She pulled her hand back. "Oh, that's not an insult. And the answer is no-and yes. No, I'm not whoring for Jason. But, yes-I was chosen to sleep with you first, before anyone else, because I've had the experience. I know how to use myself to reach you, to give you the opportunity to reach back. That's all. Do you understand? It's a skill. I can use it-I can use it to be selfish, or I can use it to share. I want to share myself with you tonight. "
"I guess I'm old fashioned, Valerie. I don't understand it."
"There's nothing to understand. I don't want to be alone either," she whispered. "Will you share yourself with me?"
I looked at her face. In the moonlight, all I could see was the soft gleam of her eyes against the paleness of her skin.
"I don't know," I said.
"You have to let go of your mind," she whispered. "Let yourself be the animal."
"The animal?"
"You're an animal, Jim. A male animal. I'm a female animal." Her touch became a caress. "Let go of your mind and just experience the physicalness of it. Is that so hard to do?"
"I don't . . ." But I did. I knew exactly what she meant. And I wanted to do it.
I moved toward her, just a bit. I realized I was still scared of her. But she smelled good. Let go of your mind, she said. But how? Her hand came back to me again.
Her fingers strayed. I let them.
Even though I knew it was a mistake.
And then . . . oh, hell, I stopped resisting. I told myself I could handle this. Really.
I let it happen.
She was good. So was I.
She was frenzied, almost out of control. And after a while, so was I. She smelled good.
The male animal mounted the female. We did it. And my mind was lost.
11
Falstaff
"Onions don't cause heartburn; they only make it interesting."
-SOLOMON SHORT
Someone was singing to me.
When I woke up, Valerie was already gone. But I could still hear the singing
I opened the door.
The worm was still there. It was facing away from the door, toward the morning sun. Its fur glistened pink.
It was the worm that was singing-humming, really. The sound was coming from deep inside its throat. Was it brooding, or what? The creature's eyes were closed and it looked preoccupied. The trilling was softer than a purr, but it had the same kind of deep satisfying rumble.
I stood in the doorway and listened. The worm crooned and warbled quietly to itself. Its song was tuneless and ethereal; it sounded like an expectant banshee-like a distant murmuring chorus . . . like the echo of someone weeping. It was one of those just below the horizon sounds, and it was as ominous as a hot desert wind. I felt uneasy. I felt like an invader just for listening.
But I was transfixed. It was beautiful. I must have moved or made a sound.
Abruptly, the worm stopped its trilling and swiveled its eyes around backward to look at me. They were the size of searchlights. It blinked. Sput-phwut. Then it turned to face me. It yawned. It looked like it had three million teeth. "Grrp?"
"Uh, good morning." I gulped.
"Wrorr?" the worm asked.
"Uh, yeah, I slept okay-thanks for asking."
The worm blinked at me-and blinked again, refocusing its eyes to study me. It was a fat, pink, blimp-shaped creature, with pale stripes of purple and red and pink flickering along its sides. It huffed and it puffed and it made ruminative noises deep within its gut. "Platt!"
"Gee-thanks for sharing." I waved the stench away from my face. My eyes were watering. "Uh, listen, what does a person do about breakfast around here?"
Sput phwut.
"Food? You know, food?"
"Brurrp!" said the worm. It backed away, swiveled, turned and flowed down toward the center of the compound.
I shrugged, swallowed my heart, and followed.
The creature moved with a rustle and swoosh that made me think of an asthmatic elephant carrying a steam engine on its back. I hadn't realized that Chtorrans might have respiratory problems in Earth's atmosphere. Maybe they were biologically suited for a thicker, heavier soup.
Breakfast was a great communal meal served under a spreading canopy of oak trees. There were pink shrouds hanging from the branches; they looked like festive curtains. There were thick strands of blackvine too, just starting to blossom with bright blue flowers. I could smell the rich perfume from here. It was all too gay-in the middle of a war zone, it made me think of the mad tea party.
Adults, bunnydogs--cute ones as well as the bigger skinny-ugly ones--and children, all sat chattering and gobbling together at six huge tables arranged in a broad U-shape under the shrouds. Only small children and bunnydogs sat on the inside of the U, everybody else sat on the outside of the tables. They cheered when they saw us coming; I didn't know if the cheers were for me or for the worm.
The worm flowed off in another direction then, off on some business of its own. Somebody called my name and waved, a baldheaded man with a full beard and a bright red lumberjack shirt. He stood up, grinning and waving, then bounced gladly up the slope to meet me.
"Welcome, Jim. I'm Ray." He grabbed my hand and shook it; he clapped me warmly on the shoulder and guided me down to the table. "Here, we saved a place for you. Loolie wants you to sit by her."
I smiled weakly, nodded to Loolie-the little girl looked ecstatic-and slid sideways onto the end of the bench. Somebody handed me a plate, somebody else handed me a fork and a spoon.
"Would you like to come and see my zoo today?" Loolie asked.
"Your zoo? Uh, sure. If it's all right with . . ." I looked around, "-whoever."
"Oh, it's all right," Loolie said. "I already asked."
"Here," said Ray,"have some of these; and try this; it's Jessie's new recipe!" He raised his voice and called, "Hey, Brownie-" One of the kids came bouncing up to the front of the fable. "-We have a guest here. Let's have some of those hot plates passed around."
"Right." Brownie bounced off. Service was provided by several of the older children and several of the larger, skinny bunnydogs. Loolie called them bunnymen. The children carried in the full platters; the bunnymen carried off the empty ones-often pausing to lick them thoroughly first. Sometimes they had to compete with the dogs, or with three or four pig-like creatures that were snuffling around, looking for garbage. They were a dark reddish-brown color and looked like tapirs-or giant libbits, a sausagey Chtorran rodent.
I filled my plate cautiously. I didn't recognize some of the foods and even the familiar ones looked and tasted different. The bread was pink, and sweeter than I was used to. The jam was almost a fluorescent shade of red and I didn't recognize the flavor. The eggs had an orangey color, but the flavor was rich and full.
A little brown sparrow landed on the edge of the table in front of me. It had something pink and fleshy in its bill, something that looked like a chubby little naked man-it squirmed and peeped. Ray poked me. "The birds love the finger-babies. And for some reason, we get a lot of 'em around here." The bird cocked an eye at its surroundings, decided it didn't like the company, then took off again, up and past my shoulder..
Almost immediately, there was a frantic rustling behind me. I turned around and looked upward: the little sparrow was caught and struggling wildly in the folds of one of the velvety pink shrouds. The more it struggled, the more it wrapped itself up tight. A glittering haze of sparkling fairy dust flurried up around it, and then a fat red hairy claw-shaped thing came scuttling down the curtain from above.