The wrong end of time, p.5
The Wrong End Of Time, page 5
“Knahfl” the voice repeated. “O' takun ow-yo' han' wiffa slug, blabboh!”
There was an eternity of frozen silence. All Lora could think of was that only one black man could call another blabboh-"black boy"--and survive.
Then Josh, mouth curled as though he had bitten a lemon, opened his fingers and let the knife fall.
“Addle cock!” the stranger said sharply. “Back slo'tutri pesses-so'sa fahn. Narrunda co'nah-fahn againl”
As in a dream, Lora reacted to the half-understood order, backing around the corner of the stack of scrap.
“Okay,” the gunman said, and then added, more loudly and with a forced blabboh intonation: “Ali seeahl Slongzah seeah-Ah c'nitchah! Mango blabboh, mango!”
A gesture with his rifle. And they went.
Half a minute later, while Lora was sobbing into her hands, a tug on her arm. “Move it!”
Gone the blabboh accent, but the same voice. She opened her eyes to see her rescuer-lean, young, dark, not a as black as her captors but black nonetheless-tossing his j rifle aside. °a
“But they might come after us!” she cried.
“Sure) I said move it, didn't I?” Catching her by the arm and literally dragging her along.
“But the gun-1”
“Not worth a fart. Picked out of a stack of them over '~ there. Military surplus. Empty! Will you move?”
He led her stumbling through the awful man-made desert of the scrap yard, to a gap in the perimeter fence, down a narrow alley . . . . By that time she was gasping for breath, and barely registered where he was taking her. Then around a corner, and after a quick survey of the street in both directions-just such a street as she'd emerged on to from the hoverhalt-at a quieter pace for another few hundred yards, his arm around her waist now, his hand companionable on her bare skin.
“It's over now,” he said, close to her ear. “But you got a scare, that's for sure. You over the legal?”
“Uh . . .” For a moment she didn't understand, although the coarse blabboh accent had faded from his speech and he was speaking precisely as might any of her friends. Then she saw a bar-sign ahead. Yes, a drink. A stiff shot of-anything. She said so. Her voice not only sounded but felt like someone else's.
In the bar, a couple of black men at the counter gave them a dull once-over, then reverted to their liquor. He brought her brandy, and beer for himself. Sitting down opposite her across a table with a chipped plastic top, he said, “Drink it. Then breathe as deeply as you can, ten times. I'll wait.”
It worked, somehow. Maybe, it was the confidence in his tone. Her heart, which had been slamming to be let out through her ribs, slowed to a more normal rate, and she was able to look at her new friend properly. Some tune she didn't recognize battered her ears; she had only just realized music was playing, As though the episode in the scrap yard had not happened, she found herself thinking: Yes, 1 hoped to meet a black boy like this, tough, lean, crooked smile, graceful-moving . . .
And-?
There was a stern reproach in his eyes. He said, “When you come here, learn to pick your kicks.”
“I . . .” She swallowed hard. “I didn't think they . . .”
“Yea, yea,” he cut in. “But-shit! None of them three looked twice at a girl in their lives, 'cep maybe to peel her down!”
She looked miserably at her empty glass and nodded.
He gave his crooked smile again and patted her hand. “So okay, no harm done. Just don't make the same mistake twice. By the way, my name's Danty.”
“Mine's Lora,” she said distractedly. “Lora Turpin. Uh-”
But Danty had tensed. He leaned forward. “Not Turpin of Energetics General?”
“Why . . . why, yes. Do you-?”
“Know him? Shit, no. Heard of him, though.” And in the manner of an afterthought: “Friends of mine work at EG.”
Which she had imagined to be all of Cowville, the building to incorporate the city. She touched her bosom where the point of Josh's knife had rested, and a shiver racked her.
“You not? No? What do you do?”
“My best to be myself,” Danty murmured, and sipped beer.
Recognition signals. Landmarks. Like knowing (because a TV program had said so with authority) that only queer blacks close to farming stock called white teenage girls “addle cocks.” She said explosively, “Are you a reb?”
“I guess I wouldn't cross the road to contradict you.”
