instead.”
“Uh-huh. Right away, ah, sir.” Harris hastily moved toward the compartment hatch, still carrying the damaged helmet under his arm. He grabbed the handle, but found it immovable. Chang had locked the hatch from the outside.
Watching on the TV monitor in the whiteroom, Chang relished the expression of trapped fear that suddenly etched itself upon Harris’ face. “Meet Virgin Bruce, you little wimp,” he snickered.
Bruce Neiman grabbed an overhead rail and swung himself closer to Harris, backing the kid against a bulkhead until their eyes were only a foot apart. “Looks like you’re locked in here with me, kid,” he said, his voice no longer so soft. “Maybe Wallace is already on his way up here to see me. Why don’t we take the time to get to know each other better.”
“Uh, ah, yessir. My name’s…”
“Shut up. My name’s Bruce. Like it says here.”
He pointed to a tattoo on his left bicep, just under the T-shirt’s sleeve. Harris stared at it; it was a heart with a dagger thrust through it. A scroll underneath read “Virgin Bruce.”
Virgin Bruce grinned, displaying a gold-capped front tooth. The rest of his teeth looked as if they had been kicked at, many times. “Ain’t it pretty? What’s your name, kid?”
“B-Bob Harris. I…”
“I don’t give a shit. Where’re you from, B-Bob Harris?”
“San—California—I mean, San Francisco…”
“San Francisco!” A wide grin suddenly spread beneath the spade beard. “That’s the Grateful Dead’s town. You know the Dead, Harris?”
Harris swallowed. He was familiar with the Grateful Dead, even if it was only from listening to his father play their old records every night of his childhood. Once the old man had taken him to a Grateful Dead concert, to see the band—which now included younger musicians teamed with the graying survivors of the original group—but the music had never stuck on him as it had on his father.
“Yeah,” he quickly agreed. “I, uh, really like the Dead… man,” he added. This guy couldn’t be as old as his father, though, could he…?
The grin stayed on the beamjack’s face. “Yeah. You’re awright. Shit, you couldn’t live in Frisco without liking the Dead…”
He gave Harris a slap on the arm, which almost sent him sailing into the wall again, and unexpectedly began to sing. “Red and white… do, dooh … blue suede shoes… do, dooh … I’m Uncle Sam… do, dooh … how do you do do?… doom-da-do-de-doom…”
It was a Grateful Dead song. For the life of him Harris could not recall the title or the way it went, yet Virgin Bruce was clearly trying to get him to sing along. Harris flashed onto the absurdity of his situation: confined with a madman in an airlock thousands of miles from Earth, his life dependent upon remembering the lyrics to an old rock and roll song.
Virgin Bruce, in the midst of singing, thrust out his hand, palm spread upward. “So gimme five !” he sang.
Five? The beamjack was staring at him expectantly, waiting for something. Harris thrust his hands into his coverall pockets, searching for a nickel, and found he didn’t have any change with him.
“Umm…” He swallowed what felt like a rock. “I… don’t got any change, uh, man….”
The light in Virgin Bruce’s eyes disappeared as if it had been cut off by a switch. He glared at Harris and the younger man suddenly pictured himself being thrown out, screaming, through one of the nearby airlocks. Virgin Bruce himself looked tough enough to endure a few minutes of exposure to hard vacuum.
“Never mind,” he grumbled instead, looking disappointed more than anything else. “No one can remember all the songs all the time.”
He grabbed the wires dangling from the snoopy helmet he had hurled at Harris and wrenched the helmet out of the crewman’s grasp. As it floated in front of Harris’ face like an Indian’s captured scalp, Bruce said, “You know what really pisses me off,
“Uh-huh. Right away, ah, sir.” Harris hastily moved toward the compartment hatch, still carrying the damaged helmet under his arm. He grabbed the handle, but found it immovable. Chang had locked the hatch from the outside.
Watching on the TV monitor in the whiteroom, Chang relished the expression of trapped fear that suddenly etched itself upon Harris’ face. “Meet Virgin Bruce, you little wimp,” he snickered.
Bruce Neiman grabbed an overhead rail and swung himself closer to Harris, backing the kid against a bulkhead until their eyes were only a foot apart. “Looks like you’re locked in here with me, kid,” he said, his voice no longer so soft. “Maybe Wallace is already on his way up here to see me. Why don’t we take the time to get to know each other better.”
“Uh, ah, yessir. My name’s…”
“Shut up. My name’s Bruce. Like it says here.”
He pointed to a tattoo on his left bicep, just under the T-shirt’s sleeve. Harris stared at it; it was a heart with a dagger thrust through it. A scroll underneath read “Virgin Bruce.”
Virgin Bruce grinned, displaying a gold-capped front tooth. The rest of his teeth looked as if they had been kicked at, many times. “Ain’t it pretty? What’s your name, kid?”
“B-Bob Harris. I…”
“I don’t give a shit. Where’re you from, B-Bob Harris?”
“San—California—I mean, San Francisco…”
“San Francisco!” A wide grin suddenly spread beneath the spade beard. “That’s the Grateful Dead’s town. You know the Dead, Harris?”
Harris swallowed. He was familiar with the Grateful Dead, even if it was only from listening to his father play their old records every night of his childhood. Once the old man had taken him to a Grateful Dead concert, to see the band—which now included younger musicians teamed with the graying survivors of the original group—but the music had never stuck on him as it had on his father.
“Yeah,” he quickly agreed. “I, uh, really like the Dead… man,” he added. This guy couldn’t be as old as his father, though, could he…?
The grin stayed on the beamjack’s face. “Yeah. You’re awright. Shit, you couldn’t live in Frisco without liking the Dead…”
He gave Harris a slap on the arm, which almost sent him sailing into the wall again, and unexpectedly began to sing. “Red and white… do, dooh … blue suede shoes… do, dooh … I’m Uncle Sam… do, dooh … how do you do do?… doom-da-do-de-doom…”
It was a Grateful Dead song. For the life of him Harris could not recall the title or the way it went, yet Virgin Bruce was clearly trying to get him to sing along. Harris flashed onto the absurdity of his situation: confined with a madman in an airlock thousands of miles from Earth, his life dependent upon remembering the lyrics to an old rock and roll song.
Virgin Bruce, in the midst of singing, thrust out his hand, palm spread upward. “So gimme five !” he sang.
Five? The beamjack was staring at him expectantly, waiting for something. Harris thrust his hands into his coverall pockets, searching for a nickel, and found he didn’t have any change with him.
“Umm…” He swallowed what felt like a rock. “I… don’t got any change, uh, man….”
The light in Virgin Bruce’s eyes disappeared as if it had been cut off by a switch. He glared at Harris and the younger man suddenly pictured himself being thrown out, screaming, through one of the nearby airlocks. Virgin Bruce himself looked tough enough to endure a few minutes of exposure to hard vacuum.
“Never mind,” he grumbled instead, looking disappointed more than anything else. “No one can remember all the songs all the time.”
He grabbed the wires dangling from the snoopy helmet he had hurled at Harris and wrenched the helmet out of the crewman’s grasp. As it floated in front of Harris’ face like an Indian’s captured scalp, Bruce said, “You know what really pisses me off,
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