Then she waited, clasping her hands to keep them from trembling with the
tiny thrill of excitement she felt.
"That would be kind of you," he said after a pause. "You could read,
there, and I could listen, here, and feel what you feel as you read ...
or, if you wished ..." Another pause. "Would you care to come down?"
She could not help smiling. "You're too good a mind reader. A girl can't
have any secrets any more."
"Now look here," he burst out. "I wouldn't have said anything, but I
was so lonely and you're the only friendly person I've come in contact
with and ..."
"Don't be silly," she laughed. "Of course I'll come down and read to
you. I'd love to. What's your cabin number?"
"It hasn't got a number because--actually I work on this ship so I'm
away from the passengers' quarters. But I can direct you easily. Just
start down the hall to your left and ..."
"My dear sir," she cried, "just wait a minute! I can't come visiting in
my robe, you know; I'll have to change. But while I dress, you must take
your spying little thoughts away. If I detect you peeking in here at the
wrong moment, I'll run straight to Captain Blake and have him prepare
his special lead-lined cell for one unhappy telepath. So you just run
along. When I'm ready, I'll call you and you can lead me to your lair."
He thought only the one word, "Hurry," but in the silence after he was
gone she fancied she heard her heart echoing him, loud in the stillness.
* * * * *
She laughed gaily to herself. "Now stop acting like a schoolgirl before
the Junior Prom. You've got to get busy and wash and dress and comb and
brush." And then to her reflection in the mirror: "Aren't you a lucky
girl? You're still millions and billions of miles from Earth and it's
starting already, and he's going to do research there for some time, and
maybe at the university in your home town if you tell him just how nice
it is, and he doesn't know any other girls, you'd have an inside track.
Now you'd better get going or you'll never be ready.
"For reading poetry, don't you think this dress is just the thing, this
nice soft blue one that goes so well with your tan and shows your legs,
which are really quite pretty, you know.... And your silver sandals and
those silver pins ... just a touch of perfume.... That's right; and now
a little lipstick. You do have a pretty smile.... There, that's right.
Now stop admiring yourself and let's go."
She moved to the bookshelf, frowning now, considered, selected and
rejected. Finally she settled on three slim books bound in russet
leather, in glossy plastic, in faded cloth. She took a little purse from
the table, put the cigarette case into it. Then, with a laugh, she took
one cigarette and slipped it into a tiny pocket on her skirt.
"I really meant to bring you one," she whispered to the empty air, "but
wasn't I mean to tease?"
In the corridor, she walked quickly past the rows of closed doors to the
tiny refreshment stand at the foot of the dining room stairs. The
attendant rose from his stool as she approached, and came to the
counter.
"I'd like two frosted starlights, please," she said, "on a tray."
"Two," said the attendant, and nothing more, but his eyebrow climbed up
his forehead, hung for a second, then slowly drooped back to normal, as
if to say that after all these years he no longer puzzled about a lovely
young girl who came around in the middle of a Wednesday rest period,
dressed like Saturday night and smelling of perfume, ordering two
intoxicating drinks--when she was obviously traveling alone.
* * * * *
Lenore felt a thrill of secret pleasure go through her, a feeling of
possessing a delicious secret, a delightful sensation of reckless
gaiety, of life stirring throughout the sleepy ship, of a web of secrets
and countersecrets hidden from everyone but this unconcerned observer.
She walked back down the corridor, balancing the tray. When a little
splashed over the rim of the tall glasses, she took a sip from each,
tasting the sweet, cold liquid in her throat.
When she came to the head of the stairs, she realized that she did not
even know her telepath's name. Closing her eyes, she said very slowly
and distinctly inside her head, "Mr. Fairheart?"
Instantly his thought was with her, overpowering, as breathless as an
embrace. "Where are you?"
"At the head of the central stairs."
"Down you go."
She went down the stairs, through more corridors, down more stairs,
while he guided her steps. Once she paused to sip again at each glass
when the liquid splashed as she was going down. The ice tickled her nose
and made her sneeze.
"You live a long way down," she said.
"I've got to be near my charges," he answered. "I told you I work on the
ship; I'm a zoologist classifying any of the new specimens of
extraterrestrial life they're always picking up. And I always get stuck
with the worst quarters on the ship. Why, I can't even call all my suite
my own. The whole front room is filled with some sort of ship's gear
that my steward stumbles over every meal time."
She went on and on, down and down. "How many flights?" she wondered.
"Two or twelve or twenty?" Now, why couldn't she remember? Only four
little sips and her mind felt so cloudy. Down another corridor, and what
was that funny smell? These passages were poorly ventilated in the lower
levels; probably that was what made her feel so dizzy.
"Only one more flight," he whispered. "Only one more."
Down and along and then the door. She paused, conscious of rising
excitement, conscious of her beating heart.
Dimly she noticed the sign on the door. "You--you mean whatever it is
you're taking care of is in there with you?"
"Don't be frightened," his persuasive thought came. "It can't hurt you.
It's locked in a cage."
Then she slid the bolt and turned the handle. Her head hurt for an
instant; and she was inside, a blue and silver shadow in the dim
anteroom, with the tray in her hand and the books under her arm and her
pulse hammering.
She looked around the dim anteroom, at the spidery tangle of orange and
black ropes against the left-hand wall; then at the doorway in the
right-hand wall with the warm light streaming through. He was standing
in the second room, one hand on the chair for support, the other
extended toward her. For the first time he spoke aloud.
"Hello, butterfly," he said.
"Hello," she said. She smiled and walked forward into the light. She
reached out for his hand.
Then she stopped short, her hand pressed against an impenetrable wall.
* * * * *
She could see him standing there, smiling, reaching for her hand, but
there was an invisible barrier between them. Then, slowly, his room
began to fade, the light dimmed, his figure grew watery, transparent,
vanished. She was standing, staring at the riveted steel bulkhead of a
compartment which was lit only by the dim light filtering through the
thick glass over the transom.
She stood there frozen, and the ice in the glasses tinkled nervously.
Then the tray slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Icy
liquid splashed the silver sandals. In the silent gloom she stood
immobile, her eyes wide in her white face, her fist pressed to her
mouth, stifling a scream.
Something touched her gently at head and wrist and ankle--all over her
body. The web clung, delicate as lace, strong as steel.
Even if she had been able to move, she could not have broken free as the
thing against the wall began to clamber down the strands on eight furred
legs.
"Hello, butterfly," he said again.
--KENNETH HARMON
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ February 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note.