***
They joined Robin in the café after their tour of the underground operations, and she’d had a chance to clear her head with the salt air five hundred feet below ground. Arnold wasn’t kidding, the place sure didn’t lack for amenities. The selection of coffees in the bistro rivaled anything Starbucks had to offer.
“So, what’s your niche, if you don’t mind me asking?” Robin said.
“This is pretty much it,” Santini said, sipping his coffee and looking around at the buzz of science geeks.
“Yeah, we guard the ones who trip over their shoelaces,” Mort said, guzzling his coffee like beer, which he’d had poured for him in a beer mug. It was two-thirds amaretto, one third hazelnut coffee.
“The specialists,” Robin said, nodding. “Good, they are most in need of help, I imagine, and also exist in far greater numbers. I handle the other end of the spectrum, the generalists, the ones smart enough to think across the boundaries of many different specialties. The true integral thinkers, like Hartman. They’re all powerful, I’m afraid, and when they stray off course, the price might be the end of the world as we know it. And I don’t mean in a good way.”
“How do you throw a rope around those guys?” Mort asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after nearly emptying the beer mug in one swallow.
“I’ll let you know when I get that far. Admittedly some people have been popping up on my radar that are specialists of a different sort. I guess you could call them the naturals. Like me, they don’t rely on technology, just on their own minds to do what they do. They’re not as common as the techno-kids, who are but this generation’s take on the age of cyborgs to come. They either eschew technology altogether, or just rely on it in a strictly adjunct capacity. Doing most of the work the old fashioned way, up inside their heads.”
“And what do you plan to do about them?” Mort asked.
“Same as before. I’ll let you know when I get that far.”
“Why is it the naturals scare me more than the tech-enhanced?” Mort asked, swapping mugs with the waitress, who’d been instructed to keep them coming. He didn’t wait for an answer before downing half of the latest mug.
“Until I know more about what the naturals are capable of, I’m inclined to go the other way. I find the tech-enhanced far scarier. They can well create tools that will give them access to the multiverse long before they have the mental and emotional maturity to do much but lay waste to it as they have this planet.”
“I can always count on you guys for light conversation,” Mort said. He handed the latest empty mug to the waitress. “Something stronger. And I don’t mean coffee.” She smiled and left without saying a word, evidently quite used to the heady conversations taking place in and around the café.
“It’s time we headed back to check on Coma Man. I’m sorry, I mean Milton,” Gretchen said. “We left him kind of unprotected, especially with not knowing what those dogs are up to. They have a mind of their own.”
“Thor’s with them,” Santini said. “Still, probably a good idea.”
“Um, well, I guess I didn’t need that last drink all that much. Not to mention we left Fabio holed up to work on his equations,” Mort said. “God knows, leaving that kid alone too long could be a huge mistake.”
“It’s high time we brought Fabio and Milton together,” Gretchen explained, clutching her handbag. “It is why we made this trip.”
Observing their dynamic, Robin smiled. “You’re good for one another. Take it from a budding psychic. What’s more, the movement is lucky to have you.”
“Something tells me the movement won’t know what to do with you, exactly, when you finish coming into your own,” Mort said.
***
Toby dropped Gretchen, Mort, and Santini off at the Shambles, where he’d picked them up, and then departed with Robin in the car.
“Pity we couldn’t have merged posses,” Mort said with a twinkle in his eye as he regarded Robin’s departure.
“Maybe when the time is right,” Santini said. “As she indicated herself, she flows in different circles. Our world is one of specialists. Her world—well, it exists some place far far away from ours. I imagine the two worlds can’t help but cross from time to time.”
***
Robin was enjoying the ride in the back of the 1934 Auburn. It gave her time to decompress after her time with Gretchen and company.
“Where to now, boss?” Toby said.
“Home, Toby. The world will have to fuel itself on its own madness for a while without me having a hand in things.”
“Whatever for?”
“Drew’s headed for a meltdown, I can just feel it. I need to focus my attentions a little closer to home.”
“Those growing psychic abilities of yours?”
“He stopped gambling and palling around with his Addicts-Are-Us chums. And considering his proximity to his mother, which drove him to do that in the first place, that can’t be good.”
“I don’t feel it’s right to feed into this enabling codependency between you,” Toby said. “It’s not healthy.”
“Oh, your lottery, I nearly forgot. Don’t worry. I may have to wig out on him just to get him to stop focusing on his own problems for five minutes. He can’t very well be in meltdown if I am, can he? Or the codependency merry-go-round will fail to turn.”
“Since you put it that way—” Toby slipped the car into the next highest gear as he continued to pick up speed.
Once they had been on the road awhile, Toby built up enough nerve to ask, “You’ve never actually willed yourself into one of these meltdown states before, have you? Can you even do it?”
“Doubtful. If I put my ego in charge of the operation, it’ll just be a big mess, about as productive as trying to suck the blood back out of a tick. My higher self has to be on board, and has to be the one driving the shifts, as needed.”
“Meaning…?”
“Meaning if my higher self doesn’t see anything to be gained from taking me on the magical mystery tour, it’s not going to happen. Whether I want it to or not.”
