Damon Knight - Orbit 18

He hardly noticed the other people, the crowds that Josie gathered around herself; when they went out on one of her wild jaunts, six of them or eight or ten, Trager would tell himself that he and Josie were going out, and that some others had come along.

Once in a great while things would work out so they were alone together, at her place or his. Then they would talk. Of distant worlds, of politics, of corpses and life on Skrakky, of the books they both read, of sports or games or friends they had in common. They shared a good deal. Trager talked a lot with Josie. And never said a word.

He loved her, of course. He suspected it the first month, and soon he was convinced of it. He loved her. This was the real thing, the thing he had been waiting for, and it had happened just as he knew it would.

But with his love: agony. He could not tell her. A dozen times he tried; the words would never come. What if she did not love him?

His nights were still lonely, in the small room with the white lights and the books and the pain. He was more alone than ever now; the peace of his routine, of his half-life with his corpses, was gone. By day he rode the great automills, moved his corpses, smashed rock and melted ore, and in his head rehearsed the words he’d say to Josie. When he broke through, when he found the words and the courage, then everything would be all right. Each day he said that to himself, and dug swift and deep into the earth.

Back home, the sureness faded. Then, with awful despair, he knew that he was deceiving himself. He was a friend to her, nothing more, never would be more. They had never been lovers, never would be; the few times he’d worked up the courage to touch her, she had smiled, moved away on some pretext, so that he was never quite sure that he was being rejected. He walked the corridors again, sullen, desperate. And all the old scars bled again.

He must believe in himself, he knew that, he shouted it out loud. He must stop feeling sorry for himself. He must do something. He must tell Josie. He would.

And she would love him, cried the day.

And she would laugh, the nights replied.

Trager chased her for a year, a year of pain and promise, the first year that he had ever lived. On that the night-fears and the day-voice agreed; he was alive now. He would never return to the emptiness of his time before Josie; he would never go back to the meathouse. That far, at least, he had come. He could change, and someday he would be strong enough to tell her.

Josie and two friends dropped by his room that night, but the friends had to leave early. For an hour or so they were alone, talking. Finally she had to go. Trager said he’d walk her home.

He kept his arm around her down the long corridors, and he watched her face, watched the play of light and shadow on her cheeks as they walked from light to darkness. “Josie,” he started. He felt so fine, so good, so warm, and it came out. “I love you.”

And she stopped, pulled away from him, stepped back. Her mouth opened, just a little, and something flickered in her eyes. “Oh, Greg,” she said. Softly. Sadly. “No, Greg, no, don’t, don’t.”

Trembling slightly, mouthing silent words, Trager raised his hand gently toward her cheek. She turned her head away so that his hand met only air.

Then, for the first time ever, Trager shook. And the tears came. Josie took him to her room. There, sitting across from each other on the floor, never touching, they talked.

J.: . . . known it for a long time . . . tried to discourage you, Greg, but I didn 7 just want to come right out and... I never wanted to hurt you ... a good person . . . don’t worry . . .

T.: . . . knew it all along . . . that it would never . . . lied to myself . . . wanted to believe, even if it wasn’t true... I’m sorry, Josie, I'm sorry, i'm sorry, imsorryimsorryimsorry . . .

J.: . . . afraid you would go back to what you were . . . don’t, Greg, promise me .. . can’t give up .. . have to believe . . .

T.: . . . why?. . .

J.: . . . stop believing, then you have nothing. . . dead. . . you can do better... a good handler... get off Skrakky, find something... no life here . . . someone . . . you will, you will, just believe, keep on believing

T.: . . . you . . . love you forever, Josie. . . forever. . . how can I find someone . . . never anyone like you, never . . . special. . .

J.: . . . oh, Greg. . . lots of people . . . just look . . . open

T.: (laughter) . . . open? . . . first time I ever talked to anyone . . .

J.: . . . talk to me again, if you have to ... I can talk to you . . . had enough lovers, everyone wants to go to bed with me, better just to be friends

T.: . . . friends . . . (laughter) . . . (tears) . . .

The fire had burned out long ago, and Stevens and the forester had gone to bed, but Trager and Donelly still sat beside the ashes. They talked softly, so as not to wake the others, yet their words hung long in the restless night air. The uncut forest, standing dark behind them, was dead still; the wildlife of Vendalia had all fled the noise that the fleet of buzztrucks made during the day.

“. . . a full six-crew, running buzztrucks, I know enough to know that’s not easy,” Donelly was saying. He was a pale, timid youth, likable but self-conscious. Trager heard echoes of himself in Donelly’s stiff words. “You’d do well in the arena.”

Trager nodded, thoughtful, his eyes on the ashes as he moved them with a stick. “I came to Vendalia with that in mind. Went to the gladiatorials once, only once. That was enough to change my mind. I could take them, I guess, but the whole idea made me sick. Out here, well, the money doesn’t even match what I was getting on Skrakky, but the work is, well, clean. You know?”

“Sort of,” said Donelly. “Still, you know, it isn’t like they were real people out there in the arena. Only meat. All you can do is make the bodies as dead as the minds. That’s the logical way to look at it.”

Trager chuckled. “You’re too logical, Don. You ought to feel more. Listen, next time you’re in Gidyon, go to the gladiatorials and take a look. It’s ugly, ugly. Corpses stumbling around with axes and swords and morningstars, hacking and hewing at each other. Butchery, that's all it is. And the audience, the way they cheer at each blow. And laugh. They laugh, Don! No.” He shook his head sharply. “No.”

“But why not? I don’t understand, Greg. You’d be good at it, the best. I’ve seen the way you work your crew.”

Trager looked up, studied Donelly briefly while the youth sat quietly, waiting. Josie’s words came back: open, be open. The old Trager, the Trager who lived friendless and alone inside a Skrakky handlers’ dorm, was gone.

“There was a girl,” he said slowly. Opening. “Back on Skrakky, Don, there was a girl I loved. It, well, it didn’t work out. That’s why I’m here, I guess. I’m looking for someone else, for something better. That’s all part of it, you see.” He stopped, paused, tried to think it out. “This girl, Josie, I wanted her to love me. You know.” The words came hard. “Admire me, all that stuff. Now, yeah, sure, I could do good running corpses in the arena. But Josie could never love someone who had a job like that. She’s gone now, of course, but still.. . the kind of person I’m looking for, I couldn’t find them as an arena corpsemaster.” He stood up abruptly. “I don’t know. That’s what’s important, though, to me. Josie, somebody like her, someday. Soon, I hope.”

He left Donelly sitting beside the ashes, and walked off alone into the woods.