I shrugged. "What do you care? Anyhow, some go away happy."

  "What?" She looked astonished. "Can't you even understand simple—" She stopped and shook her head. "Maybe you'll understand selfishness. Suppose I want what I came for. I can't get any help from you if I have trouble."

  "Well, I guess that's logi—"

  I stopped when she reached for a big stoppered metal bottle, on the shelf next to her. She heaved it at me, and I only had time to spin around. It hit my shoulder blade, hard, and bounced unharmed to the floor.

  I whirled back toward her, ready to grab it and throw it back at her, but she was already striding quickly toward me.

  "What's wrong with you?" She demanded. "I want to know! Why are you so callous?" She snatched up the metal container from the floor in front of me and held it wrapped in her shawl. "Tell me now!" she screamed, right in front of me.

  I leaned forward and spoke, glaring into her eyes. "I came in here looking for my compassion. I lost it years ago, bit by bit. I lost it when I was eight, and other kids chased me around the playground for no visible reason—and they weren't playing. When I started junior high and got beat up in gym class because the rest of the school was white, like my grade school. When I ran for student congress and had my posters covered with swastikas and KKK symbols. And that was before I got out into the world on my own. You want to hear about my adult life?"

  I paused to catch my breath. She backed away from me.

  "I've lost more of my compassion every year of my life for every year I can remember, until I don't have any more. Well, it's here, but I can't find it."

  She stood speechless in front of me. Letting her have it all at once accomplished that much, at least.

  "Maybe you were in the wrong town," she muttered.

  "You think I like being like this? Hating the memories of my life and not caring what happens to anybody? I said I've lost my compassion, not my conscience."

  She walked back and put the metal bottle back in its place on the shelf. "I can find it," she said quietly.

  "What?"

  "I've been watching you. When you get something for someone, you follow the little white light that appears."

  "You can see that?"

  "Of course I can—anybody can. You think you're special? We just can't see our own. I figured that out."

  "Well… so did I," I said lamely.

  "So, I could get your compassion for you."

  "Yeah?" I didn't think she would, considering all she'd said.

  "Only you have to get what I want, first."

  "You don't trust me, remember?"

  She smiled smugly. It looked grotesque, as though she hadn't smiled in ages. "I can trust you. Because you know that if you don't give me what I want, I won't give you your compassion. Besides, if all goes well, your lack of compassion won't make any difference."

  "Well, yeah. I guess so." I hadn't considered a deal with another customer before. Until now, I had just been waiting for the no-show proprietor, and then given up even on that.

  "Well?" she demanded, still with that weird forced smile.

  "Uh—yeah, okay." It was my last chance. I glanced around and found her spot of white light behind me on a lower shelf. "This way."

  She walked next to me, watching me carefully as the white light led us down the crowded aisle. A large porcelain vase emitted guttural mutterings on an upper shelf as we passed. Two small lizards from the Florida corridor and something resembling a T-bone steak with legs were drinking at a pool of shiny liquid in the middle of the floor. The viscous liquid was oozing slowly out of a cracked green bottle. We stepped over it and kept going.

  The light finally stopped on the cork of a long-necked blue bottle at the back of a bottom shelf. I stopped and looked down at it, wondering if this deal had an angle I hadn't figured.

  "Well?" She forced herself to smile again. It gave her a sort of tortured visage.

  "What is it, anyway?" I tried to sound casual.

  "You don't need to know, I know that, too."

  "Suppose I don't get it till you tell me."

  "I won't tell you. And you won't get what you want."

  She couldn't have known I had to leave soon, but she was still my last chance. I would be getting home late as it was. Besides, she was the sort who might really want more compassion in the world.

  "Hurry up," she said.

  I knelt down and looked at the bottle. She might have guessed what I had focused on; but with all the other junk jammed around it, she couldn't be sure. Well, I knew she had compassion herself, already. She wouldn't want to regain any lost tendencies that were nasty, like cruelty or vengefulness, so I was not in personal danger.

