Picnic on Nearside (33 page)

“And what’s gravity? I forgot.” The child was rubbing her eyes
to stay awake. She struggled to understand but already knew she would miss the point yet another time.

“Gravity is the thing that holds the universe together. The glue, or the rivets. It pulls everything toward everything else, and it takes energy to fight it and overcome it. It feels like when we boost the ship, remember I pointed that out to you?”

“Like when everything wants to move in the same direction?”

“That’s right. So we have to be careful, because we don’t think about it much. We have to worry about where things are because when we boost, everything will head for the stern. People on planets have to worry about that all the time. They have to put something strong between themselves and the center of the planet, or they’ll go down.”

“Down.” The girl mused over that word, one that had been giving her trouble as long as she could remember, and thought she might finally have understood it. She had seen pictures of places where down was always the same direction, and they were strange to the eye. They were full of tables to put things on, chairs to sit in, and funny containers with no tops. Five of the six walls of rooms on planets could hardly be used at all. One, the “floor,” was called on to take all the use.

“So they use their legs to fight gravity with?” She was yawning now.

“Yes. You’ve seen pictures of the people with the funny legs. They’re not so funny when you’re in gravity. Those flat things on the ends are called feet. If they had peds like us, they wouldn’t be able to walk so good. They always have to have one foot touching the floor, or they’d fall toward the surface of the planet.”

Zoe tightened the strap that held the child to her bunk, and fastened the velcro patch on the blanket to the side of the sheet, tucking her in. Kids needed a warm, snug place to sleep. Zoe preferred to float free in her own bedroom, tucked into a fetal position and drifting.

“G’night, Mommy.”

“Good night. You get some sleep, and don’t worry about black holes.”

But the child dreamed of them, as she often did. They kept tugging at her, and she would wake breathing hard and convinced that she was going to fall into the wall in front of her.

“You don’t mean it? I’m rich!”

Xanthia looked away from the screen. It was no good pointing out that Zoe had always spoken of the trip as a partnership. She owned
Shirley
and
Lollipop
.

“Well, you too, of course. Don’t think you won’t be getting a real big share of the money. I’m going to set you up so well that you’ll be able to buy a ship of your own, and raise little copies of yourself if you want to.”

Xanthia was not sure that was her idea of heaven, but said nothing.

“Zoe, there’s a problem, and I . . . well, I was—” But she was interrupted again by Zoe, who would not hear Xanthia’s comment for another thirty seconds.

“The first data is coming over the telemetry channel right now, and I’m feeding it into the computer. Hold on a second while I turn the ship. I’m going to start decelerating in about one minute, based on these figures. You get the refined data to me as soon as you have it.”

There was a brief silence.

“What problem?”

“It’s talking to me, Zoe. The hole is talking to me.”

This time the silence was longer than the minute it took the radio signal to make the round trip between ships. Xanthia furtively thumbed the contrast knob, turning her sister-mother down until the screen was blank. She could look at the camera and Zoe wouldn’t know the difference.

Damn, damn, she thinks I’ve flipped. But I
had
to tell her.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Just what I
said
. I don’t understand it, either. But it’s been talking to me for the last hour, and it says the
damnedest
things.”

There was another silence.

“All right. When you get there, don’t do anything, repeat,
anything
, until I arrive. Do you understand?”

“Zoe, I’m not crazy. I’m
not
.”

Then why am I crying?

“Of course you’re not, baby, there’s an explanation for this and I’ll find out what it is as soon as I get there. You just hang on. My first rough estimate puts me alongside you about three hours after you’re stationary relative to the hole.”

Shirley
and
Lollipop
, traveling parallel courses, would both be veering from their straight-line trajectories to reach the hole. But Xanthia was closer to it; Zoe would have to move at a more oblique angle and would be using more fuel. Xanthia thought four hours was more like it.

“I’m signing off,” Zoe said. “I’ll call you back as soon as I’m in the groove.”

