Aster to Bellamia’s house; the old girl would not mind and could, he believed, be trusted to keep her mouth shut.
Dusk was coming on when he knocked at Bellamia’s door. He was feeling resentful, yet wondering why he should be. The stout lady opened her door with caution, then stood back to let the two of them in.
“This is Aster, Bellamia,” he said, as the girl drew aside her hood.
“I know who it is, right enough,” the woman said, casting an ill look at Aster. He smelled salack on her breath.
They seated themselves at the table as Bellamia poured them each a glass of her buskade. The insect-parrot gave out its stridulous cry, unfolding a kind of watery score which faded as it unwound. Darkness was already gathering in the crowded little room; Fremant and Aster could scarcely see each other’s faces across the table until Bellamia brought a lighted candle to set between them.
Aster stretched out her hand to Fremant. As he took it, he burst into complaint. “This backwater of a planet! No art forms here, no cinema, no discs, no personal computers. Not even paintings to hang on the walls.”
Aster was defensive. “There were those pretty red and blue stones in the Kontest…”
“Not quite Picasso or Rembrandt, though, were they, eh?”
“Who were they?” Bellamia asked.
Could it be that he was the only person on this whole world who knew the name Rembrandt? Of course, all these people had been for countless years mere elements in the ship’s LPR. He was a being apart. He could not think how he had come here. He had not been born on Stygia. He floundered in a morass of uncertainties, insecurities.
“But we don’t need such things, dear,” said Aster, ignoring Bellamia. “Life is better without them. Simpler! Art forms suggest too much, don’t they? At least we live on a solid surface with the sky overhead. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not enough. We didn’t create the sky overhead, did we?”
“But I thought art forms were responsible for—oh, I don’t know what. People being—what do you call it? You know, stuck up on crosses, and like that.”
“And music,” said Bellamia, laughing. The room was heavy with the scent of her salack. “Was there music on Earth? It must be deliberate that we remember so little about that place.” She turned and busied herself about her little stove.
“Art in general was once a major human concern,” he said, scowling across at Aster in the candlelight. “Paintings, sculptures, books, music…back on Earth.”
“Earth!” she said contemptuously. “That’s long lost. Astaroth says we were all sent away for safety reasons. You have too much Earthblood in you. Are you forgetting how you were tortured there?”
“Oh, that!” he exclaimed, disconcerted. He had forgotten he had confided in Aster about the torture. A shadow crossed his psyche.
“Yes,
that
! You don’t claim you have forgotten being tortured, do you? Oh, how you lie! I am surrounded—surrounded—by lies and deception. How can I bear it? I don’t know…”
He shook his head. “Calm down, will you? The nightmares I was suffering—”
“You suffer nightmares! What do you think I suffer? Bringing me here to this low hovel—”
“What’s the matter? Are you mad?”
She banged the palm of her hand on the table. “You were insane! Admit it!”
He stood up. “If you’re going to insult me, why don’t you just disappear—out of my life! You tricked me with the Clandestines, and I won’t forget it.”
With a quick movement Aster produced a knife. Baring her teeth, she pointed it at him. “What’s so insulting about being insane in a mad world? If you attack me again, I swear I shall kill you this time!”
He seated himself, trying to out-stare her.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You raped me once and that’s more than enough, you bluggerate.”
“You can talk—it’s certainly more than enough for me, let me tell you.” He gripped the edge of the
Dusk was coming on when he knocked at Bellamia’s door. He was feeling resentful, yet wondering why he should be. The stout lady opened her door with caution, then stood back to let the two of them in.
“This is Aster, Bellamia,” he said, as the girl drew aside her hood.
“I know who it is, right enough,” the woman said, casting an ill look at Aster. He smelled salack on her breath.
They seated themselves at the table as Bellamia poured them each a glass of her buskade. The insect-parrot gave out its stridulous cry, unfolding a kind of watery score which faded as it unwound. Darkness was already gathering in the crowded little room; Fremant and Aster could scarcely see each other’s faces across the table until Bellamia brought a lighted candle to set between them.
Aster stretched out her hand to Fremant. As he took it, he burst into complaint. “This backwater of a planet! No art forms here, no cinema, no discs, no personal computers. Not even paintings to hang on the walls.”
Aster was defensive. “There were those pretty red and blue stones in the Kontest…”
“Not quite Picasso or Rembrandt, though, were they, eh?”
“Who were they?” Bellamia asked.
Could it be that he was the only person on this whole world who knew the name Rembrandt? Of course, all these people had been for countless years mere elements in the ship’s LPR. He was a being apart. He could not think how he had come here. He had not been born on Stygia. He floundered in a morass of uncertainties, insecurities.
“But we don’t need such things, dear,” said Aster, ignoring Bellamia. “Life is better without them. Simpler! Art forms suggest too much, don’t they? At least we live on a solid surface with the sky overhead. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not enough. We didn’t create the sky overhead, did we?”
“But I thought art forms were responsible for—oh, I don’t know what. People being—what do you call it? You know, stuck up on crosses, and like that.”
“And music,” said Bellamia, laughing. The room was heavy with the scent of her salack. “Was there music on Earth? It must be deliberate that we remember so little about that place.” She turned and busied herself about her little stove.
“Art in general was once a major human concern,” he said, scowling across at Aster in the candlelight. “Paintings, sculptures, books, music…back on Earth.”
“Earth!” she said contemptuously. “That’s long lost. Astaroth says we were all sent away for safety reasons. You have too much Earthblood in you. Are you forgetting how you were tortured there?”
“Oh, that!” he exclaimed, disconcerted. He had forgotten he had confided in Aster about the torture. A shadow crossed his psyche.
“Yes,
that
! You don’t claim you have forgotten being tortured, do you? Oh, how you lie! I am surrounded—surrounded—by lies and deception. How can I bear it? I don’t know…”
He shook his head. “Calm down, will you? The nightmares I was suffering—”
“You suffer nightmares! What do you think I suffer? Bringing me here to this low hovel—”
“What’s the matter? Are you mad?”
She banged the palm of her hand on the table. “You were insane! Admit it!”
He stood up. “If you’re going to insult me, why don’t you just disappear—out of my life! You tricked me with the Clandestines, and I won’t forget it.”
With a quick movement Aster produced a knife. Baring her teeth, she pointed it at him. “What’s so insulting about being insane in a mad world? If you attack me again, I swear I shall kill you this time!”
He seated himself, trying to out-stare her.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You raped me once and that’s more than enough, you bluggerate.”
“You can talk—it’s certainly more than enough for me, let me tell you.” He gripped the edge of the
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