I should have known better, Thimiroi thought. I should have realized that this is her art, and that I, with all the advantages that are mine purely by virtue of my having been born when I was, ought never to have presumed to invade her special territory with such a display of skills that are beyond her comprehension. Without even suspecting what I was doing, I have humiliated her.
“Christine,” he murmured. “No. No, Christine.”
Thimiroi went to her and pulled her close against him, and kissed the tears away, and spoke softly to her, calming her, reassuring her. He could never tell her the truth; but he could make her understand, at least, that he had not meant to hurt her. And after a time he felt the tension leave her, and felt her press herself tight to him, and then their lips met, and she looked up, smiling. And took him lightly by the hand, and drew him from the room and down the hall.
Afterward, as he was dressing, she touched the long, fading red scar on his arm and said, “Were you in some kind of accident?”
“An inoculation,” he told her. “Against disease.”
“I’ve never seen one like that before.”
“No,” he said. “I suppose you haven’t.”
“A disease of your country?”
“No,” he said, after a time. “Of yours.”
“But what kind of disease requires a vaccination like—”
“Do we have to talk of diseases just now, Christine.”
“Of course not,” she said, smiling ruefully. “How foolish of me. How absurd.” She ran her fingers lightly, almost fondly, over the inoculation scar a second time. “Of all things for me to be curious about!” Softly she said, “You don’t have to leave now, you know.”
“But I must. I really must.”
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose you must.” She accompanied him to the front door. “You’ll call me, won’t you? Very soon?”
“Of course,” Thimiroi said.
Night had fallen. The air was mild and humid, but the sky was clear and the stars glittered brilliantly. He looked for the moon but could not find it.
How many days remain, he wondered?
Somewhere out there in the airless dark a lump of dead rock was falling steadily toward earth, falling, falling, inexorably coming this way. How far away was it now? How soon before it would come roaring over the horizon to bring unimaginable death to this place?
I must find a way of saving her, he told himself.
The thought was numbing, dizzying, intolerably disturbing.
Save her? How? Impossible. Impossible. It was something that he must not even allow himself to consider.
And yet—
Again it came. I must find a way of saving her.
There was a message for him at his hotel, just a few quick scrawled sentences:
Party at Lutheena’s. We’re all going. See you there?
Laliene’s handwriting, which even in her haste was as beautiful as the finest calligraphy. Thimiroi crumpled the note and tossed it aside. Going to a party tonight was very close to the last thing he would want to do. Everyone in glittering clothes, making glittering conversation, trading sparkling anecdotes, no doubt, of their latest adventures among the simple sweaty blotchyskinned folk of this interestingly raucous and crude century—no. No. No. Let them trade their anecdotes without him. Let them sip their euphoriac and exchange their chatter and play their little games. He was going to bed. Very likely, without him there, they would all be talking about him. How oddly he had been behaving, how strange and uncouth he seemed to be becoming since their arrival in this era. Let them talk. What did it matter?
He wished Kleph had not seen him going into Christine’s house, though.
But how would Kleph know whose house it was? And why would Kleph—Kleph, with her own Oliver Wilson entanglement preoccupying her—want to say anything to anyone about having seen some other member of the tour slipping away for an intimate hour with a twentieth-century person? Better for her to be silent. The subject was a delicate one. She would not want to raise it. She of all people would be unlikely to disapprove, or to want to bring down on him the disapproval of the others. No, Thimiroi thought. Kleph will say nothing. We are allies in this business, Kleph and I.
He slept, and dark dreams came that he could not abide: the remorseless meteor crossing the sky, the city aflame and shrieking, Christine’s wonderful old house swept away by a searing blast of destruction, the piano lying tumbled in the street, split in half, golden strings spilling out.
Wearily Thimiroi dosed himself with the drug that banishes dreams, and lay down to sleep again. But now sleep evaded him. Very welclass="underline" there was the other drug, the one that brings sleep. He hesitated to take it. The two drugs taken in the wrong order exacted a price; he would be jittery and off balance emotionally for the next two or three days. He was far enough off balance as it was already. So he lay still, hoping that he would drift eventually into sleep without recourse to more medication; and gradually his mind grew easier, gradually he began the familiar descent toward unconsciousness.
Suddenly the image of Laliene blazed in his mind.
It was so vivid that it seemed she was standing beside him in the darkness and light was streaming from her body. She was nude, and her breasts, her hips, her thighs, all had a throbbing incandescent glow. Thimiroi sat up, astonished, swept with waves of startling feverish excitement.
“Laliene?”
How radiant she looked! How splendid! Her eyes were glowing like beacons. Her crimson hair stood out about her head like a bright corona. The scent of her filled his nostrils. He trembled. His throat was dry, his lips seemed gummed together.
Wave after wave of intense, overpowering desire swept through him.
Helplessly Thimiroi rose, lurched across the room, reached gropingly toward her. This was madness, he knew, but there was no holding himself back.
The shimmering image retreated as he came near it. He stumbled, nearly tripped, regained his balance.
“Wait, Laliene,” he cried hoarsely. His heart was pounding thunderously. It was almost impossible for him to catch his breath. He was choking with his need. “Come here, will you? Stop edging away like that.”
“I’m not here, Thimiroi. I’m in my own room. Put your robe on and come visit me.”
“What? You’re not here?”
“Down the hall. Come, now. Hurry!”
“You are here. You have to be.”
As though in a daze, brain swathed in thick layers of white cotton, he reached for her again. Like a lovestruck boy he yearned to draw her close, to cup her breasts in his hands, to run his fingers over those silken thighs, those satiny flanks—
“To my room,” she whispered.
“Yes. Yes.”
His flesh was aflame. Sweat rolled down his body. She danced before him like a shining will-o’-the-wisp. Frantically he struggled to comprehend what was happening. A vision? A dream? But he had drugged himself against dreams. And he was awake now. Surely he was awake. And yet he saw her—he wanted her—he wanted her beyond all measure—he was going to slip his robe on, and go to her suite, and she would be waiting for him there, and he would slip into her bed—into her arms—
No. No. No.
He fought it. He caught the side of some piece of furniture, and held it, anchoring himself, struggling to keep himself from going forward. His teeth chattered. Chills ran along his back and shoulders. The muscles in his arms and chest writhed and spasmed as he battled to stay where he was.