The Storm

At Galen One Alpha, Harold Sloan woke up alone, as usual, knowing without reaching across the bed he would find it empty. He strained for a moment to listen for the storm, then remembered the apartment was soundproofed. Oh well.

Probably Millie was already in the kitchen, making breakfast. He never had to worry that she might be outside the apartment anywhere. She just wasn’t the adventurous type. Then again, the fewer worries the better.

Maybe he could go to work today. Maybe the storm had finally abated.

He flipped the covers off, then stood and went to the small chest of drawers to take out a fresh undersuit and a pair of socks. He sat on the bed and pulled on the socks, then put his legs in the undersuit and tugged it up over his calves and thighs. It was easier that way than trying to stuff the socks up under the legs if the undersuit was already on.

He stood, spread the upper part of the undersuit behind him, and slipped his arms inside. When he had those pulled down to his wrists and the front adjusted, he zipped it up. Then a memory came to him of last night. He dropped heavily on the bed again, looked vaguely at the baseboard beyond his side of the bed and shook his head.

Why in the world had he dreamed of Joy Schlicter? He’d never dreamed of her before.

In fact, he’d never dreamed of any woman before, other than Millie. And even those times were tame. And rare.

Millie did sometimes appear in the periphery of his dreams. But even then she was more a representation of herself than her actual self. Odd that he never saw her face.

When he dreamed that time of almost having a traffic accident, she was sitting right there in the passenger seat of the car.

But she was turned away, looking out the passenger side window. She hadn’t turned to him even in her surprise when he hit the brakes.

Another time he dreamed of waving goodbye to her from his pickup as he backed out of the driveway. He was headed to the city capitol building to take a battery of tests for the new job placement program.

But as he looked up to wave, she had just turned away. He caught only a flash of her shoulder and the closing door.

And then he dreamed once of them having a picnic in the park close to their house back on Earth.

That one was really strange. There was no park nearby that he could remember, and they’d never had a picnic as far as he could remember. And dreams are just an offshoot of memory, aren’t they?

But there it was. A picnic, complete with a red and white checkered tablecloth spread on the ground. And it seemed so real. Now and then a breeze rippled one corner of the tablecloth.

In that dream, he at least came close to seeing her face. He was leaning forward, busily brushing away the line of requisite ants when she said something to him.

But when he looked up to respond, once again she had just turned away. “Oh look!” she said. She was pointing, watching someone’s German shepherd go after a Frisbee.

Even when he dreamed of their wedding it was a frame by frame kind of thing. He looked at the preacher and nodded as the man said, “You may kiss the bride.” He felt the grin form on his face as he was turning back to Millie. And he was reaching to lift her veil and kiss her—

But something distracted him and he shifted his eyes to one side for a split second as he lifted the veil. And when he shifted them back and bent to kiss her, she had just turned away to greet someone. He still remembered the taste of the hairspray and the stiff feeling of the bun on the back of her head against his lips.

The whole thing was very weird.

He’d never even thought of being with another woman, consciously or otherwise.

And now he’d dreamed of Joy Schlicter. But why would he dream of Joy Schlicter?

Still, it was only a dream. Nothing particularly erotic about it or anything like that.

But throughout the dream, she was never looking away.

2

The dream began with Joy Schlicter walking toward him in the grocery store.

So at least he was reliving in the dream something that had happened in real life.

But in real life, he hadn’t even been aware of her until she touched his hand, reaching for the same peach he was reaching for. And that was the sum total of the experience.

Only in the dream, it was different. Vastly different. And definitely enhanced.

In the dream, he’d already started reaching for that peach, an action that would take only a second in real time. Yet in his dream, as he reached he also watched her approach.

She came around the end of an aisle, probably thirty feet away. Her left sandal-clad foot first, then her left leg, then the rest of her.

As he watched, his right hand ostensibly still moving toward the peach, it was almost as if she was floating toward him.

But she was definitely walking. She was only what, five-two? Maybe five-three? And slim. Petite any way you cut it. Even compared with Millie.

Not that he would ever compare her with Millie, of course. Millie was his wife. Had been for—what, a dozen years? But the confident stride of Joy’s tight, lithe legs made them look long.

