Part 1 (1/2)
COMMUNION.
GORDON GROSS.
Like most writers, Gordon Gross is two people. But unlike most writers, Gordon Gross is literally two people: husband and wife writing team Eve Gordon and Harold Gross. ”Communion” is their first story sale.
They currently earn their living in the computer field as consultants and troubleshooters. Harold is a professional actor and Eve does stand-up comedy.
They live in a New York City apartment too small for them, their two cats, and their collection of 2,000 books.
MON (Middle Of Nowhere) spins slowly on our view screen. After four and a half years together in Stardust, we are finally here. I glance at Glim, seated in the second navnet he had jury-rigged before we left Zehabus, watching the view screen. (an odd word, jury-rigged; as if anyone could ”rig” a jury.)
I feel the warm wisp of Glim's Telen disturb my mental wandering.
And they said it couldn't be done, is his thought, so easy in my mind that it could be my own. He continues to watch the view screen, solemn and straight-faced on the outside. All this time tripping over each other physically and mentally, and his humor still takes me by surprise.
I smile, the comers of my mouth resisting my attempt at seriousness. My eyes widen in a telepath's shrug.
Who knew? is my reply.
Glim tums his head slowly to look at me. We did.
Yes, we did, I think to myself, and here we are, still mentally sound. You ready to go in? I ask.
He glances at the view screen again, t hen leans over and touches my cheek. Our minds slide together and intertwine with the caress. Let's get it over with, he replies. I wonder, will we be able to enjoy the physical ease with each other that we've become accustomed to on the voyage? Or will the telepath taboos be too strong here? (G.o.ds, life was easier as a navigator.) Who would ever have thought that just holding hands could be so important? Glim leans back in his chair, and our minds slide apart as two seas separated by a rising island.
”Stardust to MON,” I hail the controller. Glim's daily voice exercises may not have improved the raspy quality of my voice, but they ensure that my vocal cords do not weaken and atrophy over long voyages.
”MON, Mooney here,” comes the answer.
”Request permission to land.”
”Do you have your Trans-immigration request?”
I transmit our files to his system.
”Residence pet.i.tion, Inst.i.tute ratings, and immunology records seem in order,”
Mooney's voice comes over the corn after a few moments. ”You are on manual approach. No fancy CyberNav equip here.” No questions as to why there are two of us in a one-person scout. Or why telepaths would arrive without the pomp and circ.u.mstance of a full cruiser-cla.s.s cybers.h.i.+p. Perhaps our reputation precedes us?
”Affirmative, not a problem,” I reply. ”Give me the coords.”
The computer blinks as it receives the data and vectors. A course appears in a luminescent web superimposed over MON on the view screen.
”Coming in now, half blast.” I tell him.
”Confirmed. See you on the ground.”
The landing goes relatively smoothly (read: I didn't blow us up); after all, I was a navigator before my Great, if late, Discovery. We touch down a bit on the heavy side, though. Glim shoots a sidelong smile at me.
It's been better than seven years since I've had to land anything besides you, I say. And any respectable planet has at least rudimentary CyberNav.
Did I say anything?