Fantastic Stories Presents the Fantastic Universe Super Pack. Roger DeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
the miracle of snow (which I had never seen before; not many planets have as much water vapor in their atmospheres as Earth does.) in summer weather seemed trivial in comparison to what had happened to me.
Trivial, but beautiful. I was afraid it would be very cold, but it wasn’t.
I had gathered, from the weather-talk in the place where I ate breakfast, that in this mountain-country (it was considered to be very high altitude there), snow at night and hot sun in the afternoon was not infrequent in the month of April, though it was unusual for May.
It was beautiful to look at, and nice to walk on, but it began melting as soon as the sun was properly up, and then it looked awful. The red dirt there is pretty, and so is the snow, but when they began merging into each other in patches and muddy spots, it was downright ugly.
Not that I cared. I ate oatmeal and drank milk and nibbled at a piece of toast, and tried to plan my activities for the day. To the library first, and take back the book they’d lent me. Book . . . all right then, get a book on sex. But that was foolish; I knew all about sex. At least I knew . . . well, what did I know? I knew their manner of reproduction, and . . . .
Just why, at that time and place, I should have let it come through to me, I don’t know. I’d managed to stay in a golden daze from the time in the Garden till that moment, refusing to think through the implications of what Larry said.
Sex. Sex is mating and reproduction. Dating and dancing and kissing are parts of the courtship procedure. And the television shows all stop with kissing, because the mating itself is taboo. Very simple. Also very taboo.
Of course, they didn’t say I couldn’t. They never said anything about it at all. It was just obvious. It wouldn’t even work. We were different, after all.
Oh, technically, biologically, of course, we were probably cross-fertile, but . . . .
The whole thing was so obviously impossible!
They should have warned me. I’d never have let it go this far, if I’d known.
Sex. Mating. Marriage. Tribal rites. Rituals and rigamaroles, and stay here forever. Never go back.
Never go back?
There was an instant’s sheer terror, and then the comforting knowledge that they wouldn’t let me do that. I had to go back.
Baby on a spaceship?
Well, I was a baby on a spaceship, but that was different. How different? I was older. I wasn’t born there. Getting born is complicated. Oxygen, gravity, things like that. You can’t raise a human baby on a spaceship . . . . Human? What’s human? What am I? Never mind the labels. It would be my baby . . . .
I didn’t want a baby. I just wanted Larry to hold me close to him and kiss me.
*
I drove downtown and on the way to the library I passed a bookstore, so I stopped and went in there instead. That was better. I could buy what I wanted, and not have to ask permission to take it out, and if there was more than one, I could have all I wanted.
I asked the man for books about sex. He looked so startled, I realized the taboo must apply on the verbal level too.
I didn’t care. He showed me where the books were, and that’s all that mattered. “Non-fiction here,” he said. “That what you wanted, Miss?”
Non-fiction. Definitely. I thanked him, and picked out half a dozen different books. One was a survey of sexual behavior and morals; another was a manual of techniques; one was on the psychology of sex, and there was another about abnormal sex, and one on physiology, and just to play safe, considering the state of my own ignorance, one that announced itself as giving a “clear simple explanation of the facts of life for adolescents.”
I took them all to the counter, and paid for them, and the man still looked startled, but he took the money. He insisted on wrapping them up, though, before I could leave.
*
The next part of this is really Larry’s story, but unable as I am, even now, to be certain about his unspoken thoughts, I can only tell it as I experienced it. I didn’t do anything all that day, except wade through the books I’d bought, piece-meal, reading a few pages here and a chapter there. The more I read, the more confused I got. Each writer contradicted all the others, except in regard to the few basic biological facts that I already knew. The only real addition to my factual knowledge was the information in the manual of technique about contraception—and that was rather shocking, even while it was tempting.
The mechanical contrivances these people made use of were foolish, of course, and typical of the stage of culture they are going through. If I wanted to prevent conception, while engaging in an act of sexual intercourse, I could, do so, of course, but . . . .
The shock to the glandular system wouldn’t be too severe; it was the psychological repercussions I was thinking about. The idea of pursuing a course of action whose sole motivation was the procreative urge, and simultaneously to decide by an act of will to refuse to procreate . . . .
I could do it, theoretically, but in practice I knew I never would.
I put the book down and went outside in the afternoon sunshine. The motel was run by a young married couple, and I watched the woman come out and put her baby in the playpen. She was laughing and talking to it; she looked happy; so did the baby.
But I wouldn’t be. Not even if they let me. I couldn’t live here and bring up a child—children?—on this primitive, almost barbaric, world. Never ever be able fully to communicate with anyone. Never, ever, be entirely honest with anyone.
Then I remembered what it was like to be in Larry’s arms, and wondered what kind of communication I could want that might surpass that. Then I went inside and took a shower and began to dress for the evening.
It was too early to get dressed. I was ready too soon. I went out and got in the car, and pulled out onto the highway and started driving. I was halfway up the mountain before I knew where I was going, and then I doubled my speed.
I was scared. I ran away.
*
There was still some snow on the mountain top. Down below, it would be warm yet, but up there it was cold. The big empty house was full of dust and chill and I brought fear in with me. I wished I had known where I was going when I left my room; I wanted my coat. I wanted something to read while I waited. I remembered the library book and almost went back. Instead, I went to the dark room in back that had once been somebody’s kitchen, and opened the cupboard and found the projector and yelled for help.
I didn’t know where they were, how far away, whether cruising or landed somewhere, or how long it would take. All I could be sure of was that they couldn’t come till after dark, full dark, and that would be, on the mountain top, at least another four hours.
There was a big round black stove in a front room, that looked as if it could burn wood safely. I went out and gathered up everything I could find nearby that looked to be combustible, and started a fire, and began to feel better. I beat the dust off a big soft chair, and pulled it over close to the stove, and curled up in it, warm and drowsy and knowing that help was on the way.
I fell asleep, and I was in the car with Larry again, in front of that hotel, every cell of my body tinglingly awake, and I woke up, and moved the chair farther back away from the fire, and watched the sun set through the window—till I fell asleep again, and dreamed again, and when I woke, the sun was gone, but the mountain top was brightly lit. I had forgotten about the moon.
I tried to remember what time it rose and when it set, but all I knew was it had shone as bright last night in the Garden of the Gods.
I walked around, and went outside, and got more wood, and when it was hot in the room again, I fell asleep, and Larry’s hands were on my shoulders, but he wasn’t kissing me.
He was shouting at me. He sounded furious,