clumsy gusto. She said nothing more but returned to her dinner, too.
At length he looked up and asked, “Did you…miss me while I was away?”
“Of course I did.”
“Did you go to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Three months. You went without confession for three months?”
She made herself smile for him. “I haven’t done anything I should confess.”
“You’re living with that Baker fella, aren’t you?”
“Not living with him,” she said. “I keep my own apartment.”
“But you’re sleeping with him.”
“As often as I can.”
“The Church still regards that as a sin, you realize.”
“Do you?”
He closed his eyes. “An Linh, you are the one woman in the whole of my life who’s ever made me feel a regret at having taken my vows. For me, you are a near occasion of sin.”
“Your virtue is safe with me,” she teased.
“I’m sure,” he replied. “Too bad. Such a pity.”
Inwardly, An Linh rejoiced. He was bantering with her, the pall of desperate fear that had hung over him had lifted, at least for a while. The idea of being frozen and then revived to be cured of his tumor had raised the cold hand of death from the priest’s shoulder.
And from my mother’s, An Linh told herself.
CHAPTER 9
Keith Stoner closed the book he had been reading, clicked off the tiny light clamped to its cover, and placed the book atop the stack next to his waterbed. He stretched out on the utterly comfortable, softly yielding surface, sending gentle waves across it. Stoner’s room had changed. The waterbed took up a good deal of the floor space. The bed he had awakened in had been removed from the bank of sensors and monitoring instruments. Bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the waterbed, crammed with volumes of all sizes. Richards had offered Stoner an electronic reader, but Stoner preferred the paper-leafed books he was familiar with.
It had been the psychiatrist’s idea to bring in a waterbed; he said he thought it might help to relax his patient. To Stoner, the waterbed was the nearest thing to the weightlessness of orbit that could be found on Earth. He wondered if the psychiatrist hadn’t thought of the bed for that reason.
It was nearly midnight; pale moonlight slanted through the window and made a pool of silver on the tiled floor. The only other light in the room came from the ceaseless flickering curves wriggling across the display screens in the monitoring equipment that made up the room’s farther wall.
Clasping his hands behind his head, Stoner stared intently at the screens. Slowly, slowly, he smoothed the ragged curves. Heartbeat, body temperature, breathing rate, even the EEG that recorded the electrical activity of his brain—he made them slow and smooth to the point where they were reporting that Keith Stoner had at last fallen asleep.
He smiled to himself. I should have thought of this sooner. Richards is going to be pleased to see that I’ve finally had some sleep.
The only thing that had surprised him about his sleeplessness was his lack of alarm over it. It seemed totally natural for him to stay awake constantly; the need for sleep struck him as archaic, primitive. Stoner knew this was not natural, but even though he felt he should be worried, or at least concerned, he found that he was perfectly calm. Even content. There were years’ worth of books that he had always meant to read. Now he finally had the time to read them.
Hands still clasped behind his head, he looked up through the darkness at the ceiling, and the cameras behind the paneling, watching him. Darkness is no hindrance to them, he knew. They can see me as clearly as if it were daylight.
Maybe I can do something about that, too.
He got up from the bed and dressed quickly, silently, all the while concentrating on the display screens. They remained as calm as a sleeping infant’s.
He went to the section of the wall where the portal was. After watching Richards and the younger assistants who
At length he looked up and asked, “Did you…miss me while I was away?”
“Of course I did.”
“Did you go to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Three months. You went without confession for three months?”
She made herself smile for him. “I haven’t done anything I should confess.”
“You’re living with that Baker fella, aren’t you?”
“Not living with him,” she said. “I keep my own apartment.”
“But you’re sleeping with him.”
“As often as I can.”
“The Church still regards that as a sin, you realize.”
“Do you?”
He closed his eyes. “An Linh, you are the one woman in the whole of my life who’s ever made me feel a regret at having taken my vows. For me, you are a near occasion of sin.”
“Your virtue is safe with me,” she teased.
“I’m sure,” he replied. “Too bad. Such a pity.”
Inwardly, An Linh rejoiced. He was bantering with her, the pall of desperate fear that had hung over him had lifted, at least for a while. The idea of being frozen and then revived to be cured of his tumor had raised the cold hand of death from the priest’s shoulder.
And from my mother’s, An Linh told herself.
CHAPTER 9
Keith Stoner closed the book he had been reading, clicked off the tiny light clamped to its cover, and placed the book atop the stack next to his waterbed. He stretched out on the utterly comfortable, softly yielding surface, sending gentle waves across it. Stoner’s room had changed. The waterbed took up a good deal of the floor space. The bed he had awakened in had been removed from the bank of sensors and monitoring instruments. Bookshelves lined the wall on either side of the waterbed, crammed with volumes of all sizes. Richards had offered Stoner an electronic reader, but Stoner preferred the paper-leafed books he was familiar with.
It had been the psychiatrist’s idea to bring in a waterbed; he said he thought it might help to relax his patient. To Stoner, the waterbed was the nearest thing to the weightlessness of orbit that could be found on Earth. He wondered if the psychiatrist hadn’t thought of the bed for that reason.
It was nearly midnight; pale moonlight slanted through the window and made a pool of silver on the tiled floor. The only other light in the room came from the ceaseless flickering curves wriggling across the display screens in the monitoring equipment that made up the room’s farther wall.
Clasping his hands behind his head, Stoner stared intently at the screens. Slowly, slowly, he smoothed the ragged curves. Heartbeat, body temperature, breathing rate, even the EEG that recorded the electrical activity of his brain—he made them slow and smooth to the point where they were reporting that Keith Stoner had at last fallen asleep.
He smiled to himself. I should have thought of this sooner. Richards is going to be pleased to see that I’ve finally had some sleep.
The only thing that had surprised him about his sleeplessness was his lack of alarm over it. It seemed totally natural for him to stay awake constantly; the need for sleep struck him as archaic, primitive. Stoner knew this was not natural, but even though he felt he should be worried, or at least concerned, he found that he was perfectly calm. Even content. There were years’ worth of books that he had always meant to read. Now he finally had the time to read them.
Hands still clasped behind his head, he looked up through the darkness at the ceiling, and the cameras behind the paneling, watching him. Darkness is no hindrance to them, he knew. They can see me as clearly as if it were daylight.
Maybe I can do something about that, too.
He got up from the bed and dressed quickly, silently, all the while concentrating on the display screens. They remained as calm as a sleeping infant’s.
He went to the section of the wall where the portal was. After watching Richards and the younger assistants who
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