No Other Love (3 page)

“If it is an artifact and not just a piece of
dirt, you ought to use the proper tools,” Merin said, handing over
a brush and a small pick from her own supply of instruments. When
Herne took them, she went back to her recorder. “I need to note
exactly where and how you found it.”

Surprised and pleased that she had not
claimed a historian’s right by insisting on taking over his
discovery to clean and examine it herself, Herne worked at the
chunk of dirt and metal for a while. Because he was so intent on
what he was doing, it took him a few minutes before he realized
that she had finished recording the initial data on his finding and
was watching every motion of his hands.

“Do you want to do it?” he asked,
irrationally irritated by her quiet patience.

“Why, when you are doing an excellent job? It
appears that the hands of a physician are every bit as gentle and
precise as those of a trained archeologist. Which,” she reminded
him, “I am not. I am only a historian, not a discoverer. Please,
continue. I will make the notes.” She bowed her head so he could
not see her face, but only the crisp white coil with its neat
chinstrap.

“Thank you for your confidence in me.” Had
she been anyone else, he would have touched her arm or her shoulder
in grateful acknowledgement of the compliment she had just paid
him, but he knew that Merin did not like to be touched. He had seen
her shy away when someone came too close and, in the manner of all
observant physicians, he had stored that fact in his memory for
future use. He went back to work on the object in his hands. He had
only uncovered a portion of if before he knew what it was. Merin
knew it, too. He could tell by the sound of her indrawn breath.

“It’s impossible,” she said. “It cannot be.
Not buried by six centuries of dirt.”

“Luckily, this special metal doesn’t
corrode.” Herne chipped away a piece of solidified earth, revealing
part of the upper surface. “You can read the serial number right
here. This is a Service recorder, current issue, just like the ones
we are using.”

“Herne.” Merin’s hands were shaking. “That is
the number on my recorder. There cannot be two recorders with the
same serial number. The final five digits are always different, and
they are checked often enough at the factory to avoid duplication.”
She held her own instrument out for him to see.

“The same object cannot be in two places at
the same time,” Herne insisted, looking at the one in his hand.

“Tarik has often enough warned us about
distortions of time and space in the Empty Sector,” Merin said.
“Perhaps here, under certain conditions, the impossible is
possible. Tarik should see this at once.”

“Not yet. I want to look around a bit more
before we go to him. Come on, we’re going to do some
exploring.”

“By the Jurisdiction’s Rule of Archeology,”
Merin said, “you are required to leave that recorder exactly where
you found it until your commanding officer verifies the finding.
Under these peculiar circumstances, I suggest you take it with you
instead. It might not be here when we return.”

“It’s good to know you do have an
imagination.” She missed Herne’s brief smile because her eyes were
fixed on the clean recorder in her hand. He wrapped the
dirt-encrusted one in an artifact bag and put it into his kit.

“Shall we go on?” Merin asked in her soft,
unemotional voice.

“Be careful,” Herne warned. “There are steps
here, or there should be. We are entering the garden now. Just over
there is the stairway to the grotto.”

“You haven’t mentioned the grotto before. How
do you know it is here? I see nothing to indicate steps.”

“Perhaps you would be able to see something
if you would occasionally take your eyes off the ground or that
recorder,” Herne snapped, suddenly irritated by the way she had put
aside her distress over the duplicate recorder to resume her usual
calm demeanor. He glared at her, but of course she could not see
his expression. That annoyed him even more. Believing she would
soon begin asking questions about the previous night that he would
rather not answer, he attacked with a question of his own. “Why
don’t you ever look at anyone when you speak? I detest people who
don’t look me straight in the eye.”

“On my homeworld it is considered rude to so
challenge another person,” Merin responded with quiet gravity. “In
order to avoid provoking conflict, we do not look directly at each
other.”

