“Where’s May?” he whispered. “Have we time for a warmer before we go?”
Hasson nodded towards the kitchen. “She’s in there with two boys who came round to stay with Theo.”
Then we do have time for a quick belt.” Werry went to the sideboard and picked up a bottle. “Is rye okay? Have we educated your taste buds yet?”
“Rye’s fine. With plenty of water.” “That’s my boy.” Werry made up two largish drinks and handed one to Hasson. “How did things go this afternoon? Did you do any cloud-running?”
Hasson sipped his drink before he spoke, releasing that this was the crucial first moment of his new life. “Things went very badly. I did one short hop, and I hated it.”
“That’s only natural. It’ll take a while for you to get used to going up again.”
“No, it’s more serious than that,” Hasson said, keeping his voice level. “I’m finished flying. I won’t be going up again.”
“It’s an overrated pastime, anyway,” Werry said moodily, staring into his drink. “They’ll give you a desk job, won’t they?”
“I imagine so — acrophobia is a recognised occupational disease in the force.”
The cheerful expression returned to Werry’s face. “That’s not so bad, then. Drink up and forget about it.” He was following his own advice when May Carpenter emerged from the kitchen wearing gold boots, slacks and a quilted gold anorak. She looked at Werry and her jaw sagged.
“My God,” she said, “you’re not going dressed up like that!”
Werry looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“What’s wrong?” She glanced at Hasson, then turned back to Werry. “Al, is it a costume ball or are you planning to raid the joint?”
Werry made placating gestures with his free hand. “Honey, this isn’t just a social occasion tonight. Buck has some very important visitors — least he thinks they’re important — and he’ll want them to see that he hobnobs with the city reeve.”
May sighed, looking beautifully disconsolate. “Go into the kitchen and say goodnight to Theo.”
“There’s no need,” Werry said. “He never notices whether I’m here or not. Let’s go, folks — it’s crazy to stay here drinking our own booze when we could be out drinking somebody else’s. Isn’t that right, Rob?”
Hasson set his glass down. “Your argument is economically sound.”
“I’m ready,” May said. “Are we flying or driving?”
“Driving.” Werry opened the door to the hail and ushered May through it with exaggerated courtliness. “Didn’t Rob tell you he’s been grounded?”
“No,” May said incuriously, walking towards the front door.
“It’s true — I can’t fly any more,” Hasson said to her retreating back, putting in some practice at making the admission. She appeared not to notice. When they got into the waiting police cruiser Hasson sat alone in the rear seat, feeling lonely in the spacious darkness and wishing he had a woman with him. Almost any woman in the world would have been suitable, as long as she provided companionship. As the car slid silently along dim streets he stared nostalgically at the windows of the houses they passed — mellow, glowing rectangles, some of them framing tableaux of family life, the figures frozen in mid-gesture by the briefness of the glimpses he received. Hasson distracted himself by trying to invent characters and backgrounds for the waxwork people, but he could smell the light flowery perfume May was wearing and his thoughts kept coming back to her.
Weeks of discreet observation had given him no deeper insights into her personality, and he was still unable to see what had brought Werry and her together in the first place. As far as he could determine, Werry provided accommodation and food for May, and sometimes for her mother, and in return she gave some assistance with the running of the household. It was to be presumed that they had a sexual relationship, but there was an absence of any kind of mutual commitment which Hasson found baffling and disturbing.
Is this what life is like an the ground? he wondered. His instincts had led him to reject Werry’s claim that he and May were non- people, merely realistic lay figures imitating the movements of life — but supposing the fantastic hypothesis were true? Insidious and shameful thoughts began to burgeon in Hasson’s mind. Why not throw overboard all cumbersome precepts concerned with honour and truth? Why not consider the situation as a straight- forward problem in logic or mathematics? X is a man restored to health and with an increasing need for a safety valve to release biological pressures. Y is a man who is incapable of feeling love, hate or jealousy. Z is a woman for whom the concept of fidelity has little meaning. The current relationship can be expressed as X+(YZ), but why not do a little algebraic manipulation, the sort of thing that is done all the time, and change it to Y+(XZ)?
Hasson gazed at May’s silhouette, for the moment allowing himself to see her as a love machine, a human engine which would respond in a certain guaranteed way if he pressed the right buttons — then a rising tide of self-disgust obliterated all the symbols from his mind. Al Werry was a human being, not a mathematical abstraction, and if the things he said about himself were true it meant that he had gained very little from life, and for that reason should be protected rather than plundered. Equally, May was a human being and if she appeared two-dimensional to him the fault had to lie in his inability to perceive depth.
The car had been climbing a gentle hill on the western outskirts of Tripletree and now it swung on to a private road which tunnelled through banks of rhododendrons and other shrubs which Hasson was unable to name. After a few seconds of utter darkness it emerged on a flat summit where a rambling floodlit house presided over a glittering view of the city. Tripletree itself was a spilled hoard of jewellery, a central mound of every kind and colour of precious stone surrounded by outflung necklets of diamond and topaz. The aerial highways hung over it in pastel brilliance, each generously seeded with the lights of night-time fliers, and above them a few first magnitude stars pierced the canopy of radiance with their own patient lustre. Fairy lanterns had been lit on a patio at the side of the house, there was the sound of music and thronging figures surrounded a column of smoke from what appeared to be a huge charcoal grill.
“We must have come to the wrong place,” Hasson said ironically.
“No, this is definitely Buck’s house,” Werry replied, bringing the car to a halt. “I ought to know my way around Tripletree by this time.”
They got out of the car and walked towards the centre of activity with May patting her hair into place and Werry tugging various pans of his uniform into the required degree of smoothness. Hasson lagged a little behind them, experiencing the curious mixture of hesitancy and anticipation he always felt when arriving at a party which was well under way. He expected their entrance to go unnoticed, but the tall heavy-shouldered figure of Buck Morlacher came towards them immediately. An old-style striped apron was tied around his waist, he was carrying a long fork and the heat from the charcoal had inflamed the triangular patches of red on his cheeks. He went straight to May, affecting not to see Werry or Hasson, put an arm around her shoulders and whispered briefly into her blonde hair. May listened for a moment and began to laugh.
“Evening, Buck,” Werry said pleasantly. “Looks like the party’s going well. I brought Rob along to show him how we do these things in Alberta.”
Morlacher looked at him with cold eyes, still not acknowledging Hasson’s presence, and said, “The booze is over by the fountain.”
Werry laughed. “That’s all we need to know. Come on, Rob.” He took Hasson’s arm and began to guide him across the patio.