"Don't waste your breath." Brett's host was looking at him triumphantly.
"Why do I call it 'it'?" He stood up, reached out and undid the top
buttons of the green uniform. The waitress stood, leaning slightly
forward, unmoving. The blouse fell open, exposing round white
breasts--unadorned, blind.
"A doll," said the red-head. "A puppet; a golem."
* * *
Brett stared at her, the damp curls at her temple, the tip of her tongue
behind her teeth, the tiny red veins in her round cheeks, and the white
skin curving ...
"That's a quick way to tell 'em," said the red-head. "The teat is
smooth." He rebuttoned the uniform, then jabbed again at the girl's
ribs. She straightened, patted her hair.
"No doubt a gentleman like you is used to better," she said carelessly.
She went away.
"I'm Awalawon Dhuva," the red-head said.
"My name's Brett Hale." Brett took a bite of the sandwich.
"Those clothes," Dhuva said. "And you have a strange way of talking.
What county are you from?"
"Jefferson."
"Never heard of it. I'm from Wavly. What brought you here?"
"I was on a train. The tracks came to an end out in the middle of
nowhere. I walked ... and here I am. What is this place?"
"Don't know." Dhuva shook his head. "I knew they were lying about the
Fire River, though. Never did believe all that stuff. Religious hokum,
to keep the masses quiet. Don't know what to believe now. Take the roof.
They say a hundred kharfads up; but how do we know? Maybe it's a
thousand--or only ten. By Grat, I'd like to go up in a balloon, see for
myself."
"What are you talking about?" Brett said. "Go where in a balloon? See
what?"
"Oh, I've seen one at the Tourney. Big hot-air bag, with a basket under
it. Tied down with a rope. But if you cut the rope...! But you can bet
the priests will never let that happen, no, sir." Dhuva looked at Brett
speculatively. "What about your county: Fession, or whatever you called
it. How high do they tell you it is there?"
"You mean the sky? Well, the air ends after a few miles and space just
goes on--millions of miles--"
Dhuva slapped the table and laughed. "The people in Fesseron must be
some yokels! Just goes on up; now who'd swallow that tale?" He chuckled.
"Only a child thinks the sky is some kind of tent," said Brett. "Haven't
you ever heard of the Solar System, the other planets?"
"What are those?"
"Other worlds. They all circle around the sun, like the Earth."
"Other worlds, eh? Sailing around up under the roof? Funny; I never saw
them." Dhuva snickered. "Wake up, Brett. Forget all those stories. Just
believe what you see."
"What about that brown thing?"
"The Gels? They run this place. Look out for them, Brett. Stay alert.
Don't let them see you."
* * *
"What do they do?"
"I don't know--and I don't want to find out. This is a great place--I
like it here. I have all I want to eat, plenty of nice rooms for
sleeping. There's the parades and the scenes. It's a good life--as long
as you keep out of sight."
"How do you get out of here?" Brett asked, finishing his coffee.
"Don't know how to get out; over the wall, I suppose. I don't plan to
leave though. I left home in a hurry. The Duke--never mind. I'm not
going back."
"Are all the people here ... golems?" Brett said. "Aren't there any more
real people?"
"You're the first I've seen. I spotted you as soon as I saw you. A live
man moves different than a golem. You see golems doing things like
knitting their brows, starting back in alarm, looking askance, and
standing arms akimbo. And they have things like pursed lips and knowing
glances and mirthless laughter. You know: all the things you read about,
that real people never do. But now that you're here, I've got somebody
to talk to. I did get lonesome, I admit. I'll show you where I stay and
we'll fix you up with a bed."
"I won't be around that long."
"What can you get outside that you can't get here? There's everything
you need here in the city. We can have a great time."
"You sound like my Aunt Haicey," Brett said. "She said I had everything
I needed back in Casperton. How does she know what I need? How do you
know? How do I know myself? I can tell you I need more than food and a
place to sleep--"
"What more?"
"Everything. Things to think about and something worth doing. Why, even
in the movies--"
"What's a movie?"
"You know, a play, on film. A moving picture."
"A picture that moves?"
"That's right."
"This is something the priests told you about?" Dhuva seemed to be
holding in his mirth.
"Everybody's seen movies."
Dhuva burst out laughing. "Those priests," he said. "They're the same
everywhere, I see. The stories they tell, and people believe them. What
else?"
