"Thank you, Spencer," said Gladhand. "That's what I was trying to convey when you arrived." The theater manager was speaking calmly, but he was pale and breathing rapidly. "Come in, sir, and have some brandy with us," he said to the man in overalls.
"Uh, okay," he said. "Here, I'll carry her inside for you." He bent down and picked up Jean, one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. Spencer led him inside and helped him lower the body onto a vinyl-covered couch.
Thomas followed, pushing Gladhand's wheelchair. "Thank you, Thomas," said Gladhand.
"Rufus," Spencer corrected.
"Now wait a minute," Gladhand protested. "Last night you—"
Spencer winked at him and shook his head; the theater manager shrugged. "Thank you, Rufus."
"I'll get brandy," Spencer offered and bounded up a carpeted stairway.
The man in overalls sat down on a wooden chair and nervously rubbed his hands together. "I'm Tom Straddle," he said. "I grow stuff."
"I'm Nathan Gladhand, and this," with a wave at Thomas, "is apparently Rufus."
Straddle's head bobbed twice. "I come along after the cops was gone," he said. "They was lots of people dead on the grass, but she was on the sidewalk, and movin'. So I picked her up and she said take her to the Bellimy Theater, so I did."
Spencer returned with the brandy and glasses, and Gladhand poured. When everyone had a glass, he raised his. "To Jean," he said gravely.
Thomas repeated it and took a long sip.
"You two didn't see her there?" Gladhand asked Spencer.
"No," he answered awkwardly. "It was a huge crowd. She told me she was going to paint the Arden set all day today."
"Yes, that's what I thought, too."
"Them cops must have gone crazy," Straddle put in. "Shootin' all them people."
"Yes," said Gladhand. "Well I see you've finished your brandy, Mr. Straddle, so I suppose we shouldn't keep you any longer. Thank you again for bringing her back here. Let me—sir, I insist—give you something for going out of your way to help us."
Straddle accepted a handful of coins and shambled out.
"Deal with the, uh… remains, will you?" Gladhand said, waving vaguely at the couch. His voice was, with evident effort, quite calm.
"Sure," Spencer answered quickly. He and Thomas lifted the body and carried it through the inner doors and down the center aisle to a narrow storeroom under the stage. They returned silently to the lobby, wiped off the couch with a number of paper towels, and sat down.
"What happened at Pershing Square, Spencer?" Gladhand asked thoughtfully.
Spencer detailed the events of the morning and shared with the manager his guess that the police had intended from the beginning to fire on the crowd.
"It certainly is inexplicable," Gladhand observed when he'd finished. "You'd think Tabasco would keep his androids quiet now, with old Joe Pelias in whatever kind of comatose state he's in. Ever since Hancock killed himself six years ago, Pelias has been the main champion of the androids. Why are they running amok the first time he's not there to defend them?"
"They liked him?" Thomas asked.
"Oh, I suppose so, if androids like anybody," Gladhand said.
"Well," said Thomas slowly, "maybe it's revenge." No one spoke for a moment, then Spencer muttered, "Now there's a thought."
"Rehearsal is canceled for tonight, Spencer," Gladhand said briskly. "Post a notice where everyone will see it, will you? And Rufus, you can tell me what became of a young man named Thomas, who, as I recall, slept here last night."
CHAPTER 4: A Night at the Blind Moon
Later the same afternoon, Thomas was slouched comfortably in one of the sprung easy chairs on the balcony facing the alley. He was leafing through his script of As You Like It, lazily underlining the Touchstone speeches, and from time to time sipping at a glass of cold vin rosé that stood on a table within easy reach.
After a while he became aware of a voice from the alley below, getting nearer and louder. Soon he decided the unseen person was trying to render a song, and he listened for the words. "Bringing in the sheep, bringing in the sheep," a cracked, aged voice rasped. "We all come re-yoz-cing bringing in the sheep."
When clumping labored steps sounded on the stairs to the balcony, Thomas laid the script aside and stood. "Who is that?" he asked.
A crazy-eyed, ragged-bearded face, shadowed beneath a cardboard hat, poked up above the top step and squinted suspiciously at Thomas. "Who," it countered, "is that?"
"I'm, uh, Rufus Pennick. I'm an actor here. Now—"
"Oh, that's all right, then." The old man grinned reassuringly and lurched up the remaining stairs to the balcony. "I'm Ben Corwin," he said, extending a stained, clawlike hand, which Thomas shook briefly. Ben Corwin, Thomas thought; where have I heard that name?
The old man slumped into the other chair. After a moment he spied the glass of wine and drained it in one gulp. "Ah, good, good, good," he sighed. He fished a little metal box out of his pocket and flipped open its lid. "Snoose?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, would you like a bit of snoose?"
Thomas peered distastefully at the iridescent brown powder in the box. "No, thanks."
"Suit yourself." Corwin put down the box and then lifted his feet in his hands and rested them on the wobbling table. He was wearing battered sandals, and Thomas noticed, on the left one, a bit of wire where the heel-strap should have been. My old sandals! This is the beggar they gave them to. Corwin picked up the snuffbox and took a liberal pinch of the brown dust, spread it on the back of his hand, and then inhaled it vigorously, giving both nostrils a turn.
"Ahhh," he sighed, sagging in the chair. His head lolled back and his jaw dropped open; a snoring noise issued from his mouth. Thomas tried to resume marking his script, but found that the balcony had, for the moment, been robbed of its charm. He went inside.
Wandering downstairs to the greenroom, he found Spencer knotting a plaid scarf about his throat. "Rufus!" Spencer said. "I was looking for you. Me and a couple of the guys are going over to the Blind Moon to have a few beers. Come on along." His cheeriness had a quality of suppressed hysteria about it.
Thomas considered the invitation, then nodded. "Okay," he said. "What's snoose? Snuff?"
Spencer glanced at him sharply. "Why? You haven't bought any, have you?"
"No. There's a gentleman on the balcony, though, whom it has rendered unconscious."
"Ben Corwin? Sure. He takes it all the time. The stuff was invented by androids, and they're the most common users. It's real bad business—a mixture of snuff, opium and finely ground glass."
"Glass? Why glass, for God's sake?" Thomas shuddered, remembering the gusto with which Corwin had inhaled the stuff.
"It makes tiny cuts in the skin so the opium goes right into the bloodstream. Trouble is, the glass does too. It does incredible damage to the body, they say— blindness, insanity, heart trouble, even varicose veins. Snoose fans never live long." He shook his head. "Most people just jam it up under their lip, but old Ben snorts it. Someday he's going to blow his nose and find his brain in his hankie."
"He didn't look like that would upset him a whole lot."
Spencer grinned. "Yeah, it probably wouldn't." He pulled a black knitted cap over his red hair. "Get your coat and come on," he said.
In the lobby two young men were waiting for them. "Rufus, meet a couple of fellow thespians. This," Spencer said, indicating an amiable-looking youth with lanky blond hair, "is Jeff Kyler, and that one"—a dark, short man in burgundy-colored pants—"is Robert Negri. Jeff, Robert… Rufus Pennick."
Thomas said hello to them and detected, he thought, a trace of reserve in their answering nods. They didn't seem too pleased to see him. Oh well, he said to himself. I'm a green newcomer, an intruder thrust into the intimacies of their craft. I'd probably be a little standoffish too, if I was in their place.