by Eikeltje
strong and that's unusual in the group so far. Wisdom of our sort," he flicks
a finger between them, "finds a home in older frames. It's a tough load for the
young to bear."
Jonathan has enough self-respect left that this melodramatic display gives
him no option. He laughs and shakes his head. "My God, Marcus, you have
rne going here,
you?"
don't
Marcus smiles a little sadly, but his eyes are bright and focused. He is not
drunk and he is not fooling. "This is an old restaurant and I know the paint
on its walls. Nobody would dare bug this place, because people like me know
whose lapels to grab and which ear to shout in. It's safe here, comfortable
here."
"You're not having me on?"
"Not a bit," Marcus says. "You either say yes, you want to go to the next
stage, you trust me this far, or you say no, and never speak of this to anyone,
including Chloe. And you'll never be offered the chance again."
The female waiter comes by and asks how they're doing. Marcus tells her
they're doing fine, and asks for a second bowl of Lagavulin.
"Stagnation, pitfalls; the rules are changing," Marcus says after she leaves.
"That's what you have to look forward to. Yox makes the temps and the disaffected more ignorant and more aggressive, bottom-up management is on
the sly spin again, pffft! The collective is in place, grunting piglets all, and
those of us with managerial talent are soon out on our butts in the snow and
/
SLANT 113
"Come on, Marcus, cheer me up," Jonathan says. He is not really prepared
for this sort of nonsense, but as he looks at Marcus, and thinks of all he knows
about this man, all the deals and sideshows he's rumored to be involved in,
all the threads he rides straight into the statehouse and the most powerful
executive caucuses, even into the Rim Council and the Southcoasr White
House . . . It's hard to speck Marcus as a deluded old fool.
"It's not a cheery subject," Marcus continues doggedly. "The therapied
society rides around on too many crutches. It's crippled and corrupt. But the
unknown is scary. The Stoics--they cling to class superiority and a sense that
God will eventually clean out the gutters and the water will flow fresh and
clear once more. It's not going to happen. We've made some major mistakes
in learning how to dance, and now the floor is crowded with clumsy fools . . ."
Marcus's phrasing strikes Jonathan as being too practiced, but undeniably
persuasive. Still, Jonathan resists being drawn in too quickly. "I don't think
things are so dark," Jonathan says.
Marcus looks down at the table. The waiter brings another bowl of Scotch
and asks Jonathan if he'd like more wine.
"Coffee, please," Jonathan says.
"Modcaff, regular, or de?" the waiter asks.
"Regular," Jonathan says.
"I'm not unlike you, Jonathan," Marcus says. "At your age, I thought I was
living in the best of all possible worlds, taking into account a few pitfalls here
and there. Beate loved me and I loved her, and we were building things together.
But that was twenty years ago. We were heading toward the Raphkind
showdown, and the so-called last hurrah of the super-conservatives. Raphkind
killed us. Went overboard. May the bastard rot in hell. So now we have nambypamby
New Federalists--a trendy name for a purely financial and expedient
frame of mind. I'm one. I know you're one, as well. Are you proud of your
creed?"
"Within limits," Jonathan says. He suspects Marcus plays faithfully and
slyly the tune of whoever's in power.
"So what's in the future for you? Do you know that managers between the
ages of forty and fifty suffer thymic disorders twice as often as temp employees?
Society wears us down. We wear ourselves out. But if we turn ourselves over
to the therapists, they adjust our neurons and glial cells, they stick microscopic
monitors into us that are supposed to balance our neurotransmitters and reconstruct
our judgment centers. They say we're as good as new. But you know
what happens? We lose an edge . . . Therapied managers just don't cut it. The
happy man lets down his guard. After a while, being happy becomes a kind
of drug, and he avoids challenges because failure will make him unhappy. It's
a fact. So more and more--we take our mental aches and pains and stay away
from the therapists.
"Oh, we want our employees therapied--we want them happy and creative
114
GREG BEAR
We have a higher duty." Marcus glances at Jonathan. "You're not happy, are
you?"
Jonathan leans back against the cushion and holds out his hands, gives a
little sigh. "I'm in between general contentment.., and deep unrest," he says.
Marcus lifts his eyebrows. "Well put."
"But I'm not desperately unhappy, Marcus."
"Still, if an opportunity comes along, allowing great change and new opportunity,
you'd go for it, wouldn't you?"
So they are back to that.
"That would depend on the opportunity."
Marcus points his finger into the tabletop and thumps it several times. "The
gold ring, Jonathan. Not the brass ring. Gold."
Jonathan finishes the last drops of wine in his glass. Outside, the storm
shows no signs of abating. "Have you offered this opportunity to anyone before
me?"
"Yes," Marcus says.
"Many?"
"Two. One accepted, one declined."
"How long ago was that?"
"In the last five years."
Jonathan feels a twist, an almost physical churn in his chest. If he could
just be rid of his present stagnation--breathe freely in a new phase of life,
undo past mistakes and play out his better potentials...
"If I say yes, can I turn back at a certain point later?"
"No," Marcus says squarely. "It's yes or no. Here and now."
"I have to put my trust in you."
e
That's the crux."
What about my family? Would they be involved?"
"They have to undergo the same inspection as you," Marcus says. "If they
pass, they go."
So Beate isn't going, Jonathan intuits.
"What about their chance to choose?"
"In our group," Marcus says, "the head of household bears the brunt."
The emergency chime on Marcus's pad sounds and Marcus pulls it out,
angling it away from Jonathan's eyes. It is a text message; Marcus reads it
swiftly, his face a practiced blank, and puts the pad away.
"Something's up," he says. He gives Jonathan a look that can be interpreted
either as disappointment or a kind of apologetic sorrow. "Jonathan, I've never
placed you anywhere but in the sly spin, have I?"
