Jack Womack, page 13
“If I hadn’t left him with the other tracker—”
“If shit was gold we would all be capitalists,” she said. “Again, there is no choice. We got get malcontent Skuratov. Retrieve machine. See if it is operable. Try to contact Sanya then. Sanya not to be found, we try to reset device—”
“But can you?” I asked.
“Is worth effort,” she said. “Men such defeatists. Device I believe can be reenergized by proximity to operating Tesla coil. Large coil. Larger perhaps than any in existence here, but uncertain. Problem is if I can infer directives given as programmed by Sanya. If not—” She quieted, her lip twisting beneath her teeth. “So we try to reset device anyway. We succeed or fail. If we fail we are faced with great problems—”
Wanda’s roar broke our conversation. “Wha’d you mean I’m baking bread that’s already baked? Help me fry this bacon—”
“Have you noted inexplicables in the surroundings?” I asked, thinking again of that movie poster, Doc’s brand, unspecifiable feels.
“Being unconscious most of time since arrival makes thorough observation difficult,” she said. “There are things I have noticed. What is point?”
“We’re not in the past, are we?” I said. “Not truly.”
“Certainly we are not in past,” she said. “How many times I tell you causality prohibits? You cannot drink vodka already drunk.”
“During his first passthrough he certainly realized, then. You mentioned as much.” A fly, stricken with lust for my head, repeatedly caressed and stroked. “He surely told more than you’ve told. Early on you must have clad old theories in new clothes. So where are we?”
“To us it seems past,” she said. “To them, and in fact, it is present day.”
“Repeat and clarify.”
“This is coexistent sphere of existence,” she said. “Occupies same space as ours but at different aspect. Neither world has known of other’s existence. Perhaps each started as mirror image of other. It seems this one developed at slower rate though following like path. We have theory that at places there are windows between worlds naturally occurring for short time, allowing accidental transferral. That explained many paraphysical aspects in theory. Sanya, therefore, developed method to get between places at will—”
“That’s crazed,” I said. “It’s comic book—”
“True, just the same.”
“It’s impossible to put two into one.”
“Is obviously possible,” she said. “Visualize wide meadow with high mesh fence running down middle. Mesh in fence so fine that person standing on one side cannot see other side’s presence. Meadow same on both sides but perhaps fence’s shade causes slower growth on one half. Makes sense?”
“What occurs within the fenceline?”
“Anything,” she said. “We believed that it is area of extreme flux. Passing but halfway through would probably be very hazardous.”
“Sticking to this imbecile metaphor,” I said, still disbelieving, “how then is access gained?”
She shrugged. “Aim water from hose at fence. Water pours down on other side. We are water.”
“In theory we can return—”
“In fact Sanya did return,” she said. “All is needed is operable device. New hose, as it were. Fact remains that we must leave here soon as possible. Inherent problems contain great potential for much mischief and harm.”
“What?” I said. “We’ll marry our great-grandparents by mistake?”
“You don’t need umbrella unless rain falls,” she said, annoyance rising. “There is nothing to that. Here they would be other people. Silly fantasies may be put aside. Two unavoidable problems of which I am thinking are much more serious and likely.”
“And they are—”
“This world would seem to be following path similar to ours but we do not know for certain. We cannot foresee how actions here will cause hurtful changes affecting this world’s future.”
“Or helpful changes,” I said. “That’s considered?”
“That was Sanya’s idealistic belief,” she said. “Before leaving second time he said in fact that he saw it as solution, not problem. I disagree because we do not know what effect our actions have, and we should not have power to change such things. But problem of disease is much more immediate and terribly serious.”
“Disease?”
“Simplest disease here may kill us if our immunity does not match, and there is no reason it would. Think of common transfer of plagues from culture to culture in past. Medieval Black Death. Your American Indians wiped out by white-man diseases. Is same principle. Longer we are here, the more we are exposed to whatever might be here.”
“He wasn’t qualmed by that?”
She shook her head. “Such a fool.”
A thump, as from a blunt striking a solid, came from the kitchen. “Jake!!”
The possibilities unlimited. I rushed in, fearful of what casualties might have been sustained, Oktobriana trailing, and my stomach did flip upon entering—not from sight, from smell; frying food’s excremental scent permeated air at oxygen’s exclusion.
