tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-253212162024-03-13T18:18:21.074-03:00La BlogudezNo Intentes comprenderme yo tampoco lo hagoGustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.comBlogger527125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-6210578964624062622021-07-19T11:37:00.002-03:002021-07-19T11:37:51.557-03:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.05pt;"><span class="1Text"><span lang="EN">Remembering
Siri</span></span></p>
<p class="Para4" style="text-indent: 12.05pt;"><span lang="EN">Introduction</span><span class="1Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I'm interested in
how few writers cross the osmotic boundaries between science fiction and
horror, between genre and what those in genre call mainstream. Or, rather, I
should say that I'm fascinated with how many cross and do not return. Part of
it, I think, is the vast difference in states of mind between dreaming the dark
dreams of horror and con-structing the rational structures of SF, or between
tripping the literary light fantastic and being shackled by the grav-ity of
"serious" fiction. It <span class="0Text">is</span> hard to do
both—painful to the psyche to allow one hemisphere to become dominant while
bludgeoning the other into submission. Perhaps that's why readership of SF and
horror, genre and New Yorker fiction overlap less than one would think. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Whatever the
reason, it's a pity that more writers feel constrained—sometimes by limitations
of talent or interest but more frequently by market considerations and the
sim-ple fact that they find <span class="0Text">success</span> in one field—to
stay in one genre. Of course, the exceptions are always interesting. George
R.R. Martin moves easily between genres and ex-pectations, rarely repeating,
always surprising. Dean Koontz left SF just as he was becoming a star
there—possibly because he sensed his destiny lay in becoming a supernova
elsewhere. Edward Bryant took a "sabbatical" from SF</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">a few years ago and
has been producing world-class horror ever since. Kurt Vonnegut and Ursula K.
LeGuin "graduated" from SF to mainstream acceptance. (To Vonnegut's
credit for honesty if nothing else, he allows as to how he gets nostalgic every
once in a while, opens the lowest desk drawer where he keeps his old pulp SF
ef-forts, and then urinates into it.) Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood and others
write their most memorable fiction in SF, but they deny any association with the
field. Neither lady mentions urinating into desk drawers, but one sus-pects
that they would feel a certain pressure on their re-spective bladders if forced
to accept a Hugo or Nebula. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Harlan Ellison
simply refused ever to be nailed down to a genre—even while he revolutionized
them. We all have heard the stories where Ellison suffers the ten-millionth
reporter or critic or TV personality who is de-manding to know what descriptive
word comes before "writer" in this case. Sci-fi? Fantasy? Horror? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What's wrong
with just ... writer?" Ellison says softly in his most cordial cobra hiss.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Well, what's wrong
with it is that the semi-literate have feeble but tidy little minds filled with
tidy little boxes, and no matter how much one struggles, the newspaper article
(or review, or radio intro, or TV superimposed title) will read something akin
to—"sci-fi guy says his sci-fi stuff not sci-fi." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">And the next step
is for someone to stand up at a con-vention (sorry, a Con), grab the
microphone, and shout—"How come you're always saying in interviews and
stuff that you're not just a science fiction writer? I'm proud to be associated
with science fiction!" (Or horror. Or fantasy. Or ... fill in the blank.)
The crowd roars, righteousness fills the air, hostility lies just under the
surface as if you're a black at a Huey Newton rally who's been caught
"passing"—revealed as an oreo, or a Jew in the Warsaw ghetto who's
been caught helping the Nazis with the railroad timetables, or—worse yet, a
Dead Head at a Grateful D. concert who's been found listening to Mozart on his
Walkman. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I mean, you <span class="0Text">are</span> at this guy's convention. (Sorry, "Con.") How
do you explain to the guy gripping the mike that there are a thousand pressures
forcing a writer down narrower and narrower alleys—agents trying to make you
marketable and pulling their hair out because you insist on staying a jump
ahead of a readership, publishers trying to shape you into a commodity, editors
trying to get you to Chrissakes be consistent for once, booksellers com-plaining
because your new SF novel just came out and it looks silly racked with your
World Fantasy Award winning novel (which is really about Calcutta and has no
fantasy in it), which, in turn, is next to your Sci-Fi opus and your fat horror
novel (it is horror, isn't it? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There wasn't any
blood or holograms or demon-eyed kids on the cover...) and now</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">... now! ... this
new book has come out ... this <span class="0Text">thing</span> ... and it looks,
oh sweet Christ, it looks ... main-stream! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">How do you explain
that every modifier before writer becomes another nail in the coffin of your
hopes of writ-ing what you want? What you care about? </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;">So you look at the guy with the mike and you stare
down the irate booksellers and you put your editor on hold, and you think— </span></span><span lang="EN">I can explain. I can tell them that the</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">one wonderful
thing about being a writer is the free-dom to explore all venues, the</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">luxury ... no, the respon-sibility ... to work with the dreams the Muse
sends you, to</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">shape them to the best of your ability and to send them along whether a</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">guaranteed readership is waiting or not; I can explain the compulsion
to write a</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">good book whether the cover artist knows what to do with it or not,
explain the</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">honor involved in trying new things despite the fact that the manager
at the local</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">B. Dalton's has racked your most recent novel in occult non-fiction and
asked ...</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">no, ordered the distributor not to send any more books written by this
obvious</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">schizophrenic. I can explain all that. I can take every single reader,
every defensive</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;">
</span></span><span lang="EN">SF chauvinist and horror fan and snooty New York
reviewer and sparrowfart</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span><span lang="EN">reader of "serious
fiction," and show them what being a writer means! </span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">And then you look
out at the guy with the mike, and you think— <span class="0Text">Nahhh</span>.
And you say, "My next book'll be SF." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The next story is
SF. I loved writing it. I loved returning to this universe when I finally used
"Remembering Siri" as a starting point to write the 1,500 or so pages
of <span class="0Text">HYPERION</span> and <span class="0Text">THE FALL OF HYPERION</span>.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Oh, and the seed
crystal for this tale was the thought one night, while dozing off, <span class="0Text">What if Romeo and Juliet had lived? </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">You know—Romeo and
Juliet? By that sci-fi/fantasy/horror hack who wrote sit-coms and historical
soap op-eras in his spare time? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Watch for the
allusions. And the illusions. </span></p>
<p class="Para4" style="text-indent: 12.05pt;"><span lang="EN">* * *</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I climb the steep
hill to Siri's tomb on the day the is-lands return to the shallow seas of the
Equatorial Archipel-ago. The day is perfect and I hate it for being so. The sky
is as tranquil as tales of Old Earth's seas, the shallows are dappled with
ultramarine tints, and a warm breeze blows in from the sea to ripple the russet
willowgrass on the hill-side near me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Better low clouds
and gray gloom on such a day. Bet-ter mist or a shrouding fog which sets the
masts in Firstsite Harbor dripping and raises the lighthouse horn from its slumbers.
Better one of the great sea-simoons blowing up out of the cold belly of the
south, lashing be-fore it the motile isles and their dolphin herders until they
seek refuge in lee of our atolls and stony peaks. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Anything would be
better than this warm spring day when the sun moves through a vault of sky so
blue that it makes me want to run, to jump in great loping arcs, and to roll in
the soft grass as Siri and I have done at just this spot. Just this spot. I
pause to look around me. The willowgrass bends and ripples like the fur of some
great beast as the salt-tinged breeze gusts up out of the south. I shield my
eyes and search the horizon but nothing moves there. Out beyond the lava reef,
the sea begins to chop and lift itself in nervous strokes. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Siri," I
whisper. I say her name without meaning to do so. A hundred meters down the
slope, the crowd pauses to watch me and to catch its collective breath. The
proces-sion of mourners and celebrants stretches for more than a kilometer to
where the white buildings of the city begin. I can make out the gray and
balding head of my younger son in the vanguard. He is wearing the blue and gold
robes of the Hegemony. I know that I should wait for him, walk with him, but he
and the other aging council members can not keep up with my young, shiptrained
muscles and steady stride. Decorum dictates that I should walk with him and my
granddaughter Lira and the other ladies of the society. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">To hell with it.
And to hell with them. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I turn and jog up
the steep hillside. Sweat begins to soak my loose cotton shirt before I reach
the curving sum-mit of the ridge and catch sight of the tomb. <span class="0Text">Siri's tomb. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I stop. The wind
chills me although the sunlight is warm enough as it glints off the flawless
white stone of the silent mausoleum. The grass is high near the sealed
en-trance to the crypt. Rows of faded festival pennants on eb-ony staffs line
the narrow gravel path. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Hesitating, I
circle the tomb and approach the steep cliff edge a few meters beyond. The
willowgrass is bent and trampled here where irreverent picnickers have laid
their blankets. There are several fire rings formed from the perfectly round,
perfectly white stones purloined from the border of the gravel path. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I cannot stop a
smile. I know the view from here; the great curve of the outer harbor with its
natural seawall, the low, white buildings of Firstsite, and the colorful hulls
and masts of the catamarans bobbing at anchorage. Near the pebble beach beyond
Common Hall, a young woman in a white skirt moves toward the water. For a
second I think that it is Siri and my heart pounds. I half prepare to throw up
my arms in response to her wave but she does not wave. I watch in silence as
the distant figure turns away and is lost in the shadows of the old boat
building. Above me, far out from the cliff, a wide-winged Thomas Hawk circles
above the lagoon on rising thermals and scans the shifting bluekelp beds with
its infrared vi-sion, seeking out harpseals or torpids. <span class="0Text">Nature
is stupid</span>, I think and sit in the soft grass. Nature sets the stage all
wrong for such a day and then it is insensitive enough to throw in a bird
searching for prey which have long since fled the polluted waters near the
growing city. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I remember another
Thomas Hawk on that first night when Siri and I came to this hilltop. I
remember the moon-light on its wings and the strange, haunting cry which echoed
off the cliff and seemed to pierce the dark air above the gaslights of the
village below. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri was sixteen
... no, not quite sixteen ... and the moonlight that touched the hawk's wings
above us also painted her bare skin with milky light and cast shadows beneath
the soft circles of her breasts. We looked up guilt-ily when the bird's cry cut
the night and Siri said, "It was the nightingale and not the lark/That
pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Huh?" I
said. Siri was almost sixteen. I was nineteen. But Siri knew the slow pace of
books and the cadences of theater under the stars. I knew only the stars. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Relax, young
Shipman," she whispered and pulled me down beside her then. "It's
only an old Tom's Hawk hunt-ing. Stupid bird. Come back, Shipman. Come back,
Merin." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span> had chosen that moment to rise above the horizon
and to float like a wind-blown ember west across the strange constellations of
Maui-Covenant, Siri's world. I lay next to her and described the workings of
the great C-plus spinship which was catching the high sunlight against the drop
of night above us, and all the while my hand was sliding lower along her smooth
side, her skin seemed all velvet and electricity, and her breath came more
quickly against my shoulder. I lowered my face to the hollow of her neck, to the
sweat-and-perfume essence of her tousled hair. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Siri," I
say and this time her name is not unbidden. Below me, below the crest of the
hill and the shadow of the white tomb, the crowd stands and shuffles. They are
impatient with me. They want me to unseal the tomb, to enter, and to have my
private moment in the cool silent emptiness that has replaced the warm presence
that was Siri. They want me to say my farewells so they can get on with their
rites and rituals, open the waiting farcaster doors, and join the waiting
worldweb of the Hegemony. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">To hell with that.
And to hell with them. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I pull up a tendril
of the thickly woven willowgrass, chew on the sweet stem, and watch the horizon
for the first sign of the migrating islands. The shadows are still long in the
morning light. The day is young. I will sit here for awhile and remember. I
will remember Siri. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri was a ...
what? ... a bird, I think, the first time I saw her. She was wearing some sort
of mask with bright feathers. When she removed it to join in the raceme
qua-drille, the torchlight caught the deep auburn tints of her hair. She was
flushed, cheeks aflame, and even from across the crowded Common I could see the
startling green of her eyes contrasting with the summer heat of her face and
hair. It was Festival Night, of course. The torches danced and sparked to the
stiff breeze coming in off the harbor and the sound of the flutists on the
breakwall play-ing for the passing isles was almost drowned out by surf sounds
and the crack of pennants snapping in the wind. Siri was almost sixteen and her
beauty burned more brightly than any of the torches set round the throng-filled
square. I pushed through the dancing crowd and went to her. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It was five years
ago for me. It was more than sixty-five years ago for us. It seems only
yesterday. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">This is not going
well. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Where to start? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What say we
go find a little nooky, kid?" Mike Osho was speaking. Short, squat, his
pudgy face a clever carica-ture of a Buddha, Mike was a god to me then. We were
all gods: long-lived if not immortal, well-paid if not quite divine. The
Hegemony had chosen us to help crew one of its precious quantum leap C-plus
spinships, so how could we be less than gods? It was just that Mike, brilliant,
mercu-rial, irreverent Mike, was a little older and a little higher in the
Shipboard pantheon than young Merin Aspic. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hah. Zero
probability of that," I said. We were scrub-bing up after a twelve-hour
shift with the farcaster con-struction crew. Shuttling the workers around their
chosen singularity-point some 163,000 kilometers out from Maui-Covenant was a
lot less glamorous for us than the four month leap from Hegemony-space. During
the C-plus por-tion of the trip we had been master specialists; forty-nine
starship experts shepherding some two hundred nervous passengers. Now the
passengers had their hardsuits on and we Shipmen had been reduced to serving as
glorified truck drivers as the construction crew wrestled the bulky
singu-larity containment-sphere into place. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Zero
probability," I repeated. "Unless the groundlings have added a
whorehouse to that quarantine island they leased us." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Nope. They
haven't," grinned Mike. He and I had our three days of planetary R-and-R
coming up, but we knew from Shipmaster Singh's briefings and the moans of our
Shipmates that the only groundtime we had to look for-ward to would be spent on
a 7 by 4-mile island adminis-tered by the Hegemony. It wasn't even one of the
motile isles we had heard about, just another volcanic peak near the equator.
Once there, we could count on real gravity un-derfoot, unfiltered air to
breathe, and the chance to taste unsynthesized food. But we could also count on
the fact that the only intercourse we would have with the Maui-Covenant
colonists would be through buying local artifacts at the duty-free store. Even
those were sold by Hegemony trade specialists. Many of our Shipmates had chosen
to spend their R-and-R on the <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"So how do we
find a little nooky, Mike? The colonies are off limits until the farcaster's
working. That's about 60 years away, local time. Or are you talking about Meg
in Spincomp?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Stick with
me, kid," said Mike. "Where there's a will, there's a way." I
stuck with Mike. There were only five of us in the dropship. It was always a
thrill to me to fall out of high orbit into the atmosphere of a real world.
