I soon learned what that assistance would be. All the athletes received medals, the event winners a wreath—half of the athletes receiving their awards from Megan, the other half from Mother. The first athlete, a dark-haired girl no more than thirteen, approached Mother with all the enthusiasm of a fish swimming toward a shark. But Mother took her hand and smiled warmly. “You were lovely to watch, my dear. And you performed very well.”
A very nice speech, I thought; and the young girl bowed gracefully, smiling shyly. “Laurel,” Mother said, “be a dear and fasten the medal around this child’s neck.” I did so, and the girl bowed again and fled back to her companions.
The next athlete, a much older woman, was given the identical speech and medal; and also the woman after her, who received a wreath as well, which I fastened upon her head as efficiently as I could.
“Don’t ever become important, Laurel dear,” Mother grumbled as the next athlete approached, “it’s such a dreadful bore.”
I glanced over occasionally at Megan who was seated on a chaise quite near us. Taking their hands in hers, she spoke warmly to all the athletes, and she made her own presentation of award. I smiled in my own pleasure as she affixed the wreath onto Cytheria.
I noted that those who received awards from her stood in various attitudes of acute self-consciousness. Some shifted from foot to foot, some ducked their heads in embarrassed acknowledgement of her compliments, the youngest ones blushed furiously. Megan had one singular effect on these graceful athletes: she turned them awkward before her. And when she took their hands in hers they gazed at her with expressions that ranged from awe to adoration.
There was something else I noticed about some of them, and I mentioned it to Megan when the award ceremonies concluded. “The youngest girls have similar hairstyles,” I said teasingly, “Megan hairstyles.”
She looked uncomfortable, almost distressed. “It’s a recent practice. I don’t know what I can do about it.”
We dined at Mother’s house, myself and Megan and the Inner Circle, on delicacies prepared by Vesta. The formidable Hera sat with me, pinioning me with impatient and searching questions. I observed Megan; she spoke for a considerable time with Mother, sitting at the foot of her chaise and gazing at her with the same reverence I had seen in the faces of the athletes for Megan. Megan also spent time with each member of the Inner Circle, at ease with all of them except, apparently, Venus, who sat with Vardis, the wreath-crowned, lithe runner I remembered from the games. Megan’s slim shoulders seemed tense as she passed a few courteous minutes with Venus, who lounged on a chaise and sipped wine and somehow always managed to meet my eyes whenever I happened to glance at her.
Mother’s house was singing in the nocturnal winds when Venus finally made her way over. “Hera,” she said, “you’re monopolizing our guest shamefully.” As the scowling Hera began a retort Venus continued, “Vesta and Minerva tell me that Laurel and I have our profession in common. It seems therefore that I should have an opportunity—”
“Very well. Of course.” Hera rose and nodded to me, then stalked grandly off with a swirl of her cape to join Mother and Demeter.
But it soon became evident that it was not Venus’s intention to discuss biology. “Tell me,” she said with a disarming smile, her azure gaze enveloping me, “have you been with women before?”
“I—” I was mesmerized by her eyes. “You mean . . . No.”
“Is your preference restricted solely to men, then?”
Taken aback, I stammered unintelligibly. Never before had I thought of considering alternatives to what I had always known and been taught to accept.
But she smiled, a bewitching, dazzling smile. “An answer is not required,” she said. “Since your response was not immediate, your mind is still open.”
“I—well, I suppose—” I could not prevent my stammering; I felt heat in my face.
She smiled again. “Your hair is glorious, simply extraordinary,” she said softly. “And you wear our clothes beautifully. You’re a lovely, lovely young woman.”
“I—thank you.” I was no less flustered than before.
“It is now time to begin the evening’s festivities,” Megan said in a clear even voice from behind me.
Cybele glowed with light. Light from its homes, from torches outlining the main square. I sat with Mother and Megan and the Inner Circle before a newly erected platform flooded with brilliance from a source invisible to me. Women crowded the square, the balconies, the bridges of Cybele. The night air was soft and gentle as it had been during the day, warmth radiated by inconspicuous solar units on the colony’s structures. There was a continuous murmur of expectancy, and I myself waited eagerly.
