Chapter Twenty-Five: Dismal Dull Affairs

Bryson peered through the scope and watched the fine rain beat down on ponchos. The enlarged faces and bodies of people entered the building. “Might as well hit them all,” she said.

There was a series of puffs and she watched them flinch slightly as the tiny darts struck their necks. Boyle put down the rifle and lit a cigarette.

“I’m dying to go in,” Bryson said.

Boyle laughed. “Doc, I can get you into a lotta jams, but not that one.”

“It can’t be very dangerous. Look at them. They’re like exotic orchids and butterflies. Little sexual display models. Lotus eaters.”

Boyle and Bryson crowded around a rotten window covered in silver electraweave programmed to display emptiness. The room, a studio apartment facing Gametria, a Lucky Day parlor on 31st and Tenth, was bare and dreary, raw and cold as the day. Boyle opened a box and said, “Let’s give these another try.” These were a jar of synthetic insects that Zack had thrown in as a bonus when Boyle tried to talk him down from ten grand. They flew into a target building and settled on windowsills and moldings, or flew about. There was an assortment of the most common indoor insects, the kind that wouldn’t be noticed. Even if they were and someone attempted to swat one, they were virtually indestructible. Typically they fell to the ground and, after a specified period, rose up to resume their positions. Whatever they saw or heard was transmitted back to a computer. The first batch went into the wrong window, a whorehouse on the third floor, and beamed the doings back. A cherry flush shot up Boyle’s neck and then slowly took over his face as Bryson howled in delight.

“Whatever,” she said. He released another swarm and this time, watching through the scope, they saw them fly in formation up to the building and into the correct windows. “Well, let’s pack up and get a bite.”

The street was particularly filthy, even with the rain. A six-inch cockroach moseyed across the cracked sidewalk. Cold rain splattered the pavement and ran into the gutter. It dimpled the tarry surface of the canal. They crossed a composite bridge and a shit smell filled the air. Down the block was a cafe, The Elysium. It’s windows were festooned with white Christmas lights swarming over an arrangement of cardboard deer cutouts with gold bells and bent antlers that looked like they had been crammed onto their heads. They sat down at a grimy table on wobbly chairs. In the background, Christmas carols played faintly and they heard men shouting in the kitchen. A space heater groaned in the transom above the door and filled the room with tepid, mildewy air, which at first felt good but soon became stuffy.

“You want anything?” she asked.

“Only if it’s in a package or boiled,” he said. “This place looks dicey.”

An old lady creaked up to them in a black cotton uniform with a holographic pin of a mooning Santa Claus. Santa’s ass was not a pretty sight, it was battered and saggy and dotted with glowing pimples. She had straight, poppy colored hair, cut into a pageboy, and earthy skin with beige and pink freckles the size and shape of raisins. The flesh on her arms jiggled as she wiped the coffee stains and crumbs off the table onto the floor.

“Menus?” she asked.

Bryson looked at the menu cards, saw the gnawed edges and dried pasta sauce and crust, then looked at the flyspecks on the green walls. It smelled like cockroaches. The waitress yawned. “Yeah,” said Bryson. “Menus. Please.”

When she proceeded to order a hamburger and french fries Boyle raised his eyebrows in alarm and agitated his thin mustache with an index finger. “I can’t let you die alone doc, I’m gettin’ the pancakes.

Make it a short stack with sausage and a bloody mary.”

“A bloody mary sounds good. Make that two.”

The waitress nodded, took the menus and shouted, “Floydd, burger, fries, flaps and pig and two bloodies.”

Bryson took out her tobacco pouch, rolled up a cigarette and lit it.

“What’s that?” Boyle asked dubiously.

She took it out of her mouth and admired it. “It’s from Iroquoia.

Leonard’s friend grew it.”

“Iro-what? You mean Upstate? So what is he anyway?”

“Leonard? A scientist, like me. Emergent ecosystems analyst.”

Boyle squirmed. “Whatever that is.”

“It’s not so very difficult Boyle. Wildlife is changing with the climate. Everyone knows about the extinctions but the flip side is mutation and migration. New species of animals, or species we never noticed before, arise in marginal or changing environments. Hot, wet places are ideal. Just like your throat, or an open wound or the gut. Especially bacteria and insects. He’s retired now.”

Boyle said, “Oh,” as if he found the word retirement to be bitter. “I hope somma my kids’ll get to retire. My oldest, she got the best shot. She’s smart.”

“I’m sorry, what’s her name again? I can’t keep ‘em straight.”

“Who da fuck can? Medear.”

“Medear?”

“No, Medear. Like Jason and Medear. Trinh Ma and me, we did it watchin’ that movie da first time and dat’s how she got pregnant wit Medear. That kid’s smart. She’s like you. Halfa da time I got no idea what da fuck she’s talkin’ about.”

“And she goes to school.”

He nodded. “Yeah, she’s da one. The others I gotta pay for it.” He smacked his head. “I can’t catch up! Every two years Trinh Ma drops another.”

“Well,” Bryson observed dryly, “you could use birth control.”

“Yeah,” he sneered, “but you forget, she’s catlic. They don’t allow it.”

“What about you? You aren’t Catholic. You could use it.”

“What are you, a lawyer?” He laughed. “It don’t work dat way. We took vows and everything. I’m tellin’ you, those priests have got you by da balls. I ain’t goin’ ta hell on toppa everything else. No birth control.” He shook his head at the wonder and pain of it, rolling his eyes. “Ya notice that cunt is the first parta control.”

The waitress brought them their food. Fetid steam rose off of the plates. They sipped their bloody marys and Bryson said, “These are good. So what about a vasectomy. She doesn’t have to know. I’ll take you in.”

“You mean when they clip your balls like a dog?”

“Well, not quite the same.”

This clearly upset him. “Forget about it Doc. I’m a man still, anyway. I ain’t losin’ my sperms and goin’ weak alla da sudden. There’s two things in life, booze and fucking.”

“Amen to that.”

“And I ain’t givin’ up either one.”

“But that’s just it Boyle. With a vasectomy you can’t get someone pregnant.”

“Dey say it don’t feel da same.”

“Look. I’ve fucked the same man before and after and there’s no difference.”

“Doc, Trinh Ma likes a good load in her.”

“Stupid. She can’t feel the difference between a big and a small load till it comes dripping out of her.”

“After nine kids I can tell you it comes out as fast as it goes in. And we gotta either do it on towels or my side a da bed so she don’t gotta sleep in it. Ain’t I got a right? Every time it’s me with my ass on a cold puddle of spooge.”

“Boyle I’m telling you. Go to a doctor and he’ll zap you. It takes five minutes, tops. You’re sore for a week and after that you’re home free.”

He scowled. “Sounds like something your basic rich motherfucker does.”

Bryson decided to change the subject. “So Medea is the smart one?”

“They’re all smart I guess. Most kids start out smart and then they get stupider the older they get. Go figure. But she’s gonna be a doctor. Right now she’s in a special school. Every day she takes the amphibatrain to the city. The kid’s up at five a.m., before I am. Always working hard. But it ain’t fair to the others. I gotta get some scratch to send ‘em to school too. Right now, what you got is the big kids teachin’ the little ones to read.”

“Trinh Ma doesn’t read?”