Especially a world that looked as much like Old Earth as Maui-Covenant did. I
stared at the blue and white limb of the planet until the seas were <span class="0Text">down</span> and we were in atmo-sphere, approaching the twilight
terminator in a gentle glide at three times the speed of our own sound. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">We were gods then.
But even gods must descend from their high thrones upon occasion. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri's body never
ceased to amaze me. That time on the Archipelago. Three weeks in that huge,
swaying treehouse under the billowing treesails with the dolphin herders
keeping pace like outriders, tropical sunsets filling the evening with wonder,
the canopy of stars at night, and our own wake marked by a thousand
phosphorescent swirls that mirrored the constellations above. And still it is
Siri's body I remember. For some reason—shyness, the years of separation—she
wore two strips of swimsuit for the first few days of our Archipelago stay and
the soft white of her breasts and lower belly had not darkened to match the
rest of her tan before I had to leave again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I remember her that
first time. Triangles in the moon-light as we lay in the soft grass above
Firstsite Harbor. Her silk pants catching on a weave of willowgrass. There was
a child's modesty then; the slight hesitation of something given prematurely.
But also pride. The same pride that later allowed her to face down the angry
mob of Separat-ists on the steps of the Hegemony Consulate in South Tern and
send them to their homes in shame. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I remember my fifth
planetfall, our Fourth Reunion. It was one of the few times I ever saw her cry.
She was al-most regal in her fame and wisdom by then. She had been elected four
times to the All Thing and the Hegemony Council turned to her for advice and
guidance. She wore her independence like a royal cloak and her fierce pride had
never burned more brightly. But when we were alone in the stone villa south of
Fevarone, it was she who turned away. I was nervous, frightened by this
powerful stranger, but it was Siri—Siri of the straight back and proud eyes,
who turned her face to the wall and said through tears, "Go away. Go away,
Merin. I don't want you to see me. I'm a crone, all slack and sagging. <span class="0Text">Go away. </span>" I confess that I was rough with her then. I
pinned her wrists with my left hand—using a strength which surprised even
me—and tore her silken robe down the front in one move. I kissed her shoulders,
her neck, the faded shadows of stretchmarks on her taut belly, and the scar on
her upper leg from the skimmer crash some forty of her years earlier. I kissed
her greying hair and the lines etched in the once-smooth cheeks. I kissed her
tears. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Jesus, Mike,
this can't be legal," I'd said when my friend unrolled the hawking mat
from his backpack. We were on Island 241, as the Hegemony traders had so
ro-mantically named the desolate volcanic blemish which they had chosen for our
R-and-R site. Island 241 was less than 50 kilometers from the oldest of the
colonial settle-ments, but it might as well have been 50 light years away. No
native ships were to put in at the island while <span class="0Text">Los An-geles</span>
crewmen or farcaster workmen were present. The Maui-Covenant colonists had a
few ancient skimmers still in working order, but by mutual agreement there
would be no overflights. Except for the dormitories, swimming beach, and the
duty-free store, there was little on the island to interest us Shipmen. Some
day, when the last compo-nents had been brought in-system by the <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span> and the farcaster finished, Hegemony officials
would make Is-land 241 into a center for trade and tourism. Until then it was a
primitive place with a dropship grid, newly finished buildings of the local
white stone, and a few bored main-tenance people. Mike checked the two of us
out for three days of backpacking on the steepest and most inaccessible end of
the little island. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I don't want
to go backpacking, for Chrissake," I'd said. "I'd rather stay on the <span class="0Text">L.A.</span> and plug into a stimsim." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Shut up and
follow me," said Mike, and like a lesser member of the pantheon following
an older and wiser de-ity, I had shut up and followed. Two hours of heavy
tramping up the slopes through sharp-branched scrub-trees brought us to a lip
of lava several hundred meters above the crashing surf. We were near the
equator on a mostly tropical world, but on this exposed ledge the wind was
howling and my teeth were chattering. The sunset was a red smear between dark
cumulus to the west and I had no wish to be out in the open when full night
descended. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Come
on," I said. "Let's get out of the wind and build a fire. I don't
know how the hell we're going to set up a tent on all of this rock." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Mike sat down and
lit a cannabis stick. "Take a look in your pack, kid." I hesitated.
His voice had been neutral but it was the flat neutrality of the practical
joker's voice just before the bucket of water descends. I crouched down and
began pawing through the nylon sack. The pack was empty ex-cept for old
flowfoam packing cubes to fill it out. Those and a harlequin's costume complete
with mask and bells on the toes. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Are you ...
is this ... are you goddamn <span class="0Text">crazy</span>?" I spluttered.
It was getting dark quickly now. The storm might or might not pass to the south
of us. The surf was rasping below like a hungry beast. If I had known how to
find my own way back to the trade compound in the dark, I might have considered
leaving Mike Osho's remains to feed the fishes far below. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Now look at
what's in my pack," he said. Mike dumped out some flowfoam cubes and then
removed some jewelry of the type I'd seen hand-crafted on Renaissance, an
inertial compass, a laser pen which might or might not be labelled a concealed
weapon by Ship Security, another harlequin costume—this one tailored to his
more rotund form—and a hawking mat. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Jesus,
Mike," I said while running my hand over the exquisite design of the old
carpet, "this can't be legal." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I didn't
notice any customs agents back there," grinned Mike. "And I seriously
doubt that the locals have any traffic control ordinances." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes,
but..." I trailed off and unrolled the rest of the mat. It was a little
more than a meter wide and about two meters long. The rich fabric had faded
with age but the flight threads were still as bright as new copper. "Where
did you get it?" I asked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Does it still
work?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"On
Garden," said Mike and stuffed my costume and his other gear into his
backpack. "Yes, it does." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It had been more
than a century since old Vladimir Sholokov, Old Earth emigrant, master
lepidopterist, and E-M systems engineer, had handcrafted the first hawking mat
for his beautiful young niece on Nova Terra. Legend had it that the niece had
scorned the gift but over the de-cades the toys had become almost absurdly
popular—more with rich adults than with children—until they were out-lawed on
most Hegemony worlds. Dangerous to handle, a waste of shielded monofilaments,
almost impossible to deal with in controlled airspace, hawking mats had be-come
curiosities reserved for bedtime stories, museums, and a few colony worlds. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It must have
cost you a fortune," I said. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Thirty
marks," said Mike and settled himself on the center of the carpet.
"The old dealer in Carvnal Market-place thought it was worthless. It was
... for him. I brought it back to the ship, charged it up, reprogrammed the
inertia chips, and <span class="0Text">viola! </span>" Mike palmed the
intricate de-sign and the mat stiffened and rose fifteen centimeters above the
rock ledge. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I stared
doubtfully. "All right," I said, "but what if it..." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It
won't," said Mike and impatiently patted the carpet behind him. "It's
fully charged. I know how to handle it. Come on, climb on or stand back. I want
to get going be-fore that storm gets any closer." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"But I don't
think..." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Come <span class="0Text">on</span>, Merin. Make up your mind. I'm in a hurry." I
hesitated for another second or two. If we were caught leaving the island, we
would both be kicked off the ship. Shipwork was my life now. I had made that
decision when I accepted the eight-mission Maui-Covenant con-tract. More than
that, I was two hundred light years and five and a half leap years from
civilization. Even if they brought us back to Hegemony-space, the round trip
would have cost us eleven years worth of friends and family. The time-debt was
irrevocable. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I crawled on the
hovering hawking mat behind Mike. He stuffed the backpack between us, told me
to hang on, and tapped at the flight designs. The mat rose five meters above
the ledge, banked quickly to the left, and shot out over the alien ocean. Three
hundred meters below us, the surf crashed whitely in the deepening gloom. We
rose higher above the rough water and headed north into the night. In such
seconds of decision entire futures are made. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I remember talking
to Siri during our Second Reunion, shortly after we first visited the villa
along the coast near Fevarone. We were walking along the beach. Alon had been
allowed to stay in the city under Magritte's supervi-sion. It was just as well.
I was not truly comfortable with the boy. Only the undeniable green solemnity
of his eyes and the disturbing mirror-familiarity of his short, dark curls and
snub of a nose served to tie him to me ... to us ... in my mind. That and the
quick, almost sardonic smile I would catch him hiding from Siri when she
reprimanded him. It was a smile too cynically amused and self-observant to be
so practiced in a ten-year-old. I knew it well. I would have thought such
things were learned, not inherited. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You know very
little," Siri said to me. She was wad-ing, shoeless, in a shallow
tidepool. From time to time she would lift the delicate shell of a
frenchhorn-conch, inspect it for flaws, and drop it back into the silty water. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I've been
well-trained," I replied. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes, I'm sure
you've been well-trained," agreed Siri. "I know you are quite
skillful, Merin. But you <span class="0Text">know</span> very little." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Irritated, unsure
of how to respond, I walked along with my head lowered. I dug a white lavastone
out of the sand and tossed it far out into the bay. Rainclouds were piling
along the eastern horizon. I found myself wishing that I was back aboard the
ship. I had been reluctant to re-turn this time and now I knew that it had been
a mistake. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It was my third
visit to Maui-Covenant, our Second Reun-ion as the poets and her people were
calling it. I was five months away from being 21 standard years old. Siri had
just celebrated her thirty-seventh birthday three weeks earlier. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I've been to
a lot of places you've never seen," I said at last. It sounded petulant
and childish even to me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh,
yes," said Siri and clapped her hands together. For a second, in her
enthusiasm, I glimpsed my other Siri—the young girl I had dreamed about during
the long nine months of turn-around. Then the image slid back to harsh reality
and I was all too aware of her short hair, the loosening neck muscles, and the
cords appearing on the backs of those once beloved hands. "You've been to
places I'll <span class="0Text">never</span> see," said Siri in a rush. Her
voice was the same. Almost the same. "Merin, my love, you've al-ready seen
things I cannot even imagine. You probably know more facts about the universe
than I would guess ex-ist. But you <span class="0Text">know</span> very little,
my darling." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What the hell
are you talking about, Siri?" I sat down on a half-submerged log near the
strip of wet sand and drew my knees up like a fence between us. Siri strode out
of the tidepool and came to kneel in front of me. She took my hands in hers and
although mine were bigger, heavier, blunter of finger and bone, I could feel
the <span class="0Text">strength</span> in hers. I imagined it as the strength of
years I had not shared. "You have to live to really know things, my love.
Having Alon has helped me to understand that. There is something about raising
a child that helps to sharpen one's sense of what is real." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"How do you
mean?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri squinted away
from me for a few seconds and ab-sently brushed back a strand of hair. Her left
hand stayed firmly around both of mine. "I'm not sure," she said
softly. "I think one begins to feel when things aren't <span class="0Text">im-portant</span>.
I'm not sure how to put it. When you've spent thirty years entering rooms
filled with strangers you feel less pressure than when you've had only half
that number of years of experience. You know what the room and the people in it
probably hold for you and you go looking for it. If it's not there, you sense
it earlier and leave to go about your business. You just <span class="0Text">know</span>
more about what is, what isn't, and how little time there is to learn the
differ-ence. Do you understand, Merin? Do you follow me even a little
bit?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No," I
said. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri nodded and bit
her lower lip. But she did not speak again for a while. Instead, she leaned
over and kissed me. Her lips were dry and a little questioning. I held back for
a second, seeing the sky beyond her, wanting time to think. But then I felt the
warm intrusion of her tongue and closed my eyes. The tide was coming in be-hind
us. I felt a sympathetic warmth and rising as Siri un-buttoned my shirt and ran
sharp fingernails across my chest. There was a second of emptiness between us
and I opened my eyes in time to see her unfastening the last but-tons on the
front of her white dress. Her breasts were larger than I remembered, heavier,
the nipples broader and darker. The chill air nipped at both of us until I
pulled the fabric down her shoulders and brought our upper bodies together. We
slid down along the log to the warm sand. I pressed her closer, all the while
wondering how I possibly could have thought her the stronger one. Her skin
tasted of salt. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri's hands helped
me. Her short hair pressed back against bleached wood, white cotton, and sand.
My pulse outraced the surf. "Do you understand, Merin?" she whispered
to me seconds later as her warmth connected us. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes," I
whispered back. But I did not. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Mike brought the
hawking mat in from the east toward Firstsite. The flight had taken over an
hour in the dark and I had spent most of the time huddling from the wind and
waiting for the carpet to fold up and tumble us both into the sea. We were
still half an hour out when we saw the first of the motile isles. Racing before
the storm, treesails billowing, the islands sailed up from their southern
feeding grounds in seemingly endless procession. Many were lit brilliantly,
festooned with colored lanterns and shifting veils of gossamer light. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You sure this
is the way?" I shouted. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes,"
shouted Mike. He did not turn his head. The wind whipped his long, black hair
back against my face. From time to time he would check his compass and make
small corrections to our course. It might have been easier to follow the isles.
We passed one—a large one almost half a kilometer in length—and I strained to
make out de-tails, but the isle was dark except for the glow of its
phos-phorescent wake. Dark shapes cut through the milky waves. I tapped Mike on
the shoulder and pointed. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Dolphins!"
he shouted. "That's what this colony was all about, remember? A bunch of
do-gooders during the Hegira wanted to save all the mammals in Old Earth's
oceans. Didn't succeed." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I would have
shouted another question but at that moment the headland and Firstsite Harbor
came into view. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I had thought the
stars were bright above Maui-Covenant. I had thought the migrating islands were
mem-orable in their colorful display. But the city of Firstsite, wrapped about
with harbor and hills, was a blazing beacon in the night. Its brilliance
reminded me of a torchship I once had watched while it created its own plasma
nova against the dark limb of a sullen gas giant. The city was a five-tiered
honeycomb of white buildings, all illuminated by warmly glowing lanterns from
within and by countless torches from without. The white lavastone of the
volcanic island itself seemed to glow from the city light. Beyond the town were
tents, pavilions, campfires, cooking fires, and great flaming pyres, too large
for function, too large for anything except to serve as a welcome to the
returning isles. The harbor was filled with boats: bobbing catamarans with
cowbells clanking from their masts; large-hulled, flat-bottomed houseboats
built for creeping from port to port in the calm, equatorial shallows but
proudly ablaze with strings of lights this night; and then the occasional
ocean-going yacht, sleek and functional as a shark. A lighthouse set out on the
pincer's end of the harbor reef threw its beam far out to sea, illuminated wave
and isle alike, and then swept its light back in to catch the colorful bobbing
of ships and men. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Even from two
kilometers out we could hear the noise. Sounds of celebration were clearly
audible. Above the shouts and constant susurration of the surf rose the
unmis-takable notes of a Bach flute sonata. I learned later that this welcoming
chorus was transmitted through hydro-phones to the Passage Channels where
dolphins leapt and cavorted to the music. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"My God, Mike,
how did you know all of this was go-ing on?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I asked the
main ship computer," said Mike. The hawking mat banked right to keep us
far out from the ships and lighthouse beam. Then we curved back in north of
Firstsite toward a dark spit of land. I could hear the soft booming of waves on
the shallows ahead. "They have this festival every year," Mike went
on, "but this is their sesquicentennial. The party's been going on for
three weeks now and is scheduled to continue another two. There are only about
100,000 colonists on this whole world, Merin, and I bet half of them are here
partying." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">We slowed, came in
carefully, and touched down on a rocky outcropping not far from the beach. The
storm had missed us to the south but intermittent flashes of lightning and the
distant lights of advancing isles still marked the horizon. Overhead, the stars
were not dimmed by the glow from Firstsite just over the rise from us. The air
was warmer here and I caught the scent of orchards on the breeze. We folded up
the hawking mat and hurried to get into our harlequin costumes. Mike slipped
his laser pen and jewelry into loose pockets. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What are
those for?" I asked as we secured the back-pack and hawking mat under a
large boulder. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"These?"
asked Mike as he dangled a Renaissance necklace from his fingers. "These
are currency in case we have to negotiate for favors." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Favors?"
