fine.”
Paul Mueller pushed up the door of the pass-through with a loud rattle, announcing the start of lunch. Mr. Hokenson wandered off to get some, leaving me contemplating my future for a moment or two longer before the rest of the passengers trouped in.
That evening’s movie was an older one—from around 2290, according to Leslie. The camera work was excellent and the plot revolved around a middle-aged woman rebuilding her life after the tragic death of her husband and children. The lead actress was not the typical media darling sylph but rather a meaty woman made up to look even older than she was. The story revolved around a younger man that she had met on holiday. It was somewhat predictable but poignantly done and—again according to Leslie March—shot largely on location on Fangipani, one of the heavily islanded resort planets in the Chiba quadrant. As the movie ground its way to its telegraphed conclusion—where the woman finally realizes that life is fragile, bittersweet, and worth living brought on by having multiple encounters with the younger man in a variety of settings before being killed herself when a freak ocean storm barrels into their secluded hideaway and blows the small bungalow in on her—Leslie became less and less talkative. Her commentary stopped completely and in the end she sat staring at the closing credits and nursing a gin and tonic while the rest of the passengers called it a night.
She was one of the last to rise. “Ishmael?” she called as I was about to leave the lounge.
I stepped out of the passageway to allow the Hokensons to go by. Mrs. Hokenson smiled at me in a very grandmotherly fashion and murmured, “See you in the morning, Mr. Wang.”
Leslie had drained her glass and slipped it onto the rack for Paul to get in the morning.
“What did you think of the film?” she asked, not quite looking in my direction.
“Predictable, but pretty,” I said.
“In what way, predictable?” she asked, looking up at me with soft green eyes.
She was very attractive in ways that hadn’t been obvious when I first met her.
“Well, women who try to control their own lives—their own destinies—even after all humankind has been and done—those women must die. She was killed by a storm—a wind of fate—because she dared to look for happiness in the arms of a young lover.” I shook my head. “My mother, a lit professor, would have had a lot to say about it, I’m sure, but it seems like a recurring theme. Women aren’t allowed to be happy, unless their happiness comes from the largess of a man.”
As I spoke, Leslie cocked her head slightly to one side. “That’s a pretty mature view for a guy who’s fresh out of the academy,” she said, without making it sound like a left-handed compliment.
“Yeah, well, I learned a lot from my mother. The old stories are full of this stuff. I cut my teeth on it.”
She was silent for a few heartbeats, looking at my face, trying to read—something. “You think it’s still the case that society believes that men should control their women?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. My first ship was run by a woman. It was named for her great grandmother.” I nodded my head down the passageway. “But we have two examples right here of women who are controlled largely by the men in their lives.”
She smiled and asked, “You’re including Mrs. Hokenson?”
I grinned ruefully. “Well, that’s a good point. She probably let’s him think he’s in charge.”
Leslie chuckled and seemed to make up her mind. Crossing the lounge, she took my hand in hers and started down the passage toward the passenger staterooms. “How do you feel about women who take charge? Do you believe they need to be punished, to be put in their places?” She looked up into my face as she asked.
I smiled, feeling the temperature rising in the ship as we sauntered down the hall. “That depends. Do you like being punished?”
It was her turn for a
Paul Mueller pushed up the door of the pass-through with a loud rattle, announcing the start of lunch. Mr. Hokenson wandered off to get some, leaving me contemplating my future for a moment or two longer before the rest of the passengers trouped in.
That evening’s movie was an older one—from around 2290, according to Leslie. The camera work was excellent and the plot revolved around a middle-aged woman rebuilding her life after the tragic death of her husband and children. The lead actress was not the typical media darling sylph but rather a meaty woman made up to look even older than she was. The story revolved around a younger man that she had met on holiday. It was somewhat predictable but poignantly done and—again according to Leslie March—shot largely on location on Fangipani, one of the heavily islanded resort planets in the Chiba quadrant. As the movie ground its way to its telegraphed conclusion—where the woman finally realizes that life is fragile, bittersweet, and worth living brought on by having multiple encounters with the younger man in a variety of settings before being killed herself when a freak ocean storm barrels into their secluded hideaway and blows the small bungalow in on her—Leslie became less and less talkative. Her commentary stopped completely and in the end she sat staring at the closing credits and nursing a gin and tonic while the rest of the passengers called it a night.
She was one of the last to rise. “Ishmael?” she called as I was about to leave the lounge.
I stepped out of the passageway to allow the Hokensons to go by. Mrs. Hokenson smiled at me in a very grandmotherly fashion and murmured, “See you in the morning, Mr. Wang.”
Leslie had drained her glass and slipped it onto the rack for Paul to get in the morning.
“What did you think of the film?” she asked, not quite looking in my direction.
“Predictable, but pretty,” I said.
“In what way, predictable?” she asked, looking up at me with soft green eyes.
She was very attractive in ways that hadn’t been obvious when I first met her.
“Well, women who try to control their own lives—their own destinies—even after all humankind has been and done—those women must die. She was killed by a storm—a wind of fate—because she dared to look for happiness in the arms of a young lover.” I shook my head. “My mother, a lit professor, would have had a lot to say about it, I’m sure, but it seems like a recurring theme. Women aren’t allowed to be happy, unless their happiness comes from the largess of a man.”
As I spoke, Leslie cocked her head slightly to one side. “That’s a pretty mature view for a guy who’s fresh out of the academy,” she said, without making it sound like a left-handed compliment.
“Yeah, well, I learned a lot from my mother. The old stories are full of this stuff. I cut my teeth on it.”
She was silent for a few heartbeats, looking at my face, trying to read—something. “You think it’s still the case that society believes that men should control their women?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. My first ship was run by a woman. It was named for her great grandmother.” I nodded my head down the passageway. “But we have two examples right here of women who are controlled largely by the men in their lives.”
She smiled and asked, “You’re including Mrs. Hokenson?”
I grinned ruefully. “Well, that’s a good point. She probably let’s him think he’s in charge.”
Leslie chuckled and seemed to make up her mind. Crossing the lounge, she took my hand in hers and started down the passage toward the passenger staterooms. “How do you feel about women who take charge? Do you believe they need to be punished, to be put in their places?” She looked up into my face as she asked.
I smiled, feeling the temperature rising in the ship as we sauntered down the hall. “That depends. Do you like being punished?”
It was her turn for a
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