Summer of Love, a Time Travel (25 page)

It
would make things so simple, so neat. He could return to the Scene and keep
looking for a closer match. If Starbright turns out not to be the Axis, all
he’d have is an angry pregnant teenager and a kidnapping rap he can step across
five centuries to beat.

Ah,
temptation.

But
no, that won’t work, and forget about Tenet Three of the Grandmother Principle.
He can’t do it because then Starbright could not possibly be the transcendent
smiling girl in the CBS News holoid, now could she?

All
right. He can’t lock her up. But he can’t let her roam free.

Think
strategy, Chi. Try some tenderness? Try to be
nice?
His surveillance
approach has gotten him exactly nowhere. She doesn’t even tell him when she’s
going out. Should he make a pass? Try to woo her? He thinks of Bella Venus. Her
glistening skull, her perfect nude skin. Bella Venus smells so fresh and sweet,
Chi gets hard just thinking about her.

He
could
woo Starbright, but it wouldn’t be anything real. He wouldn’t seduce her. He certainly
wouldn’t pretend to love her. Nothing like that. It would be a strategy, just a
strategy to lure the girl a little closer so she’ll be easier to protect. He’s
sure he can do it. All the lasses at college adore him.

After
all, it’s the Summer of Love. Everyone’s in love.

Chi
strides to the half-bath off the kitchen and surveys himself in the mirror with
new eyes. The nutribeads supply him with his required calories but he’s grown
bone-thin on nothing but nutribeads and a hit of neurobics when he can’t stand
the empty throbbing in his gut. His cheeks look gaunt, his stomach sunken
between prominent ribs. Rock ‘n’ roll bones. Mega. But he
could
tweak it
up a bit.

He’s
sweaty from the yard work. That’s no way to woo a girl. He wraps a filter over
the water faucet and fills the washbasin. He sets the maser on red, runs the
beam through the filtered water. Now he takes out his scope, scoops a sample in
the palm of his hand, and peers. Not too bad. No too many wriggling tails,
anyway. He rubs a cleanser tab in his hands and works up a lather. He washes
his face and hands and arms, rinses, and shakes himself dry like a dog shaking
off water. Then he presses a new patch of Block on his chest.

That
weird familiar tingling scurries over his skin like a million ants as the Block
reactivates the microderm. He makes a decent part down his scalp and combs the
hair implants with a bit more care. He takes the toothbrush Ruby left him and
combs the eyebrow implants. Better. He takes a vial of East Indian musk from
the bathroom cabinet, dabs essence oil on his wrists. Live dangerously.

Chi
strides out to the living room and paces, waiting for them to come downstairs.
Still murmuring upstairs. Chi plunks his butt on the couch and riffles through the
books and magazines and newspapers Ruby’s strewn all over her coffee table,
including the latest edition of the
Berkeley Barb.

On
one of the days before Starbright came to stay, Chi took a stack of
Berkeley
Barbs
to sell around the city. How extraordinary to hold the fresh paper,
smell the ink. He was as thrilled as if he held a roll of papyrus with
hieroglyphs proclaiming daily news about King Tut. He hopped aboard a cable car
and took a jaw-jolting ride down to the wharf. A longhaired gnomish guy with
silver rings on every finger struck up a wistful conversation in a flat, brassy
accent. By the end of the ride, the gnomish guy--who said his name was
“Hawwass”--was calling Chi “hansum” and blinking up at him with dazed, dark
eyes.

Now
he takes out a prophylak, punches his fingers into it, and picks up the
Barb
.
Mega. If the payload could take the mass, he’d love to transmit a
Barb
with him back to the future. A gift for his skipfather.

Chi
leafs through the inky pages and spies an item he’s never seen before. Data
that didn’t survive, information lost to the Archives. A box in the lower left
corner reads:

PLEASE
CALL—NO STRINGS: The parents of the following have contacted the HIP
Switchboard instead of going to the police. If you want to pick up on vibrations
from your parents, we have more information. We will not contact your parents
unless you give the OK:

Joan
Gallagher, Shelly Ballinger, Beatrice Clare, Vicky Martin, Sally May Kearney,
Louise Thompson, Cathie McKerrick, Patty Lee Corbin, Ann Thrift, Donna Wells,
Joni Dawson, Terry Miller, Susan Bell, Carlos Piera, Timmy Meyers, Allen
Weisberg.

