Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (363 page)

Esme’s suite had a parlor and a private promenade deck with Elizabethan half-timbered walls. She led him right into the plush-carpeted, velour-papered bedroom, which contained a huge four-poster bed, an antique night table, and a desk and a stuffed chair beside the door. The ornate, harp-sculpture desk lamp was on, as was the lamp just inside the bed curtains. A porthole gave a view of sea and sky. But to Stephen it seemed that the bed overpowered the room.

Esme pushed the desk lamp aside, and then took Poppa out of the box and placed him carefully in the center of the desk. “There.” Then she undressed quickly, looking shyly away from Stephen, who was taking his time. She slipped between the parted curtains of the bed and complained that she could hear the damn engines thrumming right through these itchy pillows—she didn’t like silk. After a moment she sat up in bed and asked him if he intended to get undressed or just stand there.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen said, “but it’s just—” He nodded toward the head.

“Poppa
is
turned off, you know.”

* * * *

Afterward, reaching for an inhalor, taking a long pull, and then finally opening her eyes, she said, “I love you too.” Stephen only moved in his sleep.

“That’s very nice, dear,” Poppa said, opening his eyes and smiling at her from the desk.

* * * *

Little Michael knocked on Esme’s door at seven-thirty the next morning.

“Good morning,” Michael said, looking Esme up and down. She had not bothered to put anything on before answering the door. “I came to see Poppa. I won’t disturb you.”

“Jesus, Mitchell—”

“Michael.”

“Jesus, Michael, it’s too early for—”

“Early bird gets the worm.”

“Oh, right,” Esme said. “And what the hell does that mean?”

“I calculated that my best chance of talking with Poppa was if I woke you up. You’ll go back to bed and I can talk with him in peace. My chances would be greatly diminished if—”

“Awright, come in.”

“The steward in the hall just saw you naked.”

“Big deal. Look, why don’t you come back later, I’m not ready for this, and I don’t know why I let you in the room.”

“You see, it worked.” Michael looked around the room. “He’s in the bedroom, right?”

Esme nodded and followed him into the bedroom. Michael was wearing the same wrinkled shirt and shorts that he had on yesterday; his hair was not combed, just tousled.

“Is
he
with you, too?” Michael asked.

“If you mean Stephen, yes.”

“I thought so,” said Michael. Then he sat down at the desk and talked to Poppa.

“Can’t we have
any
privacy?” Stephen asked when Esme came back to bed. She shrugged and took a pull at her inhalor. Drugged, she looked even softer, more vulnerable. “I thought you told me that Poppa was turned off all night,” he continued angrily.

“But he
was
turned off,” Esme said. “I just now turned him back on for Michael.” Then she cuddled up to Stephen, as intimately as if they had been in love for days. That seemed to mollify him.

“Do you have a spare Narcodrine in there?” Michael shouted.

Stephen looked at Esme and laughed. “No,” Esme said, “you’re too young for such things.” She opened the curtain so they could watch Michael. He made the rubber-lips face at Stephen and then said, “I might as well try everything. I’ll be dead soon.”

“You know,” Esme said to Stephen, “I believe him.”

“I’m going to talk to his sister, or whoever she is, about this.”

“I heard what you said.” Michael turned away from Poppa, who seemed lost in thought. “I have very good hearing, I heard everything you said. Go ahead and talk to her, talk to the captain, if you like. It won’t do you any good. I’m an international hero, if you’d like to know. The girl who wears the camera in her hair already did an interview for me for the poll.” Then he gave them his back and resumed his hushed conversation with Poppa.

“Who does he mean?” asked Esme.

“The woman reporter from
Interfax
,” Stephen said.

“Her job is to guess which passengers will opt to die, and why,” interrupted Michael, who turned around in his chair. “She interviews the
most
interesting passengers, then gives her predictions to her viewers—and they are considerable. They respond immediately to a poll taken several times a day. Keeps us in their minds, and everybody loves the smell of death.” Michael turned back to Poppa.