She stared at him, and went on staring. Now and then, the other side of New Lake, the son or daughter of some wealthy family put on the reb-style pose. and that was where it stopped-just a pose. According to the social history she had been drilled through in school. every generation for centuries had had its rebs, clear back to the wandering students of the Middle Ages. But something kept on going, fed from a source she couldn't understand. Once, in an essay, she'd spoken of a humanistic counterpart of divine discontent-the phrase borrowed from a book not on the curriculum-and she'd been marked down two grades for saying it.
“You?” he was asking. “You in college?”
“Uh . . .” Remembering with an effort. “I go to college in the fall. Just finished school.”
And what would it be like, there at Bennington?
An odd feeling, as though she were two people at once. At home she had been allowed to drink since she was fourteen, so it couldn't be the brandy that had hit her. It must be shock. She half wanted to cry, and half wanted to laugh hysterically.
“And what brought you here?” Danty said.
So she told him: words flooding out, tumbling over each other, confusing the argument she wanted to frame, until she was certain he must think her mentally deranged. Yet he sat there, and nodded now and then, and heard her out.
He said eventually, “You like to night-ride, I guess.”
“Oh, yes!” (Black sky, black road, the universe condensed to a pattern of lights, the ever-present expectation -hope?-of “instant death”: just add blood.)
“Yes.” Nodding. “It's the idea of going somewhere. To look for something you might not recognize if you found it. Only the places you most want to go, they won't let you.”
She was about to say that was exactly what she felt, when she realized with a pang of shame that she'd clean forgotten to tell him something very important. “Danty! Oh, Jesus! I didn't thank you.” “Not to worry.”
“But-1” Now she was shaking all over again, from a different cause. “But you must think I'm awful! And it was fantastic what you did, really incredible Danty, you're kind of a terrific personal”
“I'm myself,” he said, and drained his glass.
“But--oh, shit!” Well, it was the only way she knew to say thanks properly, so with her hand hovering over her crotch-zip: “Do you have somewhere we could . . . ? You know!”
“Place but not time. Thanks all the same. Shall I show you to a hoverhalt?” Making to rise.
No, it can't stop here! 1 mean: SAVED MY LIFE! “No, wait” Mind racing. And then inspiration. Oh, yes! lust the right bit to blow the minds, turn up with a black reb! “Hey, look! We have this big party for tomorrow night, this real stand-up-and-grin-if-it-chokes-you affair Can I send you an invitation? I mean-oh, Danty, I do want to see you again!”
He nodded and settled back in his seat, pulling a pen from his pocket.
“Why not? Here's my address, inasmuch as I have one.”
Feeling almost ashamed of herself because she hadn't been this excited about a party for years. Lora took ,` special care before her mirror, selecting her best makeup and perfume, then deliberately putting on a dress her father hated. a harlequin rig of lozenge-shaped bits of cloth tacked together only at the corners, which showed as much of her as it concealed.
No doubt that meant that some of Dad's friends would try to feel her up. and she didn't intend to put out for reeky old turds like them. but if Danty did show . . .
“Here's my address, inasmuch as I have one.” Wow.
The house-phone rang. It was her mother.
“Lora honey. would you fix me a drink?”
She stamped her small foot. “Can't you send Estelle?”
“Well, she's fixing my hair right now.”
“Oh . . . 1 Oh, all right.” In a sullen tone. But she was all through dressing, and Peter might show up any minute, . so getting out of the room was not a bad idea-
And here he came, panicking starting to throw his outdoor clothes all over everywhere as usual. She headed promptly for the door.
“Don't let me drive you out, sister mine!” he exclaimed. “You saw me take my pants off before. didn't you?”.
“Going to fix Mom a drink.” Lora said, sweeping by.
“Me too!” Peter cried. “I'm in a rush!”
“That's your fault,” Lora snapped. and strode away.
The nearest liquor cabinet was in her father's room. The room was empty. She mixed a gin atomic for her mother and a weak Bloody Mary for herself, and went ` next door where Mrs. Turpin sat naked at her mirror while her French-Canadian maid set out accessories to go with her radion gown.
“Thanks, honey.” she said in a strangled tone due to the need to let her lip-shade dry without wrinkling. “Put a straw in it for me, Estelle!”