“Why would she? Where we grow up, dey hardly ever do. It’s point and touch. Me, I learned in the army.”

They paid their check and headed for the PCP station.

“So what’s Leonard do all day if he’s retired?”

“Oh, it’s nothing but work I guess. They produce most of what they consume up there. That tobacco was grown by his friend Dennis, a Seneca Indian and the honey, the tea I drink back at the office, they come from these Rastas he knows up the lake.”

“What’s some rich Indian doin’ growin’ his own tobacco?”

“These Indians aren’t rich.”

He looked at her like she was crazy. “If you don’t think those guys you see drivin’ around in them big gangster cars don’t hide alla dat money dey make with the brothers Upstate, you’re naive, doc.”

“Nevertheless, they aren’t rich. All that money you see stays down here. Dennis says they like to come up for the Strawberry and Green Corn festivals to take pictures and they come to be named and buried in their ancestral lands or they send their kids up for the summer if they’re acting weak and stupid. None of that translates into shit though. It’s just wanna be and window dressing.”

Boyle pouted. “I dunno doc. I never heard that.”

“Leonard has a very rich life I guess. Rewarding.”

“Don’t ya miss him? If I didn’t have Trinh Ma I don’t know what I’d do. Have a goat or somethin’.”

“I miss him, yes.”

“But it must be fucking hot and buggy. Even the pock sucks that way.”

Bryson slowed down. “If I could I’d quit tomorrow and go up there.”

“You don’t need the money?”

“I have enough now. They paid me off for transcryptasine. But Monozone won’t let me go.”

They climbed the wet rusty stairs to the PCP stop and took separate cars to the hovercraft. As it jerked into the air she said, “You’re a good shot. You always hit them right in the neck.”

They were cramped and she could feel him puff up a bit at the compliment. “I ain’t da best you understand. But in the war, I could put one in the backa da head from a 100 metres every time.”

“You were a sniper?”

“Sometimes.” He swallowed. “I hate to think about it. Assassinatin’ people ain’t right. But an order is an order.”

“If no one else cares, why should you?”

He looked astounded. “You just do is all. You know, your mark is walking down the street, maybe with her kids or maybe he’s going to his girlfriend’s house, every day kinda things. War is fucked up, doc. Don’t let ‘em ever tell ya different. Once you get used to alla dat killing, and you don’t give a fuck anymore, it’s just awful sad. And then, nothing else in your life even comes close. Over there, you’re important, even if you’re a shit like me. You’re fighting for your life alla da time. Everything counts. Even da bullshit means something. Then you get back here, slap on a mask and talk to some computer in da methane plant or you shake down junkies in an alley. Fuck it. You know, Laraby’s a motherfucker all right but he’s gonna get me some money, enough to send those kids to school. As long as they don’t hafta do this. They can buy their way outta da army and go get a good job.”

Bradlee was waiting for them in her office. She hated when he sat in her chair at her desk. It was his right of course but it bugged her nonetheless. He stood irately. “I smell a rat in this!” he said, smacking a thin stack of paper printouts with the back of his hand. “Boyle, you and I have some business to do at some point. Can you spare him Bryson?”

“Not yet. We still have more to tag.”

“Well, you’re going to have to take a break and monitor the ones you have.”

Bryson glared at him. “At the doses we’re seeing they don’t live long enough.”

He silently snorted and flared his nostrils. He’s really pissed, she thought. “What are you wearing tonight?” he asked, as if it were another piece of business on their agenda. She had no idea what he was talking about. Between writing conference papers and monitoring her transcryptasine subjects she had been too busy to remember anything. It was her preferred mode; it filtered out need and self-reflection though it left a throbbing itch in her gut that no amount of distraction could cure. It was the little agitation, the knot of nerves returning after their two-month hiatus. She hammered away at it but what it really needed, a good drubbing, she resisted. Her resistance was raising the tension level around the office too. Bradlee had lately gotten a sort of wild look in his eye. She only caught it here and there. Most of the time it was just the slow, saturnine stare, the chill blue in its bath of pink. Sometimes she gave herself a good work out in the shower, with a dildo she bought and kept in her bedside drawer. It was big and knobby and purple. What an embarrassment, to resort to a machine. Soon though she knew she’d give in to one of Bradlee’s invitations and not restrict their intercourse to after dinner drinks in the Lounge.

“Dressed for what?”

“The Fripp dinner?”

“I forgot all about it.” Vaguely she indicated the drawers by her bed where articles of clothing shared space with her composite cock. “I’ve got something.”

“Not a muumuu I hope.”

“Now Bradlee, I hate–”

“You’re dismissed, Boyle. Go home and sing Come All Ye Faithful to poor Tiny Tim or something.”

Boyle had faded into a corner whence he observed them with ill concealed boredom. “Tomorrow then?” he asked.

“Yes yes, we’ll figure out tomorrow tomorrow.” He turned his worried, pale demeanor upon Bryson. “This is not some scientific brouhaha where the competition for most slovenly displayed leisure couture is intense. Four hundred of the most important military, diplomatic and business leaders and their entourages will be in attendance to celebrate the council seat. You can’t pretend not to care.”

Bryson snorted and sat down on the bed. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, considered them a moment and rejected them in favour of a hand rolled one. As she placed the tobacco in the paper Bradlee grew curious. “Surely you haven’t become a marijuana smoker?”

“Fat chance. It’s tobacco.”

“How very novel. A habit you picked up in midtown? They say bums scavenge the garbage for discarded butts and make cigarettes from them, which they sell to other, less enterprising bums.”

“No. It’s home grown.”

“That my dear is quite illegal.”

“Not in Iroquoia it’s not. Everyone up there grows tobacco, even the Amish. Where do you think your cigarettes come from?”

“Turkey I believe, by way of Frankfurt.”

“Well, some of the finest leaf is grown up there.” She lit up.

“It smells like burning cow shit.”

She laughed and exhaled a big cloud. “And how on earth do you know what burning cow shit smells like?”

He looked offended. “Every Englishman of my generation knows. What do you think we smoked during the troubles? Besides, I served in India. They cook over buffalo dung.”

“It doesn’t taste bad once you’re used to it. Sometimes, nothing else hits the spot.”

“By my watch we have time to get you dressed if we hurry. We can stop at, let’s see.” He looked her up and down. “There’s no time for something custom, it’ll have to be off the rack. But you are a scientist. Allowances will be made by those who know. Elaines has a shoe department and down the street we can get you a hand bag.”

She gasped. “A hand bag!”

“Everyone will have one. It’s for your cigarettes and lighter and your make up.”

She stood and stomped her foot. “No make up. It makes me, blech, my skin feels like it’s dying under all that goop.”

“A little lipstick, a little blush–”

“I don’t even know how to do that.”

“We don’t have time to get your hair done.”

“Did you do yours?”

He blinked. “And my nails.” She looked at her cracked nails and calloused hands and smiled. “Good lord,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “How are we supposed to get anywhere with you looking like this? Bryson, I’m telling you, you’re ruining yourself with that farm up there. You look like a cowgirl in a lab coat.”

“I slopped pigs and fed chickens.”

“Yes, and hung around Indians and Rastafarians, playing Marie Antoinette. It all seems so lovely, cut off from the turmoil of this nasty, fallen empire of ours. But you know, the serpent always finds his way into the garden. Have you seen the news?”

