The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B

by Ben Bova (Ed)

  "Well, Doctor!" she said with low-voiced gravity and a pucker of her lips, "I'd been wondering when you'd drop by again."

  Connington, coming around the other side of the car, smiled watchfully at her and said: "He had to chaperone Al home. Seems there was a little hitch in the proceedings today."

  She glanced aside at Barker, who was closing the garage doors. She ran her tongue over the edges of her teeth. "What kind?"

  "Now, I wouldn't know as to that. Why don't you ask Hawks?" Connington took a fresh cigar out of his case. "I like that suit, Claire," he said. He trotted quickly up the steps, brushing by her.

  "It's a hot day. Think I'll go find a pair of trunks and take a dip myself. You and the boys have a nice chat meanwhile." He walked quickly up the path to the house, stopped, lit the cigar, glanced sideward over his cupped hands, and stepped out of sight inside.

  "I think Al will be all right," Hawks said.

  Claire looked down at him. She focussed her expression into an open-faced innocence. "Oh? You mean, he'll be back to normal?"

  Barker brought the garage doors down and passed Hawks with his head bent, striding intendy as he thrust the ignition keys into his pocket. His face jerked up toward Claire as he climbed the steps. "I'm going upstairs. I may sack out. Don't wake me." He half-turned and looked at Hawks. "I guess you're stuck here, unless you want to take another hike. Did you think of that, Doctor?"

  "Did you? I'll stay until you're up. I'll want to talk to you."

  "I wish you joy of it, Doctor," Barker said, and walked away, with Claire watching him. Then she looked back down at Hawks. Through all this, she had not moved her feet or hands.

  Hawks said: "Something happened. I don't know how much it means."

  "You worry about it, Ed," she said, her lower lip glistening. "In the meantime, you're the only one left standing down there."

  Hawks sighed. "I'll come up."

  Claire Pack grinned.

  "Come over and sit by the pool with me," she said when he reached the top of the steps. She turned away before he could answer, and walked slowly in front of him, her right arm hanging at her side. Her hand trailed back, and reached up to touch his own. She slackened her pace so that they were walking side by side, and looked up at him. "You don't mind, do you?" she said gently.

  Hawks looked down at their hands for a moment, and as he did, she put the backs of her fingers inside his palm. She smiled and said: "There, now," in an almost childishly soft voice.

  They walked to the edge of the pool and stood looking down into the water. Then her mouth parted in a low, whispered laugh. She swayed her upper body toward him, and put her other hand on his arm.

  Hawks put his right hand around his own left wrist and held it, his arm crossed awkwardly in front of his body.

  She looked down at his arm. "You know, if I get too close to you, you can always dive into the pool." Then she grinned to herself again, keeping her face toward him to let him see it, and, taking her hands away, sank down to lie on one hip in the grass. "I'm sorry," she said, looking up. "I said that just to see if you'd twitch. Connie's right about me, you know."

  Hawks squatted angularly down next to her. "In what way?"

  She put one hand down into the blue water and stirred it back and forth, silvery bubbles trailing out between her spread fingers. "I can't know a man more than a few minutes without trying to get under his skin," she said in a pondering voice. "I have to do it."

  Hawks continued to look at her gravely, and she slowly lost the vivacity behind her expression. She rolled over suddenly on her back, her ankles crossed stiffly, and put her hands down flat on her thigh muscles.

  "What's happening to Al?" she said, moving only her lips. "What are you doing to him?"

  "I don't know exactly," Hawks said. "I'm waiting to find out."

  She sat up and twisted to face him, her breasts moving under the loose top. "Do you have any kind of a conscience?" she asked. "Is there anyone who can hurt you?"

  He shook his head. "That kind of question doesn't apply. I do what I have to do."

  She seemed to be almost hypnotized. She leaned closer.

  "I want to see if Al's all right," Hawks said, getting up.

  Claire arched her neck and stared up at him. "Hawks," she whispered.

  "Excuse me, Claire." He stepped around her drawn-up legs and moved toward the house.

  "Hawks," she said hoarsely. The top of the swimsuit was almost completely off the upper faces of her breasts. "You have to take me tonight."

  He continued to walk away.