Susan
Bell.

Chi
tears through the rest of the
Barb.
And there—there!—in the middle of
the Classified Ads, he finds what he’s looking for:

GUY
WITH LONG RED HAIR who was selling
BARBS
and rode Powell St. cable car.
Contact Harris, 14 Charles St., N.Y.C. I love you, handsome.

Shock
ripples up his spine.

The
Axis really is here.

And
then,
So am I.

*  
*   *

He
clatters up the stairs to the sitting room, knocks on the door, and barges in
before they can answer.

Ruby
is tossing out clothes from her closet in her bedroom. A silky shirt with a high
collar, a cotton sarong in purple and red, a long blue velvet dress. “Don’t
wear these much anymore, either,” she says to Starbright. “Take your pick.” Two
cats bat at the fringe of an embroidered shawl. Three other cats lounge on
Ruby’s bed, gold and blue eyes blinking lazily.

“Where
did you go?” Chi demands.

“Out.
This was always too short on me.” Ruby holds up a violet suede skirt. “Should
fit you just fine.”

“You
shouldn’t go out without telling me, Starbright,” he says.

“Get
a load of him,” Ruby says.

Half-buttoned
into a paisley dress, Starbright turns and glares. “I can go anywhere I want to
without telling you, Chi.”

He
stares.

No
white lipstick. No white stuff around her eyes. No blue eyeliner. Instead, her
cheeks are flushed, her lips stained plum. Her eyes are two dark ovals smudged
with kohl. Her hair is brushed out in long, tawny curls. The dress nips her
waist, the long skirt sweeps over her hips. She looks as if she’s shed a layer
of flesh.

“What
have you done to yourself?” he says, turning the probabilities around in his
head.

She
shrugs and finishes buttoning the dress.

“What
do you think, Chi?” Ruby says.

He
hesitates. At school, he’d come back with a quip. The narcissim of these
wasteful people. Obsessed with the latest fashion while their world goes down a
toxic sewer. White lips, plum lips, straight hair, curly hair—who gives a damn?
But his retort is stifled by a sudden image of Bella Venus, her dazzling body
paint.

“Starbright
has become beautiful,” Ruby laughs. “Right, am I right?”

There
is a new camaraderie between these females that makes his uneasy. Not because
women are close, which is common among Bella Venus and her friends. No, because
they’re excluding him from something, and he cannot begin to guess what.

“Do
you have a new name, too?” he asks.

“I’m
Starbright,” she says with a toss of her head.

“You
want to go out with us, man from Mars?” Ruby says. “We’re going to go have some
fun.”

Chi
starts to smile. Is it just his hope or has Starbright--in a morning--become a
closer match to the girl in the CBS News holoid? Is it possible? After all, he’s
in a Hot Dim Spot.

“What’s
the occasion?” he asks.

Ruby
says,”Today is Goddess Day. Celebrate!”

*  
*   *

There
is no dissuading Ruby, so they all step out. At least Ruby invited him.
Otherwise, he’d have to figure out how to follow them. Ruby makes him wear a
wide–brimmed gaucho hat. An irony, that, since mass-produced beef has been
illegal for over a century.

They
catch the 24 Divisadero bus northbound to Geary Boulevard and stroll four
blocks to a handsome old auditorium called the Fillmore. A bluesman, Bo
Diddley, whom Ruby wants to see, and a psychedelic band, Quicksilver Messenger
Service, whom Starbright wants to see, are playing a double bill. Chi has never
heard of either of them. Two obscure notes lost to the Archives.

They
take a place at the back of a colorful queue.

A
swarthy little short-haired man bangs out of a side door. In a white
button-down shirt, he looks like someone’s square uncle. He carries a broom and
begins sweeping the sidewalk. He sweeps from the start of the queue to the end,
sending litter and dust flying into the gutter. He glances up from time to
time, forming silent words. If Chi had to guess, the square uncle is counting how
many people there are. No one pays him any attention. He’s just the janitor.

