Rama 2 by Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee

In her mind’s eye Nicole could see her daughter riding home from school each day on her bicycle. “Any news?” Genevieve would probably say to her grandfather as she crossed the portal of the villa. Pierre would just shake his head sorrowfully.

It has been two weeks now since anyone has officially seen me. Do you still have hope, my darling daughter? The bereft Nicole was struck by an over­whelming desire to talk to Genevieve. For a moment, suspending reality, Nicole could not accept the fact that she was separated from her daughter by millions of kilometers and had no way to communicate with her. She rose to return to the White Room, thinking in her temporary confusion that she could phone Genevieve from there.

When her sanity returned several seconds later, Nicole was astonished at how easily her mind had tricked itself. She shook her head and sat down on the wall overlooking the Cylindrical Sea. She remained on the wall for al­most two hours, her thoughts roaming freely over a variety of subjects. To­ward the end of the time, when she was preparing to return to the White Room, her mind focused on Richard Wakefield. / have tried, my British friend, Nicole said to herself. / have been more open with you than with anyone since Henry. But it would be just my luck to be here with someone even less trusting than myself.

Nicole was feeling an undefined sadness as she trekked down the stairs to the second level and turned right at the horizontal tunnel. Her sadness changed to surprise when she entered the White Room. Richard jumped up from his small black chair and greeted her with a hug. He had shaved and brushed his hair. He had even cleaned his fingernails. Laid out on the black table in the middle of the room was a neatly sectioned manna melon. One piece sat on each of the two black plates in front of the chairs.

Richard pulled out her chair and indicated for Nicole to sit down. He went around the table and sat in his own seat. He reached across the table and took both of Nicole’s hands. “I want to apologize,” he said with great intensity, “for being such a boor. I have behaved very badly these last few days.

“I have thought of thousands of things to tell you during these hours I’ve been waiting,” he continued hesitantly, a strained smile playing across his lips, “but I can’t remember most of them. … I know I wanted to explain to you how very important Prince Hal and Falstaff were to me. They were my closest friends. … It has not been easy for me to deal with their deaths. My grief is still very intense. . . .”

Richard took a drink of water and swallowed. “But most of all,” he said, “I’m sorry that I have not told you what a spectacular person you are. You are intelligent, attractive, witty, sensitive—everything I ever dreamed of finding in a woman. Despite our situation, I’ve been afraid to tell you how I felt. I guess my fear of rejection runs very deep.”

Tears welled out of the comer of Richard’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. He was trembling slightly. Nicole could tell what an incredible effort it had been for him. She brought his hands up against her cheeks. “I think you’re very special too,” she said.

50 HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL

Richard continued to work with the Rama computer, but he limited himself to short sessions and involved Nicole whenever he could. They took walks together and chatted like old friends. Richard entertained Nicole by acting out entire scenes from Shakespeare. The man had a prodigious mem­ory. He tried to play both sides in the love scenes from Romeo and Juliet, but every time he broke into his falsetto, Nicole would erupt with laughter.

One night they talked for over an hour about Omen, the Senoufo tribe, and Nicole’s visions. “You understand that it’s difficult for me to accept the physical reality of some of these stories,” Richard said, attempting to qualify his curiosity. “Nevertheless, I admit that I find them absolutely fascinating.” Later he showed keen interest in analyzing all the symbolism in her visions.

It was obvious that he acknowledged Nicole’s mystical attributes as just another component in her rich personality.

They slept nuzzling together before they made love. When they did fi­nally have intercourse, it was gentle and unhurried, surprising both of them with its ease and satisfaction. A few nights later, Nicole was lying with her head on Richard’s chest, quietly drifting in and out of sleep. He was in deep thought. “Several days ago,” he said, nudging her awake, “back before we became so intimate, I told you that I considered committing suicide once. At the time I was afraid to tell you the story. Would you like to hear it now?”

Nicole opened her eyes. She rolled over and put her chin on his stomach. “Uh-huh,” she said. She reached up and kissed him on the eyes before he began his tale.

“I guess you know I was married to Sarah Tydings when both of us were very young,” he began. “It was also before she was famous. She was in her first year with the Royal Shakespeare Company and they were performing Romeo and Juliet, As You Like It, and Cymbeline in repertory at Stratford. Sarah was Rosalind and Juliet and fantastic at both.

“She was eighteen at the time, just out of school. I fell in love with her the first night I saw her as Juliet. I sent her roses in the dressing room every evening and used most of my savings to see all the performances. We had two long dinners together and then I proposed. She accepted more from astonishment than love.

“I went to graduate school at Cambridge after the summer was over. We lived in a modest flat and she commuted to the theater in London. I would go with her whenever I could, but after several months my studies demanded more of my time.”

Richard stopped his narrative and glanced down at Nicole. She had not moved. She was lying partially across him, a smile of love on her face. “Go on,” she said softly.

“Sarah was an adrenaline junkie. She craved excitement and variety. The mundane and tedious angered her. Grocery shopping, for example, was a colossal bore. It was just too much trouble for her to turn on the set and decide what to order. She also found any kind of schedule incredibly con­straining.

“Lovemaking had to be performed in a different position or be accompa­nied by some different music every time; otherwise it was old hat. For a while I was creative enough to satisfy her. I also took care of all the routine tasks to free her from the drudgery of housework. But there were only so many hours in the day. Ultimately, despite my considerable abilities, my graduate studies began to suffer because I was spending all my energy mak­ing life interesting for her.

“After we had been married for a year, Sarah wanted to rent a flat in London, so that she didn’t need to make the long commute every night after a performance. Actually she had already been spending a couple of nights a week in London, ostensibly with one of her actress friends. But her career was soaring and we had plenty of money, so why should I say no?

“It was not long before rumors about her behavior became quite wide­spread. I chose to ignore them, fearing, I guess, that she wouldn’t deny them if I asked her. Then one night, late, while I was studying for an examination, I received a phone call from a woman. She was very polite, although obvi­ously distraught. She told me that she was the wife of the actor Hugh Sinclair, and that Mr. Sinclair—who at that time was starring with Sarah in the American drama In Any Weather—was having an affair with my wife. ‘In fact,’ she told me, ‘he is over at your wife’s flat at this very moment.’ Mrs. Sinclair started crying and then hung up.”

Nicole reached up and softly caressed Richard’s cheek with her hand. “I felt as if my chest had exploded,” he said, remembering the pain. “I was angry, terrified, frantic. I went to the station and took the late train to London. When the taxi dropped me at Sarah’s place, I ran to the door.

“I did not knock. I bolted up the stairs and found the two of them sleeping naked in the bed. I picked Sarah up and flung her against the wall— I can still remember the sound of her head smashing into the mirror. Then I fell on him in a rage, punching his face over and over, until it was nothing but a mass of blood. It was awful. . . .”