“That’s it,” the red-headed man said into his field telephone. He felt and deep and lasting satisfaction, knowing that he personally had killed the alien life form. “Now we can get going.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THE brightly-lit stage colorful shapes danced and gestured. The costumed figures sang lustily, bustily; scenery glimmered with a high sparkle: a small square of brilliance cut in the far end of the hall. The third act was coming to an end. All the characters were on stage; with infinite precision they gave forth their melodic lines. In the pit, the orchestra—classical and exact—labored furiously.
Dominating the opera loomed the aged, wallowing figure of Gaetano Tabelli, long past his prime but still a splendid singer and actor. Purple-faced, near-sighted, the fabulous Tabelli waddled about the stage, an expression of dumbfounded bewilderment on his huge wrinkled features, struggling grotesquely to find his way through the maze of shadows that made up the world of Beaumarchais. Peering through his eye-glass, Tabelli grossly scrutinized his fellows, bellowing all the while in his vast, familiar, booming bass-baritone. A greater Don Bartolo there never was. And never would be. This performance, this zenith of consummate operatic staging, dramatic force, and perfected vocal artistry, had been frozen for ail time. Tabelli was dead, now, ten years. The bright figures on the stage were scrupulous robot imitations.
But even so, the performance was wholly convincing. Relaxed and comfortable in his deep chair, Cussick watched with passive appreciation. He enjoyed Le Nozze Di Figaro. He had seen Tabelli many times; he had never become tired of the great performer’s finest role. And he enjoyed the gay costumes, the uninterrupted flow of lyrical melody, the pink-cheeked chorus singing peasant interludes for all they were worth. The music and phantasmagoria of colors had gradually put him in a soporific state. Dreaming, half-asleep, he leaned back in his seat and happily absorbed it all.
But something was wrong.
Awakened, he pulled himself upright. Beside him, Nina sat slumped in rapt satisfaction; her mood was unbroken. Before he realized what he was doing, he had slid to his feet.
Blinking, Nina broke out of her trance. “What?” she whispered, astonished. He made a silencing motion and pushed his way down the row to the aisle. A moment later he was plodding stonily past rows of attentive faces to the carpeted steps in the rear, and the packed standing room. There he paused to take one final look at the stage.
The feeling remained, even at this distance. He stepped past the calcified ushers and reached the lobby. There, in the now empty, carpeted vault that still smelled of cigar smoke and women’s perfume, he halted and lit a fresh cigarette.
He was the only person in the whole deserted lobby. Behind him, through the half-open doors, rang the sounds and voices and the sweet fluttering whirr of a Viennese symphony orchestra. Vaguely irritated, he prowled around. His restlessness remained; and it hadn’t been helped by the quick glare of disapproval that had hardened on Nina’s face. He had seen it before; he knew what it meant. Explanations were going to be needed. He winced at the thought.
How could he explain?
Beyond the lobby of the opera house stretched the night street, sunk in desolate stillness. On the far side were deserted office buildings, black and empty, locked up for the week-end. The entrance of one glowed; a night-light flickered dully. In the concrete well lay heaps of rubbish blown there by the night wind. Posters, scraps of paper, urban trash of various lands. Even from where he stood, insulated by thick plate glass doors, by the descending flight of concrete steps, by the wide sidewalk and street itself, Cussick could make out the letters on a crumpled poster.
PATRIO
rally a
of the ma
JONES WILL
public invi
Torn across the middle, the poster lay sightlessly sprawled. But for every one that had been ripped down by the police, a thousand still plastered walls, doorways; hung in restaurants, store windows, bars, lavatories, gas stations, schools, offices, private houses. The Pied Piper and his flock… the reek of burning gasoline.
When the final thunderous roar of applause burst out, Cussick tensed himself. Already, a few eager people scurried from the open doorways; ushers appeared and rapidly fixed the doors aside. Now the first phalanx of the throng burst forth; laughing and conversing, pulling their wraps around them, the well-dressed citizens of the main floor poured into the lobby, like a jar of expensive costume jewelry abruptly overturned. Down the wide stairs, less elaborately dressed patrons descended. In a moment, Cussick was surrounded by a solid pack of talking, murmuring, noisily gesturing people.