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Favors,"
repeated Mike. "A lady's <span class="0Text">largesse</span>. Comfort to a
weary space-farer. Nooky to you, kid." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh," I
said and adjusted my mask and fool's cap. The bells made a soft sound in the
dark. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Come
on," said Mike. "We'll miss the party." I nodded and followed
him, bells jangling, as we picked our way over stone and scrub toward the
waiting light. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I sit here in the
sunlight and wait. I am not totally cer-tain what I am waiting for. I can feel
a growing warmth on my back as the morning sunlight is reflected from the white
stone of Siri's tomb. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN">Siri's</span></span><span lang="EN"> tomb? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There are no clouds
in the sky. I raise my head and squint skyward as if I might be able to see the
<span class="0Text">L.A. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and the
newly finished farcaster array through the glare of at-mosphere. I cannot. Part
of me knows that they have not risen yet. Part of me knows to the second the
time remain-ing before ship and farcaster complete their transit to the zenith.
Part of me does not want to think about it. <span class="0Text">Siri, am I doing
the right thing? </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There is the sudden
sound of pennants stirring on their staffs as the wind comes up. I sense rather
than see the restlessness of the waiting crowd. For the first time since my
planetfall for this, our Sixth Reunion, I am filled with sorrow. No, not sorrow,
not yet, but a sharptoothed sadness which soon will open into grief. For years
I have carried on silent conversations with Siri, framing questions to myself
for future discussion with her, and it suddenly strikes me with cold clarity
that we will never again sit together and talk. An emptiness begins to grow
inside me. <span class="0Text">Should I let it happen, Siri? </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There is no
response except for the growing murmurs of the crowd. In a few minutes they
will send Donel, my younger and surviving son, or his daughter Lira up the hill
to urge me on. I toss away the sprig of willowgrass I've been chewing on. There
is a hint of shadow on the hori-zon. It could be a cloud. Or it could be the
first of the isles, driven by instinct and the spring northerlies to mi-grate
back to the great band of the equatorial shallows from whence they came. It
does not matter. <span class="0Text">Siri, am I doing the right thing? </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There is no answer
and the time grows shorter. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Sometimes Siri
seemed so ignorant it made me sick. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">She knew nothing of
my life away from her. She would ask questions but I sometimes wondered if she
was interested in the answers. I spent many hours explaining the beautiful
physics behind our C-plus spinships but she never did seem to understand. Once,
after I had taken great care to detail the differences between their ancient
seedship and the <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span>, Siri astounded me by
ask-ing, "But why did it take my ancestors 80 years of shiptime to reach
Maui-Covenant when you can make the trip in 130 <span class="0Text">days</span>?"
She had understood nothing. Siri's sense of history was, at best, pitiful. She
viewed the Hegemony and the worldweb the way a child would view the fantasy
world of a pleasant but rather silly myth; there was an indifference there that
almost drove me mad at times. Siri knew all about the early days of the
Hegira—at least insofar as they pertained to the Maui-Covenant and the
colonists—and she occasionally would come up with delightful bits of archaic
trivia or phraseology, but she knew nothing of post-Hegira realities. Names
like Garden and Ouster, Renaissance and Lusus meant little to her. I could
mention Salmen Brey or General Horace Glennon-Hight and she would have no
associations or reactions at all. None. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The last time I saw
Siri she was 70 standard years old. She was <span class="0Text">70 years old</span>
and still she had never: traveled offworld, used a comlog, tasted any alcoholic
drink except wine; interfaced with an empathy surgeon, stepped through a
farcaster door, smoked a cannabis stick, received gene tailoring, plugged into
a stimsim, received any formal schooling, taken any RNA medication, heard of
Zen Chris-tianity, or flown any vehicle except an ancient Vikken skimmer
belonging to her family. Siri had never made love to anyone except me. Or so
she said. And so I believed. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It was during our
First Reunion, that time on the Ar-chipelago, when Siri took me to talk with
the dolphins. We had risen to watch the dawn. The highest levels of the
treehouse were a perfect place from which to watch the eastern sky pale and
fade to morning. Ripples of high cir-rus turned to rose and then the sea itself
grew molten as the sun lifted above the flat horizon. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Let's go
swimming," said Siri. The rich, horizontal light bathed her skin and threw
her shadow four meters across the boards of the platform. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I'm too
tired," I said. "Later." We had lain awake most of the night
talking, making love, talking, and mak-ing love again. In the glare of morning
I felt empty and vaguely nauseated. I sensed the slight movement of the isle
under me as a tinge of vertigo, a drunkard's discon-nection from gravity. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No. Let's go
now," said Siri and grasped my hand to pull me along. I was irritated but
did not argue. Siri was 26, seven years older than me during that First
Reunion, but her impulsive behavior often reminded me of the teen-aged Siri I
had carried away from the Festival only ten of my months earlier. Her deep,
unselfconscious laugh was the same. Her green eyes cut as sharply when she was
im-patient. The long mane of auburn hair had not changed. But her body had
ripened, filled out with a promise which had been only hinted at before. Her
breasts were still high and full, almost girlish, bordered above by freckles
that gave way to a whiteness so translucent that a gentle blue tracery of veins
could be seen. But they were <span class="0Text">different</span> somehow. She
was different. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Are you going
to join me or just sit there staring?" asked Siri. She had slipped off her
caftan as we came out onto the lowest deck. Our small ship was still tied to
the dock. Above us, the island's treesails were beginning to open to the
morning breeze. For the past several days, Siri had insisted on wearing
swimstrips when we went into the water. She wore none now. Her nipples rose in
the cool air. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Won't we be
left behind?" I asked, squinting up at the flapping treesails. On previous
days we had waited for the doldrums in the middle of the day when the isle was
still in the water, the sea a glazed mirror. Now the jibvines were beginning to
pull taut as the thick leaves filled with wind. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Don't be
silly," said Siri. "We could always catch a keelroot and follow it
back. That or a feeding tendril. Come on." She tossed an osmosis mask at
me and donned her own. The transparent film made her face look slick with oil.
From the pocket of her caftan she lifted a thick medallion and set it in place
around her neck. The metal looked dark and ominous against her skin. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What's
that?" I asked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri did not lift
the osmosis mask to answer. She set the comthreads in place against her neck
and handed me the hearplugs. Her voice was tinny. "Translation disk,"
she said. "Thought you knew all about gadgets, Merin. Last one in's a
seaslug." She held the disk in place between her breasts with one hand and
stepped off the isle. I could see the pale globes of her buttocks as she pirouetted
and kicked for depth. In seconds she was only a white blur deep in the water. I
slipped my own mask on, pressed the comthreads tight, and stepped into the sea.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The bottom of the
isle was a dark stain on a ceiling of crystalline light. I was wary of the
thick feeding tendrils even though Siri had amply demonstrated that they were
interested in devouring nothing larger than the tiny zoo-plankton that even now
caught the sunlight like dust in an abandoned ballroom. Keelroots descended
like gnarled stalactites for hundreds of meters into the purple depths. The
isle was moving. I could see the faint fibrilation of the tendrils as they
trailed along. A wake caught the light ten meters above me. For a second I was
choking, the gel of the mask smothering me as surely as the surrounding water
would, and then I relaxed and the air flowed freely into my lungs. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Deeper,
Merin," came Siri's voice. I blinked—a slow motion blink as the mask
readjusted itself over my eyes—and caught sight of Siri twenty meters lower,
grasping a keelroot and trailing effortlessly above the colder, deeper currents
where the light did not reach. I thought of the thousands of meters of water
under me, of the things which might lurk there, unknown, unsought-out by the
hu-man colonists. I thought of the dark and the depths and my scrotum tightened
involuntarily. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Come on
down." Siri's voice was an insect buzz in my ears. I rotated and kicked.
The buoyancy here was not so great as in Old Earth's seas, but it still took
energy to dive so deep. The mask compensated for depth and nitro-gen but I
could feel the pressure against my skin and ears. Finally I quit kicking,
grabbed a keelroot, and roughly hauled myself down to Siri's level. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">We floated side by
side in the dim light. Siri was a spectral figure here, her long hair swirling
in a wine-dark nimbus, the pale strips of her body glowing in the blue-green
light. The surface seemed impossibly distant. The widening V of the wake and
the drift of the scores of ten-drils showed that the isle was moving more
quickly now, moving mindlessly to other feeding grounds, distant wa-ters. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Where are
the..." I began to subvocalize. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Shhh,"
said Siri. She fiddled with the medallion. I could hear them then; the shrieks
and trills and whistles and cat purrs and echoing cries. The depths were
suddenly filled with strange music. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Jesus,"
I said and because Siri had tuned our comthreads to the translator, the word
was broadcast as a senseless whistle and toot. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hello!"
she called and the translated greeting echoed from the transmitter; a
high-speed bird's call sliding into the ultrasonic. "Hello!" she
called again. Minutes passed before the dolphins came to investi-gate. They
rolled past us, surprisingly large, alarmingly large, their skin looking slick
and muscled in the uncertain light. A large one swam within a meter of us,
turning at the last moment so that the white of his belly curved past us like a
wall. I could see the dark eye rotate to follow me as he passed. One stroke of
his wide fluke kicked up a tur-bulence strong enough to convince me of the
animal's power. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hello,"
called Siri but the swift form faded into dis-tant haze and there was a sudden
silence. Siri clicked off the translator. "Do you want to talk to
them?" she asked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Sure." I
was dubious. More than three centuries of ef-fort had not raised much of a
dialogue between man and sea-mammal. Mike had once told me that the thought
structures of Old Earth's two groups of orphans were too different, the
referents too few. One pre-Hegira expert had written that speaking to a dolphin
or porpoise was about as rewarding as speaking to a one-year-old human infant.
Both sides usually enjoyed the exchange and there was a simulacrum of
conversation, but neither party would come away the more knowledgeable. Siri
switched the translator disk back on. "Hello," I said. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There was a final
minute of silence and then our ear-phones were buzzing while the sea echoed
shrill ululations. </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">distance/no-fluke/hello-tone?/current
pulse/circle me/ funny? </span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What the
hell?" I asked Siri and the translator trilled out my question. Siri was
grinning under her osmosis mask. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I tried again.
"Hello! Greetings from ... uh ... the surface. How are you?" The
large male ... I assumed it to be a male ... curved in toward us like a
torpedo. He arch-kicked his way through the water ten times faster than I could
have swum even if I had remembered to don flippers that morn-ing. For a second
I thought he was going to ram us and I raised my knees and clung tightly to the
keelroot. Then he was past us, climbing for air, while Siri and I reeled from
his turbulent wake and the high tones of his shout. </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">no-fluke/no-feed/no-swim/no-play/no-fun.
</span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri switched off
the translator and floated closer. She lightly grasped my shoulders while I
held onto the keelroot with my right hand. Our legs touched as we drifted
through the warm water. A school of tiny, crimson warriorfish flickered above
us while the dark shapes of the dolphins circled further out. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Had
enough?" she asked. Her hand was flat on my chest. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"One more
try," I said. Siri nodded and twisted the disk to life. The current pushed
us together again. She slid her arm around me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Why do you
herd the islands?" I asked the bottle-nosed shapes circling in the dappled
light. "How does it benefit you to stay with the isles?" <span class="0Text">sounding now/old songs/deep water/no-Great Voices/ no-Shark/old
songs/new</span> <span class="0Text">songs. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri's body lay
along the length of me now. Her left arm tightened around me. "Great
Voices were the whales," she whispered. Her hair fanned out in streamers.
Her right hand moved down and seemed surprised at what it found. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Do you miss
the Great Voices?" I asked the shad-ows. There was no response. Siri slid
her legs around my hips. The surface was a churning bowl of light forty me-ters
above us. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What do you
miss most of Old Earth's oceans?" I asked. With my left arm I pulled Siri
closer, slid my hand down along the curve of her back to where her buttocks
rose to meet my palm, and held her tight. To the circling dolphins we must have
appeared a single creature. Siri lifted herself against me and we became a
single creature. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The translator disk
had twisted around so it trailed over Siri's shoulder. I reached to shut it off
but paused as the answer to my question buzzed urgently in our ears. <span class="0Text">miss Shark/miss Shark/miss Shark/miss Shark/Sharks Shark/Shark</span>
I turned off the disk and shook my head. I did not un-derstand. There was so
much I did not understand. I closed my eyes as Siri and I moved gently to the
rhythms of the current and ourselves while the dolphins swam nearby and the
cadence of their calls took on the sad, slow trilling of an old lament. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I sit here in the
sunlight and wait. Now that I have made my decision, I wonder if it is what
Siri wanted all along. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The tomb is a white
glare behind me. The sunlight touches my skin. I can hear a low murmur from the
rest-less crowd on the hillside. Several of the council members are conferring
with Donel. Soon he will climb the slope to urge me on. The farcaster ceremonies
cannot wait for me. </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Is this what you
wanted, Siri? </span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I desperately want
to talk to her now. I want to ask her who it was who so deftly crafted and
shaped the legend that was our love. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN">Was
it you, Siri? </span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could a not-quite sixteen-year-old have
planned so far ahead? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Surf breaks against
the lavastone seawall. I can hear the bells ringing as the small boats bob at
anchorage. I sit in the sunlight and wait. </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Where were you when I
awoke that first time, Siri? </span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Somewhere to the
south a Thomas Hawk screams. There is no other answer. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri and I came
down out of the hills and returned to the Festival just before sunrise of the
second day. For a night and a day we had roamed the hills, eaten with strangers
in pavilions of orange silk, bathed together in the icy waters of the Shree,
and danced to the music which never ceased going out to the endless file of
passing isles. We were hungry. I had awakened at sunset to find Siri gone. She
returned before the moon of Maui-Covenant rose. She told me that her parents had
gone off with friends for several days on a slow-moving houseboat. They had
left the family skimmer in Firstsite. Now we worked our way from dance to
dance, bonfire to bonfire, back to the center of the city. We planned to fly
west to her family estate near Fevarone. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It was very late
but Firstsite Common still had its share of revelers. I was very happy. I was
nineteen and I was in love and the .93 gravity of Maui-Covenant seemed much
less to me. I could have flown had I wished. I could have done anything. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">We had stopped at a
booth and bought fried dough and mugs of black coffee. Suddenly a thought
struck me. I asked, "How did you know I was a Shipman?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hush, friend
Merin. Eat your poor breakfast. When we get to the villa, I will fix a true
meal to break our fast." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No, I'm
serious," I said and wiped grease off my chin with the sleeve of my
less-than-clean harlequin's costume. "This morning you said that you knew
right away last night that I was from the ship. Why was that? Was it my accent?
