"Yes! Yes, indeed!"

"Track its approach carefully," said Teltor. "I want to be there when it lands."

The Bradbury had touched down beside Olympus Mons during the middle of the Martian day. The seven members of the international crew planted flags in the red sand and explored on foot until the sun set.

The astronauts were about to go to sleep; Earth had set, too, so no messages could be sent to Mission Control until it rose again. But, incredibly, one of the crew spotted something moving out on the planet's surface.

It was- No. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't.

But it was. A spindly, insectoid figure, perhaps a meter high, coming toward the lander.

A Martian.

The figure stood by one of the Bradbury's articulated metal legs, next to the access ladder. It gestured repeatedly with four segmented arms, seemingly asking for someone to come out.

And, at last, the Bradbury's captain did.

It would be months before the humans learned to understand the Martian language, but everything the exoskeletal being said into the thin air was recorded, of course. "Gitanda hatabk," were the first words spoken to the travelers from Earth.

At the time, no human knew what Teltor meant, but nonetheless the words were absolutely appropriate. "Welcome home," the Martian had said.

Lifework

MARY SOON LEE.

Mary Soon Lee grew up in London, got an MA in mathematics, and later an MS in astronauticsand s.p.a.ce engineering. "I have since lived in cleaner, safer, quieter cities," she says, "but London is the one that I miss." She moved to Cambridge, MA in 1990 and then to Pittsburgh, PA. She published more than 30 stories in the 1990s. She also runs a local writing workshop, the Pittsburgh World-wrights. Her big news in 1999 was the birth of William Chye Lee-Moore, about whom she sent lengthy and biased observations. ("He licks the walls, wobbles as he supports himself with one hand while standing, eats bits of books, tries to eat anything else unusual-I barely managed to stop him from eating a leaf of a doubtlessly rare and possibly poisonous plant at the Phipps Conservatory.") This story is from Interzone, and is a new turn on the old story of the person who doesn't want to do what everyone has to do-in this case, get divorced. The theme of much of her best fiction is the new everyday anxieties of living in the future.

It is 2162 and Kyoko is late for her psychiatrist's appointment. She races down the escalator from the monorail station, trying not to look at the ads. But the images grab at her, holograms warping in the air in front of her, as if she is descending through a tunnel of lights.

The last ad switches from a pastel-colored vision of two plump models drinking Zipcola to a black-and-white banner: KYOKO WILSON, UNAMERICAN TRADITIONALIST. On either side of the banner is a rotating portrait of Kyoko.

She shades her face between her hands, but it is no use. Noise swells behind her on the escalator as people notice her.

She drops her hands, and runs the block to the psychiatrist's. Twenty seconds in the elevator, brushing the stray hair back from her face, taking deep breaths.

The office door slides open as she approaches, and Dr. Audrey Mitch.e.l.l looks up from a false-leather armchair and gives a false-sweet smile. The doctor wears a plain cream suit, her hair drawn sternly back from a thin face. The office smells of pine, although they are miles from the nearest forest.

"Good afternoon, Kyoko. Please sit down."

Kyoko perches on the edge of the second armchair. Behind Dr. Mitch.e.l.l's head the Trupicture window shows the Great Pyramid at Giza, recently hollowed out, reinforced, and then filled with 1200 luxury hotel rooms. Dr. Mitch.e.l.l probably selected the view to ill.u.s.trate progress, but Kyoko calls it desecration.

"You're late again," says Dr. Mitch.e.l.l, her voice perfectly even. "If you wore your node, the system could remind you about your appointments."

"I'm sorry," murmurs Kyoko, though she is not in the least bit sorry. Refusing to wear the node is a small gesture of defiance. Only a small gesture, because as soon as she leaves her apartment, public-area surveillance nodes record her every action anyhow. But lately Kyoko has come to think of her life as a painting, each small gesture forming another brush-stroke. She remembers the j.a.panese water-colors that hung in her grandparents' apartment, every stroke perfect. Each painting had a name printed beneath it: *Autumn* *Gra.s.ses* or *Mountain* *Wind*. So far the t.i.tle of her own painting eludes her. She would like to call it something uplifting, such as *Hope* *at* *Twilight*, but she's not as optimistic as she used to be.

