Patron of the Arts

At last she again turned her gaze toward me. Before she had a chance to speak I said, “I like you better when you are playing the Queen of Outer Space.”

She blinked and then broke into laughter and fell back against the cushioned couch. I liked her laughter, for it was full and unrestrained, and she could laugh at herself. Then she sobered and propped herself up, flipping back her long dark hair.

“You!” she said accusingly, her lips fighting a smile. “How do you know I am not the Queen of Space?”

I grinned at her. “I don’t. If anyone is qualified, you are . . . your majesty.”

“Well, I could be,” she said. “If Mars becomes free my father could be king.”

“You will be old and surrounded by grandchildren before Mars is terraformed and independent enough to stand alone. Don’t make it sound as if Mars were being ground under the heel of the Terran oppressors. You get more than your share.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Boy, you’re just no fun at all. I paint a pretty little fantasy and you rip it down. It would have been ever so nice to think that I might one day be the Queen of Mars.”

I shrugged. “There isn’t much romance in a democracy, is there?

No twin princes, no princesses stolen by gypsies, no men locked in iron spacesuits, no sudden revelations about lockets given at birth, no mistresses of the king dictating policy in bed . . .”

“You are still mocking me.”

“Yes, I am. I apologize.” The words were out before I thought. Brian Thorne never apologized. Not in words, anyway. People would think it a sign of weakness or indecision. It was nice not to have to be a robber baron all the time.

“Go to bed and dream of the ancient Martians,” I said. “They rose from their dusty tombs and entered you at birth. The last royal princess, Xotolyl the Fifteenth, is within you, guiding you. One day the chrysalis of this mortal flesh shall split and the first of the new Martian royalty shall be born!” Her eyes were shining and her lips parted.

“Great butterfly wings of gossamer dreams shall flutter again under the twin moons,” I said dramatically. “The ghosts of the distant, unknown past will gather around you, merging with those present, and they shall carry you to that hidden, ancient, untouched vault of time and mystery, where the long-dead lords of Mars made their sacrifices to the ageless gods, those gods that now sleep beneath the red sands. Mars will grow green again. The canals will flow with clear, life-giving water. The walls and battlements of olden times will rise, greater than before, and the curious barbicans will stand guard. There will be feasts of old wine and fresh fruit, there will be entertainments and marvels, and honors given.

“There will be you, in the glittering jeweled robes of the queen . .

. Nova the First, the Queen of Mars . . .”

There was a long pause as she stared at me in wonder. “My god,” she said softly. “You are totally mad!” She jumped up and threw herself into my lap, hugging me and laughing. She pulled back, looking at me, her eyes sparkling, her mouth a tongue’s length away. My hands were on her bare, smooth arms and I pulled her to me. She came without resisting, her face softening, her eyes closing. We kissed softly, without passion, but with a gentleness and a quiet loving. After a very long time she moved away slightly and said huskily,

“I did not give you permission to approach the throne. . .”

“I always was a rebel,” I said and brought her close for another kiss. It was longer and grew more intense. With a sudden low growl Nova grabbed me tighter and our kiss became hunger, and I responded. Then, after a long moment, she pulled back and looked at me with great seriousness, her dark, slanted eyes searching my face. Then with a kind of brisk, businesslike move she nodded, pushed herself out of my lap and started putting on her suit. I helped her and we did not say anything at all.

We floated up as she thrust herself into the bulky suit, and I buttoned up. Then she grabbed the edge of the hatch, grinned at me, slapped her faceplate shut, and hit the lock control. We went out and down the laser-cut passage, dipping and dodging like dolphins, laughing and grabbing at each other. We seized a line just in time to brake down and we reentered the central core in relative sobriety. Mine was the closer cabin, but there was Pelf, so we went on to Nova’s. She shared it with a nurse who rarely slept there, and it was on Nova’s narrow bunk that we first made love.

No two sexual encounters are exactly alike. Each couple has its interpersonal relationships spelled out in a different set of positions, a different sequence and rhythm, different “body English” and different words from the last couple and, indeed, from the last coupling of the same couple. Each orgasm rockets through the mind uniquely, caroming off memories and senses and fantasies in a different way each time. From the first Nova and I found that we fit. Not just the plumbing, nor the silent agreement of position or choice of act, but the time and place, the pace, the mood, whether gently and loving or frenetic and demanding. There are times when you make love and there are times when you fuck. We seemed attuned to one another in this and responded wordlessly, for words were not needed, nor would they be adequate.