My costume? Mike and I saw other fellows dressed like this." Siri laughed
and brushed back her hair. "Just be glad it was I who spied you out, Merin
my love. Had it been my Uncle Gresham or his friends it would have meant
trouble." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh? Why is
that?" I picked up one more fried ring and Siri paid for it. I followed
her through the thinning crowd. Despite the motion and the music all about, I
felt weariness beginning to work on me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"They are
Separatists," said Siri. "Uncle Gresham re-cently gave a speech
before the All Thing urging that we fight rather than agree to be swallowed
into your Hege-mony. He said that we should destroy your farcaster de-vice
before it destroys us." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh?" I
said. "Did he say how he was going to do that? The last I heard you folks
had no craft to get offworld in." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Nay, nor for
the past fifty years have we," said Siri. "But it shows how
irrational the Separatists can be." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I nodded.
Shipmaster Singh and Councillor Halmyn had briefed us on the so-called
Separatists of Maui-Covenant. "The usual coalition of colonial jingoists
and throwbacks," Singh had said. "Another reason we go slowly and
develop the world's trade potential before fin-ishing the farcaster. The
worldweb doesn't need these ya-hoos coming in prematurely. And groups like the
Separatists are another reason to keep you crew and con-traction workers the
hell away from the groundlings." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Where is your
skimmer?" I asked. The Common was emptying quickly. Most of the bands had
packed up their instruments for the night. Gaily costumed heaps lay snor-ing on
the grass or cobblestones amid the litter and unlit lanterns. Only a few
enclaves of merriment remained, groups dancing slowly to a lone guitar or
singing drunk-enly to themselves. I saw Mike Osho at once, a patchworked fool,
his mask long gone, a girl on either arm. He was trying to teach the hora to a
rapt but inept circle of ad-mirers. One of the troupe would stumble and they
would all fall down. Mike would flog them to their feet among general laughter
and they would start again, hopping clum-sily to his basso-profundo chant. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"There it
is," said Siri and pointed to a short line of skimmers parked behind the
Common Hall. I nodded and waved to Mike but he was too busy hanging on to his
two ladies to notice me. Siri and I had crossed the square and were in the
shadows of the old building when the shout went up. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Shipman! Turn
around, you Hegemony son-of-a-bitch." I froze and then wheeled around with
fists clenched but no one was near me. Six young men had descended the steps
from the grandstand and were standing in a semi-circle behind Mike. The man in
front was tall, slim, and strikingly handsome. He was twenty-five or twenty-six
years old and his long blonde curls spilled down on a crimson silk suit that
emphasized his physique. In his right hand he carried a meter-long sword that
looked to be of tempered steel. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Mike turned slowly.
Even from a distance I could see his eyes sobering as he surveyed the
situation. The women at his side and a couple of the young men in his group
tit-tered as if something humorous had been said. Mike al-lowed the inebriated
grin to stay on his face. "You address me, sir?" he asked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I address
you, you Hegemony whore's son," hissed the leader of the group. His
handsome face was twisted into a sneer. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Bertol,"
whispered Siri. "My cousin. Gresham's younger son." I nodded and
stepped out of the shadows. Siri caught my arm. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"That is twice
you have referred unkindly to my mother, sir," slurred Mike. "Have
she or I offended you in some way? If so, a thousand pardons." Mike bowed
so deeply that the bells on his cap almost brushed the ground. Members of his
group applauded. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Your presence
offends me, you Hegemony bastard. You stink up our air with your fat
carcass." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Mike's eyebrows
rose comically. A young man near him in a fish costume waved his hand.
"Oh, come on, Bertol. He's just..." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Shut up,
Ferick. It is this fat shithead I am speaking to." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Shithead?"
repeated Mike, eyebrows still raised. "I've traveled two hundred light
years to be called a fat shithead? It hardly seems worth it." He pivoted
gracefully, untangling himself from the women as he did so. I would have joined
Mike then but Siri clung tightly to my arm, whispering unheard entreaties. When
I was free I saw that Mike was still smiling, still playing the fool. But his
left hand was in his baggy shirt pocket. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Give him your
blade, Creg," snapped Bertol. One of the younger men tossed a sword
hilt-first to Mike. Mike watched it arc by and clang loudly on the
cobblestones. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You can't be
serious," said Mike in a soft voice that was suddenly quite sober. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You cretinous
cowturd. Do you really think I'm going to play duel with you just because you
get a hard-on acting the hero for these yokels?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Pick up the
sword," screamed Bertol, "or by God I'll carve you where you
stand." He took a quick step forward. The youth's face contorted with fury
as he advanced. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Fuck
off," said Mike. In his left hand was the laser pen. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No!" I
yelled and ran into the light. That pen was used by construction workers to
scrawl marks on girders of whiskered alloy. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Things happened
very quickly then. Bertol took an-other step and Mike flicked the green beam
across him al-most casually. The colonist let out a cry and leaped back; a
smoking line of black was slashed diagonally across his silk shirtfront. I
hesitated. Mike had the setting as low as it could go. Two of Bertol's friends
started forward and Mike swung the light across their shins. One dropped to his
knees cursing and the other hopped away holding his leg and hooting. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">A crowd had
gathered. They laughed as Mike swept off his fool's cap in another bow. "I
thank you," said Mike. "My mother thanks you." Siri's cousin
strained against his rage. Froths of spittle spilled on his lips and chin. I
pushed through the crowd and stepped between Mike and the tall colonist. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hey, it's all
right," I said. "We're leaving. We're go-ing now." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Goddamn it,
Merin, get out of the way," said Mike. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It's all
right," I said as I turned to him. "I'm with a girl named Siri who
has a..." Bertol stepped forward and lunged past me with his blade. I
wrapped my left arm around his shoulder and flung him back. He tumbled heav-ily
onto the grass. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh,
shit," said Mike as he backed up several paces. He looked tired and a
little disgusted as he sat down on a stone step. "Aw, <span class="0Text">damn!
</span>" he said softly. There was a short line of crimson in one of the
black patches on the left side of his harlequin costume. As I watched, the
narrow slit spilled over and blood ran down across Mike Osho's broad belly. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh, Jesus,
Mike." I tore a strip of fabric from my shirt and tried to staunch the
flow. I could remember none of the first-aid we'd been taught as midshipmen. I
pawed at my wrist but my comlog was not there. We had left them on the <span class="0Text">Los</span> <span class="0Text">Angeles</span>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It's not so
bad, Mike," I gasped. "It's just a little cut." The blood flowed
down over my hand and wrist. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It will
serve," said Mike. His voice was held taut by a cord of pain. "Damn.
A fucking sword. Do you believe it, Merin? Cut down in the prime of my prime by
a piece of fucking cutlery out of a fucking one-penny opera. Oh, <span class="0Text">damn</span> that smarts." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Three-penny
opera," I said and changed hands. The rag was soaked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You know what
your fucking problem is, Merin? You're always sticking your fucking two cents
in. Awwwww." Mike's face went white and then gray. He lowered his chin to
his chest and breathed deeply. "To <span class="0Text">hell</span> with
this, kid. Let's go home, huh?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I looked over my
shoulder. Bertol was slowly moving away with his friends. The rest of the crowd
milled around in shock. "Call a doctor!" I screamed. "Get some
medics up here!" Two men ran down the street. There was no sign of Siri. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Wait a
minute! Wait a minute!" said Mike in a strong-er voice, as if he had
forgotten something important. "Just a minute," he said and died.
Died. A real death. Brain death. His mouth opened ob-scenely, his eyes rolled
back so only the whites showed, and a minute later the blood ceased pumping
from the wound. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">For a few mad
seconds I cursed the sky. I could see the <span class="0Text">L.A. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>moving across the fading starfield and I knew
that I could bring Mike back if I could get him there in a few minutes. The
crowd backed away as I screamed and ranted at the stars. Eventually I turned to
Bertol. "You," I said. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The young man had
stopped at the far end of the Com-mon. His face was ashen. He stared
wordlessly. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You," I
said again. I picked up the laser pen from where it had rolled, clicked the power
to maximum, and walked to where Bertol and his friends stood waiting. Later,
through the haze of screams and scorched flesh. I was dimly aware of Siri's
skimmer setting down in the crowded square, of dust flying up all around, and
of her voice commanding me to join her. We lifted away from the light and
madness. The cool wind blew my sweat-soaked hair away from my neck. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"We will go to
Fevarone," said Siri. "Bertol was drunk. The Separatists are a small,
violent group. There will be no reprisals. You will stay with me until the All
Thing holds the inquest." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No," I
said. "There. Land there." I pointed to a spit of land not far from
the city. Siri landed despite her protests. I glanced at the boul-der to make
sure the backpack was still there and then climbed out of the skimmer. Siri
slid across the seat and pulled my head down to hers. "Merin, my
love." Her lips were warm and open but I felt nothing. My body felt
an-aesthetized. I stepped back and waved her away. She brushed her hair back
and stared at me from green eyes filled with tears. Then the skimmer lifted,
turned, and sped to the south in the early morning light. <span class="0Text">Just
a minute</span>, I felt like calling. I sat on a rock and gripped my knees as
several ragged sobs were torn up out of me. Then I stood and threw the laser
pen into the surf below. I tugged out the backpack and dumped the contents on
the ground. The hawking mat was gone. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I sat back down,
too drained to laugh or cry or walk away. The sun rose as I sat there. I was
still sitting there three hours later when the large, black skimmer from Ship
Security set down silently beside me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Father?
Father, it is getting late." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I turn to see my
son Donel standing behind me. He is wearing the blue and gold robe of the
Hegemony Council. His bald scalp is flushed and beaded with sweat. Donel is
only 43 but he seems much older to me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Please,
Father," he says. I nod and rise, brushing off the grass and dirt. We walk
together to the front of the tomb. The crowd has pressed closer now. Gravel
crunches under their feet as they shift restlessly. "Shall I enter with
you, Father?" Donel asks. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I pause to look at
this aging stranger who is my child. There is a little of Siri or me reflected
in him. His face is friendly, florid, and tense with the excitement of the day.
I can sense in him the open honesty which often takes the place of intelligence
in some people. I cannot help but compare this balding puppy of a man to
Alon—Alon of the dark curls and silences and sardonic smile. But Alon is 33
years dead, cut down in a stupid battle which had noth-ing to do with him. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No," I
say. "I'll go in by myself. Thank you, Donel." He nods and steps
back. The pennants snap above the heads of the straining crowd. I turn my
attention to the tomb. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The entrance is
sealed with a palmlock. I have only to touch it. During the past few minutes I
have developed a fan-tasy which will save me from both the growing sadness
within and the external series of events which I have ini-tiated. Siri is not
dead. In the last stages of her illness she had called together the doctors and
the few technicians left in the colony and they rebuilt for her one of the
ancient hi-bernation chambers used in their seedship two centuries earlier.
Siri is only sleeping. What is more, the year-long sleep has somehow restored
her youth. When I wake her she will be the Siri I remember from our early days.
We will walk out into the sunlight together and when the farcaster doors open
we shall be the first through. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Father?"
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes." I
step forward and set my hand to the door of the crypt. There is a whisper of
electric motors and the white slab of stone slides back. I bow my head and
enter Siri's tomb. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Damn it,
Merin, secure that line before it knocks you overboard. Hurry!" I hurried.
The wet rope was hard to coil, harder to tie off. Siri shook her head in
disgust and leaned over to tie a bowline knot with one hand. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">It was our Fifth
Reunion. I had been three months too late for her birthday but more than five
thousand other people had made it to the celebration. The President of the All
Thing had wished her well in a forty-minute speech. A poet read his most recent
verses to the Love Cycle Son-nets. The Hegemony Ambassador had presented her
with a scroll and a new ship, a small submersible powered by the first fusion-cells
to be allowed on Maui-Covenant. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri had eighteen
other ships. Twelve belonged to her fleet of swift catamarans that plied their
trade between the wandering Archipelago and the Home Islands. Two were
beautiful racing yachts that were used only twice a year to win the Founder's
Regatta and the Covenant Criterium. The other four craft were ancient fishing
boats, homely and awkward, well-maintained but little more than scows. Siri had
nineteen ships but we were on a fishing boat—the <span class="0Text">Ginnie Paul</span>.
For the past eight days we had fished the shelf of the Equatorial Shallows; a
crew of two casting and pulling nets, wading knee-deep through stink-ing fish
and crunching trilobites, wallowing over every wave, casting and pulling nets,
keeping watch, and sleep-ing like exhausted children during our brief rest
periods. I was not quite 23. I thought I was used to heavy labor aboard the <span class="0Text">L.A. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and it was my
custom to put in an hour of exercise in the 1.3-gee pod every second shift, but
now my arms and back ached from the strain and my hands were blistered between
the callouses. Siri had just turned 70. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Merin, go
forward and reef the foresail. Do the same for the jib and then go below to see
to the sandwiches. Plenty of mustard." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I nodded and went
forward. For a day and a half we had been playing hide and seek with a storm;
sailing before it when we could, turning about and accepting its punishment
when we had to. At first it had been exciting, a welcome respite from the
endless casting and pulling and mending. But after the first few hours the
adrenaline rush faded to be replaced by constant nausea, fatigue, and a
ter-rible tiredness. The seas did not relent. The waves grew to six meters and
higher. The <span class="0Text">Ginnie Paul</span> wallowed like the broad-beamed
matron she was. Everything was wet. My skin was soaked under three layers of
rain gear. For Siri it was a long-awaited vacation. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"This is
nothing," she had said during the darkest hour of the night as waves
washed over the deck and smashed against the scarred plastic of the cockpit.
