A comical scene ensued, which I suppose would be the third act of the play, in human terms. Moonboy’s wound had to be sewn up with stitches. Namir started the process, cleaning the wound and removing hair from around it, but before he could start stitching, his wife came in and took over. So she sewed the wound closed while Carmen held the ice pack to her nose, both of them laughing over the absurdity of the situation. Along with Namir and Meryl, they carried the patient back to his bed.
Then the three women moved into the kitchen and drank alcohol and laughed for some time. The men either weren’t invited or felt they wouldn’t be welcome.
Altogether, a complex display of interactions, which I could not pretend to understand. It will be interesting to record the changes this causes in attitudes and actions.
It’s a pity that we will probably not live to return to Mars and discuss all this. The starship is like a small laboratory, with us nine organisms sealed within. But there’s no scientist to peer at us from outside, and draw conclusions.
16
INJURIES
Namir suggested a meeting the morning after, while Moonboy was still under sedation. It was natural for Elza to lead the discussion.
“For me, it could have been a lot worse.” She touched her bruised nose gently. Both eyes were dark, too. One nostril was open, the other packed with gauze. “The break is simple, not ‘displaced.’ So it will heal without surgery. What’s broken inside Moonboy is not so easy to heal.”
“What do you know about his… condition?” Paul asked.
“More than I can say, ethically. It does involve anger that’s been suppressed for years, though. Unfortunately, it’s associated with claustrophobia.”
“But this starship is huge,” Snowbird said, gesturing with all four arms.
“Snowbird,” Paul said, “you’ve always lived inside a big room, a cave. Moonboy grew up in Kansas, a large flat state. You could look around and see forty kilometers in any direction.”
“I don’t know that that’s a factor,” Elza said. “This was a very small space, involuntary confinement.
“Anyhow, as well as the sedative, I’ve given him a mild antipsychotic medication. For his protection and ours.”
“Good,” Dustin said.
“I should give you one as well, darling. You have not been a model of rational behavior.”
“He came after me.”
“You could have fought him off with a pillow, not a pool cue. Try to leave your balls on the table next time. So to speak.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Obviously a familiar response.
“So do we have to keep him doped up for the duration?” Paul said. “Do we have enough drugs for that?”
“I can synthesize things that simple. I could keep us all doped to the gills for the whole mission. Which has crossed my mind.”
“That would not be practical,” Fly- in-Amber said. “Would you be able to eat, and drink, and excrete?”
“All in the same place,” Namir said.
“I’ve been to parties like that,” Dustin said.
“They’re kidding,” Elza said to the Martian. “So am I. Meryl, he’s never lost control like this before?”
“Not since we’ve been married; not on Mars.” She hesitated. “He got in trouble when he was a kid. That involved fighting, I remember. At the time, I thought how unlike him that was. But I never asked him for any details.”
“I’ll see if he wants to talk about it.”
“To you?”
“To a doctor. He ever say anything to you guys? About being a wild kid?”
The men all shook their heads. “I don’t remember him ever talking about his life on Earth,” Paul said. “Funny, now that I think of it. Everybody has Earth stories.”
“He’s odd that way,” Meryl said. “He talks about his mother, when he was little, and he talks about college, but not much in between.”
“That’s not so unusual,” I said. “Paul never talks about that time in his life. Do you?”
“Boring,” he said. “Dealing drugs, child prostitution, day in and day out.”
“Child prostitution?” Fly-in-Amber said.
“Kidding,” he said. “They were all over eighteen.”
“Paul…”
“I’m sorry, Fly-in-Amber. It’s disrespectful of me to kid you.”
“On the contrary,” the Martian said. “I learn from your humor. If you had actually been a bad boy, you wouldn’t joke about it. Your feelings are ambiguous, are they not? You wish you had been more bad?”
“Got me there,” he said. “Elza, you’re both victim and professional observer. What if it had happened to someone else—”
“Paul, that’s not relevant,” I said. “There are only two other women here.”
“It might be relevant,” Elza said, “on various levels.” She touched her nose and grimaced. “I’d just asked him about his father, sort of out of the blue.”
“What about his father?” Meryl said. “He never talks about him.”
Elza studied her for a moment. “I know some things I shouldn’t. Maybe because of my security clearance, I don’t know, I… I was given access to confidential psychiatric records.”
“About his father?” Meryl said.
“I’m on thin ice here,” she said.
After a pause, everyone started to talk at once. “Wait, wait.” Paul had the strongest voice. “Elza, you don’t have to violate your political principles…”
“Yes, she does,” Dustin said.
His wife smiled at him. “The philosopher speaks.”
“All right. The principle of doctor-patient confidentiality is a luxury we have to forego.”
“Like the luxury of anger?” she said, still smiling.
“We are seven people, or nine,” he plowed on, “who may have the fate of the entire human race, both races, depending on our thoughts and actions. Our freedom to think and act can’t be constrained by tradition. By law or superstition.”
“I think he’s right,” Namir said slowly. “At least in terms of information.”
Elza looked at him, then away. “Maybe so. Maybe so.” She sat up straight and spoke to the middle distance, as if reciting. “This is something Moonboy doesn’t remember, because it was repressed by court order: When he was eleven years old, his father killed him.”
“Tried to?” Dustin said.
“Killed him. Not on purpose. Tried to stop his crying by taping his mouth shut. Then bound his hands and feet with the tape and threw him in a dark closet.”
“Holy shit,” Dustin said.
“When his mother came home from work, probably a few minutes later, she asked where the kid was, and got into an argument with dear old dad. When she opened the closet, Moonboy was dead. He’d choked on vomit and stopped breathing.
“The rescue people got his heart and lungs going again. But what if his mother had not come home in time? He could have died permanently or suffered irreversible brain damage.”
“What happened to the father?” Namir asked.
“The record doesn’t say.”
“Moonboy thinks his parents got a no- fault divorce when he was eleven,” Meryl said, “and his father dropped out of his life. Probably into prison or some rehab program, judging from what you say. With an ironclad restraining order.” She shook her head. “It… explains some things. It’s a lot to assimilate.”
“The white hair?” I said. He had a tangled nimbus, like Einstein. “I know a person’s hair doesn’t turn white overnight.”
“Old wives’ tale,” Elza said. “But continual stress can cause premature graying.”