Ringclimber

Chapter 10 - Interludes And New Life

The gallery at the Met is the usual pre-show chaos, with pedestals clumped in one corner, and the uncrated pottery lying on beds of soft plastic, glinting with the reflections of the overheads. There is a hollow scraping sound as Quince pushes the pedestals from one spot to another, looking for the right distribution.

"Quince!" Sharon calls.

"Sharon, hi, welcome back," Quince replies, grinning, as he always does at the sight of her. She stands in the doorway, legs apart, lips faintly curved in her unconscious arrogance of command.

"Thanks."

"Congratulations." They hug.

"Oh, Quince... Listen, where's Phil?"

Quince rubs his bearded jaw with one long motion, looking at her speculatively. "Well, he's at the show."

She looks around, blue eyes searching the gallery. "Here?"

"At the Guggenheim."

"At the Guggenheim! What are you talking about?"

"They gave him a show."

"What! You mean to tell me he's at his own show, when I put him in charge? What the hell is going on?"

Quince sighs. "Look, I knew I was going to end up in the middle in this one. Can you blame the guy? I've never been offered a show at the Guggenheim, but if I was, well, I know what I'd do..."

"Quince, I put him in charge, damn it."

He shrugs, and she suddenly realizes he is hurt by her tone, by her ignorance of the effort he is making. She looks around. "So you're handling this by yourself."

He spreads his hands. "That's about it."

She puts her hand on his shoulder. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well, I'm just trying to help everybody out. Listen, don't be too tough on him. You have your chance, this is his."

Her eyes are silent. "Let's just get some work done, all right?"

It is late when Phil lets himself into the pottery. The room is dark, and the only light is the lamp by Sharon's desk. She is waiting there, looking at him.

"Sharon," he says, uncomfortably. "You're back."

"Yes."

"Congratulations on the climb."

"I just got done helping Quince with the show." Her voice echoes in the hard room.

"I see." He walks slowly to the desk and sits on the edge.

She sits forward, angry hands on the desktop.

"No, I don't think you do. -- Damn it, you were supposed to handle the show. Quince was supposed to help you, not take care of it all while you were off on your own."

He rubs the back of his neck and takes a deep breath. "Look, Sharon --"

"I don't want to hear any explanations." She leans back.

"Hey, it's my chance to be recognized. To be something separate."

She glares back at him. "You don't get paid for that."

"Paid for it! Listen, are we talking about art, or what?"

"We're talking about your job, Phil. We're talking about you putting all the load on Quince, when it should have been both of you."

The fire and protest runs out on him. He looks at her for a long time, expression still. Finally, he says, "I just couldn't believe it when they asked me..."

"You should have told them to reschedule due to prior commitments. They can handle that sort of thing. When you're at their level...and make no mistake, you are..."

There is a brief wetness glinting in the beard he has grown during her absence. He is afraid to say he had known it all along, but had wanted the show - right away - too badly to let the knowledge through. A long silence ensues.

"...I guess you're right...I...just wasn't thinking."

She shook her head, astonished at the idea that he could go on for weeks "without thinking". She stands and confronts him across the desk.

"All right, go home. We'll talk about it in the morning, when we both have our heads on straight."

He looks at her and seems about to speak. She touches his cheek gently. "Never mind. Go on, now. I'll close up."

"Sorry," he says.

"Look, just go home. We'll deal with it in the morning."

"OK." He sighs and stands up. His lips are pursed, and the lines of it go up across his forehead, dragging his brows down over his eyes. "Tomorrow, then."

The heavy wood door clicks quietly closed behind him.

The ancient pull was loosed, implying the depths as it fell, Anne writes, watching the pilot from the corner of her eye as the vehicle moves out of the lock into open space.

She finishes the verse and leans back for a while, eyes crossing the windows and images displayed on the vehicle headshell, roving back to the poem. It begs her attention, and without thinking she scratches another verse into the datapad, closing the quote. She suddenly realizes how appropriate the last line is...

To be afraid of falling, it is yet afraid to fly.

