Tomorrow’s World

Chapter 12

“This is one hell of a party,” Clark Talbot said.

The man sitting next to him on the couch lifted his shaggy head, and looked at Clark with weary eyes.

“Does that mean you like it?”

“Of course, it does.”

“Your terminology was vague.”

“Terminology, allsbay.”

“One hell of a. Not explicit at all,” the shaggy man went on. “It can mean good, or it can mean not good. You should be more careful in your choice of words.”

Clark pulled a face and stared at the man. “Well, it’s a nice crowd of people, anyway.”

“If you like people.”

“Say, are you a misanthropist or something?”

“Something.”

Clark nodded vaguely. It wasn’t bad enough that he had to put with the cashew ravings of Lana Davis all day long. At night, when a man was entitled to a little pleasure and relaxation, he had to meet another bed-bug.

“Where’s Liz Welles?” he asked. “I understood she was going to be here.”

“She’ll be here,” his shaggy companion answered.

“It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”

“Liz will be here. Liz always likes to make a grand entrance. She’ll probably pop in wearing no clothes or something. A disturbed young lady, that one.”

Clark understood at last. “You’re a psych, aren’t you?”

“Nope.”

“What then?”

“What’s the difference?”

Clark suddenly had all he could take. “Listen, if you don’t like this damned party, why the hell don’t you go home?”

The shaggy gent turned sad eyes on Clark. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m the host.”

It was waiting.

All she had to do was pick it up and pop off. As simple as all that.

Lois Sylvan watched the hands of the chronometer. It was already ten minutes past happy time. That was good. Ten minutes, and the anticipation had mounted inside her like a screaming rocket.

She wet her lips and eyed the vial, and then stared at the hands of the chron again. It was good this way. Oh, God, it was good this way.

How much longer could she put it off?

She’d wait. She’d wait, and then it would be better, then it would be sweeter, then it would really take her, really knock her, really fix her good. She’d doubled the load, and this one should really give her a jolt, send her way back, Jack, way, way back, Zach, all the way back, Mac.

On impulse, she kicked off her slippers and walked across the room barefoot. She wore a whispering gown belted at her waist. She saw herself in the mirror, and her eyes sought the tiny puncture marks on her thigh. She found the marks, and the excitement rose within her. Now, I’ll do it now. I’ll pop it now.

No! her mind shouted. No, wait. Wait. Wait.

She waited.

She clenched her hands together and began pacing the room. It roared in her blood now, the wanting, the longing, the extreme wanting, the wanting that was sweet with its painfulness. The light caught the metallic gleam of the vial, reflected it tauntingly across the room. She had begun to tremble. Her body shook, and her loins ached, and she wanted that needle with every fibre of her being, every atom of her existence.

She wanted it desperately, but she continued to pace the room, and the longing soared inside her, quickened her blood, pounded at her brain.

There was pain now, a real physical pain, a pain separate and apart from the sweet aching of her mind. It twisted at her stomach, tied her muscles into knots, kicked at her groin.

Good God, how I want it.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes past happy. She’d never gone that long before. Never. Oh, it was good. She opened her mouth and sucked in a deep gulp of air.

The longing washed over her again, deep this time, stabbing at her, prodding her. It was overwhelming in its power. It engulfed her, flooded her, shoved her rudely across the room.

She picked up the vial.

Van Brant was in bed when the call came.

He rolled over and tried to shake the insistent buzzing away. When it became apparent the buzzing would not be shaken, he threw the covers back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and mumbled, “Now, who the hell...”

He crossed the room to the vid, snapped it on, and focused. There was no picture. He passed a hand over bleary eyes, tried the focus control once more. There was still no picture.

“All right,” he said harshly, “who’s playing games?”

“Van...”

The voice was weak, distant. He couldn’t place it. A woman’s voice.

“Who is it?” he asked. “I can’t see you.”

“Liz. It’s Liz, Van.” Brant heard a sharp intake of breath, and he stared at the vid, puzzled.

“What is it, Liz?”

“Bayer and One-Seven-Three, Van. Hurry. Please, please. Hurry.”

There was pain in the voice, and then a sharp exhalation of breath, as sharp as the intake had been.

“Liz! What’s wrong? What...”

There was no answer. He jiggled the operator toggle anxiously, and when the cool, precise voice came on, he said, “I’ve been sliced, operator.”

“Sorry, sir. What number were you calling?”

“I received the call.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

He waited impatiently. When the operator came back, he fairly leaped at her voice. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll click off, perhaps your party will call back.”

“Oh, rocks,” he said. He clicked off angrily, stared at the vid for a moment, and then walked swiftly to the closet. He threw on a pair of old breeches, debated a coat of alcojel, decided against it.

