Thorns

by Robert Silverberg

  “Lona?”

  He went into the hall, staying close to the side partition. Probably he looked drunk to the well-groomed women who sailed past him. They smiled. He tried to return the smiles.

  He did not find her.

  Somehow, hours later, he discovered Aoudad. The little man looked apprehensive.

  “Have you seen her?” Burris croaked.

  “Halfway to Ganymede by now. She left on the dinner flight.”

  “Left?”

  Aoudad nodded. “Nick went with her. They’re going back to Earth. What did you do—slam her around some?”

  “You let her go?” Burris muttered. “You permitted her to walk out? What’s Chalk going to say about that?”

  “Chalk knows. Don’t you think we checked with him first? He said, sure, if she wants to come home, let her come home. Put her on the next ship out. So we did. Hey, you look pale, Burris. I thought with your skin you couldn’t get pale!”

  “When does the next ship after hers leave?”

  “Tomorrow night. You aren’t going to go chasing her, are you?”

  “What else?”

  Grinning, Aoudad said, “You’ll never get anywhere that way. Let her go. This place is full of women who’d be glad to take her place. You’d be amazed how many. Some of them know I’m with you, and they come up to me, wanting me to fix you up with them. It’s the face, Minner. The face fascinates them.”

  Burris turned away from him.

  Aoudad said, “You’re shaken up. Listen, let’s go have a drink!”

  Without looking back, Burris replied, “I’m tired. I want to rest.”

  “Should I send one of the women to you after a while?”

  “Is that your idea of rest?”

  “Well, matter of fact, yes.” He laughed pleasantly. “I don’t mind taking care of them myself, you understand, but it’s you they want. You.”

  “Can I call Ganymede? Maybe I can talk to her while her ship’s refueling.”

  Aoudad caught up with him. “She’s gone, Burris. You ought to forget her now. What did she have besides problems? Just a skinny little kid! You didn’t even get along well with her. I know. I saw. All you did was shout at each other. What do you need her for? Now, let me tell you about—”

  “Are you carrying any relaxers?”

  “You know they won’t do you any good.”

  Burris held out his hand anyway. Aoudad shrugged and put a relaxer into it. Burris touched the tube to his skin. The illusion of tranquility might be worth nearly as much as the genuine article now. He thanked Aoudad and walked sharply toward his room, alone.

  On the way he passed a woman whose hair was spun pink glass and whose eyes were amethysts. Her costume was chastely immodest. Her voice, feather-soft, brushed his earless cheeks. He rushed past her, trembling, and entered his room.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE GRAIL’S TRUE WARDEN

  ■

  ■ “It spoiled a lovely romance,” said Tom Nikolaides.

  Lona did not smile. “Nothing lovely about it. I was glad to get away.”

  “Because he tried to choke you?”

  “That was only at the very end. It was bad a long time before that. You don’t have to get hurt that way in order to get hurt.”

  Nikolaides peered deep into her eyes. He understood, or pretended he did. “True enough. It’s too bad, but we all knew it couldn’t last.”

  “Including Chalk?”

  “Especially Chalk. He predicted the breakup. It’s remarkable how much mail we’ve had on it. The whole universe seems to think it’s a terrible thing that you two split.”

  Lona flashed a quick, empty smile. Standing, she paced the long room in choppy strides. The plaques mounted to her heels clicked against the polished floor. “Will Chalk be here soon?” she asked.

  “Soon. He’s a very busy man. But the moment he reaches the building, we’ll take you to him.”

  “Nick, will he really give me my babies?”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  She caught up with him. Fiercely her hand caught his wrist. “Hope so? Hope so? He promised them to me!”

  “But you walked out on Burris.”

  “You said yourself Chalk was expecting it. The romance wasn’t supposed to last forever. Now it’s over, and I kept my part of the bargain, and Chalk’s got to keep his.”