“We got enough help in here,” Wanda shouted, her hands fisted. “Look how he’s helped. Couldn’t you just step on the damn thing?”
Embedded wallways, at noselevel, was a cleaver; on the floor below were a roach’s halves.
“Got it,” said Jake, nonchalant.
“Just swat ’em, Jake. Get the Flit can,” said Doc, freeing the blade. “Didn’t know who you was trying to get.”
“Crazy man,” muttered Wanda as she shook a skillet holding baconstrips in a depth of grease over the stove’s free flame. “Sticks bacon in the breadbox, shuts the lid, wants to know how he’s supposed to watch it cook. Pokes knobs instead of turning ’em. Lays pans on the oven half a foot from the burner and wants to know how long they’ll take to heat. He ever been in a kitchen before?”
“Like your eggs fried?” Doc asked. I peered into a stovetopped warmer. Therein eight jaundiced baby crania floated in their brownish gray drowning pool. Their smell muckered twiceover, so early in the morning. “Jake’s just used to kitchens in the future, isn’t that right, Jake? They’ve probably got gizmos that roast your food right on the hoof, right?”
Jake nodded. “Napalm—”
“I have such appetite,” said Oktobriana. I mouthbreathed, to lessen that overpowering smell, the permanent scent of greasy burn.
“Dishes that wash themselves,” Doc went on. “Turnips the size of basketballs—”
“May I have two unshelled eggs?” I asked, knowing that something essentialled.
“You want ’em raw?” Doc asked. “Got ulcers?”
“Terrible ones,” I lied. “I’ll have them glassed, please—”
“Cook for ’em half the morning in this heat and he’s gonna sit there and suck eggs? Shit—”
“Come on, Wanda,” said Doc. “Cool off.”
“All of you just go ahead and sit down,” she said. The kitchen’s size impressed, so used was I to the dry shower stalls New York realtors of our day call Ingestion Areas; each of us had overmuch room as we tabled round in the room’s center, the broad window facing us, flies’ ceaseless whine tingling our ears. While our hosts and Oktobriana ravaged their emplated horrors, I stirred my eggs until drinkable and Jake tore away his toast’s casing.
“Don’t like crusts, Jake?” Doc asked, cramming down bacon.
“Surface particulate concentration highest thereon,” he said, staring down. “What’s the flooring?”
“Linoleum,” said Wanda. The name unfamiliared; whatever it was, it split and peeled at flooredge, showed dirt’s annual accumulation beneath surface gloss. “What do you have? Something else?”
“Mirafloor,” said Jake. “A springy industry by-product compressed flat—” Wanda appeared unimpressed. An unavoidable aspect of this time, it seemed, was that as the outer world grew more gray-brown while Depression lingered, the inner shone as if polychromed, one’s loss overcompensated by the other. Sitting on an aqua chairpad, vizzing sunlight filtered through the kitchen window’s green-and-white awning and chrome yellow curtains, my knees brushing a red-checkered tablecloth holding an odd, slippery feel, drinking from a bloodred tumbler, eyeing others’ shiny blue plates, I felt mugged by hue, strangled by a rainbow.
“Called that friend of mine I was talking about this morning,” said Doc, forcing yellow oil from his yolks, dipping toast in its sebum. “Doesn’t have any blank flyers handy but has something just as good. Said to come up after breakfast. They’re just a little ways up the street.”
“You talk to Cedric or you talk to Lee?” asked Wanda.
“You know Lee’s never up before noon,” he said. “This’ll even us up till the next time one of his girls gets into trouble—”
“That’ll be next week, more than likely. Why don’t you men eat like this little girl here?”
“A carboload’s nonessentialled,” said Jake. “I’m sufficed.” Flies circled round before diving into fresh runs across our plates.
“I am not little girl,” Oktobriana corrected, clearing her initial plate; Doc reloaded.
“Don’t eat like one,” said Wanda. “Want me to take the general up there, then?”
“Why don’t you,” said Doc, in a quiet monotone. “Luther, pull that picture out of your passport before you go. He’s going to need to put it in your new one.”
“New American passport?”
