Sirens of Titan - Kurt Vonnegut [103]
Beatrice suddenly turned her back on the painting, walked out into the courtyard again. The idea she wanted to add to her book was straight in her mind now.
"The worst thing that could possibly happen to anybody," she said, "would be to not be used for anything by anybody."
The thought relaxed her. She lay down on Rumfoord’s old contour chair, looked up at the appallingly beautiful rings of Saturn—at Rumfoord’s Rainbow.
"Thank you for using me," she said to Constant, "even though I didn’t want to be used by anybody."
"You’re welcome," said Constant.
He began to sweep the courtyard. The litter he was sweeping was a mixture of sand, which had blown in from the outside, daisy-seed hulls, Earthling peanut hulls, empty cans of boned chicken, and discarded wads of manuscript paper. Beatrice subsisted mostly on daisy seeds, peanuts, and boned chicken because she didn’t have to cook them, because she didn’t even have to interrupt her writing in order to eat them.
She could eat with one hand and write with the other—and, more than anything else in life, she wanted to get everything written down.
With his sweeping half done, Constant paused to see how the pool was draining.
It was draining slowly. The slimy green hump that covered the three Sirens of Titan was just breaking the descending surface.
Constant leaned over the open manhole, listened to the water sounds.
He heard the music of the pipes. And he heard something else, too.
He heard the absence of a familiar and a beloved sound.
His mate Beatrice wasn’t breathing any more.
Malachi Constant buried his mate in Titanic peat on the shore of the Winston Sea. She was buried where there were no statues.
Malachi Constant said good-by to her when the sky was filled with Titanic bluebirds. There must have been ten thousand, at least, of the great and noble birds.
They made night of day, made the air quake with their beating wings.
Not one bird cried out.
And in that night in the midst of day, Chrono, the son of Beatrice and Malachi, appeared on a knoll overlooking the new grave. He wore a feather cape which he flapped like wings.
He was gorgeous and strong.
"Thank you, Mother and Father," he shouted, "for the gift of life. Good-by!"
He was gone, and the birds went with him.
Old Malachi Constant went back to the palace with a heart as heavy as a cannonball. What drew him back to that sad place was a wish to leave it in good order.
Sooner or later, someone else would come.
The palace should be neat and clean and ready for them. The palace should speak well of the former tenant.
Around Rumfoord’s worn contour chair were the plovers’ eggs and wild Titanic strawberries, and the crock of fermented daisy milk and the basket of daisy seeds that Constant had given to Beatrice. They were perishables. They would not last until the next tenant came.
These Constant put back in his dugout canoe.
He didn’t need them. Nobody needed them.
As he straightened up his old back from the canoe, he saw Salo, the little messenger from Tralfamadore, walking across the water toward him.
"How do you do," said Constant.
"How do you do," said Salo. "Thank you for putting me back together again."
"I didn’t think I did it right," said Constant. "I couldn’t get a peep out of you."
"You did it right," said Salo. "I just couldn’t make up my mind whether or not I wanted to peep." He let the air out of his feet with a hiss. "I guess I’ll be moseying along," he said.
"You’re going to deliver your message after all?" said Constant.
"Anybody who has traveled this far on a fool’s errand, " said Salo, "has no choice but to uphold the honor of fools by completing the errand."
"My mate died today," said Constant.
"Sorry," said Salo. "I would say, ’Is there anything I can do?’—but Skip once told me that that was the most hateful and stupid expression in the English language."
Constant rubbed his hands together. The only company he had left on Titan was whatever company his right hand could be for his left. "I miss her," he said.
"You finally fell