Carioca Jones stood too close to me and handled all these things, and turned them deep pink.
“I want a dress!” she cried suddenly. “I want a whole dress made out of your skins, and I want it to fit close. What do you think of that, Joe?”
“We don’t really do that sort of thing,” I mumbled as she arched her back over the display counter and looked up at me, her throat wrinkled like a condor’s. “There’s a lot of work in joining skins so the seam doesn’t show. And it’s difficult to match the tones. The cost is out of all proportion. We restrict ourselves to things which can be made out of one skin.”
Her eyes had narrowed slightly. “And why do you think the cost should worry me?”
“Well, I … I like people to know what they’re letting themselves in for.”
“Listen to me, Joe Sagar. I never go into anything with my eyes closed, not anything, I want you to remember that.” Then suddenly she was smiling again, toying with a slithe-skin bandanna which had undergone as rapid a color transformation as I had ever seen—pink, blue, pink almost as quickly as you can say it. “Make me a nice dress, Joe. I can afford it.”
“I’ll let you have the estimate tomorrow, Miss Jones.”
She turned away and I accompanied her across the yard to the gate; Silkie trotted at my heels. Her car was parked under the trees; there was a faint sound of music. I opened the door for her.
The blonde snub-nosed girl was sitting in the passenger seat, an orchestrella on her bare knees. She wore a light gray sweater and a no-skirt skirt. She looked up and smiled, but her smile was for Carioca Jones. The music changed tone, became gay as her long fingers shifted and worked inside the egg-shaped instrument.
Somehow I managed to bid Carioca Jones a polite goodbye, then the car rose from the ground in a swirl of damp autumn leaves and glided away, taking the girl and the music with it, leaving me with the aftersight of beauty.
2
Of course I had to find an excuse to call on Miss Jones—and the blonde girl—as soon as possible. When the estimate for her dress was worked out I persuaded Doug Marshall to take me gliding, and contrived to make a clumsy landing near the beach which backs onto the Jones residence. I fought my way clear of the harness and waded through the shallow water to the shore, dragging the tiny glider after me. Then I climbed the steps above the high-water mark and hurried through the trees in the direction of the house.
I heard the music while I was still among the trees, that melodic yet unearthly tone which characterizes the orchestrella. For a second I paused, trying to establish from which direction the sounds came, then I walked on again, turning left through a pergola which gave onto a tiny sunken lawn.
The girl was sitting on a rustic seat, the instrument in her lap. She was totally oblivious of my presence as I stood behind her waiting for a break in the flow of the music, reluctant to interrupt. It was like a setting from an ancient oil painting: the lawn, the shrubs with their late September flowers, the girl dressed all in white—as though I had stepped into a dreamlike past. So I waited for just a little while, and the music flowed on from her sensitive fingers.
At last I recalled myself to the present. I coughed, thinking what an ugly masculine noise it was in the midst of this beauty. The music stopped. The girl swung around, eyes widening in surprise.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I’ve brought the estimate for Miss Jones.”
“You startled me. How did you get here? I didn’t hear a car.”
She had spoken without any particular warmth; indeed, I don’t think she recognized me. I introduced myself.
She told me her name was Joanne Shaw and for a while I thought things were going well—then I told her about the glider on the beach.
If I’d hoped to impress her with my daring, I failed. Her manner became stiff and she made a few pointed remarks about playboys with bonded men at their beck and call. I tried to explain that I normally worked on Thursdays but lacked the nerve to tell her I’d come in the hope of meeting her.
“What’s going on here? Oh, it’s you, Joe. I heard voices.”
Carioca Jones stepped down to the lawn.
“I was just telling Joanne. My glider came down off your beach.”
“Oh, do you glide? How thrilling!”
We made our way down to the beach and I showed her the glider, then Marshall and his man Charles swept around the Deep Cove headland in the hydrofoil. I removed my wet suit while they loaded the glider on board. Marshall glanced at me inquiringly.
