FSF, April 2007 Read online

  She drew herself up. “My name is Robin Redd."

  "So I've heard."

  "Hold it!” Kit edged (most enjoyably) around March to stand between them. “You owe me. Both of you do. Windy, I bought this hopper and came way the hell out here into God-forsaken outermost space just because you needed me. Tell me that's not right, and I'll head back home as soon as you clear the airlock."

  "It's right,” March said.

  "Robin, you had to get away. I'd seen what Jim could do, and I stepped up like a Girl Scout. I never ran your card or asked a favor. I said why don't you come with me, I'll be glad to have the company. If you say that's not how it was, I'm hustling you back to Earth and shoving you out. Wasn't that how it was?"

  Robin nodded.

  "Okay. It's a mess. Even I, good-hearted dumb li'l Kit, can see that. But I don't know what kind of mess I've made, and I'm going to raise holy hell till you two fill me in. You know each other. How?"

  March sighed. “We made the mess, Kit. Sue here did, and I did. Not you."

  Robin whispered, “He's my ex, Kit."

  "Jim?” Kit goggled at her. “I saw Jim. It was Wednesday night."

  "Not Jim. Oh, God! I hate this!"

  March said, “It's been years since the final decree, Kit, and the proceedings dragged on for a couple of years before that. I had abused her—verbally. I had said things that injured her delicate feelings. Things that were quoted in court, mostly inaccurately and always out of context. I had persecuted her—"

  "Don't! Just don't! Don't say those things."

  "Why not?” March was grim. “You said them to a judge."

  "I had to!"

  Kit threw up her hands. “Hold it. Stop right there. I'm making a new rule. You don't talk to each other. Each of you talks only to me."

  She glared at March, then turned to Robin. “How many times have you been married?"

  "T-twice.” Her eyes were overflowing, their tears detached by minute motions of her head to float in the air of the hopper, tiny spheres of purest crystal.

  "Windy was your first husband?"

  Studying her without hearing her, March was besieged by memories. How beautiful she had been in the days when she still smiled, the days when her hair was long, soft, and brown. In his mind's eye, she was poised on the high board, poised for a second or two that had somehow become forever, poised above the clear blue water of some hotel's swimming pool.

  "Windy? Did you hear me?” It was Kit.

  He shook his head. “I was remembering, I'm afraid. Thinking how it used to be before it went bad."

  Robin shouted, “Before you stopped paying attention!"

  "Shut up!” Kit snapped. “Windy, she said you never hit her, but you abused her verbally and psychologically. Threats and put-downs. All that stuff. True or false?"

  "True,” March said.

  "Is that all you've got to say?"

  He nodded.

  "Did you ever love her?"

  He felt as though his feet had been kicked from under him. “Oh, my God!” He groped for words. “I was crazy about her, Kit. Sometimes she wouldn't speak to me for weeks and it just about killed me. She left me over and over. I'd come home from work, and instead of being there spoiling for a fight she'd be gone. She'd live with some boyfriend or other for a few days, maybe a week, and then—"

  "Jim!” Robin cocked her head, her smile a challenge. “It was always Jim, Marchy."

  "Shut up!” Kit turned to glare at her.

  "That isn't what she said. Do we have to talk about this?"

  Kit studied him. “You look like you've lost a quart of blood."

  "I feel like it, too."

  "My pepper pot ought to help. And I've made Cuban bread. That's easy. You ever eat stew out here?"

  He shook his head.

  "Me neither. I've got it simmering in hopsacks. Those clear plastic thingies. That's why you don't smell it."

  "Sure.” It was wonderful to speak of something else. Of anything else. “I've got some, too."

  "So I figure we can drink the liquid, and there'll be little chunks of crayfish and pork and so forth in there too. When it's gone, we can open the hopsacks and eat the solids."

  "Should work."

  "Do you still love her, Windy?"

  He shook his head.

  * * * *

  Kit in her transparent suit was simply incredible, lush curves that changed and changed again as the suit flexed, but in that light were never more than half seen. He shot her from the waist up, not quite always, knowing it would keep five hundred million men watching, waiting, and wondering.

