The softer voice said something and Jory screamed, “That’s xenophobic bullshit and you know it! How in God’s name can an organism that must replenish itself once a week with available equipment, that hibernates for two months of the year, that can move no faster than a walk be dangerous? A creature like that is considerably less dangerous than most federal bureaucrats, Mr. Creighton-Mark. “
There was a silence. I stepped into the room.
The violence seemed to recede from Jory’s eyes, which twinkled suddenly in a smile. But the violence was still there; it was there in the rippling muscle of his jaw.
“This is my spou, Mr. Creighton-Mark,” he said. “Dorothea, this is the BIN—or at least a representative of it.” To the official, he said, “May I assume her feelings are admissible?”
The man ignored me and said, “She knows what’s at stake here?”
“Of course.” The anger glowed in Jory’s eyes again, the scar livid. “But why ask
The man ignored the sarcasm. He looked at me at last, and waited.
Helpless, I looked at Jory, found eyes burning with a passion I did not recognize. If love, love for what? If hatred, toward whom?
I nodded, found myself saying, “Of course,” and then repeating it. “Yes, of course.”
Again the violence receded from his eyes, only to be replaced by a distance I knew all too well, as he said:
“We are childless, Mr. Creighton-Mark. I was gone for fifteen years. My spou suspended for me. Our one pre-contract child is now twenty-nine. He’s a courteous young man, but he doesn’t know us, and couldn’t care less. Who could blame him? We abandoned him, did we not? We want to try again now—to be a family.”
My face burned. I could not look at either of them. How could Jory use me like this—against this man? How could he claim feelings he’d just never had!
When I finally did look at the visitor, I could not understand what I saw. His eyes were on Jory; his expression was chaos—as though nothing Jory had said had made any sense to him, as though Jory’s entire speech was the last thing he had expected to hear.
It was the look, I would realize later, of a man stunned by insanity, by the look of it, by the sound of it.
“I see,” the visitor said at last, expression fading, words full of a relinquishing fatigue.
It was over. Jory had somehow won. Parting amenities were exchanged, and as he left the official offered a platitude about government’s debt to those who serve its diplomatic and economic interests at great sacrifice. He stressed it—the word
The autonomous room was finished two weeks ago. The shipment of blood components arrived yesterday. I still have questions, dozens of basic ones, but there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ve used every possible tape available through interlibrary banks and manufacturer listings, and I will not risk further exposure by contacting more “experts.”
These remaining questions would worry me if Jory seemed at all anxious. But he is calm. He must feel we’re prepared.
We argued today about who should copter in to SFO to get him. I insisted that both of us should, but Jory said no, that would be unfair to both “the boy” and me. I did not understand this, and I said so. Jory said only, “I need some time to prepare him.”
I resent it, being excluded. Am I jealous already?
Jory took the copter to SFO this morning. I’ve been spending the day putting finishing touches on the special room, and on the refrigeration units with their blood substitutes and pharmaceutical stocks, all of which should allow us to control any Terran disease to which the poor thing might be susceptible. (I’ve done my homework. I’ve mustered up enough courage to phone two more exos—both at UC San Diego—to get the chemoprophylactic information we need. And I did it without making them suspicious, I am sure.)
They’re here and I never heard them arrive! I’ve been too involved in last-minute scurrying.
I try the covered patio first, expecting Jory’s voice, but I hear nothing. I start to turn, to head back toward the south patio, imagining that Jory has perhaps carried him down the cedar stairs toward our bedroom.
I see something, and stop.
A figure—it is in shadows under the patio beams. I cannot see it clearly, and what I do see makes no sense. It is too small to be Jory; it is
I walk toward it slowly, stopping at last.
My mouth opens.
I cannot speak; I cannot scream. I cannot even cry out in terror or joy.
It is a
He is thin, a little too thin, and he has Jory’s hatchet face. He has Jory’s blue-black hair.
He is, I know suddenly, more Jory than our Willi ever could have been.