“Of course not,” she said with disgust. “Who can bear it.”

“You might be interested in this story.” He put the news on. A man spoke over a montage of images: black smoke boiling up out of small houses in a row; bulldozers ploughing over acres of fruit trees; soldiers in silver armour and CellPack helmets crouched in a line, rifles pointed at a crowd of men and women, their shocked, angry faces illuminated by flames and search lights.

“The territory is tense tonight. Military hovercraft again patrol the skies of western New York, lit up by the fires of scorched fields and burning houses. Residents look hopelessly on as state security forces destroy the homes of two gunmen today in retaliation for the execution/murder of state surveyors.

“The Seneca Nation protested the action to state council, asserting it to be a violation of their sovereignty, which includes jurisdiction over all crimes committed in its territory. So far there has been no response from state, but the military actions of this morning indicate that the spiraling violence is likely to continue, as it has since late October, when the Keuka Lake murders set off a chain of executions of state associates and punitive raids. General-”

Bryson turned it off, suddenly nauseous.

“Friends of yours?” Bradlee asked with a smile. Bryson said nothing, she just wanted to vomit. “Forget about them, we’ve got to hurry. We’ll take your hovercraft into town, pick up the clothes, dress at my place. That should leave time for the drive up to Connecticut.”

Elaines was unmarked, except for a sculpted sign of three interacting cubes of cobalt, vermillion and emerald, above an old doorway on Park Avenue. They strode through the marble and gilt mirror lobby to an elevator with a gate, operated by an old man seated on a red plush velvet bench with gold tassels. They sat down on the facing bench and rode the three floors up to the store.

Immediately upon entering its half-lit warrens Bryson got a headache. Tall, demure, borderline-idiots in silver silk tunics and shapeless black pants stood discreetly back from the racks. Bradlee led her through these tall, treelike structures lit by spotlights. Headless, shoulder-bust-and-waist mannequins displayed two button lace shirts and ruby GloCloth teddies with braided gold and silver straps. Mother of pearl brassieres in violet ovals of light passed overhead. To either side, hip to foot mannequins in sparkle stockings, or bare leg and a sock, a room full of pants in mid stride. And always the women standing placidly by. They arrived at a section where Bradlee could address one of these anonymous attendants by name. “Penelope,” he said breathily. “How are you my dear?” He took both of her hands and exchanged cheek kisses.

“Why Mr. Bradlee,” she said, surveying Bryson (who was dressed in a shapeless grey t shirt, stretch pants and black sneakers) with amused disgust, “what have we here?”

“We’re in a bit of a pickle you see. My companion is Dr. Ruth Bryson, a very important woman, a scientist, you understand? Tonight, we are to attend a rather formal affair.”

“Like a wedding?”

“Eh, no. A state dinner, that kind of thing. We need to outfit her.”

Penelope tisked. “You are always such a tough customer, Mr. Bradlee.” She petted his sleeve. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good Penelope, I knew I could rely on you in a pinch. Bryson, please do me the honor of giving her you’re full attention, with a minimum of sarcasm or overt editorializing.”

Penelope scrutinized her differently now, viewing her from an assortment of distances and angles. “Well, Dr. Bryson, shall we begin?”

Bryson stared at her feet and looked away.

“What do you normally wear?”

“A lab coat and a tank top. White and black, though I’ve forced myself into colors. Look lady, I’m not a dresser. Never have been. Frankly–”

“Bryson,” Bradlee said.

“I’d say a gold wrap of sorts,” Penelope said with the intensity of a speculating philosopher.

“Surely I don’t look so old that you would roll me up like a big cigar.”

Penelope unleashed a peal of false giggles. “Surely not, Dr. Bryson. Gold wraps are really the thing now. We can start with a ginger memory cling and then drape you in gold, with black leggings.”

“She’ll need shoes as well,” Bradlee said sharply.

“I have just the thing. And a hat.”

Bradlee chimed in, “I saw at a rewards ceremony in Hollywood women were wearing fur.”

“Mr. Bradlee. Absolutely. Fur is just the thing. Beaver? No, no. Ermine. An ermine stole.” She touched Bryson’s shoulders and examined her hair. “And an ermine hat. Then we go to the aubergine pants and gold macramé belt with an ivory buckle, and for the blouse, I think coral would compliment you very well.”

Bryson’s skin clammed up. “I’ll boil to death in fur,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Nonsense,” said Bradlee. “You’ll need it to keep warm.”

Penelope addressed a mousey, scampering sort of person in furtive whispers and she returned with a rack of clothes. “Let’s go into a fitting room, shall we?”

The fitting room was brightly lit. Bryson went into a changing booth, stripped naked and put on a paper robe. Then she joined Penelope and Bradlee, who were exclaiming over the clothes.

Nothing they brought was right. The blouse made her look feverish and the pants pinched at her belly. For a while they worked on the bra and underwear.

“I’ll never squeeze into that,” she scowled, looking at the bone china lace panties. “They’ll fall apart.”

They treated her like a recalcitrant child. Desperate to end the torture, Bryson attempted to cooperate. She wiggled into the panties and called from the dressing room, “They seem to fit.”

“Come now Bryson, let’s have a look. Nothing all of us haven’t seen before.”

“Like hell! You haven’t seen these veiny thighs bulging out of lace in bright lights!” She stalked out of the door fixing the bra. “Serves you right, you bastard.” She turned around. “Drink it in.”

Penelope applied her critical eye to the white pubic hair bulging out of her crotch and up over the waistband and said, gently, “Many women choose to shave their panty line.”

“Yeah, and a lot of women poke a finger down their throats after dinner, but not me.”

“Relax, Bryson. I like a nice bush. A lot of men do,” Bradlee said.

“What about this?” She pulled at the bra.

“Like the prow of a mighty ship.”

“You look gorgeous Dr. Bryson. Let’s try some cashmere.” Penelope wrapped Bryson’s upper body in a caramel and white cashmere drape that covered her shoulders and left her now-deep cleavage exposed.

“This itches,” Bryson said.

“No problem. We’ll use a SuperLite cotton undergarment.”

“Sounds stuffy.”

“It’s MemoFab cotton. SuperLite. It fits like skin, wicks preparation and it will allow the cashmere to drape perfectly. The folds,” she fitted the wrap, so she looked like a Greek statue, “will fall here, at your hip. Let’s try a silk skirt, ankle length.”

Bryson tore everything off as if she were on fire. “Gimme some frumpy gold and silver gown with a shark tooth necklace and screw all this drape shit. I’ll wear the ermine stole and those white flats with the gum soles and gold piping I’ve seen in the magazines.”

“The Acata Antedermas?”

“Who the fuck knows.”

Penelope whispered to the mouse woman who brought the gown, the stole and the shoes.

“Everything but the ermine works. Hmm. Try this.” Penelope handed her a bronze and turquoise cape.

“Oh, stunning. You look like a Minoan princess,” Bradlee gushed.

“Queen of Knossos,” Bryson muttered dourly. “My dream.”

They packed up their things. “Well,” Bradlee said in his heartiest voice, “I knew I could count on you, Penelope. Wasn’t she just magnificent Bryson? When she pulled that scarf out of nowhere.”

