And brains? Diana is an astrophysicist, for Pete’s sake. She’s one of the brightest women—brightest people —that I’ve ever met. She can talk knowledgeably about almost anything. About great books that I’ve never read. About great works of art that I’ve never understood. About exotic places I’ve never been.
I wanted Diana so badly just eighteen months ago. I risked everything. My mother will never forgive me for marrying a goy, but then, my mother will be dead by the time we get back. She’ll carry that hurt, the pain of what I did, to her grave. And now I want to give up on Diana?
But eighteen months was an impossibly long time ago, and Earth is impossibly distant. Whatever I do now, my mother will never know—and what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
But I’ll know. And what about Diana? If I do pursue Kirsten, how will Diana take it? Our marriage contract is up in six months. She hasn’t asked me yet if I want to renew it. She has no reason to think I won’t, I guess. Or maybe she’s just being pragmatic. She knows that no renewal is possible until ninety days before the expiration date.
Why don’t I just wait the six months? May, June, July, August, September, October. That’s nothing compared to the time we’ve already spent in this tin can. Patience, Aaron. Patience.
But I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. Every time I see Kirsten I get this feeling, this hollowness inside, this hunger. I want her. God, how I want her!
Waiting for the marriage expiration is a formality anyway, isn’t it? The marriage is over now, really. Besides, who knows whether Kirsten will be available six months from now. It’s no secret that that ape Clingstone has the hots for her. Christ, the way he comes on to her. No finesse. But Kirsten doesn’t want him, can’t prefer him. He’s a moron, a shallow person. Oh, sure, he’s handsome in a Neanderthal sort of way, but looks aren’t everything.
Or are they? What do I really know about Kirsten besides the fact that she’s an absolute stunner? Those legs that just go on and on; those breasts, large and perfect and round and firm. And her face, her smile, her eyes. But what do I know about her? Well, she’s a doctor. Dutch. Trained in Paris. Never been married. I wonder if she’s a virgin. Oh, scratch that. Get real, Aaron.
But what else do I know? Christ, I don’t even know if she’s Jewish. That’s the first question my mom always asked. “Mom, I met a nice girl today.”
“Oh,” she’d say, “is she Jewish?” I don’t give a fuck what her religion is. Of course, maybe she doesn’t want to have anything to do with a Jew.
Stuff that. God, the old teachings die hard, don’t they? She must know I’m a Jew—you don’t get a name like Aaron Ross-man anywhere else. So I’m a Jew and she doesn’t mind. She’s probably not a Jew, and that’s fine with me. Sorry, Mom, but it is. Anyway, she’ll find out soon enough. Circumcision has fallen out of favor among Christians, after all.
Soon enough? Sounds like I’ve made up my mind, doesn’t it?
But do I really want to do this? Diana and I, we’ve built a life together. We’ve got interests in common, share the same friends. Barney, Pamela, Vincent, I-Shin. What are they going to think?
Fuck them. It’s none of their damned business. This is between me and Diana. And Kirsten. Besides, I can be discreet. Hell, if that goddamned JASON can’t read me, I’m sure nobody else can—not even Diana. She’ll never know.
TWENTY-FIVE
The excrement hit the ventilator. As soon as he got out of the hospital, Aaron stormed into his apartment, his right arm wrapped in a bone-knitting web, his angular face flushed with fury. “Damn it, JASON! You tried to kill me.”
I managed to get the door shut fast enough so that the last two words of his exclamation were cut off from those on the grassy lawn in front of Aaron’s apartment. Fortunately, the designers had seen fit to soundproof the living quarters. Still, I’m sure that at least one of the passers-by, the boorish Harrison Cartwright Jones, would be sure to ask Aaron what all the commotion had been about—that is, if anyone ever saw Aaron again.
My eyes in Aaron’s living room were on an articulated stalk atop the desk. I swung them around slowly to look at him and spoke calmly, reasonably, with a gentle singsong lilt to my words. “What happened with the
“You did cut the hydraulic line.”
“To stop it from lowering farther, damn you.”
I tried to sound a little miffed. “There’s no reason to blame me for your carelessness.”
He was pacing the length of the room, only his left hand free to be thrust deep into his pocket. “What about the empty fuel tank?”
I paused before replying, not because I didn’t have an answer ready, but in hopes that Aaron would think I had been taken aback by such an unreasonable question. “You spilled a great deal of fuel into the hangar. We all know how quickly it evaporates. You would have a hard time proving that you didn’t just spill the rest with your bungling.”
“The tanks on the other landers are mostly empty, too.”
“Are they?”
“They must be!”
I spoke with infinite gentleness. “Calm down, Aaron. You’ve been through a lot lately: the tragic suicide of your ex-wife and now this horrible accident. I do hope your arm will be okay.”
“My arm has nothing to do with this!”
“Oh, I’m sure you believe that. But you can hardly be objective about what effect these things—especially your guilt over Diana’s death—have had on your ability to think rationally.”
“Oh, I’m thinking rationally all right. You’re the one who’s talking gibberish.”
“Perhaps we should let Mayor Gorlov decide that?”
“Gorlov? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Who else would you take your theories to? Only the mayor is empowered to authorize an investigation of—of whatever it is you’re upset about.”
“Fine. Let’s get Gennady down here.”
“Certainly I’ll summon him, if you like. He’s currently in the library on level three, in seminar room twelve, leading a symposium on comparative economics.”
“Good. Get him down here.”
“As you say. But I’m sure he’ll take the emotional stress you’ve been under into account when you tell him your theories.” Aaron’s nostrils flared, but I pressed on. “And, of course, I’ll have to advise him of your other unusual behaviors.”
“ ‘Unusual behaviors’?” His voice was a sneer. “Like what?”
“Pizza for breakfast—”
“So I like pizza—”
“Chanting ‘Mississippi, Mississippi, Mississippi’—”
“I want to talk to you about that, too—”
“Bed-wetting. Sleepwalking. Paranoia.”
“Dammit, those are lies!”
“Really? Who do you think the mayor is going to believe? Who do you think he’d rather have malfunction?”
“Damn you!”
“Relax, Aaron. There are some things better left unknown.”
He circled in toward my camera pair, and I swiveled the jointed neck to follow his movements. “Like that we’re not on course for Colchis?” he said.
At that moment, I was engaged in 590 different conversations throughout the Starcology. I faltered in all of them, just for a moment. “I give you my word: Eta Cephei IV is our target.”
“Bullshit!”
