“Moving?” Tobias asked, running a hand through his wild white mane of hair. “They were moving? How?”
“Well, waving about, I suppose. Reacting to, uh, sounds, I think, like a dog’s ears.”
“So,” Tobias said. “Not horns at all, but antennae. Let’s see those pills.”
Arthur handed the bottle to his old friend.
“A hundred twenty-five milligrams,” Tobias read, “malathion. Now, why does that word ring a bell? Elana?”
“Beats me. Do you mind if I touch them, Arthur?”
“No, I suppose not.”
The young woman reached up and probed the projections. “Can you feel this?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, they feel like horns to me. Wouldn’t there be some kind of tympanic membrane, Toby? Some kind of obvious sensory apparatus?”
“You have a point there,” Tobias admitted. “So you’re being treated for your ulcer?”
Again, Arthur shook his head. “I do not possess an ulcer, but an infection. It may be endemic, in that I am physically responding to the country’s economic ills, making me susceptible to takeover bids.”
“Did your doctor suggest this?” Tobias asked.
“He expressed his concern. The insurance industry is not doing well, after all. I’ve since given the situation more thought. Clearly, I’m unwell. Now, as the newspapers point out, the country is also unwell. I feel poorly, and the poor are on the increase, even given the constant changing of the poverty level by the federal statisticians. My needs are not being met in innumerable contexts—for example, I’m still a virgin; I can’t hold my liquor, as much as I might want to; I can’t smoke cigarettes because it makes my cheeks swell, and I would surely love to indulge the habit; illicit drugs would interfere with my medication, not to mention my sense of reality. I’m not being socially served. Now, the coincidences continue. I’m getting hungrier, sicker, heavier, less inclined to physical motion, with an unquenchable taste for bad American television programs and infomercials. I’m also complacent, occasionally smug, with a growing coldness in my heart that is expressed in a lack of sympathy for my lesser fellows. If I had a dog, I believe I would feed it before I fed a homeless waif in an alleyway, then I’d kick the dog. Does this make sense? Without question, my friends, I believe I am a direct causal consequence of the pervasive collective misalignment of our nation’s citizens with the natural exigencies of survival in the modern world. And if this is not sufficiently disturbing, I now have horns, weigh four hundred pounds without much increase in actual mass, and am four inches taller than I was this morning. The country needs saving, my friends, if only to purge me of my personal discomfort.”
“Dear me,” Elana said, genuine concern in her expression, “I can’t imagine you being coldhearted about anything, Arthur.”
“No, it’s true,” he protested. “I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about children, pets, disabled people, gays, lesbians, racial minorities, linguistically challenged people, juvenile delinquency, drugs, alcohol abuse, child abuse, spousal abuse, smokers, farters, nose-pickers, heart disease, radioactive waste, Native self-government, poor people, fat people, tainted blood, historical oppression, terrorism, the RCMP, the Jets, the Leafs, Hillary’s fingerprints, insane cattle, endangered whales, the fur industry, baby seals, illiteracy, separatism, multiculturalism, technophiles, the Net, porcelain hedgehogs, cynicism, nihilism, and antiestablishmentarianism. In fact, I care about only one thing: money. I don’t have any. Why not? That’s what I care about, and I swear, once I’ve got it, I’m going to hold on to it, even if the whole world ends up in flames and ruin. Dammit.”
“So,” Tobias said, “what makes you so different?”
Arthur stared at the old man. “You mean…”
“Exactly,” Tobias said. “You should run for office. Any office. The Big Office, in fact. You’ll win.”
“But I would let everything dissolve into a chaotic quagmire through my cynical contempt and my affected indifference, and my insulated perceptions would ensure the social collapse of anyone remotely unlike me.”
“Right.”
“But that’s inhuman, Tobias!”
The old man smiled. “Bingo. And that, Arthur dear, is why you do not suffer from the country’s ills. If you’ve come to reflect its ills, as it seems you have, then you must find an outlet—you must learn a means of reflecting back what is cast upon you. What else can you do?”
“I don’t know. What’s happening to me?”
“Self-discovery, I’d guess. Wait and see.”
“Is it safe?”
