Dhalgren

outside and you looked up and saw the moon in the sky instead of on television?'

He frowned.

'It was different, remember. I realized that for the last fifty thousand science-fiction novels it had still been just a light hanging up there. And now it was… a place.'

'I just figured somebody had taken a shit up there, and why weren't they telling.' He stopped laughing. 'But it was different; yeah.'

'Then tonight.' She looked at the featureless smoke. 'Because there was another one, that you don't know if anybody's walked on, suddenly both of them were…'

'Just lights again.'

'Or…' she nodded. 'Something else.' Leaning, her elbow touched his arm.

'Hey,' Jack said from the doorway, 'I think I better go now. I mean… maybe I better go.' He looked around the roof. The mist had wrapped them in. 'I mean,' he said, 'Tak's awful drunk, you know? He's sort of…'

'He isn't going to hurt you.'

Lanya poised her quick laugh at the rim of amusement, started back, and entered the cabin.

He picked up the wine and followed.

'Now here,' Tak announced, coming from the bamboo curtain. 'I knew I had some caviar. Got it on the first day up here.' He grimaced. 'Too much, huh? But I like caviar. Imported.' He held up the black jar in his left hand. 'Domestic.' He raised the orange one in his right. His cap was on the desk with his jacket. His head seemed very small on his thick torso. 'I got more stuff in there than you can twitch the proverbial stick at.' He set the jars down among a dozen others.

'Isn't it sort of late…' Jack's voice trailed off in the doorway.

'Christ,' Lanya said, 'what are you going to do with all this junk, Tak?'

'Late supper. Don't worry, nobody goes hungry up at the Fire Wolfs.'

He picked up a small jar (cut glass in scarred, horny flesh): '… Spiced Honey Spread …?'

'Oh, yeah.' Tak arranged the breadboard on the edge of the desk. 'I've even tried some of that before. It's good.' He swayed above pickled artichoke hearts and caponata, deviled ham, herring, pimento, rolled anchovies, guava paste, pate. 'And another glass of—' He raised the bottle and splashed the liquid around inside. 'Jack, some for you?'

'Aw, no. It's getting pretty late.'

'Here you go!' He pushed the glass into the boy's hand. Jack took it because it would have dropped otherwise:

'Eh… thanks.'

'…for me.' Tak finished his and poured another. 'Come on, everybody, now you help yourselves. You like pimento?'

'Not just by its lonesome,' Lanya protested.

'With bread, or… cheese, here. Anchovies?'

'Look,' Lanya said, 'I'll do it.'

Loufer gestured toward Jack. 'Now come on, boy. You said you were hungry. I got all this damn caviar and stuff.'

'It's sort of…' Behind Jack, smoke filtered across the doorway. '… well, late.'

'Tak?'

'Hey, Kid, here's a glass for you.'

'Thanks. Tak?'

'Yeah, Kid? What can I do for you?'

'That poster.'

From the center picture, the tall black glared out into the room, oiled teak belly gleaming under scuffed leather, his fist, a dark and gouged interruption on a dark thigh. The light source had been yellow: that made brass hints in the nappy pubis. The scrotal skin was the color and texture of rotten avocado rind. Between the thighs, a cock, thick as a flashlight haft, hung dusty, black and wormy with veins. The skin of the right knee intimated a marvelous machine beneath. The left ear was a coil of serpents. The brass light barred his leg, his neck, slurred the oil on his nostrils.

'That's the spade who came into the bar, the one they named the moon after.'

'Yeah, that's George — George Harrison.' Tak took the top off another jar, smelled it, scowled. 'Some of the boys at Teddy's got him to pose for that. He's a real ham. That ape likes to get his picture taken more than just about anything, you know? Long as he doesn't get too drunk, he's a great guy. Ain't he beautiful? Strong as a couple of horses, too.'

'Wasn't there something about some pictures in the paper of him… raping some girl? That's what the newspaper man told me this morning.'

'Oh yeah.' Tak put down another jar, drank more of his brandy. 'Yeah, that business with the white girl, in the paper, during the riot. Well, like I said: George just likes to get his picture taken. He's a big nigger now. Might as well enjoy it. I would if I was him.'

'What is this, Tak… octopus!' Lanya, with a wrinkled nose, bit. 'Sort of tough… it tastes all right.'

'Jesus!' Jack exclaimed. 'That's salty!'

'Have some brandy,' Tak reiterated. 'Spicy food is good with booze. Go ahead. Drink some more.'

'You know—' he still considered the poster—'I saw that thing hung up in a church this morning?'

'Ah!' Tak gestured with his glass. 'Then you were down at Reverend Amy's. Didn't you know? She's the chief distributor. Where do you think I got my copy?'

He frowned at the poster, frowned at Tak (who wasn't looking), frowned at the poster again.

Eyes of ivory, velvet lips, a handsome face poised between an expression disdainful and embarrassing. Was it… theatrical? Perhaps theatrical disdain. The background was a horizonless purple. He tried to put this rough face with his memory of the astounding second moon.

'Try this!' Lanya exclaimed. 'It's good.'

It was. But mumbling through the tasteless crumbs under it, he stepped outside and breathed deep in the thick smoke. He couldn't smell it, but he felt his heart in his ears in a moment, very quick and steady. He searched for either blotted light. A rapist? he thought. An exhibitionist? He is approaching the numinous: gossip; the printed word; portents. Thrilled, he narrowed his eyes to search the clouds for George once more.

'Hey,' Lanya said. 'How you feeling?'

'Tired.'

'I left my blankets and stuff in the park. Let's go back.'

'Okay.' He started to put his arm around her — she took his hand in both of hers. She cupped his from the wrist, her fingers like orchid blades. Blades closed, and she held his little finger, his forefinger, kissed the horny palm, and would not look at his confusion. She kissed his knuckles, opening her lips, and lay her tongue there. Her breath warmed in the hair on his hand's back.

Her face was an inch away; he could feel the warmth of that too. In his reiterate curiosity, and his embarrassment, he offered, obliquely, 'You know… the moon?'

She looked at him, still holding his fingers. 'What moon?'

'I mean… when we saw the two moons. And what you were talking about. Their being different.'

'Two moons?'

'Oh, come on now.' He lowered his hand; hers lowered with it. 'Remember when we came out of the bar?'

'Yes.'

'And the night was all messed up and streaked?' He glanced at the enveloping sky, fused and blurred.

'Yes.'

'What did you see?'

She looked puzzled. 'The moon.'

'How—' something awful at the base of his spine— 'many?' — clawed to his neck.

Her head went to the side. 'How many?'