The Gods Themselves (20 page)

"It just means Luna," she said, rather indifferently, "to distinguish me from the immigrants. I was born here."

"Really?"

'That's nothing to be surprised about. We've had a working society here for over half a century. Don't you think babies are born here? We have people here who were born here and are grandparents."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-two," she said.

He looked startled, then mumbled, "Of course."

Selene raised her eyebrows. "You mean you understand? Most Earthmen have to have it explained."

The Earthman said, "I know enough to know that most of the visible signs of aging are the result of the inexorable victory of gravity over tissue—the sagging of cheek and the drooping of breast. With the Moon's gravity one-sixth that of Earth, it isn't really hard to understand that people will stay young-looking."

Selene said, "Only
young-looking.
It doesn't mean we have immortality here. The life-span is about that of Earth, but most of us are more comfortable in old age."

"That's not to be dismissed. ... Of course, there are penalties, I suppose." He had just taken his first sip of his coffee. "You have to drink this—" He paused for a word and must have discarded it, for he used none.

"We could import food and beverages from Earth," she said, amused, "but only enough to feed a fraction of us a fraction of the time. There'd be no point to that when we can use the space for more vital items. Besides, we're used to this crud. ... Or were you going to use a still stronger word?"

"Not for the coffee," he said. "I was going to save that for the food. But crud will do. . . . Tell me,' Miss Lindstrom. I didn't see any mention on the tour itinerary of the proton synchrotron."

"The proton synchrotron?" She was finishing her coffee and her eyes were beginning to slide round the room, as though estimating the moment for getting them all to their feet again. "That's Terrestrial property and it's not open to tourists."

"You mean that it's off-limits to Lunarites."

"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. Most of its staff are Lunarites. It's just that it's the Terrestrial government that sets the rules. No tourists."

"I'd love to see it," he said.

She said, "I'm sure you would. . . . You've brought me luck; not one item of food, not one blessed man or woman has hit the floor."

She got to her feet and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be leaving in about ten minutes. Please leave the plates where they are. There are rest rooms for those who wish to use them and then we will visit the food-processing plants where meals such as you have just eaten are made possible."

2

Selene's quarters were small, of course, and compact; but they were intricate. The windows were panoramic; star scenes that changed slowly and very randomly, never having any relationship to any real constellation. Each of the three windows could be made to undergo telescopic magnification, when Selene so desired.

Barren Neville hated that part of it. He would tend to turn it off rather savagely and say, "How can you stand it? You're the only one I know who has the bad taste to do such a thing. It's not as though these nebulae and star clusters exist, even."

And Selene would shrug, coolly, and say, "What's existence? How do you know the ones out there exist? Besides it gives me a sensation of freedom and motion. May I have that in my own quarters if I choose?"

Then Neville would mumble something and make a halfhearted attempt to restore the controls to where he had found them and Selene would say, "Let it go!"

The furniture was in smooth curves, and the walls were abstractly decorated in low-key, unobtrusive colors. Nowhere was there any representation of anything that might be considered a living thing.

"Living things are Earth," Selene would say, "not the Moon."

Now, when she entered, she found, as so often, Neville there; Barron Neville, resting on the flimsy couch with one sandal on. The other lay beside him where it had dropped, and there Was a line of red marks on his abdomen, just over his umbilicus, where he had been meditatively scratching.

She said, "Get us some coffee, won't you, Barron?" and slipped out of her own clothes in a long, graceful wiggle accompanied by a sigh of relief, letting them drop to the ground and then kicking them into the corner with one toe.

"What a relief to get out of them," she said. "It's the worst part of the job, having to dress like an Earthie."

Neville was in the kitchen corner. He paid no attention; he had heard it before. He said, "What's wrong with your water supply? It's way down."

"Is it?" she asked. "Well, I've been overusing, I suppose. Just be patient."

"Any trouble, today?"

