VIEW FROM A HEIGHT
The race is not always to the swift, nor even to the persistent-it is sometimes won by the reluctant.

JOAN D. VINGE



SATURDAY, THE 7TH

I want to know why those pages were missing.' How am I supposed to keep up with my research if they
leave out pages—?

(Long sighing noise.)

Listen to yourself, Emmylou: You're listening to the sound of fear. It was an oversight, you know that.
Nobody did it to you on purpose. Relax, you're getting Fortnight Fever. Tomorrow you'll get the pages,
and an apology too, if Harvey Weems knows what's good for him.

But still, five whole pages; and the table of contents. How could you miss five pages? And the table of
contents.

How do I know there hasn't been a coup? The Northwest's finally taken over completely, and they're
censoring the media—And like the Man without a Country, everything they send me from now on is
going to have holes cut in it.

In Science?

Or maybe Weems has decided to drive me insane—?

Oh, my God ... it would be a short trip. Look at me. I don't have any fingernails left.

("Arrwk. Hello, beautiful. Hello? Hello?")

("Ozymandias! Get out out of my hair, you devil." Laughter. "Polly want a cracker? Here . . . gently!
That's a boy.")

It's beautiful when he flies. I never get tired of watching him, or looking at him, even after twenty years.
Twenty years. . . . What did the psittacidae do, to win the right to wear a rainbow as their plumage?
Although the way we've hunted them for it, you could say it was a mixed blessing. Like some other
things.

Twenty years. How strange it sounds to hear those words, and know they're true. There are gray hairs
when I look in the mirror. Wrinkles starting. And Weems is bald! Bald as an egg, and all squinty behind
his spectacles. How did we get that way, without noticing it? Time is both longer and shorter than you
think, and usually all at once.

Twelve days is a long time to wait for somebody to return your call. Twenty years is a long time gone.
But 1 feel somehow as though it was only last week that I left home. I keep the circuits clean, going over
them and over them, showing those mental home movies until I could almost step across, sometimes, into
that other reality. But then I always look down, and there's that tremendous abyss full of space and time,
and I realize I can't, again. You can't go home again.

Especially when you're almost one thousand astronomical units out in space. Almost there, the first rung
of the ladder. Next Thursday is the day. Oh, that bottle of champagne that's been waiting for so long. Oh,
the parallax view! I have the equal of the best astronomical equipment in all of near-Earth space at my
command, and a view of the universe that no one has ever had before; and using them has made me the
only astrophysicist ever to win a PhD in deep space. Talk about your field work.

Strange to think that if the Forward Observatory had massed less than its thousand-plus tons, I would
have been replaced by a machine. But because the installation is so large, I in my infinite human flexibility,
even with my infinite human appetite, become the most efficient legal tender. And the farther out I get the
more important my own ability to judge what happens, and respond to it, becomes. The first—and
maybe the last— manned interstellar probe, on a oneway journey into infinity . . . into a universe
unobscured by our own system's gases and dust . . . equipped with eyes that see everything from gamma
to ultra-long wavelengths, and ears that listen to the music of the spheres.

And Emmylou Stewart, the captive audience. Adrift on a star ... if you hold with the idea that all the bits
of inert junk drifting through space, no matter how small, have star potential. Dark stars, with brilliance in
their secret hearts, only kept back from letting it shine by Fate, which denied them the critical mass to
reach their kindling point.

Speak of kindling: the laser beam just arrived to give me my daily boost, moving me a little faster, so I'll
reach a little deeper into the universe. Blue sky at bedtime; I always was a night person. I'm sure they
didn't design the solar sail to filter light like the sky . . . but I'm glad it happened to work out that way.
Sky-blue was always my passion—the color, texture, fluid purity of it. This color isn't exactly right;

but it doesn't matter, because I can't remember how any more. This sky is a sun-catcher. A big blue
parasol. But so was the original, from where I used to stand. The sky is a blue parasol . . . did anyone
ever say that before, I wonder? If anyone knows, speak up—

Is anyone even listening. Will anyone ever be?