"You should see it during simoon season." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The clouds still
hung low and blended into gray waves in the distance but the sea was down to a
gentle five-foot chop. I spread mustard across the roast beef sandwiches and
poured steaming coffee into thick, white mugs. It would have been easier to
transport the coffee in zero-gee without spilling it than to get it up the
pitching shaft of the companion way. Siri accepted her depleted cup without
commenting. We sat in silence for a bit, appreciating the food and the
tongue-scalding warmth of the coffee. I took the wheel when Siri went below to
refill our mugs. The gray day was dimming almost imperceptibly into night. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Merin,"
she said after handing me my mug and taking a seat on the long, cushioned bench
which encircled the cockpit, "what will happen after they open the
farcaster?" I was surprised by the question. We rarely talked about the
time when Maui-Covenant would join the Hegemony. I glanced over at Siri and was
shocked by the countenance re-vealed by the harsh, upward glare of the
instrument lights. Siri's face showed a hidden mosaic of seams and shadows
which would soon replace the pale, translucent complexion of the woman I had
known. Her beautiful, green eyes were hidden in wells of darkness and the cruel
light turned her cheekbones into knife-edges against brittle parchment. Siri's
gray hair was cut short and now it stuck out in damp spikes. I could see the
tendoned cords under the loose skin of her neck and wrists. Age was laying
claim to Siri. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What do you
mean?" I asked. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What will
happen after they open the farcaster?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You know what
the Council says." I spoke loudly, as if she were hard of hearing. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It will open
a new era of trade and technology for Maui-Covenant. You won't be re-stricted
to one little world any longer. When you become citizens, everyone will be
entitled to use the farcaster doors." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes,"
said Siri. Her voice was weary. "I have heard all of that, Merin. But what
will <span class="0Text">happen</span>? Who will be the first through to
us?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I shrugged.
"More diplomats, I suppose. Cultural con-tact specialists.
Anthropologists. Ethnologists. Marine biol-ogists." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And
then?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I paused. It was
dark out. The sea was almost gentle. Our running lights glowed red and green
against the night. I felt the same anxiety I had known two days earlier when
the wall of storm appeared on the horizon. I said, "And then will come the
missionaries. The petroleum ge-ologists. The sea farmers. The developers."
Siri sipped at her coffee. "I would have thought your Hegemony was far
beyond a petroleum economy." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I laughed and
locked the wheel in. "Nobody gets be-yond a petroleum economy. Not while
the petroleum's there. We don't burn it, if that's what you mean. But it's
still essential for the production of plastics, synthetics, food base, and
keroids. Two hundred billion people use a lot of plastic." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And
Maui-Covenant has oil?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Oh,
yes," I said. There was no more laughter in me. "There are billions
of barrels reservoired under the Equa-torial Shallows alone." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"How will they
get it, Merin? Platforms?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yeah.
Platforms. Submersibles. Sub-sea colonies with tailored workers brought in from
Ouster or the Tau Ceti Cities." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And the motile
isles?" asked Siri. "They must return each year to the shallows to
feed on the bluekelp there and to reproduce. What will become of the
isles?" I shrugged again. I had drunk too much coffee and il left a bitter
taste in my mouth, </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I don't
know," I said. "They haven't told the crew much. But back on our
first trip out, Mike heard that they planned to develop as many of the isles as
they can, so some will be protected." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Developed?"
Siri's voice showed surprise for the first time. "How can they develop the
isles? Even the Found-er's Families must ask permission of the Sea Folk to
build our treehouse retreats there." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I smiled at Siri's
use of the local term for the dolphins. The Maui-Covenant colonists were such
children when it came to their damned dolphins. "The plans are all
set," I said. "There are 128,573 motile isles big enough to build a
dwelling on. Leases to those have long since been sold. The smaller isles will
be broken up, I suppose. The Home Islands will be developed for recreation
purposes." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Recreation
purposes," echoed Siri. "How many peo-ple from the Hegemony will use
the farcaster to come here ... for recreation purposes?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"At first, you
mean?" I asked. "Just a few thousand the first year. As long as the
only door is on Island 241 ... the Trade Center ... it will be limited. Perhaps
50,000</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">the second year
when Firstsite gets its door. It'll be quite the luxury tour. Always is after a
seed colony is first opened to the web." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And
later?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"After the
five-year probation? There will be thou-sands of doors, of course. I would
imagine that there will be twenty or thirty million new residents coming through
during the first year of full citizenship." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Twenty or
thirty million," said Siri. The light from the compass stand illuminated
her lined face from below. There was still a beauty there. But there was no
anger or shock. I had expected both. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"But you'll be
citizens then yourself," I said. "Free to step anywhere in the
worldweb. There will be sixteen new worlds to choose from. Probably more by
then." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes,"
said Siri and set aside her empty mug. A fine rain streaked the glass around
us. The crude radar screen set in its hand-carved frame showed the seas empty,
the storm past. "Is it true, Merin, that people in the Hegemony have their
homes on a dozen worlds? One house, I mean, with windows facing out on a dozen
skies?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Sure," I
said. "But not many people. Only the rich can afford multi-world
residences like that." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Siri smiled and set
her hand on my knee. The back of her hand was mottled and blue-veined.
"But you are very rich, are you not, Shipman?" I looked away.
"Not yet I'm not." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Ah, but soon,
Merin, soon. How long for you, my love? Less than two weeks here and then the
voyage back to your Hegemony. Five months more of your time to bring the last
components back, a few weeks to finish, and then you step home a rich man. <span class="0Text">Step</span> two hundred empty light years home. What a strange
thought ... but where was I? That is how long? Less than a standard year."
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Ten
months," I said. "Three hundred and six standard days. Three hundred
fourteen of yours. Nine hundred eigh-teen shifts." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And then your
exile will be over." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"And you will
be twenty-four years old and very rich." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I'm tired,
Merin. I want to sleep now." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">We programmed the
tiller, set the collision alarm, and went below. The wind had risen some and
the old vessel wallowed from wavecrest to trough with every swell. We undressed
in the dim light of the swinging lamp. I was first in the bunk and under the covers.
It was the first time Siri and I had shared a sleep period. Remembering our
last Reunion and her shyness at the villa, I expected her to douse the light.
Instead she stood a minute, nude in the chill air, thin arms calmly at her
sides. Time had claimed Siri but had not ravaged her. Gravity had done its
inevitable work on her breasts and buttocks and she was much thinner. I stared
at the gaunt outlines of ribs and breastbone and remembered the
sixteen-year-old girl with baby fat and skin like warm velvet. In the cold
light of the swinging lamp I stared at Siri's sagging flesh and remembered
moonlight on budding breasts. Yet some-how, strangely, inexplicably, it was the
<span class="0Text">same</span> Siri who stood before me now. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Move over,
Merin." She slipped into the bunk beside me. The sheets were cool against
our skin, the rough blanket welcome. I turned off the light. The little ship
swayed to the regular rhythm of the sea's breathing. I could hear the
sympathetic creak of masts and rigging. In the morning we would be casting and
pulling and mending but now there was time to sleep. I began to doze to the
sound of waves against wood. "Merin?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What would
happen if the Separatists attacked the Hegemony tourists or the new
residents?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I thought the
Separatists had all been carted off to the isles." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"They have
been. But what if they resisted?" "The Hegemony would send in troops
who could kick the shit out of the Separatists." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What if the
farcaster itself were attacked ... de-stroyed before it was operational?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Impossible."
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Yes, I know,
but what if it were?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Then the <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span> would return nine months later with Hegemony
troops who would proceed to kick the shit out of the Separatists ... and anyone
else on Maui-Covenant who got in their way." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Nine months
shiptime," said Siri. "Eleven years of our time." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"But
inevitable either way," I said. "Let's talk about something
else." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"All
right," said Siri but we did not speak. I listened to the creak and sigh
of the ship. Siri had nestled in the hollow of my arm. Her head was on my
shoulder and her breathing was so deep and regular that I thought her to be
asleep. I was almost asleep myself when her warm hand slid up my leg and
lightly cupped me. I startled even as I began to stir and stiffen. Siri
whispered an answer to my unasked question. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No, Merin,
one is never really too old. At least not too old to want the warmth and
closeness. You decide, my love. I will be content either way." I decided.
Towards the dawn we slept. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The tomb is empty. </span></p>
<p class="Para3" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Donel, come in
here!" </span><span class="0Text"><span lang="EN" style="font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">He bustled in,
robes rustling in the hollow emptiness. The tomb <span class="0Text">is</span>
empty. There is no hibernation chamber—I did not truly expect there to be
one—but neither is there sarcophagus nor coffin. A bright bulb illuminates the
white interior. "What the hell is this, Donel? I thought this was Siri's
tomb." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"It is,
Father." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Where is she
interred? Under the floor for Chrissake?" Donel mops at his brow. I
remember that it is his mother I am speaking of. I also remember that he has
had almost two years to accustom himself to the idea of her death. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"No one told
you?" he asks. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Told me
what?" The anger and confusion is already ebbing. "I was rushed here
from the dropship station and told that I was to visit Siri's tomb before the
farcaster opening. What?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Mother was
cremated as per her instructions. Her ashes were spread on the Great South Sea
from the highest platform of the family isle." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Then why this
... <span class="0Text">crypt</span>?" I watch what I say. Donel is
sensitive. He mops his brow again and glances toward the door. We are shielded
from the view of the crowd but we are far behind schedule. Already the other
members of the Coun-cil have had to hurry down the hill to join the other
dig-nitaries on the bandstand. My slow grief this day has been worse than bad
timing—it has turned into bad theater. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Mother left
instructions. They were carried out." He touches a panel on the inner wall
and it slides up to reveal a small niche containing a metal box. My name is on
it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What is
that?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Donel shakes his
head. "Personal items Mother left for you. Only Magritte knew the details
and she died last win-ter without telling anyone." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"All
right," I say. "Thank you. I'll be out in a mo-ment." Donel
glances at his chronometer. "The ceremony begins in eight minutes. They
will activate the farcaster in twenty minutes." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I know,"
I say. I <span class="0Text">do</span> know. Part of me knows precisely how much
time is left. "I'll be out in a moment." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Donel hesitates and
then departs. I close the door be-hind him with a touch of my palm. The metal
box is sur-prisingly heavy. I set it on the stone floor and crouch beside it. A
smaller palmlock gives me access. The lid clicks open and I peer into the
container. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Well, I'll be
damned," I say softly. I do not know what I expected—artifacts perhaps,
nostalgic mementos of our hundred and three days together—perhaps a pressed
flower from some forgotten offering or the frenchhorn conch we dove for off
Fevarone. But there are no mementos—not as such. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The box holds a
small Steiner-Ginn handlaser, one of the most powerful projection weapons ever
made. The ac-cumulator is attached by a powerlead to a small fusion-cell that
Siri must have cannibalized from her new submers-ible. Also attached to the
fusion-cell is an ancient comlog, an antique with a solid state interior and a
liquid crystal diskey. The charge indicator glows green. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">There are two other
objects in the box. One is the translator medallion we had used so long ago.
