Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 11

“Catch this,” Van Brant said to Liz.

“Good God,” Liz said, “what is it? A diag for blowing up the White House?”

“Did you ever see anything like it? That’s the shooting script for the Senso. Brother, it’s fab!”

“Fab, father? It’s fant!”

“It looks good, Liz, it really looks fine. It’s worth all the time I’m giving it.”

“Well, maybe,” Liz said doubtfully.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just that... well, between the Senso and that damned trial coming up... well, you’ve been neglecting the agency a lot.”

“The hell with the agency.” He paused. “No, I don’t mean that. What’s new, Liz?”

“Carson Fields called this morning.”

“Again?”

“Again. That’s what I mean. This Belly thing is becoming smelly. If it’s not him calling, it’s one of your competitors, wanting to know what progress is being made, wanting to know whether or not you think Pelazi will win. We clock at least ten calls from agents every day. And not only literary agents, Van. We got a call from the biggest advertising outfit in the city yesterday. They wanted to know...”

“What did Fields want?”

“He wanted to go over the list of scripts again. He wanted to make sure this was all the material your scribes contributed to the benefit. He wants to see you some time today, if you can make it.”

Van sighed heavily. “What else is new?”

“Lots.”

“Like?”

“Like three scripts back from Preen Publishers this morning.”

“What was wrong?”

“Scribbled reject. Just said they weren’t right, that’s all.”

“That’s funny. Who were the scribes?”

“Mercer, Peer, Fitch.”

“Why, all three have sold to Preen!”

“I know.”

“Well then what the hell’s wrong?”

Liz shrugged.

“You don’t seem very damned interested, Liz.”

“I’m sorry, Van. It’s just... well... lots of bad news this morning.”

“Read it.”

“A notice from Agon Senso. New ownership.”

“That’s great, real great,” Van said sourly. “What else?”

“Pile of stuff back from Stereo One. Not their type, they said.”

“Not their type?” Van stood up and walked around the desk, looking at the pile of scripts there. “Why this is the same kind of stuff we’ve been sending them all along. What the hell’s wrong with them?”

“Just a bad day, I guess. You want me to remarket this stuff, Van?”

“Yes. But first call Andrews at Stereo One. Ask him what the hell he means by not their type. Tell him...”

“He’s not there any more, Van.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. A new fellow’s taken over; I forget his name.”

“Did they give you his name?”

“Yes.”

“How are we supposed to contact him if you forget his name? Call them up and get it.” He stroked his chin and then slapped his fist into his open palm. “That explains it, of course. A new editor, a new batch of pet agents and scribes. Well, hell, there are other markets.”

“Hundreds,” Liz agreed. “What brews tonight, Van?”

“Why?”

“Got a party, thought you might like to take my arm.”

“Not tonight, hon.”

“Business?”

“Business,” he said.

Liz shrugged wearily. “It’ll probably be a dull glom anyway.”

She took a great deal of care in dressing that night, more care than she remembered taking in a long time. And still, the old feeling was gone. Liz tried desperately to recover it.

She tinted her face, shoulders, and breasts a startling white. She’d done her hair black that afternoon, and the contrast was a highly effective one. Her brows angled onto her forehead like raven wings, and she wore green contacts that gleamed like emeralds against the bright white of her skin. She rummaged in her lipstick kit, came up with one titled Blast Furnace, applied a bright crimson slash to her mouth. She pressed her lips together, nodded appreciatively at the effect.

She lowered the lipstick to her breasts and thought, God help anyone who gets too close to me tonight. And immediately afterwards, she thought, Fat chance of that. She applied the lipstick to her nipples, carefully daubing the pointed tips, the brownish-purple circles against the swell of her bosom.

She threw on her most daring skirt, slashed high over her crotch. She looked at herself in the mirror, frowning when she realized how far she’d gone. She changed her see-thru underwear quickly, putting on a pair of black fringed translucents. That was a little better.

She strapped her shoes on, selecting the pair with the highest heels, gave her hair three strokes with the brush, and then looked into the mirror once more. You’ll do, she thought.

She packed four vials of opaine in her purse, in case the party was a stiff, and then left the apartment. In the street, she sniffed the brisk autumn air, wondering if she should go back for a cape. The breeze was bracing, and she felt her skin tingle, felt her lungs expand. There was the smell of woodsmoke in the air, coming from someone’s back yard, and the aroma stirred something deep within her, brought back vague memories of a time long ago when she’d played with jacks and skipping ropes and tricycles.

“I’ve come a long way from Saint Louis,” she said aloud, and then immediately wondered when and how the expression had entered the language. She’d never been anywhere near St. Louis. In her mind, she placed it as being close to New Orleans, but she wasn’t even sure of that. And yet, she’d come a long way from St. Louis.

Adolescent, the Rees called it. They said the Vike language was a conglomeration of slang, Ancient Hip (whatever the hell that was), and extreme modernity. They called it a bastard adolescent which would wither before it reached maturity. A lot the Rees knew!

