Year's Best SF 17

wife.

“Done it!” he said. “Got everyone signed up.”

“Good for you,” I said.

“You’re forgetting someone,” my wife pointed out.

Bob mimed a double take. “Shit. Pardon, madame. Yes, of course.” He looked me in the eye. “You up for a story?”

“I’m not American,” I said.

“Hey, man, that’s got nothing to do with it. You’re one of the gang, even if you are a Brit.”

“I appreciate the offer, Bob,” I said. “But I think it would kind of … dilute the focus, know what I mean? And I don’t have any problem getting published, even in English.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” my wife said. “The Ozzies and Kiwis? They don’t pay well, and it’s not much of a market.”

I smiled at her, then at Bob. “She guards my interests fiercely,” I said. “Never lets me pass up a cent. But the fact is, I have a job that pays all right.”

“Yeah, maintaining university admin legacy code in the Sorbonne basement,” said Bob.

How had he known that? Maybe someone had mentioned it.

I shrugged. “It suits me fine. And like I said, it pays.”

“Come on, you haven’t sold a story in the US for years. And readers would like something from you, you know. It wouldn’t narrow the anthology, it would broaden it out, having your name on the cover.”

“Having your name as editor would do as much,” I said.

“The offer’s open,” Bob said. He leaned forward and murmured: “For you—fifty cents a word.”

I laughed. “What’s a cent, these days?”

“I’m talking euros,” Bob said. “Half a euro a word.”

My wife heard that, and yelped. I must admit I sat up sharply myself.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “A few grand a story?”

“Not for every story,” said Bob, ostentatiously glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. Not much chance of that—the bar was loud, and the conversation of the SF writers made it louder yet. “From you, I’ll take ten-kay words. Five grand.”

For the first time in weeks, I had a craving for a cigarette.

“I’ll have to go outside and think about it,” I said.

I bummed a Gitane off Nicole, grinned at my wife’s frown, and headed out. The rain had stopped. The street was dark, half the street-lamps out. My Zippo flared—I keep it topped up, for just these contingencies. After a minute, Bob joined me. He took a fresh pack from his pocket, peeled cellophane, and lit up.

“You too?” I said, surprised.

He shrugged. “Only when I’m travelling. Breaks the ice in some places.”

“I’ll bet,” I said. I glared at him. “Fucking Yank.”

“What?”

“Don’t mess with my friends.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re up to,” I said. “Checking them out, seeing who’s all mouth and who’s serious enough to be interested in one of your little schemes.”

“Have you got me wrong,” said Bob. “I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you.”

He spread his hands, flashed me a conspiratorial grin.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Come on, you hate the bastards as much as I do.”

“That’s the trouble,” I said. “You don’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” He sounded genuinely indignant, almost hurt. I knew that meant nothing. It was a tone I’d practiced often enough.

“You don’t hate the revolution,” I said. I waved a trail of smoke. “Civil war, terror, censorship, shortages, dictatorship—yeah, I’m sure you hate all that. But it’s still the beginning of socialism. It’s still the revolution, isn’t it?”

“Not my revolution!”

“You were never a wanker,” I said. “Don’t mistake me for one, either.”

He tossed his cigarette into the running gutter, and continued the arm movement in a wave.

“So why … all this?”

“We have perfected this machine,” I said.

He gave me a long look.

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Like that, is it?”

“Like that,” I said.

I held the door open for him as we went back in. The telly over the bar was showing yet another clip of the disastrous flight. Bob laughed as the door swung shut behind us.

“You didn’t perfect that machine!”

We picked our way through the patrons to the gang, who by now had shoved two tables together and were all in the same huddle of heads.

“Describe what happened,” I said, as we re-joined them. “At the Jardin.”

“Well,” Bob began, looking puzzled, “we all saw what was claimed to be an anti- gravity flying machine rise in the air and blow up. And some of us think—”

“No,” I said. I banged the table. “Listen up, all of you. Bob is going to tell us what he saw.”

“What do you want me to say?” Bob demanded. “I saw the same as the rest of you. I was just inside the park, I saw it on my phone and when the thing cleared the treetops I saw it with my own eyes. The machine, or what we’d been told was a machine, rose up—”

“Not that,” I said. “Start from when you got to the park.”

Bob frowned. “The Place was crowded. I couldn’t see what was happening around the crate. There were people in the way, trees …” He shrugged. “What’s to say?”

“Describe the trees. Think back to looking up at them.”

Bob sipped the dregs of the green drink in front of him, shaking his head.

“Bare branches, clear blue sky.”

“Were the branches moving?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, were they?”

“Of course not!” he said. “There wasn’t a breath of wind.”

“Bingo!” I said. “There was a clear blue sky. There wasn’t a breath of wind.”

“I don’t get it.”

Nor did anyone else, by the looks I was getting.

“The machine moved straight up,” I said. “And we’re all fairly sure it was some fake, right? An arrangement of balsa and mylar, hydrogen and magnesium.”

I took out my Zippo, and flicked the lid and the wheel. “That’s all it would have taken. Whoof!”

“Yeah,” said Jack, looking interested. “So?”

“The ascent was announced a month and a half ago,” I said. “New Year’s Eve. Announced to the day, to the hour, the minute! Noon, Saturday fifteenth Feb.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Imagine what today’s little demonstration would have been like,” I said, “if there had been … a breath of wind. Or low cloud. The fake would have been blatant.” I held out my hand, fingers spread, and waggled it as I gestured drifting. “Like that.”

Jack guffawed, and Bob joined in. Everyone else just frowned.

“You’re saying the French have weather control?”

“No,” I said. “I’m saying they have weather prediction. That’s what they