“Is there then a Muse of butchery?” asked Ernst with a solemn expression.
“You are very clever, akkei. I meant, of course, in the wooing of a lovely imraa. Were a butcher to approach me, a blood sausage in his hands, I would only laugh. That is not technique, akkei. That is uninspired. But these poems of yours are the product, as you say, of one kind of wooing, and moreover the weaponry of a more secular sort.”
“Do poems still work their magic?” asked Ernst, wondering if this meeting were, after all, better than simple monotony.
“For some young girls, I suppose. Do you favor many young girls with them?”
A sudden cry from the crowd on the sidewalk prevented Ernst’s reply. He shook his head in disgust, Ieneth interpreted his expression correctly, looking over her shoulder for a few seconds. She turned back to him, leaning on the railing near his table. He, of course, could not invite her to join him. There were only two classes of people in the city, besides the slaves: the wealthy and those like Ieneth. She was forbidden by custom to intrude socially on her betters, and Ernst was certainly not the crusading sort to sweep aside the laws of delicacy. Anyway, he thought, her people had their own dives and he surely wouldn’t be made welcome in them.
“Ah, I see you disapprove of the Gaish,” said Ieneth. “At least, your expression shows contempt, and its object must be either our army or myself.”
“No, no, don’t worry, I have nothing but affection for you,” said Ernst. He was amazed by his facile speech; generally he would have been reduced to unpleasant sarcasm long before this. Indeed, he felt even less than mere affection for the girl. He felt only recognition; he knew her as another resident of the city, with little to recommend her in any way. He didn’t even feel lust for her. He rather wished that she’d go away.
“Then it’s the Gaish. That’s a shame, really. There are several very nice gentlemen involved with it.” She smiled broadly. Ernst felt certain that she would wink, slowly; she did. Ernst smiled briefly.
“I’m sure there are,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not one of them, and I have no interest at all in making the acquaintance of any, and I wish they’d stop spoiling my afternoons with their juvenile tin soldiery.”
“You should see the larger story,” said Ieneth. “As long as they spend their time marching and carrying broom-rifles, you will have no competition for the company of their wives and daughters.”
“You mistake me,” said Ernst, “though you flatter me unduly. Surely it is hopeless for such a one as I, with such, ah, cosmopolitan tastes.”
“I would not agree,” she whispered. Ernst became aware that he had been staring at her. She reached across the railing and touched him confidentially on the shoulder. The motion exposed her wonderful breasts completely.
Ernst took a deep breath, forcing himself to look into her eyes as he spoke. “Do you know what I mean, then?”
“Certainly,” she said, with an amused smile. She indicated her little wagon. “There are other sorts of grinders about, and anyone may have a lucrative avocation, no?”
“When I was young, there was an old man who ground scissors and sharpened knives. He had a cart very much like your own.”
“There, you see? I am of the acquaintance of a … what shall I say? … an organ-grinder.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ieneth shook her head, laughing at his obtuseness. She motioned for him to come closer. He slid his chair nearer to the railing. She touched his arm at the elbow, trailing her fingers down his sleeve, across his hip, and, most lightly of all, over the bunched material at his crotch. “I will meet you here in an hour?” she asked softly.
Ernst’s throat was suddenly dry. “I will be here,” he said.
CHAPTER 5
It was people like Leonard Vladieki, who had consciously chosen not to live in the real world, who felt the greatest pressures from those they abandoned. Ernest, while thoroughly disgusted by the old man’s way of life, couldn’t help wondering how Vladieki dealt with the many unavoidable intrusions; the midget had lived in the same place for a matter of decades, while around him people packed up their modular apartments and plugged them in somewhere else every couple of years. The mobile citizens stayed only long enough to save the money for another move; they affected their neighborhood temporarily, making their voices heard in local elections. They left the area before the tangible results could be felt. Vladieki, on the other hand, had the details of his life, his taxes, the services available to him, his community’s very appearance, dictated by transients. He had abdicated from such activity, though, and by doing so had retreated even further into his own world.
