Couples danced, resumed their seats; others rose and took the floor. A string ensemble in a distant corner played restrained tunes that seemed to speak of the gentle faded melancholy of decorous tea dances on long-forgotten afternoons. Brett glanced toward the fat man. He was eating soup noisily, napkin tied under his chin.
The waiter was back with a plate. “Lovely day, sir,” it said.
“Great,” Brett agreed.
The waiter placed a covered platter on the table, removed the cover, stood with carving knife and fork poised.
“A bit of the crispy, sir?”
Brett nodded. He eyed the waiter surreptitiously. He looked real. Some golems seemed realer than others; or perhaps it merely depended on the parts they were playing. The man who had fallen at the parade had been only a sort of extra, a crowd member. The waiter, on the other hand, was able to converse. Perhaps it would be possible to learn something from him.
“What’s . . . uh . . . how do you spell the name of this town?” Brett asked.
“I was never much of a one for spelling, sir,” the waiter said.
“Try it.”
“Gravy, sir?”
“Sure. Try to spell the name—”
“Perhaps I’d better call the headwaiter, sir,” the golem said stiffly.
From the corner of an eye Brett caught a flicker of motion. He whirled, saw nothing. Had it been a Gel?
“Never mind,” he said. The waiter served potatoes, peas, refilled the wine glass, moved off silently. The question had been a little too unorthodox, Brett decided. Perhaps if he led up to the subject more obliquely . . .
When the waiter returned Brett said, “Nice day.”
“Very nice, sir.”
“Better than yesterday.”
“Yes indeed, sir.
“I wonder what tomorrow’ll be like.”
“Perhaps we’ll have a bit of rain, sir.”
Brett nodded toward the dance floor. “Nice orchestra.”
“They’re very popular, sir.”
“From here in town?”
“I wouldn’t know as to that, sir.”
“Lived here long yourself?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” The waiter’s expression showed disapproval. “Would there be anything else, sir?”
“I’m a newcomer here,” Brett said. “I wonder if you could tell me—”
“Excuse me, sir.” The waiter was gone. Brett poked at the mashed potatoes. Quizzing golems was hopeless. He would have to find out for himself. He turned to look out at the fat man. As Brett watched he took a large handkerchief from a pocket, blew his nose loudly. No one turned to look. The orchestra played softly. The couples danced. Now was as good a time as any. . . .
Brett rose, crossed to the other table. The fat man looked up.
“Mind if I sit down?” Brett said. “I’d like to talk to you.”
The fat man blinked, motioned to a chair. Brett sat down, leaned across the table. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he said quietly, “but I think you’re real.”
The fat man blinked again. “What’s that?” he snapped. He had a high, petulant voice.
“You’re not like the rest of them. I think I can talk to you. I think you’re another outsider.”
The fat man looked down at his rumpled suit. “I . . . ah . . . was caught a little short today. Didn’t have time to change. I’m a busy man. And what business is it of yours?” He clamped his jaw shut, eyed Brett warily.
“I’m a stranger here,” Brett said. “I want to find out what’s going on in this place—”
“Buy an amusement guide. Lists all the shows—”
“I don’t mean that. I mean these dummies all over the place, and the Gels—”
“What dummies? Jells? Jello? You don’t like Jello?”
“I love Jello. I don’t—”
“Just ask the waiter. He’ll bring you your Jello. Any flavor you like. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“I’m talking about the brown things; they look like muddy water. They come around if you interfere with a scene.”
The fat man looked nervous. “How’s that?” he said. “Please go away.”
“If I make a disturbance, the Gels will come. Is that what you’re afraid of?”
“Now, now. Be calm. No need for you to get excited.”
“I won’t make a scene,” Brett said. “Just talk to me. How long have you been here?”
“I dislike scenes. I dislike them intensely.”
“When did you come here?” Brett persisted.
