* * * * *
But the cab driver hadn't gone for some reason of his own. He jumped
out and smirkingly held the front door open for us. I told him we
preferred to sit in back. He sulkily opened the rear door, slammed it
after us, jumped in front and slammed the door behind him.
My companion leaned forward. "Heaven," she said.
The driver switched on the turbine and televisor.
"Why did you ask if I were a British subject?" I said, to start the
conversation.
She leaned away from me, tilting her mask close to the window. "See the
Moon," she said in a quick, dreamy voice.
"But why, really?" I pressed, conscious of an irritation that had
nothing to do with her.
"It's edging up into the purple of the sky."
"And what's your name?"
"The purple makes it look yellower."
* * * * *
Just then I became aware of the source of my irritation. It lay in the
square of writhing light in the front of the cab beside the driver.
I don't object to ordinary wrestling matches, though they bore me, but
I simply detest watching a man wrestle a woman. The fact that the bouts
are generally "on the level," with the man greatly outclassed in weight
and reach and the masked females young and personable, only makes them
seem worse to me.
"Please turn off the screen," I requested the driver.
He shook his head without looking around. "Uh-uh, man," he said.
"They've been grooming that babe for weeks for this bout with Little
Zirk."
Infuriated, I reached forward, but my companion caught my arm.
"Please," she whispered frightenedly, shaking her head.
I settled back, frustrated. She was closer to me now, but silent and
for a few moments I watched the heaves and contortions of the powerful
masked girl and her wiry masked opponent on the screen. His frantic
scrambling at her reminded me of a male spider.
I jerked around, facing my companion. "Why did those three men want to
kill you?" I asked sharply.
The eyeholes of her mask faced the screen. "Because they're jealous of
me," she whispered.
"Why are they jealous?"