("Who cares, anyway? Come on, Ozzie—climb aboard. Let's drop down to the observation porch while
I do my meditation, and try to remember what days were like.")

Weems, damn it, I want satisfaction!

SUNDAY, THE 8TH

That idiot. That intolerable moron—how could he do that to me? After all this time, wouldn't you think
he'd know me better than that? To keep me waiting for twelve days, wondering and afraid: twelve days
of all the possible stupid paranoias I could weave with my idle hands and mind, making myself miserable,
asking for trouble—

And then giving it to me. God, he must be some kind of sadist! If I could only reach him, and hurt him the
way I've hurt these past hours—

Except that I know the news wasn't his fault, and that he didn't mean to hurt me . . . and so I can't even
ease my pain by projecting it onto him.

I don't know what I would have done if his image hadn't been six days stale when it got here. What
would 1 have done, if he'd been in earshot when I was listening; what would I have said? Maybe no
more than I did say.

What can you say, when you realize you've thrown your whole life away?

He sat there behind his faded blotter, twiddling his pen, picking up his souvenir moon rocks and laying
them down—looking for all the world like a man with a time bomb in his desk drawer—and said, "Now
don't worry, Emmylou. There's no problem . . ." Went on saying it, one way or another, for five minutes;
until I was shouting, "What's wrong, damn it?"

"I thought you'd never even notice the few pages . . ." with that sidling smile of his. And while I'm
muttering, "I may have been in solitary confinement for twenty years, Harvey, but it hasn't turned my brain
to mush," he said,

"So maybe I'd better explain, first—" and the look on his face; oh, the look on his face. "There's been a
biomed breakthrough. If you were here on Earth, you . . . well, your body's immune responses could be ,
. . made normal . . ." And then he looked down, as though he could really see the look on my own face.

Made normal. Made normal. It's all I can hear. I was born with no natural immunities. No defense against
disease. No help for it. No. No, no, no; that's all I ever heard, all my life on Earth. Through the plastic
walls of my sealed room; through the helmet of my sealed suit. . . . And now it's all changed. They could
cure me. But I can't go home. I knew this could happen; I knew it had to happen someday. But I chose
to ignore that fact, and now it's too late to do anything about it.

Then why can't I forget that I could have been f-free. . . .

... I didn't answer Weems today. Screw Weems. There's nothing to say. Nothing at all.

I'm so tired.

MONDAY, THE 9TH

Couldn't sleep. It kept playing over and over in my mind. . . . Finally took some pills. Slept all day, feel
like hell. Stupid. And it didn't go away. It was waiting for me, still waiting, when I woke up.

It isn't fair—!

I don't feel like talking about it.

TUESDAY, THE 10TH

Tuesday, already. I haven't done a thing for two days. I haven't even started to check out the relay
beacon, and that damn thing has to be dropped off this week. I don't have any strength; I can't seem to
move, I just sit. But I have to get back to work. Have to ...

Instead I read the printout of the article today. Hoping I'd find a flaw! If that isn't the greatest irony of my
entire life. For two decades I prayed that somebody would find a cure for me. And for two more
decades I didn't care. Am I going to spend the next two decades hating it, now that it's been found?

No . . . hating myself. I could have been free, they could have cured me; if only I'd stayed on Earth. If
only I'd been patient. But now it's too late . . . by twenty years.

I want to go home. I want to go home. . . . But you can't go home again. Did I really say that, so blithely,
so recently? you can't: You, Emmylou Stewart. You are in prison, just like you have always been in
prison.