“Mind if I drink mine here?” Lora said. “If I go back in my room Peter will grab it. And by the way!” “Yes?”
“You couldn't arrange to have his drinks watered tonight, could you? He's bad enough sober. When he's drunk-Christi”
“Oh, he won't try and rape you, if that's what you mean,” her mother said calmly.
“Mom! That's beyond joking” Lora gasped.
“Unfortunately it is. But the fact stands: You're a girl. And, come to think of it, you seem to want everyone to be absolutely certain. Are you seriously going to wear that bunch of rags, if you can call it wearing?”
“Why not?” With a gulp of her drink.
“Well, your father-but I guess that's why you put it on. More important, I asked Rev. Powell to be here sharp on time, and I don't want him to see you dressed like a whore.”
“Don't make me laugh He made a pass at me last time he was here, the slimy slug”
“Well, he doesn't pretend to be above temptation that's one reason people like him. But don't let me hear you call him a slug again, understand? Or I'll forget you're eighteen and whop you blue. I won't have you badmouthing a minister. And one more thing Don't spend the evening like you usually do, moping around some plastic headed boy. Mix Talk to people-”
“I'll spend the whole radiated night with anyone I choose,” Lora said, and slammed the door.
After that, she didn't really want to join the line-up at the entrance to the party hall. That was a room about sixty feet by eighty, shared between their apartment and the next; there was one on each floor of the tower, and doors off it were unlocked according to which family were the hosts.
But she was afraid of missing Danty if she didn't.
So she waited until her father was busy greeting an early guest, then darted into a spot beside Holtzer, thinking that even if Dad did want to slang her for wearing this dress he'd hardly do so in a stranger's hearing. She was right, and escaped with a mere scowl.
Holtzer, on the other hand, looked her over thoughtfully and at leisure, and said at last, “You look lovely, Lora.”
“Well, thank you,” she murmured, because he'd said it
in a tone that made her believe it. She relaxed-but only for a heartbeat or two, because here suddenly came Peter in a hideous party-suit of yellow lace and stinking to the sky. He rushed to his mother, lying about how he hadn't been able to get ready sooner because his reeky sister was underfoot, but Mrs. Turpin was used to that and froze him fast.
“It's your preening and primping that takes the time!” she snapped. “Get yourself a drink and shut up!”
Instantly furious, Peter was about to scream back at her, but that was the moment when Rev. Powell arrived: a fine-looking man with a commanding presence that had made him the highest-paid TV evangelist in history. And of course, Peter pounced on him.
Well, that's one way of avoiding the two people 1 least want on my back . . . . Lora sighed, and found Holtzer looking at her again. This time he winked, and she grinned back. Good to know there was one other person here who wasn't dazzled by this parade of notables, these generals, admirals, senators, TV stars, and other slugs. Plus, naturally, the whole of the EG board.
But she had to be polite, for the time being.
The crush increased tremendously within minutes. Even in Lakonia, people had got out of the habit of arriving at parties late and staying late. Going home after midnight wasn't as risky here as in New York, Washington, or L.A.-where most parties nowadays were held in the afternoon-but the pattern was contagious.
Abruptly the racket of conversation dwindled to a buzz, and Sheklov, surprised, glanced towards the door. Two men with blue jowls and stern expressions were coming in. They ignored the host and hostess, but walked silently around the assembly, sharp eyes piercing and probing.
“Well” someone he didn't know said beside Sheklov. “So Prexy is coming!”
“How do you-?” Sheklov began, and then put two and two together. “Oh. Secret Service?” A chill touched his nape.
“Yes,” the stranger said importantly. “Those are Crashaw and Levitt. They're alleged to have by heart the entire CIA and FBI files on subversives. See how tense the Turpin girl is? Worried in case they tell Prexy not to come in”
Lora caught that and glanced over her shoulder with a scowl. “Fool” she thought. There was someone she was far more concerned about than Prexy-and here he was!
She had had vague visions of him arriving with a dozen reb friends, leaping with a whoop and a holler into the middle of this stuffy crowd and blowing every mind for miles. But, instead, he was quietly taking in the scene from the threshold, neatly if not expensively dressed in wine-red, not seeming at all out of place except that his complexion was the darkest in view.