  "Hi. It's me again, Kit Carlsen. When I do a cooking show, I tell you—sometimes—about the chef who developed a recipe, or the person the dish was named after. Peaches Melba for Nellie Melba the opera singer. You know. Well, today we're going to visit the tomb of a lady who was her town's best, and best known, cook. I plan to ask her about her cooking as well as her life and death. You may think it's tasteless, but March Wildspring and I think you'll find it interesting if you'll just stick with us. March is our producer, so what he says goes."

  With a wave and a beckoning smile, Kit entered the tomb. March grinned. After a moment he followed her, watching her image in the digicorder screen more closely than Kit herself.

  That's me, there. The woman in the gray dress on the red chair.

  The voice was without even the semblance of a living speaker, the picture calm, serious, and motionless.

  My name was Sarah-Jane Applefield. I was sixty-three at the time of my demise. My parents were McAlister Rodney Applefield and Elizabeth Warren Weyerhaeuser. I bore three fine children in my time, Clara, Sheryl, and Charles. All were much loved. Would you like to hear about my early life?

  "No, Sarah.” Kit's voice was soft, coaxing. “We'd like to hear about your cooking. It made you famous all over Southton. Can you tell our audience something about that?"

  Certainly. Would you like recipes, or the secrets of good cooking?

  Kit smiled in her plastic bubble. “Your secrets, please."

  I call them secrets because so few women seem to know them. They're secrets I tell freely to anyone, but they stay secret just the same. Do you cook?

  "I do,” Kit said. “I cook a lot, and so do a lot of busy women and men in our audience."

  Good. The first is to release the inner self. We're all a little bit psychic, but we've been taught to pretend we're not. Let that go. Feel the dish. Sense what it feels. In the storybook, Alice talks to the food, and the food talks back to her. I read it to my children. Lewis Carroll wrote it, and he was an old bachelor. He cooked for himself, you see, so he knew.

  Kit smiled again. “I need to read that book, and I will."

  The second is to use your nose. Cooking would be difficult for a woman who was blind, but if she learned, she would be a better cook than a seeing woman who would not use her nose. Food may look very nice when it's really quite awful, but food that smells good is good, just about always.

  The third is to taste. Spices lose their flavor. Two pieces of beef may be from different animals, even though both are beef. There are breeds of cattle just like there are breeds of cats, or one animal may be old and the next young. If you buy your beef at the store you have no way of telling. What it comes down to is that recipes can't be exact. The cook must taste, and taste again.

  "That's very wise, I'm sure."

  It is. Your name is Kit. Your husband told me when he was here before.

  "He's not my husband.” Kit's smile was warm. “But close enough."

  If you were wise yourself, Kit, you would ask me what I should tell you. Whether it concerns food or not.

  Kit glanced at March for guidance, and he nodded.

  "Then I do, please. What is it I ought to ask? Pretend I did."

  There is nothing close enough to marriage, Kit. I bore three children to the man who stands behind me in my picture. We were never wed. As time wears on, that will grow easier and easi
er for the man, Kit, and harder and harder for you. Look closely at my picture, and you'll see I wear a ring.

  March zoomed in on it.

  I bought that ring for myself, Kit, in a little shop that sold old jewelry. He begged me to take it off once, when we were going to bed. I did, and while we slept he hid it.

  Kit looked stricken, but her voice remained smoothly professional. “I'm glad for your sake, Ms. Applefield, that he didn't keep it."

  Don't you see? He would've had to give it to me if he had—would've had to give it back to me. Make the gesture he would never make.

  "I've got it.” Kit shook her head as if a blow had left her dizzy.

  I like you. If I didn't, I wouldn't have spoken to you as I did just now. This will be easier for you to hear, but you must not discount it for that reason. There is another flying grave, like my own but larger than my own. It's on the other side of Jupiter today.

  "One you think we ought to visit?” March sensed that Kit was breathing normally again. “Can you tell us what's there?"

  I can't. Your man asked the same question. That's why I'm mentioning it now. I can look outside this grave. Did you know?

  "No, Ms. Applefield, I certainly didn't."

  I can. Hoppers park at that grave sometimes. I see them. People—live people like you—go inside. Pay attention now, Kit. They don't come out again, and pretty soon their hoppers drift away.

