She was not disappointed. From the moment she stepped up the aisle below the pavilion awning, Owen was fisheyed with lust. A surge of anger blew away her misgivings. As he took her hand and they stood before the ancient minister, out of the corner of her eye she noted a face full of pride of ownership and fatuous self importance.
Soon enough it was over. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Gen turned her face up to Owen. He closed his eyes and bent to her. She glided to the right, and his lips missed hers. He drew back. "Excuse me," he said.
"Certainly," she said. She let him kiss her. Beneath his starched shirt, she could feel him tremble. She ran her hand inside his coat, pressed it against his breast, felt his heart thumping. She pulled back, smiled at the minister. She took Owen's hand and they ran laughing back down the aisle.
Then a whirlwind reception, flocks of photographs, hordes of relatives, magnums of champagne, more awkward dancing, the overly sweet cake, the change of clothes, the limo to the airport, the evening flight on the private plane to Palm Beach.
As they were getting off the plane in the Palm Beach terminal, a man rushed up to them. "Mrs. Vannice," he said. "I have an urgent message for you."
Owen looked puzzled. Gen went to a private booth, turned on the security. The screen lit up. It was August.
"Father!"
"How was the wedding?"
"Elaborate."
"I wish I could have been there. When the minister got to that part about 'if there is anybody here who knows a reason why these two should not be wed ....' I would have brought the thing to a dead halt."
"That would have been fun," Gen said wistfully.
August was quiet for a moment. "Look, Genevieve, I've never tried to control you. But for the life of me I cannot imagine why you went and married a man you despise. You do despise him, don't you?"
"More than ever."
"Then what is this all about?"
"Don't worry dad. It will come clear real soon now."
"But you're going on your honeymoon!"
"It will be more fun than Owen imagines."
"Listen, I've arranged for a car. It's waiting outside the airport right now. If you hang up this call, turn around and walk out of that place right now, you'll never regret it."
"I won't regret anything. You'll see."
August looked sad. "Pretty hard on a father to have his only daughter marry and not be there." He mused for a moment. "You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"No, dad. Don't worry."
"I mean, I wouldn't object, but I could help you with the details..."
"Nobody's getting killed. It'll be more fun my way. Trust me."
"You know I do."
"I've got to go. Dr. Nice is champing at the bit."
"Goodbye, Genevieve. I love you."
"I love you too, Dad." She hung up.
Owen was waiting at the exit where the limo waited. When he saw her his face broke into a grin. "You mustn't be late. We'll have to learn to do these things on time."
"I do everything on time," Gen said. He held open the car door, and as she passed him to get in she brushed his forearm. She imagined she could hear his blood race. In the back of the limo, he tentatively put his hand on her leg.
"Look at this scenery!" she said, as the car glided through the twilight to the villa. She took his hand in hers, gently removing it from her thigh. "I'm so happy, Owen."
The villa was two-story stucco with a red tile roof, elaborate garden, a private pool. The lamps were lit when they arrived, with the first stars coming out overhead and Venus bright in the west. The driver set out their bags in the bedroom and discreetly left. A flood of white lilies spilled over the cherry credenza. The bed was the size of Wyoming. Once they were alone, Gen retired to the bath to change.
She slipped into her negligee, doused herself with perfume, and went back to the bedroom. Owen, wearing his dressing gown, had laid himself out on the bed like a buffet.
"Darling," he said, reaching out to her. "I have a surprise for you."
She took his hands, pulled herself down to him. "A surprise?"
"You'll see it soon enough. I came down here myself, a week ago, to do it."
She could only imagine, and she didn't want to. They lay together. As she had many times before, she played the part. The badger game. In his lust Owen was no different from Sloane.
Hadn't she given up that con? What was in it for her?
She reminded herself: this was Emma Zume in bed with Owen, not Genevieve Faison. She undid his robe and ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. She kissed him, long, passionately, and they twined together on the bed. The wind rustled the trees outside their opened window. Owen moaned; she felt his feverish brow on her cheek. She ran her hand through his hair, then pulled away. "That's enough," she said. "I hope you have a pleasant dream. I know I will."
Owen smiled at her, befuddled, breathing heavily. "Darling?"
"I asked the servants to put a blanket and pillow for you out on the sofa."
For a moment it did not register. Then his face fell as if he'd been ejected out an escape hatch. "But I thought..."
She took his hands in both of hers, and held them between her knees. Owen turned green. "We're off to a wonderful start. Why risk it by sharing the bed? Perhaps after two or three years, once we've come to understand one another."
"But Emma! For weeks I've done nothing else but think of you."
"And I of you."
"I thought you loved me."
"Can you doubt it? I married you, didn't I?"
"But now we're husband and wife!"
"Yes. Isn't it delicious? There is absolutely no legal or practical reason why we shouldn't make love all night, and half the day. But we won't. Think of the frustration, the longing, the passionate embraces we'll build up in our minds. The elaborate fantasies, the temptation to stray, the evasions, the sublimation! You'll throw yourself into your work. Our careers will soar on the strength of our unfulfilled sexuality. Every morning you'll struggle to teach your classes through a haze of desire. Every night I'll close my bedroom door thinking of your embrace. How wonderful, I'll imagine, it would be to run my hand down the small of your back. It makes me tremble just to say it."
