Aftermath (53 page)

Art was staring at the curve of Dana's belly. His fingers had run the length of the fading scar three times, stroking more than feeling. He blinked, and leaned back to look up at her.

"I don't believe this." Dana pulled her clothes into position. "Look at you down there. You're horny as hell."

She was right. Art couldn't deny the evidence. "I didn't mean—" he started.

"You are one sick guy, do you know that." Dana dropped onto the sofa next to him. "I sashay into your room at the Treasure Inn, and all I have on is my shortest slip. I've always been told that I have sexy legs. So hint, hint. Result: nothing. Well, maybe you were exhausted from your journey. I come into your room the next night. We snuggle up together under the blankets. I curl up against you. Hint, hint—I mean, I'm
in bed
with you, what more could you ask? Result: you fall asleep. I wonder what's wrong, with me or with you. But today you get one finger on my
scars,
for Christ's sake, and it's
whoosh,
rocketship time."

Telling the truth had worked this morning. Maybe it would work again. "Dana, I've always thought you were terrific—looks and courage and personality. I knew you must have young studs after you all the time. You said, since you were twelve. And here's me, a lot older, hobbling around with a bum knee. I thought I didn't have a chance."

"I
hate
young studs. And you don't know how old you are. Neither do I. We might be on the brink of immortality, or we could have less than a year."

Art stood up. He took Dana by the hands and lifted her to her feet. "Come on. I may be an idiot, but I'm not that big an idiot. Tell me something four or five times, and I usually get it. You look gorgeous." He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck. "And you smell wonderful."

"I thought you were famous in your family for having no sense of smell? It's a good thing, too. I haven't had a shower in a week. Where are we going?"

"We're regressing to sexual childhood, and I'm halfway there. We're going to the bathroom. Then I'm going to fill that giant tub, and I'm going to put you in it. And I'm going to soap you all over."

"Ooh. That's more like it. What then?"

"I'm going to rinse you and dry you and powder you."

"And what happens after that?"

"Wait and see."

"Not even a hint? I'm a verbal person."

"No. Deeds, not words. It's a generation thing. Bring the wine."

* * *

Dana's naked body was not as Art had imagined. She was thinner and more muscular. Her skin was finer and smoother. As she said, the pattern of scars from neck to groin was more extensive than his own. The records of her past suffering were indented, exciting, soft to the touch.

While she sat at the dressing table and drank wine, she made him do everything: run hot water for many minutes into the eight-foot circular tub; find a monstrous plastic jug, ideal for rinsing; hunt for bath crystals and soap and shampoo and towels in the closet; and, at last, remove her clothes. She made no move to help.

When he lifted her to lower her into the water, she laughed at him. "You're crazy. Take your clothes off, too, or they'll get soaked."

He stripped, aware of her eyes. As he removed his pants he said, "Do you know what Lady Mary Wordey Montagu did when the poet Alexander Pope made a pass at her?"

"I don't, and I don't want to. But I know you. You're going to tell me anyway. What did she do, grab his canticles?"

"Much worse. She laughed at him. It's a man's worst fear."

"Nonsense. You mean it's
Art Ferrand's
worst fear. But it never happened to you, did it?"

"Not yet. Anytime now." He picked her up, stepped into the tub, and sat down into hot water that had been quite tolerable when he tested it with his hand. She laughed at once at the expression on his face.

"You big sissy. If I can stand it, you can."

"Easy for you to say." Art ran cold water and examined the block of soap. He didn't want the apocrine variety, with phages that began work on contact with human skin and removed all natural scents. He hated that loss of pheromones—one of the few things he could actually smell. "You're lucky," he went on. "Women don't feel heat so much. Your delicate bits are all internal."

"Sure, we're lucky—with ten times the chance of developing bladder infections. Men have better plumbing. No!" Art, after soaping her belly and pubic hair, was ready to move on to other matters. "That wasn't the deal. You promised me a rinsing and a drying."

"You don't need it."

