Rand was drifting a few meters off to her left, upside down with respect to her local vertical. His body was derelict, relaxed into the classic free-fall crouch, all his attention focused on the dozen writhing dancers who filled the cubic before him. Even upside down she could see that he was scowling so ferociously his forehead looked ribbed. He was making little growling mutters deep in his throat, shaking his head from side to side.
She knew she had never seen him happier.
Dammit.
In that first glimpse of him, utterly intent on his work, she knew deep down, below the conscious level, that she was doomed. She could either live the rest of her life here, or start reliving the glorious single years… with an eight-year-old. Her subconscious thought about it, decided her conscious mind did not require this information just now, and tucked it away in the inaccessible node where stories got worked out.
It stayed there for the next month. Every time it tried to get out, she went to work on a story instead. It was a very prolific month.
8
The Shimizu Hotel
7 January 2065
Rand became aware that a fragment of his attention was needed somewhere. His wife was present, and speaking to him. He played back mental tape and found that she had asked him if he would be free for dinner.
The question confused him. It called for speculation, and contained a word with at least six different meanings. He searched for a proper response, and selected, “Hah?”
She understood perfectly. “Thanks, darling. I’ll have Salieri ask you again later. Listen to Salieri, okay? He’ll know where we are.”
There were so many words, he decided a nod would be safest. It seemed to work: she went away, and though she was frowning slightly she did not slam anything on the way. Relieved, he relaxed and let his eyes and mind go where they needed to. Damn Pribhara anyway! Thanks to her, he had been placed in a position where his triumphal first achievement as Resident Shaper would be to wash someone else’s laundry. He had been doing so for a month, and all he had to show for it was a mountain of wet laundry.
The thing was worse than awfuclass="underline" it was more than half done. Pribhara might not be good, but she was fast. There was no hope of scrapping it altogether and doing something completely new; deadline wouldn’t allow it.
Ah well—the ones he should feel sorry for were Jay and the dancers of his company. They had already wasted hours and liters of sweat trying to make this dopey idea work… and were committed to performing the results in public, unarmed. All he had to—
She didn’t say, “I love you” before she left.
He was going to give that some serious thought—but just then it came to him in a clap of thunder how something might be salvaged from this fiasco. Steal from that weird dream he’d had last night: scrap the fakey underwater visuals completely… and substitute mid-air. Instead of sea-bed, substitute a city-sized carpet of clouds, backlit. Individual clouds could billow and move almost the same way the stupid seaweed did, the way the dancers needed it to for the choreography to work. From time to time, clouds could part to reveal the ground far below. Sure, it had been done before—but not lately, and not by him. God damn, that might just make the nut. But could he get away with it? What about the abominable shark in the second movement? Substitute a roc, perhaps? No, screw the details—what did it do to the overall feel? Did the dance still work with the music?
Well, hell, just about anything worked with that twelve-tone noise. Or didn’t, if you asked him. No, it felt feasible. The essential artistic wrongness of dancers moving normally while supposedly deep underwater vanished now. If he had to, he’d write all new music to match the dance—he could almost hear it now, he certainly knew the choreography well enough. “Jay! I got it!”
It took a while to establish communication; Jay was in work-mode himself. But eventually they had recognized each other and agreed on a common language, and Rand floated his concept. Jay liked it—said, in fact, that he had had a vaguely similar dream himself only the week before. He sank a few experimental harpoons into the idea before he would get excited, but when it continued to hold air he became nearly as elated as Rand.
But not quite. There is a special pleasure in solving a difficult puzzle that has baffled your big brother. Jay had always been thirteen years older, stronger, smarter and more successful. Rand did not resent him, exactly: he had always been kind, supportive and generous with his time and attention. That they had had a childhood relationship at all had been primarily Jay’s doing; he’d seemed to really enjoy having a brother to teach things to. He had doubtless influenced Rand’s career choice, and had never (Rand was sure) insulted him by using his own artistic clout to pull strings on Rand’s behalf. And they were as easy in each other’s company as brothers were supposed to be; the difference in their ages had not been relevant for decades.
And still, it was always pleasurable to pleasantly surprise the man.
Jay handed the group off to Francine, his dance captain and assistant choreographer, and took Rand to his own suite. Along the way they tossed the new concept back and forth like an intellectual medicine ball, firming it up considerably in the process.
“One thing that helps a lot,” Rand said as the door sealed behind them, “this crew is really good.”
Jay nodded enthusiastically. “Best of the two. They actually enjoy the pony shows as much as the art.” The Shimizu offered two streams of dance entertainment to its guests: the high art on which Rand and Jay were collaborating, performed in the Nova Dance Theatre, and the “pony show”—essentially cabaret dance adapted for free-fall, sophisticated T&A—performed in the Dionysian Room. “I think of the two assistant ADs, Francine is the one who’ll take over my job when I retire. The team you worked with last time is good too—but this team is the original. It’s not just more hours logged: about a year ago something clicked and they meshed.” He tossed Rand a bulb of cola, got a root beer for himself.
“That must be rare,” Rand said.
“About like the odds of any twelve people in the same occupation falling in love and making it work.”
The analogy, with its reminder of the collapse of Jay’s relationship with Ethan, made Rand’s good cheer begin to evaporate. Work had driven the crisis in his own marriage clear out of his mind—as he had hoped. Jay must have seen something in his face, because his next words were, “So how are things going with Rhea?”
“Honest to God, I don’t know what to tell you, bro. She’s adjusted to free-fall now, and she seems to like it here okay—but it’s going to take more than that. All I can do is cross my fingers and pray that she falls head over heels in love with the place before the next month is up. Because if she doesn’t, I’m screwed.”
“It happens,” Jay said sadly. “Happened to me: I’m in love with this dump. It sort of creeps up on you. Don’t—”
“You weren’t born in Provincetown.” But he knew Jay was trying to cheer him up, and did his best. “That kid you picked to show her and Colly around is a good salesman, though.”
Jay grinned. “If you’re not careful, she’ll fall head over heels in love with him. I’m kidding! As a matter of fact, I have it on good authority that he’s, well… at least bi.”
“That was my guess… just how good is your authority?”