It was the usual crowd, and he liked them. As far as they knew him, they liked him as well. Yet, he knew that there was some part of him that would wither if he accepted her offer. Conversely, there was some part of her, the girl who still lived within the woman, which would wither if he wasn't able to answer. He really wanted to. In fact, he couldn't precisely say exactly why he was having so much trouble.
Before he could say anything, there was a commotion behind him, followed by a chorus of "Way to go, Willie!" and "Good game!" and "Way to go, my man," and a "You showed them bums" from the other customers. There was a sprinkling of applause as the door opened, and Willie Hawkins ambled in.
Hawkins was tall, dark, commanding, a prince in his own kingdom. As with Cassie, Benny had known Willie all of his life, and had always, from the very beginning, known that Willie was headed for something good. Willie ran too fast, hit too far, wrestled too hard—the boy was a natural athlete who had boxed, and run track, and played varsity baseball. It was this last which had captured professional notice, and ultimately paid his ticket.
He wore a stylish suit right now, with a silver-tipped walking cane, a silk shirt stretched across his impressive chest, and a hundred-watt smile that he had turned full-bore on Cassie.
As well dressed as he was—as he always was, so that his fur-lined coats and walking stick could be spotted a block away—this wasn't the dress that got him the most attention. It was when Willie wore the uniform of a New York Yankee that he drew the most attention. He was a star, had fulfilled all of the hopes and dreams of those who had watched him grow up. He had been only the fourth Negro player ever signed by the major leagues, and every home run, every catch, every out, hell, every bunt was a personal victory for the folks in Harlem, and they loved him.
He sauntered up to the counter, and as he did, again, Benny had a flash, another of those bizarre mental anomalies. He had written characters before, only later to realize that they were based on people he already knew. But never had he had so many of them, in such a short period of days.
Willie, boisterous, jovial, athletic "Willie the Warrior" he was often called, suddenly seemed less human, less handsome. Almost grotesque, and yet … even his imagination's attempt to discount Willie seemed to backfire. In this new guise, ridges across his nose, wearing an alien uniform, he wasn't less attractive. He was somehow almost super-humanly virile. And his … and his name was …
Worf.
Yes, that was it. His name was Worf. And he was a … Klingon. Yes. But not a villain. In this new universe, old enemies had become new friends. Now, Worf was an ally.
"Hey, there, Cassie," Willie said. "Hear the game last night? I went two for four and robbed Snider of a tater. You shoulda heard the crowd yell!"
"Sure they were yelling," Benny said mildly. "They want to know why the Giants are in fifth place."
Willie looked at Benny with an old and practiced ill humor. "Cassie," he said. "Why don't you tell this fool to take his business someplace else?"
She smiled, and her smile was pure sugar. "I've thought about it," she said. "Trouble is, if he did leave, he'd take my heart with him."
Willie shrugged his massive shoulders. "Ask me, you're wasting an awfully pretty heart."
Cassie looked at Benny. "I don't think so."
Benny reached over and squeezed her hand. "Strike three, Willie," he said. "You're out."
Willie smiled slyly. "That's awright," he said, letting the words just slide past his tongue. "I'll get another turn at bat."
One of the other customers paid his tab and left, and Willie sat down. "Now … how about frying me up some steak and eggs?"
"Coming right up," Cassie said. "But first, tell me something. How come you're still living up here in Harlem? I mean, a famous ballplayer like you can live anywhere."
"The hell I can," Willie said amiably. "They can hardly get used to me playing alongside them on the ball field. Living next to 'em . . . that's a whole other story."
Benny just bet. In his opinion—not that anyone was going to ask for it—Willie's other motivation was that here, in Harlem, he was more than a star. He was King. If by some miracle he was able to move into a white neighborhood, he'd just be that uppity nigger ballplayer.
Willie wanted to be a huge fish in a small pond. Willie was still talking, and he might have been reading Benny's mind. "Besides—around here, when people look at me, it's 'cause they admire me. There, I'm just another colored boy who can hit a curve ball."
