Damon Knight - Orbit 14

“Oh.” She looked embarrassed. “That’s what you meant by ‘come back and see me’ . . . and they meant—Will you really live a thousand years?”

“Probably not. Something vital will break down in another three or four centuries, I guess. Even plastic doesn’t last forever.”

“Oh . . .”

“Live longer and enjoy it less. Except for today. What did you do today? Get any sleep?”

“No—” She shook away disconcertion. “A bunch of us went out and gorged. We stay on wake-ups when we’re in port, so we don’t miss a minute; you don’t need to sleep. Really they’re for emergencies, but everybody does it.”

Quick laughter almost escaped him; he hoped she’d missed it. Serious, he said, “You want to be careful with those things. They can get to you.”

“Oh, they’re all right.” She twiddled her glass, annoyed and suddenly awkward again, confronted by the Old Man.

Hell, it can’t matter— He glanced toward the door.

“Brandy! There you are.” And the crew came in. “Soldier, you must come sit with us later; but right now we’re going to steal Brandy away from you.”

He looked up with Brandy to the brown face, brown eyes, and salt-white hair of Harkane, Best Friend of the Mactav on the Who Got Her-709. Time had woven deep nets of understanding around her eyes; she was one of his oldest customers. Even the shape of her words sounded strange to him now: “Ah, Soldier, you make me feel young, always . . . Come, little sister, and join your family; share her, Soldier.”

Brandy gulped brandy; her boots clattered as she dropped off the stool. “Thank you for the drink,” and for half a second the smile was real. “Guess I’ll be seeing you—Soldier.” And she was leaving, ungracefully, gratefully.

Soldier polished the agate bar, ignoring the disappointed face it showed him. And later watched her leave, with a smug, blank-eyed Tail in velvet knee pants.

Beyond the doorway yellow-green twilight seeped into the bay, the early crowds began to come together with the night. “H’lo, Maris . . . ?” Silver dulled to lead met him in a face gone hollow; thin hands trembled, clenched, trembled in the air.

“Brandy—”

“What’ve you got for an upset stomach?” She was expecting laughter.

“Got the shakes, huh?” He didn’t laugh.

She nodded. “You were right about the pills, Maris. They make me sick. I got tired, I kept taking them . . .” Her hands rattled on the counter.

“And that was pretty dumb, wasn’t it?” He poured her a glass of water, watched her trying to drink, pushed a button under the counter. “Listen, I just called you a ride—when it comes, I want you to go to my place and go to bed.”

“But—”

“I won’t be home for hours. Catch some sleep and then you’ll be all right, right? This is my door lock.” He printed large numbers on a napkin. “Don’t lose this.”

She nodded, drank, stuffed the napkin up her sleeve. Drank some more, spilling it. “My mouth is numb.” An abrupt chirp of laughter escaped; she put up a shaky hand. “I—won’t lose it.”

Deep gold leaped beyond the doorway, sunlight on metal. “Your ride’s here.”

“Thank you, Maris.” The smile was crooked but very fond. She tacked toward the doorway.

She was still there when he came home, snoring gently in the bedroom in a knot of unmade blankets. He went silently out of the room, afraid to touch her, and sank into a leather-slung chair. Filled with rare and uneasy peace he dozed, while the starlit mist of the Pleiades’ nebulosity passed across the darkened sky toward morning.

“Maris, why didn’t you wake me up? You didn’t have to sleep in a chair all night.” Brandy stood before him wrestling with a towel, eyes puffy with sleep and hair flopping in sodden plumb-bobs from the shower. Her feet made small puddles on the braided rug.

“I didn’t mind. I don’t need much sleep.”

“That’s what I told you.”

“But I meant it. I never sleep more than three hours. You needed the rest, anyway.”

“I know . . . damn—” She gave up and wrapped the towel around her head. “You’re a fine guy, Maris.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

She blushed. “Glad you approve. Ugh, your rug—I got it all wet.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

Maris stretched unwillingly, stared up into ceiling beams bronzed with early sunlight. He sighed faintly. “You want some breakfast?”

“Sure, I’m starving! Oh, wait—” A wet head reappeared. “Let me make you breakfast? Wait for me.”

He sat watching as the apparition in silver-blue flightsuit ransacked his cupboards. “You’re kind of low on raw materials.”

“I know.” He brushed crumbs off the table. “I eat instant breakfasts and frozen dinners; I hate to cook.”

She made a face.

“Yeah, it gets pretty old after half a century . . . they’ve only had them on Oro for half a century. They don’t get any better, either.”

She stuck something into the oven. “I’m sorry I was so stupid about it.”

“About what?”

“About ... a hundred years. I guess it scared me. I acted like a bitch.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! I know I did.” She frowned.

“Okay, you did ... I forgive you. When do we eat?”

They ate, sitting side by side.

“Cooking seems like an odd spacer’s hobby.” Maris scraped his plate appreciatively. “When can you cook on a ship?”

“Never. It’s all prepared and processed. So we can’t overeat. That’s why we love to eat and drink when we’re in port. But I can’t cook now either—no place. So it’s not really a hobby, I guess, any more. I learned how from my father, he loved to cook . . .” She inhaled, eyes closed.

“Is your mother dead?”

“No—” She looked startled. “She just doesn’t like to cook.”

“She wouldn’t have liked Glatte, either.” He scratched his crooked nose.

“Calicho—that’s my home, it’s seven light years up the cube from this corner of the Quadrangle—it’s ... a pretty nice place. I guess Ntaka would call it ‘healthy,’ even . . . there’s lots of room, like space; that helps. Cold and not very rich, but they get along. My mother and father always shared their work . . . they have a farm.” She broke off more bread.

“What did they think about your becoming a spacer?”

“They never tried to stop me; but I don’t think they wanted me to. I guess when you’re so tied to the land it’s hard to imagine wanting to be so free. ... It made them sad to lose me—it made me sad to lose them; but, I had to go. . . .”

Her mouth began to quiver suddenly. “You know, I’ll never get to see them again, I’ll never have time, our trips take so long, they’ll grow old and die. . . .” Tears dripped onto her plate. “And I miss my h-home—” Words dissolved into sobs, she clung to him in terror.

He rubbed her back helplessly, wordlessly, left unequipped to deal with loneliness by a hundred years alone.

“M-Maris, can I come and see you always, will you always, always be here when I need you, and be my friend?”

“Always . . He rocked her gently. “Come when you want, stay as long as you want, cook dinner if you want, I’ll always be here. . . .”

. . . Until the night, twenty-five years later, when they were suddenly clustered around him at the bar, hugging, badgering, laughing, the crew of the Who Got Her-709.

“Hi, Soldier!”

“Soldier, have we—”

“Look at this, Soldier—”

“What happened to—”

“Brandy?” he said stupidly. “Where’s Brandy?”

“Honestly, Soldier, you really never do forget a face, do you?”