Ballroom of the Skies (9 page)

He was surprised at how quickly time had gone. He stepped out of the cab in front of Larner’s place at nine o’clock, paid the man and walked into the lobby. He walked in and stumbled on the smooth floor for no reason at all, caught himself. There had been an odd little twist, or click, and now side vision had returned, he could
hear the full range of sound, colors had their former values.

That odd girl from the bus was leaning on the clerk’s desk. Voss. Karen Voss. He wondered why he hadn’t wasted a single thought on the fat man in the bus since leaving Larner’s place that afternoon. Pretty damn callous to kill a stranger and forget it.

“Hi there, Dake,” Karen said. “Just talking about you. Remember the fat man on the bus?”

“I certainly do.”

“I guess it looked worse than it was. You just knocked him out. Heard that he’s okay. I had Mig check on it.”

“I still can’t understand why he hit you. I’m damn glad to hear he’s okay.”

“Maybe I reminded him of somebody who picked his pocket once. And maybe I did. I’ve got a lousy memory. How do you like the dress?”

She whirled the full skirt. He said, “I guess I like it. Little daring, though. That style is older than you know. The women of Crete started it a long, long time ago.”

“All I know is that Mig had it flown over from Madras.” She took his arm. “Mig is psychic. He told me you’d be back. I’ll go down with you. ’Bye, Johnny.”
I’m starting to like this big lug. Did you see him blush? That’s a lost art.

“Come back, Miss Voss.”
Don’t get the geef over any earthling, lamb. There’s no future in it.

Poo.

On the way down in the elevator, Dake felt his cheeks grow hot again. He said, “Are you a … uh … special friend of Mr. Larner?”

She squeezed his arm. “I guess I give him a few laughs. That’s all.”

He was embarrassed at his own show of interest. There was something pleasingly childlike about this Karen Voss, but he knew that she was one cheap, tough, hard little article. It was in her stance, her eyes, the shape of her mouth. That opaque quality of sexual arrogance of one of those little girls who have learned too much too fast.

“Does Mr. Larner ever go out?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I just had the strong feeling that he didn’t. That maybe he wouldn’t be safe on the outside.”

He looked down into speculative luminous gray eyes. She was standing so close to him that he could see the little amber flecks that ringed the pupil. He decided that it was the high quality of the intelligence of those eyes which was so startlingly at odds with the chippy walk, the too-tight clothes, the insolent curve of lip.

“Not as bright as all that,” she said.

He stared at her. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

For a moment she looked genuinely disconcerted. Then she threw her head back and her throat pulsed in a raw vulgar bellow of laughter. “Jesus H. Gawd,” she gasped. “Now I’m getting psychic yet. Or maybe we’re soulmates, sugar. Ever think of that?”

Miguel Larner was in his diorama garden, in the long sweet dusk of a midsummer evening which contrasted with the October night in the city above. Sound tracks gave to scrupulous perfection the muted night-cries of insects, the fluid silver of a distant nightingale, the garrump of a conclave of frogs in a bog on the far side of the meadow.

“Hey, Mig! He came back like you said.”
And he caught me off guard in the elevator. I could swear he was sending on the para-voice band, and doing it perfectly.

“Sit down, people. Glad you came back, Lorin. Especially if it means I can help you.”
I noticed how clear he was this afternoon. A latent, perhaps.

Dake sat down as soon as Karen was seated. “As a matter of fact, the man who was going to print the article backed out. And returned my money. That didn’t seem in character. I’ve got it here. I thought perhaps you could—–That’s damn funny! I put it right here in this pocket.”

Girl, you seem to be making a habit of being careless with this one.

Karen laughed. “A demonstration, Dake. I wanted to
show you how an expert picks a pocket. I did it on the elevator.”
Decent recovery, Miguel?

Thirty thousand rupees, girl. Lets see the illusion.

Dake took the money Karen handed him. He handed it to Miguel. “Here’s thirty thousand rupees, Mr. Larner. I wonder if you could use it to get me a spot where the article will get a decent readership.”

If he’s a latent, Miguel, wouldn’t that help?

Screens raised, eh. Afraid I’ll see the sudden emotional interest in this one.

Let me give him a strong primary impulse and see if he’s latent receptive too.

All this will wait until we’ve used him as a counter-move against Shard. In another moment I might get impatient with you, girl.