He paused and laughed, but Benny suddenly knew why he liked Willie, in spite of his ego, in spite of the obvious fact that he would like to wiggle his way in between him and Cassie. Willie was perfectly aware of the world that he lived in. Despite his bluster, he had a dose of self-awareness that sometimes caught Benny by surprise. Willie was no fool. He was using the skills he had, doing the best he could, and taking the hisses and the threats—
(What was that joke? "Baseball is the only place in the world where a nigger can wave a stick at a white man and not get lynched . . .")
—and paying back the bigots is the only way society lets him—on the diamond.
And for that, Benny had to admire him.
Willie looked over and saw a gaggle of girls at another table waving at him.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, smoothing back his processed hair. "My public awaits." He prowled over to the girls and flashed them his winning smile.
Cassie watched him, and Benny watched her do it, wondering if there wasn't some part of her that wondered what it would be like to be Willie's woman. Benny was wondering if she thought for even a minute that Willie could be sincere, that she could win and keep Willie's love, would she leave Benny?
"I'll see to those eggs," she said gently, and it took him a moment to realize that she was talking to him, gazing at him as if she were able to read his mind, and wanted to ease his fears.
She mimed a kiss to him, then she moved off toward the kitchen. He heard her give her order to Eva, and he saw the owner's head bobbing happily around as she performed her magic. Wasn't nobody for twenty blocks could burn an egg like Eva.
A skinny kid with smart wide eyes slid up to the counter next to Benny as he sipped at his coffee and began to read his newspaper. "Hey, Benny," the kid said. "Wanna buy a watch—"
Benny turned to look at him, and time froze.
It was happening again. This boy is . . . his name is Jimmy I've known him since he was in diapers. But he's more than that. He's, he's . . .
Benny rubbed at his temples, confused, wondering for just a moment what he was doing, just what the hell was going on.
Then the name came to him. Jake Sisko. He's the son of Benjamin Sisko, the thing the intrepid commander of DS9 loves most in all the world—
Benny shook himself out of it. The watch was only a Timex, but it wasn't the cheapest model. Benny had a strong suspicion that there was a five-and-dime someplace with an empty spot in its showcase.
"Where'd you get that?" he asked.
"I found it. Nice, huh?" Jimmy smiled toothily. Benny was almost overwhelmed with a rush of emotion. He liked this kid. "One of these days, Jimmy," he said, "you're going to find yourself in serious trouble."
Jimmy wagged his head, too smart for his own good. "Anything I can get into, I can get out of."
"You keep thinking that—see what happens."
"Man," Jimmy said. "How come you're always lecturing me?"
"I'm not lecturing you," Benny said. "I'm trying to help you."
Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "You want to help me, buy this watch. I could use the cash."
Benny sighed. "Why not get a job?"
"As what? A delivery boy or a dishwasher? No, thanks. I like being my own boss. Setting my own hours."
Benny fought back a flash of anger, but was unable to completely keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Sounds like a great life."
The small touch of camaraderie between them, the sliver of vulnerability in Jimmy vanished. Benny could
see it retreat as if a steel door had suddenly slammed down. "Yours ain't no better," he said. "Writing stories about a bunch of white people living on the moon. Who cares about that?"
Who indeed? a voice inside Benny whispered.
"I'm not doing that anymore," Benny said. "I'm writing about us."
Jimmy's expression had gone from borderline anger to humorous incredulity in a heartbeat. "You mean about colored people on the moon? Bullshit, man. Never happen."
"Check out next month's issue," Benny said conspiratorially.
Something flickered in Jimmy's eyes, something that Benny suspected was genuine amusement. "A coon on the moon?"
"That's not the words I'd use. But we're there."
"All right, man—you're on. Maybe I'll check that out. Which means …"
"Which means?"
"That I'm gonna need to raise some cash. Anyway, got business. Later."
He slid off the stool and began to stroll the diner again, seeking customers.