It's all come back to me so strongly. Why me? Why must I be the ultimate victim— In all my life I've
never smelled the sea wind, or plucked berries from a bush and eaten them, right there! Or felt my
parents' kisses against my skin, or a man's body. . . . Because to me they were all deadly things.
I remember when I was a little girl, and we still lived in Victoria—I was just three or four, just at the brink
of understanding that I was the only prisoner in my world. I remember watching my father sit polishing his
shoes in the morning, before he left for the museum. And me smiling, so deviously, "Daddy . . . I'll help
you do that, if you let me come out—

And he came to the wall of my bubble and put his arms into the hugging gloves, and said, so gently, "No."
And then he began to cry. And I began to cry too, because I didn't know why I'd made him unhappy. ...

And all the children at school, with their 'spaceman' jokes, pointing at the freak; all the years of insensitive
people asking the same stupid questions every time I tried to go out anywhere . . . worst of all, the ones
who weren't stupid, or insensitive. Like Jeffrey . . . no, 1 will not think about Jeffrey! I couldn't let myself
think about him then. I could never afford to get close to a man, because I'd never be able to touch him. .
..

And now it's too late. Was I controlling my fate, when I volunteered for this one-way trip? Or was I just
running away from a life where I was always helpless; helpless to escape the things I hated, helpless to
embrace the things I loved.

I pretended this was different, and important . . . but was that really what I believed? No! I just wanted
to crawl into a hole I couldn't get out of, because I was so afraid.

So afraid that one day I would unseal my plastic walls, or take off my helmet and my suit; walk out freely
to breathe the air, or wade in a stream, or touch flesh against flesh . . . and die of it.

So now I've walled myself into this hermetically sealed tomb for a living death. A perfectly sterile
environment, in which my body will not even decay when I die. Never having really lived, I shall never
really die, dust to dust. A perfectly sterile environment; in every sense of the word.

I often stand looking at my body in the mirror after I take a shower. Hazel eyes, brown hair in thick
waves with hardly any gray . . . and a good figure; not exactly stacked, but not unattractive. And no one
has ever seen it that way but me. Last night I had the Dream again ... I haven't had it for such a long time
. . . this time I was sitting on a carved wooden beast in the park beside the Provincial Museum in
Victoria; but not as a child in my suit. As a college girl, in white shorts and a bright cotton shirt, feeling the
sun on my shoulders, and—Jeffrey's arms around my waist. . . . We stroll along the bayside hand in
hand, under the Victorian lamp posts with their bright hanging flower-baskets, and everything I do is fresh
and spontaneous and full of the moment. But always, always, just when he holds me in his arms at last,
just as I'm about to . . .1 wake up.

When we die, do we wake out of reality at last, and all our dreams come true? When I die . . .1 will be
carried on and on into the timeless depths of uncharted space in this computerized tomb, unmourned and
unremembered. In time all the atmosphere will seep away; and my fair corpse, lying like Snow White's in
inviolate sleep, will be sucked dry of moisture, until it is nothing but a mummified parchment of shriveled
leather and bulging bones. . . .

("Hello? Hello, baby? Good night. Yes, no, maybe. . . . Awk. Food time!")

("Oh, Ozymandias! Yes, yes, I know ... I haven't fed you, I'm sorry. I know, I know . . .")

(Clinks and rattles.)

Why am I so selfish? Just because I can't eat, I expect him to fast, too. . . . No. I just forgot.

He doesn't understand, but he knows something's wrong; he climbs the lamp pole like some tripodal
bem, using both feet and his beak, and stares at me with that glass-beady bird's eye, stares and stares
and mumbles things. Like a lunatic! Until 1 can hardly stand not to shut him in a cupboard, or something.
But then he sidles along my shoulder and kisses me—such a tender caress against my cheek, with that
hooked prehensile beak that could crush a walnut like a grape—to let me know that he's worried, and he
cares. And I stroke his feathers to thank him, and tell him that it's all right. . . but it's not. And he knows
it.

Does he ever resent his life? Would he, if he could? Stolen away from his own kind, raised in a sterile
bubble to be a caged bird for a caged human. . . .

I'm only a bird in a gilded cage. I want to go home.