“That’s not very encouraging. What happens if it decides never to trigger a breakdown?”
“Means my theory that aberrant psychology has more to teach us about the world we live in than normal healthy psychology is up in smoke.”
“I feel better already. When you meet the rest of the characters at Lady Harding’s castle, so will you.”
Robin smiled despite herself.
TWENTY-FOUR
Aart stood primly before the 1930 Cadillac V16 convertible with its roof up, silver service tray held upright in his white-gloved hand. He was the image of tailored perfection, and prided himself on it. He was footman number two, after all, no small accomplishment in a household this large, and his job demanded attention to detail.
He had been gardener once, a truly grueling experience, considering he hated getting his hands dirty. It left him traumatized, even five years into his stint as second footman. Standing before the Cadillac, memory flashes from those dark days cut into his mind as if his brain were on a chopping block for a master chef to mince. He remembered seeing the dirt under his fingernails after planting the tulips and having to take a time out to do a manicure on himself. He got up from all fours after planting to observe the grass stains on his knees, and had to take time out to scrub them. “He does in five days what other gardeners do in five minutes!” The chief gardener complained to Lady Harding one fine morning. Lady Harding treasured him, but the other gardeners complained, too, until she had no choice but to shuffle the deck. Lucky him.
He didn’t mind coming to the garage because Toby’s harem kept it pristine, and the cars, as well. He cleared his throat as loudly as he could, then moved on to the next car, repeated the procedure.
Still no response, he moved on to the third car.
Toby put his head up, finally. “Ah, yes, I could use a bite to eat.”
Aart held the tray tantalizingly cl
ose, then pulled it away every time Toby tried to lay his fingers on something.
“Very well,” Toby sighed. He opened the door, undid his shoes and socks, laid back, and attended his book on vintage automobiles. He was likely contemplating his next homes and which ones he’d talk Lady Harding into buying, as Aart entertained his foot fetish sucking Toby’s stinky toes.
***
Minutes later, Toby rolled his eyes as he heard Aart come to orgasm. Mercifully, Aart’s face was covered by the generous display pages of the photo-book. Toby rather relished the system of checks and balances that allowed him to live—all except for this part. His last footman was even worse. They knew he had to eat, and so what was he to do? So they killed one another jockeying for position to bring him his food trays. He had to give the last footman blowjobs. This one, at least, was easier on his self-esteem.
Toby had developed the habit earlier on of making sure to stop at the store on his excursions and find some excuse to have the clerk deliver his daily meals to the glove boxes and the many holding bays of the vintage automobiles he drove. There was certainly room enough with a good ice box to keep him fed for a week. But the staff always found ways to steal the food away as he slept, until he finally gave up. Even using harem girls to stand guard duty over the food in the cars didn’t really work. They were ultimately compromised by political pressures he was powerless to contain. If they didn’t play along, they were removed from garage duty. He wondered what he would do when his beauty faded altogether, what then?
Aart long done and gone, Toby contented himself with the many finger-food-treats on the silver tray as he ogled the classic coach car magazines.
It was Monday.
Monday nights he gave Lady Harding a turn in the back seat. He had to get her good and soused since she lacked the flexibility to tolerate his hammering. She would fantasize about the bruises the morning after, thinking them leftovers from lover’s kisses, failing to remember they were delivered by the unyielding frame of the car itself.
***
From the front passenger seat, Toby passed the mirror at the end of the wand over the white-walled tire closest to him on the olive-green with brown trim 1930 Cadillac Series 452A roadster, shaking his head.
Stacy sighed, and took another stab at getting the tires to the shade of white deemed satisfactory by Toby. The white walls were admittedly the hardest part. He returned to his napping to recharge his batteries.
Awakened by her an hour later, he examined the car’s exterior one final time with the aid of the mirror, as he hopped from seat to seat.
Given the nod, finally, Stacy jumped in on cue. He proceeded to amorously devour her from the back seat. He made no efforts to quiet their lovemaking, knowing it would inspire the other girls to do their best with the other cars.
Twenty minutes later, with Stacy’s aid, he tunneled from the roadster to the burgundy 1932 Cadillac Series 452B Dual Cowl Phaeton along a plank covered by ribbed-back cloth connecting rear seat to rear seat.
Once inside the cabin of the Phaeton, he used his pointer to highlight the specks that still needed to be vanquished, starting with the chrome surrounding the spare tire carried on the side of the car.
Some hours later, satisfied at last, he gave Venetia a turn on his stick shift, bringing her to orgasm twice. He could hear the girls in the background pick up the tempo in order to outdo one another in their vehicle cleaning.
It was Cadillac cleaning day. Mercifully, Lady Harding just had three, which would leave him not entirely spent.
Toby next made his way to the turquoise 1931 Cadillac Series 452A convertible coupe.
He kept pointing at the black fender trim and the black trunk behind the car until these, too, gleamed to his satisfaction.
