Jubal decided that Patty was a little dotty but quite nice . . . on the whole, he preferred people who were a little dotty; “the salt of the earth” citizen left him cold. Not too dotty, he amended; Patty had let him undress himself, then had whisked his clothes into his wardrobe without coming near them. She was probably a clear proof that one didn’t have to be sane, whatever that was, to benefit by this remarkable Martian discipline that the boy apparently could teach to anyone.

Presently he sensed that she was ready to leave and suggested it by asking her to kiss his goddaughters good-night—he had forgotten to. “I was tired, Patty.”

She nodded. “And I am called for dictionary work.” She leaned over and kissed him, warmly but quickly. “I’ll take that one to our babies.”

“And a pat for Honey Bun.”

“Yes, of course. She groks you, Jubal. She knows you like snakes.”

“Good. Share water, brother.”

“Thou art God, Jubal.” She was gone. Jubal settled back in the tub, was surprised to find that he did not seem tired now and his bones no longer ached. Patty was a tonic . . . serene happiness on the hoof. He wished that he himself had no doubts—then admitted that he didn’t want to be anybody but himself, old and cranky and self-indulgent.

Finally he soaped and showered and decided to shave so that he wouldn’t have to before breakfast. After a leisurely time he bolted the door of his room, turned out the overhead light, and got into bed.

He had looked around for something to read, found nothing to his annoyance, being addicted to this vice above all else and not wishing to go out again and scare up something. He sipped part of a drink instead and turned out the bed light.

He did not go right to sleep. His pleasant chat with Patty seemed to have wakened and rested him. He was still awake when Dawn came in.

He called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Dawn, Jubal.”

“It can’t be dawn yet; it was only—Oh.”

“Yes, Jubal. Me.”

“Damn it, I thought I bolted that door. Child, march straight out of—Hey! Get out of this bed. Git!”

“Yes, Jubal. I will. But I want to tell you something first.”

“Huh?”

“I have loved you a long time. Almost as long as Jill has.”

“Why, the very—Quit talking nonsense and shake your little fanny out that door.”

“I will, Jubal,” she said very humbly. “But I want you to listen to something first. Something about women.”

“I don’t want to hear it now. Tell me in the morning.”

“Now, Jubal.”

He sighed. “Talk. Stay where you are.”

“Jubal . . . my beloved brother. Men care very much how we women look. So we try to be beautiful and that is a goodness. I used to be a peeler, as I know you know. It was a goodness, too, to let men enjoy the beauty I was for them. It was a goodness for me, to know that they needed what I had to give.

“But, Jubal, women are not men. We care about what a man is. It can be something as silly as: Is he wealthy? Or it can be: Will he take care of my children and be good to them? Or, sometimes, it can be: Is he good?—as you are good, Jubal. But the beauty we see in you is not the beauty you see in us. You are beautiful, Jubal.”

“For God’s sake!”

“I think you speak rightly. Thou art God and I am God—and I need you. I offer you water. Will you let me share and grow closer?”

“Uh, look, little girl, if I understood what you are offering—”

“You grokked, Jubal. To share together all that we have. Ourselves. Selves.”

“I thought so. My dear, you have plenty to share—but . . . myself—well, you arrived some years too late. I am sincerely regretful, believe me. Thank you. Deeply. Now go away and let an old man get his sleep.”

“You will sleep, when waiting is filled. Jubal . . . I could lend you strength. But I grok clearly that it is not necessary.”

(Goddamit—it wasn’t necessary!) “No, Dawn. Thank you, dear.”

She got to her knees and bent over him. “Just one more word, then. Jill told me, that if you argued, I was to cry. Shall I get my tears all over your chest? And share water with you that way?”

“I’m going to spank Jill!”

“Yes, Jubal. I’m starting to cry.” She made no sound, but in only a second or two a warm, full tear splashed on his chest—was followed quickly by another . . . and another—and still more. She sobbed almost silently.

Jubal cursed and reached for her . . . and cooperated with the inevitable.



36

Jubal woke up alert, rested, and happy, realized that he felt better before breakfast than he had in years. For a long, long time he had been getting through that black period between waking and the first cup of coffee by comforting himself with the thought that tomorrow might be a little easier.