It would have been even prettier if it were a photograph or a painting hanging in her drawing room, and a lot warmer, she thought, and for a moment wondered if she should try painting again. For a while in the early part of her second year Murra, before she turned to poetry, had thought she had a talent for art. But it had been a lot of hard work, with improvement coming very slowly; and anyway then she met Blundy and found a new career. As his leading lady, of course; there was always a part for her in everything Blundy wrote. More importantly, as his wife.
But a wife could also be a mother to children.
Veria had put that unwelcome idea in her mind, not for the first time. It wasn’t a prospect Murra could look forward to: four long months of pregnancy, with your belly swelling and your grace of movement stolen away. Then the pain of parturition. Then the other pain if the baby died
She shuddered. The trouble was that time was running fast on Murra’s biological clock. Your second year was when you had your children if you were intelligent about it, and it was an unfortunate fact that Murra’s second year was some time past.
But did she really want to have physical children?
Squalling, messy ones? Wasn’t it better to have mind-children? Her poems, for instance; weren’t those as valuable as babies?
But there too the clock was running for Murra. If anyone was ever going to be a poet a real poet, a poet whose work would be admired and cherished by many others than the poet’s own husband this was the time to do that, too, wasn’t it?
She turned around, startled. Blundy was approaching with the boys, one on either hand. Grinning, Blundy asked, “Time for lunch yet? I hope Veria brought along dry socks for the kids.”
“I’m sure she did,” Murra said, and waited for Blundy to drop the children’s hands so he could help her down the slippery ice, back to where Megrith had put the chops on the grill and old Vorian was gazing wistfully at the spring he would not likely see another. Concentrating on her footing, Murra had forgotten about the little boys behind them until she heard her sister scream the toddler’s name.
They turned. Little Porly was spread-eagled on the ice, with his brother fearfully tugging at him. “He just fell,” Pettemel moaned, “but he won’t get up.”
Then all the adults were racing up the slope, Veria in the lead, Megrith close behind her transformed instantly from cook to doctor. By the time Murra got to them they had all surrounded the child and Megrith had the boy’s head on his crouching knee, lifting an eyelid to peer at the eye. Veria was sobbing and Blundy was swearing to himself.
Then the little boy opened the other eye, and, struggling to get up, began to cry.
Megrith gave a little laugh. “He’s all right, Veria.
He just fell and it knocked the wind out of him. But now his clothes are all wet…and, oh, hell, can’t you smell the chops? They’ll be burned black if I don’t get back to them!”
The chops, really, were quite all right, and so was the salad, and old Vorian, sampling the bottle of wine he had opened, pronounced it first-rate. So the picnic was a success after all, though Veria was still shaken.
When they had settled down after the meal Murra sat next to her husband, watching the others clean up.
Lowering her voice, she said, “Oh, Blundy, Vincor had an idea he wanted to talk over with you. Summer Wife.
A new series for the hot time; what do you think?”
Blundy pursed his lips. Then he shrugged. But he hadn’t said no. “Of course,” she went on, “we wouldn’t have to have the same cast, exactly, I mean if you think it’s worth doing at all. For instance, maybe I’m getting a little too, well, mature for the wife’s part “
And waited for him to say, “That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t do anything like that without you, you know that,” and found the day quite spoiled for her when he didn’t.
Chapter Five
Mercy MacDonald was nothing if not fair, so fair that she even gave Deputy Captain Hans Horeger credit when he earned it even him. As a human being he was scum and nothing would change her mind about that. Still, she admitted to herself that he was a first-class ship handler. The way he eased Nordvik into its capture orbit around Slowyear was optimal. Nothing shuddered or jerked. The thrust just dwindled, and dwindled more, until they were there.
It was the slowest part of the long journey.
MacDonald spent it lying in her bed, trying to make herself sleep. She failed. There were too many thoughts and memories and sudden starts of apprehension to wake her right up again every time she came close. They had to do with the decision she would have to make (jump ship or stay?), with the barren wasteland that was her life up to this moment (tedium punctuated with blazing flareups of anger at, for instance, Hans Horeger) and, most of all, with the worry about what these Slowyear people were going to be like. Would they be friendly? Even welcoming? Would they at least not be unkind?
There were things she had learned about them which were, to say the least, not reassuring. For instance, their criminal law. What kind of human beings punished every infraction of the law with the chance of instant death-? What people would simply cut themselves off from communication however tenuous or difficult, or even pointless with the rest of the galaxy?
For that matter, what kind of people could go on living in so mean an environment (And could she herself possibly live as one of them?) Then the last little gentle nudge of thrust was gone.
They had arrived.
It was a critical moment, a moment to reflect, a transitional moment. But there wasn’t much chance for reflection. What there was was pandemonium.
With Nordvik at relative rest, nothing weighed anything anymore and everybody was scurrying around the ship chasing the floating pens, dishes, books, keys chasing down and capturing the thousand little items that somebody should have secured, but hadn’t.
They should have remembered what zero thrust was like, of course, but years made you forget even that.
What Mercy MacDonald had forgotten was to put the lid on a jar of hard candies. She’d taken them out to have one to suck as a prophylactic against no-weight nausea. Then the whole jarful had followed her out the door and halfway down the hall, bright little balls of colored sugar that were sure to raise hell with the air pumps or the light fixtures if she didn’t track them down.
So in that very significant moment all she was seeing of the planet they had come to visit was a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eye now and then.
In fact it didn’t look like anything special anyway.
It looked a lot like every other habitable planet in the universe, naturally enough. Blue sky, white cloud, dappled land, bright blue seas that was pretty much what a planet had to look like, if any human being was going to be able to spend much time there. And when she finally got the last peppermint-green candy back in the jar and the lid on tight this time, when she finally was able to race down to the lock room, it didn’t look much different even in the big screen.
Except for one thing. It was hard to get a good look at the screen. There was too much in the way. Every one of the fifty-six people of Nordmk had huddled there, floating every which way in a thicket of arms and legs and torsos in the microgravity. Still, MacDonald saw the one thing that was different at once. Something new was in the picture. Coming up toward them out of the rim of the planet’s dark side was a tiny diamond-bright point of intense white light.