Perhaps it was the massiveness of too much to be said, that now blocked speech among all three present.
Horton had already pressed a control on the little, round case in his tunic breast-pocket. In response, his heli returned to him, drawn quietly close, along an outgoing traffic-rail.
He moved to load the slight baggage. But other action was quicker, smoother, and well-practiced, from Titan, in low-gravity.
"Hey!" he protested mildly.
This was met by as mild a laughter from the two. An easing.
"Get in, children," Horton urged. Just then, that last word seemed quite natural to him. "Now, be observers, eh?"
The craft lofted upward, through the circular exit-port in the domed roof. It climbed much higher, to pass over the crater-wall. Then it dropped to a level, 800-meter altitude.
The talk-suppression persisted. Horton had much to savor proudly, mystically, yet to find splinters of anguish in, for his crusted soul: The reactions of his guests—not long released from Titan's super-chill—to a different grandeur, the idyllic views, and the kinder reality of many changes all around, as the heli swayed and bobbed in vagrant air-currents.
Her dark, swiveling head. Her lips rapturously parted. The boy's controlled intensity, masked, it seemed, by a bluff of casualness.
She spoke at last, softly:
"Chet—I knew it had to be lovely. But what are mere pictures?... All this color... Greens, blues... And feeling the wind... Look!... The wake of that speedboat down there!"
Reaching Horton almost more forcefully, was a single, muttered expletive from the boy, more a grunt than a word. Restrained, private, yet exploding outward. "Agghh!" Like a gambler's rage at a bad choice, when he belatedly sees a better one that he cannot make?
Horton glanced at the young man, finding fury in his face. But it faded to wry humor at once.
"It was different when I was first here," Horton remarked in his raspy voice. Should he feel tiresome, saying that?
The girl's mobile features were at once specially intent. Eager pup-dog again? One with sly, private purposes?...
"Tell us, Chet!" she urged. "How it was... When you were around in all that history..."
Live interest seemed to vibrate from her gaze. Horton shook his head, as if to straighten a twist in his eyes. But he guessed her mood. Quite like his own... . He looked ahead dreamily, toward the Apennines, over which afternoon mists were gathering.
"Sure. A duffer's story," he said.
He was thinking back. To Earth. To what had been... A chaotic time. Bad. Good... But already richly varied. Disturbing to many... Numerous careers possible... Pursued, shifted... Intense, personal attachments formed; then broken or faded... But who found room for much weeping?... His transient, medical father... Dead at last in a space-accident... His distaff parent gone, too—separately... From some virulent allergy, while entertaining in a remote survey-station On Mars...
His eyes remained fixed ahead, on the southern sky. He chuckled, then began the telling:
"That summer when I was ten, my mother, bound on a pole-to-pole theatrical-appearance tour, on Earth, sent me out here to people I think she only half knew. It wasn't a common thing, but sometimes done. I was crazy-anxious to come, but scared stiff. There were only about ten thousand persons living here, then—every kind of specialist—selenologists, resources-assayers, constructors—all quartered in underground, pressurized warrens. I stayed with a fiftyish couple, and at first was very homesick. He was a cat-driver, tunnel-excavator-operator, and had lots of other skills. He'd growl at me, boxing my ears for any careless act in a dangerous environment where survival was possible only by attentively-handled, artificial means. But sometimes he'd grab my shoulder, and talk to me man-to-man. About how the Moon might be made into a great place.
"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 tip
toed 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 that, 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 liste
n... 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..."
Then and Now : A Collection of SF Page 31