In her right hand, she had one of those small red plastic baskets with the black handle—like a rectangular pail. It swayed to and fro as she walked.

She was dressed in tight pink shorts that didn’t make it quite a fourth of the way down her thighs. On her feet were white leather thong sandals. And above the shorts, a frilly white peasant blouse.

The sleeves of the blouse just covered her shoulders, and some of that frilly, lace-looking stuff ran vertically from the front of her shoulders down over her breasts. The blouse had white buttons that were shaped like little flowers. Each one had six petals on it.

The top two were unbuttoned, revealing ample cleavage. The next two were buttoned so the blouse reached a point just below her ribs. The remaining buttons were open. And she’d pulled the tails around and tied them in a loose knot over her flat abdomen. Probably two or three inches of skin showed between the knot and the top of her shorts.

Her hips swayed the slightest bit in that womanly way as she approached, as if she were unconscious of it. But then, that had to be natural, didn’t it? They couldn’t fake that without exaggerating it, could they?

And that hair. The day he’d seen her in the grocery, her hair was up in a ponytail. But in the dream it wasn’t. It was thick, clean and blond, and it hung down past her shoulders. “Platinum blonde,” they called it on those hair commercials back on Earth. And “luxurious.”

But something about it apparently bothered her, because she shook her head almost effortlessly. He remembered that from the commercials too. Her hair swung side to side past her shoulders, revealing one delicate, petal-like ear and then the other.

And her skin. From her feet and legs to her tummy to her delicate throat, her skin was so fair it was almost clear. You could practically see through it.

As she drew nearer, she smiled. Well, more beamed than smiled. In the dream. You could bring in ships with a smile like that. And she had ice blue eyes that seemed to smile even when her lips weren’t smiling. But when she did smile with those perfect, full lips, her eyes practically lit up. And her nose—well, it was just perfect.

He sighed. In fact, everything on the entire woman was perfect. She was proportional. Her head was just the right size for her body, and her throat looked like it was carved by an artist or something.

Cripes.

As to the rest, well, her shoulders were narrow, like shoulders should be on a woman, but they were square too. The woman definitely had pride in her bearing. You could tell, just from the way she carried herself.

Her arms were lean and smooth. Her wrists were small, her hands delicate but with long, slender fingers. Her well-rounded breasts, her small waist, her hips—everything was perfectly proportional. Her thighs and calves even seemed exactly the right diameter. And the length of her thighs from her hips to her knees, her calves to her ankles, all of it.

And her feet—until the dream he’d never seen them outside of those little running shoes and ankle socks she wore that day in the store. But there was no reason to believe they weren’t as perfect as the rest of her body.

In the dream, she drew closer and closer, even while Harold was locked in the singular, insignificant action of reaching for that peach.

Then she was there, right in front of him. She stopped, smiled up at him even as her slight scent wafted over him. And her left hand with those beautiful fingers was reaching, touching—

And that’s when he woke up.

3

The baseboard came into focus, and he was suddenly aware he was sitting on the bed.

He laughed quietly. He’d sat right there on the bed and replayed the whole silly dream.

He shook his head and sighed, then put his hands on his knees and leaned forward to get up.

Joy Schlicter.

He grinned, almost laughed again. Even her name was perfect. Joy.

At work, that name alone could launch a dozen off-color jokes and at least a hundred wishful if silent innuendos among the crew.

Well, if John Schlicter weren’t his assistant foreman.

He sighed again. Silliness, that’s what it was. All a bunch of silliness.

He slapped his palms onto his knees, stood, and padded around the end of the bed.

He paused at the door.

Millie was standing at the replicator in the kitchen, about to prepare his breakfast. She had already prepared two steaming cups of coffee and her own breakfast. The cups waited on the counter alongside her sugared oatmeal and banana slices.

She was dressed in a dark-green blouse and rose-colored pants that stretched to mid-calf. The blouse had an oriental look. It was covered with fine green vines and tiny curled leaves, all on a black background. Small pink and rose-colored flowers were scattered intermittently over the thing. It seemed to have no set design, but Harold had yet to find a leaf or flower that wasn’t attached to a vine somewhere.