“You aren’t on Oressia now. Look at me.”
Herne almost told her to take off that stupid white headdress, too,
but stopped himself just in time. It wasn’t Merin’s fault if he was
disoriented and in a miserable mood this morning, or if he was
blaming himself for what had happened during the night. He did
realize how he could have put all of his companions in jeopardy by
going off with that accursed woman. If he actually had gone off
with her; if there really had been a woman. If he had not dreamed
it all. He shook his head, trying to sort out his memories, trying
to think rationally.

At least he could be grateful that in spite
of the lack of any solid evidence, Tarik had not reprimanded him or
scoffed at his story. Nor had Merin laughed at the insane things
he’d been saying. She had only asked for more information. He was
about to apologize to her, to tell her she need not break her
native customs in order to accommodate his irascible demand that
she look directly at him when, apparently having wrestled through
the problem on her own, she lifted her gaze to his.

Herne was rocked back on his heels. Her eyes
were light brown with purple flecks in them, wide and clear and
innocent, with thick, darker brown lashes. Her entire face was
changed when she looked upward, her sharp features, untouched by
any trace of cosmetics, softened into delicate prettiness. Her lips
were trembling a little at this breach of Oressian custom, and a
faint blush turned her cheeks pink.

But the thing that shook Herne to his bones
was the way her features resembled those of Ananka. It could not
be, unless it was some trick played on his mind by forces he did
not understand. He longed to pull the covering off Merin’s head, to
see if her hair was the same light golden brown as Ananka’s had
been. What in the name of all the stars was going on here?

She looked right at him with those wonderful
eyes and said in all innocence, “I have recorded everything I can
from this position. Will you show me the grotto stair, please?”

There was nothing for it but to stop gazing
into her eyes like a star-struck boy and begin searching for the
steps. Knowing where they ought to be, he found them soon enough,
buried beneath six centuries of dirt and leaves and overgrowth. He
and Merin started down the slope, all that was left of the ancient
masonry.

“Take my hand,” he advised. “You don’t want
to fall.”

“I need both hands for the recorder.” That
wasn’t true. She could have put the recorder away until she reached
the bottom of the slope, but she did not want to touch him. Until
just a few minutes ago she had never looked directly at a man who
was looking back at her. When she met Herne’s gaze she had felt
stripped, ravished, lost forever, and she had understood why she
had been trained to keep her gaze always lowered in the presence of
others. Appalled by her own response though she was, and horrified
to find herself speaking an untruth for the second time in less
than a day, still she wanted to raise her eyes to his again. But
she dared not; in such uninhibited behavior lay the seeds of
disease and disaster, complete social disorder, war and all its
terrors….

She kept her eyes fixed on her recorder.
Because she wasn’t watching her footing, she tripped over a root.
The slope was too steep for her to regain her balance. She bounced
against Herne, who was a little ahead of her. He grabbed at her to
pull her upright, but he missed and they both went down, rolling
and sliding, trying to catch branches and bushes and rocks along
the way until they stopped in a heap of bodies and shoulder-kits.
Dazed and breathless, Merin felt the heavy strength of a masculine
body pressed firmly on top of her. She was so shaken that she
scarcely noticed the way her head was hanging over the edge of a
large, dark hole.

“That,” said Herne, his mouth pressed close
to her ear, “is the entrance to the grotto.”

* * * * *

“Last night there was a stream running along
here,” Herne said.

They were using the lamp he carried in his
shoulder-kit to light their way down the slippery, earth-clogged
steps. Merin looked where he indicated, but saw only a rock channel
worn smooth by the passage of water at some time in the past.

“There was a lake here,” he added when they
reached the bottom of the steps, “a beautiful, blue lake. And
draperies blowing in the wind. And a couch, right there.”

What they saw now was a small black pool. The
walls and roof of the underground chamber dripped viscous moisture.
There was no sign of billowing draperies, nor of any luxurious
couch. Instead, there was a ledge of bare rock and on it the
skeleton of a small, bat-like creature. The breeze was gone, too.
The air was heavy, and as still as the water in the stagnant pool.
All of this Herne and Merin saw in bits and pieces as he moved the
lamp about, and where the light did not reach weird shadows loomed.
Merin moved closer to him.