Penelope blushed. “It was easy Mr. Bradlee.”

He handed her a hundred dollar bill. “Until next time?”

She beamed at him and seemed to fade back into anonymity among the racks.

Bradlee made a call from the hovercraft. It was dusk. The city lay under dark clouds with yellow and purple breaks of sun striking the buildings haphazardly. They landed on his guest lot and handed their bags to an attendant. “Bring them to the desk, will you?” He handed the man a dollar. “Thank you.”

Upstairs he said, “Mix yourself a drink,” and to the doorman with their bags, “Set those down over there, by the fountain. But not against it, you understand? Fine then.” He gave the doorman a dollar and turned back to Bryson. “I’m going to shower. When Benazir arrives let her in, will you? She likes manhattans as well. If you would, mix us up a couple then?”

“Benazir? Is that her name?” Bryson looked over the bottles on the drink cart.

“Yes. My wake up service.”

“You’re not–”

Bradlee wiggled his mustache and his eyes filled with mirthful water. “Now there’s an idea, sort of an amuse bouche, but alas my dear, no. I know more than to insult you like that. She’s here to make you up.”

Bryson set about pouring gin over ice she had rinsed with two drops of vermouth. “If you’re going to paint my cheeks, I’ll need a shower too.”

“Of course. Can’t have you smelling of the farm if we want them to fawn all over you.”

“If we what?”

“She’s bringing everything you’ll need, razor, shaving soap, perfume, shampoo….” His voice trailed off. He went into the bedroom and she muttered to herself.

The only thing she was enjoying was the outrage. Well, she thought, dropping a red glass sword, upon which three spanish olives were impaled, into the martini and tasting it with her finger, it’s a diversion.

The Fripp party was nothing she ever thought or cared about. Fripp had no idea who she was until transcryptasine. But she remembered going to school with him in Berne for a couple of semesters. He was just a big, self-important nobody. The usual idiotic bluster. She watched the lights of the surrounding buildings go off and sank with her drink into the soft white couch.

Benazir arrived carrying two big grips of black rubber. She was all business, hair half pink and half purple, buoyed up by bosoms. “Dr. Bryson.”

“Hello Benazir. Not your usual time of day here, eh?”

Benazir looked at her quizzically. “No indeed, Dr. Bryson.” She pushed past her and set the grips on the floor. “How about a drink before we get started?”

Bradlee came in wrapped in a plush grey towel. His belly pushed it out but did not hang over. Swirls of gray hair covered his soft, breastlike pectorals. “Ah Benazir, so good of you to come. I’m always

delighted to see you.”

Benazir opened one of the grips while Bryson poured over proof rye into a pitcher of ice, a quarter full of red vermouth. She shook in bitters and gave it a few vigorous turns and strained it into glasses.

“I couldn’t find any cherries,” she said handing Bradlee his but looking at Benazir.

Bradlee frowned. “We’ll survive, I suppose.”

Benazir handed Bryson a gold bag containing soap, razor, shampoo and conditioner. “Wash two times Dr. Bryson. Leave the mousse in for five minutes. What color do you take?”

Bryson tried to wither her with a look, but she was too ebullient, too physically full to respond. “White will do just fine.”

“If you say so.”

Bryson snatched the bag and went into the bathroom. It was a grotto carved out of granite, with polished surfaces around the sink and in the shower. Even the toilet was chiseled out of the same material. There was the soaking tub and the shower jets and a small sauna. Leonard called after her, “Be sure to shave your legs and your arm pits.”

Once they were done dressing, Bryson and Bradlee looked like a typical society page couple in their late sixties. Bradlee naturally looked perfect in any outfit. He could relax in lederhosen, or put on gaucho gear with equal ease. She had seen pictures of him in a pith helmet and puttees and he looked like a nineteenth century colonial officer. She had also seen him in a scarlet tunic and black military dress pants and he looked exactly like what he was, civilian attaché to a 2 star general, who, when he met her, was a colonel. He was in his element now, a tux with tails, copperweave cumber bun, black blunt heeled shoes, red carnation in the buttonhole and copper bow tie. The ruffles sat just right and his charcoal fedora, cocked slightly over his left eye, matched his overcoat.

Bryson on the other hand felt like her legs were two posts stuck in the ground. She writhed beneath the mask applied so coolly by Benazir. She hated the smell, and she hated the taste, not that she could taste a thing with that cloud of perfume they had attracted to her outer ring. “It’s the latest,” Benazir said.

“Good, good,” said Bradlee, sniffing the air to discern its constituents. He patted her hand where it lay, in her lap like a kitten. “Don’t bother coming in the morning, dear. I’ll call.”

They drove up Third Avenue to the Triboro Bridge and crossed into the Bronx on the elevated road till they reached the New England Thruway Corp. Toll Entrance. They drove up a long spiral ramp, through several sets of electronic security checks and came to a giant iron gate that slowly rose to let them on the road, whereupon Bradlee opened up and sped through the suburbs of Westchester at a little under 190 k. The car was frigid. Bryson let go of everything, forgot where she was and watched the artificial hills and buildings pass. She didn’t notice the black billboards with the little white words in the center: Is this your lucky day? and in the lower right: Paregane. Bradlee droned on about the car, “It passes right through. None of the hassles. And it’s armoured. No need for all that fuss with motorcades.” Then he launched into an exhaustive catalog of guests, their appearance, their achievements. She lit a cigarette and stretched her left arm out across the back of the sofa seat and put her head back.

“Fripp’s wife Julie was a real baller,” he said, looking at her briefly and then turning to the road. “Then her mother made her knuckle under. Fripp was an inconsequential shit, but everyone knew his father would buy out Monozone and give it to them as a wedding present. The old man was no dummy. It was he who sent me to Valdez when she was a Colonel.”

“How do you keep track of such things?”

He slowed to descend the spiral exit ramp, into a maze of pillars and turrets, remote sensors shining like animal eyes in the dark, releasing electronic gates. Up a country road then, the air thick with flying insects which thwocked off the windshield, leaving a slick of bug grease which he periodically rinsed and wiped away. On either side grew towering douglas firs, over a half moon smudged with haze. “You’ve got to mind the ball, Bryson. Paregane will take us far if we let it.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business Bradlee?”

He looked at her and squeezed her hand. “Now, the biggest star will be Jock Two Feathers.”

“The hotel and entertainment guy?”

“Even you’ve heard of him. There’s talk of his marrying his daughter off to Milt Spahn, the creator of BroadwayInc. Spahn got his heart broken, he’s a widow. Word is, he can put his HologRapHICpRoductIons into hotel rooms. And Jock Two Feathers is a partner at The Pine Ridge Group, with considerable holdings in building and construction.”

Her mind glazed over. BroadwayInc was a sudden, huge success that bounded onto state council. Spahn made his fortune by buying a bunch of theaters and improving the holograph equipment till the quality was so good he could project live theater anywhere in the country. He had 7,000 theaters fed by a handful of studios in midtown Manhattan. Jock Two Feathers had hotels and casinos in every state. A deal like that would put him on council too.

Bradlee slowed down and they drove up a long narrow road of fused stone, canopied by boughs. They entered a circular drive and waited while a white Rolls Royce deposited a couple dressed in white. She wore a white turban and a white tux with white shoes. Bradlee clucked. “The invitation was quite specific.” A boy in full scarlet and gold livery opened the door and they ascended the polished granite steps of the entrance into a Georgian stone mansion.

