“What’s it all about . . . ?”
He couldn’t hear his own voice. The man ignored him. Brett moved along behind the crowd, looking for a vantage point or a thinning in the ranks. There seemed to be fewer people ahead. He came to the end of the crowd, moved on a few yards, stood at the curb. The yellow-jackets had passed now, and a group of round-thighed girls in satin blouses and black boots and white fur caps glided into view, silent, expressionless. As they reached a point fifty feet from Brett they broke abruptly into a strutting prance, knees high, hips flirting, tossing shining batons high, catching them, twirling them, and up again. . . .
Brett craned his neck, looking for TV cameras. The crowd lining the opposite side of the street stood in solid ranks, drably clad, eyes following the procession, mouths working. A fat man in a rumpled suit and a panama hat squeezed to the front, stood picking his teeth. Somehow, he seemed out of place among the others. Behind the spectators, the store fronts looked normal, dowdy brick and mismatched glass and corroding aluminum, dusty windows and cluttered displays of cardboard, a faded sign that read TODAY ONLY, PRICES SLASHED. There were a few cars in sight, all parked at the curb, none in motion, no one in them. They were all dusty and faded, even the late models. To Brett’s left the sidewalk stretched, empty. To his right the crowd was packed close, the shout rising and falling. Now a rank of blue-suited policemen followed the majorettes, swinging along silently. Behind them, over them, a piece of paper blew along the street. Brett turned to the man on his right.
“Pardon me. Can you tell me the name of this town?”
The man ignored him. Brett tapped the back of the man’s shoulder. “Hey! What town is this?”
The man took off his hat, whirled it overhead, then threw it up. It sailed away over the crowd, lost. Brett wondered briefly how people who threw their hats ever recovered them. But then, nobody he knew would throw his hat. . . .
“You mind telling me the name of this place?” Brett said, as he took the man’s arm, pulled. The man rotated toward Brett, leaning heavily against him. Brett stepped back. The man fell, lay stiffly, his arms moving, his eyes and mouth open.
“Ahhhhh,” he said. “Whum-whum-whum. Awww, jawww . . .”
Brett stooped quickly. “I’m sorry,” he cried. He looked around. “Help! This man . . .”
Nobody was watching. The next man, a few feet away, stood close against his neighbor, hatless, his jaw moving.
“This man’s sick,” said Brett, tugging at the man’s arm. “He fell.”
The man’s eyes moved reluctantly to Brett. “None of my business,” he muttered.
“Won’t anybody give me a hand?”
“Probably a drunk.”
Behind Brett a voice called in a penetrating whisper: “Quick! You! Get into the alley . . . !”
He turned. A gaunt man in his thirties with sparse reddish hair, perspiration glistening on his upper lip, stood at the mouth of a narrow way like the one Brett had come through. He looked like some kind of an actor; he wore a grimy pale yellow shirt with a wide-flaring collar, limp and sweat-stained, dark green knee-breeches, soft leather boots, scuffed and dirty, with limp tops that drooped over his ankles. He gestured, drew back into the alley. “In here!”
Brett went toward him. “This man . . .”
“Come on, you fool!” The man took Brett’s arm, pulled him deeper into the dark passage. Brett resisted. “Wait a minute. That fellow . . .” He tried to point.
“Don’t you know yet?” The redhead spoke with a strange accent. “Golems . . . You got to get out of sight before the—”
The man froze, flattened himself against the wall. Automatically Brett moved to a place beside him. The man’s head was twisted toward the alley mouth. The tendons in his weathered neck stood out. He had a three-day stubble of beard. Brett could smell him, standing this close. He edged away. “What—”
“Don’t make a sound! Don’t move, you idiot!” His voice was a thin hiss.
