Дэймон Найт - Orbit 7

Thin, pale, but with a fiery intensity that made her more beautiful than he had seen her in their lives together. Her eyes were luminous. The tension that had racked her for months was gone. She carried the baby as if unaware of the extra burden, and when she slept, it was deep untroubled sleep that refreshed her wholly.

“You’re the one who is suffering, darling,” she said softly, fairy-touching his cheek. Her hands were very rough now, fingernails split and broken jaggedly. He caught her rough hand and pressed it hard against his cheek.

“Wymann has been calling, hasn’t he?” Julia asked after a moment. She didn’t pull her hand from his face. He turned it over and kissed the palm. “It’s all right to talk about it, Martie. I know he’s been calling. They want to see me as soon as possible, to make sure of the baby, to see if the delivery will be normal, or if a section is called for. It’s all right.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. No. But I know what they’re thinking now. They’re afraid of me, of people like me. You see, people who have high creativity don’t usually have the right sort of genes to take their RNA. A few, but not enough. It worries them.”

“Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Martie, you know where I’ve been spending my time.” She laughed. “It is nice to be home, isn’t it?” The fireplace half of the living room was cheerful and glowing, while shadows filled the rest of the long room. “Of course, when you consider that only about twenty-five percent of the people are getting the RNA it isn’t surprising that there aren’t many with creative abilities that have been developed to any extent. But, what is sad is that those few who were writers or painters, or whatever, don’t seem to continue their work once they know they are immortal. Will women want to continue bearing children if they know they’re immortal already?”

“I don’t know. You think that the maternal instinct is just a drive to achieve immortality, although vicariously?”

“Why not? Is a true instinct stilled with one or two satisfying meals, or sex acts, or whatever? Women seem to be satisfied as soon as they have a child or two.”

“If that’s so, then, whatever happens, the race will be finished. If women don’t want children, don’t have to satisfy this drive, I should say, it’s a matter of time. We have the means to prevent pregnancy, why would they keep on getting knocked up?”

“Because something else needs the children, the constantly shifting, renewing vision that is provided by children. Not us, not me. It. Something else. That thing that is behind us pushing, learning through us. You have the books. You’ve been reading everything you can find on psychology. The nearest we have been able to describe that something is by calling it the collective unconscious, I think.”

“Jung’s collective unconscious,” Martie muttered. “You know, some scientists, philosophers, artists work right down the middle of a brightly illuminated strip, never go off it. Darwin, for instance. Skinner. Others work so close to the edge that half the time they are in the grey areas where the light doesn’t follow, where you never knew if madness guided the pen or genius. Jung spent most of his time on the border, sometimes in the light, sometimes in the shadows. His collective unconscious, the fantasy of a man who couldn’t stand mysteries not solved during his own lifetime.”

Julia stood up and stretched. “God, I’m tired. Bath time.” Martie wouldn’t let her get into and out of the bathtub alone now. “Martie, if there is such a thing—and there is, there is—it’s been threatened. It has to have the constantly shifting viewpoint of mankind in order to learn the universe. A billion experiences, a trillion, who knows how many it will need before it is finished? It was born with mankind, it has grown with mankind, as it matures so does man, and if mankind dies now, so will it. We are its sensory receptors. And what Wymann and the others propose is death to it, death to them eventually. It feeds the unconscious, nourishes it, gives it its dreams and its flashes of genius. Without it, man is just another animal, clever with his hands perhaps, but without the dream to work toward. All our probes into space, into the oceans, so few inward. We are so niggardly in exploring the greatest mystery of all, potentially the most rewarding of all.”

She had her bath, and he helped her from the tub and dried her back and smoothed lotion over it. He tucked her into bed, and she smiled at him. “Come to bed, Martie. Please.”

“Soon, honey. I’m … restless right now.”

A few minutes later when he looked in on her, she was sound asleep. He smoked and drank and paced, as he did night after night. Julia was like one possessed. He grimaced at the choice of words. She worked from dawn until night, when he forced her to stop. He made their meals, or she wouldn’t have eaten. He had to touch her before she knew he was there to collect her for a meal. He stood sometimes and watched her from the doorway, and he was frightened of her at those times. She was a stranger to him, her eyes almost closed, sometimes, he thought, and discarded the thought immediately, her eyes were all the way closed.

Her hands held life of their own, strong, white knuckled, thin hands grasping mallet and chisel. She couldn’t wear gloves while she worked. She dressed in heavy wool pants, and a heavy sweater, covered by a tentlike poncho that she had made from an army blanket. She wore fleece-lined boots, but her hands had to be bare. He would touch her arm, shake her, and slowly recognition would return to her eyes, she would smile at him and put down her tools; without looking at the thing she was making, she would go with him. He would rub her freezing hands for her, help her out of the heavy garments that were much too warm for the house.

Sometimes after she had gone to bed, usually by nine, he would turn on the barn lights and stand and stare at her work. He wanted, at those times, to pull it down and smash it to a million pieces. He hated it for possessing her when he would have her sit on a velvet cushion and spend her last months and weeks with …

He threw his glass into the fireplace, then started to pick up the pieces and put them in an ashtray. Something wet sparkled on his hand, and he stared at it for a moment. Suddenly he put his head down on the floor and sobbed for her, for himself, for their child.

“Sayre, why haven’t you brought her in for an examination?”

Martie watched Wymann prowl the living room. Wymann looked haggard, he thought suddenly. He laughed. Everyone was looking haggard except Julia.

Wymann turned toward him with a scowl. “I’m warning you, Sayre. If the child is orphaned at birth, the state won’t quibble a bit about our taking it. With you or without you …”

Martie nodded. “I’ve considered that.” He rubbed his hand over his face. A four-or five-day beard was heavy on his cheeks and chin. His hand was unsteady. “I’ve thought of everything,” he said deliberately. “All of it. I lose if I take you up, lose if I don’t.”

“You won’t lose with us. One woman. There are other women. If she died in childbirth, in an accident, you’d be married again in less than five years. …”

Martie nodded. “I’ve been through all that, too. No such thing as the perfect love, lasting love. Why’d you come out here, Wymann? I thought you were too busy for just one patient to monopolize your time. Farthest damn housecall I’ve ever heard of. And not even called.” He laughed again. “You’re scared. What’s going wrong?”

“Where’s Julia?”

“Working. Out in the barn.”

“Are you both insane? Working now? She’s due in two weeks at the most!”