"Never," Jonathan truthfully acknowledges. He cannot blame Marcus for
his present situation.
"What's just happened--what I've just learned--puts us deeply in need of
someone like you. The opportunity is even better for you. You can move right
/
SLANT 115
into a position of influence. I'll vouch for the fact that you're capable and you're
ready."
Jonathan does not feel comfortable leaping into the dark, and dragging
Chl
oe after him . . .
But he remembers her stiffness in his arms. Whenever he has touched her
in the last month, she has seemed secretly annoyed. Her respect for him, her
desire for him as a man, has faded, buffeted by the pressures of children and
the stalling--he supposes--of his career.
She is disappointed in her life. She is disappointed in him.
A wild flare of anger and fear rises. Marcus is watching him. Marcus always
seems to know the inner workings of his people; that's why his career has never
faltered. He always keeps his teams together--and he always chooses his people
well.
"Are you in charge?" Jonathan asks.
"No. But I'm close to the top, and those above me are the best. I've never
seen better."
Jonathan blinks and his left eye stings. It's been a long night. He wipes the
corner of his eye with the knuckle of his forefinger, then stares at Marcus.
"Say yes, and you'll have one last chance to back out--think it over for
tonight and call me tomorrow evening. After that, after you've learned what
we're up to, you're in. No backing out. Ever."
He has been looking for a change, any change, to regain Chloe's respect, to
win back her need for him. But everything he has considered seems ridiculous-moving
to Europe, even China, starting over again. He can't let go of
what they've already gained in the world. He believes Chloe values their security
very highly, and would think even less of him if he jeopardized that.
"The gold ring, Jonathan." Marcus fixes him with a patriarchal and steady
gaze. "Never steered you wrong, Jonathan."
"Better contacts, references?"
Marcus smiles. "Best you've ever seen. Solidarity. Real support in tough
times, and the times are going to get much tougher, believe me."
"My family will get.., better contacts, better opportunities?"
"If they make the grade, Jonathan." Marcus nods. "You know their quality
better than I."
"Yes," Jonathan says.
"I'm sure they will," Marcus murmurs, but looks away.
"Yes."
Marcus looks back sharply. "Is that your answer?"
Jonathan blinks. He did not mean it as an answer, he thinks, not precisely
an answer, not yet at least. But Marcus is growing restless. Marcus does not
like prevarication and delay. Either you know your mind or you don't.
"Yes," Jonathan says.
Marcus smiles. He is genuinely relieved. "Welcome aboard."
116
GRG BAR
They shake hands. Jonathan for a moment does not know who he is or what
he is doing; there is such a pressure of withheld anger that he fears he might
go home and beat someone--or more likely, kill himself.
He is so in love with Chloe, so desperately in need of her, and she has given
him so little of what he believes he deserves, despite all. The pent-up shock
of this realization makes him a little dizzy.
"Go home and rest," Marcus says. "This takes something out of all of us."
"What's the next move?" Jonathan asks.
'I'll get you together with some people. Patience," Marcus says. "I've waited
four years so far to see this happen. We might have to wait ten more."
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/
SLANT 117
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19
Jack Giffey believes in being very gentle with women. (It's the women who
have been cruel to him--a small dark voice tells him; but actually, he can't
remember any cruel women--why is that?)
He is gentle with Yvonne. She is surprisingly elegant in his bed, anticipatory
and supple and enthusiastic without seeming a slut. She keeps her eyes
on his eyes, she watches his motions with intense interest; it has been some
time since he has felt the urgency of a younger woman, and even among her
age group, Yvonne is a pistol, a classy pistol indeed. He feels very lucky, like
a sacrificial victim given the pick of a town's beauties before his ritual comes
to its inevitable end.
Giffey does not enjoy tongue kisses, but oddly enough, he enjoys using his
lips and tongue everywhere else. He read somewhere years ago about men of
his type, the particular molecules they enjoyed and which spurred their own
satisfactions, but that was chemistry not sex and he really does not care what
the reasons are.
Yvonne lets him know, without resorting to specifics, that few men of her
acquaintance are so generous. Giffey feels proud and within an hour they have
completely exhausted each other.
"You are some lady," Giffey says as they lie back. The room is not expensive
and does not have much in the way of comfo
rts, but he keeps a bottle of
bourbon in the cupboard and there is ice in the small ancient enameled refrigerator,
and he offers her a drink. He feels very mellow toward her and even a
little protective.
118
GREG BEAR
"I don't normally like liquor," Yvonne says. "But it seems right. Let's make
it a toast--to you."
"Thank you," Giffey says.
While he is up getting the glasses poured, Yvonne sits up on the bed with
the covers draped just over her knees, and he appreciates the flow of her breasts
and the twin rolls of her bunched tummy. Giffy does not like tummies that
are artificially taut. Yvonne has sufficient numbers of the lovely flaws of un-tampered
nature to almost convince him that there is nothing he'd like better
than to spend more days and of course nights with her, many more.
"What do your friends call you? Do they call you Jack?" Yvonne asks,
scratching her nose with a fingernail.
"My best friends call me Giff," he says. "But very few people on this world
ever call me Giff."
"May I?"
Giffey brings the glasses over, ice clunking within the pale brown bourbon.
"What would Bill think if I let you call me Giff?" he says.
Yvonne narrows her eyes. "I need you, this," she says. "It's none of his damn
business."
"Sorry I brought it up."
"That's all right," Yvonne says, and gives him dispensation with a wave of
her glass, then takes a sip.
"I wish I could do more," Giffey says.
"I'm not asking for more," she says.
He feels his deep layer of occasional honesty rising to the surface. He knows
he can't suppress it; he cares for this woman a little, and he will not deceive
her. "What I mean is, you move me like no woman I've met in years."
