Flux by Orson Scott Card Read Free Book Online Page A

unconsciousness. Old Charlie took over and saw, not the past, but the now.
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    A moment before, he was standing before a mirror, looking at his withered, hanging face; now he realizes that this gazing into a mirror before going to bed is a lifelong habit. I am Narcissus , he tells himself, an unbeautiful idolator at my own shrine . But now he is not unbeautiful. At twenty-two, his body still has the depth of young skin. His belly is soft, for he is not athletic, but still there is a litheness to him that he will never have again. And now the vaguely remembered needs that had impelled him to this find a physical basis; what had been a dim memory has him on fire.
    He will not be sleeping tonight, not soon. He dresses again, finding with surprise the quaint print shirts that once had been in style. The wide-cuffed pants. The shoes with inch-and-a-half heels. Good God, I wore that! he thinks, and then wears it. No questions from his family; he goes quietly downstairs and out to his car. The garage reeks of gasoline. It is a smell as nostalgic as lilacs and candlewax.
    He still knows the way to Rachel’s house, though he is surprised at the buildings that have not yet been built, which roads have not yet been paved, which intersections still don’t have the lights he knows they’ll have soon, should surely have already. He looks at his wristwatch; it must be a habit of the body he is in, for he hasn’t worn a wristwatch in decades. The arm is tanned from Brazilian beaches, and it has no age spots, no purple veins drawing roadmaps under the skin. The time is ten-thirty. She’ll doubtless be in bed .
    He almost stops himself. Few things are left in his private catalog of sin, but surely this is one. He looks into himself and tries to find the will to resist his own desire solely because its fulfillment will hurt another person. He is out of practice—so far out of practice that he keeps losing track of the reason for resisting.
    The lights are on, and her mother—Mrs. Carpenter, dowdy and delightful, scatterbrained in the most attractive way—her mother opens the door suspiciously until she recognizes him. “Charlie,” she cries out.
    â€œIs Rachel still up?”
    â€œGive me a minute and she will be!”
    And he waits, his stomach trembling with anticipation. I am not a virgin , he reminds himself, but this body does not know that . This body is alert, for it has not yet formed the habits of meaningless passion that Charlie knows far too well. At last she comes down the stairs. He hears her running on the hollow wooden steps, then stopping, coming slowly, denying the hurry. She turns the corner, looks at him.
    She is in her bathrobe, a faded thing that he does not remember ever having seen her wear. Her hair is tousled, and her eyes show that she had been asleep.
    â€œI didn’t mean to wake you.”
    â€œI wasn’t really asleep. The first ten minutes don’t count anyway.”
    He smiles. Tears come to his eyes. Yes, he says silently. This is Rachel, yes. The narrow face; the skin so translucent that he can see into it like jade; the slender arms that gesture shyly, with accidental grace.
    â€œI couldn’t wait to see you.”
    â€œYou’ve been home three days. I thought you’d phone.”
    He smiles. In fact he will not phone her for months. But he says, “I hate the telephone. I want to talk to you. Can you come out for a drive?”
    â€œI have to ask my mother.”
    â€œShe’ll say yes.”
    She does say yes. She jokes and says that she trusts Charlie. And the Charlie she knows was trustworthy. But not me , Charlie thinks. You are putting your diamonds into the hands of a thief.
    â€œIs it cold?” Rachel asks.
    â€œNot in the car.” And so she doesn’t take a coat. It’s all right. The night breeze isn’t bad.
    As soon as the door closes behind them, Charlie begins. He puts his arm around her waist. She