office.
An uneasy lump in my throat, I wrapped a sarong around my waist and stood near the door.
“Who is it?” I called softly.
“Halley, is that you?” a man’s voice called back.
In this century nobody knows my name is Halley. Nobody speaks a language called Earth Standard because it hasn’t evolved yet.
No, it’s not possible. Must be an hallucination. That flu’s caught up with me.
“Hello?” I said cautiously. Then thought how ridiculous it was, standing there talking through a screen that provided no protection anyway. I opened it, hand shaking.
“It’s me...” said the man on the other side. In the dark his face was indistinct, but his voice and his smell and his rhythm of breathing was Bill Murdoch’s and I was backing up until my legs hit the bed.
He stepped into the room. “Halley, is it you?”
Then he lifted something up close to his eyes. Something small with two arrays of blinking lights in patterns. I recognized it as a directional indicator.
The sight of that small piece of twenty-second-century technology anchored my wits. I reached up the pole in the center of the tent and switched on the bulb.
In its weak yellow light Murdoch looked at me and breathed a sigh of relief. “It is you. For a second, I thought I’d got the wrong place.”
He wore an old T-shirt and sarong, with thongs on his feet like any resident of the out-town. For a moment I saw him as a dark, heavy-chested stranger with lines on his face that could be either from worry or laughter. Then he was just himself.
He grinned. “Hey, don’t go all wobbly on me.”
I shook my head, beyond speech. An immense bubble of loneliness popped inside me.
“I’m really here.” To demonstrate the point, he stepped forward and hugged me.
I let my face be squished against a warm, firm chest damp with sweat. Reached around with my arms and felt his solidity. Gods, he really
is
here, and I’m shaking and my face is wet. Am I laughing or crying?
“Bill, how did you get here?” I said, muffled. Stupid question—the same way I did, obviously.
His arms tightened for a moment, then relaxed. We separated awkwardly. Uncertain what to do, I reached for the water bottle and poured him a glassful.
“It’s filtered,” I said, unable to tell in the dim light whether his expression was distaste or anxiety. He gulped it down and drank another. Put the glass on the crate and looked around the small space. “Is this it?”
“Is this what?”
“Where you’ve spent the past five months?”
Five months. The same length of time as I experienced. So he must have come through the same jump point that I used, and it had stayed stable at the same “distance” of about ninety-nine years—I left Jocasta in September 2122 and arrived here in December 2022. It was now April 2023.
“Halley? Is this where you live?” He was frowning in puzzlement, the expression familiar in the way it drew his brows together, making two deep lines between them.
“Yes. Yes, it is. When did you get here?”
“Just arrived,” he said. “Yesterday.”
Murdoch must have left in January 2123.
I ran my hand over my head, too many words competing to get out at the same time. I wanted to ask him how he got a ship to travel through the point, how he reached the surface undetected, what was happening back on the station, why he’d come alone, how he’d found me—although I had a good idea—and if he had a way to get back. I took a breath to say the words, but it wouldn’t come into my lungs. Damn, damn. Furious and embarrassed at the same time, I dropped to my knees and scrabbled for the inhaler beside the bed. Where is the thing? I had it earlier...
Murdoch was kneeling down beside me looking worried, but I couldn’t tell him what was wrong and didn’t care because until I found the blasted inhaler... not under the bed…oh hell where…blanket, in…the…got it.
“M’sorry,” I said as soon as I could speak, sitting on the floor.
An uneasy lump in my throat, I wrapped a sarong around my waist and stood near the door.
“Who is it?” I called softly.
“Halley, is that you?” a man’s voice called back.
In this century nobody knows my name is Halley. Nobody speaks a language called Earth Standard because it hasn’t evolved yet.
No, it’s not possible. Must be an hallucination. That flu’s caught up with me.
“Hello?” I said cautiously. Then thought how ridiculous it was, standing there talking through a screen that provided no protection anyway. I opened it, hand shaking.
“It’s me...” said the man on the other side. In the dark his face was indistinct, but his voice and his smell and his rhythm of breathing was Bill Murdoch’s and I was backing up until my legs hit the bed.
He stepped into the room. “Halley, is it you?”
Then he lifted something up close to his eyes. Something small with two arrays of blinking lights in patterns. I recognized it as a directional indicator.
The sight of that small piece of twenty-second-century technology anchored my wits. I reached up the pole in the center of the tent and switched on the bulb.
In its weak yellow light Murdoch looked at me and breathed a sigh of relief. “It is you. For a second, I thought I’d got the wrong place.”
He wore an old T-shirt and sarong, with thongs on his feet like any resident of the out-town. For a moment I saw him as a dark, heavy-chested stranger with lines on his face that could be either from worry or laughter. Then he was just himself.
He grinned. “Hey, don’t go all wobbly on me.”
I shook my head, beyond speech. An immense bubble of loneliness popped inside me.
“I’m really here.” To demonstrate the point, he stepped forward and hugged me.
I let my face be squished against a warm, firm chest damp with sweat. Reached around with my arms and felt his solidity. Gods, he really
is
here, and I’m shaking and my face is wet. Am I laughing or crying?
“Bill, how did you get here?” I said, muffled. Stupid question—the same way I did, obviously.
His arms tightened for a moment, then relaxed. We separated awkwardly. Uncertain what to do, I reached for the water bottle and poured him a glassful.
“It’s filtered,” I said, unable to tell in the dim light whether his expression was distaste or anxiety. He gulped it down and drank another. Put the glass on the crate and looked around the small space. “Is this it?”
“Is this what?”
“Where you’ve spent the past five months?”
Five months. The same length of time as I experienced. So he must have come through the same jump point that I used, and it had stayed stable at the same “distance” of about ninety-nine years—I left Jocasta in September 2122 and arrived here in December 2022. It was now April 2023.
“Halley? Is this where you live?” He was frowning in puzzlement, the expression familiar in the way it drew his brows together, making two deep lines between them.
“Yes. Yes, it is. When did you get here?”
“Just arrived,” he said. “Yesterday.”
Murdoch must have left in January 2123.
I ran my hand over my head, too many words competing to get out at the same time. I wanted to ask him how he got a ship to travel through the point, how he reached the surface undetected, what was happening back on the station, why he’d come alone, how he’d found me—although I had a good idea—and if he had a way to get back. I took a breath to say the words, but it wouldn’t come into my lungs. Damn, damn. Furious and embarrassed at the same time, I dropped to my knees and scrabbled for the inhaler beside the bed. Where is the thing? I had it earlier...
Murdoch was kneeling down beside me looking worried, but I couldn’t tell him what was wrong and didn’t care because until I found the blasted inhaler... not under the bed…oh hell where…blanket, in…the…got it.
“M’sorry,” I said as soon as I could speak, sitting on the floor.
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