Paul Theroux - O-Zone

But he was nodding at the tiny image, that bright star on the ground which matched perfectly the pretty girl in his imagination.

They blacked out more windows that night on Fisher's orders. They ate in silence — Hooper, with his mask off, grinned at the meat he was about to tear apart in his teeth; Fisher screwed a tube of protein fiber onto the suckhole of his faceplate and slurped it. At Fisher's insistence they checked all the alarms and all the infrared sensors.

Fisher said nothing: he was listening for aliens. Hooper thought of Hardy, of Moura, of Murdick, and Holly and the Eubanks, of everyone he knew in Coldharbor — in New York. He looked at his world from a distance, and from here it seemed very clear to him. He seemed to be looking down from space. Was this the sensation that Jennix craved? Everyone he knew was small and exposed, like those aliens. They were isolated. They vibrated in empty space.

He pulled out his sleep capsule — the long pod that lay under the blacked-out window. He switched it on.

"I was just thinking how we're always alone. Each of us is alone."

He knew he was rambling. Now he was thinking of the girl and feeling sorry for himself and pitying her.

"Ever notice?"

Fisher said, "No."

He had already crawled into his sleep capsule and was flexed in it on the floor like a white worm. His face showed. His eyes were dark — closed off like the windows just behind him.

"I never noticed."

No! Of course he hadn't! The boy had never known anything but solitude.

"But I was home then," Fisher said. "I had Pap."

The room hummed with silence.

"How do you feel now?"

"I've got you," Fisher said.

"Right, captain."

They were back at the clinic, the three of them. Two days after that first visit, Holly called Moura and said, "I want to go back to the clinic — now." Moura said, "Fine, I'll join you," and Holly was slightly shocked at how quickly Moura had agreed, just like that. But it was only a moment's pause, no more than a blink of Holly's long eyelashes — the shock excited her and made the visit even more urgent.

Moura noticed that Holly was dressed differently this time — not the teasing little apron and bib and bare bum, but a jacket and skirt and warm boots and goggles. Holly had realized that she could have what she wanted. It had probably just dawned on her that she didn't have to make an effort to attract a man at a contact clinic.

"I've never seen you looking so sensible," Rinka said — she had come reluctantly, she said. "For laughs," she said, using a phrase that Moura never believed, no matter who uttered it, no matter how.

Holly's smile was her lively one of lust and eagerness, and there was an edge of hilarity that lent a giggle to her voice.

"I told Brad he could land on the roof," Holly said. "I wish he had. It's so much better going through the roof. I think going through front doors in New York is really vulgar."

Moura hated this evasive chatter, but she was also grateful that she was not required to talk. What could she say that would not condemn her?

"We've got four-o'clock sessions," Holly said. "I opted for soft sessions — they're open-ended for my client area, and they're more expensive, but I told them I didn't want a time sleeve."

Moura thought: Hunger, greed, unlimited fucking — poor Holly. The jargon did not disguise Holly's mood. She was twitching, blinking behind her goggles, smoothing her skirt. But it moved Moura to see her friend nervous.

Rinka was sheepish. She seemed hesitant and embarrassed. Moura would have been touched by that embarrassment, except that Rinka persisted in her insincerity.

"I'm doing this for laughs more than anything else."

"There aren't many laughs here," Moura said.

The others fell silent, and she realized that she had been too sharp. What a stern remark to make to her uneasy friends.

To help the moment pass, she said, "But it's safe. It's got a reputation. It's not in the baby business anymore, but so what? It's got all kinds of men, and a good health record."

"I know a gal who caught that chronic clap from her husband," Holly said piously. "You get these red dripping blebs all over your pelvic area. You begin to smell. She started to drip — this gal I know. It was her husband! She would have been a lot better off here."

She sounded disgusted and self-righteous, but Moura knew it was poor Holly's confusion — virtuous one moment, devilish the next. Moura wanted to say, You'll get used to it here, but didn't — not because it wouldn't calm Holly but rather because it was such an ominous thought and probably true in a dreary way.

And Moura, too, was uncomfortable. She had the suspicion that they had wanted her as a chaperon, but now that she had eased them into the clinic they wanted to be rid of her. No one liked to have witnesses here.

I enjoy being with them but I don't like myself when I'm with them: she went on confessing to herself, because being here meant that she had to scrutinize herself and look for motives. All this was the past.

She thought: I have to be with them to understand who I am and where I have been.

"We're real-lifers," Holly whispered. "This is action."

It wasn't boasting — she was merely trying to raise her morale. Moura knew that first-time fear. It was mostly imaginary — there were few risks — so that when you overcame the fear you quickly felt brave, and that was the sudden beginning of a greedy stuffing habit.

"Where are the other women?" Rinka asked.

Her nervousness had made her prissy. As she sat in the reception area she kept pinching different parts of her suit in a modest tidying way.

"The idea is that you don't see anyone else," Moura said. "Except the donor. They apparently still call them donors."

"I love anonymity," Holly said. "It really switches me on." She touched the shine on her eager cheeks. "Most people will do anything in a mask!"

For Moura there was something painful about waiting here. It was torture, a well-informed fantasy, that reproached her. She had returned to an old love and seen that it had not existed. She had always been alone. She felt remorse, the humiliation of broken hopes. She thought: It is heartbreaking to be reminded of your old dreams.

The three women were instructed by another kindly nurse to pass to an inner room. They blinked and tried to widen their eyes: it was darker here, lighted only by lamps above bright not-very-good paintings and bronzes. The statues were of naked dancers — perhaps dancers — men and women. And the lights and the way the sculptures were positioned made you look closely — too closely: the things were really poor and plainly sexual. But the low music was clever. It didn't come from those rooms but rather seemed to be playing in your own ears.

"It must have been so different before," Holly said.

"Yes," Moura said, for her friend's sake.

"I guess this is it," Holly whispered, seeing another nurse, and she leaned toward Moura. "When we get to the room, what do we—?"

But the question was lost. The nurse gave Holly and Rinka their room numbers and then she waited with Moura until the other two had left.

"I'm here to see the director," Moura said, and thought: No, it was just the same, and wanted it to be over.

The fragrant odors in this place — perfumes and flowers— reminded Moura of their opposites: sweats and stinks; and a whiff of strong disinfectant from one doorway made her think of venereal poisons. The bronze statues and bad paintings were truly vulgar, and she hated the potted palms and soft music. None of that had changed. Years ago it had been slightly more shadowy, more pretentious and unsure of itself, although its business had been strictly regulated and the clients came to be fertilized, not fucked.