"Then you are a comedian."
"No. I do not tell funny stories or do funny things. I infuse joy directly, so that they can laugh at what merits it."
"That's what I don't understand! How can you—I mean, that's not the way it works!"
"How does it work here?"
"Each person's pleasure and pain come from inside him. If he sees or hears something funny, he laughs and feels good. If he sees something bad, he is unhappy. If something hurts his body, he feels pain, but the pain is from his nervous system, not the other thing. If he loves or hates, the emotion is all in himself. He can't receive it like an electric current from anyone else."
"Physically that is true for us too. But emotionally we can transfer it. It is my post to transfer joy to others."
"But if you can do that, that doesn't mean you lose it yourself!"
"Indeed it does! It is my emotional substance being shared."
"But then you would be miserable after making one person happy."
"No. I have a special qualification for the post. I can magnify my joy as I transfer, making a thousand people happy, while I suffer only a little depletion. Most people can exchange only on an even basis, as you say, but some can multiply, and I can multiply better than any other. That is why I am Cyng."
"Then what's your problem?"
"There are many thousands who need joy. So many that I can not serve them all without eventually being depleted. But I can not stop, because then everyone would become unhappy."
"What does a wife have to do with it?"
"My wife shares her joy with me. I can then share it with others, multiplied. Were she able to share on an even basis, that would double my ability to serve. But normally women are found who can multiply somewhat themselves, so that I may receive what two or three others might provide. That can enable me to carry on for a year or more, before we are both depleted."
"What happens then?"
"I must divorce her before she dies, so that she can recover. Then I must marry another, so that I can continue my work."
"How could you do that to one you loved?"
Darius spread his hands. "I can not. That is why I elected to search in other realities."
"So you could find me, and take me back, and deplete me, and cast me aside after a year?"
"Oh, no, Colene! I am looking for a woman who can multiply the way I do, so that I can love her and never cast her aside. There are none in my reality."
"And you think I might be one like that?"
"I hope you are. The Chip oriented on women who might be like that. But the Chip is fallible. It may be that it is a misreading."
"How can you tell?"
"There is no sure way except to bring you back with me."
"And if I am not right?"
"Then I could not marry you. You would be provided for; I could make you one of my servants."
"One of your servants!"
"The Chip can not focus on precisely the same reality twice. You could not return to your own realm. But you could have a good life with me. Just not as my wife."
"Thanks a lot!"
She was evidently angry. "I do not understand."
"That's for sure!" She lurched to her feet and charged out of the shed.
But later she returned, with more food. "I am sorry I blew up at you, Darius," she said. "I know your culture is way different from mine, and you didn't think you were insulting me."
"That is true. I am sorry I insulted you. Please tell me in what manner I did that, so that I can avoid doing it again."
"With us, a wife is different from a servant. A wife you love; a servant you maybe don't care much about. If you see me as a potential servant—"
Darius was stricken. "No! It is this way in my land too! It is that at least I could be with you, if I couldn't marry you."
She stepped close to him. "How do you really feel about me, Darius?"
"It is my hope that you are suitable, and that you will be willing to—"
"Forget suitability! What about we?"
"I can't forget suitability, because marriage to me would kill you if—"
"But you can't go back, so that doesn't matter! All there is, is you and me. So how do you feel?"
That made him pause. She was right; he could not go back. All he could do was remain here until he died. "I can not marry you here either, because—"
"Nobody asked you to!" she flared. "Will you answer the question!"
He looked at her with an altered appreciation. He had been so girt about by the problems of his isolation and his dependence on her for food and information that he had not allowed himself to think of her as a feeling creature.
She was small, the top of her head reaching just above his shoulder. Her hair was brown, with slight curving, just touching her shoulders. Her face, framed by it, was rounded, except for a slightly pointed chin. Her eyes were large and round and brown. She wore a dress, perhaps in deference to his problem with the blue jeans, and she never sat in that particular position when wearing it. But now she was standing, nicely proportioned, small of chin, breast, waist, and hip but well balanced and extremely feminine.
But appearance was only one aspect of a person. Colene had shown great patience, teaching him her language, and good judgment in the food and clothing she had brought for him, and had been responsible about things like emptying the privy pot. She had wanted him kept out of sight, and though it made him a virtual prisoner here, he felt she was correct in her judgment about this. She had made it as comfortable for him as was feasible. Her personality was nice; she laughed often, and was direct in her dealings with him. She was generous, going to the trouble and discomfort of sharing her warmth with him at night despite the risk of discovery.
Yet still he could not answer, for there was more than all of this in the question. Feelings were bidirectional things, and if hers were not there, his could not be either. There was one more thing he had to know.
"May I handle you?" he inquired.
"You want to have sex with me?" Now she was guarded.
"I must give that a qualified answer. I do find you desirable, but that is not my intent at the moment."
