Be honest. I could find the necessary hours if I wanted, Sparling knew. Truth is, I enjoy gardens but not their maintenance. Rather do carpentry for my fun, or whittle toys to give to kids human or Ishtarian. And Rhoda has what Jill (Jill) calls a sere and withered thumb.
He walked in the front door. His wife laid down her book. He recognized a novel which had caused considerable excitement on Earth when he was there. The library had ordered a reel for making printouts. Curious about what went on in the novel nowadays, after its long eclipse, he kept intending to read this specimen. However, he always seemed too busy, or he was tired and preferred to relax with an old familiar like Kipling, or he was intrigued by a piece of Ishtarian literature, or…
“Hello,” she said. “What happened?” Her English kept a trace of Brazilian accent. Once he had learned Portugese and they spoke it at home; but they’d drifted out of the habit and he lost his vocabulary.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you for a while,” he grunted. Guilt reminded him weakly that she was no blabbermouth and Olga Hanshaw had been free to listen in. He replied that he was too worn out to discuss the miserable business any further—the more so when Rhoda, isolated in a minor supply-department position, would need everything explained at length which Jill saw on the instant.
“It is not good,” she said after watching his face.
“No, not good.” His lankiness flopped into a chair. A minimum he must reveaclass="underline" “I’m leaving for Sehala tomorrow. Got to, uh, make liaison with the assembly while it stands. I expect I’ll be gone a few days.”
“I see.” She rose. “Do you care for a drink before dinner?”
“Absolutely. Rum and a dash of lemon. About two fingers.” He held them upright in a row.
When she smiled, a trace returned of that which had drawn him to a shy, studious girl he met on a job. She’d never been an unusual sight; he’d originally rated her at a millihelen, the amount of beauty needed to launch a single ship. But he’d always been awkward with women; he saw he could have Rhoda Vargas if he wished, and she’d be a good partner; he proceeded systematically to fall in love. “I have been looking forward,” she said.
Younger than he, she nonetheless showed more gray in her hair. The snub-nosed countenance had gone pudgy, as had the short body. Yet passing by on her way to the kitchen, she stroked a palm across his head, and he recalled their first years.
Alone, he puffed his pipe and wondered if Becky’s difficult birth had brought on the slow change. The doctor had said there was no point in cloning her a new uterus; she’d lose it afresh, and the baby, too, next time. But they hadn’t been required to try for more children, had they? Did the loss inside carry some consequence too subtle for meditechnics to see? The blunt fact was, she remained gentle, popular in the community, an excellent cook, et cetera, et cetera, but drop by drop they came together less often, in spirit and in flesh.
Or, he thought, not for the first occasion or the hundredth, was the change mainly in me? For his work had sent him adventuring across half the planet, while hers and the child kept her behind. He got the Earthside business trips, while she—who missed her kinfolk more than he did his, though she never complained—must settle for a few weeks every four years. On the other hand, she kept her human associations in Primavera, her interest in human creations, while his involvement steadily increased with Ishtarians and their minds.
Be the cause what it might, these days he felt little for her beyond a certain liking and compassion: a truth which he only had the heart—or the nerve—to tell himself. When his projects began to demand he spend most of his time here, planning and directing, instead of in the field, his main emotion was resignation to dullness.
Until he grew fully aware of Jill Conway.
He tamped his pipe with his thumb, almost savoring the slight burn.
Rhoda brought in their drinks. “I’m glad you got away this early, dear,” she said. “You have been straining too hard. I thought tonight, if you didn’t come in late for dinner, I would make something special.”
SEVEN
Captain Dejerine accepted happily an invitation to a day’s guided outing with a person who could explain what he saw. Besides a chance to start making friends in a community whose co-operation he needed and which he knew was hostile to his purposes, he welcomed the sheer recreation, after a wearying space journey. When the person whom Goddard Hanshaw mentioned turned out to be Jill Conway, his pleasure boosted to delight.
She called for him before Belrise, in the eerie red light of Anu low in the north. He and a few associates were temporarily lodged at the inn; most of the men must remain in orbit till their prefab shelters could be erected. He had been supplied a flywheeler. (“Might as well do you the courtesy before you requisition it,” Hanshaw had growled half amiably.) Jill’s was a great deal larger and livelier. He was appalled at the prospect of matching her driving style, but clenched his jaws and presently found himself enjoying the speed. By then they had crossed the river—on a small automatic ferry, since his machine lacked a skimmer—and were well into untouched Ishtarian countryside.
Bel arrived in heaven, shadows doubled and the ember illumination became rosy. Jilt halted at a grove where a spring flowed. “How ’bout breakfast?” she proposed. “Afterward we’ll go more leisurely.”
“Magnifique.” Dejerine opened the carrier box on his vehicle. “I regret being unable to make a real contribution, but here is an Italian salami, if you will accept—”
“Will I!” She clapped her hands in glee. “I’ve had that exactly once before in my life. Believe me, a first love is nothing compared to a first Italian dry salami.” Liar, she thought, remembering Senzo. And yet… the hurt of that was well healed over. In you also, darling, I trust.
Dejerine helped her spread a cloth on the ground and unpack the food she had brought, bread, butter, cheese, jam. He is pleasant, she thought. Damn good-looking, too. As she was plugging the coffee maker into her wheeler’s capacitor, he startled her: “I have not had a minute to say this before, Miss Conway, given your whirlwind procedure. But I know your brother Donald. He asked me to send his best greetings.”
“Huh?” She sprang from her hunkering position. “You do? How is he? Where’s he bound for? Why hasn’t he written?”
“He was in excellent shape the last time I saw him,” Dejerine replied. “We had spent quite a few hours talking, in the course of days. You see, when I was assigned here, I—you say?—I looked up whoever I could get from Ishtar, in hopes of a briefing. That happened to be Don.” His smile was quite captivating, easy, warming the whole face, accompanied by a regard which was not a stare but an appreciation. “He told me considerable about you.” He turned serious as quickly as she herself might. “Where is he posted? I know only that it is to the front. Please don’t worry too much about him. In every way, equipment, training, organization, we are far superior to the enemy. And as for the rest, he was busy and preoccupied; he admitted he hates to write letters, and so he entrusted me with his word. I did make him promise he would write soon.”
Jill sighed. “Thanks a billion. That’s Don, for sure.” She returned to the coffeepot. “Let’s save the details for later. Like this evening, if you don’t mind, we can land on my parents. My sister and her husband would want to hear, too.”