Dr. Mitch.e.l.l unscrolls the computer screen on the table beside her, and makes a note. "Last week, we spoke about marriage as an instrument of oppression, constricting couples to one rigid relationship.

Did you review our discussion with your...partner as I suggested?"

Kyoko nods. She and Nicholas have had their psychiatrist appointments on the same day for a year now, and they always talk about them afterwards. At first it was funny, but over the year, the pressure has mounted steadily. She can understand why so many other couples divorced after attending the court-appointed counseling sessions. Kyoko and Nicholas's neighbors won't speak to them anymore, and Kyoko knows that her boss would fire her if he could find any legal grounds to do so.

The doctor leans forward and flashes her false-sweet smile again. "Kyoko, I think we made an important break-through last meeting. You agreed that when you first met Nicholas, eight years ago, thesystem might have been able to pick out a more compatible partner for you."

"Yes. I suppose so." Kyoko stares down at the gold wedding-band round her finger, and twists it round and round, as Dr. Mitch.e.l.l twists the words she says. It would be arrogance or ignorance to imagine that the gawky nineteen year-old who happened to sit next to her in History 101 was the single man most suited to her. Kyoko doesn't believe in miracles.

"Excellent. Then, with all the myriad resources at its disposal, don't you agree that there is a very good chance that the system could find you a better partner now?"

Kyoko lifts her head. "No, I do not." It is hard for her to tell this coolly confident woman how she feels, but she must speak, or the brush-stroke will fall incorrectly.

"It might have been true when I first met Nicholas, but not anymore. Nicholas is part of me now. I love him." Her fingers close over the wedding-band, holding it tight, but she does not look away from the doctor.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Kyoko. The system won't ask you to leave Nicholas unless that's in your best interests. But binding yourself to him artificially helps no one. Marriage is an archaic tradition belonging to a pre-electronic era where people died young." Dr. Mitch.e.l.l delivers her sermon colorlessly, as if she has given this speech many times before. "If you just let the system help you, it will ensure your happiness for centuries to come."

"I'm happy now," says Kyoko. It comes out more fiercely than she intended.

"But perhaps you could be happier." Dr. Mitch.e.l.l taps one fingernail on the armrest, emphasizing her point. "And it's not just your own future that you are jeopardizing. Social mobility is critical to economic health in a consumer age. Progress demands flexibility."

Behind Dr. Mitch.e.l.l, neat rows of windows wink from the sides of the Great Pyramid, King Cheops's vast tomb. After nearly five millennia of slow weathering by sand and sun, the monument was overhauled in three months' frenetic construction. Kyoko wonders if she, too, is a relic from the past, as out of place as King Cheops would be. Maybe that would be a fitting t.i.tle for the painting shaped by her life: *Relic*.

"I'd like to leave you with a final thought," says Dr. Mitch.e.l.l. "Perhaps Nicholas would also be happier without you. Perhaps, whether or not he admits it to himself, he only stays with you out of a sense of duty. Because he thinks you need him, because he's tied to you by marriage."

It is as if someone has punched Kyoko in the stomach. For a moment she can't breathe, the world shifting under her, fractured and strange. But then the moment pa.s.ses, and she moves onto the next brush-stroke. Nicholas does love her, that knowledge soaked deep into her body, sure as the imprint of his skin curled against hers each night.

She stands up and moves quickly to the door, so that she won't have to shake hands with Dr.

Mitch.e.l.l. She nods goodbye, and steps out of the office. Over, it's over for another week, and now she can go home.

Outside again, she notices for the first time that it is a sunny day. Waiting on the platform for the monorail, there's a burst of chatter. She looks around, expecting to see another ad denouncing her, but no one is watching her. Instead they are looking up at the sky, and there, high overhead, a bird flies, the first bird she has seen in the city all year.

"It's a crow," says a man's voice on her left. "They're moving back into the cities again."