Selene shrugged. "No. Very run of the mill. Just the usual bit about watching them teetering along and pretending they don't hate the food, and knowing they're wondering if they'll be asked to take off their clothes, I shouldn't be surprised.... Disgusting possibility."

"Are you taking up prudery?" He brought the two small cups of coffee to the table.

"In this case prudery is required. They're wrinkled, sagging, paunchy, and full of germs. I don't care what the quarantine regulations are like; they're full of germs. . . . What's new on your side?"

Barron shook his head. He was heavily-built for a Lunarite, and there was an almost-sullen narrowing of his eyes that had become a built-in feature. Except for that his features were even, and remarkably handsome, Selene thought.

He said, "Nothing startling. We're still waiting out the change in Commissioner. We'll have to see what this Gottstein is like."

"Can he make difficulties?"

"None more than are being made. After all, what can they do? They can't infiltrate. You can't disguise an Earthie as a Lunarite." But he looked uneasy just the same.

Selene sipped at her coffee and looked at him shrewdly. "Some Lunarites might be Earthies inside."

"Yes, and I'd like to know which. Sometimes I don't think I can trust— Oh, well. I'm wasting incredible amounts of time with my synchrotron project and getting nowhere. I'm having no luck with priorities."

"They probably don't trust you, and I don't blame them. If only you didn't slink around so conspiratorially."

"I do no such thing. It would give me great pleasure to walk out of the synchrotron room and never return, but then they
-would
become suspicious. ... If you've been raising hell with your water supply, Selene, I suppose we can't have a second cup."

"No, we can't. But if it conies to that, you've been helping me waste water. You've had two showers here in the last week."

"I'll give you a water credit. I didn't know you were counting."

"I'm not counting—my water level is."

She finished her own cup of coffee and stared at its emptiness thoughtfully. She said, "They always make faces over it. The tourists do. And I can never figure out why, either. It tastes fine to me. Did you ever taste Earth-coffee, Barron?"

"No," he said, briefly.

"I did. Once. Some tourist had smuggled in packets' of what he called instant coffee. He offered me some in exchange for you-know-what. Seemed to think it was an even trade."

"And you had some?"

"I was curious. It was bitter and metallic. I hated it. Then I told him that miscegenation was against Lunarite custom and he turned rather bitter and metallic himself."

"You never told me this. He didn't try anything, did he?"

"It's not particularly your business, is it? And, no, he didn't try anything. If he had tried, at the wrong gravity for him, I'd have bounced him from here to corridor 1."

Then she went on. "Oh, yes. I picked up another Earthie today. Insisted on sitting with me."

"And what did he offer you in exchange for the screwing you so delicately call you-know-what?"

"Just sat there."

"And stared at your breasts?"

"They're there to be stared at, but actually he didn't He stared at my nameplate. . . . Besides, what's it to you what he fantasied? Fantasies are free and I don't have to fulfill them. What do you think
I’m
fantasying? Bed with an Earthman? With all the action you would expect of someone trying to handle a gravitational field he isn't used to? I wouldn't say it hasn't been done, but not by me, and not that I've ever heard any good of it. Is that settled? Can I get back to the Earthie? Who's nearly fifty? And who obviously wasn't terrifically handsome even when he was twenty? .. . Interesting appearance, though; I'll grant him that."

"All right. I can do without a thumbnail sketch. What about him?"

"He asked about the proton synchrotron!"

Neville rose to his feet, swaying a little as was almost inevitable after quick movement at low gravity.
” What
did he ask about the synchrotron?"

"Nothing. Why are you so excited? You asked me to tell you anything that was out of the way with any tourist at any time and this seemed out of the way. No one ever asked me about the synchrotron before."

"All
right"
He paused a little, then in a normal voice, said, "Why was he interested in the synchrotron?"

Selene said, "I haven't the faintest idea. He just asked if he could see it. It could be that he's a tourist with an interest in science. For all I know, it was just a ploy to get me interested in him."

