"Yes?" He wondered if she, like Tinbane, had been hurt; he felt his heart speed up in agitation; he felt, now, as concerned as before--actually more so. There was a subtle, unverbalized ominousness in her voice. "Tell me!" he said, urgently.
Lotta said, "Sebastian, you didn't come and get me out of there. Even after I didn't meet you at the store as we planned. You must have been too busy; I guess you have the Anarch to think of." Tears, abruptly, filled her eyes; as usual, she made no effort to wipe them away; she cried soundlessly, like a child. Without hiding her face.
"Goddam it," he said, in a frenzy. "What is it?"
"I can't," she wept.
"Can't what? Can't you tell me? I'll get over to the hospital; which hospital is it? Where are you, Lotta? Goddam it; stop crying and say."
"Do you love me?"
"Yes!"
Lotta said, "I still love you, Seb. But I have to leave you. For a while at least. Until I feel better."
"Leave me and go where?" he demanded.
Her crying had ceased; her swimming eyes confronted him with unusual defiance. "I'm not going to say. I'll write to you; I'll figure out exactly how to tell you and i'll put it all in a letter." She added, "I can't talk over the phone; I feel so conspicuous. Hello."
"Oh my god," he said, unbelievingly.
"Hello, Sebastian," Lotta said, and hung up; the image of her pinched small face vanished.
Beside Sebastian, R.C. Buckley appeared, apologetically. "Sorry to bother you at a time like this," he mumbled, "but there's someone asking for you. At the front door."
"We're closed!" Sebastian said savagely.
"She's a buyer. You said never to turn away a buyer, even after six P.M. That's your philosophy."
Sebastian grated, "If she's a customer, take care of her; you're our salesman."
"She asked for you; she won't talk to anyone else."
"I feel like killing myself," Sebastian said to him. "Something terrible must have happened in the Library; I'll probably never find out what it was--she'll never be able to put it into words." Lotta was so bad with words, he thought. Too many, too few, the wrong ones or to the wrong person; always miscommunicating in one way or another. "If I had a gun," he said, "I would kill myself." He got out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "You heard what Lotta said. I let her so badly down she left me. Who's this customer?'
"She says her name--" R.C. Buckley examined his jotting. "Miss Ann Fisher. Know her?"
"No." Sebastian walked toward the front of the store, out of the work area and into the reception lounge with its moderately modern chairs, carpet, and magazines. In one of the chairs sat a well-dressed young woman with smartly clipped, fashionable short black hair. He paused, collecting his wits and considering her. The girl had lovely slim legs; he could not help noticing that. Class, he thought. This girl really has it; even in her earrings. And in the very slight make-up; all the tints of her eyes and lashes and lips seemed her own very intense natural coloration. Her eyes, he saw, were blue, unusual for a girl with black hair.
"Goodbye," she said, and smiled a warm, crinkly smile; her face was extraordinarily mobile; when she smiled her eyes danced with light, and she showed perfect, regular teeth, with mischievous little incisors; he found himself fascinated by her rows of teeth.
"I'm Sebastian Hermes," he said.
Rising, putting aside her magazine, Miss Fisher said, "You have a,Mrs. Tilly M. Benton in your catalog. In the most recent daily supplement." She fumbled with her smart shiny purse, brought out the addenda ad which the Flask of Hermes Vitarium had placed in that day's evening 'papes. She seemed to be a determined, pert young woman... a titanic contrast, he could not help noticing, from Lotta's indecisiveness, which he had over a long period of time been forced to accustom himself to.
"Technically," he said, "we're closed for the day. Mrs. Benton is of course not here; we have her in a hospital bed, recuperating. We'll be glad to take you over there tomorrow. Are you a relative?"
"She's my great-aunt," Ann Fisher said, with a kind of philosophical exasperation, as if one had regularly to be ready to cope with reborn elderly relatives. "Oh, I'm so damn glad you heard her calling," she went on. "We kept visiting the cemetery, hoping we'd hear her voice, but it _always_--" She made a wry face. "Always seems to happen at weird hours."
"True," he agreed. That was indeed part of the problem. He looked at his watch; it was, roughly, sogum time; normally he would want to be at home with Lotta. But Lotta wasn't there. And anyhow he wanted more or less to keep in the vicinity of the store, pending these new, critical hours of life for the Anarch. "I guess I could take you briefly to the hospital tonight," he began, but Miss Fisher interrupted him.
"Oh no; thanks, but forget it. I'm tired. I've been working all day long and so have you." Astonishingly, she reached out her smooth, tapered hand and patted his, meanwhile beaming sunlike, radiant understanding, as if she knew him intimately. "I just want to make sure that the State of California doesn't make her its ward, and turn her over to one of those awful public rest homes for the old-born. We can take her; we have the money, my brother Jim and I." Miss Fisher examined her wristwatch; he saw that her wrist was lightly, enticingly freckled; more coloration. "I've just got to get some sogum into me," she said. "I'm about to faint. Is there a good sogum palace near here?"
"Down the street," he said. And once again he thought of Lotta, of the emptiness at home, so bewildering and abrupt; who was she with? Tinbane, evidently; Joe Tinbane had rescued her and--well, it probably was Tinbane; that made sense. In a way he hoped so. Tinbane was a good man. Thinking of Lotta and Tinbane, both of them young, both nearly the same age, he felt fatherly; perversely, he wished her luck, but primarily he wished her back. Meanwhile.
"I'll treat you," Miss Fisher said. "I just got paid today; if I don't spend these inflation bills they won't be worth anything tomorrow anyhow. And you look tired." She scrutinized him, and it was a different sort of scrutiny; Lotta had always searched to discern whether he was pleased with her, mad at her, in love with her, not in love with her; Miss Fisher seemed to be judging what he was, not how he felt. As if, he thought, she has the power--or anyhow the ability--to determine whether I'm a man. Or just playing at being a man.
"Okay," he said, surprising himself. "But first I have to close up in the back." He indicated one of the store's reasonably modern chairs. "You wait here; I'll be back."
"And we can talk about Mrs. Tilly M. Benton," Miss Fisher said, emitting her approving smile.
He made his way back to the work area of the store, carefully closing the door so that Miss Fisher could not see; having brought the Anarch here they had been forced to become adept at this, on short notice.
"How is he?" he asked Dr. Sign. A bed had been fashioned, pro tern. In it lay the Anarch, small, dry, everything about him gray or black, his eyes fixed apparently on nothing; he seemed content, and Dr. Sign still looked pleased.
"Healing rapidly," Dr. Sign said. He led Sebastian over to one side, then, out of the Anarch's hearing. "He asked for a 'pape and I gave him one, the evening edition with our ad in it. He's been reading about Ray Roberts."
"What's he say about Roberts?" Sebastian asked, chewing his lip. "Is he afraid of him? Or does he consider Roberts one of those 'friends' he mentioned?"
Dr. Sign said, "The Anarch has never heard of Ray Roberts. According to all the public relations material released by Roberts, he was handpicked by the An arch to succeed him. This appears not to be true. Not unless--" His voice dimmed to a whisper. "There may be brain damage, you realize. I've run an EEG now for some time, and find nothing out of order. But-- let's call it amnesia. From the rebirth shock. Anyhow, he's puzzled about Udi; not what it is--he remembers founding it-- but what it's up to."