  She felt muscles quivering in her thighs. These fancy shoes; hard to stand this way. But they made her look taller, older. It was important to look outwardly the way she had come to be inwardly. That trip with Burris had aged her five years in as many weeks. The constant tension…the bickering…

  Above all, the terrible exhaustion after each quarrel…

  She would look the fat man straight in the eye. If he tried to worm out of his promise, she’d make life difficult for him. No matter how powerful he was, he couldn’t cheat her! She’d been nursemaid to that weird refugee from an alien planet long enough to have earned the right to her own babies. She—

  That wasn’t right, she admonished herself suddenly. I mustn’t make fun of him. He didn’t ask for his troubles. And I volunteered to share them.

  Nikolaides stepped into the abrupt silence. “Now that you’re back on Earth, Lona, what are your plans?”

  “To arrange for the children, first. Then I want to disappear from public life for good. I’ve had two rounds of publicity now, one when the babies were taken from me, one when I went off with Minner. That’s enough.”

  “Where will you go? Will you leave Earth?”

  “I doubt it. I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll write a book.” She smiled. “No, that wouldn’t be so good, would it? More publicity. I’ll live quietly. How about Patagonia?” She peered forward. “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

  “Chalk?”

  “Minner,” she said.

  “Still on Titan, so far as I know. Aoudad’s with him.”

  “They’ve been there three weeks, then. I suppose they’re having a good time.” Her lips curved fiercely.

  “I know Aoudad must be,” Nikolaides said. “Give him plenty of available women, and he’d have a good time anywhere. But I couldn’t vouch for Burris. All I know is that they haven’t made any move to come home yet. Still interested in him, are you?”

  “No!”

  Nikolaides put his hands to his ears. “All right All right. I believe you. It’s just that—”

  The door at the far end of the room rippled inward. A small, ugly man with long, thin lips stepped through. Lona recognized him: he was d’Amore, one of Chalk’s men. She said at once, “Has Chalk showed up yet? I’ve got to talk to him!”

  D’Amore’s unpleasant mouth produced the broadest smile she had ever seen. “You’re really asserting, yourself these days, milady! No more wispy shyness, eh? But no; Chalk’s not here yet. I’m waiting for him myself.” He came farther into the room, and Lona noticed that someone stood behind him: white-faced, mild-eyed, totally at his ease, a man of middle years who smiled in a foolish way. D’Amore Said, “Lona, this is David Melangio. He knows a few tricks. Give him the date you were born and the year; he’ll tell you what day of the week it was.”

  Lona gave it.

  “Wednesday,” said Melangio instantly.

  “How does he do that?”

  “It’s his gift. Call off a string of numbers for him, as fast as you can, but clearly.”

  Lona called off a dozen numbers. Melangio repeated them.

  “Right?” d’Amore asked, beaming.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I forgot them myself.” She walked over to the idiot-savant, who regarded her without interest. Looking into his eyes, Lona realized that Melangio was another freak, all trick, no soul. She wondered, chilled, if they were hatching a new love affair for her.

  Nikolaides said, “Why’d you bring him back? I thought Chalk had let his option go.”

  “Chalk thought Miss Kelvin would like to talk to him,” d’Amore replied. “He asked me to bring Melangio ov
er.”

  “What am I supposed to say to him?” Lona asked.

  D’Amore smiled. “How would I know?”

  She drew the long-lipped man aside and whispered, “He’s not right in the head, is he?”

  “I’d say he’s missing something there, yes.”

  “So Chalk’s got another project for me? Am I supposed to hold his hand now?”

  It was like asking the wall. D’Amore merely said, “Take him inside, sit down, talk. Chalk probably won’t be here for another hour yet.”

  There was an adjoining room, with a floating glass table and several lounge chairs. She and Melangio went in, and the door closed with the finality of a cell door.

  Silence. Stares.

  He said, “Ask me anything about dates. Anything.”

  He rocked rhythmically back and forth. His smile did not fade at any moment. He was about seven years old mentally, Lona thought.