WEDNESDAY, THE 11TH

Why am I keeping this journal? Do I really believe that sometime some alien being will find this, or some
star-ship from Earth's glorious future will catch up to me . . .glorious future, hell. Stupid, selfish,
short-sighted fools. They ripped the guts out of the space program after they sent me away, no one will
ever follow me now. I'll be lucky if they don't declare me dead and forget about me.

As if anyone would care what a woman all alone on a lumbering space probe thought about day after day
for decades, anyway. What monstrous conceit.

I did lubricate the bearings on the big scope today. I did that much. I did it so that I could turn it back
toward Earth . . . toward the sun . . . toward the whole damn system. Because I can't even see it, all
crammed into the space of two moon diameters, even Pluto; and too dim and small and faraway below
me for my naked eyes, anyway. Even the sun is no more than a gaudy star that doesn't even make me
squint. So I looked for them with the scope. . . .

Isn't it funny how when you're a child you see all those drawings and models of the solar system with big,
lumpy planets and golden wakes streaming around the sun. Somehow you never get over expecting it to
look that way in person. And here I am, one thousand astronomical units north of the solar pole, gazing
down from a great height . . . and it doesn't look that way at all. It doesn't look like anything; even
through the scope. One great blot of light, and all the pale tiny diamond chips of planets and moons
around it, barely distinguishable from half a hundred undistinguished stars trapped in the same arc of
blackness. So meaningless, so insignificant . . . so disappointing.

Five hours I spent, today, listening to my journal, looking back and trying to find—something, I don't
know, something I suddenly don't have anymore.

I had it at the start. I was disgusting; Pollyanna Grad-student skipping and singing through the rooms of
my very own observatory. It seemed like heaven, and a lifetime spent in it couldn't possibly be long
enough for all that I was going to accomplish, and discover. I'd never be bored, no, not me. . . .

And there was so much to learn about the potential of this place, before I got out to where it supposedly
would matter, and there would be new things to turn my wonderful extended senses toward . . . while I
could still communicate easily with my dear mentor Dr. Weems, and the world. (Who'd ever have
thought, when the lecherous old goat was my thesis advisor at Harvard, and making jokes to his other
grad students about "the lengths some women will go to to protect their virginity," that we would have to
spend a lifetime together.)

There was Ozymandias's first word . . . and my first birthday in space, and my first anniversary . . . and
my doctoral degree at last, printed out by the computer with scrolls made of little x's and taped up on the
wall. . .
Then day and night and day and night, beating me black and blue with blue and black . . . my fifth
anniversary, my eighth, my decade. I crossed the magnetopause, to become truly the first voyager in
interstellar space . . . but by then there was no one left to talk to anymore, to really share the experience
with. Even the radio and television broadcasts drifting out from Earth were diffuse and rare; there were
fewer and fewer contacts with the reality outside. The plodding routines, the stupefying boredom—until
sometimes I stood screaming down the halls just for something new; listening

to the echoes that no one else would ever hear, and pretending they'd come to call; trying so hard to
believe there was something to hear that wasn't my voice, my echo, or Ozymandias making a mockery of
it.

("Hello, beautiful. That's a crock. Hello, hello?")

("Ozymandias, get away from me—")

But always I had that underlying belief in my mission: that I was here for a purpose, for more than my
own selfish reasons, or NASA's (or whatever the hell they call it now), but fo'r Humanity, and Science.
Through meditation I learned the real value of inner silence, and thought that by creating an inner peace I
had reached equilibrium with the outer silences. I thought that meditation had disciplined me, I was in
touch with my self and with the soul of the cosmos. . . . But I haven't been able to meditate since—it
happened. The inner silence fills up with my own anger screaming at me, until I can't remember what
peace sounds like.

