Venus of Dreams (36 page)

Her door chimed, and then opened; Edwin was outside. "Oh, you're busy," he said.

"I was just—" The door had closed again before she could say more. Something was wrong; she had glimpsed the unhappy look on Edwin's broad face.

She hurried out of her room and caught up with Edwin as he was leaving the dwelling. "Wait," she said as she took his arm. "What is it?"

He brushed back a lock of blond hair; unlike most of the other students, Edwin had kept his hair long. "I had a meeting with my Counselor today," he answered as they walked along the path. "They've decided to give me a chance to go to Chimkent next term."

"But that's wonderful. That's one of the best places for plasma physics now. They must think that—"

"Oh, Iris. Don't be an idiot. It isn't just for a term. I have to leave the Institute. That's all it means. I might make a good teacher someday, that's what the Counselor said. I'll get a chance to do research."

She was stunned. She should have guessed it as soon as he mentioned Chimkent. A few other students she knew would be leaving the Institute before the next term, and a couple of them would not get a chance to go elsewhere to study. She had been worrying about her own status for the past week until her Counselor had called over the screen. She had not considered Edwin's chances at all; she had assumed that he would stay and that they would be moving to the fourth level together next term.

"You and the others'll have to find another housemate," he said. "Or maybe you won't, if enough people are asked to leave. It's all right. I wasn't mad about sharing a dwelling with Chantal Lacan, even if she is your friend."

"Oh, Edwin. You two have been getting along fine lately." She paused; that was hardly going to console him now. "At least you're going to another school. That isn't so bad."

He pulled away from her. "Not so bad. No, it's not so bad. Ever since I came here, all I've heard about is the wonderful Project and how nothing else is as much of an accomplishment as that. They've drummed it into my head. I came to believe it. Now, they've taken it away, and they expect me not to care."

They had come to the railing. The morning fog had still not lifted; the mountains beyond were hidden by the mist. "But it can't be your work," she said. "You're doing well. How can they ask you to leave?"

"It seems I'm not single-minded enough. I'm not ready to give up everything for the Project. I'm not willing to give them my soul—that's basically what I was told. How can they possibly know that?"

Now that he had said it, she could see that it was true. She thought of all the evenings and nights Edwin had spent in her room when he might have been doing something else; he had teased her about her own busy schedule. He had never had to work very hard at his courses. He had assumed that his future with the Project was assured as soon as he came here; he had believed that the hardest part of his struggle was over.

He leaned against the railing. "I suppose I could try to jump," he said bitterly.

She pressed herself against his bare chest. "You don't mean that."

"Of course not." He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. "I'd be stopped, and then they'd think twice even about sending me to Chimkent."

She raised her head. "Edwin, you have to appeal. You might have a case, especially since your work's been good. You've got time to organize your arguments."

"What case? They have a right to decide who can cut it and who can't. It'd just be a waste of time."

"But it wouldn't. If you appeal, it might show that they were wrong about you, that you do care enough—"

"How do I know that won't make things worse? If I start telling them I'd be unhappy somewhere else, then I might come out of the appeal with nothing, not even Chimkent."

She stepped back. "You can try. I'd do it. I'd take the chance."

"Yes, you probably would." He looked down.

"You get along so well with most people. I could tell them how often you've smoothed things over with our other housemates. I'd speak up for you, and so would they. Seems to me that they'd need people like you on the Project."

He made a fist. "They need driven people on the Project, and all you obsessive people will get along fine with each other. You'll work your hearts out for the new world and won't let anything stand in your way. You won't have any other loyalties or feelings that'll interfere with that, and maybe that's the only way an enterprise like that is possible. You'll all be bound together by it. What am I supposed to do? I gave what I could, but it wasn't enough, and now they've made me feel that anything else I do will be insignificant in comparison."

"It isn't true." She took his hand. "You have a chance to do something important still."

"Don't give me that shit. You weren't asked to leave. You're driven enough for them. You're not the brightest student here, but you make up for it by working hard, and helping the new students adjust, and making sure most of your friends are people who can help you in some way."

She tightened her grip on him. "Edwin, that isn't fair."

"It's the truth."

"I thought we meant a little more to each other than that by now."

"How much do we mean, Iris? Would you go to Chimkent with me? They've got some good people in your field. They might let you in if you applied."

"You know what I want. You wouldn't want me to go."

"You needed a bed partner, and I was handy. I guess you Plains girls always find another one fast enough."

His words stung; he would never have said that kind of thing to her before. "Edwin, you're my friend. I care about you. I wish I could help you."

"Would you speak up for me at a hearing if you thought it might mess up your own chances, if you thought they might not like it if you criticized their decision?"

She was silent for a moment; that possibility had not crossed her mind. "Of course."

"You waited too long before answering. I know what you're thinking now. You're trying to think of a way to get away from me politely so that you can get ready for your seminar, and you're hoping I don't make a scene and cause a delay. Or maybe you want to take me back to your room for a quick, consoling pump before you go about your business. Then, when I've left the Institute, you'll sigh once in a while and think, isn't it too bad Edwin's gone—that is, if you think about me at all."

"Edwin, please. I know how you feel. I'd feel even worse if they asked me to leave."

He scowled. "But they won't ask you to leave. You're merciless, Iris. You'll get through all right, and you won't look back."

"You have to appeal."

"I don't want to do anything. There's nothing I can do. Maybe they're right, and I'll be happier. I hope you like it when you get to Venus, as I'm sure you will. You ought to take another look at those portraits of Karim al-Anwar they've got in the classrooms. Those are a madman's eyes, you know. That's the face of a man who didn't care what he had to do to have what he wanted. You're beginning to look more like him all the time."

"If you feel that way," she burst out, "then they're right to make you leave."

