mind.
Uncle Keith, plus half the doctors, said that the kids were so accepting of the pribir only because of the chemical cascade in their brains triggered by their extra genes. Lillie knew that wasn’t so. She didn’t know why the others were going with the pribir—probably each person had their own reasons—but she knew why she was. And it wasn’t some chemical in her brain.
The light grew into a ship, soundless and not very big.
Lillie had always felt different. Nobody understood that, not even Uncle Keith. They all thought she was a normal girl, interested in movies and her friends and her grades and her clothes. And she was. But underneath, all the time and for as long as she could remember, was this other longing. She thought about things, like death and God and the pointlessness of people being born and living their lives and then dying, over and over through generations, without it meaning anything or going anywhere. What was the point of being alive?
She couldn’t accept the religious answers her mother had liked, a different one every week: Catholicism, Buddhism, Wiccans, evangelicals, whatever. In school they learned about evolution, but what good was evolution in giving life any meaning? None. And it was meaning she longed for. Sometimes the longing felt so sharp she couldn’t breathe.
She knew from books that she wasn’t the first person to feel like that. Over and over she read her favorites: Of Human Bondage, Steppenwolfe, Time Must Have a Stop. But Lillie didn’t know Somerset Maugham or Hermann Hesse or Aldous Huxley, and none of the people she did know seemed to have this same longing. Certainly not Uncle Keith or her old best friend Jenny, or Theresa, with whom she’d once tried to discuss all this. A mistake. Tess had only talked about babies being life continuing and how that was enough meaning. Lillie wasn’t much interested in babies. She wanted more than that.
But nobody else seemed to want—no, need—the universe to make sense. Why was that so weird? Why didn’t everybody see how important it was? Such as, only the foundation for how you lived your whole life!
The ship floated to the ground, soft as a feather. It was dull metal now, shaped like an egg and as big as a bus, which is what it probably was.
The pribir, Lillie figured, were her last chance.
A part of the egg’s side slid up. Jon took a step forward, hesitated, stepped back. Julie hid her face in her hands. Elizabeth’s prayers were suddenly audible: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, blessed art thou amongst women—”
Lillie seized Theresa with one hand and Julie with the other. Violently Theresa pulled away.
“I can’t!”
“Come on, Tessie, it’s just a few steps more.”
“No!” And Theresa turned and ran back to the dorm.
Lillie led Julie firmly toward the bus.
Sixty seats, jammed in worse than a Broadway balcony. Well, that made sense. The pribir didn’t know how many would be coming. They only had what Major Connington described as “one-way information flow.”
“At least the seats are shaped right,” Jason said. “Ow, Alex, get off my foot, you dork!”
They had all wondered what the pribir looked like. No pictures had come. That was something Lillie didn’t think she’d ever gotten Uncle Keith to understand: that the information the pribir smelled to them was pictures. The pictures formed in the brain somehow; they were just there, in exactly the same way a picture of an ice cream cone would be there if someone told you to think of an ice cream cone. “But what does it smell like?” everybody asked. It didn’t smell like anything. “Smelling to” someone wasn’t the same as “smelling.”’
“Everybody strap in,” Jon said.
Each seat had straps dangling from its sides. Lillie squeezed into a seat next to Julie, and immediately the seat molded itself to her shape. She jerked up, startled, then settled back down. The straps, which felt like firm jelly, also molded themselves around
Uncle Keith, plus half the doctors, said that the kids were so accepting of the pribir only because of the chemical cascade in their brains triggered by their extra genes. Lillie knew that wasn’t so. She didn’t know why the others were going with the pribir—probably each person had their own reasons—but she knew why she was. And it wasn’t some chemical in her brain.
The light grew into a ship, soundless and not very big.
Lillie had always felt different. Nobody understood that, not even Uncle Keith. They all thought she was a normal girl, interested in movies and her friends and her grades and her clothes. And she was. But underneath, all the time and for as long as she could remember, was this other longing. She thought about things, like death and God and the pointlessness of people being born and living their lives and then dying, over and over through generations, without it meaning anything or going anywhere. What was the point of being alive?
She couldn’t accept the religious answers her mother had liked, a different one every week: Catholicism, Buddhism, Wiccans, evangelicals, whatever. In school they learned about evolution, but what good was evolution in giving life any meaning? None. And it was meaning she longed for. Sometimes the longing felt so sharp she couldn’t breathe.
She knew from books that she wasn’t the first person to feel like that. Over and over she read her favorites: Of Human Bondage, Steppenwolfe, Time Must Have a Stop. But Lillie didn’t know Somerset Maugham or Hermann Hesse or Aldous Huxley, and none of the people she did know seemed to have this same longing. Certainly not Uncle Keith or her old best friend Jenny, or Theresa, with whom she’d once tried to discuss all this. A mistake. Tess had only talked about babies being life continuing and how that was enough meaning. Lillie wasn’t much interested in babies. She wanted more than that.
But nobody else seemed to want—no, need—the universe to make sense. Why was that so weird? Why didn’t everybody see how important it was? Such as, only the foundation for how you lived your whole life!
The ship floated to the ground, soft as a feather. It was dull metal now, shaped like an egg and as big as a bus, which is what it probably was.
The pribir, Lillie figured, were her last chance.
A part of the egg’s side slid up. Jon took a step forward, hesitated, stepped back. Julie hid her face in her hands. Elizabeth’s prayers were suddenly audible: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, blessed art thou amongst women—”
Lillie seized Theresa with one hand and Julie with the other. Violently Theresa pulled away.
“I can’t!”
“Come on, Tessie, it’s just a few steps more.”
“No!” And Theresa turned and ran back to the dorm.
Lillie led Julie firmly toward the bus.
Sixty seats, jammed in worse than a Broadway balcony. Well, that made sense. The pribir didn’t know how many would be coming. They only had what Major Connington described as “one-way information flow.”
“At least the seats are shaped right,” Jason said. “Ow, Alex, get off my foot, you dork!”
They had all wondered what the pribir looked like. No pictures had come. That was something Lillie didn’t think she’d ever gotten Uncle Keith to understand: that the information the pribir smelled to them was pictures. The pictures formed in the brain somehow; they were just there, in exactly the same way a picture of an ice cream cone would be there if someone told you to think of an ice cream cone. “But what does it smell like?” everybody asked. It didn’t smell like anything. “Smelling to” someone wasn’t the same as “smelling.”’
“Everybody strap in,” Jon said.
Each seat had straps dangling from its sides. Lillie squeezed into a seat next to Julie, and immediately the seat molded itself to her shape. She jerked up, startled, then settled back down. The straps, which felt like firm jelly, also molded themselves around
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