"Priests have nothing to do with it."
Dhuva composed his features. "What do they tell you about Grat, and the
Wheel?"
"Grat? What's that?"
"The Over-Being. The Four-eyed One." Dhuva made a sign, caught himself.
"Just habit," he said. "I don't believe that rubbish. Never did."
"I suppose you're talking about God," Brett said.
"I don't know about God. Tell me about it."
"He's the creator of the world. He's ... well, superhuman. He knows
everything that happens, and when you die, if you've led a good life,
you meet God in Heaven."
"Where's that?"
"It's ..." Brett waved a hand vaguely, "up above."
"But you said there was just emptiness up above," Dhuva recalled. "And
some other worlds whirling around, like islands adrift in the sea."
"Well--"
"Never mind," Dhuva held up his hands. "Our priests are liars too. All
that balderdash about the Wheel and the River of Fire. It's just as bad
as your Hivvel or whatever you called it. And our Grat and your Mud, or
Gog: they're the same--" Dhuva's head went up. "What's that?"
"I didn't hear anything."
* * *
Dhuva got to his feet, turned to the door. Brett rose. A towering brown
shape, glassy and transparent, hung in the door, its surface rippling.
Dhuva whirled, leaped past Brett, dived for the rear door. Brett stood
frozen. The shape flowed--swift as quicksilver--caught Dhuva in
mid-stride, engulfed him. For an instant Brett saw the thin figure, legs
kicking, upended within the muddy form of the Gel. Then the turbid wave
swept across to the door, sloshed it aside, disappeared. Dhuva was gone.
Brett stood rooted, staring at the doorway. A bar of sunlight fell
across the dusty floor. A brown mouse ran along the baseboard. It was
very quiet. Brett went to the door through which the Gel had
disappeared, hesitated a moment, then thrust it open.
He was looking down into a great dark pit, acres in extent, its sides
riddled with holes, the amputated ends of water and sewage lines and
power cables dangling. Far below light glistened from the surface of a
black pool. A few feet away the waitress stood unmoving in the dark on a
narrow strip of linoleum. At her feet the chasm yawned. The edge of the
floor was ragged, as though it had been gnawed away by rats. There was
no sign of Dhuva.
Brett stepped back into the dining room, let the door swing shut. He
took a deep breath, picked up a paper napkin from a table and wiped his
forehead, dropped the napkin on the floor and went out into the street,
his suitcase forgotten now. At the corner he turned, walked along past
silent shop windows crowded with home permanents, sun glasses,
fingernail polish, suntan lotion, paper cartons, streamers, plastic
toys, vari-colored garments of synthetic fiber, home remedies, beauty
aids, popular music, greeting cards ...
At the next corner he stopped, looking down the silent streets. Nothing
moved. Brett went to a window in a grey concrete wall, pulled himself up
to peer through the dusty pane, saw a room filled with tailor's forms,
garment racks, a bicycle, bundled back issues of magazines without
covers.
He went along to a door. It was solid, painted shut. The next door
looked easier. He wrenched at the tarnished brass nob, then stepped back
and kicked the door. With a hollow sound the door fell inward, taking
with it the jamb. Brett stood staring at the gaping opening. A fragment
of masonry dropped with a dry clink. Brett stepped through the breach in
the grey facade. The black pool at the bottom of the pit winked a
flicker of light back at him in the deep gloom.
* * *
Around him, the high walls of the block of buildings loomed in
silhouette; the squares of the windows were ranks of luminous blue
against the dark. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight. Far above,
the roof was dimly visible, a spidery tangle of trusswork. And below was
the abyss.
At Brett's feet the stump of a heavy brass rail projected an inch from
the floor. It was long enough, Brett thought, to give firm anchor to a
rope. Somewhere below, Dhuva--a stranger who had befriended him--lay in
the grip of the Gels. He would do what he could--but he needed
equipment--and help. First he would find a store with rope, guns,
knives. He would--
The broken edge of masonry where the door had been caught his eye. The
shell of the wall, exposed where the door frame had torn away, was
wafer-thin. Brett reached up, broke off a piece. The outer face--the
side that showed on the street--was smooth, solid-looking. The back was
porous, nibbled. Brett stepped outside, examined the wall. He kicked at
the grey surface. A great piece of wall, six feet high, broke into
fragments, fell on the sidewalk with a crash, driving out a puff of
dust. Another section fell. One piece of it skidded away, clattered down
into the depths. Brett heard a distant splash. He looked at the great
jagged opening in the wall--like a jigsaw picture with a piece missing.