Miguel took the money, shoved it casually into his shirt pocket. “Lorin, you’re not hiring me with this. I’m just keeping it for you. You go ahead and write the article. I’ll find a spot for it. And give you the change. Why don’t you stay right here? One of my secretaries is on vacation. Complete apartment with no one in it.”

“I wouldn’t be in the way?”

“Not a damn bit. Give me your local address and I’ll send somebody over for your stuff.”

“Just a hotel room. I’ve been living in hotel rooms every since going with Branson.”

“I’ll have you checked out then.”

Dake gave Miguel the name of the hotel. Miguel said, “Show him where he hangs his hat, Karen. Next floor above, Dake. End of the hall. Give Johnny a ring, Karen, and tell him Mr. Lorin is in 7 C, for an indefinite stay.”

They left the diorama garden. Dusk had faded into night. Karen took him up in the elevator and down to 7 C. The door was unlocked. Karen went in first, flipping the light switches, activating the diorama. It was a moonlit seascape with a sound track of waves against the beach.

“Very luxurious,” Dake said.

What?

“I said it’s very luxurious.” He glanced at her, wondered
why she wore such a smug look, as though she had proved something to herself.

“It’s got a liquor cupboard too, Dake. Build you a drink?”

“If you’d like. I think I need a drink. This has been … one of the craziest days of my life.”

She had her back to him, sitting on her heels, looking into the liquor cabinet.
Scotch okay for you?

“Are you a ventriloquist or something, Karen?”

She turned toward him. “Why?”

“Your voice had the funniest quality right then. It seemed to come from all corners of the room at once.”

“Used to sing a little. Maybe that’s it. Why has this been a crazy day, Dake?”

“I ought to talk to somebody. Just let me ramble, even if it doesn’t make sense to you. That sounded pretty superior, didn’t it?”

“Not too. You couldn’t expect me to follow everything you could say.”

She brought him a tall drink. “Kashmiri Dew. Eight years old.” She perched on the arm of his chair, rather disturbingly warm against his arm. “Mind?”

“N-no. I guess what’s troubling me the most is wondering if I’m losing my mind.”

“Don’t they say that if you’re wondering about it, you aren’t?”

“I don’t have much faith in that. I’ve always been a sort of functional pragmatist.”

“Don’t make the words too big, Professor.”

“If I could see something, feel it, touch it, smell it, hit it with my fist, then it existed. And my actions were based on thought which in turn was based on realities.”

“I sort of get it, sugar.”

“So today reality began to go sour on me. Typewriter keys don’t bleed. A man’s fingernail doesn’t grow a quarter of an inch in two days. And ever since I left here this afternoon, until I got back, everything was curiously unreal. Like I was walking and talking in a dream. When I couldn’t find that money in my pocket, I began to think it
was
a dream.”

“What’s this typewriter keys and fingernails routine?”

“Little things where my senses didn’t send the right messages to my brain. As if I suddenly saw you walk across the ceiling.”

“Shall I?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I begin to think you can. Anyway, what has a man got to hold onto except reality?”

“Okay, sugar. I rise to ask a question. I’ll name a list. Faith, hope, love, honor. Can you touch them, smell, them, hit them with your fist?”

“Those items are the result of thought regarding other concrete items which can be detected with the senses.”

She turned and kissed him suddenly. Her eyes danced. “I’m beginning to get it, Professor. You could feel that, couldn’t you. But if it ended up in you loving me, you would only get that from … from inference.”

“I get the damndest feeling that you’re way ahead of me. And don’t do that again.”

“If you don’t like it, I won’t. Let’s continue the discussion, Professor. Let’s play suppose. Like that guy Midas. Everything he touched turned to gold. Okay. According to you he should have gone nuts. But he didn’t. He starved to death. What was that? Strong brain? Suppose an ordinary guy. A guy like you. His world starts to frazzle on the edges. Wouldn’t he have enough pride to keep telling himself that he was okay? That something was doing it to him, on purpose?”

“Persecution complex, eh. So he’s crazy anyway.”

“Suppose another thing. Suppose this precious reality of yours that you like so well, suppose all that is fiction, and when you begin to see crazy things, you’re seeing the real reality.”

“You have a very unique mind, Karen.”

“The adjective has been used on me before. But not that way, sugar.”

“You should have done more with yourself. That quality of imagination is rare.”

“You know, Dake, you’re a little on the stuffy side. How about if I like me the way I am? How about that?”