“Well, she hasn’t tried to interview
me
.”

“Do you really want her to?” Stephen asked.

“And why not? I’m for conspicuous consumption, and I want so much for this experience to be a success. Goodness, let the whole world watch us sink, if they want. They might just as well take bets.” Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “None of us really knows who’s opted to die.
That’s
part of the excitement. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Stephen said.

“Oh, you’re such a prig,” Esme said. “One would think you’re a doer.”

“What?”

“A doer. All of us are either doers or voyeurs, isn’t that right? But the doers mean business,” and to illustrate she cocked her head, stuck out her tongue, and made gurgling noises as if she were drowning. “The voyeurs, however, are just along for the ride. Are you
sure
you’re not a doer?”

Michael, who had been eavesdropping again, said, referring to Stephen, “He’s not a doer, you can bet on that! He’s a voyeur of the worst sort.
He
takes it all seriously.”

“Mitchell, that’s not a very nice thing to say. Apologize or I’ll turn Poppa off and you can go right—”

“I told you before, its Michael. M-I-C-H-A-”

“Now that’s enough disrespect from both of you,” Poppa said. “Michael, stop goading Stephen. Esme says she loves him. Esme, be nice to Michael. He just made my day. And you don’t have to threaten to turn me off. I’m turning myself off. I’ve got some thinking to do.” Poppa closed his eyes and nothing Esme said would awaken him.

“Well, he’s never done
that
before,” Esme said to Michael, who was now standing before the bed and trying to place his feet as wide apart as he could. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing much.”

“Come on, Michael,
I
let you into the room, remember?”

“I remember. Can I come into bed with you?”

“Hell, no,” Stephen said.

“He’s only a child,” Esme said as she moved over to make room for Michael, who climbed in between her and Stephen. “Be a sport.
You’re
the man I love.”

“Do you believe in transmigration of souls?” Michael asked Esme.

“What?”

“Well, I asked Poppa if he remembered any of his past lives, that is, if he had any. Poppa’s conscious, you know, even if he is a machine.”

“Did your sister put such ideas in your head?” Esme asked.

“Now you’re being condescending.” However, Michael made the rubber-lips face at Stephen, rather than at Esme, Stephen made a face back at him, and Michael howled in appreciation, then became quite serious and said, “On the contrary,
I
helped my sister to remember. It wasn’t easy, either, because she hasn’t lived as many lives as I have.
She’s
younger than me. I bet I could help
you
to remember,” he said to Esme.

“And what about me?” asked Stephen, playing along, enjoying the game a little now.

“You’re a nice man, but you’re too filled up with philosophy and rationalizations. You wouldn’t grasp any of it; it’s too simple. Anyway, you’re in love and distracted.”

“Well, I’m in love too,” Esme said petulantly.

“But you’re in love with everything. He’s only in love with one thing at a time.”

“Am I a thing to you?” Esme asked Stephen.

“Certainly not.”

But Michael would not be closed out. “I can teach you how to meditate,” he said to Esme. “It’s easy, once you know how. You just watch things in a different way.”

“Then would I see all my past lives?” Esme asked.

“Maybe.”

“Is that what you do?”

“I started when I was six,” Michael said. “I don’t
do
anything anymore, I just see differently. It’s something like dreaming.” Then he said to Esme, “You two are like a dream, and I’m outside it. Can I come in?”

Delighted, Esme asked, “You mean, become a family?”

“Until the end,” Michael said.

“I think it’s wonderful, what do you think, Stephen?”

Stephen lay back against the wall, impatient, ignoring them.

“Come on, be a sport,” Michael said. “I’ll even teach you how to make the rubber-lips face.”

