wavering.
He bared the table, he banished the restaurant. They were
back in the glade. Through the transparent fabric of the world
he watched a hand moving along a panel. Buttons were being
pushed. The world grew substantial again. Their emptied table
was set beside the lake now, and it was still nighttime and
summer, and the tablecloth was very white under the glow of
the giant moon that hung overhead.
"That was stupid of me," he said. "Awfully stupid. I should
have introduced them one at a time. The actual sight of basic,
oral stimuli can be very distressing to a person seeing them for
the first time. I got so wrapped up in the Shaping that I forgot
the patient, which is just dandy! I apologize."
"I'm okay now. Really I am."
He summoned a cool breeze from the lake.
". . . And that is the moon," he added lamely.
She nodded, and she was wearing a tiny moon in the center
of her forehead; it glowed like the one above them, and her hair
and dress were all of silver.
The bottle of Romanee-Conti stood on the table, and two
glasses.
"Where did that come from?"
She shrugged. He poured out a glassful.
"It may taste kind of flat," he said.
"It doesn't. Here-" She passed it to him.
As he sipped it he realized it had a tastea fruite such as
might be quashed from the grapes grown in the Isles of the
Blest, a smooth, muscular charnu, and a capiteux centrifuged
from the fumes of a field of burning poppies. With a start, he
knew that his hand must -be traversing the route of the
perceptions, symphonizing the sensual cues of a transference
and a counter-transference which had come upon him all
unawares, there beside the lake.
"So it does," he noted, "and now it is time we returned."
"So soon? I haven't seen the cathedral yet . . ."
"So soon."
He willed the world to end, and it did.
"It is cold out there," she said as she dressed, "and dark."
"I know. I'll mix us something to drink while I clear the
unit."
"Fine."
He glanced at the tapes and shook his head. He crossed to his
bar cabinet.
"It's not exactly Romanee-Conti," he observed, reaching for
a bottle.
"So what? I don't mind."
Neither did be, at that moment. So he cleared the unit, they
drank their drinks, and he helped her into her coat and they
left.
As they rode the lift down to the sub-sub he willed the world
to end again, but it didn't.
Dad,
I hobbled from school to taxi and taxi to spaceport, for the
local Air Force ExhibitOutward, it was called. (Okay, I
exaggerated the hobble. It got me extra attention though.)
The whole bit was aimed at seducing young manhood into a
five-year hitch, as I saw it. But it worked. I wanna join up. I
wanna go Out There. Think they'll take me when I'm old
enuff? I mean take me Outnot some crummy desk job.
Think so?
I do.
There was this dam lite colonel ('scuse the French) who
saw this kid lurching around and pressing his nose 'gainst the
big windowpanes, and he decided to give him the subliminal
sell. Great! He pushed me through the gallery and showed
me all the pitchers of AP triumphs, from Moonbase to
Marsport. He lectured me on the Great Traditipns of the
Service, and marched me into a flic room where the Corps
had good clean fun on tape, wrestling one another in null-G
"where it's all skill and no brawn," and making tinted water
sculpture-work way in the middle of the air and doing
dismounted drill on the skin of a cruiser. Oh joy!
Seriously though. I'd like to be there when they hit the
Outer Fiveand On Out. Not because of the bogus balonus
in the throwaways, and suchlike crud, but because I think
someone of sensibility should be along to chronicle the thing
in the proper way. You know, raw frontier observer. Francis
Parkman. Mary Austin, like that. So I decided I'm going.
The AF boy with the chicken stuff on his shoulders wasn't
in the least way patronizing, gods bepraised. We stood on
the balcony and watched ships lift off and he told me to go
forth and study real
He bared the table, he banished the restaurant. They were
back in the glade. Through the transparent fabric of the world
he watched a hand moving along a panel. Buttons were being
pushed. The world grew substantial again. Their emptied table
was set beside the lake now, and it was still nighttime and
summer, and the tablecloth was very white under the glow of
the giant moon that hung overhead.
"That was stupid of me," he said. "Awfully stupid. I should
have introduced them one at a time. The actual sight of basic,
oral stimuli can be very distressing to a person seeing them for
the first time. I got so wrapped up in the Shaping that I forgot
the patient, which is just dandy! I apologize."
"I'm okay now. Really I am."
He summoned a cool breeze from the lake.
". . . And that is the moon," he added lamely.
She nodded, and she was wearing a tiny moon in the center
of her forehead; it glowed like the one above them, and her hair
and dress were all of silver.
The bottle of Romanee-Conti stood on the table, and two
glasses.
"Where did that come from?"
She shrugged. He poured out a glassful.
"It may taste kind of flat," he said.
"It doesn't. Here-" She passed it to him.
As he sipped it he realized it had a tastea fruite such as
might be quashed from the grapes grown in the Isles of the
Blest, a smooth, muscular charnu, and a capiteux centrifuged
from the fumes of a field of burning poppies. With a start, he
knew that his hand must -be traversing the route of the
perceptions, symphonizing the sensual cues of a transference
and a counter-transference which had come upon him all
unawares, there beside the lake.
"So it does," he noted, "and now it is time we returned."
"So soon? I haven't seen the cathedral yet . . ."
"So soon."
He willed the world to end, and it did.
"It is cold out there," she said as she dressed, "and dark."
"I know. I'll mix us something to drink while I clear the
unit."
"Fine."
He glanced at the tapes and shook his head. He crossed to his
bar cabinet.
"It's not exactly Romanee-Conti," he observed, reaching for
a bottle.
"So what? I don't mind."
Neither did be, at that moment. So he cleared the unit, they
drank their drinks, and he helped her into her coat and they
left.
As they rode the lift down to the sub-sub he willed the world
to end again, but it didn't.
Dad,
I hobbled from school to taxi and taxi to spaceport, for the
local Air Force ExhibitOutward, it was called. (Okay, I
exaggerated the hobble. It got me extra attention though.)
The whole bit was aimed at seducing young manhood into a
five-year hitch, as I saw it. But it worked. I wanna join up. I
wanna go Out There. Think they'll take me when I'm old
enuff? I mean take me Outnot some crummy desk job.
Think so?
I do.
There was this dam lite colonel ('scuse the French) who
saw this kid lurching around and pressing his nose 'gainst the
big windowpanes, and he decided to give him the subliminal
sell. Great! He pushed me through the gallery and showed
me all the pitchers of AP triumphs, from Moonbase to
Marsport. He lectured me on the Great Traditipns of the
Service, and marched me into a flic room where the Corps
had good clean fun on tape, wrestling one another in null-G
"where it's all skill and no brawn," and making tinted water
sculpture-work way in the middle of the air and doing
dismounted drill on the skin of a cruiser. Oh joy!
Seriously though. I'd like to be there when they hit the
Outer Fiveand On Out. Not because of the bogus balonus
in the throwaways, and suchlike crud, but because I think
someone of sensibility should be along to chronicle the thing
in the proper way. You know, raw frontier observer. Francis
Parkman. Mary Austin, like that. So I decided I'm going.
The AF boy with the chicken stuff on his shoulders wasn't
in the least way patronizing, gods bepraised. We stood on
the balcony and watched ships lift off and he told me to go
forth and study real
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