“Ponter and Daklar seem to be…close.”
Lurt made a cold laugh. “Daklar brought charges against my Adikor in Ponter’s absence. There can be no affection between Ponter and Daklar now.”
“So I would have thought,” said Mary. “But there is.”
“You are misreading the signs.”
“Daklar herself told me.”
Lurt stopped walking, perhaps startled, perhaps to try to catch a whiff of Mary’s pheromones. “Oh,” she said at last.
“Indeed. And, well…”
“Yes?”
Mary paused, and then motioned for them to begin walking again. The sun moved behind a cloud. “You have not seen Adikor since Two last became One, is that right?”
Lurt nodded.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Briefly. On a matter concerning Dab.”
“But not about…about Ponter and…and me?”
“No,” said Lurt.
“Are you…are you obliged to share everything with Adikor? I don’t mean possessions; I mean knowledge. Gossip.”
“No, of course not. We have a saying: ‘What happens when Two are separate is best kept separate.’”
Mary smiled. “All right, then. I really don’t want this to get back to Ponter, but…well, I, um, I like him.”
“He has an agreeable disposition,” said Lurt.
Mary suppressed a grin. Ponter himself had told her he wasn’t good-looking by the standards of his own people, not that Mary cared or could even tell. But Lurt’s words reminded her of what was usually said about homely people in her own world.
“I mean,” said Mary, “I like him a lot.” God, she felt fourteen years old again.
“Yes?” said Lurt.
“But he likes Daklar. They spent part—maybe all—of the last Two becoming One together.”
“Really?” said Lurt. “Astonishing.” She stepped aside, making room for a couple of younger women, holding hands, to pass by them. “Of course, the last Two becoming One occurred prior to reestablishing contact with your world. Did you and Ponter have sex when he was there the first time?”
Mary was flustered. “No.”
“And have you had sex since? Two have not been One since, but I understand Ponter spent considerable time in your world over the last couple of ten days.”
Mary knew from Ponter that discussions about sexual matters weren’t taboo in his world. Still, she felt her cheeks warming. “Yes.”
“How was it?” asked Lurt.
Mary thought for a second, and then, having no idea how the translator might render the word, but not having a better one at hand, she said simply, “Hot.”
“Do you love him?”
“I—I don’t know. I think so.”
“He has no woman-mate; I am sure you know that.”
Mary nodded. “Yes.”
“I do not know how long this portal between our two worlds will stay open,” said Lurt. “It might be permanent; it might close tomorrow—even with so many of our greatest on the other side, the portal itself might be unstable. But even if it were permanent, do you propose somehow to make a life with Ponter?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if that is even a possibility.”
“Do you have children?”
“Me?” said Mary. “No.”
“And you have no man-mate?”
Mary took a deep breath, and examined a stack of three travel cubes they were passing. “Welllll,” she said, “it’s complex. I was married—bonded—to a man named Colm O’Casey. My religion”—a bleep—“my belief system does not allow an easy dissolution of such bonds. Colm and I haven’t lived together for years, but technically we are still bonded.”
“‘Lived together?’” repeated Lurt, astonished.
“In my world,” said Mary, “a man lives with his woman-mate.”
“What about his man-mate?”
“He doesn’t have one. There are only two people in the relationship.”
“Incredible,” said Lurt. “I love Adikor dearly, but I certainly would not want to live with him.”
“It’s the way of my people,” said Mary.
“But not of mine,” said Lurt. “If you were to pursue this relationship with Ponter, where would the two of you live? His world, or yours? He has children here, you know, and a man-mate, and work he enjoys.”
“I know,” said Mary, her heart aching. “I know.”
“Have you talked to Ponter about any of this?”
“I was going to, but…but then I found out about Daklar.”
“It would be very difficult to make it work,” said Lurt. “Surely you must understand that.”
Mary exhaled noisily. “I do.” She paused. “But Ponter isn’t like the other men I know.” A silly comparison occurred to Mary: Jane Porter and Tarzan of the Apes. Jane had fallen head over heels for Tarzan, who truly had been unlike any man she’d ever met. And Tarzan, feral, raised by simians after the death of his parents, Lord and Lady Greystoke, was unique, truly one of a kind. But Ponter had said there were a hundred and eighty-five million people in his world, and perhaps all those men were like Ponter, and so unlike the rough, rude, mean, petty men of Mary’s world.
But after a moment, Lurt nodded. “Yes, Ponter is not like other men that I know, either. He is amazingly intelligent, and truly kind. And…”
“Yes?” said Mary, eagerly.
But it was a while before Lurt went on. “There was an event, in Ponter’s past. He was…injured…”
Mary touched Lurt’s massive forearm gently. “I know about what happened with Ponter and Adikor; I know about Ponter’s jaw.”
Mary saw Lurt’s continuous eyebrow roll up her browridge before Mary turned her attention back to the path in front of them. “Ponter told you this?” asked Lurt.
“About the injury, yes—I’d seen it in his X rays. Not who did it. I learned that from Daklar.”
Lurt spoke a word that wasn’t translated, then: “Well, you know that Ponter forgave Adikor, totally and completely. It is something few people could have done.” She paused again. “And, I suppose, given his admirable history in such matters, it is little surprise that he has apparently forgiven Daklar, too.”
“So,” said Mary, “what should I do?”
“I have been given to understand that your people believe in some sort of existence after this one,” said Lurt.
Mary started at the apparent non sequitur. “Um, yes.”
“We do not, as I am sure Ponter must have told you. Perhaps if we believed there was more to life than just this existence, we might have a different philosophy, but let me tell you what tends to be our guiding principle.”
“Please,” said Mary.
“We live our lives so as to minimize deathbed regrets. You are a 145, no?”
“I’m thirty-nine…years old, that is.”
“Yes. Well, then you are perhaps halfway through your life. Ask yourself if in…in another thirty-nine years, to phrase it as you would, when your life is ending, will you regret not having tried to make a relationship with Ponter work?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Listen carefully to my question, friend Mare. I am not asking you if you would regret not pursuing this relationship if it were to succeed. I am asking you if you would regret not pursuing it even if it fails.”
Mary narrowed her eyes, although they were comfortable behind the blue lenses. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“My contribution is chemistry,” said Lurt. “Now. But it was not my first choice. I wanted to write stories, to create fiction.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But I failed at it. There was no audience for my tales, no positive response to my work. And so I had to make a different contribution; I had an aptitude for mathematics and science, and so I became a chemist. But I do not regret having tried and failed at writing fiction. Of course, I would have preferred to succeed, but on my deathbed I knew I would be more sad if I had never tried, had never tested to see if I might succeed at it, than I would be had I tried and failed. So I did try—and I did fail. But I am happy for the knowledge that I made the attempt.” Lurt paused. “Obviously, you will be happiest if your relationship with Ponter works out. But will you be happier on your deathbed, friend Mare, to know that you tried and failed to have a long-term relationship with Ponter than that you never tried at all?”