soldiery, according to the books. Not any more. Not with the Angels popping up whenever they weren’t wanted by the people concerned, with their sanctimony and their bullet-proof hides.
Sure, Deeming thought, I’m smarter than an Angel. What’s an Angel anyway? Somebody with rules to abide by. (I’ve got a little more elbow room than that.) Somebody who is remarkable to begin with and makes himself more so with magic tricks and golden cloaks and all that jazz. (I’m an invisible clerk at a low-level fleabag, or a disappearing cockerel with a line like lightning and sticky fingers—whichever I want.)
He tossed the watch and caught it and looked at it and felt glum. He always felt glum when he succeeded, and he always succeeded. He never tried anything where he wouldn’t succeed.
Maybe that’s the trouble, he thought, falling back on the bed andlooking up at the ceiling. I got all this stuff and never use but a fraction of it.
Never thought of it like that before.
I break all the rules but I do it by playing safe. I play it safer than a civil servant buying trip insurance for a ride on a bus. I walk under a closed sky, he thought, like a bug under a rock. Course, I put the tight lid on myself, which is better than having a lid put on, even a large lid, by society or religion. But even so … my sky is closed. What I need, I need
reach
, that’s what.
Or maybe, he thought, sitting up to glower at the watch in his hand, maybe I need a pay-off that’s worth what brains and speed I put into it. How long have I been working respectably for peanuts and robbing carefully for—well, no more’n an occasional walnut?
Which reminds me, I better get this thing fenced out before that spaceman’s relict finds herself a fig leaf and somebody with a whistle to blow.
He got up, slowly shaking his head in disgust and wishing that one time—just one lousy time—he could make a touch and feel as good as he had a right to feel.
He put out a hand to the door and it knocked at him.
Now, you see? he told himself out of the same sort of disgust, you see? Anybody else would freeze now, turn pale, start to sweat, throw the watch into the reclaimer, run up the wall like a rat in a box. But look at you, standing absolutely still thinking three times as fast as a Class Eight computer, checking everything, including all the things you have already done to handle just this situation—the moustache back on, the brown eyes again, the shorter stature again, the heel pads hidden in the reversible jacket and the jacket hidden in the secret panel behind the closet.
“Who is it?”
… And your voice steady and your pulse firm—yes, Deeming’s voice and the pulse of innocence, not the jaunty Jimmy’s tone or his rutty heartbeat. So what’s to feel glum about, boy? What’s the matter with you, to dislike yourself and every situation you get into, purely because you know before you start that you’ll handle it so well?
“May I see you for a moment, Mr. Deeming?”
He didn’t recognize the voice. That was good, or it was bad, depending. If good, why worry? And why worry if it was bad?
He dropped the watch into his side pocket and opened the door.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” said the pudgy man who stood there.
“Come in,” Deeming left the door open and turned his back. “Sit down.” He laughed the minor assistant’s timid little laugh. “I hope you’re selling something. I wouldn’t be able to buy it but it’s nice to have somebody to talk to for a change.”
He heard the door close carefully. The pudgy man did not sit down and he did not laugh. Deeming did not care for the silence so he turned to look at the man, which was apparently what the man was waiting for. “You can have somebody to talk to,” he said quietly. “You can talk to Richard E. Rockhard.”
“Great,” said Deeming. “Who might Richard E. Rockhard be?”
“You haven’t … well, that isn’t really surprising. When they’re
Sure, Deeming thought, I’m smarter than an Angel. What’s an Angel anyway? Somebody with rules to abide by. (I’ve got a little more elbow room than that.) Somebody who is remarkable to begin with and makes himself more so with magic tricks and golden cloaks and all that jazz. (I’m an invisible clerk at a low-level fleabag, or a disappearing cockerel with a line like lightning and sticky fingers—whichever I want.)
He tossed the watch and caught it and looked at it and felt glum. He always felt glum when he succeeded, and he always succeeded. He never tried anything where he wouldn’t succeed.
Maybe that’s the trouble, he thought, falling back on the bed andlooking up at the ceiling. I got all this stuff and never use but a fraction of it.
Never thought of it like that before.
I break all the rules but I do it by playing safe. I play it safer than a civil servant buying trip insurance for a ride on a bus. I walk under a closed sky, he thought, like a bug under a rock. Course, I put the tight lid on myself, which is better than having a lid put on, even a large lid, by society or religion. But even so … my sky is closed. What I need, I need
reach
, that’s what.
Or maybe, he thought, sitting up to glower at the watch in his hand, maybe I need a pay-off that’s worth what brains and speed I put into it. How long have I been working respectably for peanuts and robbing carefully for—well, no more’n an occasional walnut?
Which reminds me, I better get this thing fenced out before that spaceman’s relict finds herself a fig leaf and somebody with a whistle to blow.
He got up, slowly shaking his head in disgust and wishing that one time—just one lousy time—he could make a touch and feel as good as he had a right to feel.
He put out a hand to the door and it knocked at him.
Now, you see? he told himself out of the same sort of disgust, you see? Anybody else would freeze now, turn pale, start to sweat, throw the watch into the reclaimer, run up the wall like a rat in a box. But look at you, standing absolutely still thinking three times as fast as a Class Eight computer, checking everything, including all the things you have already done to handle just this situation—the moustache back on, the brown eyes again, the shorter stature again, the heel pads hidden in the reversible jacket and the jacket hidden in the secret panel behind the closet.
“Who is it?”
… And your voice steady and your pulse firm—yes, Deeming’s voice and the pulse of innocence, not the jaunty Jimmy’s tone or his rutty heartbeat. So what’s to feel glum about, boy? What’s the matter with you, to dislike yourself and every situation you get into, purely because you know before you start that you’ll handle it so well?
“May I see you for a moment, Mr. Deeming?”
He didn’t recognize the voice. That was good, or it was bad, depending. If good, why worry? And why worry if it was bad?
He dropped the watch into his side pocket and opened the door.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” said the pudgy man who stood there.
“Come in,” Deeming left the door open and turned his back. “Sit down.” He laughed the minor assistant’s timid little laugh. “I hope you’re selling something. I wouldn’t be able to buy it but it’s nice to have somebody to talk to for a change.”
He heard the door close carefully. The pudgy man did not sit down and he did not laugh. Deeming did not care for the silence so he turned to look at the man, which was apparently what the man was waiting for. “You can have somebody to talk to,” he said quietly. “You can talk to Richard E. Rockhard.”
“Great,” said Deeming. “Who might Richard E. Rockhard be?”
“You haven’t … well, that isn’t really surprising. When they’re
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