“Do that. We eat ’em alive.” He swiveled around and looked out the glass wall over the city, two hundred feet below. “City of Trees” was becoming an embarrassment. “City of High-Rise Parking Lots” wouldn’t help real-estate values, though. “Seriously… keep me in mind, Rory. You know our university liaison, June Clearwater?” She didn’t, but read him off the Public Information name that Washington had given her.
Pricci the Prick, Southeby thought, remembering his grandstanding over a little assembly permit. “I’ll get them in touch with each other,” he said. It was his day for Italians. He fingered the card that said WJC 9:30—Willy Joe Capra, one of his favorite people. He touched the envelope in his side pocket.
Rory told him not to get his hopes up about this having any far-reaching effect on the city. It might turn out to be a seven-day wonder; it still could be some subtly arranged hoax.
“But you said on cube that you were sure it wasn’t a hoax.” Southeby’s vision of his town becoming the focus of the world’s attention evaporated, replaced by a nightmare of worldwide derision.
Rory told him to pick up his shorts; all she meant was that just because she was sure there was no hoax didn’t mean there couldn’t be someone smarter than her behind it, second-guessing her suspicions. The straightforward explanation was still the most probable, but…
“Oh… okay. Well, you must have a million things to do. I’ll let you go. Mañana.”
Norman Bell
Norman watched his wife’s expressions with amusement as she finally extricated herself from their blowhard neighbor. “He’s trying to find a money angle?”
“Good old Cam.”
“I’m going through the market on the way home. What you want for dinner?”
“Whatever. Something I can reheat. No telling how late I’ll be.”
“Keep it in mind.” He picked up his helmet.
“Don’t forget your sunblock.”
“You kidding?” Actually, he had forgotten, but he kept a tube in his bike bag. “Give me a call when you start home. I’ll hot it up.”
“You do that.” Her husband spoke in accents of cool New England, but he used southern expressions he’d picked up from her cornball uncle, whom she loathed.
It was a ten-minute pedal down shady back roads to the Farmers’ Market in the middle of town. Halfway there, he started sweating in spite of the shade, and stopped to put on the sunblock.
They’d been doing this for about ten years, using the space between the federal building and City Hall as an open-air market two days a week. It was a “free” space, as Norman knew, with a catch: you had to put down a five-hundred-dollar deposit, which would be refunded at closing time, or more likely a week later. That kept marginal farmers at home.
He locked his bike and walked past the seafood display, expensive fish, shrimp, squid, and eels attractive on beds of shaved ice. Save it for last. The place was pretty crowded, as he knew it would be at this hour, city workers killing time before going to the office at nine. The crowd was bright and young and chatty—lots of new students, this time of year. He liked to drift through, eavesdropping.
He had two cloth bags, and as he wandered from one end of the market to the other—from fish to coffees—he checked out prices and planned what he was going to buy where, on his way back. Rory thought the market business was a silly affectation, the city manufacturing nostalgia for a simpler time that had never existed in the first place, and although Norman couldn’t disagree, it was still a high point of his week. Prices were cheaper in the supermarket, but the produce was suspiciously uniform there, and the crowds were just crowds.
“Dr. Bell!” Lots of warm brown skin and a little tight white cloth: Luanne somebody, a student from three or four years ago.
“I saw the news this morning—isn’t that just… total?”
“It’s something,” Norman admitted. “So where have you been? Haven’t seen you around.”
“Oh, I went to Texas for a master course, keyboard. No work there, surprise. So what do you make of it?”
“I don’t know any more than you do; just what was on cube. Aurora does think it’s real.” He studied her. She was radiating sexual signals, but they communicated display rather than availability, just as he remembered from before. He wondered how much of it was deliberate, like the carefully bedraggled hair and the makeup so subtle it was almost invisible, and how much was just in her nature. She liked being looked at; glowed in his attention. Any man’s attention.
“When I left a few minutes ago, she was talking to the mayor. Fishing for an angle to bring fame and fortune to Gainesville. Or to Cameron Southeby.”
“That zero is mayor? I should’ve stayed in Texas.”
“You know him?”
“Knew him.” She touched his arm and whispered, “When he was police commissioner,” raised one eyebrow, and walked on.
He watched her go. Interesting walk: “She moves in circles / and those circles move.” What illegal thing might she have been involved in? He had no doubt that Cam was on the take, but Luanne had seemed so prim and shy as a student. Oh, well. Probably a leather-underwear-and-handcuffs prostitute on the side. Some of the quietest people had bizarre private lives. He had met one or two, pursuing his own private life.
Suppose this thing does turn out to be creatures from another planet, landing on the White House lawn on New Year’s Day. How would that change things? Would the Europeans lay down their arms in celebration of the universality of life? Sure.
It would all boil down to what they brought along with them. The threat of absolute destruction might indeed unify humanity against the common enemy, but what good would unity do against an enemy who could crack the planet like an egg?
Maybe they would bring the truth, and the truth would make us free. As it had so effectively in the past.
He wished he were older. At sixty it was hard to have a sense of humor about dying. Maybe in another thirty years.
He studied the various coffees and invested in a moderately expensive blend: an ounce of Blue Mountain with three ounces of French roast. It made more difference to Rory than to him. She had perhaps one cup a day at home, and liked to savor it. He drank it constantly, fuel for music, but not the real stuff. Coffee-est or MH Black Gold. One good cup of real in the morning and then twenty cups of anything black and strong.
He turned around and paused, looking at the thirty or so stands, remembering which ones had what. He checked his list; crossed out coffee, added green peas and smoked ham. Make a nice soup and let it cook all day. Bread and salad, already on the list.
His day for young women. “Good morning, Sara.”
“Buenos, Maestro.” She was the bartender and co-owner of Hermanos Mendoza—the Brothers Mendoza, who had gone north in a hurry twenty years before, leaving behind a stack of unpaid bills and their name.
Sara always touched her neck when she said hello to you. She had been in a terrible fire a few years back, and even after they rebuilt her face she’d had to talk through a machine in her throat for a while. She still wore long sleeves and high necklines. Her face looked sculpted, less mobile than you would expect.
She shifted a large bag of onions so some of the weight was on her hip. “So how’s the music business?”
“Lento, as we say. Slow. You want to buy a song?” Actually, he realized, one was forming in his mind. The first few notes of a mock-bombastic overture. A greeting for the aliens.
“If I could afford a song from you, I wouldn’t be tending bar.”