There was one, though. Had to be. Or a part of a leaf or a petal of a flower protruding from beneath a seam. Nothing was perfect. Nothing.

Not that he’d point it out even if he found it. He would never risk embarrassing Millie.

Her dark brown hair was cut—well, nicely. It was the kind of hair style a nice girl would wear. It was full, kind of bulged out from the sides and back of her head, and it stopped an inch or so above her collar. A little curl turned the ends up all the way around at the edge.

Her bangs hung almost to her eyebrows, which were perfectly matched over brown eyes. The same curl flipped up at the bottom of her bangs too.

Her face was nice too. Kindly, in a motherly sort of way. Round, pinkish cheeks and a rounded chin with full lips and a tiny dimple at each corner.

She slipped a grey plate into the replicator and keyed in bacon, buttered wheat toast, hash brown potatoes and three eggs, over-medium. “There,” she said, and pressed the power button. Then she tapped another button that enabled the replicator to emit the sound and aroma of sizzling bacon.

She sensed Harold and glanced past her right shoulder at him. He was just coming out of the bedroom and, as usual, he was dressed in a fresh undersuit. The man was ever hopeful. She could say that for him.

As he neared her, she smiled. “Morning, Harold. Coffee?” She picked up a cup and offered it to him.

With a half-grunt, he muttered, “Thanks,” then took the cup and bent to breeze a kiss across her cheek on his way by.

He set the coffee on the table at his place, then went to the window.

His rounded shoulders were raised slightly and slumped forward, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of the window. The fabric of his undersuit strained a little across the back.

Quietly, he said, “Well, damn it. Damn it.”

Without looking around, Millie said, “Still blowing, Harold?”

“Yeah, it’s still blowing.”

Sand had been blowing past the window long enough that surely he’d watched the same grains pass by dozens of times.

4

Still peering out the window, he felt his mood slipping. He could be ready for work in a matter of minutes. He had only to pull on his boot liners over his socks, then slip into his stipplesuit. The boots were permanently attached to the base of it.

Like everything else here, that was all wrong too. What could possibly be right about a man’s boots being eternally attached to the base of his work clothes? But that’s how things were nowadays.

What wouldn’t he give to be back on Earth right now? Well, other than Millie, of course. There were storms there too, but nothing like this. On Earth a man could go to work. A man could do what he was supposed to do. And his boots weren’t attached to his clothes.

For the hundredth time he noticed the texture of the wall, what little texture it had.

It wasn’t quite soft, but almost. It wasn’t quite pliable, but almost. Touching it was pleasant, like the first instant your head contacts the pillow in your bed at night when you’re really tired. Not after you’d pressed into it, but in the instant when your skin first touches it and you’re anticipating pressing into it.

Touching the wall was like that. A pleasant sensation, especially for his calloused fingers and palms.

He almost smiled.

But he wouldn’t want Millicent to think he was pleased to be trapped in here. He wasn’t pleased at all.

He lifted his right foot to tap it against the base of the off-white wall, but caught himself. Millie didn’t like it when he tapped the wall with his toe even when he missed the air exchange. Eventually it would leave a mark, she said.

Hell, it was just a toe inside a sock. No way would it leave a mark. But neither was it worth the argument.

Besides, tapping the wall with his toe like that gave him no particular satisfaction. When you tap the wall with your damn toe, it should at least make a sound, shouldn’t it? However slight?

But it didn’t, even with Harold’s bulk behind it. He could haul off and kick the wall hard enough to jam his toe back through his heel and the impact still wouldn’t make a sound.

Something about that wasn’t right either. It was disgusting, really. If a human being chose to kick a wall, the impact should matter. At least enough to make a sound. But it didn’t. Not in this place.

Then again, he hadn’t even thought about the lack of sound until he realized it was absent. Still, that didn’t make it right.

He returned his attention to the storm.

The replicator buzzed somewhere behind him. The door clicked, opened and closed.

Plates slid onto the grey plastic table that matched the grey plastic chairs and the grey plastic cabinets and the grey plastic walls.

Outside, the seemingly endless grey sand continued blowing past the window.

Millie said, “Come eat, dear.”