  I took the bottle by the long neck and stood up. "It's in here, whatever it is. If it's a material object, you just open the bottle and spill it out. If it's a chance, or a personal trait, you have to uncork the bottle and inhale the fumes as they come out."

  She was already taking the bottle from me, carefully in both hands. I backed away as she sank her teeth into the cork and yanked it out with a pop. White vapor issued from the bottle. She started taking deep breaths in through her nose, with her eyes closed.

  I backed away, smelling something like rotten lettuce mixed with wet gerbil fur.

  She kept on breathing until the vapors ran out. Then she recorked the bottle and smiled at me, looking relaxed and natural. "Well! You're still sickening, but that was it, all right." She laughed gently. "Wow, that stuff stunk. Smelled like rotting cabbage and wet cat fur, didn't it?"

  "Wha—?" I laughed, surprised at her sudden good humor. "It sure did."

  "Okay, brown eyes. I see your little spot of light. Follow the swaying rear." She sashayed past me and walked casually down another dark aisle, humming to herself.

  At one point, something on a shelf caught her eye and she stopped to giggle at it. It was a large brown and white snake, shoved into a jar of some kind of clear solution. She paused to make a face, imitating the snake's motionless expression. Here, of course, one never knew if a pickled snake was really pickled snake or something else temporarily in that guise. Anyway, she made a funny face and then laughed delightedly. After that, we pushed on.

  When she stopped again, she was looking up at a shelf just within her reach. "There it is." She chuckled, without moving to take anything.

  "Yeah?" I was suddenly afraid of that laugh.

  She looked at me and laughed again.

  "What's so funny?"

  She shook her head and reached up on tiptoe with both hands. When she came down, she was cradling four sealed containers in her arms. One was a short-necked brown bottle encrusted with dry sand. Two were sealed jars of smoky glass and the last was a locked wooden box engraved with smile faces. She squatted on the floor Asian style and set them down.

  "One of these holds your lost compassion." She looked up and laughed. "Guess which one."

  My stomach tightened. I could not be sure of getting my compassion back this way. After my general insensitivity to people here, I didn't think I would ever be allowed back in, either.

  "We have a deal," I said weakly. "You were going to give it to me."

  "I have; it's right here. Besides, you should talk. And remember—if you inhale someone else's lost chance to wrestle an alligator or something, you'll wrestle it." She clapped her hands and laughed.

  I stared at her. Maybe I deserved it, but I couldn't figure out what had happened to her. She had been concerned and compassionate before I had given her the long-necked bottle, and she certainly didn't seem angry or righteous now. I wondered what she had regained.

  "Well?" She giggled at me and stood up. "One of them is it. That's a better chance than you gave anyone."

  I looked down at the containers. She had no more idea what was in three of them than I did. "I have no intention of opening any of these," I said.

  She shrugged, still grinning. "Have it your way, brown eyes. I'm leaving." She started strolling away.

  "Wait."

  She turned and walked away backwards, facing me. "What?"

  "Uh—" I couldn't think of anything.

  "Bye!"

  "No—uh, hey, what did I give back to you, anyway?"

  "Oh!" She laughed. "My sense of humor." She was still backpedaling.

  "I'll do it! Wait a minute."

  She stopped and folded her arms. "You'll really do it?"

  "Come on. Come on back here while I do this." I wasn't sure why I wanted company, but I did.

  She came back, grinning. "If you got the guts, brown eyes, you can open 'em all."

  I smiled weakly. "They could all be good."

  She smirked. "Sure—it's possible."

  I looked down at the four containers. The wooden box seemed more likely to hold a tangible object than a lost quality. Though this place had few reliable rules, I decided to leave the box alone. The brown bottle with the short neck had such a heavy layer of sand that its contents were hidden. I knelt down and looked over the two smoky jars.

  "Come on, sweetie." She started tapping her foot.

  Quickly, before I could reconsider, I grabbed both jars, stood, and smashed them down on the floor. The glass shattered and two small billows of blue-gray smoke curled upward.

