She looked out so shudderingly at the congregating figures that I
suppressed my indignation and did as she suggested. The driver took the
bill without a word. As he started up, he put his hand out the window
and I heard a few coins clink on the pavement.
My companion came back into my arms, but her mask faced the television
screen, where the tall girl had just pinned the convulsively kicking
Little Zirk.
"I'm so frightened," she breathed.
* * * * *
Heaven turned out to be an equally ruinous neighborhood, but it had a
club with an awning and a huge doorman uniformed like a spaceman, but
in gaudy colors. In my sensuous daze I rather liked it all. We stepped
out of the cab just as a drunken old woman came down the sidewalk,
her mask awry. A couple ahead of us turned their heads from the half
revealed face, as if from an ugly body at the beach. As we followed
them in I heard the doorman say, "Get along, grandma, and watch
yourself."
Inside, everything was dimness and blue glows. She had said we could
talk here, but I didn't see how. Besides the inevitable chorus of
sneezes and coughs (they say America is fifty per cent allergic
these days), there was a band going full blast in the latest robop
style, in which an electronic composing machine selects an arbitrary
sequence of tones into which the musicians weave their raucous little
individualities.
Most of the people were in booths. The band was behind the bar. On a
small platform beside them, a girl was dancing, stripped to her mask.
The little cluster of men at the shadowy far end of the bar weren't
looking at her.
We inspected the menu in gold script on the wall and pushed the buttons
for breast of chicken, fried shrimps and two scotches. Moments later,
the serving bell tinkled. I opened the gleaming panel and took out our
drinks.
* * * * *
The cluster of men at the bar filed off toward the door, but first they
stared around the room. My companion had just thrown back her coat.
Their look lingered on our booth. I noticed that there were three of
them.
The band chased off the dancing girl with growls. I handed my companion
a straw and we sipped our drinks.
"You wanted me to help you about something," I said. "Incidentally, I
think you're lovely."
She nodded quick thanks, looked around, leaned forward. "Would it be
hard for me to get to England?"
"No," I replied, a bit taken aback. "Provided you have an American
passport."
"Are they difficult to get?"
"Rather," I said, surprised at her lack of information. "Your country
doesn't like its nationals to travel, though it isn't quite as
stringent as Russia."
"Could the British Consulate help me get a passport?"
"It's hardly their...."
"Could you?"
I realized we were being inspected. A man and two girls had paused
opposite our table. The girls were tall and wolfish-looking, with
spangled masks. The man stood jauntily between them like a fox on its
hind legs.
My companion didn't glance at them, but she sat back. I noticed that
one of the girls had a big yellow bruise on her forearm. After a moment
they walked to a booth in the deep shadows.
"Know them?" I asked. She didn't reply. I finished my drink. "I'm not
sure you'd like England," I said. "The austerity's altogether different
from your American brand of misery."
She leaned forward again. "But I must get away," she whispered.
"Why?" I was getting impatient.
"Because I'm so frightened."
There were chimes. I opened the panel and handed her the fried shrimps.
The sauce on my breast of chicken was a delicious steaming compound of
almonds, soy and ginger. But something must have been wrong with the
radionic oven that had thawed and heated it, for at the first bite I
crunched a kernel of ice in the meat. These delicate mechanisms need
constant repair and there aren't enough mechanics.