menu_book Chapter 2

Part Two of It Could Be Anything by Keith Lummer. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part Two The man froze, flattened himself against the wall. Automatically, Brett moved to a place beside him.

The man's head was twisted toward the alley mouth. The tendons in his weathered neck stood out. He had a three-day stubble of beard. Brett could smell him standing close. He edged away.

"'What?' "'Don't make a sound. Don't move, you idiot.' His voice was a thin hiss. Brett followed the other's eyes toward the sunny street. The fallen man lay on the pavement, moving feebly, eyes open.

Something moved up to him, a translucent, brownish shape like muddy water. It hovered for a moment, then dropped on the man like a breaking wave flowing around him. The body shifted, rotated stiffly, then tilted upright. The sun struck through the fluid shape that flowed down. Now, amber highlights twinkling, to form itself into the crested wave, flow away.

What the hell? Come on, the redhead turned, trotted silently toward the shadowy bend under the high gray walls. He looked back, beckoned impatiently, passed out of sight around the turn. Brett came up behind him, saw a wide avenue, tall trees with chartreuse springtime leaves, a wrought iron fence, and beyond it, rolling green lawns.

There were no people in sight. Wait a minute. What is this place? His companion turned red-rimmed eyes on Brett. How long have you been here? he asked. How did you get in? I came through a gate just about an hour ago.

I knew you were a man as soon as I saw you talking to the golem, said the redhead. I've been here two months, maybe more. We've got to get out of sight. You want food? There's a place. He jerked his thumb.

Come on, time to talk later. Brett followed him. They turned down a side street, pushed through the door of a dingy cafe. It banged behind them. There were tables, stools at a bar, a dusty jukebox.

They took seats at a table. The redhead groped under the table, pulled off a shoe, hammered it against the wall. He cocked his head, listening. The silence was absolute. He hammered again.

There was a clash of crockery from beyond the kitchen door. Now don't say anything, the redhead said. He eyed the door behind the counter expectantly. It flew open. A girl with red cheeks and untidy hair, dressed in green waitress's uniform, appeared, swept up to the table, pad and pencil in hand. Coffee and a ham sandwich, said the redhead.

Brett said nothing. The girl glanced at him briefly, jotted hastily, whisked away. I saw them here the first day, the redhead said. It was a piece of luck. I saw how the gels started it up. They were big ones, not like the tight ears up.

As soon as they were finished, I came in and tried the same thing. It worked. I used the golem's lines. I don't know what you're talking about, Brett said. I'm going to ask that girl.

Don't say anything to her. It might spoil everything. The whole sequence might collapse, or it might call the gels. I'm not sure. You can have the food when it comes back with it.

Why did you say when it comes back? Ah, he looked at Brett strangely. I'll show you. Brett could smell food now. His mouth watered.

He hadn't eaten for 24 hours. Care, that's the thing, the redhead said. Move quiet and stay out of sight, and you could live like a county duke. Food's the hardest, but here... The red-cheeked girl reappeared, a tray balanced on one arm.

heavy cup and saucer in the other hand she clattered them down on the table took you long enough the redhead said the girl sniffed open her mouth to speak and the redhead darted out a stiff finger jabbed her under the ribs she stood mouth open frozen Brett half rose he's crazy miss he said please accept Don't waste your breath

Brett's host was looking at him triumphantly Why do I call it, it? He stood up, reached out, and undid the top buttons of the green uniform The waitress stood, leaning slightly forward, unmoving The blouse fell open, exposing round white breasts

Unadorned, blind A doll, said the redhead A puppet, a golem Brett stared at her. The damp curls at her temple, the tip of her tongue behind her teeth,

the tiny red veins in her round cheeks and the white skin curving. That's a quick way to tell him, said the redhead. The teat is smooth. He rebuttoned the uniform, then jabbed again at the girl's ribs. She straightened, patted her hair.

No doubt a gentleman like you is used to better, she said carelessly. She went away. I am Awalawan Dehova, the redhead said. My name's Brett Hale. Brett took a bite of the sandwich.

Those clothes, Dehova said, and you have a strange way of talking. What country are you from? Jefferson. Never heard of it. I'm from Waverley.

What brought you here? I was on a train. The tracks came to an end out of the middle of nowhere. I walked, and here I am. What is this place?

"'Don't know,' DeHuva shook his head. "'I knew they were lying about the Fire River, though. "'Never did believe all that stuff. "'Religious hokum, to keep the masses quiet. "'Don't know what to believe now.