And what have 1 really discovered, so far? Almost nothing. Nothing worth wasting my analysis or all my
fine theories—or my freedom—on. Space is even emptier than anyone dreamed, you could count on
both hands the bits of cold dust or worldlet I've passed in all this time, lost souls falling helplessly through
near-perfect vacuum ... all of us together. With my absurdly long astronomical tape-measure I have fixed
precisely the distance to NGC 2419 and a few other features, and from that made new estimates about a
few more distant ones. But I have not detected a miniature black hole insatiably vacuuming up the
vacuum; I have not pierced the invisible clouds that shroud the ultra-long wavelengths like fog; I have not
discovered that life exists beyond the Earth in even the most tentative way. Looking back at the solar
system 1 see nothing to show definitively that we even exist, anymore. All I hear anymore when I scan is
electromagnetic noise, no coherent thought. Only Weems every twelfth night, like the last man alive. . . .
Christ, I still haven't answered him.

Why bother? Let him sweat. Why bother with any of it. Why waste my precious time.

Oh, my precious time. . . . Half a lifetime left that could have been mine, on Earth,

Twenty years—I came through them all all right. I thought I was safe. And after twenty years, my facade
of discipline and self-control falls apart at a touch. What a self-deluded hypocrite I've been. Do you
know that I said the sky was like a blue parasol eighteen years ago? And probably said it again fifteen
years ago, and ten, and five—

Tomorrow I pass 1000 AUs.

THURSDAY, THE 12TH

1 burned out the scope. I burned out the scope. I left it pointing toward the Earth, and when the laser
came on for the night it shone right down the scope's throat and burned it out. I'm so ashamed. . . . Did I
do it on purpose, subconsciously?

("Goodnight starlight. Arrk. Good night. Good . . .")
("Damn it, I want to hear another human voice—!")

(Echoing, "voice, voice, voice voice . . .")

When I found out what I'd done I ran away. I ran and ran through the halls. . . . But I only ran in a circle:
This observatory, my prison, myself ... I can't escape. I'll always come back in the end, to this
green-walled room ,with its desk and its terminals, its cupboards crammed with a hundred thousand
dozens of everything, toilet paper and magnetic tape and oxygen tanks. . . . And I can tell you exactly
how many steps it is to my bedroom or how long it took me to crochet the afghan on the bed . . . how
long I've sat in the dark and silence, setting up an exposure program or listening for the feeble pulse of a
radio galaxy two billion light-years away. There will never be anything different, or anything more.

When I finally came back here, there was a message waiting. Weems, grinning out at me half-bombed
from the screen—"Congratulations," he cried, "on this historic occasion! Emmylou, we're having a little
celebration here at the lab; mind if we join you in yours, one thousand astronomical units from home—?"
I've never seen him drunk. They really must have meant to do something nice for me, planning it all six
days ahead. .

To celebrate I shouted obscenities I didn't even know I knew at him, until my voice was broken and my
throat was raw.

Then I sat at my desk for a long time with my jackknife lying open in my hand. Not wanting to die—I've
always been too afraid of death for that—but wanting to hurt myself. I wanted to make a fresh hurt, to
take my attention off the terrible thing that is sucking me into myself like an imploding star. Or maybe just
to punish myself, I don't know. But I considered the possibility of actually cutting myself quite calmly;
while some separate part of me looked on in horror. I even pressed the knife against my flesh . . . and
then 1 stopped and put it away. It hurts too much.

I can't go on like this. I have duties, obligations, and I can't face them. What would I do without the
emergency automechs? . . . But it's the rest of my life, and they can't go on doing my job for me
forever—

Later.

I just had a visitor. Strange as that sounds. Stranger yet—it was Donald Duck. I picked up half of a
children's cartoon show today, the first coherent piece of nondirectional, unbeamed televison broadcast
I've recorded in months. And I don't think I've ever been happier to see anyone in my life. What a nice
surprise,, so glad you could drop by. . . . Ozymandias loves him; he hangs upside down from his swing
under the cabinet with a cracker in one foot, cackling away and saying,

"Give us a kiss, smack-smack-smack". . . . We watched it three times. I even smiled, for a while; until I
remembered myself. It helps. Maybe I'll watch it again until bedtime.