  She stepped back.

  I leaned forward, waited for the smoke to reach me, and inhaled. One strand smelled like charcoal-broiled Kansas City steak; the other, like the inside of a new car. I breathed both in, again and again, until the vapors were gone.

  After a moment, I blinked and looked around. "I don't feel any different."

  "Sure you do." She smiled. "Just go on as normal, and it'll come clear."

  "Okay." I bent down and picked up the box and the bottle. "Where were these? I'll put 'em back. There's a broom—"

  "You?" She laughed gaily. "Well, that's something. You mean you're actually going to straighten up this place?"

  "No, I—well, I've been in charge; I suppose I should do something…" I replaced the items where she pointed.

  "Integrity."

  "What?"

  "You've got your integrity back, for one."

  "Oh, I don't know…" I looked at her for a moment and then gazed up the dark aisle toward the light from one of the main corridors. "I guess I did lose that, too… Otherwise, I couldn't have been so cruel to people, even without compassion. They trusted me," I started walking up the aisle.

  She followed, watching me closely. "So what are you going to do?"

  "I guess I'll stay and run the shop." It just came out naturally. I hadn't even realized I was going to say it. "The… other thing I got back is kind of minor. For a long time, I used to try to remember the details of a fishing trip in the mountains my family went on, back when I was little. I knew I had a great time, but that was all. Now, all of a sudden, I can remember it completely."

  She cocked her head to one side. "Was it still really wonderful?"

  I considered my new memories a moment. "Yeah."

  "Aw…" She looked at me, smiling. "I can't help it, brown eyes. I give in. It's in that brown thing, with the sand all over it."

  Excitement surged in my chest. "Thanks!" I reached up with trembling fingers and snatched it off the shelf.

  "Careful—"

  I fumbled it away. It hit my shoulder, bounced to the floor, and cracked. It rolled, and before I could bend down to grab it, it was under a bottom shelf. I dropped to the floor and slid my face under the shelf. The cracked bottle was hissing in the darkness as the special vapors escaped. I couldn't smell anything. It was too far from me.

  I reached for it with one hand. It was wedged against something and stuck. I could touch it, but I couldn't get enough of a hold to pull it back.

  I remained on the floor, inhaling frantically, motionless until the hissing stopped. Then, suddenly feeling heavy all over, I managed to stand up.

  "What happened?" She smiled hopefully.

  "It's gone," I muttered. "It… sure was over quick." I hesitated, then added, "Thanks anyhow." Stunned, I eased past her and started walking. I could hear her follow me.

  We came out into the main corridor. I picked up the little blue throw rug and hung it on a nearby hook. Then I turned, all the way around, surveying my shop. "Maybe it was no accident."

  "You were nervous, that's all—"

  "I don't mean that. I mean my finding the door to this place when I most needed it, and staying until… someone came in to find my stuff."

  "You think your new integrity adds up to something, it sounds like."

  "My destiny."

  She laughed, then tapered off when I looked at her calmly. "You serious?"

  I shrugged. "This place is mine. I knew that, somehow, when I put my signs up. And now I owe this shop my best attention."

  "With integrity."

  I shrugged again. Taking care of the shop and its customers was important; the reasons I felt that way were not.

  "I… think I got news for you, brown eyes."

  "I don't want any news." I was still in shock from disappointment. It was justice of a sort, but it wasn't pleasant.

  "You have your compassion back. I'm sure of it. You can't help it."

  "But you said it was in the bottle I broke—"

  "It was, as a separate quality. Only, I think your integrity comes with a little compassion in a package deal. Forces it on you."

  I looked up at her, hopeful. "Really?"

  "You could try it." She pointed down the Florida corridor.

  "What'shername, the peach-colored former artist lady, had never made it out the door. She was sitting near it, slumped on the floor, an incongruous position for a woman of her age and dignity. The skirt of her suit was smudged and rumpled under her, exposing more of her legs than it was supposed to.