"'Take the roof. "'They say a hundred Carfads up. "'But how do we know? "'Maybe it's a thousand, or only ten. "'By grad, I'd like to go up in a balloon, see for myself.'

"'What are you talking about?' Brett said. Go where in a balloon? See what? Oh, I've seen one at the tourney. Big hot air bag with a basket under it, tied down with a rope.

But if you cut the rope, but you can bet the priests will never let that happen. No, sir. De Hoovo looked at Brett speculatively. What about your country? Fessian, or whatever you called it.

How high do they tell you it is there? You mean the sky? Well, the air ends after a few miles, and space just goes on, millions of miles. The Hoover slapped the table and laughed. The people in Fresian must be some yokels.

Just goes on up. Not who'd swallow that tail, he chuckled. Only a child thinks that the sky is some kind of tent, said Brett. Haven't you ever heard of the solar system, the other planets? What are those?

Other worlds, they all circle around the sun, like the earth Other worlds, eh? Sailing around up under the roof Funny I never saw them DeHuva snickered

Wake up, Brett, forget all those stories Just believe what you see What about that brown thing? The gels? They run this place

Look out for them, Brett Stay alert, don't let them see you What do they do? I don't know, and I don't want to find out This is a great place, I like it here

I have all I want to eat, plenty of nice rooms for sleeping There's the parades and the scenes It's a good life, as long as you keep out of sight How do you get out of here? Brett asked, finishing his coffee Don't know how to get out, over the wall, I suppose

I don't plan to leave, though, I left home in a hurry The Duke, never mind, I'm not going back Are all the people here golems? Brett said Aren't there any more real people?

You're the first I've seen I spotted you as soon as I saw you A live man moves different than a golem You see golems doing things like knitting their brows Starting back an alarm

Looking askance and standing arms akimbo and they have things like pursed lips and knowing glances and mirthless laughter. You know, all the things you read about that real people never do. But now that you're here, I've got somebody to talk to. I did get lonesome, I admit.

I'll show you where to stay and we'll fix you up with a bed. I won't be around that long. What can you get outside that you can't get here? There's everything you need here in the city. We can have a great time.

You sound like my Aunt Hasey, Brett said. She said I had everything I needed back in Casperton. How does she know what I need? How do you know? How do I know myself? I can tell you I need more than food and a place to sleep.

What more? Everything. Things to think about and something worth doing. Why, even in the movies, what's a movie? You know, a play on film, a moving picture.

A picture? that moves? That's right. This is something the priests told you about. DeHuva seemed to be holding in his mirth. Everybody's seen movies. DeHuva burst out laughing. Those priests, he said, they're the same everywhere I see. The stories they tell and people believe them. What else? Priests have nothing to do with it. DeHuva composed his features. What do they tell you

about Grat and the wheel. Grat? What's that? The over-being, the four-eyed one. De Hoova made a sign, caught himself. Just have it, he said. I don't believe that rubbish. Never did. I suppose you're talking about God, Brett said. I don't know about God. Tell me about it. He's the creator of the world. He's, well, superhuman. He knows everything that happens, and when you die, if you led a good life, you meet God in heaven.

Where's that? It's—Brett waved a hand vaguely—up above. But you said there was just emptiness up above, Dehoofa recalled. And some other worlds whirling around like islands adrift in the sea? Well, never mind, Dehoofa held up his hands.

Our priests are liars, too. all that balderdash about the wheel and the river of fire. It's just as bad as your hivel, or whatever you called it. And our grat and your mud or gog, they're the same. DeHuva's head went up.

What's that? I didn't hear anything. DeHuva got to his feet, turned to the door. Brett rose. A towering brown shape, glassy and transparent,

hung in the door, its surface rippling. Dehoove whirled, leaped past Brett, dived for the rear door. Brett stood frozen. The shape flowed, swift as quicksilver. Caught Dehoove in mid-stride, engulfed him.

For an instant, Brett saw the thin figure, legs kicking, upended within the muddy form of the gel. Then the turbid wave swept across to the door, sloshed it aside, disappeared. DeHuva was gone.

Brett stood rooted, staring at the doorway. A bar of sunlight fell across the dusty floor. A brown mouse ran along the baseboard. It was very quiet. Brett went to the door through which the gel had disappeared,

hesitated a moment, then thrust it open. He was looking down into a great dark pit, acres in extent, its sides riddled with holes, the amputated ends of water and sewerage lines and power cables dangling. Far below, light glistened from the surface of a black pool.

