Cliff became used to the hovering ruddy heat that seeped through the clouds still overhead. Smells came rising from the dead and made all the work gangs speed up their work. The bodies were not alike but strangely specific. Some clutched purses, others wore jewelry, and a few who had prepared for what they thought the worst wore rucksacks full of food. Some of the Sil work teams took these, and Cliff just looked away, not knowing what to say or do or whether to care at all. A young boy Sil had a pet, a four-legged furry thing Cliff had never seen the likes of—still leashed to the boy, eyes still gleaming.

They were at their work, doggedly going from apartment to apartment, when a Sil woman suddenly appeared and hurled herself at Cliff. She shouted incoherent abuse and battered at him with tight fists. Another Sil rushed over and pulled her off him. She broke down sobbing, chanting, and was led away. He stood stolidly for a long while, emotions churning.

Once some Sil work partners found a small cellar of what seemed to be a winelike drink. When Cliff passed by them a while later, carrying a Sil body, they seemed to be roaring drunk. He saw them later, too, and unlike those teams nearby were working energetically and maybe even enjoying it. So whatever they drank, it seemed a blessing.

It went on and Cliff stopped even estimating the dead. The number was beyond thousands and probably in the tens of thousands and he did not want to think about it anymore. The fiery death penalty applied to all who happened to be in the undefended city—babies, old people, the zoo animals.…

The teams talked less and less and the work days seemed to go on infinitely, down a dwindling pipe. A day toward the end, when they could see there were few streets left to cover, they were combing the shattered shells of the last buildings. With scarcely a whisper, a flittering craft came over and dropped filmy oval leaflets that drifted down from the sky. The curious script meant nothing to the humans, of course, but a Sil read it in broken Anglish:

We destroyed you because you harbored the Late Invaders. They will damage our fragile eternal paradise and bring disease, unease, and horror to your lot, and to all who dwell beneath the Perpetual Sun in warm mutual company. We struck at the known location of Late Invaders and those helping them to elude our capture. Destruction of other than targets of high security value was unintended and an unavoidable consequence of the fortunes of safekeeping of our eternal Bowl.

The Sil became angry when reading these notes. They hurled them to the ground, stomped on them. Then others gathered them up and marched off with piles of the filmy sheets. Cliff wondered at this and so followed. The Sil went to their collective lavatory. Since he was in need, he went in and found the propaganda stacked for use in wiping asses.

He understood all this emotionally. Gathering up body parts in bushel baskets, helping a sorrowed male Sil dig with hands and shovels where he thought his wife might be … the events blended, endlessly.

TEN

Irma said, “You have a flat affect.”

“Um, what’s that?” Cliff had just awakened from another long sleep. He looked out the narrow opening of the cave they called home. Beyond lay the same stark sunlit landscape of despair he had become accustomed to. He yawned. At least the halo effect in his vision had gone away. Not much else had.

“It’s a failure to express feelings either verbally or nonverbally—that would be, just using your usual grunts and shrugs.”

He kept watching the view out the cave opening and shifted uneasily on the inflatable bedding the Sil had given them. It was a bit small. “Can’t say much after what we’ve been through.”

“I learned this in crew training. They gave it to us because we could go through traumas if we get to Glory—”

“When we get there. This Bowl, this is an … interlude.”

“Okay, when. There might be pretty heavy events to get through on Glory, our trainers said. So we trained to deal with shock, combat fatigue, stress disorders. Recognize the symptoms, apply a range of therapies. You’ve had low affect for days now.”

He could not claim he didn’t feel differently, so he said nothing. That was always easier.

“Look me in the eye.”

Reluctantly, he did. Somehow it was easier to peer out at the blasted and sunny landscape … though now that he thought of that, it made no real sense. Still—

Irma leaned forward, took his head in both hands, and looked fiercely into his eyes, shaking his head to get him to focus on her. “Good! Trust me, this is a problem and we both need to work on it. They told us to expect it especially when a subject—”

“Now I’m a subject?”

“Okay, a fellow crew member. It’s when people talk about issues without engaging their emotions.”

“I’m … sorting things out.”

“Another symptom is lack of expressive gestures, little animation in the face, not much vocal inflection.”

“Um. Ah. So?”

“Do you split your feelings away from events?”

“Not … by design. I’m just trying to hold it together here.”

“Taking pleasure in real things can help that.”

“Um.”

Pleasure. Good idea, quite distant from here …

He looked out at the ever-bright sunshine that was beginning to weigh on him. The stellar jet cut across the sky, adding its neon glow to the hammering sunlight. They had experienced some darkness here and there on this long “expedition” through the strange, incomprehensibly large Bowl … and in his dreams now, he longed for more darkness. He dreamed of diving into deep waters, where a murky cool leafy world wrapped itself around him. He was always sorry to wake up.

He was thinking of this when he realized she was deftly pushing his buttons. Her voice turned furry, intimate. Hands stroked, caressed. Pretty clearly she wasn’t being made wanton and reckless by his fabulous magnetism.

This was therapy. Not that the fact mattered.

It became a matter of silky moments and building readiness. Then a gliding delight, sweetly enclasped, and a long exultant shudder for both of them. The artful ease lasted him into a sliding sleep.…

When he woke she took him through some softly worded moments he only later saw were exercises. Irma asked him in her soft, insistent voice to report the lurid dark nightmares he had. She walked him through those, tracing out moments like the rattling wheeze of corpses, the leaden weight of stiff bodies, the sharp acrid stench of rot … and then she asked him to watch her hand weave, left to right to left … a sway of motion that somehow called up calming spirits in him, let him lapse into a silent, quiet place where he could rest and feel and not swirl back down into those tormented whirlpools. She sighed and stayed with him while he sobbed silently, yet at least not alone. And slept again.

He woke while Irma slept and reflected on good ol’ plain human sex among all this strangeness. Making love worked just fine here. He knew that aliens would have other such modes and they would be odd indeed. Earthside, male honeybee genitals exploded after sex; wasps turned cockroaches into zombie incubators; male scorpion flies produced wads of saliva to feed their mates—a nuptial gift that distracted her front end while her hind end mated. He had learned a basic lesson here: Expect the unexpected.

More dozing. A lot later, it seemed, he asked vaguely, “We should go … somewhere.…”

“The mass funeral festival of the Sil. We must go.”

“When?”

“Get dressed.”

*   *   *

She had gotten him into a halfway presentable mood with the most direct possible method. Smart, with talents he could not anticipate. He had always tried to work with people who were smarter, quicker, and more naturally adept than he was, plus those who had talents he could not even anticipate. Irma was all of that. In this incredible mess of an interstellar expedition, she kept her wits.