George kept quiet. Bill's voice surprised him, but it shouldn't have. Bill was
clever enough to lie still and feign sleep so that he could overhear Joe's
conversations, where George would have just sat up and started talking.
"Orville should know about this, but I can't tell if it would make him angry. If
it made him angry and he punished Joe, it would be our fault for telling him."
"Then we won't tell him," George said.
Bill held up his hand. "But if we don't tell him and he finds out on his own, he
may be angry with us."
"Then we should tell him," George said.
"But Joe and this Woodrow may not get along after all, and if that happens, the
whole thing will end on its own."
"Then we won't tell him," George said.
"But if they do get along, then they may do something that would make Orville
angry," Bill looked expectantly at George.
"Then we should tell him?" George said, uncertainly.
"I don't know," Bill said. "I haven't decided."
George knew that this meant that Bill would have to think on it, and so he left
him. He had to catch the tram to make it to his shift, anyway.
#
The soft one with the six-to-noon shift left as soon as George arrived, without
a word. George was used to soft ones not having anything to say to him, and
preferred it that way. He was better off than Bill -- soft ones always wanted to
talk to Bill, and he hated it, since they never had anything to say that Bill
wanted to know. The weather needed no discussion, Bill said. And as for the
complaints about the shift's Lead, well, one soft one was just about the same as
any other, and Orville had told them that at the end of the day, they worked for
him, not for any Lead.
Joe liked talking to the soft ones. Joe liked to talk, period. He told the soft
ones lies about their childhood in the shack with their father, and told them
about how his brothers tormented, and even talked about the weather. When he got
back home, he told his brothers all over again, everything he'd told the soft
ones.
George had memorised the SOP manual when they came to the Island, five years
before. It clearly said that the floor of the booth would be disinfected every
three hours, and the surfaces polished clean, and the pots and machines
refilled. The soft one with the six-to-noon shift never did any of these things,
which could get him disciplined by their Lead, but George didn't complain. He
just wiped and disinfected and re-stocked when he arrived, even though he had to
be extra careful with the water, so that he didn't wash any of himself away.
Boys ran up and down the midway, baking in the mid-day sun. They reminded George
of the boys he'd gone to school with, after the social worker had come to his
father's shack. They'd teased him to begin with, but he'd just stood with his
hands at his sides until they stopped. Every time he started a new grade, or a
new kid came to the school, it was the same: they'd tease him, or hit him, or
throw things at him, and he'd stand strong and silent until they stopped, even
if it took months. His teachers quickly learned that calling on him in class
meant standing in awkward silence, while he sat stoic and waited for them to
call on someone else. The social worker could make him go to school with the
soft ones, but she couldn't make him act like one.
George watched the boys carefully, as carefully as he had when he stood silently
in the schoolyard, not seeming to watch anything. He was better at spotting a
donkey than any of the soft ones. When a boy was ready to turn, George could
almost see the shape of the donkey superimposed on the boy, and he radioed a
keeper to pick up the donkey come morning. He got a bonus for each one he
spotted, and according to Bill, it had accumulated to a sizable nest-egg.
George looked at the inventory and decided that the fudge was getting a little
long in the tooth. He'd start pushing fudge-nut dips, and by the end of his
shift, the tub would be empty and he'd be able to give it a thorough cleaning
and a refill from fresh stock. "Hey guys!" he called to three boys. "Is anybody
_hungry_?" He dipped a floss and held it up, so that it oozed fudge down his
wrist. The boys shyly approached his booth. George knew from their manner that
they were new to the Island: probably just picked up from a video-arcade or
lasertag tent on the mainland that afternoon. They didn't know what to make of
their surroundings, that was clear.
"Step right up," he said, "I don't bite!" He smiled a smile he'd practiced in
the mirror, one that shaped his soft, flexible features into a good-natured
expression of idiotic fun. Cautiously, the boys came forward. They were the
target age, eleven-to-fourteen, and they'd already accumulated some merch,
baseball hats and fanny packs made from neoprene in tropical-fish colours,
emblazoned with the Island's logomarks and character trademarks. They had the
beginnings of dark circles under their eyes, and they dragged a little with low
blood-sugar. George dipped two more and distributed them around. The eldest, a
towheaded kid near the upper age range, said, "Mister, we haven't got any money
-- what do these cost?"
George laughed like a freight train. "It's all free, sonny, free as air!
Courtesy of the Management, as a reward for very _special_ customers like you."
This was scripted, but the trick was to sell the line like it was fresh.
The boys took the cones from him timidly, but ate ravenously. George gave them
some logoed serviettes to wipe up with and ground the fudge into his wrists and
forearms with one of his own. He looked at his watch and consulted the laminated
timetable taped to the counter. 1300h, which meant that the bulk of the Guests
would be migrating towards Actionland and the dinosaur rides, and it was time to
push the slightly down-at-the-heels FreakZone, to balance the crowds. "You boys
like rollercoasters?" he said.
The youngest -- they were similar enough in appearance and distant enough in
ages to be brothers -- spoke up. "Yeah!" The middle elbowed him, and the
youngest flipped the middle the bird.
"Well, if you follow the midway around this curve to the right, and go through
the big clown-mouth, you'll be in the FreakZone. We've got a fifteen-storey
coaster called _The Obliterator_ that loops fifty times in five minutes --
running over _ninety-five miles per hour_! If you hurry, you can beat the line!"
He looked the youngest in the eye at the start of the speech, then switched to
the middle when he talked about the line.
The youngest started vibrating with excitement, and the middle looked pensive,
and then to the eldest said, "Sounds good, huh, Tom?"
The eldest said, "We haven't even found out where we're sleeping yet -- maybe we
can do the ride afterwards."
George winked at the youngest, then said, "Don't worry about it, kids. I'll get
that sorted out for you right now." He picked up the white house phone and asked
the operator to connect him with Guest Services. "Hi there! This is George on
the midway! I need reservations for three young men for tonight -- a suite, I
think, with in-room Nintendo and a big-screen TV. They look like they'd enjoy
the Sportaseum. OK, I'll hold," he covered the mouthpiece and said to the boys,
"You'll love the Sportaseum -- the chairs are shaped like giant catcher's mitts,
and the beds are giant Air Jordans, and the suite comes with a regulation
half-court. What name should I put the reservation under?"