“Beats me. You trust this Dr. Payne?”
“I think so. He seems very busy, very much involved with work of paramount, and secretive, importance. In fact, he is constantly in communication with the entomology department at the hospital. It seems they require his assistance continually. I’m very impressed.”
“Entomology?” Elana asked.
“Yes. Containment Room B.”
“Will you be seeing him again?” she asked, frowning slightly.
“Well, not for some time,” Arthur said. “I have three refills on both prescriptions, after all. Oh, and Faye told me he’s been sent away, possibly for some time. Why do you ask?”
“Curious, that’s all.”
“Malathion’s a pesticide!” Tobias exclaimed, snatching the bottle from Arthur’s hands. “Stop taking this, Arthur! My God, you could’ve poisoned yourself! Killed yourself! Someone’s made a terrible mistake!”
“But I need those,” Arthur pleaded, pointing at his horns. “What if they get bigger?”
“Taking malathion’s not going to change that, son,” Tobias said, looking shaken. “Trust me, please.”
Arthur hesitated, then sighed. “Of course I trust you, Tobias. You’re a good friend. All right, you can keep the pills.”
“Arthur,” Elana said, “have you seen John Gully around lately?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s that dropped-out architect, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I think he might be in trouble, him and his colony. If you see him, let him know someone’s hunting him. Someone from the railroad.”
“Sure, Elana.”
“Cheer up, Arthur,” Tobias said, “I’ll buy you a big glass of milk.”
Arthur’s expression assumed an uncharacteristic, nasty eagerness. “Milk?” he snarled. “The hell with milk, buster, give me a Jack Daniel’s, doubled-up, no ice, no water!” After a moment his face cleared and he blinked bemusedly at his staring friends. “Something wrong?” he asked quietly.
“Uhm,” Tobias said, “no, Arthur, I don’t think so.”
“Gimme a smoke, Elana,” Arthur growled, scratching the bristle on his chin. “I ain’t had a nail in hours!”
“My God,” Elana said to Tobias. “He’s changing.”
“You’re right,” Tobias breathed. “But into what?”
2.
The Sanger Sock
It was an hour past midnight. Wearing his combat fatigues, Joey “Rip” Sanger shoulder-rolled across the tracks and slid down the gravel embankment into the high grasses in the ditch. He pulled down his IR goggles and scanned the countryside. Two of his beepers had chirped, less than ten minutes back, just down the spur’s line. Ahead rose a leaning silo, a slightly glowing blotch through his goggles, the old wood still bleeding the day’s heat. Summer came fast in the prairies—just two days ago it had snowed, and now everything was turning green under a blistering sun. Joey felt sweat trickle the length of his scar.
There was someone in the darkness up ahead. Maybe a runner, maybe a scout. Joey planned to take him down, apply some squeeze, and get a guide right back to the squatters’ camp. He tightened the straps on his leather gloves, then hitched himself into a squat, paused a moment, then slipped forward.
The last thing he expected to stumble on, in the silo’s inky shadows, was a scattering of split, bloody, flesh-streaked bones. His goggles showed them warmer than the gr
ound they lay on, and then he found a bloodstained, ripped-up tweed jacket, carelessly half buried in gravel. Joey hesitated. This wasn’t right. This was nasty, plain nasty. Still, he’d handled nasty before. If the damned squatters were cannibals, well, he’d seen worse. At least, he felt sure he had, somewhere.
A scuffling noise directly ahead alerted him to a nearby presence. Joey tensed himself, flexing his hands, getting ready for the Sanger Sock—he’d need it tonight, he was now certain. These squatters weren’t pushovers, nosiree. They were mean, they were prairieboys down to their ugly, rock-hard, bloodthirsty core. Well, they were about to meet Joey “Rip” Sanger from Scarborough.
A twig snapped behind him, and swearing, Joey whirled. Crouched in front of him was a naked, hairy man, his teeth bared and his eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
“A Luddite!” Joey hissed.
“Arlubye!” the man hissed back.
“Your time’s up, bastard!”
“Yortimssup, basarr!”
“Come along peaceably, fella.”
