“I’ve come a long way from Saint Louis,” she said aloud, and then immediately wondered when and how the expression had entered the language. She’d never been anywhere near St. Louis. In her mind, she placed it as being close to New Orleans, but she wasn’t even sure of that. And yet, she’d come a long way from St. Louis.
Adolescent, the Rees called it. They said the Vike language was a conglomeration of slang, Ancient Hip (whatever the hell that was), and extreme modernity. They called it a bastard adolescent which would wither before it reached maturity. A lot the Rees knew!
She began walking briskly. It was too nice a night to bother with the tubes, and besides she could use the exercise. The party wasn’t too far off. The walk would do her good.
She heard her heels clicking along the sidewalk and considered the lonely sound of the click. Dusk bunched into the sky, spreading on the horizon. The sky modulated to a deeper shade, not purple and not black, and then gave way suddenly to night. A sharp wind came up, blowing her skirt about her legs, raising goose pimples on her flesh. I should have worn a cape, she thought.
She began walking more swiftly. The cold was uncomfortable. She had never liked Autumn; it was a fickle season, not to be trusted. Nor had she ever enjoyed the night. Someone had once said the night was a woman’s time, designed for her, conceived to make her more alluring, more desirable. Strictly Ree talk, of course, and yet Liz wondered about its truth. In the sunshine, a spade was a spade. At night, with the soft cloak of darkness over everything...
No, she could not go along with the idea. The night was a time to fear. Darkness. Shadows. Stealthy shapes.
I wonder how Van would look in a bearskin, she thought. Well, there it is again. Well, he’s come up again. It’s not that he’s handsome, she thought; it’s not that at all. God knows, there have been better-looking men. His hair is not made for a crewcut, and it doesn’t stand up right. It flops in spots, and it’s uneven in other spots, and he really should change his barber. His nose is too flat for his face, and his cheekbones are too high. He is built nicely, that’s true. But even so, there are better muscles, if a girl wants muscles. The trouble is, a girl shouldn’t want muscles. A girl shouldn’t want anything. Handsome or otherwise.
Well, he isn’t handsome. Nor is he particularly pleasant. Sometimes, yes; but he’s a bear most of the time, and would probably be a hell of a man to live with. If anyone would live with him.
You’d live with him. Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. I suppose if he said Liz, Liz, I want to share it with you, all of it, what do you say, I suppose I would say yes, Van. I suppose I could easily forget the fact that he’s not very handsome...
He’s not ugly. No, he’s not ugly, of course not. You can... you can...
Love.
You can...
LOVE.
You can like a man who’s ugly, there have been plenty of girls who’ve liked men who were ugly, I’m sure there have been plenty. But Van Brant is not ugly, not handsome either, but certainly not ugly. A girl needn’t be ashamed of him.
A girl would be proud of him. Yes, I would be proud of him, I suppose. I like the way he thinks. What I know of his thinking, anyway. He seems... quick. In tune. I like that. I like a person who does things fast. I don’t like people who fumble. I like people to be sure and swift. Van is that way. I’m that way myself. It would be nice if...
He doesn’t know you exist. Of course not, the secretary, that’s me. The cute blonde in the outer office. The marketeer. The diplomatic courier for every half-arsed editor in town. The sunshine girl with the happy-hello breasts to nod at editorial faces. Good old Liz. Attagirl, Liz, good girl, Liz.
Rocks. To the beaming-faced editors and the addle-brained publishers. And to Van Brant and his quick mind and his dead heart. To all of them. All but six. And where the hell did that originate? And who gives a damn?
You do! I do. I do, all right. I give a big damn. A might big damn. I give a Grand Coulee. And that’s wrong. It’s as wrong as Ree, and Ree is real wrong, strong wrong, all along wrong.
The darkness. And this is wrong, too. It’s wrong because I’m on my way to a party, and a party is happy-time, with happy faces and happy breasts and smiling navels. Smiling navels? Smiling navels and tinted bellies, and a few good fixes and...
The night... then off to bed and the dreams. Of Van? Too often lately. The wrong kind of dreams. Ree dreams.
The night.
She was suddenly aware of the darkness around her. The streets were deserted, and the blackness seemed suddenly like an immense thing without beginning and without end. Where was she? She looked up at the light posts, noting they were out, noting that the entire street had no power. She’d have to report that; she’d do it as soon as she got to the party.
She began walking swiftly, listening to the lonesome, lonely click of her heels again. She was almost not aware of the other clicking behind her.
She walked a little further, and then the two sounds separated themselves in her mind. Her own heels with their steady rat-tat. And the other.
A hurried clicking. Hesitant. Stopping. Starting again. A heavy clicking. The click of leather-heeled shoes. Or boots.
She quickened her pace. In her own mind, she could no longer hear the clicking of her own heels. She heard only the other sound behind her, and the ancient fears crowded in upon her, and she longed for a fire to ward off the darkness, to push back the night. She wondered how far it was to the party, and then she heard the heels behind her speed up, and fear rushed into her throat.
She wanted to turn to look over her shoulder, but she was afraid that would show her fear, exhibit it, tell her follower she was petrified. She kept walking faster, deeper into the blackness. The heels behind her were no longer uncertain. They clicked strongly on the empty pavement, and they echoed down the long street. They were closer, too, she was certain of that. Much too close.
Van, she thought. Oh, my God, Van...
The blackness was intense. It covered her, smothered her. The boots were closer now, and she thought she could hear the harsh breathing of another person in the darkness.
She began to run. Her skirts flapped back, and her eyes stared wide into the blackness.
Behind her, the boots began running too.
Chapter 12
“This is one hell of a party,” Clark Talbot said.
The man sitting next to him on the couch lifted his shaggy head, and looked at Clark with weary eyes.
“Does that mean you like it?”
“Of course, it does.”
“Your terminology was vague.”
“Terminology, allsbay.”
“One hell of a. Not explicit at all,” the shaggy man went on. “It can mean good, or it can mean not good. You should be more careful in your choice of words.”
Clark pulled a face and stared at the man. “Well, it’s a nice crowd of people, anyway.”
“If you like people.”
“Say, are you a misanthropist or something?”
“Something.”
Clark nodded vaguely. It wasn’t bad enough that he had to put with the cashew ravings of Lana Davis all day long. At night, when a man was entitled to a little pleasure and relaxation, he had to meet another bed-bug.
“Where’s Liz Welles?” he asked. “I understood she was going to be here.”
“She’ll be here,” his shaggy companion answered.
“It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”
“Liz will be here. Liz always likes to make a grand entrance. She’ll probably pop in wearing no clothes or something. A disturbed young lady, that one.”