The final object makes me smile ruefully. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Why you
little bitch," I say softly. I know now where Siri had been when I awoke
alone that first time in the hills above Firstsite. I shake my head and smile
again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"You dear,
conniving, little bitch." There, rolled carefully, powerleads correctly
attached, lies the hawking mat which Mike Osho had purchased for thirty marks
in Carvnal Market. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I leave the hawking
mat there, disconnect the comlog, and lift it out. The device is ancient,
possibly dating back to pre-Hegira times. I can imagine it being handed down in
Siri's family from the seedship generation. I sit cross-legged on the cold
stone and thumb the diskey. The light in the crypt fades and suddenly Siri is there
before me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">They did not throw
me off the ship when Mike died. They could have but they did not. They did not
leave me to the mercy of provincial justice on Maui-Covenant. They could have
but they chose not to. For two days I was held in Security and questioned, once
by Shipmaster Singh himself. Then they let me return to duty. For the four
months of the long leap back I tortured myself with the memory of Mike's
murder. I knew that in my clumsy way I had helped to murder him. I put in my
shifts, dreamed my sweaty nightmares, and wondered if they would dis-miss me
when we reached the web. They could have told me but they chose not to. They
did not dismiss me. I was to have my normal leave in the web but could take no
off-Ship R-and-R while in the Maui-Covenant system. In addition, there was a
written reprimand and temporary reduction in rank. That was what Mike's life
had been worth—a reprimand and re-duction in rank. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I took my
three-week leave with the rest of the crew but unlike the others I did not plan
to return. I farcast to Esperance and made the classic Shipman's mistake of
try-ing to visit family. Two days in the crowded residential hive was enough
and I stepped to Lusus and took my plea-sure in three days of whoring on the <span class="0Text">Rue des</span> <span class="0Text">Chats</span>. When my mood turned
darker I 'cast to Ouster and lost most of my ready marks betting on the bloody
Shrike fights there. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Finally I found
myself farcasting to Homesystem Sta-tion and taking the two-day pilgrim shuttle
down to Hellas Basin. I had never been to Homesystem or Mars before and I never
plan to return, but the ten days I spent there, alone and wandering the dusty,
haunted corridors of the Monastery, served to send me back to the Ship. Back to
Siri. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Occasionally I
would leave the red-stoned maze of the megalith and, clad only in skinsuit and
mask, stand on one of the uncounted thousands of stone balconies and stare
skyward at the pale gray star which had once been Old Earth. Sometimes then I
thought of the brave and stupid idealists heading out into the great dark in
their slow and leaking ships, carrying embryos and ideologies with equal faith
and care. But most times I did not try to think. Most times I simply stood in
the purple night and let Siri come to me. There in the Master's Rock, where
perfect satori had eluded so many much more worthy pilgrims, I achieved it
through the memory of a not-quite sixteen-year-old womanchild's body lying next
to mine while moonlight spilled from a Thomas Hawk's wings. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">When the <span class="0Text">Los Angeles</span> spun back up to a quantum state, I went with
her. Four months later I was content to pull my shift with the construction
crew, plug into my usual stims, and sleep my R-and-R away. Then Singh came to
me. "You're going down," he said. I did not un-derstand. "In the
past eleven years the groundlings have turned your screw-up with Osho into a
goddamned leg-end," said Singh. "There's an entire cultural mythos
built around your little roll in the hay with that colonial girl." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"What are you
talking about?" I asked. I was irritated and frightened. "Are you
throwing me off the Ship?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Singh grunted and
brushed idly at his right eyebrow. The gold bracelet on his wrist caught the
light. "Did you know that your groundside girlfriend was a member of their
original Shipmaster's family?" he asked. "Sort of the local
equivalent of royalty." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Siri?" I
said stupidly. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"She told the
story of your ... what shall we call it... your love affair to everyone she
could. Poems have been written about it. There was a play performed every year
on one of those floating islands of theirs. Evidently there's an entire cult
that's sprung up. You seem to be at the center of a romantic legend that's
caught the imagination of most of the yokels on the planet." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Are you
throwing me off the Ship?" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Don't be
stupid, Aspic," growled Singh. "You'll spend your three weeks of
leave groundside. The Hege-mony needs this planet. The Ambassador says that we
need the cooperation of the groundlings until the farcaster's operational and
we get some occupation troops through. If this half-assed, star-crossed-lovers
myth can smooth things for us during the next few trips, fine. The experts say
you'll do the Hegemony more good down there than up here. We'll see." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Siri?" I
said again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Get your
gear," ordered Singh. "You're going down." The world was
waiting. Crowds were cheering. Siri was waving. We left the harbor in a yellow
catamaran and sailed south-southeast, bound for the Archipelago and her family
isle. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hello,
Merin." Siri floats in the darkness of her tomb. The holo is not perfect;
a haziness mars the edges. But it is Siri—Siri as I last saw her, gray hair
shorn rather than cut, head high, face sharpened with shadows. "Hello,
Merin my love." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Hello,
Siri," I say. The tomb door is closed. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I am sorry I
cannot share our Sixth Reunion, Merin. I looked forward to it." Siri
pauses and looks down at her hands. The image flickers slightly as dust motes
float through her form. "I had carefully planned what to say here,"
she goes on. "How to say it. Arguments to be pled. Instructions to be
given. But I know now how useless that would have been. Either I have said it
already and you have heard or there is nothing left to say and silence would
best suit the moment." Siri's voice had grown even more beautiful with
age. There is a fullness and calmness there which can come only from knowing
pain. Siri moves her hands and they disappear beyond the border of the
projection. "Merin my love, how strange our days apart and together have
been. How beautifully absurd the myth that bound us. My days were but
heartbeats to you. I hated you for that. You were the mirror that would not
lie. If you could have seen your face at the beginning of each Reunion! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The least you could
have done was to hide your shock ... that, at least, you could have done for me.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"But through
your clumsy naivete there has always been ... what? ... something, Merin. There
is something there that belies the callowness and thoughtless egotism which you
wear so well. A caring, perhaps. A <span class="0Text">respect</span> for caring,
if nothing else. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Therein lay
the slim basis for so much hope through these long years, Merin. Even through
your Hive-born and Ship-bred shallowness there was that sense of caring. I
believe ... no, I <span class="0Text">know</span> that you sometimes cared for
me. If you could care for me, you could care for our world. In our brief hours
of sharing, you might find an understand-ing. Therein lay our hope. Therein lay
the only possible source of our salvation. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I confess
that I did not plan this when I stole your silly flying carpet. I don't know
now <span class="0Text">what</span> I was thinking and planning when I let you
lead me from the Festival that first time. Of kidnapping you, perhaps. Of
delaying and seducing you until Uncle Gresham could use any informa-tion you
might have. Perhaps I dreamed even then of your joining us, of both of us
swimming free with the Sea Folk and protecting the Covenant together. Then
Bertol ruined everything... </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I miss you,
Merin. Tonight I will go down to the har-bor and watch the stars awhile and
think of you. It will not be the first time I have done that. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I'm sorry
that I will not be waiting for you this time, Merin. But our world will be
waiting. The seas that I listen to tonight will greet you with the same song.
Preserving that song is not such an impossible idea, my love. They can't have
this world without controlling the isles and the Sea Folk control the isles. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"I've kept
this diary since I was thirteen. It has hun-dreds of entries. By the time you
see this, they will all have been erased except the few that follow. Our love
was not all myth and machination. We were good friends and some of our times
together were sweet, were they not? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Stay well,
Merin. Stay well." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Donel was ten and
we were trying to convince him to slide on the snowfield with us. He was
crying. Siri turned away from us even before the skimmer settled. When Magritte
stepped out we knew from Siri's face that something had happened. The same face
stares at me now. She brushes absently at the unruly strand of hair. Her eyes
are red but her voice is controlled. "Merin, they killed our son today.
Alon was twenty-one and they killed him. You were so confused to-day, Merin.
'How could such a mistake have happened?' you kept repeating. You did not
really know our son but I could see the loss in your face when we heard. Merin,
it was not an accident. If nothing else survives, no other rec-ord, if you
never understand why I allowed a sentimental myth to rule my life, let this be
known— <span class="0Text">it was not an</span> <span class="0Text">ac-cident that
killed Alon</span>. He was with the Separatists when the Council police
arrived. Even then he could have es-caped. We had prepared an alibi together.
The police would have believed his story. He chose to stay. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Today, Merin,
you were impressed with what I said to the crowd ... the mob ... at the
embassy. Know this, Shipman—when I said, 'Now is not the time to show your
anger and your hatred,' that is precisely what I meant. No more, no less. Today
is not the time. But the day will come. It will surely come. The Covenant was
not taken lightly in those final days, Merin. It is not taken lightly now.
Those who have forgotten will be surprised when the day comes but it will
surely come. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">I shut off the
comlog and sit in silence for a minute. The crowd sounds are barely audible
through the thick walls of the tomb. I take a breath and thumb the diskey. Siri
appears. She is in her late forties. I know immedi-ately the day and place she
recorded this image. I remem-ber the cloak she wears, the eelstone pendant at
her neck, and the strand of hair which has escaped her barrette and even now
falls across her cheek. I remember everything about that day. It was the last
day of our Third Reunion and we were with friends on the heights above South
Tern. The image fades to another and in the split second ol overlap the face of
a 26-year-old Siri appears superim-posed on the older woman's features.
"Merin, I am preg-nant. I'm so glad. You've been gone five weeks now and I
<span class="0Text">miss</span> you. Ten <span class="0Text">years</span> you'll be
gone. More than that. Merin, why didn't you think to invite me to go with you?
I could not have gone, but I would have loved it if you had just <span class="0Text">invited</span> me. But I'm pregnant, Merin. The doctors say that it
will be a boy. I will tell him about you, my love. Perhaps someday you and he
will sail in the Archi-pelago and listen to the songs of the Sea Folk as you
and I have done these past few weeks. Perhaps you'll under-stand them by then.
Merin, I <span class="0Text">miss</span> you. Please hurry back." The
holographic image shimmers and shifts. The 16-year-old girl is red-faced. Her
long hair cascades over bare shoulders and a white nightgown. She speaks in a
rush, racing tears. "Shipman Merin Aspic, I'm sorry about your friend—I
really am—but you left without even say-ing <span class="0Text">good-bye</span>.
I had such plans about how you would help us ... how you and I ... you didn't
even say good-bye. I don't care <span class="0Text">what</span> happens to you. I
hope you go back to your stinking, crowded Hegemony hives and rot for all I
care. In fact, Merin Aspic, I wouldn't want to see you again even if they paid
me. <span class="0Text">Good-bye. </span>" </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">She turns her back
before the projection fades. It is dark in the tomb now but the audio continues
for a second. There is a soft chuckle and Siri's voice—I cannot tell the
age—comes one last time. "Adieu, Merin, Adieu." </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Adieu,"
I say and thumb the diskey off. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The crowd parts as
I emerge blinking from the tomb. My poor timing has ruined the drama of the
event and now the smile on my face incites angry whispers. Loud-speakers carry
the rhetoric of the official ceremony even to our hilltop. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"...beginning
a new era of cooperation," echoes the rich voice of the Ambassador. I set
the box on the grass and remove the hawking mat. The crowd presses forward to
see as I unroll the carpet. The tapestry is faded but the flight threads gleam
like new copper. I sit in the center of the mat and slide the heavy box on
behind me. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"...and more
will follow until space and time will cease to be obstacles." The crowd
moves back as I tap the flight design and the hawking mat rises four meters
into the air. Now I can see beyond the roof of the tomb. The islands are
returning to form the Equatorial Archipelago. I can see them, hun-dreds of
them, borne up out of the hungry south by gentle winds. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"So it is with
great pleasure that I close this circuit and welcome you, the colony of
Maui-Covenant, into the com-munity of the Hegemony of Man." The thin
thread of the ceremonial corn-laser pulses to the zenith. There is a spattering
of applause and the band begins playing. I squint skyward just in time to see a
new star being born. Part of me knows to the microsecond what has just
occurred. For a few microseconds the farcaster had been func-tional. For a few
microseconds time and space <span class="0Text">had</span> ceased to be
obstacles. Then the massive tidal pull of the artificial singularity triggered
the thermite charge I had placed on the outer containment sphere. That tiny
explosion had not been visible but a second later the expanding Schwarzschild
radius is eating its shell, swallowing thirty-six thousand tons of fragile
dodecahedron, and growing quickly to gobble several thousand kilometers of
space around it. And <span class="0Text">that</span> is visible—magnificently
visible—as a miniature nova flares whitely in the clear blue sky. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">The band stops
playing. People scream and run for cover. There is no reason to. There is a
burst of X-rays tunneling out as the farcaster continues to collapse into
it-self, but not enough to cause harm through Maui-Covenant's generous
atmosphere. A second streak of plasma becomes visible as the <span class="0Text">Los
Angeles</span> puts more dis-tance between itself and the rapidly decaying
little black hole. The winds rise and the seas are choppier. There will be
strange tides tonight. I want to say something profound but I can think of
nothing. Besides, the crowd is in no mood to listen. I tell myself that I can
hear some cheers mixed in with the screams and shouts. I tap at the flight
designs and the hawking mat speeds out over the cliff and above the harbor. A
Thomas Hawk lazing on midday thermals flaps in panic at my approach. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">"Let them
come!" I shout at the fleeing hawk. "Let them come! I'll be
thirty-five and not alone and let them come if they dare!" I drop my fist
and laugh. The wind is blowing my hair and cooling the sweat on my chest and
arms. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Cooler now, I take
