northwest horizon under the cool and distant canopy of the stars. A flock of sleeping boomerbirds rode the waves a hundred meters offshore. Bumblers, curled into fat balls, slept on the narrow margin of beach, gurgling occasionally in their alien dreams. The lights of the world of men seemed like an intrusion, a pimple of presumption on the face of the Pacifican night ‘‘Thinking deep thoughts, or just getting some air?” Roger Falkenstein had come up behind him, and was leaning against the back of one of the loungers, looking up at the stars. How long has he been standing there watching me? Royce wondered. And what’s the game now?
Dinner had been a peculiarly strained affair. The conversation had been dominated by Falkenstein and Golding, with Falkenstein egging Golding on with a profession of great interest in his rambling travelogue for the Cords, an interest that lacked real credibility, considering the source. Maria Falkenstein had thrown in just a line here and there, playing the dutiful foil to her husband. Carlotta had bristled with well-concealed hostility. Royce was reasonably sure that only he had recognized her long silences and her attempts at cross-conversation with Maria and Golding for what they were. Carlotta simply disliked Falkenstein on a deep gut-level, and no amount of logic, display of intellectual depth, or cool charm was going to change that Royce knew that he had behaved uncharacteristically, too— laying back from the conversation and observing the noninterplay of personalities, trying to sort out his own true reaction to Falkenstein from his reaction to Carlotta’s reaction, and not really succeeding.
“I guess maybe l’m just trying to figure you out,” Royce said, turning to face Falkenstein. “Carlotta really dislikes you, you know.”
Falkenstein smiled ruefully. “I’m not a machine,” he said. “I can sense that as easily as the next man. And you, Royce ... ?”
“I don’t know enough about you to decide. In fact, when you come right down to it, I don’t know a damn thing about you at all.”
Falkenstein walked over to the railing beside him. “Well, that’s one of the differences between men and women, isn’t it?” he said.
“Is it?” Royce asked. What in hell was this jocko talking about now?
“Carlotta has no more data than you do,” Falkenstein said. “Yet she’s frozen into an emotional stance while you reserve judgment. Call it a differential attitude toward logical uncertainty.”
Roger laughed. “I’m beginning to see why the Femocrats call you people faschochauvinist Fausts,” he said.
Falkenstein turned to face the sea, but his eyes gazed upwards at the stars. “Half-guilty,” he said. “We’re proud to identify ourselves with Faust. What was the man after, after all? Knowledge. Mastery of the universe. Transcen-dance of the naturally evolved order. The supremacy of man over matter, mind over unreason. Look up there, Royce. It goes on and on forever in space and time, and here we are, confined to a handful of stars, a few paltry years, a rulebook of physical parameters written without our consent and hardly for our benefit. Faust wasn’t satisfied with that, and neither are we. Look up there and think about it, Royce, and then try to tell me that Faust was no hero.”
Royce looked up into the interstellar abyss for a long moment, time without end, stars without number, worlds that had not yet felt the tread of man stretching away to infinity. This, he felt, was real, this was from the heart.
Falkenstein had taken him to the mountaintop of his own vision and tried to show him the view. Whether he had entirely succeeded or not, he had at least made the effort. Still .. .
Royce lowered his eyes from the brilliant hardness of the sky to the softly rolling sea, where boomerbirds slept peacefully on the waves awaiting the sunrise’s call to the air, where birds, fish, reptiles, and yes, men, might trust themselves to the embrace of a world
Dinner had been a peculiarly strained affair. The conversation had been dominated by Falkenstein and Golding, with Falkenstein egging Golding on with a profession of great interest in his rambling travelogue for the Cords, an interest that lacked real credibility, considering the source. Maria Falkenstein had thrown in just a line here and there, playing the dutiful foil to her husband. Carlotta had bristled with well-concealed hostility. Royce was reasonably sure that only he had recognized her long silences and her attempts at cross-conversation with Maria and Golding for what they were. Carlotta simply disliked Falkenstein on a deep gut-level, and no amount of logic, display of intellectual depth, or cool charm was going to change that Royce knew that he had behaved uncharacteristically, too— laying back from the conversation and observing the noninterplay of personalities, trying to sort out his own true reaction to Falkenstein from his reaction to Carlotta’s reaction, and not really succeeding.
“I guess maybe l’m just trying to figure you out,” Royce said, turning to face Falkenstein. “Carlotta really dislikes you, you know.”
Falkenstein smiled ruefully. “I’m not a machine,” he said. “I can sense that as easily as the next man. And you, Royce ... ?”
“I don’t know enough about you to decide. In fact, when you come right down to it, I don’t know a damn thing about you at all.”
Falkenstein walked over to the railing beside him. “Well, that’s one of the differences between men and women, isn’t it?” he said.
“Is it?” Royce asked. What in hell was this jocko talking about now?
“Carlotta has no more data than you do,” Falkenstein said. “Yet she’s frozen into an emotional stance while you reserve judgment. Call it a differential attitude toward logical uncertainty.”
Roger laughed. “I’m beginning to see why the Femocrats call you people faschochauvinist Fausts,” he said.
Falkenstein turned to face the sea, but his eyes gazed upwards at the stars. “Half-guilty,” he said. “We’re proud to identify ourselves with Faust. What was the man after, after all? Knowledge. Mastery of the universe. Transcen-dance of the naturally evolved order. The supremacy of man over matter, mind over unreason. Look up there, Royce. It goes on and on forever in space and time, and here we are, confined to a handful of stars, a few paltry years, a rulebook of physical parameters written without our consent and hardly for our benefit. Faust wasn’t satisfied with that, and neither are we. Look up there and think about it, Royce, and then try to tell me that Faust was no hero.”
Royce looked up into the interstellar abyss for a long moment, time without end, stars without number, worlds that had not yet felt the tread of man stretching away to infinity. This, he felt, was real, this was from the heart.
Falkenstein had taken him to the mountaintop of his own vision and tried to show him the view. Whether he had entirely succeeded or not, he had at least made the effort. Still .. .
Royce lowered his eyes from the brilliant hardness of the sky to the softly rolling sea, where boomerbirds slept peacefully on the waves awaiting the sunrise’s call to the air, where birds, fish, reptiles, and yes, men, might trust themselves to the embrace of a world
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