DREAM LOVERS

Trouble at home: VR can help, evenif home is a space capsule

Semyon hated Dylan: She was too fastidious and too aggressive at the same time.
Dylan hated Semyon: He was too messy for words, detested the shower bag, and
consequently smelled terrible after three months in space. Semyon and Dylan
hated one thing in common: the horrible crapsule, as they called the
interplanetary craft in which they lived, jammed together like two roaches in a
flying roach motel.

In the beginning, they had shared hopes, dreams, and histories. That was
exhausted now. All that remained was to sit next to each other, sweating and
wallowing in virtual reality. Goggles, earphones, and a skinsuit--like an
intelligent surgical glove for the whole body--made up their gateway to VR. And
VR was vital. The space program's physicians had determined that the only way to
survive the mind-numbing hours on the three-year flight to Mars was to provide
not only the companionship of another human being, but also the VR escape route
from that human being. Side by side sat Semyon and Dylan.

``Hog,'' snapped Dylan, her dark curls floating in zero-G.

``Sow,'' sneered Semyon, spittle floating from his full lips.

``I hate you,'' they both said in unison, snapping their goggles on and sitting
back in the contoured flight chairs. . . .

The clear azure of the South Pacific shimmered delicately in the morning sun.
Dylan stood on the veranda of the bleach-white cottage, her tanned feet
comforted by terra-cotta tiles still cool from the night air. It was heaven. She
knew Semyon was watching her as the sun showed her figure through the nightgown,
the breeze gently wrapped around her. ``Oh darling,'' she called. Such a
glorious morning.

They had loved each other for what seemed like an eternity, and this dawn was
yet another affirmation of the total intertwining of their souls. ``You are
perfect,'' he whispered to her. She heard the rustle of the bedcovers and the
soft pad of his feet on the bedroom floor. He was coming to her. Without
turning, so as to be surprised by his touch, she reached her hand behind her,
waiting expectantly for the touch of his fingertips on her own. . . .

It was winter in the mountains outside Zurich, and the night air was harsh
against his skin. He stood with his back to the room, feeling the heat from the
fireplace as the logs blazed against the chill. Dylan rustled the bedcovers
behind him and sighed seductively. She had delighted in telling him her latest
erotic dream earlier that evening as they sat on the featherbed drinking
champagne and eating caviar. After the afternoon's hard skiing, they had raced
to their room. He had stripped the foil off the champagne, torn at the cork, and
they had drunk it from the bottle. Laughing and pulling each other's ski clothes
off, they had made love.

He heard her stir. ``Darling,'' she called. ``I must have passed out from this
place, from champagne, from you.'' He heard her move to the side of the bed, the
silken sound of her robe and bare feet on the thickly rugged floor as she came
to him. Without turning to face her, he reached his hand out. He waited with
anticipation to feel the touch of her fingertips against his own. . . .

Interplanetary travel is long and lonely, even for two. No humans, even those
who love each other, can live together in the terror and isolation of space
without inevitably slipping into madness. Or dreams. Inside the spaceship, two
humans who had only hours ago been at each other's throats now reclined side by
side in tranquility. Their bodies encased in skin-tight datasuits, they reach
out blindly in dream--and reality--intertwining their fingers.

Two individuals alone with their thoughts fly to Mars holding hands. . . .

Semyon sighed. The moon was just over the Alps now, brilliant and clear.

Dylan sighed. The dawn spread over the Pacific, brilliant and clear.

``This could be the beginning of a wonderful friendship,'' each heard the other
say.