“Just ten minutes ago,” the fat man hissed. He seemed terrified. “I just sat down. I haven’t had my dinner yet. Please, young man. Go back to your table.” The fat man watched Brett warily. Sweat glistened on his bald head.
“I mean this town. How long have you been here? Where did you come from?” Brett repeated stubbornly.
“Why, I was born here. Where did I come from? What sort of question is that? Just consider that the eagle brought me.”
“You were born here?”
“Certainly.”
“What’s the name of the town?”
“Are you trying to make a fool of me?” The fat man was getting angry. His voice was rising.
“Shhh,” Brett cautioned. “You’ll attract the Gels.”
“Blast the Jilts, whatever that is!” The fat man snapped. “Now get along with you. I’ll call the manager.”
“Don’t you know?” Brett said, staring at the fat man. “They’re all dummies; golems, they’re called. They’re not real.”
“Who’re not real?”
“All these imitation people at the tables and on the dance floor. Surely you realize—”
“I realize you’re in need of psychiatric attention!” The fat man pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “You keep the table,” he said. “I’ll dine elsewhere.”
“Wait!” Brett got up, seized the fat man’s arm.
“Take your hands off me—” The fat man pulled free and went toward the door. Brett followed. At the cashier’s desk Brett turned suddenly, saw a fluid brown shape flicker—
“Look!” He pulled at the fat man’s arm.
“Look at what?” The Gel was gone.
“It was there: a Gel.”
The fat man flung down a bill, hurried away. Brett fumbled out a ten, waited for change. “Wait!” he called. He heard the fat man’s feet receding down the stairs.
“Hurry,” he said to the cashier. The woman sat glassy-eyed, staring at nothing. The music died. The lights flickered, went off. In the gloom Brett saw a fluid shape rise up, flow away from him.
He ran, pounding down the stairs, out into a corridor. The fat man was just rounding the corner. Brett opened his mouth to call—and went rigid, as a translucent shape of mud shot from a door, rose up to tower before him. Brett froze, stood, mouth half open, eyes staring, leaning forward with hands out-flung. The Gel loomed, its surface flickering—waiting. Brett caught an acrid odor of geraniums.
A minute passed. Brett’s cheek itched. He fought a desire to blink, to swallow—to turn and run. The high sun beat down on the silent street, the still window displays.
Then the Gel broke form, slumped, flashed away. Brett tottered back against the wall, let his breath out in a harsh sigh.
Across the street he saw a window with a display of camping equipment, portable stoves, boots, rifles. He crossed the street, tried the door. It was locked. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. He kicked at the glass beside the latch, reached through and turned the knob. Inside he looked over the shelves, selected a heavy coil of nylon rope, a sheath knife, a canteen. He examined a repeating rifle with a telescopic sight, then put it back and strapped on a .22 revolver. He emptied two boxes of long rifle cartridges into his pocket, then loaded the pistol. He coiled the rope over his shoulder and went back out into the empty street.
The fat man was standing in front of a shop in the next block, picking at his chin and eyeing the window display. He looked up with a frown, started away as Brett came up.
“Wait a minute,” Brett called. “Didn’t you see the Gel? The one that cornered me back there?”
The fat man looked back suspiciously, kept going.
“Wait!” Brett caught his arm. “I know you’re real. I’ve seen you belch and sweat and pick your nose and scratch. You’re the only one I can call on—and I need help. My friend is trapped—”
The fat man pulled away, his face flushed an even deeper red. “I’m warning you,” he snarled. “You maniac! Get away from me . . . !”
Brett stepped close, rammed the fat man hard in the ribs. He sank to his knees, gasping. The panama hat rolled away. Brett grabbed his arm, steadied him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I had to be sure. You’re real, all right. We’ve got to rescue my friend, Dhuva—”
The fat man leaned against the glass, rolling terrified eyes, rubbing his stomach. “I’ll call the police!” he gasped.
“What police?” Brett waved an arm. “Look. Not a car in sight. Did you ever see the street that empty before?”