"What I need and what I want are two different things. I didn't
need
anything after that first neck nuzzle. Didn't you ever hear of foreplay?"

"After my time. It's another generation thing."

"Then I guess I'll have to show you." Dana had been lying on her back, almost floating. She sat up and took the soap from Art. "Relax."

"If you do that, I won't." Art wriggled away across the tub. Dana followed him, lathering him from chest to belly to genitals. "Go easy, or I won't last ten seconds."

"Oh, you big baby. You were the one who said he didn't need dorphs and holds. You'll be fine." She poured a jug of warm bathwater over his belly and erect penis. "There, that didn't hurt, did it? Lie back."

"I thought you wanted me to dry you."

"I changed my mind." She climbed carefully on top, and kissed his wet nipples. "You can dry me later. We have all night. It would be a shame to waste this."

Art gasped as she sank slowly onto him. Maybe it was the telomod therapy, maybe it was long abstinence, maybe it was Dana herself; but he couldn't remember such an intense physical response. Not ever. Not even—a quick stab to the heart, mingled pleasure and guilt and pain—with Mary.

The memory came and went in a moment, drowned out by warmth and urgency and lapping water. Art opened his eyes. Dana was straining upward above him, her hands on his shoulders and her face hidden. He could see the pulse beating in her neck. The past vanished. She caught him, swallowed him up, and held him in the present.

* * *

Art awoke in total darkness, unsure at first of place, and then of time. Afternoon gloom had moved smoothly into night. He and Dana had been too busy to notice. They had made love urgently, then slowly and lazily.

Now—say it was the rebuilt telomeres, you could blame them for anything—now he was interested in sex again. Hey ho, telomeres. A youthful desire, a mature appreciation.
If only youth knew, if only age could.

And he was
hungry.
Cafeteria sandwiches and the unopened bottle of white wine beckoned from the kitchenette table.

How long had he been asleep? Dana was still sleeping. Naked and on top of the covers, she smelled of sex.
Reeked
of sex, wasn't that what people always said? So much for his family's theory of olfactory inadequacy. Or should he credit telomod therapy for that, too?

He eased his way to the side of the bed and crept through into the kitchen. Nine-thirty, according to the clock. Time for a little something. It was harder to take the cork out in the dark, but he managed it. The sandwiches were all the same, so it didn't matter which one he got. He took two, and carried them with a filled glass over to the window.

Hurricane Gertrude might be over the hill, but she refused to admit her age. Sheets of rain drenched the window. Between gusts, flickers of lightning on the horizon backlit the trees writhing in the storm.

Hey ho, the wind and the rain.

Art watched the storm, ate and drank. The level in the wine bottle sank steadily. He went back for another sandwich. He did not recognize his own deep melancholy until warm arms reached around him and he felt Dana's breasts against his back.

"It's all right." She moved to cradle his head against her chest.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. But if you want to talk about Mary, it's all right. I know you've been thinking about her."

"How could you know that?"

"You said her name."

"Oh, no. I did? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I didn't know—"

"Not when we were making love. That would have been harder to take. But when you were nodding off afterward, you muttered, 'Oh, Mary.' "

"I didn't realize. I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. Art, it's all right. Do you hear me?
It's all right.
I just wish you found it possible to talk about her. What she was like, how you met, how you lived. It would be good for you."

"Maybe. It's . . . hard."

"It sure is. I understand how hard. Perhaps sometime I'll find a way to tell you why I understand."

"You don't have to tell me, Dana. I know already." He felt her jerk away from him. "I've known for a while. It's your son."

"Who told you that?"

"You did. A mother has a grown-up son, but she never mentions his name. She never says what he's doing. She never wonders what happened to him after Supernova Alpha—not even to ask if he's alive."

"He's alive."

"That's good. If you would like to tell me—"

"No. Maybe sometime. Not tonight." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm no sweet young thing, Art, no matter what you may think. You've got damaged goods here. Will you come back to bed—please? And hold me."

