Damon Knight - Orbit 14

“Ah-ha, I bet it’s not her face he remembers!”

“She was right with us.” Harkane peered easily over the heads around her. “Maybe she stopped off somewhere.”

“Maybe she’s caught a Tail already?” Nilgiri was impressed.

“She could if anybody could, the little rascal.” Wynmet rolled her eyes.

“Oh, just send us the usual, Soldier. She’ll be along eventually. Come sit with us when she does.” Harkane waved a rainbow-tipped hand. “Come, sisters, gossip is not tasteful before we’ve had a drink.”

“That little rascal.”

Soldier began to pour drinks with singleminded precision, until he noticed that he had the wrong bottle. Cursing, he drank them himself, one by one.

“Hi, Maris.”

He pushed the tray away.

“Hi, Maris.” Fingers appeared in front of his face; he started. “Hey.”

“Brandy!”

Patrons along the bar turned to stare, turned away again.

“Brandy—”

“Well, sure; weren’t you expecting me? Everybody else is already here.”

“I know. I thought-—I mean, they said . . . maybe you were out with somebody already,” trying to keep it light, “and—”

“Well, really, Maris, what do you take me for?” She was insulted. “I just wanted to wait till everybody else got settled, so I could have you to myself. Did you think I’d forget you? Unkind.” She hefted a bright mottled sack onto the bar. “Look, I brought you a present!” Pulling it open, she dumped heaping confusion onto the counter. “Books, tapes, buttons, all kinds of things to look at. You said you’d read out the library five times; so I collected everywhere, some of them should be new . . . Don’t you like them?”

“I . . .” he coughed, “I’m crazy about them! I’m—overwhelmed. Nobody ever brought me anything before. Thank you. Thanks very much. And welcome back to New Piraeus!”

“Glad to be back!” She stretched across the bar, hugged him, kissed his nose. She wore a new belt of metal inlaid with stones. “You’re just like I remembered.”

“You’re more beautiful.”

“Flatterer.” She beamed. Ashen hair fell to her breasts; angles had deepened on her face. The quicksilver eyes took all things in now without amazement. “I’m twenty-one today, you know.”

“No kidding? That calls for a celebration. Will you have brandy?”

“Do you still have some?” The eyes widened slightly. “Oh, yes! We should make it a tradition, as long as it lasts.”

He smiled contentedly. They drank to birthdays, and to stars.

“Not very crowded tonight, is it?” Brandy glanced into the room, tying small knots in her hair. “Not like last time.”

“It comes and it goes. I’ve always got some fisherfolk, they’re heavy on tradition. ... I gave up keeping track of ship schedules.”

“We don’t even believe our own; they never quite fit. We’re a month late here.”

“I know—happened to notice it. . . .” He closed a bent cover, laid the book flat. “So anyway, how did you like your first Quadrangle?”

“Beautiful—oh, Maris, if I start I’ll never finish, the City in the Clouds on Patris, the Freeport on Sanalareta . . . and the Pleiades . . . and the depths of night, ice and fire.” Her eyes burned through him toward infinity. “You can’t imagine—”

“So they tell me.”

She searched his face for bitterness, found none. He shook his head. “I’m a man and a cyborg; that’s two League rules against me that I can’t change—so why resent it? I enjoy the stories.” His mouth twitched up.

“Do you like poetry?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then—may I show you mine? I’m writing a cycle of poems about space, maybe someday I’ll have a book. I haven’t shown them to anybody else, but if you’d like—”

“I’d like it.”

“I’ll find them, then. Guess I should be joining the party, really, they’ll think I’m antisocial”—she winced—“and they’ll talk about me! It’s like a small town, we’re as bad as lubbers.”

He laughed. “Don’t—you’ll disillusion me. See you later. Uh . . . listen, do you want arrangements like before? For sleeping.”

“Use your place? Could I? I don’t want to put you out.”

“Hell, no. You’re welcome to it.”

“I’ll cook for you—”

“I bought some eggs.”

“It’s a deal! Enjoy your books.” She wove a path between the tables, nodding to sailor and spacer; he watched her laughing face merge and blur, caught occasional flashes of silver. Stuffing books into the sack, he set it against his shin behind the bar. And some time later, watched her go out with a Tail.

The morning of the thirteenth day he woke to find Brandy sleeping soundly in the pile of hairy cushions by the door. Curious, he glanced out into a water-gray field of fog. It was the first time she had come home before dawn. Home? Carefully he lifted her from the pillows; she sighed, arms found him, in her sleep she began to kiss his neck. He carried her to the bed and put her down softly, bent to . . . No. He turned away, left the room. He had slept with her only once. Twenty-five or three years ago, without words, she had told him they would not be lovers again. She kept the customs; a spacer never had the same man more than once.

In the kitchen he heated a frozen dinner, and ate alone.

“What’s that?” Brandy appeared beside him, mummified in a blanket. She dropped down on the cushions where he sat barefoot, drinking wine and ignoring the TD.

“Three-dimensional propaganda: the Oro Morning Mine Report. You’re up pretty early—it’s hardly noon.”

“I’m not sleepy.” She took a sip of his wine.

“Got in pretty early, too. Anything wrong?”

“No . . . just—nothing happening, you know. Ran out of parties, everybody’s pooped but me.” She cocked her head. “What is this, anyway ... an inquisition? ‘Home awfully early, aren’t you—?’ ” She glared at him and burst into laughter.

“You’re crazy.” He grinned.

“Whatever happened to your couch?” She prodded cushions.

“It fell apart. It’s been twenty-five years, you know.”

“Oh. That’s too bad . . . Maris, may I read you my poems?” Suddenly serious, she produced a small, battered notebook from the folds of her blanket.

“Sure.” He leaned back, watching subtle transformations occur in her face. And felt them begin to occur in himself, growing pride and a tender possessiveness.

It was the final poem. “That’s ‘Genesis.’ It’s about the beginning of a flight . . . and a life.” Her eyes found the world again, found dark eyes quietly regarding her.

“ ‘Attired with stars we shall forever sit, triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.’ ” He glanced away, pulling the tassel of a cushion. “No . . . Milton, not Maris—I could never do that.” He looked back, in wonder. “They’re beautiful, you are beautiful. Make a book. Gifts are meant for giving, and you are gifted.”

Pleasure glowed in her cheeks. “You really think someone would want to read them?”

“Yes.” He nodded, searching for the words to tell her. “Nobody’s ever made me—see that way ... as though I ... go with you. Others would go, if they could. Home to the sky.”

She turned with him to the window; they were silent. After a time she moved closer, smiling. “Do you know what I’d like to do?”

“What?” He let out a long breath.

“See your home.” She set her notebook aside. “Let’s go for a walk in New Piraeus. I’ve never really seen it by day—the real part of it. I want to see its beauty up close, before it’s all gone. Can we go?”