  “Ask me when George Washington died. Ask me. Or anybody else. Anybody important.”

  “Abraham Lincoln,” she sighed.

  “April 15, 1865. Do you know how old he’d be if he were still alive today?” He told her, instantly, down to the day. It sounded right to her. He looked pleased with himself.

  “How do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I just can. I always have been able to. I can remember the weather and all the dates.” He giggled. “Do you envy me?”

  “Not very much.”

  “Some people do. They wish they could learn how. Mr. Chalk would like to know how. He wants you to marry me, you know.”

  Lona winced. Trying not to be cruel, she said, “Did he tell you that?”

  “Oh, no. Not with words. But I know. He wants us to be together. Like you used to be, when you were with the man with the funny face. Chalk enjoyed that. Especially when you had arguments with him. I was with Mr. Chalk once, and he got red in the face and chased me out of the room, and later he called me back. It must have been when you and the other one were having a fight.”

  Lona groped for an understanding of all this. “Can you read minds, David?”

  “No.”

  “Can Chalk?”

  “No. Not read. It doesn’t come in words. It comes in feelings. He reads feelings. I can tell. And he likes unhappy feelings. He wants us to be unhappy together, because that would make him happy.”

  Perplexed, Lona leaned toward Melangio and said, “Do you like women, David?”

  “I like my mother. I sometimes like my sister. Even though they hurt me a lot when I was young.”

  “Have you ever wanted to get married?”

  “Oh, no! Married is for grown-ups!”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Forty years, eight months, three weeks, two days. I don’t know how many hours. They won’t tell me what time I was born.”

  “You poor bastard.”

  “You’re sorry for me because they won’t tell me what time I was born.”

  “I’m sorry for you,” she said. “Period. But I can’t do anything for you, David. I’ve used up all my niceness. Now people have to start being nice to me.”

  “I’m nice to you.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re very nice.” Impulsively she took his hand in hers. His skin was smooth and cool. Not as smooth as Burris’s, though, nor as cool. Melangio shivered at the contact, but allowed her to squeeze the hand. After a moment she let go and went to the wall and ran her hands over the side of the room until the door opened. She stepped through and saw Nikolaides and d’Amore murmuring to each other.

  “Chalk wants to see you now,” d’Amore said. “Did you enjoy your little visit with David?”

  “He’s charming. Where’s Chalk?”

  Chalk was in his throne-room, perched on high. Lona clambered up the crystal rungs. As she approached the fat man, she felt old timidnesses returning. She had learned how to cope with people lately, but coping with Chalk might be beyond her grasp.

  He rocked in his huge chair. His broad face creased in what she took to be a smile.

  “So nice to see you again. Did you enjoy your travels?”

  “Very interesting. And now, my babies—”

  “Please, Lona, don’t rush. Have you met David?”

  “Yes.”

  “So pitiful. So much in need of help. What do you think of his gift?”

  “We had a deal,” Lona said. “I took care of Minner, you got me some of my babies. I don’t want to talk about Melangio.”

  “You broke up with Burris sooner than I had expected,” said Chalk. “I haven’t completed all the arrangements concerning your children.”

  “You’re going to get them for me?”

  “In a short while. But not quite yet. This is a difficult negotiation, even for me. Lona, will you oblige me while you’re waiting for the children? Help David, the way you helped Burris. Bring some light into his life. I’d like to see the two of you together. A warm, maternal person like you—”

  “This is a trick, isn’t it?” she said suddenly. “You’ll play with me forever! One zombi after another for me to cuddle! Burris, Melangio, and then who knows what next? No. No. We made a deal. I want my babies. I want my babies.”

  Sonic dampers were whirring to cut down the impact of her shouts. Chalk looked startled. Somehow he appeared both pleased and angered at once by this show of spirit. His body seemed to puff and expand until he weighed a million pounds.

  “You cheated me,” she said, quieter now. “You never meant to give them back to me!”

  She leaped. She would scrape gobbets of flesh from the fat face.