"You may handle me," she said, understanding that this was not a casual thing. He had to do this in order to determine the answer to her question. How he felt about her depended in considerable part how she felt about him.
He put his arms around her back, drawing her in close. Her body yielded to him, and she lifted her face. He knew that magic did not work here, but perhaps just a bit of his peculiar power could be invoked. His power to relate to the emotions of others: to receive and return their joy. Perhaps, with the closest and most evocative contact, he could know.
He kissed her: just a touching of his lips to hers.
CHAPTER 3
KEY
SHE knew it had not been long externally, but internally it was as if she had stepped across realities, or Modes as Darius put it. Then she was sobbing against his shoulder, and it wasn't disappointment but relief: now she knew how he really felt about her—and he knew how she felt about him. She had not really believed in electricity between people, or in instant knowing. Not until now.
Soon enough she pulled herself together. She had learned to make quick recoveries. She drew him down, and they sat side by side, leaning against the back wall of the shed, her right fingers interlaced with his left fingers.
"So it's love," she said matter-of-factly. She had to tackle it this way, as if it were something she had observed from afar, that didn't concern her, because that was the only way she could handle it at the moment. "We have to talk."
"We have talked," he said.
"Not this way. You can't marry me here, because I'm underage and you'll die soon anyway. But you can—"
"No. Your love suffices."
She laughed. She did that often with him, and now she knew why. "I wouldn't tell, Darius. I'm good at keeping secrets, honest. You've been a real gentleman, and I like t
hat a lot. But that's not it. You can tell me exactly how to get to your reality."
"But even if I could return, and take you there, there would be no certainty—"
"I know. If we went there, and you couldn't marry me, I'd be your servant. The forms don't matter. Now I know how you feel. I want to go with you, Darius. Just tell me how."
He seemed surprised. He thought this kind of discussion was useless. He might be right, but she had a notion. "I must have the key. That, in my hand, becomes the signal. Then Pwer will revert me to my reality, together with what I hold."
"So if you are holding me, I'm there too."
"Yes."
"How do you activate the key? Is there a button on it?"
"No. My mind does it. I touch it to my forehead and make my desire."
"You make a wish!" sheexclaimed. "That makes sense!"
"Yes. No one else can activate it. It is attuned to me. It amplifies my wish to return, and that signal crosses the realities, and the Chip responds. I need it, and it needs me. Separate, we both are useless."
She squeezed his fingers reassuringly. "So if you could recover that key—"
"I could return. But it's lost."
"But if I found it for you—"
His fingers stiffened against hers. "If you could do that—"
"I can't promise, Darius, but I'll try."
"You give me hope! If I had that key, I would take you with me."
"That's the idea, you know."
His face turned to her. "But you don't believe."
"I believe you love."
"That is enough, I think." They leaned together and kissed. Again she felt the magic tingle of passion, intimacy, and commitment. All that she lacked in her own poor life she had found in Darius. She knew.
She spent the afternoon stocking supplies. She had some money of her own, and she used it to buy groceries at the only store within walking distance that was open on Sunday. She piled them into the shed. "These are canned goods," she explained. "You open them with this can opener. They may not taste good cold, but they'll feed you."
"But why are you doing this?" he asked.
She faced him seriously. "This is Sunday. Tomorrow I go back to school. I think I know how to find your key. But getting it may be tricky. If I don't come back, I don't want you to starve. Stay here as long as you can, and when you can't, well, you'll just have to go out. But I'll try to get back here okay. This is just in case."
"Just in case what?" he demanded, alarmed.
She shook her head. "Darius, it's been beautiful here with you. You have made me believe in human decency again. But out there's the real world. It's not all that nice. Please don't ask me to tell you any more."
"If I ask, you will tell?"
"Yes. But please don't."
"Then I ask you only to be careful."
"Thank you." She kissed him. She liked doing that. Not only did it make her feel good, it made her feel good about it. He was a good man, and he welcomed her kisses, and he asked no more than that. It was love fulfilled. For now. Until she had the chance to prove her love, in a way he might not understand if he knew.
MONDAY, school day, Colene headed out to the bus with her books. Her attendance the past two weeks had been spotty; she had pleaded illness, then sneaked out to be with Darius. But she had done her homework, because she didn't want to bring any unnecessary suspicion on herself. She had done it with Darius, teaching him words and explaining things as she went along, and it had actually been pleasant.
The thing about Darius was this: he might be crazy, or he might be lying, making up a story about a magic land so he wouldn't have to say where he really was from. But she liked his story, and the meticulous detail of it, and she liked him, with his archaic ways and respect for her body. It was fun having a man to herself. Since she had found him, she had not sliced her wrists. Her skin was healing over; she could probably take off her wrist wraps now, and the scars would not be fresh enough to attract attention.
