A Song for Lya by George R. R. Martin Page B

converts.
    “His pain made him more vulnerable, yes, no doubt of it. But something else brought him over—something that Union offered, something he couldn't get from wine or memory wipe. The same's true of Kamenz, and the others. They had other outs, other ways to vote no on life. They passed them up. But they chose Union. You see what I'm getting at?"
    I did, of course. My answer was no answer at all, and I realized it. But Valcarenghi was wrong too, in parts.
    “Yes,” I said. “I guess we've still got some reading to do.” I smiled wanly. “One thing, though. Gustaffson hadn't really beaten his pain, not ever. Lya was very clear on that. It was inside him all the time, tormenting him. He just never let it come out."
    “That's victory, isn't it?” Valcarenghi said. “If you bury your hurts so deep that no one can tell you have them?"
    “I don't know. I don't think so. But ... anyway, there was more. Gustaffson has the Slow Plague. He's dying. He's been dying for years."
    Valcarenghi's expression flickered briefly. “That I didn't know, but it just bolsters my point. I've read that some eighty percent of Slow Plague victims opt for euthanasia, if they happen to be on a planet where it's legal. Gustaffson was a planetary administrator. He could have made it legal. If he passed up suicide for all those years, why choose it now?"
    I didn't have an answer for that. Lyanna hadn't given me one, if she had one. I didn't know where we could find one, either, unless...
    “The caves,” I said suddenly. “The caves of Union. We've got to witness a Final Union. There must be something about it, something that accounts for the conversions. Give us a chance to find out what it is."
    Valcarenghi smiled. “All right,” he said. “I can arrange it. I expected it would come to that. It's not pleasant, though, I'll warn you. I've gone down myself, so I know what I'm talking about."
    “That's OK,” I told him. “If you think reading Gustaffson was any fun, you should have seen Lya when she was through. She's out now trying to walk it off.” That, I'd decided, must have been what was bothering her. “Final Union won't be any worse than those memories of Nightmare, I'm sure."
    “Fine, then. I'll set it up for tomorrow. I'm going with you, of course. I don't want to take any chances on anything happening to you."
    I nodded. Valcarenghi rose. “Good enough,” he said. “Meanwhile, let's think about more interesting things. You have any plans for dinner?"
    * * * *
    We wound up eating at a mock-Shkeen restaurant run by humans, in the company of Gourlay and Laurie Blackburn. The talk was mostly social noises—sports, politics, art, old jokes, that sort of thing. I don't think there was a mention of the Shkeen or the Greeshka all evening.
    Afterwards, when I got back to our suite, I found Lyanna waiting for me. She was in bed, reading one of the handsome volumes from our library, a book of Old Earth poetry. She looked up when I entered.
    “Hi,” I said. “How was your walk?"
    “Long.” A smile creased her pale, small face, then faded. “But I had time to think. About this afternoon, and yesterday, and about the Joined. And us."
    “Us?"
    “Robb, do you love me?” The question was delivered almost matter-of-factly, in a voice full of question. As if she didn't know. As if she really didn't know.
    I sat down on the bed and took her hand and tried to smile. “Sure,” I said. “You know that, Lya."
    “I did. I do. You love me, Robb, really you do. As much as a human can love. But...” She stopped. She shook her head and closed her book and sighed. “But we're still apart, Robb. We're still apart."
    “What are you talking about?"
    “This afternoon. I was so confused afterwards, and scared. I wasn't sure why, but I've thought about it. When I was reading, Robb—I was in there, with the Joined, sharing them and their love. I really was. And I didn't want to come out. I didn't want to leave them, Robb. When I did, I