Rolling Thunder by John Varley Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Varley
and there was a slow leak. The pressure loss wasn’t a problem; she had enough bottled air to replace the lost stuff for twenty minutes, and they got her out before that. But her heating system failed in that arm and her hand froze solid to the wrist in only ten minutes.
Well, kiss that piano-playing career good-bye, right?
Not my Aunt Elizabeth. Step one was learning to be left-handed while her stump healed. I understand that took her about three days. Step two was getting used to the prosthetic hand they gave her. State of the art for the time, pretty primitive by today’s standards. Step three was medical school at Harvard. Top of her class. Internship, then time to pick a specialty. General practice, right? Maybe Ob-Gyn. Think again. Surgery.
Today she is the best nanosurgeon on Mars. Not surprising, because she practically invented the field.
Oh, yeah, and she’s a damn good piano player.
That’s her over there perched on a tiny chair at a big round low table in the corner where the kids are supposed to be corralled, with half a dozen youngsters watching as she does a few of her best tricks. Onehanded (her “bad” hand) she could fold origami animals while her left hand pulled all sorts of crazy stuff out of thin air.
Wait a minute, wait a minute … who is that ravishing blonde just entering the room over there? She’s about average height for a Mars-born, six-four or so, plus she’s wearing three-inch heels. Her hair is up in a tight bun on top of her head, revealing her slender white neck. She’s wearing a wispy golden chiffon thing that reaches about to her knees, strapless, flattering to her figure without being overly provocative. A string of matched pearls and pearl studs in her ears. Light makeup, a greenish frosting thing going on around her eyes and on her lips, very fashionable, very up-to-date.
Why … it’s Podkayne!
Okay, I take back the “ravishing” part. That’s a judgment call, and I wouldn’t want to prejudice you. I try for mysterious, but seldom achieve more than a gawky, coltish, and—I hope—endearing young charm. The slightly turned-up nose always gets in the way of my attempts at sophistication. I sometimes feel I haven’t quite grown into my body yet, that I’m playacting at being a grown-up woman.
I think I should have gone with the little black dress, with a longer skirt.
The hair is good, though, you can’t deny that. And I have a Pismo Beach tan. As for the high heels, I hardly ever wear them and would sooner walk on hot coals than wear them on Earth, like Earth girls do, where they don’t seem to mind mutilating their feet. But on Mars it’s no problem. Besides, they do great things for my legs.
Suddenly, our heroine is attacked by what looks like a brown cannonball. The missile bounces almost as high as her head as it homes in on her, but instead of trying to avoid it, Podkayne opens her arms, braces herself, and catches her brother Mike in midflight. His stumpy arms embrace her and they kiss, then she lets him go.
Mike is short. About three and a half feet, and that’s as tall as he’s likely to get. He’s what you’re supposed to call a “little person.” Not to mince words, which he never does, he’s a dwarf. When people stare and point at him—and some still do—he delights in clomping around like Frankenstein and making an ugly face and bellowing, “Me dwarf! Me kill!” Shuts ‘em right down.
You’ll have a few questions, so I might as well get them out of the way.
No, he’s not my biological brother … to which I’m supposed to add “but I love him exactly as much as if he was.” I don’t know; I don’t have another brother to compare him to, but I never put the word adopted in front of his name, not even on the first day when Mom and Dad brought him back from Earth at age two, when I was ten. I’d already graduated from baby-doll age, but I took to him instantly like the finest toy a girl ever had, then the finest pet, then the
Well, kiss that piano-playing career good-bye, right?
Not my Aunt Elizabeth. Step one was learning to be left-handed while her stump healed. I understand that took her about three days. Step two was getting used to the prosthetic hand they gave her. State of the art for the time, pretty primitive by today’s standards. Step three was medical school at Harvard. Top of her class. Internship, then time to pick a specialty. General practice, right? Maybe Ob-Gyn. Think again. Surgery.
Today she is the best nanosurgeon on Mars. Not surprising, because she practically invented the field.
Oh, yeah, and she’s a damn good piano player.
That’s her over there perched on a tiny chair at a big round low table in the corner where the kids are supposed to be corralled, with half a dozen youngsters watching as she does a few of her best tricks. Onehanded (her “bad” hand) she could fold origami animals while her left hand pulled all sorts of crazy stuff out of thin air.
Wait a minute, wait a minute … who is that ravishing blonde just entering the room over there? She’s about average height for a Mars-born, six-four or so, plus she’s wearing three-inch heels. Her hair is up in a tight bun on top of her head, revealing her slender white neck. She’s wearing a wispy golden chiffon thing that reaches about to her knees, strapless, flattering to her figure without being overly provocative. A string of matched pearls and pearl studs in her ears. Light makeup, a greenish frosting thing going on around her eyes and on her lips, very fashionable, very up-to-date.
Why … it’s Podkayne!
Okay, I take back the “ravishing” part. That’s a judgment call, and I wouldn’t want to prejudice you. I try for mysterious, but seldom achieve more than a gawky, coltish, and—I hope—endearing young charm. The slightly turned-up nose always gets in the way of my attempts at sophistication. I sometimes feel I haven’t quite grown into my body yet, that I’m playacting at being a grown-up woman.
I think I should have gone with the little black dress, with a longer skirt.
The hair is good, though, you can’t deny that. And I have a Pismo Beach tan. As for the high heels, I hardly ever wear them and would sooner walk on hot coals than wear them on Earth, like Earth girls do, where they don’t seem to mind mutilating their feet. But on Mars it’s no problem. Besides, they do great things for my legs.
Suddenly, our heroine is attacked by what looks like a brown cannonball. The missile bounces almost as high as her head as it homes in on her, but instead of trying to avoid it, Podkayne opens her arms, braces herself, and catches her brother Mike in midflight. His stumpy arms embrace her and they kiss, then she lets him go.
Mike is short. About three and a half feet, and that’s as tall as he’s likely to get. He’s what you’re supposed to call a “little person.” Not to mince words, which he never does, he’s a dwarf. When people stare and point at him—and some still do—he delights in clomping around like Frankenstein and making an ugly face and bellowing, “Me dwarf! Me kill!” Shuts ‘em right down.
You’ll have a few questions, so I might as well get them out of the way.
No, he’s not my biological brother … to which I’m supposed to add “but I love him exactly as much as if he was.” I don’t know; I don’t have another brother to compare him to, but I never put the word adopted in front of his name, not even on the first day when Mom and Dad brought him back from Earth at age two, when I was ten. I’d already graduated from baby-doll age, but I took to him instantly like the finest toy a girl ever had, then the finest pet, then the