“I’ll get that. One more question. What do you know about the entertainer Ronnie Bile?”
Newton’s eyes widened. “Where shall I begin? Mr. Bile will interview you next Sunday, or so he plans. He has been arrested seven times, according to a recent radio broadcast. The details of the charges have been suppressed, which suggests to me that children were involved. In each case, he has been released without charge. Friends in high places?”
“Bile is a pedophile?”
“He has no criminal record, but I infer as much.”
I shuddered. In five days, I would meet a man I could only despise. Could I sit with him and say nothing? Of course I had no choice unless I canceled the interview. And he had powerful friends.
A couple of hours in the library gave me the information Newton needed to pinpoint the proposed dam.
He didn’t think it viable. “Perhaps an error. Perhaps a fraud to push up land values. I recommend you act with caution.”
If only I had asked him before I invested. But would Sy have encouraged me to follow a risky path for a few cupros commission? I didn’t know her well, but I couldn’t believe I was so bad a judge of character.
On August 23, the Sunday of my interview with Ronnie Bile, I ran through warm rain and dropped behind Sy a mile from our finish at Ramblers’ Bridge.
Stopwatch in hand, Sy waited on the far steps as I walked across the bridge. “Forty-nine thirty-eight. Good enough in these conditions.”
I sat beside her, breathing heavily.
She tucked the watch into a belt pocket. “Lemuel, I enjoy your company, but I’m not going to run with you for another month. You’re trying too hard. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She stood. “Come on. We’ll walk for a bit. Jog when you’re ready.”
On the deck of Respite’s Respite, both sweating and drenched with rain, we sat shoulder to shoulder. Sy took my hand. “Lemuel, I’m worried. My running has taken me everywhere. I’ve met people, heard stories. Maybe none of them are true, but take care with Bile.”
I hadn’t told her about Newton’s warning. “He’s just a children’s entertainer, with a turkey farm and an interesting history of arrests.”
“He’s also a regular visitor at Raphael Farm, which might be harmless. And his liking for children goes far beyond professional interest.”
“Newton suggested as much.”
“Newton?”
“An old friend. You’ll meet him soon.”
The rain became a torrent. We stood. I turned to leave.
Sy put a hand on my arm. “It’s my birthday today. If you get back after seven o’clock, go straight to the Cragglemouth Restaurant.”
“A party?”
“Yes. Bring Newton, if he’s free. Polly and Candice will be there. Why don’t you like them?”
I didn’t like them? I hardly knew them. “Who said I don’t?”
“Well, Polly said you chatted with them for few minutes and found an excuse to leave.”
I laughed. “Maybe I did. Nice girls, but on the young side for me.”
Sy’s head dropped. She trembled.
I thought she was laughing, but she turned her face from mine. I reached a hand to her waist.
She stepped back, avoiding the hand, and forced a smile. “Go home, Lemuel. Shower. You have a big day.”
She pointed across the river. “Godbest Park. Not a safe place to be at night. Doesn’t Bluefinch Avenue run past that park? Take the next bridge west of here.”
Suddenly, we were neighbors, at least during daylight hours.
She leaned forward and brushed her sweaty cheek against mine.
The park passed without my noticing. I laughed when I found I had forgotten to turn the water heater on. I sang in the cold shower, dressed in unpatterned materials as instructed for the cameras, then waited by the window.
A car, spacious and luxurious, pulled up outside. It was one I had often seen outside Draco Trading. The driver, also familiar, stepped out. Why had Bandstorm’s car and driver come for me? I expected the Eden Broadcasting Corporation to arrange transport.
The man introduced himself as Briggs. “Just Briggs.” Tall, broad shouldered, fortyish, he had a face that had stopped a few punches, no doubt breaking knuckles in the process. His dark hair, cropped almost as short as mine, showed a healthy contempt for fashion. “Is there anything you need, sir?” He indicated the interior as if encouraging my inspection. “Anything at all? We’ll be on the road for two hours.”