He turned and started off at a trot, his mouth dry, his pulse thumping
painfully in his chest.
Two blocks from the hollow building, Brett slowed to a walk, his
footsteps echoing in the empty street. He looked into each store window
as he passed. There were artificial legs, bottles of colored water,
immense dolls, wigs, glass eyes--but no rope. Brett tried to think. What
kind of store would handle rope? A marine supply company, maybe. But
where would he find one?
Perhaps it would be easiest to look in a telephone book. Ahead he saw a
sign lettered HOTEL. Brett went up to the revolving door, pushed inside.
He was in a dim, marble-panelled lobby, with double doors leading into
a beige-carpeted bar on his right, the brass-painted cage of an elevator
directly before him, flanked by tall urns of sand and an ascending
staircase. On the left was a dark mahogany-finished reception desk.
Behind the desk a man stood silently, waiting. Brett felt a wild surge
of relief.
"Those things, those Gels!" he called, starting across the room. "My
friend--"
He broke off. The clerk stood, staring over Brett's shoulder, holding a
pen poised over a book. Brett reached out, took the pen. The man's
finger curled stiffly around nothing. A golem.
* * *
Brett turned away, went into the bar. Vacant stools were ranged before a
dark mirror. At the tables empty glasses stood before empty chairs.
Brett started as he heard the revolving door thump-thump. Suddenly soft
light bathed the lobby behind him. Somewhere a piano tinkled _More Than
You Know_. With a distant clatter of closing doors the elevator came to
life.
Brett hugged a shadowed corner, saw a fat man in a limp seersucker suit
cross to the reception desk. He had a red face, a bald scalp blotched
with large brown freckles. The clerk inclined his head blandly.
"Ah, yes, sir, a nice double with bath ..." Brett heard the unctuous
voice of the clerk as he offered the pen. The fat man took it, scrawled
something in the register. "... at fourteen dollars," the clerk
murmured. He smiled, dinged the bell. A boy in tight green tunic and
trousers and a pillbox cap with a chin strap pushed through a door
beside the desk, took the key, led the way to the elevator. The fat man
entered. Through the openwork of the shaft Brett watched as the elevator
car rose, greasy cables trembling and swaying. He started back across
the lobby--and stopped dead.
A wet brown shape had appeared in the entrance. It flowed across the rug
to the bellhop. Face blank, the golem turned back to its door. Above,
Brett heard the elevator stop. Doors clashed. The clerk stood poised
behind the desk. The Gel hovered, then flowed away. The piano was silent
now. The lights burned, a soft glow, then winked out. Brett thought
about the fat man. He had seen him before ...
He went up the stairs. In the second floor corridor Brett felt his way
along in near-darkness, guided by the dim light coming through transoms.
He tried a door. It opened. He stepped into a large bedroom with a
double bed, an easy chair, a chest of drawers. He crossed the room,
looked out across an alley. Twenty feet away white curtains hung at
windows in a brick wall. There was nothing behind the windows.
There were sounds in the corridor. Brett dropped to the floor behind the
bed.
"All right, you two," a drunken voice bellowed. "And may all your
troubles be little ones." There was laughter, squeals, a dry clash of
beads flung against the door. A key grated. The door swung wide. Lights
blazed in the hall, silhouetting the figures of a man in black jacket
and trousers, a woman in a white bridal dress and veil, flowers in her
hand.
"Take care, Mel!"
"... do anything I wouldn't do!"
"... kiss the bride, now!"
The couple backed into the room, pushed the door shut, stood against it.
Brett crouched behind the bed, not breathing, waiting. The couple stood
at the door, in the dark, heads down ...
* * *
Brett stood, rounded the foot of the bed, approached the two unmoving
figures. The girl looked young, sleek, perfect-featured, with soft dark
hair. Her eyes were half-open; Brett caught a glint of light reflected
from the eyeball. The man was bronzed, broad-shouldered, his hair wavy
and blond. His lips were parted, showing even white teeth. The two
stood, not breathing, sightless eyes fixed on nothing.
