In a great soaring arc he lifted the ‘copter into the sky and turned it east. The bleak F.D.R. Mountains fell away behind him; he passed over the desert, saw at last the George Washington Canal by which he oriented himself. Following it, he approached the smaller canal system which branched from it, and soon he was above the junction of the William Butler Yeats and the Herodotus, near which the Bohlens lived.
Both those women, he ruminated, are attractive, that June Henessy and Silvia Bohlen, but of the two of them, Silvia’s more to my liking; she has that sleepy, sultry quality that a deeply emotional woman always has. June is too pert and frisky; that kind talks on and on, sort of wiseguy-like. I want a woman who’s a good listener.
He recalled the trouble he had gotten into before. Wonder what her husband’s like, he wondered. Must inquire. A lot of these men take the pioneer life seriously, especially the ones living far out from town; keep guns in their houses and so forth.
However, that was the risk one ran, and it was worth it.
Just in case trouble did occur, Otto Zitte had a gun of his own, a small pistol, .22 caliber, which he kept in a hidden side-pocket of one of his suitcases. It was there now, and fully loaded.
Nobody messes around with me, he said to himself. If they want trouble–they’ll soon find it.
Cheered by that thought, he dipped his ‘copter, scouted out the land below–there was no ‘copter parked at the Bohlen house–and prepared to land.
It was innate caution which caused him to park the ‘copter over a mile from the Bohlen house, at the entrance of a service canal. From there he hiked on foot, willing to endure the weight of the suitcase; there was no alternative. A number of houses stood between him and the Bohlen place, but he did not pause to knock at any door; he went directly along the canal without halting.
When he neared the Bohlen place he slowed, regaining his wind. He eyed the nearby houses carefully. . . from the one right next door there came the racket of small children. Peopie home, there. So he approached the Bohlen place from the opposite side, walking silently and in a line which kept him entirely hidden from the house where he heard the children’s voices.
He arrived, stepped up on the porch, rang the bell.
Someone peeped out at him from behind the red drapes of the living-room window. Otto maintained a formal, correct smile on his face, one that would do in any eventuality.
The front door opened; there stood Silvia Bohlen, with her hair expertly done, lipstick, wearing a jersey sweater and tight pink capri pants, sandals on her feet. Her toenails were painted a bright scarlet; he noticed that from the corner of his eye. Obviously, she had fixed herself up in expectation of his visit. However, she of course assumed a bland, detached pose; she regarded him in akrof silence, holding on to the door knob.
“Mrs. Bohlen,” he said in his most intimate tone of voice. Bowing, he said, “Passage across barren miles of desert wastelands finds its just reward in seeing you once more at last. Would you be interested in seeing our special in kangarootail soup? It is incredible and delightful, a food never before available on Mars at any price. I have come straight here to you with it, seeing that you are qualified in judging fine foods and can discriminate the worthy without consulting the expense.” And all this time, as he reeled off his set speech, he edged himself and his wares toward the open door.
A trifle stiffly and hesitantly, Silvia said, “Uh, come in.” She let the door swing freely open, and he at once passed on inside and laid his suitcases on the floor by the low table in the living room.
A boy’s bow and quiver of arrows caught his eye. “Is your young son about?” he inquired.
“No,” Silvia said, moving edgily about the room with her arms folded before her. “He’s at the school today.” She tried to smile. “And my father-in-law went into town; he won’t be home until very late.”
Well, Otto thought; I see.
“Please be seated,” he urged her. “So that I may display to you properly, don’t you agree?” In one motion, he moved a chair, and Silvia perched on the edge of it, her arms still hugged about her, lips pressed together. How tense she is, he observed. It was a good sign because it meant that she was fully aware of the meaning of all that went on, his visit here, the absence of her son, the fact that she had carefully closed the front door; the living-room drapes still shut, he noticed.
Silvia blurted out, “Would you like coffee?” She bolted from her chair and dived into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared with a tray on which was a pot of coffee, sugar, cream, two china cups.
“Thank you,” he purred. During her absence he had drawn another chair up beside hers.
They drank coffee.
“Are you not frightened to live out here alone so much of the time?” he asked. “In this desolate region?”
She glanced at him sideways. “Golly, I guess I’m used to it.”
“What part of Earth are you from originally?”
“St. Louis.”
“It is much different here. A new, freer life. Where one can cast off the shackles and be oneself; do you agree? The old mores and customs, an antiquated Old World, best forgotten in its own dust. Here–” He glanced about the living room, with its commonplace furnishings; he had seen such chairs, carpeting, bric-a-brac hundreds of times, in similar homes. “Here we see the clash of the extraordinary, the pulse, Mrs. Bohlen, of opportunity which strikes the brave person only once–once–in his lifetime.”
“What else do you have beside kangaroo-tail soup?”
“Well,” he said, frowning inwardly, “quail eggs; very good. Real cow butter. Sour cream. Smoked oysters. Here–you please bring forth ordinary soda crackers and I will supply the butter and caviar, as a treat.” He smiled at her, and was rewarded by a spontaneous, beaming smile in return; her eyes sparkled with anticipation and she hopped impulsively to her feet to go scampering, like a little child, to the kitchen.
Presently they sat together, huddled over the table, scraping the black, oily fish eggs from the tiny jar onto crackers.
“There’s nothing like genuine caviar,” Silvia said, sighing. “I only had it once before in my life, at a restaurant in San Francisco.”
“Observe what else I have.” From his suitcase he produced a bottle. “Green Hungarian, from the Buena Vista Winery in California; the oldest winery in that state!”
They sipped wine from long-stemmed glasses. (He had brought the glasses, too.) Silvia lay back against the couch, her eyes half-closed. “Oh, dear. This is like a fantasy. It can’t really be happening.”
“But it is.” Otto set his glass down and leaned over her. She breathed slowly, regularly, as if asleep; but she was watching him fixedly. She knew exactly what was going on. And as he bent nearer and nearer she did not stir; she did not try to slide away.
The food and wine, he reckoned as he took hold of her, had set him back–in retail value–almost a hundred UN dollars. It was well worth it, to him, at least.
His old story, repeating itself. Again, it was not union scale. It was much more, Otto thought a little later on, when they had moved from the living room to the bedroom with its window shades pulled down, the room in unstirring gloom, silent and receptive to them, made, as he well knew, for just such happenings as this.
“Nothing like this,” Silvia murmured, “has ever happened before in my entire life.” Her voice was full of contentment and acquiescence, as if emerging from far away. “Am I drunk, is that it? Oh, my Lord.”
For a long time, then, she was silent.
“Am I out of my niind?” she murmured, later on. “I must be insane. I just can’t believe it, I know it isn’t real. So how can it matter, how can what you do in a dream be wrong?”
After that, she said nothing at all.
She was exactly the kind he liked: the kind that didn’t talk a lot.
What is insanity? Jack Bohlen thought. It was, for him, the fact that somewhere he had lost Manf red Steiner and did not remember how or when. He remembered almost nothing of the night before, at Arnie Kott’s place; piece by piece, from what Doreen told him, he had managed to patch together an image of what had taken place. Insanity–to have to construct a picture of one’s life, by making inquiries of others.
But the lapse in memory was a symptom of a deeper disturbance. It indicated that his psyche had taken an abrupt leap ahead in time. And this had taken place after a period in which he had lived through, several times, on some unconscious level, that very section which was now missing.