Xanthia hit the off button on the radio and furiously unbuckled her seatbelt. Damn Zoe, damn her, damn her,
damn her
. Just sit tight, she says. I’ll be there to explain the unexplainable. It’ll be all right.

She knew she should start her deceleration, but there was something she must do first.

She twisted easily in the air, grabbing at braces with all four hands, and dived through the hatch to the only other living space in
Lollipop
: the exercise area. It was cluttered with equipment that she had neglected to fold into the walls, but she didn’t mind; she liked close places. She squirmed through the maze like a fish gliding through coral, until she reached the wall she was looking for. It had been taped over with discarded manual pages, the only paper she could find on
Lollipop
. She started ripping at the paper, wiping tears from her cheeks with one ped as she worked. Beneath the paper was a mirror.

How to test for sanity? Xanthia had not considered the question; the thing to do had simply presented itself and she had done it. Now she confronted the mirror and searched for . . . what? Wild eyes? Froth on the lips?

What she saw was her mother.

Xanthia’s life had been a process of growing slowly into the mold Zoe represented. She had known her pug nose would eventually turn down. She had known what baby fat would melt away. Her breasts had grown just into the small cones she knew from her mother’s body and no farther.

She hated looking in mirrors.

Xanthia and Zoe were small women. Their most striking feature was the frizzy dandelion of yellow hair, lighter than their bodies. When the time had come for naming, the young clone had almost opted for Dandelion until she came upon the word
xanthic
in a dictionary. The radio call-letters for
Lollipop
happened to be
X-A-N, and the word was too good to resist. She knew, too, that Orientals were thought of as having yellow skin, though she could not see why.

Why had she come here, of all places? She strained toward the mirror, fighting her repulsion, searching her face for signs of insanity. The narrow eyes were a little puffy, and as deep and expressionless as ever. She put her hands to the glass, startled in the silence to hear the multiple clicks as the long nails just missed touching the ones on the other side. She was always forgetting to trim them.

Sometimes, in mirrors, she knew she was not seeing herself. She could twitch her mouth, and the image would not move. She could smile, and the image would frown. It had been happening for two years, as her body put the finishing touches on its eighteen-year process of duplicating Zoe. She had not spoken of it, because it scared her.

“And this is where I come to see if I’m sane,” she said aloud, noting that the lips in the mirror did not move. “Is she going to start talking to me now?” She waved her arms wildly, and so did Zoe in the mirror. At least it wasn’t that bad yet; it was only the details that failed to match: the small movements, and especially the facial expressions. Zoe was inspecting her dispassionately and did not seem to like what she saw. That small curl at the edge of the mouth, the almost brutal narrowing of the eyes . . .

Xanthia clapped her hands over her face, then peeked out through the fingers. Zoe was peeking out, too. Xanthia began rounding up the drifting scraps of paper and walling her twin in again with new bits of tape.

*   *   *

The beast with two backs and legs at each end writhed, came apart, and resolved into Xanthia and Zoe, drifting, breathing hard. They caromed off the walls like monkeys, giving up their energy, gradually getting breath back under control. Golden, wet hair and sweaty skin brushed against each other again and again as they came to rest.

Now the twins floated in the middle of the darkened bedroom. Zoe was already asleep, tumbling slowly with that total looseness possible only in free fall. Her leg rubbed against Xanthia’s belly and her relative motion stopped. The leg was moist. The room
was close, thick with the smell of passion. The recirculators whined quietly as they labored to clear the air.

Pushing one finger gently against Zoe’s ankle, Xanthia turned her until they were face to face. Frizzy blonde hair tickled her nose, and she felt warm breath on her mouth.

Why can’t it always be like this?

“You’re not my mother,” she whispered. Zoe had no reaction to this heresy. “You’re
not
.”

Only in the last year had Zoe admitted the relationship was much closer. Xanthia was now fifteen.