“Why don’t you come up to the house and have a drink, Joe?” Carioca Jones said. “You don’t have to go, not yet. I can run you home. Then we can talk about the dress in comfort. Joanne, you bring him up in a minute or two.”
She departed without waiting for a reply—after all, who could refuse an invitation from Carioca Jones?—leaving Joanne and me standing on the beach and Marshall grinning at us from the stern of the launch as he headed out to sea.
In fact we were not quite alone yet. An obscene shape flopped past, undulating like a sea lion, and a cold eye dwelt on me in passing. I shuddered, feeling a sudden chill.
“I suppose she keeps that brute around so that she can look beautiful by comparison,” I observed as the land shark disappeared among the bushes.
Joanne walked away from me without speaking and sat down on a tree stump, placing the orchestrella on her lap. I heard a few sad chords.
“Is it any use telling you Carioca is a very fine person?” she asked quietly. “A lot of people don’t understand her, you know.”
“Why did she go off like that?”
She smiled faintly. “She doesn’t want our company right now. I rather think she’s going to … change into something more suitable to entertain a male visitor.”
“She’s wasting her time. I didn’t even notice what she’s wearing now.”
“Didn’t you?” Joanne murmured wonderingly, and began to play again. I saw her slim fingers shifting as they caressed the interior of the instrument and the melody flowed all around, bathing us like the warm sea of a tropic summer as we sat on that chill September beach.
She played for a long time although it seemed just a moment; I knew this because suddenly when she finished it was dark and I remembered we were supposed to be up at the house. Joanne remembered at the same time; she jumped to her feet with a gasp of alarm and I climbed stiffly from my heap of driftwood. We hurried up the path, the wet misty webs of night spiders drawing cold lines on our faces.
The house was ablaze with light. I hesitated as one does before entering a large and ominously noisy party.
“I could do with a drink,” I muttered from force of habit.
Joanne laughed. “You’ll get one, don’t worry.” She hesitated. “In fact I’ll get you one myself. I think Carioca still isn’t ready.”
A hint of stiffness, of embarrassment, in the way she said this caused me to look at her, then follow her glance to an upper window. Miss Jones moved past, whitely naked in the brightness. We went into the house and Joanne made me sit on a low couch. “Because I rather think Carioca will want to sit next to you,” she said with a real, genuine grin. She brought me a scotch and ginger ale.
It was a large, comfortable room; in common with many Peninsula residences the motif was based on the historic Western Seaboard Slide. I suspected the featured spiral staircase came from the beached liner Princess Louise, and the floor was original sediment. Polished and glazed, the rich brown ooze showed a multitude of species of marine life which had been stranded decades ago when the tidal waves swept over the low peninsula.
“Look. Uh, Joanne, what exactly is your function here?” I asked bluntly.
“Carioca would call me her companion,” she replied, unoffended. “I suppose I’m a sort of agent, secretary, bodyguard … I just keep her organized, I guess.”
“Does she … work much now?”
“Oh, now and then when she feels like it; not a lot. Hardly at all, I suppose. Oh
, hell. If you really must know, she doesn’t work. She’s not … in fashion now, if you know what I mean. It hurts her. That’s why she sometimes seems a little abrupt, you know. She’s a wonderful person, really. She’s been great to me, like a … like a sister,” she said defiantly, daring me to interrupt with a less tactful simile.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said helplessly; there was something disarming about this girl which voided the mind of smart answers.
“Carioca likes to be the center of attention—hadn’t you noticed? She always has been, and now she’s having trouble realizing things just aren’t like that anymore. I rather suspect,” she said sadly, “that her ordering a slithe-skin dress is just another bit of compensation. After all, you can’t get more flamboyant than that.”
“You don’t approve of the dress,” I surmised.
“Not for her. I think it’s a shame she has to call attention to herself that way. But there it is. She’s used to being the center of attraction.”
And when Carioca Jones made her grand entrance a few moments later, I could see what Joanne meant.