A few feet away, the waitress stood, unmoving in the dark, on a narrow strip of linoleum. At her feet, the chasm yawned. The edge of the floor was ragged, as though it had been gnawed away by rats. There was no sign of DeHuva.

Brett stepped back into the dining room, let the door swing shut. He took a deep breath, picked up a paper napkin from a table and wiped his forehead, dropped the napkin on the floor and went out into the street, his suitcase forgotten now. At the corner he turned, walked along past silent shop windows crowded with home permanents, sunglasses, fingernail polish, suntan lotion, paper cartons, streamers, plastic toys,

very colored garments of synthetic fiber, home remedies, beauty aids, popular music, greeting cards. At the next corner he stopped, looking down the silent streets. Nothing moved. Brett went to a window in a gray concrete wall, pulled himself up to peer through the dusty pane,

saw a room filled with tailor's forms, garment racks, a bicycle, bundled back issues of magazines without covers. He went along to a door. It was solid, painted shut. The next door looked easier.

He wrenched at the tarnished brass knob, then stepped back and kicked the door. With a hollow sound, the door fell inward, taking with it the jam. him. Brett stood staring at the gaping opening. A fragment of masonry dropped with a dry clink. Brett stepped through the breach in the gray façade. The black pool at the bottom of the pit winked a flicker of light back at him in the deep gloom.

Around him the high walls of the block of buildings loomed in silhouette. The squares of the windows were ranks of luminous blue against the dark. Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight. Far above the roof was dimly visible, a spidery tangle of trusswork, and below was the abyss. At Brett's feet, the stump of a heavy brass rail projected an inch from the floor. It was long enough, Brett thought, to give firm anchor to a rope. Somewhere

below. DeHuva, a stranger who had befriended him, lay in the grip of the jowls. He would do what he could, but he needed equipment and help. First he would find a store with rope, guns, knives. He would... The broken edge of masonry where the door had been caught his eye. The shell of the wall, exposed where the door frame had torn away was wafer thin. Brett reached up, broke off a piece.

The outer face, the side that showed on the street, was smooth, solid-looking. The back was porous, nibbled. Brett stepped outside, examining the wall. He kicked at the gray surface. A great piece of wall, six feet high, broke into fragments,

fell on the sidewalk with a crash, driving out a puff of dust. Another section fell. One piece of it skidded away clattered down into the depths. Brett heard a distant splash. He looked at the great jagged opening in the wall,

like a jigsaw picture with a piece missing. He turned and started off at a trot, his mouth dry, his pulse thumping painfully in his chest. Two blocks from the hollow building, Brett slowed to a walk, his footsteps echoing in the empty street.

He looked into each door window as he passed. There were artificial legs, bottles of colored water, immense dolls, wigs, glass eyes, but no rope. Brett tried to think, what kind of store would handle rope? A marine supply company, maybe, but where would he find one?

Perhaps it would be easiest to look in a telephone book. Ahead he saw a sign-lettered hotel. Brett went up to the revolving door pushed inside. He was in a dim, marble-paneled lobby with double doors leading into a beige-carpeted bar on his right, the brass-painted cage of an elevator directly before him,

flanked by tall urns of sand and an escalating staircase. On the left was a dark mahogany finished reception desk. Behind the desk a man stood silently, waiting. Brett felt a wild surge of relief. Those things, those gels, he called, starting across the room.

My friend, he broke off. The clerk stood, staring over Brett's shoulder, holding a pin poised over a book. Brett reached out, took the pen. The man's fingers curled stiffly around nothing. A golem.

Brett turned away, went into the bar. Vacant stools were ranged before a dark mirror. At the tables, empty glasses stood before empty chairs. Brett started as he heard the revolving door thump, thump. Suddenly, soft light bathed the lobby behind him.

somewhere a piano tinkled more than you know. With a distant clatter of closing doors, the elevator came to life. Brett hugged a shadowed corner, saw a fat man in a limp seersucker suit

cross to the reception desk. He had a red face, a bald scalp blotched with large brown freckles. The clerk inclined his head blandly. Ah, yes, sir, a nice double with bath.

breath." Brett heard the unctuous voice of the clerk as he offered the pen. The fat man took it, scrawled something in the register. "'At fourteen dollars,' the clerk murmured. He smiled, dinged the bell.