  "Hawks—I'm warning you!"

  Hawks flung open the house door and disappeared behind the sun-washed glass.

  "How'd it go?" Connington laughed from the shadows of the bar at the other end of the living room. He came forward, dressed in a pair of printed trunks, his stomach cinched by the tight waistband. He was carrying a folded beach shirt over his arm and holding a pewter pitcher and two glasses. "It's a little like a silent movie, from here," he said, nodding toward the glass wall facing out onto the lawn and the pool. "Hell for action, but short on dialogue."

  Hawks turned and looked. Claire was still sitting up, staring intently at what must have been a barricade of flashing reflections of herself.

  "Gets to a man, doesn't she?" Connington chuckled. "Forewarned is not forearmed, with her. She's an elemental—the rise of the tides, the coming of the seasons, an eclipse of the Sun." He looked down into the pitcher, where the ice at the top of the mixture had suddenly begun to tinkle. "Woe to us, Hawks. Woe to us who would pursue them on their cometary track."

  "Where's Barker?"

  Connington gestured with the pitcher. "Upstairs. Took a shower, threatened to disembowel me if I didn't get out of his way in the hall, went to bed. Set the alarm for eight o'clock. Put down a tumbler full of gin to help him. Where's Barker?" Connington repeated. "Dreamland, Hawks—whatever dreamland it was that awaited him."

  Hawks looked at his wristwatch.

  "Three hours, Hawks," Connington said. "Three hours, and there is no Master in this house." He moved around Hawks to the outside door. "Yoicks!" he yapped twistedly, raising the pitcher in Claire's direction. He pushed clumsily at the door with his shoulder, leaving a damp smear on the glass. "Tally ho."

  Hawks moved farther into the room, toward the bar. He searched behind it, and found a bottle of Scotch. When he looked up from putting ice and water into a glass, he saw that Connington had reached Claire and was standing over her. She lay on her stomach, facing the pool, her chin resting on her crossed forearms. Connington held the pitcher, saying something and pouring awkwardly into the two glasses in his other hand.

  Hawks walked slowly to the leather-covered settee facing the windows, and sat down.

  Claire rolled half-over and stretched up an arm to take the glass Connington handed down. She perfunctorily saluted Connington's glass and took a drink, her neck arching. Then she rolled back, resting her raised upper body on her elbows.

  Connington sat down on the edge of the pool beside her, dropping his legs into the water. Claire reached over and wiped her arm. Connington raised his glass again, held it up in a toast, and waited for Claire to take another drink. With a twist of her shoulders, she did, pressing the flat of her other hand against the top of her suit.

  Connington refilled their glasses.

  Claire sipped at hers. Connington touched her shoulder and bent his head to say something. Her mouth opened in laughter. She reached out and touched his waist. Her fingers pinched the roll of flesh around his stomach. Her shoulder rose and her elbow stiffened. Connington clutched her wrist, then moved up to her arm, pushing back. He twisted away, hurriedly set his glass down, and splashed into the pool. His hands shot out and took her arm, pulling them forward.

  Claire came sliding into the water on top of him, and they weltered down out of sight under the surface. A moment later, her head and shoulders broke out a few feet away, and she stroked evenly to the ladder, climbing out
and stopping at the poolside to pull the top of her suit back up. She picked her towel from the grass with one swoop of her arm, threw it around her shoulders, and walked quickly off out of sight toward the other wing of the house.

  Connington stood in the pool, watching her.

  Then he swam forward, toward the diving board. For some time afterward, until the low sun was entirely in sight and the room where Hawks was sitting was filled with red, the sound of the thrumming board came vibrating into the timbers of the house at sporadic intervals.

  At ten minutes of eight, a radio began playing loud jazz upstairs. Ten minutes later, the electric blat of the radio's alarm roiled the music, and a moment after that there was a brittle crash, and then only the occasional sound of Barker stumbling about and getting dressed.

  Hawks went over to the bar, washed out his empty glass, and put it back in its rack.

