"I forbid you to argue with your mother that way, George," said Mr.
Kenington.
"I mean, my God," said George's sister happily. "This is an innovation!
Can you imagine? Gistla, or whatever your name is, could your father
make his music sometime when we have a dance?"
Gistla's eyes were hurt and she was, George knew, confused. She shook
her head.
Mrs. Kenington was blinking accusingly. "Do they teach you to make these
things up? Is that what they teach you at home?"
"Mother, will you please?" George said. "Why must you talk to her that
way?"
Mr. Kenington stood up quickly. "I did not raise my son to show an
attitude like that to his mother."
"But she isn't making this up," George said. "You asked her to tell you
and she--"
George's sister had jumped out of her chair and she was waltzing over
the patio. She began humming as she danced. "Can't you just see it?
Everyone dancing around, listening to music in their heads? No orchestra
or records or anything?"
Mr. Kenington stood very tall. "Are you taking the word of your mother,
or this ... this ..." He motioned curtly at Gistla.
George licked his lips, looking defensively at each one of his family.
"It isn't a matter of taking anyone's word at all. It's just something
we don't understand."
George's sister whirled and then suddenly she stopped, putting her hand
against her mouth. "My God, what if everyone got the music different? I
mean, does everyone hear the same music, dear? Because if they didn't,
what a mess!" She began dancing again, her skirt swirling over the
bricks of the patio.
Mr. Kenington's voice was louder. "I think we understand, all right,
George. There isn't anything about this we don't understand!"
George's lips were paling.
His sister dipped and turned. "We could call it a Music In The Head
dance. Everybody brings his own head!" She laughed merrily. "My God!"
George noticed then that Gistla was disappearing out of the rear gate.
He stood, clenching his fists and glaring at his family. His sister had
stopped dancing but she was still laughing.
"I didn't think, George," his mother said resolutely, "that you were
going to invite someone who lied."
George turned and ran after Gistla.
* * * * *
They sat again in the clearing. George could still feel the anger
churning inside him, and he held his hands together so tightly that his
fingers began to ache. "I hate them for that," he said.
Gistla touched his arm. "No, George. It is all right. It is the way
things are."
"But they don't need to be! My family did that on purpose."
"They just don't understand. My race is very different from yours and it
seems strange."
"So does mine," George said, standing and beginning to pace back and
forth.
It had been what he really had expected. But still he had hoped,
somehow, that his family might have understood. He looked at Gistla,
sitting quietly, her large eyes watching him. He knew he loved her very
much just then, more in fact than he ever had before, because she had
been refused by his family.
"Listen, Gistla," he said, kneeling on the grass in front of her. "It
won't make any difference what anyone thinks or does or says. I love
you, and I'll go on loving you. We'll build our own life the way we want
it."
She shook her head slowly. "No, George. It does make a difference. You
cannot forget your family or your people. That is important to you. I
would only hurt you."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Then that's all that's important to me. Not what anyone thinks. Not
what my sister thinks or my father or my mother."
"We are different, you and I." She sat unmoving, her smooth face
unchanging. "My people seem strange to yours because we can do things
your people do not understand. We seem strange because we look
differently, we act differently, we value things differently."
"My values are the same as yours," George pleaded. "I love you because
of what you are, not because of some kind of stupid chart for physical
beauty, not because ..."
"George," she said. "Look at me."
George met her eyes suddenly, caught by the urgency in her voice. And
slowly, in front of his eyes, she changed. Her features shifted, until
George saw a beautiful young girl with pink white skin and red lips. He
saw shining blue eyes and shimmering golden hair that fell over her
shoulders. Gistla's body had changed to a lithe, smooth figure that
revealed its contours beneath the gray cape.
He caught his breath and wiped a hand at his eyes.
"What you see," said Gistla softly, "is an illusion. You see what would
be in your values, a beautiful girl."
George opened his mouth but was unable to find his voice.
"Do not be afraid, George. Beneath the illusion of your senses, I am
still Gistla. I am still a Venusian."
George reached out and touched his fingers against a white arm and a
white shoulder bared by the cape. He touched the golden hair. "Gistla,"
he said, amazed. "You're beautiful."
"Yes," she said sadly.
"But--you really are! Your hair and your eyes and your mouth. How did
you do it?"
She shook her head to show its unimportance. "It is something--like your
hypnotism."
George raised himself from his knees and sat beside her. "But I can't
believe it!"
"You can see, you can feel."
"Yes," George said. "Yes."
"You are happy with me this way, aren't you, George?"
"But you're so beautiful."
The golden-haired girl nodded her head, and the shining blue eyes
watched him carefully.
"You see then," Gistla said. "It does make a difference. You love me
more this way."
"No," George said, touching her hair again. "I don't love you more, but
if you can do this, why then, we'll have no more worries. Don't you
see?"
"I think so," Gistla said, looking away.
George's voice was excited, and his eyes darted over her face and body.
"Would other people see you as I do?"
"If I wished, yes."
"Then you see? It's all changed! You are what I see. Golden-haired and
pale-skinned--"
"I am still Gistla. You would always know that. Would you love something
that is not real, just because you see it with your eyes?"
* * * * *
"But I can feel that you're real," George said, putting his hands on her
shoulders. He pulled her closer and kissed her hair. "You're Gistla," he
said, "and you're beautiful." He tipped her face up to his and bent to
kiss her mouth.
His lips touched smooth green skin and he looked into Gistla's large
round lidless eyes. He recoiled as though he had been touched by fire.
She watched him as he wiped a trembling hand across his chest, and her
globular head glistened in the reflection of the late sun.
She nodded. "When you see what I really am, the difference _is_
important." She gathered her cloak around her and stood up.
George felt the flush of his face, and he could not meet her eyes. He
heard her walk a few steps away.
"Good-by, George," she said.