"Good morning, Lampetros," Pat kisses his cheek. The old man looks up and smiles.

"Guests today, have I anticipated, Pat?" He shakes his head with condescending amusement. She drifts up into the adobe egg, stopping with the correct, faint motion of her torso.

"You are the perfect mandarin, o father," she sighs.

"Indeed. And within the cluster, you are recognised for your interchange. You receive admiration, from some, at least, for having taken the step, for having met challenges on planets. Still, what can you find in common with them? Every experience of our lives has so few counterparts there -- "

Her hands come up to rub her neck, legs counterbalancing the motion, interrupting him, "That's all you know, Lamp."

He frowns. "But not totally insular."

"Mostly."

"So unfair," he says, mocking her. "In fact, I anticipate the visit of our guest as an occasion of exchange. There is so much of the experience of planetary living that I have never known."

"You're working on the document, of course. You sound just like it."

"I am always working on it," he replies carelessly. "No doubt, a week is a long time. You'll take her out, of course?"

"I have the room."

"True enough, but you'll have to come back more frequently. She won't be prepared for the experience. You know that. It is dangerous, your work. You know that, too."

"Perhaps."

Pat loses interest in the debate and drifts toward the center. She makes a gesture, and the walls become invisible, like a door opening with a silent thunderclap on stars.

"Her vehicle is over there," she says, pointing toward Barquitos and the Mandolin Cluster.

"You can see it?"

"No, I looked up the charts."

Pat's home is in the shadow of another, larger, asteroid, around which it orbits. Anne watches as a large section of the pilot's wall swaps from displays to view. They are approaching slowly, matching orbits; suddenly the sun bursts over the edge of the major asteroid, appropriately muted by the display system. She looks down at her datapad and smiles -- the image is copied there by her tap; it seems as if two suns are rising. This is going to make an excellent recording, she thinks.

They catch up with the stable ellipse of the home, and when they have approached to within two kilometers, Anne can see the arc of green lights that marks the front door. She leans back, head pushing against the headrest as the window enlarges again, this time to half of the view, and they slide down a precise, invisible line toward the docking bay.

The shade of the woods wraps Erin in a marbled hall. She runs loosely down the path, black braid bobbing with her rhythm. She isn't tired; her breath comes smoothly, pleasing in her throat. The pack and ropes feel light across her back, and her limbs feel the pleasant exhaustion of a good summer day at the crag. Above and behind, she can hear the calls of climbing, fading slowly.

The path winds slowly up and across a low ridge. On the other side, it descends into depths of shade, and crosses a stream with a plank bridge. She drops her pace, slowing, stopping at the bridge.

She forces herself to sit, legs dangling over the water. A slight dizziness passes its hand across her forehead and once again, she worries. The water stirs, mist rising, icy breath from a hillside spring.

But Gordon is right. If she is worried, she should see a medician. Gordon is free to be with her, if she needs scanning or analysis... but she hates the experience of doctors, hospitals, intrusive scanners, and her medical history available for everyone to read.

She thumps her hand against the plank of the bridge in an effort to dismiss the hypnotic violence of her thoughts. The sound distracts her, and she looks around, taking in the lattice of tree limbs. So fragile a sight, she thought. Death could blow across it at any moment. It is a huge network of lives and life's endings, most of it invisible to the casual eye.

She stirs uncomfortably. She is happiest running, scrambling up rocks (when no one is around to see her drop her harsh facade), scaling crags, on the slopes of mountains, or flying into earth orbit. To stand still was to see that inevitable ending moment rushing toward her. But to be at work, testing the body and the will in a silent crucible, even as one is running headlong toward the end, makes that final meaninglessness vanish. It makes her not care about anything but doing.

She rises to her feet. I was so cranky with Gordon. And what a bastard he can be sometimes, anyway.

She jogs up the next rise, piercing the lances of dusky sunlight with her body. The rhythm takes her, and for a while, she is the rhythm. The pulse is her breath. The breath is her thought, counting the steps, adding each one to the ones that came before.

