But as they grew older she began to want more than just his friendship; even though she knew that it was wrong, and impossible. On the Lansing surface the mores of the tunnels were distorted by neurosis, or by need, until each person became literally responsible for his own actions, and endured whatever consequences followed. She had seen things that would have appalled her parents, and learned to see that they did no one any harm; to see that that was the only real criterion for what was right or wrong. And there were things that had made her afraid, once she understood them, and grateful that Shadow Jack slept beside her every night in the sweet cool grass or between the sheltering pillars of the abandoned state buildings.
But Shadow Jack would never touch her, never let her ease the anger and helpless resentment that never let him go. And helpless in her own futility, she kept her silence, knowing that it was wrong for a defective to want a husband; impossible, that Shadow Jack could ever love an ugly, clumsy cripple.…
Bird Alyn saw someone draw aside the insect netting and enter the lab, brushing aside grasping shrubs and vines. She struggled to her feet, trying to make the figure into Shadow Jack … heard a woman's voice call softly, “Claire?”
Bird Alyn stood on tiptoe, fading against the flowers in her green shirt and blue jeans. “What?” She teetered and almost dropped the dipstick. She clutched it against her side with her crippled hand. “Oh, Betha.”
Betha stared at her in return; shook her head, bemused and disconcerted.
Bird Alyn smiled, glancing down. “I—I thought it was Shadow Jack. He said he was goin' to come watch me work.…” Her smile collapsed.
”Pappy's got him cornered; he's showing him around up in the shop.” Betha touched a fern, pulled off a yellowed frond, pulling the dead past loose from the present. She looked back, concern showing on her tired, pale face. “Are you sure you want to do this, while we're still at one gee?”
Bird Alyn nodded. “It's all right. I sit down a lot, and just—watch, and smell, and listen. It's so long since I worked in the gardens. Do you mind?”
“No … no. You don't know how much I appreciate it. There's enough work on this ship for seven people. And—Clewell's not as young as he used to be.” The captain's eyes left her, searching the green shadows. “You have the perfect touch, Bird Alyn … I almost took you for a dryad when I came in.”
“What … what's that?”
“An enchanted forest spirit.” Betha smiled.
“Me?” Bird Alyn twisted the dipstick, laughed her embarrassment. “Oh, not me.… These plants take care of themselves, really, it's easy … not like Lansing … they look so different here, so thick and squat.…”
“These?” Betha looked up.
“On Lansing things keep growin' up, they don't know when to quit; it's tricky, the root systems have to go down to bedrock and catch hold … and with the mutations …” Bird Alyn faded, suddenly aware of her own voice.
Betha sat down on a tiled bench, reached out for the strangely shaped thing half-hidden under a fall of vine. “Claire's guitar. Claire used to run hydroponics, and she used to play for the plants. It's a musical instrument,” seeing Bird Alyn's puzzled expression. “We all used to come down here in the evenings, and sing. She used to claim the plants enjoyed the music, and the emotional communion. Of course, Lara would claim it was just the carbon dioxide they wanted … and Sean said it was the hot air.” Her mouth curved wistfully. “And Eric—Eric would say that it was probably a little of everything.…” Her hand rose to her face; Bird Alyn counted four plain golden rings, surprised, before it dropped again.
“How … um, how does it work?” She had known a girl once who had a whistle made from a reed. “The— guitar, I mean.” She leaned back against a heavy wooden shelf, pushed up onto its edge with an effort.
“I can't really give you a proper idea. Claire was an artist; I only know a few chords. But it's something like this ….” The captain settled the guitar across her lap, positioned her fingers on the strings. She stroked them tentatively.
Bird Alyn shivered. “Oh …”
Betha smiled; her fingers changed position on the strings and the shimmering water of sound altered. She began to sing—almost unconsciously, Bird Alyn thought—in a warm, clear voice merging with the flow of music:
Bird Alyn felt her throat tighten, looked down at her twisted hand, blinking hard.
She heard the captain take a long breath, caught in her own memories. “I'm sorry.” The clear voice strained slightly. “I should have found something a little more cheerful.”
“Please … will you—will you do some more?” Bird Alyn looked up.
Betha's face eased. “All right—they aren't much, just some old folk tunes. But it's a strange thing, the effect that everyone singing together had—the bond that grows between you, the feeling of unity. It gives you the strength to carry on, when things are hard. And it's hard to hate anyone when you're singing with them; hard to be angry.…
Bird Alyn leaned forward, like a flower leaning into the light. “Morningside must be a beautiful place!”
Betha made a sound that was not quite a laugh. “No, it's … Yes. Yes … in a way. In its own way.” Her fingers brushed the strings again.
“I wish I could do that.… Do you … know any love songs?” The captain looked up sharply; Bird Alyn realized that somehow she had said the wrong thing.
“I'll be glad to show you what guitar chords I know. Bird Alyn, if you want to learn to play. Maybe the plants miss it.”
Bird Alyn folded her arms. “I—I don't think I have enough fingers.…”
The captain's face froze with a second's embarrassed awkwardness. “Oh. Well, I think I can reverse the strings for you; I've seen a guitar played left-handed before. If you'd like me to?” She smiled again.
“Oh, yes!” Bird Alyn slipped down off of the shelf, left the dipstick hanging absently in the air. It slid through her nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. Instinctively a long bare foot stretched to pick it up; she lost her balance, and fell. “Lousy luck!” Sprawled on the floor, she fumbled after the rod, shook it and checked the readings, while a familiar hot flush crept up her face.
The captain came to her, caught her arms and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. “Are you all right?” Betha's hand brushed her arm reassuringly, as a mother might have touched her. “It takes a while, doesn't it, to break the habits of a lifetime.”
Bird Alyn looked down, confused by her solicitude. “Does anybody ever got used to this? If you're not born used to it, I mean.…”
Betha stepped back. “In time. Morningside's pull is less than one gee, but we've been at one gee on the ship for three years, and we don't even notice the difference anymore. I've read some Old World studies on one-gee adaptations from low gravity. It's possible, but it takes about a year—thirty or forty megaseconds—to get back to the minimum endurance you had at zero gee. And there are long-term stress effects on the body. But they decided
