Aliyat thought she heard her suppress whatever pain she had permitted before she went on: “I’ll be honest. I used you up. I found nothing further to discover. But then, I’d used myself up. I had to change. It was my escape from boredom and futility. Now we can find freshness in each other again, if you wish. Only for a while, though, a short while, until I’ve become used to perceiving you with a female mind and senses. Unless you change too. How, I can’t tell you. At best, I can offer a suggestion or two. The choice must be yours.
“If you refuse, if you stay in your narrow existence with your fossil soul, you’ll be more and more isolated, you’ll find less and less meaning in anything, and at last you’ll choose death because it is not that lonely.”
Aliyat drew the ancient air into her lungs. “I kept going this long,” she said. “I’m not about to give up.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I expected it of you. But think, my dear, think. Meanwhile, best I go.”
“Yes,” Aliyat said. The image vanished.
After some minutes Aliyat rose. She stalked the floor. It yielded slightly, deliciously to her feet. Byzantium surged around her. “Blank that scene,” she snapped. Pastel blue succeeded it. “Delivery Service.” A panel came into existence, ready to open an orifice.
What do I want? A happy pill? Chemistry tailored to me, harmless, instant cheerfulness, head quite clear, probably more clear than it is at this moment. In the bad old days we got drunk or smoked dope, abused our bodies and our brains. Now science has mapped how feelings work, and everybody is sane every hour of the twenty-four.
Everybody who decides to be.
Hanno, Wanderer, Shan, Patulcius, where are you? Or— never mind sex, that’s an old-fashioned consolation, isn’t it?—Corinne, Asagao, Svoboda—whatever you’re calling yourselves, a name’s become as changeable as a garment— where are you? Which of you can come to me, or I to you? We had our fellowship after we got together, we were the only immortals and the middle of each other’s universe whUe time blew by outside like the wind, but since we came forth we’ve drifted apart, we meet by accident and seldom, we say hello and try to talk and feel relieved when it ends. Where are my brothers, my sisters, my loves?
WHILE HE flew, communications verified that Wanderer was the person he claimed to be and had a permit to visit the control reserve. His car landed as directed, in a parking lot outside town, and he emerged suitcase in hand. Many everyday things, such as clothes, were not spot-produced here. He had reached—not exactly a hermit community, not a settlement of eccentrics trying to re-create a past that never was—but a society that went its own way and held much of the world at arm’s length.
The lot was near the water’s edge. Weather Service maintained the original Pacific Northwest climate as closely as was feasible. Clouds hung heavy. Mist swirled on the bay, making vague the rocks that towered from the waves, mysterious, like a Chinese painting. The conifer forest stood mighty behind the village, its darkness hardly relieved by splashes of bracken. Yet this was all alive, in silver-gray, white, black, greens deep or bright and asparkle with remnant raindrops. Surf boomed and whispered. Seals barked hoarsely, gulls hovered and dipped and mewed. Breath went cool, moist, tangy through nostrils to blood.
A man waited. Clad in plain shirt and work pants, he was stocky and brown-skinned. Not many whites among his ancestors, Wanderer decided. What had they been, then? Makah, Quinault? No difference. Tribes were hardly even names any more.
“Hello, Mr. Wanderer.” There was an anachronism for you. The man extended his hand. Wanderer took it, felt calluses and sturdiness. “Welcome. I’m Charlie Davison.” ‘ Wanderer had practiced old-time American English before he left Jalisco. “Glad to meet you. I didn’t expect this. Figured I’d get acquainted on my own.”
“Well, we talked it over in the Council and decided this was better. You’re not just another jako.” That must be local slang for the few hundred outsiders a year allowed to experience the wilderness. It sounded mildly contemptuous. “Nor a scientist or official agent, are you?”