a sighting and set my course for the most distant of the isles. I look forward
to meeting the others. Even more, I look forward to talking to the Sea Folk and
telling them that it is time for the Shark to come at last to the seas of
Maui-Covenant. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN">Later, when the
battles are won and the world is theirs, I will tell them about her. I will
sing to them of Siri. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-32650311425053127112016-06-03T11:24:00.002-03:002016-06-03T11:24:50.428-03:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="color: #8899a6; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"> Dedicado a mi amigo personal y recientemente juntado Felix Lencinas</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="color: #8899a6; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b><u>Reportaje a Bandana</u></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="color: #8899a6; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo</b> - Hola chicas como andan, gracias por el
reportaje, era mi sueño <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Bandanas </b>– Hoy tu sueño es real<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>– Bueno, si, empecemos porque se hace tarde…<br /><b>
Bandanas </b>– Entonces llega la noche…<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>- Eh…si Claro…Me dijeron que estuvieron
estudiando, ¿En donde?<br /><b>
Bandanas </b>- Puan, Puan, Puan<br />
<br /><b>
Yo </b>- Ahhh y de lo que leyeron, ¿Cual fue el filósofo que más les gustó?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Bandanas </b>- Marx, Marx, Marx<br />
<br /><b>
Yo </b>¿Y a quién votaron en octubre?<br /><b>
Bandanas</b>- Sanz, Sanz, Sanz<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>– Vayamos a algo más frívolo que les interés a
sus Fans, fans, fans, perdón…¿Cual es el grupo favorito de Bandana? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas</b>- Guns, Guns, Guns<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>- Un super héroe<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas - </b>Flash, Flash, Flash<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="ES" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>-Una
comida<br /><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas - </b>Pan, pan, pan<br />
<br /><b>
Yo </b>– Una bebida<br /><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas</b>- Tang, Tang, Tang…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>- ¿</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Quién</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">auspicia</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">
el regreso Bandana? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas</b>- Vans, Vans, Vans<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br /><b>
Yo </b>- Ah, ¿Es por canje?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Bandana </b>- Cash, cash, cash<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><b>Yo </b>- ¿Pesos o dólares ?<br /><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas</b>– Yuans yuans yuans<br />
<br /><b>
Yo </b>- La ante última, un deseo para el mundo<br /><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bandanas</b>- Paz paz paz<br />
<br /><b>
Yo </b>- Perfecto, chicas, por último ¿Cuando es el regreso tan esperado ?<br /><b>
Bandanas </b>- Querrás, <i>sabrás</i> que <i>este es el momento</i><i><br /><span style="color: white;">kkjkaslj askjl dklas djaskljd askl dksladj askl</span></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/pcSyljdc40c/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pcSyljdc40c?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span style="color: white;">skladj klsjdk jksla asdklj jd sjdksljdkldjakls</span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 4.5pt;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><span style="color: white;">dsklaj daskljd sajkd sdkjl dj daskjdljdkldjklsdj</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://youtu.be/pcSyljdc40c?t=13"><br /></a></i><span style="color: #8899a6;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-65689044772586470982015-04-01T10:14:00.000-03:002015-04-01T10:14:14.297-03:00Ilusión<div class="MsoNormal">
Iba caminando por el parque distraído necesitaba no ubicar
las formas por su recuerdo anterior, quería aplicarle un nuevo significado,
pero me era imposible, todo me remitía a experiencias anteriores.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tenía que comparar si o si con vivencias, con recuerdos, con
pasados.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Estaba atrapado, por mi yo anterior.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No podía elaborar nada nuevo, solo era capaz de reubicar de
manera mas o menos aleatoria todas las antiguas impresiones.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Era imposible arrancar de cero.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imposible, arrancar, cero, todos conceptos aprendidos, pre
establecidos, impresos en mi cerebro, en mi consiente, en mi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Por más que me esforcé no lo logré, el Paraíso con sus
venenitos marrones cayendo, abriéndole la puerta al benigno otoño, no dejaba de
ser el árbol proveedor de municiones, para mi arma de rulero con globo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Globo que provocaba la alegría irascible en mi niñez porque
era, sinónimos de cumpleaños, fiesta, comida especial, con el gusto de lo
casero de la familia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Familia que empezaba a crecer, despacio, echando raíces firmes,
para luego elevarse hacía el cielo como un árbol</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No lograba salir del laberinto de mi mente.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Se que nunca lo lograré, solo reubicaré los recuerdos una y
otra vez.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alguna de la veces será una re-organización tan distinta,
que pensaré haberlo logrado, haber creado algo nuevo.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pero solo será una ilusión.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-77834050854476241012015-02-12T14:11:00.000-03:002015-02-12T14:11:03.639-03:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfSm939kli3du9RBEcstxy76ALtpMmMMqTuTJi77fQPfq9U_hRuGIw5fR2KMLu-HG-vLpnQryE-aPBbvvUFuXK3wCJSs_5MPF_q_e2YGV-g2hbfmc-sTe9iTIoDH396NKW-iTsbW6/s1600/DalaiViejita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzfSm939kli3du9RBEcstxy76ALtpMmMMqTuTJi77fQPfq9U_hRuGIw5fR2KMLu-HG-vLpnQryE-aPBbvvUFuXK3wCJSs_5MPF_q_e2YGV-g2hbfmc-sTe9iTIoDH396NKW-iTsbW6/s1600/DalaiViejita.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-69367125728349482072014-09-11T11:43:00.000-03:002014-09-11T11:43:06.091-03:00Nuevo sistema de calificación Provincial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5COBZ1sWLidxU-jyLF6lH1qisxUnVKmVi7RzgcyGGA_FtmxVTtm3bj_qFJBPnPNHLyKEjBng0S0hhgnayHSMubMG6DP7_Dek6pxTcwwz5-ODHtrTwH0X3lElVD4H5HXeG0Lzaf85/s1600/Aplazo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5COBZ1sWLidxU-jyLF6lH1qisxUnVKmVi7RzgcyGGA_FtmxVTtm3bj_qFJBPnPNHLyKEjBng0S0hhgnayHSMubMG6DP7_Dek6pxTcwwz5-ODHtrTwH0X3lElVD4H5HXeG0Lzaf85/s1600/Aplazo.jpg" height="203" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-62103621526426111142014-09-10T11:30:00.003-03:002014-09-10T11:30:48.728-03:00Lenguaje<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAKU6XQZv020iUbkhUUgdS1PBwtfDhXDB-7JJS_c9vGmHitDsJOXoHwZcXfvwaxCMrxG-XQYcaboJIW5gmziSwFrLgveN2bB7wb3p_EZrlqGs6laV5K-PAegGcZQWNLnDf2i79qx0/s1600/Evo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilAKU6XQZv020iUbkhUUgdS1PBwtfDhXDB-7JJS_c9vGmHitDsJOXoHwZcXfvwaxCMrxG-XQYcaboJIW5gmziSwFrLgveN2bB7wb3p_EZrlqGs6laV5K-PAegGcZQWNLnDf2i79qx0/s1600/Evo.jpg" height="320" width="302" /></a></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-70629446733975422782012-05-07T16:51:00.002-03:002012-05-07T16:51:21.625-03:00¿Uno por año?Al final esto del blog se parece al noviazgo, primero todos los días, después una vez por semana, después te cuesta uno por mes, y terminas uno por año...y con suerte...<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-47137752344211435172011-07-25T13:43:00.001-03:002011-07-25T13:43:12.412-03:00Primer Acto: Una mujer sin depilarse las piernas.<br />
Segundo Acto. Una mujer sin depilarse los brazos.<br />
Tercer Acto: Una Mujer sin depilarse las zonas pudendeas.<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
Car-dos<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
Primer Acto: Ricardo Fort le dice a un travesti llamdo Lina que quiere tener más relaciones con el.<br />
<br />
<br />
Segundo Acto: Ricardo Fort le dice a un travesti llamdo Lina que quiere tener más relaciones con el. <br />
<br />
<br />
Tercer Acto: Ricardo Fort le dice a un travesti llamdo Lina que quiere tener más relaciones con el. <br />
<br />
A mi me gusta el ganso Lina, Dame más ganso Lina. <br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <br />
<br />
¿Que le dijo un Pato homsosexual a un cirujano plástico? <br />
Copate*, haceme pata. <br />
<br />
*Encima de homosecual era ochentoso. <br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ <br />
La mujer le dijo a al Marido, Manuel lo que pasa es que tu eres claro, y fue Manuel y se cambió de companía telefónica. <br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ <br />
¿Saben porque el gato Silvestre está celoso? <br />
Porque su compañero de seria es un Tweety Star. <br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ <br />
<br />
Gus - si lo estás leyendo es porque te sobraba el tiempo, asíq ue no te qujés eh! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-21669487172728030472011-05-24T15:34:00.000-03:002011-05-23T21:09:31.089-03:00Aviso importante a la población que frecuenta Blogs, Diarios y otros lares donde se puede comentar.<br />
<br />
<i>Todo comentario que empiece o contenga:</i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Para ser sincero: </b>El comentarista dirá una mentira, irremediablemente<b>.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Yo tengo muchos amigo (Homosexual, judio, negro, o cualquier otra minoría) pero</b>: El comentario será de índole racista, Xenofobo, sexista, o todo eso incluido.<br />
<br />
<b>Para ser objetivos</b>: El comentarista, hará de cuenta que te dá la razón en un punto insignificante, solo para decir que su idea es la única que vale, y que lo que decís vos es una estupidez.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Yo tengo la cabeza abierta pero</b>: Pero la tiene tan abierta que se le cayeron todas las ideas, y le quedó una sola, y la defenderá a rajatabla, aunque sea altamente incoherente.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Tu comentario es fascista</b>: Quiere decir que el comentarista no tiene ningún argumento válido, para contrarrestar, lo expuesto.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Esto se remonta a </b>: No importa de lo que se esté hablando, el comentario, mezclará flores con vacas, y desvirtuará totalmente la entrada.<br />
<br />
Gus- Comentario aparte.<br />
<br />
PD: Ayuda al español indignado.<br />
<br />
Griten con un poco más de entusiasmo e imaginación Che, que si no encima de indignados, se van a morir de aburrimiento.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-1526984254799764842011-05-05T00:01:00.004-03:002013-04-10T11:30:15.252-03:00-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<u><b>Tres chistes trabajosos</b></u><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Primer acto: </b>Florencia de La V Jugando de 8 en Laferrere.<br />
<b>Segundo acto:</b> Florencia de la V Jugando de 8 en San Lorenzo.<br />
<b>Tercer Acto :</b> Florencia de la V jugando de 8 en la Selección Argentina.<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
El trava-volante<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
¿En que se parece la importación de artículos en la Argentina, y los bosques de Palermo?<br />
En que los dos están llenos de Trabas/Trabas.<br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Primer acto</b>: Electra posa para el nuevo logo de los Stones<br />
<b>Segundo Acto</b>: Electra posa para el nuevo logo de los Stones<br />
<b>Tercer Acto</b>: Electra posa para el nuevo logo de los Stones<br />
<br />
<br />
Trava-lengua.<br />
<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------.<br />
<u><i><b>Y dos más:</b></i></u><br />
<br />
<br />
S<b>eñora I </b>- Mi hijo se dedica al negocio de lo bipolar<br />
<b>Señora II </b>- ¿Es Psicólogo?<br />
<b>Señora I </b>- No, vende imanes. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Madre - </b>¡Ay ! nene, cómo comes, te tenés que medir con el pan.<br />
<b>Nene -</b> Mirá mamá mido 7 panes y medio. <br />
<br />
<br />
Gus - Sigo en el trabajo.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-68009277296762493062011-04-28T11:54:00.000-03:002020-01-14T15:56:22.416-03:00La <i>Blogudez </i>división "<b>Revisión histórica</b>" presenta:<br />
<br />
"<b>Introducción a la historia religiosa de Panamá</b>"<br />
<br />
Fue Judas Priest a Panamá le hicieron un homenaje y así nació en Panamá el Juda-itsmo.<br />
<br />
Fue Cristian U. a Panamá le hicieron un homenaje y así nació en Panamá el Cristian-itsmo.<br />
<br />
<br />
Fueron Yasky y Michelli a Panamá les hicieron un homenaje y así nació en Panamá el ATE-itsmo.<br />
<br />
Inauguraraon una Plante de Budweiser en Panamá, le hicieron un homenaje, y así nació en Panamá el Bud-itsmo.<br />
<br />
Fue un Agente de la Scotland Yard a Panamá le hicieron un homenaje a las 5:00 en punto y así nació en Panamá el Poli té - itsmo.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Gus -No tengo en claro cuando me hice boludista.</em><span class="tl"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="tl"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-18962763997589269892011-04-20T00:01:00.000-03:002011-04-20T10:41:04.603-03:00<b>Primer acto:</b> Un hombre grita en un caverna, porqué se producen el día y la noche, y el eco contesta, por la rotacón de la tierra.<br />
<br />
<b>Segundo acto:</b> Una mujer grita en una caverna, porqué estoy embarazada, y el eco contesta porque haz mantenido relaciones sexuales en el momento oportuno sin protección.<br />
<br />
<b>Tercer Acto: </b>Un hombre grita, porque All-Boys juega tan mal, y el eco contesta, porque el nivel de los jugadores no es bueno, y el sistema táctico no es el adecuado.<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
El Eco-lógico<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<b>Primer acto</b>: Un Aleman de dos metros y medio.<br />
<br />
<b>Segundo acto:</b> Un Aleman de dos metros y medio.<br />
<br />
<b>Tercer acto</b>: Un Aleman de dos metros y medio. <br />
<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
Gran Germano <br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
(<b>Autoplagio de Twitter</b>)<br />
<br />
<i>¿Que le dice el 6 romano al 30?</i><br />
VI que eras XXX y me acerqué<br />
<br />
<i>¿Que Opina el 3000 romano de este chiste? </i><br />
MMM<br />
<br />
<br />
Gus - El minimalismo en su expresión máxima.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-58816747935178562662011-04-14T13:07:00.000-03:002011-04-14T13:07:27.319-03:00Seguimos siiiiiiiiiiiiii...paramosss nooooooooo.....A pedido de la gente y del pueblo...que son dos cosas aparentemente distintas, <b>La Blogudez</b> sigue con su humor simple...<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Primer acto:</b> La doctora Elisa Carrió le pide a la Doctora Cristina Fernandez viuda de Kirchner, que efectúe mas gastos.<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Segundo acto</b>: El Ingeniero Mauricio Macri le exije a la Doctora Cristina Fernandez viuda de Kirchner, que efectúe mas gastos.<br />
<br />
<b>Tercer Acto</b>: El cineasta Fernando Solanas intima a la Doctora Cristina Fernandez viuda de Kirchner, que efectúe más gastos.<br />
<br />
<b>¿Cómo se llama la obra?</b><br />
<br />
K gaste.<br />
<br />
<br />
Y ahora un compilado de los chistes de Tupperware del Gus!!!!<br />
<br />
¿Cuál es el Tupperware que más cuesta encontrar?<br />
<br />
El que es-tá per-dido <br />
<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
¿Cual es el tupperware que más ensucia?<br />
<br />
El que es-tá per-foradao.<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
¿Cuál es el tupperware que mejor la pasa?<br />
<br />
El que es-tá per-noctando.<br />
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
Gus - Espero que el lector me diga es-tá per-donado.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-62768940361117260942011-04-07T15:11:00.000-03:002011-04-07T15:11:36.145-03:00Otra tanda de chistontitos creados por el editor de la blogudez:<br />
<br />
(A pedido de mi nena)<br />
<br />
¿En que se parecen el hermano de Guillermo Barros Schelotto y el helado de Chocolate?<br />
<br />
En que el otro Mellizo se llama Gustavo, y el Helado te Gusta a vó!<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Niñito - Mamá, mamá hay M y M plateados<br />
Mamá - No.<br />
Niñito - Uh entonces me comí la pilas del reloj<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Primer acto: Tevez le dice un piropo a Brenda, esta se sonroja y le contesta.<br />
Segundo acto: Tevez le dice un piropo a Brenda, esta se sonroja y le contesta.<br />
Tercer acto: Tevez le dice un piropo a Brenda, esta se sonroja y le contesta. <br />
<br />
¿Como se llama la obra?<br />
