Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

—RECALL FROM BROKEN BANKS and color of earth breaking into clear pool water her eyes; the figure blinking her eyes and speaking. He said: “An Officer, ma’am. A Customs Officer.” Surprise at her witty return, at first hurt, then amusement following. He answered: “About ten years. How long have you been discorporate?” And she moved closer to him, her hair holding the recalled odor of. And the sharp transparent features reminding him of. More words from her, now, making him laugh. “Yes, this is all very new to me. Doesn’t the whole vagueness with which everything seems to happen get you, too?” Again her answer, both coaxing and witty. “Well, yes,” he smiled. “For you I guess it wouldn’t be.” Her ease infected him; and either she reached playfully to take his hand or he amazed himself by taking hers, and the apparition was real beneath his fingers with skin as smooth as. “You’re so forward. I mean I’m not used to young women just coming up and…behaving like this.” Her charming logic again explained it away, making him feel her near, nearer, nearing, and her banter made music, a phrase from. “Well, yes, you’re discorporate, so it doesn’t matter. But—” And her interruption was a word or a kiss or a frown or a smile, sending not humor through him now, but luminous amazement, fear, excitement; and the feel of her shape against his completely new. He fought to retain it, pattern of pressure and pressure, fading as the pressure itself faded. She was going away. She was laughing like...