Dhalgren

difficult.' The military short hair jarred with his unshaven jaw.

The desk, except for the cap, was bare.

Shelves above it held binoculars, slide rules, drafting compasses and pens, two pocket calculators, French curves and templates, colored pentels, several cut and polished geodes, a row of ornamental daggers on display stands, a pile of plastic parts boxes, a soldering gun…

'Hey…' Tak slapped one knee. 'I'm gonna make some coffee. Got some canned ham, too. Real good ham. And bread.' He stood up and went to a door, hung, like the windows, with tan splints. 'You just relax. Take it easy. Take your clothes off and stretch out, if you want.' By his boot, the bubbling heater picked out what still glowed in the scuffed leather. 'I'll be back in a minute. Glad you like the place. I do too.' He ducked through bamboo.

On one wall (he had only glanced till now) were three, yard-high, full color, photographic posters:

On one, some adolescent weightlifter, Germanic as Tak, wearing only boots and a denim jacket with no sleeves, leaned against a motorcycle, stubby hands flat against his naked legs.

On the second, a muscular black, in what could have been Tak's jacket, cap, and boots, stood against some indistinct purple background, legs wide, one fist before his bared thigh, one against his bare hip.

On the third, a dark youth — Mexican or Indian perhaps? — shirtless and shoeless, sat on a boulder under a stark, blue sky, his jeans pushed down to his knees.

Their bared genitals were huge.

The photographs had been taken from crotch level, too, to make them look even larger.

From the other room he heard pans clinking; a cabinet opened and closed.

By the head of the bed, on a table near a tensor lamp, books were piled irregularly:

A bunch on the Hell's Angels: Thompson, and Reynolds/McClure; four cheaply bound, two-dollar paperbacks: Angels on Wheels, and Weekend in Hell, a True Story of the Angels as Told by Millicent Brash—he read the first paragraph of ill-lined type, shook his head, and put it down. A book called Bike Bitch was apparently the sequel to (same cover/different author) Bike Bastard. Under that was The Poems of Rimbaud, with English at the bottom of the pages; then a paperback Selected Letters of Keats; next, Dickey's Deliverance; a green, hard-cover book of logs and trigonometric functions, place held by a white enamel, circular slide rule. There was sundry science fiction by Russ (something called The Female Man), Zelazny, and Disch. The last book he picked up had a purple and gold reproduction of a Leonor Fini for cover: Evil Companions. He opened it in the middle, read from the top of the left-hand page to the bottom of the right, closed it, frowning, went to the bamboo, and pushed it aside.

'You ever see one of these in somebody's house before?' Tak thumped the grey cabinet with his elbow. 'It's a Micro Wave oven. They're great. You can roast a whole rib roast in ten, twenty minutes. They cost about six hundred dollars. At least that's what the price tag said in the store I lifted this one from. Only I don't like to run it because it uses up so much power. Someday, though, I'm gonna give a dinner party for thirty or forty people. Hold it outside on the roof. For all my friends in the city. I'll knock their eye out with what this thing can do.' He turned to the counter.

On two burners of a three-burner camp stove, pale flames from canned heat licked an enameled coffeepot and an iron skillet. Along the back of the counter were several gallons of wine, white and red, and a dozen bottles of whiskeys, liqueurs, and brandies. 'This is sort of my work room.' Back muscles shifted under hairy flesh. 'Probably spend more time here than in the front.' More bookshelves here; more shortwave components; a work bench slagged with solder, strewn with spaghetti wire, bits of pegboard in which dozens of small, colorful transistors, resistors, and capacitors had been stuck; several dissembled chassis. A single easy-chair, with stuffing pushing between worn threads across the arms, made the room cluttered. Above the tin sink, the bamboo had been pushed back from the glass. (The putty can stood open on the sill, a kitchen knife stuck in it; the panes were spotless — save a few puttied fingerprints.) Outside, two pairs of jeans and a lot of socks hung from a line. 'You looking for the john, Kid? I just use the roof. There's a coffee can upside down outside with a roll of toilet paper under it. There's no drain. Everything goes right over the edge.'

'Naw, that's okay.' He stepped through. Bamboo clicked and clicked behind him. 'I guess here — in a place like Bellona — you can have about anything you want. I mean, you just walk in and take it out of stores and things.'

'Only—' Tak put a handful of something in the skillet—'I don't want very much.' Steam, hissing, made the room smell, and sound, very good. 'Figured while I was at it I'd make us up a full breakfast. I'm starved.'

'Yeah…' At the pungence of thyme and fennel, the space beneath his tongue flooded. 'I guess if you liked you could live here about as well as you wanted.' And rosemary…

On a cutting board by the stove, a loaf of mahogany-colored bread sat among scattered crumbs. 'Fresh food is hard as hell to come by. Meat especially. But there's canned stuff in the city enough to last…' Tak frowned back over his hirsute shoulder. 'Truth is, I don't know how long it'll last. I lucked out on a couple of pretty well-stocked places nobody else seems to have found yet. You'll discover, by and large, people are not very practical around here — if they were, I guess they wouldn't be here. But when somebody else eventually does stumble on one of my classified, top-secret, hush-hush food sources, in a place like Bellona you can't very well say, 'Go away or I'll call the cops.' There're aren't any cops to call. Have a piece of bread. Another thing I lucked out on: Ran into this woman who bakes loaves and loaves of the stuff every week; just gives it away to anyone who comes by. For some reason I do not quite understand, she won't use any sugar or salt, so, good as it looks, it takes a bit of getting used to. But it's filling. She lives in the Lower Cumberland Park area — talk about nuts. She's very nice and I'm glad I know her, but she visits all sorts of people, many of whom are simply not in.' Tak finished cutting a slice, turned and held it out. 'Margarine's over there; haven't found any frozen butter for a while. Good plum preserves, though. Homemade in somebody's cellar last fall.'

He took the bread, picked up a kitchen knife, and removed the top from a plastic butter dish.

'That should hold you till breakfast, which—' Tak swirled a spatula in the skillet—'is three minutes off.'

Under the jelly and the margarine, bread crumbled on his tongue, oddly flat. Still, it goaded his appetite.

Chewing, he looked through the newspapers piled to one side of the cluttered workbench.

BELLONA TIMES

Saturday, April 1, 1919

BELLONA TIMES

Wednesday, December 25, 1933

BELLONA TIMES

Thursday, December 25, 1940

BELLONA TIMES

Monday, December 25, 1879

The headline for that one:

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

QUITS MONTEREY FOR FRISCO!

'Calkins has a thing for Christmas?'

'That was last week,' Tak said. 'A couple back, every other issue was 1984.'

The next half dozen papers went from July 14, 2022, to July 7, 1837 (Headline: ONLY ONE HUNDRED YEARS TILL THE DEATH OF HARLOW!)