He knew that Jimmy didn't believe him. But that was all right. He had the proof. He had the best story he'd ever done. Maybe Willie didn't accept it. And maybe Cassie, who loved him, couldn't quite share in his vision. But for the first time in years Benny had that feeling, the feeling that his fingers were on fire, that there was someone sitting on his shoulder telling him the story. He was absolutely burning up, and he knew that this story was going to do it. This story was going to change everything.
CHAPTER 15
THE OFFICES WERE QUIET, and had been since the first preliminary reading had begun. Benny had gone outside, walked around, come back, paced, gone outside again.
And finally sat, and decided that it might be best if he simply resolved to take his medicine like a man.
He had run out of fingernails to chew, and begun considering his knuckles.
Herbert Rossoff sat at the table, completely engrossed as he read a carbon copy of a novella-sized manuscript. As he finished a sheet and began to read the next, he handed the finished page over to Kay, who was seated next to him.
Judging by her reaction—she barely seemed to be breathing—Kay was so completely involved in reading that she hadn't enough concentration left over to even chew her doughnut.
As she finished her page and continued on to the next, she handed off her sheet to Julius. Julius moved his lips when he read, something that Herbert usually ribbed him about, but today, no one noticed anyone's affectations. When Albert finished a page, he handed off to Ritterhouse.
When Ritterhouse finished he passed it up to a woman standing behind them. The woman was Darlene Kursky, and she was part of the reason that Benny had left the room. She was just too damned similar to the way he had envisioned a bizarre character named Dax, a binary life form—a humanoid female with an ancient, symbiotic being implanted in her abdomen.
That amused him, because as she read it, her brow furrowed in concentration. "She has a worm in her belly?" Darlene said. "That's disgusting." She paused for a moment. "Interesting, but disgusting."
The other writers looked at her, speechless for a baffled beat, as if they were trying to place her. Albert was the first to speak. "Who … what is, if you don't mind me asking … are, uh …"
She laughed. "I'm Mister Pabst's new secretary. Darlene Kursky." She pointed to the manuscript. "Which one of you wrote this?"
"I did," Benny said.
"You?"
"Surprise."
She shook her head in admiration. "It's the best thing I've read since 'The Puppet Masters.'" She paused, and he had the feeling that she was being almost apologetic. "I read a lot of science fiction," she finally said.
"Bless you, my child," Herbert said fervently.
Kay chimed in right on cue. "The world needs more people like you," she said.
Albert turned to Benny. He had always liked Benny's writing, but there was newfound respect in his eyes. "The story really … I mean to say …" he just couldn't seem to get the words out. "It's quite . . . impressive."
"It's a damn fine piece of writing is what it is," Herbert said. His eyes shone. "And 'Deep Space Nine' is a very intriguing title."
"Very admirable," Julius said.
Herbert couldn't resist reinterpreting Julius's thoughts. "The master of understatement," he said. "What he really means is that he wishes he had half your talent."
"I really like this major of yours," Kay said. "She's a tough cookie."
He almost, but not quite laughed when she said this, his imagination filling in the pieces. Of course she would like Major Kira. In his mind, that is who Kay was. The ridged nose, the earring, everything.
"There aren't enough strong women characters in science fiction. I'm always saying that, aren't I, Jules?"
"Ad nauseam, my dear."
Roy was rereading some of the middle passages. "These Cardassians … I like how you've described them. Their neck ridges especially. I'll come up with some sketches to show you. It could make a nice cover."
But before Benny could answer, a voice boomed in from back in the offices. It was Pabst. "Don't waste your time," he said.
They all turned in time to see Pabst emerge from his office, holding the original of Benny's story. He pointed a stubby finger at Darlene. "You, back to work."
"Right away, Mister Pabst." She scurried back to her desk.
"You too Roy."
Roy gave Benny a shrug of defeat, and then left the room.
