Woman Who Loved the Moon (22 page)

She’s inside it standing up with the door closed, and, I guess, locked. I bet she’s making up some kind of story to tell.
Someone left a dime in the phone, and I was just playing around...

I see the ship come down. I see that nothingness, that hole, engulf the phone booth from top to bottom, as if a door opened in the bottom of the ship and swallowed the booth up. Then it lifts. I see the street reappear. The ship goes up very fast, and then it’s gone.

And that’s all.

I’ve never seen her again. I’ve seen people who look like her, but hell, she looked so normal! If I ask some tall guy, “Hey, are you an alien?” I’ll probably get punched in the nose. And I haven’t written any letters to the papers, no. They’ll all think what you’re thinking, that I’m some kind of a nut. I did think of checking up on missing persons. But I don’t know how to do it; I don’t have the chutzpah to ask grieving relatives: “Was he maybe just going out to make a phone call?”

I didn’t get a chance to ask her:
Do you put them back?

If I could think of something to do, I’d do it. Can you? See, I told you.

Just be real careful where you use the telephone.

Don’t Look At Me

This, like many of my stories (and books) straddles categories. It is a science fiction story, a crime story, a love story, a mystery, a chess story (sort of), a story about sleight of hand, a story about telepathy. Mostly, it is a story about what it feels like to be different. It was written for Cedric Clute, who edited the magical/mystery anthology
Sleight Of Crime.
It was to go in the second volume. That volume never materialized, and Cedric gave me permission to offer it elsewhere. Roy Torgeson bought it for
Chrysalis 2.

* * *

The magician’s hands say:
Look at this!

His feet and legs crossed yogi-fashion in the seat of the armchair in the lounge, Mischa Dramov is playing with the cards. He cuts, shuffles, makes the picked card disappear, plucks it out of the air again. A crowd gathers to watch the impromptu performance. He speaks no patter; he mimes. They murmur applause.

“Misdirection,” he says to them. “Illusion.” (“Mama, why is he so small? I’m bigger than he is!”— “He’s a dwarf, that’s why.”—”Is he sick?”—”No. It’s a thing you’re born with, honey, like the color of your hair.”)

ALL PASSENGERS DISEMBARKING ON ZOLL REPORT WITH HAND LUGGAGE TO THE LOUNGE.

The metallic voice repeats the command twice, in six languages. The magician stacks his cards and folds his hands atop them. All but one of the spectators drift away: to the bar, to their staterooms, or closer to the giant observation window across the huge lounge through which they can watch the stars. She stays. She had been sitting way in the back during the show the night before. It helps to have a face to play to; hers had stood out, pale skin and tight pale curls singular in a mass of dark faces, dark hair. He had played to her. She says: “That was fascinating.”

“Thank you.”

“I loved the show last night.”

“Most of it was improvised. Our big pieces of equipment are crated.”

“When your partner did the trick with the linking rings I tried to watch her hands but I couldn’t. She’s dazzling, with that height, and the silver skin and hair!”

“That’s the effect we work for,” he answers, pleased. Proud.

“Is it a wig?” she asks.

“Chaka’s hair? No, it’s real.”

She nods. It’s the first gesture he has seen from her. She sits with straight back, very controlled, hands still, not moving, except for her eyes. Her eyes are light turquoise, and very wide. Cosmetic lenses? He wonders.

She says, “My name is Elsen Zakar.”

He inclines—a bow. “Mischa Dramov.”

“Where are you from?”

“From Earth—Terra.”

“Are you? Maybe I will go there one day. What is it like?”

“I never think about the places I have left,” says the magician, “only about the place I am going.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Zoll.”

“So am I,” she says softly.

To vacation, he thinks, to lie in the sun, to be entertained, to watch the show. Ah, well. Mischa, she is making polite conversation with you, the funny little magician, that’s all. “I’m told it’s one of the most beautiful planets in the Living Worlds,” he says politely.

“It’s a paradise.”

“You’ve been there before?”

“I was born there. It’s warm, gently warm, all over. If you like cold, there’s cold at the poles, and snow in the mountains. You can float a glider off a snow-covered peak and ride the currents down into the valley... I’ve done that. The oceans, too, are warm. But now,” she says, “I live on Gilbert’s World.”

He cannot remember what it is he knows about Gilbert’s World. It is famous for something. As Zoll is famous for its beauty and because it is a world of telepaths. Mischa thinks, I have never met a telepath before. Automatically he begins to shuffle the cards. Misdirection. Illusion. “We will be working at a hotel in Rigga—the Embassy Hotel.”

“I’m staying in Rigga. At the Embassy Hotel.”

ALL PASSENGERS DISEMBARKING ON ZOLL PLEASE ASSEMBLE WITH HAND LUGGAGE IN THE LOUNGE.

Space between the chairs begins to fill. The ship will be landing soon on Zoll’s larger moon. People press towards the window. Mischa says, “You don’t want to watch the landing?”

“I’ve seen it before. Many times. You?”

“I can’t. My eyes are on a level with most people’s waists. Chaka rubbernecks for both of us.”

“Yes. I can see her there.” She is watching the crowd. Five people float out of it to hang, legs decorously crossed, above everybody’s head, even Chaka’s. Large brown ghosts in sports clothes. One of them is holding a tennis racket. She waves to them. The one with the tennis racket waves back.

(“Mama, look, they’re flying!”—”No, they’re teleports from Gilbert’s World. It’s a thing they can do, like you can read music, and Uncle Henry can dance.”)

Mischa watches her, half-expecting her to float up and join them. But no, her feet remain firm against the metal floor of the ship. “You have family on Zoll?” he asks.

“My father is Elk Zekar, the chess player. You’ve heard of him?”

“No.”

