They do two kinds, sport fencing and self-defense. I’m sure Hawkings had the latter in mind, but it looks too rough to be fun. I bruise too easily.
It’s awkward at first. The postures and steps seem artificial, clumsy. But it is exciting—I’ve never played a competitive sport more physical than chess—and the more advanced beginners look as graceful as dancers. It’s a real workout, too, which is what I’m interested in. Hard on the ankles, though.
We moved into the twentieth century in entertainment seminar today, still doing music. Listened to a couple of hours of jazz, rock, blues, and so forth. Never mentioned Dixieland.
26 Sept. Haven’t written for several days because I’ve been in the hospital. Hard to write now.
Thursday night a man attacked me in front of the dorm, as I was coming home from dinner. Right in front of the stairs.
He came up behind me and squeezed a hand over my mouth, and put a knife to my throat. He told me to drop my bag, and he kicked it away.
He cut the waistband of my slacks and pulled them down, then pulled down my underclothes, and I bit him, hard. When he pulled his hand away I screamed. I didn’t feel him stab me in the buttock. He wrestled me to the ground and I kept screaming. He banged my head against the sidewalk, twice, forehead and face, then grabbed a handful of hair and jerked up. I was still screaming when he tried to cut my throat; both dormitory doors burst open and six or seven people came charging down the stairs. They tore the man off me and I just lay there slowly fading, while they scuffled with him. A woman turned me over and put my head in her lap, and I vaguely heard a siren over the ringing in my ears.
The next couple of days are a blur of anesthetics and tranquilizers. Inventory: broken nose, slight concussion, three broken teeth, dislocated shoulder, superficial (!) knife wound below the chin, deep puncture wound in the left buttock, bruises and scrapes all over.
He really wanted to kill me. I think he wanted to kill me first, and then rape what was left. I can’t imagine such an animal. Whenever I think of him my heart wants to explode with rage. And fear. They say he’s in “grave” condition, from the beating he got from my rescuers. I hope he dies. I really hope he dies. I want to go home.
27 Sept. Feeling better. They closed all the wounds and put in new teeth the first day, but have been holding me for observation and therapy. I guess the therapy’s working; I haven’t cried all day. For a while it was hours at a time. Maybe I’ve lost the knack.
I don’t know much about the therapy because most of it’s under hypnosis. A doctor talks to me every morning, checking me. He admitted this morning that there’s a drug involved in the interview (one of my wake-up shots). I knew there was; it makes me babble.
Benny came by a couple of days ago with my books. I sent him away too abruptly. I didn’t want him there when I started crying, and I didn’t especially want the company of any male. That’s over now.
Lots of visitors today. Keyes came over and we commiserated about the shortcomings of the male race. We changed the subject when Benny showed up (they know each other, not surprisingly), and we played cards for a while, before they had to go to class. Lou and Hawkings showed up together, on their way to the seminar (Lou left me a tape of Monday’s session, and said he’d make another one tonight). Hawkings had checked with a friend in the New York Police Department, who said the man was probably responsible for five rape-murders over the past two years. They wouldn’t know for sure unless he regained consciousness, to be questioned.
Dr. Schaumann came in after dinner (Benny had told him why I wasn’t in class) and probably did me more good than the therapist ever would. He was all grandfatherly and comforting, but at the same time he was armed with ruthlessly pragmatic philosophy. You were lucky enough to survive, but now you have to realize that it’s within the man’s power, living or not, to keep hurting you for the rest of your life, unless you vigorously deny him access. It’s like being struck by lightning (something I’d never thought to worry about); you’re not responsible for it happening, but you are responsible if afterward you’re afraid to go outdoors. No amount of rationalization or sympathy from others can alter the fact of your responsibility. He even kissed me. His mustache smells of pipe tobacco.
They let me stay up to watch the elections. Markus was reelected as Policy Coordinator and announced that he planned to step down after five years. Good thing; fifteen years is plenty. Wouldn’t do to have his coordinator-elect the of old age, in office.
The new Engineering Coordinator-elect is a woman named Berrigan, a park service engineer. I vaguely remember her name. Didn’t study the candidates this time, since I knew I’d be on Earth. My new floor rep to the Privy Council is Theodore Campbell, whom I had for a disastrous course in algebra some ten years ago.
Yesterday I wrote that I wanted to go home. I guess Schaumann talked me out of it, obliquely. I won’t let this planet beat me.
28 Sept. Back at the dormitory. Everyone is so solicitous, I feel like getting a disguise.
The rapist is dead. By judicial order. The police traced down his address and searched his flat. They found five vials containing five scraps of dried flesh which matched the parts excised from the victims of “Jack the Raper,” as he was called by one subliterate journal. The DNA matched the victims’. Since he had once been convicted of a sex crime, and was under indictment for attacking me, the police were able to get a court order reducing his MedicAid status to Class C. So they pulled the plug on his life support system, saving the State electricity, twice. I feel confused about it. Could he have been cured? If he were, would I want him walking free? If they had given me the plug, would I have pulled it? I suppose I would.
Maybe it’s the State disposing of him as casually as swatting a fly. Maybe it’s just that he never knew he was being punished for hurting me.
There were long and interesting letters from Daniel and John waiting for me. The discovery of CC material on the Moon might be one of the pivotal events in Worlds history. Mudball news never mentioned it.
15. Black Gold on the Moon
O’Hara:
I’m sure Dan has written you about this, but maybe not in much detail. He’s probably the busiest person in the section right now, and loving it.
You know the polar-orbiting Lunar Prospector satellite? Probably not; it hasn’t done anything new in half a century. It was built to analyze absorption spectra from the lunar surface, to draw a map of mineral deposits on the Moon. One thing we looked for, hoping against hope, was a carbonaceous-chondritic “infall”; a CC meteorite remnant that we could mine for carbon, nitrogen, and hydrogen.
We didn’t really expect to find one, because the temperature of the explosion when a meteorite hits the Moon is enough to decompose a CC rock. All of the precious stuff evaporates into space.
Well, they decided it was time to refurbish the Prospector, since we have much more delicate sensing and analysis tools now. Technically, it belongs to Devon’s World, but since it was no longer functioning, we claimed it as salvage. That was fine with them, of course, since if we found anything, we’d have to use their mining and launch facilities, at standard royalty.
The Prospector found an anomaly that seemed worth investigating. It turned out to be a strip of CC gravel, about two kilometers wide by two hundred long. It was evidently the result of a low-velocity impact of a large CC meteorite that hit the surface tangentially, a glancing blow that shattered it into millions of pieces. Most of the chunks are on the order of a centimeter wide (mostly buried in the dust), though there are a few boulders a meter or so wide scattered around.