Bayer and One-Seven-Three, she’d said. If this was some kind of a gag...

When he spotted the chronometer on his dresser, he doubted that it was a gag.

It was 0300.

He found her lying on the floor of the booth.

Her skirt had been torn from her, and her underwear was gone. He blinked down at her, and when he saw the red smears on her breasts, he thought they were blood. He knelt down, realized the smears were lipstick.

“Liz,” he said.

He took her in his arms. Her body was cold, and he saw the bruises on her flesh now, ripe purple bruises that covered her, starting at her neck, working down over her bosom, onto her rib cage, her thighs, even her ankles.

“Good God, Liz, what happened? Liz!”

Her eyes fluttered open, and there was panic in them for an instant. She recognized Van then and gripped him tightly.

“You came,” she said in a rush. “You came, Van. Thank God, you came.”

“What happened, Liz?”

She shook her head, squeezed her eyelids down, forcing out the tears. She kept shaking her head, her mouth working mutely.

“You need a medic,” he said. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“No!” she screamed. “Van, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Van...”

“We’ll go to my place,” he said. She nodded, her fear subsiding. She was still trembling when he lifted her and took her to his tomic. He drove fast, sticking to the speed lanes, ignoring the robot policemen and their cameras clicking away at his license tab. He could squash those later. He pulled into the sub garage, carried Liz to the lift, and then into his apartment. He got her into bed, and then phoned the medic.

The medic was plainly annoyed when he arrived. Sleep still clung to his eyes, and he kept rubbing at his thick nose with his forefinger.

“Where is she?” he asked. He was a tall man, with a blond spade beard, and bright red hair. A hell of a combination, Van thought.

“In the bedroom.”

“You’re not Ree, are you?”

“Hell, no.”

“I wondered,” the medic said.

“She called me; I brought her here. I think she’s in shock.”

“Nobody asked you,” the medic said. Brant clenched his fists, feeling the same impotence he always felt in the presence of medical men. A superior breed, these illidges. Or so they thought.

“She’s in the bedroom,” he repeated coldly. “I’m not paying for small chop. You going to look at her?”

The medic snapped a cold glare at Van. He seemed to be debating whether or not he should leave. The chronometer said 0355, though, and he’d already been dragged out of bed. He blinked his eyes, and turned toward the bedroom. Van followed him.

“You can wait outside,” the medic said.

He was with her for ten minutes, and when he came out, he was still rubbing his thick nose.

“How is she?”

“Shell live.”

“I didn’t need you for that.”

“I gave her a sedative. The bruises are minor, nothing serious. She’s in bad shock. I’ll leave some of these pills. See that she takes them for the next few days. Every four hours... more often if she acts up.”

“Acts up?”

“She’s been through a harrowing experience. She may react violently when she begins remembering what happened.”

“What did happen?”

“You’re pretty naive, aren’t you? She’s been raped, my friend.”

“Raped!” The thought shocked Van, disgusted him. Raped. Good God.

The medic nodded. “Mmm, not very pleasant. Let’s hope nothing more comes of it.” He looked at his wrist chronometer and then asked, “What’s she on?”

“Opaine, I think.”

“Keep her off it for the next week or so. She won’t miss it, because she’ll be under sedatives most of the time. Keep her off it, anyway, even if she wants it.”

“All right,” Van said. “What do I owe you?”

“Twenty. Night call.”

“Sure.” He made out a check, and the medic accepted it in the same curiously detached manner all medics accept money. When he left, Van bolted the front door and walked into the bedroom.

“Liz,” he called softly.

She opened her eyes and then blinked them shut against the ceilamp. He flicked the switch, and then walked across the room to turn on a small lamp on the night table.

“Thank you, Van,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

“Get some sleep, Liz,” he said.

“I’ve... I’ve taken your bed, haven’t I?”

“The couch’ll do nicely.”

“You’re very good, Van.”

“No slop, mother. Get some sleep.”

“Yes, Van.” She grinned stupidly, her eyes almost shut already. He tucked the covers around her, walked quietly to the door, and then made the couch up for sleeping.

It was a little while before Liz was able to talk about it. Brant left her alone for most of the day, but the door was firmly bolted, and she had instructions to admit no one. He rose early, prepared breakfast for both of them, and served her in bed, leaving her to eat alone. Before he left for the office — or the shooting, or another damned appointment with Carson Fields, whichever was first on his schedule for that day — he made several sandwiches and left them together with something to drink on the night table. He respected the privacy of eating, taking his meals in the kitchen. Even this proximity made him slightly embarrassed. He consoled himself with the thought that it would not be for long. Liz was getting stronger every day, and except for the haunted look in her eyes, she was looking fine.

