“Excuse me, sir,” the little man said, nervously, straining to break Katterson’s grip. The fear was obvious on his face; Katterson wondered if the worried little man thought this giant was going to roast him on the spot.
“I won’t hurt you,” Katterson said. “I’m just looking for food, Citizen.”
“I have none.”
“But I’m starving,” Katterson said. “You look like you have a job, some money. Give me some food and I’ll be your bodyguard, your slave, anything you want.”
“Look, fellow, I have no food to spare. Ouch! Let go of my arm!”
Katterson let go, and watched the little man go dashing away down the street. People always ran away from other people these days, he thought. Malory had made a similar escape.
The streets were dark and empty. Katterson wondered if he would be someone’s steak by morning, and he didn’t really care. His chest itched suddenly, and he thrust a grimy hand inside his shirt to scratch. The flesh over his pectoral muscles had almost completely been absorbed, and his chest was bony to the touch. He felt his stubbly cheeks, noting how tight they were over his jaws.
He turned and headed, uptown, skirting around the craters, climbing over the piles of rubble. At 50th Street a Government jeep came coasting by and drew to a stop. Two soldiers with guns got out.
“Pretty late for you to be strolling, Citizen,” one soldier said.
“Looking for some fresh air.”
“That all?”
“What’s it to you?” Katterson said.
“Not hunting some game too, maybe?”
Katterson lunged at the soldier. “Why, you little punk—”
“Easy, big boy,” the other soldier said, pulling him back. “We were just joking.”
“Fine joke,” Katterson said. “You can afford to joke all you have to do to get food is wear a monkey suit. I know how it is with you Army guys.”
“Not any more,” the second soldier said.
“Who are you kidding?” Katterson said. “I was a Regular Army man for seven years until they broke up our outfit in ’52. I know what’s happening.”
“Hey—what regiment?”
“306th Exploratory, soldier.”
“You’re not Katterson, Paul Katterson?”
“Maybe I am,” Katterson said slowly. He moved closer to the two soldiers. “What of it?”
“You know Mark Leswick?”
“Damned well I do,” Katterson said. “But how do you know him?”
“My brother. Used to talk of you all the time—Katterson’s the biggest man alive, he’d say. Appetite like an ox.”
Katterson smiled. “What’s he doing now?”
The other coughed. “Nothing. He and some friends built a raft and tried to float to South America. They were sunk by the Shore Patrol just outside the New York Harbor.”
“Oh. Too bad. Fine man, Mark. But he was right about that appetite. I’m hungry.”
“So are we, fellow,” the soldier said. “They cut off the soldier’s dole yesterday.”
Katterson laughed, and the echoes rang in the silent street. “Damn them anyway! Good thing they didn’t pull that when I was in the service; I’d have told them off.”
“You can come with us, if you’d like. We’ll be off-duty when this patrol is over, and we’ll be heading downtown.”
“Pretty late, isn’t it? What time is it? Where are you going?”
“It’s quarter to three,” the soldier said, looking at his chronometer. “We’re looking for a fellow named Malory; there’s a story he has some food for sale, and we just got paid yesterday.” He patted his pocket smugly.
Katterson blinked. “You know what kind of stuff Malory’s selling?”
“Yeah,” the other said. “So what? When you’re hungry, you’re hungry, and it’s better to eat than starve. I’ve seen some guys like you—too stubborn to go that low for a meal. But you’ll give in, sooner or later, I suppose. I don’t know—you look stubborn.”
“Yeah,” Katterson said, breathing a little harder than usual. “I guess I am stubborn. Or maybe I’m not hungry enough yet. Thanks for the lift, but I’m afraid I’m going uptown.”
And he turned and trudged off into the darkness.
There was only one friendly place to go. Hal North was a quiet, bookish man who had come in contact with Katterson fairly often, even though North lived almost four miles uptown, on 114th Street.
Katterson had a standing invitation to come to North at any time of day or night, and, having no place else to go, he headed there. North was one of the few scholars who still tried to pursue knowledge at Columbia, once a citadel of learning. They huddled together in the crumbling wreck of one of the halls, treasuring moldering books and exchanging ideas. North had a tiny apartment in an undamaged building on 114th Street, and he lived surrounded by books and a tiny circle of acquaintances.
Quarter to three, the soldier said. Katterson walked swiftly and easily, hardly noticing the blocks as they flew past. He reached North’s apartment just as the sun was beginning to come up, and he knocked cautiously on the door. One knock, two, then another a little harder.
Footsteps within. “Who’s there?” in a tired, high-pitched voice.
“Paul Katterson,” Katterson whispered. “You awake?”
North slid the door open. “Katterson! Come on in. What brings you up here?”
“You said I could come whenever I needed to. I need to.” Katterson sat down on the edge of North’s bed. “I haven’t eaten in two days, pretty near.”
North chuckled. “You came to the right place, then. Wait—I’ll fix you some bread and oleo. We still have some left.”
“You sure you can spare it, Hal?”
North opened a cupboard and took out a loaf of bread, and Katterson’s mouth began to water. “Of course, Paul. I don’t eat much anyway, and I’ve been storing most of my food doles. You’re welcome to whatever’s here.”
A sudden feeling of love swept through Katterson, a strange, consuming emotion which seemed to enfold all mankind for a moment, then withered and died away. “Thanks, Hal. Thanks.”
He turned and looked at the tattered, thumb stained book lying open on North’s bed. Katterson let his eye wander down the tiny print and read softly aloud.
North brought a little plate of food over to where Katterson was sitting. “I was reading that all night,” he said. “Somehow I thought of browsing through it again, and I started it last night and read till you came.”
“Dante’s Inferno,” Katterson said. “Very appropriate. Someday I’d like to look through it again too. I’ve read so little, you know; soldiers don’t get much education.”
“Whenever you want to read, Paul, the books are still here.” North smiled, a pale smile on his wan face. He pointed to the bookcase, where grubby, frayed books leaned at all angles. “Look, Pauclass="underline" Rabelais, Joyce, Dante, Enright, Voltaire, Aeschylus, Homer, Shakespeare. They’re all here, Paul, the most precious things of all. They’re my old friends; those books have been my breakfasts and my lunches and my suppers many times when no food was to be had for any price.”
“We may be depending on them alone, Hal. Have you been out much these days?”
“No,” North said. “I haven’t been outdoors in over a week. Henriks has been picking up my food doles and bringing them here, and borrowing books. He came by yesterday—no, two days ago—to get my volume of Greek tragedies. He’s writing a new opera, based on a play of Aeschylus.”