FRIDAY, THE 13TH

Friday the Thirteenth. Amusing. Poor Friday the Thirteenth, what did it ever do to deserve its reputation?
Even if it had any power to make my life miserable, it couldn't hold a candle to the rest of this week. It
seems like an eternity since last weekend.

I repaired the scope today; replaced the burnt-out parts. Had to suit up and go outside for part of the
work ... I haven't done any outside maintenance for quite a while. Odd how both exhilarating and
terrifying it always is when 1 first step out of the airlock, utterly alone, into space. You're entirely on your
own, so far away from any possibility of help, so far away from anything at all. And at that moment you
doubt yourself, suddenly, terribly . . . just for a moment.

But then you drag your umbilical out behind you and clank along the hull in your magnetized boots that,
feel so reassuringly like lead ballast. You turn on the lights and look for the trouble, find it and get to
work; it doesn't bother you anymore. . . . When your life seems to have torn loose and be drifting free, it
creates a kind of sea anchor to work with your hands; whether it's doing some mindless routine chore or
the most intricate of repairs.

There was a moment of panic, when I actually saw charred wires and melted metal, when I imagined the
damage was so bad that I couldn't repair it again. It looked so final, so— masterful. I clung there by my
feet and whimpered and clenched my hands inside my gloves, like a great shining baby, for a while. But
then I pulled myself down and began to pry here and unscrew there and twist a component free . . . and
little by little I replaced everything. One step at a time; the way we get through life.

By the time I'd finished I felt quite calm, for the first time in days; the thing that's been trying to choke me
to death this past week seemed to falter a little at my demonstration of competence. I've been breathing
easier since then; but I still don't have much strength. I used up all I had just overcoming my own inertia.

But I shut off the lights and hiked around the hull for a while, afterwards—[ couldn't face going back
inside just then: Looking at the black convex dish of the solar sail I'm embedded in, up at the radio
antenna's smaller dish occluding stars as the observatory's cylinder wheels endlessly at the hub of the
spinning parasol. . . .

That made me dizzy, and so I looked out into the starfields that lie on every side. Even with my own
poor, unaugmented senses there's so much more to see out here, unimpeded by atmosphere or dust,
undominated by any sun's glare. The brilliance of the Milky Way, the depths of star and nebula and
farthest galaxy breathlessly suspended . . . as I am. The realization that I'm lost for eternity in an
uncharted sea.

Strangely, although that thought aroused a very powerful emotion when it struck me, it wasn't a negative
one at all: It was from another scale of values entirely; like the universe itself. It was as if the universe itself
stretched out its finger to touch me. And in touching me, singling me out, it only heightened my awareness
of my own insignificance.

That was somehow very comforting. When you confront the absolute indifference of magnitudes and
vistas so overwhelming, the swollen ego of your self-important suffering is diminished. . . .

And I remembered one of the things that was always so important to me about space—that here anyone
has to put on a spacesuit before they step outside. We're all aliens, no one better equipped to survive
than another. I am as normal as anyone else, out here.

I must hold onto that thought.

SATURDAY, THE 14TH

There is a reason for my being here. There is a reason.

I was able to meditate earlier today. Not in the old way, the usual way, by emptying my mind. Rather by
letting the questions fill up the space, not fighting them; letting them merge with my memories of all that's
gone before. I put on music, that great mnemonic stimulator; letting the images that each tape evoked
free-associate and interact.

And in the end I could believe again that my being here was the result of a free choice. No one forced me
into this. My motives for volunteering were entirely my own. And I was given this position because
NASA believed that I was more likely to be successful in it than anyone else they could have chosen.

It doesn't matter that some of my motives happened to be unresolved fear or wanting to escape from
things I couldn't cope with. It really doesn't matter. Sometimes retreat is the only alternative to
destruction, and only a madman can't recognize the truth of that. Only a madman. ... Is there anyone
'sane' on Earth who isn't secretly a fugitive from something unbearable somewhere in their life? And yet
they function normally.