The airlock opens on a quietly lit, cylindrical vestibule. Its walls are textured in all dimensions with a complex but unobtrusive pattern, and various ornaments of fabric are clustered amid plants lining the walls. Anne steps into the tunnel, her suit seeming like armor in this civilized place. Her breath is harsh in the helmet as the frost rushes away. She pops the seal and steps forward. She is cautious to grip the edge of the doorframe with her right hand, the left holding her bulky helmet. The ornaments on the walls seem very fragile, and she is afraid of losing her coordination, flailing out, and wrecking the art.

She looks around.

Pat appears, riding out a bit on the net into the center of the far end of the room. She is dressed in a dark t-shirt and trousers that highlight her pale skin and lanky limbs.

"I'm early, I know," Anne apologizes.

"Not at all. I was updated on your schedule by the route stations. It's my fault. We got into a discussion. Lamper and I. You know. Heats."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Never mind. We're always blazing away at each other. Like Emp and Twis..."

They move slowly past the hangings, which Anne observes from time to time as she listens. One seems so dark, until they come close, when lines of tarnished iridescence reveal the suggestion of a dove. Another is animated, with tangling fractal forms gradually seeming to become more coherent, until the small scale structure obliterates the order, and the process begins again.

A typeset sign is pinned to the wall at the end of the vestibule. It reads "Don't wear your computer all over your knee -- "…. Pat smiles. "That means, things are informal here. Expect to be treated in a relaxed way. The sign is mine, and so is the practice. Lamper -- my dadman-- isn't always so compliant. I got the sign out of an advertisement. It was a counter-ad from when the fabric computers were first coming avail. My meaning turns out to be less dated, I'm glad to say."

Anne grins back. "You're so relaxed here, Pat. On the climb you were... more... reserved? I guess that's it."

"Oh, well... that's life or death. You know. Serious. Like my miners. But here I leave that behind. I argue with my father. Mom-one is on tour, so we won't see her for months. My dadman visits me more often when she's away, so you'll see each other."

"Is your father one of the one you told me about on Mars?"

"The hermits? Well, I tease him about it, but actually, his curiosity is raised. The people who ignore the planets are much more insular. Some of them even speak a dialect 'that may be withdrawing from the mainstream of planetary languages'.„ Or so I'm told by all these cut-outs on the Earth news. In their own dialect, mind you." They stop by a cabinet, and Anne removes the suit. Shyly, she produces a flower from her vest. "Please," she says. Pat smiles. "I'm also prepared," she says, producing a bulb from her pocket. They exchange, holding each other's eyes.

"I'll show you your hollow," Pat continues, "and then you can settle in for a while. Later, we'll gather for sup, and you'll meet Lamper. We can talk about what you can do for the next few days."

They stop at the room. Anne feels her feet slip to the floor, and she asks Pat, "Spin?"

Pat gestures negative, a chop with the left hand. "Gravity generators. Hengeco, out by Ryan's Sky. They're becoming more popular now. Nothing major, but they give a sixth-g in selects parts of the living space. I thought it might make you feel more at home."

"Oh... well, thanks, Pat." But she feels uncomfortable. She hadn't come here to experience life as if she is in a Martian hotel. Still, the courtesy isn't easily refused. "New stuff?", she asks, distracting her tangled emotions.

"Yeah. Really inefficient still. If we didn't have the sun..."

"Power hungry."

"That's right. Interesting principle though, a heavy quantum string suspended..."

Sharon slams the door behind as she enters her home. For a moment, she stands silent, surprised by the extent of her violence.

"Damn him," she mutters.

Even if he had no respect for her work, he should have thought of his job.

"Now, hold on, dear," she argues with herself. She realizes that her anger is taking over her usual thought process. She had slammed her door like an angry teenager seeking refuge in her room. She shakes her head and tosses her coat down on a chair.

I shouldn't be worrying about whether we're going to stay together, or whether we're going to break up on this. Right now, I'm so angry, I could spit.