"But Emma--"
"Why throw all that away just for a moment of lust? A moment not likely half as fulfilling as the ecstasies of anticipation we will put ourselves through over the years. Why, who knows? Perhaps, if we love each other enough, if we create enough of a spark between us, guard it from the winds of indifference until it becomes a roaring bonfire of passion--perhaps we'll never have to sleep together!"
"I'm not sure, in the long run, I'd like that."
"But it's what makes our relationship so special! Think of it another way, if you prefer: there is no place for entangling sexual expectations between us. I remember how you described it, 'A marriage of minds, not just bodies.' That's when I knew I would marry you.'"
"Yes, I remember, but--"
"But what?"
"Well, I . . ."
"You can't think this is sudden. I told you the first time we ever spoke that I was a sexual deliberationist. Did you forget?"
"No. But I thought--"
"What did you think?" She felt herself really angry. She was Emma Zume, not Genevieve Faison, and this man had misjudged her.
Owen looked at her in dismay. He stood, fumbled with the belt of his robe, pulled it savagely tight. Jerking like a puppet, he rummaged in his overnight bag and pulled out his laptop. "I guess I'm going to have some time to work on this paper."
He closed the bedroom door behind him and left her alone.
And that was that. Gen lay back on the bed. From the other room she heard the faint sound of Owen making up the sofa. She lay there for some time, mind blank, watching the ceiling fan slowly revolve. Finally she turned out the light.
The ceiling was decorated with a spray of phosphorescent stars, hundreds of them, large and small, an entire milky way. Across the center a constellation spelled out, "Emma's Galaxy."
ELEVEN: THE
PALM BEACH STORY
Owen woke up with a crick in his neck that would not go away. He groaned out of the sofa and into the bedroom. Emma was not there. He avoided looking at the disordered bedclothes. While taking a shower he muttered to himself, "What a fool. What was I thinking of?"
=You were thinking about getting laid.=
Owen didn't say anything.
=What I can't figure out is why she's holding out on you. Please trust your naked poetry to eat women. Maybe she's really a man.=
"Maybe you're a figment of my imagination."
Owen's hand jerked up and slapped him in the face.
=Was
that
a figment of your imagination?=
Owen gained control of his hand, rubbed his stinging cheek. "You're not supposed to do things like that."
=My value inheres in my ability to do the unexpected.=
Owen turned off the water and got out of the shower. Angrily, he began to towel himself dry. "I fail to see the advantage of you slapping me with my own hand."
=What is the sound of one hand slapping?"
"Ho." Owen pulled on his robe. He didn't even have a body of his own.
=I'm just a machine interface, Owen. But I have to say recent events have made me question whether I can take care of you.=
"Good. I'll take care of myself."
=You're a naked obsessive dysfunctional free details man.=
"I'm not naked anymore."
Well, self pity would get him nowhere. He wandered through the villa, out to the patio. The day could not have been brighter or the air more fragrant had it been ordered from a catalog. He found Emma at the breakfast table, fairly glowing. She had gotten some invisible staff person to prepare breakfast for them. The stunning white tablecloth was laden with covered serving dishes, toast, jam, a floral centerpiece of sun-bright yellow mums. The coffee smelled beautiful. Emma's violet eyes drew him down to sit beside her. Owen's annoyance subsided.
"Last night was wonderful," she said. "I never knew it could be like that."
"'It?'"
"Our conversation."
"Sure," Owen grumbled. He found he was ravenous. He lifted the lids on the various serving plates, spooned out some scrambled eggs, selected a croissant and a breakfast steak. The smell of the steak made his mouth water, and he dug in.
After a while he felt a little better. "You know," he said, "I think it was a good idea not to rush into the sexual part of our marriage. There's more to sex than sexual intercourse."
"I'm so glad you see it my way."
"Of course, when we decide to have children, that will be different."
"It doesn't have to."
"I mean, not that I would let them influence my decision, but my parents are eager to see some grandchildren. They've been after me about it for years."
"Don't worry. They're having grandchildren as we speak."
"Excuse me?"
"Your mother explained how you refused to do anything about fathering a child. It was one of the things that proved to me you were a man of principle. She even told me that woman at the college dance was trying to trick you into providing a sperm sample."
"I see."
"I told them how they might get one more easily, and they did. They're preparing a child in an artificial womb."
It took a moment before he caught on to what she was saying. "They took a sperm sample? How? When?"
"I believe they had your AIdvisor produce it while you were asleep."
Owen swallowed. "Bill?"
=It was a delicate operation.=
"I'll bet," Owen subvocalized.
=It's not as if you hadn't shown me how.=
Owen turned on Emma. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Emma looked innocent as a flower. "It really was a matter between you and them. It's embarrassing. And I knew we weren't going to have children the normal way."
=Looks like we may have opportunity to collect further samples.=
Owen sighed. At least his parents would leave him alone about grandchildren, now.
