She wants to turn him back into the man he once must have been, and then of course that man will need her, too. The thing he had been—that is what she needs most of all—a man who can reach up and bat the moon away. He must have been like that long ago.
She tastes her second drink.
The son of a bitch had better hurry, though. She is getting hungry.
THE CITY. Playpoint is located on the world known as Balfrost, atop a high peninsula that slopes down to a now-frozen sea. Play-point contains all of the facilities for an adult playground, and it is one of the more popular resorts in this sector of the galaxy from late spring through early autumn—approximately fifty Earth years. Then winter comes on like a period of glaciation, and everybody goes away for half a century—or half a year, depending on how one regards such matters. During this time Playpoint is given into the care of its automated defense and maintenance routine. This is a self-repairing system, directed toward cleaning, plowing, thawing, melting, warming everything in need of such care, as well as directly combating their encroaching ice and snow. And all of these functions are one under the supervision of a well-protected central computer that also studies the weather and climate patterns, anticipating as well as reacting.
This system had worked successfully for many centuries, delivering Playpoint over to spring and pleasure in reasonably good condition at the end of each long winter.
There are mountains behind Playpoint, water (or ice, depending on the season) on three sides, weather and navigation satellites high above. In a bunker beneath the administration building is a pair of sleepers—generally a man and a woman—who awaken once every year or so to physically inspect the maintenance system's operations and to deal with any special situations that might have arisen. An alarm may arouse them for emergencies at any time.
They are well paid, and over the years they have proven worth the investment. The central computer has at its disposal explosives and lasers as well as a great variety of robots. Usually it keeps a little ahead of the game, and it seldom falls behind for long.
At the moment, things are about even because the weather has been particularly nasty recently.
Zzzzt! Another block of ice has become a puddle.
Zzzzt! The puddle has been evaporated. The molecules climb toward a place where they can get together and return as snow.
The glaciers shuffle their feet, edge forward. Zzzzt! Their gain gain has become a loss.
Andrew Aldon knows exactly what he is doing.
CONVERSATIONS. The waiter, needing lubrication, rolls off after having served them, passing through a pair of swinging doors.
She giggles. "Wobbly," she says.
"Old World charm," he agrees, trying and failing to catch her eye as he smiles.
"You have everything worked out?" she asks after they have begun eating.
"Sort of," he says, smiling again.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
"Both. I need more information. I want to go and check things over first. Then I can figure the best course of action."
"I note your use of the singular pronoun," she says steadily, meeting his gaze at last.
His smile freezes and fades.
"I was referring to only a little preliminary scouting," he says softly.
"No," she says. "We. Even for a little preliminary scouting."
He sighs and sets down his fork.
"This will have very little to do with anything to come later," he begins. "Things have changed a lot. I'll have to locate a new route. This will just be dull work and no fun."
"I didn't come along for fun," she replies. "We were going to share everything, remember? That includes boredom, danger, and anything else. That was the understanding when I agreed to pay our way."
"I'd a feeling it would come to that," he says, after a moment.
"Come to it? It's always been there. That was our agreement."
He raises his goblet and sips the wine.
"Of course. I'm not trying to rewrite history. It's just that things would go faster if I could do some of the initial looking around myself. I can move more quickly alone."
"What's the hurry?" she says. "A few days this way or that. I'm in pretty good shape. I won't slow you down all that much."
"I'd the impression you didn't particularly like it here. I just wanted to hurry things up so we could get the hell out."
"That's very considerate," she says, beginning to eat again. "But that's my problem, isn't it?" She looks up at him. "Unless there's some other reason you don't want me along?"
He drops his gaze quickly, picks up his fork. "Don't be silly."
She smiles. "Then that's settled. I'll go with you this afternoon to look for the trail."
The music stops, to be succeeded by a sound as of the clearing of a throat. Then, "Excuse me for what may seem like eavesdropping," comes a deep, masculine voice. "It is actually only a part of a simple monitoring function I keep in effect—"
"Aldon!" Paul exclaims.
"At your service, Mr. Plaige, more or less. I choose to make my presence known only because I did indeed overhear you, and the matter of your safety overrides the good manners that would otherwise dictate reticence. I've been receiving reports that indicate we could be hit by some extremely bad weather this afternoon. So if you were planning an extended sojourn outside I would recommend you postpone it."
"Oh," Dorothy says.
"Thanks," Paul says.
"I shall now absent myself. Enjoy your meal and your stay."
The music returns.
"Aldon?" Paul asks.
There is no reply.
"Looks as if we do it tomorrow or later."
"Yes," Paul agrees, and he is smiling his first relaxed smile of the day. And thinking fast.
THE WORLD. Life on Balfrost proceeds in peculiar cycles. There are great migrations of animal life and quasi-animal life to the equatorial regions during the long winter. Life in the depths of the seas goes on. And the permafrost vibrates with its own style of life.
The permafrost. Throughout the winter and on through the spring the permafrost lives at its peak. It is laced with mycelia— twining, probing, touching, knotting themselves into ganglia, reaching out to infiltrate other systems. It girds the globe, vibrating like a collective unconscious throughout the winter. In the spring it sends up stalks that develop gray, flowerlike appendages for a few days. These blooms then collapse to reveal dark pods that subsequently burst with small, popping sounds, releasing clouds of sparkling spores that the winds bear just about everywhere. These are extremely hardy, like the mycelia they will one day become.
The heat of summer finally works its way down into the permafrost, and the strands doze their way into a long period of quiescence. When the cold returns they are roused, spores send forth new filaments that repair old damages, create new synapses. A current begins to flow. The life of summer is like a fading dream. For eons this had been the way of things upon Balfrost, within Balfrost. Then the goddess decreed otherwise. Winter's queen spread her hands, and there came a change.
THE SLEEPERS. Paul makes his way through swirling flakes to the administration building. It has been a simpler matter than he had anticipated, persuading Dorothy to use the sleep-induction unit to be well rested for the morrow. He had pretended to use the other unit himself, resisting its blandishments until he was certain she was asleep and he could slip off undetected.
He lets himself into the vaultlike building, takes all of the old familiar turns, makes his way down a low ramp. The room is unlocked and a bit chilly, but he begins to perspire when he enters. The two cold lockers are in operation. He checks their monitoring systems and sees that everything is in order.