  Barker came down carrying a half-filled squareface bottle. He saw Hawks, grunted, hefted the bottle and said: "I hate the stuff. It tastes lousy, it makes me gag, it stinks, and it burns my mouth. But they keep putting it in your hands. And they fill their folklore with it. They talk gentleman talk about it—ages and flavors and brands and blends, as if it wasn't all ethanol in one concentration or another. Have you ever heard two Martini drinkers in a bar, Hawks? Have you ever heard two shamans swooping magic?" He dropped into an easy chair and laughed. "Neither have I. I synthesize my heritage. I look at two drunks in a saloon, and I extrapolate toward dignity. I suppose that's sacrilege."

  He lit a cigarette, and said through the smoke: "But it's the best I can do, Hawks. My father's dead, and I once thought there was something good in shucking off my other kin. I wish I could remember what that was. I have a place in me that needs the pain."

  Hawks went back to the settee and sat down. He put his hands on his knees and watched Barker.

  "And talk," Barker said. "You're not fit company for them if you don't say 'eyther' and 'nyther' and 'tomahto.' If you've got a Dad, you're out. They only permit gentlemen with fathers in their society. And, yeah, I know they licked me on that. I wanted to belong—Oh, God, Hawks, how much I wanted to belong—and I learned all the passwords. What did it get me? Claire's right, you know—what did it get me?

  "If she could see me, Hawks—if she could see me in that place!" Barker's face was aglow. "She wouldn't be playing footsie with you and Connington tonight—no, not if she could see what I do up there . . . how I dodge, and duck, and twist, and inch, and spring, and wait for the-the-"

  "Easy, Barker!"

  "Yeah. Easy. Slack off. Back away. It bites." Barker coughed out bitterly: "What're you doing here, anyway, Hawks? Why aren't you marching down that road again with your ass stiff and your nose in the air? You think it's going to do you any good, you sitting around here? What're you waiting for? For me to tell you sure, a little sleep and a little gin and I'm fine, just fine, Doctor, and what time do you want me back tomorrow? Call Washington, tell 'em the show's back on the road? Or do you want me to crack wide open, so you can really move in on Claire?

  "A man should fight, Hawks," Barker said softly, his eyes distant. "A man should show he is never afraid to die. He should go into the midst of his enemies, singing his death song, and he should kill or be killed; he must never be afraid to meet the tests of his manhood. A man who turns his back—who lurks at the edge of the battle, and pushes others in to face his enemies—" Barker looked suddenly and obviously at Hawks. "That's not a man. That's some kind of crawling, wriggling thing."

  Hawks got up, flexing his hands uncertainly, his arms awkward, his face lost in the shadows above the lamp's level. "Is that what you wanted me here for? So no one could say you wouldn't clasp the snake to your bosom?" He bent his head forward, peering down at Barker.

  "Is that it, warrior?" he asked inquisitively. "One more initiation rite? A truly brave man wouldn't hesitate to lodge assassins in his house, and offer them food and drink, would he? Let Connington the back-stabber come into your house. Let Hawks the murderer do his worst. Let Claire egg you on from one suicidal thing to the next, ripping off a leg here, another piece of flesh another time. What do you care? You're Barker, the Mimbreno warrior. Is that it?

  "But now you won't fight. Suddenly, you don't want to go back into the formation. Death was too impersonal for you. It didn't care how brave you were, or what preparatory rites you'd passed through. That was what you said, wasn't it? You were outraged, Barker. You still are. What is Death, to think nothing of a full-fledged Mimbreno warrior?

  "Are you a warrior?" he demanded. "Explain that part of it to me. What have you ever done to any of us? When have you ever lifted a finger to defend yourself? You see what we're about, but you do nothing. You're afraid to be thought a man who wouldn't fight, but what do you fight? The only thing you've ever done to me is threaten to pick up your marbles and go home.

  "Do you know why you're still sane after today, Barker? I think I do. I think it's because you have Claire and Connington and me. I think it was because you had us to run to. It isn't really Death that tests your worth for you; it's the menace of dying. Not Death, but murderers. So long as you have us about you, your vital parts are safe."

  Barker was moving toward him, his hands half-raised. Hawks said:

  "It's no use, Barker. You can't do anything to me. If you were to kill me, you would have proved you were afraid to deal with me."

  "That's not true," Barker said, high-voiced. "A warrior kills his enemies."