* * * *

Stephen and Esme finally managed to lose Michael by lunchtime. Esme seemed happy enough to be rid of the boy, and they spent the rest of the day discovering the ship. They took a quick dip in the pool, but the water was too cold and it was chilly outside. If the dirigible was floating above, they did not see it because the sky was covered with heavy gray clouds. They changed clothes, strolled along the glass-enclosed lower Promenade Deck, looked for the occasional flying fish, and spent an interesting half hour being interviewed by the woman from
Interfax
. Then they took a snack in the opulent first-class smoking room. Esme loved the mirrors and stained-glass windows. After they explored cabin and tourist class, Esme talked Stephen into a quick game of squash, which he played rather well. By dinnertime they found their way into the garish, blue-tiled Turkish bath. It was empty and hot, and they made gentle but exhausting love on one of the Caesar couches. Then they changed clothes again, danced in the lounge, and took a late supper in the Café.

He spent the night with Esme in her suite. It was about four o’clock in the morning when he was awakened by a hushed conversation. Rather than make himself known, Stephen feigned sleep and listened.

“I can’t make a decision,” Esme said as she carefully paced back and forth beside the desk upon which Poppa rested.

“You’ve told me over and over what you know you must do,” said Poppa. “And now you change your mind?”

“I think things have changed.”

“And how is that?”

“Stephen, he…”

“Ah,” Poppa said, “so now
love
is the escape. But do you know how long that will last?”

“I didn’t expect to meet him, to feel better about everything.”

“It will pass.”

“But right now I don’t want to die.”

“You’ve spent a fortune on this trip, and on me. And now you want to throw it away. Look, the way you feel about Stephen is all for the better, don’t you understand? It will make your passing away all the sweeter because you’re happy, in love, whatever you want to claim for it. But now you want to throw everything away that we’ve planned and take your life some other time, probably when you’re desperate and unhappy and don’t have me around to help you. You wish to die as mindlessly as you were born.”

“That’s not so, Poppa. But it’s up to
me
to choose.”

“You’ve made your choice, now stick to it, or you’ll drop dead like I did.”

Stephen opened his eyes; he could not stand this any longer. “Esme, what the hell are you talking about?”

She looked startled and then said to Poppa, “You were purposely talking loudly to wake him up, weren’t you?”

“
You
had me programmed to help you. I love you and I care about you. You can’t undo that!”

“I can do whatever I wish,” she said petulantly.

“Then let me help you, as I always have. If I were alive and had my body, I would tell you exactly what I’m telling you now.”

“What is going on?” Stephen asked.

“She’s fooling you,” Poppa said gently to Stephen. “She’s using you because she’s frightened.”

“I am not!”

“She’s grasping at anyone she can find.”

“I am not!” she shouted.

“What the hell is he telling you?” Stephen asked.

“The truth,” Poppa said.

Esme sat down beside Stephen on the bed and began to cry, then, as if sliding easily into a new role, she looked at him and said, “I did program Poppa to help me die.”

Disgusted, Stephen drew away from her.

“Poppa and I talked everything over very carefully, we even discussed what to do if something like this came about.”

“You mean if you fell in love and wanted to live.”

“Yes.”

“And she decided that under no circumstances would she undo what she had done,” Poppa said. “She has planned the best possible death for herself, a death to be experienced and savoured. She’s given everything up and spent all her money to do it. She’s broke. She can’t go back now, isn’t that right, Esme?”

Esme looked at Stephen and nodded.

“But you’re not sure, I can see that,” Stephen insisted.

“I will help her, as I always have,” said Poppa.

“Jesus, shut that thing up,” Stephen shouted.

“He’s not a—”

“Please, at least give us a chance,” Stephen said to Esme. “You’re the first authentic experience I’ve ever had, I love you, I don’t want it to end…”

Poppa pleaded his case eloquently, but Esme told him to go to sleep.

He obediently closed his eyes.

* * * *

The great ship hit an iceberg on the fourth night of her voyage, exactly one day earlier than scheduled. It was Saturday, 11.40
PM
and the air was full of coloured lights from tiny splinters of ice floating like motes of dust. “Whiskers ’round the light” they used to be called by sailors. The sky was a panoply of twinkling stars, and it was so cold that one might imagine they were fragments of ice floating in a cold, dark, inverted sea overhead.