A Stage of Memory

2

The waiting room was stark and depressing… paint peeling under sharp fluorescents. The pungency of disinfectant failed to disguise the distinct aroma of urine. Every now and then some waiting client fell into a fit of dispirited coughing. Nobody talked.

Derek hunched in a cracked corner seat, hoping to avoid being noticed. Not that many recognized Derek Blakeney anymore. It had been more than two years since the last spate of scandals and scathing reviews had banished him from the theater columns.

The only serious threat to his apathetic downward spiral had come when a certain critic compassionately eulogized “a lost giant of the stage.” Derek had tried to build up a rage over it, but torpidity had prevailed in the end. Now he was thirty pounds lighter and indifferently washed, and it was unlikely anyone would even recognize a onetime star of Broadway. He was probably safe.

A gaunt woman in a white smock periodically emerged to call out numbers. Clients followed her one at a time to a row of cubbyholes against the wall. From the booths came a low mutter of alternating wheedling and officialese. Derek overheard snatches of conversation.

“…You won’t get any more Tripastim until your amino acid balance is better, Mr. Saunders… How? By improving your diet of course…”

And another.

“…Here is your allotment, Mrs. Fine. No, first you sign here. Yes, here. And you must drink this vitamin supplement… I’ve already explained, Mrs. Fine. The government doesn’t subsidize your habit because it’s your right, but in order to drive the Black Chemists out of business. We can undercharge them and see to it you have every chance to kick it if you decide to. Part of the deal is making sure you get the nutritional…”

Derek closed his eyes. The Liberal-Libertarian coalition had trounced the old Republicans and Democrats in the last election, and Drug Centers like this one were among their first steps on taking office. It had been a good move. Too bad Libertarians were so stingy, though, and the Liberals so damned sanctimonious. If only they’d just give over the doses and shut their bloody—

“Number eighty-seven.” The nurse’s sharp voice made Derek feel brittle. But it was his number, at last! He stood up.”

“I’m number eighty-seven.”

The nurse’s look seemed to say that what she saw was both pitiable and vaguely loathsome. “Go to station twelve, please,” she said, referring to her clipboard. “Ms. Sanchez has your chart.”

Derek shook his head. “I wish to see Dr. Bettide. It is a matter of some urgency, requiring the attention of someone with his expertise.”

The woman looked up, surprised. Derek felt a moment’s satisfaction. He might look like a derelict, but the voice was still Derek Blakeney’s. It commanded attention.

“Dr. Bettide is very busy,” the nurse began uncertainly. “He’s good enough to volunteer his time as it is. We only send him referrals from—”

“Just convey him my name, if you please.” He handed her one of his last few cards, certain he could recover it. “The doctor will see me, I am certain of it.” He smiled, a relaxed expression of assurance and patience.

“Well…” She blushed slightly and decided. “Wait here, please. I’ll ask the doctor.”

When she had gone, Derek let his expression sag again. Without an audience he folded in upon himself.

Lord, he thought. I hate this overlit, stinking pesthole. I hate the world for having such places in it. And most of all I hate having to beg for the stuff I need in order to get the hell out of this goddamn turn-of-the-century world.

It isn’t fair. All I want to do is go home again! Is that too much to ask? Frigging scientists work wonders these days. Why can’t they just send me home again?