The platform a few paces away had stopped; an old man was hobbling out of the lift. Iris turned her head toward the man for a moment, recognizing him; when she looked back, Edwin was already striding away. She was about to go after him, then hesitated. The old man was alone; she might have a chance to say a few words to him, and there was nothing she could do for Edwin now.

She walked toward the man who had once been an Island Administrator. "Greetings, Linker Ngomo," she said.

The wrinkles in the old man's dark, wizened face deepened as he peered at her. "Ah, the young woman who asked such interesting questions yesterday." She started, pleased that he remembered. "Did you enjoy my little talk?"

"Indeed I did."

"You seemed to be having a tiff with your young man."

"It's nothing." She tried not to think of how much she would miss Edwin; it would pass, and they would have parted anyway in time.

The Linker leaned against his cane as he stared out at the fog. Iris suddenly had the feeling that he was remembering the much darker Cytherian atmosphere, was still longing for the world he would never see again. He had paid for his dream, had lost a daughter in an airship accident when her ship had crashed on Venus. There was a rumor that his bondmate had left him for Earth.

"There was a question I didn't ask you," she continued. "We're alone, and you can say what you like. Was the Project worth it to you?"

"I am still part of the Project, child."

"I know you're on the Project Council, but that wasn't what I meant. If you weren't, if you'd come back to no reward at all, would it still have been worth it?"

He gazed into her eyes intently, as if studying her. "I can't think of anything I would rather have done. I wish that I could live long enough to see settlements, but I very much fear that God will have it otherwise. Are you looking for some sort of reassurance, child? You must have seen others who have returned here, and heard what they feel. You might be one of the first settlers. You should not be at this place if you have doubts."

"I have no doubts," she said firmly.

He gripped his cane as he watched her. "Then I will tell you this. I have only one regret—that I did not die there, that I grew too weak to stay on, that Venus herself did not claim my life at last." His mouth widened as he smiled. "Yes, young woman. I see that you understand me."

Nineteen

As the platform glided down the side of the Cytherian Institute's pyramid, rain began to fall. Caracas became long, gray fingers reaching from the valley toward the overcast sky; mist rose from the green land below. Long needles of water spattered soundlessly against the platform's shield. By the time the passengers had reached the bottom of the pyramid, the sun was again burning through the rapidly vanishing clouds.

People streamed from other platforms, retreating from the cleansed and freshened air as they raced for the nearest tubeway. They crowded into the train, stowing bags on railings and under seats. Iris sat near one window, wedged in between Chantal Lacan and Edris Shaktiar as the train began to move.

Voices shouted, whispered, and babbled in different languages; one young man played his flute while his companions clapped. A few people were holding their heads; some of those who were standing in the aisle made room for one young woman as she stretched out on the floor, her head on a duffel. Some of the students had celebrated the completion of their studies excessively, and were now paying the price.

The babble became more muted as the train reached the outskirts of Caracas and then disappeared into another tubeway. Iris noted a few downcast faces among the passengers; they might be students who would have to settle for assignments on Earth or in near space instead of being sent to Venus immediately, or they might merely be dreading the trip home to their families. She caught a glimpse of Chang Hsin-sheng, who stood near the front of the car. He had been hoping for a post on Anwara, and had been assigned to the Project Council center on Earth instead. She knew how much that had disappointed him.

Iris had been more fortunate; she would be sent to the Islands. Her work, which had remained merely adequate, would not have earned her that post, but the Counselor who had given her the news mentioned other factors, such as Iris's willingness to leave an infant son, her adaptable character, the fact that her bondmate was already on the Islands, and even her health. It had all amounted to being a great piece of luck, a combination of circumstances over which she had little control. She wished that she could feel that she had earned her good fortune.

"You don't have to look unhappy," Edris said as he patted her hand. "You're one of the lucky ones."

"Lucky," she replied. "How right you are."

A young man helped the resting woman to her feet as the train pulled up below the port. Iris grabbed her bag and followed the others into a hallway, then up the escalator into a wide, lighted space. Students hurried off in different directions. Chantal shouldered her bag and then threw one arm over Iris's shoulders. "Just think. Next time I see you, we'll be on the Islands. Wish I were there now. I don't know how I'll get through the next three months."

"Your patron'll find something for you to do," Iris said.

"I guess so." The slender young woman shrugged. Chantal had no family, or at least not one she cared to remember. She had lived in the streets of Marseilles, earning or stealing money for food and lessons until a Linker had found her there; she had become the Linker's lover, been given more lessons, and then been chosen for the Institute. The story, so like an old fable, had been embroidered by other students as they told it until Chantal had become one of the school's legends. Chantal had a somewhat different attitude toward her good fortune. Her once-enamored patron had tired of her; being chosen was a way for him to be rid of her without guilt.

Chantal had arrived at the Institute with less preparation than any of her fellow students; she had surmounted that, and had thrived. Iris had been flattered when the worldly young woman became her friend; she had hoped that some of Chantal's manner would rub off on her. Now, she was almost relieved at being parted from her, from the quick, lively friend who was everything Iris was not.

Chantal released her. "Good-bye, both of you." She hurried away toward another corridor. Chang Hsin-sheng waved at Iris and Edris as he passed; he was dressed in a loose jacket and baggy pants instead of the shorts he usually wore. Students embraced one another, then separated. Iris and Edris moved toward one wall and let the stream flow past them as they waved farewells to other friends. Iris wondered how many she would ever see again. In the end, the Institute, by wrenching them from their homes and then preparing them for a life away from their world, had trained them all for farewells.

She gazed at Edris silently. He had clipped his pin, the tiny gold microscope marking him as a microbiologist, to the band of white cloth he had wrapped around his head. "You'll miss your suborb," she said at last.