  From the ceiling, instantly, descended a fine mesh of golden threads. Lona hit it, rebounded, surged forward again. She could not reach Chalk. He was shielded.

  Nikolaides, d’Amore. They seized her arms. She lashed out with her weighted shoes.

  “She’s overwrought,” said Chalk. “She needs calming.”

  Something stung her left thigh. She sagged and was still.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  CRY, WHAT SHALL I CRY?

  ■

  ■ He was growing weary of Titan. He had taken to the icy moon as to a drug after Lona’s departure. But now he was numb. Nothing Aoudad could say or do…or get for him…would keep him here any longer.

  Elise lay naked beside him. High overhead, the Frozen Waterfall hung in motionless cascade. They had rented their own power-sled and had come out by themselves, to park at the glacier’s mouth and make love by the glimmer of Saturnlight on frozen ammonia.

  “Are you sorry I came here to you, Minner?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He could be blunt with her.

  “Still miss her? You didn’t need her.”

  “I hurt her. Needlessly.”

  “And what did she do to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about her with you.” He sat up and put his hands on the controls of the sled. Elise sat up, too, pressing her flesh against him. In this strange light she looked whiter than ever. Did she have blood in that plump body? She was white as death. He started the sled, and it crawled slowly along the edge of the glacier, heading away from the dome. Pools of methane lay here and there. Burris said, “Would you object if I opened the roof of the sled, Elise?”

  “We’d die.” She didn’t sound worried.

  “You’d die. I’m not sure I would. How do I know this body can’t breathe methane?”

  “It isn’t likely.” She stretched, voluptuously, languidly. “Where are you going?”

  “Sight-seeing.”

  “It might not be safe here. You might break through the ice.”

  “Then we’d die. It would be restful, Elise.”

  The sled hit a crunching tongue of new ice. It bounced slightly, and so did Elise. Idly Burris watched the quiver ripple its way all through her abundant flesh. She had been with him a week now. Aoudad had produced her. There was much to be said for her voluptuousness, little for her soul. Burris wondered if poor Prolisse had known what sort of wife
he had taken.

  She touched his skin. She was always touching him, as if reveling in the wrongness of his texture. “Love me again,” she said.

  “Not now. Elise, what do you desire in me?”

  “All of you.”

  “There’s a universe full of men who can keep you happy in bed. What in particular do I have for you?”

  “The Manipool changes.”

  “You love me for the way I look?”

  “I love you because you’re unusual.”

  “What about blind men? One-eyed men? Hunchbacks? Men with no noses?”

  “There aren’t any. Everyone gets a prosthetic now. Everyone’s perfect.”

  “Except me.”

  “Yes. Except you.” Her nails dug into his skin. “I can’t scratch you. I can’t make you sweat. I can’t even look at you without feeling a little queasy. That’s what I desire in you.”

  “Queasiness?”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “You’re a masochist, Elise. You want to grovel. You pick the weirdest thing in the system and throw yourself at him and call it love, but it isn’t love, it isn’t even sex, it’s just self-torture. Right?”

  She looked at him queerly.

  “You like to be hurt,” he said. He put his hand over one of her breasts, spreading the fingers wide to encompass all the soft, warm bulk of it. Then he closed his hand. Elise winced. Her delicate nostrils flared and her eyes began to tear. But she said nothing as he squeezed. Her respiration grew more intense; it seemed to him that he could feel the thunder of her heart. She would absorb any quantity of this pain without a whimper, even if he tore the white globe of flesh from her body entirely. When he released her, there were six white imprints against the whiteness of her flesh. In a moment they began to turn red. She looked like a tigress about to spring. Above them, the Frozen Waterfall rushed downward in eternal stillness. Would it begin to flow? Would Saturn drop from the heavens and brush Titan with his whirling rings?

  “I’m leaving for Earth tomorrow,” he told her.

  She lay back. Her body was receptive. “Make love to me, Minner.”