Still peering through the window, he nodded. “In a minute.”

The whole thing—his whole existence—was a bland, grey blur. At least the sand had enough texture to tell it was moving. The sameness of it, and the repetition of it, was mind-numbing.

Especially combined with the annoying hum of the air exchange.

He glanced down.

That brand new innovation ran along a half-inch strip between the floor and the baseboard. It replaced the older, more noisy air exchange that was once mounted on the bedroom wall. And this one was supposed to be silent.

But how was a guy supposed to avoid kicking it occasionally down there? And since when did two or three light taps with your sock feet knock something loose enough so it would hum like that?

As was the case with most so-called innovations, every time the bureacrats improved something, they made it worse. At least he could close the bedroom door to shut out the sound of the old system. This new one was ever-present.

Usually he wasn’t even aware of the gentle, quiet hum. But today it was annoying. Perhaps because it constantly reminded him he was trapped.

Damn sand would never stop blowing.

If Millie could hear his thoughts, she’d say something like, “The sand can do nothing on its own, dear. It’s the wind, not the sand.”

And she was right. She was always right.

Okay, so the wind.

Damn wind was never going to quit.

5

At six-four and two hundred and forty pounds, Harold’s weight was commensurate, generally, with his height, as required by the Program. But he was the largest man on the terraforming crew by far. And the miners? Forget about it.

Most of the men on the terraforming crew—his crew—were between five-ten and six feet. By contrast, most of the miners were between five feet even and five-three. So even the smallest man on the terraforming crew was considerably larger than even the biggest miner.

Still, he didn’t mind his size. It seemed an advantage back on Earth. It seemed an advantage everywhere but here, in these quarters. It came with a form of automatic respect and confidence in his abilities. Those were inane notions with no grounding in reality. But he learned early on not to question them. Hey, in this world you had to take what you could get.

Well, back on Earth. But probably in this world too.

He turned and shuffled to the breakfast table. The grey breakfast table. Why’d everything have to be so colorless?

The living room was furnished with a couch, a small easy chair and a recliner. All were the same drab grey color.

There was also a coffee table and one occasional table. Both were of a heavy grey plastic. The occasional table set alongside the recliner. Grey. All grey. It was as if the designers had given up any hope of making any of it look better.

A short hallway led from the living room along the back wall of the kitchen. The bathroom was through a small door off that hallway to the left just past the kitchen.

The bedroom was through a door at the end of the hallway. It was the same size as the living room. In it was a bed. The bed frame, like the two small night stands that accompanied it, were made of that same boring grey plastic. The mattress, made of a special woven polymer, was the only truly comfortable accessory in the apartment. Except that it was grey.

The interior walls were replete with alcoves. A wide one in the living room held adjustable shelves for books or knick-knacks. The others, in the utility room and the bedroom, were smaller and designed in varying configurations: narrow and tall, narrow and short or broad and short. The only broad tall alcove in the apartment was next to the front door. It held Harold’s stipplesuit. Barely.

He glanced around from his chair to look longingly at the stipplesuit. If only he could put it on and go to work.

It looked remarkably like a deflated human standing there, especially with his work boots attached to the bottom of it.

Well, a human with no head, that’s what it looked like. Thank God his helmet didn’t have to remain attached to the thing too. That would look eerie. Not that the helmet would have fit in the alcove. It was stored in its own alcove in the bedroom. That particular alcove was broad, short and deep.

He turned back to glance toward the window.

The mind-numbing, ongoing, never-ceasing fury of sand rushed by.

He shook his head and sighed.

The storm wouldn’t last more than a day or two, the magistrate said. Only rarely did a storm last more than a day or two, he said.

Well, then apparently this was a rare occasion. But at the moment it didn’t feel rare. At the moment it felt common.

He looked across the table at his wife. No face. She was looking at her plate, loading her fork with a slice of banana.

Docile as a lamb, that one. How does she do it? Nothing seems to bother her.

He cleared his throat to dispel a bit of his mood. “Millie, why did we come here again?”

She looked up, her fork hovering over her plate. She canted her head slightly as her brow furrowed a bit. But at the last moment, she smiled. “Why, because you wanted to, dear.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. But why did I want to?”