  Hawks watched Barker's eyes. "You're not a warrior, Al," he said regretfully.

  Barker's arms began to tremble. His head tilted sideward, and he looked at Hawks crookedly, his eyes blinking. "You're so smart!" he panted. "You know so damned much! You know more about me than I do. How is that, Hawks—who touched your brow with a golden wand?"

  "I'm a man, too, Al."

  "Yes?" Barker's arms sank down to his sides. The trembling swept over his entire body. "Yes? Well, I don't like you any better for it. Get out of here, man, while you still can." He whirled and crossed the room with short, quick, jerking steps. He flung open the door. "Leave me to my old, familiar assassins!"

  Hawks looked at him and said nothing. His expression was troubled. Then he walked forward. He stopped in the doorway and stood face to face with Barker.

  "I have to have you," he said. "I need your report to wire to Washington in the morning, and I need you to send up there into that thing, again."

  "Get out, Hawks," Barker answered.

  "I told you," Hawks said, and stepped out into the darkness.

  Barker slapped the door shut. He turned away toward the corridor leading into the other wing of the house, his neck taut and his mouth opening in a shout. It came inaudibly through the glass between himself and Hawks: "Claire? Claire!"

  Hawks walked out across the rectangle of light lying upon the lawn, until he came to the ragged edge that was the brink of the cliff above the sea. He stood looking out over the unseen surf, with the loom of sea-mist filling the night before him.

  "An dark," he said aloud. "An dark an nowhere starlights." Then he began walking, head down, along the edge of the cliff, his hands in his pockets.

  When he came to the flagstoned patio between the swimming pool and the far wing of the house, he walked toward the metal table and chairs in its center, picking his way in the indistinct light.

  "Well, Ed," Claire said from her chair on the other side of the table. "Come to join me?"

  He turned his head in surprise, then sat down. "I suppose."

  Claire had changed into a dress, and was drinking a cup of coffee. "Want some of this?" she offered. "It's a chilly evening."

  "Thank you." He took the cup as she reached it out to him, and drank from the side away from the thick smear of lipstick. "I didn't know you'd be out here."

  She chuckled. "I get tired of opening doors and finding Connie on the other side. I've been waiting for better company."

  "Al's up."

  "Is he
?"

  He passed the coffee cup back to her. "I thought you might like to see him."

  She reached across the table and took his hand. "Ed, do you have any idea of how lonely I get? How much I wish I wasn't me at all?" She tugged at his hand. "But what can I do about it?"

  She rose to her feet, still holding his hand, and came around to stand in front of him, bent forward, clasping his fingers in both hands. "You could tell me you like me, Ed," she whispered. "You're the only one of them who could look past my outsides and like me!"

  He stood up as she pulled at his hand. "Claire—" he began.

  "No, no, no, Ed!" she said, putting her arms around him. "I don't want to talk. I want to just be. I want someone to just hold me and not think about me being a woman. I just want to feel warm, for once in my life—just have another human being near me!" Her arms went up behind his back, and her hands cupped his neck and the back of his head. "Please, Ed," she murmured, her face so close that her eyes brimmed and glittered in the faraway light, and so that in another moment her wet cheek touched his, "give me that if you can."

  She began kissing his cheeks and eyes, her nails combing the back of his head. "Hawks," she choked, "Hawks, I'm so lost. . . ."

  His head bent, her fingers rigid behind it, the tendons standing out in cords on the backs of her hands. Her lips parted, and her leather sandals made a shuffling noise on the patio stones. "Forget everything," she whispered as she kissed his mouth. "Think only of me."

  Then she broke away suddenly, and stood a foot away from him, the back of one hand against her upper lip, her shoulders and hips lax. She was sighing rhythmically, her eyes shining. "No—no, I can't hold out. . . not with you. You're too much for me, Ed." Her shoulders rose, and she moved half a step toward him. "Forget about liking me," she said from deep in her throat as she reached toward him. "Just take me. I can always get someone else to like me."

  Hawks did not move. She looked at him, arms outstretched, her face hungry. Then she sobbed sharply and cried out: "I don't blame you! I couldn't help it, but I don't blame you for what you're thinking. You think I'm some kind of nympho."