“Guhmlahnbeesly, bela.”
Joey’s eyes narrowed. “You mocking my Ontario accent? Fine, have it that way. Ever heard of the Sanger Sock? You’re about to make its acquaintance, y’poor sod.”
“Yablah,” the man said.
Joey jumped the man, his fists whistling a blinding flurry of blows.
The moon had almost set when Joey woke up, feeling like death run over by Donald the Diesel Engine. There wasn’t a single area of his body that didn’t feel bruised, not a bone that didn’t feel broken, not a hair left that wasn’t crinkled and split at the ends. “What happened?” he mumbled.
A clear, calm voice answered. “Not sure, friend. Lucky we came on you when we did. Someone out there doesn’t like you. Had you spread-eagled on the tracks. Lucky for you I keep a point, or we’d have rolled right over you. Jojum damn near stepped on you as it was.”
Blinking blearily, Joey tried to sit up, was surprised that he could, and looked around. He sighed. “By God, it really is a 57 Wells, isn’t it? Mint condition, too.” He saw the man who’d been speaking, disheveled but somehow clean-looking, thinning gray hair, a lean, strong frame, a face of solidly delineated angles and planes, and eyes that were sharp with intelligence. “Who the hell are you?” Joey rasped.
The man smiled. “The one you’re looking for, Mr. Sanger. The name’s John Gully. You’re riding on Gully’s Block, as the boys and girls like to call it. Ergonomically designed, a shantytown on wheels, fully self-sufficient, with a hydroponics car, a freeze-car stocked with meat purchased from local ranchers, and modestly luxurious accommodations to suit three hundred people. We stay out of everyone’s way, we provide a safe house for the homeless of the city, we rehabilitate, teach trades, run our own justice system, use our own currency—gold, in fact.”
“How in hell you afford all that, bud?”
Gully smiled. “I was an architect, once, from a wealthy family. I inherited, invested, made bundles, then dropped out.”
“And that’s it? You’re some kind of eccentric patron of the poor? Geez, what a sorry story.”
The man shrugged. “Not really. I just wanted out. Plain and simple, but the creative impulses remained. I needed a challenge. I found one.”
“Well—” Joey struggled to his feet, groaning softly before taking a deep breath. “—the challenge is over, Gully. I’m shutting you down.”
“I was afraid of that. And here I thought you, more than anyone else, would appreciate what I’ve done here.”
“Why in hell should I do that?”
“The history, the tradition. This city was built on the rails. No one cares anymore, and it’s all going down the tubes. Faded glory. What a waste. We’ve gotten so scared of taking risks, we’re just letting ourselves sink into mediocre oblivion. It’s a damned shame, if you ask me. The people running your life, Mr. Sanger, they have no hearts, no sense of wonder, no ambition beyond self-serving greed; and they don’t give a damn about you, so long as you do jobs for them. When it comes time for you to retire, they’ll expect you to just drift away, find some hovel, cash your measly pension checks, vote conservative, and grumble about the youth of the day and live in terror of those who have not, but want. And they’ll keep smiling and reassuring and feeding your paranoia until you’re dropped six feet down and rotting in a pine box.”
“Not Joey ‘Rip’ Sanger, they won’t.”
John Gully laughed. “You’re a lifer, Mr. Sanger. A product of inertia, collective malaise. Single-minded, stubborn, your own man—sure, all those things to comfort your sense of self-worth, but it’s all an illusion because when it’s all said and done, you toe the line just like the rest of them.”
“Heard about enough of your sermon, preacher. Lay on the steam and let’s roll ’er in to the yards. I’m beat and my ears ache.”
“Sorry, can’t do that, Mr. Sanger.”
With these words, three large men entered the engine room, carrying ropes. Joey groaned a second time. There wasn’t enough left in him to resist. He glared at John Gully as the men tied him up. “Plan to dump me off a trestle?”
“Trestle? As in trestle bridge?” John laughed. “We’re on the prairie, remember? There aren’t any trestles. No, we’ll just hold on to you till things blow over—”
“I won’t blow over,” Joey said. “You’ll have to kill me.”
