The Huddlers
Page 2
landed in the Pacific, about three-quarters of a mile off the SantaMonica yacht basin, and let the sphere float north for a while until Ireached a secluded spot. In a small curve of the shore line, a few milesabove Santa Monica, I beached her, and opened the dissolving cocks.
I watched her melt into the surging water, and turned to face the redand green light almost immediately overhead. I walked up from the beachto the road, not even knowing what they looked like. Their evolutionshould have matched ours, but who could be sure?
For all I knew, I might be a freak to them. I should have thought ofthat before dissolving the ship.
Above, the light changed from red to green and across the street, I sawa sign. This was Sunset Boulevard, and the Pacific Coast Highway. Thiswas open country, but Los Angeles.
Along the Coast Highway, a pair of lights were bearing down on me, andthey seemed to waver, as though the machine were under imperfectcontrol.
I moved back, out of the way, and the light overhead turned to red. Thecar stopped about even with me, its motor running.
I couldn't see the occupants nor the driver. The light changed, the carjerked, and the motor stopped.
"Damn," somebody said. It was a female voice.
There was a grinding noise, and another damn, and then a head appearedthrough the open window on my side of the road.
It was a blond head, and what I could see of the face looked attractive.
"Are you sober?" she asked.
"Not always," I answered. "Some times I'm quite cheerful. But I'm somedistance from home, and have nothing to be cheerful about, at themoment."
"Try not to be a Cerf," she said angrily. "What I mean is, are you--haveyou been drinking?"
"Not recently, though I could use some water." I could see her face moreclearly now, and it was like the faces of our women, only prettier thanmost, I thought.
_I could see her face more clearly now, and it was likethe faces of our women, only prettier than most, I thought._]
"Look," she said, "I'm drunk. Could you drive this thing? Could youdrive me home?"
"I'd be glad to," I answered, "if you will tell me where you live."
She gave me an address on Sunset, and this was Sunset, this lateralstreet, ending at the ocean. So, quite obviously, it was an address Icould find.
I went over to climb in behind the wheel. There were two smells in thatpretty car with the canvas top. One smell was of gasoline, the other wasof alcohol.
"There's obviously alcohol in the gasoline," I said, "though thatshouldn't prevent it from igniting."
"A funny, funny man," she said. "Keep the dialogue to a minimum, willyou, Bogart? I'm not exactly sharp, right now."
I depressed the starter button, and the motor caught. I swung left ontoSunset, and started up the hill.
The car was clearly a recent model, but Jars had been wrong about themechanical excellence of these huddlers. The machine simply had no life,no zest.
* * * * *
We drove past a shrine and around two curves, climbing all the while,past some huddled houses on the left, and the whole shining sea spreadout on the right.
The woman said, "If you know a place where the coffee is drinkable,stop."
"I have no money," I said. Diamonds I had, a bagful of them, for we knewthat huddlers treasured diamonds. But no money.
"I've got money," she said. "I've got a hell of a lot more money than Ihave sense. Have you ever been in love, Bogart?"
"Never," I said.
We were coming into a small huddled area, now. A sign read, _PacificPalisades_.
"I have," she said. "I still am. Isn't it a miserable rotten world?"
"This one?" I asked, and then said quickly, "I mean--this part of it?"
"Any part of it," she said. "I've seen most of it, and any part wherethere's men is bad, Bogart."
"My name," I told her, "is not Bogart. My name is Fred Werig."
"A pleasure, Fred," she said. "My name is Jean Decker. And I'm beginningto feel better."
"It couldn't be my company," I said, "so it must be the air. I haven'tseen any coffee places that are open."
I caught a flare of light from the corner of my eye, and turned to seeher applying flame to something in her mouth. I remembered from ourhistory; she was smoking. It was a habit long dead where I came from.
And then I remembered what she'd said about being drunk, and knew that,too, as one of our long disused vices. What was it Akers had said about'being directed'? A theory, but discredited now, since our scientificadvance. But this almost parallels evolution?
"Cigarette?" she said, and I said, "No, thanks. I--don't smoke."
"You're the only thing in Los Angeles that doesn't," she said bitterly."Where are you from, Fred?"
"New York," I said. "Where are you from, Jean?"
"Believe it or not, I was born here," she said. "I'm one of the threepeople in this town who was born here."
"It's a big town, isn't it?" I said. "Less huddled than the others."
"Huddled," she said, and laughed. "Huddled. I like that. They huddle,all right, and not just the football teams. The gregarious instinct,Freddy boy."
"Well, yes," I agreed, "but why, Jean? Why haven't they outgrown it? Isit--fear?"
"You would have to ask somebody bright," she said. "When you get toBundy, turn over toward Wilshire. We'll find an eating place that'sopen."
"You tell me when I get to Bundy," I said. "I'm not exactly familiarwith this part of town."
She told me, and we got to Wilshire, eventually, and on Wilshire therewere many eating places.
We went into one; it was too cold to eat outside. And it was bright inthere, and I got my first really clear look at the face and figure ofJean Decker.
Well, it was ridiculous, the attraction that seemed to emanate from her.It actually made me weak.
And she was staring at me, too.
"If you're hungry," she said finally, "get a sandwich. You won't find mestingy.... What in the world is that material in that suit, Fred?"
"I don't know," I said. "You are beautiful, Jean."
She smiled. "Well, thanks. You can have a piece of pie, too, for that.That certainly is a fine weave in that material. What did your tailorcall it?"
We were next to a sort of alcove, furnished with a table and twohigh-backed benches, and she sat down. I sat across from her.
"I don't have a tailor," I said. "Your lips are so red, Jean."
She frowned. "Slowly, sailor."
Then a waitress was there, and I saw how red her lips were, too, and Irealized it was another of the old vices I'd forgotten, cosmetics.
"Just coffee, for me, black," Jean said. "Golden boy over there willhave a beef barbecue, probably, won't you, Fred?"
"I guess," I said. "And some milk, cow's milk."
Jean laughed. "It's my money. Have canary milk."
"Not tonight," I said.
The waitress went away, and there was a noticeable period of silence.Jean was tracing some design on the table top with her index finger. Hernails, too, were painted, I saw. I liked the effect of that.
She looked up, and faced me gravely, "Fred, you're a very attractivegent, which you undoubtedly know. Are you connected with pictures?"
I shook my head. "Just a traveler, a tourist."
She said, "Oh" and went back to tracing the design. I thought her fingertrembled.
A very dim smile on her face, and she didn't look away from the tabletop. "You've been--picked up before, undoubtedly."
"No. What kind of talk is this, Jean?"
Now, she looked up. "Crazy talk. You're no New Yorker, Freddy lad.You're a Middle Westerner; you can't fool me. Fresh from the farm andcraving cow's milk."
"I never saw a cow in my life," I told her truthfully, "though I'veheard about them. What makes you think I'm from a farm?"
"Your freshness, your complexion and--everything about you."
The waitress brought our food, then, and I didn't answer. I t
ried tokeep my eyes away from Jean as I ate; I had a mission, here, and no timefor attachments beyond the casual. I was sure, even then, that lovingJean Decker would never qualify as casual.
She drank her coffee and smoked; I ate.
She asked, "Where are you staying, in town, Fred? I'm sober enough todrive, now."
"I'll get public transportation," I said. "You get home, and