making you some tea.”
“I woke up and they were bending over me, looking down at me.”
“Quiet,” he said. “Be quiet. Rest. Relax. Take it easy. You can tell us later. Now everything’s all right.”
“Yes, all right,” she said.
For a time she said no more. Holding her, he felt a softening of the tension that had gripped her.
Finally she straightened up, pulling away from him. She sat upright and looked at him.
“That was frightening,” she said, speaking calmly. “I’ve never been so scared.”
“It’s all over now. What was it… a bad dream?”
“More than a dream. They were really there, hanging in the sky, bending from the sky. Let me get out of this bag and go over to the fire. You said Jurgens was making tea?”
“It’s brewed,” said Jurgens, “and poured for you. If I remember rightly, you use two spoons of sugar.”
“That is right,” she said. “Two spoons.”
“Would you wish a cup as well?” Jurgens asked Lansing.
“If you please,” said Lansing.
They sat together beside the fire with Jurgens crouched to one side. The wood Jurgens had piled on the fire was catching and the flames leaped high. They sipped their tea in silence.
Then she said, “I am not one of your flighty females. You know that.”
Lansing nodded. “Yes, indeed, I know. You can be as tough as nails.”
“I woke up,” she said. “A nice, easy waking up. Not jerked out of sleep. I was lying on my back so that when I woke, I was looking straight up at the sky.”
She had another sip of tea and waited, as if trying to steel herself to go on with what she had to say.
She set the cup on the ground and turned to face Lansing. “They were three,” she said, “the three of them—or I think there were three of them. There could have been four. Three faces. No other parts of their body.
Just faces. Big faces. Bigger than human faces, although I am sure they were human. They looked human. Three big faces in the sky, filling half the sky, looking down at me. And I thought how silly to think that I am seeing faces. I blinked my eyes, thinking it was my imagination and they would go away. But they didn’t go away. After I had blinked I could see them even better.”
“Easy,” said Lansing. “Take your time.”
“I am easy, dammit, and I am taking my time. You’re thinking hallucination, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You saw them if you say you saw them. Hard as nails, remember?”
Jurgens hunched forward and refilled the cups.
“Thank you, Jurgens,” she said. “You make splendid tea.”
Then she said, “There was nothing wrong with the faces. Nothing outrageous. Quite ordinary, now that I think of it. One of them had a beard. He was the young one, the other two were old. Nothing wrong with them, I said—not to start with. Then it began to seep into me. They were looking intently at me. Interested. The way one of us would be interested if we came across an odious insect, an abominable creature of some sort, a new sort of life. As if I weren’t a creature; as if I were a thing. There was, to start, what I thought might be a look of compassion for me, then I saw it wasn’t—it was, rather, a mingled contempt and pity and it was the pity that hurt the most. I could almost read their thoughts. My God, they were thinking, will you look at that! And then—and then…”
Lansing said nothing; he sensed that it was the time to say nothing.
“And then they turned their heads away. They didn’t go away. They only turned their heads away, dismissing me. As if I were beneath their notice, beneath contempt, unworthy of their pity. As if I were nothing—and, by extension, the human race was nothing. Condemning all of us to nothingness, although condemn may be too strong a word. We were not even worth their condemnation. We were a lowly form of which they would think no further.”
Lansing let out his breath. “For the love of God,” he said, “no wonder…”
“That is
“I woke up and they were bending over me, looking down at me.”
“Quiet,” he said. “Be quiet. Rest. Relax. Take it easy. You can tell us later. Now everything’s all right.”
“Yes, all right,” she said.
For a time she said no more. Holding her, he felt a softening of the tension that had gripped her.
Finally she straightened up, pulling away from him. She sat upright and looked at him.
“That was frightening,” she said, speaking calmly. “I’ve never been so scared.”
“It’s all over now. What was it… a bad dream?”
“More than a dream. They were really there, hanging in the sky, bending from the sky. Let me get out of this bag and go over to the fire. You said Jurgens was making tea?”
“It’s brewed,” said Jurgens, “and poured for you. If I remember rightly, you use two spoons of sugar.”
“That is right,” she said. “Two spoons.”
“Would you wish a cup as well?” Jurgens asked Lansing.
“If you please,” said Lansing.
They sat together beside the fire with Jurgens crouched to one side. The wood Jurgens had piled on the fire was catching and the flames leaped high. They sipped their tea in silence.
Then she said, “I am not one of your flighty females. You know that.”
Lansing nodded. “Yes, indeed, I know. You can be as tough as nails.”
“I woke up,” she said. “A nice, easy waking up. Not jerked out of sleep. I was lying on my back so that when I woke, I was looking straight up at the sky.”
She had another sip of tea and waited, as if trying to steel herself to go on with what she had to say.
She set the cup on the ground and turned to face Lansing. “They were three,” she said, “the three of them—or I think there were three of them. There could have been four. Three faces. No other parts of their body.
Just faces. Big faces. Bigger than human faces, although I am sure they were human. They looked human. Three big faces in the sky, filling half the sky, looking down at me. And I thought how silly to think that I am seeing faces. I blinked my eyes, thinking it was my imagination and they would go away. But they didn’t go away. After I had blinked I could see them even better.”
“Easy,” said Lansing. “Take your time.”
“I am easy, dammit, and I am taking my time. You’re thinking hallucination, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You saw them if you say you saw them. Hard as nails, remember?”
Jurgens hunched forward and refilled the cups.
“Thank you, Jurgens,” she said. “You make splendid tea.”
Then she said, “There was nothing wrong with the faces. Nothing outrageous. Quite ordinary, now that I think of it. One of them had a beard. He was the young one, the other two were old. Nothing wrong with them, I said—not to start with. Then it began to seep into me. They were looking intently at me. Interested. The way one of us would be interested if we came across an odious insect, an abominable creature of some sort, a new sort of life. As if I weren’t a creature; as if I were a thing. There was, to start, what I thought might be a look of compassion for me, then I saw it wasn’t—it was, rather, a mingled contempt and pity and it was the pity that hurt the most. I could almost read their thoughts. My God, they were thinking, will you look at that! And then—and then…”
Lansing said nothing; he sensed that it was the time to say nothing.
“And then they turned their heads away. They didn’t go away. They only turned their heads away, dismissing me. As if I were beneath their notice, beneath contempt, unworthy of their pity. As if I were nothing—and, by extension, the human race was nothing. Condemning all of us to nothingness, although condemn may be too strong a word. We were not even worth their condemnation. We were a lowly form of which they would think no further.”
Lansing let out his breath. “For the love of God,” he said, “no wonder…”
“That is
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