In the entrance hall they were greeted by a regal, 71/2 foot tall Ibo woman clad only in gold strings. “Good evening,” she said.

She seemed familiar to Bryson. “Who is she?” she whispered.

Bradlee smiled. “That is Ova, the fashion model. Quite wealthy in her own right,” he mumbled and then obsequiously took Ova’s proffered hand. “Oh my,” he said, a little short of breath, handing his coat to the footman.

“Good evening sir and Madame,” he said. “Drinks are in the Trophy Room and hors d’oevres are being served in the Arboretum.”

They entered the cavernous hall of marble, decorated with christmas wreathes. At the opposite end, by a grand stair, stood an unlit, forty foot Christmas tree. Around the perimeter were busts, one for each house of the heavens. Soaring above was the tromp l’oile sky with clouds and birds and treetops. The hall was centered on a golden sun, shining out at the cardinal points in long serpentine rays. This was set into the black and white marble floor. And the sun itself had a face beaten into it, like the death mask of Agamemnon. The formal rooms lay off to either side, framed in thick moldings and draped in curtains.

A footman stood at the entrance to the Trophy Room, which they entered arm in arm. At one end of the Trophy Room was a walk-in fireplace, in which burned a few two-meter logs. There was a wall of stained glass windows. A woman mixed drinks at a bar while boys picked up empty glasses with trays and brought them to the bus pans. People milled about chatting in groups. Middle-aged people, like Bryson and Bradlee, were in suits and gowns, with towering, flowing, sculpted coifs and lilac scented facial hair. Their make up was more mask like and they tended to mumble. The younger they were, the sparser their clothing grew. Shirts open to their waists, they were hairless and greased up with glistening body oils. They showed their money off in jewels. Women’s skirts were slit up the leg to the hip so a single buttock flashed as she walked. They wore strapless dresses of spun jasper and obsidian and leather gloves extending up above the elbow. Shoes of molded crystal, electraweave sandals that sparked as they walked. And then there were those men, with their dreadful mascara and ponytails.

Bradlee and Bryson milled about, quaffing cocktails, oblivious to the trophies that surrounded them. It was so old hat–the large eighteenth century oil paintings of foxhunts, nineteenth century landscapes. There was a Pre-Raphaelite painting of nymphs bathing in a grotto. Save for an uncomfortable couch and two chairs placed in front of the fireplace, there was no furniture. The floor space was devoted rather to the collection of trophies, purchased at auction in London and New York.

The prize piece was a young elephant, two metres tall, his trunk lifted in the air. From a distance he looked alive, save for the glass eyeball staring into the room. There was the head of an extinct rhinoceros in front of a case devoted only to extinctions. Its shelves were packed with small rodents, amphibians and birds, each on its miniature prop, a tuft of ceramic grass or a wedge of crystal. The walls were covered with moose, elk, bear and bison heads. There were tiger, leopard and lion skin rugs and zebra pelts on the floor. A komodo dragon commanded the far corner. Then there were the engravings, the original Audubons and framed pictures from old pharmacopoeias. There was a collection of rare botanical books and bestiaries, illuminated nursery rhymes.

Bryson looked at each of these things with an acute boredom stabbed through the middle with disgust. Bradlee admired the elephant. “Remarkable animal, really,” he said.

“Too bad it had to wind up here as a prop for pleasant conversation.”

“I dare say it would have ended in a pile of worms otherwise.”

“I wonder where the petting zoo is?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Probably out back.”

“Let’s hit the Arboretum.”

“Not till I’ve introduced you to Valdez. That’s her over there, talking to the redhead.”

Across the room, a smallish, intense woman in full uniform was laughing loosely, glass of champagne in one hand, panatela in the other, an ess of smoke uncurling upwards. She was speaking to a young woman in uniform, with a cherry-red flattop and green eyes, who was poking the air with two fingers and making a face. When she paused the General laughed even harder. Bradlee caught Valdez’s eye. She said something to the redhead and the two couples converged on a polar bear rug with elephant foot ashtrays.

The General bent down and rubbed the white bear hide with her hand and said, “It’s a shame to have to wear shoes.”

“General Valdez,” said Bradlee. She stood. He took her hand and bowed slightly. “I want you to meet Dr. Ruth Bryson.”

“Call me Bryson,” Bryson said, shaking the General’s hand.

“Well, Owen, I’m delighted you’ve finally brought her in from the wild and introduced us. Bryson, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“And I you, General.”

“Valdez is fine. One doesn’t think of Owen as a gossip, but he does get around, doesn’t he? I can’t say how lucky we were to have him named to Monozone.”

“Well,” Bradlee said, “I usually land on my feet. I couldn’t help but note your allusion to Bryson’s sabbatical in the GMZ. Was it Keuka Lake my dear?”

“Yes, that’s where my husband lives, in a restored vineyard.”

“Owen never said you were married.”

“Forty years.”

“Well, when I was a child, I spent some time up there. My mother was a buyer for composite plants. You must tell me about it.”

Ruth was ready for another drink. She tried not to look around for a waiter, but every passing body caught her eye. “I’m sure you know more about it than I do. You know, we’re like weekenders.”

Valdez looked puzzled, and then she pointed to her uniform. “You mean because of this? But military intelligence is actually based on reports from people like you.”

“We were just headed to the Arboretum,” Bradlee said.

“Well, let’s go then,” the General said. They walked towards the doorway and a very old man paused to greet the General. They shook hands briefly and Valdez looked at Bryson and Bradlee apologetically. “I’ll be right with you.”

In the hall Bradlee mumbled, “That was Chairman Bellows-hovercraft engines.”

The Arboretum was a synthetic indoor rain forest. It extended for two acres off the back of the house and was enclosed in a twelve- story transparent electraweave dome that regulated light, water and temperature. There were paths wandering through groves of tropical palms and trees. Fig vines wound about the pale silver trunks. A large waterfall descended over a pile of black volcanic rock and into a pool of lotus flowers. There were cockatoos, black and sulfur crested, and parrots and toucans and strange ducks that paddled in the pool while monkeys swung in the canopy. Lost among the mists and tree ferns were the guests whose conversation hummed between the periodic squawks and howls. Tables and chairs were set up by gushing hot springs and fish pools. A boy arrived with a tray of sashimi. They each took a piece of fish.

“Toro,” Bryson said.

“I told you the food would be excellent. Let’s see if we can find Fripp.”

“Do we have to?”

“Absolutely.” They wandered over the paths. No faces were familiar so they sat down at a black iron table and ate medallions of seared venison tenderloin. “If you see any fois gras, give a shout,” Bradlee said, munching contentedly on a blue potato with truffle oil.

“I could use another drink.”

“So could I, but I think it would be prudent to take it easy till we get home.”

“Get home?”

“Surely you’ll stay the night?”

“What’s in it for me?”

He looked hurt. “Bryson, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I feel like a clown is all. Get me that drink. My dogs are beat.”

He looked at his plate forlornly.

“You want me to come home with you but you can’t be bothered with getting me a drink?”

“It’s not that.”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you.”

