at a signal, the young woman rolled over, stood up, and admired the flambok. She began humming a song familiar to Furuneo.
"I think you know I'm not lying," Abnethe said. "This is our secret, Furuneo. This is our discovery about the Calebans."
"But . . . how can . . ."
"Given the proper connectives, whatever they are, even the past is open to us. Only Fanny Mae of all the Calebans remains to link us with this past. No Taprisiot, no Bureau, nothing can reach us there. We can go there and free ourselves forever."
"This is a trick!" he said.
"You can see it isn't. Smell that flower, the sea."
"But why . . . what do you want?"
"Your assistance in a small matter, Furuneo. "
"How?"
"We fear someone will stumble on our secret before we're ready. If, however, someone the Bureau trusts is here to watch and report -- giving a false report . . ."
"What false report?"
"That there've been no more floggings, that Fanny Mae is happy, that . . ."
"Why should I do that?"
"When Fanny Mae reaches her . . . ultimate discontinuity, we can be far away and safe -- you with your beloved. Correct, Fanny Mae?"
"Truthful essence in statement," the Caleban said.
Furuneo stared through the jumpdoor. Mada! She was right there. She had stopped humming and was coating her body with a skin-protective. If the Caleban moved the door a little closer, he knew he'd be able to reach out and touch his beloved.
Pain in Furuneo's chest made him aware of a constriction there. The past!
"Am . . . I down there somewhere?" he asked.
"Yes," Abnethe said.
"And I'll come back to the yacht?"
"If that's what you did originally."
"What would I find, though?"
"Your bride gone, disappeared."
"But . . ."
"It would be thought that some creature of the sea or the jungle killed her. Perhaps she went swimming and . . ."
"She lived thirty-one years after that," he whispered.
"And you can have those thirty-one years all over again," Abnethe said.
"I . . . I wouldn't be the same. She'd . . ."
"She'd know you."
Would she really? he wondered. Perhaps -- yes. Yes, she'd know him. She might even come to understand the need behind such a decision. But he saw quite clearly that she'd never forgive him. Not Mada.
"With proper care she might not have to die in thirty-one years," Abnethe said.
Furuneo nodded, but it was a gesture only for himself.
She wouldn't forgive him any more than the young man returning to an empty yacht could forgive him. And that young man had not died.
I couldn't forgive myself, he thought. The young man I was would never forgive me all those lovely lost years.
"If you're worried," Abnethe said, "about changing the universe or the course of history or any such nonsense, forget it. That's not how it works, Fanny Mae tells me. You change a single, isolated situation, no more. The new situation goes off about its business, and everything else remains pretty much the same."
"I see."
"Do you agree to our bargain?" Abnethe asked.
"What?"
"Shall I have Fanny Mae pick her up for you?"
"Why bother?" he asked. "I can't agree to such a thing."
"You're joking!"
He turned, stared up at her, saw that she had a small jumpdoor open almost directly over his head. Only her eyes, nose, and mouth could be seen through the opening.
"I am not joking."
Part of her hand became visible as she lifted it, pointed toward the other door. "Look down there at what you're rejecting. Look, I say! Can you honestly tell me you don't want that back?"
He turned.
Mada had gone back to the hammock, snuggled face-down against a pillow. Furuneo recalled that he'd found her like that when he'd returned from the seadome.
"You're not offering me anything," he said.
"But I am! It's true, everything I've told you!"
"You're a fool," he said, "if you can't see the difference between what Mada and I had and what you offer. I pity . . ."
Something fiercely compressive gripped his throat, choked off his
"I think you know I'm not lying," Abnethe said. "This is our secret, Furuneo. This is our discovery about the Calebans."
"But . . . how can . . ."
"Given the proper connectives, whatever they are, even the past is open to us. Only Fanny Mae of all the Calebans remains to link us with this past. No Taprisiot, no Bureau, nothing can reach us there. We can go there and free ourselves forever."
"This is a trick!" he said.
"You can see it isn't. Smell that flower, the sea."
"But why . . . what do you want?"
"Your assistance in a small matter, Furuneo. "
"How?"
"We fear someone will stumble on our secret before we're ready. If, however, someone the Bureau trusts is here to watch and report -- giving a false report . . ."
"What false report?"
"That there've been no more floggings, that Fanny Mae is happy, that . . ."
"Why should I do that?"
"When Fanny Mae reaches her . . . ultimate discontinuity, we can be far away and safe -- you with your beloved. Correct, Fanny Mae?"
"Truthful essence in statement," the Caleban said.
Furuneo stared through the jumpdoor. Mada! She was right there. She had stopped humming and was coating her body with a skin-protective. If the Caleban moved the door a little closer, he knew he'd be able to reach out and touch his beloved.
Pain in Furuneo's chest made him aware of a constriction there. The past!
"Am . . . I down there somewhere?" he asked.
"Yes," Abnethe said.
"And I'll come back to the yacht?"
"If that's what you did originally."
"What would I find, though?"
"Your bride gone, disappeared."
"But . . ."
"It would be thought that some creature of the sea or the jungle killed her. Perhaps she went swimming and . . ."
"She lived thirty-one years after that," he whispered.
"And you can have those thirty-one years all over again," Abnethe said.
"I . . . I wouldn't be the same. She'd . . ."
"She'd know you."
Would she really? he wondered. Perhaps -- yes. Yes, she'd know him. She might even come to understand the need behind such a decision. But he saw quite clearly that she'd never forgive him. Not Mada.
"With proper care she might not have to die in thirty-one years," Abnethe said.
Furuneo nodded, but it was a gesture only for himself.
She wouldn't forgive him any more than the young man returning to an empty yacht could forgive him. And that young man had not died.
I couldn't forgive myself, he thought. The young man I was would never forgive me all those lovely lost years.
"If you're worried," Abnethe said, "about changing the universe or the course of history or any such nonsense, forget it. That's not how it works, Fanny Mae tells me. You change a single, isolated situation, no more. The new situation goes off about its business, and everything else remains pretty much the same."
"I see."
"Do you agree to our bargain?" Abnethe asked.
"What?"
"Shall I have Fanny Mae pick her up for you?"
"Why bother?" he asked. "I can't agree to such a thing."
"You're joking!"
He turned, stared up at her, saw that she had a small jumpdoor open almost directly over his head. Only her eyes, nose, and mouth could be seen through the opening.
"I am not joking."
Part of her hand became visible as she lifted it, pointed toward the other door. "Look down there at what you're rejecting. Look, I say! Can you honestly tell me you don't want that back?"
He turned.
Mada had gone back to the hammock, snuggled face-down against a pillow. Furuneo recalled that he'd found her like that when he'd returned from the seadome.
"You're not offering me anything," he said.
"But I am! It's true, everything I've told you!"
"You're a fool," he said, "if you can't see the difference between what Mada and I had and what you offer. I pity . . ."
Something fiercely compressive gripped his throat, choked off his
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