Virginia laughed and laughed, almost hysterically. Even Shep chuckled. Virginia said, "Orange trees don't grow around here, my dear husband. Nothing else does, either. You start digging out there and first you go through two feet of garbage and trash, then maybe six inches of cinder and fill. Then you hit the real pay-dirt. Sand."
Norvell sighed. "There must be something to do."
Shep offered, "You could paint your dump, if you're feeling ambitious. I know where there's some house paint."
Norvell sat up, interested. He accepted the bottle of ration-jack and took a small swallow. "Paint? Why not? No reason why we can't keep the place looking decent, is there?"
Shep shrugged. "Depends. If you want to start some kind of a business, paint's a good advertisement. If you want to just drift, maybe you don't want to advertise. You make yourself too conspicuous, people get ideas."
Norvell said, dampened, "You mean robbers?"
Virginia reached for the bottle of ration-jack. "Cack," she said dispassionately, taking a long swallow. "We aren't painting."
There was a long pause. In the G.M.L. bubble-house, Norvell reminded himself, Virginia had never let it be in doubt who was boss, but she had seldom demonstrated her power in front of outsiders.
But they weren't in the bubble-house any more.
I want Arnie, Norvell cried to himself, suddenly miserable. It isn't working out right at all, not the way he said it would. He said it would be a chance to express myself, to make something of my marriage, to be on my own. And it's not that at all!
He reclaimed the bottle of ration-jack. It tasted by now quite disgusting; he fleetingly thought that he would never relish those fruit bars again; but he took a long pull.
Shep was saying, "—didn't do so badly today. Stearns gave me a little trouble, and if Norvie hadn't held a gun on him I might not have got the stuff so easy."
Virginia looked at her husband appraisingly. But all she said to Norvie was, "You better keep an eye on that gun. Alexandra tried to sneak out with my kitchen knife today."
"Eh?" said Norvie, jolted.
"That's right. Put on quite a scene," her mother said, almost admiringly. "She's getting in with the Goering Grenadiers and it seems they pack knives and guns. They look down on the Wabbits and their busted bottles."
Norvie took another pull at the ration-jack. He said vaguely, "Does she have to do that?"
Shep said grimly, "If she wants to stay alive she does. Get it straight, Norvie, will you? This is Belly Rave. Not a finishing school. It's a permanent Field Day, only without rules."
Now there was something he knew something about, Norvell thought, brightening. "You ever go in for a Field Day?" he asked eagerly.
"Nope. Just the weeklies."
"Oh, you ought to, Shep. That's where the real money is. And it's not very dangerous, if you play it smart. Take spear-carrying in Spillane's Inferno, for instance. Safe as houses.
And, from the artistic side, let me tell you from experience that—"
"Cack on spear-carrying, Bligh," Shep said, with a wire edge in his voice. "I don't do that any more. I've been there, sticking the poor slobs who fall off the high wire before they reach the blonde. I've been on the wire myself, too. Once." He reached for the ration-jack, his face blank. "She missed me with all eight shots. I fractured her femur with my first. And then I dropped the gun." He took a huge drink. "They booed me. I didn't get the killer's bonus. I didn't get the midriff bonus or the navel superbonus. I didn't want them. All I wanted was some brushes, some canvas, some graphite sticks and some colors. I got them, Bligh, and I found out I couldn't use them. For six god-damned months. Then for six months more I couldn't paint anything except her face when the slug hit her thigh and she fell off the perch."
Norvell said, "Oh." He contemplated the ration-jack bottle with distaste. He got to his feet, weaving slightly. "I—I think I want some air," he said. "Excuse me, folks."
"Certainly," said Virginia, not even looking at him. As Norvell went out the door he heard her ask Shep, "This blonde you shot—was she pretty?"
Chapter Fourteen
Mundin was not followed from the Stock Exchange.
He got to Belly Rave by late afternoon, his share of G.M.L. Common securely ducked in a pocket. Ryan was coherent and jubilant.
"Ah," exclaimed Ryan. "One share voting. The meeting is tomorrow. And accessory before the fact to simple assault. A good day's, Counselor."
"I hope so," said Mundin, worn from the reaction of the morning's work and fretful. "I hope this share is going to be enough to get me in. What if it isn't entered, or they challenge it?" Ryan said comfortably, "They cant. Id cerium est quid reddi potest, Counselor."
"Oh, of course, Counselor," glared Mundin. "But affirmantis est probatio, you know."
Ryan blinked and grinned. "Score one for your side," he said amiably. "Well, hell, Mundin, all you can do is go up there flat-footed and happy. The stock's your ticket of admission. If they won't let you in we'll have to think of something else, that's all."
Mundin said dubiously, "You've been right so far, I suppose." He stood up and took a turn around the dingy room, tripping over Don Lavin's feet. "Sorry," he said shortly to the sprawling youth, trying not to look at the staring, shining eyes. Don Lavin gave him the willies. And there was the excellent chance, he realized, that what had happened to Don Lavin might sooner or later happen to himself, if he persisted in sticking his nose into the corporate meatgrinders.
Mundin asked, "Nothing new about Norma, I suppose?"
Ryan shook his head. "They won't slip up, Mundin. You'll have to pry her loose from them tomorrow. Wish I could go-with you —"
"Oh, by all means do," Mundin said. "Love to have you. You'll like Morristown, it's so much like Belly Rave."
"I'd never stand the trip. You'll have to play it yourself, Counselor. I have confidence in you, boy. Just keep your head, and remember the essential nature of a great private utility corporation."
"A legal entity," guessed Mundin. "A fictive person."
"No, boy." The old eyes were gleaming in the ruined face. "Forget that. Think of an oriental court. A battlefield; a government; a poker game that never ends. The essence of a corporation is the subtle flux of power, now thrusting this man up, now smiting this group low. You can't resist power, boy, but you can guide it." He reached shakily for the battered tin of pills. "Oh, you'll manage," he said. "The thing for you to do now is to vanish. Get lost. Don't be seen anywhere until you turn up at the meeting. I wouldn't go to my office or my apartment if I were you." He glanced at Don Lavin, and Mundin cringed.
"What then," Mundin demanded. "You want me to stay here?"
"Anywhere. Anywhere out of sight."
Mundin looked at his watch. If he could sleep—if he could go to bed now, and wake up just in time to start for the meeting. But it was far too early for that; and besides, he would scarcely be able to sleep. He had nearly twenty-four hours to kill. Twenty-four hours in which to think and get nervous and lose the sharp edge of his determination.
"I'm going out," he said. "I don't know if I'll see you before the meeting or not."
Mundin said good-by to Don Lavin, who never noticed him, and wandered through the growing dusk of Belly Rave. It was relatively safe until dark; he changed direction a couple of times when he caught sight of what looked like purposeful groups of men or children ahead, but there was actually small chance of attack before the sun went down.
He found himself nearing the General Recreations recruiting station, and felt somewhat more secure in the shelter of the inviting, pink-spun-candy-looking structure. General Recreations policed its area with its own guards; it was a good place to get a cab to go into Monmouth City.