He grinned. “My reformer instinct always crops out. Forgive me.”

“You said it was funny this afternoon after you left here. How?”

“Colors looked odd. People looked odd. I had the feeling that I wasn’t seeing or hearing as much as I should.”

“So this style started in Crete. How veddy veddy interesting!”

He quickly averted his eyes and felt his face get hot again. She laughed at him. “It’s no trick to read your mind sometimes, Lorin, man.”

“Look, I don’t want to be too stuffy, but …”

“I have the idea Patrice wouldn’t care.”

He frowned at her. “Dammit, that’s about enough. I know I didn’t mention her to you. You’ve got a lot of extra-sensory perception or something.”

“I read the gossip columns. Sort of a cold dish, isn’t she?”

“Miss Voss, you pry. Now, out! I’m going to try to do some work.”

She slid off the arm of the chair, winked blandly at him. “All right, dear. Use the phone for food. They bring it down. All the office stuff is through that door. Your clothes and things ought to be over soon.”

She went to the door, burlesquing her normally provocative walk. She winked again, over her shoulder, and left. He sat for a time thinking of what she said about reality. What if all the “normal” things were illusionary, and all the things that went bump in the night were fragments of reality, seen through the mist of illusion? He shrugged off the idea. Maybe a table top
is
a matrix of whirling bits of energy. Maybe all the true matter that makes up a man, once you eliminate the spaces between nucleus and perimeter electrons,
is
no bigger than the head of a pin. But you can beat on a table with your fist, and the wood hurts your hand. And you can break a man’s jaw and hear the bone go.

He found that the small office was beautifully equipped, and as clean as an operating room. He worked on the article, regaining the free flow of words which he had experienced
in the office borrowed from Kelly. He used the same lead, tightening it a bit, altering it to include the death of Branson.

After an hour of work he went out to phone for food. He was famished again. His clothes had been brought, neatly unpacked in the bedroom. The food was brought. He worked for another hour and then went to bed. He sat on the edge of the bed in his pajamas. He put his feet up and lay back. A funny example of
déjà vu
, he thought. As though he
had
been in this room before. Or a room very like it. With Karen. She had sat on the edge of the bed. Later she had kissed his lips. She had told him something. Something about Kelly. It was so difficult to…

Sleep came quickly. The dream was as crazy as the day. Myriad voices echoing inside his skull. He couldn’t get them out. They were little people, trudging around in there. Pinching and prodding his brain. Nibbling at the edges with tiny rodent teeth. Yelling at each other. All talking at once. Commenting on him. Hey, look at this. And this over here! What do you know? Pinch and prod and nibble, and all the voices going like too many records playing at once. Definitely latent. And a receptive. But a fracture line here, and here. Father image. Won’t do. Won’t do at all. But look at this!

He woke up, sitting up, hearing his own roar of “Get out!” still lingering in the silent air-conditioned room. He was sweaty and chilled. He pulled the blanket up over him. He could hear faint music. Very odd music. He couldn’t recognize the instruments. Probably some new Pak-Indian fad, he decided. Damn stupid to accept Miguel Larner’s hospitality. Well, use any means if the end is good. Damn destructive philosophy, however, if you overdid it. Question. Who was using who, whom?

——
It was a fine summer morning on Manarr. The
sun beamed hot on the shallow placid seas, on the green rolling traces of the one-time mountains. The fi-birds dipped over the game fields, teetering on membranous green wings, yelping like the excited children. Picnic day. Picnic day. Everyone was coming, as everyone had always come. Hurrying from the warm pastels of the small houses that dotted the wide plains, hurrying by the food stations, the power boxes. Hooray for picnic day. The smallest ones set their tiny jump-sticks at the widest settings and did crazy clumsy leaps in the warm air, floating, sprawling, nickering. The maidens had practiced the jump-stick formations and groups of them played towering floating games of leapfrog on the way to the game fields, spreading wide their skirts, swimming through the perfect air of this day. The young men watched and bounded and set their jump-sticks narrow to do the hard quick tricks. Picnic day. Today there would be water sculpture, and sky dancing, and clowns. Day of laughter, evening of the long songs, night of mating. Time for work tomorrow. The hard work that cramped the brain and so often brought tears, under the unforgiving eye, the cold trim face of the earthling. Someone had said that today the earthling would judge the water sculpture, lead the sky dance. Few believed it.