"I heard you screaming.'' He leaned down and took her hands. "Can you get up?"
"I think so," she said shakily. She came up easily enough with his help. She became aware that the thunder and lightning had ceased. Nor was it raining, though water was still dripping from the eaves. The door was open, showing only darkness. The clouds had not yet disappeared. No, there was the silhouette of a hill suddenly rising. Beyond was a break in the skycover and the white flare of a great gas sheet in which thousands of giant stars were embedded,
She also became aware that she was naked. She looked down and saw her breasts were reddened, as if they had been too near a fire. The red slowly faded away as she watched.
Piscator said, "I thought you had been slightly burned. Your breasts and your pubic area were inflamed, swollen, reddened. But there was no evidence of a fire."
"The fire was from within, inside me,"she said. "Dreamgum."
His eyebrows arose. He said, "Ah, so!"
She laughed.
He helped her to the cot, and she lay down on it with a sigh. The slight warmth inside her vagina had subsided now. Piscator busied himself, placing towels over her, getting her a drink of rainwater from the bamboo barrel placed outside the door. She drank the water, holding the cup with one hand, leaning on the elbow of the other arm.
"Thanks," she said. "I should have known better than to chew the gum. I was depressed, and when I'm in that kind of a mood, I get strange effects from it. It all seemed so real, so horrible. I never questioned its reality, though it was clearly impossible."
He said, "The Second Chancers use dreamgum in their therapy, but it's done under supervision. It seems to have some beneficial results. But we do not use it except in the initial stages of education with some people."
"We?"
"Al Ahl al-Hagg, the followers of the Real. What you Occidentals call Sufis."
"I thought so."
"You should, since we have had this conversation once before.''
She gasped and said, "When was that?"
"This morning."
"It must be the gum,'' she said. "I'm through with it. No more of this bloody stuff."
She sat up and said, "You won't tell Firebrass about this, will you?"
He was no longer smiling. "You are experiencing some very strong psychic disturbances. To cause burns, stigmata, on your body through mental means... well ..."
"I won't be using the gum anymore. I'm not just making an empty promise you know. I'm not addicted. I am mentally stable.''
"You're deeply troubled," he said. "Be honest with me, Jill. I may call you Jill, may I not? Have you had attacks similar to this? If so, how many and how serious were they? That is, how long did they last? How long did it take you to recover from them?"
"Not one recent attack, as you call it," she said.
"Very well. I will say nothing to anyone. That is, if there is no recurrence. You will be honest with me and inform me if you do suffer from any, won't you? You would not endanger your ship just because you want so desperately to be a member of the crew?"
"No, I would not," she said. But the words came hard.
"Then we'll let it stand at that, for the time being."
She rose on one elbow again, ignoring the slipping aside of the towel and the baring of her breast:
"Look, Piscator. Be honest. If you are given a rank inferior to mine, and it's likely, if Firebrass awards ranks according to experience, would you resent serving under me?"
"Not in the slightest," he said, smiling.
She lay back and pulled the towel up. "You come from a culture which held women in a very inferior position. Your women were practically on a level with the beasts of burden. They ..."
"That is in the past, the long dead and faraway past," he said. "Nor was nor am I a typical male, Nipponese or not. You must avoid stereotyping. After all, that is what you hate, what you have fought all your life, have you not? Stereotyping?"
"You're right," she said. "But it's a conditioned reflex."
"I believe I said this once before to you. However, repetition has its uses in education. You should learn to think in a different pattern."
"And how do I do that?"
He hesitated, then said, "You will know when to attempt that. And whom to see about it."
Jill knew that he was waiting for her to ask him to accept her as his disciple. She was having none of that. She just did not believe in organized religion. Though Sufism was not a religion, its members were religious. There was no such thing as an atheist Sufi.
She was an atheist. Despite having been resurrected, she did not believe in a Creator. At least, she did not believe in a Creator who was personally interested in her or in any creature whatsoever. People who did believe in a deity who considered human beings as His children-and why was a spirit always he?-why not be logical since God had no sex, an it?- people who believed in Him were deluded. The believers in God might be intelligent, but they were mentally benighted. The gears in that part of the brain which dealt with religion had been put into neutral, and they were spinning. Or the circuit of religion had been disconnected from the main circuit of the intellect.
That was a bad analogy. People used their intellect to justify the nonintellective, emotionally based phenomenon called religion. Often brilliantly. But, as far as she was concerned, uselessly.
Piscator said, "You are going to sleep. Good. If you need me, though, feel free to call on me."
"You're no physician," she said. "Why should you..."
"You have potential. And though you sometimes act foolishly, you are no fool. Though you have fooled yourself from time to time and still are. Good night."
"Good night."
He bowed quickly and walked out, closing the door behind him. She started to call out, but she stopped. She had wanted to ask him what he was doing near the hut when he had heard her. It was too late. Nor was it important. Still... what had he been doing here? Had he intended to seduce her? Rape was out of the question, of course. She was bigger than he, and though he probably was a master of the martial arts, so was she. Moreover, his position as an airship officer would be seriously jeopardized if she were to accuse him.
No, he would not have been here either to seduce or to rape. He did not give the impression that he was that type of man. On the other hand, no matter how nice they acted, weren't they all? No, there was something about him-she hated to use the imprecise and unscientifically founded term vibrations-but there it was. He did not radiate that length of frequency classified as "bad vibes."
It was then she realized that he had not asked her to describe her experience. If he had been curious, he had managed not to show it. Perhaps he had felt that she would have volunteered if she had wanted to share the details with him. He was a very sensitive man, very perceptive.
What did that horrifying attack by Jack mean? That she was afraid of him, of men in general? Of the male sex? Of sex itself when in male form? She could not believe that. But the illusion? delusion? visitation? had revealed certain feelings of hate and destruction. Not just for men in general and for Jack in particular. She had set him afire but she had also burned and raped herself-in a sense. Which made no sense. She certainly did not subconsciously wish to be raped. Only a mentally sick woman would desire that.
Did she hate herself? The answer was, yes, at times. But who didn't?
Some time later, she sank into an uneasy sleep. Once, she dreamed of Cyrano deBergerac. They were fencing with epees. The circling point of his blade dazzled her, and then her weapon was knocked up and his leaped in and its point sank deep into her navel. She looked down in surprise at the blade as it withdrew, but the navel did not spout blood. Instead, it swelled and thickened and then a tiny dagger issued from the tumor.