Brett followed the other’s eyes toward the sunny street. The fallen man lay on the pavement, moving feebly, eyes open. Something moved up to him, a translucent brownish shape, like muddy water. It hovered for a moment, then dropped on the man, like a breaking wave, flowed around him. The stiff body shifted, rotating stiffly, then tilted upright. The sun struck through the fluid shape that flowed down now, amber highlights twinkling, to form itself into the crested wave, flow away.
“What the hell . . . !” Brett burst out.
“Come on!” the redhead ordered and turned, trotted silently toward the shadowy bend under the high grey walls. He looked back, beckoned impatiently, passed out of sight around the turn—
Brett came up behind him, saw a wide avenue, tall trees with chartreuse springtime leaves, a wrought-iron fence, and beyond it, rolling green lawns. There were no people in sight.
“Wait a minute! What is this place?!”
His companion turned red-rimmed eyes on Brett. “How long have you been here?” he asked. “How did you get in?”
“I came through a gate. Just about an hour ago.”
“I knew you were a man as soon as I saw you talking to the golem,” said the redhead. “I’ve been here two months; maybe more. We’ve got to get out of sight. You want food? There’s a place . . .” He jerked his thumb. “Come on. Time to talk later.”
Brett followed him. They turned down a side street, pushed through the door of a dingy cafe. It banged behind them. There were tables, stools at a bar, a dusty juke box. They took seats at a table. The redhead groped under the table, pulled off a shoe, hammered it against the wall. He cocked his head, listening. The silence was absolute. He hammered again. There was a clash of crockery from beyond the kitchen door. “Now don’t say anything,” the redhead said. He eyed the door behind the counter expectantly. It flew open. A girl with red cheeks and untidy hair, dressed in a green waitress’s uniform appeared, marched up to the table, pad and pencil in hand.
“Coffee and a ham sandwich,” said the redhead. Brett said nothing. The girl glanced at him briefly, jotted hastily, whisked away.
“I saw them here the first day,” the redhead said. “It was a piece of luck. I saw how the Gels started it up. They were big ones—not like the tidiers-up. As soon as they were finished, I came in and tried the same thing. It worked. I used the golem’s lines—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brett said. “I’m going to ask that girl—”
“Don’t say anything to her; it might spoil everything. The whole sequence might collapse; or it might call the Gels. I’m not sure. You can have the food when it comes back with it.”
“Why do you say ‘when “it” comes back’?”
“Ah.” He looked at Brett strangely. “I’ll show you.”
Brett could smell food now. His mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten for more than twenty-four hours.
“Care, that’s the thing,” the redhead said. “Move quiet, and stay out of sight, and you can live like a County Duke. Food’s the hardest, but with this place—”
The red-cheeked girl reappeared, a tray balanced on one arm, a heavy cup and saucer in the other hand. She clattered them down on the table.
“Took you long enough,” the redhead said. The girl sniffed, opened her mouth to speak—and the redhead darted out a stiff finger, jabbed her under the ribs. Instead of the yell Brett expected, she stood, mouth open, frozen.
Brett half rose. “He’s crazy, miss,” he said. “Please accept—”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Brett’s host was looking at him triumphantly. “Why do I call it ‘it’?” He stood up, reached out and undid the top buttons of the green uniform. The waitress stood, leaning slightly forward, unmoving. The blouse fell open, exposing round white breasts—unadorned, blind.
“A doll,” said the redhead. “A puppet; a golem.”
Brett stared at her, the damp curls at her temple, the tip of her tongue behind her teeth, the tiny red veins in her round cheeks, the white skin curving . . .
“That’s a quick way to tell ’em,” said the redhead. “The teat is smooth.” He buttoned the uniform back in place, then jabbed again at the girl’s ribs. She straightened, patted her hair.
“No doubt a gentleman like you is used to better,” she said carelessly. She went away.
“I’m Awalawon Dhuva,” the redhead said.
“My name’s Brett Hale.” Brett took a bite of the sandwich. It wasn’t bad.
“Those clothes,” Dhuva said. “And you have a strange way of talking. What county are you from?”