“I think it went something like this:
“Who wrote that, Rog?”
“One of the old poets. T. S. Eliot.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“Then they did doubt, even then.”
“Even then, Deb.”
“In a minute there is time...”
“That’s what he wrote, Deb.”
“There is something wrong, isn’t there, Rog?”
“Yes, Deb; there’s a great deal wrong.”
“Then why did you lie to me? Why did you say you didn’t know?”
“I don’t know, really. I know that the Vikes are wrong because life for them is a shoddy pretense, an ersatz fabrication. And I know that the Rees are wrong because they’ve bound themselves with chains that refuse to recognize progress.”
“And the others?”
“The others? You and me, Deb — the others like us — we’re wrong, too. We’re wrong because we’re sitting back and watching this world of ours go to hell with itself. And we’re doing nothing about it. We’re perhaps more wrong than all the rest.”
“But if you know all this...”
“I don’t know the answer, Deb. That’s the trouble; I don’t know the answer.”
“I see.”
“It’s not an easy one to find, either.”
“Rog...”
“Yes?”
“Will you think me brazen? Will you think I’ve gone Ree?”
“What is it, Deb?”
“I want you to kiss me, Rog; I want very much to be kissed.”
“I...”
“Please say no if you don’t want to, Rog. Please don’t feel you have to.”
“Deborah...”
“Rog... do we... do we...”
“Do we dare disturb the universe?”
Chapter 11
“Catch this,” Van Brant said to Liz.
“Good God,” Liz said, “what is it? A diag for blowing up the White House?”
“Did you ever see anything like it? That’s the shooting script for the Senso. Brother, it’s fab!”
“Fab, father? It’s fant!”
“It looks good, Liz, it really looks fine. It’s worth all the time I’m giving it.”
“Well, maybe,” Liz said doubtfully.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that... well, between the Senso and that damned trial coming up... well, you’ve been neglecting the agency a lot.”
“The hell with the agency.” He paused. “No, I don’t mean that. What’s new, Liz?”
“Carson Fields called this morning.”
“Again?”
“Again. That’s what I mean. This Belly thing is becoming smelly. If it’s not him calling, it’s one of your competitors, wanting to know what progress is being made, wanting to know whether or not you think Pelazi will win. We clock at least ten calls from agents every day. And not only literary agents, Van. We got a call from the biggest advertising outfit in the city yesterday. They wanted to know...”
“What did Fields want?”
“He wanted to go over the list of scripts again. He wanted to make sure this was all the material your scribes contributed to the benefit. He wants to see you some time today, if you can make it.”
Van sighed heavily. “What else is new?”
“Lots.”
“Like?”
“Like three scripts back from Preen Publishers this morning.”
“What was wrong?”
“Scribbled reject. Just said they weren’t right, that’s all.”
“That’s funny. Who were the scribes?”
“Mercer, Peer, Fitch.”
“Why, all three have sold to Preen!”
“I know.”
“Well then what the hell’s wrong?”
Liz shrugged.
“You don’t seem very damned interested, Liz.”
“I’m sorry, Van. It’s just... well... lots of bad news this morning.”
“Read it.”
“A notice from Agon Senso. New ownership.”
“That’s great, real great,” Van said sourly. “What else?”
“Pile of stuff back from Stereo One. Not their type, they said.”
“Not their type?” Van stood up and walked around the desk, looking at the pile of scripts there. “Why this is the same kind of stuff we’ve been sending them all along. What the hell’s wrong with them?”
“Just a bad day, I guess. You want me to remarket this stuff, Van?”
“Yes. But first call Andrews at Stereo One. Ask him what the hell he means by not their type. Tell him...”
“He’s not there any more, Van.”
“Since when?”
“Yesterday. A new fellow’s taken over; I forget his name.”
“Did they give you his name?”
“Yes.”
“How are we supposed to contact him if you forget his name? Call them up and get it.” He stroked his chin and then slapped his fist into his open palm. “That explains it, of course. A new editor, a new batch of pet agents and scribes. Well, hell, there are other markets.”
“Hundreds,” Liz agreed. “What brews tonight, Van?”
“Why?”
“Got a party, thought you might like to take my arm.”
“Not tonight, hon.”
“Business?”
“Business,” he said.
Liz shrugged wearily. “It’ll probably be a dull glom anyway.”
She took a great deal of care in dressing that night, more care than she remembered taking in a long time. And still, the old feeling was gone. Liz tried desperately to recover it.
She tinted her face, shoulders, and breasts a startling white. She’d done her hair black that afternoon, and the contrast was a highly effective one. Her brows angled onto her forehead like raven wings, and she wore green contacts that gleamed like emeralds against the bright white of her skin. She rummaged in her lipstick kit, came up with one titled Blast Furnace, applied a bright crimson slash to her mouth. She pressed her lips together, nodded appreciatively at the effect.
She lowered the lipstick to her breasts and thought, God help anyone who gets too close to me tonight. And immediately afterwards, she thought, Fat chance of that. She applied the lipstick to her nipples, carefully daubing the pointed tips, the brownish-purple circles against the swell of her bosom.
She threw on her most daring skirt, slashed high over her crotch. She looked at herself in the mirror, frowning when she realized how far she’d gone. She changed her see-thru underwear quickly, putting on a pair of black fringed translucents. That was a little better.
She strapped her shoes on, selecting the pair with the highest heels, gave her hair three strokes with the brush, and then looked into the mirror once more. You’ll do, she thought.
She packed four vials of opaine in her purse, in case the party was a stiff, and then left the apartment. In the street, she sniffed the brisk autumn air, wondering if she should go back for a cape. The breeze was bracing, and she felt her skin tingle, felt her lungs expand. There was the smell of woodsmoke in the air, coming from someone’s back yard, and the aroma stirred something deep within her, brought back vague memories of a time long ago when she’d played with jacks and skipping ropes and tricycles.