That Night Long Ago
Life continued, even in the agony of grief. There were a few good things to consider, beginning with the rich find of deutronium, which was larger than they had ever found before and which should be enough to run the Jupiter II for at least a year. As well, the ship was in good shape and a launch window was coming up. There were other repairs, of course, and these were tended to mechanically by the Robinsons and Major West and even Dr. Smith, who since Penny's memorial had been quiet and even cooperative. It had hit him hard, her death, so hard that even Don was heard to remark to Judy that he was moved by the older man's sentiments.
John sat now, outside the main hatch, reclined in a chair with Maureen. It was night, the sky overhead brilliant with stars, with the white haze of the galaxy. His arm was around her and she was pressed close against him. Neither had spoken since they had lain down.
It occurred to John as they sat that it hadn't been all that different, all those years ago. Judy would have been young, and probably asleep in bed in the other room, surrounded by her toys and dolls, and he and Maureen would have been lying together just like this. Sometime in December, and it would have been cool, and they would have each sought the warmth of the other.
His hand moved, caressed her. She moved slightly; he could feel her breasts, even through her clothes and his, against him. They would have been bare, that night so long ago, and he would have touched them and kissed them as she threw back her head in the pleasure of it.
And they would have touched, intimately, and made love.
He had heard once that some women knew when conception occurred, knew it down to the second. Had Maureen?
Had she known when Penny began?
John closed his eyes, the pleasant memory replaced suddenly with the raw agony of now. He remembered the cave, the roar of falling rock, that instant he had to decide between life and death.
His life, her death.
"I wish...." he said softly.
Maureen, as always before, knew what he was thinking.
"No, John. It wasn't your fault. You tried."
"Not hard enough."
Maureen raised her head, looked at him in the gloom. And she said nothing to him, because there were no words for this. And for a time John Robinson tried to hold back the tears, tried to be strong as he had always thought himself to be, but he could not.
And Maureen was there to hold him as he wept.
It was she who saw the telltale streak of light across the sky that indicated a spaceship coming down.
Life continued, even in the agony of grief. There were a few good things to consider, beginning with the rich find of deutronium, which was larger than they had ever found before and which should be enough to run the Jupiter II for at least a year. As well, the ship was in good shape and a launch window was coming up. There were other repairs, of course, and these were tended to mechanically by the Robinsons and Major West and even Dr. Smith, who since Penny's memorial had been quiet and even cooperative. It had hit him hard, her death, so hard that even Don was heard to remark to Judy that he was moved by the older man's sentiments.
John sat now, outside the main hatch, reclined in a chair with Maureen. It was night, the sky overhead brilliant with stars, with the white haze of the galaxy. His arm was around her and she was pressed close against him. Neither had spoken since they had lain down.
It occurred to John as they sat that it hadn't been all that different, all those years ago. Judy would have been young, and probably asleep in bed in the other room, surrounded by her toys and dolls, and he and Maureen would have been lying together just like this. Sometime in December, and it would have been cool, and they would have each sought the warmth of the other.
His hand moved, caressed her. She moved slightly; he could feel her breasts, even through her clothes and his, against him. They would have been bare, that night so long ago, and he would have touched them and kissed them as she threw back her head in the pleasure of it.
And they would have touched, intimately, and made love.
He had heard once that some women knew when conception occurred, knew it down to the second. Had Maureen?
Had she known when Penny began?
John closed his eyes, the pleasant memory replaced suddenly with the raw agony of now. He remembered the cave, the roar of falling rock, that instant he had to decide between life and death.
His life, her death.
"I wish...." he said softly.
Maureen, as always before, knew what he was thinking.
"No, John. It wasn't your fault. You tried."
"Not hard enough."
Maureen raised her head, looked at him in the gloom. And she said nothing to him, because there were no words for this. And for a time John Robinson tried to hold back the tears, tried to be strong as he had always thought himself to be, but he could not.
And Maureen was there to hold him as he wept.
It was she who saw the telltale streak of light across the sky that indicated a spaceship coming down.