She began walking briskly. It was too nice a night to bother with the tubes, and besides she could use the exercise. The party wasn’t too far off. The walk would do her good.

She heard her heels clicking along the sidewalk and considered the lonely sound of the click. Dusk bunched into the sky, spreading on the horizon. The sky modulated to a deeper shade, not purple and not black, and then gave way suddenly to night. A sharp wind came up, blowing her skirt about her legs, raising goose pimples on her flesh. I should have worn a cape, she thought.

She began walking more swiftly. The cold was uncomfortable. She had never liked Autumn; it was a fickle season, not to be trusted. Nor had she ever enjoyed the night. Someone had once said the night was a woman’s time, designed for her, conceived to make her more alluring, more desirable. Strictly Ree talk, of course, and yet Liz wondered about its truth. In the sunshine, a spade was a spade. At night, with the soft cloak of darkness over everything...

No, she could not go along with the idea. The night was a time to fear. Darkness. Shadows. Stealthy shapes.

I wonder how Van would look in a bearskin, she thought. Well, there it is again. Well, he’s come up again. It’s not that he’s handsome, she thought; it’s not that at all. God knows, there have been better-looking men. His hair is not made for a crewcut, and it doesn’t stand up right. It flops in spots, and it’s uneven in other spots, and he really should change his barber. His nose is too flat for his face, and his cheekbones are too high. He is built nicely, that’s true. But even so, there are better muscles, if a girl wants muscles. The trouble is, a girl shouldn’t want muscles. A girl shouldn’t want anything. Handsome or otherwise.

Well, he isn’t handsome. Nor is he particularly pleasant. Sometimes, yes; but he’s a bear most of the time, and would probably be a hell of a man to live with. If anyone would live with him.

You’d live with him. Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. I suppose if he said Liz, Liz, I want to share it with you, all of it, what do you say, I suppose I would say yes, Van. I suppose I could easily forget the fact that he’s not very handsome...

He’s not ugly. No, he’s not ugly, of course not. You can... you can...

Love.

You can...

LOVE.

You can like a man who’s ugly, there have been plenty of girls who’ve liked men who were ugly, I’m sure there have been plenty. But Van Brant is not ugly, not handsome either, but certainly not ugly. A girl needn’t be ashamed of him.

A girl would be proud of him. Yes, I would be proud of him, I suppose. I like the way he thinks. What I know of his thinking, anyway. He seems... quick. In tune. I like that. I like a person who does things fast. I don’t like people who fumble. I like people to be sure and swift. Van is that way. I’m that way myself. It would be nice if...

He doesn’t know you exist. Of course not, the secretary, that’s me. The cute blonde in the outer office. The marketeer. The diplomatic courier for every half-arsed editor in town. The sunshine girl with the happy-hello breasts to nod at editorial faces. Good old Liz. Attagirl, Liz, good girl, Liz.

Rocks. To the beaming-faced editors and the addle-brained publishers. And to Van Brant and his quick mind and his dead heart. To all of them. All but six. And where the hell did that originate? And who gives a damn?

You do! I do. I do, all right. I give a big damn. A might big damn. I give a Grand Coulee. And that’s wrong. It’s as wrong as Ree, and Ree is real wrong, strong wrong, all along wrong.

The darkness. And this is wrong, too. It’s wrong because I’m on my way to a party, and a party is happy-time, with happy faces and happy breasts and smiling navels. Smiling navels? Smiling navels and tinted bellies, and a few good fixes and...

The night... then off to bed and the dreams. Of Van? Too often lately. The wrong kind of dreams. Ree dreams.

The night.

She was suddenly aware of the darkness around her. The streets were deserted, and the blackness seemed suddenly like an immense thing without beginning and without end. Where was she? She looked up at the light posts, noting they were out, noting that the entire street had no power. She’d have to report that; she’d do it as soon as she got to the party.

She began walking swiftly, listening to the lonesome, lonely click of her heels again. She was almost not aware of the other clicking behind her.

She walked a little further, and then the two sounds separated themselves in her mind. Her own heels with their steady rat-tat. And the other.

A hurried clicking. Hesitant. Stopping. Starting again. A heavy clicking. The click of leather-heeled shoes. Or boots.

She quickened her pace. In her own mind, she could no longer hear the clicking of her own heels. She heard only the other sound behind her, and the ancient fears crowded in upon her, and she longed for a fire to ward off the darkness, to push back the night. She wondered how far it was to the party, and then she heard the heels behind her speed up, and fear rushed into her throat.

She wanted to turn to look over her shoulder, but she was afraid that would show her fear, exhibit it, tell her follower she was petrified. She kept walking faster, deeper into the blackness. The heels behind her were no longer uncertain. They clicked strongly on the empty pavement, and they echoed down the long street. They were closer, too, she was certain of that. Much too close.

Van, she thought. Oh, my God, Van...

The blackness was intense. It covered her, smothered her. The boots were closer now, and she thought she could hear the harsh breathing of another person in the darkness.

She began to run. Her skirts flapped back, and her eyes stared wide into the blackness.

Behind her, the boots began running too.