"Damn him."

She heads for the kitchen, where she pours herself a glass of milk. Then she stands for a while, running her thumb around the rim of the glass. Not thinking, not seeing, just relaxing into a state where her dispassion could heal her. Suddenly, she looks at the glass of milk as if it is a foreign object. Then she grins and drinks it down. The glass clicks on the counter, and she shuts off the lights.

When Sharon wakes the next morning, she remembers vaguely that there had been something that had deeply hurt her, like a bruise, hidden by healthy skin. Then it floods back, and she groans, rolling over in the bed.

It stays with her as she showers, and because of it, she attacks her hair with unusual vigor, the thoughts roiling about inconclusively.

By the time she leaves, she has come to a decision. Instead of driving downtown, she links with New Haven Flight Services for a route, and heads for the airport.

Her aircraft is waiting on the ramp, fueled and checked. She does a full walk-around, verifies the fuel, and climbs in. The old-fashioned turbines spool up cleanly while she buckles into her harness. She relays her intentions to nearby traffic, and she checks the tracking map on the aircraft console for clearance. Then she releases the chocks, and slides her finger down the throttle gadget. The Beech leaps vertically into the sky, careless of sonic abatement, and she aims it toward New York.

She drives downtown in a rental car, to the site of the relic Guggenheim. The traffic is light, and the heavily forested streets of the city are cool in the early morning sun.

Even after all the centuries it has seen, the Guggenheim is still one of the most beautiful buildings -- unlike so many, it has not been outdated by time or events. She wonders what Wright would think of her world. Their times had been so different, and the nature of people had, in some ways, changed, and in other ways, held constant.

She sits in the car for a few moments, hesitating to enter. She knows she won't see Phil here, so there is nothing to worry about, but something still holds her back. Finally, she pushes herself into motion.

The posters for the show are beautiful holograms of one of the pieces, but she avoids looking at them. She wants to see the real objects, and not disrupt her anticipation. She purchases her ticket and enters the spacious lobby.

At the base of the spiral is a large, circular bed of sand, centered with a tall pedestal. The pedestal holds a broad-lipped dish, patterned with faintly iridescent glaze. The rim is a delicate, almost paper-thin edge, barely opaque. Suddenly, she wonders where he had fired the thing. She has never seen it before; she smiles, realizing she is being surpassed. She sits slowly on the bench at the edge of the sand. It is perhaps a quarter of an hour before she moves again.

She returns to New Haven by twilight; the moon is a nail-thin arc above the tower as the gear hits the runway.

Erin sits on the porch, feeling the sun burst over the ocean horizon, its light sliding down her face with a warm inevitability, hidden by her closed eyelids. She smiles, cigarette dangling from her lips.

Gordon stands in the glass doorway, feeling the paradox of his emotion for Erin. He would watch her in repose, and see the relaxed line of her face, loving her for her capacity to slip into stillness. Then, other times, he would love her for her ambition and strength, even as he is angered by her inertia on things that should be important.

He slides back the glass, and bends over her shoulder to kiss her cheek. She opens her eyes, startled.

"Oh, it's you," she says. She stubs out the cigarette.

"Hi."

She stretches. He walks to the railing and sits down.

"Just get in?" Erin asks.

"Yeah, half an hour ago."

She yawns. "And the Ring contract? You didn't want to say on the net..."

"We may have it." He grins. "How about dinner and a night, nymph?"

"You're never satisfied," she replies, eyeing him coolly over sunglasses.

"True."

"C'mon, tell me about it."

He looks out to the ocean, collecting his thoughts. "Well, you're right. M'Butu had, well, maybe not thirty legalists, but more that I've ever seen in a room at once."

"He told you he would."

"I never believed it."

"I did."

"Yeah."

Erin laughs. "Of course, they agreed."

"Of course. How are you feeling?" he asks.

Her expression becomes strangely guarded.

"Oh, all right." She isn't ready to tell him about her missed period. "Listen, I can't go to dinner, I'm supposed to see Sharon tonight. The show, remember?"

