see them, then. I mean, are you ready to have to learn a whole new set?' The shadow drew over his face like a shade. 'This way.'
The street sloped. At the next corner they turned again. Half a block later Kid asked, 'Can you see anything at all?'
'No.'
'But you know where we're going…?'
'Yes.'
The smell of burning had again become distinct. The air was cooler, much cooler: he felt a crack in the pavement beneath his bare foot. Something with edges rolled away from his boot. The woody odors sifted. For one instant they passed through a smell that brought back-it hit with the force of hallucination: a cave in the wooded mountains where something had crackled in a large, brass dish on the wet stone, while above he had seen, glittering…
The chain around him tingled and tickled as though the memory had sent current through it. But the particular odor (wet leaves over dry, and a fire, and something decayed…) was gone. And cool as the darkness was, it was dry, dry…
Edged by a vertical wall, light a long way away diffused in smoke.
At the corner, Tak looked back. 'Checking to make sure you were still with me. You don't make much noise. We're going across there.' Tak nodded forward and they crossed the street, shoulder bumping shoulder.
Beyond plate glass, an amber light silhouetted black wire forms.
'What sort of store was this?' Kid asked, behind Tak who was opening the door.
It sounded like a machine was running in the basement. Empty shelves lined the walls, and the wire frames were display racks. The light came from no more than a single bulb somewhere on the stairwell. Tak went to the cash register. 'First time I came in here, would you believe there was still eighty dollars in the drawer?'
Tak rang.
The drawer trundled out.
'Still there.'
He closed it.
In the cellar the sound stopped, then started again: only now it didn't sound like a machine at all, but someone moaning.
'We want to go downstairs,' Tak said.
Someone had scattered pamphlets on the steps. They whispered under Kid's bare foot. 'What was this place?' Kid asked again. 'A bookstore?'
'Still is.' Tak peered out where the single hanging bulb lit empty shelves. 'Paperback department down here.'
Tacked to an edge was a hand-lettered sign: ITALIAN LITERATURE.
A youngster with very long hair sat cross-legged on the floor. He glanced up, then closed his eyes, faced forward, and intoned:
'Occupied tonight,' Tak said, softly. 'Usually there's no one here.'
Between the checked flannel lapels, the boy's chest ran with sweat. Cheek bones glistened above his beard. He'd only glanced at them, before closing his eyes again.
It's cool, Kid thought. It's so much cooler.
Beside ITALIAN LITERATURE was POLITICAL SCIENCE. There were no books on that one either.
Kid stepped around the boy's knees and looked up at PHILOSOPHY OF SCIENCE (equally empty) and walked on to PHILOSOPHY. All the shelves, it seemed, were bare.
Tak touched Kid's shoulder. 'Here, this is what I wanted to show you.' He nodded across the room.
Kid followed Tak around AMERICAN LITERATURE which was a dusty wooden rack in the middle of the floor.
The unfrosted bulb pivoted shadows about them.
'I used to come down here for all my science fiction,' Tak said, 'until there wasn't anything on the shelves any more. In there. Go ahead.'
Kid stepped into the alcove and stubbed his booted toe (thinking: Fortunately), hopped back, looked up: The ivory covers recalled lapped bathroom tiles.
All but the top shelf was filled with face-out display. He looked again at the carton he had kicked. The cover wagged. As he stared into the box, something focused: a shadow, first fallen across his mind at something Lanya had said at the nest, almost blurred out by the afternoon's megalight, now, under the one, unfrosted bulb, lay outlined and irrefutable: As manuscripts did not become galleys overnight, neither did galleys become distributed books. Many more than twenty-four hours had passed since he had corrected proofs with Newboy in the church basement.
Frowning, he bent to pick out a copy, paused, reached for one on the shelf, paused again, looked back at Tak, who had his fists in his jacket pockets.
Kid's lips whispered at some interrogative. He looked at the books again, reached again. His thumb stubbed the polished cover-stock.
He took one.
Three fell; one slid against his foot.
Tak said: 'I think it's very quaint of them to put it inPOETRY,' which is what the sign above said. 'I mean they could have filled up every shelf in the God-damn store. There're a dozen cartons in the back.'
Thumb on top, three fingers beneath, Kid tried to feel the weight; he had to jog his hand. There was a sense of absence which was easiest to fill with
BRASS
ORCHIDS
lettered in clean shapes with edges and serifs his own fingers could not have drawn, even with French curve and straightedge. He reread the title.
Kid looked over the six, seven, eight filled shelves. 'That's really funny,' he said, and wished the smile he felt should be on his face would muster his inner features to the right emotions. 'That's really…' Suddenly he took two more copies, and pushed past Tak for the stair. 'Hey,' he said to the boy. 'Are you all right?'
The sweating face lifted. 'Huh?'
'What's the matter with you?'
'Oh, man!' The boy laughed weakly. 'I'm sick as a dog. I'm really sick as a fucking dog.'
'What's wrong?'
'It's my gut. I got a spastic duodenum. That's like an ulcer. I mean I'm pretty sure that's what it is. I've had it before, so I know what it feels like.'
'What are you doing here, then?'
The boy laughed again. 'I was trying yoga exercises. For the pain. You know you can control things like that, with yoga.'
Tak came up behind Kid. 'Does it work?'
'Sometimes.' The boy took a breath. 'A little.'
Kid hurried on up the steps.
Tak followed.
From the top step Kid looked around at the shelves, and turned to Tak, who said:
