Damon Knight - Orbit 17

Sometimes I would force him to speak—not because I expected to learn anything, but because I wanted to hear his voice again. I was trying to find out what he did when he wasn’t sirenchasing. I said something inane like: “Why aren’t you in the movies? You wouldn’t even need talent; with your looks you could make a fortune. The movies or television would eat you up.”

He turned his head toward me. “My looks?”

“Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”

“I’m ugly.” His fantastic voice colored the words with subtle shades of despair. “Everything is ugly.”

I studied him closely. I think he believed what he said. “Don’t you want to be rich? Don’t you want the luxuries of life?”

“There’s no point.”

“Why not?”

“We’re here such a short time. There’s no point in gathering possessions. There’s no point in anything. And there’s not enough time.”

“Not enough time?”

He had drifted off in a reverie. “A very short time—but it seems like forever.” Impatience, hope, futility, expectation, anticipation; the voice showed it all.

“But how do you pass the time? What do you do?”

I think he sighed. “We wait,” he said. “We wait.”

“What are you waiting for?” I yelled in exasperation. He didn’t answer. I knew better than to continue with a frontal attack. I backed up and started in at a different angle. “You said, ‘We wait.’ Are the others like you?”

“Yes.”

A thought occurred to me. “Do they know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t they try to rescue you?”

“They’re afraid.”

“Afraid? Of me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. They would do anything to prevent premature interruption of the cycle.”

I started to ask what the hell he was talking about, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. “How am I dangerous?”

“You can see us.”

“Do you know why I can see you?

“No.”

“Am I the only one?”

“The only one we know of now.”

“Now?”

“It’s happened before.”

I changed directions again. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I haven’t hurt you.”

“There is danger that you will interrupt the cycle.”

“Why did you come with me so passively?”

“I couldn’t believe you would do this to me.” Again subtle shadings of accusation, hopelessness, and sadness in the beautiful voice. He turned his head to look at me. For an instant, the barest instant, I felt like a real son of a bitch. Then he looked away. He sat on the side of the bed, my bathrobe too big for him, the chain snaking into the bathroom.

Don’t get the idea that he had become an unexpected chatterbox. That conversation is a distillation of three weeks’ questions and silences.

About a week later, I went during the night to check on him. I hadn’t been sleeping very well. My mind was full of wild, impossible speculations. I won’t go into them but they consisted of men from Mars and other equally incredible flights of fancy. I started to put on my bathrobe but remembered he was wearing it. I tiptoed down the hall stark naked hoping to catch him doing something—doing anything.

The door to his room was always left open. I looked in cautiously. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I started toward the bathroom, then saw him against the wall. I turned on the light. He was pressed against the outside wall of the room, my bathrobe crumpled at his feet. His arms were outstretched to bring as much of him against the wall as possible. He didn’t seem to notice me, but then, he never did. I went to him and saw his face, the side of it flat against the wall. It was no longer expressionless. It was filled with the most overpowering hopelessness I had ever seen. I felt my throat constrict.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer for a moment—not because he was ignoring me as he usually did, but because he was preoccupied. Then he said, very softly, in a voice caressed by a cold, bleak wind: “The small creatures in the forest; their deaths are so tiny and insignificant. There’s hardly any life energy at all.”

Then he really was aware of me. I saw him retreat until the eyes and face were neutral. I bellowed and slapped him as hard as I could. I remembered them standing around the wrecks. He fell to his knees, the crimson print of my hand on his face. I pulled him up by his armpits and looked into his empty face.

“Stop hiding from me!” I screamed and slapped him again. He slumped against me and my arms were around him holding him up. Our naked bodies were together, exciting me. The blood rushed to my groin and my erection was painful. He was there, in the eyes, not completely, but there. I put my mouth over his. He neither drew away nor responded but his bruised lips were sweet and I didn’t want to stop.

I had been looking at his placid face for a month. I knew he was capable of emotion if he would let it show. He hadn’t uttered a sound or responded in any way to physical blows. He had to have a breaking point somewhere. I pushed him onto the bed on his stomach. The chain rattled. I rammed into him, trying to hurt him. He was tight, very tight. It must have been painful, but he didn’t cry out or even moan. It had been a long time since the last time—a month—too long. It only took a dozen strokes, my pelvis pounding against the flawless flesh of his buttocks, before I came. I shouldn’t have waited so long. It burned.

I lay on him for a moment, then reached and pulled his face around. It was vacant. I withdrew, still hard. I pulled him into a sitting position facing me. That beautiful face. That beautiful, bland, bruised face. I put my hands on either side of it.

“Don’t hide from me. It doesn’t do any good. I can see you. I can see you!” He swam to the surface and looked at me. “Did you enjoy it? Did you even feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Did it feel good? Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you groan? Why didn’t you scream? Why didn’t you beg me to stop? Why don’t you get mad? Why don’t you curse me? What’s inside you?” I put my hand on his breast and felt the hard nipple against my palm. “Do you have a heart? I can feel something in there. Is it a heart? What would I find if I got a knife and slit you open? Do you have sexual feelings at all?” I grabbed his penis and squeezed. It was soft but firm. “Has it ever been hard? You don’t piss with it. What do you use it for?”

I put his hand on my tingling erection. He didn’t pull it away. It just lay there. “That’s what it’s for. That’s how a human uses it!” He started going away again. I slapped him. “Stay with me. Stay with me every second.” I pushed him on his back. The chain clattered on the floor. I hooked his knees over my shoulders, watching his eyes the whole time. He tried to go away a few times but I slapped him back. I took a very long, slow time and I enjoyed the hell out of it.

The next morning I drove down the mountain to the village and phoned the Department. With direct dialing you can’t tell where a long-distance call is coming from. My father was worse and not expected to live much longer. Yeah, too bad. I shouldn’t be away much longer. Good-bye.

I started going to him every night. I hadn’t meant to but I couldn’t sleep without him. He didn’t go away anymore and I didn’t have to slap him. The bruises on his face faded finally. He was there all right, but that was all. I never succeeded in bringing emotion to his face.

Finally I began sleeping in the same bed with him, touching him all night, feeling his hard nipples under the palms of my hands.

He woke me one morning, moaning. The window was gray with light and I could see his mouth moving. I touched his face. It was hot and dry. He spoke and the music in his voice was muted. “Why have you done this to me? I never harmed you. I’ve never harmed anyone. All we ever want is to survive until the birth.”