He sighed soberly. “I don’t like these people any more than you do. But I wasn’t born wealthy like you were. If I don’t work crowds like this I’ll go nowhere. And yes, I was quite enjoying the truffle oil on these potatoes.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and two glasses. “Fripp is in the Ball Room, surrounded by board members. I caught his eye and he raised a finger. I’m certain we can get to him.”

A couple came by their table and Bradlee’s somber expression brightened immediately. “Ah Milt, how are you?” He stood. “Bryson, this is Milt Spahn.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she said, trying to sound amiable.

“Not Dr. Ruth Bryson?” he asked, as if he if were just then coming into consciousness after a long stupor.

“Indeed,” Bradlee said. “The one and only.”

“No shit. Honey, look, it’s that woman, the inventor, Dr. Bryson. This is my fiancée,” he said, pointing to the woman next to him, dressed in a cut-away gown of coral and turquoise, “Utopia Two Feathers.” Sudden engagement seemed to be spreading. She snapped to, out of an ill defined, transitory mental state.

“You’re the one?” She took Bryson’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Everyone, I mean everyone is taking Paregane. It’s just made life so,” she searched for the word. “Jolly.”

Milt Spahn, with trim grey hair and smooth skin, smiled. “What a delightful word, jolly.”

She turned from Bryson towards her fiancée and spoke, using her right hand for emphasis. “Well, it’s true, darling.” She addressed them both then: “I can’t tell you how many people I know have seen a turn around. Their servants are on time; their factories are more productive. All of your stage hands are using it dear, and even my assistant (who I can promise you is (or was) a real bitch) takes Paregane.”

Spahn shook his head with grave understanding and said to Bryson, “How does it work, Dr. Bryson?”

Bryson smiled. “How does holographic projection work?”

Spahn looked successively surprised and puzzled. After a pause he laughed and wagged his finger at her. “You’re no dummy, Bryson.”

Bradlee exhaled. “Your last production of Macbeth was delightfully gruesome.”

“A fan of the Scottish Play. Then you’ll love The Duchess of Malfi. It’s all updated. Rupert Sturges is directing and Kelly Kelly plays Bosola.”

Bradlee shook his head. “A woman in the role of Bosola. Brilliant.”

It was like having little disembodied teeth chewing on her brain. It took effort not to say anything. She watched the water splash down over the rocks and ferns, through a little natural gully and into a pool banked with tree roots. She watched the undulating shapes of orange fish with huge white fins and soft, gulping lips. A loud shriek of female laughter went up.

She tried to think about work but it was a black well. She tried to lose herself to any kind of thought but couldn’t. There was just the rise and fall of human chitchat and the zooish din of animals.

Milt and Utopia had apparently moved on. She couldn’t think if she had said goodbye or not. Quite possibly she had waved and smiled. It seemed the kind of thing she would customarily do.

General Valdez sat abruptly down beside Bryson and wiped her brow. She said, in a heavy breath, “God I’m whipped. I wish you would do half of my talking, Owen.”

“Sometimes I do,” he said, popping a smoked scallop in his mouth like a cocktail peanut, washing it down with champagne.

“I know you do darling. But these parties are so enervating. Without support staff it’s everyone for himself.”

A waiter brought a bowl of bright, fussy greens dressed in a blood orange vinaigrette. “Organically grown by the Fripps,” said the waiter, serving each of them with silver tongs. Another boy came by to grind fresh black pepper on and a third to shave parmesan.

“Why do I come to these things,” Valdez asked the air. “Please Owen, give me some of your champagne.”

“Let me get you a glass.”

“Only if you hurry.”

As soon as he left she drained his glass and started eating. “You know, growing up in Madras, I never dreamt I’d be here doing this. It’s strange how things turn out.”

“Yes,” replied Bryson. “I hope he brings another bottle. My feet hurt.”

“From standing?”

“No, the goddamn shoes I bought are biting my feet. I thought they’d be comfortable.”

“Hm,” she grunted.

“So what’s with Milt and Utopia?”

“My young adjutant was just telling me that at Yale she was known as Utopia Two Fingers.”

“Has the name stuck?” Bryson asked, with the barest touch of innuendo. The general chuckled dryly. “I’ve never been to Madras.”

Valdez became quite pleasantly avid. “Oh, but the new city is delightful. Not as driven as here. People enjoy life a little more. I hope to retire there some day.”

“Where’s Mr. Valdez tonight?”

“At home, recharging his batteries in my sock drawer.”

“I guess that makes me polyandrous.”

“Even better yet. The other, sentient one lives Upstate then?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been following the news? There’ve been quite a few incidents.”

Bryson felt almost queasy. She swallowed hard and wondered what was wrong. “I haven’t heard.”

“Then you’re good at avoiding the news. The Indians have been running state security and police off of their land. There’ve been quite a few assassinations. And all they show is that god damn picture of crying Indians and our troops blowing up a couple of cookie cutter cottages. Terrible press.”

“Surely you can control that?” Bryson asked.

“You overestimate our power I’m afraid. I think we’ve done a terribly stupid thing.”

“Interesting.”

“Too frank for you? I thought being a scientist–”

“No, not at all. What were the surveyors there for?”

She nodded, looked around. “They are surveying the lakes. There’s a plan to bring water into the west, and they worked for one of the construction consortiums bidding on the job.”

“Not Jock Two Feathers’?”

“As a matter of fact, no. You understand, all of this is in the exploratory phase, feasibility studies, that sort of thing. But I think it was to provoke an incident. All that surveying could be done remotely. We just don’t need to have feet on the ground, churning things up. It was stupid. We don’t want their land, we want the water. If people would slow down and do it right, there doesn’t have to be a war.”

“Isn’t war your business?”

Valdez laughed. “Dr. Bryson, business is our business. I’m just in the military end of things. Now tell me, what do you think of things up there?”

“You don’t want an honest answer do you?”

“Of course I do. Someone has to tell the truth now and again, don’t you think?”

“Well, my observation is that Iro–Upstate is economically worthless. The population is necessarily marginal, fed by delusions and hopelessly archaic. Environmentally they have a minimal impact and reforestation is absolutely essential for greenhouse mitigation, so they serve a purpose. All the available resources have been tapped out. The little that remains cannot possibly repay extraction costs.

The bugs and heat in summer make it unbearable for most down state dwellers. One spends ones summer days indoors cursing the existence of the outside world. The Indians will never be a force to reckon with, though they will remain on their land as long as they receive outside infusions of cash. GMZers appear to be the usual mixed bag of utopian fools but they are, to a man, committed to state and have no sympathies with the indigenous Upstaters. To live successfully there you’ve got to adjust to conditions that are unacceptable to the average person.”

“You said that very well, Bryson. I couldn’t agree with you more. Colonisation, which is really the only way you could take back the land, is out of the question.”

Bryson’s stomach knotted up and she felt another, stronger wave of nausea. A cold sweat formed on her forehead. “Valdez isn’t an Indian name.”

“No, my father’s an engineer. We went over when I was just a child, to construct composite plants. It’s the family business.”

