Read Ebook: The Geisha Memory by Marks Winston K Winston Kinney Vestal Herman B Illustrator

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Ebook has 93 lines and 7795 words, and 2 pages

Dr. Martha Rice moved into view. "I'll take over. Save yourself for tonight, Muriel. It's getting rougher."

The physician's hands replaced the nurse's, but the gentle, rhythmic touch was the same. Duncan relaxed in an orgy of tactile ecstasy.

"You are Peter Duncan. Do you understand?" she asked. He blinked, and she took that for affirmation. "In fact," she continued, "you are now Hero Peter Duncan."

This didn't register right. Hero? They must have saved Porter's life, but they didn't realize how it happened. And now she was misconstruing his puzzled expression. "I am Dr. Martha Rice. Remember me?"

The hands stopped. A finger peeled back an eyelid. "You are awake. Come to, mister!"

Duncan opened the other eye and stared at her and let his lips part. "Thuh!" he grunted.

It was night. Duncan was detached from the intravenous needle and tube, and a small compress bandage covered the throbbing vein where his blood had boiled out when the needle was withdrawn. He had decided to reveal enough recovery to take oral nourishment.

The wall chronometer, adjusted to the slightly longer Mars' day, read 2300, an hour before midnight. He was alone. It should have been quiet, but several times heavy footsteps had passed down the hall near his tiny room. The sick bay was attached to the women's quarters.

Distinctly he heard an outside door open and the clump of safety boots passed his room. Slipping off the high bed he opened his door and looked into the hall. It was a man. Even in the dim light there was no mistaking the broad physique.

Duncan whipped a sheet around his nude body and followed a few yards to where the visitor had disappeared through a curtained arch. Before the curtains stopped swaying he saw the outlines of cots within. It was the women's sleeping room! His stomach turned cold.

So the legend of the song was based on fact. And his trip out here was justified after all. And what now, after he had uncovered the mess with his own eyes?

He approached the curtains uncertainly. A sob from within startled him. It was a man's cry. A girl's voice said something softly reassuring, and all was still again.

Duncan lurched through the arch and stood rooted. The denunciation died in his throat. Twenty single bunks were spaced around the walls. Each was occupied, but only three girls were asleep. The rest were sitting on the edge with their feet on the floor. At each girl's feet with his back resting against her legs was a member of the male company. The pale light of Deimos, Mars' second moon, shone through the overhead panes to reveal the secret of the loving hands.

Duncan watched seventeen pairs of arms encircling the necks of as many men, hands reaching down under loose jackets to massage aching chests and rising to knead gently on tired shoulder muscles. Fingers strayed tenderly over masculine foreheads and necks with unmistakable caressing motions.

The prone figure near him stirred, and a sleepy face looked up at him. "Oh, my gosh, it's Duncan!" she said. It was Martha Rice. She slipped from the blankets and drew him over to her bunk. "Sit down," she invited.

Stunned, Duncan lowered himself to the edge of the bed. "No, not there! Down, boy! On the deck," she pointed. "The fellows would get the wrong idea, patient or no patient."

Duncan complied, leaning against her warm legs as the others were doing. She sighed, yawned audibly, and began the massaging routine. With the touch of her hands the confusion left Duncan's tortured mind. Propaganda, morality arguments, missions into space and the importance of ,000 fines disappeared. This was real. A woman's heart reaching out through her hands to comfort her man. It was physical, but it transcended the physical. It justified the rigid segregation rules even as it glorified them and violated them.

The need of man for woman was too great for any barrier. And no woman could refuse giving of herself when the need was desperate enough.

Three more men came through the curtains.

Two found girls, but the third stood hesitantly. A girl on the next bunk from Duncan and Martha, rubbed her man's head briskly and said quietly, "Good night, mister. Got another customer. See you soon." She waved in the new man as the other heaved reluctantly to his feet. "Good night, honey," he said simply and left.

Men stepped over Duncan's legs coming and going, without remark, without greeting.

Almost no conversation took place. A whispered good night or a soft word of comfort, and then minutes of silence except for the rustle of deep sighing breathing.

Then Martha's hands stopped. She pulled him to his feet and led him toward the arch. Instantly several girls' heads turned toward them. "Want help, Doctor?" one asked almost sharply.

"No thanks, Claire. This boy's sick."

She led him back to his room. He turned his back to the bed as though to sit down, but instead he moved to her. She slid into his arms as though it were rehearsed, and he crushed her close to him. Through their light garments he felt her body strain for a brief moment then completely relax. She peeled away from his lips.

"Mister, that will cost you just ,000. You're on report!"

The shock of her voice was a cold plunge back to another reality. Duncan's hands fell to his sides and he sat down heavily, head bowed. Martha lifted his legs, untwined the sheet and tucked in the blankets. Suddenly she dropped to him and pressed her face to his. "You poor devil! You poor, poor, devil!" Her tears rolled down to his face, and she cried unrestrainedly for more than a minute. Duncan kept his hands at his sides, and it was his greatest triumph of self-control.

He gave himself two days to affect recovery. On the second morning he called for Dr. Martha Rice. She came in alone, her darkly handsome face inscrutable. "You are better, I hear. For exactly how long have you been feeling better?"

Duncan smiled. "Long enough to want to get out of here. How is Magnus Porter?"

"He left an hour ago. He'll wear a bandage for a week, but your mask saved him from anything serious. That was quite a gesture, my boy. As I mentioned the other night, you are on report--"

Duncan winced.

"--for a citation for heroism beyond the call of duty."

"You're quite a girl, yourself," Duncan said. "Where are my pants? I have some ore to get out before the next ship. We mustn't return short of cargo, must we?"

"I'm here on a special assignment, and we'll be going out together on the next ship."

"I will, but you--you! What kind of special assignment?"

"Some fuddy-duds down sunward had some foolish ideas about reducing the crew out here by some twenty persons. You know, trying to save money. I'm to report upon your dispensability. I will be pleased to report that the women's contingent is completely and magnificently indispensable to General Fission. Which reminds me, will you have dinner with me when we get home?"

"Answer my question, girl, and hand me my pants."

"Your question? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, I'll have dinner with you. Here are your pants."

"And breakfast and lunch?"

"Is this a proposal?"

"Proposals on Mars violate our contract. So do propositions, so let's just call it a date."

"Date?" Martha fondled the word that sounded so alien and lovely. She smiled. "All right, Peter, it's a date."

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