"I don't suppose I could come?"

"And have you standing around in the middle of an art show, badgering Sharon? No way, bloody no way, Gordo. Besides, what are you going to say to Lorin when she calls, if you're not here?"

He shakes his head and looks out to sea.

Sharon watches the opening, quiet and silent in a corner for the moment, sipping a drink as she watches the crowd -- friends, gallery owners, rivals and reviewers; the known and the strangers mingling, knotting here and there into conversation. She feels the quiet satisfaction of anticlimax. She realizes that she can never know what they feel... and she knows that they could never feel what she has. They would never see the night on the shore of Hyannis, as the waves hissed against the beach, where she sat out the disastrous aftermath of her fifteenth attempt at what is to become the Cordish pot, staring at the shapes of rock, groping for inspiration. The frenzied nights of lovemaking with Rael, to awaken before dawn with a sudden idea that demanded execution on the design console at the pottery; the drive along the empty streets of the city as the rising sun slashed the smooth surfaces of the buildings, tripping off another idea about the qualities she would require in the glaze...

She smiles at the memories.

"Hi, Sharon."

Erin stands in front of her, her expression friendly, but unusually intense. She wears a dress of uniform silver, with hidden images reflected now and then on its surface by some strange artifice.

"Hi," Sharon says. She feels suddenly on the verge of knowing something new about her friend, just from the presence Erin radiates. It leaves her quiet and defenseless, like a child.

"You know, I've never really seen more than half of these," Erin continues, looking around. "You're really something, Lazlo."

"Yeah..."

"I mean it. So many different lives you have... I envy you sometimes. Too many people don't have even one."

Sharon can't react quickly enough. It is as if Erin has assaulted her, and yet the openness that Erin's willingness to grant such a compliment implies is a warmth that rushes her -- still, there is nothing to say. She just touches Erin's arm.

Erin looks out at the room. "I won't monopolize you. I see M'Butu on his way over. Can we meet for a drink or smoke after the show?"

Sharon nods. "Of course. You know what? We'll go out in the car and drive down to the docks, just like after the hospital. All right?"

Erin's expression becomes rigid. "Oh, it's very appropriate." She shakes her heavy hair with a sudden motion.

Now what the hell does that mean? Sharon wonders as Erin moves away into the crowd. There isn't very long to consider it, however. M'Butu is just about upon her.

Liam M'Butu, the Chairperson on the Trustees of the Ring, is a weightlessly tall, very slender man, bald, with dark skin and the Oriental epicanthic fold shading his expressions. With him is a stocky, pale man with a heavy brown beard, and wiry hair gathered into a braided topknot, whose appearance strikes a note somewhere in her memory, like a remembered actor seen in a new role.

"Liam!" she smiles, extending her hand. "Wonderful to see you. It's been what? A year? Two?"

"Almost three," M'Butu replies in his startling baritone. "This is an amazing show, Sharon. It never fails to amaze me how you find time to sleep."

"Oh, sleep is a luxury. You, more than anyone, should know that."

He chuckles in appreciation. "I get a few hours here and there."

"No doubt. Not enough to learn any manners, though," she replies, looking over at his companion. "Hi, I'm Sharon Lazlo."

The man shook hands with her. "Kyle Trafton, at your service, I'm sure." His voice is a pleasant tenor, quietly controlled.

She is taken aback and pleased all at once. "Well, Liam, you don't just come with anyone. I suppose you know this man is one of the premier asteroid mining consultants? And one of the best dynamicists and programmers around? Or is he a contributor, already?"

"Oh, of course I am, Ms. Lazlo," Kyle replies. "Liam doesn't let anyone get past him." He trades a strange, but meaningful glance with Liam.

"Yes, well no doubt that's true," Liam retorts. "The Rings are still there, and if I live that long, they'll be there another century. But things aren't what they were a century ago, the demand for outsystem water is growing, so who knows? Listen, I'm going for a drink. Suppose it's all right if I leave Kyle with you, Sharon?"