For a start, an open spiral staircase is a revealing item of furniture for a woman in a short dress to descend. The impression of stark cold metal against warm soft flesh heightens the effect. But, as Joanne had said, it was a shame. It was a shame that I was thinking, as she moved down the stairs so slowly, that maybe she was getting on in years and didn’t want to fall. I wasn’t intended to think that at all. So by the time she reached the bottom and began to make her swaying way across the petrified sediment, I was feeling quite sorry for her. And, to be honest, her figure was good—obscenely good, like one’s mother; and just about as interesting. I averted my eyes from the exposed flesh.
She held her face up to be kissed, at least giving me the choice of splashdown area. Then she proceeded to chatter away as though I’d only just arrived, and led me to the couch.
“Joanne darling,” she cooed, “play for us while we talk, there’s a dear. Something nice and slow and smoochy.”
I’d only met her once before today, and that had been a business meeting. I wondered how she would behave if I were a close friend—and then I wondered how many close friends she had, and I felt sorry for her again.
Joanne had moved over to a piece of furniture which, at first glance, I’d taken for a 3-V alcove. It was a sort of halfdome which somehow suggested excellent acoustics, or the womb, according to how introverted you felt at the time. Like a quarter of an egg. She moved inside and, I think, sat down; it was difficult to tell, as the interior was coated with the new Ultrasorb compound which absorbs all light. Then her hands appeared, slipping into the orchestrella which sat on a low stand. The effect was most spectacular—hands appearing from the blackness, holding the instrument.
I excused myself from Carioca and walked over, standing directly in front of the alcove. Still I couldn’t see Joanne. Just her hands were there, right in front of me, caressing the orchestrella. It was uncanny. Then she began to play, disembodied hands moving, astral music filling the room, and I returned to Carioca with some reluctance.
“Well,” she said, smiling. “Now here we are. Isn’t this delightful?”
“Interesting piece of furniture you have over there.”
“Quite, but we don’t want to talk about boring old furniture, do we? Tell me about yourself, Joe. Why does a man like you hide himself away among those funny little animals?”
“It’s a living.” The music, which Carioca had intended to remain in the background, had impressed itself on me by its sheer power and beauty. I couldn’t help but listen to it. “Has Joanne ever thought of taking that up professionally?” I asked.
“My dear, why should she need to, when she has me?” There was more than a hint of acid in her voice.
“She’s very good.”
“Oh, let’s forget Joanne, for heaven’s sake, Joe. I didn’t invite you here to talk about her.”
The trapped feeling flustered me and I said something foolish. “Why did you invite me here?”
“Well now, aren’t you the forceful one?” She edged closer, all thighs and shoulders. “I asked you here because I like you, Joe. And because you’re making a nice dress for me.” Her voice hardened again here and I took the point. The dress was far and away the most profitable order we were likely to get this year, and it looked like being a long, hard winter.
“I’m very flattered, Miss Jones.”
“Carioca.”
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Oh, not now. Not when you’re just going to tell me all about yourself.”
So I sighed inwardly and began to tell her my life story, making it as interesting as possible in the hope that she would concentrate on the abstract past instead of the physical present, while all the time those dark eyes were fixed on mine like mating slugs. After a while she changed the subject.
“But how can you make the dress if you don’t know my measurements?”
She jumped up and made for the stairs, presumably in search of a tape measure. I heard a chuckle clearly amid the music and looked quickly toward the semidome. “For God’s sake come and help me out, Joanne.”
In answer the music swelled to a derisive crescendo with undertones of the “Wedding March” as Carioca began her descent of the staircase. “Here!” she cried. “I’ve found a tape measure. Now we can get it over with. Come on!”
She took my hand and pulled me to my feet—or more correctly I got up, otherwise she would have landed in my lap. She led me to the darkest corner of the room, out of sight of Joanne. “This will be fine here,” she said. “I’d ask you to come up to my room, but it wouldn’t be quite right, would it?”