Behind the driver were two rows of seating, each three across. The back row had smooth covers and an antiseptic smell. The other row was softly furnished. “I’ll sit in the middle if I may. And a little fruit would be nice, if it’s no trouble.”
Briggs stared. “Fruit, sir? That could be difficult at short notice. How little?”
I had shocked Briggs. What had I said? And why How little? rather than How much? “A pojo would do. Or an apple. I could do without. It’s not important.”
Briggs shook his head and got into the car. We moved off, stopping outside Draco Trading. He got out. Ten minutes later, he returned with a basket of fruit decorated with a silken bow. He placed it next to me.
We headed south, crossing the Craggle at Revelation Bridge.
What did I know about the city of Barford? Its population of three million made it four times the size of Cragglemouth. Dick Ovid lived there. Two of the three daily newspapers had their headquarters there, as did the EBC. Had I taken a moment to think about it, any other destination would have been surprising.
The road veered away from the coast and wound through high hills.
Something fluttered at the corner of my vision. I reached toward the base of the window and lifted a few fibers of pink fabric. My examination of it was brought to an end by a screech of tires, followed by a thud as Briggs’s door closed.
My door opened. I pulled myself back into the seat.
Briggs held out a hand. “I’ll get rid of that, thank you, sir.”
In one hand, I held a large orange that had rolled from the basket. In the other, I held the strands of fabric.
Briggs took the material from my fingers, released it into the wind, and took up his seat again. After checking I was settled, he drove off.
After another half hour, the car eased to a halt. My door opened, and sunlight flooded in. I stepped out and shielded my eyes.
We were on a circular road, one side facing fields of ripening corn and the other occupied by a single grand building. In letters six feet high above its four floors, eden broadcasting corporation indicated I had arrived at my destination, with the main entrance a few steps from the car.
Briggs moved back, aloof. “I’ll have the fruit delivered to your home, sir.”
Once through security, I was introduced to an androgynous gofer whose name was muttered. Makeup fussed over my unfashionably short hair, accepting, only after I refused a wig, that it tallied with my supposed alien nature. Hospitality fed me well but struggled to understand my request for a drink without alcohol. When I had relaxed to everyone’s satisfaction, Muttered led me to the studio.
He or she directed me to a high-backed leather chair, one of a pair, facing into an arc of lights. Two were switched on. The only sound, a slight buzz, came from the lights. Lubricating oil flavored the air.
One huge, fixed camera pointed toward each chair, with a third pointing between them. Something moved in the shadows behind the cameras. A man—slim, the tallest I had seen on Respite, with tumbling black curls—emerged from the gloom. He wore a dark suit with shoulders too large and pants that almost reached his curled-up shoes.
He held his lapels and ambled around, examining me as if I were a museum exhibit, his eyes half-closed. “So, you are from Earth.” His voice had a thespian quality, precise and practiced. “I’ve read about Earth, a land of fairies and hobgoblins. You look almost human.” He grinned. Two of his front teeth were gray metal.
He began to walk away then turned, tripp
ed on a cable, recovered with a dance effected without removing hands from his lapels, and grinned again. “You may laugh, if you wish. Some say I’m the funniest man on the planet.” He frowned, a clown’s frown readable from the back row, if there were one. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
He strutted toward me. “Oliver Arkbuckle, comedian and rampant womanizer, at your service.” He bowed, exaggerated like all his movements, then crouched beside my chair and whispered, “Shall we go? Find a couple of girls? Ronnie won’t be here for an hour.”
I laughed. “You’re a funny man. But why are you here?”
“Ah, the existential enigma.” He sank to the floor, crossing his legs as he sat. “A philosophical cul-de-sac, I fear.”
For an hour, we spoke about absurdity, the great god Darken, Draco Trading, pet turkeys, the traveling power of birdsong. He rarely remained seated for more than a minute at a time, prancing and gesticulating wildly as he spoke. I laughed often, as much at the athleticism of Arkbuckle’s antics as at his words.