The brilliance dimmed; the stage was illuminated only by the silver night and flickering ribbons of gold from the torches around the square.
Figures draped in head-to-foot shapeless clothing shambled onto the shadowed stage, their features dark cavities in ghostly white faces. Light came up slightly to reveal coarse heavy cloth garments, dark dismal gray. Each figure lurched about in isolation, yet with an odd poignant grace. Two figures moved tentatively toward each other, only to scuttle away; two others brushed together, stumbled apart, looking back lingeringly, yearningly . . .
Light narrowed, focused: one figure tremblingly raised an arm. Ugly gray folds fell away to expose a bare arm, round and white, and, in so somber a context, dramatically beautiful. The mouth in the face upturned to the naked arm was an O of wonder. The arm was hurriedly lowered and covered again; the figure lurched painfully off to the shadows. But in the shadows the arm was raised again, exposed . . .
A deeply shadowed corner of the stage gradually lightened. Two gray figures peered at each other. One exposed a white arm; the other hastened to cover it and then turned away . . . and turned back . . . and reached to the other, pushed the grayness aside and gazed at the naked arm, and with trembling fear and need placed a hand upon it . . .
Shadowed sections of the stage lit up one by one. Figures lovingly stroked each other’s bare arms . . . Suddenly from center stage a figure cast off her confining garb. Shockingly nude amid all the shrouded figures, she leaped, head back, arms flung high in exaltation. She was pulled down, encircled, hidden from view as figures crouched over her . . . and she was dragged, again fully clothed, into the shadows . . .
But figures began to adjust their garb so that they might constantly reveal their limbs, raising and fastening hems to reveal bare legs . . . In narcissistic absorption they performed individual dances of self-discovery, dances of fascinating intricacy and grace . . . Then all stopped as at an internal signal, and gazed at one another. One figure held out her hands . . .
Applause began, startling me; I had been immersed in a drama performed thus far to an utterly still and silent audience. Applause swelled as the figures joined hands and began a dance of compelling grace and inventiveness in their confining clothing . . .
The dance stopped, and the dancers turned and looked at the sky.
The stage abruptly darkened. For the first time, music began. Sonorous music from woodwinds, strings. Into a single spotlight stepped a figure; there was but a microsecond to see a white shirt and black pants before the spotlight vanished. Then the stage flooded to brilliance as dancers clad in bright-hued single-piece trouser suits danced in ecstatic abandon around and through a gigantic holograph, a spaceship identified by luminous lettering: Amelia Earhart. This dance had comic elements—pantomimed quarrels and acrobatic shoving—which brought much laughter, from me as well; I remembered from their history the miserable months in their crowded ship during the journey across the stars.
Darkness abruptly descended again, even the torches outlining the square were extinguished. When light came it was not on the stage at all, but strobe-like upon the mural of Megan standing on Maternas. Amid the wild cheering I felt Megan stir beside me, and knew I should not look at her.
Bright stage lights came up. The dancers opened and stepped out o
f their trouser suits, flinging them into the shadows. They stood before us, their nude bodies dusted with diamond-like particles that shimmered with slightest movement. Each was a single glistening shade, in hues ranging from bronze to diamond white, and areas of their bodies were enhanced: a greater radiance decorated each breast and pubis and one other feature of distinctive beauty on each dancer.
They leaped—and floated in an antigrav field. Holographic images formed among them. A dancer the color of warm sand pantomimed strokes on a holographic lyre, her slender wrist and hand outlined in brilliance. Another, the lovely sweeping line of thigh enhanced, shaped holographic pottery; another stood upon the prow of a hdro-flit navigating choppy seas, her bright delicate feet dancing for balance; another, the smooth powerful muscles of her arms outlined, hoisted and carried a woven basket of fruit; another, of sensuously rounded hip, created furniture; another, of finely shaped calf, laid mosaic . . . Scarcely breathing, I felt the joy and pride of the women on this world in their daily work . . . and knew their beauty . . .