The man's voice stirs half-forgotten memories. She turns to look at him. A tall, athletic man with gold-brown skin and pure black eyes. Chris Ina, from the year above her in high school. She spent months nerving herself to ask him out, but in the end she never quite dared.

He smiles at her, and it's a good smile, warm and open, just as she remembers. "You look familiar.

Where did we meet? I'm terrible with names."

Surely it's only a chance meeting. Kyoko never told anyone about her teenage crush. And even if the system did arrange the encounter, it's not Chris's fault. They could have a cup of coffee together; she'd like to know what Chris is doing these days.

A surveillance lens glints in the sunlight as it turns to scan the platform.

And Kyoko shakes her head and gives Chris a carefully measured smile. "I'm sorry. I don't recognize you."The monorail hisses to a halt in front of them. Kyoko gets on last, and sits at the opposite end of the carriage from Chris Ina.

At home that evening, she tells Nicholas about the bird. His face lights up, and he thumps the sofa in excitement. "That's great! Let's hang a bird-feeder on the balcony."

A clatter comes from the kitchen. Kyoko looks at Nicholas, and then both of them are laughing.

"Takeo," says Kyoko.

"He couldn't have. Not again," says Nicholas.

Kyoko opens the kitchen-door, shakes her head, feigning sorrowfulness. "Again."

Their dirty supper dishes lie scattered across the kitchen floor. Made of plasware, the dishes haven't broken, but spaghetti sauce has splashed everywhere, like the aftermath of a horror movie. Takeo the house-bot stands in the middle of the mess, scrubbing away furiously with all five arms. His metal eyes refuse to look at Kyoko.

"You know," says Nicholas, striking a pose as though a revelation has just occurred to him, "I hear you can buy newer house-bots."

"Takeo, don't listen to him," says Kyoko, as the house-bot, inherited from her grandparents and older than she is, squirts lemon-scented cleaner onto the tiles. She retreats back into the living room, and she and Nicholas collapse in giggles onto the old sofa. The sofa sags in the middle, pushing them together: one golden brush-stroke, sweet as honey.

On Sat.u.r.day, Kyoko goes to the florist. She wants to buy Nicholas a gift for his birthday, and he's always complaining that his office is drab. She stands in the flowering-plant section, sniffing busily. She likes the scent of the yellow rosebush best, but the fuchsia looks more elegant, its ornate bell-shaped flowers swaying in the air-conditioned breeze.

The screen behind the plants displays pricing and cultivation information, switching from one flower to the next as Kyoko moves along. She is bending over a miniature magnolia when the screen goes dark.

After a moment, the panel lights again, but this time it shows the hallway outside Nicholas's office, his name-plate on the door.

"Nicholas?" asks Kyoko, wondering why he's phoning her from the office. He said he would be at his brother's.

But Nicholas doesn't answer. The screen switches to a camera inside the office. Nicholas is in the corner, pressed against a woman Kyoko has never seen before. His shirt is unb.u.t.toned, and he is fumbling with the woman's brastraps. No sound comes from the speakers, but somewhere behind her Kyoko hears high-heels clicking along the stone walkway, loud over the rushing in her ears.

She isn't upset. She isn't cross. But it takes a surprising effort to make her way out of the florist's, to walk to the monorail, to sit straight-backed and dry-eyed on the ride home, planning what she needs to do. Pack, she must pack up a few of her things: clothes, toothbrush, books, the stuffed armadillo from her childhood. Clothes, toothbrush, books, armadillo: she repeats the litany over and over.

Walking up the stairs to the apartment, she concentrates on each movement, as if ch.o.r.eographing a dance. And then she is filling her suitcase, not cross, not unhappy, only empty.

It is only when Takeo rolls through the door and b.u.mps at her legs, his metal eyes pivoting in confusion, that the emptiness breaks. Rage crashes through her, terrifying and alien. She is cut off, adrift in a bitter sea, unable to find a reference point connecting her to the person she was when she woke up in the morning.

Takeo b.u.mps against her legs again, his metal skin cool as a puppy's nose, and she is herself again.

She focuses on the suitcase in front of her.