"And I suppose you are. What's his name?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask him."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m
not
interested in him. Which way do you want it to be? Besides, his asking shows he's a tourist. If he were a physicist, he wouldn't have to ask. He's be there."

"My dear Selene," said Neville. "Let me spell it out. Under the present circumstances, anyone who asks to see the proton synchrotron is a peculiar fellow we want to know about. And why should he ask
you?"
He walked hastily to the other end of the room and back as though wearing off a little energy. Then he said, "You're the expert at that nonsense. Do
you
find him of interest?"

"Sexually?"

"You know what I mean.
Don’t play games, Selene."

Selene said with clear reluctance. "He's interesting, even disturbing. But I don't know why. He said nothing. He did nothing."

"Interesting and disturbing, is he? Then you will see him again."

"And do what?"

"How do I know? That's your bit. Find out his name. Find out anything else you can. You've got some brains, so use them on a little practical nosiness for a change."

"Oh, well," she said, "orders from on high. All right."

3

There was no way of telling the Commissioner's quarters, by size alone, from those of any Lunarite. There was no space on the Moon, not even for Terrestrial officials; no luxurious waste, even as a symbol of the home planet. Nor, for that matter, was there any way of changing the overwhelming fact about the Moon—that it was underground at low gravity—even for the greatest Earthman who ever lived.

"Man is still the creature of his environment," sighed Luiz Montez. "I've been two years on the Moon and there have been times when I have been tempted to stay on but— I'm getting on in years. I've just passed my fortieth and if I intend ever to go back to Earth, it had better be now. Any older and I won't be able to readjust to full-gravity."

Konrad Gottstein was only thirty-four and looked, if anything, younger. He had a wide, round, large-featured face, the kind of face one didn't see among the Lunarites, the kind of face that was something they would draw as part of an Earthie caricature. He was not heavily-built—it did not pay to send heavily-built Earthmen to the Moon— and his head seemed too large for his body.

He said (and he spoke Planetary Standard with a perceptibly different accent from that of Montez), "You sound apologetic,"

"I am. I am," said Montez. Where Gottstein's face was intrinsically good-natured in appearance, the long thin lines of Montez' face were almost comically tragic. "I am apologetic in both senses. I am embarrassed to be leaving the Moon, since it is an attractive world filled with excitement. And I am embarrassed about the embarrassment; ashamed that I should be reluctant to take up Earth's

burden—gravity and all."

"Yes, I imagine taking back the other five-sixths will be hard," said Gottstein. "I've been on the Moon only a few days and already I feel that one-sixth g is perfectly fine."

"You won't feel that when the constipation starts and you start living on mineral oil," said Montez with a sigh, "but that will pass. . . . And don't think you can imitate the light gazelle just because you feel light. There's an art to it."

"So I understand."

"So you
think
you understand, Gottstein. You haven't seen the kangaroo walk, have you?"

"On television."

"That doesn't really give you the feel of it. You have to try it. It's the proper mode for crossing level lunar surface at high speed. The feet move together backward and launch you on what would be a simple broad jump on Earth. While you're in mid-air, they come forward; begin moving back just
before
they hit the ground again; keep you launched; and so on. The motion seems slow by Earth standards with only a low gravity whipping you on, but each leap is in excess of twenty feet and the amount of muscular effort required to keep you in the air—if there were air—is minimal. The sensation is like flying—"

"Have you tried it? Can you do it?"

"I've tried it, but no Earthman can really do it. I've kept it up for as many as five leaps in a row, enough to get the sensation; just enough to want to do more, but then there is the inevitable miscalculation, a loss of synchronization, and you tumble and slide for a quarter of a mile. The Lunarites are polite and never laugh at you. Of course, it's easy for them. They start as children and pick it up at once without trouble."

"It's their world," said Gottstein, chuckling. "Think how they'd be on Earth."

"They wouldn't be on Earth. They can't. I suppose that's an advantage on our side. We can be either on Moon or on Earth, They can live only on the Moon. We tend to forget that because we confuse the Lunarites with Immies."