  "This is your shop now," said my companion. She put a hand on my shoulder.

  I didn't say anything.

  "You can't just let a customer sit there, can you?"

  "No—not anymore. A matter of—integrity."

  "In this case, it's the same as compassion. I don't see how you can help her, but if you try—"

  "I know how."

  "Huh?"

  "I lost one chance to help her." I smiled, suddenly understanding the true potential of this place. "If you'll go down the aisles and find it, we can fix up that customer after all."

  She winked. "You got it, brown eyes."

  SPEECH SOUNDS

  Octavia E. Butler

  There was trouble aboard the Washington Boulevard bus. Rye had expected trouble sooner or later in her journey. She had put off going until loneliness and hopelessness drove her out. She believed she might have one group of relatives left alive—a brother and his two children twenty miles away in Pasadena. That was a day's journey one-way, if she were lucky. The unexpected arrival of the bus as she left her Virginia Road home had seemed to be a piece of luck—until the trouble began.

  Two young men were involved in a disagreement of some kind, or, more likely, a misunderstanding. They stood in the aisle, grunting and gesturing at each other, each in his own uncertain T stance as the bus lurched over the potholes. The driver seemed to be putting some effort into keeping them off balance. Still, their gestures stopped just short of contact—mock punches, hand games of intimidation to replace lost curses.

  People watched the pair, then looked at one another and made small anxious sounds. Two children whimpered.

  Rye sat a few feet behind the disputants and across from the back door. She watched the two carefully, knowing the fight would begin when someone's nerve broke or someone's hand slipped or someone came to the end of his limited ability to communicate. These things could happen anytime.

  One of them happened as the bus hit an especially large pothole and one man, tall, thin, and sneering, was thrown into his shorter opponent.

  Instantly, the shorter man drove his left fist into the disintegrating sneer. He hammered his larger opponent as though he neither had nor needed any weapon other than his left fist. He hit quickly enough, hard enough to batter his opponent down before the taller man could regain his balance or hit back even once.

  People screamed or squawked in fear. Those nearby scrambled to get out of the way. Three more young men roared in excitement and gestured wildly. Then, somehow, a second dispute broke out between two of these three—probably because one inadvertently touched or hit the other.

  As the second fight scattered frightened passengers, a woman shook the driver's shoulder and grunted as she gestured toward the fighting.

  The driver grunted back through bared teeth. Frightened, the woman drew away.

  Rye, knowing the methods of bus drivers, braced herself and held on to the crossbar of the seat in front of her. When the driver hit the brakes, she was ready and the combatants were not. They fell over seats and onto screaming passengers, creating even more confusion. At least one more fight started.

  The instant the bus came to a full stop, Rye was on her feet, pushing the back door. At the second push, it opened and she jumped out, holding her pack in one arm. Several other passengers followed, but some stayed on the bus. Buses were so rare and irregular now, people rode when they could, no matter what. There might not be another bus today—or tomorrow. People started walking, and if they saw a bus they flagged it down. People making intercity trips like Rye's from Los Angeles to Pasadena made plans to camp out, or risked seeking shelter with locals who might rob or murder them.

  The bus did not move, but Rye moved away from it. She intended to wait until the trouble was over and get on again, but if there was shooting, she wanted the protection of a tree. Thus, she was near the curb when a battered blue Ford on the other side of the street made a U-turn and pulled up in front of the bus. Cars were rare these days—as rare as a severe shortage of fuel and of relatively unimpaired mechanics could make them. Cars that still ran were as likely to be used as weapons as they were to serve as transportation. Thus, when the driver of the Ford beckoned to Rye, she moved away warily. The driver got out—a big man, young, neatly bearded with dark, thick hair. He wore a long overcoat and a look of wariness that matched Rye's. She stood several feet from him, waiting to see what he would do. He looked at the bus, now rocking with the combat inside, then at the small cluster of passengers who had gotten off. Finally he looked at Rye again.

 

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