She lowered her fork to her plate. She picked up her napkin, put it to her mouth and yawned, then blinked. “Well, I’m not really sure.”

6

Harold’s frown became a scowl. His voice grew slightly louder, releasing a bit of his frustration. “What? What do you mean, you aren’t sure? How can you not be sure?”

She ignored the question. “I remember the Colonization Council offered only sixteen couples the chance to colonize this part of Galen. The mining camp. I remember that because you were so excited at the prospect. You must have said a dozen times, ‘only sixteen couples!’” She grinned broadly.

“And you had the right skills to fill any of the three necessary positions, so you applied.” She lifted her fork and put the slice of banana in her mouth, then chewed and swallowed it. Then she shrugged. “And here were are.”

“You mean you packed up and moved just because I came in one day and said I wanted to?”

Her smile returned as she canted her head again. Sweetly, she said, “Why, yes, dear. You are my husband, aren’t you? And if you’re thinking maybe I feel cheated, I don’t. I don’t feel cheated at all.” She laughed lightly.

He hated it when she took that condescending tone.

She bent to her plate again and continued. “Anyway, I suppose it didn’t occur to me to wonder why you wanted to come here. I just assumed you had your reasons.”

“Well, sometimes I wonder, Millie. I really do.” As he was turning away, a bit more quietly, he said, “Damn sand. Damn wind.”

Again Joy Schlicter came to mind.

He’d bumped into her and John—her husband, his assistant foreman—in the common area. He was meeting John to go to work and Joy had come with him.

It was a Friday morning, and she asked John what time she could expect him.

John laughed and jerked his thumb in Harold’s direction. “Here’s the guy who’d know that.”

While John was still facing Harold, Joy looked past John’s shoulder. She winked and smiled. “What do you think, Harold? You gonna get off sooner than usual today?”

And for a moment, he wondered, did she emphasize “get off”?

And there were at least a dozen other times. Or at least he thought there were.

Thankfully, except that one time in the store, she had always been with someone else, either John or one or more of her lady friends.

Or that’s how he remembered it. Of course, all of that might only be wishful thinking.

It was silly anyway. She’d never go for him.

Not that he’d act on it even if she did. Not as long as he was married. And he planned to be married ‘til death us do part like the vows said.

But what was really annoying was how do you ask anyone about a thing like that in such a closed society? If he asked any of the other men whether they’d noticed similar behavior, it would at least give them ideas about Joy. That thought alone caused something akin to anger to rise in his throat.

He shook his head to dispel the feeling.

Anyway, at worst, they might think he was interested in her.

Which he wasn’t. The very idea was ludicrous.

Still, it was nice—well, enjoyable—to think a sweet young thing like Joy Schlicter might find him attractive.

He certainly found her attractive.

Not that any man wouldn’t. Maybe even alluring.

But who could blame them? Talk about a storm! My god, the woman’s a force of nature.

“Harold?”

Pulled from his reverie, he looked across the table. “Huh?”

Millie was looking at him. The frown was on her face again, but the smile was gone. “Are you all right, dear?”

He forced a quiet laugh. “Sorry. I’m fine.” Again he turned back to the window. The sand continued racing by. Under his breath, he muttered, “I’d be fine if I could go back to work.”

7

Her back turned, Millie forced a smile. “So tell me, what would you like to do to break the monotony, Harold? What would make you feel better?”

He continued to look out the window. “I don’t know. I’m just annoyed with the storm, that’s all.”

He shook his head again. “It’s just that when I’m out there, I’m able to move. You know, operating the equipment, talking with the guys, moving things around and—”

A light sting came on his right triceps. When he reached for it, Millie took his left hand. “Come away from the window for awhile, Harold. Please?” She tugged lightly.

He nodded and turned with her. He was feeling calmer already. As they walked, he looked down at her. “It’s just different, that’s all. Y’know? Out there, I’m doing things. I’m being useful.”

As she led him toward his recliner, he gestured back toward the window. “When I’m out there, the whole world is mine. Or at least our little part of it. I feel like there’s a reason for me to be here. Like I’m accomplishing something. When I’m out there, I matter. Out there, I’m making a difference, and—”

Millie stopped at his chair and turned him around. “Now you matter here too, Harold. You make a difference here.” She gestured past him toward the recliner. “Have a seat here, okay? It’ll help you relax.”