A boy in tight green tunic and trousers and a pillbox cap with a chin strap pushed through a door beside the desk, took the key, led the way to the elevator. The fat man entered. Through the open work of the shaft, Brett watched as the elevator car rose, greasy cables trembling and swaying. He started back across the lobby and stopped dead.

A wet brown shape had appeared in the entrance. It flowed across the rug to the bellhop. Face blank, the golem turned back to its door. Above, Brett heard the elevator stop. Doors clashed.

The clerk stood poised behind the desk. The gel hovered, then flowed away. The piano was silent now. The lights burned, a soft glow, then winked out. Brett thought about the fat man.

He had seen him before. He went up the stairs. In the second-floor corridor, Brett felt his way along in near darkness, guided by the dim light coming through transoms. He tried a door. It opened.

He stepped into a large bedroom with a double bed, an easy chair, a chest of drawers. He crossed the room, looked out across an alley. Twenty feet away, white curtains hung at windows in a brick wall. There was nothing behind the windows. There were sounds in the corridor.

Brett dropped to the floor behind the bed. All right, you two. A drunken voice bellowed, and may all your troubles be little ones. There was laughter, squeals, a dry clash of beads flung against the door. A key grated.

The door swung wide. Lights blazed in the hall, silhouetting the figures of a man in black jacket and trousers, a woman in a white bridal dress and veil, flowers in her hand. Take care, Mel. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Kiss the bride now. The couple backed into the room, pushed the door shut, stood against it. Brett crouched behind the bed, not breathing, waiting. The couple stood at the door, in the dark, heads down. Brett stood, rounded the foot of the bed, approached the two unmoving figures.

The girl looked young, sleek, perfect-featured, with soft, dark hair. Her eyes were half open. Brett caught a glint of light reflected from the eyeball. The man was bronzed, broad-shouldered, his hair wavy and blonde. His lips were parted, showing even white teeth.

The two stood, not breathing, sightless eyes fixed on nothing. Brett took the bouquet from the woman's hand. The flowers seemed real, except that they had no perfume. room. He dropped them on the floor, pulled at the male golem to clear the door. The figure pivoted, toppled, hit with a heavy thump. Brett raised the woman in his arms and propped

her against the bed. Back at the door he listened. All was quiet now. He started to open the door, then hesitated. He went back to the bed, undid the tiny pearl buttons down the front of the bridal gown pulled it open the breasts were rounded smooth and unbroken creamy white in the hall he started toward the stair a tall gel rippled into view ahead its shape flowing and wavering now billowing out then rising up the shifting form undulated toward brett he made a

move to run then remembered to hoover stood motionless the gel wobbled past him slumped suddenly flowed under a door brett let out a breath never mind the fat man there were too many gels here he started back along the corridor soft music came from double doors which stood open on a landing. Brett went to them, risked a look inside. Graceful couples moved sedately on a polished floor. Diners sat at tables, black-clad waiters moving among them. At the far side of the room,

near a dusty rubber plant, sat the fat man studying a menu. Brett watched as he shook out a napkin, ran it around inside his collar, then mopped his face. Never disturb a scene, DeHuva had said. But perhaps he could blend with it. Brett brushed at his suit, straightened his tie, stepped into the room.

A waiter approached, eyed him dubiously. Brett got out his wallet, took out a five-dollar bill. A quiet table in the corner, he said. He glanced back. There were no gels in sight. He followed the waiter to a table near the fat man.

Seated, he looked around. He wanted to talk to the fat man, but he couldn't afford to attract attention. He would watch and wait his chance. At the nearby tables, men with well-pressed suits, clean collars, and carefully shaved faces murmured to sleekly gowned women who fingered wine glasses, smiled archly.

He caught fragments of conversation. My dear, have you heard? In the low eighties Quite impossible, one must For this time of year

The waiter returned with a shallow bowl of milky soup Brett looked at the array of spoons, forks, knives Glanced sideways at the diners at the next table It was important to follow the correct ritual He put his napkin in his lap

Careful to shake out all the folds He looked at the spoons again picked a large one, glanced at the waiter. So far, so good. Wine, sir?

Brett indicated a neighboring couple. The same as they're having. The waiter turned away, returned holding a wine bottle labeled toward Brett. He looked at it, nodded.

The waiter busied himself with the cork, removing it with many flourishes, setting a glass before Brett, pouring half an inch of wine. He waited expectantly.

Brett picked up the glass, tasted it. It tasted like wine. He nodded. The waiter poured. Brett wondered what would have happened if he had made a face and spurned it.

But it would be too risky to try. No one ever did it. End of Part 2