Psion by Joan D. Vinge

Author:Joan D. Vinge [Vinge, Joan D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780765303400
Goodreads: 519828
Publisher: Tor Books
Published: 1982-08-28T00:00:00+00:00

<p class=”para”>“I’m just catching some waves,” he said, mouth tight. “You’ve got no reason to say such a thing to me.” </p>

<p class=”para”>“No? Then why did you ask me out yesterday?” </p>

<p class=”para”>“A mistake, obviously. I thought it might do some good to talk.” </p>

<p class=”para”>“Last year, maybe. But you didn’t want to then. You didn’t want to so much that you ran off to NSF instead. Now it’s too late. So just leave me alone, Frank.” </p>

<p class=”para”>“I am!” </p>

<p class=”para”>

<i>“Leave me alone.”</i>

</p>

<p class=”para”>She turned and ran into the surf, diving onto her board and paddling hard. When she got out far enough she sat up on her board and balanced, looking outward. </p>

<p class=”para”>Women in wetsuits looked funny, Frank thought as he watched her. Not just the obvious, but also the subtler differences in body morphology were accentuated: the callipygosity, the shorter torso-to-leg ratio, the 0.7 waist-to-hip ratio—whatever it was, it was different, and it drew his eye like a magnet. He could tell the difference from as far away as he could see people at all. Every surfer could. </p>

<p class=”para”>What did that mean? That he was in thrall to a woman who despised him? That he had messed up the main relationship of his life and his best chance so far for reproductive success? That sexual dimorphism was a powerful driver in the urge to reproduction? That he was a slave to his sperm, and an idiot? </p>

<p class=”para”>All of the above. </p>

<p class=”para”>His good mood shattered, he hauled himself to his feet. He stripped off the booties and long john, toweled off at his rental car, drove back up to his storage unit, and dropped off his gear. Returned to his hotel room, showered, checked out, and drove down the coast highway to the airport, feeling like an exile even while he was still here on his own home ground. </p>

<p class=”para”>Something was deeply wrong. </p>

<p class=”para”>He checked in the car, robotted through the routines to get him on his plane to Dallas. Sat in a window seat looking down at the view as the plane roared off. Point Loma, the ocean blue from up here, the waves breaking on the coast, perpetually renewing their white tapestry. Bank, turn, Mount Soledad, up through the cloud layer, fly up and east. </p>

<p class=”para”>He fell asleep. By the time he woke up again they were descending into Dallas. It was strange to watch the process of falling toward the Earth, the buildings and cars like toys at first, quickly growing to real things that sped by. Then standing, disembarking into the big curves of the Dallas airport, on to its rail shuttle, over to another arc, to sit and wait for the plane to D.C. </p>

<p class=”para”>Grimly he watched America walk by. Who were these people who could live so placidly while the world fell into an acute global environmental crisis? Experts at denial. Experts at filtering their information to hear only what made it seem sensible to behave as they behaved.

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