He dispatched Lorna using just his tongue. She was mercifully easy to bring to orgasm with the slightest amount of oral gratification. If only he could trade in some of the girls he had to ride for hours to bring them to climax. At twenty-three, he had to look ahead to the years where easy-to-satisfy women were more of a practical necessity.
Toby napped inside the coupe after dismissing the girls, one and all.
***
“History veered off course when we gave women the vote.” Ernestina Chadwick talked as she walked. “Now, if the vote doesn’t pass, men feel free to ignore us. Once, we could just whisper in their ears and make them think the idea was all theirs, a far more effective method for running the world. Or nag them to death until they felt dogged by their own guilty conscience, an equally salubrious method for bending history to our will.”
She pointed so Aart, the footman assigned to her, knew which item on the beach to grab. When he handed the shell to her, she turned the item over in her hands, her face gleaming, as if it was the lost treasure of Coronado. Then she dropped it in the basket the footman was carrying for her.
“As to women in the workplace, God help us,” Ernestina Chadwick said, returning to her beachside stroll. “Now there’s no one to mind the home, and little boys grow up to think they actually have a mind of their own. Men have no civilized impulses unless we give those to them, and now we’re too concerned with beating our own breasts to give it to them. No wonder we’re at the verge of genocide.”
Robin shifted her weight on the lawn chair. Perched on the grass just short of the beach, she was well within earshot of Ernestina. “She’s quite the Barrack-room lawyer, isn’t she?”
“The what?” Drew said, smiling.
“It’s a person who gives opinions on things they are not qualified to speak about,” Robin explained.
“Thank you,” Drew said. “What’s with the Euro-speak?”
“Toby’s been teaching me how to be snide in proper English fashion.”
“I suppose that is most essential to surviving my family.” Drew shifted his weight in his chair. “Do carry on.”
Ernestina Chadwick, Drew’s grandmother, pointed to the latest “sea shell” along the bank for her footman to pick up and hand to her so she could marvel at it. She swooned over the find, then dropped it in her basket, and hobbled on. Even if she were so inclined—at the ripe old age of eighty-something—the bag of bones didn’t have the elasticity to bend for herself. No one could pin her age down better than that, because she had had the records erased. Long-standing aristocratic blood and long-standing money were better at compromising historians, as it turned out, than sheer bias.
“The daft old woman does understand those are wood chips and rabbit turds she’s fondling, and not sea shells, right?” Robin said.
Drew, perched on the lawn chair beside her, fanned himself. “I see the definition of daft eludes you.”
Robin enjoyed the oceangoing birds through her opera glasses. “I do share her fondness for the beach. We concur on that much.”
“You do realize this is the pond in the backyard, and not the beach?” Drew said.
“You’re shitting me.” Robin glanced back at the castle in the background to orient herself. Looking out at the expanse of water, Robin said, “If you call this a pond, we need to work on your starved vocabulary.”
“Apparently you and my grandmother have more in common than you care to admit.”
“That kind of sheer meanness is uncalled for before afternoon tea,” Robin said, getting the hang of the ribbing. Apparently alcoholics and addicts in general relied on one another for control when they couldn’t control themselves. That required attuning to the self-organizing universe about them, replete with the proper checks and balances. The guiderails that materialized out of nowhere when they most needed them was born of biting humor. The jibes’ thinly concealed criticisms were meant to cue one another to rein themselves in, as their behavior was becoming an embarrassment to everyone. And quite frankly, driving friends and family alike nuts. The pent up frustration acted as justification enough for the acerbic little digs. Addicts, Robin concluded, didn’t truly have a sense of humor, just a sense of viciousness passing itself off as sarcasm. Now t
hat he was back home, Drew was in full form, and Robin was merely riding the wave as best she could.
“What a strange strange world it is,” Aart said, eying the sky.
Ernestina informed him, “The whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma, that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.”
“Is he actually egging her on?” Robin said, continuing to eavesdrop from a distance. Aart and Ernestina’s “private” conversation carried on the wind.
“He’s helping her fight the Alzheimer’s by prompting her to connect thoughts in her head, however deranged they sound to the rest of us,” Drew explained.
“That smug man?” Robin studied the way Aart held the basket, in a wrist maneuver only properly justified by advanced rheumatoid arthritis, the way he stuck out his chin, aimed ever upwards, and the way he comported himself, in general, inside a tuxedo much better fit for a ball. “Who’d have thought him capable of such kindness?”
“I think we owe more to his masochism,” Drew said.
Robin followed Aart and Ernestina’s eyes heavenward.
“Look at all the pretty birds flying over,” Ernestina exclaimed. “Quick, maybe we can coax them to land with some bread crumbs.” She threw bread crumbs for “the birds.”
Robin noted the troop of ultra-light enthusiasts, no two propeller-driven planes alike, bringing their rides in for a landing lakeside, seemingly in response to Ernestina’s gestures. One craft had a rear fan blade the size of one of those water-skimming boats used in the Florida everglades, and a front body to match, with exposed chassis, and a motor that duplicated the sounds of a lawn mower rather well. The first to land was also the first to be thrown breadcrumbs by Ernestina, happy to “feed” it.
Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5) Page 104
