work.
"Doctors, they're no different from other scientists." Ed picked a plum out of the jar with his fingers, transferred it to his mouth, and spoke indistinctly around it. "Take the supernova. All the theories, and the government making statements about what was supposed to happen. The weather after the supernova didn't match any of 'em."
"A couple of people's predictions came close."
"A couple, out of hundreds. So why do we pay taxes, to get rubbish like that?"
"You don't pay taxes, Ed. You boast about that."
"Why should I, when the country's going to hell?"
"Of course it is," Joe said darkly. "With that Jew in the White House, what do you expect?"
Art shook his head. Joe was an old friend, but on certain subjects you had to ignore him.
"He was your choice, Joe," Ed said. "You voted for him."
"I know I did. But look at the choice I had. Either that Heebie, or that woman ."
"He's not biased, you see. No, not him." Ed addressed Art as though Joe Vanetti were not present. "You'd never guess his second wife was Jewish."
Art did not bother to reply. He didn't need to, because the line of conversation was on a well-worn track. On cue, Joe said, "She certainly was, the bitch. Hey, do you know why Jewish divorces cost more?"
He looked at them expectantly. Art had heard the joke a hundred times, but it was Joe's punch line. He and Ed remained silent.
"Because they're worth it," Joe went on. "But I don't think I'll marry again."
"No?" Ed poured brandy from the jar into his glass, drank some, and pulled a face. "Phew. I was in rare form when I made that lot. So what will you do, Joe?"
Within two years of buying the place on the mountain and meeting neighbors Ed and Joe, Art had learned the rules. If you wanted to be accepted you didn't step on someone else's joke, no matter how often you had heard it. The other two had been playing the game forever, and for this bit he was a member of the audience.
"I won't marry," Joe said. "I'll just find a woman I don't like, and give her a house."
"Does Anne-Marie know that?"
"Not from me she don't."
"I can't see why that woman puts up with you." Ed turned to Art. "She's twenty-five years younger than he is, she's good-looking, and she has her own place. She doesn't need an old wreck like him. She could get somebody handsome, like me, only I'm married. Why does she bother?"
Art had been asked the question, so he was now in the game. "You have to know how it works, Ed. As far as you and I are concerned, Joe here is a poor old crock with hardly enough strength to stagger from his place to yours. He'd never get back home from here without your brew. But as far as older women are concerned, any single male under ninety who's not actually terminal is an eligible bachelor. They outlive us, so there's not enough of us to go around."
"It's not like that with me and Annie." Joe was complacent. Among male friends, insult was the only acceptable expression of affection. "She says I'm dynamite."
"She means you're always going off at the wrong time, I'll bet. I don't see you walking over to her place, now that the truck don't work." Ed had the bottle in his hand. "Another? One for the road."
Art shook his head. "Not me," Joe said. "Your liver will be in a museum when you die, Ed. It won't need to be pickled, neither. And I don't need to walk to Annie's place. She knows I've got the gammy leg. She'll be up here about five."
"How would you be knowing that? You using telepathy?"
"No. Telcom." Joe took the bottle. "Maybe just a drop after all. I think this batch is better than the usual bat piss."
Neither he nor Ed seemed to realize the significance of what he was saying, but the words jolted Art's nervous system into overdrive. He could feel his heart racing.
"You made a telcom call today ?"
"Sure." Joe was pouring a closely calculated measure of liquor, and he did not look up. "Tried this morning before I came over, and got a dial tone. First time for a week. So I talked to Annie, and
"Doctors, they're no different from other scientists." Ed picked a plum out of the jar with his fingers, transferred it to his mouth, and spoke indistinctly around it. "Take the supernova. All the theories, and the government making statements about what was supposed to happen. The weather after the supernova didn't match any of 'em."
"A couple of people's predictions came close."
"A couple, out of hundreds. So why do we pay taxes, to get rubbish like that?"
"You don't pay taxes, Ed. You boast about that."
"Why should I, when the country's going to hell?"
"Of course it is," Joe said darkly. "With that Jew in the White House, what do you expect?"
Art shook his head. Joe was an old friend, but on certain subjects you had to ignore him.
"He was your choice, Joe," Ed said. "You voted for him."
"I know I did. But look at the choice I had. Either that Heebie, or that woman ."
"He's not biased, you see. No, not him." Ed addressed Art as though Joe Vanetti were not present. "You'd never guess his second wife was Jewish."
Art did not bother to reply. He didn't need to, because the line of conversation was on a well-worn track. On cue, Joe said, "She certainly was, the bitch. Hey, do you know why Jewish divorces cost more?"
He looked at them expectantly. Art had heard the joke a hundred times, but it was Joe's punch line. He and Ed remained silent.
"Because they're worth it," Joe went on. "But I don't think I'll marry again."
"No?" Ed poured brandy from the jar into his glass, drank some, and pulled a face. "Phew. I was in rare form when I made that lot. So what will you do, Joe?"
Within two years of buying the place on the mountain and meeting neighbors Ed and Joe, Art had learned the rules. If you wanted to be accepted you didn't step on someone else's joke, no matter how often you had heard it. The other two had been playing the game forever, and for this bit he was a member of the audience.
"I won't marry," Joe said. "I'll just find a woman I don't like, and give her a house."
"Does Anne-Marie know that?"
"Not from me she don't."
"I can't see why that woman puts up with you." Ed turned to Art. "She's twenty-five years younger than he is, she's good-looking, and she has her own place. She doesn't need an old wreck like him. She could get somebody handsome, like me, only I'm married. Why does she bother?"
Art had been asked the question, so he was now in the game. "You have to know how it works, Ed. As far as you and I are concerned, Joe here is a poor old crock with hardly enough strength to stagger from his place to yours. He'd never get back home from here without your brew. But as far as older women are concerned, any single male under ninety who's not actually terminal is an eligible bachelor. They outlive us, so there's not enough of us to go around."
"It's not like that with me and Annie." Joe was complacent. Among male friends, insult was the only acceptable expression of affection. "She says I'm dynamite."
"She means you're always going off at the wrong time, I'll bet. I don't see you walking over to her place, now that the truck don't work." Ed had the bottle in his hand. "Another? One for the road."
Art shook his head. "Not me," Joe said. "Your liver will be in a museum when you die, Ed. It won't need to be pickled, neither. And I don't need to walk to Annie's place. She knows I've got the gammy leg. She'll be up here about five."
"How would you be knowing that? You using telepathy?"
"No. Telcom." Joe took the bottle. "Maybe just a drop after all. I think this batch is better than the usual bat piss."
Neither he nor Ed seemed to realize the significance of what he was saying, but the words jolted Art's nervous system into overdrive. He could feel his heart racing.
"You made a telcom call today ?"
"Sure." Joe was pouring a closely calculated measure of liquor, and he did not look up. "Tried this morning before I came over, and got a dial tone. First time for a week. So I talked to Annie, and
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