“It’s very beautiful,” she said, and heard a husky note in her voice. She searched for polite small talk. “Does it… do your pieces have names?”
“It’s called ‘Driftglass,’ ” he said. His own voice was hoarse.
She flinched slightly. “It’s very lovely. It reminds me—”
“—of home, I know,” he said quickly. “It’s yours. I made it for you.”
The mosquitos at her ears had brought in chainsaws. “I… I really have to go,” she said. “I promised Rand—” She was already in motion, three of her four thrusters firing at max acceleration, past him before she could see his reaction.
“Sure, of course, good night,” she heard him say behind her as the door got out of her way, and as she came out of her turn and raced down the corridor, she was for a time very proud of herself. Until she noticed that she had Driftglass in her hand…
And I didn’t even thank him.
“You are going too fast,” came a voice from all around her. “Please slow down.” She flinched, and then realized it was only an AI traffic cop; she was exceeding the local jaunting speed limit. She decelerated at once.
“Thank you,” she said. “That is very good advice.”
14
Rand had come to feel that his favorite part of the Shimizu was the corridors. They were designed to be visually appealing, padded enough for the most inexpert jaunter, and offered an ever-changing parade of rich and almost-rich people to gawk at. They were the place where one flew, where you could enjoy the sensation of a jaunt that was not over within seconds. Most important to him, they represented the blessed hiatus between the problems of the studio and the problems of the home. They were the equivalent of a solitary drive from office to home back on Terra: the place of unwinding from work, and of winding other mechanisms back up again.
But sooner or later the corridors always led him back to his door. He was coming to think of it as the Place of Sighs; whichever direction he was going, he always seemed to pause just outside the threshold and sigh, first.
He did so now, decided he was ready to enter his home, and thumbed the doorlock.
Before he could enter, something burst from the room and enveloped him. Its first effect was as invigorating as a cool rain on a dry afternoon: his wife’s laughter…
As a musician he found it one of the Universe’s more glorious sounds; as a husband he found it exhilarating. In either capacity, he had been missing it lately. Like an addict following the smell of smoke, he followed it inside, seeking the source.
Rhea was in the living room, a little northeast of the window. She was sitting in the piece of furniture in which she usually did her writing—she moved around as she wrote, and hated the sound of Velcro separating as she did—but her seat belt was not fastened. And she had configured the furniture in the shape which its menu called “love-seat.” In its other corner, also unstrapped, was a broadly grinning Duncan Iowa. He had just opened his mouth to say something, to make Rhea laugh again, when he caught sight of Rand in the doorway. “Hello, Rand,” he said.
Rhea turned, smiling. “Hi, darling,” she said. “You must be exhausted—would you like a drink?”
He controlled a frown. “Why would I be exhausted?”
She looked surprised. “Well… the premiere is only a week away, right?”
“Sure—but my part was done yesterday. Jay and the dancers will be killing themselves from here on in, muscle-memorizing it, but I’m just there babysitting the software and looking for holes. I told you that last night.”
“Oh. I forgot.”
“Never mind.” He had been hoping to hear some more of her laughter, and now she wasn’t even smiling anymore. Nice work. “What were you guys laughing about? I could use a giggle.”
She shook her head. “It’d take too long to explain it. Duncan just came up with a neat way to improve some comic business in a story I’m working on.”
“Oh. I see.” In ten years of marriage, Rhea had never permitted Rand—or anyone—to see or hear about a work-in-progress. It was one of her many writer’s superstitions. “A story is like a soufflé,” was the line he had heard her tell people a hundred times.
“Where’s Colly?”
“Studying.” She glanced at her watch. “No, by now the terminal has unlocked, so she’s probably playing games or watching a movie.”
He nodded. “As long as she’s not on the phone again. That kid will talk away our air money one of these days.”
“Oh, no, she can’t be—I’ve got the White Rabbit set to warn me if she asks for a phone circuit.”
“The which?”
“The White Rabbit,” Duncan said. “It’s her new name for Harvey. He’s still a rabbit, but he’s shorter, and dressed like the Tenniel version. You know, the guy who illustrated the original Alice books.”
Rand was doubly irritated: that a strange man knew more about his daughter than he did, and that this young lout thought the best damn shaper in human space needed to be told who Tenniel was. But he still had faint hopes of hearing Rhea laugh again sometime tonight, so he pasted a big happy smile on his face. “Ha ha,” he said, as if reading the words from a page. “That’s cute. Pocket watch and all, eh?” I know the fucking books, sonny. “We’d better be careful what she eats and drinks. If she starts to grow, we’ll need a bigger suite.”
He was rewarded with a grin from his wife. “I don’t think there is such a thing. If she does, we’ll have to put her in the pooclass="underline" she can have it all to herself.”
“I think Colly would really like that,” Duncan said.
“Can you stay for dinner, Duncan?” Rand asked, in the tone of voice that both sounds perfectly sincere and conveys the subtext, a negative answer is expected.
The lad was not completely mannerless; he pushed himself away from the love-seat and looked around for anything he might have left. “No, thanks, I have to—”
A braying sound interrupted him, for all the world like a burro’s mating call. All three froze.
“FLARE WARNING, CLASS ONE,” said a very loud voice. “THIS IS A SAFETY EMERGENCY. ALL GUESTS MUST GO AS QUICKLY AND CALMLY AS POSSIBLE TO THE NEAREST RADIATION LOCKER, AND REMAIN THERE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. THERE IS NO CAUSE FOR ALARM AS LONG AS YOU SEEK SHELTER NOW. IF YOU HAVE A SPECIAL PROBLEM, ONLY, PHONE ‘FLARE EMERGENCY’ AND HELP WILL ARRIVE AT ONCE. WAVE-FRONT X-RAYS EXPECTED IN NINE MINUTES, TWENTY SECONDS. CLASS ONE FLARE WARNING—” It began to repeat.
“Volume mute!” Rand barked, and the voice went away. “Duncan, you’re staying.”
“I shouldn’t,” he said. “I’ve got my own bolt hole, two minutes away—that’s seven minutes cushion.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rhea said. “There’s plenty of room in our locker, I’ve seen it. This suite was built for up to six.” Still Duncan looked hesitant. “For heaven’s sake, we’re going to be in there with Colly for what, three hours to three days? With no phone, no TV, completely cut off from the Net? We need you, Duncan.”
He grinned. “That logic I understand.”
“We’re wasting time,” Rand snapped, and led the stampede.
By thoughtful design, access to the radiation locker was through Colly’s room. They expected to find her in a panic—but as they cleared the door they found her oblivious, wearing earphones and fixated on a screen, talking on the phone with a hush-filter. She flinched sharply when she became aware of them; on Earth she would have jumped a foot in the air. In free-fall the same reflex causes one to tumble erratically; she flailed like an octopus to regain her balance. “It was just for a minute,” she cried. “I was just gonna hang up, really!”