“I visit him every year.”

Then why is she staying at the Embassy Hotel he wonders, if she has family to stay with? and then feels a fool. He fumbles with the cards. Drops one.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never met a telepath before.”

“You haven’t now. I am not a telepath. And you won’t on Zoll. The Zollians never go to the Embassy Hotel, or anywhere else the tourists go, and the tourists may only go to certain places on Zoll. Non-telepaths are too coarse, too insensitive and raw for Zollian telepaths to be near.”

“But you—”

“I stay at the hotel when I come to Zoll, or I would destroy my father’s peace, his harmony. Peace and harmony are very important to good chess, you know. I visit him for a few hours. That is all of me he can stand—and I of him.” Her mouth twists.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” She looks at him. He almost puts his hands up to hide his eyes. “Yes, you do.” Her voice softens. “You know what it feels like to be a freak, to be gawked at and then shoved out of sight, to be teased and scolded for something you can’t hide and can’t change.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to meet a telepath, magician, take my word for it.” She leaves him.

Chaka strides up and sinks into the vacated chair. “What’s her name?”

“Elsen Zekar,” he says.

“Those people in the air are blocking my view,” Chaka says, bemused. She stretches her long legs out into the aisle, and kicks someone in the ankle. “Sorry.” She curls her legs with a grimace—”Fooey! Everything on this ship is so damn small!”

Mischa Dramov, who stands four feet three inches tall with shoes on, and for whom everything everywhere is so damn tall, smiles.

* * *

Yoshio Atawak is the owner of the Embassy Hotel. He is a mammoth of a man.

“Come in, come in! Sit down! They call me the Ambassador. Want some lunch?” Two platters piled with food take up the entire top of his six-foot desk. “No? Not even a snack?” He leans forward—the chair groans—to offer Chaka a can of what could be salted nuts or sautéed bacon bits or tempuraed grasshoppers. “No? How about some beer?
Beer!
” he roars. His secretary staggers in with a pitcher of dark foamy beer and three huge steins. “Glad to have you with us.
Contracts!
Your shows will be a welcome change from the usual entertainment—bad bands and worse dancers and rotten comics. You thought this was a classy joint, right? Nobody intelligent comes to Zoll. If I didn’t own the hotel I wouldn’t be here either.
Sign here.
The Zollians are a pack of standoffish wet fish, and the tourists are rich bums. Rich and drunken bums.”

Chaka asks, “What do they come here to do?”

“Swim, sun, climb mountains, ski, sail, play tennis, fly gliders, and talk to each other about it. They won’t appreciate you. But I will.”

“What do you do?” asks Mischa, liking him.

“Eat. And play chess with Vadek. You have heard of Vadek Amrill. He is chess champion of the Living Worlds, here to play a match. He is staying at the hotel, and every morning I play chess with him, over breakfast. I am
his
breakfast. You must meet him; he is intelligent, he’ll like you.”

As they cross the lobby, Mischa sees a familiar face. Hair like pale wire. Turquoise eyes.

A woman with a surfboard nearly knocks him down. “Watchwhereyuhgoing!” she snarls. “Creep!”

He ignores her—he maneuvers across the room. “Elsen.”

Turquoise eyes like beams of coherent light. She looks at him.
She looks at him.
“Mischa,” she says. “Hello.”

“May I take you to lunch?”

Chaka says, “Mischa, we’re doing a show tonight!”

“A short lunch?”

“Well—I’m due this afternoon at my father’s house. Lunch—I would like lunch. Maybe I’ll wait till tomorrow to see my father. He won’t care. I would like to see your first show on Zoll.”

“Mischa!”

* * *

Lunch. Dinner. They meet and touch in a dark room. “How old are you?”

“How old are you?”

“Are you happy, Elsen?”

“Happy...” Her hands are small in the darkness.

“May I stay with you tonight?”

“Yes,” she says, “stay. Stay.”

* * *

In the morning she says, “I cannot see my father today, I am too content.”

“I am glad.”

“I will go tomorrow, I must.”

“I will stay with you until you leave the hotel.”

“You will not!” She turns on him. “No one sees me then. Anger is ugly.”

“You hate him so much?”

“Wouldn’t you hate someone who never saw what you were, only what you were not, and despised you for what you couldn’t be or do, and claimed nevertheless to love you?”

“People cannot always see the thing they love clearly.”

“Zollians know nothing of love. They suppress and fear it, like all emotion. Love, hate, pain, joy, you never let go, you are never free to feel—” She is crying. “Leave me, Mischa. Please go.”

“No,” he says, touching her back.

She trembles in the bed, and then turns to him again.

* * *

He meets Vadek Amrill in the hotel lobby. He is small, for a non-dwarf. On sight, Mischa likes him. He is thin and tense and powerful.

“I liked your show last night,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Have breakfast with me?”

“I don’t play chess,” says Mischa.

“I cannot palm cards.”

They sit and talk about nothing. Vadek sets up a practice game. Almost under the table, the magician’s hands play with his cards, turn them, stroke them, ace of spades, ace of clubs, ace of diamonds, ace of hearts, jack of diamonds,
look at this, look at this!

Vadek Amrill says, “You do not have to do that with me, you know.”

Startled, Mischa stops.

A commotion at the lobby door heralds the emergence of Yoshio Atawak from his office. “Good morning, Vadek! Ready to beat me?”

“Certainly.” Vadek clears the board of his practice game and together they set the pieces up. They make an odd trio; the huge hotelier, the thin chess champion, (eyes of dark grey, like stone) and the beardless dwarf. “But you shouldn’t be so certain of your loss, Ambassador. You’re improving.”

“
Beer!
Vadek, you flatter me ridiculously. You played better chess when you were nine than I do now.
And sandwiches!
”