Part 12 (2/2)
”We needn't show all this sordid stuff, Smile, if you don't think so,” he said, grinning as if in pain. ”I'm just giving it a run over just to put the general idea before you. We'll-you'll settle on the final details later, naturally.”
Mr. Wreyermeyer said nothing. He nodded his head once, neutrally. Scenting the way the wind blew-being half wolf, he was adept at that-Ruddigori spoke up.
”You're too sold on Art Stayker, Harsch,” he said kindly. ”He was only a common b.u.m with a camera, after all.”
”Sure, Ruddy, sure,” Harsch replied; he always knew when it was time to back away and slip in the crafty old betrayal routine. ”Haven't I just told Mr. Wreyermeyer here that this is sordid stuff? Our job after will be to pick the good bits out of the junk.”
”n.o.body could do that better than you, H.B.,” Pony Caley called.
”Thanks, Pony,” Harsch said, nodding cordially to him. Pony was his head yesman; the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was going to feel the axe afterwards, for not giving better backing. Why, he'd not spoken till now, just sat there leering at the stenographers.
Art Stayker's city was emptying now. Crumpled aphrohale packets, newscasts, tickets, programmes, preventatives, bills and flowers lay in the gutters. The revellers, sick and tired, were straggling home to sleep.
”Now, just watch this!” Harsch said, putting force into his voice, clenching his fists, gangling. ”This is really a human doc.u.ment. This is where Stayker really came off the rails.”
A fog settled lightly over Bosphorus Concourse, em-phasizing the growing vacancy of the place. A fat man, clothes all-unb.u.t.toned, reeled out of a bordel and made for the nearest lift. It sunk away with him like a ball falling down a drain.
From St. Bosphorus Cathedral three-thirty sounded, three-thirty sounded from Pla-to Court. Lights snapped off in a deserted restaurant, leaving on the retina an after-image of upturned chairs. One last prost.i.tute clattered wearily home, clutching her handbag tightly.
Yet still the Concourse was not entirely empty of humanity. The remorseless eye of the camera hunted down, in sundry doorways, the last watchers of the scene. They had stood there, motionless, not partic.i.p.ating, when the evening was at its height; they stood there still when the first milkman was stirring.
Watching the crowd, watching the stillness, watching the last wh.o.r.e hobble home, they stood in their doorways as if peering from a warren. From the shadows, the faces gleamed with a terrible, inexpressible tension. Only their eyes moved.
”These men,” Harsch said, ”really fascinated Stayker. I told you he was crazy in some ways. He reckoned that if anybody could lead him to this heart of the city he kept on gabbing about, these people could, these quaints in doorways. Night after night they were always there. Great To knows what they wanted! Stayker called them 'the impotent spectres of the feast'.”
”They're still there,” Ruddigori said unexpectedly. ”You find them lurking in the doorways of any big city. I've wondered about them myself.”
That was unexpected. It was not policy to wonder about anything not directly connected with Supernova. Harsch raised his hand to Cluet, a recrudescence of hope making him gangle again.
The solid screen blanked, then was filled with form once more. An overhead camera tracked two men down a ca.n.a.l-side walk; the two men were Art Stayker and his cub a.s.sistant, Harsch Benlin.
”In this shot,” the mature Harsch told his audience, ”you see me and Stayker going along to the home of one of these night-birds; I tagged along just for the laughs.”
The two figures paused outside a little tailor's shop, looking doubtfully at the sign outside which read, simply, 'a. willitts tailor'.
”I have the feeling we are going to turn up some-thing big,” Art was saying tensely as the sound came on. ”We're going to hear what a city really is, from some-one who must have felt its atmosphere most keenly. We're digging right down into the heart of it. But it won't be pleasant I warn you, Harsch. You stay here if you'd prefer.”
”Gee, Art,” the youngster protested, ”if something big's going to break, I naturally want to be in on it.”
Art looked speculatively at his a.s.sistant.
”I don't suppose there'll be any money in this, son,” he said.
”I know that, Art. I don't think only of money; what you take me for? This is something Philosophical, isn't it?”
”Yeah. I guess it is.”
They went together into the little shop.
Darkness reigned inside. It seemed to seep out of the black G-suits which were the tailor's speciality; they hung stiff and bulky all round the walls, funereal in the gloom. The tailor, Willitts, was a little newt of a man; his features were recognizable as one of the Concourse night watchers. Art's underlings had trailed him to this lair.
Willitt's eyes bulged and glistened like those of a drowning rat. He was melancholy and undershot. He denied ever going to Bosphorus Concourse. When Art persisted, he fell silent, dangling his little fingers against the counter.
”I'm not a policeman,” Art said. ”I'm just curious. I want to know why you stand there every night the way you do.”
”It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Willitts muttered, dropping his eyes. ”I don't do anything.”
”That's just it,” Art said eagerly. ”You don't do any-thing. Why do you-and the others like you-stand there not doing anything? What are you thinking of?, What do you see? What do you feel?”
”I've got my business to attend to, mister,” Willitts protested. ”I'm busy. Can't you see I'm busy?,”
”Answer my questions and I'll go away.”
”We could make it worth your while, Willitts,” young Harsch insinuated, patting his breast pocket.
The little man's eyes were furtive. He licked his lips. He looked so tired, you would think there was not a spark of blood in him.
”Leave me alone,” he said. ”That's all I ask-just leave me alone. I'm not hurting you am I? A customer might come in any time. I'm not answering your questions. Now please beat it out of here.”
”We've got ways and means of getting the answers we want,” Harsch threatened.
”Leave me alone, you young thug. If you touch me, I'll call the coppers.”
Unexpectedly, Art jumped on him, pinning the little fellow down backwards across the counter, holding him by his thin shoulders. Of the two, Art's face was the more desperate.
”Come on, Willitts,” he said. ”I've got to know. I've got to know. I've been digging down deeper into this cesspit of a city week after week, and you're the c.o.c.k-roach I've found creeping round at the bottom of it. You're going to tell me what it feels like down there or, so help me, I'll break your neck.”
”How can I tell you?” Willitts demanded with sudden, mouse-like fury. ”I can't tell you. I can't-I haven't got the words. You'd have to be-my sort before you could savvy.”
And although Art knocked the little tailor about and pulled his hair out, he got nothing more from him than that. In the end they gave it up and left Willitts panting, lying behind his counter in the dust.
”I didn't mean to lose control of myself like that,” Art said, pressing his brow, licking his knuckles as he emerged from the shop. He must have known the camera was on him, but was too preoccupied to care.
”Some-thing just went blank inside me. We've all got our hands far too ready, I guess. But I must find out. . . .”
His set face loomed larger and larger in the screen, eclipsing all else. One eyelid was flickering uncontroll-ably. He moved out of sight, still talking.
The screen went blank.
”Terrific stuff!” Pony Caley shouted, jumping up. ”It should go over big. It should be real great, man!”
Everyone was talking in the audience now, except the big chief; they had all enjoyed the beating up.
”Seriously,” Janzyez was saying, ”that last scene did have something. You could replay it with proper actors, have a few bust teeth and things and it would really be solid. Maybe finish with the little guy getting knocked into the ca.n.a.l.”
Timing his exits was a speciality with Harsch. He had them all awake and now he would show them no more. Hands in pockets, he came slowly down the few steps into the auditorium.
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