And what was different? Something, there had to be something beyond the mere knowledge that they were not mother and child. There was a new quality in their relationship, growing as they came to the end of the voyage. Xanthia would look into those eyes where she had seen love and now see only blankness, coldness.

“Oriental inscrutability?” she asked herself, half-seriously. She knew she was hopelessly unsophisticated. She had spent her life in a society of two. The only other person she knew had her own face. But she had thought she knew Zoe. Now she felt less confident with every glance into Zoe’s face and every kilometer passed on the way to Pluto.

Pluto.

Her thoughts turned gratefully away from immediate problems and toward that unimaginable place. She would be there in only four more years. The cultural adjustments she would have to make were staggering. Thinking about that, she felt a sensation in her chest that she guessed was her heart leaping in anticipation. That’s what happened to characters in tapes when they got excited, anyway. Their hearts were forever leaping, thudding, aching, or skipping beats.

She pushed away from Zoe and drifted slowly to the viewport. Her old friends were all out there, the only friends she had ever known, the stars. She greeted them all one by one, reciting childhood mnemonic riddles and rhymes like bedtime prayers.

It was a funny thought that the view from her window would terrify many of those strangers she was going to meet on Pluto. She’d read that many tunnel-raised people could not stand open spaces. What it was that scared them, she could not understand.
The things that scared her were crowds, gravity, males, and mirrors.

“Oh, damn. Damn! I’m going to be just
hopeless
. Poor little idiot girl from the sticks, visiting the big city.” She brooded for a time on all the thousands of things she had never done, from swimming in the gigantic underground disneylands to seducing a boy.

“To
being
a boy.” It had been the source of their first big argument. When Xanthia had reached adolescence, the time when children want to begin experimenting, she had learned from Zoe that
Shirley Temple
did not carry the medical equipment for sex changes. She was doomed to spend her critical formative years as a sexual deviate, a unisex.

“It’ll stunt me forever,” she had protested. She had been reading a lot of pop psychology at the time.

“Nonsense,” Zoe had responded, hard-pressed to explain why she had not stocked a viro-genetic imprinter and the companion Y-alyzer. Which, as Xanthia pointed out,
any
self-respecting home surgery kit should have.

“The human race got along for millions of years without sex changing,” Zoe had said. “Even after the Invasion. We were a highly technological race for hundreds of years before changing. Billions of people lived and died in the same sex.”

“Yeah, and look what they were like.”

Now, for another of what seemed like an endless series of nights, sleep was eluding her. There was the worry of Pluto, and the worry of Zoe and her strange behavior, and no way to explain anything in her small universe which had become unbearably complicated in the last years.

I wonder what it would be like with a man?

*   *   *

Three hours ago Xanthia had brought
Lollipop
to a careful rendezvous with the point in space her instruments indicated contained a black hole. She had long since understood that even if she ever found one she would never see it, but she could not restrain herself from squinting into the starfield for some evidence. It was silly; though the hole massed ten to the fifteenth tonnes (the original estimate had been off one order of magnitude) it was still only a fraction of a millimeter in diameter. She was staying
a good safe hundred kilometers from it. Still, you ought to be able to sense something like that, you ought to be able to
feel
it.

It was no use. This hunk of space looked exactly like any other.

“There is a point I would like explained,” the hole said. “What will be done with me after you have captured me?”

The question surprised her. She still had not got around to thinking of the voice as anything but some annoying aberration like her face in the mirror. How was she supposed to deal with it? Could she admit to herself that it existed, that it might even have feelings?

“I guess we’ll just mark you, in the computer, that is. You’re too big for us to haul back to Pluto. So we’ll hang around you for a week or so, refining your trajectory until we know precisely where you’re going to be, then we’ll leave you. We’ll make some maneuvers on the way in so no one could retrace our path and find out where you are, because they’ll know we found a big one when we get back.”

“How will they know that?”

“Because we’ll be renting . . . well,
Zoe
will be chartering one of those big monster tugs, and she’ll come out here and put a charge on you and tow you . . . say, how do you feel about this?’