Galactic Dreams

The little maid was waiting and stripped her down and dried her while a miraculous machine did her hair in seconds, though, in all truth, Beatrice was not aware of this, or even aware of being unaware, as her thoughts darted and spun like maddened butterflies. Only when the maid offered her a dress did she order her thoughts, push it away, push aside the closets of awe-inspiring garments, all her size, to find a simple black suit buried in the back. It had a curve-hugging and breathless simplicity, but it was the best she could do. Powdered, manicured, made up, she had no awareness of it or of the passing of time until, born anew, she stood before him in a chaste and oak-paneled room.

“A last drink,” he said, nodding at the Napoleon brandy on the table.

“I’m going,” she shouted, because for some reason she wanted to stay. Hurling herself past him she tore open the door on the far wall and slammed it behind her. A stairway stretched up and down and she ran down it, flight after flight, gasping for breath, until she could run no more. For a moment she rested against the wall, then straightened and touched her hair, opened the door and stepped through into the same room she had left high above.

“A last drink,” he said, lifting the bottle.

Speechless this time, she ran, closed the door, climbed upwards, higher, until her strength was gone and the stairs ended with a dusty fire door leading to the roof. Opening it she threw herself through into the same room she had left far below.

“A last drink,” he said, decanting the golden drops, then glancing up to notice how her eyes flew to the other doors around the room. “All doors, all halls, all stairs, lead back here,” he said, not unkindly. “You must have this drink. Sit. Rest. Drink. A toast. Here’s to love, my darling.”

Exhausted, she held the glass in both hands, warming it with the heat of her body, then drank. It was heavenly and his face was close beside hers and his lips were whistling in her ear.

“Would you believe,” the hushed sibilants sounded, “would you believe that this brandy contains a drug that destroys your will to say no? Resistance is useless, you are mine.”

“No, no …” her lips said, while her arms said yes, yes, and pulled her to him. No, no, never, never, and darkness descended.

“Drugs, mind-destroying drugs,” she said later, in the warm darkness, their fingertips just touching, cool sheets against her back, her voice a little smug and satisfied. “There was no other way, drugs against my will.”

“Do you believe,” his shocked voice answered, “that I would put anything at all in that brandy? Of course not, my darling. We have just found your excuse, that is all.”

IF

We are there; we are correct. The computations were perfect. That is our destination below.”

“You are a worm,” 17 said to her companion, 35, who resembled her every way other than in number. “Yes — that is the correct place. But we are nine years too early. Look at the meter.”

“I am a worm. I shall free you of the burden of my useless presence.” 35 removed her knife from the scabbard and tested the edge, which proved to be exceedingly sharp. She placed it against the white wattled width of her neck and prepared to cut her throat.

“Not now,” 17 hissed. “We are shorthanded already and your corpse would be valueless to this expedition. Get us to the correct time at once. Our power is limited, you may remember.”

“It shall be done as you command,” 35 said as she slithered to the bank of controls. 44 had ignored the talk, keeping her multi cellular eyes focused intently on the power control bank: constantly making adjustments with her spatulate fingers in response to the manifold dials.

“That is it,” 17 announced, rasping her hands together with pleasure. “The correct time, the correct place. We must descend and make our destiny. Give praise to the Saur of All, who rules the destinies of all.”

“Praise Saur,” her two companions muttered, all of their attention on the controls.

Straight down from the blue sky the globular vehicle fell. It was round and featureless, save for the large rectangular port on the bottom now, and made of some sort of green metal, perhaps anodized aluminium, though it looked harder. It had no visible means of flight or support, yet it fell at a steady and controlled rate. Slower and slower it moved until it dropped from sight behind the ridge at the northern end of Johnson’s Lake, just at the edge of the tall pine grove. There were fields nearby, with cows, who did not appear at all disturbed by the visitor. No human being was in sight to view the landing beside the path that cut in from the lake here: a scuffed dirt trail that led to the highway.