It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d expect us to go out.
“I should have told you,” she said softly. Her mask veered nervously toward the books and the screen and the room’s dark corners. “But I can’t possibly talk to you here.”
I said doubtfully, “There’s a place near the Consulate …”
“I know where we can be together and talk,” she said rapidly. “If you don’t mind.”
As we entered the elevator I said, “I’m afraid I dismissed the cab.”
But the cab driver hadn’t gone for some reason of his own. He jumped out and smirkingly held the front door open for us. I told him we preferred to sit in back. He sulkily opened the rear door, slammed it after us, jumped in front and slammed the door behind him.
My companion leaned forward. “Heaven,” she said.
The driver switched on the turbine and televisor.
“Why did you ask if I were a British subject?” I said, to start the conversation.
She leaned away from me, tilting her mask close to the window. “See the Moon,” she said in a quick, dreamy voice.
“But why, really?” I pressed, conscious of an irritation that had nothing to do with her.
“It’s edging up into the purple of the sky.”
“And what’s your name?”
“The purple makes it look yellower.”
Just then I became aware of the source of my irritation. It lay in the square of writhing light in the front of the cab beside the driver.
I don’t object to ordinary wrestling matches, though they bore me, but I simply detest watching a man wrestle a woman. The fact that the bouts are generally “on the level,” with the man greatly outclassed in weight and reach and the masked females young and personable, only makes them seem worse to me.
“Please turn off the screen,” I requested the driver.
He shook his head without looking around. “Uh-uh, man,” he said. “They’ve been grooming that babe for weeks for this bout with Little Zirk.”
Infuriated, I reached forward, but my companion caught my arm. “Please,” she whispered frightenedly, shaking her head.
I settled back, frustrated. She was closer to me now, but silent and for a few moments I watched the heaves and contortions of the powerful masked girl and her wiry masked opponent on the screen. His frantic scrambling at her reminded me of a male spider.
I jerked around, facing my companion. “Why did those three men want to kill you?” I asked sharply.
The eyeholes of her mask faced the screen. “Because they’re jealous of me,” she whispered.
“Why are they jealous?”
She still didn’t look at me. “Because of him.”
“Who?”
She didn’t answer.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “Are you afraid to tell me?” I asked. “What is the matter?”
She still didn’t look my way. She smelled nice.
“See here,” I said laughingly, changing my tactics, “you really should tell me something about yourself. I don’t even know what you look like.”
I half playfully lifted my hand to the band of her neck. She gave it an astonishingly swift slap. I pulled it away in sudden pain. There were four tiny indentations on the back. From one of them a tiny bead of blood welled out as I watched. I looked at her silver fingernails and saw they were actually delicate and pointed metal caps.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” I heard her say, “but you frightened me. I thought for a moment you were going to …”
At last she turned to me. Her coat had fallen open. Her evening dress was Cretan Revival, a bodice of lace beneath and supporting the breasts without covering them.
“Don’t be angry,” she said, putting her arms around my neck. “You were wonderful this afternoon.”
The soft gray velvet of her mask, molding itself to her cheek, pressed mine. Through the mask’s lace the wet warm tip of her tongue touched my chin.
“I’m not angry,” I said. “Just puzzled and anxious to help.”
The cab stopped. To either side were black windows bordered by spears of broken glass. The sickly purple light showed a few ragged figures slowly moving toward us.
The driver muttered, “It’s the turbine, man. We’re grounded.” He sat there hunched and motionless. “Wish it had happened somewhere else.”
My companion whispered, “Five dollars is the usual amount.”
She looked out so shudderingly at the congregating figures that I suppressed my indignation and did as she suggested. The driver took the bill without a word. As he started up, he put his hand out the window and I heard a few coins clink on the pavement.
My companion came back into my arms, but her mask faced the television screen, where the tall girl had just pinned the convulsively kicking Little Zirk.
“I’m so frightened,” she breathed.
Heaven turned out to be an equally ruinous neighborhood, but it had a club with an awning and a huge doorman uniformed like a spaceman, but in gaudy colors. In my sensuous daze I rather liked it all. We stepped out of the cab just as a drunken old woman came down the sidewalk, her mask awry. A couple ahead of us turned their heads from the half revealed face, as if from an ugly body at the beach. As we followed them in I heard the doorman say, “Get along, grandma, and watch yourself.”
Inside, everything was dimness and blue glows. She had said we could talk here, but I didn’t see how. Besides the inevitable chorus of sneezes and coughs (they say America is fifty percent allergic these days), there was a band going full blast in the latest robop style, in which an electronic composing machine selects an arbitrary sequence of tones into which the musicians weave their raucous little individualities.
Most of the people were in booths. The band was behind the bar. On a small platform beside them, a girl was dancing, stripped to her mask. The little cluster of men at the shadowy far end of the bar weren’t looking at her.
We inspected the menu in gold script on the wall
