Pawn’s Gambit by Timothy Zahn Page A

had been my reason for moving into the light in the first place. The seam was strong and reasonably straight, though the material bunched a little in places and the white thread was in sharp contrast with the brown plaid. “It looks fine,” I told Heather. “Its exactly what I needed. Thank you for doing it for me.”
    Her face, which had been looking a little apprehensive, broke into a tentative smile. “I’m glad it’s all right,” she said, and I wondered that I had ever doubted her handicap. Only a blind woman could ever face me and still smile like that. And even though I knew how undeserved that smile was, I rather liked it.
    I cleared my throat. “I guess I’d better go skin the squirrel and start cooking it.”
    â€œOkay. First, though, come on back and show me how to tell when the water tank’s full. I want to finish that pumping before dinner.”
    It was pretty clear that Heather was completely healed from whatever she had caught, but I decided to keep her at the cabin for a few more days anyway. My official reason was that it would be best to keep her under observation for a bit longer, but this was at least eighty percent rationalization, if not outright lie: the simple fact was that I found her very nice to have around. I had never before had the chance to find out how much easier primitive life could be with an extra pair of hands to help with the work. Despite her blindness, Heather pitched in with skill and determination, and if I somehow failed to give her enough to do she would seek out work on her own. One morning, for example, as I was weeding the garden, she came to me with a pile of dirty clothes and insisted that I lead her down to the stream and find a place where she could wash them.
    But most of all, I enjoyed just being able to relax in the company of another human being. That sounds almost trite, I suppose, but it was something I hadn’t been able to do for five years. And, while I’d buried my need for companionship as deeply as I could, I hadn’t killed it, a fact my infrequent trips to Hemlock usually only emphasized. The people of that tiny community were helpful enough—their assistance and willingness to teach me the necessary backwoods survival skills had probably saved my life the first year after the war—but I couldn’t relax in their presence, any more than they could in mine. My face was a barrier as strong as the Berlin Wall.
    But with Heather the problem didn’t exist. We talked a great deal together, usually as we worked, our conversation ranging from trivia to philosophy to the practical details of postwar life. Heather’s knowledge of music, literature, and household tasks was far superior to mine, while I held an edge in politics, hunting, and trapping. Her sense of humor, while a little dry, meshed well with mine, and a lot of our moral values were similar. Under different circumstances I would have been happy to keep her here just as long as I possibly could. But I knew that wouldn’t be fair to her.
    My conscience finally caught up with me late one evening after dinner as we sat together on the couch. Heather was continuing her assault on the pile of mending I’d accumulated over the years; I was trying to carve a new ax handle. My heart wasn’t really in it, though, and my thoughts and gaze kept drifting to Heather. Her sewing skill had increased since that first shirt she’d mended for me; her fingers moved swiftly, surely, and the seam was straight and clean. Bathed in the soft light of a nearby candle, the warmth of which she enjoyed, she was a pleasure to watch. I wondered how I was going to broach the subject.
    She gave me the opening herself. “You’re very quiet tonight, Neil,” she said after a particularly long lull in the conversation. “What are you thinking about?”
    I gritted my teeth and plunged in. “I’ve been thinking it’s about