Chrysalis stared at him out of that impassive, transparent face. The skull without emotion.
"Chrysalis, you admire all things British. Then honor an old British custom of granting a dying man his last request. Help Tachyon. Help our people."
The Takisian held out his hand and twined his fingers through the fingers at the end of Des's trunk. Drew him close and embraced him. Said farewell.
Concerto for Siren and Serotonin
IV
When Croyd awoke, he pushed aside mop handles, stepped into a bucket, and fell forward. The closet's door offered small resistance to the wild, forward thrust of his hands. As it sprang open and he sprawled, the light stabbing painfully into his eyes, he began to recall the circumstances preceding his repose: the centaur-doctor-Finn-and that funny sleepmachine, yes… And another little death would mean another sleep-change.
Lying in the hallway, he counted his fingers. There were ten of them all right, but his skin was dead white. He shook off the bucket, climbed to his feet, and stumbled again. His left arm shot downward, touched the floor, and pushed against it. This impelled him to his feet and over backward. He executed an aerial somersault to his rear, landed on his feet, and toppled rearward again. His hands dropped toward the floor to catch himself, then he withdrew them without making contact and simply let himself fall. Years of experience had already given him a suspicion as to what new factor had entered his life-situation. His overcompensations were telling him something about his reflexes.
When he rose again, his movements were very slow, but they grew more and more normal as he explored. By the time he located a washroom all traces of excessive speed or slowness had vanished. When he studied himself in the mirror, he discovered that, in addition to having grown taller and thinner, it was now a pink-eyed countenance that he regarded, a shock of white hair above the high, glacial brow. He massaged his temples, licked his lips, and shrugged. He was familiar with albinism. It was not the first time he had come up short in the pigment department.
He sought his mirrorshades then recalled that Demise had kicked them off. No matter. He'd pick up another pair along with some sun block. Perhaps he'd better dye the hair too, he decided. Less conspicuous that way.
Whatever, his stomach was signaling its emptiness in a frantic fashion. No time for paperwork, for checking out properly-if, indeed, he'd been checked in properly. He was not at all certain that was the case. Best simply to avoid everyone if he didn't want to be delayed on the road to food. He could stop by and thank Finn another time.
Moving as Bentley had taught him long ago, all of his senses extended fully, he began his exit.
"Hi, Jube. One of each, as usual."
Jube studied the tall, cadaverous figure before him, meeting diminished images of his own tusked, blubbery countenance in the mirrorshades that masked the man's eyes.
"Croyd? That you, fella?"
"Yep. Just up and around. I crashed at Tachyon s clinic this time."
"That must be why I hadn't heard any Croyd Crenson disaster stories lately. You actually went gentle into your last good night?"
Croyd nodded, studying headlines. "You might put it that way," he said. "Unusual circumstances. Funny feeling. Hey! What's this?" He raised a newspaper and studied it. "'Bloodbath at Werewolf Clubhouse.' What's going on, a fucking gang war?"
"A fucking gang war," Jube acknowledged. "Damn! I've got to get back on the stick fast."
"What stick?"
"Metaphorical stick," Croyd replied. "If this is Friday, it must be Dead Nicholas."
"You okay, boy?"
"No, but twenty or thirty thousand calories will be a step in the right direction."
"Ought to take the edge off," Jube agreed. "Hear who won the Miss Jokertown Beauty Pageant last week?"
"Who?" Croyd asked.
"Nobody."
Croyd entered Club Dead Nicholas to the notes of an organ playing "Wolverine Blues." The windows were draped in black, the tables were coffins, the waiters wore shrouds.
The wall to the crematorium had been removed; it was now an open grill tended by demonic jokers. As Croyd moved into the lounge, he saw that the casket-tables were open beneath sheets of heavy glass; ghoulish figures-presumably of waxwere laid out within them in various states of unrest.
A lipless, noseless, earless joker as pale as himself approached Croyd immediately, laying a bony hand upon his arm.
"Pardon me, sir. May I see your membership card?" he asked.
Croyd handed him a fifty-dollar bill.
"Yes, of course," said the grim waiter. "I'll bring the card to your table. Along with a complimentary drink. I take it you will be dining here?"
"Yes. And I've heard you have some good card games."
"Back room. It's customary to get another player to introduce you."
"Sure. Actually, I'm waiting for someone who should be stopping by this evening to play. Fellow name of Eye. Is he here yet?"
"No. Mr. Eye was eaten. Partly, that is. By an alligator. Last September. In the sewers. Sorry."
"Ouch," Croyd said. "I didn't see him often. But when I did he usually had a little business for me."
The waiter studied him. "What did you say your name was?"
"Whiteout."
"I don't want to know your business," the man said. "But there is a fellow named Melt, who Eye used to hang around with. Maybe he can help you, maybe he can't. You want to wait and talk to him, I'll send him over when he comes in."
"All right. I'll eat while I'm waiting."
Sipping his comp beer, waiting for a pair of steaks, Croyd withdrew a deck of Bicycle playing cards from his side pocket, shuffled it, dealt one facedown and another faceup beside it. The ten of diamonds faced him on the clear tabletop, above the agonized grimace of the fanged lady, a wooden stake through her heart, a few drops of red beside the grimace. Croyd turned over the hole card, which proved a seven of clubs. He flipped it back over, glanced about him, turned it again. Now it was a jack of spades keeping the ten company. The flicker-frequency-switch was a trick he'd practiced for laughs the last time his reflexes had been hyped-up. It had come back almost immediately when he'd tried to recall it, leading him to speculate as to what other actions lay buried in his prefrontal gyrus. Wing-flapping reflexes? Throat contractions for ultrasonic wails? Coordination patterns for extra appendages?
He shrugged and dealt himself poker hands just good enough to beat those he gave the staked lady till his food came.
Along about his third dessert the pallid waiter approached, escorting a tall, bald individual whose flesh seemed to flow like wax down a candlestick. His features were constantly distorted as tumorlike lumps passed beneath his skin.
"You told me, sir, that you wanted to meet Melt," the waiter said.
Croyd rose and extended his hand.
"Call me Whiteout," he said. "Have a seat. Let me buy you a drink."
"If you're selling something, forget it," Melt told him. Croyd shook his head as the waiter drifted away.
"I've heard they have good card games here, but I've got nobody to introduce me," Croyd stated.
Melt narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you play cards." Croyd smiled. "I sometimes get lucky."
"Really? And you knew Eye?"
"Well enough to play cards with him."
"That all?"
"You might check with Demise," Croyd said. "We're in a similar line of work. We're both ex-accountants who moved on to bigger things. My name says it all."
Melt glanced hastily about, then seated himself. "Let's keep that kind of noise down, okay? You looking for work now?"
"Not really, not now. I just want to play a little cards." Melt licked his lips as a bulge ran down his left cheek, passed over his jawline, distended his neck.