honor.
I heard scurryings in the walls and floors and the hum of little
wings overhead.
I glanced back. Somebody I didn’t know was suffering through
Saucerhead’s checkpoint.
Maybe Tharpe did do me a favor. He never patted me down like that.
Though if I wanted to sneak something in, I would’ve hidden it under a
stack of docile baby cats.
Whitefield Hall had been slapped together with nothing but function
in mind. It was mainly an open floor where you could dance, hold a
banquet, have a grand meeting, put on a play, do anything you wanted to
do without
having to endure a lot of weather. Nowadays plays were the big thing.
Plays are a big thing around town, period. Drama is the latest fad.
The memorial commission also rented the hall for private functions.
Like wedding receptions. Or birthday parties for underclass
personalities who loom large in city life.
The floor had enjoyed loving care forever but remembered generations
of feet shod in working-class shoes. The ceiling was twenty feet high.
There were tilt windows up there so you could let the heat out in
summer—or whenever there were too many bodies jammed into the hall.
There was a stage at the end opposite the main entrance, facing it from
a hundred feet away, three feet higher than the floor. Bickering
workmen dragged tables in through a door to the left of the stage.
The two directing setup might have been chosen for their devotion to
stereotype. Their wrists were limper than a dead octopus’s
arms. They bullied one another like a pair of harebrained girls. Still,
there’s hardly an adult male human today who isn’t tough. Anybody over
twenty-four had what it took to get through five years of wartime
service with his ass still attached. Including this squawking brace of
fancies.
The guys doing the actual work were the sort you don’t offend
gratuitously. They didn’t have half a neck between them. If their
shirts got ripped off by a freak wind, they’d show more body hair than
cave bears. They probably had trouble recognizing their own names in
print even if you gave them two weeks’ head start.
Our hostess made her appearance through the doorway to the right of
the stage, from the kitchen area. She wasn’t dressed for the occasion.
Yet. “Garrett. You sweet man. You came early.” Strange. My eyes didn’t
roll up inside my head. I didn’t drool. No gush of nonsense syllables
erupted from my mouth. I didn’t forget she was deadly and dangerous.
Maybe I
was immune. Finally.
Belinda Contague is a tall, slim woman in her mid-twenties, as
beautiful as you can imagine a woman to be. Her hair, as ever, was
absolute black, with sheen. Her skin she’d whitened whiter than ivory,
I hoped with makeup rather than arsenic. Her eyes were so blue I
suspected cosmetic sorcery. Her lips were the color of arterial blood.
She has serious emotional problems.
And all this before she put herself together for the evening.
“I had to be early. I heard there’ll be some unsavory characters
showing up. Have you lost weight?”
“You noticed. You are a good man. Yes. A few pounds.”
Too many pounds, I thought. She was gaunt. Another indication of
internal problems? She was in a positive mood. That’s always good. She
said, “I need to get Keron and Arnot focused on their work.
They shouldn’t bring personal problems with them.” She gave me a peck
on the cheek. It was one of her specials. It told me she’d gladly put
it somewhere else. “Then I’ll have the technical staff try to turn me
into something presentable.”
“You’re a step or two beyond that already.”
“Hardly. Wait till you see. You won’t be able to resist.”
“Go. Do what you need to do. And don’t blame yourself if you find
out that I’ve turned into an old man.”
“Why do you have a pail of kittens? Are they dead? I guess not. One
just winked at me.”
“You know Dean. He took in a litter. I brought them because I had
this crazy notion somebody might want one.” A
I heard scurryings in the walls and floors and the hum of little
wings overhead.
I glanced back. Somebody I didn’t know was suffering through
Saucerhead’s checkpoint.
Maybe Tharpe did do me a favor. He never patted me down like that.
Though if I wanted to sneak something in, I would’ve hidden it under a
stack of docile baby cats.
Whitefield Hall had been slapped together with nothing but function
in mind. It was mainly an open floor where you could dance, hold a
banquet, have a grand meeting, put on a play, do anything you wanted to
do without
having to endure a lot of weather. Nowadays plays were the big thing.
Plays are a big thing around town, period. Drama is the latest fad.
The memorial commission also rented the hall for private functions.
Like wedding receptions. Or birthday parties for underclass
personalities who loom large in city life.
The floor had enjoyed loving care forever but remembered generations
of feet shod in working-class shoes. The ceiling was twenty feet high.
There were tilt windows up there so you could let the heat out in
summer—or whenever there were too many bodies jammed into the hall.
There was a stage at the end opposite the main entrance, facing it from
a hundred feet away, three feet higher than the floor. Bickering
workmen dragged tables in through a door to the left of the stage.
The two directing setup might have been chosen for their devotion to
stereotype. Their wrists were limper than a dead octopus’s
arms. They bullied one another like a pair of harebrained girls. Still,
there’s hardly an adult male human today who isn’t tough. Anybody over
twenty-four had what it took to get through five years of wartime
service with his ass still attached. Including this squawking brace of
fancies.
The guys doing the actual work were the sort you don’t offend
gratuitously. They didn’t have half a neck between them. If their
shirts got ripped off by a freak wind, they’d show more body hair than
cave bears. They probably had trouble recognizing their own names in
print even if you gave them two weeks’ head start.
Our hostess made her appearance through the doorway to the right of
the stage, from the kitchen area. She wasn’t dressed for the occasion.
Yet. “Garrett. You sweet man. You came early.” Strange. My eyes didn’t
roll up inside my head. I didn’t drool. No gush of nonsense syllables
erupted from my mouth. I didn’t forget she was deadly and dangerous.
Maybe I
was immune. Finally.
Belinda Contague is a tall, slim woman in her mid-twenties, as
beautiful as you can imagine a woman to be. Her hair, as ever, was
absolute black, with sheen. Her skin she’d whitened whiter than ivory,
I hoped with makeup rather than arsenic. Her eyes were so blue I
suspected cosmetic sorcery. Her lips were the color of arterial blood.
She has serious emotional problems.
And all this before she put herself together for the evening.
“I had to be early. I heard there’ll be some unsavory characters
showing up. Have you lost weight?”
“You noticed. You are a good man. Yes. A few pounds.”
Too many pounds, I thought. She was gaunt. Another indication of
internal problems? She was in a positive mood. That’s always good. She
said, “I need to get Keron and Arnot focused on their work.
They shouldn’t bring personal problems with them.” She gave me a peck
on the cheek. It was one of her specials. It told me she’d gladly put
it somewhere else. “Then I’ll have the technical staff try to turn me
into something presentable.”
“You’re a step or two beyond that already.”
“Hardly. Wait till you see. You won’t be able to resist.”
“Go. Do what you need to do. And don’t blame yourself if you find
out that I’ve turned into an old man.”
“Why do you have a pail of kittens? Are they dead? I guess not. One
just winked at me.”
“You know Dean. He took in a litter. I brought them because I had
this crazy notion somebody might want one.” A
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