If they ran, they ran toward something, too, not just away. And so did 1. I had already chosen a career
as an astrophysicist before I ever dreamed of being a part of this project. I could have become a medical
researcher instead, worked on my own to find a cure for my condition. I could have grown up hating the
whole idea of space and "spacemen," stumbling through life in my damned ugly sterile suit. . . .

But I remember when I was six years old, the first time I saw a film of suited astronauts at work in space
. . . they looked just like me! And no one was laughing. How could I help but love space, then?

(And how could I help but love Jeffrey, with his night-black hair, and his blue flightsuit with the starry
patch on the shoulder. Poor Jeffrey, poor Jeffrey, who never even realized his own dream of space
before they cut the program out from under him. ... I will not talk about Jeffrey. I will not.)

Yes, I could have stayed on Earth, and waited for a cure! I knew even then there would have to be one,
someday. It was both easier and harder to choose space, instead of staying.

And I think the thing that really decided me was that those people had faith enough in me and my abilities
to believe that I could run this observatory and my own life smoothly for as long as I lived. Billions of
dollars and a thousand tons of equipment resting on me; like Atlas holding up his world.

Even Atlas tried to get rid of his burden; because no matter how vital his function was, the responsibility
was still a burden to him. But he took his burden back again too, didn't he; for better or worse. . . .

I worked today. I worked my butt off getting caught up on a week's worth of data processing and
maintenance, and I'm still not finished. Discovered while I was at it that Ozymandias had used those
missing five pages just like the daily news: crapped all over them. My sentiments exactly! I laughed and
laughed. I think I may live.

SUNDAY, THE 15TH

The clouds have parted.

That's not rhetorical—among my fresh processed data is a series of photo reconstructions in the
ultra-long wavelengths. And there's a gap in the obscuring gas up ahead of me, a break in the clouds that
extends thirty or forty light-years. Maybe fifty! Fantastic. What a view. What a view I have from here of
everything, with my infinitely extended vision: of the way ahead, of the passing scene—or looking back
toward Earth.

Looking back. I'll never stop looking back, and wishing it could have been different. That at least there
could have been two of me, one to be here, one who could have been normal, back on Earth; so that I
wouldn't have to be forever torn in two by regrets—

("Hello. What's up, doc? Avas!\")

("Hey, watch it! If you drink, don't fly.")
Damn bird. ... If I'm getting maudlin, it's because I had a party today. Drank a whole bottle of
champagne. Yes, I had the party ... we did, Ozymandias and I. Our private 1000 AU celebration. Better
late than never, I guess. At least we did have something concrete to celebrate—the photos. And if the
celebration wasn't quite as merry as it could have been, still I guess it will probably seem like it was when
I look back on it from the next one, at 2000 AUs. They'll be coming faster now, the celebrations. I may
even live to celebrate 8000. What the hell, I'll shoot for 10,000—

After we finished the champagne . . . Ozymandias thinks '98 was a great year, thank God he can't drink
as fast as I can ... I put on my Strauss waltzes, and the Barcarolle: Oh, the Berliner Philharmonic; their
touch is what a lover's kiss must be. I threw the view outside onto the big screen, a ballroom of stars, and
danced with my shadow. And part of the time I wasn't dancing above the abyss in a jumpsuit and
headphones, but waltzing in yards of satin and lace across a ballroom floor in 19th century Vienna. What
I wouldn't give to be there for a moment out of time. Not for a lifetime, or even a year, but just for an
evening; just for one waltz.

Another thing I shall never do. There are so many things we can't do, any of us, for whatever the
reasons— time, talent, life's callous whims. We're all on a one-way trip into infinity. If we're lucky we're
given some life's work we care about, or some person. Or both, if we're very lucky.

And 1 do have Weems. Sometimes I see us like an old married couple, who have grown to a tolerant
understanding over the years. We've never been soul mates, God knows, but we're comfortable with
each others' silences. . . .

I guess it's about time I answered him. •