Whatever emotion Ernest could summon for Vladieki scarcely had any importance. There was very little room for feeling this evening, not against the ponderous weight of the Representative’s announcement, not even against Ernest’s real concern for his own life with Gretchen. As he circled down the stairs, Ernest’s pity changed to pure contempt, then to anger. His frustrations had a focus at last, and not a difficult one at that. Ernest paused on the first floor before going out into the cooler evening air. He knocked on the fuser’s door.
Ernest’s building had gotten a new fuser only a couple of weeks before. The old one, as mobile as the other tenants, had unplugged his modapt and moved it to a government-owned building in Boston. With him he had taken a detailed knowledge of the uncountable unwritten treaties among his neighbors, half-settled disputes, low-level political actions. The new fuser, a young girl just out of high school, had been appointed by the Representative of North America’s Brooklyn office. She had yet to learn her fellow tenants’ names, let alone their myriad subjective agreements. Nevertheless, Ernest saw her as the only authority in their small community.
Her door opened slowly. “Yes?” she asked.
“Hello,” said Ernest. “My name’s Weinraub. I live upstairs. I was wondering if I could see you for a minute.”
The fuser studied his face for a few seconds. She was short, somewhat heavy, with short brown hair and a mottled complexion. Her eyes were red, now; she had been crying. “I guess so, Mr. Weinraub. Come in.”
Ernest nodded and went past her into the modapt. “You can call me Ernie. This is an official visit, I suppose, but you’re still a neighbor. I want to talk to you about this guy Vladieki. He lives across the hall from me.”
“Sit down, Mr. Weinraub. You live in 5G?”
“Right. He lives across the hall. Still, I never see him much, because he stays in most of the time. But he cornered me tonight. I tried telling him off, but he just wouldn’t listen. You know how people like him are. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d give him the word. It isn’t much of a problem, but I think if you just spoke to him, it would catch the thing early. I’d really appreciate it.”
He looked at her. She said nothing. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then began crying. She couldn’t stop. “Oh, my God,” thought Ernest. “We got a real winner this time.” He stood up and went to her chair, making a halfhearted attempt to calm her. He looked around helplessly, sorry that he had knocked on her door in the first place. He couldn’t do anything now but wait until she got control of herself.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weinraub,” she said, sobbing. “I don’t know, I’m just so scared. I’ve never been a fuser before. I just got out of school, you know. I’ve only been here for a little while, and everything’s been going along all right, and then tonight, the Representative…” She started crying loudly again. Ernest went back to his seat.
“That’s O.K.,” he said. “I can understand. I suppose I came at the wrong time. Look, I never got your name.”
“Vaurigny,” she said, in a low voice. “Brenda Vaurigny.” She looked up and took a gulp of air. “How can you worry about that old man? The whole world’s coming to an end.”
Ernest was suddenly restless. He didn’t want to get into a long discussion with this plain, stupid girl. “That might not happen for years yet. Nobody’s said
anything for certain. I think people are panicking without any cause. When I was a kid, we used to have tornado warnings all the time. I remember hiding in the corner in the basement. I always wanted to see a tornado, but we never had one. In eighteen years we never had a single tornado. But we had so many alerts that we built little recreation rooms in the tornado corners wherever we lived.”
“That’s different,” she said. “That doesn’t have anything to do with it. How many times has the Representative announced the end of the world?”
“What do you want?” asked Ernest. “Do you want us all to go crazy? The only way we’re going to get through this is to keep our heads. Look at my wife. She’s upstairs now being hysterical. It’s fine with me if everybody spends the next few days hollering and carrying on, because it’ll make it just that much easier for me to save my own neck.”
“But what about Mr. Vladieki? Who will take care of him?”
