“Here it is, Gallinger!” I heard a shout. I turned on my heel and looked back up the ramp. “Kane!” He was limned in the port, shadow against light, but I had heard him sniff. I returned the few steps. “Here what is?” “Your rose.” He produced a plastic container, divided internally. The lower half was filled with liquid. The stem ran down into it. The other half, a glass of claret in this horrible night, was a large, newly opened rose. “Thank you,” I said, tucking it in my jacket. “Going back to Tirellian, eh?” “Yes.” “I saw you come aboard, so I got it ready. Just missed you at the Captain’s cabin. He was busy. Hollered out that I could catch you at the barns.” “Thanks again.” “It’s chemically treated. It will stay in bloom for weeks.” I nodded. I was gone.
Up into the mountains now. Far. Far. The sky was a bucket of ice in which no moons floated. The going became steeper, and the little donkey protested. I whipped him with the throttle and went on. Up. Up. I spotted a green, unwinking star, and felt a lump in my throat. The encased rose beat against my chest like an extra heart. The donkey brayed, long and loudly, then began to cough. I lashed him some more and he died. I threw the emergency brake on and got out. I began to walk. So cold, so cold it grows. Up here. At night? Why? Why did she do it? Why flee the campfire when night comes on? And I was up, down, around, and through every chasm, gorge, and pass, with my long-legged strides and an ease of movement never known on Earth. Barely two days remain, my love, and thou hast forsaken me. Why? I crawled under overhangs. I leaped over ridges. I scraped my knees, an elbow. I heard my jacket tear. No answer, Malann? Do you really hate your people this much? Then I’ll try someone else. Vishnu, you’re the Preserver. Preserve her, please! Let me find her. Jehovah? Adonis? Osiris? Thammuz? Manitou? Legba? Where is she? I ranged far and high, and I slipped. Stones ground underfoot and I dangled over an edge. My fingers so cold. It was hard to grip the rock. I looked down. Twelve feet or so. I let go and dropped, landed rolling. Then I heard her scream.
I lay there, not moving, looking up. Against the night, above, she called. “Gallinger!” I lay still. “Gallinger!” And she was gone. I heard stones rattle and knew she was coming down some path to the right of me. I jumped up and ducked into the shadow of a boulder. She rounded a cut-off, and picked her way, uncertainly, through the stones. “Gallinger?” I stepped out and seized her by the shoulders. “Braxa.” She screamed again, then began to cry, crowding against me. It was the first time I had ever heard her cry. “Why?” I asked. “Why?” But she only clung to me and sobbed. Finally, “I thought you had killed yourself.” “Maybe I would have,” I said. “Why did you leave Tirellian? And me?” “Didn’t M’Cwyie tell you? Didn’t you guess?” “I didn’t guess, and M’Cwyie said she didn’t know.” “Then she lied. She knows.” “What? What is it she knows?” She shook all over, then was silent for a long time. I realized suddenly that she was wearing only her flimsy dancer’s costume. I pushed her from me, took off my jacket, and put it about her shoulders. “Great Malann!” I cried. “You’ll freeze to death!” “No,” she said, “I won’t.” I was transferring the rose-case to my pocket. “What is that?” she asked. “A rose,” I answered. “You can’t make it out in the dark. I once compared you to one. Remember?” “Yes–Yes. May I carry it?” “Sure.” I stuck it in the jacket pocket. “Well? I’m still waiting for an explanation.” “You really do not know?” she asked. “No!” “When the Rains came,” she said, “apparently only our men were affected, which was enough….Because I–wasn’t–affected–apparently–” “Oh,” I said. “Oh.” We stood there, and I thought. “Well, why did you run? What’s wrong with being pregnant on Mars? Tamur was mistaken. Your people can live again.” She laughed, again that wild violin played by a Paginini gone mad. I stopped her before it went too far. “How?” she finally asked, rubbing her cheek. “Your people can live longer than ours. If our child is normal it will mean our races can intermarry. There must still be other fertile women of your race. Why not?” “You have read the Book of Locar,” she said, “and yet you ask me that? Death was decided, voted upon, and passed, shortly after it appeared in this form. But long before, before the followers of Locar knew. They decided it long ago. `We have done all things,’ they said, ‘we have seen all things, we have heard and felt all things. The dance was good. Now let it end.'” “You can’t believe that.” “What I believe does not matter,” she replied. “M’Cwyie and the Mothers have decided we must die. Their very title is now a mockery, but their decisions will be upheld. There is only one prophecy left, and it is mistaken. We will die.” “No,” I said. “What, then?” “Come back with me, to Earth.” “No.” “All right, then. Come with me now.” “Where?” “Back to Tirellian. I’m going to talk to the Mothers.” “You can’t! There is a Ceremony tonight!” I laughed. “A Ceremony for a god who knocks you down, and then kicks you in the teeth?” “He is still Malann,” she answered. “We are still his people.” “You and my father would have gotten along fine,” I snarled. “But I am going, and you are coming with me, even if I have to carry you–and I’m bigger than you are.” “But you are not bigger than Ontro.” “Who the hell is Ontro?” “He will stop you, Gallinger. He is the Fist of Malann.”