blistered intestines.
“Yes, Grandfather,” the black manservant replied softly. He pulled out a book from behind the wheelchair, just one of its many hidden treasures, and, finding the marker where he had left off, began reading aloud. He spoke with great eloquence, almost like an actor, Shakespearean tainted. But then he had had a complete education—the Premier had seen to that years before. And now, talking as if he were on stage with a one-man audience more powerful than all the other men put together in the entire world, he read from The Sorrows of Young Werther, by Goethe:
“It is enough to drive one mad, Wilham! To think that there are people who have no feelings at all for the few things on this earth that are of any value! Do you remember the walnut trees under which I sat with Lotte when we visited the good vicar in St.—? Those magnificent trees that, God knows, always delighted me . . . how snug they made the rectory courtyard, how cool, and what marvelous branches they had! And the memories that went with them, back to the worthy vicar who had planted them so many years ago. The schoolmaster mentions his name frequently, he has it from his grandfather. What a good man he was, and his memory was sacred to me always under those trees. I tell you, there were tears in the schoolmaster’s eyes yesterday when we spoke about how they had been cut down . . .”
Six
Back in Colorado:
T hough Rock vowed to himself he was going to get a good night’s sleep—since what with fooling around with Rona under the sleeping bag and the stars, and fighting mutant carnivores, he hadn’t had much of said commodity for what seemed like a week. But he had scarcely had time to decontaminate, go back to his sleeping chamber and fall down, when his beeper began squawking madly by his bed.
He looked at the clock. Six A.M. He had gotten four hours. Shit. Hardly enough. But from the insistent call of the beeper, Rockson knew he wasn’t going to see any more sleep, maybe for a long time.
“Yeah, Rockson here,” he answered in not the friendliest of tones, pressing his mouth to the phone unit of the device.
“Rath. Sorry to wake you,” the Intel Chief replied, sounding not at all sorry. “But the Council kindly requests your presence. They’re having an emergency meeting in one hour to decide what response to make to the Russian demands. Now they, the Reds, are demanding some sort of answer—yes or no. They say Premier Vassily himself is on his way here—will arrive in a week. Freefighting cities are communicating with us from all over the country. Got messages coming in by radio, telegraph code, pony express, even birds from some of the smaller towns. Whole damned country’s in an uproar. If this is a real chance, then . . . And if not, then what the hell are they up to? At any rate,” Rath said, “you’re expected, as Century City’s top military field man, to speak. So—” He broke off the connection.
Rock had just started to ask, “And say what?”
But Rath was already gone. It was a stupid question, anyway. He was tired, that was all. In his better days he had even had his moments at repartee. But right now he felt like grunting at anything anyone asked him. His brain felt like it was screwed on backwards. Maybe he was getting some dreaded radiation fever. Or maybe he was just getting old. Yeah, right, peaked before he hit his mid-30’s. No, he wasn’t getting old. But the constant fight against darkness, the ceaseless struggle that he and the others carried on, the conclusion of which he probably wouldn’t even be around to see—sometimes, sometimes . . . was wearying.
But after his third cup of coffee, in one of the quick-serve breakfast bars that was open on the twelve-to-eight shift, he felt less crabby. Although he didn’t want to admit it, Rockson began feeling just a little bit better. Coffee—thank God for it. Half the other Freefighting cities didn’t have it. But, as usual, Shecter and
“Yes, Grandfather,” the black manservant replied softly. He pulled out a book from behind the wheelchair, just one of its many hidden treasures, and, finding the marker where he had left off, began reading aloud. He spoke with great eloquence, almost like an actor, Shakespearean tainted. But then he had had a complete education—the Premier had seen to that years before. And now, talking as if he were on stage with a one-man audience more powerful than all the other men put together in the entire world, he read from The Sorrows of Young Werther, by Goethe:
“It is enough to drive one mad, Wilham! To think that there are people who have no feelings at all for the few things on this earth that are of any value! Do you remember the walnut trees under which I sat with Lotte when we visited the good vicar in St.—? Those magnificent trees that, God knows, always delighted me . . . how snug they made the rectory courtyard, how cool, and what marvelous branches they had! And the memories that went with them, back to the worthy vicar who had planted them so many years ago. The schoolmaster mentions his name frequently, he has it from his grandfather. What a good man he was, and his memory was sacred to me always under those trees. I tell you, there were tears in the schoolmaster’s eyes yesterday when we spoke about how they had been cut down . . .”
Six
Back in Colorado:
T hough Rock vowed to himself he was going to get a good night’s sleep—since what with fooling around with Rona under the sleeping bag and the stars, and fighting mutant carnivores, he hadn’t had much of said commodity for what seemed like a week. But he had scarcely had time to decontaminate, go back to his sleeping chamber and fall down, when his beeper began squawking madly by his bed.
He looked at the clock. Six A.M. He had gotten four hours. Shit. Hardly enough. But from the insistent call of the beeper, Rockson knew he wasn’t going to see any more sleep, maybe for a long time.
“Yeah, Rockson here,” he answered in not the friendliest of tones, pressing his mouth to the phone unit of the device.
“Rath. Sorry to wake you,” the Intel Chief replied, sounding not at all sorry. “But the Council kindly requests your presence. They’re having an emergency meeting in one hour to decide what response to make to the Russian demands. Now they, the Reds, are demanding some sort of answer—yes or no. They say Premier Vassily himself is on his way here—will arrive in a week. Freefighting cities are communicating with us from all over the country. Got messages coming in by radio, telegraph code, pony express, even birds from some of the smaller towns. Whole damned country’s in an uproar. If this is a real chance, then . . . And if not, then what the hell are they up to? At any rate,” Rath said, “you’re expected, as Century City’s top military field man, to speak. So—” He broke off the connection.
Rock had just started to ask, “And say what?”
But Rath was already gone. It was a stupid question, anyway. He was tired, that was all. In his better days he had even had his moments at repartee. But right now he felt like grunting at anything anyone asked him. His brain felt like it was screwed on backwards. Maybe he was getting some dreaded radiation fever. Or maybe he was just getting old. Yeah, right, peaked before he hit his mid-30’s. No, he wasn’t getting old. But the constant fight against darkness, the ceaseless struggle that he and the others carried on, the conclusion of which he probably wouldn’t even be around to see—sometimes, sometimes . . . was wearying.
But after his third cup of coffee, in one of the quick-serve breakfast bars that was open on the twelve-to-eight shift, he felt less crabby. Although he didn’t want to admit it, Rockson began feeling just a little bit better. Coffee—thank God for it. Half the other Freefighting cities didn’t have it. But, as usual, Shecter and
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