“Why bother saving you, then? Oh no, we’re not murderers. We’ll think of something, I’m sure. In the meantime, relax, Mr. Sanger. You’ve got some healing up to do. Who took you out, by the way?”
“A cannibal Luddite, I think. With a speech impediment.”
“Ahh, so you’ve met Sool Koobie, then.”
“Who?”
“A Neanderthal. It’s a long story, but consider yourself lucky. He must’ve been well fed; either that or you eat meat three times a day—”
“Damn right I do,” Joey growled. “I ain’t no sussy.”
“Lucky you.”
Joey fell silent. At the moment, he felt anything but lucky. His Sanger Sock had failed. For the first time in generations, it had failed. He was a broken man, and the feeling was new to him, and he didn’t like it one bit.
3.
the table invites
The Habby Modeler’s owner stood uncertainly behind the counter, surrounded by glass-fronted cases containing his military and science fiction model collection. He had one hand behind his back, and his T-shirt was a grayish white with the words SMALL IS BETTER emblazoned on it. The man peered at Max through thick glasses, craning his neck and shifting whenever Max edged down one of the rows and out of sight.
Sweat ran down Max’s body, cool under the satin shirt he was wearing. He clutched a folded page of instructions in one damp hand. Habby. What an idiot. Happy, hobby, yeah, right. Cute as cow pies, fella. Shit, I’m running out of time. He checked his watch. He was due at the table at Culture Quo in ten minutes, and then, immediately following supper, they’d all trek off to the annual Awards Night at the Unified Cultural Workers Assembly Hall—otherwise known to city denizens as “the Pyramid.” And then he’d receive his award as Most Promising Artist of the Year, and a check for ten grand.
Hissing in frustration under his breath, Max headed toward the counter, and the sloppy, overweight man behind it. “Technical question,” Max said, smiling.
“Only kind I can answer,” the man replied. “How many King Tigers did Nazi Germany issue in 1944? I know. How close was the V-3 rocket to full-scale production? I know. What size were Patton’s army boots? I know. To what extent did Hegel’s philosophy influence Adolf’s private gardener? I—”
“Yeah, I know,” Max cut in. “You know. But tell me this.” He unfolded the instructions and laid them out on the counter.
“Ooh,” the man said, “Special Edition Klingon battle cruiser—you musta bought that years ago—”
“Yeah yeah, listen. Look here, the instructions says part 6B attaches to part 7A.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, so?”
“So, there is no 6B! There’s a 6A, and a 7B, but no 6B! How the hell can I complete my sculpture without 6B!”
“Sculpture? That’s a model.”
“Shut the fuck up. You’re talking to an artist here, not some creepy weasel-faced chip-stuffed pimple factory.”
“Yeah, right,” the man drawled. “Well, did you look in the box? Coulda come loose from the plastic trees.”
“Of course I looked. It’s not there.”
“Huh. Well, sometimes the company screws up. Sometimes a part gets left out. That makes your kit a collector’s item—something wrong?”
Max stared at the man blankly. “Left out?”
“Yeah, sure. Happens all the time. You just have to send for the part. Or, hell, I’ll swap you with one of the newer models—they look neater, anyway. Those guys”—he pointed at the cardboard box—“don’t even know the cruiser’s real name.”
“How can they leave a part out? What the hell am I going to do? I need a sculpture right now, in the next five minutes.” Max’s gaze cast wildly around the store, fixed at last on the finished models behind the man.
Scowling, the man said, “I don’t sell my World War II stuff, and even if I did, it’d be damned expensive.”
“I can pay it. Give me that tank—”
“Like hell I will. That’s a Swedish S-tank. Piece of garbage on the battlefield, but it’s a collector’s item.”
“I’ll pay anything.”
“Not the S-tank.” The man still had one hand behind his back, and seemed to be working at something there.
“Well, what do you have that you’ll sell?”
“Assembled? Well, I got two copies of the submarine from that old TV series in the Sixties. Remember Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea?”
“Imaginative title,” Max snapped. “Let’s see the damned thing.”
“Well, the one I’d sell has had some, uh, improvements on it. I did it when I was a kid, you see. Not even a serious collector yet, you understand—”