And suddenly I wasn’t worried anymore. She had no thought of getting me into bed, whatever impression she might give. She was Carioca Jones, playing her part. She was a born exhibitionist and it had been quite a while since she’d displayed herself. Now she was virtually alone with a captive audience and she was going to make the most of it. Was I feeling sorry for her again? Maybe, but I was annoyed too. She was using me, taking me for a ride.
The music changed.
“After all, the dress is worn next to the skin, isn’t it? So the measurements must be taken next to the skin.”
A most repulsive creature was humping its way across the vitrified past in our direction.
Joanne was playing Duncan’s Allegro in E.
“I’ve always thought that’s one of the most uplifting pieces ever composed, haven’t you, Miss Jones? And doesn’t Joanne play it well? So lively, my God, it makes you want to do calisthenics.”
She wriggled back into her shoulder straps instantly, coloring. She strode across the floor toward the semidome while I hurried after her, fearing mayhem. The land shark snapped at my heels, dislodging a shoe.
She took the orchestrella from Joanne’s hands and held it before me. Her voice had become quiet, very quiet. “It’s quite easy to play, Joe, and very interesting. I used to be able to play it myself one time, but you need young hands for that. Soft, like dear Joanne’s. You see”—she plunged her fingers into the holes in the egg-shaped instrument—”the depth of the fingers—how far you push them in—controls the pitch. The position of the fingers—which sides of the holes you press—controls both tone and volume. Each finger can produce a sound like a violin, a piano, a guitar, a drum, even. Ten fingers—a ten-piece orchestra, in the hands of an expert.”
Her hands were hooked into the instrument like talons.
“I’m afraid my hands aren’t what they were. The sensitivity has left them, you see.”
Joanne’s face appeared from the blackness of the semidome, stricken.
“No, nowadays I’m just a little bit ham-fisted.”
The orchestrella screamed in discord as she squeezed and kneaded; then it was silent.
I treated that team of slithes like children. Immediately after Carioca Jones placed her order I had chosen ten prize animals and Dave
had built a separate pen for them, with heating in the hutch and a temperature-controlled pool in the small yard. It’s odd, the way we tend to regard the animals from a human standpoint. In point of fact, it didn’t matter a damn whether the slithes were happy; the important thing was that they all felt the same. If one of them had a bad day, then it was better that they all had a bad day in order to remain empathetic.
Very soon I found that my slithe team needed to be strengthened—something I should have known from the start. It takes more than ten slithes to make a ten-slithe-skin dress. The first disaster occurred two days after my fraught evening with Carioca Jones.
The morning mist was cold and hung in beads from the chicken wire of the pens; I don’t know what prompted me to look out of the window at six A.M.—or even to get out of bed. Anyway, as I gazed on the peaceful scene I saw a movement among the hutches. Something was amiss.
Soon I stood dressed and with shotgun in hand, in the yard. I looked around, hefting the gun. They can say what they like about the advantages of the fanbeam laser rifle—it has none of the excitement of the good old-fashioned twelvebore with its thunderous discharge and wicked recoil. At this hour of the morning I was itching to kill, and to have killed quietly and efficiently would have been no sop to my temper whatever. There was something prowling around my pens, and I wanted to blast it all to hell.
In point of fact it was a moray eel. He came around the corner of the prize hutch in a twisting slither, and in his jaws was struggling a member of my hand-picked team, vivid yellow with fear.
The eel saw me and stopped, watching me with cold knowing eyes. He was a stray. An oxygenator pulsed near his gills and I wondered how long he had to live, in his dependency on a human machine. I couldn’t shoot him, not while he had the slithe. I watched him and he watched me, and at the same time I tried to see where he’d got through the chicken wire. Then I saw a small gap where the mesh met the damp soil. I reached it before he did; he dropped the slithe in order to bare sharp teeth in a soundless gape, and came on. He must have been seven feet long and he looked savage and relentless, and I backed off nervously. I’d always understood morays were idle creatures, spending their time sitting in rock caves waiting for food to come their way. This one was acting out of character and it threw me. I had forgotten the shotgun. It was man-to-man stuff now.
The Girl With a Symphony in Her Fingers Page 2
