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Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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know why I was telling her all this in the first place, nor had I any clear idea of what I could gain by all this. Mostly it was the insecur-ity, the terrible loneliness of my condition, and my sense of helplessness about it that craved some company, some companionship, some concern. I needed somebody now, even for a little while, more than I had ever needed anybody in my whole life.
"You aren't gonna turn me in, are you?" I asked warily.
She was genuinely touched and concerned, and it showed. "Come," she said. "
Sit by me," and I did. She lifted me into her lap and put her arms around me. It felt warm and secure and good. I was so overcome I felt myself starting to cry, and, try though I might, I couldn't really stop it. No gold, no wondrous prize of any kind, could replace that hug. It was a need beyond price.
After a few moments just lying there, weeping slightly, cradled in her arms, I looked up at her, bleary-eyed, and saw that she had tears in her own blue eyes.
"No," she whispered kindly, hugging me tighter, "I won't give you away. But where will you go? What will you do?"
"I'll go somewhere where they won't send me back," I told her. "Get in a city, maybe do a little begging. I'll get by."
She sighed. "Well, I'll do what I can as far as I can," she told me. She let go and reached down into her bag, coming up with some tissues and a hairbrush. "
Let's start by untangling your pretty hair."
She brushed and combed and took out the tangles, and did the sort of things I wanted to do but hadn't known how.
"I'm Dorian Tomlinson," she told me as she brushed and combed. "My friends call me Dory. What's your name?"
I hadn't thought of a name yet, but one seemed obvi-ous. Fortunately my male name had a feminine equiva-lent, as most did. "I'm Vicki," I replied. "Just Vicki—not Victoria or anything like that."
"Vicki what?"
I could hardly use Gonser, and it seemed better for the moment to just cop out. "You'd never pronounce it," I told her. "Let's just keep it on a first-name basis like real friends, O.K.?"
She laughed softly, "O.K., friend." She turned me around, straightening my crumpled clothes. "Well, you don't look so bad now you've been groomed. Now let's go downstairs to the ladies' room and I'll see what I can do about patching your pants."
My little sewing kit in expert hands made short work of the rip, and we adjourned to the cafeteria. She'd spotted the money when I'd reached in for the kit and I'd had to think fast and tell her it was my father's secret savings jar money. As I sipped cocoa and she tea I managed to turn the conversation away from me and towards her.
She was a college student, had just turned twenty, and she'd accepted an invitation by a classmate—a boyfriend—to go hiking and camping up in Glacier Park. She wasn't too clear on why they had a big fight, but I guessed it was more than just sex since she had to know he'd have some of that on his mind all out there in the wild, but, anyway, they'd fought and she'd stalked out and caught the next plane back to Juneau and caught the first ferry through. As a walk-on she had no chance at a stateroom and the solarium seemed to be the most private place other than a stateroom on the ship. She wanted to be alone, to think things out, she said.
For some reason I felt a consuming jealousy for that nameless young man. I couldn't really explain my emo-tional reaction, but the longer I was with Dory the more she seemed to loom ever larger before me, like some sort of goddess I was joyful in worshipping. It was much later before I realized that I was developing a mad, pas-sionate crush on her, one caused by her beauty and compassion, my need for a friend, my frustrated (male) previous life, and, probably, the glands of the near-woman I now was.
And I'd eaten a whole hamburger just because she'd asked me to.
As we walked around the ship afterwards, poking into things and looking through the little shop, this feeling grew ever stronger within me.
"You aren't gonna turn me in, are you?" I asked warily.
She was genuinely touched and concerned, and it showed. "Come," she said. "
Sit by me," and I did. She lifted me into her lap and put her arms around me. It felt warm and secure and good. I was so overcome I felt myself starting to cry, and, try though I might, I couldn't really stop it. No gold, no wondrous prize of any kind, could replace that hug. It was a need beyond price.
After a few moments just lying there, weeping slightly, cradled in her arms, I looked up at her, bleary-eyed, and saw that she had tears in her own blue eyes.
"No," she whispered kindly, hugging me tighter, "I won't give you away. But where will you go? What will you do?"
"I'll go somewhere where they won't send me back," I told her. "Get in a city, maybe do a little begging. I'll get by."
She sighed. "Well, I'll do what I can as far as I can," she told me. She let go and reached down into her bag, coming up with some tissues and a hairbrush. "
Let's start by untangling your pretty hair."
She brushed and combed and took out the tangles, and did the sort of things I wanted to do but hadn't known how.
"I'm Dorian Tomlinson," she told me as she brushed and combed. "My friends call me Dory. What's your name?"
I hadn't thought of a name yet, but one seemed obvi-ous. Fortunately my male name had a feminine equiva-lent, as most did. "I'm Vicki," I replied. "Just Vicki—not Victoria or anything like that."
"Vicki what?"
I could hardly use Gonser, and it seemed better for the moment to just cop out. "You'd never pronounce it," I told her. "Let's just keep it on a first-name basis like real friends, O.K.?"
She laughed softly, "O.K., friend." She turned me around, straightening my crumpled clothes. "Well, you don't look so bad now you've been groomed. Now let's go downstairs to the ladies' room and I'll see what I can do about patching your pants."
My little sewing kit in expert hands made short work of the rip, and we adjourned to the cafeteria. She'd spotted the money when I'd reached in for the kit and I'd had to think fast and tell her it was my father's secret savings jar money. As I sipped cocoa and she tea I managed to turn the conversation away from me and towards her.
She was a college student, had just turned twenty, and she'd accepted an invitation by a classmate—a boyfriend—to go hiking and camping up in Glacier Park. She wasn't too clear on why they had a big fight, but I guessed it was more than just sex since she had to know he'd have some of that on his mind all out there in the wild, but, anyway, they'd fought and she'd stalked out and caught the next plane back to Juneau and caught the first ferry through. As a walk-on she had no chance at a stateroom and the solarium seemed to be the most private place other than a stateroom on the ship. She wanted to be alone, to think things out, she said.
For some reason I felt a consuming jealousy for that nameless young man. I couldn't really explain my emo-tional reaction, but the longer I was with Dory the more she seemed to loom ever larger before me, like some sort of goddess I was joyful in worshipping. It was much later before I realized that I was developing a mad, pas-sionate crush on her, one caused by her beauty and compassion, my need for a friend, my frustrated (male) previous life, and, probably, the glands of the near-woman I now was.
And I'd eaten a whole hamburger just because she'd asked me to.
As we walked around the ship afterwards, poking into things and looking through the little shop, this feeling grew ever stronger within me.
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