“That’s
Bill Graham,” Ruby whispers to Starbright.

“Grass,
hash, acid, speed?” a guy in a yellow poncho murmurs.

Suddenly
two men push past Chi, shove Ruby out of the way, and seize Starbright’s elbows.
A squat man in a stovepipe hat and a tough, skinny guy in purple tie-dye, his
eyes darting like a reptile watching for insects.

“This
is the chick,” the Lizard says.

“Hey!”
Starbright cries.

Chi
tries to elbow around them, but Stovepipe’s got shoulders like a football
player.

“You
owe us big-time, you stupid chick,” Stovepipe says.

“Buzz
off, scuzz,” Ruby says, but her eyes are wide, her lips pale.

“You
shut up,” the Lizard says.

“I
don’t know what you’re talking about,” Starbright cries.

“Dealin’
rat poison as dragon’s blood,” Stovepipe says. “Seven grand for rat poison.
That’s
what I’m talkin’ about.”

“You’re
making a mistake,” Chi says, his hand on his maser. “This girl isn’t a dealer.”

“It’s
the Man!” Ruby cries.

A
black-and-white police car, top light spinning, speeds up to the curb.

Stovepipe
and the Lizard vanish in the crowd.

A
rusty van with a burned-out tail light slows in front of the police car, pulls
over to the curb. The cop climbs wearily out of his car. The van’s driver hops
out, too, a stringbean in a fringed jacket and feathered hat who jogs over to
meet the cop, dropping baggies in the gutter. “Afternoon, officer,” he says
with a dazzling smile. “What’s the hassle?”

“Could
we come back another time?” Starbright says. Her face is drained of color. Her
teeth are chattering.

“You
bet,” Ruby says. “Another time.”

Chi
takes Starbright’s hand. Her fingers are freezing. He closes his hand around
hers. He doesn’t even use a prophylak.

*  
*   *

The
Haight is packed when they disembark from the Divisadero bus. Chi has never
seen the street this crazy. Tourists gawk, point cameras, lean on their car
horns. Crew-cut military guys catcall “I love you” and leer at Hell’s Angels,
who show them what a leer
really
looks like. Black-leather hoodies
lounge on their choppers. Teenyboppers sit in lotus positions three deep on the
sidewalk. The mouse magician promenades, clanging his bell.

Locals
run up to the cars with bits of broken mirror and turn the mirrors toward the
tourists so they’re looking at their own reflections. Other locals stroll in
front of cars with Brownie cameras, snapping photos of the occupants. Still others
leap on car bumpers, rocking the cars from side to side, or jump onto car hoods
and sprint across them.

Chi
walks between Ruby and Starbright, his arms around them. He doesn’t like this.
The mood borders on hysteria. “We should get out of here.”

But
the two of them are enjoying the show.

Ruby
leans across him and says to the girl, “Well, you did it, kid, but I’m sorry you
had to go through all that.”

“What
do you mean, Ruby?” Chi says, alarmed. “What did Starbright go through?”

Starbright
only nods and glances around. “Hey, maybe I’ll see Penny Lane.”

Half
a block up, a pail is thrust from a second-story window. Red paint splatters
down. The crowd roars. People start to push and shove.

Chi
stands with Starbright and Ruby on the curb in front of the Psychedelic Shop,
waiting for the light to change. A Day-Glo van and two battered junkers stop
dead in the middle of the intersection. Westbound, eastbound, north and south,
traffic is gridlocked. Car horns blare. People cheer and boo.

A
police car pulls onto the sidewalk, scattering people.

“The
cops is comin’!” someone yells.

“Get
off the street,” a police officer says through his loudspeaker. “Get off the
street.
Now.
Move onto the sidewalk.
Now.
”

Suddenly
sirens drown out every sound. Twenty black-and-white patrol cars materialize
from every direction, skidding up onto the sidewalks, going the wrong way down
alleys and lanes, jostling around the gridlock. Four paddy wagons follow.
Police in full riot gear leap out. There must be fifty of them, swinging billy
clubs.