“Judy Garland, I suppose. I mean, the Representative said that two hundred and forty-nine people out of every two hundred and fifty are going to be left outside the shelters, hammering on the doors when the time comes. Now, the way I see it, and it may sound cruel, is that with the odds two-fifty to one against you, you can’t afford to be gracious. I can see some poor guy politely holding the door for some girl, and she takes the last place and he’s left dead but with a sense of moral superiority.”
“You can’t decide which people should die. You can’t say that Mr. Vladieki ought to be killed, and you ought to be saved.”
Ernest smiled. “Show me where it says I can’t say that. Anyway, I’m not saying Mr. Vladieki ought to be killed. He’s saying that. And why shouldn’t I say that I ought to be saved? Don’t you think you ought to be saved?”
She ran a hand through her tangled hair. “No, I never thought I ought to be. I want to, of course, but the Representatives are right in making it a random chance.”
“It’s not as random as it seems,” said Ernest. “The people who end up in the shelters will be the people who worked to get a token. One way or another, they got one. They’ll all be survivor types, even though some of their methods may not have been strictly legal. But in the world we’re going to end up in, we’re going to have to adjust our ways of thinking.”
“I’m just scared,” she said. “I’m really scared.”
“It’s all right to be scared. You’re supposed to be. But you have to stay on top of it all, at the same time. Think how much easier it will be. You’ll have a terrific advantage tomorrow over all the other people. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m just trying to stay cool.”
“But you can’t,” said Brenda.
“We’ll see,” he said.
She stood up and began pacing about her modapt, nervously moving things around, straightening pictures on the wall. As she walked, she gestured and shook her head, as though illustrating some secret internal monologue, though she said nothing. Ernest turned in his seat, watching her. Seeing her, a fuser, in such a condition of anxiety made him hopeful that the contest for the tokens would be less of a brawl than he had imagined. He felt sad, of course, a little regretful that so many people would be left helpless at the time of the disaster. That was something each survivor would have to live with for the rest of his life. But that was a foolish reason to stop working to get the token; if Ernest didn’t get one, then someone else would. There wasn’t time for ethical deliberations.
“So, tell me,” he said. “What’s it like being a fuser?”
Brenda stopped and turned. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I wonder what it’s like, hearing everybody’s problems all the time, knowing all the gossip, having to put up with all those stupid bastards.”
“For God’s sake, we’re not going to have fusers any more! What difference does it make?”
“Stop thinking about it,” said Ernest quietly. “We’ll always have people like Vladieki. But you’re right. We won’t have fusers any more. We’re going to have to go back to handling all that nonsense ourselves. I didn’t think of that before. Hell, it’s back to the Stone Age.”
“I don’t have any place in anything like that,” said Brenda.
“You’ll make one. You’re not any less equipped than the rest of us. You’re even better, because you’re used to dealing with small problems, details, necessary jobs the rest of us ignore.”
“How is that going to get a token for me?” she was getting near hysteria again. Ernest went to her, hoping to avoid another long crying episode. He touched her short, stringy hair. She looked at him questioningly. She started to say something and stopped. He smiled.
“You have to learn to stop worrying,” he said. “You’re an awfully intelligent woman.” His own glib lies shocked him. He hadn’t realized how frustrated he was.
“That won’t count for much tomorrow. I won’t impress anybody enough to get a token. I need to be cruel. I need to learn how to lie and cheat. I have to become those things very quickly, or I’m going to die along with the rest. That’s the only way you can win. That’s what this world’s all about, only it’s taken this long for us to get concrete proof.”
“You’ll be all right, Brenda,” said Ernest. “Maybe if you had somebody help you. I mean, somebody you could depend on. When you got tired, he could take over. You ought to ask your boyfriend. You see what I mean? Use your head. Work this out, like it was a problem in school. You have a regular boyfriend?”
