“So you’ve stopped shaving? Ah . . .”
Rheya cleared the table. Snow swayed on his heels, then pulled a face and sucked his teeth noisily, deliberately exaggerating the action. He stared at me insistently:
“So you’ve decided not to shave?” I made no reply. “Believe me,” he went on, “you’re making a mistake. That was how it started with him to . . .”
“Go and lie down.”
“What? Just when I feel like talking? Listen, Kelvin, perhaps it wishes well . . . perhaps it wants to please us but doesn’t quite know how to set about the job. It spies out desires in our brains, and only two per cent of mental processes are conscious. That means it knows us better than we know ourselves. We’ve got to reach an understanding with it. Are you listening? Don’t you want to? Why?” – he was sobbing by now – “why don’t you shave?”
“Shut up! . . . you’re drunk.”
“Me, drunk? And what if I am? Just because I drift about from one end of space to another and poke my nose into the cosmos, does that mean I’m not allowed to get drunk? Why not? You believe in the mission of mankind, don’t you, Kelvin? Gibarian told me about you before he started letting his beard grow . . . It was a very good description. Just don’t go to the lab, if you don’t want to lose your faith. It belongs to Sartorius – Faust in reverse . . . he’s looking for a cure for immortality! He is the last knight of the Holy Contact, the man we need. His latest discovery is pretty good too . . . prolonged dying. Not bad, eh? _Agonia perpetua_ . . . of the straw . . . the straw hats and still you don’t drink, Kelvin?”
He raised his swollen eyelids and looked at Rheya, who was standing quite still with her back to the wall. Then he began chanting:
“O fair Aphrodite, child of Ocean, your divine hand . . .” He choked with laughter. “It fits, eh, Kel . . .vin . . .”
He broke off in a fit of coughing.
“Shut up! Shut up and get out!” I grated through clenched teeth.
“You’re chucking me out? You too? You don’t shave and you chuck me out? What about my warnings, and my advice? Interstellar colleagues ought to help each other! Listen Kelvin, let’s go down and open the traps and call out. It might hear us. But what’s its name? We have named all the stars and all the planets, even though they might already have had names of their own. What a nerve! Come on, let’s go down. We’ll shout it such a description of the trick it’s played us that it will be touched. It will make us silver symmetriads, pray to us in calculus, send us its blood-stained angels. It will share our troubles and terrors, and beg us to help it die. It is already begging us, imploring us. It implores us to help it die with every one of its creations. You’re not amused . . . but you know I’m just a joker. If man had more of a sense of humor, things might have turned out differently. Do you know what he wants to do? He wants to punish this ocean, hear it screaming out of all its mountains at once. If you think he’ll never have the nerve to submit his plan to that bunch of doddering ancients who sent us here to redeem sins we haven’t committed, you’re right – he is afraid. But he is only afraid of the little hat. He won’t let anybody see the little hat, he won’t dare, not Faust . . .”
I said nothing. Snow’s swaying increased. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and onto his clothes. He went on:
“Who is responsible? Who is responsible for this situation? Gibarian? Giese? Einstein? Plato? All criminals . . . Just you think, in a rocket a man takes the risk of bursting like a balloon, or freezing, or roasting, or sweating all his blood out in a single gush, before he can even cry out, and all that remains is bits of bone floating inside armored hulls, in accordance with the laws of Newton as corrected by Einstein, those two milestones in our progress. Down the road we go, all in good faith, and see where it gets us. Think about our success, Kelvin; think about our cabins, the unbreakable plates, the immortal sinks, legions of faithful wardrobes, devoted cupboards . . . I wouldn’t be talking this way if I weren’t drunk, but sooner or later somebody was bound to say it, weren’t they? You sit there like a baby in a slaughterhouse, and you let your beard grow . . . Who’s to blame? Find out for yourself.”
He turned slowly and went out, putting an arm out against the doorpost to steady himself. Then his footsteps died away along the corridor.
I tried not to look at Rheya, but my eyes were drawn to hers in spite of myself. I wanted to get up, take her in my arms and stroke her hair. I did not move.
13 VICTORY
Another three weeks. The shutters rose and fell on time. I was still a prisoner in my nightmares, and every morning the play began again. But was it a play? I put on a feigned composure, and Rheya played the same game. The deception was mutual and deliberate, and our agreement only contributed to our ultimate evasion. We talked about the future, and our life on Earth on the outskirts of some great city. We would spend the rest of our lives among green trees and under a blue sky, and never leave Earth again. Together we planned the lay-out of our house and garden and argued over details like the location of a hedge or a bench.
I do not believe that I was sincere for a single instant. Our plans were impossible, and I knew it, for even if Rheya could leave the Station and survive the voyage, how could I have got through the immigration checks with my clandestine passenger? Earth admits only human beings, and even then only when they carry the necessary papers. Rheya would be detained for an identity check at the first barrier, we would be separated, and she would give herself away at once. The Station was the one place where we could live together. Rheya must have known that, or found it out.
One night I heard Rheya get out of bed silently. I wanted to stop her; in the darkness and silence we occasionally managed to throw off our despair for a while by making each other forget. Rheya did not notice that I had woken up. When I stretched my hand out, she was already out of bed, and walking bare-foot towards the door. Without daring to raise my voice, I whispered her name, but she was outside, and a narrow shaft of light shone through the doorway from the corridor.
There was a sound of whispering. Rheya was talking to somebody . . . but whom? Panic overtook me when I tried to stand up, and my legs would not move. I listened, but heard nothing. The blood hammered through my temples. I started counting, and was approaching a thousand when there was a movement in the doorway and Rheya returned. She stood there for a second without moving, and I made myself breathe evenly.
“Kris?” she whispered.
I did not answer.
She slid quickly into bed and lay down, taking care not to disturb me. Questions buzzed in my mind, but I would not let myself be the first to speak, and made no move. The silent questioning went on for an hour, maybe more. Then I fell asleep.
The morning was like any other. I watched Rheya furtively, but could not see any change in her behavior. After breakfast, we sat at the big panoramic window. The Station was hovering among purple clouds. Rheya was reading, and as I stared out I suddenly noticed that by holding my head at a certain angle I could see us both reflected in the window. I took my hand off the rail. Rheya had no idea that I was watching her. She glanced at me, obviously decided from my posture that I was looking at the ocean, then bent to kiss the place where my hand had rested. In a moment she was reading her book again.
“Rheya,” I asked gently, “where did you go last night?”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
“You . . . you must have been dreaming, Kris. I didn’t go anywhere.”
“You didn’t leave the cabin?”
“No. It must have been a dream.”
“Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps I dreamt it.”
The same evening, I started talking about our return to Earth again, but Rheya stopped me: