A good long one. Next to the library, that's the thing I miss most. It
would be even better, if they made the tubs bigger, so you could swim
around some. But just getting wet all over like that, and splashing in
the water, is fun. Of course, we could never spare enough water for
that on the ship.
Altogether, it was a good evening; everything was fine until I tried
to sleep in that bed. I felt as if I was being suffocated all over.
The floor was almost as bad, but in a different way. And once I got to
sleep, I guess I slept well enough, because I felt fine in the
morning. But then, I think I must have been on a mild oxygen jag all
the time I was down there; nothing seemed to bother me too much. That
morning, I felt so good I worked up my courage to go into a
restaurant again--a different one. The smell was beginning to be
familiar, and I could manage better. I experimented with a cereal
called oatmeal, which was delicious, then I went back to the motel,
packed up all my new belongings, left the key on the desk--as
instructed by the sign on the door--and started out for Denver.
* * * * *
Denver, according to the Encyclopedia Americana, is more of a true
metropolitan area than Colorado Springs; that means--on Earth--that it
is dirtier, more crowded, far less pleasant to look at or live in, and
a great deal more convenient and efficient to do business in. In
Denver, and with the aid of a Colorado driver's license for casual
identification, I was able to sell two of my larger diamonds fairly
quickly, at two different places, for something approximating half of
their full value. Then I parked the car they had given me on a side
street, took my suitcase, coat, and book with me, and walked to the
nearest car sales lot. I left the keys in the old car, for the
convenience of anyone who might want it.
Everything went extraordinarily smoothly, with just one exception. I
had found out everything I needed to know in that library, except that
when dealing with humans, one must always allow for waste time. If I
had realized that at the time I left Colorado Springs that morning,
everything might have turned out very differently indeed--although
when I try to think just what other way it _could_ have turned out, I
don't quite know ... and I wonder, too, how much they knew, or
planned, before they sent me down there....
This much is sure: if I hadn't assumed that a 70-mile trip, with a
60-mile average speed limit, would take approximately an hour and a
half, and if I had realized that buying an automobile was not the same
simple process as buying a nightgown, I wouldn't have been late for my
luncheon appointment. And if I'd been there on time, I'd never have
made the date for that night. As it was, I started out at seven
o'clock in the morning, and only by exceeding the speed limit on the
last twenty miles of the return trip did I manage to pull into that
diner parking space at five minutes before two.
His car was still there!
It is so easy to look back and spot the instant of recognition or of
error. My relief when I saw his car ... my delight when I walked in
and saw and _felt_ his mixture of surprise and joy that I had come,
with disappointment and frustration because it was so late, and he had
to leave almost immediately. And my complete failure, in the midst of
the complexities of these inter-reactions, to think logically, or to
recognize that his ordinary perceptions were certainly the equivalent
of my own....
At that moment, I wasn't thinking _about_ any of these things. I spent
a delirious sort of five minute period absorbing his feelings about
me, and releasing my own at him. I hadn't planned to do it, not so
soon, not till I knew much more than I did--perhaps after another
week's reading and going about--but when he said that since I'd got
there so late for lunch, I'd _have_ to meet him for dinner, I found I
agreed with him perfectly.
* * * * *
That afternoon, I bought a dress. This, too, took a great deal of
time, even more than the car, because in the one case I simply had to
look at a number of component parts, and listen to the operation of
the motor, and feel for the total response of the mechanism, to
determine whether it was suitable or not--but in the other, I had
nothing to guide me but my own untrained taste, and the dubious
preferences of the salesgirl, plus what I _thought_ Larry's reactions
_might_ be. Also, I had to determine, without seeming too ignorant,
just what sort of dress might be suitable for a dinner date--and
without knowing for sure just how elaborate Larry's plans for the
evening might be.
I learned a lot, and was startled to find that I enjoyed myself
tremendously. But I couldn't make up my mind, and bought three dresses
instead of one. It was after that, emboldened by pleasure and success,
that I went back to that first drugstore. The Encyclopedia volume I
had taken from the library, besides containing the information I
wanted on Colorado, had an article on Cosmetics. I decided powder was
unnecessary, although I could understand easily enough how important
it must be to the native women, with their thick skin and large pores
and patchy coloring; that accounted for the fact that the men were
mostly so much uglier ... and I wondered if Larry used it, and if that
was why his skin looked so much better than the others'.