Bradlee returned with two bottles of champagne, a glass, and a man in a dark green tuxedo with gold ruffles at the sleeves. His face was an ageless face, the product of genetic engineering, make up and surgery, smooth skin the color of peanut butter, cornflower eyes, black, light textured hair, straight and parted on the side and long on one end. His mustache had a small quantity of grey hair and was thick beneath his pronounced, authoritative nose. He had sensuous lips and a strong chin with a deep cleft. He stood over two meters and had an easy manner.

“Look whom I’ve found,” Bradlee said, the skin around his eyes and on his forehead crinkling with delight as he struggled to restrain a smile.

General Valdez stood immediately, as if she was coming to attention, and flashed her teeth. Bryson, almost swallowing vomit, looked up, afraid to stand or even move. Bradlee kicked her foot gently.

“Chairman Fripp,” Valdez said, shaking his hand. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you General. As always it’s an honor to have you as my guest.”

“The honor is all mine sir.”

Fripp beamed at Bryson. “So it is you. Ruth Bryson, the Terror of Lab Three.” He ho-ho-hoed and she stood uneasily. “No no, sit down. Let me join you for a minute. After all,” he said, sitting down, “were it not for you, this party would be its usual insular self. But you haven’t changed a bit.” She pretended to stare blankly. “You don’t remember, do you? Of course not. Berne, ‘29 was it? Academie de Saint Croix?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Chairman Fripp. I was the student supervisor that year. I’m afraid I’m no more tactful today.”

“Forgiven, forgiven. She gave me an F–a gentleman’s F as they say. Well, chemistry is not my forte. In those days skiing and girls were of more interest to me. Your father was a great friend of ours. We were very sorry to hear of his passing.”

“That was some years ago,” Bryson said.

“He’d be proud of you today, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“And General Valdez, Owen assures me we’ll be seeing a lot more of you these days. You and I must contrive to sneak off with Chairmen Spahn and Two Feathers. Jock has some ideas about water that might be of mutual interest.”

“Anything Chairman Two Feathers has to say is of interest to me.”

He returned to Bryson. “But Ruth Bryson! How it takes me back to those days. Wasn’t life a delight then? Carefree days of riding on distant mountain trails, hot cocoa and blizzards.”

She smiled and nodded.

“I spent a summer working for your father in Vienna you know. He had us up to the house a number of times. What a place that is! One could hunt for days and not see a soul. How are your brother and sister? Er, Roger and Noel. Noel, she could charm an ogre. It must have been exciting to grow up in such a large and gifted family.”

“They get on famously,” she said. “I saw Roger on television playing golf in Uganda.”

“Uganda. Marvelous place, marvelous place. We have a plant there you know.”

“A bit warm,” Bradlee observed wryly. Everyone laughed.

“I’ll bet old Roger never broke a sweat,” Fripp said. Bryson shook her head. “Well, I look forward to spending more time with all of you. Let’s have dinner some time, here at the house. Just a few of us, ay? We’ll shoot billiards.” He looked at Bryson and wrapped her hand in his cool papery palm. “I’ve often wondered over the years if that was you working for us. It’s a shame how out of touch people become.”

When he was gone Bradlee turned to Bryson, who was now collapsing about a ball of black fire in her gut and said, “Is something wrong? You’re acting very strangely and you’re deathly pale, I dare say bluish green.”

“I don’t feel well.”

He poured out champagne and signaled for a waiter. “You might overcome it when you meet the boss.”

“Relax, Bradlee,” said Valdez. “He’s nothing but a Cheshire Cat.”

“Maybe, maybe. But I don’t see the point of all that Swiss boarding school nonsense if you don’t play it.” The waiter came. “See here.

I’m tired of getting up. Bring us a bottle of cognac, will you? And I’d like dessert.”

Bryson bolted to her feet and said, “I must find a bathroom.” She walked as fast as possible into the cold columned hallway and to a massive staircase lit by a chandelier like a waterfall of crystal. She climbed this and searched about till a servant in black directed her to a sitting room, off of which was a lavatory, a large black marble room with a toilet, bidet and a sink. Bryson barely locked the door and collapsed to her knees at the toilet where she painfully and noisily vomited till there was nothing left and then, in a wretched panic, sat down and emptied her bowels. The contractions continued long after there was nothing left in her. Shakily she got up and washed her hands and face, rinsed out her mouth with scoops of water. The lights and mirrors flattered her. In the gold and black room she looked younger, intense, her eyes an inky blue, the recent pallor of her skin returning to tan. Her clothes weren’t soiled. She smelled like lilac soap. She caught her breath and felt herself sinking into a deep hole of bad feeling. A fear from the past, maybe older than herself even, ate away at her, like black, corrosive waters. She flinched, as if the future were a knife aimed at her eyes. There was no way she could return to the party feeling like this. Instead of going downstairs she left the bathroom and went through another door in the sitting room, entering a library paneled in cherry with a dark green plush chair and a reading lamp with a cream silk shade. For a while she looked over the books, rare old calf bound volumes of literature, library sets mostly, never opened, chosen for their value and the color of the bindings. There were editions of Pope and Milton, Darwin, Hegel and Freud, Shakespeare and Jonson, Aristotle and Plato. Johnson’s Lives of the Poets. She took down a volume of Plato and opened it randomly. But here let me ask you, friend: Is not this the plane tree to which you were conducting us? Phaedr. Yes, this is the tree. Soc. Yes indeed, and a fair and shady resting-place, full of summer sounds and scents. There is the lofty and spreading plane tree, and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest blossom and the greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows beneath the plane tree is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this must be a spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs; moreover, there is a sweet breeze, and the grasshopper’s chirrup; and the greatest charm of all is the grass like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide. She replaced the book, feeling like she had been to that place before.

Next she wandered into another room off of the library. It was warmer than the house and had a smell difficult to identify. The air was thick and humid, it reminded her of the air in Iroquoia. It was full of plants. There were big potted trees on the floors and various vines and ferns hanging from the ceiling, pots of geraniums, impatiens and ivy on painted iron stands and shelves made of weathered boards. It was dark except for an oil lamp on a wicker table. As her eyes adjusted she became aware of a woman sitting in a wicker chair, staring out the lead pane windows and then, staring at her as she entered. Her eyes, even in the dark, were big and glossy and flat.

“I’m sorry,” Bryson said. “I’m just trying to find my way downstairs.”

“That’s o.k.,” said the woman. She studied Bryson a moment. “Aren’t you Dr. Ruth Bryson?” Bryson looked warily at her. “I caught your press conference. I’m Julie Fripp.” She stood and indicated that Bryson should pull up a smaller wicker chair and sit down for a chat. “You aren’t feeling well?” she asked in a patrician voice devoid of emotion yet somehow also warm.

“No–er, how can you tell?”

Julie Fripp laughed. “One just knows these things. Don’t wounded animals hide out in dark places? You’ve found my suite of rooms, by accident I suppose.”

“The library is impressive. And this is a lovely room.” It wasn’t a lovely room, it was a weird room. The casement windows were open, letting in the bugs and night sounds. Bats darted in and out of the green garden lights. Mist webbed the trees and there was a buzz in the air. Inside, boughs hung over their chairs and it looked like Julia Fripp was seated outside. The odor became stronger. It was like soil and wet leaves but a little sweaty too, as if a large animal lay stretched out in the dark.