Presently Nina fought her way over to him.
“Hello,” he said uncomfortably.
“What happened?” Nina inquired, half-anxiously, half in exasperation. “Did you have some sort of fit?”
“Sorry.” It was a difficult thing to explain to her. “That last act scenery reminded me of something. Dismal, like that. People creeping around in the darkness.”
Lightly, Nina said: “Reminded you of business? Police prisons, maybe?” Her voice was tense, sharpened with momentary accusation. “Guilty conscience?’
He felt his face flushing. “No, that isn’t it.” Apparently he answered too loudly; some of the nearby people glanced curiously around. Cussick snapped his jaws angrily together and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Let’s talk about it some other time.”
“All right,” Nina said brightly, smiling her familiar flash of white teeth. “No scenes—not tonight.” Agilely, she spun on her heel, taking in the sight of the surrounding clusters of people. The tight line of her forehead showed she was still upset; he had no doubts about that. But the clash was going to be postponed.
“I’m sorry,” Cussick repeated awkwardly. “It’s this damn stuff going on. The dark stage reminded me of it. I always forget that whole scene is set as night.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nina answered insistently, wanting to drop the subject. Her sharp nails dug quickly into his arm. “What time is it? Is it midnight?”
He examined his wrist watch. “Somewhat after.”
Frowning, Nina peered urgently toward the sidewalk outside. Taxis were sliding into the loading zone, picking up passengers and starting immediately off. “Do you think we missed him? He’d wait, wouldn’t he? I thought I saw him, a second ago, as I was coming out.”
“Isn’t he meeting us at the apartment?” Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Kaminski at a Mozart opera; the round-faced worried man with his thick mustache was from a different century entirely.
“No, dear,” Nina said patiently. “He’s meeting us here—remember? You were thinking about something else, as usual. We’re supposed to wait for him; he doesn’t know where we live.”
The crowd was beginning to flow from the lobby outside onto the street. Gusts of frigid night air billowed in; coats were put on, furs slipped in place. The intimated odor of perfume and cigar smoke very soon dwindled as the remote, hostile vacuum of the outside world made its way in.
“Our little cosmos is breaking up,” Cussick observed morbidly. “The real world is on its way.”
“What’s that?” Nina asked vacantly, still critically studying the women around them. “Look what that girl is wearing. Over there, the one in blue.”
While Cussick was going through the motions of looking, a familiar figure came threading its way toward them.
“Hi,” Kaminski said, as he reached them. “Sorry I’m late. I forgot all about it.”
The sight of Max Kaminski was a shock. He hadn’t seen his one-time Political Instructor in months. Kaminski was haggard and hunched over; his eyes were bloodshot, underscored with puffy black circles. His fingers trembled as he reached out to shake hands. Under one arm he clutched a bulky brown-wrapped package. Nodding slightly to Nina, aware of her for the first time, he murmured “Evening, Nina. Good to see you again.”
“You weren’t at the opera,” Nina observed, with a distasteful glance at the man’s rumpled business suit and the messy package.
“No, I missed it.” Kaminski’s hand was wet and clammy; he drew it back and stood clumsily, focusing with an effort. “I can’t sit through long things. Well, are we ready to go?”
“Certainly,” Nina said, in an icy voice, her dismay was fast turning to outright aversion. Kaminski had evidently been working through a fifteen-hour double shift, fatigue and nervous exhaustion were written in every pore of his stooped body. “What’s that you have?” she asked, indicating the package.
“I’ll show you later,” Kaminski assured her noncommittally, tightening his grip.
“Let’s go, then,” Nina said briskly, taking her husband’s arm. “Where to?”
“This girl,” Kaminski muttered, shambling along after them. “We have to pick her up. You don’t know her. I forgot to tell you about her. Very nice kid. It’ll make us an even four-square.” He tried to laugh, but what came out sounded more like a death-rattle. “Don’t ask me to introduce her—I don’t know her last name. I sort of picked her up in one of the outer offices.”