"And what?" I was leaning forward, memory set at "record."

"--and the men had no desire to get any."

I sagged backward against the bedpost. Racial sterility,masculine impotence, following phenomenal weather. Had some vagabondcloud of radioactive junk from God knows where penetrated their weakatmosphere one day? One day long before Shiaparelli saw the canals,mythical as my dragon, before those "canals" had given rise to somecorrect guesses for all the wrong reasons, had Braxa been alive,dancing, here--damned in the womb since blind Milton had written ofanother paradise, equally lost?

I found a cigarette. Good thing I had thought to bring ashtrays.Mars had never had a tobacco industry either. Or booze. The asceticsI had met in India had been Dionysiac compared to this.

"What is that tube of fire?"

"A cigarette. Want one?"

"Yes, please."

She sat beside me, and I lighted it for her.

"It irritates the nose."

"Yes. Draw some into your lungs, hold it there, and exhale."

A moment passed.

"Ooh," she said.

A pause, then, "Is it sacred?"

"No, it's nicotine," I answered, "a very ersatz form ofdivinity."

Another pause.

"Please don't ask me to translate `ersatz'."

"I won't. I get this feeling sometimes when I dance."

"It will pass in a moment."

"Tell me your poem now."

An idea hit me.

"Wait a minute," I said. "I may have something better."

I got up and rummaged through my notebooks, then I returned andsat beside her.

"These are the first three chapters of the Book of Ecclesiastes,"I explained. "It is very similar to your own sacred books."

I started reading.

I got through eleven verses before she cried out, "Please don'tread that! Tell me one of yours!"

I stopped and tossed the notebook onto a nearby table. She wasshaking, not as she had quivered that day she danced as the wind, butwith the jitter of unshed tears. She held her cigarette awkwardly,like a pencil. Clumsily, I put my arm about her shoulders.

"He is so sad," she said, "like all the others."

So I twisted my mind like a bright ribbon, folded it, and tied thecrazy Christmas knots I love so well. From German to Martian, withlove, I did an impromptu paraphrasal of a poem about a Spanish dancer.I thought it would please her. I was right.

"Ooh," she said again. "Did you write that?"

"No, it's by a better man than I."

"I don't believe it. You wrote it yourself."

"No, a man named Rilke did."

"But you brought it across to my language. Light another match,so I can see how she danced."

I did.

"The fires of forever," she mused, "and she stamped them out,`with small, firm feet.' I wish I could dance like that."

"You're better than any Gypsy," I laughed, blowing it out.

"No, I'm not. I couldn't do that."

"Do you want me to dance for you?"

Her cigarette was burning down, so I removed it from her fingersand put it out, along with my own.

"No," I said. "Go to bed."

She smiled, and before I realized it, had unclasped the fold ofred at her shoulder.

And everything fell away.

And I swallowed, with some difficulty.

"All right," she said.

So I kissed her, as the breath of fallen cloth extinguished thelamp.

The days were like Shelley's leaves: yellow, red, brown, whippedin bright gusts by the west wind. They swirled past me with therattle of microfilm. Almost all of the books were recorded now. Itwould take scholars years to get through them, to properly assesstheir value. Mars was locked in my desk.

Ecclesiastes, abandoned and returned to a dozen times, was almostready to speak in the High Tongue.

I whistled when I wasn't in the Temple. I wrote reams of poetry Iwould have been ashamed of before. Evenings I would walk with Braxa,across the dunes or up into the mountains. Sometimes she would dancefor me; and I would read something long, and in dactylic hexameter.She still thought I was Rilke, and I almost kidded myself intobelieving it. Here I was, staying at the Caste Duino, writing hisElegies.

No! Never interpret roses! Don't. Smell them (sniff, Kane!),pick them, enjoy them. Live in the moment. Hold to it tightly. butcharge not the gods to explain. So fast the leaves go by, areblown...

And no one ever noticed us. Or cared.

Laura. Laura and Braxa. They rhyme, you know, with a bit ofclash. Tall, cool, and blonde was she (I hate blondes!), and Daddyhad turned me inside out, like a pocket, and I thought she could fillme again. But the big, beat work-slinger, with Judas-beard anddog-trust in his eyes, oh, he had been a fine decoration at herparties. And that was all.

How the machine cursed me in the Temple! It blasphemed Malann andGallinger. And the wild west wind went by and something was not farbehind.

The last days were upon us.

A day went by and I did not see Braxa, and a night.

And a second. And a third.

I was half-mad. I hadn't realized how close we had become, howimportant she had been. With the dumb assurance of presence, I hadfought against questioning the roses.

I had to ask. I didn't want to, but I had no choice.

"Where is she, M'Cwyie? Where is Braxa?"

"She is gone," she said.

"Where?"

"I do not know."

I looked at those devil-bird eyes. Anathema maranatha rose to mylips.

"I must know."

She looked through me.

"She has left us. She is gone. Up into the hills, I suppose. Orthe desert. It does not matter. What does anything matter? Thedance draws itself to a close. The Temple will soon be empty."

"Why? Why did she leave?"

"I do not know."

"I must see her again. We lift off in a matter of days."

"I am sorry, Gallinger."

"So am I," I said, and slammed shut a book without saying"m'narra."

I stood up.

"I will find her."

I left the Temple. M'Cwyie was a seated statue. My boots werestill where I had left them.

All day I roared up and down the dunes, going nowhere. To the crew ofthe Aspic I must have looked like a sandstorm, all by myself.Finally, I had to return for more fuel.

Emory came stalking out.

"Okay, make it good. You look like the abominable dust man. Whythe rodeo?"

"Why, I, uh, lost something."

"In the middle of the desert? Was it one of your sonnets?They're the only thing I can think of that you'd make such a fussover."

"No, dammit! It was something personal."

George had finished filling the tank. I started to mount thejeepster again.

"Hold on there!" he grabbed my arm.

"You're not going back until you tell me what this is all about."

I could have broken his grip, but then he could order me draggedback by the heels, and quite a few people would enjoy doing thedragging. So I forced myself to speak slowly, softly:

"It's simply that I lost my watch. My mother gave it to me andit's a family heirloom. I want to find it before we leave."

"You sure it's not in your cabin, or down in Tirellian?"

"I've already checked."

"Maybe somebody hid it to irritate you. You know you're not themost popular guy around."

I shook my head.

"I thought of that. But I always carry it in my right pocket. Ithink it might have bounced out going over the dunes."

He narrowed his eyes.

"I remember reading on a book jacket that your mother died whenyou were born."

"That's right," I said, biting my tongue. "The watch belonged toher father and she wanted me to have it. My father kept it for me."