Very faintly, beneath his feet, the star mosaic of the pavement shook to the passage of an express car underneath. Here in the aboveground everyone was on foot. There was no wheeled vehicle in sight, not even an aircar: only the bright thread of one of the Flugbahnen visible in the distance.
Around the corner, in a little square surrounding the heroic anodized aluminum figure of a man in spaceman’s dress, helmet off, an exultant expression on his metal face, the young man saw a tall illuminated panel on the side of a building. Luminous words were shuddering slowly down the panel, line by line. The young man moved closer, through the loose crowd of bystanders, and read:
INTERPLANET LINER CRASHES ON MARS;
ALL BELIEVED DEAD Passenger list to follow
MOVING-MACHINE THIEVES COMMIT ANOTHER
OUTRAGE IN BERLIN Will be brought to justice, vows Funk
HIGH ASSEMBLY VOTES TO ANNEX THIESSEN’s PLANT Vote is 1150 for to 139 against SPACE STOCKS CLOSE AT RECORD HIGH Society for Spaceflight, I.C.S.S.A. lead advance READ FULL DETAILS IN THE BERLINER ZEITUNG
The letters drifted down, like tongues of cold flame, and were followed by an advertisement for Heineken’s beer.
The young man turned away, having read all the headlines with appreciation but without any interest whatever; he walked further down the street and gazed in fascination at the marquee of a cinema, where through some illusion brightly-colored ten-foot figures of men and women seemed to be dancing. Even here he could not give his full attention. He was bothered, and increasingly so, by certain demands of his, body.
HE HAD an insistent urge to tear off the muffling, unfamiliar garments he was wearing, but realized it would attract attention to himself, and besides, this bald body would probably be cold. He had not realized that a simple thing like this could become so difficult. At home in the zoo he had had his own little W.C., and that was that. People must have theirs, but where? What did people do who were strangers in Berlin? He looked around. He did not see a policeman, but a woman who was passing with her escort paused, looking at him, and on an impulse he stepped forward and said politely, “Pardon me, madam, but can you direct me to the W.C.?”
Her face registered first surprise, then shock, and she turned to her companion saying angrily, “Come on, he’s drunk.” They walked rapidly away, the man’s scowling face turned over his shoulder. The word “Disgraceful!” floated back.
Surprised and hurt, the young man stood for a moment watching them out of sight; then he turned in the opposite direction.
The place he was passing now was called Konstantin’s Cafe. The sight of people sitting at table, visible through the big window, reminded him that he was hungry and thirsty. After a moment’s hesitation, he went in.
A slender red-jacketed waiter met him alertly in the foyer. “Yes, sir? A table for one?”
“Yes, if you like,” said the young man. The waiter hesitated, glancing at him oddly, then turned through the archway. “Come this way, sir.”
The young man gave his surcoat and camera to a girl who asked for them. Inside, waiters in red jackets were moving like ants among the snowy tabletops; the room was crowded with rich silks and velvets of all colors, flushed clean faces, smiling mouths; unfamiliar smells of food swam in the air. The thick carpet muffled all footsteps, but there was a heavy burden of voices, clattering silverware, and music from some invisible source.
A little intimidated by so much crowded luxury, the young man followed the waiter to a small table and sat down.
The waiter opened a stiff pasteboard folder with a snap and presented it; the young man took it automatically, and in a moment perceived that it was a list of foods.
“To begin with, an aperitif, sir?” asked the waiter. “Some hors-d’oeuvres? Or shall we say a salad?”
The young man blinked at the menu, then set it down. “No,” he replied, “but-”
“Just the dinner, then, sir,” said the waiter briskly. “If the gentleman will permit, I recommend the truite au beurre canopeen, with a Moselle, very good, sir.”
“All right, the young man said hesitantly, but first-”
“Ah, an aperitif, after all?” asked the waiter, smiling with annoyance. “Some hors-d’oeuvres? Or-”
“No, I don’t wish any of those, thank you,” said the young man, making a clumsy gesture and oversetting a goblet.
“But then, what is it that the gentleman wishes?” The waiter righted the goblet, brushed at the tablecloth, stood back.
The young man blinked slowly. “I wish for you to direct me to the W.C., if you would be so kind.”
HE half expected the waiter to react like the woman in the street, but the man’s keen face only closed expressionlessly, and he leaned down to murmur, “The doorway behind the curtain at the rear, sir.”
“Thank you, you are very kind.”
“Not at all, sir.” The waiter went away. The young man got up and went in the indicated direction. Although he tried to move carefully, he was still very clumsy in his body, and sometimes would forget and pause between steps to try and shake off one of his shoes. When he did this, he noticed that some of the diners looked at him strangely. He determined to break the habas soon as possible.
When he returned, after some trouble with the unfamiliar fastenings, the waiter was just removing from a little silver cart a covered platter, which he placed on the table and unveiled with a flourish. The young man sat down. The waiter took a slender bottle from the cart, uncorked it, poured a pale liquid into the goblet and stood back expectantly.
The young man looked at his plate.
The food steamed gently; there were five or six different things, each of its own color, beautifully arranged on the platter. He had never seen any of them before, except possibly in magazines, and all the smells were unfamiliar. Nevertheless, he picked up his fork and pried at the largest object, a roughly oval burnt-brown mass which came away flakily, running with juices. He put the fork in his mouth on the second try. The food was a moist, unpleasant lump on his tongue: the taste was so startling that he immediately turned his head and spat it out.
The waiter looked down at the carpet, then at the young man. Then he went away.
The young man was gingerly trying some light green strips, which he found unusual but palatable, when the waiter came back. “Sir, the manager would like to speak with you, if you please.” He gestured toward the foyer.
“Oh? With me?” The young man stood up agreeably, oversetting the goblet again. The pale liquid ran over the tablecloth and began to drip onto the carpet. “I am so sorry,” he said, and began to mop at it with his napkin.
“It’s of no consequence,” said the waiter grimly, and took the young man by the arm. “If you please, sir.”
In the foyer they met another waiter, who took his other arm. Someone handed him his surcoat and camera. Together the two waiters began to propel him toward the exit.
The young man craned his head around. “The manager?” he asked.
“The manager,” said the first waiter, “wishes you to leave quietly, without disturbance, sir.”
“But I haven’t yet paid for my food,” said the young man.
“There is no charge, sir,” said the waiter, and they were at the door. The two gave him a last push. He was in the street.
IN THE men’s room of a pfennig gallery, a little later (at least he was becoming adept at finding W.C.‘s), the young man was examining the contents of his pockets. He discovered that he was Martin Naumchik, European citizen, born Asnieres (Seine) 1976, complexion fair, eyes brown, hair brown, no arrest record, no curtailment of citizenship, no identifying marks or scars, employed by ParisSoir, 98 rue de la Victoire, Paris (9e); that he had a driver’s license, a Cordon Bleu diner’s card, a press card in five languages and a notebook full of penciled scribbling which he could not read. In his billfold were forty marks, and in the pockets of his trousers, jacket and surcoat some coins amounting to another two or three marks. That was all, except some ticket stubs, a key on a gold ring, tissues, pocket lint, a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and a crumpled envelope, addressed to Herr Martin Naumchik, 67, Gastnerstrasse, Berlin.