“Next time I see President Steinmetz, I’m going to kiss him. How do you work this crazy corkscrew?”
“Pressure. The needle on the end is hollow. Stick it through the cork and pump. No, not like that. Let me.”
While he opened the bottle, Dana examined the fizzes. “Elevs, holds, dorphs, and morphs. Good stuff. Didn’t the President make a speech last year, deploring the use of fizzes?”
“I’m sure he did.” Art was drawing the cork with care. “No problem for him — he’s not a user.”
“How do you know?”
“Too old.” He handed Dana a half-filled glass. “Same as me. It’s a generation thing. We did pot and booze the way new-century youth does snap and fizzes. Bring the basket and a knife.”
Art picked up the bottle and his own glass and carried them through from the kitchenette. He settled onto the sofa, pulling an end table in front of them. Dana followed, but she made a quick detour to examine the bathroom.
“There’s a bathtub,” she said as she sat down next to him. “A huge one. You can wallow in it, probably even swim in it.” She held out her glass for more wine. “Pour, and sit still. I want to look at something.”
“You’re supposed to savor it, not guzzle it.” But Art sat obediently still as she came around the back of the couch and bent to examine the top of his head. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I won’t be surprised if you find it. We’ve been living pretty dirty.”
“Not head lice, if that’s what you mean. But I found what I was looking for.” She came around to the front again. “One more thing. Let me have another look at that scar, the one that pleased President Steinmetz so much.”
Art had his mouth full of bread and salami. It was easier to obey than to argue. He opened his shirt and lifted his undershirt. Dana bent low and examined his chest and belly.
She nodded in satisfaction and sat down. “I thought so. I’ve noticed that you’ve been looking at my hair a lot. What do you think of it?”
“I love it. It’s lighter. As though the sun is bleaching it.”
“What sun? We’ve only had a few bright days in two months. Do you know what I thought, when you arrived through the snow at the Treasure Inn? I thought, he’s been using protos on his hair. It’s fuller and darker than it was before.”
“I have not.” Art was indignant.
Dana laughed at his expression. “It’s a generation thing. You think that using conditioning protozoans in your follicles is one step away from head lice. But then I asked myself, where could he have got them? The supply of follicle protozoans dried up when Supernova Alpha hit. I know, because I did use them after I started to gray. They only live forty-five days, then they have to be replaced. Without them, my hair should be growing out gray. I looked in the mirror this morning at Indian Head. Not a sign. My hair is growing in the color it was when I was twenty. And there’s this.”
She leaned forward and ran her finger along the line of Art’s scar. He jerked forward. “That tickles!”
“I bet it wouldn’t have two months ago. It was scar tissue, with no feeling in it. Did it used to be a sort of purple-red?”
“Of course it did. It still is.” Art craned forward. It was impossible to get a head-on look at his own belly without a mirror.
“No, it isn’t. It doesn’t look like a normal scar anymore. I thought so in the President’s office, but it wasn’t the time to mention it. Take a peek at this.” Dana put down her empty glass, stood up, and removed her jacket. She pulled her blouse clear of her pants and opened it at the front.
“Here.” She squatted in front of Art and pointed to a vertical scar running from between her breasts to two inches above her navel. “Describe how that looks. Touch it, and tell me how it feels.”
Her face was averted. Art ran his finger gingerly along the line of the scar. “It’s soft. And it’s about the same color pink as your lips.”
“It didn’t used to be. They carved a malignant tumor the size of a banana out of there, and because they wanted to be sure to get it all they didn’t use microsurgery. The edges used to be rough. The color was an ugly purple. I hated to look at it. Now I don’t mind at all. Feel your own scar. You can’t see it properly, but put your hand on it. Isn’t it the same as mine?”
Art closed his eyes and ran a finger along the familiar line. “It’s softer than it used to be. But not as soft as yours.”
“That’s because I’m a woman, with a woman’s skin. Take a look at this one. It used to be even worse.”
Dana stood up. She slid the waistband of her pants down until it was at the level of her hips. The revealed scar ran horizontally, below her navel and across the full width of her belly.
“The Grand Canyon, I used to call it, rough and jagged and hard. Not anymore. Feel.” She took Art’s hand and ran it along the length of the scar. “New skin. The Institute doctors said to me, We’ll give you a telomerase inhibitor. That will kill off your cancer cells because they can’t reproduce when their telomeres become too short. Fine, I said. What happens after that? Well, we’ll have to give you telomerase boosters, otherwise none of your cells will be able to divide and you’ll develop progeria symptoms. All right, I said, and after that? What else will the stimulators do? Will they rejuvenate me just at the cell level? Or will there be effects on my whole system? Might I regress sexually to childhood? Might I get cancer again, all over me? Those were questions that nobody could answer. I remember Dr. Taunton telling me, ’We’re not allowed to experiment anymore with animals; so I’m afraid that our experimental animals have to be humans.’ That’s you and me, and Seth, and Morgan Davis, and Lynn Seagrave, and all the rest of our therapy group. We are the test hamsters.
“Hey! Are you listening to me?”
Art was staring at the curve of Dana’s belly. His fingers had run the length of the fading scar three times, stroking more than feeling. He blinked, and leaned back to look up at her.
“I don’t believe this.” Dana pulled her clothes into position. “Look at you down there. You’re horny as hell.”
She was right. Art couldn’t deny the evidence. “I didn’t mean—” he started.
“You are one sick guy, do you know that.” Dana dropped onto the sofa next to him. “I sashay into your room at the Treasure Inn, and all I have on is my shortest slip. I’ve always been told that I have sexy legs. So hint, hint. Result: nothing. Well, maybe you were exhausted from your journey. I come into your room the next night. We snuggle up together under the blankets. I curl up against you. Hint, hint — I mean, I’m in bed with you, what more could you ask? Result: you fall asleep. I wonder what’s wrong, with me or with you. But today you get one finger on my scars, for Christ’s sake, and it’s whoosh, rocketship time.”
Telling the truth had worked this morning. Maybe it would work again. “Dana, I’ve always thought you were terrific — looks and courage and personality. I knew you must have young studs after you all the time. You said, since you were twelve. And here’s me, a lot older, hobbling around with a bum knee. I thought I didn’t have a chance.”
“I hate young studs. And you don’t know how old you are. Neither do I. We might be on the brink of immortality, or we could have less than a year.”
Art stood up. He took Dana by the hands and lifted her to her feet. “Come on. I may be an idiot, but I’m not that big an idiot. Tell me something four or five times, and I usually get it. You look gorgeous.” He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. “And you smell wonderful.”