Ellen Datlow: Off Limits

We are forbidden to make contact with fellow Homeworlders except in case of extreme emergency. Isolation is a necessary condition of our employment. I may not introduce myself to him; I may not seek his friendship. It is worse now for me, knowing that he is here, than when I was entirely alone. The things we could reminisce about! The friends we might have in common! We could reinforce one another’s endurance of the gravity, the discomfort of our disguises, the vile climate. But no. I must pretend I know nothing. The rules. The harsh, unbending rules. I to go about my business, he his; if we meet, no hint of my knowledge must pass.

So be it. I will honor my vows. But it may be difficult.

He goes by the name of Swanson. Been living in the hotel eighteen months; a musician of some sort, according to the manager. “A very peculiar man. Keeps to himself; no small talk, never smiles. Defends his privacy. The other day a maid barged into his room without knocking and I thought he’d sue. Well, we get all sorts here.” The manager thinks he may actually be a member of one of the old European royal families, living in exile, or something similarly romantic. The manager would be surprised.

I defend my privacy too. From Elizabeth, another assault on it. In the hall outside my room. “My new poems,” she said. “In case you’re interested.” And then: “Can I come in? I’d read them to you. I love reading out loud.” And: “Please don’t always seem so terribly afraid of me. I don’t bite, David. Really I don’t. I’m quite gentle.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Anger, now, lurking in her shiny eyes, her thin taut lips. “If you want me to leave you alone, say so, I will. But I want you to know how cruel you’re being. I don’t demand anything from you. I’m just offering some friendship. And you’re refusing. Do I have a bad smell? Am I so ugly? Is it my poems you hate and you’re afraid to tell me?”

“Elizabeth—”

“We’re only on this world such a short time. Why can’t we be kinder to each other while we are? To love, to share, to open up. The reality trip. Communication, soul to soul.” Her tone changed. An artful shading. “For all I know, women turn you off. I wouldn’t put anybody down for that. We’ve all got our ways. But it doesn’t have to be a sexual thing, you and me. Just talk. Like, opening the channels. Please? Say no and I’ll never bother you again, but don’t say no, please. That’s like shutting a door on life, David. And when you do that, you start to die a little.”

Persistent. I should tell her to go to hell. But there is the loneliness. There is her obvious sincerity. Her warmth, her eagerness to pull me from my lunar isolation. Can there be harm in it? Knowing that Swanson is nearby, so close yet sealed from me by iron commandments, has intensified my sense of being alone. I can risk letting Elizabeth get closer to me. It will make her happy; it may make me happy; it could even yield information valuable to Homeworld. Of course I must still maintain certain barriers.

“I don’t mean to be unfriendly. I think you’ve misunderstood, Elizabeth. I haven’t really been rejecting you. Come in. Do come in.” Stunned, she enters my room. The first guest ever. My few books; my modest furnishings; the ultrawave transmitter, impenetrably disguised as a piece of sculpture. She sits. Skirt far above the knees. Good legs, if I understand the criteria of quality correctly. I am determined to allow no sexual overtures. If she tries anything, I’ll resort to—I don’t know—hysteria. “Read me your new poems,” I say. She opens her portfolio. Reads.

In the midst of the hipster night of doubt and Emptiness, when the bad-trip god came to me with Cold hands, I looked up and shouted yes at the Stars. And yes and yes again. I groove on yes; The devil grooves on no. And I waited for you to Say yes, and at last you did. And the world said The stars said the trees said the grass said the Sky said the streets said yes and yes and yes—

She is ecstatic. Her face is flushed; her eyes are joyous. She has broken through to me. After two hours, when it becomes obvious that I am not going to ask her to go to bed with me, she leaves. Not to wear out her welcome. “I’m so glad I was wrong about you, David,” she whispers. “I couldn’t believe you were really a life-denier. And you’re not.” Ecstatic.

I am getting into very deep water.

We spend an hour or two together every night. Sometimes in my room, sometimes in hers. Usually she comes to me, but now and then, to be polite, I seek her out after Third Feeding. By now I’ve read all her poetry; we talk instead of the arts in general, politics, racial problems. She has a lively, well-stocked, disorderly mind. Though she probes constantly for information about me, she realizes how sensitive I am, and quickly withdraws when I parry her. Asking about my work: I reply vaguely that I’m doing research for a book, and when I don’t amplify she drops it, though she tries again, gently, a few nights later. She drinks a lot of wine, and offers it to me. I nurse one glass through a whole visit. Often she suggests we go out together for dinner; I explain that I have digestive problems and prefer to eat alone, and she takes this in good grace but immediately resolves to help me overcome those problems, for soon she is asking me to eat with her again. There is an excellent Spanish restaurant right in the hotel, she says. She drops troublesome questions. Where was I born? Did I go to college? Do I have family somewhere? Have I ever been married? Have I published any of my writings? I improvise evasions. Nothing difficult about that, except that never before have I allowed anyone on Earth such sustained contact with me, so prolonged an opportunity to find inconsistencies in my pretended identity. What if she sees through?

And sex. Her invitations grow less subtle. She seems to think that we ought to be having a sexual relationship, simply because we’ve become such good friends. Not a matter of passion so much as one of communication: we talk, sometimes we take walks together, we should do that together too. But of course it’s impossible. I have the external organs but not the capacity to use them. Wouldn’t want her touching my false skin in any case. How to deflect her? If I declare myself impotent she’ll demand a chance to try to cure me. If I pretend homosexuality she’ll start some kind of straightening therapy. If I simply say she doesn’t turn me on physically she’ll be hurt. The sexual thing is a challenge to her, the way merely getting me to talk with her once was. She often wears the transparent pink shawl that reveals her breasts. Her skirts are hip-high. She doses herself with aphrodisiac perfumes. She grazes my body with hers whenever opportunity arises. The tension mounts; she is determined to have me.

I have said nothing about her in my reports to Homeworld. Though I do transmit some of the psychological data I have gathered by observing her.

“Could you ever admit you were in love with me?” she asked tonight.

And she asked, “Doesn’t it hurt you to repress your feelings all the time? To sit there locked up inside yourself like a prisoner?”

And, “There’s a physical side of life too, David. I don’t mind so much the damage you’re doing to me by ignoring it. But I worry about the damage you’re doing to you.”

Crossing her legs. Hiking her skirt even higher.

We are heading toward a crisis. I should never have let this begin. A torrid summer has descended on the city, and in hot weather my nervous system is always at the edge of eruption. She may push me too far. I might ruin everything. I should apply for transfer to Homeworld before I cause trouble. Maybe I should confer with Swanson. I think what is happening now qualifies as an emergency.