“Please don’t call it sheep!” cried the same someone.
Mervyn went to the kitchen area to deposit the gallon of red wine he had brought; from a jug already open he filled three glasses, served Susie and Harriet. Oleg Malinski was still dwelling upon Mary’s elopement. “It must be someone we know. Ha there, John Lloyd, are you the guilty one?”
John Lloyd, a man of forty, thin and brittle as a stick-insect, smiled knowingly. “Would I admit it in the presence of my wife?” His wife, buxom, flat-footed, square-faced, gave him a look of scornful malevolence.
“I think we can consider John Lloyd unlikely,” said Oleg Malinski hastily.
“You can consider him impossible,” snapped Mrs. John Lloyd. “In more ways than one.”
“I take my oath,” said John Lloyd. “I’ve never met the young lady.”
“Very well. John Lloyd: impossible. Have we a John without a wife?” Oleg searched his guests. “I see John Thompson, library stack superintendent. Persuasive, hedonistic, enterprising, with the whip and carrot of special privilege.”
Thompson, a compact, sunburned man of thirty-five, heard the accusation with a sleepy grin. He had an air of easy competence. “My budget barely runs to paper clips, let alone whips and carrots.”
“I employ a figure of speech,” said Malinski. “In this society the manager is king. You could easily make Mary’s work a dream of Elysian pleasure: a cushion for her chair, purple ribbon in her typewriter, an extra five minutes for coffee breaks, and so forth.”
“It’s a fact that I wield considerable power,” said Librarian Thompson, “but if I were that sort of cad, why am I here now, instead of reaping the fruits of Mary’s gratitude?”
Oleg basted the lamb. “Some men are quickly sated.”
“Not that quickly.”
“Perhaps not. But meanwhile, and tentatively of course, shall we place you in the Quickly Sated category?”
“As you like.”
Susie turned away. “Disgusting men,” she muttered, not altogether under her breath. She stalked into the living room, perched on a chair, glared out the window. Mervyn went to sit beside her. She flicked a glance of reptilian chill at him, but said nothing. Mervyn sipped his red wine and held his tongue.
More guests arrived: members of the faculty, a writer or two, a contingent from the Radiation Lab. A tall man with a gaunt and quite ferocious profile and glittering black eyes came to bend over Susie. “My dear young lady!”
Susie looked up indifferently. “Hello.”
“So seldom do I see you without your sister.”
“I usually tag along.” Susie performed a perfunctory introduction: “Mervyn Gray, John Viviano,” which Viviano acknowledged impatiently.
Mervyn made no effort to join their conversation. John Viviano’s voice was alternately harsh and melodious; he used it with the control of an operatic virtuoso. He spoke of color film and skin tones; apparently his work was fashion photography. Oleg Malinski, passing by, pointed at John Viviano. “Beyond doubt this is the ‘John’ you seek. He is a well-known gallant.”
John Viviano bowed to Susie. “I am at your service.”
Susie smiled tiredly. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“We are not offering you new exploits,” Oleg told Viviano. “We are inquiring about an old one. What have you done with Mary?”
“Ah. You must mean, what would I like to do?”
“I leave the question as it stands.”
“I have done nothing. I have never done anything of which I am ashamed. Shame, unknown to children and to animals, is equally unknown to me.”
“Then you are not the correct ‘John.’”
“Correct for what, Oleg?”
“Mary has eloped with a ‘John’ whose identity we are eager to learn.”
Viviano glanced briefly about. “If this is true, I congratulate the man. If it is not true, I congratulate Mary.”
Susie laughed; the fashion photographer looked at her with eyebrows raised. He had said nothing funny; why had she laughed? Puzzles displeased him.
Olga Malinski came from the kitchenette bearing a great trencher mounded with pilaf. Oleg’s wife was no larger than her husband, and half of her seemed flamboyant coiffure, almost hiding her wild, wise gypsy face. She carried the pilaf out to the deck and set it on a table.
Oleg cried, “The lamb is ready! You must all be on hand when I carve, as in the old days in Budapest.” Everyone came running.
The lamb was a great success: succulent, with a crisp crust redolent of garlic, herbs and pepper.
Evening came, night. Mervyn, seeking Susie, found her by the rail staring out over the stencil of glowing cities. In silence he leaned on the rail beside her. She began to drum with her fingers. Presently she said, “I’m tired. Can we go home soon?”
“Any time you like... Oh, Oleg.”
Malinski had materialized on Susie’s other side. He looked searchingly into her face. “You are troubled. Is it because of Mary?”
“Partly.”
“Strange indeed that she would not confide in you.”
“It’s not so strange. We had a quarrel. To be accurate, I quarreled. Mary just laughed at me.”
“That would be her way. Yes. I can form no picture of Mary losing her temper.”
“Nothing affects her that deeply.”
Oleg held up his hand. “Certainly this is not true, Susie. For instance, she would never allow anyone to torment an animal.”
“She’d hit him with a brick. Several times.”
“Exactly,” said Oleg. “So you see, Mary is capable of emotion.”
“Of a certain kind, I suppose. She’s frivolous, a born vamp. Because she’s man-crazy? Not at all. Because she’s never grown up. Flirting is a game with Mary. She feels nothing, and she doesn’t understand why the men do. It mystifies her — sometimes it frightens her; I’ve seen her terrified. Still, she goes on flirting. But she very seldom — practically never — allows herself to be alone with a man. Except one. He fascinates her, for the simplest reason in the world: he’s indifferent. Pays absolutely no attention to her. So Mary is piqued.”
“Yes,” sighed Oleg. “Of course.”
“He doesn’t have a thing to recommend him. He’s a raggle-taggle would-be poet, a scrounger. A jerk, really. But he’s the only man Mary has ever thought twice about.”
“His name is John?” asked Mervyn, who had been imitating a mouse.
Susie nodded. “John Pilgrim.”
Chapter 3
“I am not an original man,” said Oleg Malinski from the darkness, “and I concede the triteness of the emotion that overtakes me when I stand out here on a clear night. But looking over these millions of lights, these thousands of roofs, feeling this twinkle of motion — no more than a vibration, really — I can never avoid a sense of wonder at the sheer volume of human activity under my eyes. It is almost oppressive.” Malinski waved. “Look out there. As we watch, death is seizing scores of human beings. Marriages are being consummated. Babies are being born. Unhappy persons alone in their rooms contemplate suicide. Social gatherings are in progress, some of the most remarkable sort. In certain dark houses — perhaps there, or there — a criminal finds a terrified little girl who has heard his footsteps. Now! He is laying his hands on her shoulders! In other houses men and women stare stupidly at each other, or at the television. And in one of these houses — who knows? — maybe Mary talks with her mysterious John.”
Susie stirred.
There was a short silence.
“Have you called home to Ventura?” Oleg asked.
“No.”
“But if she had perhaps prevailed upon ‘John’ — whoever he may be — to drive her to Ventura, she would be at home now, and your worries would be at an end. Mervyn, is this not sensible?”