He laughed. “Don’t—you’ll disillusion me. See you later. Uh… listen, do you want arrangements like before? For sleeping.”
“Use your place? Could I? I don’t want to put you out.”
“Hell, no. You’re welcome to it.”
“I’ll cook for you—”
“I bought some eggs.”
“It’s a deal! Enjoy your books.” She wove a path between the tables, nodded to sailor and spacer; he watched her laughing face merge and blur, caught occasional flashes of silver. Stuffing books into the sack, he set it against his shin behind the bar. And some time later, watched her go out with a Tail.
The morning of the thirteenth day he woke to find Brandy sleeping soundly in the pile of hairy cushions by the door. Curious, he glanced out into a water-gray field of fog. It was the first time she had come home before dawn. Home? Carefully he lifted her from the pillows; she sighed, arms found him, in her sleep she began to kiss his neck. He carried her to the bed and put her down softly, bent to… No. He turned away, left the room. He had slept with her only once. Twenty-five or three years ago, without words, she had told him they would not be lovers again. She kept the customs; a spacer never had the same man more than once.
In the kitchen he heated a frozen dinner, and ate alone.
“What’s that?” Brandy appeared beside him, mummified in a blanket. She dropped down on the cushions where he sat barefoot, drinking wine and ignoring the TD.
“Three-dimensional propaganda: the Oro Morning Mine Report. You’re up pretty early—it’s hardly noon.”
“I’m not sleepy.” She took a sip of his wine.
“Got in pretty early, too. Anything wrong?”
“No… just—nothing happening, you know. Ran out of parties, everybody’s pooped but me.” She cocked her head. “What is this, anyway… an inquisition? ‘Home awfully early, aren’t you—?’” She glared at him and burst into laughter.
“You’re crazy.” He grinned.
“Whatever happened to your couch?” She prodded cushions.
“It fell apart. It’s been twenty-five years, you know.”
“Oh. That’s too bad… Maris, may I read you my poems?” Suddenly serious, she produced a small, battered notebook from the folds of her blanket.
“Sure.” He leaned back, watching subtle transformations occur in her face. And felt them begin to occur in himself, growing pride and a tender possessiveness.
It was the final poem. “That’s ‘Genesis.’ It’s about the beginning of a flight… and a life.” Her eyes found the world again, found dark eyes quietly regarding her.
“ ‘Attired with stars we shall forever sit, triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.’” He glanced away, pulling the tassel of a cushion. “No… Milton, not Maris—I could never do that.” He looked back, in wonder. “They’re beautiful, you are beautiful. Make a book. Gifts are meant for giving, and you are gifted.”
Pleasure glowed in her cheeks. “You really think someone would want to read them?”
“Yes.” He nodded, searching for the words to tell her. “Nobody’s ever made me—see that way… as though I… go with you. Others would go, if they could. Home to the sky.”
She turned with him to the window; they were silent. After a time she moved closer, smiling. “Do you know what I’d like to do?”
“What?” He let out a long breath.
“See your home.” She set her notebook aside. “Let’s go for a walk in New Piraeus. I’ve never really seen it by day—the real part of it. I want to see its beauty up close, before it’s all gone. Can we go?”
He hesitated. “You sure you want to—?”
“Sure. Come on, lazy.” She gestured him up.
And he wondered again why she had come home early.
So on the last afternoon he took her out through the stone-paved winding streets, where small whitewashed houses pressed for footholds. They climbed narrow steps, panting, tasted the sea wind, bought fruit from a leathery smiling woman with a basket.
“Mmm—” Brandy licked juice from the crimson pith. “Who was that woman? She called you ‘Sojer,’ but I couldn’t understand the rest… I couldn’t even understand you! Is the dialect that slurred?”
He wiped his chin. “It’s getting worse all the time, with all the newcomers. But you get used to everything in the lower city… An old acquaintance, I met her during the epidemic, she was sick.”
“Epidemic? What epidemic?”
“Oro Mines was importing workers—they started before your last visit, because of the bigger raw-material demands. One of the new workers had some disease we didn’t; it killed about a third of New Piraeus.”
“Oh, my God—”
“That was about fifteen years ago… Oro’s labs synthesized a vaccine, eventually, and they repopulated the city. But they still don’t know what the disease was.”
“It’s like a trap, to live on a single world.”
“Most of us have to… It has its compensations.”
She finished her fruit, and changed the subject. “You helped take care of them, during the epidemic?”
He nodded. “I seemed to be immune, so—”
She patted his arm. “You are very good.”
He laughed; glanced away. “Very plastic would be more like it.”
“Don’t you ever get sick?”
“Almost never. I can’t even get very drunk. Someday I’ll probably wake up entirely plastic.”
“You’d still be very good.” They began to walk again. “What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Ah, Soldier, you’ve got a lady friend.’ She seemed pleased.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘That’s right.’” Smiling, he didn’t put his arm around her; his fingers kneaded emptiness.
“Well, I’m glad she was pleased… I don’t think most people have been.”
“Don’t look at them. Look out there.” He showed her the sea, muted greens and blues below the ivory jumble of the flat-roofed town. To the north and south mountains like rumpled cloth reached down to the shore.
“Oh, the sea—Tye always loved the sea; at home we were surrounded by it, on an island. Space is like the sea, boundless, constant, constantly changing…”
“—spacer!” Two giggling girls made a wide circle past them in the street, dark skirts brushing their calves.
Brandy blushed, frowned, sought the sea again. “I—think I’m getting tired. I guess I’ve seen enough.”
“Not much on up there but the new, anyway.” He took her hand and they started back down. “It’s just that we’re a rarity up this far.” A heavy man in a heavy caftan pushed past them; in his cold eyes Maris saw an alien wanton and her overaged Tail.
“They either leer, or they censure.” He felt her nails mark his flesh. “What’s their problem?”
“Jealousy… mortality. You threaten them, you spacers. Don’t you ever think about it? Free and beautiful immortals—”
“They know we aren’t immortal; we hardly live longer than anybody else.”
“They also know you come here from a voyage of twenty-five years looking hardly older than when you left. Maybe they don’t recognize you, but they know. And they’re twenty-five years older… Why do you think they go around in sacks?”
“To look ugly. They must be dreadfully repressed.” She tossed her head sullenly.
“They are; but that’s not why. It’s because they want to hide the changes. And in their way to mimic you, who always look the same. They’ve done it since I can remember; you’re all they have to envy.”