"Of course. We know each other already. But don't forget to make your way back. If the Met does buy one of these pieces for the collection, half the proceeds are marked for the Rings."

Liam's face lights with anticipation, and rubbing his hands together with mock glee, he wanders off toward the bar, calling over his shoulder "I'll talk it up for you!" Sharon turns back to Kyle.

"It's been a long while," she says. "You look a lot different."

"Longer than since you last saw Liam, even. Listen, I'm sorry about Rael."

"Thanks a lot, Kyle. I need that like I need vacuum."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't want you to think it isn't important to me."

She shrugs. "So what are you up to?"

"Well... it's kind of difficult, actually. That's why I came. I did want to see your work, but... there is an ulterior motive."

"Which is?"

"The Rings."

Her mouth tightens. "I suppose I should have known, seeing you with Liam like that."

"Well, look, the word's around that you're not ready to go in. That you're not even thinking about it."

"I'd be a fool. And you are, if you are."

"I guess I am. On both counts."

She sips her drink, feeling like it is hemlock.

"What's the score?" she asks, finally.

"It's a similar configuration."

She shook her head. "Well, you have to do it that way, because of Liam's regulations, but that's no excuse. Why?"

"Somebody has to do it. Maybe it'll be me."

"Who's going?"

"Lenox. Alvarez. Maybe Blauuw. We've got Liam, for a sponsor, and Rhys Linkage for equipment. Some robots."

"The guys are good, but Rhys? Oh no, what shit they make, Kyle. You won't get thirty meters in. And robots? That's ridiculous."

It is his turn to shrug painfully. "Gordo wouldn't go for it. You've got him in your pocket, and he's still convinced you're going to go in someday. He doesn't say so, but I can read him, if I can read anybody. So Rhys is the best I've got. We're going to get some custom mods done in Cluros."

"I see."

"But I want a chance to talk to you. To get more of an idea of what we're up against."

"You've read the journals."

"Sure, and I've seen the holos, and I know the physiography and dynamics to the point where my brain feels like an orbiting particle. Besides that, my models are better - than yours, anyway. But I'm talking people, and you know it."

She leans forward earnestly. "It's like doing gymnastics twice around the earth, Kyle. It's going to get you killed. There are no people good enough, me included. I'm sorry I ever invented this damn quest. You'll have to excuse me, now, I'm afraid."

She turns and stalks away into the crowd, leaving Kyle Trafton staring after her.

Sharon manages to gain some measure of control as she makes her way across the floor. Damn him! Damn him for coming and ruining my show... Her expression is so fierce that three people who had thought of approaching her as she passes change their minds.

She stops by Erin, who stands looking at one of the pieces. "Ready to go?"

Erin looks up, startled. "Sure."

"I'll meet you out on the steps. I just have to say good bye."

"Okay," Erin replies, faintly confused. Sharon walks away abruptly.

Her next stop is Liam M'Butu, where he stands at the bar, in conversation with Michael Cresnau of The News.

"Excuse me, Mike," she says. "Can I borrow M'Butu for a moment?"

"Oh, of course. Help yourself. Hey, do I get an interview?"

"Call me tomorrow morning."

"All right, you're on..."

They take a few steps away from everyone. Liam is about to speak, but she cuts him off. "Liam, you are a real asshole. You have absolutely no fucking taste."

Then she turns and walks away.

"Welcome to Eastern Mountaineer on channel three forty two; it's twelve twenty, on May fourteenth, and our guest today is Erin Goldstein-MacReady ..."

"sure... a certain amount of arrogance. But if you think anybody can do this without having that, you're bloody dreaming. You can depend on her." Erin comments for the cameras. "That doesn't change in bivouac. Everyone else is getting tense, but she stays pretty much the same. Pat's the one who's most up with a joke.

"Everybody's worst qualities have a way of being emphasized for the first few weeks. It takes a while -- it never happens for some climbers at all -- but eventually everything gets easier.