She closed her eyes. A small tear slipped down between her lashes, making a bright, narrow path beside her rather fleshy nose. Ernest smiled to himself; he put his arms around her, meanwhile making small soothing sounds. She held him, tightly in the excess of her fear. When she relaxed a little, he kissed her. She pressed herself against him; he was dismayed by the savagery of her response.
Meantime C
It can be very difficult living among a conquered people. For Ernst Weintraub, alone in New York City, it was a sobering experience. He knew little English. He knew nothing about the American manner—what little he had surmised from rumors and popular gossip in Jermany proved to be nothing but impractical exaggeration. He quickly learned to say “frankfurter” and “hamburger,” words which carried a weight of ironic amusement; the foods connected with them in no way resembled anything to be found in either of the namesake cities. For many weeks, he was depressed by the arrogant attitude of the people of New York. He was, after all, a representative of the victorious Jerman nation, even though he hated its government more than did the American people themselves. But his mission on behalf of the international Communist establishment was too highly confidential for him to share his secret with even a single person; he remembered that here he was still “the enemy,” and he could find no friends.
In order to lose himself among the masses of the city, Weintraub threw away most of his possessions shortly after his midnight landing on the shores of the United States. He wandered the dim streets of New York for several days, his forged papers protection against the newly installed Jerman authorities. He was not questioned, however; his evident Jerman nationality brought him grudging service, for which he was grateful, as he did not wish to draw on his bank account as yet. He became an imitation vagrant. He gave his extra clothing and personal effects to a whiskery old man he saw lying half-conscious in a littered alley. The old man drooled and muttered some uninterpretable phrases. Weintraub merely waved and walked away, unencumbered, independent (in a way), and curious.
Rather than renting an apartment immediately, thereby putting his name on record with the Jerman-Ostamerikan Occupation Authority for Housing and Public Welfare, Weintraub decided to move from one cheap rooming house to another, observing the bottom strata of American life, the classes of people the Communist Party would have to mobilize if the worldwide revolution would have any hope of success. His orders made it clear that he could not contact his superior in America before the first of January, 1920. Until that date, he was supposed to fam
iliarize himself with his new home. He knew that his decision to forego the luxuries his Party’s funds could afford would be noted with interest.
One day, Weintraub was walking aimlessly about Greenwich Village. He enjoyed the neighborhood; he knew that it was a focal point for the artists and writers of the city, and for the students as well. The former, in their bohemian decadence, would present a problem of discipline to the Party eventually, though at the moment their unsophisticated enthusiasm helped the Communist workers in their underground programs. The students, of course, were still infected with youthful idealism, a quality which lent itself perfectly to the dissemination of Party precepts. The late adolescents of Ostamerika could be counted on to volunteer the energies of their political artlessness for the benefit of an international brotherhood of workers and intellectuals.
These thoughts comforted Weintraub, even as the objects of his musing avoided him on the sidewalk. He had lived for several weeks in the same grubby suit of clothes. He badly needed a bath and a shave, and his hair was greasy and growing long over his ears. He looked like many other degenerates of the New York streets, a disguise which allowed him surprising liberty in observing the various classes of American citizens. On this particular morning in the Village, Weintraub was heading across town after spending an uncomfortable night in a filthy hotel on the Lower East Side. As he strolled across Waverly Place, he saw an elderly woman stumble. She had been walking toward him, and then suddenly she just fell. Now she rested on the ground, her legs still on the sidewalk, bent at awkward angles, her upper torso and head over the curb in the street. A brown stream of water running in the gutter formed a broad puddle where it was blocked by her chest and face, then ran swiftly by her hair and along one outstretched arm, to continue toward the sewer. She did not move.
Weintraub was frightened. He knelt by her, not knowing at all what to do. Her face was mottled red, her eyes still open, staring, her mouth contorted in a rather slack, unnatural expression. He lifted her hand; the skin was dry and old. The thought that the old woman might be dead made Weintraub uneasy, and he quickly dropped the arm. It fell limply, making a dull smacking sound as it hit the pavement.
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