"That's good, Mischa." She could hear nothing in his voice, no envy, no regret, no joy.
"Will you come?"
His green eyes appeared black in the dimness; then, for a moment, they caught light and reflected it like an animal's. He looked away. "No. hell, no."
"They could help you out there."
"Just go ahead and go."
"I don't want to leave without you."
"Yes you do."
"You know what I mean."
He closed his eyes and said nothing.
"Don't go sullen on me, Chris. Please."
"It wouldn't work."
"If you keep saying that maybe you'll believe it."
With his eyes still closed, he nodded very faintly.
"It'd be interesting," she said.
He shrugged and turned his head away.
Mischa began to get angry at him, and her voice rose. "It isn't working here, so what difference does it make?"
Shallow lines of annoyance crossed his smooth forehead, but he did not open his eyes when he spoke. "You were never like this before."
"Neither were you!"
The tension rose between them in the silence.
Chris let his breath out in a long sigh. "You don't owe me this."
She knelt beside his bed, leaning forward. "I owe you."
"Then leave me alone. Just leave me alone for a change."
Mischa sat back on her heels. The air felt cold. She stood up, crossed the room, and stood beside the shrouded wall with her fists clenched.
"Have you been working?"
He shoved himself up, abruptly, startled, attentive. His dirty hair fell across his eyes and he flung it back. "Get away from there." Chris never raised his voice. When he was most angry, his voice was this grating whisper.
Mischa grabbed the gray cloth. "Is this all that's left of you?" she cried.
He crawled toward her, out of the bed, across the floor, trying to get to his feet. He stumbled and fell forward. Mischa tried to catch him, but his hands and elbows slammed into the floor. He lay in the dirt, panting; he hid his face in his hands.
Mischa touched his grimy hair and took his thin hand, gently pulling it away from his face. Tears streaked the dirt. "Just come stay with me," Mischa said. "For a little while."
"All right," he said, without looking at her.
As Mischa approached the tall double doors of the pseudosibs' quarters, she could feel the emotionless passion of Subone flowing slowly around her, obscuring all but a tendril of intellectual involvement from Subtwo. She hesitated before knocking on the door, thinking that she could put this off, that she perhaps should not disturb him. She was already a day late. She knocked.
The door slid open. The geometric symmetry of Subtwo's quarters had not been disarranged by time. No echo or limestone odor hinted that the rooms were built inside a cave; no smell or sound indicated that a person lived within. Mischa went into the next room and found Subtwo sitting with his back to her, playing his computer as a composer might an organ. He did not turn; it occurred to her that with his automatic responses to external stimuli, he might have let her in almost without noticing. She waited behind him, but he did not slow his work, or turn, or speak.
"I'm back."
If he had not known she was there, he showed no surprise. He shifted slightly and Mischa could see the screen that had held an image of the corridor the first time she had come. Now her own face looked out, moving left when she moved right, and vice versa. She glanced at where the camera must be, for the angle, but could not find it.
"It's a new one," Subtwo said without looking at her. "It's very small." Continuing his work at the console, he watched Mischa via the screen.
"Where have you been?"
"In Center."
"Jan Hikaru said you had an emergency. I hope everything is all right."
"Not really."
"Fine."
She thought he was being sarcastic, but realized he had simply responded with one of his inappropriate automatic phrases, without listening to what she had said. "I need to talk to you," she said, rather louder than necessary. Now was not the best time to speak to Subtwo about Chris, but she was afraid to put it off any longer, now that he was here.
He glanced up at the screen, then over his shoulder at her, as though he had no image of a proper response and had to look for a signal in reality. "You missed your lesson."
"I know, I couldn't help it, that's—"
"It's all right," he said instantly, interrupting her. He stood up and wandered around the room as Mischa watched with astonishment. His wandering had a posed quality to it; he seemed to be trying it for the first time to see how it fit on him. Mischa had expected anger, sarcasm, or insult. Subtwo stopped before a shelf on which stood a sculpture with planes of symmetry in two dimensions. He turned it so the vertical symmetry faced obliquely and was much less obvious, put his hands behind his back, and regarded it. "I'll see you in the morning."
"In the morning?"
"We'll start your lessons then," he said impatiently. He left the shelf and moved to a desk, where he began systematically to disarrange the papers. Mischa both saw and felt the tension rising in him as he continued.
"What are you doing?"
He looked at her sharply, then slowly returned his gaze to the desk. "I have noticed," he said, "that. other people. do not live as I do." He moved the chair, and then the desk.
"People live the way they like to. If they can."
His face remained impassive, but the tension continued to increase. "I make people uncomfortable." He moved a table, and a couch.
"Other people make you uncomfortable."
The smooth skin of his forehead furrowed into two small vertical lines. Mischa realized that, in the short time since she had come, his face had begun to develop permanent lines of feeling and reaction.
"That is true." He turned his head, and the black hair fell across his cheek. "But I should, perhaps, make some concession."
"Why?" He seemed to her totally free to do as he pleased; though his tastes were bizarre, he forced them on no one, as others, considered normal, often did.
He raised his eyebrows, looked at his desk, and pushed a stack of papers back into place. He regarded the result, and smiled. "Well. perhaps not." He moved more papers. "Until tomorrow," he said, sounding eager. "Your lesson." The eagerness began to slide into excitement.
"I'd like to talk to you about something," Mischa said.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow." He finished straightening the papers, and concentrated on placing them in an even more symmetrical pattern.
"Please, not now."
"It's important."
"Tomorrow!" His agitation engulfed her. He pushed the desk violently back against the wall and thrust the chair beneath it. Mischa clenched her fists. Working himself into a frenzy of delight, Subtwo rushed past her to replace the table.
Mischa turned on her heel and left.
Chris lay on Mischa's bed exactly as she had left him, flat on his back, eyes open, his thin body almost hidden in the soft mattress and thick comforters. Mischa stood beside him, watching, waiting, but he did not notice her until she touched him.
"Chris," she whispered. He blinked his eyes, but did not respond. Mischa swallowed and spoke more steadily. "Chris, do you want anything? Can you eat something?"
He licked his cracked lips. "I just want to sleep. Did you bring it?"
"There wasn't any more."
"Oh, yes," he said. "That's right. I finished it." He smiled, unpleasantly, vindicating himself. "You should have left me alone."
"Shut up."
He raised his head and Mischa could see some of his old spirit struggling up to strike out at her. "Did you think bringing me here would change anything?"
"I'll get you some," she said. "I'll get you something. Will you stay here?"