Out of that keen, kilowattified, akyphotic klatch, keyed in and karmically attuned, kicking it, no, killing it, for three nights and days consec, Eurydice was born. Kraken better fit the tenor of the moment but seemed excessive.
So now, in addition to drugs, Gleem was in the mining business. Which meant the trucking business. Also, navigation. And, of course, exploration. Growing corporate interests of theirs, though still dwarfed by pharmaceuticals.
Eurydice was named in honor of Laura, who, in defiance of expert opinion and every authority on Earth—legal, medical, ethical, theologic—had taken her life in her hands, stared death in the face, and juved for a third time. Ballsy? Try suicidal. No one did it more than twice. She had not been seen in public since.
The probe had already lived up to its name once. Its systems, after crashing somewhere between the outer and inner main belt, had suddenly sprung back to life. These same systems had guided it flawlessly back to Gleem One, where it now slept. Its two anterior arms, jointed like the insect it resembled, clutched its treasure to what would have been its chest. The object of interest faced outward. The asteroid itself was not huge, but it was bulky. Cav and Gunjita’s plan: get some cord around it and reel it into the cargo bay. A tight fit, requiring a guiding hand, but doable. Once in the bay, go from there.
Cav was in the process of suiting up. Got both legs in, then an arm. Needed help with the other, arthritis having done a job on the shoulder. Also needed help with his boots. A couple of months earlier, he was helping her, or rather, two old geezers, they were helping each other.
Gunjita fetched his boots for him without thinking twice. Loosened the buckles, spread the mouths, took one in hand, bent down, about to slip it on his foot, when she was struck by a thought. An image actually, and suddenly her heart was in her throat. The thought came second: her elderly husband was a pair of boots and a helmet away from traipsing out into space.
“No way,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not doing this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Give me my boots.”
“Like I said …”
“My boots.”
She wouldn’t.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
She still had trouble believing it herself. Who she was. What she saw when she looked in the mirror. How she felt. Pain-free, comfortable, smooth as liquid when she moved, or rather glided, able to do anything without the slightest effort. She’d forgotten how good it felt.
“Now look at yourself.”
He didn’t have to. He knew what he’d see. His old, barnacled, parchment skin. His twisted back. His trembling hands. And inside, invisible to the naked eye, the ice pick that was permanently lodged in his shoulder. His weak bladder, his failing heart. So what was new? The march of time never quit.
“You’ve never done something like this,” he said.
“How hard can it be?”
“Like that. Just like that. By underestimating what you’re dealing with.”
She tapped her head, then saluted. “Judgment good. Brain intact.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“What isn’t?”
“You could float off into space.”
“I’ll be tethered.”
He imagined it happening to him, floating away, drifting free, a few hours of oxygen and warmth, then death. Kindly remembered. Quickly irrelevant. Soon forgotten. Separation complete.
Or not. Maybe not. Maybe there was no such thing as separation. Maybe there was cosmic unity, and he’d be one with the universe.
Which would it be?
It seemed worth finding out.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll monitor you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Fact is, I hate these suits. Too hard getting in and out.”
“Your own damn fault.”
He held her helmet while she suited up.
“I know you’d love to be the one doing this,” she said.
“Next time. How do you feel? Ready to take on the universe?”
“Pretty much.”
He didn’t want to let her go. He feared for her safety. Pressed the helmet to his chest possessively, protectively, as though it were her.
“Cav?”
“Please be careful.” Reluctantly, he handed it to her.
Instead of taking it, she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
He tasted fruity and a little sour. A little tangy. A pleasantly familiar taste, save for the hint of dryness and decay, like the decomposing leaves of an old book.
Hoping to banish this, she kissed him harder, lacing her fingers around his neck, pulling him toward her. A primitive impulse, inarguable and good. Pure chemistry.
The force lifted him, and together they became airborne. Pure physics. They were halted by the module’s wall. Cav, who’d been taken by surprise, was jarred into action.
He took her in his arms, or tried to. Their bulky suits made it impossible. It was like hugging dough. They began to somersault, until they hit the opposite wall.
Cav was no gymnast. The tumbling made him dizzy and nauseous. Gunjita was in hysterics. She couldn’t keep from laughing. The chemistry, so strong a minute before, was gone.
“Sorry, old man,” she said, goosing him tenderly, then donning her helmet.
Cav, meanwhile, had started to get hard. His disappointment was sharp, but fleeting. Age had made him philosophic. Sex required staying powers he didn’t always—even often—possess. Sometimes his mind wandered, and he forgot what he was doing. Sometimes his eye fell, not on his beloved Gunjita, where it belonged, but between his own legs, and he was filled with nostalgia. At other times he was grateful. Things could be better, but they could be so much worse. He could still get it up on occasion. If the fates were kind (the drugs no longer helped), it would stay up. From time to time he still thundered like a stallion when he pissed.
“There’s no hurry,” he said. “You have plenty of time. One foot in front of the other. Nothing sudden. I’ll be watching. We’ll be in constant communication.”
She nodded, and mentally rehearsed their plan. It was straightforward enough. Basically, wrap a cord around the asteroid and bring it aboard. Like roping a horse, which was on her résumé.
She’d ridden and lassoed ponies with Ruby in Iceland, Ruby’s adopted home, and where she gave birth to Dashaud. Gunjita had been present at the birth, and as often as she could throughout his childhood. She’d pushed him on the swing, carried him in her arms, fed him, put him to bed. For his fifth birthday she’d bought him a pair of leather boots, to wear while riding the horse that Ruby and Bjorn, his father, had surprised him with. She could still remember the look on his face as they trotted it out. Stunned, disbelieving, reverent. A dream he’d not dared to dream, standing there in the flesh.
She was sixty at the time, and had allowed herself to be coaxed atop a horse of her own.
Through the eyes of babes: it was love at first sight. For the next two weeks she rode every day. Ruby rode with her. Icelandic horses were prized for their sturdiness and longevity, and she learned to prize other qualities: their temperament, their beauty, and their exhilarating, extra gait.
She’d learned a few basic knots during that and subsequent visits. Hadn’t used them in ages, not since Ruby had slammed the door in her face and shut her out. Hadn’t ridden a horse since then. Fifty long years. Too painful a reminder.
She could tie a bowline, square, clove-hitch, jerk, figure of eight. Almost any of them would do. The asteroid wasn’t going anywhere. It was massive, but weightless.