Herbert regarded Pabst with suspicion. "Douglas—you're not going to stand there and tell us you don't like this story." His expression, his carriage … he was virtually daring his editor to say this very thing.
"Oh, I like it all right. It's good. Very good."
He crossed over to Benny. Benny felt as if he was holding his breath.
"However … you know that I can't print it."
Benny swallowed. "Why not?" The lie was implicit in the words. He knew damned well why Pabst couldn't print it. He just wanted to hear it.
"Come on, Benny," Pabst said, the very soul of reason. "Your hero's a Negro captain. The head of a space station, for Christ's sake."
"What's wrong with that?" Something large and hot was stirring behind Benny's eyes, something creating pressure that would build and build. So far, he was keeping it under control, but in all honesty he wasn't certain how long he would be able to continue.
"People won't accept it," Pabst said. "It's not believable."
"And men from Mars are?" Herbert said. For once, Benny was happy for Rossoff's acid wit.
Pabst brushed the challenge off. "Stay out of this, Herb." He turned back to Benny.
Benny wished that he could have looked at the man and objected to something that existed in his carriage. He wished there was some antagonism, some glee in the pain he was causing a man who was, if not a friend, at least a compatriot. "Look, Benny—I'm a magazine editor, not a crusader. I'm not here to change society or rock the boat in any way. I'm here to put out a magazine. That's my job. And that means I've got to answer to Mister Stone, the national distributors, the wholesalers …"
Pabst held up the story, the precious sheaf of paper that Benny had labored over for so long. Not an hour ago, he had been certain those pages constituted the best and most powerful work of his life. Now he was wondering if they were the worst mistake he had ever made.
Pabst leaned closer. "And none of them are going to want to put this on the newsstand. For all we know, it could cause a race riot."
He said this with awesome conviction, and Benny expected the room to go dead silent. Instead, the regular, ironic sound of Herbert's bitter applause echoed in the room.
"Congratulations, Douglas," Herbert said. "That's the most imbecilic attempt to rationalize personal cowardice that I've ever heard."
"Oh-uh," Kay said. "He's angry now."
"Herb's been angry ever since Joseph Stalin died," Pabst said snidely.
Herbert shot to his feet. "What's that supposed to mean?" His face darkened with anger.
>
"You know exactly what it means," Pabst assured him.
"You calling me a red?" Herbert had balled his fists up, and was virtually in midair when Benny stepped between them. "Whoa. Easy," Benny said.
Julius seemed a little shaken by it all. "Calm down, dear boy. We're writers, not Vikings."
Herbert's face, if not his politics, remained red. He wanted blood. "I'm not going to let some craven fascist call me a pinko and get away from it."
Rather lamely, Benny thought, Albert tried to change the direction of the discussion by focusing the attention on himself. "Douglas," he said. "What'd you … uh … think of my story?"
"I loved it," Pabst said soothingly. Oil on troubled waters, that was Pabst. "You see, Albert's got the right idea. He's not interested in Negroes or whites—he writes about robots."
"That's because he is a robot," Herbert said. "No offense, Albert."
"I … uh, like robots. They're very … efficient."
The mood in the office was ghastly. The vilest insult match ever engaged in by Rossoff and Julius Eaton had never chilled the mood this badly. This was real, and it was bloody, and Benny was stuck right in the middle of it.
Pabst made another attempt to heal the whole thing, to patch it before their little band of jolly comrades was irreparably ruptured. He grabbed a new illustration of Roy's from the table. This one depicted a family being sold a used rocket ship by a particularly oily salesman. He offered the drawing to Benny.
"Here," Pabst said, his tone remarkably similar to the one the salesman might have used. "Write me a novella based on this drawing and I'll print it in next month's issue. Do a good job and you might even get the cover."
Benny looked at it. Actually, it was a good illustration. His nimble mind was already playing with ideas.
But somewhere deep within him, there was a voice calling to him. He couldn't bring himself to forget the voice which had sung to him for three nights, the call of his muse. He dared not betray her. "What about my story?" he asked.
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