“Hm. It drives most people nuts. My husband walks in here, usually angry, says I make him feel small, but in five minutes, if I want, I have him begging for sex. Ha! Six months ago I couldn’t get him to look at me. It’s a cruel thing to toy with someone’s desire, so I don’t.” She drank from a glass of water. At first she looked typical for someone of their age and class: thin, tanned, with crayon blue eyes, a pile of dark hair and high cheekbones. What nature and the geneticists provided as raw material, cosmetic surgeons sculpted into perfection. She stretched her bare legs out and periodically crossed and uncrossed her feet, next to the pair of opalescent ceramic high heels she had kicked off. It was surprisingly undisciplined. Something wayward shined through the fake face, and caused the mask of make up to crack. Her eyes and skin had an uncanny lustre. Bryson had the sensation she could hear her heartbeat and blood circulate. She could feel the sweat, smell her sebaceous glans. There was a pulse in the room, multiple pulses. “I really ought to thank you Dr. Bryson. I saw your name on the guest list of course. If they hadn’t put it on I would have insisted. Six months ago my husband Ahmed wouldn’t look me in the eye, I said. He was more afraid of me then than now I suppose. I was like a basilisk, with vile breath and guts like eels. I wanted to die. It’s hard to imagine how badly I wanted death. Everyday was a suicide watch, with silly games between me and the oppressive, stiff, puritanical host of warders he assigned to keep me alive. I have no idea how or why it happened. Nothing seemed to work, all the purpose was blown out of life and whatever it is (I now know it’s gratitude) that keeps one alive was gone. I was just this putrefying mess of hatred, fat, self starved, drugged into oblivion, devoid of dignity. Paregane changed all that. I owe you my life, my marriage.”

Bryson didn’t know what to say. Transcryptasine had till then been a matter of test subjects and numbers. The weight of responsibility was all conceptual. She had never met anyone who actually took the drug as indicated, an individual. She became curious, looked at her skin, at her hair and eyes more carefully. “Why do you stay in here? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I can’t stand the air conditioning and all the people. Too many people make me sick. The perfume, the body oils and wax, shampoos, soaps, that kind of thing. Paregane makes one sensitive to light, to odors, to sound. I don’t like the feel of synthetic surfaces and substances. This make up is making me crazy. It doesn’t show, I know. I don’t actually even feel it, I just know it does. I might have scrubbed it off with steel wool before, or pulled a scene. I was big on scenes. It’s worth it, to have my life back. I gladly suffer the discomfort of hypersensitivity to have my will to live back, to have peace of mind, perspective, restored. I’m waiting for Ahmed to catch up with me.”

“Your hair–”

“I had it all removed and grew this myself.”

“It’s very–”

“Lush. Nails and skin too. Each day I awake sustained by strength more like a visitation. I don’t know how to put it. It’s visceral. Everything is visceral.”

Bryson smiled uneasily and thought, she has no idea. Julie Fripp was the kind of person she instinctively hated. Yet she seemed not to be that person. There was a solidity to her, as if she were allowing

Bryson to see into her in a way they were trained never to do, even to themselves. She pitied her then. The right thing to do was to tell her. Instead she replied, “I’m so glad my work has had some positive effect.”

Julie Fripp stood and walked up to Bryson, put her hands on Bryson’s face and looked into her eyes. Her hands were warm and full. The pulse beat in the palms of her hands. A pent up soul pressed up against her eyes and peered impishly out at the world. “You don’t need to worry about us Dr. Bryson. Don’t make yourself sick over this. We’re truly happy.” She kissed her on the lips and Bryson felt like she was being kissed by a young woman, with lips like fresh strawberries. Her heart began to race. Then Julie Fripp sat back down in her chair and looked out the window. “I envy you Dr. Bryson. When we were young we did as we pleased, I maybe a little longer than most. I gladly took the bit and bridle, but I knew my heart was elsewhere.” Her voice became choked and bitter. “Marriage, business, duty. The family line. You said fuck this to that and went your own way, continued to study. We watched, you know. Maybe we thought you were a fat ugly fool. Imagine that.” Her voice became distant then. “If I could get up and fly out that window into the far north right now I would. But only crazy people do such things. Sane people sit in chairs and don’t fidget. Sane people keep their thoughts to themselves and silently plot, obtaining what they need on the sly.”

“My friends,” Bryson said. She wanted to get out before yielding to the impulse to blurt.

“I’m sorry. I forget the effect I have on other people sometimes. Gratitude and empathy. It’s so simple.”

“Yes. I’ll remember that. By the way. Did Chairman Fripp mention any side effects?”

She looked startled. “He said there weren’t any.”

“Really? I’d double-check that. Well, goodnight, Mrs. Chairman

Fripp. And I appreciate your gratitude.” She backed out of the room.

“There you are,” Bradlee said. “We were just about to go into the ballroom for a dance. Care to join us?” Valdez stood.

“Bradlee, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“But it’s not yet midnight. The children’s choir will be singing carols, they’re going to light the tree and there’s a bombe of some sort.”

“I’m sorry, I feel like shit. Something I ate maybe.”

“But they shot the venison themselves.”

“I know all about putting on the chaps and riding after game. Tallyho! then hang the velvet corpse up by the hind legs in a tree and strip its pj’s off with a skinning knife.”

Valdez said, “Understood, Bryson. It’s been a long day and these things are exhausting. Go on Bradlee. Take her home.”

“But Jock Two Feathers–”

“I can handle him. We’ve done good work here tonight.”

“What about Julie Fripp,” he implored.

“Saw her,” Bryson said. “I’m kinda faint and spinning here, Bradlee.”

“Owen, don’t be an ass. This is not the only opportunity.”

“Very well.” He exhaled through his nose and tossed down an inch of cognac.

“I’m sorry Valdez,” Bryson said with a slight deferential bow.

“Please, after tonight it’s Priss. And I’m charmed to have finally met you.”

The women shook hands and Bradlee led Bryson out of the house on his arm. The valet brought around the car and they drove off. As they left a violent, churning loneliness seized hold of her and she felt the black burning ball return, this time to her womb. She tried smoking and drinking from Bradlee’s proffered flask of cognac and finally, as they drove up the ramp to his parking lot and stood at the elevator she abandoned herself to a need so great she could barely wait to be in the apartment. By the elephant foot umbrella stand she grabbed him and kissed him boozily and deeply.

Bradlee, in a fit of delight, pulled away. “So that’s what this is about. I knew you’d come around, Bryson. It’s about time.”

“Shut up Bradlee.” She followed him to the bedroom where they undressed and fell to the bed clawing, sucking and thumping. She punched his chest and said through gritted teeth, “Goddamn you Bradlee, go! Go!” Shut up, she thought, shut up and finish the job. Obliterate me, make me nothing. Her head hit the headboard and she felt the top of it blast off. At last there was nothing left, not even stars.

Once Bradlee was asleep she disentangled herself from his legs and arms and sat in the dark in the living room, listening to the water run down the wall into the fish pool. A thunderstorm was smashing the city. Huge gusts of wind sent bursts of rain against the windows. She took a sheet of gold electraweave and watched the news feed. It was another village, another team of security agents in silver armor and helmets restraining an angry crowd in front of two houses engulfed in flames. As she grew tired her last coherent thought was how could she have ever told Julie Fripp, no matter how obliquely, that her husband was trying to kill her with Paregane?