Charles Sheffield - Starfire

“I think so,” I said. “It is not yet nine o’clock in the morning, but this surely must count as a special occasion.”

“One in a lifetime-let’s hope.” Seth poured again and handed me the glass. “Don’t know quite when we’ll next meet. But I bet we do. The world is gettin’ stranger all the time. When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“There’s only two of us, and you claim to lack all forms of classical erudition. Don’t spoil your image, Seth. This is the second time in ten minutes that you have quoted Shakespeare.”

“I’ll watch out for that.” He raised his glass. “Good luck.”

“Good luck. May the wind be always at your back.”

We clinked glasses. Seth drained his whiskey in a single gulp. He glanced at the door from which my darlings had departed. “Don’t take me wrong, Doc, if I say I think that in a year or two you’re gonna need luck.”

“We all need fortune to smile on us. Another drink?”

“Not for me. If you don’t mind, I oughta be going-before the weather turns bad.”

I could hear the gale, trumpeting like a herd of elephants around the chimneys and false gables of the castle roof. Hail lashed at the shutters. I said gravely, “It would perhaps be wise to do so.”

Seth donned his boots and outer garments and I walked him to the door. In the shadow of the main entrance we stood together for a few moments without speaking. Then he nodded and headed south. The wind was not at his back. It was in his face. He bent low against a howling storm that ripped at his clothes. I watched, foolishly, until the pelting sleet had soaked me.

When I went back inside, Paula was anxiously waiting. She said, “Did we do wrong?”

“You did wonderfully. Every one of you.” I put my arm around her, wetting her blouse. “But I have a question.”

“What?” She sounded worried.

“Do you have any more surprises in store for me?”

She smiled, and in that mobile mouth I saw far across the years to the dimpled face of Paula Searle, holding in triumph her treasured alley-taw blood-orange marble. “We wouldn’t do anything like that, Father,” she said. “We’re too fond of you.”

I nodded and returned to my study. Tomorrow the girls would again be their usual selves, squabbling, conniving, demanding; impetuous, imperious, and inconsistent. Today, however, I refused to see them as anything less than perfect.

Although Seth was not there to provide justification, I poured myself another drink.

God knows, I did not deserve it. But, obscurely, I felt that I and my darlings and perhaps the whole world had earned it.