"Where would you like to be?" Minton asked Heydell.
The small doctor smiled.
"Back on a certain weekend during the summer of my third year in med school," he said. "Yes, I'd wear out that tape in a week. How about you, son? he asked Peter.
"I'm too young to have any good memories yet," Peter replied. "What about you, Jill?"
"I don't know ... I think I'd like being a little girl again," she said, "and having Daddy—I mean, my father—read to me on a Sunday afternoon, in the wintertime."
She glanced at Render then.
"And you, Charlie?" she asked. "If you were being unprofessional for a moment, what would your moment be?"
"This one," he said, smiling. "I'm happy right where I am, in the present, where I belong."
"Are you, are you really?"
"Yes!" he said, and he took another cup of punch.
Then he laughed.
"Yes, I really am."
A soft snore came from beside him. Bennie had dozed off.
And the music went round and round, and Jill looked from father to son and back again. Render had replaced the fast-cast on Peter's ankle. The boy was yawning now. She studied him. What would he be in ten years? Or fifteen? A burnt-out prodigy? Master of some as yet unexploited quantity?
She studied Peter, who was watching his father.
"... But it could be a genuine art form," Minton was saying, "and I don't see how censorship..."
She studied Render.
"... A man does not have a right to be insane," he was saying, "any more than he has a right to commit suicide..."
She touched his hand and he jumped, as though awakened from a doze, jerking his hand away.
"I'm getting tired," she said. "Would you take me home now?"
"In a while," he replied, nodding. "Let's let Bennie catch a little more shuteye first, though," and he turned back to Minton.
Peter turned to her and smiled.
Suddenly, she was really very tired.
Always before, she had liked Christmas.
Across from her, Bennie continued to snore, a faint smile occasionally flickering across her features.
Somewhere, she was dancing.
Somewhere, a man named Pierre was screaming, possibly because he was no longer a man named Pierre.
Me? I'm Vital, like it says in Time, your weekly. Move
in for a close pan-shot, Charlie. No, don't you pan! My pan. See? There. The expression always comes to the man on the cover after he's read the article behind the cover. It's too late then, though. Well, they mean well, but you know... Send a boy to bring me a pitcher of water and a basin, okay? 'Death of the Bit,' that's what they called it. Said
a man could work the same bit for years, moving about a vast and complex sociological structure known as 'the circuit,' and letting the thing fall upon new and virgin ears on each occasion. Oh, living death! Worldwide telecommunications pushed this wheelchair downhill countless elections ago. It bounces now among the rocks of Limbo. We are come upon a new and glorious and vital era... . So, all you people out there in Helsinki and Tierra del Fuego, tell me if you've heard this one before: It concerns an old-time comic with what they called a "bit." One night he did a broadcast performance, and as was his wont he did his bit. Good and pat and solid was his bit, and full of point, balance, and antithesis. Unfortunately, he was out of a job after that, because everyone then knew this bit. Despairing, scraping himself with potsherds, he mounted the rail of the nearest bridge. About to cast himself down into the dark and flowing death-symbol below, he was suddenly halted by a voice. 'Do not cast yourself down into the dark and flowing death-symbol below,' said the voice. 'Throw away your potsherds and come down from that rail.' Turning about, he saw a strange creature—that is to say, ugly—all in white, regarding him with a near-toothless smile. 'Who are you, oh strange, smiling creature all in white?' he asked. 'I am an Angel of Light,' she replied, 'and I am come to stop you from killing yourself.' He shook his head. 'Alas,' said he, "but I must kill myself, for my bit is all used up.' Then she raised a palm, thus... 'Despair not,' she said. 'Despair not, for we Angels of Light can work miracles. I can render unto thee more bits than can possibly be used in the brief, wearisome span of mortal existence.' Then, 'Pray,' said he, 'tell me what I must do to effect this miraculous occurrence.' —'Sleep with me,' replied the Angel of Light. 'Is this not somewhat irregular and unangelic?' he asked. 'Not at all,' said she. 'Read the Old Testament carefully and you will be surprised at what you learn of angelic relations.' —'Very well,' he agreed, throwing away his potsherds. And they went away and he did his other bit, despite the fact that she was scarcely the most comely among the Daugh-
ters of Light. The following morning he arose eagerly, tapped the skin he had touched to love and cried, 'Awake! Awake! It is time for you to render me my perpetual supply of bits!' She opened one eye and stared up at him. 'How long have you been doing your bitf she asked him. 'Thirty years,' said he. 'And how old does that make you?' she inquired. 'Uh—forty-five,' he replied. She yawned then and smiled. 'Is that not rather old to be believing in Angels of Light?' she asked. Then he went off and did his other bit, of course... . Now let me have a little soothing music, huh? That's good. Really makes you wince, doesn't it —You know why?—Where do you hear soothing music these days, anyhow? —Well, in dentists' offices, and banks and stores and places like that where you always have to wait real long to get served. You hear soothing music while you're undergoing all this massive trauma. The result of this? Soothing music is now about the most unsoothing thing in the world. It always makes me hungry, too. They play it in all those restaurants where they're slow in waiting on you. You wait on them, that's what it is—and they play you this damn soothing music. Well... . Where's that boy with the pitcher and the basin, anyhow? I want to wash my hands... . You hear about the AF man who made it out to Centauras? He discovered a race of humanoid creatures and got to work learning their customs, folkways, mores and taboos. Finally, he touched upon the question of reproduction. A delicate young female then took him by the hand and led him to a large factory where Centaurians were being assembled. Yes, that's right—torsos were going by on conveyor belts, and balls screwed in, brains dropped into the skulls, fingernails inserted, organs stuffed in, and so on. He voiced his amazement at this, and she said, 'Why? How do you do it on Earth?' Then, taking her by her delicate hand, he said, 'Come with me over yonder hill and I shall demonstrate.' During the course of his demonstration she began to laugh hysterically. 'What is the matter?' he inquired. 'Why are you laughing at me?' —'This,' she replied, 'is the way we make cars.'... Fade me, Babes, and sell some toothpaste!
"... Aiee! That I, Orpheus, should be torn into pieces by such as ye! But in a sense, perhaps, it is fitting. Come then, ye Corybantes, and work your will upon the singer!"
Darkness. A scream.
Silence ...
Applause!
She always came early and entered alone; and she always sat in the same seat.
She sat in the tenth row, on the righthand aisle, and her only real trouble was at intermission time: she could never tell when someone wanted to get past her.
She arrived early, and she remained until the theater was silent.
She loved the sound of a trained voice, which was why she preferred British actors to Americans.
She like musicals, not so much because she liked the music, but because she liked the feeling of voices which throbbed. This is also why she was fond of verse plays.