“How did you know this chamber was here?” She
did not look at him. She concentrated on the recorder. Tarik would
expect detailed notes on this discovery. “You cannot have seen
everything you are speaking of in the second or two during which
the woman appeared to you by the campfire, and what I have seen
since we began to explore this site does not match the descriptions
you have been providing to me.”

“It was later,” Herne said, speaking slowly
and, Merin thought, reluctantly. “In the middle of the night she
brought me here. Unless I dreamed it.”

Glancing upward just then, Merin saw his face
by the light of the lamp in his hand, saw his mouth compressed and
his expression hard as he looked around the grotto.

“I assume from your expression that it was
not a pleasant experience,” she said, fingers poised to record his
answer.

“No. Yes. I’m not sure.”

“Ah, I see.” She quickly repressed the pain
he had unwittingly inflicted upon her with his disjointed response.
She was not well informed on intimate subjects, but even she could
guess what Herne believed had happened in that chamber. She
reminded herself that jealousy was a destructive emotion. No true
Oressian would allow herself to feel it. Besides, Herne wasn’t even
sure whether the entire episode had happened or whether it had been
a dream. She tried to keep her voice neutral, telling herself that
questioning him on the matter was her duty, to ascertain the truth
for her report. “I have noticed that when men speak in such a
confused way, it is usually the result of an experience about which
they feel guilty.”

“You see nothing!” he responded with barely
contained fury. “You with your eyes always on the ground and your
body entirely covered except for your face and hands. What do you
know about men?”

“Nothing at all,” she replied quietly. “I
regret that you find my costume disturbing. The exact opposite was
my intent. As for my questions or comments, they are required to
elicit as much detail as possible about an incident that Tarik will
doubtless find most interesting, and possibly threatening to the
expedition.”

“Tarik already knows. I told him.” He held
the lamp closer to her, trying to read her expression.

“What’s this?” He caught her face with one
hand, turning it so he could better see her right cheek. “You’ve
hurt yourself.”

“It does not matter.” She stood with her eyes
still downcast, fighting his grip on her chin.

“It certainly does matter,” he told her. “We
don’t know what organisms live here, what infection you might
develop. Sit down on the ledge there and let me look at that cut
more closely.”

Obediently, Merin selected a spot on the
ledge as far as possible from the tiny skeleton. After pulling off
his shoulder-kit, Herne sat beside her, shining the light full on
her wounded cheek.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this at once?”
he asked, reaching one hand into his medical supplies. “You know
the rules about reporting all injuries.”

“It is insignificant.” She tried to stop the
trembling that had seized her when he thrust the lamp into her
hands before moving her face about to examine the damage.

“Merin, it is your duty to take proper care
of yourself. Tarik needs a healthy company.” Herne broke open a
vial of sterilizing antimicrobial salve and began to apply it.

“I will remember in the future.” The salve
stung, but she would not flinch. Herne pressed a piece of
flesh-colored plastiskin over the wound.

“I don’t think you will develop a scar,” he
said, “but if you do, I can perform a cosmetic repair after we
return to headquarters. It would be a shame to leave a scar on your
skin when it’s so perfect. You don’t have a single blemish that I
can see.”

“Thank you for your help.” Setting down the
lamp, she rose, putting distance between them, and her trembling
eased a little.

“Do all Oressian women have such beautiful
complexions?” he asked, repacking his kit while he spoke.

“I do not know.”

“Covering up so completely probably helps,
though of course your face and hands are exposed to the elements.
Why do you always wear that outfit and the headgear?”

“I don’t know! Don’t ask me!”

“Don’t know or won’t say?”

“It is rude to question the customs of
others!” Blazing anger roared through her, filling every nerve and
vein, heating the very marrow of her bones. This was why Oressian
discipline was so strict, to prevent just this kind of violent
emotional reaction to another person. She struggled to control
herself.