Most of the perfumes made me literally ill; a few were inoffensive or
mildly pleasant, if you thought of them just as smells, and not as
something to be mistaken for one's _own_ smell. Apparently, though,
from the amount of space given over to them on the counter, and the
number of advertisements I had seen or heard for one brand or another,
they were an essential item. I picked out a faint lavender scent, and
then bought some lipstick, mascara, and eyebrow pencil. On these last
purchases, it was a relief to find that I had no opportunity to
display my ignorance about nuances of coloring, or the merits of one
brand over another. The woman behind the counter knew exactly what I
should have, and was not interested in hearing any of my opinions. She
even told me how to apply the mascara, which was helpful, since the
other two were obvious, and anyhow I'd seen them used on television,
and the lipstick especially I had seen women use since I'd been here.
It turned out to be a little more difficult than it looked, when I
tried it. Cosmetics apparently take a good deal more experience than
clothing, if you want to have it look _right_. Right by _their_
standards, I mean, so that your face becomes a formal design, and will
register only a minimum of actual emotion or response.
I was supposed to meet Larry in the cocktail lounge of a hotel in
Manitou Springs, the smaller town I'd passed through the day before on
my way down from the mountain. I drove back that way now, with all my
possessions in my new car, including the purse that held not only my
remaining diamonds and birth certificate, but also a car registration,
driver's license, wallet, money, and makeup. A little more than
halfway there, I saw a motel with a "Vacancy" sign out, and an
attractive clean look about it. I pulled in and got myself a room with
no more concern than if I'd been doing that sort of thing all my life.
This time there was no question about my age, nor was there later on
that evening, in the cocktail lounge or anywhere else. I suppose it
was the lipstick that made the difference, plus a certain increase in
self-confidence; apparently I wasn't too small to be an adult,
provided I looked and acted like one.
The new room did not have a bathtub. There was a shower, which was
fun, but not as much as the tub had been. Dressing was _not_ fun, and
when I was finished, the whole effect still didn't look right, in
terms of my own mental image of an Earth-woman dressed for a date.
It was the shoes, of course. This kind of dress wanted high heels. I
had tried a pair in the store, and promptly rejected the whole notion.
Now I wondered if I'd been too hasty, but I realized I could not
conceivably have added that discomfort to the already-pressing
difficulties of stockings and garter belt.
This last problem got so acute when I sat down and tried to drive the
car, that I did some thinking about it, and decided to take them off.
It seemed to me that I'd seen a lot of bare legs with flat heels. It
was only with high heels that stockings were a real necessity. Anyhow,
I pulled the car over to the side on an empty stretch of road, and
wriggled out of things with a great deal of difficulty. I don't
believe it made much difference in my appearance. No one _seemed_ to
notice, and I do think the lack of heels was more important.
* * * * *
All of this has been easy to put down. The next part is harder: partly
because it's so important; partly because it's personal; partly
because I just don't remember it all as clearly.
Larry was waiting for me when I got to the hotel. He stood up and
walked over to me, looking at me as if I were the only person in the
room besides himself, or as if he'd been waiting all his life, and
only just that moment saw what it was he'd been waiting for. I don't
know how I looked at him, but I know how I felt all of a sudden, and I
don't think I can express it very well.
It was odd, because of the barriers to communication. The way he felt
and the way I did are not things to put into words, and although I
couldn't help but feel the impact of _his_ emotion, I had to remember
that he was deaf-and-blind to mine. All I could get from him for that
matter, was a sort of generalized _noise_, loud but confused, without
any features or details.
He smiled, and I smiled, and he said, "I didn't know if you'd really
come ..." and I said, "Am I late?" and he said, "Not much. What do you
want to drink?"
I knew he meant something with alcohol in it, and I didn't dare, not
till I'd experimented all alone first.
"Could I get some orange juice?" I asked.
He smiled again. "You can get anything you want. You don't drink?" He
took my arm, and walked me over to a booth in the back corner, and
went on without giving me a chance to answer. "No, of course you
don't. Just orange juice and milk. Listen, Tina, I've been scared to
ask you, but we might as well get it over with. How old are you
anyhow?..." We sat down, but he still didn't give me a chance to
answer. "No, that's not the right question. Who are you? What are you?
What makes a girl like you exist at all? How come they let you run
around on your own like this? Does your mother.... Never mind me,
honey. I've got no business asking anything. Sufficient unto the
moment, and all that. I'm just talking so much because I'm so nervous.
I haven't felt like this since ... since I first went up for a solo in
a Piper Cub. I didn't think you'd come, and you did, and you're still
here in spite of me and my dumb yap. Orange juice for the lady,
please," he told the waiter, "and a beer for me. Draft."
I just sat there. As long as he kept talking, I didn't have to. He
looked just as beautiful as he had in the diner, only maybe more so.
His skin was smoother; I suppose he'd just shaved. And he was wearing
a tan suit just a shade darker than his skin, which was just a shade
darker than his hair, and there was absolutely nothing I could say out
loud in his language that would mean anything at all, so I waited to
see if he'd start talking again.
"You're not mad at me, Tina?"