When she leaves the apartment, she tells Takeo to come too. The house-bot uses its arms to hoist itself down the stairs, alternately squeaking and b.u.mping behind her.

Kyoko perches on the edge of the chair during her last appointment with Dr. Mitch.e.l.l. She has filed for divorce, so the court no longer requires her to attend counseling.

"How do you feel?" asks Dr. Mitch.e.l.l. There's no false smile on her face today, and no falsesympathy.

"Fine," says Kyoko, because it's the easiest thing to say, and almost true. She is in control, calm, focused. She goes to work each morning. She eats the meals Takeo prepares.

Dr. Mitch.e.l.l says nothing. The Trupicture window behind her shows a still reproduction of an Impressionist painting, water-lilies floating in a pond. Kyoko has no idea who the artist was.

After a long time, Kyoko offers into the silence, "The painting is spoilt."

Confusion surfaces in Dr. Mitch.e.l.l's face. The doctor turns to look behind her, stops. "Which painting is spoilt?"

"Mine. Me. My life."

Silence. Dr. Mitch.e.l.l is a still pool into which Kyoko's words fall without ripples.

"The painting I made by my life," says Kyoko. "I hadn't even found the right t.i.tle." For some reason, it is this omission that upsets her. She teeters on the edge of a vast sorrow. All the mornings, days, nights, hours and minutes of her life with Nicholas undone and lost. If she looks at them for more than a moment, she will founder, a ship sinking beneath the waves.

She folds her hands on her lap. "There will be no more painting."

Dr. Mitch.e.l.l doesn't protest. Dr. Mitch.e.l.l doesn't tell her that she'll feel differently in time. Dr. Mitch.e.l.l doesn't suggest that Kyoko ask the system for advice. All the doctor says, after a lengthy silence, is that Kyoko is welcome to visit her again. The doctor hands her a plastic card, its hologram portrait rendered in shades of black and silver. "The card will give you access to phone me wherever I am."

"Why now?" asks Kyoko. It seems an innocuous question, briefly distracting, which is all she asks for. "You never offered me your card before."

"You didn't need me before. I didn't recommend your earlier sessions with me, the court did." Dr.

Mitch.e.l.l pauses. "Call me any time."

"Thank you," says Kyoko, and finds she means it. She will think about this sometime later, but for now she concentrates on the task of putting on her jacket, on the walk over to the door, focused, calm, one step at a time.

Maybe one day there will be more than this. Maybe one day she will have coffee with a friend; or walk barefoot along the beach, the waves fizzing as they sink into the sand beneath her toes. Maybe one day she'll even phone Chris Ina.

But if so, that day is very far away.

Rosetta Stone

FRED LERNER.

Fred Lerner is a career librarian and active SF fan and convention attendee since the early 1960s.

He has published nonfiction books on SF, and on libraries (most notably, The Story of Libraries: From the Invention of Writing to the Computer Age, the first modern history of libraries). He publishes a pleasant personal fanzine, Lofgeornost (Old English for love of honor or fame), devoted to his doings and ruminations, and is settled in White River Junction, Vermont. This is his first published story. It appeared in Artemis 1, a new SF semi-professional magazine with professional editorial standards, and bodes well for the future of that magazine. It is the only SF story I know in which the science is library science.

"You can learn a lot about a man from his book-shelves," Rita said. She was certainly giving mine a thorough going over. As she ran her eyes along each shelf, whenever she came across a volume she didn't recognize she would pull it out and leaf through it. Sometimes she would ask me about the book, but mostly she scanned my library in silence. I was content to sit in my favorite chair and watch her conduct her examination. Rita was a pleasure to watch.

We hadn't been dating long, and this weekend was the first that she was spending at my place. Ritaand I were good at enjoying plays and films and museums together. Now it was time to find out how good we might be at simply enjoying each other's company.

It wasn't time to talk on the telephone, so I just let it ring. It kept ringing, all weekend, but I ignored it.

There was nothing that anyone at the other end of a telephone might have to tell me that would interest me more than Rita. "The telephone is my servant, not my master," I told her. I'd deal with it when I was good and ready.