In fact, all the time she had known him, she had been very like a normal girl. She had laughed, meaning it, liking his confusions, liking his company, liking him. When at last he had kissed her, she had become a normal woman. A woman in love.
Love. At first she had held it at arm's length, uncertain what to do with this weird emotion. Was it real, or just something she imagined? She had heard that girls her age only thought they could love, and were actually in love with the idea of love. Maybe that was true for some. Maybe for most. But not for her. What she felt swept all other considerations aside. It was like a magic fire, burning away all her prior supports, making ashes of other interests. Now there was only Darius. Everything she did was with his welfare in mind. Even what she would do today.
"Tell Biff I want to deal," she said to a boy she knew had a connection.
He was startled. "You?"
"Not his way. But if he has what I want, I'll deal."
She went to classes, and she shone. That extra homework time was paying off. Normally she skimped on schoolwork, and was bright enough to get by with high grades anyway; now she was prepared with research done for the joy of doing it with Darius, who was unfailingly interested in all the things of her world. What had been dull became interesting with him, and by the time she got it all explained to him, she knew it better than she had thought possible. But her performance was incidental; it was only to reassure everyone that Bright Little Colene had everything to live for, and nothing on her mind except classwork.
At lunch she was about to sit down with her tray when she saw a young man of about eighteen standing in the doorway to the rear exit. That was Biff. He was theoretically a student, but somehow he never attended classes. Students carefully ignored him unless they wanted something illegal. Then they dealt, making what deals they could. If the school administration knew about it, it pretended ignorance, knowing that Biff could quickly be replaced by something worse.
She set her tray on a table, picked up the half-pint carton of milk, opened it, and walked to that door. Biff faded back out of sight. She came to stand between the doorway and the large trash container, drinking her milk. She faced back toward the main chamber.
"Yeah?" It was Biff's voice from the other side of the doorway.
"I want something."
"What?"
"It's a sort of gray metal button, like a slug, only thicker and brighter. It was on a bum who got rolled two weeks ago. He wore funny clothes. He gave some punks the finger, and they pounded him."
"What's it to you?"
"It's a memento. I heard it's a luck charm."
"I don't mess with luck charms."
"I want it bad. This one, no other."
"How bad?"
"I'll game for it."
He laughed, harshly. "You want it, you bring money."
"I have no money. Make another offer."
"Stand out where I can see you."
She finished her milk, dumped the balled carton into the container, and stepped into the center of the doorway. She was wearing a light white sweater and black skirt, both too tight. She inhaled, turning. She hated this part, but it was all she had to bargain with. Biff could get girls, but they were either his type, which was no novelty, or under duress, which was no fun. What he wanted was a high-class young one who would pretend she liked it. Colene had acted high-class for years, and she knew how to pretend.
"Okay. One week."
Now she laughed. "I'm a clean girl! One night."
"You ain't clean! Four guys had you."
"Not lately. I'll put four guys in jail, they come near me again. I never ate or sniffed. I'm clean."
"But you drank."
"Never again!"
"No jail, if you deal. None of that." He meant no charges against him.
"None of that," she agreed. "Two nights."
"You don't want it bad enough."
"You don't even have it." Then, signaling the approach of someone dumping a tray in the trash, "Pause." r />
When the person moved on, she said, "Resume." Part of the deal, when anyone talked with Biff, was to keep it quiet.
"I can get it."
Her heart leaped. "You know of it? It has to be only that one."
"They couldn't fence a slug. No value. I can get it. Tomorrow."
"I said I'd game, I win, what I want. You win, what you want."
"That slug against one week, smiling." Not only would she have to do anything he wanted, short of drugs—there were reasons to keep a clean girl clean—she would have to take his side if they were caught, swearing she was his girlfriend and that there had been no coercion. She gagged at the notion, but had to accept. There was a screwball honor in this sort of dealing, enforced by those who had no conscience, just business sense.
"Yes."
"What game?"
"I'll decide."
"Before my friends."
"Before your friends. But I deal only with you."
"For sure! Tomorrow, after school. Come to my car."
"Only if you have what I want."
"I'll have it."
She walked away. The preliminary deal had been struck.
He would bring the key and she would bring her body. The outcome of the game was uncertain, but if she had to, she would game again for the key after paying off the first game. The important thing was that he knew what it was and would get it. Darius could have it back.
This was the part Darius might not understand. He had odd notions about honor and chastity. If she had to give her body to a lout like Biff to win back the key—well, she had a ploy she hoped would avoid that.
IN the afternoon she was in a daze. She went through classes mechanically. She would get the key—but would that really solve anything? For she simply did not believe in that alternate universe of his. If she gave him the key, what could he do except prove that it didn't work? Then his fantasy would be exposed, and a major part of his appeal for her would be diminished. As long as he lacked that key, he was the King of Laughter from an alien reality. With it, he might be only a deluded refugee from some mental hospital.
Why was she risking so much, for such likely disappointment?