Three men entered the studio and took up positions behind the cameras. One called a five-minute warning. One by one, the cameras came to life, with fans turning and a small light on each showing it was active.
Arkbuckle tapped me on the arm and pointed. “Here comes the beast.” With a final sweeping bow, he skipped into the shadows.
I knew Ronnie Bile from brief television viewings. But in full color, he could not be ignored. Tall and broad, he strode toward me, flamingo-pink hair bouncing around his shoulders. He wore a suit that would have looked formal had it not been a similar color.
He smiled and shook my hand without looking directly at me, then took his seat. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? What did you think of Arkbuckle?”
The question took me by surprise, but as Bile’s attention was on a set of notes on his lap, I assumed he was filling time or testing the sound level. “He’s a funny man. Odd. Spooky at first, I thought, but he’s funny.”
“Interesting.” Bile glanced at me and turned back to the notes. “You understand we’ll edit this however I like. It’s aimed at ten to fourteens, on the simple side, so don’t get too technical. Ready?”
He turned to the center camera, speaking once its operator had given a ten-second countdown. “Afternoon, girls and boys. Guess who I’ve got with me today. I’ll give you a clue, shall I? He comes from Earth. Yes, it’s Lemuel Oneway, the first person I’ve had on the show from a fictional land. Well, Lemuel, why don’t you start by telling the boys and girls a little about Earth?”
Not too taxing an opener. “I haven’t seen Earth for two centuries, but it’s like Respite in many ways. Perhaps twice as much land. A hundred times the population. But a similar size beneath a similar sun.”
Bile held up a hand. “OK, not a great start. Too many details. And a little on the dull side.” He turned to the camera. “That’s very interesting, Lemuel. So, you’re about two hundred and fifty years old. You don’t look it.”
“Well, most of that time was spent in cryonic suspension. It’s like sleep, but the body doesn’t age. Earth has changed a lot since then, and everyone I knew would be dead now.”
Bile’s attention, which up to that point had focused on his notepad, turned to me. “Listen, Lemuel. I’ve got to edit over that now to explain that no one really died. We don’t talk about things like that. Didn’t you get the list?” He turned to the camera without waiting for an answer. “And now you live in Eden, the land of freedom. It must be so much nicer than Earth.”
Again, he faced me. “And now, you tell the boys and girls how much you like our planet, and how much it is better than Earth.”
Once, in a grand office with Hector Bandstorm, I had felt like a puppet guided by another hand. I felt a similar attempt to manipulate me from Bandstorm’s friend. “I speak your words, do you mean?”
“You certainly do not suggest there’s a better world than Respite. Now, your answer, please.”
I took a moment to calm myself. He had a right to control the content of his program but not to tell me what I thought. A compromise? “I have friends in Cragglemouth now, a good job at Draco Trading, and every reason to feel good about the future. I couldn’t go back to Earth if I wanted to, at least not for another two hundred years, and then I’d be facing a land I knew no better than I know Respite.” No point mentioning the war.
Bile continued in a monotone. “That’s fascinating. You mentioned cryonic suspension earlier. I’m sure the girls and boys would love to hear more about that. What does it feel like? Do you dream of blizzards and snowmen?”
“No, that’s the beauty of it. I feel nothing. It’s oblivion—no thought, no memory.”
Bile held up a hand. “You see, I gave you a chance to introduce humor there. And you rattle on with the same pseudoscience as before. It’s good that you have this imagination, this storyteller’s mind, but this is for the young and easy minded. We’ll move on.” He addressed the camera directly. “And now you have to live with the reality of Respite. Does it seem a little backward to you?”
More enthusiasm from Bile would have helped, but he was the professional. He intended to edit, but that didn’t make it easy for me.
“Yes, of course it does. Your road transport is several centuries behind that of the Earth I remember. You don’t have airplanes, although I know Eden and Elysium are racing to develop manned flight. But mostly it’s the computers, so massive and basic. When I first held a toothbrush in Cragglemouth and discovered it couldn’t understand the simplest of instructions, I realized how different our worlds were.”
