CV

13

From his position in the midst of the electrical network of the man’s brain, he could see another person approaching. It was time to go; he felt the tug of new adventure. He slipped out and for a dizzy instant was only an energy pattern aware of other patterns in space, a perilous dark field that stretched to infinity. He moved to the nearest one, merged with it, slipped in, and again she experienced that incredible flood of sensory information, the vivid colors, the scents, the friction of clothes against her body, the tightness of undergarments and shoes, the sounds, the signals that told her the positions of her limbs. The shock was so great that her knees went weak for an instant and she almost fell. When she came upright again, she saw the man lying on the floor, eyes half-open, mouth slack. It was always that way when she left; she could hold them together while she was inside, and even make some simple improvements in the network of their minds, but once she was gone, they felt the drain of the energy she had taken.

“Julie, are you all right?” A man she knew, John Stevens, was bending over her.

“Yes, I think so,” she heard herself say. “I just felt— What’s wrong with that man?”

“Some kind of seizure. Sit down here a moment, let me see if there’s anything I can do.”

When he came back, he said, “They’ve called the doctor. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Let’s go in.” She observed with fascination the changes that were taking place in her body in response to his presence, the contact of their skins, the faint male odor that underlay the scent of his cologne. She had felt something like this once or twice before, in other bodies, but never so strongly. Her heartbeat had speeded up; she could feel her cheeks flushing.

Now they were in the restaurant, where the tables were spread with spotless cloths the color of saffron, gleaming china, silver, crystal; a slender vase of flowers was on each table, and the saffron napkins stood in folded flowerlike shapes. A waiter in a saffron jacket handed them the saffron menus. She heard herself say, “I think I’ll just have the sole. I’m not very hungry.”

“Julie, if you’re not feeling well, you really ought to go and lie down.”

She felt the responses again, stronger than before. She was intensely aware of her own thighs, of the man’s knees a few inches away from hers under the table. “I don’t want to worry Mom and Dad,” she heard herself say.

“Look, I’m not hungry either. Let’s go up to my room, and you can lie down for half an hour until you’re feeling better.”

Now they were leaving the restaurant, walking down the violet corridor, passing the other people in their variegated clothes. All these sights and scents were pleasing to her, even though the host body was paying no attention to them; she wished they had stayed for dinner, to experience more of the sensations of human food which she had found so pleasurable in the past; but there would be time for that.

They were riding up in the hushed elevator—what ingenuity! Now they were walking down another corridor. The man was opening a door, ushering her inside with a broad warm hand on her back.

“Julie, dear,” he said, drawing her into an embrace. Their bodies were pressed together, the soft tissues flattening; his hand slid higher on her back, his mouth came warm and moist on hers. Her eyes shuttered; her arms went around him, probing the hard muscles of his back. His tongue came gently into her mouth, and she felt herself slumping against him. The hollow organ between her legs was moistening, softening. The breath went out of her lungs; she turned her face away and pressed it into his shoulder.

“Julie—dear—”

Her heart was beating violently; the sensations were so strong that she could hardly bear them. Now he was unbuttoning her blouse, drawing it down over her arms. He unfastened her brassiere; his hands were on her breasts. Now he left her for a moment to pull back the covers of the bed; now he took off her skirt and panties, threw them at a chair. Now she was lying naked on the bed, her moist skin feeling the coolness. Through half-closed eyes she saw him undressing.

The organ between his thighs stood up stiff and glistening. Evidently this was going to be a reproductive activity, the first she had witnessed in humans. Her interest almost overcame her excitement.

And now he was kissing her body; now he was entering her; and now, now, she felt her hips bucking as the sensations rose to a level she would not have believed possible.

When the postcoital courtesies were over, they got dressed and went down to the Upper Deck Grille. Stevens, who had been concealing his ferocious hunger, wolfed down a tenderloin and a baked potato; Julie had the chef's salad.

Stevens took her to the door of her stateroom and left her, murmuring, “Tomorrow.” Back in his room, he felt relaxed and cheerful, but not at all sleepy. During the middle passage of his duet with Julie, a really intriguing idea had occurred to him. There was no reason not to check it out before he went to bed. Stevens got a traveling bag from the closet, removed a soft leather case and put it in his breast pocket. He took the elevator down to the Boat Deck. He met no one in the corridor.

He chose a bay twenty feet from the elevators. The two facing entrances were heavy watertight doors. He bent to examine the lock of Number Fifty-three. It was an inconspicuous slot, obviously for a magnetic key. From his kit Stevens took a strip of plastic with a round handle and connected it to a flat black metal box. He slid the plastic strip gently into the lock, watching the lights that blinked in sequence. He withdrew the strip and put it into a slot in the box; the lights blinked again, went out, and a single green light appeared.

Stevens smiled. He withdrew the strip and put it into the lock. There was a faint hum. and the massive door opened.

Stevens entered, closed the door behind him, and bent to look at the door of the lifeboat itself. He tried the same key, and it opened. The lights and the blower came on inside. Stevens stepped in and looked around. Beside the door, as he remembered, was an access panel. With a screwdriver from his kit, he had it off in a couple of minutes. Inside was an array of switches labeled UMBILICAL, SIGNAL and so on. The last one was AUTO LAUNCH; beside it was a timer.

Stevens smiled again; he replaced the panel and left as he had come, locking both doors behind him. In all probability there was a circuit that would signal the opening of the doors on a console in the Control Center, but if anybody came to look at it, they would conclude that it was an electrical malfunction.

In his room, he lay on the bed and watched a Chinese Film broadcast from Hong Kong. There were English subtitles, and also Chinese subtitles. The costumes were gorgeous. The plot seemed to concern a young woman who was masquerading as a man disguised as a woman. There was a bride, who at one point appeared with an orange lampshade on her head. The heroine spent a good deal of her time languishing in graceful postures, but every now and then she lost patience with a gang of warriors and laid them out in rows.

Then a documentary about microelectronics. Stevens turned off the television and went peacefully to sleep.

In the morning he called the operator and asked for the Washington Suite.

“Yes?” said a male voice.

“Professor Newland, please.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no one by that name here.”

Next he tried the Lincoln Suite, with a similar result. Then the Cleveland Suite. Then the Jefferson Suite. The Adams Suite did not answer. He tried the McKinley Suite.

“Hello?”

“Professor Newland?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Jack Boyle of the CV Journal. You know, the little newspaper we put out for the passengers. Is this Professor Newland?”

“No, I’m his assistant. Professor Newland doesn’t give interviews.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Well, thanks anyhow.”