Doc’s right eyebrow lifted, owl-like. “Venezuelan. It’s all he had right now. I give him your height, weight, how old you are. He’s going to give you a new name, too, just to keep it all kosher.”
“I don’t look Venezuelan—”
“Don’t look like you’re from Norway,” said Doc. “They mix a lot more down there than they do up here. You’ll pass. You speak any Spanish?”
“Some,” I said; Spanish, Turkish, Russian, French. “I still think I’m too dark—”
“Dark?” Wanda laughed, showing her old gold. “With those big green eyes? Look like there was more’n one ice-cream man hanging round your mama’s woodpile.”
Feeling suitably placed, I decided a check necessaried, to distract if nothing more. “Jake,” I said. “Movement seen or not seen?”
Unpocketing the tracker, he looked. “None.”
“What’s that thing?” Wanda asked.
“Keeps us apprised of others’ movements,” I said. “Or lack thereof. We’re eyeing one who holds our exit visa.”
“A friend?” she asked.
We grimaced. “Another orphan of time,” said Oktobriana. “Is terrible countryman of mine. Tried to take us prisoners. Tried to kill Jake with bomb. On plane he attempted takeover once more so Jake threw him out into swamp below.”
“You sure you need to keep in touch?” Doc asked; we nodded. “He’s still in Jersey, then?”
“Close to descent point.” A fly careened down, attacking; Jake, bored, caught it without seeable movement. Fisting tight, unclamping, he wiped it on his napkin and kept eating.
“Big-game hunter,” said Oktobriana, smirking as she cleaned her second plate.
“I can run you over later, probably, once you get that passport,” said Doc. “You seem to be making quite a recovery, miss.”
“Such exuberant feelings I have,” she said. “So unexpected after fever’s passing. Head sore but not painful. Expected stiffness fading.”
“May I?” I asked Doc, spotting a paper countertopped near.
“Here,” he said. “It’s this mornings. I read it already. Toss it up on the icebox when you’re through.” The rag resembled nothing published in my New York, as had the Mirror; June 17, 1939’s Herald-Tribune and Mail carried few photos, superabundant print, and semirational heads. Glancing across, I read: KING BIDS FAREWELL TO NEW YORK, MEETS PRESIDENT LATER TODAY; HEAT WAVE SEARS EUROPE; LA GUARDIA SWEARS TO FIGHT LEGISLATURE’S BUDGET CUTS—
“So many flies,” said Oktobriana, swatting.
“No more’n any summer,” Wanda said. “Beelzebub’s hosts. Bringers of dark. You get used to ’em. Don’t they have flies anymore?”
“They’ve probably killed off all pests and such in the future, Wanda,” said Doc. “No roaches. No rats. No spiders or mice.”
AMERICAN JEWISH CONGRESS REQUESTS LIFTING OF REFUGEE QUOTAS; LONG PLANS RUN ON THIRD-PARTY TICKET IF DEMO NOMINATION DENIED; THREE DEAD IN BRONX FIRE; TESLA TO THROW SWITCH SUNDAY NIGHT, WORLD SCIENTISTS TO ATTEND CEREMONY—
“Tesla?” Oktobriana said, espying the last name. “What is ceremony where?”
“The World’s Fair,” said Doc. “Out in Flushing Meadows. In Queens.”
“Let me see,” she said, ripping the paper from my grasp. “He is to be honored in great festival at this fair. Will throw switch to begin operation of new device. Peacetime use, I would guess—”
“What’s Tesla?” Jake asked.
“Tesla was inventor and scientist,” she said. “True genius. Slavic, it goes without saying, though Yugoslavic. Alternating current system of electric power enabled with use of Tesla coil. Allows electricity to be used in all places safely. Many splendid ideas he had never employed. Brave notions and concepts ignored even in our day. Too visionary.”
“He’s been working on death rays lately, I read,” said Doc.
“That would infer use of large coils with attached tower,” she said, thoughtful. “Could perhaps prove useful. I have certain familiarity with his work.” A tiny bombardier closed in on her; had her glass of juice not been sent floorways by the movement it couldn’t have evidenced that her arm ever left the table. One second her hand was open; the next, it had closed.
