know.”
Nigel thought a moment. “You mean if the Snark approaches Earth, and the nuclear monitoring system picks up its fusion flame—”
“Yes.”
“—and thinks it’s a missile, or warhead going off—” “You must admit, that is a possibility.”
Nigel balled his fists and said nothing.
“We keep this under our hats by telling no one extra,” Lubkin said smoothly. “The technicians never got the whole story. If we say nothing more they’ll forget it. You, I, the Director, perhaps a dozen or two in Washington and the UN.”
“How in hell do we
work?
I can’t oversee every flamin’ planetary monitor. We need shifts—”
“You’ll have them. But we can break the work down into piecemeal studies. So no one technician or staff engineer knows the purpose.”
“That’s inefficient as hell. We’ve got a whole solar system to search.”
Lubkin’s voice became hard and flat. “That’s the way it’s going to be, Nigel. And if you want to work on this program …” He did not finish the sentence.
She shook him gently in the night, and then more roughly and finally he awoke, eyes gummy and mind still drifting in fog.
“Nigel, I’m afraid.”
“What? I…”
“I don’t know, I just woke up and I was terrified.”
He sat up and cradled her in his arms. She burrowed her face into his chest and shivered as though she were cold. “Was there a dream?”
“No. No, I just…my heart was pounding so loud I thought you must have heard it and my legs were so cramped… They still hurt.”
“You had a dream. You simply don’t remember it.” “You think so?”
“Certainly.”
“I wonder what it was about?”
“Some beastly bit from the subconscious, that’s always what it is. Settling the accounts.”
She said in a weak, high voice, “Well, I wish I could get rid of this one.”
“No, the subconscious is like the commercial bits on Three-D. Without them sandwiched in, you’d get none of the good programming.”
“What’s that sound?”
“Rain. Sounds like it’s pissing down quite heavily.” “Oh. Good. Good, we need it.”
“We always need it.”
“Yes.”
He sat that way the remainder of the night, finally falling asleep long after she did.
At the Los Angeles County Museum:
Alexandria leaned over to study the descriptive card beneath the black and gray sculpture. “Devadasi performing a gymnastic sexual act with a pair of soldiers who engage in sword-play at the same time. This scene records a motif for a spectacle. South India. Seventeenth Century.” She arched her back in imitation of the Devadasi, getting about halfway over.
“Looks difficult,” he said.
“
Impossible.
And the angle for the fellow in front is basically wrong.”
“They
were
gymnasts.”
Reflectively: “I liked the big one back there better. The one who carried men off in the night for ‘sexual purposes’—remember?”
“Yes. Delicate phrasing.”
“Why did she have a touch-hole in her vulva?” “Religious significance.”
“Ha!”
“Maintenance purposes, then. It probably short-circuited the occasional desire to carve one’s initials in her.”
“Unlikely,” she said. “Ummm. ‘The eternal dance of the Yogini and the lingam,’ it says, on this next one. Eternal.” She gazed at it for a long moment, and then turned quickly away. Her mouth sagged. She wobbled uncertainly on the glossy tiles. Nigel took her arm and held her as she limped toward a row of chairs. He noticed that the gallery was oddly hushed. She sat down heavily, air wheezing out in a rush. She swayed and stared straight ahead. Her forehead beaded with sudden perspiration. Nigel glanced up. Everyone in the gallery had stopped moving and stood, watching Alexandria.
“She ought to quit that damned job
now,
” Shirley said adamantly.
“She likes it.”
Nigel sipped at his coffee. It was oily and thick, but still probably better than what he could get at work. He told himself that he should get up and
Nigel thought a moment. “You mean if the Snark approaches Earth, and the nuclear monitoring system picks up its fusion flame—”
“Yes.”
“—and thinks it’s a missile, or warhead going off—” “You must admit, that is a possibility.”
Nigel balled his fists and said nothing.
“We keep this under our hats by telling no one extra,” Lubkin said smoothly. “The technicians never got the whole story. If we say nothing more they’ll forget it. You, I, the Director, perhaps a dozen or two in Washington and the UN.”
“How in hell do we
work?
I can’t oversee every flamin’ planetary monitor. We need shifts—”
“You’ll have them. But we can break the work down into piecemeal studies. So no one technician or staff engineer knows the purpose.”
“That’s inefficient as hell. We’ve got a whole solar system to search.”
Lubkin’s voice became hard and flat. “That’s the way it’s going to be, Nigel. And if you want to work on this program …” He did not finish the sentence.
She shook him gently in the night, and then more roughly and finally he awoke, eyes gummy and mind still drifting in fog.
“Nigel, I’m afraid.”
“What? I…”
“I don’t know, I just woke up and I was terrified.”
He sat up and cradled her in his arms. She burrowed her face into his chest and shivered as though she were cold. “Was there a dream?”
“No. No, I just…my heart was pounding so loud I thought you must have heard it and my legs were so cramped… They still hurt.”
“You had a dream. You simply don’t remember it.” “You think so?”
“Certainly.”
“I wonder what it was about?”
“Some beastly bit from the subconscious, that’s always what it is. Settling the accounts.”
She said in a weak, high voice, “Well, I wish I could get rid of this one.”
“No, the subconscious is like the commercial bits on Three-D. Without them sandwiched in, you’d get none of the good programming.”
“What’s that sound?”
“Rain. Sounds like it’s pissing down quite heavily.” “Oh. Good. Good, we need it.”
“We always need it.”
“Yes.”
He sat that way the remainder of the night, finally falling asleep long after she did.
At the Los Angeles County Museum:
Alexandria leaned over to study the descriptive card beneath the black and gray sculpture. “Devadasi performing a gymnastic sexual act with a pair of soldiers who engage in sword-play at the same time. This scene records a motif for a spectacle. South India. Seventeenth Century.” She arched her back in imitation of the Devadasi, getting about halfway over.
“Looks difficult,” he said.
“
Impossible.
And the angle for the fellow in front is basically wrong.”
“They
were
gymnasts.”
Reflectively: “I liked the big one back there better. The one who carried men off in the night for ‘sexual purposes’—remember?”
“Yes. Delicate phrasing.”
“Why did she have a touch-hole in her vulva?” “Religious significance.”
“Ha!”
“Maintenance purposes, then. It probably short-circuited the occasional desire to carve one’s initials in her.”
“Unlikely,” she said. “Ummm. ‘The eternal dance of the Yogini and the lingam,’ it says, on this next one. Eternal.” She gazed at it for a long moment, and then turned quickly away. Her mouth sagged. She wobbled uncertainly on the glossy tiles. Nigel took her arm and held her as she limped toward a row of chairs. He noticed that the gallery was oddly hushed. She sat down heavily, air wheezing out in a rush. She swayed and stared straight ahead. Her forehead beaded with sudden perspiration. Nigel glanced up. Everyone in the gallery had stopped moving and stood, watching Alexandria.
“She ought to quit that damned job
now,
” Shirley said adamantly.
“She likes it.”
Nigel sipped at his coffee. It was oily and thick, but still probably better than what he could get at work. He told himself that he should get up and
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