The holographs vanished. In the slow-motion of antigrav the dancers glided, and arched and spread and shaped their glorious bodies into magnificent glittering statuary, breaking and reforming into new friezes of exultation.
They turned to each other. An interweaving of bodies began, fluid and sensuous. Pairs formed, each performing separate pas de deux. Some playfully somersaulted in slow motion tumbling grace around each other. One dancer formed her body into a circle, fingertips touching toes, slender body slowly revolving around her lovingly imprisoned partner. More and more erotic elements emerged: dancers caressed the outlined features of their partners, and they soon embraced, briefly at first and gently, separating to stroke a glowing breast, a thigh . . . coming together again with shimmering limbs intertwining . . . The dancer of broad strong shoulders carried the tiny dancer of slender wrist and hand, using her strength to treasure her partner’s delicacy as she brushed her lips over an exquisitely formed breast; the tiny dancer ardently caressed the broad shoulders of her partner, glorying in her strength. In a slow dimming of light each dancer also slowed, her body gradually fusing in love with her partner’s. Locked in embrace they floated in a circle, and out of that circle each extended a hand and took the hand of a sister so that the circle was joined . . .
The stage lights extinguished.
No less than any woman on that world I was on my feet applauding, tearful in gratitude and pride. To a thunder of love the twelve dancers arranged themselves, forming an arrow that pointed to us, Mother and Megan and the Inner Circle; and as one the dancers bowed. The arrow shape broke, the dancers formed a line and joined hands to acknowledge the continuing homage of us all.
The fete began. The platform that had held beauty and enchantment now was taken up by a lavish presentation of food and drink on numerous tables, and by three musicians, one strumming a multi-level, multi-stringed instrument, the other two electronically producing graceful melody and vibrant percussion.
The lights of Cybele had been extinguished. To the pulsing rhythms of the music women danced all around me, danced on the balconies and bridges, danced under the light of the gold moons and the torches that themselves danced with flame in the night breezes.
Mother had told us, “I’ll leave you dears to your silliness,” and had gone off to her house. Other members of the Inner Circle were availing themselves of food and drink, or were dancing. On a fleece-laid chaise before a small table with wine and a tray of fruit, I sat with Megan. This place had been made ready especially for her, positioned between two torches and with a fine view of the square and the activity.
Only one thing seemed strange to me now—and that was myself, not these women who danced in joyous embrace. How could the love among them, their loving relationships, have ever seemed strange to me?
I watched the dancers, thinking that of all the beautiful women I had seen this day, none was more beautiful to me than the woman whom I sat beside. . . thinking that with her straight slender shoulders, her slim hips and long legs she would be a willow-graceful dancer, beautiful to watch . . . to dance with . . .
I asked Megan, “Do you dance?”
“It would not be . . . appropriate.”
Again the isolation, from the women on this world who so adored her . . .
Minerva and Christa danced nearby, Christa magnificent in dark brown flowing silk shirt and pants, Minerva equally striking in an elegantly draped full-length sapphire tunic. All the women I could see around me wore fine and ornate garb for this night. Hand in hand, Minerva and Christa came over and sat with us, and I expressed again my great pleasure in the ballet.
“Historically,” Minerva said with pride, “achievement in the arts has always occurred late in the development of a new society. But we have come very far in only fifteen years.”
Christa smiled. “Think of our accomplishments if we hadn’t been so occupied with the problems of settling.”
Christa and Minerva had left us to dance again when Venus sauntered over, startlingly beautiful in satin turquoise pants and jacket with lapels edged in silver. She held out her hands. “Dance with me, Laurel.”
Automatically I took her hands and as if obedient to a hypnotic command began to rise—then caught myself. I love dancing, but knew now that Megan would be displeased if I danced with Venus. And so I released her hands and murmured, “I think not, thank you. I . . . I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” And truthfully I was tired, drained by the emotion of this day.
“Will you sit with us, Venus?” Megan asked courteously.
