Engineman - Eric Brown [181]
Of course, if his hearing never returned...
He realised he was sweating at the thought of never being able to flux again. He wondered if he would be able to bluff his way through the next shift.
He was on his second drink, twenty minutes later, when a sound startled him. He smiled to himself, raised his glass in a toast to his reflection in the window. He spoke... but he could not hear his words.
He heard another sound and he frowned, confused. He called out... in silence. Yet he could hear something.
He heard footsteps, and breathing, and then a resounding clang. Then he heard the high-pressure hiss of hot water and an exclamation of pleasure. His own exclamation... He heard the roar of the blo-drier, then the rasp of material against his skin; the quick whirr of the sliding door and the diminishing note of the afterburners, cutting out.
Thorn forced himself to say something; to comment and somehow bring an end to this madness. But his voice made no sound. He threw his glass against the wall and it shattered in silence.
Then he was listening to footsteps again; his own footsteps. They passed down the connecting tube from the ship to the terminal building; he heard tired acknowledgements from the 'port officials, then the hubbub of the crowded foyer.
He sat rigid with fright, listening to that which by rights he should have heard one hour ago.
He heard the driver's question, then his own voice; he stated his destination in a drunken slur, then repeated himself. He heard the whine of turbos, and later the hatch opening, then more footsteps, the grind of the upchute...
There was a silence then. He thought back one hour and realised he had paused for a time on the threshold, looking into the room he called home and feeling sickened. He could just make out the sound of his own breathing, the distant hum of the city.
Then the gentle notes of Beethoven's Pathetique.
The rattle of glass on glass.
He remained in the recliner, unable to move, listening to the sound of his time-lapsed breathing, his drinking when he wasn't drinking.
Later he heard his delayed exclamation, the explosion of his glass against the wall.
He pushed himself from the recliner and staggered over to the vidscreen. He hesitated, his hand poised above the keyboard. He intended to contact the company medic, but, almost against his will, he found himself tapping out the code he had used so often in the past.
She was a long time answering. He looked at his watch. It was still early, not yet seven. He was about to give up when the screen flared into life. Then he was looking at Caroline Da Silva, older by five years but just as attractive as he remembered. She stared at him in disbelief, pulling a gown to her throat.
Then her lips moved in obvious anger, but Thorn heard nothing - or, rather, he heard the sound of himself chugging scotch one hour ago.
He feared she might cut the connection. He leaned forward and mouthed what he hoped were the words: I need you, Carrie. I'm ill. I can't hear. That is-
He broke off, unsure how to continue.
Her expression of hostility altered; she still looked guarded, but there was an air of concern about her now as well. Her lips moved, then she remembered herself and used the deaf facility. She typed: Is your hearing delayed, Max?
He nodded.
She typed: Be at my surgery in one hour.
They stared at each other for a long moment, as if to see who might prove the stronger and switch off first.
Thorn shouted: What the hell's wrong with me, Carrie? Is it something serious?
She replied, forgetting to type. Her lips moved, answering his question with silent words.
In panic Thorn yelled: What the hell do you mean-?
But Caroline had cut the connection.
Thorn returned to his recliner. He reflected that there was a certain justice in the way she had cut him off. Five years ago, their final communication had been by vidscreen. Then it had been Thorn who had severed the connection, effectively cutting