As he sank into the recliner, he looked up. “I know I make a difference here. I do know that. It just isn’t the same. I don’t expect you to understand, and that’s all right.” He settled back. “But when we’re here, you still have your routine. You still do all the things you usually do. You just have me underfoot.” He tried an easy laugh and failed miserably.

“We don’t think of you as being underfoot at all, Harold. We like having you around. It’s almost like a vaca—”

Harold tensed and sat up. “We?” He frowned. “Millie, what are you talking about?”

She smiled. “Did I say we? Of course, I meant I, Harold.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded slightly and relaxed again. “I’m usually part of your routine—I get that—but that’s only at night. Or the one day a week when I’m off. But when I’m here this long, it doesn’t feel like a vacation to me. To me, it’s like I’m trapped in here, and the only difference I make is negative.”

He paused, then quietly said, “I don’t know what to do, Millie. I just— I don’t know what to do.” He glanced back at the window, at the grey sand rushing by, and then at Millie again. “The storm, the sand, this place. Everything’s— It’s like everything’s part of everything else, and it’s all blowing away.” He tried to raise his left hand, saw himself cupping her cheek. “Even you, Millie. It’s like everything’s—passing by. Even you.”

For a moment she only looked at him. Finally she reached to take his hand in both of hers. “Harold, I’m going to get you a program.”

“A program?”

“Sure. One of the hologram programs. You always seem to enjoy those.”

“A hologram program—that—good idea. Good idea.” He tried to grip the arm rests of the chair. “I’ll have to get dressed and—”

“No. No, it’s all right. I’ll bring it up on the computer. Right here in the apartment. Do you want to do that?”

He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed. He opened them, brought her face into focus.

She was smiling sweetly, and tears were brimming in her eyes.

Harold frowned. “A hologram? Here?”

She nodded quickly.

“But we only get three a month between us. I’ve already had one and it’s early in the—”

She put her fingers to her lips. “Shh. I don’t mind, Harold, really.”

“Oh. Well, all right.”

She stroked his forehead gently. “Lie back, dear. I’ll get things ready.”

He lay back in the recliner and closed his eyes.

8

She straightened and looked at him for a moment, then walked to the door and opened it. She pressed the button on an interoffice transmitter in the hallway. “Doctor Parnell, Room 308c please. Doctor Parnell.”

A long moment later, in the psychiatric wing of Arawac Nursing Home in Cincinnati, a vibrant young man came around the corner of the hallway. He was tall and lean, dressed in black shoes, dark grey slacks and a white lab coat. A stethoscope was draped around his neck.

He smiled. “Nurse, how is he today?” His smile broadened slightly and he bent forward. “And by the way, how are you?”

She took a half-step back. “I’m fine, doctor. He’s having some problems. He’s on Galen One Alpha again, wherever that is. He wants to get back to his crew. I think he’s the foreman.”

He folded his arms across his chest, cupped his elbows in his palms. “And?”

“Apparently there’s a storm that precludes him going out.”

“Is that all? Any aberrant behavior otherwise?”

She shook her head quickly. “Not really. But he was getting increasingly upset and— He thinks I’m his wife, Millicent. Millie.”

The doctor nodded. “Really? But she’s been gone—”

“Almost fifty years. Fifty years next week.”

The doctor studied her face. “And?”

The nurse blushed. Quietly, she said, “Vince, is there any way he could know my name?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“A few hours ago—I think he thought he was sleeping, dreaming—he kept saying my name. Joy Schlicter. Joy Schlicter.”

“Wow, really?”

“I told him we’d do a hologram program for him. From what I gather, that’s how they take local vacations on Galen One Alpha.”

He grinned. “That would make a really nice belated 96th birthday present. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

As she turned away, the young doctor said, “So, how about Friday night?”

She stopped and turned around. “You know, let’s take care of Mr. Sloan first, okay?”

She turned again and walked down the hallway to visit with her next patient.

* * * * * * *