The John Varley Reader Read Online Free PDF Page B

nurse, getting him out of his clothes over his feeble protests, then giving him a massage. In the soberness of the morning I wondered how she could bring herself to touch his wrinkled old body, but as I watched, I slowly understood. He was beautiful.
    The best thing to compare old Lester to is the surface. There is nothing older, or more abused, than the surface of the moon. But I have always loved it. It’s the most beautiful place in the system, including Saturn’s Rings. Old Lester was like that. I imagined he was the moon. He had become part of it.
    Though I came to accept his age, I could still see that he was in terrible shape. The drinking had taken a lot out of him, but he wouldn’t be kept down. The first thing he wanted in the morning was another drink. I brought him one, then I cooked a big breakfast: eggs and sausage and bread and orange juice, all from his garden. Then we were off and drinking again.
    I didn’t even have time to worry about what Carnival and Halo’s mother might be thinking by now. Old Lester had plainly adopted us. He said he’d be our father, which struck me as a funny thing to say since who the hell ever knows who their father is? But he began behaving in the manner I would call maternal, and he evidently thought of it as pa ternal.
    We did a lot of things that day. He taught us about gardening.
    He showed me how to cross-fertilize the egg plants and how to tell when they were ripe without breaking the shells to see. He told us the secrets of how to grow breadfruit trees so they’d yield loaves of dark-brown, hard, whole wheat or the strangely different rye variety by grafting branches. I had never had rye before. And we learned to dig for potatoes and steakroots. We learned how to harvest honey and cheese and tomatoes. We stripped bacon from the surface of the porktree trunks.
    And we’d drink his moonshine while we worked, and laugh a lot, and he’d throw in more of his stories between the garden lore.
    Old Lester was not the fool he seemed at first. His speech pattern was largely affected, something he did to amuse himself over the years. He could speak as correctly as anyone when he wanted to. He had read much and remembered it all. He was a first-rate engineer and botanist, but his education and skills had to be qualified by this fact: everything he knew was eighty years out of date. It didn’t matter much: the old methods worked well enough.
    In social matters it was a different story.
    He didn’t know much about Changing, except that he didn’t like it. It was Changing that finally decided him to separate himself from society. He said he had been having his doubts about joining the migration to Farside, and the sex-change issue had been the final factor. He shocked us more than he knew when he revealed that he had never been a woman. I thought his lack of curiosity must be monumental, but I was wrong. It turned out that he had some queer notions about the morality of the whole process, ideas he had gotten from some weirdly aberrant religion in his childhood. I had heard of the cult, as you can hardly avoid it if you know any history. It had said little about ethics, being more interested in arbitrary regulations.
    Old Lester still believed in it, though. His home was littered with primitive icons. There was a central symbol he cherished above the others: a simple wooden fetish in the shape of a plus sign with a long stem. He wore one around his neck, and others sprouted like weeds.
    I came to realize that this religion was at the bottom of the puzzling inconsistencies I began to notice about him. His “do as you please” may have been sincere, but he did not entirely live by it. It became clear that, though he thought people should have freedom of choice, he condemned them if the choice they made was not his own.
    My spur-of-the-moment decision to lie about my age had been borne out, though I’m not sure the truth wouldn’t