Damon Knight - Orbit 20

“It’s okay, I understand.”

They kissed gently, and hugged each other. Then they glanced at the sculpture to see if it had regained its brightness. It had, a little.

“See, it’s already helped us make our relationship more mature,” said Mary.

By the following evening, the sculpture had regained most of its lost brilliance, although it had not yet begun to grow again.

Mary was late getting home, and John felt a knot growing in his stomach as he waited for her. When she finally arrived, forty-five minutes late, it was obvious that she was upset. She muttered something as she stalked through the living room.

“Bad day?” asked John.

“Those crazy asses,” she exploded. “They can’t make the hardware to the right specifications, so the interface doesn’t work, and then they blame my design.” She threw up her arms, then crossed them, and stood looking out the window.

John got up and went to her. “Relax, Mary. It’s not your mistake and they’ll see that.”

“When?” she asked, raising her voice. “And why should I relax?”

John put his arms around her, but she pulled away.

“Stop it! I’m in no mood to be soothed and placated.”

“Now who’s bringing it home?” asked John.

She turned then, and they both looked at the sculpture. It was already beginning to lose its recently regained brilliance.

“John, I’m sorry,” said Mary, turning to him. “You’re right, it’s stupid of me to do that, especially when I tell you not to.”

In answer, John leaned over and kissed her lightly.

“Love me,” she whispered.

The knot in his stomach had grown tighter; now he was the one who was not in the mood, but he forced himself to participate. His performance was at least satisfactory; he could tell because the sculpture was regaining its glow.

It was three days later, and Mary had taken the afternoon off. She made herself a sandwich for lunch, and sat at the kitchen bar eating it. The kitchen was a mess, the counter tops were piled high with dirty dishes, the floor hadn’t been swept in a week, a bag of groceries had not been put away as yet.

It was a depressing sight, and it made her headache worse. She rarely got headaches like this one. The pain started at the top of her forehead, and then progressed in both directions until it circled her head. And then it didn’t stop developing, but changed from just spreading to growing in intensity. It had been bothering her for the last two days, and was the reason she had taken the option of this afternoon off. Now, after looking at the mess in the kitchen, she wasn’t sure that she would be able to relax.

She left the kitchen and went into the living room. Things weren’t a lot better there. Miscellaneous stuff was strewn all over the room. It had a quite lived in look. She ignored it, ignored the kitchen, and spent the first part of the afternoon reading. She finally dozed off, and was sleeping when John got home from work.

Mary had been sleeping so soundly that she had to claw herself back to clear thinking. She was fully awake when John returned to the living room and sat stiffly in a chair. He seemed tense to her.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“For having the afternoon off, you didn’t accomplish much,” he said, with an edge to his voice. He swung his arm to encompass the room. “This place is a mess. And the kitchen’s worse.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she retorted, hotly. “It so happens that I was tired and had a headache.”

Their eyes met, and there was a flash of non-verbal communication between them. They both looked at the sculpture. It hadn’t begun to dim as yet. They were silent a moment. Then Mary got up and went over to where John sat. He smiled, although the tenseness didn’t seem entirely gone. She sat in his lap and they kissed. Turning her head awkwardly and laying her cheek against his, she got a glance of the sculpture. It was still brightly colored.

“I’ll get started in a minute,” she said. She got up and went to the bathroom. She took three aspirin. Her headache was back, with a vengeance.

It was Sunday afternoon. John and Mary had spent Saturday working together on projects around the house. It had been an amiable day, and the sculpture was glowing brightly, and had added some new complexities. That morning they had sat together before it and marveled at what their relationship had created.

Mary was sitting contentedly, reading. John got up and switched on the TV. It was time for the football game.

“Must you, John?” Mary asked, looking up.

“It’s an important game,” he explained.

“But why do you want to spend time listening to that hollering and screaming when we can spend a quiet afternoon together doing something we both enjoy?” She punctuated her words with a sidewise glance at the sculpture.

That was enough. John turned the TV off. He was irritated, but didn’t show it outwardly. He sat quietly, doing nothing, but inside he was restless, and his stomach knotted. A few minutes later, he went to the bathroom and had diarrhea.

Mary was home first from work on Monday. She slumped into a chair and took time to try to relax. A few minutes later John arrived.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m not cooking tonight.”

“It’s your turn,” he replied.

“I don’t care.” She-felt irritable, wished that he would leave her alone.

“Mary, we can’t afford to go out again. You know that.” He caught her eyes, and then glanced to the sculpture. Her eyes followed his. It hadn’t started to dim yet.

“You’re right, of course,” she said, getting up. She tried to control her irritability. She kissed him. “What would you like?”

Before she started dinner, she went to the bathroom and took four aspirin. Her headache was back. She scratched her arm; she seemed to be developing a rash.

It had been a month since the synergy sculpture arrived. It was now just over two and a half feet high at its highest point, and it shone sharply with brilliant colors. Although it had many different attachment points at the base, these had all grown together at some point, making the sculpture a single structure. It was extremely complex, and difficult to describe. All possible geometrical shapes seemed to be incorporated within it somewhere, giving it its complexity. But somehow the shapes molded into one another to give an appearance of regularity where there should be chaos, with the result that the overall design was pleasing to the eye. The colors, which melted and flowed into each other, enhanced this beauty. It was a sculpture to be proud of.

John and Mary sat before it holding hands.

“Did you talk to Jim Anderson today?” Mary asked.

“Yes, and he said that next Thursday was fine. He said for us not to worry about dessert. He and Elsie will bring something.”

“They don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but he said they wanted to, so I didn’t argue.” They were silent a moment, watching the sculpture.

“Ours is better than theirs,” said Mary.

“It is,” agreed John. Then, “I wonder if they fought just before we got there Tuesday night? Their sculpture seemed dull.”

“I know. I wondered that, too. Wait until they see how bright ours is.”

“If it stays this bright.”

“Of course it will. We don’t fight.”

“I guess you’re right.”

It was Tuesday night.

“We’ve got to get the cars ready for winter,” said Mary.

“What?” asked John, looking up from his reading. John was tired; he had a crop of new students, and they seemed more incompetent than the last bunch.

“Antifreeze, snow tires, you know,” answered Mary.

“Do we have to talk about it now?” said John, testily.