Brett took the bouquet from the woman's hand. The flowers seemed
real--except that they had no perfume. He dropped them on the floor,
pulled at the male golem to clear the door. The figure pivoted, toppled,
hit with a heavy thump. Brett raised the woman in his arms and propped
her against the bed. Back at the door he listened. All was quiet now. He
started to open the door, then hesitated. He went back to the bed, undid
the tiny pearl buttons down the front of the bridal gown, pulled it
open. The breasts were rounded, smooth, an unbroken creamy white ...
In the hall, he started toward the stair. A tall Gel rippled into view
ahead, its shape flowing and wavering, now billowing out, then rising
up. The shifting form undulated toward Brett. He made a move to run,
then remembered Dhuva, stood motionless. The Gel wobbled past him,
slumped suddenly, flowed under a door. Brett let out a breath. Never
mind the fat man. There were too many Gels here. He started back along
the corridor.
Soft music came from double doors which stood open on a landing. Brett
went to them, risked a look inside. Graceful couples moved sedately on a
polished floor, diners sat at tables, black-clad waiters moving among
them. At the far side of the room, near a dusty rubber plant, sat the
fat man, studying a menu. As Brett watched he shook out a napkin, ran it
around inside his collar, then mopped his face.
Never disturb a scene, Dhuva had said. But perhaps he could blend with
it. Brett brushed at his suit, straightened his tie, stepped into the
room. A waiter approached, eyed him dubiously. Brett got out his wallet,
took out a five-dollar bill.
"A quiet table in the corner," he said. He glanced back. There were no
Gels in sight. He followed the waiter to a table near the fat man.
* * *
Seated, he looked around. He wanted to talk to the fat man, but he
couldn't afford to attract attention. He would watch, and wait his
chance.
At the nearby tables men with well-pressed suits, clean collars, and
carefully shaved faces murmured to sleekly gowned women who fingered
wine glasses, smiled archly. He caught fragments of conversation:
"My dear, have you heard ..."
"... in the low eighties ..."
"... quite impossible. One must ..."
"... for this time of year."
The waiter returned with a shallow bowl of milky soup. Brett looked at
the array of spoons, forks, knives, glanced sideways at the diners at
the next table. It was important to follow the correct ritual. He put
his napkin in his lap, careful to shake out all the folds. He looked at
the spoons again, picked a large one, glanced at the waiter. So far so
good ...
"Wine, sir?"
Brett indicated the neighboring couple. "The same as they're having."
The waiter turned away, returned holding a wine bottle, label toward
Brett. He looked at it, nodded. The waiter busied himself with the cork,
removing it with many flourishes, setting a glass before Brett, pouring
half an inch of wine. He waited expectantly.
Brett picked up the glass, tasted it. It tasted like wine. He nodded.
The waiter poured. Brett wondered what would have happened if he had
made a face and spurned it. But it would be too risky to try. No one
ever did it.
Couples danced, resumed their seats; others rose and took the floor. A
string ensemble in a distant corner played restrained tunes that seemed
to speak of the gentle faded melancholy of decorous tea dances on
long-forgotten afternoons. Brett glanced toward the fat man. He was
eating soup noisily, his napkin tied under his chin.
The waiter was back with a plate. "Lovely day, sir," he said.
"Great," Brett agreed.
The waiter placed a covered platter on the table, removed the cover,
stood with carving knife and fork poised.
"A bit of the crispy, sir?"
Brett nodded. He eyed the waiter surreptitiously. He looked real. Some
golems seemed realer than others; or perhaps it merely depended on the
parts they were playing. The man who had fallen at the parade had been
only a sort of extra, a crowd member. The waiter, on the other hand, was
able to converse. Perhaps it would be possible to learn something from
him ...
"What's ... uh ... how do you spell the name of this town?" Brett asked.
"I was never much of a one for spelling, sir," the waiter said.
"Try it."
"Gravy, sir?"
"Sure. Try to spell the name."
"Perhaps I'd better call the headwaiter, sir," the golem said stiffly.
From the corner of an eye Brett caught a flicker of motion. He whirled,
saw nothing. Had it been a Gel?
"Never mind," he said. The waiter served potatoes, peas, refilled the
wine glass, moved off silently. The question had been a little too
unorthodox, Brett decided. Perhaps if he led up to the subject more
obliquely ...
* * *