  * * * *

  Kit was doing deep-space aerobics, throwing herself from floor to ceiling and from ceiling to floor, her lush body enveloped in a fine mist of sweat that her hopper's air system stripped away only sluggishly. “I say we gotta go in,” she gasped. “Round-file that sweet old lady giving us her warning? Over my dead body."

  "If you go in,” Robin said, “I might go in it, too—only I wish you wouldn't."

  "I'm going.” Kit grunted. “If Windy won't go, I'll go in by myself. You can shoot me."

  Watching her, March thought of all the things he would do—or try to—if Robin were not present. Aloud he said, “You'd better stop. You're wearing yourself out."

  "Just landed a little wrong and hit my knee. I do a hundred of these.” Kit sprang from the floor, twisting like a gymnast in air that smelled of shampoo. “I've been counting to myself. This's eighty-seven."

  "Then I'll count the rest for you. Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety...."

  "You're the only friend I've got,” Robin told Kit. “The only good friend. If you die, it's be just me and Jim, and he'll kill me."

  "Ninety-two. Kit, doesn't that tell you something about your little pal here? She's thirty-five, and she's got exactly one good friend. You. One good friend, and a second husband she thinks may kill her."

  "Thirty-one, dammit!"

  Kit snatched at breath. “How many?"

  "Ninety-six. And I know how old Sue is. She's eight years younger than I am, and her birthday's October thirty-first. That ought to tell you something, too. Ninety-nine.” He watched Kit throw herself, with obvious effort, back to the crimson carpet. “One hundred."

  She straightened up, and Robin handed her a towel. “Thanks for giving me an honest count, Windy. I kind of thought you'd cheat."

  He nodded. “That's what Robin thought, too. She had me followed for a couple months."

  "Did you?"

  He shook his head.

  Robin threw a pepper mill at him. “You were too smart for them!” Missing his head by at least a foot, it slammed against the wall.

  March's eyes had never left Kit. “I was under the impression that Sue and I weren't speaking. Apparently I was wrong. I, however, am not speaking to her. It may spare your hopper a few scars."

  "She can throw my stuff at me,” Kit told him. “Robin, you're a guest in this hopper. Windy's another guest in my hopper. I asked him to dinner. If you two want to rip open old wounds, I can't stop you. No violence, though. I mean real violence, like throwing stuff. Or hitting. Do it again, and you go out."

  "Into his hopper?” Robin's contempt was palpable. “I'd rather die!"

  "I doubt that he'd let you in. I'll just get you suited up and shove you out the airlock. Tourists come to Jupiter pretty often. Somebody will probably pick you up before your air runs out."

  March sighed. “You want me to say I'd take her in. And if I don't...."

  "I'll think a lot less of you, Windy."

  "All right, I will. I only hope I won't have to. If I do, I'll probably kill her before I can get her back to terra firma."

  "I'm not from there, smart-ass.” Robin cocked her head. “Terror whatever you said."

  Kit giggled as she joined Robin at the tiny table. “I'm not going to touch that straight line. Don't you touch it either, Windy."

  She tied the soft cord that would keep her from floating out of her chair. “Bulbs are hot. Windy, get over here and sit down. I know you always like coffee with your meals. How about you, Robin? Coffee? Tea?"

  "Tea, please.” Robin's voice was one breath above a whisper.

  "Here you go. And here's your coffee, Windy. Now before you start gobbling my Truite Farcie aux Epinards, we've got to talk seriously about the next shoot. Do you remember when I said I'd go into that damned mausoleum or whatever it is alone if you wouldn't come with me? I meant every word of it."

  March sat. “You may change your mind when you've had time to think it over. I hope you will."

  Kit looked as grim as a pleasant blonde can look. “I change my mind before I've told anybody. Never after. If you won't go in, I'm going in alone tomorrow."

  So close to March that their elbows touched, Robin raised a beverage bulb to her lips and put it down. “Do either of you actually know where this awful place is?” Her perfume, musky and hinting of cinnamon, crept into his nostrils.

  Kit shook her head. “I'll find it. The dead lady can probably tell me, just to start with."

