“You don’t see any Terra Relief around,” the Spike said, suddenly, with the same bitterness Bron had heard in her comment to the man back on the transport platform. “After all, that’s where we did the damage.”
“That’s right, you don’t,” Bron said. And then: “You must have gotten out just in time.” She frowned. “Or were you there through it?”
“I got out,” the Spike said. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Well, I ... I guess there wasn’t anything specific but ... well I just wanted ...” And Bron realized there was nothing to say; nothing of any importance at all. “What are you doing, Spike? I guess the company’s going pretty well now.”
“Actually, we’re sort of in hibernation. Maybe we’ll get together again someday; but once the endowment ran out, we more or less disbanded.”
“Oh.”
“I’m teaching right now, in the rotation circuit for Lux.”
“University?”
“That’s right. You know the city was completely wiped out. But the University is practically a separate suburb, under a separate shield, with a separate atmosphere and separate gravity control. The sabotage was pretty well set up to pass it by. Maybe that was Earth’s way of showing they cared?”
Bron couldn’t really think of much to answer. “I
guess because you’re working for the University is why you’re out here instead of your usual haunts in the u-1.”
“Mmm,” the Spike said. “I’m doing a month of lectures on Jacque Lynn Col ton. After I finish here and on to Neriad, I’ll be going back to Io, Europa, Ganymede ...” She shrugged. “It’s the usual rotation. Somehow, though, under the University—even on the run—just isn’t the place to do creative work. At least, not for me. They’ve promised me some direction as soon as I get back. I’m working on plans for simultaneous, integrated productions of La Vida Es Sueho, Phedra, and The Tyrant—one cast for all three, all on the same stage, with both cast and audience using the new concentration drugs. The University has already used them to allow people to listen to four or five lectures at once, but nobody’s tried to use them for anything aesthetically interesting.”
“I thought ... um, macro-theater wasn’t your field?” Bron said, wondering where the information came from, or if it was even right.
The Spike laughed. “Macro-theater is just a lot of coordinated micro-theater productions done one right after another without a break.”
“Oh,” Bron said again. Three plays at once sounded too confusing even to ask about. “Are you still with Windy and what’s-her-name?”
“Charo. No, not really. Charo’s here on Triton; and we see each other, get drunk together, and reminisce about old times. She’s a pretty spectacular kid.”
“Where’s Windy?”
The Spike shrugged.
“Well—” Bron smiled—“I must admit he struck me as the roving kind.”
“He’s probably dead,” the Spike said. “The whole company left Lahesh the same day you did, but Windy was going to stay behind on Earth for another six days. Windy was born on Earth, you know. He’d planned to hitchhike somewhere or other to see one of his families, and then join us later. Only the war ...” She looked about the street. “Eighty-eight percent of the population at last report ... The confusion there is still supposed to be horrible. They’ve said not to expect any reliable information from the place for at least another year. Then there’re those who say there’ll never be anything there again to have any reliable information about.”
“I saw a public-channel coverage of the cannibalism going on in both the Americas.” Bron felt welling distress. “And that was only a month ago ... ?”
The Spike took a deep breath. “So that means the chances are—what? Four out of five that he’s dead? Or, by this time, nine out of ten.”
The only response to come to Bron was a tasteless joke about the chances of Windy’s having been eaten. “Then you’re not really involved with anybody anymore—” And the distress was still growing; her heart began to knock again. What is this? she wondered. It certainly couldn’t be sex! Was it the terror, or the embarrassment, of death? But she’d hardly known Windy; and his death was a probability, not a certainty, anyway. Then, astonishing herself, Bron said: “Spike, let me come with you. All the rest is ridiculous.” She looked at the pavement. “I’ll give up everything I have, go wherever you like, do whatever you want. You’ve had women lovers. Love me. I’ll have a refixation, tonight. I want you. I love you. I didn’t even know it, but seeing you again—”
“Oh, Bron ...” The Spike touched Bron’s shoulder.
Bron felt something inside reel about her chest, staggering at the touch. “Feeling like this ... I’ve never felt like this about ... anyone before. Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” the Spike said. “I do.”
“Then why can’t you—?”
“First of all, I am involved with someone else. Second of all, I’m touched, I’m complimented ... even now: But I’m not interested.”
“Who are you ... with ... ?” Despair built behind Bron’s face like a solid slab of metal that began to heat, to burn, to melt and run across her eyes. She wasn’t crying. But water rolled down one cheek.
The Spike dropped her hand. “You’ve met him, actually—though you probably don’t remember ... Fred?
I believe the first time you saw him, he’d just punched me in the jaw.”
“Him ... ?” Bron looked up, blinking. “I hope he’s taken a bath since I ... !”
The Spike laughed. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think he has. I’m always on the verge of trouble with the University over him—another reason I’ll be glad to get out of teaching and back to work. I took him to one of my lectures .... on a chain—I had some of the students throw raw meat—he likes that. It was just for the theater. But I’m afraid most of the University types have simply never encountered anything quite like Fred before. I mean up close. They don’t know what to do with him. It’s too bad you never got a chance to talk with him—though, of course, a lot of his ideas have developed since we first met.”
“But what in the world do the two of you—?”
“Fred is into some rather strange things—sexually, that is. And no, I haven’t decided whether they’re really me, yet. Frankly, it’s not exactly my concept of the ideal sexualizationship but it’s the one I currently care about the most and—Look—let’s not talk about it, all right?” She looked at Bron and sighed.
“Does he want another woman?” Bron asked. “I’ll go with him. I’ll do anything he wants, as long as you’re with him too; and I can be near you, talk to you—”
“Bron, you don’t get the point,” the Spike said. “Whether he might want you or not has nothing to do with it. / don’t want you. Now let’s call it a day. The transport’s up there. You go on. I’ve got other things to do.”
“You don’t believe you’re the only person I’ve ever felt like this about?”
“I told you: I do believe it.”
“I’ve felt this way about you from the moment I first saw you. I’ve felt this way about you all along. I know now that I’ll always feel this way, no matter what.”
“And I happen to believe you’ll feel rather differently three minutes—if not thirty seconds—after I’ve left.”