Bile smiled at that. “That’s more like it.” He looked down then back at me as though reacting to my words. “That’s funny, Lemuel. You might have a cartoon series there, a talking toothbrush. I could use my influence, for a consideration. Now, studio time is expensive. In the last few minutes, tell me what surprises you most about Eden.”
My chance at last? Whatever the forbidden list decreed, some things mattered more than twenty-two cupros. “There is so much, Ronnie. The great open spaces. Gardens, parks. Wonderful. A sign of a civilized world. And yet, the refusal to help the disposables—”
“Cut!” Bile’s eyes narrowed beneath his pink brows. He leaped from his seat and positioned himself in front of mine, close enough to discourage movement from me. “Are you deliberately crunching my nuts? If so, you’re doing a damn good job. Listen. This is a program for children. We do not call them disposables. It’s a name they gave themselves. They are the misfortunates. Could you remember that word? And why mention them at all? They’re on the forbidden list.”
He spoke to the camera as he sat, with no attempt to hide his anger. “So tell me, Lemuel. What surprises you most about Eden?”
Another five minutes, and Ronnie Bile stood. He left without looking at me. Muttered took me back through security. “You must stay. He always asks for quotes.”
An hour later, after I had recorded a few harmless words written by a scriptwriter I didn’t meet, Muttered signed me out at the front desk and handed me an envelope. “Mr. Bile requests you count it here.”
Chapter 9
I counted the money. I checked again. “Twenty-seven cupros? More than I expected.”
“That’s because you’ve arranged your own transport back.”
“I have?”
Muttered pointed to a far door. “Someone to see you, in the Rose Garden. Come. I’ll take you.”
I stepped out into brilliant sunshine and shielded my eyes. The scent of flowers filled the air. Bees buzzed.
Midway down a central path, a woman, slim and vaguely familiar, sat on a white stone seat.
A man hurried toward me. From his tousled gray hair, I guessed it to be Dick Ovid. He held out a hand. “Lemuel, so pleased. I hope you don’t mind, I told the studio we’ll be taking you back.”
“We?”
“Yes, someone you must meet.”
The woman stood as we neared. Her smile and the
way she moved increased the air of familiarity. It could have been Sy but for the lines of age and the dyed-black hair bobbed at midneck length, with bangs almost meeting her bushy gray eyebrows,
Dick raised a hand to her shoulder. “This is Linnet Throse, a very good friend.”
“Such a pleasure, Lemuel.” She took my arm and led me through the garden. “You have to be my friend as you are a friend to two of my favorite people in the world.”
Would Sy look as elegant in twenty years? I smiled at Linnet. “You’re so like Sy. Were you a runner too?”
Dick laughed. “So you know who she is.”
“Sy’s mother?”
Linnet released my arm and frowned. “Shortest friendship ever. We’re sisters. The difference is twenty years, so I might forgive you one day.”
“But the name?”
Dick opened a door into a hall. “You probably do it differently on Earth. Here, a girl child takes her mother’s surname, and a boy child his father’s, if the appropriate parent is alive and willing at the time of registration. Sy’s mother died a few days after she was born, if you’ll forgive the ambiguous pronoun. A riding accident. Hotheaded like all the women of that family, she wanted to prove she had recovered.”
Another door led to a small lane. Dick pointed to an old car. “No match for the luxury you traveled up in.”
It reminded me of the first car I had seen on Respite but with a few dents and scrapes, somehow what I would have expected for Dick. “Better company though, by a long way.”
Linnet took my arm again once we were seated side by side.
Dick settled into the driver’s seat and turned a key in the ignition. A grating noise followed. He tried again, with the same result. “Maybe you two could push.”
I thought he was joking, but Linnet opened her door and stepped out. She raised her eyebrows—thick like her sister’s but grayer—toward me.
I moved. “I’ll do what I can, but it’s a hundred miles to Cragglemouth.”
They looked first at each other then at me, each struggling to suppress a laugh. Linnet soon regained her composure enough to explain a bump start.
A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