He saved my life she thought again, savoring the solidity of the concept, and ran to kiss him. Several people noticed. They were meant to.
Sheklov was staying close to Turpin. That suited his ru1e as a stranger who knew almost no one, but also it was safer, because although his briefing had been thorough, he was not yet primed with current gossip.
He was impressed. Turpin's assimilation was unbelievably complete. People ,were present who made the headlines simply by catching a head-cold. And even those Secret Service agents had looked Turpin in the face, never suspecting that he had been born in the other Georgia-that he had grown up answering to the name of Yashvili-that it had taken four years' planning and three deaths to turn him into Lewis Raymond Turpin, known inevitably as “Dick” .– .
Sheklov suddenly recalled something that Bratcheslavsky had repeated many times during his briefing: "Don't let his assimilation put you off. Bear in mind it saved the world°
True enough. Every circuit in “the world's most perfect defensive system” had been known to Turpin for years. He didn't sabotage the installations, or even delay them that wasn't his job. All he did was pass the news on.
Yes, by doing that he'd saved the world. But Sheklov thought of an alien ship sparkling near Pluto, and wondered with a shiver: For how long?
An' outburst of clapping, and there he was, clasping his hands above his head like a boxer. A photographer accompanying him snapped a shot for tomorrow's papers. He was a large man, broad-faced, broad-shouldered, broad-grinning. As Turpin approached, beaming, he
dropped his hands and changed his grin for his look of sincere pleasure, and the photographer snapped again.
Sheklov hung back, watching intently. A dozen people had actually entered the hall, but all bar Prexy had expertly effaced themselves. That wasn't hard; guests were pressing forward, determined to shake the famous hand or at least to be told hello. Sheklov had heard about this phenomenon, but until now had barely believed it. Yes, they did worship this figurehead, this waxwork, this mindless creation of a skilled team of Navy publicists!
Don't they know what's been done to them? Or is it that they don't care?
Now Turpin was signaling him, and he had to move forward, other guests reluctantly permitting him passage.
“Proxy I'd like you to meet a friend of mine from Canada, Don Holtzer here!”
Prexy was instantly Prexy-to-the-nth. “Dick, any friend of yours is a friend of mine, and any friend of mine is a friend of the U.S.A., Mr. Holtzer! Or rather: Don!”
He offered his hand, beaming. Sheklov took it. The photographer snapped, snapped again, and glanced up. “Say, Mr. Turpin! That young lady's your daughter? Like to have her in a shot or two as well, a spot of glam!”
The scene seemed to freeze. At length Turpin said, “Lora?”
She came forward unwillingly, holding her boy-friend tight by the hand. “Only if he's in the shot too,” she said.
“And why not?” A boom from Prexy. “Here, young lady A kind of parable for us all, isn't it? rve never been able to hold against them the resentment some of our darker fellow-citizens feel-justifiably, if you look at the historical record. I hope and pray for the day when we shall resolve our disagreements peacefully. And for you and your compatriots, Don, the same thing holds. One's aware there have been differences, one's aware that relations between our countries are not as happy as they have been right now, but bonds of honest trade still forge links between our lands, and where business binds, friendship follows, sooner or later-”
Meantime he was putting his arm around Lora and hopefully trying to insert his fingers through the slots of her dress, but she obviously was not one of the many who felt it a privilege to be touched by Prexy. The fact that she wriggled away, however, did not disconcert him in the slightest. Snap. He altered. his pose with practiced skill. Snap again. Sheklov stood numb, wearing a feeble grin. He was terribly aware of the eyes of Cashew and Levitt fixed on him, saying without words: “We'll know you next time we see you.”
Snap once more, and finished. As though a spell had been lifted, people started moving about and talking as loudly as before, while Turpin found Prexy a drink and ushered him towards the densest part of the crowd, his favorite spot. Watching him go, Sheklov heard again that slick alliterative catch-phrase-"where business binds, friendship follows"-and felt briefly haunted by the ghosts of a million Asian peasants.
