by John Varley
“Time to head for the hills?” Gaby suggested.
“Not yet. I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble from Wally, once he adjusts to the idea. They’ll see that we’re more valuable if they maintain good relations with us.
“But there’s one more thing I want to see before we go.”
She had been prepared for an emotional moment. It was, but not as bad as she had feared, and not in the way she had expected. Saying good-bye to Bill had been harder.
The wreck of Ringmaster was a sad, silent place. They walked through it without speaking, recognizing pieces here and there, more often unable to tell what a twisted hunk of metal had been.
The silver hulk gleamed dully in the beautiful afternoon of Hyperion, partly embedded in the dusty ground like a robot King Kong after the fall. Already the grasses had established a foothold in the turned soil. Vines crept over shattered components. A single yellow flower bloomed in the center of what had been Cirocco’s command console.
She had hoped to find some memento of her former life, but she had never been acquisitive and had brought little of a personal nature with her. The few photos would have been eaten, along with the log book and the envelope of newspaper clippings. It would have been nice to come across her class ring—she could see it sitting on the shelf beside her bunk where she had last removed it—but the chances were against it.
They saw a crewman from Unity some distance away from them. He was clambering over the wreckage, pointing his camera and snapping indiscriminately. Cirocco thought he was the ship’s photographer, then realized he was doing it on his own time, with his own camera. She saw him pick up an object and put it in his pocket.
“Come back here in fifty years,” Gaby observed, “they’re likely to have carted it all away.” She looked around speculatively. “This looks like a nice spot for a souvenir stand. Sell film and hot dogs; you’d do pretty good.”
“You don’t think that’ll happen, do you?”
“It’s up to Gaea, I guess. She did say she’d let people visit. That means tourism.”
“But the cost …”
Gaby laughed. “You’re still thinking of the Ringmaster days, Captain. It was all we could do then to get seven of us out here. Bill says Unity has a crew of 200. How would you have liked to get the film concession at O’Neil One thirty years ago?”
“I’d be rich by now,” Cirocco conceded.
“If there’s a way to get rich here, somebody’ll do it. So why don’t you make me Minister of Tourism and Conservation? I’m not sure how I like the role of sorcerer’s apprentice.”
Cirocco grinned. “You’ve got it. Try to keep the bribes and nepotism down to a minimum, will you?”
Gaby swept her arm in a circle, a far-away look in her eyes.
“I can see it now. We’ll put the taco stand over there—a classical Greek motif, naturally—and we can sell Gaeaburgers and milk shakes. I’ll keep the billboards down to fifty meters, tops, and limit the use of neon. ‘See the angels! Smell the breath of God! Shoot the rapids on the Ophion! This way to the centaur rides, only one thin sawbuck! Don’t forget to bring—’”
She yelped and danced to one side as the ground moved.
“I was kidding, damn it!” she yelled at the sky, then looked suspiciously at Cirocco, who was laughing.
An arm came from the spot where Gaby had been standing. Loose dirt shifted to reveal a face, and a mop of multi-colored hair.
They knelt and brushed sand away from the Titanide as she coughed and spit, until she had managed to free her torso and front legs. She paused to gather strength, and looked curiously at the two women.
“Hello,” Hornpipe sang. “Who are you?”
Gaby got to her feet and held out her hand.
“You really don’t remember us, do you?” she sang.
“I recall something. It does seem as if I knew you. Didn’t you give me some wine, long ago?”
“I did,” Gaby sang. “And you returned the favor.”
“Come out of there, Hornpipe,” Cirocco sang. “You could use a bath.”
“I remember you, too. But how do you manage to stay balanced for so long without falling over?”
Cirocco laughed.
“I wish I knew, kid.”
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Books by John Varley
The Ophiuchi Hotline
The Persistence of Vision
Picnic on Nearside
(formerly titled The Barbie Murders)
Millennium
Blue Champagne
Steel Beach
The Golden Globe
Red Thunder
Mammoth
Red Lightning
Rolling Thunder
Slow Apocalypse
The Gaean Trilogy
Titan
Wizard
Demon
The John Varley Reader: Thirty Years of Short Fiction