Part 16 (1/2)
”We'll meet you at Freshwater after you keep your appointment at the amphitheater, PC,” Dana grinned.
”Oh-oh.” Christmas glanced guiltily at his timer and went out to the sled. As he floated into the evening a troop of giant wolf-spiders paraded onto the track below him, prancing daintily on twenty-foot legs. The bugle made sweet sounds.
Arcadia, Nisrair had called it. Arcady was a pastoral dream. No, this was a different dream-onethat had kept his race alive, of all the orphan races. A bright improbable dream that their ancestors had managed to weave into the galaxy's life currents so their children need never wake up and die.
It had even hooked those golems from the Clouds. Christmas chuckled, recalling Ser Nisrair's discomfiture. The poor spooks had been paralyzed by Gal Q's briefing.
Grinning, he turned a long lazy circle toward Admin. Then his grin faded. In his mind was the image of Nisrair's round, receding eye. It had been unforgivable to make him bare his soul that way. How could Nisrair have fallen down so badly in briefing them? He must have been really frantic, Christmas decided; he'd never before failed to explain the set-up here to visitors in advance. In fact, he'd never before failed at much of anything.
The eye came back, brighter, expressively clinical.
”Why, you mealy-mouthed big smart c.o.c.kroach!” Christmas exploded aloud. ”I should have known!”
He whipped the sled savagely over Admin, seeing it all now. That request of Nisrair's-he hadn't been asking Christmas to let them press some b.u.t.tons or fly over a track. He had them figured, he was looking for something to get under their hides with. So he picked the Tragedy of Terra. Played Live.
”You soulless big blue bug-” Christmas noticed startled faces turning toward him as he shot over a recreation deck. Slowly, his jaw came back to normal.
”It's his job to get rapport; he got rapport.” Christmas grunted. His lips quirked.
Grinning once more, the Steward of Raceworld braked his sled smartly onto the roof of the amphitheater where the Secretary of Raceworld was preparing with all ceremony to award a medal to an intrepid mouse. As he started down the ramp there floated up from behind him the cry, ”KEEB'Y VAAAAALYA!” and the watchers from a minion planets rose and clamored.
THE MAN DOORS SAID h.e.l.lO TO.
I was all alone at the end of the bar when he came in and I heard it distinctly: ”h.e.l.lo-o!”
I froze. Go away. But he wasn't talking to me. In fact he wasn't talking to anybody unless he was two midgets. Which was possible, I noted apathetically as he receded down the bar. He was about nine feet tall and dressed by Goodwill Industries.
I went back to trying to decide whether I was suffering more here than if I were someplace else.
Here was a ticky grill in a part of town I'd never seen before and didn't etcetera. It had the advantage that none of my, aaugh, friends was apt to come in. On the other hand several hours here had yielded no help at all. None.
There was the problem of taking a leak before leaving. When I stood up I found my legs had been there too long. They kind of floated me at a tall apparition halfway down the bar, but I managed to veer into the can.
The can door pushed open again behind me and I heard a gutsy chuckle: ”Hiya.” Mister Tall came through. Oh, no. I concentrated on my image as the most dangerous slightly paralyzed guy five feet six in the world and finished my business fast. When I left I noticed the door creaked a little. It definitely did not speak English.
I had to stop to blow my nose and he came out. The door said briskly, ”Ciao.”
It had to be some ventriloquist gig. As he went by I saw him tap the next door, the one with the female thing on it.
”Hi there,” it murmured. The door said it.
Without meaning to I looked at his eyes. He didn't seem to be two midgets.
”I heard that.”He shrugged.
”It's a friendly city.”
”Yo,” I shuddered.
”Doors.” He shook his head and gestured at the bartender. We seemed to be sitting down again.
”Ever think about doors? Zam, bang, hit, hit, all day long. Very little empathy.”
”Hit, hit.” I touched the cool gla.s.s to my forehead. A friendly city. A razorblade pizza, the day I'd been through. Pete, my so-called agent. Hallee, my so-called girl. Mr. McFarland. I was bleeding into my socks.
”Take bus doors,” the large weirdo was saying. ”Or subway doors, it's pitiful the beating they take.”
This was better than thinking about Mr. McFarland but not very. ”I admit I never thought about it from the doors' viewpoint. One of them clipped me yesterday. In the ankle.”
”Alienated.” He sighed. ”Hard to blame them.”
The bartender seemed to have opened a slightly better brand. My door-loving acquaintance was doing something elaborate with a thimble on his keychain. I squinted into the bar mirror FBI-style and saw his hand slide under his limp lapels and come out empty. Our eyes met.
”You're pouring gibsons into your pocket.”
”Ordinarily I don't let people see me do that.” He grinned tentatively.
”I saw it. Samples. Some kind of inspector?”
”Oh no.” He laughed bashful-like. ”It's this housing shortage, you know. It's no joke.”
”Fierce,” I agreed.
”Too right.” He had this proud, shy look. A clown. ”They're a great bunch of kids. You have no concept how hard it is for girls to find a place to live in this city. I mean like a decent place.” He shrugged and the suit sort of billowed around his struts. ”It isn't as though I don't have plenty of room.”
What a clown. But it was still better than the Pete-Hallee-Mr. McFarland segue.
”You're telling me you have girls living in your clothes?”
He nodded, glancing around.
”Watch,” he smiled. He selected a teeny kernel of popcorn and held it up beside his Misterogers tie.
A little pink thing about as long as a guppy whipped out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the popcorn back into his coat. I saw it clearly. A perfect girl's arm. But perfect, not like those things that pop out of boxes. I couldn't help setting myself up for the pitch.
”Swear the fingers moved.”
”Well, of course.”
”Let's see the rest of her.”
”Ah, they're doing their nails and you know. The stuff girls do at night.”
”They? How many have you?”
”There are six on the lease,” he said seriously. ”The others aren't home yet.”
”Oh? Where do they go?”
”Working. What else?” He gave me a sharp look. ”Girls in the city, you know it's rough. I helped them over a couple of months before they connected, but we're all square now.”