  "I call it Number Nineteen,” March told her. “I've known about it awhile, but I haven't gone inside."

  "Then I won't have to ask her—I'll get it out of you. Shameless prostitution, right? Are you going in, too? Yes or no."

  "Then it's yes. I'll go in there with you on one condition."

  Robin said, “I'd go in with Kit if she was going in there alone. Not if you'll be with us."

  "That would have sounded better,” Kit told her, “if you'd said it before Windy said he'd go. We call that bad timing in show biz.” She turned to March. “What's your condition? Maybe I won't agree."

  "You'll have no reason not to. There's another one, not as big. I haven't gone into it either, but I've every reason to think it's dangerous. I want you to go into that one with me first. If I'm right, you'll get a little seasoning there. When we tackle Number Nineteen you're going to need some."

  "So you think,” Robin said.

  Kit motioned her to silence. “I'm all for seasoning. Have you got any reason for thinking this one's not quite so hairy? Besides its being smaller?"

  March shook his head.

  "Then I'll go. When do we do it?"

  Robin said, “I'd like to know what reasons he's got for thinking it's dangerous at all."

  "Tomorrow,” March said. The oven buzzed as he spoke.

  "Sounds good.” Kit untied her cord. “Everybody ready for food?"

  The trout was served in Pyrex-topped dishes with tiny hatches that slid away at the touch of a fork. Kit demonstrated, thrusting her own fork in, and pulling it out laden with fish and spinach. March tried it, and a wisp of spinach floated away before his fork was halfway to his mouth. “Chopsticks might be better,” he suggested.

  Robin giggled.

  "You've got ‘em,” Kit told him. “There's a trigger at the front of the handle. Feel it? Pull that, and the chow bar flips over to hold your stuff on. Loosen up when it's in your mouth, and you can get your food out.

  "Robin, can you clean up that spinach for me? Make yourself useful?"

  "You betcha."

  The Truite Farcie aux Epinards was delicio
us. March took another bite before he said, “Ever hear of the Thugs?"

  Kit chewed reverently and swallowed. “Like muggers, Windy?"

  "Not quite. There was a cult called Thuggee, and the members were the original Thugs. They worshipped Death and sacrificed people to her."

  Robin muttered, “Why do we always get blamed?"

  "Mostly they strangled them, although I believe they also stabbed a few. They offered the deaths of their victims to their goddess, and kept the victims’ possessions to cover operating expenses. The Brits wiped them out two hundred years back."

  "Why are you telling us this, Windy?” Kit's hand hovered over the clip that would hold her fork when she had no need of it.

  "Because it seems like they're with us again, in a new and improved Westernized form. And I'm not telling you and Sue. Just you."

  "You mean they gave up the goddess business?"

  March shook his head. “The West has never abandoned religion, Kit. You just think it has because you and your friends have. Okay, I'm your friend and I'd like to be more. But you know what I mean."

  "We'll talk about that other thing sometime when we're alone.” For a moment, Kit looked a trifle stunned. “You—You said they were Westernized, Windy. If you didn't mean no goddess, what did you mean?"

  "Computers, secure lines of electronic communication, and hoppers just to start with. Guns. Poisons. Ever been in an abattoir?"

  "A slaughterhouse? No, and I don't want to go."

  "You're going.” March sighed. “Or I think you are. You said you'd go into this one—into Number Thirteen—with me if I'd go into Number Nineteen with you. Something like that. That's what it came down to."

  "This is good.” Robin paused to sniff the fish on her fork. “Has anybody told you so yet? It's really luscious, and you'd better finish yours before it gets cold."

  Obediently, Kit ate. “Food doesn't taste as good when you're scared."

  "Then I wish I weren't,” March told her, “and you won't be in Number Thirteen. Or I don't think so. If you'd been in a modern abattoir, you'd know the cattle aren't frightened. Fear makes them noisy and hard to control, so it's been eliminated. They get on a slow belt that doesn't shake at all, or make any kind of sound. It moves them down a narrow chute, and by that time they're used to chutes. This one seems less frightening than most. But when they get to the bottom and start back up, they're dead."