“Damnation,” said Wanda, pressing her cloth napkin linoleumways to suck the spillage before it merged with the floor. “Catching flies only thing you all are good at?”
“Watch me do better than Jake,” she laughed, standing to attain wider armroom. Her captive’s fellows circled round as if in tribute to the fallen; their mistake. This time I caught the flash as her arm shot; drawing down her hand to eyelevel she unclasped. Four flies lay stunned upon her open palm, perhaps so surprised as we. She shook them awake, sending them skyways again.
“How’d you do that?” Wanda asked.
“I’m not sure—” she mumbled, reseating herself. “Lucky accident, maybe.”
Doc lay down his fork and knife, though food remained before him. “Listen,” he said, “last night I was so busy taking care of the obvious complaints that I never got the chance to do a couple tests I wanted to do. Nothing to get all riled up about, just want to check a couple things. Would you and Jake come across to the office with me after we finish eating? Won’t take ten minutes.”
Amateur’s cloakings never concealed; no matter how still the face, the eyes of the nonprofessional never carry the lie. Whatever troubled him, troubled deep, no matter his feigned nonchalance. His gropes and plaints hung swordlike in the air.
“All right,” she said.
“Luther, you too, once you get back.”
“Get back,” said Wanda. “Haven’t even gone yet. Let’s get moving if we’re going to. I got things to do besides babysitting and serving as a tour guide for this bunch. Come on.” She stood, pushing herself away from the table. “I’ll let you all do the dishes.”
“Jake,” I said, distracting his roomwide search for the washer. “Tracker me while I’m out. I want to tab any stir that shows if he moves.”
“If he moves,” said Jake, “follow.”
“Don’t let nobody see that thing while I’m with you,” said Wanda.
“Anybody asks, tell ’em it’s a Hershey bar,” laughed Doc, something still eating him from within.
“Those your only clothes?” Wanda asked me; my two-piece wool with faint pinstripe, medium lapel, no longer held even press’s resemblance; most mud trousercuffed had returned to dust. I couldn’t imagine it showing overstrange, still.
“Sole and alone,” I said.
“Well, just don’t get out of eyesight,” she said to me. “Stick to me like glue. All right?”
“A follow’s essential,” said Jake. “I’ll prep.”
“Stay here, Jake,” said Doc. “People they’re seein’, uh, don’t cotton much to, uh—”
“Ofays,” said Wanda, shouldering her purse; its skin looked to be drawn from lizards, though I couldn’t imagine that it truly was. “Let’s get it done with.”
Following as specified, I trailed her steps, emerging behind her into clear light and streetrush as we left the house. Abyssinia’s bill evidenced beneath the tunnel-like awning. I vizzed the attractions listed: Friday Lester Young and Charles Parker/Saturday Robert Johnson the Blues Man/Cover fifty cent.
“They’re just a few blocks up,” she said. “What’re you gawking at?”
“All,” I said. “These associates are fellow medicals?”
“Fellow lowlifes,” she said. “Lee the Blood’s nothing but a pimp. Carries cards says he’s an entertainment director. Keeps a three-girl stable working the street but they hold out half the money on him and he’s always too drunk to know. He’s nothing but a hog in shoes. Crashes rent parties, that’s how low he is. Cedric’s got the knowhow. Runs numbers, keeps hooch pouring through the bars, fences anything a hophead’ll drag in. Hooked in with the precinct house somehow. Swear to this day he must be the one funding the man who buys the souls. And, he gets papers to those too sorry to have any of their own.” Glancing me updown, she winked. “Queer as a three-dollar bill. He’ll be glad to help you.”
“Does Doc have overmuch contact with underground trade?”
“When necessary,” she said. “I’d be glad of it if I was you, considering.”
Above us trains rattled, shaking along their run; sunlight leaked onto the street as through a jungle’s canopy, its tones showing pure against constant shadow. On streetlevel, traffic streamed: battered cars plain with years of unmuseumed use, looking less insectival as they familiared themselves onto my mind; streetcars, gray topped, red and yellow sided, their windows removed for summer comfort, buzzed down centerlane. We edged past a sidewalk-wide mass of stacked boxes and jumbled furniture, rolled rugs upon which children sans shoes perched.
