stood by the open closet, hanging up his shirts.
“Why not?”
Kemmings said, “There’s nothing in it.”
Going over to the TV set, Martine turned it on. A hockey
game materialized, projected out into the room, in full color,
and the sound of the game assailed her ears.
“It works fine,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I can prove it to you. If you have a nail file
or something, I’ll unscrew the back plate and show you.” “But I can-”
“Look at this.” He paused in his work of hanging up his
clothes. “Watch me put my hand through the wall.” He placed the palm of his right hand against the wall. “See?”
His hand did not go through the wall because hands do not go
through walls; his hand remained pressed against the wall, unmoving.
“And the foundation,” he said, “is rotting away.” “Come and sit down by me,” Martine said.
“I’ve lived this often enough to know,” he said. “I’ve lived
this over and over again. I come out of suspension; I walk down the ramp; I get my luggage; sometimes I have a drink at the bar and sometimes I come directly to my room. Usually I turn on the TV and then-” He came over and held his hand toward
her, “See where the bee stung me?”
She saw no mark on his hand; she took his hand and held it. “There is no bee sting there,” she said.
“And when the robot doctor comes, I borrow a tool from him
and take off the back plate of the TV set. To prove to him that it has no chassis, no components in it. And then the ship starts me
over again.”
“Victor,” she said. “Look at your hand.”
“This is the first time you’ve been here, though,” he said. “‘Sit down,” she said.
“Okay. ” He seated himself on the bed, beside her, but not too
close to her.
“Won’t you sit closer to me?” she said.
“It makes me too sad,” he said. “Remembering you. I really
loved you. I wish this was real.”
Martine said, “I will sit with you until it is real for you.” “I’m going to try reliving the part with the cat,” he said, “and
this time not pick up the cat and not let it get the bird. If I do that, maybe my life will change so that it turns into something happy. Something that is real. My real mistake was separating from you. Here; I’ll put my hand through you.” He placed his hand against her arm. The pressure of his muscles was vigorous; she felt the weight, the physical presence of him, against her. “See?” he said. “It goes right through you.”
“And all this,” she said, “because you killed a bird when you were a little boy.”
“No,” he said, “All this because of a failure in the temperature-regulating assembly aboard the ship. I’m not down to the proper temperature. There’s just enough warmth left in my brain cells to permit cerebral activity.” He stood up then, stretched, smiled at her. “Shall we go get some dinner?” he asked.
She said, “I’m sorry, I’m not hungry.”
“I am. I’m going to have some of the local seafood. The
brochure says it’s terrific. Come along anyhow; maybe when you
see the food and smell it you’ll change your mind,”
Gathering up her coat and purse, she came with him. “This is a beautiful little planet,” he said. “I’ve explored it
dozens of times. I know it thoroughly, We should stop downstairs at the pharmacy for some Bactine, though, For my hand. It’s beginning to swell and it hurts like hell,” He showed her his
hand. “It hurts more this time than ever before.”
“Do you want me to come back to you?” Martine said. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll stay with you as long as you want. I agree;
we should never have been separated.”
Victor Kemmings said, ‘”The poster is tom.”
“What?” she said.
“We should have framed it,” he said. “We didn’t have sense
enough to take care of it. Now it’s tom. And the artist is dead.”