¡Ay! Carli!<br />
(Por la serie <a href="http://www.icarly.mundonick.com/">I carly de nickelodeon</a>)<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
¿En que se parece el canal de las estrellas de México y un Doctor Japonés?<br />
<br />
En que el canal se llama TELEVISA y el médico japonés te levisa.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
¿Cuál es el Tupperware más difcil de encontrar?<br />
El que es<b>ta per</b>dido.<br />
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Gus- Y a pesar de que le invento estos chistes, ella dice que me quiere igual.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-2148255498138668472011-03-31T14:51:00.001-03:002011-03-31T15:06:30.886-03:00<b>Primer acto</b>: Aparece Tevez preocupado porque antes lo citaban a la selección y ahora no.<br />
<br />
<b>Segundo Acto</b>: Aparece Tevez preocupado porque antes lo citaban a la selección y ahora no.<br />
<br />
<b>Tercer Acto</b>: Aparece Tevez preocupado porque antes lo citaban a la selección y ahora no.<br />
<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
<i>El Ex-citado</i>.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Primer Acto:</b> Una 386 con Windows 3.1<br />
<b>Segundo Acto:</b> Una Pentiun 200 Mh MMX con Windows 95.<br />
<b>Tercer Acto:</b> Una Ie7 con Windows 7<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<i>La vida los PCs.</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.estrenosdecine.net/estrenos/#p3142">http://www.estrenosdecine.net/estrenos/#p3142</a><br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Primer Acto</b>: Ricardo Alfonsín se pregunta para que sirve que Sanz, primero le dijera que iba a ir a una interna, y después le diga que no.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Segundo Acto</b>: Ricardo Alfonsín se pregunta para que sirve que Sanz, primero le dijera que iba a ir a una interna, y después le diga que no.<br />
<br />
Tercer Acto: Ricardo Alfonsín se pregunta para que sirve que Sanz, primero le dijera que iba a ir a una interna, y después le diga que no.<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<i>Para que sirve un ooooso</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.estrenosdecine.net/estrenos/#p2940">http://www.estrenosdecine.net/estrenos/#p2940</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Gus - Cada día mas impresentable.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-14597508973415276952011-03-30T12:31:00.002-03:002011-03-30T12:32:33.526-03:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkq9YPiwt0Oowzexi8WuM2aI639nTV-8GPhMA9y3uT9B0kN6C4zQvpQBQNZFILh1zlX8mnpZvHxZtd_mwdMPGEZ_G_OxIPWKm0yBqSapE-qOFaK-KAGQPMy7GKQ-694uy7li6Wrykn/s1600/joaquin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkq9YPiwt0Oowzexi8WuM2aI639nTV-8GPhMA9y3uT9B0kN6C4zQvpQBQNZFILh1zlX8mnpZvHxZtd_mwdMPGEZ_G_OxIPWKm0yBqSapE-qOFaK-KAGQPMy7GKQ-694uy7li6Wrykn/s320/joaquin.JPG" width="261" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">¿Hijo hermoso o papá baboso?</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-15084066161920222712011-03-09T14:54:00.001-03:002011-03-15T15:27:58.102-03:00<b>Primer acto</b><br />
Un policía en un crucero<br />
<br />
<b>Segundo acto</b><br />
El mismo policía en una lancha<br />
<br />
<b>Tercer acto</b><br />
El mismo policía en un velero.<br />
<br />
¿Como se llama la obra?<br />
Policía en cubierta.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>¿Que tiene que ver un Volcan y un lavarropas?</b><br />
<br />
El lavarropas lava y lava y el volcan Lava y Lava.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>¿Que tiene que ver Jaime y tu hermana?</b><br />
<br />
Que Jaime lava guita, ya a tu hermana le dicen La Vaguita.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>¿Porque si R. Fort, pierde toda su fortuna, se iría a vivir cerca de una laguna?</b><br />
Porque si no puede ver guita todo el día por lo menos de noche ve sapitos.<br />
<br />
Gus - Paraparapapa pssssssss<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-53842727983238018852011-03-02T11:14:00.000-03:002011-03-02T11:14:06.132-03:00<b>El editor de La Blogudez: </b>No se si será el exceso de ruido por el túnel que están haciendo justo en la puerta de mi casa, o mi excelente humor, que aflora desde mi más profundo subconciente, pero estoy soñando o entresoñando chistes, varios días seguidos, y bue...los pongo acá no?<br />
<br />
<b>Señorita</b>: Jaimito ¿Cuál es el pico más alto?<br />
<b>Jaimito</b>: El pico de presión que le da a mi viejo cuando le muestro el boletín.<br />
<b>Señorita</b>: Jaimito, al punto más alto del planeta..<br />
<b>Jaimito</b>: A debe ser el negro de la esquina de mi casa, mide como dos metro y medio...<br />
<b>Señorita</b>: Jaimito el lugar más alto donde se puede estar!<br />
<b>Jaimito</b>: Ahhhh...arriba de mi cuñado, porque mi hermana dice, cuando estoy arriba tuyo me siento en las nubes...<br />
<br />
Para Para Papa tssssss<br />
<br />
Gus - espero soñar un par mas, así revive el blog del todo.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-5516140014880284782011-03-01T12:48:00.000-03:002011-03-01T12:48:24.477-03:00Estamos en época carnavalesca y recordé los cantitos de mi infancia, cuando la murga era picaresca y tenía siempre el ritmo del Pachin pachin pachin, tal vez alguno rememora tremendos hits como:<br />
<br />
"Una vieja se sentó<br />
arriba de un hormiguero<br />
y la hormigas traviesas<br />
se equivocaron de agujero"<br />
<br />
o el más explicito<br />
<br />
"Una vieja se sentó<br />
arriba de un farolito<br />
y los pelos de la concha<br />
le hacían cortocircuito"<br />
<br />
(Se ve que todavía no estaba expandido el cavado total)<br />
<br />
<br />
También había algunos sin viejas como<br />
<br />
"Un cura fue a mear<br />
Atrás de un convento<br />
Y una gata peluda<br />
lo cazó del instrumento<br />
<br />
La gata que tira tira<br />
El cura que llora llora<br />
Ay Diosesito querido<br />
Que me quedo sin pistola" <br />
<br />
Bueno ayer estaba a la 1:33 AM paseando a Joaquín, y se me ocurrió una serie de estas así que como el blog no está muerto...todavía pelea<br />
<br />
Yo siempre fui zurdito<br />
Mi mujer es liberal<br />
Yo trabajo todo el día<br />
Ella invierte el capital<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin <br />
<br />
<br />
De día trabajo en camisa<br />
De noche en camiseta<br />
Ella de noche y de día<br />
Se revienta la tarjeta<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin <br />
<br />
<br />
Por el indice del Indec<br />
El sueldo me han aumentado<br />
Pero ella aumenta el gasto<br />
Por el indice privado<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin <br />
<br />
tenía unos pechos hermosos<br />
Por eso la empecé a amar<br />
Pero ahora se los operó<br />
y no me los dejá tocar<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin<br />
<br />
El Domingo fue mi franco<br />
Y me dije hoy la pongo<br />
cuando la fui a tocar<br />
Casi me corta el porongo<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin<br />
<br />
Esta es mi historia de vida<br />
Yo se, tal vez es muy dura<br />
Pero queria que sepan<br />
Porque me converti en cura<br />
<br />
Pachin pachin pachin <br />
<br />
<br />
Gus- Viva la vieja murga!<br />
<br />
(Cualquier parecido de la canción con personajes de la realidad es pura ficción, mi ex jamaś se opero nada)<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-53756131056223190252011-02-28T13:59:00.000-03:002011-02-28T13:59:55.230-03:00<b>El Editor de la blogudez:</b> Uhhhhhhhhhhhh se me ocurrieron dos chistes el mismo día y bue, aunque el blog estaba casi muerto, lo revivo, para escribirlo.<br />
<br />
<br />
El psicólogo le pregunta al paciente : ¿Porque pasa toda la noche en el casino?<br />
Y el paciente le responda : Porque mi señora no me da bola.<br />
No va maaaas....<br />
<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
Hola, hablo con el manicomio<br />
No, con el papa fritas comió<br />
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Gus - La lenta agonía del blog, tal vez sea peor que la muerte definitiva.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-9151972105255482582010-11-03T15:00:00.000-03:002010-11-03T15:00:57.239-03:00<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>La Inflación hace Picada los bolsillos Argentinos.</strong></span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzo6vnGTDafcrpTJVzWBvmeVygmWiL-OJlXradpx65oW4QWPwdSdYHNPXIL4o1k5vVr6uxm3Z4YwnDH7sU6T-khx0mLVauIqjH_LbCGiMuWAdrCnL-zM4ytxts1BWcN6QQuhSLzGf/s1600/Inflaci%C3%B3n.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; height: 147px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 507px;"><img border="0" height="102" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzo6vnGTDafcrpTJVzWBvmeVygmWiL-OJlXradpx65oW4QWPwdSdYHNPXIL4o1k5vVr6uxm3Z4YwnDH7sU6T-khx0mLVauIqjH_LbCGiMuWAdrCnL-zM4ytxts1BWcN6QQuhSLzGf/s320/Inflaci%C3%B3n.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">En la promo <a href="http://www.disfrutemosjuntos.com/">http://www.disfrutemosjuntos.com/</a> en <a href="http://www.disfrutemosjuntos.com/terminos.html">los terminos y condiciones</a>, vemos como la inflación galopante, hace que una picada que costaba pesos setenta, luego del parentesis, cuesta ($120), y eso que Nestor ya es fiambre....</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Gus- Uh! ¡Publiqué de vuelta!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-25585445204364895232010-07-12T14:38:00.000-03:002010-07-12T14:38:02.223-03:00<strong>El Editor de La Blogudez:</strong> Para ser Franco (Tendría que haber sido dictador de España), este blog nació para levantar minas y mostrar mi enorme, capaz y multiple intelecto, pero debido, a que la primera función se cumplió, con tan gran exito, que me casé y todo, y que la segunda opción nunca se pudo poner en práctica, el Blog quedo sin objetivos.<br />
<br />
Así que hace un rato me estoy tratando de plantear objetivos nuevos, mientras, para no perder el tiempo posteo lo que dice la gente por ahí, en otro blog.<br />
<br />
Y para que el blog no muera del todo, escribo lamentaciones.<br />
<br />
Saludos Cordiales<br />
<br />
Gus<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-73765965889873438072010-06-04T15:26:00.002-03:002010-06-04T16:17:33.599-03:00<b>El editor de La Blogudez:</b> Unas cuantas veces me han llegado alguna cadena de mail con frases como:<br />
<br />
"Maria Marta era cabezona, y Juan Domingo Perón"<br />
"Para desfilar, Nicole prefiere escalinatas y Daniel Pasarella"<br />
<br />
Pero claro eso es con apellidos que encajan, ahora yo pensé (es una metáfora), lo jodido sería agarrar un lista, y hacerlos entrar a presión, y como la lista que más a mano tenía era la que hizo Diego hace poco, y en un arranque de originalidad...<br />
<br />
<br />
La Blogudez presenta:<br />
<br />
La Lista del Mundial.<br />
<br />
A Mario no lo ves nunca pero con Carlos Tevez<br />
<br />
Si fuera por Mauricio sería apolítico, pero con Diego Milito<br />
<br />
Para el bebé, Gianina prefiere cama y Kun Aguero<br />
<br />
Daniela prefiere recoleta, y Martín Palermo<br />
<br />
Gomez fuma un cigarrillito e Higuaín, Pipita<br />
<br />
Fernandez hace la paz, y Lio Messi<br />
<br />
Jorge está con los pies en la tierra y Mario Bolatti<br />
<br />
Samuel es Rabino y Javier Pastore<br />
<br />
Zulma usa mini, y Rodriguez, Maxi<br />
<br />
El Demonio es de Satanás y Angel di María<br />
<br />
Donde el Brujo ve agua, La brujita Ve Ron<br />
<br />
Jose trajo papel afiche, Y Javier Masche<br />
<br />
A Lopez no lo conoces, pero a Gutierrez Jonás<br />
<br />
Manuel es repositor en Carrefour, y en El Chino Garcé<br />
<br />
Martinez lee yo Matias, y Rodriguez, Clemente.<br />
<br />
Con Ariel no coges, y con Burdiso Nicolás<br />
<br />
Pedro prefiere ketchup Hellmans, y Gabriel Heinz e<br />
<br />
Julio prefiere Justo a tiempo, y el Muro Samuel<br />
<br />
Navarro, Raúl es tacaño y Demichelis, Martín Gastón<br />
<br />
Villegas ni tiene tetas y Otamendi Nicolás<br />
<br />
Julián prefiere el oregano y Sergio Romero<br />
<br />
Cuando me saca una foto Mario improviso y con Diego Pozo<br />
<br />
Aguirre, Luis prefiere sierras y tetas, y Andujar Mariano.<br />
<br />
Gus- si, ya sé, hay alguno muy malos y otro peores.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-68362776502794102602010-05-29T01:27:00.000-03:002010-05-29T01:27:57.379-03:00<span style="color: blue;"><strong>¡Chiste fácile sobre algunos paises que participan en el mundial!</strong></span><br />
<br />
<strong>Primer acto</strong><br />
Un hombre alienta desde Tucumán<br />
<strong>Segundo acto</strong><br />
Un hombre alienta desde Salta<br />
<strong>Tercer acto</strong> <br />
Un hombre alienta desde Jujuy<br />
<br />
¿Cómo se llama la obra?<br />
<br />
<em>Corea del Norte</em><br />
<br />
<em>---------------------------------------------</em><br />
<br />
¿Cuál es la novia del Paño?<br />
<br />
¡Es paña!<br />
<br />
-------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<strong>Primer Acto</strong><br />
El novio le pregunta a Thalia cuanto le falta para terminar de vestirse<br />
<strong>Segundo Acto</strong><br />
El novio le pregunta a Thalia cuanto le falta para terminar de vestirse<br />
<strong>Tercer acto</strong><br />
El nvio lepregunta a Thalia cuanto falta para terminar de vestirse<br />
<br />
¿Como se llama la obra?<br />
<em>¿Y Thalia? (Italia ¿Entienden?)</em><br />
<br />
<em>-----------------------------------------------</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Dino borra y Dina Marca<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<strong>Act First</strong><br />
A man said "He came because I controlled him"<br />
<br />
<strong>Act second</strong><br />
A man said "He came because I controlled him"<br />
<br />
<strong>Act third</strong><br />
A man tell "He came becaus I controlled him"<br />
<br />
<strong>¿What is the Ophera name?</strong><br />
Came run<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Marcos se iba y Eslo venia<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Chau se rompió y Hola anda<br />
<br />
-----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Zip se baña en ducha y Arj en tina<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<br />
Usa top, Ceci y Bra Sil<br />
<br />
---------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<strong>Primer Acto</strong><br />
<br />
Se crea un club de Fans barrial de Matías Ale<br />
<br />
<strong>Segundo Acto</strong><br />
<br />
Se crea un club de Fans provincial de Matías Ale<br />
<br />
<strong>Tercer Acto</strong><br />
<br />
Se crea un club de fans Mundial deMatías Ale<br />
<br />
Como se llama la obra <br />
<br />
<strong>Ale manía</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>--------------------------------------------------</strong><br />
<br />
Y había un para más pero no los escribí porque no se me dió la Ghana<br />
<br />
<strong>Gus-</strong> Mundial... la justa deportiva sin igual, lará, lará<div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25321216.post-43013561848675588832010-05-25T11:43:00.000-03:002010-05-26T12:25:35.952-03:00<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>El Editor de La Blogudez:</b> Es increíble como nos llama la atención, a todos, los números redondos, por ejemplo en los blogs, se "festeja" o destaca, el post número 200, pero no el 201 o 202 (excepto acá en en La Blogudez que <a href="http://lablogudez.blogspot.com/2007/02/posteo-202-capica-uhhh-llegamos-los.html">festejamos el 202</a>), </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">En la vida en general también, se hace más lío (Y no Messi), cuando se llega a los 50 que cuando se llega los 51, por eso, es que este año, estamos todos contentos con el bicentenario de.... bueno acá hay un problemita, porque la Patria no nació exactamente el 25 de Mayo, si no que la ciudad rajó al virrey, pero siguio jurando fidelidad al rey.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Una revolución, sin sangre, a priori, pero después si vino un poquito de sangre, cuando se fusiló a Liniers, y la gente que no estaba de acuerdo, y más sangre propia y ajena, cuando, los nuestros no se ponían de acuerdo, y los ajenos, se ponían de acuerdo, para que fuéramos libres, pero que tampoco nos emocionáramos mucho.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Al fin al cabo podríamos decir, que fue el punta pie inicial del país, y aunque este cambió mucho, perdimos bastante al norte, ganamos bastante al sur, nos matamos en guerras internas, nos pelamos con los vecinos, etc, etc, pero al fin y al cabo, quedamos, como estamos, argentinos, resucitando al tango, mezclando el rock con folclore, tomando mate y coca cola, olvidándonos del pato (uh! nuestro deporte nacional!!), y apasionados por el "fubol", protestando porque Borges no ganó el novel, pero siendo reconocidos en todo el mundo por "El Diego", amando y odiando a Perón, escribiendo en un blog, un montón de cosas cursis, repetidas y sin sentido, solamente para sentir...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="background-color: cyan; color: white; text-align: justify;"><b>Para sentirme yo también parte del bicentenario.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Gus-</b> ¡Viva la Patria!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Leer mi blog es gratis, pero cuidado que el feed en cualuqier momento lo cobro.</div>Gustavohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12554313878341285668noreply@blogger.com0