Pelazi slammed a clenched fist into the open palm of his other hand. “You do! Because you and your generation have made a goddamn sorry mess of things, and now it’s up to us to pick up the pieces. No, don’t get up, Mr. Kurtzman. Hear me out.”
Kurtzman had begun to sputter, but he subsided and studied Pelazi with renewed interest. His blue eyes flashed, and his hands tightened on the head of his cane.
“It’s a Vike world,” Pelazi said. “It’s a...”
“It isn’t!” Kurtzman shrieked.
“How would you know? You sit here in your plush library and dream about the old days and the women you’ve had. I’m out there, Mr. Kurtzman, and I tell you it’s Vike. It’s Vike, and it stinks!”
“Young man, I won’t take this sort of talk from...”
“Don’t then!” Pelazi shouted. “Have me kicked out. Go ahead, ring for your butler and have him toss me into the gutter. You can do it. But I’ve got survival here, Mr. Kurtzman.” He extended a balled fist. “Right here. Right here in the palm of my hand.” He shook the fist. “You’ve had a good life, an easy one. It won’t last a hell of a lot longer if the Vikes keep moving. And they will, Mr. Kurtzman. As sure as you’re sitting there, they will. And someday you’ll wake up and find yourself in the gutter, and all this will be a Stereohouse for the Vikes.”
Kurtzman’s mouth cracked in a thin smile, and Pelazi threw a forefinger at him. “Don’t laugh! By God, don’t laugh, because it’s serious. It’s the most serious thing that’s ever happened, and I’ve got a plan for stopping it. Only me, Mr. Kurtzman. Dino Pelazi. I can stop them, but I need your help. You and a lot of other Rees like you.”
The smile vanished from Kurtzman’s face. He stared at Pelazi, and Pelazi thought, This is it. I either get kicked out or I get what I want.
The two men stared at each other for a long while. Kurtzman’s eyes wandered, and Pelazi knew he was thinking of times gone by, of Realist times with women, of power, and the slow dissipation of that power. Pelazi knew he was thinking all this, and he studied the old man, and almost prayed. And then Kurtzman’s eyes snapped back to Pelazi’s face.
“What do you want, Pelazi? Name it!” His voice was firm. “Name it, and I’ll see. Name it.”
Pelazi smiled and leaned forward. “Money,” he said.
It was raining lightly when Van Brant stopped by for Liz that night. His call was unexpected, and she was surprised to see him.
“Van! What brings?”
“Things. Want to see a Senso?”
“Well...” She indicated her pale breasts, her unmade face.
“Throw on anything. We’ll go to a local.”
“All right. I’ll be a minute. Have you fixed?”
“A little while ago, thanks.”
“Well, the bar’s open. Help yourself if you want to.”
“Thanks.”
He walked around the apartment aimlessly, pausing at the bar and studying the silver vials laid end to end inside. Neat. Liz was a good secretary. Neat in everything she did. He lifted a vial of opaine, tempted to try it. He shook his head, replaced it in position, and closed the top of the bar. Straight, no mate. Better that way.
He tried to keep his mind off Hayden Thorpe and the new project. That was one of the reasons for stopping in at a show tonight. He knew he couldn’t do anything until he had the moo, and that might take some time. He disliked inactivity of any sort. Now that he knew about the project, he wanted to get started on it Instead, he had to wait.
Waiting reminded him of Liz. He looked at his wrist-chron and called, “Hey, mother, no major paint job.”
“No slob job, either,” she called back. “Be with you in half a second.”
It was a full seven minutes before Liz emerged from the bedroom. As she’d promised, she hadn’t done a major job: Breasts and lips. She’d expertly smeared a dazzling a galaxy of crescents onto her chest, cupping her nipples with two dark blue caps. Van looked at the caps in amusement.
“It’s drizzling,” he said, “but it’s not cold.”
She smiled. “Is it raining hard?”
“Why? Does that stuff run?”
“Perish it,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”
They left the apartment, and on the way down in the lift, she said, “I could use a Senso; I’m just in the mood.”
“Well, good.”
“Are you?”
“I want to take my mind off other things.”
“Bad? Sad?”
“Mad.”
They walked side by side, not touching each other. They passed a Ree couple, the boy with his arm around the girl’s waist. Van lowered his eyes, and Liz turned her head in disgust.
“Rabbits,” she said viciously. Van didn’t answer. When they reached the Sensohouse, he bought two tickets and then led Liz into the darkness. They found seats together and leaned back against the foam. The film reached out for their senses.
They did not speak to each other during the show. They were not even aware of each other’s existence, nor of the people seated everywhere around them. They surrendered completely to the images that surrounded them, allowed the make-believe to take hold of their bodies, their minds, allowed emotions to reel staggeringly into their consciousness.
Their blood quickened, and their hearts beat faster, and they felt the accustomed tightening within them, the craving, the deep hungering. The images flickered before them, and the hunger mounted, grasped at their bodies with clawing fingers. Higher and higher, with the music keening to them from the wall speaks, the odophones intoxicating their nostrils, and always the images, the men and the women, the actions, the hunger growing until it was an ache that threatened to tear the body apart. And then the satisfaction, like a plunge through a crystal clear lake, with the lungs reaching desperately for respite, the body trembling, the surface of the water splitting like a thousand fragile mirrors, and the clean sweet release of air rushing, rushing, rushing, and the expansive stretch of white sand with the sun baking tired muscles, warm and embracing.
They leaned back and rested, still not acknowledging the presence of one another. The wall speaks issued soft music, and they gathered strength, composing their spent emotions.
At last, Van turned to her. “There’s another feature, Liz.”
“No more,” she said. “Not tonight. I’d like a fix.”
“All right. There’s a Stop ’N’ Pop in the neighborhood. We can walk it.”
They left quietly, each content. He was glad he’d decided on a Senso. He’d completely forgotten Thorpe and the project, and now that it intruded on his memory again, he wished he had talked Liz into staying for the second go.
The Stop ’N’ Pop was brilliantly aglow with neon. The lighted tubes shouted their wares to the sky: HEROIN * COCCAINE * OPIUM * BARBS * MARIJUANA * BENZEDRINE * MORPHINE * MIXTURES
And in big red letters: ** CORRADON **
“Here we go,” Van said.
He glanced at his wrist-chron. It was close to happy time, anyway, so it didn’t matter if he grabbed a pop now. The place was crowded, which was to be expected in a predominantly Vike neighborhood. He shoved his way to the counter, wishing he’d invited Liz up to his place instead, where they could have popped in comfort.
What was she on, anyway? Opaine? Herro-coke? These damn mixers annoyed the hell out of him.
A bleary-eyed clerk moved up to the counter. “What’ll you have, sir?”
“Vial of morph, and one of opaine. This stuff clean?”
“The cleanest, Mac; we’re Guv inspected.”
“Okay, snap it up.”
The clerk reached for the neatly stacked vials behind him, passing two to Van. “Toss them in the receptacles when you’re through, will you?”
“Grooved.”
Van paid the clerk and walked back to Liz. She stood near the swab dispenser, and she had already secured the alcohol-soaked cotton wads for herself and Van.