The stranger was astonished by the appearance of this gangly teenager expelling smoke from her mouth. His trained eye immediately recognized her natural beauty and it was clear that she was very bright. Who was she?

“This is my cousin, Francesca” Roberto said, obviously flustered by her interruption.

“Carlo Bianchi,” the man said, extending his hand. His hand was moist Francesca looked up at his face and could see that he was interested. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “If you listen to Roberto!” she said coyly, “then all you’ll get is the official tour. He leaves out the juicy bits.”

“And you, young lady—”

“Francesca,” she said.

“Yes, Francesca. Do you have a tour of your own?”

Francesca gave him her prettiest smile. “I read a lot,” she said. “I know all about the artists who worked on the cathedral, particularly the painter Luca Signorelli!” She paused for a moment. “Did you know,” she continued, “that Michelangelo came here to study Signorelli’s nudes before he painted the ceiling at the Sistine Chapel?”

“No, I didn’t,” Carlo said, laughing heartily. He was already fascinated. “But I do now. Come. Join us. You can add to what your cousin Roberto says.”

She loved the way he kept staring at her. It was as if he were appraising her, as if she were a fine painting or a jeweled necklace, his eyes missing nothing as they roamed unabashedly over her figure. And his easy laughter spurred her on. Francesca’s comments became increasingly outrageous and bawdy.

“You see that poor girl on the demon’s back?” she said while they were gazing at the bewildering range of genius exhibited by Signorelli’s frescoes inside the San Brizio chapel. “She looks like she’s humping the demon in the butt, right? You know who she is? Her face and naked body are portraits of Signorelli’s girlfriend. While he was slaving in here day after day, she be­came bored and decided to diddle a duke or two on the side. Luca was really pissed, So he fixed her. He condemned her to ride a demon in perpetuity.”

When he stopped laughing, Carlo asked Francesca if she thought the woman’s punishment was fair. “Of course not!” the fourteen-year-old re­plied, “it’s just another example of the male chauvinism of the fifteenth century. The men could screw anybody they wanted and were called virile; but let a woman try to satisfy herself—”

“Francesca!” Roberto interrupted. “Really. This is too much. Your mother would kill you if she heard what you are saying—”

“My mother is irrelevant at this moment. I’m talking about a double standard that still exists today. Look at…”

Carlo Bianchi could hardly believe his good fortune. A rich clothes de­signer from Milano, one who had established an international reputation by the time he was thirty, he had just happened to decide, on a whim, to hire a car to take him to Rome instead of going on the usual high-speed train. His sister, Monica, had always told him about the beauty of II Duomo in Orvieto. It had been another last-minute decision to stop. And now. My, my. The girl was such a splendid morsel.

He invited Francesca to dinner when the tour was over. But when they reached the entrance to the fanciest restaurant in Orvieto, the young woman balked. Carlo understood. He took her to a store and bought her an expen­sive new dress with matching shoes and accessories. He was astonished by how beautiful she was. And only fourteen!

Francesca had never before drunk really fine wine. She drank it as if it were water. Each dish was so delicious that she positively squealed. Carlo was enchanted with his woman-child. He loved the way she let her cigarette dangle from the corner of her lips. It was so unspoiled, so perfectly gauche.

When the meal was over it was dark. Francesca walked with him back to the limousine parked in front of II Duomo. As they went down a narrow alley, she leaned over and playfully bit his ear. He spontaneously pulled her to him and was rewarded with an explosive kiss. The surge in his loins overwhelmed him.

Francesca had felt it too. She did not hesitate a second when Carlo sug­gested they go for a ride in the car. By the time the limousine had reached the outskirts of Orvieto, she was sitting astride him in the backseat. Thirty minutes later, when they finished making love the second time, Carlo could not bear the thought of parting with this incredible girl. He asked Francesca if she would like to accompany him to Rome.

“Andiamo,” she replied with a smile.

So we went to Rome and then Capri, Francesca remembered. Paris for a week. In Milano you had me live with Monica and Luigi. For appearances. Men are always so worried about appearances.

Francesca’s long reverie was broken when she thought she heard footsteps in the distance. She cautiously stood up in the dark and listened. It was hard for her to hear anything over her own breathing. Then she heard the sound again, off to the left. Her ears told her the sound was out on the ice. A burst of fear flooded her with an image of bizarre creatures attacking their camp from across the ice. She listened again very carefully, but heard nothing.

Francesca turned back toward the camp. ! loved –you, Carlo, she said to herself, if I ever loved any man. Even after you began to share me with your friends. More long-buried pain came to the surface and Francesca fought it with hard anger. Until you started hitting me. That ruined everything. You proved that you were a real bastard.

Francesca very deliberately pushed aside the memories. Now, where were we? she thought as she approached her hut. Ah yes. The issue was Nicole des Jardins. How much does she really know? And what are we going to do about it?

32

NEW YORK EXPLORER

The tiny bell on his wristwatch awak­ened Dr. Takagishi from a deep sleep. For a few moments he was disoriented, unable to remember where he was. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his eyes. At length he recalled that he was inside Rama and that the alarm had been set to wake him up after five hours of sleep.

He dressed in the dark. When he was finished he picked up a large bag and fumbled around inside for several seconds. Satisfied with its contents, he threw the strap over his shoulder and walked to the door of his hut. Dr. Takagishi peered out cautiously. He could not see lights in any of the other huts. He took a deep breath and tiptoed out the door.

The world’s leading authority on Rama walked out of the camp in the direction of the Cylindrical Sea. When he reached the shore, he climbed slowly down to the icy surface on the stairs cut into the fifty-meter cliff. Takagishi sat on the bottom rung, hidden against the base of the cliff. He removed some special cleats from his bag and attached them to the bottom of his shoes. Before walking out on the ice, the scientist calibrated his per­sonal navigator so that he would be able to keep a constant heading once he left the shoreline.

When he was about two hundred meters away from the shore, Dr. Takagi­shi reached in his pocket to pull out his portable weather monitor. It dropped on the ice, making a short clacking sound in the quiet night. Taka­gishi picked it up a few seconds later. The monitor told him that the temper­ature was minus two degrees Centigrade and that a soft wind was blowing across the ice at eight kilometers per hour.

Takagishi inhaled deeply and was astonished by a peculiar but familiar odor. Puzzled, he inhaled again, this time concentrating on the smell, There was no doubt about it — it was cigarette smoke! He hurriedly extinguished his flashlight and stood motionless on the ice. His mind raced into overdrive, searching for an explanation. Franceses Sabatini was the only cosmonaut who smoked. Had she somehow followed him when he left the camp? Had she seen his light when he checked his weather monitor?