"I'll do whatever you want me to do. I suppose there's no chance of more sex, is there? Don't get upset, that was supposed to be a
joke.
"

"With men, sex is
never
a joke." He knew from her voice that she was smiling-sad. "Come and hold me, Art, tell me that I matter. And I'll do whatever you want me to do."

36

Strolling with Wilmer on the surface of Earth, beneath the light of a rising moon; during the long journey home Celine had dreamed of such an evening. There was no place in her imaginings for mud, exhaustion, and nervousness that drove her along as fast as the sticky ground would permit.

They trekked east from the Legion of Argos stronghold, relying on moonlight to guide them across a meadow and a small stream; on, through dense and clinging thickets over the brow of an endless hill; on and finally down, into the flat and swampy floodplain of a broader river.

As the first flush of pink separated eastern sky from dark horizon, Celine stopped and turned.

"It'll soon be light enough for them to see us. We have to make a choice. We can keep going and hope to find a main road or a house. Or we can look for a hiding place and wait until it's dark before we walk again."

Wilmer pointed ahead, to a scattering of dark patches in the grass across the river. "Cows. They must belong to somebody."

That was all she could expect from him: information, but not opinion. He was saying, without words,
You are the leader. You make the decision.

Celine crouched down onto her haunches. Her thighs and calves ached. She could feel deep fatigue, physical and mental. If they found a road or a farmhouse within a mile, fine; if not, she would have to rest anyway. The riverbank, with its tall sedges and rushes and easy access to water, was a better choice than open fields.

"We'll stay here until it gets dark."

Wilmer nodded and walked forward to the river's edge. He took one step into the water, then moved sideways.

Celine saw what he was doing. No footmarks, no trail that could be followed. She stepped into the water and went after him.

"You've done this before."

"Nah."

"You grew up in the Outback."

"Yeah. But I never went outside the house if I didn't have to. Books were my thing. I read about all this stuff."

He was crabbing along the bank through shallow water. The place he chose was a dense clump of waist-high reeds, twenty feet across. Anyone lying in the middle of that would be invisible from every direction except straight above. If the Legion had helicopters, Celine and Wilmer were out of luck.

"Fill up on water before we go," she said. "Guzzle. It's our last chance before evening."

They drank from the river, eased ashore, and flattened a patch big enough for two people. Celine examined the ground before she lay down. Soft mud. Sharp-edged grasses and reeds. Low thorny plants, with spiky leaves and fruit like little green tomatoes. Tiny frogs, no bigger than a finger joint. Insects, buzzing and flying and crawling. Add to that the fear of discovery and capture and the promise of a hot and cloudless day. Rest would be difficult.

Wilmer stretched out full length and was asleep in less than a minute. Celine stared down at him. How could he do that? He must have no imagination, none at all.

She lay down beside him. She did not remember closing her eyes.

* * *

When she woke the light was different. She sat up, stiff in her neck and in the arm she had been lying on. The sun had moved across the sky, now it was hovering above the wooded hill to the west.

Wilmer was in the same position, but sometime during the day he had squirmed around. The top of his head wore a cap of dried mud, and brown streaks covered his cheeks. He looked like a figure from the past: primitive, relaxed, at ease with Nature.

Stone Age Wilmer. She let him sleep on, while she cautiously stood up and looked around them. If anyone had asked her to describe Earth in a single phrase, until today she would probably have said it was a water world. Now the right answer was obvious. Earth was a life world. It was fertile, fecund, rioting with runaway living things. Within forty yards of where they lay she could see scores of different kinds of plants and animals. They were competing, cooperating, reproducing, growing, dying, eating, and being eaten.

She sat, marveling at the mystery of her home planet, until the light faded and it was time to wake Wilmer.

When they set off again, Celine soon learned that she had made the wrong choice. A blacktop road ran parallel to the river, no more than half a mile from where they had lain. Their hideout was too far away to hear traffic, but as they walked toward the road they saw and heard battered trucks chugging along it.

Celine faced another decision. A motor vehicle could take them away, much faster than they could go on foot; but a car or truck could also be a Legion of Argos search party.