In the Ocean of Night by Gregory Benford Read Free Book Online Page A

seriously studying herself in the mirror.
    “Vanity,” he said, voice blurred from sleep. “Insurance.”
    “Why can’t you simply be a scruff, like me?” “Business,” she said distantly, smearing something under her eyes. “I’m going to be far too busy today to pay attention to my appearance.”
    “And you must be spiffy to face the public.” “Ummm. I think I’ll pin up my hair. It’s a mess, but I don’t have time to…”
    “Why not? It’s early yet.”
    “I want to get into the office and thrash through some paperwork before those representatives from Brazil arrive. And I have to leave work early—have an appointment with Dr. Hufman.”
    “Again?”
    “He’s got those tests back.”
    “What’s the upshot?”
    “That’s what I’m to find out.”
    Nigel squinted at her groggily, trying to read her mood.
    “I don’t think it’s really important,” she volunteered. The bed sloshed as he rolled out and teetered on one foot, an arm extended upward in a theatrical gesture.
    “Jack be nimble,” Alexandria said, smiling and brushing her hair about experimentally.
    “You didn’t say that last night.”
    “When you fell out of bed?”
    “When
we
fell out of bed.”
    “The party on top is in charge of navigation. Code of the sea.”
    “My mind must have been elsewhere. Silly of me.” “Um. Where’s breakfast?”
    Naked, he padded across the planking. The yielding, creaking feel of oiled and varnished wood was one of the charms of this old trisected house, and worth the cost of leasing. He went into the bathroom, lifted the ivory toilet seat and peed for a long moment; first pleasure of the day. Finished, he lowered the seat and its magenta cover but did not push the handle. At thirty-five cents a flush, he and Alexandria had decided to let things go until absolutely necessary. As an economy measure the savings weren’t necessary for them, but the waste of not doing so seemed inelegant.
    He slipped on his sandals where he’d stepped out of them the night before and walked through the archway of thick oak beams, into the kitchen. The tiled room held the night chill long after the remainder of the house had surrendered to day. The slapping of his sandals echoed back at him; he flipped on the audio channels and dialed first music, then—finding nothing he liked, this early—the news spots.
    He grated out some sharp cheddar cheese while a calm, undisturbed voice told him that another large strike was brewing, threatening to cut off shipping again. He rapped open six eggs, thought a moment and then added two more, and rummaged through the refrigerator for the creamy, small curd cottage cheese he’d bought the day before. The President, he heard, had made a “tough, hard-hitting” speech against secret corporate gestation-underglass programs; the newscaster made no mention of similar government projects. Two of the recent hermaphrodites had married, proclaiming the first human relationship free of stereotypes. Nigel sighed and dumped the lot into the blender. He added some watery brown sauce he’d made up in batches for just this purpose and sprinkled in marjoram, salt and pepper. The blender purred it all into a smooth soup. He fetched tomato sauce while the audio went on about a new industrial coalition which had linked up with an equally massive crowd of labor unions, to back a bill granting extraordinary protectionist import taxes on goods from Brazil, Australia and China. For variety and in the name of pure blind experiment he added coriander to the mix, poured it into a souffle dish and started it baking. The oven popped with industrious heat.
    Alexandria was showering as he dressed. He put the bedroom in order; last night, tumbling toward the bed, they’d scattered oddments of underclothing like debris from some domestic collision. He rolled up his flared shirt cuffs in anticipation of the day’s warmth and Alexandria emerged from the vapor shower, her expressive bottom jiggling