymede—it's less often. Once in a while with his mother—there, too, now, I think... Thanks for saying something about the tots. I keep thinking I'll go, and try to get acquainted. But I don't feel much like traveling so far anymore... Hey!"—here Horton chuckled. "Family stuff can depress."

  She grinned back, setting that vertical forefinger across her lips.

  Arnold, the background presence, spoke up:

  "Yes—subject change. Where are you taking us tomorrow, Chester?"

  "Wherever you choose. Or I'll lend you the heli or a car, if you prefer to go alone."

  "Then we'll see—in the morning."

  They all moved, so that the table could be cleared, and sat quietly for a bit. In the brilliant Earthglow, the true stars were dim. But brighter sparks, visible past the reed-thatch that roofed this portion of the terrace, were not stars. A solar-power-station, in an orbit synchronous with lunar rotation, hung perpetually in the south, microwaving energy down, to augment nuclear-fusion sources. Northward, in a gathering blob of thickened darkness, lightning flickered, portending the controlled, nocturnal rain. But in the western clarity of sky, another bright speck gleamed. Lois pointed to it.

  "Uh-huh—one of the artificial planets, just now passing the Moon—and in powered motion to avoid capture—but actually in solar orbit," Horton said. "A cylinder like the others, rotating to simulate gravity on its inner curve."