"The irony that you learn to accept each other, in fact, to appreciate each other, through what can be one of the most disagreeable experiences of one's independent life hasn't escaped any of us."

They drive through the night of the city. Clouds have gathered, and a monotonous rain patters against the surface of the car as it rolls through the nearly empty streets.

Sharon drives, and she is silent with her anger. Erin feels unable to speak; a strange sensation. She doesn't know how to begin -- to confide, to relax her independence is so foreign as to be nearly impossible.

They pass into the dock zone, a wilderness of automatic cranes and warehouses. An empty loading area beside the ocean provides their parking place. The sound of the engine slides into the sound of the rain. Sharon leans back, staring out the side window at the dappled ocean, and the city reflected there. She sighs, and brings out a smoke. She lights it and passes it to Erin.

The aromatic scent fills the car, and Erin smiles. "Why are you so tense?" she asks.

Sharon looks over to her. "You know who I saw tonight? Who that damn Liam M'Butu brought to my opening?"

"No."

"Kyle Trafton."

Erin sighs smoke into the interior. "So? What's the problem? Kyle wasn't nice?"

Sharon touches the scar on her chin. "He's going to the rings, that's what."

Erin is silent, withdrawn. Sharon wonders what she could be thinking.

Finally, Erin speaks. "It only gets to you because -- "

"Because I'm sick of seeing people die, Erin, that's why."

"No. Because you still want to be first, dear."

"I do not!"

Erin looks away. "You don't have to shout at me, Lazlo. I'm in the same car, not on the next damn continent."

"Oh, shit, Erin, I'm sorry. Liam should know better."

"Maybe."

Sharon drops back into her seat, staring ahead.

"Maybe," she admits.

They are silent for a while.

"Sharon?" Erin begins, tentative.

Erin has a startling face to see for the first time, Sharon realizes. Erin's features are rakish, thin, and because of her unruly nearly shoulder-length forelock, she looks perfect with a smoke dangling from the corner of her mouth.

But now it is as if the young hellion Sharon remembers from a decade ago has suddenly aged by about twenty years; every line seems etched deeper. Maybe there is even a strand or two of grey. Sharon tries to convince herself that it is only the angle of the light, but she fails. It is that the muscles so tightly held across Erin's jaws have relaxed, and her face suddenly shows her age, more even than is fair. "Something's the matter, Erin. Isn't it?"

Erin looks miserable. "I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I...I'm afraid I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant! What!?"

Erin turns away again. "Yeah."

"What do you mean, you're afraid? Are you telling me this isn't planned?"

Erin shook her head.

"But how? I mean, why? I mean, nobody ... Erin, what the hell is going on that you could get pregnant without planning? Don't you use implants?"

"Look, I'm not a fucking ten year old. Of course I use implants. They just... didn't work."

"I don't understand."

"Listen, just be bloody still for a minute, and I'll try to tell you some things we've never talked about before."

Sharon is as still as she could be; there is some strange process of shock working its way through her. "All right."

"You remember: I was a child during the Irish War. And the Famine came after. The Allies used wardrugs, viruses, who knows what, and it got out of hand."

"I know."

"Everything dying. There wasn't enough to eat -- no wonder. But the wardrugs, the viruses - some died. Some died. ...My mom and dad died." She stares out the window as if she is looking at them..." I was lucky... But I'm not the same, either... Damn it, Sharon, you'd better never tell anybody. You know, anybody. Especially Gordon."

"I understand," Sharon replies quietly.

"I had some 'medical effects'. I still have to take some drugs. I suppose they could have suppressed the contraceptive. And I've never used an abortive. I don't know what could happen. I haven't even wanted to talk to my gyno about it."

Sharon sighs. "You don't want to have the baby, though."

"No! Oh, hell, I don't know. I never even thought about the idea."

"I guess you are now."

"Yeah."

Sharon reaches out and hugs her. The rain moves out over the harbor. Sharon remembers her parents.

Content, Layout, and Images Copyright © 1999 by Mark Cashman except where indicated (NASA photos)