Venus accepted this invitation with a nod. “Laurel, you’ll be with us at least two weeks, I understand. Until your crew returns and decisions are made. Perhaps part of that time we could work together?”
I looked at Megan; this was not my choice to make.
“Plans haven’t been made yet about Lieutenant Meredith’s activities,” Megan said stiffly. “I must consult—”
“But perhaps she could work with me?”
“Perhaps.”
Vardis came up to us then, held out a commanding hand to Venus. Venus said coldly, “I wish to remain.”
“I’m taking Laurel back to Vesta’s,” Megan said easily, rising to her feet. “As she said, she’s tired.”
I hadn’t intended to cut short this evening with Megan, but I was helpless to prevent it. And so I wished Venus and her friend a good night. I felt isolated, cut adrift.
“Will I be seeing you tomorrow?” I asked disconsolately as Megan assisted me into the hovercraft.
“I’m fully occupied tomorrow. But perhaps . . . I’m fully occupied, as I said. You may enjoy spending more time with Minerva and Vesta, and among the books in our library.”
I had heard her hesitation, had heard very clearly the regret in her voice. As we landed at Vesta’s house an idea struck me and I blurted, “I wish to be useful here. I want to earn my way, contribute.”
She frowned slightly. “What would you like to do, then?”
“Be . . . of personal service to you?” I suggested, my idea still forming itself.
Her frown deepened. “I have no need of . . . personal service. Whatever that may be.”
“I’m well informed about advances in my field since you left Earth,” I said, searching my mind for any notions of how I might acceptably offer her my companionship. “I could perhaps give you information helpful to this world.”
“Whatever information you’re willing to give us in your specialty would be more appropriately directed to . . . others.”
“Fields other than my specialty,” I pushed on. “Perhaps not in technical depth, but even general information may be useful.”
“Any such information would be welcomed by our specialists in those fields.”
“Perhaps then I could assist you in personal matters you lack the time to—”
“Never. Never would I permit that. No woman on this world has such . . . assistance given her.”
&nb
sp; I played my final card, uncertain of its value. “Then I wish to work with Venus until my crew returns and decisions are made.”
After a moment she parried, “There are many other occupations on this world you could assist with. Time away from our fields of expertise can be beneficial, restful.”
“What occupation do you suggest, then?” I asked with immense satisfaction, seeing that my final card had value indeed.
She looked at me musingly. “Obviously, food gathering would not be suitable . . . Pottery? Metalworking?” I shook my head. “Clothes making,” she said hopefully. I shook my head vigorously, enjoying myself. “Music,” she said in triumph. “You can spend your time working on your wonderful music.”
“And contribute nothing to this world. Unless you allow me to play for you in the evening.”
She smiled. “That I would permit.”
“Composition soon exhausts me, and will take only a small part of my day. But cooking is interesting and enjoyable.” I spoke firmly, seeing that I was on solid ground, planning my strategy as I spoke. “For that part of the day I can assist Vesta. She prepares the evening meal for Mother and tells me she’s often hard pressed for time. I could at the same time prepare the evening meal for us both.”
She looked at me dubiously, considering.
“I’ll work with Vesta,” I stated, “work on my music, bring food and play for you in the evening, spend whatever spare time I have in the library. And that’s how I wish to use my time.” I opened the door of the hovercraft. “Or you must allow me to work with Venus.”
“We’ll try it,” she said, “for a day or two.”
VII
Personal Journal of Megan
15.1 .10
I clearly remember that first evening with Laurel . . .
I had come home after the kind of day that tires me most, a day of contentious discussion with Erika and Jolan over structural engineering of our new colony, and with Miri about appropriate ecological safeguards. I entered my house wearily, to find on a table next to my chaise a flagon of chilled wine and a tray of fresh vegetables crisply cooked in some manner—I know nothing about cooking—hot and delicious to my sampling. The message screen stated that in twenty minutes Laurel would bring my dinner. Smiling, I leaned forward expectantly on my chaise, enjoying the wine and tasty light snack.
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