"Darling, I'll forgive you this time, but in the future you're not to interfere in my affairs without my permission. I may be a liberal, but I draw the line at the exploitation of my own body."
Emma lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, Owen."
Her forlorn look mollified him a little. He took another piece of the steak. Animal protein, in massive quantities. His father would be proud of him. He tried to make conversation. "This steak is excellent. Thanks for ordering it."
Emma smiled. "Your father says it tastes like iguana. It's infant dinosaur."
Owen stopped chewing. He put down his fork. "Emma, that's not funny."
"It's no joke. Grilled Wilma, courtesy of Ralph Siddhartha Vannice."
"That's absurd! I checked Wilma through telepresence not twenty-four hours ago. She's in the campus ecologarium."
"Don't worry, Wilma hasn't been harmed. Your father had her cloned."
"Cloned? How? When did he get to
her
?"
"You did that, too."
"
I
did it?"
"Yes. While you were asleep. She wouldn't sit still for any of his agents, so your father had Bill sample some tissues for cloning. He told me at the wedding reception."
"Bill!" Owen said.
=It was none of my doing.=
"None of your doing! Whose was it, then?"
=Well, according to that trial summation the other day, that's sort of a metaphysical question.=
Owen balled up his napkin and threw it into his plate. "Emma--you're against exploiting the past! How can you countenance this!"
"Wilma is no longer part of the past."
"But she's is a unique specimen."
"Wilma is an extinct creature yanked out of her proper era. But as far as cloning her for meat, that has human benefit. Wilma hasn't been affected one iota; you could take her back tomorrow."
"But you objected to my taking her in the first place."
"That's right. And I still do. Either Wilma should be returned to the past, or disposed of. Tampering with time is an abomination. It's an uncompromising principle with me. Didn't I make that clear from the start?"
"Of course. So why would you allow anyone to clone her?"
"I'm against interfering with the past, not cloning." Calmly, she took another bite of the filet.
Owen tried to get his mind around the discoveries he was making. Was he being unfair? But she had told him . . . he had assumed . . . "My father is an exotiphagist?"
"He's the president of the New England chapter. Don't tell me you didn't know. He's planning a series of restaurants. Dinoburgers, dinogyros, dino salad."
He should have known. That was the worst of it. But who
was
this woman? "How could you lie to me?"
"I never lied to you."
"The Committee to Protect the Past? How can you reconcile this with your work?"
Finally she got mad. "Must I take
your
definition of my work? My actions are quite consistent with my ideals. You're the one who seems to bend your principles to the occasion." She caught her breath in a little sob. "I thought you were better than that. I must say, Owen, this is a considerable disillusionment for a girl to get on her honeymoon."
"Emma, how could you trick me like this?"
She wiped her eyes. "Trick you? Who tricked who?"
A bright yellow canary landed in the bush beside the patio, rattling the leaves in a flutter of wings. Owen thought of the bird's ancestors, a hundred million years before, in the woods outside Vannice Station. He felt bitterly used.
"I don't know who tricked who. But if you mean what you say, you're being inhumane. You can't keep the past inviolate. To try to do so is to create some sort of false virginity, like your sexual deliberation. Once you lose your innocence, you can't get it back. It's not so awful a loss anyway."
"So then you rape the past, now that it's not a virgin. You use it like a whore?"
"You're going to extremes," Owen said. He struggled to articulate what he felt. "It's--it's not that clear cut. There's a lot of ground between virginity and rape. You can relate to the past like a lover, a spouse, a friend. You have a relationship with it."
"The Saltimbanque corporation will love that line of reasoning, Owen. They can use it in their PR."
"You can make me look foolish. Make me? What am I saying--I am a fool! What I'm saying isn't consistent, I know. But you delude yourself if you think right and wrong's so easy. You ought not to act like some innocent, Emma, when you're not."
She stared at him as if seeing him anew. "You think I'm not innocent?"
"You probably are. Too damned innocent."
"You're the one who was looking for somebody pure."
"I was. I was wrong."
"If you want some floozy, there are plenty in the world. More's the pity."
"Most bad people aren't nearly as bad as they seem to be. Most good ones aren't as good. Neither am I." Owen got up from the table. Emma looked up at him, as beautiful as the first moment he'd seen her at Thornberry. But it wasn't her he really loved.
Trying not to look like an ass, he strode back into the house, through the bedroom, into the bath. He sat there, his head in his hands, and thought about that last breakfast he'd had with Genevieve, on the terrace at the Herod's Palace. He hadn't gotten to finish anything that time, either.
After a moment Bill spoke. =You were very eloquent there, boss. A little pompous, though.=
"Thanks."
=I don't want you to feel any worse than you do, but it seems to me your sexual frustration is driving this. But you won't admit it.=
"You're getting mighty damned psychiatric lately."
=Never trust men who eat the bed of god. Just tell me this. How did you go from your father betraying you to a lecture on the morality of time travel? Doesn't that seem like an odd way to react to what she said? Wouldn't it be better if you just went back there and told her she hurt you?=
"I'd rather get divorced."
=You could do that, too,= Bill said. His voice sounded almost concerned. =Divorce is an ancient institution. But I suppose marriage is a few weeks older.=