(Still don’t, actually.)
But mighty curious, and time running out. Well, too late now — unless perhaps vamp Harris or Kyril (or both?) on way out to rendezvous, or after completing mission, before life-support runs out.
But no, not Harris; regards me as likely prospect for sainthood. Apparently feels my age somehow makes my sacrifice more creditworthy than his. Don’t understand reasoning myself, but he means it. Also thinks I would have made good Marine.
Besides, considers me cutest thing since invention of puppies. “Fathers” me for all he’s worth — half the time absent-mindedly calls me first by one of several daughters’ names. Even if managed to convince him offer not irrational behavior brought on by approaching end, would never take advantage.
In fact, as ponder matter further, probably be mortally offended that anyone would think for second he could be interested in someone my age. No; much too fond of him to take risk.
And Kyril — uh-uh, don’t think him either. Granted, genuinely beautiful man, and quite fond of him, but — well, don’t know why; somehow notion makes me uncomfortable. Hate to admit it after contributions — giving life same as we, after all — but somewhere down in deepest, darkest corner of soul, perhaps share AAs’ unresolved doubts about Russian’s ultimate sincerity.
And apart from that, is so incredibly intelligent, perceptive (along with sweet), would probably deduce real motive; cooperate out of desire to satisfy childish scientific curiosity, acting as one friend helping another. Doesn’t sound much like formula for making Earth Move.
Never mind; maybe have better luck next time around.
Speaking of which, would be nice to know for sure What Comes Next. Suspect main reason not afraid of death is Momma Foster’s attitude as own end approached. Things like that stick with five-year-olds; settle into, become part of basic makeup, foundations. No doubt in my mind whatsoever Momma went to Heaven; and find myself looking forward to reunion — maybe with Daddy, too? Hope so…
If get there myself, of course… Whole life has yet to “flash before my eyes,” but difficult to resist occasional furtive glance over shoulder as time approaches. Have attempted to live “good” life: Always tried to help where could; never hurt anyone on purpose when could avoid it.
But occasionally good intentions didn’t pan out.
Wonder how killing Rollo looks on Record in Big Book.
Accident? Yes. Unavoidable? Under circumstances, yes.
But as Kim pointed out, if had known in advance that that’s what would take to save twin’s life…
There. Now getting down to real pain locus — never suggested facing imminent death easy; or knowing manner, hour of arrival, fun.
No. Hurts. Hurts lots. Hurts awful!
Thinking about loved ones’ pain. Counting own losses — never again holding serious “grown-up” philosophical discussions with Lisa; no more whispered, giggly huddles with Kim on subject of Men, Women Life; never again holding nose over one of Adam’s puns, or watching him glow with pride as I wax lyrical over product of culinary genius. Never again to learn from Teacher; or dig up own data, make own discoveries — and so much to learn…!
And nevermore to chat, play, share contented silences with Terry…
That may be most distressing thought of all — everyone else rational, intelligent; understands circumstances, reasons; will grieve, heal, remember me, go on.
But innocent birdbrain incapable of understanding circumstances; doesn’t reason. Only knows is happy with me, miserable without. Only knows I left him, never returned. May recover, may not. But will hurt for long, long time and never know reason why.
No. Nothing fun about knowledge of impending death. For first time in months have experienced resurgence of bleak, terrible loneliness; horror, nightmares; depression that so paralyzed me during weeks following attack: Feelings of helplessness, futility; cornered feelings. Granted, predicament voluntary — but circumstances leading to stepping forward not.
(And homilies about spilt milk may be apt, but sure not very comforting.)
Well, might as well wrap it up, go to bed. Launch scheduled for 6:00 A. M.; means 3:30 reveille: Must be aboard Hale by T minus one hour 50 minutes; lots to do before lighting fuse.
Plus big breakfast scheduled first; traditional astronauts’ steak-and-eggs pig-out — especially critical this time because weight considerations preclude taking much in way of consumables with us: Every ounce left behind frees that much more fuel for maneuvering as we rendezvous with bomb — promises to be near thing as is.
And apologies for neglect, Posterity. Have wanted to update journal, honest; but these few minutes before bed this evening literally first opportunity have had since landing here six days ago. Wasn’t dodging responsibility; well understand importance: If mission succeeds, future generations of teachers will want to bore students with inspirational Life Times of Candidia Smith-Foster, Plucky Girl Savior of Our People.
(Of course being sarcastic; but also stating fact. National heroes — nay, racial heroes, more important yet — really should try to leave accurate, intelligible [did my best] record of How I Really Did It and Why. Failure to discharge responsibility spawns inevitably inflationary folklore — and can’t bear thought of future generations hearing how I crossed Susquehanna on crumbling trestle’s single remaining rail, van balanced on two wheels, thereby eluding marauding band of sex-crazed mutants; or that I stupidly chopped down cherry tree in youth and even more stupidly admitted it.)
Will leave journal on table tomorrow morning for Teacher to find. Has promised to make locating family crash-priority project first thing after crisis; invite them into burgeoning hominem community. In due time he or they — someone, surely — will merge this volume with previous three.
(And must say, resulting tome disappointingly slim. Had planned on, hoped for, much more substantial monument.)
Really must be getting to bed now; 3:30 horrendous hour. (And do not understand necessity: Geosynchronous orbits, like gibbets, available 24 hours a day — so why must astronauts, condemned prisoners alike, always get up before dawn? Doesn’t make whole lot of sense.)
Well, good-bye, Posterity. Take care of future for me.
And good-bye everybody else. Good luck — I’ll do my best.
I love you.
VOLUME III — Part II
Portents
It’s been four days now, and still no sign of her.
A fire trail enabled us to haul the trailer within about two miles of the point where Adam’s RDF line and Candy’s compass bearings all intersect, so we’re base-camped right in the middle of the search area. We’ve got a lot of supplies; we’ll be able to stay for weeks before having to go back to restock.
The sequoia forest is absolutely magnificent. Just being here in the heart of it should be wonderfully, spiritually fulfilling. It’s very quiet: The only sounds are a blend of the breeze sighing through the treetops so far above, and bird calls, insect noises, and small animals rustling in the underbrush. Natural lighting way down here on the ground, almost shut off from the sky and direct sunlight, is diffuse and soothing. The trees are so immense that you tend to forget that they are trees; the trunks extend upward out of sight like vast pillars supporting a green ceiling, and lend an almost cathedrallike quality to the scene. It’s so very peaceful; and if it were not for the constant awareness of what brings us here, I would love every second of it.