When he’d met Reb Hawkins, he’d found himself telling Reb his problem, and the monk had invited him to visit Top Step and join a Suit Class. “But won’t your students resent an outsider?” he’d asked.
“There’ll be no reason for them to know you are one,” Reb said. “Top Step is a big place now, and we have a strong custom of privacy going back half a century. If you show up in a class one day, people will just assume you’ve transferred in for some reason, and leave you alone. Most of them will be in the middle of life-reviews of their own.”
Rand had thanked him—but still felt uneasy about the idea, and put it out of his mind.
Until his marriage had self-destructed.
When both Jay and Eva had suggested, within hours of each other, that he take Reb up on his invitation to visit Top Step, Rand had shrugged and acquiesced. He and Rhea had agreed that there was nothing a counselor could do to help them—but now that the plug had been pulled, he found that he needed to talk to someone. A legendary holy man who made his home in space didn’t sound like a bad choice. Rand had liked Reb at once when they’d met, and Jay and Eva vouched for him, “punched his ticket,” as Eva called it.
And now, as he rotated in space and faced Top Step—an immense stone cigar, glowing softly at the tip—he had to admit that coming here had been a good idea. Talking with Reb had helped: Reb’s end of the conversation had consisted entirely of questions, just the right questions. Taking class had helped: it was hard to sustain self-pity out in naked space. And being around Postulants and Novices and Symbiotics had helped too: all these people were in the process of saying goodbye to their lives, and their company helped reconcile Rand to living his own.
“All right,” Thecla said, “we’re going to try something new, today: you’re all going back in on your own power.”
There was a buzz of excitement, but it cut off quickly. Nobody wanted to louse this up.
“One at a time,” she added. “I don’t want you unsnapping until the person before you has made it all the way inboard. Abadhi, you’re first.”
One of the two dozen-odd p-suited figures in Rand’s field of vision tapped his umbilical join. The tether separated, and Top Step began reeling it in. He oriented himself, starfished, and waited.
“Go ahead.”
There was no visible exhaust from Abadhi’s thrusters, but slowly he began to move toward Top Step. Very slowly. The trick in EVA maneuvering was to go about half as fast as you thought you should—then you only arrived about twice as hard and fast as you wanted.
At such speeds, covering ten thousand meters takes some time. Porter came far down the alphabet. Rand had plenty of time to study his classmates as he waited for his turn.
He had lost a marriage: these people were surrendering everything. They were more committed to space than he would ever be, and they were giving up more to be there.
And in return they would gain so much that part of him envied them. Centuries of life, life free of fear or hunger or loneliness, in the bosom of the largest and closest family that had ever been, working and playing among the stars. Those of them who were artists could spend the next century or two pursuing their art, twenty-four hours a day if they chose, with no need to seek commercial or popular or critical success. Or to look for love.
Maybe someday, he thought. Maybe in another ten or twenty years, I’ll come back here for real.
The thought came back, why not now?
He was not done yet, that was all. Married or not, he was still a parent, and would be for at least another decade. He had not used up his visions yet; he still had shapings to create which would not have worked in a Stardancer context. He had still not outgrown his need for applause, his need to achieve. He had fought for his present position so long and so hard that he could not abandon the cup until he had drained it dry. It had, after all, cost him a good wife.
“Porter—get ready!”
He snapped out of his reverie and ran through the procedure in his mind. This sequence of commands tells the tether to go home; that combination of taps on the palm keypads will deliver matched bursts from all five thrusters; move my chin like this for the heads-up targeting display… “Ready, Thecla.”
His tether wiggled away toward Top Step. He centered the target ring in his display, stiffened his limbs, and triggered the thrusters. Aside from a mild pressure at wrists and ankles, nothing seemed to happen. The thruster at the base of his spine produced no sensation at all. Could it be broken? No, his display claimed he was jaunting, just as planned. He glanced around, and saw that the others were indeed receding, just quickly enough to perceive. He waited—and after a while, Top Step suddenly began to visibly approach. He checked his position carefully, decided he needed a course correction, and made it.
His aim was good: if the vast open window of the Solarium had had a bull’s-eye, he would have hit it on his way through. His deceleration was equally perfect: he ended up motionless within arm’s reach of the handgrip he had been aiming for. He saw admiring glances from other returnees, and preened. “Very nice,” Thecla said. “Okay, Pribram: get ready!”
His AI, Salieri, whispered in his ear. “Phone, Rand. Reb Hawkins.”
He cut off his suit radio and took the call. “Hi, Reb.”
“Hello, Rand. Are you enjoying EVA?”
“A lot!” he said. “Thanks for letting me sit in. It’s different outside…”
“It certainly is. Listen, I just wanted to tell you I’m not going to be around for the next couple of days. I have to shuttle over to the Shimizu.”
“Really? What’s up?”
“A party, of sorts. You’re invited if you want, actually—if you don’t mind taking a couple of days off from EVA classes, you could hop over and back with me. It should be a memorable event.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“You know Fat Humphrey?”
“Who doesn’t?” The round restaurateur had been famous ever since the release of Armstead’s Starseed Transmission at the turn of the century; it was said that his Le Puis rivalled the Hall of Lucullus as a gourmet’s and gourmand’s paradise. Armstead claimed you never had to tell Humphrey what you wanted to eat, how you wanted it done, or how much you felt like eating. Over the past week, Rand had found that to be literal truth.
“Well, he just turned one hundred… and he’s retiring to the Shimizu to enjoy his golden years.”
“Wow. That’s going to disappoint a lot of folks.”
“Yes, it will. He’s been swearing for decades that he was going to retire the day his odometer showed three figures, and it seems he meant it. Last night after dinner he took off his tux and spaced the thing. The chefs are all people he trained, of course—but it just won’t be the same without him sizing up the customers and serving the orders. Fat sweetens the air where he is. Anyway, he won’t let us have a farewell party for him here, prefers to just leave like a cat—so Meiya and I are bringing him over to the Shimizu tonight in a special shuttle. There’s room for you if you want to come along.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I’d like a chance to get to know Fat half as well as he knows me. Every time he pulls that magic act of his, I can’t help wondering what he likes to eat.”
Reb’s answer was a moment in coming. “Do you know… in almost fifty years, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Fat eat?”
“He must do it some time,” Rand said dryly. Fat Humphrey massed well over a hundred and forty kilos; in repose he resembled a Jell-O model of the Shimizu.