He usually got home at about 1730, pressed his thumb into the Identilock, and came into the apartment, being sure to call out as soon as he entered, so she’d know it was he.

She told him about it a week after he’d taken her into the apartment. He listened in shocked horror, and then shook his head sadly.

“A goddamn Ree,” he said. “Liz, they’re getting to be a menace. We’ve got to really do something about them, before...”

“No,” she said.

“No? No what? I don’t understand.”

“He wasn’t Ree, Van. He wore breeches, and there was the odor of alcojel on him; he wasn’t Ree.”

“What?”

“He was Vike, Van.” She paused. “As Vike as you or I.”

Brant thought about that for a long time. He never mentioned it again in any of their talks, but he always thought about it, and its significance lurked on the fringes of his mind. They talked about small things mostly. He was careful to lead the conversation away from that night whenever he saw it circling in that direction. He did not want the violent reaction the medic had mentioned. Liz was coming along fine, and he did not want to prolong her convalescence. She was not very much trouble, but he had lived alone too long and too successfully to wholeheartedly accept another person in the house — especially a woman.

“Are the neighbors talking?” she asked one night.

“About what?”

“About me. About ‘that woman’ in your apartment.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“This is Vike territory, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“And they’re not talking? Come now, Van.”

“All right, they’re talking. So what? What the hell do they know?”

“I’m sorry, Van.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You think I care what these idiots think? You’ll be well soon, anyway, and you can go back to your own apartment.”

She didn’t answer, but he didn’t think her silence strange at the time.

She progressed nicely, and soon it was she who rose early to prepare breakfast. Van protested vigorously, complaining that she was still not strong enough for it. She laughed his rantings aside, and he enjoyed the first good breakfasts he’d had since taking her in. When he came home at night, he found the apartment spotlessly clean, his couch all made up for sleeping, his clothes neatly laundered and pressed.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“You didn’t have to take me in,” she answered.

And soon, she was strong enough to leave, he felt. They sat in the living room one night, shortly after he’d popped off. He felt drowsy, and he resented her alertness. She had not asked for a fix since the night of the accident, as they both referred to it. Nor had she expressed any desire for one. At first, he’d chalked this up to the effects of the sedative. But it had been a long time since the sedative ministrations had ceased, and he wondered if she wasn’t quitting the stuff entirely. He never asked her; there was something more important to discuss, and he hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult. He broached the topic carefully.

“How do you feel, Liz?”

“Fine. How do you feel?”

“I mean, well, you know. Do you feel strong enough now?”

“Strong enough to kill an ox. Do you have any oxen around?” She was smiling, and he didn’t like this playful banter. He was trying to be serious, goddamnit. He was annoyed, too, by the fact that she wore no cosmetics around the house. It had taken him a little while to get used to natural breasts. He had found himself staring curiously at her nipples on occasion, and he was embarrassed once when he lifted his eyes to find her staring back at him.

“I mean...” He paused. “Strong enough to go back to your own place.”

“Oh.”

There was a long silence.

“Well?”

“Well...”

“Are you, or aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“I don’t mean to rush you out, Liz; please understand that. I thought...”

“I understand.”

“You’ll be coming back to work, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I...” He rubbed his jaw. “When do you plan on leaving, Liz?”

“I hadn’t planned. I can leave now, if you like.”

“There’s no great rush, Liz. That is...”

“I’m still scared, Van,” she blurted. “I’m scared silly. If I had to live alone, I think I’d die. I’d jump out of bed at every sound. I’d...”

“But, Liz, you can’t let this thing haunt you for the rest of your life. It happened, sure; but it’s over now, and you’re all right.”

“Am I?”

“Well... sure.”

“All right, Van. I’ll pack now. I’ll leave tonight.”

She stood up, and he watched her sway across the room. She swung her hips, and the cloth of her skirt clung to her buttocks.

“Couldn’t you... couldn’t you find another girl to share a place with you?”

She turned at the door to the bedroom. “I suppose so. It’ll take a little while, though. I’m the only girl at our office, you know. I’ll have to find someone.”

“Liz...”

“It’s all right, Van; I’ll find someone.”

“What I mean is, there’s no need to rush off right this minute. I mean — well, hell, Liz, I don’t want to throw you out.”

“You’re not throwing me out. Don’t be silly, Van.” She lowered her head and looked at him across the length of the room, a curious gaze from upturned eyes.

“Why don’t you stay until... until you find a girl to share a place with. Damnit, I feel like a landlord threatening eviction.”

“You needn’t feel any responsibility. You’ve done enough for me already.”

“Well, stay. I mean, stay. Stay until... stay a while. Until you’re ready.” He looked at her, feeling silly and awkward. “Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Van,” she said. She turned and walked back into the living room. He did not see the smile on her face.